Geeta Darshan #5

Human consciousness can travel in two ways. One — away from itself, outwards, through the avenues of the senses. And one — close to itself, inwards, by closing the doors of the senses. The senses are doors. They open both ways. As the doors of your house do: through the same door you can go out — then you open it outward; and through the same door you can come in — then you open it inward. The same door can take you out, the same door can bring you in.
The senses are the doors of consciousness — for egress and for ingress.
But drifting outward birth after birth, we forget that through these very doors one may also come in. It slips out of our memory that the door through which we went outside the house can also bring us back within.
This forgetfulness persists in thought. We do not remember that the very paths by which we fall down become the paths by which we rise. The same steps by which one descends to hell are the steps by which one climbs to heaven. The steps are not different — only the direction of walking is different.
Krishna says to Arjuna: O Arjuna, restraining all the doors of the senses — that is, attaining to the discipline of the senses — who places feeling, the mind, in the heart, and the life-breath in the head, he attains the supreme state.
What does it mean — restraining the senses, closing the doors?
The senses can be blocked in two ways. One is to forcibly wrench them away from their objects — by shock, by suppression. Something seems beautiful; the mind is drawn, attracted, runs, becomes restless. One way is to gouge out the eyes, or turn the eyes away, or flee from the place — to run from the object that attracts you.
But the object that attracts is secondary; that which is attracted is primary. So the one who runs from the object runs only from the secondary — the mere occasion — but from the one who is attracted, how will he run? That goes with him.
Wealth draws me; seeing wealth my life-energy becomes eager to obtain it. To run from wealth is not very difficult; no great courage is needed. Often cowards become very skilled in running away. One can run. But even after running, that inner eagerness for wealth will go along with me.
In this world there is no way to run away from oneself. From all else we can run — except from ourselves. We can leave the whole world — but not ourselves. We will be with ourselves — in the jungle, in the mountains, in the cave, on the Himalayas. Wherever I go, I will remain with myself. Yes, I can run from objects; but what of tendencies? Tendencies remain within.
And there is another deception. When there are no objects, tendencies get no chance to move; so I may fall into the illusion that, since the tendency seems not to be moving, therefore it has ended. No need to be deluded. As soon as the object appears again, the tendency is again active.
This inaction of the tendency is like gunpowder lying unlit. If a live coal falls on it — explosion! If for years no coal falls, the gunpowder may think, I have become very calm — because no explosion happens. And if the gunpowder decides, it is the coal that causes explosion, so I will avoid coals and remain peaceful — that too is delusion. The coal does not explode; it only occasions the explosion. The explosion is within the gunpowder itself.
As long as the gunpowder of tendencies remains in us, we may flee from coals as much as we like — there is no real safety. And across births, again and again, the tendencies return to us.
So when Krishna says, restrain all the doors of the senses, first understand well — he is not advocating this sort of suppression. Krishna’s own life does not suggest he ever practiced such repression. Yet even with Krishna, people go astray.
In Buddha’s utterances one may read this meaning, for he renounced. In Mahavira’s life too, for he renounced. But even with Krishna, people misunderstand — though Krishna renounced nothing. Certainly, Krishna cannot be meaning: run from objects. He means something else — utterly different, deeply revolutionary.
One way is: I run from the object, I flee from the coal, preserving the gunpowder. The other way: I drop the gunpowder and continue to play with coals. Krishna gives Arjuna a message for playing with coals. He says: Fight! Do not flee.
And remember, the outer war is small. There is another inner war — a constant battle within, between consciousness and the objects of the senses: whether to be attracted or not. Krishna cannot advise escape from that war either. Escape is not his language. Escapism is not his way. Krishna’s way is transformation — standing in the very density of the war.
So Krishna’s meaning can only be this: there is no need to flee from objects. And even if you flee — you cannot flee. Wherever you go, objects will be present. Wherever the world is, there objects are available. To dissolve the tendency is the discipline of the senses. When tendency dissolves, the senses close by themselves; for consciousness rides upon tendency to move through the doors of the senses. Sitting on the horses of tendency, consciousness goes out through the senses and wanders on the endless journey outside. If the horses of tendency grow weak, the senses no longer run — they close; their doors shut.
