Geeta Darshan #6

The Eastern mind has understood the cause of suffering in a way utterly different from the Western mind. Perhaps that is exactly the difference between religion and science. Or, it is the difference between those who search from the surface of life and those who enter into the innermost essence of life.
The West has always thought that the cause of suffering lies in the outer circumstances, in the situation. And if we change the situation, suffering will be destroyed. If the external arrangements can be made such that no suffering arises, then suffering will not arise. If we can change the outer, that is the end of suffering. If there is suffering, it is because the outer situation is not in harmony with the inner consciousness.
Therefore, for two thousand years the West has been continuously at work, with relentless devotion to science, to change the outer situation. And now, for the first time, the West has succeeded to a certain extent. The moment it succeeded, the palace of all its hopes collapsed into a heap. That success could be so utterly unsuccessful — Western thinkers had never even imagined it. They had never imagined that on the day we divorce suffering from circumstances, an even greater suffering will descend upon man.
In the known five thousand years of history on earth, the West has achieved the highest affluence, technological skill, scientific progress, and success in transforming the outer situation to suit man — such success no century and no society ever attained. Yet today, sitting on the pinnacle of that success, America has fallen into an abyss of suffering. It has fallen into such a chasm of misery as has never been seen even among poor, destitute, downtrodden, and beggar societies. The Western logic has failed miserably.
The East thinks otherwise. The East has known that suffering is not in circumstances; suffering is in human consciousness. Only if man’s consciousness is transformed can there be freedom from suffering. Otherwise, whatever the circumstances, a consciousness that grasps suffering, that manufactures suffering, will keep on producing it again and again, in every situation. The sorrow-minded finds sorrow everywhere.
It is the transformation of human consciousness itself that can become liberation from suffering. Krishna tells Arjuna the first sutra of this. He says: Those great souls who have attained the supreme perfection — having found me — do not attain again the place of sorrow, the home-like abode of suffering, the transient round of rebirth. They do not come to such a fleeting life, which is the very dwelling place of sorrow.
This has to be understood. This is the East’s deepest reasoning, its inner vision. The home of suffering is rebirth. The beginning of rebirth is the longing for life — the lust for life, the craving to go on living, to go on and on. One unfulfilled desire gives birth to ten more. And to fulfill any desire, life is needed, time is needed; otherwise the desire will not be fulfilled.
Desire needs the future. If there were no future, what would desire do? If I were to die this very moment, then desiring would be meaningless. For desire it is necessary that there be a tomorrow, a coming day. Only then can I stretch my desire, labor for it, build palaces, long for fulfillment, run. Only then can I strive to reach the goal where desire may be fulfilled. But time is needed; time is needed.
If desire is to be fulfilled, without time it cannot be. Time is needed. And if each desire gives birth to ten more, then after every desire ten times more time is needed. After every life we need ten more lives — so many desires we go on generating.
And the strange thing is, throughout life we try to fulfill desires and in the end discover that none has been fulfilled; at the moment of death we have given birth to even more desires. The number of desires we had at birth — by the time of death not one has become less, although they have multiplied greatly. Then at the moment of dying the longing for birth is born — because there is desire; more life is needed. More life becomes rebirth; the wish to obtain more life becomes rebirth.
And Krishna says: rebirth is the very home of suffering.
Rebirth happens from the longing for life; the longing for life happens from the demand of desire for time. So, rightly understood, the formula for rebirth — or the formula for suffering — is desire, thirst, craving. If there is no desire at all, you will say, I have no need of tomorrow now; then time is not needed.
Someone asked Jesus: What will be the most special thing in your salvation? Perhaps the questioner thought Jesus would say: the vision of God, supreme bliss, liberation, peace — something of that kind. But the answer Jesus gave is astonishing. Jesus said: There shall be time no longer — there, time will not be.
Hardly would the listener have understood! If you had asked, 'What will there be in liberation?' and if one like Jesus or Krishna were to say, 'There will be no time,' it would not make sense to you either.
There will be no time — this means only this: there will be no desire for which time is needed. If there is no desire, if there is no time, then there will be no rebirth. There will be no tomorrow there. There will be only today. Perhaps even 'today' is not right; there will be only now — just this moment, only this very instant. And this instant will be infinite. It will have no beginning, no end. It will not end anywhere, nor begin anywhere. There, time will not be.
Time is needed because the race of desire needs a field to run in. Desire runs in time. Desire does not run in space, it runs in time. If you want to run your body, space will be needed. But if you want to run your mind, no space is needed; time is enough. That is why you can run even in dreams. In dreams there is no space, but there is time. You can run in dreams. Reclining in an armchair, eyes closed, you can make infinite journeys. Those journeys are journeys of desire and they take place in time.
Someone asked Mahavira: When Samadhi is attained, what is it that falls away from within us? Mahavira said: time. Time falls away. Because in the one within whom Samadhi has flowered, the race of desire remains no more. And the path of that race becomes unnecessary, it falls away.
Therefore, wherever Samadhi has been defined in the world, one thing is invariably present in that definition. Whichever country, whichever age, whichever great one has defined it — other points may differ, but one point remains necessarily the same: Samadhi is beyond time, timeless, beyond the reach of time.
