Srimad Bhagavad Gita
Now, the Seventh Chapter
The Blessed Lord said
With your mind attached to Me, O Partha, yoked in Yoga, taking refuge in Me।
Hear how you shall know Me wholly and without doubt।। 1।।
Geeta Darshan #1
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
श्रीमद्भगवद्गीता
अथ सप्तमोऽध्यायः
श्रीभगवानुवाच
मय्यासक्तमनाः पार्थ योगं युञ्जन्मदाश्रयः।
असंशयं समग्रं मां यथा ज्ञास्यसि तच्छृणु।। 1।।
अथ सप्तमोऽध्यायः
श्रीभगवानुवाच
मय्यासक्तमनाः पार्थ योगं युञ्जन्मदाश्रयः।
असंशयं समग्रं मां यथा ज्ञास्यसि तच्छृणु।। 1।।
Transliteration:
śrīmadbhagavadgītā
atha saptamo'dhyāyaḥ
śrībhagavānuvāca
mayyāsaktamanāḥ pārtha yogaṃ yuñjanmadāśrayaḥ|
asaṃśayaṃ samagraṃ māṃ yathā jñāsyasi tacchṛṇu|| 1||
śrīmadbhagavadgītā
atha saptamo'dhyāyaḥ
śrībhagavānuvāca
mayyāsaktamanāḥ pārtha yogaṃ yuñjanmadāśrayaḥ|
asaṃśayaṃ samagraṃ māṃ yathā jñāsyasi tacchṛṇu|| 1||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, a small question. The original Sanskrit here uses āsakta-manā for “undivided love.” In me, what would be the spiritual meaning of being one with an “attached mind” (āsakta-manā)? Please clarify.
Words remain the same. If the direction changes, everything changes.
“Attached in God.” And the moment we say “attached in God,” the word “attachment” no longer carries the same meaning as in “attached to wealth” or “attached to fame.”
Words change instantly as their dimension changes. We have very few words—and all our words are contaminated. Even Krishna has no way to mint new words; he has to use ours. If he says “love,” what arises in our minds is our love. If he says “attachment,” what we hear is our attachment. But there is a condition attached: attached in God.
Who is attached in God?
Krishna first explains at length that only the one who has become unattached in every way is attached in God. “Attachment to God” means total nonattachment. Unless there is complete nonattachment, there can be no attachment to God. If even a trace of attachment remains anywhere, attachment to God will not be.
Whether we say “attachment”—that towards which we are drawn, pulled, summoned; without which we feel we cannot live—or we say “love,” “undivided longing,” “devotion,” it makes no difference. The point is simply this: the one who is being drawn toward the Divine, for whom the point of attraction has become God. And what does “God” mean?
God means the All. That which encompasses everything, that which is hidden within everything—the formless, the shapeless that pervades all forms. One who is now no longer attracted to the droplet, but to the ocean hidden in the droplet. One who is no longer attracted to the person, but to the Impersonal hidden within the person. One who, even if he loves his wife, is not loving the wife but the God hidden in the wife. Now, from every side, he is being drawn and called only by that Divine. He runs toward only that—toward union with that ocean. “Thus, one whose mind is attached in Me.” Call it love, call it attachment—what matters is what you are using the word for.
Words in themselves are meaningless. Everything depends on their use. Words have no meaning of their own; we put the meaning into them. And the meaning changes instantly as the word’s dimension changes.
This is Krishna’s condition: If your mind is moving toward God, then listen to me. Because what he is about to say cannot be heard by one who has turned his back on God; for him it is useless—like talking to the deaf. It has no meaning.
I was just reading the life of a Zen fakir. A young man came to him and said, “I have heard that Buddha said his words are for everyone, that dharma is for all. But I have a doubt. If Buddha’s words are for all, what about the deaf? The deaf cannot hear—what use would his words be to them? And if Buddha even stands before them, the blind cannot see—how will satsang happen?”
What did that fakir do? Exactly what a fakir should. A stick lay nearby; he jabbed it hard into the young man’s belly. The young man screamed, “What are you doing!” The fakir said, “Ah! I thought you were mute. So you’re not mute—you can speak! Come closer.” The man came, trembling. The fakir said, “Ah! I thought you were lame. But you can walk!”
The young man said, “What do these things have to do with what I asked?” The fakir said, “Forget worrying about the other blind, the other lame, the other mute. If you yourself are not mute, not lame, not blind, then at least you can take the benefit. When a blind person comes, I’ll deal with him. When a mute comes, I’ll deal with him. You stop worrying. What is certain is that you are not blind, not lame, not mute. What have you gained from Buddha’s words?” He said, “So far, nothing.” The fakir said, “Fool! You worry about those who cannot receive—when will you worry about yourself, who can?”
The fakir added, “The mute are mute; the deaf are deaf. But what shall we do about your deafness? What shall we do about your muteness?”
Krishna wants to break Arjuna’s muteness and deafness, to turn him around so he faces God—because till now Arjuna’s orientation has been to escape the war, somehow avoid it, avoid violence. His eagerness goes no further.
It is quite amusing: Arjuna did not go to Krishna to receive Brahma-knowledge. Krishna is forcing it on him! The reason is simple: Krishna can only give what he has. If you go to an ocean of nectar to buy poison, what can the ocean do? It will only give you nectar. You may regret later that you went to the wrong place—got trapped!
Arjuna had gone with a very small question. He could never have imagined the Gita would be born out of it. He could never have imagined that Krishna would take him into such depths of wisdom.
But Krishna has his own compulsion. He can only give what he has. He is about to say such profound things that Arjuna will understand them only if he turns fully toward the Divine; hence this condition.
ज्ञानं तेऽहं सविज्ञानमिदं वक्ष्याम्यशेषतः।
यज्ज्ञात्वा नेह भूयोऽन्यज्ज्ञातव्यमवशिष्यते।। 2।।
I shall declare to you fully this knowledge together with its mystery; knowing which, there remains nothing else to be known in this world.
There is much which, even if fully known, still leaves much to be known. There is much which, even if you master it completely, still leaves the essential thing unknown.
The Upanishads tell the story: Shvetaketu returned from the ashram after his studies. Naturally, there must have been pride in him—the little knowledge any person acquires breeds conceit. He came strutting home. Morning sun, and his father sees him approaching, “having learned everything.” He had mastered the eighteen sciences then current. The pride was complete. Now even the father, it seemed, knew nothing compared to him—as all children feel when they’ve learned a little. Those children were like today’s.
He entered with a swagger. The father said, “It appears you have come back knowing everything.” He replied, “Certainly. Test me. I passed all the examinations. The scriptures are by heart. Only when the guru gave me my certificate did I return.” The father asked, “Did you learn from your guru that by knowing which, all is known?”
He asked, “What is that by knowing which all is known? My guru never taught any such thing. I have learned the things which, by knowing them, exactly those particular things are known. ‘All’ is not in question!”
