Geeta Darshan #19

First thing: rather than thinking whom one should speak to, first see whether I am fit to speak at all. And if you are fit to speak, it will become as clear as a mirror whom to speak to and whom not to. Then it will depend—someone lacking tapas and bhakti may still be yearning for tapas and bhakti. One who is far today may be near tomorrow. One who has fallen today may rise tomorrow.

If a person without austerity and devotion wishes to listen, there can be two reasons for that desire. One, mere curiosity. Then you should not speak. Curiosity is like an itch; it leads nowhere. You scratch it and there is a little sensation—but an itch ends in sores.

If it is only curiosity, only the words of the Gita will reach him, not their meaning. He has no longing for meaning anyway. And in his life the words of the Gita will become sores. The flowers of meaning will not bloom; the wounds of words will form. By your speaking, harm will be done to him, not benefit. He will become a pundit. Curiosity can at most lead to pedantry, because curiosity is an intellectual itch.

But it may also be that the person lacking tapas and bhakti is an inquirer; not merely curious, but truly stirred by inquiry. The dawn of austerity and devotion has not yet come, but in his being the first sound of thirst has been heard, the first call has arisen. Naturally, the first call will look very much like curiosity.

Telling the Gita to such an inquirer opens the door of the quest. Gradually a longing for liberation (mumuksha) will be born within him.

But all this will be visible to you only if you are fit to speak.

Krishna said nothing about who should speak. He did say whom it should be spoken to; he did not say who should speak. There is a reason. It never occurred to Krishna that anyone would try to speak without first becoming Krishna. But people have tried. So around the Gita a vast web of pundits’ commentaries and annotations has arisen.

A listener may hear wrongly and go astray. But only one listener goes astray by hearing wrongly. A speaker addresses thousands, hundreds of thousands. If the speaker himself is wrong, he misleads millions. And remember, a wrong speaker will inevitably attract wrong listeners.

Life has very subtle webs of attraction. As a woman attracts a man or a man attracts a woman; as iron filings are drawn to a magnet—so in life there are fine meshes of attraction.

If the speaker is wrong, a crowd of wrong listeners will gather around him of its own accord. A right listener cannot even stay there, because for him there will be nothing but darkness. On the touchstone of a right listener only a right speaker stands the test. But a crowd of wrong listeners will assemble.

Krishna said nothing in that regard because it is difficult to say—and it likely never occurred to him that people would be so egotistical. In those days such egomania hardly existed.

In the time of Krishna, Mahavira, and Buddha, only one who had known would go to speak; one who had not known would not even attempt it. To speak without knowing is a great sin. Who knows how many thorns you will sow in people’s lives. Perhaps you will get a little pleasure from speaking, a taste of it; perhaps while speaking you will feel important because many are listening; perhaps your pedantry and ego will be a little gratified. But for your futile gratification, who knows how many will fall from the path. You will mislead them.

And in this world the greatest sin is not murder; the greatest sin is to deflect someone from his path.

So the unfit speakers have committed the gravest sins—no one has committed greater. If someone strikes your neck with a sword, only the body is cut; another body can be found again. But if someone leads your soul away from its path, something wanders so far that through birth after birth you may hardly find your way back. One deviation leads to another—links join. The second deviation leads to a third, and returning becomes harder and harder.

So first remember this: do not worry about who is fit to hear and who is not. First worry: am I fit to speak? Am I to say anything about Krishna? Until Krishna-consciousness has arisen in you, do not speak.

And do you need to ask anyone about this? You will know within whether Krishna-consciousness has blossomed or not. There is no need to take anyone else’s test; no reason to ask anyone. Only one who is doubtful goes to ask. And in Krishna-consciousness there is no doubt; it is an unquestionable, self-evident state. When it dawns within, you know—just as you know the sun has risen. You don’t go around asking whether it is night or day! And if you do, people will say you are blind.

Krishna placed no condition on the speaker, because in those days it never happened that one who did not know would speak. Only one who had known would speak. And until one had known, however much he had gathered from the scriptures, he would not fall into the delusion that he had attained.

Shvetaketu returned home to his father. Uddalaka said, “Have you come knowing that One, by knowing which all is known? For Shvetaketu was returning with great swagger—as scholars always do. He had passed all the examinations; he knew all the scriptures; he had mastered the Vedas. Whatever could be taught in the university he had learned. In the guru’s ashram nothing remained to be learned. Naturally, he was young; the ego was fresh; the strut was new; life was in flood—he came home strutting.

Seeing him, the father sensed that the swagger was wrong. Does a knower ever walk in like that? That is the mark of the ignorant.

The very first thing: the son bowed at his feet. The father asked, “It seems you have come knowing everything!” Shvetaketu said, “You have recognized correctly. I have left nothing out; whatever was worth knowing, I have known. I have settled all accounts; nothing remains.”

The father said, “Answer me one thing. Have you known that One, by knowing which all is known, and without knowing which whatever you know has no value?”

