Steadfast in Yoga, with soul made pure, self-ruled, master of the senses।
Whose Self is the Self of all beings—though he acts, he is not tainted।। 7।।
Geeta Darshan #4
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
योगयुक्तो विशुद्धात्मा विजितात्मा जितेन्द्रियः।
सर्वभूतात्मभूतात्मा कुर्वन्नपि न लिप्यते।। 7।।
सर्वभूतात्मभूतात्मा कुर्वन्नपि न लिप्यते।। 7।।
Transliteration:
yogayukto viśuddhātmā vijitātmā jitendriyaḥ|
sarvabhūtātmabhūtātmā kurvannapi na lipyate|| 7||
yogayukto viśuddhātmā vijitātmā jitendriyaḥ|
sarvabhūtātmabhūtātmā kurvannapi na lipyate|| 7||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, you have explained karma-sannyas to mean renunciation of action. But in the previous sixth verse, karma-sannyas was said to mean the renunciation of doership in all actions. Please clarify the apparent difference between these two meanings of karma-sannyas.
The outer meaning of karma-sannyas is renunciation of action. There is also an inner meaning. Because whatever happens in a human life has two faces: the outer and the inner. If you look at a karma-sannyasi from the outside, it will appear that he has renounced action.
Mahavira walked toward the forest; he left the palace, wealth, home, door, loved ones, kin. If we stand by the road and watch, what will we see? We will see that Mahavira is going, leaving everything. He is going, leaving action. If we ask, “What does Mahavira’s karma-sannyas mean?” the meaning will be: renunciation of action. But if we ask Mahavira what is happening within him—because houses, palaces, elephants, horses are not inside; actions, loved ones, relatives are not inside—what is inside?
When someone gives up action on the outside, what is it that drops inside? What is the inner part of action? The inner part is the doer. Doing is outside; the doer is inside. They are two halves of the same event. If action truly drops on the outside, the doer will immediately depart within—because without action the doer cannot exist. “Doer” means the one who does.
But language plays tricks. You have a fan in your hand. I ask, “What does ‘fan’ mean?” You say, “That which moves and makes air.” But right now the fan is not moving; you’re just holding it. Is it a fan right now or not? The definition is: that which moves like a fan and wafts air. It is not moving. So if we used precise semantics, it would not be a fan right now. A fan is that which fans. At present it is only a potential; it can do it. Therefore, in our practical world we say, “It is a fan”—meaning, it can become a fan if used, it can serve the function of a fan.
A book lies there. A book means that in it some knowledge is stored. But if I lift the book and hit you on the head, at that moment it is not a book; at that moment it is performing the function of a stone. In language, we still say, “He threw a book and hit him.” But “book” means that in which knowledge is stored. Can stored knowledge be hurled as a weapon? When I throw the book, I am not using it as a book at all; I am using it as a stone. If one were to speak scientifically, then it should not be called a book at that moment. It is not a book now; at that moment it is a stone.
As long as you are doing, you are the doer. When doing ceases, the doer is lost. The reverse is also true: when the doer is lost, doing disappears.
So far as others’ seeing is concerned, outwardly action seems to drop first. And so far as one’s own seeing is concerned, inwardly the doer drops first. If I look from within, first my doer will be lost; only then will my actions fall away. First I will no longer be a doer; then my actions will drop. But as far as you can see me, you will observe action dropping first and infer that the doer must have been lost too—because my inner doer you cannot see; only I can.
Therefore, what Krishna says—that where doership is lost, where the doer has disappeared—that is the inner interpretation. From within, the seeker has to recognize that the one inside who used to do is no longer there; now there is no doer within.
When does the doer disappear? A few sutras here will be useful for a seeker.
- One way: the doer disappears when you understand, “I am void-like; I am not.” Inquire, “What am I?” Nothing at all—just a heap of earth. Close your eyes sometime and see: what do you find? What am I? The throb of breath? What am I? Like a blacksmith’s bellows moving. Let the breath move, close your eyes, and search within, “Who am I?” What will you find? Only this much: the bellows is moving—up and down. Breath is going in, breath is coming out. If you look in complete silence, you’ll find nothing but the breath moving. Is the movement of breath alone such a great thing that I should declare, “I am”? And I am not even moving the breath! As long as it moves, it moves; when it doesn’t, it doesn’t. On the day it stops, I won’t be able to make it move; I won’t be able to take even a single breath. Breath is moving; even that I am not moving. Who knows what unknown power moves it! Such a little game—and why am I carrying so much swagger about it?
So one path is to inquire, “What am I?” and to discover that I am nothing.
This is Buddha’s path. Buddha says: inquire into what you are. What are you made of? A little earth, a little water, a little fire, a little air.
Ask a scientist and he will say: worth four or five rupees altogether—some aluminum, some copper, some iron. Barely four or five rupees’ worth; four or five because prices fluctuate. A human has nothing more than that. Though when a person dies, you can’t even get that much for the body. No one would buy it for five rupees, because the material is so entangled that extracting it would cost far more. It isn’t worth five rupees. It’s a very deep mine; digging it out would waste more money and yield nothing special. That’s why we burn or bury the body. Till now, there is no practical use for a human corpse.
So Buddha says: examine what you are—just a collection of a few little things. Breath moves in this bellows. Is that all you are? You will say, “I also have some thoughts.” Granted. What are thoughts? Toys made in air, lines drawn on water—very immaterial. What do they amount to! And if you cut open a man’s neck and search, you won’t find thoughts anywhere. They are like gusts of wind. In a gust of wind, leaves tremble; in the jolts of life, thoughts tremble. Someone abuses you—an inner jolt comes, some thoughts begin to shake, abuse begins to rise. Someone praises you, puts a garland around your neck—an inner gust arrives; you feel delighted; your chest swells; breath starts moving a little stronger.
So Buddha says: look accurately at the sum of you. On such a sum, why be so arrogant? Buddha says you are a mere aggregate, just a composite. Don’t trouble yourself needlessly. Understand yourself as empty. Whoever understands this aggregate rightly becomes void-like. When you become void-like, the doer is lost.
- A second path: I did not take birth by my own will, nor will I die by my own hand. At birth, no one asks me, “Do you want to be born?” At death, no one takes my signature, “Are you intending to depart now?” No one asks me anything. I am absolutely unnecessary to the process. I say, “Life is mine,” yet I am sent here without being asked! I say, “Life is mine,” yet I am dismissed without being asked! No one even asks, “Do you want to go or to come? What are your intentions?” There is no inquiry of me at all.
This is the path of destiny—niyati. From this path arose a very deep notion of fate. We have abused it in many ways, but the insight is profound. It says: I am not; there is fate. Who knows who gives me birth, who makes me move, who bids me farewell? I am nothing.
A dry leaf blown about in the wind—wherever the winds take it, it goes. The leaf has no voice, no say. If the leaf says, “I want to go east,” no one listens; it goes west. If the leaf says, “I want to rest on the ground,” the winds lift it into the sky. This notion of destiny is very deep in Hindu thought.
Buddha used emptiness; Hindu thought used destiny. It said everything is in the hands of the Controller. Some unknown power sends you and the same calls you back. Since we are nothing, why strut about? Why be troubled? There is the Divine—leave it in His hands. Then the doer becomes zero. When we are not the ones doing, whatever He wills, He gets done; if He doesn’t will it, it is not done. The one who surrenders himself completely—his doer is lost.
- A third path: to know That which is within us. This is Krishna’s path—to know That which is within. It is also Mahavira’s path.
