Geeta Darshan #1

There is a way of looking at life that is negative, and there is a way that is affirmative. Life can be seen in such a way that nothing appears but matter; and it can be seen in such a way that nothing remains but Paramatma. Those who say life is only matter are only saying this much: their way of seeing is negative. Those who say life is not matter, it is Paramatma, are also only saying this much: their way of seeing is affirmative, positive.
Before entering this sutra, it is necessary to understand these two ways of seeing correctly; because the world appears exactly as our seeing is. What we see is news of our own eyes. What we find is what we ourselves have placed there. What appears to us is our own attitude, the projection and manifestation of our own feeling.
Science used to think that man could see even while remaining neutral. And this was the very cornerstone of science: that a person should observe while being neutral—without any feeling, without any perspective—only then could what is truth be known. But three hundred years of scientific inquiry have shaken science’s own foundation. Now scientists say there is simply no way for a person to drop perspective and see the fact by itself.
A very precious thinker, Polanyi, has written one of this century’s important books, named Personal Knowledge. Polanyi says no knowledge can be free of the person. In knowing, the knower is included. In what we see, the imprint of our eyes is left. In what we touch, the experience is not only of the object, it is also of the capacity of our hand. In what I hear, there is not only the blow of sound upon the ear; the ear’s interpretation is also included.
Seeing without interpretation is impossible. There is no way. However much we try, the one who observes does not remain outside; he enters within. If you pass by a tree and the tree appears beautiful to you, then in this there is the tree’s beauty, yes; but also your capacity to see, your interpretation, your mood, your state of mind—you are included too. For it can happen that when you are unhappy, that tree does not appear beautiful. And it can also happen that when you are joyous, that tree begins to appear as if it is dancing.
And when a painter passes by a tree, the colors he sees are colors a non-painter can never see. And when a poet passes by that tree, the poetry that clings to the blossoms there—one who lacks a poet’s heart can never taste it. While a person sitting beneath the same tree as a shopkeeper will see none of this in the tree at all.
So when we see a tree, do we see only the tree, or do we also become included in it? Is there any way to see the tree as it is in itself—without joining ourselves to it?
Some have thought this might be possible. It is not possible. It is simply unnatural. In seeing, the seer will enter. This is part of the very nature of the world. And now scientists also accept that what we have developed as science is less fact and more interpretation. What we see we do not see pure; it becomes mingled with us.
No knowledge of man can be saved from being mixed with man. If this is correct, if it is true, then we find no reason to quarrel even with the atheist. If he says there is no God in the world, he is only saying this much: with my way of seeing, God does not appear in the world. Then there is no difficulty with the theist either. If he says, I see God in the world, then really he is misusing language. He should say only this much: as my way of seeing is, in it I see God in the world.
Krishna begins this sutra by saying to Arjuna, O Arjuna! For you, my bhakta, free of fault-seeing, I will now speak the mystery of this supremely secret knowledge.
Free of dosha-drishti! That is the definition of the bhakta. When you look at a person as an enemy, then what you search for in him is nothing but faults. It is not that he is only faults; for yesterday he was your friend and you did not see faults. Yesterday you looked at him with the eyes of love, and you had the vision of what is noble in him. Today with the eyes of aversion the ignoble in the same man appears. Yesterday you saw luminous peaks in him, today in that very man you see dark abysses. Yesterday you chose his heights; today you are choosing his depths. And what you choose to see, that is exactly what begins to appear to you.
Understand it this way: if I am standing at the window of my house. There is a moon in the sky outside. If I look at the moon, the window will not appear to me; the window will be forgotten. The moon will be seen; the clouds drifting in the sky will be seen; the window will be forgotten, as if it does not exist. By my seeing, by my attention, the window will vanish. But if you wish you can change your attention; forget the moon, look at the window. When you look at the window, the moon will recede into the background. And if you look carefully at the window, the moon will dissolve; the clouds will be lost; the trees outside will not be. The frame of the window will begin to appear to you.
Western psychologists call this Gestalt. They say that whenever we see anything, that which we give attention to is what appears to us; and that to which we do not give attention does not appear. Attention is our experience.
So when I look at a person as an enemy, something else appears to me, because my attention is searching for something else; and when I look as at a friend, in that same person something different appears, my attention seeks something different. That person outside—I do not know him. Whenever I draw any conclusion regarding that person, it is my interpretation.
Whoever looks at the world with fault-seeing will find nothing noble in the world; no sense of truth will seem to arise; no experience of beauty; no taste of poetry; no thrill; no intimation of dance. The world will not appear to him as a celebration. The world will seem to him a dull arrangement. Tears may appear to him; smiles will be lost to his eyes, will vanish. Thorns he may see; flowers? The flowers will simply be effaced. And the sum of all this—that is the world of the atheist.
Look at the world with dosha-drishti, and the vision of the atheist is born. But the bhakta looks at the world otherwise.
Krishna says, now I will speak the secret to you, my bhakta who is free of fault-seeing.
The secret can only be spoken when fault-seeing is not present. Otherwise it cannot be spoken, because speaking is futile. Even if it is spoken, it cannot be heard. If Arjuna is still in a mood to see faults, Krishna will not be able to speak the supremely secret. Arjuna will simply not be able to hear.
Jesus says again and again in the Bible: He who has eyes, let him see; and he who has ears, let him hear; I am saying, I am revealing.
Those to whom he spoke were neither blind nor deaf. They had eyes exactly like yours, and ears like yours. Yet Jesus had to say again and again that whoever has eyes, let him see, for I am present; and whoever has ears, let him hear, for I am speaking; whoever has a heart, let him experience, for the experience stands here embodied.
