Geeta Darshan #4

First, neither are the scriptures many, nor are their sayings endless. One thing has been said in many, many forms—but the thing is one.
Ekam sat viprā bahudhā vadanti.
Those who have known the One have spoken of it in many ways. The Quran has one flavor, the Gita another, the Bible a third—but the message is the same. And if you are truly ignorant—simple—you will have no difficulty in seeing that all three scriptures say the same thing. The difficulty arises when you are a false knower; when scholarship sits on your head, then there is trouble.

The ignorant are simple. They carry no burden of words; their eyes are not blind, they are clear. It is the so‑called learned who create the mischief. The so‑called learned insist, “What is in the Gita is not in the Quran,” because their grip is on words, not on essence; on language, not on meaning. The lines of scripture trap them; the empty spaces, the silences of scripture, they cannot see.

The quarrels of the world are because of pundits, not because of the ignorant. The mullah fights and makes others fight; the pundit fights and makes others fight. What quarrel does the unlettered have!

Just imagine for a moment: if there were no pundits in the world, would there be Hindus, Muslims, Christians? And even if there were, they would be very simple. If a church came your way, you would bow there too; and if a mosque were nearby, you would sometimes pray there too—because there would be no one to drill into you that a temple is different and a mosque is different. The trouble has been created by the explainers.

A simple person has no quarrel at all. And in unknowing there is great simplicity.

So when you ask how the ignorant is to decide which scripture is right, you have already become quite knowing; you are not ignorant. That question itself is too clever. Otherwise you would recognize: the difference can be of words, but not of truth.

Someone prays in one way, someone in another; someone faces east, someone faces west. But the feeling of prayer, that surrender, that placing of one’s head at the feet of the Infinite—that is one.

If there were no pundits and mullahs, there would be no quarrel. Everywhere you would hear the same tone; everywhere the same essence would be understood.

So first, scriptures are not many—they only appear many. They cannot be many. Truth is not many, so how can scriptures be many? Languages will be many, because on this earth there are hundreds of tongues. So when one who knows truth happens to know Arabic, he won’t speak Sanskrit; he will sing in Arabic. The song that arises in him will take hold of Arabic, vibrate in it, and reach you. The Quran is such a song.

Look to the song; drop the words—catch the cadence. The cadence that is in the Upanishads is the same in the Quran. The song that is in the Upanishads is the same in the Quran. Catch the tune, catch the ecstasy, and you will find those who sang the Upanishads swaying in the same intoxication in which Mohammed was found swaying.

Do you think intoxication will show a difference? No; in ecstasy there is no difference. Yes, Mohammed will not have a priestly topknot. Is a topknot a scripture? He will not wear a sacred thread. Is a sacred thread a scripture?

If you look at the nonessential, you will find differences; if you look at the essential, you will not find even a trace.

Second: the trouble is because of your knowledgeability, not because of your ignorance. There is a great sweetness in unknowing. If only you could be ignorant, the door to knowing would open.

But before you become knowing, you become filled with knowledge. Words gather around you; then they won’t let the door open; then you live in words. Your real questions get lost; they too become fake. You stop longing for a direct experience of life; you start longing to understand doctrines.

Someone comes to me, unhappy, restless, and asks, “Did God create the world or not?”

You are already overburdened by your own household; don’t take on the burden of this vast household. Whether someone made the world or not—is that the question of your life? What have you to do with that? And even if you learn that someone made it, how will that solve the questions of your life? And if no one made it, what difference will it make? You will remain you.

These are futile questions. A meaningful question is always real. You ask, “Why am I restless?” You ask, “What is the way to be at peace?” You ask, “I am filled with sorrow; I have not known even a ray of bliss—how am I to know it? How to open a window? How to open the eyes? How to come out of the dark? I grope for the lamp, I find it—but how to light it? How to kindle the flame?”

And when your flame is lit, when the rain of peace begins to fall around you, then you will know. You will know the answers to all those questions which, had you asked earlier, would have been asked in vain. And you won’t need to go to anyone for those answers.

One who is at peace begins to see God. The real question is not God; the real question is peace.

Do not ask the scriptures about God; learn peace from the scriptures. All scriptures teach peace. All scriptures give methods of meditation. All scriptures gesture toward how you can become blissful. Don’t worry whether you learn from the Quran or from the Gita! From which ghat you draw the water—the water is all Ganges. Drink from anywhere; don’t pay too much attention to the names of the ghats; they have no value.

The disturbance, however, is due to knowledgeability. That you are Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain—that is the obstacle. That you are ignorant—that is not an obstacle. If you are ignorant, you are perfectly fine; there is no obstacle. You are simple, straightforward; the slate of the mind is empty—something can be written on it. You are not full; there is room within you; truth can be invited.

I sing the glory of ignorance. If you can only remain ignorant, you will find that knowing begins to rain upon you. To recognize one’s ignorance is the first step of knowledge.

But where does the obstacle arise from? The obstacle is this: ignorance has not disappeared, and you have collected garbage. From scripture you have not learned practice; from scripture you have learned theories.

Learn discipline from scripture! The very meaning of shastra is “that from which discipline is gained.” That which gives you a way of living—that is scripture. But that you do not hear.

You are so full of your own words that even when I speak to you, it is not certain you hear what I am saying. Your words interfere; they change the color, they change the tune, they change the meaning.

A man hears only what he wants to hear; he hears only what he has already heard. He drops what he cannot digest; he keeps what is already digested.

