Geeta Darshan #3

Remembrance of the Lord can be done for a short while. But a remembrance done for a little while does not reach into the depths of one’s life-breath. It only touches the surface; the inner core remains untouched. Remembrance must be as continuous as breath. If breath were to stop in between, the link with life breaks; in the same way, if the thread of remembrance breaks even for a moment, the connection with the Divine is broken. Remembrance is the breath flowing from your life toward the Paramatma. If one is to be joined to the body, breath is needed; if one is to be joined to the Lord, remembrance is needed.

But if we remember the Lord for twenty-four hours, when will we do all the other tasks? If remembrance alone is to fill the day and night, when will we eat, when will we sleep, when will we wake, when will we tend the shop, when the market, when the battle — when will all this happen? So man invented a compromise: we shall do all our other work, and for a little while off and on we will remember the Lord.

It is exactly as if someone thinks, I’ll do all other things, and for a little while off and on I will breathe! This cannot be. It is impossible.

Therefore Krishna says to Arjuna: Hence, O Arjuna, remember Me unceasingly at all times, and fight the war as well. This remembrance will not obstruct your battle. If you think that to remember the Lord you must flee to the forest, you are mistaken. Fight, and remember as well.

This means: whatever a person is doing, let him continue to do it — and remember too. But a difficulty seems to arise. Because whenever we remember, it appears to interfere with other work.

The constitution of the mind is such that on the tip of attention only one thing can be held at a time. When you remember one thing, the mind slips from another. Focus on the other, and it slips from the first. The nature of the mind is to be one-pointed.

Then how can the Lord be remembered while fighting a war? If during the battle someone keeps chanting Ram-Ram, either his mind will be tangled in Ram-Ram and he will lose the thread of the battle; or he will be caught in the battle and forget Ram-Ram. Yet Krishna says, Arjuna, do both together. Certainly, then, this remembrance must be of another kind — let us understand it — one that places no hindrance in the battle.

Usually remembrance of God is tied to repetition of His name, which is not true remembrance. In true remembrance even the name is no longer needed. The name is merely a device to keep remembrance from being lost. Like a man going to the market who ties a knot in his garment lest he forget what he went to fetch. Lest he forget, he ties a knot. But if one can forget, he may also forget what the knot was tied for at all.

It is said Roosevelt, while speaking, often forgot and spoke far too long. When he had to speak twenty minutes, he would go on for sixty, for eighty — it created great difficulty. When he became President his friends said, Such lapses will not do now. So the very first day, as he rose to speak, he took off his watch and placed it on the table: I will keep the watch before me so I know I have not spoken too long. But there’s one condition — may I remember when I started speaking! The watch may tell me it is now ten o’clock, but it is also necessary to remember when I began. One who can forget can forget anything.

If one cannot keep divine remembrance without the name, one can also forget with the name. And this is what has happened: people keep repeating the name and yet cannot remember the Lord at all. Only the knot remains in the hand; what it was tied for is forgotten. The knot can be a support — but it is a support only if the inner remembrance is present. The name too can be a support. But it is only a support. The name itself is not remembrance; it is only a knot.

The remembrance Krishna speaks of is different. One way is to keep saying within, God is, God is. Another is to feel — there is light all around. That which is seen, that which is heard, the enemy standing before you with an arrow on the bowstring to pierce your chest — he too is the Lord. This vastness all around is His vastness. If this awareness remains, then you can do anything, and remembrance will not be a hindrance, because every act will itself become a knot for remembrance.

Note this: one way is to tie the knot of the name — that will hinder other work. The other is to accept all your work itself as a consecrated portion to the Divine.

So Krishna says: fight, and remember. Fight, remembering.

It has only one meaning: the one who is fighting, the one who stands as the foe, whatever is happening all around; whoever wins, whoever loses, whatever the outcome — amidst it all, only the Divine is active. If this awareness dawns, you can sit in your shop, do your work, talk to the customer — and keep remembrance of the Lord.

What difficulty is there in seeing the Lord in the customer? What difficulty is there in feeling the Divine in the very object you lift in your hand? While bathing, the stream of water falling on your head — what obstruction is there that it cannot become the stream of the Divine? When you take your food, that it be the Lord’s prasad, that it be the Lord Himself — what prevents it?

Only when one remembers the Lord in each grain and flow of one’s life does remembrance not become a separate task. In the midst of all work, it is threaded in — as the thread is hidden through the beads of a mala. Unseen, yet holding all the beads together from within.

Remembrance means: like a thread, it enters all the works of your life and makes life a garland — and that garland you are able to lay at the feet of the Lord. That remembrance makes each of your acts into meditation.

Kabir weaves cloth — and he sings, Fine, fine, this delicate cloth I weave! He goes to sell the cloth — and he hurries as if Ram Himself has come to the marketplace to buy it. The customer stands before him, and Kabir spreads out the sheet so tenderly. And the delightful thing is: when Kabir sold a sheet to a customer, he would say, Ram! Keep it with great care. With great remembrance I have woven it. In every fiber I have woven you yourself.

