Geeta Darshan #2

The Kshatriya is a symbol of extroversion; the Brahmin is a symbol of introversion. Then where do the Shudra and the Vaishya belong? A few things have to be understood.

If introversion fully blossoms, it flowers as a Brahmin; if introversion does not blossom at all, it results in a Shudra. If extroversion fully blossoms, it flowers as a Kshatriya; if extroversion does not blossom, it results in a Vaishya. Understand it this way: introversion is a range, a continuum, a ladder. The one who stands on the first rung of the ladder of introversion is the Shudra; the one who stands on its last rung is the Brahmin. Extroversion, too, is a ladder. The one who stands on its first rung is the Vaishya; the one who stands on its last rung is the Kshatriya.

I am not speaking here of Kshatriya, Vaishya, and Shudra by birth. I am speaking of types of individuals. Shudras are born among Brahmins, and Brahmins are born among Shudras. Vaishyas are born among Kshatriyas, and Kshatriyas among Vaishyas. I am not talking about inherited caste; I am talking about the psychological fact of varna.

So note as well: whenever a Brahmin gets angry with someone, he says, “You are a Shudra!” And whenever a Kshatriya gets angry, he says, “You are a bania (trader)!” Have you ever thought about it? In the Kshatriya’s imagination, being a bania is the lowest of the low. In the Brahmin’s imagination, being a Shudra is the lowest of the low. In his own extroversion, the Kshatriya sees the lowest rung as the Vaishya. Therefore, if a Kshatriya falls, he becomes a Vaishya; if a Vaishya develops, he becomes a Kshatriya.

This has happened many times. And sometimes, when a person cannot understand his own type, his own personality, his own swadharma, he gets into great difficulty. Mahavira was born in a Kshatriya household, but he was an introverted person, and his journey was that of a Brahmin. Buddha was born in a Kshatriya household, but he was a Brahmin by personality, and his journey was that of a Brahmin. That is why Buddha has said in many places, “There is no greater Brahmin than I.” But Buddha redefined “Brahmin”: the knower of Brahman is a Brahmin.

Buddha and Mahavira are Kshatriyas by birth; Brahmin is their personality. When a Kshatriya like Mahavira went on the Brahmin’s path—of introversion, the inner journey—leaving the outer world and diving into meditation and samadhi, naturally the people around him were Kshatriyas—friends, loved ones. They, too, were influenced by Mahavira and followed after him. Strangely, the Kshatriyas who followed Mahavira ended up becoming Vaishyas. The entire Jain community became a community of Vaishyas.

In fact, the Kshatriyas who followed Mahavira under his influence were not introverts; they could not become Brahmins. They were Kshatriyas who went after Mahavira, but could not become Brahmins; being Kshatriyas became difficult; only the path of becoming Vaishyas was left. They fell from being Kshatriyas and became Vaishyas.

This was bound to happen. The Brahmin is the highest refinement of introversion. Not all “Brahmins” are Brahmins. Properly understood, we are all born either like Shudras or like Vaishyas; we can develop to be like Brahmins or like Kshatriyas. We are born on the lower rungs; we can develop. In the seed we are either Shudra or Vaishya; if the seed blossoms, we can become Kshatriya or Brahmin.

In my view, by birth all people are of two kinds—Shudra and Vaishya. By attainment, by achievement, they become two kinds—Brahmin and Kshatriya. Those who cannot develop remain in the first two categories. In truth, there are only two varnas.

If everyone were to develop, there would be only two varnas in the world—extroverts and introverts. But those who do not develop also constitute two varnas. Thus four varnas formed: two for those who develop, and two for those who do not and remain behind.

The Kshatriya’s longing is a longing for power; the Brahmin’s longing is a longing for peace. The Kshatriya longs for power. And if someone fails to become a Kshatriya and remains a Vaishya, then the Vaishya’s personality is very fearful, frightened, timid—but he carries the Kshatriya’s seed, so the longing for power does not leave him. Yet he cannot attain power as a Kshatriya would. Therefore the Vaishya seeks power through wealth. He tries to manufacture power by means of money. He cannot fight, cannot be on the battlefield, cannot take a sword in his hand—but a strongbox can be held, and swords can be bought. Indirectly, then, the lust for wealth is a lust for power—by a backdoor, fearful route.

The longing to be a Brahmin is present in the Shudra too; it must be, for the seed of introversion is within him. If he develops, he will set out on the fully introverted journey. If he does not, he will remain standing in mere laziness. He will neither become extroverted nor truly introverted. He will be stuck in between. Lethargy, tamas, heedlessness will become his life. He will not go on the outer journey; he could have gone on the inner journey, but he does not. Travel stalls—both journeys stall. “Shudra” means heedless. “Shudra” means asleep. “Shudra” means surrounded by laziness and tamas. “Shudra” means one who is doing nothing—going neither outward nor inward—who has remained asleep in negligence, in darkness.

What I am saying—please keep this in mind—I am not saying it about any Shudra, Brahmin, Vaishya, or Kshatriya as such; I am speaking of psychological types.

Therefore the Shudra will continually feel himself opposed to the Brahmin. And if today, all over the world, and especially in this country—which first discovered this psychological typology—the Shudra has rebelled against the Brahmin, there was another way to rebel: the Shudra could have embarked on the journey to become a Brahmin. That did not happen. And now, on the basis of Rammohan Roy, Gandhi, and all those people who have no psychological understanding, the Shudra has set out on a different journey. He says, “We will make the Brahmin into a Shudra as well. We cannot become Brahmins—let that be. But we will make the Brahmin into a Shudra.”

