Geeta Darshan #5

According to the order of creation! Krishna’s first point in this aphorism is: according to the order of creation. If this is understood, the rest too can be understood.
Life can be lived in two ways. One, contrary to the order of creation—against it, in rebellion, in revolt. And one, according to the order of creation—natural, simple, in the flow. One can swim against the current of life, and one can be carried by the current. In short, we can say there are two kinds of people: those who fight the current of life, who swim upstream; and those who flow with the current, who become one with the current.
According to the order of creation, the second kind of person lives with the current of life—not fighting life—flowing with life. That is the mark of the religious person. The irreligious person bears the contrary mark.
If an irreligious person says there is no God, it is not because he has come to know that there is no God. No one can ever know that God is not. One could know that God is not only if nothing remained to be known. So long as anything at all remains unknown, no one is entitled to say that God is not—because in that which remains, God may be. Therefore the nonexistence of God cannot be known to anyone. Yet so many say, “God is not.” Why do they say it without knowing?
In truth, they want there to be no God. If there is no God, then there is no need to flow with the order of life. If there is no God, then one can fight life. If God is, one cannot fight life. If God is, one can only become one with life. That there is no God—no one has ever experienced this. But those who wish to fight with life cannot fight without the belief that there is no God. Hence all scriptures that teach fighting with life, all ideologies that fight life, begin by denying God.
It can seem astonishing that Marx or Engels or Lenin or Stalin or Mao—those who carry within them the notion of fighting life—must begin their doctrine with the statement: God is not. In truth, if one wants to fight, then God must be denied. One cannot fight God; one can only love Him; one can only pray to Him.
In this sutra, “according to the order of life” means the whole cosmos is not other than us, not separate from us. We are born within it and dissolve into it. Therefore whoever fights the current of this world becomes diseased and disordered; he falls ill. Whoever wishes to be utterly healthy must become one with the order of life. On the basis of this order of life, India evolved a natural vision of living. I would like to tell you about it.
I have already said something to you about varna. Today I wish to say something about ashrama. Only then will you grasp the fundamental meaning of “according to the order of creation,” and what it means to act in accord with shastra.
When Krishna uses the word shastra, he uses it exactly as we use the word “science” today. If you go to an allopathic physician, we will say you are taking a science-based treatment. And if you go to a quack, we will say your treatment is not science-based. Whenever Krishna says shastra-sammat, that is what he means by shastra. And in essence that is what shastra means: up to that day, whatever science was known, whatever was understood—actions that were validated by that knowing—toward that action he points.
And the science we know today is, in one sense, partial, not total—fragmented. We only know a science of matter; as for life, we have no science yet. Krishna had before him a complete science—one that did not divide matter and life into fragments, but accepted them as an indivisible unity. That science divided life into four parts. Just as it divided people into four types, in the same way it divided each person’s life into four stages—stages that flowed with the current of life.
The first stage we called Brahmacharya—for twenty-five years. If we take a hundred years as a human lifespan, the first twenty-five years were the period of the Brahmacharya ashrama. The second twenty-five were of the Grihastha ashrama; the third twenty-five of the Vanaprastha ashrama; and the fourth twenty-five of the Sannyas ashrama. The first twenty-five years are the dawn of life, when energy awakens, the body gains strength, the senses are powerful, intelligence radiant, life is rising—morning. We called these twenty-five years the Brahmacharya ashrama.
This needs to be understood a little. The first twenty-five were years of restraint. Why? Because only one who has strength can enter into the enjoyments of life. The weak will be deprived. The richer one is in bodily wealth and in the wealth of mind, the more strength preserved, the deeper he can descend into the juice of life. Therefore the first twenty-five years are for the gathering of strength, for preparing for life.
And it is very interesting that only one who can enjoy rightly arrives rightly at renunciation. The weak cannot truly enjoy, therefore they never arrive at renunciation. In truth, the weak never even know what enjoyment is; hence they can never go beyond it. A fundamental law of life is: that which we know totally, we are freed from; that which we do not know rightly, we can never be free of.
