Geeta Darshan #7

Attachment arises from the illusion called ego. How does ego arise? It is useful to grasp two or three points. First, ego never actually arises; it only appears. It is never produced; it only seems to be. Like when a rope lies there and a snake is seen—nothing has arisen; it only appears. It looks as if it is, but it is not. Ego too looks as if it exists, but it does not.

If you put a stick into water, it appears bent—it is not; it just appears so. Take it out and you find it straight. Put it in again; it again appears bent. See it a thousand times: even when you know well the stick is not bent, it will still appear bent in water. Exactly like that, ego appears; it is not born. Take this first into account. Because if ego were actually produced, getting rid of it would be very difficult. If it only appears, understanding itself can free you from it. Even if it continues to appear, you are already free. How does ego appear—how does this appearance come to be? That I would like to explain.

First point. A child is born. We give the child a name—A, B, C. No child is born with a name. Every child is nameless, name-less. But life is hard to manage without names. If all your names were taken away, great difficulty would arise. And the irony is that a name is utterly false—yet the falsehood works. If names were taken away, the truth would still be that no one has any name; all are nameless. But practical difficulties would arise. In the world of relationships and appearances in which we live, false names are very useful. And something does not become true because it is useful; nor does something become false because it is not useful. There is a difference between utility and truth. Many untrue things are useful.

There is candy in the house, and we tell the child, “There is a ghost inside; don’t go in.” The ghost is not there; the candy is. But the child does not go in. The ghost works; it is utilitarian, its usefulness is proven. If you tried explaining to the child the defects of eating candy, the harms, the illnesses it can cause—those would be true, but useless; for the child they have no meaning. The ghost works; it stands between the child and the candy. It is useful.

Name is not real at all, yet between you and the world a label is needed, otherwise difficulties arise. So we prop up a “ghost”: this one’s name is Ram, that one’s Krishna, that one Arjuna, this, that. The name is a lie. But it sinks in deeply—so deeply that even in sleep you know your name; even in unconsciousness you know your name! That which is not, you still “know.” If someone abuses your name, poison begins to flow in your blood. The name is absolutely false, yet the poison flowing in your blood is very real.

It is like being frightened in a dream: a wild animal plants its paw on your chest; you wake up and know it was a dream—and yet the sweat still pours, the chest still thumps. You know well it was a dream, there is no animal. You are sleeping at home, the door is closed, no one is there, the light is on—and still the pounding continues. It will take time; momentum has built up. The heart has started racing; it will take a while to slow down. If it stopped all at once, there would be danger; it will subside gradually, just as it rose gradually. How strange—only a dream, and yet the heart was made to pound! The heart is very real and the dream utterly false.

Names are useful for life. But your name is useful to others; it is not useful to you. You too need some pointer to call yourself; that pointer is “I,” the ego. So there are two kinds of names: the one others use to call me—my given name; and the one I use to refer to myself—“I.” Otherwise life would be very confusing: who am I? And if I used my given name for myself, others would not know whether I am speaking of myself or someone else. Therefore “I” works for all; each person uses “I” for themselves—it is the common name for oneself. For others, there is a given name for utility. Hence it may happen that you forget your given name, but you can never forget “I.” Because others use your given name; they remember it. You use only “I.”

I have heard: during the First World War, rationing began for the first time in America. Thomas Alva Edison, a great scientist—perhaps no one on earth has made as many inventions—had to stand in line with his ration card. He was so eminent that for thirty years no one addressed him by name; people called him Professor, Sir, various titles, but not “Edison.” Standing in the queue, card pinned. When his turn came, the clerk peered over his glasses and called, “Who is Thomas Alva Edison?” The gentleman—Edison—stood still. The clerk called again, “Who is this Edison? Come forward!” Someone peered from the line and said, “It seems the man in front is Edison; I’ve seen his picture in the paper, but he stands silent!” A fellow stepped out and said, “Sir, as far as I recall, you look like Edison.” He replied, “Likely this is my name. But truly, no one has called me that in thirty years, so it slipped my mind. It does feel familiar—must be my name!”