In truth the doors of the senses are automatic — very self-regulating. As long as inner consciousness pushes them outward, they remain open. When the inner does not push outward, they close of their own accord.
Understand through the eyes — the eyes are a symbol; through them understand all the senses. The eye is the most subtle and delicate of the senses. What happens with the eye happens with all.
As long as within you consciousness wants to be awake, the eyelids remain open. When consciousness wants to sleep, the lids flutter and close. The push of consciousness keeps the lids open. So, even if you are dead tired, on the edge of sleep, in that very moment if someone shouts “Fire!” sleep disappears. You can remain awake all night. What happened? Consciousness decided to awaken again; the lids opened.
Almost all senses function like this. The eye has lids; the ear has no shutter to close. Yet the student sits in class and a bird sings outside. The bird’s song begins to be heard; the teacher’s voice is lost. The teacher is nearer, speaking louder. The bird is far off, hidden in a mango grove; his voice a faint hum. Yet the student hears the bird, and the teacher’s words vanish. What has happened?
Where consciousness turns, those doors open; where it does not turn, those doors close.
Even sex has subtle doors that open and close. When the mind fills with lust, that door opens. Consciousness pushes, the center of lust opens its door and sexual energy begins to flow outward. If consciousness does not push, the door is closed; there is no other way for the energy to flow out.
All the doors of our bodily senses are automatic. When consciousness presses from within, they open. When it does not, they close on their own.
So when Krishna says “restraining the doors of the senses,” he is not saying sit with your eyes forcibly shut. For if you shut your eyes by force, that against which you shut them will appear, even within closed eyes. You cannot be saved from it.
Plug your ears by force to avoid hearing — the unsaid still echoes within. Try to stop sexual energy by force — nothing changes; it leaks in other ways.
No method of force works. Force only indicates that within, some portion of consciousness wants to go out — and another portion is trying to drag it back in. If the restraining portion is stronger, there is a tug-of-war at the threshold: one wants to push out, the other pulls back. If the restraining side wins for a while, the tussle continues. But a strange law: the one who restrains soon grows weak; his strength is consumed in restraining. The repressed side, by being held back, grows stronger day by day. Today or tomorrow, it will hurl consciousness out through the sense-door. And then we find arguments to justify what we wanted to do.
I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went on pilgrimage to Mecca. There, moved with emotion, he took a vow to give up fish. Not because he believed renouncing fish would take him to heaven — but because his master had said, Renounce something! And Mulla disliked fish anyway, so he dropped fish.
But the very first night after vowing, fish appeared in his dreams — never before! Returning from pilgrimage, only one thing resounded: fish are forbidden; what a mistake, why such haste? A single craving thickened in his mind — for fish — which he had never had.
Often it is so. If you want to create a taste for something, just take a vow to renounce it — the taste will begin to arise. Because renunciation whispers: now you can never enjoy it. Never! And if there is even a tiny corner in the mind that still wants to taste, it will say: What a mistake — at least once! If enjoyment is possible, the tendency waits; it can rest — someday we will enjoy.
Reaching home, Mulla became restless. His wife had been told by the master: Don’t give him fish — he has renounced it. She also felt, as all wives do, to test the husband. The very next day she made fish soup. The aroma teased Mulla; he was in trouble.
Sitting to eat, all was served except the soup. Mulla said, I smell fish soup — give me a little. The wife said, I heard you gave up fish! Mulla said, Fish I gave up — not fish soup.
So it was. The wife hesitated but had not strained the soup. She raised the pot and began to pour. To prevent bits of fish from slipping in, she shielded with her hand. Mulla said, Why cover with your hand? I gave up fish; but if they come of their own accord, where have I taken a vow to stop them! If they are eager to come, let them.
Then man finds justifications. He invents arguments for the very thing he had argued against. In this way, transformation never happens. The doors of the senses never close this way; rather the senses become sharper, their rust falls away.
Krishna’s meaning — the meaning always understood by the wise — is: dissolve the inner tendency that pushes from within.