Now this may seem an inversion: for twenty-five years we would take a person through the discipline of Brahmacharya so that one day he might be free of lust. For twenty-five years we kept him in the practice of Brahmacharya so that for the next twenty-five years he could go into the depth of sexual experience; so that he could know the deepest experiences of sex. Because only one who has gone deep into sex can go beyond sex. One who has not gone deep will never get beyond it.
Today even old men cannot go beyond lust—because they have never gathered the strength needed even to enter it. The intensity, the profundity of energy required to experience and then transcend—such strength is never accumulated. Therefore these twenty-five years had a double meaning.
One, for those who tomorrow will enter into the experiences of the world, of the senses—Krishna says in this saying, “those who enjoy the pleasures of the senses”—even for them, it is right to go in accord with the order of life. If the order of life becomes fragmented, broken, chaotic, anarchic, no one arrives at the ultimate peak of life. Hence the first twenty-five years are for gathering strength. Tomorrow will come moments for the expenditure of strength.
Have you ever considered that a weak man never becomes free of lust? The weaker he is, the more he falls into sex. It seems reversed, but it is true. The stronger one is, the sooner he goes beyond lust. Therefore epochs of strength were not lustful epochs; and the weaker the age, the more sexual and lustful it becomes. Lust weakens, and weakness increases lust. Strength frees from lust, and when freedom from lust comes, strength increases. The two are linked. The weak never go beyond desire.
In truth the weak do not even really enter desire; they only think about it. Their sexuality becomes cerebral, mental. Lacking strength, they only fantasize. Healthy ages never bring sex into the mind; unhealthy ages bring sex into the mind. The more diseased an age, the more sexuality moves from the center of sex to the center of the brain. It is the same kind of madness as if someone, unable to digest food in the stomach, began thinking to digest it in the brain; or someone, unable to walk with the legs, went on planning in the brain, imagining, dreaming of walking—he will become deranged. One cannot walk with the brain; with the brain one can only think. One cannot think with the legs; with the legs one can only walk. Let the brain do its work; let the legs do theirs. But if the legs are weak, one begins to dream of running. If the stomach is weak, one goes on making plans for food, but does not eat. If sex is weak, if sexual energy is weak, one begins to think about sex.
For the first twenty-five years we created in a person’s life years of gathering energy. Gather as much as you can—because the more strength you have, the deeper you can go into the experiences of the senses. And the deeper you go, the more free you become of the senses. When all experiences of the senses are known, one sees there is nothing there worth having. The matter ends. But we never even arrive at the experiences of the senses; so we go on reading in the scriptures that there is nothing in the senses—and we go on thinking that everything is in the senses. We listen to sermons against the senses, and we believe that apart from the senses nothing is dear. The same person who listens to talks against the senses goes and watches pictures, films, novels, poetry in their favor; he listens to discourses against pleasures and yet he is seen in the prostitute’s house. What has happened?
The person is not in accord with the order of life. The first order of life is the gathering of strength. And here another point must be kept in mind. In those twenty-five Brahmacharya years we joined to life a second and very deep psychological insight—which tomorrow, if not today, the world will have to bring back; otherwise the world’s survival will be impossible. And that was that the first twenty-five years were of hardship, of strenuous labor.
Now it is a great wonder: the more laborious a person’s childhood, the more joyous the rest of his life; and the more comfortable the childhood, the more the rest of life becomes sorrow and gloom. He who slept on a mat in childhood, who ate coarse dry bread, who wielded the spade, split wood, herded cows—whatever life gives him later will always be more than that. And joy is always comparative; it is in comparison. Whatever life gives will always be more than before.
Today we do exactly the opposite madness. What the father does not have, the son receives. What is not at home is found in the hostel. Twenty-five years pass without labor, without work, without hardship, without struggle. And after twenty-five, life brings struggle, brings labor. Therefore nothing that is received can satisfy. Comparatively, whatever comes seems useless, contrary to expectations.
The first ashrama of twenty-five years was of labor, of sadhana, of resolve. Therefore whatever life then gave—even coarse dry bread—was so delicious that there is no measure for it. Bread no longer tastes that delicious. Truthfully, bread is very delicious, but the eater has forgotten the art of savoring. Bread today is more delicious than ever, but the taster is weaker than before; the taster is sick. Houses in today’s world are such as never were; what emperors like Akbar or Ashoka did not have is available to an ordinary man. And yet there is no joy in living in these houses, because the dweller has no measure to weigh joy, no capacity to experience it.
