Geeta Darshan #5

For Krishna, samatva-buddhi is the very essence of all yoga. In the earlier sutras too he has spoken, by different doors, only of entering the same temple of equanimity. In this sutra again he proclaims samatva-buddhi from yet another direction. There is a purpose in speaking of equanimity in many, many ways.
The purpose is this: human beings are of different leanings and different natures. The fruit of equanimity is one, but the journeys will differ. One person may cultivate equipoise between pleasure and pain. But it may also be that someone has very little sensitivity toward pleasure and pain at all. Our sensitivities differ. For someone else, pleasure and pain may not be important gates; fame and infamy may weigh more.
You may say that fame is only pleasure and infamy only pain. No. Look a little closely, and the difference will become clear.
It can happen that one man is ready to bear any amount of pain for the sake of fame; and another is ready to bear any amount of pain just to avoid infamy. The reverse too is possible. A person may be ready to suffer any infamy for the sake of his pleasures. Or a man may be willing to give up any fame to escape pain.
So for one to whom fame and infamy are crucial, the door of pleasure and pain will not work. For him, equanimity has to be cultivated between fame and infamy.
We must practice where our own choice, our own duality lies. Each of us has a different duality.
It may be that for someone fame or infamy holds no value at all, but friendship and enmity weigh heavily. One person may be willing to lose a thousand honors for the sake of a friend; another may be willing to lose a thousand friends for the sake of honor. So for the person to whom friend and enemy are decisive, neither fame nor pleasure, neither pain nor infamy is of importance. He has to attain equanimity between friendship and enmity.
The duality that is important for you will become your door. Another’s duality will not become your path.
There are people who have no sense of beauty whatsoever. Many such people pretend to have it; and if they have a little money, they can hang Van Gogh on their walls and display Picasso, but the sense of beauty is something else. For one who has that sensitivity, the duality will be to keep balance between ugliness and beauty. Not all have that sensitivity.
Someone like Rabindranath will have the sense of beauty. Then the result is that the slightest ugliness becomes unbearable. Very small, so small that our eyes would not even notice it, will be intolerable to Rabindranath. If a person sits a little askew before him, he will become restless. If proportions are a little off, he will find it difficult. If someone raises his voice and the music in the voice is lost, the beauty is gone, Rabindranath will feel pain. And it may be that speaking loudly is simply your habit; you have no sensitivity to it.
Each one’s sensory threads are different. Each of us carries his own duality. Understand: your own duality must become your door. That is why Krishna speaks of every duality.
In this sutra he says: equal between friend and enemy.
For Arjuna this sutra can be useful. For Arjuna, friendship and enmity carry great value. For a kshatriya they always have. A very sensitive kshatriya will give his life but not break his word. He will fulfill a promise given to a friend, even if it costs his life. If a man of merchant-mind is there, he will save a penny even if a thousand promises are lost, a thousand friends are lost. It is not a matter of good or bad; it is a matter of one’s own duality.
I have heard a folk tale from Rajasthan. In a village the Rajput chieftain had announced that no one should grow a big moustache. He himself had a grand moustache. He sat on a throne at his gate. He had declared in the village that no one should pass in front of his door with a moustache held high. If you have one, keep it low.
A new merchant, a new vaishya, came to the village. He opened a new shop. He too fancied a moustache. For the first time he passed before the Rajput. The Rajput said, Merchant’s son, keep your moustache low! Perhaps you do not know, before my gate no moustache can be held high. The merchant’s son said, My moustache will go high! Swords were drawn. Being a Rajput, he brought two swords: one for the merchant’s son, one for himself.
The merchant’s son saw the sword. He had never held one. He only fancied a high moustache. He thought, This is getting troublesome. He said, Fine. I will gladly enter this duel. But one request: let me go home and return. The Rajput said, For what? The merchant’s son said, If it also seems right to you, you should do the same. It may happen that I die; then my wife and children should not suffer behind me, I will go and cut their throats. If the idea appeals to you too, you might die; you should also cut the throats of your wife and children. Then we shall fight at leisure. The Rajput said, Fair enough.
The merchant’s son went home. The Rajput went inside and swiftly cut throats. He came and sat outside. In a little while the merchant’s son returned with his moustache lowered. He said, I thought, why make such a fuss for nothing! Why create an uproar just for the sake of a moustache! Here, take your sword. The Rajput said, What kind of man are you? I have finished off my wife and children! The merchant’s son said, Then you do not understand that a merchant has his own arithmetic. We have our own accounting!