The father said, “Go back. You have returned home in vain, after useless toil. Your conceit has told me you are returning ignorant of ignorance itself. Conceit is proof of ignorance. Go back. You have been crushed under the load of scriptures, but the ray of knowing has not yet dawned in your life. Go and know that, which, once known, leaves nothing further to be known.”
The poor boy returned, dejected. Years of effort, wasted. He told the guru, “What did you teach me! My father says this is nothing. I had believed I knew everything. He says: go and know that which, when known, everything is known. What is that?”
The guru said, “That is you yourself. But you never asked me, ‘Who am I?’ You didn’t ask! You asked how clouds form—I must have told you. You asked how rivers flow—I must have told you. You asked how food is digested—I must have told you. Whatever you asked, I told you. You never asked, ‘Who am I?’ And until one knows oneself, one does not come to that knowledge which, by being known, all is known—or after which nothing remains to be known.”
So Krishna says, “Now I will tell you that secret, Arjuna—and tell it completely.” He says it in several ways: “Now I will tell you that secret.”
Secret—mystery. He could have said, “I will tell you the Truth,” but he says, “I will tell you the Mystery,” because even the word “truth” is too small. And it must not be called “truth,” for however much you know, you can never claim to have known it. Hence: mystery.
Mystery means, the more you know, the more you dissolve. You know—and you dissolve more. And still more. A day comes when the knowing is complete, but you are not there at all. The claimant is finished. The one who could claim, “I have known; truth is in my fist,” disappears. Neither the fist remains, nor the one who clenched it. What remains is a mystery.
Also, even when fully known and intimately familiar, that knowledge is not bound by logic. It is not logical. It is like a mystery—misty. As in the early morning when the sun has not yet risen and fog hangs everywhere—things appear mysterious. Or on a full-moon night: under some trees there is darkness, elsewhere soft moonlight, and everything turns mysterious. A mist surrounds all.
When one enters that mystery, it is like a deep moonlit night in which everything seems mysterious; nothing seems complete in itself; every thing points to something beyond. It is not like prose; it is like poetry—without edges. Wherever you begin, no final end appears. The deeper you go, the larger the riddle becomes.
Therefore he does not say, “I will tell you the truth,” but, “I will tell you the mystery.”
And remember, the sages never claimed “truth”—they proclaimed “mystery.” Philosophers claimed “truth” and murdered mystery. Hence the fundamental difference between philosophy and religion.
Religion seeks mystery; philosophy seeks truth. The philosopher busies himself arranging logic, drawing conclusions. The mystic breaks conclusions and leaps into the infinite unknown.
Thus Krishna says, “mystery.”
Krishna is no philosopher in the sense that Plato, Aristotle, or Hegel are philosophers. Krishna is a mystic—in the sense that Jesus, Buddha, or Lao Tzu are mystics.
The mystic says: your proclamation of knowledge is only proof of your ignorance. If only you truly knew, you would drop the claim to knowing. If only you discovered it, you would find the truth so vast that you wouldn’t even know where you stand in it. You can drown in it, but you cannot hold it in your fist.
Therefore Krishna says, “mystery.”
A mystery is that in which we can drown, but which we cannot carry home in our clenched fist and lock in a safe. However much we know it, recognize it, unite with it, a sense of the unknown remains—the Unknown abides. Know as much as you will, recognize as much as you will, be united as much as you will—still something unknown remains.
It is that ever-remaining unknown that prompts Krishna to call it a mystery.
Second, he says, “I will tell you everything.”
This too is worth pondering.
One day Buddha was walking under a tree in the season of the fall. Dry leaves were dropping. The wind blew them along. Their rustle echoed in the forest. Ananda asked, “Lord, today is a moment of solitude; may I ask one thing? I have long wanted to ask, but someone or other is always present, so I delay. Today there is no one—except these falling leaves. I ask: Have you told everything you know, or have you held something back?”
Buddha opened his hand before him and said, “I am like an open hand, not a closed fist. I have said everything. But it is not necessary that you have heard everything. I have revealed all, but it is not necessary that you have received all. I have hidden nothing, but it is not necessary that everything has become clear. I am an open book, an open hand. All of mine is open. Doors and gates are open. Enter from anywhere. Know all. Nothing has been concealed. There is nothing to conceal. But it is not necessary that everything has been revealed to you.”
Krishna tells Arjuna, “I will tell you everything—everything. What can be said, I will say; and what cannot be said, I will also say.” “Everything” includes both—the sayable and the unsayable.
You will ask, How can the unsayable be said?
Many attempts have been made in the world to say what cannot be said, in many different ways. But the way Krishna attempts it is perhaps the rarest. When words tire, he shows. He says what cannot be said. He tells Arjuna, “Since words do not bring it home to you, now see. I give you divine vision; now behold my entire cosmic form.” He shows what cannot be said.
Wittgenstein has a famous line: “There are things which cannot be said, but can be shown.” Wittgenstein is a precious figure among modern Western mystics. And if his statement needs a witness, it is Krishna. For when words would not suffice, he showed: “Now see.”
But how unfortunate our mind is! When Krishna uses words, Arjuna cannot understand. And when Krishna uses the situation—makes it manifest—Arjuna says, “Stop! Stop! Withdraw this form. The mind trembles; my life quakes. Take back this vastness. Take back this eye.” We can neither understand by hearing, nor by seeing.
Therefore the compassion of one like Krishna is immeasurable. Knowing we will not understand by hearing or seeing, they still make the impossible effort. Because of them there is a little salt in life, a little festivity—those who attempted the impossible.
He says, “I will tell you everything, Arjuna—everything. Completely.” Only be willing to listen. And the thing I want to tell you is that which, when known, leaves nothing else to be known.
Let us take that to heart. For in India we have above all sought this one small thing: that which, when known, all is known—the master key.
There is a kind of key that fits one lock; a second lock needs a second key; a third, a third key. But there is a master key that opens all locks. If you find that one, no other key is needed. All locks open.
This land sought the master key. The West too seeks keys—but keys. We sought the Key. The West asks, “How will this lock open?” The lock of physics opens with one key, chemistry with another, psychology with another, mathematics with another. They have discovered thousands of keys.
Now things have reached a point where it is hard to keep track of which key is which. And after finding one key, they discover a thousand more locks; then sub-branches of sub-branches need their own keys. Chemistry was once chemistry; now there is biochemistry, there is organic chemistry—new keys. And how long will organic chemistry remain organic? Within it, more keys are minted!
Recently in the West a very clever, intelligent man, Snow, wrote a book declaring that the West could die under the burden of its knowledge. There is so much knowledge, and no coherence among it. Everyone has keys, everyone has locks. One no longer knows which lock to open and which not, and why to open any! Locks open everywhere, while man remains entirely closed. He does not seem to open at all. Much knowledge; ignorance intact. The weight of knowledge, heavy.
