With body, with mind, with intellect, even with the senses alone।
the yogis perform their acts, renouncing attachment, for the purification of the self।। 11।।
Geeta Darshan #6
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
कायेन मनसा बुद्ध्या केवलैरिन्द्रियैरपि।
योगिनः कर्म कुर्वन्ति सङ्गं त्यक्त्वात्मशुद्धये।। 11।।
योगिनः कर्म कुर्वन्ति सङ्गं त्यक्त्वात्मशुद्धये।। 11।।
Transliteration:
kāyena manasā buddhyā kevalairindriyairapi|
yoginaḥ karma kurvanti saṅgaṃ tyaktvātmaśuddhaye|| 11||
kāyena manasā buddhyā kevalairindriyairapi|
yoginaḥ karma kurvanti saṅgaṃ tyaktvātmaśuddhaye|| 11||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, in the previous talk you said that prayer is the practice of the extrovert and meditation the practice of the introvert. Then, in today’s extrovert age, people should be led to the practice of prayer. Yet you lead a movement of meditation! In what way is your new meditation method related to both introvert and extrovert personalities? Please shed light on both.
Certainly, meditation has been the journey of the introvert and prayer the journey of the extrovert. But there can be thousands of paths of meditation, and thousands of forms of prayer. Nor is it that the forms of meditation known so far exhaust the possibilities; and it is not that the methods of prayer discovered till now cannot be surpassed.
The method of meditation I speak of is, in a very deep sense, a synthesis of both. What I call meditation is a joining of the two. In it, three parts are for the extrovert and the fourth part is for the introvert. If the extrovert does those three parts, he too will reach where the introvert reaches. And the introvert need not do the first three parts at all; from the very outset he can leap into the fourth.
A process of meditation is possible in which a door can be found for both extrovert and introvert. And prayer, too, can be devised in which doors can be found for both introvert and extrovert.
For example, you have seen the kirtan here. In this kirtan the introvert can participate, and the extrovert can participate. But soon differences begin to appear. The extrovert goes deeper and deeper into the dance. His voice starts to be expressed, his song begins to flow, his dance intensifies. The introvert, even if he begins with song, in a little while the song will be lost. Even if he begins with dance, soon the dance will disappear. In the end he will collapse, become still, sink into silence.
At the peak of dance the extrovert will experience what the introvert experiences by falling and lying utterly still, like a dead body. Both set out on their respective journeys.
And my understanding is that for the future we should devise such methods as can be useful for both; so that whatever kind of person enters, he finds his own door.
This is kirtan: the introvert will, in a short while, stop singing, stop dancing; he will drown, be lost somewhere. The extrovert will go very deep into the dance—so deep that in the end only the dance remains and the dancer is lost. Then he too reaches the same point: where the dance disappears and a person becomes a void; then only the dance remains and the one who was dancing is lost—he too becomes empty within. The ultimate state of both becomes one. Yet both can enter through the same method.
My meditation is just like that. In it the first three stages are extrovert. In the first stage there is deep breathing—it is very useful for the extrovert. In the second stage there is dance, jumping, shouting—this too is very useful for the extrovert. In the third stage there is inquiry: to ask loudly, “Who am I?”—this too is very useful for the extrovert. And in the fourth, to become absolutely silent.
You may ask, in four stages only one is kept for the introvert and three for the extrovert? Because I say that today’s age is extrovert. If a hundred people come to do it, it is doubtful that even twenty-five will be introverts; seventy-five will be extroverts—indeed, the likelihood is ninety-nine extroverts to one introvert. I have kept a place for him too.
Therefore, when an introvert comes to me he says, the breathing doesn’t work for me; the dancing doesn’t happen; whom should I ask? Who is there to ask? Who would ask, “Who am I?” He says, we feel like going straight into the fourth. I tell him, go straight into the fourth.
But if you tell an extrovert to sit silently, he will say, that seems difficult. How to sit silently? Something keeps moving! So I tell him, first let it move fully. Shout loudly. Cry, jump, dance, sing. Let it all move. Let it move so much that the mind that wants to move gets total satisfaction. By that very path of fulfillment, arrive at the point where movement ceases.
In my method, both the extrovert and the introvert have equal entry.
These paths of introversion and extroversion are not opposite paths. They are paths for different types of people that bring them to the same place.
The method of meditation I speak of is, in a very deep sense, a synthesis of both. What I call meditation is a joining of the two. In it, three parts are for the extrovert and the fourth part is for the introvert. If the extrovert does those three parts, he too will reach where the introvert reaches. And the introvert need not do the first three parts at all; from the very outset he can leap into the fourth.
A process of meditation is possible in which a door can be found for both extrovert and introvert. And prayer, too, can be devised in which doors can be found for both introvert and extrovert.
For example, you have seen the kirtan here. In this kirtan the introvert can participate, and the extrovert can participate. But soon differences begin to appear. The extrovert goes deeper and deeper into the dance. His voice starts to be expressed, his song begins to flow, his dance intensifies. The introvert, even if he begins with song, in a little while the song will be lost. Even if he begins with dance, soon the dance will disappear. In the end he will collapse, become still, sink into silence.
At the peak of dance the extrovert will experience what the introvert experiences by falling and lying utterly still, like a dead body. Both set out on their respective journeys.
And my understanding is that for the future we should devise such methods as can be useful for both; so that whatever kind of person enters, he finds his own door.
This is kirtan: the introvert will, in a short while, stop singing, stop dancing; he will drown, be lost somewhere. The extrovert will go very deep into the dance—so deep that in the end only the dance remains and the dancer is lost. Then he too reaches the same point: where the dance disappears and a person becomes a void; then only the dance remains and the one who was dancing is lost—he too becomes empty within. The ultimate state of both becomes one. Yet both can enter through the same method.
My meditation is just like that. In it the first three stages are extrovert. In the first stage there is deep breathing—it is very useful for the extrovert. In the second stage there is dance, jumping, shouting—this too is very useful for the extrovert. In the third stage there is inquiry: to ask loudly, “Who am I?”—this too is very useful for the extrovert. And in the fourth, to become absolutely silent.
You may ask, in four stages only one is kept for the introvert and three for the extrovert? Because I say that today’s age is extrovert. If a hundred people come to do it, it is doubtful that even twenty-five will be introverts; seventy-five will be extroverts—indeed, the likelihood is ninety-nine extroverts to one introvert. I have kept a place for him too.
Therefore, when an introvert comes to me he says, the breathing doesn’t work for me; the dancing doesn’t happen; whom should I ask? Who is there to ask? Who would ask, “Who am I?” He says, we feel like going straight into the fourth. I tell him, go straight into the fourth.
But if you tell an extrovert to sit silently, he will say, that seems difficult. How to sit silently? Something keeps moving! So I tell him, first let it move fully. Shout loudly. Cry, jump, dance, sing. Let it all move. Let it move so much that the mind that wants to move gets total satisfaction. By that very path of fulfillment, arrive at the point where movement ceases.
In my method, both the extrovert and the introvert have equal entry.
These paths of introversion and extroversion are not opposite paths. They are paths for different types of people that bring them to the same place.
Osho, please clarify further what dancing and singing have to do with this Gita Jnana Yajna. And please also make it clear why the dancing in this sankirtan is chaotic, “disorderly,” and arbitrary.
Naturally, the same thought arose in friends too. They also asked me: what has kirtan, melody, and dance to do with a Gita jnana-yajna? And even if there is dance, shouldn’t it be orderly, rhythmic? What is the meaning of it being disorderly, unstructured, anarchic, chaotic?