Each person has a type, a bent, sensitivities, and the important duality for his life. Each should look into his own duality: what is mine? Is it love and hate? Friendship-enmity? Wealth-poverty? Fame-infamy? Pleasure-pain, knowledge-ignorance, peace-restlessness — what is my duality?
And whatever your duality is, Krishna says, to attain equanimity in that duality is the path.
Remember, in another’s duality you can easily be equanimous. The question is always of your own duality. In another’s duality, equanimity costs you nothing. You will say, It is perfectly fine. If fame has never tempted you, if the ghost of politics, the ghost of fame has never possessed you, you will say, Win or lose elections — we remain the same. It is no difficulty for us. If that ghost never seized you, you can speak of equanimity very easily. But that is not the real question. The real question is of the one who has been possessed. What is your ghost, your demon that hounds you? To recognize it exactly is essential.
Therefore Krishna, in different sutras, discusses different demons. Here he says, equanimity between friend and enemy.
This is very difficult. Equanimity between wealth and poverty is easier, because wealth is inanimate. Understand this a little well.
Equanimity between fame and infamy too is easier, because fame and infamy are your private concerns. But to keep equanimity between friend and enemy is very difficult. First, it is no longer private; someone else is involved — friend and enemy are involved. You are not alone; another is present. And also it is more difficult because, unlike gold and clay, what stands before you is not inert. Friend and enemy are living, conscious, as much as you. They stand on your own plane, they are like you. The difficulty is greater, the complexity deeper.
So what will be the process to keep equanimity between friend and enemy? Who can keep it? Krishna calls only such a one a yogi. Who can keep it? Keep a few sutras in mind.
First: only he will succeed in equanimity between friend and enemy who does not exploit anyone for his own ends, who does not use anyone for himself.
You call one a friend who serves your purpose. There is a saying: a friend is tested in trouble. One who becomes useful to you, you call friend. One who becomes an obstacle to your purpose, you call enemy. There is no other difference. Therefore any friend can become an enemy if he obstructs your work; any enemy can become a friend if he becomes helpful.
If you have any work to be done, you will not be able to remain equanimous. Only one who says, I have no work of my own for which someone could be a supporter or an opponent, can remain equal between friend and foe. One who says, I take life to be a play, not a project. One who says, This life is like a dream to me, not the truth. One who says, For me this life is a stage; here I am playing, not doing a task.
Anyone who is even a little serious about life and says, This work must be done by me, will never be able to be equanimous between friends and enemies. For the very work will demand that you keep one feeling for friends and another for enemies. If I have anything to accomplish on this earth, if I have any idea of achieving something, I will not be able to remain equal between friend and foe. Equanimity is possible only when I have nothing to accomplish on this earth. Nowhere to arrive. Nothing to prove.
This does not mean that if I become totally idle and inactive, equanimity will happen. If I make idleness my work, then again some will be my friends who aid my idleness and some will be my enemies who obstruct it.
It does not mean that. It simply means: I will continue to act, but without the obstinacy, without the ego that says, This work I must achieve. Then it is fine. Whoever helps, my thanks; and whoever hinders, my thanks too. Whoever removes stones from the path, my thanks; and whoever lays stones on the path, my thanks as well.
I have nowhere to reach and nothing to do. I live; whatever work Existence wishes to take from me, let it take. I will do as much as I can. There is no insistence that some target must be attained. Then there remains no obstruction between friend and foe. Then the matter becomes equal.
So the first thing I want to say is: anyone who has fallen into the naivety of taking life to be a project, who harbors the notion that he must do something and leave a mark, will inevitably create enemies and friends — and he will not be able to remain equal.
The second thing: equanimity between friend and enemy is possible only when the craving to receive love has departed from within you. Understand the second point carefully.
In all our minds, up to the very moment of death, the craving to be loved does not depart. The child, the very first day he is born, is as hungry for love as the old man taking his last breath. The hunger for love remains; only the modes change. Someone should love me! Someone should give me love! If the nourishment of love is not received, I will die starving, I will be in difficulty.
If the body does not get food, we somehow endure. But if the mind does not get its food — love is the food of the mind. The mind receives prana from love.
So long as there is the need for love, how will you take friend and enemy as one? How will you be equal, how will you be neutral? A friend is one who gives love. An enemy is one who does not give love. So long as your craving remains — that someone should love me...
And it is a strange thing that in this world everyone wants to be loved; hardly anyone wants to love. Understand this a little closely.
We all suffer from the illusion that we give love. But if you give love only in order to receive love back, then you are merely investing, not giving. You are engaged in business.
If I give you love only because I want love, and love will not be received without giving, then I am merely bargaining. My aim is to get love; I give only because without giving it will not be had.
