Hear my settled word on renunciation, O best of the Bharatas.
For renunciation, O tiger among men, is declared to be of three kinds.।। 4।।
Acts of sacrifice, gift, and austerity are not to be forsaken; they must indeed be performed.
For sacrifice, gift, and austerity are purifying to the wise.।। 5।।
Yet even these actions should be done, abandoning attachment and their fruits;
such is my firm and highest view, O Partha.।। 6।।
Geeta Darshan #2
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
निश्चयं श्रृणु मे तत्र त्यागे भरतसत्तम।
त्यागो हि पुरुषव्याघ्र त्रिविधः संप्रकीर्तितः।। 4।।
यज्ञदानतपःकर्म न त्याज्यं कार्यमेव तत्।
यज्ञो दानं तपश्चैव पावनानि मनीषिणाम्।। 5।।
एतान्यपि तु कर्माणि सङ्गं त्यक्त्वा फलानि च।
कर्तव्यानीति मे पार्थ निश्चितं मतमुत्तमम्।। 6।।
त्यागो हि पुरुषव्याघ्र त्रिविधः संप्रकीर्तितः।। 4।।
यज्ञदानतपःकर्म न त्याज्यं कार्यमेव तत्।
यज्ञो दानं तपश्चैव पावनानि मनीषिणाम्।। 5।।
एतान्यपि तु कर्माणि सङ्गं त्यक्त्वा फलानि च।
कर्तव्यानीति मे पार्थ निश्चितं मतमुत्तमम्।। 6।।
Transliteration:
niścayaṃ śrṛṇu me tatra tyāge bharatasattama|
tyāgo hi puruṣavyāghra trividhaḥ saṃprakīrtitaḥ|| 4||
yajñadānatapaḥkarma na tyājyaṃ kāryameva tat|
yajño dānaṃ tapaścaiva pāvanāni manīṣiṇām|| 5||
etānyapi tu karmāṇi saṅgaṃ tyaktvā phalāni ca|
kartavyānīti me pārtha niścitaṃ matamuttamam|| 6||
niścayaṃ śrṛṇu me tatra tyāge bharatasattama|
tyāgo hi puruṣavyāghra trividhaḥ saṃprakīrtitaḥ|| 4||
yajñadānatapaḥkarma na tyājyaṃ kāryameva tat|
yajño dānaṃ tapaścaiva pāvanāni manīṣiṇām|| 5||
etānyapi tu karmāṇi saṅgaṃ tyaktvā phalāni ca|
kartavyānīti me pārtha niścitaṃ matamuttamam|| 6||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
First question:
Osho, you said that in the flow of time the meanings of words change. Then how has the Gita, spoken thousands of years ago, remained meaningful till now?
Osho, you said that in the flow of time the meanings of words change. Then how has the Gita, spoken thousands of years ago, remained meaningful till now?
What Krishna said—had other Krishnas not, time and again, set to it the pen of new meanings, it would have become meaningless; stale; rotten; there would have been no way to understand it. But over these thousands of years, many more Krishnas have repeatedly revived the Gita, have said it again and again. Each time the Gita received new life. When Shankara revived the Gita, Krishna spoke once more.
Krishna is not about a person; Krishna is a moment of consciousness, a state of consciousness, the supreme state. Whenever anyone attained the supreme, he spoke again on the Gita. The old ash fell from the Gita, and the Gita became a fresh ember again.
In this way we have kept the Gita alive. Time kept changing, the meanings of words kept changing, yet we kept giving the Gita new life. The Gita is alive even today.
The Qur’an will one day die, because commentary on the Qur’an is not permitted. The Gita will never die, because there is the provision to give it life again. The Qur’an, as Muhammad said it, has been preserved exactly so—lest some other Muhammad add or change anything!
If other Muhammads are not given the freedom to change and add, time will kill it. Time cares for no one. Everything goes stale.
India has discovered an art for keeping its scriptures ever alive: their repeated reinterpretation. Again and again we reflect. Again and again answers come from the consciousness of Krishna. Meanings keep changing, yet the Gita does not become meaningless. We find meanings suited to each age. However far the Gita falls behind the times, we pull it up again.
What I have said on the Gita in these last five years makes the Gita ultra-contemporary; it becomes an event of the twentieth century. Now we can forget the five thousand years past. What I have said has turned the Gita’s aging form utterly modern. Whatever has transpired in these five thousand years—the new turns human consciousness has taken, the new disciplines it has discovered, the new experiences it has had—I have included all that. Now the Gita has received new blood.
If the pen of meanings continues to be applied to words, if new expressions of meaning suited to the age keep happening, no scripture needs to grow old. A scripture grows old because of bigotry; when people become slavish literalists, the scripture grows old.
We are not for the sake of the scripture; the scripture is for our sake. Therefore when we change, we change the scripture. Just as thousands of years ago a lamp burned in the house—now electricity burns. If even now you insist on lighting a lamp, you are unwise. But the light that came from the lamp—the same light, even more intense, comes from electricity.
The words Krishna spoke to Arjuna have gathered much dust; we must sweep it off daily. And the older a thing is, the more labor is needed to keep it new.
Thus the flow of time spares no one; but if we keep drawing the old scripture close to time, the scripture becomes new again and again. New meanings come alive in it; new leaves sprout; new flowers begin to bloom.
The Gita will not die, because we are not bound to any one Krishna. In our understanding Krishna is not a person but the supreme event of consciousness that recurs again and again. Hence Krishna can say: Whenever there is darkness, whenever there is the decline of dharma, then I will return—sambhavami yuge yuge. I will return in every age.
Do not think that the peacock-plumed Krishna will return in every age. What is gone is gone. Now the peacock plume will fit no more. And if you set up a Krishna with a peacock plume in the marketplace, you will invite ridicule; you will make him a joke. He will appear theatrical now, not natural. What was natural then will become pure drama today.
In those days, in Krishna’s time, men wore ornaments, not women. That was natural, more in tune with nature. If you look to nature, you will find the same.
The peacock dances. The peacock that dances and has feathers colored like rainbows—that is the male. The female has no iridescent colors. The cuckoo calls; the one that calls is the male; the female is silent. You have seen the rooster’s comb—and the pride with which he struts! The hen has no such comb.
Throughout nature the female is quiet; she does not advertise her beauty; the male does. And so it should be: in the very being of the female there is beauty; nothing additional is needed. In her very being there is sweetness; no more ornaments are required. Whatever is lacking, the male has to make up.
The female cuckoo’s very silence is sweet; but the male cuckoo must sing for a little sweetness to appear. Thus, looking throughout nature you will find: the male is ornate; the female is utterly simple. Her simplicity itself is beauty.
In those earlier days humans too were in accord with nature. So Krishna stands with a peacock plume—it was natural. Today the situation has reversed: men wear no ornaments; if they do, you think there is something wrong in the head. Women wear them. Nature has been upset. What should not be is happening; what should be is not. Civilization has unsettled everything; education has disturbed the naturalness of your mind.
The woman is beautiful in herself; she need send no invitation, need not call. The lover will come seeking her.
And remember, whenever a woman decks herself in ornaments—in olden days too some women adorned themselves, but they were only courtesans, city-women who had to stand in the market. When a woman bedecks herself and sends out invitations, she has lost the feminine essence; she has lost the sweetness of her womanliness within. She has forgotten that her very being is enough. Loading herself with gold will not increase her beauty; it may diminish it.
So today, if you set Krishna up in the same form and outline as he was, it will do for a folk show, for a play, not for life. In life he will seem quite out of place. What is true of his outer form is true also of his inner outline: everything has changed.
When Krishna returns again and again, each time he will return new. And each time, in his new possibilities and inspirations, he will speak on the Gita afresh. The Gita will be revived again.
If it is not too difficult for you to understand, I would say this: it is Krishna himself who has kept returning again and again to reinterpret his Gita; that is why it has not been able to die.
Krishna is not about a person; Krishna is a moment of consciousness, a state of consciousness, the supreme state. Whenever anyone attained the supreme, he spoke again on the Gita. The old ash fell from the Gita, and the Gita became a fresh ember again.
In this way we have kept the Gita alive. Time kept changing, the meanings of words kept changing, yet we kept giving the Gita new life. The Gita is alive even today.
The Qur’an will one day die, because commentary on the Qur’an is not permitted. The Gita will never die, because there is the provision to give it life again. The Qur’an, as Muhammad said it, has been preserved exactly so—lest some other Muhammad add or change anything!
If other Muhammads are not given the freedom to change and add, time will kill it. Time cares for no one. Everything goes stale.
India has discovered an art for keeping its scriptures ever alive: their repeated reinterpretation. Again and again we reflect. Again and again answers come from the consciousness of Krishna. Meanings keep changing, yet the Gita does not become meaningless. We find meanings suited to each age. However far the Gita falls behind the times, we pull it up again.
What I have said on the Gita in these last five years makes the Gita ultra-contemporary; it becomes an event of the twentieth century. Now we can forget the five thousand years past. What I have said has turned the Gita’s aging form utterly modern. Whatever has transpired in these five thousand years—the new turns human consciousness has taken, the new disciplines it has discovered, the new experiences it has had—I have included all that. Now the Gita has received new blood.
If the pen of meanings continues to be applied to words, if new expressions of meaning suited to the age keep happening, no scripture needs to grow old. A scripture grows old because of bigotry; when people become slavish literalists, the scripture grows old.
We are not for the sake of the scripture; the scripture is for our sake. Therefore when we change, we change the scripture. Just as thousands of years ago a lamp burned in the house—now electricity burns. If even now you insist on lighting a lamp, you are unwise. But the light that came from the lamp—the same light, even more intense, comes from electricity.
The words Krishna spoke to Arjuna have gathered much dust; we must sweep it off daily. And the older a thing is, the more labor is needed to keep it new.
