Geeta Darshan #8

To be content with what comes, to be beyond the opposites—these two points, if understood rightly, are of great use.

Content with whatever comes! But who can be content with what comes? The mind is discontented precisely with what it has. The mind calls contentment that which it has not yet attained and hopes to attain. The mind lives in the longing for what is not. The moment it is attained, it turns empty. Whatever the mind gets becomes futile; only what it has not yet attained appears meaningful.

The mind is always, always discontented. To have a mind is to be in discontent. It would be more accurate to say: mind and discontent are two names for one thing. It is not that the mind is sometimes discontent; the mind is discontent. For the very instant contentment arrives, the mind disappears. With the vanishing of discontent, the mind vanishes. In those within whom discontent no longer remains, the mind no longer remains either.

The mind lives only in the desire for what is not yet. Therefore, for the mind it is necessary to be dissatisfied with what is attained; and to live in the dream that there will be contentment in what is not attained. It searches for contentment in what is not yet; and searches for discontent in what becomes available. This is our mental condition.

Nor is it that what is not ours today but we think will be ours tomorrow will bring contentment when it arrives. Not so. When it arrives tomorrow, suddenly we find our discontent has attached itself to what has come, and our contentment has shifted again to what is still not attained.

Almost like the horizon of the sky. It appears a little way off, the sky meeting the earth. We set out to find the meeting place. The further we go, the further the horizon recedes. The sky touches the earth nowhere; it only seems to. There is only an appearance of contact between earth and sky. Circle the entire globe—you will not find the touching point. And yet, there will be no place where it won’t appear to be touching further ahead. Always it seems to meet ahead. By the time you reach that place, it has receded further.

Contentment, for us, is like the line of the horizon—always seen ahead: just a little further and there is contentment! Where we are, there is discontent. Where we are, the sky does not meet the earth; somewhere far away the sky meets the earth—contentment, horizon! We go forward; we arrive; and arriving we find the sky has shifted forward.

It is not that the sky recedes because of you. The sky is not so afraid of you! If it were touching, it would remain touching. No—because you move forward, the sky does not run away. The sky never touched at all; there was only the illusion of a meeting. It is not that your moving makes the sky withdraw. The sky never touched; only you were deluded that it did. Just so, the mind lives perpetually in the illusion that contentment lies in the future.

Krishna says the opposite. He says: when a man is content with whatever comes, then karmic bondage cannot bind him.

Understand the two processes well. As we are, what comes brings discontent. What is the secret? What is the reason?

I was once a guest in a house. The master of the house was very worried. He had lost sleep. I asked his wife what the matter was. She said: better you do not ask. If you ask, you will laugh and make fun. I said, even so. She said: this year my husband has made a profit of five lakhs; that is why he is so worried. I said: what is there to worry about in that? She said: ask him; he will tell you he has suffered a loss of five lakhs. I said: are you speaking in riddles? You say there is a profit of five lakhs. He will tell me there is a loss of five lakhs!

She said, that is how it is. The profit is five lakhs. But he had earlier expected it would be ten lakhs. Therefore there has been a loss of five! He is very troubled.

Indeed, at night I asked him, are you unwell? You seem worried. He said, not unwell—very troubled. This year there is a loss of five lakhs. I said, but your wife says there is a profit of five lakhs. He said, that is nothing; ten lakhs were certain!

This is the secret of discontent. Discontent has its own alchemy, its own chemistry. And that chemistry is: the bigger the discontent you want to harvest, the bigger the expectation you must cultivate. Great discontent cannot be obtained from small expectations. If you wish to earn discontent, then spread the skies of great expectations. The greater the expectation, the greater the discontent.

Had this man’s expectation not been ten lakhs but five, there would have been no loss. If his expectation had been two lakhs, there would have been an extra profit of three. If he had had no expectation at all, then there would have been a pure profit of five lakhs—no question of loss. Had his expectation been nil, he would have thanked God even for five new paise. His expectation was ten lakhs; he cannot even give thanks for five. For the five that did not come, he is angry.

Expectation great—discontent great. Expectation small—discontent small. Expectation zero—discontent nil. Such is the arithmetic.

Krishna says: the man who is content with whatever comes…

Which man will be content? Only he who lives without expectation, who has no expectations. He lives as one for whom living needs no expectations. Then whatever comes is grace. Only such a one can offer thanks to the Lord.

Junnaid the fakir was once walking along a road. A hard stone struck his foot. His foot bled. Junnaid bent down and, folding his hands, began to thank God. His companions said, Junnaid, have you gone mad? Have we ever heard that when someone’s foot is struck and begins to bleed, he offers thanks to God? Junnaid said, I might have been hanged. I might have been hanged. I thank God that it was only a stone striking my foot, and that’s all. I might have been hanged.

This Junnaid is the exact opposite of the man I told you about. He says, I might have been hanged. But even if Junnaid were to be hanged, he would still be able to give thanks—because there are sufferings greater than hanging.