For oneself, “I”; for others, the given name. One “I” suffices. But many given names are needed because others will call you. From childhood we begin reminding the child of this “I.” Yet psychologists say a child first learns “you,” not “I.” Little children often say, “He is hungry,” not “I am hungry.” They do not yet have the sense of “I.” They may point to the stomach: “Here is hunger.” The sense of “I” comes later; “you” comes first, because “you” is seen all around. Even the child’s own body being “mine” is realized much later.

When small children suck their thumbs, you think, “They are sucking their own thumbs.” Psychologists—especially Jean Piaget, who devoted his life to studying children—say children do not know they are sucking their own thumb; they think it is something else. The day they realize it is their own thumb, they will stop.

A child does not even know the whole body is theirs. They don’t distinguish dream from waking. In the morning they will cry for the toy they had in the dream. The sense of “I” arises by seeing “you.” There are others all around; gradually the child learns, “I am separate; my hand is mine, my mouth mine, my feet mine; when I get up, it is different; when others get up, it is different.” Slowly, by isolating oneself from the surrounding world, the “I” begins. The child experiments: “I am hungry.”

Consider this: whenever you feel hunger, if you observe carefully, you find “hunger is felt”—you never actually find “I am hungry.” It is felt that hunger is in the stomach. It is felt that the foot is hurt. But you say, “I am hungry.” If you were to use accurate language, you would say, “It is felt that there is hunger in the stomach.” Factually, that is the report: “It is felt that the foot is injured.” It is only felt.

But if you speak like that, people will call you crazy. The utility of life stands around “I.” Slowly we forget that “I” is a makeshift word, not truth. We begin to live as if this makeshift word were truth. Then we divide. Like saying, “This is my courtyard.” Your courtyard—fine; but the earth is not divided. Between your yard and your neighbor’s, the earth does not crack. Between India and Pakistan there is no trench in the earth; between India and China the earth does not break. The earth is one. “My country” is a political term—dangerous if taken as a term of life.

“I” is a psychological utility. But you think where “I” ends, there I absolutely end and others begin. You end nowhere. Ask science: it will say you end nowhere. If the sun ninety-three million miles away cools, you cool. Are the sun and you separate? If truly separate, why would you cool when the sun cools? The sun and you are connected somewhere. Right now oxygen is in the air; if tomorrow it is not, I end. The lamp burning within me goes out. Then am I separate from the air?

Not for a single moment. Your breathing is your link to the air. You are connected moment to moment. You live in an ocean of air as a fish lives in water. If the ocean is not, the fish is not. So too with you in air; if air is not, you are not. Yet you say, I am separate. If you are separate, good—do not breathe for five minutes and see if you live. Then you will know “I” was useful, not true.

Air is tied to me. The breath that was with you a moment ago is now with me. Before I can even say “it is with me,” it has gone on to someone else. Whose breath was it? The molecules running in your blood were with you today, yesterday in a tree, before that in a river, before that in a cloud. Whose are they? The bone in your body has been bone in many bodies before and will be bone in many bodies yet. Do not claim it hastily. What of yours is it? The atoms forming your eye have formed who knows how many eyes before. All of life is interwoven.

When Krishna says, “The ignorant bind themselves in ego and get entangled for nothing,” he means only this. It does not mean Krishna will not use “I.” He too will, for utility. But do not mistake utility for truth. Use it, but do not clutch it as truth. Remembering just this, attachment begins to subside—for attachment is where “I” is. “Mine” is where “I” is. If I realize there is no such independent entity as “me,” that all is together, then what will I call “mine” and what “another’s”? Nothing is mine, nothing another’s; all is His, all belongs to the Divine. In that inner state, attachment dissolves.

प्रकृतेर्गुणसंमूढाः सज्जन्ते गुणकर्मसु।
तानकृत्स्नविदो मन्दान् कृत्स्नविन्न विचालयेत्।। 29।।

And those who are deluded by the qualities of nature become attached to those qualities and to action. The one who truly knows should not unsettle those foolish ones who do not understand.

