Geeta Darshan #2

That which has no beginning and no end, Krishna has called Brahman. That which is never born and never dies—that is Brahman. But whatever is seen spread around us is born and dies; it arises and it is destroyed. Krishna says: this is matter, this is adhibhuta.
This definition of matter and of Paramatma is worth grasping. We have always called matter that which appears real, solid, which we can knock and test, see and recognize; that which enters the grasp of the senses—can be heard, seen, touched. What seems actual, concrete—we have called matter.
And so the materialist philosophy declares there is no God, because he is not real in the way matter is. We cannot see him or touch him. What cannot be touched, cannot be seen, cannot be caught by the senses—does not exist. Where is the proof of its being? Matter has proof: it is evident, the senses testify to it. Paramatma has no proof, therefore the materialist has always said: only matter is, Paramatma is not.
But the definition Krishna gives is among the deepest insights of the East. It is this: we call Paramatma that which is eternally one and the same, in which there is no change. And we call matter that which is not even for a single moment what it was a moment before. That whose very nature is change—we call matter. And that whose very condition is the eternal—we call Brahman.
All around we see only change, because only change can be seen. This must be understood a little.
Only that which changes is seen by us—you may never have noticed this. A dog is sitting in front of your house. Right in front of him lies a stone, yet the dog is unconcerned. Tie that stone to a thin thread and sit quietly; the dog sits at ease, unaware of the stone. Give a slight pull to the thread, and at once the dog becomes alert to the stone. He will bark, he will be ready. What happened?
What was utterly still did not attract. Whether it was there or not—it was all the same. But the moment movement came, attraction began.
We too forget what is utterly still, and we remember only what carries movement and change. Change is seen because the senses are disturbed by it; they must re-adjust to the new. Understand this a little; it will help you to enter within.
What changes makes the mind restless, for the mind must re-adjust, bring itself again into harmony with the shifting situation. What does not change can be forgotten, for no new condition will arise that compels us to keep it in mind. If this happens even with ordinary stable things, then with the eternal—what is beginningless and endless, what was when we were not and will be when we are no more; what is the same whether we wake or sleep—if we forget it utterly, there is no wonder.
A fish does not notice the ocean’s water. It cannot, unless the fish is lifted out of the water. For when the fish was not born, the ocean already was; it was born in it, grew in it, lived in it. There is no way for it to know that the ocean is. The ocean’s presence is so still for it that between its own being and the ocean’s being there is no gap for any recognition.
Yes, once take the fish out of the ocean, and the first thing it will discover is the ocean. Everything else will come later. First it will know the ocean.
A fish can be taken out of the sea, but man cannot be taken outside Paramatma. Therefore we cannot even come to know him. It is not a question of acceptance—we do not even arrive at a recognition.
Matter is known; it is fleeing each moment, changing each moment. With changing matter we must keep changing. Because we must change, we must remember it. Therefore the senses catch only the changing. That is their function: to keep us fit for a changing world—that is their skill.
Why do we call a man deaf? Because the differences in external sounds do not reach his grasp. But if there were complete silence, would there be any difference between a deaf man and one with ears? If there is utter silence and you suddenly become deaf, would you know you have become deaf? You would never know. You know your ear only when the world outside is changing and you fail to catch it.
If my eyes looked at a vacant sky where no change whatsoever occurs, how would I know I have gone blind? It is because of change that we know. The eye’s work is to report changing things. These organs of sense are instruments to report change.
And life is changing all the time. Matter changes all the time. You must be alert each moment—the change is swift. But Paramatma never changes. Krishna says: he is eternal, formless, like the void, an ocean of shunya. In him there is no change at all. Therefore we get no clue of him.
So first Krishna defines Brahman as that which never comes to destruction.
Only that can be free of destruction whose being is as if non-being. Take note of this a little. Only that which is as if not can remain indestructible. The more solid the being, the quicker it reaches destruction.
Yesterday someone asked me, “Do you love me? And if you do, will your love remain forever toward me?” I said to him: if I love you, it will be very difficult for it to remain forever. The more palpable it is, the sooner it will be lost. If you want my love to remain forever toward you, you must accept a love of mine that is almost imperceptible.
Whatever becomes perceptible becomes solid, becomes matter. Then it enters the realm of destruction. The love that is not even felt never perishes, for there is no way to destroy it. If there is form, a thing can be destroyed; the formless has no means of being destroyed.
Paramatma’s being is like non-being. Existence, as if non-existent. If you go to touch, it is not touchable; if you go to see, it does not appear; if you search, it eludes the search; you close your fist and no grip takes hold. And yet—it is! Only that is. All the rest of being sinks into non-being.
But that which is to be forever must be such that it does not fall into the grasp. For whatever is grasped becomes matter. Whatever we declare “is,” by that very declaration begins its perishing. Hence some wondrous theists have appeared in the world—like Buddha.
If someone asked Buddha, “Is there God?” he would fall silent. Because of this silence a misunderstanding arose: people thought Buddha is a non-believer and does not accept God. But Buddha remains silent only because the God about whom we say “is” will then also have to “not be.” Therefore even saying “is” about him is not right. The very assertion “is” invites matter in.
