Geeta Darshan #3

Yoga is the supreme benediction. Supreme benediction in the sense that only through Yoga is the attainment of life's truth and life's bliss. Supreme benediction also in the sense that one who moves in the direction of Yoga becomes his own friend; and one who moves in the opposite direction proves to be his own enemy.
Krishna is telling Arjuna: it is right, it is wisdom, it is intelligence that one should not bring the Atman downwards, but raise it upwards.
And both directions are possible. It is necessary to understand this well.
The Atman is free—free to travel downward, free to travel upward. In freedom there is always danger. Freedom means: even the freedom to harm oneself. If someone says to you, “You are free only to do what is good for you; you are not free to do what is not good for you,” then your freedom has no meaning. If someone tells me, I am free only to do Dharma and not free to do Adharma, that freedom is meaningless—it is but another form of bondage.
Man’s Atman is free. And whenever we say someone is free, freedom opens in both directions—the freedom to do evil, the freedom to do good. The freedom to do evil to the other becomes the freedom to do evil to oneself. And the freedom to do good to the other becomes the freedom to do good to oneself.
Man can, if he wishes, travel to the very anguish of the ultimate hell; and the same man—precisely the same man who is capable of touching the final hell—can also travel to the last step of Moksha.
Both directions are open. Hence man can be his own friend and he can be his own enemy. Very few among us are our own friends; most prove to be our own enemies. For whatever we do, it ends in self-destruction and nothing else.
Whom shall we call our friend? And whom shall we call our enemy?
A small definition can be made. If we do anything from which suffering is born, we cannot be called our own friend. One who sows seeds of sorrow for himself is his own enemy. And we all sow seeds of sorrow for ourselves.
Certainly, between sowing the seeds and reaping the harvest, much time elapses. Hence we do not remember that we are harvesting the crop for which we ourselves labored over our own seeds. Often the distance becomes so great that we think: the seeds we sowed were of nectar; who knows by what misfortune the fruit turned out to be poison!
But in this world, other than what we sow, nothing is ever received; nor is there any way to receive anything else.
We obtain exactly what we shape ourselves into. We obtain precisely what we prepare for. We arrive only where we travel. We cannot arrive where we have not journeyed—although, while traveling, it may be that in our minds we fancied some other destination. The paths are not concerned with that.
I am going toward the river. In my mind I think I am going toward the river. But if I walk the road that leads to the market, then however much I think I am going to the river, I will reach the market. Man does not arrive by thinking; he arrives by the roads he walks. Destinations are not decided in the mind; they are decided by the paths.
Dream any dream you like. If you have sown the seeds of neem, your dreams may be of delicious, sweet fruits. Fruits do not come from your dreams. Fruits come from the seeds you have sown. Therefore, in the end, when the bitter fruit of the neem lands in your hands, you may be unhappy and repent. You think you had sown nectar; how did bitterness arrive?
Remember, the fruit is the touchstone, the test of the seed. The fruit tells what seeds you sowed. What you imagined concerns the seeds not at all.
We all want bliss to come into life; but where does bliss come! We all want peace in life; but where is peace found! We all wish that happiness—great happiness—rain down, but it never rains.
Therefore, in this regard, understand well from this sutra: fruits do not come from our wishing; they come from what we sow.
We want one thing and sow another. We sow poison and desire nectar! Then when the fruits arrive, they are of poison, of sorrow and pain; hell blossoms.
If we look at our lives, the thought may arise: after walking all our lives, we seem to reach nowhere except pits of pain. Each day sorrow thickens. Each night refuses to end and only grows longer. Each day, thorns of torment spread further in the mind. Nowhere do flowers of bliss seem to bloom. Stones of grief tie themselves to our feet. The feet cannot dance in the joy we seek. Then somewhere—somewhere we—we ourselves, for there is no one else—sow wrongly. In that wrong sowing, we prove ourselves our own enemy. While sowing the seed, be alert to what you are sowing.
How strange it is: a man sows seeds of anger and wants peace! A man sows seeds of hatred and wishes to reap a harvest of love! A man spreads enmity all around and wishes that everyone become his friend! A man throws abuse at all and desires that blessings shower upon him from the whole sky!
Yet man entertains just such impossible wishes—the impossible desire! I may abuse and the other should honor me—this impossible longing sits within our minds. I may hate the other and the other should love me. I may trust no one and yet everyone should trust me. I may deceive all and no one should deceive me. I may cause suffering to all and no one should cause suffering to me. This is impossible. What we sow will return to us.
And the law of life is: whatever we throw out returns to us. The sounds we release revolve, echoing from all around, and come back. It takes time. The sound goes, strikes against the directions, and returns. Time passes. By the time it returns, we have even forgotten that the abuse we had flung is what is coming back.
A disciple of Buddha, Moggallayana, was walking down a path. Ten or fifteen sannyasins were with him. A stone struck his foot hard; blood began to flow. Moggallayana folded his hands to the sky and became absorbed in some inner ecstasy. The fifteen monks around him stood in wonder.
When Moggallayana returned from his meditation, they asked, “What were you doing? Your foot was injured, a stone struck, blood flowed—and you folded your hands as if you were thanking someone!” Moggallayana said, “This was the last seed of poison that remained. I had once thrown a stone at someone; today I am free of it. Today I bowed and thanked the Lord that now none of my sown seeds remain. The last harvest is finished.”
But if, while walking, a stone strikes your foot, it is very unlikely you will think that it could be the fruit of some seed you had sown. You will not be able to think so. More likely, you will at least hurl an abuse at the stone lying there in the lane—at the stone itself! And you will not even consider that the abuse hurled at the stone is again sowing seeds. The abuse hurled at the stone will become a seed. The question is not to whom you abused; the question is that you abused. It will return. It is not of great importance at whom you shouted; that abuse will come back.