Thus the flow of time spares no one; but if we keep drawing the old scripture close to time, the scripture becomes new again and again. New meanings come alive in it; new leaves sprout; new flowers begin to bloom.
The Gita will not die, because we are not bound to any one Krishna. In our understanding Krishna is not a person but the supreme event of consciousness that recurs again and again. Hence Krishna can say: Whenever there is darkness, whenever there is the decline of dharma, then I will return—sambhavami yuge yuge. I will return in every age.
Do not think that the peacock-plumed Krishna will return in every age. What is gone is gone. Now the peacock plume will fit no more. And if you set up a Krishna with a peacock plume in the marketplace, you will invite ridicule; you will make him a joke. He will appear theatrical now, not natural. What was natural then will become pure drama today.
In those days, in Krishna’s time, men wore ornaments, not women. That was natural, more in tune with nature. If you look to nature, you will find the same.
The peacock dances. The peacock that dances and has feathers colored like rainbows—that is the male. The female has no iridescent colors. The cuckoo calls; the one that calls is the male; the female is silent. You have seen the rooster’s comb—and the pride with which he struts! The hen has no such comb.
Throughout nature the female is quiet; she does not advertise her beauty; the male does. And so it should be: in the very being of the female there is beauty; nothing additional is needed. In her very being there is sweetness; no more ornaments are required. Whatever is lacking, the male has to make up.
The female cuckoo’s very silence is sweet; but the male cuckoo must sing for a little sweetness to appear. Thus, looking throughout nature you will find: the male is ornate; the female is utterly simple. Her simplicity itself is beauty.
In those earlier days humans too were in accord with nature. So Krishna stands with a peacock plume—it was natural. Today the situation has reversed: men wear no ornaments; if they do, you think there is something wrong in the head. Women wear them. Nature has been upset. What should not be is happening; what should be is not. Civilization has unsettled everything; education has disturbed the naturalness of your mind.
The woman is beautiful in herself; she need send no invitation, need not call. The lover will come seeking her.
And remember, whenever a woman decks herself in ornaments—in olden days too some women adorned themselves, but they were only courtesans, city-women who had to stand in the market. When a woman bedecks herself and sends out invitations, she has lost the feminine essence; she has lost the sweetness of her womanliness within. She has forgotten that her very being is enough. Loading herself with gold will not increase her beauty; it may diminish it.
So today, if you set Krishna up in the same form and outline as he was, it will do for a folk show, for a play, not for life. In life he will seem quite out of place. What is true of his outer form is true also of his inner outline: everything has changed.
When Krishna returns again and again, each time he will return new. And each time, in his new possibilities and inspirations, he will speak on the Gita afresh. The Gita will be revived again.
If it is not too difficult for you to understand, I would say this: it is Krishna himself who has kept returning again and again to reinterpret his Gita; that is why it has not been able to die.
Second question:
Osho, yesterday you said that artha, kama, dharma and moksha are the four purusharthas. Kindly explain why they are called purusharthas?
Osho, yesterday you said that artha, kama, dharma and moksha are the four purusharthas. Kindly explain why they are called purusharthas?
Because through them the artha—the meaning—hidden within you is revealed. Who you are comes to light in the very challenge they pose. What you are begins to be remembered only in a particular situation.
A man mad after artha—after wealth—by that very madness is saying something about who he is. He is revealing the meaning of his being. He is the lowest type of person. He has not known any higher poetry of life. He is content with the petty. He clutches clay pots. Where diamonds and jewels could have rained, he has picked up pebbles and stones. He is revealing his “meaning”; he is saying, “This is who I am.”
When someone runs after a woman, he too is revealing his meaning. He is saying, “This is who I am. I am lustful.” In that moment kama—sensual desire—is his meaning. He is saying, “I am a slave, a slave to passion. The end of my life is sexual craving; that is my circumference. Beyond it there is for me neither God nor liberation.”
By what you do, you declare who you are.
The one who clings to money is even afraid to enter into sex lest somehow the money be harmed. The miser is afraid even to marry. The miser doesn’t want to let anyone come close, because whoever comes close will start becoming a sharer. The miser has a language of his own.
I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin was traveling by train. A young man sitting next to him asked, “Sir, could you tell me the time?” Nasruddin had a watch in his hand, but he quickly hid it and said, “Forgive me; I can’t tell you the time.” The young man was a bit surprised. Nothing like this had ever happened to him—that someone would refuse to tell the time. He asked, “I don’t understand. What difficulty does it cause you?” Nasruddin said, “If you must understand the whole thing, I’ll explain it—but it’s a bit long. Now you ask what time it is. Then I tell you; the matter moves on. You’ll ask, ‘Where are you going?’ I’ll say, ‘Bombay.’ You’ll say, ‘I’m also going to Bombay.’ This is how one gets entangled, bit by bit. You are going to Bombay; I live in Bombay. I’ll say, ‘All right, come to my house for a meal.’ This is how one gets caught—one thing leads to another. There is a young girl at home; you too are young; you look quite decent. Some trouble is bound to happen. If not today, then tomorrow you’ll say, ‘I’m taking your daughter to the cinema!’ And sooner or later you’ll come asking for marriage. And let me tell you straight: a man who doesn’t even have his own watch—I cannot marry my daughter to him.”
The miser has his own logic. His way of seeing is his own. He looks at everything from the side of money. He doesn’t see people at all; he sees only money. When he looks at someone, he sees bundles of currency, not a person. His lifestyle is his own. He lives bound to a certain pattern. If you have money, he behaves with you one way; if you don’t, then another way. Your soul is not the issue; the issue is how heavy your pocket is. When there is money, he recognizes you; when there isn’t, he entirely drops recognition—he even forgets that you exist. He is revealing his meaning.
Your longing shows where your soul is.
The lustful man is saying that his soul resides in lust. Beyond that he sees nothing. Even if he goes to the temple, he goes to look at the women praying there. He doesn’t go to the temple; he doesn’t pray. His taste isn’t there at all.
The person who longs for dharma, who listens to the good word, who sets out in search of truth, who wonders, “What is the mystery of life?”—he too is revealing his meaning. His gaze will remain fixed on the temple. He may well be sitting in the marketplace, perhaps unable even to get up from there, but his eyes will be on the temple. His purushartha is being revealed by his feeling. Within him a continuous sense of awe and devotion is flowing toward the Divine. Even if he cannot go, going is not so important—but an inner stream is flowing.
And then the one who longs for moksha, for liberation—to be free of everything; so intensely that he longs even to be free of himself; that even this bondage of being a self may not remain; that there be no bondage at all—one who shows a readiness to be empty, to be a zero: he is revealing a very deep understanding, the last flower within. His lotus has blossomed.
That is why they are called purusharthas. They tell your meaning. They indicate the meaningfulness—or the futility—of your life.
A man mad after artha—after wealth—by that very madness is saying something about who he is. He is revealing the meaning of his being. He is the lowest type of person. He has not known any higher poetry of life. He is content with the petty. He clutches clay pots. Where diamonds and jewels could have rained, he has picked up pebbles and stones. He is revealing his “meaning”; he is saying, “This is who I am.”
When someone runs after a woman, he too is revealing his meaning. He is saying, “This is who I am. I am lustful.” In that moment kama—sensual desire—is his meaning. He is saying, “I am a slave, a slave to passion. The end of my life is sexual craving; that is my circumference. Beyond it there is for me neither God nor liberation.”
By what you do, you declare who you are.
The one who clings to money is even afraid to enter into sex lest somehow the money be harmed. The miser is afraid even to marry. The miser doesn’t want to let anyone come close, because whoever comes close will start becoming a sharer. The miser has a language of his own.
I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin was traveling by train. A young man sitting next to him asked, “Sir, could you tell me the time?” Nasruddin had a watch in his hand, but he quickly hid it and said, “Forgive me; I can’t tell you the time.” The young man was a bit surprised. Nothing like this had ever happened to him—that someone would refuse to tell the time. He asked, “I don’t understand. What difficulty does it cause you?” Nasruddin said, “If you must understand the whole thing, I’ll explain it—but it’s a bit long. Now you ask what time it is. Then I tell you; the matter moves on. You’ll ask, ‘Where are you going?’ I’ll say, ‘Bombay.’ You’ll say, ‘I’m also going to Bombay.’ This is how one gets entangled, bit by bit. You are going to Bombay; I live in Bombay. I’ll say, ‘All right, come to my house for a meal.’ This is how one gets caught—one thing leads to another. There is a young girl at home; you too are young; you look quite decent. Some trouble is bound to happen. If not today, then tomorrow you’ll say, ‘I’m taking your daughter to the cinema!’ And sooner or later you’ll come asking for marriage. And let me tell you straight: a man who doesn’t even have his own watch—I cannot marry my daughter to him.”
The miser has his own logic. His way of seeing is his own. He looks at everything from the side of money. He doesn’t see people at all; he sees only money. When he looks at someone, he sees bundles of currency, not a person. His lifestyle is his own. He lives bound to a certain pattern. If you have money, he behaves with you one way; if you don’t, then another way. Your soul is not the issue; the issue is how heavy your pocket is. When there is money, he recognizes you; when there isn’t, he entirely drops recognition—he even forgets that you exist. He is revealing his meaning.
Your longing shows where your soul is.
The lustful man is saying that his soul resides in lust. Beyond that he sees nothing. Even if he goes to the temple, he goes to look at the women praying there. He doesn’t go to the temple; he doesn’t pray. His taste isn’t there at all.
The person who longs for dharma, who listens to the good word, who sets out in search of truth, who wonders, “What is the mystery of life?”—he too is revealing his meaning. His gaze will remain fixed on the temple. He may well be sitting in the marketplace, perhaps unable even to get up from there, but his eyes will be on the temple. His purushartha is being revealed by his feeling. Within him a continuous sense of awe and devotion is flowing toward the Divine. Even if he cannot go, going is not so important—but an inner stream is flowing.
