Geeta Darshan #11

If the longing to find the Divine is fulfilled, then no other longing remains to be fulfilled. If one is established in the Divine, then the question of any other esteem does not arise. If the Divine is found, then there is nothing left not to be found, nothing left to be gained.
Krishna says in this sutra that the one who gains the benefit of attaining the Divine receives the supreme gain. Such a one, established in the supreme gain, passes even through the greatest of sorrows without being shaken.
Let us understand a little. In truth, we are shaken by sorrow only because we have no taste of bliss. We are shaken by sorrow only because we have no taste of bliss. If the taste of bliss were known, sorrow would not unhinge us. As we live, we live in sorrow.
Yet there is an ordinary sorrow to which we have become accustomed. When an extraordinary sorrow comes, one to which we are unaccustomed, then we are shaken.
Remember, ordinarily we live in sorrow. But we live in ordinary sorrow; therefore no reason arises to be shaken. When extraordinary sorrow comes, the mind trembles and we become unsettled.
Freud said, in the memoirs of his last days, that as far as he could see, man could never be freed from sorrow. At most, we can do this much: prevent extreme sorrows from befalling man; let the ordinary sorrows continue.
Even if science were to be completely successful—which does not seem possible—suppose, if one day science became completely successful, it would still not free you from sorrow. Yes, it could do this much: keep the extremes of suffering from descending upon you. Sorrow would remain ordinary, lukewarm; it would not boil.
Lukewarm sorrows slowly become our habit. Hence they do not trouble us too much. When special sorrows come, we are tormented. That is why I say: there is no inner taste of bliss, and so special sorrows torment us.
And then, if special sorrows come every day, even they stop tormenting us. We get used to them too. And to the one to whom special sorrow has never come, even ordinary sorrow will cause torment. Our sensitivity toward sorrow, upon sorrow’s arrival, keeps getting numbed.
A soldier goes to the battlefield; until he reaches the field, he is distressed, anxious, troubled. But psychologists are surprised that one or two days after arriving at the front, all his pain, his anxiety, departs! What happens?
When, day after day, he sees bombs falling beside him, buries his friends, watches people die, walks past corpses in the street—within two or four days his sensitivity grows dull. The same one who, before the war, trembled at the thought of it, now sits right there—enemy planes fly overhead, bombs are dropping—and he sits below, playing cards.
If you are kept constantly in suffering, you grow accustomed to it; then you no longer notice it. We have become habituated to sorrow at a certain level; that is why such hindrance arises.
When people from the West first come to know of our poverty, they cannot believe how we endure such poverty! Why don’t we revolt! Why don’t we set fire to everything! Why don’t we burn the world down! They have no idea that we are long habituated to poverty. Poverty causes us no special pain. The truth is, a poor man is never pained by his poverty; pain begins when someone next door becomes rich. One is habituated to poverty. For millions of years our shudra lived at the level of an animal. He had become used to it. He had given up even his dreams; he had agreed to sorrow.
We are all sorrowful, yet each of us has consented up to a particular limit of sorrow. Up to that point, sorrow does not move us. But if a special sorrow comes, for which we are unaccustomed, we tremble, we are afflicted; within us something breaks, shatters.
But the one who attains the taste of bliss is not shaken even by the greatest sorrow, because deep within he lives in bliss. Then sorrows come only from the outside; they cannot enter within. They circle outside and move on, like gusts of wind that come and pass. Or as you walk along the road and rain begins to fall—you are not a clay idol; you bear the rain and reach home. Inwardly you know, nothing will dissolve. But if clay idols were also walking on that road, they would be in trouble.
If within there is a constant rain of bliss, then no matter how great the sorrow that comes from without, it remains outside; it cannot enter within. Remember, sorrow enters within only when sorrow already exists within. Like attracts like. If sorrow exists within, it pulls the sorrow from outside into itself. If bliss exists within, it sends back the sorrow from outside; it does not even invite it.
Krishna says: the one who has attained the supreme gain—who has experienced the Divine—then even the greatest sorrow cannot set him in motion.
There is no cause left for wavering. It is as if one knew, I possess an infinite treasure—if a penny falls, what pain, what loss! Even if millions are lost, what grief is there! The infinite is not diminished.
The one who knows that what is within me never dies—then leave aside little illnesses, even if death itself comes and stands at the door, there is no reason to be shaken. We are shaken by death because we think, I will die. We are shaken by death because we know how painful illness was; how much more painful will death be! We are shaken by death because we have no taste of Amrit within.
If there is the taste of Amrit, death cannot even touch. It can circle outside, it cannot enter within.
Only that can enter us which already exists within us. This law of life must be understood with utmost care. Only that enters us which is already there within; otherwise nothing can enter. If you are sorrowful, sorrow can enter. If you are blissful, bliss can enter. If you are ignorant, ignorance can enter. If you are wise, wisdom can enter. Like attracts like; the unlike is repelled.
