My birth and deeds are divine; whoever knows them thus, in truth।
Casting off the body, he is not reborn; he comes to Me, O Arjuna।। 9।।
Geeta Darshan #3
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
जन्म कर्म च मे दिव्यमेवं यो वेत्ति तत्त्वतः।
त्यक्त्वा देहं पुनर्जन्म नैति मामेति सोऽर्जुन।। 9।।
त्यक्त्वा देहं पुनर्जन्म नैति मामेति सोऽर्जुन।। 9।।
Transliteration:
janma karma ca me divyamevaṃ yo vetti tattvataḥ|
tyaktvā dehaṃ punarjanma naiti māmeti so'rjuna|| 9||
janma karma ca me divyamevaṃ yo vetti tattvataḥ|
tyaktvā dehaṃ punarjanma naiti māmeti so'rjuna|| 9||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, please clarify more clearly the meaning of these two states—“having taken exclusive refuge in me,” and “having been purified by the austerity of knowledge.”
“To have taken exclusive refuge in me”—it is very amusing, very contradictory, very paradoxical. All religious truths are paradoxes, apparent contradictions. The opposition is only an appearance. Krishna says, “Take exclusive refuge in me.”
“Exclusive” means: one who does not regard himself as other than me; who does not see me and himself as separate; no otherness remains—exclusive, one. One who, in the feeling of non-duality, has become one with me.
But then he says something else. Once you have become one, where is there any scope left for refuge? We can go for refuge only to the other—the “other.” If there is no other, how will you go into refuge? Krishna says, “Exclusively take my refuge.” Become one with me—and come into my refuge. This is quite an upside-down statement! If you become one, who will go for refuge, and whose refuge will he seek? Hence it is “amusing,” paradoxical.
In truth, the day neither the one who goes for refuge remains, nor the one in whose refuge he goes remains, that very day surrender happens. That day refuge is complete. As long as you remain and the other remains, you may place your head at someone’s feet, but your ego is not placed there; it stands upright within.
Go look in temples: foreheads are touching stone feet and egos stand stiff and proud. The head bows to the floor; the ego is lifted to the sky. The head bows at the feet while the ego keeps looking around: “Is anyone watching how surrendered I am?” Only when, in the exclusive feeling, neither “I” remains nor “Thou” remains does refuge happen.
Refuge means surrender. As long as the “I” remains, surrender does not happen. Remember: no one can truly say, “I am going into refuge.” No one can go into refuge, because as long as the one who says “I am going” is there, refuge has not happened. When the “I” is not there, one discovers that surrender has already happened.
In the exclusive feeling—no “other” over there, no “someone” here—on the day such a state dawns (which, as I said, is the fruit of dispassion), that day surrender happens, that day he comes into “my refuge,” Krishna says. “My refuge”—we are forced to use language that ought not be used there, because there, there is no mine and thine.
The second thing he says: “Purified by the austerity that is knowledge.”
This too is a very amusing, paradoxical statement—“purified by the austerity of knowledge.” Why add “of knowledge” to austerity at all? Wouldn’t “purified by austerity” be enough?
Often the ignorant can perform great austerities. In fact, the egoistic person can do great austerity, because the ego is stubborn. If he says, “I will remain hungry for sixty days,” he can manage it. Let the ego be a little weak, and sixty days of fasting becomes difficult; but if the ego is strong, a man can fast sixty days.
If an egoist decides, “I will remain standing; I will never sit,” he can do it. A non-egoist decides the same and soon thinks, “At most people will say I didn’t keep my vow. Let me sit.” The egoist will say, “Even if my life leaves me, I cannot sit now.” It has become an oath of the ego.
So note this: the egoistic are often keen on ascetic practices. If ascetics turn out to be egoistic, do not be surprised. Generally, ascetics are egoistic—not because ascetics are inherently egoistic, but because the egoistic easily become ascetics. Whatever obsession the ego picks up, it tries to fulfill.
In ninety-eight out of a hundred cases, ascetics come to asceticism through the route of ego. That is why we praise austerity so much, take out processions for it. Let someone fast and a procession is arranged, bands and drums are played.
A fast needs no band and brass. But the ego that gave birth to the fast will slacken without the band. The bands are essential—for keeping it aroused, for cajoling it. That person did not fast for the sake of fasting; deep down he is awaiting the band’s music. So we encourage the ego—because on the basis of ego, austerities are possible. But austerity based on ego does not purify the soul; it defiles it.
Therefore Krishna had to add a condition: “the austerity of knowledge.” Austerity alone is not enough; because it can be born of ignorance as well. Austerity alone is not enough; it can arise out of ignorance. And when austerity arises out of ignorance, it makes the soul even more impure. It must arise out of knowledge.
What does it mean to arise out of knowledge? How will austerity arise out of knowledge? Out of ignorance it can—very easily. Our entire life stands centered on ignorance, on the ego.
A father says to his son, “Look, the neighbor’s boy is getting ahead. The honor of our lineage is at stake!” He stirs the boy’s ego. The boy studies through the night to bring home a gold medal—because it’s a question of honor.
We even try to bring about good behavior by using the ego. The father says, “Behave like this or our family’s name will be ruined.” He doesn’t say the act is wrong; he says it will ruin the family’s name. “What will people say about my son?” He is persuading the son’s ego.
All around sit great persuaders; all around sit enticers. They are coaxing the ego. They cleverly coax that ego and make us do things.
Our whole life is an austerity conducted on the foundation of ego.
A man earning wealth is performing no small austerity. Compared with ascetics in the forest, his austerity is in no way less; in a sense it is greater. What does the poor fellow do? From morning to evening he is absorbed in collecting money. He runs around like a madman. He runs all his life; he fills his safe and dies. But money is a pleasure for the ego. The more, the greater the pleasure. The ego makes him accumulate money.
Another man keeps running toward Delhi. Many are running right now. There is no real juice in Delhi; the juice is in the ego. See how much madness goes on! How much pleading, joined hands toward anyone who can help: “Somehow get me to Delhi!” He stakes everything to get to Delhi. The ego—on reaching Delhi he becomes “somebody.” Then the race continues: after reaching Delhi, how to get into the cabinet! He talks principles, but the only principle is ego; there is no other principle. There is no socialism, no democracy, nothing.
For man there is only one deep principle: the ego. Then the ornaments for that ego—socialism, democracy, and who knows what else! They are all adornments for that one principle.
The whole world is engrossed in the austerity of ego. These very ascetics we also steer toward religion. The same people become “religious ascetics.” They sit on fasts! And if people don’t come, it becomes difficult.