How? Not by renouncing, not by indulging. Indulgence strengthens repetition; habit becomes solid. Renunciation gives the charm of the forbidden; prohibition becomes sweet. Neither indulgence nor renunciation destroys the taste of the tendency. How then does the taste end? How is restraint attained?
Only one way has ever been: whenever an object attracts, do not keep attention on the object, keep it on the tendency. Whenever an object attracts! You are walking on the road; a beautiful face, a beautiful body appears — of a woman, of a man — the mind runs. In that moment your attention is on the body that attracts you, not on the tendency that is running, nor on the consciousness that is being pulled.
And wherever attention goes, consciousness flows — this is the law. Wherever attention is, consciousness takes aim, the arrow flies that way.
So when a beautiful person appears, do not focus attention on the beautiful person; immediately turn it upon yourself. See: I am attracted by beauty, and my consciousness, becoming a tendency, is flowing toward beauty. No need to fight, no need to abuse the senses, to say: it is sin to look at beauty. It is not sin at all.
In the recognition of beauty there is not a trace of sin. In the experience of beauty there is no sin. If, knowing the beautiful, consciousness settles in itself, it will be remembrance of the Divine, not of sin. No condemnation, no prohibition, no denigration — only this much: I know the one who is attracted — for that one is me. And I know the consciousness that is flowing out.
The very moment you bring attention to yourself and the flowing consciousness, you will suddenly find the sense-door has closed. When attention turns inward, consciousness flows inward, not outward. Where attention is, there consciousness flows — just as water flows where there is a hollow. Dig a ditch and water will flow.
There are people who try to stop the water. Trying to stop water does not help. However you obstruct it, water will seek the hollow. Build a dam, and the trickle becomes a lake. Today or tomorrow, if the trickle had been allowed, danger would have been little; but when the lake bursts the dam — catastrophe.
Exactly this is happening with the mind. You will be surprised: those who vent a small anger daily never commit murder. If in your house there is someone who is angry but never expresses it — beware. Because the day he does, it will not be less than murder. A dam is forming. The one who vents daily also relaxes daily; like children — angry now, smiling the next moment — no dam at all.
Yet we have to build dams. In the office the boss is there — you cannot be angry; circumstances prevent it. The repressed anger forms a dam; then it breaks and fury explodes.
So our anger is often unjustified — because the one on whom it falls is not its only cause. Twenty-five accumulations, blocked by circumstances, also pour out upon this one. Hence he thinks: Such a little thing — and so much rage! It does not seem justified. We too, later, feel the same. Such a small matter — why that much anger? But the anger hoarded behind the dam was seeking an opening — any hollow to break and be free.
Small sinners never commit great sins. Great sinners are often those who save themselves from small ones. It is not that practicing small sins makes one a greater sinner — remember: the one who commits small sins never becomes the great sinner. If you want to become a great sinner, stop committing the small. One day there will be an explosion — and the great sin will happen.
Consciousness flows toward attention as naturally as water toward a hollow. The law of nature is: consciousness flows toward attention. Where attention is, the arrow of consciousness slides. If someone abuses you, do not keep attention on the abuser; keep it on the one who is hearing. You will suddenly find the sense-door closes, consciousness returns within. If someone slaps you, do not attend to the slapper’s hand; attend to the one who is slapped. You will find the man disappears, the rising anger dissolves, and consciousness returns inside.
Once you taste this — that the energy which was going out as anger does not go out but returns within — you will be amazed. The same energy, returning inward, changes qualitatively; its very nature changes — it becomes forgiveness.
He who knows forgiveness — his joy cannot be measured. He who knows anger — his repentance has no end.
If lust grips the mind, and with attention it returns not outward but inward, it becomes Brahmacharya. He who knows lust only, knows nothing but frustration and sorrow. The one who knows how to bring lust back home has known what the wise have called Brahmacharya. His peace is unparalleled, his strength is incomparable, his delight beyond measure.
