Geeta Darshan #14

“From the mouth of Brahman” is not exactly to be translated as “from the mouth of the Veda”—unless you greatly widen the meaning of “Veda.”
From the mouth of Brahman many, many yogas have manifested.
Who is the mouth of Brahman? It cannot be Brahman’s own “mouth.” Brahman always has to use someone else’s mouth. Those whose mouths Brahman uses are the very people who completely surrender themselves to Brahman—who become instruments, mediums. They lie down like a flute upon the formless, and the formless, resonating through their flute, reaches those living in the world of form as a voice.
Whoever surrenders himself totally to the Divine becomes the mouth of Brahman.
The Jains’ Tirthankaras are mouths of Brahman. Buddha is a mouth of Brahman. Jesus and Mohammed are mouths of Brahman. Lao Tzu and Zarathustra are mouths of Brahman. Moses and Ezekiel are mouths of Brahman. Across the whole earth, through innumerable mouths, Brahman has spoken of countless paths.
If by “Veda” we mean only the scriptures born in this land and called the Vedas, then whatever has come through Jesus’ mouth would not be Brahman’s word; then what came through Mahavira’s mouth would not be Brahman’s word; then what came through Lao Tzu’s mouth would not be Brahman’s word.
What is said in the Vedas has certainly issued from the mouth of Brahman; but if we confine “Veda” to the four Saṁhitās, we unjustly limit Brahman.
If we render “Veda” precisely, its meaning is knowledge. “Veda” comes from the same root as vidvān (learned) and vidyā (wisdom). Veda means knowledge. Vid means “to know.” The exact, original meaning of Veda is “knowing.” Wherever the event of knowing has happened, there a Vedic Saṁhitā has been formed.
If you ask me, I will say: the Bible is one Saṁhitā of the Veda; the Quran is one Saṁhitā of the Veda. Wherever knowledge has been proclaimed on earth, it is Brahman who has spoken—using some mouth as the medium. The mouths differ, the languages differ. The mouths differ, the traditions differ. The mouths differ, the symbols differ. But the one who knows recognizes, beyond all languages and all symbols, that one voice.
The Veda has infinite Saṁhitās. The four we have are the four we have. But there is no corner of the human world where Brahman has not used some mouth. Through infinite mouths its stream has flowed.
Veda means: whatever has been spoken by those who know—anywhere and at any time, in any era and any age.
But a sectarian mind is not ready to accept such a thing. The people of Gita Press, Gorakhpur will not be ready to accept it. They will say, “The Veda is ours.” And even that “ours” is not large enough to include Mahavira, not large enough to include Buddha, not large enough to be a continuously flowing and growing river that can include whoever comes. All nations fall into such delusions.
But notice the words. The word for the Bible simply means “the book”; it is not a personal name. Those who knew had their sayings collected. The Sikh scripture is called Guru Granth—the sayings of those who knew, who were capable of helping others to know, were gathered; it was named Guru Granth. The Veda—what the knowers spoke—was collected and named Veda. These are not ordinary books. To impose boundaries or sectarian claims upon them is dangerous; it divides humankind.
So when Krishna says “from the mouth of Brahman,” his intent is clear. He could have said “from the mouth of the Veda,” but he did not—knowingly. He says “from the mouth of Brahman.” His purpose is to indicate that anywhere the mouth of Brahman can open. Wherever someone’s own mouth falls silent, there the mouth of Brahman can open. Wherever a person stops speaking from himself, the Divine begins to speak through him. Wherever someone surrenders totally—there. That is why we call the Veda apauruṣeya—not composed by a human person.
But the sectarian mind spins strange meanings. Ignorance is very skilled at (mis)interpretation. Ignorance concludes: if the Veda is apauruṣeya, then it is authored by God. Even that would not be so dangerous; but then comes the further inference that only the Veda is authored by God, no other book can be. Then the trouble begins. Man starts meddling; even the words of those who know are seized by him.
“Apauruṣeya” does not mean “composed by God”—for everything is composed by God. There is no reason to single out the Veda. “Apauruṣeya” means that those who composed them had no ego; within them there was no sense of “I.” The person (puruṣa) had departed; the non-personal had entered within. They stepped aside and gave space to the Infinite Presence. Through that One, their hands wrote. Yes, a human being wrote; a human hand was used. The pen was held by a human; the words were formed by a human. But that human had placed his hand in the hand of the Divine—had become a medium—and said, “Write.” Then he did not write.
Once such a thing happened. Rabindranath wrote Gitanjali, then translated it into English. After translating, he showed it to C. F. Andrews—thinking English is a foreign tongue; let there be no mistakes. Andrews found four errors: “Here, here, here, and here, this is not grammatically correct; fix them.” Rabindranath agreed—Andrews was an Englishman, intelligent, thoughtful, learned. He made the changes immediately, crossing out his words and writing what Andrews suggested.
