Geeta Darshan #1

There is no end to Arjuna’s questions. There is no end to anyone’s questions. As leaves sprout on trees, so questions sprout in the human mind. And as streams flow downhill, so the mind searches for pits of questioning.
Even when a being like Krishna is present, questions keep arising. And perhaps it is because of these very questions that Arjuna is unable to see Krishna. Perhaps because of these very questions he cannot even hear Krishna’s answers.
A mind filled with many questions cannot understand an answer. Because in truth, when answers are given, it does not listen to the answer; it only keeps resounding within with its own questions, its own questions.
Krishna certainly speaks; yet it does not reach Arjuna. There is a dilemma; but such is the state. So long as questions crowd the mind, the answer cannot be understood. And when questions drop, the answer is understood. If the mind is crammed with questions, even if Krishna stands before you—even if the answer itself stands before you—it remains beyond comprehension. And if questions drop from the mind, even a stone lying before you becomes an answer.
In a questionless mind the answer arrives. In a mind filled with questions, there is not even room for an answer to enter. The crowd of one’s own making is such that even an entryway for the answer cannot be found.
Arjuna keeps asking. It is not that he is not trying to understand; he is trying fully. But very often the very effort to understand becomes a barrier to understanding. Whenever the mind tries, it becomes tense, it gets stretched. In that stretched, taut state nothing is understood.
Where even the effort to understand is absent, where there is only the spirit of drinking in; where there is not even the thought of asking, but a longing to gather whatever comes into one’s very life-breath; where there is not even the restlessness to pull, to grab, to know, to attain—where there is courage to open the door and wait—there the answer enters silently within, without the sound of footsteps.
And it is not that by asking very big questions one will receive the answer. The mind raises grand questions. But so long as the mind keeps raising questions, even a small answer is not received—because the mind itself is the obstacle.
Arjuna lines up a whole row of questions. Previously Krishna has been giving answers. In the last seven chapters he has given many answers. Arjuna keeps circling back, dressing up old matters with new names and raising them again. He asks again. And he does not even ask one thing; this too is worth noticing.
He asks, O Purushottama, what is Brahman?
There is no end to questioning—although the end of all questions comes with the question of Brahman. After that no question remains. Will any question be left after Brahman? Brahman is the ultimate question—the last question. What remains to be asked after this? Yet there is an entire queue.
Arjuna asks, What is Brahman? What is Adhyatma? What is Karma? What is Adhibhuta? What is Adhidaiva? Who is the adhiyajna here? How is he in this body? And in what manner do you come to be known, at the time of the end, by men of a yoked mind?
It does not seem that in any single question his longing is very intense. He asks with such haste, with such urgency, that it feels as if questions are being asked merely for the sake of asking. Otherwise, after Brahman there is no question. And the one who goes on asking after Brahman declares that he has no deep thirst or inquiry for Brahman. Otherwise one question would be enough: What is Brahman? There would be no need for another question. The answer to this one would become the answer to all. By knowing the one, all is known. But those who are obsessed with knowing everything are deprived of even knowing the one.
For Arjuna, even after Brahman, questions remain. One thing is clear: whatever answer may be given, Arjuna’s questions do not seem likely to be resolved. The one who can ask even after Brahman will, after every question and after every answer, go on raising new questions.
In truth, whenever our mind receives an answer, it knows only one use of it—to make ten more questions from it.
The history of the human mind is the history of ever-new questions. Not a single answer does man truly discover. Though with every given answer ten new questions arise.
If we look back, the answers man has today are the same as ever. In Krishna’s time the answer was the same; in Buddha’s time the answer was the same; today too the answer is the same. But the questions today are more. If there has been any progress, it is only that we have produced more questions—not answers. In the crowd of more and more questions, the answers we had in hand have slipped away and keep being lost.
This will seem upside down: where questions are many, answers grow few; and where there are no questions at all, there the Answer—the one answer—breaks all knots, dissolves all tangles.
Badarayana’s Brahma-Sutra begins with a small sutra. And the whole Brahma-Sutra answers one small question. It begins with two small words: Athato Brahma Jijnasa—Here begins the inquiry into Brahman. But this is the last question; beyond this there can be no more questions. Hence the inquiry into the Brahman; from here begins the inquiry into Brahman. Enough; no more questions can arise—the last has been asked.
Arjuna too asks, What is Brahman? But he does not pause even for a moment, not even a small interval. He asks, What is Adhyatma? Had Krishna asked back, Arjuna, repeat your question once more—just as I needed to keep his paper in my hand—he too would have needed a paper. Very likely he could not have repeated his question exactly as before. It is also very possible that Brahman and Adhyatma might have been missed, forgotten.
This is my everyday experience. Someone comes and says, Please say something about God. If I delay for a couple of moments, ask, When did you come? How are you?—he then sits for an hour and talks, and never again asks about that God for whose sake he had come to ask!
From where do such questions arise in us? Do they come from some deep layer of our heart, or are they like dust settled on the surface of the intellect? Are they born out of some deep abyss of our life-breath, or are they merely an itch of the intellect? If it is an intellectual itch, then scratching the itch gives a certain pleasure, but the disease does not lessen; it increases.
Arjuna’s disease does not seem to be diminishing. He just keeps asking. He does not even care that what he is asking he has asked many times before. He does not even care that under new words he keeps raising the same old curiosities again and again. He does not care that Krishna keeps giving answers, but he is not listening to the answers.
Perhaps he is in the hope that he may ask such a question that Krishna gets stuck! Perhaps he is waiting for that question where Krishna too will say, Nothing occurs, Arjuna; I cannot make sense of it. His deeper mind is in this expectation. His unconscious mind is waiting for that point—either Krishna will have to say, I do not know; or Krishna will get bored, get tired, and say, Do whatever you want to do; I have nothing to do with it! Then Arjuna can do what he wants to do.
But people like Krishna do not tire. Though it is quite a miracle. With people as tiring as Arjuna, even one like Krishna should get tired. But people like Krishna do not tire. And why not? There is a secret to not tiring; let me tell you that, and then we will move to Krishna’s answer.
One secret of not tiring is this: Krishna knows very well, Arjuna, you have no real concern with your questions. And if Arjuna is engaged in this race—We will go on raising questions so as to catch you somewhere where you have no answer—Krishna keeps walking one step ahead alongside him: We will go on giving you answers. Some moment will come when your questions will be exhausted, and the answer will become a revolution in your life.
Krishna knows well: Arjuna’s question is not a question; it is his illness. He does not need an answer; he needs transformation. He needs a total turnabout of life—transformation. But to bring him to that state, one must coax him, persuade him; one must speak in Arjuna’s own language.
I have heard that in a village, for the first time some people bought a horse and brought it home. In that land there were no horses, and the villagers had never seen one. Those who brought it from a foreign place were impressed by the body of the horse, by its run, by its speed. But they knew nothing about horses. One thing was certain—they did not know the language of the horse at all. They fell into great difficulty. They had seen the horse move like the wind. Brought to the village, they found that if four men pulled from the front and four pushed from behind, then somehow it moved a little. Great difficulty! If to make a horse move eight men are needed, what is the horse for? They kept saying, We saw you talk to the wind! The horse stood listening—perhaps just as Arjuna must have listened.