And then the one who longs for moksha, for liberation—to be free of everything; so intensely that he longs even to be free of himself; that even this bondage of being a self may not remain; that there be no bondage at all—one who shows a readiness to be empty, to be a zero: he is revealing a very deep understanding, the last flower within. His lotus has blossomed.
That is why they are called purusharthas. They tell your meaning. They indicate the meaningfulness—or the futility—of your life.
Third question:
Osho, you said that the Jains cannot found an entire settlement and are therefore incomplete. But the same is true of the sannyasin; then is sannyas also not incomplete?
Osho, you said that the Jains cannot found an entire settlement and are therefore incomplete. But the same is true of the sannyasin; then is sannyas also not incomplete?
Until now it was; now it will not be. My sannyasin can found an entire settlement.
Until now sannyas was lame, crippled, dependent. And what a sad thing—that a sannyasin should be dependent on the householder! To aspire to be above the very one on whom you depend is sheer foolishness.
The sannyasin thinks he is above; yet he lives off the lay follower. He imagines, “I am higher,” though his living depends upon the shravaka. In truth the lay follower is higher: he arranges for himself and he arranges for you. His gift is greater, his service greater.
Until now the sannyasin was incomplete. And certainly, until now sannyasins could not found settlements. They needed other people’s towns—the very people the sannyasin calls sinners, calls lost, says are in darkness, sunk in unconsciousness, for whom he has arranged hell—on them he depends. What an irony! And still he considers himself above.
You cannot be above the one on whom you depend. Nor are you; it is only show. You seat the sannyasin on the high throne and you sit below, but you know the reins are in your hands.
I receive word from sannyasins who want to meet me but cannot—because of their followers. Their followers do not let them come! This is quite a joke. Then who is the leader? The guide? The master? The follower is—because he provides the food, the medicine, the lodging, the receptions. Without him you are nowhere. And he even gives you the illusion: “Sit on the throne above—no harm.” He knows your reins are in his hands. He is the final decider.
This sannyas is a sannyas struck by paralysis—sick, diseased.
My sannyasin can found an entire settlement; he will. Because I am not tearing you away from what you are doing. I am saying: whatever you are doing, do it with your whole heart. Offer it to the divine—this much I am saying. Whatever you are doing!
Whether you sweep the street, make shoes, whatever you do—that is not the question. Whatever you do, do it meditatively. Do it with such absorption that it becomes your prayer, your sadhana. Then a sannyasin can found entire settlements. Then the whole world can belong to the sannyasin.
The sannyasin as he has been till now could never spread across the whole world, because heavy fetters were upon him.
Jain sannyasins could not go outside India, because there the Jain lay follower is not present to feed them. First the Jain lay follower must be there; only then can the Jain sannyasin go. Otherwise, from where will he receive food? He cannot take food from anyone else’s house—that would be impure. But unless the Jain sannyasin goes, how will the Jain lay follower be there? So the matter never arose; the question of going never arose.
Thus the Jains shrank and withered. What are their numbers? Two and a half million! Even if Mahavira had initiated only twenty-five couples, in twenty-five hundred years those twenty-five couples would have produced twenty-five lakh children. Is this any growth? It became dull, closed; limbs cut off on all sides.
No; my sannyasin can spread throughout the world, because he depends on no one. Self-reliance is possible only when you earn your bread yourself, make your clothes yourself. When, for your life, you are utterly free, dependent on no one—only then can you be truly free.
Until the householder himself becomes a sannyasin—remaining a householder yet becoming a sannyasin—till then sannyas will not be alive; it will be a corpse. It cannot have real life; its heartbeat will be borrowed.
Until now sannyas was lame, crippled, dependent. And what a sad thing—that a sannyasin should be dependent on the householder! To aspire to be above the very one on whom you depend is sheer foolishness.
The sannyasin thinks he is above; yet he lives off the lay follower. He imagines, “I am higher,” though his living depends upon the shravaka. In truth the lay follower is higher: he arranges for himself and he arranges for you. His gift is greater, his service greater.
Until now the sannyasin was incomplete. And certainly, until now sannyasins could not found settlements. They needed other people’s towns—the very people the sannyasin calls sinners, calls lost, says are in darkness, sunk in unconsciousness, for whom he has arranged hell—on them he depends. What an irony! And still he considers himself above.
You cannot be above the one on whom you depend. Nor are you; it is only show. You seat the sannyasin on the high throne and you sit below, but you know the reins are in your hands.
I receive word from sannyasins who want to meet me but cannot—because of their followers. Their followers do not let them come! This is quite a joke. Then who is the leader? The guide? The master? The follower is—because he provides the food, the medicine, the lodging, the receptions. Without him you are nowhere. And he even gives you the illusion: “Sit on the throne above—no harm.” He knows your reins are in his hands. He is the final decider.
This sannyas is a sannyas struck by paralysis—sick, diseased.
My sannyasin can found an entire settlement; he will. Because I am not tearing you away from what you are doing. I am saying: whatever you are doing, do it with your whole heart. Offer it to the divine—this much I am saying. Whatever you are doing!
Whether you sweep the street, make shoes, whatever you do—that is not the question. Whatever you do, do it meditatively. Do it with such absorption that it becomes your prayer, your sadhana. Then a sannyasin can found entire settlements. Then the whole world can belong to the sannyasin.
The sannyasin as he has been till now could never spread across the whole world, because heavy fetters were upon him.
Jain sannyasins could not go outside India, because there the Jain lay follower is not present to feed them. First the Jain lay follower must be there; only then can the Jain sannyasin go. Otherwise, from where will he receive food? He cannot take food from anyone else’s house—that would be impure. But unless the Jain sannyasin goes, how will the Jain lay follower be there? So the matter never arose; the question of going never arose.
Thus the Jains shrank and withered. What are their numbers? Two and a half million! Even if Mahavira had initiated only twenty-five couples, in twenty-five hundred years those twenty-five couples would have produced twenty-five lakh children. Is this any growth? It became dull, closed; limbs cut off on all sides.
No; my sannyasin can spread throughout the world, because he depends on no one. Self-reliance is possible only when you earn your bread yourself, make your clothes yourself. When, for your life, you are utterly free, dependent on no one—only then can you be truly free.
Until the householder himself becomes a sannyasin—remaining a householder yet becoming a sannyasin—till then sannyas will not be alive; it will be a corpse. It cannot have real life; its heartbeat will be borrowed.
Fourth question:
Osho, you said the friendship between Lord Krishna and Arjuna was deep, and out of that relationship the wisdom of the Gita arose. Yet Arjuna also raises doubts and soon becomes a surrendered disciple. Kindly shed light on this.
Osho, you said the friendship between Lord Krishna and Arjuna was deep, and out of that relationship the wisdom of the Gita arose. Yet Arjuna also raises doubts and soon becomes a surrendered disciple. Kindly shed light on this.
Where there is love, trust is not far away. Very near love stands the peak of trust. Trust is love refined, its very quintessence.
Arjuna does love Krishna—he loves him as a friend. There is a deep sympathy, a readiness to understand. There is no opposition in his heart toward Krishna, no ill will, no resistance. The door is open. Krishna is his friend, and whatever he says will be for good—he has that much confidence. With such confidence, it doesn’t take long; where there is the feeling of friendship, there the guru–disciple relationship is born.
Buddha told his sannyasins: be people’s kalyan-mitra—friends in well-being. From that benevolent friendship, when reverence arises in their hearts, surrender will bear fruit. Buddha said that in the coming age the Buddha will be called Maitreya. Maitreya means “the Friend.” It all begins with friendship. If there is even a trace of enmity, how can reverence arise? Then the doors are closed. You are already afraid, already defending yourself; then dialogue cannot happen.
The Gita is a dialogue. Dialogue means a conversation between two hearts, not two minds. Two thoughts are not clashing and struggling; two feelings are meeting. A confluence is happening.
When a seeker first comes, he cannot yet be a disciple. To become a disciple is a great attainment. That is why Nanak named his whole path Sikh—from shishya, disciple. The essence of religion is simply this: become a disciple, become a learner; be ready to learn.
Ordinarily, the ego is not ready to learn; it is eager to teach. The relish of the ego is to instruct someone, to give advice.
Hence there is so much advice in the world; no one takes it, yet people keep giving it! The father gives it to the son, the husband to the wife, the wife to the husband, neighbors to neighbors. People go on giving advice. No one is asking. The least asked-for thing in the world is advice, and the most given thing is advice.
There is great pleasure in giving advice, because while giving you feel you have become the wise one and the receiver the ignorant one. If you want the subtle pleasure of proving others ignorant, there is no easier trick than giving advice. Without calling him ignorant, you have managed to prove him so—by giving advice!
Therefore you give advice even about things you know nothing about. About things whose shadow you have not even seen in your dreams, if an opportunity to advise arises, you don’t stay behind.
You are quick to leap up to give advice. To receive advice you are not so ready. And only one who is ready to receive can be a disciple. So the ego will obstruct.
Friendship means you can love while keeping your ego intact. Discipleship means you must drop the ego in order to love. A friend means: I am I, you are you; we are equals, and we enjoy each other. The beginning is in friendship; the culmination is in discipleship.
In Arjuna there is the feeling of friendship; Krishna is his sakhā, his childhood friend. From this feeling he has kept his heart open toward Krishna. He raises questions, but these questions are not like legal arguments raised in a courtroom. He is not trying to defeat anyone; he wants to know, to understand.
And as Krishna answers, slowly he dismantles the architecture of Arjuna’s doubt; his skepticism is cut through. Gradually, in place of doubt, reverence arises within him. He opens his eyes and sees that the one he took to be a friend is not only a friend. In the friend he has the vision of the Vast.
The one you have taken to be a friend is not only a friend. The one you have taken to be a wife is not only a wife. The one you have taken to be a son is not only a son. One day, when your eyes open, you will find the same Vastness—the One—everywhere, hidden in all.