But in returning energy there is a qualitative difference. Direction is everything. When energy goes out from me, it impoverishes me. My own energy, whenever it goes out, makes me poor. When at the gate of the senses it turns back, completes the circle, returns to me — I become infinitely rich. The one who completes the circle of his own energy is the one who attains restraint.
Restraint means: your own energy has become a circle. One’s own energy revolves within a circle. Now there remains no way to flow out. The energy cannot dissipate. The more it grows, the more it collects within. And as this circle forms, energy begins to rise upward. Gradually, as we build a temple’s spire — symbol of this process — the tower narrows as it ascends, crowned with a golden pinnacle. As energy gathers within, the circle narrows, condenses. A moment comes when energy becomes the golden spire — then it attains the upward flight.
Restraint is the circle of one’s own energy. Non-restraint means the circle is broken. Through the break is leakage; from there power spills and is lost. Like a short-circuit — energy scatters. Through the doors of our senses we only scatter and lose energy.
For one like Krishna, restraint means the energy delighting in itself, resting in itself.
Understand this secret, this key. Whenever an object attracts, do not give attention to the object; give it immediately to yourself and your consciousness. In that very instant a revolution is felt: something that was going out turns back — a turn-about — without doing anything. You will feel it: a force that was moving out returns. And when it returns to itself, there is a unique encounter with one’s own energy.
To him who attains such restraint; who establishes feeling — the mind — in the heart; and whose prana rests in the head.
Understand two points well.
By feeling I mean the capacity to experience — sensitivity. When restraint is attained, feeling settles in the heart-region. Why?
Within the body are distinct centers, chakras, for different experiences. When the energy of one chakra enters another, we live almost like the insane. This is our present condition.
It is natural to eat with the mouth, chew with the teeth, swallow with the throat, digest with the stomach. But if a man sits and only thinks of food, the instruments for food remain unused; and the brain — which cannot eat — gets busy as if eating. Eating becomes cerebral. The brain cannot eat — but can fall into the illusion of eating. If the illusion intensifies, the personality is broken. In such illusions we live.
Sex has a center. But people, by thinking, thinking, draw sexuality away from its center and push it into the brain. Then they go to the therapist saying: In dreams I feel very potent; in thought I have such sexual energy — but when I approach a woman, I become impotent. This happens repeatedly. The reason is clear: the whole potential of the sex center has been uprooted, focused in the brain. In thought they feel powerful; when there is a chance to express energy, they are powerless.
Our divisions of the chakras are confused — they have invaded each other. No one listens to anyone. One chakra does another’s job; everything is borrowed. We try to feel with the brain; the brain cannot feel. The heart cannot think.
When each chakra returns to its own function, the personality becomes balanced. When energy attains restraint, each chakra does only its own work.
In the West there was a great seeker — George Gurdjieff. He used to say: If you only do this much — purify each center so that the sex center does only the work of sex — you will attain great life.
But within us all is confusion; like a military unit where the sentry sits as general, and the general stands by the sentry’s feet; those who should command are receiving orders, those who should receive are giving them; no one knows who is who — chaos. Such is the state of our mind, consciousness, personality.
Krishna says: When restraint is attained, feeling settles in the heart; the mind abides in the heart; and prana in the head.
These are two things: feeling — the capacity to experience. Have you ever observed from where you experience? Full moon in the sky, you look up — does your brain say “beautiful,” or does a throbbing happen near the heart? Examine.
You will find, in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases, it is the brain that says “very beautiful” — and not because it experiences beauty, but because it has heard, read in books, poems, films, plays: “very beautiful.” It repeats like a gramophone. If it were a real experience, it would not be in the brain, but in the heart. And when there is experience, one may not even wish to speak.
I have heard: Lao Tzu used to walk in silence with a friend each morning. One day a guest joined. The friend knew Lao Tzu loved silence; he might not speak for years. The guest did not know. He too kept silent for a while — then made a mistake. As the sun rose, birds sang, flowers opened, fragrance filled the forest path, he said, “What a beautiful morning!” No one replied. Lao Tzu looked at him intently and walked on. The friend felt uneasy.