Krishna says, now I can speak the secret.
After eight long chapters of discussion, Krishna begins to reflect on the sutra of shraddha. Until now he had been speaking of reason. Until now he had been trying to make Arjuna understand; because Arjuna was stubbornly insistent on remaining uncomprehending. Until now he was occupied with cutting Arjuna’s doubts; because Arjuna was piling up doubt upon doubt. Until now he was struggling with Arjuna the nastik. Now he says, your atheism has dissolved. Now your fault-seeing is gone. Now you no longer appear filled with doubt. Now there is no wavering in your mind. Now you are not standing rigidly upon any obstinacy. Now you will not think from the opposite expectation. Now the door of your heart has opened. Now you will be able to look without dosha-drishti. So now I speak to you the supremely secret mystery.
When the consciousness is filled with doubt, only petty things can be spoken. Even then it is difficult to speak, because doubt rises even against small things. When the profound is to be spoken, a certain intimacy is needed—an intimacy, a closeness, such a nearness and such a sense of one-ness where doubt does not wedge itself in; where questions do not arise and ripple the still lake of nearness that has formed between two; where there is no tremor of suspicion—only then can the mysterious be spoken. If there is even the slightest vibration of doubt, the mysterious cannot be said. Saying is futile, for it will not be heard. Telling is useless, for it will not be seen.
Joyfully Krishna utters this sutra. Through these eight chapters he has been struggling with Arjuna’s intellect, cutting the intellect, so that the intellect may be set aside and the heart may arise. As long as the intellect functions, the heart rests. When the intellect goes to rest, the heart becomes active. And there are secrets that can be understood only by the heart. In fact, whatever is secret can only be understood by the heart. For the heart draws no lines of division at all. The heart can come close; the intellect carries you far away.
If two persons are sitting and there is a relationship of intellect between them, then there is as much distance between them as between two stars in the sky. However close they sit, even with arms around each other, if the traffic between them is of intellect—if there is an exchange of thought, if their relationship is intellectual—then they are as far apart as two points can be. But even if two persons are sitting upon distant stars, and there is no traffic of thought between them, and the doors of the heart have opened, then they are as near as two lovers have ever been.
Nearness is the name of a wave-less intimacy—when no waves rise between the two. Only when Arjuna is no longer Arjuna, and he bids farewell to his intellect, does the ground get prepared for Krishna to say to him what is secret; Arjuna becomes a vessel.
Until now Arjuna has been raising questions. Questions are raised in two ways. One, so that what has been said may be understood more deeply; then the questions come from the heart. And the other, so that what has been said may be proved wrong; then the questions come from the intellect. One way is when I already know what is right and, based on that, I raise questions—then they are of the intellect. The other is when I do not know what is right, but I want to know the right—then the questions come from the heart.
Questions that come from the heart are not doubts. They become satsang. And questions that come from the intellect deepen the chasm between two.
It is impossible to bridge the gap between intellect and intellect. No bridge can be built between intellect and intellect. Between intellects there can only be rupture, not union. Between hearts there is no way to create rupture; union is natural. Therefore Krishna has done all he could to cut Arjuna’s intellect and make it fall. When the intellect moves aside, when the veil of intellect lifts, the heart turns outward, comes to the fore.
Now Arjuna’s heart is apparent to Krishna. Now he can see that Arjuna has lost dosha-drishti. And when fault-seeing is lost, it becomes apparent in the eyes, on the face, in every expression, in every gesture.
When doubt is within you, your eyes are filled with doubt, your lips too, your expressions as well. Not only your life-breath, but every pore of your body becomes filled with doubt.
Someday if science becomes capable, it will be no surprise if a chemical difference is found between the blood of a man filled with doubt and the blood of a man filled with shraddha. If a chemical difference is found, there will be no surprise. For science has begun to observe this much at least: when a man is filled with love, the chemistry of his blood, his blood’s chemical arrangement, is transformed. And when a man is filled with anger, then the chemical arrangement of his blood is transformed; poison spreads in his blood. When a man is sad, the chemistry of his blood takes on another form; and when a man is delighted, filled with hope, with enthusiasm, when the beats of his heart sing the songs of hope, then the chemical arrangement of his blood changes.
Every particle of the body changes when the inner mind changes; for the body is only a shadow of the mind. Whatever the body is, it is a reflection of the mind.
Krishna says: now it is possible, Arjuna—freed of the fault-seeing gaze, emptied, made open—I can speak the secret to you.
What is the gaze of fault? What is this negative manner of seeing?
If I say to you that God is, the gaze of fault will ask, Where is He?—not in order to seek Him, but only so that what has been said may be proved untrue. The bhaktas too have asked, Where is He?—but not because what has been said is false; rather, because, Where shall we search? Where shall we find Him? In which direction shall we look? Upon which path shall we walk?
Whenever a devotee has asked, he has asked after understanding that “It is.” How to attain it? Whenever he has raised questions, they have been questions of “How?” Whatever their form, he has asked: “All right; it is. Where is it? How do I find it? What is the path? What is the method? To what extent and how do I transform myself so that I may come to it?” He too has asked questions, but his questions arise from a thirst for direct realization.
And when a negative outlook asks, it asks in this way: “This is wrong. Where is it? Put it right before my eyes. If it stands here in front of me, I will accept.” What he is really saying is: “If God is a substance, I will accept. If God is an object, I will accept. If it can be tested in a laboratory, I will accept. If I can dissect it, cut it open.” As a medical student dissects a frog on his table, investigates it, searches through a human skeleton—if your God is anywhere like that, then bring him to the laboratory table, to the surgery table. Let us cut and probe—what is inside him? Is there anything there or is it a fraud?

