Geeta Darshan #20

Nothing is ever lost in life. Life is the sum total of all efforts we have ever made. The interval of time makes no difference. Every deed done, every thought thought, becomes part of our very prana. The moment we think something, we are transformed; the moment we do something, we are transformed. That transformation travels with us.

Whatever we are today is the sum of our thoughts, feelings, and actions. Whatever we are today is the entire chain of our past. Until a moment ago, whatever has been done in infinite lives is present within me.

Krishna says: in this very life, if one has practiced Yoga but has not come to perfection, Arjuna, then in the next life, effortlessly, what he had practiced becomes available. Effortlessly! He does not even know it. He does not even know why it is becoming available to him. Hence, many times great confusion arises. And the doctrines that say that truth can be attained suddenly, without effort, have behind them this very confusion at work.

If a person in his previous birth had reached that point where water starts to boil at ninety-nine degrees, and one degree was left, then through some small, insignificant event in this life he may suddenly attain supreme knowing. The last straw was yet to be placed on the camel—and the camel sits. But even a tiny straw—you know from the weighing scale—if one tiny straw is short, the pan stays up. Add one straw, this pan comes down; the other rises. Even a straw has its dignity. What is the worth of a straw! Try to understand this.

A Zen nun, a sadhvi, lived for years with her master. She heard all kinds of discourses, understood all kinds of scriptures, became familiar with all kinds of doctrines. Yet, somewhere something was stuck and the doors would not open. It felt as if the key were in hand, and still the lock remained unopened. It felt as if she knew—and yet some interval remained, some obstruction, some wall. However fine and subtle the film, she could not pass beyond it.

Again and again she asked the master: What is the obstacle? How will it break?

The master said: Wait. It is such a very small obstacle; it will break of itself. And the obstacle is so small that perhaps you cannot even make an effort. The obstacle is very small; it will break of itself. Wait a little; wait a little.

Years passed. She also grew old. One day she asked again: When will it break? The master looked at the sky and said: In this fortnight, perhaps by the time the moon is full, it may break. Five or seven days were left for the full-moon night. And on the full-moon night it broke—so suddenly that it became a legend in the history of Zen fakirs.

At dusk the sun set. The moon arose. Its light spread. Around ten at night, the master said to that nun: I am thirsty. Go and bring water from the well. As they do in Japan, so here too—they hang pots on either side of a bamboo pole and carry water from the well.

She went to fill water, with clay pots hanging from a bamboo pole. She filled the water and was returning, thinking: The full moon has come. The moon is complete. Midnight is approaching. And the master had said, perhaps by the time the moon becomes full this time, the matter will happen. It has not yet happened. No sign of hope appears! And now the hour for sleep has also come. I shall give the master water to drink, then I shall sleep. When will this thing happen!

Just then her bamboo pole broke. Both her pots fell to the ground; they shattered; water splashed. And the happening happened. She has written a song: When the pot fell—I used to look in the pot and see the reflection of the moon in the water. The clay jar fell; it broke. The jar broke. The water spilled. Where did the reflection of the moon vanish? No one knows. And as the jar broke, something within me broke. And just as the reflection of the moon vanished, so did I vanish. As the jar broke, something within me also broke. And as the moon’s reflection vanished from the water, so did I vanish. I looked up—there was the moon; I looked within—there was Paramatma. The reflection in the pot broke; the moon did not break.

We are nothing more than the reflection of Paramatma. And we have the pot of ego, and the water of attachment—there all reflections appear.

She ran to the master and said: Never had I dreamed that with the breaking of a pot knowledge would happen! The master said: It is only with the breaking of the pot that it happens. The question is: how will the pot break? And your pot was very weak—ever about to break. It could have broken at any time. Only some occasion was needed, by which the last straw within you would be placed. The weight was complete—the pan was ready to come down. The last straw happened with the breaking of a pot.

In many people’s lives the happening happens without warning.

A very wondrous seeker and mystic, Bucke, wrote a book, Cosmic Consciousness. He is greatly astonished. He had never practiced anything, never prayed, never performed any worship, did not even believe in God. One dark night he was walking through a forest. There was solitude; other than the sound of crickets there was no sound. A soft moonlight. Gusts of wind murmuring through the trees.

Suddenly—no pot even broke, as in the woman’s case—in Bucke’s own words: I do not know what happened. I could not understand what happened. It felt as if I were dying. I sat down. For a moment it felt like sinking—as if someone were drowning in water—I was going down. Great panic arose. I tried to cry out. But as sometimes happens to us in dreams—we try to cry, no sound comes. We try to raise the hand, the hand will not rise. Bucke writes: Neither did my hands rise, nor did any cry come. Then the thought came: Other than the crickets, there is no one here to hear anyway. Even if I cry, what will happen? When my eyes closed, I do not know. When I fell down, I do not know. It felt I had died.

