The knower of truth, unified, thinks, "I do nothing at all."
Seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, eating, going, sleeping, breathing. ॥ 8॥
Speaking, releasing, grasping, even opening and closing the eyes.
Holding, "The senses move among the sense-objects." ॥ 9॥
Geeta Darshan #5
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
नैव किंचित्करोमीति युक्तो मन्येत तत्त्ववित्।
पश्यञ्श्रृण्वस्पृशञ्जिघ्रन्नश्नन्गच्छन्स्वपञ्श्वसन्।। 8।।
प्रलपन्विसृजन्गृह्णन्नुन्मिषन्निमिषन्नपि।
इन्द्रियाणीन्द्रियार्थेषु वर्तन्त इति धारयन्।। 9।।
पश्यञ्श्रृण्वस्पृशञ्जिघ्रन्नश्नन्गच्छन्स्वपञ्श्वसन्।। 8।।
प्रलपन्विसृजन्गृह्णन्नुन्मिषन्निमिषन्नपि।
इन्द्रियाणीन्द्रियार्थेषु वर्तन्त इति धारयन्।। 9।।
Transliteration:
naiva kiṃcitkaromīti yukto manyeta tattvavit|
paśyañśrṛṇvaspṛśañjighrannaśnangacchansvapañśvasan|| 8||
pralapanvisṛjangṛhṇannunmiṣannimiṣannapi|
indriyāṇīndriyārtheṣu vartanta iti dhārayan|| 9||
naiva kiṃcitkaromīti yukto manyeta tattvavit|
paśyañśrṛṇvaspṛśañjighrannaśnangacchansvapañśvasan|| 8||
pralapanvisṛjangṛhṇannunmiṣannimiṣannapi|
indriyāṇīndriyārtheṣu vartanta iti dhārayan|| 9||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, yesterday you spoke in detail about introvert and extrovert personalities. I want one more thing clarified in this regard: What are the fundamental bases and causes of someone being introvert or extrovert? And are extroversion or introversion unchangeable? Are Krishna, by nature, introvert or extrovert?
Whoever we are, wherever we are, however we are, is the cumulative sum of our journeys through infinite births. It is the sum total of endless impressions. If you are extrovert or introvert, it is the result of what you have done—through life’s endless cycles. All that we have done has gathered into what we are today.
For example: yesterday you got angry eight times in the day—eight times inflamed, irritated, eyes bloodshot. I too was there yesterday; I did not get angry eight times. We both slept in the same room, perhaps on similar beds. Yet our dreams will be different. The room is one, the beds may be similar; still the dreams will differ. Because anger happened eight times in your day, it will connect into your dreams; because it did not happen eight times in my day, it will not occur in my dreams.
Then in the morning we both get up. I find my tea is a little late; you too find your tea is a little late. Our reactions will differ. The one who was angry eight times yesterday is already primed today; the likelihood is strong he will flare up at once. The one who was not angry eight times yesterday has a chance, when an occasion for anger comes, to let it pass, to be spared.
Each person is the sum of whatever they have done in this life—and in past lives too.
To be extrovert means a person who has consistently cultivated outwardness—consistently. At times he chased wealth, at times fame, at times lust, circling the same things. Little by little, the inner orientation weakens; the doorway to inwardness, being continually closed, rusts. Then it cannot be opened all at once. If you keep a door in the house shut for two, four, ten years, suddenly opening it will be hard; it will creak and groan, give trouble; it may have to be broken. But a door you open every day—though twenty years old—opens easily. What we do continually becomes easy.
We all live extrovert lives. All education, society, family, the world prepare us to be extrovert. We train every child: we teach competition, ambition; we never teach meditation. We never teach peace or silence; we only teach words. We teach every child language; we teach no child silence. And the more skillful someone becomes with words, the more likely it is he will be successful. One who remains silent may lose out, may be “unsuccessful” in life.
All through life we live outward. All training, all success, all the arrangements of the world are extrovert—and we keep running there. Children arrive and we draft them into our mad race. Send a child to a madhouse; very likely the child will become mad—living among mad people, they will impart their ways. And if the child does not learn those ways, the parents get angry: “We are teaching you our ways and you do not learn!” The parents never reflect where their own ways have brought them—nowhere. Yet they insist on imposing their ways on their children.
Every generation renders its children extrovert. And children also come from previous births already extrovert. Remember, the child born in your home was an old man not long ago. No one is born on this earth utterly “a child.” Old ones are born, carrying the whole journey of extroversion. Then again pressure from all sides pushes them outward. This goes on for births upon births.
In such a long journey, if ninety-nine out of a hundred become extrovert, it is no surprise. The real surprise is that some people still remain introvert despite our entire system—despite us!—breaking through all our arrangements.
Extroversion is useful in worldly life; hence we learn it: it is utilitarian. The introvert fails in worldly terms. You know, we call an introvert a “buddhu,” a fool. Have you ever noticed that the word buddhu comes from Buddha! In fact, when for the first time Buddha sat under a tree having left home and kingdom, the “wise” in the village said, “The fool has gone out!”—Buddha, the buddhu. For in our eyes and arithmetic, their actions are foolish. Such beautiful women as few men ever get—he left them! Fool. A kingdom—what we seek all our lives and never attain—was his by birth. The moment to sit upon the throne came, and he ran away! Fool.
No one may have said it to Buddha’s face, but when another person too sat under a bush with folded hands like Buddha, they said, “He is a buddhu as well; he is becoming like Buddha!”
In the eyes of the world, only extroversion seems useful; introversion has no value. None. But in the depths of life, only introversion has value.
Those whom we call fools consider us the fools. If you ask Buddha, he will consider us ignorant. He will say you are all senseless—because what you are doing leads nowhere; that which you value has no value. If you lose, you suffer; even if you win, you get into trouble.
Life equalizes in surprising ways. Those who fail in life suffer—wounds to the ego. Those who succeed suffer grievously at death. The scales balance. At death, the successful man suffers deeply: “Everything done—gone!”
I have heard: a great businessman discovered over time that his accountant was embezzling. When proof was in hand, he called him in and asked, “What is your salary?” “Fifteen hundred a month,” said the accountant. The owner said, “I am very pleased with you. From today your salary is two thousand. No, no—two thousand is too little. Seeing your work, it should be twenty-five hundred.” The accountant stood stunned. “What are you saying! A raise of a thousand at once!” His heart pounded. The owner said, “You are so happy with that? I thought of three thousand.” The accountant grabbed his hands, “Thank you!” The owner added, “One last thing: from today, you’re fired.” “What are you saying? If you had to fire me, why raise the salary to three thousand?” The owner said, “Now you’ll be more tormented: you’re not losing a fifteen-hundred-rupee job—you’re losing a three-thousand-rupee job. Now go.”
At death the successful man feels: the three-thousand job is gone. With such difficulty he became president—and that too is gone! The peon doesn’t suffer so much at death. A peon suffers much while alive—“only a peon!” The president suffers at death: “I became president—and I die.” Three thousand salary—and fired!
Life equalizes peon and president. The peon’s pain comes in life; the president’s at death. Balance the books—there is little difference; the scales even out.
A Buddha-like man will say: What will you do having gained all this? In the end you will be stripped of everything. What is going to be snatched away anyway, we leave by our own joy. The women who will be taken, the wealth that will be taken—we leave them by our own delight. We are masters of ourselves; you are slaves. You will die writhing; we will live joyfully. Death will fail to snatch anything from us. Death will come, tire, be defeated, and be perplexed: what to take?—for we have already given away all that death takes.