A negative outlook demands analysis: break, fragment, reduce to parts—only then will it accept that something is. Only if, even after breaking, we still find it to be, will we concede that it is.

A negative outlook trusts in fragmentation. If we offer a flower, the negative outlook will try to find beauty by breaking it. It will cut off the petals, separate each drop of nectar, isolate each mineral—and then, after bottling them separately, it will search for the beauty of the flower.

Naturally, it will not find the flower’s beauty, because the flower’s beauty lies in its wholeness, its totality. The moment you break it, it is lost. The beauty of a flower is not in its fragments but in its integrity. And whatever is integral, the negative outlook can never attain.

God is perfect indivisibility. If a flower is in its integrity, there is the flower’s wholeness. God means the wholeness of all existence. If the entire existence is a single flower, God is the beauty of its totality.

The outlook of negation relies on the senses: whatever appears to the senses is true; what the senses deny is not true. But as this outlook has gradually been allowed to go deeper, it has had to accept things about which the senses give no hint at all.

All of today’s science stands on the discovery of the atom, and the senses give no report of it. At most we can know the results, the effects of the atom, but not the atom itself. Yet this very intellect that once refused to believe that love exists within a human being—now accepts atoms. The effects of love do appear: a mother dissolves countless precious hours of her life in love; a lover lays down his life for the beloved! The effects of love are enormous, but there is no way to dissect love and know it. Then love must be an imagination, a thought, with no objective reality—this is what some maintained; and those very people will accept the atom, and descending below the atom, they will accept electrons—though the senses offer no testimony for these either.

By breaking and breaking, science has reached the conclusion that the ultimate particles that “come into our hands” do not really come into our hands; the final particles slip from our grasp. The senses cannot catch hold of them either. But there is another outlook also, which we may call constructive or positive: it sees life not by breaking but by joining; it asks “how to reach,” it raises questions so that answers may be found—not because the answer is wrong now, but because the answer is still someone else’s, and how may it become mine tomorrow?

When a question is asked so that what Krishna knows today may become Arjuna’s tomorrow, then that question has a different dignity and glory—a different quality. Krishna feels that Arjuna has come to a point where his fault-finding vision has fallen away; now the supreme secret can be told to him.

He says: For you, my devotee who is free of fault-finding vision, I shall tell this supreme confidential knowledge, with its mystery.

The moment a person becomes free of fault-finding vision, he becomes a bhakt, a devotee. Keep this definition of bhakt close to your heart, because who knows what we imagine a devotee to be!

The picture that rises in our minds is childish: a devotee is someone standing in a temple with a tray of worship; someone who prays daily with rule and ritual; someone with sacred thread, cap, and tilak. These images float in our minds.

But the meaning of devotee is: one whose fault-finding vision is destroyed; who no longer looks at life negatively; who has gathered the readiness to see life in its constructive unity.

We can understand it this way too. I said the negative life-outlook sees by breaking things apart. For breaking we have the word “vibhakt” in Sanskrit—divided. It divides. Bhakt is the opposite of vibhakt: one who does not break but joins. Bhakt means one who unites; vibhakt means one who splits.

In English we use “devotee” for bhakt—this is quite wrong, because it conjures up the same temple-tray picture. A closer synonym for bhakt in English would be “individual,” in its original sense: that which cannot be divided—indivisible. Not something broken; not something that trusts in separation; something joined, ready to join, already joined.

Carl Gustav Jung called his psychology “A Theory of Individuation”—the science of becoming one. The meaning of bhakt is the same: one who has become capable of seeing life with a unifying vision. This capacity comes only when we renounce the outlook that breaks. No one can jump ahead in a hurry.

Krishna could have given this aphorism at the beginning of the Gita too, but it would have been in vain. Many of us are such that, without traveling through the eight chapters, we would start right here. Perhaps we fancy ourselves wiser than Krishna!

Anyone who tries to plunge directly into devotion finds great failure. Until the intellect’s running about grows quiet, the feeling of devotion simply does not arise. Until the intellect, exhausted, defeated, falls down—after running, striving, struggling, attempting victory—and all fails; until then the heart does not manifest.

So do not take “heart” to mean ignorance; do not take it to mean a kind of simple-minded foolishness; do not take it as weakness of intellect. Do not think those with weak intellect are specially blessed, or that those who cannot think will find the doors of devotion open!

No. One becomes a devotee only when all the efforts of the intellect have failed. Devotion takes you beyond the intellect, not beneath it. And those who cannot even reach the level of intellect—remember, they will not reach devotion either. This may sound harsh, because devotees often think: “All right, intellect is a hard path. I don’t have much intellect; I’ll ring the temple bell and offer flowers and that will do.”

Let no one be deceived. Realizing the truth of life demands labor. None are excused. Entrance into life’s temple is through the path of struggle for all; it is unavoidable. There is no back door where you can slip in with a bribe or by praising God.

