Geeta Darshan #18

A personality filled with doubt, possessed by doubt, comes to ruin. Bereft of Bhagavatprem and full of doubt, he finds happiness neither in this world nor in the next. Destruction becomes his destiny.
Two points must be clearly understood in this shloka.
First, being without Bhagavatprem; second, being filled with doubt. These two ways say the same thing. A person soaked in doubt does not become available to Bhagavatprem. One who attains Bhagavatprem cannot be a doubter. Yet Krishna states them separately because their planes differ.
Doubt belongs to the plane of mind; Bhagavatprem belongs to the plane of the Atman. If doubt does not leave the mind, the sprouting of Bhagavatprem cannot happen on the plane of Atman. And if the sprouting of Bhagavatprem happens in the Atman, the mind becomes free of doubt. In depth, they point to one reality; in expression, they operate from different planes.
Therefore understand well: when it is said ‘the doubting self’—a self filled with doubt—meets destruction, the ‘self’ in ‘doubting self’ is not the Atman; its plane is the mind. In the Atman there is no doubt at all. But in one whose mind is doubtful, the mind appears to be the very self. Hence Krishna uses the expression ‘doubting self’.
One whose mind is full of doubt—full of indecision—knows no self beyond mind; he mistakes the mind for the soul, and such a person meets destruction.
What is doubt? First, understand that by ‘doubt’ I do not mean mere skeptical questioning. ‘Samsaya’ means indecision—an undecided psyche; will-less; resolution-less; decision-less. The state of a mind that wavers here and there, either–or, this or that—that is samsaya.
A very strange thinker arose in Denmark—Søren Kierkegaard. He wrote a book, Either–Or. Not only did he write such a book, he himself was that very indecision. He loved a young woman, but for years could not decide whether to marry or not; whether love should become marriage or not! So much time passed that the young woman grew weary and got married. One day he went to her house with the news that he still had not decided—only to learn she had been married for quite some time.
They saw Kierkegaard often at a crossroads—he would take two steps down one road, come back; two steps down the other, come back. Children would run after him shouting, ‘Either–Or! Either–Or!’ His whole life remained in that indecision—to be or not to be, to do or not to do.
When the psyche becomes deeply saturated with such doubt, it arrives at destruction. Why? Because one who cannot even decide whether to do or not to do, never does anything. One who cannot decide to become this or that, never becomes anything at all.
Creation needs decision—an undoubting decision. For destruction, indecision suffices. Destruction requires no decision.
If someone wishes to ruin himself, no decision is needed. Merely sit undecided—destruction happens on its own. To climb a mountain peak requires labor, requires decision. But to roll down like a stone from the peak into the valley—no decision is needed, no effort either.
In this world, fall happens easily, without decision. In this world, ruin arrives on its own without our support. But creation never happens without our resolve. In this world nothing is built unless our entire energy—labor, strength, mind, body—comes to it in totality. Destruction happens by itself; building never happens by itself.
A mind full of doubt arrives at destruction. That is to say, the doubtful mind need do nothing for destruction—ruin arrives while the doubtful mind keeps watching. Imagine a house on fire—what is the state of one filled with doubt? ‘Should I go out or not? The house is on fire—should I get out or not?’ This is the state of a mind saturated with doubt.
Fire will not halt for your doubt or your decision. The fire will keep growing. And the doubtful mind is such that the more the fire grows, the thicker the inner division becomes; thoughts race more furiously—‘Should I go out, or not?’ The fire will not stop. Destruction will ripen. That man will die inside the house. And the life we stand in—the world of matter—is nothing less than a house on fire.
Someone once asked Buddha, after he had left home, and a neighboring king said, ‘I have heard you left palace and home though you were a prince. You were unwise. I will marry you to my daughter and give you half my kingdom.’
Buddha said, ‘Forgive me. What I left behind was not a house and a home. It was on fire. I left the burning house. And you invite me back into a burning house! Thanks for the invitation—but grief for your ignorance! You call what I left a palace; I did not leave a palace, I left a world in flames. There were only tongues of fire. You too should leave!’
The king said, ‘I will think about it. I will consider your words.’
Buddha said, ‘When a house is on fire, does anyone sit down to consider whether to go out or not?’
