Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas, and Shudras, O scorcher of foes,।
Their works are apportioned by the qualities born of their own nature।। 41।।
Tranquility, self-restraint, austerity, purity, patience, and straightness,।
Knowledge, wisdom, and faith—these are the Brahmin’s works, born of nature।। 42।।
Valor, radiance, fortitude, skill, and not fleeing in battle,।
Generosity and lordliness—these are the Kshatriya’s works, born of nature।। 43।।
Agriculture, cattle-tending, and trade are the Vaishya’s works, born of nature,।
Service in attendance, too, is the Shudra’s work, born of nature।। 44।।
Geeta Darshan #12
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
ब्राह्मणक्षत्रियविशां शूद्राणां च परंतप।
कर्माणि प्रविभक्तानि स्वभावप्रभवैर्गुणैः।। 41।।
शमो दमस्तपः शौचं क्षान्तिरार्जवमेव च।
ज्ञानं विज्ञानमास्तिक्यं ब्रह्मकर्म स्वभावजम्।। 42।।
शौर्यं तेजो धृतिर्दाक्ष्यं युद्धे चाप्यपलायनम्।
दानमीश्वरभावश्च क्षात्रं कर्म स्वभावजम्।। 43।।
कृषिगौरक्ष्यवाणिज्यं वैश्यकर्म स्वभावजम्।
परिचर्यात्मकं कर्म शूद्रस्यापि स्वभावजम्।। 44।।
कर्माणि प्रविभक्तानि स्वभावप्रभवैर्गुणैः।। 41।।
शमो दमस्तपः शौचं क्षान्तिरार्जवमेव च।
ज्ञानं विज्ञानमास्तिक्यं ब्रह्मकर्म स्वभावजम्।। 42।।
शौर्यं तेजो धृतिर्दाक्ष्यं युद्धे चाप्यपलायनम्।
दानमीश्वरभावश्च क्षात्रं कर्म स्वभावजम्।। 43।।
कृषिगौरक्ष्यवाणिज्यं वैश्यकर्म स्वभावजम्।
परिचर्यात्मकं कर्म शूद्रस्यापि स्वभावजम्।। 44।।
Transliteration:
brāhmaṇakṣatriyaviśāṃ śūdrāṇāṃ ca paraṃtapa|
karmāṇi pravibhaktāni svabhāvaprabhavairguṇaiḥ|| 41||
śamo damastapaḥ śaucaṃ kṣāntirārjavameva ca|
jñānaṃ vijñānamāstikyaṃ brahmakarma svabhāvajam|| 42||
śauryaṃ tejo dhṛtirdākṣyaṃ yuddhe cāpyapalāyanam|
dānamīśvarabhāvaśca kṣātraṃ karma svabhāvajam|| 43||
kṛṣigaurakṣyavāṇijyaṃ vaiśyakarma svabhāvajam|
paricaryātmakaṃ karma śūdrasyāpi svabhāvajam|| 44||
brāhmaṇakṣatriyaviśāṃ śūdrāṇāṃ ca paraṃtapa|
karmāṇi pravibhaktāni svabhāvaprabhavairguṇaiḥ|| 41||
śamo damastapaḥ śaucaṃ kṣāntirārjavameva ca|
jñānaṃ vijñānamāstikyaṃ brahmakarma svabhāvajam|| 42||
śauryaṃ tejo dhṛtirdākṣyaṃ yuddhe cāpyapalāyanam|
dānamīśvarabhāvaśca kṣātraṃ karma svabhāvajam|| 43||
kṛṣigaurakṣyavāṇijyaṃ vaiśyakarma svabhāvajam|
paricaryātmakaṃ karma śūdrasyāpi svabhāvajam|| 44||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho, why did religious men like Bhishma and Karna take the side of the unrighteous Duryodhana? And in the final phase of the Mahabharata, why did Krishna send Arjuna and the five Pandavas to Bhishma Pitamah on his deathbed to receive the teaching of dharma?
Osho, why did religious men like Bhishma and Karna take the side of the unrighteous Duryodhana? And in the final phase of the Mahabharata, why did Krishna send Arjuna and the five Pandavas to Bhishma Pitamah on his deathbed to receive the teaching of dharma?
First thing, a religious person means a surrendered person. Wherever life takes him; he has no will of his own. If life places him on Duryodhana’s side, he will stand there. If life places him on Arjuna’s side, he will stand there.
Had a religious person his own will, his own decision, then the question would arise: why is Bhishma standing with Duryodhana? But a religious person is only an instrument. Therefore he stands wherever the divine will is. He has stopped taking decisions from his own side. He is surrendered.
So Bhishma accepted wherever he found himself. And precisely because this acceptance is so difficult… Understand this a little.
If Bhishma had found himself on the side of the Pandavas, acceptance would have been easier, surrender simpler. When you find yourself in auspicious circumstances, surrender is not difficult at all. In heaven, who would not surrender! The one who surrenders upon finding himself in hell—that is surrender. Where victory is already to be—and it was clear that the Pandavas’ victory was assured—even then Bhishma let himself be with those whose defeat was certain.
Bhishma knows well. The entire treasure of India’s awakened wisdom is contained in a small aphorism: satyam eva jayate, nānṛtam—truth alone triumphs; untruth never. He knows where truth is. He also knows where victory will be, and of what kind; even so, he let go. Therefore his virtue and glory only increase; Bhishma’s dignity grows, it does not diminish.
If Bhishma had said, “Place me on the side of Yudhishthira, Arjuna, and the Pandavas and I am ready to surrender,” then that surrender would not have been very deep. Where you yourself are willing, what difficulty is there in surrendering! In truth you are wearing the cloak of surrender; the will is still yours. But Bhishma abandoned himself in such a contrary situation where surrender is supremely difficult, almost impossible. He left himself on the side of darkness. If that is the Lord’s will, so be it.
And that is precisely why Krishna finally sent the Pandavas to Bhishma for the teaching of dharma. Because one whose surrender is so profound that, even if he has to fight against God—if that is God’s will—he will do so; there too he will not fuss, there too he will not refuse. One whose theistic trust is so absolute is worthy to be approached at the moment of his dying for instruction. It is worth sitting at his feet and learning from him.
Understand this well: the one who surrenders unconditionally, in whatever circumstances, is the one who truly surrenders. If the situation is according to your wishes and you “surrender,” do not be deceived; you are playing a trick.
When bliss is raining and heaven is at hand, do not say, “Lord, let Thy will be done.” When hell knocks at the door, darkness surrounds you on all sides, defeat is certain, the ground slips from under your feet, there is no support anywhere, the boat is about to sink, storms rage—say even then, “Lord, let Thy will be done.” The depth of surrender you will know then is the real depth.
Bhishma did something wondrous. It was very difficult to stand with Duryodhana. Even a man of ordinary intelligence could see how hard it was to stand with Duryodhana; he would have run away. Either there stood people like Bhishma with Duryodhana, whose surrender was complete; or there stood those whose wickedness was complete.
It was a congregation of the irreligious, a gang of the wicked. In their midst Bhishma stood silently, because if this is His will, so be it. Better to die on the path of His will, better to be effaced. Better to fall into hell by His will, to descend into the great darkness. The light of your own will never proves to be light.
Because of this great surrender, Krishna bestowed that honor on him.
The Mahabharata is very unique. Every event in it is unique. There is no other epic like it in this world. In it the deepest elements of life are expressed with great simplicity. But one needs great insight; only then does the real matter become visible.
He sends them to Bhishma lying on his deathbed: learn from him the real essence of dharma. For one who has made such a supreme surrender has recognized true dharma.
You would do the opposite: you would say, “What is the point of going to one who stood with the wicked! One who lacks even the basic sense to abandon the false and hold to the true; to renounce evil and embrace good—should we go to him to learn dharma? The very idea is upside down!”
But Krishna sent them, and the Pandavas went. Nor did the Pandavas raise the question, “Shall we go to listen to this man?” No—they understood the secret: Bhishma is not there by his own will; he is there by the will of the Divine.
The One who has placed people on this side has also placed people on that side. The play is His. We—whether pawns, foot-soldiers, horses, elephants, kings, queens—are pieces on His chessboard. The hand is His; He lifts and moves as He will. The one who is ready to move wholly with Him, who has completely dropped his ego, alone becomes capable of knowing the secret lore of dharma.
“Ask him before he dies,” Krishna said, “let this opportunity not be lost.” For the foolish standing around him would not even think to ask.
Perhaps Duryodhana kept thinking in his heart that Bhishma Pitamah and the others were with him because of his own wickedness, or because they feared him; or that by staying with him some greed would be fulfilled—wealth, fame, prestige, victory—therefore they were with him. Out of fear they were with him. He could never have imagined they were with him because of supreme surrender.
No one but Krishna knows that secret: Bhishma’s standing with Duryodhana is for no other reason than the Lord’s will. Therefore go—before this flame of life goes out—ask him the distillation of his life, the essence. Ask him: what is dharma! He has known dharma in the most adverse conditions. And one who has glimpsed light in darkness has a very deep recognition.
