Geeta Darshan #11

Swadhyaya-yajna is a process of the deepest self-transformation. When Krishna gave this sutra, swadhyaya-yajna was perhaps not as prevalent as it is today. Today, the most widespread process of self-transformation on earth is swadhyaya-yajna. So it is worth understanding it clearly—indeed, more than clearly.

For the modern mind, the closest process is swadhyaya-yajna. Krishna only mentioned it in passing; in his time it was neither central nor common, used only occasionally by rare seekers. But Freud, Jung, Adler, Sullivan, Fromm—practically the entire lineage of Western psychologists—have given immense value to swadhyaya-yajna.

Swadhyaya contains two parts: sva and adhyaya—study of oneself. The very foundation of psychoanalysis rests here. It is a profound acquaintance with what is within—not through someone else, but by oneself. Not through another, because in the abysmal depths of oneself no one else can enter.

We can know another only at the periphery. There is no doorway into the intimacy of someone’s inner sanctum. We can know another’s behavior; not their inner being. What the other does can be studied; what the other is cannot be studied from the outside.

And the more “civilized” we have become, the deeper the deception. The inside is one thing; the conduct is another. By watching conduct, the inside is not revealed; it is concealed. Refinement and civility are precisely the art of weaving such a net of behavior that the inner is not discovered. Behavior no longer expresses the inner; it hides it. What we say does not reveal what we think; we speak in order to hide what we think. The face rarely shows what rises in the soul; in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it blocks what is rising within from reaching the other.

Hence the first meaning of swadhyaya: only I can acquaint myself with my own innerness. Others can only know my behavior. And knowledge derived from behavior can at best be inference. But direct, immediate knowing can only happen within, by oneself.

We are alone in our depths; there is no entry for anyone else. Therefore, swadhyaya. But we ourselves do not go there either. We live outside ourselves. We know ourselves by our behavior, not by our soul. We even know ourselves through others’ eyes. If others call us good, we think we are good; if they condemn us, we feel deeply hurt.

We do not have a direct, firsthand experience of ourselves. Otherwise, even if the whole world condemned us and we knew we were good, it would make no difference—no thorn would prick. But I have no idea who I am. I only know what people have said about me.

That others know us from the outside is understandable; but that we also know ourselves from the outside is not merely inappropriate, it is dangerous.

Swadhyaya means encounter with oneself. It means to stand face to face with oneself. Let me divide the process into stages.

First: whoever wants to enter swadhyaya must immediately put aside what others have said about him. Remove what others think of you. Others’ statements will prove deceptive. Others’ knowledge about you is the first trash that must be discarded. Only then can you know what you are.

Second: and this is the hard part. Dropping others’ opinions is not very difficult—like clearing leaves off a river so the water beneath appears; others’ views float at the surface. The real obstacle is the second stage.

To know ourselves, we have not allowed ourselves full freedom. Out of fear and panic we have pushed many parts of ourselves so deep that we are afraid to bring them up. For instance, a man obsessed with the ideal of celibacy suppresses his sexual desire so deeply that he cannot encounter it; he is afraid to admit it exists. One who has repressed anger will never know his anger. We have pushed down many parts—suppressed them.

So the second stage is: whatever is suppressed must be brought up. Otherwise self-study will not happen. Whatever has sunk into the abyss, whatever we have slipped into the dark so that we ourselves won’t stumble upon it—we must bring it out. We fear aloneness because in aloneness we might meet ourselves. So we keep someone with us—wife, husband, child, friend, club, temple—always someone. Never alone. Because in real aloneness, when no one else is with us, we will be with ourselves—and that is what we fear.

Civilized man is never truly alone. If he is alone, he turns on the radio, picks up a newspaper, lights a cigarette—anything to erase aloneness. If nothing else, he will go to sleep. But he will not remain awake alone.

This is a great conspiracy we are carrying out against ourselves—the greatest: we never allow ourselves to be alone. If ever we accidentally are, we feel bored, anxious, restless.

