Know him as an eternal renunciate who neither hates nor desires.
For, free from the pairs of opposites, O mighty-armed, he is easily released from bondage।। 3।।
Geeta Darshan #2
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
ज्ञेयः स नित्यसंन्यासी यो न द्वेष्टि न काङ्क्षति।
निर्द्वन्द्वो हि महाबाहो सुखं बन्धात्प्रमुच्यते।। 3।।
निर्द्वन्द्वो हि महाबाहो सुखं बन्धात्प्रमुच्यते।। 3।।
Transliteration:
jñeyaḥ sa nityasaṃnyāsī yo na dveṣṭi na kāṅkṣati|
nirdvandvo hi mahābāho sukhaṃ bandhātpramucyate|| 3||
jñeyaḥ sa nityasaṃnyāsī yo na dveṣṭi na kāṅkṣati|
nirdvandvo hi mahābāho sukhaṃ bandhātpramucyate|| 3||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, you have said that causeless, unmotivated action—nishkama karma—is the source of joy. But surely in life there are things that do require motivation—industrial, mechanical work, and so on. So please tell us how to balance motivated action with unmotivated action in life?
Whoever tries to balance the two will fall into great confusion. There is no way to balance them—and there is no need.
The person who has tasted the flavor of desireless action will run his shop in the same flavor. The person who has tasted the flavor of desireless action will run his industry in the same flavor.
Kabir did not close his shop. Kabir continued to weave cloth. People even said to him, “Now that you’ve awakened, it doesn’t feel right for you to weave cloth.” Kabir said, “What I wove before had none of this joy. Now the joy is entirely different. Earlier I wove out of compulsion; now it is delight. Earlier I wove to exploit a customer; now I weave to cover a limb—a body—of Ram.”
The weaving continues. Now Kabir weaves and keeps singing, “Jhīni jhīni bīnī re chadarīyā.” He sings! And when he takes his cloth to market, he runs after customers, calling out, “Ram, I’ve made something very sturdy—made it just for you!”
Once the joy of desireless action arrives, you will not be able—even by mistake—to act with desire. Even in a world thick with motivated action, desireless action will happen. Only joy will remain.
Someone’s joy may well be to run a big factory. But then that joy becomes a dedication to the divine. Then it is not for anyone’s exploitation. Running a big factory is his joy. And if this joy is of desireless action, that big factory will become a commune. In that big factory there will be no workers and owners—there will be friends.
And if ever true equality dawns upon this earth, it will not come from socialists. If ever equality truly flowers in this world, it will come from those religious people in whom unmotivated action has been born—those in whom nishkama karma has awakened. Anything is possible, once the vision occurs.
Where the danger feels greatest—imagine a blind man asking, “When my eyes are healed, how will I coordinate groping with walking? How will I balance the two?” Naturally, a blind man walks by groping. That is the only way he knows. And we tell him, “Your eyes will be restored.” He says, “I see: once my eyes are fine, I will be able to walk without groping. But then how will I balance groping with not groping?”
We would say, “There will be no need to balance anything. Don’t be foolish! Once you have eyes, groping is no longer needed.” He might say, “But in the dark one must grope!” We would say, “Let the eyes come; then you’ll know the process of groping belonged to the blind. It is not the process of one who can see. There is nothing to balance. And until the eyes are there, the question of balancing groping with walking simply doesn’t arise.”
Where the motivated man lives is the world of the blind. There he only acts by groping for the fruit. He does not yet know the joy of the act itself. He only knows joy lies in the fruit; the act has no joy. He sits in his shop, but there is no joy in the shop. He does not see the divine in the customer standing before him. His “god” is in the rupee he will get, that he will lock in his safe, that he will count the day after tomorrow and deposit in the bank. His joy is there. In the act that is happening now, he has no joy.
And when there is no joy in the act, how can joy accrue in the fruit? Because fruit is born of action. If the seed contains no sweetness, how will sweetness appear in the fruit? If the seed tastes like poison, how will the fruit become nectar?
Where there is no joy in the doing, there can never be joy in the outcome. But the motivated mind is fixated on the result. It says, “Somehow do the work—this is a compulsion. Get it over with. The joy lies in the fruit. When the fruit comes, joy will come.”
Krishna is speaking of a different person: he says, the joy is in the action itself. The act done—there is the joy. And the one who finds joy in the act now will have joy always. He who has learned to taste joy now has learned the secret of tasting it forever.
The motivated man sees joy in the fruit and does the act as a compulsion. The desireless man sees joy in the act itself and does the act with joy. Whatever the act may be—it makes no difference. Even if it is war. After all, Krishna is telling Arjuna, “Enter the battle.” But take no craving into it, no lusting, no attachment or aversion. It is your swadharma. As a kshatriya you can attain to joy; that is your training. Your life-energy can manifest only as a kshatriya. Do not be concerned with any goal. Be absorbed in being a kshatriya. Abandon concern for results. Fulfill the act. That fulfillment is your completion.
If Krishna can say this even on a battlefield, then a shop is no greater a field than war. Nor is an office; nor an industry. The difference is in vision. Where you are and what you do is not the question. Who you are and with what inner vision you work—that is the question.
You will never have to balance the two, because at any given time only one is in your hand; never both. Either motivated action is in your hand—then there is nothing to coordinate with the desireless. Or when desireless action comes, the motivated vanishes—nothing to coordinate there either. Just as when I carry a lamp into a room, I don’t have to harmonize light and darkness. Either there is darkness or there is light. Either there is knowledge or ignorance. Either craving and lust, or wisdom. The two do not coexist. Hence, there is never any need to mix them.
But the question arises in our mind. Why? Because we don’t want to give up being motivated, and yet we are also tempted by desireless joy. That is our trouble: we don’t want to let go of the “fun” of groping, and we want to get eyes as well. We want the motivated world to keep running—and we don’t want to miss the talk of desireless bliss either. We want to go on brooding over the fruit, and at the same time relish the act. These two cannot go together. This lane is very narrow—two cannot pass.
Therefore, as long as the mind is greedy—of attachment, aversion, gain, loss, defeat, victory—you cannot be desireless. And the moment it is seen that both are futile, in that moment you will be desireless. And once desirelessness happens, motivated action does not remain—so there is nothing left to balance or harmonize.
It is a very telling point. The ignorant constantly suffer this difficulty: “How do I coordinate?” Their coordination is always dangerous. A man says, “All right, you say egolessness is a wonderful thing. But how do I harmonize it with my ego?” Does it make any sense to harmonize ego with egolessness? You say nectar is good—but how shall we mix poison with nectar? Where have poison and nectar ever met? There is no way to mix them. The one whose hand holds poison does not hold nectar. And when nectar comes to the hand, poison is not there. Of the two, only one is ever in your hand; never both.
So people often ask how to harmonize religion and the world. How to join God and the world? How to reconcile liberation and this life? Their questions are fundamentally wrong—absurd, inconsistent. When God descends, the world disappears; it is not. Which means: the world becomes God. Nothing remains but the divine. And as long as the world is, only the world is—no God. The two cannot be together.
