Geeta Darshan #21

Superior to ascetics, superior to the knowers of scripture, superior to those who act with desire—that yogi, Krishna orders Arjuna to become. He calls the yogi higher than these three, and commands him to be the fourth. It is necessary to look a little into all three.

He says the yogi is higher than the tapasvi. Ordinarily this seems difficult to accept. Higher than the ascetic? On the surface it appears the ascetic looks higher, because austerity is visible and yoga is invisible. Tapas is seen; yoga is not seen. Yoga is inner sadhana; austerity is outer sadhana.

If someone stands in the blazing sun, stands hungry, stands thirsty, keeps fasts, wastes the body, torments the body—everyone sees it. For the ascetic is fundamentally bound to the body. As the enjoyer is bound to the body; his perfumes are visible, the adornment of bodies is visible, jewelry is visible, palaces are visible, the entire decoration of the body is visible. In the same way the ascetic’s whole anti-body stance too is openly visible. But the orientation is one and the same; both are centered on the body—the enjoyer as well as the so‑called ascetic.

Since we are all body-oriented, the enjoyer is visible to us and the renouncer is visible to us. The yogi is hard to recognize, because the yogi does not begin with the body. The yogi begins from within.

The journey of the yogi is inward, and the journey of the yogi is scientific—scientific in the sense that the yogi employs methods by which the inner chitta can be transformed.

The renouncer fights the body like an enemy. The ascetic seems only to be suppressing. He fights the body, because it appears to him that all passions are in the body. If seeing a woman the mind is enchanted, the ascetic gouges out his eyes. He thinks perhaps desire is in the eyes. And if someone were to pluck out his eyes, we too would feel he is absorbed in a great practice of brahmacharya.

But by the bursting of eyes, lust does not burst. By losing the eyes, desire does not go. A blind man has as much sexual desire as a non-blind man. If the blind were without sexual desire, then the blind would be fortunate; it would be the fruit of merit. One born blind also has sexual desire; so how will one become free of desire by putting out the eyes?

But the yogi? The yogi does not pluck out the eyes. He withdraws from the eyes that very power of attention which looks through them.

A woman passes on the road, and my eyes remain bound to her. Now there are two ways. Either I pluck out the eyes—if I pluck them out, you will all see that the eyes have been torn out. Or I turn my eyes away—then too it will be seen that I have turned them away. Or I run away saying I will not look—then too it will be visible to you. But if I withdraw the energy of attention from behind the eyes, no one in the world will see it; only I will see it.

Yoga is inner transmutation.

The enjoyer goes on eating, as far as his capacity allows. The renouncer goes on abandoning food. But what does the yogi do? The yogi neither goes on eating nor abandons food; the yogi abandons the relish, abandons taste. He takes only as much food as is necessary. When it is necessary, he eats. He does what is essential. But he drops that craving for taste, that restlessness which keeps thinking day and night—food, food, food.

But this will not be visible. Only the yogi will know it, or those very close may slowly recognize it—how the yogi rises, how he sits, what kind of language he speaks. Even then it will be recognized with great difficulty.

The ascetic will be seen, because all his experiment is upon the body. The yogi’s entire experiment is upon inner consciousness.

And what is the use of austerity being visible? What need is there for the ascetic to stand in the marketplace? This question is between oneself and the Divine; it is not between me and you. What you say about me is not the question. What I say about you is not the question. What the Divine says about me is the question. What I know about myself is the question.

The yogi’s entire sadhana is inner sadhana.

Therefore Krishna says, greater than the ascetic is the yogi, Arjuna. It must have been necessary to say this, because the ascetic always looks great. The man who lays thorns on the road and lies upon them will naturally appear greater than the man who reclines in an easy chair and meditates. He will look great. Sitting in an easy chair—what kind of greatness is that?

But I tell you, lying on thorns is a very ordinary circus trick, not a great work. On thorns, anyone with a little practice can lie down. And if you want to lie down, only a little understanding is needed, not much.

On a man’s back there are points where no pain is felt. If a thorn is pricked into your back, you will discover many—some twenty-five—places where the thorn will prick and you will not be able to tell that a thorn is pricking you. On everyone’s back there are twenty-five or thirty blind spots. Go home and tell a child to prick your back with a thorn. You will find you have blind spots where a thorn will pierce and you will not know. One has only to practice those blind spots a little. Thorns must be placed in an orderly way so they fall on the blind spots. Then the man lying on his back does not feel the thorns. This is a simple trick of physiology; there is nothing in it.

