Geeta Darshan #9

Prayers made under the push of desires do bear fruit. But such fruits are only momentary; they remain for a little while and then they are gone. No pleasure can last forever, nor does any pain. Pleasure and pain come like waves and recede like waves.

From the worship of gods, at most, one can obtain a mere taste of transient pleasure. Upon the path of passions there is no means to gain anything greater.

Therefore Krishna says: whoever comes near to me—and the condition for coming near is to drop desires, to drop attachment to objects—such a one attains that which does not perish, which is never lost, which is eternal. Hence, in this sutra he says two things. People of little intelligence!

Who are the people of little intelligence? Those who agree to buy a very small thing at a very great price—who agree to it with their own hands. Prayer can yield the Supreme Truth, but they ask for petty trinkets. Prayer can grant the Supreme Life, but they beg for a few bodily needs.

Surely, they are of little intelligence for this reason. And they are little-intelligent also because even if what they ask for is obtained, the asking has no end. Even if they get what they seek, they remain just as unsatisfied, just as impoverished, just as incomplete as they were before it arrived.

If one must ask, one should ask for that upon receiving which no further asking remains. If one must gain, one should gain that by which fulfillment happens and the race for gaining ends. But those of little intelligence cannot see far. They cannot comprehend the vastness, the total contour of life. Their intelligence is momentary. Whatever seems urgent now, they ask for it.

The wise one is he who asks for life’s ultimate need.

We have all heard the tale—very lovely and sweet. Nachiketa sits by his father’s side. The father has performed a great sacrifice. He is giving gifts to the Brahmins. The father has said to Nachiketa, “I will donate all that is mine.” The child is small, and sometimes the questions of children are very deep and ultimate. He sits nearby as the gifts are being given. Nachiketa’s father is giving away old, barren cows that no longer yield milk; things of no further use are being offered. So Nachiketa keeps asking, “I am also yours, am I not? When will you give me away? To whom will you give me? For you said you would give away all that is yours. I too am your son!”

The father becomes angry. In anger he says, “I shall give you too; do not worry. I shall give you to Death, to Yama.”

Taking it as done—that he has been gifted to Yama—Nachiketa reaches Yama’s door. But Yama is away. The boy sits fasting three days; then Yama returns. His sitting there hungry for three days, such a small child, and coming so simply to the door of death! For Yama’s experience is that whoever he goes to, that one tries to flee his house. This is the first person ever to arrive at Yama’s door by his own inquiry. And then seeing that Yama is not home, he sits waiting, thirsty and hungry. So Yama says, “Ask, take boons. I am pleased with you. I shall give you elephants and horses, wealth, beautiful women, kingdoms—everything.”

Nachiketa says, “But with the wealth you give, will there be a fulfillment that never perishes?” Yama, saddened, says, “Such fulfillment is never had through wealth.” “And the women you give—will their beauty remain forever?” Yama says, “Nothing in this world endures forever.” “And the long life you grant—after it ends, will you not come for me again?” Yama says, “That is impossible. However long life may be, in the end I must come.” “And the great kingdom you bestow—by attaining it, will I gain what the Rishis speak of, that by gaining which all is gained?” Yama says, “From that, nothing of the sort will happen; many great emperors have had all this, and died poor and wretched.” Then Nachiketa says, “These things I will not take. Tell me only the mystery of death, so that I may know the immortal.”

Yama tries hard to persuade him. Yama is very wise. Perhaps none is wiser than Death. His experience of life is infinite. No one knows as much of human foolishness as Death knows. For all that we run about collecting through a lifetime, death scatters it. Not once, but a thousand times whatever we collect, death scatters it. And given a chance again, we begin the same collection once more.

Of man’s folly, none knows as much as Death. That passing through so many fools has made Death wise should not be surprising. But this child is unwavering. He says, “Tell me only that by which I may know the immortal. Explain death to me. And you do know death—you are the god of death. If you will not tell me, who will?”

Nachiketa is wise—wise in Krishna’s sense. We cannot be wise; we are of little intelligence. Note it: Krishna says “of little intelligence”; he does not say “without intelligence.” Not mindless, but little intelligence.

If man were wholly without intelligence, there would be no possibility. Intelligence is there, only very small. It can grow, it can develop. What is a seed can become like a tree. What is so small today can become vast tomorrow.

He says: man has little intelligence. He does not want suffering—else he would be mindless. He wants happiness, but his intelligence is little. Because he wants such happiness as brings suffering in the end and nothing else.

To call us little-intelligent has a purpose. And if we grasp this rightly, we shall all appear of little intelligence. Whatever we have desired, asked, sought—whatever prayers we have made in life’s temple—are like building a house on sand, a house of playing cards, paper boats with which one hopes to voyage across the ocean. If someone were to board a paper boat to cross the sea, what would we call him?

