Geeta Darshan #20

The word yoga means that which joins—joins you to the Divine, to truth, to your own self. All scriptures are yoga-shastras. A scripture would not even be a scripture if it were not a yoga-shastra, because if it does not join you to the Divine, there is no meaning in calling it a scripture.

But yoga also has an opposite definition. Bhartrihari has said: yoga is viyoga—yoga is that which breaks, through which separation happens. That too is very sweet: that which breaks you from the world is yoga; that which breaks you from the body is yoga; that which breaks you from the others is yoga.

So yoga is a double-edged sword. On one side it joins; on the other it cuts. It cuts you off from the world and connects you to yourself. It cuts you off from the false and connects you to the true. It cuts you off from ignorance and connects you to knowledge.

Thus the definitions that seem opposite are not opposite. Without breaking, joining is not possible. There is no way to create without erasing. There is no path to the nectar of immortality without dying.

The Gita is a yoga-shastra.

Arjuna is full of moha (attachment). Moha means being tied to the world. Moha means that a bridge is built between you and the world. Moha is the bridge by which you set out on the journey toward the other—of attachment, of possessiveness—and you run the race of the world.

Arjuna sees: there are mine and not-mine, friends, loved ones, enemies. If by killing all these I were to gain the throne, what meaning would a throne have that is gained by killing my own? Such great violence does not seem worthy merely to obtain a throne.

Here there is something to understand. To one who looks from the surface, it will seem that Arjuna is rising above greed, because he is saying: What will I do with this throne? What will I do with this kingdom? What will I do with wealth and riches—if all this comes by killing my own? If this palace is to be had at the cost of so much bloodshed—everything filled with blood—and I sit on an empty throne, what value is there in it?

From the outside it will look as if Arjuna’s greed has broken. But greed cannot break so long as moha remains. And inside he is saying: These are mine—how can I kill them! If they were others, there would be no difficulty in killing them; the question would not even arise in his mind.

With them there is possessiveness, brotherhood, kinship. However much enmity there may be, still they grew up together, in the same family. They are lamps of the same house. There is moha.

If Arjuna’s greed had truly ended, the roots of moha could not still be there; the tree of greed stands upon the roots of moha.

Krishna would have had no difficulty seeing that he talks of non-greed, but it rests on moha; therefore the foundation is false.

Until moha breaks, greed will not break. And nothing comes of cutting the leaves—you must cut the roots. Greed is like the leaves; moha is like the roots. Moha connects you to the world.

Sometimes it can even happen that because of moha you renounce the world—but that renunciation will be false.

Someone’s wife dies. There was deep attachment. And now he feels: How will I live without my wife? I cannot. Such a man leaves the world and goes to the Himalayas.

Has he renounced the world? He has not. Because he says, How will I live without my wife? He has not left the world. He has cut the leaves and preserved the root. He is saying: Without my wife I cannot live; had she been there, I would have lived very happily.

He had placed a condition on life. That condition was not fulfilled. He is not leaving the world; he is deeply worldly. He wanted his condition fulfilled; it wasn’t. So he leaves—but the leaving is in regret, in pain.

Renunciation that is born of pain and sorrow is not renunciation; true renunciation is born of joy and a sense of “ah,” a grateful wonder.

If one leaves the world because of some failure—went bankrupt, failed in life, the son died, the house burned down—if in such states someone renounces, that leaving is no leaving at all. It carries the pain of “my house” that burned. But the house was never mine. “My wife” who passed away—she was never mine. The whole thing is a delusion.

Arjuna seems to speak beyond greed; but inside, moha is hidden. So Krishna is trying to break him from moha. The whole Gita is a method of breaking from moha. And the day one breaks from moha, one is joined to oneself.

Moha connects you to the other—to what is outside, alien to yourself: wife, son, husband, friend, wealth, kingdom—anything other than yourself to which you get tied, that factor is moha.