Later Rabindranath went to London. In a small gathering of poets he recited Gitanjali for the first time—the very work destined to receive the Nobel Prize, though it had not yet. In that little circle of twenty poets, the English poet Yeats suddenly stood up and said, “In a few places it seems the words are someone else’s!” Rabindranath asked, “Where?” The man pinpointed two places: “Here and here, these words belong to someone else.”
Rabindranath said, “How did you sense it? Truly, these words are someone else’s—I changed them.” Yeats said, “While you were singing there was a current, a flow. Suddenly it felt as if a stone had come into the stream, the flow was broken—someone else had come in between. Remove these words.”
Rabindranath said, “Shall I tell you the words I had first kept?” Yeats said, “Those words are incorrect from the standpoint of grammar, but true from the standpoint of feeling. Let them be. The grammatical mistake can be tolerated. A stone stuck in the stream ruins everything; that cannot be allowed. These can; let them be. They have come straight through.”
When a person is filled with the voice of the Divine, he must keep only one vigilance: that he himself does not come in between. Just as Andrews came in between Rabindranath—if the Divine’s voice fills someone, he must heed only one thing: that he himself does not intrude.
Therefore, if there are errors in scriptures, they are due to the men who intruded somewhere in the middle. If you make man the medium, there are many hazards.
When Coleridge, the great English poet, died, forty thousand unfinished poems were found in his house. Before his death, friends had often asked, “What are you doing? When will this pile be finished?” Somewhere he had written three lines, the fourth line was missing. Coleridge said, “Only three came. I could have supplied the fourth, but then I would have come in between. So I set it aside. When the fourth comes, I will add it; if it does not, the matter ends there.”
In his lifetime Coleridge completed only seven poems. There is no other man on earth who, with just seven poems, can be called a great poet—yet Coleridge is a great poet. Those who wrote seven thousand are not necessarily great poets; Coleridge, with seven, is! Why?
Because Coleridge is entirely absent. Whenever he writes, he removes himself completely. What comes from the Infinite—only that he allows to descend. On forty thousand occasions, the temptation must have arisen—indeed it always does: the poem is nearly complete, only one line is missing—add it and it will be done. The mind says, “Add it.” But Coleridge is a man of courage. He does not add; he sets it aside. He died leaving forty thousand poems unfinished.
Those who composed the Vedas faced the same difficulty. Those who spoke the Upanishads faced the same difficulty. The sayings of Mahavira, the sayings of Buddha—the same difficulty. The Quran, the Bible—the same difficulty.
When someone steps aside completely, there is only one difficulty: that not even a grain of “himself” remains. When he no longer remains, the voice becomes Veda.
The Veda is not some finished thing. The Veda will never be finished. The Veda is ever-growing. As new people surrender and become mediums of the Divine, Veda will be born again and again. The Veda is being born continuously. It will keep being born.
In this sense, if we take “Veda,” then the translation is fine; otherwise Krishna’s word is the right one—“from the mouth of Brahman.” There is no quarrel in that, no trouble. The intention is simply this: there have been continual, continual expressions from the depths of existence—at many places. The voice has burst forth—like a spring suppressed under a rock that, once the rock is removed, erupts like a fountain. Whenever the stone of ego has been lifted from anyone’s heart, springs have leaped forth.
Within everyone the Veda is hidden; on top lies the stone of ego. Remove the stone and the spring gushes out. Within you the Veda will be born. What you say will be Veda.
In this sense it is right. But if someone says that only these Saṁhitās—Rigveda, Atharvaveda, Samaveda—are called “Veda,” then he is speaking in delusion and ignorance. These are certainly Veda; but there are other Vedas too. And all have issued from the mouth of Brahman.
Much has not been collected. Much could not be collected. Much was not recognized. Much came and was lost. The voices of innumerable seers lived on earth and then dissolved. What has been collected is broken and incomplete. Even in what is collected, the imprint of the collectors’ hands is evident. There are insertions and alterations there too. Naturally—human limitation, human frailty.
Therefore I do not call books “Veda.” I call knowing “Veda.” Wherever there is knowing, there is Veda; there Brahman is speaking.
तद्विद्धि प्रणिपातेन परिप्रश्नेन सेवया।
उपदेक्ष्यन्ति ते ज्ञानं ज्ञानिनस्तत्त्वदर्शिनः।। 34।।
Therefore, from the wise who know the essence, by full prostration, by service, and by questions asked with a guileless heart, learn that knowledge. Those who know the heart of the matter will instruct you in that knowledge.
This sutra is precious. Krishna says: bow down and ask—then the knowers reveal what they know.
Questions can be asked in many ways; hence he lays down the condition: bow down. This needs a little understanding—because today one rarely finds anyone who asks questions after bowing down.
Questions are asked in many ways. Ninety out of a hundred are merely curiosity. Children ask such questions—they can be forgiven. The old ask them—they cannot be forgiven. Curiosity!
A child walking with his father keeps asking anything: “Why does a horse have two ears?” If the father is wise he keeps giving some answer; if not, he scolds; if wise, he answers anything.