It is beneficial if the Shudra becomes a Brahmin. But that journey is an inner journey. If the Shudra merely tries to drag the Brahmin down into being a Shudra, it is only self-destructive. The Shudra is eager that the gap between himself and the Brahmin should disappear. The gap should disappear, yes—but that is a psychological discipline, not merely a social arrangement.

And remember too: in the same way, the Brahmin is very restless that the gap should not disappear. The Shankaracharya of Puri is very anxious that the gap should not disappear! That the gap between Brahmin and Shudra should not collapse! This fear itself is a sign that the Brahmin is no longer a Brahmin; otherwise, he would not fear the gap collapsing. The gap cannot collapse. If a Shudra sits next to a Brahmin, the gap does not disappear. If a Shudra eats from the Brahmin’s plate, the gap does not disappear. If the Brahmin is genuine, the gap does not vanish like that. But if the Brahmin himself has become a Shudra, then the gap collapses immediately. The Brahmin is afraid because he has almost become a Shudra. And the Shudra is eager to make the Brahmin into a Shudra.

I am saying this so that it may be understood that behind India’s conception of varna there were profound psychological insights. The psychological insight was that each person should correctly recognize his type, so that his life’s journey does not wander here and there in vain, does not drift about; that he should understand whether he is introvert or extrovert, and quietly set out on that journey. Not a moment is to be wasted. And if the opportunity of life is lost once, who knows for how many births it is lost. Recognize your personality rightly, and then enter into sadhana—that is essential.

Therefore I said: if you are an extrovert, you can be either a Vaishya or a Kshatriya. If you are an introvert, you can be either a Shudra or a Brahmin. These are polarities, poles. But to be a Shudra happens by nature; to be a Brahmin is an attainment. To be a Vaishya happens by nature; to be a Kshatriya is an attainment.

Truth never needs synthesis; only untruths do. Truth is already integrated. The use of a term like “Brahma-nirvana” simply means that some people call it Brahman and some call it Nirvana. Those who move from the side of emptiness call it Nirvana; those who move from the side of fullness call it Brahman. But the experience to which these words point is one and the same. “Brahma-nirvana” is not a synthesis between the experience of Brahman and the experience of Nirvana—because synthesis requires two. “Brahma-nirvana” is the conjoint utterance of two names given to one experience. It is only to indicate that some call it Nirvana and some call it Brahman. But what it is, is one. Those who are affirmative, positive, call it Brahman; those who are negative, via negation, call it Nirvana. Yet that which they indicate—that X, the unknown—is one.

Hence Krishna is using both together not for synthesis, but simply to convey that truth is one, though the knowers speak of it in many ways. And the greatest possible divergence in their way of saying it can be two: either they will say it is empty, or they will say it is full. This depends on one’s inclination, one’s personality, one’s way of seeing.

And whenever we say something, we say less about that which we are speaking of and more about ourselves. Whatever we say is news about what kind of person we are. What appears to us is a gestalt—we are included in it.

For example, a glass has water up to the halfway mark. One person comes in and says, “The glass is half empty,” and another says, “The glass is half full.” They did not see two different things. They did not even say two different things. And yet their ways of seeing are utterly opposed.

One saw that it is half empty. Emptiness caught his eye; fullness did not. Emptiness appeared to him emphatically—center stage; fullness remained on the periphery. Emptiness seized him; fullness did not. The other says, “Half full.” For him, fullness is at the center of attention; emptiness is outside, on the margin. Emptiness did not appear to him; what appeared was fullness, and emptiness merely outlined its boundary. The fullness is the real; emptiness is the neighbor, the fringe. So he says, “Half full.”

And if we ask the glass whether it is half full or half empty, the glass will say nothing—because the glass would say, “This debate is madness. I am both at once.” And even to say “both” is only necessary because two people have looked at it. In truth, it simply is what it is: up to here there is water, and from here there is no water. Up to the middle there is water, and up to the middle there is no water. There is a line where my half-emptiness and half-fullness meet.

Two people looked in two ways; hence two statements. And if these two go out into the marketplace among people who have never seen anything half-full and half-empty, two sects will arise there: a sect of the half-empty and a sect of the half-full. A great controversy will ensue; their pandits will argue mightily, set out on world-conquest tours, hoist flags, and, with scriptures, prove what the truth is—the other being false.

And that seems right enough. To those who do not know, the two statements are plainly contradictory. “The glass is half empty”—the emphasis falls on empty. “The glass is half full”—the emphasis falls on full. One says empty; one says full. And to those who have not seen, what could be more opposed? These two are different statements; only one can be correct. Therefore, decide which is right.

This decision will run on for thousands of years and never be reached—because there is only one glass, which is half empty and half full. Two people looked; hence the statements differ.

“Brahma-nirvana” is not a synthesis of two things. It is the joint usage of two words for one truth. Synthesis is needed only among untruths. In truth there can be no synthesis, because truth is one; there is no second with which to synthesize.

Therefore, those who talk of synthesis have no inkling of truth. Truth has no need of synthesis. Truth is one—what is there to synthesize it with? With untruth? Yes, if one wants to synthesize with untruth, perhaps one can try. But how will truth and untruth be synthesized? There is no way. And there are not two truths to be synthesized. Yes, one and the same truth has been seen by many and expressed in many words. The differences are of words, not of truths.

The distance between good and bad belongs to man, not to the Divine. And whoever divides things into good and bad will, sooner or later, do something bad; he cannot escape it. Only the one who has left everything to the Divine can be free of the bad.

