Geeta Darshan #12
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, in the twenty-eighth verse four yajnas are mentioned. Two of them have already been discussed: the yajna of service and the yajna of self-study. What does the third, tapas-yajna, mean? Why is it called here the yajna of following one’s own dharma (svadharma)? And what does the fourth, the yoga-yajna, mean? Why is it called here the yajna of ashtanga yoga?
The yajna of svadharma. If a person can bring his own uniqueness, his individuality—the seed hidden within—into bloom like a flower, then the flower of that blossomed personality is offered at the feet of the divine, and it is accepted.
A person too has a flowering—one’s being has to blossom like a flower. And only when someone has fully blossomed do they become an offering. Then too they are surrendered at the feet of the Lord and accepted.
But, like a flower, accidents can happen to a person. If a rose wants to become a lotus, disaster is certain. The disaster has two sides. First, whatever a rose may wish, it cannot become a lotus. That is not its fate, its destiny. That seed is not hidden within it. That is not its potential.
So the rose can become deranged in trying to be a lotus; it will not become a lotus. In the effort to be a lotus it can become tormented, unhappy, disturbed; anxious, afflicted; it can lose sleep, lose peace; but a lotus it cannot become. In the race to become, it will be spent and ruined; it will not reach the goal. No matter how far it travels, it will keep returning a rose. It will not arrive at being a lotus. And not arriving breeds frustration; not arriving invites a melancholy that seizes the mind. And wherever melancholy grips the consciousness, atheism is born there. Keep this well in mind.
A mind full of melancholy cannot be theistic. A mind full of pain, suffering, frustration cannot be theistic, because theism arises out of the feeling of grace, of gratitude. And how can the feeling of grace arise in melancholy? Grace flowers in joy. When one is filled with joy, one feels graced; gratitude is born.
Simone Weil wrote a book, Grace and Gravity—prasada and gravitation. It is precious—among the most precious books of this century. Simone Weil says that just as the earth draws things toward itself, so too does God draw things toward himself.
The earth draws things toward itself. The hidden energy, the force, is called gravitation. You do not see it anywhere, but throw a stone upward—it comes down. A fruit falls from a tree—it comes down. You do not see it anywhere.
We all know the story: Newton sits in a garden, and an apple falls. A question arises in his mind: if the fruit falls, why does it come down? Why does it not go up? Why not to the right or left? Why exactly down? Why, when things fall, do they come down? Then for the first time it occurred to him that some energy, some force from the earth draws things toward itself; some magnetic force pulls things toward itself. Later gravitation was established. Even now it is not seen, but its results are seen.
Simone Weil says just so, God too draws things toward himself. The gravitation of his pull is called grace—prasada, compassion, anugraha, whatever name we may give it.
It is a delightful fact that when a flower blossoms, it rises toward the sky; and when it withers and dries, it falls toward the earth. When a person is alive, he stands upright toward the sky; when he dies, he is buried in the earth; he falls into the soil. Trees, when alive, rise toward the sky; then aging, they fall and sleep in the soil. Above and below—something draws upward, something draws downward.
When melancholy is in the mind, the heart becomes like a stone; it begins to fall downward. Whenever you have been in sorrow, you must have experienced that the heart feels weighed down by a thousand tons. Then the earth draws downward, but God is no longer felt as drawing upward. Therefore, in sorrow a person wants to die. To want to die means: to be buried in the earth’s gravitation. In sorrow one wants to commit suicide; that is, dust unto dust—the clay longs to return to clay.
The reverse also happens. When someone is filled with joy, then it is consciousness unto consciousness—not clay into clay—but the divine seeking to meet the divine. When the flower of joy blossoms, then the rain of grace begins to fall from above. The nectar of the Lord’s grace begins to shower upon the petals of that blossomed flower. In joy the mind opens like a flower.
That is why those who have experienced the supreme joy say that the thousand-petaled lotus blossoms in the head. It is a symbol. It is a poetic expression of an experience. Above the head a lotus blooms with a thousand petals; upon that flower, the rain of grace pours.
And when one is filled with such joy, one can thank God. It should be said: to offer thanks one first has to accept God. To whom else will gratitude be expressed? When within you the rain of joy begins to fall, and every corner of the heart starts dancing, and darkness departs, and petal by petal opens—then to whom shall thanks be offered? In order to express that gratitude, God has to be sought.
A mind filled with joy becomes theistic; a mind filled with sorrow becomes atheistic. Atheism is gravitation—the power of the earth that pulls downward. Theism is grace—prasada, anugraha—that lifts upward.
Whenever a person forgets his own dharma, such a state arises as if a rose wanted to be a lotus. When a person forgets his own dharma, it means he wants to be something else that he is not.
A brahmin wants to be a shudra, a shudra a kshatriya, a kshatriya a vaishya. I am not concerned with birth, but with qualities and functions. When the inner capacity wishes to be other than itself, it gets into trouble. It cannot be. It is impossible. It is not the law of nature.
We all are born carrying our built-in plan. What we can become—its blueprint lies hidden in every cell. We are born carrying the design of what we can be.
If an accident happens, it may be that we do not become what we could have become. But this can never happen: that we become what we could not have been.
Let me repeat: it can happen that we do not become what we could have been—we may miss our destiny. But the reverse never happens, cannot happen—that we become what we could not have been.
It can happen that the rose does not even become a true rose. But it cannot happen that the rose becomes a lotus. If the rose tries to become a lotus, I said there are two aspects. One is that it will never become a lotus. In the striving to be a lotus it will attain melancholy—sorrow, pain, anguish.
Søren Kierkegaard has portrayed this melancholy exactly. The words he uses are worth noting: trembling. He says when a person is in melancholy, the whole heart becomes a trembling. He says when a person is in melancholy, dread takes hold—as if death stands before him and within, all is submerged in the fear of death, in darkness.
This state of melancholy—Kierkegaard calls it anguish—of affliction, where nothing seems lovable anymore, nothing meaningful, nothing purposeful; everything appears futile, meaningless, accidental. If it is, fine. If it is not, no harm. In fact, if it is not, there seems to be peace; if it is, there seems to be restlessness.
If the rose wants to be a lotus, this will happen—that is one aspect. The second is: if the strength of the rose is spent in trying to be a lotus, then the rose will never become a rose either. For strength is limited, capacity is fixed. Each one receives a bounded energy, a measured portion. If you squander it elsewhere, you cannot fulfill your destiny.
Therefore Krishna says: in the yajna of svadharma!
This yajna of svadharma is a very deep psychological insight. Among the deepest psychological truths humanity has discovered in its history, the truth of svadharma is the deepest.
If the earth today seems so full of suffering, the fundamental reason is the fall from svadharma. No one is becoming what they are meant to be. Everyone is busy becoming something else! We are all busy becoming what we cannot be.
Krishna says: this too is the greatest yajna, Arjuna—if you can accomplish even this, or anyone can, then he attains the Lord, he attains the supreme state.
Svadharma—how to recognize what your svadharma is? How to know what I was born to be? How to know I am not busy becoming something else? How to recognize that I have not grabbed hold of a paradharma?
It can be recognized. The signs will be subtle. But let me share two or three clues.
First, if you are unhappy in life, take it as certain that you have fallen from svadharma, that you are falling from it. Because wherever the journey of svadharma takes place, joy bears fruit.
If you are restless, know that you are walking after a paradharma. Stop and reconsider. Think again; reconsider whether the journey you have chosen, what you are doing—if it increases sorrow, pain, and restlessness—then surely that path is not yours.
It is like going toward a garden. The garden is not yet visible, but as you come nearer, cool breezes begin to touch and caress you. You know: I am on the right path. The garden is not yet seen, but it must be nearby. At least the direction should be right. And if with every step the coolness increases, you can be sure you are moving in the right direction; the garden is drawing near. Closer still, along with coolness, fragrance begins to come; then you are even more certain that you are approaching. The garden is still unseen; still distant; but the direction is right.
In the same way one must grope for svadharma, as someone searches for a garden in the dark—coolness, fragrance...
If the coolness lessens, the fragrance weakens, you should know that you have taken an opposite path. If peace increases, you are moving close to svadharma. If restlessness increases, you are falling from svadharma. Peace is the measure.
As peace thickens, a glimpse of joy also begins to come like fragrance. Then understand: the path is right. Now you can run. Now you can row the boat without worry. Now you can let the boat go with the wind. Now the river is right, the route is right. Now you will reach.
But in life we never consider this. We do the opposite. If what we are doing brings restlessness, we do it even more intensely. We think perhaps we are not doing it with full strength; if we put in more force, peace will come. And when more restlessness comes, we gather all our strength and plunge in. Ultimately the result is that we do not reach svadharma; we cannot reach paradharma. Life goes round in circles and is lost. The opportunity comes and is wasted.
So, one: peace should increase, joy should increase.
Second, if one walks in accord with svadharma, the feeling of acceptance in one’s life will grow, and the feeling of rejection will diminish. Acceptability will increase. One will begin to accept things—meaning, one will begin to be content. In whomever a little joy arises within, acceptance begins to arise without; one begins to accept things, that is, to feel satisfied.
If one does not walk in accord with svadharma, one becomes more and more dissatisfied; one begins to reject. Toward everything, a hostile attitude arises, not a friendly one. Toward everything, a no—not a yes. Everything is denied.
So if in your life the number of no’s is greater than the yes’s; if you say yes to few things and no to many; if you accept little and reject much; if contentment comes from little and discontent from much—then be aware: your journey is not in accord with svadharma.
This ratio will have to be changed. Acceptance must be increased; rejection reduced. As acceptance grows, theism will grow. As rejection grows, atheism will grow. Atheism means a negating attitude toward the whole of existence—a no-attitude toward the totality—denial toward the whole: “There is nothing.” Theism means total acceptability, all-round acceptance: “Everything is; and I am at ease with it. However it is, I am content as it is.” This contentedness will grow as your inner journey accords with svadharma.
Third, if you want to move in accord with svadharma, no one can do it by remaining entangled only in outer things. In daily work it is not apparent what is svadharma and what is paradharma. The daily chores are almost the same: for the brahmin, for the kshatriya, for the shudra, for the vaishya. As far as daily work is concerned, everyone has to earn bread. How one earns is another matter; it makes little difference. From daily work it will not be known what your svadharma is.
Whoever wants to discover svadharma should, at the very least, take a complete holiday from the outer world for one hour out of the twenty-four, and plunge into the inner world. Close the doors to the outside. Tell the outer world to remain outside, and now be within. Close all the sensory doors and dive within for an hour. Only there will the secret be known—what is the self, what is the innerness. From there the clues will come; the sound will be heard; the signals will be received. And gradually the signals become deeper. At first the voice is very small. This last clue is the most important—keep it well in mind.
Svadharma is known from nothing other than the inner voice. Earlier I spoke of two symptoms by which you can tell whether your life is on the right path or not. With the third, I am pointing you to the very center of your svadharma.
