Know that all beings are born of these wombs;
I am the source of the entire universe, and its dissolution as well।। 6।।
Nothing whatsoever is beyond Me, O Dhananjaya;
All this is strung upon Me, like clusters of jewels on a thread।। 7।। Therefore, O Dhananjaya, apart from me there is not even the slightest other thing.
Geeta Darshan #3
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
एतद्योनीनि भूतानि सर्वाणीत्युपधारय।
अहं कृत्स्नस्य जगतः प्रभवः प्रलयस्तथा।। 6।।
मत्तः परतरं नान्यत्किंचिदस्ति धनंजय।
मयि सर्वमिदं प्रोतं सूत्रे मणिगणा इव।। 7।।
अहं कृत्स्नस्य जगतः प्रभवः प्रलयस्तथा।। 6।।
मत्तः परतरं नान्यत्किंचिदस्ति धनंजय।
मयि सर्वमिदं प्रोतं सूत्रे मणिगणा इव।। 7।।
Transliteration:
etadyonīni bhūtāni sarvāṇītyupadhāraya|
ahaṃ kṛtsnasya jagataḥ prabhavaḥ pralayastathā|| 6||
mattaḥ parataraṃ nānyatkiṃcidasti dhanaṃjaya|
mayi sarvamidaṃ protaṃ sūtre maṇigaṇā iva|| 7||
etadyonīni bhūtāni sarvāṇītyupadhāraya|
ahaṃ kṛtsnasya jagataḥ prabhavaḥ pralayastathā|| 6||
mattaḥ parataraṃ nānyatkiṃcidasti dhanaṃjaya|
mayi sarvamidaṃ protaṃ sūtre maṇigaṇā iva|| 7||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, just a small question. If truth is non-dual, then what is the point of calling apara and para different? And are apara and para interchangeable?
Truth is one—but only for those to whom the whole of truth is revealed. For those to whom it is not revealed, it is not one. What appears to the blind, that which half-appears to us who do not know—the name of that is apara. Tree and roots are one. You cannot draw a line and say, “From here the roots begin, from here the tree begins.” There is no discontinuity; the continuity does not break anywhere. Where do the roots end and the tree begin?
If someone presses you hard you will be in trouble. Vaguely you “know” roots are separate, tree is separate; the tree is above and roots are below. But if someone insists, “Tell me exactly where the roots begin and where the tree begins,” you will be at a loss. You will not find any such place. Tree and roots are one.
But to a man who has only seen the tree and not the roots, you have to say, “What you are seeing is only the top side; there is something more beneath, holding it all together—the roots.”
To one who cannot see, we have to say, “What you are seeing is apara—the lower world, the gross world, the world of the senses. And there is a para world you do not see. We will lead you there.” And the day it is seen, the two worlds become one—a single continuum.
Then the difference is like the difference between the tree being above and the roots being below—and yet there is a difference. If you uproot and throw away the roots, the tree will not remain. If you cut down and throw away the tree, the roots will remain, and from the roots a tree will grow again.
There is no difference in continuity, but there is a difference in fundamental potency. The roots are more powerful; they hold the central energy of life. The tree is only the spread. Properly understood, the roots are essential, the tree non-essential. Because the roots can be without the tree, but the tree cannot be without the roots. Yet the two are one. Even the last leaf of the tree is nothing but the root’s outstretched hand. The root itself has expanded into the sky.
For those who do not know, who are in ignorance, who have no glimpse of the whole of the divine, Krishna makes divisions for their sake. All divisions are made for children. Truth is indivisible. But the indivisible truth cannot be taught as such. For teaching, one has to divide. One has to begin somewhere. And wherever you begin, you will have to divide.
Where to begin? It is appropriate to begin from the top, because Arjuna knows the outer. He understands what earth is, what water is, what fire is. Then gradually his understanding can be deepened. As it deepens, Krishna will tell him the inner: what is buddhi, what is thought, what is mind; he will say what ego is. And when a sense of what ego is dawns in him, Krishna will say, “Beyond this—beyond this—is the realm of para. Beyond this I am; beyond this is divine consciousness.”
But to bring him to that “I,” Krishna will have to take him on a journey from matter and clay, from earth through the eight elements—knowing fully well that everything is joined, all is together.
All is together. Nothing has broken anywhere. Everything is connected. Even the lowest, the most outer object is linked to the innermost. The lowest is only the downward spread of the highest. Existence is one weave. But the talk has to be with those who know nothing. With those who already know, there is no point in talking.
So keep this in mind: if two wise ones meet, there is no way for conversation. If two ignorant ones meet, there will be a lot of talk—yet nothing will really be said. When two wise ones meet, no talk will happen—and yet it will have happened. When two ignorant ones meet, talk will go on and on—heavy talk—and still nothing will be communicated. Then where is conversation possible?
Conversation happens between a knower and a non-knower. But compromises are needed—by the knower. The ignorant one cannot compromise—how would he? The knower must speak in the language of the ignorant, in the hope that slowly, step by step, he will persuade and lead him to that realm where there is the possibility of saying without words; he will be able to point toward the para.
Therefore, whenever such a discourse happens—between Krishna and Arjuna, between Buddha and Ananda, between Mahavira and Gautam, between Jesus and Luke—it is always between a knower and a non-knower.
Remember also: the ignorant one never compromises; he stands stubbornly in his ignorance and says, “This is right.” The knower must compromise—descend, come to the ignorant one’s place, take his hand, set out on the journey. Having taken his hand, he must use the language of the ignorant.
All divisions are the language of ignorance. In the language of the wise there is no division; it is nondual, one. But there is no way to say that One; silence alone is enough.
If Krishna had used the language of the wise, he would have remained silent. Then the Gita would not have been born. So he moves with Arjuna’s intelligence. He begins with the very gross: earth, the grossest. Then he comes near the subtle: ego.
And Arjuna’s ego must have been heavy. He was a kshatriya. The kshatriya lives by ego; all his sheen and splendor is of ego; his sharpness is of ego. Had Krishna said “ego” at the very start, Arjuna might have been offended; he would not have understood. If he had said outright, “This ego is all nature, nothing, worthless,” the dialogue between Arjuna and Krishna would have collapsed. Step by step!
And ego is always on the lookout for being hurt: very sensitive, touch-me-not. A slight hint, a slightly slanted glance—and it is disturbed. It is disturbed because it has no real foundation; it is a castle in the air, a house of cards—one puff and it collapses.
I have heard: a fakir was resting outside a great city on a new-moon night. The whole city was lit up, as if it were Diwali. The fakir lay in the dark, under a tree. A firefly came flying and sat beside him, folded her wings, and her glow ceased. Suddenly something went wrong at the power station and the city lights went out.
The firefly said to the fakir, “Excuse me for mentioning—but do you see in what state this great city will be if I go somewhere else?” She thought, “Since I folded my wings and my glow stopped, the city has plunged into darkness!”
The fakir laughed inwardly—outwardly he did not, because then the talk with the firefly would end. He said, “Thank you for the information. I always knew it was so. It is your great grace that you do not leave this city. Forget the city—if you left this universe, the stars that twinkle in the sky would also immediately go out.” The firefly inched closer and said, “You seem a useful sort of man. Let’s talk some more.”
They say, by morning the firefly had become a fakir. But the fakir had to begin by being a firefly. The talk went on through the night; by morning the firefly was a fakir.
This is how it is going to be in this story too. This poor Arjuna will not remain; he is going to become Krishna. But the distance is still long; dawn is far. For now Krishna must speak the language of the firefly. There is no other way.
रसोऽहमप्सु कौन्तेय प्रभास्मि शशिसूर्ययोः।
प्रणवः सर्ववेदेषु शब्दः खे पौरुषं नृषु।। 8।।
पुण्यो गन्धः पृथिव्यां च तेजश्चास्मि विभावसौ।
जीवनं सर्वभूतेषु तपश्चास्मि तपस्विषु।। 9।।
O Arjuna, in water I am the taste; in the moon and the sun I am the light; in all the Vedas I am the sacred syllable Om; in space I am sound; and in men I am manliness. In earth I am the pure fragrance; in fire I am the brilliance; in all beings I am their life, that by which they live; and in ascetics I am austerity.