He who has known God has no world. He who is occupied with the world has no God. It has never happened—it is impossible—that one person knows both God and the world. It is as impossible as this: I am walking the road at night. I glimpse a rope lying there and mistake it for a snake. I run! Someone says, “Wait! Don’t run! It is a rope, not a snake.” I go near—see that it is a rope. Will I now ask, “How do I harmonize the rope and the snake?” As long as I see a snake, I don’t see the rope. When I see the rope, I don’t see the snake. There is no harmonizing. If I see a snake, I keep running. If I see a rope, I stand still. But it is hard to find a man who sees both rope and snake together. Is it possible? Do you think there could be such a man? It has never been. If you find one, that would be a miracle. If the rope is seen, it is seen—the snake vanishes. If the snake is seen, it is seen—the rope vanishes.
As long as the motivated snake is visible, the desireless rope will not be. Hence the question seems linguistically proper: “How to harmonize?” But harmony is never made. That’s why the man who says, “I see God in the world,” is wrong. The man who says, “I see no world; I see only God,” speaks rightly. The man who says, “God is in every particle,” speaks wrongly. The one who says, “Only God is—where are particles?” speaks rightly.
But language has its difficulties. They arise because conversation always happens between two different kinds of people. Whether between Krishna and Arjuna, or Buddha and Ananda, or Jesus and Luke—whoever it may be—the dialogue of this world is very difficult: it happens between the knower and the ignorant.
The ignorant sees a snake; the knower sees a rope. The knower keeps saying, “There is no snake.” The ignorant replies, “If you say so, it must be true—but the snake is there. How shall I harmonize?” Because of the ignorant, even the knower is forced to use wrong language. He has to say, “What you call a snake is actually a rope.” He has to say, “In the snake there is rope”—although there is no snake at all.
These are two different planes—so different, diametrically opposite. The knower sees that what the other sees does not exist; and what the knower sees, the other does not see. Yet a conversation runs between them. This too is a wonder.
Between two knowers there is never any conversation—there is no need. Between two ignorant people, however much they talk, no real conversation happens—only disturbance happens; lots of talk!
Conversation could occur between two knowers, but it doesn’t—because there is no need. Both know there is nothing to say. If I see that there is no snake, only rope; and you see that there is no snake, only rope—who would say “There is no snake”? Whoever says so would be mad. When the rope is seen, only a madman will speak.
Two knowers have never had a conversation. Once, Buddha and Mahavira stayed in the same dharmashala, but they did not talk. There was no reason. What would they say? If Buddha told Mahavira or Mahavira told Buddha, “There is no snake, only rope,” the other would laugh: “You’re mad! When it isn’t there, what are you talking about!”
Between two knowers conversation could be, but doesn’t happen. Between two ignorants it cannot be, yet happens a lot—from morning to evening, since beginningless time. They go on speaking—each what he likes.
Between a knower and an ignorant one, conversation is extremely difficult—not impossible, extremely difficult. Between two knowers it is impossible—because there is no need. Between two ignorants it is impossible—because neither knows. Between a knower and an ignorant it is possible, but very difficult—because it happens on two different planes.
The knower speaks from one knowing; the ignorant hears from another. By the time the words of the knower reach the ignorant, their meaning has changed. Whatever the knower may say, the ignorant will understand only what he can. He will immediately say, “Granted that God exists.” He can only grant; he does not know. “Granted”—and trouble begins.
He says, “Let’s grant there is no snake! But there is! You say, let’s grant there is no snake. You say, let’s grant there is a rope.” Whereas if the rope were seen, granting would end. There would be no need to say, “Let’s grant there’s a rope; let’s grant there’s no snake.” The matter is finished—it is seen. No; he says, “Let’s grant there is no snake. Let’s grant there is a rope. Now please tell me: how to harmonize the two?”
His question looks consistent, but it is not—entirely inconsistent.
So I would say to you too: there never comes a moment when ignorance and knowledge meet anywhere. When ignorance goes, there is knowledge. As long as knowledge is not, there is ignorance.
Do not try to mix motivated and desireless action. Try to understand motivated action. Experience its pain, its torment. Taste the hell of motivated action—see it, recognize it. When motivated action begins to feel like a house on fire, flames on all sides, then suddenly you will leap out. And once you are out, the cool breeze, the open sky of desireless action will meet you. But as long as you are standing within the flames of desire, do not ask—from inside the burning house—how to harmonize cool breezes with blazing flames!
Krishna is saying: make the leap. Step out of duality. Come out.
If this sinks in, it becomes clear: there is no compromise between motivated and desireless action. But we are forever compromising: between shop and temple, between soul and body. We go on compromising in everything. Our life is a long compromise. And compromise means deception. Compromise means we have lost the very opportunity where truth could be found.
The person who lives by compromise will never attain truth. The bigger the compromise, the bigger the untruth—the bigger the lie. And note: in compromise, falsehood always wins; truth always loses.
I have heard of an incident in a village. A man grabbed another on the road: “This is too much! Enough is enough—now return the hundred rupees you borrowed!” The other was startled, “What are you saying? I never borrowed a hundred rupees from you! I haven’t even seen your face.” The first said, “Listen to the joke! When you took the money we were old acquaintances; when it’s time to return it, you don’t even recognize my face!”
A crowd gathered. People asked, “What’s the matter?” The first man cried, “He’s robbing me of my hundred rupees. He says he’s never even seen my face!” The other said, “You are baffling me! Truly, I have never seen your face!” People too suspected—no one would lie so brazenly as to say he hasn’t seen the face and yet took the money.
Finally, as people are, they said, “Make a compromise—settle it at fifty-fifty.” The accused said, “What are you saying? I don’t even know his face.” People said, “Now you are overdoing it.” The accuser said, “All right then, I’ll forgo fifty.” People said, “Look how considerate he is!” Naturally the crowd sided with him: “At least give him fifty.”
I am saying: whenever truth and falsehood are compromised, falsehood wins—always. Because falsehood has nothing to lose; truth does. By its very nature falsehood has nothing to lose. Even if proved entirely false, nothing is lost—it was false to begin with. But if anything of truth is lost, all is lost.
And know this too: when truth is lost, it is not lost by half—it is lost wholly. For truth is an organic unity; it cannot be halved. Truth cannot be cut into pieces; falsehood can be cut into a thousand—because it is dead, it is only on paper. Run scissors through and make a thousand pieces. Truth is alive; it does not fragment.
Motivated action is a falsehood we have created with our own hands. Desireless action is the eternal stream of life—it is truth. Between that truth and this falsehood there is no compromise.
Sankhyayogau prithag bālāḥ pravadanti na panditāḥ.
Ekam apy āsthitaḥ samyag ubhayor vindate phalam. (5:4)
O Arjuna! Renunciation and desireless karma-yoga are spoken of as separate only by the childish, not by the wise. He who is well established in even one of them attains the fruit of both—which is the divine.
All the distinctions about ways out of this world are the distinctions of the foolish. The supposed oppositions between paths are the oppositions of the uncomprehending. Whether it be karma-sannyasa or desireless action—the wise know both bring to the same end.
The paths are many; the goal is one. Boats are many; the crossing is one. However one walks, by whatever vehicle or steps—if the aspiration is the search for truth, the longing for bliss—through all doors one arrives at the same place.
That is why Krishna says this here. People like Krishna must speak with constant alertness. First he spoke of two paths: one is abandonment of action; the other is abandonment of craving within action. Both are auspicious, he said—but the second is simpler. He told Arjuna the second is easier. Then he expounded what the second means: to go beyond the dualities of attachment and aversion. But immediately he must add, “Only the foolish take these two to be different; the wise see them as one.”
