Geeta Darshan #16

The fire of knowledge reduces all karma to ashes. How do karmas burn in the fire of knowledge?

First, understand how karma is stored near consciousness. The very process by which it is accumulated—when reversed—becomes the process of its dissolution. And understand what karma is, because its very nature also contains the key to its death.

Karma is not a thing; karma is a disposition. Karma is not a substance; karma is thought-feeling. The person is not the begetter of karma; the soul is not its source. Ignorance is its parent. A thought born of ignorance; a wave of feeling arising in ignorance; an act done on the basis of that ignorant feeling and thought—at the root of all this stands ignorance.

Knowledge does not actually destroy karmas directly; it does so indirectly. In actuality, knowledge destroys ignorance. When ignorance is destroyed, the foundation-stone of karma collapses. The base on which karma was stored disappears. The source from which it arose is gone. The seed from which it could sprout in the future is scorched.

So knowledge does not go about demolishing karma one by one; it extinguishes ignorance. And ignorance is the begetter of bondage through karma. When ignorance is no more, karmas dissolve.

Think of it like this: the house is dark; fear arises. You light a lamp. We say, “The light was lit, the fear vanished.” But how can light directly destroy fear? Light dispels darkness. Fear came because of darkness; when there is no darkness, fear also disappears. The light cannot touch your gun and remove it from your hand; but when darkness ends, fear ends, and with fear gone you yourself put the gun down in a corner. These are indirect happenings.

Ignorance is the foundation of all our bondage through karma. Through countless births, whatever we did had ignorance at its base. If there were no ignorance, even the thought “I did” would not arise. Without ignorance we would know: I have never done anything, I don’t even exist as a separate doer.

Only in ignorance does the sense “I am” arise. When ignorance is gone, there is only the Divine. Without ignorance there is no such thing as “my action”; all actions belong to the Divine—good and bad, auspicious and inauspicious—everything is His, offered to Him.

Because of ignorance it seems “I act.” Ignorance accumulates karma by becoming the doer; then ignorance projects plans for future actions—this becomes desire. In the past, ignorance becomes the memory, “I did”; in the future it becomes the dream, “I will do.” Between these two, the present passes—between the memory born of ignorance and the imagination born of ignorance.

The moment a ray of knowledge descends, the moment the fire of knowing is lit, the darkness that creates desire, the darkness that carries the sense of doership, is dispelled. All karma is instantly attenuated—instantly! Karma cannot stand before knowledge, just as darkness cannot stand before light.

Hence Krishna says: in the fire of knowledge all karma is burnt.

This is symbolic, metaphorical: the “fire of knowledge,” “karma reduced to ashes”—all are symbols. The indication is simply this: the doer cannot remain in knowledge; the ego cannot remain in knowledge. And without ego, the entire edifice of karma amassed by the ego crumbles and disappears.

One who has attained knowing does not even know, “I have ever done anything.” He does not know, “I will do something.” He does not know, “I am doing.” One who has attained knowledge is nowhere possessed by the sense of doership.

Karmas come and go—even for the knower. He too gets up and sits down, eats and drinks, speaks and listens. The knower also “acts”—but for him karma is like lines drawn on water. Water does not hold; the lines are drawn, and before they can be completed, they disappear.

For the ignorant, karma cuts like lines on stone. Once cut, they do not seem to be erased; once etched, they go on getting deeper—line upon line—until the stone is wounded.

For the knower, karma slides by like a finger drawn across water: you cannot even finish the line before the surface is smooth again, empty and free, free of any mark. Look back—there is no line anywhere; the current remains as crystal-clear as before. Draw as many lines as you like; the water carries them all away and remains itself. So it is with the knower.

If the stone of the doer is not within, if the ego of doership is not within, the lines of karma do not etch. The knower becomes fluid like water—lines drawn upon it disappear.

Or say: he becomes like a mirror. Someone comes before it, and is reflected; then he leaves, and the mirror is empty, free, void. No outline lingers on the mirror.

