Geeta Darshan #8

The world is a mystery. A mystery because, in this world, darkness, which is not, seems to cover light, which is; death, which is not, manages to deceive life, which is, as if it were.
Life is, and death is not. Light is, and darkness is not. Yet darkness appears to veil light. Yet each day life seems to be dying. Hence I say, life is a mystery—a mystery. And the root of that mystery is hidden in this very riddle.
You see darkness every day. Perhaps it never occurred to you that darkness has no being of its own. Darkness is not existential. Still, it is. One can lose the way in darkness. One can fall into a pit in darkness. Thieves can loot in darkness. A knife can be thrust in darkness. Anything can happen in darkness—and yet darkness is not! You can collide, crack your head—and yet darkness is not. And still, in darkness, all this can happen.
When I say darkness is not, understand it precisely.
Light is, therefore you can extinguish it or kindle it. But darkness you can neither put out nor light up. You may wish to throw darkness at an enemy’s house—you cannot. Have you ever noticed, nothing at all can be done with darkness!
And at night when you want the room to be filled with darkness, you do not call darkness in—you simply put out the light. The moment light is extinguished, darkness is there. And when in the morning you want to remove darkness, you do not push darkness away—you light the lamp. The moment light is lit, darkness is not.
Darkness is only the absence of light—non-presence, absence. Darkness has no positive, creative existence of its own. Existence belongs to light. Or where light is not, there darkness seems to be. Darkness is not a thing. There is no thinghood in darkness. And yet, darkness somehow is.
Exactly so with self-knowledge. Atma-jnana is; Atma-ajnana has no existence. And still we are filled with self-ignorance. In self-ignorance we are anxious, afflicted, disturbed, miserable—we suffer hell. Though self-ignorance has no existence, just as darkness has none.
Atman is knowledge itself; therefore self-ignorance cannot truly be. The Atman is knowledge. Knowledge is the intrinsic nature of the Atman. The Atman cannot be without knowledge. And if the Atman could be without knowledge, what would be the difference between matter and Atman? Atman means that which is knowledge. The Atman can never be without knowledge. Jnana and Atman are synonyms. The same meaning.
Then what can self-ignorance mean? The words contradict each other. Self-ignorance cannot be. Where Atman is, how can ignorance be? For Atman is knowledge. And yet there is self-ignorance. What has happened? By what is the Atman—knowledge—covered?
Krishna says: The world is covered by Maya; the soul is covered by self-ignorance; knowledge is covered by Avidya.
What does this mean? How to understand it?
Only this: Atman is knowledge, but knowledge can choose to sleep; knowledge can choose to awaken. Sleeping knowledge is still knowledge; awakened knowledge is also knowledge. Yet around sleeping knowledge, ignorance gathers. Sleeping knowledge is like a lighter lying in your pocket, unlit—holding the full capacity to flame. A match sits in its box—unstruck, ready to ignite at any instant. Fire is hidden, asleep. All around is darkness; the match lies there. No light comes from the match; yet light can appear from it. And when it does, darkness breaks. And when it does, it does not come from the sky. It comes only because it was in the match; otherwise it could not come. Then what is the difference?
What is the difference between self-ignorance and self-knowledge? Only the difference between sleep and wakefulness. Hence we call Buddha, Buddha—not his name; his name was Siddhartha Gautama. Buddha means the awakened one. We call Gautama Siddhartha, Buddha—because he awakened. We call Mahavira, Jina. Jina means the one who has conquered himself.
To awaken becomes victory; to sleep becomes defeat. Even the greatest power, if asleep, is defeated by the weakest. A wrestler may sleep and a small child can plunge a dagger into his chest. A mighty elephant may sleep and a tiny ant entering his trunk may bring death.
The Atman is an immense power, a blazing fire. But if it sleeps, a nothing like anger overpowers it. A nothing like lust subdues it. The darkness which is not at all, encircles that which is much, is deep, is eternal, never lost. The vaster the power, if asleep, the easier it is defeated by the smallest.
Our defeat is our sleep. Our self-ignorance is our torpor, our sleepiness. We are sleep-walkers. Therefore even the Atman, which is never ignorant, appears veiled by ignorance. The lamp is there—extinguished, asleep. Oil is there, wick is there, the match is there; the flame could be lit. But all is darkness.