Krishna has begun to point toward the invisible. He names the visible—and says, within that visible, who I am. He points to the seen, and yet points to the unseen. He says: In water I am rasa—taste, sap, essence.
Rasa needs to be understood. It is an extraordinary word—very subtle, very invisible. What is seen—for example, you drink a beverage, even nectar—what is seen is the liquid. But when you drink, what comes into experience—is it the same as what was seen? No. What you experience on drinking was not visible at all. The seen was something else; the experienced is something else. That which is experienced on drinking is rasa—an inner savor.
Not only there. Your beloved is with you; you sit hand in hand. The hand is in the hand, but the inner flavor that arises from the presence of the loved one—that is rasa. If we take your two hands to a lab and ask a scientist to cut and analyze and tell us what rasa they obtained—these two have been saying things like, “May we sit like this hand in hand for lifetimes, till the moon and stars go out but our hands never part!”—please find the rasa in these hands! He will find blood flowing, water, bone, flesh, marrow—no rasa. Rasa is invisible. Yet they were receiving it—deluded or dreaming perhaps, but receiving it. The taste that descends within as inner experience in relation to any object—that is called rasa.
Krishna says: In all liquids, in all drinkables, what you drink—that I am not; what you experience on drinking—that I am. I am rasa.
All rasas are invisible. A rose blooms. You go close. “How beautiful!” If a logician catches you and says, “Where is the beauty? Show me,” you will be in difficulty. The more you try, the more you will sense your inability. Your defeat is certain; the logician will win—because he will hold to the visible while you have proclaimed the invisible, which you cannot show.
Beauty cannot be told. In truth, beauty is not in the flower; it is in the awareness that arises in you at the sight of the flower, in that rasa. So if you pluck apart the flower, you will get chemicals, not rasa. Colors, yes; everything can be analyzed and bottled with labels—but there will be no bottle labeled “Beauty.” That bottle will remain empty. He will declare, “There is no beauty.”
In truth there was no beauty in the flower; beauty came as rasa in you. And the amusing part: even if we dissect you, we won’t find rasa. Where was it then? It is invisible, like the thread hidden among the beads. The beads can be caught, not the thread.
So Krishna says: In water I am rasa. He chooses water as an example—Arjuna will understand—and through it he can point to rasa.
All our deep experiences in life are experiences of rasa: beauty, love, music—experience is of rasa. Or say it this way: the distilled essence of all experiences—call that rasa.
India’s conception of rasa is unique; no one else has gone so close. The West built a science of aesthetics, but its definitions of beauty are superficial. Beauty is rasa. Love is rasa. Bliss is rasa. And the Upanishads declare: Brahman is rasa. Brahman is rasa!
That is what Krishna is declaring: Among waters I am rasa. Then he goes example by example. He says: In earth I am gandha, pure fragrance.
This will be a bit difficult—not less than rasa. Because adding “pure” makes it harder. Why “pure” fragrance? Wouldn’t “fragrance” be enough? By saying “pure fragrance,” the implication is that impure fragrance also exists. Then is there also “pure stench” and “impure stench”? Such possibilities do exist. Knowingly Krishna said “pure fragrance.” Not all fragrances are pure.
The fragrance is pure whose mere hint makes the life-energy flow upward. There are fragrances whose hint makes the energy flow downward. Ask experienced courtesans in the world’s nooks—or in the markets of Paris, where impure perfumes are concocted and tested: which perfumes arouse sexuality more? They are experts. They report which scent should be at a prostitute’s door to ease a customer’s coming, which scent on a woman’s clothes will agitate a man’s mind because of the smell, making the woman secondary.
Impure fragrances exist—the ones that drive energy downward along the pathways of lust.
Then what is pure fragrance? You will not find it produced in any market. Once in a while it happens; let me tell you so this sutra becomes clear. Otherwise it won’t. Thousands have commented on the Gita, but on “pure fragrance” few have paid attention. It does happen.
It is said of Mahavira that wherever he stood, a fragrance spread; when he walked, a scent moved upon the winds. Mahavira’s body is made of earth like ours. The fragrance rising from his body—its name is “In earth I am pure fragrance.”
It is not necessary that you notice it when Mahavira passes by. Those habituated to stench will hardly notice fragrance. Those accustomed to impure scents—the pure will pass by without touching them. Open doors are needed. But those whose doors are open and whose hearts are sensitive will catch Mahavira’s fragrance.
So when such a fragrance arises from a body like Mahavira’s, that fragrance is “In earth I am pure fragrance. I am that, Arjuna.”
Have you noticed that earth contains infinite possibilities of fragrance and stench? In the same little kitchen garden, plant a neem; bitterness spreads in the air. That neem draws sap from the same soil. Plant a rose beside it; it too drinks the same soil—but the rose yields another fragrance and the neem another. What is the matter? One soil, one sun, one air, one gardener, one water. The rose seed selects differently; the neem seed selects differently. The neem gathers bitterness from the same earth; the rose gathers something else.
Our bodies are the same; Mahavira’s, Krishna’s, Christ’s—the same earth. But it is not necessary that what emanates from all of us be one.
Let me add more. Those who have explored sexuality deeply say that at the peak of intercourse, when man and woman are highly aroused, a particular stench begins to emanate from both bodies. You have experienced it. Intense lust produces a smell.
What happened? The body is the same. But in lust you move downward—toward neem. The body’s choice changes; different glands begin to function; a stench spreads. If lust can draw out stench—and physiologists agree—then it does not take much to agree to the other: that in the depths of meditation a kind of fragrance emanates from the body, because the energy is rising and other glands begin to function—at the other pole from sexuality.
So when the complete flower of meditation blooms in a person like Mahavira, a fragrance begins to spread around him—though only the fortunate notice.
If you sense such fragrance from Mahavira’s body, don’t tell everyone, or they will say, “We don’t smell it. You are deluded, in an illusion, deceived.”
Yet it is not that only one or two notice. Around Mahavira, thousands noticed. Those living near him said, “Even if we are far, sitting in the dark, if Mahavira comes within a certain radius, we can tell. His fragrance precedes him.” People tried it hundreds of times.
When Krishna says “In earth I am pure fragrance,” he does not mean the fragrance of a rose; pure fragrance does not arise in a flower. It arises sometimes in the flower called man. That I am, Arjuna. A rare phenomenon; it happens rarely. But it happens; and if it can happen in one body, it brings the news that it can happen in all.
He says: In the moon, stars, sun—in the planets—I am radiance, light.
Consider this, because you will say, “Light is very visible.” No. Light is a very invisible happening. “Nonsense,” you say, “we are seeing light right now.” Reconsider. You have not seen light; you have seen lit things. Light as such is never seen. It is impossible to see light itself.
When you say “there is light,” all you mean is: things are visible. When things are not visible, you say “darkness.” You see the bulb—that is a thing. You see me, the table, the chair—things. You do not see light; you see only things illuminated by it. Light is never seen. As such, no human being has seen light in the way we suppose. Light is invisible.
Krishna says: In suns, stars, and moons I am light. Not the sun, not the moon, not the star—the things you see are not me. I am the light by which you see—but which you never see. Light is an invisible presence. It never appears.
You think the blind do not see light. I say: the sighted do not see it either. The difference is not that one sees light and the other does not; the difference is that one sees illuminated objects and the other does not. Light neither sees either of them.
Light is seen by one who opens the inner eyes, beyond these eyes. Then moons and stars vanish—this too is delightful. As long as moons and stars are seen, light is not seen. The day light is seen, moons and stars are no longer seen. Only an ocean of light remains—no illuminated object, no subject or object—just infinite light. No sun from which it issues, no object upon which it falls—only light remains.
Therefore Krishna says: In moons, stars, and suns—Arjuna, know me as light. Moons and stars you see; me you do not.
In ascetics I am tejas—radiant energy. Think about it: “In ascetics, tejas!” Ascetics are visible. It is not hard to spot an ascetic: fasting, standing on one leg, lying on thorns, tormenting the body in the sun, soaking in water. The ascetic is visible. But Krishna says, “I am not the ascetic; I am the tejas in ascetics.”
What is this tejas? We all have homely definitions: a glow on the face, robust health, physical power. Whatever is visible to you is not tejas, because Krishna is speaking of the invisible. Tejas in ascetics has a way to be seen.
