Neither exulting on gaining the pleasant nor shaken on gaining the unpleasant.
Steady in intellect, unbewildered, a knower of Brahman, established in Brahman.
Geeta Darshan #9
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
न प्रहृष्येत्प्रियं प्राप्य नोद्विजेत्प्राप्य चाप्रियम्।
स्थिरबुद्धिरसंमूढो ब्रह्मविद् ब्रह्मणि स्थितः।। 20।।
स्थिरबुद्धिरसंमूढो ब्रह्मविद् ब्रह्मणि स्थितः।। 20।।
Transliteration:
na prahṛṣyetpriyaṃ prāpya nodvijetprāpya cāpriyam|
sthirabuddhirasaṃmūḍho brahmavid brahmaṇi sthitaḥ|| 20||
na prahṛṣyetpriyaṃ prāpya nodvijetprāpya cāpriyam|
sthirabuddhirasaṃmūḍho brahmavid brahmaṇi sthitaḥ|| 20||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, in this verse it is said that the knower of Brahman, unagitated amid pleasant and unpleasant experiences, with steady intellect and free of doubt, abides ever in the Divine through oneness. There is a word here: doubtless. Please say something on how the person who remains equal in agreeable and disagreeable experiences becomes free of doubt.
Doubt too is a name for the vibration of consciousness. Krishna has spoken of the “doubtless”—and knowingly so. Consciousness trembles in two ways: either through the door of feeling, emotion; or through the door of intellect, thought. Consciousness has two doorways: feeling and thinking.
First Krishna says: the one who is steady between the pleasant and the unpleasant. This pertains to the door of feeling. Let there be no shaking in the heart. Pleasant or unpleasant—this is the language of the heart. If the heart finds something pleasant, it trembles; if it finds something unpleasant, it trembles. Become steady at the heart’s door.
Second, he says, be free of doubt. Doubt is the trembling of the intellect. When the intellect trembles, it is not because of pleasant or unpleasant. The intellect trembles over right and wrong. The heart trembles over pleasant and unpleasant; the intellect trembles over right and wrong. Let one stand the same in “right,” let one stand the same in “wrong.” Let there be no trembling through the doorway of the intellect either.
Someone asks you, “Is there God?” One intellect at once says, “Yes.” Another says, “No.” It has shaken. Shaken! The theist who says “Yes” has shaken; the atheist who says “No” has shaken. The theist trembles in agreement; the atheist trembles in disagreement. But both tremble.
Krishna is speaking of the religious person for whom, when someone says “There is God,” the intellect does not fall into doubt. It does not even form the slightest doubt of “Is there or is there not?” It remains unshaken.
This is the mark of the supreme theist. One who does not tremble either for or against God—that person attains God. It is a bit difficult. Very difficult. In truth, the genuine theist will not insist even as much as “There is God.” Because that too is a vibration. It is simply to move into opposition to “No.” That is merely being the opposite of the atheist; it is not yet being a theist. Theism is such a vast happening that it includes the atheist within itself.
A man came to Buddha and asked, “I don’t believe in God—can I become peaceful?” Buddha said, “Without becoming peaceful, how will you ever be able to believe in God?” The man asked again, “I don’t believe in God—can I become peaceful?” Buddha said, “Without becoming peaceful, how will you be able to believe in God?” So whoever tells you, “First believe in God,” is wrong. No one in the world becomes peaceful by believing in God. For whoever is not peaceful cannot truly believe in God. Become peaceful. The man asked, “Then there is no need to believe in God at all?” Buddha said, “No need at all. Become peaceful—peace is needed.”
The man took up the practice of peace. A year passed. Buddha asked him, “Have you become peaceful?” He said, “I have become utterly peaceful.” Buddha asked, “What is your view now about God?” He said, “Now I will not form any view. Now I know that ‘God is’ was the idea of the unquiet; ‘God is not’ was also the idea of the unquiet. I will form no idea. About God I will say nothing. If my eyes can speak, let them speak. If my moving feet can speak, let them speak. If my hands can speak, let them speak. If my very being can speak, let it speak. I will not speak. And if God is, then every breath of my life will say so.”
Theism too is a doubt, a trembling—in favor. Atheism too is a doubt, a trembling—against. Religiousness is unshaken, without tremor—neither for nor against. Religiousness is the transcendence of both theism and atheism, going beyond both.
And remember, no matter how much you persuade an atheist to become a theist, the disease changes; the atheist does not. No matter how much you persuade a theist to become an atheist, the disease changes; the theist does not. By changing diseases, health does not arrive.
Taking sides is disease; impartiality is health. Taking sides is disease; impartiality is health. Taking sides means you have leaned, wavered, chosen. A choice has happened. You could not remain on the bank. Impartial means you did not choose, you remained on the bank.
For the heart, the pleasant and the unpleasant cause trembling. For the intellect, belief and disbelief cause trembling. The one who stands doubtless even between belief and disbelief—
Remember, people usually interpret “doubtless” to mean “firm believer”: the one who believes firmly is without doubt. I do not. I say, the one who says, “I believe firmly,” has doubt present within just as firmly. To suppress that doubt he is placing the rock of firmness upon it. Whoever says, “I have a solid faith,” know that he is afraid of his inner unbelief. To suppress that, he is building a wall of strong faith. One who truly has faith does not talk of strong or weak.
If someone tells you, “My love is solid,” understand that love is not solid. Because the very thought of solidity arises only for the one who is shaky; otherwise, there is no question of solid. The one who loves perhaps cannot even say, “I love.” Even that much will seem wrong to him. If love itself has not said it, what can words add? If love itself cannot say, what can we say with words?
On this earth, those who truly loved have perhaps never said it. What should they say? If love itself cannot speak, what more could we say?
But the one who beats his chest and says, “I give you firm assurance—my love is true and solid,” if you enter within him a little, somewhere you will find the unripe and the false hiding. To suppress that, he makes all these arrangements. It is a safety measure.
When someone says, “My faith is firm”—the more stiffly he says it—the more it means he is afraid of himself. These firm believers are afraid even to hear someone else’s view. Because a hidden fear is within—they fear it may at any moment surface. That is why dogmatism is born, bigotry arises. Everyone says, “I am absolutely certain.” The doubt is their own. One who has no doubt is doubtless. One who has merely suppressed doubt has only suppressed doubt; he is not doubtless.
Krishna says, doubtless—one in whom there is no doubt at all.
Doubtlessness is a very innocent state. Faith, as commonly found, is not very guileless; it is a well-built arrangement, calculated. People cling to theism out of fear of the atheism within. Out of this same fear—lest some contrary word be heard—ears are kept shut.
You have heard, haven’t you, of the man “Ghantakarna,” who tied bells to his ears, lest any contrary word be heard! He would keep ringing his own bells. Then the ears won’t hear, nothing contrary will be heard. But such a person must have been very weak. If merely hearing a contrary word is so frightening, that fear does not come from the contrary word; it comes from somewhere within. Something is hidden deep inside.
Who will be doubtless? Only the one who, just as he is neutral between like and dislike in the heart, is neutral between belief and disbelief in the intellect.
And in this world we cannot truly change anyone’s belief. We can only change the disease. And often even that we cannot. No matter how much you explain—does anyone really convince anyone else in this world? No.
