Geeta Darshan #18

Krishna has said two or three things in this sutra that are worth understanding.
One: for the man who does not bring the mind under control, attainment of Yoga is extremely difficult; he did not say impossible. Very hard, yes; but he did not say impossible. He did not say it will not happen; he said it is very difficult to happen. So first, this must be understood.
Second, Krishna says: for the one who has mastered the mind, the attainment of Yoga is simple, natural.
And third, he says: this is my opinion. He does not say: this is the truth. He says: this is my opinion. These three points in the verse are to be noted.
The first point will look strange to you—that Krishna should say it thus. He could have said that for the one who does not master the mind, attainment of Yoga is impossible—it will not be. But Krishna says: difficult, not impossible. What does this mean? It means that even though it is difficult, for someone, in some situation, attainment may be possible even without mastering the mind. Extremely difficult, yet still it can happen.
We have spoken of how one who masters the mind attains. Now let us speak a little about that very small minority for whose sake Krishna could not say “impossible.”
A very tiny class. Once in millions, one rare being is such that, without subduing the mind, he comes upon Yoga. A very rare phenomenon; almost never occurring—yet it occurs. Krishna himself is among such people.
Therefore Krishna has said this knowingly, with understanding—he himself stands among them. For Arjuna would certainly have asked: O Madhusudana, I have never seen you sit in asana! I have never seen you do pranayama. I have never seen you in remembrance of the Lord. I have not seen you pass through any tapascharya. The Yoga you speak of, the discipline you describe, it has never appeared around you. And the vairagya you praise—no sign of it is found near you. You dance with peacock feather and flute. The most beautiful gopis of Vraja circle you in raas. Vairagya is nowhere to be seen, O Madhusudana!
Arjuna would surely have asked. But Krishna left him no room to ask; and so Arjuna did not. Because Krishna had said: very difficult, Arjuna—yet not impossible.
So let us speak of that small class, in which Krishna stands, and into which one or two enter in centuries; and let us see its danger too. For one who does not belong to it—if he imagines, “It will be tough, but we will go by the hard road”—there is great fear he will never arrive; he will wander, and waste life and time.
Such a thing happened in this land. India made very deep experiments. Tantra is among those experiments—for those, in truth, who do not subdue the mind. Therefore, when Tantra remained esoteric, a few experimented upon it, and it was a most wondrous process. But others thought, this is very good: no need to master the mind, and yet Yoga becomes available!
All the sutras of Tantra are inverted.
This little space Krishna has left—he left it for Tantra. He did not think it wise to speak of it explicitly, for to speak of it is always fraught with danger. Our minds are such that we will claim ourselves the exception. Our minds will say: if it can happen without mastering the mind, it may be a long road, but it will be more joyous—let us not control the mind and still reach Yoga. If others do not reach, we surely will!
So when Tantra spread widely, it created great difficulty. Thousands thought: good—because Tantra says... The five M’s of Tantra are famous. It says: he who partakes of the five M’s—partakes, not renounces—he alone will attain Yoga. Not renunciation of wine—its use. Not renunciation of maithuna—its use. Not renunciation of meat—its use. He who enjoys will attain Yoga. This is true only for a very small minority.
Remember, that minority passes through an extremely arduous path. It looks simple: what could be simpler than drinking wine! Drunkards lie in the streets—what could be easier than drinking? But the tantric process is very difficult—extremely exacting.
Tantra says: drink, but do not become unconscious. This is the sadhana. Keep drinking, yet do not become unconscious. If you become unconscious, the sutra of sadhana is broken. So drink and do not be knocked out; drink and maintain awareness.
We are not able to maintain awareness even without drinking; will we keep it after drinking? Even without, we live as if drunk, day and night! The slightest thing and awareness is lost. Tantra says: drinking is not forbidden—but maintain awareness.
Tantra has its own method: when you drink, how much you drink, where you stop; maintain awareness. Then slowly increase the quantity. After years-long journey a moment arrives when however much you drink, awareness remains. Then Tantra had to go as far as this: when no wine works any more, serpents are kept. Even now, in Assam some tantrics keep snakes and have them bite their tongue. The final test of sadhana is this: the snake bites—and awareness remains.
The process is wondrous, but very arduous. Tantra does not tell you to leave wine. Tantra is the path of the very brave. They say: we will not renounce. If a lotus can arise from the mud, we will create awareness from wine. And if awareness cannot remain in unconsciousness, what is its worth! And if merely drinking destroys all intelligence, what is the point in saving such intelligence!
