Geeta Darshan #4

Paritran has the same meaning as uddhar. There is no difference between them. To take nashtapray, or yoga nasht ho gaya, in the sense of luptapray is also not wrong. In fact, the meaning of “destruction” in Sanskrit has to be understood in light of what that word meant at the time it was used.

In this land it has never been held that anything can be utterly destroyed. “Destroyed” has meant only that it has disappeared.

Today science too agrees with this. Destruction does not mean being wiped out; it only means disappearance. Because nothing can be completely destroyed. Not even a tiny grain of sand can be destroyed. We can only transform it, make it disappear in one form to reappear in another. It cannot be annihilated.

On this earth, nothing is ever destroyed and nothing is ever created. When we say we have made something, it does not mean we have brought something new into being; it only means we have transformed things—we have changed their form.

There is water. Heat it, it becomes steam. The water is “destroyed.” But what does “destroyed” mean here? As steam, the water is still there. And if we cool it a little and drop in some ice cubes, the steam will once again become water. So was the water destroyed, or did it merely disappear?

The water disappeared into steam; its form changed. Then, when you add ice, the water reappears. It was not destroyed. If it were destroyed, it could not return. Cool the water a great deal and it will become ice. Now the water is “destroyed”—there is no water, there is ice. But warm the ice and it becomes water again.

In this world, in this existence, nothing is destroyed and nothing is created; there are only transformations. Therefore, for the Sanskrit phrase “yoga has been destroyed,” the Hindi translation “almost extinct/hidden” is perfectly appropriate. It is appropriate because if today we say “it has been destroyed,” people will likely take it to mean annihilated. But when Krishna used the word nashta, no one then understood it to mean annihilated, because the understanding of the time was that nothing is ever destroyed—everything is transformed. So the translator has used sound judgment. He has said “luptapray”—it has been lost, not destroyed.

Nothing is ever destroyed. Destruction is impossible. Only forms change; things take on new shapes. However many new forms they assume, essentially they remain what they were. But to bring them back into their former form, to re-manifest the old, some means are required.

Therefore Krishna’s meaning is indeed “luptapray,” because that was the sense of nashta then. Today the word carries two meanings for us. For example, when we say, “So-and-so has died,” for us it does not mean what it meant for Krishna. For Krishna, death only meant that the person has taken birth again. For us, death means it is over; it has ended. We do not see the next birth. In our idea of death there is no next birth concealed. In Krishna’s idea of death, the next birth is concealed. For Krishna, death is a doorway to a new birth; for us, it is the door of ending, of finality—beyond which there is nothing, only darkness. All is lost; all is destroyed.

So if Krishna uses the expression “dharma has died,” there is no harm, because for him it only means that it has been transformed into another life, hidden somewhere else, gone elsewhere. But if we say “dharma has died,” for us it means it has ended; a dead end has been reached.

There is no final end. In Krishna’s language there is no word that denotes finality. All words point to a new beginning. Death is a new birth. To be “destroyed” is to be lost in a new form. Therefore nashta means lupta—lost/hidden. And paritranaya also means “for deliverance,” “for protection.” Nothing has gone wrong; there is no mistake in the translation.

As long as the person exists, he is responsible for his actions. When the person lets himself dissolve into the Vast, then he is not responsible.

Understand it exactly like this: a small child is walking along the road holding his father’s hand. If the child falls, the father is responsible. But if the boy lets go of his father’s hand and walks by himself, and then he falls—now the father is not responsible.

Responsibility depends on you. If you are trying to live leaning on the ego, you are responsible for each of your actions. If something bad is done, you did it; if something good is done, you did it—because behind each of your acts stands the sense of being the doer.

But if someone has surrendered everything to the Vast, he says, “As You will. If the bad happens, it is You; if the good happens, it is You.” If he builds a temple and goes to the village saying, “I built the temple,” and tomorrow he is caught stealing and claims, “God made me steal,” then he has not surrendered. He is cheating—himself and God.

