Geeta Darshan #15

In this sutra Krishna is telling Arjuna something about worshiping the Lord in all beings. One meaning of bhajan we already know: sitting in solitude and offering song surrendered at the feet of the Lord; sitting alone and remembering the Lord’s Name; or a heartfelt prayer before the idol in a temple. But Krishna is pointing toward another mode, a deeper mode, a vaster dimension. He says: the one who worships me, the Satchidananda, in all beings—what will this mean?

It will mean that whenever anything comes before your eyes, remember: that too is the Divine. Whether it is a stone lying on the path, a cloud passing across the sky, the sun rising in the morning, the eyes of your child, your friend, your enemy—whoever meets you—let the very first remembrance that enters your breath with that meeting be: this too is the Lord. Only then can it be said that we are worshiping the Satchidananda in all beings.

If on the way a tree appears, a cow appears, a river is flowing—whatever—whatever form arises anywhere in life, let there be the remembrance of the Formless in each form. Before you know, “It is a stone,” let there already be the knowing, “It is the Divine.” Then, in Krishna’s meaning, bhajan has happened.

Before I look at you and know that you are a man, let it be known first that you are the Divine. Let the being-a-man appear later. Let the memory of the Formless come first; let the formed be constructed afterward. Let me recognize later who you are; first—let me recognize only this: the Divine. Then it can be said the Lord has been worshiped in all beings.

Bhajan in solitude is very easy, because you are alone. Even before an idol bhajan is easy, for if you understand well, even there you are still alone. But in the ceaseless flow of life, where it is unknown how many forms will confront you; where someone may even stand before your chest with a knife in his hand—there too, if the first remembrance arises that the Lord stands there with a knife, then bhajan has been done.

Where in life the struggle is dense, where there is tension and unrest, where enmity also fructifies—let the first remembrance there too be: the Lord is. Recognize the form afterward; let the Formless be recognized first. Krishna is calling that practice, of seeing the Formless at every moment, “worshiping the Lord.”

Living practice is only this. Living practice is not done by shutting oneself into corners; it happens in the vast density of life. Living practice is not done by bolting doors; it is under the free sky. We shut doors precisely because what is outside is not the Divine; it might enter in! We go to the temple precisely because it will be difficult to see the Divine in the house. But that practice is constricted, very limited—though it has its use and meaning. Yet the immense practice Krishna announces in this sutra is something altogether other.

I have heard of a man in Maharashtra. He was a thoroughgoing atheist. He would go to sadhus and saints, and the sadhus and saints would fall into great difficulty. Because it is our misfortune that atheists are often more intelligent than our so-called sadhus and saints.

The sadhus and saints would be at a loss. They could not manage to answer that atheist. Whatever he asked would leave them disturbed. A sadhu should be such that no one can disturb him; rather, if someone full of restlessness comes near, he should leave with peace. But that atheist had become a source of trouble and distress for many sadhus and saints. Even going to the very great sadhus he found that there were no answers to his questions.

At last one sadhu told him, “Do not wander here and there. There is only one man suited to you—Eknath. Go to him. If you get answers from him, well and good; if not, then take your answers directly from Paramatman. No one else in between will do.” The man said, “But there is no Paramatman!” The sadhu said, “Then Eknath is the last man. If you get answers, fine; if not—then suit yourself.”

Filled with great hope, the atheist reached Eknath. It was morning—about eight, half-past eight, nine. The sun was high, the light strong. Asking in the village he came to know, “You are asking about Eknath? Look near the temples by the river, he must be sleeping somewhere!” A little worry arose in his mind. “Sadhus get up at Brahmamuhūrta. It is nine; he must be sleeping!”

When he reached the temple, he fell into even greater difficulty. For Eknath was asleep in Shankar’s temple with both feet resting against Shankar’s linga—resting comfortably! He thought, “I am an atheist, but not such a great atheist. Even my chest would tremble to place my feet on Shankar. What if he really is! I say he is not—but the certainty of his not-being is not that solid. What if he is? And my feet should touch—what trouble might arise! To whom have they sent me!” But since he had already come, he thought he should exchange a few words. “It seems useless though. This man appears worse off than I am!”