Do not think it is some miracle that Krishna performed. The miracle is that Arjuna saw.
As Arjuna opened up and became simple, as the knot of ego broke, and as he looked closely at Krishna—seeing that the one he had known as a friend was not only a friend, that the supreme Master was hidden in him—this feeling deepened, and the old friend Krishna was lost.
In one sense this is very difficult: to see the Divine in a friend. For the one you have known as a friend, it becomes a great hurdle to know him as the Divine.
That is why Jesus said: a prophet is not honored in his own town. It is true. The townsfolk know who you are. If Jesus returned to his village, people would say, “He’s the carpenter’s son, Joseph’s boy. He’s lost his mind, talking lofty things.” No one would be ready to accept that the carpenter’s son has attained to wisdom.
We cannot forget the outer circumference, because that is our familiar knowledge.
Kabir attained to knowing. One morning he went to bathe in the Ganges. He saw a neighbor he knew, scooping water with his hands. Quickly Kabir rinsed his lota and offered it: “Use this, otherwise how long will it take cupping water in your hands!” The man said, “Keep your own pot safe, weaver! Shall we defile ourselves by using a weaver’s pot?” He was a man from Kabir’s own neighborhood. It is hard for him to forget that Kabir is a weaver.
Kabir said, “What a wondrous thing you have said! But if this pot did not become purified by bathing in your Ganga, how will you be purified? You have opened my eyes: I will not come to bathe in the Ganga again.” What essence! He had scrubbed the pot and it was not purified; the weaver’s pot remained a weaver’s pot. Then what will you gain by bathing again and again?
One whom you have known as a weaver is hard to know as a guru. Jesus is right: a prophet is not honored in his own town. In one sense it is very difficult to know a friend as the Divine. And in another sense, without friendship it is difficult to recognize the Divine—because then how will the beginning happen?
It depends on you. If you are a little alert, friendship can slowly take you into deeper waters. If you are unconscious, friendship can lead you downward. Friendship can become a staircase upward, and friendship can become a staircase downward.
Often it happens that friendship becomes a staircase downward. Until two people start hurling the worst abuses at each other’s mothers and sisters, people think the friendship isn’t yet solid; only then do they say it’s confirmed. Unless they descend that low, friendship doesn’t seem proven!
By watching two people’s behavior you can tell whether the friendship is deep or not. If they can abuse each other and then laugh happily, that’s friendship. Ordinary courtesy drops, ordinary manners drop; both descend to their lower levels—that’s what is taken as friendship.
Arjuna must have been an unusual man. So if Krishna calls him the best of men, there is no surprise. He saw the Divine within his friend. In the one known since childhood, he glimpsed the Unknown. In the thoroughly known, a door to the Unknown opened.
From this friendship the Gita was born. From this feeling of friendship Arjuna became a disciple and gave Krishna the opportunity to be a guru.
Remember, no one can be a guru over you; you can give the opportunity. A guru is not a coercion. He cannot impose himself on you; a guru is not violence, not an attack. Therefore no one can become a guru by himself; only a disciple can make a guru. It is your inner state.
In one sense, the disciple creates the guru. For the moment he bows, the guru is born. The more he bows, the more the guruness is revealed.
Arjuna slowly bowed. He raised all his inquiries, every question. Krishna cut through each one, very patiently—because a guru must have great patience. Ignorance is so deep, the mind’s old nets are so many, that if you settle one side, the other side frays. You settle the second side, the third side unravels. And to the very end the mind strives to win.
When a disciple comes to a guru, a deep struggle begins between the disciple’s mind and the guru. Understand this a little.
Whenever a disciple comes, a struggle begins between the disciple’s mind and the guru. Between the disciple’s heart and the guru there is friendship. But between the disciple’s intellect and the guru there is a great struggle.
Both things are needed. If there is the feeling of friendship in the heart, dialogue can arise. What the guru says can be understood—because understanding, ultimately, belongs to the heart; it belongs to love. And if that feeling is not in the heart, if there are only questions in the intellect, you are not a disciple. You have come out of curiosity. You have not come to be transformed. You will collect a few words and go back. You will become a little more learned. You will not be effaced; you will have gathered a few more ornaments for your ego.
Questions will arise in the mind as leaves grow on trees. But if there is love in the heart, the guru will win and the disciple will lose—and the disciple’s losing is his winning. The guru’s winning is the disciple’s winning. Only if the guru wins will you rise out of the rubbish in which you lie. If you win, you will remain where you are.
Arjuna is ready to lose, but he is not ready to lose too quickly. If you lose too quickly, that too is a deception; questions will remain in the mind, returning again and again.
So Arjuna lays out all his inquiries. Whatever the mind can raise, he raises—without stinginess. And he does not allow even a slight obstruction to the love in his heart. The heart’s door stays open, and the guru keeps cutting the mind.
Krishna is a sword; he keeps dropping Arjuna’s doubts one by one. But such trust is needed that, seeing a sword in someone’s hand, fear does not arise—“What if, cutting doubts, he cuts me!” Trust enough to know he will cut only the disease.
As when you go to a surgeon: you lie down; you are rendered unconscious. You trust that this man will cut only the diseased knot, will remove only the tumor. In that unconscious state, who knows what he might do? Yet there is confidence, trust, reverence.
Therefore the supreme religious event cannot happen without trust, because religion is the greatest surgery. Your biggest tumor—the ego—will be removed. All the pathogens of doubt in your life will be thrown out. It is the greatest purification, a transformation from the roots. Equally great trust is needed. Without such trust it is better not to go to a guru.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went to a doctor. As soon as the doctor said, “Lie down on the table,” Nasruddin quickly put his hand in his pocket and took out his wallet. The doctor said, “Don’t worry; you can pay the fee later.” Nasruddin replied, “Who’s paying? I’m counting my money! What’s the point of counting after the operation? Better to count first, to be sure how much there was; we’ll count again afterward.”
If you don’t even have that much trust, don’t go to a guru. If even with the guru your hand stays in your pocket counting notes, and doubt continues…
There is no harm in doubt—let it be in the mind, not in the heart. Let the heart trust. Then the supreme event can happen. Your mind will die, and you will attain the Vast, the cosmic life.
Arjuna does love Krishna—he loves him as a friend. There is a deep sympathy, a readiness to understand. There is no opposition in his heart toward Krishna, no ill will, no resistance. The door is open. Krishna is his friend, and whatever he says will be for good—he has that much confidence. With such confidence, it doesn’t take long; where there is the feeling of friendship, there the guru–disciple relationship is born.
Buddha told his sannyasins: be people’s kalyan-mitra—friends in well-being. From that benevolent friendship, when reverence arises in their hearts, surrender will bear fruit. Buddha said that in the coming age the Buddha will be called Maitreya. Maitreya means “the Friend.” It all begins with friendship. If there is even a trace of enmity, how can reverence arise? Then the doors are closed. You are already afraid, already defending yourself; then dialogue cannot happen.
The Gita is a dialogue. Dialogue means a conversation between two hearts, not two minds. Two thoughts are not clashing and struggling; two feelings are meeting. A confluence is happening.
When a seeker first comes, he cannot yet be a disciple. To become a disciple is a great attainment. That is why Nanak named his whole path Sikh—from shishya, disciple. The essence of religion is simply this: become a disciple, become a learner; be ready to learn.
Ordinarily, the ego is not ready to learn; it is eager to teach. The relish of the ego is to instruct someone, to give advice.
Hence there is so much advice in the world; no one takes it, yet people keep giving it! The father gives it to the son, the husband to the wife, the wife to the husband, neighbors to neighbors. People go on giving advice. No one is asking. The least asked-for thing in the world is advice, and the most given thing is advice.
There is great pleasure in giving advice, because while giving you feel you have become the wise one and the receiver the ignorant one. If you want the subtle pleasure of proving others ignorant, there is no easier trick than giving advice. Without calling him ignorant, you have managed to prove him so—by giving advice!
Therefore you give advice even about things you know nothing about. About things whose shadow you have not even seen in your dreams, if an opportunity to advise arises, you don’t stay behind.
You are quick to leap up to give advice. To receive advice you are not so ready. And only one who is ready to receive can be a disciple. So the ego will obstruct.
Friendship means you can love while keeping your ego intact. Discipleship means you must drop the ego in order to love. A friend means: I am I, you are you; we are equals, and we enjoy each other. The beginning is in friendship; the culmination is in discipleship.
In Arjuna there is the feeling of friendship; Krishna is his sakhā, his childhood friend. From this feeling he has kept his heart open toward Krishna. He raises questions, but these questions are not like legal arguments raised in a courtroom. He is not trying to defeat anyone; he wants to know, to understand.
And as Krishna answers, slowly he dismantles the architecture of Arjuna’s doubt; his skepticism is cut through. Gradually, in place of doubt, reverence arises within him. He opens his eyes and sees that the one he took to be a friend is not only a friend. In the friend he has the vision of the Vast.
The one you have taken to be a friend is not only a friend. The one you have taken to be a wife is not only a wife. The one you have taken to be a son is not only a son. One day, when your eyes open, you will find the same Vastness—the One—everywhere, hidden in all.
Do not think it is some miracle that Krishna performed. The miracle is that Arjuna saw.
As Arjuna opened up and became simple, as the knot of ego broke, and as he looked closely at Krishna—seeing that the one he had known as a friend was not only a friend, that the supreme Master was hidden in him—this feeling deepened, and the old friend Krishna was lost.
In one sense this is very difficult: to see the Divine in a friend. For the one you have known as a friend, it becomes a great hurdle to know him as the Divine.
That is why Jesus said: a prophet is not honored in his own town. It is true. The townsfolk know who you are. If Jesus returned to his village, people would say, “He’s the carpenter’s son, Joseph’s boy. He’s lost his mind, talking lofty things.” No one would be ready to accept that the carpenter’s son has attained to wisdom.
