Geeta Darshan #19

Arjuna asks Krishna: If I fail to reach that other world, that Lord toward whom you have pointed—and if this world too slips from my hands; if I cannot complete my sadhana, if the mind does not become still, if restraint does not mature—and this world also is lost to me; then might it not happen that I lose this as well as that! In reply Krishna says two very precious things.
First, he says that one whose actions are auspicious never comes to a bad end. And that consciousness which is turned toward the Lord—whether in this world or the next—can never be destroyed. Understand these two points well.

First point: consciousness has no destruction in this world or that world. Why?
Consciousness simply does not perish. There is no way to destroy consciousness. Only those things are destroyed which are aggregates, which are compounds. Only compounds are destroyed; elements are not.

Understand it this way: what is put together out of other things can be destroyed. But that which stands without being put together out of anything else does not get destroyed. We can only assemble and disassemble; we can only make combinations.

Understand this as well: elements are not manufactured; only compounds are. We make a bullock cart, we build a machine, a car, a bicycle. A bicycle is made, and a bicycle will be destroyed. Whatever is made will be unmade. Whatever has a beginning has a certain end. At birth, the seal of death is already stamped upon it.

But we cannot destroy substance, because we cannot create substance. We can only create compounds. We can make water—combine hydrogen and oxygen and water appears; separate hydrogen and oxygen and water is gone. But oxygen? We cannot create oxygen—or perhaps, someday, we may. It is possible—an increasing possibility—that we might one day produce oxygen too. The day we can, oxygen will no longer be an element; it will be a compound. That day we will no longer call oxygen an element; it will be a combination. Someday we may make oxygen from electrons, neutrons, or whatever the ultimate disintegrations of matter are. But then we will not be able to make the electron.

An element is that which we cannot make. This land has defined tattva thus: that which we cannot produce and cannot destroy. If we destroy what we had taken to be an element, it only proves we mistakenly thought it an element; it was not. If we can manufacture something we called an element, that too shows we erred; it is not an element.

There are two elements in existence. One is the inert expanse all around us—matter. And the other is living consciousness, which sees, knows, and experiences this expanse. These two—matter and consciousness—have neither creation nor destruction. Neither can consciousness be destroyed, nor can matter be destroyed.

Yes, compounds can be destroyed. I will die, because I am merely a compound: a conjunction of soul and body. What is known by my name is a combination. One day it was formed, and one day it will be dissolved. If someone plunges a dagger into my chest, I will die. The soul will not die, which stands behind my “I”; the body too will not die, which stands outside my “I.” The body will continue as matter; the soul will continue as consciousness. But the relationship between the two will break. That relationship is what I call “I.” That relationship is my name-and-form. That relationship will disintegrate. What was constructed will be destroyed.

Krishna says: consciousness has no destruction, therefore be fearless. Even the consciousness of a sinner has no destruction—so for the consciousness of a virtuous one, destruction is out of the question. It is consciousness itself that cannot be destroyed.
Arjuna has asked: Could it happen that, like a tiny cloud scatters in a gust of wind and is lost in the infinite sky, I slip from this shore and never reach the other bank, and I too, like a cloud, scatter and get lost!
So Krishna is saying: such a thing is impossible, because consciousness is imperishable; it is the very element, it does not get destroyed. Even a sinner’s consciousness is not destroyed. There is no way to annihilate it. There is no possibility of destruction. First he says that consciousness itself is never destroyed—neither in this world nor in the next, nowhere. There is no destruction of consciousness.

But a doubt will arise. We give a man an anesthesia injection and he becomes unconscious. A man takes a blow to the head and drops unconscious. People say, his consciousness has gone. Consciousness does not go. People say, he became unconscious. There is no such thing as the unconscious either. When someone faints, neither the soul becomes unconscious nor the body becomes unconscious. The body cannot become unconscious, for it has no consciousness. The soul cannot become unconscious, for it is pure awareness. Then what happens? When a man is struck on the head and falls unconscious, what happens is that the link in between becomes slack. The flow of consciousness that used to come from the soul to the body gets obstructed.

Suppose I press a button and the bulb goes out. Would you say electricity has gone out? Say only this much: the current that used to reach the bulb is no longer reaching it. Electricity has not gone out; the bulb has gone out. You flip the switch back on and the bulb lights again. If electricity had been extinguished, the bulb could not light. And even if the main switch for the whole neighborhood is off, still only the bulbs go out; electricity does not end. And even if the entire power station shuts down, it is the station that stops, not electricity. Electricity is energy. Energy is not destroyed.