No. He will say, “God had the temple built; who am I!” And he will say, “God made the theft happen; who am I!” And if the court punishes him, he will say, “God has given the punishment; who am I!”

Then there is no difficulty. So long as a person lives with the feeling of being the doer, all responsibility is his—because he himself is taking the responsibility in his own hands.

His condition is almost like this—I have heard: A fakir boarded a train. He sat on the seat, but kept his bedding-roll balanced on his head. The fellow passengers looked at him, startled. Someone said, “Sir! Put your bedding down and rest. What are you doing?” The fakir said, “But I bought the ticket only for myself; it wouldn’t be right to put the bedding’s weight on the train. I’ll keep the burden on my own head.” People said, “Sir, whether you keep it on your head or put it under the seat, the train is carrying the weight all the same. It makes no difference to the train. Only you are inconveniencing yourself by keeping it on your head.”

The fakir laughed and said, “I thought there were only the ignorant here, so I kept it on my head. I didn’t know there were wise people in this compartment!” He put the bedding down. People were even more puzzled. They said, “We didn’t catch your meaning.” He said, “I thought you all must be the sort who carry the whole burden of life on your own heads, while all such burdens are actually on God. Yet when you build a house you say, ‘I built it.’ You keep the burden on yourselves. That’s why I sat here with my bedding on my head—so I would be in harmony with you. But you are very wise; good!”

This fakir has made fun of all of us, a deep fun, touching a wound in the heart.

Even when we say we are responsible, in truth it is God alone who is responsible. But “in truth” doesn’t help. Until then we will go on suffering the strain of holding the load on our heads. The train may be carrying the whole weight, yet the man holding his suitcase on his head is still carrying the weight and suffering the pain—and if the suitcase falls from his head, it is his limbs that will break, though the train was carrying everything.

The Vast is responsible for everything. But remember: you cannot bargain with the Vast. You cannot say, “I’ll be responsible for some things, and You for others. When bad happens, You are responsible; when good happens, I am responsible.” It won’t work. Either leave everything to the Vast, or carry everything yourself. The egoist carries everything himself. The irreligious carries everything himself. The religious leaves everything to That—but everything, totally. Not a grain can be held back.

So both statements are true on two different planes. As far as the ordinary person is concerned, he himself is responsible for everything—and hence he suffers the pain of responsibility. There is sorrow, anguish, torment in responsibility.

The one who knows leaves everything to the Lord. Then he does not suffer. Then he tastes the joy of freedom. Unburdened of all duties, he becomes light as a flower. Then he can sing like birds, run and dance like rivers and waterfalls. His life is no longer crushed under any load.

And remember, here is the delightful paradox: the more a person leaves to God, the harder it becomes for him to do a bad deed. Because a bad deed requires the ego. The more one leaves to God, the more difficult evil becomes. The one who has left totally cannot do evil at all—because ego is the indispensable condition for evil. And the more a person is filled with ego, the less is the possibility of a virtuous act—because ego is the essential obstacle to the good.

Therefore the man who takes responsibility upon himself goes on piling a bundle of sin on his head. In truth there is only a bundle of sin. Have you ever heard of a bundle of merit? There is no bundle of merit. When merit arrives, all bundles fall away, the head becomes empty. Only sin becomes a bundle—its load is a burden. Merit has no burden.

The person who leaves everything to God becomes simple like air and water. Then whatever happens, happens. There is no difficulty for him then—no load, no duty; no merit, no sin—because there is no doership.