On earth today there is more knowledge than ever before. And if it keeps increasing at this rate, those who do the arithmetic say that before long we will possess books heavier than the earth itself. What the earth will do then, we do not know. Whether she will allow it—uncertain. But the pace continues: every week ten thousand new books are published. The load grows.
So the great libraries of the world are now worried: they cannot be preserved. How to preserve them? There isn’t enough room for people; where will there be room for books? Make books into micro-books, tiny enough that in the space of one book you can store at least a hundred thousand. Then project them on a screen to read. Make them smaller—because so many books can no longer be kept.
So much knowledge—and man’s ignorance defies measure! Man remains utterly ignorant. The master key has not been sought.
Krishna says, “I will give you the master key. I will give you that key after which no other key is needed. I will give you the key by whose very presence locks open—they open at the sight of the key. I will tell you that which, when known, all is known. I will tell you that one principle—the ineffable, the ultimate, the final, the foundational truth, the beginningless, the endless. Once it is known, nothing remains to be known.”
We will talk about what remains tomorrow.
But do not get up yet. We will make a little use of that master key here; so sit a little. For five minutes, no one will leave. All this while you were sitting with your own mind; for five minutes, with mine.
No one will get up. For five minutes our sannyasins will sing kirtan. That too is a master key. If you enter it wholly within, locks open without any key being put in. Sitting here, try to open a little.
Clap as well. Sing as well. Be ecstatic. Be joyous. Forget the neighbor. Whoever worries about the neighbor never worries about God. Forget the neighbor. Care a little for God.
The sannyasins will be lost in bliss. For five minutes, receive their prasad. And then we shall part.
“Attached in God.” And the moment we say “attached in God,” the word “attachment” no longer carries the same meaning as in “attached to wealth” or “attached to fame.”
Words change instantly as their dimension changes. We have very few words—and all our words are contaminated. Even Krishna has no way to mint new words; he has to use ours. If he says “love,” what arises in our minds is our love. If he says “attachment,” what we hear is our attachment. But there is a condition attached: attached in God.
Who is attached in God?
Krishna first explains at length that only the one who has become unattached in every way is attached in God. “Attachment to God” means total nonattachment. Unless there is complete nonattachment, there can be no attachment to God. If even a trace of attachment remains anywhere, attachment to God will not be.
Whether we say “attachment”—that towards which we are drawn, pulled, summoned; without which we feel we cannot live—or we say “love,” “undivided longing,” “devotion,” it makes no difference. The point is simply this: the one who is being drawn toward the Divine, for whom the point of attraction has become God. And what does “God” mean?
God means the All. That which encompasses everything, that which is hidden within everything—the formless, the shapeless that pervades all forms. One who is now no longer attracted to the droplet, but to the ocean hidden in the droplet. One who is no longer attracted to the person, but to the Impersonal hidden within the person. One who, even if he loves his wife, is not loving the wife but the God hidden in the wife. Now, from every side, he is being drawn and called only by that Divine. He runs toward only that—toward union with that ocean. “Thus, one whose mind is attached in Me.” Call it love, call it attachment—what matters is what you are using the word for.
Words in themselves are meaningless. Everything depends on their use. Words have no meaning of their own; we put the meaning into them. And the meaning changes instantly as the word’s dimension changes.
This is Krishna’s condition: If your mind is moving toward God, then listen to me. Because what he is about to say cannot be heard by one who has turned his back on God; for him it is useless—like talking to the deaf. It has no meaning.
I was just reading the life of a Zen fakir. A young man came to him and said, “I have heard that Buddha said his words are for everyone, that dharma is for all. But I have a doubt. If Buddha’s words are for all, what about the deaf? The deaf cannot hear—what use would his words be to them? And if Buddha even stands before them, the blind cannot see—how will satsang happen?”
What did that fakir do? Exactly what a fakir should. A stick lay nearby; he jabbed it hard into the young man’s belly. The young man screamed, “What are you doing!” The fakir said, “Ah! I thought you were mute. So you’re not mute—you can speak! Come closer.” The man came, trembling. The fakir said, “Ah! I thought you were lame. But you can walk!”
The young man said, “What do these things have to do with what I asked?” The fakir said, “Forget worrying about the other blind, the other lame, the other mute. If you yourself are not mute, not lame, not blind, then at least you can take the benefit. When a blind person comes, I’ll deal with him. When a mute comes, I’ll deal with him. You stop worrying. What is certain is that you are not blind, not lame, not mute. What have you gained from Buddha’s words?” He said, “So far, nothing.” The fakir said, “Fool! You worry about those who cannot receive—when will you worry about yourself, who can?”
The fakir added, “The mute are mute; the deaf are deaf. But what shall we do about your deafness? What shall we do about your muteness?”
Krishna wants to break Arjuna’s muteness and deafness, to turn him around so he faces God—because till now Arjuna’s orientation has been to escape the war, somehow avoid it, avoid violence. His eagerness goes no further.
It is quite amusing: Arjuna did not go to Krishna to receive Brahma-knowledge. Krishna is forcing it on him! The reason is simple: Krishna can only give what he has. If you go to an ocean of nectar to buy poison, what can the ocean do? It will only give you nectar. You may regret later that you went to the wrong place—got trapped!
Arjuna had gone with a very small question. He could never have imagined the Gita would be born out of it. He could never have imagined that Krishna would take him into such depths of wisdom.
But Krishna has his own compulsion. He can only give what he has. He is about to say such profound things that Arjuna will understand them only if he turns fully toward the Divine; hence this condition.
ज्ञानं तेऽहं सविज्ञानमिदं वक्ष्याम्यशेषतः।
यज्ज्ञात्वा नेह भूयोऽन्यज्ज्ञातव्यमवशिष्यते।। 2।।
I shall declare to you fully this knowledge together with its mystery; knowing which, there remains nothing else to be known in this world.
There is much which, even if fully known, still leaves much to be known. There is much which, even if you master it completely, still leaves the essential thing unknown.
The Upanishads tell the story: Shvetaketu returned from the ashram after his studies. Naturally, there must have been pride in him—the little knowledge any person acquires breeds conceit. He came strutting home. Morning sun, and his father sees him approaching, “having learned everything.” He had mastered the eighteen sciences then current. The pride was complete. Now even the father, it seemed, knew nothing compared to him—as all children feel when they’ve learned a little. Those children were like today’s.
He entered with a swagger. The father said, “It appears you have come back knowing everything.” He replied, “Certainly. Test me. I passed all the examinations. The scriptures are by heart. Only when the guru gave me my certificate did I return.” The father asked, “Did you learn from your guru that by knowing which, all is known?”
He asked, “What is that by knowing which all is known? My guru never taught any such thing. I have learned the things which, by knowing them, exactly those particular things are known. ‘All’ is not in question!”
