Geeta Darshan #7

The yogi whose consciousness is ceaselessly absorbed in the Paramatma!

This sutra comes as the outcome of the sutras we spoke of in the morning. What is to be understood here is the word “ceaseless.” The word “ceaseless” needs to be seen. Ceaseless means not even a single moment of interruption.
Ceaseless means not even a single moment of forgetfulness. Not only while awake—also in sleep—within, an inner current keeps flowing toward the Lord—continuous, without a break, not the least gap—then it is ceaseless meditation, ceaseless remembrance.

As breath moves. Whether you are at work, it moves; whether you are at rest, it moves. Whether you remember it, it moves; whether you forget it, it still moves. If you remain awake, it moves; if you fall asleep, it keeps moving. When, like breath, remembrance of the Lord, thirst for the Lord, a longing for the Lord begins to flow within, then the meaning of ceaseless is fulfilled; then the import of ceaseless is understood.

But for us it is difficult even to remember the Lord for a moment. Ceaseless will seem impossible. Even when we remember for a single moment, no deep unrest of the life-energy arises within. Even when we remember for a single moment, our total life-force is not engaged in it. Even when we call for a single moment, we call only from above, from the surface. That call has no impact, no touch, into the inner depths of the life-breath.

And Krishna says that only one who thus flows ceaselessly toward the Lord attains to me, attains to the Lord, is established in the Lord. Then it would mean that all the rest should despair. When even a single moment’s call does not happen, how will the ceaseless ever happen! Clear and simple—it looks as if all should despair. And whoever understands this meaning of ceaselessness will feel, at first, a sense of hopelessness—that there remains for us no door, no path.

No; there is no reason to despair. It proves only this much—that we do not know the process of remembrance. Nothing else is proved by it. And let me tell you, if a person can truly remember for even a single moment, then the mechanism of ceaseless remembrance becomes assured and certain by itself. Why? Because more than a single moment is never in our hands. There is no way that two moments could be in our hands at once. Only one moment is in our hands. Whenever it is, it is one moment. When one becomes empty, then the next comes into the hand. When one has passed, then the next arrives. But when anything is in our hands, it is always one moment only. We have no more than this.

Therefore, if even in a single moment one enters the process of God-remembrance, there is no obstacle at all to entering the ceaseless. For one who has known the entry in a single moment can find that entry in every moment. And we have but the one moment. So there is not much difficulty. The key is not with us—that alone is the difficulty.

To remember ceaselessly has only one meaning: one who has gained the capacity to remember even in a moment has obtained the qualification to remember ceaselessly. But even for a moment we lack the qualification for remembrance.

And we often live “God” on loan. We have heard this word from someone. We have learned this image from someone. The form and features of the divine have also been learned from someone. All is borrowed. There is no authentic experience of our life-breaths behind it. There is no inner recognition, no direct seeing of our own. That is why even for a moment it does not become complete—what then of the continuous and ceaseless!

Therefore in the first sutra Krishna has said: one who enters the inner cave, who attains to solitude. And there one word remained—someone reminded me just now—one whose chitta is aparigrahi. I could not speak of this yesterday; let me speak a little of it now.

I have told you the meaning of solitude: the one within whom no crowd remains; within whom the attraction of others’ reflections does not remain; within whom the reflections of others are wiped clean as we wipe dust off a mirror. Such solitude in the mind leads one into the inner cave.

And Krishna has added another word: one with an aparigrahi chitta—a non-possessive mind.

What does aparigraha mean? The plain dictionary meaning is “one who does not accumulate things.” But this cannot be Krishna’s meaning. It cannot be, because Krishna is not in favor of abandoning the person, life, and the world. If one leaves all things, then the world and life are abandoned. Krishna is also not in favor of dropping action. If someone leaves all things and goes away, then action too drops of itself. So Krishna’s meaning of aparigraha must be something else.

Krishna’s meaning is: a chitta that uses things but does not hand over ownership to them. One who uses things, yet remains the owner; no thing becomes his owner. He uses things, but does not create any relationship of attachment, any bond of affection, with things.

