Geeta Darshan #16

When Krishna speaks of the foundational stones of Yoga, Arjuna asks precisely what you too would be prompted to ask. Arjuna says: Your words are right; perhaps supreme bliss is attained. There is an allure to journey into that dimension. But the mind is so restless. And it is not comprehensible how, with such a fickle mind, that unmoving state can be reached! There is no confidence even that such a state will remain steady for a single moment.
And the mind is not only fickle, it is very powerful, very obstinate as well—unyielding, clinging to its own nature. It seems, O Madhusudana, as hard to bring this mind under control as it is to control the wind.
There is one peculiarity about the wind. Close your fist upon it and it won’t be caught; the tighter you clench, the more it slips outside your grip. The wind is not visible, so that we might pursue it. In the same way the mind too is not visible. Nor does the wind stay still even for a moment. It is unstable from moment to moment—swaying here and there, running all about. Such is the mind—running every instant; invisible; neither seen nor seized; only its tremors are experienced.
What is your experience of the wind? There is no experience of the wind itself. There is experience only of the gusts of its rushing current. If the wind were still, there would be no experience of wind at all. What is experienced is only its restlessness, only its flow. When it runs and touches you, there is the sensation of its touch. Touch is experienced only in its running. There is no other experience.
Likewise, of the mind too, only its change is experienced; the mind itself is not experienced. Only its restlessness comes into awareness; nothing else comes into awareness.
Just as the movement of the wind comes into awareness—not the wind itself—so too the restlessness of the mind is perceived—not the mind. Such is this mind: invisible, beyond grasp, and ever on the run.
So Arjuna’s doubt is legitimate. He asks Krishna: It does not seem possible; it looks improbable, inconceivable. You say it may become steady forever; but it seems impossible even to be steady for a moment. It is simply not the mind’s nature to be still. The mind is restless—or rather, restlessness is mind. The matter sounds arduous. The pull is great; yet seeing the mind, seeing our weakness, seeing the mind’s condition, it appears impossible.
This is not only Arjuna’s question; it is the question of the human mind as such. There are two or three things to bear in mind here.
First: whatever we know regarding the mind, we naturally think within the boundaries of that knowing. We have never known the mind to be still. So it appears justified, reasonable, to conclude that the stillness of mind is impossible. We have never known a still mind; therefore it is natural that the doubt arise: this mind cannot become still.
But our belief is negative. Our belief is a negation. We have no experience of stillness—only of restlessness. Therefore our thinking that stillness is impossible is to think a bit beyond our warrant. It is factual to say only this much: we are restless; we have no clue to stillness. Up to there, the statement is factual. But immediately our mind steps one pace further and draws a conclusion for which there is no cause. Our mind says: No—stillness is impossible.
Restlessness we have known; it is our past experience. Stillness we have not experienced. But there is no reason to say that what we have not experienced is impossible. If someone were to explain to a deaf man, in writing, that speech is possible, the deaf man would say, Impossible. If someone were to try to convey to a blind man that light is possible, the blind man would say, Impossible. He would say, O Madhusudana, I have known nothing but darkness. I cannot accept that eyes can see light, for they have only seen darkness. That they can see even for a single moment—this looks inconceivable, for since forever I have known only darkness.
Yet we know that the blind man’s assumption is negative. But we cannot even call the blind man wrong; he speaks from his experience. And apart from experience, by what other means shall one speak?
When we speak of the mind, we too speak from our experience. But our experience is like that of the blind. Other than the mind, we have never known anything. Regarding what we have not known, to take a positive conclusion is not appropriate.
Arjuna’s saying that the mind is restless, that it seems very difficult—that is fair enough. But to say, Krishna, that it seems inconceivable—this is to take a conclusion beyond our experience, and that can be dangerous. Because such a conclusion will turn out to be an obstacle. It will become a barrier.
Once someone concludes that something is impossible, then the will to do it slips away. No one undertakes to do the impossible. When someone undertakes even the impossible, he proceeds with the trust that it is possible. If someone takes even the possible to be impossible, he will not even begin; and then that belief itself will make it impossible. Because if you will not attempt, then it will be proved: Look, it is impossible, for the result never came. Thus logic weaves its own vicious circle. If you believe it is impossible, you will not act; if you do not act, it cannot become possible; and your belief will be reinforced: See, I said from the start it was impossible!
If you proceed taking even the impossible to be possible, your capacity and strength increase. And it is not surprising then if the impossible also becomes possible. For many impossibilities have been seen becoming possible. In truth, we call that impossible which we are not able to do as yet. But from the fact that we are not able to do it now, there is no need to conclude that we shall never be able to do it.
Yet we often draw conclusions about the future from the past. The past is not the determinant of the future; no conclusion for the future can be drawn from the past. If I say, I have not died till now, therefore death is impossible—would there not be some error? So many days of experience, so many days of living, and I have come to know that I do not die. If I say: On the basis of so many years!