A very precious sutra of Krishna. He says, “Deluded by the gunas of nature...”

We must understand this “deluded” a little more deeply. Deluded means hypnotized. You have heard: when prey faces a lion, it cannot run—it is hypnotized, frozen, transfixed by the lion’s eyes, magnetized. It forgets to run—even forgets that death stands before it. About the python it is said the prey is pulled in of its own accord; birds in the sky are drawn down, compelled, dragged.

The Sanskrit word “pashu” means “that which, bound by a noose (pasha), is dragged along”—a tethered cow pulled by a rope. Likewise, every person, drawn by nature’s qualities, behaves like an animal, is mohit—hypnotized. Consider two or three things about hypnosis, then it will be clear.

A face looks beautiful to you; you are pulled. But have you ever thought what beauty there can be in a face? You say, of course there is. Then you do not know much about hypnosis. A friend of mine was extremely attracted to beautiful faces. I asked, “What is the attraction?” He said, “It’s there.” I asked, “What in it is there? If a nose is a bit long or short, why should your heart beat faster? If an eye is a bit larger or smaller, if the face is proportionate or not, what happens within you?” He said, “It just happens. Don’t you believe in beauty?”

So I hypnotized him. When he was deep, I placed a pillow near him and said, “This pillow is more beautiful than any woman you have ever seen. Take it in your arms, embrace it, kiss it, love it.” He did. Then I suggested a post-hypnotic cue: “Half an hour after you awaken, a wave of love will arise and you will again take this pillow to your chest and kiss it.”

He awoke. We sat chatting. I watched the clock. The pillow lay nearby; I put it away in a cupboard. Around twenty-five, thirty minutes, his restlessness began. Everyone could see it. He was in exactly the state of a man gripped by lust. But can there be lust for a pillow? He stood up.

“Where are you going?” I asked. He said, “I want to look at that pillow, because I liked it so much I want to buy one like it.” He was rationalizing—he himself didn’t know. “No,” I said, “I’ll tell you where it was bought.” He said, “Still, I want to see it.” His gait was something to see; like a bumblebee approaching a flower. He opened the cupboard. We were all there. He lifted the pillow and the way his eyes and hands moved—the pillow had become alive, because the unconscious suggestion was at work. He looked at us for a moment, then like a dazed man forgot us, pressed the pillow to his chest and began kissing it. We said, “What madness!” But the madness had already happened. Then he sat down, sweating, shaken: “What did I do? What happened?” I said, “Exactly this is how women and men appear beautiful to you. The same nature-induced spell, hypnosis put there by biology, the seed of desire sown in the unconscious across lifetimes is working. It works, and you get attached—to things as well.”

Krishna says, “Deluded by the qualities of nature...”

That is everyone’s misery. If you reflect on what all we are enchanted by, you’ll be astonished. Look at pictures, films, paintings, poems, plays, novels—the entire so-called great literature of mankind—and you will be surprised: a few obsessions have seized man like madness. No one realizes what has happened—that nature’s qualities can enchant in this way!

Breasts have tormented humanity. Pictures, images, poems, literature overflow with them. All poets, all painters seem mad. What is in a breast? But the infant’s first recognition is of the breast. The first love and first knowledge are linked to it. The first association, the first impression in the brain is of the breast. Then it pursues him lifelong. He is hypnotized. Now he is old and still obsessed.

Biologists call this a traumatic impression. Because the very first imprint on the child’s mind is the mother’s breast, to the last breath in old age the breast pursues. Nothing else—just hypnosis. Then whether the greatest Kalidasa or Bhavabhuti, or Picasso—however great—he remains entangled. Astonishing.

Krishna says: by not understanding nature’s qualities and becoming hypnotized by them, man falls into ignorance, delusion, attachment, suffering. The world is full of the uncomprehending. Psychologists use the word “fetish.” They say man not only is affected by limbs, but even by clothes, objects—he becomes crazy about those too. His relations get tied to those things; he keeps circling around them, enchanted. One who does not awaken from this state of mind can never know religious truth; he will only wander among nature’s qualities.

