Geeta Darshan #2

Life changes every day, like the seasons. Life is a procession of change, like a cart-wheel that keeps turning. Yet the wheel’s turning rests upon a nail that does not turn. The wheel moves, but only because a motionless nail holds it. If the nail were to turn, the wheel would cease to turn. The nail does not move; hence the wheel can move.
All change leans upon the changeless.
Among the supreme laws of life is this: the visible rests upon the invisible, death depends upon the deathless; matter depends upon the Divine. The revolving, changing world, samsara, rests upon the unmoving, unchanging Truth. Things depend upon their opposites.
Therefore, one who stops at what is seen is deprived of the mystery. One who, within the seen, finds the unseen—he attains the mystery.
Krishna says: the yoga, the truth, is the same ancient one—what has been since forever. Or say: it is that which is forever still; the very same that the rishis once said—again I say it to you. But I only say again what has always been. Nothing new. Nothing of my own.
In truth, nothing can be added from our side. There is no way to make Truth new. Truth is. Only one thing can be done with Truth: we may stand facing it, or we may stand with our back to it. We can do nothing to Truth itself. Only this can be done: either we know it, or we insist on not knowing and stand in ignorance. But if we do not know, Truth does not change because of our not-knowing. And if we do know, Truth does not change because of our knowing.
Yes, we change. Not knowing Truth, we are one kind. Knowing Truth, we become another kind. Truth remains the same—when we do not know, and when we do. Unless Truth is such, there would be no difference between truth and untruth.
A most delightful point: untruth is our invention. Truth is not our invention. We do not manufacture truth; we fabricate untruth.
Whatever can be made by me will be untruth. That by which I myself am made—and in which I shall dissolve—that is Truth. That which was when Krishna was not, that which will be when Krishna is no longer; that which others have said, and others will yet say—that is Truth.
Truth is eternal. Krishna tells Arjuna again this eternal Truth—and he gives the reason why. Worth understanding. He says, because you are my sakha, my friend, my beloved.
Seen from the surface this sounds odd: does Krishna tell Truth conditionally—only to a friend, a beloved? If not friend or beloved, will he not tell? Is there a condition to revealing Truth? Will Krishna not tell it to one who is not dear? From the surface, it seems favoritism. But one must look deeper. With such beings as Krishna, to look only from the surface is dangerous.
When Krishna says, I tell you this Truth because you are my beloved, my friend—the reason is not that he would refuse to tell it to one who is not friend. The reason is: one who is not friend, not beloved, stands with his back to Truth. The whole purpose of friendship is only this—that Arjuna can stand facing it.
The preparation to know and understand Truth is possible in friendship. With the enemy we turn our back; we shut the doors. We cannot welcome the enemy. Krishna would be willing even to tell an enemy; but the enemy will stand with his doors closed. The condition is not on Krishna’s side.
Truth is available to all. The sun rises—available to all. But one may stand with eyes closed if he does not wish to receive it. The river flows—available to all. One may turn away and refuse to see or drink. The river can do nothing. To turn one’s back is your freedom.
Hence, whenever one has approached to understand Truth, a relationship of friendship is essential. Otherwise Truth cannot be recognized, cannot be understood, cannot even be heard.
Toward one for whom there is no feeling of friendship, we do not allow entry within. And Truth is the subtlest entrance of all. For it a receptivity, a capacity to receive, is needed.
Notice: near a stranger you become closed. Perhaps you have not noticed; if not, notice now. In the presence of the unfamiliar, you become shut; all the doors of your consciousness close. You sit guarded; there is a fear of attack. The stranger is unpredictable. Who knows what he may do! So you must be prepared. Hence with the stranger there is restlessness. With a friend, with one dear, you become unarmed. You drop all weapons of defense. No fear. No special vigilance. No readiness for protection. You leave your doors open.
When there is friendship, the guest can enter your within. Without friendship, no guest can enter. Truth is a great guest. All the doors of the heart should be open for it. Without an intimate trust, a friendly reverence, a living trust in-between, Truth can be spoken but cannot be heard. And the one who speaks is mad if he speaks to one who is not capable of hearing.