The twenty-five years of Brahmacharya were years of strenuous labor. The later life went on becoming less laborious at every step. This is the right order. When there is more strength in the hands, one should do more labor. Today children do less labor and the old do more. This is completely reversed. Children have strength; the old are losing it. Yet the old are yoked like oxen and the children are resting. And when these resting children set fire to universities, when they throw stones and break glass, it is no surprise. They have no work; they are entirely without work. They need some work; they need something to break. When they used to cut wood in the forest, they did not throw stones at the guru’s hut. Cutting wood consumed so much energy that they became light. Now there is nothing to cut, hammer, pound—so they throw stones.
The first ashrama—when life is at the dawn of strength—is the time to gather and apply energy, to develop capacity; not the time to rest. Rest will come gradually. The last moment, at the sunset of life, is the moment of rest. So after seventy-five, in the final Sannyas ashrama, we had arranged complete rest—utter rest. The first—complete labor; the last—complete rest. In between were two steps.
Understand this first from another side: a person’s development is almost complete in twenty-five years. Psychologists say it completes even earlier. Therefore, before development completes, one should awaken the entire potential. Before that moment passes, every seed-like strength within should become a tree—actualized. Therefore not an ounce of rest was allowed in those twenty-five years. Continuous labor. Hard labor. Tireless labor. Two results followed. One, the person awakened all his powers and became fit to enter life. Two, whatever life gave thereafter became contentment and joy for him.
In today’s world nothing can become contentment. Our whole arrangement is such that everything will become discontent—must become. Because there was an art of contentment which was in accord with the order of life. Flowers should come to the tree when they should; the leaves should fall when they should. When the tree becomes old, we should not expect of it what we expected when it was young. Today it is astonishing that from the young, from whom most should be expected, we expect nothing.
In the period of Brahmacharya there was a third process—let me remind you—it too was part of life. In that period, regardless of which family one came from, life was communist—of the commune. Whether of the poor, or rich, or a prince—it made no difference. The twenty-five years of Brahmacharya were years of communal, equal living. The son of a king would also split wood, also graze cows and bulls, also clean with cow-dung, also press the guru’s feet. These twenty-five years were of commune, of equality. And whatever enters the heart in those twenty-five years remains for life. Therefore, even if inequality appeared in society, in the minds of individuals there was no inequality; nor was there any mad thirst for equality. What we call competition could not arise in those twenty-five years in that sense, because all was equal. Thus we laid the primary foundation of a non-competitive, rivalry-free, ambitionless society.
The second ashrama was that of the householder. Perhaps on this earth no country has accepted man with such scientific exactness as this one. Now look at the seeming paradox: for twenty-five years we taught him Brahmacharya; and after twenty-five, we sent him into the Grihastha life—married, with the opportunity to enter sexual and sensory pleasures.
Someone will say: what madness is this! If we taught Brahmacharya for twenty-five years, why send him now? Brahmacharya was taught so that now he can also weigh where bliss is—whether in Brahmacharya or in desire. And the bliss he tasted in Brahmacharya he will never find in lust. Therefore sex remains only a duty. Therefore sex will never become a craving for enjoyment, it remains merely a duty. And the bird of his life will go on waiting: when will fifty years be complete, so I may return to the world of Brahmacharya? Thus the pleasure of sex is never what we imagine it to be.
Those in whose lives the ray of Brahmacharya has entered are astonished and say: you are mad! But you have no way to compare. You have never known the joy of Brahmacharya—how will you weigh? There is no way to compare. Yes, there is only one way: one relates to one woman; not finding happiness he thinks perhaps with another woman. The only method of weighing: if not with this woman, then with that one; if not with this man, then with another. Change the person, perhaps you will find it. But the thought never arises: change the state, perhaps it may be found—because we have no knowledge of any other state.