When the sun has risen and you look at a burning lamp, your recognition is not deep; the lamp is hardly visible. On the pitch-dark night of the new moon, when even the stars are hidden, then the lamp reveals itself. One who has seen its flame then has seen every hair of the light, every filament, seen it against the background of darkness. Ask such a one the map of light, the mystery of light, the method of kindling it. He has the vision. That is why they were sent to Bhishma.
And one more thing must be understood, because this question will arise in the mind: why such a will of the Divine at all? Does God wish untruth to win? Why would God desire such a thing? Why would the Whole have such a longing that men like Bhishma and Karna—glorious, pure, impeccable in their integrity—should stand in the camp of the wicked?
There is a reason—and it is a reason to be understood.
In this world, evil can stand only on the feet of good; otherwise it cannot stand. Falsehood can stand only by taking support from truth; otherwise it cannot stand. Falsehood has no feet of its own. Sin has no power of its own to stand; it too needs the prop of virtue.
So in Ravana’s camp there is someone who loves Rama. There is some ray of truth in Ravana’s camp; otherwise the camp would collapse.
In Duryodhana’s camp there is someone who—if asked in the innermost core of his being—would say, “May the Pandavas win.” Yet he stands in the opposite camp. There are Drona, Arjuna’s teacher; there is a great warrior like Karna; there is an incomparable man like Bhishma. Otherwise the scale would have fallen at the very start; the war could not even have been joined; the struggle could not have arisen.
Falsehood has no feet of its own; it needs truth’s feet. But you will ask: if falsehood must borrow truth’s feet to fight, why make it fight at all?
Here lies a deep alchemy of life. If falsehood does not fight, truth never truly triumphs. Falsehood must be made to fight; truth must be made to win. Only by going beyond falsehood does truth get refined. Only after the dark night does the dawn arrive.
You will ask: what need is there of the dark night? What need is there of suffering? Only after suffering does the flower of joy bloom—and become understood. What need is there of the world? Only by passing through the world does liberation become evident. Only through the opposite do you come to experience; otherwise the whole game of life becomes crippled, lame.
So the Divine lends support to falsehood too—enough not that it should win, but enough that it can contend with truth. For from its very struggle truth will gain strength; from that conflict truth will be refined, renewed, emerge, be revealed. It is not, in fact, opposed to truth; it is an occasion for truth to be revealed.
Had a religious person his own will, his own decision, then the question would arise: why is Bhishma standing with Duryodhana? But a religious person is only an instrument. Therefore he stands wherever the divine will is. He has stopped taking decisions from his own side. He is surrendered.
So Bhishma accepted wherever he found himself. And precisely because this acceptance is so difficult… Understand this a little.
If Bhishma had found himself on the side of the Pandavas, acceptance would have been easier, surrender simpler. When you find yourself in auspicious circumstances, surrender is not difficult at all. In heaven, who would not surrender! The one who surrenders upon finding himself in hell—that is surrender. Where victory is already to be—and it was clear that the Pandavas’ victory was assured—even then Bhishma let himself be with those whose defeat was certain.
Bhishma knows well. The entire treasure of India’s awakened wisdom is contained in a small aphorism: satyam eva jayate, nānṛtam—truth alone triumphs; untruth never. He knows where truth is. He also knows where victory will be, and of what kind; even so, he let go. Therefore his virtue and glory only increase; Bhishma’s dignity grows, it does not diminish.
If Bhishma had said, “Place me on the side of Yudhishthira, Arjuna, and the Pandavas and I am ready to surrender,” then that surrender would not have been very deep. Where you yourself are willing, what difficulty is there in surrendering! In truth you are wearing the cloak of surrender; the will is still yours. But Bhishma abandoned himself in such a contrary situation where surrender is supremely difficult, almost impossible. He left himself on the side of darkness. If that is the Lord’s will, so be it.
And that is precisely why Krishna finally sent the Pandavas to Bhishma for the teaching of dharma. Because one whose surrender is so profound that, even if he has to fight against God—if that is God’s will—he will do so; there too he will not fuss, there too he will not refuse. One whose theistic trust is so absolute is worthy to be approached at the moment of his dying for instruction. It is worth sitting at his feet and learning from him.
Understand this well: the one who surrenders unconditionally, in whatever circumstances, is the one who truly surrenders. If the situation is according to your wishes and you “surrender,” do not be deceived; you are playing a trick.
When bliss is raining and heaven is at hand, do not say, “Lord, let Thy will be done.” When hell knocks at the door, darkness surrounds you on all sides, defeat is certain, the ground slips from under your feet, there is no support anywhere, the boat is about to sink, storms rage—say even then, “Lord, let Thy will be done.” The depth of surrender you will know then is the real depth.
Bhishma did something wondrous. It was very difficult to stand with Duryodhana. Even a man of ordinary intelligence could see how hard it was to stand with Duryodhana; he would have run away. Either there stood people like Bhishma with Duryodhana, whose surrender was complete; or there stood those whose wickedness was complete.
It was a congregation of the irreligious, a gang of the wicked. In their midst Bhishma stood silently, because if this is His will, so be it. Better to die on the path of His will, better to be effaced. Better to fall into hell by His will, to descend into the great darkness. The light of your own will never proves to be light.
Because of this great surrender, Krishna bestowed that honor on him.
The Mahabharata is very unique. Every event in it is unique. There is no other epic like it in this world. In it the deepest elements of life are expressed with great simplicity. But one needs great insight; only then does the real matter become visible.
He sends them to Bhishma lying on his deathbed: learn from him the real essence of dharma. For one who has made such a supreme surrender has recognized true dharma.
You would do the opposite: you would say, “What is the point of going to one who stood with the wicked! One who lacks even the basic sense to abandon the false and hold to the true; to renounce evil and embrace good—should we go to him to learn dharma? The very idea is upside down!”
But Krishna sent them, and the Pandavas went. Nor did the Pandavas raise the question, “Shall we go to listen to this man?” No—they understood the secret: Bhishma is not there by his own will; he is there by the will of the Divine.
The One who has placed people on this side has also placed people on that side. The play is His. We—whether pawns, foot-soldiers, horses, elephants, kings, queens—are pieces on His chessboard. The hand is His; He lifts and moves as He will. The one who is ready to move wholly with Him, who has completely dropped his ego, alone becomes capable of knowing the secret lore of dharma.
“Ask him before he dies,” Krishna said, “let this opportunity not be lost.” For the foolish standing around him would not even think to ask.
Perhaps Duryodhana kept thinking in his heart that Bhishma Pitamah and the others were with him because of his own wickedness, or because they feared him; or that by staying with him some greed would be fulfilled—wealth, fame, prestige, victory—therefore they were with him. Out of fear they were with him. He could never have imagined they were with him because of supreme surrender.
No one but Krishna knows that secret: Bhishma’s standing with Duryodhana is for no other reason than the Lord’s will. Therefore go—before this flame of life goes out—ask him the distillation of his life, the essence. Ask him: what is dharma! He has known dharma in the most adverse conditions. And one who has glimpsed light in darkness has a very deep recognition.
When the sun has risen and you look at a burning lamp, your recognition is not deep; the lamp is hardly visible. On the pitch-dark night of the new moon, when even the stars are hidden, then the lamp reveals itself. One who has seen its flame then has seen every hair of the light, every filament, seen it against the background of darkness. Ask such a one the map of light, the mystery of light, the method of kindling it. He has the vision. That is why they were sent to Bhishma.
And one more thing must be understood, because this question will arise in the mind: why such a will of the Divine at all? Does God wish untruth to win? Why would God desire such a thing? Why would the Whole have such a longing that men like Bhishma and Karna—glorious, pure, impeccable in their integrity—should stand in the camp of the wicked?
There is a reason—and it is a reason to be understood.
In this world, evil can stand only on the feet of good; otherwise it cannot stand. Falsehood can stand only by taking support from truth; otherwise it cannot stand. Falsehood has no feet of its own. Sin has no power of its own to stand; it too needs the prop of virtue.
So in Ravana’s camp there is someone who loves Rama. There is some ray of truth in Ravana’s camp; otherwise the camp would collapse.
In Duryodhana’s camp there is someone who—if asked in the innermost core of his being—would say, “May the Pandavas win.” Yet he stands in the opposite camp. There are Drona, Arjuna’s teacher; there is a great warrior like Karna; there is an incomparable man like Bhishma. Otherwise the scale would have fallen at the very start; the war could not even have been joined; the struggle could not have arisen.
Falsehood has no feet of its own; it needs truth’s feet. But you will ask: if falsehood must borrow truth’s feet to fight, why make it fight at all?
Here lies a deep alchemy of life. If falsehood does not fight, truth never truly triumphs. Falsehood must be made to fight; truth must be made to win. Only by going beyond falsehood does truth get refined. Only after the dark night does the dawn arrive.
You will ask: what need is there of the dark night? What need is there of suffering? Only after suffering does the flower of joy bloom—and become understood. What need is there of the world? Only by passing through the world does liberation become evident. Only through the opposite do you come to experience; otherwise the whole game of life becomes crippled, lame.
