Geeta Darshan #10

No, it is not denunciation. By calling it an enemy, only a fact is being indicated. And when I say the stench of manure becomes the fragrance of the flower, I am not saying that manure has no stench. Manure does stink. And if you bring manure into your house and keep it there, the fragrance of flowers will not arise—only the stench will increase; the manure will rot and the stench will grow. For the person who keeps manure inside the house, manure is an enemy. But for the one who spreads it in the garden, mixes it into the soil, lays it with the seeds, it becomes a friend. And remember, being an enemy is not its destiny; it can be a friend. What can be an enemy can also be a friend; what can be a friend can also be an enemy.

Here Krishna is only saying this much: when desire turns into smoke and surrounds one’s consciousness, that desire becomes one’s enemy. But the one who, seeing this smoke, recognizes that there must be a fire within—because there is smoke without; and wherever there is smoke there is fire, smoke cannot be without fire—the one who, seeing the smoke of desire, is filled with the remembrance of the inner fire and, brushing aside the smoke, comes to the fire, for him desire ceases to be an enemy; it becomes a friend. Yet Krishna tells Arjuna that it is an enemy. “Enemy” only means this much: where you are standing right now, you have bound your desire in the status of an enemy. It will not be able to become your friend.

In this world, whatever can harm can also benefit. A stone lying on the path can be an obstacle, and for the wise it can become a step. Climbing on it, they rise higher. There is nothing in life that cannot be used auspiciously; and there is nothing in life that cannot be misused. Use always depends on us.

We can relate to desire as to an enemy. In fact, we do. What do we do with desire? We only tire ourselves with it. We only lose ourselves in it. We only exhaust ourselves through it. As water drains away from a pot full of holes, so we drain away our life through desire. What else do we do with it? Desire does not become a doorway for us to strength, to energy, to attainment of the divine. For us it becomes a path of losing energy, losing strength, losing the Lord, losing the self. Desire can be transformed.

Therefore, when Krishna calls it an enemy, his intention is not condemnation. And when I call it a friend, my intention is not praise. Let me repeat—when Krishna says desire is an enemy, his intent is not to denounce; and when I say desire is a friend, my intent is not to extol. Krishna is saying half: it is an enemy—and he is informing you, do not keep it an enemy. I too am saying half: it is a friend—and I am informing you, it has to be made a friend.

Enemies can be turned into friends; stenches can be turned into fragrances; smoke can become a guide toward the fire—and smoke can also lead you away from the fire. It depends on us how we use desire. Desire can be destructive, and desire can be creative. The same desire can take a person to where the temple of God is—and the same desire can take him to where his back is turned to God. Both are possible.

We have all read the story of Tulsidas—everyone knows it. Desire was an enemy—in Krishna’s sense, a foe. His wife had gone to her parents’ home; he could not wait. He ran like a madman, like one deranged, like a blind man. Eyes do not see, ears do not hear, hands do not feel! It is raining, there is a flood; he jumps in. It seems a log is floating by, he takes its support. It is not a log—only a corpse is floating there! Using that very corpse as support, he crosses the river. He does not see the corpse; he sees a log. Desire is blind. At midnight he reaches the house; he does not dare knock at the door. Desire is always weak; desire is always afraid. Where there is fear, there is desire; where there is desire, there is fear. Only the fearless is the one who is free of desire. He climbs in from the back of the house. It seems a rope is hanging there—it is a snake hanging in the rain. He does not see it; he is hypnotized, mesmerized.

In desire you see what you want to see; you do not see what is. You see what you want to see. Now he needs a rope to climb—so the snake appears as a rope. He needs a log to cross—so the corpse appears as a log. In desire, what you want to see is what appears; what is, does not appear. In the self, what is, is seen; what you want to see is not seen. The self sees truth; desire manufactures its own false truths, it projects. Now the snake did not appear; a rope appeared. A projection happened. A rope was needed—so up he went.

His wife said just one thing: “If only you would run for Rama as much as you run for me!” That was all—desire became a friend! From that very day, that very moment. Until that moment it had been an enemy. The journey changed, the direction changed, the face turned. Where yesterday there had been a back, now there were eyes; and where yesterday there had been eyes, now there was a back. The path is the same, but the journey has changed.

