Geeta Darshan #2

The journey to the Divine is both simple and the most difficult. Simple, because that which is to be attained has always already been ours. That which is to be sought has in truth never been lost. It is continuously present within us, in each breath of ours and in every beat of our heart. So it is simple to attain the Divine, for from the side of the Divine there is no obstacle at all. Keep this well in mind.
To attain the Divine is simple because the Divine is forever available, forever accessible. But to attain the Divine is very difficult because man is forever standing with his back turned toward the Divine. From man’s side all difficulties are there; from the Divine’s side, none. The doors of His temple are forever open—but our backs are turned toward those doors. Not only turned away, we are running away. Not only running, our whole life, our whole energy, our entire capacity is being spent in one way or another to get farther and farther from that temple.
Yet we shall not get away. Even by running for thousands upon thousands of births we shall not manage to go far from that temple. And whenever we reverse and look, we will find the temple standing there exactly where it was—the very spot from which we began to run.
From the human side there are many difficulties. Therefore Krishna says in this sutra: among millions, rarely one makes the effort. And among those who make the effort, among millions, rarely one attains to Me.
Two points. Among millions, rarely one even makes the effort—understand this. And among the millions who do make the effort, rarely one becomes surrendered unto Me, oriented to Me, and attains.
Why is it that among millions only one attempts to attain That without which there is no alternative, no meaning in life? Why is it that among millions only one strives to attain That by attaining which all can be attained? What can be the reason? In fact it ought to be that among millions, rarely one would not make the effort, and all the rest would. For the Supreme is bliss, is life, is immortality. Then why only one among millions makes the effort? It is necessary to understand the reason rightly, because it is useful.
The first reason is: why would we strive for what we already have? A fish in the ocean may seek everything else, but never the ocean. The fish may set out on many searches, but never upon the search for the ocean. It is born in it, lives in it, breathes in it, grows in it, ends in it. It never even comes to know that the ocean is.
Even a fish comes to know the ocean only when it is taken out of the ocean. If the fish never comes out, it will never know there is an ocean. In truth it is so one with the ocean—how could it notice? To notice, distance is required.
A fish sometimes does come out of the ocean. Man, however, never comes out of the Divine. A fisherman may hook a fish, draw it to the shore and leave it to writhe on the sand. For man there is no shore where the Divine is absent. Wherever man goes, the Divine is present. That which is so over-present, we drop concern for; we forget to remember it.
Remember: the current of our attention flows toward that which is absent. If one of your teeth breaks, your tongue keeps going to that tooth. It does not go to the teeth that remain. And even once you clearly know that it has broken and a gap is left, still the tongue runs there all day long! Where there is lack, there we search. Where there is surfeit, intense presence, we do not search.
One deep law of the mind is this: we drop consideration of what is available to us. We seek what is not yet available. We forget what we have. We become filled in memory with what is far from us. What we lose we come to know; what we never lose, we never come to know.
The greatest obstacle in setting out to seek the Divine is this law of mind: we come to know the negative; we do not notice the positive. A tooth broke—that is noticed. That tooth was with you for forty years, yet this tongue never cared for it. Today it is not, so the search is on!
The mind runs toward negativity, toward the no, just as water runs toward hollows. The mind runs toward absence, toward what is not; it does not run toward what is.
And the Divine is the most. Too much. So much that apart from Him there is nothing else. He alone, everywhere. Eyes open—He. Eyes closed—He. Awake—He. Asleep—He. On all sides He alone. We are surrounded like a fish by the ocean. Therefore only one among millions sets out in search of Him.
If you would set out to seek the Divine—if you would become that one among millions—you will have to go against this law; otherwise never. Remember what you do have, and forget what is far. Let your tongue touch the teeth still in your mouth; let it not keep groping where one has fallen. Enjoy the bread that arrived this morning; do not dream of the bread that may come tomorrow. Drop what is not; live what is, in total delight. Then you will begin to become that one among millions.
For take note, the journey cannot be straight toward the Divine until the arrangement, the pattern of your mind, is changed.
Have you noticed? You think, “Let me build a house.” Until it is built, the mind becomes an architect. How many fantasies! How many plans! Then the house is built. You begin to live in it—and you forget it. Yes, passers-by may think of your house; not you who live within it.