If you come to me as a Hindu, you will hear only what a Hindu can hear. If you come as a Muslim, you will hear only what a Muslim can hear. The Muslim will leave more Muslim; the Hindu will leave more Hindu. And I wanted Hindu and Muslim to disappear.

I was staying in the house of a vaidya, an Ayurvedic physician—a scholarly man. He was bathing early in the morning. I was sitting outside reading the newspaper. His son sat in a corner doing his schoolwork, chanting loudly: “Figures of speech are of four kinds—lataanupraas, vrityanupraas, chekānupraas, antyānupraas…” He was memorizing. I paid no attention—until the vaidya, from inside the bathroom, shouted, “Hey, you idiot! What names of medicines are you chanting? Put our Chyawanprash first! There’s demand for it even abroad. Put Chyawanprash at number one! What’s this chekānupraas, antyānupraas…!”

The boy was startled; I was startled. Just then the wife, working in the kitchen, flared up: “You take your bath and let others do their work. Because of your Chyawanprash, no one in this house can even fall ill! Chyawanprash! Chyawanprash! If anyone gets sick we’re afraid to tell you—you’ll bring that Chyawanprash again!”

No one seems to be listening to anyone. The wife fell silent. I went back to my paper. The boy, seeing the uproar had passed, resumed: “Figures of speech are of four kinds…”

It goes in circles. No one is listening to anyone; people are listening only to themselves.

Do you ever listen to scripture? If you go to scripture as one ignorant—as a child—scripture will awaken you. But you go to living scriptures, to masters, as learned ones. Even they cannot awaken you.

A scripture is dead—zigzag lines on paper. Yet even that can awaken you if you go not as a pundit but as a thirsty one. And if, as a pundit, you come even to a true master, even the master will not be able to awaken you. You will find excuses for your sleep and return.

There is no need to decide what is worthy to accept and what is not. How do you decide what is fit to eat and what is not? What is digested, what makes you healthy, what gives you strength—that you understand as edible. You don’t eat stones and pebbles. The most ignorant person doesn’t eat stones and pebbles. Why? He knows they won’t digest; they will hurt; they will cause pain.

Choose that by which life becomes full of juice. Choose that by which health grows, fragrance grows. Choose that by which life becomes a festival. That by which you become gloomy, broken, a ruin—that leave aside.

I am not telling you to choose doctrines at all; life is with you—let that be the touchstone. Test everything on that.

When you lie, does your joy increase? Just see this. If it does, then I say: lie! I will never tell you to speak truth. If by deceiving, by dishonesty, by giving pain to others, a rain of joy falls in your life, then that is religion—do that. Don’t listen to anyone. But that never happens. It cannot happen. That is not the law of life.

Scriptures only say this much; they repeat what has been known again and again; they repeat what every knower has experienced. They say only: don’t eat stones and pebbles. Falsehood will bring suffering; however much it promises happiness, it will bring suffering. If you give pain to another, pain will return. If you torment another, you will be tormented. If you create unrest in others’ lives, echoes of unrest will sound in your life. Nothing else will happen—because the world is a mirror. You will begin to see your own face on every side. You will be surrounded by your own faces.

That’s all scriptures say. Scriptures are straightforward. It is the pundits who have entangled things. They split every hair of every word so finely that it is forgotten that scripture is like food. It is not for sitting and discussing; it is to be digested—so that it becomes your blood, your flesh, your marrow.

Bodhidharma went to China. After nine years, when he was about to return, he called his four foremost disciples—like Arjunas, men of caliber—who had utterly digested him. He said, “I am leaving; the moment of examination has come. Speak the essence you have learned from me.” The first said, “Truth, nonviolence, non‑possessiveness, non‑stealing—that is Dharma.” Bodhidharma said, “You have my skin.” He asked the second. He said, “Yoga, practice, methods, discipline—that is the essence.” Bodhidharma said, “You have my flesh.” He asked the third. He said, “Meditation, silence, emptiness—this is the whole secret, the key.” Bodhidharma said, “You have my bones.” He turned his eyes to the fourth. The fourth fell at his feet and said nothing. Bodhidharma lifted him, looked into his eyes. He still said nothing. Bodhidharma said, “You have my everything—my very soul.”

What was the matter? One had digested just enough to become skin—still on the periphery. He too had digested, for even skin does not form without digestion. The second went a little deeper—he became flesh. The third deeper still—he became bones. The fourth went so deep he could not even say how deep—because if it can be put into words, how deep can it be? If it can be said, is it understanding? Understanding is beyond all words. So he remained silent. He simply offered his eyes before the master: “If anything has happened, you can see it. What can I say? There is nothing to say. Can Dharma be said?”

How much do you digest? Drop the worry that scriptures are many: which to choose? Pick any. Whichever comes to your hand will do. Don’t get entangled in too much choosing—time will pass, life will be lost.

That is why in olden days there was a simple arrangement: whichever tradition you were born into, quietly follow its scripture—so that useless confusion does not arise about what to choose. Dive into that scripture. Diving there, one day you will find you have gone beyond all traditions.

There is no need to break any tradition; there is a way to go beyond even from within it. Go deep and you will rise above. Stay shallow and you will remain inside. Tradition binds those who never dive; those who know how to dive attain supreme freedom even through tradition.