No—when a house is ablaze, you will hardly find someone who stops to think. Yet when life is on fire, most people keep thinking: ‘Shall I leave? Shall I not? Shall I change? Shall I not? Shall I do? Shall I not?’
A doubtful mind squanders time; hence it perishes. Time is an opportunity. And this opportunity is such that it is hardly granted—and yet it is lost. The moment comes to the hand; two moments never come together. Even the most powerful person on earth never has more than one moment at hand. One subtle moment arrives—before we even know it, it is gone.
A person full of doubt misses the moments of life. Doubt requires time; the moment is but one. By the time he thinks, the moment is gone. Then he thinks again; that moment too is gone. Finally, death alone arrives into the hands of doubt; life never comes into his grasp—it is lost in the very decision of ‘to do, or not to do’.
I have heard of Rothschild, the great American billionaire. Someone asked him, ‘What is the secret of your success? You were poor; now you are a billionaire—what is your secret?’ He said, ‘I never let an opportunity slip. Whenever an opportunity came, I leaped and caught it.’
Another asked, ‘What is your secret for catching opportunity?’
He said, ‘When the opportunity came, I did not sit around wondering whether to do or not to do. I kept one rule: if I must repent, I will repent after doing; never after not doing. Because repenting for not doing is meaningless. If you must repent, repent having done. Never repent non-doing. Because what has been done can be undone; the done can be undone. But what remained undone then, can never be done later. A house that was built can be demolished. But a house not built—the time in which it could have been built is gone—now it cannot be built.’
Rothschild said, ‘I kept one rule: I will repent after doing. Therefore I never sat to consider whether to do or not. I did. And I tell you, I have never yet repented for doing.’
In truth, the undoubting person never repents. The final account of life totals less the sum of our deeds than the sum of our undoubting decisions. At life’s end, what was done is gone; but the mind that did—its capacity to do again and again, its power of resolve, its ability to remain undoubting—keeps on gathering. That alone remains our final wealth. The capacity for undoubting decision is our very Atman.
The man then asked, ‘I too wish to do this, but I cannot tell when opportunity arrives! How do you know when it comes? And even if it comes, by the time I come to know, it is gone! How do you leap to catch it?’
Rothschild said, ‘I do not leap then—I keep leaping. Whenever the horse of opportunity comes, it finds me already in midair. I do not stand waiting to see if it will come—because by the time I recognize it, it will be gone. All is momentary here. I continue jumping. If a jump goes in vain, no harm. But if the horse of opportunity passes by empty, there is much harm.’
When Krishna says the doubting self heads toward destruction, he speaks of an even deeper opportunity. Rothschild speaks of worldly opportunities. Krishna speaks of the ultimate Opportunity: life is a supreme opportunity, wherein one may attain the supreme attainment—bliss, ecstasy, rapture. One may come to that attainment in which every particle of life dances, brims with nectar; where all darkness dissolves, and the flowers of life bloom fragrant; where dawn breaks and the song of joy is born.
We miss that supreme moment at every step—because of doubt. Doubt entangles. Whenever an opportunity arises, we sit and think: ‘Shall I, or shall I not?’
This evening a young man sat with me to take sannyas. He went inside once, came out again. Then he said, ‘I will come again inside.’ He came in, then said, ‘Let me go out and think a bit more.’ Then he sat on a chair thinking, thinking! I passed by him two or three times and asked, ‘Thought it through?’ He said, ‘Let me think a little more.’
And here is the strange thing: when anger comes, do you think so much? When hatred arises, do you think so much? When desire rises, do you think so much? No—toward the unwholesome we move with undoubting minds. If the unwholesome comes to the door, we say, ‘Welcome! We were already prepared.’ When the auspicious comes, we think so much!
It is curious: man does not doubt doing the unwholesome; he doubts doing the wholesome. Why? Because evil is like falling downhill; like a stone rolling from the mountain. Nothing needs to be done; the stone is pulled by the gravity of the earth. But the wholesome is like climbing a peak—Gaurishankar. One must climb. Step by step it grows heavier. The higher the ascent, the heavier the steps. One must unload—one by one. If you have much gold and silver on your shoulders, you must drop them. To reach the peak of Gaurishankar, you cannot carry the burden of gold and silver. Approaching the summit, you must drop everything—even clothes become a load. Just so is the journey of the auspicious—one must let go, piece by piece.