The feeling of gratitude can exist only in one whose expectations are none. When expectations are none, whatever comes—anything—can be seen as a blessing. And when expectations are many, whatever comes is turned into a curse; one discovers a curse in it. The search is our responsibility.

Who can be content with what comes? One who has not wanted to gather more. In truth, one who has not wanted to gather at all. For him, whatever comes is enough, more than enough.

And once a person comes to know this secret, the bliss of contentment has no limit. The misery of discontent has no end; the bliss of contentment has no end. The hell of discontent is bottomless; so is the heaven of contentment. But contentment…

Socrates is sitting one morning at the door of his house. Some discussion is on. Someone asks a question; he answers. His wife brings tea and stands behind him. Filled with anger—Socrates pays her no attention; he is absorbed in his talk. Perhaps, by nature, the greatest longing of wives is that their husbands pay attention to them; there is no greater one. She is filled with anger—so much that she pours a kettle of boiling water over Socrates. Half his face is burned.

The man who was asking the question was alarmed. He said to Socrates, what has happened? Socrates said, nothing has happened—half my face is saved! Thanks to God. The whole face could have been burned. Socrates is laughing through a half-burnt face. Because his attention is not on what is burned; his attention is on what is saved.

Let a small thorn pierce our foot and it seems the whole world is futile. There is no God. All is useless. Injustice reigns everywhere. A thorn in my foot—how can that be?

For the thousand pleasures of the body we have never thanked God; but for one small thorn our complaint is immense!

I have heard: a fakir lived many days with a king. The king came to love the fakir deeply—so much so that even at night he would have the fakir sleep in his chamber. They were always together. One day they went hunting and lost their way. Hungry and thirsty all day, they reached beneath a tree. But there was only one fruit on the tree. The king, from his horse, reached and plucked it. As was his habit, he fed the fakir first—out of love. He cut the fruit into six slices and gave one to the fakir.

The fakir ate and said, marvelous—so delicious! Never have I eaten such a fruit. Give me one more slice. He ate the second. He said, wonderful! He said to the emperor, one more slice please. The king felt it a little too much. There was only one fruit; both were hungry. Even so, he gave the third. The fakir said, excellent, one more! The king felt it difficult, yet again gave one. Finally only one slice remained. The fakir said, just one more! The king said, you are going too far. I too am hungry! The fakir snatched the slice. The king said, stop. Return the slice. This has crossed all bounds. My love for you—does it mean you have no love for me?

The king took back the slice and put it in his mouth. It was bitter poison. He spat it out. He said, have you gone mad? Why did you eat five slices? Why did you not complain? The fakir said: from the hands that have given me so many sweet fruits, shall I complain about one small bitter slice? That is why I kept taking every slice—lest you come to know! Otherwise complaint would have reached you. From the hand that has given so many sweet fruits—how can there be complaint over a small bitter slice?

Such a person can be content. Contentment too has its own chemistry, its own arithmetic.

If we look rightly at what is, there is abundance for contentment. If we keep our eyes darting toward what is not, what is will never be seen, and what is not will weave its dreams around the mind and give birth to discontent.

Reality is enough for contentment. Discontent needs dreams. The real is enough for contentment; imagination is needed for discontent. People throughout the world are discontent because of imagination, not because of reality. Reality can offer sufficient contentment. But imagination—imagination inflicts boundless pain.

Krishna says: the one who is content with what comes—with what is obtained, who is at ease, grateful, blessed—and beyond duality… The second thing he says: beyond the pairs of opposites, dvandvātīta—beyond the dualities. Outside the two.

To become content is very difficult—and yet not as difficult as to go beyond duality. What is duality?

Our whole life is duality. We live in twoness. We love someone, and the one we love we also hate. You will say—what am I saying? But the entire human race has this experience, and now psychologists accept it in a most emphatic way: the one we love we also hate.

Our mind is dual. The one we want, we also do not want. The one we are attracted to, we are also repelled by. The one we befriend, we also cultivate enmity with. Both happen together. Look into any single event and you will see.

Can you love the one you love twenty-four hours a day? You cannot. For an hour you love, for an hour you hate. Love in the morning—by evening, resentment. Fight in the evening—by morning, friendship again. The play of sun and shadow—love and hate—goes on the whole time.

The one we respect, we also harbor disrespect toward. We wait for the opportunity to bring that disrespect out. The one we garland with flowers—some day the wish to throw a stone at him also lingers in the mind, waiting. Then one day it finds a pretext and comes out. We throw stones too.

Our mind is double-bound at every moment. Hence the wise—Chanakya, who is among the most cunningly intelligent men—advised kings: do not tell your friend what you would not tell your enemy. Why? Because, said Chanakya, there is no certainty; the friend of today can become the enemy of tomorrow.