Within, there is the energy of life, of consciousness. There are pathways by which it reaches the body. The mind is its pathway through which it comes to the body. When someone strikes your head with a stick, your mind is snuffed out; the bridge in-between breaks; messages stop arriving. Inside, you remain just as aware as you were; and the body remains just as unconscious as it always was. Only the reflection of consciousness from the soul into the body ceases to be reflected.

There is no question of consciousness being extinguished or destroyed—not even the sinner’s consciousness. However much the sinner may sin, however many evil acts he commits, however tightly he clings to the world—whatever he does—consciousness will not be erased. Yes, consciousness will become distorted, ringed with suffering; it will live in hells; it will fall into pain, affliction, deeper and deeper torments—but it will not be destroyed. There is no way to destroy it. Just as you cannot destroy a grain of sand—there is no way.

See how much scientists can do! They have discovered atomic energy, can reach the moon, can dive five miles deep into the Pacific Ocean—can do all that—but they cannot create even a tiny grain of sand. Not because scientists are weak; they cannot because matter is neither created nor destroyed. Nor will scientists ever be able to create the human soul, though much work goes on in that direction. And every day news comes that something else has been discovered which makes it seem likely that before this century ends scientists will produce the human soul.

Just now man’s genetics—the basic reproductive cell—has been cracked open. As the atom was split and nuclear power became available, in the same way the human germ cell has been split, and its fundamental chemical secret has been understood. And now there is every possibility that if not today then tomorrow we will be able to give birth to a human body in the laboratory.

Recently a scientific journal devoted to research on human life printed a big cartoon that delighted me. It depicts the time when this century is ending—the year 2000 has arrived. A boy is passing by a laboratory, the laboratory in whose test tube he was born. The test tube is visible from the lab’s doorway. From the street the boy says, “Daddy! Hello! I’m going to school.”

Around the year 2000 there is nearly this possibility—perhaps it will happen ten years earlier—that we will produce a child’s body in a laboratory test tube. Then those soul-believers with ordinary intellect will be in great trouble—they are already in trouble—great trouble indeed. If someday a human body is produced in a laboratory, what of the soul then? And if that man turns out to be just like us—and scientists say he will be better than us, because he will be properly cultivated… Our birth is entirely unscientific; there is no rule, no mathematics, no system in it. In his there will be a complete system.

Scientists say: the body we manufacture—we will know how many years of life to give it. A hundred years? Then he will be born with a guarantee certificate of exactly one hundred years, because we will put in precisely those chemical elements that can remain healthy for a hundred years. If we want him to be as intelligent as Einstein, the quantum of the element of intelligence in him will be just that. If we want him to do a laborer’s work, he will have those kinds of muscles. If we want him to be a musician, the entire chemical sequence of his throat and voice will be arranged accordingly.

And they add: while making each child we will also make his duplicate copy. Because in life, if someone’s kidney gets damaged, it is difficult to replace. So from that duplicate copy we will take out a kidney and replace it. Someone’s eye goes bad! A duplicate copy of that body will be kept alive in the laboratory—kept in deep freeze, in intense cold so it does not decay. And whenever anything in you goes wrong, parts can be changed.

They say that once we get the formula, we can produce a thousand bodies of the same kind—no difficulty at all. Then what will happen! What will become of the soul-believers?

There are many so-called soul-believers who have no clue about the soul. The truth is, among soul-believers there are many who have no idea of the soul. Hearing such things, they become very restless. Their only answer is: this can never happen. I say to them: understand—it will happen. And your saying “this can never happen” only shows one thing: that you know nothing. It will happen. But then there is great anxiety: if it happens, what of the soul?

I tell you, this does not touch the soul at all. It only proves that the work parents’ bodies used to do in the womb in constructing the body, scientists will do in the laboratory. Just as the soul used to enter the body in the parents’ womb, in the same way it will enter the body in the scientist’s laboratory. This has nothing to do with the soul. Nothing is proved by it.

A thousand years ago we could not light electricity; we had no fans, no bulbs. But lightning did flash in the sky—lightning flashed in the sky. Electricity has always been. Today we have lit bulbs; do we think the electricity shining in our bulbs is something different? It is the same that flashes in the sky. Even now we have not created electricity! Even now we have only devised means to manifest it. We will never be able to create electricity. We only discover the means for it to become manifest where it is unmanifest.