Try to explain someone: the more you explain, the more he grows firm in his own position. He makes more arrangements, thinking you are attacking. He fears within that perhaps his wall may be weak; he piles on more bricks and stones and builds a higher wall; he fortifies. Those who try to explain usually only strengthen the other in his own side. They do nothing else. Explain to an atheist, and he becomes a stronger atheist; explain to a theist, he becomes a stronger theist. Why? Because he feels attacked and fortifies himself.
I have heard of a man who went a bit mad and formed the notion that he was dead. He was alive, but he got the idea that he had died. The family became distressed. They tried to explain: “You are alive.” He said, “How can I believe that when I’m already dead!” How to explain to a man that he’s alive! People said, “Look at us—we stand before you.” He said, “You too are dead. You’re ghosts, spirits. We are all ghosts now. No one is alive; all have died.” People said, “We are speaking to you.” He said, “I hear—but all are ghosts. No one is alive.”
Finally they took him to a physician. The doctor said, “Don’t worry, we’ll try to convince him.” He put the man before a mirror and told him, “For three hours, like a mantra, keep repeating one sentence: ‘Dead men do not bleed.’ Repeat: ‘Dead men don’t bleed.’” The man chanted for three hours, “Dead men don’t bleed.” After three hours, the doctor went to him and pricked his hand with a knife—blood began to flow. Smiling, the doctor asked, “Now then, what does this prove? What is proved by this?” The man said, “This proves that dead men do bleed.” And what else could it prove!
All arguments are futile. Arguments only strengthen the opposition. Imagine the doctor’s condition—three hours of effort undone in a single sentence!
Nothing is ever settled by dispute in this world. Why not? Because no one is in search of truth; they are in search of their side. And when someone constructs a side, he always remains afraid, for the opposite remains present within. He defends himself less against you and more against the explosion within himself. So he keeps strengthening his arrangements. You bring ten reasons that God is; he brings ten that He is not. You bring ten that God is not; the theist brings ten that He is. That is why for five to ten thousand years the world has disputed. Has anyone’s doubt ever been removed by belief or disbelief? By becoming Hindu, Muslim? Christian? No one’s doubt is removed.
Krishna means something entirely different. He says: if you want to end doubt, don’t fall into for and against. Become silent, stand apart from both. Say, “I do not know whether this is right or that is right. I will stand impartial.”
Standing impartial is right. Of two, choosing one is not right; standing at a third point, impartial, is right, doubtless. Then there will be no more doubt.
Doubt happens only when there is belief. Keep this in mind too. Whoever clutches belief will be clutched by doubt as well. If you clutch “God is,” twenty-five doubts will arise: What is He like? Why is He? Since when? If you say “He is not,” then twenty-five doubts arise: How then is this world? Why does life go on? Why do people live and die? Why is there happiness and sorrow? The doubts will keep clutching. But if you clutch neither belief nor disbelief, can doubt clutch you? Doubt needs a peg: belief or disbelief. Hold neither. Krishna says: you will become free of doubt, doubtless.
Become neutral at the heart’s door concerning pleasant and unpleasant; become neutral at the intellect’s door concerning belief and disbelief. These two kinds of neutrality straighten the inner flame that keeps flickering. As soon as it becomes upright and unmoving, a harmony, a music arises with sat-chit-ananda, the ultimate Divine.
bahyaspersheshu ’saktatma vindatyatmani yat sukham.
sa brahma-yoga-yuktatma sukham akshayam ashnute..21..
And the man who is unattached to external contacts attains within the joy born of meditation on God; and that man, established in the unity called the yoga of the supreme Brahman, experiences imperishable bliss.
Unattached amid external objects—that same point, said again from another dimension.
Even beings like Krishna have their difficulties. That which could be said once has to be said a thousand times; and still, it is not necessary that the listener has heard. Even after saying it a thousand times, the fear remains that it will not be heard.
In many, many ways he keeps saying the same thing to Arjuna. Perhaps it did not come across from one dimension; from another, it might. Perhaps it wasn’t grasped through the heart; through the intellect, it might be. Perhaps both heart and intellect were missed; then perhaps through the way of objects it may be understood.
The objective world surrounds us; the world of things. One who remains unattached between two objects—there, where the senses settle and build homes of attachment—one who lives there in a state of nonattachment also arrives at the same place: Brahman, of the nature of sat-chit-ananda.
Whichever door you take, to become neutral is the key. By any arrangement, to become choiceless is the path. By any method, any technique, any way, to stand unmoving between the two is the golden sutra.
Things keep calling. When does the mind become attached? Not by seeing objects. You pass by a shop; something appears in the showcase. Merely seeing it does not produce attachment. The eye simply informs: in the showroom there is a diamond necklace. That is its duty. If the eye is healthy, it will report rightly. The eye informs the brain; the brain informs the mind: there is a necklace. Up to this, there is no attachment.
But the mind says, “It is beautiful”—the journey begins. Very subtle at first. The moment the mind says “beautiful,” somewhere a smoke of wanting begins to rise. As soon as “beautiful” is uttered, the urge to possess starts forming.
You may say, “So far it is only an aesthetic judgment, a decision of beauty. What’s the issue?” No—deep within, as soon as “beautiful” is said, we think we first know it is beautiful and later we want to possess it. But if you understand rightly, deep in the mind desire arises first—“obtain it”—and then the intellect says, “It is beautiful.” From above it appears we first know it is beautiful, and then like a shadow slides in a craving that says, “Get it.” But the spiritual explorers say: first the craving slithers up from within, saying “Get it,” and hearing that, the mind says, “Beautiful.”
Understand it in two ways. The mind receives two kinds of messages. Mind stands in the middle. Outside is body; inside is soul. From the body comes the report: “A diamond necklace—beautiful.” The body reports the object. From within the soul comes the signal of craving, tendency, desire—“Get it.” Their meeting happens at the mind, and attachment is formed.
Nonattachment means: the report from outside should come—it must; otherwise life becomes impossible. If the eyes do not see properly, ears do not hear, hands do not touch, living becomes hard—such a body is unhealthy. A healthy body reports fully. But from within no craving should arrive to meet at mind’s door. The outer report comes, is understood, heard, and you move on. From within, no one comes to meet it; the report goes to waste.
And remember: if the report goes unused even for a single moment, the meeting won’t happen. Keep this in mind too. If you miss even a moment—crossing does not occur. The body brings information: the senses say, “The necklace is beautiful.” And in that very instant, if you remain awake and watch that no craving arrives from within to marry that information, it will depart in a moment. That one moment is where we miss—unconscious.
How do we miss it? There is a mechanism. As soon as the necklace appears, our full attention rushes to it; the craving that comes from within slips in silently in the dark; it meets no guard.
A seeker must pass through this process. When the eyes have reported “a beautiful diamond necklace,” at once close your eyes and take your attention within: “Who is coming from within?” The report has come from outside; now who is coming from within? Take awareness inside. See if any tendency slides in—any demand, any desire? Go within.
And it is remarkable: Buddha has said, just as thieves enter a house where there is no guard at the door, so tendencies enter the soul that has no attention at its gate. Attention is the guard.
So Krishna says: nonattachment among objects.