Krishna is saying exactly this to us. We all travel on paper boats in life. Our boats are no more than dreams. Our mansions are houses of cards. Our signatures are on sand. Gusts of wind will blow, and all will be extinguished, all erased.

We are of little intelligence. Yet intelligence we have—though little. A seed, yes—a potentiality. At least it is certain we want happiness. What is not certain is what happiness is; that we have not understood.

We surely desire happiness. And our experience is that desiring happiness we fall into suffering. Yet the very desire for happiness is a sign that some intelligence is there. Only: a very little intelligence. For what we do then brings suffering into our hands. Perhaps we do not see rightly what happiness is and what suffering is.

This is a curious thing. Whoever thinks only a little ahead will always choose such happiness as later turns into suffering. And whoever thinks farther will choose such suffering as later becomes happiness.

This is the sole difference between indulgence and tapascharya. The indulger chooses what appears as happiness today; tomorrow it becomes suffering. The ascetic chooses what appears as suffering today; tomorrow it turns into happiness.

And this too is curious: the one who can choose suffering today can be the master of happiness tomorrow. And the one who can only choose today’s happiness will, tomorrow, find nothing but pits of sorrow. Whoever has his eyes set on happiness will fall into suffering. His vision is very shallow; he looks too near. He looks so near that the road ahead cannot be seen. Far-sightedness is needed; the power to look far is needed. And if we can see a little farther, then, those things we take to be happiness—we shall not destroy our lives in their pursuit.

I have heard: an American film producer was searching for a new actress. He brought along a poet friend, one of refined taste in beauty, a connoisseur of beauty, who had found and married the most beautiful woman; he had written poems on beauty and treatises on aesthetics. The producer thought, “Let me take this poet friend along; I am looking for a new actress.”

A world beauty contest was taking place, with some three dozen lovely young women from across the world. The producer said to his friend, “Sit and look carefully at each one; when a woman strikes you as right, signal me, and I will cast her as the lead in my new film.”

But the producer fell into difficulty. The very first young woman arrived—each was more beautiful than the last, each selected to represent a nation. The first came—half-naked, almost naked. The poet looked at her and said, “Phooh!” The producer was astonished. He had never seen such a beautiful woman. Yet the poet said, “Phooh.” She passed; a second came—still more beautiful. The poet said, “Phooh.” All three dozen filed past, and he kept doing only one thing: “Phooh! Phooh!”

The producer became quite anxious. When all thirty-six had gone by he asked, “Strange! Bringing you has put me in a fix. Not a single woman pleased you! Each one you saw, you said, ‘Phooh.’ What do you mean? What do you want? What is your criterion?”

The poet said, “You have misunderstood me, sir. I was not saying ‘Phooh—phooh’ to these girls. I was saying ‘phooh’ to my wife.”

The producer said, “But what has your wife to do with this?” The poet replied, “When I saw my wife for the first time, she too appeared supremely beautiful. Then, as she came close, all proved to be ‘phooh—phooh.’ Now I know that this whole outline of form that appears will prove to be ‘phooh—phooh’ behind the scenes. This world’s bodily lines can no longer attract me. Bodily proportion can no longer be beauty for me. One experience has told me much.”

Surely, whether that poet was a connoisseur or not, he was not of little intelligence. Had he been little-intelligent, he would have thought: one wife seemed beautiful but did not prove beautiful—why must it be so that another will also not prove beautiful? The second might prove beautiful. That is our logic.

The logic of little intelligence says: no worry—one house did not give happiness, the next will. No worry—one office did not bring peace, another will. No worry—a small safe filled up and the heart remained empty; perhaps a bigger safe will fill, and then the heart will fill too.

The logic of little intelligence is that it cannot turn one experience into a lasting treasury of life. It goes on deceiving itself. It says, “No matter—this experience turned out wrong; the next will be right, the third will be right, the fourth will be right.”

But in this world, one experience gives the news for all similar experiences. For that, a far-looking vision, a discerning medha is needed—not little intelligence but deep vision, great intelligence. Then one experience becomes the path and the door for all experiences.

Yet this is very difficult. If a rupee came into your hand and nothing came of it, you will never agree that the second will also come and yield nothing, the third will come and yield nothing. Your mind will go on deceiving you. It will say, “Not from one—hurry to get the second. Not from the second—hurry to get the third. Run faster, faster; someday the number of rupees will be such that fulfillment will happen.”

But has fulfillment ever come? If we turn back and ask history, did it ever arrive?

Ashoka went to war. He was not a man of little intelligence. He fought the war of Kalinga. A hundred thousand died. Before Ashoka many emperors fought; after him they fought; they will keep fighting. But what Ashoka saw, earlier emperors did not see, later emperors did not see.

Ashoka returned from Kalinga—he returned victorious, yet he returned sad.