So the Divine lends support to falsehood too—enough not that it should win, but enough that it can contend with truth. For from its very struggle truth will gain strength; from that conflict truth will be refined, renewed, emerge, be revealed. It is not, in fact, opposed to truth; it is an occasion for truth to be revealed.
Second question:
Osho, you say that it makes no difference whether desire is for wealth or for religion. But doesn’t the journey of religion begin with the desire for it? Or is even that of no use?
Osho, you say that it makes no difference whether desire is for wealth or for religion. But doesn’t the journey of religion begin with the desire for it? Or is even that of no use?
No, the journey of religion does not begin with the desire for religion; it begins with the failure of worldly desire. Mark this well. Keep it safe.
The journey of religion does not start from the desire for religion, because from desire such a journey cannot begin at all. Desire is the world; the spread of desire is what the world is. How can the journey of religion start from desire? Otherwise religion, too, will become the world. How will you go beyond desire by means of desire? That would be like trying to wash mud with mud.
No—the journey begins when worldly desire is defeated, utterly and completely. You try to win on every side, you look for supports everywhere, you put on crutches, yet you keep falling. There comes a moment when you know the world is defeat. There there is only sorrow; there is only the hope of happiness. And the day that hope turns into despair—deep despair, when not a single ray of hope remains—out of the experience that the world has become futile, you move toward religion.
Not from the desire for religion, but from the collapse of worldly desire. When the world is seen as futile, your feet begin to lift toward religion. This is not a new desire, not a new journey of craving. All cravings have been defeated; this is a going toward desirelessness.
Two kinds of people head toward religion. One, those who go with desire. They never really go. They feel they are on a religious journey; that is their delusion. In the name of religion, only the world continues. They go to the temple—want wealth, want to win a lawsuit, want to marry, have no children, the shop doesn’t run, can’t get a job. They go to the temple; they don’t go.
The temple, too, is a marketplace, just a part of the bazaar. It only looks like a temple; it is not a temple. What is this going to a temple to ask for things! The one whose asking has ended—that one goes to the temple. The one who has seen there is no substance—gain the world, there is no essence; don’t gain it, still no essence—one who has recognized in every way that it is all insubstantial, only that one goes toward religion. Then he does not go to ask, does not go to get anything.
Asking and getting have nothing to do with religion. Then, leaving everything, recognizing the futility of it all, one sets out on a new journey—the journey of desirelessness.
Here neither God has to be attained, nor liberation has to be attained. Nothing has to be attained. Here there is only the joy of being.
Being and getting—keep these two words clearly in mind. When the journey of being begins, that is religion. When the journey of getting goes on, that is the world. You want only to be, in your fullness. This is not a desire; this is what you already are. Let all desires drop, and this will be revealed to you.
Because of desire it is not seen. Desire surrounds you; the smoke of desire hangs all around. You cannot recognize yourself. Because of desire you run—you cannot sit. Because of desire you weave dreams—you cannot be still. Because of desire the mind thinks and thinks, makes a thousand plans. And because of that, friendship cannot happen with that which is hidden within you; a connection with it cannot be made.
Desire forges millions of relationships outside yourself; it does not allow the inner connection to happen. When all desire drops—dropping does not mean that you run away abandoning things—dropping means you understand: it is futile. There is understanding; awareness awakens. Then it is not that some new journey begins; rather, the old journey comes to an end. You find yourself already where you had wanted to go.
You find yourself complete; you find yourself of the nature of Brahman. In that moment a sound begins to resound within you day and night: Aham Brahmasmi! I am Brahman. Without going anywhere, the goal is found.
Religion is not a journey at all. Because in a journey there will be craving—there is somewhere to go. Religion is arrival, not a journey. Religion is not the path; it is the destination. And you are there this very moment, even now. But your cravings keep you running. You do not get the opportunity, the time, the ease to recognize what is happening within—what has always been happening!
Within you, day and night, the Divine abides. In every breath, in every heartbeat, He pervades. But where is the leisure, where the ease, where the time?
Right now there is a great race: the world has to be conquered. Alexander rides your chest; he keeps dragging you along. There is so much to get. You think that when you have gotten everything, then you will also pay attention to this side.
Remember, religion is not a journey. Religion is not craving. Not even that is of any use to religion.
Religion is a flower risen from the failure of the world, a flower risen from life’s sorrow, a flower that blossoms out of failure. On the death of desire, religion is born. On the ashes of desire, the sprout of religion breaks forth.
The journey of religion does not start from the desire for religion, because from desire such a journey cannot begin at all. Desire is the world; the spread of desire is what the world is. How can the journey of religion start from desire? Otherwise religion, too, will become the world. How will you go beyond desire by means of desire? That would be like trying to wash mud with mud.
No—the journey begins when worldly desire is defeated, utterly and completely. You try to win on every side, you look for supports everywhere, you put on crutches, yet you keep falling. There comes a moment when you know the world is defeat. There there is only sorrow; there is only the hope of happiness. And the day that hope turns into despair—deep despair, when not a single ray of hope remains—out of the experience that the world has become futile, you move toward religion.
Not from the desire for religion, but from the collapse of worldly desire. When the world is seen as futile, your feet begin to lift toward religion. This is not a new desire, not a new journey of craving. All cravings have been defeated; this is a going toward desirelessness.
Two kinds of people head toward religion. One, those who go with desire. They never really go. They feel they are on a religious journey; that is their delusion. In the name of religion, only the world continues. They go to the temple—want wealth, want to win a lawsuit, want to marry, have no children, the shop doesn’t run, can’t get a job. They go to the temple; they don’t go.
The temple, too, is a marketplace, just a part of the bazaar. It only looks like a temple; it is not a temple. What is this going to a temple to ask for things! The one whose asking has ended—that one goes to the temple. The one who has seen there is no substance—gain the world, there is no essence; don’t gain it, still no essence—one who has recognized in every way that it is all insubstantial, only that one goes toward religion. Then he does not go to ask, does not go to get anything.
Asking and getting have nothing to do with religion. Then, leaving everything, recognizing the futility of it all, one sets out on a new journey—the journey of desirelessness.
Here neither God has to be attained, nor liberation has to be attained. Nothing has to be attained. Here there is only the joy of being.
Being and getting—keep these two words clearly in mind. When the journey of being begins, that is religion. When the journey of getting goes on, that is the world. You want only to be, in your fullness. This is not a desire; this is what you already are. Let all desires drop, and this will be revealed to you.
Because of desire it is not seen. Desire surrounds you; the smoke of desire hangs all around. You cannot recognize yourself. Because of desire you run—you cannot sit. Because of desire you weave dreams—you cannot be still. Because of desire the mind thinks and thinks, makes a thousand plans. And because of that, friendship cannot happen with that which is hidden within you; a connection with it cannot be made.
Desire forges millions of relationships outside yourself; it does not allow the inner connection to happen. When all desire drops—dropping does not mean that you run away abandoning things—dropping means you understand: it is futile. There is understanding; awareness awakens. Then it is not that some new journey begins; rather, the old journey comes to an end. You find yourself already where you had wanted to go.
You find yourself complete; you find yourself of the nature of Brahman. In that moment a sound begins to resound within you day and night: Aham Brahmasmi! I am Brahman. Without going anywhere, the goal is found.
Religion is not a journey at all. Because in a journey there will be craving—there is somewhere to go. Religion is arrival, not a journey. Religion is not the path; it is the destination. And you are there this very moment, even now. But your cravings keep you running. You do not get the opportunity, the time, the ease to recognize what is happening within—what has always been happening!
Within you, day and night, the Divine abides. In every breath, in every heartbeat, He pervades. But where is the leisure, where the ease, where the time?
Right now there is a great race: the world has to be conquered. Alexander rides your chest; he keeps dragging you along. There is so much to get. You think that when you have gotten everything, then you will also pay attention to this side.
Remember, religion is not a journey. Religion is not craving. Not even that is of any use to religion.
Religion is a flower risen from the failure of the world, a flower risen from life’s sorrow, a flower that blossoms out of failure. On the death of desire, religion is born. On the ashes of desire, the sprout of religion breaks forth.
Third question:
Osho, in yesterday’s verse the sattvic happiness that arises from meditation, worship, and the like was described as ending sorrow, nectar-like, and born as the grace of self-knowing. Please explain why Krishna calls it “sukha” (happiness) and not “ananda” (bliss).
Osho, in yesterday’s verse the sattvic happiness that arises from meditation, worship, and the like was described as ending sorrow, nectar-like, and born as the grace of self-knowing. Please explain why Krishna calls it “sukha” (happiness) and not “ananda” (bliss).
Sukha is the opposite of dukha. In the world you know suffering; within yourself you will know happiness. When the world is forgotten, sukha arises. When the self too is forgotten, ananda arises.
First you must be free of the world; then free of yourself as well. When you are freed from the world, sorrow no longer remains—there is happiness, nectar-like. It is very rare; like prasada, a gift. It wells up from within; a continuous stream flows. You bathe in its music; you blossom. But this is the state opposite to the suffering you knew in the world. And ananda is not the opposite of suffering; ananda is beyond both suffering and happiness.
