Geeta Darshan #6

Who remembers the Lord? About this Krishna has said a few things.
Humanity can be divided into two parts. And when all other classes in the world have disappeared, even then this division will prove ultimate.
We divide human beings in many ways. By wealth: poor, rich. By education: educated, uneducated. By the color of skin: fair, dark. We divide in a thousand ways. But the supreme division, the final division, is determined neither by skin, nor by wealth, nor by fame, nor by education. These things are too upper, too outer, only on the surface. The last division is only this: those who are turned toward the Lord, and those who are not. Those whose eyes have lifted toward Paramatma; and those who stand with their backs turned to Paramatma.
Krishna says, the mūḍhas do not worship me.
This word will sound hard. And if Krishna calls someone mūḍha, it will seem as if he is abusing them. But as far as Krishna is concerned, he is only giving information about a fact. A fact. Calling someone mūḍha is not an abuse, it is simply a statement of fact.
Truly, that man is a mūḍha who stands with his back toward Paramatma. Not because it causes any harm to Paramatma and Krishna, angered, calls him mūḍha. Rather because he is harming himself; he is committing self-harm, self-destruction.
Whom do we call mūḍha? Mūḍha is a special word. It does not merely mean foolish. This needs to be understood a little. Mūḍha is a technical term. If you ask a psychologist, what he calls “idiot” in his terminology, in Sanskrit is called mūḍha. It does not mean foolish. Because the difference between a fool and a clever person is quantitative, a matter of degree. The one you call a fool is just a little less intelligent; that’s all. And the one you call intelligent is just a little less foolish; that’s all. The difference between them is of amount, not of quality—quantitative, not qualitative.
Then there are two more words: one we call mūḍha; the other we call medhāvan. The difference between them is qualitative, of essence, not of quantity.
Mūḍha means a person who cuts the very branch on which he sits.
We have read the story of Kalidasa. He is the symbol of the mūḍha. Sitting on a tree, he is cutting the very branch on which he sits. He will fall. No one else will be responsible. He himself is cutting the branch. And as the branch is cut, Kalidasa would be getting more and more pleased—success is coming. Although the only success he will get is that in a little while he will fall and break his hands and feet.
Mūḍha means the person engaged in self-destruction—suicidal. Even when he labors, he harms only himself. Even when he strives, he strikes only at himself.
Surely, none can be a greater mūḍha than the one who stands with his back to Paramatma. Because even if someone cuts the branch and falls, how much can be lost? But the one who turns his back to Paramatma falls into losses of every kind.
So when Krishna says mūḍha, do not think he is abusing. He is only announcing a definition: such a person we call mūḍha. Because Paramatma is our supreme wealth. Without him we remain beggars, however much property we may accumulate. And Paramatma is the supreme rank. Without him we remain rankless, for he is the ultimate rank, however high the positions we attain. And without Paramatma we arrive nowhere, however far we travel. In the end we will find we are standing exactly where birth placed us. At the time of death we will be found there. All our running is going to be futile.
In truth, denying the supreme energy is like what I have heard: a vine was climbing a building. One day it met an atheist. The atheist said, it is your compulsion that flowers come on you. This is no glory of yours.
The vine had no idea. When flowers blossomed she would dance with joy; she would invite the birds. When the sunrays came she would spread fragrance. The atheist said, foolish one, this is no dignity and no glory of yours. You are compelled to grow. You are compelled to bloom. This is your slavery. Even if you wanted, you could not stop the flowers.
As Sartre has said—his famous line—man is condemned to be free. Perhaps no one before invoked “condemned” with freedom. Sartre says, man is compelled to be free—or say, man is condemned to be free. He will have to be free. Freedom is his bondage. There is no way out; he must be free. Being made free by force.
That atheist said likewise: you are condemned to grow and to flower. It is a condemnation that you will grow and bloom. There is no glory of yours in this.
Surely, the vine was deeply hurt. Flowers still blossomed on her breast, but they became meaningless. For the first time ego arose. She lifted her head to the sky and said to God: enough! Now I refuse to grow. Now I refuse—hear it clearly—I will not grow. Now I refuse to flower. And now I refuse to bear fruit.
God said, as you wish. For love means leaving you entirely to your own will. Love means not imposing his will upon you. God said, as you wish.
But from that very day the vine became very restless. For within, life’s energy wanted to grow. Within, the sap was flowing. From the earth the juices were being absorbed. Rays were being drunk from the sun. Oxygen was being taken from the winds. Water was streaming within. All this was ongoing. And the vine said, I will not grow.
You can see—trouble began. Within, the push to grow in the vital breath; and from the outside the vine restrains herself. Within, fragrance gathered from the earth and flowers longed to open; and the vine refused to let the flowers blossom.
That vine, which used to grow lush and rise toward the sky, bent toward the ground. Knots formed in her. The power that could have become seed became knots. What might have produced flowers only made the vine agitated and troubled. Night’s sleep was lost, morning’s joy was lost. Even when birds still sang, the vine felt them hateful. For the birds’ songs reminded her of the spring when flowers bloomed. And when the sun rose, the vine grew restless, recalling those days when she grew. And when clouds wandered in the sky, the vine suffered, because those clouds reminded her of the showers that once satisfied her.