When I regained awareness, around midnight, I saw that I was another man. The man who was there until yesterday had gone. The doubter, the irreverent, the unbeliever, the atheist—he is not. Someone else has come within me. In every leaf of every tree, Paramatma is visible. The sound of crickets has become brahmanad. And Bucke said all his life: Beyond my understanding is what happened that night. Without cause!

Krishna says: If the journey of past lives has remained a little incomplete, if somewhere we missed by a little, then one day suddenly, in some birth, the seed sprouts by itself; the lamp is lit; the door opens. And many times it happens that we miss by only an inch. And for missing by an inch one sometimes has to travel through many births.

When gold was first discovered in Colorado in America, a very wondrous incident happened; I am fond of it. When gold was first found in Colorado—and today the most gold is in Colorado, the largest gold mines—farmers began to find gold while working their fields. People climbed the hills and found gold. People bought tracts of land and became billionaires.

One man thought: Why buy a small plot? He bought an entire mountain. He invested all he had. He sold his factories. He purchased a whole mountain. Becoming a multi-billionaire was assured. When people were digging small fields and extracting gold, he had bought a whole mountain.

But wonder of wonders—he installed huge digging machines on the mountain, and there was no trace of gold! The mountain seemed utterly devoid of gold. Not a single piece was found. He had spent some thirty million rupees to buy the mountain and bring heavy machinery up. People in Colorado were digging with pickaxes and finding gold. The whole world was running toward Colorado. And that man was ruined in Colorado. His condition became such that he did not even have the money to bring the machines down to sell them. Everything was stalled.

He put a notice in the newspapers that he wanted to sell the entire mountain with machinery. His friends said: Who will buy it! All America has heard there is nothing on that mountain. He said: Perhaps I may find someone more courageous than I. People said: There is no one so mad. He said: Let me try once. I think, perhaps, I might find someone braver than me.

And a man did come who paid the thirty million and bought the whole mountain with all the machinery. When he bought it, his family said: You have gone completely mad! The first man was ruined; now you are going to be ruined! The man said: As far as the mountain has been dug, up to there we know there is no gold. The matter is settled enough. So the gold may be below. Up to where it has been dug, there is none. We have been saved this trouble. The other man has done the useless toil. Now we have to work further. Much of the mountain is already cut. Who knows—beneath there may be gold! People said: Do not get into this. There are plenty of lands where gold lies right on top. But the man bought the mountain.

And wonder—on the first day’s digging the largest gold mine of Colorado was found—just one more foot of earth. One foot more! And the greatest repository of gold in Colorado was found on that mountain. And that man became the richest billionaire in Colorado.

One foot! Sometimes we miss by an inch. Sometimes by half an inch.

Therefore Krishna says: Do not fear, Arjuna! However much you miss, what you have done will not go to waste. Whatever you have done will not go to waste. Whatever you have done—the journey will begin right there in the next birth. A gap of time will certainly intervene. Perhaps you will not even understand when the happening suddenly happens. Perhaps you will not be able to recognize what is happening. But what is with you—what you have done—will remain with you.

No effort made in the direction of Yoga is ever lost. No step taken toward the divine goes in vain. That much journey is done. We become other. Even a thought thought in the direction of the divine does not go to waste; we move that much further.

He is giving Arjuna assurance: Do not get entangled in these thoughts. Do not think in this way—if it remains incomplete, what will happen! Whatever happens has its own significance. Whatever you will be able to do—that will be enough.

A friend came to me. He said that ninety percent of his mind wants to take sannyas, ten percent does not. I said: Then what is your thought? He said: Then I will not take it now. I said: Think a little—that not taking is also a decision. And you are deciding in favor of the ten percent and not deciding in favor of the ninety.

He said: Ninety percent of my mind wants sannyas, ten percent of doubt catches the mind—so I will not take it now. He does not know that this too is a decision. Not taking is a definite decision. This decision is being taken in favor of the ten percent. And the decision that favors the ninety percent is not being taken. It seems this ninety percent is not his; the ten percent is his.

Do you understand my meaning? This ninety percent seems not to be his, at least not of this birth. Otherwise how could it be that a man leaves ninety percent and clings to ten! The ten percent is his, of this birth. The ninety percent is the journey of his past births. He has no conscious relationship with it, that it is his. It appears as if someone inside is saying—ninety percent—take sannyas. But he holds back. He is in favor of the ten percent. He will not be able to hold out long—because that ninety percent will keep pushing. And how long can the ten percent win? How will it win?

But the interval of time will come. Even births can be lost. And that ninety percent will wait; and in every birth it will push. Every day, every night, every moment it will push—because that ninety percent is your larger portion, which you are not recognizing as yours. And this ten percent, which you call ‘mine,’ is only the collection of this birth.

Remember, the struggle between past births and this birth creates the gap between man’s conscious and unconscious. Freud has no inkling of this; Jung has no inkling of this. Because neither Freud nor Jung have a very deep grasp. Their search is very superficial. The answer Freud gives is not clear at all: Why does a gap come between the conscious and the unconscious? Why is there a distinction? Why are there two parts of the human mind—conscious and unconscious?

