Geeta Darshan #13

A personality free of sin, keeping the Atman ever engaged in the Paramatman, attains supreme bliss.

Only the one freed of sin can keep the Atman continuously turned toward the Paramatman. The one who is not free of sin, who is involved in sin, keeps the Atman ceaselessly fastened to matter.

Even if we define sin this simply, it will be right: to fasten the Atman to matter is sin. To fasten the Atman to matter is sin, and to fasten the Atman to the Paramatman is virtue. The fruit of sin is suffering; the fruit of virtue is bliss.

To use matter is one thing; to bind the Atman to matter is quite another. One can use matter without fastening the Atman to it. That alone is the art of Yoga. That skill itself is called Yoga.

Matter can be used without binding the Atman to matter. One has to use the body, of course. For example, you eat. Eating has to be done by the body. Food goes into the body, it is digested in the body. Food is the body’s need. But the Atman too can be bound to food. And the strange thing is, even without eating the Atman can be kept tied to food. If you have fasted you will know this. You don’t eat, yet the mind remains stuck on food.

To bind the Atman to food, eating is not necessary; and to eat, binding the Atman is not necessary. These are not inevitable. Just as without eating we can keep the Atman riveted to food, so too while eating we can keep the Atman unfastened from food—this is possible.

We all have the first kind of experience: without eating, the mind can cling to the body. That much everyone knows. The second experience we usually do not have; but it is the other necessary pole of the first. If it is possible for the Atman to remain stuck on food without food, why should it not be possible that food goes on and the Atman does not stick to it?

This too is possible. For all contact with matter is through the body. Matter has no contact with the Atman. The Atman only imagines that contact has occurred—and by imagination it gets bound. The Atman does not get bound by matter; it gets bound by thought.

The Atman only thinks, and by thinking becomes bound. Drop the thought, and it is free. There is no bondage of matter upon the Atman; the bondage is of rasa—of relish, of taste. And all of us take rasa in matter. Wherever we take rasa, there attention begins to flow. Wherever we take rasa, there the stream of attention begins to run.

In the Paramatman we have taken no rasa. Toward that side no stream of attention has ever flowed. In matter we take rasa; that way the stream flows.

What to do? How to be free of this sin? How to be free of this madness of grasping at matter?

One fundamental understanding is necessary for this freedom: when we take rasa in matter, a very curious law operates—that the more you try to take rasa, the less you get. The more you try to squeeze pleasure, the less it comes to your hand.

If you have gone to play a game and you decided, Today I will squeeze great joy out of the game, much delight—then you will find yourself trying and trying to take delight, and delight will not come at all. By trying, joy is not obtained. No direct, straight joy can be had. Whatever you try to get joy from directly, you will find you miss.

Decide this evening: I will go home and get happiness. I’ll take happiness from food. I’ll take happiness meeting the children. I’ll take happiness by loving my beloved ones. And make one continuous effort: we are loving—and will take joy; we are eating—and will take joy; we are playing—and will take joy. And suddenly you will find that joy has vanished; it is nowhere.

Joy is a by-product. It is not a direct commodity. Joy is like the husk that comes with wheat. You sow wheat, the ears come, the grain ripens—and along with it husk is produced. Never by mistake sow the husk directly. Don’t think that if you sow husk, a plant will grow and then there will be even more husk. Because there was so much husk around wheat, how much husk will there be around pure husk!

Nothing will sprout. Even the husk in your hand will rot. Husk is a by-product; it comes with wheat, it does not come directly. Joy is a by-product.

Sorrow is produced directly. Sorrow is like the wheat. Now let me tell you: sorrow is like the grain; joy is like its husk. It appears around it; there is no substance in joy. In the seed, sorrow is hidden.

Remember: when we sow in the earth, we sow the wheat. The wheat is inside; the husk is outside. But to the one who looks from the outside, the husk is seen first. Only by stripping the husk do you find the wheat. In nature, wheat comes first, the husk follows. To our sight the husk comes first; the wheat is behind it.

Sorrow is the seed. Around it the husk of joy casts its shade. To the beholder, joy seems first; when you peel joy, sorrow comes to hand. But the sower has to sow sorrow. And if you try to sow joy directly, nothing will come to your hand—nothing at all.