We cannot forget the outer circumference, because that is our familiar knowledge.
Kabir attained to knowing. One morning he went to bathe in the Ganges. He saw a neighbor he knew, scooping water with his hands. Quickly Kabir rinsed his lota and offered it: “Use this, otherwise how long will it take cupping water in your hands!” The man said, “Keep your own pot safe, weaver! Shall we defile ourselves by using a weaver’s pot?” He was a man from Kabir’s own neighborhood. It is hard for him to forget that Kabir is a weaver.
Kabir said, “What a wondrous thing you have said! But if this pot did not become purified by bathing in your Ganga, how will you be purified? You have opened my eyes: I will not come to bathe in the Ganga again.” What essence! He had scrubbed the pot and it was not purified; the weaver’s pot remained a weaver’s pot. Then what will you gain by bathing again and again?
One whom you have known as a weaver is hard to know as a guru. Jesus is right: a prophet is not honored in his own town. In one sense it is very difficult to know a friend as the Divine. And in another sense, without friendship it is difficult to recognize the Divine—because then how will the beginning happen?
It depends on you. If you are a little alert, friendship can slowly take you into deeper waters. If you are unconscious, friendship can lead you downward. Friendship can become a staircase upward, and friendship can become a staircase downward.
Often it happens that friendship becomes a staircase downward. Until two people start hurling the worst abuses at each other’s mothers and sisters, people think the friendship isn’t yet solid; only then do they say it’s confirmed. Unless they descend that low, friendship doesn’t seem proven!
By watching two people’s behavior you can tell whether the friendship is deep or not. If they can abuse each other and then laugh happily, that’s friendship. Ordinary courtesy drops, ordinary manners drop; both descend to their lower levels—that’s what is taken as friendship.
Arjuna must have been an unusual man. So if Krishna calls him the best of men, there is no surprise. He saw the Divine within his friend. In the one known since childhood, he glimpsed the Unknown. In the thoroughly known, a door to the Unknown opened.
From this friendship the Gita was born. From this feeling of friendship Arjuna became a disciple and gave Krishna the opportunity to be a guru.
Remember, no one can be a guru over you; you can give the opportunity. A guru is not a coercion. He cannot impose himself on you; a guru is not violence, not an attack. Therefore no one can become a guru by himself; only a disciple can make a guru. It is your inner state.
In one sense, the disciple creates the guru. For the moment he bows, the guru is born. The more he bows, the more the guruness is revealed.
Arjuna slowly bowed. He raised all his inquiries, every question. Krishna cut through each one, very patiently—because a guru must have great patience. Ignorance is so deep, the mind’s old nets are so many, that if you settle one side, the other side frays. You settle the second side, the third side unravels. And to the very end the mind strives to win.
When a disciple comes to a guru, a deep struggle begins between the disciple’s mind and the guru. Understand this a little.
Whenever a disciple comes, a struggle begins between the disciple’s mind and the guru. Between the disciple’s heart and the guru there is friendship. But between the disciple’s intellect and the guru there is a great struggle.
Both things are needed. If there is the feeling of friendship in the heart, dialogue can arise. What the guru says can be understood—because understanding, ultimately, belongs to the heart; it belongs to love. And if that feeling is not in the heart, if there are only questions in the intellect, you are not a disciple. You have come out of curiosity. You have not come to be transformed. You will collect a few words and go back. You will become a little more learned. You will not be effaced; you will have gathered a few more ornaments for your ego.
Questions will arise in the mind as leaves grow on trees. But if there is love in the heart, the guru will win and the disciple will lose—and the disciple’s losing is his winning. The guru’s winning is the disciple’s winning. Only if the guru wins will you rise out of the rubbish in which you lie. If you win, you will remain where you are.
Arjuna is ready to lose, but he is not ready to lose too quickly. If you lose too quickly, that too is a deception; questions will remain in the mind, returning again and again.
So Arjuna lays out all his inquiries. Whatever the mind can raise, he raises—without stinginess. And he does not allow even a slight obstruction to the love in his heart. The heart’s door stays open, and the guru keeps cutting the mind.
Krishna is a sword; he keeps dropping Arjuna’s doubts one by one. But such trust is needed that, seeing a sword in someone’s hand, fear does not arise—“What if, cutting doubts, he cuts me!” Trust enough to know he will cut only the disease.
As when you go to a surgeon: you lie down; you are rendered unconscious. You trust that this man will cut only the diseased knot, will remove only the tumor. In that unconscious state, who knows what he might do? Yet there is confidence, trust, reverence.
Therefore the supreme religious event cannot happen without trust, because religion is the greatest surgery. Your biggest tumor—the ego—will be removed. All the pathogens of doubt in your life will be thrown out. It is the greatest purification, a transformation from the roots. Equally great trust is needed. Without such trust it is better not to go to a guru.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went to a doctor. As soon as the doctor said, “Lie down on the table,” Nasruddin quickly put his hand in his pocket and took out his wallet. The doctor said, “Don’t worry; you can pay the fee later.” Nasruddin replied, “Who’s paying? I’m counting my money! What’s the point of counting after the operation? Better to count first, to be sure how much there was; we’ll count again afterward.”
If you don’t even have that much trust, don’t go to a guru. If even with the guru your hand stays in your pocket counting notes, and doubt continues…
There is no harm in doubt—let it be in the mind, not in the heart. Let the heart trust. Then the supreme event can happen. Your mind will die, and you will attain the Vast, the cosmic life.
The fifth question:
Osho, you have said that it is the true Master who seeks the disciple, and that you are calling your would-be disciples to Poona from the far corners of the world. If the true Master does nothing, then how do these events happen—of finding the disciple, calling him to oneself, and so on?
Osho, you have said that it is the true Master who seeks the disciple, and that you are calling your would-be disciples to Poona from the far corners of the world. If the true Master does nothing, then how do these events happen—of finding the disciple, calling him to oneself, and so on?
They just happen. As water rushes toward the ocean. As the flame of a lamp rises toward the sky. No lamp makes an effort to rise skyward. If it tried, it would one day fall; it would tire. But the lamp never tires; its flame keeps rising. If rivers had to make an effort—if the Ganges had to labor to reach the ocean—she would tire at some point.
Through effort you will tire sooner or later. Then the Ganges would say, “Let it be—let me take a few days off.” But she goes on flowing, flowing. This flowing is a natural act.
As water flows toward a hollow, so whenever a gravitation is there, those who are in search are drawn and flow toward it. No one does anything. The Master calls the disciple the way a hollow calls to water. No one is calling, really. Like a magnet draws—without “drawing.” There is no procedure required to pull. Otherwise even a magnet would need rest: draw for twelve hours, rest for twelve! No—there is no need for rest because there is no labor in it.
You are here with me; neither have you come by making an effort, nor have I called you by making an effort. It is simply an event that has happened between you and me: you have come and I am here. It is as natural as the Ganges falling into the ocean.
In religion—in its deepest form—the question of doership does not arise at all. And if a Master is doing something, he is no Master. The Master is a non-doer. The doer has disappeared, because the very meaning of “doer” is ego.
Therefore there is a very mysterious thing: simply sitting near the Master, little by little something happens. The Master does not do it, you do not do it, yet it happens. We have called this satsang. This is the greatest mystery in the world.
Satsang means: the disciple is sitting, the Master is sitting; they are together. It happens—something happens in the presence of both. The one who is seeking finds; the one who has to give shares.
But there is a difficulty with language, because whatever we say, some verb, some act slips in. We have not known—cannot know—any word in language that is free of action; language is made by worldly men, by people imbued with the sense of doership. There, everything is an action.
A man sits and says, “We are doing meditation.” Is meditation something that is done? You even say, “We are doing love.” Is love something that is done? It happens. When it happens, it happens; when it does not, it does not. When it doesn’t happen, try doing it and show me. Suppose I hand you a person and say, “Come, show me—love this person.” Will you be able to?
Yes, you can act. You can embrace. But bones will meet bones; no feeling will arise in the heart. What will you do if I say, “Love this person, right now!” You will not be able to do anything—at most you can perform. Acting is a deception, acting is a lie. Love happens when it happens. When it doesn’t, it doesn’t. Yet how many happenings occur in love!
Meditation—people say, “We are doing meditation.” To say “doing meditation” is not right. “We are in meditation”—that is right. Because how will you do meditation? If the doer remains, you will go on circling on the outside; how will you go within? Has the doer ever gone within?
When all doing drops, then you are within. When even the act of thought is no more, when not a ripple of activity remains around you, then you are within. One is in meditation; meditation cannot be done.
Can you do prayer? You can babble—and you call that prayer! Prayer is a state of feeling. You can be in prayer. In prayer a stillness will descend, a silence. The mind will be quiet; no sound will arise anywhere. A deep hush will spread. In that stillness you will bow. In that stillness you will fall into the divine. In that stillness you will be received, accepted.
You can be in prayer; you cannot do prayer. And if you “do” prayer, there will be a helpless acting going on there.
In the temples the priests are doing prayer—acting is going on! What a joke! You have hired servants in the temples to whom you pay salaries to pray. They go on praying their whole lives—and nothing happens.
Ramakrishna was kept in a temple; it happened almost by mistake. Such a priest never takes a job. There was poverty, he was in difficulty, so he agreed. In his agreement there was not only poverty, there was compassion too—because the woman who built that temple at Dakshineswar in Calcutta was a shudra. No brahmin was willing to take employment with her. Who among the brahmins would go to pray in a shudra’s temple?
If even God has been installed by a shudra, he too becomes a shudra! Who will worship a shudra God? Does one want to become contaminated? Human logic is very strange.
