For the sage aspiring to Yoga, action is said to be the means.
For one established in Yoga, serenity alone is said to be the means. || 3 ||
Geeta Darshan #2
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
आरुरुक्षोर्मुनेर्योगं कर्म कारणमुच्यते।
योगारूढस्य तस्यैव शमः कारणमुच्यते।। 3।।
योगारूढस्य तस्यैव शमः कारणमुच्यते।। 3।।
Transliteration:
ārurukṣormuneryogaṃ karma kāraṇamucyate|
yogārūḍhasya tasyaiva śamaḥ kāraṇamucyate|| 3||
ārurukṣormuneryogaṃ karma kāraṇamucyate|
yogārūḍhasya tasyaiva śamaḥ kāraṇamucyate|| 3||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, in this verse, is there any difference between śamaḥ—meaning the absence of all sankalpas (resolves)—and the state of nirvichara (no-thought), or are they the same? Please shed light on this.
Is there a difference between nirvichara (no-thought) and nihsankalpa (no-resolve), or are the two one?
As far as the end is concerned, they are one. As far as fulfillment is concerned, they are one. As far as attainment is concerned, they are one. Where nihsankalpa or nirvichara comes to completion, only one experience remains—the void, the formless, the ultimate. But as far as the path is concerned, there is a difference. As far as methodology is concerned, there is a difference.
The process of becoming thought-free is different from the process of becoming free of resolves. The process for nihsankalpa is samatva-buddhi: stopping in the very midst of dualities, resting in equanimity. The method to go beyond resolves, to become sankalpa-shunya, is what I have just indicated—attaining even-mindedness. The process for nirvichara is attaining the state of witnessing.
The result will be the same. The process of nirvichara is to become a witness of thought. Whatever the thought, simply be the witness to it—be the seer, the onlooker. While still in the game, become a spectator to the game. As you watch a play, begin to watch your own mind. As the stream of thoughts flows, be as one sitting on the bank watching the road where people pass by—sit on the bank and watch the current of thoughts in the mind.
Awareness with respect to thoughts is the method. And the one who becomes aware of thoughts will arrive at the formless by becoming thought-free. But the points from which one takes the jump differ. And what is suitable depends on the type and temperament of the person.
For example, some people hardly live in desires; they live in thoughts. Intellectuals—those who live in the world of the intellect—are not caught much in the net of desires. Often a man living deeply in intellect lives almost an austere, ascetic life.
Einstein! Now, if you tell Einstein, “Don’t choose,” he will say, “But I don’t choose anyway!” Tell him, “Don’t choose a black car or a blue one,” and he will say, “I never noticed which car is black and which is blue!” Einstein’s life is that of a tapasvin. Even at meals his wife has to mind whether the salt or the sugar is too much, because he will simply eat. He lives in the world of thought; he runs there.
Dr. Ram Manohar Lohia once went to meet Einstein. His wife had given him an appointment for eleven sharp, saying even a slight delay would be difficult. Lohia thought perhaps Einstein had some urgent work after eleven. He hurried and arrived at exactly eleven, but he was late by just one minute. Einstein’s wife said, “You’ve missed him.” Lohia said, “Just by one minute! I didn’t even see him at the door. Where did he go?” She said, “He went to the bathroom.” He said, “What are you saying! I can wait.” She said, “But there’s no telling when he’ll come out.” He said, “How long can he bathe?” She said, “Bathing is not the point! Many times he comes out without bathing! What does he do there, then? He does what he does the whole day—lies down in the tub and starts thinking. He forgets to bathe!”
He came out six hours later, very delighted—some mathematical puzzle had been solved. Dr. Lohia asked, “Do you solve mathematical puzzles in the bathroom?” Einstein said that when he developed the theory of the expanding universe—that the cosmos is not static but continuously expanding, like a balloon being inflated—he got the insight in his bathtub while blowing soap bubbles. As he watched the bubbles grow, it struck him that the universe, too, could be expanding.
Our word Brahman itself means expansion. The rishis of this land have always said that the universe is expanding, not standing still. Brahmand means that which keeps expanding, never halting; expansion is its very nature.
But Einstein got the idea in his bathroom. Such people don’t live in desires; they live in thoughts. A subtle difference. For them, the formula “pause between two desires” will mean little. For them, “become aware of thoughts” will mean much more.
So for the intellectual type—the one who lives in the intellect, not in passions (though intellect is also a passion, it is of a very different kind)—for him the practice of nirvichara is apt.
But most people do not live in thoughts; most live in desires. Once in a while someone like Einstein lives in thought; most live in passions. If you think at all, it is for some desire. And if a man like Einstein ever desires, it is for the sake of some thought.
Keep this distinction in mind.
If you think, you think for some desire. You want a big house, so you think how to get it—what business to do, how to earn money. If Einstein ever thinks of a big house, it is only when he feels his lab has become too small, thought can’t flow properly there; he thinks of finding a bigger lab. If a man like Einstein desires a big house, it is for the sake of thought. And when we sit and think a little, it is for the sake of some desire. This is the difference. For those whose passions are emphatically strong, what Krishna says is exactly right.
Arjuna is not a man of thought; he is a man of desires—a warrior. He has little to do with thinking. And if someone like Einstein gets lost in thought, he cannot fight. The very formula of war is: don’t think, fight. If you think, war becomes difficult; defeat becomes certain. In war, the one who does not think, who fights totally, wins. He does not think.
In Japan there is a class of warriors, the samurai. Their teachers say that if you think even for a moment, you will miss. Wield the sword; don’t think. If you think even slightly, the sword will miss for that much time—and in that time the enemy’s blade will pierce your chest.
So if two samurai engage in a duel, it becomes very difficult to decide victory and defeat, for both fight in a sense without thought. The fighting is intuitive: there is no mental calculation of where to strike. The strike happens where one’s whole life-energy says “strike.” There is no gap between striking and thinking; the strike itself is the thought.
And the astonishing thing is that samurai experience that when the opponent attacks, the defense rises of itself at exactly that spot where the blow will fall. Thought would be too slow. Thought takes time; there will be a time gap.
If you attack me with a sword and I start thinking, “Where will the blow fall—on the neck, the waist, or the chest?”—by the time I have thought that much, the sword, being swift, will already have severed my neck. There is no scope for thought here. I must be able to wield the sword without thought; the sword must reach exactly where the enemy’s sword is reaching. There should be no hindrance of thought.
Arjuna is a samurai. His whole training is to fight with his total life-energy. He lives in passions, not in thought. Hence Krishna tells him: become even between two passions. If Arjuna becomes even between two passions, he becomes established in yoga.
If Einstein is to be established in yoga, equanimity between passions is not the issue. Einstein will say, “Where are the passions?” He hardly even notices them.
One night Einstein went to dine at a friend’s house. Dinner ended at eleven. Then they sat on the veranda chatting. Many times Einstein looked at his watch, scratched his head, and resumed talking. The friend grew uneasy—twelve struck, then one. He didn’t have the courage to tell Einstein, “Now please go; I must sleep!” Two o’clock. And what puzzled him more was that Einstein repeatedly looked at his watch, scratched his head, and kept sitting. The friend thought, “He knows it’s two!”
Finally the friend said, “Won’t you sleep tonight?” Einstein said, “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking each time I look at my watch—when will you leave?” The friend said, “You’re too much! This is my house.” Einstein said, “Forgive me; I don’t keep track well of whose house is whose. I’ll go. I was checking the time to figure when to leave—when will you go?”
A man who loses track of which house is his cannot be caught in desires for building houses. It’s not his concern; not part of his consciousness.
We can make two broad divisions. Those who live in thought, in intellect; and those who live in drives, in passions. Between them is a finer division: those who live in feeling, in emotion. These are the three broad divisions. And for all three, the processes are different.
Those who live in drives/passions—and the vast majority do; ninety-nine out of a hundred, no less—for them the formula is: be even between two drives, two passions.
A very small number—half a percent—live in thought. For them the formula is: be aware of thought. And another half percent live in feeling. For them the formula is: be suffused with remembrance, with mindfulness toward feeling. There are small differences among these three.
One who must move from thought to thoughtlessness needs awareness—awareness of thought. One who must move from feeling to no-feeling needs mindfulness—remembering with clarity, wakefulness—toward feeling. There is a slight difference between awareness and mindfulness. And one who must move beyond drives/passions needs equanimity—samatva—standing still in the midst of duality.
A word more about the middle formula—for those who live in feeling; not in passion, not in thought, but in feeling. Those for whom labs and formulas and philosophical puzzles hold no meaning; who have nothing to do with doctrines; who do not wish to found empires or build palaces; who live in feeling—love, anger—who live in the heart.
Omar Khayyam says in his Rubaiyat: Let there be a shady tree, a pitcher of wine, you, my beloved, close by, and a book of verses—then I have conquered the world; what more is needed? The song we can read from the book; we can sip the wine; and then, beneath the starry sky, we shall fall asleep in each other’s arms. A shady tree is enough; no longing for a palace.
This type Omar speaks of is the emotional. If there is love, song, and a shady tree, it suffices. Neither will he fuss over whether one should drink wine or not; nor will he be caught in the passion that love must be under a roof—that a palace is needed. No; if there is love, the tree is a palace. And if love is not there, even a palace is a wasteland. This is the person who lives on the plane of feeling. Very rare too! Omar says, a book of verses nearby—enough; we can sing from it at times.
For such a person the process is what Buddha called Right Mindfulness—samyak smriti: the lucid remembrance “This is love, this is hatred, this is anger, this is attachment.” A concentrated, clear knowing of “What is this? What am I doing—what is this?”
If one becomes intently mindful toward feeling and knows “This is love,” he will be surprised, for he will see that the moment he becomes fully aware that “This is love,” hatred stands transparent just behind it. The feeling becomes transparent, and hatred is visible beyond. The moment he sees “This is anger,” if he looks carefully, at once remorse and forgiveness stand there in the background. Feelings become transparent.