On returning, Lao Tzu said, “From tomorrow, do not bring that man; he seems very talkative.” The friend said, “He is not very talkative — he said only one thing in two hours.” Lao Tzu said, “If it were beautiful to him, the thought to say it would not have arisen. If it were beautiful, he would have been absorbed, forgotten morning itself. Nothing touched him. Only habit, habitual: ‘A beautiful morning!’ And we were there too — did we not know? By saying it, he disturbed beauty. In that hush, with birds and sunrays and fragrant breeze, his statement was ugly, meaningless — broke the silence.”
Surely, when beauty is felt, the intellect pauses and the heart experiences. The heartbeat may quicken, blood pressure rise, the skin thrill — but the felt sense will be of the heart, not the intellect.
We have stopped experiencing with the heart. We experience everything through the head. And the head is incapable of experiencing — it is not its work.
The feeling of a restrained man is established in the heart. How will it be established? Either by attaining restraint — or, if you establish feeling in the heart, restraint will become easier.
So whenever you experience, do it mindfully — from the heart. When you say to someone, “I love you,” do not say it first; first let a wave run through the heart. When the wave has seized the heart, if needed, speak. If the other can understand without words, remain silent; give him a chance to understand.
Often we do not reveal with words — we hide. When love is gone, then we shout “I love very much.” Only a substitute. When love is, there is no need to say; the eyes say, the lids say, the face says, the hand’s gesture says, the way you sit near your beloved says it.
But when all that is gone, only empty words remain — spent cartridges with no powder. Then we say “I love you very much!” Only persuading.
Mulla Nasruddin’s wife asked: When I grow old, will you still love me? Mulla said, Certainly — I will place the dust of your feet upon my head! Then suddenly he added, Only — don’t become like your mother!
She was ill then, seeking reassurance. She asked, Mulla, if I die, tell the truth — will you marry again? Mulla said, Such things one shouldn’t ask; your health is poor. But she insisted. Mulla said, It is difficult — if I say I will, it won’t sound good; if I say I won’t, it won’t be true.
It is said Mulla once wrote to a beloved that he would die if she did not accept him. She asked, Will you really die? Mulla said, This has been my usual habit — whenever I loved and was refused, I died immediately! She did not marry him; and Mulla kept his word — though seventy years later — dying at last, leaving a note: Let no one think me a liar — I promised I would die. Now I am dying.
Our love, our vows to die, our assurances — they rarely come from the heart; only from the head’s arithmetic. The less heart there is, the more we substitute with words.
So, the less one loves, the more loudly he proclaims, I love, I love. One who truly loves — silence is enough. If silence cannot say love, words never will. When feeling is, every pore speaks; presence speaks.
When you are in love, give feeling a chance — do not bring intellect between. In prayer — give feeling a chance, not intellect. When you look at beauty — the sun has risen, a flower has bloomed, eyes that are beautiful — give feeling a chance, do not bring intellect in.
Feeling will only say: these eyes are beautiful — and feel it. Intellect will say: how to imprison these eyes at home? Feeling will say: the flower is lovely — and feel it. Intellect will say: pluck it. The intellect is violent. If one truly loves a flower, it is hard to imagine he will pluck it. Yet whenever a flower pleases you, the first act is to break it off. Strange love! If that is love, what is murder?
Whenever a flower seems lovely, our first act is to sever its life. Then we pin a dead flower to our lapel. Perhaps we do not love the flower at all; perhaps we want to decorate our ego.
If a woman seems beautiful to me, the intellect thinks, How quickly can I imprison her in my house? Feeling does not think so. If feeling finds someone beautiful, even if she is in a prison, feeling wants to set her free. If a flower lies on the ground and you love it, you will place it in water so it may live a little longer.
Feeling functions differently. Feeling does not put you in difficulty; intellect sits heavily upon you — feeling cannot even speak before intellect starts issuing statements and making plans.
No — the experience of beauty is not wrong; but the intellect’s impulse to imprison beauty is sin. If ever we begin to live from feeling and, standing on the road, you look at someone’s beauty, he would not feel it as wrong — he should not. If someone enjoys this gift of God, what harm? But now he does feel wrong, because everyone knows looking is only the beginning of a long hell. Therefore there are rules for looking.