So if sorrow keeps entering you again and again, know that there is a deep layer of sorrow within which calls it, invites it. If you are a sad person, sadness will seize you from all sides and run toward you. You will become a pit, and sadness will flow toward you like rivers. If you are blissful, streams of bliss from all sides will begin to enter within you.
Whatever enters within you carries the news of who sits within, attracting it. The one who knows bliss, upon finding the Divine, will not be shaken by any sorrow.
How many sorrows are there in life? How many? Let us make a rough count, and we will understand.
There is the sorrow of separation from the beloved. The sorrow of the dear one’s parting. But the one who has found the Divine has found the Beloved. Now the separation of loved ones no longer remains. Now union is eternal. Now we have met that Beloved whose glimpse we had seen in all dear ones, yet whom we could not find in any one. Whom we tried to find in every beloved, and returned empty-handed. Whenever we loved someone, deep down we sought only God there.
And that is why all lovers are frustrated—because in the end they find a human being; they do not find God. We seek the Divine. So whenever one falls in love, one is searching in the other for a certain divinity. But what comes into the hands is merely bone, flesh, skin; no divinity comes into the hands. Then melancholy surrounds.
The one who has found the Divine—now there is no question of union; the supreme union has happened. His hands will no more spread for the embrace of anyone—or, even if they spread, in every embrace he will feel only the embrace of the Divine. And if anyone departs from him, nothing really departs. For once the supreme union has happened, in the face of that, no separation has any meaning.
There is the sorrow of disgrace in life, of insult. But the one whom the Divine has honored—can insult touch him now? The one whom the Divine has permitted to enter the temple and seated near to itself—this I speak in the language of poetry; the Divine is not a person—the one who has attained the experience of the Divine, what insult can remain meaningful for him? The greatest honor possible has already happened.
Thus a man like Jesus can hang on the cross in peace. When Mansoor was crucified by the people, he raised his head, looked up to the sky, and laughed.
Mansoor was a wondrous fakir—of the stature of Jesus. He was a Muslim fakir, a Sufi. When people began to cut Mansoor and crucify him, he looked to the sky and smiled. There were a hundred thousand in the crowd, pelting stones at him, abusing him. Some were cutting his feet, some his hands. Some stood with knives to gouge out his eyes.
When they saw him laughing, someone from the crowd asked, Mansoor, at whom are you laughing? You are near death! Mansoor said, you see death; I see the Great Union. From here I will depart, there I will meet the Beloved. I see his arms open for me in the sky. Send me off quickly, so that he need not wait any longer!
Such a man—you cannot cause him sorrow even by cutting him to pieces. For you cannot cut him at all. At the plane on which he lives, none of our weapons can function. On that dimension where he lives, we cannot hurt him.
When Mansoor’s hand was cut, blood began to flow. With his other hand he took the blood, and as Muslims perform wudu before prayer, he rubbed that blood on his hand like water. Someone asked, Mansoor! What are you doing? Mansoor said, before meeting the Beloved—this is the last meeting—I am performing wudu. They said, can wudu be done with blood? Mansoor said, can wudu ever be done with water? Is wudu with water at all? Until now I only pretended at wudu by washing with water; today I have got the chance to wash my hands with life itself. Having washed with life, I go upon the journey to the Divine.
If even a slight glimpse of the Divine falls upon one’s life, there remains no cause for wavering. But we have no glimpse—therefore the smallest thing shakes us. The truth is, we live shaken. As I said, we live in sorrow. We bear the ordinary jolts—we become used to them. When unusual shocks come, we get into trouble.
And that is why we try to keep the unusual shocks away from us, we keep forgetting them. We forget that there is death. We forget that the dear one will part. We forget that all successes end up as the ash of failures. We forget that all thrones finally turn into steps to graves. We keep forgetting everything, and live in such a self-delusion as if there were no sorrow anywhere.
But for how long can we delude ourselves! Sorrow will come. Sorrow is the nature of life. If you do not attain bliss, sorrow will go on shaking you.
Krishna says rightly: such a one attains the supreme gain. Then even the greatest sorrow cannot shake him.
That is the touchstone. The same touchstone: when even the greatest sorrow brings no tremor—only then know that the person has had the vision of the Divine.
The last six months of Buddha’s life passed in intense pain. Pain—so those on the outside saw; not from Buddha’s side. Buddha was staying in a village. A shudra there, a poor man, invited Buddha to eat at his house. He was the first to invite, came early at five in the morning, lest some rich man of the village, some lord, invite first. He had come many times before, but someone else had always invited earlier.
He was extending his invitation when a wealthy man of the village came and said, please accept my invitation today. Buddha said, an invitation has already come. The rich man looked at that poor fellow and said, his invitation! What can he possibly feed you? Buddha said, that is another matter. As for the invitation, his is accepted. I will go to his house.
