Geeta Darshan #10

As I have said, nothing will happen by sacrificing your senses to indulgence; likewise, nothing will come from pouring offerings into an outer fire. In an outer fire you could at most offer the objects of the senses, not the senses themselves. You can place flowers into an outer fire, but how will you offer the craving for fragrance? You can cast formed things into an outer flame, but how will you offer the very faculty that gives form—sight? The outer fire cannot even touch your seeing. Naturally, if the senses are to be offered, they must be offered into the yoga-fire, the fire born of yoga.

What is the fire born of yoga? This needs a little understanding—this is a touch of occult science. First, understand what fire is. Fire is the friction, the clash of electricity hidden within two “things.” Perhaps even that is not quite right: it is more accurate to say that every “thing” is itself nothing but a configuration of electrical particles. Physics will say the same. Everything is a cluster of electrons—electric energy. What appears around you as “things” are not things at all; they are electric energy.

If we keep breaking a lump of clay, and keep going until we reach the last constituents, what we catch hold of are electrical particles—matter disappears. What remains is energy, shakti—matter is gone.

Subtlest! In fact, “subtle” isn’t quite right—beyond subtle. We say “particles,” but electricity is not particulate in the way matter is; electricity is a wave, a vibration. Power does not have “grains,” it has waves. There isn’t a perfect word for this in Hindi. In English a German term is used: quanta. Quanta means both particle and wave: “particle” in the sense of an ultimate unit, “wave” in the sense that the ultimate is not matter but electricity.

The whole universe, within and without, is made of quanta. When the electrical waves that constitute every substance are made to rub against one another, fire is produced. Fire is the result of friction between electrical energies.

Rub your palms together and they grow warm—fire begins. Run fast and you perspire—the friction between your body and the air heats the system. Fever too heats you up—within the body the invading germs and the body’s defender-germs begin to clash; the friction gives rise to fever. Fever is not a disease; it is simply a signal that a deep inner battle is on, hence the heat.

The body must remain within a specific range of heat for life to continue. If it drops two to four degrees below ninety-eight, life is in danger; beyond one hundred and ten, life departs. Life lives within a narrow band of fifteen degrees or so. Down below, everything becomes too cold; up above, so hot that life cannot survive—neither in that cold nor in that heat. We live within that narrow band.

The body functions like a thermostat, constantly striving through its inner regulation to keep its heat—the inner fire—balanced.

If you light an outer fire and sit someone in it, he will burn. A match lights by friction; you have compounded on the match head and the striking surface substances that quickly ignite by friction. You light the pyre; put a man on it, he burns.

Just two months ago in a small village in U.P., a Sikh sadhu burned his body by yogic fire. He used no external fire—he sat with closed eyes and flames began to emerge from him; everything burned. Doctors later certified that no petrol and no external means of fire were used. The fire arose from an unknown source—from within; there was no sign of any fire from outside. The man became ash. In yogic terms, yogagni means the fire can be generated within the body.

This yogic fire can be of two kinds. One like in that incident: some yogis at the time of death dissolve the body in the fire produced by inner friction—first the inner organs burn, then the outer. Medical science stands baffled; there is no explanation.

The other use is what Krishna is employing here: in the yogic fire one offers, submerges, one’s senses. That can be done while living. Here an even subtler fire is produced. That fire does not burn the body, but it burns the sap of the body—the juices of the senses. It does not burn the body, but it burns the tastes and cravings of the senses. It does not burn the gross flesh, but it burns the subtle fibers of the senses.

Scientists agree that there are subtle sensory filaments. If these subtle fibers are severed, the senses become useless—science agrees to this too.

For instance, when you smell fragrance, you probably have no idea—why would you—that in your nostrils there are exceedingly fine receptors that catch fragrance waves. When you have a cold you cannot smell. Why? You still have a nose, the nostrils are there—where has the fragrance gone? It is because swelling fills the inner linings of the nose and the tiny receptors that catch the odor molecules are pressed down and cannot function. They can be operated on; if they are cut, a person will smell no more. If you keep those receptors under the impact of the same odor for long, they become immune and cease to register it.

That is why a person who carries night soil all his life stops sensing its stench—the odor-catching receptors in his nose die; repeated assaults finish them off. Bring home a new bar of soap: the first day you smell it, the second less, the third less—by the fourth it has “gone.” You may think the perfume was only on the surface of the soap—you are mistaken. In three-four days you have become immune; you no longer register it.

