Geeta Darshan #1

With Krishna, on this earth, the very conception of a new sannyas was born. Sannyas had always been a world-negating stream—against the world, in enmity with it. Until Krishna, renunciation meant a denial of life; life was negative. One who abandoned everything—action, home, every form of living—who became inactive, fled, withdrew from life, such a one was called a sannyasi. Krishna gave sannyas a very new dimension, a new dimension indeed. He speaks this new dimension to Arjuna in this sutra.
Arjuna too carried the same notion of sannyas. He thought: if I leave everything and go away, I shall attain to sannyas. He thought: I will drop my duty, abandon what ought to be done, do nothing at all, become inactive, slip into inaction—and then I will attain sannyas. But Krishna says in this sutra: he who acts without the hankering for the fruits, only him do I call a sannyasi. Not the one who merely abandons action while still clinging to the desire for the fruit. One who drops outer forms, yet whose inner being remains the same old, unchanged innerness—I do not call him a sannyasi.
So two things must be understood in this notion of sannyas. There is an outer form of sannyas; and there is also the soul, the inner core of sannyas. The old sannyas laid great stress on the outer form. Krishna’s sannyas emphasizes transformation of the inner being—inner transformation.
To drop action is not very difficult. Even the lazy sit dropping action. Therefore, if the old notion of sannyas attracted the lazy, there is nothing surprising. And if societies that revered the old sannyas gradually turned slothful, that too is no surprise. For those who do not want to do anything, the old sannyas seems very delightful. Doing nothing is no great attainment.
In this world, nobody really wishes to do anything. It is hard to find a person who longs to act. Yet people appear to be acting—not because they relish action—but because fruits do not arrive without action. We want something that cannot be had without doing. If it were guaranteed that without doing anything we would get what we desire, we would all drop action; we would all become sannyasis! But to fulfill desire, one has to act. It is a compulsion; hence we act.
Krishna says the opposite. He says: act, and drop the hope for the fruit. We can easily manage the inverse—do nothing and hope for the fruit. What seems easy is: do not act and keep hoping for results. And if someone were to supply the fruit, we would forever be ready to abandon action. Krishna says exactly the opposite: act you must, and abandon the hope for the fruit. If the hope for the fruit falls away, sannyas blossoms—in Krishna’s sense.
Who will act without hope for the fruit? Why would anyone act? We run because we hope to arrive somewhere. We walk so that a destination might be attained. We labor because there are longings; we struggle because there are dreams. Some star to be possessed gleams in the distance—hence we travel birth after birth.
Break that star. Krishna says: break that star. Row the boat, yes—but drop the thought that there is a shore on the other side. Drop the idea that you must reach somewhere; yet keep the rowing going.
It will seem impossible. It will seem supremely difficult. Then why row the boat if no bank is to be reached!
But Krishna says something astonishing. He says: by rowing no one reaches a shore; walking for births upon births, no one reaches the destination; by desiring, no desire is ever fulfilled. But the one who rows and drops the thought of reaching a shore—midstream itself becomes the shore. And the one who drops the hope of tomorrow and acts today—action itself becomes his fruit, action itself becomes his delight. Then there is no temporal gap between action and fruit. Then action now—fruit now.
Sannyas, in Krishna’s meaning, is not the renunciation of life—rather, the supreme celebration of life.
This is the very secret of life: what we want to grasp is precisely what eludes our grasp. That which we chase keeps receding from us. That for which we pray slips outside our hands. Life is almost like trying to hold air in a clenched fist. The tighter the grip, the more the air is outside the fist. In an open palm there is air; in a closed fist there is none—though the fist was closed to capture the air.
The more people try to bind life with passions and desires, the more life slips out of hand. In the end, nothing remains but emptiness, frustration, melancholy.
Krishna says: keep the palm open; do not bind with desire, do not bind with longing. Live—but not because some future fruit will be given. Then why live? We will ask: then why live?
Krishna says: living is joy in itself.
To bind living to the wish for tomorrow is foolishness. Living is joy in itself. This moment is fully joyous. And then, if labor itself becomes joy, if action itself becomes joy, it is no wonder.
But until Krishna’s time, all sannyas had been runaway, escapist. Withdraw. Wherever there is pain, withdraw from there. Wherever there is suffering, move away. But Krishna says: suffering is not because of place; suffering is because of vasana. That is his fundamental discovery.
Suffering is not because you sit in the marketplace and that if you sit in the forest you will be happy. If you sit in the temple in the same way you sit in the shop, no happiness will be there. You will be the same in the temple! You were in the marketplace; you yourself will sit in the forest. If nothing in you has changed, there is as much suffering in the forest as in the shop.
The question is not of changing the place. Place is irrelevant. Where your shop stands today, once there was a forest. And one day, some sannyasi must have come to that forest to sit. The place is the same; now there is a shop. Where there is forest today, tomorrow there will be a shop. Where there is a shop today, tomorrow there will be a forest. Places do not differ. The earth has not fixed where forest shall be and where shop shall be. The shop is decided by the mind, not by the place. Shop is determined by the state of mind, not by circumstances.
Krishna says: if you remain you, then wherever you run, suffering will come along. It is within you; it is in you; it is in your vasana, your desire. Where desire is, suffering follows like a shadow. So run to the forest, caves, Himalaya, Kailash—you will find suffering present with you. Open your eyes—you will find it standing in front. Close your eyes—you will find it seated within.
Suffering dwells in that consciousness which lives in desire.
And note this irony: the man who runs from the world does not run leaving desires behind. He too runs for the sake of some desire. This must be understood well. He wants to attain moksha, to attain Paramatman, to attain heaven, to attain peace, to attain bliss. But he surely wants to attain.
Nietzsche mocks all those who run from life. He says: you are strange madmen! You say you run dropping desires; yet I have not seen one who is not running for some desire. Here he drops desires; there he runs to obtain desires! And if desire is dropped in order to get some desire, then where has desire been dropped? Anyone can drop in this way.
One man wants to go to the cinema; he leaves the shop and goes. One man wants to buy a prostitute; he has to give up something to buy. Life has an economy. You cannot buy everything with one thing. To buy one thing, you have to drop another. Life has its own economics.