Tantra says: we will not renounce maithuna; we will not practice Brahmacharya by abstention. We will enter maithuna—and remain without ejaculation.
This is very difficult. Yet Tantra experimented. But it was esoteric, secret; ordinarily such processes cannot be done in groups. Gradually, though, news spreads. Those who lay in gutters drunk also came to know. They thought: why should we too not practice tantric sadhana? This is most suitable! Then none can call drinking a sin. Drinking becomes a merit.
So the one who lay drunk in the gutter, when he began “tantric sadhana” while drinking, he did not reach the temple; he sank deeper into the gutter. And as for maithuna—the whole world is engaged in it. When Tantra said: in maithuna itself the attainment of the Divine happens—no need to escape, no need to renounce—people said, then fine, there is nothing to do. We are already having sex. But Tantra has a condition.
An incident comes to mind. A renunciate monk went to a tantric master. Large jars of wine were stored, and a young tantric sat in meditation. The monk was very disturbed; the odor of wine was all around. He asked: who drinks all these jarfuls here? The tantric guru said: they are kept for this youth. He can drink one whole jar in one gulp, in a single breath. The monk said: I cannot believe it. And what becomes of him then? The guru said: the same as before. The wine passes untouched—straight through—does not reach the center, does not touch the core. The monk said: I will not accept without seeing. Even to drink a jar of water in one breath is difficult—and wine!
The guru told the youth: drink a jar. He replied: give me one minute, I’ll be back. The guru was a little surprised: why ask for a minute? After a minute he returned and drank down a jar. The monk was astonished—one breath!
After the monk left, the guru asked: why did you ask for a minute? The youth said: I had never drunk in one single draught, so I went inside to practice—drank one jar there, to see if I could. Never had I done it all at once; so I went to rehearse. I drank one jar and found it would be fine.
This class of seekers is very difficult. Maithuna—yet no emission. And people enter sex precisely so that emission happens. Do not think Tantra is in favor of sex. Tantra speaks of the transcendence of sex.
One goes to sex for the very purpose of release—the weight upon the mind and body to be thrown off. Tantra says: maithuna, yes; emission, no. And if one can remain without emission in the state of maithuna, what Brahmacharya could be greater than this? Compared to those “celibates” who fear even looking at a woman, this man’s Brahmacharya is of another order.
But this path is extremely narrow; hence Krishna hints at it only negatively and then leaves the sutra.
There are some who, without bringing the mind under any control, give it complete freedom—absolute freedom! They say to the mind: do whatsoever you wish. Yet, in that very doing, they stand beyond. They do not stop the mind; they do not hold the reins. They say to the horses: run, wherever you will. But as the horses run, the chariot races, through pits and ravines, the one seated upon the chariot sits unshaken.
Tantra says: if you hold the reins and sit steady, there is no great wonder. Drop the reins; let the horses run; let the chariot fall into trenches and chasms—and remain unshaken on the chariot; only then is it true mastery.
But that mastery is the path of very few. Do not mistakenly drop the reins, else you will perish in the first pit! You will not survive for balance.
Therefore Krishna does not say impossible. He knows well it is not impossible—and none better than Krishna. It is indeed possible. But it is for very few—so few as to be negligible; they can be left out of the count. To count them is not even right, for there is no use. The exception can be left aside.
He speaks of the rule to Arjuna. And Arjuna is not of those who can go the tantric way. Hence he says: very hard to obtain. It can be had—but with great difficulty. This is the mark of a scientific mind: even if a sliver of possibility remains, he does not deny it—but he proceeds without relying on it.
The second thing Krishna says: simple for the one who has mastered the mind; difficult for the one who travels without mastering it; simple for the one who brings it under control.
It is simple after the mind is mastered—because it is the mind that creates obstruction. The obstructing factor is now under your command. You can easily transcend it; hindrances are within your control.
Understand it like this: one can go down from a terrace by the stairs—or one can jump. In jumping there is danger; the danger of breaking one’s limbs. Unless there is a skill of limbs such as ordinarily is not, the limbs are ever ready to break. And when you jump and your limbs break, neither the height nor the ground breaks them; the manner of your limbs breaks your limbs.
Have you noticed? If in a bullock cart you travel with a drunken man beside you—and the cart overturns—you get hurt, the drunk does not. This is not simple! The drunk falls into drains daily, yet no injuries, no fractures. What is the matter? Try falling a little! What trick does the drunk have that he falls and is not hurt?