These subtlest receptors can be burned away by yogic fire. They burn to ash within and are gone; then they can be offered up. They are ultrasubtle; an ultrasubtle friction is required. There are methods—yogic processes—by which these subtle receptors are weakened and bid farewell. But before that, a necessary condition must be fulfilled; otherwise yogic fire does not arise.

Krishna has already stated it in earlier aphorisms: dispassion, freedom from the relish of the senses, restraint, the bridge between senses and their objects broken. Only such a person is being addressed. Only then does the talk of yogic fire begin. Such a person can generate yogagni and, from within, without any outer aid, offer into that fire those subtle molecules by which the senses derive their inner activity.

Modern chemical research is probing this. Biochemistry is doing major work. Why? Because many things are becoming clear—for example, that if a certain chemical is absent in the body, a man cannot get angry. If the adrenal secretion—present in minute quantities in specific glands—is removed, a man cannot be angry.

Pavlov excised the adrenal glands of many dogs. Dogs that were wild and ferocious, ready to kill or be killed at the slightest provocation—once the adrenal secretion was removed, those dogs were otherwise healthy and unchanged on the surface; but after a few drops of chemical were taken out, no matter how much you tease and torment them, they cannot even bark! What happened? Was their entire ferocity tucked away in ten drops? Their barking, raging, running—was all that in ten drops? The scientists say: yes, in those drops.

Science can remove such chemicals from the outside—there lies a great danger. Someday a totalitarian regime might have people’s adrenal glands removed; you would not be able to rebel. You wouldn’t even bark, let alone revolt. Barking is essential to rebellion!

I have heard of an international dog show in London. A Russian dog had also come. Naturally, dogs talk among themselves. An English dog asked the Russian, “Brother, how are things in England?” The English dog said, “On the whole okay, but many shortages—food isn’t quite enough, milk too is less than it should be, bones and meat a bit scarce. How are things in Russia?” The Russian dog said, “Bliss! Plenty of bones, meat, lots of milk, as much to eat as you like. Rest houses to sleep in. Everything is fine, absolutely fine.” Then, after looking around to be sure no one was listening, he sidled closer and said, “Brother, will you help me a little?” “What help?” asked the English dog. “I want political asylum in England.” The English dog said, “But you have every comfort there—why come here? I was thinking it’s our bad luck to be born in England; better to be born in Russia!” The Russian dog said, “Everything is fine there—except there is no freedom to bark. So of what use are all the comforts if one cannot bark! If you can help me get asylum, I don’t want to go back.”

Some day some dictatorship could use biochemistry this way. The new formulas biochemistry is discovering were known to yoga long ago. With yoga there was no danger, because no one did anything to another; one worked upon oneself.

Biochemistry says sex hormones have been identified. Give a very old man injections of sex hormones and he becomes sexually potent like a youth. Remove the sex hormones from a young man and he becomes flaccid, impoverished like an old man.

On the road you see an ox and a bull. The difference is little—just hormones. The ox’s sex hormones have been cut off; they did not develop. The bull’s are present. Ten oxen are nothing before a single bull. Someday a dictatorship could turn men into oxen.

Biochemistry says minute chemical substances within the body, altered from the outside, alter the person within. Yoga has known this truth for ages. Yogagni is the name for the process by which the inner chemical system is transformed. There are many methods to generate this yogic fire. I will tell you two or three in brief, just to give you a sense of how it arises.

Have you noticed that if you fast, a cool softness disappears; everything turns dry, a kind of inner aridity appears. And if you also do not drink water—only then is the fast complete—if you take no food and no water, after a certain duration the body comes into the condition of dry wood. Wet wood does not make good fuel—more smoke than fire. You need dry wood.

Fasting was used to dry the body to prepare yogic fire. After specific fasting procedures, the inner system becomes dry. Then the least process produces fire—just a little effort and the fire arises. So fasting was an essential limb of producing yogagni.

Second, holding the image of fire. When the body is inwardly dry, then the visualization of fire. You may have read of tratak on the sun—gazing at the sun. That is an exercise for fire-imagery. Therefore, anyone who does not know the full process of yogagni should not, by mistake, do tratak on the sun; otherwise he will harm his eyes and gain nothing.

Sun-gazing is only one fragment of producing yogagni. When someone fixes his eyes on the sun at a set time in a set way, so many sun-rays are accumulated in him through the eyes that, combined with fasting and the inner visualization—eyes closed—of light, of flame, they become active and a subtle inner fire is generated.

But this is an occult process. I am leaving out some parts; otherwise someone might try it out of curiosity and endanger himself. You will not be able to do it with just this much; I am saying this only to explain. I am omitting portions without which the process cannot be completed; those are given only personally to a seeker. But I have indicated the broad limbs.