In man everything needed for light is present. All is present. No lack. God sends every person complete. Yet we live incomplete and die incomplete. Stranger still, we die more incomplete than we were born. The treasure a child brings, the old man departs having lost even that. What happens?
Our sleep grows deeper. Our torpor increases. In childhood we are more alert than in youth. In youth, a heavy stupor takes hold—the stupor of desire, of sex. A swoon of lust settles in.
In old age we drown still more. In youth, sex becomes a deep darkness and takes possession. Then whatever one does, one does for that desire—money, position, fame—everything is offered to sex, to lust.
In youth, man is drunk and asleep in the stupor of sex. In old age, sex departs, for the senses weaken, the body approaches death. Then old age is seized by the craving for life—the lust for life. Jiveshana takes hold: may I not die; may I survive—by any means.
Thus the old man, just as the young man longs to give birth to another, longs to save himself. The longing to give birth becomes lust; the longing to save oneself becomes greed. Youth’s disease is lust; old age’s disease is greed. And if an old man warns a youth against lust, the reasons he gives spring from greed— you will be ruined; you will lose wealth; you will destroy health. Whatever reasons old people give the young—greed is their base. Lust is the pain, the darkness of youth; greed is the pain of old age. The old man becomes more and more greedy.
I have heard: In a great metropolis a beggar sat daily on a main boulevard, begging. In the morning he would arrive with something hidden at his side. Till noon he would not bring it out. He kept a placard tucked in his clothes. He would beg, yelling at people; by noon he would be tired. Then he would place the placard before him and sit silently behind it. On the placard was written—I am deaf and dumb. By noon he was spent, no strength to shout; so he became deaf and dumb. He also drank.
All beggars do. Only emperors can save themselves. And if an emperor also drinks, know that he is a beggar; and if a beggar does not drink, know that he is an emperor. One who is miserable cannot avoid knocking himself unconscious. And who is miserable in this world? The one whose desires are many. Desires do not fulfill; misery comes.
The beggar had great desires. Till noon he begged much. He came every day resolved that today he would beg for a million—today a king would pass and there would be a shower of gold and silver. But nothing happened; a few copper coins clinked. By noon he was upset; he began to drink. By evening, as the sun sank, he became so unconscious that at the last flicker of awareness he would flip the placard over.
It was a reversible signboard. It was written on both sides. On the other side— I am paralyzed. Then he would fall down drunk. In the morning he begged; by noon he became deaf and dumb; by evening he drowned in intoxication. Just before falling, he would do only one last thing—turn the placard over.
Life passes almost exactly like this. Childhood brims with great hopes—everything will be attained: flowers of fancy, songs of dreams. Then youth comes. Disillusionment begins, one by one the illusions break. Just before old age, all the senses become deaf and dumb. Then unconsciousness and torpor take over. Long before death, most people become paralyzed—paralyzed in every sense. A deep paralysis.
Long before dying, many die. Very few remain alive up to death. Very few are alive till death; most die long before. Some die at thirty, some at forty. It is another matter that one is buried at seventy or eighty. Often there is a distance between dying and burial. And the one who remains alive up to death—just as fresh as in childhood, just as blossoming—death cannot kill him. Death will come and pass; he will stand alive beyond death.
But sleep grows each day. In the morning when we rise we are fresh; by noon we are tired, drowsiness begins; by evening we are exhausted, we fall and sleep. Each time, each life—the same morning, the same noon, the same dusk. Without end: childhood, youth, old age—then the sun sinks; we fall unconscious into the dust. Then we arise; then we fall again. And no thought ever occurs to awaken from this sleep.
Krishna says: the one who awakens—his soul’s knowledge manifests; self-ignorance falls away. Only such a person can see God in this existence. Only such a one can experience God.
A sleeping man cannot even experience himself—God is far, very far. One pressed down by sleep does not even know himself—how will he know God? Yet many there are who do not know themselves and go out to seek God. Their search will never complete.