There is no trick. Whenever the body senses a fall, it becomes resistant, tight. A rigid bone breaks. The drunk is unconscious; he does not resist. He does not even know when the cart overturned. Even after it has overturned, he is still seated, still driving, while lying in the gutter. The body gets no chance to stiffen. If it does not stiffen, the earth cannot injure. It is the stiffened thing that is hurt.
That is why children fall so much and do not get hurt. Try falling like a child, then you will know. One fall—and the verdict is out! But the child falls all day and gets up again. What is the secret? Only this: when he falls, the body does not quite get a sure signal that it is falling and should brace. It does not brace, and so there is no hurt. It is in bracing that one is hurt.
If you would come down from a house, stairs are good. For the one who braces, stairs are good—because you can descend while bracing. If you brace and jump, danger.
The jump can be made by one who does not brace. He falls from the roof to the ground, and does not stiffen even that little which says: I am falling. His body does not register it. He falls just as he stood on the roof; not a hair’s difference. He drinks wine and remains as before he drank. He goes into sex and the mind remains as before sex. He moves in anger and remains, in anger, as he was before anger—no difference at all. Then that narrow path can be travelled.
But it can never be a highway; not a public road. It is extremely narrow. On the public road, where all must walk, there are stairs.
Have you noticed that even on stairs you do not exactly “walk down”—you still make little jumps. Walking down is not really possible; whether from the roof or from one step to the next, you jump. The difference is only this: small steps do not obstruct you, so you can descend “carefully.”
To master the mind is the way of stairs. Letting the mind run free and leaping—that is the way without stairs.
In Japan, Buddhism has two branches. One is called Soto Zen, the other Rinzai Zen. The one holds to sudden enlightenment—the leap. The other holds to gradual enlightenment—the steps, one by one.
A man once went to Mozart and asked: at seven you had already attained the whole art of music; how can I attain in that way? Mozart asked: how old are you? He said: I am past forty-five. Mozart said: you should have come at seven, first of all; and secondly, this will not be possible for you. The man asked: why not for me if it was for you? Mozart said: because I never went to ask anyone. You have come asking.
The one who asks can only climb stairs. The one who asks cannot be sudden. Asking means asking for steps—how to ascend and descend carefully. The one who does not ask leaps.
Mozart said: that is the difference between us. I never asked. You have come asking.
To the one who asks, steps must be taught. Those who can leap can travel without a master. But one who needs a master cannot leap.
Only he can walk without a master who can leap—for he needs no path told. We are not asking for a route, nor for steps. To ask for steps and path means: tell me how to proceed skillfully, without trouble, without obstacles, simply, without hassle, without danger—how can I get through? To seek a master means just this.
Therefore there is no need to instruct a leaper—he leaps.
Here is the trouble: people go to Krishnamurti and ask, How to be aware? And Krishnamurti says: Don’t ask me how.
But he does not see that the one who does not ask “how” would never come to him in the first place. People come precisely to ask how. Otherwise why come? Leap from where you are—what need to ask in which direction, how? The moment one asks in which direction, how, by what method, he is a man for stairs.
To master the mind is the way of stairs. You can take one step at a time, practice gradually. The leap is a very different affair—rarely, someone leaps.
There is a mention in Buddha’s life. He is passing by a village. People say: do not go, ahead is a bandit, he is killing travellers. The road has become deserted. Angulimala kills anyone—do not take this path. Buddha says: had I not known, perhaps I would have taken another path. But now that I know, I must go this way. They ask: why? Buddha says: because that poor fellow must be waiting. No one to meet—how much suffering he must be in. At least a neck should be found for the neck-cutter! If even my neck could be of use to give someone a little peace, what harm?
Angulimala sees someone from afar and begins sharpening his axe upon a stone. It has been long; the blade is rusted. No one uses the road. He has sworn to cut a thousand necks and make a garland of their fingers—hence the name Angulimala. Nine hundred and ninety-nine he has killed; one is the problem. No one comes! Seeing someone, he is delighted and sharpens his axe.
But as Buddha draws near and he can see clearly, he feels: a guileless man, simple, serene. Perhaps this poor one does not know Angulimala is here and the path is deserted. He should be warned—told once that he comes to a dangerous path.
As Buddha comes up, Angulimala shouts: O monk! Turn back. Perhaps you do not know—you have come by mistake. No one passes here. Looking at your serene face, your gentle gait, your musical way of walking, I feel like sparing you. Turn back. On one condition—if you turn, I will not raise my axe. But if you take even one step forward, you go to your death by your own hand; then I am not responsible.