We keep saying “I, I, I” without even bothering to find out who this “I” is. What is it? We never trace it. Enter within. Before you say “I,” find out clearly whom you are calling “I.” The deeper you go within, the more the “I” disappears—the deeper you go. The higher you remain on the surface, the more the “I” is. The deeper you go, the more the “I” dissolves. A moment comes when you are, and the “I” is not at all. A point arises within that is utterly egoless, utterly empty of “I”—where no echo of “I” arises.
Know That, and the doer is lost. Because once That is known, the feeling of “I” does not arise; and without the sense of “I,” the doer cannot be constructed. The brick of “I” is indispensable to construct the doer.
In one sense, all three are the same. Whether you know “I am nothing”—the doer drops. Or you know “The Divine is everything”—the doer drops. Or you know that inner point where the “I” does not exist—the doer drops. In all three states, the doer becomes zero. When the doer becomes zero within, actions fall away without; that is the other half of it.
You can proceed from either side. If you completely drop actions on the outside, you will not be able to retain the doer within; it will fall. If you bid farewell to the doer within, you will not be able to retain actions outside; they will disappear. The outer interpretation of karma-sannyas is the renunciation of action. The inner interpretation of karma-sannyas is the renunciation of the doer.
Mahavira walked toward the forest; he left the palace, wealth, home, door, loved ones, kin. If we stand by the road and watch, what will we see? We will see that Mahavira is going, leaving everything. He is going, leaving action. If we ask, “What does Mahavira’s karma-sannyas mean?” the meaning will be: renunciation of action. But if we ask Mahavira what is happening within him—because houses, palaces, elephants, horses are not inside; actions, loved ones, relatives are not inside—what is inside?
When someone gives up action on the outside, what is it that drops inside? What is the inner part of action? The inner part is the doer. Doing is outside; the doer is inside. They are two halves of the same event. If action truly drops on the outside, the doer will immediately depart within—because without action the doer cannot exist. “Doer” means the one who does.
But language plays tricks. You have a fan in your hand. I ask, “What does ‘fan’ mean?” You say, “That which moves and makes air.” But right now the fan is not moving; you’re just holding it. Is it a fan right now or not? The definition is: that which moves like a fan and wafts air. It is not moving. So if we used precise semantics, it would not be a fan right now. A fan is that which fans. At present it is only a potential; it can do it. Therefore, in our practical world we say, “It is a fan”—meaning, it can become a fan if used, it can serve the function of a fan.
A book lies there. A book means that in it some knowledge is stored. But if I lift the book and hit you on the head, at that moment it is not a book; at that moment it is performing the function of a stone. In language, we still say, “He threw a book and hit him.” But “book” means that in which knowledge is stored. Can stored knowledge be hurled as a weapon? When I throw the book, I am not using it as a book at all; I am using it as a stone. If one were to speak scientifically, then it should not be called a book at that moment. It is not a book now; at that moment it is a stone.
As long as you are doing, you are the doer. When doing ceases, the doer is lost. The reverse is also true: when the doer is lost, doing disappears.
So far as others’ seeing is concerned, outwardly action seems to drop first. And so far as one’s own seeing is concerned, inwardly the doer drops first. If I look from within, first my doer will be lost; only then will my actions fall away. First I will no longer be a doer; then my actions will drop. But as far as you can see me, you will observe action dropping first and infer that the doer must have been lost too—because my inner doer you cannot see; only I can.
Therefore, what Krishna says—that where doership is lost, where the doer has disappeared—that is the inner interpretation. From within, the seeker has to recognize that the one inside who used to do is no longer there; now there is no doer within.
When does the doer disappear? A few sutras here will be useful for a seeker.
- One way: the doer disappears when you understand, “I am void-like; I am not.” Inquire, “What am I?” Nothing at all—just a heap of earth. Close your eyes sometime and see: what do you find? What am I? The throb of breath? What am I? Like a blacksmith’s bellows moving. Let the breath move, close your eyes, and search within, “Who am I?” What will you find? Only this much: the bellows is moving—up and down. Breath is going in, breath is coming out. If you look in complete silence, you’ll find nothing but the breath moving. Is the movement of breath alone such a great thing that I should declare, “I am”? And I am not even moving the breath! As long as it moves, it moves; when it doesn’t, it doesn’t. On the day it stops, I won’t be able to make it move; I won’t be able to take even a single breath. Breath is moving; even that I am not moving. Who knows what unknown power moves it! Such a little game—and why am I carrying so much swagger about it?
So one path is to inquire, “What am I?” and to discover that I am nothing.
This is Buddha’s path. Buddha says: inquire into what you are. What are you made of? A little earth, a little water, a little fire, a little air.
Ask a scientist and he will say: worth four or five rupees altogether—some aluminum, some copper, some iron. Barely four or five rupees’ worth; four or five because prices fluctuate. A human has nothing more than that. Though when a person dies, you can’t even get that much for the body. No one would buy it for five rupees, because the material is so entangled that extracting it would cost far more. It isn’t worth five rupees. It’s a very deep mine; digging it out would waste more money and yield nothing special. That’s why we burn or bury the body. Till now, there is no practical use for a human corpse.
So Buddha says: examine what you are—just a collection of a few little things. Breath moves in this bellows. Is that all you are? You will say, “I also have some thoughts.” Granted. What are thoughts? Toys made in air, lines drawn on water—very immaterial. What do they amount to! And if you cut open a man’s neck and search, you won’t find thoughts anywhere. They are like gusts of wind. In a gust of wind, leaves tremble; in the jolts of life, thoughts tremble. Someone abuses you—an inner jolt comes, some thoughts begin to shake, abuse begins to rise. Someone praises you, puts a garland around your neck—an inner gust arrives; you feel delighted; your chest swells; breath starts moving a little stronger.
So Buddha says: look accurately at the sum of you. On such a sum, why be so arrogant? Buddha says you are a mere aggregate, just a composite. Don’t trouble yourself needlessly. Understand yourself as empty. Whoever understands this aggregate rightly becomes void-like. When you become void-like, the doer is lost.
- A second path: I did not take birth by my own will, nor will I die by my own hand. At birth, no one asks me, “Do you want to be born?” At death, no one takes my signature, “Are you intending to depart now?” No one asks me anything. I am absolutely unnecessary to the process. I say, “Life is mine,” yet I am sent here without being asked! I say, “Life is mine,” yet I am dismissed without being asked! No one even asks, “Do you want to go or to come? What are your intentions?” There is no inquiry of me at all.
This is the path of destiny—niyati. From this path arose a very deep notion of fate. We have abused it in many ways, but the insight is profound. It says: I am not; there is fate. Who knows who gives me birth, who makes me move, who bids me farewell? I am nothing.
A dry leaf blown about in the wind—wherever the winds take it, it goes. The leaf has no voice, no say. If the leaf says, “I want to go east,” no one listens; it goes west. If the leaf says, “I want to rest on the ground,” the winds lift it into the sky. This notion of destiny is very deep in Hindu thought.
Buddha used emptiness; Hindu thought used destiny. It said everything is in the hands of the Controller. Some unknown power sends you and the same calls you back. Since we are nothing, why strut about? Why be troubled? There is the Divine—leave it in His hands. Then the doer becomes zero. When we are not the ones doing, whatever He wills, He gets done; if He doesn’t will it, it is not done. The one who surrenders himself completely—his doer is lost.