Krishna’s language is different. And there is such a big gap of language that even if a horse can understand a man’s language, for Arjuna to understand Krishna’s language is difficult. The gap between a horse and a man is not so large. Some say the gap is like that between a donkey and a horse—but even if that is not accurate, still, between man and horse the gap is not as great as between Krishna and Arjuna.
Yet a difficulty there surely is, even if the gap is small. And the horse began to wither and grow thin, because they never asked that it must be fed! Day by day movement became harder. Four had to become eight, eight ten, ten twelve—the numbers had to increase daily to make the horse move. The whole village was in trouble. People said, What have you brought? A time will soon come when the whole village will have to make it move! And what is the use of moving it? Fine—one day a show was made; people saw it move; then what?
A stranger stayed in the village one night. He saw the sport—that the whole village pushed and the horse did not move. He said, Fools, do you not know the language of the horse at all? They said, That is our trouble. The man simply took a small tuft of grass in his hand and walked in front of the horse. And the horse, though so weak, quickly picked up speed. The man began to run; the horse began to run. A small tuft of grass in the hand! The horse understood the language of grass.
People like Krishna also try a thousand ways to place before those like Arjuna something they can understand. But Arjuna is a clever horse—he does not get entangled easily. He says, All right. That is fine. But there are still some more questions left; I need their answers. He does not truly pay attention to what Krishna is laying before him.
Perhaps he does this only to protect himself. Lest Krishna’s word be heard, he quickly asks a question. He asks so quickly that Krishna can scarcely finish a reply, and Arjuna’s next question is already standing. This is impossible.
If I speak to you, have not even finished speaking, and your question arises, it means only this: while I was speaking, you were preparing your question.
Nor does it seem that his questions are born out of what Krishna is saying. They are Arjuna’s own questions; Krishna’s speaking is irrelevant. Nowhere is Krishna’s speaking being heard.
And yet people like Krishna give answers—in the hope that perhaps at some moment the tired mind of Arjuna will fail to find new questions, fail to raise new queries, and perhaps a single ray of light may enter within. If even a small taste of the answer comes to him, then, like the horse, he may begin to follow after the grass. In that hope the entire Gita is spoken. And an answerer like Krishna is very rare—very rare.
Buddha would refuse many questions. He would say, Do not ask these questions. I will not answer them. Because he said, These questions are not your questions; they are not asked from your life-breath. Ask only that which you truly want to know. Do not ask what you do not want to know.
A man comes to Buddha and asks, What is death? Buddha says, Do you want to know death? The man says, I want to know so that I may escape. There is no point in knowing otherwise. If death is something, I will know it so that I may avoid it. Buddha says, If you want to know, you must enter death—there is no other way to know. So drop it; drop this question. Ask something else that you want to know by entering into it.
The man is a bit stuck. After thinking, he says, All right, then say something about meditation.
He asks out of compulsion. Now he is caught. Buddha says, I will not speak about death, because you are not willing to enter it. Leave it. Ask something else. Now he does not have the honesty to say, I do not want to ask anymore; the matter is over; I will not ask. Not even that. Not even that much honesty, not that much strength of character to say no.
Buddha says, Now that you have come, ask. So he asks, What is meditation? Buddha says, For what do you want meditation? The man says, I have come to ask you, and you keep asking me! I ask about death, you ask, Why? I ask about meditation, you ask, Why? Buddha says, Until I know that you truly want to know, I do not give an answer.
Perhaps—though in Buddha’s compassion there is not a grain less than Krishna’s—perhaps the experience of Krishna’s long dialogue with Arjuna proved too costly for Buddha. Because of that experience, perhaps he was no longer willing that such a long Gita should unfold, with the same man asking the same questions again and again.
If someone went to Socrates to ask, he would never go to ask again. Why? Because Socrates would not give answers. If you asked and got trapped, he would ask you so many questions that you would never again pass by the street where Socrates lived. The greatest reason Athens gave Socrates poison was that he proved every man in Athens ignorant, by asking questions.
If you asked, Is there God? Socrates would first ask, What do you mean by God? Now you are trapped. You will say, If I knew the meaning, why would I ask? Socrates says, If you do not know the meaning of the word, how will you form a question out of it?
He threw every man in Athens into confusion. At last Athens became angry. The city said, This man is such that he gives no answers, and on top of that has proved us all ignorant.
In small matters ignorance is exposed. No one asks, and so your knowledge goes on. That is why little children seem so troublesome—not because they ask nonsense, but because they ask such questions that the very asking makes your answers wobble. No one asks, and so it goes on.
Saint Augustine used to say there are many things that, until you ask me, I know the answers to. You ask—and the answer is gone! He used to say, I know well what time is. But the moment you ask me—once you ask—everything gets muddled!
You too know what time is. But you should know—even Einstein cannot answer, What is time? And yet all of you know what time is. We all know. We reach the train on time, we come home on time, go to the office. Who is there who does not know what time is? But Einstein too cannot answer, What is time? Ask, and a difficulty arises.
Ignorance runs hidden, so long as no one asks. Let someone begin to ask—nothing remains in hand but ignorance.
Socrates put people in difficulty by asking. He did not give answers. Perhaps Socrates was even more experienced than Buddha. He thought, Before you ask, it is better that I ask!
But in this regard Krishna is astonishing. Perhaps for lack of such experience—because he is more ancient!—he goes on giving answers. He does not even interrupt Arjuna: What are you asking? Why are you asking? I have already answered this. No—he is ready to answer again. Let us understand what Krishna has said.
Arjuna’s first question is, What is Brahman? Krishna says, That which is never destroyed.
Then the matter becomes clear: in this world there is nowhere Brahman. Here, whatever is, is perishable. Have you seen anything here that is never destroyed? Have you ever heard of anything that is never destroyed? Have you ever had an experience that is never destroyed?
Here whatever is, is transient. Here the very condition of being is dissolution. There is only one condition for being: preparation for non-being. With birth one must strike a bargain with death. With birth one must sign before death: I am ready to die.
Here, whatever is gained, nothing else will happen but loss. Here, if you meet, you must part. The arrangement of embracing is only to separate the necks later. Here, all is perishable. Here, what appears to be coming into being—look from one side and it seems to be forming; look from the other and it is disintegrating.
One day a religious teacher’s little boy asked him, “How did man come to be? And when man disappears, what happens then?” The teacher said, “Dust unto dust; clay merges into clay. Man is made of dust, and into dust he falls.”
The very next morning that teacher was sitting on his wooden cot, reading his book. His little boy came, crawled underneath the cot, and shouted from there, “Father, please come down a moment. It looks as if either someone is being made, or someone is being unmade! There’s a heap of dust here.” Dust had gathered under the cot. The boy said, “Either someone is forming or someone is dissolving; come quickly!”