But Buddha keeps walking. Angulimala is more astonished—he does not even pause a moment to consider; he just keeps coming. Angulimala says: Did you hear? Do you understand? You are not deaf!
Buddha says: I hear well, I understand well. Angulimala says: stop, do not come! Buddha says: Angulimala, I stopped long ago; since then I have not been moving at all. I tell you—stop, do not move. Angulimala says: you are not deaf, but you seem mad. I am standing, and you tell me to stop! You are walking, and you tell me you are standing!
Buddha says: since I came to know that it is the mind that moves—and when the mind stops, all stops—I have been still. Your mind is moving. From far you have been looking, your mind moving. You sharpen your axe—your mind moving. Even now you think—your mind is moving: kill, not kill; let him turn, let him come. To the movement of your mind I say: Angulimala, stop.
Angulimala says: I am not used to obeying anyone. Then fine—come forward; I sharpen my axe. He sharpens; Buddha comes up and stands before him. He raises his axe.
Buddha says: Will you fulfill one wish of a dying man? Angulimala: Speak. For fulfilling a wish I have killed a thousand—speak; I will fulfill. You can trust my word. Buddha says: I know. A given word has forced you to kill a thousand. Before I die I want to know a small thing: this tree before us—cut two or four leaves for me.
He strikes the tree. Not only leaves—branches fall. Buddha says: Half the task is done. Now join them back! Angulimala says: You are surely mad. To break was possible; to join is not.
Buddha says: To break even children can do. If you can join, you are something; otherwise, nothing. Even if you cut a thousand necks, you are nothing. Join one, and I will know you are something.
Angulimala throws the axe, falls at Buddha’s feet. Buddha says: Angulimala, today you are attained. Today you are a Brahmin. Today you are a sannyasin.
Buddha’s monks were behind. They said: we have been with you for years; you have never spoken thus to us—that we are Brahmins, that we are attained. And Angulimala—the murderer—who moments ago was ready to cut a neck—just drops his axe and falls at your feet—and you speak such words!
Buddha says: he is of those few who can leap. He has leapt. And when they lifted Angulimala up, people could not recognize his face. The cruel murderer—who knows where he had gone. In those eyes where fire burned, flowers had bloomed. In that hand which held an axe—you could not believe such a hand had ever held one. The hand had not even that hardness with which one plucks a flower.
Naturally, Buddha’s monks were jealous. Today a newcomer became senior—at once! He leapt over the whole arrangement. Angulimala walked beside Buddha, entering the village. The monks were filled with jealousy. They said: he is a murderer.
Buddha said: wait. You do not know him. He is of those few who leap. Killing and killing, he is free of killing. And you, without killing, are not free of killing. I ask you, monks—has the thought to kill Angulimala not arisen in your mind?
A monk at the back shrank away. He said: how did you know! I was thinking: we should finish him—otherwise, free of cost, he becomes the number two! After you, it looks like he is the man—and he just arrived!
Buddha said: I tell you—you, leaving killing aside, have not left it. He, killing, is free of it. For him there is no need to bring the mind under control by technique. And when they entered the village, Buddha said: soon you will have proof—wait a little.
When all entered the village for alms, Buddha said: Angulimala, go beg.
Even emperors feared. At the very name of Angulimala they trembled. News spread that Angulimala has become a monk. People shut their doors. Who could trust that he would not, in a flash, choke someone’s neck! Doors closed. Shops closed. The village closed. People climbed to their roofs.
Angulimala went below with his begging bowl—no giver anywhere. Yes—people threw stones from above. So many stones that Angulimala fell in the street bleeding. And as they threw, he only tried to catch the stones in his begging bowl. He did not utter a single harsh word, nor raise a single angry glance.
Bleeding, buried in stones, he lay. Buddha went to him and asked: Angulimala, after so many stones from these people, what happens in your mind? Angulimala said: only this—that just as I was ignorant till yesterday, so are these. O God, forgive them. Nothing arises in me. Buddha said to his monks: look—without method he has leapt.
Therefore Krishna leaves that small possibility—says “very difficult to obtain,” not “impossible.” He calls it “simple” for one who has mastered the mind—because the mind can be mastered inch by inch. If your chariot has a thousand horses, you can put a rein on each, slowly. You can train them, one by one. A day can come when the chariot moves so that you are established in equanimity.