And the one who could sleep with his feet on Shankar’s linga—he did not dare wake him. Who knows, he might be annoyed—what might he do! One cannot trust such a man. He sat and waited. Around ten Eknath awoke.

The man said, “Master, I had come to ask a little wisdom; now there is no need to ask anything. For you seem to be further gone than I! I had come to ask something else; first I want to ask, is this any time to get up? Sadhus arise at Brahmamuhūrta!”

Eknath said, “It is Brahmamuhūrta. In truth, whenever a sadhu awakes, that is Brahmamuhūrta! Neither do we sleep of our own accord, nor do we get up of our own accord. When He sleeps, sleep happens; when He rises, rising happens. So we have known only one thing—that when the Brahman’s sleep opens, that is Brahmamuhūrta! We do not sleep on our own, we do not wake on our own. When Brahman wants to sleep, sleep happens; when Brahman wants to wake, waking happens. This is Brahmamuhūrta, because Brahman is waking!”

He said, “You too speak wondrously—you’ve put me in deeper trouble. I had come to ask whether Brahman is or is not; now I am in greater trouble! Because you are saying that you yourself are Brahman!” Eknath said, “Not only that I am Brahman—I am also saying that you are Brahman. The only difference is that you do not know your being; I know mine.”

He said, “Leave this aside. Please tell me at least: what sense is there in sleeping with your feet on Shankar’s linga?” Eknath said, “I placed my feet everywhere and found only Shankar. Wherever I place my feet, what difference does it make! Wherever I place them, it is He. If it were otherwise, that would be something else. But wherever I place them, it is He. So I have stopped worrying.”

The man said, “Then I will leave! For I have not yet reached the state where I can put my feet on Shankar’s linga. I had come to gain some knowledge—to become a theist. You seem a great atheist.” Eknath said, “The sun is high now—where will you go? I will prepare food. Eat, then go.”

Eknath went into the village and begged flour. Then he made baatis. And when he had prepared the baatis, a dog came and ran off with one. Eknath took up the pot of ghee and ran after the dog.

The man thought, “This wicked fellow will snatch the baati even from a dog! Strange sannyasi! The dog took a baati—let him go!”

He too ran behind to see what would happen. After running a mile Eknath barely caught the dog and said, “Ram, I’ve told you a thousand times we do not like to eat baati without ghee; you won’t either. Why make me run a mile in vain! Had you waited a little, we would have anointed it with ghee and kept it; then you could have taken it!” He snatched the baati—stale from the dog’s mouth—dipped it completely in the pot of ghee, and put it back in the dog’s mouth. “Remember next time—or I’ll break your bones. Neither this Ram likes it, nor that Ram! Only take it after we’ve added ghee. You made me run a mile for nothing!”

The man thought, “What a delightful fellow! He sleeps with his feet on Shankar’s linga, and calls a dog ‘Ram’!”

If rightly understood, bhajan is happening here. These are both forms of bhajan. If the remembrance arises that the Lord is everywhere, how will you separate Shankar’s linga? And if the Lord is everywhere, how will you let a dog eat a baati without ghee?

These are not opposing, they are two expressions of one mind immersed in the Lord’s bhajan. They cohere; there is no contradiction. In truth, only the one who can put his feet on Shankar’s linga can call a dog ‘Ram’; and only the one who can call a dog ‘Ram’ can place his feet on Shankar’s linga. The courage and strength to place one’s feet on Shankar’s linga belongs to the one who can bow his head before a dog. And the surrender to bow before a dog belongs to the one who can place his feet on Shankar’s linga.

But our situation is inverted. Wherever something appears to us, our first remembrance is of the world—first! If you are walking alone on the road and in the dark a man emerges, the first thing you see is not a good man—you see a thief, a thug, a scoundrel! Such is your remembrance; such is your bhajan! And God forbid, because of your kind of bhajan, the man should indeed turn into a scoundrel—because bhajan does have its effect.

When you take a certain attitude toward another, you give him the chance to become that. When you take a certain stance, you give him the opportunity to turn into that. Thousands on this earth are bad because everyone around them gives them the chance to be thought of as bad.

You may not realize that if you were placed among ten people who considered you a god, you would find stealing very difficult—if caught, what would be the state of “a god who steals”! If ten people had godlike trust in you, greeted you with a godlike pranam, you would suddenly find your possibilities beginning to transform.