Freud can only say the unconscious is that portion we have repressed. But why did we repress it? And Freud also knows that the unconscious is nine times bigger than the conscious. Can a small portion suppress a portion nine times bigger? There seems a great error here. Freud says the unconscious is nine times bigger—the iceberg: the submerged nine parts are the unconscious, the little part above the water is the conscious. If the ninefold unconscious is only that which man has repressed, it is a wonder that the small conscious can repress the great!

No—Freud seems a little mistaken. There is some truth in repression—but in fact the unconscious is that portion of the mind that is constituted by our past births; and the conscious is that portion of our mind constituted by this birth.

After birth we have made our mind through education, conditioning, religion, friends, loved ones, experiences—their sum is our conscious mind. And behind it, hidden, the subterranean current of our unconscious mind—that is our past. It is the entire collection of our past births.

Certainly it is more powerful, but not more active. There is a difference. Greater power does not necessarily mean greater activity. Lesser power can be more active. What we have made in this birth is on the surface; it is the upper layer of our mind. What belongs to our past is that deep. The deeper the births in which we made it, the deeper it lies.

Like dust settling in a house over years—today’s morning dust will be on top and visible. When a gust of wind comes, the deeply settled dust of years will not stir—the upper dust will fly. The lower dust will rest at ease—very deep, now no gust reaches there. Sometimes a gust does reach. When we say some thought enters our life—some inspiration, some event, some person, some word, some sound, some shock—when it penetrates our layers and goes within, then a voice from within arises.

The voice of ninety percent that is reaching that friend is arising due to some deep blow. But he is busy denying the blow. He has fallen into heavy suffering. The suffering is great. And a thought arises in the mind to commit suicide.

Remember, when the thought of suicide arises in a man’s life, that very moment can be transformed into sannyas—instantly! For sannyas means self-transformation.

When a man wants to commit suicide it means he is fed up with this self—as it is—he wants to finish it. There are two ways. Either cut the body—then the self does not end, only deception arises. The same self will enter a new body and begin its journey again. The other, the right way, is: transform this self, transmute it, make it new. Killing the body does nothing—change the self itself—that is Yoga.

Therefore let me tell you a very delightful fact: In a country where there are more sannyasins, there are fewer suicides. And where there are fewer sannyasins, suicides increase in the same proportion.

You will be astonished to know: If we place the figures of suicide and sannyas of America and India side by side, the ratio will be exact. As many people here take sannyas in greater numbers, so many there commit suicide. Because the moment of suicide can go in two directions—it is a crisis. Either destroy the body, or destroy the self. Two directions.

Destroying the body accomplishes nothing. After thirty or thirty-five years you will find yourself standing at the same point. A long futile journey—conception, becoming a child, education, all the commotion—and one day you will find the very same moment of suicide has come. Yes, it will come after thirty or forty years. That much time will be wasted.

Sannyas means: The hour has come when we cannot remain satisfied with the way we are. There is no point in dragging this as it is any further. A change is necessary—so change the self.

But ninety percent of the mind says: change. Yet that layer is deep, below—you cannot own it as yours. The layer on top—fresh, with which you identify—feels like ‘me.’ The mind has this rule.

The mind’s rule is: what is on the surface seems one’s own—because the mind lives on the surface, on the waves. What is deep does not seem one’s own.

Hence, often confusion arises. When a voice comes from the very depths—coming from one’s own within—when a voice comes from very deep, the seeker feels as if someone from above is speaking. God is speaking.

Paramatma never speaks. Paramatma is the whole existence; he never speaks, he is always silent. But a voice comes from so deep within oneself that it seems another’s voice, coming from far away. We ourselves have gone so far from ourselves—so far from our home—that a voice from our own home seems a far-away, someone else’s voice. It is our own voice—the voice of our own depths. But our identity is with the topmost layer; we call it ‘I’.

Krishna says: Arjuna, do not be afraid. Whatever you can do in this life, do. In the next life it will be available to you without effort.

For this reason too—let me remind you—if a man like Krishna says this, it penetrates very deeply. And there is a law, a device, a technique in this. Why do Krishna, Mahavira, Buddha keep repeating: Whatever you do, it will be found in the next life without effort?

Because in the presence of one like Buddha, Mahavira, or Krishna, your mind’s upper layer opens and you can hear to the very inside. Their presence works as a catalytic agent. In their presence, doors within you that you cannot open, open. Their presence gives you strength, courage, trust.

So when Krishna says that what is of this birth will be found without effort in the next, if this sentence settles in Arjuna’s mind, then when it comes without effort in the next life, he will also remember. This, too, is why it is said. Then in the next life he will be able to recollect: Surely, what is happening today without effort—Krishna had said so. He will recognize it; these words will be seated within him.