Rebirth is our demand. We say, more life is needed — because so much remains incomplete, unfulfilled; it has to be completed. The house we wanted to build — its stories could not be completed. The boat we launched toward some shore — it has barely left one bank, the other has not been reached. Whatever we thought we would do — all remains incomplete.
Let me remind you of something in this regard; it will help you understand how desire becomes the demand for time, how the demand for time becomes rebirth, and why rebirth is the house of suffering.
All day long you do so many things; by evening everything still remains incomplete, never complete. If someone were to ask you right now, 'Are you ready to die? Is there some work left that must be done?' you would say, 'Wait a bit. Many things are unfinished; let me complete them.' Rarely would you find the man who says, 'Everything is complete; I am ready to die.'
A friend came yesterday; he had come a year ago too. A year ago he had said, 'I must marry my eldest son; at least let me marry off one son, then I will take sannyas.' I told him, 'Sannyas is no hindrance. Marry your son with joy. And the blessings a sannyasi father can give at the moment of marriage, a worldly father cannot.' But he said, 'What you say is right, but how will it look if I stand in saffron at the wedding? It will seem awkward. Just wait a year. I will marry off one son; then I will have no worry about the others. At least one will be settled by me.'
That marriage happened. He came again yesterday. Now he says, 'My wife does not agree. Wait a little. I will persuade her. After all, what is the point of giving her pain!' I asked him, 'By when will you be able to persuade her? How much time do you need?' He said, 'Judging by the signs, at least a year will be needed.' I told him, 'I have no objection. If you agree to wait, what obstacle can there be for me! But remember, with this mind you will go on demanding time for births upon births — and the happening will not happen. A year ago you said: only one problem. Now you say: one problem. But this year will create more problems.'
There is no end to questions. There is no end to tasks. Time runs out; desire does not. Time indeed runs out; craving does not. Time becomes small; craving is infinite.
Buddha has said: craving is insatiable. You cannot fulfill it. He said it is like a pot open at both ends, into which you draw water from the well. It will never fill. Not because there is no water in the well; not because there is some shortcoming in your effort; not because when the pot is dipped it does not gather water. Everything happens: there is a well, there is water, the pot is intact, you have strength, you dip it, the pot looks full. You pull it out — the water stays behind. The pot is open at both ends. That is the meaning of 'insatiable'. You pour desire in, it returns empty. The effort is wasted. The water which appeared to fill it proves to have been an illusion.
He said, 'Still, give me another year.' I said, 'Who am I to grant you a chance! When you yourself are asking for a chance, the Divine will go on giving you chances. He has given you chances for so many, many births. He has not been impatient. He will go on giving further chances. And every time you have done the same.'
Work remains unfinished; something or other remains. And the mind says: just finish this one thing. But in trying to finish it we give birth to ten new desires. They remain incomplete. There is no end to this incompletion. So the demand for the next birth becomes necessary.
Even at the moment of death, because of what remains incomplete, we have to accept another birth. He who, at the moment of death, can finish and die — for him there will be no next birth. Because then he will have no demand. What will he do with birth? It has no use. If the demand for time stops, there is no next birth. But the demand for time remains.
And we are very strange people. On the one hand we say time is very short; on the other hand we keep saying day and night that time will not pass! On the one hand we say we have very little time in hand; on the other hand we keep lamenting: how to kill time? There must be some reason for this dilemma. There is a reason.
Time is indeed short — because desires are many. And all things are comparative. When we say time is short, against what? Against desires. He who has no desire — for him time is abundant, endless. And he who has many desires — for him time is very small. Yet even the man of desires says time does not pass, because in trying to fulfill desires he finds that desires are not fulfilled. Desires are not fulfilled. He tries in every way, and no desire seems to be fulfilled. Then he tries to forget time. That is what he calls: time does not pass. He must find many entertainments to forget time.
Here is desire — it consumes time. Whatever little time remains, the mind exhausted by desire goes to the cinema to forget it, sits in the teashop, in the coffee house, plays cards — a thousand devices. We waste time this way — and at death we again demand time.
And the expanse of the Divine is infinite. As much as we ask, we go on receiving. And in each life we repeat what we did before.
Why does Krishna call this suffering? Suffering means only this: what I wanted to get, I did not; and what I did not want, that I got. There is no other meaning of suffering.
Buddha used to say: suffering means, that which we sought we could not find; that which we wanted to keep, we lost. For which we had set out — we did not find it; and what we carried in our hands, that too was lost! Desires are never fulfilled — and life is completely spent. The opportunity of time we carried in our hands is emptied out; and of that which we wanted to attain, not even a fragrance is found. In death this suffering becomes intense.
Suffering is many-dimensional.
One dimension I have said. Another is this: doing everything, attaining, running after desires, winning and losing — nowhere within does it feel that there is even a single moment of peace, a single instant of rest, a tiny ray of joy sprouting within. Nowhere does it seem so.
