Geeta Darshan #1

There is no opposition between Sankhya and Yoga; but the direction of Sankhya that is suitable for one person will be unsuitable for him when it comes to Yoga. For whom the direction of Yoga is suitable, the direction of Sankhya is unsuitable. There is no opposition between Sankhya and Yoga, but in this world there are two types of people, two basic types of temperament. Therefore, for some, Sankhya may be completely wrong and Yoga absolutely right; for others, Yoga may be entirely wrong and Sankhya absolutely right. There are two kinds of people in the world.

Carl Gustav Jung has made two broad divisions of people. One he calls extrovert, the other introvert. One is outward-going; the other inward-going.

For those who are introverted, Yoga is not of any use at all. For the introverted, Sankhya is sufficient—more than sufficient. For those who are extroverted, Sankhya will not be within their grasp; only action will be. Remember, for action you have to go outward, and for knowledge you have to go inward. If someone wants to perform action inside, he cannot. Can you do action within? For action one must be outward-turned, one must go out. You have to step out of yourself for action to be. Therefore, the more action-oriented a person is, the more he goes out of himself—he goes to the moon and the stars; he cannot come within.

Yoga is the path for the extrovert; Sankhya is the path for the introvert. These are the two kinds of people. The opposition is between these two types of persons; there is no opposition between Sankhya and Yoga.

It is necessary to understand this well, because very often the clash of persons starts appearing as the clash of scriptures. It appears so, but it is not. Take Mahavira, Buddha, Shankara, or Nagarjuna—whatever contradictions we notice among them belong to the persons; in the truth, in the experience, in the transcendental realm they are speaking of, there is no contradiction. But in the paths by which they arrived there, there is difference—not just difference, even opposition.

For example, for an extrovert, religion will become service; for an introvert, religion will become meditation. For the introvert, the talk of service will not make sense at all. For the extrovert, the talk of meditation will not make sense at all—“What will happen by diving within? Whatever there is to do is outside; whatever possibility there is lies outside.”

These are two kinds of people, roughly speaking. Usually no one is purely extrovert or purely introvert. These are broad categories. We are all mixtures—some introversion, some extraversion. The proportions vary. Sometimes a person may be ninety percent extrovert and ten percent introvert.

Generally people are mixed. It is very rare that someone is purely introvert—because a purely introverted person could not live even for a moment. To eat he has to go out; to bathe he has to go out. If someone were a hundred percent introvert, death would occur immediately. If someone were a hundred percent extrovert, death would also occur immediately—because sleep is needed, in which one must go within; rest is needed, in which one must sink into oneself. One needs time off from work, leisure; one needs to withdraw even from friends and loved ones; otherwise his connection with the sources of his inner life will break, and he will be finished.

Therefore this division is theoretical. From person to person the proportions differ. Someone may be ninety percent extrovert and ten percent introvert.

Arjuna is an extrovert. Arjuna is an outward-going person. Therefore it is impossible for the talk of Sankhya to truly enter his understanding—or if it does enter, it will be so little that it will only raise new questions. It cannot resolve his life. Why? Why is Arjuna extroverted?

Arjuna’s whole life is the training of a kshatriya. His whole life has been spent in doing and in becoming skillful at doing. His whole life has been lived with the other in mind—in contest, in competition, in struggle, in war. A kshatriya cannot be an introvert; and even if an introvert is born in a kshatriya’s house, he cannot remain a kshatriya.

The twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains were born in kshatriya families, but they could not remain kshatriyas. They are all introverts. Mahavira is an introverted person; the outer world holds no meaning for him. Buddha was born in a kshatriya house, but he could not remain a kshatriya. That expanse of the outer, that web of actions, seemed meaningless to him; he left it and withdrew.

If an extrovert is born even in a brahmin’s house—like Parashurama—he cannot remain a brahmin; he will become a kshatriya. To succeed as a kshatriya, one is necessarily extroverted.

Arjuna, one should say, is the ideal of kshatriyahood—the kshatriya type at its peak. Krishna spoke first to him of the commitment to Sankhya because Arjuna was talking like a brahmin. As a man he is a kshatriya, but the questions he is raising are like those of brahmins. He stands on the battlefield, yet the questions he asks are ones to be asked in the gurukulas; questions to be asked of some Buddha, sitting beneath the bodhi tree, in the solitude of the forest. But he is asking them at the very outset of war—when the conch has been sounded, the warriors face to face, and when in a moment streams of blood will begin to flow. At such a moment, the inquiries he is making are brahmin-like.

Krishna showed great insight. Because he was speaking like a brahmin, Krishna first stated the brahmin’s supreme, most excellent possibility—Sankhya. He said: If you have truly come to the state of a brahmin, Sankhya will suffice; knowledge will suffice.

But nothing was resolved by that. Arjuna remained as he was—like water poured on a pot that runs off. The second chapter was wasted on Arjuna. Had it worked for him, the Gita would have ended there; there would have been no need for it to continue.

Now Krishna will have to come down step by step. He will descend one rung at a time to speak to Arjuna. Perhaps a step lower will reach Arjuna’s understanding. It is settled now that he is not a brahmin; that is not his swadharma, not his nature. Sankhya went to waste—not because Sankhya is useless, but because it was wasted on Arjuna; it is useless for Arjuna.