Questions asked out of curiosity do not care for any answer. If an answer comes, fine; if not, fine—because by then curiosity has moved on.
People come to me and say, “Tell us something about Brahman.” I talk two minutes about something else—knowing—and then they sit for an hour and never ask about Brahman again. It was curiosity. Not more important than asking how many ears a horse has. The question seemed important—about Brahman!—but it was curiosity; they just asked.
Once I stayed in a village. Two old men came: one a Jain, one a Hindu Brahmin—neighbors and childhood companions—with a never-ending dispute between them. The Brahmin said, “God created the world—how else could anything be?” The Jain said, “There is no creator—for if there is a creator, he too would need a creator. And if God can be uncreated, why does the world need a creator? It too can be uncreated.”
So the Jain said, “The world is beginningless.” The Hindu said, “Its origin is in God.” Their dispute was long-standing. Both were about sixty. They said to me, “Our long dispute has not been resolved. We are near death; it seems it never will be. Neither accepts the other. Make a judgment for us. Settle our dispute.”
I said, “I will judge—but first answer two or three of my questions.” They asked, “What?” I said to the Brahmin elder, “If it is decided that God did create the world—then what will you do?” He said, “Nothing—what is there to do?” I asked the Jain elder, “If it is decided that God did not create the world—that he is not—and that the world is eternal—then what are your plans?” He said, “No other plans; only that this should be decided.” I asked, “How long have you been disputing this?” A dispute whose decision will have no living consequence is curiosity. When, even if it is conclusively settled, you say, “Nothing further—only that it should be settled”—what is the purpose? What will happen? What will you do?
Therefore I do not call books “Veda.” I call knowing “Veda.” Wherever there is knowing, there is Veda; there Brahman is speaking.
तद्विद्धि प्रणिपातेन परिप्रश्नेन सेवया।
उपदेक्ष्यन्ति ते ज्ञानं ज्ञानिनस्तत्त्वदर्शिनः।। 34।।
Therefore, from the wise who know the essence, by full prostration, by service, and by questions asked with a guileless heart, learn that knowledge. Those who know the heart of the matter will instruct you in that knowledge.
This sutra is precious. Krishna says: bow down and ask—then the knowers reveal what they know.
Questions can be asked in many ways; hence he lays down the condition: bow down. This needs a little understanding—because today one rarely finds anyone who asks questions after bowing down.
Questions are asked in many ways. Ninety out of a hundred are merely curiosity. Children ask such questions—they can be forgiven. The old ask them—they cannot be forgiven. Curiosity!
A child walking with his father keeps asking anything: “Why does a horse have two ears?” If the father is wise he keeps giving some answer; if not, he scolds; if wise, he answers anything.
Questions asked out of curiosity do not care for any answer. If an answer comes, fine; if not, fine—because by then curiosity has moved on.
People come to me and say, “Tell us something about Brahman.” I talk two minutes about something else—knowing—and then they sit for an hour and never ask about Brahman again. It was curiosity. Not more important than asking how many ears a horse has. The question seemed important—about Brahman!—but it was curiosity; they just asked.
Once I stayed in a village. Two old men came: one a Jain, one a Hindu Brahmin—neighbors and childhood companions—with a never-ending dispute between them. The Brahmin said, “God created the world—how else could anything be?” The Jain said, “There is no creator—for if there is a creator, he too would need a creator. And if God can be uncreated, why does the world need a creator? It too can be uncreated.”
So the Jain said, “The world is beginningless.” The Hindu said, “Its origin is in God.” Their dispute was long-standing. Both were about sixty. They said to me, “Our long dispute has not been resolved. We are near death; it seems it never will be. Neither accepts the other. Make a judgment for us. Settle our dispute.”
I said, “I will judge—but first answer two or three of my questions.” They asked, “What?” I said to the Brahmin elder, “If it is decided that God did create the world—then what will you do?” He said, “Nothing—what is there to do?” I asked the Jain elder, “If it is decided that God did not create the world—that he is not—and that the world is eternal—then what are your plans?” He said, “No other plans; only that this should be decided.” I asked, “How long have you been disputing this?” A dispute whose decision will have no living consequence is curiosity. When, even if it is conclusively settled, you say, “Nothing further—only that it should be settled”—what is the purpose? What will happen? What will you do?
I said to the Brahmin elder, “For as much time as you’ve wasted arguing with him, have you sought the God who created the world?” He said, “No; I haven’t done anything in that direction yet.” I said, “If, for as long as you argued, you had searched, perhaps you would have found him. But perhaps the issue for you is not to search.”
I said to the Jain elder, “You are certain that the Lord did not create nature—that the world is beginningless. What have you done to know the mystery of this beginningless world? Or is the only use of this ‘knowing’ to argue with this man?” Curiosity!