So do not imagine that the path of devotion is very easy. Krishna himself will say it is easy—but note, he tells this to Arjuna after eight chapters. Do not forget those eight. If it were so easy, would Krishna be mad? Half the Gita wasted! If it was that simple, he should have said so at the start. Why waste Arjuna’s time? First the difficult path, then the easy! Simple arithmetic says: give the easy first; if that fails, then give the difficult.

No, the reason is different. Devotion is easy—provided you have crossed those eight chapters; certainly easy. But if you have merely flipped past them and left them behind, devotion is extremely difficult. Devotion’s ease is not unconditional. There is a condition—and in that condition lies the whole game.

You hear people say, “Our path is devotion.” They mean they won’t get entangled in the hassles of intellect. They mean, “Why bother with that trouble!” And if someone is engaged with intellect, they look at him as if to say, “Poor fellow!”

The ignorant even enjoy their ignorance. People come to me and say, “What will reading and writing do?” They mean, the educated are wasted. Thus they console themselves.

I too know what reading and writing will do—and it is a very educated person’s statement. “Books are useless” is not the statement of one for whom letters are like black marks to a buffalo. It is the statement of one who has passed through books and found them useless. But no one realizes books are useless without passing through them. Likewise, one learns the uselessness of intellect only by going along its path. Such use it has: by passing through it one loses one’s reliance on it.

But remember: to lose that reliance, great intellect is needed. Therefore Krishna worked thoroughly with Arjuna’s intellect. He did not say, “What’s the need? Just adopt devotion; be a devotee, surrender; believe me.”

Krishna knows well that no one can believe until his capacity for knowing has been completely defeated. Until questions themselves fall, a questionless mind does not arise. Until doubt has made its full effort, it does not die; it can only be suppressed.

Our so-called society of devotees is a suppressed society. Doubts are suppressed within. They have never been transcended—only sat on. Hence their devotion is weak, even impotent. It wavers in a moment. Being a devotee, they are still afraid; they are nervous hearing an atheist. If someone speaks against God, they cover their ears.

So much panic in a devotee? So weak a devotee? If he is a devotee of Rama—let alone listening to an atheist—he will not even listen to Krishna! Such impotence? Such feebleness? Such poverty? Devotion is supreme power. When it manifests, none is stronger. It is the awakening of supreme energy. What connection has this with such a weak devotion?

A woman came to me four days ago and said, “I have come to ask: my guru has died, but before dying he told me never to go and listen to anyone else, otherwise I will fall from the path. He is gone; I have come to ask you if coming to listen to you would harm me.”

Is truth so weak? Are gurus so poor? Will the mind be shaken by hearing someone else?

Know this: it is already shaky. How long will you deceive yourself? A slight gust of wind and your breath will tremble, the dead leaves will fly, and those hidden doubts will surface.

We are such devotees as embers covered by ash: a bit of the coal has died outwardly and ash has formed on top, but inside the ember still glows. Doubt remains within; that is why we fear the contrary word. Doubt within—that is our fear. We know well that a light puff will blow the ash away and the ember within will flare. Such devotion has no value; it is self-deception.

Krishna is not speaking of such devotion. Krishna stands among those sages who do not believe in escape, who do not believe in running away, but in fighting—not only the outer war, but the inner one too.

He matched Arjuna fully. If Arjuna found taste in the games of intellect, Krishna too participated completely. He did not say, “Why do you speak of intellect? Useless!” Because by someone calling anything useless, it does not become so; often the opposite—calling it useless makes it even more enticing. He did not say, “Stop. Give birth to faith!” Faith cannot be manufactured by command. He did not say, “Just trust!” If trust could be produced by someone’s saying so, the whole world would already be full of trust. Krishna knows well: trust does not come by command; it is born from the impotence of intellect.

Remember, only when intellect becomes helpless does faith arise. When the intellect, exhausted, finds not even an inch of further movement possible—on the cremation ground of the intellect, the seed of faith sprouts.

Hence not a weak intellect is needed, but a deeply striving, vibrant intellect. Do not think devotion is for those with little intellect. Devotion is for those whose time has come to go even beyond intellect; who have reached close to rising above it; who stand on the borderline where intellect ends and the journey of devotion and the heart begins.

Therefore Krishna says: For you, the devotee.

Until now Arjuna was a seeker, an inquirer—he wanted to understand, but through intellect. Now he has become a devotee. Now he still wants to understand, but the search has become a thirst of the heart; no longer only an intellectual inquiry—now a heart’s longing. Until now it was a web of words; now he has the courage to stake himself. So Krishna says: I will tell you this supreme confidential knowledge, with its mystery. This knowledge is supremely confidential; worthy to be kept hidden; it is not to be said.

Krishna says a paradox: that which is confidential, I will say! I will say that which ought not to be said; I will say that which cannot be said; I will say that which, even if said, has never been said. Confidential means: hidden by nature. And I will say it with its mystery; I will unveil even the aura of mystery that surrounds it. I will strip bare what should be concealed—and yet I will not conceal it now. Why?

Understand a few points.

First, until the heart has the mood of devotion, any knowledge can prove dangerous. Scientific knowledge has indeed proved dangerous. Knowledge is not dangerous per se; but in whose hands it goes—if there is no devotional heart—the danger is certain.