But you will say: a man can steal and claim, “I am only an instrument; I am not stealing—God is doing it.” Let him say so; the obstacle is not there. The obstacle will arise when the people of the house catch him and start beating him—then it will be known. For if even then he says, “It is God who is beating me; these people are not the doers, they are mere instruments,” only then will it be clear.

And remember, a person who, even while being beaten by someone else, still knows that it is the Divine who is beating, that others are mere instruments—such a person is not likely to go and steal. It is impossible—absolutely impossible.

We do bad only when we are full of ego. Without ego we cannot do bad. And the moment we hand over all doership to the Divine, the ego drops; the very foundation stone for doing evil collapses. How will you do evil then?

Have you ever noticed that after doing a bad deed no one wants to declare himself the doer? Have you noticed this! Even a thief says, “I didn’t do it.” If he gets caught and we prove it, that is another matter. But on his own he keeps denying, “I didn’t do it.” No one is willing to be the doer of the bad. And the irony is that bad does not happen without a doer.

Consider the reverse too: let a man give two paise in charity and he wants to spread the news as if he had given two lakhs! Even if he cannot spread it, after giving two paise he still wants to strut about as if he had given two lakhs. Beggars know this: if they catch you alone on the road, they have little confidence of getting alms; if four people are walking with you, their confidence increases. Then they will cling to your feet. They do not rely on you; they rely on the presence of those four people. In front of those four, this man will not be able to show such meekness as to say, “I won’t give.” That is why catching someone alone does not work for a beggar; he must catch him in a crowd.

Even if a man hasn’t done a good deed, he still wants to announce, “I am the doer.” And the irony is that as long as there is a doer, good does not happen. Now this mystery should be understood rightly.

The presence of the doer, the presence of ego, is the very birth of sin in life. The absence, the nonexistence of ego spreads the fragrance of virtue in life. Therefore if, remaining a doer, one even tries to do virtue, it turns into sin. He cannot truly do virtue; that is why it becomes sin. It simply cannot be otherwise. Nor can the opposite occur: someone whose doer-ness has dissolved commits sin—this too cannot be.

The distinctions we have made between sin and virtue, good and bad, were made by people in whom the doer is present, whose ego is present. And with this ego present, we were forced to arrange things so that we call the bad man very bad, so that his ego is hurt. We are trying to restrain evil through ego. That is why evil has not been restrained; only the ego has grown. What does all morality, all ethics do? It does only this: it uses your ego to restrain you from evil.

A father says to his son, “If you do this, what will the people of the village say?” Whether the thing is right or wrong is not the big question; the big question is what people will say! A man going to steal from someone’s house does not think, “Stealing is bad,” he thinks, “Will I get caught?” If you give a firm guarantee that he will not be caught, how many people would remain non-thieves? If the policeman were absent at the crossroads for twenty-four hours, the courts closed for twenty-four hours, the law suspended for twenty-four hours—how many good people would remain good? And if for twenty-four hours it were decided that those who do bad will be honored and those who do good will be insulted, it would be even more difficult.

No, we have not been stopped by the bad itself. To restrain the bad we have used only ego: “What will people say? What will happen to my honor? To the family name? To lineage? To prestige, respect, status?” With this we restrain a person.

But the very thing we use to restrain is the root of sin. We are trying to eradicate evil by watering it with poison. Hence, thousands of years have passed and evil has not been erased. Only the poison has been irrigated, and evil keeps finding new channels to appear.

What do we extract even from a good person? We feed his ego. We say, “We will put your nameplate on the temple; we will carve your name in marble.” Whether the work is good is not the point; we will stamp and seal your ego. The good man too does not build a temple to build a temple; he builds it to have his name carved in the temple. To bring about good we also have to irrigate poison. Therefore if temples and mosques have turned poisonous, it is no surprise. Their root is poison; ego stands there. To elicit goodness—ego; to prevent evil—ego!

Krishna is saying something altogether different—something wondrous. In one sense, you can call it the foundational formula of religion. He is saying: ethics will not do, Arjuna, because ethics stands upon ego. Religion will do, because religion says: drop the “I”; let the Divine do whatever is being done; become a mere instrument.

We feel afraid that if we become mere instruments, we will at once set out to steal. We fear that if we say we are not the doers, we will immediately go out to steal.

I have heard that in one office a manager got a bright idea. Generally managers don’t get bright ideas. Or perhaps, in becoming a manager one has to lose one’s intelligence. Or perhaps to reach the position of manager, intelligence is utterly unnecessary—perhaps even an obstacle. But one manager had an idea and put up a plaque in his office. People weren’t working; they kept postponing. So he put up a saying from some saint: “What you intend to do tomorrow, do today; what you intend to do today, do it now. There is no telling whether tomorrow will come.”

Seven days later his friends asked, “What was the result of the plaque?” He said, “I’m in great trouble. My secretary has run away with the typist. The accountant has vanished with all the money. Everything is in a mess. There has been no trace of my wife for seven days—she has run away with the peon. I’m the only one left in the office. Because whatever they were going to do tomorrow, they did today; and what they were going to do today, they did right now.”

We too feel that if we leave everything to the Divine, then we will have a free pass; then whatever we want to do, we will do it right now. Yes—if one is “becoming an instrument” in order to do that, if one is making the Divine the doer in order to do that, then certainly it will happen.

But one who becomes an instrument in order to do something is not becoming an instrument at all. And one who makes the Divine the doer in order to do something is not making the Divine the doer at all. The plan is still his own, the ego is still his own; he even wants to exploit the Divine.