Let even one person trust—and something new is born in you. And let even one person distrust—and the sense of the devil begins in you. What others expect of us, we set about proving. Consciously or unconsciously, what others think us to be, we become.

But whenever someone appears to us, the remembrance is not of the Lord; it is of the world—of what is petty, dark, inauspicious; that is what we remember.

To worship the Lord in this sense is a deep thing, arduous, difficult, an askesis. It means: wherever form appears, there immediately remember—He is. And if such remembrance settles, slowly you will find that truly He is everywhere. Slowly you will find that it has become impossible to see anyone other than the Lord.

Krishna speaks of many methods. This too is a method. This too is a method.

There was a Sufi fakir, Hasan. Hasan wrote a memoir: when Mansoor was hanged, and people were throwing sharp stones at him, and streams of blood were flowing from his body, Hasan stood in that crowd. Mansoor was laughing, and Hasan stood there, while all were throwing stones.

Hasan had no intention to throw a stone at Mansoor. But the crowd where he stood was of enemies. And Hasan did not have the courage—not yet—to stand in a crowd of enemies and be recognized as one who was not throwing. Someone might notice: this man is not throwing! So he had a flower in his hand, and he threw the flower at Mansoor—simply so people would think he too had thrown something.

But Mansoor remained delighted at the blows of stones from the others; when he was struck by Hasan’s flower he began to weep. Hasan was greatly disturbed. He asked, “I do not understand. The stones that make you bleed—being wounded by them you laugh; and I threw a flower and you started to weep?”

Mansoor said, “I have been engaged in one sadhana always. My sadhana has been this: whenever anyone appears before me, I first see the Divine in him. So in those who were throwing stones I was seeing the Divine. But you—I already took you to be the Divine; so I made no effort to see. I assumed you were already in knowledge—so why make an effort to see the Divine in you! With them I was immersed in bhajan—they threw stones and I saw the Divine. But when you threw the flower, I missed. I had never thought that with reference to you, too, I should first remember the Divine! I already took you as the Divine, knew you as such. But my bhajan slipped for a moment. I could not see the Divine in you; your act of throwing was what I saw first—though it was a flower. I am not weeping because of your flower; I am weeping because my bhajan failed. I had no expectation that you would throw anything—so I slipped. But thanks to the Lord that in the last moment he made you throw a flower, so I could know there is still a lack in me. My bhajan is not complete.”

So no one should ever suppose his bhajan complete. It must be kept on—unceasing. So long as the other is seen, one must go on seeking the Divine in him. A moment surely comes when the “other” is no longer seen. Then there remains no need to worship. When only the Divine is seen, there is no more need to worship the Divine. But until He is seen, He has to be uncovered, the layers broken open, revealed.

And man is layered upon layer, like an onion—layer upon layer. Strip one layer, another appears. Strip the second, a third appears. But if we keep stripping the onion, a moment comes when only emptiness remains, no layer at all. The onion itself is gone—emptiness remains. Just so, if we peel man layer by layer, and when only emptiness remains within, then there will be the experience of bhagavat consciousness—of God.

But it is a long journey. Like one who digs a well. When one digs a well, water does not come into the hand at once. First only pebbles and stones come. But keeping his attention on water he continues to dig. He finds earth, he meets rock. Water is not yet visible—but he goes on digging, remembering water. It is trust that there will be water.

And that trust is true. However deep the ground, there will be water. The distance may be great, but there will be water. The trust is not false. Yes, your strength may give out and the ground be too much—that is another matter. That is a lack of your strength. A little more digging—and then a little more—and there would come the place where water is. But water is not found first—first come stones and pebbles. Those pebbles and stones give no assurance that water is ahead. What relation do pebbles have with water?

Yet one keeps digging. Then a little moist ground comes; a slight glimmer of water begins to show. It seems the ground is now getting wet. Hope increases, strength increases, courage grows; with a shout the man resumes digging. Then slowly the dirty water begins to seep. Hope thickens further. And one day the man reaches the source—clear and pure.

Just in this way the Formless has to be dug for within form. And when we set to digging, it is form that first comes to hand; the Formless must be only remembered. When on the path someone meets us, we can keep only the remembrance: deep within he is the Lord—we do not yet know. When we touch, we will only feel the bones and ribs of a man. When we meet, what comes are friendship and enmity; hatred, anger, love—these all are pebbles and stones. Do not stop at them; do not take them as the ultimate. He who takes them as the final stops in the search for the Lord.