There is a rupee in your pocket. It can buy many things—until it is unspent. But when you go to buy, it can buy only one thing. When you buy one, all the rest that the rupee could have bought are renounced. If you buy a ticket with that rupee and sit in the cinema at night, you have renounced all else that could have been bought. Perhaps the child needed medicine—you renounced it. Perhaps your wife had no cloth—you renounced that. Perhaps your own belly is hungry—but you renounced your hunger.
There is an economy, an arithmetic of life. Here, to fulfill one desire, you have to drop others. If a man leaves worldly desires and goes to the forest, it is necessary to ask: what is he going there to obtain? He will say, to attain God, to attain the self, to attain bliss. But if you leave desires in order to obtain some desire, you are not a sannyasi.
Krishna says: sannyasi is he who does not drop desires for the sake of another desire, but drops desires themselves. Understand the difference well. Dropping for some desire anyone can do; no—he drops desires themselves.
We will say: if desire drops, action will drop! If desire drops, why will we act? This question too arises from our desire-filled mind. Because we have never acted without desire. But Krishna knows deeper. He knows: even if desire drops, action will not drop—only wrong action will drop. This is the second sutra to understand here.
Therefore he says: only that action which is worth doing is action. As soon as desire drops, wrong action drops; right action does not drop. For right action flows from life the way streams flow toward the ocean. Right action blossoms in life the way flowers blossom on trees. Right action is the very nature of life.
Wrong action is not life’s nature. Because of desires, life is compelled to perform wrong actions. The man who steals does not feel he is a thief. Even the greatest thief feels: I was compelled to steal; I am not a thief. He feels: there was such pressure of circumstance that I had to steal—otherwise I am not a thief. Even the worst doer of evil does not believe he is evil. He believes evil action is an accident.
There has never been a man on earth who declared: I am a bad man. He only says: I am good, but unfortunate circumstances compelled me to do bad.
But circumstances! In the same circumstances a Buddha is born; in the same circumstances a bandit is born; in the same circumstances a murderer is born. In the same house three people become three kinds. Identical circumstances cannot create identical men.
Circumstances differentiate less; desires differentiate more.
When desires are strong, we think: one desire will be fulfilled—even if a little wrong has to be done, let it be. Desire’s strong grip persuades us into evil. Even a bad act is done to fulfill some ‘good’ desire. One convinces oneself that the desire is so good, the goal is so noble; if a few wrong means are used, it is not bad. This is not thought only by simple folk; so-called great intellectuals think so too. Even men like Marx and Lenin thought that bad means are acceptable for a good end. But what we want to do is good anyway!
Even the worst man’s logic is that what he wants to do is good. If I want to build a house, rest in its shade at noon—what is bad in that? It is natural, human. For this I may have to black-market a little, steal a little, pay a little bribe—so be it. Otherwise it won’t happen.
Krishna says: when a person’s desires drop, his bad actions drop immediately. But good actions do not drop.
Good action is only that—if I were to define it, I would prefer to say—good action is that which can move even without desire. And bad action is that which cannot move without the legs of desire. Any action that requires desire to run is bad; and any action for which desire is utterly unnecessary is good. Good means only this: it arises from the nature of life, from life itself.
Krishna says: if one drops desires and simply acts, him I call a sannyasi.
This is a very esoteric, a very secret exposition. Ordinarily, the difference between householder and sannyasi seems to be: the householder lives at home; the sannyasi leaves home. In Krishna’s definition the reverse is also possible. One who stays at home can be a sannyasi; one who leaves home can be a householder.
Krishna’s definition is a little profound. If someone leaves home for a desire, he is a householder. If someone lives quietly at home without desire, he is a sannyasi. If someone begins to live in his home without desires, the home becomes an ashram. And if someone goes to an ashram and begins weaving new webs of desire, it becomes a house.
Have you seen a sannyasi without desire? If you have not seen such a sannyasi, know that you have not yet seen a sannyasi at all.
The human mind is very skilled in saving itself—in all conditions it saves itself. Even in adverse situations it finds a way. Sit in the forest, and there too it spins webs of desire. Sit in temple and pilgrimage, and there too it spins webs of desire. The very work of the mind is to manufacture webs of desire.
If we say: the mind is such a tree upon which the leaves of desires sprout and keep sprouting. One leaf withers, and before it falls a new tender leaf is budding beneath to push it out. Look deeper: the old leaf falls only when the new underneath pushes it away. One desire drops only when a stronger desire demands space: make room for me. A desire yields only when a more powerful desire pushes to make space. Desires are continuously manufactured in the mind.
Krishna says: if there are no desires, sannyas happens. I say to you: where desires end, mind ends. Because mind and desires are names of the same thing. Mind is the sum of all desires, all cravings, all thirsts. If desires are not, mind is not.
Krishna says: the one in whom mind is no more is a sannyasi. Not the one in whom action is no more; the one in whom mind is no more is a sannyasi.
Bad actions will drop, for no one can perform bad actions without desires.
There is a very deep trust expressed here.
Krishna’s trust in man is immeasurable. Perhaps no other person on earth ever had such trust. Whoever insists that you must become good does not have much trust in man. Krishna’s trust is that man is good—only let mind be absent, and there will be no lack in man’s goodness. He is good by nature. He is auspicious. This much is enough: let him drop desires, and auspiciousness will be born within him. He will appear utterly pure, immaculate, innocent. His innocence will be revealed.
Like dust gathered on a mirror—someone wipes it off and the mirror is clean. But would you say that when dust was on the mirror, the mirror had become impure? That you could not see the image is another matter. But the mirror had not become impure; it was still a mirror. The dust had not entered into the mirror; it was only on the surface. Blow it away, wipe it away. The dust is gone, the mirror shines.
In Krishna’s vision man is pure like a mirror. When he desires, he gathers dust all around—particles of desire.
In the West there is much reflection on this: when a man desires, does his mind itself change? When a man is filled with anger, does he retain the same mind he had before anger? When a man is filled with forgiveness, is it the same mind he had at the moment of anger?
