Geeta Darshan #4

In pleasure and pain, in the pleasant and the unpleasant, in success and failure, amidst all the dualities of life, the one whose inner state does not wobble; however many tempests may blow, whose inner lamp of awareness does not tremble; who remains inwardly quiet, uncolored and undisturbed—unagitated, unexcited—within such a temple of consciousness the Supreme is forever enthroned, so Krishna tells Arjuna. Three points must be kept in mind.
First: the one who is steady amidst dualities, equal in opposite conditions. Whether success or failure, honor or insult, it is as if no difference occurs within, as if no touch happens inside. Events unfold outside and the person within remains untouched. First understand clearly what this means, what its intent is. What is the process to reach it? What is the path?
First understand well: how do we become disturbed? When sorrow comes, and also when happiness comes—why is an opportunity created for the inner flame of consciousness to flicker? What is the cause? Is sorrow the cause? If sorrow alone were the cause, then what Krishna says could never be possible—for sorrow also comes to Krishna.
When the inner consciousness loses its evenness in happiness, becomes excited—does happiness cause it? If happiness alone were the cause, then no one on this earth could attain the state Krishna speaks of—not even Krishna himself.
We all think: we were disturbed because of sorrow; we were aroused because of happiness. No—happiness and sorrow are not the causes. As long as you take happiness and sorrow to be the cause, you will go on being excited. You have misunderstood the cause; your diagnosis is erroneous.
No one is excited by happiness. One becomes excited by taking oneself to be one with happiness. No one is agitated by sorrow. One becomes agitated by losing oneself in sorrow.
We are not able to stand outside happiness and sorrow; we slip within. An identity forms—tadātma-bhāva. When sorrow befalls you, it does not feel, “Sorrow has come upon me”; it feels, “I have become sorrow.” When happiness surrounds you, it does not feel as if happiness stands encircling you; it feels, “I myself have become happiness—a single wave of joy.”
This identification—this habit of becoming bound with happiness and sorrow—is the cause of excitation. And this habit can be broken.
Happiness and sorrow will keep coming. They do not cease. Thorns pierce the feet of a Buddha. Buddha also falls ill. Death comes to Buddha as well. But it comes in a manner different from ours. Death will not change its way; it will come in its own way. But Buddha changes himself so totally that the manner of death’s coming changes completely.
Buddha is near death. The lamp of life is about to go out. The body is to be dropped. A monk asks Buddha, “There is so much pain. My mind is greatly saddened. In a few moments you will no longer be!” Buddha says, “That which was not, will cease to be. That which was, will remain.” Death is coming. Buddha says, “That which was not, will cease to be. Therefore do not grieve in vain. For death can erase only that which never was; which we merely thought to be; which was a dream; which was only our notion, without any existentiality in the world of things—that will be gone. That which was not will be gone—it was never there. And that which was—there is no way for it to cease. That which is, remains.”
Death is coming, but Buddha sees death differently. “I will die”—Buddha does not see this. Buddha sees, “That which can die, that which is already always dying, will die.” He can stand away from himself, remain a witness. The river of death will flow by, and Buddha will stand on the bank—untouched, outside.
Pain also comes; sorrow also comes. Everything continues to come. Night comes too, and morning will be. Even if you attain knowing on this earth, night will not turn into light. If you attain knowing, sorrow will not become happiness. If you attain knowing, when a thorn pricks it will not feel like a flower; it will feel like a thorn. Then where is the difference?
When does the inner consciousness wobble? When a thorn pricks the foot? No—when the inner consciousness believes, “A thorn has pierced me.” If the inner consciousness remains beyond the thorn, it remains unagitated. Then consciousness stays untouched—un-touched—outside.
This art of remaining outside is Yoga. It is about this art of remaining outside that Krishna speaks. And in such a steadied consciousness—such a flame as is not altered by gusts of wind—in such a consciousness the Supreme Presence abides. The doors of its temple open. It is already enthroned; only we are not aware of it.