Why is this necessary? Because whenever one path is explained, the one who knows may himself know all paths are true, but he is speaking to a particular person about a particular path. The listener may fall into the delusion that only this path is right.
Such a delusion has arisen again and again. Mahavira said something to certain people—what was useful for them. The listeners concluded: only this is true; the rest are wrong. Buddha said what was needed for those he addressed, for that era, for that consciousness. The listeners concluded: this alone is the path; all else false. Christ said one thing; Mohammed another. All right, all meaningful—but the listeners take it that only their saying is right; the rest wrong.
And the ignorant cannot easily feel themselves right unless they make others wrong. They believe themselves right only because others are wrong. If others are also right, their own “rightness” becomes shaky. Their self-confidence remains only as long as others are wrong. So to bolster their own confidence they go on calling everyone else wrong: he is wrong, I alone am right.
Hence Krishna has to remain constantly watchful that while he explains one path, the impression does not arise that the other is utterly wrong or cannot lead.
But Krishna’s compulsion has its reverse in Arjuna. If Krishna were to say clearly, “Only this is right” and speak no further, Arjuna could relax and get on with it. Hearing that desireless action is more beneficial, he must have thought, “Good—then sannyasa is useless; I should get on with desireless action.” At once Krishna says, “Only fools think the two are different.”
Now Arjuna is in difficulty again. If both are right, the problem of choice arises. If one is wrong and the other right, the choice is easy. If both are right—then choose! And not just two; paths are infinite.
Because of choosers, even the wise have had to speak in the language of the unwise and say, “This is right.” And if any wise one said, “This is right and that is also right; this too, that too,” the listeners left him.
Look at Mahavira—one of the rarest intelligences to walk the earth—yet he found little following in the world. The sole reason: a single “mistake”—he did not speak the language of the naive. Mahavira said, “This is right—and that also is right.” His view is called syadvada. He says, “Everything has its truth; even a lie cannot be such that nothing in it is true. This is right; the opposite too is right; and opposite to both is also right.” The listeners said, “Excuse us then—we will go find someone who says ‘This is right.’ Either you don’t know, or you know something unusable for us.”
It’s been twenty-five hundred years since Mahavira. In India, even today, those who “follow” him scarcely exceed three million. If twenty-five people per year had truly been initiated by Mahavira, their descendants would be more! What happened?
And of those three million, hardly three truly follow—most are by birth. For to agree with Mahavira is difficult. He says: the man who says “only this is right” speaks nonsense. Never say “only this.” Say, “This is also right; that is also right.” But such a man cannot gather followers. How could he?
Krishna faces the same difficulty. When he explains desireless action, he must have seen Arjuna begin to puff up: “Then all sannyasins are wrong. We knew it—renunciation leads nowhere. What is there in abandoning?” Seeing that flash in Arjuna’s eyes, Krishna immediately checks him: “Only the foolish, Arjuna, think these two paths are different. The wise know them as one.” That must have doused Arjuna’s flare. He slumped a bit—went limp again. Once more he must have thought, “To be, or not to be—now which? This or that?”
Krishna never lets Arjuna’s stiffness harden. Again and again in the Gita you will see: whenever Arjuna begins to feel sure of himself, Krishna sprinkles a little water—his starch washes out.
Surely, Krishna has looked into Arjuna’s eyes here. Otherwise there was no need to invoke “fools.” The fool must have peeped through Arjuna’s eyes. Not that people are only fools—every intelligent person has foolish moments. Sometimes the dullest man’s eyes flash with intelligence. Consciousness within is very fluid.
So when Krishna sees Arjuna getting intelligent, he says certain things. When he sees foolishness condensing, he says others.
Because this utterance is addressed straight to Arjuna, every gesture, every expression, every flicker of the eyes has been caught in it. The Gita was not merely said; it was not merely written; it is a dialogue between two living beings. Throughout, their consciousness is in tune—a living dialogue.
In the West there was a great philosopher, Martin Buber. He said the greatest event in the world is dialogue. What did he mean? He meant: dialogue is a great happening—when the hearts of two people come so close that the slightest nuance is conveyed; the slightest difference is transmitted, the waves get the message.
Whether Buber knew it or not, if there have been real dialogues in the world—and I do not mean dialogues in films. What is prepared beforehand is not a dialogue. There the man isn’t speaking—only a “His Master’s Voice” dog is barking. The man is not there.
The Gita is a dialogue. Krishna catches the slightest flicker on Arjuna’s face. A tiny shift of posture—and at once he says, “Arjuna! Fools think the two are different.” One sharp tap—and Arjuna sits properly again.
Enough for today. We will sit for five minutes more. No one should leave. Sit quietly for five minutes more—you have already sat this long. The sannyasins will engage in kirtan. Sit where you are, silently imbibe their feeling for five minutes. Then go. This is sankirtan prasad—take it with you. Sit.
The person who has tasted the flavor of desireless action will run his shop in the same flavor. The person who has tasted the flavor of desireless action will run his industry in the same flavor.
Kabir did not close his shop. Kabir continued to weave cloth. People even said to him, “Now that you’ve awakened, it doesn’t feel right for you to weave cloth.” Kabir said, “What I wove before had none of this joy. Now the joy is entirely different. Earlier I wove out of compulsion; now it is delight. Earlier I wove to exploit a customer; now I weave to cover a limb—a body—of Ram.”
The weaving continues. Now Kabir weaves and keeps singing, “Jhīni jhīni bīnī re chadarīyā.” He sings! And when he takes his cloth to market, he runs after customers, calling out, “Ram, I’ve made something very sturdy—made it just for you!”
Once the joy of desireless action arrives, you will not be able—even by mistake—to act with desire. Even in a world thick with motivated action, desireless action will happen. Only joy will remain.
Someone’s joy may well be to run a big factory. But then that joy becomes a dedication to the divine. Then it is not for anyone’s exploitation. Running a big factory is his joy. And if this joy is of desireless action, that big factory will become a commune. In that big factory there will be no workers and owners—there will be friends.
And if ever true equality dawns upon this earth, it will not come from socialists. If ever equality truly flowers in this world, it will come from those religious people in whom unmotivated action has been born—those in whom nishkama karma has awakened. Anything is possible, once the vision occurs.
Where the danger feels greatest—imagine a blind man asking, “When my eyes are healed, how will I coordinate groping with walking? How will I balance the two?” Naturally, a blind man walks by groping. That is the only way he knows. And we tell him, “Your eyes will be restored.” He says, “I see: once my eyes are fine, I will be able to walk without groping. But then how will I balance groping with not groping?”
We would say, “There will be no need to balance anything. Don’t be foolish! Once you have eyes, groping is no longer needed.” He might say, “But in the dark one must grope!” We would say, “Let the eyes come; then you’ll know the process of groping belonged to the blind. It is not the process of one who can see. There is nothing to balance. And until the eyes are there, the question of balancing groping with walking simply doesn’t arise.”
Where the motivated man lives is the world of the blind. There he only acts by groping for the fruit. He does not yet know the joy of the act itself. He only knows joy lies in the fruit; the act has no joy. He sits in his shop, but there is no joy in the shop. He does not see the divine in the customer standing before him. His “god” is in the rupee he will get, that he will lock in his safe, that he will count the day after tomorrow and deposit in the bank. His joy is there. In the act that is happening now, he has no joy.
And when there is no joy in the act, how can joy accrue in the fruit? Because fruit is born of action. If the seed contains no sweetness, how will sweetness appear in the fruit? If the seed tastes like poison, how will the fruit become nectar?