The more directly a person tries to take rasa in matter, the less rasa he will get. If one takes no direct rasa in matter, only uses matter—use is straightforward—then it is very surprising that the one who uses matter rightly can take great rasa from matter; while the one who tries to take rasa from matter cannot even use it properly and falls into all kinds of troubles.

But we do not use matter; we try to extract rasa from matter. Understand the difference. It is delicate, so it may not strike immediately.

The one who tries to take rasa from food will be harmed by food—rasa will not come. That is why people are often troubled by overeating. Physicians say very few die from eating too little; many die from eating too much. Very few fall ill from eating little; many from eating much.

If today America is the most diseased nation, the reason is nothing but overabundance of food. For the first time a country is overfed—has more to eat than needed. And they go on eating from morning to evening, five times! All diseases encircle them. All pains, all afflictions encircle them.

The idea is: the more we eat, the more joy we will get. If a little joy comes from a little food, more will come from more—so keep eating. Joy does not come, only suffering comes to hand.

Only he gets joy from food who does not go to take rasa from food, who simply uses food—who eats. And the one who eats rightly, leaving aside the worry for taste, obtains much rasa from food. Because he will chew. The one obsessed with taste never chews. The one who eats for taste gulps—where is the leisure to chew! The more that can be swallowed whole, the better. The gourmet uses the stomach as someone uses a safe to stuff rupees into.

But the one who uses food, he does not gulp; he chews. And the one who chews, the rasa comes to him. I am telling you—it is a by-product. And the one who wants rasa, he gulps; he gets no rasa, only disease comes to hand.

Whatever in life is juicy comes from use—right use. Right use becomes possible when there is no attachment, no clinging, no passionate involvement of the Atman with matter. We are simply using.

Attachment is quite another thing. Attachment means we are trying to take rasa directly. Attachment means we think the more objects we possess, the more happy we will be. It does not happen so. Usually what happens is: the more objects there are, the more anxious we become. Every object requires other objects to secure it; to secure those, still more—and in the end we find the man is lost and only a heap of objects remains.

The man is lost. Objects gather so densely around that we do not even know where we vanished amidst them. Whoever tries to take direct rasa from objects will be crushed by them and lose himself. And the one who tried to save himself and stayed beyond things—always knowing objects are for use; they are means, not the end; they are tools, not the goal; they are needed, but the supreme benediction of life does not flower from them…

Jesus has said—worth pondering—Man cannot live by bread alone.

It does not mean that man can live without bread. It does not. Because no one lives without bread. When Jesus says man cannot live by bread alone, he means: bread is a need, not the goal.

Even if all your needs are fulfilled, still life will not be yours. The flower of life will not blossom. The fragrance of life will not reveal itself. The veena of life will not sing. Even if everything is gained, suddenly you find something is left over.

What is left is that which is within us, which we never saw or knew because we were always looking across objects. That alone remains. That empty space will remain.

Hence it often happens that those who have everything feel great emptiness inside. Within, everything becomes void. It seems everything is there—but now what? Until everything is obtained, there remains a hope: one more car in the porch and perhaps all will be well. Then a line of cars fills the porch and nothing is obtained. Suddenly a man finds within: all my labor, all my running was in vain. The cars have come—but where am I? I got nothing. Therefore the one to whom objects become available rightly—only he discovers for the first time that the Atman is lost.

Krishna says: The sinless man!

Sinless means: whose mind has no relish for objects. The rasa for objects then makes one commit all kinds of sins. In the race for objects, which sins to commit and which to avoid becomes hard to decide. Objects make all sins happen. Why do great emperors commit so many murders—Nadir, Alexander, Hitler, Stalin? Why do great politicians commit every sin? For what? The idea is: if power is in hand, the ownership of objects is in hand. The idea is: if wealth is in hand, all objects can be purchased.

But if all objects are purchased and I never discover that I am something other than objects, then sin will gather in my life, darkness will gather, matter will sit upon my chest like a heavy rock—and I will be lost.

Swami Rama was a guest in Tokyo. It was a time when there were very few modern buildings—mostly wooden houses. One evening, as he walked, a house had caught fire; people were carrying things out. The owner beat his chest and wept. Rama stood by him, watching him closely.

He beat his chest, cried and screamed, I am finished! Rama felt a little concerned—because the man was clearly not dead. Entire, whole. He even walked around him. The man said, What are you looking at? I am dead! Ruined, robbed, all is lost!