Shvetaketu said, “What is that One? Which One? My guru never spoke of it!”

The father said, “Then go back. Is this any knowing? In our lineage there have never been brahmins in name only. We have called ourselves brahmins only on knowing Brahman. No one in our family has called himself a brahmin by birth. Return after knowing—return after knowing Brahman; otherwise you cannot be called a brahmin.”

In those days there was no need to say such things, because no one committed that great sacrilege. Therefore Krishna said nothing about the speaker; he spoke of the listener.

And if awakening of consciousness has happened within you, then in that very awakening you will directly see to whom to speak and to whom not to. Do not speak to the merely curious; speak to the inquirer.

Between inquiry and curiosity there is a very fine distance. They look alike. Curiosity is the counterfeit coin of inquiry. They look the same.

A small child asks: you are walking on the road, your child with you; he asks, Why do birds have two wings? Why are there red flowers on the tree? Why does the sun rise only in the morning? It should rise at night when it is dark! God is unintelligent; He brings it up in the morning when there is already light and sinks it at night when there is darkness. He keeps on asking.

You do not pay much attention. You say something or other and put him off. And even if you don’t, he himself forgets within a moment what he asked, because other questions arise.

He is not asking in order to know. There is no inquiry in him; there is curiosity. Waves are arising in his mind. Everything appears as a question. But do not think he is stuck on any question—that if it is not solved his life will be at stake. He is not concerned. Just tell him, “You will know when you grow up,” and the matter is finished. He does not even ask, “You are already grown up—have you known?” He says, “All right.” Give him any answer; he has little interest in the answer—he enjoys asking.

As the pundit enjoys speaking, so the curious enjoy asking. Therefore the curious gather around pundits.

The inquirer does not ask for the sake of asking; his very life is staked on the question. Everything depends on it; it is either this shore or the other; it is a life-and-death matter. He is not asking about everything. Therefore the inquirer will ask only sometimes, but he will drown his whole being in that one question. The curious will ask every day, ask a thousand things in a day, and after asking will forget—never returning to them.

The divine is not known through curiosity. Curiosity is very cheap—you stake nothing on it. You just ask—in passing!

People like this used to come to me. I was traveling. I would be walking to the platform to catch a train; someone would see me, recognize me, come up: “I just want to ask one thing—how can the mind be made silent?”

I am catching a train; it is about to leave; he too has to catch a train! On the station he asks, “How can the mind be made silent?” As if it were a children’s game! Or someone asks, “Is there God or not? Give a brief answer—yes or no.”

What will be resolved by my yes or no? If your search for God could be completed by my yes or no, what sort of search would that be? It would be worth two pennies. It would not be a search at all.

Inquiry is another matter. To resolve an inquiry you are ready to pay—even if it costs your whole life. Questions are not just questions; they are your inner anguish. Life is entangled; you seek resolution, not an answer.

The curious wants answers; the inquirer wants resolution. Therefore the curious reaches pedantry; the inquirer moves toward samadhi.

But one in whom Krishna-consciousness has arisen will see clearly where there is curiosity and where there is inquiry. He does not make the slightest mistake in recognizing it—just as you can tell a corpse from a living man. Even if you are not a great medical expert, do you have any difficulty knowing whether this one is dead and that one is alive? Who takes long to recognize a corpse!

Inquiry is living. Curiosity is dead—a corpse. And do not bang your head against a corpse.