The customer would be startled: What madman is this I have come to buy from! He calls me Ram!

When Kabir became a knower — supremely wise — the disciples said, Now give up this weaving; it does not befit you. For a great knower to weave and go to market like a common weaver — it is not fitting.

Kabir said, If no work befits a knower, then how does this vast work of the cosmos befit the Paramatma? And if the Divine is immersed in such immense work and does not flee it, I am engaged in a small thing — weaving a little cloth — I see no need to run away from it.

Why should the knower flee? Why not thread Ram where he stands? Why not make whatever he does into remembrance of the Lord? Alas, had the knowers fled less, life would have been more beautiful. Because of the knowers’ flight, life has fallen into the hands of the ignorant.

Though it must be said, sometimes a knower is seized by the act of renunciation in such a way that that very act becomes his remembrance of the Lord — that is another matter.

But to Arjuna Krishna says: Fight. Arjuna’s trouble, Arjuna’s anxiety is just this: War and religion are two different things. If I fight, I become irreligious. If I am to be religious, I must flee the war. This is not only Arjuna’s anxiety; it is ours as well.

Just today a friend was with me. He said, You speak of sannyas. If I am to take sannyas, I must leave the house. If I am to live at home, then I must not take sannyas.

Why? What enmity is there between home and sannyas? If war and remembrance of the Divine are not opposed, how can home and sannyas be opposed? I told him: Take sannyas, and live in the home. He said, You speak in contradictions!

So must it have sounded to Arjuna too — what strange talk! If one is to take sannyas, leave the home — that is understandable. If one is to live at home, drop talk of sannyas — that too is understandable. The arithmetic is very clear.

But clear arithmetic is often not the arithmetic of life. Life is very illogical. And whoever tries to make it too tidy ends up with dead things in hand; life slips away. Divide it — it dies. Cut it — it dies. To understand a synthesized, integrated life, life is very illogical. One who can be meditative while fighting — only he enters the deep current of life.

In life there is no either-or. War can be with meditation. Remembrance can be with war. In truth, when war is with remembrance, war is no longer war. That is what Krishna says to Arjuna: Remember, and fight — because with remembrance, war ceases to be war. And if you flee war but do not learn the art of remembrance, even your sannyas will not be sannyas.

If the art of remembrance is known, even a butcher can enter the temple of the Lord long before the priest. And if the art of remembrance is unknown, you may sit in the sanctum a whole life, bang your head — no result will come.

The question is of the art of remembering. How are we to remember? And in remembering we are transformed. In truth, if even once one remembers the Lord with one’s whole heart, one cannot remain the same man who remembered. It cannot be. Remembrance is such a great event that the person’s life is changed from the roots. Yes — if remembrance has not happened, that is another matter.

Remember the Lord while fighting. Thus, with mind and intellect offered into Me, doubtless you shall reach Me alone.

Do not be afraid. Do not be timid. Do not flee the war. With mind and intellect yoked, remember Me — and surely you will attain Me. Yoked with mind and intellect — this must be understood well.

It is almost always so: the heart says one thing, the intellect says another — and the two never make a union. The two never meet. The intellect says, This is right; the heart says, Something else is right. Within, a constant quarrel, a conflict goes on.

The heart says, Dive into bhajan. The intellect says, Are you mad? The heart says, How long will you remain with things? Seek the Lord! The intellect says, There is time enough; not yet, life stretches before you. First taste a little more of the world. God can be found any time. He will keep waiting. He is not something that can be missed. If not this birth, then the next. But first enjoy this world properly.

Between the intellect and the heart there is a rift. If one remembers with this rift inside, the remembrance will never be total.

Some remember only with the intellect. Such remembrance is a kind of investment. They think: If we don’t remember God, we may have to go to hell. If we remember, we will get heaven. If we remember, we will have success in life; sufferings will lessen, happiness will increase. They think, If nothing comes of it, still what harm? If there is a God and we didn’t remember, it could be a loss. If there isn’t and we did remember, what loss is there! Those who reckon in this language of accounting — in the deep heart of such people there is no thirst for the Lord. This is intellectual business.

We are taught only this sort of intellectual business regarding God. From childhood we say, Remember God and you will pass your exams. We start teaching accounts.

We do not know how we make man irreligious. If that child, whom we told, Remember the Lord and you’ll pass, if he passes, he will conclude that remembrance brings profit. Then too he has become irreligious; because one who remembers for profit is not religious.

Where is religion in remembering for profit? Profit is the goal; remembrance is only a means. We have taken a little employment from God too — just that much grace from Him! A bit of service we have taken from Him as well. Or, to put it plainly, a little flattery — your name-chanting pleases you, all right then. You be pleased by our chanting, and grant us what we want, and please us. A bargain; a deal.