Buddha went. That man had no faith that Buddha would ever come to eat at his hut. In truth, he had almost nothing to feed. There were coarse dry rotis. As for vegetables, in Bihar poor farmers, in the rainy season, gather the mushrooms that sprout—on wood, in unclean places—dry them for storage, and cook them as vegetable. Sometimes it happens that mushrooms become poisonous. If they sprout in a place where some poison has mixed, the poison spreads into the mushroom.
For Buddha he had made mushrooms; they were poisonous. A hard, bitter poison. It was difficult to keep them in the mouth. But that was his only vegetable. Buddha thought: if I say this is bitter, he will be in difficulty; he has no other vegetable. He ate that poisonous curry. It was hard even to hold in the mouth. He ate with great joy and kept saying to the host, I am delighted.
As soon as Buddha left, the man himself tasted the curry and was shocked. He ran to Buddha and said, what are you saying—it is poison! He began to beat his chest and weep. But Buddha said, do not worry at all. Poison can do nothing to me now, because I know that which is Amrit. Do not worry at all.
Even so, we can understand the poor man’s anxiety. Buddha said to him, blessed are you. You do not know, be happy. You are fortunate—for once in thousands of years a person like Buddha is born. Two persons only get this good fortune: the first meal is offered by his mother, and the last meal by you. You are fortunate; rejoice. Perhaps after hundreds of years another Buddha will be born, and someone will get such an occasion. He consoled the man and sent him back.
Buddha’s disciples said, what are you saying! This man is a murderer. Buddha said, do not ever say such a thing, or people will trouble him without cause! Go, beat the drum in the village and announce: this man is fortunate, for he has given the final alms of food to Buddha.
At the time of dying people said to him, you could have stopped just once! If you had said it was bitter, this thunderbolt would not have struck us! Buddha said, this thunderbolt was not going to be avoided. The pretext by which it fell makes no difference. And as far as I am concerned, no thunderbolt has fallen upon me; it cannot fall. For I have known that which has no death.
When such experience is, then there is no tremor before any sorrow of life.
As for us—everything shakes us. Behind us there is no such thing upon which we could stand without shaking. No such pillar upon which we could stand unshaken.
Kabir wrote a small couplet. Its sense is this: Kabir began to weep, seeing that between the two millstones of the grinding mill, whoever falls is ground to dust. Kabir returned home. A son had been born in his house. He was Kabir’s son, so he was of Kabir’s mettle. His name was Kamal. Kabir returned and recited the couplet, and said, Kamal, today, seeing the grinding stones turning on the road, I began to weep, for I thought—whoever falls between the two stones of the world’s mill does not survive.
Kamal replied with another couplet and said, do not say that. I too have seen the turning mill. Seeing it, I began to laugh—for I saw that between the two stones there is a small nail. Whoever takes hold of that nail—takes support at the center—the two stones cannot grind him. The stones keep turning. The grain that has caught the support of that small nail in the middle, remains unground.
The one who draws near to the Divine nail in the center—to the center itself—just so far nothing in this world can grind him. Otherwise the two stones will keep grinding. Sorrow will keep grinding. Death will keep grinding. And naturally we will keep trembling.
It is perfectly natural that, seeing death, we should tremble. Perfectly natural that, when there is sorrow on every side, we should tremble. It is natural only so long as the nail at the center has not been found.
Krishna speaks of that very nail: the one who attains the supreme gain of the Divine, then even the greatest sorrows do not set him in motion.
तं विद्याद् दुःखसंयोगवियोगं योगसंज्ञितम्‌।
स निश्चयेन योक्तव्यो योगोऽनिर्विण्णचेतसा।। 23।।
And that which is dissociation from the conjunction with sorrow, know that to be called Yoga. That Yoga is to be practiced with firm resolve, with a mind that does not grow weary or disgusted.
That which severs the conjunction with the world, which separates from sorrow, which removes ignorance—such Yoga, Krishna says, must be practiced tirelessly, without fatigue, without boredom.
Understand this well.
The human mind tires of things very quickly. Perhaps among the fundamental traits of man is to become bored. No animal gets bored. Boredom is man’s signature. You have never seen a buffalo, a dog, a donkey, bored—never! If we sought distinguishing traits between man and animals, boredom would be basic.
Man gets bored very quickly. With any and every thing. Not only with sorrow; he gets bored with pleasure too. If pleasure alone continues, the urge arises to summon a little sorrow from somewhere. And man summons it. If only pleasure is given, it turns insipid; taste leaves the mouth. Then a little bitter neem on the tongue feels good; a little taste returns.
Man gets bored—of palaces, however grand. Of the most beautiful woman or man, of wealth, of fame. With whatever is attained he grows bored. Yes—until it is attained he shows great vigilance, great zeal; once attained, he is bored.
Understand it this way: in the effort to obtain things of the world, man never gets bored; having obtained them, he does. In the waiting he does not get bored; in the meeting he does. Waiting can continue a lifetime; the meeting is hard to keep for a moment.