I have heard: a man came to Jesus. A simple peasant. He was most proficient at abusing his oxen yoked to his cart. Jesus was walking along the village road. The man was showering vulgar insults upon his oxen—making a great intimate relationship out of his abuses. Jesus stopped him and said, “Madman, what are you doing!” The man replied, “What harm is there? The oxen cannot return the abuse. What of mine will be spoiled?”
The man was right. Our arithmetic is just like that. If the one abused cannot return it, what is the harm? Therefore, seeing someone weaker, we all abuse. Sometimes we abuse even when there is no need—just at the sight of the weak, the heart leaps to torment a little.
Jesus said, “You are abusing the oxen. If they could return the abuse, there would be less danger—then the account would be settled now. But since they cannot return it, yet the abuse will return—you will be trapped in an expensive bargain. Stop this abusing.”
The man looked at Jesus—looked into his eyes, saw his joy, his peace. He touched Jesus’ feet and said, “I take an oath: I will no longer abuse these oxen.”
Jesus went to another village. For two or three days the man restrained himself with great effort. But oaths never create real barriers in the world. Do oaths ever prevent anything? Only understanding prevents. For two or three days he forced himself. Under Jesus’ impact he had sworn. In a few days the impact faded; the man returned to his old place. He thought, “Enough of this—like this we will be in trouble. It has become difficult to drive the cart. Should I attend to the cart or to not abusing! Should I handle the oxen or keep wrestling with myself! This has become too much.” He began abusing again. What he had held back in four days he poured out in one—settled the account, felt light; his mind became calm.
Some three or four months later Jesus was passing through that village again. He had not expected to meet that man on the road. The man was hurling abuses in a torrent at the oxen. Jesus stood by the roadside and said, “My brother!”
He saw Jesus and said to the oxen, “Look, oxen, I have told you the abuses just as I used to give you before. My dear sons, now move a little faster.”
Jesus said, “You are not only deceiving the oxen—you are deceiving me too. And if you deceive me, that is not such a great harm; you are deceiving yourself—the final deception falls back on oneself. Perhaps I may never come to this village again. Let me concede that you were not abusing the oxen—only reminding them of the old ones. But why remind them? Whether you deceive me or the oxen is of little meaning; you are deceiving yourself.”
In life, whenever we do anything bad, the delusion is that we are doing it to someone else. Primarily, we are doing it to ourselves. For we ourselves will have to reap the final fruit. Whatever we are sowing, we shall reap its harvest. There is accounting to the last inch. In this world nothing goes unaccounted.
We become our own enemies, Krishna says. In those moments we become enemies when we do such things as thrust ourselves into suffering—when we build stairways for descending into our own sorrow.
See rightly: the one who is his own enemy is irreligious. Irreligious is he who is his own enemy. And one who is his own enemy—how can he be anyone’s friend? He who is not even a friend to himself—whose friend could he be! He who is building foundations of sorrow for himself will build them for all.
The first sin is enmity with oneself. Then it spreads. First with those nearest; then with those farthest. Then the poison spreads and spreads. We do not even notice it. As when, in a silent lake, a stone is thrown—there is a blow, the stone sinks in a moment; but the ripples on the surface travel far and wide. The stone has long settled, yet the ripples go on and on into the infinite.
So with what we do—we do it and are done. You hurled an abuse—the matter is finished. You then began to read the Gita. But the ripples born of that abuse have begun their journey. Who knows what distant shores they will touch. And for as much harm as that abuse causes in the web of this world, you become responsible.
You may ask, “How much harm can one abuse do?” Unimaginable harm. And for as much harm as occurs in the cosmic system, for that much you are responsible. Who else will be? You raised those waves. You created all that. You sowed that seed. Now it has begun to move; it will spread far and wide. From a small abuse, what all can happen! If you gave it in solitude and no one heard, you may think there will be no result.
But in this world, no event is without consequence. There will be consequences. It seems difficult to accept. If you abused someone and hurt his heart, of course you created enmity. But if you abused in darkness, can enmity arise from that too? It does.
You create very subtle waves around yourself. Those waves spread. Under their influence, whoever comes near will be pushed toward the wrong path—pushed by the very resonance of those waves.
Much work is now being done on the subtlest waves. It is felt that if wrong people gather together in one place—sitting silently, doing nothing, only being wrong—and you pass by them, then the wrong part within you will rise to the surface, and the right part will be pressed down.
Both parts are within you. If good people sit in one place—remembering the Lord, singing His song, living in the fragrance of wholesome feelings, even simply sitting in silence—when you pass by them, a different event happens. Your wrong part gets pressed down; your higher part comes up.
In your possibilities there are such subtle distinctions. And all day long we act without accounting what we are doing. One small wrong word spoken may sow thorns to inconceivable distances—we have no idea.
Buddha would tell his monks: twenty-four hours a day, whomever you see on the path, wish for his welfare. If even a tree is there, pass by wishing for its welfare. If a mountain is seen, pass by wishing for its welfare. If an unknown traveler appears, pass by wishing for his welfare.
A monk asked, “What is the benefit of this?”
Buddha said, “Two benefits. First, you will have no chance to abuse; no chance to think ill. Your energy will be engaged toward the auspicious. Second, when you wish for someone’s welfare, you produce resonance within him too; he also begins to be filled with a wish for your welfare.”
If this land created the custom of saying Ram-Ram to even an unknown man walking on the road—perhaps this could not be created anywhere else. In English or in the West they say, “Good morning”—a very ordinary, secular word; little meaning, merely that the morning is good. But this land, after thousands of years of experience, discovered a word for greeting: Ram. On the road someone meets you—and we say, “Jai Ram!” It has no personal reference; “Jai Ram ji” is not about that man. It is remembrance of Ram. Seeing that person, we remembered the Divine.