To be equal in the midst of the adverse is hard; to be equal amid the favorable is easy. In favorable conditions, equanimity is easy; in adverse conditions, extremely difficult.
Therefore Krishna says: by mastering the mind, creating a favorable situation, to become quiet is simple.
If around you are green trees, birds singing sweetly, the fresh air of morning, the rising sun—then to sit in meditation is easy. In the marketplace, with turmoil all around, with fire burning—there, to descend into meditation amid the adverse is hard.
But not impossible. There are those who, even if the house is on fire, can enter meditation. There are those who can sit in the middle of the bazaar and sink within.
Krishna is of those. Otherwise he would not be ready to stand on the battlefield. He agrees—because there is no obstacle. Even there the mind remains as it is. There will be war, corpses piled, rivers of blood flowing—the inner will remain the same. Hence he can say to Arjuna: cut without worry—no one is cut. Just drop the idea that you are the cutter. There is no one here who is cut. Drop the delusion that someone will be slain by you, or that suffering will be caused by you.
Krishna says: suffering always comes by one’s own doing, not by another. Drop only this idea “by me”—otherwise your thought of “by me” will wound you, and nothing else will happen. All die by themselves; the instrumental cause can be anything. You will be no more than a means—not the doer. Therefore drop the worry about killing. And then, who is ever cut? Only the body is cut. That which is within remains uncut. No weapon can pierce it; no fire can burn it; no water can drown it.
That Krishna can speak so—he knows. Hence he can stand upon the battlefield. Among those very few in millions, one can stand in battle. Otherwise, an ahimsa-vadi flees from battle. Only the one who has not crossed by mastering the mind, but by letting it be free—only he can stand nonviolent even on the battlefield. One who has mastered the mind will run away from war: lest some rein break! In the uproar of war a horse may bolt; some disturbance may occur; all our arrangement may scatter.
So Krishna says: it is simple—and it is right to go by the simple. Simple means: that which will be accessible to the greatest number, in accord with nature—sahaj.
But the third and most important: Krishna says, this is my opinion. Why did he need to say this? He could have said: this is truth. Understand the difference between truth and opinion.
Truth means: it is so—whether I say it or not; whether anyone knows or not; whether anyone believes or not—it is so. Opinion means: my view about what is so—opinion about the truth. Not the truth; my view. In opinion there can be error. There can be lack. There can be defects of expression. Because of language, what is said can be misunderstood. The moment a word is spoken, it passes into your hands. I utter a word—it is now with you. You will interpret it.
Therefore Krishna speaks most rightly: this is my opinion, Arjuna. The moment truth is given a word, it becomes opinion; it is no longer truth. Truth is truth only while it is wordless.
Hence those who insist on truth in words know nothing of truth. At most, in words, one can state: it is my opinion, Arjuna.
There is a great difference. If one says: this is truth—the insistence to believe becomes heavy. If it is opinion—you may accept or not; your freedom remains. Truth must be believed. Opinion can be rejected as well.
And there are more reasons. The moment we express truth, it becomes opinion. Therefore all scriptures are collections of opinions. No scripture is a collection of truth, nor can it be.
If only the religions of the world would understand that their scriptures are opinions, not truth, there would be no quarrel. There can be thousands of opinions about truth; there cannot be thousands of truths. But because each scripture claims truth, how accept two truths? Conflict arises.
Opinion! Krishna’s statement to Arjuna is precious: this is my opinion. For one like Krishna to say so is astonishing—for such a one could easily say: this is truth. Without worry, without thought, it could flow from him: this is truth—because he knows. It is a very considered statement, said with care: it is an opinion, Arjuna. Do not take it as the truth. Otherwise you will tie a knot in the words, and you will interpret the words.
If it is an opinion, it means: you must attain truth; you will not get truth from this opinion. Opinion only informs you that I have attained. If you too would attain, you must exert, practice, do sadhana. If I say, what I am saying is truth, then truth is got from words; what need remains of practice? Let the space for sadhana remain. Let Arjuna know truth is yet to be gained. What is received is opinion. Even if God speaks, what you receive will be opinion, not truth. The means for practice remains intact.
Also understand this: opinion can be thought about. Therefore, so long as a man is in thought, you can only speak to him in opinions—not in truth. For he will think over it, derive meanings, interpret. And meanings and interpretations are ours.
When Arjuna interprets, it will not be Krishna’s meaning, it will be Arjuna’s. Yes—if Arjuna were to come to the state where he ceases to think, to interpret, to extract meaning—only listens; becomes so empty and void that he sends his mind away—then opinion can enter as truth. But that is extremely difficult—extremely difficult.