No—Krishna is not speaking for that. Krishna says that if you surrender yourself into the Divine, then with surrender your plans drop; with surrender your desires drop; with surrender your passions drop; with surrender your future drops; with surrender, we ourselves drop away. Then we do not remain. Then whatever happens—whatever happens!

But we will feel afraid. Because all the things we want to do will immediately appear before us: “This will happen, that will happen.” Then we are not understanding Krishna; then Krishna will be difficult to understand.

The day a person musters the courage to surrender himself—and surrendering oneself is the greatest courage. There is no courage greater than that, no adventure greater, no audacity greater. To leave oneself at the feet of the Divine is not easy. And to think that someone who can leave himself will not be able to leave stealing—that is hard to imagine. One who can leave himself—for whom will he steal? One who can leave himself—for whom will he murder? One who can leave himself—for whom will he be dishonest? There is no way. The moment the self is left, everything is left. Then whatever happens—Krishna says—is of the Divine. You are only an instrument. One who is merely an instrument has no plans to make. One who is merely an instrument has no desires to harbor. What desire can an instrument have? What passion can an instrument have?

Krishna’s message is religious, not moral. And can a moral message even be called a message? It is makeshift, convenient. We keep contriving some way to restrain immorality. It does not stop. We keep arranging somehow, making do. The message of religion is not makeshift. The message of religion is the call for a radical revolution of life. One who leaves himself in every way—everything that existed till yesterday drops from his life. Neither bad nor good—both drop away. Then only the Divine remains. Then whatever happens, it makes no difference; everything is offered to the Divine.

Try the experiment even for twenty-four hours. Then it will be difficult for desire to arise. Because only the doer can raise desire. How will an instrument raise desire? Then it will be difficult to think, “Let me collect ten million rupees,” because who am I? Where am I? The desire to hoard a fortune cannot arise in one who is merely an instrument. The basis, the root source of all desire, is ego.

In the experiment of meditation the resolve is made three times, and even that is not enough. If it were made three hundred times, then it might suffice! Because you are not Arjuna. You are not Arjuna. Even if you are told three hundred times, if you hear it once, that is a lot. It is said thrice in the hope that perhaps once it will be heard. Among the deaf, the labor is of a different kind.

Krishna is not speaking to a crowd. And when I lead meditation, I am speaking to a crowd. Krishna is talking to one man—directly, face to face. When I speak to thousands, there is in truth no one face to face. They appear to be in front, but no one is really there. Even if something is said three hundred times, only a little will sink in. The hope is that in those three hundred repetitions perhaps once it will reach you. The work itself is done in a single stroke—but you have to hear that one stroke!

And you ask what will result from meditation?

If one is an extroverted personality, then through meditation he sets out on the journey toward Brahman. If one is an introverted personality, then through meditation he sets out on the journey toward nirvana. Meditation serves as the vehicle for both journeys. Therefore meditation is not tied to any particular type of person. It is like a train: if you wish to go west, it takes you west; if you wish to go east, it takes you east. The train does not say where to go. The train can go anywhere.

Meditation is only a vehicle. If an extrovert descends into meditation, he will set out toward Brahman, on an outer journey—on a cosmic journey—where the whole unbroken universe begins to feel like his very own nature. If an introvert mounts the vehicle of meditation, he will set out on the inner journey—into emptiness, and emptiness, and the great emptiness—where all the bubbles burst and dissolve, and only the great ocean of existence, of emptiness, remains. Meditation can serve both. Meditation has no relation to “type”; its relation is to the vehicle of the journey!

कर्मेन्द्रियाणि संयम्य य आस्ते मनसास्मरन्‌।
इन्द्रियार्थान्विमूढात्मा मिथ्याचारः स उच्यते।। 6।।

Therefore, the foolish man who forcibly restrains the organs of action while in his mind he keeps brooding over the objects of the senses is called a hypocrite, a pretender.

A marvelous utterance. Krishna is saying that the foolish person—note, foolish—the uncomprehending, the ignorant, who stubbornly restrains the senses while letting the mind run on with thoughts of lust, falls into vanity, hypocrisy, ego. He calls him foolish! He is saying, that person is foolish who represses the senses, who suppresses!

If only Freud had had a chance to read this verse of the Gita, the opposition to religion he carried might not have remained. But Freud only encountered the sayings of Christian ascetic saints of repression. He heard only of those “religious” people who cut off their genitals to be free of sex-desire; of those blind saints who gouged out their eyes so no beauty could attract them; of those deranged, neurotic people who scourged their bodies and shed blood so the body would make no demand; who stayed awake nights lest some dream drag the mind into desire; who starved lest, if strength came to the body, the senses might rebel.

Naturally, if Freud felt that such religion is neurotic, insane, and makes humanity deranged, it is no surprise. But a single sentence of Krishna would have undone all the knots in Freud’s mind.

Krishna is saying—five thousand years before Freud—that the person who suppresses his senses is foolish. Because by suppressing the senses the mind is not suppressed; in fact, the mind becomes more powerful. Therefore such a person is foolish. For the senses are not to blame at all; there is no question of the senses. The real issue is the mind hidden within. The mind is the one that demands; the senses merely follow after it. They are the mind’s servants, attendants—no more than that.

The mind says, “See beauty,” and the eyes see beauty. The mind says, “Close the eyes,” and the eyes close. Do the eyes have any desire of their own? Have the eyes ever said, “We desire this”? Has the hand ever said, “Touch this”? The mind says, “Touch,” and the hand goes to touch. The mind says, “Do not touch,” and the hand stops and is still. The senses have no desire of their own.