Rama was concerned, because nothing of him was lost—he was whole. Yes, the house was on fire, and things were being brought out. Safes were carried out; costly clothes; diamonds and jewels. At last the men came and said, We can go in once more—only once. After this, entering will be impossible. The flames are fierce. If any essential thing remains, tell us.

The man said, I can remember nothing. I’m not in my senses. Don’t ask me. You go inside. Whatever you can save, bring it out.

Each time they came out, they were very pleased—they had saved something. The last time they came out beating their chests, weeping—and they carried a corpse. The man’s only son had remained inside and had burned to death.

Swami Rama wrote in his diary: that day, from that house, the things were all saved—but the owner, the owner-to-be, was burned to death. He wrote: something like this happens in almost every person’s life. The things are saved; the owner dies! In the end all the house, the wealth, the safes—everything is arranged; and the one for whom it was done, the owner, dies!

Our whole success becomes nothing but our grave. All our efforts lead us nowhere but the cremation ground. And the entire opportunity of life, which we waste collecting and piling things—people like Krishna say, in that very opportunity we could have attained the Paramatman—attaining whom one knows the supreme bliss and goes beyond death; one does not die.

But a mind filled with sin cannot do this. Sin-filled mind means: a mind running toward matter. All of us are running toward matter. Let matter appear—and the mind darts! On the road you see a beautiful person passing—the mind runs. You see a beautiful building—the mind runs. A shining car passes—the mind runs.

This mind has to be understood, otherwise life passes in sin. It is running all the time, seeking all the time. And if no car passes the road, no woman or man passes, no lovely building is seen—nothing appears—then we close our eyes and daydream. In there cars begin to pass; women and men pass; wealth, splendor passes. Inside we run the whole cinema. But the mind keeps running toward matter. Awake, asleep, dreaming—the mind keeps running toward matter.

A mind running toward matter cannot run toward the Paramatman. Of the two, one has to be chosen. The lane is very narrow—two cannot pass.

And the direction is utterly opposite. The dimension is different—totally different. If the mind runs toward matter, it will never run that way—because matter is form, and That is formless. Matter is inert; That is conscious. Matter is outside; That is within. Matter is below; That is above. Matter leads to death; That to the immortal. It is altogether the reverse, utterly opposite. So a mind running toward matter cannot go there.

I have heard: a man was running fast along a path. Dusk was falling. He asked an old man sitting by the road, How far is Delhi? The old man said, First answer two questions—then I’ll tell you how far Delhi is. The man said, What a strange fellow! Just tell me straight how far Delhi is. What are these questions? The old man said, Then don’t ask me—because I dislike giving wrong answers.

There was no one else, so the hurried traveler had to agree: Ask your questions. But I don’t see what they have to do with my question.

The old man said, First: Is it your intention to keep going in the direction you are going? If so, Delhi is very far—because you left it eight miles behind. If you keep going like this, you will reach Delhi, I don’t say you are going wrongly—but only after circling the entire earth. And that too in a perfectly straight line—don’t tilt even a little. If you deviate, your circle will miss and you may pass right by Delhi again. Don’t shake your head even a little. Keep exactly on the line of your nose. Even then I cannot guarantee you will reach—after circling the whole earth, even a slight slant and you will miss again. So I ask your intent: is it to keep going this way? And if you are ready to turn back, Delhi is very near—just behind your back. Only eight miles.

The man said, Now I understand. Forgive me for saying your questions were irrelevant—they were relevant. What is the second?

The old man said, Walk a few steps so I can see your pace. Distance depends on pace, not on miles. Eight miles for a fast walker become four; for a slow, sixteen. And if you take one step and sit down, eight miles become infinite. So walk a bit! What is your gait? Everything is relative—Delhi’s distance, all distances are relative. How much can you walk?

The man said, Forgive me, that too had not occurred to me. You ask rightly.

So too with the Paramatman: in the direction we go—toward matter—we shall never find Him. Delhi might still be found even going opposite, because the earth’s circumference is not so vast. But matter’s circumference is infinite. If we keep seeking through matter, we may wander to the very end of the infinite—and not return to the Paramatman.

So first, matter’s circle is infinite; the earth’s circle is very small. This earth is a very mediocre planet—very poor, small, petty; it counts for nothing. Our sun is sixty thousand times larger than the earth. But our sun too is very mediocre—middle class! There are suns a thousand, ten thousand times bigger—great suns. The earth counts for nothing. It looks big because we are so small. Its status is not great. Walk and you will reach Delhi. But matter is endless. There is no end to its expanse. However far you go, it stretches on and on.