Consciousness can perceive only one of two things. If it remains joined in the world of identification, the world is known. If it withdraws from the world of identification, becomes a witness, then Paramatma begins to be known.
Understand it thus: we stand in the middle. On this side is the world; on that side is Paramatma. So long as our gaze clings to the world, there is no chance to look back. When our gaze loosens a little from the world, becomes separate, distinct—then spontaneously—spontaneously—our eyes begin to turn toward Paramatma.
The gaze must go somewhere. To go somewhere is its very nature. It can go in two directions: toward matter, or toward Paramatma. And there is one easy means for it to go toward Paramatma: do not let it be identified with matter. That is all; it begins to flow toward the divine.
Paramatma is ever-present. But our gaze is not present upon That. We keep looking the other way. What we are, we do not identify with; and what we are not, with that we take ourselves to be one! Why does such a mistake happen?
The mistake is so vast that calling it a mistake may not be apt. For “mistake” should be used for that which someone does only sometimes. What all do continuously should not be called merely a mistake.
“Mistake” means: out of a hundred, perhaps one does it. Then we are justified in calling it a mistake. But here, a hundred out of a hundred do it. Perhaps out of millions, a single person does not. So this is not merely a mistake—it is not a mathematical error like adding two and two and making five. That someone may do on occasion. Merely calling it a mistake will not do; it is a delusion—a bhrānti.
There is a slight difference between mistake and delusion. To keep this difference in view is the second point; then this sutra will be understood.
A mistake is that for which the individual is responsible—something done through one’s own personal fault. Delusion is that for which the human species as such is responsible. The very mode of human being is responsible.
You are walking along a path and you mistake a rope for a snake—that is a mistake. Not everyone passing by will see a snake. A mind afraid of snakes, filled with experiences of snakes, will infer a snake even from a rope. That is an inference: “Perhaps it is a snake.” But not everyone will see a snake. Because it is a mistake, there is no great difficulty: switch on a torch, light a lamp—and the mistake vanishes. It is personal; it does not arise from the human mind as such, but from an individual mind. It is individual, not collective.
But the “mistake” I am speaking of, the one Krishna speaks of in this sutra, is collective. It is not that a rope appears as a snake only to some—whoever passes sees a snake. Even if Buddha or Mahavira or Krishna stands at the side and keeps shouting, “It is not a snake, it is a rope!” still a snake is seen. So to call this a mistake is not easy.
Light lamps, bring illumination, keep shouting that it is a rope, not a snake—still whoever passes by, even after hearing, sees a snake, not a rope. This is a delusion of the collective mind; therefore it is a bhrānti.
It is like putting a stick into water and it appears bent. It does not become bent; it appears so. Pull the stick out—it looks straight. Put it back in—it looks bent again. Put your hand into the water and feel it—it feels straight. Yet the eye still sees it as bent! That is not a mistake; it is a delusion. A thousand times you may know perfectly well that the stick does not bend in water, yet whenever you see it in water it will appear bent.
Delusion is that which arises from the group-mind.
This I call a delusion: our identification. We make ourselves utterly one with sorrow and happiness. It is a delusion arising from the collective mind. Like the stick in water appearing bent. It is not like the rope-snake mistake. Therefore, a thousand times after understanding, again and again the same thing recurs.
This delusion comes from the unconscious. You are less responsible at present. Far more responsible are the patterns by which you have lived through infinite births. It has settled deep. Why has it settled? The formula of its settlement must also be understood.
When a delusion is seated so deep, it has a very deep formula. That is why it is so difficult to break. The Gita keeps calling us; we keep reading. No one breaks it. It seems very difficult. Because you read the Gita with the intellect, which is very superficial, and the delusion rises from very deep within you. The two do not meet.
We read: one should remain even-minded in happiness and sorrow. Then a small thorn pricks the foot—and all sutras are lost. The Gita is forgotten; the foot is grabbed. And we say, “A thorn has pierced me!” What the intellect had concluded is of no use. The delusion lies deeper than the intellect. The delusion is in the unconscious. And why?