If man is nothing but dust, then a heap of dust can be seen both ways—either someone is being made, or someone is being unmade. In truth, whenever something is being made, something is also being unmade. And not somewhere far away—right there. Where becoming is going on, unbecoming is going on.

Here everything is perishing. There is no resting. Everything flows like the current of a river. You barely touch the shore and it slips away. Union hardly happens before the hour of farewell arrives.

And Krishna says: that which has no destruction—that is Brahman.

Arjuna could scarcely understand. In fact, Arjuna is assuming that if he kills the men standing before him, he will be responsible for destruction. But Krishna is saying that here whatever is, is perishable. And if you wish to abide in the imperishable so that destruction does not arise from you, you will have to abide in Brahman.

But where is that Brahman? It is nowhere visible; because whatever the eyes can see will perish. It is nowhere audible; because whatever the ears can hear will be lost. It has no tangible touch; because whatever the hands can touch will perish. Whatever the senses can know belongs to the realm of destruction.

In fact, the senses can know only that which is coming into being or passing away—not that which is, that which is, that which is. If you want to know that is-ness, the senses are not the means. You must discover within yourself that place where the senses have no movement. But where is it?

Even if we go within to look, it is not found. When we look within, we see the mind—and that too is perishable.

In the morning someone comes to me and says, “I am in boundless joy.” I listen, look into his eyes, and think, “How long will it be before he comes back and says, ‘That sadness has returned!’” It won’t take long. Within the mind too, what is formed keeps deteriorating. And we know nothing other than mind.

Krishna says—and what a terse definition; none could be shorter—that that which does not perish is Brahman.

What is that which does not perish? Where is it? Who is it? A few points must be taken to heart.

First, wherever you see destruction, look closely: only the form is destroyed. The shape is destroyed, but not that which was within the shape. The container perishes, but the content does not. Turn water into steam; then water is “destroyed”—but is it really? If so, who is there in the steam? Cool the steam; the steam is “destroyed”—but is it really? If so, who is now in the water? No—only the form changes, the shape changes; what was encircled by form does not.

But we perceive only form, because the senses can see only form—not that which is hidden within form. When you look at water, you never see that which is concealed within the water. Only the form! Then heat it; the form changes. Steam appears. When you look at steam, again it is a form, a shape. Still you do not see that which is hidden within. That inner never perishes.

Science says nothing is destroyed. It is quite amusing. Three hundred years of scientific inquiry say that nothing is destroyed. And Krishna says, “Arjuna, that which is not destroyed is Brahman.” Has science begun to catch a whiff of Brahman somewhere? Has it started to glimpse that which is not destroyed?