If that child succeeds, he becomes profit-centered. And if he fails, he concludes forever that God and such — there is nothing there; naming Him does nothing.

Mulla Nasruddin’s house caught fire. He sat comfortably leaning under a tree outside. Midnight stillness. No one on the road. Neighbors asleep. A stranger lost his way; he saw fire in the village and rushed down the lane. He entered the gate and found Mulla sitting under the tree. He shouted, What are you doing? Are you mad? Your house is on fire! Nasruddin said, I am praying. And tonight I mean to see whether there is a God or not. I am praying for rain — I will see whether there is a God or not!

Everyone tests in this way — placing little bets: All right, show me this, and I will believe.

Diderot, a great Western thinker, often in assemblies would take out his watch and say, It is nine o’clock by my watch. If there is a God, make it eight — and I shall believe! Nine oh-one would pass; nine-oh-two would pass; then he would say, Look, ample proof — there is no God.

If one fails, it is proof there is no God. And if one succeeds, it is proof that God too can be seduced by flattery; He too is pleased by praise. And if profit is needed, He can be used too.

Love does not know how to use. Prayer cannot be for use. Where there is use, there is no relationship — no heartful relationship.

So the intellect either makes one an atheist, or worse than an atheist — a believer for profit. The atheist is still better; he simply says, There is none. The so-called theist constantly insults the Divine in such ways it is hard to measure — because profit! If the illness is cured, if the job is obtained — then it proves God exists. Otherwise all proofs are lost.

No — intellect is not enough. Yet all our education is of the intellect. The deep inner mind, the realm of feeling, the heart’s innermost — remains untouched. Sometimes a voice does rise from that untouched heart, but the intellect suppresses it.

Today, right before me, a friend stood. Many times I felt within him a wave to dissolve into kirtan — but then he opened his eyes, gathered himself, and restrained it.

Who restrains from within? The intellect restrains; it says, You are educated, respectable. How can you dance like a rustic? You hold a university degree. If someone sees you, what will they think? Have you gone mad? A tinkling tremor arises in the heart; little bells ring within; his legs tremble; then he opens his eyes, composes himself, and stands! Moment to moment you will see — the heart wants to send out its sprouts, but the intellect instantly tramples them.

That is why Krishna says: with mind and intellect yoked.

Let the heart say yes, and the intellect also say yes — only then is harmony born. A bridge arises between the two. And only in that bridged moment can a person remember the Lord with his whole being.

How will this be? If you keep listening only to the intellect, it will never be — because the intellect is very superficial.

If an ocean listens only to its waves, it will never come to know the heaps of pearls hidden in its womb — for the waves know nothing of pearls. Ask the waves if there are pearls within, and they will say, Madman, there is nothing inside. The waves are always on the surface; they know nothing of the depths. They will say, Pearls? Nonsense. Sometimes dry leaves float in; bits of debris — that much the waves know. Of the depths of pearls they know nothing. If the ocean obeys the waves, it is deprived of its own treasure.

We too obey the waves of our intellect — the intellect is a very surface layer. The intellect is that face of our mind through which we relate to the world. Intellect is like the guard who sits at the gate of a royal palace. He stands between the outer world and the palace.

But if the master of the house, the emperor himself, starts asking the guard, Is there anything inside this palace? the guard will say, What could be there! All that is, is here on my stool. The whole world is here. And no one has ever gone in without passing by me. So even if something goes in, it will go past me. So far I’ve seen no treasure enter — there is no treasure inside!

Intellect is only a guard, a security measure for our relation with the outer world. When we begin asking it about our innermost, it is our foolishness. We are asking one who does not know. But one who knows nothing is always quick to answer.

It often happens that those who know nothing are most eager to answer. Sometimes those who know hesitate to answer; those who do not know answer very quickly — perhaps lest their hesitation reveal that they do not know. So they answer in haste.

Intellect answers hastily. If you keep asking the intellect, the nearness, the fragrance, the music of the Divine will never be found. Move the intellect aside a little and ask from the inner heart. Yes, use the intellect; let the heart give the call, and use the intellect as an instrument. Ask the heart what is to be done; then ask the intellect how to do it. Then there is a fine consonance between intellect and heart.

Understand it rightly.

Ask the heart for the goal; ask the intellect for the means. Ask the heart for the ultimate attainment; ask the intellect for the way to reach. Always ask the heart, What do I seek? and ask the intellect, This I seek — now how is it to be attained? The intellect can give methodology, technique, the path. But the intellect never gives the goal. We all go astray asking the intellect for the goal.

Understand it this way: the supreme development of the intellect is science; the supreme flowering of the heart is religion.

If you ask science, For what do we live? science will say, We do not know. If you ask, How are we to live to live longer, more healthily? science will show a way. Ask science the goal of life — it will say, We do not know.

Einstein, at death, was tormented: I, too, aided in the making of the atomic bomb; but I did not know what you would do with it. We could only tell you how it could be made. What you would do — we had not thought.