But for Krishna it was of the utmost importance, and so he spoke of Sankhya first.

No; you cannot practice both together. You can never walk on two paths at the same time. And the one who tries to walk on two paths together will reach nowhere—he will not be able to move at all. Nor can one ride two boats at once. Whoever tries to ride two boats together will only drown; he cannot reach anywhere.

When I said that there are proportions in a person, I meant: whichever element predominates in someone, that is the path for him. One has to choose a single path. If he is predominantly extrovert, then Yoga is his way; if he is predominantly introvert, then Sankhya is his way. One must choose. You cannot walk on both.

And let me add one more thing. This is why whoever reaches by a certain path will emphatically say, “Only my path is right.” There is no mistake in his saying so; he has arrived by that path. And he will also insist that the other path is not right—even though he knows the other path is also right. Why then does he say so? Because if he says, “That path is also right, and this path is also right,” then for those who have to walk, the choice becomes more and more difficult.

That is why, since the birth of eclectic religions—like Theosophy, which says, “All paths are right”—nobody ever really walked that path. Yes, people read the books. When everything is right, the choice becomes difficult. Since people began saying, “Everything is fine,” the net result has been: everything is useless—nothing is truly right. That is the final outcome. When we say, “Everything is right,” it almost comes to mean that nothing is wrong—and finally, in the human mind, that results in the feeling that everything is wrong.

Therefore Sankhya will necessarily say: karma is mistaken; only knowledge is right. And I say there is compassion in this; there is no dogmatism in it. Understand this correctly. There is no rigidity here—there is only compassion. Because the vast human race has to choose. Each individual has to take a decision—where to go? If everything is right, a person becomes indecisive. He falls into uncertainty. He just stands still.

If at a crossroads you ask someone, “Which road leads to the river?” and he says, “All roads lead to the river,” the greatest likelihood is that you will remain standing at the crossroads, waiting for someone else who can point to one road.

Sankhya will say: knowledge is right. Yoga will say: practice, action, effort are right. There is compassion in what they say. Those being addressed need a clear choice set before them. But one thing must be understood: each person has to weigh himself and choose his path.

In this sense, the Gita is a unique scripture. Neither the Koran nor the Bible, nor the words of Mahavira or of Buddha are unique in this particular sense—though in other senses they are all wonderful. But the Gita is special in that it discusses the paths suited to all kinds of people. It explores every kind of possibility, because Krishna, speaking to Arjuna, examines all possible ways. As one possibility proves useless for him, Krishna speaks of another. In this way, using Arjuna as the occasion, Krishna opens the door of possibility for every human being.

But confusion also arose from this. The confusion is that when Krishna speaks of Sankhya, he says Sankhya is the ultimate; he speaks as though he himself were Sankhya. He has to speak like that. When he speaks of Yoga, it seems Yoga is supreme. When he speaks of devotion, it seems devotion is supreme. From this one disturbance did arise: the devotee extracted devotion from the whole Gita and tried to impose devotion upon the entire Gita—Ramanuja, Vallabha, Nimbarka: their commentaries press devotion upon the whole book. The knowers took knowledge—Shankara—and tried to impose knowledge upon the entire Gita. The men of action took karma—Tilak—and tried to impose action upon the entire Gita.

But no one properly understood this truth: the Gita is a consideration of all the paths. And when Krishna speaks of one path, he becomes so absorbed and one with it that he says, “This is the ultimate; this alone is the ultimate.” When that proves useless for Arjuna, he speaks of the next path; then again he says to Arjuna, “This alone is the ultimate; this is the absolute; this is the complete truth.” Because Krishna wants Arjuna to choose it. And since Arjuna is already indecisive, if Krishna were to speak in the language of syadvada—“perhaps this is right, perhaps that is right”—then choice would become impossible for Arjuna. If Krishna were to say, “That is also right, this is also right; for some that is right, for others this; sometimes that, sometimes this,” then for Arjuna—caught as he is in indecision, in anxiety, with no path in sight—Krishna would not be able to form a path, to give a path.

Therefore, when Krishna says, “This alone is supreme,” he is looking into Arjuna’s eyes and seeing that perhaps this will suit him; so for him let this be the supreme.

Thus the Gita is distinctive in that Krishna has spoken of all the doors to truth known thus far. But his talk is not synthetic, not like Gandhi’s. It is not, “That also is right, this also is right.” Krishna says: whatever is right is absolutely right for the one for whom it is right; for him, everything else is wrong. For another, something else may be right; for him, that is perfectly, absolutely right—and everything else is wrong.

The Gita is a very courageous book. Very few have such courage—to be able to say, two moments after having said something, “What I said then is utterly wrong; this now is absolutely right,” and then, two moments later, to be able to say of even this, “This too is utterly wrong, and only what I now say is absolutely right.” Only those who have attained the ultimate inner harmony can dare to be outwardly so inconsistent; others cannot.

You will notice again and again that whenever Krishna speaks, he speaks in absolutes, unconditionally; whatever he says, he says with totality. Only in such totality can a choice be created for Arjuna; otherwise no choice is possible.