If moha breaks, we are separated from the other; and if, in place of moha, shraddha (trust) arises in life, we are joined to ourselves, to truth, to the Divine. Just as moha ties you to the world, shraddha joins you to the Divine. Moha is the expansion of the ego; shraddha is surrender.

Therefore each chapter of the Gita is called a yoga-shastra. It cuts away what is wrong—and it joins you to what is right.

Through right listening, samadhi can be attained. If someone listens with a whole, total mind—listens to one who has realized the truth; listens to Krishna, to Buddha, to Mahavira—and in that listening does not raise the mind’s barriers, does not let thoughts arise, listens without ripples, with a still mind, then just that much and awakening happens.

Because you have not lost the truth; you have only forgotten. You have not left truth somewhere behind; there is no way to leave it. Truth is your very nature.

It is like someone lost in sleep, forgetting who he is; or drunk, forgetting his home, his address, even his name. He doesn’t need to do anything; he only needs to be reminded.

There is an incident from the First World War. With the war came America’s first rationing—cards, controls. The great scientist Thomas Alva Edison had never gone to the market, never bought anything. But to get a ration card he had to go himself. One had to appear in person to have the card made.

He stood in the long line. Names were called one by one and people went in. When he reached the very front and the person before him had been called, a voice called out, “Thomas Alva Edison!” But he kept standing there, as if the name belonged to someone else. The name was called again, and he himself began looking around to see who was being summoned!

A man behind him said, “Sir, as far as I remember, I’ve seen your photograph in the newspapers. It seems to me you are Thomas Alva Edison. Whom are you looking for?” Edison said, “Well, you’ve reminded me rightly. It hadn’t occurred to me.”

There was a reason he forgot. He was such a renowned thinker, such a great scientist, that no one addressed him by his name. For years no one had called him by his name; he was a respected figure. His students called him “Professor.” Absorbed in his work, in his obsession, he simply forgot.

Very thoughtful people often become forgetful. They get so lost in thought that small things slip their minds.

It seems difficult that someone could forget his own name. But a name is only training. You did not come into the world carrying a name. You were taught, “Your name is Edison, Ram, Krishna.” It’s training.

Anything learned can be forgotten. A name can be forgotten. We don’t forget only because we use it twenty‑four hours a day. And we don’t forget because we are very egoistic and we have tied our ego to the name.

But Thomas Alva Edison was a very simple-hearted man. There are many stories of his forgetfulness. He was so simple-hearted, such a great thinker, that he made a thousand inventions, yet he would get into trouble. He would discover something and write it on a slip of paper—and then the paper would go missing. His house was full of scattered papers; wherever he wrote, he left them there. They say that had his wife not been there, he wouldn’t have been able to make even a single invention, because she kept his papers in order. But the papers became so many that even she couldn’t manage them.

Friends said, “Why don’t you stop writing on loose scraps and write in a notebook instead?” He said, “That’s a perfectly good idea.” He wrote in a notebook. The entire notebook got lost. He expressed great annoyance with his friends: “When I used to write on separate slips, I’d lose just one slip at a time. This time the whole notebook is gone. There were some five hundred aphorisms in it. Your advice didn’t help!”

This man had forgotten, he was in his own groove. But as soon as the man behind reminded him, “I’ve seen your face in the papers; your name seems to be Edison,” memory returned instantly.

We can forget God, we cannot lose Him. Because God is not something alien; He is your innermost core, enthroned in your own temple; He is you. It is the very name of your intimacy, the very icon of your nature.

Therefore, awakening can happen through listening. Someone can simply say, “You are That.”

This is what the Upanishads say: Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu! You are That, Shvetaketu.

The incident is very lovely. Shvetaketu returned home having learned everything. But his father said, “This knowledge is of no use. Did you know Brahman or not?”

Shvetaketu said, “If my guru had known, he would certainly have taught me. He gave with open hands. Whatever he knew he gave me. He himself told me, ‘Shvetaketu, I have nothing left to teach you. Now return home.’ He would not lie.”

Then Uddalaka, Shvetaketu’s father, said, “Then I must teach you myself. Go and pluck a fruit from that tree outside.” The fruit was brought. The father said, “Cut it.” The fruit was cut. It was full of seeds.