Self-knowledge is the doorway to God-knowledge. And the one who has known himself—God is not far now; he is near, utterly near. The mirror has been found; now to catch a glimpse of God is not difficult; it will be caught. God is present all around. Once the mirror of the heart is clean, clear…
The one whose antahkarana is pure, Krishna says—pure and clear—begins to catch the glimpse of God. And then it is not that he must go to Badrinath or Kedarnath, or to Kaaba or Mecca or Jerusalem to see Him. Wherever you are, His portrait is. Whatever you see—there He is. And if you close your eyes—there too He is. Even if he sleeps, for the self-knower only the body sleeps; within, He remains awake, knowing, seeing. We remain asleep even while awake; the self-knower remains awake even in sleep.
Therefore Krishna says: the torpor of self-ignorance which has surrounded you must be removed, must be broken.
How to break it? If you want to remove darkness, what will you do? Will you bring a sword to cut it? It will not be cut. Light the lamp; increase the flame. If you want to remove self-ignorance, do not be concerned with ignorance at all. Awaken self-knowledge and nourish it. By what does self-knowledge grow?
I will give you two or three sutras. First—resolve, will. Whoever wants to light the flame of self-knowledge must hold fast to the sutra of resolve. Resolve is the oil; without it, the inner lamp will not burn. Without resolve, the lamp of self-knowledge will not be lit. And we have no resolve at all. None.
A friend came the day before yesterday and said— I want to take sannyas, but these ochre robes I will wear only in the house, not outside. Why not outside? He said— What will people say!
What will people say! Public opinion has become our soul. What will people say! Can anyone be a sannyasin hiding in the house? That we close the door and put on ochre within? Great bravery! Then why not wear it when dying and go to the grave! No one will come back to comment.
Such lack of resolve! Such weakness! The mind so mean, so beggarly—what will people say! Such slavery to others! Then to awaken the soul will be very difficult. Very difficult. This is a small thing. Clothes are your own whim. Has man not even the freedom to wear the clothes he wants? Must he ask another even for this? Then are you there at all? And the amusing thing is: those you fear are afraid of you. Those you fear are afraid of you!
I have heard: One evening Mulla Nasruddin sat on the cemetery wall near a grave. He had been reading Don Quixote and such things, how enemies sometimes attack when one is alone. Evening was falling, the sun going down. He saw some people outside the village coming with band and music, carrying swords. He thought: danger! Enemies are coming! He was still full of the book. He ran into the graveyard. Where to hide? A new grave had been dug, perhaps they had gone to fetch the corpse. He thought— I will lie in this till these people pass. He lay in the pit.
Those approaching saw him leap and run. They were no enemies, only a wedding party going to another village. They were puzzled— why did he run so fast? They climbed the wall and peered in. Nasruddin was now certain his guess was right— they have come! They are even coming inside! He lay there with eyes shut.
Seeing that he was alive, awake, and lying in a grave, and had closed his eyes on seeing them, they climbed down. They shook him— What are you doing? Alive, why are you lying in a grave? Why did you run? Why are you trembling? Nasruddin said— Do not ask that. I want to ask why you are after me. Why have you come here? They said— That is what we want to ask— why are you hiding in a grave? Nasruddin said— End the matter. I am here because of you, and you are here because of me. Leave it. It is all without reason!
We fear others; others fear us. All are afraid of one another.
No—thus the soul will not be born. The first sign of resolve is: what I see as right, I will do. What I see as wrong, I will not do—even if the whole world says do it. And what I see as right, I will do—even if the whole world says do not do it.
In this world only those souls grow who are free of the futile fear of the crowd.
Resolve is the first sutra to increase self-knowledge—will power.
The second sutra is courage. We go on postponing— tomorrow, the day after. We think the right time has not come. The real reason is something else: we cannot gather courage, so we deceive ourselves. We are not even ready to understand that we are not courageous, we are weak. Even if one understands this— I say, that too is great courage. The man who understands he is not courageous has already done something courageous. But we go on thinking of ourselves as brave and keep pushing to tomorrow— we will do it tomorrow, the day after— in the hope that of course we can, we will do it later. Postponement continues.
Courage means: that which feels right—do it now, today, here. Tomorrow has no guarantee. Whether tomorrow comes at all is uncertain. And courage does not mean merely walking into darkness, nor wrestling with someone. Courage, in its deepest spiritual sense, is a leap into the unknown—descending into the uncharted.