Feelings are very transparent—like glass. Drives/passions are like stone—non-transparent; nothing can be seen through them. Drives are dense. Feelings are fluid, delicate; one can see through them. Through drives one cannot see. Between two drives, if you stand, you will find a door—they are like two stones. But in feeling, if you become mindful, you begin to see beyond right through the feeling itself. Feelings are like glass—sheer, transparent.
Awareness toward thought; mindfulness toward feeling; even-mindedness toward passion. The result will be one. These distinctions exist because there are three kinds of people on earth. The result will be one.
Whether you become thought-free, feeling-free, or free of resolves—what remains is the formless. You will jump into the same Ganga, but the ghats—the landings—will differ. Your ghat will be your own. So long as you stand on the ghat, there is difference. Once you jump into the Ganga, there is no difference. Then will you still distinguish, “Because I jumped from another landing, my Ganga is different,” or “Since you jumped from a different landing, your Ganga is different”? The landing is left behind the moment you jump into the river. But there are differences of landing. Properly understood, all the religions of the world are differences of landing.
The Jains use a very apt word for their givers of insight: Tirthankara. Tirthankara means “maker of a ford,” builder of a landing. It means only that this man built yet another landing from which people can jump. The claim is not about the Ganga; the claim is only about the landing. Hence the claim is entirely right. The claim is not “This man made the Ganga”; it is only that he made another ghat from which a boat can be launched. There are other landings too; there is no denial of them.
Therefore Mahavira denied no landing. He said, “There are other landings also. One can go by those too.” Very few understood Mahavira, because he would never call anyone wrong. He would say, “That too is right—another landing.”
Even to one who says, “I stand exactly opposite you. You have built your landing on this bank; I on that. How can we be one?”—even to him Mahavira says, “Launch your boat—we will meet in the same Ganga.” You who stand opposite, having built your landing on the other side—very good; for those coming down that bank, that landing will be useful. How will those on this side step down from that side’s landing, and vice versa?
So Mahavira says: from wherever the landing, just descend into the Ganga of truth, of existence. He says: all are right. Only one thing Mahavira calls wrong: whenever any landing-maker says, “Only this landing is right,” then he is wrong. Only this is wrong. When someone says, “Only this landing is right,” and declares the rest wrong—that is wrong. Otherwise there is no mistake. The landing is perfectly fine; the claim is wrong. One can descend from that landing, too. But the claim that only from this landing can one descend—that is wrong. Mahavira says: say only, “From this too one can descend.” Do not say, “Only from this can one descend.” In that very “only,” violence enters; denial of other landings follows.
All landings are small; the Ganga is vast. To build a landing along the whole Ganga is impossible. Though every religion tries to make the entire riverbank its own landing—yet it cannot be done. By the time a landing is built, the Ganga often changes its course. It never quite happens.
The Ganga is immense. The river of existence is vast. If we succeed in building a small landing along a little corner—that too is much. If from it we can make the leap—that too is much.
The three kinds of landings differ fundamentally—feeling, thought, passion. The formula Krishna gives is for those of passion. From the landing of equanimity he can be established in yoga.
Yada hi nendriyartheṣu na karmasv anuṣajjate.
Sarva-saṅkalpa-sannyāsī yogārūḍhas tadocyate.. 4 ..
And when one is not attached to sense-objects nor even to actions, at that time, the renouncer of all resolves is said to be established in yoga.
When there is no attachment to the senses, nor to actions—at such a moment, when these two attachments are absent—such a person is called yogarudha, established in yoga.
Understand two things a little: “One who has no attachment to the senses, nor to actions.” The two are linked. Only if there is attachment to the senses does attachment to actions arise. If there is no attachment to the senses, there can be no way for attachment to action. Whenever Krishna speaks, there is always a scientific staircase in it. First he says: “One who has no attachment to the senses.” If there is no attachment to the senses, there simply cannot be attachment to action. All attachment to action is the extension of attachment to the senses.
If you are amassing wealth and are deeply attached to the actions needed to amass it, you will hardly find a man attached to action merely for the sake of action. The promise of what wealth can give to the senses—that is the cause of attachment. The promise of what wealth can give to the senses—that is the attraction of action.
If tomorrow it became known that money can buy nothing, the whole charm would fade. Then you would not sit in your shop scheming to squeeze two extra coins from a customer. You never really were eager to do that. What value is there in two coins? The value is sense-gratification. The exact value of money is not economic; it is psychological. Economists in capitals do not decide the real value of money. The real value is decided by the mind’s passions, by the senses.
Hence if someone like Mahavira does not keep money, the reason is not “renunciation of money.” The deeper reason is the dissolution of the craving to arrange gratifications for the senses. Then there is no reason to keep money; it becomes a burden. Mahavira will not be foolish enough to carry that load.
For money, man toils so anxiously, runs so hard. He runs for the senses. He trusts money. Money can buy everything: sex, food, clothes, house, comfort. Whatever money can buy—therein lies its value. Money can buy everything—except happiness. It can buy everything but that.
But if you discover that money cannot buy happiness, the race after money ends. Money promises: “I can purchase happiness; only I can!” It purchases sorrow; but the promise is of happiness.
At the gates of every hell the signboard reads “Heaven.” So be cautious before you enter. The signboard says “Heaven.” The keepers of hell are at least clever enough to hang at the door the nameplate “Heaven.” Otherwise, who will enter? If it were written clearly “This is hell,” no one would.
The three kinds of landings differ fundamentally—feeling, thought, passion. The formula Krishna gives is for those of passion. From the landing of equanimity he can be established in yoga.
Yada hi nendriyartheṣu na karmasv anuṣajjate.
Sarva-saṅkalpa-sannyāsī yogārūḍhas tadocyate.. 4 ..
And when one is not attached to sense-objects nor even to actions, at that time, the renouncer of all resolves is said to be established in yoga.
When there is no attachment to the senses, nor to actions—at such a moment, when these two attachments are absent—such a person is called yogarudha, established in yoga.
Understand two things a little: “One who has no attachment to the senses, nor to actions.” The two are linked. Only if there is attachment to the senses does attachment to actions arise. If there is no attachment to the senses, there can be no way for attachment to action. Whenever Krishna speaks, there is always a scientific staircase in it. First he says: “One who has no attachment to the senses.” If there is no attachment to the senses, there simply cannot be attachment to action. All attachment to action is the extension of attachment to the senses.
If you are amassing wealth and are deeply attached to the actions needed to amass it, you will hardly find a man attached to action merely for the sake of action. The promise of what wealth can give to the senses—that is the cause of attachment. The promise of what wealth can give to the senses—that is the attraction of action.
If tomorrow it became known that money can buy nothing, the whole charm would fade. Then you would not sit in your shop scheming to squeeze two extra coins from a customer. You never really were eager to do that. What value is there in two coins? The value is sense-gratification. The exact value of money is not economic; it is psychological. Economists in capitals do not decide the real value of money. The real value is decided by the mind’s passions, by the senses.
Hence if someone like Mahavira does not keep money, the reason is not “renunciation of money.” The deeper reason is the dissolution of the craving to arrange gratifications for the senses. Then there is no reason to keep money; it becomes a burden. Mahavira will not be foolish enough to carry that load.
For money, man toils so anxiously, runs so hard. He runs for the senses. He trusts money. Money can buy everything: sex, food, clothes, house, comfort. Whatever money can buy—therein lies its value. Money can buy everything—except happiness. It can buy everything but that.
But if you discover that money cannot buy happiness, the race after money ends. Money promises: “I can purchase happiness; only I can!” It purchases sorrow; but the promise is of happiness.
Do not remain under the illusion that at hell’s gate there will be a skull and crossbones and the words “Danger, infinite voltage!” Nothing like that will be written. It will read: “Heaven. Come, the wish-fulfilling tree is here!” Only then will anyone enter the door to hell. All doors look like the doors to heaven.
The senses seek gratification. Money gives the promise of gratification. Life becomes engrossed in action. Attachment to action is, at root, a race for the satisfaction of the senses.
Hence Krishna says: one whose attachment to the senses is gone.
Whose attachment to the senses will go? We don’t even know whether there is anything in us other than the sum of the senses. Is there anything more? If my eyes go—let me speak of myself, not you—if my ears go, my hands are cut off, my tongue is gone, my nose is gone—what am I then? Nothing remains. If my five senses are removed one by one, what remains behind? It seems nothing would. A man’s eye goes—half the man is gone. The ears go—more is gone. If all five senses could be taken away and you were somehow kept alive, what would be left in you? Nothing. For our entire experience is the sum of sensory experience. If it feels to me that I am something, that “I am,” it is the sum of my senses.
If one believes “I am a sum of the senses,” how can such a person be free of attachment to the senses? If I am a sum of the senses, then to be free of attachment to the senses would be suicide—nothing else. I would die; what else?
But Krishna says: the one who goes beyond attachment to the senses becomes established in yoga. He says: he will not die; rather, he will attain life in its fullness.
But we have no inkling of that life. For us, the sum of the senses is our life. If we remove the experiences of the senses, one by one, what remains is zero, a void. Nothing remains; nothing you can grasp. How then to be free of the senses, of attachment to them? To be free, remember the first formula—only then will it be possible.
Whenever a sense demands, chooses, indulges, runs frantically for gratification, you must do something to recognize the truth that “I am not the sense.”
When you eat, you become the eating sense. At that time it is necessary to remember: “Am I really eating?” While eating, startle yourself once and look within: “Am I eating? Search anywhere within—am I eating?”
You will see a difference. You are not eating; you are far from the food. The body is eating. The food does not touch you anywhere. It does not touch your consciousness. It cannot.
