Geeta Darshan #5

Prakriti is in Paramatma, but Paramatma is not in Prakriti. This statement, which appears contradictory, paradoxical, is very profound. It is useful to understand its meaning rightly.

Krishna says: the Prakriti made of the three gunas—sattva, rajas, tamas—is in me. But I am not in it.

Do this—draw in your mind a large circle, a big circle. Inside it, draw a small circle. The small circle will be within the large circle, but the large circle will not be within the small one.

To us Prakriti appears infinite, very vast; no trace of its edges. But from the perspective of Paramatma, Prakriti is a no-thing. A very small circle, a very limited happening. Innumerable such Prakritis can be, are, within Paramatma; they arise and they disperse. Everything happens within Paramatma. Therefore it is right to say, everything is in me, but I am not in that all.

The vast is not contained in the petty; the petty is contained in the vast. The wave is in the ocean, so the ocean can say, all waves are in me, but I am not in the waves. For even if the waves cease, the ocean remains; but if the ocean ceases, no waves remain. We can conceive the ocean being without waves; but we cannot conceive waves without the ocean. Waves arise in the ocean, exist in the ocean, and yet are so small that even rising within that ocean they cannot encompass it; they cannot encircle it.

There are reasons for making this statement; and for the seeker it is vital.

When Krishna says, this entire Prakriti is in me and yet I am not in this Prakriti, two insights are to be kept in mind. First, that in one who has entered Paramatma, Prakriti will be present; but in one who remains standing in Prakriti, Paramatma will not be present.

For example, Krishna also feels hunger, Krishna too gets sleepy; a wound in Krishna’s foot also hurts. Krishna died—by an arrow in the foot. Prakriti does its full work—in Krishna, in Mahavira, in Buddha, in Jesus. When Jesus was hung upon the cross, Prakriti did its full work.

In us too Prakriti works. We too eat food; our feet too ache. If someone hangs us on a cross, we too will die. But there is a fundamental difference between our hanging on a cross and Christ’s crucifixion. When Prakriti was dropping away from Christ, Christ was entering Paramatma. When Prakriti drops from us, we enter nowhere—only Prakriti drops.

That is why at death we are so tormented and troubled—because apart from Prakriti we have known nothing. When the body slips away, Prakriti is slipping away. We are gone, we are finished.

When Christ’s Prakriti is slipping away—that small circle is slipping—Christ is not afraid; he is rejoicing, because he is entering the larger circle. The wave is dissolving, and entry into the ocean is happening. When our wave dissolves, only the wave dissolves; we have no clue of the ocean. There is no entry into the ocean.

When you feel hunger, you feel hunger. When Krishna feels hunger, Prakriti feels hunger. When your foot feels pain, you feel pain. When Krishna’s foot feels pain, Prakriti feels pain. Krishna remains the witness.

One who has known Paramatma remains merely the witness of Prakriti. The small circle is seen by him, but he himself is one with the great circle. One who has not known Paramatma sees only the small circle as all; there is nothing beyond it. And when our attention becomes excessively absorbed in Prakriti, precisely due to that excess it becomes difficult for attention to turn toward Paramatma.

In 1880, when the Altamira caves were discovered in Europe, a very amusing incident occurred. On the land of a great landlord, Don Marceliano, these caves were suddenly found in the hills. A dog had leapt into a cave by mistake. Some earth, softened by rain, had fallen in; a hole appeared; the dog went in and couldn’t get out, and made a great racket. The peasants and laborers dug and pulled the dog out, and along with it the caves were discovered. They were deep and astonishing. Those caves changed the perspective of human history.

Don Marceliano heard of it. Being a student of history—especially of human bones for years—he thought these caves must be ancient; valuable bones might be found there. The peasants reported many skeletons.

So Marceliano took a searchlight, had the caves dug and entered. For six days he would crawl inside for hours, keeping an eye on each bone. He found many bones. On the seventh day, his little daughter—seven or eight years old—said, I want to go inside too. He took her along.

You will be surprised to know—the real Altamira caves were discovered by that seven-year-old girl. The historian father, with his searchlight, could not discover them. A strange event. He entered and again was busy, crawling and scrutinizing bones on the ground, lest he miss even one bone; the searchlight lay near. Suddenly the girl cried, Father, father, look up!

For six days he had been going daily, but had never lifted his eyes upward. He was so occupied picking bones on the floor that he did not glance at what was on the ceiling. On the ceiling were such wondrous paintings, as if painted yesterday—and they turned out to be twenty thousand years old.

Altamira became world-famous for those paintings. Whoever made them could not have been less capable than a Picasso. History had to be rewritten, for it was believed no one in those ancient times could have such great art. But the paintings of animals, of bulls, on the ceilings of Altamira are so artistic, so astonishing, that even today no painter can match them.

Marceliano was astonished—he had been going with a searchlight for six days, but his searchlight was fixed on the floor. He was hunting bones, lest he miss one. He did not look up.

I say this because so long as we search for bones in Prakriti… We carry a big searchlight, but it does not lift toward the ceiling—toward Paramatma. Too much occupied in crawling along the ground and searching in Prakriti. The search is only for bones; nothing more. When you are searching in lust, you search for nothing more than bones. When you search to climb thrones, even then you search for no more than bones—dragging bones onto thrones. When you seek wealth, you are merely seeking the security of bones. When you seek power, you are arranging only security for bones—nothing else.