The ignorant mind is like a photographic plate, like the film that slides inside a camera. Whatever it catches, it holds; it won’t release it. In the camera, a face appears and is captured. In the mirror, a face appears but is not held. The ignorant mind is very skilled at grasping. Because of ignorance, clinging is deep; the grip is tight. It quickly closes its fist and collects.

When the light of knowing comes, the fist opens. The man’s mind becomes a mirror. It no longer grasps. It does not clutch the pictures of the past, nor those seen today, nor those that might appear in the future. The mind of the knower becomes like a flock of cranes that at dawn flew over a lake.

A Zen master, Bankei, said: In the morning I saw a line of white cranes fly over the lake; their white wings glistened in the sunlight. For a moment they flashed in the waters—and were gone. Neither did the cranes know their reflections had been caught, nor did the lake know it had caught them.

Such becomes the mind of the knower. Everything happens all around—and yet, nothing happens. Even after a whole life has passed, if you look into the knower’s mind, nothing has been accumulated: empty, vacant, void. Everything comes and goes; nothing is left within.

“This fire of knowledge burns karma” means only this: in the fire of knowledge, ignorance does not survive.

Karma is not the real issue; the real issue is the doer. The doer grasps and stores karma. We all become doers—twenty-four hours a day—even of things of which it is utterly inappropriate to be the doer.

We even say, “I breathe,” as if you have ever breathed! Breath comes and goes; no one “takes” it. If you were the one taking it, you would never wake up the next morning—who would take it during sleep? No, we do not take breath. It comes and goes.

Even such a deep process of life as breathing is not done by us; it happens. Yet man says, “I breathe.” Incredible! No one has ever “taken” a breath, nor will anyone ever. Breath simply comes and goes. At most you can observe and know; at most you can forget, or remember—you can be aware or unaware—but you cannot be the doer. You can be the knower, the witness, the seer—but not the doer.

Yet we insert “I” into everything. Look closely and you will find you cannot insert it into anything. Search, and you will discover that the doer is an illusion—the greatest illusion. The greatest of all illusions is the illusion of the doer.

A mother says, “I gave birth to my son.” No mother ever has. It happens. If husband and wife think, “We together give birth to a child,” nature laughs at them. Nature uses them; they do not give birth.

That’s why sexual urge is so overpowering; it is not in your control. It is such a biological force, such an inner push, that it overrides you. Hence brahmacharya (celibacy) is considered the greatest achievement—not for any other reason, but because only one who is free of the doer can come to celibacy. Otherwise, nature will use the doer to make him father or mother. The ignorant person will be pushed from within and used.

Look at animals, insects, plants—everyone is reproducing. At least they may not think they are the doers. Only man thinks he is the doer.

A father says to his son, “I gave you birth.” The whole existence must laugh: “You went mad! Did you give birth? Or were you merely an instrument, a means?” Someone wanted to be born; existence wanted to bring someone forth—you were made a medium. But the medium puffs up and says, “I created him!”

When Buddha returned home after twelve years and entered the city gate, his father said, “It was I who gave you birth.” Buddha said, “Forgive me. Before you were, I was. My journey is very ancient. My meeting with you is recent, only a few years old. My journey is far older than you. Yours is as ancient as mine. Do not say you gave me birth; at most say you were a crossroads through which I passed and was born. But even to say, ‘I passed and was born,’ is not quite right,” said Buddha. “It would be truer to say: I was made to pass; I was caused to be born.”

Like a man passing a crossroads, and the crossroads claiming, “I created you; you passed through me, otherwise you could not exist!” Similarly, parents are no more than crossroads through which a child appears.

Infinite are the forces by which this event happens. The smallest event depends on countless things. Ultimately everything depends on the Infinite Divine. Yet we say, “I…”

This “I” is the fortress of ignorance. A ray of knowing, a moment of awareness, a glimpse of wakefulness brings the entire castle down. It is a house of cards. A small gust of wind—and all is scattered.

Ego is a house of cards. One small push of knowing, and everything collapses to the ground, no matter how many years, how many births went into its construction—it is only a game of cards.

What does knowledge do? What is knowledge?

Knowledge is the remembrance of truth; ignorance is the forgetfulness of truth. Ignorance is forgetfulness; knowledge is remembrance.