You have come up to here. By the same road you will return. The path is the same, but while coming your eyes were turned toward me; while going, your eyes will be turned toward home. While you came, your back was to the home.

Desire is the very path both for going away from God and for coming near to God. Go deeper into desire, and you will go farther away; lessen it—turn back, turn back—and you will arrive in God. The day desire is complete, the distance from God will be absolute. The day desire is zero, the “no distance” from God will be complete. On the day there is no desire, nearness will be total. On the day there is nothing but desire, the distance will be total. The path is the same. The staircase that takes you up in the house is the same staircase that brings you down. You are the same, the staircase is the same; only the direction changes. While ascending, the gaze is upward; while descending, the gaze is downward.

No, when Krishna calls desire an enemy, he is not condemning; he is only informing Arjuna that desire can become an enemy—and generally does. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it is an enemy. And when I say desire is a friend, I am also saying that ninety-nine times out of a hundred desire is an enemy—but even on those ninety-nine occasions it can become a friend. I speak of possibility; Krishna speaks of actuality. Krishna speaks of what is; I speak of what can be. And he speaks of what is precisely so that what should be can come to be. Otherwise there would be no purpose in stating what is.

Certainly: the deeper we are in lust, the farther we are from the Divine. But even depths come to an end. When a person reaches the ultimate limit of lust, beyond that there is no lust. The day someone touches the last edge of lust, that day he is like a man who has circled the whole earth and now knows perfectly well that the horizon never touches the sky anywhere. That day transformation begins; the return toward the Divine starts.

So when I say that where lust is full, there is full distance from God, I am not saying that return is impossible. The truth is, it is easier to return from the farthest point; turning back from the middle is not easy. That is why we often see that sinners attain to saintliness more swiftly. Mediocre minds, the middle-of-the-road minds, do not arrive so quickly at sainthood. Someone like Valmiki does—he touched the last depth of sin. And when Krishna says to such a man that sin is the enemy, Valmiki can understand it more exactly than Arjuna. Because Arjuna has never touched lust to such a depth that its enmity is fully revealed. Valmiki knows by experience—he knows from his own suffering. From the whole of his being he will say, “Yes, this is the truth: lust is misery and pain and hell.” And because he knows that hell, his return happens swiftly.

So when I say, “The distance from God is complete,” I am also saying, “This is the moment for the leap.” I am not saying a leap cannot be taken. No one can be so lost in lust that he cannot return, because no one can go so far on any road that he cannot come back by the same road. Yes—if there is a cul-de-sac, the road ends, a bottomless ravine opens ahead and there is no way forward—then the return becomes even more intense, because it is seen that the road was futile.

But those in the middle see the road still stretching ahead. They feel, “The way remains. You say it’s hell—but at least let us go to the very end and see!” For up to now the mind has whispered, “Heaven lies ahead.” You say, “It is behind!” But the mind says, “It lies ahead.” Lust says, “Just a little more, just a little more—only one more milestone.” Lust never tells the whole story; it always speaks in installments: “Do this much, it won’t take long. Just a few steps more and the goal is coming. And now you want to turn back from here? Are you mad? Krishna may say that—but who knows? Maybe he’s lying, maybe he’s deceiving us. How far can we trust this man?”

Arjuna will find it difficult to understand; Valmiki will not. Valmiki will say, “You are right. Where is the road ahead? All the milestones are finished.” Such a person passes through a sudden revolution in a single moment. Many people ask me, “How can a sinner like Valmiki become such a great saint?” I tell them: the one who has the courage to be that much of a sinner can, in the same measure, be that much of a saint—the courage is the same.

We, in fact, lack even the courage to be sinners; to be virtuous is a farther cry. If we are not sinners, the reason is not that we are virtuous; the simple reason is that we do not have even the courage to sin. If a man does not steal, in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases it is not because he is non-thieving; it’s because he lacks the courage it takes to steal. He is a thief in thought, only courage is missing—he cannot act, he goes on just thinking.

People like Valmiki are courageous. And if they can leap into sin unconditionally, then the day they see the road of sin has ended, will they not be able to leap into God? They leap into the Divine with the same unconditionality. If someone has the courage to jump into hell, will he not jump when heaven stands before him?