The true theists in this world have given no proofs, no arguments for God’s being. Those who have given proofs and arguments have no clue of God. Those who say, “God is, because he created the world”—remember, whatever is made is also destroyed, and the maker too perishes.
No, do not call Paramatma made, nor the maker; both statements enter the realm of destruction. He is—as if he is not. His presence, his mode of being, is just like absence.
We can take the furniture out of a room, because furniture is, present; it can be removed. But if we want to remove the air from the room, it becomes difficult, for air is not solid like furniture. Yet even air can be removed; still it can be. Push with the hand—you feel its touch. Blow smoke—and the lines of the air begin to be sensed. Breathe—and the air can be taken in. Then a pump can be attached and it can be sucked out, thrown outside. It is—but still it is enough of a “thing” to be taken out.
But there is another presence in the room: space. Space cannot be taken out at all. Matter can easily be removed. Air, which hovers between matter and space, can also be removed. But space is within the room—it cannot be removed. Why? Because it is like non-being. How will you take it out? For removal there must be some “thing” to push. You cannot push space.
Therefore in this world all things are made and unmade. But space? Space remains unmade, un-unmade, present. Hence those who have sought the closest symbol for Paramatma have said: he is like space—shunya, like non-being, void, empty. Only thus can one be beyond destruction; otherwise one falls within destruction.
Why does matter perish? What is the cause of its destruction?
Matter perishes because it is divisible. We can split a stone in two. Whatever can be divided, however many times, will be destroyed. Whatever is divisible is a compound, a combination of many; it is put together.
Paramatma is not a combination; Existence is not a compound. Existence is gathered, one, without parts. Therefore Brahman has been called akhanda—undivided. What has no parts cannot be destroyed, for fragmentation is an essential step in the process of destruction.
What cannot be fragmented? That which has no boundary-line cannot be cut. Whatever has a boundary can be split, whether very small or very great—if it has a limit, we can make two parts. But what has no boundary—we cannot make two of it.
Existence is infinite; matter is always finite. Hence matter can be fragmented; and fragmentation brings destruction.
Then, whatever can be made, will perish. There is only one thing we cannot make: Paramatma. Everything else can be made. What is there that we cannot make? We can make all things. Only Existence itself cannot be made. What can be made will be unmade—whether by us or by nature. Whatever can be constructed can be destroyed. Only that which we cannot make can be free of destruction.
What in us is unmade? If we find that, that is Brahman. And whatever can be made, is made, is being made—whether man makes it or nature makes it—that is all matter.
Therefore Krishna says: all that has the law of arising and perishing is adhibhuta—physical. And Purusha is adhidaiva.
Who is this Purusha? The one who lives in the midst of matter and becomes suffused with awareness toward matter—Krishna calls him Purusha.
Matter has no awareness of itself. A stone lies at your door; the stone does not know that it is. Nor does it know that you are. Both recognitions are yours. “The stone is”—that is your awareness. “And I am, other than the stone”—that too is your awareness.
The word Purusha means the one who dwells in the city—in the pur. This vast city of matter, this great metropolis—he who dwells within it, awake to himself and awake to this city.
This golden one, Krishna says, this Purusha is adhidaiva. This is consciousness, the supreme consciousness, the supreme divinity.
The hallmark of consciousness is awareness. Therefore all religions have opposed wine, intoxication—for a single reason; no other reason. Only this one: the more unconscious you become, the more you turn into matter, you are no longer Purusha. And all religions have supported meditation for a single reason: the more meditative you become, the less matter you are and the more Purusha.
The day one attains perfect meditation, only pure consciousness remains—on that day he becomes the supreme Purusha, Purushottam.
And the day one attains perfect stupor—cut off his hands and feet and he does not know; plunge a knife into his chest and he does not know; he does not even know that he is—in that supreme stupor he becomes almost matter, insentient.
Between these two we keep swaying. In twenty-four hours many times we come close to matter, and many times we come close to Paramatma.
But keep one thread in mind and you can track when your inner thermometer swings from matter toward Paramatma. Whenever you are filled with awareness, at any moment, you are very near the temple of God. Whenever you are unconscious, at any moment, you are very near matter.
When are you unconscious? When are you aware?
Notice: when you are filled with anger, awareness is lost. Hence often after anger a man says, “I cannot understand—how did I do that? How could that happen through me? I could never do such a thing.”
He speaks rightly. Now his thermometer is near awareness; therefore he says, “I could never do it.” He did not do it. If there had been that much awareness, he would not have. But when he did it, he was close to unconsciousness. Anger releases poison in the body; like morphia, it dulls the entire inner consciousness. Then you can do anything. In that “doing” there is unconsciousness.
Therefore when a man commits murder, no one ever murders as Purusha—only as matter does one murder. And truly, if all religions have opposed killing, it is not because the other will die; for religions know well that the other never dies. Even so they oppose it, because in the act of killing the killer dies—he becomes matter; all inner awareness is lost.
There is no other evil in evil, and no other good in good. Evil has only one evil: we become like matter. Good has only one good: we become like Purusha. The more this inner flame of consciousness is fanned, the nearer we draw to adhidaiva. The more it is dimmed—smoke gathers, darkness descends—the nearer we drift to adhibhuta. Perhaps what we call matter is sleeping adhidaiva; and what we call adhidaiva is matter awakened.
But to what Arjuna has asked, Krishna is giving the explanation of each, one by one.
“O best among the embodied, Arjuna, in this body I alone am the adhiyajna.” It’s very interesting that Krishna addresses him: “O best among the embodied, Arjuna!”