Colors enchant. What can there be in colors? Yet they enchant. Someone goes mad for a color. Van Gogh, a great painter, was obsessed with yellow. He would stand in the sun because yellow sunlight fell. Where yellow flowers bloomed, he could not come inside. He looked at yellow for a year in Arles’ sunlight; standing so much in the sun unhinged him. There must have been some childhood traumatic event that obsessed him with yellow.

Napoleon, a brave man who would fight lions, feared cats. See a cat and he would run. What happened? When he was six months old—because someone like Napoleon has a recorded life so we can know—while he lay in a cradle, a wild cat placed a paw on his chest. The image sank deep into the unconscious. Napoleon grew up; memory faded. But at the sight of a cat he became six months old again. He regressed.

Psychologists say in the battle where Nelson defeated Napoleon, Nelson brought seventy cats to the field. Cats in front, the army behind. On seeing them, Napoleon told his aide, “Now I am useless; I can do nothing; my discrimination is gone.” Like Arjuna telling Krishna, “My bow slips; my limbs fail; I am beyond myself.” Why? “These are my dear ones.” This too is an obsession, a hypnosis. Who is mine? Who is other?

Napoleon feared cats; he became a six-month-old child. He could no longer fight. He lost that day. Likely Nelson didn’t defeat him; the cats did. Nelson was not that capable; Napoleon was extraordinary. But even such a man was hypnotized. We all live like that.

What happened to Arjuna? Such a brave man, never faced a question; on the battlefield suddenly so limp, so emasculated? Because from childhood those he knew as “mine” stood before him. Those believed to be “mine”—brother, relative, grandsire, father-in-law, friend, teacher—all stood in front. His whole “mine” encircled him. He cannot raise a hand upon “mine.” Not that he became nonviolent. If these were not his, he would have cut them to the root. His breath wouldn’t even pause. Where is the difficulty? In the obsession with “mine.”

Krishna says, “There are qualities in nature, Arjuna. Ordinary people live enchanted by them. That very spell keeps them in darkness and pushes them deeper into darkness. The wise must first be free of their own hypnosis.”

The wise means de-hypnotized—nothing can enchant him now. Put money before him, he sees it for what it is. But one enchanted by money does not see money; he sees who knows what! He moves into daydreams: “One will become ten, ten will become a thousand, a thousand will become a million; I will conquer the world...” Dreams arise in a coin. But the un-hypnotized sees only a piece of metal. He sees its utility, yes, but no dream arises. Hypnosis is the generator of dreams. A mind gripped by moha wanders in fancies, dreams, ambitions.

Krishna says: the knower awakens himself and also does not behave in such a way that he becomes the cause of disorder in the lives of those ignorant who live in hypnosis. It does not mean he won’t try to break their spell; he can. But to disturb the axis of hypnotized lives is dangerous.

Why does he say this? Because even if you know war is futile, none of those gathered here for war knows it. If you run away, you will only be called a coward. Whether you know it is futile or not, the others do not. Even if you go away, war will happen; it cannot be stopped. If you go away, only the very truth and dharma for which you stand may be defeated.

War will happen anyway. Those standing around are fully hypnotized by war. They know nothing. In the midst of these ignorant ones, these nature-enchanted madmen, behave in such a way that their life order is not needlessly thrown into chaos. And alone you cannot do anything by running away. Rather, if awareness has dawned for you, understand this much: in life, pleasure-pain, victory-defeat are equal; all is in the hands of the Divine. You are not the doer. Enter action without doer-ship.

मयि सर्वाणि कर्माणि संन्यस्याध्यात्मचेतसा।
निराशीर्निर्ममो भूत्वा युध्यस्व विगतज्वरः।। 30।।

Therefore, O Arjuna, consecrate all actions to me with a spiritual mind; free of hope and free of mine-ness; without fever, fight.

