Superior is one’s own duty, though imperfect, to another’s well-performed।
In one’s own duty, even death is better; another’s duty is fraught with fear।। 35।।
Geeta Darshan #9
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
श्रेयान्स्वधर्मो विगुणः परधर्मात्स्वनुष्ठितात्।
स्वधर्मे निधनं श्रेयः परधर्मो भयावहः।। 35।।
स्वधर्मे निधनं श्रेयः परधर्मो भयावहः।। 35।।
Transliteration:
śreyānsvadharmo viguṇaḥ paradharmātsvanuṣṭhitāt|
svadharme nidhanaṃ śreyaḥ paradharmo bhayāvahaḥ|| 35||
śreyānsvadharmo viguṇaḥ paradharmātsvanuṣṭhitāt|
svadharme nidhanaṃ śreyaḥ paradharmo bhayāvahaḥ|| 35||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, you say: Dharma is one, samadhi is one, the Divine is one, but swadharmas are many. How are these two reconciled? Please clarify.
Just so: rivers are many, the ocean is one. Just so: raindrops are many, but the rain is one. Just so: the rose is different, the lotus is different, yet flowering is one—becoming a flower, the blossoming, is one. Swadharmas differ; dharma does not. And the day I fulfill my own swadharma and you fulfill yours, the temple we arrive at is one. Only the paths are different. The path by which you arrive is not my path; the path by which I arrive is not your path.
A poet, by singing his song, attains the same bliss a mathematician attains in solving his problem. But the problem is different and the poem is different. A painter, completing his painting, comes upon the same joy a dancer comes upon in dancing. But dancing is different, painting is different—the joy is one. The destination to which swadharma carries you is one.
It is like climbing a mountain by our own tracks and all reaching the summit. Arriving at the peak is one; the winds there, the sun, the sky, the drifting clouds—they are one. But the tracks by which we came are all different.
No two people reach the peak by the same track, because no two people stand at the same starting point. Nor can they. Wherever one stands, from there he must begin his journey. I am seated here; if you all start walking toward me, each of you will begin from the place where you are seated. And you sit in a place only you occupy; no one else is sitting in your exact place. Others will start from where they are. Directions will differ, styles of walking will differ, strengths will differ, intentions will differ, notions about arrival will differ. Yet the place reached will be one. As all rivers reach the ocean, so all swadharmas reach the great dharma. That dharma is one. But that dharma is found the day the “self” dissolves.
Krishna is not yet speaking to Arjuna of that dharma. He will speak of it too. Then he will say to Arjuna: sarva-dharmān parityajya—abandon all dharmas. He will say that as well: now drop all dharmas, come into me. For now he says: hold firmly to your swadharma. The very same Krishna will later say: now drop all dharmas—come into me.
We cannot tell the Ganga: follow the Yamuna’s course. We cannot tell the Yamuna: follow the Indus. We cannot tell the Indus: take the Brahmaputra’s path. Yet when they reach the shore of the ocean, the ocean will say: come, drop your separate courses and enter me. They will travel by their own river-beds; and then one day even the paths must be left behind. The day the destination is found, the path must be dropped. One who clings to the path after arriving is mad. If the Divine stands before you and you still cling to the self, you are mad. But if the Divine is not before you and you cling to the “other” in place of the Divine—that too is madness. The other is not the Divine. The other is not God.
Until then, the self is all. Until the Divine is found, the self is everything; take care of the self until then. Until the ocean is reached, the river should keep to her channel. And the day she meets the ocean, she should dance and dissolve. That day drop all banks. Do not, out of attachment, lament: these banks accompanied me so long—how can I leave them now? Do not worry: the paths that brought you here—how can I leave them? They brought you here so you can leave them here. Enough—the paths are finished. Dharma is found where swadharma dissolves.
Three points: paradharma, swadharma, and dharma. We live in paradharma. Arjuna is hankering after paradharma. He is a kshatriya; his aptitude is that. If psychologists were to speak, they would say: you can do nothing else; your soul will be burnished with the shine of your sword. You will awaken in that very moment when life is at stake. You are not the type to sit with eyes closed and meditate. You will meditate, but only in the intensity of battle. There you will be absorbed; there you will forget. You are not someone who can sit at home with a rosary in the morning and say, “I am not the body.” No. When swords flash in the sun and everything is on the line, then you will forget you are the body; you will not even know you are the body; you too will know “I am not the body”—but it will be on the razor-edge of the sword. Sitting at home with a rosary will not do for you. That is not your aptitude, not your swadharma. So do not try to seize paradharma.
A great irony: one who clings to paradharma never reaches the Divine. The one who grasps paradharma does not even reach his own swadharma—so reaching God does not arise. First drop paradharma, hold to swadharma. Then a time will come—we shall speak of it—when Krishna will say: now drop even swadharma; now dissolve in the Divine. First drop the other; then drop the self; then the All is attained. Drop the other for the self; drop the self for the All. Beyond that, there remains nothing to drop or to hold.
Swadharma is opposed to paradharma. And dharma is opposed to adharma. From paradharma the journey is to swadharma; from swadharma the journey is to dharma. He who walks with swadharma will one day arrive at dharma; he who clings to paradharma will one day end in adharma. The last step of paradharma is adharma, because the one who clings to another’s way loses his uniqueness, loses his soul—and the day the soul is lost, adharma settles in. Your own lamp has gone out; darkness will enter the house. One whose swadharma awakens never falls into adharma. Swadharma, growing and growing—light, growing and growing—one day becomes one with the sun. That day he attains dharma.
So keep four things in mind. Before us lies a choice: either swadharma or paradharma. If you wish to go to adharma, paradharma’s path is useful, beneficial, supportive. If you wish to go to dharma, swadharma’s path is beneficial, supportive. We reach adharma via the other; we reach dharma via the self.
In this connection let me tell you a small story. We always reach adharma via the other; and we always reach dharma via the self.
Therefore, one who goes toward dharma moves into solitude, so that the other is not—where the other is not, not even a picture of the other forms. Hence, in the search for dharma, Buddha goes to the forests, Mahavira to the hills, Mohammed climbs a mountain, Moses loses himself upon Sinai.
One who seeks dharma withdraws from the other, quietly slips away—so there is no “other”: no reed, no flute; if there is no reed, there is no flute; let there be no “other,” and no temptation to grasp the other. He slips away silently. But the man who wants adharma seeks the crowd. He never seeks aloneness. For adharma, the other is absolutely necessary.
It is a curious fact: you can be peaceful alone; for restlessness, the other is absolutely necessary. You can be blissful alone; to be miserable, the other is very necessary. You can be pure alone; to fall into sin, the other is absolutely necessary. You can be celibate alone; for lust, the other is absolutely necessary. You can renounce alone; for indulgence, the other is absolutely necessary. Keep this in mind.
A Christian parable in the Old Testament: In the Garden of Eden God created Adam and Eve. It is a story, but there is something worth seeing in it. God said: there is a tree; do not eat its fruit. It is the tree of knowledge; if you eat its fruit, you will be cast out of heaven. Very strange! If one ate the fruit of ignorance and were expelled, that would be understandable. But to eat the fruit of knowledge and be driven from heaven is hard to understand. Yet God clearly said: this is the tree of knowledge; if you eat its fruit, you will be cast out.
The serpent came and said to Eve: Don’t be foolish; don’t fall into this deception. God himself is God by eating the fruit of this tree. And silly woman, can one lose paradise by eating the fruit of knowledge? By the fruit of knowledge one attains paradise. You know nothing. Eat and become like God. Eve persuaded Adam: we must eat this fruit. There must be some secret, some mystery; and since God has forbidden it, the meaning must be deep. If God forbids the fruit of knowledge, he is not our friend but our enemy. The fruit of knowledge!
Adam was persuaded—as men are always persuaded by women’s words. It is not that the mistake happened only that day in Eden; the same mistake happens in every garden and every home. She is very skillful at persuading.
She coaxed Adam. Adam ate the fruit, and immediately they were driven out of heaven. God asked Adam: Why did you eat? He said: What could I do? The other tempted me—Eve tempted me. He asked Eve: Why did you tempt him? She said: The other tempted me—the serpent tempted me.