- A third path: to know That which is within us. This is Krishna’s path—to know That which is within. It is also Mahavira’s path.
We keep saying “I, I, I” without even bothering to find out who this “I” is. What is it? We never trace it. Enter within. Before you say “I,” find out clearly whom you are calling “I.” The deeper you go within, the more the “I” disappears—the deeper you go. The higher you remain on the surface, the more the “I” is. The deeper you go, the more the “I” dissolves. A moment comes when you are, and the “I” is not at all. A point arises within that is utterly egoless, utterly empty of “I”—where no echo of “I” arises.
Know That, and the doer is lost. Because once That is known, the feeling of “I” does not arise; and without the sense of “I,” the doer cannot be constructed. The brick of “I” is indispensable to construct the doer.
In one sense, all three are the same. Whether you know “I am nothing”—the doer drops. Or you know “The Divine is everything”—the doer drops. Or you know that inner point where the “I” does not exist—the doer drops. In all three states, the doer becomes zero. When the doer becomes zero within, actions fall away without; that is the other half of it.
You can proceed from either side. If you completely drop actions on the outside, you will not be able to retain the doer within; it will fall. If you bid farewell to the doer within, you will not be able to retain actions outside; they will disappear. The outer interpretation of karma-sannyas is the renunciation of action. The inner interpretation of karma-sannyas is the renunciation of the doer.
Osho, one more thing to clarify on this point. Krishna says that karma-sannyas—meaning the renunciation of doership in action—is difficult for Arjuna, and that nishkama karma-yoga is simple. Please clarify how nishkama karma is possible without giving up the sense of doership in action.
Krishna is telling Arjuna that karma-sannyas is difficult, and the other approach—nishkama karma—is simple. In nishkama karma you need not drop action, nor drop the doer. There is no primary demand to renounce action or the doer. In nishkama karma-yoga you drop only the fruit of action—only the fruit. Yet the day the fruit drops, the doer drops too; but that is a consequence, not the starting condition.
What is prescribed as the staircase in karma-sannyas appears as the result in nishkama karma-yoga. Drop the fruit! Once the fruit is dropped, the doer cannot survive. And when the doer is gone, action becomes mere enactment, a play—done for others, not for oneself; for oneself it is finished.
Just like a father playing with his child: he dresses the doll, prepares the toy groom, sets the wedding procession in motion. For him it is play now; for the child it is not play. He is completely involved outwardly, yet inwardly not involved at all—immersed, yet not entangled. He plays in a spirit of joy. The child, however, is anxious and upset: Will the doll turn out right? Will a bride agree? Will the marriage go through? Will some obstacle arise—some planet, some Mars bring impediment? Will some pundit create trouble with the horoscope? The child is worried. For him this is not play; it is a serious matter—work. The father is joyfully playing along. He acts, but within there is no doer.
He is acting—why is there no doer? Because the child is excited by the result: in the evening the band will play, the procession will set out. The child bears the big burden. He worries that everything goes well; friends will gather—let nothing be amiss. He is agitated, tormented—he may not sleep at night; in dreams too he will keep marrying, keep preparing, sit up with a start. All this can happen. But the father is making the same arrangements, and yet for him there is no question of result. What will happen in the evening does not concern him. It is play; there is no question of the fruit.
Krishna says, the other point, Arjuna, is simple: drop concern for the fruit and stay engaged in action.
The moment you drop concern for the fruit, the doer collapses—because without fruit the doer has no relish in surviving. I do not avoid action; I avoid the craving for what action will bring—for getting it, accumulating it. My greed is for the fruit.
If someone tells you that you can obtain the result without doing the action, you will not agree to act. You will say, perfect—that’s what we always wanted. We were acting only because without action the fruit could not be had. If it can be had without action, only a madman will agree to act. We are ready right now.
Your eagerness is not in action; action is compulsion. Your eagerness is in the result. The result is your desire; action is your necessity. You act because without it there is no fruit. If fruit were available without action, you would drop action immediately.
Where does the doer’s relish lie—in action or in the fruit? It lies in the fruit. It seems tied to action, but in reality it is tied to the result. The doer is arrowed toward the result; his arrow always points to the fruit. Toward action he moves out of compulsion.
Therefore anyone who can get the fruit without action will certainly try to obtain it so. The student who can pass without study will stop studying. If it can be done by an easier act—say, flashing a knife at the teacher—he will take the easy act. If it can be achieved by cheating, he will cheat. He will drop the yearlong hassle and settle it in a few days. If it can be done by bribery, he will do it by bribery.
No one’s relish is in action. Mind you, there would be no bribery and no dishonesty in the world if people delighted in action. The relish is in the fruit; so however the fruit can be had, man will take it. And if it can be had with less action, all the better. If it can be had by flattery, better still.
Going to the temple people flatter God, offer praise, pledge bribes: “We will offer a coconut worth five annas; just have the boy pass his exam!” A firm promise: “We will surely give that five-anna coconut.”
Now, to the One who already has everything, you promise a coconut worth five annas! If he agrees, he is a fool. If God can be swayed by your five-anna coconut, he is an utter fool! But the fool is you. What have you gone to give? What bribe are you proposing?
Therefore in a country like India bribery could grow so much, because deep down we are an old bribing people. We have always tried to bribe even God—if God can be brought around with a five-anna coconut, will the deputy collector not be? Is a deputy collector greater than God? Is some minister greater than God? Ah, when we can bring even God to heel with a coconut, a minister is a poor fellow—we’ll fix him easily. And when the minister sees you don’t spare even God his coconut, why should he spare you?
And if someday a difficulty arises even before God, we will say to him: “You have been taking for thousands of years; we started only recently—these last twenty years or so. We don’t even have that much experience. And you sit on the throne forever; you’re in no hurry. Our thrones have no guarantee. So we take what we can, as quickly as we can.”
This is our mind—it is always eager for fruit. So if anything can be spared in action and the fruit still obtained, we’ll accept it. Therefore Krishna says: nishkama karma-yoga does not worry about your renouncing action; it concerns your renouncing the fruit. Drop your concern for the fruit.
And concern for the fruit can be dropped in two ways. One way is to accept that there is God; whatever His will. The fatalist I spoke of—who believes in destiny—will say: God has to give the fruit; if He wants to, He will; if not, He won’t. One who lives deeply with the sense of destiny can let go. He says: The fruit is not in our hands; God knows. We ourselves are not in our own hands—how can the fruit be in our hands?
Or, fruit is dropped in a second way: by one who holds, “I am not at all.” I am but a heap of dust—what fruit can come from me? What can I produce? I am nothing; nothing will come out of me. This is Buddha’s path: he says nothing can come, therefore the fruit is let go. If I am not, who will take the fruit? So the fruit is dropped.
A third way too exists—Krishna’s or Mahavira’s: one turns back within and discovers that which needs no fruit, that to which everything is already given. When that is found, no demand remains; then too the fruit falls away. When the fruit falls, the doer is lost. But in nishkama karma action remains, whereas in karma-sannyas action too drops—that is the only difference.
Krishna says to Arjuna that nishkama karma is simple. Seeing Arjuna he repeats: I will say it again—this need not be simple for you. To Arjuna he says: for you, Arjuna, it is simple. For Arjuna it is easier to drop the fruit; difficult to drop action.
Keep two or three things in mind. By about seven months in the mother’s womb, the child is roughly twenty-five percent formed—twenty-five percent. The remaining seventy-five percent will be formed over the next seventy years. By seven years the child is seventy-five percent formed, in which no further differences will arise. By the time we stand up to live life, a pattern, a framework within us is almost settled.