To see tejas in an ascetic, you must meditate upon the ascetic. Mahavira sits before you; you sit before him and look, unblinking. A moment will come when Mahavira dissolves—only a mass of splendor remains. Then you have understood; otherwise not. No outline, no body—only a luminous field. A radiance with no source. The lamp’s glow has a source; the halo around it has a center. But the tejas that appears in Mahavira has no lamp, no oil, no wick, no source—only a circumference without a center.
That is why, around Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ, Nanak, Kabir—we draw a circular halo around the head. That is not something a camera can catch. And the amusing part is: even in this we do it wrong. If you must draw that halo, please do not put Mahavira inside it; leave only the halo. Because these two events never occur together. Those who see Mahavira do not see the aura; those who see the aura do not see Mahavira. They do not happen simultaneously. The aura appears only when form dissolves.
So: In ascetics I am tejas.
He did not say “austerity” in ascetics. We have wronged the great ones by saying “their austerity.” He said “their tejas.” Do as much austerity as you like—unless that state comes in which the “I” is utterly gone and a mass of light remains—it is not it. I told you to look at Mahavira—that is your side. With great effort you may come to see it.
But as far as Mahavira is concerned, the day enlightenment happened—around forty years of age—he lived forty more. In those years he was no longer a body; he was a moving, swaying, coming-and-going pool of light—speaking, sleeping, rising, sitting—but no body anymore.
When Buddha was dying someone asked, “Where will you be after death?” Buddha said, “Where I have been these forty years.” They said, “How can we accept it? Your body will be gone, burned and buried; it will be dust.” Buddha said, “For me it was gone forty years ago. Since then I have lived like a void, like a lamp without a wick, like light. Now there is no way for me to be extinguished; what could be extinguished has already been extinguished. Now whether death comes or the great death—what is, remains.”
Tejas is immortality; the body is mortal. “In ascetics I am tejas” means: in ascetics I am that which never dies. If you saw a glow on the face—that will die with the ascetic. If there is a flush—draw a little blood with a syringe and it will be gone. Tejas has nothing to do with that.
Tejas is an occult secret—and there are ways to see it. Until it is seen, one is not an ascetic—no matter how much austerity one performs.
Monks would come to Mahavira or Buddha. Buddha would look and say, “You are practicing austerity; that is good. But you are not yet an ascetic.” What is the measure? There is one measure: for one like Buddha, the moment his eyes fall on someone, it is seen immediately whether tejas is there or not. That very tejas is the medium of knowing. There is no other measure to know whether someone has attained.
Buddha would say, “This person has attained.” People would protest, “But he came only six days ago; I have done austerities for six years. You have not announced mine!” Buddha would say, “Wait. You are doing austerity; tejas has not yet arisen.”
It is of that tejas that Krishna speaks: In ascetics I am tejas.
In each example he points to the invisible. He says: In space I am sound.
Space is seen; everything in space is seen—except sound. Space is visible as expanse. But sound is not seen—even though space is filled with it, filled with waves of sound.
Scientists now say: Today or tomorrow we will recapture by instruments the very words of the Gita if they were ever uttered, because sound never dies; it exists. If a word spoken at Delhi can be caught in Bombay eight or ten seconds later, then scientifically there is no barrier to catching it ten years later, or a hundred million years later. Whether or not we can build the instrument soon, if a sound uttered in London can be caught a moment later in Bombay, it means that sound does not die after being born. Even when it passes beyond Bombay, it does not die; it goes on becoming subtler and subtler.
This whole existence is layered with sound—subtle, invisible strata. Whatever word has ever been spoken in this world is recorded; it cannot go out of record.
Religion says: Do not utter any evil word that becomes your record—for it will be your record for an endless journey. There is no escaping it. No one is sitting with a ledger writing what you said; existence does not destroy sound; it absorbs and contains it.
Krishna says: In space I am sound.
The most pervading in space is sound—and the least visible. Therefore, better than speaking wrongly is to be silent, so the record will be: this man was silent. It is not necessary that a silent man be a good man; but at least he was not actively bad.
I heard: On a ship a new watchman was on duty. The next day he saw the captain had written in the log: “This man was drunk today.” The record was spoiled. Eight days later—kept quiet—one day when the captain was on watch, the watchman wrote in the log: “Today the captain is not drunk.” It says “not drunk,” but it implies he must have been drunk the other six days!
If you are silent, it does not prove you are a good man. Who knows about the other six days! Perhaps you were silent because you were bad. But at least it is certain you were passive.
Much effort has gone into using auspicious words. I have an unforgettable childhood memory. In my village, the first person I remember—and perhaps the last I will remember when dying—I do not even know his name, for I was very small when he died. One thing I remember: each morning he went from his house to the river to bathe. The walk took five minutes, but it took him two hours to reach. The way he bathed could be done in five minutes, yet he took two hours in the river, and two hours to come back. His life went in bathing—six hours in the morning and six in the evening. What was the matter?
As he left his house, children and people would gather around, shouting “Radhe-Shyam! Radhe-Shyam!” He would pelt stones, get angry, chase them—he was an enemy of “Radhe-Shyam.” He said, “Say ‘Ram’!” They shouted “Radhe-Shyam!” So it took him two hours to reach the river.
He would bathe; they would shout; he would jump out half-bathed and chase them. He would wash his cloth; they would shout; he would run. He could neither bathe nor wash—this I remember. I too escorted him many times—to the river and back. I too wasted many a six hours behind him.
Gradually I noticed: he would lift a stone and run to beat them, but whenever “Radhe-Shyam” was shouted, a glow came to his eyes. I grew suspicious. The whole village believed he was a devotee of Ram. One day he went to the river; I restrained my temptation and, when he was gone, I jumped over his wall into his house—no one was ever allowed in. They say, the day he died, people entered. For years, no one had crossed his threshold.
I saw inside: a statue of Radha-Krishna, adorned with flowers. I sat and waited. He returned, opened the door, saw me inside, and went crazy: “How did you enter? No one ever has!” I said, “But now I have. Push me out if you like—but the secret is in my hands.”
Tears came to his eyes. He said, “There are so many in this village, but no one has looked into my heart within. I am angry only so that people keep taking the name of Radhe-Shyam. My life is spent in this. And I am happy, because I know that in the world of sound I have had many Radhe-Shyams recorded. Even if someone takes the name to irritate me, the name taken is still Radhe-Shyam. He will keep teasing and one day—after all, you too teased and teased and have ended up inside my home.”
The day he died, the village came to know. He had begged me, holding my feet—though I was a child and he was old—“Come by all means, jump the wall, but tell no one that I have Radhe-Krishna’s image in my house. If the village knows, no one will tease me—the game will end. Keep this secret till I die.”
Buddha told his monks: begin your prayer with the benediction for the good of the world; end your prayer with the benediction for the good of the world. Perhaps the prayer may go waste—prayer requires the power of the one who prays—but the benedictory proclamation will be recorded, for anyone can proclaim it.
In space I am sound—the subtlest form that is stored in the sky, indeed formless—the word; that am I.
In the Vedas—I am Om.
What all is in the Vedas? Practically everything that has been explored in the direction of dharma. Yet leaving it all aside, Krishna says, “In the Vedas I am Om—only Om. The rest I am not; the rest is the world.” Why? There is a complete process behind this; I will say a little.
In this small word Om, India has packed the entire practice of mantra-yoga like a seed. As Einstein’s relativity formula is short—a few symbols—so India condensed into Om all the methods man has evolved to journey toward truth.
Om is the conjunction of A, U, and M—the three primal sounds. The expansion of all words is the expansion of Om. In the Vedas—Om. If Om remains, the Vedas can be recreated; the secret key is in your hands. If these three—A, U, M—are there, all scriptures can be generated. But if all scriptures remain and the key is lost, they are useless—locks without a key.
In the Vigyan Bhairava, Shiva tells Parvati: “Ask no more. The more will hinder. Let me tell you in little. In this Om—A-U-M—forget A, forget M; what remains in the middle—U—dive into that. Then I will be attained.” This is technique. If you can dive into U… If you utter U with force, you will feel the navel contract within. The more forcefully you intone U, the more pressure on the navel. And the navel is the root source of life-energy. One who can tap it rightly—Om is the hammer, the device to strike there. If one strikes rightly, the life-energy begins to rise; kundalini awakens; the journey upward begins.
