Some yogins devotedly worship the sacrifice to the gods alone.
Others, into the Brahman-fire, with sacrifice itself, offer up the sacrifice।। 25।।
Geeta Darshan #9
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
दैवमेवापरे यज्ञं योगिनः पर्युपासते।
ब्रह्माग्नावपरे यज्ञं यज्ञेनैवोपजुह्वति।। 25।।
ब्रह्माग्नावपरे यज्ञं यज्ञेनैवोपजुह्वति।। 25।।
Transliteration:
daivamevāpare yajñaṃ yoginaḥ paryupāsate|
brahmāgnāvapare yajñaṃ yajñenaivopajuhvati|| 25||
daivamevāpare yajñaṃ yoginaḥ paryupāsate|
brahmāgnāvapare yajñaṃ yajñenaivopajuhvati|| 25||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, two kinds of yajnas are mentioned here. First: yogis properly worship through sacrificial rites in the form of the worship of the gods; but the wise offer the sacrifice itself into the fire of the Supreme. The yogis’ yajna and the knowers’ yajna—please clarify their meaning.
As I said earlier, there are two kinds of commitments: Sankhya and Yoga. Because of these two, religion always takes two forms. Only two; no more.
Sankhya’s stance is that knowledge alone is enough. One out of a hundred can ever understand Sankhya. Yoga’s stance is that knowledge is not enough; one must do something—practice, discipline—only then does knowledge bear fruit. Ninety-nine out of a hundred can understand Yoga.
There are two kinds of people, therefore two kinds of orientations: those oriented to action and those oriented to knowing. The basic division is two. That’s why Krishna, again and again, speaks of two. He says “the yogis” and “the knowers.” He accepts both orientations.
Both are right—because there are two kinds of people. If only one were right—say, Sankhya—then ninety-nine percent would have no path to the Divine. If only Yoga were right, then the one percent would have no path. No—there are as many paths as there are kinds of people. The broad division is two.
So even while discussing yajna he speaks in twos. He says: yogis by worship. Worship is action, a method—through that they perform yajna. And the knowers through knowing; for them knowing is itself the yajna—knowing is their doing. For the yogi, doing is knowing; for the knower, knowing is doing. Two faces of the same coin. For one like Krishna, who is both knower and yogi, who recognizes both paths, there is no division.
Ramakrishna made a unique experiment in his life—unique in centuries. He attained; ordinarily, once attainment happens, one stops. If you reach the summit by one path, you don’t then bother to try the other paths. But after realization Ramakrishna felt to reach by other paths too. He practiced Islam. He practiced Christianity. He explored the path of Sankhya and the path of Yoga. He also walked the way of the devotees, the Vaishnavas. He looked from every side—and in the end he found that all paths reach the same peak. Later he said: just as many trails up a mountain all finally meet at the summit, so it is here…
When he practiced one path, he plunged wholly into it with the right commitment. When he practiced Islam, passing through Sufi disciplines, he stopped going to the temple, tied a lungi, and stayed in the mosque—six months. Then one day, returning to Dakshineswar, he said: I reached the same place. Where the temple led, the mosque led too.
When he practiced the Radha sect: their view is that Krishna is the sole male, and whoever undertakes that practice—man or woman—must go seeing oneself as Radha, as feminine. For six months Ramakrishna practiced as Radha of Krishna—and extraordinary experiences happened, not merely inward, but outwardly visible. His gait changed, became womanly. His breasts swelled. His voice grew feminine. And a great marvel occurred: he began to menstruate.
If this had been recorded two or four thousand years ago, we would say it’s a story. But until just recently there were living eyewitnesses. So steeped did he become in Radha-bhava that he grew feminine. He so deeply assimilated “I am Radha” that he forgot “I am a man.” And when the mind forgets, the body follows; the body is always the follower.
Rightly seen, whatever appears in the body has first appeared in seed form in the mind; otherwise it cannot manifest in the body. If one is a woman today, that too is a seed-sprout of the previous mind ripening now. If one is a man today, that too is a seed-sprout ripening now. Where the previous journey left off, whatever seeds remained in the mind become active.
Ramakrishna’s reaching the same place by many paths—this is what Krishna says throughout the Gita. In many senses the Gita is extraordinary. The Quran is the scripture of one orientation; it does not speak of the other. The Bible is the scripture of one orientation; it does not speak of the other. Mahavira’s words are of one orientation; they do not speak of the other. Buddha’s words are of one orientation; they do not speak of the other. The Gita is extraordinary: it is the essence of all orientations that have appeared in human experience.
So if Muslims say the Quran is ours, in one sense they are right. But if Hindus say the Gita is ours, in that sense they are not right—because the Gita can belong to everyone.
There is no orientation that has arisen in humankind whose seed-sutras are not in the Gita. It is a gathering of all ways, all doors. This was possible only because Arjuna… had Arjuna agreed at the first statement of Sankhya, the Gita would not have proceeded. But Arjuna did not understand Sankhya; Krishna had to speak another way. He didn’t grasp that either; a third had to be said. He didn’t grasp that; a fourth had to be said!
The credit for the Gita goes to Arjuna. He simply did not understand. He kept raising questions. Whenever Krishna saw a way did not fit his grasp, he spoke another, then another, then another.
Had Muhammad found an Arjuna, the Quran might have become like this; he didn’t. Had Mahavira found an Arjuna, his words might have become like this; he didn’t. A questioner like Arjuna appears rarely. Answerers like Krishna appear more often.
Remember: for one who knows, answering is easy; for one who does not know, even asking rightly is hard. In a sense, Arjuna distilled all the questions humanity has ever raised. He stood before Krishna as the representative of all. Krishna had to answer. He asked one by one; Krishna had to answer one by one. He would negate an answer, let it drop, and seek another.
Therefore Krishna keeps speaking of two root orientations: he says, “the yogis,” “the knowers.” Both reach the same place—but their routes differ greatly. Yogis reach by action, technique, practice. Knowers reach by nonaction, nontechnique, nonpractice.
If we want a contemporary grasp: in the West there was a man, Gurdjieff—precisely the symbol of the yogis. You’ll say: why not name someone from India? Unfortunately, there’s no exact name. The precise symbol of the yogi was George Gurdjieff, who died only a few years ago. And for Sankhya’s precise symbol—Krishnamurti. Fortunately, India can name him.
If you placed Gurdjieff and Krishnamurti face to face, they would look like enemies—absolutely. Gurdjieff would say: without doing, nothing can happen. Krishnamurti would say: by doing, nothing will happen; the very idea of doing is the bondage. Do, and you’re trapped. Do, and you’ll never arrive. And Gurdjieff would say: if you don’t do, you drown; you’re not doing anything—how will you arrive?