Science cannot tell you what you should do. Only religion tells you what you should do. Science can tell you how to do it — the how. But the for what — science has no answer. The intellect has no answer.

Ask the heart what is to be attained. Then command the intellect: This is to be attained. Find the path, the technique, the arrangement. Then heart and intellect are united. Where heart and intellect unite, there yoga bears fruit.

Therefore Krishna says: With mind and intellect offered into Me, doubtless you attain Me.

Offered into Me! This is the marvel. The heart always wants to offer. The intellect always wants others to offer. The intellect says to others: Surrender. The intellect knows not how to surrender. The intellect is ego. And the heart — the heart knows not how to assault. The heart is surrender; the heart is an incomparable humility.

If one goes on seeking through the intellect, he will only exhaust himself in arguments about God. No answer will come. Even if the Divine Himself stands before you and you ask with the intellect, Who are You? the Divine will remain silent; not because your question is wrong — simply because it has been asked from the intellect. Such questions, asked from the intellect, are meaningless to answer.

Ask from the heart — and the Divine need not even answer; He will overshadow the heart from all sides, as a cloud envelops a mountain, as the sun’s rays envelop a flower from all directions. Ask from the heart — even if the Divine be not present in front — and He surrounds the heart from all sides, and the bud of the heart blossoms, as in the morning a flower opens and the sun’s light envelops it from all sides. But the heart’s formula is surrender.

So Krishna says: Offered in Me, with mind and intellect united — then, without doubt — one attains Me.

Surrender is attainment; surrender is arrival. Whoever holds himself back from surrender will be deprived. Whoever lets go, dares — arrives.

We are all frightened. We never let ourselves go. In life we scarcely find a single remembrance when we let go. Even in what we call love — we do not let go. Something is always kept back. That very reserve prevents us from love’s experience.

Even when I love someone, holding myself back, I keep a large part in reserve, sending only a small portion out as feelers: Let’s see how far it goes. When completely safe, then we will give a little more of the heart. If even a little fear arises, we shrink back like a tortoise into its shell.

Even in love we save ourselves. In prayer we save ourselves even more, for in love the other is visible; in prayer even that is not visible. So in love sometimes a little truth’s glimpse comes; prayer becomes utterly false. We bend the knees, fold hands, say namaaz, bow the head — and all this remains almost an exercise.

Why does this happen? Because we do not know how to do anything with the heart. We do not know the feeling of offering. Even that has to be learned.

Do nothing: every morning on waking, do nothing — lie down on the bare earth, limbs spread out. Press the chest to the ground. If you can be naked, even more delightful. As if the Earth is the Mother and you have laid your whole body upon her breast, limbs thrown wide. Rest the head upon the earth and for a little while feel that you have merged yourself entirely, let go into the earth. It is earth on both sides; the link forms quickly — it does not take long. This body too is a piece of earth. Very soon the particles of this body and the particles of earth enter into harmony; music begins to echo. And in a little while you will feel that you have become earth; an ecstasy arises, an unprecedented joy such as never before.

At times lie naked in the sun, and let the sun’s rays touch the whole body. Close your eyes and surrender yourself to the rays. Without the sun’s ray there is no life in this body. The energy within, the life within, is connected to the sun.

The moment surrender arises — that we have become one — then say: Carry me, O Sun, upon your rays to far journeys. I agree; I let myself go. Wherever you show the way, there will I move! In a little while you will discover that the rays do not only touch the skin; they have begun to tickle the heart within. Somewhere a petal of the heart has begun to feel their touch, and somewhere the bird of life spreads its wings, eager to fly away.

Learn anywhere, learn by any means. Learn anywhere, any way. When you give love to your wife, give it whole. When you lay your head in the mother’s lap, rest it wholly. When you clasp a friend’s hand, take the whole hand into your hand. When you embrace, do not only touch bones; let yourself go. For one moment, be carried away. Slowly the feeling of offering will come.

And that very feeling, when it is directed toward the all-pervading Paramatma — for in all other experiences someone is present; the Divine is non-present — therefore learn from the present, and when the experience becomes deep, then surrender toward the non-present, the absent, the Unseen.

That surrender is difficult for this very reason. If someone is present, surrender feels easy. When no one is present, then to whom to surrender? People ask: To whom should we surrender?

But man’s cunning knows no end. A very strange thing I have observed: if you tell someone, Surrender to this person, he says, To this person? There are so many faults in him! Or you say, Surrender to that one — the ego is pricked: I — surrender to him? He too is a man of flesh and bone. He feels hunger, so he must feel anger too. He sleeps, so lust must also trouble him. Somewhere he must be hiding it. And I — to him! I too am such a man.

Even if Buddha stands before you — the same difficulty arises. If Krishna stands — the same difficulty. And if no one stands there, the cunning mind says: To whom should I surrender? None is visible!