So the first state is dukha: the world, where you know only sorrow. There is only the hope of happiness; it never arrives. It seems it is about to be attained—now, now—but the hand never reaches it. It keeps moving away. You receive sorrow, and keep the hope of happiness. Because of that hope, you agree to endure suffering; otherwise you would have run away long ago.
It is like this: if you want to bring a cow home, carry a bundle of grass and start walking toward home; the cow follows. Hope is tied to the grass: “Now I will get it.”
But the cow, upon reaching home, actually gets the grass; the grass you are following never comes. It just keeps moving ahead. You keep walking, the grass keeps moving, and the distance remains exactly what it was at first—right to the end. It is illusory, like maya, like a dream.
In the world you get sorrow; you keep the hope of happiness. Don’t even raise the matter of bliss. You cannot even dream of bliss in the world. Where even happiness is only hoped for and never found, what of bliss! You don’t even get its faintest hint.
Therefore the word “ananda” is not really in your dictionary; it cannot be. At most you take ananda to mean happiness—big happiness, mega-happiness, happiness multiplied many times. But your “bliss” remains qualitatively no different from happiness: it is only happiness in a larger quantity. Your sukha would be like a single grain of sand; your “ananda” like all the sands spread upon the ocean’s shores. But there is no qualitative difference—only of magnitude. Bigger, not different.
True ananda is different, not bigger. That is why you can only interpret ananda as happiness. Even happiness you have not yet known; it has only flickered as hope.
When the world drops, proves insubstantial; when the eye turns inward, comes to oneself—then happiness becomes real. What was hoped for yesterday begins to flow.
You wandered because you searched outside while it was within. The musk is in your own navel! Following its fragrance—where did you not travel! You combed this world and the next, wandered across countless earths, through countless wombs; probed everywhere, searched, banged your head, flailed your limbs, left nothing undone. You did not find it—because it was within. Now, tired and beaten, you return inside. Suddenly you discover: here, day and night, its melody is playing; its lamp is lit.
So Krishna says: nectar-like. Not nectar itself—nectar-like. Like a gift of grace, because you are not doing anything and it is being received. You merely turned within, and it began to be received. It was inside all along. The direction had been wrong: what was within you were seeking without. The journey is corrected; happiness begins to fill.
But this happiness is the opposite of the world’s sorrow. It is the very happiness whose hope you had bound in the world and never obtained; that very happiness now you are receiving. Yet even this is connected with the world. However sattvic, it remains connected to the world.
Because your sense of being—“I am”—is also a part of the world. Others are; “you” is. From that is tied the sense “I am.” I and thou are two sides of the same coin.
Until now you searched in “thou” and found sorrow; now you searched in “I” and found happiness. After happiness, for the first time in your life the hope of bliss will be born. As there was hope of happiness in sorrow, so in happiness the hope of bliss will arise. The happy person sets out in search of ananda.
He asks, “Bliss?”—because in a few days happiness begins to bore. However nectar-like, if you drink it every day it becomes tasteless. However gift-like, by enjoying it day after day you get bored; it loses its savor. You tire of it too.
And often it happens that when you grow weary even of inner happiness, your eyes begin to open outward again—“Let a little sorrow come; the flavor will change a bit.”
Sannyasins sitting in the forests attain happiness. But then they begin to be bored of happiness, and the world starts calling them. Because as long as the “I” is alive, the world has died only grossly, not subtly. Its fundamental ground still remains. The blueprint is present. The building can be raised again. The seed remains; the tree can grow again. You have cut the tree, but the seed is still preserved. The “I,” the ego, is the seed of the entire spread.
Have you noticed: if in meditation even a little peace begins to arise, soon you find the mind wants to taste a little disturbance too. “Come, let’s see a film! Let’s meet friends! Let’s stir up some mischief!” If peace persists continuously, you cannot bear it; even that begins to bore.
If heaven were to continue unbroken, soon you would file an application to go to hell. You would say, “Let me go out for a few days; the air will change a bit.”
One gets bored even of happiness—because happiness too is an experience. And any experience, if it keeps repeating, becomes tedious.
Bliss is not an experience. It is not even “as grace”; it is of the nature of your being. It is not nectar-like; it is nectar. There is no experiencer there. It is not that you are and bliss is being received. There, there is only bliss—and you are not.
The one who attains happiness gets stuck in mid-air. Two outcomes are possible. If he is not intelligent, if there are no companions to pull him higher, if a master is not available, there is a great danger that he will return to the world. Many times people have returned. Many among you have also returned.
Such people we call yogabhrashta—fallen from yoga. They had come almost near; the goal was just within reach, and they turned back! But it is a compulsion; what else could they do!
I have heard: when gold mines were first discovered in Colorado, people ran there as if mad. Gold seemed to be raining. There was gold in the fields, on the mountains—wherever you dug, you found gold.
One millionaire sold all his land and palaces and bought an entire mountain. By a quirk of fate, the mountain was empty of gold. He searched hard but found nothing. He took loans, installed big machines. People were digging by hand in the fields and finding gold; on the riverbanks they dug sand and found gold. And he, hoping to become the richest man in the world, had bought a whole mountain. He was becoming a pauper! He took huge loans, brought huge machines, had the mountain dug out—but there was no trace of gold.
One day he announced in the newspapers that he wanted to sell all his equipment, all his property, the whole mountain. His friends said, “Who will buy? Everyone has heard the news. All over America they’re saying: while gold lies on the roadside by sheer luck, one man worked so hard and did not find even a grain—astonishing! It must not be in his fate. So who do you think will be mad enough to buy such a huge setup? Who will stake himself as you did? And now knowingly! You at least staked in the dark; now the matter is known.”
He said, “Who knows! The world is never empty of madmen.”
And a man did turn up, who paid millions and bought the entire estate. His family said, “Have you gone mad?” He replied, “As far as he searched, there it was not found; but is it certain it won’t be found beyond? One more attempt is necessary.”
And that second man became a billionaire—because he dug just one foot more. Nowhere in Colorado were larger mines found. Just one foot! On the very first day the machines began to work and the mines opened up. And the first man had already dug dozens of feet.
But how would you know you turned back just one foot short! Your treasure was only a foot away. Your destiny was waiting—perhaps only an inch away. It could have been only a thin one-inch layer of earth—and you would have turned back.
From the stage of happiness many people fall back. Because when happiness begins to bore you, if there is no one to hold you and say, “Don’t run—this is exactly the moment. Lift your eyes higher; a glimpse of bliss can come now!”
Only in happiness does the glimpse of bliss come—not in sorrow. In sorrow only the glimpse of happiness comes. Naturally. From the rung of sorrow, the rung of happiness is attached; beyond the rung of happiness lies the rung of bliss.
Don’t run; use happiness. If you understand sorrow rightly, you will reach happiness. If you understand happiness rightly, you will reach bliss.
Sorrow is the world—and you. When two remain present, there is sorrow: I and thou. The whole chatter of “I and thou” is the world. Then, if only the “I” remains—half the disease—there appears happiness. Then, if the “I” also goes, bliss showers. But then you are not.
Bliss is not an experience. There is no one there to experience it. There is only bliss. Therefore we have defined the divine as sat-chit-ananda.
We have not said, “God is enjoying bliss.” For if He is “enjoying,” then sometimes He will be sad too; sometimes His hand will slip from bliss; sometimes He will become dejected. No—God is bliss. It is His very being.
Therefore Krishna calls it sukha, not ananda. Understand. If the state of sattva is established, you will obtain happiness. If the state beyond the gunas is established, you will obtain bliss. The one who goes beyond the three gunas attains ananda.
In the state of sattva—the purest guna—there is happiness, great happiness, but not bliss. A fine line of your “being” still remains. That very line pricks like a thorn. Even in happiness the seed of sorrow remains.
First you must be free of the world; then free of yourself as well. When you are freed from the world, sorrow no longer remains—there is happiness, nectar-like. It is very rare; like prasada, a gift. It wells up from within; a continuous stream flows. You bathe in its music; you blossom. But this is the state opposite to the suffering you knew in the world. And ananda is not the opposite of suffering; ananda is beyond both suffering and happiness.
So the first state is dukha: the world, where you know only sorrow. There is only the hope of happiness; it never arrives. It seems it is about to be attained—now, now—but the hand never reaches it. It keeps moving away. You receive sorrow, and keep the hope of happiness. Because of that hope, you agree to endure suffering; otherwise you would have run away long ago.
It is like this: if you want to bring a cow home, carry a bundle of grass and start walking toward home; the cow follows. Hope is tied to the grass: “Now I will get it.”
But the cow, upon reaching home, actually gets the grass; the grass you are following never comes. It just keeps moving ahead. You keep walking, the grass keeps moving, and the distance remains exactly what it was at first—right to the end. It is illusory, like maya, like a dream.
In the world you get sorrow; you keep the hope of happiness. Don’t even raise the matter of bliss. You cannot even dream of bliss in the world. Where even happiness is only hoped for and never found, what of bliss! You don’t even get its faintest hint.