Words also have depths. According to the depth of the person, the words deepen. When a man speaks from his throat, they never go deeper than your ears. When a man speaks from his heart, they go to your heart. When a man speaks from his prana, they go to your prana. When a man speaks from his Atman, they go to your Atman. And when a man speaks from his Paramatma, they go to your Paramatma.

Within you it goes only as deep as the speaker’s depth. Never deeper than the speaker’s depth. Yes—it can go less deep. A man may speak from the soul, but reach only your ears, because beyond your ears the way is blocked.

So remember: Never deeper than the speaker’s depth can it enter you; but it can enter less deep than that.

Therefore, in olden days there was a device that disciples remain very close to the master. There was no other reason for keeping the disciple near—only this: that some moment might come when the disciple is so attuned, so in harmony, that the master can share his deepest. When that moment will come, cannot be said.

You are not in the moment of love for twenty-four hours. In the twenty-four hours there comes a moment when you feel more loving. In the same twenty-four there are moments when you feel more angry.

Beggars ask for alms at your door in the morning; they know that morning holds more possibility of compassion than evening. In the evening the beggar does not come, because he knows that by evening you have yourself begged so much through the day that no hope can be placed in you. In the morning you are arriving from another world—from the depths within, where the master resides, where the Lord lives. In those morning moments there is a little lordliness in you, a little sovereignty. You are not a beggar. By evening, the knocks of the market, the chase of the office, the blows of the roads—all disturbances suffered—you reach the state of a beggar. In the evening you have no capacity left to give.

Thus there are moments of depth too. Therefore the ancient master wanted the disciple near, very near, so that whenever he felt the door is open, he might put something in—and it might reach the innermost depth.

Krishna has felt that this is a deep moment for Arjuna. Why? Because for the first time Arjuna is keen to do something. His fear is arising because of that very keenness. Had he not been keen, he would not even ask: What if I get scattered? What if my boat sinks midway? Clearly, the call of the other shore has arisen in his mind—the challenge has been accepted somewhere. Hence the fear is rising. Otherwise even fear would not arise. He would say: All right, whatever you say is fine.

Often those who immediately say: Absolutely right—are those to whom it means nothing. If it matters, you cannot say ‘absolutely right’ at once—because then it is a question of life, of commitment—of deep commitment. A man says, ‘Absolutely right,’ goes home. Often those who say ‘absolutely right’ without thinking, without fear—and here the matter is such that one will be afraid. It is the question of changing one’s entire life. It is a stake of life and death—and a heavy stake.

When Arjuna became anxious—that anxiety is a good sign. Therefore Krishna thought: His door is open now; let me tell him. Do not panic. Trust. Whatever you will do will be given to you in the next birth, even if the journey is not completed. Nothing is lost. In the next birth you will get good guidance—the environment in which the flower will blossom of itself. Such people gather around.

In Tibet there is an ancient saying of yogis: Do not seek the Master. When the disciple is ready, the Master appears. In a six-thousand-year-old Egyptian text this sutra exists: Do not seek the master. When the disciple is ready, the master appears.

Because life has many inner laws about which we have no inkling. They keep working. According to your worthiness, existence always arranges the means.

Yes—you yourself may not use them. It may happen that you say: Not now. Your upper mind may obstruct. Seeing your inner mind, existence has arranged—but your upper mind can interfere. Buddha may pass through your village and you say: Today, it’s difficult. Today there is a big rush of customers at the shop.

How astonishing! It has happened. Buddha passed through villages. The whole village did not come to listen. In the last moments, a man named Subhadra came running. Buddha had already bid farewell to his bhikshus. He said: Now I become silent, void, entering Nirvana. Now I go into Samadhi. Have you anything to ask?

Bhikshus had gathered—perhaps a hundred thousand. They said: We have received so much—what we have received we could not digest. We have understood so much—what we have understood, how could we accomplish it! Now we take leave; we will not trouble you further. We have nothing to ask. You have given without being asked. You have showered unasked. We are only indebted, blessed. We can only weep; we cannot say anything.

Buddha asked three times. His rule was to ask three times—for the compassion of the Buddhas is wondrous. He would ask thrice. Do you have to ask anything? The one in front says, No. Still Buddha says, Do you have to ask anything? The one says, No. Again Buddha says, Do you have to ask anything? He says, No. Then Buddha says: You alone will be responsible for your ‘no’. Three times is enough. After asking thrice, Buddha went behind the tree, closed his eyes, began to dissolve his prana.

Those who have known themselves—death is a play in their own hands. They enter death as you leave an old house and move into a new one. You do not do so; you have to be dragged from one death to another—with great difficulty. You cling to the old house and will not let go, though it is now useless, rotten, where life is no longer possible. Death comes only when life becomes impossible in one house.