Arjuna stands today on the battlefield not like a clean slate. If he were a clean slate, Krishna would have said: here are two paths; write whichever you like—both are simple, because your slate is blank. Write anything; whatever you write will work. But Arjuna is not a blank slate; much has already been inscribed. There is almost no space left to write something else; he stands full. His being a kshatriya is already decided, complete. To make him a brahmin now would be great trouble.
To make him a brahmin would mean starting the ABC all over again. If Arjuna could be taken back into his mother’s womb, then the matter could be reconsidered; otherwise not. Or, one would have to give him a complete brainwash. In Krishna’s time there was no such method; now there is. His skull would have to be wiped clean with electric shocks. Though it is not necessary that after wiping it clean he would become a better man; not necessary. The great fear is he may become lame for life. If at the age of thirty we reset a man’s brain, his age will be thirty and he will behave like a newborn. It is a very troublesome matter.
So Arjuna stands with a definite personality. Therefore when Krishna says to him: Arjuna, you who have lived and grown in action, for whom action is nature, who has never known, thought, or done anything without action—whose entire dignity of personality sits on the peak of his action, whose whole glory, brilliance, success is his skill in action—to this man Krishna says: for you it is simple to drop the fruit.
And remember: for a kshatriya it is easy to drop the fruit, difficult to drop action. For a kshatriya, fruit can be abandoned; action is hard to abandon. For a brahmin it is easy to abandon action, difficult to abandon the fruit. These are structures of personality.
A brahmin is anyway not in action. He stands outside the mesh of action. Society had fixed the fruit for him; he was content with the fruit. He had always left action. Though with a little action he could have gotten more fruit, no—he was content with little fruit, but would not get into the hassle of action. He stood having left action.
If Mahavira or Buddha were to act, could they not produce? They could. But Mahavira or Buddha take the alms bowl and beg two loaves of bread—content with that. The brahmin of this land has always lived by leaving action—content with little fruit. Abandoning action is not difficult for him.
A kshatriya can utterly drop the fruit, but not action. For a kshatriya the question is not win or lose; not even whether victory will come or defeat. For a kshatriya the question is: did I fight or not? The final measure for a kshatriya is whether he fought or not. He must not run away from the fight. If a kshatriya dies fighting, he will die more at peace than if he had fled. He did not run from action; he did not withdraw from action. He fought. What could be done was done; what could happen happened. The fruit is not a big question for him.
And if a kshatriya keeps thinking of the fruit, he cannot be a kshatriya—because in the moment of battle the fruit must be forgotten. Shopkeeping is one thing, battle another. In a shop you can sit and calmly calculate profit and loss—because action is not yet taking your life; the customer is not gripping your throat; he is sitting in front of you; you can think: if not today, tomorrow we’ll make the deal. For a kshatriya the action is so intense that if he goes off to think of the fruit and misses a beat, his head will be cut off. He must be in the action itself.
Hence in Japan, where perhaps the only living class of kshatriyas in today’s world remains—the samurai. On the whole earth a unique class, just as Arjuna would have been. I call Arjuna a samurai! Once we too produced samurai; now they are not. In Japan there is a small class—the samurai. Fighting is their life, their joy, their art.
The formula of samurai combat is this: when you wield the sword, let only the sword remain—let there be no “you.” Let only the sword move. Drop yourself. Be the sword. And do not even think what will happen a moment later, because if you think of the next moment, the sword in front of you will cut your neck. See only what is happening now. If awareness moves even a hair’s breadth to the next moment, you will miss.
So if two samurai fall into combat, it becomes very difficult—the battle cannot be decisive. Great difficulty, because both live in the present instant. Whoever thinks ahead loses.
So for a kshatriya it is simple to drop concern for the fruit. For a vaishya it is not simple to drop concern for the fruit. A vaishya can say: we can drop action; fruit—fruit is hard to drop. A kshatriya can say: we can drop fruit; but action—action is hard to drop. Training and conditioning.
So Krishna tells Arjuna: for you it is natural, simple—drop the craving for fruit and enter the war. Fulfill the action and leave the rest to the Lord. For you the first thing, “I will leave action and go away,” is not easy.
Even if Arjuna were to leave action and go away—suppose for a moment that the Gita ended here and Arjuna retired to the forest—what would he do? Spread a mat and meditate under some bush? Even if he tried to meditate, a lion walking in the nearby thicket would catch his eye—he would draw his bow. Birds chirping on a tree would bring back childhood memories: I was a marksman; I could see only the eye; my companions saw the whole bird. Guru Drona had said: you alone are the archer. This would return. That is his training. He would not be long in meditation; very soon he would be out hunting. Man is as he is.
Krishna knows him well. He looks deep into Arjuna’s mind to see what kind of man he is. In the forest he will find some way to fight; he will get into some trouble or other. He cannot live without fighting. Without fighting the sword will rust; without fighting the kshatriya too rusts. The edge of a kshatriya is in his fighting.
I have heard of a samurai who fought with the same sword for thirty years—the same sword. When an emperor of Japan summoned him and looked at his sword, he was astonished: as if it had been sharpened only yesterday. The emperor asked: have you just had it sharpened? He replied: a samurai does not need to have his sword sharpened; by fighting, the edge is made anew every day. The day a samurai has to get his sword sharpened, that day he is finished, defeated—because if the sword has rusted, in that much time the samurai too has rusted.
Arjuna is the sword’s shine; let no rust gather on him. Rust will drown him. He will lose the battle, lose his kshatriyahood—and he cannot become a brahmin. He will have to wait for the next birth. And even then there is fear; he is a kshatriya—there is every fear he will be a kshatriya again.
Therefore Krishna says to him: seeing you, I say—this is your own dharma, your ownness, your individuality. You are made for this. This is your destiny, your fate: fight; enter action. Let the fruit go. When the fruit is removed, the doer will be removed; action will remain. And when action alone remains, nishkama karma is fulfilled.
Now we will do kirtan for five minutes. No one should get up. For five minutes, receive what the sannyasins are giving—accept their prasad. No one should get up. Do not be in such a hurry for five minutes. And join in. At least you can clap! Join in the bliss.
What is prescribed as the staircase in karma-sannyas appears as the result in nishkama karma-yoga. Drop the fruit! Once the fruit is dropped, the doer cannot survive. And when the doer is gone, action becomes mere enactment, a play—done for others, not for oneself; for oneself it is finished.
Just like a father playing with his child: he dresses the doll, prepares the toy groom, sets the wedding procession in motion. For him it is play now; for the child it is not play. He is completely involved outwardly, yet inwardly not involved at all—immersed, yet not entangled. He plays in a spirit of joy. The child, however, is anxious and upset: Will the doll turn out right? Will a bride agree? Will the marriage go through? Will some obstacle arise—some planet, some Mars bring impediment? Will some pundit create trouble with the horoscope? The child is worried. For him this is not play; it is a serious matter—work. The father is joyfully playing along. He acts, but within there is no doer.
He is acting—why is there no doer? Because the child is excited by the result: in the evening the band will play, the procession will set out. The child bears the big burden. He worries that everything goes well; friends will gather—let nothing be amiss. He is agitated, tormented—he may not sleep at night; in dreams too he will keep marrying, keep preparing, sit up with a start. All this can happen. But the father is making the same arrangements, and yet for him there is no question of result. What will happen in the evening does not concern him. It is play; there is no question of the fruit.