This is what Krishna keeps explaining to Arjuna the whole time. Arjuna is crushed beneath a solid weight. He seems like a very responsible man, full of duty. He says, “These will die, those will die,” as though if he saves them, they will live; as though if he does not kill, they will not die. He feels as if he were the very center of existence upon whom everything depends. He tells Krishna the clichés of the age: “This will destroy the family; the lineage will be corrupted; the future will be dark; virtuous women will become widows; sin will increase.” He says it all—because of him! If he fights! And if he withdraws from battle, will everything be fine? As it is, Arjuna is nowhere—and nowhere do things look fine. Arjuna’s delusion is that he thinks the whole responsibility is his. “I am at the center of everything.”

Krishna goes on explaining one thing: don’t consider yourself the center. Don’t make yourself the pivot. Don’t get entangled in futile thinking. Leave it to the One who is doing, who is making it happen. If He wants to kill, He will—by your instrumentality, by someone else’s instrumentality; He will set His arrow on any shoulder He pleases and they will fall. Don’t worry. Just become a mere instrument in His hands.

But Arjuna can’t grasp it. He is a doer. And how can the doer become a mere instrument? One who believes “I am the one who acts,” how can he become a channel for someone else?

He cannot be like Kabir. Kabir says, “I am playing the flute, and in it I am the flute—the hollow reed. The notes are not mine; the notes are His, of God. So if anyone must be thanked for the song, thank Him. I have no hand in it. I am only the bamboo through which His notes flow.”

All through the Gita Krishna keeps telling Arjuna, “Become the bamboo reed. Let His notes flow. Do not think that you sing. Don’t come in between. Step aside. Become the instrument.” That is what Arjuna cannot understand.

So when I say the person is responsible for each of his actions, I mean: as long as your ego is there, as long as the person is there, you will have to be responsible. Pointlessly you are responsible: you are on the train, yet you keep the bundle on your head! The train is not responsible—you are unnecessarily suffering. But the moment the person drops himself in surrender, then the person is no longer responsible—the Vast alone is. And the Vast has no responsibility, because to whom would the Vast be responsible? To whom? To no one. The person must be responsible; for the Vast the question of responsibility does not arise. There is no contradiction here; these are two levels of seeing.

There are two planes. One is the plane of the ignorant—there you must understand in the language of the ignorant. The other is the plane of the wise—there too you must understand in its own light. Great confusion often arises because the ignorant live on the ignorant’s plane but speak the language of the wise; then difficulties multiply. This happens every day. It has certainly happened in our country. Because there was so much talk of wisdom here that even the ignorant learned to repeat it. They too began to mouth the words of knowledge. They live as the ignorant, act as the ignorant, carry the ignorant’s load—yet at the convenient time they speak as the enlightened.

A man in my neighborhood died; I went to their house. The neighbors had gathered. Everyone was consoling them: “The soul is immortal.” I thought, how many sages in this neighborhood! “The soul is immortal! Why weep? Why grieve? No one dies; only the body dies.” I noted their faces carefully—if ever I needed advice, I would go to them.

Then one day I heard that the very gentleman who had led the consolations—“The soul is immortal”—had a death in his own house. I rushed there. He was weeping. I was amazed. I sat silently. My amazement grew: the family whom he had consoled earlier were now consoling him, saying, “The soul is immortal. Why are you crying?”

These are two planes of talk. For those who know the soul is immortal, their world is very different. But that talk has been stolen. Those who believe the soul dies—whether it dies or not, they “know” it dies—have cribbed this saying. It creates great mischief there. People listen to discourses on knowledge.

I was a guest for some days in a sannyasin’s ashram. Daily he explained, “The soul is pure consciousness; it never becomes impure.” In front of him I would see people with turbans nodding, “Yes, Maharaj, exactly so.” I asked some of them in private, “You say, ‘Exactly so—’ do you really believe it?” They replied, “It is exactly so; the soul is absolutely pure.”

But those very people—turbans and all—were engaged in every kind of theft, black-marketing, and mischief. From that very black-market money they built the temple there. And they sat listening that “the soul is ever pure, never sins, never does anything.” Their minds must have felt great consolation—“I didn’t black-market; I didn’t steal; the soul is pure”—and they returned home very pleased. They were coming to hear only this: “the soul is pure,” meaning “it cannot be impure anyway.” Now, however much impurity they practice, there is no fear of becoming impure. When talk of wisdom enters the world of ignorance, it causes havoc.