Naturally, the same thought arose in friends too. They also asked me: what has kirtan, melody, and dance to do with a Gita jnana-yajna? And even if there is dance, shouldn’t it be orderly, rhythmic? What is the meaning of it being disorderly, unstructured, anarchic, chaotic?
That is precisely the point.
First, let me make it clear: I do not trust that you will understand the Gita I am explaining merely by understanding. Understanding reaches only the intellect; it does not reach the heart. And one who seeks to understand the Gita only through the intellect will become a pundit, not a knower. The intellect can tell you meanings, analyze, break things down and arrange arguments—but it does not touch the heart. Arguments do not make the flowers of the heart bloom. Nor do argument and intellect awaken the music of the heart’s veena.
I know well that in today’s world there is no way to communicate with you except through intellect. So for an hour or more I work with your intellect. And at the end I have you do something utterly non-intellectual—absolutely mindless! Only to give you the news that what cannot happen through intellect, happens when intellect is set aside. Also to tell you that I tried for an hour to make your intellect understand; if it truly understood, it should also understand in this dance. And if it doesn’t, then only words reached you—nothing else.
If my words have reached you, your heart will open, it will want to dance; it will be delighted and jubilant. You will not leave thinking, “What he said seems logically sound.” You will feel, “What he said touches the heart.”
Touching the heart is one thing. That is why I want to end with an event of the heart. So I wish that for five or ten minutes you forget thought and word; forget the hour I have spoken. Words are inadequate. I want to show you the inadequacy of words—and also that perhaps what I could not say, and what Krishna too could not say, you may catch a glimpse of in the dance of these sannyasins.
Remember: Arjuna did not understand Krishna as much as the gopis did. But Krishna never recited a Gita to the gopis. He only danced with them—played the flute and danced beneath the kadamba by the Yamuna. And the gopis understood more than Arjuna did. To Arjuna he delivered the Gita—an intensely intellectual communication.
I too speak to you through the intellect, but I do not want Krishna’s deeper dimension to be lost to you—which is often lost to readers of the Gita. Krishna is not only the Krishna who speaks the Gita; he is also the Krishna who dances. And that is his truer, deeper, more important form.
Even if the Gita had not been spoken, someone else could have spoken it—Buddha could have, Mahavira could have, Christ could have. But if Krishna had not danced, then neither Buddha, nor Mahavira, nor Jesus could have danced. Something would have remained incomplete—hard to happen through anyone else.
So the profound face of Krishna’s being is the flute-playing, dancing Krishna. Do not let the Gita make you think it is merely a philosophical treatise, a metaphysics. Let it also feel like a song of life, an art of dancing.
That is why deliberately, consideredly, I keep five to seven minutes at the end—five to seven minutes after seeing your impatience; otherwise, if I had my way, an hour of discourse would be followed by an hour of dance. But your stamina is weak, so five minutes! In five minutes many are out of breath, ready to run away. They don’t know what is happening, what is being distributed, what event is taking place. Watch it with love for five minutes; drink it in. I tell you: what my explanation could not do, what Krishna’s words could not do, may happen through that dance.
It is unstructured because structure belongs to the intellect. The heart has nothing to do with structure. The day dance becomes structured, it becomes intellectual. Step by step, measured arc by arc, all arranged—it turns into mathematics. Classical music is utterly mathematical. It is mathematics—one could say, nothing but mathematics.
This here is neither mere music nor mere math. This is the heart’s effulgence. In the heart’s blossoming there are no calculations. In mathematics two and two make four; in love, not necessarily so. In love two and two can be five. Love does not keep accounts. These are sannyasins moved by love; they are dancing.
Someone said to me, “They should be trained a little—so they dance properly.” Trained dancers are aplenty in the world; go to the theater and you will see all that trained dancing. But when one dances by training, only the body dances; the heart does not. Have any true dances happened through training? Yes, a dance will happen—but it will be of a courtesan, an actor, an actress—not of a sannyasin.
A sannyasin’s dance is different. It is not dance as performance; it is the heart overflowing. Something filled within and is now pouring out. The body cannot contain it—so it dances.
This dance is not a beat-counted arrangement, hence it is disorderly. It has no arrangement. Nor should it have—only then is there joy, naturalness, spontaneity; only then can you enter it from within. Now that I have said this, look again a little closely today. You may be thinking, “All right…”
A friend came and said, “We’ve been doing kirtan for twenty years and are tired. Nothing happens.” It won’t. Because kirtan is not something you “do.” It should happen; it should be an expression of bliss. If they have been “doing” kirtan for twenty years, they must be doing it in hope of some result; the kirtan is transactional—they hope something will happen.
These sannyasins here are not doing it for something to happen. It is their joy. After listening to the Gita for an hour—if even that much joy does not fill the heart, to dance for five minutes and then depart, then the talk has been wasted.
So it is intentionally unstructured. It will remain unstructured. Even so, out of fear of you and your presence, when new sannyasins come, they cannot muster courage; they move timidly. But I wish that in two to four years I will spread this breeze across the whole country—why only the country, to the very corners of the world. The festive dimension of human enthusiasm and elation—the celebrative dimension of consciousness—must open.
Religion has become too serious. The more serious it is, the more sickly it becomes. Banish solemn faces from the temples. Let temples be places of dance and celebration of life—then we can bring religion back.
Grim, sick, frightened faces, harassed and afflicted by life—these have robbed the temples of their radiance. The temple is a moment for life’s dance. One should leave all life’s gravities in the marketplace and enter there. One should go dancing. One should dance for a while, forgetting everything—public opinion, propriety, shame.
Yesterday a woman informed me that an old lady at the back was saying, “What sin is this! Men and women dancing together!” Such a mind will never understand Krishna. If even in dance and kirtan the thought of man versus woman persists, better not to dance or chant. If even that cannot be forgotten—if another’s body cannot be forgotten—how will you forget your own body? If you still think, “A woman is standing nearby, so dance cautiously,” then don’t dance. Because then you will not forget your body either.
Let there be at least one moment when you are no longer a body—only that which is within. There, there is neither woman nor man. At least sometime everything should be forgotten. But in our temples even now there are separations—women on one side, men on the other!
You have heard the story of Meera: when she went to Vrindavan, the temple priest would not let her enter. He said, “I do not even look at women.” Meera sent word: “Tell Goswami I thought there is only one man—Krishna! From where have you, a second man, arisen?”
He came and asked forgiveness: “Pardon me. I was mistaken.”
There are many such foolishnesses in the name of religion. They must be broken. Uninhibited! At least sometimes put aside life’s hollow rules and dive in. And what a vulgar gaze is this—one to whom neither kirtan nor Krishna’s name nor Hari’s name is visible, but only that a woman is dancing near a man! How much mind has such a woman! What kind of understanding! And the one who told me said she was aged. If even in old age the sexual distinctions are not forgotten, then when? After the grave? When the bier is lifted? When will these distinctions fall? They should fall somewhere.
So it is unstructured; there is no arrangement. Hari’s name has no arrangement—only joy. It is anarchic, chaotic—deliberately so, because the more anarchic it is, the more inner fetters fall; and the hidden soul within can reveal itself.
And it is not for obtaining anything. It is only to offer thanks to the Lord. After listening to the Gita for an hour, if some flower in the heart has opened, if some string of the inner veena has been touched and resonated, if some extinguished lamp within has lit—then one should give thanks for five minutes and depart. Because even this understanding—where is it ours? It is Thine! Offer it back and go. How could we understand on our own! When You wished to make us understand, we understood. When You wished to show, it was seen. When You gestured, the gesture was received. We thank You and take leave.