A mind entangled in Prakriti cannot lift upward. It cannot see that which is the vast circle, the greater circle of which Krishna speaks: Prakriti is in me, but I am not in Prakriti. The eyes do not lift in that direction.

So one who is entangled in Prakriti should understand Krishna rightly, because there is a common confusion: if Krishna had said, I am in Prakriti and Prakriti is in me, that too would not be wrong. For if the small circle is in the big circle, then in some sense the big circle is also in the small. If the wave is in the ocean, then in some minuscule sense, the ocean is within the wave. One could argue so. For if it were impossible for the big circle to be in the small, how then could the small be in the big? Granted, the whole big circle cannot be in the small; perhaps a fraction may be—but it would be.

Krishna is well aware of this argument. Because once a person is convinced that Paramatma is in Prakriti and Prakriti is in Paramatma, then perhaps we will never be ready to lift our eyes above Prakriti—never. We will say: since Paramatma is in Prakriti itself—in eating and drinking, in wearing clothes, in building houses—what need is there to search for Paramatma beyond? If Paramatma is in this very body, then the body itself will become Paramatma. We will immediately bend the meaning to our convenience.

Man is very skillful—he bends the meanings of all things toward himself. There are only two ways: either you bend toward meaning, toward truth; or you bend truth toward yourself—otherwise restlessness will be felt.

The day one knows the great circle, Paramatma, that day perhaps he will also know that Prakriti is in him, and he is also in Prakriti. But to say this truth to us beforehand is dangerous. Dangerous because if we are assured that in what we are already doing, Paramatma is present, then the very thought of lifting the eyes toward Paramatma will collapse. There will be no need.

Therefore Krishna, after much consideration, says: Prakriti is in me, Arjuna, but I am not in Prakriti. So search as much as you like in Prakriti—you will not find me. Find me—and Prakriti is included.

This too is delightful. No matter how much one seeks wealth, one does not become rich. But one who finds Paramatma—even poverty becomes richness.

Jesus says: Seek ye first the kingdom of God, then all else shall be added unto you. Find first the kingdom of the Lord, and then all—everything—shall be given along with it.

But all of us go out to seek the “all,” leaving the Lord. Then the Lord is not found, and from the “all” too nothing is obtained. Only running about—and in the end ash falls in the hands—the ash of dreams, the ash of hopes. No matter how much glory one seeks, glory will not be obtained; and whoever finds Paramatma becomes glorious instantly. No matter how one seeks love, love will not be found; and whoever finds prayer, his life becomes filled with the fragrance of love—a fragrance that never exhausts.

Whatever we search for in Prakriti, nothing will come into our hands—only dust and stones. Although within every dust and stone Paramatma is hidden. But one who goes searching in Prakriti is blind toward Paramatma. He is narrowed; his consciousness is stuck in bones—below; it cannot rise upward.

How near were those paintings in Altamira! Just the searchlight had to lift a little. The searchlight was in the hand. Just to raise the eyes a bit. But one busy searching beneath cannot lift the eyes up.

Hence Krishna says, sattva, rajas, tamas—all are in me, Arjuna, but I am not in them.

It is most interesting: if someone becomes sattvic without Paramatma, he still cannot be religious. Even if a person becomes supremely sattvic without Paramatma, he still cannot be religious. And however tamasic or rajasic a person may be, if he enters Paramatma, he becomes instantly sattvic.

If by one’s own strength a man becomes sattvic, nothing is built except ego. A pious, “holy” ego arises. And however bad, poor, low, sinful a person may be—if he leaps into Paramatma, then instantly, just as garbage burns in fire, all sins burn in the fire of Paramatma.

And when anything burns in Paramatma, ego does not survive; it too burns. When a man burns or effaces or builds anything by himself, one thing always remains behind—the “I” remains.

Therefore even the most sattvic person suffers from a subtle ego. And Paramatma becomes available only when not even the thinnest, subtlest wall of ego remains in between. There is no other barrier.

Krishna means the same as Christ: first seek Paramatma.

What is Arjuna saying? He says: let me leave this war. It seems tamasic, rajasic. I want to be sattvic. Let me withdraw. Killing people—for fame, wealth, kingdom—seems petty, distasteful to my sattvic mind; it is not for my good. Let me go, Krishna, let me leave the war. Better to live by begging. Better to become a beggar. Better to sit under a tree in some forest and drown in prayer. I do not want to do all this. It feels very tamasic.

Krishna says: sattva, rajas, tamas—are all in me, but I am not in them. So even if you become sattvic without me, without surrender to me, your sattva will accomplish nothing. Even if you reach heaven by your own hand, your ego will accompany you—and all heavens will become hell, because the real hell continues to walk behind you, with you. First find me, then speak of sattva, rajas and tamas; then speak of Prakriti. First find me.

This is the fundamental distance between morality and religion. Morality says: become sattvic. Religion says: become religious. Morality says: first change your actions, your conduct. Religion says: first enter the Lord. What conduct will you change—and whatever conduct you change will still be your changed conduct; it cannot be greater than you. What virtue will you cultivate? It will arise from you; it cannot be more significant than you. As a man cannot lift himself by his own shoe-straps, in the same way a man cannot attain virtue by himself. You yourself will practice virtue—you yourself. This is worth understanding.