Krishna says: Surrender everything to me; free of hope and attachment; beyond feverishness—do your action.

Two or three points. First: “Surrender everything to me.” Whenever Krishna says, “to me,” he does not mean the person named Krishna. He means the total, the Divine. He is not a person, for one who knows “there is no ego in me” is not a person but the Divine. One who knows “I am not a drop, I am the ocean” is the Divine. So when he says, “Surrender all to me,” he means: actions, their fruits, their motivation, their results—everything. Surrender and step into the battle. Difficult—perhaps nothing is more difficult than surrender. To make surrender possible, he adds: “withered of fever,” beyond feverishness.

We are full of fever—many kinds. Anger-fever, sex-fever, greed-fever. Why call them fevers? Because anything that raises the body’s heat is fever—even medically. In anger, blood pressure rises, the heart races, breath quickens, the body heats up. Sometimes people die of anger. We do not die totally because we never go totally into anger; but we die by inches. Every time we are angry, life shrinks. Something inside burns and dries; some greenness withers. Look and see: anger is fever. Krishna uses a very scientific language.

Notice too: when sex, lust grips the mind, the body becomes feverish. Heart rate, blood pressure, blood flow, breath, body temperature—all rise. If lust is strong, sweat is inevitable, as in fever. If stronger yet, psychologists say red blotches spread on the skin—very quickly in women, as their skin is more delicate; in men too. Krishna says: without freedom from fever, surrender cannot happen. Why? Only one who is beyond fevers can surrender. If fevers are gone, ego is gone—ego feeds on fevers. The more anger, greed, lust, the stronger the ego. Ego is the barrier to surrender; the only barrier.

Often in the temple you bow your head before the deity, but the ego stands erect behind—you place your head on stone, the ego does not bend. Watch: the head is on the floor, the ego is at work—looking to see if anyone is watching, if people will carry the news that you are very religious. The denser the ego, the more fever there is. And what is our life if not fever twenty-four hours a day?

Yes, there are small intervals of what we call peace—but they are not peace; they are the preparation time for the next fever. You cannot be angry twenty-four hours; an hour of anger, then you need three hours’ rest before you can be angry again. Those “peaceful” intervals are only rest for the next bout.

You will notice each person has periods—cycles—of anger. If you keep a diary, you will catch your periods—like sleep coming at specific times, hunger returning to schedule. Your anger has a period, always returns. Your sex too has its schedule. Our whole life goes round in cycles of fever—anger, lust, greed, this and that. In this we live and become depleted. One who goes beyond these can surrender—because beyond them, nothing of ego remains; surrender happens by itself.

Another point: surrender is not something you do; it happens. Your “doing” surrender is not surrender, because the doer remains—and the doer is the obstacle. If someone says, “I surrender to God,” know that surrender has not happened; tomorrow he can take it back. True surrender is when there is no one left to take it back. If rightly seen, the disappearance of “I” is surrender. When will “I” disappear? When fevers disappear.

You can also put it like this: the sum of fevers is what we call “I.” So earlier I said “I” is an illusion. But the illusion works because these fevers are very real, and the illusion rides on their chariot. Lust, anger, greed are real; they have bodily meaning and mental meaning—they are psychosomatic. Ego rides on them. Until we dissolve them, ego will not get down. How to dissolve them? How to get rid of fevers?

First, we have never looked at them as fevers—as disease. What we do not recognize as disease, we cannot let go of. No one wants to keep TB or cancer because we recognize them as disease. But anger, greed, attachment, lust—we do not recognize these as diseases; thus we try to preserve them. We say, “How will life work without anger?” No one says, “How will life work without TB?” For TB we say, “Life won’t work at all—get rid of it immediately.” We have learned to recognize bodily diseases, but not yet the diseases of the mind.

Notice: if someone points out a bodily disease, you do not get angry; but if someone points out a mental disease, you are ready to fight. If someone says, “There is a wound on your foot,” you thank them; but if someone says, “You are very greedy,” you reach for a stick. We do not accept mental disease as disease; we think it a treasure to be protected.