This love I give is like the bait of dough that a fisherman puts on a hook. He puts dough on the hook and waits with his rod. The fish must think some great kind one has come to feed dough! But the dough is only on top; the hook is within. The fish comes to eat the dough and discovers that the hook has pierced her very life. If you must embed a hook, dough must be wrapped on it.
If I want to take love from someone and establish proprietorship over them through love, then I must first kneel and plead my love. That is the dough.
So keep the second sutra in mind: so long as the craving remains that someone should love me...
And remember, so long as this craving remains, you are a child, juvenile, undeveloped. A mature human being is one for whom there is no question of receiving love. One who can live without being loved. A grown person does not beg for love.
And here is the paradox, from which the third sutra follows: the man who does not ask for love becomes capable of giving love. And the man who keeps asking for love never becomes capable of giving it.
But we think the opposite. We all feel that we are capable of giving love. A father thinks, I am giving love to my son. Ask a psychologist. He will say: even while patting the son, the father hopes the son will pat him back. Yes, the forms of patting differ. The son will pat in one way, the father in another. The son will say, Daddy, there is no one as strong as you in this world. Daddies whose chests have no ribs will feel their chests swelling up to the sky. The son too is patting.
If the son quietly takes the mother’s or father’s love and does not reciprocate, the parent returns hurt and pained. If the son does not return the mother’s love, she too becomes anxious and distressed and wounded.
Even the oldest of men want love back. If they do not get it from people, they keep dogs. At the door you come and the dog wags his tail. Now it is not necessary that wives should wag their tails. Nor that children should wag theirs. The old arrangement of tail-wagging has broken down.
In those lands where people have stopped wagging their tails, the fashion of dogs increases. It is the substitute. He stands at the door; you come, he wags his tail. You feel very pleased. Astonishing! The wag of a dog’s tail satisfies you. At least the dog is loving you! Although the dog’s purpose is the same. He too is baiting with dough by wagging his tail. He has his hooks. He knows that without wagging his tail this man will not keep him. This is how he buys his food and rest in the house. He too is investing. The whole world is in investment.
The man who is asking for love cannot attain equanimity between friend and enemy. Only the one who has gone beyond asking and become capable of giving can attain it — this is the third sutra I tell you. One who has love to give and nothing to take can give to friend and to enemy alike. Since there is nothing to receive, there is no need to discriminate.
I have heard that Jesus used to tell a story. It will help you understand this. Jesus spoke to explain love. Sometimes his disciples would complain: I have served you so much, yet you love me no more than that man whom you have never met! I have wandered with you for years, suffered with you. You give me as much love as to that stranger who meets you on the road for the first time!
Jesus told a story. He said there was a very wealthy man — very wealthy. He had so much wealth it could not be counted. But not because of that was he truly rich, Jesus said. He was rich because his grasp on wealth had relaxed, and his craving for wealth had disappeared. He had no desire left to have more. Therefore he was rich. And he could share. For the one whose craving to have more remains cannot share, cannot give. He could share. There was no desire to get more.
One morning he sent his overseers to his vineyard and said, Bring some laborers from the village. At sunrise some laborers came to work. But they were too few. He sent again; some came from the market. But by then the sun was high, noon was near. Still there were too few, the work was much. He sent again. Some came after noon. Some came as the evening shadows lengthened. The sun began to set. It was time to pay wages. He paid all of them equally.
Those who had come in the morning were angry. They said, This is injustice. We came at dawn! We labored through the rising and setting sun. And there are some who came just now, who had barely taken a tool in hand when the sun set and darkness fell. And you pay all of us the same!
The rich man said, I ask you this: for the work you did, did you receive your due or less? They said, No, we received more than due. Then he said, Do not worry about them. I do not give them because of their work; I give because I have much. If you received more than your worth, be at ease. And these I do not pay according to their labor; I give because I have to give.
One who has love to give — and only he has it who has no desire to receive, who is no longer a beggar of love, who has become an emperor — only rarely does such a one appear: a Buddha, a Krishna, when love becomes their very treasure. They only give and do not take. There is no question of asking; they simply go on sharing. Such a person will give to the enemy as to the friend, because no shortage can ever arise. And why discriminate? If it is only a matter of giving, what is the question of difference? If it were a matter of taking, then difference arises — the friend gives, the enemy will not. But if one has only to give, what difference remains?
So keep the third sutra in mind: only those who have become masters of love can attain equanimity between friend and enemy.
I have said that equanimity between wealth and poverty is not very difficult; wealth is very external. And between fame and infamy too it is not a great matter, for fame and infamy are the play of other people’s eyes. But to bring equanimity between friend and enemy is a very deep event. Because you, your love, your whole personality are involved. Only when you are transformed wholly will you be able to see friend and enemy with the same eye.