The moral collapse of India has this cause: two planes of talk. On one plane there was very high wisdom; on the other our people are very low. The high words fell into the ears of the low, and they use them anytime, anywhere. “All the world is maya”—they say it, and chase with all their heart after the very things they call maya! Two planes.

So, what I said is best understood on two planes. As long as you know that you “are,” regard all responsibility as yours. Do not try to keep your “I” and yet dump responsibility on God. That will not do. If you wish to leave responsibility to God, you must place yourself at His feet too. That is the indispensable condition. Until you can lay your “I” at His door, carry the entire load of responsibility on your own head. That is honesty, sincerity. Fine—then say, “I did sin, I did virtue; I am responsible, for whatever was done, I did it.”

And if it feels true that all responsibility is the Vast’s, then take this “I” and leave it at His feet. The day you can dare to say, “I have done nothing; He has done everything. He is; I am not. I am only the extension of His hand”—from that day, you have no responsibility.

And the delightful thing is: from that very day, evil vanishes from your life, because evil cannot occur without the ego. From that day, flowers of goodness begin to blossom—life fills with white blossoms—because where the ego is not, pure flowers spring up of themselves.

Chaturvarnyam maya srishtam gunakarma-vibhagashah.
Tasya kartaram api mam viddhy akartaram avyayam. (13)

“Thus, O Arjuna! The four varnas—Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya, and Shudra—were created by Me according to the division of qualities and actions. Even so, know Me, the imperishable Lord, who appears as their maker, to be in truth the non-doer.”

In this verse Krishna says: “According to qualities and actions, the four varnas I have created.” That’s one statement. Immediately he adds: “Even so, know Me who appears to create them to be the non-doer.”

A very mysterious statement. First understand the first part, then the second.

Talk of varna has become out of season. Reading Krishna’s aphorism, many feel uneasy. “God created the varnas!” It seems difficult—because in the name of varna so much vulgarity has happened, so much atrocity, so much rot and stench that if the whole heart of India has become cancerous, it has been through the shelter of varna.

So today any thoughtful person reading this sutra either becomes restless, or quickly reads past it. He does not linger. It feels as though something is not right—move on. But I want to pause here. Why? Because in life, falsehoods also run on the basis of truths. In fact, falsehood has no legs of its own; it must always borrow legs from truth. That is why the liar swears so much that “what I am saying is true.” Dishonesty must wear the clothes of honesty. Whenever a true life-principle appears in the world, it too is misused. But that does not make the principle wrong.

We analyzed the atom. The result was Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Because Hiroshima and Nagasaki happened, atomic theory is not wrong. A hundred thousand died, burned to ash; generations will be affected—crippled, blind, maimed. Even so, the theory of atomic analysis is not wrong. The use was wrong—our fault, not the theory’s.

Whatever happened in the name of varna—we are responsible, we the wrong people. The scientific insight of varna is not to blame.

When Krishna speaks, he uses two words: guna and karma—qualities and actions. “According to qualities and actions I made four varnas.” Guna and karma!

Between person and person there is a difference of qualities. And there is no device in the world by which we can erase differences of quality. We may produce the largest communist society, the most thorough egalitarian order—we will not eliminate differences of quality. We could equalize wealth, put everyone in the same clothes, build identical houses; still qualities will differ. Differences of quality cannot be erased. Quality belongs to the soul of the person, not to the outer social order.

So first understand: Krishna’s vision that the varna-order is created by Him is a discussion of the inner constitution of the person. Its relationship to social arrangement is distant. Deep down it relates to the inner individuality.

Each person has a difference of quality. And we are born with our qualities. They are not manufactured later; they are built-in—bound to birth. In the first cellular union of mother and father all our qualities lie hidden.