I was reading: a young man is getting married in a church. Bells ring, candles are lit. Friends bring gifts, thanks are exchanged. Suddenly the young man becomes sad. The priest who conducted the ceremony asks, “Why so sad? You should be happy—you have obtained the woman you desired!”
The young man says, “That is why all excitement has suddenly waned. Because I have obtained what I desired.” He said, “Today I think those who created obstacles for Majnu and did not let him get Laila were compassionate—because Majnu could at least remember Laila. Those Majnus who do get their Lailas—do they care about others’ Lailas? They forget even their own!”
It is the law of mind: what is obtained is forgotten. And the Divine is already obtained. Even the convenience to remember Him does not arise.
So the law of the mind must be changed. At present the mind runs toward pits; we must train it to run toward peaks. There is no other difficulty.
In life, feel delight in what has been given. Rejoice in what is present. Be content with what is at hand. Thank the Divine for what is. See what is; drop what is not. Very soon you will find that your search for the Divine has begun.
Therefore those who have made contentment indispensable in the search for the Divine—understand the reason; it is hidden in this sutra. Contentment has no value in itself. Contentment in itself is not a value. Because even a dead man can appear content. A man devoid of courage to run, a coward, fearful, afraid of challenge—he too can look content. No—the only value of contentment is that it turns you toward the Divine.
That is why I say to you: the notion the world has carried till now—“The contented are always happy”—is for children. The truth is that in the contented person a new sorrow is born—the sorrow of not yet attaining the Divine. This sorrow does not arise in anyone else’s life. Yes, around him life becomes more pleasant, because he is happy with what he has, he enjoys it, he is grateful to the Divine.
But in the contented one a new fire begins to burn—the search for the Divine. Because when he finds that in simple food, if I give it attention, how much juice there is; in a simple hut, when I give attention, how much juice there is; in a simple life, with attention, how much juice there is—then what will be, if I attain That which is the very ground of life, which was mine even before I was, and will be mine when I am no more; my wave will rise and fall, and That will remain? A new pang, a new birth-pain begins—to attain That.
Yoga has made contentment an indispensable sutra for the search for the Divine. If you think contentment is only a trick to escape the race of the world, you know nothing of its alchemy. That is secondary. The significant thing is: the one who becomes content with what surrounds him begins the search for That which is deepest and has always been present. The quest for its nectar begins.
That is why only one among millions—the one who has a positive mind.
All of us carry a negative mind. A friend becomes visible to us when he has left home. Happiness too we know when it has slipped from our hands. Even love—we become aware of it when its lamp begins to flicker out. We come to know only when something ends. Only when someone dies do we know that he was. While he was, we did not know.
The father is present at home; the son never notices. The day the father dies, he will know. He will weep, beat his chest. And while the father was there, he never sat by him for even two moments. Strange indeed. He never found time to sit at his feet for a little while. Now he will beat his head on a corpse’s chest.
A negative mind. What is not, that alone becomes important for us. What is, becomes unimportant.
Hence, no one becomes rich in this world. However much wealth comes, poverty does not end—because the negative mind is poor. The negative mind can never be rich. Whatever comes will be forgotten; what remains yet to come will be remembered forever.
Beggars are beggars—and billionaires are beggars to the same degree. For both, what they have is not seen; for both, what is not yet is their demand. What is the difference?
Only this: a beggar has less to forget, the billionaire has more to forget. But he has more only to forget; it has no other meaning. The beggar forgets his bowl; the billionaire forgets his vault. But whether you forget a vault or a bowl, it makes no difference. Neither can the beggar relish his bowl, nor the millionaire relish his vault.
What is, we do not see. And the Divine is superabundant. Not an inch of space where He is not. Therefore among millions, rarely one sets out in His search. Only a positive mind, a creative consciousness, can embark upon the search for the Divine.
Begin to see what is. Begin to forget what is not. Do not wander in empty spaces; live in filled spaces. And remember, every person has so much that—if only he began to see—perhaps it would be difficult to find a poor man on this earth.
I have heard: a man was weeping, beating his chest. A fakir passed by and asked, “You seem so distressed that I take you to be a very poor man. But my Master has said, there is no poor man on this earth. Either my Master is wrong, or you have misunderstood something.”