Yet how much abuse has been hurled at the senses! How many proclamations have been made against them! And the senses are utterly sinless, innocent. No sense organ leads a human being into any act; the mind does. And when someone suppresses the senses, blocks them, and the mind no longer gets their cooperation, then it goes mad and begins to fabricate inside the very things it desired outside.

If you have been hungry all day, then at night in dreams you find yourself invited to a royal banquet. The mind has made arrangements; it says, “All right then.” Toward the woman or man it restrained itself from during the day, at night the mind cannot restrain itself in dreams.

कर्मेन्द्रियाणि संयम्य य आस्ते मनसास्मरन्‌।
इन्द्रियार्थान्विमूढात्मा मिथ्याचारः स उच्यते।। 6।।

Therefore, the foolish man who forcibly restrains the organs of action while in his mind he keeps brooding over the objects of the senses is called a hypocrite, a pretender.

Meditation is only a vehicle. If an extrovert descends into it, he will set out on the journey toward Brahman—an outer journey, a cosmic journey—where the entire unbroken cosmos begins to feel like his very own nature. If an introvert mounts the vehicle of meditation, he will set out on the inner journey—into emptiness, and emptiness, and the great emptiness—where all bubbles burst and vanish, and only the great ocean of existence, of emptiness, remains. Meditation can serve both. Meditation has no relation to type; its relation is to the vehicle of the journey!

A marvelous utterance. Krishna is saying that the foolish person—note, foolish—the uncomprehending, the ignorant, who stubbornly restrains the senses while letting the mind run on with thoughts of lust, falls into vanity, hypocrisy, ego. He calls him foolish! He is saying, that person is foolish who represses the senses, who suppresses!

If only Freud had had a chance to read this verse of the Gita, the opposition to religion he carried might not have remained. But Freud only encountered the sayings of Christian ascetic saints of repression. He heard only of those “religious” people who cut off their genitals to be free of sex-desire; of those blind saints who gouged out their eyes so no beauty could attract them; of those deranged, neurotic people who scourged their bodies and shed blood so the body would make no demand; who stayed awake nights lest some dream drag the mind into desire; who starved lest, if strength came to the body, the senses might rebel.

Naturally, if Freud felt that such religion is neurotic, insane, and deranging to humanity, it is no surprise. But a single sentence of Krishna would have undone all the knots in Freud’s mind.

Krishna is saying—five thousand years before Freud—that the person who suppresses his senses is foolish. Because by suppressing the senses the mind is not suppressed; in fact, the mind becomes more powerful. Therefore such a person is foolish. For the senses are not to blame at all; there is no question of the senses. The real issue is the mind hidden within. The mind is the one that demands; the senses merely follow after it. They are the mind’s servants, attendants—no more than that.

The mind says, “See beauty,” and the eyes see beauty. The mind says, “Close the eyes,” and the eyes close. Do the eyes have any desire of their own? Have the eyes ever said, “We desire this”? Has the hand ever said, “Touch this”? The mind says, “Touch,” and the hand goes to touch. The mind says, “Do not touch,” and the hand stops and is still. The senses have no desire of their own.

Yet how much abuse has been hurled at the senses! How many proclamations have been made against them! And the senses are utterly sinless, innocent. No sense organ leads a human being into any act; the mind does. And when someone suppresses the senses, blocks them, and the mind no longer gets their cooperation, then it goes mad and begins to fabricate inside the very things it desired outside.

If you have been hungry all day, then at night in dreams you find yourself invited to a royal banquet. The mind has made arrangements; it says, “All right then.” Toward the woman or man it restrained itself from during the day, at night the mind cannot restrain itself in dreams.

Freud himself wrote in a letter—and Freud knew; he wrote it himself. It was written at about forty-five. He wrote to a friend: “Today I was astonished while walking down the street: seeing a beautiful woman, the desire arose in me to touch her. Then I thought, ‘How crazy of me—at my age! And a man like Freud, who has perhaps tried more than anyone in human history to understand sex all his life, who knows what sex is, who knows what desire is.’ I wished to restrain myself, but even as I restrained myself I moved through the crowd and touched her, made contact. Half of me was restraining, half of me was touching. I kept repenting and I kept desiring.” Freud wrote, “That this is still possible within me—I had not thought so.”

It is possible up to the very moment of death. Even a corpse, if a little strength remains, could rise and do just that. The dead have never done it, but there are those who do it with the dead.

When Cleopatra died and her body was buried, her corpse was stolen. A beautiful woman! Fifteen days later her body was found, and the physicians said that in those fifteen days thousands of people had had intercourse with the corpse. Intercourse happens even with corpses! If the corpses themselves were to rise, they could do it too.

Krishna is saying: from the outside you may suppress the senses—but the senses are not at fault, they have no hand in it. The senses are irrelevant; they have nothing to do with it. The issue is the mind. Suppress the senses—do not eat today, keep a fast. The mind, the mind will eat all day long. The very mind that eats twice a day on ordinary days eats all day long on the fasting day. This mind—foolish is the person who, without understanding this mind, without transforming it, gets busy only with suppressing the senses. And what will be the result? He will become vain. He will put on a show: “Look, I have attained self-restraint; look, I’ve achieved control; look, I have attained to tapas.” Outside he will display one thing, and inside the very opposite will go on.