But Krishnamurti too is speaking one nishtha, Sankhya. Nothing new. It seems new because Sankhya is such a supreme science that whenever it appears it always looks fresh; it cannot form a tradition. It is so subtle, so profound, its stream keeps breaking. Barely one percent can understand it—how will a tradition form?
Yoga forms a tradition because ninety-nine percent can understand it if they wish. No difficulty. Hence Yoga becomes a tradition. Sankhya does not—because once in a while a rare person truly understands that by non-doing it can happen.
So whenever Sankhya appears, it feels new; whenever Yoga appears, it feels traditional. And the Sankhya thinker will say: by tradition nothing will happen. The Yoga thinker will say: without tradition nothing will happen.
Krishnamurti has an advantage: those who speak only one orientation can be very consistent. Their whole life they say one thing. Krishnamurti has been saying the same thing for thirty-forty years—one tone, utterly consistent; you won’t find inconsistency. In Gurdjieff you won’t either. A whole life of one statement.
In someone like me, you can find inconsistency. I speak both orientations. I speak according to the person before me. If I feel this man can reach by Yoga, I say “through technique.” If I feel he cannot, I say “through nontechnique.” Then difficulties arise. If those two people meet, there’s trouble. Often I must say both at once.
Therefore Krishna’s Gita too is hard to understand. If Gurdjieff reads it, he will pick faults—the statements of Sankhya. If Krishnamurti reads it, he too will pick faults—the statements of Yoga. In both cases it is injustice to Krishna.
Paths differ; the peak is one. And on each path, different happenings occur. If I climb the mountain by the left path, I may meet trees laden with flowers. If you climb by the right, you may find only rocks. When we meet we may say: our paths are utterly different, the destination must be different—on mine flowers, on yours stones. How can flowers and stones meet? We become enemies. How can a flowery path reach where a stony path reaches? Such is our mind.
But the mountain has no problem. It brings both to the summit. It sees no inconsistency: come by this way or that, you will reach. If red flowers bloom on your path—no issue; if white flowers—no issue; if no flowers at all—no issue; if only thorns—no issue. Only one thing is essential: are you moving upward? If upward, you will reach the peak.
Thus Krishna speaks of yajna as the symbol of rising upward—whether yogis do it through bhajan, worship, asana, pranayama—anyhow. And whether knowers do it through meditation, contemplation, samadhi—through doing nothing, non-doing—they too arrive. Therefore he mentions both.
“shrotrādīnīndriyāṇy anye saṃyamāgniṣu juhvati,
śabdādīn viṣayān anye indriyāgniṣu juhvati.” (4.26)
And other yogis offer the senses such as hearing into the fire of restraint—meaning, they withdraw the senses from their objects and bring them under mastery. And other yogis offer objects such as sound into the fire of the senses—meaning, even while their senses receive objects without like and dislike, they render them to ash.
Then Krishna speaks again of two orientations:
- One: those who restrain the senses—who end the journey of the senses toward the objects. Their senses do not run outward. Understand “restraint,” and you will see.
- Two: those who continue to experience the objects and yet do not become involved. Both are engaged in yajna.
One does not let the senses go to the objects—this is one practice: they break the bridge between senses and objects. The other allows the senses to go to the objects but breaks the bridge between the senses and entanglement.
Understand the breaking of these two bridges. From either state the same supreme state is attained.
First, consider not letting the senses reach the objects. The senses are constantly rushing toward objects. You walk along the road—see a beautiful building, a beautiful face, a beautiful form, a beautiful car. You don’t even notice that by the time you say “beautiful,” the senses have already run. It is not that they run after you judge; “beautiful” is their conclusion, the result of having already reached and touched.
Do not think you get attracted because the face is beautiful; rather, the face seems beautiful because you are attracted. Attraction happens subtly, invisibly. Beauty is not subtle; it appears in thought. We speak in reverse: we say the face seems attractive because it is beautiful. The truth is the reverse: it seems beautiful because it has already attracted. The same face may not seem beautiful to another. If it did not attract them, it is not beautiful. “Beautiful” is our inference, not the cause. The senses experienced attraction; the intellect judged beauty. The senses have already arrived and touched.
The movement of the senses is subtle. It isn’t only when you touch with your hand that the senses touch. Each sense has its own way of touching. Seeing is the eye’s way of touching. Hearing is the ear’s way. Smell is the nose’s way. The hand’s range is small; the eye’s is vast—it touches from far away. But the eye touches.
Next time you look at a face, notice whether your eyes touched it. We think only hands touch—hence our confusion. Eyes also touch. Ears touch. Smell touches. These are modes of touch.
“Indriya” means an apparatus of touch. All senses touch. Subtle touch happens at a distance; gross touch needs closeness. The hand is gross—unless near, it cannot touch. What your senses want to touch, the hand touches last. First the eye, then the nose, then the ear. And when the other consents to being touched by the eye, by the ear, by the nose, then the hands touch.
The reverse work goes on too. If women or men wear perfume, they are arranging to be touched; you cannot touch everyone with the body, but through fragrance you can touch all on a subtle plane. Society does not permit everyone to touch by hand—there are controls. But by fragrance, you can touch all.
Voice, smell, sound, sight—they all touch. When you set out well-dressed, you carry an invitation to be touched by others’ eyes. And if no eyes touch you, you return dejected. The touch of others’ eyes soothes like a lullaby. When many eyes touch you, an inner tickle arises.
This double play goes on—touching and being touched. The senses are eager every moment to give and receive touch. You don’t even notice. It doesn’t occur to you.
Eric Berne wrote Games People Play; he speaks, rightly, of the game of “strokes,” of touch. You walk along; someone says “Hello!” He has touched you—with sound. You feel stroked: “Good?” The spine straightens; it feels nice. If the same man passes one day and doesn’t say hello, you were not touched; inside you feel low: What happened? He didn’t say hello! If you were away thirty days and return, and he only says hello, you will feel deprived—thirty hellos are owed! You’ll want those strokes paid back: “Hello! How are you? Long time no see!” He gives strokes—“How’s the weather? Where were you? All well?”—no real content, just touch. You both go on your way content.
Thus, if one wants to stop the senses from going to the objects, one must become aware of this subtle system of touch. It happens before you know; so swiftly that you notice only afterward. You must awaken to it, watch it, remember it. Gurdjieff would call it “remembering.” He was a precious modern yogi. He would say: keep remembering; remain aware of what is happening.
Is your eye only seeing, or also touching? There is a difference. An ordinary woman is walking—then the eye only sees, it does not touch. A beautiful woman walks—the eye not only sees, it touches. An ordinary man—only seeing. A handsome man—the eye sees and touches.