Where there is no joy in the doing, there can never be joy in the outcome. But the motivated mind is fixated on the result. It says, “Somehow do the work—this is a compulsion. Get it over with. The joy lies in the fruit. When the fruit comes, joy will come.”
Krishna is speaking of a different person: he says, the joy is in the action itself. The act done—there is the joy. And the one who finds joy in the act now will have joy always. He who has learned to taste joy now has learned the secret of tasting it forever.
The motivated man sees joy in the fruit and does the act as a compulsion. The desireless man sees joy in the act itself and does the act with joy. Whatever the act may be—it makes no difference. Even if it is war. After all, Krishna is telling Arjuna, “Enter the battle.” But take no craving into it, no lusting, no attachment or aversion. It is your swadharma. As a kshatriya you can attain to joy; that is your training. Your life-energy can manifest only as a kshatriya. Do not be concerned with any goal. Be absorbed in being a kshatriya. Abandon concern for results. Fulfill the act. That fulfillment is your completion.
If Krishna can say this even on a battlefield, then a shop is no greater a field than war. Nor is an office; nor an industry. The difference is in vision. Where you are and what you do is not the question. Who you are and with what inner vision you work—that is the question.
You will never have to balance the two, because at any given time only one is in your hand; never both. Either motivated action is in your hand—then there is nothing to coordinate with the desireless. Or when desireless action comes, the motivated vanishes—nothing to coordinate there either. Just as when I carry a lamp into a room, I don’t have to harmonize light and darkness. Either there is darkness or there is light. Either there is knowledge or ignorance. Either craving and lust, or wisdom. The two do not coexist. Hence, there is never any need to mix them.
But the question arises in our mind. Why? Because we don’t want to give up being motivated, and yet we are also tempted by desireless joy. That is our trouble: we don’t want to let go of the “fun” of groping, and we want to get eyes as well. We want the motivated world to keep running—and we don’t want to miss the talk of desireless bliss either. We want to go on brooding over the fruit, and at the same time relish the act. These two cannot go together. This lane is very narrow—two cannot pass.
Therefore, as long as the mind is greedy—of attachment, aversion, gain, loss, defeat, victory—you cannot be desireless. And the moment it is seen that both are futile, in that moment you will be desireless. And once desirelessness happens, motivated action does not remain—so there is nothing left to balance or harmonize.
It is a very telling point. The ignorant constantly suffer this difficulty: “How do I coordinate?” Their coordination is always dangerous. A man says, “All right, you say egolessness is a wonderful thing. But how do I harmonize it with my ego?” Does it make any sense to harmonize ego with egolessness? You say nectar is good—but how shall we mix poison with nectar? Where have poison and nectar ever met? There is no way to mix them. The one whose hand holds poison does not hold nectar. And when nectar comes to the hand, poison is not there. Of the two, only one is ever in your hand; never both.
So people often ask how to harmonize religion and the world. How to join God and the world? How to reconcile liberation and this life? Their questions are fundamentally wrong—absurd, inconsistent. When God descends, the world disappears; it is not. Which means: the world becomes God. Nothing remains but the divine. And as long as the world is, only the world is—no God. The two cannot be together.
He who has known God has no world. He who is occupied with the world has no God. It has never happened—it is impossible—that one person knows both God and the world. It is as impossible as this: I am walking the road at night. I glimpse a rope lying there and mistake it for a snake. I run! Someone says, “Wait! Don’t run! It is a rope, not a snake.” I go near—see that it is a rope. Will I now ask, “How do I harmonize the rope and the snake?” As long as I see a snake, I don’t see the rope. When I see the rope, I don’t see the snake. There is no harmonizing. If I see a snake, I keep running. If I see a rope, I stand still. But it is hard to find a man who sees both rope and snake together. Is it possible? Do you think there could be such a man? It has never been. If you find one, that would be a miracle. If the rope is seen, it is seen—the snake vanishes. If the snake is seen, it is seen—the rope vanishes.
As long as the motivated snake is visible, the desireless rope will not be. Hence the question seems linguistically proper: “How to harmonize?” But harmony is never made. That’s why the man who says, “I see God in the world,” is wrong. The man who says, “I see no world; I see only God,” speaks rightly. The man who says, “God is in every particle,” speaks wrongly. The one who says, “Only God is—where are particles?” speaks rightly.
But language has its difficulties. They arise because conversation always happens between two different kinds of people. Whether between Krishna and Arjuna, or Buddha and Ananda, or Jesus and Luke—whoever it may be—the dialogue of this world is very difficult: it happens between the knower and the ignorant.
The ignorant sees a snake; the knower sees a rope. The knower keeps saying, “There is no snake.” The ignorant replies, “If you say so, it must be true—but the snake is there. How shall I harmonize?” Because of the ignorant, even the knower is forced to use wrong language. He has to say, “What you call a snake is actually a rope.” He has to say, “In the snake there is rope”—although there is no snake at all.
These are two different planes—so different, diametrically opposite. The knower sees that what the other sees does not exist; and what the knower sees, the other does not see. Yet a conversation runs between them. This too is a wonder.
Between two knowers there is never any conversation—there is no need. Between two ignorant people, however much they talk, no real conversation happens—only disturbance happens; lots of talk!
Conversation could occur between two knowers, but it doesn’t—because there is no need. Both know there is nothing to say. If I see that there is no snake, only rope; and you see that there is no snake, only rope—who would say “There is no snake”? Whoever says so would be mad. When the rope is seen, only a madman will speak.
Two knowers have never had a conversation. Once, Buddha and Mahavira stayed in the same dharmashala, but they did not talk. There was no reason. What would they say? If Buddha told Mahavira or Mahavira told Buddha, “There is no snake, only rope,” the other would laugh: “You’re mad! When it isn’t there, what are you talking about!”
Between two knowers conversation could be, but doesn’t happen. Between two ignorants it cannot be, yet happens a lot—from morning to evening, since beginningless time. They go on speaking—each what he likes.
Between a knower and an ignorant one, conversation is extremely difficult—not impossible, extremely difficult. Between two knowers it is impossible—because there is no need. Between two ignorants it is impossible—because neither knows. Between a knower and an ignorant it is possible, but very difficult—because it happens on two different planes.
The knower speaks from one knowing; the ignorant hears from another. By the time the words of the knower reach the ignorant, their meaning has changed. Whatever the knower may say, the ignorant will understand only what he can. He will immediately say, “Granted that God exists.” He can only grant; he does not know. “Granted”—and trouble begins.
He says, “Let’s grant there is no snake! But there is! You say, let’s grant there is no snake. You say, let’s grant there is a rope.” Whereas if the rope were seen, granting would end. There would be no need to say, “Let’s grant there’s a rope; let’s grant there’s no snake.” The matter is finished—it is seen. No; he says, “Let’s grant there is no snake. Let’s grant there is a rope. Now please tell me: how to harmonize the two?”
His question looks consistent, but it is not—entirely inconsistent.
So I would say to you too: there never comes a moment when ignorance and knowledge meet anywhere. When ignorance goes, there is knowledge. As long as knowledge is not, there is ignorance.
Do not try to mix motivated and desireless action. Try to understand motivated action. Experience its pain, its torment. Taste the hell of motivated action—see it, recognize it. When motivated action begins to feel like a house on fire, flames on all sides, then suddenly you will leap out. And once you are out, the cool breeze, the open sky of desireless action will meet you. But as long as you are standing within the flames of desire, do not ask—from inside the burning house—how to harmonize cool breezes with blazing flames!