Now the vine went completely mad. One day, terrified, she said to God: I am going mad. God said, as you wish. I never told you to go mad. You are fighting with your own inner nature. For to fight God is to fight your own nature.
Whenever a person stands against God, in some deep sense he stands against himself. He begins to cut the very branches that are his life. And whenever someone turns his back to God, he becomes a stranger to himself. For he is turning his back to his own being.
God said, by your own hand you have gotten into trouble. These knots that pain you—these could have become seeds within you. And these leaves that have withered and drooped toward the earth—they could have become flowers open to the sky. Today the birds’ songs cause pain; even the morning sun’s rays pierce your life like spears. And clouds still arise in the sky—as before; then you danced with the peacocks; but now you do not dance, you hold yourself tight. You have turned against yourself! Drop this opposition to yourself. For to oppose God is to oppose your own being.
Krishna says, that man is a mūḍha.
Like this vine is the man who does not do bhajan of Paramatma. Bhajan means: one who does not build a bridge between himself and Paramatma; who does not own the power of Paramatma as his own; who erects some kind of opposition and resistance between himself and Paramatma—that man is mūḍha. For he is not fighting anyone else; he is fighting only himself. And he will be defeated, for he fights a vast energy. A wave sets out to fight the ocean!
So Krishna states a fact: such a man is mūḍha. The mūḍhas do not worship me.
On reading this many times it seems Krishna is abusing those who do not worship him: you are mūḍha. Not so. Not “you do not worship, therefore you are mūḍha.” Rather: “you are mūḍha, therefore you do not worship.” And in that mūḍhatā self-destruction is hidden, your own ruin is hidden. Self-destructive, an urge toward self-destruction is hidden in us all.
Freud, in the last days of his life, discovered that within man there is a death-wish as well. All his life he had spoken of one thing: Eros, the sexual drive, the will to live. But in the end he felt this was incomplete. Within man a wish to die is also concealed. He called it Thanatos, the death-wish. He said there is an element within man that is eager to annihilate even himself.
This discovery startled the entire West. But the East has always known it. Always known that in man there is both the aspiration to live and the aspiration to die. The healthy man is he who travels with the aspiration to live. The unhealthy, the sickly man is he who begins to travel with the aspiration to die.
Remember: the one who lives by the aspiration to live turns toward Paramatma; and the one who is filled with the aspiration to die turns away from Paramatma.
This deep discovery of Freud—Freud himself got into trouble with it. For all his life he had said, man is eager to live. In old age he understood: not only eager to live. Because man does a thousand things that testify he is eager also to die. At times a man even wants to die. If you look into yourself you will understand.
Psychologists say it is hard to find a man who has not, at least a handful of times, thought of killing himself. That you do not kill yourself is another matter: because to kill oneself requires arrangements you may not have. Courage is needed, which may not be there. But the thought of killing oneself does arise. And it is not only old people who think so. Let a little child be strongly scolded by his father, and the child thinks within: better to die! A small child, who has hardly set out on life’s journey, even in him the feeling to die arises. He too thinks: end it, destroy oneself.
If there were no inclination to die within man, such thoughts could not arise so quickly. And those who search deeper say: we become eager to kill another because we fear that if we do not kill the other, we might start to kill ourselves. This will sound very upside-down.
Someone asked Nietzsche: you are always laughing—what is the matter? Nietzsche said: simply so that I do not start crying. Because only two possibilities appear: either I laugh or I cry. There is no space between where one could stand. There is no place to stand. Either I laugh or I cry. So I keep laughing, for if I stop laughing, then I will have to cry. The alternative will flip.
Hence everyone thinks of killing others so that he may not begin to think of killing himself. And everyone forms notions of harming others so that he may not harm himself. Everyone is aggressive so that he may not lapse into self-violence.
And it is a strange thing: those who drop aggression, or those who, by effort, give up harming others, immediately begin to harm themselves. So the so-called seekers of ahimsa fall into self-violence; they begin to torture themselves.
It is very curious: the one who stops tormenting others begins at once to devise ways to torment himself. Between the two no other road seems visible.
Krishna calls mūḍha the one who torments himself. And if there is any greatest method in the world to torment oneself, it is to forget the Lord.
You will say, what kind of method is this? Stab your chest—greater pain will come. Lie upon thorns. Drink poison.
No. There can be no greater pain in this world than the oblivion of God. There cannot be a greater pain than forgetting God because, with the forgetting of God, all the streams of joy in life are blocked. The man lives, yet dead. Remember, to die is not as bad as to live dead.
I have heard: in Iran, a king’s minister was caught in a crime. The crime was that he had married three wives against the law and cheated all three women. He could marry only once, yet he married three and deceived each saying, I am unmarried.
This was exposed. The emperor said to the minister: this is a very dangerous crime. He told his judges: find the hardest punishment. If it must be a death sentence, then hang him. But the judges deliberated a week and said: no, we do not consider hanging the hardest punishment. We have discovered another. The emperor said: you amaze me! What can be harder than hanging? They said: let this man live together with all three women—keep him with all three.