How to know the difference? If there was only seeing, no line is left behind; if there was touching, a line remains. If only seeing, you won’t need to look back; if touching, you will look back. If only seeing, no memory forms; if touching, memory forms. If only seeing, there will be no desire to see again tomorrow; if touching, the desire will arise.
Use the eye only to see, not to touch—then Krishna’s first event can happen. Use the hand only to touch physically, not to “touch.” You’ll say: touch and “touch”—what’s the difference? The same as with the eye: with the ear, only hearing, not “touching.” If the sound is sweet, the ear “touches” it; then desire arises: more, more. The sense begins to relish—the instrument becomes the master.
The yogi who severs the sense from the object severs the “touch”—the sensuous contact—between them. Seeing itself cannot be stopped; even if you put out the eyes, the functions transfer. Blind people’s ears become sharper; the ear takes on both hearing’s and seeing’s “touch.” A blind person can recognize footsteps; the sighted never do. So destroying the organ doesn’t help; what must cease is the sensuous “touch.”
How? By waking up. Whenever you see, see with awareness whether “touch” is happening or not—only seeing? Slowly the distance will become visible. Like when you switch off the light at night, at first all is dark; keep looking and a faint light appears. Similarly, keep watching, and the distinction becomes clear: I touched, or I saw. Then you will realize: wherever the senses “touch,” bondage is created; where they don’t, there is no bondage.
“Restraint” means using the senses as instruments, not for indulgence. Restraint means you take utility from the senses, not enjoyment. The unrestrained person takes little utility, much enjoyment. Seeing is utility; relishing through the eye is enjoyment. Enjoyment is bondage; utility is not.
By remembering and watching this subtle arrangement of “touch,” the arrangement begins to break down.
Perhaps you never thought restraint means this. We take restraint to mean: if a woman appears, close your eyes; where there are women, do not go; don’t see, don’t hear, don’t touch. That is not restraint; that is suppression. Suppression is not restraint; it is unrestrainedness boiling within. Better the steam escapes the kettle than that it builds up; otherwise the kettle bursts. An ordinary unrestrained person is less dangerous than a suppressed one—suppression accumulates poison; when it bursts, it harms far and wide.
Suppression is not restraint. Restraint is awakening—awareness, remembering. Try this.
Take a loved one’s hand in yours. Close your eyes and watch: are you merely touching, or “touching”? The line is fine, but you will see it. Sometimes you will feel you are “touching”; sometimes just touching; sometimes both. Note: if you are only touching, within a short while nothing but sweat will be felt; if you are “touching,” poetry will arise—sweat will go unnoticed. If you are only touching, soon you will be bored and want to withdraw your hand. If you are “touching,” you will not want the hand to be withdrawn; you will want the hands to remain joined. Poetry is born, dreams arise; the romantic world begins.
Keep watching and experimenting, and the first event of restraint can happen: the relish of the senses for the objects disappears. The senses go to the objects for utility, not enjoyment. The bridge is broken. Such a person is restrained. Krishna says, such a one attains.
Second, Krishna says: even while enjoying, even in enjoyment—without severing the senses from the objects, even while “touching”—the knowers remain outside it. This process is subtler still—because it is for the one percent. The first is for the ninety-nine; even that is difficult. The second is more difficult. How to break the bridge while enjoying? By being awake at the very moment of enjoyment. You are eating; waves of taste are flowing; you are immersed. Right in that moment become aware of taste; see that immersion is happening. Don’t run, don’t break—immerse fully, taste fully—and be filled with awareness. Suddenly you will see: I am not the enjoyer; there is enjoyment, and I am the witness. The enjoyer-sense falls away; let enjoyment continue. Listening to music—the ears are delighted, inner waves rise; the ear is utterly rapt, “touching” the sound. But within, consciousness awakens and sees: this is happening. In that remembering, a deep bridge breaks; the inner consciousness ceases to be the enjoyer, remains only the seer.
By this path too the knowers attain the supreme truth. Krishna has spoken these two ways again. They are not different at all; it is a matter of the person—what is nearest and most feasible.
The second is difficult because of the danger of self-deception. One can easily cheat oneself: “We go to the prostitute’s dance, but we remain witnesses. We relish fully—but like the knower!” The test is hard.
Tantra devised tests—unique in the world. One was: if someone says, “Even while enjoying I remain detached, a witness,” Tantra said: drink wine and remain awake; we will keep pouring—remain aware. If witnessing has happened amidst enjoyment, then even with intoxication awareness must remain. Let the senses be intoxicated; you don’t fall asleep.
So Tantra produced extraordinary trials—wine, cannabis, opium; and in the end went to the point that when none of these affected the practitioner and he remained as aware as without intoxication, then they even had a snake bite the tongue; even then he remained awake. The snake has bitten the tongue, poison has entered—the man may die—and yet the inner flame remains lit.
Ordinarily we find it hard that monks take cannabis or wine. Once it was a test; now it has become a daily routine—every evening smoking! Once it was a profound trial—but only for the second category, not the first. The yogi will not pass that test; it isn’t his test—he has already severed “touch.” The test is for the one who says: I have kept the connection, but remained unconnected. And if chemical unconsciousness spreads through the body yet awareness stays lit—then at that point nothing changes within.
Why devise such tests? Because of the danger of self-delusion. A man can say: “I wear fine clothes, but there’s no relish. I wear them in witnessing.” He harms no one else; he harms himself. Therefore the first discipline is easier—there is little chance of self-deception. The second is harder—there is much chance of self-deception. Yet Krishna speaks of both: this too and that too.
Mahavira and Buddha are men of the first path—restraint. Krishna himself is of the second. Hence Krishna and Mahavira can appear utterly opposite. Jains have put Krishna in hell—it is natural, logical. From Jain thinking it is fitting: how can a man who danced with women, who loved hundreds of women, who stood in war, who incited Arjuna to violence—how can he be liberated? That orientation cannot think it; so they consigned him to hell.
But Krishna was a precious being. Reason said hell; but the heart exists too. So Jains both consigned him to hell and their heart revolted—because they saw him, knew him. He may have danced with women, yet there was no dance in his eyes. He may have fought a war, yet there was no anger in his heart.
Reason said: contrary to our orientation—unrestrained—so hell. The heart said: but look at him! See his gait and manner. He lived among women, yet not a whiff of women clung to him. He danced, yet he was still—as Buddha is still upon his seat. He stood in battle, yet violence is nowhere visible in him. In his eyes there are none of the fibers of anger and violence.