The journey of the unwholesome—go on grabbing. Embrace even the rocks lying in the way; they too will start rolling along. Keep gathering, keep increasing—let go of nothing. Then you fall into the pit; the earth keeps pulling.
No one thinks twice before anger. If a man thinks two moments before anger, he will be saved from anger. And if he thinks two moments about sannyas, he will miss sannyas.
With the unwholesome, the more you think, the better. With the wholesome, the more you remain undoubting, the better.
And note this too: by doing the unwholesome you gain nothing; even succeeding in the unwholesome, you gain nothing. And even failing on the path of the wholesome, you gain much. One who fails on the path of the good is greatly successful; one who succeeds on the path of the evil is utterly a failure. In the end, nothing comes into the hand.
Alexander died. In the village where his bier passed, people were astonished—both his hands hung outside the bier. They asked, ‘Why are his hands outside? We have never seen hands outside a bier!’ They learned that at death Alexander had asked his friends, ‘Let my hands hang out.’ His friends said, ‘That is not the custom; we have never seen hands hanging out of a bier!’ Alexander said, ‘Custom or not, those who kept the hands inside were dishonest. Let my hands hang out.’ His friends asked, ‘What is the use? What is the point?’ Alexander said, ‘I want people to see clearly: I am going empty-handed. All that I accumulated in life did not fill my hands.’
Alexander was very successful—few become so successful. But at death he thought: let people see his empty hands—understand that even Alexander goes a failure—empty, with bare hands.
Even failure on the path of the good is immense success. A sadhu has nothing, yet he goes with full hands—he carries much. At least he carries himself. He does not destroy his Atman; he creates and crafts it. There is no greater attainment on earth than to know and realize oneself fully.
Hence Krishna says, ‘Doubt destroys, Arjuna!’ And Arjuna is full of doubt. He is utterly saturated with indecision—what to do, what not to do. His mind is greatly wavering. Even the word Arjuna implies wavering. Riju means straight, simple; a-riju—crooked, oblique.
One who wavers becomes crooked; he walks like a drunkard—one foot here, one there; now left, now right. His movement is not straight.
The undoubting mind moves straight. The doubting mind always staggers—puts down the foot, then does not want to; picks it up; puts it down again; then again wants to pull back. Arjuna is in such a state.
And then Krishna adds: ‘one who attains Bhagavatprem.’
There are three kinds of love in the world. First, love of things—this is what we all know; mostly we know only the love of things. Second, love of persons—perhaps one in a hundred thousand knows love of persons. I say one in a hundred thousand—just so you can spare yourself and think: ‘I am the one in a hundred thousand!’
No—do not spare yourself this way.
A French painter, Cézanne, stayed in a village. The hotel manager said, ‘This hill is wonderful for health—amazing.’ Cézanne asked, ‘What is the secret? What is the proof?’ The manager said, ‘Stay and you will know. The proof is that on this entire hill not more than one person dies per day.’ Cézanne quickly asked, ‘Has today’s one died or not? If not, I will run.’
Man is eager to save himself. So if I say one in a hundred thousand, you will say, ‘Exactly. He excludes me.’ I am not excluding you—remember.
One in a hundred thousand knows the love of persons; the rest live only in love for things. You will say, ‘We love persons.’ I say, you love them as things, not as persons.
Today a friend came for sannyas, bringing his wife. I explained to her: ‘He will not leave home. He will remain husband, remain father. Sannyas is an inner event. Do not be anxious.’ But the wife said, ‘No, I will not let him take sannyas.’ I said, ‘What kind of love is this? If love becomes bondage, is it love? If love does not grant freedom, is it love? If love becomes chains, is it love? Then the husband is no longer a person; he has become a thing—utilitarian. Then to say “I will not permit,” what is this?’
There is no respect for the person, nor for his freedom; he has been reduced to an object.
Even when we love persons, we possess them, become their owners. No one can be the owner of a person—only of things. If a wife possesses her husband, or a husband his wife—if he says ‘mine’—then the difference between furniture and wife becomes small. Use happens, but the person is not honored; the other’s inner Atman is not revered.
Because we love things, even when we love persons we turn them into things.
The second love—the love of persons—comes to one in a hundred thousand. Love of person means: the other has value in himself, not merely in his utility to me. Not merely utilitarian—not a means to my ends. He is an end in himself.