Keep these three foundational sutras in mind. And whenever the mind says, This person is my friend, immediately ask, Why? Whenever it says, That fellow is my enemy, ask, Why? Is it because I will not get love from him? Is it because he will obstruct some work of mine? For what is he my enemy? And why is someone my friend? Because he gives me love? Because I can trust he will help me in a pinch? Because he will cooperate with my work and not obstruct?
If these are the questions that arise, then think again: you are filled with the madness of doing something in life. The ego always whispers that something is there for you to do.
Whatever has to be done, the Divine does. Do not burden yourself with unnecessary weight. Do not become unnecessarily deranged. Nothing will come of it but your own affliction.
How many people come into this world thinking they have to do something! By all means, go on doing — but not with the thought that you must accomplish it. Do with the feeling that it is God’s will; he gets it done through you.
If you see thus, then even the enemy will appear to you as doing God’s work — because other than God there is no one. You will understand there is some accounting of the Divine; he is working through the enemy and through me. His hands are infinite. In a thousand ways he gets things done. Then you will have no need to make enemies and friends.
This does not mean that enemies and friends will not form around you. They will — that is their choice. You will have no need to make them. And you will be able to remain equal toward both.
If this equality arises, a man becomes established in yoga. From anywhere it comes, samatva is the essence.
So in this sutra Krishna says, To be at rest between enemy and friend. For Arjuna this sutra can be especially helpful. His whole difficulty in the Gita is precisely this. His pain is that on the other side stand many friends whom he will have to kill. Enemies he has to kill — that is no obstacle; that does not trouble him. If the division had been clear, it would be easy. But the division was reversed. The war was unique. And because of that, the Gita could be churned out of it; otherwise it could not have been born.
The war was unique because on that side also stood friends, kinsmen, beloved ones, family. Some were brothers, some brothers-in-law, some a wife’s brother, some a friend’s friend. All interwoven. On that side and on this side the same family stood. It was not clear who was enemy and who friend; everything was hazy. From this Arjuna became anxious. He felt: if for the sake of such a great kingdom I must kill my own friends, my beloveds, then Krishna, let me renounce this kingdom, flee to the forest. Better to die than this. Let me take my own life — that is better. What will I do with a kingdom won by killing so many friends and loved ones? That was the kshatriya speaking. The kshatriya’s mind. The kingdom is worth two pennies, but what is the point of killing one’s beloveds, one’s friends?
It is the kshatriya’s mind that weighs friend and enemy. Even on that side stood their own people. It was an unfortunate, ill-starred moment that the division came like this. It had to be so. Because those who were Arjuna’s friends were also Duryodhana’s friends. Krishna himself was split with difficulty. Krishna stood on this side, but all his armies stood with the Kauravas. Strange war! Krishna had to fight against his own troops, his own generals. And on the other side Krishna’s own generals were ready to fight against Krishna.
The whole division was of loved ones. By compulsion someone stood here, someone there. But all were restless. Yet Arjuna was the most restless. For it can be said that Arjuna was the purest kshatriya in that war. He was the most troubled. Bhima is not so troubled — he cannot even see the friends. The enemies are so clear to him that first let them be crushed, then we will think. Arjuna is sunk in anxiety and grief.
This sutra of Krishna’s is special for Arjuna: equanimity between friend and enemy. It means: do not worry who is a friend, who an enemy. Become neutral between the two. Do not think in the language of mine and the other. This language is wrong — certainly wrong for a yogi.
And the strange thing is that Arjuna only wanted a way to avoid war. His whole inquiry was negative. Somehow a way to escape this war! But a teacher like Krishna cannot miss such an opportunity.
Krishna’s whole teaching is positive. His whole effort is to evoke yoga within Arjuna. Arjuna only wants this much — that he may somehow be rid of the anxiety that has arisen in his mind, free from the worry. Krishna makes full use of it, of Arjuna’s moment of worry, of this occasion. Krishna is not concerned with how he may escape anxiety; Krishna is concerned with how he may be free of anxiety forever.
Understand the difference. To escape anxiety is one thing — at night you can take a tranquilizer and escape anxiety. Drink wine and you can escape anxiety. There are many kinds of intoxicants. Arjuna too could be intoxicated. In drunkenness he would forget and fall upon the war.
There are many kinds of wine — of clan, of fame, of wealth, of kingdom, of prestige, of ego. Any of them could have been given to him. He would forget. His wounds could be touched. Krishna could touch his wounds: Arjuna, do you remember what Duryodhana did to your Draupadi! The intoxication would begin.