Psychology now says: the mind remains the same, but things around it change. In anger, the glands release such poisons that they surround the mind, make it poisonous—as dust surrounds the mirror. In love, the glands release nectars; then too the mind remains the same, but streams of sweetness flow all around it.
Krishna goes even deeper. He says: consciousness itself is innocent. Only when you desire do the faults begin to gather. They too only gather outside; they do not enter within. If for a single instant one drops desiring, all faults fall away. Then bad action becomes impossible. But auspicious action continues. In truth, the energy that was being spent in bad actions is now saved and is absorbed into auspicious action.
For Krishna, actions do not happen because of desires; actions are the pulsation of life’s nature; they arise from life’s energy. Where there is energy, action will bloom—because energy longs to express itself in action.
This Paramatman manifests in such a vast universe—this is his energy, eager to manifest. Remove a stone from the earth and a fountain bursts forth. It is not going anywhere; energy within wants to express.
If man’s desires fall, the whole energy of his life longs to manifest in the auspicious. Desireless consciousness begins to radiate the energy of the auspicious.
So Krishna says: bad actions fall away. Only what is worth doing remains to be done. This alone I call sannyas—not the one who has abandoned fire.
In those days, to abandon fire was a great thing. Keep this in mind. When this sutra was spoken, abandoning fire was a great event. Today we might wonder: what does Krishna mean by ‘one who has abandoned fire’? Fire today is not such an event. But in that day, fire was as great an event as if today we were to say: one who has abandoned machines! Think parallel today: one who has abandoned the use of machines!
Consider what would remain if one abandoned machines today. Life is encircled by machines. He could not sit in a train; he could not speak through a microphone; he could not wear glasses; he could not wear cloth—everything depends on machines. He could not write with a fountain pen; he could not have his hair cut by a barber. Consider: if one abandons machines, what remains of life? Nothing remains.
In those days, fire was as big a thing. Everything depended on fire: food, security, the organization of life. Fire was a great event. Before man had fire, he was insecure—uncivilized. He became civilized with fire.
Without fire, there was no way except eating meat or raw fruits. Fire came—and cooking began. Without fire, one could only roam by day; night brought danger, wild beasts all around. Half had to keep watch while half slept; even then danger persisted. There was no opportunity to be civilized. Eating and sleeping consumed all energy. Fire brought a great remedy. Fire gave security. The forest-dweller circled fire and slept in the middle. Fire was the first god to civilize man. Civilization came with fire.
So when this sutra was said, fire had civilized life everywhere, just as machines have today.
If one abandoned fire then, he abandoned everything. He had nothing left. He withdrew from civilized life, returned to uncivil life, to the forest, to the cave-man’s world. He neither cooked with fire, nor protected himself from cold. To abandon fire meant returning to the cave-man.
Even then, Krishna says: he is not a sannyasi. If even this act is motivated by a desire, it is not sannyas.
Krishna says: action without vasana. Let any action be empty of desire—no matter how great the action. Arjuna stands poised for war. Krishna says: go into war. If you can go leaving the hope for the fruit, then even this war is sannyas. There is then no harm.
Strange indeed! One who leaves everything and goes to a mountain cave—Krishna says, not sannyas either. Arjuna who stands on the battlefield—Krishna says, fight; this too is sannyas!
This statement of Krishna deserves deep reflection. Theoretically it is not as valuable as it is practically. If any sannyas is to survive on this earth in the future, only Krishna’s sannyas can survive—no other. If today one were to accept the old notion of sannyas—there are three-and-a-half billion people on the planet—if they all left and went to the forests, there would be a fair, not a forest! Wherever they went, that place would cease to be a forest. Wherever they go, it would be leveled down.
This earth of billions, increasing day by day—by century’s end another billion will be added. Scientists say that within a hundred years, if population grows so, there will be no space left even to move an elbow. Wherever you go, hands will touch you on all sides. You cannot run away now.
Then what of sannyas? The old cave sannyas will not be possible. Then will sannyas vanish? That would be the loss of a great nectar-flower of life, the loss of a wondrous fragrance—for one who has not known sannyas has not known life. Krishna’s sannyas can survive.
Therefore it seems to me that the Gita will become more meaningful for the future. Its vision becomes more and more relevant. Krishna comes nearer every day. For he speaks profoundly: there is nowhere to go. Where you are, there—only fulfill one condition, and you will no longer be a householder. Fulfill one condition, and you become a sannyasi. That condition is: do not desire; do not long for the fruit.
It will be hard to understand how not to desire the fruit. Try an experiment for twenty-four hours—and you will understand; otherwise, a whole lifetime of understanding may not suffice.
There are things in life that are understood only by experiment. Put a little sugar on the tongue—and at once the meaning of taste is known. In a single instant, the whole body announces it. And one who never tasted—we could explain a whole lifetime and he would still say: all you say may be right, yet what is taste, I still do not know. There is no fault in his understanding—the mind is not the instrument here; experience is. Some things are grasped by understanding. Useless things may be understood that way. Deep, essential truths are grasped only by experience; understanding does not suffice.
Krishna says: drop the hankering for the fruit.
For thousands of years we have heard it. The Gita is as familiar as any book can be. Someone asked me: the Gita is so familiar—why speak on it? I said: precisely because there is great confusion that it is familiar. We read it, and think we know it. There is hardly a more unfamiliar book. In one sense it is familiar—every home has it, gathering dust. Everyone ‘knows’ what is written in it.
If only everyone truly knew—the world would be utterly different! No, we do not know. We know the words. Perhaps the meaning too—as the dictionary supplies it. The intent we do not know, the purpose we do not grasp.
Krishna says: drop the hankering for the fruit and act.
I say to you: for one day—no apocalypse will happen—do the experiment. From morning six to the next morning six, drop the hope for the fruit and act. Taste will come to your tongue. You will come to know that action is possible without hankering for the fruit. And for the first time there will be action in your life that can be called a total act—because the mind will not run anywhere; there is no longing for fruit. And once the taste comes, I assure you those twenty-four hours will never end. Six o’clock will begin the journey, but the next six will never strike again.