To get things of the world we do not tire; but having gotten them, we tire. With the Divine, the exact reverse rule applies. In the world one does not tire in the striving but tires in the attainment. With the Divine one never tires in the attainment—but tires greatly in the striving. It must be so.
As when you stand by a pond—your reflection in the water will be inverted. Your head is above; in the pond it is below. Your feet are below; in the pond your feet are above. The image in the pond will be inverted.
At the shore of the world our picture forms inverted. The projection that happens in the world is inverted. Therefore the rules for moving in the world are not at all the rules for moving toward the Divine. Exactly the opposite rules apply. And here lies the great difficulty.
In the world, boredom comes later; in the striving boredom does not come. Therefore people keep moving in the world. In the Divine, boredom comes in the striving itself. Attainment will come later—and the striving will already have bored you, so you will stop.
How many begin the journey to the Divine! They only begin; they never complete. How many times you resolved to pray daily—and how many times it lapsed. How many times you decided to remember the Divine for an hour—and one or two days, enough! Then you were bored. How many resolves, how many decisions, lie like dust around you!
People come to me and ask, will anything happen through meditation? I say, certainly it will. But will you be able to do it? They ask, is it very difficult? I say, not at all. There is only one difficulty: continuity. Meditation is very simple. But will you do it every day? For how many days? Three months—I tell people, only three months do it continuously. Rarely do I find someone who can keep it up even for three months. He gets bored—within ten or five days.
It is astonishing—we do not tire of reading the newspaper daily, all life long. We do not tire of the radio daily. We do not tire of watching films daily. We do not tire of the same conversations daily. Why do we tire of meditation? What difficulty is there really in meditation!
Only this: in the journey toward the world, striving does not bore; attainment bores. In the journey toward the Divine, striving bores; attainment never bores. The one who attains—never again is he bored.
Buddha received enlightenment; he lived forty years after. In those forty years not once did anyone see him bored of his enlightenment. If a Kohinoor were found, in forty years you would tire of it. If the kingdom of the world were yours, you would tire of it.
Mahavira too lived forty years after enlightenment; no one ever saw a wrinkle of boredom on his face. For forty years he remained absorbed in that knowledge, never bored! Never desired that something else be had now!
No—on the Divine journey, after attainment there is no boredom. But up to attainment—the path is tireless.
Hence Krishna says: without boredom, labor—it is duty, it is to be done.
One more point: Krishna may say so—but how will Arjuna accept it, and why? Krishna says, it is to be done; how will Arjuna agree? Arjuna does not yet know. When Arjuna tries, he will be bored, he will tire. Krishna says so.
Therefore in religion, trust has a precious value. Shraddha means trust. It means, if someone speaks, and in his very being there are rays visible which testify to what he says—he stands, it seems, whereof he speaks.
Arjuna knows Krishna well. He has never seen Krishna shaken. Never seen him sad. Never heard a note of sorrow from his flute. Krishna is always fresh.
That is why you, and especially modern thinkers, get into difficulty. They say, why are there no pictures of Krishna’s old age? It cannot be that Krishna never aged. He must have. No law will exempt Krishna. There are no old-age pictures of Buddha either—he died at eighty. None of Mahavira either. Surely something is amiss.
But those who think so do not understand the style of this land’s contemplation. This country does not paint pictures of bodies; it paints moods of consciousness. Krishna never grows old, never stale; he is forever fresh. The body does age, decay, perish. The body follows its law. But Krishna’s consciousness remains unshaken in bliss, youthful. That Krishna-consciousness keeps dancing forever.
We have seen so many pictures of Krishna. Sometimes doubt arises—how long would Krishna have stood with one foot crossed over the other, flute in hand! This cannot go on for long. Perhaps only for a photograph. Does Krishna stand like this always?
No—not outwardly. But this is an inner image, an inward picture. It gives news that within, a dancing, delighted consciousness is there, forever in dance. Within, a mind that sings—a flute forever filled with song.
It is not that he always holds a flute to his lips. The flute only gives news of the within. These are symbols. It is not that the gopis danced around him twenty-four hours a day. Not that Krishna was engaged only in this game. No—these are symbols, very inward symbols.
In fact, the myths of this land are symbolic. By gopis we do not literally mean women. Women must also have danced around Krishna. When such a lovely man appears, how can women miss such a chance! But the symbol means something else, deeper.
It says: just as if, all around a man, beautiful, love-filled lovers were dancing—and he were delighted—so is Krishna always. That is his ever-being. That is his way of being. As if beauty were dancing on all sides; everywhere songs were going on; music all around; anklets ringing; dear ones on every side; a rain of love—thus Krishna lives in that state twenty-four hours. As if all this is around him; so he is within.
Arjuna knows Krishna well. Sadness has never made its dwelling on that face. His eyes have never shown defeat. Nowhere has a camp of sorrow been raised in that person. But Arjuna must trust—if Krishna says so, then the journey must be undertaken.