I have a friend, a big political leader. People made him undertake a hunger strike. But circumstances in his village turned such that, though he fasted, very few came to see. I went to his village to see him. I said, “Let me visit him—he must be in trouble.”
He really was in trouble. He confided to me, “I’m in great difficulty. Things have gotten so tangled that no one even comes to look. If people kept coming and going, if cameramen kept taking photos and the papers kept publishing them, I could endure it. But now, twenty-four hours I see nothing but hunger. Please arrange somehow to have my fast broken.”
“What could be the way?”
“Any way you like—whether my demands are met or not. But the ego must find a way.” He also said, “It’s been twenty-one days now; I cannot just break it suddenly. It is a question of honor. If the chief minister of the state could come, hand me a glass of sweet lime juice, and say only this much: ‘We will consider your demands.’”
I said, “That can be done. There’s no great difficulty there—considering involves no trouble. ‘We will consider!’” He said, “That would be enough. I don’t want any more hassle. Mischief-makers have entangled me, and they themselves are nowhere to be seen!”
If people kept coming, a crowd kept gathering, he would have had no trouble. Hunger can be endured if the ego is being fed. But if the ego is not fed, then it becomes difficult.
Stop giving a little honor to ascetics and you’ll see—ninety-nine out of a hundred will take their leave. They won’t be anywhere. Give honor, and they go on increasing.
Krishna speaks knowingly: “Purified by the austerity of knowledge.” And only by the austerity of knowledge is the soul purified.
What will knowledge-austerity be like? Ignorance-based austerity exploits the ego; it depends on ego. What will knowledge-based austerity depend on? On surrender, not on ego—on surrender.
Understand this difference well. Hence first he said: exclusive refuge in me; then he said: purified by the austerity of knowledge.
Knowledge-austerity is always surrendered. Behind knowledge-austerity there is not the feeling, “I am doing austerity”; behind it is the feeling, “What the divine is making happen is what I am doing. If he throws me into fire, I am ready to burn. I am not the one burning.”
A nun in Japan named Eisun—a living image of a surrendered life. Even before eating, she would close her eyes, and with the plate before her, look up within to the sky. Sometimes she would say, “Take it away. Not today.” People would ask, “What happened? You could have told us earlier.” She would say, “Until the food is set before me, how can I even ask the Lord? I asked, ‘What should I do? What is your intention—eat or not?’ Today the answer is not ‘yes.’ Take the food away.” On another day she would eat: “Today the answer is ‘yes.’” A day before her death she closed her eyes, looked up within…
But people never fully believed her. “Who knows if an answer really comes from above? Maybe she answers from her own mind—when she wants to eat, she eats; when she doesn’t, she doesn’t.”
Yet Eisun, up to the age of sixty, never said, “I have kept even a single fast.” Because it did not arise from ego; there was no question of an “I.” She kept no accounts—as monks do: “I have kept this many fasts; in this monsoon-residence so-and-so kept this many.” These are not ledger books to keep accounts in—but the ego keeps ledgers.
Sixty years! Someone would ask, “How many fasts have you kept?” She would say, “I? Not a single one. Sometimes the Lord gave the joy of food, sometimes the joy of fasting.”
Then, when she turned sixty, one day—with the plate in front—she looked within to the sky and said, “Not only food; today the message is that this is my last day. With the setting of the sun I will depart.” And she departed exactly at sunset. The sun set, she sat with eyes closed, and the breath slipped away. Then people understood that the voice that came to her was not as we had thought. In matters of food there could be some trick; but in matters of death there can be none.
Surrendered asceticism is knowledge-austerity. One who lives in the hands of the divine—whatever he brings: pain is pain, pleasure is pleasure, darkness is darkness, light is light, food is food, hunger is hunger—who lives consenting to what he brings, his life is an austerity of knowledge. His whole life is a single tapas, but born of knowledge. It is not the egoist’s stubbornness that “I am doing this.”
One evening Socrates went outside his house. He did not return till late night—did not return. The family grew anxious. They searched a lot; he was not found. By morning there was no option but to wait.
At sunrise they went searching. They saw snow had piled up to his knees. All night he had been standing in falling snow, leaning against a tree, eyes closed. They shook him. “What are you doing?” He opened his eyes and said, “What happened?” He looked down. As surprised as they were, so was he. “Ah! So much snow! Night has passed? The sun has risen?” They said, “What were you doing? Were you in your senses or out of them? What were you doing all night?”
He said, “I wasn’t doing anything. This evening, when I came here, the sky was full of stars—the far-off infinite mystery. My mind felt like surrendering. I closed my eyes and let myself go into the Vast. After that I don’t know what happened. If something was done, he did it; I did nothing.”
This is knowledge-austerity—surrendered asceticism, a surrendered attitude. Then whatever happens is his will.
Jesus is being nailed to the cross. For a moment, from his mouth comes, “O God! What are you showing me? Have you forsaken me?” And a moment later he says, “Forgive me—what have I said! Thy will be done.” Thy will be done. Then the nails are driven through his hands, the neck hangs on the cross—but Jesus remains in the feeling, “Thy will be done.” That cross of Jesus becomes knowledge-austerity—surrendered: Thy will be done. The matter is finished.
As long as asceticism is according to my will, it is ignorance-born. When it is according to his will, it becomes knowledge-born. It is the second form of exclusive refuge.
And when someone passes through austerity in surrender, the soul becomes pure; everything within is cleansed. For the greatest impurity is the ego, and all other impurities are by-products of the ego; they arise from it.
Have you ever noticed—without ego, can anger arise? Without ego, how could anger arise? Without ego, can greed arise? How would greed arise? Without ego, can jealousy arise? How would jealousy arise?
The ego is the root disease, the fundamental impurity—the root of the sickness. All the other sicknesses are leaves and branches that have come upon it. Hence surrender is the fundamental practice. Surrender means: cut the root of ego. Ignorance-based asceticism cuts the leaves and branches.
But remember: the law of the garden is the same in the garden of the mind. You cut a leaf; the leaf thinks it is being pruned—four grow in its place. You cut a branch; the branch thinks it is being pruned—four shoots sprout. Cut anger without cutting the ego and you will find anger beginning to sprout in four directions. Cut greed without cutting the ego and you will find greed has discovered twenty-five new pathways.
Ignorance-based asceticism goes on wrestling with the branches while watering the root—watering the root of the ego and cutting the branches born from it. The branches go on spreading, the root of the ego grows stronger and stronger.
Knowledge-based asceticism does not fight leaves and branches; it cuts the root. In the exclusive feeling it surrenders itself. It says, “O God, you take charge. Now neither anger is mine nor forgiveness is mine; neither pleasure mine nor pain mine; neither life mine nor death mine. You handle it. Now I will neither let go nor hold on. I will not run; I will neither attach nor renounce. Whatever you make me do, I consent.”