It is thanksgiving—just gratitude. And today I will say to you: remain where you are, sway a little, clap, and take the Lord’s name. And let not even a single person leave.
Let us take one more aphorism.
Sarva-karmāṇi manasā sannyasyāste sukhaṁ vaśī.
Navadvāre pure dehī naiva kurvann akāra-yan.. 13..
O Arjuna, he whose inner organ is mastered—such a practitioner of Sankhya-Yoga, undoubtedly, doing nothing himself and making none do, having renounced all actions mentally, dwelling in the city of nine gates (the body), holding that the senses act upon their objects, abides joyfully, established in the nature of the Absolute—Sat-Chit-Ananda.
There is one new point in this verse; understand it.
It says: whose inner organ (antahkaran) is mastered! We have spoken about this. Neither doing, nor causing to do, he remains ever established in Sat-Chit-Ananda, the Absolute. This last point is new here.
Such a person—who has attained this knowing—knows himself to be distinct from the senses; whose cravings do not befoul and deform and stink up the inner organ; even while action occurs, he does not take himself to be the doer: “The Lord acts.” Nor does he take himself to be the causer: “The Lord causes.” Such a person, moment to moment, every instant, waking and sleeping, rising and sitting, abides only in Sat-Chit-Ananda. He does not move from there even for a moment. If he were to move, we too would have moved—but we simply do not know it; he knows. We too never move. Sat-Chit-Ananda is our very nature.
But our state is like the fish of whom I have heard: one day a fish went to the queen-fish of the ocean and asked, “Where is this ocean? I hear so much talk! Fish talk a lot! I have heard from my forefathers that there is something called the ocean. But where is it? Where is the ocean?”
Naturally, the fish is born in the ocean, lives in the ocean, and ends in the ocean. What is so near, always near, is not seen. What is too obvious, ever-present, is not seen. For something to be seen, it must be lost now and then.
Take the fish out of the ocean—then it knows where the ocean is. Throw it on the shore; in its flapping it will know where the ocean is. Otherwise, a fish living in the ocean never knows where the ocean is. How would it? To know, distance is needed; perspective is needed. A little distance, then one knows; otherwise, one does not.
So that a fish of the ocean does not know is no wonder. We too do not know that in the Divine we live, are born, grow, disperse, and dissolve. And the fish of the ocean can, by effort, still reach the shore. We can never reach the shore of the Divine—because there is no shore. That is why we do not know where God is.
People ask: where is God? If God were an object, it could be pointed out: here it is. A stone can be shown: here it is. But God cannot be shown as “there.” Asking “where is God?” is itself wrong. God means that which is everywhere—everywhere. The One who is everywhere is called God.
This also means that just as we can point to other things and say “here it is,” we cannot do that with God. In that sense we may even say: God is that which is nowhere—nowhere in particular. You cannot indicate Him by pointing a finger here or there. Everything else can be pointed out; God cannot. If you must indicate God, you cannot do it with a pointing finger; you must close the fist and say, “This”—meaning the all. Point the finger and you will err, for whatever lies beyond your finger—who will be there? He is there too. Within He is, without He is—He is everywhere.
God means existence—the Existence. We live in That, but we do not know. The one whose inner organ is purified comes to know. It is just like dust on a mirror: with dust, the face does not form; clean the mirror, and the face appears. When dust lay upon it, the mirror was fully a mirror; after the dust is gone, it is the same mirror. But when dust was there, the face could not be reflected; now it is.
A purified inner organ becomes mirror-like. Hence Krishna says: whose inner organ is pure! From whose inner organ the dust of desire for fruit has been removed, the web of cravings thrown away, the garbage cleared out; the burden of doership laid down and all left to the Divine—such a purified, light inner organ, calm and silent, weightless, knows moment to moment: I am in Sat-Chit-Ananda. Always in That, but now I know—now knowingly. Earlier I slept; now, awakened, I know.
As when you are asleep: sunlight is pouring everywhere; you are asleep. Light drips on your closed eyelids, but you are unaware. The sun is showering all around; its warmth reaches into your blood; your heart beats in that warmth—outside and inside, the sun. But you do not know; you are asleep.
Then someone wakes, and now he finds he is in the sun every moment. Asleep in the sun, awake in the sun. But the sleeper has no awareness.
Whose inner organ is purified knows, every moment: I am in God. And to one who knows this—moment to moment I am in God—by nature the threefold event of Sat-Chit-Ananda occurs in his life.
These three words—Sat, Chit, Ananda—are the distilled cream India has extracted from the whole experience of life.
Sat: existence—that which truly is. Chit: consciousness—in which there is awareness. Ananda: bliss—that which is ever blissful. These three words are the fruit of India’s entire sadhana.
Whose existence? Of stone? Of water, earth? They only appear to be; they are not. For today they are, tomorrow they will not be. India calls existence only that which is always—unchanging, eternal. That alone is truly existent; the rest is the play of shadows.
You were a child, then young, then old. Childhood has no true existence; it is a phase—change, not existence. Understand this a little.
We say of a person, “He is a child.” We should not say so; it is unscientific. We should say, “He is child-ing.” “He is youth-ing.” In the state of “is,” no one could be young, or else how would one ever become old? Even the old is not an “is”; old is “old-ing.” A river flows; we say, “the river is flowing.” We should not say “the river is”—we should say, the river is happening.
In this world the word “is” is not right. Everything is becoming. We say, “the tree is.” By the time we say “is,” a new leaf has sprouted, an old leaf has fallen, a flower has opened, a bud has appeared. By the time we said “is,” the tree had changed.
A man came to Buddha and, taking leave, said, “I will come again sometime; you have been very gracious.” Buddha said, “You will not be able to come again—and know that the one who came is not the one who goes. In this one hour, much water has flowed down the Ganga.”
Nothing is stationary here. Therefore we call God Existence, and the world Change. The world is change; God is existence. Sat means: that which always is.
Whose inner organ is purified knows: I always am. I was never born; I will never die. I am not a child, not young, not old. I am that which always is, never changing.
The second word is Chit—consciousness. The more one looks within with purity, the more one finds only consciousness there; no torpor. And when one sees within that all is consciousness, then without too he begins to see an ocean of consciousness. Remember, what we are within is what we see without. A thief sees thieves outside; an honest man sees honest men. We see outside what we are inside. Because inwardly we are torpid, we see matter outside. When we experience consciousness within in a purified inner organ, then outside too everything appears conscious. Then even a stone is alive and aware. Then nothing in this world is inert. Such a one abides in consciousness.
The third is Ananda—bliss. When existence is known, sorrow disappears. Sorrow is in change; where there is change, there is sorrow. Where there is no change, there is bliss. One who has found that he is beyond change—sorrow leaves his life.
There is sorrow in stupor. Where there is unconsciousness, there is sorrow. Note this: that is why sorrowful people begin to drink; and drinkers become sorrowful. Wherever there is sorrow, unconsciousness is sought; and wherever there is unconsciousness, sorrow increases—in a vicious circle. So the sorrowful man will drink; the more sorrow in the world, the more alcohol; the more alcohol, the more sorrow; each increasing the other. The more a man is filled with awareness, the more he goes beyond sorrow.
Know the eternal, experience consciousness, and bliss happens. And remember: bliss is not obtained from anyone. That is the difference. Pleasure is obtained from others; bliss is not. Pleasure always comes from outside, depends on another; bliss is always independent. Therefore for pleasure one must depend on others; for bliss, there is no need to depend on anyone.