Those who know how to bow properly will not only utter the word; they will also see the image of Ram within the person as they pass by. They remembered the Lord upon seeing him. The presence of that person became an occasion for remembering the Divine. The occasion was not wasted; a benediction was created, a moment of remembrance was created.
And it may be that the other neither accepts Ram nor knows Ram; even so, in response he will say, “Jai Ram.” Something in him too will rise. And if you pass through an old village road, you may have to say Jai Ram twenty-five times.
Life is woven of very small events.
A wish for welfare or remembrance of the Divine brings what is highest within you to the surface—and brings what is highest within the other to the surface. When you join both hands and bow your head before someone, you give him an opportunity to bow as well. And there is no greater opportunity in this world than bowing, because a bowed head cannot think anything evil. A bowed head cannot abuse. To abuse, the head must be stiff and swollen.
Perhaps you have noticed—or perhaps not; now notice—that when you bow heartfully to someone and even imagine that the Divine is on the other side, you will see the difference in yourself, and also in the other. As he passes by, you have worked as a philosopher’s stone for him—you have created some gold within him. And when you work as a philosopher’s stone for another, the other becomes a philosopher’s stone for you.
Life is relationship. We live in relationships. If we work like the philosopher’s stone around us, it is impossible that others will not become philosopher’s stones for us—they will.
Your friend is the one who spreads auspiciousness around himself, who wishes well all around, who is filled with reverence all around, who walks expressing gratitude all around.
And one who is filled with welfare for others—how can he be filled with ill will for himself! One filled with a wish for the happiness of others cannot be filled with a wish for sorrow for himself. He becomes his own friend. And becoming one’s own friend is a great event. He who becomes his own friend becomes religious. Now he cannot do anything by which he himself will be hurt.
So keep an account: Which acts do I do that bring me suffering? In a day we do thousands of acts; from many we have suffered thousands of times. Yet we do not grasp the logic of life that by doing these acts we suffer. The same things that have thrown you into trouble a thousand times—you say them again. The same behaviors that have pushed you into pain a thousand times—you enact again. We go on repeating the same things like a machine.
Life appears nothing more than a repetition, the way we live—a mechanical repetition. The same mistakes, the same slips. Even those who invent new mistakes are rare. We go on doing the old ones. Not enough intelligence even to commit one or two new mistakes. Yesterday’s—the same; the day before—the same; today again the same; tomorrow again the same.
If you become alert to this—alert to your enmity with yourself—the foundation of friendship with yourself will begin.
People like Krishna or Buddha or Mahavira or Christ create for themselves—yes, for themselves—such a path of bliss that it cannot be measured. From the outside it appears they are totally renunciate; but I tell you, no one is more supremely self-interested than they.
We may be called renouncers, because no one is more foolish than we are. We renounce what is essential; and we collect the trash that is useless. And these are very intelligent people. They abandon whatever is useless; they preserve what is meaningful.
Jesus was staying outside a village. It was evening. The priests of that village were greatly troubled by Jesus’ arrival—as always happens. Whenever someone who knows arrives, the falsely knowledgeable become troubled—naturally; there is nothing to be surprised about. The priest knows from scriptures; Jesus knows from life. So the man who knows from books becomes pale, troubled, embarrassed before the man who knows from life.
The priests were disturbed. They said, “We must find a way to trap Jesus.” They made arrangements and found a way. There is never a shortage of ways. They brought a woman from the village who had been caught in adultery. Their ancient scripture says: a woman caught in adultery must be stoned to death.
They brought the woman to Jesus and said, “This is our ancient scripture—our Dharma-granth. It says: the adulterous woman must be stoned to death. What do you say? This woman has committed adultery. The whole village is witness.”
It was a clever trap for Jesus. If he said, “Yes, accept the old book—stone her to death,” then what of his own words wherein he has said: If someone slaps you on one cheek, offer the other; if someone takes your coat, give your shirt too; love your enemies. What would become of those words! Difficulty would arise. And if he said, “No, you cannot stone her. Forgive her,” then they would say, “You speak against our scripture; you are an enemy of religion.”
But they did not know that men like Jesus cannot be held in clenched fists. They are like quicksilver—close your fist, and they slip out.
Jesus said, “The old book is absolutely right! Pick up stones and stone this woman to death.” They were stunned—they had not imagined this. But Jesus added, “Let the first stone be thrown by the one who has never committed adultery, nor even thought of it.”
There was no one in that village who had not thought of adultery. In which village is there such a man! Those who stood in front with turbans and sashes, stones in hand—slowly began sliding to the back of the crowd. “This is troublesome.” Those standing behind fled. They said, “It is not good to linger here.” In a short while the riverbank was empty. Only the woman remained—and Jesus.
When all had gone, the woman said to Jesus, “Give me whatever punishment you wish; I am prepared to receive it. I am adulterous. Have compassion and punish me.” Jesus said, “Forgive me. God forbid that I become anyone’s judge—for I do not want anyone to become my judge.”
Jesus said, “God forbid that I become anyone’s judge; for I do not want anyone to judge me.” Jesus’ word is: Judge ye not, that ye should not be judged. Do not be a judge of anyone, so that no one may ever be your judge.
“Who am I! How can I be so egotistical as to judge you! Who am I! You know—your God knows. Who am I to stand between you and Him! If I even look at you from a slightly higher pedestal, I become a sinner. Who am I! I am no one. And then—you have yourself accepted that you are adulterous; you are free of the sin—the matter is finished.”