Science uncovered great knowledge and brought forth the innermost secrets of matter. The result was Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And now the result is that scientists themselves feel they have sinned. Oppenheimer, Einstein—those who contributed most to the explosion of atomic energy—lived their last moments in sorrow and remorse, with a heavy sense of guilt. Linus Pauling and others too, in their final days, have been troubled by one thought: that the knowledge we gave to humanity—may it not prove to be humanity’s suicide? Might the world not be destroyed because of it? We once thought knowledge is always beneficial; it no longer seems so.

Knowledge is not always beneficial. Sometimes even ignorance is beneficial—when knowledge would fall into wrong hands, better they remain ignorant. In the right hands, knowledge can be good, because knowledge is power. Bacon said, “Knowledge is power.” And if power is in the wrong hands, danger is certain.

A devotee is one who can no longer do wrong. A devotee is one from whom the mind that does wrong has dissolved. A devotee is one who has acquired the capacity to see the supreme in life; he will not strive for the base. Give power into his hands, and there is no danger.

The mistake science recognizes today, India recognized five thousand years ago in another context. What science is seeing now by going deep into matter, all the conferences of Western scientists are worrying about: Should the knowledge we are gaining be made accessible to the general public or not? Should it reach politicians or not? If we reveal it, how do we ensure it will not prove harmful? And if this knowledge falls into someone’s hands, who will stop it? How will it be stopped? How will it be hidden?

It will not be surprising if in the next fifteen years scientists worldwide decide that only scientists will be allowed to know the outcomes of scientific research, and no one else. They may have to develop a language—indeed it is already developing—that non-scientists simply cannot understand. Even today most cannot. The language of science is becoming deliberately confidential.

Exactly such an experience came to India in the realm of self-knowledge. Much can be learned from it. India also reached, through the inward penetration of man, the source of supreme power. The question arose to conceal those formulas, because revealing them could be dangerous.

Thus a confidential, esoteric knowledge was evolved. It had to be hidden so deeply that it would not even be written in scriptures—because scriptures can also be read. Or, if written, then in such a way that the reader understands something else, not what is being said; or with multiple meanings, so that unless one already knows, one gets lost among the meanings; or with two layers of meaning: one that the ordinary person can take as perfectly right, and another that can be understood only by one who holds the keys.

For many years there was an insistence on not writing books; for thousands of years we kept knowledge at the tip of the tongue, not on paper. It is not as Western thinkers believe—that knowledge was written when writing was invented. Not so: those who could discover knowledge could certainly have invented writing. Writing is a small matter compared to that. That they could discover knowledge but could not invent writing—this makes no sense.

No—the discovery of knowing was deliberately withheld from writing for thousands of years so it would not reach the masses; so it could be kept confidential. The compulsion to write came when its branches had proliferated, traveling by hidden routes into many hands, in many forms. Then it became necessary to clarify what had been mixed in along the way. From memory, it had to be set down.

Even then, it was composed as sutras—aphorisms. A sutra means: only one who is skilled in the language of sutras will understand. Einstein’s theory of relativity, written in formulas, can be summed up in three small characters; his entire vision on which modern science rests can be written on a fingernail: all else is elaboration. But you will not understand that nail-sized formula; it is another language.

A sutra is compact essence—so condensed that only one who knows the full expanse can open it. You cannot reach the expanse from the sutra; if you already know the expanse, you can unfold the sutra. The sutra is for remembrance, so that one need not carry the entire elaboration. Thus the scriptures were written in sutras.

Even those sutras were, as far as possible, transmitted orally: the guru speaks to the disciple, and the disciple to his disciples. Spoken directly, so that the life of the speaker enters it; so that when he speaks, his soul enters his words; so that his experience lends color and form; otherwise bare words are like spent cartridges. Words soaked in experience are like live rounds. So the guru would whisper the sutra to the disciple—into his ear.

Even today sutras are whispered in the ear—but look at what passes for sutra! A guru whispers, “Chant Ram-Ram—this is your mantra.”

Sutras were those things the listener had never heard before; things being introduced into his consciousness for the first time. Giving the name of Ram as a secret to someone who has heard it from childhood—and then saying, “Tell no one; keep it hidden!”—this borders on absurdity.

Sutras were those which the listener had never known; delivered by a guru whose sutra had ripened from his whole life’s experience; a transfer of experience in encapsulated form; and through sadhana, practice, the methods to open the sutra’s meaning.

Krishna says: I will tell you those confidential things, and I will tell them with their mystery.

Because merely saying the confidential will not do; the meaning too must be given; the mystery must be explained—so that by knowing which you will be freed from the sorrow-form world.

Knowledge is liberation. One who knows goes beyond sorrow—not because knowing is a boat and sorrow a sea, and with the boat of knowing you cross the sea of sorrow.

No. The truth is different. Ignorance itself is sorrow. When you know, the sea dissolves; no boat is needed.

Ignorance and sorrow are synonyms. It is because of ignorance that sorrow is. It is not that sorrow exists and I am ignorant; I am ignorant, therefore sorrow exists. My ignorance is my sorrow. The day I know, sorrow vanishes—not that after knowing I will build a boat of knowledge and cross the ocean of sorrow. There is no ocean of sorrow. My ignorance itself is my sorrow, the begetter of my pains. Because of ignorance I keep hacking at my own feet with my own hands. I fill myself with poison and miss the nectar—only my mistake. It is only a mistake.

Understand this a little; it is very precious.

