Geeta Darshan #1

The human mind is forever craving command. The human mind longs that someone else decide. Decision is a torment; deciding breeds anxiety; thinking for oneself is an austerity. The human mind wants not to have to decide at all. Not to have to do anything at all. That truth be obtained just like that—without even a little labor, reflection, tapas.
Arjuna says to Krishna: You have spoken of renunciation of action, you have spoken of action without desire for its fruits. But show me a definitive path on which I may walk with full assurance.
There are many things to understand here. Whatever Krishna has said in the meantime is not in the form of orders to Arjuna; he has tried to lay the problems open before him. He has tried to shed light on all the paths of life. The final decision has been left in Arjuna’s hands—that he decide, resolve, conclude for himself.
The greatest gurus in this world always refrain from handing conclusions to disciples. Because conclusions given from outside become borrowed, stale, dead. A conclusion reached by oneself has its roots in one’s own life-force. The result one arrives at through one’s own thinking, search, and inquiry has the capacity to transform one’s very being.
Decisions that come from outside—borrowed, alien—cannot strike root in the individual’s own Atman. Even if one follows them, they only build a surface of conduct; they do not become one’s soul. Like bringing flowers from the market and arranging them in a vase—so too, decisions received from another become bouquet-flowers; but they are not flowers grown in the earth—alive, vital, drawing sap from the soil, drinking light from the sun, dancing with the winds—not living.
But man’s mind is so filled with laziness, with tamas, with so much lethargy that even if food could be had already cooked, we would prefer not to cook; even if food could be had already digested, we would not agree to digest it. Yet the day food is obtained already digested, that day we will be plastic people, not living human beings. All the deep processes of life depend upon digesting for oneself. Whether it be digesting food to make blood, or digesting life’s experiences to yield the conclusion of wisdom. Whether it be walking in the world, or entering the Supreme. Only that which we assimilate, which bears fruit through our own effort, is truly ours. All else is borrowed and proves useless at the right time—of no avail.
But Arjuna’s longing is the same as everyone’s. He says: Tell me with certainty; do not entangle me. Do not say such things that compel me to think and decide. You yourself tell me what is right. Tell me what is absolutely right.
It would be easy for Krishna, too, simply to say what is absolutely right. But when a man demands, “Tell me only what is absolutely right,” it is dangerous to tell him the absolutely right. Because receiving the right answer, he will remain childish forever, juvenile. He can never become mature, grown.
Therefore those gurus are dangerous under whom disciples remain ever childish, immature. Dangerous are the gurus who hand out conclusions. The true guru gives problems. The true guru gives questions. Certainly—such questions, such problems, such labyrinths that, passing through them, if a person gathers courage and daring to walk, he will surely arrive at a conclusion.
But ready-made, packaged answers have never been given on this earth by any of the noblest.
Arjuna says: I am ready—you know well—just tell me what is right. Do not entangle me. I am already greatly confused, already deeply in doubt, submerged in uncertainty. Do not say so many things that I get further entangled. I am confused.
Arjuna knows he is entangled. Yet even if a confused mind meets a clear truth, it entangles it too. Put even the most beautiful person before a crooked mirror, and the mirror immediately distorts him. Place the finest painting before eyes that are weak and damaged—the eyes will still make that finest painting appear ugly.
Certainly Krishna could state the conclusion directly, but how would a tangled Arjuna understand? If Arjuna is tangled, he will tangle even a straight statement. Therefore Krishna will have to wait. Only when Arjuna’s confusion melts will the capacity to hear resolved truths arise.
We understand only that which we can understand. We never understand anything beyond ourselves. And we draw only those meanings that are already lying within us. We do not draw the meanings that someone like Krishna speaks.
Krishna’s dialogue with Arjuna is not straight; it is very tangled and full of byways, circling in great loops. Through this entire discourse of the Gita Krishna is trying to untangle Arjuna. If he is untangled, then Krishna can also speak the conclusion. But Arjuna does not even want to undergo the pain of untangling.