Krishna is saying: make the leap. Step out of duality. Come out.
If this sinks in, it becomes clear: there is no compromise between motivated and desireless action. But we are forever compromising: between shop and temple, between soul and body. We go on compromising in everything. Our life is a long compromise. And compromise means deception. Compromise means we have lost the very opportunity where truth could be found.
The person who lives by compromise will never attain truth. The bigger the compromise, the bigger the untruth—the bigger the lie. And note: in compromise, falsehood always wins; truth always loses.
I have heard of an incident in a village. A man grabbed another on the road: “This is too much! Enough is enough—now return the hundred rupees you borrowed!” The other was startled, “What are you saying? I never borrowed a hundred rupees from you! I haven’t even seen your face.” The first said, “Listen to the joke! When you took the money we were old acquaintances; when it’s time to return it, you don’t even recognize my face!”
A crowd gathered. People asked, “What’s the matter?” The first man cried, “He’s robbing me of my hundred rupees. He says he’s never even seen my face!” The other said, “You are baffling me! Truly, I have never seen your face!” People too suspected—no one would lie so brazenly as to say he hasn’t seen the face and yet took the money.
Finally, as people are, they said, “Make a compromise—settle it at fifty-fifty.” The accused said, “What are you saying? I don’t even know his face.” People said, “Now you are overdoing it.” The accuser said, “All right then, I’ll forgo fifty.” People said, “Look how considerate he is!” Naturally the crowd sided with him: “At least give him fifty.”
I am saying: whenever truth and falsehood are compromised, falsehood wins—always. Because falsehood has nothing to lose; truth does. By its very nature falsehood has nothing to lose. Even if proved entirely false, nothing is lost—it was false to begin with. But if anything of truth is lost, all is lost.
And know this too: when truth is lost, it is not lost by half—it is lost wholly. For truth is an organic unity; it cannot be halved. Truth cannot be cut into pieces; falsehood can be cut into a thousand—because it is dead, it is only on paper. Run scissors through and make a thousand pieces. Truth is alive; it does not fragment.
Motivated action is a falsehood we have created with our own hands. Desireless action is the eternal stream of life—it is truth. Between that truth and this falsehood there is no compromise.
Sankhyayogau prithag bālāḥ pravadanti na panditāḥ.
Ekam apy āsthitaḥ samyag ubhayor vindate phalam. (5:4)
O Arjuna! Renunciation and desireless karma-yoga are spoken of as separate only by the childish, not by the wise. He who is well established in even one of them attains the fruit of both—which is the divine.
All the distinctions about ways out of this world are the distinctions of the foolish. The supposed oppositions between paths are the oppositions of the uncomprehending. Whether it be karma-sannyasa or desireless action—the wise know both bring to the same end.
The paths are many; the goal is one. Boats are many; the crossing is one. However one walks, by whatever vehicle or steps—if the aspiration is the search for truth, the longing for bliss—through all doors one arrives at the same place.
That is why Krishna says this here. People like Krishna must speak with constant alertness. First he spoke of two paths: one is abandonment of action; the other is abandonment of craving within action. Both are auspicious, he said—but the second is simpler. He told Arjuna the second is easier. Then he expounded what the second means: to go beyond the dualities of attachment and aversion. But immediately he must add, “Only the foolish take these two to be different; the wise see them as one.”
Why is this necessary? Because whenever one path is explained, the one who knows may himself know all paths are true, but he is speaking to a particular person about a particular path. The listener may fall into the delusion that only this path is right.
Such a delusion has arisen again and again. Mahavira said something to certain people—what was useful for them. The listeners concluded: only this is true; the rest are wrong. Buddha said what was needed for those he addressed, for that era, for that consciousness. The listeners concluded: this alone is the path; all else false. Christ said one thing; Mohammed another. All right, all meaningful—but the listeners take it that only their saying is right; the rest wrong.
And the ignorant cannot easily feel themselves right unless they make others wrong. They believe themselves right only because others are wrong. If others are also right, their own “rightness” becomes shaky. Their self-confidence remains only as long as others are wrong. So to bolster their own confidence they go on calling everyone else wrong: he is wrong, I alone am right.
Hence Krishna has to remain constantly watchful that while he explains one path, the impression does not arise that the other is utterly wrong or cannot lead.
But Krishna’s compulsion has its reverse in Arjuna. If Krishna were to say clearly, “Only this is right” and speak no further, Arjuna could relax and get on with it. Hearing that desireless action is more beneficial, he must have thought, “Good—then sannyasa is useless; I should get on with desireless action.” At once Krishna says, “Only fools think the two are different.”
Now Arjuna is in difficulty again. If both are right, the problem of choice arises. If one is wrong and the other right, the choice is easy. If both are right—then choose! And not just two; paths are infinite.
Because of choosers, even the wise have had to speak in the language of the unwise and say, “This is right.” And if any wise one said, “This is right and that is also right; this too, that too,” the listeners left him.
Look at Mahavira—one of the rarest intelligences to walk the earth—yet he found little following in the world. The sole reason: a single “mistake”—he did not speak the language of the naive. Mahavira said, “This is right—and that also is right.” His view is called syadvada. He says, “Everything has its truth; even a lie cannot be such that nothing in it is true. This is right; the opposite too is right; and opposite to both is also right.” The listeners said, “Excuse us then—we will go find someone who says ‘This is right.’ Either you don’t know, or you know something unusable for us.”
It’s been twenty-five hundred years since Mahavira. In India, even today, those who “follow” him scarcely exceed three million. If twenty-five people per year had truly been initiated by Mahavira, their descendants would be more! What happened?
And of those three million, hardly three truly follow—most are by birth. For to agree with Mahavira is difficult. He says: the man who says “only this is right” speaks nonsense. Never say “only this.” Say, “This is also right; that is also right.” But such a man cannot gather followers. How could he?
Krishna faces the same difficulty. When he explains desireless action, he must have seen Arjuna begin to puff up: “Then all sannyasins are wrong. We knew it—renunciation leads nowhere. What is there in abandoning?” Seeing that flash in Arjuna’s eyes, Krishna immediately checks him: “Only the foolish, Arjuna, think these two paths are different. The wise know them as one.” That must have doused Arjuna’s flare. He slumped a bit—went limp again. Once more he must have thought, “To be, or not to be—now which? This or that?”
Krishna never lets Arjuna’s stiffness harden. Again and again in the Gita you will see: whenever Arjuna begins to feel sure of himself, Krishna sprinkles a little water—his starch washes out.
Surely, Krishna has looked into Arjuna’s eyes here. Otherwise there was no need to invoke “fools.” The fool must have peeped through Arjuna’s eyes. Not that people are only fools—every intelligent person has foolish moments. Sometimes the dullest man’s eyes flash with intelligence. Consciousness within is very fluid.
So when Krishna sees Arjuna getting intelligent, he says certain things. When he sees foolishness condensing, he says others.
Because this utterance is addressed straight to Arjuna, every gesture, every expression, every flicker of the eyes has been caught in it. The Gita was not merely said; it was not merely written; it is a dialogue between two living beings. Throughout, their consciousness is in tune—a living dialogue.