If I look at you casually, no problem. If I linger a little, danger begins. Because a long gaze means the mind is planning a prison or a lustful satisfaction. So we have to regulate even the eyes: how long to look at whom.
Even if feeling says, Pause a moment — such beauty may never be seen again, such dexterity of God may not be seen again — the intellect says, If you linger this long, there could be trouble. The other becomes alert — on both sides.
Stare at someone — staring itself becomes wrong. We even call the starer a lout. “Lout” is from “lochan” — eye; one who fixes his eye. The critic too fixes his eye — only in the right place; there is little difference between a critic and a lout.
Fixing the eye — the intellect has come in; on both sides — and obstacles begin.
Feeling! If a child stands gazing at a beautiful woman, she would not feel uneasy — because he is only feeling. Feeling is innocent, pure. Tomorrow the child grows young; the same stare becomes difficult — why? Now there is not only feeling; the intellect begins to plan, and tendency seeks to use him.
You will be surprised: feeling does not give birth to lust. In pure feeling, lust disappears. Lust is born from the alliance of intellect and tendency. Feeling and tendency never collaborate; intellect and tendency do — the intellect suggests: this is the way, go outside, seek, obtain, these are the methods; go this way and you will succeed.
Whenever a person follows the intellect, feeling’s center dozes off. And when feeling sleeps, the person is a walking corpse. He may be an engineer, a doctor, a lawyer — only a computer. What the head does now, a computer will do better.
There is only one difference between man and computer: the computer cannot feel; it does all of intellect’s work. If you also become only intellect, you will soon be replaced — useless, non-economical — thrown into a junkyard. The computer eats little, never falls ill, makes no mistakes, does in a moment what thousands of men do in millions of hours. Man is out of date.
Man can be saved only if he reawakens the center of feeling; only then can he win against the machine. Otherwise there is no way.
And remember, man has fought man — but for the first time he will fight the machine. He cannot win — the machine does everything more efficiently than you — except one thing: feeling.
But we have no feeling. We know only that throb in the chest — and even that only when something goes wrong. But the throb is only the pump. Near that throb is another beat that cannot be measured — the beat of feeling.
Expand feeling, give it opportunity. Gradually center it — it becomes an ally of restraint. Or if restraint happens, feeling becomes its ally. In the world of sadhana, everything is interdependent. Start anywhere, the other helps.
And prana in the head!
By prana I mean what Bergson called elan vital — the life-force. It is the energy by which we live. When this body is dropped, nothing of the body goes — only prana departs. If prana departs stabilized in the head, the supreme state is attained. If not, wherever it is stabilized determines the trajectory.
Param gati — what does Krishna call it? The ultimate movement — beyond which there is no movement. Moksha is param gati, Brahman-realization is param gati, Nirvana is param gati. All other movements are not ultimate; after them there are others.
If prana gathers at the center between the brows — bhrumadhya — then there is no further wandering. From where prana exits, one knows the next journey.
People do not all die from the same point. Those in whom prana has settled in the ajna chakra, their prana breaks out through the sahasrar — the seventh. Often the skull of the supreme knowers cracks at that place — not necessarily, but often.
Hence our custom: at cremation we perform kapala-kriya — we crack the skull. He could not crack it himself — died too soon — now we crack it! It has no meaning — a poor man’s surrogate. But those who began this custom knew: sometimes a being departs through this aperture. That happens only when prana is established in the brow-center; otherwise not.
This prana is our life-energy. If it does not reach the brow-center, wherever it exits, we must take another birth. The lower it exits, the lower the next trajectory. Most often prana departs from the sex-center — the most active center in us — and then we re-enter life full of lust. Lust is the root of all cravings; the others sprout again with it. Not once but many times we err — because we do not die rightly.
Dying rightly is an art. Living rightly is an art — dying rightly too. Only those who live rightly can die rightly. Right living is the primary school of right dying. The summit is right dying. How to die rightly? How to ripen into samyak-mrityu?