The man said, “You will not find a man poorer than me. I have been hungry for two days. I have nothing.” The fakir said, “My Master taught me some ways to test; let me apply them.” The man said, “When will you make your experiments? I am on the verge of dying. I am going to the river to throw myself in. I am ready for suicide. I have nothing.”
The fakir said, “Give me a little time. You can die a little later; the world will not be injured. Come with me. At least let me test my Master.”
He took the man to the emperor. He spoke inside, came out with the man, and said on the way, “I have arranged it with the emperor. He is ready to give one hundred thousand rupees for each of your eyes. Sell both eyes; two hundred thousand will fall into your hands.” The man said, “Have you taken me to be mad? I should sell my eyes!” The fakir said, “A hundred thousand are being offered; if you want more, say so.” He said, “Even if you give millions, I cannot sell an eye.”
The very thought of being blind arose—and he realized he has eyes. While he had eyes, they were just there—worthless. He was going to die; in dying the eyes would perish, and everything else too.
The fakir said, “Leave the eyes. You may need them to find your way to the river to die. But there are many things useless even for dying. Sell your ears. Sell a hand. Sell something. I have found a buyer.” The man said, “What kind of person are you! I do not want to die.”
For the first time he realized: if even a hand were cut off, what a deficit it would be—then what a deficit death will be!
If those who commit suicide were given one more chance after doing it, they would all come back repenting. But no chance is given, hence they do not return. So if you are going to commit suicide, do it quickly; do not delay. Because if you wait five or seven minutes, you will no longer be able to do it. In that time the thought of lack may arise: what am I doing! Everything will be gone.
Therefore those who commit suicide do so in intense emotional seizure, in a moment. Considered, reflective people never commit suicide.
There have been some very reflective people on this earth who praised suicide. Among them was a Greek thinker, Pyrrho. Pyrrho used to say: suicide is the only thing worth doing, because life is useless. But he died at ninety. When he was dying, someone raised a doubt: “Strange, for at least fifty years you have been teaching that life and death are equal, there is no difference. One should die. There is no difference between life and death. How did you live to ninety? Why did you not die?”
Pyrrho opened his eyes and said, “Because there is no difference. I thought a lot and found no difference. Then what is the point of dying too? I said: fine—let what happens, happen.”
Pyrrho was very reflective. He thought all his life about dying—and died at ninety.
The deeply reflective do not commit suicide. In a moment of intense emotion, the event happens—because in that moment you are so possessed that your negative mind cannot think how great a chasm is about to open. In a flash it is done.
Krishna says: among millions, rarely one sets out to seek the Divine—because among millions, only one has a creative mind.
Yesterday I said: a mind filled with doubt. Today I add the reference: a mind filled with doubt will be negative. A mind filled with trust will be positive.
Ask a doubting mind to speak about the world—its statements will be negative. He will say: the world is utterly useless. Between two dark nights there is a small day of light. The two dark nights will appear to him the big event. Ask a positive mind, and he will say: this world is wondrous. Between two luminous days there is a small dark night!
Ask a negative mind to stand by a rose; he will do nothing but blaspheme the Divine. “Where there are so many thorns, hardly one flower blooms. The flower is rendered worthless by the thorns.” Ask a positive mind; he will exclaim, “Wonder! Thanks to the Lord—where there are so many thorns, even there a flower is born. It is a miracle.”
The one with a positive mind sets out in search of the Divine.
But then Krishna says another thing: though millions may strive, rarely one attains Me.
What does it mean? Understand this too.
Of those who begin the journey toward the Divine, out of millions only one surrenders. Out of millions, one sets out. If millions set out, one surrenders. The rest resolve; they do not surrender. They say, “We shall attain God. Where are You? We shall search You out. We will put our entire strength into it. We will stake our life—but we shall get You.”
Rarely there is one who says, “What power do I have! I am helpless. I have no strength. How will I find You? If You find me, perhaps the event may happen. How will I find You! My power is very small. I am a tiny drop. Who knows in what desert I will be lost! If the ocean comes to me, fine; otherwise my finding the ocean is unlikely.”
Those who set out to seek the Divine carry the ego along. “We shall attain God. We shall do sadhana. We shall do Yoga, postures, meditation”—but behind it all the ‘I’ stands.