In the West there was a great philosopher, Martin Buber. He said the greatest event in the world is dialogue. What did he mean? He meant: dialogue is a great happening—when the hearts of two people come so close that the slightest nuance is conveyed; the slightest difference is transmitted, the waves get the message.
Whether Buber knew it or not, if there have been real dialogues in the world—and I do not mean dialogues in films. What is prepared beforehand is not a dialogue. There the man isn’t speaking—only a “His Master’s Voice” dog is barking. The man is not there.
The Gita is a dialogue. Krishna catches the slightest flicker on Arjuna’s face. A tiny shift of posture—and at once he says, “Arjuna! Fools think the two are different.” One sharp tap—and Arjuna sits properly again.
Enough for today. We will sit for five minutes more. No one should leave. Sit quietly for five minutes more—you have already sat this long. The sannyasins will engage in kirtan. Sit where you are, silently imbibe their feeling for five minutes. Then go. This is sankirtan prasad—take it with you. Sit.
Osho's Commentary
Raga means to be pulled; dvesha means to withdraw. Ordinarily raga and dvesha appear opposite, enemies of each other. But the energy of raga and the energy of dvesha is one energy, not two. If I come toward you facing you, it becomes raga. If I turn my back and go away, it becomes dvesha. But the walker’s energy is one and the same — when he comes toward you, and when he leaves you.
All attractions turn into repulsions. And any repulsion can become attraction. They transform. So raga-dvesha are not two energies — first, understand this rightly. They are two forms of the same energy. Hatred and love are not two energies; they are two forms of one energy. Friendship and enmity are not two energies either; they are two directions of one force.
Hence the whole world, the whole of life, is divided in such dualities — raga-dvesha, enmity-friendship, love-hate. They are two movements of one force. And our mind is either in love or in hate. Love promises pleasure; hate brings fruit of pain. Raga gives the assurance of happiness; dvesha culminates in sorrow. Raga is desire, dvesha is the result. These two are the two parts of one process — longing and its consequence.
In defining Nishkama Karmayoga, Krishna says: the one who goes beyond both raga and dvesha attains desireless action.
The one who steps outside the duality of raga-dvesha! But we are never outside duality. Those whom we call renouncers are not outside duality either. They are only disenchanted — their raga has turned upside down. They leave the house, they run away; they do not clutch the house. They renounce wealth, they do not press it to their chest. But in renouncing they are filled with the same obsession, the same intensity, as they were filled with in the urge to grab wealth. Renunciation is not natural — it is repulsion. If I go toward someone, I am bound to him. If I flee from him, I am bound to him all the same. When I go, people can see I am bound.
Vivekananda has written a memoir somewhere. He wrote that when, for the first time, he grew eager for the journey of religion, the road to his house passed through the quarter of courtesans. Being a sannyasin, a renouncer, he would go one or two miles around, avoiding that quarter, to reach home. He would not pass through it. He thought then that this was a form of his sannyas. But later he came to know it was not the form of sannyas at all; it was the same attraction of the courtesans’ quarter turned into its opposite. Otherwise, there was no need to avoid it. To pass should not be intentional either — to pass knowingly through the courtesans’ lane is one thing; to avoid it knowingly is the same thing. No difference.
Vivekananda had this experience in a very unique hour. Near Jaipur, in a small princely state, he was a guest. On the day of departure, the king who had hosted him arranged a farewell ceremony — as a king would. He summoned a courtesan from Banaras to sing at Vivekananda’s farewell. It was a royal ceremony; he never thought how it could be without a courtesan!
At the last moment when Vivekananda came to know, he refused to go. He sat in his tent and said, I will not go. The courtesan was very pained. She sang a song — she sang a bhajan of Narsi Mehta. In that bhajan she said that a piece of iron lies in the house of worship, and a piece of iron lies at the butcher’s door too. Both are iron. But the wonder of the paras, the philosopher’s stone, is that it turns both into gold. If the paras were to say, I can only turn into gold the iron that lies in the temple of the gods, but not the iron lying at the butcher’s house — then that paras is fake, not real.
With great feeling she sang: ‘Prabhuji, mere avagun chit na dharo!’ Vivekananda’s life-breath trembled. When he heard that the very hallmark of the paras is that even if it touches the courtesan, she becomes gold — he ran! He rushed out of the tent and went straight to where the courtesan was singing. Tears were streaming from her eyes. Vivekananda looked at her and later said, For the first time I saw that courtesan, and within me there was neither attraction nor repulsion. That day I knew that sannyas had been born.
Even repulsion is but a form of attraction — inverted. If one has to avoid a courtesan, even that is an attraction to her, hidden somewhere in the unconscious, of which one is afraid. No one is afraid of courtesans; one is afraid of the attraction to courtesans hidden within oneself.
Vivekananda said, That day for the first time sannyas was born in my mind. That day, even in the courtesan I could see only the Mother. There was no repulsion.
This is what Krishna says to Arjuna: O Mahabaho, when one goes beyond both raga and dvesha, that day one attains Nishkama Karma.
It seems a difficult matter. For we act from only two causes: either there is attraction and we act; or repulsion and we act. Either we want to gain something and we act; or we want to drop something and we act. The motivation of our action — the inner drive — comes from only two sources. Either I want to earn wealth and I do something; or I want to renounce wealth and I do something. Either someone is my friend and I move toward him; or someone is my enemy and I move away. But if I have no friend and no enemy, how will I move? How will action happen? Then there is no motivation. This needs to be understood rightly.
Western psychologists are not willing to accept that unmotivated action is possible. They are not willing to accept that action without inner drive can happen. All action, they say, is motivated. Behind every action there must be an urge; otherwise action will not bear fruit. If there is action, there is motivation within.
Krishna says: if there is action and within there is any cause — pleasant or painful; of attraction or repulsion; of raga or dvesha — then action will be a maker of bondage. And if within there is no cause at all, yet action flowers, then it is Nishkama Karma. And through the way of bliss one goes beyond bondage.
But psychologists say such action cannot be. If there is action, it will be out of attraction or repulsion. Hence, it needs to be understood a little deeper.
This is the challenge of the whole of Western psychology. Its claim is that action will happen only for a cause. Causeless — no raga, no dvesha; nowhere to reach, nowhere to avoid — then action will not happen.
If this is true, Krishna’s entire vision falls to dust. Then it has no place. Because Krishna’s whole contemplation stands on the possibility of such action.
How is action possible in which there is neither raga nor dvesha? If we review our actions, the Western claim appears right. But our actions are the actions of sick human beings. To judge on the basis of our actions is like looking at ten blind men walking and concluding that all who walk are blind — because these ten are blind and they walk; therefore a man with eyes will not walk, since all the walkers we see are blind!
Western psychology stands on a fundamental fallacy — a double one. First, its results have been drawn by observing the sick, the pathological. Those it has studied are ill, deranged, insane, neurotic.
It is surprising that the conclusions of Western psychology depend on sick people. In truth a healthy person never goes to the psychologist — why would he? Those studied are sick, diseased, nearly deranged. Somewhere some psychosis, some neurosis, some mental illness has gripped them.
From Freud to Fromm, all the Western psychologists have studied the ill. From the ill they draw conclusions about the normal — which is wrong.
Second, even conclusions from the normal would be wrong, because the normal is not the whole man either. Krishna’s conclusion is drawn from the whole man. The psychology of this land rests on the study of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Shankara, Nagarjuna, Ramanuja — on the study of what man can be at his ultimate, on the supreme possibilities of man.