The Christian tale says: sin comes by the way of the other. There are two or three points in this story: by the way of the other. And note one more thing: why did the fruit of knowledge expel man from heaven? Because as soon as Adam and Eve ate from the tree of knowledge, Adam knew: I am naked; Eve knew: I am naked; she quickly covered her nakedness with leaves. God said: you have gained knowledge, but you have lost simplicity. And heaven is in simplicity—not in calculating consciousness, not in knowledge as cunning, but in simplicity. Until now you were simple as children. You were naked and did not know you were naked. Now you are no longer childlike; you have become clever, cunning, calculating; now you will raise questions, be entangled in questions, and fall.
Knowledge that destroys simplicity is a deception; it is not knowledge. Only that knowledge which returns simplicity is knowledge. And by the other’s way, knowledge does not come—ignorance comes. By the other’s way, dharma does not come—adharma comes. The path of dharma is within oneself. The Gangotri—the source—of the Ganga of knowledge and dharma is within oneself; it is born there and one day merges into the ocean of the All.
Arjuna said:
“Then, impelled by what, does a man commit sin, O Varshneya,
even against his will, as though constrained by force?” (36)
The Blessed Lord said:
“It is desire, it is anger, born of rajas;
all-devouring, a great sinner—know this here as the enemy.” (37)
On this Arjuna asked: O Krishna, if the Divine does everything; if everything happens through the qualities of nature; if everything flows of itself and the person is not responsible—then why does a man, even unwilling, commit sin as if by force? Who makes him do it? If God is running everything and I do not want to do wrong, and still I become involved in wrong action—who pushes me into evil against my will?
It is a deep question—one of the deepest raised in human history. All religions—Hebrew, Christian, Mohammedan, Hindu, Jain—have faced this: if God runs everything, and even our willing changes nothing; if even when we do not wish to do wrong, and God would not wish wrong—then who shoves us? From where does evil arise?
Different thinkers offered different answers. Those who did not go deep said: there is Satan—he makes you do it. An answer was needed, but this is not very deep. If this were said to Arjuna, he would reply: Can God do nothing to that sinner? Is the devil more powerful than God? If the devil is stronger than God, why entangle me with God? I will bow to the devil!
Many sought to posit a second principle besides God that pushes people into sin. But this answer is neither psychological nor profound; it satisfies only those who are satisfied with anything.
Krishna does not answer that way. Krishna gives a very psychological answer. He says: nature has three qualities—rajas, tamas, and sattva. His answer is very scientific: nature is trigunatmika.
And let me say: when Krishna spoke of the three gunas, he spoke on a scientific foundation. But for five thousand years after Krishna, those who repeated it did not understand the science; they only echoed the words. Yet in the West, in the last twenty years, science has again said: nature is triadic. The day we split the atom, we were astonished to find it breaks into three parts: electron, neutron, and proton. Scientists say: without these three, the atom cannot be. And their properties are akin to those of sattva, rajas, and tamas. What they do is what we have long meant by those three words.
Tamas is inertia—an element of resistance, of stability. Without tamas nothing could remain still. You throw a stone. If there were no tamas in the world—no gravitation, no resisting force—then the stone would never fall; it would travel forever. How would it fall? Some resistance must be; something to stop it. You yourself could not remain on earth—you would have flown off long ago. The earth draws you; tamas, the weight of gravitation, holds us down.
Among the greatest difficulties of astronauts is that as soon as they pass beyond the pull of the earth—two hundred miles out—the attraction ceases; a person becomes like a balloon filled with gas. If your belt is not fastened to the chair, you will rise from the seat and bump against the capsule’s ceiling like a balloon. And you cannot come down; no force helps you down. On the moon the same difficulty—because the moon’s tamas, its gravity, is about one-eighth of earth’s. So if we build houses on the moon, thieves will be able to leap eight times higher; hit a football and it will rise eight times as high as here.
Tamas means inertia, the restraining force. And note a curious point: without a restraining force, even motion is impossible. Motion is possible because we can use resistance. If your car had no brakes, motion itself would be impossible—remember this. Not that it could not start; it might start once, but that would be the end. A brake is needed—the restrainer. The accelerator alone is not enough.
Life would explode if there were no restraining power. Tamas is the restrainer. Rajas is the power of movement. They are opposite forces: tamas restrains, rajas propels—energy. Sattva is the third angle. Picture a triangle: two angles below, one above. Sattva is above the other two; it is their balance. Sattva is balancing, equanimity. If there is movement and restraint, but no balance...
Think of a car with both accelerator and brake, but no driver. The driver is the balancing awareness: moving the foot to the brake when needed, to the accelerator when needed—continuously balancing. Sattva is this balancing.
These are the three elements to which India gave these names. The West calls them electron, proton, neutron—give any names; it makes no difference. What is established is that the ultimate analysis of life falls into three forces. Hence we gave them many names. Those who thought scientifically called them rajas, tamas, sattva. Those who thought metaphorically, poetically, said: Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh. Their work is the same. Brahma is the creative force; Vishnu sustains; Shiva destroys. Without all three, nothing can be. Electron, neutron, proton do these three jobs as well. The electron is negative—like Shiva, it negates, breaks, destroys. The proton is positive—like Brahma, it builds. The neutron is neither negative nor positive; it sustains, stands between, balances.
Krishna says: within man—whatever happens, inner or outer—is play of these three forces. According to them, all occurs. One is pushed, restrained, born, dies, laughs, weeps—these are the work of the three. These powers keep doing their work; in these forms the Divine gives life its process.
Arjuna asks: If we do not wish it, who still makes us act? You wish not to fall on the ground, yet one slip and you fall. Does some devil trip you? No devil—gravitation does its work. You did not want to fall; granted. But if you walk carelessly, you will fall. You will break a leg. You may tell the doctor: I did not want to fall, and surely God does not break people’s legs—why would he? He cannot be so cruel as to break the leg of a good man who didn’t even want to fall. But my leg broke—why? The doctor will give the same answer Krishna gives: because of gravitation. The earth’s gravitational pull—you should walk carefully. If you walk wrongly, gravitation will break your leg. Every force, if we do not walk in accord with it, becomes harmful; if we align with it, it does not harm.
Every force can be used favorably or unfavorably. What forces within man compel him—like a man who doesn’t want to fall and falls and breaks his leg? One who doesn’t want to be angry, yet anger happens and someone’s skull cracks—another’s or his own—what makes this happen? God? Why would God do such a thing! And if God did, how would we call him God? Some say: the devil. Krishna does not. He says: only the forces of life at work.
Within man there is anger—an essential element: the negative, destructive force. Love is the constructive force within us. And discrimination—vivek—is the balancing force. One who abandons discrimination and pours all energy into anger will be dragged toward hell; even if he does not wish it, he will go. One who pours all energy into love will be carried toward heaven, whether he wishes it or not—joy will enter his life. And one who balances and understands both sorrow and joy, and stands apart from both—he will journey toward liberation, moksha.
Hence three more words: heaven, hell, and moksha. Heaven is for one who aligns with his constructive forces. Hell is for one who aligns with his destructive forces. Moksha is for one who aligns with neither; he balances both and then transcends both—goes beyond, goes past.
Krishna says: these powers are, and without them life cannot be. So Arjuna, do not ask “Who pushes me?” Understand how the push is manufactured within you. If you lean excessively toward lust, anger, ego, then you will be made to do what you do not want to do.
Have you seen? We say: lust seizes the mind—but it is more accurate to say: when you allow lust to seize the mind. And note: lust does not seize you without your letting it.
Yes, everything has a limit; beyond a certain point it becomes hard to stop. In traffic we write: five miles per hour here. Why? So many people pass that if you drive thirty you cannot stop in time. At five, stopping in time is easy. Where there are few people, seventy is fine; you can still stop in time. Everything has a limit.
Freud used to tell a story. In a small town a poor municipal committee bought a horse to haul trash. But feed and water were costly—too heavy for the budget. The committee met. They decided to halve the ration and see. If the horse managed, fine; if not, they would increase it. They halved it, and the horse still lived. Then they said: We are crazy to feed him so much—halve it again. They did. The horse still lived and even worked somehow. They said: We are utter fools—stop the ration altogether. They did. What had to happen happened: the horse died. There was a limit up to which the horse could work on less; then a limit beyond which he could not.