It is said, on the twenty-first day the man committed suicide. He left a letter: you gave this punishment to me, but never give it to anyone else. Hanging would have been better.
Death is not as bad as life can become. The possibility of life becoming bad is much greater. The possibility of death being bad is not so great. Death is only the door being shut.
Life bereft of the Lord is a life in which all kinds of enemies gather on every side. He had only three women to contend with; we gather three thousand. By “women” I mean: anger gathers, dishonesty gathers, stealing gathers, violence gathers—every trouble gathers. And we have to live among them.
If the companionship of the Lord is lost, around life nothing remains but turmoil. For the man who turns his back to the Lord has, by his own hand, turned his eyes toward darkness. Now he will descend into darkness, deeper and deeper. The one who leaves the Lord’s company has, with his own hand, invited vices. The one who leaves the Lord’s company has arranged, with his own hand, to descend into pits, degeneration, and hells.
So Krishna says: such are mūḍhas in the world—wicked folk, undiscerning, filled with non-sattvic feelings—they do not pray to me.
But let me tell you one thing: do not think, therefore, that all who pray are not among these mūḍhas. Because it is not necessary that when you are praying, you are indeed praying. True prayer is very difficult. So do not sit assured that this is about someone else—I go to the temple daily. I do pray. Not necessary that your prayer is prayer.
I have heard: a woman had a parrot—a male. But he had learned foul language. The seller had been a hotel where all sorts of people come and go. He learned abuse. The woman was very troubled, because when guests came home, the parrot would say indecent things. She told the neighborhood church’s priest: do something. You know everything. You transform even people, this is only a parrot. Let me repeat—she said: you transform even people, this is only a parrot. Give him some sermon so that he changes.
The priest said: he won’t understand my language, but I have a female parrot. She prays day and night. The church resounds with her prayer twenty-four hours. Bring him; we’ll put the two in satsang.
Satsang has its effect. Certainly it does. But from which side it will work—it’s hard to say! Will the master carry the disciple to heaven, or will the disciple carry the master to hell? Influence is certain.
Anyway, the woman liked the idea. She brought her male parrot. The two were locked in the same cage. Both sat apart: let us see what conversation begins! The female parrot sat quietly a little while; the male also sat quietly. Then the male parrot said: what do you think, dear baby—what do you think about loving? The female parrot said: it is OK, kid. Quite fine. What do you think I was praying for all these years? What do you think I have been praying for in the church? That I might get a parrot!
That prayer which had been resounding for years in the church was this: may a male parrot appear from somewhere. The priest was deceived. Most church priests are deceived about why people come to pray.
The real question is not that you pray; the real question is: why do you pray? If anything other than Paramatma is being asked in between, then that prayer is not prayer to Paramatma. If in between is money, position, fame, health, pleasure—then you have no concern with Paramatma. Your concern is with your own comfort. You pray in the hope that perhaps, by going to God, you can obtain your goal—God becomes an instrument, a means—truly, a little itch to take service from God too—and nothing more.
By uttering prayer, prayer does not happen. So it is not necessary that mūḍhas do not pray. Mūḍhas pray—but they never pray. Some petty asking will be there. And they will never think what they are asking for, standing before Paramatma!
In truth, if one stands before Paramatma to ask for anything, then prayer will not be; because prayer is not asking. Prayer means: thankfulness without asking; not a demand. Prayer is a very paradoxical thing. It is not a demand for anything; rather, it is gratitude for what Paramatma has already given—anugraha, grace, gratitude. That which he has given is so much that it calls for thanksgiving.
But we never go to offer thanks that you have given us so much. We go to complain: why are you killing us! There is nothing in our hands. The boy doesn’t get a job. The girl’s marriage is not happening. Exams keep failing. The business is going bad. With all these matters we go before God.
The mūḍha also prays, but Krishna does not consider his prayer as prayer. Because he does not worship God; under the pretext of God he worships worldly things—he worships the world itself.
The difficulty is: as our mind is, it can only worship worldly objects. You may have noticed: a man plans to buy a new car and cannot sleep at night. He tosses and turns; then the car appears before his eyes. He turns again, the car appears again. A thousand colors appear, a thousand designs appear. For months he cannot sleep.
This mind—if you take it to a temple, it will certainly pray, but it will see only the car. It cannot see anything else. The mind has its own languages.
I have heard: a man bought a horse. The seller quoted a high price. The buyer asked, why so much? He said: this horse is extraordinary. First, it runs with the gait of a storm. And even more wonderful—because of such speed, the rider often falls—if you ever fall, this horse will lay you down at the same spot and even fetch a doctor. The man said: a miracle! He had long wanted a horse. He bought it, paid the price, and thought to test it the first day.
He mounted. The horse truly ran like a storm. And it ran so that it threw the man into a pit. When the man fell, he thought: half the claim is fulfilled—now let’s see the other half. The horse, after throwing him, immediately turned back. The man was amazed. In a little while the horse returned with a doctor.