Only one who is alert toward tendencies, awake to craving, can be nonattached in the midst of objects. He sees: “Fine—the eyes have reported: the necklace is beautiful. Now, what is coming from within?” And if a person, awake, begins to watch the tendencies, the senses will report, but tendencies will not get the chance to arise. Miss a single moment, and tendency will forge attachment.
Attachment is formed by the meeting of tendency and sensory report. If a bridge forms between them, attachment arises. If a bridge does not form, nonattachment is formed.
One who is unattached among objects! One who walks among objects with awareness!
Thousands of attractions all around. Millions of impacts on the senses daily: a sound touches the ear, light strikes the eye, something touches the hand, a smell, a memory of taste—this and that from all sides.
Endless impacts strike you. And your tendencies instantly grab every impact; then a dense net of craving and attachment is woven. Then an inner prison is built in which you live confined. Life becomes sorrow: demand, demand; begging, begging—this I want, that I want, this I want! And even if all is obtained, still nothing seems obtained. Because by the time one thing is got, craving has already sown new seeds, and attachment has built new pathways. Before this is achieved, you have already sown countless new seeds.
Then the whole life becomes like a paper boat on waves. A paper boat on the ocean: every wave pushes, every wave drowns. The whole life is spent getting buffeted by the waves of tendencies. Every day completing one attachment, and a new one being built. Life is little more than a dream of sorrow.
So Krishna says: if you would journey into bliss—into what we call the Divine—still the tendencies, awaken, fill consciousness with awareness. Do not be attracted by objects, do not be attached.
But how will this attachment break? First, as I said: whenever attachment begins to form—
Remember, here is an ultimate formula for the world of mind: in the realm of mind, erasing what has already formed is very difficult; not letting it form is very easy. Erasing is difficult; preventing formation is easy.
Even physiologists and psychologists have now reached a rule—an old discovery of yoga, but newly noticed by physiology, especially in Pavlov’s work: two mechanisms run in the body together. One is voluntary; the other is non-voluntary.
For example, your blood is circulating; your will has no part in it. You don’t even notice; it flows on. Three hundred years ago people didn’t even know blood flows; they thought the body is filled and still. Do you notice your blood flowing? It is flowing very fast—the Ganges is very slow by comparison. In the time I have spoken, the blood that was in your feet has reached your head. Continual circulation keeps it fresh and clean.
This is beyond your will—non-voluntary. But yoga says: with a little experiment, even this can come under will. Yogis have demonstrated such experiments worldwide. The pulse can be increased or decreased voluntarily, with a bit of practice. You too can succeed; it’s not so difficult.
Measure your pulse. Suppose it’s 100 per minute. Sit five minutes and resolve: now it will be 105. Measure again—if not 105, it will be at least 103. In a few days it will be 105. Then you can lower it too. A little of it has come under will.
Some processes are under will: I raise my hand, lower it—my choice. Now a new discovery: any tendency that is under will for a time, beyond a certain limit becomes non-voluntary. Up to a point it is within will.
Suppose lust arises; up to a point it is under will. If you awaken within that window, you can slacken it and it will subside. But beyond a point it shifts outside of will, and the body’s non-voluntary mechanism takes over. When that happens, it is out of your hands.
When anger arises, at its first glimmer it is within will. But when the adrenal glands have released their poison into the blood and the blood has seized anger, then it is beyond you. In the beginning the glands wait a while—perhaps this man will stop. You do not; you go on. Then the glands must release the chemicals; once released, it is out of your hands.
Similarly in sex, up to a point the seminal glands wait—perhaps he will stop. Beyond a point, seeing you won’t stop, they release; then it is beyond your will.
This is how the body and mind work: beyond a certain limit, processes move outside will. If you would be nonattached, you must awaken while the process is still within will. Once beyond will, awakening yields only regret and repentance.
So, as soon as you feel something seems beautiful, immediately go within and see whether craving and tendencies are lifting. This is the moment. A slight miss and tendencies will construct attachment.
Dissolving formed attachment is very hard; preventing the unformed from forming is easy. If you awaken before it forms, it won’t form. If it has formed, even awakening will face great difficulty—complexities arise. Prevention is better than cure. Better to stop it beforehand than to need treatment later. Better to catch the disease before it catches you than to lie in bed and be treated after.
You must awaken before attachment forms. Krishna adds a third point: Arjuna, even if you can remain nonattached among objects, you will arrive there.
There is a marvelous scripture in India—perhaps none on earth like it: the Vigyan Bhairav. A small book—hard to find a smaller. Only one hundred and twelve sutras. In every sutra one thing—just one—repeated 112 times. Every two lines, one method complete.
Parvati asks Shankar, “How do I become peaceful? How do I attain bliss? How will I taste the immortal?” In two lines, Shankar answers: “Breath goes out; breath comes in. Between the two, stop—immortality will be yours.” Sutra complete. “Breath goes out; breath comes in. Stop between the two—you will attain the nectar.”
Parvati says, “I don’t understand. Say something more.” And Shankar keeps giving two-line sutras. Every time Parvati says, “I still don’t understand—say something else.” Two lines again. Every line means one thing: stop between the two. Birth and death—here is birth, there is death—stop between the two. Parvati says, “Still I don’t understand—say more.”
A hundred and twelve times—one thing: stand between the opposites. Pleasant–unpleasant: stop—attainment of the immortal. For–against: stop—attainment of the immortal. Attachment–aversion: stop—attainment of the immortal. The one who stops between two opposites attains the golden mean, the golden bridge.
This third sutra is the same. And you too can find your own sutras—no difficulty. One rule: between any two opposites, stop and become neutral. Honor–insult—stop: liberation. Sorrow–joy—stop: entry into the Divine. Friend–enemy—stop: movement into sat-chit-ananda.
From anywhere, find a pair of opposites and stand neutral between them. Lean neither this way nor that. The essence of all yoga is this much: one who stops between the two, attains that which is beyond the two. One who is neutral in duality moves into nonduality. Consciousness that stands still in duality becomes established in nonduality. Consciousness that wanders in duality falls away from nonduality. That’s all.
Yet there is a compulsion—whether of Shiva or Krishna or anyone—to keep saying the same thing again and again, in the hope that if not from one approach, then from another it may be grasped.
One more sutra.
ye hi samsparsha-ja bhoga duhkha-yonaya eva te.
adyantavantas kaunteya na teshu ramate budhah..22..
The pleasures that arise from contact between senses and their objects, though they appear as happiness to the sensual, are in truth the wombs of sorrow; they have beginning and end, are impermanent. Therefore, Arjuna, the wise do not delight in them.
The pleasures that appear to arise from the meeting of senses and tendencies are, in the end, sorrow. And they have a beginning and an end; they are not eternal. Whoever understands this begins to be free of them.
Two points. First, what appears as happiness is not happiness. It does appear—that is certain. That it is not—more certain still. Appearance is not the final truth until we go near. In the dark night, from afar it seems a man is standing. Closer, it seems merely a painted pole. Closer still, a cloth hanging from a tree. The nearer we come, the more the distant knowing changes. The final decision is only at the closest—distant decisions are not final.
Until happiness is attained, it appears to be happiness. But upon attainment—who has found it so? When it comes into the hand, it slips away. The decision near at hand is decisive.
You too have gained many “happinesses,” but which, on attaining, remained happiness? Before you can settle and savor one, you start the search for another. Why? If happiness has been found, sit and enjoy it. But happiness is not found—what will you savor? Then you see another one—in the future—and you run. You reach and it is gone.