Therefore, before traveling in the realm of desire, the taste of Brahmacharya is essential; otherwise lust will not leave you till the grave—because you will have no way to compare. And he who has known the joy, the peace, the bliss of Brahmacharya; the power of Brahmacharya, the energy, the ecstasy—when the world of sex comes before him, he will weigh it and find it very insipid. Even “insipid” is superfluous—there is little savor in it; it is utterly ordinary. Then he can perform it as a duty. Fine—this is the order of the world, of Paramatman, of life; let him beget someone and pass on. Let him fill the place. But sex will not seize him madly.
Therefore the shastras of this country could say: one who enters intercourse only for offspring—though not a brahmachari in the old sense—yet is still a brahmachari. He who enters sex only for progeny is also a brahmachari, so said our shastras. They could say so because one who has once known Brahmacharya never enters sex directly for lust—sex remains duty, something to be done and be free—twenty-five years. By the age of fifty, his children will be ready to return from the ashram; they will be nearing twenty-five.
This country discovered something deeper: in one and the same house, the father engaging in sex and the son engaging in sex—this is very unethical. It is so, because then the father is still childish. If the son is married and bearing children, and the father too is begetting children in the same house—shameful. What will the son think? Father is childish, not mature—still not free of lust and sex!
Therefore this land held: the day a son marries, that very day the father is to understand he has entered Vanaprastha; the mother too understands she has entered Vanaprastha. Do you understand Vanaprastha? It means: the face turned toward the forest. Not that one goes to the forest immediately—only that now one is oriented toward the forest—Vanaprastha. One prepares for departure to the forest. If he goes right away, the order will be disturbed. The children are returning from the ashram; the experience this father has gathered in twenty-five years is necessary to give to the children. Otherwise, how will they receive it? What he has learned from life must be handed over. The keys of house, knowledge, experience must be given to the children. He becomes Vanaprasthi and keeps giving to them.
And by seventy-five, his children’s children will begin returning from the forest. By then his children will be fifty; they too will be near Vanaprastha. Now he will receive their salutations and go to the forest. Now he will be a sannyasi. Evening has come to life. The journey of seeing the world is complete—morning, noon, and now dusk. The sun is returning home. These last twenty-five years are for remembrance of the Lord.
And an interesting thing: those last twenty-five years—the one who has gone from Vanaprastha into Sannyas becomes the guru for the children who will come from society. And where there are no old men as gurus, there are no gurus at all. Today between student and guru there is a gap of only two or four years—sometimes not even that; sometimes the student is older than the teacher. If the student is older than the guru, how can those relationships be formed which were possible between a small child and a man who has lived seventy-five years and gathered the experiences of life?
He was the summit of life. Life had left its imprint on every pore. In his every breath life had left its experience. In every heartbeat life had poured its wealth. In the wrinkles of his face the maturity and the whole of life were hidden. When small children came to the forest and sat with such a man—seventy-five, eighty, a hundred years old—it was natural that reverence, a sense of the worshipful, arose in their hearts. In such a man there was no lust—he had become nirvasana. He looked worthy of worship—he looked like God.
So if those children could say “Guru Brahma,” this cannot be said of today’s guru. For he seemed just like the Divine—desire dissolved, no wish remaining, no attachment to things; whatever events happened, he took them alike; his consciousness became unattached; whether all was left or all was gained, it was all the same. If in the presence of such a pinnacle of life a child felt that he was the Divine, it is no wonder.
But if today’s guru imagines that anyone will take him as Divine, he is mad. There remains no reason to take him so; the whole foundation has fallen. And we used to say: only he is qualified to be guru who has known the whole of life and returned; otherwise he cannot be a guru. Today’s guru is only informative; he has some information the student doesn’t have. But as far as life, existence is concerned, there is no fundamental difference between him and the student.
Often it happens that in the university the boys fall in love with the same girl the teacher does. It becomes competitive. Competition for the same girl in the class! Then what reverence can the student have for such a guru? He chews the same betel at the same stall as the boy. He watches the same film, seated side by side with his student; and when a nude scene comes on the screen, the guru’s spine straightens and so does the boy’s. There is no existential difference between them.