In the West there was a parallel to Chanakya—Machiavelli, equally cunningly intelligent. He said: beware—what you cannot keep secret, your friend will not keep secret either. Therefore, do not tell even to a friend. If you yourself cannot keep it and you have to tell a friend, do not fall into the illusion that what you could not hide, your friend will hide. He too will tell someone. And again—the friend of today can be the enemy of tomorrow.

Machiavelli said another thing: do not say such things to your enemy as cannot be taken back tomorrow. Because the enemy of today can be the friend of tomorrow. Then it will be difficult to return them. Very difficult.

In truth, enemy and friend are not two separate things; they happen together. Can you make someone an enemy without first making him a friend? Very difficult. It has not yet been possible on earth. To make an enemy without first making him a friend—impossible. To make someone an enemy, one has to pass via the staircase of friendship. So we can also understand: the one you befriended—now the possibility of his becoming an enemy has grown thick.

When Krishna says, beyond duality…

The mind lives in duality—always in duality. The mind lives in options—always two options stand. Whatever you do, the opposite voice in your mind keeps speaking within. Even when you raise a foot, the other side of the mind says, don’t raise it. The mind is never one hundred percent. A part of it is forever opposing. The one whose mind is filled with such a state is surrounded by duality. He will always be surrounded by duality. If this duality becomes very intense, the person will split in two—what psychologists call schizophrenia. He becomes two. One man becomes like two men.

We do not split that extremely; our split is fluid, liquid. We do not break into two solid halves, but the two halves continue. Even so, we are schizophrenic—double.

The one who praises you today—you are surprised tomorrow that he condemns you. You are mistaken; you do not know the psychological truth. The one who praised will repay the balance. Today if not tomorrow, somewhere he will condemn; then he will feel compensation. He has accomplished one side; if he does not do the opposite, he will not feel balanced. The one who praises on one side will somewhere, somehow, tomorrow, condemn. When he praises, understand immediately—do not wait for the condemnation; it will happen somewhere.

Freud has written in his memoirs: if the most intimate friends were to come to know what they say here and there about each other, no friendship would survive on earth—not even one. If even the closest friends knew what they say elsewhere about one another, not one friendship would remain.

The reason: the mind constantly seeks completion. Its other half demands: fulfill me too.

In school the teacher instructs the children. How frightened they sit! They do not nod. They hardly seem to breathe. And when the teacher turns his back to write on the blackboard, look—their faces change! As much as the teacher has frightened them from the front, if only he had two eyes at the back of his skull, he would see what they do behind his back! They are compensating, nothing more.

They are only repaying the demand for respect. Then they feel lighter. If they cannot repay, then great difficulty arises. That is why only very alert teachers keep moving around. If the teacher remains fixed, the children will be in trouble. To press them for five or six hours on one side is dangerous; there must be periodic release, catharsis. Whenever the teacher turns to write on the board, they make faces, toss caps, signal to each other—then they become light. When the teacher turns back, they are again ready to give respect.

This is the state of all our minds—double-bound.

This duality is at the surface and in great depths too. On the surface, in the depths. In the depths also, the duel continues. If a man fasts by day, at night he will dream of food—compensation. If he is good and honest by day, at night he will steal in dreams. That thief within is also there along with the honest one. What will the dishonest part do? If you do not allow it to act by day, at night it will find its satisfaction.

I have heard: Eknath went on pilgrimage. People in the village said, we too will come; many joined. In the village there was a thief. He too said to Eknath, I will come. Eknath said, Brother, you are notorious. There will be many pilgrims; if there is trouble, it will be difficult. Take a vow that you will not steal; then come. The man said, I take the vow. He did, and Eknath took him along.

For a night or two it went fine; by the third or fourth night, a strange trouble began. Strange, because nothing was actually stolen, but one person’s belongings kept turning up in another’s bed. Things from one chest turned up in another’s. In the morning everything was found, but great puzzlement—who was working so hard at night? And why?

Eknath suspected the thief was up to something. He stayed awake at night. Around midnight he saw the thief get up. From this bed he moved something to that, from that chest to this—someone’s pillow he placed under someone else.

Eknath said, what are you doing? The thief said, I took the vow not to steal, but at least let me do some exchanging! By day somehow I restrain myself, but night becomes very difficult. And after all, when we return, I must resume my profession! If the practice is entirely broken, tell me, what will happen? Let the practice remain. And I am harming no one. In the morning everything is found. Often I tell them myself: look in that bed—you may find it!

We too do this at night. What is missed by day is compensated at night. If we were to see the dreams of good men, it would be astonishing. If we were to see the dreams of bad men, it would also be astonishing.

The dreams of the good are necessarily like those of bad men. The dreams of the bad are necessarily like those of the good. The mind is double-bound. The good dream bad dreams; the bad dream good dreams. Thieves and the dishonest think, in dreams, of being saints and sannyasins. Saints and sannyasins become thieves and dishonest in dreams! That other half of the mind waits within. It waits—when? If no chance is found, it looks for one in dreams.