A man is a thief; he says, I am trying to become non-thief, to leave stealing. But it is the thief himself who will attempt to leave theft. This is more difficult than lifting oneself by one’s own shoes. It will not happen. If the thief were capable that theft would not happen through him—then it would be otherwise; but it is not so. The thief is a thief. He takes an oath: I will not steal. He will even steal upon himself.

A man is angry; he vows, I will not be angry. He does not know that the very one who says “I will not” is the angry nature itself taking an oath, making a resolve not to be angry. The chances are a hundred percent that it is anger speaking: “I will not be angry.” He will get into trouble.

You may have seen a dog troubled to catch his own tail. He leaps hard; the tail seems so close—if only the mouth reaches a little, it will be caught. But the poor dog does not know; nor do our so-called ascetics, moral seekers, know—so no blame to the dog. When the tail appears very near, the dog thinks: just a little more, and I’ll catch it. He stretches his mouth—but by then the tail has moved, for it is attached behind his mouth—unknown to him. When it escapes, he jumps harder, thinking he had leapt too little before. But the harder he leaps, the harder the tail leaps away. A vicious circle arises in which the dog will be troubled, tired, harassed; the tail will never be caught.

When a violent man says, I will now try to be non-violent, he is moving by the dog’s logic. No—you cannot bring about transformation in yourself; who will bring it? You!

Hence Krishna, and Christ, say: first lift the eyes toward Paramatma—then transformation begins. For then you are in the hands of Paramatma—and the moment you fall into his hands, change begins. The very glance toward him begins the change, because you become another man. As soon as the vast is seen, our pettinesses drop—how foolish we were! What were we searching? What were we trying to attain?

A woman came to Buddha one morning. Her child had died. She beat her chest and said, I will only listen to your words if you bring my child back to life. People say you are God. God made this great world; bring my child to life.

The monks were in a quandary—what now? Buddha said, I will do it by evening. But first do a small thing for me. Go to the village—I am calling for a medicine to revive him—and bring mustard seeds from any house in which no one has ever died. Bring them by evening. Bring mustard seeds only from a house where no one has died; I will make him alive by evening.

The woman ran off in joy, mad with hope—surely somewhere mustard seeds would be found, and her son would live. But at every door she knocked, they said: Mustard we have—harvest just in—but the mustard from our house will not serve. In our house many have died.

By evening she had scoured every house. Having heard at each door that in every house someone had died—and that death is the rule of life—she who had come weeping in the morning, came laughing in the evening.

Buddha asked: Did you bring the mustard seeds? She said: Mustard I did not bring—but I bring great wisdom. Return the child—I take back my prayer. There is no need to revive him. Buddha asked: How did you change so quickly?

She replied: The fact toward which my eyes had never turned—upon seeing that fact, everything changed. When all die, when all must die, how can my son be an exception? No; I am no longer sorrowful. I withdraw my prayer to revive him. And I also pray that from today consider me as if dead, for I will indeed die. If there is a method to know life before death, tell me. I no longer desire to live forever, because death is a fact; so there is no fear of death either. But while I live, if there is a method to know life, tell me.

Buddha said: In one day such a great transformation! By evening she had become a sannyasini; she took initiation that very evening.

By what did this change happen? By the gaze lifting toward a fact—a great fact—that death is part of life.

The day the gaze rises toward Paramatma—that Prakriti is part of Paramatma; the day we look upward toward the vast in which all Prakriti is contained—that day you become another man. That day theft becomes impossible; anger becomes impossible; dishonesty becomes difficult. Dishonesty will be like a man stealing from one pocket to put into the other; some people do just that—steal from one pocket and put it into the other. If truth is seen, we are all like that, because your pocket, a little away, is my pocket too.

The day Paramatma is seen, theft is impossible, for Paramatma will be seen in everyone. Who steals from oneself? We steal only because the other is “other.” And the day Paramatma is seen, ownership dissolves, for when the real owner is known, we see we are not owners and cannot be. When ownership is not, what theft? Theft is only the arrangement of ownership—the attempt to secure ownership somehow.

Krishna says: in me is all Prakriti, but I am not in Prakriti. Find me—and the whole of Prakriti will be yours. Seek Prakriti—and you will not find me. Therefore do not talk of sattva; do not condemn tamas and rajas. All three are in me. But speak of me; seek my refuge. Do not talk of fragments; talk of the Whole. Do not talk of parts; talk of the Total.

The Whole is in the parts, but the parts are not in the Whole—this is a precious formula of spiritual mathematics. To remind where the journey must begin, Krishna has said so.

A small incident comes to mind. It is said that in Confucius’ time two Chinese opened hotels facing each other. One named Yin; the other, Yang. Both did well; money accumulated. But both became very sad, as often happens. With success, a deep melancholy sets in. Because you are never alone in succeeding; the other also succeeds.

Both became troubled. Crowds came to both shops; yet both were in anguish. Their blood pressure rose; insomnia seized them. They visited physicians, but no remedy emerged. Wealth increased, and restlessness grew. The anguish was this: seated at their counters, each counted how many customers went into the other shop. At night they fretted—so many customers missed; they could have come to us.

Doctors said: We cannot treat you; it is not a bodily ailment. Go to Confucius. They protested: What will Confucius do? He will preach. Preaching won’t help. Our real problem is: too many customers go to the other shop; we see them; we cannot shut our eyes—the shop is right in front. Each time someone enters there, we feel a blow on the chest. How can we sleep!