It always appears that tomorrow joy will come. Today there is sorrow; tomorrow joy will come. This 'tomorrow' is very dangerous; it is only a device to forget today. Today is so full of suffering that only in the hope of tomorrow can we forget it. And the strange thing is: yesterday also we did the same. What we call 'today' was 'tomorrow' yesterday. And yesterday we had also said that joy will come tomorrow; and today we are saying the same; and tomorrow we will say it again. In each birth we have said the same — next birth, next birth, ahead.
Whoever postpones today for tomorrow is preparing for the next birth. If you say, 'I will do it tomorrow,' you will have to take birth again. And if you could not do it in one life, what will you do in the coming one? You will repeat the same — the same childhood, the same youth, the same old age, the same illnesses, the same diseases — the same will happen.
Mulla Nasruddin has grown old. A friend is staying at his house and asks, 'Nasruddin, if you were given birth again, or suppose a magician could reduce your age and make you a child again, would you repeat the same mistakes you made in this life?'
Nasruddin said, 'I would do the same — but I would start a little earlier, because of experience. The same mistakes — but I would begin a bit sooner. This time I was too late; nothing could be completed. If I start early, perhaps it will be completed.'
You may laugh at Nasruddin, but the same man sits within you. If someone were to tell you right now, 'We will send you back,' what would you do? You would do exactly the same. Again and again we have been doing exactly the same. Perhaps because of experience you would start a little earlier — so that at the end it may complete, to get sufficient time. But there would be no great difference.
Nasruddin is dying. Just before he is to be hanged, the priest says to him, 'Ask forgiveness of God — repent!' Nasruddin says, 'I do have a lot of repentance in my heart, but there is a slight difference between your thought and mine. Perhaps you are thinking that I should repent for the sins I have committed. I am repenting the sins I could not commit. There is repentance in my heart. But I feel great sorrow that since I had to be hanged anyway, I should also have committed those sins which I left. And since for so many sins whatever is to happen will happen — a little more punishment would have come, what else could have happened! What more than hanging is possible?'
Such is the mind. At the moment of death you will still be repenting the sins you could not commit. Then the journey of rebirth will begin again. Because you yourself ask for it. And remember, the Divine gives exactly what you ask.
We do not always ask for what is in our good. Most often we ask for what is not in our good. Because whatever we think is suicidal, self-destructive.
Rarely does anyone at the time of death ask that now he wants nothing more. The asking continues. The last moment, sinking into death, the asking continues. That very desire becomes the seed. That desire becomes the seed — and then the sprout of a new life begins to emerge.
Why does this seed bring suffering? Why does the new birth carry suffering? Because it is transient.
Krishna says: the transient rebirth.
Whatever we can obtain in this world is transient — it will be in the hand for a moment. Like a bubble of air rising in the water — just so. When you see it, the sun’s rays will be spreading a rainbow on it; and when you touch it with your hand, it will burst. You would think to catch the rainbow in your hand. Does it not arise in the mind to bring the rainbow home and hang it in the drawing room?
But when you reach the rainbow, nothing is found there. There is nothing there. The beautiful bow drawn across the sky from end to end — if you go near, there is nothing. Only tiny drops of water, and the web of the sun’s rays passing through the drops. When you come near, there is nothing there.
Exactly the same is the search through the whole of life. And when we reach near, we find nothing is in our hands. And what we get in our hands is only the broken rainbow, drops of water. There are no colors there, no beauty there, nothing else — the hands remain empty.
Everything in this world is transient. It has but a moment. In that moment we set out to attain it. By the time we come close to attaining, that moment has passed. Suffering is grasped. Failure, sadness, frustration fall into the hands. Nothing in this world can be more than transient.
Buddha used to say — whenever someone came to him and, on leaving, he would say: 'Remember, the one who came to meet me is not the same as the one who returns.' The man would be startled and say, 'I am the same. What are you saying! I came an hour ago; I spoke with you; now I return.'
Buddha would say, 'You are deluded. In this world, everything is transient. Where is that mind with which you came a moment ago? It has gone. All has flowed away. Even the body with which you came is a flow.'
Moment to moment the body is flowing like a river. The mind is flowing like a river. And what is not flowing — of that we have no glimpse at all. We are carried in what is flowing. And we try to grasp the waves, the bubbles. A wave or a bubble comes into the hand and it breaks. For a moment something appears; we run — it vanishes. Suffering is grasped.
Transience is the nature of existence. Here nothing is still. Yet we go on trying to make everything still. If I love you, I will say that my love is eternal, it will remain forever. All lovers say so. But nothing in this world is eternal. The strange thing is, the time it takes to say, 'This love is eternal and will remain forever, even if the moon and stars vanish love will not' — perhaps in just that time it has already vanished.
But the effort continues — to make love still, eternal. Then suffering arises. Because what is not still cannot be made still. What is transient will remain transient. That is its intrinsic nature.
The nature of each thing in this world is transience. To want to remain always young — you will not be able to. To want to remain always happy — you will not be able to. The strange thing is: even if you want to remain always unhappy, you will not be able to. Unhappiness too is transient. It too will change. Here everything is changing — flux.
Heraclitus, the very thoughtful Greek sage, used to say: you cannot step twice into the same river — for by the time you step, the river has flowed on. How can you step twice? Truly, if I were to meet Heraclitus I would tell him: you cannot step into the same river even once. Because when the foot touches the upper surface, the river below is running away; when the foot goes down, the surface above has moved on.