Krishna says: these are all fevers.

First condition: recognize them as disease. The very recognition begins the freedom. When anger comes, you will feel “a disease is coming.” Your hands will loosen, something inside will stop. But anger is not our illness—we consider it our backbone: “Without anger, who will care for me? Without greed, what will I do?” We have no idea what we are saying.

Because of greed, we accomplish nothing. Because of anger, we accomplish nothing. Because of lust, we accomplish nothing. Our strength flows away through these leaks. With what little remains, we drag our lives along. Joy cannot be, because joy is always overflowing energy—like a river in flood, breaking its banks and dancing. A plant does not flower until there is more energy than needed for survival; the surplus overflows as color and becomes flowers. A bird does not sing until it has surplus energy; then it sings, the peacock dances. But in human life all dance, all joy has been lost. Are peacocks wiser than us? Are cuckoos more intelligent? Flowers more scientific? Rivers more aware?

No, only that we fancy ourselves too intelligent and nurture great foolishnesses. We take diseases for health, enemies for friends, thorns for flowers—and press them to the chest. They prick, pierce, wound. Our energies are squandered in fever; nothing is left to overflow into bliss. Life becomes a sad tale.

Shakespeare said, “A tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” From childhood to old age such noise, as if something great is about to happen—at the end, nothing in hand. Scenes change, no conclusion. Finally the news comes: the man died. The story always breaks in the middle.

Some mistake is happening: life-energy is leaking into disease, into fevers; thus life’s music and blossoms are deprived. So note also in Krishna’s sutra: “Beyond fever, Arjuna, surrender to me.” Only the very powerful can surrender; the weak never do. Surrender is great inner strength.

I have heard: A young man newly married took his wife on a sea journey. A storm came; the boat staggered; everyone trembled, prayed. The young man sat quietly. His wife said, “Aren’t you afraid? Won’t you pray? The boat is in danger.” He drew his sword and laid it on her shoulder—gleaming steel by her neck, one flick and the head would be off. She kept smiling. He asked, “Are you not afraid?” She replied, “When the sword is in your hand, why should I fear?” He said, “Then understand: when everything is in God’s hand, why should I fear?” He sheathed the sword. When all is in His hand, what fear?

The weak pray; they look religious. The truly religious has such trust—but for that trust, great strength is needed. “Fine, it is in His hand; He knows. If the sword is His, and if He must cut my neck, let Him—it must be for some good.”

Only the strong surrender; the egoist is always weak. You will say, “Wrong—egoists look strong.” A psychological truth: Adler found that the more inferior a man feels, the more egoistic he becomes. One who has real power has no need of ego; his power shows—no announcement required. The sun does not announce its coming; it comes and all know—flowers open, birds sing, people wake, trees stir, winds blow, waves rise. A fake sun would bring a band to announce itself because its mere presence would announce nothing.

Our ego hides inner weakness; it arranges externals. It knows it is weak; in itself, nothing will show. If I get a ministry, if I sit on a chair, if I have wealth, a big house—then perhaps something will show. Without that, nothing. But if something is within, no need for anything. Mahavira stands naked and it is evident. Buddha walks with a bowl and it is evident.

Buddha came to a town. The king asked his minister, “My wife says I should go to welcome Buddha. Is that proper? I am a king; he is a beggar. If he wants to come, let him.” A modern minister would flatter him. But this minister picked up paper and pen. “What are you doing?” asked the king. “My resignation,” he said. “Why?” “Because to stay one moment where ego deems itself superior to soul is misfortune. You must go. Buddha carries a bowl, but he is no beggar—he is emperor. You are a beggar though you sit on a throne. If everything is taken from you, nothing will remain; Buddha has left everything, yet is everything.”

In truth, only one who has everything can leave everything. One who has nothing—what can he leave?

Ego hides deep poverty; it is always a safety measure for inferiority. The egoist is weak; the strong are not egoists. Only one filled with inner strength can surrender, for surrender is the greatest declaration of strength. It may sound contradictory. The greatest will-power is to be able to say, “I have dropped—everything.”