The pain of untangling is also the pain of birth. One must cut off much of oneself, let much fall away, remove much. The greatest difficulty is precisely this: that one must know, in stark nakedness, that “I am confused.” And no one is willing to admit he is confused. No one is willing to admit his mind is tangled. Everyone proceeds under the assumption that he is clear. Our skill at deceiving ourselves is astonishing. Every person assumes, “I am clear.”
Ninety-nine percent of the world’s entanglements would diminish if people came to know that we are entangled. But people are utterly assured. People are full of self-confidence that we are clear people. And yet the whole world is in such confusion as defies measure. Where does this confusion come from? If we are all clear people, how are so many entanglements born on this earth? If we are all clear, the world should be a calm and bliss-filled place—heaven; but the world is a hell.
We are all entangled. And the entanglement is even more dreadful because each entangled person believes he is clear. Every madman believes he is not mad. It is hard to find in a madhouse a man who believes he is mad. Outside the madhouse you may find such a person; inside, never.
So it is also necessary to show Arjuna how entangled he is. From Krishna’s talk so far Arjuna has at least begun to see this much—that he is entangled. In the beginning, when he started speaking, it seemed he spoke with knowledge. He spoke of dharma and scripture and morality and tradition. It seemed he spoke knowingly. The ignorant, when they speak, often appear more knowing than the truly wise.
Bertrand Russell has said somewhere: the less a man knows, the more firmly he can speak, the more dogmatic he can be. The more a man knows, the more he hesitates, he falters. For the more he knows, the more he finds life utterly arduous, a profound riddle. The more he knows, the more he discovers that knowing is not easy. And the more he knows, the more he sees that an infinity remains yet to be known.
The ignorant can speak with absolute firmness. They know so little that they don’t even know their own ignorance.
When Arjuna began to raise questions, they were the questions of a man who already has the answers. If he asked Krishna, it was in the hope that Krishna would say what he himself was saying—would become his witness!
From Krishna, Arjuna sought witness—that you too say that what I say is right. That this war is futile. That to struggle for wealth and kingdom is wrong. That to renounce everything and go away is the ancient law of dharma. That violence is sin; that there is glory in renouncing all violence and going away.
When Arjuna said these things, he said them with the assurance that Krishna would support him. But Krishna did not support him. And now Arjuna is not in a position to say, “I know.” It has become clear to him that “I am entangled. I know nothing.”
This is a great event. The first step on the path of knowledge. If the solidity of ignorance melts, it is a great attainment. If the assurance of ignorance wavers—it is a great attainment.
Krishna has brought Arjuna to this place where he says, “I know nothing.” This is of great value. But immediately he says, “Whatever you know—tell me directly.”
It is good that he says, “I know nothing.” But now another danger has joined him. He still longs to receive given knowledge from another. That too is his illusion. Had there been a small-time guru in Krishna’s place, he would have rejoiced and said, “What I know, I now give to you. Your task is only to accept silently and act.”
But Krishna is one of those psychological gurus who, until the vessel is fully ready—until Arjuna himself has the capacity to understand truth and to resonate with it—will go on speaking further, will open yet more paths.
The ground of all Arjuna’s assurances must be removed from beneath his feet. And from Arjuna’s mind this notion must also fall away that anyone else can give. This much readiness is needed: that “I shall search, I shall labor; I shall not crave truth for free.”
Therefore Krishna has resolved to open, one by one, all those paths through which human beings have come to simplicity, to truth, to clarity—and to place them before Arjuna. But understand Arjuna’s mind well; it is our mind too.
We also would like to ask: what is the need for so long a discussion? Krishna knows well what truth is. He knows Arjuna’s situation well. He knows well what is beneficial for Arjuna. Then why doesn’t he just give it?