Therefore Krishna says: it is opinion.
Arjuna uvacha:
अयतिः श्रद्धयोपेतो योगाच्चलितमानसः।
अप्राप्य योगसंसिद्धिं कां गतिं कृष्ण गच्छति।। 37।।
कच्चिन्नोभयविभ्रष्टश्छिन्नाभ्रमिव नश्यति।
अप्रतिष्ठो महाबाहो विमूढो ब्रह्मणः पथि।। 38।।
एतन्मे संशयं कृष्ण छेत्तुमर्हस्यशेषतः।
त्वदन्यः संशयस्यास्य छेत्ता न ह्युपपद्यते।। 39।।
Upon this Arjuna spoke: O Krishna, the man of feeble effort yet full of faith, whose mind is shaken from Yoga—without attaining the perfection of Yoga, the realization of the Divine—what destiny does he meet?
And O mighty-armed, does he, deluded on the path to the Divine and without support, not perish like a rent cloud—fallen from both sides, from both Divine attainment and worldly enjoyments?
O Krishna, you alone are worthy to cut this doubt of mine completely. Other than you, no one seems capable of cutting this doubt.
Arjuna heard Krishna; the doubt that should arise, arose. Arjuna is very predictable. One can foretell what will arise in his mind—the very thing that naturally arises in man’s mind arose in him.
He asks: the one whose mind is shaken off from Yoga, who wobbles from union with the Divine—though faithful, wishing to attain, striving to attain—yet the mind does not become steady—what becomes of such a one?
This fear is natural. He immediately asks: might it not be like those clouds in the sky that scatter in gusts of wind? Might it not be that he loses both ends? Here he tries to leave the world to attain God, and there the mind does not become steady and God is not attained—so that both Rama and kama are lost; that like a cloud torn by opposing winds he is scattered and perishes? Might it not be so?
When one leaves the world, this question inevitably arises: I may develop dispassion toward the world and leave it, and perhaps not attain the Divine—for the mind is very fickle. Then the world is left, and the Divine not found. I become neither of the house nor of the ghat—like the washerman’s donkey!
At least now I am somewhere—in the world. I have something. Granted it is illusory, dreamlike—yet it is there. A dream, yes, false, yes—but still there is some assurance I have something. Someone is mine—wife, husband, son, daughter, friends, a house. Granted it is false; tomorrow death will seize all. But until death comes, it is there. Even if tomorrow all becomes ash—until then it is; until then it consoles.
Might it not be, O mighty-armed, that a man leaves this and, enchanted by the desire to attain that of which you speak—captured by your charm—leaves this peg and cannot fix the new peg? He leaves this shore of the world, and there is no news of the other shore. The boat is weak, the gusts are strong, it trembles much. The oar is weak, the hands falter; and if he cannot reach the other bank, might the boat not drown in the squall—losing both shores!
This question arises in all who set upon the path. It will arise. Whenever we leave something, the question arises: this is being left—will the other be found? When we lift the foot from one step, we secure the assurance that the next will receive it. We step only when sure.
Therefore Arjuna says: O Krishna, pierce my doubt completely. Give me a firm assurance that the other shore will be attained, so that I may leave this shore without hesitation. Pierce it, pierce it totally. If even a little remains, I will find it difficult to let go. Some chain will remain tied to the shore. Some anchor will remain cast. My courage to go to the other bank will be weak. Fear will remain: who knows if the other shore is there! And even if it is, will I get there? And I know my mind well. And the conditions you have stated—I heard them well—that the mind must become utterly still. I know this mind does not become still even for a moment. All the horses must be mastered! I know not even one is mastered. I must go beyond all senses! I know no beyond other than the senses.
What if your conditions—and tomorrow you say: you did not fulfill the conditions, so you did not reach the bank. But what of me? If this shore is left and the other not found—will I not be scattered, broken? What will be my fate? Pierce this doubt fully, Krishna—fully.
And he says to Krishna: it is hard to find another like you. It is not likely I will find again one like you who can pierce this doubt.
Why does Arjuna say so?
Only he can pierce doubt in whose eyes there is no doubt. One whose mind is without ambiguity, who is doubtless—so full of his own trust that it overflows. In whose every pore it is evident there are no doubts, no questions within him.
Men like Krishna never ask questions. They never go to anyone for clearing doubts. Arjuna knows well Krishna never went to anyone for doubt-clearing. He knows well no question ever arose in him. He knows well he lives utterly doubtless. To find such a man is hard; centuries pass before such a one appears.