Still, the doctors insisted: Go to Confucius—he knows the deep diseases of man.

They went. Confucius gave a trick—and it worked; both became well. A delightful trick; perhaps no one else has ever suggested such a thing. Confucius said: Fools—very simple. Keep your shops running; you two start sitting at each other’s counters. Yin will sit at Yang’s counter; Yang at Yin’s. Then your minds will be happy. Those entering the other shop will be entering your own! Do that.

They did it; from that day their ailments ended. All day they enjoyed: Good! Many are coming—into our shop! The other’s shop had become their own.

The day one peeks into Paramatma, that day all shops become one’s own; everything becomes one’s own. That day the inner festivity knows no end. The inner flower blooms—the thousand-petaled lotus blooms—for that day we abide in supreme bliss. All are ours; all is ours; the whole vastness is ours.

But one who goes to search in Prakriti will not find it. One who goes to search in Paramatma will find it in Prakriti as well.

Tennyson said: passing by a tree, by a wall, where a small grass-flower had bloomed—he said, if I could understand the secret of this little flower, I would understand the secret of the whole world. But if he asked Krishna, Krishna would say: You will never understand the secret of this flower. If you understand the secret of the whole, then the secret of this flower may be understood.

Religion’s vision travels from the Whole downward. Irreligion’s vision travels upward from the fragment. Religion is a descent from the Whole toward the part. Our so-called worldly understanding is an ascent from below—one step at a time, one rung at a time.

Remember: it’s always easier to descend a mountain; to climb is difficult. The greatest difficulty in climbing is that on each step what you have already accumulated becomes an obstacle to the next step. At every step you gather more—fame, wealth, respect, friends, loved ones. Then on each next step, these become the noose; they hang like burdens all around and say: Where are you going? Leaving us, where are you going? All these safes hang on the chest.

From the top to descend is very easy, like a sunbeam descending. To go up from below is very hard.

Krishna says: if you attend to Prakriti, you will not reach me. Although Prakriti is in me, still you will not reach me—because I am hidden. What appears is not me; what does not appear is me. Yes—see me, the invisible; when you see the invisible, seeing the visible is very simple.

When someone hears the soundless sound, then hearing sound is not difficult. When someone knows the wordless word, recognizing words is not difficult. When someone sees the vast, what difficulty is there in seeing the petty!

Hence Krishna’s rationale—religion’s method—is to begin from the Whole. Science’s method is to begin from the part. That is the fundamental difference between the ways of science and religion.

Science begins with the atom; and if something smaller is found, with that; and smaller still, with that. The tinier it is, the more easily man can take it in hand; the more precise can be the analysis; the more possible the laboratory experiment; the more man can be the master of it.

Religion begins with the vast. Of course there will be a difference. You cannot take the vast into your hand. If you wish to know the vast, you must fall into the hands of the vast. You can take the small in your hand; inspect it in a test tube; cut and prune; you can be the master of the small. You cannot be the master of the vast. You must let the vast become your master.

Therefore, when religion begins from the Whole, surrender becomes its method. Since science begins from the small, struggle becomes its method. Science thinks in terms of conquering—language of victory. Religion thinks in the language of how man may lose—lose at the feet of Paramatma.

Thus Krishna says: I am hidden in all this petty—but you begin with me.

Tribhir-guṇamayair-bhāvair ebhiḥ sarvam idaṁ jagat
mohitaṁ nābhijānāti mām ebhyaḥ param avyayam. 13.

Through the threefold guṇa-born states—sattvic, rajasic and tamasic—this whole world is deluded, and therefore does not know me, who am beyond these three and imperishable.

All people are in the enchantment of Prakriti. The reasons differ, the pretexts differ. Only the pretexts differ; the outcome of delusion is one.

A most revolutionary aphorism! Those who are deluded by sattva, rajas and tamas—all three—will not know my essence, for I am beyond them.

This must be understood. We feel: a thief will not know, a dishonest man will not know—but a good man will surely know! A good man is deluded by sattva. We say: the man who only earns money will not know; but the man who goes to serve the sick will know! We say: the man climbing the ladder of politics will not know; but the man massaging the feet of the poor will know.

Krishna says: sattva, rajas, tamas—all three! The one who appears bad is deluded, yes. But the one who appears good is also hypnotized by my Prakriti’s sattva—he too is deluded. It is delightful—and a bit difficult and subtle—to understand.

Suppose you sit in your shop; if customers do not come one day, you are unhappy. Know that if a social worker finds no one to serve one day, he is no less unhappy. The difference? Granted he is doing a “good” work, but the result is the same.

If society becomes so joyous, so auspicious, that no opportunity remains for social reform, imagine the state of reformers! They would be in great trouble, great restlessness—just as when a business collapses; customers vanish; fashions change; your goods stop selling. The pain would be the same.

Sattva too—good work too—without surrender to Paramatma is only a delusion; from it ego is built. So those we call sattvic too, in their way, keep strengthening their identity.

Except for Paramatma—the beyond, the transcendent—everything becomes a basis for delusion. Everything seizes the mind and stupefies it.

Why must Krishna tell Arjuna this? Because Arjuna is being deluded by sattva.