Not because of sorrow; the delusion is due to happiness. That the delusion is not due to sorrow—anyone will agree readily. It is very pleasing to be told that when a thorn pierces the foot it does not pierce me. Anyone will agree. When illness comes, it does not come to me. When death comes, it does not come to me. Anyone will agree.
No—the difficulty is not with sorrow; the difficulty is with happiness. “I am not happiness”—this we ourselves are unwilling to accept. Therefore sorrow is not the real issue; happiness is. When you say, “I am alive,” then you will also have to say, “I will die.”
Remember: the delusion does not arise with death; it arises with life—“I am alive!” And if the delusion is to be broken, it must be broken at life, not at death. But people try to break it at death. They sit and repeat, “Atman is immortal. I will never die.”
But they do not notice that when you take yourself to be alive, then one day you will have to understand, “I die.” That is the second half of the same statement. But no one sits and remembers, “Where am I alive?” That would be very unsettling. If it is to be broken, it must be broken here.
When happiness comes, the mind is instantly ready to accept, “I am happiness.” When someone places a garland of flowers around your neck, it feels as if it is on your neck alone—there must be some virtue in you. But if someone were to hang a garland of shoes around your neck, you think, “That man was evil, malicious; it was not for my neck.”
When someone honors you, the readiness to identify is complete. But when someone insults you, you yourself want to break the identification. No one wants to identify with sorrow. It happens—because everyone wants to identify with happiness.
Why do we want to identify with happiness? And unless we break with happiness, we will never break with sorrow. Until we break with honor, we will never break with insult. Until we break with praise, we will not break with blame. Until we break with life, we will not break with death.
Therefore the seeker must begin with happiness. People always begin with sorrow—then it never breaks. Begin with happiness. In happiness, make the effort to remain outside! When happiness comes, try to stand far away from yourself!
And the amazing thing is, no one begins with happiness—although, if someone did, it would be very simple. This is the second point I want to tell you. No one begins with happiness. If someone did, it would be very easy. People begin with sorrow. You cannot begin there. It is impossible to begin with sorrow.
Our direct relationship is with happiness; sorrow follows behind happiness. Our relationship with sorrow is indirect, not direct; it is mediated, not immediate. Only with that which we are directly related can we break—and break easily.
Yet no one begins with happiness, where it would be simple to break. All begin with sorrow, where it can never break. Therefore it often happens that the unhappy set out in search of religion. The happy rarely seek religion.
A friend once brought a friend to me. Many times he had said he wanted to bring him, but he was unwilling. He used to say, “I am happy in every way. Why should I go now?” I said, “Then wait a bit. For being happy in every way cannot last. Wait a little. Be patient. Soon sorrow will come. And the one who says, ‘I am happy in every way—why should I go now?’—he will be ready to come when sorrow arrives, though coming then will be useless. Now something could happen. For happiness is the seed; sorrow is the fruit. To destroy the seed of happiness is very easy; to uproot the vast tree of sorrow will be very difficult.”
“And just as from sowing one seed, a tree produces millions of seeds, in the same way, from the desire for one happiness, the great tree of sorrow bears fruit. And upon that tree of sorrow again millions of desires for happiness start sprouting.”
I said, “But wait. The rule is that people seek religion in sorrow—precisely when religion cannot be sought. And in happiness they say, ‘I am happy—what need is there to seek?’”
Why is this so? Because people seek even religion for happiness. Religion is also pursued for happiness! Hence in sorrow they say, “Very well, the mind is unhappy—let us seek religion.”
But religion has nothing to do with happiness. Religion is the entire science of breaking from happiness. Although one who breaks from happiness is joined with bliss—ānanda. That is entirely different.
Never mistake this: what you call happiness has nothing whatsoever to do with bliss. At most this much relation exists—and it does—that because of happiness, bliss never arrives. That is all. Because of happiness, the blockage remains, and you cannot reach the door of bliss.