If I want to be pleased, I must be with someone in society. If I want to be blissful, I can be alone. If I were left alone on this earth and all of you were to depart, I could not be “pleased,” but I could be blissful.
Remember too: from those who give us pleasure we also get pain. One who attains bliss—there remains no remedy for sorrow in him.
One last point. You may not have noticed: in human language almost every word has an opposite; bliss has none. Pleasure has pain opposite it. Love has hate parallel to it. Compassion has cruelty parallel to it. Everything has its counterpart. Bliss stands alone—because bliss is self-sufficient, beyond duality, non-dual. Pleasure-pain, love-hate—all are within duality.
Therefore Krishna says: whose inner organ is purified, that one remains established—ever established—in Sat-Chit-Ananda.
We will continue tomorrow. But stay seated. For five minutes let the taste of that bliss settle within. Watch. Clap. If you can sing, sing. If you can sway while seated, sway. Receive this bliss—and after five minutes, depart silently.
First, let me make it clear: I do not trust that you will understand the Gita I am explaining merely by understanding. Understanding reaches only the intellect; it does not reach the heart. And one who seeks to understand the Gita only through the intellect will become a pundit, not a knower. The intellect can tell you meanings, analyze, break things down and arrange arguments—but it does not touch the heart. Arguments do not make the flowers of the heart bloom. Nor do argument and intellect awaken the music of the heart’s veena.
I know well that in today’s world there is no way to communicate with you except through intellect. So for an hour or more I work with your intellect. And at the end I have you do something utterly non-intellectual—absolutely mindless! Only to give you the news that what cannot happen through intellect, happens when intellect is set aside. Also to tell you that I tried for an hour to make your intellect understand; if it truly understood, it should also understand in this dance. And if it doesn’t, then only words reached you—nothing else.
If my words have reached you, your heart will open, it will want to dance; it will be delighted and jubilant. You will not leave thinking, “What he said seems logically sound.” You will feel, “What he said touches the heart.”
Touching the heart is one thing. That is why I want to end with an event of the heart. So I wish that for five or ten minutes you forget thought and word; forget the hour I have spoken. Words are inadequate. I want to show you the inadequacy of words—and also that perhaps what I could not say, and what Krishna too could not say, you may catch a glimpse of in the dance of these sannyasins.
Remember: Arjuna did not understand Krishna as much as the gopis did. But Krishna never recited a Gita to the gopis. He only danced with them—played the flute and danced beneath the kadamba by the Yamuna. And the gopis understood more than Arjuna did. To Arjuna he delivered the Gita—an intensely intellectual communication.
I too speak to you through the intellect, but I do not want Krishna’s deeper dimension to be lost to you—which is often lost to readers of the Gita. Krishna is not only the Krishna who speaks the Gita; he is also the Krishna who dances. And that is his truer, deeper, more important form.
Even if the Gita had not been spoken, someone else could have spoken it—Buddha could have, Mahavira could have, Christ could have. But if Krishna had not danced, then neither Buddha, nor Mahavira, nor Jesus could have danced. Something would have remained incomplete—hard to happen through anyone else.
So the profound face of Krishna’s being is the flute-playing, dancing Krishna. Do not let the Gita make you think it is merely a philosophical treatise, a metaphysics. Let it also feel like a song of life, an art of dancing.
That is why deliberately, consideredly, I keep five to seven minutes at the end—five to seven minutes after seeing your impatience; otherwise, if I had my way, an hour of discourse would be followed by an hour of dance. But your stamina is weak, so five minutes! In five minutes many are out of breath, ready to run away. They don’t know what is happening, what is being distributed, what event is taking place. Watch it with love for five minutes; drink it in. I tell you: what my explanation could not do, what Krishna’s words could not do, may happen through that dance.
It is unstructured because structure belongs to the intellect. The heart has nothing to do with structure. The day dance becomes structured, it becomes intellectual. Step by step, measured arc by arc, all arranged—it turns into mathematics. Classical music is utterly mathematical. It is mathematics—one could say, nothing but mathematics.
This here is neither mere music nor mere math. This is the heart’s effulgence. In the heart’s blossoming there are no calculations. In mathematics two and two make four; in love, not necessarily so. In love two and two can be five. Love does not keep accounts. These are sannyasins moved by love; they are dancing.
Someone said to me, “They should be trained a little—so they dance properly.” Trained dancers are aplenty in the world; go to the theater and you will see all that trained dancing. But when one dances by training, only the body dances; the heart does not. Have any true dances happened through training? Yes, a dance will happen—but it will be of a courtesan, an actor, an actress—not of a sannyasin.
A sannyasin’s dance is different. It is not dance as performance; it is the heart overflowing. Something filled within and is now pouring out. The body cannot contain it—so it dances.
This dance is not a beat-counted arrangement, hence it is disorderly. It has no arrangement. Nor should it have—only then is there joy, naturalness, spontaneity; only then can you enter it from within. Now that I have said this, look again a little closely today. You may be thinking, “All right…”
A friend came and said, “We’ve been doing kirtan for twenty years and are tired. Nothing happens.” It won’t. Because kirtan is not something you “do.” It should happen; it should be an expression of bliss. If they have been “doing” kirtan for twenty years, they must be doing it in hope of some result; the kirtan is transactional—they hope something will happen.
These sannyasins here are not doing it for something to happen. It is their joy. After listening to the Gita for an hour—if even that much joy does not fill the heart, to dance for five minutes and then depart, then the talk has been wasted.
So it is intentionally unstructured. It will remain unstructured. Even so, out of fear of you and your presence, when new sannyasins come, they cannot muster courage; they move timidly. But I wish that in two to four years I will spread this breeze across the whole country—why only the country, to the very corners of the world. The festive dimension of human enthusiasm and elation—the celebrative dimension of consciousness—must open.
Religion has become too serious. The more serious it is, the more sickly it becomes. Banish solemn faces from the temples. Let temples be places of dance and celebration of life—then we can bring religion back.
Grim, sick, frightened faces, harassed and afflicted by life—these have robbed the temples of their radiance. The temple is a moment for life’s dance. One should leave all life’s gravities in the marketplace and enter there. One should go dancing. One should dance for a while, forgetting everything—public opinion, propriety, shame.
Yesterday a woman informed me that an old lady at the back was saying, “What sin is this! Men and women dancing together!” Such a mind will never understand Krishna. If even in dance and kirtan the thought of man versus woman persists, better not to dance or chant. If even that cannot be forgotten—if another’s body cannot be forgotten—how will you forget your own body? If you still think, “A woman is standing nearby, so dance cautiously,” then don’t dance. Because then you will not forget your body either.
Let there be at least one moment when you are no longer a body—only that which is within. There, there is neither woman nor man. At least sometime everything should be forgotten. But in our temples even now there are separations—women on one side, men on the other!
You have heard the story of Meera: when she went to Vrindavan, the temple priest would not let her enter. He said, “I do not even look at women.” Meera sent word: “Tell Goswami I thought there is only one man—Krishna! From where have you, a second man, arisen?”
He came and asked forgiveness: “Pardon me. I was mistaken.”
There are many such foolishnesses in the name of religion. They must be broken. Uninhibited! At least sometimes put aside life’s hollow rules and dive in. And what a vulgar gaze is this—one to whom neither kirtan nor Krishna’s name nor Hari’s name is visible, but only that a woman is dancing near a man! How much mind has such a woman! What kind of understanding! And the one who told me said she was aged. If even in old age the sexual distinctions are not forgotten, then when? After the grave? When the bier is lifted? When will these distinctions fall? They should fall somewhere.