But we had thought: until there is an existential difference, the guru–disciple relationship cannot be created. It is not merely informative; it is existential. And only in this part of the earth did we create an existential difference: the guru should be at the sunset of life, the student at the sunrise. Between them fifty, sixty, seventy years of distance—sixty or seventy years of experience. And experience does not only give knowledge; it also liberates from passions. Experience brings an end to those petty things that were so important yesterday. Experience frees from yesterday’s defects—anger, sex, greed. And when children gathered around such a person, they returned endowed with life itself—returned lifelong debtors. This fourth ashrama was Sannyas. Such was the shastra-sammat arrangement of life’s order.
Krishna says to Arjuna: he who enters the order of karmic living in this way—flowing in accord with life—not only attains the pleasures of the senses, but ultimately attains the bliss of the Atman. And by flowing in this order of life, in the end he surely comes to a place where doing and not-doing are no different, Arjuna.
Why does Krishna say this to Arjuna? He says it because right now you are not at that place from which you can be a renunciate. Not yet at that point in the order of life where renunciation can bear fruit. Not at the place from which you can be free of karma. Now you cannot have equality between doing and not-doing. If you choose not-doing, even then it is a choice—it will be your choice. But a moment comes in the flow of life when doing and not-doing become equal; there is no choice—one becomes choiceless.
So Krishna says to him: earlier I pressed that you are a kshatriya—that was one part of the science discovered by this land: varna. Now I stress another part of this science: ashrama. Varna-ashrama—this is the greatest contribution this land has given to humanity: the vision of varna and ashrama.
Now he says another thing: when he says shastra-sammat—this does not mean “because it is written in the Vedas.” It means this much: up to that day, all the wise ones said this—without exception; therefore. Whatever has been known gives its assent: flow with life in this way, and a day will come when doing and not-doing become equal. But let it come; do not run after it. One cannot obtain it by running. By escaping life you cannot bring it. Go deep into life, and let life itself carry you across—life itself will ferry you over.
A law of water—and then we will take the next sutra: if ever you fall into water and do not know how to swim—or even if you do—and a whirlpool catches you, remember this sutra of Krishna. The formula for life’s whirlpool works in the river’s whirlpool too. If caught in a whirlpool, what do we ordinarily do? We fight it. Fight—and drown. Because the more you fight, the more your strength declines—not the whirlpool’s. As your strength weakens, the whirlpool’s power, relatively, increases. Soon you are tired; the whirlpool remains as powerful as when the fight began. Then it will drag the weakened you under.
Therefore those who know the science of swimming say: if you fall into a whirlpool, do not fight. Of your own accord, go down into it. Sink with the whirlpool itself. The beauty of a whirlpool is that it is large at the surface of the river and becomes smaller below; its circles shrink below. Its screw narrows below. To get out from above is difficult; below it becomes so small that it is hard to remain inside—you slip out at once. If you fight, it is very difficult. If you do not fight and sink with it, the whirlpool itself throws you out.
If we fight life’s whirlpool, we get entangled. Krishna says: flow with the order of life and creation—do not hurry. There can be no hurry; be patient and flow with it. The moment arrives of itself—while doing all the actions of life, do not take yourself as the doer—and the moment arrives when doing and not-doing, defeat and victory, life and death, pleasure and pain become equal.
तस्मादसक्तः सततं कार्यं कर्म समाचार।
असक्तो ह्याचरन्कर्म परमाप्नोति पुरुषः।। 19।।
कर्मणैव हि संसिद्धिमास्थिता जनकादयः।
लोकसंग्रहमेवापि संपश्यन्कर्तुमर्हसि।। 20।।
Therefore, becoming unattached, ceaselessly perform the action that is to be done; for an unattached man, while acting, attains the Supreme.
Even Janaka and others—men of knowledge—attained supreme perfection through action alone. Therefore, also seeing the welfare of the world, you ought to act.
With non-attachment—Krishna is saying: do not flee from action; do not think of escaping. Neither is it possible, nor is it beneficial. What is both possible and beneficial is that you engage in action without attachment.
Let us understand this word “non-attachment” a little. Ordinarily we have no experience of being non-attached. Hence the word feels alien. It exists nowhere in our experience; therefore it must be understood more clearly.