And the woman was certainly remarkable. Her name was Rani Rasmani. She had built the temple with great feeling. But priests were not to be found for the temple. And because she was a shudra, she was afraid to enter the sanctum herself—lest her entry hurt people’s sentiments, cause pain. Otherwise she too could have worshipped. She would worship from outside, at the temple door. She was more of a brahmin than those brahmins who were unwilling to worship in the temple because Rasmani’s money had built it.
Ramakrishna agreed—it was a coincidence—out of kindness, out of compassion; and there was poverty, he needed a job. And he could not have found a job elsewhere, because he was a priest of a very unusual sort—such as priests usually are not, or only the real priest is.
So the coincidence clicked: Rasmani could not find a priest; Ramakrishna could not find a temple to worship in. The thing fitted.
But within a few days the trouble began. The temple had trustees; they told Rasmani, “This priest will not do. Better that the temple remain without worship. Let us wait—some proper brahmin will come. This man is not proper at all. He has committed such heinous offenses that they cannot be forgiven.”
What were the offenses? They were these: sometimes he would worship, and sometimes he would not—this was one offense. Sometimes days would pass and he would not go to the temple; and sometimes the worship would go on all day long.
Is this any way to do it? Worship must be by rule; worship is a routine—like in the military: left turn, right turn. Do it quickly, the worship is finished, go home—the priest goes home.
Ramakrishna was asked, “What is this mess?” He said, “When it happens, it happens. When it does not, what am I to do? Should I be false? Should I stand before God and wave my hands and nod my head? Should I utter something that is not in my heart? When it is not there—when I am like a desert—how can I go into the temple? When it is there, I go. And when it is there, as long as it continues, I do not come out. Then hunger and thirst are forgotten, days pass.”
Sometimes it is such that he would be standing for twenty hours at a stretch; streams of tears flowing, dancing. Listeners come and go; morning comes, evening comes—but the priest is at it.
The second offense was that first he would offer the food to himself—taste it—and then offer the prasad to God. First God should be offered, then one should take the prasad. Here the whole thing is upside down!
They said to him, “At least stop this much, because it is absolutely against the scriptures.”
But does love obey scripture? Is worship conducted according to scripture? According to scripture, acting goes on, drama goes on.
So Ramakrishna said, “Then I will not worship. Release me; give me leave. I simply cannot do this. Even my mother could not have done it—how can I?”
People asked, “What do you mean?” He said, “Whenever my mother cooked something, she first tasted it herself and then gave it to me. One must be sure it is worthy to be given. So I cannot give to God without tasting. Because sometimes I find the sugar is less, sometimes more; sometimes I find there is no salt at all; sometimes there is some oversight. I cannot offer to God like that.”
This is worship arising out of a very deep love. No scripture has been made for this, nor can there be—because it will be different for every priest. Every priest will be his own scripture.
No, the Master does nothing. Great happenings take place there—without doing, without anyone’s effort. No one gets tired from doing them. Where the disciple is willing and the Master is present—only their joint presence is needed, satsang is needed—the happenings begin.
Through effort you will tire sooner or later. Then the Ganges would say, “Let it be—let me take a few days off.” But she goes on flowing, flowing. This flowing is a natural act.
As water flows toward a hollow, so whenever a gravitation is there, those who are in search are drawn and flow toward it. No one does anything. The Master calls the disciple the way a hollow calls to water. No one is calling, really. Like a magnet draws—without “drawing.” There is no procedure required to pull. Otherwise even a magnet would need rest: draw for twelve hours, rest for twelve! No—there is no need for rest because there is no labor in it.
You are here with me; neither have you come by making an effort, nor have I called you by making an effort. It is simply an event that has happened between you and me: you have come and I am here. It is as natural as the Ganges falling into the ocean.
In religion—in its deepest form—the question of doership does not arise at all. And if a Master is doing something, he is no Master. The Master is a non-doer. The doer has disappeared, because the very meaning of “doer” is ego.
Therefore there is a very mysterious thing: simply sitting near the Master, little by little something happens. The Master does not do it, you do not do it, yet it happens. We have called this satsang. This is the greatest mystery in the world.
Satsang means: the disciple is sitting, the Master is sitting; they are together. It happens—something happens in the presence of both. The one who is seeking finds; the one who has to give shares.
But there is a difficulty with language, because whatever we say, some verb, some act slips in. We have not known—cannot know—any word in language that is free of action; language is made by worldly men, by people imbued with the sense of doership. There, everything is an action.
A man sits and says, “We are doing meditation.” Is meditation something that is done? You even say, “We are doing love.” Is love something that is done? It happens. When it happens, it happens; when it does not, it does not. When it doesn’t happen, try doing it and show me. Suppose I hand you a person and say, “Come, show me—love this person.” Will you be able to?
Yes, you can act. You can embrace. But bones will meet bones; no feeling will arise in the heart. What will you do if I say, “Love this person, right now!” You will not be able to do anything—at most you can perform. Acting is a deception, acting is a lie. Love happens when it happens. When it doesn’t, it doesn’t. Yet how many happenings occur in love!
Meditation—people say, “We are doing meditation.” To say “doing meditation” is not right. “We are in meditation”—that is right. Because how will you do meditation? If the doer remains, you will go on circling on the outside; how will you go within? Has the doer ever gone within?
When all doing drops, then you are within. When even the act of thought is no more, when not a ripple of activity remains around you, then you are within. One is in meditation; meditation cannot be done.
Can you do prayer? You can babble—and you call that prayer! Prayer is a state of feeling. You can be in prayer. In prayer a stillness will descend, a silence. The mind will be quiet; no sound will arise anywhere. A deep hush will spread. In that stillness you will bow. In that stillness you will fall into the divine. In that stillness you will be received, accepted.
You can be in prayer; you cannot do prayer. And if you “do” prayer, there will be a helpless acting going on there.
In the temples the priests are doing prayer—acting is going on! What a joke! You have hired servants in the temples to whom you pay salaries to pray. They go on praying their whole lives—and nothing happens.
Ramakrishna was kept in a temple; it happened almost by mistake. Such a priest never takes a job. There was poverty, he was in difficulty, so he agreed. In his agreement there was not only poverty, there was compassion too—because the woman who built that temple at Dakshineswar in Calcutta was a shudra. No brahmin was willing to take employment with her. Who among the brahmins would go to pray in a shudra’s temple?
If even God has been installed by a shudra, he too becomes a shudra! Who will worship a shudra God? Does one want to become contaminated? Human logic is very strange.
And the woman was certainly remarkable. Her name was Rani Rasmani. She had built the temple with great feeling. But priests were not to be found for the temple. And because she was a shudra, she was afraid to enter the sanctum herself—lest her entry hurt people’s sentiments, cause pain. Otherwise she too could have worshipped. She would worship from outside, at the temple door. She was more of a brahmin than those brahmins who were unwilling to worship in the temple because Rasmani’s money had built it.
Ramakrishna agreed—it was a coincidence—out of kindness, out of compassion; and there was poverty, he needed a job. And he could not have found a job elsewhere, because he was a priest of a very unusual sort—such as priests usually are not, or only the real priest is.
So the coincidence clicked: Rasmani could not find a priest; Ramakrishna could not find a temple to worship in. The thing fitted.
But within a few days the trouble began. The temple had trustees; they told Rasmani, “This priest will not do. Better that the temple remain without worship. Let us wait—some proper brahmin will come. This man is not proper at all. He has committed such heinous offenses that they cannot be forgiven.”
What were the offenses? They were these: sometimes he would worship, and sometimes he would not—this was one offense. Sometimes days would pass and he would not go to the temple; and sometimes the worship would go on all day long.
Is this any way to do it? Worship must be by rule; worship is a routine—like in the military: left turn, right turn. Do it quickly, the worship is finished, go home—the priest goes home.
Ramakrishna was asked, “What is this mess?” He said, “When it happens, it happens. When it does not, what am I to do? Should I be false? Should I stand before God and wave my hands and nod my head? Should I utter something that is not in my heart? When it is not there—when I am like a desert—how can I go into the temple? When it is there, I go. And when it is there, as long as it continues, I do not come out. Then hunger and thirst are forgotten, days pass.”
Sometimes it is such that he would be standing for twenty hours at a stretch; streams of tears flowing, dancing. Listeners come and go; morning comes, evening comes—but the priest is at it.
The second offense was that first he would offer the food to himself—taste it—and then offer the prasad to God. First God should be offered, then one should take the prasad. Here the whole thing is upside down!
They said to him, “At least stop this much, because it is absolutely against the scriptures.”
But does love obey scripture? Is worship conducted according to scripture? According to scripture, acting goes on, drama goes on.
So Ramakrishna said, “Then I will not worship. Release me; give me leave. I simply cannot do this. Even my mother could not have done it—how can I?”
People asked, “What do you mean?” He said, “Whenever my mother cooked something, she first tasted it herself and then gave it to me. One must be sure it is worthy to be given. So I cannot give to God without tasting. Because sometimes I find the sugar is less, sometimes more; sometimes I find there is no salt at all; sometimes there is some oversight. I cannot offer to God like that.”
This is worship arising out of a very deep love. No scripture has been made for this, nor can there be—because it will be different for every priest. Every priest will be his own scripture.
No, the Master does nothing. Great happenings take place there—without doing, without anyone’s effort. No one gets tired from doing them. Where the disciple is willing and the Master is present—only their joint presence is needed, satsang is needed—the happenings begin.
Sixth question:
Osho, Arjuna raises doubts and Krishna goes on answering. In just the same way, there is a churning of questions within us too. But the difficulty is that after listening to you and reading you a lot, answers also arise instantly from within; as a result, the tangle remains in the end. What should we do?
Osho, Arjuna raises doubts and Krishna goes on answering. In just the same way, there is a churning of questions within us too. But the difficulty is that after listening to you and reading you a lot, answers also arise instantly from within; as a result, the tangle remains in the end. What should we do?