The father said, “Go back. You have returned home in vain, after useless toil. Your conceit has told me you are returning ignorant of ignorance itself. Conceit is proof of ignorance. Go back. You have been crushed under the load of scriptures, but the ray of knowing has not yet dawned in your life. Go and know that, which, once known, leaves nothing further to be known.”
The poor boy returned, dejected. Years of effort, wasted. He told the guru, “What did you teach me! My father says this is nothing. I had believed I knew everything. He says: go and know that which, when known, everything is known. What is that?”
The guru said, “That is you yourself. But you never asked me, ‘Who am I?’ You didn’t ask! You asked how clouds form—I must have told you. You asked how rivers flow—I must have told you. You asked how food is digested—I must have told you. Whatever you asked, I told you. You never asked, ‘Who am I?’ And until one knows oneself, one does not come to that knowledge which, by being known, all is known—or after which nothing remains to be known.”
So Krishna says, “Now I will tell you that secret, Arjuna—and tell it completely.” He says it in several ways: “Now I will tell you that secret.”
Secret—mystery. He could have said, “I will tell you the Truth,” but he says, “I will tell you the Mystery,” because even the word “truth” is too small. And it must not be called “truth,” for however much you know, you can never claim to have known it. Hence: mystery.
Mystery means, the more you know, the more you dissolve. You know—and you dissolve more. And still more. A day comes when the knowing is complete, but you are not there at all. The claimant is finished. The one who could claim, “I have known; truth is in my fist,” disappears. Neither the fist remains, nor the one who clenched it. What remains is a mystery.
Also, even when fully known and intimately familiar, that knowledge is not bound by logic. It is not logical. It is like a mystery—misty. As in the early morning when the sun has not yet risen and fog hangs everywhere—things appear mysterious. Or on a full-moon night: under some trees there is darkness, elsewhere soft moonlight, and everything turns mysterious. A mist surrounds all.
When one enters that mystery, it is like a deep moonlit night in which everything seems mysterious; nothing seems complete in itself; every thing points to something beyond. It is not like prose; it is like poetry—without edges. Wherever you begin, no final end appears. The deeper you go, the larger the riddle becomes.
Therefore he does not say, “I will tell you the truth,” but, “I will tell you the mystery.”
And remember, the sages never claimed “truth”—they proclaimed “mystery.” Philosophers claimed “truth” and murdered mystery. Hence the fundamental difference between philosophy and religion.
Religion seeks mystery; philosophy seeks truth. The philosopher busies himself arranging logic, drawing conclusions. The mystic breaks conclusions and leaps into the infinite unknown.
Thus Krishna says, “mystery.”
Krishna is no philosopher in the sense that Plato, Aristotle, or Hegel are philosophers. Krishna is a mystic—in the sense that Jesus, Buddha, or Lao Tzu are mystics.
The mystic says: your proclamation of knowledge is only proof of your ignorance. If only you truly knew, you would drop the claim to knowing. If only you discovered it, you would find the truth so vast that you wouldn’t even know where you stand in it. You can drown in it, but you cannot hold it in your fist.
Therefore Krishna says, “mystery.”
A mystery is that in which we can drown, but which we cannot carry home in our clenched fist and lock in a safe. However much we know it, recognize it, unite with it, a sense of the unknown remains—the Unknown abides. Know as much as you will, recognize as much as you will, be united as much as you will—still something unknown remains.
It is that ever-remaining unknown that prompts Krishna to call it a mystery.
Second, he says, “I will tell you everything.”
This too is worth pondering.
One day Buddha was walking under a tree in the season of the fall. Dry leaves were dropping. The wind blew them along. Their rustle echoed in the forest. Ananda asked, “Lord, today is a moment of solitude; may I ask one thing? I have long wanted to ask, but someone or other is always present, so I delay. Today there is no one—except these falling leaves. I ask: Have you told everything you know, or have you held something back?”
Buddha opened his hand before him and said, “I am like an open hand, not a closed fist. I have said everything. But it is not necessary that you have heard everything. I have revealed all, but it is not necessary that you have received all. I have hidden nothing, but it is not necessary that everything has become clear. I am an open book, an open hand. All of mine is open. Doors and gates are open. Enter from anywhere. Know all. Nothing has been concealed. There is nothing to conceal. But it is not necessary that everything has been revealed to you.”
Krishna tells Arjuna, “I will tell you everything—everything. What can be said, I will say; and what cannot be said, I will also say.” “Everything” includes both—the sayable and the unsayable.
You will ask, How can the unsayable be said?
Many attempts have been made in the world to say what cannot be said, in many different ways. But the way Krishna attempts it is perhaps the rarest. When words tire, he shows. He says what cannot be said. He tells Arjuna, “Since words do not bring it home to you, now see. I give you divine vision; now behold my entire cosmic form.” He shows what cannot be said.
Wittgenstein has a famous line: “There are things which cannot be said, but can be shown.” Wittgenstein is a precious figure among modern Western mystics. And if his statement needs a witness, it is Krishna. For when words would not suffice, he showed: “Now see.”
But how unfortunate our mind is! When Krishna uses words, Arjuna cannot understand. And when Krishna uses the situation—makes it manifest—Arjuna says, “Stop! Stop! Withdraw this form. The mind trembles; my life quakes. Take back this vastness. Take back this eye.” We can neither understand by hearing, nor by seeing.
Therefore the compassion of one like Krishna is immeasurable. Knowing we will not understand by hearing or seeing, they still make the impossible effort. Because of them there is a little salt in life, a little festivity—those who attempted the impossible.
He says, “I will tell you everything, Arjuna—everything. Completely.” Only be willing to listen. And the thing I want to tell you is that which, when known, leaves nothing else to be known.
Let us take that to heart. For in India we have above all sought this one small thing: that which, when known, all is known—the master key.
There is a kind of key that fits one lock; a second lock needs a second key; a third, a third key. But there is a master key that opens all locks. If you find that one, no other key is needed. All locks open.
This land sought the master key. The West too seeks keys—but keys. We sought the Key. The West asks, “How will this lock open?” The lock of physics opens with one key, chemistry with another, psychology with another, mathematics with another. They have discovered thousands of keys.
Now things have reached a point where it is hard to keep track of which key is which. And after finding one key, they discover a thousand more locks; then sub-branches of sub-branches need their own keys. Chemistry was once chemistry; now there is biochemistry, there is organic chemistry—new keys. And how long will organic chemistry remain organic? Within it, more keys are minted!
Recently in the West a very clever, intelligent man, Snow, wrote a book declaring that the West could die under the burden of its knowledge. There is so much knowledge, and no coherence among it. Everyone has keys, everyone has locks. One no longer knows which lock to open and which not, and why to open any! Locks open everywhere, while man remains entirely closed. He does not seem to open at all. Much knowledge; ignorance intact. The weight of knowledge, heavy.