Why would Krishna call Arjuna the best among those who have a body? No obvious reason is apparent. No obvious reason is apparent. And that Krishna would say it without reason—this is even harder to understand. Or will Krishna say it because Arjuna belongs to a royal family, because he has every possibility of being an emperor again? That too doesn’t make sense. For Krishna, what difference is there between an emperor and a beggar on the street?

And “best among the embodied, Arjuna”! Are bodies themselves better and lesser? Would Krishna say it because Arjuna comes from a noble lineage? Does his body contain flesh and marrow—or is it studded with gold and diamonds and jewels? And even if it were studded, it would still be no more valuable than bone. Why would he say “best among the embodied, Arjuna”?

Thousands of commentaries have been given on the Gita, but to my mind none has said it rightly—that Krishna repeatedly addresses Arjuna as “best among the embodied.” Why? All their assumptions run like this: He is a Kshatriya, of a high lineage, of royal blood, a warrior; then he is Krishna’s friend—so perhaps that is why. He is virtuous—otherwise how would he be born in such a great family—so perhaps that is why.

No; absolutely not. In a single instant a person becomes the best among the embodied: the day his body comes near to hearing that which is the supreme truth of life. That which is the supreme truth of life, that which is life’s esoteric mystery—on the day a person’s body comes near to hearing, seeing, touching, knowing that supreme secret—in that very instant…

This is what Krishna is saying to Arjuna. And certainly, in this sense he is the best among the embodied—because to be so close to Krishna, so close to Krishna’s voice, so close to Krishna’s secret message—just by the corner, where, if one wishes, one can leap and become Krishna; to be so near the sun that from there it is easy to become light oneself—just in this one hour a person becomes the best among the embodied.

Sometimes an Arjuna is close to Krishna; sometimes an Ananda is close to Buddha; sometimes a Luke is close to Christ; sometimes a Chuang Tzu is close to Lao Tzu—and suddenly, among the embodied, he becomes the best. Not because of his own body, but because of the presence of the other—of that presence which, like a philosopher’s stone, can turn iron into gold.

Krishna reminds Arjuna of this so that he remembers: Arjuna, this is a momentous instant; this hour is supernatural. Who knows if such an hour will ever recur again?

History repeats only for rotten things. A Genghis Khan comes again; a Hitler returns again and again. Murders and wars happen again and again. But for the Gita to be spoken again and to be heard again—that is difficult. What is rotten returns every day in some form or other. But what is supreme, its repetition is perhaps the rarest.

So Krishna is indirectly reminding Arjuna: Arjuna, this moment is precious beyond measure. Right now you are not just Arjuna; you have become the best among the embodied. At this moment you are hearing words that can become a revolution in your life. A single word can be a leap for you. And immediately he adds—therefore, “O best among the embodied, Arjuna, in this body I am the adhiyajna.”

And this body—this very body—has three layers. First, it has matter, which changes and is subject to destruction. What we ordinarily call the body is that very layer which Krishna calls matter—adhibhuta. Understand this a little.

What we call the body, Krishna calls adhibhuta. This is one layer of our body—the first circle. If we go within, there is consciousness, awareness. That too in us is very dim, half-asleep. Krishna calls it adhidaiva. And if we go even deeper, there is the center. That center Krishna calls “I am”—the adhiyajna.

Outside is the unconscious body, matter. Within that is a half-conscious, half-awake awareness—smoke-like, dark, nothing very clear—misty. And deeper still is a blazing, radiant fire—pure consciousness. Therefore Krishna calls it the adhiyajna: I am that yajna, that fully burning flame, undivided, where there is not even smoke—a flame without smoke.

If there is smoke around the flame, that is the second thing—adhidaiva. If there is only smoke and no flame, that is the first thing—adhibhuta. And if there is absolutely no smoke at all—only the flame, out of which no smoke is born—and the flame from which smoke does arise is not the flame of yajna. The flame from which no smoke arises—that alone is the flame of yajna.

Therefore, from outer yajnas nothing will happen. There smoke will remain. And the fire we have lit will inevitably go out. We have to seek that fire which we have not lit, which has been burning forever. And the fire we have lit uses fuel. Where there is fuel—where there is matter—there will be smoke. And where there is fuel, the fire will run out. We have to seek that fire where there is no fuel. If a fire can be found without fuel, then it will never be extinguished. There is no reason left for extinction.