In the known we move with ease. The unknown we cannot enter. And remember: God is the unknown. Remember: the Atman is utterly unknown, the uncharted. A path untraveled. A sea unfamiliar. No map in hand. You must go alone. None can go with you.
Remember: courage also means the courage to be alone. Outside, we can be with others; within, we must be alone.
If you do not have this courage to be alone, you will never attain self-knowledge. There is no company there. You must be alone. The man who says, I cannot be alone, I need someone with me—he may travel the whole world, reach the moon, tomorrow Mars—but he will not enter within. For there one goes alone; there is no way to take another along. This is courage.
And the third point: Those who waste their energy in the smallest, most trivial matters of life will never attain self-knowledge. First sutra, resolve; second, courage; third, restraint.
Those who go on wasting life energy, day by day, so much that nothing remains to ride upon into the within—such men are like a lamp with a hole and oil keeps leaking; like a boat with a leak and water fills in; like a bucket with a crack with which you try to draw from a well. That is your condition. You waste twenty-four hours and then there is not enough left.
People come and say— when we sit to meditate, we fall asleep. Of course you will. Some strength must be saved. Meditation is taken as the last item. After you have done everything else, finished all your stupidities—fought, quarreled, been angry, loved and hated, made friends and enemies, squandered every coin; when nothing remains, when even the scrap of a two-paisa newspaper has been read ten times, the radio knob turned a dozen times, the same old nonsense with wife and children repeated for the thousandth time—when nothing remains to do, then a man thinks, now let me meditate. Then he closes his eyes!
With such impotence, such weakness of energy, meditation will not happen. You will not go within; you will go into sleep. Power is needed even for the inner journey. Therefore the one who moves toward self-knowledge must understand: you are paying a price for each drop of energy—and it is costly, very costly.
When a man burns in anger, aflame, he does not know what he is losing. He knows nothing of what he is throwing away. With the energy he spent in hurling four abuses, he could have leapt into deep meditation.
A man playing cards—what is he losing, he does not know. A man caught in chess with knights and bishops—what is he losing, he does not know. A man puffing a cigarette—smoke in, smoke out—what is he losing, he does not know. With that much energy, the inner journey could have begun.
Remember, drop by drop whole oceans are emptied. Because of the body, your energy is limited. Life becomes empty very soon.
Three sutras I give you. If these remain in your awareness—resolve, will; courage; restraint, conservation—if these three s remain in awareness, your self-knowledge can flare up. In that instant, self-ignorance dissolves. And the one who knows himself…
Keep these three sutras in mind and self-ignorance is cut. What remains is the flame of self-knowledge. In the purity of that flame, in the mirror of that flame, the reflection of the Lord is caught. It is this Krishna speaks in the sutra:
तद्बुद्धयस्तदात्मानस्तन्निष्ठास्तत्परायणाः।
गच्छन्त्यपुनरावृत्तिं ज्ञाननिर्धूतकल्मषाः।। 17।।
And Arjuna, those whose intellect is That, whose mind is That, who abide established in That alone, whose supreme refuge is That—they, cleansed of sin by knowledge, go to non-return, to the supreme state.
Those whose tendency, whose consciousness has become tadrup—one—with the Paramatman; whose small flame has become one with the supreme sun; whose small veena-note has fused with the supreme Nada—such men do not return; there is no coming back for them. They reach the point of no return—where there is no falling back, no sinking again into darkness and ignorance.
Hold a few things in mind.
First, glimpses of God come—often—but tadrupata does not happen. Glimpses come, but union does not. A glimpse is like someone jumping up from the earth— for a moment he is outside the pull of gravity, outside the tug of the earth. But only for a moment. Before it can be, the earth calls him back. He returns.
Or like lightning flashes in the night. The night is dark, new moon, the monsoon—lightning flashes. For a moment, in the flash, everything is seen; and before it is seen, darkness—thicker than before. Note: after lightning the darkness is denser than before; the eyes are dazzled.
Often the seeker receives a glimpse, but the glimpse does not become tadrupata. Hence Krishna says— the one who becomes tadrup. Not that he has known God, but that he has become God. Not that he has taken a distant glimpse, but that there is no distance left; he has become that. Then there is no return. No repetition. No coming back.