Immanuel Kant says, as a supreme moral formula: immorality is to use the other as a means. Morality is to treat the other as an end.
A deep formula: I love the other as a person, not as a thing. Therefore I can never be his owner.
But even love of persons we rarely attain.
Then there is a third love—Bhagavatprem: love for existence itself; love toward the whole. Love toward objects—houses, wealth, position. Love toward persons—human beings. And love toward existence—Bhagavatprem—the whole existence as beloved.
See this rightly: when we love things, we see only things in the world—no God appears. Because what we love, we come to know. Love is the eye of knowing. Love has its own way of knowing. Truly, love is intimate knowing—inner, heartfelt knowing.
Hence only when we love a person do we know him. When we love, the person opens to us. When we love, we enter him. When we love, he becomes fearless; he hides nothing; he unfolds, opens; invites us within—‘Come, be my guest’; he seats us in the house of his heart.
Only one who loves knows. Only when one loves existence does one know the Divine. Bhagavatprem means: love for whatsoever is, for its very being.
We love a chair because it serves us; if a leg breaks, we throw it on the rubbish heap. It has no personhood; we discard it. Those who love humans in that fashion do the same. If the husband gets leprosy, the wife divorces him—broken chair—discard him. If the wife becomes ugly, diseased, blind, the husband divorces her—discard her. Then people have become things.
One who loves only things finds the whole world material; even in persons he sees objects. How then can Bhagavat-chaitanya be seen?
To experience the Divine consciousness, one must rise from love of things to love of persons; and from love of persons to love of existence. One who loves persons stands in the middle—on one side the world of things, on the other the realm of God, the whole existence. Standing between, he can see both; then he can move further.
I have heard of Ramanuja passing through a village. A man came and said, ‘Let me meet God. Make me love God. I thirst for Bhagavatprem.’ Ramanuja said, ‘Wait, do not rush. Let me ask—have you ever loved anyone?’ He said, ‘Never. I only love God.’ Ramanuja said, ‘Even by mistake—have you ever loved anyone?’ The man said, ‘Why waste time in useless talk? I have always kept away from love. I have never loved anyone. I desire only love of God.’
Ramanuja said, ‘Then I am in difficulty. I can do nothing. If you had loved anyone even a little, then on the ray of that love I would have led you to the sun of Bhagavatprem. If you had peeped with love into anyone, I would have pushed you through the gate of the whole. But you say you have never loved. It is like asking someone: have you ever seen light? a lamp? He says, no—show me the sun. Have you seen even a ray slipping through the thatch? He says, I have nothing to do with rays; I am a lover of the sun. Then I must say: forgive me—if you have not found even a ray, how shall I take you to the sun? For every ray is the path to the sun.’
Love of person is the beginning of Bhagavatprem. The love of a person is a small window through which we glimpse the Divine in one person. A window. If, Ramanuja said, you can peep into one, I will show you how to peep into all. But you say you never peeped!
We live among things. We do not even peep into persons. Why? Because things are convenient; persons bring trouble. Even a small person—let a child be born at home—already an upheaval! He is a person; he demands freedom. Tell him to sit in this corner—he will not sit there. Tell him not to go out—he will go out. Tell him not to touch that—and he will touch it to show he too has an Atman: ‘I am too. Not only you are.’
Hence in America, France, England, people say: one television set is better than one child. A TV—press the button and it works; press again and it stops—on and off.
A person is not on–off. You cannot switch him. A mother tries to press a little child to sleep—wants to switch off. He keeps turning on, getting up—‘No, not yet; I will not sleep now.’ Even a small child refuses to be treated as a thing. The Divine lives in him too.
We fear loving a person—because a person will ask for freedom. Loving things is convenient—they demand no freedom. Lock them in a safe; sleep soundly. Money in the locker—no running away, no revolt, no saying, ‘Today we do not feel like going with you.’ Whenever you want, they are there, just as you want. Things become slaves; hence we love things.
One who does not want the other’s freedom cannot love a person. And one who cannot love a person will never reach the window of Bhagavatprem—how then will he descend into the vast sky of Bhagavatprem?
Bhagavatprem means: the whole existence is personal. The world is not mere ‘world’; it is God. Do you understand? Not mere ‘existence’—God. What does that mean? That we grant personhood to the whole; we say: ‘You are’—and we can converse with you.