There is a sweet story in the Jain tradition. Rishabh had a hundred sons. Many took initiation from Rishabh and set out on the path of renunciation. Bahubali too was a son of Rishabh. He delayed a little in taking initiation; he pondered. Meanwhile his younger brothers took initiation. When the thought of initiation arose in Bahubali, his ego was hurt: in the world of sannyas I will have to bow to my younger brothers. They have become senior on the path. To bow to my juniors—this cannot be! He thought: what need is there? Why not do my practice alone!
He was powerful. The weak are defeated anyway; sometimes the powerful are worst defeated—their very strength becomes the cause of their defeat.
Bahubali went into solitude and plunged into severe austerity, dense tapascharya. Perhaps few upon this earth have done such austerity and such practice. He staked everything. Everything—except one small thing: the ‘I’ stood behind.
His renown spread everywhere. People were amazed: such a pure being, so utterly dedicated—yet no vision of truth happens! What is the matter?
News reached Rishabh too. He smiled and sent Bahubali’s sister—who had been initiated—to him, and said, “A tiny straw is stuck. But that straw is heavier than mountains. He has staked everything, except saved the ‘I’.”
And if you stake nothing else but the ‘I’, all is solved. But if you stake everything—wealth, status, body, mind—and save the ‘I’ standing behind, all is futile. If the very staker is saved, you are in struggle with the Divine; you are not in prayer. You go to conquer truth; not to become one with truth. It is not a journey of love; it is a stance of aggression.
All is on stake for Bahubali. Nothing left to stake. He too became anxious: what remains to be done? All fasts prescribed by the Tirthankaras—completed. All vigils—done. “Stand,” they said—he stood for months. “Concentrate the mind”—it was concentrated. All conditions fulfilled. Still nothing happens. Where is the lack?
Then the sister came as sent by Rishabh. Bahubali stood with eyes closed. A gigantic figure, a most beautiful body. In Gomateshwara you may have seen his image—enormous! Vines had climbed over the body. Birds had made nests in the ears. Vines blossomed—and he did not know. So absorbed was he in the inner struggle that what was happening to the body he knew not.
The sister looked from all sides. Never had such an ascetic been seen! Nests in the ears, eggs laid—safe, for Bahubali does not move. Vines have climbed, flowers have bloomed. Who knows since when he has stood like a stone. What remains?
Then she circled deeper, peered within, and saw that only one thing remained—the ‘I’. She sang a song: “You have done everything; now just step down from the throne. Do nothing else—simply come down from the elephant’s palanquin. How long will you sit there? Come down.”
Bahubali heard: “How long will you sit in the elephant’s palanquin? Come down.” Everything else was pure. Only that palanquin of ego was heavy. And in that very instant the event happened. What such great austerity had not done, stepping down from the palanquin did. Bahubali bowed to his sister. The matter was finished. The event happened.
Millions make the effort; one arrives—because only that one loses his identity, his ego.
Hence Krishna says: he who becomes oriented to Me, surrendered, who comes to My feet.
The point is not primarily to come to Krishna’s feet. The point is to bow. The essential is a bowed mind—surrendered.
Out of millions one tries. Millions try; one reaches. The one who tries is the one with a positive mind. But the danger of the positive mind is that it may strengthen the ego. The one who reaches is the one who surrenders the ‘I’. Then no obstacle remains.
From the Divine’s side there is no obstacle. From man’s side there are two. One, a negative mind. Two, a feeling stuffed with identity, with ego. He who passes through these two doors—Krishna says—attains Me.
“Bhūmir āpo’nalo vāyuḥ khaṁ mano buddhir eva ca,
Ahaṅkāra itīyaṁ me bhinnā prakṛtir aṣṭadhā.” 4.
And Arjuna, earth, water, fire, air and space, and mind, intellect and ego—these eightfold are My divided nature.
There are two or three points to understand here. First, Krishna divides nature into eight parts. The five great elements—earth, water, fire, air, space.
Let us understand the five great elements a little, because the notion of pañca mahābhūta has caused Indian thought to be criticized in the West. Even here, the educated are troubled. “There are no five elements now,” science says. “There are one hundred and eight elements.” Going deeper, they say there is only one element—the hundred and eight are forms of it—electricity.