The seeker gets glimpses many times. And one must be cautious with glimpses: he who mistakes the glimpse for tadrupata can fall into a deeper darkness.
What is the difference between glimpse and tadrupata? In a glimpse, you are, and God is experienced. In tadrupata, you are gone, and God is. In tadrupata only God is; you are not. In a glimpse, you are; God appears for a moment. This sometimes happens even unawares. Unawares.
Edmund Burke wrote that once while walking the road, suddenly—no practice, no method, no effort—suddenly he felt that all around was light. It only seems sudden. To Burke it felt abrupt; but somewhere a hidden residue of past efforts found a congenial moment and flared.
Sometimes on the high Himalayas a seeker, for a moment… Hence the fascination of the Himalayas. The reason is: the white, pure peaks spread afar; in a certain instant, in the shining rays of the sun they become gold. People are far, society far, the marketplace far—the day-to-day talk and tangle—far. Everything is cool, serene. The body is not hot enough even to allow anger. Blood pressure is down. The white peaks, turned golden by the sun. In that moment, by a natural cause, the mind may come to such a state that for a moment it seems God is all around.
But this glimpse cannot be called tadrupata. Glimpses can be had by other devices too. But a glimpse will always feel like an experience, an added item to your collection. You remain. Your old continuity remains. Into your memory you add one more line: I too have had a glimpse of God.
Such a man’s ego becomes stronger. He will say everywhere—I have known God. But the emphasis will be less on God, more on I have known. And if the I is emphasized, darkness thickens.
Therefore Krishna says very clearly— the one who becomes tadrup!
Only he does not return. Tadrup means he becomes one with the Divine. He will not say—I have known God. He will say—I am gone. Now only God is. I am not. He will not say—I experienced God. He will say—as long as I was, it did not happen. When I was not, it happened. Not to me.
Remember, the real union of I and God never happens. I and God never truly stand face to face. A glimpse may be had; but if the I stands fully in front of God, it instantly falls and dissolves.
Kabir said: As long as I was searching, he was not found, because I was the seeker. Seeking and seeking, I disappeared—then he was found. When I was not, he was. As long as I was, he was not.
Tadrupata means egolessness. The sense that I am dissolves. The state arises—only God is. Then there is no returning. Whom will you bring back? The one who could return is lost.
The whole journey of samsara is the journey of the ego—coming and going. Remember, the long tale of births is not the tale of the soul; it is the tale of the ego. The ego comes and goes. The Atman neither comes nor goes. One who knows this even once—his circulation ends. There remains no way to return; all bridges are broken, the roads destroyed. The returner is lost. Krishna calls this state supreme liberation.
Supreme liberation does not mean the liberation of I; it means liberation from I. I repeat: liberation not of the I, but from the I.
We all imagine—when we are liberated, we will live joyfully in moksha. When we are liberated, there will be no suffering; we will be. When we are liberated, there will be no pain, no bondage; we will be. Remember: the greatest pain and the greatest bondage is the very sense of I.
Those who think that in moksha there will be bliss and we will be there with bliss—are mistaken. If you are there, sorrow will be there. If you want to preserve yourself, hell is the most convenient, safe place. If you want to save the I, then journey to hell. There the I becomes very dense. From that density such a fire blazes—such flames, such suffering.
Consider—all your sufferings are sufferings of the I. Have you ever known a sorrow that was not of the I? All sorrow belongs to the I. With the I, joy cannot be. With the I, sorrow will come like a shadow. If someone preserves his I and reaches heaven, he is mistaken; it will not be heaven—hell will reappear.
I have heard: A man knocked at the gate of heaven. The doorkeeper opened— Come, welcome. The door closed. Outside, a poor, humble man had been standing for long. He was so meek that he had not dared to knock. Seeing that knocking opens the door and someone entered, his courage grew. He too knocked. The gatekeeper opened— Come in. He entered expecting the band to play for him too, seeing that inside drums and music were sounding and a welcome was taking place—perhaps for the one who had just entered. But nothing happened for him. He asked— Where are the bands? Where is the welcome? The one before me was welcomed. Is injustice done to us poor even here?