Recently in California, a deep experiment was conducted: sensory deprivation. Young people were put into chambers where no sensation could reach them—utter darkness, all light blocked, no sound could enter, thick gloves so even their own skin could not be felt. Instruments on their heads relayed what was happening within.

Five minutes became difficult. After five minutes the instruments indicated the person would go mad—take him out. After ten minutes he nearly reached unconsciousness. Scientists say after an hour he would slip into coma; whether he would return is uncertain. What happened? Aloneness—vast, heavy aloneness.

Astronauts reported the greatest challenge in reaching the moon was not mechanical. Mechanics were solved long before. The great question was whether the brain could endure the immense silence after leaving Earth. Would the brain crack?

So astronauts were trained for months, even years, to withstand silence. For the first time, because of space travel, American and Russian scientists became curious about meditation: if it could be learned, the astronaut would not panic in aloneness. Leaving Earth’s noisy orbit—Earth is a mad, noisy planet—beyond two hundred miles everything is void. Only silence speaks. Not even the chirping of crickets. Silence pierces the being and breeds fear. Alone, a man confronts himself.

We keep ourselves occupied. In swadhyaya, this habit of being perpetually occupied is the biggest obstacle. So in the second stage, be unoccupied, alone, and bring your repressed parts into light.

Freud and Jung’s psychoanalysis aimed to bring this material up. They lay you on a couch and say: say whatever comes to mind. Don’t think, just speak. Soon he babbles—disconnected, absurd, even deranged things begin to pour out of an otherwise normal man. Layers surface. But still, the other is present. Behind the screen sits the analyst; his presence creates fear. Therefore psychoanalysis can never be complete. The presence of another keeps a fear alive.

In yoga, swadhyaya is an utterly solitary experience. No fear of the other. I can strip myself naked—exactly as I am. If there is anger, then anger; if sex, then sex; if jealousy, jealousy; fear, fear; violence, violence. Whatever is within—without any choice—let it be seen. Choicelessly.

First stage: remove others’ opinions. Second: bring repression out into the light. Do not hide the wound; tear off all bandages and see the wound directly—whatever I am.

Much fear arises. Because as one brings all this up, he finds, “This is me—this violence, lust, jealousy, envy, hatred, greed—this is me!” The mind trembles, for each of us has crafted a self-image, a statue of ourselves. Hence the third stage: renounce attachment to your self-made image.

We all carry images. One says, “I am virtuous.” Another says, “I never get angry.” Another, “I am egoless.” Another, “I have no greed.” These are images—beautiful statues we have made. Whoever lacks the courage to drop this statue cannot enter swadhyaya.

That is why swadhyaya too is called a yajna—a great fire in which one must burn. The first thing to burn is your self-image.

A woman, very ugly, never looked into a mirror; if someone teased her by bringing a mirror before her, she would break it and say, “The mirror is wrong. In it I look ugly—while I am beautiful. The mirror is bad.” All mirrors were bad—because she was beautiful in her mind.

We will say she was mad. We do not break the ordinary mirrors. But we never lift the real mirror of swadhyaya, because there the real face is revealed—ugly, frightening.

Psychologists say it is hard to find a person whose mind has not committed all the sins ever committed on Earth. Perhaps you have not done them outwardly; outward actions get caught. Inside, we do them freely; no court, no law reaches there. But the eye of the divine reaches there too.

The value of swadhyaya is: we might hide from ourselves, but how will we hide from the ultimate? When we stand before the supreme presence, we will have to drop these images. Better to know them and break them beforehand.

And the great surprise is this: whoever becomes capable of knowing his total ugliness becomes capable of being free of it. The deepest secret of swadhyaya is that knowing is liberation. In the yajna of swadhyaya, knowing itself is freedom.

In the process of swadhyaya nothing else is required. Simply know your disease, and you are out of it. If you do not know, the disease grows and deepens. Swadhyaya is a process of transformation through direct seeing—self-seeing brings self-revolution.

Those who follow swadhyaya often mock the need for asceticism, austerity, meditation. Krishnamurti will be heard saying: there is nothing to do—just to know is enough. To know is enough; nothing besides knowing is required.