When one like Krishna says “five great elements,” it cannot be mere idiom. People have always said “five elements”—a rough count that the world is made of five. But when Krishna states it, we must go deeper. Krishna’s statement is deeply scientific. And the way I see the five elements, as it should be seen today after all of science’s inquiry, I wish to tell you.
The pañca mahābhūta use the people’s vocabulary. Hence even Indians who only think in terms of words and scriptures have not gone deep into the notion.
In the West, the notion of elements was born in laboratories. In India, the notion of the five elements arose not in laboratories but in inner experience. Whoever descends into the depths of the inner life will surely encounter one element—fire, agni. Whoever goes deep within will ultimately experience fire, a vast inner fire.
Therefore as one moves inward in meditation, light—like thousands of suns descending—begins to be seen. The experience of light in meditation is the sign of entering within. That light is a far ray of the inner fire. Only when we go very deep will we have a full sense of the fire.
By agni Krishna does not mean merely the fire that burns in your hearth. By agni is meant that the entire form of life is a form of fire.
Now even science says: the life functioning within you is nothing but oxidation. Oxygen from the air is constantly feeding the flame of life within you.
If a lamp is burning and you invert a glass over it, then you will know. In a storm someone may cover a lamp with a glass, thinking he has saved it from the wind. For a moment it seems saved. But note: in the storm the lamp might have survived; under the glass it will not. In a little while the oxygen will be spent. Without oxygen the lamp cannot burn. The oxygen within the glass is quickly used up; carbon dioxide remains, which puts the flame out. The lamp can bear the storm; it cannot bear lack of oxygen—because oxygen is fire.
You too cannot bear it. If your breathing is stopped—indeed, even if your nostrils remain open, but your whole body is sealed with tar, every pore closed—you will not remain alive more than fifteen minutes. Because every pore breathes; that breath fuels the life-fire within. If the breath is stopped, you end immediately. Inside, life is like a lamp that needs oxygen the whole time.
The law by which fire burns is the law by which life burns. In the depth of life and of all elements—fire. Fire is the great element, the fundamental.
Today science has come to electricity. What it calls electricity, India’s inner seers called fire. And rightly, for agni was a known word then; by it the matter could be expressed.
Electricity is a form of fire. Fire is the root element. Earth is one form of fire—the solid. The solid form of fire is earth. The second form is water—liquid, flow. The third is air—gaseous.
Science says matter has three states: solid, liquid, gaseous. Every existent can appear in three forms. Earth—what science would call solid. In those days, no word more solid than “earth” was imaginable. Water—no word more flowing than “water” was imaginable. Air—no word more vaporous or gaseous.
Yes, fire is the root. When fire manifests, it appears as three forms. One form of matter—solid; the second—liquid; the third—gaseous.
And the field needed for fire to manifest is space—akasha. By akasha is meant space, not the sky you see above. Akasha means that which gives room, without which nothing can be. Space is needed—and of two sorts.
If I tell you, “A murder took place,” you will ask, “Where and when?” Two words—where and when. Where means: in what place, the exact location. If I say, “No place, only a murder happened,” you will say, “Wrong—without a place it cannot happen.” Place is needed. But with place alone it cannot happen either; time is needed. So you ask, “When?” If I say, “Not in time. Only in place,” you will say, “Impossible.” For any event, two dimensions are needed: time and place—field.
One may ask: in the notion of five elements, space is counted; why not time?
Another delightful point: before Einstein scientists thought time and space were two. Einstein exerted mightily and established that time and space are not two. They are one—space-time. Two facets of one continuum.
Even in Krishna’s time the understanding was that time is not separate; it is a part of space. Hence it is not separately counted. Among the five, that which gives room—akasha; that which is the basis of existence—fire; and the three manifest forms—earth, water, air. This is the notion of the five elements.
But when one like Krishna speaks, he uses the listener’s language. That is fitting. Hence a difficulty today. Einstein used to joke: no more than twelve people on earth understand me. That was his estimate—twelve out of three and a half billion. His wife doubted even twelve!
Why? The language Einstein spoke was mathematics. Krishna speaks the people’s tongue. Everyone can understand Krishna. The danger of the folk language is that things cannot be very precise and subtle. The danger of the mathematical tongue is that things pass beyond anyone’s understanding.