So first the distinction: matter is infinite; from that direction you will never reach the Paramatman—you must turn back.

The Jains have a beautiful word: Pratikraman—returning back. Akramaṇa means going forth, attacking; pratikramaṇa means returning. We all are aggressive toward matter—that is sin. Pratikraman is virtue. Turn back.

So, first, understand: matter is infinite; however much you attack it, you will never attain the Lord. And until the Lord is found, there is no peace, no contentment, no rest. Second, like that old man said, Turn back—Delhi is eight miles away; I say to you, Turn back—the Paramatman is not even eight inches away. Eight miles is too much. In truth, turn back—and you are the Paramatman. To say it rightly, we must say: there is not the slightest distance.

Mohammed was asked—How far is the Lord? He said: Closer than this pulsing vein in the neck. Cut it, and a man dies. It is the very edge of life. Mohammed says: closer than this pulsing vein—closer than life itself.

It is only the delay of turning. You don’t even have to walk—there isn’t enough distance to walk. Just return—just an about-turn is enough. Turn wholly—completely. Wherever the face is, turn it around.

To be oriented toward matter—that is sin. To turn your back on matter—that is virtue. Therefore giving became virtue—there was no other reason. The one who gives wealth begins Pratikraman. The one who takes wealth attacks. Renunciation became virtue, because renunciation means turning your back on matter.

Buddha left home. The charioteer who took him was weeping on the way. He said, How can I return, leaving you? You are leaving such wealth, such immense wealth—are you mad? I am small, I should not speak big words—but at this last moment not to say it seems wrong. You are mad! Leaving such wealth!

Buddha said, Where is the wealth? Show it to me and I will return. You were outside those palaces; I was within. You have seen the safes from afar; their keys were in my hand. Of that royal chariot, you were only the driver; I was its master. I tell you, I found no wealth there—because true wealth is that from which contentment arises.

Buddha used the word sampatti—true wealth. He said, sampatti is that which gives contentment. There I found only vipatti—calamity—because I found nothing but suffering. Calamity I found. What you call wealth is calamity. I am leaving calamity in search of sampatti.

We must turn our face away from matter. It is not necessary to leave like Buddha for the forest. We do not even have what Buddha had to leave. If one had like Buddha, there would be some fun in leaving. We have nothing to leave—not even much matter. The Paramatman is not there—that is one thing—but even matter, what is it? Next to nothing.

The strange thing is that Buddha saw such vast wealth as calamity—and we, with the little money-bag tucked in our pocket, we think it is wealth! To Buddha the empire seemed futile; to us the small fence around our house seems an empire! It is necessary to look—necessary to understand—whether what we call wealth is wealth at all.

I am not asking you to abandon—only to understand. By understanding, the rasa drops on its own. Then wherever you live—whether in the house or outside—it makes no difference. Even within the house you know you are not in the house. Whether wealth is in your hand or not, the full hand knows, in the deeper sense, everything is empty. The day this understanding arises, Pratikraman begins.

Sin is the attack on matter; merit is Pratikraman from matter. And there is no other way than understanding. Because apart from unknowing, we have no bond with matter. Unknowing is our only bond. We are bound because we do not understand. We think it is wealth; therefore we grasp. Know it is not wealth, the hand opens; the grip slips away.

Remember: the slipping of the grip does not mean running away—no escape. It is the clinging that falls, the grip that loosens. Fine, objects are there—they can be used; they should be used. It is the grace of the Divine that there are so many things to use. They are needed for life. But to attain the Divine, the grip we have upon them…

Clinging is a strange thing. Clinging is only a thought. Let me try to explain with a small story I have loved.

I have heard: at dusk, as night was gathering, two sannyasins were hurrying along a forest path. The old sannyasin repeatedly asked the young one, Again—no danger, is there? The young one was puzzled—what danger for a sannyasin! He for whom there is danger is the householder. Danger arises only if you have something—if you have nothing, what danger? And the old man had never asked this—what had happened today!

They stopped at a well to drink. The old man gave his bag to the young disciple and said, Keep it carefully! Then the young man felt the danger must be inside the bag. While the old man drew water, the young one felt inside—to probe the danger. He found a gold brick. The danger was real! He took it out and threw it into the well, and put a stone of almost the same weight into the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

The old man drank hurriedly.