Answers that come from the intellect will not work. If you have listened to me, you can listen in two ways. One is from your intellect—logic, thought—you can listen from there. What I say may seem to fit; fine. But that fitting is not of the heart. My logic can cut your logic, but that cutting will not go deeper than the mind.
So when questions arise within you, an answer will also arise—but the question will be in the head and the answer will also be in the head. The answer must come from deeper, from the heart; only then will it cut through. The answer has to come from a depth greater than the question; only then is there resolution—otherwise there is no resolution.
So take this as a criterion: whenever you find that an answer has arisen within you, yet there is no relaxation, no resolution, understand that that answer is no answer. The search still has to continue. For now, hold the question; don’t fuss about the answer yet. You still have to ask more, know more, rub your head a little more.
You have accepted an answer too soon. The question has not died, and you have already accepted an answer. Then the question will go on raising its head again and again. And your answer is impotent; your question is strong and your answer weak. That is why no resolution comes.
So you will have to inquire more. You will have to seek further. You accepted an answer too quickly; that is why the snag persists. Don’t be in such a hurry.
There is no hurry. Eternity is at hand. Move with patience. Otherwise the steps you take will have to be taken again and again. Otherwise you will have to keep turning back again and again. Don’t leave anything incomplete.
So long as the question within you has not actually dissolved, do not prematurely assume that it has been solved. The mind wants it quickly, because the mind has another disease—hurry, impatience.
It is like pulling the food off the stove before it is cooked; then your stomach aches. Let the food cook; don’t rush. Nothing is achieved by haste. The more you hurry, the longer it will take.
Move with patience. There is nowhere you need to get to. Wherever you are, all is going to be found. There is no journey. Whatever you are, all is hidden right there. The treasure is with you; perhaps the key is lost, but the treasure has not been lost. So don’t panic, and don’t rush.
Resolve one question at a time, and resolve it lovingly, because in resolving each question, you too will be resolved. If you evade a question, if you pacify yourself on the surface saying, “It’s solved,” if you manufacture a consolation—without any real contentment—then the question will raise its head again. You will not be able to avoid it for long. And if you keep giving answers, those answers are on loan—you have taken them from me; they have not happened within you.
There is no hurry. Take the answers I am giving you as seeds. They are not trees. If you accept my answers just as I give them, you will certainly encounter a hindrance—because my answer is my answer. How can it be yours?
Take my answers as indications, as seeds. The tree will grow within you, as yours. Take the pointer from me, then allow your own answer to arise, patiently. One day you will find that just as the question arose within you, so has your own answer arisen.
It is your question; only your answer will resolve it. My answer can at most facilitate your answer in coming closer; but don’t turn my answer into your answer. Otherwise you will fall into borrowing. And religion is cash-truth; it is not on credit.
So when questions arise within you, an answer will also arise—but the question will be in the head and the answer will also be in the head. The answer must come from deeper, from the heart; only then will it cut through. The answer has to come from a depth greater than the question; only then is there resolution—otherwise there is no resolution.
So take this as a criterion: whenever you find that an answer has arisen within you, yet there is no relaxation, no resolution, understand that that answer is no answer. The search still has to continue. For now, hold the question; don’t fuss about the answer yet. You still have to ask more, know more, rub your head a little more.
You have accepted an answer too soon. The question has not died, and you have already accepted an answer. Then the question will go on raising its head again and again. And your answer is impotent; your question is strong and your answer weak. That is why no resolution comes.
So you will have to inquire more. You will have to seek further. You accepted an answer too quickly; that is why the snag persists. Don’t be in such a hurry.
There is no hurry. Eternity is at hand. Move with patience. Otherwise the steps you take will have to be taken again and again. Otherwise you will have to keep turning back again and again. Don’t leave anything incomplete.
So long as the question within you has not actually dissolved, do not prematurely assume that it has been solved. The mind wants it quickly, because the mind has another disease—hurry, impatience.
It is like pulling the food off the stove before it is cooked; then your stomach aches. Let the food cook; don’t rush. Nothing is achieved by haste. The more you hurry, the longer it will take.
Move with patience. There is nowhere you need to get to. Wherever you are, all is going to be found. There is no journey. Whatever you are, all is hidden right there. The treasure is with you; perhaps the key is lost, but the treasure has not been lost. So don’t panic, and don’t rush.
Resolve one question at a time, and resolve it lovingly, because in resolving each question, you too will be resolved. If you evade a question, if you pacify yourself on the surface saying, “It’s solved,” if you manufacture a consolation—without any real contentment—then the question will raise its head again. You will not be able to avoid it for long. And if you keep giving answers, those answers are on loan—you have taken them from me; they have not happened within you.
There is no hurry. Take the answers I am giving you as seeds. They are not trees. If you accept my answers just as I give them, you will certainly encounter a hindrance—because my answer is my answer. How can it be yours?
Take my answers as indications, as seeds. The tree will grow within you, as yours. Take the pointer from me, then allow your own answer to arise, patiently. One day you will find that just as the question arose within you, so has your own answer arisen.
It is your question; only your answer will resolve it. My answer can at most facilitate your answer in coming closer; but don’t turn my answer into your answer. Otherwise you will fall into borrowing. And religion is cash-truth; it is not on credit.
Osho's Commentary
“But, O Arjuna, listen to My decision regarding renunciation.”
Krishna says, Listen to My decision. This word is worth understanding. It is very precious.
The feeling of “decision” arises in two states of mind. First: when you reach some conclusion through logic, thought, churning, it also feels like a decision. But that “decision” is momentary. New arguments will come and it will wobble. New possibilities will arise and it will break.
So what comes from logic should be called a conclusion, not a decision. It is only a conclusion; not a decision. Therefore it is always temporary.
Science is like this. Science arrives at conclusions, not decisions. Newton discovered certain things and drew some conclusions. Then Einstein proved them inadequate; the search moved forward. Einstein is not Newton’s enemy. He carried Newton’s discovery forward, and in pulling it further, it became clear that many things had to be changed; those conclusions had to change. The moment Einstein is gone, others pull Einstein further and keep changing the conclusions.
Therefore science will never be able to say anything with final decisiveness. Its conclusions keep changing.
Logic never reaches decision. All its “decisions” are conclusions. A new argument arises, a new event happens, and again it is shaken.
But Krishna does not say, “I shall tell you my conclusion.” He says, “I shall tell you my decision.” We call that a decision which nothing will alter, which the current of time will not change. Whatever happens, however situations change, the decision does not change.
Decision means that which we have not arrived at through the seesaw of reasoning, but through self-awakening. In the dark you grope and from that groping you derive a conclusion—that is a conclusion. Then there is light, and in that light what you arrive at—that is a decision.
Imagine you are walking along the road. In the distance you see someone standing; it seems a thief or some mischief-maker is hiding under the tree. It seems absolutely right, so you reach a conclusion; fear arises. But you have to pass that way, there is no choice. You grip your stick in your hand and ready yourself in accord with your conclusion.
A little farther and you find, no, it is not a thief, it is a policeman. The conclusion changes. You relax your grip on the stick and walk on at ease. You go closer and see, there isn’t even a policeman; it is just an electric pole.
Circumstances change, conclusions change—because a conclusion must be in accord with the new circumstance. But a decision does not change. Decision does not depend on circumstance—otherwise it would change. Decision is self-dependent. Within yourself you have gathered, become integrated; you have attained inside a certain state of yoga, of samadhi, a resolution has blossomed—now nothing can alter it.
Science reaches conclusions; religion reaches decision. Science resolves doubts and takes conclusions. Religion becomes free of doubt and stands in decision. In science, doubt remains present—hidden within, behind a curtain. In religion, doubt dies; its corpse is carried out.
Hence Krishna says, O Arjuna, listen to My decision regarding renunciation. I am not speaking like a pandit, he is saying. I am not speaking like a thinker. This is the decision of my life. Thus have I known.
If a blind man speaks about light, he can never go beyond conclusions—because he has no experience. But if a man with eyes speaks about light, that is decision. And even if the whole world tells him he is wrong, it makes no difference. That which is known through experience does not alter. Experience is the attainment of the eternal.
And we call only that true which is eternal, everlasting. Therefore science at most has hypotheses, not truth. Truth is only the realization of religion.
“O Arjuna, listen to My decision. O best of men.”
Krishna again and again addresses Arjuna as “best of men,” and with great feeling.
The more a disciple bows, the more excellent he becomes. This is a paradox. You think the more stiffly you stand, the more exalted you will be. In front of the master, the more you stiffen, the more base you prove to be. There, the art is to bow. There, the more you bow, the more excellent you become. There, if you bow totally, you become the ultimate peak of excellence.
Arjuna is the best of men. He is bowing more and more, moment to moment. And he is best also because now he has a yearning for sannyas and for liberation. Only the best of men do so. The base man asks about wealth.
People come to me. Before coming, they should think why they are coming to me at all! They ask, “Will meditation bring economic gain or not?”
Loss can happen; how will gain happen! If you meditate, your shop will be closed for an hour—that much loss will be there. If you meditate, a slight hesitation will arise in taking money out of people’s pockets—that much loss will be there. If you meditate, exploitation will begin to feel a bit difficult—that much loss will be there. If you meditate, it will become awkward to lie—that much loss will be there.
So I tell them, don’t go toward meditation at all. Meditation will harm you. They say, “No, you must be joking. We have always heard that meditation brings every kind of gain—worldly and otherworldly.”
The gaze is on profit; what concern have you with the beyond! If the desire is to get money out of meditation, the mind is very base.
When a man is filled with a noble mind, his inquiry is for moksha. He asks, How may I be free? I have seen through the world, known the world; other than suffering I have found nothing; other than pain I have received nothing. Thorns and only thorns—flowers were only assurances; they never came; from afar they appeared; on coming close they proved to be thorns.