He wore a peacock plume; but if one looks closely, behind Krishna’s plume the nakedness of Mahavira is clearly visible. The plume is seen; because of it they put him in hell. But behind it the nakedness is visible—that even with a peacock plume this man is as if sky-clad, naked. Because of that they made him the first tirthankara of the next cycle—a compensation. The intellect said hell, for he seems unrestrained. The heart said: but look!
Krishna is a man of the second orientation. And note this delightful fact: to the first orientation, the second looks opposite; to the second, the first looks opposite.
But Krishna declares both with equal regard in the Gita. He has the experience of both journeys, the capacity to see both from the sky. His conviction is deep that both reach one place. Throughout the Gita you will hear this tone of synthesis. That is its beauty.
We will take the rest this evening.
For now, let the sannyasins dissolve into kirtan for five or ten minutes—you too may join, or else just watch.
Sankhya’s stance is that knowledge alone is enough. One out of a hundred can ever understand Sankhya. Yoga’s stance is that knowledge is not enough; one must do something—practice, discipline—only then does knowledge bear fruit. Ninety-nine out of a hundred can understand Yoga.
There are two kinds of people, therefore two kinds of orientations: those oriented to action and those oriented to knowing. The basic division is two. That’s why Krishna, again and again, speaks of two. He says “the yogis” and “the knowers.” He accepts both orientations.
Both are right—because there are two kinds of people. If only one were right—say, Sankhya—then ninety-nine percent would have no path to the Divine. If only Yoga were right, then the one percent would have no path. No—there are as many paths as there are kinds of people. The broad division is two.
So even while discussing yajna he speaks in twos. He says: yogis by worship. Worship is action, a method—through that they perform yajna. And the knowers through knowing; for them knowing is itself the yajna—knowing is their doing. For the yogi, doing is knowing; for the knower, knowing is doing. Two faces of the same coin. For one like Krishna, who is both knower and yogi, who recognizes both paths, there is no division.
Ramakrishna made a unique experiment in his life—unique in centuries. He attained; ordinarily, once attainment happens, one stops. If you reach the summit by one path, you don’t then bother to try the other paths. But after realization Ramakrishna felt to reach by other paths too. He practiced Islam. He practiced Christianity. He explored the path of Sankhya and the path of Yoga. He also walked the way of the devotees, the Vaishnavas. He looked from every side—and in the end he found that all paths reach the same peak. Later he said: just as many trails up a mountain all finally meet at the summit, so it is here…
When he practiced one path, he plunged wholly into it with the right commitment. When he practiced Islam, passing through Sufi disciplines, he stopped going to the temple, tied a lungi, and stayed in the mosque—six months. Then one day, returning to Dakshineswar, he said: I reached the same place. Where the temple led, the mosque led too.
When he practiced the Radha sect: their view is that Krishna is the sole male, and whoever undertakes that practice—man or woman—must go seeing oneself as Radha, as feminine. For six months Ramakrishna practiced as Radha of Krishna—and extraordinary experiences happened, not merely inward, but outwardly visible. His gait changed, became womanly. His breasts swelled. His voice grew feminine. And a great marvel occurred: he began to menstruate.
If this had been recorded two or four thousand years ago, we would say it’s a story. But until just recently there were living eyewitnesses. So steeped did he become in Radha-bhava that he grew feminine. He so deeply assimilated “I am Radha” that he forgot “I am a man.” And when the mind forgets, the body follows; the body is always the follower.
Rightly seen, whatever appears in the body has first appeared in seed form in the mind; otherwise it cannot manifest in the body. If one is a woman today, that too is a seed-sprout of the previous mind ripening now. If one is a man today, that too is a seed-sprout ripening now. Where the previous journey left off, whatever seeds remained in the mind become active.
Ramakrishna’s reaching the same place by many paths—this is what Krishna says throughout the Gita. In many senses the Gita is extraordinary. The Quran is the scripture of one orientation; it does not speak of the other. The Bible is the scripture of one orientation; it does not speak of the other. Mahavira’s words are of one orientation; they do not speak of the other. Buddha’s words are of one orientation; they do not speak of the other. The Gita is extraordinary: it is the essence of all orientations that have appeared in human experience.
So if Muslims say the Quran is ours, in one sense they are right. But if Hindus say the Gita is ours, in that sense they are not right—because the Gita can belong to everyone.
There is no orientation that has arisen in humankind whose seed-sutras are not in the Gita. It is a gathering of all ways, all doors. This was possible only because Arjuna… had Arjuna agreed at the first statement of Sankhya, the Gita would not have proceeded. But Arjuna did not understand Sankhya; Krishna had to speak another way. He didn’t grasp that either; a third had to be said. He didn’t grasp that; a fourth had to be said!
The credit for the Gita goes to Arjuna. He simply did not understand. He kept raising questions. Whenever Krishna saw a way did not fit his grasp, he spoke another, then another, then another.
Had Muhammad found an Arjuna, the Quran might have become like this; he didn’t. Had Mahavira found an Arjuna, his words might have become like this; he didn’t. A questioner like Arjuna appears rarely. Answerers like Krishna appear more often.
Remember: for one who knows, answering is easy; for one who does not know, even asking rightly is hard. In a sense, Arjuna distilled all the questions humanity has ever raised. He stood before Krishna as the representative of all. Krishna had to answer. He asked one by one; Krishna had to answer one by one. He would negate an answer, let it drop, and seek another.
Therefore Krishna keeps speaking of two root orientations: he says, “the yogis,” “the knowers.” Both reach the same place—but their routes differ greatly. Yogis reach by action, technique, practice. Knowers reach by nonaction, nontechnique, nonpractice.
If we want a contemporary grasp: in the West there was a man, Gurdjieff—precisely the symbol of the yogis. You’ll say: why not name someone from India? Unfortunately, there’s no exact name. The precise symbol of the yogi was George Gurdjieff, who died only a few years ago. And for Sankhya’s precise symbol—Krishnamurti. Fortunately, India can name him.
If you placed Gurdjieff and Krishnamurti face to face, they would look like enemies—absolutely. Gurdjieff would say: without doing, nothing can happen. Krishnamurti would say: by doing, nothing will happen; the very idea of doing is the bondage. Do, and you’re trapped. Do, and you’ll never arrive. And Gurdjieff would say: if you don’t do, you drown; you’re not doing anything—how will you arrive?
But Krishnamurti too is speaking one nishtha, Sankhya. Nothing new. It seems new because Sankhya is such a supreme science that whenever it appears it always looks fresh; it cannot form a tradition. It is so subtle, so profound, its stream keeps breaking. Barely one percent can understand it—how will a tradition form?
Yoga forms a tradition because ninety-nine percent can understand it if they wish. No difficulty. Hence Yoga becomes a tradition. Sankhya does not—because once in a while a rare person truly understands that by non-doing it can happen.