There are very few who return sad after victory. After victory, man returns delighted—that is a symptom of little intelligence. If someone returns laughingly after victory, know that he is of little intelligence. If someone returns defeated yet serene, know he is not of little intelligence. If someone returns victorious and sad, know he is not of little intelligence.

Ashoka returned dejected. His parents had named him Ashoka—“without sorrow”—because he never used to be sad; he was always bright, cheerful. They named him so because he was ever joyful and smiling. But now, after conquering such a vast realm, after winning Kalinga, he returns sad! Anxiety spread. His friends asked, “So sad after victory! What if you had lost?” Naturally, for those of little intelligence, such a question arises. “So sad in victory—what would have happened had you been defeated?”

Ashoka said, “War is now impossible. One experience has proved enough. I can no longer make war, I can no longer go to conquer. For how I had longed: If I conquer Kalinga, such bliss will come. But Kalinga has come into my hands, bliss has not come. Though my mind is deceiving me again, saying there are many lands still to win—go, conquer them too. But this mind I will not obey again. I obeyed once; a hundred thousand corpses were laid. Only blood flowed; my hands are stained with blood. I heard the cries of anguish; the weeping. In how many homes the lamps have been extinguished! And this mind had told me bliss would come; I am seeking it within and nowhere do I find it. Lakhs have died, lakhs of families have been ruined—and of the happiness for which this mind urged me, I do not see even a trace. War is finished; for me there is no more war.”

From that very day, Ashoka began to live like a monk. He said, “If war is not for me, there is no meaning in being an emperor. Emperorship is a feeling connected to war.”

H. G. Wells writes in world history: many emperors there have been, but a star as luminous as Ashoka is not found again. There is a reason—great intelligence. And what was the key to his great intelligence? This: that a single experience of war revealed to him the entire secret of the mind.

How many times have you been angry—yet have you understood anger’s secret? How many times have you descended into lust—have you fathomed lust’s secret? How many times have you loved—have you known love’s secret? How many times have you hated—have you known hate’s secret?

No. You go on doing the same, yet no conclusion is in your hands. Your hands remain empty, and tomorrow you will behave like a child again. The mind is of little intelligence.

Krishna says: those of little intelligence ask the gods for happiness. Only from the gods can one ask for happiness. And happiness does come to them—but it proves momentary. Whereas, whoever comes to me—to the doorway of the Supreme Energy—becomes the master of infinite bliss.

If you must go to the Lord’s door, do not go with petty desires. Even if desires are fulfilled, nothing worthwhile will come into your hands. Go to the Lord’s door empty, without carrying any desire. Say only this to the Lord: what you have given is already more than needed.

I have heard: a beggar stretches his hand before an old woman, asking alms. He is lame, dragging himself. The old woman is moved and says, “It hurts to see you; it pains me to see you. God forbid anyone be lame. Yet I still say to you, even in your lameness, give thanks to God. For if you were blind, the trouble would be even greater.”

The man says, “You are right. When I am blind, people put counterfeit coins in my hand!”

For him, being lame was an occupation; being blind was an occupation. He said, “You are exactly right. Being blind is a great hassle—people give fake coins. That is why I have stopped being blind altogether. Now I make do only with being lame.”

The old lady had not imagined such a thing. She had spoken in the hope that perhaps the man might even thank God in his lameness. Even the lame can give thanks to God—if only what has been given can be seen.

But we are like that beggar. For what we have received we cannot be grateful. For what we have not received, we can only complain. The man says, “You are right—when I am blind, people put counterfeit coins in my hand!”

Even for the counterfeit, there could be gratitude. But for that, a far vision is needed, great intelligence is needed. Is it not enough that someone even put a fake coin in your hand? Even that was not necessary. Where could you go to complain? Even if he placed an empty hand on your hand—would that not be something? For had he not placed it, there would have been no question at all.

But such is our life. For what we have received, we carry no memory. For what we have not received, we have a sharp awareness. It pricks like a thorn in the heart. A religious person does not go to the temple to ask for something. He goes to give thanks that what you have given is beyond my capacity.

And what have we done with what has been given? Have you ever thought? Eyes have been given—what have you seen without which a loss would have occurred? Think! God has given you eyes. What have you seen with these eyes that, had you not seen, some loss would have happened? It is hard to recall. He has given you ears. What have you heard that, had you not heard, something would be lost? He has given you hands. What have you touched that, without that touch, something essential would be missing? He has given you feet. To which pilgrimage have you gone that, had you had no feet and not gone, a pang would have remained in the soul?

No—feet have not reached any pilgrimage; eyes have not seen a certain vision; ears have not heard any nectar. And it is not that nectar is not all around. It is not that the pilgrimage is far. It is not that the vision cannot be seen upon seeing which eyes become meaningful—this too is near.