For one hour out of twenty-four, shut out the outer world; forget it; leave all that is outside, outside; and dive within. In that immersion, slowly the inner voice will begin to be heard. It is hidden within everyone—the still, small voice. The voice is small—soft, subtle. Only those can hear it who train themselves to hear such a subtle voice.
Therefore, today if you sit with eyes closed, you will not hear the inner voice. Even with eyes closed you will keep hearing only the outer voices. Tomorrow, the day after—keep sitting, keep sitting; do not hurry, do not be anxious. Give twenty-three hours to the outer world; give one hour to yourself. Just close your eyes and try to listen within. Try to listen as if someone inside is speaking and you are listening.
As in a crowd where many are talking, and you want to hear a particular person, you leave the rest and gather your entire consciousness and focus it near that person’s lips. Even if he whispers, you try to listen—and you do hear. When consciousness contracts to listen, it hears. When it becomes one-pointed, it hears.
Do not hurry. Fix one hour for the search for svadharma. You do not know it, but your innermost being knows what your svadharma is. Close your eyes. Become silent. Sit quietly and listen. In silence, with your attention turned within, try to hear whether someone inside is speaking—some voice!
Many voices will be heard. There will be no difficulty in recognizing that these are outer voices. Words of friends will be remembered; of enemies; the marketplace, the temple, the scriptures—all words will be remembered. You will recognize clearly that these are heard from the outside. Let them go. Do not attend to them. And within—keep waiting.
If for three months, for just one hour, someone can sit silently and wait with patience, the inner voice will begin to be known. And once the inner voice is caught, you will never need to take advice from anyone again.
Whenever needed, close your eyes and take counsel from within; ask within what is to be done. And you will set out on the journey of svadharma. Because from within only the voice of svadharma comes; the voice of paradharma always comes from outside.
One who cannot hear the inner voice will never be able to complete the tapas of svadharma. This yajna of svadharma that Krishna speaks of can be fulfilled only by the one who becomes capable of hearing his inner voice.
But all can do it. Everyone has that source of the inner voice. With birth itself that source is there; with life itself it is there. Only, we have no remembrance of it. We have never tapped it; never knocked upon it; never awakened it. We have never trained the ears to catch the subtle sound.
Jesus or Buddha or Mahavira lived by the inner voice. Whatever the inner voice said, that...
Let me remind you of one more thing: once the inner voice begins to be heard, you have found your guru. That guru sits within. But we all wander outside searching for a guru. The guru is seated within.
God has given each of us that discernment, that inner organ, that conscience, that inner voice—such that if we begin to ask, answers begin to come. And those answers are never wrong. Then the path is made by the inner voice, and we set out on the journey of svadharma.
The capacity to hear the inner voice is the very foundation of the yajna of svadharma.
That is why Krishna says to Arjuna: after the two yajnas I have already described, now this third—if someone can complete the yajna of svadharma, his entry and hearing in the temple of the Lord are assured; the doors open; he enters.
It may seem that this yajna of svadharma is perhaps simple! That a brahmin goes on reading his scriptures; smears sandalwood paste and marks his forehead; performs havans and yajnas—thus fulfilling his svadharma. That a shudra goes on sweeping the roads, hauling refuse—thus fulfilling his svadharma. That a kshatriya goes on fighting in battle—thus fulfilling his svadharma.
No; this is very outer and superficial. The deeper meaning of svadharma will be known only when the inner voice...
Here in India there was a person who has just passed away—you know him well—Meher Baba. He spent the last thirty years of his life listening to the inner voice. And in order to listen to the inner voice, he silenced all outer voices. He became silent; he stopped speaking. Because if one speaks, the traffic of outer speech continues. So he stopped it all.
As I said to you in the morning: if you want to understand the yajna of swadhyaya, then J. Krishnamurti’s entire forty years of talks are contained in that small word—swadhyaya. All that he said in forty years is commentary on the Gita’s yajna called swadhyaya, nothing else; the whole forty years are a commentary upon that yajna.
In the same way I say to you: for this third matter—for listening to the inner voice—no one in this century has labored as deeply as Meher Baba did. And for listening to the inner voice, for hearing the call of svadharma, the deepest tapas he could perform was this: he abandoned speech itself, abandoned words; he became outwardly silent, so that the commerce of words would cease. So that ultimately not even the slightest mistake would occur, no doubt or confusion would arise between inner and outer voices—he stopped the outer voice altogether so that he could live solely by the inner voice.
Many incidents occurred in his life; let me tell one or two so you may have a sense of the inner voice...
Near Hyderabad he built a small ashram. When it was completed—long awaited—the day came to enter it. He went up to the door, stood there, turned back, and signaled that he would not enter that building. That night the building collapsed.
He was traveling from India to Europe by airplane. The plane landed at an airport only to refuel. Then it was ready to fly; passengers were called. Meher Baba refused to board.
His companions would be greatly troubled. Disciples would be in difficulty. “What absurdity is this! In the midst of a journey, to get off a plane and then say, ‘I won’t go!’” That plane took off fifteen minutes later, crashed, and all passengers perished.
Such things happened often. No one could say when Meher Baba would suddenly stop doing something midway; it was unpredictable. He himself could not say, because he himself did not know. Who knows when the inner voice will say what? Whatever it said, that is what he would do—whatever the outcome. Why is the inner being stopping him from the plane? He did not know. But if the inner says no, then no; if it says yes, then yes.
Meher Baba’s life is a life of the search for svadharma—a life of seeking the inner voice. Whatever that inner voice says, with that he will move.
If anyone can withdraw from the working world for twenty-three hours and take one hour for himself—if you can take more, even better; if you can take fifteen days or three weeks together in a year, even better—then as the inner voice becomes clearer, mistakes in your life will cease. Because then life is moved by God, not by you. Then the rose becomes a rose; there is no longer any desire to be a lotus. And the day a life led by the inner voice fully blossoms, that day the yajna is complete—the yajna of svadharma.
A person too has a flowering—one’s being has to blossom like a flower. And only when someone has fully blossomed do they become an offering. Then too they are surrendered at the feet of the Lord and accepted.
But, like a flower, accidents can happen to a person. If a rose wants to become a lotus, disaster is certain. The disaster has two sides. First, whatever a rose may wish, it cannot become a lotus. That is not its fate, its destiny. That seed is not hidden within it. That is not its potential.
So the rose can become deranged in trying to be a lotus; it will not become a lotus. In the effort to be a lotus it can become tormented, unhappy, disturbed; anxious, afflicted; it can lose sleep, lose peace; but a lotus it cannot become. In the race to become, it will be spent and ruined; it will not reach the goal. No matter how far it travels, it will keep returning a rose. It will not arrive at being a lotus. And not arriving breeds frustration; not arriving invites a melancholy that seizes the mind. And wherever melancholy grips the consciousness, atheism is born there. Keep this well in mind.
A mind full of melancholy cannot be theistic. A mind full of pain, suffering, frustration cannot be theistic, because theism arises out of the feeling of grace, of gratitude. And how can the feeling of grace arise in melancholy? Grace flowers in joy. When one is filled with joy, one feels graced; gratitude is born.
Simone Weil wrote a book, Grace and Gravity—prasada and gravitation. It is precious—among the most precious books of this century. Simone Weil says that just as the earth draws things toward itself, so too does God draw things toward himself.
The earth draws things toward itself. The hidden energy, the force, is called gravitation. You do not see it anywhere, but throw a stone upward—it comes down. A fruit falls from a tree—it comes down. You do not see it anywhere.
We all know the story: Newton sits in a garden, and an apple falls. A question arises in his mind: if the fruit falls, why does it come down? Why does it not go up? Why not to the right or left? Why exactly down? Why, when things fall, do they come down? Then for the first time it occurred to him that some energy, some force from the earth draws things toward itself; some magnetic force pulls things toward itself. Later gravitation was established. Even now it is not seen, but its results are seen.
Simone Weil says just so, God too draws things toward himself. The gravitation of his pull is called grace—prasada, compassion, anugraha, whatever name we may give it.
It is a delightful fact that when a flower blossoms, it rises toward the sky; and when it withers and dries, it falls toward the earth. When a person is alive, he stands upright toward the sky; when he dies, he is buried in the earth; he falls into the soil. Trees, when alive, rise toward the sky; then aging, they fall and sleep in the soil. Above and below—something draws upward, something draws downward.
When melancholy is in the mind, the heart becomes like a stone; it begins to fall downward. Whenever you have been in sorrow, you must have experienced that the heart feels weighed down by a thousand tons. Then the earth draws downward, but God is no longer felt as drawing upward. Therefore, in sorrow a person wants to die. To want to die means: to be buried in the earth’s gravitation. In sorrow one wants to commit suicide; that is, dust unto dust—the clay longs to return to clay.
The reverse also happens. When someone is filled with joy, then it is consciousness unto consciousness—not clay into clay—but the divine seeking to meet the divine. When the flower of joy blossoms, then the rain of grace begins to fall from above. The nectar of the Lord’s grace begins to shower upon the petals of that blossomed flower. In joy the mind opens like a flower.
That is why those who have experienced the supreme joy say that the thousand-petaled lotus blossoms in the head. It is a symbol. It is a poetic expression of an experience. Above the head a lotus blooms with a thousand petals; upon that flower, the rain of grace pours.
And when one is filled with such joy, one can thank God. It should be said: to offer thanks one first has to accept God. To whom else will gratitude be expressed? When within you the rain of joy begins to fall, and every corner of the heart starts dancing, and darkness departs, and petal by petal opens—then to whom shall thanks be offered? In order to express that gratitude, God has to be sought.
A mind filled with joy becomes theistic; a mind filled with sorrow becomes atheistic. Atheism is gravitation—the power of the earth that pulls downward. Theism is grace—prasada, anugraha—that lifts upward.
Whenever a person forgets his own dharma, such a state arises as if a rose wanted to be a lotus. When a person forgets his own dharma, it means he wants to be something else that he is not.
A brahmin wants to be a shudra, a shudra a kshatriya, a kshatriya a vaishya. I am not concerned with birth, but with qualities and functions. When the inner capacity wishes to be other than itself, it gets into trouble. It cannot be. It is impossible. It is not the law of nature.
We all are born carrying our built-in plan. What we can become—its blueprint lies hidden in every cell. We are born carrying the design of what we can be.
If an accident happens, it may be that we do not become what we could have become. But this can never happen: that we become what we could not have been.
Let me repeat: it can happen that we do not become what we could have been—we may miss our destiny. But the reverse never happens, cannot happen—that we become what we could not have been.
It can happen that the rose does not even become a true rose. But it cannot happen that the rose becomes a lotus. If the rose tries to become a lotus, I said there are two aspects. One is that it will never become a lotus. In the striving to be a lotus it will attain melancholy—sorrow, pain, anguish.
Søren Kierkegaard has portrayed this melancholy exactly. The words he uses are worth noting: trembling. He says when a person is in melancholy, the whole heart becomes a trembling. He says when a person is in melancholy, dread takes hold—as if death stands before him and within, all is submerged in the fear of death, in darkness.