So it is unstructured; there is no arrangement. Hari’s name has no arrangement—only joy. It is anarchic, chaotic—deliberately so, because the more anarchic it is, the more inner fetters fall; and the hidden soul within can reveal itself.
And it is not for obtaining anything. It is only to offer thanks to the Lord. After listening to the Gita for an hour, if some flower in the heart has opened, if some string of the inner veena has been touched and resonated, if some extinguished lamp within has lit—then one should give thanks for five minutes and depart. Because even this understanding—where is it ours? It is Thine! Offer it back and go. How could we understand on our own! When You wished to make us understand, we understood. When You wished to show, it was seen. When You gestured, the gesture was received. We thank You and take leave.
It is thanksgiving—just gratitude. And today I will say to you: remain where you are, sway a little, clap, and take the Lord’s name. And let not even a single person leave.
Let us take one more aphorism.
Sarva-karmāṇi manasā sannyasyāste sukhaṁ vaśī.
Navadvāre pure dehī naiva kurvann akāra-yan.. 13..
O Arjuna, he whose inner organ is mastered—such a practitioner of Sankhya-Yoga, undoubtedly, doing nothing himself and making none do, having renounced all actions mentally, dwelling in the city of nine gates (the body), holding that the senses act upon their objects, abides joyfully, established in the nature of the Absolute—Sat-Chit-Ananda.
There is one new point in this verse; understand it.
It says: whose inner organ (antahkaran) is mastered! We have spoken about this. Neither doing, nor causing to do, he remains ever established in Sat-Chit-Ananda, the Absolute. This last point is new here.
Such a person—who has attained this knowing—knows himself to be distinct from the senses; whose cravings do not befoul and deform and stink up the inner organ; even while action occurs, he does not take himself to be the doer: “The Lord acts.” Nor does he take himself to be the causer: “The Lord causes.” Such a person, moment to moment, every instant, waking and sleeping, rising and sitting, abides only in Sat-Chit-Ananda. He does not move from there even for a moment. If he were to move, we too would have moved—but we simply do not know it; he knows. We too never move. Sat-Chit-Ananda is our very nature.
But our state is like the fish of whom I have heard: one day a fish went to the queen-fish of the ocean and asked, “Where is this ocean? I hear so much talk! Fish talk a lot! I have heard from my forefathers that there is something called the ocean. But where is it? Where is the ocean?”
Naturally, the fish is born in the ocean, lives in the ocean, and ends in the ocean. What is so near, always near, is not seen. What is too obvious, ever-present, is not seen. For something to be seen, it must be lost now and then.
Take the fish out of the ocean—then it knows where the ocean is. Throw it on the shore; in its flapping it will know where the ocean is. Otherwise, a fish living in the ocean never knows where the ocean is. How would it? To know, distance is needed; perspective is needed. A little distance, then one knows; otherwise, one does not.
So that a fish of the ocean does not know is no wonder. We too do not know that in the Divine we live, are born, grow, disperse, and dissolve. And the fish of the ocean can, by effort, still reach the shore. We can never reach the shore of the Divine—because there is no shore. That is why we do not know where God is.
People ask: where is God? If God were an object, it could be pointed out: here it is. A stone can be shown: here it is. But God cannot be shown as “there.” Asking “where is God?” is itself wrong. God means that which is everywhere—everywhere. The One who is everywhere is called God.
This also means that just as we can point to other things and say “here it is,” we cannot do that with God. In that sense we may even say: God is that which is nowhere—nowhere in particular. You cannot indicate Him by pointing a finger here or there. Everything else can be pointed out; God cannot. If you must indicate God, you cannot do it with a pointing finger; you must close the fist and say, “This”—meaning the all. Point the finger and you will err, for whatever lies beyond your finger—who will be there? He is there too. Within He is, without He is—He is everywhere.
God means existence—the Existence. We live in That, but we do not know. The one whose inner organ is purified comes to know. It is just like dust on a mirror: with dust, the face does not form; clean the mirror, and the face appears. When dust lay upon it, the mirror was fully a mirror; after the dust is gone, it is the same mirror. But when dust was there, the face could not be reflected; now it is.
A purified inner organ becomes mirror-like. Hence Krishna says: whose inner organ is pure! From whose inner organ the dust of desire for fruit has been removed, the web of cravings thrown away, the garbage cleared out; the burden of doership laid down and all left to the Divine—such a purified, light inner organ, calm and silent, weightless, knows moment to moment: I am in Sat-Chit-Ananda. Always in That, but now I know—now knowingly. Earlier I slept; now, awakened, I know.
As when you are asleep: sunlight is pouring everywhere; you are asleep. Light drips on your closed eyelids, but you are unaware. The sun is showering all around; its warmth reaches into your blood; your heart beats in that warmth—outside and inside, the sun. But you do not know; you are asleep.
Then someone wakes, and now he finds he is in the sun every moment. Asleep in the sun, awake in the sun. But the sleeper has no awareness.
Whose inner organ is purified knows, every moment: I am in God. And to one who knows this—moment to moment I am in God—by nature the threefold event of Sat-Chit-Ananda occurs in his life.
These three words—Sat, Chit, Ananda—are the distilled cream India has extracted from the whole experience of life.
Sat: existence—that which truly is. Chit: consciousness—in which there is awareness. Ananda: bliss—that which is ever blissful. These three words are the fruit of India’s entire sadhana.
Whose existence? Of stone? Of water, earth? They only appear to be; they are not. For today they are, tomorrow they will not be. India calls existence only that which is always—unchanging, eternal. That alone is truly existent; the rest is the play of shadows.
You were a child, then young, then old. Childhood has no true existence; it is a phase—change, not existence. Understand this a little.
We say of a person, “He is a child.” We should not say so; it is unscientific. We should say, “He is child-ing.” “He is youth-ing.” In the state of “is,” no one could be young, or else how would one ever become old? Even the old is not an “is”; old is “old-ing.” A river flows; we say, “the river is flowing.” We should not say “the river is”—we should say, the river is happening.
In this world the word “is” is not right. Everything is becoming. We say, “the tree is.” By the time we say “is,” a new leaf has sprouted, an old leaf has fallen, a flower has opened, a bud has appeared. By the time we said “is,” the tree had changed.
A man came to Buddha and, taking leave, said, “I will come again sometime; you have been very gracious.” Buddha said, “You will not be able to come again—and know that the one who came is not the one who goes. In this one hour, much water has flowed down the Ganga.”
Nothing is stationary here. Therefore we call God Existence, and the world Change. The world is change; God is existence. Sat means: that which always is.
Whose inner organ is purified knows: I always am. I was never born; I will never die. I am not a child, not young, not old. I am that which always is, never changing.
The second word is Chit—consciousness. The more one looks within with purity, the more one finds only consciousness there; no torpor. And when one sees within that all is consciousness, then without too he begins to see an ocean of consciousness. Remember, what we are within is what we see without. A thief sees thieves outside; an honest man sees honest men. We see outside what we are inside. Because inwardly we are torpid, we see matter outside. When we experience consciousness within in a purified inner organ, then outside too everything appears conscious. Then even a stone is alive and aware. Then nothing in this world is inert. Such a one abides in consciousness.
The third is Ananda—bliss. When existence is known, sorrow disappears. Sorrow is in change; where there is change, there is sorrow. Where there is no change, there is bliss. One who has found that he is beyond change—sorrow leaves his life.
There is sorrow in stupor. Where there is unconsciousness, there is sorrow. Note this: that is why sorrowful people begin to drink; and drinkers become sorrowful. Wherever there is sorrow, unconsciousness is sought; and wherever there is unconsciousness, sorrow increases—in a vicious circle. So the sorrowful man will drink; the more sorrow in the world, the more alcohol; the more alcohol, the more sorrow; each increasing the other. The more a man is filled with awareness, the more he goes beyond sorrow.