The father said, “Pick one seed out. Can a single seed become such a big tree?” Shvetaketu said, “Not can—this is what happens. Plant one seed and such a large tree grows.” The father said, “Then the tree must be hidden in this seed. Cut the seed too. Let us look for the subtle tree hidden within it.”

Shvetaketu cut the seed—but there was nothing to see. It was empty to the touch. Shvetaketu said, “I see nothing here.” Uddalaka said, “From that which cannot be seen, from the invisible, this great visible tree arises. And we too have come from such emptiness. From that which is unseen we too are born.”

Shvetaketu asked, “Have I also come from that great emptiness?” In answer to this question comes the Upanishadic mahavakya: Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu! Yes, Shvetaketu, you too come from there; you too are That.

And they say that hearing this immortal utterance, Shvetaketu attained knowledge. This happened through listening alone. Nothing had to be done. Someone simply alerted him. He was asleep; someone awakened him. The eyes opened. Awareness returned.

So it can happen through listening alone. But Vedanta’s three aphorisms are very important. Vedanta says: shravana, manana, and nididhyasana. First listen; then ponder; then practice. Listen; then think; then cultivate.

Why, then, are these three needed? Because your listening is not complete. You listen and you do not listen.

If I say to you, “Shvetaketu, you are That,” you heard it—but you did not hear. Otherwise, the Brahman to which Shvetaketu awoke upon hearing, you too would have awakened!

You do hear, but it does not descend; the arrow does not go deep. The heart’s doors are closed; rocks are lodged there; the spring does not flow within. The arrows of the mahavakyas strike the rocks and turn back. You remain as you were. At most, a few marks are left on the stone—which you call scholarship. But the heart is not pierced; the aim does not land.

You are wavering, so no matter from where the arrow flies, it cannot pierce your innermost being. You tremble; your mind is restless. You do listen, but how can a restless mind truly listen? A still mind is needed, a steady wisdom. Otherwise you may hear with the ear, but not with the heart. The sound does not reach the soul. Even if the eyes open, the inner vision remains shut.

Therefore Vedanta says: by listening alone some will attain. They are rare, unique beings—who heard, and it was enough. Most will not reach by that alone. They will have to make up for the lack. What they have heard must be mulled over, contemplated; one must meditate upon it.

If once hearing does not do it, then let what you heard resound within; think it over again and again, study, let the same resonance arise in many states of mind. Perhaps one day the junction happens. One day the mind is fresh and it catches the point. One day, knowingly or unknowingly, the doors of the mind are left open and the arrow enters. One day you are surrounded by a buoyant joy, in such a mood of exultation and wonder, that what had reached only the ears now reaches the heart.

And your mind-state changes twenty‑four hours a day. In the morning you are one thing; by noon something else; by evening something else again. Sometimes tired, sometimes angry, sometimes cheerful, sometimes sad, sometimes blissful. In all these directions, in all these states, keep raising the same inner echo; perhaps one day the attunement happens. Then what could not happen by listening may happen by pondering.

So manana means repetition; thinking the same thing again and again; mulling it over repeatedly. If one blow does not break the rock, then striking again and again upon it is called manana. It will break. Even a stream of water, falling incessantly, breaks rocks. So if the stream of manana falls, the inner rock will break.

Kabir has said: “The rope, by coming and going, leaves marks upon the stone.” He said this for manana. The rope comes and goes at the well’s edge; the stone is strong; the rope is not stronger than stone—what comparison? But the rope’s coming and going, coming and going, for years, fills the stone with grooves.

Shravana is a single blow. Manana is the continuity of blows. If one blow hasn’t done it—some will break at one blow, but they are rare. No rule can be made out of them. Some Shvetaketu may awaken from a single sentence. But crowds of Shvetaketus are not to be found. The markets are not full of Shvetaketus. Search the earth and you’ll find one in centuries. He is not the rule; he is the exception.