When happiness comes into the hand, it conclusively proves it is not happiness. From afar it seems certain it is. Like a rainbow in the sky—so beautiful you wish to bring it home and hang it in your drawing room. Do not go near. As you approach, it starts to vanish. When you reach the place, there is nothing there but mist and sunlight; no color, no form, no shape. Yet from afar, how poetic! How the heart longs to bind it and take it home!
Remember: wherever rainbows of happiness appear, the same will be the case. When you go near, only smoke remains in the hand. Nothing is found.
Krishna says: happiness appears so, but is not. Whoever understands well will, by nature, cease to let craving arise and marry the senses to produce attachment.
Second, he says: keep in mind, Arjuna, even if some insist, “But it is there”—as the ignorant do—“How can I believe otherwise until I get it?” Then Krishna adds for them: even if pleasures exist—hypothetically, for the sake of discussion—yet they begin and end.
And remember: that which has a beginning and an end—even if it exists—will leave behind nothing but sorrow. Because after happiness, its shadow—sorrow—follows. Like a car at night that flashes its headlights into your eyes; deeper darkness follows behind. Earlier you could see something; after the glare, even that you cannot.
Even if happiness arrives, it ends in a moment. This Krishna says for those who do not know; those who know say it never comes even for a moment. For the ignorant, he allows this much: perhaps it comes for a moment—but as soon as it begins, it ends. Here it is born; there it dies. Here a wave rises; there it breaks. Here a ray descends; there it is lost. It does not really arrive before it begins preparing to depart. Even such a happiness—if gained—leaves behind nothing but the wound of sorrow.
Whoever understands even this will not allow the coupling of objects and tendencies to be formed. He becomes nonattached, without craving, established within himself. And Krishna says: where consciousness becomes still, Arjuna, there it enters the supreme reality.
That is enough for today. Remain seated; no one will get up. Soak in the kirtan for five minutes, then depart silently.
First Krishna says: the one who is steady between the pleasant and the unpleasant. This pertains to the door of feeling. Let there be no shaking in the heart. Pleasant or unpleasant—this is the language of the heart. If the heart finds something pleasant, it trembles; if it finds something unpleasant, it trembles. Become steady at the heart’s door.
Second, he says, be free of doubt. Doubt is the trembling of the intellect. When the intellect trembles, it is not because of pleasant or unpleasant. The intellect trembles over right and wrong. The heart trembles over pleasant and unpleasant; the intellect trembles over right and wrong. Let one stand the same in “right,” let one stand the same in “wrong.” Let there be no trembling through the doorway of the intellect either.
Someone asks you, “Is there God?” One intellect at once says, “Yes.” Another says, “No.” It has shaken. Shaken! The theist who says “Yes” has shaken; the atheist who says “No” has shaken. The theist trembles in agreement; the atheist trembles in disagreement. But both tremble.
Krishna is speaking of the religious person for whom, when someone says “There is God,” the intellect does not fall into doubt. It does not even form the slightest doubt of “Is there or is there not?” It remains unshaken.
This is the mark of the supreme theist. One who does not tremble either for or against God—that person attains God. It is a bit difficult. Very difficult. In truth, the genuine theist will not insist even as much as “There is God.” Because that too is a vibration. It is simply to move into opposition to “No.” That is merely being the opposite of the atheist; it is not yet being a theist. Theism is such a vast happening that it includes the atheist within itself.
A man came to Buddha and asked, “I don’t believe in God—can I become peaceful?” Buddha said, “Without becoming peaceful, how will you ever be able to believe in God?” The man asked again, “I don’t believe in God—can I become peaceful?” Buddha said, “Without becoming peaceful, how will you be able to believe in God?” So whoever tells you, “First believe in God,” is wrong. No one in the world becomes peaceful by believing in God. For whoever is not peaceful cannot truly believe in God. Become peaceful. The man asked, “Then there is no need to believe in God at all?” Buddha said, “No need at all. Become peaceful—peace is needed.”
The man took up the practice of peace. A year passed. Buddha asked him, “Have you become peaceful?” He said, “I have become utterly peaceful.” Buddha asked, “What is your view now about God?” He said, “Now I will not form any view. Now I know that ‘God is’ was the idea of the unquiet; ‘God is not’ was also the idea of the unquiet. I will form no idea. About God I will say nothing. If my eyes can speak, let them speak. If my moving feet can speak, let them speak. If my hands can speak, let them speak. If my very being can speak, let it speak. I will not speak. And if God is, then every breath of my life will say so.”
Theism too is a doubt, a trembling—in favor. Atheism too is a doubt, a trembling—against. Religiousness is unshaken, without tremor—neither for nor against. Religiousness is the transcendence of both theism and atheism, going beyond both.
And remember, no matter how much you persuade an atheist to become a theist, the disease changes; the atheist does not. No matter how much you persuade a theist to become an atheist, the disease changes; the theist does not. By changing diseases, health does not arrive.
Taking sides is disease; impartiality is health. Taking sides is disease; impartiality is health. Taking sides means you have leaned, wavered, chosen. A choice has happened. You could not remain on the bank. Impartial means you did not choose, you remained on the bank.
For the heart, the pleasant and the unpleasant cause trembling. For the intellect, belief and disbelief cause trembling. The one who stands doubtless even between belief and disbelief—
Remember, people usually interpret “doubtless” to mean “firm believer”: the one who believes firmly is without doubt. I do not. I say, the one who says, “I believe firmly,” has doubt present within just as firmly. To suppress that doubt he is placing the rock of firmness upon it. Whoever says, “I have a solid faith,” know that he is afraid of his inner unbelief. To suppress that, he is building a wall of strong faith. One who truly has faith does not talk of strong or weak.
If someone tells you, “My love is solid,” understand that love is not solid. Because the very thought of solidity arises only for the one who is shaky; otherwise, there is no question of solid. The one who loves perhaps cannot even say, “I love.” Even that much will seem wrong to him. If love itself has not said it, what can words add? If love itself cannot say, what can we say with words?
On this earth, those who truly loved have perhaps never said it. What should they say? If love itself cannot speak, what more could we say?
But the one who beats his chest and says, “I give you firm assurance—my love is true and solid,” if you enter within him a little, somewhere you will find the unripe and the false hiding. To suppress that, he makes all these arrangements. It is a safety measure.
When someone says, “My faith is firm”—the more stiffly he says it—the more it means he is afraid of himself. These firm believers are afraid even to hear someone else’s view. Because a hidden fear is within—they fear it may at any moment surface. That is why dogmatism is born, bigotry arises. Everyone says, “I am absolutely certain.” The doubt is their own. One who has no doubt is doubtless. One who has merely suppressed doubt has only suppressed doubt; he is not doubtless.
Krishna says, doubtless—one in whom there is no doubt at all.
Doubtlessness is a very innocent state. Faith, as commonly found, is not very guileless; it is a well-built arrangement, calculated. People cling to theism out of fear of the atheism within. Out of this same fear—lest some contrary word be heard—ears are kept shut.
You have heard, haven’t you, of the man “Ghantakarna,” who tied bells to his ears, lest any contrary word be heard! He would keep ringing his own bells. Then the ears won’t hear, nothing contrary will be heard. But such a person must have been very weak. If merely hearing a contrary word is so frightening, that fear does not come from the contrary word; it comes from somewhere within. Something is hidden deep inside.