Only yesterday someone came to me and said: I don’t want to think or understand anything. You know—so just tell me. I’ll set about doing it.
It appears like great faith. But the faith of a man who has not even a little reverence for laboring himself is a deceptive and false faith. One who is not ready to search even an inch into the dark, into the unknown, into insecurity; who cannot gather courage to take a boat into the uncharted; who ever seeks another’s support and is eager to close his eyes—that man’s journey can never be towards truth. Certainly such a person too will find gurus, for to exploit such people is very convenient. They are being exploited.
Whatever is demanded, suppliers are always found. If you demand blindness, people will show up to pluck out your eyes. If you demand deafness, people will oblige you by making you deaf. If you want only to hold someone’s hand and walk and not exert yourself at all, you will find people who will say, “Here is the hand; hold it and come!”
But remember, whoever you find of that sort is not showing compassion. Compassion always strengthens your legs, sharpens your eyes, awakens your strength. That person is exploiting you. And only one who does not know can exploit. Therefore the blind often become leaders of the blind. The truth is, in a great society of the blind, it is extremely difficult for a seeing man to lead. The blind society is always eager to put a kindred blind man in front of itself.
Krishna is not such a guru. He is not willing to give Arjuna anything for which Arjuna has no capacity. And if Arjuna has the capacity to receive it, then Krishna is ready to give; then it makes no difference. If a man is ready to labor to receive, he can be given a ray of truth.
This will sound very amusing and paradoxical. Those who lack capacity cannot be given—though those who lack it are always begging. And those who have capacity can always be given—though they never beg like beggars. This is a great reversal.
At the door of truth, he who stands like a beggar will return empty-handed. At the door of truth, only he who stands like an emperor receives truth.
Even now Krishna sees a beggar in Arjuna. In this very utterance Arjuna has proclaimed his beggary.
Sri Bhagavān uvācha:
Sannyāsaḥ karmayogaś cha niḥśreyasakārāv ubhau;
Tayos tu karmasannyāsāt karmayogo viśiṣyate. 2.
Sri Krishna Bhagavan said: O Arjuna! Renunciation of actions (Sannyas) and desireless Karma-yoga—both lead to the supreme welfare. Yet, of the two, Karma-yoga is superior to the renunciation of actions, because as a means it is more easy and accessible.
Krishna has said: both Karma-sannyas and Nishkama Karma lead to the highest good. First understand this. Then he says a second thing: even so, because it is easier, Nishkama Karma is more wholesome for the seeker.
Karma-sannyas means: this world of doing, in which from morning to evening, and from evening to morning we are absorbed in doing; we do without truly knowing why, for what; without truly understanding what the outcome and fruit of all this doing is; without reflecting on where all we have done in the past has brought us.
The form of all actions is like lines drawn upon water. While drawing, it seems something is being drawn, as if something is being made. But before the finger can even move ahead, the lines erase, depart.
Whatever we are doing can create nothing more enduring than lines upon water. Before us too, billions have lived upon this earth. At the very spot where you sit, on each person’s spot at least ten graves have been made. Those people were immersed in immense action. What is the aggregate of all their actions?
If today the human race were to vanish, the stars in the sky would have no news of how immense an action has taken place. The trees would know nothing of the vastness of action under their shade. The birds would tell no tales of our acts. The sun would rise. The waves would keep striking the shore.
If man were to vanish, what would be the sum of all the actions of his million-year-long journey? When an individual dies, the sum of his actions is effaced; in the same way, were all humanity to vanish, the sum of all action would be effaced. Not even a trace-line would remain.
Karma-sannyas is the realization that action is like lines drawn upon water. Then why draw needlessly? What dissolves—why draw it at all? What does not abide—why enter the madness of making it? What is ultimately proven to be a dream—why live even a moment taking it as truth?