This consenting—this acceptability—is called surrender. Through this surrender everything is purified, because the root is cut. Where there is no ego, there is no impurity. Where there is ego, impurity will be—in whatever form. And religious impurity is worse than irreligious impurity.
The ego of an ascetic is more dangerous than ordinary ego. How can we compare the anger of ordinary men with the anger of Durvasa? Durvasa’s anger is of another order—anger at its peak. An ordinary man cannot be so wrathful, because he has not watered his ego so much through austerity.
Ignorance-based asceticism makes the life-breath more impure. Knowledge-based asceticism purifies it.
The rest we will talk about in the evening.
For now, pause. For five to seven minutes, join in a surrendered kirtan.
“Exclusive” means: one who does not regard himself as other than me; who does not see me and himself as separate; no otherness remains—exclusive, one. One who, in the feeling of non-duality, has become one with me.
But then he says something else. Once you have become one, where is there any scope left for refuge? We can go for refuge only to the other—the “other.” If there is no other, how will you go into refuge? Krishna says, “Exclusively take my refuge.” Become one with me—and come into my refuge. This is quite an upside-down statement! If you become one, who will go for refuge, and whose refuge will he seek? Hence it is “amusing,” paradoxical.
In truth, the day neither the one who goes for refuge remains, nor the one in whose refuge he goes remains, that very day surrender happens. That day refuge is complete. As long as you remain and the other remains, you may place your head at someone’s feet, but your ego is not placed there; it stands upright within.
Go look in temples: foreheads are touching stone feet and egos stand stiff and proud. The head bows to the floor; the ego is lifted to the sky. The head bows at the feet while the ego keeps looking around: “Is anyone watching how surrendered I am?” Only when, in the exclusive feeling, neither “I” remains nor “Thou” remains does refuge happen.
Refuge means surrender. As long as the “I” remains, surrender does not happen. Remember: no one can truly say, “I am going into refuge.” No one can go into refuge, because as long as the one who says “I am going” is there, refuge has not happened. When the “I” is not there, one discovers that surrender has already happened.
In the exclusive feeling—no “other” over there, no “someone” here—on the day such a state dawns (which, as I said, is the fruit of dispassion), that day surrender happens, that day he comes into “my refuge,” Krishna says. “My refuge”—we are forced to use language that ought not be used there, because there, there is no mine and thine.
The second thing he says: “Purified by the austerity that is knowledge.”
This too is a very amusing, paradoxical statement—“purified by the austerity of knowledge.” Why add “of knowledge” to austerity at all? Wouldn’t “purified by austerity” be enough?
Often the ignorant can perform great austerities. In fact, the egoistic person can do great austerity, because the ego is stubborn. If he says, “I will remain hungry for sixty days,” he can manage it. Let the ego be a little weak, and sixty days of fasting becomes difficult; but if the ego is strong, a man can fast sixty days.
If an egoist decides, “I will remain standing; I will never sit,” he can do it. A non-egoist decides the same and soon thinks, “At most people will say I didn’t keep my vow. Let me sit.” The egoist will say, “Even if my life leaves me, I cannot sit now.” It has become an oath of the ego.
So note this: the egoistic are often keen on ascetic practices. If ascetics turn out to be egoistic, do not be surprised. Generally, ascetics are egoistic—not because ascetics are inherently egoistic, but because the egoistic easily become ascetics. Whatever obsession the ego picks up, it tries to fulfill.
In ninety-eight out of a hundred cases, ascetics come to asceticism through the route of ego. That is why we praise austerity so much, take out processions for it. Let someone fast and a procession is arranged, bands and drums are played.
A fast needs no band and brass. But the ego that gave birth to the fast will slacken without the band. The bands are essential—for keeping it aroused, for cajoling it. That person did not fast for the sake of fasting; deep down he is awaiting the band’s music. So we encourage the ego—because on the basis of ego, austerities are possible. But austerity based on ego does not purify the soul; it defiles it.
Therefore Krishna had to add a condition: “the austerity of knowledge.” Austerity alone is not enough; because it can be born of ignorance as well. Austerity alone is not enough; it can arise out of ignorance. And when austerity arises out of ignorance, it makes the soul even more impure. It must arise out of knowledge.
What does it mean to arise out of knowledge? How will austerity arise out of knowledge? Out of ignorance it can—very easily. Our entire life stands centered on ignorance, on the ego.
A father says to his son, “Look, the neighbor’s boy is getting ahead. The honor of our lineage is at stake!” He stirs the boy’s ego. The boy studies through the night to bring home a gold medal—because it’s a question of honor.
We even try to bring about good behavior by using the ego. The father says, “Behave like this or our family’s name will be ruined.” He doesn’t say the act is wrong; he says it will ruin the family’s name. “What will people say about my son?” He is persuading the son’s ego.
All around sit great persuaders; all around sit enticers. They are coaxing the ego. They cleverly coax that ego and make us do things.
Our whole life is an austerity conducted on the foundation of ego.
A man earning wealth is performing no small austerity. Compared with ascetics in the forest, his austerity is in no way less; in a sense it is greater. What does the poor fellow do? From morning to evening he is absorbed in collecting money. He runs around like a madman. He runs all his life; he fills his safe and dies. But money is a pleasure for the ego. The more, the greater the pleasure. The ego makes him accumulate money.
Another man keeps running toward Delhi. Many are running right now. There is no real juice in Delhi; the juice is in the ego. See how much madness goes on! How much pleading, joined hands toward anyone who can help: “Somehow get me to Delhi!” He stakes everything to get to Delhi. The ego—on reaching Delhi he becomes “somebody.” Then the race continues: after reaching Delhi, how to get into the cabinet! He talks principles, but the only principle is ego; there is no other principle. There is no socialism, no democracy, nothing.
For man there is only one deep principle: the ego. Then the ornaments for that ego—socialism, democracy, and who knows what else! They are all adornments for that one principle.
The whole world is engrossed in the austerity of ego. These very ascetics we also steer toward religion. The same people become “religious ascetics.” They sit on fasts! And if people don’t come, it becomes difficult.
I have a friend, a big political leader. People made him undertake a hunger strike. But circumstances in his village turned such that, though he fasted, very few came to see. I went to his village to see him. I said, “Let me visit him—he must be in trouble.”
He really was in trouble. He confided to me, “I’m in great difficulty. Things have gotten so tangled that no one even comes to look. If people kept coming and going, if cameramen kept taking photos and the papers kept publishing them, I could endure it. But now, twenty-four hours I see nothing but hunger. Please arrange somehow to have my fast broken.”