Who will be doubtless? Only the one who, just as he is neutral between like and dislike in the heart, is neutral between belief and disbelief in the intellect.
And in this world we cannot truly change anyone’s belief. We can only change the disease. And often even that we cannot. No matter how much you explain—does anyone really convince anyone else in this world? No.
Try to explain someone: the more you explain, the more he grows firm in his own position. He makes more arrangements, thinking you are attacking. He fears within that perhaps his wall may be weak; he piles on more bricks and stones and builds a higher wall; he fortifies. Those who try to explain usually only strengthen the other in his own side. They do nothing else. Explain to an atheist, and he becomes a stronger atheist; explain to a theist, he becomes a stronger theist. Why? Because he feels attacked and fortifies himself.
I have heard of a man who went a bit mad and formed the notion that he was dead. He was alive, but he got the idea that he had died. The family became distressed. They tried to explain: “You are alive.” He said, “How can I believe that when I’m already dead!” How to explain to a man that he’s alive! People said, “Look at us—we stand before you.” He said, “You too are dead. You’re ghosts, spirits. We are all ghosts now. No one is alive; all have died.” People said, “We are speaking to you.” He said, “I hear—but all are ghosts. No one is alive.”
Finally they took him to a physician. The doctor said, “Don’t worry, we’ll try to convince him.” He put the man before a mirror and told him, “For three hours, like a mantra, keep repeating one sentence: ‘Dead men do not bleed.’ Repeat: ‘Dead men don’t bleed.’” The man chanted for three hours, “Dead men don’t bleed.” After three hours, the doctor went to him and pricked his hand with a knife—blood began to flow. Smiling, the doctor asked, “Now then, what does this prove? What is proved by this?” The man said, “This proves that dead men do bleed.” And what else could it prove!
All arguments are futile. Arguments only strengthen the opposition. Imagine the doctor’s condition—three hours of effort undone in a single sentence!
Nothing is ever settled by dispute in this world. Why not? Because no one is in search of truth; they are in search of their side. And when someone constructs a side, he always remains afraid, for the opposite remains present within. He defends himself less against you and more against the explosion within himself. So he keeps strengthening his arrangements. You bring ten reasons that God is; he brings ten that He is not. You bring ten that God is not; the theist brings ten that He is. That is why for five to ten thousand years the world has disputed. Has anyone’s doubt ever been removed by belief or disbelief? By becoming Hindu, Muslim? Christian? No one’s doubt is removed.
Krishna means something entirely different. He says: if you want to end doubt, don’t fall into for and against. Become silent, stand apart from both. Say, “I do not know whether this is right or that is right. I will stand impartial.”
Standing impartial is right. Of two, choosing one is not right; standing at a third point, impartial, is right, doubtless. Then there will be no more doubt.
Doubt happens only when there is belief. Keep this in mind too. Whoever clutches belief will be clutched by doubt as well. If you clutch “God is,” twenty-five doubts will arise: What is He like? Why is He? Since when? If you say “He is not,” then twenty-five doubts arise: How then is this world? Why does life go on? Why do people live and die? Why is there happiness and sorrow? The doubts will keep clutching. But if you clutch neither belief nor disbelief, can doubt clutch you? Doubt needs a peg: belief or disbelief. Hold neither. Krishna says: you will become free of doubt, doubtless.
Become neutral at the heart’s door concerning pleasant and unpleasant; become neutral at the intellect’s door concerning belief and disbelief. These two kinds of neutrality straighten the inner flame that keeps flickering. As soon as it becomes upright and unmoving, a harmony, a music arises with sat-chit-ananda, the ultimate Divine.
bahyaspersheshu ’saktatma vindatyatmani yat sukham.
sa brahma-yoga-yuktatma sukham akshayam ashnute..21..
And the man who is unattached to external contacts attains within the joy born of meditation on God; and that man, established in the unity called the yoga of the supreme Brahman, experiences imperishable bliss.
Unattached amid external objects—that same point, said again from another dimension.
Even beings like Krishna have their difficulties. That which could be said once has to be said a thousand times; and still, it is not necessary that the listener has heard. Even after saying it a thousand times, the fear remains that it will not be heard.
In many, many ways he keeps saying the same thing to Arjuna. Perhaps it did not come across from one dimension; from another, it might. Perhaps it wasn’t grasped through the heart; through the intellect, it might be. Perhaps both heart and intellect were missed; then perhaps through the way of objects it may be understood.
The objective world surrounds us; the world of things. One who remains unattached between two objects—there, where the senses settle and build homes of attachment—one who lives there in a state of nonattachment also arrives at the same place: Brahman, of the nature of sat-chit-ananda.
Whichever door you take, to become neutral is the key. By any arrangement, to become choiceless is the path. By any method, any technique, any way, to stand unmoving between the two is the golden sutra.
Things keep calling. When does the mind become attached? Not by seeing objects. You pass by a shop; something appears in the showcase. Merely seeing it does not produce attachment. The eye simply informs: in the showroom there is a diamond necklace. That is its duty. If the eye is healthy, it will report rightly. The eye informs the brain; the brain informs the mind: there is a necklace. Up to this, there is no attachment.
But the mind says, “It is beautiful”—the journey begins. Very subtle at first. The moment the mind says “beautiful,” somewhere a smoke of wanting begins to rise. As soon as “beautiful” is uttered, the urge to possess starts forming.
You may say, “So far it is only an aesthetic judgment, a decision of beauty. What’s the issue?” No—deep within, as soon as “beautiful” is said, we think we first know it is beautiful and later we want to possess it. But if you understand rightly, deep in the mind desire arises first—“obtain it”—and then the intellect says, “It is beautiful.” From above it appears we first know it is beautiful, and then like a shadow slides in a craving that says, “Get it.” But the spiritual explorers say: first the craving slithers up from within, saying “Get it,” and hearing that, the mind says, “Beautiful.”
Understand it in two ways. The mind receives two kinds of messages. Mind stands in the middle. Outside is body; inside is soul. From the body comes the report: “A diamond necklace—beautiful.” The body reports the object. From within the soul comes the signal of craving, tendency, desire—“Get it.” Their meeting happens at the mind, and attachment is formed.
Nonattachment means: the report from outside should come—it must; otherwise life becomes impossible. If the eyes do not see properly, ears do not hear, hands do not touch, living becomes hard—such a body is unhealthy. A healthy body reports fully. But from within no craving should arrive to meet at mind’s door. The outer report comes, is understood, heard, and you move on. From within, no one comes to meet it; the report goes to waste.
And remember: if the report goes unused even for a single moment, the meeting won’t happen. Keep this in mind too. If you miss even a moment—crossing does not occur. The body brings information: the senses say, “The necklace is beautiful.” And in that very instant, if you remain awake and watch that no craving arrives from within to marry that information, it will depart in a moment. That one moment is where we miss—unconscious.
How do we miss it? There is a mechanism. As soon as the necklace appears, our full attention rushes to it; the craving that comes from within slips in silently in the dark; it meets no guard.
A seeker must pass through this process. When the eyes have reported “a beautiful diamond necklace,” at once close your eyes and take your attention within: “Who is coming from within?” The report has come from outside; now who is coming from within? Take awareness inside. See if any tendency slides in—any demand, any desire? Go within.