But if someone is lying on a bed of thorns, a miracle will seem to happen, a crowd will gather. If someone sits in an armchair and stills his mind in meditation, no crowd will gather; no one will even come to know. Yet to concentrate the mind is far more difficult than to lie on thorns. To concentrate the mind is far more difficult than to lie on thorns—most difficult. Because attention is like quicksilver; it slips away from the hand. No sooner caught than gone. Even before you catch it, it slips. It does not stay even for a single moment in one place. To steady this attention in one place is yoga.

The ascetic is visible; it is not a very deep matter. This does not mean that a man who has attained to yoga will have no austerity in his life. The man who has attained to yoga will have austerity in his life. But that the man who practices austerity will have yoga—this is a little difficult. Keep this in mind.

The man who practices yoga finds a kind of austerity naturally entering his life. That austerity too is subtle—very subtle. In a deep sense he becomes simple. In a deep sense he is always ready to endure suffering. He does not demand pleasure. If suffering befalls him, he bears it silently with contentment. There is austerity in his life. But that austerity is not cultivated—that is the difference.

If suffering comes, the yogi endures it as if it were no suffering. If pleasure comes, he endures it as if it were no pleasure. The yogi is equal in pleasure and pain.

The ascetic? The ascetic does not wait for suffering to arrive; he arranges suffering on his own. If one day hunger arises and food is not available, the yogi does not become disturbed; he watches hunger calmly; he remains even. But the ascetic? Even if he is hungry and food is available, even if the body requires food and food is at hand, he holds himself in and sits obstinately, saying, I will not eat. This is organized suffering.

Bear in mind, the enjoyer organizes pleasure; the ascetic organizes suffering. If the enjoyer stands upright, the ascetic takes a headstand. But both organize.

The yogi does not organize. He says, Whatever the Lord gives, I receive it in evenness. He does not organize. He does not organize pleasure on his own side, nor suffering on his own side. Whatever comes, he passes through it quietly, as one might cross a river and the water not touch. He passes like lotus leaves blossoming on the water—right upon the water, and yet the water does not touch them. But there is no organizing.

Remember, by organizing anything the mind can be pleased—by organizing anything. By organizing suffering one can even take pleasure in suffering.

Scientists know, psychologists know, there are people called masochists. In the world a very large class exists of those who take delight in tormenting themselves. To torment others—almost everyone enjoys that. There are some who even take pleasure in tormenting themselves.

You will say, How could there be such a person who enjoys tormenting himself? Psychologists say, such people exist in deep measure who enjoy tormenting themselves. If they do not find an opportunity to torment themselves, they search for one. They invent tricks so that suffering may come. Where they could sit in the shade, they sit in the sun. Where they could obtain food, they remain hungry. Where they could sleep, they keep awake. Where the path was smooth, they avoid it and walk among thorns and junk. Why?

Because even in giving oneself pain, there is great satisfaction to the ego. By giving oneself pain one feels, I am something. You are nothing compared to me. I can endure suffering.

This impulse to give oneself pain is only the reverse of the impulse to give pain to others. Whether you give pain to others or to yourself, the real relish is in giving pain.

Therefore Krishna says, the yogi is far above the ascetic.

Because the ascetic remains engaged in the process of self-torture. In the language of psychology he is a masochist.

There was a writer named Sacher-Masoch: until he whipped himself, he could not sleep. Until he spread thorns in his bed, he could not fall asleep. Until he mixed a little neem into his food, he would not eat. If Masoch had been born in our country, we would have said, a great mahatma.

Gandhi too had the habit of eating neem chutney with his meals. Whoever saw it would say, how lofty. Naturally. When Louis Fischer came to meet Gandhi, Gandhi had a big lump of neem chutney placed on Louis Fischer’s plate as well. Any guest who came, he fed him too, because he himself ate it. One who learns to give himself pain also attempts to give pain to others.

Louis Fischer looked, What is this? And Gandhi was eating it with such relish. He too tasted it, and his whole mouth turned to poison. He thought, Now I am in trouble. If I eat it with bread, the bread will be spoiled. If I mix it with vegetables, the vegetables will be spoiled. But he thought, If I do not eat, what will Gandhi think—that I did not eat the chutney offered with such love. A decent man, he thought, Better to gulp it down all at once instead of spoiling the whole meal and appearing rude. So he swallowed the entire chutney in one go. Gandhi said to the cook, Look how much he liked the chutney—bring more.

We can imagine what Louis Fischer went through.