Hence, ‘bhakta’ means: one who has given personhood to the whole, one who calls the world ‘Bhagavan’. A heart so full of love that it relates to the entire existence as to a person—this is a bhakta. In the morning he folds hands to the sun. To bow to the sun is not ignorance—though many ignorant have imitated it. Those who began it were not ignorant.
The one who bowed to the sun had given personhood to the whole; thus the sun too had personhood. We said, Surya is Deva; he rides a chariot, horses yoked, running across the sky. Morning he rises, evening he sets. These are not scientific notions; they are religious—pertaining not to matter but to the inner self.
We bowed to rivers—granted them personhood. We bowed to trees—personhood. We granted personhood to the whole world. We said: there is personhood in you. Even today you may bow to a peepal tree and pass by—but notice: one who treats human beings as objects, his bow to a peepal is sheer pretense. Only one who knows that the peepal too is a person—part of the Divine—can truly bow. In every leaf is His imprint; in every pebble is His signature. Everywhere He is, in countless forms. Faces differ; what hides within does not. Eyes are many; the One who looks through them is one. Hands are innumerable; the One who touches through them is the same.
During the Mutiny of 1857, a silent sannyasi—silent for fifteen years—naked, passed in the night. It was a moonlit night. He danced, thanking the moon. He did not know death was near.
Dancing naked, he went toward the river. There was a British camp. The soldiers thought he must be a spy—what a trick, passing naked, singing through a military encampment. They seized him. When he would not speak, their suspicion grew. ‘He smiles, he dances—why does he not speak? He is treacherous—a spy!’ They thrust a spear into his chest.
That sannyasi had taken a resolve: he would utter only one word—at the last, at death’s door. As he crossed from this shore, he would offer a word of gratitude and depart.
It must have been hard—what word? Only one sentence—the last.
The spear entered his chest; fountains of blood sprang. The dancing heart neared death. The sannyasi said, ‘tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu!’—the Upanishadic mahavakya. ‘Shvetaketu, you are That. That art thou. You too are That.’
Those British soldiers would not have understood. But he addressed the soldier who thrust the spear: ‘You too are That—tat tvam asi!’ Through that window of a piercing spear, he saw That as well. Only one who is in Bhagavatprem can do this; otherwise it is impossible.
Bhagavatprem means: the whole is a Person. The world has personhood; one can converse with it. Therefore the bhakta speaks with Him.
Meera appears mad to others—she talks to Krishna. She seems mad to us because for us there is nothing but things; not even persons, so how can the Supreme Person be? But Meera converses; Surdas walks holding His hand. There is exchange, dialogue; questions and answers; inquiry and response—person to Person.
When Jesus hung on the cross and looked upward and said, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,’ he did not say this to some empty sky. Does one talk to sky? He did not say it to birds flying in the blue. The crowd below looked up; they saw only drifting white clouds in an empty blue—perhaps they laughed, ‘Madman.’ But for Jesus the whole world is the Father. ‘Forgive them—they know not what they do.’
Where there is Bhagavatprem, dialogue happens between person and Supreme Person; exchange happens; a most sweet correspondence—none sweeter. Its name is prayer. It blossoms in Bhagavatprem.
Thus Krishna says: one who is free of doubt and filled with Bhagavatprem attains bliss in this world and in the next. One filled with doubt, empty of Bhagavatprem, suffers here and hereafter.
Sorrow is our own earning, our acquisition. Sorrow is not our fate; it is our mistake. None else is responsible for our sorrow. If we are unhappy, it is because we give space to doubt; because we have not sought the person, nor moved toward the Supreme Person.
He who is joyful receives no special favor from God; he simply utilizes the opportunity of life and becomes filled with His prasad.
There are hollows; when rain falls, water fills them and lakes arise. Rain falls also on mountain peaks, but there are no lakes there; water flows down to the hollows. Rain falls on peaks too, but they are already full—no space for water to gather. Rain on lakes fills them because lakes are empty—they can be filled.
One who is full of doubt—empty of Bhagavatprem—carries a mountain of doubt. Remember: diseases do not come alone; they come in groups. Doubts too come in crowds, not one. Health comes alone; diseases come in multitudes. Shraddha comes alone; doubts come in the plural.
A man filled with doubt becomes a mountain of doubt. God’s prasad rains on him as well, but he cannot be filled. Doubt-free, one becomes a lake—an empty hollow—becomes a womb to receive the prasad. He accepts.