Who has danger drinks hurriedly—everyone knows it! In everyone sits the one who drinks in haste, eats in haste, walks in haste, prays in haste. He pats his children in haste with love. Everything is hurried—because the danger is great.

He had hardly drunk or quenched his thirst when he grabbed the bag, felt it—danger intact—and walked on. Then on the way he said, It grows dark, the path is unclear, no village lamps are seen—what’s the matter—are we lost? Is there some danger?

The youth burst out laughing. His laughter rang through the trees in the dark. The old man said, Are you mad to laugh? Someone will hear—there will be danger! The youth said, Be at peace now. I threw the danger away at the well.

The old man, alarmed, put his hand in the bag. He pulled out a stone, not the gold. But for two miles a stone gave him the same danger! His heart pounded hard. Clinging! Gold was not there—so you cannot blame the gold. There was no gold in the bag—so you cannot indict gold. There was a stone—but in the mind, there was gold. The clinging was in the mind.

For a moment the old man’s heartbeat almost stopped. Then he too laughed, thinking—two miles I carried a stone for nothing, and trembled. The youth was still laughing; the old man laughed too. He threw the bag down there, and said, Now let us sleep here—there is no danger now.

If a piece of stone becomes gold in the mind, there is danger. And if a piece of gold becomes stone in the mind, a man becomes fearless. It depends on you.

And the strange thing is—there is no fundamental difference between gold and stone. All distinctions are man-made; entirely human.

If there were no men on earth, do you think gold would sit on thrones and stones underfoot? Don’t fall into this illusion. No one would ask for gold. No one would think a stone is low. Jewels would lie among pebbles like pebbles.

Remove man from the earth—what difference remains between a pebble and a diamond? None. All differences are given by the human mind. All are human inventions, false impositions. Man imposes values, and then gets bound in those very values—clenching his fist, he lives.

Krishna says: the one free of sin turns toward the Divine, establishes his movement toward the Lord. When the mind is free of matter, it becomes immediately absorbed in the Lord.

That night the old sadhu sang the Lord’s name till midnight. The young man said, Let’s sleep now. The old sadhu said, Today I have seen something I had never seen—let me thank the Lord. A stone deceived me as gold—and I kept being deceived. So the fault is somewhere in my mind. Now if someone hangs gold in my bag, I will know it only as a stone. Now I will never be in danger. I will never be afraid again—because fear was in my mind, value was in my mind. The price was mine, the fear was mine—both my inventions—and I was tormented. Let me thank the Lord.

Search a little in life. The value given to matter is our value. Search a little. The grip on matter is our sorrow, our anxiety, our anguish. Search a little. Grasping matter, grasping, we have gone mad. Understand this a little, and your mind’s grip will loosen. And a day may come at any moment when, like that old man, you sing late into the night and thank the Lord that the grip on matter is gone.

In that very instant Pratikraman happens. Here the hand slips from matter, there entrance into the Lord occurs. It is simultaneous—at once. One need not go to search for the Lord—one only needs to loosen from matter. Light the lamp here—darkness goes there. So too, when Pratikraman is kindled here, the journey turns back—and there union with the Lord happens.

Therefore Krishna says: such a person keeps the Atman continuously engaged in the Paramatman.

Once the relation with matter falls away, a continuous relation with the Lord is established. Without relations we cannot exist. If we understand rightly, we exist in relationships. Now we live in relation to objects; when the relation to objects falls, a new world of relationship begins—we live in relation to the Lord. And the Atman remains incessantly engaged in Him. Then there is so much bliss on that side that to forget Him even for a moment becomes difficult. Then do whatever you do—run your shop, work in the office, dig the earth, break stones—whatever you must do, keep doing it.

Kabir used to say, it becomes like this. People must have asked Kabir. Kabir was among those who went beyond sin and who had the vision of the Lord. People must have asked: You weave cloth all day—then when do you remember the Lord?

Kabir was a weaver and remained a weaver. He did not leave. He knew the Lord—and still he kept weaving the fine, fine cloth; every evening he took it to market to sell. People asked: You sometimes weave cloth, sometimes go to sell—when do you remember the Lord?

Kabir took one such questioner outside his hut and said, Come here—because perhaps I cannot say it, but I can show it.