We object: if I merely know there is a wound on my foot, will it disappear? No; knowing alone will not heal the foot. Knowing will prompt me to seek a doctor, a cure. But with the mind there is a great uniqueness: mental wounds dissolve by knowing alone. Nothing else is required. The entire yajna of swadhyaya stands on this mystery: know, and you are out.

Try it; only then it will become clear. Why it happens is hard to say; that it happens is certain. It is like taking a lamp into a dark room: darkness vanishes. You don’t take a sword to slay the darkness; you bring light, and darkness is not.

Likewise, whoever carries the light of knowing into the depths of mind discovers that ignorance was the sole cause of the disease.

But we do the opposite. Facing our inner disease, we become ignorant toward it. If someone tells you there is a wound on your foot, you are grateful. If someone says a thorn is stuck and blood is flowing, you thank him. But if someone tells you there is anger in your mind, you do not thank him. You say, “Wrong—you are mistaken. Me—angry? Never.” If someone says you are lustful, you avoid him as an enemy.

Kabir said: Keep your critic close; give him a hut in your courtyard. Do not flee from the one who criticizes; let him stay near, morning to evening. This is swadhyaya. The critic is a friend. If he is wrong, no harm; if he is right, he brings your repressed parts before you. If he is wrong, he still labors for you; be grateful. If right, hold his feet—he had no need to do you this service.

But it is hard to keep a critic near you twenty-four hours. Therefore swadhyaya says: become your own revealer. How much can another reveal? He will expose only surface wounds; he knows nothing of the inner cancers—chronic, deep, accumulated over many lives. Swadhyaya says: know—and you are free.

In the West psychoanalysis gained such influence for one reason: it gives the person a little taste of swadhyaya—it acquaints him with his condition. For this one pays large sums—long and costly—affordable only to the rich. Now in America fashionable ladies ask each other, “How many times have you undergone psychoanalysis?” For those who haven’t are out-of-date.

In a sense it is right. The therapist has only this: he acquaints you precisely with the facts. And with the perception of fact, transformation begins. Immediately.

This formula of swadhyaya will become more important in the future. If people read the Gita in the coming century, it may be for this sutra. Though in the Gita it is not very explicit—because at that time it had little use. People were simple; repression was minimal. When repression is low, swadhyaya is less meaningful; what is on the surface is what is within.

As late as 1910, British magistrates in Bastar wrote in their memoirs: if someone committed murder, he himself came to court and confessed, “I killed—what is my punishment?” If someone stole, he presented himself: “I have stolen—what is my punishment?” One magistrate wrote: I told a thief, “We haven’t caught you; there is no complaint. Why have you come?” He replied, “The one I stole from lost only some money. I have suffered a great loss. Until I am punished, how will I be free?”

In Krishna’s time, the world resembled that. So he merely mentioned swadhyaya in passing. Today, people are clever, cunning, dishonest; swadhyaya is the nearest path.

Consider a fact: if someone truly knows within, “I am a liar,” lying becomes difficult. The basic lie required for lying is: “I never lie.” On that foundation, he lies to others. First he deceives himself; then he deceives others.

Without dirtying your own hands, you cannot push another into filth. Without sinning within, you cannot sin with others. Without deceiving yourself, you cannot deceive another. When someone knows, “I am a deceiver,” deception becomes impossible; the cornerstone cracks.

Hence the liar is always trying to prove, “I tell the truth.” Those who tell the truth never try to prove it.

The Quakers—a small Christian sect that has kept a little flame of religion alive—refused to swear in court. Courts had to bend and allow Quakers to testify without oaths. The Quakers reasoned: if we are liars, we will also lie while swearing; if we do not lie, why swear at all? The more someone swears he does not lie, the more certain it is he lies. The oath is his defense.

When one experiences within, “I am a liar,” another thing happens: no one wants to be a liar. Similarly, if someone truly knows, “I am angry,” being angry becomes difficult. No one wants, in his heart, to be bad; everyone wants to be good. That is why even an evil person has to insist he is good—and collects others’ opinions to believe it himself.