On this earth, the wise have let go themselves of all that death would seize. Whoever remembers death becomes introvert; whoever is obsessed with life becomes extrovert. In life, extroversion is useful. With death in view, introversion is useful.
Hence societies that kept the remembrance of death remained introvert; societies that forgot death became increasingly extrovert.
If someone went to Buddha, he would say, “Don’t meditate yet; first go live for three months at the cremation ground.” The man would ask, “Teach me meditation directly—what has the cremation ground to do with it?” Buddha would say, “One who has not awakened to death cannot become introvert. First go and see what the fruit of life is! Then your extroversion will break. See where the successful are going! Those who attained everything in life—bound to a bier they reach the cremation ground. Go live three months at the cremation ground and see the final result of extroversion! Then you can become introvert.”
But we never speak of death. We never tell children about it. If a bier passes, the mother calls the child inside: “Come in—there’s a funeral outside!” A wise mother would take the child out and say, “Look, a funeral is passing.” But then she risks trouble, for if the child becomes too intelligent, he may ask, “If everyone has to die, what is the point of all this running around?”
Parents want to travel long distances on their children’s shoulders. The blind parents of Shravan went on pilgrimage; the rest too want to undertake their pilgrimages of wealth and fame on their children’s shoulders. All the blind want a journey. Even those old ones undertook a sacred journey; all parents want a journey through their children. So they will make them extrovert; they cannot let them be introvert. If the children turn inward, the parents’ projects are in danger.
If you keep life in mind, extroversion is useful. If you keep death in mind, introversion is useful. And remember, life will go; death is steady and abiding. The last station of life is death. One who manages the last station manages the journey beyond; one who manages the trivial in-between manages nothing—only wastes time. Thus we become extrovert.
But if an extrovert today wants to become introvert, it is very difficult. His extroversion is a journey of many births. If we tell him to turn inward, he will say it seems impossible; then one must wait till the next birth. But even next birth he will not become introvert; this life’s share of outward journey will be added, making him still more extrovert.
Therefore it is not necessary that only if the extrovert becomes introvert he can be religious. The extrovert can be religious while remaining extrovert. His spiritual practice will differ. Krishna is clarifying exactly this: the extrovert will not be able to drop action. Let him act—drop the fruits. Run in action—drop the results. Do action—forget the doer. Remain extrovert, but divert this outward journey from money to the divine, from matter to the Absolute, from position to supreme liberation. Do this much—and slowly he will reach the same place as the introvert.
The introvert’s path will be different. This shift is difficult—but sometimes it happens. It is not impossible. I said, generally the extrovert cannot be made introvert, and the introvert cannot be made extrovert. But sometimes a change happens.
Change happens for two reasons. Either someone becomes so utterly extrovert that practically nothing of introversion remains—zero—only the outside: money, houses, wealth, fame—drowned in it. In that drowning, if a very big jolt, a great shock comes and scatters everything, conversion happens in a flash. A shock so great that all the outer palaces collapse like a house of cards, all turns to ash—such a blow can send him straight back.
But a small-time extrovert will not return. One who has gone to the extreme can return. Having reached the end—having attained all that could be attained—and then if it all falls to the ground, turns to dust—then such a person, with no other option, turns back.
But if he is not fully extrovert—say, seventy-five percent—there remains twenty-five percent of journey ahead. He thinks, “No matter; we lost this midterm election—never mind. Wait another year and a half, then try again.” Even Morarji has not yet tired! The craving to try again after a year and a half is alive. Only when extroversion is complete, and a great accident hits, does a person drop all: “All right, let it go. What I did became dust.” He turns to the exact opposite.
Thus sometimes a Valmiki becomes saint in a moment after deep sin. He was wholly extrovert—he becomes introvert. A profound event occurred, a shock beyond imagining. Valmiki had no idea—he became Valmiki later; then he was the bandit Balia Bhil. His trade: robbery, murder.
He waylaid a monk. The monk said, “Kill me by all means; you have tied me to this tree. But answer one question first. For whom are you doing all this looting and killing?” He said, “For my family.” The monk said, “Leave me tied here; go ask your family whether they are willing to share in the fruits of these murders—will they be partners?” The man seemed calm and straightforward, ready to die, not running away, standing bound. Balia thought, “Let me ask—what’s the harm?” He went home and asked his wife, “I commit so many murders, so many robberies—if I must go to hell for this, who will go with me?” The wife said, “That is your business; what has it to do with us? You brought me as your wife; you feed me two chapatis—that suffices. Where you get the bread from is your affair.” He asked his father. The father said, “Why entangle me, old as I am? Your work—you know. As a son, your duty is to give me two chapatis.”
His whole mansion collapsed. All the murders stood before his eyes, all the robberies. For whom he did them are unwilling to be partners! He returned—a changed man. Who could have imagined the Ramayana would be born from this robber? He went back utterly transformed. The monk who delivered the message may have followed behind; Valmiki went far ahead.
What happened? An accident—a blow that destroyed the very foundation upon which the house stood. Such conversion.
This is what I call conversion. A Hindu becoming a Muslim is not conversion. That is sheer foolishness. A Christian becoming a Hindu is madness. These are political stunts—someone making Hindus into Christians, someone Christians into Hindus; some Arya Samajist “purifying” someone, someone making another “impure.” All nonsense.
There is only one conversion: the mind turning away from the world and toward the Divine. Only one transformation—no other. In such moments, sometimes the extrovert suddenly becomes introvert. But this happens rarely, with difficulty. Do not count on it; it is exceptional. Do not make it the rule. The rule is: use what you are to begin the religious journey. Do not wait to become introvert first.
Keep two small points in mind.
Ordinarily, people are in the middle—neither wholly introvert nor wholly extrovert—mediocre. They suffer most. Everything in their lives is lukewarm—neither so hot as to turn into steam, nor so cold as to freeze into ice—just lukewarm. From both extremes a jump is possible; from the middle, it is not. Water very cold becomes ice—no longer water. Boiling becomes steam—no longer water. Lukewarm—neither here nor there—remains water; it never reaches a hundred degrees to fly skyward as steam, nor drops below zero to freeze into ice.
Introversion is one pole; extroversion, the other. A leap can be made from either pole—but not from the middle. Hence those in the middle suffer most. Even so, very few are exactly in the middle. And one who understands he is in the middle should still see where his tilt lies. If toward extroversion—good; if toward introversion—good. Understand your destiny, your psychological type, and choose a method of practice in accord with it.
Here Krishna speaks of two: karma-sannyas and karma-tyaga. Choose either; it does not matter what you choose. The real question is: where do you reach?
Krishna’s personality?
Yes—you ask, what is Krishna’s personality? This is a bit difficult—because Krishna has no personality. That is why it is difficult.
One who has arrived has no personality. Personalities belong to those on the journey. At the destination, there are no personalities—only the Divine remains. Personality is of the way—like vehicles. I sit in a bullock cart, you in an airplane, someone in a train, someone in a motorcar—vehicles are for the journey. Reaching the destination, one alights; then you are in neither the plane nor the bullock cart. The cart is gone, the airplane is gone—the destination has come.
People like Krishna stand at the destination. They have stepped out of personality. Personality is gone. The one who has no personality—we call him avatar. Understand this: the one who has no personality is called an avatar. Only when one’s own personality is not there does the Divine manifest. While one’s personality remains, it does not.