Therefore note: devotees have often taken God as the Beloved, even regarded themselves as feminine and God as the Husband. The reason is receptivity—to become a hollow, a grahak, receptive—a womb. Woman is receptive, becomes a womb; accepts; gives birth to the new within. Devotees felt they should become the Beloveds of God so they might become hollows for Him to fill.
But those who stand as peaks of ego remain empty; those who are hollows of humility are filled.
God’s prasad rains every moment. To receive it is joy; to miss it is suffering.
‘Yogasannyastakarmanam jnanasamchinnasamsayam,
Atmavantam na karmani nibadhnanti Dhananjaya.’
O Dhananjaya, he whose actions have been offered through the yoga of evenness of mind, whose doubts have been cut by Jnana—such a God-centered man is not bound by actions.
He who is doubtless, who has surrendered his actions to the Lord, whose gift of himself is unconditional, who is becoming nothing on his own side, who has said to the Lord, ‘You are complete’—such a man—surrendered, empty, humble, undoubting, filled with Bhagavatprem—such a man is not bound by karma.
Krishna keeps telling Arjuna, in a thousand ways: understand that secret by which, while acting, bondage does not arise.
He who has surrendered all actions to the Lord is not bound. If there is to be bondage, it is His; if there is to be release, it is His. From his side, he has handed over the entire load.
But surrender is difficult. Ahamkara is the obstacle. Ego says, ‘I am.’ Surrender says, ‘You are.’ Ego says, ‘I am everything.’ Surrender says, ‘I am nothing.’ And ego is cunning—its ways are subtle; its devices, refined; its arithmetic clever. Even when ego says, ‘I am nothing,’ it still says, ‘I am something—one who is nothing.’ In even ‘non-being’ ego stands. Surrender is supremely difficult.
Rumi wrote a small song—let me use it to clarify this sutra. He writes: The lover went to the Beloved’s door. He knocked. As lovers often are, he was full of expectation. He knocked—no voice given—for he thought, ‘She will recognize even my knock! Will she not know my footfall? If she has awaited me, she will have caught the sound of my steps. If she has desired me, she will know the way I knock—mine!’ He did not call out; he only knocked.
From within, the Beloved asked, ‘Who is at the door?’ The lover felt hurt. Lovers find happiness rarely; expectations are many—so sorrows come in equal measure. Hurt—‘She did not recognize me! The joy of love is recognition. She should have run to open; should have said: I knew by your footfall on the path that you were coming. At your knock the door should have opened—“You!” Your voice I know.’ But she asks, ‘Who are you?’
The heart was pained. He said, ‘It is I. Did you not recognize?’ The Beloved said, ‘So long as you are, how can the doors of love open—even if they wish to? Go. When you are no more, then come.’
The doors of love never open for ego. Ego always knocks at the door of love, wanting to force it. Ego is always violence upon love—always. If the door does not open, it breaks it. But a broken door is not an opened door; and one who thinks a broken door is an open door is mad. When love’s doors open by themselves, the flavor, the mystery is one thing; when they are broken, tastelessness and meaninglessness follow.
The lover thought, ‘True. As long as I am, what love? For love is when only You are, not I.’ He returned.
He must have been an old-fashioned lover. A modern one would have created a scene. The story is old—Rumi wrote it—and of the sort of lover who speaks of the Beloved’s divine door.
He returned. Years came and went. Rains came and passed; autumns fell; springs bloomed and faded. Who knows how many full moons rose and set—how much time passed. Indeed, dissolving the ego is a long journey—arduous, austere.
After years upon years, when he no longer knew how much had passed, the lover returned. He knocked again. The voice from within: ‘Who is there?’ But now the lover said, ‘It is You.’ And Rumi says, the door opened. ‘It is You’—the doors opened. Surrender happened; the ‘I’ dropped; love’s doors opened.
Perhaps for this earth it suffices that before the beloved one drops the ‘I’ and says ‘You’, the doors open. But if Rumi were here, I would add: I would have had the Beloved say, ‘Go back, and wait a little more. For so long as the idea of “You” persists, somewhere the “I” is still hiding. Even “You” implies a hidden “I”—otherwise, how would “You” be recognized?’ If it were up to me, I would send him back.