Therefore Krishna says: you are my friend, my beloved; hence I tell you again of that Truth which is ancient, eternal, beginningless, ever-present.
Another point: why does Krishna keep reminding Arjuna, you are my friend, my beloved? What need to remind? Here a great psychological truth must be taken in.
We are people filled with forgetfulness. If we are not reminded again and again, we simply forget. We forget every moment. Our memory is poor; our discernment diseased. We even forget that the friend is a friend; that the beloved is beloved; that the near one is near.
It is easy to forget the other. We forget even ourselves. We do not remember who we are. We do not remember what state we are in. We live almost in a faint. A sleep holds us. Anger comes—only then we come to know that anger has come. Even then, only a few are fortunate to notice. When it is over, then we notice—and then nothing can be done; the bird has flown. People rage and afterward say: we don’t know how it happened! You did it and you don’t know? Were you conscious or unconscious? Awake or asleep? We are almost always asleep.
Again and again in the Gita Krishna reminds Arjuna: you are my friend. Directly and indirectly, many times he reminds him. Whenever Krishna feels Arjuna is closing, not opening, he says: remember—you are my friend, my beloved. Perhaps for a moment Arjuna’s memory may return, he may open, come near, become receptive; and a ray of awakening may enter him regarding the Truth Krishna wishes to impart. Hence Krishna repeats: you are my friend, my beloved; therefore I say this.
Whenever we are filled with intimacy and inwardness toward someone, in a single instant the level of our consciousness changes. We become something else. Filled with friendship and love, we are on great heights. Filled with hatred and enmity, we are in deep lows. Filled with indifference, we are on flat ground.
Vision of Truth happens only when we are on the peak—on the height of our consciousness. What Krishna is saying—only if Arjuna makes a leap can he understand. If he stands where he is, he cannot. If he jumps a little, perhaps a glimpse of the sun that is not visible from his place may be had. No harm—after the glimpse he may return. But even a glimpse becomes the foundation for transformation.
Therefore Krishna says: Arjuna, you are my friend, my beloved; hence I speak Truth to you. This remembrance of friendship is to help Arjuna leap, to come close to Krishna.
Remember: there are only two ways for dialogue. Either Krishna comes down to the plane of Arjuna’s mind; then a dialogue is possible—but not a dialogue of Truth. Or Arjuna rises to Krishna’s plane; then the dialogue can be of Truth. Between them lies the distance of mountain and abyss.
This is a conversation between a mountain peak and a dark ravine. A peak speaking to the abyss. Gaurishankar calls into a valley sunk in shadow. Difficult dialogue. Not the same language, no nearness. The abyss may get frightened; if frightened, it will shrink, hide deeper in darkness. So the peak calls: I am your friend, I am near. Open; do not fear; do not shrink, do not hesitate. Do not close your doors. Let what I say enter within.
To give Arjuna every assurance Krishna says many things. First he says: this Truth is most ancient, eternal, beginningless—even when time was not, this was. Why this reminder? Had he said nothing, it might have been fine.
But if Krishna says: I alone am giving you this Truth, Arjuna might not open that much; he might close. Trust might not arise so readily. So Krishna begins from the beginningless: who said it to whom, through whom it has come. Thus he persuades Arjuna to open.
Then he reminds him: friend, beloved. And when Krishna finds Arjuna has come into the right tuning—the right moment where union can happen—there he speaks the Truth. Thus in the Gita there are moments when the tuning happens; Arjuna comes very near; then Krishna utters words of such value they cannot be priced.
Only when the speaker and the listener become one, become of one taste—then. I will remind you at which moments—there the mahavakyas of the Gita arise. Before that, they cannot be said. One must wait.
To speak Truth one must wait. To hear Truth—also wait. The modern world is in great haste. Perhaps that is why the discourse of Truth has become so difficult.
I have heard: a youth came to a fakir to learn Truth. He said, I am in a hurry; my father is old; I must return home soon. How long will it take to know Truth? The master looked him up and down and said: at least three years. The youth cried: three years! I don’t know if my father will survive. Can it be sooner? I will labor as you say—from dawn to dusk. The master said: then perhaps ten years. The youth said: are you mad? I say I will labor more; I will not sleep; I will remain awake as long as you keep me; day and night without refusal—cannot it be sooner? The master said: very hard; less than thirty years it will not be.