A man came to Buddha one morning. Placing his head at Buddha’s feet, he said: Tell me something so I may work for the welfare of the world. Buddha looked down and said: Do your own—that is enough. Why put the world into trouble! Do your own. Is your welfare accomplished? He said: I am not a selfish man; I am not concerned with myself; my concern is the world. Buddha said: One whose own lamp is extinguished—whose lamp will he light!

Yet the man kept saying: I am not selfish; I care for the world. But if he goes out to “benefit,” he will extinguish even someone’s lit lamp. Welfare cannot be without Paramatma. How will man do welfare? To be man is itself a disease. He says, I am not interested in myself; my interest is in others! Buddha told his monks: See—a pious egoist. He even has the ego that he is not selfish. Buddha said: First accomplish your own benefit. Know yourself first. He said: Do not involve me in these things. The world is in great trouble; I must change it all, set it right.

For thousands of years these “fixers” have been fixing, and the world’s trouble grows; it does not decline. It now seems society needs to be freed from the social reformers somehow, for a little relief.

There is a flavor—even a thrill—in changing and fixing others. And everyone lives with the idea: I will set the whole world right. Finding it very difficult to fix themselves, people set out to fix the world. To escape themselves they find a thousand devices—so their own diseases do not appear, their own troubles do not show; they flee into others’ troubles. They are methods of forgetfulness; but being “sattvic,” they are enjoyable too.

A thief you can tell outright: you are doing wrong, destroying yourself. But how to say it to the “saintly”? He is serving. He is opening schools, building rest houses, hospitals—nothing bad. He massages lepers—nothing bad.

Krishna says: sattva, rajas, tamas—all three! Whether an act that seems bad, or an act that seems good—the tendency to run after good or evil, all three are Prakriti. And, Arjuna, understand this well: as long as one lives deluded by any of these three, he will not attain me, the beyond—who transcends.

What does this imply? Its consequence? To attain Paramatma one must rise above evil, and also above good. To attain Paramatma one must drop unwholesome tendencies—and wholesome tendencies too. For that supreme freedom, iron chains must be broken—and golden chains too.

Remember: often the golden chains prove more binding than iron, for iron chains at least provoke the will to break them, while golden chains provoke the will to preserve them. Golden chains appear as ornaments. Thus a man shows some readiness to rise from evil; from good he shows no readiness to rise.

So Krishna says: do not get entangled in talk of sattva, Arjuna. Do not talk these saintly talks. No one is a saint without knowing me. Before that there is only the mind’s deception. Some deceive themselves in bad ways; some in good ways. Some harm others and deceive themselves; some help others and deceive themselves. But deception continues until one rises above the gunas of Prakriti.

No—the mind must be in such a state where neither evil attracts nor good attracts. Where neither diseases—anger, lust, greed—attract, nor the so-called flowers—service, goodwill, welfare—attract. No attraction from either side.

When neither attracts, the mind becomes still. Otherwise it runs—sometimes for the bad, sometimes for the good; sometimes to be saintly, sometimes to be un-saintly. The mind stops only when it is free of both. When free of both, a new dimension opens—the inner journey, the upward journey begins. Then, rising above Prakriti, one experiences Paramatma.

That is why in this land we did not value the “sadhu” as we valued the “saint.” Sadhu and asadhu are of the same world. One holds iron chains, one golden chains. One is entangled in bad deeds but as occupied as the other is entangled in good deeds—occupied. But both their eyes are fixed on the ground; none looks at the sky.

We call him “saint” who is entangled neither in good nor evil; who is not entangled at all; who has lifted his gaze from the ground; who has seen the sky; who has recognized Paramatma.

This does not mean that after recognizing Paramatma he will not be a sadhu. He will be—the real sadhu. But the basic differences will appear.

One who has not recognized Paramatma—his saintliness is a struggle against un-saintliness, a continuous fight. The asadhu remains present within; tamas remains inside; the battle of sattva continues.

A sadhu, in this sense, is one who has suppressed anger—become non-angry; suppressed theft—become non-thief; suppressed possession—become non-possessive; suppressed ego—become humble. But all those diseases remain lined up within, waiting for you to relax—when will you relax from your struggle! When! When will you take a slight respite!

Therefore sadhus fear even sleep, because in sleep relaxation comes; and what has been repressed in the day begins to circle the chest in dreams. Sadhus are afraid to relax even a little—lest, if the struggle slackens, they know well the enemy is present.

Every sadhu has the asadhu pushed down within. Until the asadhu vanishes, the sadhu is only a surface; within everything seethes like lava, like a volcano aflame. The smoke is not visible yet; the volcano has not erupted—but that does not mean it is not there; it is preparing within.

We call him “saint” who is not a sadhu by fighting un-saintliness; we call him “saint” who, having seen Paramatma, became saintly. There is no struggle; nothing suppressed; no fight. So the saint does not fear rest; there is no question of fear. The opposite is not a possibility for him. From seeing Paramatma, un-saintliness fell away.

A saint is one whose un-saintliness has fallen; saintliness has blossomed, revealed. A sadhu is one who has suppressed un-saintliness and cultivated saintliness; practiced it, imposed it, regulated and disciplined himself like a sadhu; worked upon himself; fashioned himself. In it there is man’s effort; man’s effort cannot go far; man will always be defeated by Prakriti. Man is much less than Prakriti.

I asked you to draw a big circle—Paramatma. Inside it a smaller—Prakriti. And inside that, yet a smaller—man.