Wittgenstein wrote in his marvelous Tractatus: There are things which cannot be said, but which can be shown. Many things—whatever is significant—cannot be said. But it can be indicated.

Wittgenstein was a great logician—perhaps none greater in this century. Yet he too experienced that some things cannot be said—only shown.

Kabir said, Come outside—perhaps I can show you something. He walked with the man. After a while the man said, Now tell me! Kabir said, Let a moment come—I am looking for a way to show you. Walk a little more. After a while the man tired. He said, I must go home, I have work. When will you tell me? Kabir said, Wait—now the moment has come.

From the river a woman came carrying a brimming pitcher on her head. Perhaps her beloved, a guest, had come to her home. Her face was radiant. Her gait was quick. Filled with enthusiasm, almost dancing, she walked—and the pitcher balanced on her head, her hands free.

Kabir said, Look at her. She is humming a tune—perhaps her lover has come. He is thirsty; she carries water for him. She runs! Both hands are free, the pitcher is on her head. I ask you—will she remember the pitcher or not? She sings, she walks the path, she is absorbed in her work—will the remembrance of the pitcher be there or not?

The man said, If the remembrance is not there, the pitcher will fall.

Kabir said, This ordinary woman crosses the path, sings, and yet the remembrance of the pitcher is within. Do you think me inferior to her—that I weave cloth and need to set aside a separate time to remember the Lord? My Atman remains continuously engaged in Him. Here the cloth is woven—the work of weaving is done by the body; the Atman remains absorbed in the qualities of the Lord. And these hands—because the Atman is absorbed in the Lord—weave the cloth intoxicated with bliss.

Then even cloth is not woven ordinarily by Kabir. And when he sold the cloth to a customer, he would say, Ram, handle it with care. It is not ordinary cloth; the remembrance of the Lord is woven into it. He would tell the customer, Ram, please handle it carefully.

Sometimes a customer would say, My name is not Ram! Kabir would say, I speak of the name that was yours before this name, and will be yours after this name. I speak of your true name. These names in between—keep that account yourself. When in the end all names fall away, what remains—I speak of that.

Remembrance of the Lord, the Atman’s continuous engagement with Him—this is possible only when the mind becomes free of sin. When the mind goes beyond sin, transcends, rises above the rush toward matter—then it remains engaged. It gets engaged in such a way that no account can be kept. Doing everything, it remains engaged.

And the day it remains engaged while doing everything, that day Yoga is complete. If someone says, When I work, I forget the remembrance of the Lord—then his Lord is very childish, very small. He is vanquished by small work! Petty work breaks His remembrance—then it is not remembrance, it is something counterfeit. You must have forced it upon yourself—pretending to remember. But it is not. It cannot be. If remembrance of the Lord has happened, if the mind has slipped from matter and the memory of the Lord has arisen, then do anything, go anywhere—wake or sleep—the remembrance will continue.

Ram Tirtha was sleeping one night in his room. A friend, Sardar Puran Singh, was his guest. In the middle of the night it was warm; he woke with a start, astonished. Loudly he heard Ram’s voice—Ram! He thought perhaps Ram Tirtha had risen to remember the Lord—but it seemed to be still midnight, darkness.

He got up. Ram was sleeping soundly. But the voice was coming! Puzzled—there was no one nearby. He circled the hut—no one. He came close; the nearer he came to Ram, the louder the voice; moving away, it faded. He placed his ear at Ram’s feet—he could not believe; at his hands—he could not believe. It was as if the entire body, every hair, was resounding with Ram’s name. He feared he might be dreaming. He washed his eyes—Am I hallucinating? How can sound come from the body! He sat awake all night to ask Ram in the morning.

In the morning he asked. Ram said, It can happen. Since remembrance happened, day or night, within the echo continues. The body may be vibrating too, and the sound arising—could be. I do not get up from sleep to listen to my body—there is no way to check. But within it goes on. Within it goes on.

It is not difficult. The body too is a net of electric waves; sound is also a form of electricity. There is no essential difference. If the inner resonance is very deep, there is no reason the body’s fibers should not begin to vibrate. No reason.

Those who know the deep grip of music know: in an empty room, with the doors closed, if one vīnā is played and another lies silent in the corner, after a while its strings begin to resonate. One vīnā plays; no one touches the other, yet its strings tremble in answer. Resonance arises. Sound-waves strike the vīnā; its strings vibrate in response.