When the inner fire is produced, there are two uses. Either the subtle relish of the senses is offered into it—the person will be fully alive yet utterly transformed, another being altogether—or, at death, the body itself can be wholly offered.

That is why Krishna does not speak of ordinary fire; he speaks of yogic fire: he who offers his senses into the yogic fire becomes free, beyond all bonds.

Dravyayajñās tapoyajñā yogayajñās tathāpare,
Svādhyāyajñānayajñāś ca yatayaḥ saṁśitavratāḥ. (4.28)

And others, dedicating their minds to God, spend their wealth in the service of the world; others perform the tapas-yajna of doing their swadharma; others undertake the yajna of Ashtanga Yoga; still others, endowed with sharp vows like nonviolence, engage in the japa of the Lord’s name and in the study of scriptures concerning God-realization—the yajna of knowledge.

In this verse Krishna names many, many ways by which people perform this dharma-yajna. It is useful to understand them one by one.

First, those who make service, done in the spirit of offering to God, into their yajna. Service, made into religion by offering it to God—they too reach the same goal. But the condition is: the spirit of offering to God.

Service can also be offered to the ego. If I serve someone and want him to feel obliged toward me, service has been offered to ego. If I want thanks, service has been offered to ego.

Let me serve and desire that thanks be given to God; the grace is God’s. I am not in between. I do, and I step aside. Let me not even know that I served—let me only know that God got a task done through me. Let there be no sense of “I am the servant”; only the sense that I am an instrument. Let not the doer’s sense enter service. The Lord makes it happen; I move at His signal—like leaves swaying in the wind, like a dry leaf lifted in a gale, like a straw floating where the river takes it.

One who serves in this God-offering spirit—his service becomes sadhana. His service is worship. His service is prayer. But service alone is not prayer—it is prayer because of the God-offering. The fruit is offered to God; the act is mine, the result is His—with this vision too one can reach.

It looks simple. Yogagni sounds difficult. But let me tell you, yogagni is simple; this God-offering is difficult.

What appears simple is not necessarily simple; what looks difficult is not necessarily difficult. Often we are deceived. The danger with what looks simple is precisely that it looks simple. It cannot be simple; it only appears so.

We think: fine—we will serve and offer it to God. But if even the tiniest fiber of ego remains within, God-offering is impossible. As long as I am there—ever so slightly—nothing can be offered to God.

Look closely and you will find God-offering extremely difficult. The “I” enters before the doing has even begun. You are walking down the road; without thinking, someone’s umbrella falls; you pick it up and hand it back. There is no sense of ego, no thought “I am serving.” It is spontaneous. But if that person tucks the umbrella under his arm, does not even look at you, and walks away, suddenly you feel: “He didn’t even say thank you!” You had no expectation of thanks beforehand—so you thought. But the need must have been in the depths, otherwise how did it arise afterward? What is not in the seed cannot appear in the tree; what was not in the womb cannot be born. Yes, it is not visible in the womb; it becomes visible on birth. If the mother is not pregnant, she cannot give birth. Whatever manifests later must first be pregnant, hidden within.

When the mother gives birth to a son, she does not do it in order to be served in old age. She keeps vigil night after night, nurses through illness, raises him for years—no thought of reward. Then one day the son brings a bride home, and suddenly the mother sees that the son’s eyes no longer see the mother. Then it strikes: “Did I carry you nine months for this? Did I keep those vigils for this? Grind grain and break stones for this?” The son was born years ago, but the ego was still pregnant—hidden inside. It awaited its moment, the daughter-in-law’s arrival, to be born. It was there; otherwise how could it appear?

There are many “servants” in the world; Krishna is not speaking of them. There are more than enough—always standing with folded hands for a chance to serve. Think twice before giving that chance. The one who grabs your feet is only beginning to reach for your throat. If someone says, “I am ready to serve,” say, “Do me this kindness—do not serve.” For if you let him hold your feet, how will you free your throat later? And if you let him hold your feet but not your throat, he will say, “Did I hold your feet for nine months for this? Kept vigil for you—only to be denied your throat?”

Such servants prove dangerous; service becomes mischief—disruptive. In any country where there are too many “servants,” none but God can save it.

Krishna is not speaking of these servants. He says: first, God-offering. When someone sees God everywhere, he is not serving you, he is serving the Divine. Then he does not ask for thanks; he gives thanks—“You have allowed me to serve; I am blessed—because my prayer, my worship, has been fulfilled.”