“What could be the way?”
“Any way you like—whether my demands are met or not. But the ego must find a way.” He also said, “It’s been twenty-one days now; I cannot just break it suddenly. It is a question of honor. If the chief minister of the state could come, hand me a glass of sweet lime juice, and say only this much: ‘We will consider your demands.’”
I said, “That can be done. There’s no great difficulty there—considering involves no trouble. ‘We will consider!’” He said, “That would be enough. I don’t want any more hassle. Mischief-makers have entangled me, and they themselves are nowhere to be seen!”
If people kept coming, a crowd kept gathering, he would have had no trouble. Hunger can be endured if the ego is being fed. But if the ego is not fed, then it becomes difficult.
Stop giving a little honor to ascetics and you’ll see—ninety-nine out of a hundred will take their leave. They won’t be anywhere. Give honor, and they go on increasing.
Krishna speaks knowingly: “Purified by the austerity of knowledge.” And only by the austerity of knowledge is the soul purified.
What will knowledge-austerity be like? Ignorance-based austerity exploits the ego; it depends on ego. What will knowledge-based austerity depend on? On surrender, not on ego—on surrender.
Understand this difference well. Hence first he said: exclusive refuge in me; then he said: purified by the austerity of knowledge.
Knowledge-austerity is always surrendered. Behind knowledge-austerity there is not the feeling, “I am doing austerity”; behind it is the feeling, “What the divine is making happen is what I am doing. If he throws me into fire, I am ready to burn. I am not the one burning.”
A nun in Japan named Eisun—a living image of a surrendered life. Even before eating, she would close her eyes, and with the plate before her, look up within to the sky. Sometimes she would say, “Take it away. Not today.” People would ask, “What happened? You could have told us earlier.” She would say, “Until the food is set before me, how can I even ask the Lord? I asked, ‘What should I do? What is your intention—eat or not?’ Today the answer is not ‘yes.’ Take the food away.” On another day she would eat: “Today the answer is ‘yes.’” A day before her death she closed her eyes, looked up within…
But people never fully believed her. “Who knows if an answer really comes from above? Maybe she answers from her own mind—when she wants to eat, she eats; when she doesn’t, she doesn’t.”
Yet Eisun, up to the age of sixty, never said, “I have kept even a single fast.” Because it did not arise from ego; there was no question of an “I.” She kept no accounts—as monks do: “I have kept this many fasts; in this monsoon-residence so-and-so kept this many.” These are not ledger books to keep accounts in—but the ego keeps ledgers.
Sixty years! Someone would ask, “How many fasts have you kept?” She would say, “I? Not a single one. Sometimes the Lord gave the joy of food, sometimes the joy of fasting.”
Then, when she turned sixty, one day—with the plate in front—she looked within to the sky and said, “Not only food; today the message is that this is my last day. With the setting of the sun I will depart.” And she departed exactly at sunset. The sun set, she sat with eyes closed, and the breath slipped away. Then people understood that the voice that came to her was not as we had thought. In matters of food there could be some trick; but in matters of death there can be none.
Surrendered asceticism is knowledge-austerity. One who lives in the hands of the divine—whatever he brings: pain is pain, pleasure is pleasure, darkness is darkness, light is light, food is food, hunger is hunger—who lives consenting to what he brings, his life is an austerity of knowledge. His whole life is a single tapas, but born of knowledge. It is not the egoist’s stubbornness that “I am doing this.”
One evening Socrates went outside his house. He did not return till late night—did not return. The family grew anxious. They searched a lot; he was not found. By morning there was no option but to wait.
At sunrise they went searching. They saw snow had piled up to his knees. All night he had been standing in falling snow, leaning against a tree, eyes closed. They shook him. “What are you doing?” He opened his eyes and said, “What happened?” He looked down. As surprised as they were, so was he. “Ah! So much snow! Night has passed? The sun has risen?” They said, “What were you doing? Were you in your senses or out of them? What were you doing all night?”
He said, “I wasn’t doing anything. This evening, when I came here, the sky was full of stars—the far-off infinite mystery. My mind felt like surrendering. I closed my eyes and let myself go into the Vast. After that I don’t know what happened. If something was done, he did it; I did nothing.”
This is knowledge-austerity—surrendered asceticism, a surrendered attitude. Then whatever happens is his will.
Jesus is being nailed to the cross. For a moment, from his mouth comes, “O God! What are you showing me? Have you forsaken me?” And a moment later he says, “Forgive me—what have I said! Thy will be done.” Thy will be done. Then the nails are driven through his hands, the neck hangs on the cross—but Jesus remains in the feeling, “Thy will be done.” That cross of Jesus becomes knowledge-austerity—surrendered: Thy will be done. The matter is finished.
As long as asceticism is according to my will, it is ignorance-born. When it is according to his will, it becomes knowledge-born. It is the second form of exclusive refuge.
And when someone passes through austerity in surrender, the soul becomes pure; everything within is cleansed. For the greatest impurity is the ego, and all other impurities are by-products of the ego; they arise from it.
Have you ever noticed—without ego, can anger arise? Without ego, how could anger arise? Without ego, can greed arise? How would greed arise? Without ego, can jealousy arise? How would jealousy arise?
The ego is the root disease, the fundamental impurity—the root of the sickness. All the other sicknesses are leaves and branches that have come upon it. Hence surrender is the fundamental practice. Surrender means: cut the root of ego. Ignorance-based asceticism cuts the leaves and branches.
But remember: the law of the garden is the same in the garden of the mind. You cut a leaf; the leaf thinks it is being pruned—four grow in its place. You cut a branch; the branch thinks it is being pruned—four shoots sprout. Cut anger without cutting the ego and you will find anger beginning to sprout in four directions. Cut greed without cutting the ego and you will find greed has discovered twenty-five new pathways.
Ignorance-based asceticism goes on wrestling with the branches while watering the root—watering the root of the ego and cutting the branches born from it. The branches go on spreading, the root of the ego grows stronger and stronger.
Knowledge-based asceticism does not fight leaves and branches; it cuts the root. In the exclusive feeling it surrenders itself. It says, “O God, you take charge. Now neither anger is mine nor forgiveness is mine; neither pleasure mine nor pain mine; neither life mine nor death mine. You handle it. Now I will neither let go nor hold on. I will not run; I will neither attach nor renounce. Whatever you make me do, I consent.”
This consenting—this acceptability—is called surrender. Through this surrender everything is purified, because the root is cut. Where there is no ego, there is no impurity. Where there is ego, impurity will be—in whatever form. And religious impurity is worse than irreligious impurity.