If someday we make the human body—which indeed will be made—on that day too we will not be making man, only making the body. And just as souls have been entering the body of the womb, those souls will also be able to enter the body manufactured by man. There is no obstruction in this; there is no difficulty either. Whether the body is produced by science or by nature makes no difference. The soul is unmanifest consciousness. If a medium of manifestation is found, the soul manifests.

But neither can consciousness be manufactured nor can it be destroyed. When you stab someone in the chest, even then the soul does not die. And on the day we create a human body in a laboratory test tube, even then the soul is not created.

Krishna did not know this, so he only said, “nainam chhindanti shastrani”—weapons cannot cleave the soul. If the Gita were to be written again, this too should be added: by making a body in a test tube, the soul is not created. Both are two ends of the same thing—two ends of the same logic. Not by killing does the soul die, and not by making a body is the soul made.

This uncreated, unborn, ajāt, immortal soul—Krishna says, Arjuna—has never any destruction. This he states as a general truth: the sinner’s soul too has no destruction.

The second thing he says is: but the one who has performed auspicious deeds!
Remember, Arjuna has asked: Suppose I try and yet cannot succeed; I make a devout effort and still fail—because I know my mind; however much devotion I pour in, the mind’s restlessness does not go. If my action, full of faith, fails, will I not scatter like clouds? Will my boat not sink—losing this shore without reaching the other?
Krishna says: the one who has performed a noble act! It is not necessary that the noble act has succeeded. He is speaking of the doing—understand this rightly. The one who has done the auspicious deed—even if it has not succeeded—such a person never meets a bad end. The point is not success.

A man wanted to do a noble deed, a man tried to do a noble deed, a man wished for the good, a seed of the good sprouted in someone’s heart—no matter if it did not become a sprout, no matter if it did not become a tree, no matter if it never bore fruit or flowered. But the person who has at least sown the seed of the good—even if it never sprouted—such a person never suffers a downfall in life.

Krishna is saying something very wondrous. If the noble act succeeds, then of course there is no downfall, Arjuna. But just as you are saying, even if it turns out that you set out on the journey of the good and your mind does not support you; your faith is there but your strength does not support you; your feeling is there, but your conditionings do not support you; you want to reach the other shore, but your oar is weak; your aspiration is firm to cross over, but your boat is leaky and you drown midway—even then I tell you: the one who has performed a noble act never meets with misfortune.

If the noble act succeeds, there is no question of downfall. But even if the noble act does not succeed, there is still no downfall. Let me add the complementary truth—it will help it sink in quickly.

For the one who performs an evil act, even if it does not succeed, there is downfall. Suppose I wanted to kill you and could not—there is still downfall. “I did not” does not mean I grabbed your neck and could not squeeze; no, even if I could not reach you at all, still there is downfall. “I did not” does not mean I merely threatened you with murder and then did not do it; no, even if I could not say a word to you—still there is downfall. The very thought that arose within toward the inauspicious launches you on a journey toward degeneration. The seed has been sown.

A wrong thought alone is enough for degeneration. A right thought alone is enough to save from degeneration. Why? Because ultimately our thought itself becomes the fruit of our life. Fruits do not come from outside; they grow and develop within us.

Buddha has said in the Dhammapada: what you are is the outcome of your thoughts. If you are unhappy, search within your thoughts—you will find the seeds that bore the fruit of sorrow. If you are afflicted, look—your own hands have sown the seeds of pain. If it is darkness upon darkness in your life, search—you will find that you yourself have carefully constructed this darkness. We build our hells with great industry! Ponder both sides well.

If a bad deed fails to materialize, yet it still brings a bad fruit. You will ask, then why call it a failure?

A bad deed may fail to be completed, may not occur, may not appear in the world of objects, may not echo in the world of events; it may vanish within you like a dream—and even then the fruit arrives: sorrow, suffering, anguish. There is downfall. And for a good deed—even the thought, even if it does not succeed...

Buddha used to tell a story. A man came—a prince. He took initiation from Buddha.

And the glory of initiation in Buddha’s time—never again did the earth behold such splendor. In the days of Buddha and Mahavira, Bihar saw the golden age of renunciation—a time never repeated on earth, nor was it ever before.

What wondrous days those must have been! When Buddha walked, fifty thousand sannyasins walked with him. The very winds changed direction in a village where Buddha stayed! In a village where fifty thousand renunciates stayed, evil acts would stop; they would become difficult, almost impossible—so many people filled with auspicious visions!