Each of our drives has limits—up to where we can arrest them and beyond which we cannot. A thought arises in my mind; the word forms within. For the moment I can still avoid saying it. But once the word has come out of my mouth, I cannot take it back. There was a boundary—there was a place where the thought was there, the word was there, even on the lips, yet I could still stop. Then, once past that boundary, I spoke; now there is no way to return it.
Anger has a place from which it can return. Once it crosses that point, it no longer returns. Lust has a place from which it can return; beyond that, it cannot. And note this curious fact: up to the boundary where lust could still return, you were cooperating with it. Once it cannot return, then you cry: Who is pushing me against my will? Who is forcing me to do this?
Understand this within and it will be clear. Up to a point every drive is in your hands. But when you provoke it so much that your whole body-mind apparatus is gripped by it, then it slips beyond your intelligence. You say “No, no,” and yet the event happens. Then you say: Who is compelling me when I do not do it? No one—the forces act. But the final consent—the inner cooperation—is yours.
Krishna is saying only this: no one sits somewhere beyond to take you into anger, lust, battle, quarrel. There are laws of nature. If you understand them and attain equanimity, balance; if you attain non-attachment, witnessing; discrimination, trust—then you need not worry: then whatever happens is in the hands of the Divine. But until you attain such equanimity and detachment, you go on nurturing attachment, throwing sparks into gunpowder; and when the blaze takes the house you cry: I did not want a fire, yet the fire came. It is the law, the dharma, of gunpowder to ignite; you threw the spark; it is the dharma of the spark to set fire. And when the powder flares you beat your chest and shout: I did not want this.
Have you seen? A man commits murder. Dostoevsky’s great novel Crime and Punishment: Raskolnikov is a character. Daily he sees his landlady—an old crone of seventy—who runs a pawnshop and sucks people dry with interest. Near death, but without a drop of mercy. No one of her own; much money. Raskolnikov—a student—watches from his window. Poor people beg and cry; she shows no pity. He wonders: why does no one kill this old woman? What need is there for her to exist? If she dies, hundreds entangled in her net will be freed.
Poor peasants, laborers, widows, the sick—they borrow money, never settle the debt; their things are lost, court cases follow, punishments. He thinks many times: why doesn’t someone wring her neck? Often his own hands clench: I should wring it. Then he thinks: why should I? What concern is it of mine? He forgets. Years pass.
One day he too needs to pay fees; no money from home. He takes his watch to pawn with the old woman. Evening time. He gives her the watch. She can’t see well; seventy years. She carries the watch to the window to see in the light how much to give. Suddenly, what happens to Raskolnikov—he goes and throttles her. He has no idea how it happened. Only when her neck is squeezed, the veins swell in his hands, blood comes from her mouth, does he panic: What have I done! The old woman falls. Then he realizes: I have committed murder! He runs. All night in bed he thinks: How did I commit murder? Overpowered, as Arjuna says, as if by force. Who possessed me? A ghost, a spirit? What happened? Why did I kill? Who made me? What devil is after me?
No one is after him. For two years he thought and prepared. For two years he fed those forces. For two years he clenched his hands; for two years the poison of anger spread in his mind. Everything was prepared.
When we sow the seed, who can see the tree? How can one know such a big tree will come? Yet it comes—“by force,” as it were. We sow the seed. The seed is small, barely visible. We sow seeds of anger and of lust; then the forces take hold. The three powers begin their work. You sow the seed; the earth begins its work, water begins, light begins. The sun’s rays arrive and begin to grow the seed.
You will be amazed—earth does very little. A scientist tested, carefully weighing. He planted a banyan seed in a large pot; weighed the soil and pot, weighed the seed. The tree became very big. Then he removed the tree and weighed again. The 200-seer pot had only 4 seers less soil—only four! He weighed the tree: about 280 seers. And the scientist thought even those four were not taken by the tree; winds blow, soil flies, water washes it away. Only four! From where did such a big tree arise? The sun is giving, the air is giving, water is giving, earth is giving—the whole cosmos is giving to it.
You plant a tiny seed and the whole world pours into it and it grows. You sow a seed of anger, and forces from everywhere that support anger—tamas, inertia—start flowing toward you. You sow love, and auspicious forces from everywhere begin to flow toward you. You cultivate witnessing, and all the forces of the world come into balance for you; none flow “toward” you or “away” from you—everything settles, becomes even, comes to rest.
Krishna says: neither devil nor God—these three forces, Arjuna. And whichever seed you sow within yourself, that very force is activated and begins its work.
A poet, by singing his song, attains the same bliss a mathematician attains in solving his problem. But the problem is different and the poem is different. A painter, completing his painting, comes upon the same joy a dancer comes upon in dancing. But dancing is different, painting is different—the joy is one. The destination to which swadharma carries you is one.
It is like climbing a mountain by our own tracks and all reaching the summit. Arriving at the peak is one; the winds there, the sun, the sky, the drifting clouds—they are one. But the tracks by which we came are all different.
No two people reach the peak by the same track, because no two people stand at the same starting point. Nor can they. Wherever one stands, from there he must begin his journey. I am seated here; if you all start walking toward me, each of you will begin from the place where you are seated. And you sit in a place only you occupy; no one else is sitting in your exact place. Others will start from where they are. Directions will differ, styles of walking will differ, strengths will differ, intentions will differ, notions about arrival will differ. Yet the place reached will be one. As all rivers reach the ocean, so all swadharmas reach the great dharma. That dharma is one. But that dharma is found the day the “self” dissolves.
Krishna is not yet speaking to Arjuna of that dharma. He will speak of it too. Then he will say to Arjuna: sarva-dharmān parityajya—abandon all dharmas. He will say that as well: now drop all dharmas, come into me. For now he says: hold firmly to your swadharma. The very same Krishna will later say: now drop all dharmas—come into me.
We cannot tell the Ganga: follow the Yamuna’s course. We cannot tell the Yamuna: follow the Indus. We cannot tell the Indus: take the Brahmaputra’s path. Yet when they reach the shore of the ocean, the ocean will say: come, drop your separate courses and enter me. They will travel by their own river-beds; and then one day even the paths must be left behind. The day the destination is found, the path must be dropped. One who clings to the path after arriving is mad. If the Divine stands before you and you still cling to the self, you are mad. But if the Divine is not before you and you cling to the “other” in place of the Divine—that too is madness. The other is not the Divine. The other is not God.
Until then, the self is all. Until the Divine is found, the self is everything; take care of the self until then. Until the ocean is reached, the river should keep to her channel. And the day she meets the ocean, she should dance and dissolve. That day drop all banks. Do not, out of attachment, lament: these banks accompanied me so long—how can I leave them now? Do not worry: the paths that brought you here—how can I leave them? They brought you here so you can leave them here. Enough—the paths are finished. Dharma is found where swadharma dissolves.
Three points: paradharma, swadharma, and dharma. We live in paradharma. Arjuna is hankering after paradharma. He is a kshatriya; his aptitude is that. If psychologists were to speak, they would say: you can do nothing else; your soul will be burnished with the shine of your sword. You will awaken in that very moment when life is at stake. You are not the type to sit with eyes closed and meditate. You will meditate, but only in the intensity of battle. There you will be absorbed; there you will forget. You are not someone who can sit at home with a rosary in the morning and say, “I am not the body.” No. When swords flash in the sun and everything is on the line, then you will forget you are the body; you will not even know you are the body; you too will know “I am not the body”—but it will be on the razor-edge of the sword. Sitting at home with a rosary will not do for you. That is not your aptitude, not your swadharma. So do not try to seize paradharma.
A great irony: one who clings to paradharma never reaches the Divine. The one who grasps paradharma does not even reach his own swadharma—so reaching God does not arise. First drop paradharma, hold to swadharma. Then a time will come—we shall speak of it—when Krishna will say: now drop even swadharma; now dissolve in the Divine. First drop the other; then drop the self; then the All is attained. Drop the other for the self; drop the self for the All. Beyond that, there remains nothing to drop or to hold.