This mind is essentially dialectical—duality-bound. The very mode of the mind’s working is in duality. Therefore, if a man is a believer—faithful—then astonishingly, deep inside there will be hidden doubt. If a man is very skeptical, deep inside there will be hidden faith.

Thus it often happens that those who have been theists all their lives begin to turn atheistic near death. Why? Because all life they have held up faith; the doubtful part has been suppressed. Slowly it begins to arise. It says, you believed all life—what did you gain? The inner doubt starts to surface. And often lifelong unbelievers become believers at death; the inner aspect of faith rises.

The mind is dual, double. The way of its functioning is the same as that of the world—everything is polar. Here, everything lives through dualities. If we eliminate light, darkness will be eliminated. You will say, what am I saying? If we extinguish light, darkness increases—does not disappear. But extinguishing a lamp is not eliminating light. If light were to vanish entirely from the earth, darkness too would not remain—because darkness is known only so long as light is known. Otherwise it cannot even be known. It may remain, but it cannot be known.

If we could stop birth, death would be eliminated; for if there is no birth, whom will we find to die? If we stop death, we will have to stop birth.

This is the predicament of the whole world. The development of medicine in the last two hundred years has reduced death rates; therefore we must attempt birth control. There, death has been reduced; here, birth must be reduced.

Life is a balance between opposites. And life moves by opposition. The whole of life is duality. At the base of life is mind.

Hence those like Marx, Engels, Lenin, Mao—those who have no trust in Atman beyond the mind—speak of dialectical materialism. They say matter moves through duality. Therefore they speak of class struggle—society too moves through conflict. The poor must be set against the rich; only then society will move. All of society is duality. If mind is all there is, then in life there is nothing beyond struggle.

But Krishna says: dvandvātīta—beyond duality, beyond dialectics, outside the two—only one who goes beyond can be free of karmic bondage.

Who can be outside the two? Not the mind. As long as the mind is, it will remain within two. Outside the two can be only the one who knows even the mind; only the one who recognizes the mind. Hate cannot be beyond duality; love cannot be beyond duality. But the knower—the witness of love and hate—can be beyond.

I sit. Morning comes, the sun rises; I see light spread all around. Evening comes, the sun sets; I see darkness spread all around. Again morning—light again. I see darkness coming; I see light coming. I see light going; I see darkness going. But I—the one who has seen both light and darkness—am neither light nor darkness. I am the third—separate from both.

If I remember this third, I go beyond the two. The remembrance of the third—and one goes beyond the two. Remember the third—and one goes beyond.

Beyond the mind’s duality only he can go who remembers the third.

When pleasure comes, let me know within: pleasure has come, but I am not pleasure. For if I were pleasure, sorrow could never come. But after a while sorrow comes. When sorrow comes, let me know: sorrow has come, but I am not sorrow. For if I were sorrow, then pleasure could never arrive. But just before there was pleasure; soon there will be pleasure again.

Pleasure comes, sorrow comes; hate arrives, love arrives; friendship comes, enmity comes; defeat happens, victory happens; respect is given, insult is given—these are the pairs. If, beyond them, I hold the third in remembrance—that I am distinct from both, other than both, separate—one who knows, who sees, the witness—then I go beyond duality.

Krishna says: the one who goes beyond duality, Arjuna, is freed from the bondage of all actions.

In truth, bondage is only of duality. The one who is free of duality is free. The one surrounded by duality is in bondage. Hate has chains, love has chains. Respect has bindings, insult has bindings. Praise binds, blame binds. Friend binds, enemy binds. One’s own bind, others bind. All binds. Defeat binds, victory binds.

But the one who knows both and sees himself beyond both—he goes beyond bondage. Then none can bind him. Even if bound, he remains beyond bondage—because he knows: I am separate, I am different, I am apart.

This sense of apartness—this feeling of witnessing—takes one beyond duality.

Content with whatever comes—beyond the mind’s dualities—such a person, even while acting, does not get caught in the bondage of action. Thus says Krishna—most scientific—to Arjuna.

gatasanga-sya muktasya jñānāvasthita-cetasaḥ.
yajñāyācarataḥ karma samagraṁ pravilīyate.. 23..

Because for the unattached, the liberated one whose consciousness is established in knowledge, acting for yajña, all actions dissolve entirely.

Performing actions unattached, with awareness—such a man’s karmic bondage becomes attenuated; all fetters, all dependencies fall away. Unattached, non-identified, free of tādātmya! What is the meaning of unattached here? Enter a little into attachment and it will be clear.

I have heard: a house caught fire. Naturally, the master of the house beat his chest and wept. A crowd gathered. They tried to extinguish the fire; it would not go out. His eyes were full of tears; he had lost his senses. Just then a neighbor came running and said, do not cry, do not panic—let it burn; be carefree. Because your son—this I know for certain—sold the house yesterday. The deal is done.