So whenever Sankhya appears, it feels new; whenever Yoga appears, it feels traditional. And the Sankhya thinker will say: by tradition nothing will happen. The Yoga thinker will say: without tradition nothing will happen.
Krishnamurti has an advantage: those who speak only one orientation can be very consistent. Their whole life they say one thing. Krishnamurti has been saying the same thing for thirty-forty years—one tone, utterly consistent; you won’t find inconsistency. In Gurdjieff you won’t either. A whole life of one statement.
In someone like me, you can find inconsistency. I speak both orientations. I speak according to the person before me. If I feel this man can reach by Yoga, I say “through technique.” If I feel he cannot, I say “through nontechnique.” Then difficulties arise. If those two people meet, there’s trouble. Often I must say both at once.
Therefore Krishna’s Gita too is hard to understand. If Gurdjieff reads it, he will pick faults—the statements of Sankhya. If Krishnamurti reads it, he too will pick faults—the statements of Yoga. In both cases it is injustice to Krishna.
Paths differ; the peak is one. And on each path, different happenings occur. If I climb the mountain by the left path, I may meet trees laden with flowers. If you climb by the right, you may find only rocks. When we meet we may say: our paths are utterly different, the destination must be different—on mine flowers, on yours stones. How can flowers and stones meet? We become enemies. How can a flowery path reach where a stony path reaches? Such is our mind.
But the mountain has no problem. It brings both to the summit. It sees no inconsistency: come by this way or that, you will reach. If red flowers bloom on your path—no issue; if white flowers—no issue; if no flowers at all—no issue; if only thorns—no issue. Only one thing is essential: are you moving upward? If upward, you will reach the peak.
Thus Krishna speaks of yajna as the symbol of rising upward—whether yogis do it through bhajan, worship, asana, pranayama—anyhow. And whether knowers do it through meditation, contemplation, samadhi—through doing nothing, non-doing—they too arrive. Therefore he mentions both.
“shrotrādīnīndriyāṇy anye saṃyamāgniṣu juhvati,
śabdādīn viṣayān anye indriyāgniṣu juhvati.” (4.26)
And other yogis offer the senses such as hearing into the fire of restraint—meaning, they withdraw the senses from their objects and bring them under mastery. And other yogis offer objects such as sound into the fire of the senses—meaning, even while their senses receive objects without like and dislike, they render them to ash.
Then Krishna speaks again of two orientations:
- One: those who restrain the senses—who end the journey of the senses toward the objects. Their senses do not run outward. Understand “restraint,” and you will see.
- Two: those who continue to experience the objects and yet do not become involved. Both are engaged in yajna.
One does not let the senses go to the objects—this is one practice: they break the bridge between senses and objects. The other allows the senses to go to the objects but breaks the bridge between the senses and entanglement.
Understand the breaking of these two bridges. From either state the same supreme state is attained.
First, consider not letting the senses reach the objects. The senses are constantly rushing toward objects. You walk along the road—see a beautiful building, a beautiful face, a beautiful form, a beautiful car. You don’t even notice that by the time you say “beautiful,” the senses have already run. It is not that they run after you judge; “beautiful” is their conclusion, the result of having already reached and touched.
Do not think you get attracted because the face is beautiful; rather, the face seems beautiful because you are attracted. Attraction happens subtly, invisibly. Beauty is not subtle; it appears in thought. We speak in reverse: we say the face seems attractive because it is beautiful. The truth is the reverse: it seems beautiful because it has already attracted. The same face may not seem beautiful to another. If it did not attract them, it is not beautiful. “Beautiful” is our inference, not the cause. The senses experienced attraction; the intellect judged beauty. The senses have already arrived and touched.
The movement of the senses is subtle. It isn’t only when you touch with your hand that the senses touch. Each sense has its own way of touching. Seeing is the eye’s way of touching. Hearing is the ear’s way. Smell is the nose’s way. The hand’s range is small; the eye’s is vast—it touches from far away. But the eye touches.
Next time you look at a face, notice whether your eyes touched it. We think only hands touch—hence our confusion. Eyes also touch. Ears touch. Smell touches. These are modes of touch.
“Indriya” means an apparatus of touch. All senses touch. Subtle touch happens at a distance; gross touch needs closeness. The hand is gross—unless near, it cannot touch. What your senses want to touch, the hand touches last. First the eye, then the nose, then the ear. And when the other consents to being touched by the eye, by the ear, by the nose, then the hands touch.
The reverse work goes on too. If women or men wear perfume, they are arranging to be touched; you cannot touch everyone with the body, but through fragrance you can touch all on a subtle plane. Society does not permit everyone to touch by hand—there are controls. But by fragrance, you can touch all.
Voice, smell, sound, sight—they all touch. When you set out well-dressed, you carry an invitation to be touched by others’ eyes. And if no eyes touch you, you return dejected. The touch of others’ eyes soothes like a lullaby. When many eyes touch you, an inner tickle arises.
This double play goes on—touching and being touched. The senses are eager every moment to give and receive touch. You don’t even notice. It doesn’t occur to you.
Eric Berne wrote Games People Play; he speaks, rightly, of the game of “strokes,” of touch. You walk along; someone says “Hello!” He has touched you—with sound. You feel stroked: “Good?” The spine straightens; it feels nice. If the same man passes one day and doesn’t say hello, you were not touched; inside you feel low: What happened? He didn’t say hello! If you were away thirty days and return, and he only says hello, you will feel deprived—thirty hellos are owed! You’ll want those strokes paid back: “Hello! How are you? Long time no see!” He gives strokes—“How’s the weather? Where were you? All well?”—no real content, just touch. You both go on your way content.
Thus, if one wants to stop the senses from going to the objects, one must become aware of this subtle system of touch. It happens before you know; so swiftly that you notice only afterward. You must awaken to it, watch it, remember it. Gurdjieff would call it “remembering.” He was a precious modern yogi. He would say: keep remembering; remain aware of what is happening.
Is your eye only seeing, or also touching? There is a difference. An ordinary woman is walking—then the eye only sees, it does not touch. A beautiful woman walks—the eye not only sees, it touches. An ordinary man—only seeing. A handsome man—the eye sees and touches.
How to know the difference? If there was only seeing, no line is left behind; if there was touching, a line remains. If only seeing, you won’t need to look back; if touching, you will look back. If only seeing, no memory forms; if touching, memory forms. If only seeing, there will be no desire to see again tomorrow; if touching, the desire will arise.