When God is seen on all sides, service can be offered to Him. Or if ego is utterly absent within, service can be offered to Him.

The alchemy of offering to God is not less difficult than yogagni—it is more difficult. Yogagni is technical; it has a technique. If you complete the technique, yogic fire will arise. But God-offering is not technical; it is the birth of a great feeling. No technology reaches it. Even the most difficult technique can be mastered; but no technique can produce the feeling of offering. That requires understanding.

Remember, even a foolish man can be a technician. If someone fully learns the art of yogagni, anyone who has learned it can generate it—however difficult, it is not too difficult. But samadhi of feeling, offering to God, requires deep understanding.

There is the understanding that comes from the intellect—it is not deep. There is another that comes from the heart.

Offering to God is never possible from the intellect—remember this. The intellect never goes beyond ego; it always says “I.” Only sometimes the heart says “Thou.” The intellect forever says “I.”

That is why whenever you are in love, you must give the intellect a holiday—the moment to say “Thou” has arrived. Even the most intelligent man becomes childlike in love.

The intellect will always say: I did the action; I should get the fruit. Its arithmetic is clear—and it is right: I worked, so I should be paid.

Krishna says something beyond intellect: act, and give the fruit to God. The intellect says: let God act and let Him take the fruit—why involve us? If we act, we will take the fruit. This is the straightforward math of the marketplace. If we act, how can He take the fruit? This is sheer injustice! If there is a cosmic court, we should all file suit: we do the work, You take the wage? Sheer robbery!

No, this arithmetic will never work for the intellect. That is why the intellect can never reach the state “the act is mine, the fruit is Yours.” Only the heart can.

What does “understanding of the heart” mean? We possess only intellectual understanding. The understanding of the heart means this: breath comes to me from the Divine; life comes to me from the Divine. Birth is given by the Divine; each moment of living is given by the Divine. If I were not alive, there would be no way to complain, “Why am I not alive?” If I did not exist, there would be no place to protest, “Why don’t I exist?” And if today I do exist, I do not even know why.

When both ends of my existence are unknown, logic cannot open them, because logic can only open the known. The unknown is meaningless to logic. In the unknown, only the heart can grope.

I do not know whence I come; I do not know whither I go. I do not know why I am; I do not know if the next breath will come. When so much is unknown, and my very being depends upon the unknown, then to claim “my action” is madness. When I myself am an action of the Unknown, then what my hands do is also an action of the Unknown. I am only a medium.

This is not a matter for logic; logic always asks “why?” and where the “why” has no answer, logic turns back and says, “That is not our field; it does not exist.” But the heart seeks precisely where there is no answer to “why.”

And the great fun is: the profound questions of life are not openable by intellect; they are mysterious. Nothing deep has ever been opened by intellect; it is only further entangled—at most one knot loosens and a thousand new knots appear.

I come from the Unknown and go to the Unknown; therefore, what happens through my hands is also done by the Unknown. If I have massaged someone’s feet, helped someone who fell on the road, pointed a lost traveler toward the river—this pointing finger and this strength of my hands are not mine. These powers and gestures come from the Unknown into me and go back into the Unknown.

When this understanding of the heart deepens, one can offer to God. Then service offered to God does what offering the senses into yogagni does.

Krishna lists other paths too: “by the way of nonviolence,” and so on.

One who walks by nonviolence also arrives. It seems contradictory—because Krishna tells Arjuna not to worry about violence: “No one dies, Arjuna; the very idea of death is an illusion. None ever died; none ever will. Do not talk of violence; enter the battle.”

And here Krishna slips in a small sentence: those who walk the path of nonviolence also arrive!

What is the path of nonviolence? If it means “do not kill,” then Krishna’s earlier words are contradicted; then he is preaching violence. No. The meaning of ahimsa is much deeper than most “nonviolent” people understand. Only a Mahavira knows its meaning.

Ahimsa does not mean “do not kill.” If it did, it would imply the soul can be killed. Mahavira keeps proclaiming: the soul is immortal. If the soul is immortal, how can you kill? If you cannot, where is the talk of violence? At most you can separate body and soul. The body has always been dead; the soul has never died. If someone separates what is dead from what is undying, what harm is there?

Mahavira himself says the soul is immortal; therefore his meaning cannot be “do not kill.” His meaning is the same as Krishna’s: do not harbor the desire to kill. No one ever dies, but the desire-to-kill can exist. Sin does not arise from killing; it arises from the will to kill. I hurl a stone at your head and miss; nothing “happened,” but my violence is complete. The moment I desired to throw, violence manifested. Even the craving to throw is violence. The possibility of throwing exists only because the seed is in the unconscious—violence has happened. If I can be violent, I am violent.