Since the time tender-hearted people of little courage have arisen—who keep saying, “This is also right, that is also right; everything is right,” and who are busy cooking a khichdi of everything—since then they have not allowed a Hindu to remain truly a Hindu, nor a Muslim truly a Muslim; the call to Allah has lost its strength, and the call to Rama has lost its courage. “Allah-Ishwar tere naam” becomes absolutely impotent, completely dead; no power remains in it.

For a person, his decision is always absolute. It is like this: I fall in love with a woman, and in that moment I tell her, “There is no one more beautiful than you.” It is not that I am deceiving her. That is exactly how it appears to me in that moment. And if tomorrow I change, you might say, “Then you deceived her that day?” No. Even then, in that moment, that is how I knew it; it arose from my whole being: there is no one more beautiful than you. For that moment, that was the call of my entire being.

People like Krishna are moment-to-moment beings, living moment to moment. When he speaks of Sankhya, he falls so in love with Sankhya that he says, “Sankhya is supreme, Arjuna! Nothing is beyond Sankhya.” And when, a moment later, he falls in love with devotion, he says, “Arjuna, only devotion is the path; there is no other path.”

Keep this in mind. There is nothing comparative here. When Krishna says, “Sankhya is supreme,” or when I tell a woman, “There is no one more beautiful than you,” I am not comparing her with the women of the world. In truth, for me she has become incomparable; therefore no other woman stands against her. I am not comparing, I am not laying out all the pictures to examine whether there is someone more beautiful. I have not seen all the women of the world—there is no question of that. No! In this moment the voice of my whole being is: there is none more beautiful than you. I am only saying: I love you. And where there is love, the absolute appears.

And when Krishna speaks of Sankhya, he is in love with Sankhya just as a lover is. If he were not in such love, the Gita could not have so much life; then the book could not be called the Bhagavad Gita; it could not be called the word of God. It could be called so—becoming the Song Divine—only because at each moment, whatever Krishna said, he became so one with it that not a hair’s breadth of distance remained.

Speaking of Sankhya, he becomes Sankhya; speaking of devotion, he becomes a devotee; speaking of Yoga, he becomes the great yogi. The past falls away, the future does not remain; with whatever is before him, he becomes wholly one.

If you keep this in mind, his words are not comparative. One chapter is not compared with another. One series is not weighed against another, one steadfastness against another. Each steadfastness is absolute in itself. Naturally, whoever reaches through that steadfastness finds that for him there remains no higher steadfastness than that.

No; that is not how it happens. The outward-going person, growing and growing, becomes one with the whole Brahman. The extrovert advances to the point where nothing remains outside; he becomes one with all that is outer. The day he becomes one with the whole outer, that very day nothing remains inside either—nothing remains outside, nothing remains inside. But by becoming one with the outer, he finds himself and truth. Then he says: I am Brahman—he becomes one with the entire Brahman. I am the Whole—he becomes one with the total Whole. Then the moon and the stars seem to be turning within him.

The inward-going person keeps diving within until he goes so deep that even the “within” is not there—emptiness remains. Then he can say: I am not. As a lamp’s flame goes out and is lost, so everything is lost.

The extrovert ultimately grasps the Full. The introvert ultimately grasps the Void. And shunya (emptiness) and purna (fullness) both point to the same meaning. But the extrovert arrives by journeying outward; the introvert arrives by journeying inward. In the end, the extrovert cuts off and throws away his inner entirely—nothing remains inside, only the outer remains. The introvert forgets the outer so completely that nothing of the outer remains.

And the wonderful thing is that the outer and the inner always remain together. You cannot keep one of the two. So if one is lost, the other is lost immediately. If only the outer remains and nothing of the inner, then the outer, too, will vanish—because whose “outer” will it be? It needs an inner; only because of the inner is there an outer. And if only the inner remains and nothing of the outer, how will you even call it “inner”? It is “inner” only in comparison to an outer. Think of your coat pocket: one part is inside, where you put your hand; one part is outside, hanging. Can you imagine that the pocket’s inside remains without its outside?

You have a house. Can you think the house’s inside remains while its outside does not? If only the inside remains and the outside does not, then the inside, too, will not remain. If only the outside remains and the inside does not, then the outside, too, will not remain. Outside and inside are two sides of the same coin.

Therefore there are two paths: either drop the outer or drop the inner. Drop either, and both will drop—and then what remains is that which was in both inner and outer, and also beyond both inner and outer. What remains we may call Brahman—if we have traveled from the outer. Or we may call it shunya, nirvana—if we have traveled from the inner.

Those who have thought of the Divine as Fullness are journeying outward. Those who have thought of the Divine as Emptiness are journeying inward. It is not that while practicing yoga—outer-oriented practice—you will one day have to shift to the discipline of Sankhya. No need! Yoga will take you there.

Understand it another way and it will be clear. A man is standing at the number ten. If from ten he goes on to eleven and twelve, he will still reach the infinite. A point will come where all numbers will be lost. If from ten he steps back to nine, eight… going backward, then after one comes zero—again, all numbers are lost. Travel either way, number is lost. And when number is lost, it makes no difference where you began your journey. What remains—beyond number—will be the same.

Keep this in mind also in terms of positive and negative. Some people love affirmative, “positive” words; such people are outward-going. Some love negative, rejecting words; these are inward-going. Like Buddha. Negative words appealed greatly to Buddha. Even if the Divine were to reveal itself to him, it would reveal as a No—as nothingness, as shunya.