And it is remarkable: Buddha has said, just as thieves enter a house where there is no guard at the door, so tendencies enter the soul that has no attention at its gate. Attention is the guard.
So Krishna says: nonattachment among objects.
Only one who is alert toward tendencies, awake to craving, can be nonattached in the midst of objects. He sees: “Fine—the eyes have reported: the necklace is beautiful. Now, what is coming from within?” And if a person, awake, begins to watch the tendencies, the senses will report, but tendencies will not get the chance to arise. Miss a single moment, and tendency will forge attachment.
Attachment is formed by the meeting of tendency and sensory report. If a bridge forms between them, attachment arises. If a bridge does not form, nonattachment is formed.
One who is unattached among objects! One who walks among objects with awareness!
Thousands of attractions all around. Millions of impacts on the senses daily: a sound touches the ear, light strikes the eye, something touches the hand, a smell, a memory of taste—this and that from all sides.
Endless impacts strike you. And your tendencies instantly grab every impact; then a dense net of craving and attachment is woven. Then an inner prison is built in which you live confined. Life becomes sorrow: demand, demand; begging, begging—this I want, that I want, this I want! And even if all is obtained, still nothing seems obtained. Because by the time one thing is got, craving has already sown new seeds, and attachment has built new pathways. Before this is achieved, you have already sown countless new seeds.
Then the whole life becomes like a paper boat on waves. A paper boat on the ocean: every wave pushes, every wave drowns. The whole life is spent getting buffeted by the waves of tendencies. Every day completing one attachment, and a new one being built. Life is little more than a dream of sorrow.
So Krishna says: if you would journey into bliss—into what we call the Divine—still the tendencies, awaken, fill consciousness with awareness. Do not be attracted by objects, do not be attached.
But how will this attachment break? First, as I said: whenever attachment begins to form—
Remember, here is an ultimate formula for the world of mind: in the realm of mind, erasing what has already formed is very difficult; not letting it form is very easy. Erasing is difficult; preventing formation is easy.
Even physiologists and psychologists have now reached a rule—an old discovery of yoga, but newly noticed by physiology, especially in Pavlov’s work: two mechanisms run in the body together. One is voluntary; the other is non-voluntary.
For example, your blood is circulating; your will has no part in it. You don’t even notice; it flows on. Three hundred years ago people didn’t even know blood flows; they thought the body is filled and still. Do you notice your blood flowing? It is flowing very fast—the Ganges is very slow by comparison. In the time I have spoken, the blood that was in your feet has reached your head. Continual circulation keeps it fresh and clean.
This is beyond your will—non-voluntary. But yoga says: with a little experiment, even this can come under will. Yogis have demonstrated such experiments worldwide. The pulse can be increased or decreased voluntarily, with a bit of practice. You too can succeed; it’s not so difficult.
Measure your pulse. Suppose it’s 100 per minute. Sit five minutes and resolve: now it will be 105. Measure again—if not 105, it will be at least 103. In a few days it will be 105. Then you can lower it too. A little of it has come under will.
Some processes are under will: I raise my hand, lower it—my choice. Now a new discovery: any tendency that is under will for a time, beyond a certain limit becomes non-voluntary. Up to a point it is within will.
Suppose lust arises; up to a point it is under will. If you awaken within that window, you can slacken it and it will subside. But beyond a point it shifts outside of will, and the body’s non-voluntary mechanism takes over. When that happens, it is out of your hands.
When anger arises, at its first glimmer it is within will. But when the adrenal glands have released their poison into the blood and the blood has seized anger, then it is beyond you. In the beginning the glands wait a while—perhaps this man will stop. You do not; you go on. Then the glands must release the chemicals; once released, it is out of your hands.
Similarly in sex, up to a point the seminal glands wait—perhaps he will stop. Beyond a point, seeing you won’t stop, they release; then it is beyond your will.
This is how the body and mind work: beyond a certain limit, processes move outside will. If you would be nonattached, you must awaken while the process is still within will. Once beyond will, awakening yields only regret and repentance.
So, as soon as you feel something seems beautiful, immediately go within and see whether craving and tendencies are lifting. This is the moment. A slight miss and tendencies will construct attachment.
Dissolving formed attachment is very hard; preventing the unformed from forming is easy. If you awaken before it forms, it won’t form. If it has formed, even awakening will face great difficulty—complexities arise. Prevention is better than cure. Better to stop it beforehand than to need treatment later. Better to catch the disease before it catches you than to lie in bed and be treated after.
You must awaken before attachment forms. Krishna adds a third point: Arjuna, even if you can remain nonattached among objects, you will arrive there.
There is a marvelous scripture in India—perhaps none on earth like it: the Vigyan Bhairav. A small book—hard to find a smaller. Only one hundred and twelve sutras. In every sutra one thing—just one—repeated 112 times. Every two lines, one method complete.
Parvati asks Shankar, “How do I become peaceful? How do I attain bliss? How will I taste the immortal?” In two lines, Shankar answers: “Breath goes out; breath comes in. Between the two, stop—immortality will be yours.” Sutra complete. “Breath goes out; breath comes in. Stop between the two—you will attain the nectar.”
Parvati says, “I don’t understand. Say something more.” And Shankar keeps giving two-line sutras. Every time Parvati says, “I still don’t understand—say something else.” Two lines again. Every line means one thing: stop between the two. Birth and death—here is birth, there is death—stop between the two. Parvati says, “Still I don’t understand—say more.”
A hundred and twelve times—one thing: stand between the opposites. Pleasant–unpleasant: stop—attainment of the immortal. For–against: stop—attainment of the immortal. Attachment–aversion: stop—attainment of the immortal. The one who stops between two opposites attains the golden mean, the golden bridge.
This third sutra is the same. And you too can find your own sutras—no difficulty. One rule: between any two opposites, stop and become neutral. Honor–insult—stop: liberation. Sorrow–joy—stop: entry into the Divine. Friend–enemy—stop: movement into sat-chit-ananda.
From anywhere, find a pair of opposites and stand neutral between them. Lean neither this way nor that. The essence of all yoga is this much: one who stops between the two, attains that which is beyond the two. One who is neutral in duality moves into nonduality. Consciousness that stands still in duality becomes established in nonduality. Consciousness that wanders in duality falls away from nonduality. That’s all.
Yet there is a compulsion—whether of Shiva or Krishna or anyone—to keep saying the same thing again and again, in the hope that if not from one approach, then from another it may be grasped.
One more sutra.
ye hi samsparsha-ja bhoga duhkha-yonaya eva te.
adyantavantas kaunteya na teshu ramate budhah..22..
The pleasures that arise from contact between senses and their objects, though they appear as happiness to the sensual, are in truth the wombs of sorrow; they have beginning and end, are impermanent. Therefore, Arjuna, the wise do not delight in them.
The pleasures that appear to arise from the meeting of senses and tendencies are, in the end, sorrow. And they have a beginning and an end; they are not eternal. Whoever understands this begins to be free of them.
Two points. First, what appears as happiness is not happiness. It does appear—that is certain. That it is not—more certain still. Appearance is not the final truth until we go near. In the dark night, from afar it seems a man is standing. Closer, it seems merely a painted pole. Closer still, a cloth hanging from a tree. The nearer we come, the more the distant knowing changes. The final decision is only at the closest—distant decisions are not final.