On earth today there is more knowledge than ever before. And if it keeps increasing at this rate, those who do the arithmetic say that before long we will possess books heavier than the earth itself. What the earth will do then, we do not know. Whether she will allow it—uncertain. But the pace continues: every week ten thousand new books are published. The load grows.
So the great libraries of the world are now worried: they cannot be preserved. How to preserve them? There isn’t enough room for people; where will there be room for books? Make books into micro-books, tiny enough that in the space of one book you can store at least a hundred thousand. Then project them on a screen to read. Make them smaller—because so many books can no longer be kept.
So much knowledge—and man’s ignorance defies measure! Man remains utterly ignorant. The master key has not been sought.
Krishna says, “I will give you the master key. I will give you that key after which no other key is needed. I will give you the key by whose very presence locks open—they open at the sight of the key. I will tell you that which, when known, all is known. I will tell you that one principle—the ineffable, the ultimate, the final, the foundational truth, the beginningless, the endless. Once it is known, nothing remains to be known.”
We will talk about what remains tomorrow.
But do not get up yet. We will make a little use of that master key here; so sit a little. For five minutes, no one will leave. All this while you were sitting with your own mind; for five minutes, with mine.
No one will get up. For five minutes our sannyasins will sing kirtan. That too is a master key. If you enter it wholly within, locks open without any key being put in. Sitting here, try to open a little.
Clap as well. Sing as well. Be ecstatic. Be joyous. Forget the neighbor. Whoever worries about the neighbor never worries about God. Forget the neighbor. Care a little for God.
The sannyasins will be lost in bliss. For five minutes, receive their prasad. And then we shall part.
Osho's Commentary
Two stances toward life are possible. One — of negation, denial, refusal. The other — of acceptance, trust, devotion. The more ego there is within, the more refusal and resistance toward life. The more humility, the more acceptance. As life is, a trust in it, a reliance, and a state of going where life leads, holding its hand, without doubt.
In this sutra Krishna is telling Arjuna: the one who, with an undivided heart, is filled with love and reverence for me!
It is necessary to understand ananya bhava rightly.
Love can be of two kinds. One kind in which the feeling of the other remains — the other stays other, and we love. A father loves his son — that is not ananya. The son remains a son, the father remains a father. Love does not make the father the son, or the son the father. The distinction stays. The separation remains. A wall remains between the two — however transparent it may be — yet a wall. A husband loves the wife, a friend loves a friend — the otherness still remains. The Other — however much it seems one’s own — remains other. However close, they do not become one.
Krishna says: the one who loves me in ananya bhava — who loves in such a way that only one remains, two do not.
This is the difference between love and prayer. Where two remain, there is love; where the two dissolve, there is prayer.
This is the formula of prayer. The state of ananya bhava can be only toward Paramatma; it cannot be toward any person. Not toward a person, because wherever there is another person there are boundaries. And when we approach as a person, we carry our boundaries with us. The boundaries of both become the wall, and those very boundaries keep them apart.
In human love, however close we come, distance remains. In fact, the closer one comes, the more intense and clear becomes the feeling of distance. The nearer the lovers draw, the more it seems that between them is a vast gap that cannot be crossed — unbridgeable. Something upon which no bridge can be built.
That is the pain of love, and its agony. When the lover is far, the pain is not so evident, because it seems one can still come near. But when the lover has come as near as possible, and there remains no further means of coming closer, then the pain becomes dense — for now there is no way left to come closer. As close as one could come, one has come. Yet the distance remains. That distance breaks only in prayer. And it can break only with the One who has no limit. With whomever a limit remains, with that one the distance cannot break.
Only toward Paramatma can there be a love that becomes ananya — in which the other no longer remains, in which the other is effaced. It is a delightful paradox: when the other disappears, I also disappear. I can be, only so long as the other is. Only as long as there is Thou can there be I. I and Thou are two aspects of the same coin. Throw away one, the other is also lost. It is impossible to save the one and drop the other.
Hence Vedanta uses a most wondrous word: Advaita. Vedanta says that in the supreme state we do not say that one will remain; we only say that two will not remain. Vedanta could have said that in the supreme state only one remains — but one cannot remain without the other. Only if the second remains can there be a first. Therefore Vedanta says it in a paradoxical manner: two will not remain — there will be Advaita. It does not say one will remain; it says only this — that two will not remain.
Many people imagine that if two do not remain, then one will remain. There the mistake arises. Let me make that mistake clear to you.
If two do not remain and one remains, then Vedanta should have said so — that one remains. The talk of Advaita would have been unnecessary; the talk should have been of unity — the one remains. Even here Krishna says: the other will not be — the other will not remain — ananya.
But if you think that when the other does not remain, I will remain, you are mistaken. You can remain only if two remain. If the other does not remain, you too will be lost. There will be no place for you to remain.
Ananya love means: only love remains. Neither the lover remains nor the beloved remains. Neither lover nor object of love remains — only love remains. What is between the two remains; the two are lost.
Whoever attains to such ananya bhava — Krishna says of that one: he alone is the yogi, he alone is the bhakta. Call him by whatever name you wish. But where both are effaced, where not even one remains.
There is a fear: if both are effaced, then nothing will remain. And the wondrous thing is that only when both are effaced does That which is All become known. As long as both remain, we know nothing of That which is. Till then we hear only the clanging of two pots. That is why our loves become quarrels. It is difficult to find in our lives a love that does not become quarrel and conflict. Quarrel it will become.
Let two people fall in love — know it well: they have entered the preparation for quarrel. Soon quarrel will be waiting. Two pots will make sound, will struggle, will collide. For wherever I am and the other is, there the attempt at domination will go on; there will be the attempt at ownership. If we shut two men in a room, even if they do not speak, even if they sit quietly with their eyes closed, the effort of both to become the other’s master will begin. Where the other appears, ownership begins, violence begins — the effort to dominate the other begins.
Ananya bhava means: where there is no question of ownership; where no one is above and no one below; where the other is not. If the other is present, then it is our so-called love — even if we call it Bhakti. But if the sense of the other remains, it is not Bhakti; it is only a somewhat sublimated, somewhat purified form of our worldly love. And in that purified form all the diseases remain purified — and when diseases become pure, they become even more dangerous. When a disease becomes entirely refined, its dose becomes homeopathic — very subtle, piercing to the very life-breath.
I have heard of a Buddhist nun who kept with her a small golden image of Buddha. But her love for Buddha was like people’s love for people. If someone uttered the name of Rama, she felt hurt. If someone spoke the name of Krishna, she felt wounded. If someone mentioned Jesus, she became restless. This was no ananya bhava. Here too Buddha was an other person, and she remained herself — jealousy still persisted. Love for Buddha became a hindrance to love for Krishna.