Suppose someone says: I have eighty years of experience that I do not die; hence I conclude death is impossible. What did not happen for eighty years—how could it suddenly become possible in a single moment? What did not come in eighty years—how will it come in a single instant? What I have defeated for eighty years—how will it defeat me in a moment? What has never appeared in my perception for eighty years—how can it become my experience in a single instant? If someone says so, is he wrong? It seems right, seems logical.
But not everything that seems logical is true. Indeed, all untruths adopt logical forms. Every untruth weaves a web of logic around itself.
Arjuna says, It seems impossible—inconceivable; no notion forms that even for a moment the mind could pause. But Arjuna is saying this without knowing.
In one sense Arjuna is right, because this is everyone’s experience. In another sense he is wrong, because regarding that which is not our experience, no affirmative statement is proper.
A man says: My life is over; I never had a vision of God anywhere, therefore God is not. He should say only this much: Whether God is or is not, I do not know. I know only this much—that till now I have had no vision. Then the statement is purely factual.
But if he says: I have had no vision, therefore God is not—then logic has gone beyond its domain. And often we do not notice when logic has stepped beyond its limits. Logic takes a small leap, and lands us in dangerous places.
Just a tiny leap: I have not known God till now; I searched much and did not find; I sought in all ways, had no vision—therefore God is not. There is a gap between the two which you do not see. The grounds are not sufficient to reach such a conclusion. Only he could reach such a conclusion who could also say: Whatever was possible, I have seen it all; whatever exists, I have combed through it entirely; every corner to which the Infinite extends—I have known and seen it. Not a grain of existence remains unsearched; therefore I say God is not. Then perhaps there is some logical force in his statement. But the remainder is always there.
So in Arjuna’s doubt there is reality, and yet somewhere a deep mistake.
Then he says: The mind is like the wind. And he has chosen a right metaphor. Yet even in the metaphor there are some fundamental errors; if we note them, Krishna’s answer will be easy to understand.
First fundamental error: the wind is matter; mind is not matter. The wind is matter; mind is not. In Arjuna’s time it was difficult to seize the wind; now it is not. If Arjuna asked the question today, he could not take the wind as an example. Today science has made it easy. We can cool the wind to make water. Cool it further, and the wind will freeze like a solid stone.
For science says every substance has three states—like ice, water, steam. Every substance can pass from one state to another. Air too, at a certain cold, becomes like water; at a more intense cold it will freeze like stone. Matter has three states.
Well, Arjuna had no inkling of this. If someone asked on Arjuna’s behalf today, he could not cite the wind, because wind can now be caught in the fist; it can be cooled into water; frozen like ice. One could carry it in the hand.
To compare mind with matter is a fundamental mistake. Let us understand what mind is. If we grasp this rightly, many things will become clear.
There are two things about which we have great clarity. Regarding the body: it is; it is a conglomerate of matter—the five elements, or however many you name. There is clarity here. Regarding Atman: here too the clarity is that it is not matter. At least this much negative clarity exists: it is not matter. It is consciousness—chaitanya. But what is mind in between?
Mind is a by-product arising from the union of matter and consciousness. Mind is born of the meeting of body and consciousness. In truth, both body and soul have deep existence; mind has no deep existence.
Mind is like this: suppose I meet you in a forest, and friendship arises between us. You are much; I am much; yet friendship is a relationship between us. This friendship is neither matter nor soul. It cannot arise between two pieces of matter; hence it is not matter. Nor can it arise between two disembodied souls without bodies as the medium; so it is not only soul either. But when body and soul are present, a relationship called friendship can happen.
Mind is not a thing; it is a relationship. Mind is not substance; it is relation. Understand this well; for to compare relationship with substance is a grave error. Substance cannot be destroyed. You will say, It can be broken; we can break a stone into ten pieces. You have not destroyed substance—you only broke a stone. To destroy matter would mean breaking the stone so completely that it dissolves into nothingness—you cannot do that. Science says no substance can be destroyed in that sense; it cannot be annihilated.
But a relationship can be destroyed. What difficulty is there in destroying the friendship between you and me? Friendship can be destroyed—utterly destroyed—and will not be found anywhere in existence afterwards.
Relationships can be destroyed; matter is not destroyed. The wind is matter; mind is relationship. Mind is the relationship between body and soul—the friendship between them is called mind; the affection between them is called mind; the coloration between them is called mind; the relating between them is called mind.
Surely, this relating cannot be from the side of the body toward the soul, for the body is inert. If I fall in love with my car, I still cannot say that my car loves me. From the car’s side there can be no love toward me. It is one-way traffic.
So note this about relationship: when it is between two persons, there is two-way traffic—something goes from here and something comes from there. But when it is between a person and a thing, it is one-way traffic—only from one side; nothing comes from the other.