The ego of an ascetic is more dangerous than ordinary ego. How can we compare the anger of ordinary men with the anger of Durvasa? Durvasa’s anger is of another order—anger at its peak. An ordinary man cannot be so wrathful, because he has not watered his ego so much through austerity.
Ignorance-based asceticism makes the life-breath more impure. Knowledge-based asceticism purifies it.
The rest we will talk about in the evening.
For now, pause. For five to seven minutes, join in a surrendered kirtan.
Osho's Commentary
What appears to us is the worldly. Whatever falls within the grasp of our senses is the worldly. What the eyes see, the ears hear, the hands touch—that is the worldly. The realm of the senses is called the world. But beyond the reach of the senses something is always present—that is the otherworldly, the transcendental.
What the senses do not grasp, what the hands cannot touch, what speech cannot express, what the mind cannot comprehend, that too is ever-present; the name of that presence is the transcendental. It stands alongside the world, continuously present.
One who ends himself with the senses never comes into any touch with the transcendental. One who settles with the belief that the senses are everything remains deprived of the beyond.
Krishna says: this life of mine is transcendental.
Life is everyone’s transcendental. Birth and death are worldly; life is transcendental. Life is in the body, but the body is not life. Beauty is in the flower, but beauty is not the flower. Light is in the lamp, but the flame is not the lamp. Yet the flame cannot appear without the lamp—cannot come within the grip of the senses. Beauty, without the flower, will vanish—seek as you may, it won’t be found.
Life too is a stream flowing between the two banks of birth and death. If the two banks are not there, the stream will cease to be visible. Yet remember: the banks are not the stream. And it can happen that the stream dries up while the banks remain. Banks can be without the stream. The banks are gross, visible; the stream is subtle—if the banks are not there, it ceases to be visible.
Life is everyone’s transcendental, yet Krishna emphatically declares: my life is transcendental. What is the reason for this emphasis? There can be two reasons. One might take it to mean that others’ lives are not transcendental while Krishna’s is—that would be a mistake. Life is the transcendental in all, not only in Krishna. Then why does Krishna insist, “my life is transcendental”?
He insists because the day someone knows the transcendental life within, that day he is no longer other than me; he becomes one with me. From that day, his life is no longer his; it becomes the life of Paramatma. The moment one knows “my life is transcendental,” life is no longer “mine.” This fact needs to be understood rightly.
The moment the drop knows it is the ocean, it ceases to be a drop; it becomes the ocean. The moment a person knows that something infinite also dwells within, he ceases to be a person, he becomes the Infinite.
Here Krishna speaks on behalf of that Infinite: my life is transcendental. Therefore, whoever has the vision of this transcendental becomes available to me. Hence he says: dying, that person does not come to a new birth; he becomes available to me.
Birth means the drop still takes itself to be a drop—still believes itself bound within limits. Non-birth means the drop has now overstepped the boundaries—transcendence has happened. Now the drop does not take itself to be a drop; now it knows itself as the ocean.
Krishna says: whoever becomes available to the experience of transcendental life becomes available to me. Then he is not born again; then there is only his life.
Those under the illusion of birth and death have no experience of life. Those who have the experience of life have no illusion of birth and death. As long as I feel, “I was born and I died,” I will never come to know that which flowed invisibly between the banks of birth and death—that which was life. I know the banks; I have no clue of the stream between. Between these two banks there was a third thing too—there was life. It began with birth and disappeared with death, yet between the two there was life. Of that life we have no inkling—it is transcendental.
Transcendental means: not graspable by the senses. Transcendental means: it cannot be known in the way we know matter.
If I want to examine a stone, I can touch it and find out. If I want to know you, the touch of your body does not reveal you to me; it only reveals your house, your dwelling. You remain inside, untouched—un-touched. The body is touched; you are not touched. Touch has a limit; it does not cross beyond matter.
That is why science came upon a difficulty. Science believed that only what lies within the senses is reality; what lies outside the senses is not real. But now, day by day, science keeps discovering things that do not lie within the limits of the senses.
For instance, no one has ever seen electricity. You will say, we see it daily. Our bulbs light, the fan runs, the radio sings—we see it every day. But what you are seeing is merely the result, not electricity. It is only the consequence, the result—not the cause. What you see is the outcome of electricity, its work; it is not electricity. When you break a bulb, electricity does not shatter—only the instrument that revealed it breaks; electricity does not. When you cut an electric wire, electricity is not cut—only the wire is severed through which electricity was flowing. When you grab a live wire, the jolt, the shock you feel—that too is not electricity; that too is only an effect. We know only the effects of electricity; we do not know electricity itself—it is invisible.
If we seek life in this very way, we will find that we know only its effects. The root cause remains invisible within. Roots do not show; branches show. Roots remain in the unseen. The name of that unseen is the transcendental.
Whoever knows this transcendental, Krishna says, does not take birth in a body again. Because he has become one with the Vast Body. Then there is no need to take birth in small, separate bodies. Then he becomes one with me. When Krishna says “with me,” it means with Existence. One with Existence—the Total Existence. Then he need not build separate, small houses.
When Buddha was enlightened, in the hour of awakening, in bliss he cried out loudly: My mind! My ego! Until now you had to build little houses for me; but now I relieve you of your work. Now you will not need to build small houses for me.
Krishna is saying the other side of the same truth. He says, small houses will not have to be built—not because there will be no house, but because the whole cosmos, the whole Existence, becomes the house of such consciousness. Then the small is no longer needed.
Naturally, one who has found diamonds lets the pebbles slip from his fist; one who has found palaces forgets the huts. One who has the vision of the transcendental finds the worldly like pebbles; the longing to enter it falls away.
Krishna’s insistence here—that my life is divine and transcendental—is an insistence that life is divine and transcendental. Here Krishna speaks as the representative of Life. And from this, great misunderstandings arise. He too is compelled.
Jesus also spoke in this way—and that is why Jesus was nailed to the cross. Those who listened thought he was speaking something false. Jesus said: that God who is in heaven and I—we are one. People said: this is blasphemy; this man seems a heretic! He declares himself one with God! He seems very egotistical.
No—they could not understand; they did not get it.
When Jesus said, “I and the Father are one,” he was saying: Where am I now? Only God is. People crucified him. Hanging on the cross, in his last moments Jesus said: Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do! They do not know what they are doing; nor do they know what they are understanding. They are misunderstanding.
We did not crucify Krishna, for another reason. Behind Krishna stood a tradition five or ten thousand years old, of people who had often said, “We are Paramatma.” We were accustomed to hearing it. Jesus was the first, the very first in the Jewish world to declare: I and God are one. It fell outside people’s tolerance. Not that we understood Krishna better—we did not. We made a different kind of mistake. The listeners of Jesus made another kind of mistake.