But to what we have been given, we do not even pay attention; let alone use. Use does not arise—we do not even attend. We go on asking for what we have not received. All our prayers are for what we do not have. They will be fulfilled, Krishna says; yet even then, man remains of little intelligence. For after a little while he will find that all the pleasures he had gained are lost.

Prayer alone is meaningful which leads there where, upon attainment, nothing is ever lost; whose union knows no separation. Not by worship of gods—only by surrender to the Supreme Being is that possible.

अव्यक्तं व्यक्तिमापन्नं मन्यन्ते मामबुद्धयः।
परं भावमजानन्तो ममाव्ययमनुत्तमम्।।24।।
नाहं प्रकाशः सर्वस्य योगमायासमावृतः।
मूढोऽयं नाभिजानाति लोको मामजमव्ययम्।।25।।

Men of little intelligence, not knowing my unsurpassed, imperishable Supreme Being—that I, unborn and imperishable, manifest by my own Maya—take me, who am beyond mind and senses, to be born like a human and to have come into individuality.

And, covered by my Yoga-Maya, I am not manifest to all. Therefore these ignorant people do not know me in truth—me, the unborn, the imperishable Supreme.

In this sutra Krishna says two things. First: I stand in embodied form, I have taken form. Those who do not know think my form is me. They cannot see the formless hidden within my form. I have taken a shape. Those without eyes to see, without medha to think, perceive only my form. The Formless within remains unknown to them. My Satchidananda nature—my essence of Being, Consciousness, and Bliss—remains veiled to their eyes.

This must be a little understood.

First: whenever the Divine manifests, it manifests in form, in shape. To manifest means: to take form—to be in the form. To manifest means: to take a boundary. To manifest means: to stand within limits. To manifest means: to be expressed on earth, in a body, in a sheath. But here we face a difficulty.

This bulb burns with electricity. Electricity cannot be manifest without the bulb. The bulb will have form, shape; electricity has no form or shape. The foolish man is he who takes the bulb to be electricity. Even such a fool can argue: he strikes the tube with a stick, the tube breaks, the light goes off, and he says, “See! I told you—the bulb itself is the electricity. I hit it, the bulb broke—no more electricity!”

Yet we know the bulb is not the electricity. The bulb may remain intact, and the electricity may depart; and the bulb may be destroyed, yet electricity remains. The bulb is only the arrangement for manifestation. Whenever a power is to be revealed, there is no way but form and shape.

Krishna says: the foolish take my body to be myself.

Among these foolish are two kinds. One kind loves Krishna, but loves only his body. They do not see the Formless hidden within. The other kind becomes an enemy. They go on saying, “This person has a body—how can he be God? He gets up, sits, sleeps, feels hunger, eats—how can this be God?”

There is little difference between the intelligence of these two. Those who love Krishna take this body to be God. Then they make a statue of Krishna; then they brush his teeth in the morning, give him water, bathe him; put him to sleep, shut the doors at noon and lay him on a bed; then dress the statue.

All this goes on. And they forget that the manifestation of Krishna we witnessed was not this statue. The epiphany was of the Formless—through this form, in this form. The statue may be used; one can express reverence through the statue. But whoever goes on revolving around the statue and forgets the Formless is foolish.

One foolishness is this—done by the devotee. The other is that people ask: “How can this be God? In the sun he sweats, on running he pants, when tired he sleeps. He is like us men. How can we accept that he is God?” That other class also sees only the form. Their foolishness is the same as the devotee’s who sees only the form. Both are fixed on the formed.

Krishna says: only he is wise who sees the Formless. In truth, the very test of intelligence is whether it can see the Formless. The formed can be seen even by the unintelligent. There is no intelligence in seeing the formed; form is visible to all. But that which is not seen—that which stands hidden behind—whoever sees that, recognizes that, he alone is wise. And no one can see the Formless in Krishna alone unless he begins to see the Formless everywhere.

When you look at a tree, you see only the form. The life-energy flowing within, taking that form—you do not see it. When a flower blossoms, you see the shape. The energy that blooms within the flower and spreads in the petals—the power by which the petals were closed and then open—you do not see it. When a seed breaks, you see the seed; but that which was packed within and wanted to burst forth, that which broke the seed and came out—you do not see it.

We see the formed everywhere. If everywhere we see only form, how shall it be possible that with Krishna—or Christ or Mohammed—we will not see the form and will see the Formless? Our habit is rigidly fixed on form. What we see for twenty-four hours—only that we will see in Krishna. The other we will not see.

I have heard: on a ship, among many passengers, there is a magician. A man has a parrot. To pass time, the magician gathers the passengers and shows tricks—sleights of hand. But the parrot is from the same village as the magician and from the house across. Whenever the magician shows something, the parrot shrieks, “Phony! Phony! All false! All trick! All sleight of hand! Beware!” Whenever the magician shows anything, the parrot shouts that it is all sleight of hand, all deception.