Therefore the word “ananda” is not really in your dictionary; it cannot be. At most you take ananda to mean happiness—big happiness, mega-happiness, happiness multiplied many times. But your “bliss” remains qualitatively no different from happiness: it is only happiness in a larger quantity. Your sukha would be like a single grain of sand; your “ananda” like all the sands spread upon the ocean’s shores. But there is no qualitative difference—only of magnitude. Bigger, not different.
True ananda is different, not bigger. That is why you can only interpret ananda as happiness. Even happiness you have not yet known; it has only flickered as hope.
When the world drops, proves insubstantial; when the eye turns inward, comes to oneself—then happiness becomes real. What was hoped for yesterday begins to flow.
You wandered because you searched outside while it was within. The musk is in your own navel! Following its fragrance—where did you not travel! You combed this world and the next, wandered across countless earths, through countless wombs; probed everywhere, searched, banged your head, flailed your limbs, left nothing undone. You did not find it—because it was within. Now, tired and beaten, you return inside. Suddenly you discover: here, day and night, its melody is playing; its lamp is lit.
So Krishna says: nectar-like. Not nectar itself—nectar-like. Like a gift of grace, because you are not doing anything and it is being received. You merely turned within, and it began to be received. It was inside all along. The direction had been wrong: what was within you were seeking without. The journey is corrected; happiness begins to fill.
But this happiness is the opposite of the world’s sorrow. It is the very happiness whose hope you had bound in the world and never obtained; that very happiness now you are receiving. Yet even this is connected with the world. However sattvic, it remains connected to the world.
Because your sense of being—“I am”—is also a part of the world. Others are; “you” is. From that is tied the sense “I am.” I and thou are two sides of the same coin.
Until now you searched in “thou” and found sorrow; now you searched in “I” and found happiness. After happiness, for the first time in your life the hope of bliss will be born. As there was hope of happiness in sorrow, so in happiness the hope of bliss will arise. The happy person sets out in search of ananda.
He asks, “Bliss?”—because in a few days happiness begins to bore. However nectar-like, if you drink it every day it becomes tasteless. However gift-like, by enjoying it day after day you get bored; it loses its savor. You tire of it too.
And often it happens that when you grow weary even of inner happiness, your eyes begin to open outward again—“Let a little sorrow come; the flavor will change a bit.”
Sannyasins sitting in the forests attain happiness. But then they begin to be bored of happiness, and the world starts calling them. Because as long as the “I” is alive, the world has died only grossly, not subtly. Its fundamental ground still remains. The blueprint is present. The building can be raised again. The seed remains; the tree can grow again. You have cut the tree, but the seed is still preserved. The “I,” the ego, is the seed of the entire spread.
Have you noticed: if in meditation even a little peace begins to arise, soon you find the mind wants to taste a little disturbance too. “Come, let’s see a film! Let’s meet friends! Let’s stir up some mischief!” If peace persists continuously, you cannot bear it; even that begins to bore.
If heaven were to continue unbroken, soon you would file an application to go to hell. You would say, “Let me go out for a few days; the air will change a bit.”
One gets bored even of happiness—because happiness too is an experience. And any experience, if it keeps repeating, becomes tedious.
Bliss is not an experience. It is not even “as grace”; it is of the nature of your being. It is not nectar-like; it is nectar. There is no experiencer there. It is not that you are and bliss is being received. There, there is only bliss—and you are not.
The one who attains happiness gets stuck in mid-air. Two outcomes are possible. If he is not intelligent, if there are no companions to pull him higher, if a master is not available, there is a great danger that he will return to the world. Many times people have returned. Many among you have also returned.
Such people we call yogabhrashta—fallen from yoga. They had come almost near; the goal was just within reach, and they turned back! But it is a compulsion; what else could they do!
I have heard: when gold mines were first discovered in Colorado, people ran there as if mad. Gold seemed to be raining. There was gold in the fields, on the mountains—wherever you dug, you found gold.
One millionaire sold all his land and palaces and bought an entire mountain. By a quirk of fate, the mountain was empty of gold. He searched hard but found nothing. He took loans, installed big machines. People were digging by hand in the fields and finding gold; on the riverbanks they dug sand and found gold. And he, hoping to become the richest man in the world, had bought a whole mountain. He was becoming a pauper! He took huge loans, brought huge machines, had the mountain dug out—but there was no trace of gold.
One day he announced in the newspapers that he wanted to sell all his equipment, all his property, the whole mountain. His friends said, “Who will buy? Everyone has heard the news. All over America they’re saying: while gold lies on the roadside by sheer luck, one man worked so hard and did not find even a grain—astonishing! It must not be in his fate. So who do you think will be mad enough to buy such a huge setup? Who will stake himself as you did? And now knowingly! You at least staked in the dark; now the matter is known.”
He said, “Who knows! The world is never empty of madmen.”
And a man did turn up, who paid millions and bought the entire estate. His family said, “Have you gone mad?” He replied, “As far as he searched, there it was not found; but is it certain it won’t be found beyond? One more attempt is necessary.”
And that second man became a billionaire—because he dug just one foot more. Nowhere in Colorado were larger mines found. Just one foot! On the very first day the machines began to work and the mines opened up. And the first man had already dug dozens of feet.
But how would you know you turned back just one foot short! Your treasure was only a foot away. Your destiny was waiting—perhaps only an inch away. It could have been only a thin one-inch layer of earth—and you would have turned back.
From the stage of happiness many people fall back. Because when happiness begins to bore you, if there is no one to hold you and say, “Don’t run—this is exactly the moment. Lift your eyes higher; a glimpse of bliss can come now!”
Only in happiness does the glimpse of bliss come—not in sorrow. In sorrow only the glimpse of happiness comes. Naturally. From the rung of sorrow, the rung of happiness is attached; beyond the rung of happiness lies the rung of bliss.
Don’t run; use happiness. If you understand sorrow rightly, you will reach happiness. If you understand happiness rightly, you will reach bliss.
Sorrow is the world—and you. When two remain present, there is sorrow: I and thou. The whole chatter of “I and thou” is the world. Then, if only the “I” remains—half the disease—there appears happiness. Then, if the “I” also goes, bliss showers. But then you are not.
Bliss is not an experience. There is no one there to experience it. There is only bliss. Therefore we have defined the divine as sat-chit-ananda.
We have not said, “God is enjoying bliss.” For if He is “enjoying,” then sometimes He will be sad too; sometimes His hand will slip from bliss; sometimes He will become dejected. No—God is bliss. It is His very being.
Therefore Krishna calls it sukha, not ananda. Understand. If the state of sattva is established, you will obtain happiness. If the state beyond the gunas is established, you will obtain bliss. The one who goes beyond the three gunas attains ananda.
In the state of sattva—the purest guna—there is happiness, great happiness, but not bliss. A fine line of your “being” still remains. That very line pricks like a thorn. Even in happiness the seed of sorrow remains.
Fourth question:
Osho, you explained that one has to rise from tamas to rajas, and then from rajas to sattva. It is also said that living in one’s swadharma is the goal of dharma. So if someone’s swadharma is rajasic, must he abandon his swadharma and rise to sattva?
Osho, you explained that one has to rise from tamas to rajas, and then from rajas to sattva. It is also said that living in one’s swadharma is the goal of dharma. So if someone’s swadharma is rajasic, must he abandon his swadharma and rise to sattva?
No guna is swadharma. The gunas are outer coverings. Swadharma means going into one’s own nature. That is beyond the gunas.
Rajas, tamas, or sattva are not swadharma; they are superimpositions upon dharma. If someone has an iron covering, that is tamas. If someone has a silver covering, that is rajas. If someone has a golden covering, that is sattva. But all three are coverings. Inside, what is hidden is beyond the gunas; swadharma is there.
So do not interpret swadharma in terms of qualities. Swadharma is like the sky. You will recognize it only by entering it; it has no quality. Swadharma has no quality; its very being is the state beyond qualities. Therefore everyone has to rise from tamas, from rajas, and even from sattva. And ultimately, one has to attain swadharma.
Now this swadharma—neither has it anything to do with Hinduism, nor with Islam, nor with Jainism—swadharma means the supreme realization of your consciousness, the ultimate realization.
Rajas, tamas, or sattva are not swadharma; they are superimpositions upon dharma. If someone has an iron covering, that is tamas. If someone has a silver covering, that is rajas. If someone has a golden covering, that is sattva. But all three are coverings. Inside, what is hidden is beyond the gunas; swadharma is there.
So do not interpret swadharma in terms of qualities. Swadharma is like the sky. You will recognize it only by entering it; it has no quality. Swadharma has no quality; its very being is the state beyond qualities. Therefore everyone has to rise from tamas, from rajas, and even from sattva. And ultimately, one has to attain swadharma.
Now this swadharma—neither has it anything to do with Hinduism, nor with Islam, nor with Jainism—swadharma means the supreme realization of your consciousness, the ultimate realization.
Fifth question:
Osho, Bertrand Russell has said somewhere that the greatest problem of modern man is the sense of guilt. Is that true? And if it is true, what should one do to be free of it?