The answer can come later; first try to understand the question.
Ego takes very subtle forms. Even the fact that you are listening to me—ah, that too you think you must have earned by merit in a past life! In your feeling, nothing ever happens as prasad—as grace! Your stiffness of doership runs very deep.
In this life it doesn’t appear that you have earned anything, so certainly you must have done great merits in a past life—only then are you listening! You cannot even thank me. It is your earning! You have earned it! If I am speaking to you, it is because of your earnings! Do you never see anything as grace anywhere?
Even if you were to reach God, you would say, “By the merit of births upon births I have earned You!” There you will miss. That rigidity will leave you nowhere. In fact you won’t reach at all, because this rigidity itself will block the way.
One who has truly done merit is humble. He says, “What merit of mine? I did nothing, and yet I have received so much. Surely it must be God’s compassion, His grace. So much rain has fallen upon one so unworthy. I am blessed!” The one who has truly done merit has this inner state: “I am blessed, for grace has showered on one so unworthy. I have done nothing.”
And the one who has not done merit has this ego: “Whatever has happened is the earning of my merits. I earned it; I have obtained it.”
Perhaps another kind of person will even feel that he has not received as much as he ought to have. He earned so much, yet has not received in proportion. For the ego always feels: my effort is more, the reward is less. Egolessness always feels: my effort is almost nothing, the reward is immense. It is being given without my doing, unasked, effortlessly!
So first, think over your questions very carefully. They do not fall out of the sky; they come from you. They do not descend from a blank void; they bring with them the fragrance of your inner climate. If there is fragrance, they bring fragrance; if there is stench, they bring stench. Your questions throb with your whole soul, with your whole inner state.
Will you never be able to understand prasad? And the entire Gita is a discourse on prasad—on grace! The Gita is coming to its close, and you ask whether it is only because of your meritorious deeds that you got the chance to hear these nectar-like words?
Why can’t you drop the doer? Why are you clinging to doership? Hidden behind this doership is your ego.
Understand! Know! What will your doing fetch? How small your hands are! With these little hands you are trying to bind God, to embrace Him. Will you be able to? How small your intellect is! Through that tiny aperture you are trying to pour the vast sky of the Divine. Will you be able to fill it?
What is the worth of your actions? Even if you have done merits, what have you done? Perhaps you gave a few coins to a beggar. And first you made him a beggar by your exploitation, then you gave him coins. From where did those coins come into your hands? First exploitation, then charity! First sin, then virtue! First stain your hands with blood, then wash them!
All your virtues can at best be the penance for your sins; beyond that they have no value. You do not gain anything real by them. Do not get puffed up that you opened a hospital, that you built a rest house. Have you kept account of how many people fell ill because of you? Have you kept account of how many became homeless because of you? You built a rest house—have you kept that account?
Have you kept account of how many lives you have hurt, sickened, wounded? No—you opened a little clinic where you hand out two-paisa homeopathic pills. That you call virtue!
What are your virtues?
A truly virtuous person feels, “How can I do virtue? What is there of mine to do?” It is the sinner’s vision that says, “I have performed virtues.” The very feeling “I have done” is sin. Ego is sin. And the ego of virtue is a very deep sin. The truly righteous sees only this: I have made mistake upon mistake; I tried a little to set things right, but what is resolved? Mistakes are infinite; the corrections are next to nothing.
Therefore the virtuous will say: When God is found, He is received as prasad—as grace—not as the result of my effort. He will be attained through His compassion, not by my deeds. What can I ever do?
And the day the feeling of prasad arises in you, that day you will find a revolution beginning in your life. Otherwise you will go on protecting your ego in ever-new forms.
Now see what a clever new trick you have found! Even in listening to me, you have dragged in your doer! In an act as simple as listening, your crooked doer has slipped in.
You are not required to do anything; you are only listening. Even that—are you listening wholly? It is doubtful. Are you pouring your very life into listening? That too is uncertain. You hear here, and forget there. But of course your ego says: If this opportunity to listen has come, then surely I must have done some meritorious deeds in a past life; otherwise how would this be given?
Does nothing ever come as prasad? If so, you will never understand the Gita. You will find no harmony with it. Your notes are playing a different tune.
The whole purport of the Gita is just this: nothing happens by man’s doing; all happens by His doing. And the day you recognize this, that very day virtue dawns; before that there is only sin.
In essence, ego is sin; egolessness is virtue. Therefore virtue cannot carry the feeling “I have done”; that feeling belongs only to sin. The very talk of doing has a faint stench about it.
There is a mother. Ask her how much she has done for her son. She will say, “Nothing at all. Whatever needed to be done, I could not do.” She will begin to weep: the clothes that should have been given, I could not give—poverty; the medicine that should have been given, I could not—no money; the education that should have been given, I could not.
Ask a mother what she has done, and she will not be able to list it—though she has done so much! There is no end to a mother’s doing. Yet she cannot enumerate it. If you ask her to make a list, the paper will remain blank; only drops of her tears will fall upon it. She will say, “Nothing else was done; what should have been, did not happen.”
But ask the secretary of an organization, or the prime minister of a country! The list of what all he has done will go on getting longer. What has not been done will be included too. What was never even thought of doing will also find a place on the list. An organization’s secretary—there is no relationship of love there.
Where there is love, it feels, “I could do nothing; whatever needed to be done remained incomplete.” Where there is no relationship of love but of profit and greed, there even what has not been done is claimed as done; even what has not happened is announced as accomplished.
The inner feeling of virtue is like a mother’s heart. You will not be able to say what all you have done. Whenever you stand before God, you will fall down, you will weep; you will say, “I had no worthiness! This is Your compassion! Even if You had sent me to hell, it would not have been wrong. The arithmetic would have balanced. I was worthy of that; the total sum of my deeds was—hell. But You have called me to Yourself. This has no connection with my deeds. Yes, it is related to Your compassion; it has no relation to my actions.”
Look a little closely at your questions. They bring news from your unconscious within.

Secrecy is of such a nature that it cannot be destroyed. It is not destroyed by speaking, nor by writing. Secrecy lies in the very nature of what is being said.

The Gita is being sold—and because of that it has become even more secret. You may be a little surprised to hear this.

In Egypt there is an old saying: if you want to hide something from a man, put it right before his eyes; then he will not be able to see it.