Only one without doubt can cut another’s doubt. One who himself is full of doubts—if he goes to cut another’s doubt, he will water the roots and return.
We all do this. We all cut one another’s doubts. The father cuts the son’s doubt—and the father himself is doubtful! He himself does not know what the matter is. The son asks: who made the earth? The father says: God did. And inwardly he fears the son may ask next: who made God? Or: where is God? Have you seen him? Sons generally do not ask, so fathers keep speaking their lies.
But in a few days the son becomes a youth and knows his father did not know. He learns too that before sons, one can enjoy the pose of knowing. He will also enact it before his sons. And so it goes. The guru appears to answer without doubt, but within, doubt stands up.
If Arjuna meets one like Krishna, it is natural he says: O mighty-armed, there will be no other like you. You cut it. If you cannot cut my doubt, then I do not hope anything can be done. I will be hopeless. For, knowing myself as I do, I will remain bound to this shore. At least there is something in the hand. What you say sounds right—but cut my doubt.
Here, remember two or three things.
First: the mark of the worldly mind is this—that it can leave something only on the assurance of gaining something else. It cannot leave spontaneously. If gain is assured, it can leave. It does not find sacrifice difficult—but sacrifice must be an investment. Sacrifice only to make arrangements to get something else.
And when sacrifice is for getting something else, it is not sacrifice—it is a bargain. The worldly mind cannot understand sacrifice; it understands bargaining. It asks: is it sure that if I donate here I will get returns in heaven? Is it sure that if I build a temple here I will have lodging next to God’s house? If sure—I can sacrifice a little.
The worldly mind can leave if getting is assured. It can leave only to get. This is strange, contradictory. It cannot be. If you are leaving for the sake of getting, you cannot leave. And the difficulty is: only one who leaves, gets.
Now this statement, this paradox, must be understood well.
When people went to Kabir, he would speak in ulatbansi—paradox. Some would say: you speak odd, upside-down things; we cannot understand. He would say: then go—for the journey ahead consists entirely of ulatbansi, paradox.
If someone asked: Does God exist? Kabir would not answer directly. He would say: The ocean has caught fire; the rivers have burned to ash. The man would say: what are you saying! The ocean is on fire and the rivers are ashes? Kabir: go. If you agree, stay—for ahead there will be more tumult.
Someone would ask: what is the soul? Kabir would say: Wake up, Kabir, wake—the fish has climbed the tree! The man would protest: I came to understand about the soul—what fish and what trees! Have fish ever climbed trees? Kabir would say: go—because ahead it becomes yet more difficult.
What Arjuna is asking Krishna—his dilemma is this: only when sacrifice is done without the hope of gain is it sacrifice. And the one who leaves without hope gains much. The one who leaves with hope—because of hope, leaving does not happen; and because leaving does not happen, he gains nothing.
One who wishes to get should drop the talk of getting. One who wishes not to get should keep talking of getting. The worldly mind will not understand; it will say: drop the talk of getting? Fine—we drop it. But then will we really get by dropping? Its inner mechanism remains.
People come to me and say: we meditate a lot, peace does not come. I tell them: drop worrying about peace. Do not desire peace. Then meditate. Peace will come—but that will be a consequence. Do not make it a result; it will be a consequence. Do not make it fruit; it will be outcome. It will happen—do not worry for it. They say: so if we drop the thought of peace, then peace will come?
They are ready to drop the thought of peace on one condition—that peace will come.
Now, the search for peace is unrest. Therefore the seeker of peace never finds peace. Seeking is unrest; the search for peace is supreme unrest.
It is so. This is the facticity. Such is the nature of existence; there is no other way. If we accept its conditions, well and good; if not, we must suffer. The condition for crossing is: leave this shore; and also, do not talk of the other shore.
Arjuna says: make me doubtless. O mighty-armed, your arms are vast; you touch distant shores; you attain the infinite. Tell me, give me assurance.
But, in truth—can Krishna’s assurance become Arjuna’s? If Krishna says: yes, you will reach the other shore—will the doubting mind fall silent? Will it not raise a new doubt: and if, despite his words, I do not reach? Is it necessary to accept blindly what Krishna says? If we follow Krishna and tomorrow are lost, whom will we complain to? If we scatter like a cloud—whom will we tell? And if our fate is spoilt, who will be responsible—Krishna?