This is that kind of relationship—a person and a thing; not two persons. On one side there is consciousness within; on the other side, matter—the body. The relating is only from the side of consciousness.
And remember: in a one-sided relationship there is an advantage—an unilateral decision is enough to break it. A two-way relationship is hard to end: if I love someone, there is trouble in breaking, for there has been give-and-take from both sides; until both agree to end, it is difficult.
In a relationship with a thing there is no obstacle in breaking, because it is one-sided. It was my decision to relate; it is my decision not to relate—the matter ends. The object will not go to court to sue for divorce. The thing has no concern. Even when my relationship was there, the object had none with me.
Therefore keep in mind: mind is a relationship—first—and not a thing. Second: mind is a one-way relating—from consciousness toward the body; not from the body toward consciousness. From the body’s side there is no stream of relation at all; the whole stream flows from consciousness toward the body.
Thus when Arjuna says it is like the wind, he commits many errors. Metaphors often mislead. Mind is not matter; hence it is not like wind. The wind can, one day, be caught; and has been caught. Mind can never be caught in that way. A relationship cannot be caught. That is why science is not ready even to accept mind. In its laboratory, nowhere can mind be captured.
Cut open a man; science dissects him in every way and searches. Bones are found, flesh is found, marrow is found, blood, water, iron, copper—all are found. One thing is not found: mind. So science says: We have searched and found—there is no mind. And what is not found, is not. Again the same logical error. For what is not found need not be nonexistent; perhaps the manner of searching is such that it cannot be found.
If we were to cut up your heart to search whether love exists—we would not find it; it has not been found till now; it will never be found. Open the lungs thoroughly—you will find the organ that expels air; love you will not find.
Hence scientists say: There are lungs; there is no heart—why do people keep talking of heart! The heart is poetry; it is not.
But will you agree that there is no love? Everyone’s experience says it is. The mother knows it is; the child knows it is; friends know it is; lovers know it is.
Love is in everyone’s experience, but still it will not be proved in a laboratory. And if you insist with the laboratory scientist, you will be proved wrong. In truth, the instruments the laboratory uses are suited to capturing things; they cannot capture relationships. Relationships slip through.
Relationship is not a substance. Therefore relationship has a peculiarity: it can be formed and it can dissolve. It arises out of emptiness and dissolves into emptiness.
Understand this rightly.
A thing is never born; substance always is. Nor is it ever destroyed; it always is. There is no creation of substance and no annihilation—only transformation. Water becomes ice; ice becomes water; water becomes steam. What was frozen on the mountain melts and flows to the sea. What is now a body becomes fertilizer tomorrow. What is fertilizer now will become a body tomorrow. What appears as a seed in a plant becomes your blood tomorrow. What is your blood today will seep into the earth and enter another seed. All is transformation; the root is not lost. The root abides.
Einstein’s idea stands accepted: the matter in this universe is finite. Because nothing new can be added to it and nothing old can be subtracted from it. However vast it be, matter is limited. Whether we can measure it or not—our instruments may fall short—but matter is finite, because no new addition can occur. Not a single extra drop of water can be added to existence!
You will say: We can combine hydrogen and oxygen to make water. You can indeed; but only by combining hydrogen and oxygen—it is a form of them, not a new event. Not a single grain of sand have we ever created anew; nor will we.
Matter is as it is. As much as there is, there is. It remains so. But relationships can be formed anew every day and can be lost every day.
All who have lived upon this earth—the matter in their bodies is still present here; the earth’s weight does not decrease or increase. However many are born or die, the earth’s weight remains the same. While we are alive it is so; when we die it is so. Nothing of our bodies is lost—only it falls back into the earth; forms change.
But what of our relationships? Someone loved—some Farhad loved a Shirin. What happened to that love? While that love was happening, nothing on the earth increased; when that love is not, nothing on the earth decreased. What was that love? That it happened is certain—sometimes it grows so great that one severs the neck of his material body. The lover can kill himself. Love can be so deep that it breaks the body, destroys life. So we cannot say love is not. It is—indeed sometimes weightier than life itself. But what is it?
It is relationship. And a relationship can be formed and can be erased.
Therefore Arjuna’s thought—that this mind is like the wind—is not right. The example is approximately suggestive, yet not exact; it does not hold deep authenticity. Mind is a relationship.
And this, too, in Arjuna’s thought is not right—and these are in all our minds, so I speak—that this mind cannot be made still. For let me tell you a deeper law: whatever can be restless can be still. And whatever cannot be still cannot be restless either. Whoever can run can stand. And whoever cannot stand cannot run. If you can run, you can stand. Perhaps you have never stood, have only been running, and now it has become a habit so you do not even imagine how to stand still. It happens.