To save man from this dishonesty, the very wise created images of God. The murti was a middle device. There is not a person there — not Buddha or Krishna or Mahavira or Mohammed — there is a stone, so you cannot say, Does this stone ever get angry? And yet something is present, so you cannot say, If no one is present, to whom shall I surrender?

But man’s cunning has no end. He says, To this stone! You are making us surrender to a stone! What is there in a stone? If I wish, I can break it into two right now. One who cannot protect himself — how will he protect me?

Dayanand’s whole revolution was born of this misunderstanding. A mouse troubled the temple image of God; Dayanand said, If you cannot protect yourselves from a mouse, how will you protect me or the world? All this is futile. The Arya Samaj rose upon this perception of the mouse! The vision is so small. Dayanand turned opponent of images because the image could not protect itself.

Who knows what this man is like! Say anything to him, and he will find a device to preserve his disease. If a living person stands there — faults will be found. If an image stands — it is a stone. If the Divine is non-present — Where are His feet? Where shall I lay my head? And man keeps saving himself.

Hence I said: Learn surrender. Learn from the earth. Learn from the sky. Learn from the sun. Learn in love. Learn anywhere. Keep one thing in mind: as your experience of offering grows dense, surrender to the Divine will become easier.

Whenever someone asks me, How shall I surrender? I know this man has never loved. He has never had a perception of beauty. He has never seen a flower bloom, never seen the sun rise. He has never laid himself upon the cool sand of the riverbank. He has never sat in the murmur of a flowing stream with eyes closed so that some ripple might arise within him.

No — he has known nothing. He has filled his safe. He has collected clothes. He has built a house. But no door of his sensitivity has opened. And so he asks, How to surrender? How to bow? The neck is stiff, paralyzed — stiff all twenty-four hours; it cannot bend.

So Krishna says: With mind and intellect offered into Me, doubtless he attains Me. And O Partha, with the yoga of practice in meditation, with a mind that goes not to the other, continuously contemplating — he attains the Supreme Divine Person, the Lord.

Attained by the yoga of practice — and not going to the other!

There is no other God — God is one. Islam is right: There is no god except the God. Except Ishwar there is no Ishwar — right. He is one.

Therefore the other is not some other God. When Krishna says, One whose meditation is continuously practiced in Me and does not go toward the other, do not take it to mean he says: Do not go toward Buddha, toward Mahavira, toward Rama. Devotees have made such mistaken meanings as cannot even be counted. A Krishna-devotee thinks: If one goes toward Rama, he has gone toward another; if toward Buddha, then toward another. But Krishna has said clearly: unexclusively toward Me, not toward the other.

The mistake is of understanding. God is one. One may call Him Ram, or Rahim, or Krishna, or whatever else. God is one. Then what is meant by other? Are there other gods from whom one should protect oneself? There are no other gods. Then whom does Krishna forbid?

He says only this: the question is not of God — but the mind has a habit of running toward a thousand things. It cannot stay with one for long. The mind seeks the new at every moment. Build a new house — within two, four, eight days it becomes old. The mind says, Now build another. Put on new clothes — after four days the mind lingers before shop windows again; it seems the new fashions have arrived.

The mind seeks novelty. Why? Because if the mind has to stay with one thing, it finds no movement; it gets bored; it demands something new.

But the Divine cannot be made new. So one who is forever chasing the new cannot abide with God. Only one who has entered that practice in which boredom does not arise — where boredom simply does not exist — can stay with the Divine.

If there is one deep cause that renders man irreligious, it is boredom. The mind gets bored of everything. Of one wife, one husband, one house, one friend, one profession — of everything. And it keeps saying, Bring something else, something else. It keeps demanding, More! It gets bored even of itself. Therefore no one is willing to be with himself; he is scared of himself.

I have heard: When Mulla Nasruddin was a small child, his parents once left him at home to attend a wedding. He was too mischievous to take. They said, We shall lock the door from outside. If you behave well, stay peacefully, prove yourself good, when we return we will give you five rupees.

For five rupees Nasruddin tried to be good — just as we all try to be good for some profit. And if a bigger profit comes to be bad, we instantly become bad. It is a question of profit. Every man’s goodness has its price.

One says, I never take bribes. Ask him, How much do you not take — five, ten, fifty, a hundred? Somewhere a limit will appear. He will say, Stop. What do you intend to offer? There is a limit. Another says, I never steal. I went to so-and-so’s house; a ten-rupee note lay there — I didn’t pick it up. Ask him, And if it were ten thousand? He will say, Give me a chance to think again. There is a limit. Otherwise it makes no difference.

Therefore if goodness comes by price, evil can be taken any time. Those who are given prizes for being good — their goodness will always be in doubt; they can be bad any time. Real goodness is that which is without reward. But we do not know that goodness.

Nasruddin tried hard to be good. Five rupees were at stake. An hour or two passed; finally his parents returned. They were surprised to find him running circles from one room to another. His father asked, Nasruddin, what are you doing? We told you to try to be good.