Swadharma is opposed to paradharma. And dharma is opposed to adharma. From paradharma the journey is to swadharma; from swadharma the journey is to dharma. He who walks with swadharma will one day arrive at dharma; he who clings to paradharma will one day end in adharma. The last step of paradharma is adharma, because the one who clings to another’s way loses his uniqueness, loses his soul—and the day the soul is lost, adharma settles in. Your own lamp has gone out; darkness will enter the house. One whose swadharma awakens never falls into adharma. Swadharma, growing and growing—light, growing and growing—one day becomes one with the sun. That day he attains dharma.
So keep four things in mind. Before us lies a choice: either swadharma or paradharma. If you wish to go to adharma, paradharma’s path is useful, beneficial, supportive. If you wish to go to dharma, swadharma’s path is beneficial, supportive. We reach adharma via the other; we reach dharma via the self.
In this connection let me tell you a small story. We always reach adharma via the other; and we always reach dharma via the self.
Therefore, one who goes toward dharma moves into solitude, so that the other is not—where the other is not, not even a picture of the other forms. Hence, in the search for dharma, Buddha goes to the forests, Mahavira to the hills, Mohammed climbs a mountain, Moses loses himself upon Sinai.
One who seeks dharma withdraws from the other, quietly slips away—so there is no “other”: no reed, no flute; if there is no reed, there is no flute; let there be no “other,” and no temptation to grasp the other. He slips away silently. But the man who wants adharma seeks the crowd. He never seeks aloneness. For adharma, the other is absolutely necessary.
It is a curious fact: you can be peaceful alone; for restlessness, the other is absolutely necessary. You can be blissful alone; to be miserable, the other is very necessary. You can be pure alone; to fall into sin, the other is absolutely necessary. You can be celibate alone; for lust, the other is absolutely necessary. You can renounce alone; for indulgence, the other is absolutely necessary. Keep this in mind.
A Christian parable in the Old Testament: In the Garden of Eden God created Adam and Eve. It is a story, but there is something worth seeing in it. God said: there is a tree; do not eat its fruit. It is the tree of knowledge; if you eat its fruit, you will be cast out of heaven. Very strange! If one ate the fruit of ignorance and were expelled, that would be understandable. But to eat the fruit of knowledge and be driven from heaven is hard to understand. Yet God clearly said: this is the tree of knowledge; if you eat its fruit, you will be cast out.
The serpent came and said to Eve: Don’t be foolish; don’t fall into this deception. God himself is God by eating the fruit of this tree. And silly woman, can one lose paradise by eating the fruit of knowledge? By the fruit of knowledge one attains paradise. You know nothing. Eat and become like God. Eve persuaded Adam: we must eat this fruit. There must be some secret, some mystery; and since God has forbidden it, the meaning must be deep. If God forbids the fruit of knowledge, he is not our friend but our enemy. The fruit of knowledge!
Adam was persuaded—as men are always persuaded by women’s words. It is not that the mistake happened only that day in Eden; the same mistake happens in every garden and every home. She is very skillful at persuading.
She coaxed Adam. Adam ate the fruit, and immediately they were driven out of heaven. God asked Adam: Why did you eat? He said: What could I do? The other tempted me—Eve tempted me. He asked Eve: Why did you tempt him? She said: The other tempted me—the serpent tempted me.
The Christian tale says: sin comes by the way of the other. There are two or three points in this story: by the way of the other. And note one more thing: why did the fruit of knowledge expel man from heaven? Because as soon as Adam and Eve ate from the tree of knowledge, Adam knew: I am naked; Eve knew: I am naked; she quickly covered her nakedness with leaves. God said: you have gained knowledge, but you have lost simplicity. And heaven is in simplicity—not in calculating consciousness, not in knowledge as cunning, but in simplicity. Until now you were simple as children. You were naked and did not know you were naked. Now you are no longer childlike; you have become clever, cunning, calculating; now you will raise questions, be entangled in questions, and fall.
Knowledge that destroys simplicity is a deception; it is not knowledge. Only that knowledge which returns simplicity is knowledge. And by the other’s way, knowledge does not come—ignorance comes. By the other’s way, dharma does not come—adharma comes. The path of dharma is within oneself. The Gangotri—the source—of the Ganga of knowledge and dharma is within oneself; it is born there and one day merges into the ocean of the All.
Arjuna said:
“Then, impelled by what, does a man commit sin, O Varshneya,
even against his will, as though constrained by force?” (36)
The Blessed Lord said:
“It is desire, it is anger, born of rajas;
all-devouring, a great sinner—know this here as the enemy.” (37)
On this Arjuna asked: O Krishna, if the Divine does everything; if everything happens through the qualities of nature; if everything flows of itself and the person is not responsible—then why does a man, even unwilling, commit sin as if by force? Who makes him do it? If God is running everything and I do not want to do wrong, and still I become involved in wrong action—who pushes me into evil against my will?
It is a deep question—one of the deepest raised in human history. All religions—Hebrew, Christian, Mohammedan, Hindu, Jain—have faced this: if God runs everything, and even our willing changes nothing; if even when we do not wish to do wrong, and God would not wish wrong—then who shoves us? From where does evil arise?
Different thinkers offered different answers. Those who did not go deep said: there is Satan—he makes you do it. An answer was needed, but this is not very deep. If this were said to Arjuna, he would reply: Can God do nothing to that sinner? Is the devil more powerful than God? If the devil is stronger than God, why entangle me with God? I will bow to the devil!
Many sought to posit a second principle besides God that pushes people into sin. But this answer is neither psychological nor profound; it satisfies only those who are satisfied with anything.
Krishna does not answer that way. Krishna gives a very psychological answer. He says: nature has three qualities—rajas, tamas, and sattva. His answer is very scientific: nature is trigunatmika.
And let me say: when Krishna spoke of the three gunas, he spoke on a scientific foundation. But for five thousand years after Krishna, those who repeated it did not understand the science; they only echoed the words. Yet in the West, in the last twenty years, science has again said: nature is triadic. The day we split the atom, we were astonished to find it breaks into three parts: electron, neutron, and proton. Scientists say: without these three, the atom cannot be. And their properties are akin to those of sattva, rajas, and tamas. What they do is what we have long meant by those three words.
Tamas is inertia—an element of resistance, of stability. Without tamas nothing could remain still. You throw a stone. If there were no tamas in the world—no gravitation, no resisting force—then the stone would never fall; it would travel forever. How would it fall? Some resistance must be; something to stop it. You yourself could not remain on earth—you would have flown off long ago. The earth draws you; tamas, the weight of gravitation, holds us down.
Among the greatest difficulties of astronauts is that as soon as they pass beyond the pull of the earth—two hundred miles out—the attraction ceases; a person becomes like a balloon filled with gas. If your belt is not fastened to the chair, you will rise from the seat and bump against the capsule’s ceiling like a balloon. And you cannot come down; no force helps you down. On the moon the same difficulty—because the moon’s tamas, its gravity, is about one-eighth of earth’s. So if we build houses on the moon, thieves will be able to leap eight times higher; hit a football and it will rise eight times as high as here.
Tamas means inertia, the restraining force. And note a curious point: without a restraining force, even motion is impossible. Motion is possible because we can use resistance. If your car had no brakes, motion itself would be impossible—remember this. Not that it could not start; it might start once, but that would be the end. A brake is needed—the restrainer. The accelerator alone is not enough.
Life would explode if there were no restraining power. Tamas is the restrainer. Rajas is the power of movement. They are opposite forces: tamas restrains, rajas propels—energy. Sattva is the third angle. Picture a triangle: two angles below, one above. Sattva is above the other two; it is their balance. Sattva is balancing, equanimity. If there is movement and restraint, but no balance...
Think of a car with both accelerator and brake, but no driver. The driver is the balancing awareness: moving the foot to the brake when needed, to the accelerator when needed—continuously balancing. Sattva is this balancing.
These are the three elements to which India gave these names. The West calls them electron, proton, neutron—give any names; it makes no difference. What is established is that the ultimate analysis of life falls into three forces. Hence we gave them many names. Those who thought scientifically called them rajas, tamas, sattva. Those who thought metaphorically, poetically, said: Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh. Their work is the same. Brahma is the creative force; Vishnu sustains; Shiva destroys. Without all three, nothing can be. Electron, neutron, proton do these three jobs as well. The electron is negative—like Shiva, it negates, breaks, destroys. The proton is positive—like Brahma, it builds. The neutron is neither negative nor positive; it sustains, stands between, balances.