Krishna says, the other point, Arjuna, is simple: drop concern for the fruit and stay engaged in action.
The moment you drop concern for the fruit, the doer collapses—because without fruit the doer has no relish in surviving. I do not avoid action; I avoid the craving for what action will bring—for getting it, accumulating it. My greed is for the fruit.
If someone tells you that you can obtain the result without doing the action, you will not agree to act. You will say, perfect—that’s what we always wanted. We were acting only because without action the fruit could not be had. If it can be had without action, only a madman will agree to act. We are ready right now.
Your eagerness is not in action; action is compulsion. Your eagerness is in the result. The result is your desire; action is your necessity. You act because without it there is no fruit. If fruit were available without action, you would drop action immediately.
Where does the doer’s relish lie—in action or in the fruit? It lies in the fruit. It seems tied to action, but in reality it is tied to the result. The doer is arrowed toward the result; his arrow always points to the fruit. Toward action he moves out of compulsion.
Therefore anyone who can get the fruit without action will certainly try to obtain it so. The student who can pass without study will stop studying. If it can be done by an easier act—say, flashing a knife at the teacher—he will take the easy act. If it can be achieved by cheating, he will cheat. He will drop the yearlong hassle and settle it in a few days. If it can be done by bribery, he will do it by bribery.
No one’s relish is in action. Mind you, there would be no bribery and no dishonesty in the world if people delighted in action. The relish is in the fruit; so however the fruit can be had, man will take it. And if it can be had with less action, all the better. If it can be had by flattery, better still.
Going to the temple people flatter God, offer praise, pledge bribes: “We will offer a coconut worth five annas; just have the boy pass his exam!” A firm promise: “We will surely give that five-anna coconut.”
Now, to the One who already has everything, you promise a coconut worth five annas! If he agrees, he is a fool. If God can be swayed by your five-anna coconut, he is an utter fool! But the fool is you. What have you gone to give? What bribe are you proposing?
Therefore in a country like India bribery could grow so much, because deep down we are an old bribing people. We have always tried to bribe even God—if God can be brought around with a five-anna coconut, will the deputy collector not be? Is a deputy collector greater than God? Is some minister greater than God? Ah, when we can bring even God to heel with a coconut, a minister is a poor fellow—we’ll fix him easily. And when the minister sees you don’t spare even God his coconut, why should he spare you?
And if someday a difficulty arises even before God, we will say to him: “You have been taking for thousands of years; we started only recently—these last twenty years or so. We don’t even have that much experience. And you sit on the throne forever; you’re in no hurry. Our thrones have no guarantee. So we take what we can, as quickly as we can.”
This is our mind—it is always eager for fruit. So if anything can be spared in action and the fruit still obtained, we’ll accept it. Therefore Krishna says: nishkama karma-yoga does not worry about your renouncing action; it concerns your renouncing the fruit. Drop your concern for the fruit.
And concern for the fruit can be dropped in two ways. One way is to accept that there is God; whatever His will. The fatalist I spoke of—who believes in destiny—will say: God has to give the fruit; if He wants to, He will; if not, He won’t. One who lives deeply with the sense of destiny can let go. He says: The fruit is not in our hands; God knows. We ourselves are not in our own hands—how can the fruit be in our hands?
Or, fruit is dropped in a second way: by one who holds, “I am not at all.” I am but a heap of dust—what fruit can come from me? What can I produce? I am nothing; nothing will come out of me. This is Buddha’s path: he says nothing can come, therefore the fruit is let go. If I am not, who will take the fruit? So the fruit is dropped.
A third way too exists—Krishna’s or Mahavira’s: one turns back within and discovers that which needs no fruit, that to which everything is already given. When that is found, no demand remains; then too the fruit falls away. When the fruit falls, the doer is lost. But in nishkama karma action remains, whereas in karma-sannyas action too drops—that is the only difference.
Krishna says to Arjuna that nishkama karma is simple. Seeing Arjuna he repeats: I will say it again—this need not be simple for you. To Arjuna he says: for you, Arjuna, it is simple. For Arjuna it is easier to drop the fruit; difficult to drop action.
Keep two or three things in mind. By about seven months in the mother’s womb, the child is roughly twenty-five percent formed—twenty-five percent. The remaining seventy-five percent will be formed over the next seventy years. By seven years the child is seventy-five percent formed, in which no further differences will arise. By the time we stand up to live life, a pattern, a framework within us is almost settled.
Arjuna stands today on the battlefield not like a clean slate. If he were a clean slate, Krishna would have said: here are two paths; write whichever you like—both are simple, because your slate is blank. Write anything; whatever you write will work. But Arjuna is not a blank slate; much has already been inscribed. There is almost no space left to write something else; he stands full. His being a kshatriya is already decided, complete. To make him a brahmin now would be great trouble.
To make him a brahmin would mean starting the ABC all over again. If Arjuna could be taken back into his mother’s womb, then the matter could be reconsidered; otherwise not. Or, one would have to give him a complete brainwash. In Krishna’s time there was no such method; now there is. His skull would have to be wiped clean with electric shocks. Though it is not necessary that after wiping it clean he would become a better man; not necessary. The great fear is he may become lame for life. If at the age of thirty we reset a man’s brain, his age will be thirty and he will behave like a newborn. It is a very troublesome matter.
So Arjuna stands with a definite personality. Therefore when Krishna says to him: Arjuna, you who have lived and grown in action, for whom action is nature, who has never known, thought, or done anything without action—whose entire dignity of personality sits on the peak of his action, whose whole glory, brilliance, success is his skill in action—to this man Krishna says: for you it is simple to drop the fruit.
And remember: for a kshatriya it is easy to drop the fruit, difficult to drop action. For a kshatriya, fruit can be abandoned; action is hard to abandon. For a brahmin it is easy to abandon action, difficult to abandon the fruit. These are structures of personality.
A brahmin is anyway not in action. He stands outside the mesh of action. Society had fixed the fruit for him; he was content with the fruit. He had always left action. Though with a little action he could have gotten more fruit, no—he was content with little fruit, but would not get into the hassle of action. He stood having left action.
If Mahavira or Buddha were to act, could they not produce? They could. But Mahavira or Buddha take the alms bowl and beg two loaves of bread—content with that. The brahmin of this land has always lived by leaving action—content with little fruit. Abandoning action is not difficult for him.
A kshatriya can utterly drop the fruit, but not action. For a kshatriya the question is not win or lose; not even whether victory will come or defeat. For a kshatriya the question is: did I fight or not? The final measure for a kshatriya is whether he fought or not. He must not run away from the fight. If a kshatriya dies fighting, he will die more at peace than if he had fled. He did not run from action; he did not withdraw from action. He fought. What could be done was done; what could happen happened. The fruit is not a big question for him.
And if a kshatriya keeps thinking of the fruit, he cannot be a kshatriya—because in the moment of battle the fruit must be forgotten. Shopkeeping is one thing, battle another. In a shop you can sit and calmly calculate profit and loss—because action is not yet taking your life; the customer is not gripping your throat; he is sitting in front of you; you can think: if not today, tomorrow we’ll make the deal. For a kshatriya the action is so intense that if he goes off to think of the fruit and misses a beat, his head will be cut off. He must be in the action itself.
Hence in Japan, where perhaps the only living class of kshatriyas in today’s world remains—the samurai. On the whole earth a unique class, just as Arjuna would have been. I call Arjuna a samurai! Once we too produced samurai; now they are not. In Japan there is a small class—the samurai. Fighting is their life, their joy, their art.