If we could open the skulls of the so-called sadhus—their number is large, they are ninety-nine percent—and could open the doors of their hearts, devils would be seen coming out from within them. If we could break open the cells of their brains and ask, “What goes on inside you?” what goes on would be very frightening. It is the exact opposite. Inside, the very reverse goes on from what appears outside.

Krishna calls this foolishness. Because what goes on inside is the real thing. What goes on outside has no value. Religion has nothing to do with display, with exhibition. What has religion to do with showing off? Religion has to do with being. It may be that outwardly something contrary appears—no matter; inwardly it must be right. Outside, even if food goes on, no matter; inside there should be fasting. But what happens is the reverse. Outside, fasting goes on; inside, feasting goes on. Outside, a woman may be sitting nearby, or a man may be sitting nearby—no harm; inside—inside, no one other than oneself should be present. But the reverse happens. Outside a man sits in a temple, a mosque, a gurudwara; and inside his own gurudwara someone else is seated; they are walking about.

If life is to be changed, it cannot be changed from the outside; if life is to be changed, it can only be changed from within. And the person who gets busy changing the outside forgets that the real work is inside. The issue is not the senses; the issue is the mind. It is an issue of tendencies; of desire; the body is not the issue at all.

Therefore, no matter how much one suppresses the body, even destroys it—kills it—nothing changes. His ghost will wander; he will take new births in those same desires. He will assume new bodies for the very desires he “left” in the previous body. His journey will continue. For infinite births he will go on seeking what his mind wants to seek.

Vanity, hypocrisy, deceit—whom are we deceiving? Others? Even if we could deceive others, how will we deceive ourselves? Therefore anyone who is eager for the religious dimension must understand clearly that he is not going to deceive himself! Let him be sure he is not falling into self-deception! Krishna says exactly this—foolish!

Think of it: a man like Krishna using a word like “fool”! If I tell someone, “You are a fool,” he will get up to fight. Krishna called Arjuna a fool. He called them all fools. In a later aphorism he even calls Arjuna a great fool—“You are an utter fool.” Yet Arjuna did not stand up to fight. What Krishna says is factual, not condemnatory. He does not use the word “fool” to insult someone, but to state a fact.

There are fools in the world; they must be called fools. If, out of politeness and etiquette, we call them “O wise ones!” great harm will be done. But religious people with the courage of a Krishna are no longer here. Now if anyone goes to a religious man, he cannot call him a fool. There are no religious men left.

Zen fakirs in Japan keep a staff at hand. Ask a slightly off question and you may get a whack on the head. Here, if you say even this much—that you are asking wrongly—he will be ready to fight. There is hardly any real spirit of inquiry left; and for centuries the courageous religious man who could state facts as they are has disappeared. So if today you call someone a fool, he will say, “Ah! He called me a fool—then he is not a good man.”

Krishna says: fools are those who suppress, repress the senses, and as a result their inner mind goes on whirling in those very desires, rises into storms, becomes hurricanes. Such people fall into vanity and hypocrisy. And in this world, worse than ignorance is hypocrisy. Therefore he says they fall into false conduct, into falsity.

This word must also be understood properly. What is mithya? One thing is truth; another is untruth. Is mithya untruth? No. Mithya means in between—what is in fact untrue but appears like truth. Mithya is the middle term.

Krishna is not saying such people fall into untruth; he says they fall into falsity, illusion. What does that mean? They appear perfectly fine; they are not fine. They fall into this delusion. Outside they appear pure white; inside they are utterly black. If outside they were black too, that would be truth; if inside they were white too, that would be truth. What is this? It is a false state, an illusory state. We make one kind of face outside and inside something altogether different goes on.

One who falls into this falsity reaches a worse place than the ignorant. Because in ignorance there is pain. If I know I am wrong, then I begin to change myself. If I know I am sick, I arrange for treatment, I seek a physician, I get diagnosed. But if I am sick and I announce that I am healthy, then the difficulty deepens. Now I do not seek a doctor; I do not get diagnosed; I do not approach a diagnostician. I go on declaring I am healthy, and inside I go on being ill. Inside there is disease; outside, a show of health. Then a man falls into the most complex entanglement. Falsity creates the greatest complexity in human life.

So Krishna says: such a person becomes ultimately very complex. He does one thing, he is something else. He knows one thing, he believes another. He shows one thing, he sees another. Everything in him becomes disordered. Inside himself he gets cut in two.

In the language of psychology, such a person becomes schizophrenic, schizoid. He splits into two and begins to live doubly—double bind. His two legs start to walk in opposite directions. One eye looks here, the other there. His inner alignment breaks. The left eye looks this way, the right eye that; the left leg walks this way, the right that. All his inner harmony, his coordination, his rhythm—everything breaks.

Such a person is called fallen into falsity: whose inner alignment, whose inner tuning, whose inner concord has become a jumble. Inside him fire burns, and outside he shows shivering and says, “I feel cold.” Inside him anger blazes, and on his lips a smile says, “I am very pleased.” Inside him lust smolders, and outside there is renunciation—“I am a sannyasin.” Where such a split between inner and outer occurs, such a person squanders the opportunity of life from which a great music might have been attained, and falls into falsity. Falsity is a disease—schizophrenia. Falsity means a fragmented mind, a self-opposed personality, disintegrated.

Why is Krishna saying this to Arjuna? What is the need to bring this up? But Krishna is not saying it directly. He is not saying, “Arjuna, you have become false.” He is not saying that. Krishna is a very skillful psychologist, as I said yesterday. He does not say, “Arjuna, you have become false.” He says, “That kind of person is foolish, Arjuna, who falls into such falsity.”