I have heard: In a small town a huge factory installed a new machine. For a month it ran well; then suddenly it stopped. No fault was found. The factory engineers tried and failed. A specialist was called from the capital; a thousand rupees spent on travel. He came, took a small hammer from his kit, and tapped the machine at three places—tok, tok, tok. The machine started.
The owner said, “Much obliged. What is your bill?” “One thousand rupees,” he wrote. “Are you joking?” said the owner. “Three taps for a thousand rupees? Make an itemized bill. After all, you did nothing else—tok, tok, tok. How much for the first tap, how much for the second, the third? I saw it with my own eyes.”
The specialist made a bill: “Three taps—one rupee. Knowing where to tap—nine hundred and ninety-nine rupees.” And he added, “If the one rupee troubles you, you may deduct the tapping. But for knowing where to tap…”
Om is the secret of the Vedas. It is the device to tap the seed of divine energy hidden within a person.
So Krishna says: In the Vedas, I am Om. I am that invisible. Seek me, the invisible, within the visible.
Enough for today.
But no one should get up yet. A little tapping! Let this sankirtan give a little knock to the energy hidden within you. We will not charge you nine hundred and ninety-nine rupees—or even one rupee. Just sit for five minutes. And don’t just sit—clap your hands, sing, sway, rejoice.
If someone presses you hard you will be in trouble. Vaguely you “know” roots are separate, tree is separate; the tree is above and roots are below. But if someone insists, “Tell me exactly where the roots begin and where the tree begins,” you will be at a loss. You will not find any such place. Tree and roots are one.
But to a man who has only seen the tree and not the roots, you have to say, “What you are seeing is only the top side; there is something more beneath, holding it all together—the roots.”
To one who cannot see, we have to say, “What you are seeing is apara—the lower world, the gross world, the world of the senses. And there is a para world you do not see. We will lead you there.” And the day it is seen, the two worlds become one—a single continuum.
Then the difference is like the difference between the tree being above and the roots being below—and yet there is a difference. If you uproot and throw away the roots, the tree will not remain. If you cut down and throw away the tree, the roots will remain, and from the roots a tree will grow again.
There is no difference in continuity, but there is a difference in fundamental potency. The roots are more powerful; they hold the central energy of life. The tree is only the spread. Properly understood, the roots are essential, the tree non-essential. Because the roots can be without the tree, but the tree cannot be without the roots. Yet the two are one. Even the last leaf of the tree is nothing but the root’s outstretched hand. The root itself has expanded into the sky.
For those who do not know, who are in ignorance, who have no glimpse of the whole of the divine, Krishna makes divisions for their sake. All divisions are made for children. Truth is indivisible. But the indivisible truth cannot be taught as such. For teaching, one has to divide. One has to begin somewhere. And wherever you begin, you will have to divide.
Where to begin? It is appropriate to begin from the top, because Arjuna knows the outer. He understands what earth is, what water is, what fire is. Then gradually his understanding can be deepened. As it deepens, Krishna will tell him the inner: what is buddhi, what is thought, what is mind; he will say what ego is. And when a sense of what ego is dawns in him, Krishna will say, “Beyond this—beyond this—is the realm of para. Beyond this I am; beyond this is divine consciousness.”
But to bring him to that “I,” Krishna will have to take him on a journey from matter and clay, from earth through the eight elements—knowing fully well that everything is joined, all is together.
All is together. Nothing has broken anywhere. Everything is connected. Even the lowest, the most outer object is linked to the innermost. The lowest is only the downward spread of the highest. Existence is one weave. But the talk has to be with those who know nothing. With those who already know, there is no point in talking.
So keep this in mind: if two wise ones meet, there is no way for conversation. If two ignorant ones meet, there will be a lot of talk—yet nothing will really be said. When two wise ones meet, no talk will happen—and yet it will have happened. When two ignorant ones meet, talk will go on and on—heavy talk—and still nothing will be communicated. Then where is conversation possible?
Conversation happens between a knower and a non-knower. But compromises are needed—by the knower. The ignorant one cannot compromise—how would he? The knower must speak in the language of the ignorant, in the hope that slowly, step by step, he will persuade and lead him to that realm where there is the possibility of saying without words; he will be able to point toward the para.
Therefore, whenever such a discourse happens—between Krishna and Arjuna, between Buddha and Ananda, between Mahavira and Gautam, between Jesus and Luke—it is always between a knower and a non-knower.
Remember also: the ignorant one never compromises; he stands stubbornly in his ignorance and says, “This is right.” The knower must compromise—descend, come to the ignorant one’s place, take his hand, set out on the journey. Having taken his hand, he must use the language of the ignorant.
All divisions are the language of ignorance. In the language of the wise there is no division; it is nondual, one. But there is no way to say that One; silence alone is enough.
If Krishna had used the language of the wise, he would have remained silent. Then the Gita would not have been born. So he moves with Arjuna’s intelligence. He begins with the very gross: earth, the grossest. Then he comes near the subtle: ego.
And Arjuna’s ego must have been heavy. He was a kshatriya. The kshatriya lives by ego; all his sheen and splendor is of ego; his sharpness is of ego. Had Krishna said “ego” at the very start, Arjuna might have been offended; he would not have understood. If he had said outright, “This ego is all nature, nothing, worthless,” the dialogue between Arjuna and Krishna would have collapsed. Step by step!
And ego is always on the lookout for being hurt: very sensitive, touch-me-not. A slight hint, a slightly slanted glance—and it is disturbed. It is disturbed because it has no real foundation; it is a castle in the air, a house of cards—one puff and it collapses.
I have heard: a fakir was resting outside a great city on a new-moon night. The whole city was lit up, as if it were Diwali. The fakir lay in the dark, under a tree. A firefly came flying and sat beside him, folded her wings, and her glow ceased. Suddenly something went wrong at the power station and the city lights went out.
The firefly said to the fakir, “Excuse me for mentioning—but do you see in what state this great city will be if I go somewhere else?” She thought, “Since I folded my wings and my glow stopped, the city has plunged into darkness!”
The fakir laughed inwardly—outwardly he did not, because then the talk with the firefly would end. He said, “Thank you for the information. I always knew it was so. It is your great grace that you do not leave this city. Forget the city—if you left this universe, the stars that twinkle in the sky would also immediately go out.” The firefly inched closer and said, “You seem a useful sort of man. Let’s talk some more.”
They say, by morning the firefly had become a fakir. But the fakir had to begin by being a firefly. The talk went on through the night; by morning the firefly was a fakir.
This is how it is going to be in this story too. This poor Arjuna will not remain; he is going to become Krishna. But the distance is still long; dawn is far. For now Krishna must speak the language of the firefly. There is no other way.
रसोऽहमप्सु कौन्तेय प्रभास्मि शशिसूर्ययोः।
प्रणवः सर्ववेदेषु शब्दः खे पौरुषं नृषु।। 8।।
पुण्यो गन्धः पृथिव्यां च तेजश्चास्मि विभावसौ।
जीवनं सर्वभूतेषु तपश्चास्मि तपस्विषु।। 9।।
O Arjuna, in water I am the taste; in the moon and the sun I am the light; in all the Vedas I am the sacred syllable Om; in space I am sound; and in men I am manliness. In earth I am the pure fragrance; in fire I am the brilliance; in all beings I am their life, that by which they live; and in ascetics I am austerity.
Krishna has begun to point toward the invisible. He names the visible—and says, within that visible, who I am. He points to the seen, and yet points to the unseen. He says: In water I am rasa—taste, sap, essence.
Rasa needs to be understood. It is an extraordinary word—very subtle, very invisible. What is seen—for example, you drink a beverage, even nectar—what is seen is the liquid. But when you drink, what comes into experience—is it the same as what was seen? No. What you experience on drinking was not visible at all. The seen was something else; the experienced is something else. That which is experienced on drinking is rasa—an inner savor.