The stories say that wherever Buddha passed, thefts ceased and murders diminished. Today it sounds like a tale, but I tell you it happens. Who commits murder? A human being. And what is a human being if not a bundle of thoughts! If a lightning flash like Buddha passes near, can you remain the same as you were? You cannot remain the same. When lightning flashes in a dark night, you are no longer the same as before.

Even a slight glimpse of the path makes a person walk with care. On an amavasya night, pitch dark, if lightning flashes for a moment and then it is dark again—still, you no longer walk with the same fumbling as before. The darkness is just as deep, yet you have had a glimpse of the way.

When a man like Buddha passes nearby, lightning flashes. And in a village where fifty thousand monks and renunciates stay... Mahavira also traveled with fifty thousand monks. The two were almost contemporaries. The whole land became filled with renunciates. That is why it got the name Bihar—vihara-path—the place of wanderings of monks, where renunciates move, where their paths lie. Hence it is called Bihar.

Buddha stayed in a certain village. The emperor’s son of that region came and took initiation. No one had ever imagined that this prince would take initiation—he was debauched, utterly debauched. Even Buddha’s monks were astonished. They said, “This utter libertine has taken initiation? No one expected anything of this man. He could commit murder—granted; he could rob—granted; he could abduct someone’s wife—granted. But that he would take sannyas—no one could dream it! Why did he do such a thing?” People asked Buddha.

Buddha said, “Let me tell you his story from a previous birth. A tiny event has ripened today into his renunciation.” They asked, “Which story?” Then Buddha said...

Buddha and Mahavira developed on earth that science by which one can peek into people’s past lives—read them like a book.

Buddha said, “In his past life, this person was not a man; he was an elephant.” And for the first time people realized—indeed, his gait and manner many times had seemed like that of an elephant. Even in this life his movement, his bearing resembled a majestic, rutting elephant.

Buddha said, “He was an elephant, the king of elephants in his forest. One summer night a fierce fire broke out. All the animals and birds fled; he ran too. He paused for a moment to rest under a tree. He lifted one foot to run again, and just then a small rabbit came from behind the tree and sat down right where his foot would fall. With one foot raised, the elephant looked down and felt: if I place my foot, this rabbit will die. Standing thus, the elephant burned to death in the fire. In that life, this one deed—this small, significant act—was all he did; its fruit now is his renunciation.”

That night the prince slept. Where fifty thousand monks sleep, inconvenience is natural. He had taken initiation late; many were older than he. The most senior slept inside the building. Those less senior slept outside. Then others on the path. Others further out in the open. He was assigned the last place—the lane connecting the royal road to Buddha’s vihara. All night long—if a monk passed, his sleep broke; if a dog barked, his sleep broke; if a mosquito bit, his sleep broke. Troubled all night, he thought, “In the morning I shall renounce this initiation. This is not for me.”

In the morning he stood before Buddha with folded hands. Buddha said, “I know why you’ve come.” He said, “You could not know why I’ve come. I have not come to ask for a method of practice. I took initiation yesterday; today I should have asked for a method of practice; but that’s not why I’ve come.” Buddha said, “I will ask you nothing. I know why you’ve come. I only want to remind you: you showed such patience even as an elephant—can you not show as much now as a man?”

The man’s eyes closed. He could not understand—“As an elephant I showed such patience! What is Buddha saying, like a madman?” His eyes closed.

Yet Buddha’s words opened a doorway of memory within him. His eyes closed, and he saw he was an elephant. A dense forest ablaze. He stood under a tree. A rabbit sat down beneath his raised foot. For fear that his foot would fall and kill the rabbit, he did not run. “As I wish to live, so does the rabbit. And thinking he has found refuge, he has sat under my foot. To deceive this innocent creature and run is not right.” He burned.

He opened his eyes and said, “Forgive me—my mistake. Give me an even more difficult place to sleep at night if you must. Now I shall remember. Could so small, so tiny an act become such a great event in my life?”

All small seeds become big trees—whether bad seeds or good seeds, all become big trees—yes, all become big trees.

We do not know by what process life moves—hence the difficulty. We do not know the process.