Krishna is like a flute—no voice of his own. Whatever the Divine plays, that. The flute has no song of its own; it is hollow bamboo. Whatever the Divine plays, plays. Therefore a person like Krishna is an avatar, not a person. Personality has gone. Empty like the void, vacant—nothing of his own remains. Now whatever the Divine has him do. Thus Krishna has no personality—neither extrovert nor introvert. He has no personality at all.
Add one more point.
When Mahavira attains enlightenment, no personality remains; when Buddha attains enlightenment, no personality remains. But because Mahavira’s method of practice is particular, a personality appears to us through his method; not that he has one, but the method projects a shape. So with Buddha—his method shows a certain persona.
Krishna is unique here. He has no single method. He speaks of all methods. Therefore no one personality appears. Anyone can see him as he pleases. The Bhagavata sees him one way; the poet another. Ask Keshav—he will say something else. Ask Sur—something else. The Krishna of the Gita seems one way; of the Bhagavata, another. A thousand hues of personality seem to glimmer through him—yet he is empty. No single method.
Hence we have never called Rama a “Purnaavatar,” a complete incarnation. Rama has a specific discipline, an order of life; that order appears as his personality. He relates to our world through a particular persona. Krishna relates to us directly—no personality—naked, no garments of any kind, no code, no limit.
Therefore in this land we have called no one a complete avatar except Krishna—because the Complete shines through him. Through personality, only the partial, the selected, can manifest.
There are dangers in manifesting the Complete. The greatest danger is massive misunderstanding. With Mahavira there is less misunderstanding—his outline is clear; he teaches a method. With Buddha too—he is a method. With Rama as well—clear; Rama is predictable. Even if a page of the Ramayana were lost, we could rewrite it; the preceding and following pages would tell us what he must have done. Two and two make four—so straight.
But with Krishna nothing is fixed. If a chapter is lost, no one can rewrite it unless Krishna is born again. No one can complete it, because who can say what he will do? Will he play the flute in the middle, or fight a war, or dance with the cowherd maidens, or steal their clothes and hang them on a tree? Anything can happen. He is unpredictable.
The complete man stands beyond prediction; hence he is hard to understand. That is why there are many lovers of Krishna—and yet, in truth, those who accept him are as good as none. To accept Krishna wholly is very arduous. Those who “accept” also choose; they do not accept the whole Krishna. Some accept the child Krishna; they do not touch the youth. “Our Bala-Gopala is good,” they say—because the later Krishna appears dangerous. So they settle for the little Kanhaiya—that suffices for them. Their fear is their own. For the youth—what he does—frightens them.
How can Surdas accept the youthful Krishna? He put out his eyes at the sight of women! How can youthful Krishna and Sur meet? Where Surdas, who, seeing the eyes lead to lust, put them out—and where Krishna, who can make the eyes dance and play the flute! Sur will say the later Krishna is not reliable; our child Krishna is fine. That is Sur’s limit; he makes do with the child.
But tell Keshav to make do with the child Krishna—breaking pots of curd and the like—he will say, “There is no juice in that.” For Keshav, the youthful Krishna, dancing in the full raga-ranga of youth—the Gitagovinda—beauty, music, passion—this is his Krishna. For Keshav, if even God cannot dance fully in rapture, he is still weak—still afraid. If a man is fearful, we can understand; but if God too is fearful, what then?
These are personal choices. And Krishna is so vast that hardly anyone dares digest him whole; people pick what they can.
But I say: whenever you pick, you fragment—and a fragmented Krishna has no meaning. Only the whole Krishna has meaning. Therefore I say: there are many who “accept,” yet those who truly accept are as good as none—only one who knows the whole, unfragmented Krishna can accept; otherwise one cannot.
So Krishna has no personality of his own. All personalities are his. We therefore gave him countless names—uncountable—as many as we could, all to Krishna; for so many persons glimmered in him at once, so many faces.
Who can conceive that one who dwells in the delicate world of flute-playing will take up the discus to kill? Who can imagine that the fingers which played the flute can wield the Sudarshan Chakra, an instrument of sure killing? What kind of fingers are these? Fingers that play the flute do not take up a discus. If these fingers had a fixed personality, this would have been impossible.
We cannot even imagine Buddha or Mahavira or Jesus taking up a discus; but Krishna—difficult to conceive, but he can.
This is a person with no private personality. Therefore the wise of this land called him the complete avatar—complete because there is no personal stance, no personal vehicle, nothing of his own; the Divine can manifest as it pleases—without obstruction.
If the Divine said to Rama, “Dance a little,” Rama would say, “Wait! That I cannot do.” He would choose even in the Divine: “I can manifest this much; beyond this I cannot—there is my limit.” But tell Krishna anything—he agrees at once; not even a moment—he dances!
This is Krishna’s state: personality-free, trans-personal, beyond personality—and hence we could call him complete.
brahmaṇy-ādhāya karmāṇi saṅgaṁ tyaktvā karoti yaḥ
lipyate na sa pāpena padma-patram ivāmbhasā 10
He who performs all actions as an offering to the Divine, abandoning attachment, is not tainted by sin—just as a lotus leaf is untouched by water.
One who lives all actions surrendered to the Divine remains, like the lotus leaf in water, unsoiled by water—unsoiled by sin.
Keep two or three small points in mind. First: one who surrenders to the Divine!
We too want to surrender to the Divine; sometimes we do—but only our failures, never our successes. Only defeat—never victory. Only sorrow—never joy.
Lose, and we say “fate.” Win, and we say “I.” Fall, and we say “circumstance, time.” Succeed, and we say “I.” We dedicate our successes to the ego; our failures to God! When suffering comes, we lift our hands to God: “Why do you give sorrow?” When happiness comes, we strut: “See, I created joy!”
Therefore Krishna says: he who surrenders all.
We do surrender—but not all; we pick and choose. All! To say, “Defeat is yours, victory is yours. You alone are; I am not. The fruits are yours; if fruit does not come, barrenness is yours. Nothing is mine.” Naturally, one who can show such strength…
And remember: there is no greater power than surrender; no greater resolve. Surrender is not for the weak; it is the event of the greatest strength in this world.
One who says “All is Yours” steps out—at once—beyond the tangle. Then how can anything touch him? If action itself does not touch, how can sin touch? And remember—merit does not touch either. Readers of the Gita often err, thinking such a person gathers merit while sin does not touch. No—merit does not touch. If sin does not touch, will merit? That lotus leaf—do you think dirty water does not wet it but fragrant water does? If you pour perfume into the water, will it wet the leaf?
No. When action does not touch, neither sin nor merit touches. Nothing touches. Such a one passes through life untouched. Just like the lotus leaf: always in water; the streams of water constantly fall upon it; sometimes waves leap and strike its breast; drops sparkle upon it like pearls—but untouched; they do not wet the leaf. Let them lie on top if they must. Dedicated to the Divine; the ocean and its waves know what to do; when the wind calls the drops back, they roll off. The leaf remains untouched.
So too, one who surrenders all actions to the Divine travels untouched through life. And one whom neither sin nor merit can touch—his freshness, his virginity… Truly, only he is virgin. One whom sin and merit touch is no longer virgin.
The Christians say Jesus was born of a virgin. They have had great difficulty explaining how a virgin birth could occur. If only those who explain Jesus knew that one can remain, like a lotus leaf, outside of action even while action happens—then they would understand: even in the moment of intercourse, one can remain outside of intercourse. If, even in the sexual act, one remains not a participant—not man, not woman—the act happening outwardly, surrendered to the Divine—then surely we must say this is a son of a virgin mother.