As soon as there is remembrance of truth, all the notions nurtured in darkness fall away—just as dreams seen in the night vanish at dawn.

Therefore Krishna says: in the fire of knowledge all karma is burnt, Arjuna! Do not worry about karma; worry about the doer.

Krishna’s whole emphasis is: forget karma, worry about the doer. If you are a doer, karma will go on forming around you. If you are not a doer, drop all worry. Then, like the flight of cranes over a lake, nothing will imprint upon you. Even pass through this great war standing before you—only do not become a doer. Then even the thousands of corpses fallen around you will not leave a single stain of blood upon you.

There is no greater, bolder statement in the history of humankind. Such a great and bold statement! Krishna says: these hundreds of thousands may die; if you are not the doer, let go of worry—not a single bloodstain will fall upon you. And if you are the doer, then even if you pass through a vacuum, you will be laden with karma.

If the doer sleeps, he still accrues karma; he acts even in sleep. And if the non-doer awakens and enters even into wars, karma does not bear fruit. The death of the doer is the end of karma.

In this sense, the fire of knowledge becomes the destroyer of all karma.

“There is nothing here in this world as purifying as knowledge.
In time, the one perfected in yoga finds that knowledge within the Self.” 38

Therefore, in this world there is nothing that purifies like knowledge. In due time, the one whose inner being has been well-purified through the yoga of equanimity discovers that knowledge in the Self.

Nothing is superior to knowledge. Nothing equals knowledge. There is no spring more purifying than knowledge. Knowledge is liberation. Knowledge is ambrosia.

Krishna is speaking of this purifying, cleansing, transforming power of knowledge. He is saying three things: Nothing is superior to knowledge. Nothing purifies like knowledge. And the one who attains knowledge enters the Self. Let us understand these three separately.

What is impurity? Why is man impure? What is the dirt upon his being? What rubbish weighs upon his mind? What defiles him? What makes him sick and ill?

The moment desire arises in the mind, impurity enters. As soon as craving arises, the mind is filled with filth. At the moment of wanting, fever enters; everything is overheated, unhealthy, trembling. Desire—wanting—is impurity, uncleanliness, unholiness.

Observe: whenever a want arises in the mind, fragrance disappears within and stench begins. Whenever a want arises, inner peace vanishes and whirlpools of unrest appear. Whenever a want arises, poverty takes hold. Man stands like a beggar with a begging bowl.

Whenever wanting arises, comparison begins; jealousy is created. And nothing is more filthy in the mind than jealousy. A mind filled with jealousy, rivalry, comparison is ugly—ugliest.

As soon as desire arises, violence arises, because desire cannot be fulfilled without violence. What you want must be had anyhow. Whatever happens, you must obtain it. Man becomes blind when desire thickens; blindness arises. He runs with closed eyes like a madman. And he is not alone; many other blind ones are running too. Lest someone else snatch it—conflict, enmity, anger, hatred.

And the irony: even when desire succeeds, frustration, despondency, is what you get. And if desire fails, despondency is what you get. In both cases, tears of sorrow are your lot.

Take note of this, because the mind says, “But if it succeeds—then what?” Here is the secret: even succeeded desire does not set anything right. Unfulfilled desire does not, and fulfilled desire also does not.

I have heard: a psychologist went to a large asylum for a study. The resident doctor showed him the patients. In one cell, a man clutched a picture to his chest, then looked at it and wept. The psychologist asked, “What happened to him?” The doctor said, “The picture is the cause. He loved this woman. He did not get her. He was driven mad by sorrow.” They went further and saw in another cell a man tearing his hair, face bloodied. “What about him?” The doctor said, “He got that very woman whom the first man did not! He went mad because she came into his life.” One is mad because he did not get what he wanted; the other is mad because he did.

This is how it is. If you get what you want, you find you got nothing. If you don’t, you suffer anyway. And the tears of sorrow bring the greatest filth.

Remember, tears can rise in bliss too—but tears of bliss are pure; their fragrance knows no bounds. Tears in sorrow carry an immeasurable stench. The water is the same; the inner state has changed.