Not only there. Your beloved is with you; you sit hand in hand. The hand is in the hand, but the inner flavor that arises from the presence of the loved one—that is rasa. If we take your two hands to a lab and ask a scientist to cut and analyze and tell us what rasa they obtained—these two have been saying things like, “May we sit like this hand in hand for lifetimes, till the moon and stars go out but our hands never part!”—please find the rasa in these hands! He will find blood flowing, water, bone, flesh, marrow—no rasa. Rasa is invisible. Yet they were receiving it—deluded or dreaming perhaps, but receiving it. The taste that descends within as inner experience in relation to any object—that is called rasa.
Krishna says: In all liquids, in all drinkables, what you drink—that I am not; what you experience on drinking—that I am. I am rasa.
All rasas are invisible. A rose blooms. You go close. “How beautiful!” If a logician catches you and says, “Where is the beauty? Show me,” you will be in difficulty. The more you try, the more you will sense your inability. Your defeat is certain; the logician will win—because he will hold to the visible while you have proclaimed the invisible, which you cannot show.
Beauty cannot be told. In truth, beauty is not in the flower; it is in the awareness that arises in you at the sight of the flower, in that rasa. So if you pluck apart the flower, you will get chemicals, not rasa. Colors, yes; everything can be analyzed and bottled with labels—but there will be no bottle labeled “Beauty.” That bottle will remain empty. He will declare, “There is no beauty.”
In truth there was no beauty in the flower; beauty came as rasa in you. And the amusing part: even if we dissect you, we won’t find rasa. Where was it then? It is invisible, like the thread hidden among the beads. The beads can be caught, not the thread.
So Krishna says: In water I am rasa. He chooses water as an example—Arjuna will understand—and through it he can point to rasa.
All our deep experiences in life are experiences of rasa: beauty, love, music—experience is of rasa. Or say it this way: the distilled essence of all experiences—call that rasa.
India’s conception of rasa is unique; no one else has gone so close. The West built a science of aesthetics, but its definitions of beauty are superficial. Beauty is rasa. Love is rasa. Bliss is rasa. And the Upanishads declare: Brahman is rasa. Brahman is rasa!
That is what Krishna is declaring: Among waters I am rasa. Then he goes example by example. He says: In earth I am gandha, pure fragrance.
This will be a bit difficult—not less than rasa. Because adding “pure” makes it harder. Why “pure” fragrance? Wouldn’t “fragrance” be enough? By saying “pure fragrance,” the implication is that impure fragrance also exists. Then is there also “pure stench” and “impure stench”? Such possibilities do exist. Knowingly Krishna said “pure fragrance.” Not all fragrances are pure.
The fragrance is pure whose mere hint makes the life-energy flow upward. There are fragrances whose hint makes the energy flow downward. Ask experienced courtesans in the world’s nooks—or in the markets of Paris, where impure perfumes are concocted and tested: which perfumes arouse sexuality more? They are experts. They report which scent should be at a prostitute’s door to ease a customer’s coming, which scent on a woman’s clothes will agitate a man’s mind because of the smell, making the woman secondary.
Impure fragrances exist—the ones that drive energy downward along the pathways of lust.
Then what is pure fragrance? You will not find it produced in any market. Once in a while it happens; let me tell you so this sutra becomes clear. Otherwise it won’t. Thousands have commented on the Gita, but on “pure fragrance” few have paid attention. It does happen.
It is said of Mahavira that wherever he stood, a fragrance spread; when he walked, a scent moved upon the winds. Mahavira’s body is made of earth like ours. The fragrance rising from his body—its name is “In earth I am pure fragrance.”
It is not necessary that you notice it when Mahavira passes by. Those habituated to stench will hardly notice fragrance. Those accustomed to impure scents—the pure will pass by without touching them. Open doors are needed. But those whose doors are open and whose hearts are sensitive will catch Mahavira’s fragrance.
So when such a fragrance arises from a body like Mahavira’s, that fragrance is “In earth I am pure fragrance. I am that, Arjuna.”
Have you noticed that earth contains infinite possibilities of fragrance and stench? In the same little kitchen garden, plant a neem; bitterness spreads in the air. That neem draws sap from the same soil. Plant a rose beside it; it too drinks the same soil—but the rose yields another fragrance and the neem another. What is the matter? One soil, one sun, one air, one gardener, one water. The rose seed selects differently; the neem seed selects differently. The neem gathers bitterness from the same earth; the rose gathers something else.
Our bodies are the same; Mahavira’s, Krishna’s, Christ’s—the same earth. But it is not necessary that what emanates from all of us be one.
Let me add more. Those who have explored sexuality deeply say that at the peak of intercourse, when man and woman are highly aroused, a particular stench begins to emanate from both bodies. You have experienced it. Intense lust produces a smell.
What happened? The body is the same. But in lust you move downward—toward neem. The body’s choice changes; different glands begin to function; a stench spreads. If lust can draw out stench—and physiologists agree—then it does not take much to agree to the other: that in the depths of meditation a kind of fragrance emanates from the body, because the energy is rising and other glands begin to function—at the other pole from sexuality.
So when the complete flower of meditation blooms in a person like Mahavira, a fragrance begins to spread around him—though only the fortunate notice.
If you sense such fragrance from Mahavira’s body, don’t tell everyone, or they will say, “We don’t smell it. You are deluded, in an illusion, deceived.”
Yet it is not that only one or two notice. Around Mahavira, thousands noticed. Those living near him said, “Even if we are far, sitting in the dark, if Mahavira comes within a certain radius, we can tell. His fragrance precedes him.” People tried it hundreds of times.
When Krishna says “In earth I am pure fragrance,” he does not mean the fragrance of a rose; pure fragrance does not arise in a flower. It arises sometimes in the flower called man. That I am, Arjuna. A rare phenomenon; it happens rarely. But it happens; and if it can happen in one body, it brings the news that it can happen in all.
He says: In the moon, stars, sun—in the planets—I am radiance, light.
Consider this, because you will say, “Light is very visible.” No. Light is a very invisible happening. “Nonsense,” you say, “we are seeing light right now.” Reconsider. You have not seen light; you have seen lit things. Light as such is never seen. It is impossible to see light itself.
When you say “there is light,” all you mean is: things are visible. When things are not visible, you say “darkness.” You see the bulb—that is a thing. You see me, the table, the chair—things. You do not see light; you see only things illuminated by it. Light is never seen. As such, no human being has seen light in the way we suppose. Light is invisible.
Krishna says: In suns, stars, and moons I am light. Not the sun, not the moon, not the star—the things you see are not me. I am the light by which you see—but which you never see. Light is an invisible presence. It never appears.
You think the blind do not see light. I say: the sighted do not see it either. The difference is not that one sees light and the other does not; the difference is that one sees illuminated objects and the other does not. Light neither sees either of them.
Light is seen by one who opens the inner eyes, beyond these eyes. Then moons and stars vanish—this too is delightful. As long as moons and stars are seen, light is not seen. The day light is seen, moons and stars are no longer seen. Only an ocean of light remains—no illuminated object, no subject or object—just infinite light. No sun from which it issues, no object upon which it falls—only light remains.
Therefore Krishna says: In moons, stars, and suns—Arjuna, know me as light. Moons and stars you see; me you do not.
In ascetics I am tejas—radiant energy. Think about it: “In ascetics, tejas!” Ascetics are visible. It is not hard to spot an ascetic: fasting, standing on one leg, lying on thorns, tormenting the body in the sun, soaking in water. The ascetic is visible. But Krishna says, “I am not the ascetic; I am the tejas in ascetics.”
What is this tejas? We all have homely definitions: a glow on the face, robust health, physical power. Whatever is visible to you is not tejas, because Krishna is speaking of the invisible. Tejas in ascetics has a way to be seen.
To see tejas in an ascetic, you must meditate upon the ascetic. Mahavira sits before you; you sit before him and look, unblinking. A moment will come when Mahavira dissolves—only a mass of splendor remains. Then you have understood; otherwise not. No outline, no body—only a luminous field. A radiance with no source. The lamp’s glow has a source; the halo around it has a center. But the tejas that appears in Mahavira has no lamp, no oil, no wick, no source—only a circumference without a center.
That is why, around Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ, Nanak, Kabir—we draw a circular halo around the head. That is not something a camera can catch. And the amusing part is: even in this we do it wrong. If you must draw that halo, please do not put Mahavira inside it; leave only the halo. Because these two events never occur together. Those who see Mahavira do not see the aura; those who see the aura do not see Mahavira. They do not happen simultaneously. The aura appears only when form dissolves.