Understand it thus: as your servant uses the things in your house. He takes care of them, lifts them with care. He uses them; brings them to work. Yet if some precious thing of yours is lost, he feels no pain. Although it was the servant who came into contact with that object more than you did—perhaps far more than you. He used it more than you. But if it is lost, broken, destroyed, stolen, no worry arises in the servant. He goes home and sleeps in peace. Why?

He was using the object, but no affective relationship with it existed. But if something breaks—say a watch is shattered, a watch he cleaned daily and wound daily, and today it fell and broke—nothing will break within the servant because the watch had made no place within.

But after the watch is broken, if you say to the servant, “This is very bad. I was thinking that this evening, on my way out, I would gift you this watch”—then that day his sleep will be ruined. A relationship of affection with the watch is formed. It was not there; now it is! All these days the watch existed; he used it; there was no affective relationship. Now the watch is shattered into pieces. But the master says, “A misfortune for you, because I had thought to gift it to you today.” Now the watch is not there to gift. But the servant will be anxious, sad, pained. He will be pained because now even with a watch that is not, a relationship has been established. It could have come to him; it could have been his. Now it has made a place within. Till now it hung on the wall outside; now it hangs in some corner of the heart.

When things remain outside and not inside—when they are used, but no attachment is formed—then Krishna’s aparigraha bears fruit. One has to live life in its totality—but in such a way that life does not touch you. One has to pass through things, through persons—untouched.

Other interpretations of aparigraha are easier. Krishna’s interpretation is difficult. The others are ordinary. All right—leave the things that create attachment and go away. In a few days the mind forgets. The mind forgets even the greatest of things. Leave them, move away; the memory of the mind is weak—how many days will it keep the remembrance! It will forget, there will be oblivion. New attachments will be made, old attachments will be forgotten.

Even if the one we loved dies, how many days, how many days does the remembrance remain? We weep, we suffer. Then all is forgotten; the wounds heal. New attachments, new relationships are formed. The journey starts again.

Whose death stops the journey! What loss stops the journey! Nothing stops; everything begins moving again. As if there was a small derailment; as if the wheel slipped off the track; then we lift the wheel, put it back; the cart moves again.

So if someone runs away leaving things, after a few days he forgets them. But to forget is not to be free. To run away is not to be free. The truth is: only one who knows he cannot be free while remaining with them runs away. Otherwise, there is no purpose in running. The runner is the one who finds himself weak.

There is a heap of diamonds and jewels. I close my eyes, because if I see them it will be very difficult to control myself. By closing my eyes I do not declare that I am unattached to diamonds and jewels—I declare only that I am very poor, very weak. If the eyes are open, attachment is bound to be formed. That is why I sit with closed eyes. But if closing the eyes could wipe out attachment, we would all pluck out our eyes and be free. Then the blind would attain the ultimate!

It is not so simple. In this way one can deceive oneself, but the moment of liberation does not come nearer. I flee leaving them—here lie jewels; I go far away. All right, I will go far. The object will not be present; the mind will get entangled elsewhere. I will sit under some tree in some forest and begin to collect pebbles; I will keep a heap of those. But there is no escape through this.

Krishna’s aparigraha points to a deeper meaning. That meaning is: let things remain where they are; let you remain where you are; do not allow a bridge to be built between the two. Let no bridge arise, let there be no traffic between the two. You remain you; let things remain things. Neither become the property of things, nor consider the things to be your property.

And these two are two sides of the same coin. The day you think “this thing has become mine,” that day you have become of the thing. The day you say “this is my thing,” know for certain that you too have become the thing’s.

Ownership is mutual. You cannot enslave anyone without becoming a slave yourself. It is impossible. Whenever you enslave someone, whether you know it or not, you become his slave. Slavery is mutual.

Yes, it is another matter that one slave sits on the chair above and the other sits below the chair. That makes no difference. Many times the one sitting below is more free than the one above. Because the one below might manage even without the one seated above; but the one above cannot manage without the one below. His dependence is deeper, his subjugation heavier.