Those who heard Jesus heard for the first time a man saying, “I am God, I am divine.” They said, this is outrageous! This man is arrogant—crucify him!
We had heard this many times. The Upanishads had said it; the Vedas had said it; Krishna’s statement was not new to us. But we too erred. We said: this man is God; worship him.
To crucify or to worship—both are mistakes. They erred thinking this man says he is God, so nail him to the cross. We erred thinking this man says he is God, so worship him. Both sides failed to understand.
Jesus meant exactly this: the day you know who you are, you will know you too are Paramatma. And Krishna’s meaning is the same: if you seek, if you glance within, you will find you too are Paramatma. I am a hint of your possibilities. I am a message of your potentialities. I speak on behalf of what you can become. I represent that which you can be.
Understand this well. Krishna says: I represent what you can become. What you can become—I have become. What you will be tomorrow—I am today. I am your tomorrow. I am your future. I speak on behalf of your future.
But we did not understand. We thought Krishna was saying he is God; all right—let us worship. We did not understand that he is the representative of our future, that he speaks on our behalf. What is hidden in our seed has become a tree in him. What is still unmanifest within us is manifest in him. What treasure of ours we do not yet know—he has known. He is the voice of all our future, all our possibilities.
We worshiped—misunderstood. They crucified Jesus—misunderstood. Muslims cut Mansoor to pieces—misunderstood. For Mansoor said, Ana’l-Haqq! I am the Truth, I am Brahman. People said, this is too much; this man is arrogant.
To this day humanity has made two kinds of mistakes. Not understanding, we have crucified; not understanding, we have worshiped. Through worship we enthrone and push far away; through crucifixion we hang and push far away. But in both cases, we refuse to accept that this person is the voice of the hidden possibilities within us.
Therefore, in the very next utterance Krishna says: one who attains this realization has no need of birth again; he becomes available to me.
The difficulty is great. His difficulty too. One must speak in the language people have, otherwise nothing will be understood.
Even if Paramatma were to descend and stand upon the earth, he would have to speak in our language. If he spoke in his own language, we would take him for a madman. He must speak in our language.
And the irony is, even when he speaks in our language we do not understand; if he spoke in his own, we could not understand at all. In our language we still fail to understand—but at least then we can misunderstand. That too is a way—though wrong—of relating. Yet someone may understand, and so Krishna speaks our language and uses “I.”
In a person like Krishna the “I” does not remain. If it remained, the Gita would be useless—it could not be born. And yet Krishna uses “I” again and again.
We too have a difficulty. When he uses “I,” we think he uses it the way we do. There is no similarity at all between our use and his.
When Krishna says “I,” his “I” includes all “thou.” When we say “I,” all “thou” are separate, outside—none included. In Krishna’s “I,” “thou” is inclusive. In our “I,” “thou” is exclusive—outside.
When we speak “I,” we use it to indicate distance from “thou.” When Krishna speaks “I,” he uses it to cover and embrace “thou.” But this does not occur to us.
His “I” is so vast that outside it there is no one. Our “I” is so small that inside it there is no one but us. Keep this difference in mind, and his repeated use of “I” becomes intelligible.
Vitaragabhayakrodha manmaya mam upashritah.
Bahavo jnanatapasā pūtā madbhāvamāgatāh.. 10 ..
And, O Arjuna! In the past too, many men—free of attachment, fear and anger, absorbed in me with single-heartedness, taking refuge in me—purified by the austerity of knowledge, have attained my state.
And in the past too, those who rose above attachment, were free of anger, beyond the snare of delusion, purified by tapas—such men attained my very body!
Those who have gone beyond attachment—vitaraga. The word vitaraga is deep and very meaningful. Vitaraga does not mean vairagya. Vitaraga does not mean mere dispassion. Vairagya means the opposite of raga. Vitaraga means one who has gone beyond raga.
Raga means: a man is mad after wealth. He clutches wealth. At the sight of money his mouth waters. Day and night he keeps counting! Vairagya means: he has turned against wealth—he runs from it. If someone shows him money, he turns his eyes away. If someone places coins near him, he leaps away and stands apart.
Raga clutches wealth; vairagya drops wealth. Vairagya is inverted raga—the opposite pole. Raga runs after woman, after man; vairagya runs away from woman, from man. But the center of both is the same. One rushes toward it; the other turns his back and runs—but both are focused on the same object. Their attention, their concentration is the same. There is no difference in their concentration.
The concentration of a man who runs after woman, and the concentration of one who runs away from woman—there is no difference. Their concentration is one—woman. The one who is mad for a woman carries her images in his mind; and the one who flees becomes mad in the opposite way—he too carries images.
Vitaraga means: beyond. Vitaraga is a third thing—neither raga nor vairagya. One who is beyond both attachment and aversion is vitaraga. For him, the whole thing becomes pointless.
Remember: one who says, “I renounce wealth,” for him wealth has not become pointless; it is still meaningful. One who declares, “I have renounced millions,” for him it is still not pointless; wealth remains meaningful—only the meaning has changed. Earlier the meaning was to lock it in the safe; now the meaning is to throw it away—but there is meaning. The one locking it says, “I have so many lakhs.” The one renouncing says, “I have renounced so many lakhs.” In both, wealth is valuable.
Vitaraga is one who says: there is no meaning in wealth. I neither lock it up nor renounce it. There is simply no meaning in it. For whom wealth has become like dust. And such a one is not puffed up with the ego of renunciation either.
There is a very sweet tale. Yajnavalkya was about to leave home. He had two wives, Katyayani and Maitreyi. He called them and said, “I will divide my wealth equally between you both. I am going now—renouncing. I set out in search of the Lord.”
Maitreyi agreed; she was an ordinary woman. For the ordinary woman, the husband is valuable only because he possesses property. It is fine: the husband goes, he leaves the property—nothing really is going. Maitreyi agreed. She was a proper worldly woman.
But Katyayani raised a question. She was no ordinary woman. She said, “If wealth has become meaningless to you, why do you give it to me? If it is useless, do not burden me with it. And if it is meaningful, why are you leaving it?”
Katyayani asked very rightly. If it is ash, dust, why become so proud giving it to me? If it is meaningful, why leave it? Stay then! If it is meaningful, let us enjoy it together. And if it is pointless, then tell me also of that wealth which is meaningful—the one you are going in search of.