But now that won’t work. Things have changed. That time is gone. Now the whole world has become a small village. Now it’s impossible that a Hindu remain unacquainted with a Muslim, or a Christian with a Hindu. And it is not bad; it is a blessing.

All scriptures have opened to all. The temple was for the Hindu, the mosque for the Muslim, the church for the Christian; now they have all mingled. A great confluence has happened on the earth. In this great confluence, those who are foolish enough to think themselves clever will lose much. Those who are foolish enough to know they are foolish will save much.

If you are ignorant, you will gain greatly from this great confluence—because you will see. Eyes empty of words will find the Gita in the Quran and the Quran in the Gita. Your sense of wonder will grow; your trust will be fuller. Because all scriptures say the same. Through the centuries, in different lands, in different winds and traditions, whatever has been said points in one direction. However many the fingers, the moon is one.

Your trust will increase—if you have even a little simplicity. If not, you will become very wobbly. You were a Hindu till now; you had belief; that belief will totter. The Quran will seem to say something else, the Bible something else. You will be like the washerman’s donkey—neither at home nor at the riverbank. You go to the mosque and the temple calls; you go to the temple and the mosque calls. You read the Quran and remember the Gita; you read the Gita and remember the Quran. And nothing will fit together, because these musics are very different; the instruments are different; the scales are composed differently.

You will go crazy; you will become unhinged. You will lose your belief—if you look at this great confluence as a clever pundit. But if you look as a simple, innocent child, your trust will multiply infinitely.

Belief is false; it has to be protected. Only if you remain unaware of what others think can belief survive. Trust is a far greater thing. Trust needs the open sky; only then does it live. If you lock it in a house, it rots and dies.

Until now the world has lived by belief. You were born in a Hindu home; you believed in being Hindu. You were born in a Jain home; you believed in being Jain. Not only that—you believed in Jainism and disbelieved in Hinduism. These two go together: belief in yourself, disbelief in the other. Thus, from inside and outside, you kept yourself propped up.

But now such belief cannot survive. Now only that supreme trust will endure for which there is no need of belief in one’s own and no need of disbelief in the other. Now only such supreme trust will remain in the world as is not frightened by the open sky and needs no walls of closed houses.

So belief will fall. Therefore, those who have been religious only by belief will have no way now to remain religious—they will become irreligious. Now only in the lives of a few will the breeze of religion blow—those whose lives have trust.

And only that religion is true which survives in the open. Only that religion is true which remains even after hearing opposing views. Only that religion is true which survives beyond all argument. Let the opponent go on opposing; still your trust does not wobble.

Not that you don’t listen to the opponent, not that you plug your ears. What kind of trust is that which is afraid to listen to the opponent! Deep down that is doubt; hence the fear. Doubt goes with fear; trust goes with fearlessness.

That is why I speak to you of all the scriptures. Only those will be able to stay near me in whom trust is being born. The believers will run away, frightened that “This man will snatch away our belief!” They will even tell others, “Don’t go there—you will become an atheist.”

They are also right. The weak will come and become atheists; the strong will come and become theists.

I love a saying of Jesus: “To him who has, more will be given; and from him who has not, even what he has will be taken away.”

If there is trust within you, I will increase it. And if there is none, I will decrease it even more. At least let the matter be clear. Let this dangling, Trishanku‑like in‑between state end. Either atheist or theist—being stuck in the middle is not right.

It is like the ocean crashing down upon a drop: only if the drop is willing to disappear can it endure. If it tries to survive, it will not be able to bear it. Understand this arithmetic clearly.

If you are ready to dissolve, then you can bear God; then there is no fear at all. But if you want to be preserved, then you cannot bear God. Then you must take it in doses.

The guru is the dosage. Take it slowly, gradually. The guru will slowly make you willing.

He too will dissolve you, but he will not set your whole house on fire at once. He quietly pulls out one prop at a time. Your other supports remain. You say, no harm, he is only removing one pole—let him; what will be spoiled by this? The whole house is still standing. But one by one he removes them all. One day you suddenly find the whole structure has collapsed.

A guru removes one brick at a time; that is why you think, what goes wrong with one brick? Let it go. Even in your miserliness you think, what can one brick matter? You are not so stingy—one brick you will grant. But you do not know the whole building is made of single bricks. Once one brick is pulled, the guru is assured he can pull the second too. Whenever he pulls, he will pull just one. So now it is certain you allow at least one to be pulled—this will do the work; it will take a little time. And as one brick after another is removed, one day you suddenly see your whole building has fallen.

God does not pull by measure. God has no idea what it is to be a “man”; the guru does. God moves in his own way; his way is vast. He knows nothing of your small courtyards; he knows only the great sky. He comes like a flood. You were not yet ready to bear even a drop, and he arrives like an ocean; you panic. That terrible roar of the ocean—and you flee.

The guru kills you tenderly, with gentle pats. He kills you too. For unless you die, God cannot be. Die you must. Your “being” itself is the obstacle, so it has to go. You will have to learn the art of disappearing.

That is why I say you are God. But until you have disappeared, you will not know it. So long as you have boundaries, you will not know you are God. When your boundary is lost and you find that you are—more than before, fuller than before—then you will realize that earlier you were not at all; now, for the first time, you are. But that will happen only when you die.

So long as the seed does not die, the sprout cannot be. And the seed says, first give me a guarantee. The seed says, without a guarantee you ask me to die; how do I know that after dying some new chain of life will sprout?