Hence Krishna says, duty. He says, it is to be done, Arjuna!
Do it—and you will know. Do not do—and you cannot know. Some knowings come only by doing. We all think that by knowing we shall know. We think that learning a few things, knowledge will be had. Krishna says, duty, Arjuna! By doing you will know. Knowing comes by doing. And he names the greatest difficulty for the seeker: boredom. You will get bored; you will do it for two days and be bored.
Herrigel, a German thinker, was in Japan for three years. He went to a fakir to learn something strange. He had gone to learn meditation, and the fakir began to teach archery. Herrigel said once or twice, I came from Germany to learn meditation, I have no use for archery. The fakir said, silence! No more talk. We teach only meditation. We teach only meditation.
Two, four days, eight days—and Herrigel’s Western mind began to think, I should run away. What sort of man have I fallen in with! Yet a certain attraction held him. Something in the man’s eyes said he knows. In his ways of sitting and rising there was a hint that he knows. At night, when he lay asleep, Herrigel would look and feel—this man is not sleeping like others. There is some secret even in his sleep. So he could not run. And when he gathered courage to ask, the fakir placed a finger on his lips: do not ask. Learn archery.
A year passed. Herrigel thought: very well, there is no way out. I cannot go, I cannot run—else he will pursue me a lifetime. I will always recall that he truly had some jewel within, whose radiance shone through his body. But what a madman—that I came to learn meditation and he teaches archery! He thought, then learn it; end the hassle.
For a year he labored tirelessly and became an expert archer. His shots were precise. One day he said, now my aim is perfectly right; I have learned archery. Now may I ask something about meditation?
The master said, where have you learned archery? Your aim has become right, but the real thing has not come. Herrigel said, the aim is the real thing. I hit a hundred percent accurately; what remains to be learned? The master said, nothing to do with aim. As long as you remain present while shooting, I will not accept that you have learned. Shoot in such a way that you are not.
Herrigel said, now it has become very difficult. We hoped to learn within six months or a year; now it is very difficult. How can I not be? Who will shoot the arrow then? You say, you be not, and the arrow should fly! Absurd. Illogical. Anyone who knows a little mathematics, a little logic, will say, you have reached a madman. Even now I should run.
But after staying a year, running was certainly more difficult—after eight days it had been hard. In a year the master had carved many images in Herrigel’s heart. The man had entered every pore of his being. He had to trust, even though the man seemed utterly crazy.
The fakir said, do not be in a hurry. That time will surely come when you will not be present and the arrow will fly. And the day it happens, meditation will happen. For the art of making oneself totally absent is meditation— to be absent totally.
And the moment one becomes totally absent, the Divine enters. For the Divine too requires a space within your house. You are so full of yourself that even if the Divine wishes to come, where can it enter? It needs a place to stay within—there is not an inch of space. You are so much in yourself—too much—that there is not even a speck of space left.
The fakir said, do not hurry. Give it time. Do not aim at hitting the target. If the target is missed, let it be missed; but do not miss the target on this side. Herrigel asked, what is the target on this side? On this side, the doer must not remain—become empty. The bow rises and the arrow goes—and you are not.
Another year he labored. Madness became apparent. Every day he lifted the bow, every day the master said, no—not yet. The aim grew truer; the real thing did not come. A year passed. He wanted to run, but it was harder. The man seemed even more worthy of trust. In two years, never once had he seen the slightest worry in the master’s eyes. Never seen him shaken. In pleasure or pain, in all situations, he found the man the same. Rains or sunshine, night or day—he found him standing at some unmoved place where no tremor comes.
Hard to run. Yet the thing seemed getting crazier. Two years wasted! He said to the master, two years have gone. The master said, as long as you keep count of time, forgetting yourself will be very difficult. Drop time. Time is a barrier in meditation.
In truth, what is time? Our impatience is time. Time-consciousness arises from impatience. The more impatient a society is, the more time-conscious it becomes. The more it flows with patience, the less sense of time.
The West has become very time-conscious. People save seconds—without knowing what they will do with them. Suppose you save a second by driving at 120 miles an hour, risking your life—what will you do then? Drive more to save a few more seconds! What else?
The sense of time arises from an inner tensioned mind. It is a fine observation: the more unhappy you are, the larger time feels. When someone at home is dying and you sit by the cot, you will know how long a night is. Not twelve hours—twelve years. A moment of misery stretches long, for the mind is taut with tension. A moment of joy feels very short. You meet the beloved and the hour of parting arrives—feels as if not even a minute has passed and the time to go has come. Time becomes very small.
Herrigel’s master said, stop the talk of time—else you will never enter meditation.
Meditation means: stepping outside time.
Herrigel stayed. Now he could not run. This is what I mean by Shraddha. Shraddha means: the statement does not seem trustworthy, but the person does. The statement seems a bit off; but the person seems such that where will you find a better one! Then Shraddha is born.