That Einstein would attain such intelligence was hidden in his first cell. And sooner or later science will be able to examine that first cell and announce what a person will become. Scientists even think that within twenty-five years—by the end of this century—they will put the human germ in packets for sale like flower-seed packets with a picture on the front: “Plant these and such flowers will bloom.” They say we will sell “human-seed” packets indicating what type of person can grow—picture on the front. Meaning: the first cell already contains the entire built-in program. It will manifest later; it is present from the start. And there are basic differences in that quality.

Krishna says those differences have been broadly divided into four—“I,” that is, the Divine, Nature, the Lord—whatever name you like—made four broad divisions. And those four broad divisions keep appearing. It is no mere coincidence that whenever people have categorized human types, they end up with four.

In our century Carl Gustav Jung, the greatest psychologist, when he classified types, he too divided them into four. The names differ, but they are four. There is a certain inevitability: there are four major types. Of course within each person there are shades, but broadly, four.

- Some people’s life-energy always flows toward knowing; they are madly eager to know. They will lose their lives, but they will not give up knowing.

A scientist tests poisons to see which one kills. He knows a certain poison on the tongue will kill him—yet he wants to know. We say, “Crazy! What’s the need to know like that?”

We won’t understand. He is the Brahmin type by quality. He cannot live without knowing. He will stake his life, but he will know. He will place the poison on his tongue and taste the ecstasy of knowing, “Yes, this poison kills.” We say, “What benefit is there? What does he gain?” We cannot understand—unless a Brahmin resides within us.

What did Einstein gain? From morning to night in the lab like a madman for knowledge—why?

There is no “why.” It’s not about ends, it’s about source. The source quality in him is Brahmin: devoted to knowing.

So Krishna says: guna and karma.

Qualities differ—four archetypes, as Jung would say:
- One, whose soul is a dart of longing for knowledge—an endless journey just to know. Those who reached the moon—what is there to get on the moon? Not much. But the overwhelming lust to know! They won’t stop at the moon—further, and further. No end. These who are driven by the quest for knowledge are Brahmins—by quality.

- A second type seeks power. For him power is everything; he worships power. If he finds power anywhere he will rush in that direction. This seeker of power is a type too—the Kshatriya.

Arjuna is of this type. Krishna is, in that very context, telling him, “Recognize your quality, your ownness, and act in accord with it; otherwise you will be in trouble.” Whenever a person abandons his own quality and acts according to another’s, he runs into great difficulty. He attempts what he cannot do and abandons what he could have done. The joy of life is to do totally what destiny, what the Lord has impelled you to do. Otherwise there is no peace, no joy. Joy is when the flowers meant to bloom in us do bloom, when the song meant to arise from us arises.

If the Brahmin becomes a Kshatriya, he will be in trouble—because he has no juice in power. Hence in this land the Brahmin was given great honor, yet he never held power. The Brahmin remained a beggar. He did not seize power. He remained poor, sitting in his hut seeking Brahman, deep in the forest. “Mad,” we will say. “When emperors bowed at his feet, he should have asked for something!”

There is a story of Kanada—a Brahmin type. He was called Kanada because he never had enough grain to store; each day he gleaned kernels from the fields, hence “Kanada,” the grain-gatherer. The emperor heard that Kanada was picking grains in the fields. He ordered chariots filled with wealth: “Take them to Kanada.”

The emperor arrived with great riches, bowed at Kanada’s feet, and said, “I have brought much wealth. It pains me that in my kingdom you live picking grains. A great seer like you gleaning grains is an insult to me.”

Kanada said, “Forgive me! You should have sent word; why such trouble? I will leave your kingdom.” The emperor said, “What are you saying! You misunderstand me!” Kanada stood up—he had little to gather; he tied up his two or three books.