Nasruddin said, I tried; I was gooder than good — but then I couldn’t stand myself! I am running from one room to another just to escape from myself. I became so good that I could not stand myself.

Too much goodness also creates boredom. We get bored of everything. And the Divine is one-taste. Meditation means only this: the practice of not being bored by one-taste. Meditation means the practice of not being bored.

Bertrand Russell once joked: I am ready to go to hell after death, but I am not ready to go to the moksha of Hindus and Buddhists. Why? He said: In moksha I will be terribly bored. There everything is one-taste. Bliss — only bliss. No sorrow ever arises. I will be bored by bliss. How to bear so much bliss! Bliss alone! If no bitter taste comes in between, even sweets become tiresome. So a little bitter is needed. There is so much silence there that no voice ever arises — I will panic. And then there is no way to come back.

Russell said: He who goes there, goes for good. That is death — not liberation. There is no exit. Moksha has only one door — entrance; no exit. Whoever goes — is gone. They call it final liberation; I feel it is final bondage! In hell one can come out. And in hell there is great variety — clamors twenty-four hours. More uproar than here.

Russell speaks truly — but the point is elsewhere.

If you are very greedy for change, you cannot enter meditation. What does your mind do when you sit to meditate? It keeps throwing up thoughts — one, then another, then a third. Don’t panic, don’t be bored, it says. I am giving you new, new things.

You ask, How to concentrate? Meditation will happen the day you are ready to be bored and yet do not get bored. You are looking at a flower. You go on looking. No desire to change arises. Good. Go on looking. If the mind first gets bored — it says, How long will you look at the same flower? Change now. If you don’t change the flower, the mind will say, If not the flower, then we will change thoughts within. But change something. And you say, We will change nothing. There is this flower and there is me — that is enough.

If every day you sit by one flower for an hour in this way, one day a glimpse of meditation will begin. No more boredom. You have agreed to be with one thing. And one who is ready to be with one thing for twenty-four hours — only he can remember the Lord. Because that remembrance cannot change; the Lord is one — everywhere one-taste, one flavor.

Buddha said: Like salt — anywhere you taste in the ocean, it is salty. So is the Divine — taste from anywhere, utterly one-taste.

Krishna says: If the mind goes even slightly toward the other, it is not meditation. And if the mind does not go toward the other, if exclusively it rests in Me, or in the Supreme Divine Person — then God is attained. Thus, he who remembers the Omniscient, the Beginningless, the Lord of all, subtler than the subtlest, the bearer and sustainer of all, inconceivable, radiant like the sun, beyond ignorance — only he attains the Divine.

A few things have been said here; let us understand them.

First: the One who is Omniscient. In this world, however much one knows, one is still limited. However much one knows, something remains yet to be known. There is no end to knowing. There cannot be. Only in the innermost of the Divine can knowing be complete.

Certainly He knows all that can be known. Yet He cannot know that He knows all. Because one who knows, I know all — his knowing has a boundary. Therefore the Divine is all-knowing, yet He does not know that He knows all. Even the notion of knowing all belongs to the ignorant.

So if ever anyone announces on earth, I am omniscient — he only announces that his knowing has limits. He is also limited; he is also ignorant. Only the ignorant declare that they know all.

But he who remembers the all-knowing — slowly he becomes one with Him. And a moment comes in that oneness when one no longer knows even whether one knows or does not know.

A friend has written to ask: Do you know everything?

There are only two answers I could give. Either: Yes, I know everything — which is the sure sign of an ignorant man. Or: I know nothing — which the wise have often said. But even in that I see a declaration.

If I say, I know nothing — even then I am declaring something known, and very certainly: that I know nothing. And nothing — this is an absolute claim. As if someone says, I know everything. So someone else says, I know nothing — the other extreme, but equally absolute.

What is to be done? Shall I say to him, I know some things and not some things? If I say that, a logical trouble arises: Then what is it that you know, and what do you not know? And of what I do not know — even so, I at least know that I do not know it. What answer shall I give? And he asks for a straight yes or no!

Perhaps the Divine is afraid to appear before you for this very reason — He has no answers to your questions.

As one dissolves into the Supreme, nothing remains known — neither knowledge nor ignorance.

I told this to that friend. He said, But when we ask you something, and you know nothing — neither knowledge nor ignorance — how then do you answer? We all imagine answers are ready-made beforehand, as packets in a shop. You ask — the shopkeeper pulls out the packet and gives it. This is the pundit’s style — ready-made packets.

But as one dissolves in the Lord, one knows nothing and knows not even that one does not know. You ask; the answer comes — it is not given. As when one calls out loudly in a deserted valley and the mountain echoes your call. As when you stand before a mirror and the mirror reflects your form.

Even the answers Krishna gives to Arjuna are not answers — not as in school between teacher and children; not ready-made things.