Acceptance is liberation. In denial sin hides; in acceptance it dissolves.
Jesus said, “Do not entangle me. I will not become your judge, because I do not want anyone to judge me.”
Whatever you do not want others to do to you, please do not do that to others. The whole essence of the New Testament is one sentence: do not do to others what you do not want others to do to you. Understand this rightly, and Krishna’s sutra becomes clear.
And often it happens delightfully that a sentence of Krishna is commented upon in the Bible; and a sentence of the Bible is commented upon in the Gita. Sometimes a sutra of the Koran is explained by the Vedas; sometimes a sutra of the Vedas is explained by a Jewish fakir. Sometimes Buddha’s word is understood in China; and sometimes a word of Lao Tzu in China is understood by a Kabir of India.
But religions have raised so many walls between them that the inner threads of kinship that run among them are no longer remembered. Otherwise, there should be tunnels below every temple and mosque so that one could pass from temple to mosque; and tunnels beneath every gurdwara connecting it with temples—so that whenever anyone feels like it, he may pass from gurdwara to temple or mosque or church. But not only are there no tunnels—even the paths above are closed; all paths are closed.
One who is his own friend will do to others what he wishes others to do to him. One who is his own enemy will do to others what he wishes others never to do to him. And one who has become his own friend sets out on the journey of Yoga. The Atman can become its own friend; it can become its own enemy.
Remember, it is always easier to be an enemy. Have you noticed what it takes to become someone’s enemy? If you wish to be someone’s enemy, it can happen in a second. If you wish to be a friend, a whole lifetime is not enough. To become an enemy needs not even a moment—the slightest word and the full arrangement of enmity is complete. But to become a friend—a whole life is not enough—not enough. Even after a lifetime’s labor, some crack remains unhealed.
Friendship is a great sadhana; enmity is a children’s game. Hence we slip easily into enmity. And friendship with oneself is even more difficult. If it is so hard with another, with oneself it is harder still.
You will ask, why? If it is so hard with another, why harder with oneself? Should it not be easy with oneself? We all think we love ourselves.
This is illusion—fallacy—falsehood. Rare is the man who loves himself. For if one truly loved oneself, evil could not abide in one’s life—impossible. Can one who loves himself drink poison? Can one who loves himself indulge in anger?
Buddha was walking on a road. A man abused him. A monk, Ananda, was with Buddha. He said, “Permit me, and I will set this man right.” Buddha laughed greatly. Ananda asked, “Why are you laughing?” The man also asked, “Why are you laughing?” Buddha said, “I laughed at Ananda’s words—he is also a great fool. For another’s mistake he wants to punish himself.” Buddha said, “For another’s mistake, he wants to punish himself.” Ananda said, “I do not understand.” Buddha said, “He abused; you want to be angry! You will suffer. Anger is to set fire to oneself.”
We all know anger well. What punishment is greater than anger! But another abuses, and we get angry. Buddha says: for another’s mistake, you punish yourself.
We all do the same. None has friendship with oneself. And friendship with oneself is difficult also because the other is visible—you can extend a hand of friendship. But the self is very invisible; there is not even a way to extend a hand. To a friend you can offer gifts, offer praise, create paths of friendship, render service. With oneself there are no such paths. With oneself, only pure friendliness of heart—and no other bridge. If there is any, understanding alone can be the bridge. We do not have that much understanding.
We all live in un-intelligence. But with such arrogance in un-intelligence that we do not leave even the door open for understanding to enter. In truth, none believe themselves more intelligent than the unintelligent! And once someone concludes he is very intelligent, know that he has shut the door. Even if intelligence knocks, he will not open—it is he who is already intelligent!
Our false basis of intelligence is the belief that we already love ourselves. This is utterly false. If we loved ourselves, the world could not be in this condition. If we loved ourselves, men would not go mad, nor commit suicides. If we loved ourselves, there would not be so much mental illness.
Physicians say that at present some seventy percent of diseases are mental—born of self-hatred. We all hate ourselves—in a thousand ways we torture ourselves; invent new methods of self-torment; devise new arrangements to give ourselves sorrow and pain. Though we arrange much logic behind it.
Physicians say seventy percent diseases man develops to punish himself. Psychiatrists say this figure is still small—an underestimation; the real figure is larger. If the figure is ever exact, ninety-nine percent of diseases are invented by man to punish himself.
So much hatred toward oneself! It appears in every act. Keep one thing in mind—a touchstone will be in your hands—whatever you do, think while doing it: will this bring me joy or sorrow? If you see sorrow will come, and you are still ready to do it, then understand you hate yourself. What other touchstone could there be?
An abuse is ready at your lips—wings fluttering, poised to fly. Think for a second: will this bring me joy or sorrow! Do not think of the other, for in thinking of the other you will deceive yourself. A man thinks: will the other get hurt or be pleased? Do not think that. First think only of yourself: will this bring me sorrow or joy? If you see sorrow will come, and still you abuse—what can be said—that you love yourself!
No, we do not even allow the chance to think—for we fear that we might not be able to abuse if we think.
Gurdjieff was a remarkable fakir. In his memoirs he writes: when my father died, he had nothing to give me; yet he gave me such a wealth as cannot be measured. When he told anyone this, they were startled. They would ask, “You say your father had nothing—what wealth did he give you?”
Gurdjieff said: “I was not more than nine or ten when my father died. I was the youngest son. He called everyone to his bedside and whispered something in their ears. He called me too and said, ‘You cannot understand much now, but I will tell you as much as you can understand. Remember—if you understand this much, you will never need to understand anything more in life. A small thing, which you can understand, I tell you now. Remember the words of a dying father. I have nothing else to give you.’