The tears vanished as if they had never been. The crying disappeared. He became composed, just like everyone else standing around. He said, I had no idea. A smile touched his lips. The house was still burning—more than before; the flames higher. But the flames within him vanished. There was still fire there; here in the heart, no more burning.

Just then his son came running and said, what are you doing standing around? I had only spoken with the buyer; he sent word he will not buy a burned house. The token was not paid; the deal has fallen through.

The tears returned. He began again to beat his chest and cry out. The house is still burning—just the same. Inside, the fire has returned.

What changed in between? The house would not even have known that such a drama had occurred. What happened?

For a brief while he became unattached. For a brief while he was free of attachment to this house. The moment it was not mine, the matter ended. When it is mine, the matter does not end. When the house was mine, the fire reached within. When it was not mine, the fire no longer entered within. The fire still burned; but it could not reach inside. For a little while, in that dramatic event, attachment broke. It was no longer mine.

If only the man had been wise! If only he had seen this event! Then he could have remained beyond flames for life. But he will not—because he is again weeping. He has opened the same door again.

Unattached means: in this world nothing is mine. The sense of mine is attachment. Mamata is attachment.

But “mine” has vast extensions. My son is my attachment. My house is my attachment. My religion is my attachment. My scripture is my attachment. Even my God is my attachment. Wherever “mine” joins, attachment joins. Wherever “mine” departs, attachment departs.

But when will “mine” depart? As long as the “I” is, “mine” will not depart. It may be moved from one place to another; it will attach elsewhere.

I said that in that dramatic event the man became unattached for a little while—do not misunderstand. For a little while he became unattached to that house. But his attachment moved elsewhere—to the money to be received from the sale. The house was sold; no longer his. The money to be obtained became his. “Mine” moved from the house to something else.

It makes no difference where “mine” attaches. Wherever it attaches, the same work begins. A man may leave his house; then my ashram appears. My temple, my mosque.

Man is astonishing! He will not accept being without “mine.” He walks carrying “mine.” Even in a temple, he makes it “mine.” There is no temple of God on earth—only someone’s “my temple,” someone else’s “my temple.” Therefore two “mines” collide—temples and mosques are set on fire; bloodshed happens.

We have not yet made an earth where we can build that temple which is not mine, not yours—but his, God’s. We have not made such a temple. Hopes were there to build God’s temple; but every temple turns out to be someone’s “my temple.”

This “mine” can change; it does not vanish so long as “I” is at the center.

Consider a lamp burning. Its light falls on the walls all around. The light on the walls is “mine.” The flame of the lamp is “I.” As long as the flame of “I” burns, the light of “mine” will fall somewhere. Remove it from one wall—it will fall elsewhere. Until the flame goes out—the flame of “I,” the lamp of ego—so long “mine” will go on forming.

Take this lamp from the house and put it in a temple—no difference; the temple becomes mine. Place it under a tree in the forest—the light falls on the bushes; they become mine. Wherever you take this lamp, “mine” reaches there. The flame of “I” is the source of “mine.”

Only one who is egoless can be unattached.

Attachment is the radiation of ego. As light radiates from a lamp, so “mine” radiates from “I.” Wherever it falls, it clings.

There is another amusing thing. Whatever we take to be “mine” becomes identified with our “I”; tādātmya happens.

Consider: a man’s wife dies. He beats his chest and weeps. Do not think only that the wife has died—he weeps also because a portion of his “I” has also died. This “my wife” was not only wife; she was also a part of his “I.” A fragment of the “I” within has broken and scattered. He is now incomplete—half. Hence the idea of calling a wife ardhangini and the husband ardhang, the other-half, is deep.

Whenever something of “mine” is destroyed, then “I” also breaks a little. For a moment, think: if all that you call “mine” were stripped away, how much of your “I” would remain? If all were taken, the flame of “I” would be starved, as when oil is taken from a lamp—the flame flickers, almost gone. Whenever something of “mine” breaks, the “I” within breaks—because “mine” is not only light; it becomes the oil of the flame.

Therefore man enlarges “mine” to fortify “I.” The larger the house, the larger the “I.” The larger the kingdom, the larger the “I.” The larger the wealth, the larger the “I.” When wealth goes, the “I” shrinks—the oil is gone, the wick begins to die. Sometimes it is so distressed that a man cannot live—he commits suicide. The oil is finished; there is no way but to die. When “mine” departs, “I” begins to prepare for death.

Thus Krishna says: acting unattached…

When one acts unattached, what is such action? His action creates no “mine.” His life establishes no tādātmya anywhere. He calls nothing “mine.” Nowhere does the deep feeling of “mine” arise. He lives, but without “mine.” Then life becomes yajña. Such unattached action turns life into yajña. The whole of life becomes a sacred offering.