The emperor said, “What are you doing?” Kanada said, “Tell me the border of your kingdom; I will go beyond it. If my presence pains you, that is bad indeed.” The emperor said, “I didn’t mean that. I only request you accept this wealth.”

Kanada said, “Take it back! Who will arrange and guard and manage all that? Who will take care of it? I have no time; I am absorbed in my work. A little time in the morning I go for a walk and glean some grains from a field—that suffices. I have no hassles. Take this back. Who will worry about it? And if I worry about it, then I must worry about myself and my search. Take it back quickly, and don’t come again. If you must, send word; I will leave your realm. I can glean grains anywhere; they are found everywhere.”

This man finds convenience in gleaning—no arrangements to make, no management to steal time. Many so-called “owners” end up merely managers. They seem to be owners; in sum they are managers.

Andrew Carnegie, the American tycoon, was dying. He asked his secretary in jest, “If we were both to be born again, would you again choose to be my secretary, or would you be Andrew Carnegie and make me your secretary?” The secretary said, “You won’t be offended?” Carnegie said, “Why would I! Naturally you’d want to be Andrew Carnegie.” He said, “Forgive me. That’s not what I’m saying. I would again choose to be a secretary.” Carnegie said, “Fool! You don’t want to be Andrew Carnegie?” He said, “Never again. Before I knew you I might have prayed to God for it; now never. I’ve written the reason in my diary.”

In his diary he had written: “O God, never make me Andrew Carnegie by mistake. Andrew Carnegie comes to the office at nine. The peons arrive at ten. Clerks at ten-thirty. The manager at eleven. The directors at one. The directors leave at three. The manager leaves at four. Then the clerks go. Then the peons go. Andrew Carnegie leaves at seven-thirty. Never make me Andrew Carnegie.”

He died leaving a billion dollars. But he was not the owner. Not even the manager. Not even a peon—the peon came at ten and left at four-thirty. Carnegie arrived before the peon and left after him! For whom was he managing?

But that too is a type—the third. The Vaishya, who seeks wealth. He doesn’t care for knowledge or power. Empires don’t interest him. Brahman or the cosmos doesn’t concern him. The far stars don’t matter. Nearby rupees suffice. Let the safe grow ever bigger, ever fuller. This is his type—the Vaishya. Wealth is his longing.

- The fourth is the Shudra type; labor is his longing. Not as we are commonly told—that some are forced to labor. Not so. If some people are not given work, it becomes hard for them to live. Not everyone can be idle.

Right now America is facing a difficulty. Work is ending; machines do it. America’s thoughtful people—Jacques Ellul and others—are worried: in ten or fifteen years everything will be automated. Machines will do all the work. People will demand work—where will we provide it? They will demand work because some people cannot live without it.

One day I was traveling by train. I was exhausted. I thought I would sleep for twenty-four hours. Another gentleman was in the compartment. As soon as I entered I avoided looking at him—danger might begin: he would start a conversation. I quickly closed my eyes and “slept” under the sheet. An hour later I arose and saw he was reading the same newspaper he had when I lay down—now reading it again from the first page. I said, “Please read, I’m going back to sleep.”

In the morning when I woke he was still reading yesterday’s paper! Who knows how many times. Seeing me, he sheepishly folded it. I lay facing away. He would open the window, close it; open the suitcase, shut it; put this thing here, that there.

By noon he was going mad. When I started to sleep again after lunch he burst out, “What are you doing! Sleeping again? Won’t you talk a little?” I said, “Please continue your work. I don’t mind. Open and shut the window as often as you like. Press and lift your suitcase. Read that same paper a thousand times—I don’t mind. Forget me. I’m not here.” He said, “Did you notice? I was afraid what you would think—why I was opening and shutting the window—but what can I do? Being idle is great trouble for me.”

This too is a type—who cannot live without work.