Osho, Bertrand Russell has said somewhere that the greatest problem of modern man is the sense of guilt. Is that true? And if it is true, what should one do to be free of it?
This is true in a very deep sense. And not only today; the sense of guilt has always been man’s problem. When I say “always,” I mean: ever since man became “civilized.”
The uncivilized man knows no guilt. He lives as simply as children, as animals and birds, as trees. Civilization is born out of guilt.
Guilt means: we tell every child, “You should be like this, and you should not be like that.” Then, whenever the child finds himself leaning in the direction of the “should not,” a tendency toward guilt arises—guilt, self-reproach, shame. And whenever he finds himself leaning in the direction we say he “should,” then ego arises.
Civilization breeds two diseases: on one side ego, on the other guilt.
You tell a child, “Don’t smoke; it’s a great sin, you’ll rot in hell.” You frighten him. If he then smokes, guilt arises: “I’ve done something sinful.” He lies to his parents, hides it. He comes home scared, on edge, expecting that news will reach them from somewhere, that someone must have seen him. The smell will cling to his clothes for his mother to catch. If he comes close, they’ll smell it on his breath. He’s bound to be caught. He’s full of guilt, fearful, anxious.
If this fear settles very deep, you can spend your whole life just being afraid. You never really live. How can a frightened person live? Guilt sucks the life out of you.
And if he doesn’t smoke—though the urge was there, he even lifted the cigarette but put it down, renounced it—then stiffness arises, ego arises. He will walk into the house with a different stride, as if he has accomplished a great feat, as if in God’s eyes he has risen very high. Heaven is guaranteed!
Leave little children aside—even your grown-up sadhus and sannyasins keep accounts of heaven and hell over such trifles! Someone fasted; he sits certain that in heaven God stands with band and music ready. The moment he dies—trumpets, procession on an elephant!
Childish mind. What have you really done? Not eaten food? Not smoked a cigarette? Not chewed betel? Some have chewed betel and smoked a cigarette, and they are trembling that the gates of hell have opened—now opened! No delay; the Devil has pounced!
Both attitudes are foolish. And both have a reason: society, the state, religion. Society rules the person by frightening him. The priest too rules by frightening. First, frighten. When the person is thoroughly scared, then come to “save” him. It’s a racket.
I have heard: there were two brothers in a village. Their business ran very well. One brother would go at night and throw tar on people’s windowpanes. The other brother would set out in the morning shouting, “Anyone want their glass cleaned?” The business was perfect. It could never happen that they didn’t find clients. The first brother created the customers; the second cleaned their panes in the morning.
First the priest frightens you. When you become fearful, then he consoles you: “Don’t worry. We have the keys, the methods by which even if you have sinned, you will be forgiven. Even if you have committed offenses, they will not take you to hell. We have mantras, sacrificial means. If you listen to us and obey, you will be pardoned. Don’t panic; there is a way to be saved. There is hope.”
We first make the person sick, then we sell the cure. First we make him ill, then we offer medicine. That’s how the trade runs.
If man is healthy, nothing needs to be done—for them. But this will continue, because the politician becomes useless if you are not anxious. If you are not afraid, the politician cannot throw you into wars. If you are not afraid, temples, mosques, gurdwaras will empty—who will kneel and pray? If you are not afraid, those who sit on society’s chest cannot keep sitting. Then the individual begins to be free. Society starts to loosen. People become simple, natural, capable of joy—but then the wicked, the exploiters, the oppressors, the sadists face great difficulty. What will they do?
So this whole game goes on. The greatest calamity that has happened with “civilization” is the birth of guilt inside man. And on what tiny matters guilt is manufactured!
When I was small, during Paryushan (the Jain festival) everyone at home would fast. Naturally, when the elders fast, the little ones imitate. If you don’t, you feel you are sinning; if you do, great pride arises—as if some grand deed has been done! Simply going hungry—and you think you’ve achieved the ultimate!
As a child, when the whole house fasted, I too felt I should. There was no compulsion. But if I didn’t, it felt as if I wasn’t yet part of the human race, somehow below human.
Children in other homes were also fasting—that too stung: “So-and-so’s boy fasted.” Either don’t go hungry, in which case the ego isn’t gratified; or go hungry and the ego can be gratified. If you don’t, guilt arises: you alone are wrong; everyone else is doing it.
If you get thirsty at night, you can’t drink. Even if the family says, “Drink, you’re still a child,” that too hurts—“Because I’m just a child they say drink; otherwise it would be a sin.” Then pride arises: “Don’t drink; somehow get through the night.” Children are stubborn. Somehow pass a painful night, wait for morning.
Whatever is done contrary to nature will breed ego if you do it; and if you don’t do it, guilt will arise—because others are doing it, moving ahead, while you’re left behind. Self-condemnation arises.
And the worst thing in life is to fall into self-condemnation. For one who condemns himself—how will he recognize the God within? He is so demeaned in his own eyes that he cannot even conceive that God could be within him! “In Mahavira, yes; in Buddha, yes; in Krishna, yes—but in me? I drank water at night! It was a fast-day; I felt hungry!”
The stronger the crust of guilt, the harder it becomes even to entertain that the divine could be within you. And if the crust of ego becomes strong, that too makes it hard to know.
Ego does not allow knowing, and guilt does not allow knowing. One who becomes free of both—I call such a one a simple saint. He carries no notion of guilt within. Hungry, he eats; thirsty, he drinks; sleepy, he sleeps. He runs his life so simply that he does not drag nature into needless conflict. Nor does he accumulate any ego. He cannot.
If you sleep when sleep comes, how will you accumulate ego? How will you brag, “I sleep only two hours!” How will you say, “I rise every day in Brahma-muhurta; I am not an ordinary man. My whole life I have risen only in Brahma-muhurta!” How will you say, “I have done so many fasts, kept so many vows”?
If you let guilt drop, ego drops too—for it has no footing left. Then you are, as if you are not. And that is the finest way of being: as if you are not. You are neither filled with shame nor trying to stand on anyone’s chest. You neither consider yourself low and place others on your head, nor consider yourself high and climb onto someone else’s head.
You are neither below nor above. You are simply you. You do not compare yourself with anyone, nor denigrate yourself; you neither self-advertise nor sing your own praises. This ease is what is called one’s own nature, one’s own dharma. Only then will you discover the God within.
There are two ways to miss: guilt and ego. There is one way to attain: drop both. Accept your naturalness, your spontaneity. Don’t create pointless conflict. Don’t fight the river; flow with it.
The uncivilized man knows no guilt. He lives as simply as children, as animals and birds, as trees. Civilization is born out of guilt.
Guilt means: we tell every child, “You should be like this, and you should not be like that.” Then, whenever the child finds himself leaning in the direction of the “should not,” a tendency toward guilt arises—guilt, self-reproach, shame. And whenever he finds himself leaning in the direction we say he “should,” then ego arises.
Civilization breeds two diseases: on one side ego, on the other guilt.
You tell a child, “Don’t smoke; it’s a great sin, you’ll rot in hell.” You frighten him. If he then smokes, guilt arises: “I’ve done something sinful.” He lies to his parents, hides it. He comes home scared, on edge, expecting that news will reach them from somewhere, that someone must have seen him. The smell will cling to his clothes for his mother to catch. If he comes close, they’ll smell it on his breath. He’s bound to be caught. He’s full of guilt, fearful, anxious.
If this fear settles very deep, you can spend your whole life just being afraid. You never really live. How can a frightened person live? Guilt sucks the life out of you.
And if he doesn’t smoke—though the urge was there, he even lifted the cigarette but put it down, renounced it—then stiffness arises, ego arises. He will walk into the house with a different stride, as if he has accomplished a great feat, as if in God’s eyes he has risen very high. Heaven is guaranteed!
Leave little children aside—even your grown-up sadhus and sannyasins keep accounts of heaven and hell over such trifles! Someone fasted; he sits certain that in heaven God stands with band and music ready. The moment he dies—trumpets, procession on an elephant!
Childish mind. What have you really done? Not eaten food? Not smoked a cigarette? Not chewed betel? Some have chewed betel and smoked a cigarette, and they are trembling that the gates of hell have opened—now opened! No delay; the Devil has pounced!
Both attitudes are foolish. And both have a reason: society, the state, religion. Society rules the person by frightening him. The priest too rules by frightening. First, frighten. When the person is thoroughly scared, then come to “save” him. It’s a racket.
I have heard: there were two brothers in a village. Their business ran very well. One brother would go at night and throw tar on people’s windowpanes. The other brother would set out in the morning shouting, “Anyone want their glass cleaned?” The business was perfect. It could never happen that they didn’t find clients. The first brother created the customers; the second cleaned their panes in the morning.
First the priest frightens you. When you become fearful, then he consoles you: “Don’t worry. We have the keys, the methods by which even if you have sinned, you will be forgiven. Even if you have committed offenses, they will not take you to hell. We have mantras, sacrificial means. If you listen to us and obey, you will be pardoned. Don’t panic; there is a way to be saved. There is hope.”