In Gandhi’s ashram there was a gentleman—still alive—Professor Bhansali. His birthday was recently celebrated. Those who revere Gandhi as a great saint revere Bhansali too. A dyed-in-the-wool ascetic. For six months he lived eating only cow-dung. A thorough ascetic—no doubt. But a masochist. The mind needs treatment. Somewhere in an asylum he should be treated. Eating cow-dung. If a man enjoys such things—let him eat what he pleases. But then it becomes tapascharya. People around say, What a great ascetic—he lives by eating cow-dung. We cannot live so. If we cannot, then we are nothing; he is very great. This is masochism.

Today psychology recognizes that the tendency to torture oneself is sick, diseased. It is not a symptom of a healthy mind. Krishna recognized this thousands of years ago. He tells Arjuna what modern psychology is saying today—that higher than the ascetic is the yogi.

Why? Because the ascetic only indulges—in what we can call—superficial tricks and useless externals, and takes a relish in giving himself pain. And since a man who relishes giving himself pain is also given respect by others, why do others respect him? If a man stands on the street whipping himself, what reason have you to respect him?

If you ask a deep knower of the mind, he will say: the reason is that you are a sadist and he is a masochist. He is enjoying tormenting himself, and you are enjoying someone being tormented. You would have liked to whip somebody; he even saved you that trouble—he is whipping himself. You gather as a crowd and watch, and your mind is pleased. You are of a cruel nature; that is why you relish it.

Now someone is eating dung. Those of cruel nature say, Mahatma, you are doing a great deed. If they had their way, they would feed dung to others as well. Since he is willing to eat with his own hands, they place their heads at his feet saying, You are a wondrous man. And when the ego is satisfied in this way, the man who takes pleasure in giving pain to himself gives himself even more pain. Then this is a vicious circle; there is no end to it.

Therefore Krishna says, the yogi is superior to the ascetic. Then he says, the yogi is superior to the knower of scripture.

Because what more can be gained from knowing scripture than words? Truth cannot be gained; words can be gained, doctrines can be gained, philosophy can be gained. And all the doctrines will enter the head and begin to buzz like flies, but no experience will come of it. Even if one were to drink the essence of a thousand scriptures, not a grain, not a drop of experience would be born from it.

Krishna speaks so courageously: the yogi is superior to the knower of scripture.

Why? Why is the yogi superior? Even a yogi who does not know scripture at all is superior. Yoga itself is superior.

Kabir does not know scripture at all. If someone asks him, he says, What is written on paper, I do not know. I know only what is seen with the eyes. What I have seen with my own eyes, that I know. What is written on paper, I do not know. I am an uneducated rustic. I do not know what is written in your papers. Your Vedas, your shastras, your agamas, your puranas—you keep them. I bring news only of that which I have seen with my eyes. I say what is eye-seen, Kabir says to a pundit, you say what is paper-written. You speak the paper’s writing, I speak the eye’s seeing.

This is the difference between scriptural knowledge and the yogi. Scriptural knowledge means: what is written on paper has been learned. By learning it, an illusion of knowing is created, knowledge is not created. Knowledge is born through one’s own seeing. And the method of seeing is yoga. As consciousness becomes purer and purer, new dimensions of perception are attained—where seeing happens, where saksatkara happens, where we can see, where we can know.

Scriptural knowledge can be a corroboration, not truth. Scriptural knowledge can be a witness, not knowledge. The day one knows, if he reads the Gita he can say, Right. The Gita is saying what I have known. He reads the Veda and says, Right. He reads the Quran and says, Right. The Quran says what I have known.

And remember, what we do not know we can never read in the Gita. We can read only what we know. Therefore when you read the Gita, its meaning is one thing; when your neighbor reads, the meaning is another; when a third reads, it is yet another. As many readers, so many meanings. And it must be so, because each person can only read what his capacity permits.

Whatever we understand is interpretation; it is our interpretation. And words produce great delusions. One understands this, another understands that. A thousand meanings arise from a single word.

I was reading a story by Vinod Bhatt a few days ago. The village leader fell into great difficulty because no new movement was coming to hand. A leader’s trade dies when there is no new movement in season. He thought and thought, and it occurred to him that the Bhoodan movement had run earlier and did not succeed. Then the Land-Seizure movement ran and that too did not succeed. Why not launch a Wife-Seizure movement? Whoever has two wives, one will be seized and given to the one who has none.