But we cannot muster any courage. Hence the difficulty of those in the middle: they continue to believe both sides. They read the Gita in the morning and say, “Lust is the enemy,” and then spend their days and nights fantasizing about lust. “Krishna says so,” they say—but the heart says, “Lust is the friend.” So again they read the Gita in the morning, then live in lust for twenty-four hours, then read the Gita again. It becomes a routine. They live in lust and, by reading against lust, they also lighten their minds.

This is a clever trick. Thus they do double work: they live in lust, and they also keep assuring themselves, “I am not a bad man—I read the Gita daily; lust is the enemy.” “I am a good man—only the time hasn’t come yet; the Lord’s grace has not yet descended; past-life karmas are obstructing; the situation is not yet ripe.” And they keep their ego intact: “I know lust is the enemy.” And they also keep the mind busy in lust. Thus they ride in two boats. They reach nowhere—neither the end of sin nor the end of virtue. Their two boats keep drifting in midstream. Endless births can pass like this.

If someone goes into lust with courage, today or tomorrow he will have to come out of it. There is only one “outside” you cannot exit—God; from everything else you will have to come out. For the day you see it is futile, the return begins. That day Krishna’s words will not seem borrowed; they become authentic. They will feel like they have come from your own life-breath. Then Valmiki can testify: “You are right. I also sign; I also bear witness: there is nothing at the end of lust but hell.”

Therefore when I say that transformation happens at the completion of lust, there is no contradiction in my two statements. At the completion of lust you are farthest from God, and at the same time, at that peak, the possibility of transformation is the greatest. In fact, the one farthest from God perhaps feels the lack of God the most. And the one farthest can perhaps run and fall into God’s lap the fastest. Those who feel “We live next to the temple” think, “Any time will do—what’s the hurry? The temple is in the neighborhood; we can go anytime. We are decent people—what need is there to run toward God? Anytime, anytime.”

An English writer wrote a small book. He says: travelers who come to London from all over the world make sure to see the Tower of London—but in London there are millions who have never seen it. They haven’t seen it because “We’ll go someday.” Every day they pass by it on the way to the office—“We’ll go someday!” This feeling of nearness—“We’ll see it.” A man comes from Peking, he sees it; from Tokyo, he sees it; from Bombay, he sees it. The Londoner lives right opposite the Tower—he could hit it with a stone—but he doesn’t go. He thinks, “I’ll see it.”

Once three American travelers came to see the Pope in the Vatican. The Pope asked the first, “How long will you stay in France?” He said, “Six months.” The Pope said, “You’ll see a little of France.” He asked the second, “And you?” “Only three weeks.” “You’ll see a fair amount of France.” He asked the third, “And you?” “I’ve come only for one week.” “You’ll see all of France.” The three were astonished. “What are you saying? He stays six months and you say he’ll see a little; three weeks—you say, a fair amount; and one week—you say, all?” The Pope said, “My life’s experience is that the one who feels he has lots of time, rests that much. The one who feels time is short, runs about briskly. What we think we can get ‘anytime,’ we never get. And what we feel is our last chance—miss it now and it’s gone forever—we run.”

Therefore, if sometimes a sinner, from the extreme of his sin, falls straight into God’s lap, don’t be surprised. He can run. He feels, “This is the last place; one step more and I will be lost forever—there will be no way back.” He turns back. You don’t feel this. You feel the road is smooth, a well-paved highway—you’re moving along comfortably, good speed—and God is near. “We’re decent folk; we give charity; we read the Gita; we go to mosque and temple; we bow to saints—what more is needed? We can go anytime. He is near.”

No. The pain of sin carries man to God; the pride of virtue takes him away from God.

Indriyāṇi mano buddhir asyādhiṣṭhānam ucyate
Etair vimohayaty eṣa jñānam āvṛtya dehinam (40)
Tasmāt tvam indriyāṇy ādau niyamya bharatarṣabha
Pāpmānaṁ prajahi hy enaṁ jñāna-vijñāna-nāśanam (41)

“The senses, mind and intellect are said to be its seat; through these it deludes the embodied being by veiling knowledge. Therefore, O Arjuna, restraining the senses first, slay this sinful desire which destroys knowledge and wisdom.”

Krishna says, Arjuna, the senses and the mind—these are the sources of kama, of lust. Through these arises the hypnosis of lust and it envelops the soul. These are the springs from which poisonous streams spread and lead life astray. First gain mastery over them—slay them, says Krishna. He uses the strongest possible word: “Slay them—finish them.”