Even a single foot-thick layer of water cannot be touched at once — all is moving. And the whole of life is like a river. In this flow we are busy trying to settle down — to settle! Suffering will be born; a home will not be made — the home of suffering will be made.
All our suffering arises because we want to make still that which is not still. We say, my love will remain. The mother says, 'He is my son; this love will remain forever.' But tomorrow the son returns home with a new girl — and it is discovered that the mother is no longer visible in his eyes! The shock comes. Suffering arises.
But the son is not responsible for the suffering. The mother’s craving is responsible — the thought that love would remain still. When this son had once placed his head in her lap, smiled and looked at her with love — she is still trying to keep that moment frozen. That craving will now give pain.
Today the wife he has brought into the house — her exhilaration has no end; her feet do not touch the ground. Today she has become a queen. This young man has said to her: 'There is none more beautiful than you. I would die, but cannot even imagine that ever there could be a single moment, even a particle of decline in my love.' But tomorrow, walking with her on the road, his eyes fall upon another woman — and in that moment he forgets that she is even by his side.
Mulla Nasruddin is walking a road with his wife. It is only seven days since the marriage. A beautiful young girl appears; his eyes become fixed. His wife nudges him, as all wives always nudge their husbands: 'What are you doing? Have you forgotten that now you are married!' Nasruddin says, 'In such moments I remember even more that now I am married! I have not forgotten. In such a moment it becomes very clear that now I am married!'
Seven days earlier what had this man said? No — it is not his fault. Nothing is still in this world. Words spoken are not still; promises given are not still — because the one who gives them is not still.
Among Christians there is a sect, the Quakers. Quakers do not give promises; they do not pledge to anyone. They say: when the one who gives the promise is not still, how can we give a promise! Quakers do not swear oaths in court. In court a Quaker will not take an oath: 'I swear to speak the truth.' For a Quaker says: will the one who swears even be there a moment later?
All is flowing away. In this flow we are trying to settle down, to be fixed — suffering will be born. We are pitching tents on the flowing current of a river. We will get into trouble. We will drown ourselves with the tent. Pegs are not driven into water, nor are tents erected on it. If we try to erect a permanent tent, an eternal tent, suffering will come.
Suffering is the result of trying to make the eternal out of the nature of transient life. The desire to establish the permanent in the impermanent — that very desire becomes suffering. But the one who knows the moment as the moment — then there is no reason for him to be unhappy. For he does not long for that which is its opposite.
Krishna says: Those great souls who attain the supreme perfection — having found me — do not attain again the transient rebirth.
Because whoever has known the Divine — the Divine meaning the eternal, the everlasting, that which always is — he does not long again for the transient. The one who has had palaces of solid iron will not try to live in houses of playing cards.
I say this only as an illustration. Even houses of iron are houses of cards. It is only a matter of time. A house of cards falls with a gust of wind. A house of iron will fall after millions of gusts — the difference is quantitative, not qualitative. Whether you build a house of sand or of cement and concrete — the sand-house falls with a puff; the cement-concrete house takes a little longer. Only a difference of delay, of time. That too will fall — for cement-concrete is nothing more than sand.
But he who has experienced even a particle of that which is eternal — for him, the whole world in that very moment becomes dream-like. Then his longing for it drops.
The day Buddha experienced Samadhi, the first words which came from his mouth were: 'O my mind, now I am ready to give you rest, because I shall no longer need to build the houses of life.' Now I can retire you. O my mind, I can give you leave — for now there is no more need of you.
The mind is the architect; it builds mansions. Buddha says: 'No need remains to build new houses of life. I have known that which is the eternal home.'
The realization of that — this is what Krishna calls: 'Having found me, those great souls no longer desire the transient rebirth.' And when there is no desire, there is no repetition of rebirth. For, O Arjuna, from Brahmalok downwards all the lokas are repetitive.
This is a very delightful utterance. If we understand it in our own way, it will become easy. Do you know, all desires are repetitive? You are not doing many desires; you are repeating one and the same desire thousands of times. The greatest joke is: every time you repeat it, you say, 'I got nothing.' And twenty-four hours later you are ready to repeat it again! Strange indeed!
We do not even remember what we had said twenty-four hours ago. How many times have you been angry? And after every anger, how many times have you repented? Perhaps you have repented more than you have been angry. Because when a man gets angry once, he repents five to seven times afterward. But this repentance does not become a hindrance to the coming of anger. Those who know say: this repentance is only preparation to be angry again.
It is like this: I pull down a branch and let it go — it will not stop exactly at its place. When I release it, it will overshoot its position to the other extreme. If I draw a branch and let it go, it will not return to exactly where it was. When I release it, it will go beyond as far as I pulled it. Why?
It is preparing to return to its place. Again it will come back. It will move a little to this side, then return. Then a little to that side, and back. Trembling, trembling like this it will return to its place.
This trembling — it is to throw out the energy I had given it by pulling — to hurl it out, just trembling. It is throwing out that energy of tension which my hand had imposed, so that it may come back to its place.