The whole village agreed. Many had no wives. People said, This is truly a socialist program; it should be implemented at once. There were also people in the village who had two wives. The landlord had two wives. All eyes were upon his wives. People said, Even if none comes to me, no matter; at least one of the landlord’s will be taken. No worry; let the movement go on.

The movement began. The landlord was out of the village. The activists seized one of his wives.

The procession moves on. Slogans are raised. The landlord comes running. He holds the leader’s feet and says, You are committing a great injustice to me. The leader says, No injustice at all. You committed the injustice. You have two wives while many in the village have none—not even half a wife. You keep two? This will not do. The landlord says, No, you are not understanding; you are committing a great injustice to me. I beg you, have some regard for me, consider me a little. He began to cry and plead.

And meanwhile, when they had brought the wife, at first the crowd had thought—the landlord has two wives. But seeing her on the way, they saw she was an ordinary woman; no need to create such a fuss. And when he pleaded so much, the leaders said, Let us rid ourselves of this nuisance. No one will be willing to take this woman anyway.

So they said, Alright, if you do not agree, take your wife; we release her.

The landlord said, You have completely misunderstood. I do not mean return this one. I mean, why did you leave the other? You are committing a great injustice. Take her too.

Now when he said, You are committing a great injustice, it was very difficult for the leader to understand that the man was saying, Take the other as well. It was natural for him to understand, Return this wife.

Words have no meaning in themselves. The interpretation of words is constructed. When you read something in the Gita, do not think you understand what Krishna says. You understand only what you can. If the experience of truth is there, then the Gita reveals truth. If the experience of truth is not there, and the Gita falls into the hands of the ignorant, nothing but ignorance can come out of it; nothing else can come out.

Scriptural knowledge is second-order knowledge. First-order knowledge is experience, self-experience. If the first-order knowledge is there, scriptures are radiant. If first-order knowledge is not there, scriptures belong to the wastebasket; they have no value.

If a yogi goes to read the Gita, in the Gita there is an ocean of nectar. If one without yoga goes to read the Gita, then apart from words there is nothing; empty, hollow words, like a fired cartridge. A fired cartridge—however much you shoot it, nothing will happen. Pick up a sutra, a shloka of the Gita, commit it to memory—you wander carrying an empty cartridge; nothing will happen. Life comes only from one’s own experience.

And Krishna himself says to Arjuna, even scriptural knowledge is not so superior. Higher than scriptural knowledge is yoga.

And third he says, higher than desire-based actions—any prayer, any worship, any yajna done with an expectation—is yoga. Why? Because the fundamental rule of yogic sadhana, its first condition, is that you become desireless. Drop hope, drop expectation, drop the longing for fruits; only then is there entry into yoga.

Then yajna becomes a small thing, a worldly thing. Someone has no child, someone’s house lacks wealth, someone does not get position, someone is not getting something—so he performs yajna, he performs havan.

Any organizing bound to passion and desire—yoga is far superior to all of it. Because the first condition of yoga is, become desireless.

Therefore Krishna says, Arjuna, become a yogi. Attain to yoga. Anything short of yoga—even an inch—will not do. And up to now he has laid only the stones of yoga, the foundation stones. He has made the steps of yoga. And now he says to Arjuna, set out on the journey of yoga. Your mind will wish to take up a desireful devotion—to win the war, to gain the kingdom. But I say, to be desireful is not the right path in the direction of dharma. Your mind will say, Why get into the bother of yoga? Let us read scriptures; truth will be found there. Simple, a shortcut—no effort, no labor. Buy a book; read the book. Knowing the language is enough. Truth will be found. Your mind will say, Read the scriptures and you will find truth. Why go to yogic sadhana? But be alert. From scripture you will get nothing but words. The real scripture will be available only when truth has already arrived to you. Not before; not otherwise. And your mind might begin to think…

Knowing this, Krishna has said so to Arjuna. Because Arjuna is saying, Why should I kill others? If others die, there will be much sorrow in the world. Better I torture myself—leave the kingdom, run to the forest, sit under a tree.

Arjuna is such a sadist. Whoever is to be a kshatriya must be skilled in the tendency to give pain to others; otherwise he cannot be a kshatriya. One who is to be a kshatriya must have the capacity to inflict pain on others. So a kshatriya will certainly torment others. But if for some reason he becomes restless at tormenting others, he will begin to torment himself.

Therefore remember, the brahmins did not produce as many ascetics as the kshatriyas did in India. The true class of ascetics came from the kshatriyas, not from the brahmins. And it is very interesting that brahmins always lived in suffering, in meekness, in poverty; yet brahmins never arranged very great self-tortures. Kshatriyas arranged self-tortures. The greatest ascetics were produced by kshatriyas.