Krishna is speaking of that right death. He says, let prana be stabilized in the brow-center.
Whichever method of meditation you use — prana begins to gather at bhrumadhya. Whether in kirtan, in prayer, in namaz, in silent sitting, or in nama-smarana — whenever meditation bears fruit, attention rushes toward the brow-center. That is the sign and the success.
He who, in such a moment, uttering Brahman as the syllable Om, remembering me, abandons the body — he attains the supreme state.
Understand this. “He who utters Om, the one-letter Brahman...”
A great misunderstanding arises — for we know only one kind of utterance: that which we do. We do not know the utterance that happens — that which happens by itself.
We can utter Om by effort. But what is uttered by effort does not reach the heart. Effort does not pass below the throat. What is produced by the throat remains in the throat. Hence this utterance has been called ahata nada — struck sound — born by the collision of two: the lips strike, sound is born; the tongue strikes the palate; the muscles of the throat contract — sound is made.
But Krishna speaks of anahata nada — unstruck sound — sound born without collision. We know no such sound. People say, One hand cannot clap — true. Clapping needs the other. In this world, all sounds are struck sounds: the rustle of wind through trees, waves against rocks, the resonance in bamboo groves, the songs of birds, thunder in the sky, human speech, the note on a sitar, the gurgle of water — all are ahata.
There is another sound — anahata — that is Om, the Omkar. It arises only when all inner conflict ceases.
Understand it well. As long as there is conflict within, there can only be struck sound. If a man sits and chants Om within, that is struck sound. It is not that Om which self-utters — which resounds from the prana while we remain only witnesses, not doers.
Krishna says: He who, with Om — this one-syllable Brahman — uttered... Not as a doer — but as all existence uttering Om. When the total life-energy becomes utterance — becomes Om in motion — the supreme state is attained.
If even for a single instant there is total silence within — no conflict, no word, no tone — then shut the eyes and ears within and listen: what resounds? Soon a unique sound begins which you have never heard. “Om” is only its copy, a pointer — an approximation. It may sound similar to Om — but it is not exactly that; it is near — approximately so.
Thus many have understood it differently. Hindus have conceived it as Om; Hebrews, Jews, Muslims as “Ameen.” What we call Om within, Sufis have called Ameen. It can sound like Ameen — no difficulty.
These two sounds dominate the earth: Om and Ameen. Half the religions are with Ameen; the others with Om. Not without reason: when one first hears that inner resonance, Hindus hear it as Om, Sufis as Ameen. But both are faint echoes — remembered shapes. The inner sound is other — and yet akin to both. It is anahata because it arises without collision, from the very being of existence.
He who, with that sound resounding, absorbed in my remembrance, abandons the body — he attains the supreme.
We do not abandon the body; we are made to abandon it — with struggle. The myth says, messengers of death seize the soul and drag it away. The truth is the reverse: no one drags you — you yourself cling to the body, so there is a tussle. Prana wishes to go — time is up; the vehicle is useless. You cling to the shore while the boat moves; the scuffle is on your side. We cling to the body, scream for one more moment, one more breath — we cannot renounce.
Strange: we cannot truly enjoy, and we cannot renounce. If we had really enjoyed, renunciation would not be difficult. Once the stomach is full, one leaves the plate. But we do not even truly enjoy the body — so when the moment comes, we cannot say, I am full. We neither enjoy nor renounce — curious folk! In the time for enjoyment we postpone — tomorrow, after arrangements. Then life is spent arranging; death arrives, and renunciation is demanded. But as we have not enjoyed, how to renounce? So the clinging continues.
Note: if a man enjoys intelligently, mindfully, he ought not find renunciation hard. For there is nothing in the body worth clinging to. Only ignorance makes us cling. Failing to enjoy, we fail to renounce.
Enjoy — rightly, with awareness. See what the body can give; know what can be obtained from it. Quickly you will conclude: nothing essential can be received from the body. If something is to be sought, it must be in another direction. Then leaving the body is easy.
He who has this realization — that nothing is to be had from the body — at once can be ready to drop it. When death comes, he can accept: come, I was ready. I have seen this body; there is nothing here worth attaining, nothing to fear losing. Such a person finds restraint easy; and leaving the body at the end is simple.