Two days later, when the man regained consciousness, the horse’s owner came and asked, well, satisfied? He said: very satisfied—though my limbs are broken. But, he said, see—the horse brought a doctor. The owner said: exactly so. Only one mistake: he brought a veterinary doctor. The man said: a horse is a horse—what does he know of human doctors? He brought a doctor for horses. You should have understood that beforehand, said the seller. That is obvious.
These are our languages. The horse is right to fetch a veterinary. Our mind, when it goes to pray, has its own language; it will bring a veterinary doctor. It will not reach God. It will reach those things with which it is familiar, to which it has been related, which it has desired.
Even if Paramatma were suddenly to be met by our mind, we would ask for the same things we always ask for. We would lose even that moment. Suppose God himself—just think—comes tonight by your bed and wakes you: get up, what do you want? Think within: you will know at once what you would ask. That someone would ask for God—there is great doubt. For the one who has never asked for him will not suddenly be able to ask tonight.
Krishna says: such a person is mūḍha. The mūḍhas do not worship me. Then who worships me? The inquisitive, the mumukshu, the sattvic, the men of good conduct, the wise worship me.
Truly, only he is wise who uses the opportunity of this world to glimpse the Lord. Apart from that, no one is wise. He alone is wise who uses the opportunity of this life to search for the ultimate truth of life. The rest are unwise.
Life can be wasted in gathering things which, upon acquiring, give nothing. And that is how we all waste it. Life can be consumed pursuing things which, if we do not obtain, we are unhappy; and if we do obtain, we are still unhappy.
Even if Alexander conquers the whole world, he did not become happy. Because there is no relation between conquering the world and happiness. Do not conquer—you are unhappy. Try to conquer—you are disturbed. And then conquer—nothing is gained by conquest. Let all that our mind desires be obtained—still we suddenly find within everything remains empty. Nothing is gained. Life’s deeper values remain unfulfilled. Life’s deeper thirst remains thirst; life’s true hunger remains hunger; the life-breath still calls for some rain. Clouds thunder much, lightning flashes, the oceans fill below—but that nectar does not fall for which we long.
That nectar exists nowhere except in Paramatma. What do we mean by Paramatma?
By Paramatma we mean: that which is life’s innermost truth. That which was within me before birth, and which will be within me after death—that. That which is present within me when I am awake; and which is present within me when I sleep—that. When I am a child, then; when I am young, then; and when I am old, then too—what does not change within me—that. That which is eternal amid all change; that which is unmoving amid all upheaval; that which remains steadfast amid all movements and storms; that which remains ever the same between life and death—that One—its search is the search for Paramatma.
Surely, only he is wise, truly wise, medhāvin, who attains That in this life.
We are almost like people who have come to the seashore, the chance is given, and diamonds lie in the sea—but we pass our time collecting shells and shiny stones on the shore. We pile them all up. Life slips away! The heap lies there.
What are we searching? Our search is such—Ramakrishna used to say: even if a kite is flying in the sky, do not think it is flying for the sky. Its gaze is fixed below, on the garbage heaps—if a piece of meat lies there, a bone lies there. Do not be deceived by the kite flying in the sky, that it flies for the sky—its mind is fixed on some bone lying in some rubbish pit.
We are given life’s vast sky, in which we can obtain the embrace of God. A great wealth can be ours, whose end is none. Kubera’s treasures would be exhausted, Solomon’s treasures fall short. Shells they are. The colored pebbles gathered on the riverbank—children’s toys! But there is another treasure; on attaining it, life is graced with a radiance without end—death does not extinguish it; darkness does not erase it; sorrow does not erase it; pain does not touch it—it remains untouched. That treasure can be attained in this very life.
Surely, how can Krishna call wise the one who does not move in that direction? He says: wise are they—only they—who worship me.
This insistence on bhajan, on remembering the Lord—what is it? What is he pointing to? Let me try to explain with a small story.
I have heard: a sannyasin’s master told him, you will not learn here now. What we could teach, we taught; but for that you are deaf. Go from here to the capital, to the emperor. If you can learn anything now, it will be there.
The sannyasin journeyed and reached the emperor’s gate. He fell into great difficulty. He saw the emperor. It was night. The court was full. Dancing girls danced. Half-naked women danced. Wine was being poured. The emperor sat in the midst. The sannyasin thought: here I have been sent to learn! He thought, I am caught. Where shall I run? Where shall I stay this night?
The emperor said: do not be so worried. Do not be so restless. You have been sent to the right place. Come, rest the night. Why hurry to leave? Go after two days. The sannyasin panicked. He said, I said nothing to you! The emperor said: does something become audible only when said? Your master told you so much—you heard nothing. When hearing fails by saying, it may occur by not saying too. Sit. Do not hurry.
He was given dinner. After dinner the sannyasin said: at least tell me one thing! The emperor said: why hurry? Ask tomorrow morning. The sannyasin said: no. I won’t sleep all night. What fun is this! My master sent me to you—a drunkard. There is dancing here. What is this chaos! I am a sannyasin, I am brahmachari. Why sent here! For what did he send me to you? And what on earth can you teach me? You yourself have not learned yet!