Just now an incident occurred here. A friend and his wife wanted to take sannyas. They were thinking deeply. The talk was happening at home; their son-in-law overheard. While they were still thinking, the son-in-law came and took sannyas! I asked him, “When did you decide?” He said, “I did not decide. For three days my in-laws have been talking about taking sannyas. They even met you. I kept hearing them. I don’t know what happened to me—I just came and took it.” He took sannyas! The in-laws are still thinking!

What happened? And this person has no special relationship with me; he is not well acquainted with my thought. His in-laws know me far more. What happened to him? How did the flower of sannyas suddenly bloom in his life?

These are seeds from past lives. They lie somewhere, waiting silently—like a seed fallen to the ground, waiting for rain. Months pass, tossed by dust and wind, still it waits for rain. Perhaps in eight months the seed has forgotten what it is. How would a seed know what could be born within it? Then the rains come, it is pressed into soil, splits and becomes a sprout—then the seed realizes. The seed too must be surprised: “I was dry and lifeless—such greenness hid within me! I looked like a pebble—such flowers were concealed in me!” The seed itself can hardly believe it.

We too are all seeds—seeds of long journeys.

So Krishna says: even the intention toward the good, even the devotion toward a noble act, does not lead to degeneration, never. Faith alone is enough! It is not necessary that a man actually performed a good deed; it is enough that he thought it; it is enough that he supported someone who was doing it; it is enough that if someone was doing good, he looked with appreciation—such a person does not fall into a bad destiny.

When Mahavira gave initiation, he had seekers vow a few things. He said: pledge that you will not commit bad deeds. Pledge that if someone commits a bad deed, you will not encourage him. Pledge that if someone commits a bad deed, you will not look upon him even with approval.

The man would ask, “I will not do bad deeds—that I understand. But what are these other things—that I will not encourage? That I will not even regard with admiration?”

Someone on the road is beating another. You are not beating; you have no connection. You are merely passing by. But a single glance from your eyes tells the assailant, “My back has been patted.” That alone—sin is done; the seed is sown.

Likewise Mahavira would say about good deeds: if someone does a good deed, encourage him. If someone does a good deed and nothing else can be done, then at least with your eyes, with your gesture, support him.

Yet if someone wants to take sannyas, what will you all do together? You will say, “What are you doing! Have you gone mad? Are you in your senses?” You do not know: even if that person only cherishes the feeling of sannyas and does not actually take it, he is already arranging for a blessed destiny. And you, who were not even in the picture, for no reason say, “Have you gone mad? Lost your mind? Thrown away your intelligence?” You do not even know that you are needlessly sowing seeds that will become the cause of your wandering.

We have no idea what we are doing! No idea at all.

A friend wants to take sannyas. He sat all last night weeping at his wife’s feet. But the wife is hard. She says, “Better you die.” The mother-in-law says, “Better you die.” “Drink liquor, gamble, do anything at all—but don’t utter the word sannyas.” And in this sannyas neither is he leaving his home, nor his wife, nor his children. He is only taking the feeling of sannyas—what else? He is not going to the forest or mountains. He is leaving no one stripped or hungry; he will continue his work.

The new sannyas is harder than the old, because he will be a sannyasin and also a husband, a father, with all responsibilities and duties. Nothing is to be broken—because I hold that even that is violence; to leave someone midway is to inflict pain. Why inflict even that? Take the world as a play and fulfill it; cultivate sannyas within and fulfill the world without.

But the wife says, “Anything else will do. Not this.” What is the matter? We do not know that by weeping the whole night he has received as much benefit as a sannyasin should. But what has this wife done? She had nothing to do with it! She has all but earned the merit that comes from killing a sannyasin—I say merit, lest the wife somewhere here gets upset! She has undeservedly gathered “merit.” Times change. There were wondrous times once. Let me tell you a remembrance from Mahavira.

A young man is sitting in the bathhouse. His wife is applying ubtan. While bathing him she says, “My brother has decided to take sannyas.” The husband asks, “When will he take sannyas?” She says, “A month from now.” The husband, half in jest, asks, “Is it certain he will live a month?” The wife says, “What inauspicious words you speak! It doesn’t suit you. Why even think such a thing?” He says, “I’m not thinking—it’s just that if he is sure to live a month, then these are not the ways of taking sannyas. One who postpones has a heavy load of anti-sannyas karma within.”

He is speaking casually. Then his wife, in jest and sarcasm, asks, “If you had to take sannyas, what would you do?” Half the ubtan was still on his body. He was naked. He stood up. The wife said, “Where are you going?” He opened the door. “Where are you stepping out? What will people say? You are naked!” He stepped outside. The wife said, “Are you in your senses?” He said, “I have taken sannyas. It’s finished.”