Those concerned only with elemental research can speak mathematics. Hence Einstein thought the future language of science would be mathematics—numbers, not words. Because words create confusion; symbols will be used, not words, for words have many meanings.
But Krishna speaks not for elemental research but for elemental practice—for sadhana. He speaks so Arjuna can understand. So he uses the popular notion of five elements. Yet within it is a complete scientific vision.
The foundation is one—fire, radiance. Therefore fire was called a deity. Hence everywhere fire is worshiped. Even today the Parsis keep fire burning in their temples, perhaps without knowing why. It is tradition. Their temple is the temple of fire. But they do not know that fire is the fundamental element of life; the deity. From it all the forms of life evolve. Keeping a flame in a temple will not help. Seeing the fire burning everywhere in life brings the vision of the deity of fire.
Wherever anything is, it is a form of fire. Three manifest forms—solid, liquid, gaseous. And the field in which it is given room—space-time—akasha. Of these five Krishna speaks. From these nature is made. Then he speaks of three inner forms as well—and counts them together as eight. The three are mind, intellect, ego.
He begins with the first—earth—and ends with the last—ego. Earth is the grossest and most solid; ego the subtlest, most delicate. The subtlest existent in this world is ego. The grossest is earth. Thus the order. And proceeding inward he says: first mind.
By mind is meant the general consciousness within us, mentation. Animals too have much of mind. They live by mind, but they do not have intellect.
Intellect is the specialized form of mind—reasoned, patterned thinking.
And behind intellect, when it is much used, a still subtler thing is born, called ego—the ‘I’.
“With these eight elements I have woven this entire nature,” says Krishna.
Why does he say this? So that you may know nature through these eight. And when you go beyond the eight, then you will know Me. As long as you remain within the eight, know that you are in the world; when you go beyond the eight, know that you are in the Divine.
The greatest difficulty and last trouble will be with ego—because it is so subtle. Air can be held in the fist a little; ego cannot. Air moves—you feel its touch. Ego moves—you do not feel its touch.
Therefore it is arduous to rise above ego. Being so subtle, it enters everything you do. You renounce—and it stands behind, “I have renounced.” You touch feet, you surrender—and it whispers, “See how humble I am! I touched feet!” You pray, bang your head in the temple—and it says, “See how religious I am! I pray while others go to shops.”
This ‘I’ stands behind your every act. Whatever you do, it is always behind. It is so subtle you cannot close any door that keeps it out; wherever you are, it will reach. As long as you are, it will reach.
Thus Krishna’s division: the grossest thing—earth; the subtlest—ego. One must be free of matter; ultimately of identity too, for ego is the subtlest form of matter.
As all outer substances are forms of fire, so too the inner substances are forms of fire. What we call mentation is also a form of fire. What we call intellect is also a form of fire.
Therefore, if in the West we have succeeded in making the computer, and tasks of intellect are now done by a machine run by petrol or electricity, do not be surprised. What you do is only the work of a natural computer. Within you, too, the work runs on fire. The same machine outside can work on fire—and it does—and more skillfully than man, because that machine has no ego to interfere. Give it the right fuel, and it works.
Your intellect’s work is now done by machines. Today or tomorrow, perhaps we will even succeed in building a machine which, if you kick it, will say, “Can’t you see who I am?” Even that is possible—because ego too is a very subtle fire. If we have created thought in a machine, if we have employed a machine for thinking and for intellect, it will not be long before we birth identity in it too. Machines will sit stiff with pride! Some machines will become presidents; some prime ministers. There is no difficulty. Machines will begin to claim—because within us, machines are making claims. It is machine; it is matter; it is nature.
I have heard: in a court a poor man was on trial. The magistrate asked, “Did you call the leader a scoundrel?” In the village there was some ‘leader’—there is one in every village. He had filed a defamation suit. Weak leader he must have been, or amateur—otherwise leaders do not bother; they must bear defamation twenty-four hours a day. He who desires honor must bear dishonor. Whoever climbs the throne must pass through the alley of abuse—there is no other way.