If we free all the slaves of an emperor, the slaves will not remember the emperor with any special nostalgia. They will say, very good. But the emperor! The emperor will be restless and anxious day and night—for without the slaves he becomes a nonentity. He is nothing! And the slaves will become somewhat more without the emperor; but the emperor will become very little without the slaves. His slavery is heavy. It is not visible. He has arranged it so it is not seen. He holds the slaves’ necks down from above, without understanding that his own neck is in the hands of the slaves.

All slaveries are mutual. All bonds are mutual.

You have seen a policeman leading a man away in handcuffs along the road. It appears as if the policeman is the master and the one bound in handcuffs is the slave, the prisoner. But if the policeman leaves the prisoner and runs off, the prisoner will not chase him. If the prisoner runs off, the policeman will chase him; his very life will be at stake. The handcuff lay on the prisoner’s hands—but it was also on the policeman’s hands. The prisoner’s escape will prove costly. Both are bound mutually. Yes, one sits a bit on the chair above, the other a bit below. Both are bound.

With whatever we build relationship, a bridge is formed. And to build a bridge you need two shores. As when we build a bridge over a river—if we place a pillar on one shore only, no bridge will be built. A pillar must be placed on the other shore too. When pillars are placed on both shores, the bridge is built. So whenever we form a relationship with any thing or any person, a bridge is built. One shore is we; the other is that.

To break one bridge Krishna uses solitude—this is the bridge between person and person. To break the other bridge he uses aparigraha—this is the bridge between person and thing.

And remember: bridges between person and person are steadily decreasing by themselves, day by day. And the bridges between person and thing are steadily increasing. There are reasons; let me remind you of them.

It will sound a bit strange, but it has happened; it is happening. There are basic reasons for it. Bridges between person and person decrease because building bridges with persons brings great trouble and complexities, great disturbance.

The greatest disturbance is this: the other is also a living person. When you try to make him a slave, he does not sit quietly. He too throws his net with force. A husband may proclaim he is master, owner, but deep down he knows that the day he became owner of a woman, that day the woman became the owner—or since that very day she has been striving. A continuous struggle goes on over the proclamation of ownership—who is the owner! That fight continues lifelong.

With persons, conflict is natural, for everyone wants to be free. But out of foolishness we try to become free by enslaving another—which can never happen. Whoever enslaves another becomes enslaved himself. Only one who has never conceived of enslaving anyone can be free.

With persons, complexities go on increasing; with things, the matter is not complex. You bring a chair into the house and place it in a corner—it will remain there. You lock the house and return after years—you will find the chair there. Very obedient! But a wife seated there in the same way—or a husband or son or daughter—this is impossible. By the time you return, the whole world will have changed. No one will be found just there.

A living person has an inner freedom; it will function. There is consciousness; it will function. With things we can expect; with persons it is difficult to expect. For who can say what a person will do tomorrow? A person is unpredictable. Things can be predicted; persons cannot.

Therefore, the more dead a person is, the more successful an astrologer becomes in predicting about him. If one is alive, it is very difficult. And it seems only the dead go to astrologers! The living person is unpredictable. Who can say what will be tomorrow? A living person is a freedom.

So with persons it becomes very difficult; therefore, slowly, people leave the ownership of persons and shift to the ownership of things. If a crore of rupees is locked in a safe, that ownership seems more secure. If you become Prime Minister by the votes of a crore people, do not be sure that they will support you in the next election! They are unpredictable. The ownership of a crore people is unreliable. The crore rupees in the safe are reliable—in the sense that they are dead, inert; the ownership is yours.

Ownership over persons is a risky business. Therefore, as people’s understanding grows—a kind of understanding full of unawareness—they reduce relationships with persons and increase relationships with things.

Thus large families broke apart—because large families were a web of many persons. People said, we cannot manage in such large families. Nuclear families were made—husband and wife, one or two children—enough. But even these are now disintegrating. They too cannot be saved. Because even the relationship between husband and wife becomes very complex. In the coming future, to say that marriage will survive is very difficult. Only those can say so who have no sense of the future. It cannot survive. The dangers have become heavy; the fear is that it will fall apart.