As it happened, his wife died. Sorrow came. Then his friend brought him to me. He said, “My wife has died. I am very unhappy. My mind is disturbed. Show me some way.” I told him, “Now be properly unhappy. Be unhappy thoroughly. Cry, beat your chest, bang your head.” He was startled. He said, “I did not come expecting this from you. I wanted some consolation!” I said, “Then you too have come to me in search of happiness—that I somehow lighten your sorrow and give you a little pleasure. Before you search for a new wife, let me tidy you up a bit. With this face, it will be hard to find a new wife.”
He said, “What are you saying? My wife has died!” I said, “Ask your own mind honestly—have you not already begun looking for a new wife?” He said, “How did you know?” I said, “I did not ‘know’ anything about you in particular. I know the human mind. Very soon you will find a new wife. Then you will say, ‘I am happy now; what need is there for religion?’”
Religion cannot be your instrument. Religion is not some emergency measure that when you are troubled you quickly open the emergency door of religion and slip in. Religion is not a device to free you from sorrow. Properly understood, religion is a device to free you from happiness. For that the mind is never ready; therefore religion never comes into our life.
And remember: the one who drops happiness is instantly freed from sorrow. And the one who seeks to drop sorrow and gain happiness will never be free of sorrow, for he cannot be free of happiness.
Sorrow is the other face of happiness—inevitable. And while we are prepared to drop sorrow, we are not prepared to drop happiness.
I want to tell you: understand the pain hidden in happiness. See happiness in its full contour. See the sorrow concealed behind every happiness. Awaken to the deception of every happiness. Every happiness is only a temptation to throw you into a new sorrow. Until there is such alertness toward happiness, you will not be able to stand on the bank.
Lao Tzu used to say: whenever someone came to honor me, I said, “Forgive me, for I do not want insult.” The man said, “But we have come to honor you!” Lao Tzu said, “You have come to honor me—and if I accept the honor, somewhere nearby insult will be on its way. It will begin its journey. For I have never heard that these two live apart. They are a pair. They walk together. They have never divorced. They always stand side by side. It is an inseparable pair. Do me a kindness—do not send an invitation to my insult. Take your honor back.”
The emperor of that land wished to offer Lao Tzu wealth and riches. People said, “Such a great, wondrous fakir in your land, and he begs—this does not befit you.” The emperor himself came to Lao Tzu’s hut with many chariots laden with gold, grains, garments, ornaments—treasures by the millions. Lao Tzu said, “For now I am my own master; you will make me a beggar needlessly. Take all this paraphernalia back. And if you object to my sovereignty over myself, I will leave your kingdom. But do not trouble me.” The king said, “What are you saying? I have come to give you happiness!” Lao Tzu said, “Experience of innumerable births tells me that whoever came to give happiness left only sorrow. No more deception.”
But one must awaken in happiness; one must awaken in honor; one must awaken where the ego is gratified, where flowers are arranged around the ego. There one must be alert. And it is easy there, for that is the beginning—there the journey starts. Sorrow is the end; happiness the beginning. And the one who is alert at the beginning can get out. To be alert in the middle becomes very difficult.
But we want to sleep at the beginning. People speak of “sleeping the sleep of happiness.” Happiness is a sleep. Rarely does anyone awaken in happiness.
Keep the second sutra in mind: surely—and soon—happiness will come; then be alert, for sorrow is standing behind, waiting. Surely—and soon—honor will come; then be startled into awareness—remember Lao Tzu: “Now this man is arranging for my insult.” If ever you get a chance to sit upon a throne, run away. Then sorrow will never meet you.
And once this sutra becomes clear—that the capacity to avoid happiness is the qualification to avoid sorrow; and the day you gather the capacity to be free of happiness, you obtain the qualification to be free of sorrow—on that very day the door of bliss opens. The moment one stands apart from happiness, the wavering flame of the mind becomes steady. And the one who did not waver in happiness will never waver in sorrow.
Remember: if you waver in happiness, you will have to waver in sorrow. The vibrations of sorrow are the inevitable complement of the vibrations born in happiness. As with a clock’s pendulum: if you push it to the left, it will go to the right—it must. There is no way to avoid it. If you are stirred by happiness, you will be stirred by sorrow.