The mind is strange. The fact is: a doubting mind will go on doubting. It is not that if one doubt is removed, doubt is removed. When one is removed, another arises. Then why does Krishna try to satisfy doubts? In hope that doubts will end?
No. Only in this hope: that as each doubt is removed and another arises, Arjuna may awaken and see that doubts have no end.
Remember: by the removal of doubt, doubt does not end. But by removing doubt again and again, a remembrance can dawn: so many doubts have been removed, yet my doubting remains the same! It is like Ravana’s heads—cut one, another appears. Krishna will tirelessly cut.
The whole Gita is an arrangement for cutting the heads of doubt. One by one he will cut, knowing that doubt breeds doubt. Doubt is not cut by any assurance. But perhaps Arjuna will tire—fall again and again and see the head rise again; the doubt ends and forms again; an answer comes and becomes a new question. Doing this, perhaps Arjuna will realize: no, doubt is futile; and seeking assurance is useless. If this dawns, the shore can be left.
But Arjuna’s thirst is human—too human. Krishna will not be angry. He knows the human mind is bound to the shore; it has its difficulties.
If we break someone’s happy dream—granted it was a dream, but it was pleasant—and we wake him, he will ask: you broke my dream, but now what? What shall I see now? What I saw was pleasant. You say it was a dream, so you broke it. Now what shall I see?
His thirst to see something is natural. But in that thirst lies the basic mistake. In being human there is a basic mistake. The dreamer says: I will drop this dream only if I get a more beautiful sight in exchange.
People like Krishna strive thus: we will break the dream and give no substitute—so that you may see the Seer of all. Stop seeing. Drop the seen. You ask for one scene in place of another. In Krishna’s tongue I would say: there is no other shore. This shore is false; and there is no alternative shore to a false shore. If this shore were true, the other could be true. One false and one true—impossible. Either both shores are true or both false.
Do you think one bank of a river can be true and the other false? Either both are false—or both true. If both are false, the river too is false. If both are true, the river is true. Understand it thus: all three are true—or all three false. There is no third way. It cannot be that the river is true and the banks false—how would the river flow? Nor can one bank be true and the other false—the false bank would give no support. Either all three true, or all three false.
Arjuna says: this bank is false. Krishna, I understand—your words say so; I trust you; my life’s experience says so. On this bank I have gained only suffering. In desire, in attachment, only pain—hells created. Granted, I understand. But the other bank is true, isn’t it!
What will Krishna say? If he says: the other bank is also not—Arjuna will cling to this. At least it gives hope that tomorrow something will be. You are rendering me utterly hopeless.
A man like Buddha gave precisely this answer: there is no other bank—no moksha. Difficult indeed! No moksha—and you tell me to leave the world! Leave wealth—and there is no dharma! Then why do you speak?
Therefore Buddha spoke rightly, but that truth did not work. If there is no other shore, people say: let us hold on.
“There is no other shore”—the emphasis is this: drowning in the midstream is the shore. But that is a paradox. “Midstream drowning is the shore.” Shore, for us, is precisely what is never midstream.
Leave this shore, leave that shore—what remains? Where both shores drop—no world, no moksha—then the river of desire has no way to flow; the boats of craving cannot sail; the bridges of ego cannot be built. Then a kind of drowning, immersion, release, freedom arises—and that is the attainment.
But how will Arjuna understand? Krishna will try. For now he will say: there is the other shore; you will reach; I assure you—so that at least this shore is dropped. Then, that shore also is not—and the one who drops this, that is dropped as well.
Many times to remove one falsehood another must be created—in the hope that at least the habit of dropping falsehoods will form; then we will make you drop the second too.
There are two kinds of teachers. One says: what you hold is false—and we will give you nothing in your hand, for anything in the hand will be false. Such teachers cannot be cooperative.
The other is more compassionate. He says: what you hold is false—leave it; we will give you a true diamond. Though there is no such diamond. The diamond comes to the palm that opens and holds nothing—unclinging. The open hand grasps nothing—yet it receives the diamond. The hand that grasps always catches stones. Grasping—stones come to hand. The diamond comes to the open hand. Now the “grasp of an open hand”—paradox again. Wake up, Kabir, wake—the fish has climbed the tree. The ocean caught fire; the rivers burned to ash.
Sometimes Krishna speaks in Kabir’s tongue to test—perhaps Arjuna will agree. Otherwise he speaks Arjuna’s language.
Enough for now. We will continue in the evening.
For a little while now—Wake up, Kabir, wake; the fish has climbed the tree!