Desire is the worm that breeds impurity within. We all live in thousands of desires, in thousands of kinds of filth.

Knowledge cleanses precisely because, when it descends, desire evaporates. In place of desire arises existence. In place of desiring, man becomes existential. He no longer asks, “What should I get?” Whatever comes, he quietly accepts it with gratitude to the Divine. His mind no longer runs after tomorrow; today is enough. To have today is not little. I am, now—is that not more than my due? What I have—is that my merit?

None of us ever thinks: do we deserve what we have? If I had no eyes, could I demand them as my right? If I had no hands, what proof could I offer that I deserve hands? If I were not alive, what means would I have to claim life? We have no accounting for what we have—it is pure grace. Desire does not let us see what is; it only hankers for what is not.

Desire is like when a tooth falls out, the tongue keeps going again and again to where the tooth is missing. It ignores all the teeth still there, and spends the day prodding the empty socket. Ask the tongue, “Have you gone mad? The tooth was there for so long; you never touched it. Now what has happened?” There is great relish in what is not; what is, has no appeal.

Desire keeps touching the missing tooth day and night—what is not. And there is much that is not. The expanse of life is infinite. Not everything can be mine—though what I do have is not less than everything. But who looks at it?

I have heard: a man stood on the road weeping, telling a fakir, “God should take me away. I have nothing; not even money for morning tea.” The fakir said, “Don’t worry; I think you have a lot. I’ll arrange to sell it.” The man said, “Except for these rags, I have nothing. What sale? If there is one, I’m ready.” The fakir said, “Come with me.” He took him to the king. At the door he warned, “Friend, decide now—don’t change later. You’ll get a good price. Are you ready to sell?” The man laughed, “What have I to sell? And who will buy rags here?” The fakir said, “Just don’t change later.” They went in. The fakir said to the king, “I’ve brought a man. Will you buy his two eyes? What price will you give?” The man panicked: “Eyes! What are you saying?” The king said, “I’ve fixed the price: a hundred thousand each. Minister, bring two hundred thousand.” And to the man: “Any objection? Is it too little?” The beggar ceased being a beggar in a moment, because his tongue now touched the teeth that were there. He cried, “What are you talking about? I won’t sell my eyes.” The fakir said, “Two lakhs, madman! You said you had nothing. This very morning you cursed God. We are arranging a sale for two lakhs. Ask for more if you like.” The man said, “Show me out. I won’t sell.” The fakir said, “But have you ever thanked God for your eyes worth hundreds of thousands?”

But who sees eyes worth lakhs? Those eyes run after penny desires. Eyes worth millions chase petty wants! A mind beyond price grovels for trifles. Boundless, priceless awareness is thrown away for the smallest insult.

No; that beggar was wiser than us—he refused to sell his eyes. We sell our very soul—and quickly. The soul goes cheap—sold for pennies, for trinkets.

Desire makes us beggars.

Knowledge cleanses us of desire; it satisfies us with what is. It does not drive us after what is not. It lets the heart embrace what is. Then there is a marvelous contentment. In that contentment, all diseases and distortions of desire depart, and the mind is clean—fresh and pure.

He who lives in the moment—who has no account of yesterday, no expectation of tomorrow; who abides in the here-and-now—his purity is boundless. He is the most holy.

Hence Krishna says: there is no alchemy like knowledge that purifies.

That is why the purity in Buddha’s eyes is such that lakes themselves would be ashamed; the lines on Buddha’s face are such that even newborns blush; the very air around him carries a cleansing breeze that makes the winds from Malaya wonder if they come from somewhere else. Why does Mahavira appear supremely pure even in nakedness? Why, when Jesus hangs on the cross, does life’s energy still radiate from him at the moment of death?

When Mansoor’s hands and feet were being cut, he dipped his palms in his own blood and wiped them on his forearms. People stoning him asked, “What are you doing?” Mansoor said, “I am doing ablution before prayer. This blood too is water flowing in God’s veins; the rivers are also his blood flowing. This too is his stream; that too is his. My good fortune—that you have opened a closer stream today and I need not go far for ablutions.” He laughed and smiled.