I have heard of a man, paralyzed for ten years—confined to the house; could not get up. One midnight, a fire broke out; everyone ran out. That man, almost dead from paralysis, also ran out. When people saw him running, they were astonished—forgot the burning house. For ten years he had not moved; he was running!
They said: What is happening? A miracle! You—and running! The man looked down at his legs and said: How can I run! He fell back. How can I run? For ten years…
But however much he may say he cannot run, he came from the bed to outside the house. He could not rise again. But what happened meanwhile? How did he get out?
The conditioning, the thought, I cannot rise, I cannot walk—he forgot it in the shock of the fire. That’s all. One shock—and the old habit was forgotten. He ran.
Ninety out of a hundred paralysis patients are sick from mental habit. Ninety out of a hundred! Nothing is wrong in their bodies. But there is a habit.
And in the matter of mind, a hundred out of a hundred are sick with running—the opposite of paralysis. For so many lives we have been making the mind run that now it doesn’t even occur that the mind could stand still. Who says it cannot? The mind itself says so.
So the question Arjuna is raising—if we understand properly—Arjuna is not asking; Arjuna is not yet there to ask. It is the mind asking. The mind says: I can never stand still. I have never stood; I have always moved. Running is my nature. Restlessness is my essence. I am restlessness; I cannot stand.
But remember: in this existence every force is linked to its opposite. Whoever lives will die. With life, death is bound. No force is born alone here; existence is polar. Here everything is bound to its opposite; without the opposite it cannot exist.
If we abolish light from the world, you might think only darkness will remain. You think wrongly. If light is abolished, darkness will instantly be abolished. You ask: Then what will there be? Whatever there is, it will not be darkness. The truth is, you cannot abolish light—hence testing is hard. Light and darkness are conjoint existence.
It is easier to understand with heat and cold. If we abolish heat from the world, do you think cold will remain? Superficially it seems that if heat disappears, there will be cold everywhere. But cold is a form of heat; with heat it too will disappear. It is the other pole.
If you think that if we eliminate all men then only women will remain—you think wrongly. If you eliminate all men, women will instantly vanish. Or if you eliminate all women, men will instantly vanish. They are polar—ends of each other. They can exist only together, not otherwise.
Do you think that if we abolish enmity, only friendship will remain? You think wrongly—though many think thus: abolish enmity and there will be only friendship! They do not know existence’s law. The day enmity is abolished, that day friendship is abolished. Friendship lives along with enmity.
All the pacifists of the world say: end war, and only peace will remain. They speak wrongly. They know nothing of life’s law. If you end war, that same day peace also ends. Polar! Existence is interbound with its opposite.
Superficially it seems: eliminate men—stab every man in the chest—at least we are not stabbing the chests of women, so they will survive! But you do not know—they will instantly be destroyed. As men end here, women will wither there. The day the last man dies, that day the last woman dies.
Existence is polar—everything is bound to its opposite.
Therefore Arjuna’s statement—that since mind is restless it cannot be still—is wrong. Precisely because it is restless, it can be still. Because it is restless, it can be still. If one knows life’s law, one would say: Since the nature of mind is restlessness, O Madhusudana, therefore I understand—it can be stilled.
That would be in line with the law, though it would sound absurd. If Arjuna had said: The mind is restless, therefore I understand it can be still—then we too would have difficulty in understanding the Gita. We would say, What kind of madman is this Arjuna! If the mind is restless, how will it become still?
So this syllogism seems to us right: The mind is restless, O Madhusudana—therefore it cannot be still. It seems perfectly logical.
But I tell you: it is logical but not true. The true statement would be: Since the mind is restless, O Madhusudana—therefore it can be still. Because man is alive, therefore he can die. If you say: since man is alive, therefore he cannot die—that is wrong. If you say: man is healthy, therefore he cannot fall ill—that is wrong. If you say: man is healthy, therefore he can fall ill—that is right.
In fact, only a healthy man can fall ill. If you become so ill that the doctor says not a grain of health remains, then you cannot fall ill—take note. Have you ever seen a dead man fall ill? Can you say: This corpse has fallen ill? A corpse never falls ill—cannot fall ill. Only the living can fall ill. Illness is known only because health is also known. Polar, dual.
But Arjuna has no sense of this truth. His mind is like ours. He moves within the same logic as we do. We say: I love that person so much we will never quarrel. This is to fall into error. With whom there is love, with that one there will be quarrel. Polar. When you love someone, know that you are establishing a tie for conflict too.
But our logic is otherwise. We say: My love is so great there will never be discord. You have entered foolishness. You have no understanding of life’s polarity. The deeper the love, the greater the possibility for conflict. If you want to save yourself from conflict, please save yourself from love. And if you think you will maintain love and yet be spared of quarrel, you are in utter darkness. Life will never bring you onto the path by such thinking.