Once the taste comes, you will see how near an ocean of bliss was to life—and we never even glanced at it; we kept missing. Our neck became tilted—we go on running, go on missing. We do not even see that along the shore there is another taste to life. Sometimes a glimpse comes in certain acts.
Sometimes you play with your child—there is no hankering for fruit. Have you noticed the delight of playing with a child? If you play with an adult, there is not so much delight—because even play becomes work, a game with stakes! Winning and losing begins—the hope for fruit comes in. A father plays with his little son—have you seen a father play with his little boy? Rare now, becoming rarer.
A father is playing with his little boy. There is no question of defeating him. The very thought does not arise. Yes, he enjoys losing in the play. He lies on the floor, seats the boy upon his chest. The boy dances in joy: he has defeated father!
All sons want to defeat their fathers. Those fathers who insist get into trouble. The wise fathers lie down and lose. Their children later repent: father played a deep joke on us. But in that little play there is no hankering—everything is absorbed.
A friend of mine was a guest in a Japanese home. In the morning the children informed him: there is a wedding at our house; please attend in the evening. He was surprised—they were very small. He thought perhaps they would marry dolls. He said: I will certainly come. But before evening, the elders too invited him: a wedding at our house, please attend. He realized he had erred.
In the evening, in the hall where all band and music were arranged, he found no groom. A doll was placed and a wedding procession was ready! Old folks from the neighborhood had gathered; the procession moved out. He asked one elder: what is this? I thought children’s games are for children—yet you all are attending!
The elder laughed: now the games of the grown-ups appear to us as children’s games too. Even when the real groom goes out with the procession, we know—it is a game. So we have no objection to join this game with seriousness. Both are the same.
Old folks of the village had joined. My friend was disturbed. He thought: evening spoilt. I asked him: what would you have done with the evening if not spoilt? Turned on the radio, gone to the cinema, discussed politics? Chewed again what you read in the morning paper? What would you do? He said: nothing much. Then how does the idea arise that it went waste? On the contrary, it surely went waste—for in that hour you had the opportunity for an act without any fruit-hankering, to join a play—and you missed. I said: go again. Even without invitation, go. This time, live that procession with joy for an hour—you may catch a glimpse of fruitless action.
In play, sometimes a little glimpse of fruitless action comes. But even that has vanished—we have destroyed play. We have turned play into work. We fill it with tension. The urge to win becomes so strong that the entire joy of play is lost.
No, try a twenty-four-hour experiment—it will be precious for your life. Read this sutra before you do it; do the experiment; then read the sutra again. Then you will know what Krishna is saying. And if you can do even one act without fruit, fruitless actions will expand across your life. That expansion is sannyas.
What will happen? If you do not hanker for fruit, what will be lost, what will be destroyed?
No—everyone imagines the whole earth rests upon him! If he drops the hankering for fruit, perhaps the sky will fall. Even a lizard hanging on the wall thinks the house is held by her; if she moves, the whole house may collapse!
We too think so. Before us, billions have lived on this earth and died thinking thus. No trace of their actions remains, nor of their fruits. Neither their defeats have meaning today, nor their victories any purpose. All dissolve into the dust. But for a little while dust goes mad—leaping like a wave in the ocean: a little while it rises, and before the leap completes it falls back. Such are we.
Krishna says: know that the same Paramatman who gave you birth, or of whom you are a wave, whose energy gave you life—he has been acting through you, he will act through you. Do not be in haste. Do not take unnecessary burdens. Leave it to him. Drop even the worry of tomorrow. What will happen tomorrow—we will see tomorrow. What is happening today—be content in it. Surrender yourself completely. Like one who lets himself loose in water and floats. Do not even labor to swim—just float. Flow quietly with whatsoever life gives. Bind no desire for tomorrow. Fix no fruits. Bind no destinies for your actions. Leave that to the Lord. Leave it to the one who lives the whole. In doing so, a man becomes a sannyasi.
A sannyasi is one who says: I will act; the fruit is in your hands. A sannyasi is one who says: you gave me the energy—so make me work. I know not tomorrow; I know nothing of yesterday. I do not even know what is beneficial for me and what is harmful. I know nothing. The rest you take care of. One who says to the supreme power of life: you take care; with the energy in me, take whatever work you will. I will do the work—do not discuss fruits with me. Such a person is a sannyasi. Truly, only such a person is a sannyasi.
Sannyas means: one who has put aside the burden of his selfhood, who has set down the burden of his ego, who has said: now I am surrendered. Surrender is sannyas.
A surrendered person does not hanker for the fruit. Because we do not know what is right and what is wrong. What should happen and what should not happen—we do not know.
An Arabic proverb says: if God fulfilled everyone’s desires, people would fall into such misery as cannot be measured. There is a Sufi story told along with that proverb. Let me tell it, then we shall move to the next sutra.
I have heard: a man read that proverb—that if God fulfilled desires, people would be in utter trouble. It is his grace that he does not fulfill your desires. For desires born of ignorance can only lead into danger. The man said: I cannot accept this. He prayed and worshiped greatly. When God spoke: why so much prayer? He said: I want to test this proverb. Grant me a boon—I will get desires fulfilled; I want to prove the proverb false.
God said: ask any three wishes—I shall fulfill them. The man said: good. Let me go home and consult my wife.
He had not thought what to ask—he never believed God would really speak. You too wouldn’t. People go to the temple and pray; none believes. Just do it—perhaps! But perhaps lingers.
He had not decided; he was frightened. He ran to his wife. He said: if you want anything, say so—I shall have one wish fulfilled for you. All my life I could not fulfill your wishes. The wife said: there is no frying pan in the house. She had no idea what was happening. No frying pan; for so many days I have been saying. A frying pan appeared. The man lamented: idiot—you wasted a boon! In such anger he said: it would be better if you died this instant. She died. He was terrified. He said: this is great trouble. He said: O God, let my wife be restored to life with the one wish left.
Thus his three wishes were fulfilled. On his door he has written: the proverb is true.
We do not even know what we are asking. It is not fulfilled—hence we go on asking. If it were fulfilled, we would know. Since it is not fulfilled, we never come to know.