Yajnavalkya must have found himself in a bind. He was only moving toward vairagya. Katyayani turned him toward the dimension of vitaraga. Wealth was still meaningful to him—that is why he was eager to distribute it. It still had some meaning for him. He was leaving it, yes—but it had meaning. He was turning toward dispassion; but she indicated a new direction, a new dimension. “If you leave it, yet give it with pride, then you are not leaving it—the wealth still holds you!”
Krishna says: one who goes beyond attachment—beyond. Vitaraga means: beyond attachment—not mere detachment. Vitaraga means beyond clinging; not a recluse in aversion. The recluse of aversion has only shifted to the opposite attachment; he has not gone beyond. He slides from one pole of duality to the other, but he is not beyond duality.
Krishna says: one who becomes vitaraga attains my body. Vitaraga, free of fear, free of anger—one who goes beyond all these. Free of greed—beyond. That is a third dimension.
There are three dimensions in the world. Toward any object: raga—the desire to keep it near. Vairagya—the desire to keep it away. And vitaraga—whether it is near or far, it is meaningless; it makes no difference.
Buddha has said: raga means, when the dear one comes home, there is happiness; when the disliked one comes, there is sorrow. When a friend leaves, there is sorrow; when an enemy leaves, there is happiness. Toward the enemy all are dispassionate; toward the friend all are attached.
Vitaraga means: one who has neither friend nor enemy. Vitaraga means: one whose mind is not bound by anything, for any reason. Not bound by friendship, not bound by enmity.
Remember, friends bind and enemies bind. We remember friends, and we remember enemies. In truth, we remember enemies a little more. To forget friends is easy; to forget enemies is difficult—very difficult. To forget love is easy; to forget hate is difficult. Enemies pursue us—like a shadow behind; they demand revenge. All aversion seeks revenge.
Therefore a very strange phenomenon happens in the human mind. Those who cling to wealth sometimes take a holiday in between. Between their attachments they feel: leave everything; there is no essence in it. For twenty-three hours they are in the shop; for an hour they go to the temple.
But note the reverse also happens. One who remains in the temple twenty-four hours—his mind too takes a couple of hours off to the market. He too takes a holiday. Perhaps he has not the courage to go himself—but the mind goes.
The dispassionate too take holidays. To be dispassionate twenty-four hours is difficult; to be attached twenty-four hours is difficult. The mind gets tired, bored with one thing. Therefore the attached dream of dispassion, and the dispassionate dream of attachment. The attached often think: I should drop all and go away; it’s all useless. And the dispassionate often think: I have landed in great trouble; I left needlessly. There is no essence in this leaving either.
The mind keeps wavering in dualities. It seeks rest. That is why evil men too have good moments, and good men too have evil moments. It is hard to find such an evil man who has no good moments. And sometimes, in their good moments, evil men surpass the saints. And it is hard to find such good men who have no bad moments. And when their bad moments come, even the good surpass the wicked.
The reason is this: the man who is good by effort for twenty-three hours—when he is bad for one hour, he will not be ordinarily bad. He must pay back the debt of twenty-three hours in that one hour. And the man who is evil for twenty-three hours—when he is good for one hour, he will not be ordinarily good; he will be exceedingly good. The goodness held back for twenty-three hours demands expression.
Krishna is not speaking of either of these. He says: vitaraga. The vitaragi never needs a holiday, because he is not in duality. Only the vitaragi can be one-taste for twenty-four hours; neither the attached nor the detached can be. Only the vitaragi can be one-taste.
The vitaragi is like the ocean—taste it anywhere, it is salty. So is the vitaragi; taste him anywhere, his flavor is one. Sitting in a brothel he is the same as sitting in the temple of the Lord. He neither fears the brothel nor is greedy for the temple. He is so assured in himself that he has neither fear nor lure. So assured, so trust-filled in himself that he has no fear of “taking a holiday.”
Once it happened that a monk of Buddha, gone into a village, was invited by a courtesan: “Stay at my house for the four months of the rains!” A common monk, a recluse of aversion, would never pass by that house again. The courtesan had thought the monk would refuse: “You, a courtesan! And I should stay in your house? No—that cannot be. How can a monk, a sannyasi, stay in a prostitute’s house!”
That monk said, “I will come—but I must take the Master’s permission. Tomorrow I will bring you his answer.” The courtesan asked, “And if Buddha does not permit?” The monk replied, “I am so assured of myself that Buddha will not refuse. I am so assured of myself—Buddha knows me. In temple or brothel my taste will remain one. Do not fear. There is a rule; therefore I must ask. Otherwise, there is no need—I could stay.”
Next day, among the monks, he stood and said, “A very amusing thing has happened. On the road a courtesan invited me to stay as her guest for the coming rains. I ask for permission.” Buddha said, “What need to ask? A sannyasi who is afraid of a courtesan is no sannyasi. Go. Since she has invited you, rest there. Stay four months.”
Many monks felt a tremor in their being. The courtesan was very beautiful. All eyes of the monks had been upon her. Passing through the village, they would find some excuse to take that road; they would beg on that street. Lightnings must have flashed within them; trouble had arisen.
One monk stood and said, “This is improper—for a monk to stay in a prostitute’s house! And you permit it?”
Buddha said, “If you ask permission, I will not grant it. Because if a sannyasi fears a courtesan, then the courtesan has won and we have lost. This is a challenge. A courtesan has called—and she is not afraid that the sannyasi will change her, while the sannyasi fears she will change him—then we have lost. I will not grant you permission. But to the one who asked—he said, ‘A very amusing thing has happened; a courtesan invited me.’ He has permission. He is assured of himself.”
For four months that monk stayed in the courtesan’s house. Whatever food she served, he ate. The courtesan became very anxious. If she danced, he watched. If she sang, he listened. She grew very worried. She tried all means. She danced half-naked—he simply watched. It was very difficult for her.
A month passed, two months passed. Exhausted by every attempt, she found that he neither took pleasure nor showed displeasure. He never said, “Beautiful—bravo!” Nor did he say, “Stop, this is worthless; I do not feel right—let me close my eyes.” No—none of that. If she danced, he looked. If she did not, he never said, “Why are you not dancing today? Will you not dance?” He remained in the house as if he were not there at all.
After two months, the courtesan fell at his feet and said, “Tell me the secret. You do not tremble—on either side! If you would show even opposition, I might attempt something. If you would say ‘this is wrong,’ some path would open. Say something—make a statement; take a stand, for or against—say something!”
The monk said, “If I take a side, then you win and I lose. I will remain impartial. You do what you must; I do what I must. Since you take no stand for or against me, why should I take one?”