This word has created much confusion. “Slay the senses, the mind”—many took it to mean: cut off the senses; gouge out the eyes; break the legs. “If there are no legs, how will you run after lust?”

But they don’t know that lust runs without legs. Lust needs no feet. The lame run in lust as fast as the fastest can. Gouge out the eyes—but the blind also ‘see’ in lust just as those with eyes do. In fact, with eyes closed lust looks more beautiful than it ever does with eyes open. Those who look with very open eyes may even get bored of lust; those who look with eyes closed never get bored.

“Slay the senses”—this statement has been gravely misunderstood, because “slaying” has not been understood. We know only one meaning of “slay”: break something. Consider a seed. There are two ways to kill a seed. One—our way: crush it between two stones. It dies. But this is not skillful, because what could have become a tree is also killed. The skill of killing the seed is when the seed dies and the tree happens. Otherwise, what is the point? Certainly, when the tree sprouts, the seed dies. If the seed does not die, the tree cannot be born. The seed has to die, to dissolve—becoming dust, merging with soil, disappearing—then the sprout appears and becomes a tree.

Some people have understood “slaying the senses” like crushing a seed between stones. Hence a very neurotic asceticism has arisen—a deranged renunciation that says: break, erase! But what you are erasing contains something hidden. Free that. If that is not freed, you too will be erased. Because within the senses something of ours is hidden. The mind contains something of ours. The mind must be broken, yes—but the energy in the mind must be allowed to reach the soul. The senses must be broken, yes—but the rasa, the juice hidden in the senses must be returned to the soul. So “slaying” means transformation. In the truest sense, transformation is death.

It’s strange: even if you crush a seed between stones, the seed still “is”—as a crushed seed. But when the seed breaks into a tree, it is nowhere to be found—not even as crushed. When a seed becomes a tree, try to find the seed—you won’t. But if you crush it, you will find it as crushed. Crushed senses create an even more ugly life. They become perverted.

I want to give you three words: prakriti (nature), vikriti (perversion), samskriti (culture). If nature is crushed, what arises is perversion. If nature is transformed, what arises is culture. Nature crushed becomes distorted, perverted. Nature transformed, sublimated, becomes culture.

So when Krishna tells Arjuna, “Slay the senses and the mind,” those words in Krishna’s mouth do not bear the meaning ascetics put into them. Krishna is no enemy of the senses. It is hard to find anyone less opposed to the senses than Krishna. Krishna is not a weeping, sad, dead man.

It is hard to find on earth a being who dances more than Krishna, laughs more than Krishna. So it is impossible that Krishna asks you to crush the senses; it is intrinsically impossible. It cannot fit in Krishna’s personality. The man who plays the flute, who dances under the moon and stars—how can he speak of crushing the senses? Peacock feather on his head, a being full of love, a consciousness that embraces life in its totality—this man speaks of “slaying”?

The meaning of his “slaying” is different. Otherwise people will keep taking the usual meaning.

And we take the meaning we want. That the senses lead to suffering is true. Hence the mind says: whatever leads to suffering must be violently killed. But we don’t see that what leads to suffering also hides our energy; in it we are hidden. If we crush what is hidden there, we crush ourselves.

Therefore the so-called renunciate, not knowing, keeps committing violence on himself. No transformation happens—only violence. If we commit violence on another, we are taken to court. But if we commit it on ourselves, there isn’t yet so much justice in the world that we take such a man to court.

It’s amusing: if I put a knife on your chest, I go to court; if I put a knife on my own chest, I get respect! Madness. In both cases the knife is on a chest—what difference does it make whose chest it is? If I gouge out your eyes, should I not be honored for helping you slay your senses—showing you the path to enlightenment? No one would agree. But if I gouge out my own eyes, you will touch my feet: “A great ascetic!” If gouging out your eyes is a crime, how does gouging out mine become virtue?

This is not a statement against the senses; it is a statement for the transformation of the senses. And the paradox is: only through transformation do the senses truly die; no sense ever dies by being killed. That is why I say it is a statement for transformation. Try killing a sense: the very sense you fight will become strongest. In truth, when one sense is “killed,” the energy of all the senses rushes to it. The body has a law: the part we weaken, the whole body supports. It must; the weak should receive support.