Therefore, manana is needed—thinking alongside listening, striking the blow.

But then there are many who keep listening for lifetimes and nothing happens. Manana misses too; shravana misses too—then nididhyasana. Then what you have heard and what you have thought must be practiced.

You may be surprised to know: sadhana (practice) itself means you are weak; therefore practice is needed. The strong are liberated by listening. Those a little less strong are liberated by thinking. Those weaker still must practice.

Buddha has said: there are some horses that will not move until you beat them. Some horses will move if you merely crack the whip. And some horses, seeing only the shadow of the whip, start to run. There is no need even to crack it. For them, it is enough to remember that a whip exists.

So some attain by hearing. Some by thinking—by thinking and rethinking, contemplation, reflection. And some by practicing.

The third group is by far the largest in the world. If there are a hundred human beings, ninety‑seven percent will belong to the third group. Without practice they will not be liberated. Two percent will be such that they will be liberated by manana. And one percent will be the person who will be liberated by shravana.

The way is to listen with total absorption. The way is to listen as if life and death depend on each single word. The way is to listen as if your whole body has become an ear and no other faculty remains. Listen as if this is the last moment; there will be no next moment; death is due the very next instant. Listen with such care that even if death comes in the next moment, there will be no regret.

To learn right listening means: while listening, do not think, do not cogitate. Because if you are thinking, who will be there to listen? And the mind has this habit.

I am speaking and you are thinking, “Is he right or wrong?” You are thinking, “Does this fit my logic or not?” You are thinking, “Does it agree with my sect or not?” You are thinking, “Would the one I have accepted as my guru say the same, or not?”

Your listening to me stays on the surface; inside you have slipped into thought.

I can see it: if what I say matches your notions, your head nods, “Right.” Not because I am right. If you could hear that much directly, you would be a Shvetaketu. When you nod, I know the point agrees with your sect, it accords with your scripture, it does not contradict your doctrine.

When I see your head shaking no, I know it is not falling on your side. It is different from, even opposed to, what you have held so far.

And when I see you sitting nonplussed, then you cannot decide whether to be for or against. You have not understood enough even to arrive at a decision.

Avoid all three. While listening, do not bother whether it favors you or not. Because if your standpoint is already the truth, there is no need to listen at all. Then there is no point in coming to me. You already know. You have attained. The journey is complete.

If you have not attained—if the journey is still on, the search is alive, and you feel the lack, you sense the incompleteness; you want to seek, to find, to arrive—then set aside what you have thought so far. Do not bring it in between. Otherwise it will not let you listen. And whatever you do hear, it will color with its own dye. You will only hear what you came prepared to hear, and you will miss those points that did not match you. Your mind will choose.

Do not let the mind listen. Say to the mind, “You keep quiet. First let me listen. If listening does it, good. If not, then I will use you; then we will reflect. But first let me listen in totality.”

And the amusing thing is: those who have truly listened in totality no longer need to reflect.

Reflection becomes necessary only because even while listening you keep thinking. A smoke of thoughts surrounds you. Since childhood you have formed opinions about everything. Those opinions hold you hostage.

How much understanding did you have in childhood? How much awareness? Yet you formed all your opinions in childhood and you are dragging them into old age! This is an inversion. Childhood opinions are opinions of unawareness, and you are hauling them into old age!

In childhood you asked, “Who made the world?” And your father, or guru, or teacher said, “God made it—just as a potter shapes pots.” Even now the same childhood notion of God persists in your mind. Back then the matter seemed settled. It pleased you: a potter makes pottery, a carpenter makes furniture—things don’t make themselves, there must be a maker. You were satisfied. And you are still filled with that same notion.

I have heard: In the living room of a home two fish were circling in a glass bowl. One fish stopped and asked the other, “What do you think—is there a God or not?” The second fish was a bit philosophical. It thought for a moment and said, “There must be; otherwise who changes our water every day?” If there were no God, who would change the water in this bowl every day?

For the fish, that someone changes their water is a momentous event.