Then a great storm comes and the ship sinks. By chance, the magician grabs a plank to save himself. The parrot too comes to sit upon that plank. For two days, the magician, angry, says nothing—because the parrot had daily been his enemy. And the parrot too says nothing for two days—he hasn’t the courage. But after two days he says to the magician, “All right. Suppose you are clever. But tell me—what did you do with the ship?”

He thought some trick had been done—that this was the magician’s mischief. The parrot concluded it was some sleight of hand. But after two days he saw: what trick is this, that two days have passed and the ship has not returned! He said, “Granted you are clever—but please tell me now: what did you do with that ship?”

For years the parrot had watched sleights of hand outside the magician’s house. His mode of thinking was made. Then on the ship he watched sleight of hand too. His style of thinking was fixed. The parrot could not even conceive the ship had sunk. He thought this was the magician’s mischief. That he would show some trick, and after a while the ship would appear—and then he would shout, “Phony! Phony!” But that chance did not come in two days.

We too have habits of mind, fixed styles of thinking. Once nothing is seen in stone, then nothing will be seen in a statue. If it is seen in stone, it will be seen in the statue too. Whoever says, “In stone I see only stone, but in a statue I see God,” speaks untruth. Whoever says, “In my son I see only a body, in my wife I see a body, in my father I see a body, and in Rama I see God,” speaks incorrectly. This cannot be. For once the Formless is seen in Rama’s body, it begins to be seen in all bodies.

Once seen, the matter opens. Our old logic breaks. Our old frame of seeing dissolves. We look in a new way. Now we will see the form, but behind every form the Formless will be felt. Its presence will be sensed; its shadow will follow every form.

We may embrace a person; only bones will touch. Yet inwardly we will know that something else—the Formless—is meeting. Then it becomes the meeting of souls.

Krishna says: the foolish can only see my body, my form, my shape. They cannot experience my formless glory. And it is in that Formless that I am hidden—that is what I am.

Now this is the difficulty inherent in manifestation. The greatest difficulty is that to manifest, one must take form. Without form, manifestation is impossible.

If I am to speak, I must use words. But the fear in using words is that the meaning may never reach you—only the words reach. As happens daily: the words arrive, the meaning does not. The meaning stays behind. Meaning is formless; words are formed.

When I utter a word, it goes to your memory-bank. You believe you have understood—the word has come; you can now repeat it. You can recite what I said. Even so, you may not have understood what I meant. For that meaning is hidden behind. To know it, a grasp of the Formless is needed.

Yet to speak, words must be used—and what is to be said is the wordless. Such is the knot, the trouble. This is a fact of life: here, whenever things manifest, they take form. In taking form, only form is seen; the formless is concealed. If the Formless is not seen, no touch of the divine consciousness comes into our life.

Krishna says: to know me, Satchidananda, you must lift your eyes from form, rise above shape, peep beyond the body. This can be begun anywhere. It is not necessary to go to Krishna—how now to go to him? Begin anywhere. There is a gestalt in the brain. We are bound by a certain habit of seeing; we keep seeing in that way. The other is not visible to us.

We are all conditioned. Our mind functions like a strong machine. Krishna is asking us to break this machine. He says: any lover, any devotee who wants to know me must search in the direction of my Satchidananda—the formless. Do not stop at my form. Do not stop at my words. Do not stop at my body. Move a little away, transcend, go beyond, and seek from above.

Buddha is dying—his last moment. Someone asks, “Where will you go after death?” Buddha says, “Then you have not understood me. For even while living I never went anywhere.” Certainly the questioner is thrown into difficulty. He says, “How can you say this! I followed you to several villages. I joined many journeys.” Buddha says, “You may have gone; but I tell you, I never went anywhere. I have never traveled.”

He might have taken it as a joke and looked at Buddha’s face. But Buddha is not joking. “I do not jest,” he says. “In my life I have not gone anywhere. And what went—that am not I. This body used to move; you have seen only this. Within, there is also the unmoving; that which never moves—you have not seen it.”

In Japan there was a fakir, Rinzai. One morning—he is a devotee of Buddha, daily he prays, worships, offers flowers, bows to the statue—one morning he gathers his monks and says, “I tell you, this man called Buddha never existed.” They are shocked. “Has something gone wrong in his head? For thirty years we have watched him bow at Buddha’s feet; what has happened?” they say. “What are you saying?”

Rinzai says, “A man called Buddha never was; he never walked this earth; he never spoke. These scriptures are false.” They say, “Please explain, otherwise we are in trouble.” Rinzai says, “I tell you: I too never was. I never spoke. I never walked. These things are false.” Then they relax a little, seeing what he means. They ask, “What are you trying to say?”