You meet me and hurl an abuse at me. I decide: the last word has been spoken—this man is bad. That becomes the ultimate for me. That abuse becomes supreme for me. I have taken the first layer, the pebble, to be the well’s final state.

Even the one who abused has the Divine within. A little digging is needed—perhaps more digging. Where love appears, the Divine may be found sooner; where hatred appears, there may be two more layers. But it makes no difference—however many layers there be, within the Divine is always present.

Paramatman means Existence—That which is. Hence He is everywhere present. Wherever we seek, we will find Him. Wherever we seek, we will find Him. And if we do not seek, we will find Him nowhere.

It is a delightful paradox that Paramatman—ever and always present—is not found without seeking. For everything a price must be paid. Nothing should be obtained without price. If you get something for nothing, the danger is you may not recognize what you have received.

A small incident comes to mind. Nandalal was a very wonderful painter of Bengal. Rabindranath wrote a memoir about Nandababu: when Nandalal was not yet a great painter, only a student, studying under Abanindranath Tagore—Abanindranath was another great painter.

One day Rabindranath was sitting with Abanindranath. Nandalal brought a painting of Krishna. Rabindranath wrote: in my life I had never seen such a beautiful picture of Krishna. The very greatest painters have painted Krishna, but what Nandalal had made was something else altogether. I was completely enchanted. I thought, how pleased Abanindranath must be—his student has painted such a marvelous picture!

But Abanindranath took the picture in his hand, threw it outside the door and said to Nandalal, “You call this a painting? You call this art? Are you not ashamed? In Bengal the pat dealers paint Krishna-prints worth two paisa and sell them at Janmashtami—those patiyas do better than you!”

Rabindranath wrote: it was as though someone had thrust a knife into my chest. This was not at all what I expected. I thought: I have seen Abanindranath’s paintings too—he has no Krishna so beautiful. What is happening! But it was not appropriate to speak; between teacher and disciple one should not intrude.

Nandalal touched his feet and left, taking the painting away. After he was gone, Rabindranath said, “What have you done? You saw—.” I had wanted to quarrel, to fight with Abanindranath, but my courage failed—when I raised my eyes, I saw tears streaming from Abanindranath’s eyes. I was in difficulty. I said, “You are weeping—what is the matter?” Abanindranath said, “It pains me deeply—I myself cannot paint so beautiful a picture!” Then Rabindranath said, “This is what I thought. Then why did you throw it?”

Abanindranath said, “If anything is obtained without cost, recognition does not arise. He must be given a little pain—so that he knows that what is being attained is not easy, it is tapascharya. And he must be given pain because his possibility is greater yet. This is not the last picture—still better could come. If he had seen even a little appreciation in my eyes, this would have become the final one. Beyond it nothing more could emerge.”

Paramatman also holds great possibilities and expectations for us—immense possibilities. Therefore He does not reveal himself quickly. There is tapas—one must pay the price. And His trust in us is so great that none of us has so much trust in Him. That is why we err a thousand times and are yet forgiven; we waste a thousand births, and still another birth is given. But without seeking He will not be found. And whenever we begin to seek, the opposite of what we seek comes to hand first.

If I come to you to seek the Divine, first I will meet you—who are not the Divine. First I will meet your body—which is not the Formless. Then I will meet your mind—filled with a thousand filths. And if I do not have the capacity to go beyond these, I will return from your outer gate and be deprived of the inner sanctum of your temple where the Lord abides. I will turn back from the thorns and never reach the flowers—though it is for the sake of protecting flowers that thorns are there.

To worship the Lord in all beings means: however contrary something may be—even if the devil himself stands before you—know that a more auspicious opportunity for sadhana has been given; there too worship the Lord, there too remember—He is.

The night Jesus was arrested, the person who betrayed him—Judas—before leaving for his death Jesus washed his feet with his own hands. The very man who betrayed him—who informed the enemy, who for thirty pieces of silver revealed where Jesus was—and in the last night before departing, first Jesus washed Judas’ feet with his own hands. Then he washed the feet of the remaining disciples with his own hands.