How can matter touch consciousness? But if consciousness so chooses, it can become attached to matter. Matter does not touch; yet consciousness, if it chooses, can be attracted; it can experience itself as bound to matter.
When you eat, you say, “I am eating.” The error runs deeper; it begins when you feel hungry. You say, “I am hungry.” Look closely: have you ever been hungry? You will say, “Of course, every day.” Still, I say you have never been hungry; it is a misunderstanding. Hunger belongs only to the body. You only come to know that the body is hungry. But you don’t go through this whole process; you leap straight to “I am hungry.” Hunger belongs to the body; you are only conscious that the body is hungry. You only become aware that the body is hungry. But since you have taken the body to be “I,” you say, “I am hungry.”
Now when you feel hunger, observe carefully: your consciousness, which knows hunger, and your body, where hunger arises—these are not one; they are two. When the foot is hurt, you are not hurt; you come to know that the body is hurt. But language has created deep confusions. For brevity we say, “I am hurt.” If it were only a linguistic error, it would be all right; but the confusion sinks deep into consciousness.
When you are young you say, “I have become young.” When you grow old you say, “I have become old.” The same error. The one in you, who knows hunger, spreads. Close your eyes and see: has consciousness grown old? Nowhere will you find wrinkles upon consciousness. Nowhere will you find any droop of age upon consciousness. It is as it was in the child. As fresh at birth as at the moment of death.
Consciousness never goes stale. The body goes stale. The body becomes worn out. And we go on repeating the old illusion that “I am the body,” hence man laments, “I have grown old.”
Consciousness never becomes old. That is why, if your eyes were kept closed, you were not allowed to know your body, and a year passed, or ten, you were fed but never shown a mirror—after ten years, would you be able to say from the inner experience of consciousness, “I have grown ten years older”? You would not. You would not know.
This is why sometimes great mistakes happen. At certain deep moments, old people behave like children. Only because consciousness within never ages; only the outer shell does. Hence sometimes the old behave like the young; the reason is the same. Within, consciousness never ages.
Scientists have already discovered hormones; today or tomorrow they will make injections so that a dose given to an old man will reduce his age by ten years—another shot, twenty years! If the body’s hormones are altered, the day a sixty-year-old begins to feel thirty, life will be difficult for him. The body will look sixty; but with the changed hormones his identity will shift—he will begin to behave like thirty.
Consciousness has no age. Whatever the body’s age, consciousness merely assumes itself to be so. Consciousness is only aware—and we misuse awareness. With awareness we can do two things: we can, if we choose, identify with the body—this is ignorance; or, if we choose, we can hold ourselves separate from the body—this is knowledge.
Only he will be free of attachment to the senses who becomes capable of knowing himself as other than the body.
So practice methods that sharpen and intensify the sense of your separateness from the body. When hungry, say aloud, “My body is hungry.” When satisfied after eating, say aloud, “My body feels satisfied.” When sleep comes, say, “My body is sleepy.” When you fall ill, say, “My body is ill.” Say it aloud, so that you, too, hear it clearly and deepen this experience. It won’t be long before the realization grows dense.
All these realizations are suggestions. We keep saying, “I am the body,” again and again; this becomes a suggestion, a mantra. We become hypnotized, and begin to believe we are the body. Say it aloud otherwise—the hypnosis will break; you will be de-hypnotized—and you will know you are not the body.
The day you know “I am not the body,” attachment to the senses will depart. And the day attachment to the senses departs, attachment to action will be no more. Does this mean that if hunger arises you will not eat? No.
It does mean that you will eat only when there is hunger. It does mean that when hunger ends, you will immediately stop eating. It also means you will not be able to overeat. And it certainly means you will not be able to eat the wrong things.
The wrong, the excessive, the needless food we keep loading ourselves with is born of sense-attachment, not of the body’s hunger. We go on consuming meat, drinking alcohol, eating anything—its cause is not hunger; it is attachment to the senses.
Yes, when sense-attachment goes, hunger will still arise—and I tell you, the sense of hunger will be purer, more pristine. But then you will only be able to eat when hunger is there. At present, the sight of food is enough to create hunger. Even when food is not seen, the mind imagines it and hunger appears. Most of our hunger is fallacious.
Those who study physiology say that most people eat when there is no hunger, and because of that thousands of diseases arise. They eat by the clock—“it’s lunchtime”—and eat. Then they eat for taste—“it’s delicious”—and keep adding more! Never caring about the state of hunger.
Our food has no relation to hunger. Food has become a mental indulgence. Hunger is a physical need, a necessity. Food has become a passion. We have created enjoyments in food beyond hunger; these arise from attachment to the senses.
So too with sexuality. Even animals behave more temperately than us in sex. They are periodic; there is a season when the animal is in heat. Only man, of all animals on earth, is in heat twenty-four hours a day, year-round. The animal, when in heat, seeks the opposite sex. Man is different: he sees the object first, and desire is aroused. In the animal, heat comes first; then the search begins. In man, the sight of the object comes first; then heat arises.
A friend of mine is a great hunter—he has hunted many lions and tigers. I was his guest. Watching him eat, I asked if he had ever seen a lion eager for food after he had eaten. He said, “Never.” I asked because my friend’s eating had prompted me: he was eating and eating. He still didn’t catch on. He asked, “Why do you ask?” I said, “Because the need for food was satisfied long ago. Besides, your body holds so much reserve that for a month or two you needn’t eat at all. Yet you keep eating!” He said, “I’ve not seen it. After eating, a lion won’t even look at a goat standing nearby.” But place a sweet before a man—whether or not he looks, he keeps looking!
Sense-attachment distorts the body’s order. One who has no attachment to the senses will also feel hunger—but it will be pure hunger, limited to necessity. Necessities are very few; passions are infinite. Taste has no end; food is needed in very small amounts.
And so it will be in all directions of life. Pure necessities will remain everywhere. Some “necessities” are not personal at all; one becomes free of them. For example, sex. It is interesting that food is your body’s necessity, but have you ever considered that sexuality is not your necessity in the same way? Sexuality is society’s necessity. If you do not eat, you will die. If sexuality disappears in you, progeny will die—society’s stream will end. Sex is biological. It is not as much an individual’s need as nature’s need to have someone born from you before you die. It is nature’s demand.
And one who comes to know “I am beyond the senses,” comes to know “I am beyond nature.” He moves outside the snare and net of nature.
So, just as eating will continue, sex will dissolve. I say this to distinguish even among our “needs.” One whose sense-attachment has ended—his hunger will become pure, limited, natural. His kama will become purified and move toward Rama. His sexuality will dissolve—because it is not the individual’s deep need; it is nature’s need. Before you die, nature wants to extract from you the work of replacing yourself. It has no deep purpose for you.
But the mind filled with senses thinks the opposite: it will be ready to forego hunger, to forego money, to forego health, but will not stop chasing sex. These are distorted senses.
As soon as the senses become natural, wholesome, spontaneous, what is truly the individual’s need becomes simple; and what is not the individual’s need dissolves.
What then of such a person’s actions?
His attachment to action will be lost, but action will not stop. And when attachment to action is lost, wrong actions depart; right actions become active with even greater energy. Gradually only auspicious actions remain, inauspicious actions melt away.
Enough for today.
But let us stay five more minutes—just five. Then tonight we will continue with the next sutras. For five minutes the sannyasins will sing kirtan. Any of you who wish may join in. Those who remain seated, at least clap along, echo their song. Receive the prasada of their bhajan for five minutes; then we will take our leave.
As far as the end is concerned, they are one. As far as fulfillment is concerned, they are one. As far as attainment is concerned, they are one. Where nihsankalpa or nirvichara comes to completion, only one experience remains—the void, the formless, the ultimate. But as far as the path is concerned, there is a difference. As far as methodology is concerned, there is a difference.
The process of becoming thought-free is different from the process of becoming free of resolves. The process for nihsankalpa is samatva-buddhi: stopping in the very midst of dualities, resting in equanimity. The method to go beyond resolves, to become sankalpa-shunya, is what I have just indicated—attaining even-mindedness. The process for nirvichara is attaining the state of witnessing.
The result will be the same. The process of nirvichara is to become a witness of thought. Whatever the thought, simply be the witness to it—be the seer, the onlooker. While still in the game, become a spectator to the game. As you watch a play, begin to watch your own mind. As the stream of thoughts flows, be as one sitting on the bank watching the road where people pass by—sit on the bank and watch the current of thoughts in the mind.
Awareness with respect to thoughts is the method. And the one who becomes aware of thoughts will arrive at the formless by becoming thought-free. But the points from which one takes the jump differ. And what is suitable depends on the type and temperament of the person.
For example, some people hardly live in desires; they live in thoughts. Intellectuals—those who live in the world of the intellect—are not caught much in the net of desires. Often a man living deeply in intellect lives almost an austere, ascetic life.
Einstein! Now, if you tell Einstein, “Don’t choose,” he will say, “But I don’t choose anyway!” Tell him, “Don’t choose a black car or a blue one,” and he will say, “I never noticed which car is black and which is blue!” Einstein’s life is that of a tapasvin. Even at meals his wife has to mind whether the salt or the sugar is too much, because he will simply eat. He lives in the world of thought; he runs there.
Dr. Ram Manohar Lohia once went to meet Einstein. His wife had given him an appointment for eleven sharp, saying even a slight delay would be difficult. Lohia thought perhaps Einstein had some urgent work after eleven. He hurried and arrived at exactly eleven, but he was late by just one minute. Einstein’s wife said, “You’ve missed him.” Lohia said, “Just by one minute! I didn’t even see him at the door. Where did he go?” She said, “He went to the bathroom.” He said, “What are you saying! I can wait.” She said, “But there’s no telling when he’ll come out.” He said, “How long can he bathe?” She said, “Bathing is not the point! Many times he comes out without bathing! What does he do there, then? He does what he does the whole day—lies down in the tub and starts thinking. He forgets to bathe!”