Krishna says: within man—whatever happens, inner or outer—is play of these three forces. According to them, all occurs. One is pushed, restrained, born, dies, laughs, weeps—these are the work of the three. These powers keep doing their work; in these forms the Divine gives life its process.
Arjuna asks: If we do not wish it, who still makes us act? You wish not to fall on the ground, yet one slip and you fall. Does some devil trip you? No devil—gravitation does its work. You did not want to fall; granted. But if you walk carelessly, you will fall. You will break a leg. You may tell the doctor: I did not want to fall, and surely God does not break people’s legs—why would he? He cannot be so cruel as to break the leg of a good man who didn’t even want to fall. But my leg broke—why? The doctor will give the same answer Krishna gives: because of gravitation. The earth’s gravitational pull—you should walk carefully. If you walk wrongly, gravitation will break your leg. Every force, if we do not walk in accord with it, becomes harmful; if we align with it, it does not harm.
Every force can be used favorably or unfavorably. What forces within man compel him—like a man who doesn’t want to fall and falls and breaks his leg? One who doesn’t want to be angry, yet anger happens and someone’s skull cracks—another’s or his own—what makes this happen? God? Why would God do such a thing! And if God did, how would we call him God? Some say: the devil. Krishna does not. He says: only the forces of life at work.
Within man there is anger—an essential element: the negative, destructive force. Love is the constructive force within us. And discrimination—vivek—is the balancing force. One who abandons discrimination and pours all energy into anger will be dragged toward hell; even if he does not wish it, he will go. One who pours all energy into love will be carried toward heaven, whether he wishes it or not—joy will enter his life. And one who balances and understands both sorrow and joy, and stands apart from both—he will journey toward liberation, moksha.
Hence three more words: heaven, hell, and moksha. Heaven is for one who aligns with his constructive forces. Hell is for one who aligns with his destructive forces. Moksha is for one who aligns with neither; he balances both and then transcends both—goes beyond, goes past.
Krishna says: these powers are, and without them life cannot be. So Arjuna, do not ask “Who pushes me?” Understand how the push is manufactured within you. If you lean excessively toward lust, anger, ego, then you will be made to do what you do not want to do.
Have you seen? We say: lust seizes the mind—but it is more accurate to say: when you allow lust to seize the mind. And note: lust does not seize you without your letting it.
Yes, everything has a limit; beyond a certain point it becomes hard to stop. In traffic we write: five miles per hour here. Why? So many people pass that if you drive thirty you cannot stop in time. At five, stopping in time is easy. Where there are few people, seventy is fine; you can still stop in time. Everything has a limit.
Freud used to tell a story. In a small town a poor municipal committee bought a horse to haul trash. But feed and water were costly—too heavy for the budget. The committee met. They decided to halve the ration and see. If the horse managed, fine; if not, they would increase it. They halved it, and the horse still lived. Then they said: We are crazy to feed him so much—halve it again. They did. The horse still lived and even worked somehow. They said: We are utter fools—stop the ration altogether. They did. What had to happen happened: the horse died. There was a limit up to which the horse could work on less; then a limit beyond which he could not.
Each of our drives has limits—up to where we can arrest them and beyond which we cannot. A thought arises in my mind; the word forms within. For the moment I can still avoid saying it. But once the word has come out of my mouth, I cannot take it back. There was a boundary—there was a place where the thought was there, the word was there, even on the lips, yet I could still stop. Then, once past that boundary, I spoke; now there is no way to return it.
Anger has a place from which it can return. Once it crosses that point, it no longer returns. Lust has a place from which it can return; beyond that, it cannot. And note this curious fact: up to the boundary where lust could still return, you were cooperating with it. Once it cannot return, then you cry: Who is pushing me against my will? Who is forcing me to do this?
Understand this within and it will be clear. Up to a point every drive is in your hands. But when you provoke it so much that your whole body-mind apparatus is gripped by it, then it slips beyond your intelligence. You say “No, no,” and yet the event happens. Then you say: Who is compelling me when I do not do it? No one—the forces act. But the final consent—the inner cooperation—is yours.
Krishna is saying only this: no one sits somewhere beyond to take you into anger, lust, battle, quarrel. There are laws of nature. If you understand them and attain equanimity, balance; if you attain non-attachment, witnessing; discrimination, trust—then you need not worry: then whatever happens is in the hands of the Divine. But until you attain such equanimity and detachment, you go on nurturing attachment, throwing sparks into gunpowder; and when the blaze takes the house you cry: I did not want a fire, yet the fire came. It is the law, the dharma, of gunpowder to ignite; you threw the spark; it is the dharma of the spark to set fire. And when the powder flares you beat your chest and shout: I did not want this.
Have you seen? A man commits murder. Dostoevsky’s great novel Crime and Punishment: Raskolnikov is a character. Daily he sees his landlady—an old crone of seventy—who runs a pawnshop and sucks people dry with interest. Near death, but without a drop of mercy. No one of her own; much money. Raskolnikov—a student—watches from his window. Poor people beg and cry; she shows no pity. He wonders: why does no one kill this old woman? What need is there for her to exist? If she dies, hundreds entangled in her net will be freed.
Poor peasants, laborers, widows, the sick—they borrow money, never settle the debt; their things are lost, court cases follow, punishments. He thinks many times: why doesn’t someone wring her neck? Often his own hands clench: I should wring it. Then he thinks: why should I? What concern is it of mine? He forgets. Years pass.
One day he too needs to pay fees; no money from home. He takes his watch to pawn with the old woman. Evening time. He gives her the watch. She can’t see well; seventy years. She carries the watch to the window to see in the light how much to give. Suddenly, what happens to Raskolnikov—he goes and throttles her. He has no idea how it happened. Only when her neck is squeezed, the veins swell in his hands, blood comes from her mouth, does he panic: What have I done! The old woman falls. Then he realizes: I have committed murder! He runs. All night in bed he thinks: How did I commit murder? Overpowered, as Arjuna says, as if by force. Who possessed me? A ghost, a spirit? What happened? Why did I kill? Who made me? What devil is after me?
No one is after him. For two years he thought and prepared. For two years he fed those forces. For two years he clenched his hands; for two years the poison of anger spread in his mind. Everything was prepared.
When we sow the seed, who can see the tree? How can one know such a big tree will come? Yet it comes—“by force,” as it were. We sow the seed. The seed is small, barely visible. We sow seeds of anger and of lust; then the forces take hold. The three powers begin their work. You sow the seed; the earth begins its work, water begins, light begins. The sun’s rays arrive and begin to grow the seed.
You will be amazed—earth does very little. A scientist tested, carefully weighing. He planted a banyan seed in a large pot; weighed the soil and pot, weighed the seed. The tree became very big. Then he removed the tree and weighed again. The 200-seer pot had only 4 seers less soil—only four! He weighed the tree: about 280 seers. And the scientist thought even those four were not taken by the tree; winds blow, soil flies, water washes it away. Only four! From where did such a big tree arise? The sun is giving, the air is giving, water is giving, earth is giving—the whole cosmos is giving to it.
You plant a tiny seed and the whole world pours into it and it grows. You sow a seed of anger, and forces from everywhere that support anger—tamas, inertia—start flowing toward you. You sow love, and auspicious forces from everywhere begin to flow toward you. You cultivate witnessing, and all the forces of the world come into balance for you; none flow “toward” you or “away” from you—everything settles, becomes even, comes to rest.
Krishna says: neither devil nor God—these three forces, Arjuna. And whichever seed you sow within yourself, that very force is activated and begins its work.
Osho, the creation that runs on the three gunas was made by God. God has placed the tamas guna in human nature—what purpose does God have behind it?