Use the eye only to see, not to touch—then Krishna’s first event can happen. Use the hand only to touch physically, not to “touch.” You’ll say: touch and “touch”—what’s the difference? The same as with the eye: with the ear, only hearing, not “touching.” If the sound is sweet, the ear “touches” it; then desire arises: more, more. The sense begins to relish—the instrument becomes the master.
The yogi who severs the sense from the object severs the “touch”—the sensuous contact—between them. Seeing itself cannot be stopped; even if you put out the eyes, the functions transfer. Blind people’s ears become sharper; the ear takes on both hearing’s and seeing’s “touch.” A blind person can recognize footsteps; the sighted never do. So destroying the organ doesn’t help; what must cease is the sensuous “touch.”
How? By waking up. Whenever you see, see with awareness whether “touch” is happening or not—only seeing? Slowly the distance will become visible. Like when you switch off the light at night, at first all is dark; keep looking and a faint light appears. Similarly, keep watching, and the distinction becomes clear: I touched, or I saw. Then you will realize: wherever the senses “touch,” bondage is created; where they don’t, there is no bondage.
“Restraint” means using the senses as instruments, not for indulgence. Restraint means you take utility from the senses, not enjoyment. The unrestrained person takes little utility, much enjoyment. Seeing is utility; relishing through the eye is enjoyment. Enjoyment is bondage; utility is not.
By remembering and watching this subtle arrangement of “touch,” the arrangement begins to break down.
Perhaps you never thought restraint means this. We take restraint to mean: if a woman appears, close your eyes; where there are women, do not go; don’t see, don’t hear, don’t touch. That is not restraint; that is suppression. Suppression is not restraint; it is unrestrainedness boiling within. Better the steam escapes the kettle than that it builds up; otherwise the kettle bursts. An ordinary unrestrained person is less dangerous than a suppressed one—suppression accumulates poison; when it bursts, it harms far and wide.
Suppression is not restraint. Restraint is awakening—awareness, remembering. Try this.
Take a loved one’s hand in yours. Close your eyes and watch: are you merely touching, or “touching”? The line is fine, but you will see it. Sometimes you will feel you are “touching”; sometimes just touching; sometimes both. Note: if you are only touching, within a short while nothing but sweat will be felt; if you are “touching,” poetry will arise—sweat will go unnoticed. If you are only touching, soon you will be bored and want to withdraw your hand. If you are “touching,” you will not want the hand to be withdrawn; you will want the hands to remain joined. Poetry is born, dreams arise; the romantic world begins.
Keep watching and experimenting, and the first event of restraint can happen: the relish of the senses for the objects disappears. The senses go to the objects for utility, not enjoyment. The bridge is broken. Such a person is restrained. Krishna says, such a one attains.
Second, Krishna says: even while enjoying, even in enjoyment—without severing the senses from the objects, even while “touching”—the knowers remain outside it. This process is subtler still—because it is for the one percent. The first is for the ninety-nine; even that is difficult. The second is more difficult. How to break the bridge while enjoying? By being awake at the very moment of enjoyment. You are eating; waves of taste are flowing; you are immersed. Right in that moment become aware of taste; see that immersion is happening. Don’t run, don’t break—immerse fully, taste fully—and be filled with awareness. Suddenly you will see: I am not the enjoyer; there is enjoyment, and I am the witness. The enjoyer-sense falls away; let enjoyment continue. Listening to music—the ears are delighted, inner waves rise; the ear is utterly rapt, “touching” the sound. But within, consciousness awakens and sees: this is happening. In that remembering, a deep bridge breaks; the inner consciousness ceases to be the enjoyer, remains only the seer.
By this path too the knowers attain the supreme truth. Krishna has spoken these two ways again. They are not different at all; it is a matter of the person—what is nearest and most feasible.
The second is difficult because of the danger of self-deception. One can easily cheat oneself: “We go to the prostitute’s dance, but we remain witnesses. We relish fully—but like the knower!” The test is hard.
Tantra devised tests—unique in the world. One was: if someone says, “Even while enjoying I remain detached, a witness,” Tantra said: drink wine and remain awake; we will keep pouring—remain aware. If witnessing has happened amidst enjoyment, then even with intoxication awareness must remain. Let the senses be intoxicated; you don’t fall asleep.
So Tantra produced extraordinary trials—wine, cannabis, opium; and in the end went to the point that when none of these affected the practitioner and he remained as aware as without intoxication, then they even had a snake bite the tongue; even then he remained awake. The snake has bitten the tongue, poison has entered—the man may die—and yet the inner flame remains lit.
Ordinarily we find it hard that monks take cannabis or wine. Once it was a test; now it has become a daily routine—every evening smoking! Once it was a profound trial—but only for the second category, not the first. The yogi will not pass that test; it isn’t his test—he has already severed “touch.” The test is for the one who says: I have kept the connection, but remained unconnected. And if chemical unconsciousness spreads through the body yet awareness stays lit—then at that point nothing changes within.
Why devise such tests? Because of the danger of self-delusion. A man can say: “I wear fine clothes, but there’s no relish. I wear them in witnessing.” He harms no one else; he harms himself. Therefore the first discipline is easier—there is little chance of self-deception. The second is harder—there is much chance of self-deception. Yet Krishna speaks of both: this too and that too.
Mahavira and Buddha are men of the first path—restraint. Krishna himself is of the second. Hence Krishna and Mahavira can appear utterly opposite. Jains have put Krishna in hell—it is natural, logical. From Jain thinking it is fitting: how can a man who danced with women, who loved hundreds of women, who stood in war, who incited Arjuna to violence—how can he be liberated? That orientation cannot think it; so they consigned him to hell.
But Krishna was a precious being. Reason said hell; but the heart exists too. So Jains both consigned him to hell and their heart revolted—because they saw him, knew him. He may have danced with women, yet there was no dance in his eyes. He may have fought a war, yet there was no anger in his heart.
Reason said: contrary to our orientation—unrestrained—so hell. The heart said: but look at him! See his gait and manner. He lived among women, yet not a whiff of women clung to him. He danced, yet he was still—as Buddha is still upon his seat. He stood in battle, yet violence is nowhere visible in him. In his eyes there are none of the fibers of anger and violence.
He wore a peacock plume; but if one looks closely, behind Krishna’s plume the nakedness of Mahavira is clearly visible. The plume is seen; because of it they put him in hell. But behind it the nakedness is visible—that even with a peacock plume this man is as if sky-clad, naked. Because of that they made him the first tirthankara of the next cycle—a compensation. The intellect said hell, for he seems unrestrained. The heart said: but look!
Krishna is a man of the second orientation. And note this delightful fact: to the first orientation, the second looks opposite; to the second, the first looks opposite.