The gatekeeper said— Not so. People like you come every day—the humble, who do not knock and wait aside. This man who came just now is a great pundit, a scholar. Such learned ones come once in a hundred, two hundred, four hundred, five hundred years. Hence the welcome. It is a rare event. The likes of you come daily. But such a pundit comes once in a few centuries—so we welcomed him. It was a special event.
The poor man was amazed. He said— We thought pundits always go to heaven; we poor, who do not understand, fall into hell. The gatekeeper said— On earth many kinds of errors prevail; this is one of them.
The pundit is so full of the idea that I know that entering heaven is very difficult for him. Even the ignorant can enter—if he is humble. Because the humble is no longer ignorant; humility is only possible when one has the capacity to drop the ego.
A learned man cannot enter if he is not humble. Where there is arrogance and ego, there will be only the pretension of knowledge, illusion—knowledge cannot be.
Only he who is ready to be free from the I enters moksha. This freedom from the I—not the freedom of the I—this is tadrupata. Oneness.
Where in life do you see tadrupata? Where does something become one with that which is? You light a fire. Soon the wood burns and becomes one with the fire. Only ash remains.
Hence fire was chosen early by almost all religions as a symbol. In fire, wood burns and becomes one with it. Thus fire became the sacrificial altar. The Parsis kept fire burning day and night as the holy focus—because in fire wood keeps becoming tadrup.
Exactly so, when the ego, left in the fire of God, burns, burns, agrees to burn—it becomes tadrup; only then does one reach the place from which there is no return.
And without reaching that place there is no joy in life, no nectar, no rasa, no beauty, no music. From that moment music begins; before that, only noise. From that moment nectar begins; before that, only the tale of death. From that moment light begins; before that, darkness upon darkness. From that moment life becomes a celebration.
The moment I is lost, life becomes a festivity—a dance, a rejoicing, an ecstasy, a Samadhi, a divine rapture. Before that, life is only pricked by thorns; life is only wounded—pained, tormented, rotting. Before that, life is a stench, a dissonance, a derangement, a madness.
Krishna says— it can be so, Arjuna. If the antahkarana is pure, the soul awakens in knowledge, and tadrupata with God happens; if the little flame loses itself in the supreme Light—then there is no return.
विद्याविनयसंपन्ने ब्राह्मणे गवि हस्तिनि।
शुनि चैव श्वपाके च पण्डिताः समदर्शिनः।। 18।।
इहैव तैर्जितः सर्गो येषां साम्ये स्थितं मनः।
निर्दोषं हि समं ब्रह्म तस्माद् ब्रह्मणि ते स्थिताः।। 19।।
Such knowers see with equal vision the learned and courteous Brahmin, the cow, the elephant, the dog, and the outcaste.
Therefore those whose mind abides in samata have conquered the whole world even here in life—for Brahman is flawless and equal; hence they abide in Brahman.
He who would attain God must become like God. There is only one condition for attainment: you must become that which you seek. This is a deep law—eternal—and it applies on all planes of life.
If someone wants wealth, soon you will see he has become a metal pot. If someone wants position, soon you will see no difference between him and the rigidity of the chair. In truth, whatever we want, knowingly or not, we become it. Without becoming it, we cannot attain it. We only attain what we become. Whatever we desire—in this world or beyond—we become that.
Hence, in a person’s face, eyes, hands, it is written—what he seeks. One can say on seeing him what he wants to attain. For upon all his expressions, even his skin, it is inscribed.
He who wants God must become like God. What are the essential marks of God?
First, God is equal—sam—not uneven. Samata, balance—the absolute balance. All is equal in God. Not a single ripple, which brings asymmetry. All as if the two pans of a scale are exactly at the same point, without a quiver. As if the strings of a veena are perfectly tuned—neither too slack nor too taut. Such samata is the form of the Divine.
Whoever wants God must move toward samata. If someone tries to remain uneven and attain God—impossible. In unevenness, God cannot be attained.
Therefore one who drowns in anger, greed, lust, hatred, jealousy—he cannot move toward God. These disturb the mind, excite it, agitate it, make it uneven. The one who flowers in compassion, love, forgiveness, charity, kindness—he moves toward God, for these create samata within.
Have you noticed: when you are filled with greed, your inner balance wobbles. The pans go up and down. Waves arise.