The formula of samurai combat is this: when you wield the sword, let only the sword remain—let there be no “you.” Let only the sword move. Drop yourself. Be the sword. And do not even think what will happen a moment later, because if you think of the next moment, the sword in front of you will cut your neck. See only what is happening now. If awareness moves even a hair’s breadth to the next moment, you will miss.
So if two samurai fall into combat, it becomes very difficult—the battle cannot be decisive. Great difficulty, because both live in the present instant. Whoever thinks ahead loses.
So for a kshatriya it is simple to drop concern for the fruit. For a vaishya it is not simple to drop concern for the fruit. A vaishya can say: we can drop action; fruit—fruit is hard to drop. A kshatriya can say: we can drop fruit; but action—action is hard to drop. Training and conditioning.
So Krishna tells Arjuna: for you it is natural, simple—drop the craving for fruit and enter the war. Fulfill the action and leave the rest to the Lord. For you the first thing, “I will leave action and go away,” is not easy.
Even if Arjuna were to leave action and go away—suppose for a moment that the Gita ended here and Arjuna retired to the forest—what would he do? Spread a mat and meditate under some bush? Even if he tried to meditate, a lion walking in the nearby thicket would catch his eye—he would draw his bow. Birds chirping on a tree would bring back childhood memories: I was a marksman; I could see only the eye; my companions saw the whole bird. Guru Drona had said: you alone are the archer. This would return. That is his training. He would not be long in meditation; very soon he would be out hunting. Man is as he is.
Krishna knows him well. He looks deep into Arjuna’s mind to see what kind of man he is. In the forest he will find some way to fight; he will get into some trouble or other. He cannot live without fighting. Without fighting the sword will rust; without fighting the kshatriya too rusts. The edge of a kshatriya is in his fighting.
I have heard of a samurai who fought with the same sword for thirty years—the same sword. When an emperor of Japan summoned him and looked at his sword, he was astonished: as if it had been sharpened only yesterday. The emperor asked: have you just had it sharpened? He replied: a samurai does not need to have his sword sharpened; by fighting, the edge is made anew every day. The day a samurai has to get his sword sharpened, that day he is finished, defeated—because if the sword has rusted, in that much time the samurai too has rusted.
Arjuna is the sword’s shine; let no rust gather on him. Rust will drown him. He will lose the battle, lose his kshatriyahood—and he cannot become a brahmin. He will have to wait for the next birth. And even then there is fear; he is a kshatriya—there is every fear he will be a kshatriya again.
Therefore Krishna says to him: seeing you, I say—this is your own dharma, your ownness, your individuality. You are made for this. This is your destiny, your fate: fight; enter action. Let the fruit go. When the fruit is removed, the doer will be removed; action will remain. And when action alone remains, nishkama karma is fulfilled.
Now we will do kirtan for five minutes. No one should get up. For five minutes, receive what the sannyasins are giving—accept their prasad. No one should get up. Do not be in such a hurry for five minutes. And join in. At least you can clap! Join in the bliss.
Osho's Commentary
Ordinarily we do not even know that, other than the body, there is any being of ours at all. Who will bring into control? Who will be brought under control? We live taking ourselves to be the body itself. And so long as a person lives identified with the body, the body cannot be mastered—because we have no news of the one who is to master.
Something more than the body is within us, yet we never investigate it. For the needs of outer life, to take oneself as body is enough to get by. But for the needs of the deeper life—for the search for Paramatma, for the immortal, for bliss—the body’s boat alone will not do. The boat of the body is sufficient for the world. But one who has not found the boat of the Atman will not be able to enter the ocean of the Lord.
And the moment it begins to dawn, even a little, that I am other than the body, then there is nothing to be done to bring the body into command—the body immediately begins to fall in line. The very experience that I am separate from the body, distinct and above it, transcendental, that I override the body—this is news of the master’s arrival. As when a teacher enters a classroom, the clamor subsides. As when the master arrives among the servants, the servants pull themselves together and become disciplined. If even the remembrance arises within the body that I am other, the body at once stands in discipline.
The one whose body is in command!
Whose? Only his body is in command who has begun to experience his own bodilessness.
But ordinarily people set out to bring the body into command without seeking the bodiless. One who tries to command the body without the search for the Atman will split the body into two and set the body fighting the body. The body will never be mastered that way. The body can be set against the body—but by making the body fight the body, no mastery happens.
Understand: a man’s mind is full of craving, of lust. Wherever the eye goes, objects of lust appear. He plucks out his eyes with his own hand. He is making the body fight the body. The hand too is body, the eye too is body.
By pitting body against body, no one can master the body. By pitting mind against mind, no one can master the mind. A thing comes into command only when the experience of something beyond it begins. Otherwise, it never comes into command.
Always, that which is beyond proves to be the master. Discover within yourself that which is superior to the body—and the body will fall into command. Before the superior, the inferior bows of itself; there is no need to force it. And there is no joy in forcing. And that which has been forced to bow will take revenge—if not today, tomorrow. Only that which bows naturally—falls at the feet of the superior upon its arrival—can truly be in command.
By fighting the body, by suppressing the body, by severe austerities, by whipping the body, laying it upon thorns, seating it in the sun, laying it upon snow—however much you torment and trouble the body—by this the body never comes into command. Tormenting the body and troubling it also happens by the body. By this, the body never comes into command. Yes, it can become feeble, poor, weak. And from weakness the deception arises that it is in command.
If we do not give a man food, if we give so little food, so insufficient that the body’s needs cannot be met from it, then he will not produce semen. Semen is always produced by surplus energy. Then he may be deluded that he has gained control over his sexual desire. He is deceived. If you make a person’s body poor, mean, strip it of its power—by fasting, by tormenting, by troubling, by not giving the body its full needs—then on account of weakness the body will be unable to rise toward lust. But do not fall into this deception.
Recently at the University of California they were conducting an experiment on some students. Thirty students were kept hungry for thirty days. After just ten days those students had no interest left in sex. They were not sannyasins; nor were they seekers; nor yogis. But after ten days, if nude pictures lay beside them, they would not even pick them up. After fifteen days, if someone tried to talk sex with them, they became completely insipid. The color left their faces, the freshness left their faces, the strength left their bodies. When thirty days were complete, they were asked, and all thirty said, we cannot even remember that such a thing as sexual desire ever arose in our minds.
Everything dried up. Was the body mastered? Give them food for two days—everything becomes green again. It all returns. Again those nude pictures look beautiful. Again there is relish in watching nude films. Again the same talk, the same joking, the same obscenity—everything is back. What happened!
If these youths were kept on scant food for life, sexual desire would never raise its head again. But that would not be victory over the body; it would be the body’s weakness.
Victory over the body is only then, when the body is fully strong; the body produces all its juices; the body’s powers are in full youth; within the body everything is green and fresh—and still, still it is in command. Only then know that the body is mastered. But this will happen only when the Atman is strong.
There are two paths to bring the body into command. One—false, deceptive. It appears as if it has come into command; it never does. That path is: weaken the body. The second path—real, authentic—the only one by which the body truly comes into command—is: strengthen the soul, the Atman.
By weakening the body, it seems in command; by strengthening the Atman, it comes into command. Weakening the body does not strengthen the Atman. The Atman remains where it was; only the body becomes weak. By the strengthening of the Atman, there is no need to weaken the body; the Atman rises beyond and, strong, becomes the master over the body.