Swadhyaya says: to truly know a fact is to step out of it.

But we don’t know facts—we falsify them. We rename our jealousy; we rename our hatred; we rename our anger; we rename our possessiveness.

A mother says to her son, “Go see what Pappu is doing; whatever he is doing, tell him not to do it.” She does not even know what Pappu is doing. This is domination, the taste of ownership. Psychologists say the child often becomes a scapegoat in the family. The father shows his swagger to him; the mother too. He cannot swagger back—yet.

Here analysis is needed: did the boy err, or is someone else’s slap landing on him? If the mother realizes she hit the son for the husband’s fault, can she still hit him? Impossible. Seeing the fact dissolves it; she might even apologize.

We are skillful at self-deception. One thing happens within; we label it something else.

Aurangzeb imprisoned his father. His father asked to be sent thirty children so he could run a small class in jail. Aurangzeb wrote in his memoirs: my father’s habit of ordering was so dangerous that even in prison he asked for children, then took a cane to teach them! A schoolmaster in his class is no less than an emperor—perhaps more powerful than a king over little children.

Psychologists now say that of those drawn to teaching, about seventy-five percent are motivated by a desire to dominate—coerce, torture. If in the old days teachers broke children’s bones for small things, it was not out of zeal to educate. I know people whose teachers injured their eyes. Why? If only those teachers had seen that the cane was not for education but for the intoxication of power, the cane would have fallen from their hands. But as long as they believed “it is for the child’s good,” the deception continued.

To know the fact is to be free of the fact. Whoever sees his inner diseases as they are—in their total nakedness—cannot remain the same. Transformation begins. Change follows like a shadow. Swadhyaya is hard; but for one who can do it, change is effortless.

Therefore Krishna calls it a yajna. And he suggests two or three supports for it. Study of scriptures can support swadhyaya—but which scriptures? Not all. Only those that are self-admissions—confessions. Saint Augustine’s Confessions; Tolstoy’s life; Rousseau’s story; Gandhi’s Autobiography—these can help.

But people don’t study these for swadhyaya; they study the Gita. The Gita is less helpful for swadhyaya because it is a statement of truth, not an admission of untruth. Gandhi’s autobiography can help because it contains many acknowledgments of inner disease.

Gandhi writes: my father was dying; I was massaging his legs. Doctors said this night may be his last. Around midnight lust arose heavily. I had slept with my wife yesterday, the day before, and still I wanted to today. Father was dying! Even death could not free me from lust. Someone offered to massage in my place; I slipped away. Just across a wall, I made love to my pregnant wife. A few days later the child was born dead. That death remained a lifelong pain. While I was in intercourse, my father died; wailing erupted. Hence lifelong, the urge for brahmacharya. Gandhi’s deep opposition to sex took root there; guilt entered his mind; he never became free of it. But the man was honest; he confessed.

Reading such confessions helps you confess within. Such texts support swadhyaya.

The Upanishads do not. People study the Upanishads for swadhyaya, but they are bare proclamations: “Brahman is.” “Aham Brahmāsmi—I am Brahman.” These are the utterances of those who know. For those who do not know, repeating them breeds self-deception, not swadhyaya. Please, know yourself as you are. You may be a thief or dishonest—but certainly not Brahman. The danger is that proclamations of the realized become tools of self-deception for the unrealized.

So confessional texts support swadhyaya. Often novels do so better than scriptures: Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, The Brothers Karamazov; Tolstoy’s War and Peace, The Death of Ivan Ilyich; Sartre, Camus, Kafka. These open the dark caverns of the human heart. But these are secondary; primary is the study of oneself. If you can study yourself, it is sufficient; the rest can assist.