This state of melancholy—Kierkegaard calls it anguish—of affliction, where nothing seems lovable anymore, nothing meaningful, nothing purposeful; everything appears futile, meaningless, accidental. If it is, fine. If it is not, no harm. In fact, if it is not, there seems to be peace; if it is, there seems to be restlessness.
If the rose wants to be a lotus, this will happen—that is one aspect. The second is: if the strength of the rose is spent in trying to be a lotus, then the rose will never become a rose either. For strength is limited, capacity is fixed. Each one receives a bounded energy, a measured portion. If you squander it elsewhere, you cannot fulfill your destiny.
Therefore Krishna says: in the yajna of svadharma!
This yajna of svadharma is a very deep psychological insight. Among the deepest psychological truths humanity has discovered in its history, the truth of svadharma is the deepest.
If the earth today seems so full of suffering, the fundamental reason is the fall from svadharma. No one is becoming what they are meant to be. Everyone is busy becoming something else! We are all busy becoming what we cannot be.
Krishna says: this too is the greatest yajna, Arjuna—if you can accomplish even this, or anyone can, then he attains the Lord, he attains the supreme state.
Svadharma—how to recognize what your svadharma is? How to know what I was born to be? How to know I am not busy becoming something else? How to recognize that I have not grabbed hold of a paradharma?
It can be recognized. The signs will be subtle. But let me share two or three clues.
First, if you are unhappy in life, take it as certain that you have fallen from svadharma, that you are falling from it. Because wherever the journey of svadharma takes place, joy bears fruit.
If you are restless, know that you are walking after a paradharma. Stop and reconsider. Think again; reconsider whether the journey you have chosen, what you are doing—if it increases sorrow, pain, and restlessness—then surely that path is not yours.
It is like going toward a garden. The garden is not yet visible, but as you come nearer, cool breezes begin to touch and caress you. You know: I am on the right path. The garden is not yet seen, but it must be nearby. At least the direction should be right. And if with every step the coolness increases, you can be sure you are moving in the right direction; the garden is drawing near. Closer still, along with coolness, fragrance begins to come; then you are even more certain that you are approaching. The garden is still unseen; still distant; but the direction is right.
In the same way one must grope for svadharma, as someone searches for a garden in the dark—coolness, fragrance...
If the coolness lessens, the fragrance weakens, you should know that you have taken an opposite path. If peace increases, you are moving close to svadharma. If restlessness increases, you are falling from svadharma. Peace is the measure.
As peace thickens, a glimpse of joy also begins to come like fragrance. Then understand: the path is right. Now you can run. Now you can row the boat without worry. Now you can let the boat go with the wind. Now the river is right, the route is right. Now you will reach.
But in life we never consider this. We do the opposite. If what we are doing brings restlessness, we do it even more intensely. We think perhaps we are not doing it with full strength; if we put in more force, peace will come. And when more restlessness comes, we gather all our strength and plunge in. Ultimately the result is that we do not reach svadharma; we cannot reach paradharma. Life goes round in circles and is lost. The opportunity comes and is wasted.
So, one: peace should increase, joy should increase.
Second, if one walks in accord with svadharma, the feeling of acceptance in one’s life will grow, and the feeling of rejection will diminish. Acceptability will increase. One will begin to accept things—meaning, one will begin to be content. In whomever a little joy arises within, acceptance begins to arise without; one begins to accept things, that is, to feel satisfied.
If one does not walk in accord with svadharma, one becomes more and more dissatisfied; one begins to reject. Toward everything, a hostile attitude arises, not a friendly one. Toward everything, a no—not a yes. Everything is denied.
So if in your life the number of no’s is greater than the yes’s; if you say yes to few things and no to many; if you accept little and reject much; if contentment comes from little and discontent from much—then be aware: your journey is not in accord with svadharma.
This ratio will have to be changed. Acceptance must be increased; rejection reduced. As acceptance grows, theism will grow. As rejection grows, atheism will grow. Atheism means a negating attitude toward the whole of existence—a no-attitude toward the totality—denial toward the whole: “There is nothing.” Theism means total acceptability, all-round acceptance: “Everything is; and I am at ease with it. However it is, I am content as it is.” This contentedness will grow as your inner journey accords with svadharma.
Third, if you want to move in accord with svadharma, no one can do it by remaining entangled only in outer things. In daily work it is not apparent what is svadharma and what is paradharma. The daily chores are almost the same: for the brahmin, for the kshatriya, for the shudra, for the vaishya. As far as daily work is concerned, everyone has to earn bread. How one earns is another matter; it makes little difference. From daily work it will not be known what your svadharma is.
Whoever wants to discover svadharma should, at the very least, take a complete holiday from the outer world for one hour out of the twenty-four, and plunge into the inner world. Close the doors to the outside. Tell the outer world to remain outside, and now be within. Close all the sensory doors and dive within for an hour. Only there will the secret be known—what is the self, what is the innerness. From there the clues will come; the sound will be heard; the signals will be received. And gradually the signals become deeper. At first the voice is very small. This last clue is the most important—keep it well in mind.
Svadharma is known from nothing other than the inner voice. Earlier I spoke of two symptoms by which you can tell whether your life is on the right path or not. With the third, I am pointing you to the very center of your svadharma.
For one hour out of twenty-four, shut out the outer world; forget it; leave all that is outside, outside; and dive within. In that immersion, slowly the inner voice will begin to be heard. It is hidden within everyone—the still, small voice. The voice is small—soft, subtle. Only those can hear it who train themselves to hear such a subtle voice.
Therefore, today if you sit with eyes closed, you will not hear the inner voice. Even with eyes closed you will keep hearing only the outer voices. Tomorrow, the day after—keep sitting, keep sitting; do not hurry, do not be anxious. Give twenty-three hours to the outer world; give one hour to yourself. Just close your eyes and try to listen within. Try to listen as if someone inside is speaking and you are listening.
As in a crowd where many are talking, and you want to hear a particular person, you leave the rest and gather your entire consciousness and focus it near that person’s lips. Even if he whispers, you try to listen—and you do hear. When consciousness contracts to listen, it hears. When it becomes one-pointed, it hears.
Do not hurry. Fix one hour for the search for svadharma. You do not know it, but your innermost being knows what your svadharma is. Close your eyes. Become silent. Sit quietly and listen. In silence, with your attention turned within, try to hear whether someone inside is speaking—some voice!
Many voices will be heard. There will be no difficulty in recognizing that these are outer voices. Words of friends will be remembered; of enemies; the marketplace, the temple, the scriptures—all words will be remembered. You will recognize clearly that these are heard from the outside. Let them go. Do not attend to them. And within—keep waiting.
If for three months, for just one hour, someone can sit silently and wait with patience, the inner voice will begin to be known. And once the inner voice is caught, you will never need to take advice from anyone again.
Whenever needed, close your eyes and take counsel from within; ask within what is to be done. And you will set out on the journey of svadharma. Because from within only the voice of svadharma comes; the voice of paradharma always comes from outside.
One who cannot hear the inner voice will never be able to complete the tapas of svadharma. This yajna of svadharma that Krishna speaks of can be fulfilled only by the one who becomes capable of hearing his inner voice.
But all can do it. Everyone has that source of the inner voice. With birth itself that source is there; with life itself it is there. Only, we have no remembrance of it. We have never tapped it; never knocked upon it; never awakened it. We have never trained the ears to catch the subtle sound.
Jesus or Buddha or Mahavira lived by the inner voice. Whatever the inner voice said, that...
Let me remind you of one more thing: once the inner voice begins to be heard, you have found your guru. That guru sits within. But we all wander outside searching for a guru. The guru is seated within.
God has given each of us that discernment, that inner organ, that conscience, that inner voice—such that if we begin to ask, answers begin to come. And those answers are never wrong. Then the path is made by the inner voice, and we set out on the journey of svadharma.
The capacity to hear the inner voice is the very foundation of the yajna of svadharma.
That is why Krishna says to Arjuna: after the two yajnas I have already described, now this third—if someone can complete the yajna of svadharma, his entry and hearing in the temple of the Lord are assured; the doors open; he enters.
It may seem that this yajna of svadharma is perhaps simple! That a brahmin goes on reading his scriptures; smears sandalwood paste and marks his forehead; performs havans and yajnas—thus fulfilling his svadharma. That a shudra goes on sweeping the roads, hauling refuse—thus fulfilling his svadharma. That a kshatriya goes on fighting in battle—thus fulfilling his svadharma.
No; this is very outer and superficial. The deeper meaning of svadharma will be known only when the inner voice...
Here in India there was a person who has just passed away—you know him well—Meher Baba. He spent the last thirty years of his life listening to the inner voice. And in order to listen to the inner voice, he silenced all outer voices. He became silent; he stopped speaking. Because if one speaks, the traffic of outer speech continues. So he stopped it all.
As I said to you in the morning: if you want to understand the yajna of swadhyaya, then J. Krishnamurti’s entire forty years of talks are contained in that small word—swadhyaya. All that he said in forty years is commentary on the Gita’s yajna called swadhyaya, nothing else; the whole forty years are a commentary upon that yajna.
In the same way I say to you: for this third matter—for listening to the inner voice—no one in this century has labored as deeply as Meher Baba did. And for listening to the inner voice, for hearing the call of svadharma, the deepest tapas he could perform was this: he abandoned speech itself, abandoned words; he became outwardly silent, so that the commerce of words would cease. So that ultimately not even the slightest mistake would occur, no doubt or confusion would arise between inner and outer voices—he stopped the outer voice altogether so that he could live solely by the inner voice.
Many incidents occurred in his life; let me tell one or two so you may have a sense of the inner voice...
Near Hyderabad he built a small ashram. When it was completed—long awaited—the day came to enter it. He went up to the door, stood there, turned back, and signaled that he would not enter that building. That night the building collapsed.
He was traveling from India to Europe by airplane. The plane landed at an airport only to refuel. Then it was ready to fly; passengers were called. Meher Baba refused to board.
His companions would be greatly troubled. Disciples would be in difficulty. “What absurdity is this! In the midst of a journey, to get off a plane and then say, ‘I won’t go!’” That plane took off fifteen minutes later, crashed, and all passengers perished.
Such things happened often. No one could say when Meher Baba would suddenly stop doing something midway; it was unpredictable. He himself could not say, because he himself did not know. Who knows when the inner voice will say what? Whatever it said, that is what he would do—whatever the outcome. Why is the inner being stopping him from the plane? He did not know. But if the inner says no, then no; if it says yes, then yes.
Meher Baba’s life is a life of the search for svadharma—a life of seeking the inner voice. Whatever that inner voice says, with that he will move.
If anyone can withdraw from the working world for twenty-three hours and take one hour for himself—if you can take more, even better; if you can take fifteen days or three weeks together in a year, even better—then as the inner voice becomes clearer, mistakes in your life will cease. Because then life is moved by God, not by you. Then the rose becomes a rose; there is no longer any desire to be a lotus. And the day a life led by the inner voice fully blossoms, that day the yajna is complete—the yajna of svadharma.