One can understand that she might feel jealousy between Buddha and Krishna and Mahavira. But once she stayed in a Chinese temple known as the Temple of a Thousand Buddhas. It housed a thousand images of Buddha, huge, colossal. In the morning, when she sat to worship her Buddha — her Buddha — the thought arose in her mind: I will light incense, but the smoke will be taken by these great big Buddhas standing here. I will offer flowers, but their fragrance will reach these huge Buddhas. She had only a tiny Buddha. And we can hardly have anything big — we are so small that our God can only be that small. We cannot possess anything larger than ourselves; how would we hold it?
As small as her mind, even smaller was her God. She set down the image, but she suffered greatly: I will light incense for my Buddha, and who knows to whose Buddhas its fragrance will go! So she made a bamboo funnel. She lit the incense and, with the bamboo funnel, directed the smoke to the nostrils of her own Buddha.
Naturally what had to happen, happened. Buddha’s face became black! All devotees blacken the faces of their gods! Buddha’s face became black. She became very agitated, very afraid. A crowd gathered. She began to weep. People said: “Madwoman, what have you done?” She said: “I thought to guide the incense I lit to reach only my Buddha.” In that crowd stood a monk; he laughed. He said: “Wherever ego is, this will happen.”
This is not Bhakti; this is the same attachment. That very attachment with which we live our lives and blacken each other’s faces — quarrel and jealousy and violence and sorrow and pain — the whole hell appears there too.
Ananya bhava means: neither devotee remains nor God remains — only devotion remains. Neither lover remains nor love-object remains — only love remains.
And the day such an event happens — and it happens, and can happen in anyone’s life at any moment; only a readiness to erase oneself is needed — the day it happens, then it is no longer that “here is God.” Then it is that there is no place where God is not. Then there is no face that is not the face of God. Then there is no stone that is not His image. And there is no flower that is not His offering. Then everything is His. Then there is none other than Him.
Krishna says: whoever loves me with ananya bhava.
And whenever Krishna, in this whole discourse, uses “me,” understand it a little rightly. For when Krishna says “me,” nothing like an ego survives in him. Therefore Krishna’s I is not an indicator of ego. In Krishna there remains no referent to I as it exists in us.
When we say I, there is a boundary to our I. When Krishna says I, that I is boundless. Then this vast sky too is contained in that I. And these flowers that bloom on trees bloom in that I. And those birds that fly in the sky fly in that I. That I is vast. It is not the I of a person. It is not Krishna’s personal I. Krishna is being used only as a vehicle, as a means. And whenever Krishna speaks, it is Paramatma who speaks.
Therefore many a time a mistake happens. While reading Krishna’s Gita, many feel difficulty: how egoistic Krishna must have been! He says to Arjuna, “Whoever loves me with undivided devotion.” Me! He says to Arjuna, “Whoever, abandoning all, takes refuge in me.” In my refuge! He says to Arjuna, “Whoever in every way is surrendered to me, Vasudeva.” To me, Vasudeva!
Whoever reads commits two kinds of errors. Those who are attached to Krishna think that surrender must be to the person named Krishna, son of Vasudeva. This is also an error — the error of attachment. Those who are not attached to Krishna feel: how egoistic Krishna is — he says, “Come into my refuge!” But both share the same mistake: both assume that Krishna’s I is the sign and symbol of ego.
Whoever does not understand Krishna’s I rightly will fail to understand the whole Gita. The entire essence, the key of the Gita depends upon this small word. If you cannot understand Krishna’s I, you cannot understand the Gita. For the Gita is spoken by means of Krishna, not by Krishna as a person. The Gita has manifested through Krishna; Krishna is not its author. The Gita has flowed through Krishna, but Krishna is not its source; the source is the supreme energy, the supreme power — Bhagavan.
Therefore if the composer of the Gita again and again says, “Bhagavan uvacha — thus spoke Bhagavan,” it is said with thought and understanding. Calling Krishna “Bhagavan” means only this: Krishna did not speak — Bhagavan spoke; He spoke through Krishna, by means of Krishna.
Even Bhagavan, if He is to walk, has no feet except ours. If He is to speak, He has no voice but ours. If He is to see, He has no eyes but ours.
But when, through some eyes, Bhagavan sees, those eyes are no longer merely human. Yes, for those who do not know, those eyes will still seem to be the same eyes given by the parents. The eyes Krishna received were indeed given by mother and father — but the One who sees from behind those eyes is Paramatma. If you stop at the eyes, you will think they are parental; if you stop at the throat, you will not recognize the voice. The throat Krishna received is from parents — but the voice is of the Divine.
Hence the simplicity with which Krishna says, “Take refuge in me” — keep in mind, no egoist can say it with such simplicity.
If an egoist wants to call you into his refuge, he will do it with much stratagem. Ego is never so straight and clear. Ego is very cunning. An egoist will never say, “Take refuge in me,” because he knows well that if he says this, the other man’s ego will be hurt and he will not be able to come into refuge. Rather, that man will try to draw you into his refuge.
Therefore an egoist never wounds another’s ego; he persuades, cajoles, flatters. He so placates the other’s ego that the other even comes into his refuge without feeling hurt.
But the simplicity, the ease with which Krishna declares, paradoxical as it may sound, that very humility itself announces that behind it there is no ego.
Ego is never so simple. Ego always plays tricks, is complex. It travels by crooked paths; it never takes the straight road — for the ego has experienced that by the straight road another’s ego can never be bent.
Krishna says very simply: “Arjuna, whoever is undividedly dedicated to me attains to Yoga. Whoever’s trust in me is complete, beyond doubt, attains to undoubting knowledge.”
Let us understand a little about doubtless trust as well.
Trust also can be of two kinds. There is trust with doubt — what in science is called hypothesis. A scientist conducts an experiment with a hypothetical trust, a belief. While he experiments, he carries a belief yet retains doubt within — so that he can test whether it proves true or not. He does not lose himself; he keeps himself intact. He keeps doubt intact, keeps it present. And yet he experiments. To experiment, trust is necessary; without trust not even a single step can be taken.
When you return home from here, you return with the trust that home will be where you left it. Whether you know it or not, the trust is functioning within that you will find the house where you left it. That trust is working. Tomorrow morning when you rise, it is with the trust that the sun will have risen, as it rose yesterday.
It is not necessary. Some day it will happen that the sun will not rise. Surely one day it will not. Scientists say that in some thousands of years it will cool. After thousands of years you will certainly be in some body somewhere, and one morning you will rise and the sun will not rise.
The scientist keeps the trust that the sun will rise — but with doubt. He retains the doubt: perhaps that day is today — that it may not rise. That day can be any day. When he enters the laboratory, he trusts that nature will function according to its old laws — fire burned yesterday, it will burn today. But it is not necessary — for how can one be certain that since fire burned yesterday, it must burn today! So the scientist enters the laboratory with a hypothetical belief, a trust with doubt.