Krishna also lists japa—God’s name-chanting. What does japa mean in the context of swadhyaya? In other contexts it has other meanings. Here it means this:

I have asked you to witness your darkness—your evil, sickness, inner sin and crime—in short, the hell within. This is only half. If one experiences only the inner hell, he may fall into self-condemnation, despair, feeling life is meaningless. This happened in the West: psychoanalysis gave the method of self-analysis, but no japa—no remembrance of the possible. Hence life became meaningless. People concluded: love does not exist, only sex. All talk of love is mere foreplay—a persuasion to possess the body. Poetry and romance are only preparations. Then, only the body’s intercourse. This knowledge, unbalanced, led not to transformation but to decline.

Hence Krishna immediately adds japa. Japa means: remember the other half—the possible. Fact: behind love, lust. Possibility: from lust, love can be born. Japa is remembrance of possibility. Man carries the possibility of God. Do not mistake the fact for the whole. Within the fact lies the unmanifest, the vast, the meaning, the intention.

Japa means: no matter how deep the sin, virtue is not absent; no matter how grave the crime, forgiveness is not impossible; no matter how dark, light exists. In the midst of darkness, remember light; in the midst of sin, remember God; in the midst of crime, remember the door of freedom.

Without japa, swadhyaya can be dangerous. Japa is hope. Swadhyaya alone can become despair—suicidal. That is why suicide has increased in the West: as psychoanalysis expanded, self-destruction grew. People saw only hell, no heaven; then why live?

If the seed is seen only as ugly, and we have no remembrance of the hidden sprout and the flowers that can blossom, we may discard the seed. So Krishna pairs swadhyaya with japa. Japa is old language; in today’s words: remembrance of human possibilities. Man is not God; in fact, man is demonic. But he can become divine. If only what is is seen, it is dangerous; keep a ray of remembrance of what can be.

Japa means repetition—remembrance. Darkness is dense; light is not visible; we forget again and again that light is possible. Japa is to remember again and again. Otherwise we will sink. If only darkness is, the feet will stop: “What’s the use of moving? Everywhere darkness.” There is no luminous goal.

In the old days, a man would wake and the first word was “Ram.” The day was to begin where you would meet not Rama but Ravana; yet the start is a remembrance of the auspicious. Even our greeting was linked to japa. In the West people say, “Good morning”—a secular nicety. Here, people greeted, “Ram Ram.” The person before you may be more of a Ravana; but you bow to his possibility—his Rama—within.

In villages even strangers greet with “Ram Ram.” Whenever a consciousness comes near, why not make it a moment of japa—reminding oneself and the other?

At night, exhausted, one sleeps also with “Ram.” The last thought before sleep is very deep; consciousness changes gears—from waking to sleep. Doors to others close; the door to oneself opens—deep sleep. If, descending into sleep, one remembers Ram, that remembrance sinks deep. It associates with the depth of sleep by the law of association.

Pavlov’s experiment is famous: feed a dog while ringing a bell for fifteen days; then on the sixteenth day, ring the bell without food—the dog salivates. The bell has no natural link to saliva; association created it. Likewise, remembering God before sleep links the deepest layer—sleep—to God. If God-memory ties to your deepest layer, God becomes your deepest reality.

Also, the last thought at night becomes the first in the morning. Why? Because the thought that enters before sleep ripples through the night. If you slept eight hours and “Ram” vibrated subtly for eight hours, it returns with the first breath on waking. Then the day is more likely to be bathed in remembrance.

Therefore Krishna said japa. It is scientific. But if done mechanically, it becomes futile. Someone bathes quickly, rings a bell, chants “Ram Ram,” and runs to the office. No; that never links work with remembrance. It is not work; it is love. Let it sink into your depths; then every fiber vibrates.

Then swadhyaya—knowing one’s wrong; and japa—remembering one’s auspicious possibility. Their harmony produces the yajna called swadhyaya-yajna.

Now we will take it up again in the evening. For now, let us spend ten minutes in japa—let it ripple through every pore.

No one come up on the stage to watch. Stay where you are, keeping a little extra space. Those in the front row, fold your arms so people behind don’t move forward. Whoever wishes to join, come to the middle. Dance with the sannyasins—perhaps their wave will catch you too.