The sense you fight and weaken, the whole body will aid, and that sense will become your everything. If you fight lust, the center of lust becomes your very personality; it becomes everything. If you fight greed, anger, envy—whatever you fight—the center of it becomes most sensitive and you will live encircled by it.

I recently read Theodor Reik, a great psychologist, in his memoirs. He writes about small European islands. There is a tiny island where no woman has set foot to this day—it is a Catholic monastery; only monks live there. A small island of ten or twelve miles. For five hundred years no woman has stepped on it—women are prohibited. And any man who once goes there for austerity cannot return alive. A purely male society for five hundred years.

But Reik writes that something strange is seen there: the dreams of the residents are more filled with women than anywhere else on earth. Stranger still, some men there walk and talk like women. Life is polar. If there are absolutely no women, some men will begin to act like women; and some men will enact love with those feminized men—a homosexual society will arise. Men will behave with men as with women.

We can understand the monastery’s trouble. They tried to kill one sense. The result was predictable: the sense did not die; it only became toxic, distorted, ugly, and it sought other outlets. The maximum perversion in humankind has arisen from the idea of cutting off or killing the senses.

But that is not Krishna’s meaning. Krishna means transformation. And transformation, in truth, is the death of the senses. Transformation is what “bringing the senses under control” really means. If the senses are killed, there is nothing left to control.

If a father kills his son and then says, “My son is obedient,” it’s absurd. A dead son is obedient, of course—and often “obedient sons” are dead sons, because in making them obedient we nearly kill them. But what is the meaning of obedience in a dead son? A son should be alive—radiantly alive—and then obedient; only then does fatherhood mean something. If a teacher sits boasting before a class of dead students who cannot rebel, fine. But students should be alive—fully alive—and then if they place their heads at the teacher’s feet, it means something.

If the senses are cut and killed and then “come under your control,” they do not; only an illusion is created. What is there to control in dead senses? No—let the senses be under your control, healthy and vibrant—but not the masters. They should not drive you; you should drive them. Orders should not come from them to you; your command should go to them. They should follow like shadows.

In a witness, the senses automatically begin to follow like a shadow. The one who believes himself the doer is enslaved by the senses. The one who knows himself as the witness goes beyond them. The one who is under the senses never has the senses under him. The one who is beyond—there all the senses surrender at his feet and come under his control. What is the key to the senses’ surrender? Within we can maintain only two stances: either that of doer-enjoyer, or that of witness. The doer is the enjoyer.

Let me tell you a small story, and then we’ll take the next aphorism.

I have heard: outside Krishna’s village an ascetic arrived. The women of Krishna’s household said, “Let us go and take food to the ascetic.” But it was monsoon; the river was in flood; the ascetic sat across. They said, “We should go—but there is no boat. How will we cross? The flood is dangerous. The ascetic is hungry, sitting under a tree on the other bank. We must take the food. Any mantra, any device?” Krishna said, “Say to the river, ‘If the ascetic has been fasting all his life, give way.’” They did not quite believe it, but since Krishna said so, they decided to try.

They told the river, “O river, give way if the ascetic has been fasting all his life.” Whether they believed it or not, the river gave way! They crossed. They had prepared a lot of food—thinking it was too much for one man, but since it was coming from Krishna’s house, it would be improper to take a little. They took enough to feed a hundred-and-fifty. To their amazement, the ascetic ate it all.

They turned back. The river had closed its path again; the flood flowed on. They panicked: “Now we’re stuck! The formula won’t work now—the ascetic has eaten all the food.” They went back: “You tell us what to do. We’re in trouble. We told the river, ‘If the ascetic has been fasting all his life, give way,’ and it gave way.” The ascetic said, “Say the same thing again.” They said, “Now? We barely believed earlier—how can we now?” He said, “Go and tell the river, ‘If the ascetic has been fasting all his life, give way.’”

Now it was almost impossible to believe—but there was no other way. They said the same to the river—and the river gave way! They crossed and went to Krishna: “This is difficult to understand. We were going to ask you how your mantra worked. But leave that. A greater miracle happened: your ascetic ate all the food—and yet the river gave way again when we said he had been fasting all his life!”