When you become tense in anger, at once you have to go to the extreme of repentance. It is only to return to your status quo — the condition of your mind before anger. You have been pulled to one limit in anger. Now you repent, and you go to the other limit. Then, rocking between anger and repentance, you return to your place. Now you can be angry again — for you have reached the old position where you were before anger. You have arrived there once more.
You may have thought: repentance is so that we do not become angry again — then you are mistaken; you have no idea of life’s truths. Man repents precisely so that he can be angry again. This will look upside down — but your experience also will say the same.
So I say to you: if you want to be free of anger, then this time get angry — but do not repent. Then see whether anger returns or not! If you can be saved from repentance, you will not be able to repeat anger — because the old position needed for anger will not be available.
But to avoid repentance is as difficult as to avoid anger. Both are unconscious. You say: what to do, anger just came! Likewise, what to do, repentance just came! Both go on together.
But have you gained anything from anger? Received anything? Any jewel fallen into your hand? You will say: nothing — only ashes, and my own fallen mind. I fell into a pit; I smeared myself with mud. Such happens.
Then why again anger? Because desire is repetitive. Within twenty-four hours it is forgotten. Desire demands again. The mind fills with lust.
If you think in scientific numbers: ordinarily a man in his life has sexual intercourse about four thousand times. Ordinarily. I am speaking of the common man — it is difficult to calculate the extraordinary. The common, average man, about four thousand times. And even after four thousand times, it is not that he does not want to do it. He cannot do it — that is another matter. Wanting is still there.
Nasruddin, at the very end, at seventy, had the thought of marrying again. His sons explained; his grandsons explained: do not do it now. And the problem was more difficult — the girl with whom it was set was only twenty. Everyone said: do not do it. But if you try to restrain desire, it boils up more. Nasruddin said, 'These people of my house whom I gave birth to have become my enemies! I know more than you.'
There was no way. Only children were in the house; all younger than he. He sought an old friend — an old man, the village’s religious leader. He brought him. The old leader said, 'Nasruddin, think a little. Think of yourself, not the other. To marry a twenty-year-old girl at seventy could be dangerous. Even death may happen.' Nasruddin said, 'Then I will marry another one!'
He understood that the old man meant the girl might die! He said, 'Then I will marry another. What is the worry in this?' The old man was explaining that you may die — do not fall into this trouble. Nasruddin said, 'Then we will marry another!' Even at seventy that thing does not go.
Some time ago America’s Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Judge Lindsay — when he became ninety, he was walking with a friend. The friend was about eighty. A beautiful maiden crossed; Lindsay stopped. The ninety-year-old man looked keenly and said to his companion, 'I feel like — if only I could be seventy again!' He said, 'If only I could be seventy again!'
His friend was a bit surprised. He said, 'Seventy?' Lindsay said, 'Until I was seventy, lust ran well in my body; now all is just ashes.'
Even a ninety-year-old man wants to be seventy! To a ninety-year-old, seventy will also seem youth.
This mind of ours that demands repetition — this very mind asks for rebirth. And this very mind in rebirth asks once more the same things it has asked many times before.
Whenever any seeker came to Mahavira, he would say to him: before I take you into sadhana, it is necessary to take you into the memory of your past lives. The seeker would say: what has that to do with it? Mahavira would say: without that you will never attain to Samadhi.
So Mahavira would first take him into the remembrance of past lives. And remembering, descending into past lives, the man would be transformed. Mahavira would ask: 'Speak — what have you seen?' He would say: 'Nothing remains to be left now, because I have done everything many times — and I was asking for the same again. And when I did not get it by doing it so many times, I will not get it now either. No, my mind is empty now. I am ready for meditation.' So Mahavira made it mandatory for every seeker — first jati-smaran, remembering of past lives — and then meditation.
Mahavira’s greatest gift to the world is jati-smaran, not ahimsa. Ahimsa is very ancient; people have always spoken of it. There is nothing new of Mahavira’s in it. But Mahavira’s original contribution to man is the process of jati-smaran — remembrance of past lives.
And once the memory of past lives arises, you yourself will say: what am I doing? In one life intercourse four thousand times; and thousands of lives have passed — millions of times — and nothing has been attained till now. Again today to indulge? Again today to go into sex? Will you still go?
Nothing can be said. Nothing can be said. Perhaps the mind will say: who knows, maybe the experience of bliss has not happened till now — one more time. The mind may say: who knows, till now it has not happened — one more time. But it will become difficult to say so. If that much memory arises, it will become difficult.
Life is repetition. Therefore the East has seen life as a circle, a wheel. The Ashoka chakra on India’s flag — I do not know if Nehruji knew it or not when he chose it — it is the symbol of the world. We have understood the world as a wheel, like the wheel of a cart. The spoke that is now visible above will go down in a moment, and then it will come up again. The same spokes will go on revolving. The same desires will go on revolving like a wheel. The same tendencies will be repeated again and again.
Life is a wheel. The very meaning of the word samsara is the wheel — that which keeps revolving. There is nothing new in it. In this world nothing is new, because the entire arrangement of this world is of repetition. But every time it seems that something new is happening.