The emperor said: I keep doing bhajan. The sannyasin said: what bhajan! Is this bhajan? Wine is pouring, cups sliding, women dancing—this is bhajan? Let me go now. I do not want to learn such bhajan. The emperor said: this is not bhajan. But bhajan is ongoing. Well, we will talk in the morning.
He was put to sleep on a very beautiful bed, as he had never slept before. Much comfort was arranged—the emperor’s best.
In the morning, when the sannyasin awoke, the emperor asked: are you pleased? Any obstacle, any trouble in the night? The sannyasin said: no trouble, every comfort. But I could not sleep. Why not sleep? The emperor asked. He said: you are a strange man. You gave such a good bed, everything—but why did you hang above a naked sword by a thread? All night my life was in danger. Close my eyes, the sword appeared. Who knows when the thread would break! Such a thin thread! If I turned, my life would be in danger—who knows when the sword would fall. I could not sleep a single moment.
The emperor said: I tell you—say it this way: all night you did bhajan of the sword. The bed could not entice you. Fragrances all around could not put you to sleep. Nothing could make you sleep. The worship of the sword continued. I tell you: women were dancing, granted they were half-naked; wine was being poured, granted people were drinking—but I tell you, just as the sword hung over you last night, death hangs over me. It did not hang only over you last night—over everyone it hangs. Suspended by a raw thread. You saw it because I hung it visibly. Death’s sword is not visible; it hangs over all.
But, he said, what has this to do with God’s bhajan? The way I worshipped the sword all night—if you see death hanging so, then you must be worshipping death?
The emperor said: no. The day death begins to be seen moment to moment, the day death is seen all around, the day it is seen that everything of the body will die, the day it is seen that all in the material world will be destroyed—that day remembrance of That begins which is not destroyed—which is immortal. Death hangs like a sword, but now in my heart there is not remembrance of death; for death is. Now my mind remembers That which is beyond death, which is not destroyed even by death, which passes through death untouched.
Prabhu-smaraṇa means remembrance of immortality, remembrance of consciousness, remembrance of the supreme reality.
And that remembrance is not something you repeat at home for five moments and it is done. That remembrance is such that it enters the pores of your being, the breath in your breath, the beat in your heart. When you rise—then in that bhajan; when you sleep—then in that bhajan; when you walk—then in that bhajan—that is intelligence.
Krishna says: there are two kinds of people in this world. The mūḍhas do not lift their eyes toward me, though I would shower them with grace. The intelligent are those who take their eyes nowhere else but to me. For once the gaze lifts toward me, nowhere else remains worth seeing. Once the gaze lifts toward me, nothing else remains worth attaining. They who have attained me have attained all.
Krishna is saying to Arjuna: understand—and journey from the world of the mūḍha to the world of the wise.
There is no mūḍha who cannot become wise; and no wise man who has not, sometime, been a mūḍha. All saints have a past, and all sinners have a future. No one has reached saintliness without passing through the fire of sin. And all who have reached saintliness have come through the furnace of sin.
So never sit thinking: I am a mūḍha. There is no medhā in the world that has not passed through mūḍhatā. That is the compulsory schooling. And there is no mūḍha in whose being the seed is not hidden that can become medhā, can bloom as intelligence. The difference is only of transformation, of a single leap. An about-turn—a complete turning around. Where the face was, there the back; and where the back was, there the face. In just this, the mūḍha becomes wise. By this little event, the mūḍha becomes intelligent. Inertia falls, and consciousness is born. The curtains part, and the doors of mystery open.
But we are hypnotized—utterly hypnotized by things. We are so badly hypnotized there is no measure to it! We grasp nothing; not even experience is grasped. After all this commotion of life, even experience does not come to hand.
I have heard: a man entered into a new partnership. Someone asked: found another partner? Because that man had cheated many partners. Found another partner? He said: found another. There is no shortage of fools on earth. But no partner has ever suffered loss with me. The other said: what are you saying! We have heard that whoever goes with you suffers loss. He said: understand this and you will never say so again. Now this new partner is putting in the entire capital; I am putting in the entire experience. Fifty-fifty—half mine, half his. My experience, his money. And I tell you: in five years he will have the experience and I will have the money. But you think only I will profit and he will not? Experience!
But we have squandered life’s wealth many times and still have not gained the experience the partner spoke of—“in five years it will be my friend’s.” We have lost life’s wealth countless times. We gain no experience. We do the same again. We do the same again and again. As if experience never arises in our life. We did the same yesterday; the day before the same. Last year the same. In the coming years you will do the same. What does this mean? Something is there as if we are obsessed, like lunatics, hypnotized by the world. Completely bound like a madman—obsessed. The gaze does not turn away, as if someone has fastened it. Enchanted—enspelled.
Therefore Krishna says: drowned in my māyā, in my hypnosis, drowned in the difficult-to-cross māyā of nature—the mūḍhas do not do my bhajan. Hypnotized by nature. Totally hypnotized; enchanted by the guṇas of prakriti. And they do not remember me; they remember only nature. They will get nothing. But if even experience is gained—that is much. And he who gains experience is transformed immediately.