I said: Prakriti is in Paramatma, but Paramatma is not in Prakriti. Now another point: man is in Prakriti, but Prakriti is not in man. Man is an even smaller circle.

So if man fights Prakriti, he will be defeated. He cannot fight something bigger; she is vast compared to him. Prakriti is hidden wholly within, in the depths; man suppresses only a tiny part of it. That is why you are defeated daily by Prakriti—and you do not realize you are fighting a power greater than yourself; you will be defeated.

When you are defeated by anger—do you know whom you fight? You think anger is a small thing. It is not; it is a part of Prakriti. Its roots are deeper than your blood, deeper than your bones, deeper than your intellect. Therefore, a thousand times you decide with your intellect not to be angry; and when anger comes, where the intellect is flung you do not know—and anger arrives. Anger is deep. You decide on the surface; within, Prakriti does not care.

If you try to conquer Prakriti by relying on yourself, you will lose every day. Sometimes you will appear a sadhu, then un-saintliness will erupt again. Then again a sadhu—then again un-saintliness. Prakriti will keep defeating you.

If Prakriti is to be overcome, it cannot be done by man’s reliance; it can be done by relying on the great circle—Paramatma. Not on man. Then take support of that; take the support of the great circle. With it, victory is instantaneous. With it, Prakriti is defeated as readily as, when you rely on yourself, you are defeated by Prakriti.

If you fight Prakriti, you will lose. If you make Paramatma fight, Prakriti is already defeated; there is no question. No question, because Paramatma is deeper than Prakriti.

Think of the ocean, waves upon it, and a straw floating upon the waves—you. The ocean is Paramatma; the waves, Prakriti; and you are a tiny straw upon the waves. You cannot even fight a wave; the wave will defeat you. Decide as much as you like to remain above the wave; the wave’s will decides when to throw you down. But if you take support of the ocean, then the wave is nothing, for before the ocean what is the stature of a wave!

To have trust in Paramatma, to be devoted to Paramatma, to surrender into Paramatma means this much: a direct fight of man with Prakriti is impossible. We surrender into Paramatma, and the fight ends. The moment Paramatma is seen, Prakriti becomes quiet—instantly.

It happens almost as in a school classroom: children are playing, making noise; the teacher enters—immediately all is quiet. Children sit in their places, open their books, begin their work. A moment ago noise; now silence.

Exactly so—when the eyes lift toward Paramatma, Prakriti suddenly becomes silent. The master has come. Prakriti has no device left. But you! You are a small piece of Prakriti—a straw—and you try to fight Prakriti.

To strive to be sattvic without being religious, without surrender into Paramatma, is to try to fight Prakriti. Beyond these three lies the Lord. When in your consciousness the three are not, then your consciousness rises toward Paramatma; neither sattva, nor tamas, nor rajas. Understand a little what the state will be when these three are not.

There is no feeling to do evil, no feeling to do good—when these two feelings do not exist, that energy which does, that rajas, that force—these two were its centers of action—when these are not, where will the force go? Energy must flow somewhere. If you do not give it a path, still it will go. Now it can go neither toward the bad nor the good—where then?

When both directions close, the energy rises upward—into a third dimension; a third journey begins. On that third journey is Paramatma—where there is neither auspicious nor inauspicious, where both are not, where there is no duality—advaya, advandva, Advaita. A single glimpse of that—and the whole of Prakriti becomes silent.

Then Krishna says: attain that glimpse, and then talk of saintliness. There will be no need to do—you will be a saint. You will be a saint inevitably. His glance falls upon you—and you are changed; your eyes fall upon him—and you are changed. Once that darshan…

This word “darshan” is wondrous. It means: a single audience, a single vision—once he is seen, that is enough. And to see him one must rise above these three.

Therefore Krishna says: I am beyond these three. Up to these three is Prakriti—know this. When you rise beyond them, then you will see me, and you will know.

Daivī hy eṣhā guṇa-mayī mama māyā duratyayā
mām eva ye prapadyante māyām etāṁ taranti te. 14.

For this divine, wondrous, three-guna-woven my Yoga-Maya is hard to cross; yet those who ceaselessly take refuge in me cross this Maya—cross the world.

It is hard, arduous—Prakriti’s power is immense, because it is the very power of Paramatma. Hard—because we are made of that same power—everything in us, except the Paramatma within. Our body, our mind, our intellect—everything is fashioned of Prakriti. When we fight earth, we are making earth fight itself. We make Prakriti fight Prakriti—so we cannot win. It will be very hard.

Krishna says: strange, wondrous, extraordinary is this power—after all, it is Paramatma’s own. However small the waves may be, they are the ocean’s. Do not, thinking they are waves, begin to wrestle them—they are enough to drown us, for we are an even smaller wave inside the waves. Difficult, if man fights on his own power. Difficult, if he relies on himself, thinking “I will cross.”

But Krishna says: not difficult—possible—if one takes my support. If one worships me day and night, remains surrendered to me day and night, places everything in my hands and says: All right—now you row the boat. I let go—take me where you will. If one can trust me, then it is very simple.

With the vast, trust makes the fight easy. If a man fights alone, the fight is very hard; victory is almost impossible; defeat certain. With the vast, defeat is impossible; with the vast, victory is assured.