In America now there are two-day weekends. You’ll be surprised—there is a saying: “After two days off a man is so tired he needs a week of rest.” Great difficulty! After two days off, one is so tired he needs seven days’ rest! Did you rest on the holiday?

No—on holidays people drive hundreds of miles to the beach. Not one, neck to neck, cars jammed. Millions descend. The whole town goes to the shore. You ran from town—but the whole town runs too and arrives there. Better to have stayed home; there would be some quiet since everyone had gone. Now the whole town crowds the beach. Then they rush back.

In all America the most accidents happen on holidays. People indulge their devilment. What to do? Leisure is dangerous. Until you have it, you don’t know. If full leisure comes, it is dangerous. Then you will know that the laborer-type cannot live without labor.

Krishna says these four types are divided by quality. Perhaps all four are needed. If everyone pursued knowledge, the world would cease to function. If all pursued power, there would be nothing but war. If all pursued wealth, people would die and only safes remain. If all only labored, there would be no culture, no civilization, no art, no science, no philosophy, no religion. The four are complementary. Without them the world cannot be.

So Krishna says: by qualities and their corresponding actions.

Inside are qualities; outside are actions linked to those qualities. The inner qualities appear outward as action. Inside they are called guna; outside, karma. When they are in seed they are guna; when they manifest, they are karma.

“According to guna and karma, I divided into four,” says Krishna.

This division is not, in Krishna’s view, higher and lower. There is no hierarchy. These four are like the four limbs of a body, of equal worth. Without one, the other three cannot be.

Distortion began the day we created hierarchy—the day we said some are above and some below. No. Labor is as high as knowledge. If someone yearns to labor and another to know, both have the right to fulfill their thirst. Both thirsts are given by the Vast, are inborn, built-in. Where then is pride?

If I have a longing for truth, what is there to be proud of? It was given to me—a grace of God—just as another was given the capacity for labor. Where is disgrace? No up or down. That is his built-in program.

One flower is destined to be a rose, one a lotus, one a jasmine, one a jui blossom. The world is beautiful. The more flowers, the more beauty. The rose is compelled to be a rose; the lotus to be a lotus. For the lotus, being a lotus is no pride; it is destiny. For the rose, being a rose is destiny. For a grass-flower, being a grass-flower is its destiny.

And the delightful thing is: when the grass-flower blooms in its full beauty, it is not behind the rose. Perhaps for you—because in the market it won’t fetch a price. But for the grass-flower itself, when it blooms fully, it exults in the same ecstasy as the rose dancing with all its petals open in the sun. Each is in its own joy. And the sun does not say to the grass-flower, “Shudra! Get away. I shine only for roses.” No—the sun pours his delight equally. The moon showers nectar equally. The breeze pats and dances with the grass-flower as lovingly as with the rose. There is no discrimination.

Within existence there is no discrimination. There are differences of quality—but no disparagement. No superior, no inferior. Division, yes—but not hostility. No conflict—cooperation.

For Krishna, when he spoke of the four varnas, he saw an inner cooperation among them, an organic unity, a body-relationship.

Hence he elsewhere compares them to the body: one is the head, one the feet, one the belly—limbs of one body. No higher or lower. “Head” appears above; “feet” appear below—but that above-below is only physical, not a valuation. Calling the feet “low” means only that in space they seem lower than the head. Even that is mere talk.

If someone looks down from a roof, your head becomes below, his head above. Children stand on a chair beside their father and say, “We’re bigger than you!” Physically, yes—because they’re higher.

And a lizard runs across the ceiling above your head—what then? On a Brahmin’s head, a lizard above! The lizard is very “high”!

These “above-below” are childish notions. There is no valuation in Krishna’s mind; nor in anyone’s, originally. The valuation was produced by us—we imposed it.

Krishna says: according to guna and karma I divided persons.

Guna—inner capacity. Karma—outer expression, manifestation.

Remember: only when quality becomes action do others come to know it. As long as quality remains quality, no one knows—not even oneself. You too know only when your quality becomes action. When a person expresses himself in deeds, then you and he both know who he is.