And remember, strength in itself is victory. Therefore, for the weak there is no path.
Yet in the name of mastering the body, astonishing events have happened all over the world. It is easy to weaken the body; it is difficult to strengthen the Atman. Dying of hunger is not too difficult. Nor is tormenting the body too difficult. For some people it is very easy. Those who have the tendency to torment anyone, those whose minds have the tendency to torment the other—there is law as an obstacle in tormenting others—police, courts. Torment the other, and you get into trouble. If you want to torment safely, then torment yourself. No police can stop you, no law. On the contrary, people will take out processions and pageants in your honor: you are a tapasvi!
Therefore those who are wicked, violent, whose minds harbor deep violence, finding it difficult to express violence upon others, begin violence upon themselves. And people mistake self-violence for tapascharya. Tapascharya is not self-violence.
And remember, one who will be violent upon himself can never be nonviolent toward others. One who could not be nonviolent toward himself cannot be nonviolent toward anyone on this earth. The whole journey of life begins with oneself.
So I would say to you—and those who know Krishna even a little will naturally understand it well—that by Krishna’s meaning, the one who conquers the body cannot be some weakling, some body-tormenter, a masochist, a pain-worshiper, a self-torturing, self-violent person. Impossible. Krishna is among those who love the body greatly.
Remember, only he is afraid of the body whose soul is weak. Because if the body becomes strong, the weak soul will get into trouble. The chariot is very weak, the horses very strong—falling into a ditch is certain! One will be frightened. But if the chariot is strong, if the charioteer is strong, skillful in holding the reins in hand—then strong horses are a delight. Then there is no need to weaken the horses.
Krishna is not in favor of weakening the horses. Krishna is in favor of strengthening the soul. How will this soul become strong?
Krishna says: whose antahkaran is pure!
To the extent the antahkaran is impure, the Atman will be weak. The weakness of the soul always arises from impurity. The strength of the soul arises from purity. The more purified, the more sacred the consciousness becomes, the stronger it grows. In the realm of the Atman, purity is strength and impurity is weakness.
Therefore whenever you do anything impure, immediately you will find the soul has become weak. Just think of stealing—doing is far away—just think: let me lift a neighbor’s thing. Suddenly inside you will find that something has become weak, something has fallen downward. Just think that I might steal—and within, something becomes weak. Think that I might give to someone—and within, something becomes strong. Think of begging—and within, weakness arrives. Think of giving—and within, someone stands up with head held high.
Where there is impurity, there is weakness. Where there is purity, there is strength. And take weakness and strength as the measure of impurity and purity. When the mind begins to become weak within, understand that some impurity is certainly happening nearby. And when the life-energy feels strong within, understand that you have surely set out on a journey of purity. These two are bound together.
Therefore Krishna says: whose antahkaran is pure! Whose antahkaran is pure...
It is necessary to understand correctly the purity and impurity of the antahkaran.
When does the antahkaran become impure? Whenever—whenever—we depend upon another for any pleasure. Whenever, for any pleasure, we depend upon an other, at that very moment the antahkaran becomes impure. Dependence on the other is impurity. And dependencies upon the other—all of them—are, in a very deep sense, sins. But we have socialized some sins. Hence the antahkaran does not take note.
If a man thinks, today I will go to a prostitute’s house, the mind feels weak: I am committing sin. But if he thinks, I will go to my wife, the mind does not feel weak. Going to the wife, the mind does not feel weak because we have socialized the relation of wife and husband. Going to a prostitute feels weakening because that sin is not socialized; it is individual. The whole society is not your partner in it; you are going alone.
But one who understands deeply should understand: the moment I go to anyone at all for my own pleasure—be it wife, be it husband, be it friend, be it prostitute—the moment I stand at another’s door with a begging bowl for pleasure, the soul becomes impure. You may not see it—long habit creates blindness. Repeating the same thing over and over, doing it, a strong mechanical arrangement is formed.
A thief does not keep experiencing every day that the soul is falling into sin. The habitual thief slowly goes so deep into theft that the voice of the antahkaran is no longer heard. Then if any day he does not go to steal, it feels as if some mistake is being made.
But the soul keeps giving a voice. Therefore let me tell you something else: whenever you are doing something for the first time in life, ask very attentively inside—at that moment the voice is very clear. The more you do a thing, the fainter the voice becomes. Habits become strong. Impurity begins to appear as purity. Filth begins to appear as fragrance.
Habit is a second nature. Its layer grows thick; then the inner voice stops coming. Then it no longer occurs to you that there is any inner voice. We have shut it down, we have rejected it so many times. Even now the soul speaks, but each day more faintly. Either the voice becomes faint—or we become so deaf through habit that the voice is not heard.
Therefore whenever you are doing anything for the first time, before doing it, look within and see: do you become weak or strong? That by which strength arises within—understand that it is on the side of the soul. That by which weakness arises—understand that it is on the opposing side.
All pleasures dependent on others leave you debilitated. In truth, to stand at another’s door is to be a beggar. That beggary can be very subtle. Thus it happens that a man like Alexander, brave, unafraid of the sword, unafraid of death in battle—even such a lion-hearted man comes home and is afraid of his wife. What is this? Why fear the wife? He has never asked from anyone in the world, but coming to the wife he becomes weak.
Often it will be that those who appear very courageous outside the house appear very weak within the house. And women know their secret—that in front of them they are beggars in some deep sense. For some pleasure they are dependent upon them. That dependence on pleasure makes them weak.
Hence, however much bravery the husband displays outside—he may become a champion in some war—he comes home and before the wife becomes utterly henpecked. Beggary has begun there. Slavery has begun there. He has to ask there. He has to be dependent upon someone there. Trouble begins.
I say this not only of the husband, but of everyone. Wherever we are dependent upon someone to ask for anything, there the mind begins to become poor.
Krishna says: whose antahkaran is pure.
So, one—who is not dependent upon anyone for his pleasures. Second, by what door do impurities enter the mind, the antahkaran?
The other day I told you: through kamana, ambition, vasana do impurities enter. A mind possessed by vasana, passionate, filled with desire—becomes weak, becomes impure, becomes miserable, and sinks into darkness. The irony is: even if desire is fulfilled, still no joy is obtained! Even if desire is fulfilled, joy is not obtained; if desire is not fulfilled, misery is obtained for sure.
I remember a Greek tale. I have heard that in Greece there was an emperor, Midas. It is said he conquered the entire earth. He had beautiful golden palaces. There were wondrous gardens. There were such marvelous gardens that one day news reached Midas that the god of heaven, Dionysus, was coming to see his garden. There were magnificent fountains in his garden, and one fountain was his very own beloved. He thought, of course we will show Dionysus that fountain. Then the thought arose: Dionysus might be eager to drink the water of the fountain—so crystalline clear! He devised a trick. He thought: if Dionysus becomes pleased, I will ask for a boon. He had wine poured into the fountain.
And when Dionysus came, the fountain was indeed so fragrant and so crystal-clear that even that god found the fountains of heaven insipid. He said, I will certainly drink the water of your fountain. He drank; drowning in wine, he became unconscious. In that unconsciousness Midas asked for his boon—that whatever I touch may become gold. And from that day on, whatever Midas touched turned to gold.
But trouble began. He had thought: if ever I receive this boon, that whatever I touch becomes gold, no one will be happier than I. But no one on earth ever became more miserable than Midas.