The magistrate asked the man—while the leader stood there—“Did you call the leader a scoundrel?” He said, “Yes.” The leader had thought he would deny. The magistrate too was surprised. “Did you call him a thief?” “Yes.” “A bandit?” “Yes.” “A murderer?” “Yes.” “Did you call him a donkey?” “I wanted to, but forgive me—I did not.” “Why?” “When I was about to, it occurred to me that donkeys might be offended. They are neither thieves nor corrupt nor scoundrels nor murderers. I had decided to say it, but then I refrained.”
Whatever man is doing, there is not much difference from animals. Only a slight refinement—animals do in a crude manner what man does in a carved manner. Animal tendencies become subtle in man. With subtlety comes complexity—cunning, crafty. In the animal there is a simplicity that man has lost. Because that inner point of complexity, identity, ego arises; it entangles everything.
He who would go on the journey to the Divine must rise above that subtlest form of matter, that subtlest play of fire, that subtlest secret of nature.
Therefore Krishna says: this is the division; this is the nature I have made—into eight parts.
The emphasis is: understand that this is nature; this is not you. And understand: this is nature; this is not the Divine. Whatever is fashioned is nature; that which is never fashioned—that is the Divine. Whatever is created is nature; the Uncreated is the Divine.
Ego too is created. Children have no ego; gradually it is fashioned. Intellect too is fashioned. Children have no intellect. If you think you were born with intellect, you are mistaken. You are born with potential; the rest is later manufactured. If you were reared among wolves in the forest, you would have no intellect—only as much as a wolf has; not more. If you think that if you were kept in isolation…
Akbar conducted such an experiment. A fakir said to him: man becomes only what he is made into. The made man is false; we seek the unmade, the unmanufactured. Akbar said, “I cannot accept that everything in man is made.” The fakir asked, “Which thing do you see as unmade?” Akbar said, “Man’s intellect, his thoughts—they are not made; they arise from within.”
We all imagine thoughts come from within; hence we fight. If someone says, “Your thought is wrong,” we bristle—“My thought wrong? Never. My thought!”—as if it were me. No, thoughts are put in from outside.
The fakir said, “Do an experiment.” A newborn child was taken to the prison. All care was given—milk, everything—but the guards were ordered to never speak before the child; their mouths sealed. The child grew—and Akbar was troubled. As he grew, nothing human appeared. He did not learn to walk, to sit, to speak—nothing. He reached ten—no word came. Twelve—no word. At seventeen he died. Akbar waited seventeen years. In the end he said, “Nothing came in him. All is put from outside; all is made.”
All men are manufactured. Yes—some ‘Made in India’, some ‘Made in Japan’—that is another matter. Some Hindu, some Muslim, some Jain—all manufactured. Because up to ego, all is nature.
Intellect is nature, mind is nature. Like the stone outside, ego inside is also matter. No subtle difference. All of this is fabricated.
Beyond it is That which is Uncreated. Whoever goes beyond it—his vision is.
“apareyam itas tv anyāṁ prakṛtiṁ viddhi me parām,
jīva-bhūtāṁ mahābāho yayedaṁ dhāryate jagat.” 5.
“This eightfold divided nature is My lower, apara, nature. And, O mighty-armed, know My other nature—higher, para—conscious, life itself—by which this whole world is sustained.”
This eight-limbed nature is apara—lower, on this shore. Beyond these eight is My nature which is para—the beyond, the other shore. These eight divisions belong to this bank. And I am on the far side, beyond and above them—para. I transcend them all. Know that consciousness, beyond all these, as that which sustains all.
What is that which is beyond? Let us understand a little—for that alone sustains everything. This vast expanse rests on its heart—the para, the beyond. What is that para consciousness? And within us, where is the doorway leading to it?
The essence of all Yoga is the process, the technique, to recognize the para. Where, within ourselves, does the beyond begin?
Not in the body—body is matter. Not in the mind—mind is the aggregate of acquired thoughts. Not in the intellect—intellect is a subtlest form of inner fire. Not in ego—ego is self-constructed. Then where? Where will we find the bridge, the gate from which there is direct seeing and union with the consciousness that sustains all?
In the witnessing of all these. I can be the witness of my body. Here is my hand; I can see this hand. If my hand is cut, I can watch its pain. The hand may be cut off—still I will see that I am not cut; only the hand is cut. Even after it is severed I will not feel that my being has lost a piece. I remain as I am. My being suffers no division. Even if my legs are cut, I remain as I am. My eyes may be destroyed; the body will be lessened—but my being is unchanged.