Mulla Nasruddin went to his nation’s capital for the first time. He walked down the road for the first time. Suddenly cars honked, brakes squealed, buses stopped, panic spread — Nasruddin was marching stiffly down the middle of the road. The policeman waved his hand madly for him to stop; he would not. The policeman came near and said, Sir, do you not understand I am waving my hand!

Nasruddin said, Would I not understand! I have been a schoolmaster for thirty years. What do you want to ask? He is a man of school. When boys wave their hands — he thinks there is a question. Even on the road he is pursued by questioners. He has ready-made meanings.

Krishna does not give such answers. One like Krishna does not answer; he drinks in the question and the answer arises.

He is Omniscient — in this sense: He is. Therefore He knows. What has happened, what is happening, what will happen. Yet He knows nothing of it — for knowing belongs only to the ignorant.

Beginningless — who never began; who was never born; who never started; who simply is, always is.

The Lord of all. He, in whose hands all is. Everything in His hands — the moon and stars upon His fingers — all.

But the word Lord has caused great misunderstanding. We take it to mean a supreme controller, who controls all. Mistake. For control is always of the other. But besides Him there is no other. Therefore Lord does not mean controller.

Lord means law — the dharma, the rit. He himself is the law. Besides Him there is none. Who is there to control? He does not need to control. The flow of His life is the law; what the Vedas called rit, what Lao Tzu called Tao. That — in itself. He is the law. Not that He holds each of us by the neck — You, become a thief; you, a cheat; you, a saint; your task is over, return! Had He been doing that, He would have gone mad long ago — controlling so many madmen like us would drive anyone mad.

It is said an Egyptian emperor went insane. Physicians said there is only one remedy. He was a great chess player; call a great player and keep him engaged in chess — perhaps attention will settle in chess and the madness will be cured.

The emperor was a great player. The greatest players were called — but who would agree to play with a madman! The reward was great, so a master agreed.

They say the game went on for a year. The emperor would tire and sleep, wake and resume. After a year, the physicians were right — the emperor became sane. But the master went mad. To play chess with a madman for a year — imagine what happens!

If the Divine were controlling so many madmen, He would have gone mad. And there is no remedy for Him afterwards.

No — there is no conscious control, where He pushes each person. Lord means law. Understand law.

You are walking. You place your foot askew; you fall with a thud and crack your head. Ask the scientist, What happened? He will say, Gravitation — the pull of the earth. The earth threw you down.

If the earth keeps throwing like this, it will be hard for the earth as well — to run day and night: who has placed his foot wrong, where is someone falling! No — gravitation does not come to throw you down. Gravitation is present; it is the law. You place your foot askew, you fall of your own accord. The earth does not even know it threw someone down. It is a law.

Waters flow toward the ocean. No God is pushing each river — Come, this way; do not miss. He has not stationed sentries here and there — Watch that it does not stray. The law is that water flows downward — that’s all. The law stands. The river may dry up; still the law lies there in the sand. The river has completely dried; there is no water. Then perhaps God should strike His camp and move on — No need to remain here. But even in the dry bed the law is ready. When the rains come, the law will become active; the river will flow downwards.

Lord means law. God is law. Therefore He is the Lord of all. He who remembers Him…

Subtler than the subtlest!

Human language is feeble. Krishna too has the same feeble language that the feeblest man has. He must say, subtler than the subtlest. Yet even this does not help. One could go further: subtler than the subtlest, subtler than that, and subtler still — it still doesn’t help.

Why must Krishna say, subtler than the subtlest? Because even subtle is a very gross word. We call something very subtle — yet it is. We say, A hair is very subtle. But a hair is thick enough to hold between the fingers.

Ask of the atom, and scientists say, A hundred thousand atoms placed one atop another equal the thickness of a hair. Extremely subtle — yet they are. And even as one hundred-thousandth, it is still gross.

So Krishna must say, subtler than the subtlest.

Truly, we have no word subtle enough to indicate Him. Even our subtle only indicates a difference of measure. Place an ant before an elephant — we say, very subtle. But subtler still can be placed before the ant. The ant becomes large, the others smaller.

When we say God is the subtlest, it means: beyond Him nothing subtler exists. The ultimate. The abyss. The bottomless depth. What we call gross can never grasp Him. We cannot even imagine Him; imagination can only grasp the gross. Only a sensing is possible — a feeling — a slight touch of experience.

Radiant like the sun.

How weak our language! What is the poor sun? And saying like the sun, what do we say? As if someone said: In my house we light a chimney at night, a little lamp — like that! You would say, You are mad — likening the Divine to a lamp that can be snuffed out with a breath!

But the sun seems immense to us. Ask the astronomers: our sun is a mediocre star, very small, nothing special. There are stars thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of times larger. What is this poor sun! Nothing. Though it is huge compared to our earth — sixty thousand times larger perhaps — and certainly huge compared to our lamp. But there are great suns before which our sun is smaller than our lamp.