Whoever wants to be spared from enmity should be spared from friendship. But we try to make friends in order to be saved from enmity; spread love so there is no strife; make others our own so none remain strangers. The one who is your very own will, in certain moments, feel the farthest away on this earth.
This is a deep law of life that does not fit our usual accounting. And so we keep erring throughout life. People come to me and say, I love my wife so much—why is there quarrel? I say: Precisely for that reason. There is no other reason.
Recently I met a woman. About eight years earlier she had come to me and said, There is much quarrel with my husband. And my love is so great! It was a love marriage, we staked our lives for it; neither of our families approved. As long as we were fighting the families, our love remained; from the day we married, we two have been fighting! Such love that we were ready to give our lives—now we cannot sit together. What is the matter? I said: That is the matter. If the love is that much, this will be the fruit.
Eight years later she met me again. I asked: So, how goes the quarrel? She said: Quarrel? There is no quarrel at all now, because there is no love. Now there is no quarrel either. The words she used were exact: Now even quarrel doesn’t happen. There is no relationship left. The matter is quiet. Love is not; now quarrel is not either.
The deeper we go into the mind, into life, the more we find this opposing element—repulsion and attraction together; raga and viraga together. The opposites stand side by side.
Therefore Arjuna seems to ask rightly—and yet not rightly. And Arjuna is unaware that Krishna is not putting forward a theory. If Krishna were putting forward a theory, Arjuna would defeat him. With theory you cannot resolve the mind, for all theories are the progeny of mind. Through theory there is no way to conquer mind, because all theories are born of the mind and made by it.
Recently I was in a metropolis. A pundit came to see me—a good man; only one flaw: he is a pundit. I asked him: What have you been doing all your life? He said: My only work has been to impart doctrinal instruction to Jain monks and nuns. I said: How many have you taught? He said: Hundreds—I have trained them; given them knowledge of scripture. I said: Having produced hundreds of monks and nuns, why have you not become a monk yourself? He said: I am an employee. I said: Then have you thought—what would be the condition of the monks and nuns produced by a salaried pundit? Worse than an employee! How much is the salary? He said: Not much. Jains have money, but they don’t give more than a hundred and fifty rupees a month. I said: Then what is the worth of the monks and nuns you produced? A master who earns one hundred and fifty rupees a month is producing monks and nuns! He is teaching doctrine!
I said: The truths you teach others—have you yourself experienced any of them? He said: Not at all. I do it for my one hundred and fifty rupees.
If Arjuna were facing a pundit, he would defeat him. For what Arjuna is saying are the depths of life—our entanglements. But it is hard with Krishna, because Krishna is not speaking of doctrines, he is speaking of truth. Therefore however many difficulties Arjuna raises, before truth they will be uprooted along with their roots. He has raised a legitimate difficulty—it is man’s difficulty, the difficulty of the human mind. But before whom he has raised it—he has no interest in doctrines.
Thus in the Gita an unprecedented event has happened: Krishna has used as many doctrines as the world could possibly contain—almost all. Therefore all doctrinal pundits have found the Gita very useful, because each can extract from it what suits him. Hence so many commentaries on the Gita—often mutually contradictory!
But among those commentaries there is not one with the power to understand Krishna. The reason is this: whoever writes a commentary has his doctrine fixed in advance—fixed before he approaches the Gita—and he imposes his doctrine onto the Gita. Whereas Krishna has no doctrine. Krishna has some truth—and to lead to that truth he can use any doctrine. Therefore he speaks of bhakti, of jnana, of karma, of dhyana, of yoga—he goes on speaking of all. As doctrines these are mutually opposed; as truth they are not opposed. As truth there is no antagonism; as doctrine there is plenty.
Hence no book on earth has suffered as much misuse as the Gita. For when a doctrinaire explains the Gita, he beheads all doctrines and imposes his own upon it. He leaves only one head—the one that suits his doctrine. He decapitates all else. Thus the Gita is murdered.
The Gita is not a doctrinal scripture; it is a proclamation of truth. It is not enamored of doctrine. Hence it discusses opposite doctrines together—together. The Gita is not a scripture of logic. If it were, it would be consistent, internally uniform.
The Gita is a scripture of life. As contradictory as life is, just so contradictory is the Gita. As polar and self-opposed as life is, so too are the statements of the Gita self-opposed.
And it is hard to find a man more fluid than Krishna. He can flow anywhere—not like a stone fixed in one place. He can flow like water—or, more apt, like vapor, like clouds—taking any form. There is no mold.
Therefore Arjuna falls into difficulty—his own doubts placing him there. For each of his questions reveals where his mind stands. This question has made Arjuna’s situation very clear.
Arjuna has no experience of anything beyond the mind. He has keen logical intellect—he thinks, reasons—but he has no entry into the world of feeling. He speaks of law, but he has no sense of the deeper, ultimate law.