Now what Krishna says to Arjuna seems as if—how can it be—that no sorrow will shake you, that all relations with the world will be severed, that the mind will rise beyond pain and sorrow? It does not seem likely. A small thorn pricks and the relation does not feel severed. How shall the relation with this vast world be broken? How shall we go beyond sorrow? It feels impossible. But Krishna—the man—seems trustworthy. Whatever he says, he must say from knowing.
Herrigel stayed another year. But three years! His children, his wife, called from there: enough now—three years is too much for meditation! She too was a German wife; she waited three years. An Indian wife—three days would be hard. Three years is long. She cried: come back now. How long will this go on! He kept writing, not even the beginning yet. The master says, not even the beginning. And you press me to return!
At last he had to go. He said to the master, now I shall return—knowing that what you say must be right, because you are so right. Knowing that in these three years—even without my knowing—a revolution has happened in me. And yet you say, not even the beginning; and I am so filled with joy. If this is not even the beginning, then I think, when the end comes—what supreme bliss is attained! But I am sad that I could not satisfy you; I am leaving a failure. I could not shoot the arrow in such a way that I was not present and the arrow went. I leave tomorrow.
The master said, go. Before you go, come meet me in the morning.
His flight was in the afternoon. He went in the morning. Today he was not to shoot; he had left bow and arrows at home. Today he was only to take leave. He sat down.
The master was teaching another disciple to shoot. Herrigel sat on a bench. The master lifted the bow, set the arrow on the string, and released. And Herrigel, for the first time, saw: the master was not present, and the arrow was going. Not present does not mean he was not there—he was; but in his gestures there was no effort, no ripple of trying. It did not look as if the hands were lifting the arrow; it looked as if the arrow were lifting the hands. It did not look as if the hands were drawing the string; it looked as if, since the string was being drawn, therefore the hands were drawing. The arrow flew—not as if he sent it toward the target, but as if the target had pulled the arrow toward itself.
Herrigel stood up, ran, fell at the master’s feet. He took the bow from his hand, picked an arrow, and shot. The master patted his back and said, today! Today you have won. Today you shot in such a way that you were not there. This is the moment of meditation.
Herrigel said, but why could this not happen till now? The master said, because you were in a hurry. Today you were not in a hurry. Because you wanted to do. Today there was no question of doing. Because till now you wished to succeed. Today there was no thought of success or failure. You were just sitting—just waiting.
Tireless labor means an infinite capacity to wait. When the event will happen—none can say. It can happen in a moment; it may not happen in infinite births. It is not predictable. No one can declare: it will happen in so many days. Whatever can be declared—know that it is petty and within the scope of human declarations. The Divine is beyond human declarations.
We can only strive and wait. If you get bored—you are lost. And boredom will seize you. In truth, you will not find so many bored faces anywhere as in temples and mosques. Even in taverns some glow is visible on people’s faces; in temples not even that. They are bored—yawning—sleeping.
I have heard: in a church a priest was preaching. A man began to snore loudly—he had fallen asleep. The priest came near and said, Brother, snore a little more softly, lest the others’ sleep be disturbed! The whole church was sleeping.
People are sleeping in temples. They are sleeping in religious assemblies. They are bored—yawning. How then will it happen?
Krishna says: tireless! Yoga demands labor without boredom.
Yes, only one encouragement can be given: that upon attainment, the whole quest of life is fulfilled. And after attainment, boredom never returns.
Remember, if boredom arises in striving—no harm; boredom must not arise in attainment. Otherwise the labor of a lifetime is in vain. In this world, in striving there is much juice, and after attaining, nothing remains in hand—and boredom arrives.
But this can be taken only on trust. This is a sutra of Shraddha.
And why would Krishna deceive anyone? There is no purpose. Why would Buddha deceive? Why would Mahavira deceive? Why would Christ or Mohammed deceive? If it were one or two, it would be another matter. But how many on this earth! Why would they deceive?
And the strange thing is—if these were deceivers, they could not live in such peace, such joy, such grace, such ecstasy. No deceiver looks alive like that. They speak from knowing. But for this knowing you must do something. If you think that by hearing, reading, memory, understanding—it will do—then nothing will happen. Something must be done.
Remember, a single step of effort takes you farther than a thousand steps of thought. In thought you stand where you are—you only lift your legs in the air. You go nowhere. A single step of labor takes you far. And step by step, the longest journey is completed.
In this long journey the greatest obstacle will come from your boredom, from your getting flustered—who knows whether anything will happen! Your waiting will soon get tired. That will be the greatest difficulty. For the seeker, boredom is the greatest barrier.
If this is remembered, then whenever you get bored, become a little alert—boredom is seizing the mind; it will break your whole arrangement. Save yourself from boredom. And when boredom seizes you, work even more intensely—then the energy of boredom gets converted into labor; it gets harnessed in effort.
Even boredom consumes energy. That energy too can be put into work. When boredom catches the mind, then do not sit and meditate—run and meditate.