But we want to be stirred by happiness and not stirred by sorrow. Reverse it. Do not want to be stirred by happiness—and then sorrow will not be able to touch you. Remain in the search that when happiness comes, you are full of awareness and see whether happiness is making you tremble or not.
It is not difficult. It is only a matter of remembering. Not difficult at all. We simply do not notice—this is all. We lack the remembrance that happiness itself is our sorrow. We take sorrow to be sorrow, and happiness to be happiness—that is the delusion. And that delusion is collective, not individual.
When your son comes home dancing because he has stood first in his class, then know he is preparing for sorrow. If only parents were wise, they would say, “There is no need to be so happy. For as happy as you become, just that much sorrow will be placed on the other pan of the scale, which will return soon enough.” In that child the group-mind is being born, and we collaborate. We too will call in the band, distribute flowers and sweets. We begin to encourage identification with happiness in him. We give his mind a direction that will lead him into sorrow.
We mold our children in our own image. Our parents molded us; their parents molded them. Diseases continue to shape further diseases. Illness gives birth to illness.
That child also has a past, experiences of previous births. There too he repeated the same mistake. In this birth we again condition his brain from childhood, again imprint samskaras, show the whole readiness to be happy in happiness. Then in sorrow he will be sorrowful.
At birth we celebrate with band and music. Conditioning begins. You will say, “A newborn child won’t even know—the band is playing for joy.”
But those who now work on the body’s memory say: these bands and drums also enter the child’s unconscious. Not only that—when the child is in the mother’s womb, the events that happen then also become part of the child’s unconscious memory; they too help shape the child.
These bands, these waves of jubilation, this collective feeling of becoming one with happiness—their vibrations also enter the child. Later those very vibrations will bring sorrow at the time of death.
If you do not want sorrow at the time of death, then remove the arrangements that produce identification with happiness at the time of birth. Break from happiness where it begins.
Yoga is the name of awakening in happiness. Awaken and see: “I am separate.” Then you will also awaken in sorrow and see that you are separate; no obstruction will arise, no difficulty will occur. Remain a witness.
It will take time. Not because there is some inner cause requiring time, but because our habits are strong and ancient. The habit of wavering is strong, very old. We do not even notice when we begin to tremble. When someone utters two words of praise, you do not notice that as soon as you hear—and perhaps even a moment before—you have already trembled. You saw the look on his face: he will say something in praise—and something inside quivered. Even if you know the praise is false, you will still tremble. Because you also know that you utter false praises of others to make them tremble! And someone else praises you to make you tremble!
Without making you vibrate, you cannot be used. Only by shaking you can you be used. Therefore so much flattery runs in the world. So much flattery—because first you must be made to wobble; only then can you be used. The moment you wobble, you become weak.
Remember: the moment your consciousness trembles, you become weak. Then anything can be done with you. The one who flatters you is weakening you; he is breaking you within.
Therefore Krishna uses a word: the one who remains unmoved in happiness and sorrow—he alone is free. He says: only he is free who remains equal in pleasure and pain. No one in the world can make him a slave.
As for us—anyone can enslave us, because anyone can make us tremble. And once we tremble, the ground disappears from beneath our feet. Anyone can do it. Someone says, “I have never seen such a beautiful face—your face is so lovely!” You tremble. Now you can be used; now you can be made to serve. Someone says, “Your intelligence has no equal—you are incomparable!” You tremble. And by calling you intelligent he has made you foolish! Now even a person of less intelligence can make you his servant. You trembled—so you became weak. You trembled—so you became dependent.
The person who trembles within in happiness and sorrow will always become a slave. His bondage is ensured. He is already bound. A small word can make him a slave. Only that person cannot be enslaved whom pleasure and pain cannot shake. No one can make him a slave in this world. There remains no way. There is no way to move him. Now swords may cut his body, but he will remain unmoving. Now showers of gold may fall at his feet, but it will have no more effect than a shower of dust. Now the throne of the whole earth may be offered to him—he will climb upon it as he would upon a heap of dust; and descend from it as from a heap of dust.