This statement reveals Arjuna’s state. And for Krishna it will become progressively easier to resolve his condition. The greatest difficulty is the difficulty of diagnosis. As far as diagnosis of bodily disease is concerned, we have means. But regarding the diseases of the mind, one must be made to confess; there is no other way. One must get the patient himself to admit.
Freud did one sort of work—Krishna is doing almost the same. Freud and the psychoanalysts following him do this: they lay the patient on a couch behind a screen and say: Speak whatever comes to you. Hide nothing. Whatever arises in your mind, go on speaking. At times he sings; at times he abuses; at times he utters hymns. Whatever comes to your mind, give it words—do not worry whether it is right or wrong.
The psychologist sits hidden behind the screen; the man, beyond the screen, speaks in a flow that appears nonsensical from outside—though within there is his own coherence. Just as we all speak within, if it were spoken aloud, it would be like that. He goes on speaking.
For a day or two, three days, he restrains; hides some things. But within three or four days he relaxes, becomes lighter, begins to flow, and speaks. Then the psychologist, sitting behind, tries to find the essence of his mind.
Krishna is also speaking to Arjuna in such a way that the essence of Arjuna’s mind may be found—that Arjuna’s mind be revealed. In this statement the essence of Arjuna’s mind has become clear; the diagnosis is made. Now Krishna can proceed with therapy more systematically.
śrībhagavānuvāca
asaṁśayaṁ mahābāho mano durnigrahaṁ calam
abhyāsena tu kaunteya vairāgyeṇa ca gṛhyate || 35 ||

O mighty-armed, without doubt the mind is restless and hard to subdue; yet, O son of Kunti, it is brought under control by Abhyasa—repeated endeavor toward steadiness—and by Vairagya—dispassion.

Seeing Arjuna’s state of mind, Krishna says: Certainly, Arjuna, the mind is brought under control with great difficulty.
This “certainly” is said about the human condition as we are—as we are now. Seeing us as we are, certainly the mind is hard to subdue. If we accept man as he is, unchanged, then perhaps the mind cannot be subdued at all.
But—and in that “but” lies the whole essence of the Gita—but, Arjuna, through Abhyasa and Vairagya the mind is subdued.
If we leave man as he is—untouched—and wish the mind to be subdued, it will not be. Because as man is now, he is only mind. Beyond mind he has nothing. Beyond mind he has no experience; no alchemy, no technique is in his hands to subdue mind. But—and this “but” is crucial—and these two words, Abhyasa and Vairagya, are the very life of the Gita—but by Abhyasa and Vairagya the mind is subdued. Let me explain the basis of Abhyasa and Vairagya; then we will understand them more deeply.
The first basis of Abhyasa and Vairagya is this: man, as he is, can be otherwise.
Krishna is not merely speaking about mind. He says: Leave the mind aside. As you are, in that state the mind will not be subdued. First we shall change you a little. First let us change you; then the mind will be subdued. Abhyasa and Vairagya declare that man, as he is, can be otherwise. Man can be different from what he is. The way we are is not the only option; there are options. Our present state is not the only possible state; other states are possible for us.
If we leave a child in the forest from birth, do you think he will ever speak any human language? He will speak none. It is not that being born in your home he would speak Gujarati in the forest; or being born on Indian soil he would speak Hindi; or in an English home he would speak English. No—he will speak no language. You might think he will invent a new language; even that he will not. He will not speak at all.
In 1920 in Bengal two little girls were found whom wolves had carried away and reared. Wolves have this odd habit; in various places they have done it—carrying off children and raising them. One girl was eleven, the other thirteen when they were found. The first surprise: they spoke no language. Not only that— they could not stand on two legs; they moved on all fours.
Just a few years ago, five or seven years back, a boy was found in the forests of U.P., also reared by wolves. He was around fourteen. He too could speak no language. They named him Ram after he was caught. After six months of struggle they could barely get him to say “Ram.” But within six months he died. Physicians say the effort to make him say “Ram” took his life.
A fourteen-year-old boy could not say a single word. What happened? He moved on all fours. With massage they could after great effort make him stand; otherwise his spine would not straighten—was fixed. On all fours he ran with the speed of wolves! But when made to stand he walked with extreme difficulty. What happened?
A man becomes whatever dimension he is trained in—whatever he is made to practice; he becomes that. He lived with wolves; he practiced being a wolf. Practiced, and became that.
Man is an infinite possibility. What we have become is only one possibility actualized. If we look at the cultures of mankind we will see endless possibilities.
There are tribes even today who do not know how to be angry. You will be astonished! You say: Anger! Everyone gets angry. You do not know all human beings.
There are still tribes who do not know anger, because anger, too, comes by practice; it does not arrive suddenly. The father is angry, the mother is angry, the whole house is angry—and a plaque hangs that says “Anger is sin.” Everything is going on; the child learns; he is conditioned. He will grow up to say: How can it be that a man does not get angry! This is training. The child was fluid; you cast him in a direction. It became hard; an obstacle formed.