Mahavira used to tell his story everywhere.

He said, “Is sannyas something to be postponed? Take it tomorrow? Only he has a right to postpone sannyas who can postpone death; no one else.”

Krishna says: even a noble intention! Even the desire to act!

In Bombay, an elderly woman wanted to take sannyas. A day before her death she met me and said, “If I take it on my next birthday, would that be alright?” I said, “No objection from me; but is it certain I will survive?” I didn’t say that; she would have been upset. She said, “No, no, why do you speak like that! You will surely survive.” I said, “Suppose I do—will you survive?” She said, “What are you saying! I am only seventy!” I said, “Suppose you survive and I survive—will your mind still want sannyas next year?” She said, “Why would it not?” I said, “Suppose yours does, and mine does not want to give—then what will you do?” She said, “You speak such things! Next birthday is certain.” I said, “If your next birthday is certain, alright.”

But the next morning, while coming to my talk, right in front of the hall she was hit by a car and fell unconscious. Eight or ten hours later she came to, and I went to see her in the hospital. I said, “Good you regained consciousness. What do you think now about sannyas?” She said, “At least let me recover! What kind of man are you! You don’t even ask where I’m hurt; you jump straight to sannyas!” I said, “Who knows—you might go before I ask. Yesterday there was no certainty about this accident; yet it happened. Is your next birthday as certain as it was yesterday?” She said, “It seems doubtful.” I said, “Then how long will you delay?” She said, “At least twenty-four hours—let me get a bit better, then I’ll tell you.” I said, “As you wish. But do one thing—think for these twenty-four hours: I must take sannyas, I must take sannyas.”

She died six hours later; the twenty-four hours were not complete. Her daughter-in-law came running to me, “Now what? She has died!” I said, “I will give her sannyas in death.” She said, “What kind of sannyas is that?” I said, “If at the moment of death even a little feeling remained in her—‘I must take sannyas, I must take sannyas’—then that feeling is everything. The seed has been formed. Its fruits can appear anywhere ahead on her journey.”

Krishna says: even a thought in the direction of good action, even a single step in the direction of good action—whether or not it is completed—never leads to degeneration or a bad course.

प्राप्य पुण्यकृतां लोकानुषित्वा शाश्वतीः समाः।
शुचीनां श्रीमतां गेहे योगभ्रष्टोऽभिजायते।। 41।।
अथवा योगिनामेव कुले भवति धीमताम्‌।
एतद्धि दुर्लभतरं लोके जन्म यदीदृशम्‌।। 42।।

But that yoga-bhrashta person—Krishna says—attains the worlds of the virtuous, that is, the excellent regions such as heaven; dwelling there for many years, he takes birth in the house of pure and prosperous people. Or, a man of dispassion, not going to those worlds, is born in the family of wise yogis; but such a birth in this world is indeed exceedingly rare.

“Yoga-bhrashta” person! Arjuna is asking precisely about the yoga-bhrashta. He is saying: suppose I leave the world and its pleasures, and yoga does not mature; or even if it matures, it falls apart—what if something begins and then slips from my hands? What if I grasp a little and lose my grip, become corrupted midway? Will I not be broken, lost, destroyed?

To him Krishna speaks of the future course of one who becomes yoga-bhrashta—two or three points. They are precious, related to a very deep science. Understand a little.

First: that consciousness which practices a little toward yoga but does not attain perfection—if it attains perfection, it is liberated. If it does not, it attains immeasurable joys. The world of these possibilities of immeasurable joy is called heaven. It attains great pleasures.

But remember, all pleasures are exhaustible. All pleasures come to an end. However great and long they seem, when they are gone, it feels as if they passed in a moment.

So such a consciousness attains many joys, Arjuna! But when the pleasures are spent, it returns to the world.

One option is this: such a consciousness experiences many pleasures and then returns to the very world from which it went. Another possibility: such a consciousness is born into those homes where there is an atmosphere of knowledge, where yoga is in the air, a milieu of yoga, a field of yogic thought; where the waves are of yoga; where the aspiration to climb the steps of practice is strong; where there is a fire of resolve all around; where people are constantly exerting themselves to move upward—in such families, such lineages it is born. Then where yoga was dropped in the previous life, the bridge is rejoined in the next.