Your God is not much more than the fishes’ God. Because you cannot conceive how things could be without being made. But about the God you grasped in childhood—did you ever ask, “Who made God?”

Then your notion will start to wobble. Doubt will arise. You will feel that if God can be without being made, then the potter-and-carpenter analogy is naïve.

But childhood notions encircle you. Theist–atheist, Hindu–Muslim, Jain–Buddhist—these are all beliefs grabbed in childhood. You sit encased in them. Their walls surround you. That is your prison.

When you come to listen, step outside that prison and listen under the open sky.

I am not telling you to believe what I am saying. Belief is not the point at all. I am saying: first listen; believing comes later. First understand what I am saying! Then believe—or don’t.

And the delightful fact is: if it is truth, you won’t need to think. If you have listened standing under the open sky, listening to truth is enough. Every hair of your body will tingle with it. Each heartbeat will give it rhythm. Your totality will say, “Yes.”

It will not be that a few thoughts in your mind say yes. Your whole being will say yes—bone, flesh, marrow will say yes. It won’t be a conclusion of logic; it will become the feeling-tone of your whole life.

So one can arrive through listening—but listening has to be learned. Right now you all assume you know listening because your ears are fine, and no ear doctor says there is anything wrong. You conclude that since the ears are fine, right listening is already there.

What the ear doctor calls proper hearing, we do not call proper listening. The ears do not listen; they are only instruments. It is the one sitting behind the ears who listens.

Yes, if the ears are damaged, the news won’t reach within. The ears only carry the news.

It is like someone telephoning you. You pick up the phone. The phone does not listen—you listen. But you are not willing to listen; you listen grudgingly: “All right, let’s hear it.” Or you have already decided the man is wrong. Now that he has called, you’ll listen anyway. The phone does not listen.

The ears are no more than the phone. They are instruments. Behind them is you, your awareness standing in the background. Let sound come through the ears; do not let the mind stand between you and your ears. Remove it. Say to the mind, “Step aside a bit. Leave my eyes a little empty; leave my ears a little empty. Let me see. If needed later, I will call you.”

If it cannot happen through listening, then contemplate—manana. And if it still does not happen through the mind, then practice—bring the body in as well. Then nididhyasana.

These are the three limbs. If it happens just by listening, it happens in pure consciousness. If not through listening, then the mind’s help is needed—manana. If even manana does not do it, then the body too must be engaged in practice—then nididhyasana.

When consciousness, mind, and body all three are engaged, that is sadhana. When consciousness and mind are engaged, that is manana. And when pure consciousness listens, alone—and that is enough—that is right listening.

One has to think a little. Here lies Krishna’s distinction.
If you are attracted to Mahavira, you will have to be free of all the world’s attractions. If you go toward Mahavira, you will have to go against the world. That is Mahavira’s path. But with Krishna the matter is a little delicate and deep.
Krishna says, if you want to come to me, you must seek me right within the attractions of the world; for I am present there too. There is no need to run away from there.

Understand it like this. You relish food. If you listen to Mahavira, there will be a vow of non-taste (aswad-vrat). Then you must drop taste. Eat as a function, a necessity; do not savor. Put food into the body so that the body’s work may continue, but take no relish in it. Drop taste, continue eating. Let food become tasteless, flavorless, beyond taste. Let taste no longer remain—just fulfill the body’s dharma, that’s all. So take the food.
If you understand Krishna, he says: taste so deeply that in the very taste of food the taste of Brahman begins to be felt; let food itself become Brahman (annam brahma). Descend into the depths of taste.
Mahavira says: non-taste. Krishna says: supreme relish.