He came out six hours later, very delighted—some mathematical puzzle had been solved. Dr. Lohia asked, “Do you solve mathematical puzzles in the bathroom?” Einstein said that when he developed the theory of the expanding universe—that the cosmos is not static but continuously expanding, like a balloon being inflated—he got the insight in his bathtub while blowing soap bubbles. As he watched the bubbles grow, it struck him that the universe, too, could be expanding.
Our word Brahman itself means expansion. The rishis of this land have always said that the universe is expanding, not standing still. Brahmand means that which keeps expanding, never halting; expansion is its very nature.
But Einstein got the idea in his bathroom. Such people don’t live in desires; they live in thoughts. A subtle difference. For them, the formula “pause between two desires” will mean little. For them, “become aware of thoughts” will mean much more.
So for the intellectual type—the one who lives in the intellect, not in passions (though intellect is also a passion, it is of a very different kind)—for him the practice of nirvichara is apt.
But most people do not live in thoughts; most live in desires. Once in a while someone like Einstein lives in thought; most live in passions. If you think at all, it is for some desire. And if a man like Einstein ever desires, it is for the sake of some thought.
Keep this distinction in mind.
If you think, you think for some desire. You want a big house, so you think how to get it—what business to do, how to earn money. If Einstein ever thinks of a big house, it is only when he feels his lab has become too small, thought can’t flow properly there; he thinks of finding a bigger lab. If a man like Einstein desires a big house, it is for the sake of thought. And when we sit and think a little, it is for the sake of some desire. This is the difference. For those whose passions are emphatically strong, what Krishna says is exactly right.
Arjuna is not a man of thought; he is a man of desires—a warrior. He has little to do with thinking. And if someone like Einstein gets lost in thought, he cannot fight. The very formula of war is: don’t think, fight. If you think, war becomes difficult; defeat becomes certain. In war, the one who does not think, who fights totally, wins. He does not think.
In Japan there is a class of warriors, the samurai. Their teachers say that if you think even for a moment, you will miss. Wield the sword; don’t think. If you think even slightly, the sword will miss for that much time—and in that time the enemy’s blade will pierce your chest.
So if two samurai engage in a duel, it becomes very difficult to decide victory and defeat, for both fight in a sense without thought. The fighting is intuitive: there is no mental calculation of where to strike. The strike happens where one’s whole life-energy says “strike.” There is no gap between striking and thinking; the strike itself is the thought.
And the astonishing thing is that samurai experience that when the opponent attacks, the defense rises of itself at exactly that spot where the blow will fall. Thought would be too slow. Thought takes time; there will be a time gap.
If you attack me with a sword and I start thinking, “Where will the blow fall—on the neck, the waist, or the chest?”—by the time I have thought that much, the sword, being swift, will already have severed my neck. There is no scope for thought here. I must be able to wield the sword without thought; the sword must reach exactly where the enemy’s sword is reaching. There should be no hindrance of thought.
Arjuna is a samurai. His whole training is to fight with his total life-energy. He lives in passions, not in thought. Hence Krishna tells him: become even between two passions. If Arjuna becomes even between two passions, he becomes established in yoga.
If Einstein is to be established in yoga, equanimity between passions is not the issue. Einstein will say, “Where are the passions?” He hardly even notices them.
One night Einstein went to dine at a friend’s house. Dinner ended at eleven. Then they sat on the veranda chatting. Many times Einstein looked at his watch, scratched his head, and resumed talking. The friend grew uneasy—twelve struck, then one. He didn’t have the courage to tell Einstein, “Now please go; I must sleep!” Two o’clock. And what puzzled him more was that Einstein repeatedly looked at his watch, scratched his head, and kept sitting. The friend thought, “He knows it’s two!”
Finally the friend said, “Won’t you sleep tonight?” Einstein said, “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking each time I look at my watch—when will you leave?” The friend said, “You’re too much! This is my house.” Einstein said, “Forgive me; I don’t keep track well of whose house is whose. I’ll go. I was checking the time to figure when to leave—when will you go?”
A man who loses track of which house is his cannot be caught in desires for building houses. It’s not his concern; not part of his consciousness.
We can make two broad divisions. Those who live in thought, in intellect; and those who live in drives, in passions. Between them is a finer division: those who live in feeling, in emotion. These are the three broad divisions. And for all three, the processes are different.
Those who live in drives/passions—and the vast majority do; ninety-nine out of a hundred, no less—for them the formula is: be even between two drives, two passions.
A very small number—half a percent—live in thought. For them the formula is: be aware of thought. And another half percent live in feeling. For them the formula is: be suffused with remembrance, with mindfulness toward feeling. There are small differences among these three.
One who must move from thought to thoughtlessness needs awareness—awareness of thought. One who must move from feeling to no-feeling needs mindfulness—remembering with clarity, wakefulness—toward feeling. There is a slight difference between awareness and mindfulness. And one who must move beyond drives/passions needs equanimity—samatva—standing still in the midst of duality.
A word more about the middle formula—for those who live in feeling; not in passion, not in thought, but in feeling. Those for whom labs and formulas and philosophical puzzles hold no meaning; who have nothing to do with doctrines; who do not wish to found empires or build palaces; who live in feeling—love, anger—who live in the heart.
Omar Khayyam says in his Rubaiyat: Let there be a shady tree, a pitcher of wine, you, my beloved, close by, and a book of verses—then I have conquered the world; what more is needed? The song we can read from the book; we can sip the wine; and then, beneath the starry sky, we shall fall asleep in each other’s arms. A shady tree is enough; no longing for a palace.
This type Omar speaks of is the emotional. If there is love, song, and a shady tree, it suffices. Neither will he fuss over whether one should drink wine or not; nor will he be caught in the passion that love must be under a roof—that a palace is needed. No; if there is love, the tree is a palace. And if love is not there, even a palace is a wasteland. This is the person who lives on the plane of feeling. Very rare too! Omar says, a book of verses nearby—enough; we can sing from it at times.
For such a person the process is what Buddha called Right Mindfulness—samyak smriti: the lucid remembrance “This is love, this is hatred, this is anger, this is attachment.” A concentrated, clear knowing of “What is this? What am I doing—what is this?”
If one becomes intently mindful toward feeling and knows “This is love,” he will be surprised, for he will see that the moment he becomes fully aware that “This is love,” hatred stands transparent just behind it. The feeling becomes transparent, and hatred is visible beyond. The moment he sees “This is anger,” if he looks carefully, at once remorse and forgiveness stand there in the background. Feelings become transparent.
Feelings are very transparent—like glass. Drives/passions are like stone—non-transparent; nothing can be seen through them. Drives are dense. Feelings are fluid, delicate; one can see through them. Through drives one cannot see. Between two drives, if you stand, you will find a door—they are like two stones. But in feeling, if you become mindful, you begin to see beyond right through the feeling itself. Feelings are like glass—sheer, transparent.
Awareness toward thought; mindfulness toward feeling; even-mindedness toward passion. The result will be one. These distinctions exist because there are three kinds of people on earth. The result will be one.
Whether you become thought-free, feeling-free, or free of resolves—what remains is the formless. You will jump into the same Ganga, but the ghats—the landings—will differ. Your ghat will be your own. So long as you stand on the ghat, there is difference. Once you jump into the Ganga, there is no difference. Then will you still distinguish, “Because I jumped from another landing, my Ganga is different,” or “Since you jumped from a different landing, your Ganga is different”? The landing is left behind the moment you jump into the river. But there are differences of landing. Properly understood, all the religions of the world are differences of landing.
The Jains use a very apt word for their givers of insight: Tirthankara. Tirthankara means “maker of a ford,” builder of a landing. It means only that this man built yet another landing from which people can jump. The claim is not about the Ganga; the claim is only about the landing. Hence the claim is entirely right. The claim is not “This man made the Ganga”; it is only that he made another ghat from which a boat can be launched. There are other landings too; there is no denial of them.
Therefore Mahavira denied no landing. He said, “There are other landings also. One can go by those too.” Very few understood Mahavira, because he would never call anyone wrong. He would say, “That too is right—another landing.”
Even to one who says, “I stand exactly opposite you. You have built your landing on this bank; I on that. How can we be one?”—even to him Mahavira says, “Launch your boat—we will meet in the same Ganga.” You who stand opposite, having built your landing on the other side—very good; for those coming down that bank, that landing will be useful. How will those on this side step down from that side’s landing, and vice versa?
So Mahavira says: from wherever the landing, just descend into the Ganga of truth, of existence. He says: all are right. Only one thing Mahavira calls wrong: whenever any landing-maker says, “Only this landing is right,” then he is wrong. Only this is wrong. When someone says, “Only this landing is right,” and declares the rest wrong—that is wrong. Otherwise there is no mistake. The landing is perfectly fine; the claim is wrong. One can descend from that landing, too. But the claim that only from this landing can one descend—that is wrong. Mahavira says: say only, “From this too one can descend.” Do not say, “Only from this can one descend.” In that very “only,” violence enters; denial of other landings follows.
All landings are small; the Ganga is vast. To build a landing along the whole Ganga is impossible. Though every religion tries to make the entire riverbank its own landing—yet it cannot be done. By the time a landing is built, the Ganga often changes its course. It never quite happens.
The Ganga is immense. The river of existence is vast. If we succeed in building a small landing along a little corner—that too is much. If from it we can make the leap—that too is much.
The three kinds of landings differ fundamentally—feeling, thought, passion. The formula Krishna gives is for those of passion. From the landing of equanimity he can be established in yoga.
Yada hi nendriyartheṣu na karmasv anuṣajjate.
Sarva-saṅkalpa-sannyāsī yogārūḍhas tadocyate.. 4 ..
And when one is not attached to sense-objects nor even to actions, at that time, the renouncer of all resolves is said to be established in yoga.