Rinzai says, “Today I have come to know that walking is only of the body; speaking is only of the body. Hunger, thirst, sleep are of the body. That which is within—hunger never touches it, sleep never comes to it. It never walks, sits, or rises. It is never born; it never dies. It is beyond all these events. All these occurrences are within form—and it is Formless.”

The next morning he is again lying prostrate at Buddha’s feet. The monks ask, “What are you doing now? If he never was, why are you at his feet?” Rinzai says, “What feet? Who is prostrate? That too never happened which stands before me—and this lying here never happened either.”

One must seek the Formless. Easiest is to begin within oneself. To go searching for the Formless in another is extremely difficult. Within oneself, the search is easier. Close the eyes and try to see within: am I bound by the body’s form? Close the eyes and inquire: where are my boundaries? You will be amazed. Make a small three-month experiment, and this sutra will open. For three months, for half an hour daily, close your eyes and think only this: where is my boundary?

Today, if you think, your body will seem to be your boundary. But within fifteen days, a strange experience begins. Sometimes the body will feel very large; sometimes very small—within just fifteen days. At times the body will seem as big as a mountain; the boundary vast. At other times it will seem as small as an ant; the boundary tiny. Do not be frightened; a great panic is felt.

When the sense of boundary breaks for the first time, a fluctuation happens. Sometimes you feel very large; sometimes very small. If you persist, before a month is over, moments will come when it will seem there is no body—neither small nor large. And then, for the first time, you will know: I have no boundary. I am—and there is no boundary at all. If for three months you do this within, a tiny glimpse of the infinite, of the Formless, will be had.

And the day you know it within, you will know it within the other too. For whatever we know in the other is inference. Knowledge happens only within; toward the other it is inference.

You know: when you are angry, your eyes redden, fists clench. So even if another is not angry—as with a film actor or a stage player—he reddens his eyes, clenches his fist; and you understand he is angry. Inside there is no anger. But because you know what happens in you when angry, you infer anger in him. Anger is your inference. It is not there. Yet the outer events of anger are present; and you infer.

Regarding the other, we infer. Knowledge is of oneself.

Seek a little of the Formless within. There are many ways. As I said: contemplate the boundary of the body. Meditate on it. In three months, your boundary will fall away, and you will experience the boundless.

If that is difficult, then contemplate the age of your body. Inwardly feel: how old am I? Today, if you sit, you will say forty years, so forty years. But this is not real knowing. It is only a daily habit that you are forty. In fifteen days of looking, you will wobble. Sometimes you will feel you are a small child; sometimes very old. The fluctuation begins.

Before a month is over, a clarity dawns: I am neither child, nor old, nor young. Do this for three months and you will find you are unborn; your birth never happened. And you are deathless; your death cannot be.

Begin anywhere, with any form—and slowly you will descend into the Formless. Meditation means the journey from form to the Formless.

That is what Krishna says. Knowledge means the journey from form to the Formless.

The unintelligent is stuck in form. The intelligent dives into the Formless. And once a glimpse of the Formless is had, all forms of this world melt and only the Formless remains. And where the Formless is, there is bliss.

Therefore Krishna says: that is my Satchidananda nature—there dwell Sat, Chit, and Ananda.

But Sat is in the Formless. If you search in form, you will find asat—appearance. Sat means Existence. Asat means semblance; it appears to be, and is not. If you search in form, you will not find Chit. Chit means Consciousness. In form, you will find the inert, not consciousness. The third is Ananda. In form you will find pleasure and pain, not bliss. Bliss will be found only in the Formless.

Hence Krishna says: my Satchidananda nature is known by the wise who do not get entangled in my form and figure. They penetrate, pass beyond, go deep, and discover the Formless.

This Formless pervades on all sides; it is here. But we see only forms everywhere. It is only our habit of seeing.

Understand it so: a man sits inside his house and has never gone outside. He looks at the sky through a window. Will the sky appear formless or formed? To him it will appear formed. The window-frame will sit upon the sky. The pattern of the window will be imposed; the sky will seem only as big as the frame. If he has never gone out, will he be able to think: that which appears as a frame belongs to my house, not the sky? Never. To know this, one must go outside.

We have never gone outside our house. We are within the body. And on everything, a frame. The frame of our eyes gives things form. The frame of our ears gives things form. Our senses manufacture form. And we have never stepped outside the body. From within the body, we see everything—and the senses shape everything. If only once we look from outside the body, that too will do.

So I give you another experiment—if possible—to go outside the house. For fifteen days, lie on the ground like a corpse for half an hour and go on feeling only this: I am dead. It will be hard. You will frighten yourself. In between you might say, “No, no—I am alive!”