Not a glimpse, but just an inference. Science has come to an inference: only form changes.

Note well, science has not yet found that which does not change. It has found only that form changes. But behind form there must be something that does not change; otherwise how could form change? Even for change, an unchanging base is needed. Even for transformation, an eternal principle is required. And to link two changes, there must be some unchanged link.

Have you ever considered that when water becomes steam, there must necessarily be a moment—a gap, an interval—when it is neither water nor steam? Science has no knowledge of that gap yet. Science says, “We know water. We heat it. Then a moment comes when we know steam.”

But between water and steam a single instant is necessary; because as long as it is water, it is water; and when it has become steam, it is steam. There must be a moment when that which is the content, the soul of the water, is not water—because if it were still water, it could not be steam. And not steam either—because if it were already steam, it would not be water. For a moment, it is neutral.

As when a person changes gears in a car: if he shifts from first to second, no matter how swiftly he does it, even if the gears are automatic and he need not touch them, there is still a neutral, a dispassionate instant when the gear passes through a point where it is no longer in first and has not yet reached second. This is the necessary instant; this is the link.

Science has only an inference about this link. And that very link is Brahman. But even to infer it through the senses is a great deal.

Krishna says: that which never falls prey to destruction—that is Brahman.

Where is that Brahman? If you go on looking at form, Brahman will never be seen. But how to see the formless? Where to see it?

Water is visible; steam is visible; the formless between does not appear. If you want to see it, first you must see that formless within yourself.

When one thought goes and another arrives, between the two thoughts there is again that same link when there is no thought. A thought is a form; another thought is another form—thought-form. Thoughts have their own shapes.

You will be surprised to know that thoughts are not shapeless. When you are angry, the configuration of your mind is different. When you are in love, it is different.

Have you noticed that when you are full of miserliness, it is not just miserliness—something inside also contracts. When you give something to someone in love, it is not just an outer act—inside something expands. There is shape. When we say “miser,” the very word carries a sense of shrinking—something has shriveled. When we say “generous,” “giver,” “loving,” “one who shares,” something opens and spreads.

Every thought has a shape. Within you, shapes are changing every moment. Shapes print themselves upon your face as well. A person who is constantly angry—when he is not angry, even then he looks angry. The shape of anger becomes fixed on his face and the face no longer lets it go. Because the face “knows” that at any moment it may be needed again; it holds on—just to be efficient. When it is needed so often, why remove it? By the time it is removed, it will be required again. So a fixed image settles upon everyone’s face. And sometimes it clings and will not leave.

It is told about Hazrat Moses. Hazrat Moses was one of those few people in the world—like Krishna or Buddha or Mahavira. An emperor told his painter, “Go and make a portrait of Hazrat Moses.” Moses was alive. The painter went and brought back a portrait.

The emperor looked at it and said, “What I have heard about Hazrat Moses and what is in this portrait are very different. Seeing this portrait, it seems to be the face of a very wicked, violent, angry man. It does not give news of Hazrat Moses.”

The painter said, “Strange! Have you ever seen Hazrat Moses?” The emperor said, “I have not seen him; I have heard about him, and I have grown fond of him—that is why I sent you to paint him.” The painter said, “I have seen him with my own eyes. I sat for months and made this portrait. There is not a hair’s-breadth of error. I even asked Hazrat Moses, ‘Sir, is the portrait accurate?’ He said, ‘Absolutely accurate.’ Then I came.”

The emperor said, “Still, somewhere there must be some mistake. It seems either Hazrat Moses, out of kindness, told you it was fine, or he has never seen his own face in a mirror. There can be no other reason.” Yet the emperor’s insistence—though he had never seen Moses—was curious. The painter said, “Then let us go.”

The painter and the emperor went to Hazrat Moses. The emperor, seeing Moses’ face, was himself a little surprised. The painter seemed to be right. The emperor had lost the wager. Even so, after conceding defeat, the emperor said to Moses, “I have come to ask one question. I have lost the wager with this painter. What I had heard about you, from that I had formed an image in my mind; but that image is not in this portrait.”

Hazrat Moses said, “This image is my old one, and it does not leave me. Twenty years ago I was just like this. Whatever you see in this portrait, that is what I used to be—this angry, this wicked, this full of violence. Now all that has changed, but the old marks remain on the face.”

Marks remain. Thought has form; feeling has form. If you can see between these forms, you will behold the formless. Stand between two thoughts, peek between them; in the empty space that opens between two thoughts, dive—and you will have the vision of the formless. If it happens within, then you can leap between two outer forms as well and know the formless.

Krishna says: that alone is Brahman whose destruction never occurs. Form perishes; the formless does not. The formless is Brahman. That satchidananda—whose destruction does not occur—that is Brahman.

Certainly, again and again people like Krishna say that Brahman is satchidananda—supreme bliss, the ultimate joy. Why do they repeat this?

In truth, wherever there is form, there will be death. Because one form will turn into another. And wherever there is form, there will be destruction. Where there is destruction, there will be pain, illness, torment, anxiety. We cling to one form; then another form comes. We cling to childhood; then youth begins to arrive, and the form of childhood is destroyed. Then the child suffers; he is distressed.

Western psychologists are observing that adolescence—the age between ten and fourteen—is a time of great pain. The child cannot let go of his old form, and a new form begins to arise within him. So he behaves like a child and also shows the swagger of an adult. Parents too cannot understand. Both are happening at once. He cannot let go of the old form, so he still wants to hold the edge of his mother’s sari and tag along; and if the mother scolds him a little, he stands with his head held high, reaching up to his father’s height. He glares at his mother, and even she becomes frightened. Both are there within him.