That is why Krishna says from the outset: after bowing down—not out of curiosity. Because one who asks out of curiosity can never receive a deep answer. Seeing curiosity in your eyes, the one who knows will hold back. The knower can place diamonds only before those who can recognize diamonds. It is foolish to lay diamonds before everyone. It has neither meaning nor purpose. So the knower cannot answer curiosity.
Second: let it not be curiosity but jijnāsā—true inquiry. Not curiosity, but quest. Not asking in passing, by the way. Truly wanting to know—eager to know. But even if one is eager, if he will not grant so much respect to the one from whom he wishes to learn as to say, “I wish to learn from you,” then even that eagerness cannot become a meaningful inquiry.
It is like a man very thirsty, standing on the riverbank with cupped hands—but he refuses to bend to fill them. The river will keep flowing below; no river leaps up to pour itself into someone’s cupped hands. The cupped hands must bend to the river.
Therefore Krishna says: after bowing down.
Knowledge too is a river, a current. If someone, stiff with ego, wants to obtain knowledge or have a question truly answered, it is impossible—because that very ego shows that one who refuses to bend cannot have his hands filled. Bend!
What is the secret in bowing? Why such insistence on bowing?
“Daṇḍavat”—full prostration—is symbolic. It does not mean that merely placing your head on the ground will resolve anything. What is needed is the feeling of prostration—ego bowed down. Where ego bows, the door of the heart opens. Only through that open door does receptivity arise.
Where the heart’s door is closed, where ego stands stiff, there even the answer cannot enter. That is why the wise do not answer questions born of ego. They say, “Go; your time has not yet come.”
The relationship between disciple and master is not what is commonly supposed. “Disciple” simply means one who is ready to learn—ready to learn. Ready to learn! A distorted form of śiṣya (disciple) is what you hear as “Sikh.” Sikh means “one who is ready to learn”—though you may not find a Sikh ready to learn! To be a Sikh is difficult; to be a disciple is difficult.
To be a disciple means to be ready to learn, to bow, to be humble—for only in humility do doors open. When we bow, doors open; in a stiff, upright man the doors are closed.
Therefore Krishna says: the one who asks after bowing down!
Who asks after bowing down—and who does not?
One who does not ask after bowing down is the one who, inside, proceeds with the assumption, “I already know.” He is only asking for a witness—if the other happens to agree, he will get confirmation that what he knew was right. The one who asks after bowing is the one who is aware of his ignorance.
I told you this morning: awareness of ignorance is the first step in the yajna of knowledge. Krishna repeats it in a new way—he says: asking after bowing down.
There is a very sweet story. I have heard that an emperor said to the wise men of his court, “People say that Brahman pervades this world as salt is dissolved in the ocean. I want to know this. Show me where this all-pervading Brahman is.”
There were scholars in the court—the kind that can exist in courts. It is hard to expect a truly wise man in a court. Court-scholars are decorative, for show—to ornament the court; otherwise the emperor would be thought a fool. But you can imagine how wise the “wise men” of a fool’s court would be.
The scholars were in trouble. They tried to explain much, with big quotations. But the emperor said, “No—show me by taking it out. If it is hidden everywhere, draw out at least a little and show me! Take it from the air, from the wall, from me, from yourself—somewhere, draw a glimpse!” They were in difficulty. The emperor said, “If you cannot tell me by morning, you are dismissed—do not return.” Great difficulty!
A doorkeeper was standing by, listening. The next morning, when the scholars did not come, the doorkeeper said, “Majesty, the scholars have not come; the time has arrived. And as far as I understand, they will not come now; if they had an answer they would have given it yesterday evening. How will they find an answer overnight? It isn’t kept somewhere that they might fetch or prepare it. If they had the experience, they would have spoken last night. If you wish, I will answer.”
The king said, “This is too much! You—a doorkeeper, always standing at the door! The scholars have failed; you will answer?” He said, “I will.” The king said, “Come in; give your answer.” The doorkeeper said, “First step down from your throne. I will sit upon the throne. Prostrate yourself below.” The king said, “Madman, what are you saying?” The doorkeeper said, “Then you will never get the answer. Those who sit at your feet can never give you this answer. Had they been capable of answering, they would have made you sit at their feet. Step down,” said the doorkeeper.
The king was utterly flustered! There was no one there. No one at court. “Come down!” the voice said. “When a question has been asked, you must give the answer.” The king, alarmed, came down and sat below. The gatekeeper sat upon the throne. The gatekeeper said, “Prostrate! Bow your head!” The king bowed his head. And for the first time in his life he tasted the joy of bowing— for the very first time!
To keep the head stiff is a great misery. Keep it stiff all your life and paralysis sets in. It just freezes. Then if you wish to bend it, it becomes very difficult.