Violence is not about the outer act of killing; it is about the inner urge to kill. So when Krishna says “by the path of nonviolence,” he means those who are free of the urge to hurt—to kill. Understand this.

Those who are free of the urge to harm arrive at the same goal that others reach through yoga, through sankhya, through service offered to God.

What does it mean to be free of the urge to harm? Here is the strange thing: all these different paths are connected deep down to one root. As long as there is greed in the senses, freedom from violence is impossible. As long as a man is frantic to gratify the senses, nonviolence is impossible.

The senses are constantly committing violence. When your eye becomes lust upon someone’s body, violence has happened—you have raped. The court cannot catch you; it has no means yet to prosecute rape by the eyes. But when your gaze falls upon someone’s body and becomes demand, desire, lust—and in a moment you possess that body, and the smoke of the urge to enjoy it spreads—rape has happened. It happened through the eye—the eye is part of the body. Behind the eye, you stand. Violence has occurred. Violence is not only by stabbing with a knife—it is also by stabbing with the eyes.

As long as the senses are eager to enjoy, violence continues. Only when the senses cease begging is there freedom from violence.

What we call violence—when does gross violence arise? Leave aside the subtle; when does gross violence arise? Only when some obstacle blocks your desire. If you want to enjoy a body and someone comes in between—or the very person says “No”—violence begins.

Whenever your senses demand to possess and possession is refused, gross violence begins. The subtle craving is first; then violence becomes active and gross.

Krishna says “by the path of nonviolence,” meaning: one who no longer begs through the senses; who has ceased to pierce with the senses; who no longer launches assaults with the senses.

Mahavira has a precious word here: pratikraman. Before meditation comes pratikraman. Have you ever thought what it means? It is the opposite of aggression. Aggression is going out toward the other. Pratikraman is drawing back all the aggressive energies into oneself. Aggression—going out. Regression—coming back to oneself. The eye goes to attack you—violence has happened. If I pull the eye back, together with its craving, into myself—to the very source from which craving arises—this is pratikraman. Mahavira says only with pratikraman can meditation happen; otherwise not. With senses that attack, how can there be meditation? With senses that return, meditation can bear fruit.

Ahimsa means pratikraman, return, coming back to oneself. Himsa means going out upon the other in any form. Going upon the other! This can be hostile or friendly. The unwise go upon the other in hostility; the clever go upon the other in friendliness. But as long as one goes upon the other, there is violence. When one does not go upon the other at all—when one returns one’s going—there is nonviolence. In that moment of nonviolence the same happens as happens by burning in yogagni.

Hence Krishna says: by the paths of nonviolence, too.

He lists others as well—there are many paths. He has named only a few. There are one hundred and twelve ways by which a person can reach that where nothing further remains to be reached—attain That, upon attaining which nothing else remains to be attained; one becomes aptakama, fulfilled.