Imagine: you sleep at night; in sleep your eyes go blind. In the morning, the first moment you awaken—can you know with closed eyes that your eyes are gone? If something within had diminished, you should know—but nothing within has lessened; therefore you will not know. Open the eyes—and when nothing appears, then you will know there is a loss. Within, there is no lack. Only an outer door of relation is broken; within you are entire. No difference within.
If you are anesthetized and your leg is amputated, and you are kept unconscious, even deep-frozen, until the pain passes—then when you are brought to consciousness, and your body is covered with a blanket—you will not know from within that the leg is gone, until the blanket is lifted, until you try to walk and fall. Because within, nothing is cut—so how could within know? Only when you try to use the body and a deficiency is discovered will you know.
We can be witnesses of the body. To whatever I can become a seen, that I am not. For seeing, distance is needed; for perception, perspective. I can see you because I am separate. I can see my body too. You saw your body as a child; you see it now as young; yet it does not occur to you that the body has completely changed—while you, within, are the same. Within, the consciousness remains untouched.
We can know we are not the body by witnessing the body. Then we can witness thoughts as well. You can watch within: anger moving, greed slipping, desire traveling. On the inner screen, thoughts can be seen as you see a film. You can witness them; then you are separate from them.
A little difficulty arises in seeing the ‘I’, because it is subtlest and we are identified with it. But you can see the ‘I’ too. You are walking on a lonely road. Suddenly two men appear on the path—have you noticed, a snake raises its hood within? Watch it carefully. When you were alone you were one; when the two appeared, why did you become different? What is this difference? The sense of ‘I’ rose up within.
Someone abuses you—look closely within: a snake raises its hood, hisses; as if a sleeping serpent is struck, something rises within. Observe it well. When you wear fine clothes and walk the street, you are not the same as when you wear shabby clothes. Inside, a slight difference.
Today I wrote a little story to a friend. An elephant once saw a mouse. He had never seen so small a creature—not that there are no small creatures, but what would a creature of his size see of such tiny ones! He saw a mouse, perhaps in some idle, restful moment. Astonished, he said with great pride, “I have never seen a creature as petty as you. You are the most insignificant.”
Do you know what the mouse said? He looked up and said, “Forgive me, I am not always like this. I have been a little unwell. This is not my usual form. I have been sick.” The elephant may have his ego—the mouse has his too. He too will save his ego. We are all doing the same. The very mouse-like mind.
If you watch carefully, keeping awake, when and where it stands up—often when someone says to you, “Hey…” you feel like saying, “This is not my usual condition; I have been a little ill!” That inner ‘I’—if you keep searching with awareness for where it arises, you will soon begin meeting it at many spots. Before the mirror, the face will be less visible, the ego more. When you shake a hand, you will feel you meet less; the ego meets more. When you speak with someone, you will not seem to be in dialogue; the ego will stand speaking within.
Practice a little awareness and gradually a gap, a distance, will open between you and your ego. And you will see: this is the ego—here it is.
The day you see the ego, that very day—leap! That day you jump from this eightfold nature into that inner para nature which Krishna calls My own being, My consciousness.
And it is that consciousness which sustains all. Then you will see: your body too is sustained by That. Your intellect is sustained by That. You had never gone within to see That which is the life of life. You had never seen That which is the center of the circumference. You never saw the Master; you were tangled with the servants—and many times mistook the servants to be yourself. You never reached the Master.
Krishna is leading Arjuna step by step toward that Master. He says: this is the eightfold nature, Arjuna—understand it well. And then, to go beyond it, I will tell you of that which is para—consciousness hidden behind all, the creator of all, the ground of all, which draws all back into itself.
Enough for today.
Do not stand. Sit for five minutes. Receive prasad and go. Our sannyasins have nothing else to give you. If you stand up, their hearts will be hurt. Sit.
And do not only sit. You can receive this prasad only if you cooperate; otherwise you will go empty-handed. Sing. Sing with their tune. Clap. Forget the neighbor. Do not bother what he will say. Be a little rejoicing. Carry these five minutes of joy with you.
It may be that in the rhythm of this kirtan you become totally joyous—and then a small indication of the para may become visible to you.