Whatever brings asymmetry within—know it is adharma. There is a touchstone for adharma: that which creates excitation and imbalance. And there is a touchstone for dharma: that which creates samata and equilibrium. If such a moment arises that your heart stands still like the two pans of a scale—neither down nor up, no weight on either—both level; when the scale is even—sam—then tadrupata with God begins to happen.
But our mind is always tilted—on some side, toward some tendency, some greed, some desire. We lean for someone and against someone. For some we are favorable, for others opposed. Toward some we are attracted, toward others repelled. Ever leaning. And the leaning changes many times in twenty-four hours! We ourselves cannot be sure on which side the camel will sit by evening. Many postures in a single day.
This uneven state of chitta cannot lead toward God.
God is sam—samata. In scientific terms, equanimity. The word God can even be dropped; it is enough to say: the fundamental nature of life is samata. There all is equal.
One who travels toward the Divine must watch, twenty-four hours—am I losing samata or deepening it? Outwardly there may be little difference; the real question is inner knowing. Outwardly a man may seem equal and inwardly be uneven; the reverse is also possible. When a Krishna lifts the Sudarshan chakra it may appear outwardly as unevenness, but within there is samata.
The real issue is within. Therefore do not look at others. Each must keep watching within: am I increasing samata, deepening, densifying it—or breaking, dissolving, destroying it?
Like someone walking toward a garden. The garden is still far, but as he nears, the air grows cool. Knowing the coolness, he thinks— my steps are on the right path. Closer, though he still cannot see the garden, fragrance begins to arrive; then he knows his steps are right.
Exactly so—if the feeling of samata begins to arise within, know you are walking toward God. If unevenness begins to arise, know your steps are reversed. If the winds turn hot, you are going away from the garden. If stench fills the mind instead of fragrance, you are going the wrong way.
Therefore Krishna says: the one who attains samata attains oneness with God, tadrupata. And when one becomes one with God, whether in the elephant, the horse, the cow—Krishna lists all—he sees only God.
This too is an important law of life: we see outside only that which is deep within. We never see more than ourselves in the world. Outside we see only what is deep inside us.
Someone comes to you. Instantly you think— perhaps he has come to ask for money! He has not yet said a word.
I have heard: a man asked a friend for a hundred rupees. The friend was startled— naturally, ask anyone for money and he will look just like that. He thought— lost! But he could afford a hundred; he did not want to lose friendship. He gave the hundred.
Exactly fifteen days later, as promised, at noon, the man returned the money. The friend was surprised. This was beyond belief.
Fifteen days later the man asked for five hundred. The friend’s heart beat faster. Still within his means, he gave it. Wonder of wonders— exactly on time, it was returned. He was even more astonished.
Fifteen days later the man asked for a thousand. The friend said— Enough! You have fooled me twice; a third time is too much to expect. The borrower said— How did I fool you? I returned twice. The friend said— You may have returned, but not once did I think you would. If you had not, I would feel I am smart— my knowledge proved true. But you returned; thus you made me the fool. Once you fooled me. Even the second time I thought you would not; again you made me a fool. But now forgive me— trusting a third time is too much. He could not understand what was happening.
Usually this is how it is. We do not understand. The other speaks from his within; we speak from ours. That is why there are so few dialogues in the world. Everyone speaks from his inside. And when you speak, you do not speak to the person present—you speak to the image you project is present.
The husband says something, the wife understands something else. The wife says something, the husband understands something else. She protests— That is not my meaning—still he understands another thing. He protests— That was never my meaning—yet she hears something else. What is this? In this world there is hardly any dialogue.
We understand only what we project. When two people meet in a room, two do not meet—at least six meet. One, I as I am; two, the other as he is—these two hardly meet. One, the I I try to show; two, the he he tries to show—these two sometimes meet. One, the he I imagine; two, the I he imagines—these two often meet. So at least six. Of these, the two who meet are false; those less false meet sometimes; and those authentic never meet. That is the reason.
We see in the other what is in us. One who becomes tadrup with the Divine will begin to see God all around. There will be no other way left; it will be seen. When within God is visible, beyond your eyes too God will be visible. When He is visible through your own bones, He will be visible through another’s bones. When the temple within your body is known, the temple within the other’s body is also known.