Krishna says: do not ask at all. The one who has given you life is more intelligent than you. Do not flaunt your intelligence. Do not be too wise. Do not be overly clever. The one by whose hand the moon and stars move, from whom the infinite life flows and into whom it dissolves—surely he is wiser than we. And if even he is not wise, then striving to be wise is utterly useless.
Krishna says: leave it to him. Keep doing; leave all to him.
And the great wonder is: he who leaves—he gains all that is to be gained. And he who does not leave—in that Arabic story at least the man got a frying pan; but one who does not leave—there is no certainty he will even get a frying pan.
A sannyasi is one who has left even the thought of fruit—who lives today, here.
Can you imagine doing anything wrong without fruit? If a thief had no confidence that he would get money, that he could break the safe—could he go to steal? Impossible. The bad drops instantly from life when longing and the desire for fruit drop. Yet life’s energy will act. But then that energy becomes the hand of the Lord, and one who becomes the hand of the Lord—him Krishna calls a sannyasi.
यं संन्यासमिति प्राहुर्योगं तं विद्धि पाण्डव।
न ह्यसंन्यस्तसंकल्पो योगी भवति कश्चन।। 2।।
Therefore, O Arjuna, that which is called sannyas—know that to be yoga; for one who has not renounced sankalpa, willful intention, can never be a yogi.
One who has not renounced sankalpa is not a yogi; and he who renounces sankalpa—that one is a sannyasi.
Why is there sankalpa in our mind? What is sankalpa? Where there is desire, sankalpa is born. If something is to be obtained, an exertion to obtain it, a power to obtain it must be gathered. Sankalpa is the intensity to fulfill a desire—the intense organization for desire’s fulfillment. Sankalpa is will. When I want to obtain something, I stake myself. To stake oneself is sankalpa.
Gamblers are men of sankalpa. They stake everything to get something. We are all gamblers. The quantities differ. The stakes are large or small depending on capacity. We all stake. Only he is not a gambler who has no hankering for fruit. He has nothing to stake. We, however, will make sankalpas.
Krishna says: drop all sankalpas—only he is a yogi, only he is a sannyasi.
Sankalpas will drop only when there is no idea of gaining anything. Otherwise, they will continue. The mind gathers its power around sankalpa twenty-four hours a day. Desires that remain without sankalpa become impotent. Many desires arise within. Not all become sankalpa. Many arise; but when we pour our energy and our self into one, that desire becomes sankalpa.
Idle desires gradually fade as dreams. The one behind which we place our power and our self—that becomes sankalpa.
Sankalpa means: to fulfill a desire we have staked ourselves. Then it is no longer merely a desire—it has become will. And when one is filled with will, one enters deeper danger. Because now desire is no longer merely a thought—say, of a palace—it has become insistence: I will build it. To become insistent means that one’s ego has joined the desire. Now he says: only if the desire is fulfilled will I be; if not fulfilled, I am worthless. Now the ego will try to prove itself by fulfilling the desire. When ego unites with desire, sankalpa is forged.
When the ego, the ‘I’, grabs a desire, we become mad after it. We may lose all—but we cannot stop trying to fulfill it. We may even destroy ourselves. Often if one’s sankalpa cannot be fulfilled, one commits suicide. He says: better not to live than live. He goes mad. He says: what use is this brain! Sankalpa.
Ordinarily we teach everyone to strengthen sankalpa. If a child cannot pass the exam, the teacher says: be a man of will. Strengthen your sankalpa. Say: I will do it. Stake yourself. If the son is not succeeding, the father says: lack of sankalpa. Everywhere we teach will. Our entire so-called world stands upon sankalpa.
Krishna says the reverse. He says: he who drops will completely—only he attains the Lord. To drop will means surrender. Say: thy will be done. I am not. Surrender means one is willing to lose, willing to fail.
Remember: dropping fruit-hankering and being willing to fail are the same. Willing to fail and dropping fruit-hankering are the same. Whatever happens, be ready. Say: I am nothing but readiness—acceptability. Whatever happens, I am ready for it. Such a one is a sannyasi.
Thus a sannyasi means one who dies utterly within; who dies totally within. Sannyas is a deep death—a very deep death.
One death we know—when the body dies. But that is not death. It is a deception. For then mind creates a new body. It is only a change of garments. Only leaving the old house for a new one.
Therefore the knowers do not call death, death. They call it only the beginning of a new life. The knowers call yoga death; they call sannyas death.
In truth a man dies within only when he decides: now I have no will, no hankering for fruit, ‘I’ am not. The moment one gathers the courage to say: I am not; only you are—the great death happens.
And remember: only out of that great death does the great life arise. When a seed breaks, a sprout is born, a tree becomes. When an egg breaks, life emerges; spreads its wings; flies into the sky. So too are we a closed seed, a hard kernel of ego. When the shell of ego breaks and the husk fractures, then from within us a great-life bird spreads wings toward the vast sky.
But we are busy saving the seed. We are like madmen who strive to save the seed. What will happen by saving it? It will only rot. To save the seed is madness. It is not meant to be saved; it is meant to be broken, to be effaced—so that sprout may be. The sprout then bears infinite seeds. Ego is our seed, the hard knot.
And remember: the shell of the seed serves the same function that ego serves. What does the hard shell do? It protects the tender life within. It is a safety measure. But if the protecting shell refuses to break, it becomes suicide. As if we put armor on a soldier in war—it is a safety measure. But if the armor becomes so tight around his life that when the soldier returns home he still refuses to take it off, sleeps with it, and says he will never remove it—then that armor becomes his grave. He will die in the very armor meant to protect him.
The hard shell of the seed protects the soft life inside until it finds the right soil. When right soil is found, the shell should dissolve, melt, fall away; the sprout should emerge; tender life should come out; begin the journey to touch the sun.
So too our ego is our protective arrangement—until right soil is found. What is right soil?
Most remain seeds and die. They never find the right soil. The name of that right soil is dharma. In the entire search of life, the sooner you understand the mystery of dharma, the sooner you will find the right soil.