Krishna said, “He has indeed been fasting all his life; your food makes little difference.” “But what is the secret?” they asked. “Now we’re less curious about the river and more about the ascetic.” Krishna said, “While he was eating, he knew, ‘I am not eating’—he was a witness. Food was being put in; he stood behind and watched. When he was hungry, he was a witness; when the food was taken, he remained a witness. His stance as witness has been cultivated lifelong. It has not been shaken. He has never done anything; he has never enjoyed anything. Whatever happened, he watched. He is a seer. And when a person attains the mood of witnessing, the senses come under his control.”

Indriyāṇi parāṇy āhur indriyebhyaḥ paraṁ manaḥ
Manasas tu parā buddhiḥ yo buddheḥ paratas tu saḥ (42)

“The senses are declared superior (subtle and powerful) to the body, and superior to the senses is the mind; superior to the mind is the intellect; and superior even to the intellect is the Self.”

Krishna says to Arjuna: if you think it is beyond your power to control the senses, you are mistaken—you are thinking in error.

Let us understand. We all think the same: that controlling the senses is difficult. But it’s as foolish as someone saying, “It is difficult to control my hand.” The hand is mine; I am greater than the hand. The hand is a limb; I am the owner. The hand is a part; I am the whole. No part is greater than its whole. “My eye is not under my control!” But I am more than the eye. The eye cannot be without me; I can be without the eye. The hand cannot be without me; cut it off and it dies—but I can remain without the hand. I am more than the hand. I am more than all the senses—greater than the sum of them.

Krishna says: if you think, “I am weak; I cannot gain mastery over my senses,” you think wrongly. You already have mastery—you never declared it, never remembered it, never understood it. You are the master, but not knowing it, you became a servant to your own hand.

Next he says: beyond the senses is the mind; beyond the mind is the intellect; and beyond the intellect is That which we call the Divine. Remember: the more “within” something is, the more powerful it is than what is “without.” An example:

A tree: we see the leaves. Beyond the leaves are branches. Branches are more powerful than leaves. Cut the leaves and new leaves will immediately sprout. Cut a branch and a new branch will be hard to grow. The branch is prior to the leaves; the life of the leaves is in the branch, not vice versa. Cut the branch and the leaves die; cut the leaves and the branch does not. Leaves cannot exist without the branch; the branch can exist without leaves.

Go further in: there is the trunk. The trunk is beyond the branches. The trunk can exist without branches; branches cannot exist without the trunk. Beneath the trunk are the roots. The roots are beyond even the trunk. Cut the trunk and new shoots can arise; cut the roots and there will be no new shoot. Roots can exist without the trunk; the trunk cannot exist without roots. The deeper, the more powerful. The further out, the weaker. The powerful must be kept within—they support.

So Krishna says: behind the senses is the mind. The mind is far more powerful than the senses. If the mind so wills, it can halt any sense instantly. When the mind is active, any sense stops at once. Your house is on fire; you are running. Someone greets you on the road—“Namaste!”—you don’t see him. Your eyes are fine. He says “Namaste!”—your ears are fine—but you don’t hear. You keep running. Why?

The mind is elsewhere; it is stuck in the burning house. This is not the time to greet or to notice people on the road. Tomorrow that man says, “We met yesterday—you looked like a madman. I greeted you; you didn’t respond. What happened?” You say, “I neither heard nor saw. The house was aflame; the mind was there.”

If the mind moves away, the senses instantly become useless. The mind is powerful. Where the mind goes, the senses follow. Where the senses go, the mind need not go—you take it there. If you take the mind somewhere, the senses must go there. They are weak; their power comes from the mind; the mind’s power does not come from them.

Then Krishna says: beyond the mind is the intellect. Wherever the intellect is, the mind must go. Where the intellect is not, the mind need not go. But our condition is reversed: wherever the mind goes, we drag the intellect; the mind says, “Do this,” and we tell the intellect, “Now give me the arguments for why and how.” The mind dictates; the intellect merely finds justifications. We tell the intellect, “I want to steal; now you provide the rationale.” The intellect says, “All wealth is stolen. Those who have it have stolen it. You too can steal—what’s wrong?” We make the intellect support the mind.