The whole body is waves of electricity. Sound is a form of electricity. No wonder—if the inner sound resounds very deeply, down to the cave of the heart—the body resonates, every hair trembles.

Even otherwise: if I place my hand upon yours filled with love, the wave in my hand will be different; if I place the same hand upon yours filled with anger and hate, the wave will be different. The feelings of my heart become the waves in my hand. Therefore a hand touched with love brings one kind of sensation, with hate another. A hand full of curse carries poison; a hand full of blessing showers nectar.

Feelings run to every corner of the body. There is no reason that the remembrance of the Lord, if it descends very deep, should not give rise to its sound in every corner of the body. Many mysteries of life are unknown—their laws unknown. Hence they seem mysterious—because their science is unknown to us.

Continuous remembrance keeps the Atman the Lord’s—once the mind slips away from matter, from sin.

Krishna says: such a one attains supreme bliss.

After every sutra Krishna says this: such a one attains supreme bliss. What is this supreme bliss? Nothing comes to our understanding directly. We have not known bliss. What is supreme bliss? A bare word—it rings on the ear and is lost.

We have known pleasure a little—very little. When we wait, when we expect, when we anticipate. And we have known sorrow a lot—when we get, when we attain, when we arrive. When waiting ends and attainment comes to hand—sorrow. On the road we have imagined pleasures; at the goal we have suffered pain. These we know—pleasure and pain we know. What is supreme bliss?

Generally we think it must be some magnified form of pleasure. No—do not fall into this error. Do not think it is great pleasure. Dictionaries write so: bliss—great pleasure, immense pleasure, infinite pleasure. We have no other measure than pleasure.

But even with a spoon one could in theory measure the Indian Ocean—still bliss cannot be measured by the spoon of pleasure. To measure the ocean with a spoon is not inconceivable—you can imagine it. It would take time, but it could be done. For after all, however many infinite spoonfuls there are, the spoon removes something. Another removes more, the third more. The whole human race, birth after birth, could empty it spoon by spoon—someday it would be empty. This can be imagined. It is not impossible.

But with the spoon of pleasure we cannot weigh even a drop of bliss—that is impossible. Why? The reason is this: if the spoon could hold the sea, the difference would be of quantity, not of quality. A spoonful and the ocean below—both are the same in quality. Taste the spoon or taste the sea—same taste, same water. Analyze the molecules of the spoonful and of the ocean—same hydrogen and oxygen. The spoonful is a miniature of the sea.

But between pleasure and bliss the difference is qualitative, not quantitative. Therefore no conception built on pleasure will work. Still, whenever we hear—Arjuna, by this supreme bliss is attained—our mind thinks: surely a bigger pleasure will come. Forget it completely—forget the word pleasure. Bliss has no relation to pleasure.

Then we know only two things—pleasure and pain; we know no third. So either bliss relates to pleasure; if not, then why confuse us? Only pain remains. We know nothing else.

Bliss has no relation to pain either. Rightly seen, where both pleasure and pain cease, there bliss flowers. But it is unfamiliar—unknown.

Therefore if you are in search of pleasure, don’t get entangled in Krishna’s words. If your search is pleasure, don’t accept Krishna at all. Close the Gita, pursue pleasure. Krishna cannot show a way to pleasure. Krishna shows the way beyond pleasure. But only one who goes beyond pleasure goes beyond pain.

For this reason Buddha stopped using the word bliss—because of this confusion. Pleasure and bliss seem similar to us. So Buddha never used bliss. When anyone asked, What happens in Nirvana? he said, Dukkha-kshaya—the cessation of suffering. He didn’t say, Bliss will arise. If someone insisted, Tell us positively, he would say, Peace. He did not use bliss—because bliss evokes our idea of pleasure. We feel as if pleasure, growing and growing, would become bliss.

Pleasure will not become bliss. Pleasure too is connected with matter, and pain too with matter. Pleasure is sin, pain too is sin. Both are tied to matter.

Have you known any pleasure not tied to matter? Have you known any pain not tied to matter? If you have known it—that is bliss. But all we have known is tied to matter. Pain—lost money, pain arose. Pleasure—money gained, pleasure arose. Pain—beloved parted, pain. Pleasure—beloved returned, pleasure. All tied to matter.