And I feel Jesus must indeed have been born of a virgin mother—in truth, this became known to the world in Jesus’ case. Krishna too would be born of a virgin mother; Mahavira and Buddha too—because from whichever mother such a pure child is born, that mother’s virginity—untouchedness—must be there.
Virginity has a deep meaning—untouched, outside the act. When action is surrendered to God, one can pass through life as if one never came—like a gust of wind that came and went, as it came, so it went.
This verse holds equally for the selfless karmayogi and for one living in the renunciation of action. Remember only one thing: all actions surrendered to the Divine.
He alone is religious who says, “The Doer is God.” He is irreligious who says, “The doer is me.” Even if you say, “I prayed,” you are irreligious. If after worship you say, “I performed the worship,” you are irreligious. Wherever the sense of doing ties to oneself, irreligion enters; where action is left to the Divine, there is religion.
That’s all for today. We will talk again tomorrow.
Sit for five minutes—just as a lotus leaf sits in water. Let the waves of this kirtan leap around you; perhaps a few drops may remain! Sit for five minutes; don’t hurry. If one person gets up in between, others are disturbed. So enjoy the bhajan for five minutes, and then leave quietly.
For example: yesterday you got angry eight times in the day—eight times inflamed, irritated, eyes bloodshot. I too was there yesterday; I did not get angry eight times. We both slept in the same room, perhaps on similar beds. Yet our dreams will be different. The room is one, the beds may be similar; still the dreams will differ. Because anger happened eight times in your day, it will connect into your dreams; because it did not happen eight times in my day, it will not occur in my dreams.
Then in the morning we both get up. I find my tea is a little late; you too find your tea is a little late. Our reactions will differ. The one who was angry eight times yesterday is already primed today; the likelihood is strong he will flare up at once. The one who was not angry eight times yesterday has a chance, when an occasion for anger comes, to let it pass, to be spared.
Each person is the sum of whatever they have done in this life—and in past lives too.
To be extrovert means a person who has consistently cultivated outwardness—consistently. At times he chased wealth, at times fame, at times lust, circling the same things. Little by little, the inner orientation weakens; the doorway to inwardness, being continually closed, rusts. Then it cannot be opened all at once. If you keep a door in the house shut for two, four, ten years, suddenly opening it will be hard; it will creak and groan, give trouble; it may have to be broken. But a door you open every day—though twenty years old—opens easily. What we do continually becomes easy.
We all live extrovert lives. All education, society, family, the world prepare us to be extrovert. We train every child: we teach competition, ambition; we never teach meditation. We never teach peace or silence; we only teach words. We teach every child language; we teach no child silence. And the more skillful someone becomes with words, the more likely it is he will be successful. One who remains silent may lose out, may be “unsuccessful” in life.
All through life we live outward. All training, all success, all the arrangements of the world are extrovert—and we keep running there. Children arrive and we draft them into our mad race. Send a child to a madhouse; very likely the child will become mad—living among mad people, they will impart their ways. And if the child does not learn those ways, the parents get angry: “We are teaching you our ways and you do not learn!” The parents never reflect where their own ways have brought them—nowhere. Yet they insist on imposing their ways on their children.
Every generation renders its children extrovert. And children also come from previous births already extrovert. Remember, the child born in your home was an old man not long ago. No one is born on this earth utterly “a child.” Old ones are born, carrying the whole journey of extroversion. Then again pressure from all sides pushes them outward. This goes on for births upon births.
In such a long journey, if ninety-nine out of a hundred become extrovert, it is no surprise. The real surprise is that some people still remain introvert despite our entire system—despite us!—breaking through all our arrangements.
Extroversion is useful in worldly life; hence we learn it: it is utilitarian. The introvert fails in worldly terms. You know, we call an introvert a “buddhu,” a fool. Have you ever noticed that the word buddhu comes from Buddha! In fact, when for the first time Buddha sat under a tree having left home and kingdom, the “wise” in the village said, “The fool has gone out!”—Buddha, the buddhu. For in our eyes and arithmetic, their actions are foolish. Such beautiful women as few men ever get—he left them! Fool. A kingdom—what we seek all our lives and never attain—was his by birth. The moment to sit upon the throne came, and he ran away! Fool.
No one may have said it to Buddha’s face, but when another person too sat under a bush with folded hands like Buddha, they said, “He is a buddhu as well; he is becoming like Buddha!”
In the eyes of the world, only extroversion seems useful; introversion has no value. None. But in the depths of life, only introversion has value.
Those whom we call fools consider us the fools. If you ask Buddha, he will consider us ignorant. He will say you are all senseless—because what you are doing leads nowhere; that which you value has no value. If you lose, you suffer; even if you win, you get into trouble.
Life equalizes in surprising ways. Those who fail in life suffer—wounds to the ego. Those who succeed suffer grievously at death. The scales balance. At death, the successful man suffers deeply: “Everything done—gone!”
I have heard: a great businessman discovered over time that his accountant was embezzling. When proof was in hand, he called him in and asked, “What is your salary?” “Fifteen hundred a month,” said the accountant. The owner said, “I am very pleased with you. From today your salary is two thousand. No, no—two thousand is too little. Seeing your work, it should be twenty-five hundred.” The accountant stood stunned. “What are you saying! A raise of a thousand at once!” His heart pounded. The owner said, “You are so happy with that? I thought of three thousand.” The accountant grabbed his hands, “Thank you!” The owner added, “One last thing: from today, you’re fired.” “What are you saying? If you had to fire me, why raise the salary to three thousand?” The owner said, “Now you’ll be more tormented: you’re not losing a fifteen-hundred-rupee job—you’re losing a three-thousand-rupee job. Now go.”
At death the successful man feels: the three-thousand job is gone. With such difficulty he became president—and that too is gone! The peon doesn’t suffer so much at death. A peon suffers much while alive—“only a peon!” The president suffers at death: “I became president—and I die.” Three thousand salary—and fired!
Life equalizes peon and president. The peon’s pain comes in life; the president’s at death. Balance the books—there is little difference; the scales even out.
A Buddha-like man will say: What will you do having gained all this? In the end you will be stripped of everything. What is going to be snatched away anyway, we leave by our own joy. The women who will be taken, the wealth that will be taken—we leave them by our own delight. We are masters of ourselves; you are slaves. You will die writhing; we will live joyfully. Death will fail to snatch anything from us. Death will come, tire, be defeated, and be perplexed: what to take?—for we have already given away all that death takes.
On this earth, the wise have let go themselves of all that death would seize. Whoever remembers death becomes introvert; whoever is obsessed with life becomes extrovert. In life, extroversion is useful. With death in view, introversion is useful.
Hence societies that kept the remembrance of death remained introvert; societies that forgot death became increasingly extrovert.
If someone went to Buddha, he would say, “Don’t meditate yet; first go live for three months at the cremation ground.” The man would ask, “Teach me meditation directly—what has the cremation ground to do with it?” Buddha would say, “One who has not awakened to death cannot become introvert. First go and see what the fruit of life is! Then your extroversion will break. See where the successful are going! Those who attained everything in life—bound to a bier they reach the cremation ground. Go live three months at the cremation ground and see the final result of extroversion! Then you can become introvert.”
But we never speak of death. We never tell children about it. If a bier passes, the mother calls the child inside: “Come in—there’s a funeral outside!” A wise mother would take the child out and say, “Look, a funeral is passing.” But then she risks trouble, for if the child becomes too intelligent, he may ask, “If everyone has to die, what is the point of all this running around?”