I speak on the Gita with this hope—that perhaps some seed of yours is seeking soil. In Krishna’s words, somewhere in the air, that soil may be found. By the pretext of this discourse, perhaps a note will be heard, and that soil found in which your seed becomes willing to break.
Thus Krishna keeps saying to Arjuna: leave yourself, break yourself.
This is what all religion says. The religions of the world say only this—whether the Koran, the Bible, Mahavira, Buddha. Whoever speaks of religion says: you must die. If you protect yourself, you will lose Paramatman. If you are ready to efface yourself, you become Paramatman. Die! Efface yourself!
You yourself are your obstacle. Break this shell. You have dragged this shell through many lives. Now it has become a habit. You think you are the shell. You have forgotten the tender life within. The Atman is forgotten, the body is taken as ‘I am.’ Consciousness is forgotten; the mind and its desires are taken as ‘I am.’ Break this shell; drop this shell.
But we go on strengthening this shell by sankalpa. Sankalpa is the effort to protect the shell. We say: I will protect myself. We all fight each other so that no one may destroy us. We are immersed in struggle so that we may survive.
Darwin says: all life is a struggle for survival. Those survive who are most fit—survival of the fittest.
But had Darwin understood Krishna, Krishna would have said something else. Krishna says: the noblest do not protect themselves. And those who die—they alone survive.
Had Darwin asked Jesus, Jesus too would have said: if you save yourself, you will lose; if you are willing to lose, you will be saved.
Religion says: if we take the shell as the sprout, we err. This shell is only a shell. Whether you break it or not, it will break anyway. Only a life-chance is wasted. Then a new shell—and you clutch it again as ‘I am’ and lose another lifetime.
Sankalpa is our attempt to save ourselves. Every creature strives to save itself. Not only man—even the smallest bird saves itself, even the tiniest insect, even a rock guards itself. Everything guards itself. If we observe the whole stream of life, each is occupied with its own security.
Sannyas is a jump into insecurity. It means: stop trying to save yourself. We are ready to die now. We do not protect—because who has protected and survived?
Krishna says: whoever drops sankalpas—only he is a yogi.
But one man says: I have made the sankalpa that I will attain God. Then he will not attain sannyas. He is still making will. He wants to add God as another item to his property—house, shop, certificates, job, status. He says: I have all—I should also have God! As if God is another piece of furniture to decorate his house—so he can show neighbors: see the big car in the porch; see the temple in the house; God sits there. We have everything. God is part of our possessions.
Whoever makes sankalpa will not attain God. For sankalpa means ‘I’ exists. And where ‘I’ is, there is no way to attain God. A drop says: remaining a drop, I want to obtain the ocean. What will you say? You will say: you do not know arithmetic. A drop says: remaining a drop, I will obtain the ocean! ‘I will bring the ocean home!’ The ocean must be laughing. You will laugh. The drop is foolish. But where man is concerned, you will not laugh. Man says: I will remain and obtain God. It is the same madness as the drop wanting to remain and obtain the ocean.
If the drop wants to obtain the ocean, it must die—it must lose itself. Let it fall into the ocean and be lost—it will become the ocean. There is no other way. Likewise, man must lose himself to attain the Divine. Man is like the drop; Paramatman is like the ocean. If man saves himself and says he will attain—madness. The drop has gone mad. We laugh at the drop; we do not laugh at man. Whenever anyone says, ‘I will attain God,’ he has started on the path of madness. ‘I’ is the obstacle.
Kabir says: I sought long. Seeking, I grew tired; I did not find him. And I found only when, seeking and seeking, I was lost. The day I saw I am not, suddenly I found he is. The two cannot coexist. Hence Kabir says: the lane of love is too narrow; two cannot pass. Either he or I.
Sankalpa is the defense of the ‘I.’ The ego, the ahamkara, devises plans to save itself—that is sankalpa. The arrangements it makes to fulfill its fruit-hankerings—those arrangements are called sankalpa.
Nietzsche wrote a book whose title is the very opposite: The Will to Power—shakti ka sankalpa. Nietzsche says: there is only one true secret of life: will to power. Keep making sankalpas—more power, and more power—whether of wealth, fame, position, knowledge—but more power. That is the secret, Nietzsche says. Whoever makes will wins; whoever does not loses. And those who lose—eliminate them; they are of no use to life. Save those who win.
Nietzsche’s philosophy is the philosophy of will, the philosophy of sankalpa. Hence he says: I know only one beauty—when I see soldiers marching and their bayonets gleam in the sun—that is the most beautiful thing I have seen. Truly, when bayonets shine on the road, there can be no symbol more beautiful of ego. Nietzsche says: I know no music more significant than the rhythmic sound of soldiers’ boots marching to the battlefield. Certainly, if ego were to compose music, what else could it produce but the rhythm of boots! If ever ego produced a Mozart or Beethoven, the orchestra would be the sound of boots; bayonets and boots—gleaming blades and marching feet. Nietzsche is right—that is the outcome of will; that is the meaning of will. It is the mad race of ego.
Krishna says: but where there is sankalpa…
Therefore, let me point out a common confusion: many imagine that Nietzsche’s and Krishna’s philosophies agree—because Nietzsche is warlike and Krishna tells Arjuna: go to war. This is a grave confusion. They do not see that their fundamental visions of life are utterly different.
Krishna says to Arjuna: you will be fit to go to war only when you have no sankalpa. You will be fit to go to war only when you have no desire. You gain the qualification to go to war only when you are no more. Go to war like a sannyasi.
Krishna’s war is dharmayuddha—of a very different meaning. And when Nietzsche says go to war, he means: war is the longing to destroy the other, to assert oneself. War is the proclamation of ego.
So whoever tries to fit Nietzsche and Krishna together speaks in utter foolishness. They cannot be reconciled. Their conditions are different. Krishna can send Arjuna to war when Arjuna has become utterly empty. And if emptiness fights, it cannot fight for adharma. Why would emptiness fight for adharma? If emptiness fights, it can only be for dharma—for dharma is nature, and emptiness lives by nature. He can fight out of nature.