But to leave oneself in the hands of the vast, Krishna says: worship me day and night. What will it mean to worship day and night? To keep repeating “Krishna, Krishna” all the time? Many repeat; nothing seems to happen.

No—bhajan is not so ordinary. It does not mean one should not say “Krishna.” Bhajan is a state of feeling. It means an inner remembrance. Wherever, whatever appears—there, remember Krishna. A flower is seen—let not the thought of the flower come first; let the thought of Krishna come first—then let Krishna bloom in the flower; let the flower take the form of Krishna. Sit to eat—first let not the thought of food arise; let Krishna arise. Hunger strikes in the belly—let not the thought arise, “I am hungry”; let the thought arise, “Krishna is hungry.” Thus, in every fiber—rising, sitting, walking, sleeping—when at dusk you fall upon the bed, let not the thought come, “I am going to sleep”; let it come, “The Krishna within me now goes to rest.”

And this not as words, but as feeling. I must speak to you in words; but it must arise in feeling. A child is born in your home—do not feel a child is born; feel Krishna has come, Paramatma has come. No difference which name—every name is his. But the feeling must be that it is Paramatma. In all situations—joy, sorrow, adversity, prosperity—his remembrance must remain; all must be surrendered to him.

One who worships day and night in this way—the confluence with the vast begins. For consciousness flows where memory flows. Memory is the channelization of consciousness.

Just as we cut canals from a river—if we do not, the river flows where it will; if we do, the river flows through the canal and reaches where we want. Remembrance—what the saints called smriti, surati; what Buddha called right mindfulness, samyak smriti; or sumiran—has many names. Let it enter the heart. In the morning, when the eyes open, let it not feel “I am waking”; let it feel, “Paramatma within has awakened.” Not as words, for to say it means you have not felt it; when the feeling arises, there is no need to say it.

Feeling and words differ. Words deceive. A man repeats again and again, I love you; I love you—then he is trying to deceive, because when love is, it is wordless; there is no need to say—it is evident through one’s whole being, through every pore.

A mother cannot even say to her infant, “I love you.” How will she? The infant knows no language. Yet the child recognizes, because love flows from every pore around the mother. There is no language. Psychologists say: if an infant is not raised near the mother, he will never be able to love anyone in life. And the wonder is: the mother never says “I love you,” for the child knows no language; there is no way to say it. But she holds him to her breast—some current of feeling is exchanged between their chests. She gazes into his eyes—a current of feeling flows from eye to eye. She takes his hand in her hand—and feeling flows across.

Therefore psychologists also say: no man will ever be satisfied by his wife—because everyone seeks the love he received from the mother. They say, everyone seeks in his wife his mother—a very difficult matter. He will not find it; thus there is never full contentment. That unique love—wordless, silent, known though never said, never claimed—flowed and was recognized. The search of a lifetime is for that love—but it is never found again; hence restlessness and difficulty.

The mother is sought; she is not found—not graspable. How will she be found? How could it be? There is hardly a way. She never wrote letters, never made claims. Then come those who make claims—much claim, and within nothing.

It is heard that a lover said to his beloved: even if fire rains, I cannot bear to be without seeing you; even if the deluge comes, I cannot be without seeing you; even if atom bombs rain, I cannot be without seeing you. As he was departing, she asked: will you come tomorrow? He said: see—if it does not rain in the evening, I will surely come.

He who was saying “even if a cataclysm comes,” says, “If it does not rain, I’ll come.” Claims—but behind them no feeling.

This remembrance, this devotion, this “whoever worships me day and night”—its meaning? To live in me in feeling. Wherever you rise and sit, live in me in feeling. Wherever you walk, live in me in feeling. Do whatever you do, live in me in feeling. Let an inner current of feeling keep flowing toward me, keep flowing. Slowly the canal is carved by which a bridge is built between the person and Paramatma.

Once that bridge is built, then nothing is weaker than this Prakriti. It is very feeble, very poor. But until that bridge is built, Prakriti is mighty. All such statements are comparative. Compared to us, Prakriti is very powerful. Compared to Paramatma, there is no question—no question at all.

Therefore if man relies on himself, he entangles himself. Since man began relying on himself, feeling that God is unnecessary—man is enough—we have deepened man’s problems a hundred million times; no resolution is visible. Each day complications increase.

We solve one problem, and by solving create twenty-five new ones. We go to solve those, and each gives rise to twenty-five more. The whole of humanity has become one problem—just one problem—touch it anywhere and problem! As the ocean, tasted anywhere, is salty—so man, touched anywhere, is problems. Whatever we do—problems. Everywhere problems have spread. What has happened?

By fighting Prakriti as we do, this was bound to happen. Prakriti is hard to cross; she cannot be fought. Fighting her we only invite trouble upon ourselves. We may keep ourselves deluded for a while that we are fighting and will win. We may weave hopes. But hopes are ground to dust.

Still, man is strange—he has not yet realized. We keep encouraging each other. The father tells the son: never mind; I did not win—you will. Circumstances were a little off. The teacher tells the student: Never mind; we did not know truth—but you will, knowledge has advanced.

It is heard that a man was walking with a poor donkey laden with much load—how much more is loaded upon the poor donkey! People on the way were astonished because he kept shouting many names, while there was only one donkey. Sometimes he said, Well done, Kallu! Sometimes, Well done, Heera! Sometimes, Well done, Manik! One donkey—and so many names!