When there is no attachment to the senses, nor to actions—at such a moment, when these two attachments are absent—such a person is called yogarudha, established in yoga.
Understand two things a little: “One who has no attachment to the senses, nor to actions.” The two are linked. Only if there is attachment to the senses does attachment to actions arise. If there is no attachment to the senses, there can be no way for attachment to action. Whenever Krishna speaks, there is always a scientific staircase in it. First he says: “One who has no attachment to the senses.” If there is no attachment to the senses, there simply cannot be attachment to action. All attachment to action is the extension of attachment to the senses.
If you are amassing wealth and are deeply attached to the actions needed to amass it, you will hardly find a man attached to action merely for the sake of action. The promise of what wealth can give to the senses—that is the cause of attachment. The promise of what wealth can give to the senses—that is the attraction of action.
If tomorrow it became known that money can buy nothing, the whole charm would fade. Then you would not sit in your shop scheming to squeeze two extra coins from a customer. You never really were eager to do that. What value is there in two coins? The value is sense-gratification. The exact value of money is not economic; it is psychological. Economists in capitals do not decide the real value of money. The real value is decided by the mind’s passions, by the senses.
Hence if someone like Mahavira does not keep money, the reason is not “renunciation of money.” The deeper reason is the dissolution of the craving to arrange gratifications for the senses. Then there is no reason to keep money; it becomes a burden. Mahavira will not be foolish enough to carry that load.
For money, man toils so anxiously, runs so hard. He runs for the senses. He trusts money. Money can buy everything: sex, food, clothes, house, comfort. Whatever money can buy—therein lies its value. Money can buy everything—except happiness. It can buy everything but that.
But if you discover that money cannot buy happiness, the race after money ends. Money promises: “I can purchase happiness; only I can!” It purchases sorrow; but the promise is of happiness.
At the gates of every hell the signboard reads “Heaven.” So be cautious before you enter. The signboard says “Heaven.” The keepers of hell are at least clever enough to hang at the door the nameplate “Heaven.” Otherwise, who will enter? If it were written clearly “This is hell,” no one would.
The three kinds of landings differ fundamentally—feeling, thought, passion. The formula Krishna gives is for those of passion. From the landing of equanimity he can be established in yoga.
Yada hi nendriyartheṣu na karmasv anuṣajjate.
Sarva-saṅkalpa-sannyāsī yogārūḍhas tadocyate.. 4 ..
And when one is not attached to sense-objects nor even to actions, at that time, the renouncer of all resolves is said to be established in yoga.
When there is no attachment to the senses, nor to actions—at such a moment, when these two attachments are absent—such a person is called yogarudha, established in yoga.
Understand two things a little: “One who has no attachment to the senses, nor to actions.” The two are linked. Only if there is attachment to the senses does attachment to actions arise. If there is no attachment to the senses, there can be no way for attachment to action. Whenever Krishna speaks, there is always a scientific staircase in it. First he says: “One who has no attachment to the senses.” If there is no attachment to the senses, there simply cannot be attachment to action. All attachment to action is the extension of attachment to the senses.
If you are amassing wealth and are deeply attached to the actions needed to amass it, you will hardly find a man attached to action merely for the sake of action. The promise of what wealth can give to the senses—that is the cause of attachment. The promise of what wealth can give to the senses—that is the attraction of action.
If tomorrow it became known that money can buy nothing, the whole charm would fade. Then you would not sit in your shop scheming to squeeze two extra coins from a customer. You never really were eager to do that. What value is there in two coins? The value is sense-gratification. The exact value of money is not economic; it is psychological. Economists in capitals do not decide the real value of money. The real value is decided by the mind’s passions, by the senses.
Hence if someone like Mahavira does not keep money, the reason is not “renunciation of money.” The deeper reason is the dissolution of the craving to arrange gratifications for the senses. Then there is no reason to keep money; it becomes a burden. Mahavira will not be foolish enough to carry that load.
For money, man toils so anxiously, runs so hard. He runs for the senses. He trusts money. Money can buy everything: sex, food, clothes, house, comfort. Whatever money can buy—therein lies its value. Money can buy everything—except happiness. It can buy everything but that.
But if you discover that money cannot buy happiness, the race after money ends. Money promises: “I can purchase happiness; only I can!” It purchases sorrow; but the promise is of happiness.
Do not remain under the illusion that at hell’s gate there will be a skull and crossbones and the words “Danger, infinite voltage!” Nothing like that will be written. It will read: “Heaven. Come, the wish-fulfilling tree is here!” Only then will anyone enter the door to hell. All doors look like the doors to heaven.
The senses seek gratification. Money gives the promise of gratification. Life becomes engrossed in action. Attachment to action is, at root, a race for the satisfaction of the senses.
Hence Krishna says: one whose attachment to the senses is gone.
Whose attachment to the senses will go? We don’t even know whether there is anything in us other than the sum of the senses. Is there anything more? If my eyes go—let me speak of myself, not you—if my ears go, my hands are cut off, my tongue is gone, my nose is gone—what am I then? Nothing remains. If my five senses are removed one by one, what remains behind? It seems nothing would. A man’s eye goes—half the man is gone. The ears go—more is gone. If all five senses could be taken away and you were somehow kept alive, what would be left in you? Nothing. For our entire experience is the sum of sensory experience. If it feels to me that I am something, that “I am,” it is the sum of my senses.
If one believes “I am a sum of the senses,” how can such a person be free of attachment to the senses? If I am a sum of the senses, then to be free of attachment to the senses would be suicide—nothing else. I would die; what else?
But Krishna says: the one who goes beyond attachment to the senses becomes established in yoga. He says: he will not die; rather, he will attain life in its fullness.
But we have no inkling of that life. For us, the sum of the senses is our life. If we remove the experiences of the senses, one by one, what remains is zero, a void. Nothing remains; nothing you can grasp. How then to be free of the senses, of attachment to them? To be free, remember the first formula—only then will it be possible.
Whenever a sense demands, chooses, indulges, runs frantically for gratification, you must do something to recognize the truth that “I am not the sense.”
When you eat, you become the eating sense. At that time it is necessary to remember: “Am I really eating?” While eating, startle yourself once and look within: “Am I eating? Search anywhere within—am I eating?”
You will see a difference. You are not eating; you are far from the food. The body is eating. The food does not touch you anywhere. It does not touch your consciousness. It cannot.
How can matter touch consciousness? But if consciousness so chooses, it can become attached to matter. Matter does not touch; yet consciousness, if it chooses, can be attracted; it can experience itself as bound to matter.
When you eat, you say, “I am eating.” The error runs deeper; it begins when you feel hungry. You say, “I am hungry.” Look closely: have you ever been hungry? You will say, “Of course, every day.” Still, I say you have never been hungry; it is a misunderstanding. Hunger belongs only to the body. You only come to know that the body is hungry. But you don’t go through this whole process; you leap straight to “I am hungry.” Hunger belongs to the body; you are only conscious that the body is hungry. You only become aware that the body is hungry. But since you have taken the body to be “I,” you say, “I am hungry.”
Now when you feel hunger, observe carefully: your consciousness, which knows hunger, and your body, where hunger arises—these are not one; they are two. When the foot is hurt, you are not hurt; you come to know that the body is hurt. But language has created deep confusions. For brevity we say, “I am hurt.” If it were only a linguistic error, it would be all right; but the confusion sinks deep into consciousness.
When you are young you say, “I have become young.” When you grow old you say, “I have become old.” The same error. The one in you, who knows hunger, spreads. Close your eyes and see: has consciousness grown old? Nowhere will you find wrinkles upon consciousness. Nowhere will you find any droop of age upon consciousness. It is as it was in the child. As fresh at birth as at the moment of death.
Consciousness never goes stale. The body goes stale. The body becomes worn out. And we go on repeating the old illusion that “I am the body,” hence man laments, “I have grown old.”
Consciousness never becomes old. That is why, if your eyes were kept closed, you were not allowed to know your body, and a year passed, or ten, you were fed but never shown a mirror—after ten years, would you be able to say from the inner experience of consciousness, “I have grown ten years older”? You would not. You would not know.
This is why sometimes great mistakes happen. At certain deep moments, old people behave like children. Only because consciousness within never ages; only the outer shell does. Hence sometimes the old behave like the young; the reason is the same. Within, consciousness never ages.
Scientists have already discovered hormones; today or tomorrow they will make injections so that a dose given to an old man will reduce his age by ten years—another shot, twenty years! If the body’s hormones are altered, the day a sixty-year-old begins to feel thirty, life will be difficult for him. The body will look sixty; but with the changed hormones his identity will shift—he will begin to behave like thirty.
Consciousness has no age. Whatever the body’s age, consciousness merely assumes itself to be so. Consciousness is only aware—and we misuse awareness. With awareness we can do two things: we can, if we choose, identify with the body—this is ignorance; or, if we choose, we can hold ourselves separate from the body—this is knowledge.
Only he will be free of attachment to the senses who becomes capable of knowing himself as other than the body.
So practice methods that sharpen and intensify the sense of your separateness from the body. When hungry, say aloud, “My body is hungry.” When satisfied after eating, say aloud, “My body feels satisfied.” When sleep comes, say, “My body is sleepy.” When you fall ill, say, “My body is ill.” Say it aloud, so that you, too, hear it clearly and deepen this experience. It won’t be long before the realization grows dense.
All these realizations are suggestions. We keep saying, “I am the body,” again and again; this becomes a suggestion, a mantra. We become hypnotized, and begin to believe we are the body. Say it aloud otherwise—the hypnosis will break; you will be de-hypnotized—and you will know you are not the body.
The day you know “I am not the body,” attachment to the senses will depart. And the day attachment to the senses departs, attachment to action will be no more. Does this mean that if hunger arises you will not eat? No.