Hence Buddha chose the name nirvana for his liberation. Nirvana means the going out of a lamp. As a lamp goes out, just so one day the person goes out; what remains is nirvana. Someone asks Buddha, “After your nirvana, what happens?” Buddha says, “When a lamp goes out, what happens then?” It becomes one with the void. Buddha’s emphasis is negative—the stress of the inward-going.

Whenever the inward-going speaks in the world, he will speak the language of negation—No, neti-neti. He will say: not this, not this, not this—arrive at the place where nothing remains. But where nothing remains, there everything remains. The positive language says: this too, this too, this too. When everything is included, what remains is also the All.

These are the only two modes. You can choose either for your journey. And the two look very opposed. As far as method is concerned, they are opposed. But as far as attainment is concerned, there is no opposition. Through shunya one arrives there; through purna one arrives there. By saying neti-neti one arrives there; and by knowing, seeing, accepting the Divine in everything, one also arrives there. The arrival is where duality does not remain.

Duality can be nullified in two ways: either everything is accepted or everything is rejected. Either all bonds drop—or all bonds become the Self; then the bonds also do not remain. Either no bonds remain, or bonds themselves become everything—the Self; then too no bonds remain.

Neither does the yogi have to go to Sankhya, nor does the Sankhya have to go to Yoga. Yet both arrive at the same place. No change of path is needed anywhere. Both lead to the same. Each person has to look within and see whether his bent, his own nature, his affinity is with the affirmative or with the negative, with the Full or with the Void.

Understand it this way as well. If someone is filled with feeling—emotional, devotional—the language of fullness will be agreeable to him. If someone is very intellectual, he will accept the language of negation, of denial. Reason denies; reason eliminates; it cuts—this too is useless, this too is useless, this too is useless—it keeps throwing away until nothing is left to throw. And when nothing remains to be thrown away, reason too drops.

Have you ever seen a lamp’s wick? The wick burns the oil. When it has burned all the oil, then it begins to burn itself. Have you noticed: the flame that burned the oil burns the wick, and when the wick is entirely burned, the flame too goes out!

Reason keeps denying—this too not, this too not, this too not. At the end, when there is nothing left to deny, the denying reason also dies. Faith keeps accepting—this too, this too, this too. And when everything is accepted, there remains no need for faith either; it too drops. And where both reason and faith drop, there the same destination, the same shrine, the same temple appears.

Vyamisreneva vakyena buddhim mohayasiva me.
Tad ekam vada nishchitya yena shreyo’ham apnuyam. 2.
O Krishna, by your mixed words you seem to bewilder my intellect. Therefore say one thing decisively, by which I may attain the good.

Arjuna asks, “Say one thing with certainty, so I may be freed from this entanglement.” But can what another says become your certainty? And even if the other speaks with total certainty, can your inner uncertainty fall away? Krishna did not speak of Sankhya with any lack of certainty. He spoke with total assurance: This is the path. Yet Arjuna again says, “Say it with certainty.” What does that mean?

It means that however certainly Krishna spoke, it did not harmonize with Arjuna’s personality. For Arjuna it could not produce even a flavor of certainty. Between Arjuna and Krishna a parallel condition remained—parallel like two rails of a track: they run together for life, seem to meet far away; but when you reach there, you find they are just as separate, never meeting anywhere. Like parallel lines, between Arjuna and Krishna this long dialogue will proceed.

Arjuna says, “Speak definitely so that my confusion breaks, my entanglement ends.” But a mind entangled within will extract confusion even from the most definite statement. No statement can be made definite so long as the mind is entangled, because it will draw uncertainty out of every certainty. However definite the statement, it will raise ten new questions out of it. Those questions arise from within him—from his uncertainty. And if the mind is settled, then even if an uncertain thing is said, it will draw certainty out of it. We extract only what matches our inner state. Nothing is poured into us; we invite what resonates within.

Socrates was dying. One of his friends asked, “You seem very certain, and death stands before you, the poison is being prepared! Seeing your certainty, my mind trembles. What kind of certainty is this? With death before you, how are you so sure-minded?”

Socrates said, “I think: atheists say the soul does not survive, all ends. If they are right, there is no reason for worry—because I will die, and there will be no one left to worry. The theists say you will not die; only the body dies, the soul remains; the soul cannot be killed. If they are right, there is no reason for worry—because if I remain, why worry? I do not know whether the atheists are right or the theists are right. But if the atheists are right, I am certain—because I will die; who is there to worry? And if the theists are right, I am also certain—because if I am to remain, what is there to worry about?”

Understand this. Socrates draws certainty even out of such uncertainty. And Krishna speaks with such certainty—his statement is total: Sankhya is supreme dedication; knowledge suffices; to know oneself is enough; anything else is meaningless. Arjuna says, “Say something so definite that my uncertain mind may cease to be uncertain, that this mind running into objects may come to rest.” Arjuna cannot understand that statements are not certain; minds are certain. Doctrines are not certain; consciousness is certain. Certainties—the decisive element—do not come from doctrines; they come from the state of the mind.