God has no purpose. The language of purpose is always human. Purpose belongs to one who has something to attain in the future. A potter makes a pot—he has a purpose: to sell it in the market, or to fetch water for the house. Then a Van Gogh paints a picture. Someone asks him, “For what purpose did you paint this?” He says, “No purpose at all. The very act of painting is my joy.” You may say, “It could sell in the market.” Not a single one of Van Gogh’s paintings sold while he was alive. You might say, “He must have gained some prestige, some honor as a great painter.” No one honored him, no one respected him. You may say, “He must have been wealthy, had money and leisure, so he kept himself busy with something.” No—Van Gogh was very poor. His brother sent him just enough money for seven days of plain bread—no money for colors, paper, or canvas. So for four days he would eat, and for three days he would fast. And whatever he saved in those three fasting days, he used to buy paint. When anyone asked, “Why?” he would say, “Simply because creating it is joy.”
The Divine is not creating the world out of purpose; creation itself is His joy. The making itself is bliss. There is no before or after, no ulterior motive—purposeless. And remember: joy is always purposeless. A mother raises her child—ask her, “For what?” If she says, “So that he’ll get a job later,” understand she’s not a mother; that’s a factory speaking. If she is a mother she will say, “For what? What a wrong question! It is my joy.”
For God, creation is joy—His act of bliss; hence there is no purpose. Yes, but your question still remains pertinent: why does He place tamas in man?
In truth, we have always taken the word tamas in a wrong sense. We assume tamas is something bad. Tamas is not bad in itself; not inherently. Yes, to be filled only with tamas is bad. Tamas is not evil in itself—poison is not evil in itself; sometimes in illness it works as medicine. We could complain, “Why did God create poison? A man ate poison and died—God is responsible. Why did He create poison? Had He not, this man would not have eaten it.” But poison by itself kills no one. The same substance can also heal. If a man swallows nothing but poison, he will die. Even nectar, if taken in excess, can bring death. Nectar must also be taken in the right measure—if you can find it! Perhaps it isn’t found because there is this fear: very few people swallow poison, but if nectar were available, many would drink it without measure. Maybe that’s why it isn’t available—how would you stop yourself once you start? You’d keep drinking; even nectar would bring death.
Life runs by laws. No law is bad or good; they are simply indispensable. Without tamas, without inertia, the world could not exist. For existence to be, an obstructive force is needed. But if a person depends only on the obstructive force, danger arises, because the other two forces are needed as well. The highest state of health is when all three forces are in balance, in harmony. In that very moment one slips beyond all three and can experience God. As long as one keeps wobbling this way and that…
Have you ever watched a tightrope walker? He is never still. You might say, “Why doesn’t he stand still?” If he stood still, he would immediately fall and die. Why doesn’t the acrobat stay steady? Because he is continuously balancing. When you see him lean to the left, don’t be mistaken: he leans left only when there is a danger of falling to the right. He leans right when there is a danger of falling to the left. He is balancing all the time. When the fear of falling to the right arises, he shifts his weight to the left so balance is restored. When he has saved himself from the right and the danger arises on the left, he shifts to the other side to save himself. And nature is working below. If the acrobat doesn’t balance, he falls to the ground, bones break. He cannot then complain to nature, “You broke my bones!” Nature will say, “We have nothing to do with it; you keep your balance on your rope—that’s your business.”
These three gunas—whoever learns to balance them—such a person attains to dharma. If one cannot balance, one falls, gets broken. Then we say, “Who pushed me?” No one pushed you—you failed to balance.
Krishna’s whole yoga is samata-yoga—the yoga of balance. Like the tightrope walker, life is a continuous balance, an equilibrium—ever, always balance. If you have overeaten, then fast; if you have fasted too much, take glucose injections! Balance, all the time. Life is a very subtle balance, a delicate balance. Move a little off-center and you are gone. Nature will keep doing her work; she stands below saying, “Acrobat, as long as you balance, stay above; when you cannot, come down. We are ready.”
The three are essential elements; they cannot be fewer. Without the three, creation would be lost—hence they are there. But not so that you fall into tamas. Use tamas to restrain rajas; when tamas increases, lean toward rajas. When rajas increases, incline toward tamas. Keep mastering both. And when both are completely mastered, your vertical journey toward sattva begins. Then you will have to practice among all three; that is an even deeper alchemy. Balancing between two is much easier. Balance the two, and you rise into sattva.
A sadhu is one who has reached sattva, who has mastered the two. One who has become balanced between tamas and rajas is called a sadhu. One who has balanced rajas, tamas, and sattva—the three—is called a sant. That is something very different. When someone balances among all three, he reaches the center of the triangle. That very center is the doorway of the triangle. In the space between the three forces—the empty space there—one enters the Divine, into Brahman.
This will become clear as we go along, slowly. First become a sadhu: balance between the two. Then become a sant: balance among the three. And the day you are balanced among all three, that very day becoming ends—on that day you enter God. That day a person goes beyond nature’s three gunas.
Therefore, nature is triguna, and God is trigunatita—beyond the three.
We will speak of the rest tomorrow.
The Divine is not creating the world out of purpose; creation itself is His joy. The making itself is bliss. There is no before or after, no ulterior motive—purposeless. And remember: joy is always purposeless. A mother raises her child—ask her, “For what?” If she says, “So that he’ll get a job later,” understand she’s not a mother; that’s a factory speaking. If she is a mother she will say, “For what? What a wrong question! It is my joy.”
For God, creation is joy—His act of bliss; hence there is no purpose. Yes, but your question still remains pertinent: why does He place tamas in man?
In truth, we have always taken the word tamas in a wrong sense. We assume tamas is something bad. Tamas is not bad in itself; not inherently. Yes, to be filled only with tamas is bad. Tamas is not evil in itself—poison is not evil in itself; sometimes in illness it works as medicine. We could complain, “Why did God create poison? A man ate poison and died—God is responsible. Why did He create poison? Had He not, this man would not have eaten it.” But poison by itself kills no one. The same substance can also heal. If a man swallows nothing but poison, he will die. Even nectar, if taken in excess, can bring death. Nectar must also be taken in the right measure—if you can find it! Perhaps it isn’t found because there is this fear: very few people swallow poison, but if nectar were available, many would drink it without measure. Maybe that’s why it isn’t available—how would you stop yourself once you start? You’d keep drinking; even nectar would bring death.
Life runs by laws. No law is bad or good; they are simply indispensable. Without tamas, without inertia, the world could not exist. For existence to be, an obstructive force is needed. But if a person depends only on the obstructive force, danger arises, because the other two forces are needed as well. The highest state of health is when all three forces are in balance, in harmony. In that very moment one slips beyond all three and can experience God. As long as one keeps wobbling this way and that…
Have you ever watched a tightrope walker? He is never still. You might say, “Why doesn’t he stand still?” If he stood still, he would immediately fall and die. Why doesn’t the acrobat stay steady? Because he is continuously balancing. When you see him lean to the left, don’t be mistaken: he leans left only when there is a danger of falling to the right. He leans right when there is a danger of falling to the left. He is balancing all the time. When the fear of falling to the right arises, he shifts his weight to the left so balance is restored. When he has saved himself from the right and the danger arises on the left, he shifts to the other side to save himself. And nature is working below. If the acrobat doesn’t balance, he falls to the ground, bones break. He cannot then complain to nature, “You broke my bones!” Nature will say, “We have nothing to do with it; you keep your balance on your rope—that’s your business.”
These three gunas—whoever learns to balance them—such a person attains to dharma. If one cannot balance, one falls, gets broken. Then we say, “Who pushed me?” No one pushed you—you failed to balance.
Krishna’s whole yoga is samata-yoga—the yoga of balance. Like the tightrope walker, life is a continuous balance, an equilibrium—ever, always balance. If you have overeaten, then fast; if you have fasted too much, take glucose injections! Balance, all the time. Life is a very subtle balance, a delicate balance. Move a little off-center and you are gone. Nature will keep doing her work; she stands below saying, “Acrobat, as long as you balance, stay above; when you cannot, come down. We are ready.”
The three are essential elements; they cannot be fewer. Without the three, creation would be lost—hence they are there. But not so that you fall into tamas. Use tamas to restrain rajas; when tamas increases, lean toward rajas. When rajas increases, incline toward tamas. Keep mastering both. And when both are completely mastered, your vertical journey toward sattva begins. Then you will have to practice among all three; that is an even deeper alchemy. Balancing between two is much easier. Balance the two, and you rise into sattva.