But you say: Even if it becomes impossible, hang me upside down in the hospital; even if my eyes remain shut, tubes in my nose, oxygen—the worst contraptions—but save me. Have you seen people in hospitals dangling? Head down, feet up. Weights tied. Tubes into the nose. Injections. And they say: Save me! The house is utterly rotten—no longer worth saving. Death shows compassion: Come, I will take you. I will give you a new house. You say: The old house… Who knows—the old may be gone and the new not come! Even if unconscious—save me. Do not let me die.

One who knows enters death naturally. When the house is complete, he himself says to Death: Now take me. This house is useless.

Buddha began to dissolve himself. He is not going to a new house now—there is no question of house. Houses are needed by the mind. Now the mind is dissolved. Buddha is entering parinirvana—the great void; the river falling into the ocean forever.

Then Subhadra came running: Where is Buddha? I cannot see him. People are weeping. Is it the end? A bhikshu said: Not yet the end—but he is entering it. Subhadra said: I have to ask something. They said: You are very late, Subhadra! As far as we remember, Buddha passed by your village at least three or four times—then you did not come!

He said: There was a rush in the shop. Buddha would certainly come, but sometimes customers; sometimes my wife would fall ill; sometimes my son would need me; sometimes there would be a marriage. Sometimes it would be so hot I would think—who will go in such heat; when he comes in winter I will go. Then in winter also he would come—it would be so cold I wanted to stay under the blanket. I thought—who will go. This way for thirty years Buddha passed near my village, stopped in nearby villages. But I thought—later, later I will meet him. Today I heard—Buddha is dissolving. So I ran. Let me ask.

The bhikshus said: Subhadra, whose fault is this?

But Buddha’s compassion—Buddha arose from behind the tree and came forth. He said: While I am alive, shall anyone be sent back empty-handed—having come to ask? I could still hear. Then a charge would remain forever on me—that someone came to know and I did not speak what I could have given. No harm, Subhadra—even if you came in thirty years, you came early. Some do not come even in thirty births!

Krishna, seeing a blessed moment, says to Arjuna—let this enter him. No—nothing will be destroyed, Arjuna! Whatever you earn becomes your wealth.

And remember: All other kinds of wealth are left in this very life; only the wealth earned in Yoga travels to the next birth. All other wealth is left here. Money earned will be left; houses built will be left; honor, fame will be left. But the deeds done on very deep strata—auspicious or inauspicious; for Yoga or against—if for Yoga, they become wealth; if against, they become a calamity. If you have lived against Yoga, you will go bankrupt and, in the next life, suddenly find yourself a pauper. And if you have done something for Yoga, you will pass as a great emperor and in the next life find that you are a sovereign.

Even if born in a beggar’s house, one who has the wealth of Yoga appears an emperor. And even if born in an emperor’s house, one without the wealth of Yoga appears a beggar. Krishna has spoken of this inner treasure to give Arjuna trust.

पूर्वाभ्यासेन तेनैव ह्रियते ह्यवशोऽपि सः।
जिज्ञासुरपि योगस्य शब्दब्रह्मातिवर्तते।। 44।।

And even when he becomes subject to the senses, by that former practice alone, without doubt he is drawn Godward; and even the jijnasu of Yoga transcends the fruit of the desire-ridden rites spoken of in the Veda.

Krishna adds two points. He says: One who in past births has made even a little journey toward the divine—that has become his wealth. In the next birth, even if he is immersed in objects and desires, he remains a recipient of grace.

Even if he is sunk in objects and desires in the next birth—such a person in whose past the journey of Yoga has some accumulation, who has gathered a little dharma, who has acquired a little punya—even if immersed in desires and objects, he remains a recipient of divine grace. That little which he has done—that door remains open. All other doors are closed. Everywhere else there is darkness, but through a small aperture the light of the divine keeps descending within him.

Remember: In deep darkness, if even a single ray comes through a hole in the roof, there remains trust that the sun is outside and I can go out. Darkness is not ultimate, not absolute. There is something opposite to darkness.

A tiny ray entering through a small hole into dense darkness—then that tiny ray becomes greater than the dense darkness. That dense darkness cannot efface even that tiny ray; the tiny ray cleaves the darkness and passes through.

However much immersed in desires one may be in future births, if through that little aperture—which he has made—grace continues to be available, then the possibility of transformation always remains. He keeps receiving grace—here and there, place to place, in every situation. Who knows in how many forms, in how many shapes, by how many unknown roads and doors, how many unknown journeys of grace toward him continue! Outside he may remain entangled, within some corner becomes the temple of God. And that is a great assurance.

Krishna says: Arjuna, even that small aperture, if made, will be a great support to you.

And a second thing—more revolutionary, very revolutionary. He says: Even the jijnasu of Yoga—just an inquirer; not even a mumukshu, not yet a sadhak, certainly not a siddha—merely an inquirer; one who has only enquired into Yoga—he too transgresses the fruits of the desire-ridden rites prescribed in the Veda.