People hurled stones, and he laughed. And when dying someone said, “Mansoor, we are cutting you and you pour love on us; don’t embarrass us so.” Mansoor said, “So that you may remember: love cannot be injured by stones; souls cannot be pierced by knives and swords; prayer cannot be defiled by any abuse in the world. So you will remember.”

The purity that gleams in such beings—and there have been thousands like them—is the proof of Krishna’s aphorism: nothing purifies like knowledge.

Knowledge alone is purity. Socrates said, “Knowledge is virtue.” Krishna says the same.

Krishna says nothing is above knowledge.

There is not. The supreme peak of life’s experience is to know; the lowest abyss is ignorance—to remain without knowing. Self-ignorance is the deepest hell; self-knowledge the highest heaven. Below the one who does not know himself there is nothing; above the one who knows himself there is nothing.

There are only two poles: ignorance and knowledge. Apart from these, existence has no other poles. On one end is ignorance, where we do not know ourselves; and one who does not know himself—what else can he know? How will he know? By what means? One whose own lamp is unlit—what meaning will any other light have? Give a lamp into an unlit hand—it is meaningless.

I have heard: one night a blind man was a guest. He was leaving on a moonless night. The host said, “Take this lantern; the road is dark.” The blind man said, “Don’t joke; I am blind. For me day is also dark. What difference?” But the friend was not ordinary. He said, “I know you are blind; I’m not making fun. Not so you can see—but so that others will not run into you. With the light in your hand, it will be a little harder for them to collide. Though even with light, those who want to collide will collide—but it helps a bit.” The blind man had no answer, took the lantern, and set out. He had barely gone ten steps when someone crashed into him. The blind man said, “What are you doing? Can’t you see the light? I have a lantern!” The other said, “Forgive me; your lantern has gone out—and you didn’t know.”

How would the blind man know? For a blind man, a lantern in his hand means this: if he does not know himself, even if the world’s knowledge is in his hand, it means no more than that. Collision is inevitable; soon the lantern will go out, and he will not know.

If I were the friend, I would never have given the blind man a lantern—because if he had no lantern, he might not have collided that night. How? Without a lantern, he would grope, walk carefully, call out as he went. Because of the lantern, he swaggered: “I have light—who will collide?” And he collided.

Put all the knowledge of the world into ignorant hands and it is dangerous. Better that the ignorant hold no knowledge. Today this is exactly what has happened: science has placed a mass of power into ignorant hands. Result: Hiroshima, Nagasaki—and any day a third world war. The ignorant hold power.

Once Nadir Shah asked an astrologer: “I read in a religious book that sleeping long is not good. But I get up at ten. What do you say—am I right, or the book?” The astrologer said, “The book is not right; you are right. And I beg you—please sleep twenty-four hours; that would be best!” Nadir Shah said, “What do you mean?” The astrologer was a brave man. He said, “The book was written with good men in mind, not bad ones. The more a good man is awake, the better; the more a bad man sleeps, the better. His sleep is a boon to the world; when he is awake, trouble is inevitable.”

If Nadir Shah is awake, there will be trouble. In the hands of a knower, even ignorance is not dangerous; in the hands of the ignorant, knowledge is dangerous.

The knowledge Krishna speaks of here is self-knowledge. It is primary, foundational. On attaining it, says Krishna, one enters the Self.

This last point must be understood.

“One enters the Self; one unites with the Self; one finds the door in the Self; he becomes the Self.” But are we not already the Self? All the scriptures say so. Krishna himself says: the Self is within all; it never dies. If we are all the Self, what need is there for knowledge?

Gurdjieff used to say: those who told people, “There is a soul within everyone,” did great harm. He said it after great consideration. Knowing full well that the Self is in all, Gurdjieff began to say: “Not everyone has a soul. Only the one who creates it has it; the rest are soulless.”

He meant this: people got the idea, “We have a soul; whether we know it or not, it is there.” Then what difference does it make? He said: until it is known, it might as well not be. What is the point of its ‘being’?