Know the eternal, experience consciousness, and bliss happens. And remember: bliss is not obtained from anyone. That is the difference. Pleasure is obtained from others; bliss is not. Pleasure always comes from outside, depends on another; bliss is always independent. Therefore for pleasure one must depend on others; for bliss, there is no need to depend on anyone.
If I want to be pleased, I must be with someone in society. If I want to be blissful, I can be alone. If I were left alone on this earth and all of you were to depart, I could not be “pleased,” but I could be blissful.
Remember too: from those who give us pleasure we also get pain. One who attains bliss—there remains no remedy for sorrow in him.
One last point. You may not have noticed: in human language almost every word has an opposite; bliss has none. Pleasure has pain opposite it. Love has hate parallel to it. Compassion has cruelty parallel to it. Everything has its counterpart. Bliss stands alone—because bliss is self-sufficient, beyond duality, non-dual. Pleasure-pain, love-hate—all are within duality.
Therefore Krishna says: whose inner organ is purified, that one remains established—ever established—in Sat-Chit-Ananda.
We will continue tomorrow. But stay seated. For five minutes let the taste of that bliss settle within. Watch. Clap. If you can sing, sing. If you can sway while seated, sway. Receive this bliss—and after five minutes, depart silently.
Osho's Commentary
In this matter, keep two or three things in mind.
First: whatever a human being has done through beginningless life, up to today, to this very moment, has woven a vast net of karma. And even if today I stop doing everything, still the net of deeds from my past lives does not break. It has momentum. As if I am riding a bicycle: I stop pedaling—now I am not riding—yet the bicycle keeps moving—there is momentum. For two miles I had been pedaling, the wheels have gathered speed. Even if I stop for two, three, five minutes, the cycle will keep going. And if there is a descent in life, it may go on for miles. If there is an ascent, it will stop quickly.
And in life we are on a descent, not an ascent. The way we live is always downhill—lower, and lower, and lower. Children stand on peaks; the old reach the valleys. It should not be so. It should be the reverse; yet this is what happens. Children come with a pure fragrance, the old go as if taking with them nothing but stench. In life we earn little and squander more. We receive little and lose more.
Life, for us, is a slope downward. Day by day we go down. He who stole yesterday will steal even more today. He who lied yesterday will lie more today. He who was angry yesterday will be more angry today. And day by day this anger, this violence, this hatred, this sex, this lust—day by day they go on increasing. The mind then sets into fixed habits. It goes on repeating its habits, reinforcing them.
We are on a decline—know this first. And the momentum, the speed of our karmas from beginningless births is upon us. Even if today I stop all doing, nothing essential changes; my mind will continue to slip downward.
Therefore Krishna says something very wondrous. He says that those who live in Nishkama Karma engage in action in order to cut the momentum of their past actions. That speed which they gave to their karmas in past lives—what they have done—they work to undo it, to wipe it away, by entering action.
If they have sown anger in past births, they take up the action of forgiveness. If they have practiced hardness and cruelty, they immerse themselves in deeds of compassion. If, through countless times, they have wasted life in lust and craving, now they dedicate life to seva. Exactly the opposite of what they have done so far—they begin actions that lead not toward the descent but toward the ascent.
But even in this Krishna sets a condition. If it is not remembered, one may go astray. The condition is: leaving mamatva—mine-ness! For if someone wants to travel upward while clinging to mine-ness, he is mistaken; it is impossible.
Mamatva is helpful for the downward journey; mamatva is a hindrance for the upward journey. If you wish to fabricate new karmas, mine-ness is the alchemy. Without it karmas are not formed. But if karmas are to be cut, then mine-ness must be put aside immediately; otherwise karmas do not dissolve.
What is the meaning of mamatva? One is the ‘I’; as I stand in the sun, I am standing—and a shadow is cast. That shadow will circle wherever I go. The ‘I’ is the ego, and mamatva is its shadow—the shadow of the ahankar. I am the notion that I am; and the ‘I’ cannot stand alone, so it spreads a net of ‘mine’ around itself.
Without ‘mine’, it is very difficult for the ‘I’ to stand. The bigger the shadow of ‘mine’, the bigger the ‘I’ appears. The larger my wealth, my friends, my family, my house, my palace, my positions—
I have heard: one morning a fox went out to hunt. She set off to find prey. She saw that her shadow had become very long—rising sun behind, shadow great and long! Seeing her shadow, the fox thought, Today only a camel as prey will do! Naturally—if the shadow is so big, the fox cannot be small! In the fox’s logic there is no fault. The arithmetic is correct. Such a long shadow—only a camel will suffice, thought the fox.
Searching all day, it was noon. No prey. The sun was overhead. The fox was hungry. She looked down; the shadow had shrunk to almost nothing. She said, What happened! Has hunger shrunk me so small? Now even if I find an ant, perhaps that will do!
The fox’s logic is correct. We too decide our size by our shadow. We measure the shadow and think that is our stature. If the shadow of ‘mine’ is large—my house is large—then I am large; if my house is small, I am small. If my heap of money is big, I am big; if my heap is small, I am small. If many bow to me, I am big; if few bow, I am small. Shadow!
And at the beginning of life everyone makes the same mistake the fox made. When life begins, every person thinks, I! None like me. Even the whole earth will be too small. And when life nears its end, one discovers: now nothing is left; the shadow has shrunk!
We live by looking at the shadow; therefore we go on enlarging the shadow, trying to make it big. ‘Mine’ means the shadow of ‘I’, the shadow of the ego. The ‘I’ is false. Remember: to erect anything false, you must prop it with twenty-five other falsehoods. To set up truth, truth stands alone—independent, free. No lie stands alone. You can never stand a lie by itself; it must be given crutches, newer lies.
To sustain one lie you must weave a web of many lies. And it does not end there. For each of those lies, again, twenty-five more. It is an infinite regress. And this has to be done day after day.
‘I am’ is the greatest lie of human life. If in this existence anyone has the right to say ‘I’—justifiably—it can belong to none but Paramatman. Yet He has never said ‘I am’. People shout and ask, Where are You? Still He does not speak. People set out searching, dig the caverns of mountains, go to the sources of rivers, turn over the earth, make heaven and underworld one; yet His whereabouts are not found!
He who has the right to say ‘I’ is silent. Those who have no right at all—morning to evening all life long they keep saying, I, I, I. Perhaps that is why God does not speak—because He is assured that He is. And we speak because we are not assured. By repeating we manufacture assurance: I am! By reiterating twenty-four hours we create belief in our own minds—autohypnotic—we go on hypnotizing ourselves: I am. Hence, if anyone so much as pricks your ‘I’, you flare up. Because your lie may scatter.
To prop up this great lie of ‘I’, the net of ‘mine’ must be spread—Krishna calls this mamatva: the web of ‘mine’.
The ‘I’ cannot stand alone. If your house is taken from you, do not think only the house is taken—the walls of your ‘I’ also collapse. If your wealth is taken, not only the safe is emptied—you too are emptied. If your position is taken, not only the post is lost—the stiffness within you is also taken away.
That ‘I’ is weakened by the loss of ‘mine’. It grows by the expansion of ‘mine’. So he who wants to keep himself deceived that ‘I am’ must go on creating ‘mine’, enlarging it. But he who wants to break the deception must leave mamatva and see: without ‘mine’, does ‘I’ remain?