The Veda says: Perform yajna, and these fruits will come. Give this type of dana, and such a heaven will be obtained. Offer such naivedya to this deity, and in heaven such fruit will be gained. Do thus, do thus—these are the methods for happiness. The Veda gives many procedures to lead man toward happiness. There is a reason for this.

The Veda is not a word addressed to a clear inquirer like Arjuna. The Veda is an encyclopedia—a world-compendium. For all types of people that can exist on earth, sutras are available in the Veda. The Gita is a specific teaching—a special instruction—given by a special person to a special person. The Veda is not teaching given by one person; it is by many. Nor to one person, but to many.

The Veda is a world-compendium. From the most petty to the most sublime, the Veda contains utterances. From the most petty! Even for the man who prays: O Lord, O Indra! My neighbor has become my enemy; kindly make his cow’s milk dry up—there is prayer! Do something so that the neighbor’s cow stops giving milk.

You would not even imagine. No other scripture in the world would dare include such things. But the Veda is as inclusive as Paramatma.

When Paramatma gives a place to this man within himself, the Veda says: We shall also give a place. When Paramatma does not refuse—Remove this man, he talks rubbish—he prays: O Indra, I worship you, I offer oblation, I make yajna—so do something that no crop comes in my neighbor’s field; let the enemy’s fields burn; let crops grow only in our fields; destroy our enemies with thunderbolts—when Paramatma allows this man to live, to breathe, to wait for his change, the Veda says: Why should we be in a hurry! We too will accept him.

Scripture—and gives place to such prayer! It might not seem befitting to Krishna either. Therefore Krishna says: The desire-motivated rites spoken in the Veda—desire-motivated means worship, rituals done with some desire for gain—through those arrangements and rituals, wherever a man reaches, even one who is merely a jijnasu of Yoga goes beyond. Merely an inquirer! Which means: One who enquires in a nishkam mood goes beyond the one who practices in a sakam mood.

To indicate the wondrous secret of akam, of nishkam, of its depth and power—Krishna has said this.

Krishna too was troubled by the Veda, because the Veda tells such things. Buddha too was troubled by the Veda. In truth, it is because of the Vedic arrangements that the separation of Jain and Buddhist religions happened in India; otherwise perhaps it would not have. The tirthankaras of the Jains too felt: What kind of things does the Veda say!

Mahavira says: Think for the other what you think for yourself; and the Veda gives place to prayers—Destroy the enemy! Buddha says: Have compassion even on your murderer. And the Veda says: O deity, destroy the neighbor’s life! And gives it place. Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira—everyone was troubled by these arrangements.

But let me say: The Veda has its own secret. And that secret is: The Veda is an encyclopedia—a world-compendium. Whatever is possible in the direction of religion is collected. Granted, this man is praying to destroy the enemy—but he is praying. And prayer should be collected. He is also a man. Granted, he is bad—but he is. Fact is fact; it must be collected. And when Paramatma accepts him, tolerates him, does not end his life—keeps his breath going, waits for his change—then the Veda says: Why should we be quick to reject! We shall also accept him.

There is no book like the Veda on earth—so inclusive. All other books are chosen. The world’s scriptures are selective—some things left out, some chosen; the bad removed, the good kept. That is what ‘scripture’ usually means. The Veda is not merely scripture—it is the whole human possibility collected—every capacity.

Dr. Johnson compiled an English dictionary. When one compiles an encyclopedia, one has to include obscene words too. They must be included, because they are words people use. There were crude, vulgar abuses—he included them.

It was a big lexicon—hundreds of thousands of words. The abuses were only a handful, because one does not need many; the same abuse repeated can do the work. Abuses are almost ancient, perennial. I do not see new abuses being invented. Sometimes a small invention appears—it does not last. The old abuse persists.

A genteel lady went to Johnson. She opened the dictionary and said: A good man like you—and you write such words! She had underlined them. Johnson said: In such a big dictionary—you found only these words! How did you find them? I thought no one would. How did you? Johnson said: I am not concerned with abuse or prayer. I have collected the words that men use.

The Veda is all-inclusive. Hence, you will find the pettiest man in it—who goes to God with the most petty desires. You will also find the noblest—who goes without any desire. In the Veda you will find him who tries every way to go to God and cannot reach. And you will find him who does not go—God himself comes to him. All will be found.

Therefore it is very easy to criticize the Veda. Open any page—you will find something troublesome. Why? Because ninety-nine percent of men are troublesome. The Veda is very representative—like no other book on earth. All other books represent a class, a type. The Veda represents man—not a class, but all. It is hard to find any man whose type does not find an utterance in the Veda.

That is why it is called ‘Veda’—knowledge. The word Veda means knowledge. Whatever knowledge man has, it is collected—without selection. Not: whom to include, whom to exclude.

Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira—all have had difficulties with it. Each has his own way. Krishna did not reject the Veda, but by a device he showed the way beyond it. He said: All right, the Veda too—for the sakam man. But one who enquires in nishkam surpasses the performers of yajna and havan. Mahavira and Buddha rejected it outright—they said: Do not bring up the Veda; speak of it and you will fall into hell. Hence, avaidika religions arose in India—Buddha and Mahavira.