“I said, ‘Tell me, I will try with all my strength.’ My father said, ‘I will not give you a very difficult task, for you are young. Only this: whenever the thought arises to do something that will bring sorrow to you or to another, wait for twenty-four hours—then do it.’ I asked, ‘Then I may do it?’ My father said, ‘Do it with all your might.’ He laughed—and died.”
Gurdjieff writes, “I could never do any evil in life. My father deceived me. He said, ‘Do it after twenty-four hours.’ But twenty-four hours is a long time. If a man even waits twenty-four seconds before doing something wrong, he cannot do it—twenty-four seconds! Because in that much time awareness comes that I am acting in enmity toward myself. That is why we do evil very quickly—we do not delay.”
If a friend wants to take sannyas, he will ask, “May I wait a year?” If he wants to gamble, he does not ask. If he wants to take sannyas, he asks, “If I wait a year, is there any harm?” But when he wants to be angry, he does not wait a second. Strange indeed. To do a good deed you ask, “May I postpone it a little?” To do a bad deed—immediately! Not even a second is missed. Why?
Because if the bad deed misses a second, it will not be done. And it must be done—therefore it should not be postponed even for a second. And the good is not to be done—therefore postpone as much as you can. Put it off as far as you can.
We postpone the good to tomorrow and we do the bad today. And a day comes when death snatches away tomorrow. A heap of bad deeds accumulates; there is no account of any good.
I have heard: a rich man died—a multimillionaire. By habit he could not be stopped by guards even at the governor’s house. At the prime minister’s house the guard would stand aside. He had never thought about going to hell—he went straight to the gates of heaven, knocked hard. When the door did not open, he became angry.
The doorkeeper peeped and said, “Sir, do not knock so hard.” The man said, “Let me in.” The doorkeeper took him inside and asked, “What deeds have you done that you approach heaven in such haste!” He went to the office and said, “Please check this gentleman’s name, for we have no report of such a man coming to heaven! Is there anything in his account?”
There was a very long account—ledgers upon ledgers. The clerk grew tired turning pages. He said, “I do not see anything here. Yes—many places he planned to undertake good resolves; but at the end it is written: postponed. Many times he nearly obtained heaven, and each time he postponed it.”
Still, the doorkeeper said, “The poor man has come with such effort—search a little more; perhaps somewhere he did something.” With great searching they found this: once he gave one small coin to a beggar. But in brackets it was written: he did not give it to the beggar; two or three friends were standing with him—what would they think if he refused even a single coin—so he gave it. But, it was given.
The millionaire’s face brightened—there seemed to be some hope. The clerk said, “But on such a basis! And even that is a deception—for he did not give to the beggar, he gave to his friends; it appeared as if it was given to the beggar.
“That is why a beggar does not ask for alms when you are alone. If two or three friends are with you, he catches hold—he knows the trick: who gives to the beggar! You give out of the embarrassment of your friends, ‘What will they say if I cannot give even a coin!’ You give—and then they too must give, ‘What will he say of us!’ It is mutual give-and-take; it has nothing to do with the beggar.
“Still, he gave. What shall we do?” The clerk said, “There is only one way. Return that one coin to him and send him back toward hell. This man has created a technical mess. If he had postponed once more, what harm would there be! A technical mistake has happened.”
We keep postponing whatever is auspicious—perhaps we will do it after death. Whatever is inauspicious we do today—who knows if there will be time tomorrow.
A friend is one who postpones the inauspicious and does the auspicious. An enemy is one who postpones the auspicious and does the inauspicious. Pause a moment and see: are you doing that from which sorrow comes? Then you are your own enemy.
And one who is his own enemy—his downward journey is on. He will fall—falling and falling—darkness and great darkness, pain and pain. He will push himself into hell with his own hands.
But one who becomes his own friend sets out on the upward journey. His journey becomes like the flame of a lamp—rising to the sky. He no longer flows like water into pits; like fire, he rises toward the heavens.
This rising consciousness is Yoga. To be one’s own friend is Yoga. To be one’s own enemy is non-Yoga. To move upward is bliss.
Krishna tells Arjuna: Yoga is auspiciousness, Arjuna; and the essence is that the Atman is free. It can harm itself, it can benefit itself. To harm is easy—because descending into pits is easy. To benefit is difficult—because climbing the mountain peaks is arduous. But one who becomes his own friend experiences liberation in life. One who becomes his own enemy falls day by day into bonds and prisons.
Use this sutra by pausing somewhere in your life; then it will become clear. Some things are not to be merely understood; they must be experimented with. Whatever Krishna is saying to Arjuna—these are all laboratory methods.
Krishna is not of those who speak a single word unnecessarily. Not of those who create an ostentation of words. Not of those who go on speaking though they have nothing to say. He is no political leader.
Krishna says only as much as is absolutely necessary and without which it will not do. All his statements are experimental. Each sutra can become an experiment for a life.
Experiment even with one sutra, and gradually the whole Gita will open before you—without reading. Read the whole Gita and never experiment, and the Gita will remain a closed book. The key to open it is experiment.
Understand, examine this sutra: are you your own friend or your enemy! Keep testing this small sutra, and in a few days you will see your enmity revealed inch by inch. At every step you are your own foe. Your whole life so far has been spent in enmity toward yourself—and then you weep and cry that you are unfortunate, dying of sorrow. With one hand you lash your back until it bleeds; with the other hand you wipe the blood and say “my fate!” With your own hands you manufacture sorrow and then cry, “my destiny!”
No—there is no destiny; there is only you. And if there is destiny, it functions through you. And you are supremely free to give direction to that destiny—because you are a part of the Divine.
There is not an iota of lack in your freedom. You are so free you can go to hell; you are so free you can create heaven. You are so free that heaven can rest under each of your feet; and you are so free that hell can be created under each of your feet. It all depends on you. No one else is responsible.