Somehow he managed to bow. But as he was lying at the doorkeeper’s feet, after a little while the doorkeeper said, “Now raise it too!” The emperor replied, “Wait a little. I’ve never tasted this bliss. Let me linger. There’s no hurry for the answer.”

Half an hour… an hour began to pass. The doorkeeper said, “Now lift your head. Don’t you want the answer?” The emperor looked up and said, “I have received the answer. I was rigid; that is why I did not come to know the Brahman. Today I bowed, and I saw: why was I searching outside? If it is everywhere, it must be within too. Bowing, I dissolved into That. I have the answer. You are my master.”

The answer came without being spoken! Without anyone giving an answer, the answer happened! What happened? Humbleness, humility, vinamrata take you deep within, and from there the inner soundings that arise become your answers.

Therefore Krishna says: ask your question by prostrating before such a one.

But those who come to ask—when they come to me they first look around to see where to sit. What to ask! Perhaps, under the pretense of a question, they have really come to say something of their own.

Today the art of asking has been lost on earth. How to be a disciple—how to be a learner—has been lost. That is why I keep saying: there is no need for a guru. The dull-witted become very pleased. Not because they understand what I mean—that there is no need of a guru—but because they take it to mean there is no need to be a disciple. They are delighted! Their delight amazes me.

When I say there is no need for a guru, I mean the guru himself does not even know that he is a guru. But the disciple must know perfectly that he is a disciple. For the disciple still has to learn; the guru has nothing left to learn. The guru has arrived where nothing needs to be remembered; the disciple still has much to remember, for the journey is not yet complete.

People say to me, “You used to say there is no need for a guru. And now you have begun to say there is a need!”

I have never said “no need” in the sense that there is no need for a disciple. But the egoistic type hear this and rejoice. “No need for a guru” to them means: no need to learn from anyone. “We ourselves are the guru now! No need for a guru means we ourselves are the guru!” Then they feel I contradict myself when I sometimes say, “A guru is needed!”

When I say a guru is needed, I am speaking to disciples. And when I say there is no need for a guru, I am speaking to those who run “gurudom.” For the one who runs gurudom is not a guru at all. The very one who clings to the notion of being a guru becomes unworthy of being a guru.

Remember: the moment someone himself takes hold of the idea “I am a guru,” he ceases to be a guru. And the disciple in whom the thought “I am a disciple” does not take hold ceases to be a disciple. What is needed is such a disciple who knows he is a disciple. And such a guru is needed who does not know he is a guru. Then the meeting of guru and disciple happens.