To enter science, trust-with-doubt is the path. But to enter Dharma, the path is doubtless trust — nishsamsaya nishtha. This is a greater matter. Understand it a little.
Doubtless trust means this: even if the opposite occurs — if today the sun does not rise — the one of whom Krishna speaks will say, “There is some defect in my eyes; the sun must have risen.” Understand the difference. If tomorrow morning the sun does not rise, the man of trust will say, “There is something wrong with my eyes; the sun must have risen.” If he returns home and finds his house has shifted from where it was, he will say, “The house must be where it was; I am the one who has strayed.”
The difference is this: the doubter always projects doubt outward, and the doubtless one always ascribes it to himself. The doubter seeks the mistake elsewhere; the doubtless one seeks the mistake within.
The man of trust — the one of doubtless trust — will not see error anywhere in the world outside himself. If there is error, it will be within me — nowhere else. Whatever happens in life, pleasure or pain, it will not produce any wobbling, any tremor in his trust. If life becomes entirely suffering, even then such a one will know: somewhere it is only my error; there is no lack in the grace of the Divine. Somewhere I am missing; His prasad is showering. Somewhere my bowl must be upside-down; the rain is continuing.
The doubter’s bowl may be upside-down, and the rain may be pouring — yet he will say: since my bowl is not filling, it is clear there is no rain.
Understand this distinction well, because it makes the difference in entering into Dharma. The foundation of Dharma is the transformation of the person; the foundation of science is the transformation of objects. Science is the search into things; Dharma is the search into the one who searches. Hence it is fitting that science should look for error in objects, and Dharma for error within the person.
If your doubt is other-oriented, set upon the other, your mind will discover many things about objects, but will discover nothing about itself. Therefore the dimensions of Dharma and of science are different.
Krishna says: the one who, without doubt, places his trust in me!
This is a difficult matter. How is it possible to hold trust without doubt? If we are to trust without doubt — how can this be! If Krishna were to say this to anyone today, he would reply, “You demand the impossible. It cannot be done. How can I drop everything?”
But when Krishna said this to Arjuna, Arjuna did not raise such a question. This is worth pondering. Arjuna was among the best educated of his time — cultured, noble, among the foremost of his society. Krishna has many times said to him: abandon all doubts and trust in me. Arjuna certainly says: the mind is restless, it does not settle. But nowhere does Arjuna say — and this is astonishing — “How can I trust you? How is trust possible?”
Arjuna certainly says: I have weaknesses. What you say is right; it must be right. I may not be able to do it. Perhaps I cannot. But not even once does Arjuna raise the essential question that would arise in us. Arjuna, the best of his time. Today even a little child would ask: trust? That becomes blind faith! Krishna is teaching blindness! It arises in our mind. It did not arise in Arjuna’s. There must be reasons. There are reasons.
The greatest reason is not that man has changed — the greatest reason is that his conditioning has changed. Man is the same. When, in you, the question arises — that this is teaching blindness: to trust with eyes closed, not even to doubt or question, then we shall be destroyed — actually, the whole arrangement is to bring about your disappearance. If you would enter the realm of Dharma, you will need the capacity to erase yourself. If you save yourself, you cannot enter within.
Therefore on the very door it is written: Whoever can trust without doubt may enter within. Whoever still carries doubt, let him circle the temple a while longer. Let him run a little more. Let him tire his doubts a little further. And when he gains nothing by doubt — and no one has gained anything by doubt — yes, objects will be obtained, wealth and position, but nothing worth obtaining — the day doubt is exhausted and it seems nothing is gained by it, that day enter within. Enter that temple where doubt must be left outside.
Man is the same; conditioning has changed. Today all education is of science — hence the question arises. You are not asking; your education is asking. All education is of doubt; all education is of suspicion. We teach even small children to doubt. Necessary for the education of science — otherwise science will not stand.
That is why science could not arise in India — for the land that trusted the Gita cannot produce science. But in the West, religion drowned — for the mind that trusts doubt will be deprived of Dharma.
And if weighed in the long balance, perhaps we are not at a loss. Perhaps, by the end of this century, it will be seen that we are in profit. Sometimes life reverses the sums. For now it seems we are at a heavy loss — we have no science, no technique; there is poverty and trouble. But none can say that as this century turns, the West will not fall into grave distress — it will, it is.
For by not doubting we may have lost many things outwardly, but by holding trust we kept an inner door open. The West, doubting, gained much outwardly, but the door that leads within rusted and shut tight. Knock, pound, hammer — it does not appear to open. The state has become such that it does not even seem there is any door within. The door has been shut so long and so firmly it has become almost a wall. No door appears at all.
I recall that during the last great war in China something happened. Two brothers divided their inheritance. The father was on his deathbed; he divided it. Each brother received one hundred thousand. One brother worked very hard with the money — saved every penny, staked his life to earn. The other brother drank away the hundred thousand in liquor. Only bottles of wine gathered around him.
Naturally, people said the one who drank was ruined. But there was no one to tell this to — he was so drunk! Who is ruined? Who is lost? About whom are you speaking? He knew nothing. But the bottles kept accumulating.
And life plays strange jokes. A joke happened. The brother who invested the hundred thousand in business — his money sank. War came, and the price of liquor soared. The drunkard sold all his bottles — and it is said he recovered his hundred thousand. He sold the bottles and got back what he had lost.
Life sometimes enacts unique jokes. Almost by the end of this century, such a joke is going to occur.
The East kept open a door within, though it lost almost everything outside. Certainly, we seem foolish; we have nothing. We too drank a kind of wine — call it the inner wine. And it is not only I who say it — all who have known have said it: there is a wine, a drunkenness within, in which one drowns and never returns.
Umar Khayyam sang of that. But people did not understand — Umar Khayyam was a Sufi fakir. They thought he was singing of the tavern open in the marketplace. He was speaking of the tavern that opens within. He was speaking of that drinking and pouring which is the intoxication of God.
The inner door opens through trust. Trust means doubtless dedication. But education is entirely scientific today; thus our mind raises questions of doubt. Naturally. In those days there was no scientific education; the education was of Dharma — hence Arjuna did not raise any such question.
I was reading the life of a child. The child performed a curious experiment. At twelve he ran away with a band of gypsies. His father aided him — one might say his father sent him away with them — so that by living six years among gypsies the boy would discover their inner life. Whatever had been written about gypsies was written by outsiders; unless we know from within, truth does not become known.
So the boy was sent with the gypsies. A tribe of gypsies had camped outside a village. His father arranged the boy’s friendship with their children. And the twelve-year-old was sent on a journey into a world of hardship. He ran away. In his reminiscences there is a point relevant here.
Gypsies have no houses. They are wanderers — nomads. I like the word — it means: one whose house is on his own shoulders — khana-badosh. Two shoulders, one house. Whose house is carried on the shoulders — a nomad.