He knows Arjuna very well. His inner personality is extrovert—he is a kshatriya. Beyond the sword he knows nothing. If ever his soul shines, it will flash as a sword. If his life-breaths are opened, the music of battle will sound. If you uncover his life-breaths, within you will find a warrior. But he is speaking like a pacifist, like Bertrand Russell. The man is Arjuna, and he speaks like Bertrand Russell. Arjuna is falling into falsity. If Arjuna runs away from the battle, he will be in trouble. He will then have to suppress his senses. And this very turmoil will rage in his mind.

Therefore Krishna hints; he does not speak straight. And very often what is said straight is not heard. I too have experienced this many times. Someone comes to ask a question directly; his two friends come along. I have been surprised again and again: the one who asks directly understands less; the two who sit silently beside him, who do not come to ask, understand more. Because the one who asks becomes very conscious, very full of ego. It is his question. And when he is being answered, he is less engaged in understanding and more absorbed in thinking up the next question. While he is being told, he is weighing for and against. He cannot be completely immersed. But the two sit quietly nearby; it is not their question; they are outside, on the periphery. They are simply present, observers. The words go in more quickly.

Krishna does not say directly to Arjuna, “You are falling into falsity.” Because if he said so, the ego might stiffen. And Arjuna might say, “Falsity? Never! I and falsity? What are you saying?” Then understanding would become more difficult.

Krishna says, “That kind of person falls into falsity who suppresses the senses while the mind remains untransformed.” Then the mind goes west and the senses east, and the inner music breaks. Such a person becomes diseased. And almost everyone is like this. Hence there is no joy in life, no fragrance, no music.

Karma and kriya are not different deep down. On the surface they appear different. For example, even if I fall asleep, the body will go on digesting, making blood; bones will continue to be formed; old cells will die and be expelled; new cells will be born. At night I will lie asleep, but activity will continue. We cannot call that karma, because “I” am not there at all; the ego has no chance. In truth, any activity with which we manage to link the ego—we begin to call that karma. And any activity with which we cannot link the ego, we call kriya; then we don’t call it karma. But deep down, no activity is merely activity; activity too is karma.

Why? Why so? Because when I am sleeping at night, or I have been rendered unconscious—suppose I’ve been given morphia, now I am lying totally unconscious—even then the blood will do its work, the bones theirs; the stomach will carry on; breath will continue; the lungs will do their job. Everything goes on. I am completely unconscious. How can this be linked to karma?

Therefore it must be linked, it is necessary to link it: my urge to live, lust for living, jeeveshna, is present even in my deepest unconsciousness. And it is because of my jeeveshna that all these activities go on. If my jeeveshna drops, then even a healthy body will stop right now. If my desire to live suddenly drops, all the activities will stop instantly. Deep down, it is my own unconscious, my own unconsciousness that is running even these activities; I am running them. But since in the unconscious there is no sense of ego, I do not call them karma.

You are sleeping at night; you are in deep sleep. Suppose there are so many of us here; we all fall asleep right here. Then someone comes and shouts loudly, “Ram!” Among thousands no one will hear; all will keep sleeping. Only Ram will turn over and say, “Who is disturbing the night? Who is troubling me? Who took my name?”

So many are sleeping; none heard. But the one whose name was Ram—even though he is asleep—hears that my name is being called; my name is Ram. Even in the depths of sleep he knows at least this much: I am Ram. Even in sleep!

A mother is there. Outside a storm may be raging—winds howling, snow falling, rain pouring, thunder cracking—she may not notice. But amidst all that thunder, if her tiny child whimpers or merely turns over, she wakes. Surely some part of the mind is standing guard even in the depth of night. The storm she does not hear, but the child’s sound is heard.

Hypnotists say—those who deeply investigate hypnosis say—that however deeply a person is hypnotized, you cannot make him do something that goes against his deepest will.

For example, a chaste woman, in whose mind no thought has ever arisen of any man other than her husband. This is difficult, very un-natural, almost impossible. That is why chastity has value; if it were very simple, easy and natural, it could not have such value. If she is hypnotized, rendered unconscious—some Max Kohli or someone puts her into deep trance—and he says to her, “Dance,” she will dance. He says, “Milk the cow,” she will milk. He says, “Run,” she will run. But if he says, “Embrace this man,” the hypnosis will break at once; the unconsciousness will shatter instantly. She will stand up and say, “What are you saying!” She was running, crying, laughing—she was doing all that. But say, “Embrace this man”—the embrace will not happen; the hypnosis will break. Why? Because even that deep, that deep, in such unconsciousness, her deepest inner sentiment is present: No, this cannot be.

Whatever is going on within a human being—our support is in it. By support I mean: our deep longing to live is there, so the work of living continues even in sleep, continues even in unconsciousness.

I went to see a woman who had been unconscious for nine months, in a coma. The physicians were saying she would remain unconscious for three years; she would not recover, but in this same unconscious state she would remain. Injections, medicines, food and all would continue to be given like this. Someday she would die. It is astonishing: she has been lying unconscious for nine months. So I asked: when there is no hope left of any return to living, what could be the cause? They said, we cannot say anything. But a psychologist would say the urge to live is still there deep within. The jeeveshna, the will-to-live, is still there in the depths of the unconscious. That jeeveshna is driving her.