Whatever I am saying, I am saying in relation to sannyas. This entire Gita is a description of sannyas. And the sannyas I am speaking of is the very sannyas Krishna speaks of.
Acting, yet becoming a non-doer; doing, and yet becoming as if I am not the doer—this alone is the mark of sannyas.
What is the mark of a householder? The householder’s mark is to become the doer in everything. The sannyasin’s mark is to become a non-doer in everything.
Sannyas is an altogether different way of life, a different way of seeing life. It is simply a difference of approach. Between sannyasin and householder there is no difference of home, there is a difference of approach. Between sannyasin and householder there is no difference of place, there is a difference of feeling. Between sannyasin and householder there is no difference of circumstance, there is a difference of mind-state. We are all in the world—whoever we are. Whether someone sits in a forest, on a mountain, in a cave—there is no way out of the world by changing outer situations. The way out of the world is by changing the mind, by the mutation of the mind, by transforming the mind itself.
What I call sannyas is a process to transform the mind. It has two or three parts; let me speak of them.
First: whoever is where he is, let him not move away from there. Only the weak change their place; only the fearful run away. And one who is afraid even to endure the world will not be able to endure God—let me tell you this. One who trembles to face the world—will he be able to face the Divine? He will not. If such a petty thing as the world frightens him, then when the Vast stands before him, his eyes will close; he will flee in such a way that he will never even look back. If this trifling thing all around frightens you, you will not have the capacity to stand before the Vast. And if God really wants people to leave everything and run away, then there was no need to send everyone into everything.
No; his will and intent are otherwise. The will and intent are that first souls become capable of bearing the small, the petty, so that they can bear the vast. The world is only a training, a training ground.
Therefore, the one who abandons the training and runs—I do not call that runaway, that escapist, a sannyasin. Life is where it is. If you have become a sannyasin, then there is no question of running. Earlier, even if you had run, I would have forgiven it. But once you are a sannyasin, there is no fleeing. Then stand there, well planted. For if sannyas runs away before the world, who is weak and who is strong? Then I say, if you are so weak that you have to run, then the world is better; then it is proper to accept the stronger.
So the first thing in my sannyas is: do not run. Wherever you stand, there itself—plant your feet in the density of life! But make it a training. Learn from it all. Wake up through it all. Make everything an opportunity. There will be a wife near you; do not run. Because by running from the wife, one cannot run from Woman. To run from the wife is very easy. One already tends to want to run from the wife. One wants to run from the husband. We get bored with whomever we are with. The mind seeks the new.
Running from the wife is very easy. You may run; but you will not be able to run from Woman. And when, having a woman like a wife so near, you could not be free of Woman, then when will you ever be free! If, with a lovable friend like a husband near, you did not gain freedom from craving for Man, then by leaving you will never attain it.
This country has not regarded husband and wife merely as tools for work, nor as means of sex and lust. The deeper understanding of this land is something else. And that is: let husband and wife begin with desire, with lust, but let it end in desirelessness. Let them become companions to one another. Let the woman become a companion to help the man be free of woman; let the man become a companion to help the woman be free of the craving for man. If they become such companions, desirelessness can be reached very quickly.
But they do not become companions in this. The wife is afraid that the man may not become desireless. So she remains scared. If he goes to the temple she is more alarmed; if he goes to the cinema she relaxes. If he turns a thief, that is understandable; but if he begins prayer, bhajan, kirtan, it is absolutely beyond understanding. It is dangerous. The husband too is afraid that the wife may not enter desirelessness.
We are strange! We exploit each other; that is why we are so frightened. We are not friends to one another. For a friend is one who takes you beyond lust. For lust is misery, and lust is unfulfillable! Lust will never be filled; in lust we will be exhausted, lust will not. So a friend is the one, a husband is the one, a wife is the one, who becomes a partner in freeing you from lust. And this can happen quickly.
Therefore I say: do not leave the wife, do not leave the husband; leave no one. Use this training. Yes, use it to reach God. Make the world a ladder. Do not make the world an enemy; make it a ladder. Climb on it; rise through it. Rise through it and touch the Divine. And the world is there to become a ladder—this is the first point.
The second point: up to now sannyas has been sectarian, which is unfortunate, which dirties sannyas. Sannyas is religion, not a sect. That the householder is divided into sects is understandable; there are reasons. One whose vision is very limited cannot grasp the vast. He can grasp only by making boundaries everywhere. He divides everything into fragments; only then can he grasp. Man has limits.
If twenty people go on a picnic, you will find that when you reach the picnic spot, you break into four or five groups. Twenty will not stay together. Groups of three or four will form. That is our limit. They break into threes and fours. Each starts his own conversation. Two or four parts are made. Twenty people cannot stay together. Such are man’s limits.
To think that the whole of humanity is one is beyond the ordinary man’s limits. To think that all temples and all mosques belong to the same God is difficult. For the limits of the ordinary, it will be hard. But sannyas is a declaration of being extraordinary.