Until happiness is attained, it appears to be happiness. But upon attainment—who has found it so? When it comes into the hand, it slips away. The decision near at hand is decisive.
You too have gained many “happinesses,” but which, on attaining, remained happiness? Before you can settle and savor one, you start the search for another. Why? If happiness has been found, sit and enjoy it. But happiness is not found—what will you savor? Then you see another one—in the future—and you run. You reach and it is gone.
When happiness comes into the hand, it conclusively proves it is not happiness. From afar it seems certain it is. Like a rainbow in the sky—so beautiful you wish to bring it home and hang it in your drawing room. Do not go near. As you approach, it starts to vanish. When you reach the place, there is nothing there but mist and sunlight; no color, no form, no shape. Yet from afar, how poetic! How the heart longs to bind it and take it home!
Remember: wherever rainbows of happiness appear, the same will be the case. When you go near, only smoke remains in the hand. Nothing is found.
Krishna says: happiness appears so, but is not. Whoever understands well will, by nature, cease to let craving arise and marry the senses to produce attachment.
Second, he says: keep in mind, Arjuna, even if some insist, “But it is there”—as the ignorant do—“How can I believe otherwise until I get it?” Then Krishna adds for them: even if pleasures exist—hypothetically, for the sake of discussion—yet they begin and end.
And remember: that which has a beginning and an end—even if it exists—will leave behind nothing but sorrow. Because after happiness, its shadow—sorrow—follows. Like a car at night that flashes its headlights into your eyes; deeper darkness follows behind. Earlier you could see something; after the glare, even that you cannot.
Even if happiness arrives, it ends in a moment. This Krishna says for those who do not know; those who know say it never comes even for a moment. For the ignorant, he allows this much: perhaps it comes for a moment—but as soon as it begins, it ends. Here it is born; there it dies. Here a wave rises; there it breaks. Here a ray descends; there it is lost. It does not really arrive before it begins preparing to depart. Even such a happiness—if gained—leaves behind nothing but the wound of sorrow.
Whoever understands even this will not allow the coupling of objects and tendencies to be formed. He becomes nonattached, without craving, established within himself. And Krishna says: where consciousness becomes still, Arjuna, there it enters the supreme reality.
That is enough for today. Remain seated; no one will get up. Soak in the kirtan for five minutes, then depart silently.
Osho's Commentary
There are two or three things to understand here.
Whom do we call pleasant? What is it that appears agreeable? What is it that appears disagreeable? And what is the cause behind something appearing agreeable or disagreeable?
Whatever seems to give satisfaction to the senses—whether it actually does or not is another matter—appears pleasant. Whatever seems not to gratify the senses, contempt begins to arise for it. And whatever seems positively to give pain to the senses becomes unpleasant. Yet it is not necessary that what appears pleasant to the senses today will appear so tomorrow. Nor is it necessary that what appears unpleasant today will appear so tomorrow. What today seems pleasant to the senses, it is very likely that tomorrow it will no longer seem pleasant.
As long as a thing has not been obtained, it keeps attracting. The moment it is obtained, it turns futile. All attraction is the attraction of the un-obtained. Distant drums sound sweet. As you come closer and closer, attraction begins to wane. And if that which was desired is actually attained—yes, for a fleeting moment one may be deceived in the moment of attainment—but the moment it is attained, attraction starts to bid farewell. Very soon, in place of attraction comes contempt, and after contempt, repulsion takes its seat.
I have heard: A man approached a disciple of Sigmund Freud for psychotherapy. He said, I am very troubled. A dream comes to me again and again. Every day, every night. And sometimes two or four times in a single night. I have become so harassed by this dream that I have come to you to find some way out. The psychologist asked, What is the dream? The man said, I see a very astonishing dream. Every night in sleep, in the dream, I reach a girls’ hostel—regularly, every day! And then, whispering softly, he added: all the girls in the hostel seem to be moving about naked!
The psychologist said, Don’t be alarmed. Do you want this dream to stop? The man said, You have misunderstood me. At least hear the whole dream. The trouble is, as I begin to enter the door of that hostel, I wake up. Do something so that my sleep does not break when I am at the doorway!
Naturally, the psychologist must have been amazed. But the man remained honest. He said, I don’t want to break the dream. Yet the dream never gets completed. I enter within, I put my foot at the threshold—and the sleep breaks. The hostel is lost; the naked girls are lost. The psychologist said, We’ll try something. Breaking the dream would have been easy, but saving the sleep is a bit difficult. Still, we’ll try.
He hypnotized him. For two or three days he hypnotized him and gave him suggestions.
On the fourth day the man came in great anger. He knocked at the door at midnight. The psychologist asked, What need was there to come so late at night? The man said, You have done very wrong. Tonight the dream did not break. I even entered within. But now I want to go back—the earlier dream was better, the one that broke at the door.
The psychologist asked, Why do you want to go back? He said, At least there was a little allure; now even that is gone. Until now there was a hope that sometime this dream would not break. Tonight it didn’t. But I still got nothing! In fact, I have lost something. Return to me my incomplete dream.
The dreams we see in life—as long as we keep seeing them—remain pleasant. When dreams come into the hand, they become very unpleasant.
Whatever you love—if you want to keep that love alive—stay a little distant, don’t go too close. Go close, and love will fall to ruin; repulsion will take its place. For all attraction belongs to the unknown, the unfamiliar, the far—belongs to hope. The more the thing appears mixed with hope, the more attractive it seems. Facts that fall into the hand begin to repel. Facts that remain too long in the hand become fit to be thrown away. That which was wanted with many pleadings—toward it a longing to move away begins to arise. The very thing that was pleasant becomes unpleasant.
Therefore Krishna says: those things which people take to be pleasant, and those which people take to be unpleasant…
Whom do people so take? People take distant hopes as pleasant. Wherever the senses find temptation, everything there appears pleasant. Wherever the senses actually arrive, there disaffection sits down; there darkness descends; there arises the urge to move away. That is why whatever we get, becomes worthless. The eyes get snagged somewhere else again.
But in another sense too this must be understood. Someone places garlands of flowers around your neck—it feels pleasant. Welcome, respect, prestige feel pleasant. Someone places a garland of shoes around your neck—it feels unpleasant.
Krishna says: one who is inwardly agitated by these valuations cannot enter into the Lord’s constant state of bliss. For whether flowers are placed around the neck or thorns are thrown—consciousness should not be affected by this. If consciousness is affected, it means that outer people can influence you. And so long as outer people can influence you, there is no entry into the inner current.
Whoever is affected from the outside—his consciousness keeps flowing outward. Only when one becomes utterly unaffected, impartial to the outside, does consciousness become available for the inward journey.
When welcome comes, when honor comes, when it seems as if showers of love are falling—remain a witness within, seeing that people are placing flowers. When insult comes, when abuses rain down—remain a witness then too, and know that people are throwing thorns, throwing abuses. But see within that you yourself are not being set in motion; that you are not flowing away with flowers and with thorns! Remain standing within, yourself.
Whoever can turn each such occasion into a moment of neutral witnessing (sakshi), he, little by little, attains to inner equanimity. It happens only gradually. One must lift one step at a time toward equanimity. But one who never lifts a step will never arrive.