Remember, the fire does not die; the fuel dies. The fuel is exhausted; the fire disappears. If there is some fire without fuel, smoke will not be produced in it—for smoke does not arise from fire; it arises from wet fuel. If the fuel is dry, less smoke arises. The drier it is, the less smoke. The wetter it is, the more smoke.

Smoke is born of fuel, not of fire. If a fire without fuel is possible, Krishna says, that fire I am—that very adhiyajna I am. In this body, I am the adhiyajna.

Krishna has asserted the existence of three layers. One layer is matter. In a person’s body too it is the same: one layer of matter. Then a hazy, half-awake field of consciousness. And then at the center, that flame which is uncreated, without fuel, free of smoke, eternal and constant. Krishna says, that I am.

This is on the individual plane; understand it likewise on the cosmic plane. The individual is a tiny replica of the vast. Consider this vast Brahman, this vast universe, as a body too. Then the first layer is matter; the second is consciousness—half-consciousness; and the third is the luminous Brahman. On the individual level or on the cosmic level, remember these three circles well: first, matter; second, semi-consciousness; and third, pure fire, pure light, sheer light—pure consciousness.

In truth, that pure consciousness within and that pure matter without—where these two overlap, where they encroach upon each other’s boundary—that is where our half-consciousness arises.

When someone slips entirely within, the half-consciousness disappears. And a gap appears in the middle, where it can be seen: I am separate, the body is separate; the Brahman is separate, matter is separate. As soon as the middle layer of half-consciousness drops…

This half-consciousness can drop in two ways. Either you fall utterly unconscious into matter—then the Brahman is completely forgotten; total unconsciousness. Or you become fully conscious within the Brahman—then too this middle consciousness disappears.

For man, two kinds of enjoyment are possible. One enjoyment—which is in fact an illusion, not enjoyment—is the enjoyment of total unconsciousness. That is why there is pleasure in sleep. It’s amazing! Those who don’t find joy in wakefulness say in the morning, “I slept so well!” Those who can’t find joy even when awake—how would they find it in sleep?

Mulla Nasruddin slept one night. A gang of thieves broke into his house. They were searching everywhere. At last Mulla couldn’t resist and said, “Brothers, if you find something, let me know!” The thieves said, “If we find something, we should let you know—what do you mean?” Mulla replied, “For years, searching day after day, we haven’t found anything in this house—so how will you find anything in the dark of night? If by chance you find something, do tell me.”

Those who discover no joy in the wakeful day rise in the morning and say, “We slept so well!” Surely some mistake is happening. Only this much is the case: the suffering they keep creating during the day, they couldn’t create it in sleep due to the grace of unconsciousness—one. Second, even if some misery arose in sleep, they could not notice it. Third, between yesterday’s waking and today’s waking the eight or ten hours of darkness broke the chain. In the morning they say, “I feel so pleasant!”

We feel pleasure in sleep. We drink alcohol and feel pleasure. We slip into lust and feel pleasure. All that is unconsciousness. A man sits for three hours watching a film and forgets himself—that is unconsciousness. He gets so entangled in the film that he doesn’t have the facility to remember himself.

Wherever we get unconsciousness, for a little while it seems we are getting pleasure. That is all the pleasure of sleep. This pleasure should be called a deception. It is not joy; it is self-delusion.

There is another joy. It belongs to the person who never forgets himself—who remembers so much, remembers so much that finally remembrance becomes a steady point within. He knows even in sleep, “I am.” This third—what Krishna called the adhiyajna.

The practice of consciousness is the practice of yajna. And to bring consciousness to that point where not for a single moment does inner awareness slip; where not for a single moment is there a gap, an interval, a vacancy; where the uninterrupted stream of consciousness flows—that is where joy is. And the joy there is not like the joy of sleep, not the joy of unconsciousness. In unconsciousness, suffering is only forgotten; there suffering is dissolved.

The sensation born of forgetting suffering we call pleasure. The joy born of the cessation of suffering—that alone is joy.

The journey from matter to half-consciousness, and from half-consciousness to full consciousness—that alone is spirituality. Krishna said: “Swabhava is adhyatma—one’s intrinsic nature is spirituality.” That is our very nature which is always aflame at the center—the ray of life that is there.

“And the man who, at the final moment, remembering me alone, casts off the body, he attains to my being—there is no doubt about it.” And the man who at the last moment remembers me alone…

By me, he means that smokeless flame.

Remember, to remember it at the moment of death is very difficult. Those who have taken the body to be the self all their life—how will they remember the bodiless at the time of death? Those who have remembered only the body all their lives—how will they remember the non-body at the last moment? And even if by some chance they could, at the moment of death it will be the hardest—because everything is being snatched away.

Consider this: a man whose safe is locked, guards posted, the key in his hand—every arrangement made—still cannot forget his safe when there is no danger of it being snatched. When a robbery actually happens, and in front of his eyes the safe is being broken, and the robbers drag it away—every safeguard shattered—do you think at that time he will be able to forget the safe? When all security was intact, he could not forget; when all security is gone, then other than the safe, what else will he remember?