Thus Krishna says: he begins to see God in all.
We do not even see Him in ourselves—seeing Him in another will be far more difficult. The whole journey must begin at home. If I cannot see God within myself, how will I see Him in you? Within I see a thief, a cheat—then I will see a thief and a cheat in you. I will read; the book will be yours, but I will read only what I can read. I will take out only the meanings I can take out.
Therefore every book is misread in this world, every person misread. It will be so—because the reader can only read himself.
Buddha said— One night it happened, in my assembly, like you are gathered here, thousands were gathered. I told the bhikkhus: What I say you will not understand; you will understand only what you can. A monk rose— What are you saying? We will understand what you say. How can we understand what you do not say? Buddha said— Listen. Last night this happened. You came; also a thief came; also a prostitute. After the discourse, I said— Now engage in the night’s last work. The monks closed their eyes and entered meditation. The thief thought— Night is advanced; time to work. The prostitute thought— Let me go; customers must be coming.
Buddha said— I said one thing; three meanings arose.
No—we take in only what is in us. Our world is our projection. Each person carries his world with him. Whatever happens outside, we are reminded of our own inside.
I have heard: an earthquake struck a village. One man was on the road—many were. The quake shook houses; things fell. People ran, crying— Oh God! We will die. This man said— Oh God! I remember— my wife gave me a letter two days ago to mail, and it is still in my pocket! The neighbor said— What are you saying! An earthquake and you remember a letter in your pocket! He said— Yes, because if she knows I did not post it, there will be an earthquake in my house!
The other could not see the connection—irrelevant. But someone can—each his own house, each his own experience.
There is a net within a man and with that net he measures the whole world. So when someone appears a thief to you, look again—is not your inner thief collaborating? When someone appears dishonest, look inside—is not your dishonesty a cause?
I am not saying there are no thieves and no cheats in the world. They are. That is not the point. But when it appears to you, look within— is there not some premise inside that supports this interpretation? And if there is, know this: the harm is not in the other’s thievery as much as in your seeing him as a thief. For then seeing God in this world becomes difficult. And the other, even if he is a thief, cannot take anything truly precious from you; but if you see a thief in the other, you may be deprived of something truly precious—the possibility of seeing God there.
Therefore, the last counsel to the seeker: he will remain continuously engaged in two efforts. First, as I said—am I moving toward samata or not? Second, he will strive to see in the other something auspicious that can remind him of God. If you see the inauspicious in the other, you will be reminded of the devil, not of God. In the other let me see something by which God is remembered.
In Tibet there was a fakir, Milarepa. He used to say: I call that man irreligious who, if told— In our village such-and-such man plays the flute beautifully—responds— Nonsense; what flute! He is an utter thief. And I call that man religious who, if told— In our village such-and-such man is a thief—replies— I cannot believe it; he plays the flute so beautifully—how could he be a thief!
For the same man who both steals and plays the flute, the irreligious chooses the theft and cancels the flute; the religious chooses the flute and cancels the theft. The thief remains unchanged; but the interpreter is transformed. In one in whom you see a thief, to see God becomes difficult. In one in whom you hear the sweet music of the flute, to see God becomes easy. If you see a thief in the other, unevenness will arise within; if you hear the flute in the other, samata will arise within.
These two sutras are two halves of one. If you want samata within, you must see the auspicious without. If you want unevenness within, you must see the inauspicious without.
Stop seeing the inauspicious outside. And remember: on this earth even the worst man has some ray of the auspicious within. And remember too: even the best man has something inauspicious that can be found. It depends on you. And once you find one inauspicious trait in someone, trusting his auspiciousness becomes hard. Once you find one auspicious trait, the door opens to others.
To bring samata within, begin to see the auspicious without. As much as you can, see the auspicious. Samata will thicken.
Samata within, the auspicious without—and you will find that between these two, God’s ray begins to descend. And the day is not far when, in the perfect state of samata and auspiciousness, tadrupata with God happens.
Now, for five minutes, let us be in tadrupata with the Divine. Do not take this as singing alone—take it as tadrupata. Know that it is the Divine who dances. Sit, clap, sing. Sitting where you are, be filled with bliss.