In our experience there are two words: attached and disenchanted; non-attached never appears. Either we are attracted toward something, or repelled by something—either attracted or repelled. If something is beautiful, we are drawn; if something is ugly, we are repelled. If it appears beautiful, attachment arises—the urge to possess. If not beautiful, disenchantment arises—the urge to abandon. Either we run to get something, or we run to avoid something. These are our two experiences. Either we go toward something, or we go away from something. Non-attachment is a much other thing—different from both.
Non-attachment is the middle point between the two—the middle point. Exactly between them, where neither attraction works nor repulsion. A very wondrous point—where we do not become restless and mad to obtain, and do not become restless and mad to escape. No—where we take no stance toward anything; where we hold no view toward anything; we are only a witness. Non-attachment means: neither attached nor disenchanted.
To be disenchanted is very easy—it is only the other side of attachment. And whatever we are attached to today, tomorrow our disenchantment with it arises on its own. Today there is great attachment to a house; tomorrow it is acquired; the day after we live in it; ten days later we forget; the attachment fades. Slowly disenchantment comes. The day you find another house for attachment to catch, that same day disenchantment with this house arises. Whatever attracts us someday repels us. What pulls us today we withdraw from tomorrow. Attraction and repulsion—two sides of one process. Non-attachment is beyond this entire process—transcendent; above both, other, beyond.
Non-attachment means: things neither pull us nor push us; they neither call us nor chase us away. We stand still. Buddha used the word upekkha—equanimous indifference—for this non-attachment. Same meaning: neither this side, nor that—indifferent to both. Neither attachment nor aversion—indifference to both. Neither wealth draws, nor wealth repels. Krishna uses anasakti; Mahavira uses the word veetrag—beyond raga. Raga–viraga–veetrag: where there is neither raga nor viraga—beyond both. Buddha says: where there is neither attraction nor repulsion—upekkha, indifference—both equal. Krishna says: anasakti—where neither attachment nor aversion remains—both drop.
But the attached acts, and the disenchanted also acts. What will the non-attached do? The attached acts; the disenchanted acts—though what the disenchanted does is the opposite of what the attached does. If the attached works to earn wealth, the disenchanted works to abandon it. If the attached thirsts for position and climbs the ladders of rank, the disenchanted is eager to flee position—climbing down. Both are engrossed in action, but their engrossment is opposite; their backs turned to each other. What will the non-attached do?
The non-attached neither acts like the attached, nor like the disenchanted. In the non-attached, the very quality of doing changes. Understand this.
In the disenchanted, the direction of action changes—reverses—but the inner mind does not change even a little; only the direction of action turns. If the attached stands upright, the disenchanted stands on his head. No other difference—within, the man remains the same. The quality does not change—not even a little.
Bring money before one man—his mouth waters. Bring money before another—he closes his eyes and chants “Ram Ram.” These two are of one kind. For both, money is significant—important. For one it is important as a friend—his saliva flows. For the other, it is important as an enemy—his eyes close in panic. But both are doing headstands relative to each other; in regard to money their basic nature is the same. Both are very concerned about money—one for, one against; one as a friend, one as an enemy—but there is no indifference to money.
One runs after a woman; another, seeing a woman, runs away. There is no fundamental, qualitative difference between them. There is a difference of direction in their actions; there is no difference in their minds. The object of their mind is the same—lust. One for, one against.
In the non-attached the quality changes. The non-attached can do both things: what the disenchanted does, he can do; what the attached does, he can do. But the inner mind that acts is of a totally different kind. What is the difference in that mind? Understand.
Neither the attached can be a witness, nor the disenchanted—because both have raga. Have you noticed what “raga” means? It means “color.” Both minds are colored by that upon which their gaze is fixed. The attached is colored by money as a friend; the disenchanted is colored by money as an enemy. The non-attached is uncolored; money casts no reflection upon him; money does not dye him. Money is there, and the non-attached is here; there is a distance between them. That is, the non-attached is a sakshi—a witness. He sees: this is a woman, this is money—end of matter. I am I; this is money; this is a house; this is a woman; this is a man.