A disciple even asked, “What are you doing? We are your disciples—you wash our feet!” Jesus said, “I am remembering the Lord.”

And when the next day people learned that Judas had betrayed him, they were astonished. To this day the riddle remains: why did Jesus wash Judas’ feet?

In Krishna’s sutra lies the explanation. It would not have been right to miss that opportunity to worship God. In the one leading him to the gallows Jesus made the last effort to see the Divine.

He who begins to worship the Lord in this sense needs no other bhajan. He who begins to see the Lord in this way needs no temple, no pilgrimage. For him the whole earth becomes a temple; all forms become idols of the Lord; all shapes become abodes of the Formless.

This sutra Krishna gives to Arjuna is very precious: he who begins to see me, Vasudeva—the Paramatman, the Lord—in all beings; who begins to worship thus—that yogi attains the supreme perfection.

आत्मौपम्येन सर्वत्र समं पश्यति योऽर्जुन।
सुखं वा यदि वा दुःखं स योगी परमो मतः।। 32।।

And O Arjuna, that yogi who, by the likeness to himself, sees the same in all beings, and sees pleasure and pain as the same in all—such a yogi is held to be supreme.

Samata is yoga. The awareness of equanimity is the highest yoga. In pleasure and pain, in favorable and unfavorable circumstances—in all situations—he who remains even, who sees the same—one. Krishna has said much about this. Here he adds a small, precious point: the one who, by his own likeness, sees the equal in all. This needs to be understood a little.

By one’s own likeness! It is the most difficult thing. It means: whenever we make a judgment about another, we should always judge by our own likeness. We do just the opposite. Whenever we judge another, we never do it by our likeness.

If another does wrong, we say he is a bad man. If we do wrong, we say we were compelled. If another steals, he is a thief. If we steal, it is dharma in exigency! If we get angry, it is for the other’s improvement. If another gets angry, he is violent, murderous! If we even beat someone, it is to make him live; and if another gives life, it is to kill!

We never think of others as we think of ourselves. Whatever is the highest in ourselves we take as our nature; whatever is the lowest in the other we take as his nature!

Remember, our own peak—that is our nature; and the other’s abyss—that is his nature! But he too has a peak, and we too have an abyss.

By likeness means: when I think of the other’s abyss, I should first look at my own. I may find that no one has a greater abyss than mine. When I think of my peak, I should also think of others’ peaks—I may find that no one’s peak is lower than mine.

But our method is that whatever is worst in the other is his essence; and whatever is best in us is our essence. Hence we are unjust continually. How will there be equality?

Remember, one equality is to consider two people equal—A and B. That equality is not very deep. The real equality is to consider “I and you” equal—that is very deep. It is not so difficult to consider two people equal, because then I rise above them. I become patronizing. I become the one who considers the two as equals. I sit, as it were, on a magistrate’s chair. Not difficult. The greatest difficulty is to consider oneself equal with the other.

I have heard Sorokin’s little joke. He says he was speaking with a socialist who insisted that everything should be equally distributed. Sorokin asked, “If a man has two houses, should one be given to the one who has none?” He said, “Certainly—exactly.” “If a man has two cars, should one be given to the one who has none?” “Absolutely right—that is my philosophy, my doctrine.” “Does it mean that if a man has two chickens, one should be given to the one who has none?” He said, “Absolutely wrong—never!” Sorokin said, “What kind of socialism is this? Until now you said, absolutely right!” He replied, “I have neither two houses nor two cars—I do have two chickens. That is absolutely wrong. There is no need to bring socialism that far.”

To equalize others is not so difficult. Krishna speaks of a far deeper equality. He says: equality by one’s own likeness—take yourself as equal to the other.

This is very intricate. Ego creates a tremendous obstacle. It says, “Say anything, everything—but give me an inch higher place, and all is well. With everyone!”

Think deeply and you will find: equal with everyone? It cannot be. All may be equal—save me a little. Deep within the mind says, “Save me.” I am ready to make everyone equal—and in making everyone equal, I become special, I become separate, I rise above.

Thus, socialist leaders around the world, communist leaders around the world—mad to make all equal—at the end the total result is that everyone becomes equal and they stand above all! No one agrees that anyone could be equal to me.

Krishna says, by one’s own likeness!