Krishna says: the intellect is beyond the mind. It is—because where even the mind does not remain, the intellect remains. At night when you fall into deep, dreamless sleep, the mind is gone. There are no dreams, no thoughts. But in the morning you say, “What bliss last night—such deep sleep! No dreams; no thoughts.” Who knew then that you slept well? Who knew there was bliss? The intellect knew.

The intellect is beyond the mind. The capable direct the mind by the intellect, and the senses by the mind. Those who do not recognize their strength live with the senses driving the mind, and the mind driving the intellect. They live topsy-turvy; upside down. Then if the world looks upside down to them, it is no one’s fault.

I have heard—how true, who knows, but it could be true—that one day Pandit Nehru was doing a headstand in his garden and a donkey wandered into his bungalow. Only donkeys go near politicians’ bungalows; and if a man tried, the guard would stop him—who stops a donkey? But this was no ordinary donkey—it was a talking donkey. Many donkeys speak; no difficulty. It came and stood by Nehru. From his headstand, the donkey looked upside down. He was amazed: “Donkey, why are you upside down?” The donkey said, “Panditji, I am not upside down—you are doing a headstand.” He hurriedly stood up: “You speak too!” The donkey said, “That’s what I feared—that because I speak, you wouldn’t meet me.” Nehru said, “Don’t worry. So many speaking donkeys come to me that I’m used to listening. Speak freely.” But to Nehru the donkey looked upside down!

To us too, the world looks upside down. We are in a very deep headstand—deeper than a physical headstand—because everything is inverted. The mind obeys the senses, the intellect obeys the mind, and we even try to make God obey our intellect. Leaves command the branches; branches command the trunk; the trunk tries to make the roots obey. And if the roots won’t obey, we say, “They don’t exist.” If God won’t obey, we say, “He isn’t.”

A man came to me and said, “I have begun to believe in God.” “What happened?” I asked. “My son couldn’t get a job. I gave God a seven-day ultimatum: within seven days, if the job comes—fine; otherwise, You don’t exist. And it came! Now I believe.” I asked, “Have you begun to believe in God—or has God begun to believe in you?” We try even to manage God. “What if tomorrow your son loses the job?” “Then my faith will go.” We are walking upside down.

Krishna says: let the senses obey the mind; let the mind obey the intellect; let the intellect be surrendered to, and obey, the Divine. Then the personality becomes straight, simple, upright—and religious, spiritual.

One more—last.

Evaṁ buddheḥ paraṁ buddhvā saṁstabhyātmānam ātmanā
Jahi śatruṁ mahābāho kāma-rūpaṁ durāsadam (43)

“Thus, knowing That which is beyond the intellect, and steadying the self by the Self, slay, O mighty-armed, this difficult-to-conquer enemy in the form of desire.”

The final verse. Krishna says: recognize your power—and your power is the Divine’s power—and recognizing your ultimate energy—which is the Divine’s energy—bring the senses under mastery by the mind, the mind under mastery by the intellect, and place the reins of the intellect in the hands of the Supreme. Then you will go beyond this unconquerable desire—beyond lust.

There are two or three priceless points here. First: the deeper, the truer; the deeper, the more powerful; the deeper, the more trustworthy. The more superficial, the less trustworthy. Waves are not trustworthy; the ocean’s depth is. The surface is only a covering; what is deep is the soul. Therefore do not impose the surface upon the depth; let the depth govern the surface. Krishna speaks of one-by-one steps backward. How?

Senses by the mind. Ordinarily, senses act by habit, not by the mind, because we never make them act by the mind. Senses act by habit. It is time; the hand goes to the pocket, brings out the cigarette pack, pulls out a cigarette. You may have no idea what is happening—the hand is doing it automatically. You might be absorbed in something else; the mind is elsewhere. The hand slips the cigarette into the mouth, strikes a match, lights it; the smoke goes in and out; and the mind continues its work. The mind doesn’t even know. Yes—the mind knows only when the hand goes to the pocket and the pack isn’t there. Then the mind becomes aware: “What’s this? Where is the pack?” Otherwise the mind is not needed. We are so enslaved to the senses that they need the mind only when they are stuck. Otherwise they tell the mind: “Rest; we don’t need you; we’ll do our work.” You don’t even notice!

We have handed over all the work to the senses. Not “they took it”—we gave it. Slowly we granted them autonomous authority: “You manage.” They do. In this condition we must bring the mind in—not only when the senses need service, but for ownership.