A man could not contain himself and asked: Forgive me—what is the name of this donkey? He said: Its name is Kallu. Then why so many names? He said: So that he keeps the trust that many other donkeys are loaded and walking—so why should he be troubled! Let him keep going. The potter said: I am using a little mass-psychology—the psychology of crowds. If the donkey knows only Kallu is walking, it will be very difficult—he will sit down: No one else is going—why should I be troubled! But if all around donkeys are walking—Manik too, Heera too—everyone—it keeps Kallu walking. He is pleased that he is not the only one loaded—everyone is loaded. Surely we will reach somewhere.

There is nowhere to reach. Nowhere to reach.

In Arabia there is a saying: Someone asked an old camel: do you enjoy more going up the mountain or coming down? He said: Both questions are foolish—the real question is whether I have a load on my back or not. Up or down is irrelevant. My work is the same both times—going down I carry, going up I carry. It makes no difference—I always carry loads.

But to us it does seem different. When we are moving toward success, we carry the load easily—thinking the slope is down; we will arrive soon. We do not know that arriving below, what is to be done? Load again and climb again. Every success will signal a new failure; every success will lead to the next success; every success is a halt, not a destination. But in success the mind bears more load; in failure it feels a little pained. Yet what do we do our whole life? Well done, Kallu! Well done, Heera! Well done, Manik!—and keep walking.

This is man’s condition today. We keep saying to each other: Go on—the goal is very near. Go on—the goal is very near. Neither have we found any goal, nor those to whom we say will find it. Still we keep going.

Krishna says: become devoted to me; surrender to me. Escape this running. These three gunas and this entire net of Prakriti’s enchantment—this is my Yoga-Maya, my power of hypnosis. In this all the world runs and runs—Well done, Kallu!—and keeps running. Stop. Enter my remembrance. If you want to come out of hypnosis, enter the remembrance of Paramatma.

The remembrance of Paramatma is de-hypnotizing—it breaks the spell; it is an antidote. For example, see how it works.

On the road, a beautiful woman appears. You say within, Well done, Kallu!—and move. You have started. At that moment, remember—on that side too is Krishna. Remember within—where you call Kallu, there too is Krishna. Then see if the hypnotic spell of lust that had arisen between collapses at once or not.

It will fall immediately. Suddenly you will find some darkness has lifted; some curtain has shifted from between; something has snapped and slid away.

Someone abuses you; smoke of anger rises within. That is Prakriti’s hypnosis. He pressed your button; your fan began to turn. In that moment remember: there is Krishna on that side, and Krishna on this side. You will suddenly find the wings of anger, which were about to spread for flight, are folded.

Remembrance de-hypnotizes. Remembrance of Paramatma breaks the spell. Forget Paramatma and keep the remembrance of “I am everything”—this “I” is intoxicating; it deepens hypnosis, stupefies, makes unconscious. Then we keep running—this play of three goes on; the triangle of Prakriti—the guna-play—we keep running within it.

When will we rise above? Where is the door? The door is remembrance of the Lord—wherever it arises, however it arises.

But we are in strange conditions. Here some sannyasins add “Bhagwan” to my name and shout it. I remain silent, thinking that today or tomorrow they will drop my name too and utter only “Bhagwan,” because in that word “Bhagwan” there is no lie; it is my name that is the lie.

Yet letters come to me: why don’t you forbid people to add “Bhagwan”; let them say only “Rajneesh”—“Acharya Rajneesh”; stop them from saying “Bhagwan.” Such letters come! They think they are very intelligent, those who write to me.

Not one wrote to say: tell them to stop saying “Rajneesh,” because both cannot stand together. So long as I am Rajneesh, being “Bhagwan” is difficult; when I am Bhagwan, being Rajneesh is difficult. They contradict.

But these letters—“intelligent” people—meaning they have some university paper—immediately send letters. Several came—stop it at once! What is happening!

We are enemies of the “intellect.” We are after the intellect with a stick. All right—this pretext is good; at least let the name of God be uttered. If my peg too is used, what harm? We will break the peg. The peg is no big thing. If you hold the remembrance of God, how long will the peg remain! It will fall. But no—those troubled by this have a reason. They have no clue what remembrance is.

Another amusing thing: I used to always bow to the Paramatma seated within you. No one ever wrote me a letter asking: why do you call us Paramatma? I said it for long. I thought perhaps you do not hear; I stopped saying it.

Now from the other end these people have started—this is the other edge, but the thing is the same. Now they are much disturbed: why do they take the name of Bhagwan?

We have no sense of remembrance. Good that by this pretext it enters your ears.

Yesterday a friend said: if again they say it, I will stop coming to listen. Very amusing—he says he comes to listen because it pleases him; the talk seems right. But this one thing should not happen—that word “Bhagwan.”

What enmity with Bhagwan? Not with me, it seems, for he says he likes to listen and wants to come daily. Enmity seems with Bhagwan.

Do not come. Absolutely do not come. Even forget you ever came before—because that is useless. I speak only so that not only in me but everywhere, wherever anything appears, you may see only Bhagwan. For that I speak. There is no purpose in listening to me. Absolutely do not come. Why come? I am not here to shout “Well done, Kallu,” to set you running.

Enough for today.

But do not get up. If you rise, I will think: Well done, Kallu! Remain seated where you are. Let us remember Bhagwan for a while. Rejoice in that.