So: In ascetics I am tejas.
He did not say “austerity” in ascetics. We have wronged the great ones by saying “their austerity.” He said “their tejas.” Do as much austerity as you like—unless that state comes in which the “I” is utterly gone and a mass of light remains—it is not it. I told you to look at Mahavira—that is your side. With great effort you may come to see it.
But as far as Mahavira is concerned, the day enlightenment happened—around forty years of age—he lived forty more. In those years he was no longer a body; he was a moving, swaying, coming-and-going pool of light—speaking, sleeping, rising, sitting—but no body anymore.
When Buddha was dying someone asked, “Where will you be after death?” Buddha said, “Where I have been these forty years.” They said, “How can we accept it? Your body will be gone, burned and buried; it will be dust.” Buddha said, “For me it was gone forty years ago. Since then I have lived like a void, like a lamp without a wick, like light. Now there is no way for me to be extinguished; what could be extinguished has already been extinguished. Now whether death comes or the great death—what is, remains.”
Tejas is immortality; the body is mortal. “In ascetics I am tejas” means: in ascetics I am that which never dies. If you saw a glow on the face—that will die with the ascetic. If there is a flush—draw a little blood with a syringe and it will be gone. Tejas has nothing to do with that.
Tejas is an occult secret—and there are ways to see it. Until it is seen, one is not an ascetic—no matter how much austerity one performs.
Monks would come to Mahavira or Buddha. Buddha would look and say, “You are practicing austerity; that is good. But you are not yet an ascetic.” What is the measure? There is one measure: for one like Buddha, the moment his eyes fall on someone, it is seen immediately whether tejas is there or not. That very tejas is the medium of knowing. There is no other measure to know whether someone has attained.
Buddha would say, “This person has attained.” People would protest, “But he came only six days ago; I have done austerities for six years. You have not announced mine!” Buddha would say, “Wait. You are doing austerity; tejas has not yet arisen.”
It is of that tejas that Krishna speaks: In ascetics I am tejas.
In each example he points to the invisible. He says: In space I am sound.
Space is seen; everything in space is seen—except sound. Space is visible as expanse. But sound is not seen—even though space is filled with it, filled with waves of sound.
Scientists now say: Today or tomorrow we will recapture by instruments the very words of the Gita if they were ever uttered, because sound never dies; it exists. If a word spoken at Delhi can be caught in Bombay eight or ten seconds later, then scientifically there is no barrier to catching it ten years later, or a hundred million years later. Whether or not we can build the instrument soon, if a sound uttered in London can be caught a moment later in Bombay, it means that sound does not die after being born. Even when it passes beyond Bombay, it does not die; it goes on becoming subtler and subtler.
This whole existence is layered with sound—subtle, invisible strata. Whatever word has ever been spoken in this world is recorded; it cannot go out of record.
Religion says: Do not utter any evil word that becomes your record—for it will be your record for an endless journey. There is no escaping it. No one is sitting with a ledger writing what you said; existence does not destroy sound; it absorbs and contains it.
Krishna says: In space I am sound.
The most pervading in space is sound—and the least visible. Therefore, better than speaking wrongly is to be silent, so the record will be: this man was silent. It is not necessary that a silent man be a good man; but at least he was not actively bad.
I heard: On a ship a new watchman was on duty. The next day he saw the captain had written in the log: “This man was drunk today.” The record was spoiled. Eight days later—kept quiet—one day when the captain was on watch, the watchman wrote in the log: “Today the captain is not drunk.” It says “not drunk,” but it implies he must have been drunk the other six days!
If you are silent, it does not prove you are a good man. Who knows about the other six days! Perhaps you were silent because you were bad. But at least it is certain you were passive.
Much effort has gone into using auspicious words. I have an unforgettable childhood memory. In my village, the first person I remember—and perhaps the last I will remember when dying—I do not even know his name, for I was very small when he died. One thing I remember: each morning he went from his house to the river to bathe. The walk took five minutes, but it took him two hours to reach. The way he bathed could be done in five minutes, yet he took two hours in the river, and two hours to come back. His life went in bathing—six hours in the morning and six in the evening. What was the matter?
As he left his house, children and people would gather around, shouting “Radhe-Shyam! Radhe-Shyam!” He would pelt stones, get angry, chase them—he was an enemy of “Radhe-Shyam.” He said, “Say ‘Ram’!” They shouted “Radhe-Shyam!” So it took him two hours to reach the river.
He would bathe; they would shout; he would jump out half-bathed and chase them. He would wash his cloth; they would shout; he would run. He could neither bathe nor wash—this I remember. I too escorted him many times—to the river and back. I too wasted many a six hours behind him.
Gradually I noticed: he would lift a stone and run to beat them, but whenever “Radhe-Shyam” was shouted, a glow came to his eyes. I grew suspicious. The whole village believed he was a devotee of Ram. One day he went to the river; I restrained my temptation and, when he was gone, I jumped over his wall into his house—no one was ever allowed in. They say, the day he died, people entered. For years, no one had crossed his threshold.
I saw inside: a statue of Radha-Krishna, adorned with flowers. I sat and waited. He returned, opened the door, saw me inside, and went crazy: “How did you enter? No one ever has!” I said, “But now I have. Push me out if you like—but the secret is in my hands.”
Tears came to his eyes. He said, “There are so many in this village, but no one has looked into my heart within. I am angry only so that people keep taking the name of Radhe-Shyam. My life is spent in this. And I am happy, because I know that in the world of sound I have had many Radhe-Shyams recorded. Even if someone takes the name to irritate me, the name taken is still Radhe-Shyam. He will keep teasing and one day—after all, you too teased and teased and have ended up inside my home.”
The day he died, the village came to know. He had begged me, holding my feet—though I was a child and he was old—“Come by all means, jump the wall, but tell no one that I have Radhe-Krishna’s image in my house. If the village knows, no one will tease me—the game will end. Keep this secret till I die.”
Buddha told his monks: begin your prayer with the benediction for the good of the world; end your prayer with the benediction for the good of the world. Perhaps the prayer may go waste—prayer requires the power of the one who prays—but the benedictory proclamation will be recorded, for anyone can proclaim it.
In space I am sound—the subtlest form that is stored in the sky, indeed formless—the word; that am I.
In the Vedas—I am Om.
What all is in the Vedas? Practically everything that has been explored in the direction of dharma. Yet leaving it all aside, Krishna says, “In the Vedas I am Om—only Om. The rest I am not; the rest is the world.” Why? There is a complete process behind this; I will say a little.
In this small word Om, India has packed the entire practice of mantra-yoga like a seed. As Einstein’s relativity formula is short—a few symbols—so India condensed into Om all the methods man has evolved to journey toward truth.
Om is the conjunction of A, U, and M—the three primal sounds. The expansion of all words is the expansion of Om. In the Vedas—Om. If Om remains, the Vedas can be recreated; the secret key is in your hands. If these three—A, U, M—are there, all scriptures can be generated. But if all scriptures remain and the key is lost, they are useless—locks without a key.
In the Vigyan Bhairava, Shiva tells Parvati: “Ask no more. The more will hinder. Let me tell you in little. In this Om—A-U-M—forget A, forget M; what remains in the middle—U—dive into that. Then I will be attained.” This is technique. If you can dive into U… If you utter U with force, you will feel the navel contract within. The more forcefully you intone U, the more pressure on the navel. And the navel is the root source of life-energy. One who can tap it rightly—Om is the hammer, the device to strike there. If one strikes rightly, the life-energy begins to rise; kundalini awakens; the journey upward begins.
I have heard: In a small town a huge factory installed a new machine. For a month it ran well; then suddenly it stopped. No fault was found. The factory engineers tried and failed. A specialist was called from the capital; a thousand rupees spent on travel. He came, took a small hammer from his kit, and tapped the machine at three places—tok, tok, tok. The machine started.
The owner said, “Much obliged. What is your bill?” “One thousand rupees,” he wrote. “Are you joking?” said the owner. “Three taps for a thousand rupees? Make an itemized bill. After all, you did nothing else—tok, tok, tok. How much for the first tap, how much for the second, the third? I saw it with my own eyes.”