But Krishna declares both with equal regard in the Gita. He has the experience of both journeys, the capacity to see both from the sky. His conviction is deep that both reach one place. Throughout the Gita you will hear this tone of synthesis. That is its beauty.
We will take the rest this evening.
For now, let the sannyasins dissolve into kirtan for five or ten minutes—you too may join, or else just watch.
Osho's Commentary
Dharma is related to the invisible. Dharma is related to the ultimate. Paul Tillich has called it "the ultimate concern." The ultimate—what is final in life, deeper than the deepest, higher than the highest—Dharma is concerned with that. With the summits of life’s experience, which Abraham Maslow calls peak experiences—Dharma is concerned with those peaks.
Naturally, when a profound experience is to be expressed, difficulty arises. For that experience, there are no ready words in our lives. For that experience, even finding symbols in our behavior becomes hard. There is no possibility of exact parallel words. Therefore Dharma becomes metaphoric; therefore Dharma becomes symbolic, indicative. To reveal that ultimate experience in the language of earth, one has to choose, has to craft metaphors, symbols, and pointers.
Those very pointers bring expression—and those very pointers, in the end, become obstacles. They serve as expression for those who do not stop at the signs, who do not clutch the pointers, who pass beyond. And for those who grab the signs and halt there, they become barriers.
A milestone is set; an arrow mark is drawn. One who, taking that milestone to be the destination, stops there—the milestone has become an obstacle for him. It would have been better if there were no milestones at all on the road; he would have had no place to stop and would have reached the goal. But the one who set the milestones set them as supports for walking. And the arrow says: forward, and further forward. Do not stop here.
One who can see deeply is not stopped by a milestone; he is moved forward by it. One who cannot see deeply stops at the milestone and sits down.
A milestone cannot speak. Symbols are mute—they cannot speak. Whoever can understand, understands; whoever cannot, does not.
Dharma had to discover many symbols to speak of that which is transcendent. If I give you a few symbols as a hint, then the symbol of Yajna will also be understood. And then this too will be clear—that even with Yajna the milestone has been misused. Some people, clutching the symbol, have sat down at the milestone itself. They light a fire, pour ghee, throw wheat—and think the work is finished! Think the matter is complete. The symbol of Yajna has been used as a blockage. The same symbol can be dynamic—can be moving, can be kinetic, can lead one beyond; but only for those who make the effort to understand it deeply.
In human experience, fire can become a profound symbol, because fire has certain characteristics. The first is this: the flame of fire always races upward—always. The flame always moves upward; it is ascending. As soon as human consciousness begins to become religious, it becomes ascending; it begins to race upward. Therefore, very early it occurred that fire could be a symbol for the inner consciousness’s ascent, its rising upward.
The second quality of fire is that whatever is impure in it is burned away. If you put gold into it, the impurities burn away and the pure shines forth. Those who experienced the light of religious consciousness also saw that in that light, whatever is impure is burned away, and what is pure is refined and revealed. Fire became an even deeper symbol of Dharma.
The third quality of fire is that the flame is visible only a little distance and then vanishes into the invisible. It shows itself for a moment, and is lost. All who have known the ascent of consciousness know that only for a little way does the sense that "I am" remain; then the very sense of I-ness disappears; then all is dissolved into Brahman. A brief glimpse of one’s own being—and then it is lost in the being of the Whole. Thus fire became an even deeper symbol. The flame has hardly flashed, and it is gone; it has hardly risen, and it has become one with Brahman.
If a drop falls into the ocean, it is very difficult to find it; yet it is still conceivable that somehow we might search it out—after all, the drop must be somewhere. A drop fallen into the ocean is hard to recover, but not altogether inconceivable. We can at least think that the drop will be somewhere; perhaps some method could be found to retrieve it. But if the flame of fire disappears into the sky, it is not even conceivable that we could ever bring it back.
One who is lost in Brahman reaches the point of no return. He cannot come back from there. There is no return from there. Hence the symbol of fire became a deep symbol. And when, for the first time, fire became Yajna, it was a metaphor, an indicator. In the Rishis’ ashrams it was kept ever burning. The flame of the Yajna would constantly rise toward the sky. Seekers passing nearby could ceaselessly remember, through that flame, to keep raising the inner flame upward.
Whatever oblation was offered into that fire—whatever was put into it—was a symbol of offering oneself—of casting oneself in. One has to go on, continuously, placing oneself into the Yajna-like fire. They were all symbols. To keep such symbols continually present was meaningful.
Meaningful in the same way that a man going to the market, who has to bring something back, ties a knot in the edge of his shirt so he will not forget. Ten times a day his eyes fall on the knot in the market and he remembers: there is something to bring. The knot has no intrinsic relation to the act of bringing. Without the knot, too, one could bring the item. But the knot can serve as a support for remembrance. It will keep pricking; it will maintain the reminder that something is to be brought. It will keep memory awake. Twenty-five times during the day, even while submerged in a thousand tasks, whenever the eye falls upon the knot, the thought will arise: something has to be brought. By evening it will be hard to forget; by evening it will be hard to forget. By evening, the man will return home with what was to be brought. Without the knot, forgetting could have happened; with the knot, forgetting is difficult.
But if someone starts worshipping the knot, then he will again forget—because then the knot will no longer remind; it will demand worship.
All symbols are like knots. The ever-burning fire in the gurukul, the rising flames of Yajna, the oblation given each morning, the mantras recited—these are rememberings, these are knots. And for those who knew the meaning of those symbols, it was not merely fire; it was the flame of consciousness. For those who knew the meaning, the offering was not wheat or ghee—it was life. They were symbols; symbols like a knot.
Then, all symbols get lost. Only dead things remain in our hands. Then, like madmen, the fire keeps burning, people keep throwing wheat and ghee and this and that into it, and keep repeating memorized sutras! Those who do the chanting are themselves hired. Behind every Yajna there is quarrel—who among the Brahmins got more, who got less; what happened, what did not happen; how much was whose fee!
Can Yajnas be performed for fees? Can pointers toward Dharma be given on a payment basis? Can Dharma be made into a business? When Dharma becomes business, it is no longer Dharma. One could make business into Dharma; one cannot make Dharma into business. But the opposite has occurred. No one makes business into Dharma; many make Dharma into business.
The Yajna of which Krishna speaks is symbolic. Then the whole of life is Yajna. Then the whole of life is Yajna. And once this remembrance dawns, all actions are Yajna. Then the entire life is an oblation. Then make yourself the havan-kund; surrender everything into that kund. Cast yourself in; burn yourself up. Let the ego be burned.
You may ask: why was wheat used?