Parents want to travel long distances on their children’s shoulders. The blind parents of Shravan went on pilgrimage; the rest too want to undertake their pilgrimages of wealth and fame on their children’s shoulders. All the blind want a journey. Even those old ones undertook a sacred journey; all parents want a journey through their children. So they will make them extrovert; they cannot let them be introvert. If the children turn inward, the parents’ projects are in danger.
If you keep life in mind, extroversion is useful. If you keep death in mind, introversion is useful. And remember, life will go; death is steady and abiding. The last station of life is death. One who manages the last station manages the journey beyond; one who manages the trivial in-between manages nothing—only wastes time. Thus we become extrovert.
But if an extrovert today wants to become introvert, it is very difficult. His extroversion is a journey of many births. If we tell him to turn inward, he will say it seems impossible; then one must wait till the next birth. But even next birth he will not become introvert; this life’s share of outward journey will be added, making him still more extrovert.
Therefore it is not necessary that only if the extrovert becomes introvert he can be religious. The extrovert can be religious while remaining extrovert. His spiritual practice will differ. Krishna is clarifying exactly this: the extrovert will not be able to drop action. Let him act—drop the fruits. Run in action—drop the results. Do action—forget the doer. Remain extrovert, but divert this outward journey from money to the divine, from matter to the Absolute, from position to supreme liberation. Do this much—and slowly he will reach the same place as the introvert.
The introvert’s path will be different. This shift is difficult—but sometimes it happens. It is not impossible. I said, generally the extrovert cannot be made introvert, and the introvert cannot be made extrovert. But sometimes a change happens.
Change happens for two reasons. Either someone becomes so utterly extrovert that practically nothing of introversion remains—zero—only the outside: money, houses, wealth, fame—drowned in it. In that drowning, if a very big jolt, a great shock comes and scatters everything, conversion happens in a flash. A shock so great that all the outer palaces collapse like a house of cards, all turns to ash—such a blow can send him straight back.
But a small-time extrovert will not return. One who has gone to the extreme can return. Having reached the end—having attained all that could be attained—and then if it all falls to the ground, turns to dust—then such a person, with no other option, turns back.
But if he is not fully extrovert—say, seventy-five percent—there remains twenty-five percent of journey ahead. He thinks, “No matter; we lost this midterm election—never mind. Wait another year and a half, then try again.” Even Morarji has not yet tired! The craving to try again after a year and a half is alive. Only when extroversion is complete, and a great accident hits, does a person drop all: “All right, let it go. What I did became dust.” He turns to the exact opposite.
Thus sometimes a Valmiki becomes saint in a moment after deep sin. He was wholly extrovert—he becomes introvert. A profound event occurred, a shock beyond imagining. Valmiki had no idea—he became Valmiki later; then he was the bandit Balia Bhil. His trade: robbery, murder.
He waylaid a monk. The monk said, “Kill me by all means; you have tied me to this tree. But answer one question first. For whom are you doing all this looting and killing?” He said, “For my family.” The monk said, “Leave me tied here; go ask your family whether they are willing to share in the fruits of these murders—will they be partners?” The man seemed calm and straightforward, ready to die, not running away, standing bound. Balia thought, “Let me ask—what’s the harm?” He went home and asked his wife, “I commit so many murders, so many robberies—if I must go to hell for this, who will go with me?” The wife said, “That is your business; what has it to do with us? You brought me as your wife; you feed me two chapatis—that suffices. Where you get the bread from is your affair.” He asked his father. The father said, “Why entangle me, old as I am? Your work—you know. As a son, your duty is to give me two chapatis.”
His whole mansion collapsed. All the murders stood before his eyes, all the robberies. For whom he did them are unwilling to be partners! He returned—a changed man. Who could have imagined the Ramayana would be born from this robber? He went back utterly transformed. The monk who delivered the message may have followed behind; Valmiki went far ahead.
What happened? An accident—a blow that destroyed the very foundation upon which the house stood. Such conversion.
This is what I call conversion. A Hindu becoming a Muslim is not conversion. That is sheer foolishness. A Christian becoming a Hindu is madness. These are political stunts—someone making Hindus into Christians, someone Christians into Hindus; some Arya Samajist “purifying” someone, someone making another “impure.” All nonsense.
There is only one conversion: the mind turning away from the world and toward the Divine. Only one transformation—no other. In such moments, sometimes the extrovert suddenly becomes introvert. But this happens rarely, with difficulty. Do not count on it; it is exceptional. Do not make it the rule. The rule is: use what you are to begin the religious journey. Do not wait to become introvert first.
Keep two small points in mind.
Ordinarily, people are in the middle—neither wholly introvert nor wholly extrovert—mediocre. They suffer most. Everything in their lives is lukewarm—neither so hot as to turn into steam, nor so cold as to freeze into ice—just lukewarm. From both extremes a jump is possible; from the middle, it is not. Water very cold becomes ice—no longer water. Boiling becomes steam—no longer water. Lukewarm—neither here nor there—remains water; it never reaches a hundred degrees to fly skyward as steam, nor drops below zero to freeze into ice.
Introversion is one pole; extroversion, the other. A leap can be made from either pole—but not from the middle. Hence those in the middle suffer most. Even so, very few are exactly in the middle. And one who understands he is in the middle should still see where his tilt lies. If toward extroversion—good; if toward introversion—good. Understand your destiny, your psychological type, and choose a method of practice in accord with it.
Here Krishna speaks of two: karma-sannyas and karma-tyaga. Choose either; it does not matter what you choose. The real question is: where do you reach?
Krishna’s personality?
Yes—you ask, what is Krishna’s personality? This is a bit difficult—because Krishna has no personality. That is why it is difficult.
One who has arrived has no personality. Personalities belong to those on the journey. At the destination, there are no personalities—only the Divine remains. Personality is of the way—like vehicles. I sit in a bullock cart, you in an airplane, someone in a train, someone in a motorcar—vehicles are for the journey. Reaching the destination, one alights; then you are in neither the plane nor the bullock cart. The cart is gone, the airplane is gone—the destination has come.
People like Krishna stand at the destination. They have stepped out of personality. Personality is gone. The one who has no personality—we call him avatar. Understand this: the one who has no personality is called an avatar. Only when one’s own personality is not there does the Divine manifest. While one’s personality remains, it does not.
Krishna is like a flute—no voice of his own. Whatever the Divine plays, that. The flute has no song of its own; it is hollow bamboo. Whatever the Divine plays, plays. Therefore a person like Krishna is an avatar, not a person. Personality has gone. Empty like the void, vacant—nothing of his own remains. Now whatever the Divine has him do. Thus Krishna has no personality—neither extrovert nor introvert. He has no personality at all.
Add one more point.
When Mahavira attains enlightenment, no personality remains; when Buddha attains enlightenment, no personality remains. But because Mahavira’s method of practice is particular, a personality appears to us through his method; not that he has one, but the method projects a shape. So with Buddha—his method shows a certain persona.
Krishna is unique here. He has no single method. He speaks of all methods. Therefore no one personality appears. Anyone can see him as he pleases. The Bhagavata sees him one way; the poet another. Ask Keshav—he will say something else. Ask Sur—something else. The Krishna of the Gita seems one way; of the Bhagavata, another. A thousand hues of personality seem to glimmer through him—yet he is empty. No single method.
Hence we have never called Rama a “Purnaavatar,” a complete incarnation. Rama has a specific discipline, an order of life; that order appears as his personality. He relates to our world through a particular persona. Krishna relates to us directly—no personality—naked, no garments of any kind, no code, no limit.