No, do not do that. Keep saying, “I am dead, I am dead.” Feel it as a mantra. Within fifteen days you will suddenly find that at times you feel you are slightly outside the body. Sometimes you have slipped out; sometimes you are back in. In and out.

Before a month is over, you will arrive at a state where, several times, you will have the chance to see your body from outside. For a moment you will see the body lying there like a corpse. You are lying there. Frightened, you will rush back in.

Do it for three months and you will reach a state where you can steadily stand outside and see your body lying there.

And once, if you stand outside your body and see your body—then look around—everything will appear formless; nowhere any form. For all form is the frame of the senses of the body.

The eye has a shape—so it cannot see the Formless. The ear has a shape—so it cannot hear the Formless. The hand has a shape—how will it touch the Formless?

Outside the body—an out-of-the-body experience—will let you know that all is Formless. After that day, your life will be different.

All that Krishna is saying here are hints toward deep yogic experiments. Whoever sees the Formless is intelligent. Whoever remains entangled in form is unintelligent.

वेदाहं समतीतानि वर्तमानानि चार्जुन।
भविष्याणि च भूतानि मां तु वेद न कश्चन।।26।।

And Arjuna, I know all beings that have passed away before, that are situated in the present, and that will be in the future; but none who lack faith and devotion know me.

“I know,” says Krishna, “what has been, what is, and what will be—I know all.”

The meaning of “knowing all” is this—subtle, but to be understood. For a consciousness like Krishna’s, there is no such thing as time. Past, present, and future are our notions. As soon as one knows the Formless, the limits of time fall. An eternal Now—everything is happening now. No past, no future, no present. The moment of time stands still.

If rightly seen, we keep saying, “Time is passing.” The situation is the reverse. Time stands in its place; we are passing. Our situation is like that of a child, sitting in a train for the first time, who feels the trees are going backward. The train moves forward—the child is going forward—but through the window the trees seem to run backward. He thinks the trees are going back.

We all say time is going. But the truth is exactly the opposite. We are going; time stands still. Understand it a little.

Time stands in its own place; it goes nowhere. Where will it go? Where is there for it to go? Yesterday has gone—where did it go? There must be a place in existence to collect it! Where is the past being gathered? And tomorrow which has not yet come—whence is it coming? To come, it must be somewhere; to go, it must arrive somewhere. That would mean behind us a colossal heap of past is collecting—millions upon millions of years. And ahead, the future is coming.

This cannot be. Neither is the future coming, nor has the past gone. Only we are passing. Like a man moving along a road. But the traffic is one-way; we cannot go back in time; therefore we feel what has gone is lost. We cannot leap ahead in time; therefore we feel the future has not yet arrived. The future is as present as the present.

I pass along a street. A house ahead is not yet visible to me, but it exists there. A little later I will come before it; it will be visible. A house behind, visible a moment ago, now is not seen; is it lost? Nowhere lost; it remains where it is.

Time does not move; our notion that it moves is like the trees seeming to move when we are in a train. Man moves; time does not.

Therefore when Krishna says, “I know all—that which is behind, ahead, and now,” it simply means: for one in the supreme state of consciousness, that Samadhi, the distance between present, past, and future has fallen away.

Consider I have climbed a very tall tree. You sit below. I shout down, “An ox-cart is coming on the road.” You say, “I cannot see it—it must be in the future.” But I see it; I sit a little higher than you. I say, “Not in the future; it is present. It has arrived on the road.” You say, “Nowhere visible; it has not yet come—it is in the future.”

A little later the cart comes before you. You say, “Now it has come—the present.” A little afterward it passes and goes on. You say, “It has become past—no longer seen.” But from up the tree I say to you, “It is still present—I can see it.”

The higher the elevation of consciousness, the more the distance between past, present, and future falls away. And the day the consciousness reaches Krishna’s supreme height, all things that have happened are seen; all things that will happen are seen; all things happening now are seen.

On the basis of this experience, astrology once developed. But now people give a few coins in the market to an astrologer—he cannot tell much; he knows nothing.

Astrology developed from the experience of a consciousness in Samadhi. Those in whom all distances of time had fallen—they saw all. Jyotish arose from the experience of a jyotirmaya consciousness.

Krishna says: I see all. But the ignorant do not see me; I am seeing all of them.

To Krishna it is plainly visible that the Kauravas will be defeated. For him, the ox-cart has already arrived. Arjuna cannot see whether the Kauravas will lose or the Pandavas win. Duryodhana too cannot see that the Kauravas will lose and the Pandavas win. Arjuna is afraid—perhaps we may lose! The Kauravas are thinking: we shall win, for the power is ours. There was one man there in that war who knew what was going to happen and what would happen.

Krishna’s telling Arjuna, “Do not run away,” is connected to knowledge from far away. Krishna says, “Those whom you think you will kill—Time has already killed them. I see their corpses lying on the battlefield. You cannot see it. Two days later, you too will see; the cart will stand before you. You think you will kill; I say the law has finished them—you will only be an instrument.”