It does mean that you will eat only when there is hunger. It does mean that when hunger ends, you will immediately stop eating. It also means you will not be able to overeat. And it certainly means you will not be able to eat the wrong things.
The wrong, the excessive, the needless food we keep loading ourselves with is born of sense-attachment, not of the body’s hunger. We go on consuming meat, drinking alcohol, eating anything—its cause is not hunger; it is attachment to the senses.
Yes, when sense-attachment goes, hunger will still arise—and I tell you, the sense of hunger will be purer, more pristine. But then you will only be able to eat when hunger is there. At present, the sight of food is enough to create hunger. Even when food is not seen, the mind imagines it and hunger appears. Most of our hunger is fallacious.
Those who study physiology say that most people eat when there is no hunger, and because of that thousands of diseases arise. They eat by the clock—“it’s lunchtime”—and eat. Then they eat for taste—“it’s delicious”—and keep adding more! Never caring about the state of hunger.
Our food has no relation to hunger. Food has become a mental indulgence. Hunger is a physical need, a necessity. Food has become a passion. We have created enjoyments in food beyond hunger; these arise from attachment to the senses.
So too with sexuality. Even animals behave more temperately than us in sex. They are periodic; there is a season when the animal is in heat. Only man, of all animals on earth, is in heat twenty-four hours a day, year-round. The animal, when in heat, seeks the opposite sex. Man is different: he sees the object first, and desire is aroused. In the animal, heat comes first; then the search begins. In man, the sight of the object comes first; then heat arises.
A friend of mine is a great hunter—he has hunted many lions and tigers. I was his guest. Watching him eat, I asked if he had ever seen a lion eager for food after he had eaten. He said, “Never.” I asked because my friend’s eating had prompted me: he was eating and eating. He still didn’t catch on. He asked, “Why do you ask?” I said, “Because the need for food was satisfied long ago. Besides, your body holds so much reserve that for a month or two you needn’t eat at all. Yet you keep eating!” He said, “I’ve not seen it. After eating, a lion won’t even look at a goat standing nearby.” But place a sweet before a man—whether or not he looks, he keeps looking!
Sense-attachment distorts the body’s order. One who has no attachment to the senses will also feel hunger—but it will be pure hunger, limited to necessity. Necessities are very few; passions are infinite. Taste has no end; food is needed in very small amounts.
And so it will be in all directions of life. Pure necessities will remain everywhere. Some “necessities” are not personal at all; one becomes free of them. For example, sex. It is interesting that food is your body’s necessity, but have you ever considered that sexuality is not your necessity in the same way? Sexuality is society’s necessity. If you do not eat, you will die. If sexuality disappears in you, progeny will die—society’s stream will end. Sex is biological. It is not as much an individual’s need as nature’s need to have someone born from you before you die. It is nature’s demand.
And one who comes to know “I am beyond the senses,” comes to know “I am beyond nature.” He moves outside the snare and net of nature.
So, just as eating will continue, sex will dissolve. I say this to distinguish even among our “needs.” One whose sense-attachment has ended—his hunger will become pure, limited, natural. His kama will become purified and move toward Rama. His sexuality will dissolve—because it is not the individual’s deep need; it is nature’s need. Before you die, nature wants to extract from you the work of replacing yourself. It has no deep purpose for you.
But the mind filled with senses thinks the opposite: it will be ready to forego hunger, to forego money, to forego health, but will not stop chasing sex. These are distorted senses.
As soon as the senses become natural, wholesome, spontaneous, what is truly the individual’s need becomes simple; and what is not the individual’s need dissolves.
What then of such a person’s actions?
His attachment to action will be lost, but action will not stop. And when attachment to action is lost, wrong actions depart; right actions become active with even greater energy. Gradually only auspicious actions remain, inauspicious actions melt away.
Enough for today.
But let us stay five more minutes—just five. Then tonight we will continue with the next sutras. For five minutes the sannyasins will sing kirtan. Any of you who wish may join in. Those who remain seated, at least clap along, echo their song. Receive the prasada of their bhajan for five minutes; then we will take our leave.
Osho's Commentary
Life is duality everywhere. All the forms of life are forms of polarity. Wherever you cast your eyes, wherever the mind goes, wherever thought reaches—you will find two extremes present. Fall this side—there is a ravine; fall that side—there is a well. Between the two there is a very thin ridge. Whoever abides there, he attains Yoga. The thin ridge between the two, between the polarities—the narrow path between the dualities—that very narrow path is equanimous intelligence.
Equanimous intelligence means balance—becoming even in the midst of duality. As you may have seen a shopkeeper weighing goods on a scale. When both pans become exactly equal and the needle comes to rest at the center—leaning neither to the left nor to the right; neither leftist nor rightist—when it comes to rest in the middle, equanimous intelligence is attained.
Krishna says, equanimity is the essence of Yoga.
Krishna will not call one a yogi who clings to any one extreme. He may be the opposite of a bhogi, but he cannot be a yogi. He may be a tyagi. If you go to a dictionary, opposite the word ‘bhogi’ you may find ‘yogi’ written. In the dictionary, ‘yogi’ appears as the opposite of ‘bhogi’. But Krishna will not place the yogi opposite the bhogi; he will place the tyagi opposite the bhogi.
A yogi is one upon whom neither enjoyment holds nor renunciation holds. One who has gone beyond clinging. One who does not think in dualities—who has become non-dual. One who does not say, “I will choose this,” and does not say, “I will choose that.” He says, “I choose not at all; I stand outside choice.” He is choiceless—without selection. And only the choiceless can become free of sankalpa, of volition. Where there is choice, there is sankalpa.
I say, “I choose this.” Even if I say, “I choose renunciation,” I have still chosen something against something else—against enjoyment. If I say, “I choose simplicity,” I have decided against luxury and opulence. Where there is choice, extremity will arise. Choice never abides in the middle. Choice always carries you to one pole. And once choosing begins, you will not stop until the end.
Another curious fact: even if someone chooses and reaches one extreme, he cannot remain there long—for life is not a state of fixation. Soon the longing for the other extreme will arise. Thus those who are immersed in enjoyment day and night also, in certain moments, dream of renunciation. And those immersed in renunciation also, in certain moments, dream of enjoyment. The alternative remains ever present. There is a scientific reason for this.
A polarity is forever tied to its opposite; it cannot be free of it. That which I have chosen against will also remain present in my mind. If I say I choose you as opposed to someone else, then that ‘someone else’ will continue to accompany my choice of you in my mind. Your choice is not just your choice—it is a choice against someone. The opposite remains present.
And the laws of the mind are such that whatever lingers too long breeds boredom. So with what I have chosen, if it lingers, I will become bored. And in boredom I will have only one option—to move to the opposite. Thus the mind keeps wandering from one polarity to the other.
When Krishna says ‘equanimity’, understand well: equanimity will be available only to the one who attenuates the mind. Because mind is choice. The mind cannot remain even for a moment without choosing.
When I said to you that the needle of the scale comes to rest in the middle, we can also say in another way: now the scale is no more. For the scale’s work is to weigh. When the needle is absolutely at the center, weighing has ceased; the contents have become equal. To weigh means the scale should report. But now both pans are still and the needle is exactly in the center—equipoise has come—then the work of the scale is finished. The balanced scale has gone beyond being a scale. So too, the work of the mind is to choose between extremes.
If we understand rightly, if we ask a psychologist, he will say: the mind evolved because of choosing. And hence man has the most developed mind, because man has the greatest itch to choose. Animals do not choose much, so mind does not develop much in them. Birds do not choose much. Plants do not choose much. Man’s capacity is that he can choose. He can say, “I will eat this food and not that.” Animals eat the food that nature has chosen for them.
If a thousand kinds of grass grow here and you let a buffalo loose, she will graze only that grass which nature has prescribed for her; she will leave the rest. The buffalo does not choose by herself, and therefore no mind develops in the buffalo.
All of nature, except man, is mindless. Properly understood, we call a human being ‘man’ precisely because he has mind. ‘Manushya’ means ‘the one with manas—mind’.
The only difference between man and animals is that animals have no mind and man has mind. Man is not called man because he is the son of Manu, but because he is the son of mind; born of mind. That is his glory and his misery. It is his splendor and his death. By mind he rises above the animals. But by mind he cannot become Paramatma.
Keep this second point also in view.
By mind, he rises above the animals. But by that very mind he cannot reach the Divine. To rise above the animals, mind is necessary. But to rise above even man and touch Paramatma, mind must cease again. Yet when man loses the mind, he is not an animal—he becomes divine.
Man comes to know the mind—and then lets it go. The animal never knew mind; it has no experience of it. When something is dropped after being experienced, we do not return to the state before experience—we enter a state beyond experience.
Mind is choice—this or that. The mind thinks in either-or language. Shall I choose this, or shall I choose that? You stand at a shop—the mind weighs: this, or that? In society you stand—the mind weighs: shall I love this one or that one? Moment to moment the mind is choosing—this or that. Awake or asleep, sitting or rising, the mind wavers like the needle of a scale. Sometimes this pan grows heavy, sometimes that pan grows heavy.
And remember, whatever the mind chooses, it soon becomes bored by it. The mind cannot remain still. Hence the mind often moves to the very opposite of what it had chosen. Today you love someone; tomorrow you begin to hate the same one. Today you make a friend; tomorrow you start converting him into an enemy. Those who know deeply will even say: making a friend is the preparation for making an enemy. The moment you create a friend, the preparation for enmity begins; the mind has started to return.
Theodor Reik, a very thoughtful American psychoanalyst, wrote: the mind has only two formulas—in-fatuation and frustration. He says, the mind has only two rules: to become attached to something, and then to become detached from it.
Either the mind will be attached, or it will be detached. Either it will want to grasp, or it will want to release. Either it will want to embrace, or it will never want to see again. The mind will keep swinging between these two extremes. The mind that swings between these two extremes is called volitional—filled with sankalpa.