Next time the hand goes to the pocket, bring the mind in. Do not let the hand take out the cigarette—let the mind take it out. Take it out mindfully. Mindfully means: knowing you are about to smoke. Knowing you put it in your mouth. Knowing you light the fire. Knowing you draw the smoke in and out—and knowing yourself as such a “wise” man! You ponder whether God exists; you calculate the meaning of the Gita—and now you are doing the work of sending smoke in and out—idiotic, stupid. Could any work be more stupid than moving smoke in and out? I am doing it—knowing I am a stupid fellow. Don’t consider yourself intelligent then—though reality is reversed: smokers look most puffed-up while smoking; it seems an act of great brilliance is being performed.

Analyze a little: what are you doing? Moving smoke in and out! A machine can do it. Where does intelligence come in? And you know well what this smoke does—yet you do it. If a man keeps moving a chair from here to there and there to here, you will call him mad. Why? If moving smoke isn’t madness, is moving a chair madness? What merit has smoke earned, and what sin has a chair committed?

No—do it mindfully, and it will become difficult. Whatever the senses do, do it with full awareness: “I am doing this—and I know what I am doing.” You will find the senses’ power waning and the mind’s power over them increasing.

Then do the same with the mind, through the intellect. The mind keeps doing things and you let it. You bring in the intellect only when the mind is entangled—when it meets something it cannot resolve. You are driving, steering wheel in hand, a cigarette between your lips; the mind is winning elections, imagining processions. Suddenly there is the possibility of an accident—the mind stops in a jolt; the breath halts; thoughts halt; the intellect comes in instantly, because now it is dangerous to leave matters to the mind. You call the intellect only for service; otherwise the mind goes on.

No—bring the intellect in. When the mind begins to win elections, when processions start, call the intellect: “Come, see what the mind is doing. What am I doing?” Then how many of your dreams will shatter! How many desires will drop! When the intellect steps in, the mind becomes afraid—like children when the teacher enters the room: they quickly sit properly, everything in order.

But we do not let the intellect enter. Our mind’s condition is like this: in old times the teacher would often put unruly boys outside the class. Now, it will be the other way around: boys will put unruly teachers out—“You stay outside; we are peaceful within.” The mind lives by dismissing the teacher, the intellect. It keeps doing whatever foolishness it can. The mind has no discrimination; it is the dreaming faculty—imagining, remembering. It cannot think; thinking belongs to the intellect.

Bring in the intellect and make it watch over the mind’s work. Keep the intellect always standing and say: “See what the mind is doing!” And the mind becomes meek—just as the senses do when the mind arrives.

But do not hand everything to the intellect either, for the intellect is not ultimate. Beyond it lies the Source from which even the intellect arises. It may happen that a man controls the mind by the intellect and the senses by the mind, but then becomes a slave of the intellect—he will be full of ego. The intellect is very egoistic; it will say, “I know. I have conquered the mind and the senses; I am the sovereign.” This too is a snag. The intellect can think and analyze—but life’s truth is unfathomable, beyond its grasp. However much the intellect thinks, life remains a mystery; its doors do not open with intellect.

Yes—when the intellect is baffled, it remembers God. But as long as it is successful, it never remembers. Business is fine, the shop is thriving, money is coming, profit is good, calculations add up, science progresses—there is no remembrance of God. Notice: when the intellect is in trouble, then comes the memory of God. The wife is dying; the doctors say, “This is the end of medical science. We have done what we can; now nothing is in our hands.” Hands fold: “O God, where are You?” But until now, where was God? The doctor’s intellect is exhausted; your intellect is exhausted—now God!

No; that will not do. If surrender happens only when the intellect is defeated, what is its value? The surrender of the defeated has no meaning. When the intellect is winning, when success rolls at your feet, when everything is right—then the one who remembers God, his intellect becomes surrendered to and governed by the Divine.

Give the senses into the hands of the mind, the mind into the hands of the intellect, and the intellect into the hands of the Supreme.

And Krishna says: O Kaunteya, O Arjuna, the one who thus disciplines himself goes beyond the unconquerable craving—he attains the Self.

You have listened to my words with such peace and love—I am deeply obliged. In the end I bow to the Divine seated within all: please accept my salutations.