He touched his wife—she became gold. He touched his daughter—she became gold. He touched food—it became gold. He touched water—it became gold. One day, two days—hungry and thirsty, he began to shriek and cry. He went nearly mad. People began to run seeing him, lest he touch them. Even his household locked their rooms and hid, lest he touch them. Ministers took leave. Generals said, forgive us! First free yourself of this boon, then we can come. The gatekeepers used to protect him from people; now the gatekeepers stood with their guns reversed and protected people from him.
Midas fell into great distress. He screams, he weeps—but no trace of Dionysus. It is said he died; and when he died, the words that came from his mouth were these—even as he was dying, he was saying: Before gold kills me, as it kills all men, dear Dionysus, give me back my ten fingertips, with which I may touch the world, yet the world remain untouched. And with this he died.
If desire is not fulfilled, it gives misery; if it is fulfilled, it gives an even more terrible misery. And misery is filth. The whole life-energy becomes filled with filth. Misery is darkness, misery is smoke. Where there is no misery in the life-energy, there the flame of life burns bright, free of smoke: only flame, empty of smoke.
So Krishna says: whose antahkaran is pure…
One who has sought through the door of vasana—his antahkaran will not be pure. It will rot. Vasana rots. There is no other element on earth that rots like vasana, no other chemical. In as many ways as vasana rots, no chemical rots. The person goes on rotting.
The third thing Krishna says: one who has mastered the body; whose antahkaran is pure; and who has known himself one with the Lord!
Only when the two conditions are fulfilled can the third be fulfilled. If there is victory over the body, then only can the antahkaran become pure. Otherwise the body will keep dragging you along roads by which the soul remains impure. Let the antahkaran be pure, the Atman be sacred—then, in that very moment of purity, oneness with the Vast can be attained. Impurity is the wall. In purity, all walls fall. Union happens with the open sky. It is the impure wall of our own vasanas—the bricks of our own impurity—that have shut us tightly within ourselves. When the wall falls, one knows: I and the Lord are one.
Understand it thus too: one who knows “I and the body are one” will never be able to know “I and Paramatma are one.” One who knows “I and the body are different” will be able to know “I and Paramatma are one.” These are two sides of the same coin. He who has joined himself to the body will find himself cut off from Paramatma. He who has cut himself off from the body will find himself joined with Paramatma. One whose gaze is attached to the body will have his back toward the Divine. One whose gaze moves away from the body—his eyes will fall upon the Divine. Therefore freedom from the body, rising beyond the body, is essential.
Pure antahkaran—the wall of the filth of vasanas must not stand in between—only then oneness: union between the Lord and oneself, as when a clay pot breaks and the water inside becomes one with the water of the ocean. The clay pot keeps the ocean’s water and the pot’s water separate. Let the clay break, let it be removed from between!
But if the water in the pot believes “I am the clay pot,” then it will never break it. Then I myself will break! If the water within thinks that this clay layer—the pot around me—is what I am, then union with the ocean will never happen. But if the water realizes “I am water, not the pot,” then the pot can be broken. And when the pot breaks, the water inside and the water outside become one. That inner Atman and the outer Atman become one.
And when this happens, Krishna says: such a person may do anything—anything, unconditionally; there is no condition upon such a person—whatever he does, yet karma does not stick to him. No coating of actions adheres to him.
Many people stumble at this statement. A man asks, do anything! Steal, be dishonest! Then he has not understood. If he does theft and dishonesty, he will not reach up to here. If he reaches here, nothing remains that could be stolen. The one to steal from is not there; the one to steal is not there. The mind will ask: Krishna says such a man may do anything! Then is there no moral binding upon such a one?
Absolutely none. Because upon whom moral bindings still rest, within him there must still be immorality. For immorality, moral bindings are necessary. And one who is still full of immorality has not yet become free of filth, his antahkaran is not pure. He will not come this far. This statement—that such a person may do anything—keep the three prior points in remembrance: he who has gained mastery over the body; whose antahkaran has become pure; who has known his oneness with Paramatma!
After these three conditions, unconditioned—Krishna says—such a person may do anything. Such a person will not in fact do “anything”—that is precisely why it can be said that such a person may do anything. He is not speaking to you; not even to Arjuna in his present state. After crossing these three steps, such a person may do anything. Upon such a person there is no rule, no morality, no religion. Because he has arrived at the place where immorality is no more. And when immorality is absent, what meaning has morality? Irreligion is no more; where irreligion is absent, religion is useless. One who has known himself one with the Lord, whose “I-ness” and ego are no more—there is no possibility left that anything wrong could happen through him.
From us, wrong happens. At most we can restrain the wrong. From such a person, wrong does not happen at all. Whatever such a person does is right. We are to do that which is right; we are not to do that which is wrong. But the person of whom Krishna speaks—whatever he does is right; what he does not do is wrong. Such a person is a measure. Such a person is a summit, a supreme value. The statement for such a person is not for everyone.
Otherwise the thief too becomes pleased reading this line of the Gita—that it is fine, do anything! The dishonest too can be pleased, thinking: we cannot manage the first three, at least do the fourth! Do as much as is possible—what harm is there!
No—there is an order. Do not read the fourth without the three. Delete the fourth from the Gita for now. When the three are complete, then delete the three and read the fourth. Only he can be unconditioned who has fulfilled the three essential conditions.
When the Gita was first translated in the West—into German, French, English—there was difficulty. They were astonished. For those who read and loved the Bible it was clear that this book seems a little immoral. It seems unethical. It contains such a thing as “do anything!” Then what of the Ten Commandments—do not steal, do not be dishonest, do not commit adultery! What will become of them? Commit adultery too?
They do not know that to those to whom Jesus spoke, this fourth thing could not be said. In that society, the fourth thing could not be said. Among the people he spoke to, the level of life and the limits of understanding were what they were. Remember, Jesus spoke among an extremely undeveloped society; otherwise the cross would not have happened. He spoke among the uncomprehending.
Krishna is not speaking to the uncomprehending. Krishna is speaking to a very potential soul, in whom great development is possible. He is speaking to an intelligent man who knows much about religion. He has no experience yet; but he knows, he has heard, he has read, he is well-educated, well-cultured. Few men like Arjuna are so cultured. In that age, he was the very peak of culture. One whom Krishna could call friend—he stands at the peak of culture. Krishna is speaking to him. He knows: a mistake will not happen. Therefore after three conditions he also states the fourth, the ultimate, the last: then the person may do anything—no rule, no limit upon him.
Even Rama would not have the courage to say this. Rama too cannot say higher things than Mohammed and Jesus. He is Maryada Purushottam. He speaks of maryada, of limits. He too would be startled by “do anything!” It would create difficulty even for Rama. Rama is the pinnacle of moral reflection.
But religion begins where morality ends. Religion is the further journey, where all rules fall away. For moral rules—granted that they are very beautiful—but they are rules. Granted that the limits are wondrous—but they are still limits. Granted that the walls are golden—but they are still walls. Granted that the bonds are golden moral chains—not iron chains—studded with jewels, but still chains.
Krishna speaks of ultimate freedom. He says: fulfill these three conditions—then do whatsoever you will. If you even run away from here, I will not say stop. If you fight, I will not say do not fight. But these three conditions must be fulfilled.
In this sense, on this earth the most supreme statements could be given. Nowhere on earth had conditions ever arisen to give such supreme statements. Such a flight, such height—beyond the clouds—where all transgression is transcended—there alone is supreme freedom and supreme liberation. Such a person is bound by no action whatsoever.