The religions born in the West have emphasized man’s sin. This is the fundamental difference. Islam, Christianity, Judaism—all three are branches of the Judaic tradition.

There are two streams of religious tradition in the world: the Judaic and the Hindu—just two. Whatever religions have arisen either stem from the Judaic tradition, or—like Jainism, Buddhism—are branches of the Hindu tradition. The basic point distinguishing these two is worth pondering.

All the Western religions related to Judaism regard sin as the root cause of man’s suffering. All Indian religions regard ignorance, not sin, as the root cause. Hence Christianity speaks of “original sin” as the basis of all suffering. India speaks of original ignorance as the basis of all suffering.

Consider this: India says even sin is possible only when there is ignorance; therefore sin cannot be fundamental—ignorance precedes it. To be a sinner, one must first be ignorant. Even when a man does wrong, it is because there is a mistake in his knowing. It is a great truth that no one can knowingly do wrong.

You say, “No, I know I should speak truth, not lies, yet I lie.” You do not know. You have only heard it. Someone said it; you read it somewhere. Deep within, you know that lying pays. Your inner knowing sides with lying. You may have heard that truth is good, but you know that it is good for others. It is good if others speak truth; otherwise how would your lies work? For dishonesty to succeed, some must be honest.

So the liar too preaches: “Speak the truth.” If the whole world lies, lying becomes useless. A thief needs some who do not steal; otherwise theft is impossible.

If we are all pickpockets here, no pockets will be picked. Whose pocket will you pick? To what end? It becomes pointless. Pockets can be picked because some are not pickpockets. So the pickpocket also teaches that picking pockets is very bad!

I have heard of a man on trial. The court said, “What kind of man are you? This person trusted you so much, and you deceived him!” He replied, “If I had not deceived him, whom would I deceive? It was precisely because he trusted me that I could deceive. If he had not trusted beforehand, deception would have been impossible. Do not punish only me; punish him too—we are partners. He trusted; I deceived. This event occurred through our collaboration.”

And he is right. Perhaps the one deceived is more responsible than the deceiver, because without him deception was not possible.

You say you know anger is bad—but you know this only when someone else is angry, or when your own anger has passed. In the midst of anger, every fiber of your being knows anger is appropriate; your whole being says anger is right.

India declares: apart from ignorance there is no sin and no sorrow; and apart from knowledge there is no liberation.

Naturally, if the West says sin is the basis of suffering, then virtue will be the basis of liberation. Hence the Christian monk or missionary is engaged in service. The purpose of service is to erase sin: the bad deed is cut by good deeds.

So the Western thinker cannot understand what the Indian sadhu does by meditating. He says: “There should be service!” Under the influence of Vivekananda and Gandhi, this Christian emphasis has, unwisely, entered the Hindu mind. The Hindu now fears: “What is the point of meditation? Open hospitals. What is the point of meditation? Go serve in the huts of the poor.”

Tagore sang: “I see God where the laborer breaks stones.” Tagore does not realize: if the laborer ever stopped breaking stones, where would Tagore see God then? He says, “I see God where the beggar begs—serve him.” This is fine; it is good; there is nothing wrong with service. But there is a fundamental difference.

The Indian sage has emphasized meditation because from meditation arises knowledge. Christianity emphasizes service and virtue because they cut sin. The foundations differ. If knowledge is sought, the path is meditation. If sin is to be cut, the means is virtue.

But Indian wisdom says: if, without knowledge, you set about doing good, it will not take you very deep. What is the value of the good of the ignorant? The service of the ignorant can be dangerous at any moment. Behind the ignorant person’s service, ignorance will still stand.

The basic disease does not go. I do not cut your throat; I massage your feet. But I am still the same inside. My greed remains; only its form has changed, it is not gone. My anger remains; only its channeling has changed. It will manifest in new forms.

India says: apart from knowing, there is no liberation. Hence it says: one who truly knows cannot go contrary to that knowing. If I know this is fire, I will not put my hand in it. If ever I do, I will do so knowingly, that it is fire and I will be burned. Then I will not repent the burning, I will not weep, I will not complain. Having done it knowingly, what complaint can there be? I am responsible.

But no one knowingly puts his hand into fire. The hand goes in ignorance, and sorrow follows. Ignorance is sorrow. We thrust our hands into every kind of fire—because in ignorance, nothing appears as it is. We think this is good, and it turns out bad; we think this is a flower, and when we clench our fist, the thorn pierces and we bleed. Yet we do not learn. Tomorrow another “flower” appears, we clench again, again the thorn, again we cry. The day after tomorrow, again the same.

We do not think to look closely: perhaps every “flower” is a thorn; or perhaps it is my clenching that gives birth to the prick. This insistence of mine on clenching—this is my sorrow. Why is my being so drawn, so attached? One who knows the root of all this becomes free.

Thus Krishna says: knowing this, you will be freed from the sorrow-form world.

But note, by knowing—not by hearing. Krishna should have said: “O Arjuna, by hearing this knowledge you will be freed!” Arjuna would have been delighted. You too have been delighted.

People think religion comes by hearing scriptures. People think by hearing the Gita they will gain knowledge. If knowledge were so cheap, there would be no ignorant person left. It will not happen by hearing. Therefore Krishna emphatically says: by knowing.

But we take hearing to be knowing. Whatever we hear becomes our “knowledge.” It is amusing: read the newspaper—you become “informed.” Read the Gita—you become “knowing.” Whatever enters memory—you are “knowledgeable.”