Whenever you think of another—think by your own likeness. Then something wondrous will happen—three things. First: he who thinks by likeness will cease to judge others. No—he will not judge. He will find: who am I to judge! I too stand where all stand.

Hence our so-called sadhus and saints who consider themselves pure, above, and all others hellish beings—such people know nothing of Krishna’s sutra.

Go to our so-called sadhus and renunciates—they look at you as if asking whether you have brought your passport for going to hell or not! From head to toe their eyes examine—conveying that they are somewhere above and you somewhere below!

The true saint knows that all are equal. For He who sits within cannot be even a jot higher or lower—He is the same; where is the question of inequality!

Buddha told a story of a former life. He said: in my past birth, before I attained enlightenment, there was a buddha—a realized one—and I went for his darshan. Naturally, I bowed at his feet. He knew well that I was ignorant. I had not even straightened up after touching his feet when I fell into great difficulty—for I saw the buddha bow his head at my feet! Frightened, I lifted him up. “What are you doing! This will be sin for me. That I touch your feet—that is fitting, for you know and I do not. But that you touch my feet!”

That buddha laughed and said, “I know well Who sits within you is the same as Who sits within me. You do not know—you will know someday. When you know, you will understand this secret—why I touched your feet. Today you do not know that the same diamond is hidden within you as within me. You do not know, so even if I did not touch your feet, you would not know. But I know; if I did not touch your feet, I would become guilty before myself. I know that the same One is hidden in you as in me.”

This is likeness.

Thus Krishna says: this is the highest state of yoga. But this equality is of another kind. It is not between A and B; it is between me and you—between I and thou.

To bring the I equal to the you is the great yoga. For the whole effort of the I is to put the you below. All life we do this—our juice is in making you lower. If we cannot truly do it, we do it by other tricks.

If a man gets money, he stands above those who do not. If someone gets a ministry, he stands above those who did not. His gait changes, his manner changes, his eyes change. But what of the one who did not get it—what can he do? The one who lost—what will he do?

He finds other tricks to make the winner lower. He says, “You did not win—you won by distributing money.” Ask Morarjibhai! The one who won—won by distributing money. As though the one who lost had not distributed money! Is losing proof that he distributed none? But how to show the winner as low? He is showing us low—sitting on our chest. Now what will the defeated do? He will find other ways to show the winner low. That is why we relish slander so much. We take such delight in each other’s slander.

It is very amusing: if I come and tell you, “Your neighbor is a very good man,” you will not accept at once. You will say, “Good! I cannot believe it. A neighbor—and a good man! While I am here—and my neighbor is a good man! What are you saying!” Outwardly you may not speak so, but inwardly restlessness will begin. “I cannot accept. You do not know. Check the police records—his name is on the blacklist. You call him a good man! He is a great sinner. I have heard he beats his wife.”

You will pull out twenty-five things to argue he is not good. Why? For if he is good—what will happen to your I! With your twenty-five arguments you push him down and once again seat yourself upon your throne.

But if someone comes and says, “I hear the neighbor ran off with another man’s wife!” you will say, “I knew it from the start that he would run.”

Now you will do no investigation. Not the slightest inquiry. No evidence asked. You will agree completely: “Quite right. I already knew this would happen. I had said before that man would run. He was such a man.”

It is astonishing that when someone slanders we ask no proof; and when someone praises we ask for great proof! Why? Because accepting slander gives the heart a great relief—I am raised. Accepting praise inflicts great pain—a deep wound.

I have heard: a student ranked third; his father scolded him: “Never has such a thing happened in our lineage. Never in our family has anyone come third!” The total reason it had not happened was simply that no one in the family ever studied! How could anyone be third! The boy worked hard and next year ranked second. The father said, “What’s there in it! What great progress! You pushed back only one boy!” The boy worked harder; the third year he came first. The father said, “There’s nothing in it. It shows only that your class contained nothing but donkeys!”

Even a father is troubled that the son is something. All fathers try to show their sons are something—in front of others. By proclaiming “my son is something,” they become something. But if the son truly becomes something, the father becomes uneasy with the son. With others he boasts—“my son is something because he is mine.” But when the son stands before him, uneasiness begins. Even a father’s mind is at odds with the son’s mind!