Therefore adolescence is a time of great pain. The old form does not release; the new form asserts itself and breaks through. As a seed splits, there will be pain. Then, with difficulty, one somehow enters youth. It takes quite some time. Somehow one settles into it. Then, in a little while, old age begins to push. Then it is very difficult again—great difficulty once more.
Someone asked Mulla Nasruddin: one day, as he was returning from the tavern, a friend said to him, “Nasruddin, the signs of old age have begun. Your hair is turning white.” Nasruddin said, “Forget worrying about the hair. Let the hair turn white—the heart is still black.”
Even when the hair turns white, youth does not leave you; it keeps asserting itself. Then a struggle of forms begins. Somehow, with great difficulty, we barely find a place to stand with life, and death knocks at the door: “Come, it’s time.” We had hardly arrived here and it’s already time to go. We hadn’t even settled when the order comes: pull up the tent pegs. We were just driving in the stakes, just fixing the ropes; the tent had not even fully opened.

Whose tent ever gets fully spread? The pegs remain in the ground, and the time to uproot them arrives. We are still preparing to drive more pegs when the message comes: pull them out; it’s time to leave. Pack up the tent!

One form has not even been established when another form within comes bearing the news: it’s time to move. Therefore, with form there can never be bliss. With shape there can be no joy—only sorrow, only burning, only anguish, only hell.

This is why people like Krishna keep repeating: that which is formless, that which is eternal, that which cannot be destroyed—that alone is supreme bliss.

And “one’s own form,” that is to say, one’s nature—swabhava—is spirituality.

He has given a formula of great price. This single sutra is enough to make the Gita the Gita. If all the rest were thrown away, it would still do. “Swabhava is adhyatma”—one’s own nature is spirituality—enough.

Lao Tzu, his whole life long, expounded nothing but this sutra: “Swabhava is adhyatma.”

Yet even readers of the Gita usually do not pay much attention to this: “Swabhava is adhyatma.” What does it mean?

“Swabhava is adhyatma” means: within oneself, one has to find that which has always been, which is not of my making. It means: I have to discover that by which everything of mine has been made, and which itself is unmade—uncreated.

But we are all so artificial that finding that swabhava will be very difficult. We are such a vast crowd of artificialities that we do not even know who we are.

“Swabhava is adhyatma.”

“I don’t know who I am.” Not that I don’t know anything about who I am—I know many things—but none of that is swabhava. It is all learned, cultivated. Search a little on two or four fronts and perhaps it will dawn on you.

I am speaking a language. If I had not been born in the home of people who speak this language, I would be speaking some other language, some third. There are hundreds of languages on the earth. I could have been born in any home among those hundreds; I would be speaking that language.

Language is not nature; it is training—it is taught. So let no one remain under the illusion that even if no one taught you, you would still speak some language. No—you would speak no language. If you were left in the jungle from birth and wolves raised you, you would not speak any human language.

And this is not my imagination. Such incidents have happened: wolves have carried off children and raised them. Those children cannot speak any language; yes, they can growl like wolves—that much they can “speak.” Why? Because language has to be learned.

But behind language there is another element: silence. Silence does not have to be learned. Therefore language is artificial; silence is nature.

I am saying this as an example. In this way, layer after layer within—one layer is learned, many layers are learned on the surface—and if you search deeper you will find that place which is swabhava.

Silence is swabhava. That is why silence became a path of sadhana—it can be a way towards one’s nature. But if you sit quiet and keep talking inside, as we all do—and usually when there is no one around, we speak louder within than we do when someone is present, because one must show at least a little consideration for the other—

One day Mulla Nasruddin was loudly arguing with someone in his room. A friend was passing by outside. He peeked in through the window. The argument was quite interesting, it had heated up, and there were signs it might come to blows. One cannot leave a fight midway and go elsewhere, though the friend was on his way to the mosque! He thought, let the mosque wait today. He came and knocked. He went inside—Nasruddin was alone! Big disappointment. As it happens to everyone: if two people are fighting and suddenly they turn non-violent, have you seen how dejected the gathered crowd disperses? A waste!

He said, “What’s going on? Alone?” Nasruddin said, “Absolutely alone.” He said, “You were just arguing with someone.” Nasruddin said, “I wasn’t arguing with anyone. No blabbermouth came today, so there was no peace. So I was doing it myself.” The man said, “Alone? You were doing it alone! One can understand that a man sometimes talks to himself when alone—but even then he does it quietly, because if there is no one there to listen, what is the need to speak loudly? Do it inside, as everyone does!”

Nasruddin said, “There’s not much fun in that, because then I myself don’t know what I am saying. Listening is necessary. And of late I’ve become a bit hard of hearing—age, you know. If I don’t speak loudly, I can’t hear.”

The man said, “Even if I concede that you’ve gone deaf and need to speak loudly to hear yourself, where is there room for an argument—there is no one else present!”

Nasruddin said, “I have to play both roles. I speak from this side and from that side too.”

Still the man said, “So be it—speak from both sides. But why such intensity? You know you are on both sides!”

Nasruddin said, “I never can listen to a blabbermouth. And when from that side I blabber, from this side anger arises; and when from this side I blabber, from that side anger arises!”

Everyone is doing just this. Even in solitude, the one sitting with “silence” is embroiled inside in such babble and such arguments that there is no accounting for it.

What is silence? Silence does not mean the lips are closed. Silence means the inner language has stopped, has dropped—as if no language exists at all. And if a person is psychologically healthy, then when he is alone, he ought not to “know” language. Because language is a means to communicate with another; when alone there is no need to know language. If that language falls away, the silence that forms within is swabhava—it is not taught by anyone.