In its place, parigraha—accumulation—goes on increasing. A man builds two houses, keeps ten cars, wears a thousand varieties of clothes. He gathers things into the house. He goes on collecting things. Ownership over things appears effortless. No quarrel, no fuss. Things remain as they are. They accept whatever you say.

Thus, gradually, a man shifts more and more toward ownership over things. The more we go toward the old world, the more we find relationships between persons. The more we come toward today’s world, the fewer the person-to-person relationships, and the more the relationships between persons and things. Therefore, for the future, the sutra of aparigraha deserves deep reflection. In the future, parigraha will grow heavy—it is growing heavier day by day.

Today in Europe it has become a common proverb: whether husband and wife should have a child or not—they think, shall we have a child or shall we buy a refrigerator? Shall we have a child or shall we buy the new model of car? Shall we have a child or buy a TV set? This is the option! Because one child will bring so much expense that the money could buy a new model car. And the car is more reliable—more reliable. Park it where you want; or don’t park it where you don’t want. Treat it as you wish. It does not retaliate, does not answer back, does not create trouble. If you are angry, abuse it, kick it—it silently endures.

Thus our insistence on things goes on increasing. A man gathers a net of things around himself and sits like an emperor at the center: I am the owner. To gather persons and own them is very difficult! To gather mature persons is very difficult. Ask a primary school teacher—when thirty little children gather around, what trouble arises. Tiny children—yet the teacher’s life is so strained that he keeps looking for the bell to ring so he can run! Because thirty living children! If he just turns his head to write on the blackboard, rebellion breaks out.

Psychologists say the blackboard was shaped that way so the teacher can turn his back now and then. For if six or seven hours he never turned his back, the children would have to suppress themselves so much they would fall ill. So they get a chance to release. While he turns to the board, someone cracks a joke, someone throws a pebble, someone pranks, someone winks—the children relax. Then the teacher turns back; the lesson resumes. That blackboard is a great helper to the children, because the teacher has to turn again and again. But these are living children—ownership over them!

Even owning a small child is very difficult. Parents too have to coax and bribe small children. Yes, the bribes are childlike—chocolates, toffees. The father returns home wondering which bribe to take today. Because the child will stand at the door. A tiny child, with no power in life yet—the father is afraid of him while returning home. Even with small children, father and mother have to lie. They go to the movies and say they are going to the Gita discourse!

To build relationships with persons is complex. A small living person and complexities begin. So we start removing persons. Remove the person; form relationships with things. Enter the house—wherever you look, you are the owner. Chairs are placed, furniture arranged, a fridge set, a car parked, radios kept. Wherever you look, you are the owner. So things increase; relationships with persons decline. As civilization develops, relationships with things remain; relationships with people are lost.

That is why, after knowing the second sutra, I wanted to say again—what was left—aprigraha.

Aparigrahi chitta is one that takes no relish in owning things. Utility is one thing; relish is another. One who does not take relish in things, who does not create any relationship of bondage with things, with whom there is no infatuation for things, no romance with things.

There is indeed romance with things. When you think of buying a new car, the situation is not much different from a young man falling in love with a new girl and dreaming at night. The car too begins to appear in dreams! There is infatuation with things. A romance starts with them. Let there be no relish in things—let there be use of things.

Remember: the more relish there is in things, the less you will be able to use them. The less relish there is, the more fully you will be able to use them. Because for use, a certain detachment, a dispassionate distance, is necessary.

I know a friend. For ten years I have seen a scooter parked in his veranda. A couple of times in the beginning I asked, has the scooter broken down? He said, may such misfortune befall an enemy! The scooter is not broken. Then I kept quiet. Many times I saw him start the scooter in the veranda, then switch it off and go inside! I asked, what is this? You never take it out!