That too is a symbol, like fire. Wheat is a seed. Everything is hidden within it, not yet manifest. If now this seed is sown in the earth, it will manifest; a sprout will emerge; a tree will grow. And one seed will become millions.
When wheat is offered into Yajna, it is a symbol that when the ego is in seed-form, cast it in then. Do not sow it in the soil; otherwise sprouts will appear in the ego. Every sprout will carry hundreds of seeds. In each seed the possibility of hundreds of sprouts will arise, and the ego will grow like a vast tree. Cast it as a seed—when it is seed, cast it then. Do not let it sprout. Do not water it. Do not manure it. Do not make it grow. Do not strengthen it, do not nourish it. While it is yet a seed, cast it in.
Naturally, for the symbol of seed in those days, nothing was closer than wheat—the nearest, the most effective, the very support of life. To burn that wheat to ash—likewise, to burn the ego to ash. Become seedless with respect to ego.
Now, two things can be done with a seed. If you bury it in the ground, it will sprout and produce millions of seeds. If you put it in fire, it will not sprout; it will only become ash. Behind it no trace of a journey will remain.
Seeds cast into fire were symbols of casting the seed-form ego into the flame.
Ghee too is thrown into the Yajna. Why has it been thrown? With what symbol, with what metaphor in mind?
It was seen that if ghee is put into fire, the flames rise. With the pouring of ghee the flame grows, becomes intense, bright, sharp, radiant. The moment ghee is added, a swiftness comes to the fire. If you put wheat, the fire’s swiftness diminishes; the pace is thinned, because the strength of the fire is employed in burning the wheat. The energy that could have become pure flame gets divided. But if you pour ghee, the strength of the fire is not spent in burning the ghee; the strength of the ghee itself goes to augment the fire.
In the light of life two tasks are to be done: to cast in evil so that it may be burned, and to cast in the good so that the light may be enhanced. Ghee could be the nearest symbol of the good in those days when the symbol was conceived. For many reasons.
First, it is unctuous; hence another name for it is sneha—love. And for other reasons. Ghee is not born directly in nature. Wheat is born directly in nature. Ego is born directly in nature; evil is born directly. To bring forth the good, great effort is required; it does not arrive directly; it has no direct birth.
Ghee is not produced directly. Milk comes, curd comes, it is churned, and then ghee emerges. There will be much milk, much curd, and only a little ghee will be obtained. The labor will be much; a little good will result. Behind it there will be labor; behind it there will be transformation. Ghee does not arise directly—keep this in mind—it has a process of becoming. If it is produced, it is produced by making. If man were not upon the earth, ghee would not be. Milk would be, but ghee would not. Human consciousness gave birth to ghee.
If man were not upon the earth, the good would not be. The good is born of human consciousness. Therefore, if the symbol of ghee arose in the mind, it is not surprising; it is natural. Those with even a little poetic vision can uncover why this symbol would have come.
Churning is needed; manthan is needed. Ghee has to be birthed. The good is the fruit of human effort. It is not gained just like that. Wheat will continue without man. Seeds will keep falling; sprouts will keep emerging. Even if man is not there, there will be plants and seeds—the journey will go on. But there will be no ghee on earth. If man is not, the good will not be on earth; the auspicious will not be.
So, in the agricultural world in which the Gita was born, in which the Veda was born, amidst that world of agrarian symbols in which the conception of Yajna arose, ghee was the nearest symbol of the auspicious.
Now the interesting thing is: if you cast the inauspicious into the light of life, the inauspicious will burn, but it will weaken the light of life. The inauspicious will burn, yet it will sap the light. If you cast the auspicious into the light of life, the auspicious will not diminish the light; it will increase it.
Keep in mind another thing: ultimately the auspicious, too, is to be burned. The auspicious will burn and the flame will grow—but it too must be burned. Do not save it; otherwise it too will become a bondage.
Ghee is mysterious in these senses: it burns and vanishes, and it sets the stream of life moving upward. It gives life to the flames, gives them the strength to race toward the sky; and it burns, is lost, takes leave—no outline remains anywhere. No outline remains anywhere. The ghrita thrown into the Yajna leaves only a fragrance around—only a perfume. When the auspicious burns, it leaves a fragrance. That perfume spreads all around.
A sadhu possesses the good. A saint possesses only the fragrance of the good; he does not possess the good. The sadhu is the ghee burning in the fire; the saint is the ghee that has been burnt. The auspicious, too, has been burned; only the fragrance remains. Only those whose nostrils are very keen can catch that fragrance.
Therefore a sadhu is very easy to recognize; a saint is very difficult. Anyone recognizes the sadhu, because the good is visible. The saint is hard to recognize, because the good is no longer visible. The good is no longer even transparent around him; it can no longer be touched on all sides. Now the good is lost into fragrance.
Such is the symbol of Yajna. Krishna says: one whose life itself becomes Yajna, who offers Yajna into Yajna—that person, only such a person is the supreme flowering of life; only such a consciousness can know the Paraatpara Brahman; can know the ultimate, the absolute.
These symbols decay. All symbols decay—not for their own reasons, but because of us. For our grasp of symbols is from the lower end; and the one who gives birth to symbols, gives birth from the upper end. The one who gives birth to a symbol fashions it from the skyward side; and we, when we seize the symbol, grasp it from the earthward side.
The one who gives the symbol of fire seeks a symbol for consciousness. And we, when we seize upon fire, grasp the fire itself. Then the worship of fire begins. Then we keep burning wheat and ghee. Then we forget what ghee is, what fire is, what Yajna is. All is forgotten; a hollow, dead symbol remains in our hands. Then around it we circle and wander—for centuries.
And the greatest difficulty arises when someone opposes this wandering—he appears to be an enemy of religion. If someone says this is madness, he will surely look like an enemy of Dharma. Because we will say: Krishna says it in the Gita, and you call it madness! But what Krishna says in the Gita, and what you are clutching—between them the distance has become that of sky and earth. If Krishna himself were to return, he would call you mad.
Symbols are not for clutching, but for crossing over—for being transcended. Every symbol is to be transcended. And when symbols are not transcended, sects arise.
A man like me faces a heavy difficulty. Heavy, because I see that behind the symbol there is life. And heavy, because I see that in your hands there is a corpse. Then my difficulty is great. One day I say: you are mad; and yet I know the symbol is meaningful. The next day I say: the symbol is meaningful. Then you find me inconsistent—yesterday I said it was wrong; today I say it is right. Yesterday I called you wrong, not the symbol. Today I call the symbol right, not you. Both have to be done.
Deep within the symbol a great secret is hidden; it must be preserved. But the symbol that lies dead in your hand must be dissolved. Only if both these things can happen does the mystery of Dharma become understood; otherwise it does not.