Have you ever thought about the meaning of the word Arjuna? It is very meaningful. There is the word riju—straight, simple. Ariju—bent, crooked, wavering. Arjuna means wavering.

Within all of us is an Arjuna. Our mind is in Arjuna’s condition. It is always wavering. It never can decide. It may even act while undecided; the act happens, yet it cannot decide. Even after doing, it cannot decide whether it should have been done or not. The whole life is indecision.

This Arjuna is a symbol of our mind. It tells how the mind functions. Tell the mind the most definite thing, and it will extract new uncertainties from it. It will say: Then what about this? Then what about that?

A friend came to see me yesterday. He said, “Bertrand Russell says there is no soul—then what will happen to me?” I said, “If Bertrand Russell says so, let him worry; why are you worrying?” Then I said, “Bertrand Russell says there is no soul, but he himself is not worried. Why are you worried?” He said, “But Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna—they all say the soul is immortal; that creates even greater anxiety.” I asked, “When Russell says there is no soul, what anxiety does that create?” He said, “That I will end.” “And when Buddha and Mahavira say the soul is immortal, what anxiety does that create?” He said, “That perhaps I will never end! I will remain like this forever! The mind panics at that too.”

Now this is difficult. There is a Socrates who draws certainty from the atheist and from the theist. And there is this friend—the anti-Socrates—who draws anxiety from Buddha and Mahavira, and also from Bertrand Russell. He draws anxiety from both opposites. What does this mean?

It means we draw out only what we can draw out. Yet we think my anxiety is because of Bertrand Russell, or because of Mahavira. The truth is: I am anxious, I am uncertain. I will extract uncertainty from Mahavira, and I will extract uncertainty from Russell.

Arjuna says, “Tell me something by which I may go beyond all uncertainty and become steady.” Arjuna’s demand is right; but he is not clear about the cause. This is our state too. We go to temple, to mosque, to a guru or a saint—to find certainty, to become definite. Nowhere will it become definite. With an uncertain mind, nothing in this world can be made certain. With an Arjuna within, nothing here can be certain. And if the mind is straight, settled, then nothing here is uncertain—everything is certain. The basis is the mind—not words, doctrines, scriptures, or someone else’s statements.

Where will Arjuna find anyone more certain than Krishna? Difficult. Even if he searched for lives, to find one like Krishna would be very difficult. Yet Arjuna says to him, “If you say something definite, perhaps my mind will become definite.” Remember: one who seeks decisions from another rarely attains decision.

A man came to me. He said, “I want to take sannyas. Advise me—should I take it or not?” I said, “As long as you feel like asking and taking advice, do not take it. The day the whole world says, ‘Don’t take it,’ and still you are determined to take it—only then take it. Otherwise even after taking it you will repent, be unhappy, and go around asking people, ‘I didn’t make a mistake, did I? Should I drop sannyas or keep it?’”

Remember: when we ask another, it only shows that we are no longer in a state to ask ourselves. The condition is so bad that asking oneself is useless; the answers that come from within are all confusing. But the one within who asks is the very one who will listen, no? He will raise new questions again. Arjuna will do so.

In that sense his compassion is great—for otherwise the Gita could not have been born. Through this, his compassion is great: he will keep raising questions, and answers will keep flowing from Krishna. People like Krishna never write anything. They only respond; they resonate. Those who write are the ones who want to impose something on someone. People like Krishna speak when someone asks, calls out.

So Arjuna is himself in trouble, but for the Arjunas yet to come, his compassion is immense. Without Arjuna the Gita could not have been born; from Krishna alone the Gita could not have emerged. Arjuna asks, and the answer comes through Krishna. If no one asks, Krishna will remain empty and silent; nothing will come. Something can be drawn from him—something can be evoked. And Arjuna has done that work. His inquiry, his questions, keep calling forth fresh answers from within Krishna.

Shri Bhagavan uvacha:
Loke’smin dvividha nistha pura prokta mayanagha
Jnana-yogena sankhyanam karma-yogena yoginam. 3.
Thus, in response to Arjuna’s question, the Blessed Lord said:
“O sinless Arjuna, in this world I proclaimed of old a twofold discipline: for the wise, the path of knowledge (Jnana Yoga), and for the yogis, the path of selfless action (Karma Yoga).”

Krishna addresses him, “Sinless Arjuna!” Why? This needs a little understanding. It is a very psychological address.

Psychology says: the more sin, crime, and guilt in the mind, the more indecision arises. The more guilt there is, the more wavering the mind becomes. The sinner’s mind becomes the most unsteady. The mind of the guilty becomes filled with inner earthquakes.
It is very interesting: Arjuna asks Krishna to say something definite. But what Krishna answers is quite different. He does not answer with a fixed formula; first he reassures Arjuna so that he can become definite within. He says to him, “O sinless Arjuna!”
It is worth understanding that the sin itself torments less; the thought “I have sinned” torments more. That is why Jesus evolved a great psychological process of repentance and confession, and said that whoever owns his crime and sin becomes free of it—just by admitting it!

There is also a peculiar thing about sin: we want to hide it. If we understand it more precisely, we must say: that which we want to hide is what we call sin. Therefore, what we make public ceases to be a sin; what we declare ceases to be a sin. Jesus gave Christianity a psychological process: accept your sin, and you will be free of sin. Across the earth similar processes arose, all giving the person this assurance: “You are now sinless.” And if a person gains this trust that he is sinless, his capacity to sin in the future diminishes.