There is a reason. The reason is that the entire training of a kshatriya is to inflict pain on others. If one day he is fed up with tormenting others, what will he do? The edge of the sword that was turned toward you, he will turn toward himself. His practice will remain the same. Yesterday he cut others, today he will cut himself. Yesterday he killed others, today he will kill himself. The brahmin has never arranged very great self-torture.

Therefore as long as brahmins had great prestige in this country, there were no ascetics; there were yogis. As long as the brahmins had prestige, ascetics had no great place; yogis had the place of honor.

But ascetics badly lowered the esteem of yogis, because yoga could not be seen. Ascetics began to say, These brahmins? They say they live in gurukuls, but they have thousands of cows, tens of thousands of cows. Rivers of milk and ghee flow to them. Emperors bow at their feet, offering diamonds and jewels. What kind of yoga is this? This is enjoyment.

And it is a great wonder that in those gurukuls and vanaprastha ashrams where wealth certainly came to the brahmins, their yoga did not run because of that wealth; not at all. In truth, wealth came because those who smelled yoga in them became eager to serve them. But within, great yoga was going on.

The ascetics said, Is this yoga? Are these rishis? No. One who stands in the sun is a yogi. One who fasts hungry is a yogi. One who wastes and torments the body is a yogi. One who stands unmoving day and night is a yogi.

Kshatriyas could do such things; brahmins could not do them.

The brahmins had a very delicate system; their bodies were very tender. They were never trained to wield swords, to fight wars, to gallop on horses. Kshatriyas were. They could easily enter tapascharya. If they had to stand for twenty-four hours, they could stand. The brahmin makes a sukhasana; he seeks a posture in which he can sit at ease. He spreads a seat beneath. He seeks a place where mosquitos will not bother him.

A kshatriya can stand among more mosquitos. One who is practiced in bearing arrows—will mosquitos trouble him? And one whom mosquitos can trouble—when arrows pierce the chest on the battlefield, will he endure? It is all a matter of practice.

Therefore when kshatriyas entered the practice of religion, they immediately put the ascetic in front and pushed the yogi behind.

But Krishna says to Arjuna, Only yoga is supreme, Arjuna. For Arjuna too, tapascharya was easy. Arjuna could easily become an ascetic. To become a yogi was difficult. Hence Krishna said all three things: you could easily become desireful—win the war, gain the kingdom. You could easily study scripture; you are educated, cultured—no difficulty in studying scripture; truth seems to come free. You could also become an ascetic who tortures himself. You are a kshatriya; you will face no obstruction. But I tell you, yoga is superior to all three. Arjuna, become a yogi.

Yoginām api sarveṣāṁ madgatenāntarātmanā.
Śraddhāvān bhajate yo māṁ sa me yuktatamo mataḥ.. 47..

And among all yogis too, the devoted yogi who, with his inner self absorbed in me, continuously worships me—such a yogi I deem the most united with me.

The final shloka of this chapter concludes upon shraddha. Krishna says, The yogi absorbed in me with shraddha attains the supreme state; such a one is dearest to me.

Two kinds of yogis can exist. One engaged in yoga without any shraddha. You may ask, Why would anyone engage in yoga without shraddha?

Even without shraddha one can engage. Without shraddha means: one whose heart has been torn to pieces by the sufferings of life, whose very vitality has been pricked by life’s thorns, who, to be free of the pain of life, attempts yoga. This is negative: to turn away from the pain of life. But that beyond life there is a Divine—there is no positive, creative shraddha for this in him. It is enough for him if there is freedom from the pain of life. He is not to attain any Divine, not any moksha, not any nirvana. There is no shraddha that there is such a thing. It is enough if he is freed from life’s suffering. One who only wants escape from life’s pain, who flees the ennui of life, who wants to put himself in some safe inner space—he can engage in yoga even without shraddha in the Divine.

Will he not attain the Divine? He will, but the journey will be very long. Because the help that the Divine can give will not be available to him. Understand this difference.

Therefore Krishna says, the one who is absorbed in me with shraddha, whose soul is joined with my soul—I call him the most excellent. Why?

A child is walking on the road. Many times the child does not like to hold his father’s hand. His ego is hurt. He says to the father, Let go of my hand. I will walk. The child feels great pain—You do not consider me worthy even to walk. I will walk; let me go. Whether the father lets go or the child jerks his hand free, still he will learn to walk—but the journey will be long. There will be many mistakes. Hands and feet will break many times. And it is not necessary he will learn to walk in this very life; many lives may pass.