In the final instant, our purest face is revealed; there is not even the leisure to manage. Every day we manage; at death our real face appears—our real feelings and our real memory become evident. At the moment of death one can be truly recognized—what in fact this man was.

I told you about Mulla Nasruddin. He murdered his wife; the case went to court and he was sentenced to the gallows. The day the sentence was announced, the jailer came and informed him, “Mulla, next Monday morning you will be hanged.” Mulla said, “Monday! Could it not be done on Saturday?” The jailer asked, “What difference does it make to you—Monday or Saturday?” Mulla replied, “I don’t want to begin my week under such a bad omen—Monday!”

He lives in his shopkeeper’s world, where auspicious timings rule. The noose is ready, but he is thinking whether Monday is a good muhurta or not!

Then the day of execution arrived. In that country the rule was to hang the convict at a central crossroads before the town. Thousands came to watch. And before the hanging, the condemned was allowed to speak a few words to the public.

Just before the hanging some people came to meet Nasruddin. The jailer was surprised to see a lot of haggling between them and Mulla. He couldn’t understand what was going on. But Mulla said, “I am preparing my last statement; please don’t interrupt.” It went on for quite a while—some said this, some that. Finally they reached a deal; those people handed something to Mulla and he quickly slipped it into his pocket. The jailer did not wish to obstruct a dying man. He thought, “In a moment he will be hanged; we’ll see later what is in his pocket.”

When the time came to hang him and Nasruddin climbed the platform, the jailer said, “If you have anything to say, say it now.” He said, “Yes, I have something to say: Brothers, remember—Shoe-Brand Soap is the best soap in the world!”

People were astonished. Then he was hanged. He had made a contract for a hundred rupees. Those who came were the makers of Shoe-Brand Soap. That was the deal. They said, “Take twenty.” “Take twenty-five.” With difficulty the deal was fixed at a hundred. A dying man! A hundred rupees were found in his pocket. But even at the last moment he did his business! He would not settle for fifty, nor for eighty. He said, “Less than a hundred I won’t agree!”

A lifelong habit pursues you to the last moment. In fact, when he was bargaining for a hundred, there was no gallows in his mind at all—everything else had disappeared. Only business remained. The final moment is the distillation of your whole life.

Krishna’s statement has caused great misunderstandings. The first misunderstanding has terribly harmed India’s religious mind. People concluded from this statement: “Fine—then we will remember at the last moment.” From “And the man who, at the final moment, remembering me alone, casts off the body, he attains my state—there is no doubt,” people concluded: “Perfect! No need to remember throughout life. At the end we will remember. If we can’t do it ourselves—if we cannot speak in that moment—the pundit sitting near will whisper in our ear. The family will begin chanting the Lord’s name; the Gita will be recited.”

Krishna has not said, “At the last moment, whoever hears my name…” He has not said, “Whoever is made to hear my name…” He has said, “Whoever takes my name!” And who will take the name at the last moment? Only he who, throughout his life, has safeguarded the treasure of that Name; otherwise he cannot. He who has been so steeped in that Name throughout life that even death cannot obstruct it.

You too take the Name. I see many people taking the Name. They sit, turn the beads, chant—and the smallest things interrupt. Very small things interrupt. Someone comes to the house—interruption. Who said what to whom—interruption. Someone is singing a hymn to God and taking the Name; stand a little away and whisper something into someone’s ear—he will drop the Name and become eager to hear what you are saying. Small things interrupt.

Death is the greatest event in life—nothing is greater than that. In that moment you will not be able to remember. And if you remember out of panic, out of fear—remember, that remembrance will not be of God; it will be of fear.

A friend of mine—very learned—used to say, “What will come of remembering God? One needs good conduct, virtue. What will come of remembrance of God? One needs good behavior.” I said to him, “The one who cannot even remember God—there is little likelihood he can be truly virtuous. And the one who can be virtuous—it is very difficult that he will be able to avoid remembrance of God; that too cannot be. You are under some illusion.” He said, “No, for me there is no question of remembering God. I try to do what is right. I do not take bribes, I do not steal, I do not eat meat. I sleep on time, I rise on time. There is no misconduct in my life.” I said, “All that is fine, but this only stiffens your ego—nothing else is happening.”

Sometimes it happens that good conduct only nourishes the ego—and without God-remembrance good conduct nourishes only the ego. For then there is no place for surrender—only for pride: “I am a man of character; I live by rule; I follow truth and nonviolence; I have taken so many vows; I have renounced so much.” The ego becomes stronger. But then there are no steps to set this ego down upon.

I said to him, “Fine. Do as you feel right. Just remember one thing: whatever strengthens the ego cannot be right.”

Suddenly one day I heard he had a heart attack. I went. He was almost semi-unconscious, but loudly repeating, “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram.” I nudged him, “What are you doing! You are making a mistake at the time of death! Good conduct is enough—what are you doing?”