The youth said: what are you saying! My father is old; I am in haste. The master said: then return now. For your father I can do nothing; but as long as you remain in haste, Truth will not be found; sixty or seventy years may go. The youth said: let’s go back to the three-year plan. The master said: now it is hard to return—one who is in such a hurry will take very long.
Why so long for the hasty? The master said: because to establish tuning with a hurried mind is very difficult; to bring attunement, an inner relationship—difficult. Without relationship, I cannot say it. What I have to say can happen in one instant—but when will that instant come? It may take three years; it may take thirty. If you are with me in relaxed ease, in silent waiting, perhaps it will come soon. If you are in haste, you are in such tension and restlessness that the instant may never come. With a restless mind, connection is hard.
Surely Krishna’s task of tuning with Arjuna was harder than any Buddha’s task, or Mahavira’s, or Jesus’, or Mohammed’s, or Confucius’, or Lao Tzu’s—with any disciple. For none had the chance to teach Truth on a battlefield.
How much hurry there must have been! Conches blaring, war-drums sounding, horses anxious to run; weapons ready; warriors prepared to test the labor of a lifetime; enemies face to face—and Arjuna raises questions. In such a crisis, teaching Truth must have been supremely difficult.
Therefore much of what Krishna says is only to bring Arjuna near, to reassure him. So that he forgets there is war, forgets the urgency, forgets the crisis—and becomes inwardly ready to hear this dialogue of Truth. For this inner readiness he says many things. And when Arjuna is ready, he utters a mahavakya. There are only a few in the Gita; the rest is their unfolding.
Arjuna said:
aparaṁ bhavato janma paraṁ janma vivasvataḥ.
katham etad vijānīyāṁ tvam ādau proktavān iti.. 4..
Arjuna asked: O Lord, your birth is recent, while the Sun’s is ancient. So how am I to understand that, at the dawn of the cycle, you taught this yoga?
Krishna has said: I spoke this very teaching before the beginning, to the Sun; the Sun to Manu, Manu to Ikshvaku—and so on. Naturally Arjuna asks: your birth is now; the Sun’s was long ago—how could you have spoken to the Sun?
Krishna draws Arjuna, asking him to leap; Arjuna shrinks back into his ravine. His questions are shrinking questions. He says: how am I to trust?
Notice: one who asks, how to trust?—for him, trust is very difficult. Either there is trust, or there is not. “How to trust” breeds an infinite regress—no end.
Trust either happens or it doesn’t. But if one asks “how,” then the very question leads into distrust.
Arjuna grows suspicious: how can it be? Absurd, inconsistent. He says: the Sun—you said this to him?
See the irony! Krishna wishes to provoke trust by saying: I said it to the Sun; I now say the same to you. But for Arjuna this becomes a cause of distrust.
He asks: You—to the Sun? You are born now; the Sun long ago! Arjuna does not question the truth Krishna spoke; he does not ask: what is that truth you told the Sun? He questions not the content but the container Krishna produced. How am I to accept it?
Know this: all the bridges of trust that the knowers have built for the ignorant—those very bridges the ignorant have used to justify their distrust. The knowers seek to build a bridge so Truth may be conveyed; the ignorant, obstinate in their not-knowing, refuse even the bridge: how can such a bridge be?
Krishna says: I am friend, beloved. Arjuna’s question is anything but loving. For love is trust—unquestioning trust. Where there is “why” in trust, love is absent.
Have you noticed? Whenever love’s hour comes in life, the why, how, what—fall away. Love brings immediate trust. If love cannot bring trust, it cannot bring anything; then it is not love.
Arjuna says: this does not seem worthy of acceptance! Understand what Krishna meant.
I said in the morning: when Krishna says, “the same I said,” Krishna knows well this body is freshly born. He does not need Arjuna to remind him. If Krishna does not know this much, asking anything else is useless.