Inner strength comes from non-wavering. Inner power, inner energy, supreme strength becomes available to the one who attains the unwavering. And unwavering can only be the one who is not shaken by happiness and sorrow.
Before becoming established in Yoga, this unwavering, unshakable state must be attained. And only in this state does one have so much energy, so much power, so much freedom, so much sovereignty—one can say, one becomes one’s own self, swayaṁ—that only in this worthiness does union with Paramatma happen. Before this there is no union.
The one who trembles with pleasure and pain is so weak he cannot even bear Paramatma. So weak! A silver coin shakes his life-breath. A tiny thorn pierces right up to his very soul. A slight sidelong glance ruins his whole night’s sleep. Such a person is so weak that it is God’s compassion he does not meet Paramatma. Otherwise he would break apart, explode—be utterly destroyed.
So great an event would happen in the life of one who trembles for a rupee—one who, if he loses a rupee on the road, is thrown into difficulty! He will not have the capacity to bear such an event. He is not so crystallized, not so integrated within, not so empowered as to be able to withstand Paramatma. He does not have that worthiness.
Everything happens by law. The day you become worthy of freedom, on that very day the Supreme descends upon you. It is always ready to descend; only it waits for you. And you are trembling over such petty things—beyond all telling. Just try to reckon how trivial are the things that unbalance you! How petty the things that shake you! You are walking down the road; two men laugh a bit loudly—you are unbalanced.
A friend wants to take sannyas. He tells me every day, “I want to take it; but I am already a sannyasin in these ordinary clothes.” Many come and say, “What is lacking in us? We are sannyasins in these clothes!” I say, “Then what is the fear? Put on the ochre.” Then they tremble. Sannyas proves very powerful! They tremble at the wearing of ochre. Why?
It is the trembling in others’ eyes. “We will walk down the road—what will people say? We will go to the office—what will they say? If we go, and some peon smiles with a certain face—then what? What will people say?” The very thought terrifies. In so weak a mind, great events cannot happen.
By wearing ochre nothing great will happen. But by wearing it, one announcement is made: now one has dropped worrying about what others will say. That is a great event. There is nothing in the ochre cloth; but in this event there is much.
“What will people say!”—and the words others speak shake you so much! Words—in which there is nothing; bubbles of air. A man moves his lips. A sound is produced in the air. It strikes your ear. You tremble. So weak a soul! No—then the worthiness for great happenings cannot arise.
Krishna says: the one who remains motionless in pleasure and pain, unshaken—his consciousness is steady. And such consciousness abides in the divine; and in such consciousness the divine abides.
Let us move toward unwavering consciousness! Advance! Begin with happiness—never begin with sorrow. Begin with happiness; the matter will reach sorrow. Never begin with sorrow. From sorrow it never begins.
Look rightly at happiness and you will find that happiness is but a form of sorrow. Search within happiness and you will find that all the seeds of sorrow, all its possibilities lie hidden in happiness. And do not let yourself be shaken by happiness.
What must be done to avoid being shaken? Shall we stand with eyes closed so that happiness does not shake us? If you stand with great force, you have already been shaken!
If someone says, “I pass through darkness without fear. I close my eyes; I grip my hands tight with strength; I pass utterly unafraid”—this hand, this strength—these are signs of fear. The statement “I pass through darkness without fear” is the statement of a frightened man. Otherwise darkness would not even be noticed; he would simply pass. He does not say in the light, “I pass without fear!” He says it in darkness.
No—if you exert great force, know that you have already been shaken; that force is nothing but the vibration of fear. There is no need to apply force.
Keep this third sutra carefully in mind. Without it the seeker faces great difficulty.
If you use force and declare, “All right, let happiness come—place a garland around my neck; I will stiffen my chest, hold my breath, and remain utterly unmoved!”—you have already been shaken. You have been badly shaken. So much force for a garland! It costs four annas in the market. For four annas you needed such expenditure of the soul! And how long will you keep the fist clenched? Soon you must loosen it. How long will you hold your breath? Soon you must breathe. Then what was feared will begin afterward.