The learner should be bowed, an open door, vulnerable, so that something can enter; so that something poured in can be held. A disciple must not be an upturned vessel, so that whatever is poured simply spills out. A straight vessel is needed.

Buddha used to say: many vessels are perfectly good, but they are placed upside down. We pour into them—wasted. Many are placed upright, but they are cracked. We pour into them—it flows away. The vessel must not be cracked. And the vessel must be upright.

When someone prostrates, he is not a cracked vessel; because it takes great strength to bow. It may seem hard to imagine, but bowing requires great strength. The weak can be made to bend; but bowing is the work of the supremely strong. To make another bend is easy; to bend oneself is very difficult. And it is easy to bend when someone is forcing you. The great act is to bow when no one is making you bow.

A guru may say, “Bow!”—he can bend you with a stick, get four men to press you down; you will bend. But then only the neck will bend; nothing else will. But when no one even mentions bowing, no one is eager about it—then to bow, natural, spontaneous—that is the very meaning of dandavat: of your own accord, dropping everything, falling surrendered.

Only in that moment can a question truly be asked. In that moment the question is neither curiosity nor mere inquisitiveness; it becomes mumuksha—the ardent longing for liberation. In that moment the question becomes thirst. It is not a question tossed off while passing by; not a question asked because one wanted to know something. It is a question because one wants transformation—wants to change, to pass through revolution, to go through mutation, and to be.

It was not a question as children ask. Not a question as a scientist asks. It was a question as a seeker asks. Only when such a question is asked does the stream begin to flow from one in whose life knowledge has happened.

I want to clarify one more meaning of dandavat. There are many misunderstandings. I have said again and again: do not touch anyone’s feet. People still touch my feet. Then they come to me and say, “You said not to touch anyone’s feet, and so-and-so was touching yours! Why didn’t you stop him?”

“Do not touch anyone’s feet” means: do not touch formally, do not touch mechanically; do not touch deliberately, by effort, by contrivance; do not touch because others are doing it; do not touch out of concern for what people will say.

Touching the feet becomes dandavat at the very moment when you do not even know you are touching someone’s feet—effortless! You come to know only after the event has happened, when somehow the head has found itself resting on someone’s feet. Note this: in such a state, prayer happens; meditation happens. In such a moment the humility that is discipleship happens.

And these feet are not at all useless; they have an occult use. Have you ever noticed: when you are angry at someone, you want to break his head. When rage surges…

Recently I was in Baroda. A man became very angry with me and hurled a shoe at me. Even then I said to him, “Your anger is not complete; otherwise why have you kept back the other shoe? Throw that too. And what will I do with one shoe? If there are two, they can be of some use!”

When anger flares, one feels like throwing a shoe. What is this? It is symbolic. When anger blazes, one feels like planting one’s foot on the other’s head. Now, you cannot actually put your foot there. Only a few high jumpers might manage such a leap! If you go to put your foot on someone’s head, your own hands and feet will break. That much effort seems difficult. Therefore, as a symbolic act, you fling the shoe at his head: “Take this!”

If such a thing happens in anger, why cannot the opposite happen—that a moment comes when the head longs to rest at someone’s feet? When the mind, deranged and tormented by anger, wants to place its foot on another’s head, then the mind calmed by silence, love, prayer—if it wishes to place its head at another’s feet—what is surprising in that?

But those who see nothing surprising in throwing shoes become terribly astonished if you allow someone to place his head at your feet! In truth, they know nothing of the mystery.

Also remember: dandavat in this land was part of a very scientific process. Every human body is filled with electrical energy. And this electrical energy flows through angles—conical points—the fingers of the hands and the toes of the feet. Whenever a person reaches that state—surrendered to the Divine—his energy becomes related to the Divine. If you place your head upon his feet, an electrical transmission, a wave-current, runs right within. It happens through the hands as well. Hence the custom of placing one’s head upon the feet, and of placing the hand upon the head as blessing.

If you have placed your head upon someone’s feet, and he has placed his hand upon your head, then your two bodies become an electric circuit and the current runs both ways. The deep consequences of this current are many.

But many truths of life, covered by the dust of time, become futile. Many truths, falling into the hands of the wrong people, become dangerous.

Bow down and ask—question—in prostration; then the nectar of knowledge can flow toward you, Arjuna, from the one who has known. Thus says Krishna.