If a girl is beautiful, even the mother becomes anxious. In the street she watches whether people are looking at the daughter or at her. If they look at the daughter, she becomes very troubled. She will take revenge at home upon the girl!

Even in the closest relations the mind keeps the I on top—between mother and daughter, father and son. With the closest too our enmity of I and you goes on.

Krishna says, great yoga is to understand equality with all by one’s own likeness.

Let not even a hair’s breadth remain—that the other is exactly as I am. In evil and in good, in sin and in virtue—between the other and me there is no distance. The depth of such an insight brings a great explosion.

To move toward it, whenever you think of another—first bring the same matter home and think of yourself. Do not be deceived by your mind’s tricks. The mind will say, “These were compulsions.” Know that his mind too says, “These were compulsions.” Do not say, “This is not my nature.” His mind also says, “This is not my nature.” What seems to us—seems to each.

Mahavira called this ahimsa—the accepting of all by one’s own likeness. Mahavira said: as it seems to us, so it seems to all; therefore do with others what you would do with yourself.

Jesus said the same. The very essence of Jesus’ whole life’s teaching is one supreme sentence: Do not do unto others what you would not like to be done unto you.

But we do precisely that. Then if we do not attain yoga, there is no wonder. If we do not attain the supreme peace and bliss, there is no wonder. It is the assured fruit of our own deeds. This is its destiny. This will happen.

But it is very difficult to keep oneself equal with the other. The greatest difficulty is the ego that says, “I! There is none like me.”

There is a saying in Arabia—a joke—that when God makes people he plays one joke with everyone. As He pushes them out into the world He whispers in their ear, “I have made no one like you.” He says it to all—that is the trouble. If he said it to one or two, it would pass—no mess. He says it to all!

This joke is very dear—born of experience. To each He says: “Wonderful—you are unique; none like you has ever been made, nor can I hope to make again.” And each of us roams with this in the heart our whole life. We cannot even say it, for if we speak, trouble will come—others also roam carrying the same thing! We cannot say it plainly. We say it hiddenly. We speak roundabout, indirectly we announce—by countless devices we try to let it be known that there is no one like me. But the other is equally mad—busy proving there is no one like him! We are all absorbed in this game.

Whether God plays this joke, I do not know. But the human mind surely plays it. A deep joke—and the whole life is spent in it; spent uselessly.

In Mark Twain’s memoirs I found an amusing incident. He did not know French, and came to France. His son was studying at the university in Paris. The Paris literati gave Mark Twain a reception. He told his son to sit beside him: “When people laugh, if I do not laugh they will know I don’t know French. And in those days, if one didn’t know French—illiterate, a bit rustic, a bit inferior. I don’t want it known. Sit by me and signal me. I will do what you do. When you laugh, I will laugh. When you grow serious, I will grow serious. You keep watch—so no one knows.”

But a big muddle occurred. When Mark Twain was praised, the whole hall applauded; the son applauded and Mark Twain applauded—he did not understand. The son grew anxious—what a nuisance! But in the middle of the program nothing could be said. This mistake happened many times. People would roar with laughter—the son would laugh; Mark Twain would laugh. He did not understand that a joke had been cracked at his expense.

Later the son was drenched with sweat. On returning at night he said, “You put me in a fix. Everyone looked at me—what is your father doing!” Mark Twain asked, “What mistake did I make?” He said, “When people clapped and I clapped, it was your praise—saying you are great. And you too clapped—it made great confusion.”

Mark Twain said, “Don’t worry. For the first time in my life—that which I always wanted to do happened by itself.” He said, “Do not worry. In life I always wanted that when people praised me, I too should clap! I did not clap because I understood the language. Today by mistake it happened. But it happened as I have always felt in my heart.”

In all our hearts there is the same thing—and see how foolish we are: everyone is clapping for us, and we sit silent! This was the very moment to clap too. But because we understand the language, we remain quiet. It happened to him by mistake—but it is what our minds always want.

That I of ours is always in search of someone to say: “You are great, you are this, you are that”—and we swell with pride. Then likeness will never be attained.

Therefore Buddha said: he who wants to cultivate the yoga of likeness should live three months first in the cremation ground. Whenever a bhikshu came, Buddha would say, “Go live three months in the cremation ground.” He would say, “What will happen by that? I have come to practice yoga!” Buddha would say, “First go live three months in the cremation ground.” He would ask, “What will I do there?”