Buddha was sitting in a forest. It was a full-moon night. Some reckless youths came from a village bringing a courtesan. By the lake, under the full moon—they drank heavily. They stripped the courtesan and hid her clothes. When they were sufficiently drunk, the courtesan ran away—naked; her clothes she could not find. Past midnight, they sobered a little and realized the woman with whom they had imagined they were reveling was gone. They had been talking, singing, dancing—assuming she was there! Past midnight they discovered their mistake. In great trouble, they set out to search.
A little way off, under a tree, Buddha was sitting—the full moon. The path was one, so the woman must have come this way. They shook him and said: “Listen, a naked, beautiful courtesan ran this way; surely you have seen her.” Buddha said, “You put me in difficulty. A man sees only what he wants to see.” They said, “You are not blind; you have eyes. Such a woman would be visible even in a multitude, and here it is a silent forest.”
He said, “Someone did pass by—someone, because while I was looking at the moon, a shadow crossed. But whether it was a woman or a man is hard to say—because only when my own manhood was very avid for women could I still distinguish. Now there is no reason to distinguish. And beautiful or ugly—that is an even harder question. Since I came to know myself, nothing is beautiful and nothing is ugly. Things are as they are. Some call them beautiful, some ugly—that is their way of liking and disliking. The same thing one calls beautiful, another calls ugly. Since I have neither liking nor disliking, nothing is beautiful, nothing ugly.”
They said, “Why have we entangled ourselves with this madman? Let us search. We will get no help here.” Buddha laughed and said, “How long will you go on seeking her? Better that on such a beautiful night you seek yourselves. And even if you find her, what will you gain? Find yourself—and perhaps you will find something indeed.”
Who knows whether they heard! Likely not. Man is very deaf. He appears to be listening, but he does not hear. He appears to be seeing, but he does not see. He appears to be understanding, but he does not understand. What Buddha said describes the state of the non-attached mind: even while seeing, he does not divide what is beautiful and what is ugly. Even while doing, he does not divide; even while living, he does not decide what to grasp, what to abandon—what is gain, what is loss. He moves through life as a witness.
Ram went to America. As he was leaving one place, some people threw stones and hurled abuses. Returning—laughing heartily—he said to his friends, “Today was great fun. Ram was abused a lot today! Some even threw stones.” People asked, “Of whom are you speaking?” He said, “Of this Ram.” Placing his hand on his chest, he said, “Of this Ram. He was abused a lot today; many stones were thrown at him.” They said, “But it happened to you!” Ram said, “No, I was just watching. It did not happen to me. I was a witness. I saw that it was happening. I saw that abuses were being hurled. There were three there: those who abused; the one being abused; and yet another—I was there also, seeing.”
This is the quality of the non-attached. He sees life; he runs neither this way nor that. And whatever Paramatman brings into life, he passes through silently, as a witness. Therefore Krishna mentions Janaka. And when Krishna mentions, it is worth pondering. He mentions Janaka—the wise Janaka. And Arjuna, you are not that wise. His meaning is clear: you are not wise enough to talk of renunciation. Even Janaka did not become eager to abandon or to flee. Janaka lived quietly where he was.
What was Janaka’s sutra? The sutra was Anasakti-yoga. The sutra was: where two are seen, a third also must be seen—the third force. The attached and the disenchanted both see two. The attached sees two—myself, and the object of my attachment. The disenchanted sees two—myself, and that from which I am disenchanted. The non-attached sees three: that which is the center of attraction or repulsion; the one who is being attracted or repelled; and yet another—the one who sees both.
Krishna says to Arjuna: become established in that one who sees both. In this lies your good, your benediction; in this lies the welfare of the world as well. Why world-welfare? It is clear that it is Arjuna’s good. If someone becomes non-attached, the doors of supreme bliss open. The attached suffers; the disenchanted suffers. The attached is happy; the disenchanted is happy. Buddha said: one you love—if he comes, it gives pleasure; one you hate—if he goes, it gives pleasure. One you hate—if he comes, it gives pain; one you love—if he goes, it gives pain. What is the difference? Buddha asks. Both do both. With someone’s coming there is joy; with someone’s going there is joy—that’s all.