The egg must break before the bird can come out. But from inside the egg the bird keeps saying, first give me assurance. This shell is my security; within it there is comfort and peace. If it breaks, will I survive? If my house is gone, will I live?

You ask the same. This ego is your shell, your security. Within it you seem to be safe. It is your armor, your shield. And all religion says: break this ego. You say: we will break it, but will we survive? Without it you cannot even conceive how you will survive.

And the difficulty is: until you break, how will you know? And until you know, how will you agree to break?

Therefore God cannot cajole you. He is the tree; you are the seed. The guru was a seed too, and now is a tree. You have known him as a seed; even now you will find the cracked seed-shell still clinging around him. The shell has split; the sprout has come forth.

The guru meets you at the first step; God will meet you at the last. The last step is very far. The first seems near. With the guru a continuity can be forged. With God there is no continuity.

Hence I say that through the doorway of the guru will come your meeting with the Divine. There is no other way. It has always been through the guru’s door.

That is why Nanak named his temple Gurudwara—the guru’s door. It is only a door, an open gate through which one is to enter—and then be forgotten. The guru is not to be remembered forever. Who remembers a door? You enter and forget. But until you have entered, you keep searching for the door. The guru is an empty opening.

Yet even with the guru there are great difficulties. There are three kinds of guru. First, the guru whom the scriptures call the sadguru, the true master. He is a little hard to recognize. Hard also to understand. He is a bit absurd, beyond your logic. To understand him you need great patience. His behavior, his speech, his way of life—all are a little different from your arithmetic. Of course they will be, because the arithmetic you have in mind is based on earlier gurus—and no guru is like another.

If you have learned your arithmetic of guruhood from Mahavira, then when you come to me you will say, this man is not naked, therefore he cannot be a knower. And this is not something happening only today. In Mahavira’s time too, those who had learned the arithmetic of the guru from him went to Buddha and said, Buddha cannot be a guru—he wears clothes. A guru is naked.

Those who learned from Buddha what it means to be a guru looked at Mahavira and thought: this is a bit too much. This is show. What need is there to be naked? One may live inwardly naked; what need is there to be outwardly naked?

They too have a point. What is there to announce? If inward nakedness is recognized, that is enough. To take off your clothes and stand in the marketplace seems a bit like exhibitionism! A guru does not put on a show. They too have a point. Mahavira would not appeal to them as a guru.

Hindus could accept neither—neither Mahavira nor Buddha. About Mahavira, the Hindus said nothing at all. They did not even raise the topic. Not to raise the topic was because Mahavira was altogether beyond understanding. You speak, or you oppose, only when something can be grasped.

This man appeared utterly illogical. Silent for twelve years; roaming naked; fasting for months. His style could not be understood. Mahavira attained samadhi squatting on his haunches—like one milking a cow, the cow-milking posture. Has anyone ever attained samadhi like that? People sit cross-legged at the time of samadhi. Why was he squatting? Was he milking a cow? He was not. He was squatting. Very surprising.

But if you ask a physiologist, a student of the body, a little secret is revealed. The child in the mother’s womb is squatting; his knees touch his chest. It is the fetal posture. Mahavira, by becoming naked, became so simple, so innocent, that not only childhood was transcended—the fetal state returned. Like a little child curled up, he sat squatting; as if all existence had become a womb and Mahavira was dissolved into it.

Mahavira’s whole system could not be grasped. The Hindus ignored him; better not to raise the matter at all. If you begin to talk, more talk will follow, and this man cannot be seized anywhere.

About Buddha they did talk, because in Buddha’s message the Upanishadic tone was perfectly clear. Buddha was half Hindu. Mahavira was not Hindu at all—neither in style nor in way of life.

They did take up Buddha; but to accept him was difficult, and to reject him was also difficult. So the Hindus half accepted him and half rejected him. They accepted Buddha as the tenth avatar, but with a condition: that he is a wrong avatar, not a proper one. He is indeed an incarnation of God, but not a correct one.

And the Hindus devised a story: God created heaven and hell. No one would go to hell if no one sinned. People were simple, everyone would go to heaven. Those appointed as wardens in hell stood with folded hands one day saying, here we sit useless; registers open, no one comes; the place is empty. Why keep this office open? Shut it, or send someone here. Out of compassion God took an incarnation as Buddha to corrupt people, so that folk could go to hell. Thus the Hindus invented the tale.

So Buddha misled and confused people. He is indeed an avatar of God—but born to fill the empty seats of hell.

Jains cannot understand Krishna; they have consigned Krishna to hell. Jains cannot accept Buddha either. They have never called Buddha “Bhagwan”; at most they say “Mahatma”—a good soul. But still far, far from godliness. They can never call Buddha “Bhagwan”; they say “Mahatma.” Do not take “Mahatma” as respect; it is a slight. For they call Mahavira “Bhagwan”; they do not call him “Mahatma.”

So they keep Buddha lower. They are clever people—shopkeepers. By saying “Mahatma,” no quarrel arises; no one can accuse them of disrespect. Yet they are being disrespectful. They are saying: you are only a great soul; you have not attained godliness. Becoming God is still very far.

People learn one master’s lesson; then the style of that master settles in their minds. With that style as the yardstick they go around testing other masters—then there is stuckness. Every guru is unique, incomparable. None like him has ever been, none will ever be. Therefore recognizing a sadguru is very difficult. Only one who drops all maps, all measures, and looks with naked eyes can recognize him.