Such a person, says Krishna to Arjuna, then all his bondages are weakened.

No means to bind him remains; for bondage is born of “mine.” Bondage is born of “I.” From “I” sprout the shoots that become chains. Upon the foundation of “I” we forge our prisons. From “I” we decorate the walls of our cells. But it makes no difference if we make our chains of gold and decorate the prison walls with beautiful paintings—prison is prison and we are prisoners.

We carry our prison with us—the prison of “mine” walks along. Therefore if you are left alone in a forest, you feel impoverished, destitute, diminished.

I have heard: an emperor banished his son. Angry over something, he ordered him out. Twelve years passed. The old father—his only son—remorse returned. The other part of the mind must have said many times, what a wrong I did—was the crime that great? It could have been forgiven. The other side returned. Ministers were sent to search for him.

Twelve years the prince had wandered. He knew nothing—being a prince, why would he? He had never studied properly, never learned a craft. He liked a little singing and dancing. He begged in villages by singing and dancing. He could do nothing else.

After twelve years, in the bright afternoon, the sun blazing, he stood barefoot before a shabby inn, rattling a tin bowl and singing for coins. He begged: blisters have formed on my feet; the soles of my shoes are torn away—give me a little money for this heat. A few coins lay in his bowl. He wore the same clothes he had worn when banished twelve years before. Hard to recognize.

A minister’s chariot passed by. He stopped it. The face seemed familiar. The clothes were old but once regal. Though tattered, traces of gold thread showed here and there. He got down and went near—the face was the same. The minister fell at his feet. Forgive us, he said. Your father begs forgiveness. He calls you back.

In a single instant, it was as if the prince underwent a metamorphosis. All was transformed. He flung away the bowl; the coins scattered in the street. The light in his eyes changed; the manner of his limbs changed; his spine was straight. He said to the minister: go—arrange a bath. Bring fine clothes. Buy shoes. Make all arrangements.

He sat in the chariot. A crowd gathered. Those who a moment before had turned their faces away from giving a coin now said, blessed are we to have your darshan! But he no longer looked at them. He was not the same man as a moment ago. All had changed. What had happened?

“My” returned—kingdom, empire, emperor. His eyes no longer looked at the ground. Those before whom he had folded hands and who had not looked at him now called him Maharaj. Someone pressed his feet. But he sat, eyes raised to the sky. Those around were now insects. A little while earlier he had been the insect before them. If they had dropped a coin into his bowl, it was only to get rid of a nuisance—not from compassion. What happened?

Just now the flame of “I” was almost extinguished; now it blazes with full force. The world of “mine” has returned. Chariot, kingdom, empire—everything has come back. Now the lamp has oil. Now the flame burns bright—no longer a small light, but a blazing torch.

Krishna says: when a man acts unattached, life becomes yajña—sacred. The madness of “I” departs. The spread of “mine” falls. The web of attachment breaks. The feeling of tādātmya dissolves. Then however he lives, however he walks, whatever he does—no bondage is forged by that doing, that living, that being. Why?

Because outside the mint of “I” there is no factory for making fetters. Outside the ego there is no metal to cast chains. Outside “I” there is no poison to blind a man and push him into pits. Therefore—unattached!

But unattached will be only one whose “mine” is lost. And “mine” will be lost only when “I” is lost.

Such a man lives like shunya—emptiness. To live like shunya is to attain a life that is yajña. Then no bondages are created.

brahmārpaṇaṁ brahma haviḥ brahmāgnau brahmaṇā hutam.
brahmaiva tena gantavyaṁ brahma-karma-samādhinā.. 24..

The ladle of offering is Brahman, the oblation is Brahman; in the fire that is Brahman it is offered by the sacrificer who is Brahman—therefore the result to be attained by him who is absorbed in Brahman-action is also Brahman alone.

All—whatever is—action, the doer, the done; the spoken, the heard; the seen, the shown—in this world, in this existence, Krishna says in this sutra, is Brahman. But when is it seen so?

So long as “I” is seen, it will not be seen that all is Brahman. It is seen so only when “I” is not seen; then it is seen that all is Brahman.

There are only two kinds of experience. For those whose experience is the experience of “I,” Krishna’s statement will appear utterly meaningless. And so it is—for them.

Those whose single experience is the “I,” whose world is a fort built around “I,” who have always seen life keeping the “I” at the center—as we all have—ego-centric; for them this statement of Krishna will seem utterly futile. Where is Brahman? Nowhere is Brahman seen! And it will not be seen. Such a person is blind to Brahman. And that toward which we are blind cannot be seen without acquiring new eyes.

Ego is blindness toward Brahman.

When will it be seen—that everything is Brahman: the yajña is Brahman, the ritual is Brahman, the fire is Brahman, the oblation is Brahman, the offerer is Brahman, the chanter of mantras is Brahman? When will it be seen that all is Brahman?