At night, we dream. In the dream, the dream is very real—more real than real. One never knows otherwise then. And here is the great amusement: throughout life we have dreamt many times, countless times; every morning we have found it false. And yet every night the mind forgets again. How many dreams we see daily! Tonight again when we dream, the mind will not remember that we have dreamt before and found in the morning that it was a dream. Tonight again we will dream under the illusion that it is true. Does the human mind learn anything at all? After so many dreams, when the next dream comes, it again feels true.
Karma-sannyas says: in how many births how many actions we performed—but each time we forget! Then a new birth and a new dream begins. Just as yesterday’s dream does not hinder today’s dream in the least, does not remind us, no remembrance arises, no memory comes that yesterday too a dream was seen and in the morning found false—today again I am dreaming under the same illusion as yesterday, as the day before, as throughout life. It means the mind has learned nothing.
It is astonishing. After so many dreams the mind cannot learn even this little—that dreams are not true. When the dream comes, everything becomes true.
Karma-sannyas says: every birth thus slips into forgetfulness. Leave aside births—even in this life, what has all we have done amounted to? Nothing. Like lines drawn upon water, all has been erased. Yet today we keep on drawing lines; tomorrow we shall draw lines. At the time of death we shall find—everything is lost. In a new birth we shall again begin drawing new lines.
Karma-sannyas is the alertness to the truth of karma—that nothing is yielded by action. Action is no more than a game. One who ripens through this understanding goes beyond action. He will leave actions. To say “leave” is perhaps not exact—actions will drop away of themselves.
Like a child who has grown up. He no longer plays with pebbles. He no longer builds houses in the sand. He no longer arranges marriages for dolls. If someone says to him, “Earlier you took such delight; why have you left the doll-games? Why don’t you build sand-houses? Why don’t you collect colorful pebbles?”—the child does not say, “I have renounced them.” He says, “I have grown up; all that has dropped.”
Karma-sannyas is not the abandonment of action; it is the experience of the truth about action—that the world of action is a world of dreams. Then action drops.
Krishna says: this path too is auspicious. This path too is benedictory. Through this path also one reaches the supreme realization. But, Krishna says, this path is difficult. The other path he calls simple: Nishkama Karma.
In Nishkama Karma there is no insistence upon action itself. In Nishkama Karma the emphasis is upon understanding the desire for fruits that clings to action. In Karma-sannyas the insistence is upon understanding action itself as futile. In Nishkama Karma the insistence is upon seeing that the desire for fruits is futile.
Krishna says: let action continue—no harm; only let the desire for fruits be dissolved. Let the play continue—no harm; only let the child know that it is a play. And that can be known only when it is realized that the desire for fruits brings nothing but suffering.
Karma-sannyas comes when one realizes that action is dreamlike. Nishkama Karma bears fruit when it is known that desire for fruits is suffering.
But desire for fruits is entertained for happiness. No one longs for suffering. Everyone longs for happiness. And the great wonder is: when it is obtained, only suffering comes—to all. Desire always for happiness; fruit always of suffering! We run to attain heaven; the destination that comes is always hell. We think the hand will touch the experience of bliss; what comes to hand is only the dream of sorrow, pain and anguish.
Nishkama Karma bears fruit when one understands this trick, this secret of desire for fruits—that it always promises happiness; but whenever the bird of happiness comes to hand, it proves to be sorrow. Yet there is a cleverness. The cleverness is that when something comes into the hand, desire detaches from it and attaches to that which is not in the hand. What is in the hand is always sorrow; desire keeps flying with those birds that are not in the hand. When any of those birds comes to hand, it proves sorrow. But other birds keep flying in the sky, and desire keeps chasing them.
Therefore the mind never experiences the continuous stupidity, the persistent foolishness of desire. The bird already in hand we never reflect upon—yesterday it too was desired. Today we desire something else.
Throughout life desires are fulfilled, completed—and yet we never reflect whether what was desired was truly obtained. What we desire is never obtained. What we do not desire is always obtained. But when what we did not desire arrives, we drown its sorrow in the dream of some new desire; we plunge again into a new dream.