A bare question is a desire to take something. But one who has given nothing has no right to take. If you set out to ask, you have set out to demand; but there must also be the capacity to give in return. And the truth is, the right to ask comes only when the work of giving has been completed.

Therefore the ancient Indian spiritual understanding was that when someone went to ask, he should not go straight in asking. For how immense is your demand! You are saying, give me news of truth! You are saying, show me a hint of the divine! You are asking: where is the door to the final destination? Where is the path? The method? You ask of the Ultimate—and ask outright! You ask without having offered anything! It is unseemly. Ask through service—through service rendered in a guileless spirit.

That is why this land had a way, and the way of this land was the deepest among the arrangements devised by human beings on this earth. It was laid down after thousands of years and thousands of experiments. It was the distilled essence of countless experiences.

So when a disciple went to the master, he would serve for years. Sometimes he would press his feet. Sometimes bring his water. Sometimes split his firewood. Sometimes light his fire. And he would wait for the master to one day say, “Ask.” He would not ask on his own, because that would be a trespass. Who knows whether I am a vessel or not? Who knows whether I have the capacity or not? Who knows whether I am yet in the place to ask? And if I were to ask while unworthy, would I not be putting the master to the unnecessary trouble of giving an answer! So he would wait. The day the master said, “Ask!”—he would ask. He would wait; sometimes years would pass. With patience, with waiting, with steadiness he kept watch—and kept doing the work.

Then one day the master would say, “All right. Now you come. Now you ask. I have seen you. I have known you. I have tested you. I have understood you from up close. You are a fit vessel. Bring the sacrificial wood. Kindle the question. Ask.”

The day the master said, “Ask,” that day the master would be brimming with joy—the joy of having recognized that vessel. As clouds fill up before the rains, and wherever the eager earth calls they pour down, so he would be full in that joy. In that moment the grace would be ready to flow. In that moment, prostrating, laying his head at the feet, the disciple would present his question.

They must have been extraordinary people—to wait two or four years just to ask a question or two! Extraordinary people indeed. It was not mere curiosity, not idle inquisitiveness; it was a soul’s longing for liberation. The stake was the whole of life. The question was not a question; it was the question of life. Everything depended on its being settled. So they waited even two years.

Today the situation is rather amusing. I was in Bihar some time ago. I returned after speaking at ten at night. The collector of that town came—an educated man. He came at ten. I said, now it is my time to sleep; you come in the morning at eight. He said, I can’t come at eight, because eight is my breakfast time.

He had brought a longing for the Absolute; and he says, at eight it’s breakfast! I said, then come at ten, because from eight to ten is reserved for the camp participants. Come at ten.

“I can’t come at ten; I have to go to the office.”

A longing for the Absolute! And you can’t take a single day’s leave! So I said, come the day after. He said, “The day after? In the morning I can’t come; some guests are coming.” A longing for the Absolute! Guests are coming! I said, then come in the evening. He said, “I’ve got theater tickets!” A longing for the Absolute! Theater tickets booked!

So then I said, shall I fold my hands, prostrate to you, and ask when I may have your permission to present myself at your door? He was a bit flustered, unsettled.

What is it—what do we want? Do we even want anything?

Naturally, if the Absolute has disappeared from our experience, it is no wonder. Those who could ask have disappeared. Those with the ardor to know rightly have vanished. We are unwilling to let go even this little!

Therefore Krishna says: with service, with a guileless heart.

Why add “guileless”? Because even in service there can be guile. Service too can mean only this much: we are serving as a bargain, like a deal—“we will serve, and you tell us of the Absolute!”

Where there is a deal, service is no longer service; guile has entered. Guileless! It makes service even more difficult. Serve guilelessly so that if, after four years of service, the master says, “Go. Do not ask,” you will not be able to say, “I served four years! For this?” Not even that. If the master says, “No; go,” then you go, feeling that the very opportunity to serve was the blessing. That is why guileless.

If there is guileless service, a bowed head, an open mind, then the Ganges of knowledge is always ready to descend anywhere, from any quarter.

The rest, tomorrow morning.

Now the sannyasins will do kirtan, they will immerse in this mood. You remain seated in your places; don’t get up. Don’t create a crowd as yesterday; remain seated where you are. Sitting you will see—you will enjoy it more. Do not come forward. Those who are to do kirtan will come forward; the rest stay seated where you are. For ten minutes, drown within. Clap along. Sing along. Be together in the feeling.