His wounds could be pressed. They were deep and raw. It would not have been hard for Krishna. There would have been no need to speak a long Gita. Only a little provocation of those wounds was needed. Poison would spread in him. Krishna had only to say, Do you remember the day Draupadi was stripped? Have you forgotten that moment when, while they tried to strip her naked, you sat with bowed head, and Duryodhana bared his thigh and slapped it, saying to Draupadi, Come sit on my thigh? Do you remember? That much would have been enough. No need for the Gita. Arjuna would have leapt.
But Krishna did not do that. He had not come to intoxicate him into fighting; not to save him merely from anxiety; he had come to make him free of anxiety — a creative, transformative process.
So Krishna is making all the effort that Arjuna should go beyond anxiety — not merely enough that he enters battle; enough is that he becomes yogarudha. Necessary is that he becomes established in yoga, becomes a yogi. And only as a yogi should he enter the war — only then can war become dharma-yuddha; otherwise war is never a dharma-yuddha.
Whenever two parties fight in the world, at best there can be a small difference in degree — someone is a little more irreligious, someone a little less. Rarely does it happen that one is religious and the other irreligious. It is in irreligion itself that there is a difference of degree. One is ninety percent irreligious, another ninety-five percent. But war is always between adharma and adharma.
Krishna wants to attempt a unique experiment — perhaps the first in history, and no parallel has yet occurred. He wants to give Arjuna the alchemy to make war into a dharma-yuddha.
He says to Arjuna: Fight as a yogi; fight upon attaining samatva-buddhi; stand absolutely neutral between friend and enemy; drop the language of mine and not-mine. Do not worry about the fruit. Care only for the state of your consciousness. Who will die, who will live — do not fret. Care only that whether someone dies or lives, whether you die or live, between death and birth let there be no difference for you; attain equanimity. Whether success comes or failure, victory or defeat, be able to bear both in the same spirit. Let not the flame of your mind flicker in the least. Become unwavering.
To attempt to make someone a yogi in the very moment of war — this is impossible.
People like Krishna are always engaged in impossible ventures. Because of them there is a little radiance in life; because of these who attempt the impossible, a flower blossoms here and there among thorns; and amidst life’s tumult sometimes a song is born. The impossible effort — the impossible revolution — the longing for an impossible transformation: that Arjuna should enter battle as a yogi.
Two things are easy. Do not make Arjuna a yogi — make him unconscious, more of a sensualist — he will go to war. The other too is possible: make Arjuna a yogi — he will renounce the war and go to the forest. These two are easy, possible. Do either. Entice Arjuna with more enjoyment — he will plunge into war. Make him a yogi — he will go to the forest.
Krishna is engaged in an impossible endeavor. And therefore the Gita is an extraordinary attempt. It is wondrous precisely because it is impossible; it is so high, so upward-soaring, because of that impossibility. The attempt is this: Arjuna, become a Buddha and yet let the bow not slip from your hands.
To become like Buddha and sit beneath the bodhi tree is not difficult; no obstacle there. But to be like Buddha and stand in the battlefield in the moment of war — there the obstacle is great. Hence he knocks on every door. From somewhere, let light flash for Arjuna.
In this sutra he says: if you become equanimous between friend and enemy, you attain yoga.
Yogi yunjita satatam atmanam rahasi sthitah.
Ekaki yata-chittatma nirashir aparigrahah. 10.
Therefore it is appropriate that the yogi, whose mind and senses along with the body are mastered, who is free of cravings and free of accumulation, alone, abiding in seclusion, should continuously unite the self in the remembrance of the Supreme.
Here Krishna says two or three things that may seem very contrary. And such sutras have been badly interpreted. The apparent meaning seems obvious, so the error is easy.
He says: one who is desireless, free of possession, who has found equanimity, whose mind is that of a yogi — such a one, in solitude, should remember the Divine, should meditate upon the Supreme, should move toward the ultimate.
In solitude! So the wrong meaning becomes easy: precisely what Arjuna is saying — Let me go, Master, from this war. Let me go into solitude, contemplate, remember the Lord. Let me go. Then why does Krishna restrain him? Why urge him toward war? Why say: live engaged in action, having attained samatva, and remain immersed in karma?
Solitude! Then we must understand what Krishna means by solitude.
Solitude does not mean loneliness, not isolation. Solitude does not mean loneliness; it means aloneness. Solitude means to be oneself, to be non-dependent on the other. Solitude does not mean the absence of others; it means no need for the presence of others.
Understand this difference well.