Do you remember how long it has been since you really looked at your wife’s face? Since you looked into your mother’s eyes, eye to eye? The wife is so present, the mother so close—what is there to look at! You have forgotten that their being even is. Only when the wife dies do you realize she was there. When the husband is gone, then it comes to mind: Ah, this man was with me so many days, and we never even became acquainted!

That is why people weep so much when someone dies. They do not weep because he has died; they weep because with the one they lived so long, they never really looked; with the one they were so near, they never even heard the heartbeat; there was no true meeting—he remained a stranger and left as a stranger! And now there is no way. In this vast universe, who knows when we will meet again? There is no way. Whether it will ever happen again, who can say? It happened—and we missed. Hence the tears.

When your beloved passes away, you weep because the opportunity came and was missed; you could not even love.

Those Egyptian fakirs are right: if you want to hide something, put it in front of people’s eyes. The nearer a thing is, the more it is forgotten. The clearer a thing is, the more it confounds.

The Gita was never as esoteric as it has become since it was printed. When it was not printed, it was far less secret. Now it is on the table before you; the book is open; you sit and read; you have read it a thousand times. And from reading it a thousand times a delusion arises in you that you know it—what remains now to be known?

That is its secrecy: without knowing, you go on thinking you have known. You take acquaintance with words to be acquaintance with meaning. You mistake recognition of the body for recognition of the soul.

The word is not the meaning. The word is only a key that can open the meaning.

Ever since the Gita, the Bible, the Quran were printed, they have all become very secret. When they were not printed, not so easily available, people would travel thousands of miles. Now there is no need to go anywhere. The Gita from Gita Press, Gorakhpur, is available for a few pennies in every marketplace. Knowledge is sold in the bazaar—go buy it! Fill your bundle with as many as you like!

When the scriptures were not printed, you had to find a master, because you could not understand a scripture directly. You had to find someone who was the custodian of the scripture, who could make it accessible to you, who could unveil its secrecy, who could lift the curtains, remove the veil.

You had to find a living person. People searched for a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Krishna. They traveled thousands of miles. If only they could find someone who would reveal the hidden.

In that very journey a revolution happened in your life, because the journey itself was tapas, austerity. To stay with that journey was your devotion, your trust. The journey was arduous. It took a lifetime. Keys were won with difficulty. And the harder it was, the deeper you went into the search.

Now what need is there to search? Will you go to the Himalayas to understand the Gita? Whom will you seek to understand the Gita—some Vyasa? Some Kanada, some Kapila, some Buddha? Will you sit at the feet of a Patanjali? What is the need! The Gita is available for a few pennies—why go to such trouble! Just buy it and bring it home.

But the book you bring home has no connection with Krishna, because the meanings you draw from it will be your meanings. You will not be able to draw meanings beyond yourself. You will read yourself in the book; you will not be able to read Krishna. As far as your reach goes, only that far will you reach in those words. What you have thought and understood till now—only that much will you be able to think and understand. How will a book take you beyond yourself?

No: from the day the book was printed, its secrecy became more and more profound. Now only rarely does someone set out on the journey to lift its veil. And only rarely will you find the person who is capable of lifting it.

Yes, you will find many pundits of the Gita now; you will not find Krishna. The printed Gita has produced Gita pundits. They will explain everything that lies on the surface. They will squeeze the skin of the words, and split hairs endlessly.

But when you return, you will come back as empty-handed as you went. Your life-breath will not be filled. The lamp within will remain unlit as before. And the danger is that you may return thinking, “Now I have understood”—and the secrecy will have become even more secret!

No, the printing press has not destroyed secrecy; it has increased it. And only through a very deep search will you now be able to find.

People once journeyed thousands of miles. The Buddhists had a great university—Nalanda. Ten thousand students studied there. From China and Lanka and Cambodia and Japan and faraway lands—Central Asia and Egypt—students would come. They traveled on foot. One who set out could not be sure he would ever return home. People wept when someone left; they took it that he had died.

A pilgrim would be wept over and seen off beyond the village boundaries: “He is gone; who knows if he will ever return!” Dense forests, mountains, perilous ravines, bandits, wild beasts—and one who goes in such a search rarely returns! Such is the search.

In a place like Nalanda, where the wise lived, years and years would pass. People came as youths and grew old there. And until the master would say, “Yes, it is complete,” it was not complete. Three students had passed the final examination, but the master was not saying they could go. At last, one day one of them asked, “We hear that the final test is done, yet it seems it is not, because we are not being told to leave. It has been twenty years since we came. Are our parents even alive? Are those we left behind still there? Our parents are old! If our examination is complete, may we go?”

The master said, “At dusk today you may go.”

But the last test still remained. And the final test was such that it could not be administered; it was a touchstone one had to pass through.

At dusk the three students took leave. A distant town lay where they would spend the night. The sun was setting, and then it set. They came to a thicket. The master was hidden in the bush. He had strewn thorns across the little footpath. One student stepped down off the path and went around the thorns. The second leapt over them. The third stopped and began to pick up the thorns and toss them into the thicket.