He who abandons ‘mine’ suddenly finds, the ‘I’ also is gone. And until the ‘I’ is gone, the stream of karma does not cease. And until ‘mine’ and ‘I’ are gone, the upward journey does not begin. The stone of ‘I’ is hung around our neck and pulls us down.
There is no sin greater than ahankar. All other sins are its offspring. The root is ego; then greed, and anger, and lust are born around it.
Therefore Krishna says: let mamatva be dropped!
What of ‘mine’? My hands will be utterly empty when I depart. And that which I cannot take with me—how is it ‘mine’? That which I now call ‘mine’ existed before me; I did not bring it—how is it ‘mine’? And that which I call ‘mine’—who knows how many before me have called it ‘mine’. They all disappeared. It still remains. We too will disappear, and it will remain.
We say of land: my land. That land has seen many madmen like us—who proclaimed ‘mine’, who fought, were cut down, and vanished into dust. That land must be laughing: claimants never cease! The same old claim keeps repeating! How many have claimed that very piece of land which you now claim! How many have said, It is mine. They all who claimed ‘mine’ have vanished; the land lies where it was. The land must smile when you hang a board on your house—My land—surely the earth smiles: another madman has come! The same old error!
In this world it is hard to find people capable of making new mistakes. People go on repeating the old ones. To make a new mistake is difficult too. Man has already made all the mistakes—thousands of times.
Krishna says: if mine-ness drops and action continues, the upward journey begins. The karmas of the past are cut and the man rises.
But mamatva is deep. It clings to wealth and status, yes; but it also clings to knowledge—and even to renunciation. A man says, I know so much. Even knowledge lets ‘mine’ dominate. What a limit! If mine-ness belonged to ignorance, one could understand. But mine-ness about knowledge!
Hence the Upanishads say: the ignorant wander in darkness, but sometimes the learned wander in a great darkness. If someone says ‘mine’ about knowledge, he will fall into a longer wandering than the ignorant. The ignorant may be forgiven; the learned cannot be forgiven.
People even say ‘my’ about renunciation. Man is astonishing. One says, Money is mine. Another says, Money was mine, now renunciation is mine. I have renounced a hundred thousand rupees! Now he claims ‘mine’ upon renunciation. If someone claims wealth, one can understand—he is mad. But if one claims renunciation, then he is madder still. One says, I have a hundred thousand rupees—and struts along the road. Another says, I have renounced a hundred thousand rupees—and struts even more. Renunciation too—mine! Then it seems man’s madness has no limit and the strategies of ego have no end. It finds pathways from anywhere.
On this earth, he who concedes, I am ignorant—know that he has taken a great step toward knowledge. He who concedes, I am a sensualist—know that he has taken a great step toward renunciation. For such acknowledgment humbles and breaks the ego. But on this earth no one is willing to accept: I am ignorant.
I have heard: a scholar—a priest—went into a church. And whoever reads a little scripture becomes a knower! To be learned is very easy! It is not so—but to assume so is easy. That priest had the idea, I know. Entering, he wanted to establish his first dominance over people. Standing up he said to them, I will explain later; first let me ask—if anyone among you is ignorant, stand up.
Who would stand! People began looking at one another. Just as if I asked you now, If anyone is ignorant, stand up—each would glance at the one he considers ignorant—always someone other than himself—and look to see if that one stands. Not yet! The wife will look at the husband, the husband at the wife; the father at the son, the son at the father—Are they standing yet? No one will stand.
No one stood. The priest said, No one is ignorant? He was shocked. For he thought he was learned—and if no one stands, then all are learned! Just then a frightened, meek little man hesitantly, quietly stood up. The priest said, Amazing! Well, at least one ignorant man is found. Do you consider yourself ignorant? He said, No, sir; seeing you standing alone, I felt very embarrassed, so I stood. You were standing alone! It didn’t look right; it wasn’t courteous. You are a stranger, visiting from outside. So I stood up. I am not the ignorant one.
On this earth no one is ready to accept himself as ignorant. No one is ready to accept himself as a sensualist. No one is ready to accept himself as egotistical. No one is ready to accept that he is entangled in mine-ness. And yet all are. When an illness is denied, to treat it becomes difficult. When an illness is accepted, it can be diagnosed, treated, healed.
See clearly. Krishna says: he who drops mamatva!
But first acknowledge that mine-ness is there in your life; only then can it be dropped. The very clever will say, What is there to drop! There is no mine-ness in our lives. The deception is sealed.
There is mamatva. It feels as though someone is ‘mine’—whether wife, father, mother, son, friend, or enemy—‘mine’! Mine-ness reaches even to the enemy. Therefore take note: when the enemy dies, even then you become something less—something is missing. For because of him something in you also existed. He also gave you a certain strength. Fighting against him there was also some earning. He too was a part of your mine-ness.
He who drops mine-ness, and still remains engaged in action—goes on doing the deeds of the senses and body—so that the momentum of past deeds may be cut and he may be free of the bondage of karma—such a person Krishna calls a Nishkama Karmayogi.
युक्तः कर्मफलं त्यक्त्वा शान्तिमाप्नोति नैष्ठिकीम्।
अयुक्तः कामकारेण फलैः सक्तो निबध्यते।। 12।।
It is thus that the practitioner of Nishkama Karma, offering the fruits of action to the Divine, attains the peace that is Bhagavat-realization. And the desireful man, attached to results, is bound by craving.
There are only two kinds of people in the world, two kinds of classes: the desireful and the desireless. In spiritual terms only this division matters. Those who engage in action only when inspired by the longing for results: until the oil of expectation is poured, the lamp of their action does not light. The fuel is supplied by the desire for fruit. Without that fuel their fire of action does not burn. Their fire needs the fuel of expectation.
And remember: the desire for fruits is a very wet thing; it is not dry. It will be wet—because what is dry never lies in the future. The dry always belongs to the past. In the future there are wet longings. Perhaps they will happen—perhaps they will not. Who knows what path they will take, what result will come. Nothing is certain.
The future is very wet—like green wood; it will bend; it can bend. The past is dry—like dry wood; it cannot bend. Those who make the desires of the future the fuel in the sacrificial fire of their life’s actions fill themselves with smoke. The fuel is wet. No fruits reach the hand—only smoke reaches the hand—suffering—and the eyes fill with tears from the smoke, and nothing else comes into their grasp.
One group is such: they will not move an inch into action until fruit drags them. Fruit drags them as if someone ties a rope around an animal’s neck and pulls it. Do you know why we call an animal ‘pashu’? ‘Pashu’ in Sanskrit is a wondrous word. It means: that which, if you want to pull it, you must tie a noose (pash) around its neck—that is pashu. Therefore the sages of old would call us pashu. Whoever walks bound by the noose of the future’s desire is a pashu.
Pashu means: he does not move by action—he is dragged by fruit. The neck is caught in a net. The rope is in the hands of the future. It pulls. Either the future pulls and then we move—someone ties a rope around our neck. Or the past pushes and then we move—as if someone hits an animal from behind with a stick, or someone outside pulls it by a rope from the front. Push from behind or pull from ahead—only then does the animal walk.
So the sages say: that man is still an animal who walks either because of the push of past actions or because he is dragged by the noose of future expectations. He is not yet man.
Who is man? He who accepts neither the push of the past nor the lure of the future; he who lives in the action of the present. He who accepts neither the shove of yesterday nor the attraction of tomorrow; he who says, I will live now, in this moment that has been given.
But this way of living is possible only when one surrenders both past and future to Paramatman. Otherwise the past will shove; otherwise the future will pull.