But my understanding is: The Veda has never been rightly understood. To rightly understand such an all-inclusive book is difficult, because what is opposed to your type will also be there—because your opposite type also exists. Therefore, to wholly love the Veda is difficult. It can be loved only by one who is as inclusive as Paramatma; otherwise, some sentence will jar: This is wrong. It will not be on your side—and so will seem wrong.

In the Veda you will also find the Koran; you will find the Bible; you will find the Dhammapada; you will find Mahavira’s utterances. The Veda is an encyclopedia—it has no axe to grind.

Therefore Mahavira will have difficulty—because what is opposite to Mahavira is also collected there. And the opposite type will have difficulty—because Mahavira’s is also there. Everyone will be troubled.

Hence, no one can live with the Veda without difficulty. And the ways devised to remove the difficulty are dangerous—for instance, Dayananda. His method was to change the meanings of all the words so that the Veda would cease to be an encyclopedia and become a consistent dharmashastra. But this is an excess. The Veda cannot be made consistent. It is knowingly inconsistent—because it accepts all; thus, it must be inconsistent.

A dictionary cannot be consistent. An encyclopedia cannot be consistent. It must give place to statements that contradict one another.

One day some person will surely be born on earth who will be able to understand everything with such tolerance—then the Veda can reappear. Then it will be seen—everything is there, from pebbles and stones to diamonds and gems, from extinguished lamps to blazing suns.

So Krishna says to Arjuna—this is his meaning and reason—that even if you perform all the Vedic ritual, all yajnas and havans, you will not gain as much as you can gain by mere inquiry into Yoga. And if you practice Yoga—then it is another matter; the question does not arise. Krishna’s striving is continuous—to give Arjuna trust.

प्रयत्नाद्यतमानस्तु योगी संशुद्धकिल्बिषः।
अनेकजन्मसंसिद्धस्ततो याति परां गतिम्‌।। 45।।

The yogi who strives with great effort, purified of all sins, having achieved perfection through many births, attains the supreme goal—attains Paramatma.

In this sutra Krishna adds two more points. As he senses Arjuna can understand, he adds further. He says: The purified mind, through sadhana, attains the supreme goal.

The purified mind, through sadhana, attains the supreme goal. Is purification not enough? It is a subtle question. Is purification not enough? Will sadhana also be needed? Would it not be right simply to say: he whose inner being is purified attains the supreme?

But Krishna says: Even the person whose inner being has been purified through infinite births attains the supreme with the help of method—of sadhana. Generally it would seem: if one is fully purified, what need remains of sadhana? Will Paramatma not be available without any method?

Understand a small point and it will be clear: One who becomes purely sattvic without practicing any method faces one last danger that becomes the final obstacle—pious egoism, a holy ego begins to form within.

We know impious egos. A man says: No one is more wicked than I. I could stab a dagger into a chest and eat without washing my hands. Even this has its proclaimers! This is the declaration of tamasic ego.

Remember: Generally we think all egos are tamasic—this is wrong. There are sattvic egos too—and they are subtle. One man says: No one is more wicked than I. Another says: I am but the dust of your feet. The one who says, I am the dust of your feet, I am nothing—he too has an ego, very subtle. There is claim there—though no claim appears.

Look into his eyes. If you say: You are indeed nothing; I have seen someone even more the dust of feet than you—more than you; you are nothing before him—then watch: within him the ego will writhe; lightning will flash. That same glint will appear as in the eyes of the man who says: None is more wicked than I, I stab and drink. The same glint.

Ego is very cunning—the most cunning factor within us. It joins itself to everything—everything. It says: You have wealth; stand stiff and say—do you know who I am! I have wealth. If you think ego is due to wealth and drop wealth, that ego will say: No one is a greater renunciate than I. Announce: I am a great sannyasin! You do not know that the same ego, which had hidden behind wealth, has now hidden behind renunciation. And know—ego behind wealth is gross, visible to all; ego behind renunciation is subtle, invisible.

Therefore Krishna says: Arjuna, even one purified in every way attains God with the help of method.

Hence the need of sadhana. Purity may be attained, sattva may fill the heart, all may seem holy—yet one thing remains saved: the ‘I.’ Without method, that ‘I’ cannot be cut. That ‘I’ must be cut by method.

The supreme methods of Yoga are ways to cut this ‘I.’ Many kinds of methods Yoga uses so that this ‘I’ be cut. For different types of persons, different methods are useful. Let me share a couple of incidents.

There was a Sufi fakir, Bayazid. The wealthiest man of the capital where he was staying came to him. Placing millions at Bayazid’s feet, he said: I want to renounce it all. Accept! Bayazid said: If you want to renounce even renunciation, I will accept. I will not accept renunciation. If you will renounce renunciation, I will accept. The man said: You joke. Wealth can be renounced—how can renunciation be renounced? Is renunciation a thing?