The other two said, “What are you doing? Night will fall soon. We have far to go; the jungle is dense; it is dangerous. Don’t waste time picking thorns.”

But the third student said, “The sun has set; night is near. Whoever comes after us will not be able to see. We are the last ones on this path tonight who can still see. The sun has just gone down. Night is descending. These must be picked. You go on; I will be a little behind.”

Just then they were startled: the master stepped out of the bush and said, “The two who have gone ahead, come back—they have failed the test. They must remain a few more years. And the third, who stopped to pick up the thorns, has passed; he may go.”

Because the final test is not of words; the final test is of love. The last test is not of erudition; the last test is of compassion.

People learned at the feet of a master; it took years. Strange tests there were. But seekers would find those feet where veils are lifted.

It took time; it was difficult. But difficulty has its own beauty. Difficulty refines; it blows away the ash within, burns up the rubbish.

Now nothing is difficult. Buy the Gita for a few pennies; read it yourself. All the simple meanings are written down. Do not think the secrecy of the Gita has been destroyed; the secrecy has greatly increased. The Gita has been placed before your eyes—and now you do not see it at all.

Only a very few now understand that if you read, you will read yourself in the scripture—how will you read the scripture? How will you draw from it what you do not already know? Only the echo of what is known to you will be heard in those words. Those who have this understanding will go only in search of a master.

The keys to the scriptures are in the hands of the masters. A scripture by itself is not potent. It becomes alive only in the hands of a master.

You may carry the scripture around—nothing will happen. Until you find a master who can re-enliven your scripture, who can pour his life into it, pour his meaning into it, and make present before you the very consciousness from which the scripture first descended, otherwise the secret will remain secret. The secret does not open so easily.

Secrecy is the very nature of truth. You cannot sell it in the marketplace.

I have heard that one night a husband returned home exhausted from a journey. He was thirsty, worn out. He sat on the bed and said to his wife, “Bring me water; I am very thirsty.”

The wife brought water, but he was so weary he lay down and fell asleep. So the wife stood through the night by the bed holding the glass of water. To wake him would not be right—his sleep would be broken. To sleep herself would not be right—who knows when he might wake and ask for water; he had fallen asleep thirsty. So she stood holding the glass all night.

In the morning, when the husband awoke, he said, “Foolish woman, you could have slept!” She said, “That was not possible. You were thirsty; you might have awakened at any time!” “Then you could have woken me,” said the husband. She answered, “That too I could not do, for you were weary and had fallen asleep. The right thing was that you sleep and I stand holding the glass. When you woke you could drink; if you did not wake, no harm—nothing is lost by one sleepless night.”

This spread through the village. The emperor summoned that wife to his court and welcomed her with jewels and precious stones. He said, “If even a little stream of such love flows in my capital, we have not yet died; the life-breath of our culture is still alive, still throbbing.”

A neighbor woman was filled with jealousy: “Was that any great thing? Standing one night with a glass—and she got lakhs of rupees’ worth of jewels! What is that!”

She said to her husband, “Listen, today you come back exhausted. The moment you arrive, sit on the bed. Ask for water. I will bring it. Then you close your eyes and go to sleep, and I will stand all night. In the morning, when you wake, you say this and this to me: ‘Why did you stand all night? You could have woken me.’ I will say, ‘How could I wake you? You were exhausted.’ Then you say, ‘You could have slept.’ I will say, ‘How could I sleep? You were thirsty.’ And speak loudly so the neighbors hear. Because this is the limit! After all, who can be sure one really stood all night—one might have dozed off and then, in the morning, spread the story! But we too must get the emperor’s reward.”

In the evening the husband returned “exhausted.” One must, when the wife orders. He sat on the bed and said, “I’m thirsty.” The wife brought water. The husband lay down with his eyes closed. Of course, no sleep came—but there was no choice. And the thought of lakhs of jewels appealed to him too.

The wife thought, “The rest of the scene will be in the morning. What sense is there in standing uselessly all night? And who will know whether I stood or not?” She too slept, putting the glass aside.

In the morning she began a loud conversation so the neighbors would know. A summons came for her from the emperor, and she was very pleased. But when she reached the court, she was astonished: the emperor had men with whips ready, and he had her flogged. She cried out, “What injustice! One gets jewels; I get lashes! I did the same thing!”

The emperor said, “You did the same thing—but it did not happen. And only happening has value; doing has none.”

This is what happens in life every day. If there is no throbbing in the heart, you can do—but what is the meaning of that doing?

All the temples, mosques, churches, gurdwaras are busy doing. Religion has become ritual. It is not happening. The Gita is being read—done; it is not happening. You have heard that those who read the Gita were freed of sin, attained liberation, so you thought, “Let me do it too!” You read it too.