So think, see—friend or enemy? Little by little, being an enemy will become difficult; being a friend will become easy. Then read this sutra again—its meanings and implications are revealed.
Bandhur atma atmanas tasya yenatmaiv atmana jitah.
Anatmanas tu shatrutve vartetatmaiva shatruvat. 6.
That Atman is the friend of that very being whose body, with mind and senses, has been conquered by himself; and of him by whom the body with mind and senses has not been conquered, that very Atman behaves like an enemy, in enmity.
He who has conquered his body and senses can become his own friend. He who has no control over his senses and body proves his own enemy.
Let us understand friendship and enmity from another dimension. In this sutra the attempt is to explain them from a second angle.
Where the body and senses are not sovereign; where senses say one thing, the body says another, the mind says yet another—and the self has no voice of its own. Sometimes he obeys the senses, sometimes the body, sometimes the mind—but has no understanding of his own. His situation becomes like a chariot in motion with the charioteer asleep, the reins broken, and the horses running each in its own direction—wherever it wishes! There is no arrangement to bind, to bring near, to hold to one thread, to one direction. The charioteer is asleep, the reins broken, horses going their own ways—one left, another right, one not moving at all, one running, one sitting. Such is the state of the chariot—and of the owner sitting in it—such becomes our condition.
Perhaps you have never noticed that your senses demand opposite things—and you obey both. Your body and your mind demand opposites—and you obey both. The body says, “Stop. Do not put more food in; the stomach has begun to hurt.” The mind says, “The taste is delicious—put a little more.” You obey both. You do not see what you are doing—one step left, and at the same time one step right; one step forward, one back!
We do opposite things at once, for we grant simultaneous approval to the opposite demands of opposite senses and desires. One hand extends in friendship to someone—the other hand shows a dagger—at the same time! You join both hands to greet someone, and within you abuse him: “What a wretch to have shown his face in the morning!” With folded hands you say from above, “An auspicious sight! The day is blessed.” Inside you say, “Let him die—today there will be loss in business, or quarrel with the wife—who knows what. Where has this face come from in the morning!” And you fold your hands and greet him—even as this runs within.
The mind is in fragments. Each sense holds its fragment. The fragments are not united within. There is no inner master.
Gurdjieff used to say: we are like a house whose owner is away. A vast mansion—many servants. Whenever anyone passes by, sees the great house, meets a servant on the steps, and asks, “Whose house is this?” he says, “Mine.” The owner is away. Another day the passerby meets another servant on the steps: “Whose house is this?” “Mine.”
Every servant is the master; the master is not present. Great quarrels erupt in the house. The house becomes dilapidated. Because there is no owner, no one cares to repair, to paint, to clean. They are all servants; each wants the other to behave as a servant while he behaves as the master. But all know the other is also a servant; he cannot command me. The house crumbles—walls fall, bricks fall. No one to join, no one to clean. All claim to be masters.
Within, our Atman lies asleep as if it were not there at all. Have you ever heard the voice of your Atman?
Yes—if you are a politician, you may have! In recent elections, many politicians suddenly heard the voice of conscience. The day the politician’s soul begins to speak, that day there will remain no sinner in the world. Those who have no soul even in name—voices begin to arrive! And the voices change—one in the morning, another in the evening! Even the soul does a political stunt!
Have you ever heard the voice of the soul? If you are not a politician, you have never heard it. We only hear the voices of the senses: one sense says, “I want this”; another says, “I want that”; a third says, “Without this life is futile”; a fourth says, “Stake everything—this is all.” But have you heard the voice of the inner life? There is no voice.
Krishna says: such a state is enmity with oneself.
And the slavery is terrible: the senses make you do even what you do not want to do. Many times you must have experienced it. Many times you say, “In spite of myself, I did it. I did not want to—and yet I did.” If you did not want to, how did you do it? “I had no desire to slap you; but what to do! I had not even thought of it, had no intention—yet I slapped. That much is certain.” Then who slapped? The one who says, afterward, “I had no desire, no thought”—who is he? What is happening?
There is no master within. One servant at the door slapped; another servant now seeks forgiveness. He too is not the master. Do not think that tomorrow this man will not slap—tomorrow he may slap again.
Such is the state of our senses—fragmented, disintegrated. Each sense makes us do things; sometimes it makes us risk everything. It makes us stake so much that, for a small thing, you would not stake so much. Sometimes, for two pennies, people take one another’s lives. Many times there is not even two pennies—only one empty word—and a life is lost. Later, sitting, if one thinks…
I have heard: in a school, a history teacher asked children, “Tell me of the greatest war.” A boy stood up and said, “I can tell you, but do not send word to my home.” The teacher asked, “Which war?” He said, “The only greatest one I know—between my mother and father.” The teacher said, “Foolish—do you not have sense—this is also a war!” The boy went home and told his father, “I mentioned your greatest war, and my teacher said, ‘Is that even a war!’” The father wrote to the teacher: “Tell me a war greater than that!”
Behind the greatest wars, the causes are tiny. Whether it is the war of Ram and Ravan—the cause is small; or the great war of Mahabharata—through which this Gita came—its cause was very small. Do you know how small! A tiny cause—Draupadi’s small laughter.
The Kauravas were invited by the Pandavas. The Pandavas had made a magnificent hall—a playful artifice arranged so that the house deceived. Where there was no water, it appeared there was water—mirrors such. Where there was no door, it appeared there was a door—mirrors such. Where there was a door, it appeared there was a wall—glass such.