Therefore, if Krishna tells Arjuna to go to war, the conditions are many. If Arjuna fulfills them, nothing of Arjuna remains that belongs to Arjuna; Arjuna becomes the hand of the Divine. Whoever fulfills these conditions becomes the hand of God—only a bamboo flute through which the song of the Lord will flow. He is a hollow space, a passage, a path—nothing more.
Drop all sankalpas. And sankalpas will be dropped only when desires are dropped. Hence in the first sutra Krishna says: let there be no desires. Then in the second he says: let there be no sankalpas. Where there are desires, there will be sankalpas.
Sankalpa means: a desire that has taken root in your ego; a desire that has persuaded your ego to be its ally; that has enticed it: come with me, follow me—I will deliver you to heaven. The ego that goes chasing heaven behind a desire—that is sankalpa.
Thus first he said: let there be no desires; second he said: let there be no sankalpas; then there is sannyas.
So sannyas does not mean will; sannyas means surrender—samarpan.
We go to the temple and place our head at the feet of God. But look carefully—you will be surprised. The physical head bows, but the real head stands behind, watching whether anyone is watching! If there are onlookers, the chants are louder; if none, one finishes quickly and leaves. The real ego stands behind—even at the feet of God it does not bow.
In truth, our whole way of life is not that of bowing the head, but of stiffening it. We bow sometimes—out of compulsion! It is a temporary device. Therefore, whoever has made you bow must beware of you—you will settle the account. Whoever once made you bow, be careful with him—you have made an enemy. He will take revenge. For the head does not bow willingly. It bows unwillingly and waits for the chance to force that head to bow in return!
As long as mind is, the head cannot bow. Where mind is not, the head is already bowed. Even a standing head is bowed.
When Krishna says: let there be no sankalpa, he says: let there be no inner ego which crystallizes all sankalpas.
Within, the voice of ‘I’ continues twenty-four hours. I am not saying: do not utter ‘I.’ No. That will not help—you must speak. But when you speak ‘I,’ know that within no dense ‘I’ be formed. Let no strong ‘I’ harden within. Let ‘I’ remain only in words, language, transactions—let it not become deep inside. But our condition is the opposite: even if we avoid using ‘I’ outside, within it persists!
There is a thinker named Hubbard. He developed a small practice for seekers. The practice is: keep count in the day of how many times you use ‘I’; note it down. His seekers keep a little notebook and mark each ‘I.’ They are stunned to see how often they say ‘I’!
Then Hubbard says: remain aware. Awareness reduces the use. Today it was a hundred times; tomorrow ninety; in a few months, a few times; in four or six months, it becomes nearly zero. Then the seeker discovers: even if you do not say ‘I,’ within it stands.
You walk on the road. When none is there, you walk in one way. When two people appear on the road, your ‘I’ arises. Something stirs within; something prepares. He straightens the tie, adjusts the clothes, moves on. In the bathroom—are you the same as in the drawing room? Observe tomorrow. You will see—one bathes in the bathroom; another sits in the drawing room! You. When in the drawing room you are someone else; in the bathroom you are someone else.
In the bathroom, no one sees—you give the ‘I’ a little holiday. There is no need for it; the ‘I’ enjoys only before others. But if there is a mirror in the bathroom, there will be trouble. In front of a mirror you do two jobs—of the seen and the seer; you become two. Standing before the mirror, everything changes again.
Subtly, inside, whether you utter it or not, a stream of ‘I’ flows. An undercurrent. One must become aware of it. Gradually you will see: that stream produces sankalpas. Without sankalpa it cannot actualize.
Imagine clouds of vapor drifting in the sky. Until they meet cold, they will not become water; they will drift. Meeting cold, they condense as water; more cold, and they become ice.
So too within, a very subtle vapor-like stream of ego flows. The vapor-clouds of ego give us no enjoyment until they condense into water, and further into ice—solid, hard, visible to the world. When they become visible, we relish them. When your ego becomes a block of ice, a stone—then others can see it, and it can pierce others.
Until ego begins to pierce another’s chest, we do not enjoy it. Satisfaction arises only when it wounds the chest of another, and the other can do nothing. Then you can be extremely humble—join your hands and say: I am nothing; inside you relish the wound you cause in his chest.
This undercurrent of our sankalpas, egos, desires—if this is dissolved, sannyas is attained. Therefore, sannyas is a science—an inch-by-inch science. It is not some thing lying in the dark to pick up. Sannyas is a science. Your entire consciousness must be transformed—inch by inch, from base to peak—only then sannyas bears fruit.
What is the base? The base is the hankering for fruit. What is the process? The process is sankalpa. What is the attainment? The attainment is the crystallization of ego. Remember these three: hankering for fruit, the process of sankalpa, the accomplishment of ego. At the base: the longing for fruit; on the path: the race of sankalpas; at the end: the triumph of ego.
This is the form of our householder’s life. Whoever lives in these three is a householder. Whoever begins to live outside these three is sannyas.
Where to begin? Begin where Krishna says to begin: with the hankering for fruit—because there the battle is easiest. There it is still vapor; it has not become water. Once it becomes ice, it will be much harder; melt the ice to water, heat the water to vapor—only then can you be free as the sky. Begin there.
Much within you has already become ice—do not attack that first. Much is water—do not touch that either. Look to the clouds you are condensing. The desires to which you are giving fresh sankalpa—be aware of them. Turn back and see: so many desires fulfilled—what did we gain? So many fruits obtained—yet fruitless we stand.
If you are fifty, look back—what have you reached after so much striving? And if given fifty more years—what will you do? You will repeat. One who had ten rupees made a hundred; he will make a thousand, then ten thousand, then a lakh. But when ten thousand did not give joy—and when you had one rupee you thought ten would give joy—when ten thousand could not, how will a million?
Look back. Let your past enlighten your future—let it not deceive you again. Otherwise, the future deceives daily. The future assures: if not yesterday—tomorrow. That is its secret to keep you captive. A thousand rupees did not do it—it never happens with a thousand; it happens with a lakh. When a lakh is there, it will say: never with a lakh; with ten lakhs. The mind will go on. It never stops.
See through this arithmetic of mind—and you will grasp Krishna’s great arithmetic of sannyas, utterly opposite. The one entangled in the mind’s process reaches nowhere but misery.