Osho, in this verse the fourth and final yajna is called the Yoga Yajna. In the Gita Press translation it is called the Ashtanga Yoga Yajna. Please clarify this as well.
Yoga Yajna. Yoga has its own discipline and process. Ashtanga Yoga points to the eight limbs of yoga. Patanjali speaks of eight limbs, eight steps, eight parts that together make yoga complete. If yoga is a body, these eight are its limbs—hence Ashtanga Yoga.
But if I start speaking on each limb one by one, it will be difficult; that belongs to a time when I speak fully on Patanjali’s scripture. For now, let us keep to Yoga Yajna; the essential point will be understood.
I said that just as for svadhyaya (self-study) J. Krishnamurti is a living commentary, and for svadharma—for the search for one’s own law, the inner voice—Meher Baba is a commentary, in the same way, for yoga, George Gurdjieff is a commentary—in this living world around us.
Yoga means: as a person is, he is loose, a lax existence. One could say there is less man and more holdall. Holdall—the bedding roll, stuffed with everything; it’s a good English word: holdall—everything thrown in, like a bedroll. Everything is stuffed in, right and wrong all jumbled together. The ordinary person is not a cosmos; there is no music inside, no harmony, no rhythm. In Gurdjieff’s language, there is no crystallization. There is no solid core. There are many forces within—mutually opposed, fighting one another—loose, disorderly.
Understand the difference this way: a marketplace is full; there are a thousand people. There is much noise, but no personality. In a market of a thousand people there is no single personality—there are a thousand individuals, a thousand voices, a thousand interests, a thousand selfish aims. They are opposed to one another, enemies to each other, fighting each other. A thousand people are there, but the market has no crystallized individuality, no personality with a single tone. Now take a thousand soldiers. They are also a thousand, but they have one personality, lined up in formation. Their steps move as one. At one voice, one command, all their life energies are stirred as one. There is unison.
So Gurdjieff would say: in the market there is no crystallization; in the thousand soldiers there is crystallization. They are gathered together, an organic unity, like one body. The market is a crowd, not a body.
Our personality is like a market. There are a thousand things in it, a thousand interests. One part goes left, another goes right. One goes up, a third goes down. One says, “Don’t do it,” another says, “Do it,” and a third part sleeps, not even concerned whether to do or not do. We have such a thousand parts within.
Gurdjieff used to say: we are like a house whose master is asleep and which has a thousand servants. And every servant, because the master remains asleep, has begun to think himself the master. Sometimes someone comes to the door; whichever servant happens to be there, if asked, “Whose mansion is this? It’s a big mansion”—and of course it would be big, to have a thousand servants—whoever is at the door says, “I am. I am the master.” The traveler returns another day; another servant is at the door. He asks, “Whose house is this?” That one too says, “I am the master.” People are puzzled—who is the master? For sometimes one looks like the master, sometimes another! The real master is asleep.
Gurdjieff says: the common man’s condition is like that house. The real master is asleep. And whichever sense, instinct, or passion is on top at the moment says, “I am the master.”
When you are in anger, anger says, “I am the master.” When you are in love, love says, “I am the master.” In the morning you were full of love for someone and said, “I’ll lay down my life for you,” and by evening you took that very life! For in the morning love was master; by evening hate had become the master. The servants moved around.
In the evening a man decides, “I will get up at four in the morning.” At four the same man turns over and says, “Let it be today; we’ll see later.” At eight he gets up and repents: “I had sworn, why didn’t I get up? Now I’ll definitely rise.” Next day four strikes. The same man turns under the quilt and says, “Let it be; what’s the hurry? We’ll get up later; tomorrow we’ll get up.” At eight the same man again repents. What is the matter?
The part that decided in the evening to rise at four was one part of the mind. At four a different part of the house was at the door, saying, “I am the master. Sleep on, no hurry.” At eight a third servant was at the door: “You did wrong; it’s not good to decide and then change. Decide again.” But the real master inside is asleep.
Servants—senses, drives, passions—become the masters. Whoever finds a chance sits on our chest. When greed sits on us, it seems greed is our very soul. When anger mounts us, it seems I am anger. When love takes over, it seems love is everything. Whichever tendency possesses us like a ghost, we become its toy. There is no trace of the real master.
Yoga means: the awakening of the real master; enthroning the master among the servants. Yoga means—literally too—integration. The word yoga means integration; it means joining. Let the person be joined—no longer fragmented, but whole; one. And whenever a person becomes one, all the servants immediately bow their heads and stand before the master; no servant then says, “I am the master.”
A consciousness established in yoga instantly becomes master of all the senses. The senses then follow like servants, like a shadow; their claim to mastery is lost.
So in this fourth phase Krishna says: there is also the Yoga Yajna, Arjuna! How will this consciousness awaken? How will the sleeping master arise? How will a man crystallize, become one, gathered together?
There are thousands of yogic processes by which the sleeping master is awakened. I will give you a small example from Gurdjieff, so you can get a feel.
Gurdjieff was camped near a village by Tiflis with a few friends. He told them he would have them do an experiment: the Stop Exercise. “When I say ‘Stop,’ you are to stop exactly as you are. If you have lifted one foot to take a step, it must remain there. Don’t cheat—for you would be cheating yourself. Don’t place it down; remain as you are. Better to fall—but consciously—keeping your foot as is. Fall if you must, but do not let the foot touch down. If your mouth is open to speak, it must remain open when I say ‘Stop.’ If your hand is raised for work, it must remain there. If your eyes are open, keep them open; do not blink.”
He had been having them practice this for months. What does it mean? Only this: this process can happen only if the master awakens; otherwise it cannot. And if someone undertakes this process, the master within will begin to awaken.
Yes, the servants will try to trick you. You lifted your foot and Gurdjieff said, “Stop.” The mind will say, “He isn’t looking; his back is turned. Put the foot down. No need to suffer needlessly.” If you obey the mind and put the foot down, the master will stay asleep. But if you say, “No; the foot will remain as it is,” then the mind loses. And when mind loses, the power hidden behind mind wins.
The mind’s defeat becomes the Self’s victory. When the servants lose, the master begins to awaken. As long as servants keep winning, the master has no inkling that a situation to rise has arisen in the mansion. When servants lose, the master has to get up.
So Gurdjieff was conducting this exercise. Nearby was a large canal—dry; water had not yet been released. One morning he was in his tent. Three or four people were crossing the canal bed. One was going to cut wood, one to the forest, one to something else. A loud voice sounded outside the tent: “Stop!” Four people were crossing the canal. It was dry. They froze. No sooner had they stopped than water was released into the canal. They panicked!
One looked back: Gurdjieff is in the tent; he doesn’t even know we are standing in the canal. Water has been released. He ran out and said, “Stop doesn’t mean one should die!” Three remained standing. The water rose. It reached their waists; then another looked back, saw danger to life—water rising; no meaning in this now; clothes getting wet, no sense—he came out. Two still stood. The water rose further, to the neck, the lips—and the third leapt out: “Now there is danger to breath.” But the fourth still stood there. Stop means stop. Once halted, then halted.
The mind must have said, “You are mad. You’ll die. You’ll lose your life. Get out. The three companions got out; they too have intelligence; they too are doing the discipline. You alone are not doing any discipline.” But no—he kept standing.
Water covered the nose, then the eyes; then a wave went over his head. And Gurdjieff ran out of the tent, jumped into the canal, and pulled the youth out. He was almost unconscious. They drained the water. When he came to, he fell at Gurdjieff’s feet and said, “I had never even imagined that if I showed such strength, the sleeping master within me would awaken! In this moment of death I have known the nectar of immortality.”
Yoga means: to strike what is asleep within, to rouse it. There are a thousand paths to strike it. Hatha Yoga has its ways; Raja Yoga its own; Mantra Yoga its ways; Tantra its ways. Thousands upon thousands of methods try to awaken the slumbering consciousness that lies latent at the inner center.
As when someone is asleep—there can be many ways to awaken him. Someone may call his name loudly; he wakes. Another may not call his name but shout, “The house is on fire!”—and he wakes. Another may not shout about fire at all, but play music—and he wakes. Someone else may not even play music but shine a bright light on his closed eyes—and he wakes. So too yoga has thousands of ways to strike the sleeping consciousness within; and by that strike it awakens. Let me give one or two examples, because the subject is vast.
We are familiar with the sound Om. It is a Mantra Yoga method to awaken the sleeping one within. If someone intones Om deeply inside, a strong blow begins to land near the navel. The navel is the center of life-energy. By the navel the child is connected to the mother; through the navel he receives life from her. When the cord is cut, the child becomes separate; a new life begins.
You may or may not have noticed: while riding a bicycle or driving a car, if suddenly an accident is about to occur, the first impact is felt at the navel. You’re cycling; someone suddenly comes in front; you brake. The blow you feel in the body will be at the navel. Instantly the navel is struck. Danger has come! In danger, life-energy gets a chance to awaken.
Om is a sound by which a blow is delivered to the navel from within. If you let Om resonate within, blows begin to fall on the navel—at first gentle, then stronger, stronger still—until the sound of Om strikes the navel like a hammer, awakening that sleeping consciousness.
Now a lovely thing: Om has A, U, and M. If you emphasize M, vibration immediately occurs at the navel. Islam has the word Allah. Sufi fakirs use the word Allah as with Om. “Allah”—the H lands just where M lands. “Allahu”—the Hu lands exactly at the navel where Om lands. Allah and Om are entirely different words, but the intent is one, and the result is one; the meaning too is one. The Sufi begins with Allah—Allah, then Lah, then Lahu, and finally only Hu remains. And Hu’s blow lands on the navel; and at the navel the sleeping master begins to awaken.
By a thousand methods yoga awakens the sleeping master. And as soon as that master awakens, integration arises in the personality—yoga happens. Fragments gather together. The marketplace disappears; soldiers in formation stand. Then the personality obeys command. In the market’s crowd no one obeys; there is neither one to command nor one to obey.
A yogically established person becomes filled with inner discipline. An inward order arises. Then he does what he wants to do; what he does not want to do, he does not do. And once the inner person awakens, the result is the same as with everything I have said so far.
What happens through svadhyaya, what happens through svadharma, what happens through the inner voice, what happens through experiments like nonviolence—the consciousness that awakens there—the same result comes through the methodologies of yoga as well.
To bring about this result by the yogic path there are countless methods. And looking at each individual, experiments are done as to which method will be meaningful for him.
If someone’s sense of sound is weak, or he has no sensitivity to sound at all... Everyone’s sense of sound is different. You pass along the road—one with a keen sense of sound hears even the faint chirping of a small bird; if your sense is not keen, you never hear that birds are chirping.
One whose hearing is keen is approached with Mantra Yoga to awaken him. One whose vision is keen is given trataka, concentration. Endless experiments are there; by them awakening is attempted. It will depend on the person which sense is most keen in him. Only by the route of his keenest sense can he be taken deeper. Those whose sense of color is sharp can be given a path through color. It depends on the person.