When a new youth falls in love — do you know — he can think that perhaps anyone ever loved on earth before? Never. For the first time love is happening! And when a poet hums a poem for the first time, he may consider whether there were any other poets before — he cannot believe it. For this very disbelief he says: what is there in old poetry! The new poetry is something else. This poetry is something else.
When a new thinker says something insightful, he perhaps thinks he is saying something very original. The same mistake. When a revolutionary stands up and says we will change the world, a new world is needed — he does not know that this has been said thousands of times.
I have heard that when Adam and Eve were first expelled from the Garden of Eden by God, the first words they said at the gate were: 'Now we are passing through a revolution.' The first thing the first man said to his wife was: 'Now we are passing through a great revolution.' And truly, what greater revolution could there be than being thrown out of heaven!
But a revolutionary thinks that before him no revolutionary existed. All revolutionaries have thought so. It is hard to find anything older than revolution. And the claim to originality is so eternal that only the unknowing can make it. No knower can claim originality.
Nothing is new. But when a new spoke comes up, it appears very new. It may be we have not seen the other spokes. And it may be that even if we have, we have forgotten them — our memory is very weak.
Voltaire was much defamed in France about some matter. His friends said: 'Do something. Make some arrangement to erase this defamation. Issue a statement.' Voltaire said, 'It has been fifteen days since the defamation; people must have forgotten by now. My statement will needlessly remind them again! Let it go.'
This is the truth. How much memory do we have!
A man came to me — very thoughtful, well-educated; a state’s education minister. He said to me, 'I seek neither God nor Atman, I do not want liberation. I have come to you only because I cannot sleep. If I can sleep, I will be greatly obliged to you. Just teach me such a small meditation that I may begin to sleep.'
I said, 'This is very easy. What can be easier than sleep! For men who are asleep in all ways — to give them sleep is no difficult thing. To awaken is difficult! You have come for a task that will be done.' Then I asked, 'You truly want nothing but sleep?' He said, 'Yes, on this hangs my life. Sometimes, staying awake at night, I feel like breaking my head, dying. What am I doing! All are asleep and I am awake!'
And the big joke is: to the one who is awake, the pain comes not so much from being awake as from the fact that everyone else is asleep! If all were awake...
I said, 'Then do a very small experiment. Such a small experiment — at bedtime. Until now you have tried to sleep and sleep has not come. From today, try to remain awake, not to sleep.' He said, 'What will happen from that? As it is sleep does not come — and to try to remain awake!' I said, 'I am only reversing your arithmetic. Until now you tried to sleep and sleep did not come. I say to try to stay awake. Make sure sleep does not come. As soon as sleep comes, sprinkle water, stand up, give your body a jerk, exercise — but do not let sleep come.'
He came the third or fourth day and said, 'What a miracle you have done! Such sleep is coming that we are sleeping like selling horses. But only sleep is coming — nothing else is happening!' He said to me, 'Only sleep is coming — nothing else is happening!' I told him, 'Four days ago you said: I do not want God, nor liberation, nor Atman; only if sleep comes, everything has come. And now you yourself, after four days, tell me that only sleep is coming and nothing else is happening!'
Man’s memory is so weak. There is no certainty that what you know right now you will know even a moment later. You will forget. Therefore, things seem new — see, how new this is!
If Krishnamurti says there is no guru, it seems very new. All gurus have always said the same. In truth, no man could be a guru who does not know at least this much — that without a guru, knowledge can happen. The guru certainly knows. The disciple does not. He is a different matter. Even if told, he does not know. Tell the disciple that there is no need to make a guru — the more you tell, the more he will make you his guru and make it his doctrine that there is no need to make a guru.
Such people have gathered around Krishnamurti. They say, absolutely right. For forty years we have been listening only to you. You say exactly right: there is no need of a guru. Then why have you been chasing this poor man for forty years!
In this world nothing is new. The claim of originality is sheer ignorance. But it takes time. There are birds who die in a single season. Some insects, moths, are born in the spring and die without seeing another spring. But their eggs remain. When spring returns, moths again emerge from those eggs. They fly to the flowers and think that for the first time in existence spring has come. Again they die, leaving their eggs. Spring returns, their children fly — and again they say what has always been said: spring has come for the first time; such a spring never came.
Man’s memory is weak. The circle of time is vast. Man is exhausted; the spokes go on revolving. Nothing is new here; all the old repeats. All the old keeps returning.
Krishna says: from Brahmalok downwards all the lokas are repetitive, recurring. Again and again the same goes on happening, the same goes on happening.
Nietzsche used to say a very astonishing thing about this; no one listened to him. It is not easy to accept; it is a little scary too. But an Indian intelligence can understand him. Nietzsche said: it is not even that other people happened before — we ourselves! And this very world, exactly this, we have been repeating again and again — we ourselves! If you want to understand Nietzsche, understand like this: this assembly that is happening on this patch of earth today — it is not happening only today. Nietzsche said: this assembly has happened many times with these very people, this very speaker, these very listeners.
It is a frightening statement. But the world is so repetitive that perhaps Nietzsche is right. There is no hindrance in it. Things repeat so many times that it may be exactly so — we the same people, in exactly the same manner, on exactly the same piece of land, have met many times. Memory is weak. We meet again and it seems it is all new again.