Now ask: whose jeeveshna is this? If this jeeveshna were merely ours, perhaps at times we would miss. This jeeveshna is God’s own; otherwise we would miss now and then. Therefore all the deep layers of life are not left to us. They have become our kriyas, not our karmas. For example, if breathing were in your hands—breathe if you wish; if not, then don’t—just as with walking: if you wish to walk, you walk; if not, you don’t—if breathing too were in your hands, a man would die ten or twenty times a day; he would slip for a moment and die.

So, what is in your hands are the utterly trivial things, manipulations whose alteration makes no particular difference; only those appear to be in your hands. All the rest, the vital stream of life, is in the hands of the life-current itself, in the hands of the Divine. They are not in your hands. Otherwise you would commit many lapses. You forgot and didn’t breathe for two minutes. A ten-rupee note got lost; you forgot for ten minutes and didn’t breathe. Your wife got angry; you forgot and didn’t let your heart beat for two minutes—gone!

No, it does not depend on your conscious mind; it depends on the unconscious. And the unconscious is connected on one side with you and on the other side with God. The unconscious is linked on one side with you, and on the other side, deep within, with the Divine.

Therefore when we say, “God is the creator,” it does not mean what people take it to mean. Both believers and nonbelievers misunderstand. It does not mean that on some date and auspicious hour God created the world and that’s that. Believers understand it this way; opponents also understand it this way. Both are equally foolish.

“God is creator” means only this much: that even this moment it is His energy that is creating and running life. This very moment, even now, it is He. Deep down, He is the one who creates. If a wave rises in the ocean, it is His wave. If a storm comes in the winds, it is His storm. If life comes into the breath, it is His life. If intelligence flashes in the inert cells of the brain, it is His intelligence.

It is not that at some moment in history—as Christians say, four thousand and four years before Jesus—on some date in the calendar, God made the whole world. The matter ended; since then there is no need of Him. An architect builds the house once and is dismissed; what need is there to drag him in again and again? He is gone. God has not built something and then gone away. The entire process of life is His process. At one end we here have become conscious; there a delusion arises in us that “I am doing.”

Krishna is saying exactly this: drop the belief that you are the doer. Karma will go on happening, kriya will continue to flow; just drop your illusion in the middle that you are doing it. Then you will see that behind you, beyond you, the hands of God are in your hands; the eye of God is in your eye; the heartbeat of God is in your heartbeat; the breath of God is in your breath. Then in every pore you will feel: only He is. Not only in your pores; in every pore of the other, too, you will experience that it is He.

Once the illusion of ego breaks, once a man awakens from the sleep of ego, he discovers that “I” never was. What is, is something very profound, far deeper than me. It is before me, long before me. It will be later too, after me. I am in it as well. But my “I” is merely a conceit that has come to the wave. Yet even if conceit arises, the wave does not become separate from the ocean; it still is in the ocean. Even if the wave begins to think, “I am rising,” still the wave is not rising; it is the ocean that rises. And if the wave thinks, “I am moving,” it is not moving; it is the ocean that moves. And when the wave falls and thinks, “I am falling,” even then the wave does not fall; it is the ocean that falls. And throughout this whole fancy, this entire illusion in which the wave lives, it still is only the ocean.

This much is all that Krishna is saying: look back, look deep, look rightly! The doing is not yours; the doing is His. Needlessly you are erecting the “I” in between. Let that “I” go.

One small story, and I will complete today’s talk.

I have heard: a man went to a foreign land. He does not know the language there, he is a stranger, knows no one. He stands at the gate of a very large mansion. People are going in; he too follows them in. There he sees great arrangements; people are sitting for a meal, so he too sits down. He is very hungry. As soon as he sits, a plate piled high with many dishes is placed before him, and he eats. He thinks, it seems this is the palace of the emperor and some feast is going on. Guests are coming and going.

He gets up and starts expressing thanks. He bows again and again to the man who brought the food. But that man presents a bill before him. It is a hotel. The man hands him the bill: pay. And he thinks perhaps they are giving a reply to my thanks! He tucks the bill into his pocket and thanks again: I am very, very happy that such a stranger as me has been given such a welcome, such honor, such fine food. I will go to my country and sing your praise.

But the waiter cannot understand; he grabs him and takes him to the manager. The man thinks, perhaps the emperor’s representative is so pleased with my thanks that he is taking me to meet some big officer. When the manager also tells him, “Pay,” even then he thinks this is a response to my thanks. He thanks again. Then the manager sends him to court.

Now he thinks, I am standing before the emperor himself. The magistrate tells him again and again: You pay the money; what nonsense are you talking? Are you mad, or what kind of man are you? But he goes on thanking; he says, my happiness knows no bounds. Then the magistrate says: Seat this man backward on a donkey, hang a placard around his neck that this man is very cunning, and parade him through the town.

When they are seating him on the donkey, he thinks: now my procession, now my grand parade is going to happen. The parade starts. A few children too begin beating drums and cymbals and follow behind. People laugh, giggle, a crowd gathers. He bows again and again to all. He says, what great joy, that a foreigner is being welcomed so much!

Even then, in the crowd he sees a man who is from his own country. Seeing him, he fills with delight. Because until there is someone from your own land to see, there is not much fun either; even if you tell it on returning home, will anyone believe you or not! Seeing a man in the crowd, he shouts, Brother! Look how much they are honoring me! But that man lowers his head and runs out of the crowd—because he knows what is happening! But the fellow on the donkey thinks, he is burning with jealousy, burning with jealousy.

Almost exactly like this, seated on the donkey of ego, we live in such delusions. They have nothing to do with the fact of life, because we do not know the language of life. And the language we speak, the language of the ego, has no harmony with life anywhere.

More tomorrow.