Krishna says: even through yoga, Arjuna—through the Yoga Yajna—a person attains the Supreme.
Apāne juhvati prāṇam prāṇe’pānam tathāpare.
Prāṇāpāna-gatī ruddhvā prāṇāyāma-parāyaṇāḥ..29..
And other yogins offer prana into apana; likewise, others offer apana into prana; and still others, restraining the movements of prana and apana, are devoted to pranayama.
In this sutra Krishna speaks of another dimension of yoga.
A human being has many doors by which he is connected to existence—not one, but infinite doors. We are connected with the Divine in many ways. A tree is not connected to the earth by one root but by many roots. So too, we are connected to existence by many roots, not one. Therefore, to reach existence we can enter by any one root.
I just said that life-energy gathers at the navel—this is one door. Life-energy also moves upon prana—upon breath. If breath moves, we say the person is alive; when the breath is gone, we say the person is gone. Everything is at play upon the breath. Through breath body and soul are joined; breath is the bridge. Therefore, by working with breath, yogins attain that supreme experience.
Breath or prana has its own prana-yoga. It too has many forms. In brief, take to heart a few essentials about prana-yoga.
First: the rhythm of breath is tied to the state of mind. As the mind is, so the breath becomes. As the inner condition changes, the movements and waves of breath, the vibrations, the frequencies, change. The frequency of breath, the impact of the waves of breath, announces what the state of mind is.
Medical science has not yet concerned itself with this, because it has not yet gone beyond the body; hence it has not recognized prana. But just as medical science measures the flow of blood—blood pressure—so too, until it was known there was no question of blood pressure; circulation itself is a new discovery. Three hundred years ago no one knew blood circulates; it was thought the body is filled with blood like a bucket with water. That it circulates was unknown—how could it be known? We do not sense it inside.
Only about three hundred years ago did we discover circulation; then slowly we learned that blood pressure is deeply linked with health. So blood pressure became something a physician must measure.
But we have still not realized that just as there is blood pressure, there is also breath pressure, air pressure. Greater and lesser pressure of air, differences in the impact of air’s movement and waves, transform one’s inner mental state. They are related to life-energy. Let me say a few things and you’ll grasp it.
When you are angry, notice—your breathing changes; it is not what it ordinarily is. Why? What need is there for breath to change in anger? This also means that if you gain control over the breath’s rhythm, you can gain control over anger. If you do not allow the breath to change, anger will find it difficult to arise.
Therefore in Japan parents teach their children at home—this is a formula of prana-yoga. They do not tell children, “Do not be angry.” And I believe the Japanese are the most intelligent in this matter and the least angry; they are the most smiling people. The secret is a prana-yoga formula.
Parents traditionally teach: when anger comes, take your breath slowly, softly; take it deep and slow—slowly and deep. They do not say, as we say, “Do not be angry.”
The whole world says, “Don’t be angry.” Not being angry is not so easy that you say it and the child obeys. And the joke is that the very father who says, “Don’t be angry,” if the child doesn’t obey, the father gets angry and demonstrates: “You won’t obey?!” He forgets he is doing exactly what he forbade.
Anger is not as voluntary as people think. Hence moral instruction goes on, and nothing changes.
Japan understood more rightly. The old yogic formula reached Japan through Buddha. Buddha laid great emphasis on breath. His whole yoga—what Krishna here calls prana-yoga.
Therefore the deep practice in Buddha’s teaching is called Anapanasati Yoga—watching the incoming and outgoing breath is the yoga, Buddha said. If one comprehends fully the secret of the in-breath and out-breath, there remains nothing else to do in the world. So Buddha says: if Anapanasati is accomplished, everything is accomplished. He speaks rightly. From that side too everything can be fulfilled.
When anger comes, see how breath changes. When you are calm, breath changes—it becomes rhythmic. Recline in an easy chair, you are quiet, at ease, the heart is happy, light as a bird, fresh as the wind, illumined—then see: breath becomes as if it is not; you hardly notice it—very light, almost nothing.
See how breath becomes when lust seizes the mind; it becomes disordered. Blood pressure rises when sex stirs the mind; sweat starts on the body; breath becomes fast and chaotic, broken.
At every moment breath is linked to inner state. If one alters the breath, one creates the possibility to alter the inner state and lays the first stone of bringing the inner state under control.
Prana-yoga means only this: that breath penetrates very deep; it even touches our soul. On one side it touches the body; on the other, it touches the soul. Outwardly it touches the world; inwardly it touches the Brahman. Breath is the exchange between the two—at all times, waking and sleeping, standing and sitting. Transforming the process of breath is prana-yoga—the transformation of the breathing process. By changing that process, a person can attain the Supreme.
Those who have had a little experience of meditation know this. People who experiment deeply come to me and say: sometimes it seems the breath has stopped, it isn’t moving; we get frightened—could this be dangerous?
There is no need to be frightened. Be alarmed when breath runs very hard, chaotic. When it seems to have stilled, when there is no vibration at all—that is when you attain the balance Krishna is speaking of: the upper breath remains above and the lower below; outer breath remains outside and inner breath inside—and for a moment there is a pause. Everything halts. Neither does the outer breath go in nor the inner come out; neither the upper breath go up nor the lower go down. All is still.
In this stillness of breath a ray of the supreme experience arises. In this complete standstill of breath, existence becomes totally balanced, disciplined. Then there is no movement, no motion, no change—no alteration. In that moment one descends into the supreme motion or is immersed in the eternal, comes into contact with the timeless, the Sanatan.
The movement of breath is our connection with the changing world; the becoming motionless of breath is our connection with the unchanging, the eternal.
Therefore this cessation of breath is a wondrous experience. There is no need to try to stop it; by trying you can never stop it. If you try to stop it, the inner breath will want to go out and the outer to come in.
No one can stop breath by effort. Yes, breath can be gradually trained, made rhythmic, prepared for harmony. And if, along with pranayama, one goes deeper into meditation, there comes a moment when trained breath and the quiet state of meditation get tuned—and the breath stops.
Another delightful thing: when breath stops, thoughts immediately stop. Without breath, thoughts cannot run. Observe this: for a second, hold the breath. The moment breath halts, thoughts halt—an abrupt brake. Breath acts as a brake upon thought.
But when you force it, it won’t last long; breath will want to come out and thoughts will attack. Only for a moment a gap will come. But when breath, trained and tuned with meditation, stops of its own accord, sometimes it remains stopped for hours.
In Ramakrishna’s life there are many such moments. Sometimes it happened that he lay as if dead for six days. Loved ones and friends were frightened—what now? Everything stopped. In that still moment—in that still moment—consciousness goes outside time, becomes timeless.
Outside thought—entering thoughtlessness—you stand at the door of Brahman. Come into thought—fall into thought—and you are in the world. Between the world and liberation there is only a thin film of thought; between matter and God there is only the sheer veil of thought. But how is this veil to go?
There are two ways. Either one works directly upon thought—through meditation, through witnessing—and thought ceases; the day thought becomes zero, breath too becomes tranquil and stands still. Or one works through prana-yoga, with breath—giving it rhythm, order, training—and brings it to that place where breath stops on its own: the outer stays outside, the inner inside, the upper above, the lower below—and in between a gap, an interval, a void in which there is no breath. From there the leap—the jump—happens toward the Supreme. In that interval the leap to the Supreme occurs.
But if I start speaking on each limb one by one, it will be difficult; that belongs to a time when I speak fully on Patanjali’s scripture. For now, let us keep to Yoga Yajna; the essential point will be understood.
I said that just as for svadhyaya (self-study) J. Krishnamurti is a living commentary, and for svadharma—for the search for one’s own law, the inner voice—Meher Baba is a commentary, in the same way, for yoga, George Gurdjieff is a commentary—in this living world around us.
Yoga means: as a person is, he is loose, a lax existence. One could say there is less man and more holdall. Holdall—the bedding roll, stuffed with everything; it’s a good English word: holdall—everything thrown in, like a bedroll. Everything is stuffed in, right and wrong all jumbled together. The ordinary person is not a cosmos; there is no music inside, no harmony, no rhythm. In Gurdjieff’s language, there is no crystallization. There is no solid core. There are many forces within—mutually opposed, fighting one another—loose, disorderly.
Understand the difference this way: a marketplace is full; there are a thousand people. There is much noise, but no personality. In a market of a thousand people there is no single personality—there are a thousand individuals, a thousand voices, a thousand interests, a thousand selfish aims. They are opposed to one another, enemies to each other, fighting each other. A thousand people are there, but the market has no crystallized individuality, no personality with a single tone. Now take a thousand soldiers. They are also a thousand, but they have one personality, lined up in formation. Their steps move as one. At one voice, one command, all their life energies are stirred as one. There is unison.
So Gurdjieff would say: in the market there is no crystallization; in the thousand soldiers there is crystallization. They are gathered together, an organic unity, like one body. The market is a crowd, not a body.
Our personality is like a market. There are a thousand things in it, a thousand interests. One part goes left, another goes right. One goes up, a third goes down. One says, “Don’t do it,” another says, “Do it,” and a third part sleeps, not even concerned whether to do or not do. We have such a thousand parts within.
Gurdjieff used to say: we are like a house whose master is asleep and which has a thousand servants. And every servant, because the master remains asleep, has begun to think himself the master. Sometimes someone comes to the door; whichever servant happens to be there, if asked, “Whose mansion is this? It’s a big mansion”—and of course it would be big, to have a thousand servants—whoever is at the door says, “I am. I am the master.” The traveler returns another day; another servant is at the door. He asks, “Whose house is this?” That one too says, “I am the master.” People are puzzled—who is the master? For sometimes one looks like the master, sometimes another! The real master is asleep.
Gurdjieff says: the common man’s condition is like that house. The real master is asleep. And whichever sense, instinct, or passion is on top at the moment says, “I am the master.”
When you are in anger, anger says, “I am the master.” When you are in love, love says, “I am the master.” In the morning you were full of love for someone and said, “I’ll lay down my life for you,” and by evening you took that very life! For in the morning love was master; by evening hate had become the master. The servants moved around.
In the evening a man decides, “I will get up at four in the morning.” At four the same man turns over and says, “Let it be today; we’ll see later.” At eight he gets up and repents: “I had sworn, why didn’t I get up? Now I’ll definitely rise.” Next day four strikes. The same man turns under the quilt and says, “Let it be; what’s the hurry? We’ll get up later; tomorrow we’ll get up.” At eight the same man again repents. What is the matter?
The part that decided in the evening to rise at four was one part of the mind. At four a different part of the house was at the door, saying, “I am the master. Sleep on, no hurry.” At eight a third servant was at the door: “You did wrong; it’s not good to decide and then change. Decide again.” But the real master inside is asleep.