A sadhu is one who has reached sattva, who has mastered the two. One who has become balanced between tamas and rajas is called a sadhu. One who has balanced rajas, tamas, and sattva—the three—is called a sant. That is something very different. When someone balances among all three, he reaches the center of the triangle. That very center is the doorway of the triangle. In the space between the three forces—the empty space there—one enters the Divine, into Brahman.
This will become clear as we go along, slowly. First become a sadhu: balance between the two. Then become a sant: balance among the three. And the day you are balanced among all three, that very day becoming ends—on that day you enter God. That day a person goes beyond nature’s three gunas.
Therefore, nature is triguna, and God is trigunatita—beyond the three.
We will speak of the rest tomorrow.
Osho's Commentary
Krishna, in this sutra, says two things. First: to die in swadharma is still blessed. To err, to falter, to stumble in swadharma is still blessed. Even to fail in swadharma is blessed — rather than to succeed in paradharma.
What is swadharma? And what is paradharma? Each person has his swadharma — and no two persons share the same swadharma. Not even a father’s dharma is the son’s; not even a master’s dharma is the disciple’s. Here dharma means one’s nature, svabhava, one’s inner nature. Each person has his own inner nature, but it is closed like a seed — unmanifest, undeveloped, potential. And as long as the seed remains closed within itself it is restless. Until it can crack open and sprout, become a tender shoot, and flower and scatter its fragrance into the cosmic existence — until then restlessness will remain. The day the seed sprouts into a tree and blossoms, that day, at the feet of Paramatma, it offers its uniqueness. The joy of a flower in bloom — such is the joy hidden within you when your own being flowers. And at the feet of Paramatma there is but one naivedya, one flower to be offered: the flowering of individuality. We have nothing else to place there.
Until the inner flower can fully bloom, we will live in anguish — sorrow, restlessness, tension. Hence whoever tries to drape himself in paradharma will be in the same trouble as a jasmine tree trying to bring forth champa blossoms; as if a rose were to try to become a lotus — the rose will be thrown into a double misery. First, however much the rose may desire to become a lotus, it cannot; failure is certain. Whatever the rose may wish, it cannot be a lotus. Nor can the lotus become a rose. It is impossible. At best there can be an attempt against one’s nature; becoming cannot happen.
Therefore if a rose strives to be a lotus, it will never become a lotus — so failure, frustration, defeat, inferiority will circle in its mind. And second — an even greater calamity — its energy will be wasted in trying to be a lotus, and it will never become a rose either. Because the energy needed to become a rose has been poured into becoming a lotus. The lotus cannot happen; and what could have happened — the rose — will also not happen, for energy is limited. What is appropriate is that the rose become a rose. And even if the rose remains small, there is no harm. Let it not be a great lotus; let the rose be small — still, no harm. And if it cannot even fully become a rose, if it has at least made the effort to be a rose, there is a certain contentment — that I did all I could to be what I could be. Even in that failure there is a success, that I held nothing back.
But the rose that tries to be a lotus — it cannot succeed. If somehow it manages to deceive itself, to succeed in self-deception, it may dream that “I have become a lotus.” It can only dream; in paradharma one never truly becomes. It can dream that it has happened, it can fall into delusion that it has happened. Better than such dream-success is the small, even failed, being-a-rose. Because the flavor of contentment comes from truth, not from dream.
Here Krishna gives a seed-mantra. He is telling Arjuna: in swadharma — seek what is truly your dharma. First search for this: what can you become? Do not yet ask what will happen if you become that. First find out what you can be. Decide, first of all, what you can be — and then put your whole being into becoming that. Drop all other worries. Only then can you someday arrive at the ultimate fulfillment.
But we take on paradharma. There are two reasons. First, swadharma does not become fully clear until the flower actually blooms. Even the rose does not know what will bloom within it until it blooms. So it is a great difficulty — what is swadharma? People die and never come to know; life slips out of the hands and it remains unknown what I was born to be — on what mission Paramatma sent me, on which journey. What was I sent to become? To my dying breath I do not know.
The greatest obstacle to knowing is that all around us are the temptations of paradharma, which do not allow swadharma to be known. The rose has not yet bloomed — it does not yet know — but next to it a lotus has opened, a jasmine has opened, a champa has opened. They are in bloom; their fragrance catches us, their forms catch the eye, their allure, their imitation catches the mind — and one wants, “I too should become that.” Pass by Mahavira and the mind feels, “I should become a Mahavira.” There is a flower in full bloom. Pass by Buddha and the mind longs, “How can I become a Buddha?” If Christ appears, the heart becomes impatient — “When can I become like that?” If Krishna appears, the life-breath begins to dance, “How can I become Krishna?”
We do not know what we ourselves can be; but around us, blooming flowers can be seen — and therein lies the distraction. Because on this earth, other than Krishna, no one can be Krishna — not then, not now, not tomorrow, never. Paramatma never repeats. He does not do repetition. Paramatma is a most original creator. He has never created a man twice. Thousands of years have passed since Krishna — another Krishna has not appeared. Thousands since Buddha — another Buddha has not appeared. Though millions have tried to become Buddhas, no one has become a Buddha. Though thousands have aspired to be a Christ — where does a Christ happen? Only once.
There is no repetition on this earth. Repetition is done only by those whose creative capacity is limited. The creative capacity of Paramatma is infinite. Often, in old age, poets begin to rewrite their old poems again and again. Painters run out — and paint the same pictures they have painted many times before; a little alteration here and there, and the same again. Man has limits.
Kahlil Gibran wrote his first book, The Prophet, at twenty-one — and he was spent. He wrote many books afterward, but they are repetitions. Beyond The Prophet he could say nothing. In one sense he died at twenty-one. In that sense, had Kahlil Gibran literally died at twenty-one, no great loss would have occurred — what he could give had already been given; he was finished.
If you look through Picasso’s paintings, again it is repetition — the same things returning. Man chews the cud; like a buffalo that eats the grass and then keeps ruminating — what was put inside, the same is brought back up and chewed again.
But Paramatma does not ruminate. His creativity is infinite. What he creates once, he creates once. He never repeats the model. Yet, seeing someone, our mind becomes attracted: “I should be like that.” The journey of error begins there.
Paradharma is seductive because paradharma appears already in bloom. Swadharma is not evident because it is future. Paradharma is here — blossoming next door; it attracts — “Let me be like that.”
So when Krishna says that even to lose in swadharma is better than to succeed in paradharma, he is saying: beware of paradharma. Paradharma is dreadful. There is nothing more fearsome in this world than paradharma. To make another your ideal is the most dangerous thing — be most afraid of that. Yet we are never afraid of it. We tell our children, “Become like Vivekananda, become like Ramakrishna, become like Buddha, become like Mohammed.” As if Paramatma were exhausted — having made Mohammed, nothing better could be; having made Krishna, there is no way to create anything further. As if God had been defeated and now, for you, he can only send you as carbon copies: “Just become like someone.” As if the only right you have is to be a carbon copy.
No — Paramatma is not exhausted. In this sutra of Krishna the meanings are precious indeed: paradharma is dreadful. If you must be afraid of anything, do not be afraid of death. Krishna will never say, “Fear death.” The one who says, “Do not fear death,” says, “Fear paradharma!” Paradharma is more dangerous than death. Why? Because paradharma is suicidal. Whoever has accepted another’s dharma has committed suicide. He has killed his own soul — and now he will only try to become a copy of another’s soul.
However hard one tries, only the covering can be changed. The inner soul remains what it is — one’s own; it can never be another’s. Paradharma is more dreadful than death, because it is self-destruction. What we ordinarily call suicide is less dreadful — there only the body dies. What Krishna calls dreadful is that we suppress and choke the soul itself.
We must be cautious of another’s dharma and set our vision upon swadharma. We must inquire: What am I meant to become? What can I be? What does the seed within me ask for? And with courage set out upon that journey.
Therefore dharma is the greatest audacity, the supreme adventure. Neither going to the moon is so daring, nor climbing Everest so daring, nor diving into the depths of the Pacific so daring, nor descending into a volcano so daring, as is setting out upon the journey of swadharma. Why? Because, although perhaps no one had reached Everest before Tenzing and Hillary, many had attempted — human footprints had come approximately close. Travelers had gone upon that path. Even if no one had gone so deep into the Pacific, people had ventured — and left a decisive track. But on the journey of swadharma, before you — on your swadharma — no one has ever gone. It is utterly unknown; not an inch has been traveled. You will be going for the first time — a leap into the totally unknown, where no one has gone.