A treasure is buried in your house; you don’t know where. What use is that? Will the market give you credit? I am a beggar—and there is treasure at home. Will my beggary end? If I don’t know where it is, a buried treasure is equal to nothing. Only what is known, is.

Therefore Krishna says: only one who knows, attains the Self. Knowledge itself is the Self. As long as there is ignorance, saying “I have a soul” is the greatest self-deception. Repeating “I am the soul” again and again, you may forget that you don’t know—and keep chanting borrowed words.

In this land a misfortune has happened: we heard Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira, Patanjali, Shankara, Nagarjuna, Vasubandhu, Dharmakirti, Dignaga—countless awakened ones. It should have been our great fortune; it turned into misfortune. By hearing and hearing, we began repeating, “There is the Self; there is Brahman.” Even at the paan shop, discussion of Brahman goes on—paan and Brahman together! Such talk proved costly—because by hearing, we felt as if we knew. And when in ignorance you imagine you know, you never enter the Self.

Hence Krishna says: only the knower enters the Self, only he attains, only he becomes the Self.

Becoming the Self is no child’s play; it is the greatest austerity. To know oneself is a long journey. Borrowing someone else’s words is easy—schoolchildren can do it; old people keep doing only that.

I once visited an orphanage. The teachers said, “We give them religious education.” I said, “Let me see—because I have never heard religion can be taught.” They said, “What are you saying? All the children have passed the exam in religion!” I said, “Can there be an exam in religion? Still—let me see.”

They stood a child up and asked, “Is there a soul?” “Yes.” “Is there God?” “Yes.” Other children nodded. “Where is the soul?” All the children put their hands on their chests.

I asked a small child, “Where is the heart?” He said, “That is not in the course.” It had not been taught!

I told the teachers: you have made them memorize; you have harmed them. Now they will go on repeating all their lives and forget that they do not know. Whenever the question arises, “Is there a soul?” the childhood hand will rise mechanically: “Yes.” Someone will ask, “Where is it?” and the hand will go to the chest. They have no idea where they are putting the hand, who is putting it, who is answering.

I keep wondering: is there any big difference between these children and our elders? Only age. And in old age the memory of what we memorized wears thin. We repeat to the last—but we never knew.

It will not happen that easily. Religion is not like mathematics—learn two plus two is four. Not like physics—learn gravitation, Newton’s laws, Einstein’s relativity. Religion is like love: only one who does it knows. Only one who becomes religion knows. There is no other way. Hence we cannot establish a “university of religion.” You can build a Hindu university, a Muslim university—but not a university of religion, because life is the only university of religion. And not only the outer visible life, but even more the life within, invisible. To know that is knowledge; the experience that flowers from that knowing is the Self.

One more, final point: when the Self is experienced, it is not experienced as “mine.” The word “Self” is a little misleading; it carries the flavor of “mine,” “my own.” Words are inadequate—truth does not fit into words.

That is why Buddha, because of this misleading word, said: not Self, but no-self. And no one could understand him—neither the “self-advocates,” nor any other doctrinaire. The doctrinaire is always ignorant; the knower is not doctrinaire. They said, “Buddha denies the soul; dangerous man!”

Buddha was saying something very deep: when the Self is experienced, it does not feel like “mine”—so “self” is not right. It does not feel like “I am this” either—so any word that attaches an “I” is not right. It feels like all—like the sky, not like a fenced courtyard. Not confined within walls, but like the open sky without boundary.

So Buddha said, “What shall I call it ‘self’ for? I say anatta: no-self. In the knowing of the self, there is no self.”

He is exactly right. No sense of “I” remains there. The Self is the Divine. The moment one knows “what I am,” one knows “I am all.”

The moment a drop recognizes what it is, it knows it is the ocean. Until then, it is a drop. The day it knows, it is the ocean—because the whole ocean is present in the small drop. Understand the properties of the drop and you understand the ocean. The drop is a miniature ocean—not that the ocean is ever small. It appears small; it is whole.

To know the Self is to know the Divine.