His infatuation is heavy. The scooter is his beloved. He keeps it carefully polished, wiped—and never takes it out. When he goes out, he rides his rickety bicycle. I have seen it many times. I asked, what is the scooter for then? He said, for times of need! But today it is raining, the paint will get spoiled for nothing. Sometimes the sun is too harsh, the paint will spoil for nothing. I have never seen his scooter go out.

Everyone has a few such scooter-like things. Everyone. You keep them carefully. Women have many. There is a reason. Men build many kinds of relationships with persons in the outer world. We have cut women off from all such relationships with men. We have confined them within the home.

In the man’s world many kinds of relationships are possible—party, club, group, association, friends, this and that—a thousand ways. Moving in the outer world, the man keeps creating many relationships. But we have locked the woman in the house. So we do not allow her to create any relationship with the outer world. Her thirst for relationship, her frustration, flows toward things. Therefore women become utterly infatuated with things.

Many women come to me and say, We want to take sannyas, but only one difficulty—three hundred saris! No other difficulty; we have no other problem with sannyas. Only this hardship—what will happen to these three hundred saris! It is not a single case—I do not know how many women have said to me, The talk of sannyas appeals completely to the mind, everything is fine, but… Then their weak spot appears, the soft corner—those saris! That is infatuation.

The reason is that the world men have made has closed for women all doors of forming relationships with persons; therefore she has formed her relationships with things. She is crazy for things. Let the husband be punished—she wants a diamond ring. That’s fine—the husband will return after a year; what difficulty is there! But a diamond ring! Such a deep relationship with things—and the cause is the same. Because there is no way to build relationships with persons, the whole consciousness is employed in building relationships with things.

Aparigraha means: no relish for things, no infatuation. Let there be things; their use is fine. If there is a diamond ring, wear it; if there is not, then not. If a diamond ring is there, fine; if it is not, its not being is fine. The day both are the same, and it becomes a play—that if there is a diamond ring, it is a game; if there is not, a ring of grass can be twisted and worn; and if nothing at all, the naked finger has its own beauty. When the chitta moves among things with such simplicity, that is an aparigrahi chitta. Not one who has fled—one who lives amongst things. But free of relish. He uses, but is not attached, not deranged, not mad.

Only one who is not deranged can truly use. One who is deranged cannot use at all; the thing uses him. He keeps the thing carefully, serves it, dusts and polishes it—and keeps dreaming that someday he will wear it, someday. That someday never comes. And the thing must be laughing, if it can laugh.

A chitta that is aparigrahi, that lives in solitude, alone, is the very one that can descend into ceaseless remembrance of the Lord. And to descend into ceaseless remembrance means this: if even for one moment one descends into total remembrance, then it becomes continuous. It cannot be forgotten; there is no way to forget it.

If one glimpse of the Lord happens, there is no way to forget. If for a single moment the door opens and we see that He is—then even if we never see again, inside the tune will go on playing. Breath after breath will know; every pore will recognize: it is That, it is That, it is That. It will become the melody of the whole life—that very That. But even for a single moment!

Krishna says: ceaseless, every moment, continuous—not the slightest interruption—then there is establishment in me.

If it happens even for a single moment, it will become ceaseless. How to make that one moment happen? Where are we to go to find that moment? Where can that one moment be found, that once a glimpse may happen, once His image stand before the eyes? That we may taste His embrace for a moment—where to go? Where to seek?

Within one’s very self. Apart from this there is no meeting with Him anywhere else. Within oneself. And if one is to go within, there is no method other than the elimination of all that is outside. There is no way to go within except by the understanding: this is not I, this is not I.

I have heard a small story—let me tell it to you, then I will take the next sutra.

There was a Zen mystic. At his place—at his temple, or under the tree where he rested—seekers would come from far away. They would ask for a method of meditation. He would give them methods, some sutra to contemplate.

A small boy too would sometimes come and sit under that tree. Sometimes he would come into the temple. He must have been twelve. He too would listen sitting with great attention. Great talk! He would not understand, and yet he would. Because nothing can be said.

Many times, those who feel they are understanding—understand nothing. And many times, those who feel they understand nothing—understand something. Very often, to know that “nothing is understood” is no small understanding.