Bayazid said: We will use method—we will make you renounce renunciation. The man said: Apply your method; but I do not understand. This renunciation is not a thing. Consider: If I am present in a room, I can be taken out. But if I am not present, how will my non-presence be taken out!

Bayazid said: Friend, what you call non-presence is not non-presence—it is only the manifest ego becoming unmanifest. You have hidden under a table and chair—you are not absent. We will draw you out. We will use method.

He said: All right. I thought by leaving wealth—because the heart is defiled by wealth—I would be beyond impurity. You say more! What do you want?

The fakir said: From tomorrow do one thing. Every morning sweep the road; carry the rubbish. Later we will use further method.

It pained him greatly. It had not pained him to leave wealth; to sweep the street pained him much. Many times the thought arose: Is sweeping some kind of Yoga? Some kind of method? Many times he came to ask Bayazid. Bayazid said: Wait, wait. Ask not yet. Sweep a little more.

After a month of sweeping, one day Bayazid was walking by. The wealthy man was sweeping with such joy as if singing the Lord’s song. Bayazid put his hand on his shoulder. He did not even turn to look. He went on sweeping. Bayazid said: Brother, listen! He said: Do not interrupt my bhajan. Bayazid said: Now there is no need to sweep. Sweeping has become prayer. A method has worked.

Yoga uses a thousand devices. When Buddha first told his sannyasins to beg alms, it was only as method—not to make them beggars. Buddha himself went to beg. What need had he to beg? When even the greatest emperors were initiated, Buddha would say: Beg. Many people would say: What need to beg—we will provide from our house. Buddha said: From the house you have left, if you take provision, the method will fail. Do not take from there. Beg on the road. The man would say: Many times people make a gesture of the hand—Go on—and it hurts deeply. Buddha said: The day it no longer hurts, that day we will relieve you of begging. The method has worked.

Hence Buddha called his sannyasins bhikkhu—askers. Many of Buddha’s bhikkhus were from great families—he himself was a prince. His relatives, friends, his wife’s family—all were initiated. All were made to beg on the roads.

When Buddha came to his own town and went out begging, his father stopped him and said: Now this is too much! What lack do you have? At least do not beg in this town. Think of my honor. Buddha said: I have already lost my honor; if I lose yours too, the method will be done. How long will you preserve it? Drop it!

Buddha’s father could not understand. He said: Foolish—do you not know? He called Buddha foolish—of whom the wisest are rarely ever born on this earth! But a father’s ego—how could he accept his son wise. Millions accepted him; millions lay at his feet—but Buddha’s father stood stiff.

He said: Foolish—no one in our lineage has ever begged. Buddha said: In your lineage they may not have, but as far as I remember my past births, I have always been a beggar. It is because of that old habit I was born in your house; there was no other reason. But the old habit—I picked up my begging bowl again.

When after twelve years Buddha went home, his wife, in great anger, told their son: Ask from Buddha! This is your father. Look at your shameless father—he left everything; left me without asking; you were a day old when he left. Ask him for his bequest. It was deep sarcasm. She did not know whom she was satirizing—the man standing there was not the old man. Her sarcasm would vanish into the void. But the wife still had the old feeling. She could not see the sun standing before her—her blind eyes could not see.

Attachment blinds; even a sun cannot be seen. Even Buddha could not be seen by Buddha’s wife. She asked her son to mock: Ask—hold out your hands; ask Buddha—what property are you leaving? Deep sarcasm. Buddha had nothing.

But she did not know. The boy Rahul held out his hands. Buddha placed his begging bowl in them and said: I bequeath to you the asking of alms. Beg.

The wife wept and wailed: What are you doing! The father panicked: You left; now you extinguish the one lamp left in the house! Buddha said: I have come for this. I know his possibilities. I know his past journeys. You know him as a child—I do not. I know it is his own journey that has gone far ahead. It needs a small shock.

The father could not understand; the wife could not. But the twelve-year-old Rahul, with the bowl in his hands, joined the bhikkhus. The mother called; the father said: Come back, son—do not get into this. Rahul said: The matter is complete. My initiation has happened.

The meaning of method is: Even the ego of sattva has to be cut.

If one seeks only to be pure, only to be moral, he will need method. But if one seeks purity with Yoga, then no separate method is needed—the method of Yoga develops alongside.

Enough for today. The rest we will speak in the evening. Now for a little while, let us enter sadhana.

Kirtan too is a method. Those who can do it—their inner ego will fall, will break. And if you cannot do it, there is no other reason—ego is sitting within. It says: I am an educated man, university-trained, in a high post—shall I clap, shall I dance! Shall I do such rustic work!

It is sitting there; method will break it. Otherwise it will grow.

Join the kirtan. When all the sannyasins are dancing, singing—join with them; rejoice; join; repeat the song.