We first make the person sick, then we sell the cure. First we make him ill, then we offer medicine. That’s how the trade runs.
If man is healthy, nothing needs to be done—for them. But this will continue, because the politician becomes useless if you are not anxious. If you are not afraid, the politician cannot throw you into wars. If you are not afraid, temples, mosques, gurdwaras will empty—who will kneel and pray? If you are not afraid, those who sit on society’s chest cannot keep sitting. Then the individual begins to be free. Society starts to loosen. People become simple, natural, capable of joy—but then the wicked, the exploiters, the oppressors, the sadists face great difficulty. What will they do?
So this whole game goes on. The greatest calamity that has happened with “civilization” is the birth of guilt inside man. And on what tiny matters guilt is manufactured!
When I was small, during Paryushan (the Jain festival) everyone at home would fast. Naturally, when the elders fast, the little ones imitate. If you don’t, you feel you are sinning; if you do, great pride arises—as if some grand deed has been done! Simply going hungry—and you think you’ve achieved the ultimate!
As a child, when the whole house fasted, I too felt I should. There was no compulsion. But if I didn’t, it felt as if I wasn’t yet part of the human race, somehow below human.
Children in other homes were also fasting—that too stung: “So-and-so’s boy fasted.” Either don’t go hungry, in which case the ego isn’t gratified; or go hungry and the ego can be gratified. If you don’t, guilt arises: you alone are wrong; everyone else is doing it.
If you get thirsty at night, you can’t drink. Even if the family says, “Drink, you’re still a child,” that too hurts—“Because I’m just a child they say drink; otherwise it would be a sin.” Then pride arises: “Don’t drink; somehow get through the night.” Children are stubborn. Somehow pass a painful night, wait for morning.
Whatever is done contrary to nature will breed ego if you do it; and if you don’t do it, guilt will arise—because others are doing it, moving ahead, while you’re left behind. Self-condemnation arises.
And the worst thing in life is to fall into self-condemnation. For one who condemns himself—how will he recognize the God within? He is so demeaned in his own eyes that he cannot even conceive that God could be within him! “In Mahavira, yes; in Buddha, yes; in Krishna, yes—but in me? I drank water at night! It was a fast-day; I felt hungry!”
The stronger the crust of guilt, the harder it becomes even to entertain that the divine could be within you. And if the crust of ego becomes strong, that too makes it hard to know.
Ego does not allow knowing, and guilt does not allow knowing. One who becomes free of both—I call such a one a simple saint. He carries no notion of guilt within. Hungry, he eats; thirsty, he drinks; sleepy, he sleeps. He runs his life so simply that he does not drag nature into needless conflict. Nor does he accumulate any ego. He cannot.
If you sleep when sleep comes, how will you accumulate ego? How will you brag, “I sleep only two hours!” How will you say, “I rise every day in Brahma-muhurta; I am not an ordinary man. My whole life I have risen only in Brahma-muhurta!” How will you say, “I have done so many fasts, kept so many vows”?
If you let guilt drop, ego drops too—for it has no footing left. Then you are, as if you are not. And that is the finest way of being: as if you are not. You are neither filled with shame nor trying to stand on anyone’s chest. You neither consider yourself low and place others on your head, nor consider yourself high and climb onto someone else’s head.
You are neither below nor above. You are simply you. You do not compare yourself with anyone, nor denigrate yourself; you neither self-advertise nor sing your own praises. This ease is what is called one’s own nature, one’s own dharma. Only then will you discover the God within.
There are two ways to miss: guilt and ego. There is one way to attain: drop both. Accept your naturalness, your spontaneity. Don’t create pointless conflict. Don’t fight the river; flow with it.
Osho's Commentary
“Therefore, O Parantapa, the duties of Brahmins, Kshatriyas, and Vaishyas, and also of Shudras, are divided according to the qualities born of their nature. Shama—restraint of the inner instrument; Dama—restraint of the senses; Shaucha—purity within and without; Tapas, Kshanti—forbearance; Kshama-bhava—spirit of forgiveness; and Arjava—simplicity or straightforwardness of mind, senses, and body; Astika-buddhi—affirming intelligence; Jnana and Vijnana—these are the natural works of a Brahmin.
“And valor, radiance, steadfastness (dhriti), cleverness, and the disposition not to flee even in battle—and generosity and lordliness—these are the natural works of a Kshatriya.
“And agriculture, cattle-tending, and honest trade are the Vaishya’s; and service to all the other varnas is the Shudra’s natural work.”
First point. If people in the world were cleanly divided by qualities, there should be only three varnas, not four—Brahmin, Kshatriya, Shudra. If the division were exact, there would be three. The fourth exists because people are not so neatly divided.
Vaishya is, in truth, not a varna at all—it is the marketplace of all varnas. Those who lie between Shudra and Kshatriya, those between Kshatriya and Brahmin, those between Shudra and Brahmin—all the “betweens” collected together are Vaishya. Vaishya is not a pure varna; it is a mixture, a khichdi.
Yet it is needed too—it is the crossroads. From there one person of one varna enters another. One quality shifts into another. Three are pathways; the fourth is the public square.
Hence Vaishya is the largest varna. It shouldn’t be—but life is not mathematical. If nature ran strictly by rule and everything could be divided as we divide in logic and math, with clean boundaries, the Vaishya would disappear. Only three would remain.
One filled with Tamas (inertia, darkness) is Shudra—somnolent, stupefied. One filled with Rajas (passion, activity), intense drive and action, is Kshatriya. One filled with Sattva (purity, peace) is Brahmin.
These three are mathematical abstractions; but life doesn’t obey math. In life, a pure Brahmin is hard to find, a pure Shudra too, a pure Kshatriya too. Wherever you go, you’ll find Vaishya—because you’ll see even the Brahmin “doing business.” Whether his business is sacrifices, worship, priestcraft—still, it’s business. If he’s doing business, he is a Vaishya.
You’ll find the Shudra—where is he “serving”? He too is doing business. Whether he makes shoes, gives massages, sweeps—he too does business; he too is a Vaishya.
And where will you find a Kshatriya? They too are essentially doing business—selling their lives. They are ready to kill and be killed because they get a hundred rupees salary a month. They too are Vaishyas.
There would be three if life ran by math. But life does not. So you find a confluence of the three—Ganga, Yamuna, Saraswati meeting at Prayag. Vaishya has become the tirtha; everything is all mixed up. It has become the biggest varna—which ideally it should not be.
Second, note well: none of this has anything to do with birth. You may be born in a Brahmin’s house; that does not make you a Brahmin. You may be born in a Kshatriya’s house; that does not make you a Kshatriya—you will find cowardly Kshatriyas. And by being born in a Brahmin family one does not attain Brahma-knowledge. Being born in a Shudra’s house does not automatically make one a Shudra.
Dr. Ambedkar was born in a Shudra family. But you could not find a greater jurist-scholar in the land. When India had to frame its constitution, no Brahmin pandit superior to Ambedkar could be found to author it. Ambedkar—scholar of shastra, of law. Not born in a Brahmin’s house.
Life is not much related to birth. Birth only gives possibilities.
Shvetaketu returned home educated—from the gurukul. His father asked, “Have you truly returned as a Brahmin? Because know this: in our lineage no one has ever been a Brahmin merely by name. So, have you returned knowing that One, knowing which all is known? If you have not returned knowing that One, you are a Brahmin only nominally. And in our lineage there has never been a mere nominal Brahmin. We have always been Brahmins in truth. That is our current, our pride. So—go.”
Shvetaketu said, “I have not returned knowing That. I have returned knowing whatever was taught. But my guru never even mentioned That One by knowing which all is known. He never raised it! And I do not think my guru knew it and hid it. He would not have hidden it, for he opened his whole fist and gave me all he had.”
Then Uddalaka said, “So be it. I will teach you That One. But till you know That, never call yourself a Brahmin—never.”
So someone born in a Brahmin’s house may be merely a Brahmin in name. Until you know Brahman, call yourself a Brahmin only with caution.
No one becomes a Shudra by being born in a Shudra’s house. Our land’s ancient understanding was: all are born Shudra-like—because all are born from torpor, from deep tamas.
For nine months the child sleeps in the mother’s womb. Can you find greater laziness? He lies there in darkness, inert. All come from darkness, born of laziness and tamas. All are Shudra.
All are born as Shudra—and all should die as Brahmin. That would be the art of life. But one who, being born in a Brahmin’s house, thinks, “I am now a Brahmin,” will miss. He mistakes the label for the reality. Being born in a Kshatriya’s house does not make one a Kshatriya.
Try to understand the marks of the three.
Shama—restraint of the inner organ.
A deep state of peace arises within; no agitated waves inside; the inner being is no longer deranged; it has become silent. Close your eyes—inside opens silence upon silence. No useless echo of voice; words do not float without cause; thoughts do not roam idly. There is supreme peace within. The inner organ is holdable, governed. It no longer runs like a madman. When needed it functions; when not needed it rests. You have become master of your inner instrument.
Dama—
The senses are no longer the masters; awareness has become the master.