Buddha trained his monks in two ways of meditation. He would say, sit for an hour; and as soon as you feel boredom has seized—then meditate walking. He knew boredom would come. So first sit, then walk.
If you have ever gone to Bodh Gaya, the stone paths are still there where Buddha would walk for hours. He would sit under the Bodhi tree, then walk. Then sit, then walk. Then sit, then walk.
Even today, in countries like Burma and Thailand, where Buddhist meditation centers still function a little, a monk will meditate sitting for one hour, then in the next hour he will walk. Then sit, then again in the third hour walk. When he sees, sitting, that a slight moment of boredom has come, he will immediately stand and begin to walk. He will not be bored. He will not let boredom come.
And if you decide you will not let boredom come, in a few days you will find you have transcended boredom. Now you can enter tireless Yoga.
संकल्पप्रभवान्कामांस्त्यक्त्वा सर्वानशेषतः।
मनसैवेन्द्रियग्रामं विनियम्य समन्ततः।। 24।।
शनैः शनैरुपरमेद्बुद्ध्या धृतिगृहीतया।
आत्मसंस्थं मनः कृत्वा न किंचिदपि चिन्तयेत्‌।। 25।।
Therefore, a man should, by completely renouncing all desires born of intentions and imaginations, and by restraining on all sides the entire group of senses through the mind, gradually attain quietude by practice; and with a mind held by steady intelligence, establish the mind in the Self, and think of nothing whatsoever other than the Divine.
Think of nothing whatsoever other than the Divine—this is the essence of this sutra. The rest Krishna has repeated: restraining desires, going beyond mind, beyond senses, beyond vacillation—what he said before, he repeats. And in the end: remain always absorbed in the remembrance of the Divine.
Two things. One, why does Krishna repeat again and again? Why such repetition? Buddha repeated so many sayings that the editors of the new collections of his discourses had great difficulty. If the sayings were printed as Buddha spoke them, the collections would be at least ten times larger. He repeated so often that the editors had to note—ditto: same as above. Ditto: same as above. They had to prune to one-tenth.
But Buddha was wiser than the editors. Why so much repetition? Krishna too in the Gita repeats sutras—again and again. Is Arjuna deaf?
He must be. All listeners are. It appears as if one is listening; perhaps one does not hear. It looks completely as if he is listening, but Krishna will be seeing on his face that he has not heard. He must repeat.
These books were not written; they were spoken. The highest truths in the world were spoken, not written. Whether Quran, Bible, Gita, Dhammapada—all the supreme truths were spoken. They were addressed to someone. Someone is present before whom Krishna is looking, and seeing: I have said, but he has not heard.
Jesus says many times in the Bible—many times—You have ears, but will you hear? You have eyes, but will you see? Again and again: he who has ears, let him hear. He who has eyes, let him see. Was he speaking among the blind and the deaf?
No—nowhere can so many blind and deaf be found that the whole Bible would be addressed to them. He was speaking among people like us, whose ears and eyes seem fine—yet somewhere the thing misses. So Krishna and Buddha must repeat. Again and again the same thing. Then they say it from a new angle—perhaps now it will be heard.
Another reason: there are moments of listening—moments. One cannot say when your consciousness will give way, when the door within will open and a word will enter.
In America there was a great multimillionaire, Rothschild. A young aspirant of wealth asked him the secret of his success. Rothschild said, my secret is one: I never miss an opportunity. I leap and seize it. The youth asked, but how to know this is an opportunity? By the time one knows, it has passed. How to get the chance to leap? Rothschild said, I never stand still; I keep leaping. When the opportunity comes, I am already astride it. I keep leaping. I do not wait for the opportunity and then leap—miss a second and it is gone.
Just so, there are moments in a person’s consciousness when the door opens.
A Krishna continues to sound the truth around Arjuna. Who knows at what moment Arjuna’s consciousness will come to that tuning where the voice is heard and the truth enters! Therefore so much repetition.
Yet in repeating, each time he adds a new nuance, a new indication—otherwise Arjuna would say, why do you keep repeating!
The fun is—those who do not hear at all, at least understand that the thing is being repeated. Those who understand nothing can still hear the words, and know—this was said earlier, and again now. To know that the words are repeated, no understanding is needed—only memory is enough.
Therefore Krishna or Buddha repeat the words, but each time attach a new hint—perhaps this new key will open Arjuna’s lock. Here the new addition is: the constant contemplation of the Divine.
Two things to be understood. First, the Divine.
How will we contemplate what we do not know? How will we contemplate the unknown?
Second, the meaning of contemplation?
Contemplation does not mean thought. Thought is of that which is known. There is no thought of the unknown.
Contemplation means something else. If this is understood, contemplation of the Divine will be understood. Suppose you are thirsty. You remain engaged in twenty-five tasks, yet the contemplation of thirst continues within. Not thought. Thought is something else—you may be doing accounts, speaking to someone. But within, an undercurrent, a subtle, ongoing murmur—the thirst continues. As if someone within keeps saying—thirst, thirst.