You sit in a forest. Absolute solitude outside. No one around. For miles, no one. Still I do not accept that you will be in solitude. Your way of being is that of the crowd. You will be alone; you will not be in solitude. Alone you are outwardly. No one is seen nearby. But not in solitude. If you look within, you will find all those present whom you left in the village, in the house. Friends will be there, enemies will be there; beloveds will be there, family will be there; shop, market, work — all will be there. Inside, the whole crowd will be present. So you are alone, but not in solitude.
Solitude means that within there is only one sound — of your own being; no presence of the other remains within. The reverse is also possible: one who knows the secret of solitude stands in a crowd and remains solitary. The crowd does not hinder. The crowd is always outside. Who can enter within you?
You are sitting here, in a crowd. You can be alone. The crowd sits in its place. No one is sitting in your place. People sit in their places. Even if their hands are touching you from all sides, it is only hands touching. The touch of hands does not enter within. Within, you can be fully in solitude.
One sound within — of being oneself; one taste within — of being oneself; one music within — of being oneself. No trace of the other. Not for miles — for infinity — no trace of the other. There is no one inside. You are utterly alone.
This inner aloneness is one thing; the outer loneliness is another. To run away from the crowd is simple; to throw the crowd out from within is very difficult.
What difficulty is there in leaving the crowd? You have two legs — run away! Two legs are enough to get out of the crowd. Use them; do not stop until the crowd thins. You will arrive at loneliness — that kind of solitude.
But expelling the inner crowd is supremely difficult. Your legs will not help; however far you go, the inner crowd will remain within. Wherever you go, it will stand with you. Wherever you sit to rest beneath a tree, your inner friends will begin conversing: Tell me, how are you? How is the weather? The drawing room returns within you. And many times it happens that those whose presence you hardly noticed, in their absence you remember them all the more.
You sit beside your wife an hour and may even forget that she is there — more often we do forget. When she is not there, her empty space reminds you more. When a person is alive, you do not notice; when he dies, he leaves a wound — then he is more remembered. The place becomes empty.
It is not someone’s presence that creates the inner crowd; it is your inner relish in the other. There is a savor within. We take relish in the other. Hence when someone is present there is no urgency; we know we can savor at any time — he is there. When we know he is not there, the relish surges more, because now if we wish to taste, we do not know whether the other will be found. So absence grips harder.
Rabindranath has joked that husbands and wives who want to keep their love alive should take holidays from each other now and then. One of his characters says to his beloved — she had been insisting much — he says: All right, I agree, let us marry. But your second condition I do not understand. Because her second condition is: We shall marry, but I will live on one side of the lake and you on the other. Sometimes by invitation we will meet. Or if by chance we meet while rowing on the lake, or strolling on the bank, then we will sit under a bush and talk! The man says, Then it is better we do not marry at all. Why marry? She says, Let us marry, but live at a distance — so that we keep remembering each other; so that we do not forget. Lest we come so close that we forget. We do forget. Absence awakens memory.
So do not live in the illusion that because you are amidst crowds, you are in crowd. To be in crowd means: the crowd is in you, then you are in crowd. If the crowd is not within, you are utterly alone.
Wherever a man like Krishna stands — amidst any crowd, in any marketplace — the forest walks with him. Wherever we stand — even in the forest — the marketplace goes with us. It depends on our way of being.
So when Krishna said to Arjuna that one who has attained equanimity, become steady, peaceful, contemplates the Lord in solitude — what does this mean? In some forest, on some mountain, in some cave?
No. There is another cave — of the inner heart. There. Another forest — of emptiness — within. There. An inner space — a vaster sky than this outer sky. There. In the cave of the heart. There, in that solitude, he meditates on the Divine. And only there can one meditate on God; not in outer forests.
Understand this a little more.
For the seeker it is worth noting: the Divine is meditated upon in the inner cave, the cave of the heart. However many outer caves we hollow out by chiseling rock in imitation, it is of no use. Rock is too weak. To hollow the heart is to break a substance subtler than rock — much more difficult. Even diamond chisels will shatter.
There is a cave in the heart. Within all is an inner sky.
An Anglo-Indian thinker, Aubrey Menon, wrote a little book. His father was Indian, his mother English. He wrote a small book, The Space of the Inner Heart. He begins with a very sweet reminiscence.
He had gone to meet the Pope at the Vatican. He bowed his head for a blessing. The Pope asked his secretary standing by, Of what race is this man? Who is he? The secretary said, English, Anglo. The Pope stroked Menon’s face and said, No — the features are Indian.
Bent down, Menon began to wonder: Who am I really? He felt a question arise — am I Indian or English? But to be English or Indian is not deeper than the skin. Who am I inside? My skin is both. I have some English skin and some Indian skin. My blood too is Indian and English. Then who am I? Am I only the sum of blood and skin? Or am I something more? He bent and thought.