Therefore knowledge is supreme—because through it alone we touch the highest peak, the Divine. Ignorance is lowest—because through it we turn our back on the Highest.

Let us take one more question.

Yoga-samsiddhi—when yoga is accomplished, in that very moment. And not merely accomplished, but samsiddha: rightly, completely, perfectly accomplished—at that moment. Where yoga is fulfilled in the right way; where union, joining—where the drop and the ocean meet—happens rightly, wholly, totally; where the union is consummate, in that moment the inner being is purified. Its transformation is in order; it attains samatva-buddhi, the evenness of intelligence. It is the same thing.

Buddhi becomes even only when yoga is accomplished. When the individual meets the whole, only then does buddhi become even. Before that, buddhi keeps wavering; it is uneven. From here to there, from this side to that, it keeps swinging.

Our buddhi is always uneven; it keeps swinging. And it is not that it swings to just one side—it always swings to the opposite as well, contradictory, like a clock’s pendulum.

Do you watch a clock’s pendulum? Sometimes you should look closely. The old clocks were good, the ones with a pendulum; from them you could know the condition of a man’s skull! New clocks are too clever; you can tell nothing from them.

The pendulum of the old clock would swing below—tick-tock—from one end to the other, tick-tock. Have you ever watched attentively? When the pendulum goes to the left, it is gathering the capacity to go to the right. In going left, it is creating the momentum to go right. In fact, by going left it acquires the power to go right. A very reversed-seeming thing. When it goes to the right, it is preparing to go to the left.

When someone praises you, be cautious—soon he will condemn you! The pendulum has gone to the side of praise; that is the preparation to go to the side of blame. Always understand that now the poor fellow is in a bind; in a little while, somewhere, he will abuse you. Then the pendulum will return. Otherwise how would it come back? Whoever loves is preparing for hate. Whoever hates is preparing for love. It will seem very upside down. But it is so.

If someone comes and pays me respect, I know he will settle the account within twenty-four hours. He will sit up till midnight by some lakeside and hurl abuses. It’s very difficult—he will have to do something! He has made a commitment; he cannot escape now; he is bound.

So when someone comes next morning and tells me, “So-and-so sat by the lake till midnight abusing you,” he reports it in amazement. I say, “I knew perfectly well—because yesterday evening he praised me.” How could he sleep? The night would have been lightened for him. The pendulum returned. He would have gone home and slept.

It is so. The mind is like this all the time—swinging in unevenness, swinging into the opposite. With such a mind, union with the divine cannot happen. Why not? Why can’t a mind of uneven intelligence attain God-union? Because the prayer made in the temple will be denied in the marketplace at noon; the prayer made in the temple will be fractured in the crowd.

Tolstoy has written a reminiscence. One morning he woke very early and set out for the church. He reached there—five o’clock, fog over Moscow, darkness all around. Hours remained before sunrise. He entered the church. He heard a voice. The voice sounded familiar, so he went in quietly. Someone was doing confession, repentance. The voice seemed known—someone acquainted.

Tolstoy was of the royal house; he himself was a count. Who could it be? He slipped slowly to the back. He saw the wealthiest man of the village—of Moscow—standing there in the dark, saying to God, “O Lord, I have committed many sins. I am a thief, dishonest, bad. There is no one worse than me!” Tolstoy thought, “Ah! So bad? We used to think him very good. People in the town call him a champion of religion. He builds temples and churches—this church too is built by him. And he calls himself a sinner, the worst.”

Naturally, Tolstoy felt, “I should run and tell the market we have been mistaken.” But he thought, “Let me wait and meet him.”

His prayer finished. The morning rays began to break. The man turned and saw—Leo Tolstoy! He panicked. He said, “Look, sir, whatever you heard, forget it immediately. I never said it.” Tolstoy said, “What are you saying? If you didn’t say it, what are you asking me to forget?” He said, “Understand it correctly. The words I spoke here—forget them. Consider that I never said them. And if I hear you told anyone these words, I will file a defamation case in court.” Tolstoy said, “Extraordinary! Just now you were saying there is no greater sinner than you!”