The specialist made a bill: “Three taps—one rupee. Knowing where to tap—nine hundred and ninety-nine rupees.” And he added, “If the one rupee troubles you, you may deduct the tapping. But for knowing where to tap…”
Om is the secret of the Vedas. It is the device to tap the seed of divine energy hidden within a person.
So Krishna says: In the Vedas, I am Om. I am that invisible. Seek me, the invisible, within the visible.
Enough for today.
But no one should get up yet. A little tapping! Let this sankirtan give a little knock to the energy hidden within you. We will not charge you nine hundred and ninety-nine rupees—or even one rupee. Just sit for five minutes. And don’t just sit—clap your hands, sing, sway, rejoice.
Osho's Commentary
The world is manifest, just as the beads of a garland are visible. The Supreme, Paramatma, is unmanifest, just as the thread hidden within the beads is unmanifest. Yet upon the unmanifest the manifest is held. Upon what is not seen, what is seen is founded.
In the foundations of life, the invisible is always concealed. The tree is seen; the roots are not seen. Flowers are seen, leaves are seen; the roots remain hidden in the womb of the earth—in darkness, in the unseen. Yet upon those unseen roots the entire play of the visible life of the tree depends.
If we look only from above, we may imagine that there is life in the flowers; we may suppose that there is life in the leaves; we may think that life is in the branches of the tree. One who looks only from above will see thus. But life is in the roots, hidden below in darkness, buried in the unseen.
Therefore one may pluck the leaves, one may break the flowers, one may cut the branches—the tree does not end. New shoots burst forth, new leaves come, new flowers bloom. But if one cuts the roots, the tree comes to an end. Even the old flowers that remain will wither in a little while, and the old leaves will soon be available to the winds of autumn.
The vast form of life is just so. He who mistakes the seen for life itself sinks into irreligion. He who, within the seen, searches for the roots, searches for the invisible, seeks the thread within the beads—he sets out upon the journey of Dharma.
The search for the invisible is Dharma, and to become entangled in the visible is the world. To take the seen as the all is worldliness; to know the unseen as the very ground of the seen—that is religion.
Krishna says two or three things here. First he speaks of his invisible form. He says: I am hidden—the Hidden; I am secret; I am not manifest. And what is manifest is only Prakriti. What is manifest is the play of that eightfold nature I spoke of. I have made those beads; I am the thread.
Upon the truth that the divine is unmanifest, this sutra lays emphasis. We keep asking: Where is God? What is God like? Whenever we raise such questions, we raise wrong questions; and whoever answers such wrong questions gives answers even more wrong. All the images we have erected of God are our answers to our question, “Where is he?” So we made idols to say, “Here he is.”
But remember, one who gets entangled in the idol will never set forth on the search for the invisible. Yes—if the idol becomes a doorway to the formless, if the tree serves as a clue to the roots, if the beads bring tidings of the thread—then it is all right. Otherwise, whoever is caught in the beads will be deprived of the thread.
And the marvel is that in every bead the thread is present. In every image the formless is present. In every stone the formless is present. The unseen is present everywhere within what is seen. But the unseen will be remembered only by one who moves a little within, through the seen.
What is visible is not I, says Krishna; what is visible is Prakriti.
What does visible mean? Visible means: that which comes within the grasp of the senses—seen by the eyes, heard by the ears, touched by the hands. Whatever falls into the hands of the senses is Prakriti; and that which remains beyond the senses is Paramatma. The beads are what the senses can seize; the thread is what slips beyond their hold.
Have we known anything in life that lies outside the grasp of the senses? Any taste known that the tongue did not take? If not, we have no news of Paramatma. Have we seen any sight that was not seen by the eyes? If not, we have no news of the roots of which Krishna speaks. Have we heard any sound that was not heard by the ears—a sound that even the deaf could hear? If not, we have no news of the thread; we are playing with beads only.
So long as a man plays with beads he is childish—juvenile. The very day he comes upon the mystery of the thread hidden within the beads, that day he becomes mature.
Only the religious person is mature. The irreligious remain childish. Therefore, the more adharma there is in a society, the more childishness will grow.
Today, if in America juvenile children behave like madmen, the children are not responsible. If the children become hippies and Beatle and are available to all kinds of foolishness, the children are not responsible. The responsibility lies with those parents who have broken the path of maturity. For there is only one path of maturity in this world—Dharma. Once Dharma is removed, even the old will remain childish; and once Dharma enters life, even a child can be endowed with the same wisdom as the most aged.
Of Lao Tzu it is said that he was born old. Strange indeed—how can a man be born old! It will not seem strange if you think from the other end. Many die still children, do they not? If someone can die a child, what hindrance is there to someone being born old?
Many, when they go to their graves—if you look closely—have rattles in their hands, and nothing else. The things we are playing with are no more than rattles. Children’s rattles are a little more colorful; ours a little less so—but that does not make us mature. A child’s rattle comes in the morning and breaks by evening; our rattles last a lifetime, they are sturdier. This produces no difference: we go on playing with rattles. Most people, when dying, are where they were when born—in the cradle. Between cradle and grave, there has been no growth.
The tale of Lao Tzu is a jest, but meaningful. It was contrived to say this: most people go to the grave with rattles in their hands and a milk-soother in their mouths. Therefore the reverse was said of Lao Tzu—that he was born old. And when people asked him, what does it mean to be born old? Lao Tzu would say: from birth I had no relish for what is seen; my relish is only for what is not seen.
So Krishna says, I am hidden.
Religion is the science of the Hidden; science is the search of the manifest.
But whatever is manifest is above, on the surface; and whatever is unmanifest is deep. Treasures are kept hidden. Where do you keep your strongbox? Not at the door. You do not keep it in the street, nor upon the wall of the house, nor by the fence. You keep your safe where the innermost chamber of the house is.
So too, the whole wealth of life is hidden in the innermost spaces. The greater the treasure to be mined, the deeper one must descend.
If one is to seek Paramatma, one must descend very deep. And to descend deep means only this: so long as the senses hold us, we cannot go deep.
The hold of the senses is like this: a man clutches the bank of a river and says, I wish to search the river’s depth. He grips the bank tight and says, I will not leave the bank, lest I drown. I wish to find the diamonds which, I have heard, lie in the inner womb of the river, in its depths. I wish to search those diamonds, but I shall not leave the bank—lest I drown. But the bank must be left.
Kabir has made a jest about us all. He says: I, a foolish woman, went to search—and remained sitting on the bank. I went to search for diamonds; but so mad that I sat upon the bank.
One may ask: why does Kabir use the feminine? Why not say: I, a foolish man, went to search, and sat on the bank? There was no difficulty. He says: I, a foolish woman, went…
Kabir knows that except for Paramatma there is no purusha. In the deep sense, purusha means the owner, the master. The master never goes to search; beggars go to search. If we were the master, why would we go searching? Not being the master, we went to search.
Therefore Kabir uses the feminine. He says: I, a foolish woman, went to search. The master is one—the Paramatma. But like a madwoman I remained seated on the bank.
Whoever sits on the bank is a mad one. For what can fall into the hand of a man sitting on the bank? Yes, sometimes the river’s white foam gives the illusion of diamonds. Upon the seashore, striking the rocks, the water makes foam; when the sun’s rays pass through the foam it becomes many-hued. From afar it seems very lovely. Go near and take it in your fist—nothing comes to hand but water.
On the riverbank only foam can be had—the illusion of diamonds, yes. In the depth of the river, only there can diamonds be had.
So Krishna says: beyond the senses—that am I. And what comes into the clutch of the senses is the world—the eight types I told you of.
Krishna says another thing to Arjuna—very worthy of thought. Worthy because the Indian wisdom alone proclaimed it in the world. He says: I myself made this Prakriti. I myself created all this. From me it is created, and in me it will attain dissolution.
The conception of God as the Creator arose everywhere—the Creator. But the Destroyer—this conception, as the one who dissolves, is India’s unique discovery.
Everywhere the divine is called the Creator, the maker. But nowhere were there religious men courageous enough to accept the ultimate logic hidden within the making—that he who makes will also unmake. He who is the Creator will also be the Destroyer. From whom the world is born, into him it will be merged. He who gives birth will also give death.