Once a picture of Ramakrishna was taken. When the photographer brought it, Ramakrishna began to touch the picture’s feet. Disciples said: what are you doing? People will call you mad—touching the feet of your own picture! Ramakrishna laughed: do you think I don’t know it is my picture? If I don’t know even that much, then people will be right to call me mad.
Often the knowers advise the unknowing—and the unknowing even set out to advise the knowers, forgetting that when the knowers need your advice, then you no longer need theirs.
Ramakrishna said: I know it is my picture; and still I bowed—and he began to dance with it. A disciple asked: what are you doing? Ramakrishna said: understand—this is not only a picture of my body. When this picture was taken, I was in deep Samadhi. It is also a picture of that Samadhi. I am only the form; another form might have been here; but the inner event caught here is what I bow to.
But that inner event is not visible to our outer eyes. Arjuna could not see it—no wonder.
Arjuna thinks as we do—by logic, arithmetic, account. He says: you? The picture of Krishna he sees stands before him: this man says such a thing? This man’s birthdate we know; the Sun’s we don’t. Even on the day this man was born, the Sun rose—and long before too.
His question seems reasonable—to us as well. But he is incapable of seeing the inner being; we also are incapable.
Krishna is not speaking of the body. He speaks of that Atman that has taken and dropped innumerable bodies like garments. Bodies grew old and were cast off. He speaks of that Atman which is one with Paramatman. It was before the Sun; when the Sun is extinguished, it will remain.
As far as bodies go, this Sun will extinguish innumerable bodies like ours and not be extinguished. But of the inner, millions of such suns will be extinguished and the inner will not.
Arjuna has no sense of that; so he questions. From Arjuna’s side, his question is logical; from Krishna’s, it is irrelevant. From Arjuna’s side, rational; from Krishna’s, blind. From Arjuna’s, meaningful; from Krishna’s, childish. Yet what can Arjuna do? Until the heights are attained, argument seems compelling. From his side the question is natural.
Bhagavan said:
bahūni me vyatītāni janmāni tava cārjuna.
tānyahaṁ veda sarvāṇi na tvaṁ vettha paraṁtapa.. 5..
The Blessed Lord said: O Arjuna, many births of mine and yours have passed. I know them all; you do not, O scorcher of foes.
Krishna says: of mine and yours, many births—yet you do not know, I do.
A few points. First: we should not hurry to conclude that what we do not know does not exist. Arjuna’s reasoning—what he doesn’t know is not—this is childish. Much exists that we do not know. Our ignorance does not make it nonexistent. But this is a natural fallacy of man. Somehow we think our knowing is everything.
If our knowing were everything—if I ask you: was there a first of January, 1961? You say yes, I was there. If I ask you: recall that day—what did you do in the morning? At noon? In the evening? Did you sleep easily? What did you dream? You say: I remember nothing. If you remember nothing at all, what right have you to say the day existed? You will say: it certainly did; I was—but memory I do not have.
Memory can be brought back. A deep law of mind: what is known is never truly lost. Forgetting is only failure to retrieve. The memory is somewhere; we cannot grasp where it lies hidden.
A small mind; millions of impressions. The mind must sort; it keeps what seems useful, throws the rest into the inner junk-room. But the junk-room is also inside. Like a cellar where we store things that may be of use someday.
Everything is stored. Thus if you are hypnotized, put into trance, you can recall even the first day of birth. Under hypnotic regression psychologists now lead people to the day of birth. Of that day you have no waking memory; you rely upon borrowed testimonies. But the first day is inside.
Tibetan lamas went deeper—to memories of the nine months in the womb. The true birth is not the birthday we celebrate; it is nine months earlier. The so-called birthday is the day of release from the mother’s body; not the beginning of life. Nine months you were a satellite; your body circling with the mother’s; not yet an independent planet. When strong enough, you separated.
The child’s body is joined to the mother’s body; whatever touches the mother’s body and mind imprints upon the child. Hence, later when mothers suffer over their children, they do not know that fifty percent is their own doing—imprinted before birth. Much later “bad company” may corrupt; but long before that, nine months of company in the womb have done their work. Those memories also exist. And deeper still—memories of past lives.