But your reading is like that second wife. You cannot deceive the divine. Even an ordinary emperor could not be deceived; he understood that such events do not happen every day. And right next door—and exactly the same! It was a play.

Life is not a repetition. Every devotee has prayed to the divine in his own way, not in someone else’s. Every lover has loved in his own way. No Majnu, Shirin, Farhad ever loved with a book in hand, reading pages and memorizing lines.

Life is not a drama with a prompter standing behind, saying, “Now say this, now say that.” Life is life. Repeat it and you will spoil it.

You can read the Gita a thousand times, but unless the kind of inquiry Arjuna had arises in you—unless that life-and-death urgency for liberation flames up—what Krishna could simply say to Arjuna will not happen to you.

Nothing in this world can be repeated. Every event is unique. Therefore all rituals are deceit, hypocrisy. Never, even by mistake, imitate anyone, because there the fraud enters and authenticity is lost.

For the authentic there is liberation; for the pretender there is none. Pound your head as much as you like and say, “But I did exactly the same; I followed the rule to the letter—why this injustice?” It is not a matter of literal observance. It is the voice that rises with the heart!

No, the enlightened one hides nothing; but it is the very nature of truth to remain hidden. The sage wants to tell everything, yet even with all his wanting he cannot. Truth does not come into expression; it does not lend itself to articulation. Bind it, bind it—words come out, but the meaning is left behind.

Therefore Lao Tzu says: that which can be said is not the Dharma, not the Truth, not the Tao. That which cannot be said—that alone is the Truth.

So the Master wants to give everything. That a Master would be miserly in giving—this is not to be believed. Even if you are not yet a worthy vessel, he wants to pour himself out. But there is something which, even when given, cannot be given. It happens only when you become a vessel. No one gives, no one takes—it happens.

Let me remind you again of yesterday’s image: a line of cranes passes over a lake. Neither do the cranes have any desire that a reflection be formed in the lake, nor does the lake have any intention to make a reflection. Yet the line of cranes passes, and the reflection appears.

That which is supremely secret is revealed when Master and disciple meet—not a dialogue of words, but a meeting of the innermost; an embrace of deep consciousness. It is just such a state as sometimes happens in the lovemaking of lovers. That is a union of bodies. Between Master and disciple the union of souls takes place. The word sambhog—consummation—is the right word for it; nothing less will do.

Between man and woman, between two lovers, bodies meet; the exchange is of bodily energy. From that exchange new bodies are born, children are born, life appears. Between Master and disciple a consummation happens—it is of consciousness. There two souls meet and become one. And in the meeting of those two souls, the disciple is reborn. A new person is born. The disciple who was until yesterday, until a moment before, is gone; what comes now is altogether different.

There is no continuity between the two. There is no sequence, no chain linking them. The old is gone; the new appears. This new is not a refurbished version of the old; it is not tinkering and touch-ups, not a bit of whitewash on top. It is utterly new. The old had no inkling of it. A chasm has opened between them. Old, new—and in between, a gulf with no bridge.

This is what we have called being dvija—twice-born. When the consummation of the Master’s consciousness with the disciple’s consciousness happens, the disciple becomes dvija, twice-born; only then do we call him a Brahmin. Before that, do not call him a Brahmin. For until one is twice-born, how can he be a Brahmin? At best he is a Brahmin in name. Truly a Brahmin he is only when he is born again.

One birth is received from the mother and father; that birth comes from the union of two bodies. The other birth is received from the Master; that birth comes from the union of two consciousnesses.

Bodies, however close they come, still remain apart. Perhaps for a moment there is union—but even that union is not complete. There remains a distance—small, very small, almost negligible; yet even an almost negligible distance is still distance enough.

Real union is of souls, where no distance remains; where, till yesterday there were two, now only one throbs.

So the Master hides nothing; but there is something he cannot reveal even if he wishes. The nature of that something is secrecy. It happens in a moment of communion.

Buddha was passing by a mountain. It was forest, the days of autumn, and leaves upon leaves were strewn along the paths. Ananda asked him, “Bhante, Bhagwan, have you said everything you wanted to say, or have you kept something back?”

Buddha gathered dry leaves in his hands, in his fists, and said, “Ananda, do you see how many leaves are in my hands?” Ananda said, “I see.” Buddha said, “So much I have said. And do you see how many leaves lie in this forest glade? So much has remained unsaid.

“But do not think I saved it up; it simply cannot be said. Despite all my effort, only this much could be said—what is in my hands. So much has remained unsaid.

“Yet the one who understands the keys in the leaves of my hands will open the unsaid as well. What I have said is small like a key, but palaces will open. Whoever understands it will one day hear all that unsaid too. What I have never spoken will also be heard.”

No, the Master hides nothing. Hiding is not his nature. But the nature of truth is to be hidden. Truth does not rise to the surface; it abides in the depths.

Therefore, though one makes the utmost effort to say it, at most a slight hint arrives—only a hint; the real remains behind. To know that real requires the state of supreme union with the Master. Before that, it does not happen.