So gypsies have no homes. Today in this village, tomorrow in the next, the day after in a third. A wandering people. Naturally, the notion of privacy does not exist among them — it cannot. At night all sleep under the open sky. There is no question of privacy. Even if one is to make love, it is under the open sky; there is no other way.
In the first days the boy, whenever he had to urinate, would go alone and sit under a tree. The gypsy children took it badly and said: “You are doing a very wrong thing!” He said: “What is wrong in this?” They said: “It is utterly wrong. All work should be shared.” He said: “What madness! How can this be shared?” They said: “We too can come along; we can cooperate. When you go, you can tell us to come as well. But you go off alone!” The boy said: “But in our house there is a bathroom. We go inside and lock the door and relieve ourselves.” The gypsy children laughed aloud: “How foolish you all are! For whoever goes to the bathroom — everyone knows what he has gone to do. When everyone knows, what is the point of hiding?”
The boy faced many difficulties; he could not understand — for their way of thinking and conditioning were different. A group mind! No question of the individual; the group’s mind is all. Whatever comes, we share. Whatever trouble comes, we share that too. Whatever pleasure comes, we share that also. We live together. So the idea does not exist that a person can do anything privately. The question arose: how can you go alone to do anything personal? It is impossible.
The questions that arise in our minds are those that our conditioning has prepared.
Living with the gypsies, the boy discovered they do not regard theft as bad. They consider it bad only when someone hoards. If someone steals and hoards, hides it and does not share, that is bad. Or if someone steals a thing not needed today, only to be used six months later, that too they consider bad. But if someone cuts grass from a field to feed the horses, gypsies do not consider it theft.
The first time the police came and caught the gypsies — because they had cut grass from someone’s field for their horses — the man who had cut it said: “Where is the theft? You do not grow the grass — God grows it. The land is God’s, the sky God’s, the sun God’s, the horses God’s, you God’s, we God’s. You do not grow grass! If we were hoarding grass, more than the horses can eat, then we would be guilty. But where is the theft in this?”
For the gypsy, it is incomprehensible where the theft is — for the notion of private property does not exist. There is nothing like private property. How could the notion arise? In our mind the thought arises — theft — because our conditioning is different.
Today we give the conditioning of science to children around the world. In all our minds the conditioning is of doubt. Without doubt we do not take a single step. But when Krishna gave this teaching, at the door of man stood trust, not doubt. The entire doorway has changed; the man is the same.
Therefore when you read the Gita, it does not work for you. The guard at your door is entirely changed. He will not allow the Gita to enter within. You can even memorize it, recite it — yet the Gita will not enter the heart. That entrance can be only when Krishna’s condition is fulfilled. He says: without doubt! But how will doubtlessness come? Can I force myself to drop doubt?
No. Today there is no way to drop doubt by effort. Today, only if you doubt totally, can doubt be dropped.
Doubt so thoroughly that you become tired, exhausted, bored, frightened. Doubt so much that you reach nowhere except hell, so that only thorns of doubt remain all around and no flower of joy blooms within. Doubt completely, totally. Then, perhaps, you may grow weary of doubt and go beyond. Then perhaps in some moment doubt will fall and you will be outside it. And that doubtless state of which Krishna speaks, the first condition, will arise. Be so doubtless, Arjuna, and then — in that doubtlessness — listen to me.
It is a delightful paradox. Such a condition for listening! He says: become so doubtless, so undivided — then listen to me. If even listening has such a condition, then none of us is capable of listening.
We all imagine we can listen because we have ears. Sound reaches our ears, so we think we can listen. We are not capable of listening. Sound certainly strikes the ears, vibrations are produced, but listening is an inner event.
Krishna says: fulfill this condition — be filled with ananya bhava; let there be doubtless trust in me — then you will be able to listen. Then listen! For then I can reveal to you secrets which cannot be opened to the intellect. Then I can open before you those mysteries that are disclosed only before the heart, not before argument. Then I can tell you that inner truth which is spoken only in love, not in debate.
The deepest truths of life are not spoken in dispute. They can be spoken only in love — only to a heart filled with sympathy. Whatever profound truths of life there are, they can be spoken only in the state of ananya bhava, because only then does communication happen, only then does a thing reach the other.
Otherwise, speakers and listeners stand like soldiers on a battlefield — often ready in self-defense! Both doors closed. Sound reverberates; dialogue does not happen. Words scatter; no realization arrives. Much is heard; nothing is grasped — everything remains empty.
This condition is precious. And it is there because Krishna wishes to say to Arjuna something that cannot be said to a mind filled with logic and doubt. It can be said only to one who sits utterly open — open. With no closing, no defense, no security. Who is so full of trust that even if you plunge a dagger into his chest, he will accept it — an undivided love: even if a dagger is thrust into the chest, he will accept it, and think: it must be for my good, thus it is. Only the chest ready to take a dagger receives truth.
Kabir has said: Whoever has burned his own house, come with me. If there is readiness to burn down your house, then come with me.
Which house? Kabir never burned anyone’s dwelling. There is another house around us — of security — as a soldier girds himself in armor for the battlefield. We too wear a huge armor around ourselves, always ready lest something enter and endanger our security — lest some truth slip in that will force us to change our life; lest some inspiration come that will require us to become something else; lest some disturbance occur in our established, orderly world.
A friend came to me the day before yesterday and said: “I want to come and listen to you, but since you began to speak of sannyas, fear arises in my mind.” “What is the fear?” I asked. He said: “I fear that some day I too might understand that I must take sannyas — then what will happen?”
If such a man comes to listen — and he certainly comes — he will sit wearing armor, lest some word enter within. What a pastime! To listen — and to not let it enter within! Then why labor in vain? Better not to listen. If you listen, let it enter within.
Therefore Krishna says: this is the first condition.
All the ancient masters laid down conditions first. They said: first fulfill these conditions; then we will speak to you — lest you waste our time for nothing.
If you go to a Sufi fakir to learn, he will say: “For two years sweep and clean the house.” You will say: “I have come to seek truth, not to sweep.” He will say: “This is the first step in the search for truth. For two years sweep. Do not ask me questions in between. Keep sweeping. When I feel the time is ripe, I will tell you.” We will run away at once!
I have heard: a man went to a Sufi fakir and said, “I have come in search of truth.” The fakir said: “This search is very difficult. Are you fully prepared?” He said: “I am fully prepared.” The fakir said: “Write your name and address. If you die in this search, where shall I send your remains? Where should I send what is left behind?” The man said: “If you don’t mind, I will take my remains with me myself.” And he ran away! “It will trouble you to send them; I’ll carry them myself!”
He had never imagined that one might need to send remains in the search for truth. He did not understand. The fakir’s meaning by remains was very deep.
That which we strap around ourselves — by which we are cut off on every side, become like an island, stand separate, broken off from all — within that, truth will not enter. For truth, a door is needed.
Therefore Krishna says: if such preparation is there, Arjuna, then listen.