These are flowers blossoming in the world. One way is to turn your back on them and enter within yourself. Another way is to go so deep into the beauty of these flowers that you forget the flower’s body and only the pulsation of beauty remains—then too you will arrive.
From where you are now, two roads go forth. One road is: turn your back to the world, close your eyes, dive within.
Therefore Mahavira does not speak of God (Paramatma); he speaks only of the self (atma). Close your eyes, dive within yourself.
Krishna speaks of God (Paramatma). He says, all that is spread around is That. Just look a little attentively! You see “the world” because you have not looked attentively. To see the world means: what is, is the Divine—you have not seen rightly. A slight mistake has crept into your seeing; hence the world appears.
The world is the Divine seen wrongly. Steady the eye a little; cleanse the mind a little; look more attentively; look with absorption; become immersed. And you will find the world has vanished and the Divine is present. The world is lost, the Divine is revealed.

In Krishna’s sense, if you are attracted toward the Divine, there is no need to withdraw from life’s attractions. What is needed is to dedicate even life’s attractions to the Divine.
That is why he does not let Arjuna run away from the war. Had Arjuna asked Mahavira, Mahavira would have said, “Exactly right, Arjuna; you understood quickly. Drop it! There is no essence in war. Your hands will only be stained with blood. The sin will be forever. And whatever you gain will be rubbish—kingdoms, palaces, wealth—what is its value!”
He is right too. That is also a path.
And Krishna also says there is no need to run away; only drop ignorance. The world seen through knowledge is the Divine. Seen through ignorance, the Divine appears like the world.

Krishna’s alchemy is deeper. I too have greater attunement with Krishna.
What Mahavira says is right; people arrive through that too. But it is as if you set out on a pilgrimage. One route goes through a desert—that too reaches. Another route passes through forest lands, where there are waterfalls with their tinkling song; where unique flowers bloom; where the breezes are filled with fragrance; where birds sing of the otherworldly; where trees are ever green; where the shade is very deep; where there is water, where streams of nectar flow.
So there are two roads: one through the desert; one through beautiful woodland.

I am not saying there is no beauty in the desert. The desert has a beauty of its own. It depends on your discernment. There are people who are mad for the desert’s beauty.
A very great European thinker, Lawrence, lived his whole life in Arabia. In his memoirs he has written that the kind of beauty found in the deserts of Arabia is found nowhere else in the world.
When I read this, I was startled. Beauty in the desert? Then I read his book with great attention: this man has a unique experience. And there is some truth in what he says.
He says the kind of silence that exists in the desert cannot exist anywhere else. And the kind of vast, expansive immensity seen in the desert—nowhere else. Trees, hills—they create obstructions. The desert is infinite; no shore is seen. As far as you look, only that is—like the sky. And the desert has its own kind of beauty. And a kind of purity, a kind of sanctity. Every grain of sand is clean.
A night as beautiful as the desert’s night—nowhere else. After a day’s scorching, at night everything becomes cool. And the stars appear as clearly in the desert as nowhere else. Elsewhere there is always some vapor in the air, layers of it, so the stars do not appear clear, they are a little hazy. In the desert there is no vapor at all; the air is absolutely pure, dry, without moisture. Hence the stars seem so near, so clear, that you feel you could stretch out your hand and touch them.
Certainly, when I read Lawrence, I felt there is truth in what he says. The desert has its own allure. Then the point is simply: what appeals to you?

Mahavira’s path is the path of the desert. He passes through the dry sands. Surely he found beauty there; otherwise why would he go that way? There must have been some reason. In that arid land too he must have seen something—like Lawrence—some silence, some cleanliness, some freshness must have come to him there. He must have experienced the vast.
But passing through the forest lands has its own joy.

Krishna’s rasa is the relish of reaching the Divine by passing through the world—without renouncing relish, without running away.
Both arrive. Therefore, choose what appeals to you. And do not leave this matter of taste to birth. For taste has nothing to do with birth.
I know Jains for whom Krishna could be of great use. But they will not make use of him. They say, “This key is not for us. We were not born in that house. We will go by Mahavira’s path.” And yet their whole life-state does not fit with Mahavira.
I also know Hindus who keep going on with Krishna-bhakti, devotion. But devotion has no attunement with them. For them the desert would suit. Devotional songs do not adorn their lips. Their heart has no resonance with it. They do the aarti full of embarrassment. They feel, “What foolishness am I doing!” But because they were born in that house, they have to continue. They are afraid.