When the blindness of “I” breaks. Before that it cannot be seen. Before that, only this is seen: I am, and all else is merely my means. I am all; the moon and stars move for me. Existence revolves around me. I am the axis. All else is my instrument.

So long as such an ego-centric vision persists, this talk of Brahman will seem meaningless—mere verbiage. All is Brahman? Impossible to feel. When will it be felt?

Keep the earlier sutra in mind, and this one will open. The one who becomes unattached—very soon his doors of perception open. He begins to see that the same is in all—everywhere, all around.

For now, let us try to understand—even if seeing is difficult. Understanding is not knowing; let us not mistake it for knowledge. Understand, but know that you have understood, not known. Knowing is arduous. Yet to understand is great fortune; for if you understand, perhaps tomorrow you may set out on the journey of knowing. But we are very clever; we take understanding to be knowledge itself. We understand and settle that it is enough.

A Sufi fakir was brought to me. Those who brought him said: he sees God everywhere—God in every particle. In trees, stones, plants, moon and stars, houses—everywhere he sees God. I said, very auspicious—what could be more? I asked the fakir, did you practice this way of seeing, or did it simply appear? He said, no, I have practiced for years. For years I tried to see, and then it appeared. I asked, how did you try? He said: I began to cultivate the feeling; standing before a tree, I would think—Brahman, God, the Lord. Not a tree—God. For thirty years I kept thinking thus. Now I see Brahman in all. I said, stop this thinking for three days. He said, why? I said, stop—then we will speak.

The next morning he was very angry with me. He said, you have harmed me greatly. I stopped thinking at night and I began to see walls as walls! Brahman did not appear. I told him, this was projection.

Ego can practice to see “all is Brahman,” but that practice will be a dream. As long as the ego remains—“I am” and “all is Brahman”—cannot be together. Yes, one can deceive oneself, auto-hypnotize, that all is Brahman. Keep affirming, and the mind’s web will spread and you will begin to see “Brahman” everywhere. But that will be the mind’s web—not the experience of Brahman, only the ego’s deception. Not Brahman’s experience.

Brahman is not attained by practice. Brahman is known by the dissolution of ego. Take this rightly to heart. Brahman is not attained by the practice of ego; Brahman is realized by the practice of dissolving ego. If the ego is gone—if I am not—what remains is recognized as Brahman. If “I” remain and impose “Brahman” upon what is seen, then slowly it will seem Brahman appears; but that Brahman is my delusion, the spread of my imagination.

In this sutra it is essential to remember: when Krishna says, everything becomes Brahman—for such a person, to such a consciousness—everything becomes Brahman. When? When the flame of “I” goes out, when the lamp of “I” is broken. Then nothing else remains; only that remains.

Exactly as with a pot filled with water floating in a river. The water within does not feel that the water within and without are the same. The pot says, this is my water—outside is other. A thin wall of clay separates the inner and outer water. Break the pot—the inner and outer become one.

The subtle wall of ego separates me and Brahman. Break the wall, shatter the pot of ego—“I” and Brahman are one. And then it is seen that all—then it is not even seen that Brahman is in every particle; it is seen that every particle is Brahman—not “in,” but “is.” When we say Brahman is in every particle, it seems the particle is separate and within it Brahman resides. No—when the pot of “I” breaks, it is not seen that Brahman is in every particle; it is seen that particle and Brahman are two names for one reality. Existence and Brahman are two names for one reality. Then it no longer seems right to say “God is”—rather, “is” and “God” are the same utterance. What-is is God. Existence itself is Brahman, existence itself.

For such realization, the inner wall of “I” must break. It is very fine, transparent; hence it is not noticed. This is the wonder: if the wall were of stone, opaque, we would not see through it; we would be sealed within and the world sealed outside. No relation. But the wall of “I” is transparent—glass-like. We see through it clearly; therefore we do not suspect there is a wall at all.

We stand by the glass; outside we see everything—the sun, the moon, the stars. The glass is not seen. Such is the glass wall. But it is. What is the proof? The sense of separateness. Wherever there is a feeling of separation, there is a wall, a distance, whether seen or not.

In Krishna’s sutra is the vision of becoming distance-less—no other remains, only that One is. In the instant it is seen that only the One is, what bondage can there be? Then even chains are that One. What enemy? The enemy too is that One. What sorrow? Sorrow too is that One. What illness? Illness too is that One.

I have heard: a Sufi fakir had a sore in his heart, a deep wound—maggots infested it. All his life he went to the mosque for namaz; but since the maggots appeared, he stopped going. Neighbors said, are you becoming a kafir? Will you spoil your life at the end? Go to hell? All life you called upon God—now why not namaz?