Krishna says simply: what you do not know, I do. So simple, so natural—authentic. Notice: no hesitation. Even a slight hesitation reveals second-hand knowledge.
Another point: between philosophers and rishis there is a difference. Philosophers speak hypothetically: if—then. Rishis speak categorically: it is. Thus when the Upanishads were first translated in the West, thinkers were puzzled: how do these seers say straightaway, Brahman is—without argument, without proof, as if saying “the sun is.” The West had few rishi-voices; its philosophers argue. But argument reveals conclusion, not experience. Truth is an experience, not a conclusion.
Therefore when Krishna says, Arjuna, you do not know and I know—and when I say I told the Sun, I speak of another birth—not this birth.
Also remember: in Krishna’s time, in Buddha’s, in Mahavira’s—knowledge did not stutter as it does now; it was bold. Today “knowledge” is mostly borrowed; hence it hesitates.
A nun wrote a book on yoga and sent it to me. It seemed well-written; but in two or three places it was evident she had no experience of meditation. The trivial she wrote boldly; about the essential she hesitated. Years later she came to me and asked privately: teach me how to meditate. I said: when I read your book years ago I felt you could have no real taste of meditation. She said: I know nothing. Then why did you write? She said: I compiled ten or fifty books—for people’s benefit. I said: a book that didn’t benefit even you in writing—will it benefit the readers? You ask me “how to meditate” four years later, yet in your book you enumerate four types of meditation! She said: the scriptures say so. But to learn meditation from scripture is to hold a picture of the sun—the picture can be held; the sun burns.
Borrowed knowledge hesitates; ignorance today is bold. In Charvaka’s day, to say “there is no God,” he had to give a thousand arguments; atheism was a conclusion. Knowledge was powerful—it said, Brahman is—without argument. Today the opposite: the atheist declares without proof; the theist collects a thousand flimsy analogies—like potter and pot—to prove God. Knowledge, if real, is experience.
Krishna gives no argument; he states. Such direct statements pierce where arguments cannot. Where proofs fail, the eyes’ testimony arrives.
Arjuna asks for proofs; Krishna gives none. Arjuna wants certificates; Krishna says: you do not know; I know. When Truth had such courage, no wonder it transformed. Today ignorance speaks with that courage; its results are accordingly dark.
I have heard: a seeker stayed long with a guru. The guru told him: meditate so that you die—only then the Divine will be found. He tried many ways—how to die? Each morning he reported failure. The guru would say: you are still there; how will meditation happen? One day the seeker thought: how long will this go on! He came to the door; before the guru could speak, he fell down “dead,” closed his eyes, stopped his breath. The guru approached: good. Yesterday I gave you a question; give the answer. The man opened one eye and said: I have not found it yet. The guru said: fool—dead men do not answer. Rise and go home! If you die, die. Why such hurry to answer? He had understood nothing. The guru spoke of the death of ego; he fell like a corpse. Body-centered minds cannot hear what is beyond body.
Arjuna is body-centered. His sorrow and thought revolve around the body. He says: my loved ones will die. Krishna says: none die; they were before; they will be after. Arjuna doesn’t understand. He asks again: you—before the Sun? You are born now! The same body-bound vision.
But Krishna gives a direct statement. Those who have experience use argument only to explain, not to prove. Those without experience use argument first and statement later. Krishna speaks without hesitation: you do not know; I know. Only experience can be so unhesitant.
It is like a seeing person telling a blind one: the sun is—I know; you do not. As simple as that.
ajo’pi sann avyayātmā bhūtānām īśvaro’pi san.
prakṛtiṁ svām adhiṣṭhāya sambhavāmy ātma-māyayā.. 6..
Even though I am unborn, imperishable, and the Lord of beings, abiding in my own Prakriti I manifest by my own yogamaya.
Here Krishna gives the key: how consciousness appears in matter; how Paramatman manifests in Prakriti; how the invisible assumes a visible body; how the unearthly becomes earthly; how the unknown, infinite, enters the finite. He says: I am not born like others.
Understand: when he says “I am not born like others,” it does not mean what has often been taken—that only he is an avatar and others are not. He is saying: in truth, none is born; but others believe they are born. As long as they believe so, they die. Their belief is their boundary. He says: I am not born like others—I know that I am unborn; I have never been born.