Krishna says, “I see far—on all sides, ahead and behind. Yet all around me are hundreds who do not see me.”

From a mountain height it is easy to see downwards; from the valleys it is hard to see upwards. The lower we are, the narrower our consciousness; the higher we rise, the vaster it becomes.

So for Krishna, seeing all is easy. For all to see Krishna is difficult. But whoever gets even a slight glimpse of Krishna becomes ready to surrender. For he sees a vast One standing near. Then he will no longer live from his small ego and meager intelligence; he will begin to live surrendered. And when he lives surrendered, then he will know—he will know that what was said is what happened; what was said is what is happening. Otherwise nothing happens. Otherwise nothing ever happens.

On the night Jesus was arrested, his friends said, “We have heard the enemies are coming to seize you. Better we run from here.” Jesus smiled. That smile is still beyond our understanding. Why did he smile? I say: because Jesus knows, being seized is necessary; it is going to be—so running has no meaning. He must have smiled because these loving friends, out of anxiety, say what they say—but they know nothing. What is to happen will happen.

Jesus was arrested. The friends said, “We told you—you did not listen.” He smiled again. For he knows: what is to be, is happening. Your saying was necessary; my not listening was necessary; and this arrest is necessary.

Then one among them said, “Whatever happens, I will stay with you.” Jesus said, “You know not—you will deny me three times before the sun rises.” It was midnight; “Before sunrise you will deny me thrice.” The friend said, “What are you saying! I will lay down my life for you. Will I deny you?”

Jesus smiled. The poor man did not know what he might do by morning. But Jesus could see what he would do.

Jesus was taken away. The other disciples fled; the one who had pledged to stay followed behind. The enemies saw a stranger trailing them. “Who is this?” They held up torches to his face, caught him and asked, “Who are you? Are you not a companion of Jesus?” He said, “Jesus? I do not even know him.”

Jesus looked back, smiled, and said, “See! The sun has not yet risen.” And it happened thrice. A little later, some soldiers asked, “Who is this man walking among us? He looks like a stranger.” They seized him. “Why do you seize me? I am a foreigner.” “Are you Jesus’ companion?” He said, “Who Jesus? I do not know.” Jesus smiled again and said loudly, “Look! It is not yet morning.” Thrice in the night he denied.

Jesus knew what would be and what was to be. Therefore those who deeply recognize Jesus call his death the Christ-drama. They say, do not take it too seriously; for Jesus it was no more than a play. If you know in advance, the matter becomes a play.

For Krishna too, the war was no more than a play. Hence many are troubled: in such a war he gives so much encouragement! He does not stop Arjuna.

Gandhi was greatly pained—that such a great war, so much violence, will be made to happen! Gandhi loved the Gita, but even so, the Gita did not sit well within him; deep down it pricked. For it is indeed a matter of war. There is no nonviolence in it. And such easy acceptance of violence no one else has given. So Gandhi had only two choices: either drop the Gita, or interpret it in such a way that his mind can settle.

He contrived a device. He said: this war never took place. It is symbolic; it is the inner war between good and evil in man. On the field of Kurukshetra no war ever happened. Then he got some relief. It is the conflict of demonic and virtuous tendencies. In truth, no war took place. With this interpretation, Gandhi found comfort.

But this is false. The war did happen. There is historical evidence. And it is not a mere symbol; it is an actuality. Then how does Krishna push Arjuna into a real war?

In truth, what Arjuna cannot see, Krishna sees. This war will happen. It is destiny; it is inevitable. One cannot evade it. All historical forces have converged to this point; here this war will be. So the question now is not whether war should be or not be. The question is: if Arjuna must go to war, with what inner posture should he go? Should he fight surrendered to the Supreme, or fight filled with ego? The real question is only this.

Krishna says: I see it all. But those who do not know me do not see me at all.

There will be those standing nearby who never took Krishna to be more than a charioteer. A charioteer he was—so far as form goes. He would take the horses to the river at dusk to water them, clean them, tend them. All day he drove the chariot; in the evening he served the horses. So a charioteer he was. In that war many charioteers were there; he must not have held any special position among them. Those who could not see, saw only a charioteer.

Those who could see—saw the Formless. Those who could see, saw the Supreme God. Those who could not see—were blind—they saw only a man. He was indeed a man—form he had; a form surely.

Therefore Krishna says: only one who has eyes to seek the Formless can see me.

The rest we shall speak tomorrow.

But let us not rise. Let us do kirtan. For by kirtan there is a possibility that form breaks a little and a slight vision of the Formless is available.

No one is to get up. A little water may fall—receive it with joy. When the Divine sends a little water, receive it with delight.