Western psychology stands at the last boundary of how far man can fall. Certainly there can be no accord between Western psychology and Eastern psychology.
We have kept our attention on the highest; they on the lowest. We on the peak; they on the abyss. Naturally, the one who studies the abyss and the one who studies the summit will arrive at different results. The one who studies the summit will say: the spread of sunlight is so clear there; clouds are touched. The one who studies the ravine will say: darkness is ever full; there is no sign of clouds.
In man there are both — heights and chasms. There are summit-like Buddhas, and diseased abysses like Hitler. Man is a long range. The word ‘man’ reveals nothing: it includes the last man and the first man; the one who reached the highest summit of life, and the one who descended to the lowest; those locked in madhouses, deranged; and those liberated, who attained supreme bliss.
What Western psychology has concluded from the study of the deranged is right within its limits: the deranged can never be free of raga and dvesha. It is because of raga and dvesha that he is deranged; how will he be free? They are the very bases of his madness. The liberated man is outside raga and dvesha — only then is he liberated; otherwise, he is not.
India made the highest its base. I feel this is right. If we take the highest as our base, perhaps a journey becomes possible for us too. If we take the lowest as our base, the possibility of our fall increases.
If we come to know that man can never attain bliss, we settle in our anguish. If we come to know that light is not possible in life, we stop struggling with darkness. If we come to know that every man is dishonest, a thief, then the dishonest and thieving within us becomes justified; the pain of being a thief and dishonest departs. We agree to our theft and dishonesty.
If the lowest is made the base, man will fall daily. And in fifty years Western psychology has built the steps for man’s descent.
The great jest is: when man falls, Western psychology says, We told you already that only falling is possible. Self-fulfilling prophecies! There are prophecies that fulfill themselves by happening.
Tell a man: Fifteen years from now, on such a day, you will die. It is not necessary that this prophecy arises from knowledge of his death; but his death can arise from this prophecy. It will be self-fulfilling. The very idea that one must die in fifteen years will half kill him. Then he will spend his days preparing to die, or preparing to escape death — which are the same. He will be obsessed, focused. His eyes will fix on death. His gaze will shrink from life and settle upon death.
In fifty years all the announcements of Western psychology came true — not because they were true, but because they were believed true. And man said: If unmotivated action is impossible, then it is madness to try. Give up.
But I say, it is possible. One must understand how. Keep three things in view, and Krishna’s Nishkama Karmayoga will come into your vision.
First: sometimes you play a game. No raga, no dvesha; the joy of playing is all. Our habits are poor, so we turn even play into work — that is our mistake. The wise turn work into play — that is their understanding.
Even if we sit to play chess, in a while we forget it is a game and become serious. That is our sickness. We grow grave. Winning and losing becomes heavy. Life goes on the stake. After all, only wooden elephants and horses are placed! Nothing at all — a children’s play. But winning and losing becomes heavy. We become serious. Serious, the game becomes work. Then raga-dvesha enters. We must defeat someone, we must make someone win. We must win; we must not lose. Then we are back in duality. Chess is no longer chess — it is the market; a real war!
Psychologists say that if one plays even chess with total feeling, his capacity to fight lessens a bit, because some of the fighting impulse finds an outlet. By making elephants and horses fight, the urge to fight is somewhat relieved; the smoke is released a little.
We turn play into work very quickly. But play is not work. Children are playing — play is not work. Play is only joy, unmotivated. The juice is not in what fruit will be gained; the juice is that the very activity of play gives delight.
In the morning a man goes walking — he is going nowhere. Ask, Where are you going? He will say, Nowhere; I have just gone out to walk. Nowhere, no destination. This same man, along this same path, goes to his office at noon. Stand by the roadside and watch: in the morning, as he goes for a walk, his face, the gait of his feet, his lightness, his freshness. And at noon, the same road, the same man, the same feet going to the office — watch his heaviness, the stone on his head, the burden on his chest. In the morning what was there? It was not motivated — nowhere to reach, no end. Walking was sufficient in itself.
Yes, some will make even walking motivated. If they are naturopaths, they will spoil even walking! If caught in the net of nature-cure, walking too will be spoiled. It will no longer be just walking; it will be fighting disease. And the one who walks to fight disease will hardly fight disease — disease has entered his walking. Walking is no longer a light joy; it has become heavy work. He is going to earn health! Now there is somewhere to reach; a motive has entered.
But has it never happened to you that the body is full of vigor, you rise in the morning and feel like running ten steps? Unmotivated! No reason. Only the power within is pushing — like a spring, as a waterfall descends from a mountain, flowers bloom on trees, birds sing at dawn — unmotivated. No raga-dvesha; energy is within, it wants to flow, to flow in bliss.
Krishna is saying: when one understands both raga and dvesha, then his energy remains — where will the energy go that used to be spent in raga-dvesha? I don’t want to fight anyone; I don’t want to conquer anyone; still my strength is with me — where will it go? It will flow. It will flow unmotivated. It will become action, but there will be no fruit in that action. It will flow — and the very flowing will be joy.
But we are so sick that we rarely have such a morning. Perhaps sometimes you sing in the bathroom — maybe that is all that is unmotivated. Bathroom singers! There is no one to listen. No applause. No name in the newspaper. No audience. Alone in your bathroom, a string of song breaks forth. Perhaps cold water fell on your head, you stood under the shower; morning breeze touched you, a fragrance passing through flowers entered your room, a bird sang outside, a cock crowed; the energy within you awoke and hummed a line — unmotivated, no reason. A force within wants to find expression.
In ordinary lives only such small examples will be found. I take your examples so you can get the feel. In those like Krishna the whole life is like this — the whole day, twenty-four hours!
If even one moment can be so, then twenty-four hours can be so. There is no hindrance. For in a man’s hand there is never more than one moment — never two. Only one. If, even in that one moment, an act can occur in which there was no raga-dvesha, in which the energy within became festive, celebrative, and overflowed…
The world’s ceremonies have diminished because the religious, festive dimension has grown thin. But if we return to the old world, or go today into far villages and forests, when the crop ripens in the fields, the village sings — unmotivated. Singing will not make the wheat taller, nor bring a higher price. But the fields are dancing with the harvest. Birds begin to circle above. The fragrance of grain fills the air. The earthy scent floats everywhere. It seizes the mind and life of the village. Not only the fields are dancing — the village dances too.
All the old festivals of the world were of seasons and harvests. The village is dancing. Till midnight, under the moon, the whole village dances. Nothing will be gotten from it. It is not a folk dance staged in Delhi on Republic Day. There is nothing to gain. There is no rehearsal. But there is energy within, and it wants to flow.
When Krishna says to Arjuna: if, free of raga and dvesha, you engage in action, then through the joyful way you will go beyond all bondage — the first thing to understand is this: if energy is within and raga-dvesha are not outside, even then energy will be active — because energy cannot remain inactive.
Energy is inherently creative. It will create. It cannot help it. That is why you cannot make children sit still. Their acts seem meaningless to you. You say, Why are you jumping without reason? You are very wise! You say, If you must jump, jump for work. I also jump in office, in shop — but for work! Why jump for nothing?
You have no idea why he jumps ‘for nothing’. Energy is within — energy is leaping. Work is not the question. Power is dancing within, pulsating.
The religious person is like a child in his whole life. Nishkama Karma will flower only for him whose body may attain any age, but whose mind never loses the freshness of childhood. That freshness, that virginity, remains. That is why a man like Krishna can play the flute and dance. The child has not gone anywhere.