Buddha said, “Whenever a corpse arrives, know that one day I will arrive the same. When it is burned, know that one day I too will be burned. When his son breaks the skull, know that one day my son will break mine. When all have cremated and begin to leave, know that one day people will leave me thus.”

He would ask, “What will come of it?” Buddha said, “Begin the likeness from death. Later, in life it will become easy.”

And it is true. To establish likeness in life is a bit difficult, for one has a big house and another a small—how to make likeness? One has a long nose and is called beautiful; another’s is a bit flat and people say it would be better if it were not there—what to do? One solves great mathematical problems, another makes many mistakes counting sixteen annas—what to do? In life, likeness is hard because so much unlikeness is apparent.

So Buddha says, begin with death—let us begin from the end. In death the man with the mansion and the man from the hut will both arrive at the same place. The one skillful in mathematics and the one who always failed—both arrive. The one whose face people died for, and the one at the sight of whom people ran to avoid him—both arrive. Leaders and followers, guru and disciple, saint and sinner, honored and dishonored, saint and thief—all arrive at one place—death. Death is a great communist—it makes all utterly equal! Equalizes so thoroughly that nothing remains but ash. All becomes the same.

Buddha says start there. When it becomes clear that in the end all this is going to become alike, why meddle in the middle fracas? There is no great essence in it—the end is this.

And whoever returned after three months of death-remembrance attained likeness in life. If someone said to him, “You are a very wise man,” he would say, “Forgive me—you will not be able to deceive me now. I have seen the cremation ground. There I saw wise men reduced to dust.” If someone said, “Your eyes are so beautiful,” he would say, “Forgive me—you cannot deceive me now. I have seen the cremation ground. All eyes become nothing more than ash.”

Krishna says this yoga of likeness leads to the highest state of yoga.

Begin somewhere—begin with death, it will be easier. But you may not gather the courage to go to the cremation ground. Fear arises—because the cremation ground gives some fundamental news.

An English poet wrote a little song—from the old Orthodox Christian villages—when someone dies the church bell tolls. The poet wrote a short song: when the church bell tolls, do not send someone to ask for whom it tolls—it tolls for thee, it tolls for thee.

When the bell tolls and someone in the village has died, naturally people send someone to ask, “For whom does it toll?” The poet wrote rightly: do not send anyone to ask for whom it tolls—it tolls for you, it tolls for you—it tolls for thee, it tolls for thee.

When a corpse passes down the road, do not ask who died—know that I have died, I have died. When someone is insulted, when someone falls and is covered with dust, do not think that someone else fell—know that I fell. Then slowly, slowly likeness will spread in life.

As likeness comes, great compassion arises—great compassion, Mahakaruna. The English word for karuna is very beautiful—compassion. If we remove half, com, what remains is passion. There are two kinds of people—passionate and compassionate. Passion is lust; compassion is karuna. As long as one says, “I am different from others,” one will live in passion. When one knows, “I am the same as others,” one enters compassion—karuna.

There are only two kinds of people: those who live from lust, and those who live from compassion. Passion centers in ego; compassion arises when likeness with the other is attained.

Likeness is the death of ego; likeness is the birth of compassion. Likeness brings the news that the other is as weak as I am; as limited as I am. If someone abused me and anger arose, then if another is abused and anger arises, I should not become hard—compassion is needed, if there is even a little sense of likeness.

But we have no sense of likeness. And this sense cannot be understood by thinking—it can only be understood by birthing it. Begin to practice it.

When, being old, you scold a little child, it never occurs to you that once you too were a little child—and were scolded thus. Nor does it occur to you that this child will soon become old. If the old could see likeness in the child, then the war between old and young would vanish from this world. It would vanish—there would be no place for it.

But we do not see this; we are blind to it. Hence great sorrow flowers in life. But that supreme yoga and the peace arising from it do not flower.

We will speak of the rest tomorrow morning.

Now we will go into kirtan for five minutes. No—no one is to get up. Remain seated where you are. And do not sit inert—participate. Only by participating can kirtan be understood. And listen—none of those who just watch are to come to the stage. Sit where you are and clap, sing, sway—be moved.