That little boy would come and sit. Any seeker, any monk, any yogi who came to the Zen mystic would ring the temple bell, bow three times, sit with humility, ask with reverence, take a mantra, depart. He would practice, then return and report.

One morning the boy also rose, bathed, took flowers in his hands, came and rang the temple bell loudly. The Zen master lifted his eyes thinking perhaps some seeker had come. But he saw the small boy who sometimes came. He bowed three times, placed flowers at the feet, folded his hands and said, Show me too the way by which I may attain to meditation.

That master had shown the way to very great seekers—what way to show to this small boy! But he had performed the whole ritual; it could not be refused. He had rung the bell properly, bowed with folded hands, placed flowers at the feet, sat humbly and prayed, Grant me the method by which I may attain to meditation, by which remembrance of the Lord may arise. What method to give to a small boy!

The master said, Do one thing—clap both hands loudly. The boy clapped. The master said, Good. The sound is exactly right. You can clap with both hands. Now place one hand down. Now clap with one hand. The boy said, That seems very difficult. How can I clap with one hand? The master said, This is your mantra. Now meditate on this. And when you know how one hand claps, come and tell me.

The boy left. That day he did not even eat. He sat under a tree and wondered: How does one hand clap? He thought and thought.

You will say, What mad question was he given. All questions are mad. Any question that was ever thought is no less mad than this.

Someone thinks, Who created the world? Is this any better than the question of one-hand clapping! Someone thinks, From where did the Atman come? Is this any more meaningful than the question of one-hand clapping!

But the boy thought with great sincerity. He thought. At night a thought came: Right—frogs croak. He made the sound of frogs with his mouth. And he said, Right—this must be the sound of one hand.

In the morning he rang the bell, sat humbly and made the frog’s croak with his mouth. He said to the master, See—is this not the sound you spoke of? The master said, No—this is the sound of a crazy frog. The sound of one hand clapping!

Next day he came with another thought; the third day another. He brought something, day after day. This is the sound, this is the sound. The master said each day, Not this, not this, not this. A year was coming to an end. He kept bringing new sounds—sometimes the sound of crickets, sometimes the sound of wind moving through trees, sometimes leaves falling from trees, sometimes the sound of rain on the roof. He brought many sounds—but the master kept denying them all. Not this, not this.

Then he stopped coming. After many days he returned. He rang the bell, placed flowers at the feet, folded his hands and sat silently. The master asked, Have you brought an answer? Found the sound? He only lifted his eyes toward the master—silent, still. The master said, Good—this is the sound—silence, stillness. The master said, This is the sound. You have come to know what the sound of one hand is. Now, do you have anything further to seek?

He said, Now nothing remains to seek. One by one you rejected each sound and each search. All sounds dropped. Nothing remained but silence. For the past month I have been sitting in utter silence. No sound occurs; no word comes—only silence, silence. And now I need nothing. Whether I have known the sound of one hand or not, I do not know. But in this silence what I have seen, what I have known—perhaps people call it Paramatma.

One has to keep denying, one by one. Start anywhere. Start with the body—then know: I am not the body. Go within—the breath will be found. Know: the breath is not that either. Go further—thoughts will be found. Know: thoughts are not that either. Go further—tendencies will be found. Know: tendencies are not that either. Descend deeper and deeper. Feelings will be found—know: feelings are not that either. Go down into the deep well!

A moment will come when nothing will remain to deny—only silence and emptiness will remain. The inner cave has arrived—where nothing even remains to say, Not this either. There—at that very moment—the explosion happens in which the Lord is experienced. If that experience happens even for a single moment, then breath by breath, pore by pore, sitting and standing, sleeping and waking, it begins to resound. Then remembrance is ceaseless.

And Krishna says, only the one who attains to such ceaseless remembrance is established in me, established in the Lord. Or say it the other way around and it is equally true: that in such a person—who has become formless, a void; who has become filled with a constant, unbroken awareness—the Lord becomes established.