Abandoning the body thus, he attains the supreme state.
Param gati — beyond which there is no further going, no returning; no movement beyond.
It is a strange phrase. Gati means movement, change. What is param gati? There no movement remains — no going, no coming.
Param gati is contradictory — a union of opposites. But to utter deepest truth, contradictory words are needed. Hence the sayings of the sages are full of contradictions. A saint cannot speak without contradicting; one who speaks without contradiction knows not truth. To speak truth is to use opposite terms together. The Upanishads: “Farther than the farthest — nearer than the nearest.” Say one — far — and stop. Or say near — and stop. Please don’t say both together — and yet, there is no way. So it is: nearest of the near — yet beyond, beyond — perhaps because it is too near. So near there is no space to move toward it. If it were a little far, we could walk. Too near — how to reach by walking?
Mulla Nasruddin worked opposite his house, yet was always late. The boss said, “One who lives six miles away arrives on time; you live across the street and never do!” Mulla said, “Because I am so near. He can make up time by walking fast; I, no matter how fast I walk, cannot make up — from house to office there is no space to make up!”
When something is too near, we miss it — the eyes are for distance; near, they are blind. Bring your hand right up to the eye — it disappears. And the Divine is even behind the eye — more difficult still.
So param gati is contradiction. Movement cannot be ultimate; and the ultimate knows no movement. Even so, it is meaningful — because we know only movement. We have moved in uncounted wombs, wandered everywhere. We know only gati — and gati.
Krishna says: he attains the param gati. Meaning: the last movement — beyond which there is no movement. Where all stops. Where there is no ripple, no wave — no movement.
That does not mean death. That stillness is supreme life — but without movement. The life that moves wears out; it withers, decays. Supreme life is only that which is eternal — without movement. In movement, things perish. We all perish through movement. Seventy years and the body is worn — the mind has run, the senses have run, the feet have run — all has moved and been used. The body drops; another must be taken. In that supreme state where there is no movement, there is no need for body — body is a vehicle for movement. That state is bodiless. It is ultimate — beyond which there is nothing to transcend.
And, O Arjuna, the man whose mind is undivided in me, who remembers me always — for that yogi, ever united with me, I am easy to attain. The last thing: Krishna says, to such a one, I am most easy.
This too seems paradoxical — for the Divine is called most difficult, razor’s edge, millions seek and few arrive. But Krishna says: to a man of such gathered consciousness — whose feeling has entered the heart, whose prana has risen to the brow, whose senses have attained restraint, in whom the unstruck sound has begun — to such a one, I am most easy. Easier than anything else.
God is difficult if you are entangled. God is easy if you are disentangled. It depends on you, not on God. If you stand with your back to the sun, what is the sun’s fault? You may walk for ages — you will never see the sun. Turn around — just a turn-about — and not even a step is needed; the sun is before your eyes.
So it is with the Divine — either most difficult or most easy. If you remain averted, most difficult — births upon births and no meeting. If you turn, if energy returns within, if restraint happens, if attention is attained, Samadhi occurs — Samadhi, Dhyan — nothing but a turning-about — the mind turning back upon itself — you can attain now, this very moment. It depends on you.
But we are very clever. We stand before the temple and say, I am a great sinner, what can I do? You do it! Then we return to our sins skillfully. When we call God “most compassionate,” it is often only for convenience.
Omar Khayyam jokes: the mullah forbade him wine. Khayyam says, I will keep drinking — because I trust the Rahman’s mercy! You are the atheist — not I. I have faith in the Infinite Compassion; what sins can I commit? Before that compassion, whatever I do is forgiven. He mocks us all — for we are like that.
No — he will be easy only when we face him. He remains difficult as long as we turn away. Our aversion makes him distant; our turning makes him easy.
Enough for today.
But do not get up yet. For five to seven minutes, make an effort to turn toward him. Who knows, in these few moments something may happen. No one should leave, no one should stand up. The sannyasins will sing the kirtan seated. You also join.