Servants—senses, drives, passions—become the masters. Whoever finds a chance sits on our chest. When greed sits on us, it seems greed is our very soul. When anger mounts us, it seems I am anger. When love takes over, it seems love is everything. Whichever tendency possesses us like a ghost, we become its toy. There is no trace of the real master.
Yoga means: the awakening of the real master; enthroning the master among the servants. Yoga means—literally too—integration. The word yoga means integration; it means joining. Let the person be joined—no longer fragmented, but whole; one. And whenever a person becomes one, all the servants immediately bow their heads and stand before the master; no servant then says, “I am the master.”
A consciousness established in yoga instantly becomes master of all the senses. The senses then follow like servants, like a shadow; their claim to mastery is lost.
So in this fourth phase Krishna says: there is also the Yoga Yajna, Arjuna! How will this consciousness awaken? How will the sleeping master arise? How will a man crystallize, become one, gathered together?
There are thousands of yogic processes by which the sleeping master is awakened. I will give you a small example from Gurdjieff, so you can get a feel.
Gurdjieff was camped near a village by Tiflis with a few friends. He told them he would have them do an experiment: the Stop Exercise. “When I say ‘Stop,’ you are to stop exactly as you are. If you have lifted one foot to take a step, it must remain there. Don’t cheat—for you would be cheating yourself. Don’t place it down; remain as you are. Better to fall—but consciously—keeping your foot as is. Fall if you must, but do not let the foot touch down. If your mouth is open to speak, it must remain open when I say ‘Stop.’ If your hand is raised for work, it must remain there. If your eyes are open, keep them open; do not blink.”
He had been having them practice this for months. What does it mean? Only this: this process can happen only if the master awakens; otherwise it cannot. And if someone undertakes this process, the master within will begin to awaken.
Yes, the servants will try to trick you. You lifted your foot and Gurdjieff said, “Stop.” The mind will say, “He isn’t looking; his back is turned. Put the foot down. No need to suffer needlessly.” If you obey the mind and put the foot down, the master will stay asleep. But if you say, “No; the foot will remain as it is,” then the mind loses. And when mind loses, the power hidden behind mind wins.
The mind’s defeat becomes the Self’s victory. When the servants lose, the master begins to awaken. As long as servants keep winning, the master has no inkling that a situation to rise has arisen in the mansion. When servants lose, the master has to get up.
So Gurdjieff was conducting this exercise. Nearby was a large canal—dry; water had not yet been released. One morning he was in his tent. Three or four people were crossing the canal bed. One was going to cut wood, one to the forest, one to something else. A loud voice sounded outside the tent: “Stop!” Four people were crossing the canal. It was dry. They froze. No sooner had they stopped than water was released into the canal. They panicked!
One looked back: Gurdjieff is in the tent; he doesn’t even know we are standing in the canal. Water has been released. He ran out and said, “Stop doesn’t mean one should die!” Three remained standing. The water rose. It reached their waists; then another looked back, saw danger to life—water rising; no meaning in this now; clothes getting wet, no sense—he came out. Two still stood. The water rose further, to the neck, the lips—and the third leapt out: “Now there is danger to breath.” But the fourth still stood there. Stop means stop. Once halted, then halted.
The mind must have said, “You are mad. You’ll die. You’ll lose your life. Get out. The three companions got out; they too have intelligence; they too are doing the discipline. You alone are not doing any discipline.” But no—he kept standing.
Water covered the nose, then the eyes; then a wave went over his head. And Gurdjieff ran out of the tent, jumped into the canal, and pulled the youth out. He was almost unconscious. They drained the water. When he came to, he fell at Gurdjieff’s feet and said, “I had never even imagined that if I showed such strength, the sleeping master within me would awaken! In this moment of death I have known the nectar of immortality.”
Yoga means: to strike what is asleep within, to rouse it. There are a thousand paths to strike it. Hatha Yoga has its ways; Raja Yoga its own; Mantra Yoga its ways; Tantra its ways. Thousands upon thousands of methods try to awaken the slumbering consciousness that lies latent at the inner center.
As when someone is asleep—there can be many ways to awaken him. Someone may call his name loudly; he wakes. Another may not call his name but shout, “The house is on fire!”—and he wakes. Another may not shout about fire at all, but play music—and he wakes. Someone else may not even play music but shine a bright light on his closed eyes—and he wakes. So too yoga has thousands of ways to strike the sleeping consciousness within; and by that strike it awakens. Let me give one or two examples, because the subject is vast.
We are familiar with the sound Om. It is a Mantra Yoga method to awaken the sleeping one within. If someone intones Om deeply inside, a strong blow begins to land near the navel. The navel is the center of life-energy. By the navel the child is connected to the mother; through the navel he receives life from her. When the cord is cut, the child becomes separate; a new life begins.
You may or may not have noticed: while riding a bicycle or driving a car, if suddenly an accident is about to occur, the first impact is felt at the navel. You’re cycling; someone suddenly comes in front; you brake. The blow you feel in the body will be at the navel. Instantly the navel is struck. Danger has come! In danger, life-energy gets a chance to awaken.
Om is a sound by which a blow is delivered to the navel from within. If you let Om resonate within, blows begin to fall on the navel—at first gentle, then stronger, stronger still—until the sound of Om strikes the navel like a hammer, awakening that sleeping consciousness.
Now a lovely thing: Om has A, U, and M. If you emphasize M, vibration immediately occurs at the navel. Islam has the word Allah. Sufi fakirs use the word Allah as with Om. “Allah”—the H lands just where M lands. “Allahu”—the Hu lands exactly at the navel where Om lands. Allah and Om are entirely different words, but the intent is one, and the result is one; the meaning too is one. The Sufi begins with Allah—Allah, then Lah, then Lahu, and finally only Hu remains. And Hu’s blow lands on the navel; and at the navel the sleeping master begins to awaken.
By a thousand methods yoga awakens the sleeping master. And as soon as that master awakens, integration arises in the personality—yoga happens. Fragments gather together. The marketplace disappears; soldiers in formation stand. Then the personality obeys command. In the market’s crowd no one obeys; there is neither one to command nor one to obey.
A yogically established person becomes filled with inner discipline. An inward order arises. Then he does what he wants to do; what he does not want to do, he does not do. And once the inner person awakens, the result is the same as with everything I have said so far.
What happens through svadhyaya, what happens through svadharma, what happens through the inner voice, what happens through experiments like nonviolence—the consciousness that awakens there—the same result comes through the methodologies of yoga as well.
To bring about this result by the yogic path there are countless methods. And looking at each individual, experiments are done as to which method will be meaningful for him.
If someone’s sense of sound is weak, or he has no sensitivity to sound at all... Everyone’s sense of sound is different. You pass along the road—one with a keen sense of sound hears even the faint chirping of a small bird; if your sense is not keen, you never hear that birds are chirping.
One whose hearing is keen is approached with Mantra Yoga to awaken him. One whose vision is keen is given trataka, concentration. Endless experiments are there; by them awakening is attempted. It will depend on the person which sense is most keen in him. Only by the route of his keenest sense can he be taken deeper. Those whose sense of color is sharp can be given a path through color. It depends on the person.
Krishna says: even through yoga, Arjuna—through the Yoga Yajna—a person attains the Supreme.
Apāne juhvati prāṇam prāṇe’pānam tathāpare.
Prāṇāpāna-gatī ruddhvā prāṇāyāma-parāyaṇāḥ..29..
And other yogins offer prana into apana; likewise, others offer apana into prana; and still others, restraining the movements of prana and apana, are devoted to pranayama.
In this sutra Krishna speaks of another dimension of yoga.
A human being has many doors by which he is connected to existence—not one, but infinite doors. We are connected with the Divine in many ways. A tree is not connected to the earth by one root but by many roots. So too, we are connected to existence by many roots, not one. Therefore, to reach existence we can enter by any one root.
I just said that life-energy gathers at the navel—this is one door. Life-energy also moves upon prana—upon breath. If breath moves, we say the person is alive; when the breath is gone, we say the person is gone. Everything is at play upon the breath. Through breath body and soul are joined; breath is the bridge. Therefore, by working with breath, yogins attain that supreme experience.
Breath or prana has its own prana-yoga. It too has many forms. In brief, take to heart a few essentials about prana-yoga.
First: the rhythm of breath is tied to the state of mind. As the mind is, so the breath becomes. As the inner condition changes, the movements and waves of breath, the vibrations, the frequencies, change. The frequency of breath, the impact of the waves of breath, announces what the state of mind is.
Medical science has not yet concerned itself with this, because it has not yet gone beyond the body; hence it has not recognized prana. But just as medical science measures the flow of blood—blood pressure—so too, until it was known there was no question of blood pressure; circulation itself is a new discovery. Three hundred years ago no one knew blood circulates; it was thought the body is filled with blood like a bucket with water. That it circulates was unknown—how could it be known? We do not sense it inside.
Only about three hundred years ago did we discover circulation; then slowly we learned that blood pressure is deeply linked with health. So blood pressure became something a physician must measure.
But we have still not realized that just as there is blood pressure, there is also breath pressure, air pressure. Greater and lesser pressure of air, differences in the impact of air’s movement and waves, transform one’s inner mental state. They are related to life-energy. Let me say a few things and you’ll grasp it.
When you are angry, notice—your breathing changes; it is not what it ordinarily is. Why? What need is there for breath to change in anger? This also means that if you gain control over the breath’s rhythm, you can gain control over anger. If you do not allow the breath to change, anger will find it difficult to arise.
Therefore in Japan parents teach their children at home—this is a formula of prana-yoga. They do not tell children, “Do not be angry.” And I believe the Japanese are the most intelligent in this matter and the least angry; they are the most smiling people. The secret is a prana-yoga formula.
Parents traditionally teach: when anger comes, take your breath slowly, softly; take it deep and slow—slowly and deep. They do not say, as we say, “Do not be angry.”
The whole world says, “Don’t be angry.” Not being angry is not so easy that you say it and the child obeys. And the joke is that the very father who says, “Don’t be angry,” if the child doesn’t obey, the father gets angry and demonstrates: “You won’t obey?!” He forgets he is doing exactly what he forbade.
Anger is not as voluntary as people think. Hence moral instruction goes on, and nothing changes.
Japan understood more rightly. The old yogic formula reached Japan through Buddha. Buddha laid great emphasis on breath. His whole yoga—what Krishna here calls prana-yoga.
Therefore the deep practice in Buddha’s teaching is called Anapanasati Yoga—watching the incoming and outgoing breath is the yoga, Buddha said. If one comprehends fully the secret of the in-breath and out-breath, there remains nothing else to do in the world. So Buddha says: if Anapanasati is accomplished, everything is accomplished. He speaks rightly. From that side too everything can be fulfilled.
When anger comes, see how breath changes. When you are calm, breath changes—it becomes rhythmic. Recline in an easy chair, you are quiet, at ease, the heart is happy, light as a bird, fresh as the wind, illumined—then see: breath becomes as if it is not; you hardly notice it—very light, almost nothing.