Just as only the innocent ignorant can recognize scripture, so only the pristine, innocent, simple, empty can recognize the sadguru. He looks directly, without bringing anyone in between—neither Mahavira, nor Buddha, nor Krishna. He does not put anyone between. He looks eye into eye, takes hand into hand, encounters—and then the sadguru is recognized.

But this is a difficult process. It needs courage, because you will not be able to lean on anyone else. You will go alone; you cannot take your book and guide and keys along. You will go leaving all yardsticks; you will begin to be afraid; many times doubt will seize you, suspicion will grip you. Yet this journey to the sadguru must be undertaken.

Attaining a sadguru is hard; even if you meet him, recognizing him is hard. Even if recognition happens, many times the urge to leave will arise; many times you will wish to run away. But if you simply remain, if you are steadfast, if you are brave, then one day you will attain. Then the sadguru becomes a door.

Second are the asadguru—the false gurus. By that I mean those who are not doors, but look like doors. You will meet them quickly. You will recognize them, because they fit completely into your language; they lie under your logic; they are not beyond it. They move according to your calculations. As you want them to be, that is exactly how they behave. In fact, they do not make you their followers—how could they! They are your followers.

You say the guru should have a shaven head, so they sit with shaved heads. You say he should have a long beard, they grow a long beard. You say he should be naked, they sit naked. Whatever you say, they stand ready at your command. You only need to express the desire.

The asadguru is inert in the sense that he molds himself to your craving. He looks toward you to see how you would like him. His sole ambition is to be worshiped like a guru, that’s all. Whatever your demand, he will fulfill. He is a ready-made guru. He prepares himself to your order.

The sadguru will fulfill none of your demands. He fulfills only the demand of his own being. If he suits you, good; if he does not, good. If you are pleased, fine; if you are displeased, fine. If you come, fine; if you go, fine. If crowds gather, fine; if silence falls and no one remains, fine.

It makes no difference to the sadguru. Your being or not being has no meaning. The crowd of disciples has no value. If there are millions, fine; if a few remain, fine; if all leave, fine. He does not move by your support, he moves by the voice of his own soul. With him only a few, the courageous, can walk. With a sadguru, there will be the chosen few.

With Jesus, scarcely twelve could walk. Now millions follow, but now they have created an imagined Jesus who never was. The image of Jesus they have fashioned is false. A living Jesus would smash their notions—what can a dead Jesus do!

Therefore all sadgurus, after their death, slowly get converted into asadgurus—because of you. Not because of themselves, for they are no more. While alive they keep fighting you; they will not let your cravings be fulfilled. But once they die, they can do nothing. You write books about them, paint pictures; you make them as you wish. Then they are helpless.

So great worship goes on for dead gurus—for centuries. A living guru gives great fear. Those who crucified Jesus began worshiping him after he died.

Those who would be frightened seeing Krishna face-to-face have been bowing to the Gita for thousands of years! Even today if Krishna met you on the road, you would be afraid. You would say, the Gita is fine—why have you come? It is going perfectly with the Gita. We draw whatever meanings we want, and leave what we do not want. Who listens to you! We find ourselves in the Gita. We do not need you; the Gita is enough. You rest in Vaikuntha; we will read the Gita here in the world—everything is going nicely. Please don’t come here.

Think a little: could you host Krishna in your home? He is not a reliable man; he might elope with your wife!

Just yesterday I was reading in the newspaper: in U.P. there was a case in court. A six-acre plot of land, registered in the name of Radha-Krishna. A complication arose: within a township, can so much land be in one person’s name or not? Within the township, six acres cannot be in one person’s name.

So the lawyers found a trick, and it worked. They said: Radha was never his wife; she was his beloved. Therefore these are two persons—this is not a family, Radha-Krishna. So three acres each is in two names. Up to five acres can be in one person’s name; at six there was trouble.

The matter was solved. The court decided this reasoning is correct. This woman Radha was never his wife; his wife was Rukmini. Radha was another’s wife, perhaps; she was abducted.

You could not keep Krishna comfortably at home. And if Radha and Krishna both turned up, then you certainly could not. That would be too much. There are children at home; they might be spoiled. Please stay elsewhere.

Once the sadguru dies, people remake him to their liking, trim him, prune him, cut hands and feet, and fashion a neat idol—then worship proceeds smoothly.

But then you have no real relationship with the guru. Unless you reduce even the sadguru to the status of an asadguru, you cannot worship him. For to go to the sadguru’s state would demand you pass through great difficulty; it is easier to bring the sadguru down to your level. Pulling him down is easy; climbing yourself is hard. A living guru will keep fighting, trying to make you climb.

These two kinds of guru are understandable. The third kind are the gobar-Ganesh—like Muktananda of Ganeshpuri. Whom you can call neither sadguru nor asadguru. They are certainly not asadgurus—there is nothing particularly bad. They are certainly not sadgurus—nothing has been attained either. But gobar-Ganeshes are the easiest to worship, because they expect no transformation from you.

Once I was going to a camp at Nargol. A devotee from the Ganeshpuri ashram invited me to stop there for half an hour. I thought, fine, let’s go and see Muktananda. That seeing turned out very costly. I stopped for half an hour; with me was a woman disciple. Costly because Nirmala Srivastava was with me. She is more clever than Muktananda. For after seeing Muktananda the thing she said to me was: this man is a complete gobar-Ganesh. Why did you even stop here?