No—understanding is needed, not strength. Understanding is needed. When happiness comes, try to understand it; do not stand as an enemy using force. For the moment you stand as an enemy against something, you have conceded its strength. Do not use force—use understanding.
And remember: the less understanding there is, the more force people apply. They think they will accomplish the work of understanding by force. It never happens. A grain of understanding is stronger than a mountain of force. The work of understanding will never be done by force. Develop understanding.
When happiness comes, look at it closely, live it consciously, try to understand it. Watch how every day happiness keeps changing into sorrow. Go with it to the very end and see: it began with pleasure and ended with pain. Pass consciously through two, four, ten happinesses. You will find that a space arises in your understanding—that maturity, that ripeness—where there is no need for force. Now happiness arrives and you simply know it as sorrow. The day you live with such simplicity, an unwavering mind will be born—not out of force.
That is why many willful religionists want to seize religion by force. They never attain religion—only ego. By force, ego can be had. By understanding, ego melts.
If, with force, you declare, “All right—now I will not take happiness as happiness, nor sorrow as sorrow,” and stand with eyes shut and muscles tensed—only the ego will be strengthened. Nothing else will happen. And that ego will provide its own kind of pleasures—and its own kind of pains; the game will begin again.
Keep your attention on understanding—on prajñā. As understanding grows, as wisdom increases, then…
Buddha used three words: Pragya, Shila, Samadhi. Buddha says: as prajñā grows—as understanding increases—shīla is transformed; character changes. As character transforms, Samadhi comes near.
But the beginning must be with prajñā, with understanding. Understanding becomes shīla in the outer world, and Samadhi in the inner world. Here, as understanding grows, character is born in the outer life. And if we understand rightly, character belongs only to the one who is unwavering. The one who trembles at every little thing has no character.
I have heard: Immanuel Kant, a very wise man of Germany, went to sleep at ten at night and rose at four in the morning. He had instructed his servant that whatever happened between ten and four—even if an earthquake came—do not wake me.
But it so happened that the university where Kant taught decided to make him chancellor. A telegram arrived at midnight; the servant received it. Such a joyous news! Poor Immanuel Kant, an ordinary professor—chosen as chancellor by the academic council! The servant forgot the rule. He thought: the prohibition was for earthquakes; but this is a matter of such happiness—I must convey it.
He went and shook Kant awake and said, “My congratulations! The university has chosen you chancellor.” Kant opened his eyes, gave the servant a slap, and pulled the quilt over his head and slept again.
The servant was astonished, utterly amazed! What had happened? He had forbidden earthquakes; but this was something else!
In the morning, the first telegram Kant sent to the university office said, “Forgive me; I cannot accept this position, because due to this post even my servant fell into delusion, and I might too. I will not enter into this. Because of this post my sleep was disturbed last night; I will not disturb my sleep in future. Troubles will come with it. Troubles have already begun. For years I have never risen between ten and four.”
In the morning he said to his servant, “You are absolutely crazy!” The servant said, “But you had said, ‘Even if an earthquake comes, do not wake me.’” Kant said, “There are earthquakes of sorrow, and earthquakes of happiness. And the one who accepts the earthquakes of happiness—only in his house do the earthquakes of sorrow come; otherwise there is no reason. The beginning had been made. If last night I had thanked you with joy, I would have been lost! I would have sent the invitation, opened the door to sorrow.”
The servant said, “But why did you slap me?” Kant said, “You must have thought I would distribute sweets! I wanted to give you the message that what you came bringing as happiness ends in sorrow, so I thought I should give you the slap right now. You too should know that happiness always brings sorrow behind it—sooner or later.”
Awaken. Try to understand happiness. As understanding grows, balance comes, detachment comes, indifference comes. You will stand across the bank. A person who stands on the other shore can be called the temple of the Supreme Presence. The Supreme is already installed within him.