So the second point: sannyas is an entry into religion—not into Hinduism, not into Islam, not into Christianity, not into Jainism, but into religion. What does this mean? Against Hinduism? No. Against Islam? No. Against Jainism? No. For that in Jainism which is religion, and against that which is merely Jain. For that in Hinduism which is religion, and against that which is merely Hindu. For that in Islam which is religion, and against that which is merely Islamic. Against the limited, and for the unlimited. Against the formed, and for the formless.
A sannyasin belongs to no religion; he belongs only to religion. He may stay in a mosque, he may stay in a temple; he may read the Quran, he may read the Gita. Mahavira, Buddha, Lao Tzu, Nanak—whomever he loves, he may love. But he should know that whom he loves is not a cause for hatred toward others. Rather, that very love will become his ladder, to leap into that infinity in which all is one. Let him make Nanak a ladder if he wishes. If he wishes, let him make Buddha-Muhammad a ladder. Let him leap from there. But the leap is into the Infinite.
And if the remembrance of this Infinite remains, then two things can happen on this earth. If the sannyasin remains where he is, then millions of sannyasins can be spread all over the earth. If the sannyasin abandons and runs away, then remember: in the future—twenty, twenty-five years from now, by the end of this century—sannyas will become a crime, a criminal act.
It has happened in Russia, it has happened in China; it has happened in half the world. Today in Russia and China no one can live as a sannyasin. Because they say: only he shall eat who works. He who does not work is an exploiter; remove him. He is a criminal.
It has collapsed! In China there was a very deep tradition of sannyas—it has scattered, broken. Monasteries have been uprooted. Tibet is gone. Perhaps the deepest experiments in sannyas on the earth were done in Tibet, but all has turned to dust. In India too it will not take long. Lenin had said in 1920 that the road of communism would go from Moscow to Peking, and from Peking, passing through Calcutta, to London. Footsteps are already being heard up to Calcutta. There is a fear that Lenin’s prophecy may come true.
Now there is only one way sannyas can be saved: that the sannyasin become self-reliant. He should not live dependent on society or on anyone. And he can be self-reliant only if he is in the world, if he does not run away. Otherwise how can he be self-reliant?
In Thailand there is a population of forty million; there are two million sannyasins! The country is frightened. People have become troubled. How will a population of forty million feed and water two million people? What to do! The courts consider making laws. Parliament decides to make strict rules that only when the government permits a person may he become a sannyasin. And when the permission for sannyas has to be taken from the government, then there too there will be bribery! Whoever can manage the bribe will become a sannyasin. In order to become a sannyasin one will have to give a bribe, one will have to get a government license—then where will the fragrance and the freedom of sannyas remain!
Therefore, looking to the future, I see that there must now be a new movement of sannyas, in which the sannyasin will be at home, will be a householder, a husband, a father, a brother. A teacher, a shopkeeper, a laborer—he will remain what he is. He will belong to all. All religions will be his own. He will be only religious.
The antagonisms of religions have filled the world with a very ugly strife. It has all become so painful that it seems religion may have brought less benefit and more harm. Whenever you look, blood flows in the name of religion! And if, seeing blood being shed in the name of religion, the young reject that religion; and if, seeing blood flow because of the babble of pundits, the young reject those pundits and say: stop your scriptures, your Qurans and Gitas; we don’t want them now—then there is nothing to be surprised about. It is natural.
This must be stopped. It can be stopped only in one way, and that way is: let the flower of sannyas rise so high above boundaries that all religions become its own, and not any one religion exclusively its own. Then we can unite this earth.
Until now religions have divided; from somewhere it must be joined. Therefore I say: let Hindus come, Muslims come, Jains come, Christians come. If one wants to pray in the church, let him pray in the church; in the temple, then in the temple; in the sthanak, then in the sthanak; in the mosque, then in the mosque. Wherever he wants to do what he wants to do, let him do it. But in his own mind let him drop the label of sect, be free. Let him be only a sannyasin; belong only to religion. This is the second point.
And the third point: in my sannyas there is only one necessity, one compulsory condition—and that is meditation. I am not willing to impose any other vows or rules from the outside. Because whatever vows and rules are imposed from the outside give birth to hypocrisy. Let the sannyasin learn the techniques of meditation; let him experiment; let him go deep into meditation.
And my own understanding and the distilled essence of the experience of the whole of humanity is this: one who goes deep into meditation is entering the very fire of yoga. His tendencies are burnt to ashes; the tastes of the senses drop away. Slowly, slowly he is transformed naturally—not by force, not violently—transformed of itself. Everything changes from within. His outward relationships remain as they are; from within he changes. Therefore the whole world changes for him.
Apart from meditation there is no other necessity for the sannyasin.
You see the saffron-colored clothes that the sannyasins wear. As I said in the morning, they are to be used like a knot tied to remember. For twenty-four hours it can be remembered—there can be a remembering: I am a sannyasin. Only so that this remembrance can stay with them have I given them ochre robes. Ochre robes have been given deliberately; they are the color of fire. Within too the fire of meditation has to be lit. Everything has to be burnt in it. Within too the sacrificial fire of meditation has to be kindled, and everything has to be offered into it.