Two options Krishna mentions. One, birth in heaven—meaning those planes where there is only pleasure and no pain. In both these there are secrets. Where there is only pleasure, great boredom arises. Hence none are more bored than the gods. Where there is only sweetness, one gets bored.

So legends say the gods too come down to earth to taste earthly pains and pleasures, because here pleasures are mixed with pain. If you eat only sweet, you crave a pinch of salt on the tongue. Just so: where there is only pleasure, a bit of pain becomes almost like a relish. The heavens are full of sweetness; one gets bored quickly and must return to the world. There is no degeneration, but time is wasted.

Time spent in pleasures is wasted time—unused, only squandered. Though we all think time spent in pleasure is well-spent and time in pain is bad, have you noticed—time spent in pain can be creative; it can precipitate a revolution in life. But time spent in pleasure is like time spent asleep—no revolution ever happens there. No creative act is born out of days spent in pleasure.

Pain polishes; pain refines; pain cleanses within, purifies; pleasure only rusts. That is why on the truly happy the rust of complacency settles quickly. And the contented man, if you look closely, produces neither great poets nor painters nor sculptors. The contented only produce people who sleep in beds—nothing but sleep! They produce people who waste time—drinkers, those who doze off to music, to dance—such people.

If we list the hundred great thinkers of the world, not more than two or three percent come from “happy” families. Why? Does pleasure rust the mind?

It does. It cloys. And where there is only pleasure, there is no movement—there is stagnation.

Heaven is a stagnant state.

Bertrand Russell joked that looking at the descriptions of heaven, he feels it would be better to go to hell. Someone asked why. He said, “At least there one would have something to do. In heaven there are wish-fulfilling trees—nothing to do! Even if you want to do, you cannot; you think, and it happens. There is nothing there for the likes of me. In hell at least there will be something to tackle! Struggling with pain refines one. In heaven, pleasure simply pours down—you’ll rot in a few days.”

Krishna says: the one who becomes yoga-bhrashta goes to heaven, Arjuna—into a world of pleasures. He wanted to do good, could not, yet he attains pleasures. But he must return to the same crossroads.

The world is a crossroads. If the journey to liberation does not begin from here, you must return again and again. Like standing at a road junction: if you go left and later want to go right, you must return to the junction. The world is the junction. If you go to heaven and then want liberation, you must come back to the crossroads.

So those who practiced yoga for the sake of pleasure go to heaven. But those who practiced for liberation and failed or fell—they are born in families where their broken sequence can be reconnected; they are born again into yogic environments where the previous journey can begin anew.

Therefore Krishna says to Arjuna: be assured. Do not be afraid. If not liberation, heaven will be attained; if not heaven, at least you will be born into the lineage where the journey you left can be resumed. Do not fear. Do not tremble. Dare to leave this shore. Even if that far shore is not reached, this shore will not be lost. Whatever happens, you will regain this shore—so do not fear. Do not be afraid to let go.

I said this morning that Krishna speaks seeing Arjuna’s mind. If Arjuna had asked the Buddha, “If I fail, where will I go?”—do you know what Buddha would have said? Most likely he would have said nothing: “Know for yourself.” But if we search deeply in Buddhist literature, we find one story—not of Buddha, but of Bodhidharma, his disciple.

He went to China. The emperor welcomed him and said, “Bodhidharma, O great monk, I want to know a few things. I built thousands of temples to Buddha, installed hundreds of thousands of images. What fruit will I get?” Bodhidharma said, “Nothing.” The emperor said, “Nothing! Do you understand? I spent millions—what fruit will I get?” Bodhidharma said, “Nothing. Because in desiring fruit you lost everything. All you have done is in vain—worth two pennies.” He said, “What are you saying? I have done such a holy work!” Bodhidharma said, “You are a fool. There is nothing holy or unholy; everything is just empty.”

The emperor said, “Please proceed to some other kingdom. Either you speak beyond my understanding, or your own mind is not right.” Bodhidharma said, “I will go. But remember, in the end you will need me.”

He left. Nine or ten years later, when Emperor Wu was dying, he became very frightened. “What will happen to me now? I built so many temples, fed so many monks, made so many images, printed so many scriptures—but my only desire was that people say, ‘How great a religious man you are!’ I desired nothing but my ego! These temples, these holy places, these images—what are they but ornaments for my ego?” Then he panicked. As death approached he trembled and cried, “O Bodhidharma, if you are anywhere, return; perhaps you were right. Had I listened, I might have done something to free me. I have forged new chains.”