There is bliss. Not that there is none. It is certain—but its process is different. Its process is to melt the ice into water, water into vapor, and bow out the vapor—say goodbye. Let the vapor fly into the sky.
Melt the ego into sankalpas; melt the sankalpas into desires; then be free of desires. Dissolve the ego, turn sankalpa into water, heat sankalpa with the fire of knowing into vapor—let that cloud drift away from you. Step outside it.
And the day anyone arrives in such a state—and anyone can, for all are entitled—Krishna says it only to Arjuna, but it applies to all who have begun to inquire. For the one who has thought even a little, there is no other way.
If you have not yet discovered that the path of desire carries no bliss, then know you have not begun to think. If it has not yet occurred to you that desires bring suffering, your thinking has not begun. It is the first step of thinking—to see desires do not bring happiness, they lead into unhappiness. Then where is happiness?
Two options: either conclude there is no happiness; or consider that happiness may be elsewhere than in desire. Before deciding that happiness is nowhere, live a few moments without desire.
There are those who say there is no happiness—only suffering. Freud says so: there is only suffering. At the most, you can arrange to endure suffering; or cultivate the capacity to bear it. But happiness—no. Freud says there is no happiness. Only more or less suffering; only people who can bear more or less. But suffering alone.
Freud is half right. As far as he saw, every desire leads to pain. Therefore his statement is right that there is suffering. But he knows nothing of that moment which can be lived outside desire. Not even for a moment did he glimpse life lived without desire.
Those who have—Buddha, Krishna—will laugh at Freud: you speak half-truth. There is no happiness in desires. But do not say happiness is not. Because desireless man is possible—and when man is desireless, there is a rain of bliss unimaginable—un-dreamt. As soon as desires drop, bliss arrives.
If I put it thus, it may be easier: the opposite of happiness is not suffering—the opposite of happiness is desire. The opposite pole of happiness is not pain, but desire. Light’s opposite is not any ‘thing’—it is darkness. Light a lamp—the darkness is gone. Extinguish it—darkness fills. Filled with desires is filled with darkness. Light the desireless mind—the darkness disappears. In darkness there is suffering; in desires there is suffering.
The sannyas Krishna speaks of is not morose, defeated, weary—not one who died before dying. The sannyas he speaks of is laughing, dancing sannyas—with a flute at its lips.
It is not like the sannyasis we see around—sad, dead, as if they have dug their graves and sit in them! Krishna does not speak of that. He speaks of vibrant, living, radiant sannyas; dancing sannyas; sannyas that embraces life; sannyas that does not flee; sannyas cheerful and joyous.
Remember: one who does not drop the longing for desire and fruit but only flees from life and action—he will become dreary. Not necessarily suffering—dreary. Understand the difference. Dreary is one who is not happy, and cannot even find a way to be unhappy. Dreary is one who is not happy but cannot find a way even into sorrow. If he could suffer, there would be a little relief. He is shut from all sides. No journey of joy has begun; the journey into suffering has been blocked. No jewels in hand; the colored pebbles, the toys were hugged to the chest—those too he threw away. Such a man becomes dreary.
You hug pebbles. By mistake I pass your way and say: what stones you clutch! If you must hold something, hold diamonds! Drop the pebbles. You listen, throw them away. The burden of pebbles will be less; the pain they caused will lessen; no longer the worry of them being stolen; you will sleep easier. But empty-handed! Diamonds do not come by throwing stones. Empty hands become dreary.
A mind in which joy has not entered, and which has fled from the states of suffering—becomes dreary. Dreariness is a negative state—there is no suffering, and no path to joy. And every path found leads again to suffering—so you refuse to go. You stand, bracing yourself. In this bracing, dreariness arises. Sannyas that is so dreary and indifferent—this is the reason.
Krishna will not say this; nor will I. I say: do not worry so much about throwing stones; worry about seeing the diamonds that are. As soon as they are seen, the pebbles fall on their own—you will not have to drop them. And when they are seen, as if lightning flashed, a wave of joy floods life.
If a sannyasi is not joyous, delighted, dancing, blooming—he is not a sannyasi.
But such sannyas is possible only in Krishna’s way. If you drop action, you become dreary; for your life-energy—where will it flow? It must express itself. If we forbid a bush to blossom, the bush will be in difficulty—what of its energy?
Likewise, one who leaves action and runs from life falls into trouble. There is no channel for expression. The springs within get blocked; they swirl within; they de-madden the mind; fill it with guilt, gloom, remorse. And then those same desires drag the mind back—because they have not ended.
Krishna says: act totally—drop the thought of fruit. Do action so totally that there is no space left for the thought of fruit. Then a new kind of joy begins to blossom within. Diamonds appear; stones fall away on their own.
Whatever you do, do it totally. Even eating—so joyfully, so wholly, that while eating, nothing else remains in the mind. Listening to me—so wholly that nothing else remains in the mind. Speaking—so wholly that I become the speaking; nothing else remains within.
If actions are done with such intensity and totality, your fruits will begin to drop on their own. There will be no space for them to sit.
It is only in actionless moments that fruits slip inside. In inactive moments aspirations seize the mind—and we plan for tomorrow: what to do? One who has nothing to do now, whose energy cannot be absorbed in the present—his energy plans for tomorrow. One who pours his total energy into the here-now—there is no entry for fruit.
And once the joy of total action arrives, even if the fruit folds hands and says: let me in—you will not let it enter. You will say: the matter is finished. I have recognized you—you come bearing the promise of happiness, and you deliver suffering. From afar your face seems happiness; up close you are pain. You are a deceiver. Fruit-hankering is deception.
These three—hankering for fruit, the process of sankalpa, the densifying of ego—these are the arrangements of the householder. Whoever lives outside these three is sannyas.
Enough for today.
But we shall sit for five minutes. We will speak on the next sutra tomorrow morning. Now for five minutes—we have here the sannyasis of joy I have spoken of, the sannyasis Krishna speaks of—they will give you prasada of joy. For five minutes they will dance here in delight. Sit for five minutes, clap, and participate in their joy—receive their offering and go. No one will rise; no one will leave.