See how breath becomes when lust seizes the mind; it becomes disordered. Blood pressure rises when sex stirs the mind; sweat starts on the body; breath becomes fast and chaotic, broken.
At every moment breath is linked to inner state. If one alters the breath, one creates the possibility to alter the inner state and lays the first stone of bringing the inner state under control.
Prana-yoga means only this: that breath penetrates very deep; it even touches our soul. On one side it touches the body; on the other, it touches the soul. Outwardly it touches the world; inwardly it touches the Brahman. Breath is the exchange between the two—at all times, waking and sleeping, standing and sitting. Transforming the process of breath is prana-yoga—the transformation of the breathing process. By changing that process, a person can attain the Supreme.
Those who have had a little experience of meditation know this. People who experiment deeply come to me and say: sometimes it seems the breath has stopped, it isn’t moving; we get frightened—could this be dangerous?
There is no need to be frightened. Be alarmed when breath runs very hard, chaotic. When it seems to have stilled, when there is no vibration at all—that is when you attain the balance Krishna is speaking of: the upper breath remains above and the lower below; outer breath remains outside and inner breath inside—and for a moment there is a pause. Everything halts. Neither does the outer breath go in nor the inner come out; neither the upper breath go up nor the lower go down. All is still.
In this stillness of breath a ray of the supreme experience arises. In this complete standstill of breath, existence becomes totally balanced, disciplined. Then there is no movement, no motion, no change—no alteration. In that moment one descends into the supreme motion or is immersed in the eternal, comes into contact with the timeless, the Sanatan.
The movement of breath is our connection with the changing world; the becoming motionless of breath is our connection with the unchanging, the eternal.
Therefore this cessation of breath is a wondrous experience. There is no need to try to stop it; by trying you can never stop it. If you try to stop it, the inner breath will want to go out and the outer to come in.
No one can stop breath by effort. Yes, breath can be gradually trained, made rhythmic, prepared for harmony. And if, along with pranayama, one goes deeper into meditation, there comes a moment when trained breath and the quiet state of meditation get tuned—and the breath stops.
Another delightful thing: when breath stops, thoughts immediately stop. Without breath, thoughts cannot run. Observe this: for a second, hold the breath. The moment breath halts, thoughts halt—an abrupt brake. Breath acts as a brake upon thought.
But when you force it, it won’t last long; breath will want to come out and thoughts will attack. Only for a moment a gap will come. But when breath, trained and tuned with meditation, stops of its own accord, sometimes it remains stopped for hours.
In Ramakrishna’s life there are many such moments. Sometimes it happened that he lay as if dead for six days. Loved ones and friends were frightened—what now? Everything stopped. In that still moment—in that still moment—consciousness goes outside time, becomes timeless.
Outside thought—entering thoughtlessness—you stand at the door of Brahman. Come into thought—fall into thought—and you are in the world. Between the world and liberation there is only a thin film of thought; between matter and God there is only the sheer veil of thought. But how is this veil to go?
There are two ways. Either one works directly upon thought—through meditation, through witnessing—and thought ceases; the day thought becomes zero, breath too becomes tranquil and stands still. Or one works through prana-yoga, with breath—giving it rhythm, order, training—and brings it to that place where breath stops on its own: the outer stays outside, the inner inside, the upper above, the lower below—and in between a gap, an interval, a void in which there is no breath. From there the leap—the jump—happens toward the Supreme. In that interval the leap to the Supreme occurs.
Osho, what is prana and what is apana? What does it mean to offer prana into apana, and to offer apana into prana? Please clarify this again.
What is within us is also part of the outside. Right now a breath is inside me. A little while ago it was with you, it was yours. A little earlier it was with a tree, it belonged to the tree. Before that, somewhere else. Now it is within me. Before I can even say it is inside me, it has gone out.
If we dedicate what is within us to the outer world of prana, if we know it too as given back to the outside, then nothing remains inside—everything becomes empty. This is one kind of surrender: to offer the inner breath into that vast net of prana spread through the atmosphere, to pour it there as an oblation, to consign it there. Or we can do the reverse. The whole outer pranic cosmos is also but a part of my within, spread outwards. If we dedicate that outer pranic world into this inner pranic world, the same event happens—whether the drop falls into the ocean, or the ocean falls into the drop.
A drop falling into the ocean we can understand, because we have seen a drop fall into the ocean. The ocean falling into the drop we cannot understand. But if one remembers Einstein at all, it can be understood.
When a drop falls into the ocean, the matter is entirely relative. If you wish you can say the drop fell into the ocean; and if you wish you can say the ocean fell into the drop. You will say, what kind of talk is this!
I came to Poona. So I say, I came to Poona; the train brought me from Bombay to Poona. Einstein says this is relative, a provisional way of speaking. One could just as well say that the train brought Poona to me. You can say, the train brought me to Poona; and you can also say, the train brought Poona to me. There is not much difference between the two.
But since we are small, it sounds odd to say the train brought Poona to me; it seems proper to say the train brought me to Poona. Yet both can be said. There is no real difference. In what the train is doing, both statements fit.
So either we offer the inner prana to the outer prana—let the drop fall into the ocean. Or we let the ocean fall into the drop—draw the entire outer prana into the inner. In both ways the oblation is complete. In both ways the sacrifice is fulfilled.
As to how to let it fall, I have deliberately left that aside. I have done so because those are very subtle yogic processes, with no direct relevance here. Only if we were speaking on Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras would it be appropriate to go into them in detail.
Let us take one last verse:
अपरे नियताहाराः प्राणान्प्राणेषु जुह्वति।
सर्वेऽप्येते यज्ञविदो यज्ञक्षपितकल्मषाः।। 30।।
And others, the yogis of regulated intake, offer pranas into pranas. Thus, by these sacrifices their sins are destroyed; all these are knowers of sacrifice.
Here too Krishna mentions another yogic process. He is mentioning each process, so that something may appeal to Arjuna—whatever pleases him, touches him, suits his type.
Here he says: those of regulated, disciplined intake offer prana into prana itself. Regulated, disciplined intake!
Now “intake” is a big word and a big event. Ordinarily we think food is intake. Ordinarily that is right. But “intake” has wider meanings.
The root meaning of ahar (intake) is: whatever is taken from outside into the inside. Food is one intake; not the only intake, just one. Because we take food from outside in. But we also take things in through the eyes; that too is intake. Through the ears we take things in; that too is intake. Through touch we take things in; that too is intake.
Whatever we take into the body from outside is all intake. Whatever we receive from outside, of which we are consumers, which we carry from the outside into the within—that is all intake.
Regulated, disciplined intake means: a person who allows through the doors of the senses only that—only that—which supports prana being offered into prana. We can take in such things that do not allow prana to be absorbed into prana, but instead agitate, excite, and scatter prana.
Two kinds of intake are possible. One kind that stimulates prana—unquiet, not silent, not still—that stirs it up, makes it frantic, drives it to run. And when prana runs, it races outward toward objects. When prana does not run, when it settles, rests, pauses, then prana dissolves into the Mahaprana. Just as when a wave is running it does not dissolve into the ocean; it leaps toward the atmosphere, collides with the winds, springs up, crashes against the rocks at the shore, breaks apart. But when the wave is quiet, it dissolves back into the ocean.
So there can be two kinds of intake. Intake that excites the pranas—and this is the kind we generally choose. A man drinks alcohol, then prana will not be able to dissolve into prana. Then prana will go crazy and race after matter—after something else, outward—leaping into the winds, crashing against the rocks on the shore.
Alcohol is stimulating. But alcohol is not the only stimulant. When someone sees the wrong kind of thing with the eyes, the same stimulation arises.
A person sits for three hours watching a play or a film, taking in that sort of intake which will bring inner excitation; it will make the mind restless, drive it, chase it; he won’t be able to sleep all night; even in dreams the mind will keep roaming in the theater. He will close his eyes and those very scenes will appear, those very images will seize him. Now he runs, now he is restless, now he is troubled.
American psychologists now say that so long as there are films and television in America, no man will be satisfied with any woman, and no woman will be satisfied with any man. Why? Because television and the cinema screen have shown people images of men and women that cannot be found in reality anywhere; they are false, fabricated. Then the men and women one meets in reality seem very insipid. What a picture on the screen, what an actress on the screen—and what a wife at home! The wife at home seems utterly bland, utterly useless, without any salt, lackluster, tasteless. The man too appears tasteless.
Then the chase begins—the search for that woman seen on the screen. She is nowhere. Even the husband of that screen-woman is in the same predicament. So she is nowhere. At home she is an ordinary woman. The woman that appears on the screen is manufactured, presented by technique—camera, photography, color, decoration, makeup—the entire apparatus. To find that presented woman anywhere is difficult; she is nowhere. She is a deception.
But that deception has agitated the mind. Intake has happened. That woman has become intake inside. Now the search for her begins; and she is never found. And whomever one finds is always bland and wrong by comparison. Now this mind will never settle. This entire difficulty is, deep down, born of wrong intake.
You go out on the road and keep reading whatever comes, without caring that the eyes are eating. Reading anything! Walls and doors along the road are painted and posted; people keep reading it all. This trash keeps going inside. Now that trash will create disturbance within.
You pick up a newspaper and read from one corner to the last—who edited it and who printed it—reading all the way! And once is not enough; then you look again, rummaging through it, performing a great “scriptural study” of the newspaper! Filling the brain with garbage. Then that garbage will make you restless inside. Try eating grass, try eating pebbles and stones—then you’ll know what trouble the stomach feels. The head feels the same sort of trouble. But we think that is not intake; we’re merely reading; we’re just idle. If idle, do you eat pebbles and stones?
No—we have no idea that this too is intake. Very subtle intake. The ears are listening to anything. Sitting there, the radio is on! Listening to anything! It is going into the brain. The brain is absorbing waves all the time. Those waves settle in the brain cells. Intake is happening.
And sometimes food will do less harm, because purgatives are available for the stomach. As yet, purgatives are not available for the brain. There is much more constipation in the brain—and there are no purgatives for it anywhere. So the head keeps getting constipated. Everything rots inside. And no one is aware.
By a person of disciplined, regulated intake, Krishna means: one who brings anything inside only after scrutiny; who has posted the sentry of discernment at every sense-door to see what enters. I will take in only that which is not exciting. I will take in only that which is soothing. I will take in only that which immerses the mind within in silence, deep stillness, peace, pause, rest; which makes the inner mind healthy, harmonized, musical, and radiant.
Such a person—if someone is completely disciplined in regard to intake, in regard to all intake—touches only that which should be touched, because touch too goes within; sees only that, hears only that, tastes only that, smells only that—through all the senses takes in only that which is a path of peace for the soul—such a person too attains the supreme truth. By this yoga also, Krishna tells Arjuna, one can reach there.
He is speaking to Arjuna step by step, method by method. I too am speaking to you, method by method. Let some method catch hold of someone; let some method strike someone; let there be a wound somewhere; let something fit someone—and let his life be transformed!