When Krishna says to Arjuna, “Leave all to me”—leave all: your illnesses, cravings, attachments, hopes, expectations—drop them on me. Two remarkable things: Arjuna must be very strong to leave; and Krishna is very strong to ask for such leaving. Only the strong can say such a thing. Krishna says it with such ease. Such strength is rare. Today it is very hard to find someone who can say, “Leave it all to me.” Only one who is so merged in the Divine that “me” means the Divine can say it. Krishna is not in the middle.

Arjuna too can leave only when his fevers are gone. Until then each fever will grip him, each will raise its own question. The Gita is Krishna’s answers to Arjuna’s every illness. In many ways Arjuna asks the same thing again and again. He does not really want an answer or a path—for what could be simpler than Krishna saying, “Leave it to me.”

A woman came to me a few days ago: “Everything is in the hands of saints; do everything for me.” I said, “Agreed—what will you do?” “What can I do?” she said. “Will you dare to leave yourself?” I asked. Elderly—seventy years. Nothing remains to leave but death ahead. She said, “I will go home and ask my son and daughter-in-law, then tell you.” But she added, “Saints can do everything; you do it.” Amusing. Saints can indeed do everything—but only for those who dare to leave everything. Then it happens instantly. The saint does nothing; he is a vehicle for the Divine.

Krishna says, “Leave it to me.” The world has changed a lot. He says, “Leave it to me,” and Arjuna cannot muster the courage. Today it is the reverse: no one would say “leave it to me,” because we would suspect he will take our bank balance. We go to saints to take, not to give. What kind of saint is this!

Gurdjieff used to say: “Place a hundred rupees first” before he would answer a question. People said, “What kind of saint are you? We ask a question and you demand money!” He said, “I am answering very cheaply.”

Krishna’s answer is very costly—he says, “Leave everything.” Not a hundred rupees—everything. “Leave yourself.” He is ready; Arjuna is not.

Arjuna is like a rustic on a train who sits with his bundle on his head so the train is not burdened. We do the same. We fear burdening God, so we keep our burden on our own heads. All weight is already on Him—even yours. If the train is running, why keep the burden on your head?

Krishna says only: “Put the bundle down; leave it to me; sit at ease. Why carry such a load? Why worry what will happen in war—who will die, who will live? Why so many worries? Leave them to me.”

In truth, Arjuna is not concerned with all that; people are always rationalizing. He only wants to run away—he cannot fight his own. So he weaves arguments: “This will happen, that will happen.” The whole business is, he cannot fight “mine.” No one can. If it comes to fighting “mine,” it is difficult; find some “other” to fight and the fight with “mine” stops at once.

When China attacked India, there was no longer a Hindi vs non-Hindi conflict, no Hindu-Muslim conflict, no Mysore-Maharashtra dispute; all quiet. The fight with “mine” stopped because the fight with “others” began.

There is no difficulty in fighting—only in fighting “mine.” When no “others” are available, we are forced to fight “mine.” Hence all over the world we keep searching for “others” to fight, day and night—otherwise we would have to fight “mine.”

One of my friends’ wives asked me to persuade her husband to live separately from his parents. I asked my friend, “It seems there is much trouble; why not live apart? But first tell me: now your wife fights with your parents; are you sure she will not fight with you once you separate?” “As I see it, she will,” I said. “For what else will she do? If there is no ‘other’ to fight, she will move closer.”

In joint families, husband and wife had little quarrel. After joint families broke, husband-wife conflict deepened. They too will break. The joint family absorbed much; fights went outward. Now no one is left; only the two remain—and they will fight. So evenings scare couples; they try to invite someone, or go to someone, so a third is present and evening passes more easily.

Krishna tells Arjuna, “Leave all to me—then nothing remains for you to do. I will do; you be the vehicle.”