Four months passed. The monks were restless. Countless reports came to Buddha. One said, “He’s gone—the man is gone. I myself saw the courtesan dancing and he watching!” Another said, “Have you heard? She feeds him delicacies and he eats!” Another said, “Have you heard? She has given him silken robes and he wears them! All rules, all restraints are broken!”
Buddha listened and said, “All right. But why are you anxious? Are you interested in that monk—or in the courtesan? And if he sinks, he sinks—what is your problem? If he is lost, he is lost—why so eager?”
After four months the monk returned—but he was not alone. With him came a nun; the courtesan had become a bhikkhuni. Buddha said to the monks, “Look! The monk has returned in victory—and a nun has come with him.” He asked the courtesan, “What happened?” She said, “Nothing happened—I lost. For the first time I lost. I had always won; now I am defeated. I met a man unshakable. I saw a vitaraga. And in the peace and bliss of his nonattachment, I tasted something I now seek—I have come.” Buddha said, “See—because he was vitaraga, the sannyasi returns victorious. You would have lost; you are men of aversion.”
Krishna says: one who is vitaraga attains my body. There is something very delightful in this—he says, my body. Would it not be better if he said, my Atman? But he says, my body. One might think it would be better if he said, “He attains my Atman.” But Krishna says, “He attains my body.”
What is the secret? Great indeed.
This universe, this world, is the body of Paramatma. This visible expanse all around is the body. These moons and stars, this sun, this expansion stretching for billions upon billions of light years—this vastness…
Have you ever thought that the word Brahman means expansion, the Vast—what goes on spreading; whose expansion has no end. Brahman is a very scientific word—hardly religious. The word Brahman is not at all religious; it is sheer scientific terminology. Brahman means that which keeps expanding—the Expanding—whose expansion has no end. The name of this expanded is Brahman.
This expanded, visible Existence—Krishna calls it “my body.” One who becomes vitaraga attains my body.
Why? We are already available to the Atman; our mistake is only of the body. We are already available to Krishna’s Atman, even now—but we take ourselves to be confined in our little bodies—that is our error. Hence Krishna does not speak of Atman. That we already are; only our error regarding body should break. The day this whole universe begins to feel like our body—enough.
We already are Atman. Even in this moment of ignorance our Atman is part of Krishna. Our delusion is of the boundary of the body. If that delusion breaks, and we become available to Krishna’s body—Krishna’s body meaning the cosmos—then the matter is complete. Therefore Krishna says: he attains my body.
What is meant by body? The body is the sheath of the Atman, the dwelling of the Atman. The English word “body” is good—within which the Atman is embodied.
Why does this body feel like “my body”? Because of attachment and aversion. If both attachment and aversion drop, this will not feel like “my body” anymore. Then all bodies are mine. Then the moons and stars will come within my body; then my skin will touch the Infinite.
Rama used to say: I have seen the moons and stars revolving within my body. Sounds like madness—pure madness! Yet it is true. Whosoever even for a single moment goes beyond attachment and aversion, in that very moment forgets his own body—bodylessness arrives; he becomes bodiless. And these two are one and the same.
To attain the body of Brahman, or to forget one’s own body—these are one. Whoever forgets the limit of his body becomes filled with the remembrance of the body of Brahman.
“This body is mine”—this is because of our attachment and aversion. As long as something is “mine” and something is “yours,” this body is “mine.” If rightly seen, the feeling of “mine” itself is my body. In a deeply psychological sense, the “mine”-sense is the body. Wherever the sense of “mine” extends—there the body extends. If the “mine” expands so vast that it encircles Brahman, becomes one with the universe—then all is my body. In truth, all is body—indeed. But we are in error.
Where do you consider your body ends? Where? At the skin you consider your body ends. But can your skin live for a moment without air? It cannot. Then the air is also a layer of your body beyond your skin. Without it you cannot live. If the layer of air is removed, you cannot live. That without which you cannot live—that is your body. That without which life would be impossible—that is your body.
Every pore breathes. Do not remain in the illusion that only your nose breathes. If your whole body were painted and all pores closed, leaving only the nostrils open, you would die in five or seven minutes. However deeply you might breathe—nothing will help. Because every pore breathes; the whole body breathes.
This sheath of air around you is your skin too. Without it you cannot live. For two hundred miles around the earth there is a layer of air. But even that layer cannot exist if it is not held by the net of the sun’s rays. The air cannot exist without it. Ten million miles further is the mesh of the sun’s rays—that too is your skin. Without it you cannot live.
If the sun were to grow cold there, we would become cold here at once. We would not even know that we had become cold—because to know it we would have to be alive. When the sun grows cold, we will not remain to write in the newspapers that the sun has grown cold. The sun grows cold and we grow cold. Though it is ninety-three million miles away, the sun’s warmth is a sheath of our body. We are embodied within the sheath of the sun—it is a great body.
But the sun too would not survive if it were not being fed day and night by great suns. Our sun is very small. It seems immense compared to us—sixty thousand times larger than the earth. But in comparison to other suns it is quite mediocre—very small. The stars you see at night are great suns. Among some three or four billion great suns, our sun is a small one—mediocre, middle-class. If it did not receive energy from those greater suns, it would have grown cold long ago. They too are our body.
Where does our body end? Wherever the universe ends—there it ends. Not before.
In the blooming of a tiny flower the entire universe is in cooperation. A small flower blossoms in the grass. In its blossoming the hands of suns sitting billions of miles away are involved—they are its body. Without them this could not be.
So Krishna says: one who becomes vitaraga—who rises above the feeling of mine-and-thine; who goes beyond attraction and repulsion—attains my body.
“My body” means the whole universe becomes his body. And only when the universe becomes body do we come to know Brahman—who we are! Who am I cannot be known—surely not by those who do not even know what their body is. How will one ignorant about the body be a knower of the Atman? Those who are ignorant about the body—how will they be wise about Atman?
Therefore Krishna’s statement is very meaningful: they attain my body. And he tells Arjuna: what I am telling you—before you, too, all those who attained vitaragata have attained my body; they have become one with me.
Duality—the feeling of two—is an illusion, but very deep. It seems we are separate. This sense of separateness is the greatest illusion. We are not separate at all—not for a single moment. Separate us for a single moment, and we will be dissolved—we will not remain.
Our separateness is like a bubble on the breast of a river. A bubble of water rises, floats, moves, glides—glittering in the sun. Even the bubble feels, “I am separate.”
Not separate at all. Separate it from the river even slightly and it is nowhere. That thin film of water was its body; it melted back into the river. A little volume of air was imprisoned within; set free, it merged into the air. We too are separate only like bubbles afloat upon a river.
Therefore Krishna says: whoever, before you or ever, has known this truth—he attains my body; he becomes one with the universe.