A friend came to me: he said he was thinking of a second marriage. I said: as far as I remember, you came six months ago, when your wife was alive, and you were thinking of divorce. He said: yes, I wanted to divorce this woman, I was bored. I said: as far as I recall, you said that if somehow I get divorce from this woman, I will take sannyas. But now this woman has departed on her own. Why are you thinking of another marriage now?
I told him: someone asked a psychologist a similar question. The psychologist said: it shows the victory of hope over experience. The victory of hope over experience!
Experience says one thing—the man says: now I want to escape somehow from that quarrel named marriage, that upheaval. But again the mind wants to do it. Hope is winning over experience again. In the hope that perhaps this time it won’t be so.
In this hope we waste thousands of lives. Again we seek wealth—perhaps this time we will get it. Again we seek position—perhaps this time we will get it. Again we seek a house—perhaps this time we will get it. But we never get the house; we get death, we get the grave. And we never get wealth; heaps do pile up; within the man remains as poor as ever. We never get position; all positions may be obtained; the inner inferiority remains exactly as it was—no change occurs.
Psychologists say: no one is so afflicted by inferiority complex as politicians. The truth is: it is because they are afflicted by inferiority that they set out in the search for positions.
Lenin’s legs, when he sat on an ordinary chair, would not reach the ground. His upper body was large; his lower part small. Psychologists—especially Adler—say: to show “I am somebody,” the small legs weighed heavily in his mind.
Hitler was a nobody. In the army he was thrown out as an ordinary soldier. He became eager to show: I too am somebody.
Those deeply afflicted by inferiority want to stand on some high position and show the world: we are somebody. But nothing changes. The inferiority remains within; gold is placed on top; positions on top; silk is worn; velvet is worn; braid and stars are put on. The inner inferiority remains inferiority.
But even after so much experience we gain no wealth of experience. Because if the wealth of experience is gained, nature’s hypnosis breaks at once. And when that hypnosis breaks, your eyes lift toward that direction where the Lord is.
To remain bound by hypnosis is mūḍhatā. To have the eyes lift toward the Lord—his bhajan begins, his dance begins, his kirtan arises within, life becomes a dance—offered to the Lord, bowed at his feet—then supreme bliss is attained. But only when the hypnosis breaks.
Teshām jñānī nitya-yukta eka-bhaktir viśiṣyate.
Priyo hi jñānino ’tyartham ahaṃ sa cha mama priyaḥ. 17.
Among them, he who is ever united with me in oneness of devotion, the jñānī, is the highest; for one who knows me in essence is exceedingly dear to me, and he is exceedingly dear to me.
In oneness, in singleness, having understood the essence—he who loves me, that jñānī is supreme.
Two points. In oneness—who keeps not even a little distance between me and himself; admits not even the slightest difference between himself and me. This is very difficult. It must be understood a little.
Have you ever noticed: with whomsoever we are in love, we hide nothing from them. If we hide anything, then love is not; it is not complete. And only complete love is love; there is no such thing as partial love.
Love means: with the one I love, I will live exactly as I live with myself. I will hide nothing from him. Neither my sin, nor my lie, nor any of my tendencies. I will hide nothing. I will be utterly exposed before him—naked, just as I am.
Have you ever stood utterly naked before God?
Christianity invented confession on precisely this principle. The basis is this: prayer cannot be complete until one has confessed one’s sins; otherwise the hiding of sin will remain the distance.
A man stands in God’s temple knowing he has stolen. He hides it from the police; he hides it from his family; he hides it from the village; he hides it from God as well! He stands there with sandal paste on his brow. Behind that sandal-mark stands a thief. And he prays loudly! Then the distance is vast.
So Christianity truly added a precious element to the world of religion: confession, acknowledgement. First the confession of sin; then prayer. So that no distance remains. Become naked and one. At least tell the whole truth to God. At least before him be what you are!
In the world we run deception. We show what we are not. The weak man struts on the road—though all strutting proclaims his weakness. Why would a strong man strut? Over whom will he strut?
The weak man struts. The feeble speaks of courage. The ugly uses cosmetics. Therefore the uglier the world becomes, the greater the need for beautifying devices. Because this is all to hide the ugliness.
Women feel the consciousness of ugliness more acutely. Because the body-consciousness is a little greater than in men. So they carry all their equipment in their purse. There their whole beauty is locked. Given a chance, they will set themselves again! They have little trust in themselves. All trust is on that little kit in the bag. A thin layer of beauty behind which ugliness hides.
We deceive the world. Will you carry this deception to God as well? Will you stand there with the same mask? Will you show God that which you are not? Then there is no oneness. No love, no prayer.
Krishna says: he attains oneness who hides nothing.
Like a little child who stole fruit from the neighbor’s house and comes running to tell his mother: see, today I sneaked into the neighbor’s and ate fruit! So simple, so innocent—who reveals himself utterly before God—then oneness is born; otherwise it is not.