Therefore in this land we have called no one a complete avatar except Krishna—because the Complete shines through him. Through personality, only the partial, the selected, can manifest.
There are dangers in manifesting the Complete. The greatest danger is massive misunderstanding. With Mahavira there is less misunderstanding—his outline is clear; he teaches a method. With Buddha too—he is a method. With Rama as well—clear; Rama is predictable. Even if a page of the Ramayana were lost, we could rewrite it; the preceding and following pages would tell us what he must have done. Two and two make four—so straight.
But with Krishna nothing is fixed. If a chapter is lost, no one can rewrite it unless Krishna is born again. No one can complete it, because who can say what he will do? Will he play the flute in the middle, or fight a war, or dance with the cowherd maidens, or steal their clothes and hang them on a tree? Anything can happen. He is unpredictable.
The complete man stands beyond prediction; hence he is hard to understand. That is why there are many lovers of Krishna—and yet, in truth, those who accept him are as good as none. To accept Krishna wholly is very arduous. Those who “accept” also choose; they do not accept the whole Krishna. Some accept the child Krishna; they do not touch the youth. “Our Bala-Gopala is good,” they say—because the later Krishna appears dangerous. So they settle for the little Kanhaiya—that suffices for them. Their fear is their own. For the youth—what he does—frightens them.
How can Surdas accept the youthful Krishna? He put out his eyes at the sight of women! How can youthful Krishna and Sur meet? Where Surdas, who, seeing the eyes lead to lust, put them out—and where Krishna, who can make the eyes dance and play the flute! Sur will say the later Krishna is not reliable; our child Krishna is fine. That is Sur’s limit; he makes do with the child.
But tell Keshav to make do with the child Krishna—breaking pots of curd and the like—he will say, “There is no juice in that.” For Keshav, the youthful Krishna, dancing in the full raga-ranga of youth—the Gitagovinda—beauty, music, passion—this is his Krishna. For Keshav, if even God cannot dance fully in rapture, he is still weak—still afraid. If a man is fearful, we can understand; but if God too is fearful, what then?
These are personal choices. And Krishna is so vast that hardly anyone dares digest him whole; people pick what they can.
But I say: whenever you pick, you fragment—and a fragmented Krishna has no meaning. Only the whole Krishna has meaning. Therefore I say: there are many who “accept,” yet those who truly accept are as good as none—only one who knows the whole, unfragmented Krishna can accept; otherwise one cannot.
So Krishna has no personality of his own. All personalities are his. We therefore gave him countless names—uncountable—as many as we could, all to Krishna; for so many persons glimmered in him at once, so many faces.
Who can conceive that one who dwells in the delicate world of flute-playing will take up the discus to kill? Who can imagine that the fingers which played the flute can wield the Sudarshan Chakra, an instrument of sure killing? What kind of fingers are these? Fingers that play the flute do not take up a discus. If these fingers had a fixed personality, this would have been impossible.
We cannot even imagine Buddha or Mahavira or Jesus taking up a discus; but Krishna—difficult to conceive, but he can.
This is a person with no private personality. Therefore the wise of this land called him the complete avatar—complete because there is no personal stance, no personal vehicle, nothing of his own; the Divine can manifest as it pleases—without obstruction.
If the Divine said to Rama, “Dance a little,” Rama would say, “Wait! That I cannot do.” He would choose even in the Divine: “I can manifest this much; beyond this I cannot—there is my limit.” But tell Krishna anything—he agrees at once; not even a moment—he dances!
This is Krishna’s state: personality-free, trans-personal, beyond personality—and hence we could call him complete.
brahmaṇy-ādhāya karmāṇi saṅgaṁ tyaktvā karoti yaḥ
lipyate na sa pāpena padma-patram ivāmbhasā 10
He who performs all actions as an offering to the Divine, abandoning attachment, is not tainted by sin—just as a lotus leaf is untouched by water.
One who lives all actions surrendered to the Divine remains, like the lotus leaf in water, unsoiled by water—unsoiled by sin.
Keep two or three small points in mind. First: one who surrenders to the Divine!
We too want to surrender to the Divine; sometimes we do—but only our failures, never our successes. Only defeat—never victory. Only sorrow—never joy.
Lose, and we say “fate.” Win, and we say “I.” Fall, and we say “circumstance, time.” Succeed, and we say “I.” We dedicate our successes to the ego; our failures to God! When suffering comes, we lift our hands to God: “Why do you give sorrow?” When happiness comes, we strut: “See, I created joy!”
Therefore Krishna says: he who surrenders all.
We do surrender—but not all; we pick and choose. All! To say, “Defeat is yours, victory is yours. You alone are; I am not. The fruits are yours; if fruit does not come, barrenness is yours. Nothing is mine.” Naturally, one who can show such strength…
And remember: there is no greater power than surrender; no greater resolve. Surrender is not for the weak; it is the event of the greatest strength in this world.
One who says “All is Yours” steps out—at once—beyond the tangle. Then how can anything touch him? If action itself does not touch, how can sin touch? And remember—merit does not touch either. Readers of the Gita often err, thinking such a person gathers merit while sin does not touch. No—merit does not touch. If sin does not touch, will merit? That lotus leaf—do you think dirty water does not wet it but fragrant water does? If you pour perfume into the water, will it wet the leaf?
No. When action does not touch, neither sin nor merit touches. Nothing touches. Such a one passes through life untouched. Just like the lotus leaf: always in water; the streams of water constantly fall upon it; sometimes waves leap and strike its breast; drops sparkle upon it like pearls—but untouched; they do not wet the leaf. Let them lie on top if they must. Dedicated to the Divine; the ocean and its waves know what to do; when the wind calls the drops back, they roll off. The leaf remains untouched.
So too, one who surrenders all actions to the Divine travels untouched through life. And one whom neither sin nor merit can touch—his freshness, his virginity… Truly, only he is virgin. One whom sin and merit touch is no longer virgin.
The Christians say Jesus was born of a virgin. They have had great difficulty explaining how a virgin birth could occur. If only those who explain Jesus knew that one can remain, like a lotus leaf, outside of action even while action happens—then they would understand: even in the moment of intercourse, one can remain outside of intercourse. If, even in the sexual act, one remains not a participant—not man, not woman—the act happening outwardly, surrendered to the Divine—then surely we must say this is a son of a virgin mother.
And I feel Jesus must indeed have been born of a virgin mother—in truth, this became known to the world in Jesus’ case. Krishna too would be born of a virgin mother; Mahavira and Buddha too—because from whichever mother such a pure child is born, that mother’s virginity—untouchedness—must be there.
Virginity has a deep meaning—untouched, outside the act. When action is surrendered to God, one can pass through life as if one never came—like a gust of wind that came and went, as it came, so it went.
This verse holds equally for the selfless karmayogi and for one living in the renunciation of action. Remember only one thing: all actions surrendered to the Divine.
He alone is religious who says, “The Doer is God.” He is irreligious who says, “The doer is me.” Even if you say, “I prayed,” you are irreligious. If after worship you say, “I performed the worship,” you are irreligious. Wherever the sense of doing ties to oneself, irreligion enters; where action is left to the Divine, there is religion.
That’s all for today. We will talk again tomorrow.
Sit for five minutes—just as a lotus leaf sits in water. Let the waves of this kirtan leap around you; perhaps a few drops may remain! Sit for five minutes; don’t hurry. If one person gets up in between, others are disturbed. So enjoy the bhajan for five minutes, and then leave quietly.
Osho's Commentary
It is useful to understand this from two or three dimensions.