Memory is not knowledge. But our schools and universities equate memory with knowledge. The whole world proceeds as if memory were knowledge. We say someone “knows a lot,” meaning his memory is vast. We say someone has the Gita by heart—what glory! The poor throat is overworked; where is the essence? What will come of memorizing? We say someone has the Vedas memorized—great prestige! What will that do? The throat is high; nothing of the heart changes. Those whose “knowledge” sticks in the throat end up hanging by the throat. It may be good for speaking, for telling others; it has no relation to one’s own life.

Knowing means experience. So Krishna says: if only you know—experience—what I will tell you, you can be free of the sea of sorrow.

But there is a knowing and there is a knowing. One person says, “God exists.” He has not known at all. Better the atheist who says, “I do not find any evidence of God. How can I believe?” That atheist may someday become a theist. But the “believer” who says, “God is”—because he has heard it, because it is said in his house, because it is tradition, because his father or guru said so, because he read it in scripture, or out of fear, or the dread of death, or to have a support—he believes. He says, “I know God is.”

Use the word “knowing” with care, with honesty. One who learns the honest meaning of knowing finds revolution in his life. But we are all dishonest about knowing.

Search your head just once: how much do you truly know? You will likely find the number is zero. If even zero occurs, that is much! You will find everything is heard, held onto tightly; and you fear that if you examine it you may discover you do not truly know. So you avoid examining; and you keep going to those who reinforce your foolishness. They say, “Keep listening. By listening, it will happen.”

By listening you will only become deaf. Listening and listening, your hearing will stop, and an illusion will arise that you have known.

Our country is burdened by this kind of “knowledge.” We are not so afflicted by ignorance; in our country there is hardly anyone “ignorant.” I have searched for someone truly ignorant; he is hard to find. All are knowledgeable—not minor ones: all are Brahm-gnanis!

A friend came some days back. I asked why I had not seen him for long. He said, “Nothing. I have left my job. Now I am engaged in explaining Brahma-knowledge to people.”

I asked, “You attained it?”

He said, “Why would I not? For thirty years I have done nothing but attend satsangs. There is not a guru in India whose feet I have not sat at. I have got it all. Now it is happening through me for others. Many are coming, and I am distributing knowledge.”

Those who have nothing can also distribute. Distribution is easy; the load on the skull, accumulated by hearing, becomes lighter by handing it out. But that is not knowledge; not knowing.

Krishna says: if you know, you will be free of sorrow. This knowledge is the king of all sciences and the king of all secrets—supremely holy, noble, directly fruitful, righteous, most easy to practice, and imperishable.

Two points. Krishna says: this knowledge is supreme—there is nothing higher. It is rajavidya, the king of knowledge, the supreme science. Because by other sciences a man may know everything except himself. By other sciences he may gain everything except himself. And if I do not know myself—even if I know everything else and possess it—what is the meaning of all that knowing and having?

Therefore Krishna says: this is the supreme knowledge, the supreme science. By this you will know yourself. And one who knows himself knows all.

It is easy to practice and imperishable.

This knowledge is eternal—never born and never ending. Therefore one who unites with it becomes imperishable. And he adds a precious thing: that it is easy to practice.

It is easy for one who practices. For one who only listens, it is very difficult. For one who walks, it is very simple.

There are two secrets hidden in this simplicity. First, as I said, this is a simplicity declared after eight chapters. Arjuna is ready; he is a vessel. If you are a vessel, it will be easy; if not, it will not be easy. Everything depends on you. Many read this chapter and conclude: “It is simple; nothing needs to be done.”

Do not read this chapter in isolation. Your vessel must be prepared. If your fault-finding vision is gone, then it is easy—this is the condition. It is not unconditional. Preachers keep saying, “In Kali Yuga, devotion alone is the easy means.” If they had said it in Satya Yuga, it would still be difficult—because the purity of heart devotion requires is not easy even then.

Preachers say devotion is the easy means in Kali Yuga. Strange, foolish talk. The purity of heart a devotee needs is hard even in Satya Yuga—how will it be easy in Kali Yuga? They say: “Just take the name of Ram, it is easy.” But where will you bring the purity of heart in which the flower of the Name will bloom? Anyone can mouth the name; but where is the pure heart?

People feel relief when told something is easy. Thus those afraid of difficulty run after any promise of ease—not because it is truly easy, but because they fear difficulty.

Remember: one who fears difficulty will never meet God—He is the ultimate difficulty. There you need the courage to lose and to dissolve yourself; the courage of the final stake, the ultimate adventure—as if leaping into an infinite abyss whose bottom is nowhere in sight. It is like that.

So “simple” does not mean you will do nothing. You must become a vessel—and for that, much must be done. I may say water turns to steam in a moment—but do not conclude it needs no heating. Water must be heated to 100 degrees. At 100 degrees it turns to steam in an instant. But reaching 100 degrees does not happen in an instant; it takes time. Both are true. If one asks whether water becomes steam instantly or takes time, what will you say?

Two kinds of thinking have existed. One says: sudden enlightenment—tathagat, instant nirvana. The other: gradual enlightenment—step by step. They have argued endlessly, but the dispute is foolish—like arguing whether water becomes steam in a moment or over time. What will you say?