A matter for deep searching: try as you may, you cannot truly imagine that “I will die.” The idea does not take hold within. That is why so many die around you, yet you cannot feel “I will die.” Within, there is no relation with death. What is within is not mortal; it is unborn. Only what is born dies. What is un-born does not die.
Krishna says: I am unborn, ajata—thus undying. Others consider their birthday to be their beginning. Their very belief is their illusion. They too are not born—but the day they know it, they become like me.
Yet the Unborn also appears here—descends. Krishna too is “born.” It is told that Zarathustra, when born, did not cry—he laughed. People were frightened: a baby laughs? Crying is natural for the newborn. But think—if crying is natural for the child, then for the old it should be natural to die laughing. At least experience should carry one beyond that first cry. Forgive the infant; not the old man who dies weeping. But the two ends meet: the old dies weeping; the child is born weeping. They are the same rope’s ends. Here the curtain falls; there it rises—tears at both edges.
Zarathustra later said: I laughed at birth because I had died laughing before. We were laughing as we went behind the curtain. People were weeping; we knew we were not dying—so laughter came.
Krishna says: I am unborn. This “I” is the supreme I, the I of Paramatman. No birth—and yet I appear in this body. How? By yogamaya.
Understand this key-word—yogamaya. Call it Brahmamaya—name does not matter. Meaning: if consciousness so wills, it can enter anything, unite with anything; if it resolves, what should not “happen” can “happen.” By sankalpa alone it happens.
Grasp a few hints of hypnosis, and yogamaya will be clear. It is a greater hypnosis—call it self-hypnosis of the Absolute. Even the Divine, to enter the world, assumes a trance; otherwise entry is not possible. We too enter only in a deep swoon. Awakened—we are outside matter; hypnotized—we are inside.
Under trance, place a pebble in your palm and say, “A burning coal.” You will cry out and throw it; a blister will form—real as from a coal. Or the reverse: leap across live coals unburnt by deep sankalpa. Inner consciousness makes real what it holds to be real. This is yogamaya.
Krishna says: I—the Divine—enter the body by my own yogamaya. Birth always involves hypnosis. But there are two kinds. This is the difference between an avatar and the ordinary. If you enter knowingly, consciously, you are an avatar. If you enter unknowingly, you are ordinary. In one case nature hypnotizes you; in the other, you self-hypnotize—auto-hypnosis.
Ordinarily, birth happens under the spell of desires. One dies possessed by unfulfilled desires—they bind, they pull: take another body quickly. The last thought at night becomes the first at dawn. The last thought at death becomes the first at birth. Desire holds you and ushers you into a new life.
Krishna says: unlike others. Others are dragged by desires—unconscious. Like animals led by a rope—bound, they enter new births. They remember neither death nor rebirth—only their blind desires, which they resume once strength returns. They spin in a vicious circle.
Beings like Krishna are born knowingly—not out of desire, not out of compulsion. Then why are they born? When desire is gone, what remains as cause? Desire is the cause of unconscious birth. What remains? When desire dissolves—only then—karuna is born: compassion.
Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira are born out of compassion—to share what they have known. This is a conscious birth. Hence their previous death is known; this birth is known. One who knows one death and one birth gains access to the whole chain of births.
Therefore, when Krishna says: you do not know; I know—and I am not born like others; by my yogamaya, consciously, I have appeared—he speaks of a deep esoteric science.
From the surface this can be “understood” only so far; to truly know it, you must enter within. It is not difficult to step out of the “others’” world into Krishna’s. There is only one way: recognize that what is within is unborn—no birth. Recognition, not repetition. You can chant, “the Atman is immortal,” every morning—and nothing will happen. You must know it.
How to know? Move backward within—step by step. Recall. At first you may only recall up to five years of age; the earlier lost. The gifted may recall up to three years. Then do this: each night, as you fall asleep, keep recalling the last clear memory—three years, say—holding to it until sleep overtakes you. Let that memory sink like a hook into the unconscious; by morning another memory will rise—from before three. Use it. Night after night, you will drift toward birth. One day the day of birth will be recalled. Hold it; then memories of the womb will arise; then conception; then the death of the previous life. The film will run in reverse—first death, then old age, then youth, then childhood, then birth. At first confusing; with practice, clear. Once memory returns, you will no longer be counted among “others.” To fall out of that count is the goal.