As you are, your senses drive you. A beautiful woman passes; you were sitting to meditate, and the eyes say, “Look, a beautiful woman!” You are not the master. The eyes coerce; you must look; you must raise your gaze. You raise your eyes and then repent: “What difference did it make to see? And what is there to see in beauty? Lines drawn in air—perhaps in a pleasing proportion—laid over bone, flesh, marrow! But what of it?” Still, the meditation broke, the chain snapped. The eyes called; they caught you.
Dama means the senses have come under your sway.
Shaucha—purity within and without.
Always bathed in purity; within, no dust of defilement rises.
Tapas—
Willingness to endure suffering if it purifies. Ready to suffer if suffering brings peace. Ready to suffer if it helps the search for truth. One who is not a seeker of comfort; in whom a greater longing than pleasure has dawned—the seeker of truth.
Kshama-bhava—
Where peace arises, forgiveness will arise. If forgiveness does not arise, you can never be truly peaceful. Such a vast world, humming on all sides—thousands of deeds are being done, people say thousands of things, for and against. If you chew on each word, get hurt, nurse wounds, cannot forgive, cannot let go—will you ever be at peace? You will go mad. So, one in whom forbearance has arisen, who has attained the spirit of forgiveness.
Arjava—
Mind, senses, and body become simple, natural. One who lives like a small child.
Astika-buddhi—
From within, “yes” arises easily; “no” arises with difficulty. “Yes” has become one’s nature—affirming intelligence.
You have seen them—you know people who are “yes” people and “no” people. Some in whom “no” is native. “No” arises even where there is no need for it. “No” is natural to them—that’s their first response. You say anything, their first inner movement is “no.” Their intelligence is nihilistic; their life runs on negation.
Astika-buddhi means: one in whom there is “yes,” trust, affirmation.
Jnana and Vijnana—
In the old shastras, in the Gita too, jnana means ordinary knowledge of the world, of things—what we today call science. And in those days, vijnana meant that special knowing by which the Self is known. Ordinary knowing and special knowing: that by which all else is known (jnana), and that by which oneself is known (vijnana).
These are the Brahmin’s natural traits—his very nature.
Shourya, veerta, sahas—valor, heroism, courage; tejas—an inner brilliance; an indomitable energy, shakti; dhriti—steadfastness; chaturata—skillfulness—
A competence in life’s struggle.
Not fleeing even in battle—
Even if death comes, a Kshatriya will not prefer to show his back. Death is acceptable; turning one’s back is not.
Dana—generosity—
Even if he has nothing, if someone asks, he cannot refuse. Giving is natural to him.
And swami-bhava—lordliness—
He is a master. Stiffness is natural to him; ego is natural to him. These are the Kshatriya’s natural works—rajasic traits: courage, the tendency not to flee, a spontaneous giving, and the effort to avoid asking.
A Kshatriya cannot beg. You will not find him asking. That’s why the Buddha’s father was so pained when Buddha went out to beg alms. He said, “This has never happened in our line. What are you doing? Why this Brahmin-like behavior? A Brahmin can beg.”
Now this needs a little understanding. A Brahmin can beg because he has no ego. A Kshatriya cannot beg. Ego is his backbone; if he begs, it breaks. He can give.
So a Kshatriya will be a great donor. A Brahmin will be a great mendicant. Yet we have placed the Brahmin above the Kshatriya; we place the bhikshu above the dani—because even in the donor there is pride.
Just recently Colonel Raj’s mother took sannyas—Kshatriya pride! A lovely old woman. Among other things she said to me: “If someone gives me one rupee, I return a hundred. What do you say? There’s no mistake in this, is there?”
That is Kshatriya pride: if anyone gives a penny, return a hundred. She said, “As it is, I don’t take from anyone. If some compulsion arises, or someone forces a gift upon me, instantly I must return it a hundred-fold. There’s no mistake in this, is there?”
As far as being a Kshatriya—no mistake. But if one would be a Brahmin, it’s a great mistake. The giving itself isn’t bad, but it will only consolidate ego, not bring humility.
Swami-bhava—
Even if nothing is left with a Kshatriya, the lordly bearing remains. Even with nothing, he will walk with a bristling moustache. It is his natural trait.
I have heard: Two young Rajputs came to Akbar’s court and said they wanted employment. Akbar, in jest, asked, “What are your qualifications?” They didn’t even have the line of a moustache yet, but the pride was immense. They had even stiffened the moustaches they didn’t have. Akbar asked, “Your qualification?” They said, “What qualification for a Kshatriya? We can fight.” Akbar asked, “Do you have any certificate of your bravery?”
That remark stung. They were twin brothers. Swords flashed. Before Akbar could say anything, each sword sank into the other’s chest. Two bodies lay there.
Akbar was shaken. He has recorded in his memoirs that he had never been so shaken. When he called Man Singh and asked, “What is this?” Man Singh said, “Never ask a Kshatriya for a certificate—ever. What other certificate can there be? Here is life itself! Is there such a thing as a certificate of bravery? He who brings a written certificate of bravery is no Kshatriya. From whom would he get it written?”
Akbar wrote: thereafter I never asked any Kshatriya. I became a little afraid of Kshatriyas. “What kind of thing is this! We were only talking; where did the question of losing one’s life come from!”
But the question of life arose. Someone asked for a certificate of bravery—intolerable! To be a Kshatriya is itself the certificate of bravery.
And agriculture, cow-tending, buying and selling with truthful dealing—these are the Vaishya’s natural works.
Truthful dealing—
Whatever he does, let there be truth in it, honesty in it.
We discovered a unique economics—an economics in which there was less “economy,” more ethics; less “wealth,” more dharma. We wished that the Vaishya too engage in trade, but not a trade based on adharma; behind it should run a search for truth. Whatever he does, let him take only what is necessary—do not suck more than needed.
Agriculture, cow-tending, honest trade—these are the Vaishya’s natural works.
Therefore those Vaishyas who truly were Vaishya we called by the name Seth. The root is shreshtha (excellent), which in popular speech became seth. One who has mastered truthfulness amid the tangled dealings of life is indeed “excellent.” Shreshtha, distorted, became Seth. In Krishna’s time it was a highly honored word: shreshthi. Because there is nothing harder than practicing honesty in the marketplace.
A Brahmin can be honest—he has no business. A Kshatriya can be honest—his work is straight, the sword. But a Vaishya? There the whole affair is trouble: theft, intrigue, the race for wealth, ambition, adulteration—everything. He stands in the middle of the bazaar.
Hence we did not call Brahmins shreshthi; nor Kshatriyas. We called the Vaishya shreshthi—because one who masters there has certainly mastered something astonishing.
And service is the Shudra’s natural work.
These are natural works, says Krishna. If you do not do them rightly, you will become distorted.
Let the Shudra serve—because that is what he can, at most. But even there, let the inner feeling be of service. He is lazy, tamasic; not much will be possible from him. He’ll do a little work—that’s enough. He should get enough to earn his bread. But his mood should be serviceful.
Now this is difficult. Shudras exist now as ever; they will always exist—because this is related not to social arrangement but to inner qualities. But now the Shudra’s name is proletariat, the “have-nots.” He is filled with anger; he surrounds, he strikes, he creates agitation. There is no eagerness to serve. He wants to be the master.
The Vaishya too still exists, but without truthful dealing. Now the Vaishya stands entirely upon untruth. Falsehood is the base of his trade—dishonesty, inauthenticity.
The Kshatriya still exists, but the valor is gone. Perhaps the strut remains; only the strut remains—without any reason behind it. Once there were reasons; strut could be forgiven because there were excellences.
If Karna had strutted like a Kshatriya, we could forgive it—for he had generosity: he even cut off his own earrings and gave them. Now only the rope remains where the snake was. The marks of coiling remain; the snake is gone.
The Brahmin too is a Brahmin in name. A bookish pundit, a parrot. The scriptures are memorized; they no longer arise from within. Long ago the inner stream dried, the fountain vanished. Now it is borrowed. He recites the ancestral property. Even on his lips the words feel false, for there is no breath of life behind them.
Everything has become distorted. But if all were rightly cultivated, then the Shudra would slowly rise through service—because service ultimately leads to truth, to truthful dealing.
One who practices truth in dealings will slowly rise from business to generosity. The shreshthi will someday become a donor. The day he becomes a donor, he has entered the Kshatriya world.
And how long can you strut? If you truly live as a Kshatriya—no running from life—then you will come to understand life. And understanding life will lead you toward the Brahmin, toward knowledge.
And the Brahmin will, someday, get weary even of sattva. Sattva gives much comfort, but not bliss. One day he will strive to go beyond the gunas.
If such a wholesome order prevailed—then the Shudra too would become a Brahmin, and the Brahmin would journey toward transcendence of the gunas. If not, the whole society slowly becomes jumbled. And if the three varnas are lost, only the Vaishya remains—as has happened.
Today, if you look closely, only the Vaishya varna remains; the others have been lost in it, all jumbled up. This is a great distortion, a sick state. It requires deep healing.
Enough for today.