Water does both. It cannot be divided. It takes time to reach 100 degrees—and note, if at 99 degrees you stop heating, it will retreat; no steam. At 99 and a half, still it retreats. If even a fraction is missing, water remains water. If heat stops, it falls back.

At 100 degrees the leap happens; instantly water becomes steam. That event is momentary—outside time. No time is needed for water to become steam, but much time is needed to reach 100 degrees.

It takes long to become a devotee. The devotee’s attainment happens in an instant. The devotee is a personality boiling at 100 degrees.

Do not think you will get up and be a devotee. You are cold water. The fear is you may have frozen into ice and will first have to melt into water, then be heated, then perhaps reach 100 degrees—while a hundred times you will ask, “Isn’t there a shortcut? Why so long?”

That is why people like Maharishi Mahesh Yogi gain quick popularity for a while—shortcuts! “Just a minute’s work; do this, and all will happen.” Anyone can be deceived because our minds are greedy; if something can happen quickly, all the better. This is how we get exploited.

No, there is no shortcut. The journey must be completed; in that supreme journey, no trick will do. Life’s eternal laws are at play.

So it is very simple—if your heart meets the definition of a devotee. But do not think that is enough. Even a devotee who only listens will fall back. Even after reaching 100 degrees, until becoming steam, there is the danger of falling. One must move.

Krishna says: It is very simple—to practice.

Very simple, if you do it. If you only listen, it is very difficult. We understand the opposite: listening is easy, doing is hard. Listening seems easy. I tell you: listening is hard—because how will you listen to what you do not know? How will it make sense? Words—even Krishna’s—cannot tell you what you have not tasted; the language itself is unfamiliar.

A man speaks to you in Arabic—you think you are listening; what are you listening to? In Chinese—again, you feel you are listening; what are you hearing? With Arabic or Chinese, there is no confusion; you admit you do not know the language.

Do not be mistaken: Krishna’s language is an even more foreign Arabic, a deeper Chinese. You cannot possibly know it. In Arabic, you may glean something from the speaker’s lips or eyes, a gesture. But Krishna is without gesture; from his lips you will learn nothing; his eyes will not say anything—such persons are so empty that it is hard to extract anything from them. And what they say seems like familiar language but is utterly unfamiliar.

So Krishna says: not easy by hearing, but easy if you do.

If a blind man says, “Explain light to me,” it is very difficult. If he says, “Heal my eyes, give me some practice so they open,” I say: that is easy. The blind eye can one day open and see light. If someone says, “Explain love to me,” it is difficult. If he is ready to plunge into love, to love, it is easy.

In life, apart from experience, there is no ease. Words seem easy; they are utterly obscure. Through words nothing has ever been understood, nor can it be. Only experience—your own perception, your own witnessing—reveals truth.

Hence Krishna says: it is easy—very easy—to practice.

And, O destroyer of foes, those without faith in this dharma of knowledge do not reach me; they wander in the cycle of death.

Those without faith—even if they listen, even if they try to walk—do not reach me. Only those with faith reach me. Why?

Because the door to God is the heart. Because the mood for reaching him is love. Because the necessary readiness exists only in a heart imbued with faith. Faith means a trusting heart.

A small child says, “I want to see the sunrise,” or “I have heard the garden is in bloom, I want to see,” or “The sea has great waves, I want to go.” The father says, “Take my hand and come.”

The son could say, “Take your hand? On the way, will you let go? Are you sure I won’t get lost? Are you certain the place exists? First, explain rationally that the sun exists, that the sea exists, that flowers bloom and birds sing. When I understand, then prove you are not a cheat. Show me witnesses that you have led others. And how do I trust those witnesses are not fabricated?”

If he asks all this, the journey is impossible. But the child stands, takes his father’s hand, and sets out. The feeling with which the child takes the father’s hand—that is faith.

Faith means a deep intimacy, a trust; an inner sense of kinship—even toward the unknown and the unseen.

Note this too: even if one errs through faith, there is no loss; and even if one gains through lack of faith, it is a loss. For what is gained without faith is paltry; but lack of faith becomes stronger—which is a great loss. Even if there is apparent loss through faith, it is not a loss but a gain, because faith itself is a great event.

The greatest event in this world is faith. This may surprise you, because faith seems an impossibility. To have faith in someone is an impossible thing—because our whole intellect raises obstacles. It will say to Arjuna: “This Krishna? I played with him, and he tells me to have faith! This Krishna—I have put my arm around his neck, danced and jumped with him—asks for faith! This Krishna—with whom I have even wrestled—asks for faith! This Krishna, my charioteer in this war—asks for faith! This Krishna—when he is wounded, blood flows from his hand; he feels hunger; if he lacks sleep at night, he is tired in the morning—asks for faith! This Krishna will also die; he too was born; he too falls in love and dances with the gopis; he does deals, runs politics—asks for faith!” A thousand questions arise naturally for Arjuna.

Faith is an impossible event. It is a flower that blooms once in millions—yet when it blooms, the doors of the infinite open.

So Krishna says: without faith no one reaches me—for faith is the door and bridge to me. And those who do not reach me revolve in the wheel of birth and death.

That is all for today.

But do not rise. For five to seven minutes, with trust, the sannyasins will lead a kirtan. Join in. Do not just listen—participate.

Friends who feel like dancing can come forward. The rest remain seated. No one should stand. Clap your hands. Join the kirtan for five to seven minutes. Take it as the prasad of our sannyasins.