Guna is the hidden existence like the seed; karma is the manifest existence like the tree.

By qualities and actions, humanity is divided. This division can never be abolished. It can be denied. We can pass a law that there is no such division. We can legislate denial. But the division will continue.

Suppose we pass a law—and it is not difficult; all we need is a majority. And majorities are always available for every kind of foolishness. Our assembly and parliament pass a law that there is no difference between man and woman. But making a law does not change nature.

Laws have been made—nearly so. Western countries have begun erasing the distance between man and woman. Men try to become like women; women try to become like men—so if both walk a little toward each other, the distance will close, they hope. Women wear men’s clothes; men try on women’s. Women cut their hair; men grow it long. Even if you made men and women look exactly alike, the distance decreed by destiny would not disappear. But in that distance there is no higher or lower. It is horizontal, not vertical.

Exactly so with differences of guna and karma—the difference is by nature, by swabhava. That natural difference Krishna calls “created by Me.” He is saying: this division is natural, from God, inborn, in-built, hidden in nature. He says this so that Arjuna may clearly recognize his own guna-karma and, remembering it, act—recognize the quality and perform the corresponding action.

If guna and karma match, a harmony, an inner music arises in life. If they mismatch, dissonance arises.

One last question remains. We will speak of it in the morning.

No; no one’s consciousness is superior. Consciousness becomes superior when it fully actualizes its own quality; anyone’s can become superior.

If a Brahmin becomes one with knowing, his consciousness becomes superior. If a Kshatriya becomes one with power—becomes one. When Arjuna shoots an arrow, the arrow and Arjuna should no longer remain separate; Arjuna should become the arrow. When Arjuna takes the sword in hand, the distance between the hand and the sword should fall away; hand and sword should become one. So when a Brahmin, utterly absorbed in meditation, becomes one with Brahman, the experience that becomes available to his consciousness will be available to Arjuna’s consciousness too—when he becomes one with the whirling sword. For Arjuna, that itself will be meditation.

In Japan there are temples with the insignia of swords. In Japan there was a warrior class, the samurai. Swords on the temples! And inside the temples there are schools for teaching the sword. It seems astonishing, doesn’t it? A school for swordsmanship inside a temple? Training with the sword? Have you gone mad? What will you achieve by teaching swordplay in a temple?

But the samurai say, We are warriors. When we become one with the flash of the sword, when there is no distance between us and the sword, when the dance of the sword becomes the very dance of our life-breath, we will be utterly one; that is our meditation; that is our samadhi. From there samadhi will be attained.

If a person eager for labor becomes so absorbed in his work that nothing of him is left behind—digging the earth with a spade or cutting wood with an axe—so that as the axe rises he rises, as the axe falls he falls, and there remains no separation between him and the axe, then he attains the same meditation that the Brahmin attains sitting in his hut in meditation.

People of all four varnas can attain meditation in their own ways. And whichever consciousness attains meditation becomes superior. Superiority is not related to Shudra, Brahmin, Vaishya or Kshatriya; superiority is related to meditation. Whatever consciousness attains meditation, by whatsoever path, that consciousness attains superiority.

Superiority is attained through meditation. And, broadly speaking, there will be four kinds of meditation—for the Shudra, for the Brahmin, for the Kshatriya, for the Vaishya. Absorption! Such total absorption that the doer inside dissolves, becomes one. Let this oneness come by any means whatsoever. Let it come to the scientist in his laboratory; let it come to the dancer while dancing; let it come to the musician playing the veena; let it come to the teacher while teaching; let it come to the stone-breaker while breaking stones. Wherever it comes—wherever this meditation comes—there the superiority of consciousness is attained.

The superiority of consciousness does not depend on varna; it depends on meditation.

If there are more questions, bring them tomorrow morning. Tonight’s meeting is complete.