So the son desires to walk, but there is no feeling of shraddha toward any other than himself. Apart from his ego there is no feeling for anyone.

So Krishna says, the one who is absorbed in me with shraddha.

What difference will it make? The difference will be that the one absorbed in me with shraddha will labor, but he will never regard his own labor as sufficient—not enough. He will do all the effort, and yet he will say, Lord, only if your grace descends will I attain. Here is the difference. Ego will not be manufactured in the one whose life is in shraddha. He will say, I do make my full effort, but even so, without your grace, attainment will not be. What can my solitary effort do? I will walk, I will certainly try, but I will fall. Keep the support of your hand upon me. And the wonder is, the door of such a heart remains ever open to receive the Supreme power.

One who is not shraddhavan—his door is closed, his mind is shut. He says, I am enough.

Leibniz has said, some people are like a windowless house—no windows, all doors closed; they sit inside.

The shraddhavan is one whose doors are open. The sun is permitted to enter. The winds are allowed access within. Freshness is invited to come. Shraddha means nothing else. Shraddha means: a power vaster than me is present all around me; I am continuously petitioning for its support. That is all.

I alone am not enough. For when I was not born, that vast power already was. And even today the beating of my heart does not run by me; it runs by Him. Even today my blood is not pumped by me; He pumps it. Even today I do not breathe; He breathes. And tomorrow when death comes, I shall be able to do nothing. Perhaps He will call me back into Himself. The one who gives me birth, who gives me life, who leads me into death—into whose hands is the whole play—if I stiffen my neck and say, I will walk by myself, I will reach truth by myself—it will be a little foolish. Doors will close in vain. The vast power that could have come to help will not be able to come.

Therefore the final sutra Krishna gives—after so long a discussion on yoga—is about shraddha.

Yoga means, I will do something. Shraddha means, I alone will not be able. Yoga and shraddha seem opposed. Yoga means, I will do—the method, the means, the experiment, the discipline. Shraddha means, I will certainly do; but I am not enough—your help will be needed. Wherever I grow weak, may your power be given to me. Wherever my steps totter, may your strength support me. Wherever I begin to go astray, call me. Wherever I begin to go wrong, signal me.

And the delightful fact is, one who walks in this feeling receives signs, receives supports; he receives strength, he receives power. One who does not walk in this trust also receives signs, but his doors are closed, so he cannot see. He too receives power, but the power turns back from the door. He too receives support, but he does not extend his hand, and the extended hand of the Divine remains as it is.

Do not think that shraddha means only those who have shraddha in the Divine are given help by the Divine. No—the Divine helps all. But those who have shraddha are able to receive that help. Those who have no shraddha do not receive it.

Shraddha means trust. I am not more than a drop in the ocean of this vast life. In this existence I am a tiny particle. What is my standing in this vast existence?

Yoga says, Gather your being and labor. Shraddha says, Do not take your being to be the whole. Certainly untie the boat from the shore, but the winds—His winds—will carry your boat. Certainly untie the boat from the shore, but the current of the river is His; it will carry you. Certainly untie the boat; but the beating of your heart too is His; He will row the oars. Keep remembering always—though I do, it is He who does within me. Though I walk, it is He who walks within me.

If such shraddha remains, even a small lamp becomes the owner of the sun’s power. If such shraddha remains, even a tiny atom becomes one with the power of the supreme cosmos. If such shraddha remains, then we are no longer alone; the Divine is always with us.

A small incident, and I will complete my talk.

There was Saint Teresa, a Christian fakir-woman. She wanted to build a great church—so great that no church on earth would be that great; its spires would touch the sky, its spires would be golden, and diamonds would be set in the gold. Day and night she dreamed only of this. Then one day she came into the village and said, Give me something, someone—some donation. I want to build a very great church for the Lord.

But villagers are villagers. She rattled her little donation box much; three copper coins were given. Yet Teresa began to dance and said to the people, Now the church will be built. People said, The box is so small, the church so big. Has the box been filled? What will happen even if it is filled?

The box was opened. What was there to fill—there were only three coins. Still Saint Teresa said, No—the church will be built. People said, Have you gone mad? With three coins you intend to build so great a church? Not even a single brick will come. You are a thin poor woman, and these are three coins. You plus three coins—how will you build such a great church? What is the arithmetic?