The secret of Nishkama Karma is to see clearly this method of desire for fruits—that the mind always seeks what is not present, and in what is present it experiences sorrow. And we never compute this arithmetic: yesterday this too was not with me, and then I hoped for happiness in it; and today when it is with me, I am suffering. The present remains always sorrow, the future always happiness.
As long as it appears that the present is sorrow and the future is happiness, Nishkama Karma cannot bear fruit. Nishkama Karma will bear fruit when the situation of present and future is completely reversed. When the present becomes bliss.
The moment the present becomes bliss, the longing for the future vanishes. The longing for the future was there because happiness was projected in the future. Because there is sorrow in the present, we project happiness into tomorrow. If tomorrow did not hold happiness, it would be difficult to pass today. Those imprisoned pass their time in the longing for the open sky they will meet when they are free.
I have heard: a new prisoner came to a jail—sentenced to thirty years. He went inside the bars. Another prisoner was in that cell. He asked him, “Brother, how long is your sentence?” He said, “I have already served ten years; only twenty remain.” So the new one said, “Then you take the place near the door, and give me the place by the wall, because you will have to go sooner. I will be here thirty years; you only twenty.” He moved his mattress near the bars. His time would come sooner. In twenty years he would reach the open sky! That possibility of freedom twenty years later helps him pass twenty years of prison.
Every day we postpone for tomorrow. It becomes convenient to bear today, but life’s riddle is not solved. Tomorrow then brings the same. Then for tomorrow we think of the day after. Every day the same. We have to postpone life every day—adjourn it until tomorrow. That tomorrow never comes. In the end death comes, and the chain of tomorrows is broken.
That is why we fear death. We do not fear death; the real cause of fear is the breaking of the chain of tomorrows. Death says there will be no more tomorrow. Hence we are so afraid. Because we never lived—only lived in the hope of tomorrow. And death says there will be no tomorrow. Therefore death makes us tremble.
Otherwise there is no reason to fear death. First: we do not know it; why fear the unknown? No one can say death is bad—for how call bad that with which we are unfamiliar? No one can say death brings pain—for how call painful that with which we have no acquaintance? How make any judgment about the unacquainted?
No, we do not fear death itself. The fear is different: we have always postponed life to tomorrow. We did not live today; we said, “We will live tomorrow.” Bear today’s sorrow; tomorrow happiness will come; all will be well. Today is dark; tomorrow the sun will rise. Today are thorns; tomorrow flowers will bloom. Today life holds hatred and anger; tomorrow there will be a rain of love. But death brings such a moment that tomorrow’s chain breaks; only today remains in hand. Then we writhe. Then we panic. The fear of death is the fear of living with today—and we have never lived today.
Nishkama Karma says: he who postpones life to tomorrow—in other words, he who lives in the desire for fruits—is mad. Tomorrow never comes. What is, is today, now. The art is needed to live the now. The capacity is needed to live the now. The skill is needed to live the now.
Krishna calls that Yoga—the capacity to live today and now, here and now, in this very moment. But one who is to live in this moment must drop the gaze fixed upon fruits. In this moment there is action. Fruit? Fruit is always in the future; action is always in the present. Doing is now; becoming is tomorrow. What is done is now; the fruit will be tomorrow. Fruit is never in the present.
Drop the fruit. But we can drop the fruit only when the fruit is known to be poison. If the fruit appears ambrosial, it cannot be dropped. And the fruit appears ambrosial—though no one ever truly gets the ambrosial fruit. It proves to be a deception. Yet it appears so. How to be free from this appearance?
There is only one way: revisit your past, all the fruits you desired. They were obtained. The wife you wanted—you got; the husband you wanted—you got. The job you wanted—you got; the house you wanted—you got. It is hard to find a person who got nothing of what he desired; something or other was surely obtained. That much is enough for experience. But having obtained—what did you obtain?