Surrender is the total dissolution of ego—so complete that not even the word ‘You’ remains. Even ‘You’ has no place. But that is a far shore. First become worthy to say ‘You’; drop ‘I’. Then become free of ‘You’ also. Then, Krishna says, Arjuna, then action cannot bind you. Then karma does not bind. Then one is free. Then one’s freedom is like fire—throw any rubbish into it; it turns to ash.
Fire remains innocent—virgin. Fire is always virgin. Throw anything into it—it becomes ash; fire stands again, virgin—pure, fresh.
One who has dropped ego becomes like fire—virginal, fresh, pure. One with the Lord—so pure that nothing can defile him; so free that no bondage can bind him; so liberated that no prison can imprison him.
‘Tasmad ajnanasambhutam hridstham jnanasin atmanah,
Chittvainam samsayam yogam atishtha uttistha Bharata.’
Therefore, O Bharata, stand established in the yoga of equanimity, and cutting this doubt lodged in your heart, born of ignorance, by the sword of knowledge—arise for battle.
Therefore, Arjuna, attain the yoga of equanimity, and with the sword of knowledge cut doubt.
Two things: attain the yoga of equanimity—samata. Samata means impartiality; witnessing; beyond both, beyond duality. The yoga of equanimity.
Our buddhi is ever unbalanced. Like the rope-walker—have you seen him with a pole, swaying left and right? When he sways left, why does he? To balance against falling to the right. When he fears falling to the right, he sways left. When he fears falling left, he sways right.
Our buddhi is like that—on a thin rope: sometimes toward dharma, sometimes toward adharma; sometimes toward violence, sometimes nonviolence; sometimes towards matter, sometimes towards the Divine—ever swaying; never attaining samata. Not like one standing on firm ground—still, straight; like a lamp in a room whose doors are shut—no wind enters; the flame is upright, without flicker.
When buddhi is thus—unwobbling, unwavering, still—in the middle; neither left nor right; for neither this side nor that—when it attains the middle, samata, Samadhi—then only can one cut through this world’s knots. Otherwise, one gets caught in one’s own trembling. We are entangled by our own vibration—twenty-four hours a day.
Test this unbalanced state of mind; observe from morning to evening how it sways!
I have heard of a Sunday in a church. A man came determined to donate a hundred rupees. As he climbed the steps, he said, ‘A full hundred!’ He went back, changed the note—thought fifty would suffice. ‘What is my capacity for a hundred?’—it had been there fifteen minutes before! Inside, he thought, ‘Even fifty—who compels me? I am trapping myself.’ ‘Ten will do.’ He felt relieved—lighter—though he had not yet given anything; all was inner. But ten in mind, he sat on the front bench—how can one who carries a ten sit in the back? The priest must at least see the ten go in!
As the sermon went halfway, he thought five would do; as it reached three-quarters, he thought: ‘Do not be carried away by emotion. There are a thousand needs. One rupee.’ When the plate came around, he noticed that some were giving nothing. ‘If I too give nothing, what harm?’ When the plate reached him, and he saw no one watching—he thought: ‘Let me take out a rupee!’
Such is the mind—with this constant swaying. With such a mind, doubt cannot be cut. Doubt will be cut only when there is samata—balance—when someone stands in the middle.
So Krishna says: attain equanimous buddhi, and with the sword of knowledge cut doubt, Arjuna.
Knowledge truly is a sword—none so subtle. Scientists have discovered beams that can cut swiftly—even diamond. Yet the sword of knowledge is subtler still; those beams cannot cut doubt—only diamonds. Doubt is strange; it renders the subtlest weapons useless. Only Jnana cuts it.
What is Jnana? The yoga of equanimous buddhi. When buddhi is even, knowledge is born. The point of equilibrium is the birth of Jnana. Where buddhi is balanced, Jnana arises; where it is unbalanced, ignorance arises. The more unbalanced, the thicker the ignorance. The more balanced, the deeper the knowledge. Perfect balance—perfect knowledge. Perfect imbalance—perfect ignorance. The perfectly imbalanced mind is that of the insane; hence his doubts defy reckoning. The madman’s doubt is complete—he doubts even himself.
A young woman from America came to me—she had spent six years in an asylum. Her wrists were crisscrossed with cuts—she had slit them many times. I asked, ‘Why this urge to cut your wrists?’ She said, ‘Urge? I felt my hands might strangle my neck while I slept—so I should cut them.’ Doubt even of one’s own hands!