No one closes the door for anyone. The door is open; but if you do not wish to enter, no one can shove you in by force. If you refuse even to look at the door, no one can make you see it. Even if a thousand Krishnas were to stand around you, they could not make you see. If you have decided not to see, there is no way to make you see.

No, Krishna is not closing the door on anyone. He is only saying: do not inflict needless pain on those who do not wish to see; grant them their freedom. Krishna is saying: if someone does not wish to listen, do not make him listen.

Do you want to make one listen who does not want to listen? That would be sin. That would be violence. That would not be opening the door; that would shut it even more. For the one who didn’t want to listen will only grow angrier when made to listen. Resistance will arise in him. You will create such a state in him that even if in the future he wished to listen, that too may no longer be possible.

Very often the attempt to make people good by force becomes the very cause of their turning bad. No one can be made a saint by coercion, because saintliness ripens from freedom. Saintliness has nothing to do with force.

Think a little: can you be dragged into liberation by force? The idea itself is upside down, because moksha means freedom. If you are hauled there in handcuffs with a gun at your back, that would be hell—how could it be liberation! It can flower only out of your freedom. You will go dancing, filled with awe and gratitude—only then can you go. No one can push you there.

Krishna is saying only this: do not speak to one who does not wish to hear. This too is out of compassion.

You may find it hard to understand how there can be compassion in this! People think compassion is to strap on a loudspeaker and, as if fixing it on someone’s chest, jingle your ankle-bells and urinate on him—people actually do this. And if you ask, “Brother, why are you blaring the Gita through loudspeakers?” they say, “It’s a religious act; everyone must hear it.”
Students have examinations to take and they carry on all night with an unbroken recitation of the Gita. They are committing sin.

In truth the Gita is a private conversation—between one who wishes to hear and one who has the capability to speak—an intimate relationship. To mount loudspeakers in the bazaar and force those who do not wish to hear to listen! The free downpour of religion you make becomes irreligion.

Your compassion is to not force one who does not want to listen. Why? Because perhaps someday he himself will agree to listen. Let him learn from life itself.

That is why it often happens that good parents do not produce good children—because good parents try so hard to make them good that they spoil them in the process.

It is hard to find a father as good as Gandhi, and yet Gandhi’s sons all went astray. The eldest became a Muslim. There is nothing wrong in becoming a Muslim—but why did Gandhi’s son become a Muslim? He began to drink, to gamble. His name was Haridas; he changed it to Abdullah Gandhi.

Gandhi’s own hand was in this. He did not understand. He kept trying to reform by force. The result of trying to reform by force was this: “Rise at three in the brahma-muhurt! Worship, bathe, meditate!” Children are children. Anger rises in them. These are the days of sleep. The early morning still feels so sweet; the sleep is sweet. At such a time the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Gita sound harsh. Even the sweetest voice sounds out of tune then.

Being hauled out of bed; forced labor; forced worship and prayer. You may not eat this or drink that. Treating a child in ways that even an old man would feel uneasy doing. No cinema, no plays, no hotels, no sweets; not too much salt, chili, spice. Tormenting children in every way! No school or college, because that education is irreligious! So Gandhi alone as father, teacher, and guru! He harried those children twenty‑four hours a day. The boy ran away.

Why did he become a Muslim? And when he did and Gandhi heard and was distressed, the boy was very pleased. He said, “Then what of Gandhi’s ‘Allah–Ishwar are one—may God give good sense to all’? If he always says Allah and Ishwar are names of the same one, why does my becoming a Muslim upset him?”

He wanted to know whether it would hurt or not. If it does, then you were speaking falsely. He began to gamble, to drink, to eat meat. Gandhi made such tireless efforts to make him a vegetarian that he turned him into a meat-eater. Gandhi is responsible.

Excess of rules leads to revolt, to rebellion; it creates reaction.

Krishna says—his understanding is very deep—do not speak to one who does not wish to hear. There is no need even to be annoyed. It is his freedom.

And if someone wishes to hear but not with devotion, do not speak to him either. Even if he wants to hear but not devoutly, do not speak to him. Because this matter can be understood only in great love. Why spoil his time? Why spoil your own?

And if someone is unwilling to hear in a spirit of austerity, then do not speak to him. Because this is a matter of refining life; one will have to pass through fire. Tapas is the path. If someone is not ready for that, do not spoil his worldly life by telling him such things. Let him move in the world, let him enjoy. From his own enjoyment someday he will understand the element of renunciation; only then tell him.

Krishna is not closing the door on anyone; he is only saying, do not push by force those who do not wish to pass through the door.

And this is purest compassion.

A last question:
Among Hindus it is common to recite the Gita at the time of an elder’s death. Is this mere ritual, or is there some essence in it?

There was essence; now it is not. Now it is mere ritual.