The one who is fed up with the world and its misery, who is waking up—only he asks, How may I be free? Only he asks, What is sannyas? What is renunciation? O Krishna, tell me clearly.
“O best of men, that renunciation is said to be of three kinds: sattvic, rajasic, and tamasic.”
Krishna accepts the mathematics of Sankhya entirely. Everything is of three kinds; then renunciation too will be of three kinds, sannyas too of three kinds.
First is the man who will renounce, but his reasons are tamasic. Many people become renouncers merely out of laziness. They feel that if they become renouncers, then society feeds them and takes care of them, and they themselves need do nothing. Those who do not want to do anything, whose sloth is deep—they renounce!
In India, out of a hundred sannyasins, ninety-nine will be tamasic. Their number is huge. There are some fifty-five lakh sannyasins in India. If those fifty-five lakhs were sattvic, heaven would descend on earth. They are tamasic; there is no relish in letting go, there wasn’t even the desire to try to grasp. Not even enough desire to do something. Inactive, inert. If they get a free meal and drink, that is the supreme goal of their lives. Where will such tamas take a so-called renunciation!
Then some people’s renunciation is rajasic. Rajasic means it is done by force. There is a kind of violence in it, energy.
A rajasic person will either dominate others or himself—dominate he will. His whole style of life is violent. If he cannot dominate others, he will dominate himself. If he cannot establish mastery over others, he will establish mastery over himself.
So a rajasic person can also renounce, but his renunciation will carry violence. He will torment himself. He will try to exercise proprietorship over himself. He will treat his body as if it were somebody else’s. He will stand when the body needed to sit. He will stay hungry when the body was hungry. When thirsty, he will remain thirsty. He will lie on thorns. In every way he will torture the body. He is enjoying the very same thing he would enjoy by torturing others. Where will such renunciation lead! This too is violence.
Then there is a sattvic renunciation—of balance, of sattva, of evenness, of awareness, of rightness—where your understanding has grown and you have known life. You neither drop out due to indolence, nor do you run away because you enjoy running and fleeing. Your sannyas is a mature state of your awareness, a result of your understanding.
You have seen there is nothing to cling to in the world because all will be lost. That which is bound to be lost—why grasp it? That which is bound to be lost is as good as already lost. You have run and seen and found that no destination ever arrives; the world is like the bullock circling the oil-press—run hard, but you never arrive. You have dropped the running.
Now you are settled in rightness. An unsurpassability has arisen in your life. You sway neither this way nor that; you have come to rest in the middle—like the pendulum of a clock that has stopped in the center: neither left nor right. Because there is no sense in going anywhere. The sense is in being, not in going. There is no essence in running; there is essence in stopping. There is nowhere to reach; where you are, become totally. Come to rest in yourself. Such sannyas is sattvic.
“O best of men, that renunciation, that sannyas, is said to be of three kinds. And the acts of sacrifice, charity, and austerity are not to be abandoned. They should certainly be done; they are duties, because sacrifice (yajna), charity (dana), and austerity (tapas)—these three purify the wise. Therefore, O Partha, these acts of sacrifice, charity, and austerity, and also all other noble actions, should surely be performed, abandoning attachment and the hankering for their fruits—such is My firm and excellent view.”
Krishna says there is no need to abandon yajna, dana, and tapas. He is establishing a balance between this world and the beyond. Krishna is not against this world and for the other.
This is a delicate point. Ordinarily, those who are for the beyond are against this world; those who are for this world are against the beyond. The materialist is not spiritual; the spiritualist is not materialist.
Krishna is both material and spiritual. Neither matter nor God is to be disdained. One has to strike a balance in the world and in liberation as well. This is the deepest of balances.
Therefore Krishna says, it is not right to run away from worldly duty. And where will you run to? Wherever you run, you will still find the world. How will you abandon action? Abandoning is also an action. To escape is also an action; to sit with eyes closed is also an action. Sitting is also action.
So you cannot run away from action. As long as you live and breathe, action will go on. Then take care that whatever is done is of the nature of yajna—done for the good of others. Let even your breathing be for the good of others; let it not be for selfishness. Let it be of the nature of charity. Let your effort be to give, not to snatch. Let it be of the nature of tapas. Whatever you do, do it to refine and purify yourself, not to defile yourself.
So there is no need to flee anywhere. Only this much is to be done: O Partha, these acts of sacrifice, charity and austerity, and all noble actions, should be done abandoning attachment and the desire for results.
If you serve someone, don’t even ask for thanks—otherwise the service has been wasted. If you do tapas, don’t keep looking at God with a complaint, “I am doing so much austerity and still nothing has happened!” Do tapas as a joy. If you give in charity, take delight in the giving. Beyond the giving and after the giving, let there be no expectation.
That is why secret charity has been called the best charity—so the one who receives does not even get the chance to say thank you; he does not even know who gave. And the giver should not have even the expectation that when he meets the recipient on the road, he will bow to him; that the newspaper will report it; that there will be an announcement on the radio.
The desire for results shows that in your life the means and the end are separate—the means are now and the end is in the future. The very essence of yoga is that the means become the end. This present moment becomes your whole future. Let all be contained today; let everything be included in this very act—beyond it, no expectation. The day the means themselves become the end, the day the step itself becomes the goal, the day sitting right where you are, being becomes liberation—on that day it is attained.
Krishna’s whole process is not the renunciation of action, but the renunciation of the hankering for results. And only one who has attained great sattvic maturity can renounce the fruits.
The tamasic cannot renounce fruit-desire. The tamasic can renounce action, not the fruit. What is the tamasic person’s desire? He says, all the fruits should come, but I should not have to do anything. He says, if it comes while I am sitting, I am happy.
Mulla Nasruddin had renounced cigarettes. Then one day I saw him smoking and asked, “What happened, Nasruddin?” He said, “I have renounced buying. But if someone offers one, what’s the harm?”
The slothful does not want to act—understand this well. The slothful does not want to act; he wants the fruit. The one established in sattva acts, but does not want the fruit. One pole is sloth—the lowest. The other pole is the highest—sattva. And in the middle is the rajasic, whose condition is very different. He enjoys doing itself; he enjoys activity itself. He has so much energy, so much power, that he delights in running around. If he doesn’t get a chance to run around, he gets uneasy.
Just as the tamasic cannot get up, the rajasic cannot sit. As the tamasic finds it terribly hard to get out of bed in the morning—the world’s greatest suffering—so the rajasic finds it terribly hard to go to bed at night. The rajasic’s night gets longer; he stays awake till two or three. If nothing else, he dances—in a hotel, in a club; somehow he passes the time. He plays cards—he has to do something! There is such restlessness inside that if he doesn’t discharge it, he cannot manage.
The tamasic lies there; getting up is a problem.
Something like this happened in Japan. There was an emperor—eccentric and lazy. A thought occurred to him: among lazy people, hardly any ever become emperor; now that I have, let me make arrangements for other lazy people too. He sent word throughout the kingdom that all the lazy ones should apply. They would not need to do anything. For if you are lazy, what is your fault in it? God made you lazy; that means God wants you to be lazy. Those He made workers should work—for themselves and for you as well. But what fault is it of the lazy one? Someone is blind, someone is lame, someone is lazy—what can you do about it!
Thousands of applications came. The ministers panicked: if so many sit idle, the ship of state will sink. They begged the emperor, “Too many have applied to be lazy; the treasury will go bust. This won’t work!” The emperor said, “It will. Tell them all to come. We’ll test them. A truly lazy man is such a unique event that he cannot hide.”
The lazy were summoned for examination. They were lodged in grass huts, and at night the huts were set on fire. People ran out. All the fakes fled. But four lay there. They stayed put; they pulled their blankets over themselves. Someone shouted that there was a fire. They said, “Don’t say such things at midnight; don’t spoil our sleep. Whoever lit it will also put it out.” Of course, the fire was put out. Four remained—from thousands!
A lazy man’s life-energy won’t rise. He is half-dead—dead before dying. He is like a corpse—his life-energy is collapsed, not active.
The rajasic is drunk on energy. He has more power than needed. He will run and race, play politics throughout the world, create havoc; he cannot live without it.
Just now I was looking at a list of the new cabinet in Gujarat. One name pleased me so much: Bhaidasbhai Gadbadiya, Contractor. This really should be the name of all ministers! First, what kind of name is Bhaidasbhai! Neither “Bhai” nor “Das” is a name—Bhaidasbhai! Then “Gadbadiya” (Mr. Mess-up). And whatever was lacking is completed by “Contractor”!
The rajasic has his own world, his own craziness. He will run and run. He has nowhere to reach; arriving has nothing to do with it. There is energy, there is restlessness.
Then there is the one established in sattva; he is balanced. He does only as much as needs to be done. He stands between labor and rest. He always maintains the balance between effort and repose. His life is a stream of rightness. Equanimity, unsurpassability, cessation are his threads. Only such a person can drop desire, the clinging to results. Only such a person drops his ego. Because when you do not desire fruits, your ego falls.
How will the ego live without the future? It needs the prop of the future. In the present there is no ego at all. This very moment—tell me—where is your ego? This moment! In this moment there is inner silence. Search within: “Where am I?” You will not find yourself anywhere. The ego is in tomorrow: a big house to build, a big car to buy; tomorrow the ego is. To win an election, to become president—tomorrow the ego is. If you look in this very moment, you will not find it.
The bigger a future you manufacture, the bigger the ego. Or the ego is in the past. What you did, or what you will do—ego is in those two. But what you are—there is no ego there. Your being is egoless.
Existence has no ego-identity. Existence simply is. Just being is.
Therefore, while explaining from every door, Krishna keeps returning to one point; it is the refrain of his song. Again and again he returns to that link: Drop the desire for fruit, and do what God makes you do. Don’t be a doer from your side; don’t be a non-doer from your side either. Neither tamasic nor rajasic; let God do through you. Become a mere instrument.
Enough for today.