He stood up. The Pope asked again, Tell me, who are you? Menon thought: it is said of the Pope that he is infallible — he never errs. Christians believe their great priest never makes mistakes. A charming belief. Menon thought: if I say I am Anglo-Indian, half and half, he may be hurt — he may think I have proved him fallible. So Menon said, Yes, you are right, sir — I am Indian.
The Pope was pleased. Menon writes, Not because I was Indian and meeting an Indian pleased him. Not because I was some special man. He was pleased because the Pope is infallible — he does not err.
But Menon writes: in my mind a whirl began that day: Who am I? Am I this skeleton and flesh and skin? Who am I? If the Pope had looked into my eyes and said, I understand: your body may be Indian or English — but who are you? Are you only the body? Then I would have set out on a great search: where can I find who I am?
He searched and searched; the answer came from the Chandogya Upanishad — we could not have imagined it. While reading the Chandogya he came upon the words, The cave of the heart — the space of the inner heart. He said, If I am anyone at all, I will know only by entering the cave of the heart; otherwise I cannot know.
Then for months he locked himself in a room. Someone slid in bread at times; he ate it. Water was slid in; he drank it. And he closed his eyes and engaged in only one contemplation, one meditation: Who am I?
I am not the body. For a month he meditated only this: I am not the body, I am not the body. For a month he used no other thought. Sleeping, waking, standing, sitting, in awareness and unawareness, he remembered, repeated, understood — I am not the body. After a month he opened his eyes, looked at his body and found: certainly I am not the body. One stage of the journey was complete.
He writes: the day I found I am not the body, I closed my eyes again and said, Now let me know who I am. One thing is done — what I am not. Now let me know who I am.
And when I looked within, I understood the Chandogya — inside there is the cave of the heart, where I am, that which I am. As I entered that inner cave, I found — astonishing! — even this vast sky is not as vast as that inner cave. And as I went deeper and deeper, a mystery opened: as I proceeded within, I kept vanishing. Only emptiness remained. Only aloneness remained. Only solitude — even I was no more. My very presence was an obstacle to solitude.
So let me tell you the final meaning of solitude to which Krishna points. If even you remain, it is not solitude. A moment comes when even you are not — only consciousness remains. You do not even know that you are — only being remains. In that pure being there is solitude. In that solitude the Divine is meditated upon. Not only meditated upon — in that solitude the Divine is known. In that solitude union with the Divine happens.
So Krishna says: such a man contemplates the Divine in solitude.
This word dhyata — the one who meditates — is wonderful. He meditates on the Divine. Can you meditate on something of which you have no inkling? Is it possible to meditate on what you do not know? How? For meditation, some knowing is necessary. Yet we all say we meditate on God — when we have no sense of God at all!
How can one meditate upon one of whom we have no idea? We have not even known whether he is or not; if he is, what he is like. We know nothing, yet people sit and say, We are meditating on God. If their skulls could be cut open and we peeped inside, we would know what they are meditating on!
Nanak stayed in a village. He used to say, There is no Hindu, there is no Muslim. The Muslim nawab of the village became angry. He said, Bring that fakir. With what courage does he say there is no Hindu, no Muslim?
Nanak came. The nawab asked, I have heard you say there is no Hindu, no Muslim? Nanak said, Yes — there is no Hindu, no Muslim. Then who are you? Nanak said, I searched and searched. Up to skin, bone, flesh, marrow, I felt, yes, one may be Hindu, one may be Muslim. But up to there I was not. When I went beyond, I found there is no Hindu, no Muslim there.
The nawab said, Then will you come with us to the mosque to offer namaz? If there is no Hindu or Muslim, you cannot object. Nanak said, Object? I had come to ask whether you would object if I stayed in the mosque.
The nawab was a little anxious — a Hindu saying this! But he thought, Let us test. He took Nanak to the mosque to offer namaz. The nawab began his namaz. Nanak stood behind and began to laugh. The nawab grew furious. Though one who prays should not become angry — but only if he prays!
Anger grew; Nanak’s laughter grew. Now it was difficult to complete the namaz. He felt like strangling the fakir. But namaz cannot be broken midway. He hurried through it — as most people do.
Most do their worship in haste; if only a short cut could be found, they would jump and finish it. Few go by the long route. Everyone has his own bypass; they rush through it. As soon as he finished, he ran and said to Nanak, You are a cheat! You said you would join me in namaz. You did not. Nanak said, I said I would join you, but you did not offer namaz — whom should I join? God knows what you were doing! Sometimes you were glancing at me, sometimes you were angry, sometimes you clenched your fists, sometimes you gnashed your teeth. What kind of namaz was that? I do not know such a namaz; how could I join you? And truly — did you once take the name of Allah within? For as far as I could see, you were buying horses in the Kabul market!