Saint Teresa said, You are not seeing the One more who is present between us. Count—me, the Divine, and three coins. Add them; the church will be built. Add. I have nothing in me; what will happen by me? What is contained in three coins; what will happen by them? But the strength the two of us have, we have given it all. Now the Divine is between us; He will take care.

And where Saint Teresa spoke these words, Saint Teresa’s cathedral stands there—one of the most magnificent temples upon the earth. It stands even now. Upon a stone beneath that church it is written: We, the people of this village, were defeated by this poor woman who said, Three coins, plus me, plus a wealth that you cannot see but I can.

This alone is the meaning of shraddha. Your effort, your strength—but it is not enough; it will not add up to more than three coins. Your yoga—but it will not amount to more than three coins.

Therefore, after speaking so much of yoga, the most important thing Krishna says is this: the one endowed with shraddha who is in me, him I call supremely united.

That is all for now.

Now for a little while these sannyasins will engage in the song of the Unseen. You too engage. Who knows at what moment the note of His veena may begin to resound within you; no one knows.

Do not hold back. Today is the last day. Let this whole place resound with bliss.

But Krishna says to Arjuna, only yoga is supreme, Arjuna. For Arjuna too, tapascharya was easy. Arjuna could easily become an ascetic. To become a yogi was difficult. Hence Krishna said all three things: you could easily become desireful—win the war, gain the kingdom. You could easily study scripture; you are educated, cultured—no difficulty in studying scripture; truth seems to come free. You could also become an ascetic who tortures himself. You are a kshatriya; you will face no obstruction. But I tell you, yoga is superior to all three. Arjuna, become a yogi.

Yoginām api sarveṣāṁ madgatenāntarātmanā.
Śraddhāvān bhajate yo māṁ sa me yuktatamo mataḥ.. 47..

And among all yogis too, the devoted yogi who, with his inner self absorbed in me, continuously worships me—such a yogi I deem the most united with me.

The final shloka of this chapter concludes upon shraddha. Krishna says, The yogi absorbed in me with shraddha attains the supreme state; such a one is dearest to me.

Two kinds of yogis can exist. One engaged in yoga without any shraddha. You may ask, Why would anyone engage in yoga without shraddha?

Even without shraddha one can engage. Without shraddha means: one whose heart has been torn to pieces by the sufferings of life, whose very vitality has been pricked by life’s thorns, who, to be free of the pain of life, attempts yoga. This is negative: to turn away from the pain of life. But that beyond life there is a Divine—there is no positive, creative shraddha for this in him. It is enough for him if there is freedom from the pain of life. He is not to attain any Divine, not any moksha, not any nirvana. There is no shraddha that there is such a thing. It is enough if he is freed from life’s suffering. One who only wants escape from life’s pain, who flees the ennui of life, who wants to put himself in some safe inner space—he can engage in yoga even without shraddha in the Divine.

Will he not attain the Divine? He will, but the journey will be very long. Because the help that the Divine can give will not be available to him. Understand this difference.

Therefore Krishna says, the one who is absorbed in me with shraddha, whose soul is joined with my soul—I call him the most excellent. Why?

A child is walking on the road. Many times the child does not like to hold his father’s hand. His ego is hurt. He says to the father, Let go of my hand. I will walk. The child feels great pain—You do not consider me worthy even to walk. I will walk; let me go. Whether the father lets go or the child jerks his hand free, still he will learn to walk—but the journey will be long. There will be many mistakes. Hands and feet will break many times. And it is not necessary he will learn to walk in this very life; many lives may pass.

So the son desires to walk, but there is no feeling of shraddha toward any other than himself. Apart from his ego there is no feeling for anyone.

So Krishna says, the one who is absorbed in me with shraddha.

What difference will it make? The difference will be that the one absorbed in me with shraddha will labor, but he will never regard his own labor as sufficient—not enough. He will do all the effort, and yet he will say, Lord, only if your grace descends will I attain. Here is the difference. Ego will not be manufactured in the one whose life is in shraddha. He will say, I do make my full effort, but even so, without your grace, attainment will not be. What can my solitary effort do? I will walk, I will certainly try, but I will fall. Keep the support of your hand upon me. And the wonder is, the door of such a heart remains ever open to receive the Supreme power.

One who is not shraddhavan—his door is closed, his mind is shut. He says, I am enough.

Leibniz has said, some people are like a windowless house—no windows, all doors closed; they sit inside.