He opened his eyes. He saw me and came a little to. He said, “I’m taking it out of fear—who knows? Who knows—so what’s the harm in taking it! Take it. Death stands before me; who knows—let it not be that I miss just because I didn’t take Ram’s name at the last moment. So I’m taking it.”

This is a businessman’s mind, not a religious mind. And it is the sign of a frightened man. Remembrance does not arise out of fear; remembrance is the shimmer of supreme bliss.

So only if one can remember with joy at the moment of death is it remembrance; otherwise it is not.

If you are terrified, trembling—“Save me, O God! If you exist, save me!”—it will be of no meaning. Where there is fear, there is no remembrance of the Lord. Where there is the desire to escape death, there is no taste of God.

So Krishna says: At the last moment, he who remains in the remembrance of me—he attains to me. There is no doubt.

Indeed, no doubt—because the one who keeps the remembrance of the inner flame at that moment can see clearly that death is not happening. Only the body is being dropped—like worn-out clothes slipping off, like changing an old house for a new one. One so filled with consciousness, keeping the remembrance of the inner flame—he knows: this death does not even give a slight flutter to this flame. It won’t be trembled in the least. He plunges into his inner being, established in supreme bliss.

Only the one who is identified with the body is afraid of death. The one who believes, “I am the body,” panics—“It’s going… the shore is slipping… now I will be no more.” But the one who knows, “We are not the shore; we are the ocean”—what fear can the loss of the shore bring? He will be thrilled to hear news of the ocean. His feet will begin to dance; ankle bells will ring in his heart. He will run; he will say, “The moment has come!” He will not even look back to see what became of the shore.

But such a person can keep this remembrance only if throughout life his practice has been woven into his every breath. When every heartbeat has become a bead on the mala of this remembrance—when it so happens that breath remembers Him, that the heartbeat beats with His remembrance, that sitting-standing-walking all happen with His remembrance—only then can death happen in His remembrance.

Therefore, we must avoid the very harmful misinterpretation of this sutra. Krishna must have feared that Arjuna too might misunderstand; so immediately, in the next sutra, he says: “For, O son of Kunti, Arjuna, whatever state a man remembers at the final moment when he leaves the body, to that state alone he goes.” But then he adds: “By constantly thinking of that alone!”

Krishna must have seen in Arjuna’s eyes that he slackened a little, that he thought, “Then it’s fine. If I only need to remember at the last moment, I’ll do it. Why waste the rest of life on these things? Now that I’ve found the formula—at the end I will remember!”

But do you know when the end is? Any moment can be the final moment. This very moment can be the end. Therefore, the one who thinks, “I’ll do it at the end,” will miss—because any moment can be the end; this moment might be such that I cannot utter another word—this word itself the last.

Those who evolved the idea of uninterrupted Name-remembrance did so for this reason. The purpose was not to count how many hundred-thousands of God’s Names you recite. Counting is shopkeeping again. One Name can do; a million cannot.

The world of religion is not a ledger. Mathematics doesn’t work here—how many. How heartfelt—this matters, not how many. How many lakhs—people keep an unbroken japa going for twenty-four hours!

The only meaning and purpose of uninterrupted japa is this: since we do not know which moment will be the last, let no moment go empty of remembrance—because any moment can be the last. Let no moment inside pass empty. Then whichever moment is the last will be suffused with remembrance.

But Krishna sensed a danger. So he immediately made a distinction. In the next sutra he said: The final mood determines what one attains. This is a very scientific arrangement. Understand it a little.

At night you sleep. Have you ever noticed that your last thought at night is your first thought in the morning? If not, observe. The very last thought as sleep descends—what stands at your mind’s door—note it carefully. In the morning when the doors open again, you will find the same thought standing there. It stood there the whole night.

The last thought of night becomes the first thought of morning. The last thought of death becomes the first thought of the next birth. The interval is just a time of deep sleep—a surgical operation in which nature removes one body from you and gives you another. In that time you are kept completely unconscious.

If you have ever taken chloroform—if not, try it sometime—whatever was your very last thought as you sank into chloroform will be your first upon coming out. If you have ever been unconscious, the last thought before unconsciousness is the first thought when consciousness returns.

Death is a deep unconsciousness; a transformation; the ending of one curtain; the closing of one play and the beginning of another. The second play begins exactly where the first ended.

Thus the final mood becomes decisive. And we cultivate such rubbish moods at the end that we arrange ahead of time for further rubbish. People die frightened, anxious, tense, sorrowful, panicked—everything is being looted! In such restlessness—in a hellish mind—they die. They have arranged their hell. They begin the sequence again.

The last mood is of great value—but if you want to manage the last mood, then manage your whole life. For that mood is the distillation of the entire life. It is traumatic; it is decisive; it determines. And the determination is costly—because it sets the line of a whole new birth.

Therefore Krishna says: “…but constantly thinking of that alone”—for the mood one constantly thinks of is the one that, often, arises at the last moment. Krishna says “often”—even that is not certain.