It is also very interesting that we act according to our self-image. If a man is thoroughly convinced he is a thief, it is very difficult to save him from stealing; he will steal. He knows only that self-image; nothing else seems possible for him. So if we keep suggesting from all sides, “You are a thief,” we can make even a non-thief into a thief. The reverse is also possible—and it happens: if we surround even a thief with the suggestion that he is not a thief, we make it difficult for him to steal. If ten good men accept a bad man as good, that bad man gains both the opportunity and the path to become good.

So religions all over the world developed many forms. Forms get distorted, but their fundamental truth is not destroyed.

In this country we have said: bathe in the Ganges and your sins will be washed away. No “sin” can be washed away in the Ganges; there is no chemistry in the Ganges water to wash sins. But there is a psychological truth: if someone, with complete trust and devotion, bathes in the Ganges and experiences, “I have become sinless,” then it becomes difficult for him to sin again. A discontinuity has happened. The one who was a sinner till yesterday went in and came out another man; the identity has broken. In that very momentary glimpse of sinlessness…

The Ganges, as such, does nothing. But if in the collective mind of the country, in its collective unconscious, there is a deep belief that bathing in the Ganges washes away sin, then the bather partakes of the feeling of being sinless. And the feeling of sinlessness leads to decisiveness; the feeling of being a sinner leads to indecision.

So Arjuna asks: “Krishna, say something definite so that my wavering may end.” But look where Krishna begins—it is worth seeing. Krishna says, “O sinless Arjuna!”

When a person like Krishna addresses Arjuna, “O sinless Arjuna!”, it is as if he has been bathed in the Ganges. The entire Ganges must have poured over him when, looking into Krishna’s eyes, he heard, “O sinless Arjuna!” And when someone like Krishna says such a thing, he does not say it merely with words—remember this! His whole being says it: every pore, his eyes, his breath, his very presence—all say, “O sinless Arjuna!”

In that Ganges of Krishna, Arjuna must have had, even for a fleeting moment, the direct taste of being sinless. And what no set of definite words could have given him, that came from being made sinless for a moment.

Thus Krishna first frees him psychologically from his inner turmoil. He says, “O sinless Arjuna!” And the delightful thing is that having said this, he goes right on to what he has been saying before: there are two steadfast paths. He has said it already—in the second chapter. But he had not yet called Arjuna “sinless.” Arjuna was wavering then. Now he says again: “There are two kinds of steadfastness, Arjuna—the Sankhya of knowledge and the Yoga of action; the way of wisdom and the way of work.”

Immediately—he does not say it three times: “O sinless Arjuna, O sinless Arjuna, O sinless Arjuna.” The “rule” in such affairs is to say it thrice. In court oaths are taken thrice. Emile Coue in France—when he gives a suggestion, he repeats it thrice. Ask any hypnotist or psychologist: the more you repeat a suggestion, the deeper its effect. Krishna knows something more. He says it once—and leaves it. Because saying it twice would imply: was it false the first time?

When a man in court says, “I swear by God I will tell the truth,” and then again repeats it, what happened to the first? And if the first was false, why trust the second? Even if he says it a third time—what then?

Krishna knows more than Coue. He says it once, innocently—as if he was not even trying—“O sinless Arjuna!” and moves on; he does not pause for a moment. He gives no scope for doubt, no opening for hesitation, not even a chance to ponder. It does not even feel to Arjuna as though Krishna made a deliberate effort. He simply addressed him—and moved on.

In fact Krishna takes Arjuna’s sinlessness as a matter of course. As if he had simply said, “O Arjuna!” and quietly proceeded. The more silent the suggestion, the deeper it goes. The quieter, the more indirect, the more oblique—the more it slips inward. The more insistent, the more effortful, the more emphatic—the more it becomes futile.

Western psychology still has much to learn. When Coue tells his patient, “You are not ill,” and then again, “You are not ill,” and a third time, “You are not ill,” Krishna would laugh: “By saying it thrice you are reminding him thrice—‘You are ill, you are ill, you are ill.’”

“O sinless Arjuna!”—and Krishna moves on: “There are two steadfast paths.” He does not even give Arjuna time to think, to ask, “How am I sinless? Why did you call me sinless? Why call me, a sinner, sinless?” No chance at all. The word comes and goes, and slips into Arjuna’s mind.

Remember: the moment the mind starts thinking, a message cannot go deep. If the mind thinks, it means the message gets caught in the hooks; it remains on the surface, entangled in waves—how will it go deep? Thought is a wave. Only those messages go deep that slip in without thinking. So there is no chance to think; your thinking is engaged with the next point, so you cannot think about the first.

He says: there are two steadfast ways—one of knowledge, one of action.

na karmaṇām anārambhān naiṣkarmyaṁ puruṣo’śnute
na ca sannyasanād eva siddhiṁ samadhigacchati (3:4)

A man does not attain nonaction by not commencing action; nor by mere renunciation does he attain perfection—God-realization.

By not acting one does not attain the state of nonaction, and by dropping everything and running away one does not attain the vision of God.