There was essence—and it can be again. There can be essence when someone has tuned his life in harmony with the Gita; when someone has been steeped in it; when the song of the Gita has resonated in his very life-breath; when he has lived all his life in its shade; found rest in it; sought refuge in it; had a glimpse of the luminous within it; when the words of the Gita ceased to be mere words and the meanings hidden within them began to be tasted, little by little—if someone has practiced like this all his life, then to bid him farewell at the moment of death with the Gita is meaningful. Because at the moment of death the entire distillation of a lifetime is gathered. In that moment the life-breath gathers all it has learned and then spreads its wings and sets out on a new journey.

So let the ending, the closure, be in the same tone that has sounded all life long, so that in the next life the foundation is the Gita. For whatever the last inner mood of this life is will be the first inner mood of the next. The peak that is the end of this life becomes the base of the next.

But if a person had no relationship with the Gita all his life; had nothing to do with Krishna; no intimacy at all; if life was spent in the marketplace; spent in the scramble for wealth and position; lost on the chessboard of politics; squandered in futile running and flurry—then do not burden such a defeated, exhausted man with the Gita.

At least let him die in peace. He has nothing to do with the Gita; to him the Gita will sound off-key, an unfamiliar tone. His ears will find no juice in it; there will be distaste. At least let this dying man die in peace.

It would be better that as he is dying you jingle coins beside him—this is the essence of his life. As he is dying, say, “Do not fear; after death you will receive the Nobel Prize,” or “Do not fear; the President has decided that after your death, posthumously, you will be awarded the Bharat‑Bhushan or the Bharat‑Ratna,” or “Do not fear; you could not become Prime Minister in this life, but it is quite certain in the next.” Say something that harmonizes with his life-breath. If he has known unrest all his life, at least give him some false consolation while dying, so he does not depart in inner turmoil. But do not recite the Gita to him. What has he to do with the Gita?

To him the Gita will feel like, “What is going on?” He has no connection with it. The poor man can do nothing in dying; he is almost unconscious, and you keep rattling off the Gita. Now whatever villainy you wish to commit, you can.

And Krishna has said: do not speak to one who does not wish to hear. Krishna has said: do not speak to one who does not wish to hear with devotion. Krishna has said: do not speak to one who does not wish to hear in a spirit of austerity. In this dying man, what do you see? Does he wish to hear? Does he wish to hear devoutly? Does he wish to hear austerely?

One who did not listen in life—how will he wish to listen in death? Death is the distillation of life. Do not give him suffering. Let him die quietly.

But it often happens that one who never took the name of Ram all his life—we repeat “Ram” in his ear at death. We think, “If not for a lifetime, at least at the time of death.” But what he has not done cannot be done for him. No one else can take the divine Name on his behalf. What he has not done out of his own freedom cannot become his treasure.

You will recite the name of Ram. But even you—where will you recite! The family has no time either—shop, market, twenty-five things! They will fetch a priest, a hireling. He will chant Ram-Ram into the dying man’s ear. He too has no real stake; he is concerned for himself—finish the job, see the time through, take the money, go home. At the time of death even he will be a hired man reciting.

Can religion ever happen through hired men? You love someone—can you send a hired man to love on your behalf? “I don’t have a moment to spare; I am busy—please go and love my beloved for me! She is alone and pining, she must be thinking of me, but I am tied up right now.”

If you cannot have a hired man love in your place, how will you have him pray in your place? Do you send a broker to God? “We cannot come; we are a bit entangled—but please do not be displeased, we send a hired man!”

Better not to send anyone. At least it would be seemly. To bring a hired man into religion is utterly unseemly. It is insulting. You are insulting the Divine. What greater insult could there be?

No—never, not even by mistake. Yes, if someone’s life has been braided with the Gita, you may recite it. Though even then there is no need to recite; it will be resonating within him anyway. The Gita will be at his throat. Krishna will be in his very life-breath when he departs. That is his distillation. All his life he has distilled perfume from these flowers. He will go immersed in this. Your reciting is not needed. But if you do, there is no harm.

But do not recite to one who has had no relationship with the Gita. That would be absurd—like seating a classical musician by the bed of one who never had any taste for classical music. He will say, “At least let me die in peace. Why are you creating a nightmare? These alap shake my life-breath! They seem like messengers of Yama!”

I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin once went to hear a classical musician. When the singer began his long alap, tears started rolling from Nasruddin’s eyes; he began to weep in deep agitation. A neighbor said, “What happened, Nasruddin? We never imagined you were such a lover of classical music. Tears are flowing from your eyes!”

Nasruddin said, “Let me tell you, brother—that same illness befell my goat. Just like this—aa… aa… aa…—and my goat died. This man will die. I have nothing to do with classical music, but this man is sick.”

You are reciting the Gita to someone who has no relationship with classical music! He will think, “Why are these goats dying here? Why these aa… aa… alap?”

There is a harmony in life. The step you never took in life you cannot take at the time of death. There is no way.