Usually our people call the West materialist. But on this earth, all are materialists. It is not just the West. Everyone is materialist. The non-materialist is the one Krishna speaks of. Such people exist neither in East nor West—once in a while one appears. All others are materialists. Whether pleasure or pain, we seek matter.

Yes, a difference: Westerners are sincere materialists; we are insincere materialists. They honestly say, For us, pleasure and pain are all; we do not know that bliss is. We don’t even believe it is; we live in pleasure and pain.

We are dishonest materialists. We say, Bliss! We live for bliss. And our whole life we chase only pleasure and pain.

Remember, an honest materialist can become spiritual; a dishonest one never—because he is dishonest. Matter is a disease as it is; dishonesty is a bigger disease.

In our land a great delusion has settled—that we are all spiritual. No greater misfortune could happen. It is like the patients of a hospital imagining they are supremely healthy—perfect! Then the hospital is doomed. Patients will die—because they can no longer listen to the doctor. If the doctor says treatment, they will say, Get out—your brain is rotten. We are supremely healthy! Treat the West—they are sick. In this hospital all are healthy. No one ever falls ill here.

If the sick man deludes himself that he is healthy, he cannot be treated. The sick should know clearly, I am sick. The clearer the pain of illness, the better the cure.

This notion that our land is spiritual has reasons: such people were born here who were spiritual. But the land does not become spiritual because spiritual people were born. If an Einstein is born in a house, the whole family does not become Nobel laureates. To say, Einstein was born in our house, so the Nobel Prize is the birthright of every child—this is nonsense!

Buddha being born, Krishna being born—does not make us spiritual. In fact, it puts a heavier responsibility upon us—that those who produced Buddhas—if they become materialistic, it is most painful. We do not become spiritual; rather our materialism should feel more shameful—that those who produced Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Rishabha—what is their state? Grasping two-coin trifles, thinking of matter twenty-four hours!

If we call spiritual the practice of reading the Gita every morning—how many times will you read it? If you didn’t understand it the first time, do you think your intelligence increases the second time? It is deteriorating daily. Tomorrow it will be less than today. The second time you will understand even less. The third time there will be no need to understand at all—you will parrot it. Then all your life you read the Gita and think—understand nothing; you repeat words.

To be spiritual requires living experiment. Krishna speaks only of experiment. He says, Turn away from matter.

Thinking, you will never turn away. Begin turning. Soon matter will grip you. Then, at that very moment—when thirst arises and you drink water—stand a little apart from both thirst and water. See thirst, see water. See water quenching thirst—and remain the seer. Do not become thirst or water. When thirst is quenched, still know as the knower—now thirst is quenched. Do not become thirst—otherwise madness upon water will begin. Stand a little apart and watch.

This art of standing apart, this moment-to-moment art of distance—being unattached right in the midst of things—brings life, in some moment, to that explosion where we become one with the Paramatman.

Enough for now. But sit. Let us experiment for five minutes. I will say two or three things to make it easy.

Many friends ask me, What is sankirtan?

So understand two or three things. Then see it. Because some things cannot be said, they can be shown. Let me tell you a little of what sankirtan is—say a little, so you get the feel.

First, sankirtan is a leap—a jump—beyond the intellect. Remember—beyond the intellect. Beyond the world of thinking, into the world of feeling. If you think, you cannot dance. If you think, you cannot sing. If you think, all this will look like madness—these people have gone mad.

But thinking and thinking we have seen our whole life—we have reached nowhere. We did much mathematics, studied much philosophy, argued much—there is not even ash in our hands.

So for a little while—for seven minutes—peep into the world beyond thinking. Without peeping there, there is no way. If I say to you, Come to the window—the sky is outside, stars are out, flowers have bloomed—you cannot know the stars before you come to the window. Come to the window—the sky may be seen.

A small sky will be created here by the sannyasins of sankirtan. I will tell the sannyasins—forget people. Don’t worry whether people are there or not. Be drowned in your own rasa. Stretch your hands toward the Divine and be absorbed in the dance.

If anyone dives rightly for three minutes with full energy, in the fourth minute the leap happens. And when a man enters within the Lord, then he no longer dances—He dances in him. Then he no longer sings—the Lord sings. Soon the man disappears—only the dance remains.

Join this sankirtan—clap, sing, sway, be absorbed. For seven minutes, understand this experiment.