yadā yadā hi dharmasya glānir bhavati bhārata.
bhyutthānam adharmasya tadātmānaṁ sṛjāmy aham.. 7..
paritrāṇāya sādhūnāṁ vināśāya ca duṣkṛtām.
dharma-saṁsthāpanārthāya sambhavāmi yuge yuge.. 8..
O Bharata, whenever dharma declines and adharma rises, then I manifest myself; for the protection of the good, for the destruction of the wicked, and for the establishment of dharma, I appear age after age.
Let us take this final verse and continue in the morning. I said: beings like Krishna are born out of karuna, not vasana. Understand their difference. Vasana is for oneself; karuna is for others. Vasana’s target is “I”; karuna’s target is the other. Vasana contracts toward the ego-center; karuna expands from the periphery to all. Like a flower blossoming and fragrance spreading; like ripples traveling across a lake when a stone is thrown—karuna spreads. Vasana is contraction; karuna expansion.
Krishna says: out of karuna—whenever dharma declines, to re-establish it; when adharma becomes powerful, to bid it farewell—I come.
Note: when Krishna says “I come,” this “I” includes Buddha, Mahavira, Jesus, Mohammed—all. This “I” is not personal. He is saying: whenever someone comes for the birth of light and the demise of darkness—that is my coming. The “I” here means the One Consciousness.
Whoever has exhausted vasanas can return out of karuna—whenever needed. Such a one has no personal name—for all names belong to vasana. As long as “my” desire exists, “my” name and identity exist. If no vasana remains, ego disappears, name disappears; then my birth is Krishna’s birth; your birth, if without vasana, is Krishna’s birth.
Truly understood: our impurities are our personalities. When purified, no personality remains. Thus wherever anyone is born out of karuna—that is Krishna’s coming. When needed, when darkness thickens, a ray returns—out of compassion. If there is no need, none returns. The earth has always needed; hence again and again.
This “destruction of the wicked” and “protection of the good” must be understood. Destruction of the wicked does not mean murdering the wicked—that would itself be wicked. It means the destruction of wickedness within the wicked. Kill the evil, not the person. If you slay the person, the evil in you grows.
“Protection of the good” is subtler. A sadhu is one who needs no saving. If a sadhu cannot save himself, who is he? We think perhaps the wicked harass the sadhus, so for their rescue Krishna comes. But a true sadhu cannot be harassed. If the wicked attack a sadhu, only the wicked must change—not the sadhu. A sadhu cannot be harmed: for him insult and garland are the same; how will you hurt him?
Then “for the protection of sadhus” means: for the redemption of pseudo-sadhus from hypocrisy. For in an age of adharma, true sadhus are absent; what you have are pious masks. Hypocrisy has no substance to destroy; it can only be unmasked. Evil is something to be destroyed; hypocrisy is only a face to be removed—then the man behind appears.
Where there are no sadhus, there is adharma; where there are sadhus, dharma stands. Dharma too needs a ground on earth—the hearts of sadhus. Without them, dharma has nowhere to place its feet; it becomes like Trishanku, hanging in mid-air. Adharma stands upon the hearts of the unholy.
I was once at a gathering. A renowned sadhu, Karpatri-ji, led the crowd to shout: Victory to dharma! Three times they cried. Then: Down with adharma! I said to the sadhu beside me: once victory to dharma is declared, how can adharma remain? Asking for both is like saying: light the lamp—and then: remove the darkness. If the lamp is lit, darkness is gone. If darkness doesn’t go with “victory to dharma,” it will not go with slogans against it.
When there are no true sadhus, there is no dharma; when there is no dharma, adharma arises. Then Krishna says: I—in the sense of any consciousness free of vasana—return out of compassion: for the redemption of the “sadhus” from hypocrisy, and for the destruction of evil in the wicked.
We shall speak further in the morning.