I may be born in any language-house, whether I speak Hindi, Marathi, Gujarati—whatever I speak—but the day I enter silence, that day my silence will be neither Gujarati nor Hindi nor Marathi. It will simply be silence; that is swabhava.

We are so many people sitting here. If we live in words, we are all separate. If we live in silence, we are one. If all the people sitting here become silent for a moment, then there will not be many people here—there will be only one. Only one. Because language is the division. Language divides; silence unites. We will become one.

And not only will we become one with persons. Because of language, we cannot be one with a house. Because of language, we cannot be one with a tree. Because of language, we cannot be one with the moon and the stars. But in silence we will become one with them too. What obstacle is there in silence that I cannot commune with the moon? What stands in the way of a dialogue with the moon—in silence? It cannot happen in language; it can happen in silence.

Therefore those who went into deep silence—like Mahavira—became known by their most celebrated name: muni, great muni. They went into silence. Even today Mahavira’s renunciates are called “muni,” though they are nowhere near real silence.

They went into great silence. Hence Mahavira could say: do not injure vegetation; while walking, take care that even an insect is not crushed. How did Mahavira come to know that there should be such concern for an insect?

Whoever goes into silence finds his relatedness with ants just as with human beings; with trees just as with human beings; with stones just as with human beings. Now for him life has become all-pervasive. Now the One has expanded into all. This is no longer an ant that will be crushed; it is life. This is no longer a tree that will be cut; it is life. Now wherever anything happens, it happens to life. And the one who, in silence, has experienced this vast life—whenever anything is cut, then it is I who am cut; no “other” is cut.

Krishna says: swabhava is adhyatma—one’s own nature is spirituality.

I gave one example: if there is no language, silence becomes swabhava. Let us take one or two more hints, and perhaps—perhaps—the point will become clear.

Have you ever, closing your eyes, considered: if I drop the shape of my body, what is my shape? Have you ever sat with eyes closed and thought: I set aside the body’s image—what is my image? Within this body, the sense of my being—what is its shape, its form?

No, we take the body’s form to be our form. Though the body changes its form daily, it never occurs to us. If I place before you your own photograph from the day you were one day old, you would not recognize it as your picture—though on that day you must have believed, “This is my form.” The photograph you have today you will not recognize twenty years hence as “mine.” “This is me!” But today you say, “This is me.” Twenty years from now another photo you will call “me.” This chain of photographs—you call it “me”!

Zen masters say, “Find out your original face.” They say, forget the face you have seen in the mirror.

The face that even to see requires a mirror—how can that be your own face? At least one’s own face should be visible without a mirror. One’s own! Does that also require a mirror? Borrowed, reflected—whatever the mirror says!

And remember: no mirror can tell the truth. Every mirror speaks its own language, in its own style. You have seen mirrors in which you become tall, in which you become fat, in which you become thin, in which your face becomes ugly. Those mirrors speak in their own idiom. We have made a “common” mirror to deceive everyone. We stand before it and assume, “This is my face; this.”

No—go within, become quiet and silent, close your eyes, say to the body: “All right, this is your shape—we agree. What is my shape? The one upon which all these bodily shapes keep changing—what is its shape?”

If you set out to find its shape, slowly all shapes will be lost and you will stand in the formless. In that formlessness is swabhava.

In the body’s shapes there is only artificiality. This shape is given you by your mother and father. Perhaps you do not know—better that you do know. As of now there are no two men on earth with exactly the same face. Even identical twins have slight differences. Even two children born of one egg have slight differences. But scientists say: now we can prepare duplicate copies. A copy of every person can be made; the formula is understood. The formula was not difficult—only it had not been conceived.

The molecules by which a child is formed in the mother’s womb can be split into two at the very first cell division. From one fertilized egg, two can now be made. Then two people of exactly the same bodily shape can be born—exactly alike.

For the moment, this is a need of scientists. They say that in the next fifty years—at least for those people whom people “need” more—we will create a duplicate copy the moment the embryo reaches the womb. At that very moment we will extract and split it; one half we will grow separately in a machine. While the child in the mother’s womb grows, an exactly similar child will grow in the machine. When it is grown, we will freeze it—store it. It will remain almost like a corpse.

It will be stored because in the world to come, accidents will keep increasing as science develops; people will daily need spare parts, and there will be no need to search for a donor. From their deposited copy, whenever a hand is lost, its hand can be cut and attached; it will fit perfectly because it is his own hand. Even if the head is severed, that head can be placed upon him. Ten or twelve identical bodies could be prepared; there is no problem copying them.

Yet differences will remain. Bodies can be identical; that which is within is utterly unique, incomparable. Even if science makes two copies, their bodies will be exactly alike, but the persons will be entirely different.

Who is that within who is different from the body? And even if two bodies are the same, the within is different!

Forget the body a little; consider this. You can consider it in two ways, and you may get a slight glimpse of swabhava—and that is adhyatma. So I will give you a small experiment.

When the mind is very cheerful—choose a time when the mind is very cheerful—lock the door, lie down naked in your room, and close your eyes. Place your hand on your forehead, between the two eyes, and rub there for one minute. If the mind is cheerful, as soon as you rub the forehead, all that joy will begin to gather at the forehead.

Notice: when a person is sad, he often places his hand on his forehead. Placing the hand on the forehead disperses sadness and gathers joy. Though in joy no one places the hand there—one doesn’t know.