The shraddhavan is one whose doors are open. The sun is permitted to enter. The winds are allowed access within. Freshness is invited to come. Shraddha means nothing else. Shraddha means: a power vaster than me is present all around me; I am continuously petitioning for its support. That is all.

I alone am not enough. For when I was not born, that vast power already was. And even today the beating of my heart does not run by me; it runs by Him. Even today my blood is not pumped by me; He pumps it. Even today I do not breathe; He breathes. And tomorrow when death comes, I shall be able to do nothing. Perhaps He will call me back into Himself. The one who gives me birth, who gives me life, who leads me into death—into whose hands is the whole play—if I stiffen my neck and say, I will walk by myself, I will reach truth by myself—it will be a little foolish. Doors will close in vain. The vast power that could have come to help will not be able to come.

Therefore the final sutra Krishna gives—after so long a discussion on yoga—is about shraddha.

Yoga means, I will do something. Shraddha means, I alone will not be able. Yoga and shraddha seem opposed. Yoga means, I will do—the method, the means, the experiment, the discipline. Shraddha means, I will certainly do; but I am not enough—your help will be needed. Wherever I grow weak, may your power be given to me. Wherever my steps totter, may your strength support me. Wherever I begin to go astray, call me. Wherever I begin to go wrong, signal me.

And the delightful fact is, one who walks in this feeling receives signs, receives supports; he receives strength, he receives power. One who does not walk in this trust also receives signs, but his doors are closed, so he cannot see. He too receives power, but the power turns back from the door. He too receives support, but he does not extend his hand, and the extended hand of the Divine remains as it is.

Do not think that shraddha means only those who have shraddha in the Divine are given help by the Divine. No—the Divine helps all. But those who have shraddha are able to receive that help. Those who have no shraddha do not receive it.

Shraddha means trust. I am not more than a drop in the ocean of this vast life. In this existence I am a tiny particle. What is my standing in this vast existence?

Yoga says, Gather your being and labor. Shraddha says, Do not take your being to be the whole. Certainly untie the boat from the shore, but the winds—His winds—will carry your boat. Certainly untie the boat from the shore, but the current of the river is His; it will carry you. Certainly untie the boat; but the beating of your heart too is His; He will row the oars. Keep remembering always—though I do, it is He who does within me. Though I walk, it is He who walks within me.

If such shraddha remains, even a small lamp becomes the owner of the sun’s power. If such shraddha remains, even a tiny atom becomes one with the power of the supreme cosmos. If such shraddha remains, then we are no longer alone; the Divine is always with us.

A small incident, and I will complete my talk.

There was Saint Teresa, a Christian fakir-woman. She wanted to build a great church—so great that no church on earth would be that great; its spires would touch the sky, its spires would be golden, and diamonds would be set in the gold. Day and night she dreamed only of this. Then one day she came into the village and said, Give me something, someone—some donation. I want to build a very great church for the Lord.

But villagers are villagers. She rattled her little donation box much; three copper coins were given. Yet Teresa began to dance and said to the people, Now the church will be built. People said, The box is so small, the church so big. Has the box been filled? What will happen even if it is filled?

The box was opened. What was there to fill—there were only three coins. Still Saint Teresa said, No—the church will be built. People said, Have you gone mad? With three coins you intend to build so great a church? Not even a single brick will come. You are a thin poor woman, and these are three coins. You plus three coins—how will you build such a great church? What is the arithmetic?

Saint Teresa said, You are not seeing the One more who is present between us. Count—me, the Divine, and three coins. Add them; the church will be built. Add. I have nothing in me; what will happen by me? What is contained in three coins; what will happen by them? But the strength the two of us have, we have given it all. Now the Divine is between us; He will take care.

And where Saint Teresa spoke these words, Saint Teresa’s cathedral stands there—one of the most magnificent temples upon the earth. It stands even now. Upon a stone beneath that church it is written: We, the people of this village, were defeated by this poor woman who said, Three coins, plus me, plus a wealth that you cannot see but I can.

This alone is the meaning of shraddha. Your effort, your strength—but it is not enough; it will not add up to more than three coins. Your yoga—but it will not amount to more than three coins.

Therefore, after speaking so much of yoga, the most important thing Krishna says is this: the one endowed with shraddha who is in me, him I call supremely united.

That is all for now.

Now for a little while these sannyasins will engage in the song of the Unseen. You too engage. Who knows at what moment the note of His veena may begin to resound within you; no one knows.

Do not hold back. Today is the last day. Let this whole place resound with bliss.