Where there is sankalpa, the alternative—vikalpa—always hovers behind. When you are making someone a friend, a part of your mind immediately begins to search for enmity in him—instantly! You love someone, and another part of the mind starts, then and there, searching for the grounds of hatred. You call someone beautiful, and another part immediately starts looking for what is ugly in him. You express reverence for someone, and another part of the mind promptly seeks how to be irreverent toward him.
The other pan of the mind is present—perhaps raised up for now, without weight upon it. But it too will start seeking weight. And it will not be long before the lower pan gets tired and wants to be light; the raised pan also gets tired and wants to be heavy. And we will spend life shifting weight from one pan to the other. We lift weight off this pan and place it on that. Then from that pan we lift and put it back on this. An entire life passes in switching from one extreme of the mind to the other.
Krishna says, I call him a yogi who attains equanimous intelligence—who stops putting weight on the pans. Who ends this childish, unintelligent habit and says, “What net have I fallen into!” Who breaks his identity with the pans of the scale. And comes to where the scale rests, to where it becomes equal—comes to the center. Between the two extremes, the one who discovers the exact middle; neither friend nor enemy; who abides in between.
This is a most wondrous moment—to come to rest in the middle. And once one tastes the bliss of resting in the middle—know well, apart from resting in the middle there is no other bliss. For whenever one pan bears weight, tension arises in the consciousness.
Whenever you choose something, excitement begins in the psyche. The truth is: without excitement you cannot choose. You choose out of agitation; you become perturbed. And whenever you choose out of excitement, you have extended an invitation to suffering for the mind. Soon you will be bored; soon you will be troubled. Then you will choose the opposite, thinking that as no joy came here, perhaps it will come in the opposite.
This is the arithmetic of the mind. It says: if joy is not found here, then choose the reverse—perhaps joy lies there. If joy is not found there either, then choose the reverse again. And the mind goes on—bored by what it has experienced, and hankering for its opposite which it has not experienced.
And our memory is very weak. It is not that what you drop today out of boredom, you will not choose again tomorrow. Our memory is weak. Tomorrow you may choose it again. What you reject today out of boredom, holding tight to its opposite—tomorrow you will tire of the opposite too, and pick up the first again. Memory is weak.
In fact, in a mind filled with extremes there is no memory at all. In a mind stuffed with polarity there is only the attraction of the opposite. Look back at your life: you will find yourself choosing the same things again and again.
This evening you were angry; the mind repented. No sooner does anger happen than repentance begins. That is the opposite—that is the other extreme. Here anger flares; there the mind begins preparing to repent. Anger happened; fire burned; you were excited, afflicted. Then the mind grew sorrowful, cried, was defeated, repented. In repenting, the other extreme is touched. But note well: repenting, you begin preparing to be angry again. By tomorrow evening you will be ready for anger once more. What you repented yesterday will not remain in memory.
How many times have you repented! Repentance is no new event. The same act is repeated every day; then you repent. Then you do it again; then you repent again. And it never occurs that after so much repentance, nothing ever comes of it.
So if you could do even this much—that I will get angry, but I will not repent—you would be in great difficulty. Because if you do not repent, the mind will not be able to prepare for anger again. It will sound upside down to you—but such is the stream of life.
I say to you: do not drop anger; drop only repentance. Then you will not be able to be angry—because repentance is the preparation for anger again. Drop anger, and you will not be able to repent—because repentance will have no need. Drop repentance, and you will not be able to get angry—because without repentance it is impossible to forget anger. Then you will remain seated on the same pan; going to the other pan of the scale will be very difficult. And the mind cannot sit on one pan for long; it will become frantic, very restless. If you settle even this much—that I will not repent—then for the mind there remains only one way: to go to the middle, where there is no pan.
But the mind deceives. The mind says, “You have been angry—repent.” And the mind also persuades, and countless people also go on persuading—sadhus, sannyasins—all over the country they go on preaching utterly unscientific advice. They say, “If you have been angry, then repent.” They claim that repentance will eradicate anger. It has never eradicated anyone’s anger. They say, “Angry? Then repent; repentance will dissolve your anger.” Anger will not be dissolved—only the strength to be angry again will be created. Try it and you will find yourself capable again.
The little sting that anger had caused, the pain that had arisen—that is erased. The small wound to the ego—“What a bad person I am”—that too is erased. By repentance you again feel, “I am a good person.” Repenting, you restore yourself to the same status as before anger—you re-establish the status quo. Now you can be angry again. Now you are not a bad person. Now you can be angry.
Polarity! And what I have said of anger applies to all the tendencies of the mind. It applies to all tendencies. Krishna says: in the middle is Yoga. Both extremes are unyogic—anger as well as repentance; love as well as hate. Yoga is in the middle—there where there is balance.
What to do? How to abide in balance? Where to stop?
Whenever the preparation is afoot to go from one pan to the other, do not go to the other. Do not hurry. Do not move to the other pan. If there is anger, abide in the anger; do not hurry toward repentance. Stay in anger itself.
You will not be able to remain. It is not the law of mind to remain. Even if you prevent the mind from going to repentance, it will go. But there is only one way left for it to go: to step outside the pans altogether.
Therefore one who can be angry, let him abide in anger itself. Anger is very bad. You will not be able to remain—you will have to move. You will not be able to stay—you will have to dismount. But do not rush to the other extreme. Then only one option will remain by itself: you will have no movement left except to go to the center.
Whatever the disease of the psyche, remain in that disease. Do not run; do not hasten. Do not clutch at the opposite disease; abide there itself. The mind has no rule of resting; it will move. Do not allow it to move within duality—then it will move into the middle. Try this—you will be astonished.
But the moment anger arises, the mind immediately lifts the second leg and places it on the pan of repentance. Half of the person is angry, and the other half begins preparing to repent. Watch a man in anger. If you keep an eye on his face, you will see sun and shadow together. He is angry, and he is also embarrassed; he is also preparing to repent. Just now the hand was raised to strike; in a little while the same hands will be joined to apologize. Finished! He traveled the whole distance from one corner of the mind’s polarity to the other. It is necessary to understand this dialectics of the mind.
Marx has said that society is dialectical—polar. Society lives by conflict. But a day could come when society will no longer live by conflict. According to Marx himself, if communism ever arrives in the world, then duality will vanish; it will become non-dualistic, non-dialectical—no conflict. But the mind can never, in any condition, become non-dialectical. Duality will remain—yes, if the mind itself ceases—that is what Krishna is indicating—that is a different matter. If the mind remains, duality remains. If the mind is no more, dualitylessness will dawn.
Therefore, if one understands Krishna’s aphorism rightly, Marx’s communism cannot come to the world until there are people in large numbers who are without mind. Otherwise duality will continue. Duality cannot be escaped.
The dualities seen in society are expansions of the inner polarities of the individual mind. As long as the inner mind is dialectical, we cannot fashion such a society in which duality ends. Yes, dualities will change. If not rich-poor, then it will be commissar and non-commissar—those in power and those without. If not of wealth, then of beauty; if not of wealth, then of intelligence.
And a very amusing thing! In the old days people said wealth comes by fate. If socialism comes, someone will be beautiful and someone ugly. Another’s beauty will evoke as much jealousy as someone’s wealth used to. Then what will communism say—how does beauty happen? It will say, by fate. It will say, by nature.
Then one person will be intelligent and another dull. And the dull will not reach power; the intelligent will. Then what will socialism say? “These intelligent ones reach power—yet the intelligent and the dull should have equal rights.” But this intelligent one reaches power—what to do? Only one answer will remain—how to distribute intelligence? Perhaps it is by fate. He is intelligent by birth, and you are not.
Dualities will change. Duality will not change; it will persist—because the mind is dialectical. But Marx had no awareness of the mind; he was concerned with social organization.
If we ask Buddha, or Krishna, or Mahavira, or Christ, they will say: society’s order is an expansion of the mind. Yes—society can become balanced on the day individuals, on a large scale, become yogarudha—established in Yoga. So large a scale that those who are not yogarudha become meaningless—their being or not being makes no difference. But for now, if one person among millions becomes yogarudha, that is much. Dreamers can say that one day all will become yogarudha—but this does not seem visible. The possibility seems most unlikely.
This hope seems filled with despair—that society will one day become balanced. For as yet we cannot even make an individual equanimous in intelligence. Society is a vast affair. Society keeps changing. We cannot fashion even a single person who becomes equal-minded. Therefore equality coming to society seems impossible. Until the individual’s chitta is wholly endowed with sameness—and the equanimity of one person’s chitta changes nothing. For some Krishnas and Mahaviras and some Buddhas have always attained equality. Yet besides that, there is no other way.
Mind will bring misery, for mind brings duality. Where there is duality there will be struggle, quarrel, malice, excitement, tension; there the pain will be dense, the anguish thick; there life will be hell.
Mind is the maker of hell. With mind as it is, no one can enter heaven—because mind itself is hell. But if one becomes equal…
Then try small experiments in becoming equal. Try very small experiments; through them the path will slowly become clear.
Sometimes after a bath you stand still. If you pay attention, you will be surprised: either your weight is on the left foot or on the right. Close your eyes and notice a little—you will find the weight is on the left foot or on the right. If the body’s weight is on the left, simply remain standing and watch. In a little while you will find the weight has shifted to the right. If the weight is on the right, stand just as you are and keep looking within that the weight is on the right. In a moment you will find it has shifted to the left. Within, the mind is changing that fast. It does not stand even a moment on one foot. From left it goes to right; from right it goes to left.
Now, if in this small experience you make one experiment—stand in such balance that your weight is neither on the left nor on the right; let it come between both feet. This is a very small experiment I am suggesting. Let the weight come between the two.