A man was celebrating his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. A friend asked him: you both have lived so peacefully together for twenty-five years—are there still things about each other that you do not know? He said: there are many things my wife thinks I do not know about her—though I do. Therefore I think there must be many things I think she does not know about me—but she does. If you truly ask—these twenty-five years we have been together—it is hard to say. For twenty-five years we have been busy maintaining our masks. We have tried to show each other what we are not. And that is our sorrow, our pain, our trouble.
Though whoever lives with you for twenty-five years knows everything—even what hides behind the mask. For sometimes in sleep the mask falls off. Sometimes in anger it drops. Sometimes you rush out of the bathroom unexpectedly and forget the mask is not on. Sometimes—sooner or later—the one you live with peeks at who is behind. Yet still the attempt goes on.
A father does not open himself to his son. A wife does not open to her husband. A friend does not open to a friend. The whole earth is a great deception, a great net. And hence we are so troubled, burdened, anxious—because the whole world is against us and we fight alone. Each man fights such a large world—busy deceiving an entire world—the fight is heavy.
Only he will reach God who leaves his deceptions, his masks, his faces outside the temple, goes within and stands naked—and says: this is what I am.
Oneness is a very scientific thing. When I hide nothing from someone, oneness arises. As long as I hide, otherness remains—duality, dousra-pan—remains.
Second: Krishna says—such oneness, such ananya bhāva, and having understood the essence, the jñānī who comes to me, who loves me—I love him. Having understood the essence! For often it happens: some set off on the religious journey without understanding…
Without understanding. Essence means: without understanding life’s mystery, without any deep understanding, they set off into religion. Then great difficulty arises. Such unripe minds—juvenile, childish minds—in which no maturity has yet happened, and who set out on the religious path—they do not attain religion; they only succeed in making religion itself childish.
This has happened everywhere. All over the world it has happened. Many times you do not go toward religion by understanding the truth of life; rather, religious talk sounds tempting, so you go. Understand the difference: the one who goes having understood essence and the one who goes by temptation—what is the difference?
I said: attaining God is supreme bliss. Your mind caught greed. You felt: if attaining God is supreme bliss, let us attain it too! You thought: fine—Buddha says so, Mahavira says so, Krishna says so, Christ, Mohammed—all say: to attain him is supreme bliss. Your greed is aroused.
But you do not know that all say: the one in whose mind greed is, will not be able to attain him. Now the difficulty is vast. And you go to the temple or the mosque thinking: let us also get that joy.
Mahavira was staying in a town. The king, Shrenik, came to meet him. He laid his head at Mahavira’s feet and said: by your grace… He was lying. One should not lie like this before Mahavira. Because I am saying: no oneness. He said, by your grace. Though his eyes, his head, said: by my prowess. But he said, by your grace—formal. One should not take formalities to Mahavira.
Mahavira said: forgive me—what are you about to say? I have never bestowed any grace upon you. He said: no, without your grace what could be! This royal splendor—all has come by your grace. Mahavira said: do not drag me in. You have killed countless people—I have nothing to do with it. You have drunk the blood of many—what has that to do with me!
He still said: without your grace what could be! All is by your grace. But just now I found that all is useless until the bliss of meditation is found. So I have come to ask: how much will it cost? I will buy it. I will buy the bliss of meditation. What is there I cannot buy?
You can imagine Mahavira’s predicament. Such a predicament comes to people like Mahavira daily. The poor fellow is not saying something wrong. The same veterinary language! He has been buying everything. Whatever he needs he buys. He thought: meditation, samāyik—Mahavira’s word for meditation—how to get it? I have heard much praise—there is great bliss. I will buy this too!
Mahavira said: do this—the matter is difficult. The deal is very hard. But since you say, you will buy—then do this: in your town there lives my devotee. A very poor man—Mahavira named him—he lives in your town. He has attained meditation. He will sell you a little of it. Go; ask the price.
He went: no problem. If not meditation, I will buy the man and bring him to my palace. He had the man brought! The man came. The king said: speak, what will you take for your meditation? Whatever you want, take.
The man said: you are utterly naive. You have understood nothing. Can meditation be bought anywhere? And even if I wish to sell it, how shall I? It is my inner state.
The king said: forget this talk. What is there that I cannot buy? I have brought you, how can your meditation not come? Did your meditation remain lying at home? Go and fetch it. Whatever you say—I will give. Do not worry. A hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, a million, ten million, a crore—what do you want? Speak and take it—and give the meditation.
The man said: take my life; selling meditation is difficult. Because you do not understand what meditation is. He said: whatever it is, I do not care. People say that by meditation great bliss comes; I want the bliss. Forget meditation—if that bliss which you got from meditation can be obtained by any other trick, tell me that.
Most of us turn toward religion out of greed. One. We hear news of Samadhi—that supreme flowers blossom. We hear of meditation—that an ultimate silence happens within. We hear that death itself grows tired before the one who knows himself—she is defeated. Greed arises: why not attain it too?
But remember: the greedy cannot attain. Therefore Krishna says: understanding the essence.