Note: If remembrance is something different from your life, forget the last moment. Even if you remember throughout life, Krishna still says—this is a very guarded statement—that the one who has contemplated it throughout life, at the last moment often leaves remembering that. Why? Because if the remembrance has remained on the surface, been superficial, merely mechanical—like a man doing anything and inside saying “Ram, Ram”…

Memory has a facility by which you can ride a bicycle and say “Ram, Ram”; you can drive a car and say “Ram, Ram.” You can assign a segment of memory to keep saying “Ram, Ram.” It becomes autonomous.

If for two or three months you keep repeating inside “Ram, Ram,” a piece of memory becomes autonomous. Then it keeps saying “Ram, Ram” while you do your work. It has nothing to do with you; it continues on its own. As though you have kept a parrot—it keeps saying “Ram, Ram” while you do anything. You have made a piece of memory independent; now it keeps saying “Ram, Ram.” It is a mechanical device. Your work doesn’t get hindered. You can do whatever—if you want to steal, go ahead and steal. It will keep saying “Ram, Ram.” The stealing will not be interrupted. In fact, you will do it more happily: “Look, the Name is going on—now there is no fear!”

Thus, those who take the Name can be very skillful thieves—their skill becomes expensive, for they say, “We are taking the Name! There is no fear.”

If someone remembers like this, he is only remembering mechanically. What is the difference between mechanical and heartfelt remembrance?

Have you ever fallen in love? Then you don’t have to remember mechanically—memory comes on its own. Even if you don’t want it, it comes. It finds an excuse and comes. If you have ever fallen in love—a flower blooms, and the flower is forgotten; she comes to mind. The moon rises in the sky; the moon is forgotten; she comes to mind. Someone sings a song; the singer is forgotten, even the thread of the song is forgotten; she comes to mind. Any excuse starts working.

If you have fallen in love—this phrase is beautiful: to fall in love. There is another love in which one rises—“to rise in love.” That is love of God. It’s good we say, “So-and-so fell in love.” There it is indeed a fall.

Some people sometimes rise in love—a Meera rises in love; a Chaitanya rises in love. In the rising of this love, remembrance begins to happen as it does in falling in love. If it can happen even in the fall, it will certainly happen in the rise.

This remembrance is heartfelt. Here, when a flower blooms, God blooms. Here, when the moon rises, God rises. Here, when a wave comes in the ocean, it brings news of God. A breeze comes—everything becomes His. Here, when you see human eyes, He begins peeking through. Here, when a face reveals beauty, it becomes His. Here, when someone sings, the thread becomes His.

Where remembrance is heartfelt, the word “often” is not needed. Therefore in the first sutra Krishna says, “There is no doubt”—that is about heartfelt remembrance. But seeing in Arjuna’s eyes that he was probably misunderstanding, he added, “Thinking of that always, at the last moment one often remembers that”—often. Because that autonomous piece of the mind which you can set going to say “Ram, Ram” while cycling or driving or running a shop—will be in trouble before the enormous accident of death.

And there’s another difficulty. On a bicycle you can practice; rehearsal is possible. Sit on your bicycle every day—say “Ram, Ram.” Sometimes you’ll forget, sometimes you’ll remember. Gradually the practice gets strong—then the bicycle will go and “Ram, Ram” will go. Two cycles will run: one pedal you will press; one pedal your memory will press inside—two wheels will turn.

But you cannot rehearse death—that’s the difficulty. You cannot rehearse death. So you cannot practice. It’s a great disadvantage. For the very first time you have to stand on the stage. You don’t even know what lines to speak. You don’t know who is there—Ram, Lakshman, Sita, or Ravan. Suddenly the curtain rises—and there you are on the stage! And the very first time you must speak. You have no idea.

Death gives you no opportunity for rehearsal. Otherwise, we are such clever people we would trick death too. We would keep such a firm record of our “Ram, Ram,” practice it so strongly that we would trick even death.

Since death does not recur; it comes suddenly, unexpectedly; there can be no prior preparation—so your practiced device will not work. The remembrance you acquired by practice—death will break it. What is acquired by the heart is different. To gain by the heart is not to gain by practice.

Therefore people often say love happens at first sight. They are right. If it doesn’t happen at first sight—then at the second sight it happens only by practice.

There is a practiced love too. Clever nations—like ours—are very skilled in cleverness. The older a culture becomes, the more skilled it becomes in such cleverness, for its experience grows deeper. That is why we don’t allow love; we arrange marriage straightaway. Then we say, “Now love.” That is practiced love. Seeing each other every day; living together; troubles; quarrels; apologies; anger—practice goes on. Finally they arrive at love—jostling and shoving, through crowds and commotion, they finally get there. Somehow things settle.

But that settlement is like what happens in a third-class compartment of a passenger train at every station. At every station it seems, “What will happen now! So much crowd—where will they sit? With so much luggage, where are they coming in?” But five minutes after the train starts—adjusted! All luggage is kept, all people are seated. It’s amusing. And these very people will start the same hullabaloo at the next station. It happens at every station. That is why in Hindi the compartment is called a “dabba”—a box. Shake things around and seat them—they fit.