The fakir said, I still pray. But I cannot bow, therefore I do not come to the mosque; in namaz one must bow. They said, madman—how can there be namaz without bowing? And why this objection to bowing? He said, when I bow, the maggots fall from my wound. Then I have to pick them up and put them back. Sometimes some are hurt; sometimes one dies. They said, why are you so bothered for maggots? He said, not for the maggots—for myself. They too are me. The one to whom I pray, the one who is praying, and the maggots who fall in namaz and die—these three are not separate.

With such a vision, the meaning of this sutra can be felt: that there is the expansion of the One; twoness is a delusion—the One expands.

Why does Krishna speak of this after speaking of going beyond duality? Because unless the inner duality dissolves, the outer duality cannot dissolve. Therefore he first says: the man becomes dvandvātīta—beyond duality; then he says: all becomes Brahman.

When the inner duality shatters—when the two halves of the mind merge into one—then outside too the two will not last long. The one within discovers the one without. The two within create two without.

We see outside what we are within. We seek outside what we are within. The thief finds the thief; the dishonest finds the dishonest; the saint finds the saint. In one and the same village tonight many travelers will arrive. One will find the brothel; one will find the temple—in the same village. We find what we are.

I have heard: one night a thief entered a fakir’s hut. It was midnight. He thought the fakir would be asleep. He went in and was startled: a tiny earthen lamp burned, and the fakir was writing a letter. The thief drew his knife. The fakir looked up and said, put the knife away—there will hardly be any need of it. Sit a while; let me finish this letter—then I will attend to your business. Such words that even the thief, trembling, sat down!

He finished the letter. The fakir asked, how have you come? Speak truthfully—do not waste time; it is my time to sleep. The thief said, you are a strange man—do you not see I hold a knife, that I come at midnight, dressed in black? I have come to steal. The fakir said, Right—but you chose the wrong place. And if you had to come here, decent man, you could have told me first—we would have made arrangements. What will you steal here? You have put me in difficulty, coming at midnight and coming so far—if you go away empty-handed, it will be a shame. And it is the first occasion—no thief has ever honored my hut with his visit. Today I too feel I am somebody. No one ever comes this way. Wait, let me search. Sometimes someone leaves an offering; perhaps there is something.

He found ten rupees somewhere, gave them to the thief and said, take these. The night is very cold. He also gave him the blanket from his own body. The thief was very unsettled. He said, you are now naked! The night is cold. The fakir said, I am inside the hut. You have two miles to walk; and money cannot immediately buy clothes—money cannot cover the body; take the blanket. I am inside. And when will this happen again? No thief has ever come to this poor hut. You have given me the good fortune of being rich. Now I too can say that thieves honor my home. Go in joy. I am very happy.

The thief left. The fakir stood at the window and watched him go. Above, a full moon had risen. Midnight—moonlight showering everywhere. That night the fakir wrote a song; its lines are wondrous. He wrote: the moon is very lovely—poor thief! If only I could gift him this moon too! But it is beyond my capacity. If only I could gift him the moon—poor thief! But it is beyond my means.

Later the thief was caught. The court called the fakir as a witness: did this man steal? The fakir said, no—for when I gifted him ten rupees, he thanked me. And when I gave him the blanket, he insisted I keep it, for the night was cold. This man is very good. It was I who forced him—reluctantly, with great embarrassment—he took the blanket.

He was sentenced for other thefts—two years. On release he ran straight to the fakir and fell at his feet: you are the first man who treated me like a man. Now I am at your feet—make me a man; you behaved with me first as if I were a man, now make me one. The fakir said, what else could I do?

What is within us is what we see without.

Had there been even a little thief within the fakir, he would have called the police—raised an uproar. But there is no thief within the fakir—so even if a thief enters, he is not seen as a thief, not seen as an enemy, but as a friend.

What is within us spreads without. If there is duality within, duality appears without.

Simone Weil—a deeply thoughtful Western woman—died only a few years ago, young. But in that brief life she wrote many precious things. Among them she wrote: until I was thirty I always had a headache. And so long as I had a headache, I was an atheist; I could not believe in God. It never occurred to me that the headache might be the cause of my atheism. Only when the headache went, when I became healthy, slowly I found my atheism vanished and I became a theist. Then I realized that the headache was the cause of my atheism.

If pain persists within the head twenty-four hours a day, it is difficult to see God outside. When there is pain within, pain is seen without. When there is discontent within, discontent appears outside.

What is inside is reflected outside and spreads. The world is our own great expansion—our own being seen with a magnifying glass. The world is our expansion.

As long as duality is within, duality appears in the world. Then matter appears separate, spirit appears separate. Then dualities are seen in everything. Then Brahman cannot be seen—because Brahman is the experience of non-duality, of advaita, free of twoness.

Let inner duality dissolve—that is why Krishna said first: the man becomes dvandvātīta. And now in this sutra he says: all becomes Brahman. And when all becomes Brahman, the supreme treasure of life is attained.

One last shloka more.