These are very rebellious, revolutionary words. What will become of the renouncers? What will become of the escapees?

Krishna says: by merely dropping action and running away, no one attains nonaction. Because nonaction is something far greater than the mere absence of action. The mere absence of action is not nonaction. Nonaction is a bigger event.

Just as the absence of disease is not health; health is a greater event. It is possible that a man has no disease at all and yet is not truly healthy. All tests may declare “no illness,” and yet he may not be well. The mere absence of disease is not health. Likewise, by merely dropping actions and running away, nonaction is not attained. Why?

We must understand Krishna’s definition of nonaction. Ordinarily we have thought nonaction means not acting; we have identified nonaction with inactivity. Inactivity is not nonaction. If it were, then the lazy would be enlightened; then corpses would have realized nonaction; then stones and rocks would be absorbed in God!

Not nonaction—but action without a doer becomes nonaction. Action in which, within, the “I who does” is absent—becomes nonaction. Nonaction is not the absence of doing but the absence of the doer.

Krishna is saying to Arjuna: if you can drop the idea that you are the doer, then none of your actions are actions; they all become nonaction. But if you cling to “I am doing,” even if you run away from action, your running itself becomes an action.

Running is also an action—it will have to be done. Renouncing is also an action—it will have to be done. Wherever the doer is present—wherever it feels “I am doing”—there action is present, even if that “doing” is laziness, even if it is “not-doing.” But where it is felt, “There is no question of my doing—God is doing; the Whole is doing; life is doing it all. I am like a leaf moving in the wind: I am not moving, the wind moves. I am like a wave in the ocean: I do not heave, the ocean heaves. Where my ‘I’ is not—there is nonaction.” Not inactivity—nonaction.

Action will still be there, yet the turmoil of action will not. Action will be there, but the worry and anguish that cling to action will not. Action will be there, but the disease of success and failure will not. Action will be there, but the fever of ambition behind it will not. Action will be there, but the obsession with results will not. Then action becomes as delightful as a flower; it carries no weight; it blooms like a blossom. The doer is absent; the joy of doing is utterly different; the act becomes an offering to the divine.

Krishna is saying: if you drop action and run away, do not think you have attained nonaction. For the one who has attained nonaction—why would he run away from action? He will accept what destiny brings; whatever happens, he will accept.

The second thing he says: by giving up things, by leaving the world, if one thinks he will realize God—it is not necessary. It does not happen. There can be no bargaining with God: “I have left this and that; therefore I must realize.” A sannyasin once came to me. He said, “I left my home, my wife, my children, my shop—why has God-realization not happened yet?” I asked, “What was the value of your house, your shop, your wife, your children—do you have the figures?” He said, “What do you mean?” I said, “Let it be precise—how much are the things you left worth? Then we can lodge a complaint to God: ‘This man has bid this much for you, and you still hide! He has left a house. A house— in exchange for God?’”

Wherever the idea of exchange arises, there is commerce, not religion. The renouncer says, “I have left this much, and still it has not happened!” But who told you it would happen by leaving? And what is the value of what you have left? When death comes tomorrow, what will you do then—leave it, or cling to it? When death comes, it will be left. Before you were, it was there; after you are gone, it will still be there. And you imagine you are the one who leaves! That which was before you and will be after you—can you leave it? Ownership is madness. And remember: even in renunciation, the idea of ownership lurks. When a man says, “I renounced,” he proclaims, “It was mine.” The truth is: there is no ownership. How will you renounce?

Krishna says: by giving up things, God-realization does not happen.

God-realization is a different matter altogether. It does not fructify from renunciation. Yes, it may happen that from God-realization, renunciation fructifies. That happens. When one knows the vast, he is no longer willing to clutch at the trivial. When one has diamonds, he drops pebbles. God is the great fulfillment, the supreme nectar. It is not that by renunciation God is found; rather, by God, renunciation often flowers.

Here Krishna makes a very categorical statement—a very decisive statement. It is precious; an entire life can pivot upon it. The statement is: action is not to be dropped. In fact, it cannot be dropped. While living, there is no way to drop action.

Even the sannyasin will act! If he does not run a shop, he will beg. What difference does it make? Is begging any less an action than shopkeeping? It is just as much an action. If he does not build a home, he will build an ashram. Leaving a house to build an ashram—any less an action? Just as much.

You cannot run away from action. If you try to do the impossible, you will only become a hypocrite. If Arjuna were to flee the battlefield—what then? He would still do something. Whatever he does is action. There is no escape from action. Then is there no way?

Krishna opens a new door, a new dimension. He says: let action continue; run away from the doer. He proposes a profound revolution within the human personality. Let action go on—that cannot be avoided; but the doer can go. Let action continue; let the doer drop. Drop, within, the belief “I am doing.”

Therefore, again and again in the Gita, Krishna tells Arjuna: “Those whom you think you will kill, I tell you—they are already slain. Those you think will die because of you—you are foolish; you are merely an instrument. They will die without you too.” All along he is saying: drop this notion that you are the doer. And Arjuna’s trouble is precisely this: it feels to him that he is the doer; “If I run away, the war will be averted.”

Not necessary. Arjuna is not the only one. Even if Arjuna runs away, the war may not be averted. War depends on innumerable causes.