The second thought is unpleasing, therefore it occurred nowhere. The first is very pleasing: You are the Father, you are the lap. But to have the courage to say: you are also the grave! You gave birth, you made, you are compassionate. But you will also unmake—you will break, fragment, reduce to dust! And yet to say you are compassionate—this is difficult. The maker is compassionate, but the dissolver? We are afraid of the dissolver. You gave birth—great grace. But death!
Therefore, for death, people invented a second principle—the Devil, Satan, Iblis—by different names. Opposite to God they imagined another power which would destroy. Only in this land was there a right, consistent comprehension: he who makes will unmake.
Our understanding is that making is his grace and unmaking is his grace as well. He who sees grace only in making is not religious. Only the one who can see grace even in unmaking is religious.
Therefore Krishna says: creation is mine, destruction is mine; all is made of me and attains Pralaya in me. All enters me and is lost in me.
There is a profoundly scientific vision here. The entire movement of life is circular. Things end where they begin. As when one draws a circle—where we begin to draw, there another line comes and joins, and the circle is complete.
All of life is circular. From where we journey in childhood, after youth we descend the same steps. The very point where birth occurs—at that very point death occurs. The circle is complete. Death is not the opposite of birth but the second step joined to birth. And destruction is only rest. This must be understood.
In this land alone the capacity arose to understand destruction as rest. Destruction is rest. Creation is labor; and Pralaya—Pralaya is rest. Therefore we called creation the day of Brahma, and dissolution the night of Brahma. Labor happens: we rise in the morning, we run, we live, we lose and win, become ignorant and wise, suffer sense and non-sense. And then evening comes, darkness descends, and we sleep—and again we are lost wherefrom we rose in the morning.
Day is labor; night is rest. Life is labor; death is rest. Creation is labor; dissolution is rest. We have never looked upon destruction as an enemy, nor upon death as an enemy.
And remember: whoever has seen death as an enemy—his life will be destroyed. It will seem a reversed statement, but it is so.
Whoever has seen death as an enemy will not be able to live; his whole life he will fear death and avoid it. To live becomes impossible. But one who has accepted death as a friend—he alone will live. For one whom even death cannot give sorrow—how will life give sorrow? For one to whom even death is a friend—life becomes a supreme friend. For one to whom death does not appear opposed to life but life’s very fulfillment—just as fruits ripen on trees, so death ripens upon life—for one to whom death appears as life’s perfection, and Pralaya the final stage of creation—if his life becomes filled with rejoicing, it is no wonder. If life does not fill with rejoicing, we know nothing of Dharma.
Therefore, when Krishna says, I am creation and I am destruction—such courageous proclamation is found nowhere else. Where proclamations are made, it is said: I am the Creator; and that which is the devil is the wicked one who destroys—beware of him.
But I am nectar and I am poison—this simultaneous acceptance is wondrous. And there is truth in it. For the dualities of life are conjoined; they are not separate. Darkness and light are conjoined. If some God were to say, I am light and darkness is someone else—that God too would be dishonest. Who then would darkness be? And if God is light and darkness is someone else, then in this world power would be divided—night would belong to one, and day to another.
I have heard: a man was dying—a Christian. The priest came to lead him in his last repentance and prayer. The priest said, say: Satan, I have nothing to do with you now; now I go to the refuge of God. O wicked Satan, I have no relation with you; I go to the Lord’s refuge.
But the man listened, closed his eyes, and said nothing. The priest, thinking perhaps death is very near and he cannot hear, spoke louder. He still listened, closed his eyes. The priest shook him and cried louder. The man said, do not shake me; I am hearing well. Then why do you not speak? asked the priest.
He said: At the time of death it is not wise to offend anyone. Who knows whose refuge I shall reach! At the last moment I do not wish to get into any trouble. Who knows in whose refuge I should go! So let me die silently. Whose refuge I reach, I shall tell him then. If I reach the Devil, I shall say, O God, I have nothing to do with you—for one should declare friendship with whom one is to live. And right now I know nothing.
If we divide the world into two powers, our allegiance too becomes divided. Divided allegiance is never allegiance; only undivided allegiance is allegiance—undivided.
If in the West religion has been destroyed so badly, the cause is not only the atheist; its profound cause is the rule of divided allegiance within Western religion.
Allegiance to two is dangerous—traveling in two boats. No journey of life can be made in two boats. And the dualities of life are conjoined here. Life and death are two faces of the same coin; darkness and light are two faces of the same coin. What we call opposition is not opposition; it is only the other limb.
Therefore Krishna can say very simply: I am creation, I am Pralaya. All is born of me and is absorbed in me.
Here we have known God as undivided—un-divided. And remember, if we do not know God as undivided, there is no possibility of undivided trust within us. Once we have broken the world into two parts, our inner heart too will break into two.
Therefore, in the West, the greatest illness before the psychologists is split personality—the personality broken, fragmented. But the Western psychologist has no inkling of why the human mind has split, and why this split personality has arisen particularly in the West. Its cause is not within his thought.
Its cause is this: when allegiance splits in two, when devotion is divided, the heart within also splits and is divided. When allegiance is to One and indivisible, the devoted heart becomes undivided, becomes One. One Paramatma—and within, the birth of one Atman. And if we accept two powers, then the mind wavers and splits in two. Today the condition has become such that in the West it is accepted that every man will be in fragments.
A man went to a psychologist and said, contrive some way to split my personality, to break my being into two. The psychologist was stunned: are you mad? People come to us so that we may gather their personality together! Is your mind sound? What are you saying—break you into two! What is your purpose?
The man said, I feel too much loneliness. If I become two, at least there will be someone with me. I feel too lonely. So split me into two; at least a part of me will remain with me as companion.
In the West both phenomena have occurred: man is utterly lonely, and he is broken. And the root of this breaking lies in that thought by which we divided the world into two parts.
Krishna says: both am I. I am the bad; I am the good.
To call oneself good is easy; to call oneself a mahatma is easy. But to have the courage to call oneself a culprit—that is great.
Krishna says: both am I. That which seems good to you—that too am I. That which seems bad to you—that too am I. Both am I.
Only one who understands this total acceptance—this total acceptability—will rightly understand Krishna’s elemental philosophy.
Therefore much injustice has been done to Krishna. For Krishna’s being gathers the whole together. Some suspect: how can Krishna do both? He appears inconsistent, incongruous. On one side he speaks of God; on the other he throws Arjuna into war. A God-minded man should be a pacifist, a man of peace. Unrest is the work of the wicked; war is the work of the wicked!
What kind of man is Krishna! On one side God-talk—and on the other, the urging of Arjuna to battle. All the pacifists will be restless. They will say, Krishna is not a right man. He should not have missed the chance. Arjuna was fleeing, becoming pacifist—immediately a way should have been made for him: Run! He should have run ahead, saying to people, move aside, let Arjuna pass, he has become a pacifist.
Krishna is unfathomable. For Krishna says: both am I—war too am I, and peace too am I. Both am I—darkness and light. Only when you can see me as both will you see me. If you divide and choose, see half and choose, you will never see me.
In God there can be no choosing. You cannot choose. If you choose, the God who remains in your hands will be a homemade God—of your own making. He will not be the real.
As he is—as it is—you will have to consent to that. If he is dissolution, so be it. If he is death, so be it. We are willing. If you say, no, we shall paint a little makeup on God’s face, make him a little prettier—what harm in a little adornment? If you do this, what remains in your hand will be your handiwork; it will have nothing to do with God.
The religious man is audacious. His audacity is this: as it is, he accepts. He says, this too is yours and that too is yours—birth is yours and death too is yours. I consent to both.
Therefore Krishna says to Arjuna: I am Pralaya; I am creation. Both am I.
This declaration of absorbing opposites is the essence of Vedanta. Then non-contradiction arises. And when the vision of life becomes non-contradictory, within you is born a non-contradictory heart. The form you give to your God becomes the form of your heart. Your heart is cast in the same mold in which you accept God—not by breaking, but by joining, by holding all together.
And when in the morning a thorn pierces your foot, do not think that the devil has pierced it. Think too that God has pierced it—and that God considered you worthy enough to be pricked by a thorn. Give thanks for that as well.
The day one can give thanks not only for the flower but for the thorn, that day he has no need to go to temples. Wherever he is, there the temple arrives.