Tolstoy did not know—the pendulum had swung. Gone! The matter is finished. The man is eager to file a lawsuit; just now he was eager to repent! What is happening?

Such an uneven mind can never enter the soul. The line of entry into the soul is very thin—I say line, a door-line; a door is very large; it is only a line of entry—that is balance, that is equanimity, samatva.

Where the consciousness is neither left nor right, but in the middle—so perfectly in the middle that we cannot say right or left; we cannot say for or against; neither in hate nor in love; neither in forgiveness nor in anger; neither in possessiveness nor in non-possessiveness; neither in attachment nor in detachment. Where a person stands so much in the middle that he is neither attached nor detached—at that moment of samatva-buddhi, yoga-samsiddhi happens. Or, in that moment, the buddhi attains equanimity. Just then the leap happens, and one is submerged in the boundless.

Such samsiddhi purifies the inner being!

In equanimity, everything is purified, because impurity comes from excess. Excess is impurity; the extreme is the impurity. One extreme is one kind of impurity; the other extreme is another kind. Non-excess—no extreme—the middle, which Buddha called the Majjhima Nikaya, the Middle Path, the way of the middle: neither this side nor that, right in the center. One short story, and I will complete my point.

A young man was ordained with Buddha. He was skilled in music—astonishing was his mastery of the vina. But he came… He was an emperor’s son; raised in indulgence, lived in pleasures. When he came, he went to the other extreme. If other monks walked on the road, he would walk in thorns. If others wore one garment, he would stand naked. If others ate once a day, he would eat once in two days.

In six months he dried up to bone. His feet were full of wounds. His face became hard to recognize. His form had been beautiful, a golden body—when he had come, anyone would be charmed by such a body. Now, just seeing him, dispassion arose—repulsion. If anyone came near, there was a stench!

The monks said to Buddha, “What is your seeker doing? He is killing himself! We thought he was brought up in such comforts. They say in his house he never came down from cushions; he never walked below velvet carpets. They say he never set foot on earth; dust never touched his feet. They say he bathed in rose-water. They say the air in his house was always fragrant with perfumes brought from far away. They say when he climbed the stairs, naked women stood along the steps like a railing; placing his hands upon their shoulders, he would go up. Such a man is enduring such hardship! The impossible is happening!”

Buddha said, “No, monks, what is happening is possible. The man who is sick at one extreme often becomes sick again at the other extreme. To stop in the middle is difficult—like the pendulum.”

But they said, “Now he will die; he cannot live. He has dried up to a thorn. He is hard to recognize. To stand near him, there is a stench. He does not bathe. He says, ‘If I bathe, I will be adorning the body.’ The one who bathed in perfumes now will not bathe even in an ordinary village’s dirty pond. He says, ‘The body will be purified—what is the point of adorning the body? What is the use of the body’s beauty?’”

Buddha went to him in the evening and said, “Bhikshu Shron! I have heard that when you were a prince you were very skilled at playing the vina. I have come to ask a question. If the strings of the vina are very loose, does music arise?” Bhikshu Shron said, “Have you gone mad? A wise one like you, asking such a question! If the strings are loose, how can music arise? Not even a twang comes.” Buddha said, “If the strings are very tight then, Bhikshu Shron—can music arise?” He said, “No. If the strings are very tight, they will snap. Music will not arise. The strings must be balanced—neither too tight nor too loose. They must be in the middle, neither on this side nor that. So that one cannot say they are loose, nor say they are tight.”

Then Buddha said, “I am going, Bhikshu Shron. You are intelligent. I need say nothing to you. I had come to say something; now I will not. I will say only this much: the law by which music arises in the vina is the very law by which music arises in life. Do not tighten the strings too much, nor leave them too loose. Attain equanimity. Come to the middle. The Middle Path. Leave the extremes.”

Krishna says: one who has attained the equanimity of buddhi has attained yoga-samsiddhi; the purified inner being becomes one with that Self.

We will talk about the rest in the morning.

Now we will enter the sannyasin melody. So please move back a little, leave the space open. And no one should come onto the stage—move back. Those who wish to see, let them see. If you remain seated, it will be possible for everyone to see.