People thought after the First World War, there would be no second. Then the second came. After the second, people thought: now there will be no third—Hitler is dead, Mussolini is gone; why would there be a third? What difference does it make! How will you prevent a Mao from being born? And names—do they matter? If not a Hitler, then a Mao; if not a Mao, then someone else; if not someone else, then some A, B, or C.

War is such a vast web that any Arjuna who imagines, “If I step aside, it will disappear,” is deeply egoistic—very arrogant. He thinks such a vast war exists because of him!

Everyone has this feeling that the whole world runs because of them. The small, the great; followers and leaders—all feel that because of them the world runs. They go—and everything will collapse. But Napoleon goes, and no stone is disturbed. Alexander passes, and no leaf gets the news. Hitler comes and goes; Churchill, Gandhi, Nehru—they all come and vanish; the world goes on.

Krishna is saying to Arjuna: drop this madness that anything is happening because of you. The cause is vast—a great web. That vast web is called destiny. It does not depend on one person; it depends on the interwoven web of infinite causes. From that, things happen. So drop the delusion that your absence will stop the war, or that your presence causes it. Even if you are not there, it will happen. You are a very small cog. Perhaps not even a cog—He who chose you as a cog can choose another as well. And He did not consult you in choosing you; He will choose another without consulting him too.

If the notion of being the doer falls, one sees that life moves in an infinite mesh of laws. There is a current that flows; we are like straws floating in it. To say “we float” is perhaps not even accurate—the current flows. We are straws; how do we “float”? The current flows; we are merely in it. When it flows east, we go east; when it flows west, we go west.

Krishna’s whole emphasis is: forget that you are the doer—and let action happen. Then, I assure you, no action will touch you.

Sin does not bind; the sense of being the sinner binds. Merit does not bind; the sense of being the doer of merit binds. If we grasp it rightly—in the spiritual sense—the idea of doing is the only sin. The sense of doership is the only sin. If anything is the “original sin,” it is the belief “I am doing.”

But reflect: Krishna tells Arjuna “There is only one doer—the Divine. Drop your doership.” Since the eighteenth century the world has tried to remove God from the cosmic order—we said to the Divine: retire. “Enough, step aside; let man be the doer!” Remember, if we remove God from our idea of the world—(not from the world, only from our idea)—then man becomes the doer. Have you noticed that in societies where man became the doer and God ceased to be the doer, mental stress reached its peak? Anxiety became terrible; the mind neared derangement. Because the entire weight fell upon the “I.” The world was running on my “I”; the “I” became the center.

Today, the whole Western civilization stands upon the “I.” Hence, great anguish—no sleep at night, no rest by day. Nowhere peace; nowhere meaning; everything has become senseless. But one point is missed: from the very day man began imagining himself the doer, he invited anxiety.

Arjuna too has fallen into anxiety. Anxiety is born from the notion of doership; action does not create anxiety. You may act as much as you like—action does not bring anxiety. But let the “I do” arise even a little—and anxiety begins. Anxiety is the shadow of the doer. Arjuna is deeply anxious. His entire anxiety arises from one thing: he thinks, “I am the killer. If I do not kill, they will not die. If I do not fight, the war will end; peace will prevail.” It seems to him he is the decisive factor. No one is decisive—the Whole is decisive; destiny is decisive.

Therefore Krishna tells him: drop the doer, and let action continue. By calling him sinless, the next thing he gives leads him into sinlessness. First he says, “You are sinless.” Then he gives the statement that takes one beyond all sin. He does not stop at assurance; he gives the path to make it true. With that assurance the matter is not finished—it only begins. And man becomes wholly sinless only on the day he becomes wholly non-doer. Actions do not bind; the doer binds. Actions do not have to be dropped; let the doer drop, and dropping happens.

Alongside, he says the second thing: renunciation does not lead to realization.

Why not? Because we cannot stand before God in a bargaining posture. No deals can be struck, no buying and selling. Not renunciation—surrender.

We shall speak further on this.

The renouncer never surrenders. He says, “I have a claim—I have given up so much; now I deserve to receive.” The one who surrenders says, “I have nothing; I am nothing that could claim I deserve. I can only pray; I can only place my head at Your feet. I have nothing to give.”

Surrender happens to one who sees: “I am helpless—totally helpless. I have absolutely nothing to offer to God. I can weep, shout, call out—but I can give nothing.” One so poor, so destitute, so helpless, so forlorn—he surrenders, and he attains realization.

The renouncer is stiff with pride; he is not forlorn. He has a bank balance—of renunciation. He says, “I have this much—I have given up so many elephants, so many horses, so many houses—where are You? Come out! I have completed my renunciation; realization should happen.”

The renouncer will naturally be egotistical; he never gets beyond pride. Yes, there are others of whom a different thing is true: when pride disappears, renunciation flowers. But they never know they have renounced. If you tell them, “You have renounced,” they say, “We never had anything—how could we renounce?” If you say, “You have left something,” they say, “We never held anything—how could we leave it? We are empty-handed; we have nothing. We place only empty hands at the feet of the Divine.”

And remember: whoever goes before God with full hands returns empty-handed; whoever goes empty-handed has his hands filled.

Enough for today. We shall talk further tomorrow.