Remember, birth does not arrange your life. Seek with your own understanding: with whom is your attunement? And have the courage. Have the courage to go with the one with whom you feel attuned. Then perhaps you will arrive. Otherwise you will wander much.

From doubt and ego.

The first reason: Arjuna’s consciousness was drawing close to that moment when he too would become Krishna-like. That hour was coming near. Before Arjuna himself knew it, naturally Krishna would already have known.

Before you come to know, it is natural that I come to know what is happening. Before you descend into meditation, I will know that you are descending. Before your samadhi bears fruit, I will give you the news that samadhi is approaching. Its first footfalls will be heard by me, not by you; because I recognize those footsteps. For you the notes are sounding for the first time; you will not be able to recognize them.

Arjuna is approaching that point where he will say, “I am now without doubt.” Where he will say, “By your grace my doubt has grown thin; my delusion born of ignorance has vanished; and through your compassion I have become steady, my wisdom is settled. Now command me—whatever you say, that I shall do. I no longer am; only you are.”

That hour is fast approaching. Its dawn has begun in Arjuna’s unconscious.

Like a bubble rising in water—born in the sand below, it releases and rises upward toward the surface. Time is needed, depending on the depth of the stream. When it reaches the surface you see the water-bubble appear. But one who knows how to dive deep knows when the bubble began its journey.

From Arjuna’s inmost core this fragrance has begun to arise. Its scent must already be hovering around him. Krishna’s nostrils would be filled with Arjuna’s faint fragrance. He would have recognized: “Now the flower is blossoming; now, now. The bud is opening; now, now. The petals are about to unfold. It is morning; the night has passed.”

Before Arjuna says, “By your compassion I have arrived where you intended to bring me,” Krishna declares the Gita’s glory. Why? Because after this Arjuna will be qualified. What Krishna has said to Arjuna, Arjuna will be capable of saying to others. It is necessary to tell him whom to tell and whom not to tell. Because it often happens...

As you may have observed with little children: when they start walking for the first time, they try to walk all day. Walking is such a new, delightful experience that they stand up again and again; they get tired, yet rise again.

And when children begin to speak, they chatter all day long. They talk nonsense because a new art has become available; they want to use it. You say, “Be quiet!” They cannot be quiet; for if they keep quiet, they feel they may miss it for a lifetime. They will talk, discuss, say the same thing over and over. They will repeatedly return with some “news”—“this is happening outside!” None of that matters; what matters is the joy of speaking. A new art is available; they want to practice it.

Exactly the same happens when, for the first time, you experience the divine life. Then your whole being wants to tell others.

So Krishna says: Tell it to one who is willing to listen. Tell it to one who is willing to listen with devotion. Tell it to one who is willing to listen with tapas—with a spirit of discipline and reverence.

Before that new surge arises in Arjuna’s life and he begins to speak to people, it is necessary to alert him.

And along with this he also extols the Gita’s glory. Why? Because it could also happen that, due to all these conditions—“Do not tell it to one unwilling to listen; do not tell it to one who does not listen with feeling, with devotion; do not tell it to one who is not engaged in inner discipline”—Arjuna might become silent out of fear and not speak at all. That too would be a mishap. If it has dawned in one’s life and he does not speak, it is a calamity. To tell it to the wrong person is a calamity; to leave it unsaid is also a calamity.

Therefore he also declares its mahatmya—its glory: “Arjuna, see what blessings flow from telling it. Whoever expounds this will be most beloved to me—foremost among my loved ones. Whoever expounds it is doing my work; he is surrendered. Whoever expounds it will, by the very act of expounding, be freed of all sins. He will attain those states and stations that accrue from the highest merits—just by speaking it!”

So there are two points: first, he is warning—do not speak to the unfit. Second, he is saying—do not remain silent out of fear of the unfit. Do speak! Seek the right one and speak; do not speak to everyone.

That is why, before the flower of Krishna blossoms within Arjuna, he speaks of the Gita’s glory.