When a person is sad, distressed, anxious, he places his hand on his forehead. That disperses the anxiety; that which has gathered there scatters. If something negative is present, placing the hand on the forehead disperses it. If something positive is present, placing the hand there gathers it.

Therefore I said: when there is a happy moment of mind, lie down and rub the forehead firmly with your own hand for a minute. That spot in the middle is very precious—perhaps the most precious place in the body. There the whole secret of spirituality is hidden. Some call it the third eye, some Shiva’s eye; call it what you will—the secret lies there. Rub it with your hand. After rubbing, when you feel that joy has begun to run there from the whole body, keep your eyes closed and feel: where is my head? With eyes closed, sense where your head is.

You will know exactly where the head is. Everyone knows where his head is. Then for a moment think: my head has become six inches longer. You ask, how can I think that?

It is very simple, and in a day or two you will experience that the forehead has become six inches longer—with eyes closed. Then come back—return to normal, return inside your skull. Then extend six inches again; then return. Do it five to seven times.

When you are certain it is happening, then think: my whole body has become as large as the room. Only think it—just a thought—and the thing happens. Because as soon as energy gathers near the third eye, whatever you think begins to happen. Therefore, once you bring power to this point, never carelessly think something wrong; that will happen too.

That is why people are not told much about the third eye—many doorways are connected with it. It is almost the same region at which Western science got itself into trouble near atomic energy; in just that way Eastern yoga got into trouble near this point. The sages of the East searched for thousands of years and then hid this secret, because when it fell into the hands of ordinary people, dangers began.

Right now, the West is in the same condition. Einstein died lamenting that somehow the secrets of atomic energy might be lost; otherwise man will perish.

The East too came once to this place by another route, discovered the secret, and great disturbances became possible—and began. Then it had to be forgotten. But I am giving you a small formula; it cannot cause very great danger. There are deeper formulas that can bring danger.

So think for a moment: once your head becomes able to move out and in—and it happens in two to four tries—then think: my body has expanded to fill the whole room. At once you will find that, like a balloon, you are touching the walls. Then ask: what is my shape? Because this cannot be my shape.

Our sense of the body is only auto-hypnotic. From childhood we have been thinking, “This is my boundary, this is my body; this is my boundary, this is my body.” That’s all. It is only conditioning, hypnotic. It has to be dropped. It is conditioned; it is learned; it is training. It is not the truth. Drop this training, as you dropped language. This too is a language—of shape. Drop it, and you will stand in the formless. Then you will know what Krishna means: “Swabhava is adhyatma.”

Swabhava means: that which I am, unmade. Without anyone’s help, without arrangement, without striving, without effort—what I simply am; that which is my essential core—uncreated, unmanufactured, uncontrived—that I am. To know that is adhyatma. Whoever knows that knows Brahman as well. Therefore spirituality is the science of knowing Brahman.

One’s own nature is spirituality. “The emanation, the letting-go that brings forth the states of beings—that is what is called karma.” Arjuna has asked: what is karma? Krishna says: that discharge, that relinquishment which generates the becoming of beings is called karma. In this connection, two or three points are worth noting.

First: all those who have written commentaries on the Gita have taken “karma” to mean the Vedic ritual. They have taken it to mean: the sacrifice of substances for scripturally prescribed rites—yajna, dana, homa, etc.—this is what is called karma. But that is an imposed meaning.

A person like Krishna does not speak in the language of the times but in the language of the eternal. What will Krishna mean? “That letting-go which produces the becoming of beings is called karma.”

This is a very difficult sutra. If it is explained as it usually is, it becomes quite ordinary. But what I see in it is very extraordinary; to grasp it will take some effort.

A person’s swabhava is his being. And what is not his swabhava is his karma—his doing.

We have two parts: one is our swabhava—what I am; and one is the world of karma—what I do. Certainly, this is Krishna’s second meaning. Because just after defining being—“swabhava is adhyatma”—he must define karma: then what is karma? Because we all mistake our doing for our being—“I am.”

Ask a man, “Who are you?” He says, “I am a painter.” In truth, being a painter is not news of his being; it is news of what he does—he paints.

One says, “I am a shopkeeper.” Can anyone be a “shopkeeper”? Shopkeeping is an activity, not a being. That man is saying, “I do shopkeeping.” He should say, “I do shopkeeping.” But he says, “I am a shopkeeper.”

We have taken the link of karma to be our very soul. Therefore everyone introduces himself by his karma—everyone! Ask anyone, “Who are you?” He immediately tells you what his karma is. You didn’t ask what his karma is. But if you don’t ask his karma, it’s a great difficulty—he has no idea who he is. He only has the ledger of his actions.

So everyone carries his account book with him and says, “This is me.” One man drags his safe and says, “This is me.” Another carries his scriptures and says, “This is me.” Another carries his renunciation and says, “This is me. Look, I did twelve years of austerity—that is me.”

We call karma “I am.” If karma is taken away, will you still be—or will you not be? If renunciation is taken from the renunciate, wealth from the wealthy, painting from the painter—his hands cut off so he cannot paint—will the one who said “I am a painter” still be?

He will be. Cut off the hands, take away the brush; take away wealth, take away renunciation, take away knowledge—nothing changes. My being will still be. My being is not my doing. My being is a state of absolute non-action—when I am not doing anything at all; I simply am.
It is natural that Krishna would immediately speak of karma. And Arjuna too has asked: What is karma? He has not asked: What is the Vedic ritual? He asked: What is karma? Krishna too does not say: What is Vedic ritual. He says: Karma is that renunciation which brings about the arising of beings.
This is a very important sutra.