Man is very weak. By nature man’s power is very limited. Without the support of God, to drop the past and the future he will find very difficult. But by surrendering to God the thing becomes easy. He lets go: Whatever Your will, let that be tomorrow. The time I have now, I put into work. And my joy is only this—that I have acted; I have no concern with the fruit.
Joy becomes his very action! But this happens only when one has the capacity to surrender to the Lord. Therefore Krishna says: leaving the longing for fruit, becoming desireless, he who dedicates his whole life to the Lord—that one attains joy. The desireful never attain joy. Smoke of sorrow alone is their harvest.
But even when we go to the temple to offer something to God, we go with desire. We do not even pray for free; in prayer too we want to get something! Even when we fold hands to God there is a condition—a bargain. Let something be given. He who wants nothing does not go to the temple. One goes only when one wants something.
And remember: when one goes to the temple to ask for something, he never reaches the temple. He cannot reach the temple. Only he who becomes desireless at the very door can enter within.
You will say, But we enter the temple every day.
You enter a building, not the temple. There is a great difference between a house and a temple. Any house into which you enter desirelessly becomes a temple. And even a temple into which you enter with desire turns into a house.
It depends on you whether the place you are entering is a temple or a house. The land on which you stand without desire becomes a tirtha. And the land on which you stand with desire becomes sin. It does not depend on the land; it depends on you. But we live all the time by lusting for gain. Whatever we do—
A friend came to me yesterday. He said, What will be gained by bhajan-kirtan? I also want to sing, but what will I get? Naturally. If nothing is gained, then why bother. I said to him, As long as the idea of gaining remains, you will not be able to do kirtan. Because kirtan has nothing to do with the idea of gain. Then do business.
The very meaning of kirtan is: there are moments when we want nothing at all. For a few moments we want to live without gaining—non-purposeful. Life is given—out of its joy, its festivity, we dance. Breath is moving—in the celebration of it we dance. God considered us worthy enough to be given life—out of that happiness we dance. Not to get anything—like a thanksgiving, an outpouring of gratitude. Kirtan is an offering of gratitude, a thanksgiving. There is no purpose of getting anything. From it you will get nothing.
When I say thus—You will get nothing—do not conclude that those who do kirtan receive nothing. Do not think so. When I say, You will get nothing, I mean: if you come to kirtan, come having dropped the thought of gain. He who comes thus receives so much that it cannot be accounted for. But he who comes keeping an account of gains will receive nothing. Such is the difficulty.
If you come thinking you will receive much, you will return empty-handed. But if you come with an empty mind—seeking nothing, only to thank the Lord, unconditionally—your heart will be filled with an uncanny joy. A new door will open.
Remember: Krishna is not saying that he who acts without desire receives no fruit. Do not fall into that error—that he gets no fruit. Nor fall into the error that he who acts with desire does receive fruit. The situation is exactly the reverse.
He who lives desirefully never receives the fruit. And he who lives desirelessly—upon his life there is a shower of fruit each moment! Life runs by a paradoxical law. The one who begs goes on begging like a mendicant and never receives. The one who does not ask stands like an emperor—and everything comes to him.
Jesus has said: He who saves will lose; and he who loses will find.
A strange thing to say! He who saves will lose. We are all saving—and in the end the hand will remain empty, void. And he who loses will find. And from him nothing can be taken away.
Understand Krishna rightly. He says there are two kinds of people. Those who live by desire—the sakami. Whatever they do, first they make sure: what fruit will I get! Even in love they will first make sure: what fruit will I get! If they go to pray, they first make sure what result will be! Fruit first—then a step. They will never get fruit. They will labor much, run hard, and reach nowhere. Their condition will be almost like—
I remember: near my village, two or three times a year a fair would be held. And since childhood one thing never made sense to me: at that fair there was a carousel of wooden horses. Whoever went would sit on it; they would spend money and go round and round. If children spun around, fine. One day I saw my schoolteacher sitting on it, spinning! I was astonished. I went and asked—he had taken quite a few rounds; all the money in his pocket had been emptied into that spinning—I asked him, Where have you reached? You have gone so far. He said, Reached! Sitting on a wooden horse and rotating in a carousel—we are not reaching anywhere, only getting dizzy.
I saw many get off and stagger. Some vomited. I never could understand what was going on! But now slowly I see: the fair’s carousel is very small—sometimes someone sits on it. On the carousel of the world, everyone sits. No one reaches anywhere. Though every moment it seems—now we will arrive, now we will arrive! The horse keeps advancing. It seems now, now. We reach nowhere. After spinning, we fall down. From the wooden horse’s carousel one gets off and returns home; but from the world’s carousel, when one falls giddy, he arrives in the grave—not home.
All life long desire makes us run—on wooden horses—we are not taken anywhere—only made to run. Perhaps you do not know: the Sanskrit word samsara is very wondrous. It means: the wheel. The wheel that is in India’s national flag—Nehru did not know, else he would never have put it there. He did not know it is Buddha’s symbol. Ashoka had it carved on his pillars to say: this world is like a carousel. If you sit on it, you will keep revolving forever—reach nowhere. Nehru did not know; otherwise he would never have approved it—because in Delhi only carousel-riders gather. Those for whom their villages are too small need slightly bigger horses. In Delhi a big circus goes on—with big horses! Sitting upon them they go round and round. After five years they again tell the people: help us arrive; we want to spin again!
This entire world is a desireful carousel—a wheel of desiring. The wish keeps arising: This will be gotten, this will be gotten. We circle around, but nothing is ever gotten. Ask the dying man: What did you get?
I had asked my teacher: Where did you arrive? He startled, stood up. He said the reverse to me: You will not understand yet; you are too young.
He said, You will not understand yet; you are too young. I have not understood yet. Even now when I go to the village, I go to him: Now my age has become quite enough—now explain it. On that carousel you sat—where did you reach? Now when I went this time, he said, Leave that nonsense. Thirty years have passed! I said, At that time you said my age was small. Now thirty years—When? Lest it happen that when I come again you are no more, for now you are eighty. When will you tell me where you arrived sitting on that carousel!
He sees me and gets frightened! He knows if I have come, the carousel question will arise. I saw him once sitting on it! Even now he has not gathered the courage to say to me: I reached nowhere. Man is so weak! If he would say it once, the nuisance would be over. I will not spare him. Whenever I go, first I go to his home—Now tell me. One more year has passed. I still have not understood where you had arrived.
The strong man is he who can accept his weakness—only then can he go beyond it. The desireful runs much and reaches nowhere except sorrow. The desireless does not want to reach anywhere—and from where he stands, from there he arrives.
So do not think that the desireless person receives no fruit. Only the desireless receives fruit. But the desireless does not want fruit. He completes the action and remains silent. He leaves the fruit to God.
He who can surrender to God with such trust—if he were to go fruitless—then there would be no place left on this earth for religion. He who can leave it to God with so much trust: I will act and then sleep; the fruit is Yours—if he too went fruitless, then there would be no place left for dharma on this earth.
But he has never gone fruitless. Therefore no matter how much decline of dharma occurs, dharma cannot die. No matter how much it is opposed, someone or other will awaken it again, revive it again.
He who discovers this secret in life—that without asking it comes, and by asking it never comes—only that one becomes religious. And until you know this secret, whether you are Hindu, Muslim, Jaina, Christian—whatever you may be; whether you go to temple or mosque—nothing will happen.
The day you know: he who does not ask, receives. He who leaves it to the Lord, attains. He who keeps all the keys in his own hands, loses all. Until you know this, religion cannot descend into your life.
In this sutra Krishna has spoken of the foundational key—of dharma’s basic key.