But that very day I saw a seed sprout in her mind: if Muktananda can be a guru, then why can’t I! This man is a complete gobar-Ganesh. She herself did not realize it that day. But I could clearly see that within her a new ego was being born: if a man like Muktananda—where there is nothing at all—if he can be a guru and hundreds worship him, then why can’t I be a guru!

And I too will concede that if one had to choose between Muktananda and Nirmala Srivastava, Nirmala is more intelligent. But her journey was still incomplete. She had only just begun to take steps into discipleship, and the mood of being a guru arose—which does arise.

That is why I say: that half hour in Muktananda’s ashram proved costly; Nirmala’s life went astray. She did not know it then; perhaps even today she does not see it clearly—what happened. But seeing that in a man where there is nothing at all…

I said nothing to her, that there is nothing in Muktananda. That I am saying today. I simply heard her. Because I thought, if I say anything, it will become even more fixed in her. I said, all is well; everything goes on; people need all kinds of gurus. Some need gobar-Ganeshes too—so their need should be met as well. God takes care of everyone!

But her life was corrupted. Whatever little she had found, was also lost in ego.

It is very necessary to avoid this third kind of guru. Because they will take you nowhere. A sadguru takes you somewhere; an asadguru misleads you. Gobar-Ganeshes only delude. They don’t even mislead—if they misled, even then something would happen, at least you would be taken somewhere. Even if to hell—still it is some experience; even if into sin—still there is something to learn; even if into the wrong—still it creates a path to the right. For the experience of wrong too becomes a cause for moving toward the right.

A great scientist, Edison, was conducting an experiment. He failed eleven hundred times; three years passed. His students got nervous; his coworkers were exhausted. But every morning he would cheerfully come, go into the lab, and work till midnight.

At last one day a colleague asked, don’t you get tired! And you are never depressed! And you don’t even see that you have failed eleven hundred times!

Edison said, I am happy for that. At least eleven hundred mistakes I will not repeat. Truth is drawing near. Eleven hundred routes have proved wrong; now very few remain to choose from. Any day the right one will come into hand. I have not lost anything in these eleven hundred; I have only gained.

Suppose there are ten paths, nine wrong and one right. If you wander on nine and return, the tenth is coming nearer. In your hand nothing seems to appear as gained; but you have gained something.

So even an asadguru can become a cause to reach a sadguru; but gobar-Ganeshes only delude. They neither mislead nor lead. You become like an ox circling a millstone—going round and round. They are not bad enough to teach you something even from that; nor are they good enough to take you to lofty peaks. They are nothing at all. In fact, whatever you see in them is your own projection.

There is something in a sadguru, and something in an asadguru too. There is power in Krishnamurti, and there is power in Rasputin; strength is there. Rasputin will mislead. If you fall into his spell, he will throw you into a hellish pit. But that too will be experience; perhaps necessary for the ripening of life. Perhaps unless you fall into darkness, the longing for light will not be born. Perhaps it was needed, inevitable.

But then there are gobar-Ganeshes; they do nothing. Upon them you project. Whatever you think they are is your notion, your fancy.

Once it happened, a man I knew—simple and straightforward. I told him one day: if you want to become a gobar-Ganesh guru, you can. You are perfectly plain; in life you have neither vice nor virtue. Nothing this way or that, no excess. You don’t eat meat, don’t drink alcohol, don’t smoke. Nothing. Never stole. Not even that much courage. Never told lies. Nor have you realized truth. You never lied; you never reached truth. You are a decent gentleman; you can become a gobar-Ganesh guru.

He said, what do you mean?

He was traveling with me to Calcutta. I said, do this: just keep silent; in Calcutta, simply don’t speak. Because if you speak, you will be caught. Just don’t speak. Keep silent. People will ask me, who is he? I will say, he is a great guru, highly accomplished, a knower—he does not speak. He remains in silence.

He was with me three days. It got to the point that people would touch his feet before mine. Had he stayed three months, they would have forgotten me entirely! On the way back he said to me, you were right. And people’s kundalini started awakening by his touch. His own did not awaken! But people began to ask me, this baba is a great miracle-worker; he placed his hand upon our heads and our kundalini awakened. Imagination, projection—what you want begins to happen. Someone begins to see lights. Human imagination is very potent!

So first of all, avoid gobar-Ganeshes. Avoid imposing your projections, your imagination, your dreams.

A sadguru does not give you experiences; a sadguru takes experiences away. He brings you to the place where all experiences fall off. Only you remain—utterly innocent, utterly unmodified.

Experience too is a modification. Kundalini rising, seeing lights, lotuses blooming, chakras opening—all are modifications, all are diseases. Do not take them as virtues; it is because of them that gobar-Ganeshes are worshiped. You are worshiping; you are projecting. The experience is yours, the notion is yours, the event is happening to you—there is no one there. And once you see that this is how it works…

Nirmala learned in Muktananda’s ashram how it happens; now, through her, people’s kundalini is rising. She understood the trick: being a guru is very easy. Put a hand on someone’s head—kundalini rises; someone sees a light. Touch a hundred heads; with twenty-five something or other will happen. What is happening is of their own mind. The guru has nothing to do with it.

A sadguru frees you from all experiences. An asadguru leads you into distorted experiences. Gobar-Ganeshes lead you into imaginary experiences.

If your mind is pure, you will find the sadguru. But if you are imaginative and want freebies, you will get caught in gobar-Ganeshes, because there it is free. They touch you; your kundalini rises! Free of cost.