In this world, whenever we move with the desire to get something, whenever we want to enjoy, we have to renounce something. And remember: whenever in the world we want to enjoy something, we have to renounce ourselves—the very moment. If I want to become wealthy, then along with filling each coffer of wealth I will have to keep thinning my soul. If I want to be installed on the thrones of great fame, then as I climb the steps to the throne of fame, my existence, my being, my soul will begin to descend the steps of hell.

In this world, every enjoyment is a renunciation of oneself. And for the futile, we keep abandoning the essential!

So whatever is renounced out of desire for enjoyment, out of lust, out of the urge to obtain—this is visarga. This word visarga is very wondrous. To be separated from oneself is called visarga. To disjoint from oneself—visarga. To miss oneself, to move away from oneself—that is visarga. To miss oneself is renunciation.

It is amusing: those whom we call renunciates may not be renunciates at all. We all, whom we consider pleasure-seekers, are the great renouncers, the maha-tyagis. Because we have abandoned the vast for the trivial! It is hard to find renouncers like us. If we could get a penny, we would be ready to sell the soul: “Here, take the soul; give me the penny.” If I am not, it will do; but if the penny is not, how will it do!

Mulla Nasruddin was surrounded by a few robbers on a dark road. They said, “What’s your intention? Will you give your money or your life?” Nasruddin said, “Take my life. I’ve been saving the money for my old age! And what is the value of life? It was free when it came, and one day it will go for free. Money I earned with great difficulty!”

We surely laugh, but we do the same. Nasruddin does it in one lump sum; we do it retail, bit by bit. He is good—he does it wholesale. That is the logical conclusion of our lives, what Nasruddin is saying: “All right, take the life,” because what have we ever done for life? It came free; it will go free. Money? For money we have labored hard. Moreover, I am saving it for the old age. What will we do with life in old age if there is no money? One might manage without life; without money one cannot manage!

But that man is our own outcome, the very logic of our mind. He is courageous. And fools tend to be braver. We, thinking ourselves very clever, keep selling ourselves slowly, bit by bit.

This is what Krishna calls karma: to slip away from oneself, self-abandonment. This is very remarkable. This sutra is very precious. To fall away from oneself, to leave oneself, to abandon one’s being, one’s nature, one’s essence and run after something that can never truly be gained—and even if gained, gives nothing. Yet everyone runs away from himself.

If this definition of karma is remembered, then wherever we are engrossed in karma, there we have fled from ourselves. Does this mean we should leave action and run away?

No. Krishna says: Even if one tries to leave action and run away, where will he go? Because running away is also action, and renouncing is also action. There is only one way: let action continue, yet let your anchoring not be in action; let your anchoring be in being, in existence, in the soul. Anchoring! However fast I may run, within me there must be a point that has not run at all, that has never run. However much I eat, within me there must be someone who has never eaten.

That one is. Only the remembrance is missing. Whether I go left or right, up or down—within me there must be one who is forever still, who has never come or gone. This abidance is called adhyatma, spirituality; and missing this abidance is called karma.

One last point about karma here. This means that action becomes self-renunciation only when there is the sense of doership in it—the feeling “I have done.” The wise one also acts, but there is no sense of doership; therefore Krishna calls his action “action that is like non-action.” It is non-action! He, while acting, does not act.

And we are such people that even when we do not act, we go on acting! Not all of us will have to bear the trouble of sitting on the president’s chair. Very few among us are so unfortunate that such an accident occurs that we become president. But we all keep sitting there; that seat we never miss. We sit on the chair and very quickly it becomes the president’s throne. In the mind we keep climbing and sitting who knows where! Who knows what all we keep doing!

Mulla Nasruddin had murdered his wife, and there was a trial. The magistrate asked, “Nasruddin, is there anything you can say in your defense?” Nasruddin said, “First of all, if I could defend myself, why would I commit the murder? If I could defend myself, why would I kill? Second, I lived with this woman for thirty years—isn’t it enough that before this I never killed her! And now let me tell you the final truth: instead of thinking about murder for thirty years, I thought it best just to do it. Thirty years! Think—thirty years! And now my lawyer tells me I’ll get at least thirty years’ sentence. If this wretch had told me earlier, I would have killed her on the first day and by now I’d be free! Today my sorrow is not that I killed—my sorrow is: why did I lag behind by thirty years? For what? Today I would have been out, free. I had asked this wretch earlier too; then he said, ‘You’ll be hanged, Nasruddin!’ And now he says, ‘You’ll get thirty years!’”

We are all doing it. How many murders have you committed—do you have the account? For how many years, how many people, have you been murdering? Without doing, we go on doing. Because if we had to actually do, then even one act would be difficult. In this way there is great convenience—the convenience to do many.

We go on doing without doing. Some people act and yet do not act; then their karma becomes vikarma, akarma, special action or actionlessness—they cease to be doers.

Enough for today. Tomorrow we will move on to the next sutra.

A couple of notes for the morning. In the morning only those should come who are not merely eager to listen, but to do something—only those who want to descend into meditation. Otherwise do not come. No spectators.

And those who come should then enter the experiment with full courage. Because what we discuss in the evening will remain just talk if in the morning we do not do its experiment. And man is so dishonest that the fear is that by morning he will already have forgotten what was said in the evening. Yet still, one attempt...

If what I have said this evening we can practice tomorrow morning, then perhaps some line will be inscribed within us. Perhaps by experiment a flower may bloom. And whether Arjuna understood the Gita or not—if that flower blooms, the one in whom it blooms does understand.

That is all for today.