By any method, by any pretext, by any means, one can reach the Divine. Only those do not reach who never attempt to reach by any method. Even if someone proceeds by a wrong method, he can still arrive—because one cannot go on long upon the wrong; the one walking wrongly soon corrects it.
But one who does not walk—there is no way for him to reach. He does not even walk on the wrong. He just sits. He sits and watches. Life flows by in front of him, and he sits watching.
Kabir has said: “I went crazed to seek, and sat on the shore.” Those who sought found, diving into the deep waters.
Why does one sit on the shore? Kabir is teasing us here. Kabir dove into the deep waters. He teases us that we sit on the shore!
Who sits on the shore? The one who thinks: what if a mistake is made? Who knows if, when we do it, any result will come? Who knows whether a result ever happens? Who knows whether what is being said has ever happened, or ever will? Thinking and thinking thus, he sits on the shore.
The great joke is that he never thinks what will happen by sitting on the shore! Those who have dived into deep waters say they attained. They too deserve at least a trial. One should jump from some bank or other and see. No one has ever said, “I attained by sitting on the shore.” Nothing is attained. Only life slips away from the hands.
Krishna is saying one thing after another, hoping something will match Arjuna and he will be ready to leap.
I say to you also: if something matches, do not sit on the shore—leap, set out on the search. One who sets out surely reaches one day. Even if he leaps wrongly, he reaches—because at least his aspiration is right, to reach. Even if he uses a wrong method, he reaches—because even the one with the wrong method has the thirst to attain.
And the one who is thirsty to attain the Beloved—even from the wrong he attains. And the one who is not thirsty to attain—even if the right method lies before him, he attains nothing.
Now our sannyasins will begin the bhajan-kirtan. You too—those friends who have the courage—leap in. Do not stand on the shore; join in. And those who wish to watch, watch. Even from watching, a wave can catch you. Join the kirtan for ten minutes and then take your leave. We will make a little space here; please move a little back.
If we dedicate what is within us to the outer world of prana, if we know it too as given back to the outside, then nothing remains inside—everything becomes empty. This is one kind of surrender: to offer the inner breath into that vast net of prana spread through the atmosphere, to pour it there as an oblation, to consign it there. Or we can do the reverse. The whole outer pranic cosmos is also but a part of my within, spread outwards. If we dedicate that outer pranic world into this inner pranic world, the same event happens—whether the drop falls into the ocean, or the ocean falls into the drop.
A drop falling into the ocean we can understand, because we have seen a drop fall into the ocean. The ocean falling into the drop we cannot understand. But if one remembers Einstein at all, it can be understood.
When a drop falls into the ocean, the matter is entirely relative. If you wish you can say the drop fell into the ocean; and if you wish you can say the ocean fell into the drop. You will say, what kind of talk is this!
I came to Poona. So I say, I came to Poona; the train brought me from Bombay to Poona. Einstein says this is relative, a provisional way of speaking. One could just as well say that the train brought Poona to me. You can say, the train brought me to Poona; and you can also say, the train brought Poona to me. There is not much difference between the two.
But since we are small, it sounds odd to say the train brought Poona to me; it seems proper to say the train brought me to Poona. Yet both can be said. There is no real difference. In what the train is doing, both statements fit.
So either we offer the inner prana to the outer prana—let the drop fall into the ocean. Or we let the ocean fall into the drop—draw the entire outer prana into the inner. In both ways the oblation is complete. In both ways the sacrifice is fulfilled.
As to how to let it fall, I have deliberately left that aside. I have done so because those are very subtle yogic processes, with no direct relevance here. Only if we were speaking on Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras would it be appropriate to go into them in detail.
Let us take one last verse:
अपरे नियताहाराः प्राणान्प्राणेषु जुह्वति।
सर्वेऽप्येते यज्ञविदो यज्ञक्षपितकल्मषाः।। 30।।
And others, the yogis of regulated intake, offer pranas into pranas. Thus, by these sacrifices their sins are destroyed; all these are knowers of sacrifice.
Here too Krishna mentions another yogic process. He is mentioning each process, so that something may appeal to Arjuna—whatever pleases him, touches him, suits his type.
Here he says: those of regulated, disciplined intake offer prana into prana itself. Regulated, disciplined intake!
Now “intake” is a big word and a big event. Ordinarily we think food is intake. Ordinarily that is right. But “intake” has wider meanings.
The root meaning of ahar (intake) is: whatever is taken from outside into the inside. Food is one intake; not the only intake, just one. Because we take food from outside in. But we also take things in through the eyes; that too is intake. Through the ears we take things in; that too is intake. Through touch we take things in; that too is intake.
Whatever we take into the body from outside is all intake. Whatever we receive from outside, of which we are consumers, which we carry from the outside into the within—that is all intake.
Regulated, disciplined intake means: a person who allows through the doors of the senses only that—only that—which supports prana being offered into prana. We can take in such things that do not allow prana to be absorbed into prana, but instead agitate, excite, and scatter prana.
Two kinds of intake are possible. One kind that stimulates prana—unquiet, not silent, not still—that stirs it up, makes it frantic, drives it to run. And when prana runs, it races outward toward objects. When prana does not run, when it settles, rests, pauses, then prana dissolves into the Mahaprana. Just as when a wave is running it does not dissolve into the ocean; it leaps toward the atmosphere, collides with the winds, springs up, crashes against the rocks at the shore, breaks apart. But when the wave is quiet, it dissolves back into the ocean.
So there can be two kinds of intake. Intake that excites the pranas—and this is the kind we generally choose. A man drinks alcohol, then prana will not be able to dissolve into prana. Then prana will go crazy and race after matter—after something else, outward—leaping into the winds, crashing against the rocks on the shore.
Alcohol is stimulating. But alcohol is not the only stimulant. When someone sees the wrong kind of thing with the eyes, the same stimulation arises.
A person sits for three hours watching a play or a film, taking in that sort of intake which will bring inner excitation; it will make the mind restless, drive it, chase it; he won’t be able to sleep all night; even in dreams the mind will keep roaming in the theater. He will close his eyes and those very scenes will appear, those very images will seize him. Now he runs, now he is restless, now he is troubled.
American psychologists now say that so long as there are films and television in America, no man will be satisfied with any woman, and no woman will be satisfied with any man. Why? Because television and the cinema screen have shown people images of men and women that cannot be found in reality anywhere; they are false, fabricated. Then the men and women one meets in reality seem very insipid. What a picture on the screen, what an actress on the screen—and what a wife at home! The wife at home seems utterly bland, utterly useless, without any salt, lackluster, tasteless. The man too appears tasteless.
Then the chase begins—the search for that woman seen on the screen. She is nowhere. Even the husband of that screen-woman is in the same predicament. So she is nowhere. At home she is an ordinary woman. The woman that appears on the screen is manufactured, presented by technique—camera, photography, color, decoration, makeup—the entire apparatus. To find that presented woman anywhere is difficult; she is nowhere. She is a deception.
But that deception has agitated the mind. Intake has happened. That woman has become intake inside. Now the search for her begins; and she is never found. And whomever one finds is always bland and wrong by comparison. Now this mind will never settle. This entire difficulty is, deep down, born of wrong intake.
You go out on the road and keep reading whatever comes, without caring that the eyes are eating. Reading anything! Walls and doors along the road are painted and posted; people keep reading it all. This trash keeps going inside. Now that trash will create disturbance within.
You pick up a newspaper and read from one corner to the last—who edited it and who printed it—reading all the way! And once is not enough; then you look again, rummaging through it, performing a great “scriptural study” of the newspaper! Filling the brain with garbage. Then that garbage will make you restless inside. Try eating grass, try eating pebbles and stones—then you’ll know what trouble the stomach feels. The head feels the same sort of trouble. But we think that is not intake; we’re merely reading; we’re just idle. If idle, do you eat pebbles and stones?
No—we have no idea that this too is intake. Very subtle intake. The ears are listening to anything. Sitting there, the radio is on! Listening to anything! It is going into the brain. The brain is absorbing waves all the time. Those waves settle in the brain cells. Intake is happening.
And sometimes food will do less harm, because purgatives are available for the stomach. As yet, purgatives are not available for the brain. There is much more constipation in the brain—and there are no purgatives for it anywhere. So the head keeps getting constipated. Everything rots inside. And no one is aware.
By a person of disciplined, regulated intake, Krishna means: one who brings anything inside only after scrutiny; who has posted the sentry of discernment at every sense-door to see what enters. I will take in only that which is not exciting. I will take in only that which is soothing. I will take in only that which immerses the mind within in silence, deep stillness, peace, pause, rest; which makes the inner mind healthy, harmonized, musical, and radiant.
Such a person—if someone is completely disciplined in regard to intake, in regard to all intake—touches only that which should be touched, because touch too goes within; sees only that, hears only that, tastes only that, smells only that—through all the senses takes in only that which is a path of peace for the soul—such a person too attains the supreme truth. By this yoga also, Krishna tells Arjuna, one can reach there.
He is speaking to Arjuna step by step, method by method. I too am speaking to you, method by method. Let some method catch hold of someone; let some method strike someone; let there be a wound somewhere; let something fit someone—and let his life be transformed!
By any method, by any pretext, by any means, one can reach the Divine. Only those do not reach who never attempt to reach by any method. Even if someone proceeds by a wrong method, he can still arrive—because one cannot go on long upon the wrong; the one walking wrongly soon corrects it.
But one who does not walk—there is no way for him to reach. He does not even walk on the wrong. He just sits. He sits and watches. Life flows by in front of him, and he sits watching.
Kabir has said: “I went crazed to seek, and sat on the shore.” Those who sought found, diving into the deep waters.
Why does one sit on the shore? Kabir is teasing us here. Kabir dove into the deep waters. He teases us that we sit on the shore!
Who sits on the shore? The one who thinks: what if a mistake is made? Who knows if, when we do it, any result will come? Who knows whether a result ever happens? Who knows whether what is being said has ever happened, or ever will? Thinking and thinking thus, he sits on the shore.
The great joke is that he never thinks what will happen by sitting on the shore! Those who have dived into deep waters say they attained. They too deserve at least a trial. One should jump from some bank or other and see. No one has ever said, “I attained by sitting on the shore.” Nothing is attained. Only life slips away from the hands.
Krishna is saying one thing after another, hoping something will match Arjuna and he will be ready to leap.
I say to you also: if something matches, do not sit on the shore—leap, set out on the search. One who sets out surely reaches one day. Even if he leaps wrongly, he reaches—because at least his aspiration is right, to reach. Even if he uses a wrong method, he reaches—because even the one with the wrong method has the thirst to attain.
And the one who is thirsty to attain the Beloved—even from the wrong he attains. And the one who is not thirsty to attain—even if the right method lies before him, he attains nothing.
Now our sannyasins will begin the bhajan-kirtan. You too—those friends who have the courage—leap in. Do not stand on the shore; join in. And those who wish to watch, watch. Even from watching, a wave can catch you. Join the kirtan for ten minutes and then take your leave. We will make a little space here; please move a little back.