In very small moments—when someone is abusing you—take your attention off the abuse and turn it within, to see whether the mind is being set in motion. And the very moment you attend, the mind will become still. This is a very delightful fact. When someone abuses us, our attention runs to the abuser. If Krishna is to be understood, then when someone abuses, bring attention to the one to whom the abuse has been hurled—within.
The moment attention turns within, a laugh will arise. The abuse will remain outside; the abuser will remain outside; you will be standing on the shore—untouched by the abuse, like a lotus leaf in water. Water all around, and you remain untouched, un-touched. In that moment such a taste of joy will be felt as cannot be measured.
Whoever, in the moment of abuse or in the moment of respect, attains to standing within—just standing—becomes filled with such excess of bliss that it cannot be measured. Why? Because for the first time he is free. Now no one can set him in motion from the outside. Now he is no longer a mechanism—he has become a man. We press a button and the light turns on. We press a button and the light turns off. Electricity is dependent; with a button it lights and goes dark. Someone abuses, and sorrow descends within us. Someone says you are great, and waves of pleasure run within us. Then there is not much difference between us and electricity—a button has been pressed.
Just now in America some psychologists—Erich Fromm, Dr. Serg, and some others—are doing a small experiment, which I want to remind you of. The experiment is this: in our brain there are certain centers; if an electric current is passed through some of them, it feels very pleasant. And there are other centers; if current is passed through them, it feels very unpleasant. Only an electric current! Electrodes—wires—are inserted into the skull, and connected to those parts from which the senses experience pleasure. A button is pressed outside, and current begins to run to that center. The person becomes utterly enraptured—enchanted. If the wire is attached to the painful part, the person becomes deeply miserable. Not only people—animals too!
Just recently they were experimenting on a cat. They attached wires to the cat and also taught it to press the button. They connected the wire to the area where the electric flow produces the sensation of pleasure, and taught the cat to press the button. They were greatly astonished. The cat stopped eating, drinking, sleeping—everything for twenty-four hours. It just kept pressing the button! In twenty-four hours it pressed the button six thousand times. And the psychologists say that if they had not separated it, the cat would have died, but would not have stopped pressing the button. It had no leisure left to eat or drink!
When you feel a pleasant relationship with someone—some beloved—if you ask a psychologist now, he will say, When you meet your lover or beloved, through their body a current runs within you that touches your special centers. Nothing else happens. And you are not in much better condition than that cat. And if the urge arises again and again to meet the beloved, the logic is the same as the cat’s logic—to press the button again and again!
Today or tomorrow, the day this entire physiological and chemical arrangement of our body—this physical and chemical secret—is fully known, you will keep a button in your pocket and keep pressing the battery. And you will have pleasant and unpleasant experiences by pressing it!
From this it becomes clear why those who went deep into the spiritual said that only that person becomes available to real bliss who becomes steady between pleasure and pain. Only he can rise above this bodily chemical, physiological, electrical delusion of pleasure and pain. There is a need to become neutral. There is a need to become the same between both.
That cat went mad. After twenty-four hours its switch was removed, the electrode was detached, but the cat went mad. From that day there was no taste left for it in the world. It no longer found relish in catching mice; no relish in eating; no relish in making love to cats. It just kept coming again and again to the room where the button had been given and where it had pressed the button. It has gone insane. Its memory is heavy now. It no longer feels such an intense relish in anything else. It is deranged.
I have heard that a psychologist was treating a man for two years. Then one day, after thousands of rupees in expenses, treatment, therapy, and psychoanalysis, he told the man, Now you are completely fine. Thank the Lord that you are completely cured. Now that madness which had once seized you—to be great—will never seize you again. The man had the delusion that he was Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru. The psychologist said, Now such grandiose notions—this madness of being majestic—will never catch you again.
The patient said, Thanks to God, and thanks to you. You have worked hard. Your grace is great that I am cured. May I use your phone? The doctor asked, Whom do you want to call? He said, Let me just inform my daughter Indira Gandhi that I am well now. The doctor was stunned. He said, You have poured water over two years! The man said, You don’t know how pleasant it is to be Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru! Better to remain mad! To give up being Nehru is not better. I can remain mad—so pleasant is it!
We all go mad behind what we call our happinesses. Pain makes us mad too, because we keep fleeing from it. Pleasure makes us mad because we keep demanding it. And when consciousness sways like this between pleasant and unpleasant, how will it become steady? How will it stand? Then its condition is like a lamp in storm and gale—tilting now to the left, now to the right, never able to become still.
The man of whom Krishna speaks is the one whose lamp of consciousness, whose flame of consciousness, has become still—like in a closed room where no gusts of air enter. The flame stills; it ceases to flicker.
The day consciousness becomes even—neither does the pleasant pull, nor does the unpleasant push away; it says neither to the painful, Go away, nor to the pleasurable, Come—and when no movements from the outside cast any influence upon consciousness, and consciousness stands utterly at rest—only in that standing consciousness does one become established in the Sachchidananda nature of Paramatma.
Understand it like this: a wavering consciousness is like the pointer of your radio when it has become loose. You rotate it and it cannot tune to any station; it cannot steady anywhere. It wobbles and shakes; it catches two or three stations together. You can make no sense of what is happening.
So long as consciousness trembles under the buffets and blasts of pleasure and pain, tuning with the Divine never happens. The moment it stands still, connection with Paramatma is made.
The connection between Paramatma and the individual can happen at any moment, but the indispensable condition is the stilling of the individual’s consciousness. Paramatma is ever at rest. If we too become still, union happens. In that union is the experience of Sachchidananda. And after this union there is no separation. Pleasures will come and go. Pains will come and go. Paramatma, once met, never departs. Bliss, once attained, never departs.
All of life is a search for that, the seeking of that—of that which, once found, never leaves. To gain that after which nothing remains to be gained. The journey of births upon births is for that. But every time we miss. Because consciousness is wavering; it cannot become still. And why can it not? Because we keep wandering between the pleasant and the unpleasant.
Therefore Krishna says, Wake up! Stand silent between pleasant and unpleasant—between both.
Surely, if a thorn pricks, it will feel unpleasant. If it pricks Krishna, he too will feel it. If a flower comes to the hand, it will not feel unpleasant. Do not think that if we pierce Krishna with a thorn no blood will flow, that if a thorn pierces Krishna he is stone and will not know. He will know fully. The body will react fully. There will be pain in the body, a sting. The body will send news to the brain that a thorn pierces, that blood flows. But consciousness will not be shaken. Consciousness will say, All right. Let us see. We will do what can be done. We will take out the thorn; we will apply balm and bandage. But consciousness is not thrown into agitation by this. Consciousness remains at rest!
You see the images of Buddha or Mahavira seated—as if the flame of a lamp has become still. That is why, for Buddha and Mahavira and all those in the world whose consciousness became still, we made images in stone—not without reason. There was a reason for making them in stone. Nothing stands as still as stone. Storms come; the tree beneath which Buddha’s statue is placed sways, trembles. Its roots tremble, its leaves tremble—but the statue remains still. That stillness of consciousness which had become steady within them—we sought a parallel for it and found stone. There, everything is at rest.
One who thus becomes steady between unpleasant and pleasant—that man attains to a unison, a single rhythm, with Sachchidananda.