Buddha has said: I have told you these very things many times before. Christ has said: I am not the first to say these things. Others before me have said the same. Christ said: I have not come to say anything new; I have come to fulfill the prophecies of the old. Those old proclamations — I have come to fulfill them. Mohammed also said: I am not new; others before me have come. In that, there is a hint toward Buddha — for he said that under the banyan tree one man has said such things, sitting beneath the Bodhi tree he said such things.
In this world nothing is new. But everything seems new because we see it for the first time. We had forgotten; it appears for the first time.
Up to Brahmalok, Krishna says — up to Brahmalok all lokas... In truth, as far as there are lokas — layers of the world — even if we call it Brahmalok, the ultimate loka — up to there repetition continues. Where then does repetition end? The wise have called it alok — the no-world. As far as there is the world, there are lokas; beyond them is alok. Entry into alok is entry into the Divine. There is no repetition there.
Remember, here everything is old; there everything is new. Here everything is stale; there everything is fresh. Here everything is aged; there everything is youthful, fresh — as a dewdrop in the morning, as a flower that has just blossomed at dawn — and it remains blossomed and evening never comes, nor the noon, the flower never withers, never falls back into dust. That freshness remains fresh — youthful, youthful forever and ever. As a refrain of a song resounds and goes on resounding, goes on resounding — never ending.
But that can only be there where nothing ever begins. In the lokas all is repetitive, old. Beyond the lokas, in the Divine, everything is new; nothing repeats. There, everything is new, everything is fresh. The attainment of this freshness, this immaculate freshness, this virginity — that is bliss. And the sense of the old, the stale, the repetitive — circling again and again in the same — that is suffering.
But, O son of Kunti, having attained me there is no rebirth.
After attaining the Divine, what remains to be attained for which life and birth are needed, for which time is needed!
O Arjuna, Brahma’s one day is known by those who know the principle of time to be of the duration of a thousand yugas, and his night also of a thousand yugas — the yogis who know thus are the knowers of the essence of time.
This is the final sutra for today.
I have spoken a little about time to you. Krishna has said still more about time here. He says: he who knows the secret of time — only he is a knower. What is this mystery of time? What is the secret of time? Consider two or three things.
One: have you noticed — sitting in a chair, you doze and see a long dream. Long — one that would take forty years to unfold. You were a child, you grew up, you became young, you fell in love, you married, you had children, and now you are taking your child’s wedding procession — at that moment, in the noise of the band your sleep breaks. Looking at the clock you see you slept only a minute. In one minute how could you see a forty-year story!
One minute for the outer, and for the dream it can be forty years. Time is a very astonishing thing — very astonishing. Leave this aside.
Einstein used to say that all things in the world are relative — time too. Many would ask him: what is the meaning of relativity? Einstein’s theory is very abstruse. It is said that when he was alive there were only ten or twelve people on the earth who understood it. And even these ten or twelve were not in agreement that the others understood it! It is abstruse, the deepest riddle of mathematics.
But he had to explain to ordinary people. He would say: understand it like this — if you are made to sit on a hot stove, then even a moment will feel like hours. And if you meet your long-lost beloved and sit with your hand in theirs, then even an hour will feel like a moment.
The sense of time depends on consciousness. Perhaps you have not noticed: in sorrow, time seems very long. Someone is dying in the house. On the bed he lies. The doctors say: this is the last night. The night feels very long — as if it will never end. But when there is happiness, the mind is delighted — the night passes as if time cheated and turned the clock’s hands too fast.
No — the hands are not interested in you; they move at their own pace. But according to the mind, time becomes long or short.
If you did many tasks during the day, then afterward, in recollection, the day will feel long — because it will appear packed. Therefore, days of travel feel very long. But if you sat idle all day — then while sitting idle it feels long, but later, remembering it will seem very short — because there are no events to make it feel full.
A day of travel, of new experiences — while passing, it seems short; later, remembering, long. A vacant day, a hot day, sitting sad at home, no work, unemployed — while cutting it, very long; later, remembering, very short — because there is no fullness in it. Whether time is long or short depends on the mind.
Here Krishna says: if you can get a sense — as the wise come to know — of Brahma’s day...
Brahma means: that power in whose hands lies the governance between one creation and one dissolution. Between a creation and a dissolution the one who presides — for him, all this is just one day and one night. For him, it is only twenty-four hours. For us, ages and ages, thousands of yugas, countless births.
You see a moth born in the rains. It is born at dusk and by midnight it dies and falls on the streets. In that time it does all that you will do in seventy years. You will not know it — it does all you will do in seventy years. It is therefore not poor or pitiable. What you do in seventy years, he does in seven hours. In one sense he seems more efficient, more powerful — because in that short time he loves, romances, hums songs, sings poems, marries, produces children, lays eggs, grows old, dies.
If the events of his life and the events of yours are seen — the only difference is that what he did in seven hours, you did in seventy years. It does not seem a great glory for you. It only shows that inefficiency in you is greater, skill a little less — you take more time.