The insane reach where they doubt not merely others, but themselves. The madman’s doubt is complete; his knowledge is zero. The liberated one’s doubt is zero; his knowledge is complete.
Two poles: the insane and the liberated; we are between, swaying like the rope-walker. We sway sometimes toward the insane, sometimes toward the liberated.
Watch yourself—at the temple in the morning; then at the market; ringing the bell at dawn—see your mood; then running to the shop—see your eyes. The same man—how different! The same man at the river, with tilak and sandalwood paste, prayer and worship; the same in the office, on the politician’s chair—see his state.
One man changes faces from morning to night. Faces change because the inner buddhi changes—like mercury in a thermometer—up and down—though that moves with temperature; we move from our own inner heat. Yet there stands a Krishna, a Buddha, a Mahavira—whose mercury does not move—ever still—established in samata.
With the sword of Jnana, cut doubt, Arjuna. And the wonder is: if Arjuna only decides, ‘Yes—I am willing to cut,’ it is cut. Doubt prevents even that much decision. If he decides only that much…
A memory from Ramakrishna’s life will make it clear—this is the last sutra here.
For long Ramakrishna worshiped the image of Kali. A bhakta, full of bhava—the outer image became unnecessary; closing the eyes, the form would arise. Yet his heart would not be content with form; until the formless is found, the heart does not rest. Form—however divine—remains form; boundary—however of the Goddess—remains boundary. Without the formless, no fulfillment. He began to wander inward.
A monk, Totapuri, stayed at Dakshineswar. Ramakrishna said, ‘I want nirakar Samadhi.’ Totapuri said, ‘Then take the sword of knowledge—when the form of Kali arises within, cut it in two.’
Ramakrishna said, ‘What are you saying! The image of Kali—and I should cut it? Do not speak such inauspicious words.’ Totapuri said, ‘Until that inner form collapses, the formless cannot enter.’ Ramakrishna wept; he went to Kali and asked forgiveness: ‘This man speaks such words!’
But the point was true. He agreed. He sat; closed his eyes—tears came; bliss arose; he opened his eyes. Totapuri asked, ‘Did you cut?’ Ramakrishna said, ‘I forgot!’ Then he said, ‘The sword—where will I bring a sword from? Inside there is no sword.’ Totapuri said, ‘The sword of knowledge. You brought the form—was there any hindrance then? If you can carry a stone statue inside, why not a sword?’ He brought a shard of glass and said, ‘Close your eyes. When I see tears of bliss, I will know the image has come—then I will cut your forehead with this shard. At that sign, you gather courage—raise the sword and strike the image. As you brought the image, bring the sword.’
He wept. Totapuri cut his forehead. He gathered courage, raised the sword, struck the image; the image broke in two and fell. Ramakrishna dissolved into deep Samadhi—three days he could not rise. Returning, he said, ‘The last barrier is gone.’ And he added, ‘How foolish of me to say, “Where shall I get the sword?” I lacked the courage to strike—so I said, where shall I get it? I knew: if I can bring the image within, why not the sword?’
Krishna too tells Arjuna: ‘Lift the sword and cut doubt.’ If Arjuna only says, ‘I agree to cut,’ doubt will be cut. Only say, ‘I agree.’ But doubt will not let him say even that; it will raise new questions. The Gita will continue; he will ask anew.
Man’s mind avoids answers; it invents questions. I say again: mind avoids answers; it manufactures questions. Generally, people ask not to find answers, but to prevent answers—so they keep asking.
Arjuna will keep asking question upon question. Krishna has given the answer a thousand times before; he will give it a thousand times after; but Arjuna keeps asking. Before Krishna’s answer settles, he raises new questions. Old questions, really—the same, only words change; shapes change. Krishna’s answers are not new either; the answer is one. If Arjuna says, ‘I go from branch to branch,’ Krishna says, ‘I go from leaf to leaf—ask there, I answer here.’
But Krishna’s toil is tireless. Few gurus have labored so. Tireless—ever striving that Arjuna receive the answer.
Whoever lifts the sword of knowledge—of equanimous buddhi—and cuts doubt—cutting doubt, the last barrier falls, and those doors open—the doors of the Divine, of bliss, of liberation, of supreme peace, of supreme Nirvana.