And if you have perverse cravings—that ash should materialize from the hand, that talismans should appear, that buried treasure should be revealed—then you will fall into some asadguru’s snare.

When I make these three divisions, I am not speaking for or against any guru. I am telling you these are three possibilities within you.

If you want wrong things—that a hidden hoard be shown, that by touch iron turn to gold—you will fall into an asadguru’s circle. If you want free experiences, something for nothing—by someone’s blessing, someone’s prasad—you will fall into gobar-Ganeshes. If you want nothing but truth; nothing but the Divine; nothing but your own soul—to know yourself—only then can you find the sadguru.

Arjuna attained the supreme state just by listening; he had nothing to do. Doing itself is a delusion. The notion that something must be done to attain the Divine is a concept of the ego. The Divine is present; you have to awaken, not do. If there is anything to “do,” it is only to awaken—nothing else.

Open your eyes: the Divine stands before you. Look within: He is present within. Touch a tree: He will come into your hand. Gaze into the eyes of animals. Listen to the humming of the winds passing through the trees: you will hear His resonance. The real question is not how to find Him—He is. You are lost; God is not lost.

A fish asks, “Where is the ocean?” Born in the ocean, dissolving in the ocean, it asks, “Where is the ocean?” The fish has fallen asleep; it has become empty of awareness.

It is not a matter of doing. If you can truly listen to the Sadguru—and that is the hardest thing of all—for in that listening you must put aside all the mind’s assumptions; you must strip away the leaves of thought that overshadow the mind, so the stream beneath can appear. If you can listen to the Sadguru, then listening itself becomes meditation. If you do not insert yourself in between, if you do not distort what the master says to you, then each of his blows becomes a cause for your awakening.

Arjuna awoke while listening to Krishna. That is why the recitation of the Gita became so revered in India. Not because the Gita says something that the Upanishads do not say, or that is not in the Vedas. No—nothing new is said in the Gita; it is the quintessence of the Upanishads. But the news spread in the Indian psyche that Arjuna attained knowledge just by listening. No Upanishad claims that someone attained by listening to it. With Arjuna, the word went deep into the collective consciousness: listening led to realization. And from then on the practice of reciting the Gita began. People recite it daily, hoping that perhaps in the very recitation they may arrive.

They can—if recitation truly happens. But where does true recitation happen? If your mind moves aside and only the Gita resounds; if your own meanings dissolve and only the sound of the Gita rings in your innermost core—the event will happen.

Knowledge has happened in the very act of listening.

Mahavira said: My ford has four landing-stairs—shravaka, shravika, sadhu, sadhvi. Through these four, people can go to liberation.

It is a delightful statement that he names even the shravaka-shravika as my ghats. A shravaka is one who has become capable of listening, adept in listening. A shravika is a woman who has become worthy of listening, who has begun to listen with the heart, whose mind no longer obstructs.

In my view, one who can be a shravaka has no need to be a sadhu; it is only the one who cannot be a shravaka for whom becoming a monk is a compulsion. Sadhu means: one must do, one must practice. Shravaka means: listening is enough; hearing the word of truth is enough—there is then nothing to do. Everything happens of itself; it happens in the very hearing.

Krishnamurti has been insisting on this relentlessly. He says: neither meditation nor practice is needed. Just listen to what I am saying—right listening; listen accurately. He insists greatly on samyak shravan. Even those who have been listening to him for forty years still ask him, “We have understood—but what should we do?” Krishnamurti becomes irritated, almost peevish: forty years is enough! A whole life wasted explaining to these innocents, “Just listen,” and still they ask, “What should we do?” Krishnamurti says, “Do nothing!” They ask, “How shall we do that? How shall we do not-doing?” That very not-doing is what is not happening!

Krishnamurti wants to lead people across only by the shravaka ghat. Mahavira is more understanding. He said, I make four ghats—two for shravaka-shravika, two for sadhu-sadhvi. He knew there are people who will not agree without doing. Although doing in itself is meaningless—when they awaken they will find that even without doing it would have happened—but they needed to run and jump; it was essential for them to caper about; without doing, it could not happen for them.

This is because your whole worldly experience is the experience of doing. You have done everything. Whenever you did, you got something; when you did not, you lost. Often you did and still lost; so without doing, how will you ever gain? The distilled essence of worldly experience is: if by doing you get it, even that is much; without doing, how could it be gotten! Carrying this experience, you come to listen to me, to Krishnamurti, to Mahavira, to Krishna—and then you get into trouble.

Arjuna’s inner state was very different. He had done—done to the utmost. And now the final hour of doing had arrived on the field of Kurukshetra: war. The final result of doing—this great violence—stood before him. He had tried everything; now this great death was at hand. It is highly symbolic.

By doing and doing you will one day find death in your hand; nothing else comes into your hand. From non-doing comes life; from doing, death. From non-doing, peace; from doing, war.

Arjuna, by doing and doing, had arrived at the hour of war. The whole family was caught in it. Friends and loved ones stood on both sides. Death was tied round the neck of all. Seeing this, Arjuna became terrified. He said to Krishna, “My hands are growing lax; my Gandiva has slipped. I cannot fight.” What does this mean? Even if by killing them I gain a kingdom, what will I have gained? All my life I will weep, be tormented. A throne gained by annihilating so many will be so blood-stained, it will stink so foully that I will not be able to sit upon it. That golden throne will seem like a cremation ground. No—save me from this. By doing and doing I have arrived here; and the final outcome of doing is these necks, these living ones—my loved ones on that side and this.