I am saying it to you, so I use words. But that which is within you uses no words. It keeps striking you with thirst. It does not say, I am thirsty. Thirst itself keeps happening. Do you see the difference?
If you repeat, I am thirsty, I am thirsty—this is thought. But if thirst continues—work goes on, thoughts go on—and within there is a knock at the door, not in words but as experience; thirst keeps arising—this is contemplation.
We cannot think the Divine. But within us all there is the thirst for the Divine. Though few have recognized it. Yet in all of us it is there. No human is born without the thirst for the Divine—it cannot be.
Yes, it may happen that one interprets one’s Divine-thirst in some other way, and goes seeking something else. Misinterpretation is possible; but the thirst remains ever-present.
If a man goes in search of wealth—understand well—even then he seeks the Divine, in the wrong direction. For with wealth it seems lordship will come. With wealth, lordship—Prabhuta—will be attained. If there is abundance, there will be no meekness; we will be lord—we will possess.
A man seeks a position: to become president. He misinterprets. In the heart is the longing for the supreme station—where nothing remains above to be reached. But he climbs the small chairs of this world. Even upon the highest chair he will find—he has reached only one place: where someone will now pull him down. Only one place—because below, others are climbing. They are pulling at his legs.
They call it politics; or give any other name. The art of pulling each other’s legs—politics. The higher you go, the more people will pull your legs. For you will be alone, and the climbers will be many.
Lao Tzu said: no one could ever pull us down because we never tried to climb.
If you can do that—fine. Otherwise someone will pull. But that longing for position, for power—is in truth the longing for Divine lordship.
Someone asked Napoleon, what is the definition of law? What is the law? Napoleon said, I am the law.
Only the Divine can say so: I am the Law. Napoleon said it! He did not know that if his heartbeat stopped, I am the law would do him no good. And within a few days of saying it, he lost. He lost to a trifling thing: cats.
When Napoleon was a six-month-old infant, a wild cat raked its claws across his chest. The maid had stepped aside. The cat struck and fled. But on a six-month-old child the cat’s claw remained. He later said, I am the law—but it was only the cat’s claw on his chest. He proved brave—he could fight lions—but he feared cats. The law that was stamped on him at six months! When he saw a cat he regressed to a six-month-old. He had never been defeated.
But his enemy, Nelson, found out his weakness—cats. He tied seventy cats before his forces. When Napoleon saw the cats, he said to his general as Arjuna said to Krishna—my Gandiva slips from my hand, my limbs grow weak, sweat pours from me; I have no courage left. He lost that evening.
Fifteen days earlier he had said, I am the law. Fifteen days later he was imprisoned on the island of Helena. In the morning he went for a walk. A small island. He was free on the island, for beyond it he could not flee. The island itself was the prison. A narrow jungle path, and a grass-cutting woman with a large bundle of grass came from the other side. A physician walked with him—for Napoleon, who had never fallen ill, upon defeat fell terribly ill.
All politicians do—upon losing. Life does not last long thereafter. Death comes close.
The doctor shouted, hey woman with grass, move aside! Why should she move? Who are you that she should move? The woman kept coming. Napoleon remembered—he stepped down off the path, pulled the doctor aside, and said, those days are gone when we told mountains to move aside and they did. Now a grass-cutting woman will not leave the path. He stood aside. Fifteen days earlier he had said, I am the law.
In truth, the journeys of Napoleon or Alexander are also in the hope that a place be found where one may say, I am the Lord. Whether of position, wealth, or fame—the whole journey is a misinterpretation of the thirst within for the Divine. It exists within all.
Break this misinterpretation—and contemplation will begin within, twenty-four hours a day. Whether sitting in the shop, a thirst for the Divine will begin to flow within. Whether at home, at work, at rest, awake or asleep—within, a subtle knock will go on.
That knock is called contemplation. That restlessness: there is no way but the Divine; no way but to be one with the Divine; no way but to lie in the lap of the Divine; no way but to take refuge in the Divine; no way but to be absorbed in the Divine.
When such thirst—no words, such thirst—begins to slide within, it is called the constant contemplation of the Divine.
Krishna says: the one who attains such constant contemplation, having thinned out all desires and risen beyond all senses—blessed is his fortune. That yogi attains all that is worth attaining.
Enough for today. Again tomorrow morning.
But sit for five minutes—no one should leave. Keep patience for five minutes. Here, a little contemplation of the Divine flows; those thirsty for the Divine dance upon his path. Watch them. Not just watch—join them. Sit and clap as well. Join their song. For five minutes, forget everything.
Do not get up. Two or four people who get up disturb others. Sit where you are. Keep five minutes of patience. Having listened so long to patience—do not spoil it in haste. Sit in your place. Join their kirtan. Be absorbed. For five minutes, be delighted—and take this prasad home.