You see malas around their necks. In those malas there are one hundred and eight beads. They are symbols of the one hundred and eight methods of meditation. And they have been given to keep remembrance that they should know well that even if there is only one bead in their hand, still by a hundred and seven other ways also man has reached and can reach. And however different the one hundred and eight beads are, the thread strung through them is one. Let the remembrance of that One remain among the one hundred and eight methods, so that never should the idea arise in them, they should never fall into one-sidedness, that only my path, only the way I am on, leads. No; all the paths lead. All the paths lead.
In their malas you see a picture. Perhaps you are under the illusion that it is mine. It is not mine at all. Because there is no way to take my picture. No one’s picture can be taken; only bodies can be photographed. I am their witness; therefore they have hung the picture of my body. I am only a witness, not a guru. Because I hold that except for God there is no other guru. I am only a witness, before whom they have taken the vow of this sannyas. I am only their witness. And therefore they hang the outline of my body, so that they remember that in their sannyas they are not alone; there is also a witness. And with their sinking, their witness too will sink. Just for so much remembrance.
Let them go deep into meditation. There are many paths of meditation. At present I am having them experiment with two paths. Both are such that they can be synchronized, attuned. One meditation process I am having them do is the most intense; very vigorous and suited to this century. Along with that meditation process I am also telling them to do kirtan and bhajan; because the kirtan after that meditation process is not the ordinary kirtan that you see anywhere. When you see kirtan, you may think: all right—someone is doing kirtan like this; this is the same. Do not fall into this mistake. Because when they are doing the meditation experiment they are doing, the kirtan after that releases a very different stream of inner juice.
If you also do that experiment of meditation and then do it, then you will know that this kirtan is not an ordinary kirtan. This kirtan is an ancillary limb of a meditation process. And when they become absorbed and immersed in that ancillary limb, then they are almost not in themselves, they are in the Divine. And if even for one moment in twenty-four hours that being happens, it is enough. From that, a single drop of nectar is obtained, which fills the twenty-four hours with the juice of life.
Friends who feel even a little inclined, let them be courageous. And remember...
Only yesterday someone came to me; he said: Seventy percent of me wishes to take sannyas; thirty percent of my mind wavers. Therefore, no! So I said: thirty percent of your mind says, don’t take it—and you obey; you obey the thirty percent. And seventy percent says, take it—and you don’t obey the seventy percent! Then do you have any intelligence? And if someone thinks that when the mind becomes a hundred percent, then I will take it—then death will arrive first. A hundred percent happens only after death. Before that the mind is never wholly one. Only after death, when your corpse is placed on the pyre, then the mind becomes a hundred percent for sannyas. But by then no way remains.
In life the mind is never a hundred percent about anything. But when you get angry, do you wait for a hundred percent? When you steal, do you wait for a hundred percent? When you act dishonestly, do you wait for a hundred percent—do you say, I will not be dishonest yet, because a part of my mind is saying, don’t; let it become a hundred percent! But when the question of sannyas arises, then you wait for a hundred percent! With whom are you being dishonest? Man is very skilled in deceiving himself.
One last thing—then in the morning we will continue. Now the sannyasins will immerse themselves in kirtan and bhajan; I invite you too. Do not just stand and watch. By standing and watching nothing will be known; you will only see people dancing. Immerse yourself with them; then you will know what is happening within them. If even a particle of that nectar comes to you, perhaps there will be a difference in your life.
Whenever the thought of sannyas or of anything auspicious arises, then do not delay. Because in the inauspicious we never delay. No one postpones the inauspicious. We postpone the auspicious.
Many friends bring the query: won’t a sect of mine be formed somewhere? Won’t something like that happen? Won’t some doctrine, some creed be formed?
Doctrines and creeds are already too many. There is no need of a new doctrine, a new creed. There are already enough diseases; there is no need to add another disease.
Therefore I tell you, this is no sect. A sect is formed only against someone. A sect is formed only against someone. These sannyasins are against no one. They are for that which is essential in all religions. Only the day before yesterday a Muslim lady took sannyas. Six days before that a Christian youth took sannyas. They will go to their own churches, to their own mosques, to their own temples. Among them there are Jains, Hindus, Muslims, Christians. Nothing is being taken from them. Whatever they already have, I am only telling them to purify it to its utmost.
I am speaking on the Gita now; next year I will speak on the Quran; then I will speak on the Bible—so that whatever is pure there, I can tell you the whole of it. Whoever wants to take from where, let him take from there.
Whoever wants to drink from whichever well, let him drink. Because the water is of the one ocean. Do not be infatuated with the well; do not say so much that only in my well there is water and in no one else’s there is water. Then no sect is formed, no doctrine is formed, no creed is formed.
Think it over. And if an inspiration arises, then step into sannyas—where you are, there itself. Nothing is being taken from you. Only your inner futility is to be broken; the meaningful is to be left as it is.
Then in the morning we will speak again on the Gita. Now the sannyasins will go into their dance—into kirtan—so make a little space here. Those who want to watch, watch; those who want to participate, participate; but make a little more space.