If even for a single instant you catch a glimpse of it, you will be astonished. And you will catch a glimpse. For if it can go to the left and to the right, why can it not remain in between! There is no reason, no obstacle—except old habit. For one instant balance yourself so that you remain in the middle; your weight is neither on the left nor on the right. And the moment you sense you are in the middle, in that very moment you will feel the body is not. Suddenly a sense of bodilessness arises; no weight remains in the body. The body becomes weightless—as if you could take wing into the sky! You will not fly, but it will feel as if you could. Gravity seems to vanish. Gravity is there, the earth is still pulling—but the true weight is not the earth’s pull. The true weight is of the mind, which continually creates polarity in even the smallest things.
If you can do even this small experiment for fifteen minutes daily, then in three months you will come to a state where the experience of standing between the two feet begins to happen. From this small key you will get the basis for bringing the mind into equanimous intelligence. Then whenever the mind tries anywhere to choose left or right, you will be able to abide in the middle there too. But the experience of the middle must begin somewhere. I have not said something difficult—very simple. Because other things are very difficult.
Other things are very difficult. “Do not make friends, do not make enemies”—this will feel very hard. The mind no sooner sees someone than it begins to make. You come to know a little later; the mind has already made up before that. A stranger enters your room, and your mind has already startled into a decision. The decision becomes apparent to you later. The mind says, “I do not like this person.” You have not yet met, not yet spoken, not yet conversed, not yet even known—but the mind has said, “I do not like him.” Old associations are at work.
The mind has its associations. Once someone of this face-type abused you. Or from this man’s body a certain odor comes—someone with such a smell once insulted you. Or this man’s eyes have a certain color—someone with such eyes once got angry. Some association harmonizes with this person. The mind says, “Beware! This man wears a Turkish cap—he is a Muslim. This man wears a tilak—he is a Hindu. Be cautious! This sort of man once set fire to a mosque; this sort of man once broke a temple. Beware!”
This happens very unconsciously; it does not happen in your awareness. If it began to happen in awareness, it would never happen. It happens in those dark corners within of which you yourself are not conscious. You will become conscious later; it takes time. Conversation will happen with this person. And according to the decision your mind has taken, the mind will find in the person those very points it has already decided upon.
Usually you think you make decisions after thought. But those who understand the mind say: you decide first, and thought afterwards is merely an excuse.
You fall in love with someone. If someone asks you “Why?” you say, “His face is very beautiful; his voice is very sweet.” But psychologists say: you fall in love first; these are only later rationalizations.
If someone asks, “Why have you fallen in love?” you are not so wise as to be able to say, “I do not know why—I just have.” To appear intelligent you say, “Look at his face—how beautiful!” But seeing the same face, someone else feels aversion. Hearing the same voice, someone else cannot sleep all night. And for you too—how many days it will remain, is not certain. After a month or two or three you may be standing with a petition for divorce. The same voice that seemed so sweet will become scratching to the ear.
What happened? The voice is the same; you are the same; the face is the same. Earlier a great fragrance arose from it; now a stench seems to come. The features are the same, but what appeared as marble now seems like clay. What has happened?
Nothing has happened. The mind decides first; then your intellect trails behind it.
Freud says—and few know the mind as deeply as Freud—that man makes all his decisions in the dark, in the unconscious. And all his cleverness is false and dishonest. All the things he claims to have done after careful thought—no one does them after thought. He does things first; afterwards he weaves the web of thought.
We are house-builders of a strange kind. To build a house, you erect a scaffolding outside—bamboo poles and planks—then the house arises. But the house of the mind is built in reverse. First the house is built, then we tie up the scaffolding outside.
First the mind decides; then we gather the bamboos of intellect and raise them—so that no one can say we are mindless. Leaving others aside, even we ourselves should not have to say we are mindless. We are wise. Whatever decision we have taken, we have taken after much deliberation.
No decision are you taking after deliberation. For one who decides after understanding takes only one decision—the one Krishna speaks of: the decision of equanimity. He never takes any other decision.
All decisions of duality are ignorant decisions. The decision to be non-dual is the only wise decision. Those who are truly wise have taken one decision only: we stand outside the dualities. And one who says, “I stand outside duality,” stands outside the mind. And one who stands outside the mind—his peace is boundless; for now there remains no means for excitement.
Excitement came from duality, from choice. Now there is no cause for excitement. Now there are no tensions; the seeds that create tension are no more. Now he is outside. Now he is silent. Now he can see life just as it is. Now he can look within to the very depths to which depths exist. And such a person, who can look within to the absolute depths—he is yogarudha, mounted upon Yoga, attained to Yoga.
The beginning of Yoga is equanimity. But as soon as equanimity bears fruit, the man becomes yogarudha. Yogarudha means: he has come to rest in himself.
We are dismounted from Yoga. We are fallen—wavering here and there. We leave vacant precisely the place where we should abide. Sometimes left, sometimes right—never the middle. Only in the middle is the Atman. On the left is body, on the right is body. When weight falls on the left foot, emphasis falls on one part of the body. When on the right foot, still emphasis is on a part of the body. If you can stand between both feet, you stand outside the body; you stand in the Atman. Then no emphasis falls on any part of the body.
And so it is with everything. Hate is also of the mind, love is also of the mind. If you abide outside both, you abide in the Atman. Anger is mind, forgiveness too is mind. If you abide outside both, you abide beyond mind.
One who abides outside both—Krishna calls him yogarudha—established in Yoga, steady in Yoga.
Such steadiness opens the entire secret of life. Such steadiness opens all the doors of life. For the first time we are related to the depths of existence. For the first time we descend to where the temple of life is—where the deity of life resides. For the first time we take the leap into Paramatma.
Only one who finds the wings of Yoga can leap into the Divine. But those wings of Yoga come only to one who finds the heart of equanimity. Otherwise the wings do not grow. To begin with equanimity is essential.
Such a person, Krishna says, becomes feeble in sankalpas—resolutions.
There is no need of sankalpa. Sankalpa is needed only when I have to choose something. I say, “I want this,” then the mind must be marshaled to obtain it. I say, “I must gain wealth,” then the mind must be driven on the journey of wealth. I desire to find diamond mines; then the energies must be deployed on that expedition. Energy gathered and assigned in one direction is sankalpa. Desire is only the beginning. Desire alone does nothing. Then all life’s energy must flow in that direction.
I stand with an arrow in hand; on the tree before me a bird is perched. The arrow will not yet fly; the bird will not yet die. First a desire must arise in the mind—to make a meal of this bird, or to capture this bird and lock its song in my home, to imprison the beauty of its feathers in a cage. Desire must arise—to own this bird. But desire alone will achieve nothing. Desire will keep circling in you and the bird will sit on the tree singing. Desire will weave its web within; the bird will remain on the tree.
No, desire must become sankalpa. Sankalpa means all the energy must be directed. The hand must come to the arrow. The arrow must be set toward the bird. All concentration, all the mind’s strength, all the body’s strength must be gathered into the arrow. When the arrow is drawn on the bowstring and the attention fixed on the bird—desire is no longer desire; it has become sankalpa. Yes, even now you can return. Even now the sankalpa has not been released. But if the arrow slips from the hand, then you cannot return. If the sankalpa has begun the journey—gone beyond the string—then you cannot return.
Thus there are two stages of sankalpa. One stage from which you can return; and one from which you cannot. Ninety-nine out of a hundred of our sankalpas are in the stage from which we can return. From those sankalpas from which you can return—return. Returning from sankalpa, desire will remain. One hundred percent of our desires are such that we can return from them. Ninety-nine percent of our sankalpas are such that we can return from them. Only those sankalpas are difficult to return from whose arrows have gone beyond the bowstring.
I can still return from that anger which has not yet become my words. I can still return from that anger which has not yet become vocal. But when anger has become an abuse and has gone out through my lips, there is no way to return; the arrow is gone.
But of those sankalpas whose arrows have flown—though you cannot return, you can render them futile. The arrow will strike the bird and the bird will fall dead—but at least you can do this much: make the sankalpa fruitless. You cannot return, but you can neutralize it. To neutralize means: do not claim ownership of the bird. Do not fulfill the desire for which the sankalpa arose. Even now the arrow can be pulled out of the bird. Even now the bird’s wounds can be healed. Even now arrangements can be made not to put the bird in a cage. Even now, if the bird is alive, it can be released into the open sky.
So for those sankalpas that have shot out like arrows, whatever can be done to undo them—the seeker should do, to render them futile. Those sankalpas still on the bowstring, the string should be loosened and the arrows returned to the quiver. Those that remain mere desires—the duality of those desires must be understood—that they arise from choice. And one must stand between left and right. And one must say: I will not choose. I make only one choice—that I will not choose. To be choiceless is the only choice. My only choice is that now I do not choose.
The clouds of desire will scatter in a little while and dissolve. And if you stand between left and right, you will experience equanimity. And the experience of equanimity opens the door to becoming yogarudha. There, there are no sankalpas; there, there are no vikalpas. There is a perfect silence, a perfect shunya. In that shunya is the supreme realization.
All of Krishna’s aphorisms knock upon different doors of the supreme realization. He says to Arjuna: Attain equanimous intelligence—then you will become yogarudha. And then, being yogarudha, all your sankalpas will fall, all alternatives will drop; all the anxieties of your chitta will fall away. You will become without worry. The truth is, you will become chittaatit—beyond chitta. Your chitta will no longer be yours; your mind will no longer be yours. If we put it so, we can say: then you will not remain Arjuna; only the Atman will remain.
And the day one remains only the Atman—on that very day one knows the bliss of existence, that Samadhi of existence, that ecstasy, that benediction, that deep beauty—Truth, hidden within itself—its unveiling. Supreme is its music; supreme its poetry.
But before knowing, one must pass through a preparation. The name of that preparation is Yoga. The attainment of that preparation is to become yogarudha. The process of that preparation is equanimous intelligence.