A friend of mine, a great industrialist—naturally, as it happens—could not sleep at night. One morning he told me, “I have no search for God, no use for the soul; I do not want great moksha or heaven. I only want to sleep. If I get sleep I will remain indebted to you for life. Just give me the key to sleep.” I said, “Truly? If you get sleep, will you have gotten all?” He said, “All. My life has become hellish.” What he said I recorded on a tape lying nearby. I said, “And then you will not come again asking for something else?” He said, “Never. I will only come to thank you. Just let me get sleep.”
I gave him some meditative experiments. Fifteen days later he came and said, “Sleep has come, but nothing else has come!” He said, “Sleep has come, but nothing else has come.” I played back his recorded words. “You said, ‘If I get sleep, I get everything!’ Now you say, ‘I got sleep, but nothing else has come.’ Far from thanks, you are finding fault with me—as if I made some mistake.” He was startled. Hearing his own words, he was startled. And he said, “When sleep was not coming, it felt just like that—if I get sleep, I will get everything. And now it feels like this—now what should I do?” He said, “There is no falsehood in it. Then it felt like that; now it feels like this.” I said, “Now what is your idea? What do you want now? And I tell you—even if that too is given, will you not say the same again?”
God does not come easily. Otherwise you would go to him and say: “You have come, but nothing else has come! Now what to do?” He does not come easily, so this opportunity seldom arises. In this world everything else comes easily—and that is the difficulty.
In truth, one who lives by desire for fruits—if even God were to be obtained, nothing would be obtained. For the desire for fruits is a delusive dream. One who lives without the desire for fruits—even if nothing is obtained, all is obtained. A mere wink of sleep is supreme bliss. A crust of bread is nectar. As for God—if God is met, then there is no limit to his joy, his ecstasy, his gratitude. But even if a small grace of God comes, his gratitude is infinite. And one who lives in desire for fruits—even if God is met, he will stand sadly and say, “All right; you have come, but nothing has come!”
Desire for fruits empties; it never fills. Therefore, in a society where more and more fruits are obtained, where more and more desires are gratified, emptiness will increase. A poor nation is never as empty as a rich nation becomes. A poor man never experiences so much meaninglessness—“My life is without meaning, useless.” Work always remains for tomorrow. A rich man, suddenly, is disillusioned. Suddenly, all breaks. What he desired has all been obtained. The whole mechanism comes to a halt. There seems to be no movement. Tomorrow is finished. The rich man—the one I call rich is he who has received what he desired—has come to the threshold of death. Ahead of him, nothing remains but death. Therefore, the utopians of the world, the dreamers who say, “We must bring heaven to earth”—if ever they succeed, the whole of humanity will commit suicide. There will remain no reason to live.
It is a great irony that in the life of the poor and hungry a little meaning seems to be there, while the multimillionaire of New York finds no meaning in life. If you ask today’s Western philosophers, especially in America, they say there is only one question—meaninglessness, emptiness. Only one question: why is life empty, hollow, not full? Poor nations have never asked why life is empty! Because desires keep life filled. The wish for fruits keeps it filled.
In rich nations, wishes come almost to fulfillment. Whatever can be had is had. The finest car stands at the door. The finest house stands behind. The safe is filled beyond need. Whatever can be had is there. All is had—and it feels that nothing is had.
Nishkama Karma becomes available to one who experiences the futility of desire for fruits—that even by obtaining the fruit, nothing is obtained. When this understanding deepens—that even obtaining the fruit is a fruitlessness—Krishna says, such a person will not run away from action. He will go on acting. But then action will be no more than a performance.
Krishna says: the second path, Arjuna, is simple.