To go thinking “there is bliss in God” is to go out of greed. To go knowing “the world is misery” is to go by understanding essence. Understand this difference.
He who goes knowing the world is futile—he goes by understanding essence. But he who thinks the world is fine, and will add a little Paramatma to it; let us enjoy that too—this is already coming, let us add that as well—he goes only by temptation; not by knowing essence.
In the world, most go to the temple of the Lord out of temptation—or out of fear, which is the other face of the same coin. Out of fear, or out of greed.
As death approaches, the old man begins to tremble. He thinks: now I will die—what will happen now? What will happen? Death is coming. No one can save me. Even if people cast votes for me, the matter will not be settled. The votes will lie there; I will die. However big my vaults, now they are of no use; now my fist cannot clutch them. I die. No one can save me. Sons for whom I wasted my life—now they cannot save me. Friends, for whom I invested everything—now they cannot save me. Society, from which I was afraid—now it cannot save me. In this shivering fear a man thinks: let me take refuge in God. Now only he can save me.
The frightened man goes toward God. Therefore temples, mosques, churches are full of the elderly—out of fear. Fear. These are the same who, when young, did not come. And these are the same who will be telling their young at home: what need do you have now? You are young.
Today an old lady came to me. Her daughter has taken sannyas, so the old woman is very upset. She says: my daughter is young—still young! I said: she is young—but you have grown old! When do you intend sannyas? She came to have her daughter’s sannyas stopped—“Stop it; she should not take sannyas. She is still young.” I said: what is your intention? You should take sannyas. You have grown old. She said: I will think about that. But cancel hers at least.
Old people tell the young: you are young—what have you to do with religion! Because they have understood religion only in the language of fear. Only fear. When fear grips, when legs shake, when death pushes—then at the last moment say Ram-Ram.
Therefore when a man dies we carry him to the cremation ground saying Ram-Ram! The poor fellow could not say it; we say it for him! He had no chance. Now at least we will accompany him with Ram-Ram, up to the cremation ground. His life slipped; he never said Ram-Ram. Now that he is dead, we are going to say Ram-Ram around the corpse.
Till the last breath the thought of religion begins—out of fear; not out of understanding essence. Because the understanding of essence has nothing to do with youth, old age, or childhood. Understanding is a different matter; it has no relation with age.
Hence Krishna says: they are dear to me who come to me having understood the essence. I call them jñānī. Those who come out of fear or greed are of no consequence. And they love me—and I love them greatly.
What does this mean? Is Krishna’s love conditional—that only when you love him will he love you? Does Paramatma also set conditions—that if you chant my name, I will love you; if you come understanding the essence, I will love you? Does God place such conditions? Then love becomes petty.
No. Krishna does not mean that those who love me, I love them. He means: God’s love showers on all. But those who do not love God never come into relation with that love, never meet it.
Like an inverted pot placed while the sky rains. The clouds pour down; the inverted pot sits. It is not that the clouds are not raining upon the upside-down pot. They are raining. But it will not fill. Pots kept upright will fill. Then the cloud can say: the ones set upright, I fill them. But this does not mean that water is not raining upon the inverted pots. But the pots are inverted by their own doing; what can anyone do about that! And they are stubbornly insistent: we will sit only inverted; we will never be straight!
He who loves the Lord receives love—this means only this much: only he comes to know it is raining upon him. He who does not love never comes to know it is raining.
Therefore when we say “the grace of the Lord,” do not think it happens to some and not to others. God’s grace showers as the sun shines—on all houses, rays fall. But some sit with doors shut. Others—though doors are open—so clever they sit with their eyes closed! What can you do? What will the sun do? Should he pry open their eyelids? If he opens, they will be angry; they will file a police report: we were sleeping; needlessly the sun opened our eyes. Should the sun break the doors? They will complain to the police: the sun turned thief; it opened our doors to enter. The sun will stand outside; when you open, it will enter. When you open your eyes, the ray will reach within.
God’s love showers equally on all. But this does not mean you receive it equally. You do not receive equally because you do not take. It showers equally; it is received differently—received according to one’s receptivity, one’s orientation.
The one who goes to God out of greed—his pot will remain inverted. However much he prays, he will not receive God’s love. The one who goes out of fear—his pot will remain inverted. However much he screams and shouts, his shouting is not for God; it is because of fear.
But the one who goes having understood life’s essence—that this entire life, this whole play, this whole drama is worth two cowries, has no value; now I should search for That which is beyond this life. Not because of any temptation of this life; but because this life, total, altogether, has proved worthless, a play, futile—this entire experience without substance—therefore let me turn and seek that side. What is there? Who is there? What treasure is there? Let me seek!
With this inquiry goes the jñānī—having known the essence. He attains oneness, becomes ananya, and loves me—and I love him.
Enough for today.
But do not leave yet. For a little while we will try to set your pots upright. Our fakirs will dance. Let a little of it fall into your pot too. Do not sit inverted. To sit inverted means to sit stiff, lest something enter within.
Clap your hands. Keep time with the rhythm. Sit, rejoice, be lost in bliss. Take these five minutes of full joy with you.