It was a civil war; everyone was split. One brother on this side, another on that. The gurus stood on the other side, at whose feet Arjuna had learned everything. Now he would have to cut their throats! From them he had learned—it was their gift, this archery. And today he must pierce their hearts! Or the disciple whom the guru raised with great love, on whom he poured everything—now, in his old age, that guru must kill the disciple! The one he raised like a son, to whom he gave all—today he must sever that neck with his own hand! The whole thing had become grotesque.

Bhishma stood on the other side—toward whom Arjuna felt deep reverence, the glory of their lineage. Must this old Bhishma Pitamaha be killed? No, this does not befit. Doing has fallen into a dark fate. This act has become a monstrous horror.

This is the outcome of doing. Understand this a little: behind doing there is always ego. Ego always leads to war. Ego is conflict; ego is strife. And all egos ultimately reach Kurukshetra. Hence Arjuna’s mind was in great turmoil, paradox, anxiety, indecision. His hands must have trembled. He was the finest person there; perhaps no one else trembled.

This needs a little seeing, because the Mahabharata is unique. Yudhishthira was there, called Dharmaraj. His hands should have trembled—but they did not. No one asks how this injustice occurred! Yudhishthira was Dharmaraj; his hands should have trembled, his Gandiva should have fallen, his limbs should have gone limp. He should have clasped Krishna’s feet and said, “I renounce; I leave it all.” But no—this did not happen. There is a reason.

The Mahabharata is indicative. It says: Yudhishthira was Dharmaraj like a great pundit. Dharma was not his life’s inquiry; it was outward conduct. He followed scripture as tradition, so he followed. But there was no revolution of life within. Though Dharmaraj, he could still gamble, stake his wife. He was a pundit, not a knower. He knew what dharma says, but that dharma had not arisen from his own life-breath. He was decent, but not religious. Therefore he had no difficulty.

A pundit can fight. He has no obstacle. A pundit never takes dharma as the pulse of life, but as a matter of intellect.

If someone had a difficulty about scripture, Yudhishthira could have solved it. But he could not solve life’s difficulty—even for himself. The question never arose for him.

The question arose in Arjuna—whom there is no reason to call religious. He was neither a knower of dharma nor a Dharmaraj. All his life he fought; he was a pure Kshatriya, egoic, moving in the sharp currents of ego; that was his life’s attainment. Such a one now faced difficulty!

One who has lived the ego will one day face difficulty. One day he finds the ego has led to ruin.

His hands grew slack. He said, “I want to leave all this and run away.” His doing failed; therefore the language of non-doing could make sense to him. He had done and done and found no fruit; the fruit was war. He had sown seeds in the hope of sweet fruit; poison ripened. If these are the fruits of action, Arjuna says, “I drop everything; I become a sannyasin. I go; I flee.” From this his profound inquiry arose.

Therefore I keep saying: those whose egos are unripe cannot surrender. Ego must ripen first; only then can surrender happen. If the ego is raw, unbaked, incomplete—how will you surrender? Even if you try, it will not happen; it will remain incomplete; the experience has not yet happened.

Arjuna was mature. Kshatriya means ego—and among Kshatriyas, Arjuna is the Everest of ego. He says, “Let me go.”

Krishna’s message to him is unique. Arjuna says, “Let me go; I will drop everything.” But Krishna knows Arjuna is such a deep Kshatriya that this dropping too will be action; renunciation is also karma. He says, “I will drop.” But that “I” still remains. If he fights, it will be “I”; if he leaves, it will be “I.” “War is useless, so I renounce.” But within renunciation too, he will survive. Krishna knows: even if he runs to the forest and becomes a sannyasin, he will sit entrenched in ego. He cannot be a sannyasin. It is not so easy.

Sannyas is a profound event; not easy, very delicate; walking on a razor’s edge. If it were as simple as running away—shut the shop, flee, sit in the temple, become a sannyasin—then sannyas and the world would differ only by a little distance. As if the world is outside, not inside.

The world is inside—and in Arjuna’s vision. Therefore Krishna said: by leaving like this nothing will happen; the real leaving is this—act, and know that you do not act. Act in such a way that the sense of doership does not arise—that is sannyas. Let the Divine act; you step out of the way. If you have truly understood that the fruit of doing is sorrow, that the sense of being the doer brings pain, brings violence—if you have understood rightly—then do not raise the matter of sannyas as an act. In that case, become a sannyasin—do not “do,” be. Do not strive; be.

Arjuna asks, “How will this happen? How will this happen?” Doubts arise. And Krishna goes on explaining. In that very explaining, Arjuna’s layers fall away, one by one. Krishna pulls out each peg. The last moment arrives when Arjuna says, “All my doubts have fallen; I am free of uncertainty; you have awakened me.”

Then he fights; he does not flee. Now where to flee? From whom to flee? He places himself at the feet of the Divine; he becomes a mere instrument. He says, “Now let what you will be done. If you make me fight, I will fight; if you make me flee, I will flee. From my side, I will do nothing.” He steps aside.

This action done without the sense of doership—that is liberation. Such action leaves no trace on anyone, makes no bondage. One becomes free while acting. You pass through the river and your feet do not touch the water. You stand in the marketplace and its smoke does not even touch you.