An innocent prank—who could have thought such a great war would unfold! Who would think! A small joke possible between brother-in-law and sister-in-law—not a matter for great quarrel. When Duryodhana collided and tried to pass where there was no door, and tried to exit the door and struck his head—Draupadi burst into laughter. Certainly. And she said jokingly, “After all, the sons of a blind man! What else to expect.”
When Duryodhana heard that it had been said, “the sons of a blind man”—the seed was sown. A small jest—such a small word—and such a great war! All evolved, spread. Then vengeance became necessary. Draupadi’s disrobing was the answer to that laughter.
Behind the greatest wars, the causes remain small. But once the senses seize you, they carry you to the end. They have their own logical conclusion. They do not leave you midway for you to say, “Enough, let it go; the joke has gone too far.” Then you cannot stop; they push you: “Having come this far, stand firm.” They drive you further.
The senses drag a man as if a rope were tied to the neck of an animal. Hence the scriptures of Tantra call us pashu—beasts. Pashu means bound in pash—bond, rope. Tantra says there are two kinds: pashu and Pashupati. Pashu are those whose senses bind them and drag; Pashupati are those who have become masters of their senses.
Krishna says the same—a profound tantric sutra: one who is master of his senses and body—that is the one who is his own friend. Only he can trust his friendship. One who has no control over his senses, whose body can lead him down any blind lane—let him not trust his friendship; better he know: I am my own enemy.
Horses harnessed to a chariot can be friends—if there are reins and the charioteer is skillful. Otherwise, better that the chariot have no horses—then the chariot is safe. But if there are horses and no reins, and the charioteer is unskilled or asleep—the horses are enemies, not friends. Not that the horses are at fault—remember this—otherwise you will think the fault is of the horses.
I was reading: in America a man had many cases against him. In the last one, the magistrate said, “All your crimes have one cause—alcohol, alcohol, alcohol!” The man said, “No worry—you are giving me a long sentence, but I thank you. You are the only person who has not held me responsible. Everyone else says, ‘You are responsible.’ You are the only intelligent man who says alcohol is responsible for my crimes—I am not.”
Delicious! If someday you are caught, do not think you can say, “The senses did it—what can I do!” You will be like that man. The senses can do nothing to you—except because you never declared ownership. You never declared: I am the master.
Remember, mastery must be declared. Remember, mastery is not free—labor is required. Remember, mastery obtained without labor is impotent—without strength; that obtained through labor has a different dignity.
Remember, the most splendid horse in the chariot is the one which, if the reins are absent, can put the chariot in danger. That is the splendid horse. If you harness a pony or a mule—he will not endanger you; your chariot will trundle along. The horse that, without reins, would drop you into a pit—that is the splendid horse; with reins, he will also be the one to pull you best. Remember—he will. The mule that does not endanger you, that rests when there are no reins—even with reins it will be hard to move him.
The senses that drop you into pits are your strongest powers. If mastery is yours, the fruit becomes auspicious; if not, then inauspicious.
Which senses drop us most? The generative organ—sex—drops most. It is the most powerful, the most potential, full of energy. And remember: one who obtains mastery over sexual energy has such a wondrous, powerful horse that the same horse carries him to the gates of heaven. When you are a slave to sex, it throws you into brothels—into pits, into holes of worms. When mastery is yours, the same energy becomes Brahmacharya and carries you to the door of God.
All senses—for example, I mentioned sex because it is the strongest—all senses, if mastery is there, become friends; if not, enemies.
We never declare mastery. And even if we do, we do it as in the story I have heard: a man was henpecked—as most are. On the street he kept a great swagger, but at home he feared his wife—as all do! There are reasons. The man returns weary from day-long battles—he does not want to fight at home as well; he wants to settle somehow. The wife is fresh, ready; full powers in hand. He returns exhausted from Kurukshetra—he does not want to open another Kurukshetra.
From the first day the wife had seized him—put him in great difficulty. She would boast of it. One day other women said, “We cannot believe so much. Yes—husbands fear—but not as much as you say.” She said, “Come at noon today. It is a holiday; my husband will be home. I will show you.”
Fifteen or twenty neighborhood women gathered. When they had gathered, she said to her husband, “Get up—and crawl under the bed!” The poor fellow quickly got up and crawled under. To show more authority she said, “Now come out from the other side!” The man said, “I cannot come out now. I want to show who is the real owner of this house.” He said, “Now I will not come out. I want to show who is the real owner!”
He had crept under the bed to avoid the quarrel—now he found a safe chance to declare. From under the bed he announced, “Now understand—I do not obey! Now I show who is the real owner.”
This is how, if ever, we declare mastery over the senses—from under the bed! We never declare facing the senses when they are powerful. Like the old man who says, “I have conquered sex.” He is talking nonsense—declaring from under the bed. When one is young and the sense is strong, that is the time for declaration.
Your stomach is ruined; you are a liver patient; you cannot eat. You say, “I have conquered food.” Your teeth have fallen; you cannot chew. You say, “I live on liquid diet; I have lost the taste.” These are under-the-bed declarations.
This will not do. You are deceiving yourself again. You must encounter the senses when they are strong. If you conquer them then, there is the secret, the power. When the senses are weak and there is no strength left—not even a way to lose—then victory has no meaning.
Krishna says: one who is master of the senses.
And when does one become master? Let me give you two sutras for mastery over the senses—then this sutra will become completely clear.
First: only he can be master of the senses who knows himself to be separate from the senses. Otherwise, how will there be mastery? We can be masters only of that which is other than us. Of what is not other, how can we be master? But we do not consider ourselves separate from the senses. We are so identified with our senses that it seems we are only senses and nothing else.