Hence paradharma appears attractive — because in paradharma there seems to be security. There is a map in paradharma! We know what Buddha did — so we can sit cross-legged in the same way and do something; we have the map. We know what Krishna did — so let us buy a flute and stand beneath some tree and play. Maps are at hand. Paradharma has a map; swadharma is uncharted. No map, no compass, no guide — because you are going for the first time upon the journey that is your swadharma. Therefore, frightened, one moves onto another’s path. Prepared roads, beaten tracks, highways entice: a fixed road, people have gone upon it before — I too shall go upon it.
But remember, by another’s road no one can arrive at his own destination. If the road is another’s, the goal will also be another’s. And to reach another’s goal — better than that is to wander in the search for one’s own goal. For wandering too becomes learning. And mistakes can be corrected. By mistakes, a man learns not to repeat the mistake. Error is knowledge. In the search for one’s own, even to wander and to fall is appropriate. In the search for another’s, even if there is a grand highway, it is futile — for it does not reach your temple.
Swadharma is audacity — the audacity of the unknown, the unfamiliar. Here there is no ready-made path. Here, walking and making the path are two ways of saying the same thing. Here, walking itself is making the path. In a trackless forest you walk — and the path is born. As far as you walk, that far the path appears. It would be more comfortable if the path were there before walking — then there would be support. You walk in the jungle — creepers are torn, branches pushed aside, a little space cleared — but that does not solve it; ahead again the path must be made.
In swadharma, walking itself constructs the way. Therefore to go astray is certain. But the one who is afraid of going astray and sets out on the secure journey of paradharma — Krishna says — that is even more fear-full. Here, in swadharma, you might wander — there, in paradharma, you can never arrive. The wanderer can arrive. Only he who is on the right path knows he has strayed.
Understand it well: only he who is on the right path can know he has strayed — because only then is there a measure to know he has wandered. But the one who is on a completely wrong path never wanders — for there is no criterion of wandering. On another’s road you will never stray; the road appears firm, visible — someone has walked it. You can go on beating the same line. But on the road of swadharma there is the danger of straying; courage is needed.
Hence I say: dharma is a great risk. And because of that very risk we choose another’s dharma. A son chooses the father’s, a disciple chooses the master’s; generation after generation keep following one another. No one bothers that another’s dharma cannot be my dharma. I have come with a nature of my own — with its own tone, its own music, its own fragrance, its own way of living. I must develop that way.
Krishna insists to Arjuna: recognize rightly what your swadharma is. And if Arjuna were to close his eyes and become a little meditative, he could say what his swadharma is. We never close our eyes; otherwise we too could say what our swadharma is. We never consider what our swadharma is. Therefore nothing ever satisfies us. Wherever we go, there is the same dissatisfaction.
Today the whole world is gloomy, and people say life is meaningless. Life is not meaningless — only swadharma has been lost; hence the meaninglessness. In another’s work one finds no meaning. A person who could do mathematics is doing poetry — the poetry will become meaningless. It will feel only a burden — better to die than this. What infernal task has been thrust upon me! The one who could do mathematics is writing poetry. Mathematics is a different matter altogether — it has nothing to do with poetry. In poetry two and two can be five, even three. In mathematics, two and two are four — only four. There is not so much latitude, not so much elasticity. Mathematics is very strict. Poetry is very flexible — a flow. Mathematics is not a flow.
Now, one who could have been a mathematician, if he sits as a poet, all his life he will feel he has fallen into trouble — “How to get out of this trouble?” And the one who could have been a poet becomes a mathematician — difficulties will arise, great difficulties. Because their ways of seeing life are different. Their processes of thinking are different. Their eyes appear similar — but they are not the same.
I have heard: in a prison two men were locked up on the same day. Evening — the full-moon night — the moon has risen. Both stand gripping the bars. On one face there is such ecstasy as if he has found the treasure of heaven — within the prison! On the other face such anger — if he could, he would set everything on fire — as if standing in hell. The second man says to the first, “You look so happy — have you gone mad? This is a prison; such delight? And look in front — a stagnant puddle, filth spread about, the stench; mosquitoes, insects flying. What a place they have shut us in!” The other says, “Since you mention it I remember this is a prison — otherwise I had reached the full moon. I did not even know I was in a prison. And since you say it, I do see the puddle in front — but when the full moon has risen, only madmen look at puddles. Where is the leisure to see puddles? Where are the eyes for that?” These two men stand together in the same cell. Their eyes look alike — yet their swadharmas are not alike; they are utterly different. One says, “I did not even know I was in prison. When the full moon rises, how can one know one is in prison?” The other will say, “You have gone mad! When you are in prison, how can a full moon rise? Is it not so? When a man is locked in prison, do full moons ever rise there? In prisons it is always the new-moon night.” Two men — two ways of seeing. And if there were only two ways, it would have been fine; but there are as many ways as there are men.
Swadharma means: on this earth there are as many dharmas as there are souls, as many natures. It is hard to find even two pebbles exactly alike; how much harder to find two men alike! Sift the whole earth — you will not find two pebbles that are precisely the same. Man is a great event. If Paramatma gives individuality even to pebbles, he certainly gives it to man.
Therefore Krishna says: search; look back; turn within; see — what can you be! Krishna knows Arjuna better than Arjuna knows himself. Krishna’s eyes can see through Arjuna.
Now in the West psychology says that in every nursery school, kindergarten, every primary school, there should be psychologists to discover each child’s aptitude — in Krishna’s language, his swadharma — to discern the child’s inclination. And if the psychologist says, “This is his inclination,” then even if the father insists the child must become a doctor, if the psychologist says “painter,” the father’s will should not prevail. If the government says he must be a doctor, the government’s will should not prevail — however much the government says, “We need doctors, not painters.” Because this person cannot be a doctor. Yes, he may obtain a doctor’s degree — but he cannot be a doctor. He does not have the aptitude for healing. He does not have that quality.
Thus Western psychology has come close to understanding this truth. And it says: till now we have been doing injustice to children. Sometimes the father decides what the son must become, sometimes the mother, sometimes someone else. Sometimes society decides that engineers are more needed; sometimes the market decides — market value rules: doctors are worth more, engineers are worth more, sometimes someone else is worth more — and all this decides it. Only the one person who should decide, never decides. He is never asked in his innermost being what he is meant to become. The market will decide, parents will decide, the prevailing wind will decide, fashion will decide what he should be.
Naturally man has become denatured, insensate — because no one becomes what he can become. And whenever — among millions — one rare person does become exactly what he was born to be, then his joy is different, his dance is different, his song is different. The happiness in his life — and then we long, “How to have this happiness? Which mantra to recite, which scripture to read — how to get this joy?” The truth is: joy comes only through the fulfillment of swadharma; it comes no other way. All else are consolations, devices to soothe. A man receives bliss only on the day the seed within him fully blooms into a flower. That day he can offer it at the feet of Paramatma. That day he is blessed. That day he can say, “Lord, it is your grace; blessed am I that you sent me to the earth.” Otherwise, all his life he keeps saying, “I have been wronged; why was I born? What purpose is there in tormenting me? Why don’t you take me away?”
Camus begins one of his books with a very strange line: “The only metaphysical problem before humankind is suicide” — that we must decide whether or not to kill ourselves. Why should we live? What is the point, the meaning? He is right.
On one side we see Krishna playing the flute, dancing; and on the other side, we, full of pain and sorrow. On one side Buddha says, “Supreme peace”; on the other side we say, “Peace is unknown to us, we have no acquaintance with it.” On one side Christ says, “The Kingdom of God”; and on the other, for us there is nothing but hell. Either all these are mad, or we have missed somewhere. Where they did not miss, there we have missed — we have missed swadharma.
Therefore I too repeat: even to fail in swadharma is blessed; to succeed in paradharma is unblessed. To die in swadharma is fitting; to live for eternity in paradharma is hell. One who lives even for a single moment in swadharma experiences liberation. If even for a single moment I wholly become that which Paramatma has wished me to be — then there is no thirst left in the life-breath beyond that.