With death this won’t do; practice won’t do. But if there is a heartfelt love for God—a love without practice; not born of repetition, but arising from the heart’s own flash—then perhaps Krishna would not need to say “often.” Then it could be said with certainty—without doubt.

Practice we can understand—we can do that too. This “heartfelt” doesn’t make sense—how will it happen? We have almost no thing in us called heart. We have never done anything from the heart—so how will we call upon God from the heart? And if one must love God from the heart, a very large heart is required. In a small, constricted heart, He cannot be called. And our hearts are so constricted that even people cannot enter each other—God’s entry is a far-off thing.

Into our hearts, only objects can enter—persons cannot. Objects! Someone is dying for the love of diamonds; someone for money; someone for gold; someone for chair and position. Objects can enter; even persons do not.

So the one who wants to carry heartfulness towards God must first become alert about love of things. Then he must deepen love for persons. And when love of things drops and love for persons deepens, then even the love for persons must be transcended—and one must rise into the love of the impersonal.

Remember: the larger your beloved, the larger your heart will become. Don’t fall into petty loves. If you must love, why love the trivial? Seek something vast, some expanse—where boundaries end far away; if they do not end—so much the better. Descend into loving something like that.

Therefore, it often happens that those whose loves are vast begin to feel the heartbeat of God very near.

A painter loves beauty—the love of beauty is somewhat boundless. He can find heartfelt remembrance quickly. A politician cannot so easily. His love is very limited and very petty.

Someone asked Mulla Nasruddin about his two sons—how they were doing. Nasruddin said, “The first has become a politician, and the prospects for the second are not good either!” One became a politician—and the signs for the second are not good either!

Petty—seeking a chair so small that only we can fit into it; so small there is no place for the other; lest someone slip into it. Then man becomes petty.

Wherever there is love of the petty—be alert. And wherever you sense the vast—give it a chance. Wherever you feel some expanse you can love… The sun has risen—don’t just say on your way, “Yes, yes—beautiful.” Saying that is insulting. One who truly knows the beauty of morning hardly says such a thing. One who senses the beauty of morning sits with the sun for a few moments—opens his heart—lets those rays enter, and lets his inner feeling reach the sun. There is no verbal conversation in this.

When the sky appears beautiful, lie down for a while—let it descend to your chest; let it embrace you and surround you from all sides. Forget your littleness for a few moments—love that vast expanse.

But we love narrowly—and in those narrow loves we become narrow. What I am saying is not about practice; it is about finding occasions. Occasions are daily. If you have the eyes, occasions are daily. Keep using those occasions. Then gradually the remembrance of that supreme flame, of that Supreme Vast, becomes easy. And when the heart takes to it, then you don’t have to remember—remembrance remains. It becomes difficult to forget.
Someone once asked the fakir Bayazid, “Bayazid, we never see you remembering God! You never come to the mosque to offer namaz?” Bayazid said, “I simply cannot forget Him—how am I to remember? I simply cannot forget Him—how am I to remember? Should I come to offer namaz? Namaz is going on twenty‑four hours a day. When I rise, He is there. When I sleep, He is there. When I wake, He is there. When I eat, He is there. I have gone mad in His remembrance. I simply cannot forget Him.”
Remembering comes through practice; once the heart is engaged, forgetting becomes difficult. Krishna says: if it can be so, then doubtless—without a shred of doubt—those who remember me attain to my very form.

A final point. We hear all this, and perhaps it seems that Krishna spoke rightly, or that what I have said is right. But merely thinking so resolves nothing. This thinking can even be dangerous: it breeds the illusion that we have understood, when in truth we have not understood at all.

So whoever feels, “Yes, this is right,” should come tomorrow morning to do something—to seek an opportunity.

Keep one thing in mind: understanding alone is not enough. By itself it has no roots in us. Understanding comes and, like a cloud, drifts away. That cloud has to be grounded in the earth; it must be given roots so that it becomes a tree. For that, something has to be done. And that doing is of the heart; it is not mere drill or dry practice. So the meditation we do in the mornings is simply the presence of a heartfelt opportunity. For you, practice is not the important thing.

Here, among us, our sannyasins are present—many in whose hearts that feeling of the heart has been kindled. They will sing and they will dance. Perhaps, watching, their rhythm will catch you too. Perhaps, as you stand, a tremor will come into your legs. Perhaps their ecstasy will become infectious—a contagious fever—and touch you as well. And may God grant that it touches you; then you too will dance and be carried away on that wave.

So the morning is only an opportunity—just an opportunity. Come. Perhaps within that opportunity a certain current will take hold, and something will happen.

Before we disperse now, we will also do kirtan here for five to seven minutes. Please don’t get up yet. For five to seven minutes our sannyasins will sing kirtan; join them. You too join in. Sitting right where you are, repeat the chant, clap your hands. Even seated, you can sway. Touch, if only a little, that bliss, that thrill. Perhaps—who knows?—something may touch you, and the veena of your heart may begin to sing.