Still, language is weak. Even the language of one like Krishna is weak — because language itself is weak; what to do? Only a hint: radiant like the sun.

Even that hint is not right. This sun will go out. Not long now. Its fuel is being spent. Scientists say: perhaps four thousand more years. The hour of this sun’s extinguishing draws near. Four thousand years is not long by the measure of suns — it is a moment.

This earth has existed about four billion years. This sun is far older. The earth is very new. If we take a book of one thousand pages to be the age of the sun, then the earth’s age is one page. And if the earth’s age is one page, then a full stop on that page equals the age of mankind. And your or my age — it cannot be marked at all. How to mark it? A full stop from a ball-point equals the age of mankind; one page the age of earth; the sun’s age equals a thousand pages.

Four billion years the earth has been. This sun will live only four thousand more. What comparison! It will go out. But as an example Krishna says: like the sun, who is radiant — but adding: He is beginningless — already said. He will never end. He never exhausts. He never finishes.

But yes — He is light. Self-luminous. He is light by Himself.

Understand this.

There are two kinds of things in the world: those lit by others; and those lit by themselves. We light a lamp in a room; everything in the room becomes visible. Extinguish the lamp — nothing is visible. The room’s things can be seen if some other light is present. But do you need another lamp to see the lamp you have lit? No — the lamp is self-luminous.

One night Mulla Nasruddin lay in bed. Bitter cold. He had no courage to get up. He woke early, and called to his servant: Mahmood, go see outside whether the sun has risen or not. Mahmood grumbled: You don’t have the courage to go — and you send me! But he had to. He peeped through the door, returned and said, It is pitch dark! Nasruddin said, Fool, if it is dark, take a lamp and see whether the sun has risen!

If one had to take a lamp to see the sun — the matter would be settled. The lamp is self-luminous. Yet the lamp needs fuel; it depends upon oil. The lamp is not independent; it is dependent.

The Divine is such light that is self-luminous and free — dependent on nothing; He is light itself.

Beyond avidya — far beyond ignorance — the pure Satchidananda Paramatma, he who remembers Him attains Him.

Beyond avidya — last point.

One can fall into ignorance — and rise from it. Beyond avidya means one who is incapable of falling into ignorance — cannot fall. We fall into ignorance. A subtle problem arises: since the Divine is within all, why do we fall into ignorance? And the Divine is beyond avidya, cannot fall into ignorance — then how do we fall?

A great puzzle. From Shankara onward, Indian philosophers have been in anguish to resolve it. On one hand: the Divine is within all — yes; on the other: He is beyond avidya — He cannot fall; and yet we all fall! And He is within all. What is this riddle?

The riddle is of our own making. In truth, no one ever falls into ignorance. It is only an idea. Only our notion. Hence when one awakens to knowledge, ignorance does not vanish — only the notion of being ignorant vanishes.

Ignorance is only a notion. Yet a notion has power. Each of us has the capacity to deceive himself. We can deceive ourselves. We can say, I am ignorant — and if I go on believing it, this belief has such power that I will make it true as well. The impossible begins to seem possible. Immense power is hidden within. If I believe I am ignorant, I will be ignorant.

If I believe with my whole might that I am blind, the eyes can lose their light this very moment. If I believe I am lame, my leg can go lame at once. Believing — and immense power within — and consciousness free to believe.

It is our belief that we are ignorant. Strange! We adopt the belief that we are ignorant — and then we set out to search for knowledge. Then we gather knowledge. Then upon the ignorant we install a new belief: No, I am wise. The wandering becomes long — layer upon layer of madness.

In truth, a knower does not go in search of I am a knower. He goes in search of whether this belief is real: Am I ignorant? As he searches within, the belief is uprooted. And he finds a moment when he is neither wise nor ignorant — he is beyond avidya.

Both the wise and the ignorant are within avidya. Therefore the Upanishads say: The wise also go astray. The ignorant wander, of course — the wise wander in utter darkness.

Beyond avidya — neither knowledge nor ignorance — such is our nature. The supreme flowering of this nature is the Divine. And the day that flowering happens within anyone, he becomes the Supreme Divine. Wherever that flowering occurs — the same. Where it has not yet flowered, there too the Divine is present, merely pressed down beneath your false belief.

If a man assumes himself to be something, that very assumption encloses him. It is auto-hypnosis. Our condition is self-suggestion. If it is to be broken, constant remembrance of the Lord is the mantra.

Enough for today.

But no one will rise and go. For five to seven minutes we shall sit here in remembrance of the Lord.

Two things I say to you. Do not rise. If one person gets up, those behind have to rise. And yesterday during kirtan some of you came forward; then the others had to get up. Remain seated where you are. Clap there itself. Join the kirtan from there. Sing. Rejoice. These seven minutes — take them as prasad and go only after receiving it. No one will rise in between. And no one will come forward in the middle.