First, the man who knows the tattva. Who is it that knows the tattva? Take note: Krishna does not say, the man who knows the tattvas; he says, the man who knows the tattva.
Tattva is one. That which is hidden in the very breath of life, in the depths of life, that one existence is.
Ordinarily we speak of five elements, but they are not tattvas. There is earth, water, fire, sky, air; in truth they are not tattvas. And science speaks of one hundred eight elements. But now, recently, science has begun to realize that those one hundred eight which it had thought elements are not elements at all.
After the long list of one hundred eight, science too is arriving at a new conclusion, namely, that these one hundred eight are also but forms of a single element. Science calls that element electricity, electrical energy. Krishna does not call that element electricity; he calls it consciousness. Perhaps very soon science will be compelled to accept that the element is consciousness. Why? Because until now science was not ready even to concede that there is a single element. It used to say: there are one hundred eight elements.
From the surface it seems there are infinite elements in the world. When science entered within the elements, it found that all are different forms of one. As many ornaments of the same gold. The forms differ. That which is formed, that which hides behind, is one. Science now accepts that this one element is electrical energy, Shakti. Soon it will have to agree with a second point of religion as well. Until now it had not agreed even with the first point, that the element is one; it used to say, the elements are many.
Until now science was pluralist; it affirmed the many. Now science has become monist; now it has begun to affirm the one. It says, there is a single energy. In water too it is the same energy, and in stone too the same energy. Only a different clustering of its particles — that is the entire difference. Just as ornaments are fashioned by different arrangements of gold, so is this difference. And it is not far off that we shall be able to transform one element into another.
For ages the alchemists searched for some trick to turn iron into gold. Now it is not very difficult. Because iron too is made of the same energy as gold. And iron can become gold, and gold can become iron. It is not far off; the fundamental point is settled that the constituent making both is one and the same. Therefore transformation can happen.
Even now you see it: coal lying there. You may not think that diamond too is coal. Diamond is coal! Diamond is but the form of coal. Pressed under the earth in heat for millions of years, coal is transformed into diamond. They are one element; there is no difference whatsoever between the two.
Within all so-called elements there is one. To the first declaration of religion, science has, reluctantly, with much hesitation, agreed. Compelled it was; science cannot deny truth. One more step remains. And it is this: is that one element conscious or unconscious? Until now science has been assuming it to be unconscious. This is its second insistence. The first insistence was: the elements are many. That has fallen. The second insistence is still intact: that the element is unconscious.
Religion’s understanding is that the element is not unconscious. And it has its reasons. Because religion says: if the higher is born from the lower, we must accept that it was hidden there, present there potentially. If the tree is born from the seed, then whether visible or invisible, the tree was hidden in the seed, potentially present. Otherwise it could not be born. If consciousness is arising anywhere in the world, and arising out of matter itself, then we must understand that deep within matter it is hidden, it exists. To deny its existence is unscientific, not scientific. Whatever can manifest must be hidden and present — unmanifest, avyakta, unexpressed.
But science says that there is only one thing in the world: electrical energy. And religion also says there is only one thing in the world: consciousness. This consciousness can be unmanifest in electrical energy. In man it grows, develops, and becomes manifest.
A small child is here. Tomorrow he will be young, the day after old. Today science accepts that the program of becoming young and old is built-in within his genetic cell. In the very first molecular unit that the child received from mother and father, the blueprint of his whole life, the entire map, is present. Otherwise it could not be so.
You plant a seed in the earth. Then a sprout emerges, then leaves appear. It is a great wonder that exactly such leaves appear from this seed as were on the parent tree of this seed. If this built-in program of leaves were not hidden within the seed, it would be an immense miracle. How could the same leaves return again? Either this seed is extraordinarily clever, or else there is some great magician sitting behind the seed. The same flowers will blossom in this seed as blossomed on that tree from which this seed came. The same leaves of the tree will be there, the same branches, the same spread. The same form and color will be there. The same flowers will bloom again. And from this one seed again millions of seeds will be born — the same kind of seed from which it was born. Within this seed the built-in, hidden program is there.
Today scientists can say that the tree is entirely hidden in the seed. It is only a matter of its becoming manifest. It will take time to appear. But that which will appear was present. One could say: the seed is the tree, invisible; and the tree is the seed, become visible.
But so much consciousness is visible in the world — if it were not hidden in matter, from where would it manifest! This too is built-in; it too has a concealed form in matter. Then again, it is wrong to say that it is hidden in matter, because religion says there is only one tattva; and science too says there is only one tattva. To say it is hidden in matter gives rise to the notion of two tattvas — matter is something and consciousness is hidden within it. Therefore, even by science’s logic it is not right to say it is hidden in matter. Nor by religion’s. Then the right way to say it is: that which science calls electricity, religion calls consciousness. And religion’s statement seems more true. Because whatever manifests must be present somewhere already. Otherwise it cannot manifest.
Krishna says: he who knows this one tattva.
Therefore he has not spoken of tattvas. One is enough. The ignorant know many things; the wise know only one. Thus at times it may happen that the wise may lose in an examination with the ignorant.
If we seat Buddha and Mahavira in an exam with some ignorant fellow, there is a danger they may fail! The ignorant knows many things. If the ignorant asks, what is oxygen? Buddha will be a little at a loss. Or if the ignorant asks, how is a bicycle puncture repaired? Mahavira will face a little difficulty. And not a little, but considerable difficulty! He has never had any connection with bicycle repairing.
The ignorant knows many things — everything except the one. The wise drops everything and knows the one. But by knowing the one, he knows all. And the ignorant, knowing all, knows nothing.
Therefore Krishna says, he who knows the one — the one tattva — to such a knower, to one established in Sankhya, the actions of the senses appear not as his doing, but as the doing of the senses themselves.
This second point is necessary to understand.
Your senses are doing the work, but you continually make a mistaken identity, a false identification, and think: I am doing it. When you feel hunger, you say: I am hungry. Kindly think again — does hunger come to you, or to the stomach? Does hunger come to you, or do you simply come to know of it?
There is a difference between the two. To be hungry is one thing; to come to know of hunger is another. When hunger arises in your stomach, you come to know that hunger has arisen. But hunger arises only in the stomach. And the stomach can be deceived a little. And your hunger will subside. If a sugar tablet is dropped into your stomach, the stomach will be deceived. The hunger will die. You will say: the hunger is gone. A sugar tablet does not end hunger. Only the stomach stops reporting that hunger is there. The news does not reach you; hunger itself ends.
Hunger comes to the stomach. The sense of the stomach feels hunger. But you say, I am hungry. It is the ear that hears; you only know that the ear has heard. But you say, I hear. It is the eye that sees; you only come to know that the eye has seen. You do not see. But you say, I see.
With each sense we join ourselves. In truth the senses are very close, hence the joining happens easily. You are wearing spectacles. Even though you see through the spectacles, you think: I see. The spectacles see. Through the spectacles the eye sees. Through the eye you come to know that seeing is happening. But remove the spectacles and see — then you will come to know. Then you will know: no, now I cannot see. You are the same, only the spectacles are removed. Close the eyes; still you are where you were when the eyes were open, but now you cannot see. Seeing happens through the eye. The eye is an instrument, a device. All the senses function, and you join yourself to them: I. I see; I hear; I am hungry; I am thirsty.
Krishna says: he who knows that one tattva comes also to know that the senses are doing their work; I am not the doer. And thus, often it happens that by a constant identification with the senses, you come to take yourself to be merely the sum total of the senses. Merely the sum total of the senses! Then that which lies beyond the sum is never known. The transcendent is never known.