If it had been Buddha, he would not have said to Arjuna what Krishna is saying. But Buddha and Arjuna could never have met—it was impossible. Buddha could not be brought to a battlefield, and Arjuna would not go, hands folded, to sit under the bodhi tree before Buddha. Their types were different. Arjuna was unlikely to go to a forest guru with questions; if he did go to Buddha, he would sit on the tree above and ask, not below.

Krishna too has to occasionally soothe his ego. He says, “O mighty-armed one, O great-armed Arjuna!” and Arjuna swells. Good. He agrees to listen to Krishna because Krishna is his charioteer, his friend—he can place a hand on his shoulder; he can even say, “You talk nonsense!” So he agrees to listen.

So Buddha and Arjuna could not have met—it looks impossible. Arjuna would not go to Buddha; Buddha could not be brought to the battlefield.

Therefore Krishna speaks seeing Arjuna’s nature every moment. He says, “You will gain great pleasures, Arjuna. If you die while doing good and fail, you will be born in heavens.”

If Arjuna had said this to Buddha—“I will be born in heavens”—Buddha would have said, “Heaven is a dream. There is no heaven. Do not wander. Whoever desired heaven landed in hell. The desire for heaven is the road to hell. Don’t bring this up.” Arjuna’s rhythm could not match Buddha’s.

In the Gita, we may say, is the greatest example of persuasion—of gently luring, of lifting a person inch by inch—as Krishna has done; no other teacher has worked so. Teachers are usually firm. They say, “This is the truth. Want it? If not, leave.”

A teacher is hard. To find a teacher as a friend is rare. Arjuna found a teacher as a friend, a companion. With a hand on his shoulder the talk goes on. Hence he often gets confused and raises useless questions.

There would have been one benefit had he met someone like Buddha—or Bodhidharma, who carried a staff. He would have given Arjuna a whack on the head: “What nonsense are you babbling!”

But Krishna listens to his babbling, lovingly persuades him, and moves him inch by inch. He says, “Do not worry. Even if that far shore is not reached, there are islands midstream called heavens—you will land there. There is great joy there. Enjoy fully; then get back in the boat and return. And if you do not want pleasures, there are islands of the elders—the gurus—where they dwell; enter their gurukuls and continue your practice.”

But Krishna has one underlying intention: you must first let go of this shore; we will see later. Whether or not there are islands—first let go. Once you let go for any reason, mustering a little courage, placing a little trust and setting out—then the rest of the journey the divine handles.

Ramakrishna said it everywhere: you untie the boat, you hoist the sail. The winds stand ready to carry you. But you do not even untie the boat; you do not hoist the sail! You sit moored to the shore and cry, “How will I reach the far shore? What is the method? What is the path?” Untie the boat a little, raise the sail—the winds are eager to carry you.

The divine is ready to carry each to liberation. But we cling to the shore with such force! People say God is omnipotent. It doesn’t convince me. We, with our tiny little power, cling to the shore so hard that he cannot pull us off! Our potency seems greater!

No—the reason is different. The truly omnipotent never uses power. Power is used only by the weak. Only the weak need to exert power. The one who is all-powerful does not use it; he waits. “What is the hurry? If not today, tomorrow; if not this age, the next; if not this life, the next—sometime you will untie your boat, sometime you will raise your sails; then our winds will carry you across.” What is the hurry? Hurry is a sign of weakness. What is the rush? Time does not run out!

But God’s time will not run out—yours does. He need not hurry; he has no time limit. But our time is limited, bound. We will run out. He can wait to eternity, but we cannot.

And yet it is strange: we too seem to be waiting for eternity. We say, “We will sit. Fine. When you untie the boat, when you hoist the sail, when you give a tug and pull...”

Often, if a tug comes, we grasp the shore even more tightly and scream, “Brothers, come save me! Someone is carrying me off!”

Remember, Krishna has answered seeing Arjuna. Slowly he will melt even these answers, dissolve them. He just wants Arjuna to agree to the leap—this much.

Enough for today. Tomorrow morning we shall continue.

But don’t leave just yet. For five minutes, may you too agree to a leap. Loosen your grip on the shore a little. Let a breeze of kirtan blow into the sails of your boat and carry you a bit toward the other shore—that will be good.

Join in. Clap hands. Sing. Sway. Rejoice. For five minutes, forget everything.