Let me add: Krishna says to Arjuna that the second path is simple. This is said especially to Arjuna. It is not necessary that the second be simple for everyone. For some, the first may be simple. So do not fall into the notion that this is general. It is addressed to Arjuna. For those of Arjuna’s type, the second path is simpler. Keep this in mind. For this discourse is a direct address to Arjuna—not to all. To speak to all is very difficult.
For some, the first may be simple. For whom? For one whose training in life has not been in action but in dream. For example, a poet. His entire education, his inner arrangement, is of dreams.
A painter—his whole inner arrangement, his training, the way he has grown—is dream. In truth, the greater one can dream, the greater a painter he can be. The deeper one can drown into dreams, the greater a poet he can be.
A musician—he floats dreams upon sound; he transforms dreams through sound. His whole sadhana is to transform dream into sound. He floats dreams in the air, gives them wings.
Had Krishna said this to a poet, a musician, a painter, he would never have said that the second path is easy. The first would have been easier.
For a musician it is always easier to understand that actions vanish like lines upon water. With how much effort he labors upon the sitar! Fingers become bloodied; hands become like stone. Working day and night, when he finally produces music—it does not last even a moment. The whole labor—music—went into the air, and went, and vanished. No sooner born here, it dissolved there.
To a Tansen, after a whole life of discipline, if Krishna were to say, “The second path is simple, O Tansen”—it would not make sense to him. The first path would be immediately clear. Where is all the lifetime’s effort? Even lines on water blur late; the note of music vanishes even sooner!
Tell Rabindranath, who sang a thousand songs, that the second path is easy—it would be difficult to understand. The first could be grasped: all the songs sung—lost into the air. Nothing remains. All is lost.
But to Arjuna, the matter is exactly apt. It is wholly in tune with his personality. Arjuna’s entire arrangement is of action, not of dream. And his action is such that if he plunges a dagger into someone’s chest, the act is definite; it does not vanish like music. The dead body lies before him; the dagger becomes definite forever. The act appears solid. Though those who know more deeply say that even there there is no difference; but that is to see very deeply indeed.
Arjuna’s training makes action hard and tangible. His training is in violence. He is a kshatriya, a warrior. He knows killing and being killed. Cutting someone’s neck is not like touching a string on the sitar—ordinarily. Ultimately, whether the sitar-string snaps or a man’s neck breaks—ultimately, there is no difference; but immediately, now, there is a great difference.
Arjuna’s entire make-up is of action, not of dream. He never dreamt; he acted. He did not write poems; he performed killings. He did not draw music from strings; he drew arrows upon the bow. Industrious doing is his destiny.
Therefore Krishna says to him, “Arjuna! Both paths are right; yet the second is easy.” It is to Arjuna that he says the second is easy.
Hence, when reading the Gita, always see: if you are of Arjuna’s type, then this statement is right. If you are the opposite of Arjuna, then reverse the aphorism—the first is easy. There are only two kinds of people in the world: those who live in dream and those who live in action; the introvert and the extrovert.
Arjuna is extrovert—he lives outside.
A poet’s life is inner. Outside, only a few bubbles sometimes appear. The real life is within. At times, something bursts forth outside—incidental, not inevitable. A million poems are born within a Rabindranath; one is able to manifest. That too is incomplete, crippled; it never manifests fully. Even with that one, Rabindranath never feels fulfilled.
The introvert’s stream of life flows within; he touches the outer world of action very little. The extrovert has no inner stream; his whole river flows outside—in relationships and conflicts. In the outer world he leaves impress. Not on water—he seems to carve lines on stone. Though over long spans even stone becomes like water; but primarily, today, now, a line carved upon stone appears fixed.
Therefore understand this condition. Krishna’s statement is conditional; it is given with a proviso; it is given to Arjuna. Hence he has said both things: By both paths you can arrive, Arjuna—through Karma-sannyas, leaving all actions, becoming available to utter stillness, like a Mahavira; or through Nishkama Karma, doing all actions, like a Janaka. But the second is simple, easy. This statement is given with Arjuna in view.