There are tribes without any attachment to property at all. Recently a small tribe was discovered—people were amazed: there was no idea of ownership of property. No one has the notion that “this is my land,” or “this is my house.”
But their way of conditioning is different. No one builds his own house—the whole village builds it. Whenever a house is needed, the whole village builds one. If a new person comes to live, the whole village builds a house for him. Each household contributes items and they furnish his home; he begins to live there.
In that tribe there is no idea of private ownership—of personal property. You cannot spread communism there. Communism is polarity; it arises only where private property exists. In that tribe you cannot make anyone a Naxalite; there is no way. No one there has the notion that there can be a relationship of ownership between a thing and a person.
Yet we go on reciting the doctrine of non-possession—and nothing is resolved. Even the most non-possessive… Now Digambara Jain monks live naked. Two Digambara monks near Shikharji quarreled in the forest. People say quarrels arise either over woman or wealth; they had neither, as far as we know. They quarreled and struck each other on the head with their peacock-feather brushes! Villagers separated them; the police arrived. Then it was discovered, to great surprise, that the sticks of those brushes were stuffed with hundred-rupee notes. That was the cause of the dispute—division of the stash! They had gone into the forest to defecate; the quarrel broke out over division.
The police took them to the station. Nearby Jains begged with folded hands: Think of our honor—what will people say! They are Digambara monks! Stop the discussion. They bribed and got the monks released.
It is astonishing—a man who gathered courage to stand naked keeps bundles of money in his brush! Conditioning. Heavy conditioning. But that is only one form; it is not inevitable. There are forms of human life where such notions do not even arise.
Now, the way we think is but one option. I tell these examples to show that other options always exist.
The fundamental basis of Abhyasa is that you can be otherwise than you are. Abhyasa means: methods that will make you otherwise. If a man says: My hand pains terribly; surgery is needed. If you do the operation, I will not be able to bear it—I will pull my hand back. We say: Do not worry. We will give anesthesia first; then the operation will be done; you will not feel pain.
Arjuna says: The mind is very restless. Krishna says: You are absolutely right—we shall have you practice first; then the mind will not be restless. We shall change you first. We shall change the entire situation.
Abhyasa means: transformation of the entire outer and inner situation. Abhyasa means: breaking the old conditioning—the accumulated current within us—at various places and giving it a new direction.
And Krishna uses another word: Vairagya. I will speak its meaning in the evening. For now I state only the basic ground.
Abhyasa means methods to make you otherwise than you are. And what you are is also due to methods—not your own. If you speak Gujarati, it is only because Gujarati was made your practice; there is no other reason. You will speak English if English is made your practice. There is no obstacle.
Whatever you are is the fruit of practice. But the practice now in you has been imposed by society—and society is a crowd of the sick. The practice has been imposed by the crowd—and the crowd is the lowest state of man. Therefore you are a part of that crowd. You are not yet yourself. Whatever you are is only a part of the crowd—and what the crowd has made you do is what you are.
Abhyasa means: individual endeavor in the direction where you can become new, where you can become different.
This stream of mind which appears so restless is restless precisely because the entire system makes it restless.
Our condition is almost like this. I have heard: A dog got the idea to go to Delhi. The whole world was going to Delhi; he thought, Why should dogs be left behind! When all reach Delhi, what will become of dogs’ rights? And this was no small dog—it belonged to an M.P.—a leader’s dog. Day and night he heard: Go to Delhi, come from Delhi. He had learned all the methods: how to climb on men’s shoulders, how to throw dust in their eyes—he had learned everything—properly trained.
One day he said to his master—his master the M.P.: Enough delay now; give me your blessing, I too will go to Delhi! The master said: What will you do in Delhi? A dog—and you have such courage?
But he had understood. Living with the leader he had learned the secrets. He said: Do you not see that your opponent who got there this time—are those dogs better? They are worse. The leader said: Quite right. Then go. Go to Delhi. The dog said: Give a hint of the way—how can I go!
The leader said: The formula is simple—the same trick by which I went; it is tried and tested. When you see a rich dog—there are rich and poor among dogs too. You have seen rich dogs—riding in cars, sitting in the laps of the most beautiful ladies, resting upon luxurious carpets! Man may not get bread, but they get special food—rich dogs. The leader said: When you see a rich dog, say: Beware! Poor dogs are gathering; danger for you. I can protect you. And when you see a poor dog, say at once: You will die. You are being robbed. Exploited. Take up the red flag. I am your leader. These rich must be put right. And if rich and poor dogs both come together, then say: I am Sarvodaya—I believe in the rise of all. Let the sun rise from the east and also from the west. We are Sarvodaya.