There are even smaller insects who are born in a moment and die in a moment — yet they complete all their work. They leave nothing incomplete. And sometimes it happens that when time is short, a man does his work quickly and efficiently.
I have heard that three American travelers came to Rome to see the sights; they went to see the Pope. The Pope asked them, 'How long will you stay?' The first said, 'I intend to stay three months, so I can study everything properly.' The Pope said, 'You will manage a little.' The second said — he was a bit frightened because he was going to stay very little — he said, 'I have come to stay only three weeks.' The Pope said, 'You will manage a good deal.' The third man said, 'I will stay only three days.' The Pope said, 'You will manage to study everything.'
Because when time is short a man works fast, swiftly. When time is much, he moves slowly. When time is abundant, he begins to crawl. If he comes to know that he will not die at all, it will be hard for him to get out of bed! If there is no death — then why get up; what is the hurry to get up! It is because there is death that there is so much running. There is death — therefore so much running.
Hence the society that becomes death-conscious runs more. If today in America there is the greatest running, the reason is that the most terrible anxiety of the hydrogen bomb is in the American youth — more than in anyone else. It has become clear to him — because his nation did the first experiment of the atom in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The youth knows well now: this life cannot be trusted even for a moment; any day it will all be finished. Then run — indulge, live — as quickly as possible. Three days are in hand — not three weeks, not three months.
Therefore the hippie movement that has arisen in America with such intensity — behind it is the shadow of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The young know we may be flung any day; we will be destroyed without even knowing. If there is love to be done, do it now. If eating, drinking, do it now.
The race that has arisen in the West has only one reason — Christianity accepted the doctrine of one single birth. If there is only one birth, then this death is the last death. If this is the last death, hurry, and do quickly — indulge in everything.
If the East did not give birth to science and there was not such a race, and life moved softly, quietly, at a slow pace, the reason is the doctrine of rebirth. We know this death is not the last death; this birth is not the first birth. This will go on. What is the hurry!
You will be surprised to know — the East has almost no time-consciousness. The West has time-consciousness. The West is very alert to time — alert to every second. Here, if we tie a watch to our wrist, it is more adornment, less sense of time. And men may need a little time-sense — to catch a train. Women too wear watches as if they were bangles. If you suddenly ask them the time, they do not know.
I was once sitting in a train; opposite sat a woman very decked out, wearing much gold. In the air-conditioned coach — so from a wealthy house. She wore a splendid watch. I asked her: 'What time is it?' She said, 'It came today; I do not yet know how to read it properly. Please tell me from your watch what time it is.' She is wearing it — just wearing it!
The East cannot have a sense of time — because time is so long for us that it is fine, there is no hurry. The West has a deep sense of time — because Christianity said: only one life; after this it is all over. Whatever is to be done, do it now. Hurry. The day of judgment is near!
Krishna says to Arjuna: if you think according to Brahma, it is just one day and one night. Morning there is creation; by evening half is over; night comes — by morning it is complete; dissolution comes. This is a game of twenty-four hours; a cycle for Brahma. There is nothing new in it, Arjuna. For Brahma it is all a circle. The same spoke will go down and all will be finished.
But Krishna says: he who knows this secret of time is a knower — and such yogis attain the supreme state.
He who knows this secret of time! What is this secret? This secret is that the expansion or contraction of time depends upon the consciousness that knows.
For Brahma’s consciousness this vast arrangement is just one day and night. For us, one second passing on the clock — for a tiny insect, a moth, for an amoeba, it is a full circle of life.
But what is this? What is this expansion and contraction of time? And if this is all — this revolving wheel of time — then to keep going on revolving in it is not wisdom. Wisdom is to move out of this wheel. To be outside this cycle is wisdom. To go beyond time — that is intelligence. The one who goes beyond time goes beyond creation and dissolution. The one who goes beyond time goes beyond birth and death. The one who goes beyond time goes beyond pleasure and pain. The one who goes beyond time attains to that alok from where there is no return, no coming back, no re-entrance; where there is entry into the supreme life, into the supreme existence — beginningless and endless.
If you want to know this secret of time, then move a little into meditation — because meditation is the opposite of time. The more you move in meditation, the more you go beyond time.
Therefore sometimes in meditation it happens that hours pass — and awakening from it the person says: What happened? How much time passed? I know nothing. I was — there was awareness, I was not unconscious — but I know nothing of time. The inner clock seems to have stopped, stood still.
Meditation is the method of stepping outside time.
These things I have told you — but they will be fully understood only when a slight glimpse and taste of meditation begins to happen to you. Then the mystery of time comes into view, and the capacity to go beyond time also arises.
Enough for today.
But do not leave yet. For five minutes these sannyasins will make an effort to go outside time through kirtan. You too become companions. Who knows — in any instant, revolution may happen.
No one is to get up. And I have said so many times — yet they have begun to come forward. Stay where you are. Stay where you are. And even later, when kirtan happens, you get up. When you get up, others too feel like getting up.
Stand where you are. Participate from there. The distance is not much. The distance is not far. Clap from there. Repeat the song. Sit and be blissful. Let this whole atmosphere be filled with joy and let it slip outside time. For five minutes, in losing yourself in this dance, step outside time. Remain seated where you are.