Therefore, one who would move toward mastery must create a little distance, a gap, between himself and his senses. He must know: I am not the eyes; there is someone behind the eyes. I certainly see through the eyes—but the eyes do not see; someone else sees. The eye cannot see. It has no capacity to see. The eye is only a window—a passage—through which seeing becomes possible. If you stand at a window and begin to say, “The window is seeing the sky,” it is such madness. The eyes are merely windows of the body, from where you peer out at the world. The mind within, the consciousness deeper within—that is the real seer; not the eyes.
Sometimes you may have had this experience: a man runs on the road—his house is on fire. You greet him; he does not see. You stop him, shake him; he does not hear. He runs on.
Meet him the next day and say, “What happened to you! I greeted you, stopped you, shook you. You slipped away and ran. You did not even see me! Do you remember?” He will say, “I remember nothing. My house was on fire.”
When the house is on fire, all attention concentrates in that direction. Attention withdraws from the windows of the eyes and ears. Then though the eyes may receive impressions, they are not seen; though sounds strike the ears, they are not heard.
If attention has been withdrawn from a sense, the sense becomes useless. The sense connected to attention is the one that is significant, active, powerful.
Whose attention? The master’s attention. The sense is only a servant, an instrument.
But this must be seen. When you look at someone—right now as you look at me—beware a little: are the eyes seeing, or are you seeing? Then the eyes will remain only the door between. On that side, you are; and what you see here is not even me—that too is a doorway of mine that you see—on this side I am. When two people meet, on both sides there are two souls, and between them two nets of instruments. When I extend my hand and take your hand in mine, by means of the hand I am trying to touch you with my soul. The hand is only an instrument.
If we mistake instruments for the soul, then the mastery Krishna speaks of will never be.
Understand instruments as instruments; see yourself as separate. While walking, keep in mind: the body walks—you do not walk. You have never walked; you cannot walk. You sit within the body the way one sits within a moving car. The car moves; the man sits—though his journey happens, he does not walk. So you, within your body, have always been sitting—you have never walked. Your journeys are many; but it is the body that moves—you are always seated.
Remember the one seated within while walking—he does not walk; he never walks. While eating, remember: the food goes into the body, not into that which you are. Keep this remembrance.
As this remembrance becomes dense, you will find: you are separate. The day you find you are separate, that very day you can declare mastery. And then to declare, “I am the master,” is not difficult. The difficulty is to experience separateness once; the declaration is easy.
And one who becomes master of body and senses becomes his own friend—for then his senses do only that which is in his welfare.
Otherwise, to be driven by the senses is dangerous. The body drives us which has no awareness, no understanding, no consciousness. The senses run us—and we do not even know the kind of running it is.
Pavlov, a Russian psychologist, died some time ago. He worked on human glands enormously. One work is worth noting: he says if some special gland is cut out, some things disappear at once.
For example, anger. You think “I get angry”—you are mistaken. In your organism there are glands of anger and accumulations of poison. You have gathered them through births upon births. That poison makes you angry.
Pavlov conducted hundreds of experiments—cut the knot of poison, removed it. Then abuse a man as much as you like—he cannot be angry; the instrument for anger is not there. As if you cut off my hand—and then however much someone says, “Extend your hand,” I cannot. However much I wish—I cannot. The wish remains impotent; the instrument is not there.
Each sense has its storage of hormones; each compels you to do something—and you act under its push. When the sexual organ accumulates semen, chemicals gather—they push you: now become lustful; run, chase. Go, look at nude pictures, watch films, read stories—do something. If nothing, shove someone on the road, abuse—do something.
Do not fall into the delusion that “I am doing it,” for you were there even before fourteen. But a gland was not active; a sense was asleep. Now it awoke—that sense makes you do it. If you can become so aware as to see: this sense is making me do it; and I am separate—then the day you experience separateness, that day you can declare mastery.
And the wonder is: once you declare, “I am the master,” all the senses bow at your feet. They only need the power of your declaration.
I told you the story: the mansion’s master is outside, or asleep, or unconscious, or not present. The servants all have become masters. Extend the story: the master returns. His chariot stops at the gate. The servant at the door does not shout, “I am the master.” How could he! He quickly rises and touches the master’s feet: “You delayed—we were waiting!” The master enters—the message spreads: the servants are happy; they are not angry. The master has returned. Now no one declares, “I am the master.” The very presence of the master is the declaration.
Exactly thus in the realm of the senses. Once you know you are separate and once you stand and say, “I am separate,” suddenly you will find: the senses that dragged you yesterday stand behind like shadows; they begin to obey your command.
If you do not command, how are the senses at fault? If you are not present, who will command? Do not abuse the senses, as most people go on doing. Many abuse the senses, saying they are enemies.
The senses are not enemies. The senses are enemies if you are not the master—remember this distinction. The senses become friends if you are the master. Therefore, never abuse the senses. Many sit abusing: “The senses are great enemies; they drop us into pits!” No sense throws you into a pit—you fall, and the senses accompany. If you go toward heaven, the senses accompany you there too—they are instruments.
But you never declared mastery. You followed your servants. And then you abused them: “The servants are misleading us!”
At least they take you somewhere—they run you somehow. You are not present—you are like the dead; not alive even. Whether you are there or not is uncertain.
Therefore Krishna makes a fine distinction. He does not say the senses are enemies. Whoever says to you, “The senses are enemies,” know he knows nothing. Krishna says: not being the master becomes enmity with oneself. Become the master—then you are a friend.
Enough for today.
But do not get up. Remain five minutes for kirtan. The body will say, “Rise.” Keep a little control. The senses will say, “Run.” Keep a little control. For five minutes, try to be the master. Whoever runs—we will understand—he is a slave.
So for five minutes we will immerse a little in kirtan—dive in. At least, sitting where you are, join the kirtan—give your voice, clap, be blissful.