Friends give joy; friends also give sorrow. Enemies give joy; enemies also give sorrow. In truth, whatever gives joy will also give sorrow; and whatever gives sorrow will also give joy—because joy and sorrow are two sides of the same coin. What is visible is the upper side; the lower is hidden. After a while, when we tire of one side and flip it, the other appears.
But Krishna says: your good will be, and the world’s good too. What is the world’s good? How is it everyone’s good?
In truth, the attached and the disenchanted alike do not become guides on the path of the world’s bliss. They do not, for two reasons. First, one who is not himself on the path of bliss cannot give bliss to anyone; we can only give what we have, not what we don’t. Second, the more one engages in action with attachment or with aversion, the more tense his personality becomes.
Remember, we are like a stone thrown into water. A pebble is thrown into a lake: the pebble will soon settle to the bottom, but the ripples it raised spread and spread—toward distant shores. Just so, whenever even a little tension arises in our minds, we create waves in the lake of human life. Even if our tension passes, the waves go on spreading; who knows how many they touch, and in how many lives they become misfortune.
Only from the non-attached do no distorted waves of tension, anxiety, pain arise. Only from the non-attached do waves arise that are always benevolent. Therefore there is lokamangala—welfare of the world. It is said in a very deep sense here.
We radiate, twenty-four hours, around us—whatever is within us is radiating, its rays spreading all around. Every person raises waves around him at every moment, just as a thrown stone does in a lake. We will finish tomorrow, but the waves we have raised are infinite; they will never end; they will go on; they will someday touch even the dwellers of distant stars. Scientists now say there is life on fifty thousand stars. They have discovered some four billion stars so far. Life does not end there—it seems our power to know runs out—beyond, and beyond, and beyond.
A wave that rises from one person goes on rising. The person may be long gone, but the waves he raised go on rising for eternity—beginningless, endless.
Krishna says that from the transformation that occurs within the non-attached mind, waves arise that, without anyone knowing, silently, indirectly, shower blessings upon people’s lives. Therefore, for the welfare of the world also, become non-attached. For yourself it is fitting—blissful—and for others, too, it is blissful. So just as Janaka and all the knowers made no attempt to flee life, you too do not flee. By running, no one ever arrived anywhere. By running, no transformation ever happens. By running, no revolution occurs. Only those run who do not know; those who know do not run—they transform; they change themselves. Disenchantment is running away from attachment.
One more point on this, then we will take the next sutra.
He who lives in attachment will always be visited by thoughts of renunciation—again and again. Because life is polar—of poles. Everything here has its other pole. If there is a positive pole in electricity, there is a negative. If there is darkness, there is light. If there is cold, there is heat. If there is birth, there is death. Every thing has its opposite. So he who lives in attachment will be seized again and again by fits of renunciation. It happens to all of you. Sometimes it seems all is useless—leave everything. An hour later the fit is gone—everything meaningful again—you plunge back in.
Those who become disenchanted—fits of attachment seize them too. Those who sit in ashramas suddenly think, “The whole world must be in the cinema hall; and I am sitting here!” Those who sit in temples think, “My neighbor must have reached his shop by now; what am I doing here?”
In the life of the attached, disenchantment intrudes from time to time. In the life of the disenchanted, attachment intrudes from time to time. That part which we have suppressed asserts itself and attacks: “I am also here—give me a little attention.” Only the non-attached is such that no fits occur—because there is neither attachment nor aversion, so there is no way for the opposite to strike. Fits come only from the opposite. There, there is no opposite; it is non-polar.
Understand this: non-attachment is non-polar, beyond poles. Therefore the non-attached goes beyond the polar world—where debit and credit operate, where woman and man, loss and gain operate. All the dualities are polar. He who is non-attached enters Advaita—nonduality—because non-attachment is non-polar.
Only those who are non-attached enter Brahman. Those attached or disenchanted remain wandering in duality. Whoever takes sides—pro or con—enters the polar world and never touches Brahman. Only he touches Brahman who rises from two into one.
We must rise above both attachment and aversion. And the state of rising above both is to become a witness in action.