If energy is within, it cannot be inactive. Remember, if there is shakti, it will be active. Even if there is no cause, causelessly it will be active. To be energy and to be active are two names of one reality. Energy cannot be inactive. But since we are never outside raga and dvesha, energy runs into the channels of raga and dvesha. Hence the second point is to be understood. First point: action is not born of raga-dvesha; action is born of inner energy. Action arises from inner energy.
The moon and stars are moving without any raga-dvesha. They have nowhere to reach. In every particle atoms are spinning, dancing, absorbed in a dance. They have nothing to gain. Flowers are blossoming. Birds are flying. Clouds drift in the sky. Streams become rivers and move toward the ocean. The ocean rises as vapor to the sky. Nowhere is there raga-dvesha — except in man. Nowhere is there motivation.
Ask the Ganga, Why are you so restless? What will happen if you reach the sea? The Ganga will not answer — because to answer would be useless. Because the Ganga is, she will reach the sea. That the Ganga reaches the sea is not an effort. There is water in the Ganga — it will reach the sea.
Except for man, the whole existence is immersed in action, but action without raga-dvesha. What madness is this, that man alone in this universe cannot be immersed in action without raga-dvesha? He can.
First understand: action is not born of raga-dvesha; action is born of the energy within. Energy is action. But now this energy that becomes action — you can hang it on any peg you wish. I have a coat — I can hang it on any peg. It is not because of a peg that I have a coat — keep this in mind. The peg is not the cause of the coat; the coat is already with me. I can hang it on the peg of raga, or on the peg of dvesha. I have energy within.
Life is energy. Life is energy — nothing else. Dancing power, the dance of infinite force is within.
And now science has shown infinite energy in a tiny atom. When we said earlier that in each person the infinite power of Paramatma abides, it seemed laughable. But if in each atom there is infinite energy, why not in each person? And if in a speck of dust, a dead particle, there is such power, then in a living cell of a human being there can be infinitely more.
Western science has split the atom; tomorrow it will split the cell. The day the genetic cell is split, science will arrive at what the East has always said: that in the small body is the Brahmand — the cosmos.
Each person is filled with infinite energy. From this energy action is born — understand this first. This action you may hang on raga, or on dvesha; that is your choice. And you may leave it unhung — that too is your choice. The peg does not insist, Hang it on me. I can toss the coat to the floor. No peg compels me. I may, if I wish, pour my life-energy into some attraction — run after something. I can run after Kohinoor. The Kohinoor does not say, Run after me. I can declare, Until I get the Kohinoor my life is useless.
Now I have chosen a peg on which I will hang myself. I think, If I hang on it, I will get all. If the Kohinoor is gotten, nothing is gotten — only energy is spent. And the habit of running behind for so many days will then insist: Now run behind something else. Find another raga, another attraction, and run after it.
I can also hang myself on dvesha. I can set myself against someone, engage in destroying some, engage in dropping something — then too I hang my power.
There are only two kinds of people: those who get busy gaining something, and those who get busy dropping something. One we call householder, the other we call sannyasin. In our common talk, the holder is the grhastha, the dropper is the tyagi. But Krishna will not say so. Krishna says: the one who is beyond both is the sannyasin. He alone has attained Nishkama Karma who is beyond both — who does not hang his energy on anything at all.
Remember: when you hang your energy neither on raga nor on dvesha, energy still remains. Where will it go? Unhung energy is offered to Paramatma; it dissolves into the Virat. Unfocused, unhung, it begins to flow toward the Infinite, at the feet of the Infinite. The very moment raga and dvesha are not, in that very moment one’s whole life is surrendered to Paramatma.
There are three kinds of surrender: surrendered to raga, surrendered to dvesha, and — beyond both — surrendered to Paramatma. This life surrendered to Paramatma is Nishkama Karmayoga.
And Krishna adds something more: this is going beyond bondage with great joy.
One can also go beyond bondage through suffering. But the one who goes beyond through suffering retains a trace of the rope’s marks on hands and feet. As when a tender leaf is torn from the tree — it can be torn, but wounds remain in the leaf and in the tree. A ripe leaf falls from the tree — wordlessly, still, silently. No sound that the leaf has fallen. Neither the tree knows nor the leaf knows. No wound remains — quietly.
Krishna says: I am telling you the way to go beyond bondage pleasantly, O Mahabaho! Do action, and, standing far from the duality of raga and dvesha, engage in action. One day you will slip out like a ripe leaf — silently.
One can also go out like an unripe leaf — by struggle, not surrender; by resolve, not surrender; by fighting, grappling, not dissolving quietly. One can even fight raga and dvesha — but that is only a new form of dvesha.
Therefore Krishna says: by understanding raga-dvesha!
The one who sees that raga is suffering and dvesha is suffering — who sees that both lead into pain; who sees that raga and dvesha never bear the fruit of bliss, never bring a moment of celebration — hell alone is created. We want to make a heaven, and when it is made, we find hell has been made. We want to build a temple, and when it is built, we find we have constructed our own prison. The one who, understanding like this, with such prajna, such awareness, goes beyond both — he, by a very pleasant way, like a dry leaf, drops outside bondage. No one even knows.
Only such sannyas is meaningful as is so musical — not a single discord should be created, not the slightest wound anywhere.
The one who leaves actions — wounds will be created. A man leaves home. The wife will weep; her tears will remain behind, because someone’s expectations will be broken. Children will suffer; be orphaned. A stone will fall on someone’s chest, something will be desolated.
And such a man who leaves everything — does he not seem, deep down, very self-centered? For his own liberation he turns the surroundings into a cremation ground. Things will break; sorrow will be created all around.
But Krishna says: Nishkama Karmayoga!
Do not leave the wife and go anywhere. Silently drop raga and dvesha toward her within. The wife will not even know.
It is a great wonder: if, silently within, raga-dvesha are dropped, none will know except you. And if anyone does know, he will know it as something pleasant. Because even through raga we cannot give happiness to anyone — we give only pain. And through dvesha we give pain anyway.
As soon as raga-dvesha fall within, we become light, blissful. Relationships become simple and easy. The wife vanishes from within us — on the other side too there is Paramatma. The husband vanishes, Paramatma remains. The son vanishes, Paramatma remains. Yet we still send that son to school, we arrange his food — but now it is an arrangement for Paramatma. The son will never know. Rather, the son will rejoice — for the son whose father holds the feeling of Paramatma for him, there is no cause for sorrow. Only a cause for joy.
Krishna says: by a happy, quiet, utterly peaceful way, the Nishkama Karmayogi goes beyond bondage. He does not hurry to break — he slips out quietly from things.
The one who breaks and slips is not very skillful; the one who breaks and withdraws is not very artistic. He has little sense of music, little sense of beauty, no clear sense of the dignity of human life. He lives only for himself. He earned wealth for himself; now he earns religion for himself. But all around, other lamps of Paramatma are burning; that they may be blown out does not concern him.
Therefore Krishna says that while doing Nishkama Karma, one goes out with joy — without creating a single tremor of sorrow anywhere.
The moment raga-dvesha end, energy — unmotivated — becomes active. Certainly, energy that is active without goal, without end, cannot be active for adharma. Its activity will, inevitably, be for dharma, for the auspicious, for shreyas. The whole life of such a person becomes dharma-kriya — a religious act.