Religion has one call: become a vehicle, let the Divine do. Do not be the doer; leave doer-ship to the Divine and be only an instrument. Kabir said: Since I have known, the songs are no longer mine. I am only the flute—a hollow reed; the songs are God’s. Whoever knows becomes only a reed. The notes are God’s, the song is God’s; we are only the passage.

Krishna says to Arjuna: Become the passage. Give me the way; let what I need to do be done. By “me,” he means the Divine.

And why is Krishna able to say this so assuredly? Why does Arjuna not suspect Krishna is making himself God? Many do suspect, reading the Gita with analysis: “Why does Krishna keep saying ‘me, me’? He sounds egoistic.” Many have told me Krishna seems heavily egoistic: on the one hand he tells Arjuna to drop ego; on the other he says, “Leave all to me.” Isn’t this ego?

I say: Krishna speaks with such simplicity that ego is impossible. Ego never speaks straight; it lives by tricks. Ego says, “I am but the dust at your feet.” Look into the eyes: hands and head bow, eyes climb the sky. Ego says, “I am nothing,” but wants to hear you say, “What are you saying! You are everything.” Then it is pleased.

Ego never speaks directly—because direct ego would hurt the other’s ego, and by hurting the other’s ego you cannot satisfy your own. Clever egos take the indirect route. Vance Packard wrote The Persuaders; the greatest persuader is ego. It makes others say what it wants to say itself. If you want a woman to say you are handsome, don’t say “I am handsome”—you will be in trouble. Say to her, “You are beautiful; none more beautiful,” and wait; she will surely say, “None is more handsome than you.”

Mutual gratification—egos enlarge each other. One leader magnifies another; one “mahatma” magnifies another. Indirectly, ego finds its ways.

Krishna is astonishingly egoless. He says, “Leave it to me,” with such simplicity that not a whiff of ego is there. Ego is never this simple; ego always walks crooked. Krishna does not even say, “I am God; therefore leave it to me.” That too would be indirect. He gives no reason. He says simply, “Leave it to me.” This simplicity is the declaration of egolessness. Such extraordinary straightforwardness is proof. But when we read today, we only have words; we do not have his presence.

All decisive truths in history were not written; they were spoken. No prophet, no tirthankara, no avatar was a writer. Whether Bible, Quran, Gita, the sayings of Buddha, Mahavira, Lao Tzu—all were spoken, not written. Compared to that, writers never reach. Why? Because the spoken word has a living quality.

When Krishna spoke to Arjuna, it was not just words. For us it is only words. When Krishna said, “Leave it to me,” his eyes, his hands, his fragrance, his presence surrounded Arjuna. Krishna’s presence wrapped Arjuna from all sides—Krishna’s love, joy, light. Otherwise Arjuna too would have said, “What are you saying! You are my charioteer, and I should leave everything at your feet?”

Arjuna did not even find the possibility to say it; the question did not arise. Krishna’s presence dropped such questions before they formed. His presence touched Arjuna in those inner spaces where hidden strings and depths vibrate. Therefore suspicion did not arise that an ego is asking for surrender. Ego was not there; Krishna’s full radiance was.

People come to Buddha, place their heads at his feet, take refuge: “Buddham sharanam gachchhami.” One day someone said, “You tell us to go to no one’s refuge, yet people come to your refuge; why don’t you stop them?” Buddha replied, “Who within me could stop them now? And who told you they come to my refuge? They do not come to mine, for I am no more. Perhaps through me they go to another’s refuge—the one who is. I am only a door, a window.”

At a window you place your hands and bow to the owner of the house. Why should the window object? You are not bowing to it. Buddha says, “They do not bow to me; I am not. Through a door they address someone else.”

In that moment Krishna must have become a door. Otherwise Arjuna too would have questioned. He is not one to ask small questions. Krishna became a door; Arjuna experienced that the one speaking is not my charioteer, not my friend, but the Divine itself. In such a vision, if anything was difficult for Arjuna, it was not that Krishna is God, but that he lacked the capacity to surrender. That is indeed what he finds difficult.

We will speak further on that tomorrow. Enough for today.