This linking with the senses will have to be broken. There are two measures for breaking it. One: keep an ongoing awareness that what is happening to the senses is happening to the senses, not to you. This requires remembering, continuous remembering: hunger belongs to the stomach; the pain is in the leg; the thorn has pricked the hand; the body is tired. Continuously, wherever you habitually use the word I, it will be a great grace to use instead the sense related. Say that the leg is tired.
And you will be surprised — by experiencing this, the difference will be evident. When you say, the leg is tired, the effect upon the mind is entirely different from when you say, I am tired. I is a very big thing. The leg is a very small thing. From the leg getting tired, it is not necessary that I be tired. I am something altogether other. Begin to see yourself a little separate from the leg. Stand a little away from the senses and watch. As this understanding deepens, it will be felt: the senses do their work. I am not a doer at all.
Someone asked a Zen monk, what is your practice? He said, when hunger comes, then I give food; when sleep comes, I spread the bed. So the man asked, for whom? The Zen monk said, for the one to whom sleep comes; for the one to whom hunger comes. The man said, what kind of talk is this! In this house, in this hut, only you are visible; there is no one else!
The monk said, when I was ignorant, I too saw only one in this hut. Now I see two. One I, the knower; and the other, the doer. The one to whom hunger comes is not I. The one to whom sleep comes is not I. The one who gets tired is not I. The one who sees, who hears, is not I. Now in this room there is one who gets tired, and one who never gets tired. One who keeps becoming happy and unhappy, and one who has never been either happy or unhappy.
Krishna says, such a person takes the activity of the senses as the activity of the senses. He does not join himself to them; he knows himself as separate. The more this knowing grows that I am separate, the less the senses remain masters; they become slaves. The more the mastery over the body comes, the ownership of the body arises.
But we all waste our time in this world trying to own others. The thought of owning oneself does not arise. Ownership of others! But remember, however much you may own others, you will never become a master. Only he can be a master who becomes the master of himself. And those who are masters of others are slaves of slaves.
I have heard: a man was dragging a cow by a rope along a road. A fakir was passing by. The fakir said to his disciples, do you see — both this man and this cow are bound. The one who held the cow said, pardon me, you are wrong! I am not bound; I have bound the cow. The fakir said, do you see, disciples — both are tied to each other. The man said, you are wrong. I am not bound to the cow; the cow is bound to me. I have bound the cow. The fakir said, good — then let go of the cow. Let us see who runs after whom! The one who runs after is the slave, said the fakir. And I tell you: the cow is tied; you are bound. You have bound the cow by force; you have bound yourself by your own will. The cow is a slave out of compulsion; you are a slave by desire. Leave the cow, let us see who runs after whom! The man said, that cannot be. I have bought the cow. Then the fakir said to his disciples, what I said before was wrong. Now I tell you, the cow is not bound to this man; this man is bound to the cow. This man is a slave of the cow.
In truth, that to which we bind others, to that we become bound. That which we enslave, to that we become slaves. Therefore, the more slaves a person has in this world, the greater his slavery. But the pleasure of owning others is great.
Remember also: the pleasure of owning others is only for those who have not tasted the flavor of owning themselves. One who has tasted even once the flavor of being his own master will never wish to be the master of anyone in this world. Because he knows that to be someone’s master is to lay the foundation of one’s own slavery. But we take great relish in it.
I have heard: one day a man gave the contract of painting his house to someone. At two rupees an hour he gave the contract and went away. In the evening he returned and saw that the man was lying comfortably under a tree. He asked, what are you doing? You are not painting the house? He said, I am — look! He looked towards the house: another man was painting! The house-owner asked, I do not understand! He said, I have hired this man to work at two rupees an hour. The house-owner asked, you are mad! What will you gain by this? For I have hired you at two rupees an hour. You have hired him at two rupees an hour. What is the profit? He said, sometimes we too want to taste the pleasure of being a master! We are lying under the tree. It is worth to be the boss for some time. There is a little pleasure in being a boss for a while. I have wasted the whole day, he said, but a little taste of being a master!
At the end of life, may it not be the case that you find you wasted life, and merely tasted a little of being a boss.
This man seems foolish. But it is hard to find anyone less foolish than this. You laugh at him. But at the end of your life you will find your account almost the same: you tasted a little of being a boss! There will be nothing in your hands. Only those have something in their hands who are their own masters.
So Krishna says, such a person who knows the tattva, who knows the senses to be doing their own work, just by knowing thus he stands far away, beyond all the smoke of the senses. Outside the clouds of the senses he becomes one with the sun.
He who has become one with the sun — he is the master. He has no slavery. Only such a person attains to nishkama karma. The bliss of such a person knows no limit. The liberation of such a person knows no end. And until this happens, we are wasting life; we are not earning anything out of life. However much we may appear to be earning, we are only losing. Here heaps of wealth will pile up, and there life will be exhausted. Here possessions will accumulate, and the man will be lost. And here the victory-march over the world will be completed, and within we shall find that we came empty-handed and are going empty-handed.
A little awareness has to be brought to the senses. Therefore do not fall into the mistake of thinking that Krishna’s words will be understood merely by explanation. These sutras are sutras of practice.
But the strange thing is, in our land people are reciting the Gita! They think that by recitation something will happen. Parrots too can recite. And those who keep reciting slowly become parrots. Everything is memorized. Repetition is learned. They begin to speak the Gita mechanically. They know all the meanings. They know all the words. The Gita is fully by heart. Nothing remains to be done. Krishna must be banging his head.
The sutras of the Gita are sutras of sadhana. If you have understood that it is right — the senses do their work — but tomorrow morning again you say, I am hungry, then there is a mistake. Then you have not understood. Then from within you should think a little: do I get hungry?
In every act of the senses, search and see — you are not the doer. The entire action of the senses is happening through Prakriti. You are not needed at all. Do you ever consider this? You put the food in your mouth; do you digest it? Who digests? You eat the food; who digests? Do you ever come to know who digests? A sense digests. One never comes to know who is digesting! Who is turning this bread into blood! A miracle is happening inside the stomach.
As of now scientists are not able to do this. They say perhaps a long time will yet be needed before we can make blood directly out of bread. Your stomach is doing that work without any Einstein’s great intellect. The senses do not seem any less intelligent than Einstein! Prakriti does not appear any less mysterious.
Scientists say, and even if one day we are able to make blood out of bread, to do the work that a single belly does we would have to build a factory spread over at least a square mile of land! The work that goes on in a single stomach — only a vast factory of a square mile might take the bread to blood. Even then the formulae are not yet clear. But you are doing it daily. Who is doing it? Are you doing it? You go to sleep at night, yet it goes on. You drink, fall in a gutter in drunkenness, yet it goes on.
I went to see a woman — she had been unconscious for nine months, in a coma. And the doctors say she will never regain consciousness. She may remain unconscious for four years and will die in unconsciousness. Yet glucose is being given continuously, milk is being fed, the stomach is digesting; she has been unconscious for nine months. The body is making blood. Breath is moving. Who is taking it? Who is doing this work? You? That woman lies unconscious; in one sense she is no longer there. Prakriti keeps doing it!
The senses are the hands of Prakriti, spread within us. The senses are the hands of Prakriti, extending through us into the outer sky and world. The senses are the instruments of Prakriti; they are doing their work — do not forgetfully join yourself to them. He who joins himself to the senses is ignorant. He who sees himself separate from the senses is wise.