The nawab was in a bind. He said, What do you mean — Kabul horses? You speak the truth. For many days I have been thinking I have no good horses. At the time of namaz I get free time; otherwise I am occupied. So these Kabul horses certainly haunt me at the time of namaz. I was buying them. You speak truth. Forgive me. I did not pray; I only shopped for Kabul horses.
When you are remembering God, be alert — you will be doing everything except remembering God. You do not know God — how will you remember? How will you meditate?
Krishna says: Such a man — this is the condition of meditation — only when this condition is fulfilled does meditation on God happen; otherwise it does not. Yes, you can meditate on other things. But meditation on God has a condition: one who has attained equanimity, whose mind has become unwavering — such a one, in inner solitude, meditates on the Divine. Then only the Divine is seen everywhere. You do not find him by searching; he alone is seen. His remembrance begins to resound in every pore. His taste pervades every corner of your life-breath. His melody begins to play in every hair. Breath by breath, only he. Then it is meditation.
Meditation means: we are absorbed so completely that we become one with that which is meditated upon. Otherwise it is not meditation. If you remain, it is not meditation. Meditation means becoming one with that upon which we meditate. If someone cuts you, the cry that bursts from your mouth is, Why are you cutting God? If someone bows at your feet, you know God has been saluted — not think, know. Your every pore has become one with God. But this happens only in solitude — inner aloneness, that inner cave wherein the world is lost, the outer ends. Friends, beloveds, enemies fall away. Wealth, property, houses disappear. And at the last stage even you disappear. Because there is no need for you within; you are needed outside.
Understand rightly: what you call I is a signboard hung outside the house for the sake of others. Have you noticed? When you step inside your door you do not carry the signboard on your chest. Why? It is your house — what need to take a signboard in? You fix the signboard to the doorframe. Passersby on the road, others, may know who lives here. You do not take your signboard into your house.
That which we call I — name, fame, address — is also a very subtle signboard that we have hung for others. When one enters the inner solitude, there is no need to take it along. There is no need for you there. There you become as if void. In that void, in that state of oneness, the Divine is meditated upon.
This solitude is not the running away to a forest; it is entering into oneself.
And what Krishna tells Arjuna here is the supreme attainment of yoga. All of yoga is for this: how to enter the inner cave. Yoga is the method of entrance. And after entering, the meditation on the Divine is the experience, the realization, the seeing.
In everyone the cave is present. But all roam outside their cave; no one goes within. Perhaps we have forgotten, because for countless lives we have wandered outside. And whenever loneliness occurs, we mistake it for solitude. Then we immediately find a way to fill our loneliness: go to a picture, turn on the radio, read a newspaper. If nothing else, go to sleep and begin dreaming. But fill loneliness quickly.
Remember, loneliness always brings sadness; solitude brings bliss. These are their signs. If you sit in solitude for a moment, your every pore will be filled with the thrill of joy. Sit in loneliness for a moment and your every pore will droop like a withered leaf, tired, depressed. In loneliness sadness seizes you — because in loneliness the others are remembered. In solitude bliss arises — because in solitude there is union with the Divine. That alone is bliss; there is no other bliss.
So if sitting alone you begin to feel sad, know this is not solitude; you are remembering others. Seek solitude. And solitude can be sought.
Call it meditation, remembrance, surati, the Name — all are searches for solitude. The search to reach that place where no outline of another remains. And where no outline of the other remains, there is no reason for the outline of the self to remain either. All becomes formless.
In that formless moment the Divine is meditated upon, known, lived. We no longer stand apart and see him. It is not recognition from a distance, from outside, as other. It is knowing by becoming one. We know by becoming that.
And the day someone reaches his inner cave, he himself becomes God.
To become God means only this: there remains no distance between him and God. And the destiny of each person is this — to become God. Before the formless is attained, do not mistake any halting-place for the goal.
Before becoming formless, do not stop anywhere. All are stages. Stop only where the self too is gone, everything gone; only the void, the formless remains. That is the supreme bliss. In the direction of that supreme bliss Krishna points Arjuna in this sutra.
Enough for today.
But do not rise. For five minutes we will sing, seeking that inner cave — you too join. Forget what you have heard. For five minutes, live a little of what you have understood.
No one should get up, no one should move here or there. Those friends who want to join may also join.
And sitting where you are, join. For five minutes, try to sink into this bliss. Sitting where you are, clap your hands, sing, join the sannyasins.