The formula complete, the dog began his campaign. The leader said: Remember—shout loudly. The dog said: That is our practice; we surpass leaders at shouting—no worry. We will shout. The leader said: If you keep shouting, you will reach Delhi. Only skill in shouting is needed. Do not worry about what you shout—care that you shout loudly; drown the other out.
The dog began. Within fifteen days he had won over the dogs of Kashi. He told the leader: I am going. Inform Delhi that I am coming—arrange my stay and all. How long will it take? asked the leader. The dog said: I shall go at a dog’s pace; besides I am trapped by saying Sarvodaya. Those dogs are saying: Walk on foot! Do padyatra. Caught in trouble; otherwise I would have taken the train. Now I must go on foot—at least a month.
The message was sent. Delhi’s dogs were delighted: A dog from Kashi is coming—from the sacred seat; surely he brings some knowledge! He will be useful. But a great difficulty arose: a month later they prepared the reception—arches and decorations—but the dog arrived in seven days. They had planned for a month; the dog came in seven days—great surprise.
They said: You have no sense—arriving at the wrong time! We had arranged everything: the mayor was ready; we would garland you. We were gathering leaders of the opposition parties to garland you. What have you done—arriving too soon! No preparations are in place.
The dog said: What can I do? I left Kashi; in no village could I stop. As soon as I entered a village, the dogs would chase me so badly that I had to run for my life to the outskirts. And before the dogs of that village would leave me at the boundary of the next, the dogs of the next village would be after me. I did not pause, I did not stop, I did not rest; I have just been running! Saying this, the dog died—so exhausted.
Delhi commonly becomes a grave for those who arrive. A grand grave. People run and run to reach there; then fall and die. Perhaps they go to die—who knows. He died; but he revealed a secret: he could not stop anywhere; people kept making him run.
We too—each mind—is being made to run from childhood. All are making us run. The father pushes: Come first. The mother pushes: What are you doing—see the neighbor’s child! If he comes first in sports, then when parents leave him in peace, a wife arrives: Run! See—the neighbor’s house has got bigger; the neighbor’s wife has diamond bangles; will you sit idle? Run! Somehow, after running and running through a little of life, children are born. They say: What kind of father are you! No car at home, no television set—nothing. We feel inferior at school. Run!
The entire education, the whole society, the entire system is cast in a mold for running. Reach Delhi! Run—even if life goes; never mind. Keep running. Only do not stop.
With such practice from all sides, if the mind finds no resting place, no inn to pause, if it goes on running—and Arjuna says one day to Krishna: The mind runs, does not stop even for a moment—he speaks truth. This is all our minds.
But Krishna says: This pattern is only a conditioned arrangement. Through Abhyasa it can be broken; through Abhyasa a new arrangement can be given—and through Vairagya! Why add Vairagya? Is Abhyasa not enough? Krishna could have told the methods and been done.
Vairagya is added because without dispassion you will not use the methods. For raga—attachment, passion—is the arrangement that makes you run. Without raga, no one runs. No one runs to Delhi in the mood of renunciation. Raga—some craving for attainment, some idea of getting—makes you run. A goal, a passion drives the run.
So raga is the basis of restlessness; Vairagya will be the basis of rest. We all live in raga. Our whole society is saturated with raga; our education, social system, family, relationships—everything stands upon raga. Therefore we run. Without raga there is no run. Raga means: run.
The basic ground of restlessness is raga; therefore the basic ground of stillness will be Vairagya.
Thus the condition of Vairagya is necessary; otherwise you will not consent to stop. You will say: If I stop, I will die; the neighbor will not stop—he will keep running; why ask me to stop? If I stop, others will not—they will reach!
As long as you have passion to reach somewhere, to gain something, the mind cannot be unmoving—it will remain restless. What fault of the mind is this? You are passionate; the mind runs. The mind is obeying you.
Hence the condition of Vairagya was added: if dispassion arises, then there are methods by the practice of which one can bring the mind to repose.
In the evening we shall inquire more deeply into Vairagya and Abhyasa. For now, let us leave all raga for five to seven minutes, and enter the Vairagya of kirtan for those minutes—for kirtan leads nowhere.
A young man once asked me: What benefit will come from kirtan? He thinks in your way—he asked, What benefit is there in kirtan?
Benefit! One who thinks in the language of benefit cannot do kirtan. Benefit does come from kirtan—but only to one who drops the language of benefit. Kirtan is a state of the mind of Vairagya. And kirtan is also an Abhyasa—a practice for stilling the mind. The body will dance; words will flow from the lips; and within, someone will remain utterly still. In the midst of dance, someone will remain utterly still.
You too join in. Only if you join will experience be possible. And do not be shy—the small shyness is a needless hindrance. You look to see what the neighbor will think! He already does not think very well of you. Be entirely unconcerned.