Geeta Darshan #10

Whatever a human being seeks — whatever he asks for, whatever direction he runs in, whatever he longs to attain — in the end he is seeking only Paramatma. Hidden in all his desires is the desire for Paramatma. In all his passions the seed of the urge to reach that Lord lies concealed. And it is not necessary that he knows this; he may have no knowledge of it — often he does not. Yet the seed is the search for Paramatma.

We sow a seed in the earth: that seed does not even know why it is breaking open, why it is sprouting. It does not know what the final form of this sprouting is going to be. It does not know why this rush toward the sky, why this spread of branches in the vastness is taking place. What does it want to attain? It has no memory, not even a dream, of the flowers that will blossom upon its branches. It can have no news of the seeds that will come to hang upon it. It cannot have any estimate of the life that will be the life of a tree.

Exactly so, man moves toward Paramatma like a seed — unknowing. He does not even know what he is seeking, or why he is seeking. What is the inner quest hidden in all his quests? If we understand man’s desires a little, the matter becomes easier to see.

One man wants wealth; he runs after money. If we say to him, “You too are searching for God,” he will not agree — leave aside others agreeing, he himself will not agree. Another man seeks position, status, fame. If we say, “He too is seeking the Lord,” who will be ready to accept so incongruous a statement? One man seeks love, and we say he seeks Paramatma — no correspondence seems to appear. But if we go a little deeper, the steps begin to be visible, the chain becomes clear.

A man seeks wealth — for what? What is his purpose with wealth?

He seeks wealth for three reasons. First, for security. There is no security for tomorrow. If wealth is in hand, tomorrow becomes secure. If wealth is in hand, he can be at ease about the future. If wealth is in hand, he can drop worry about what is to come.

This means he seeks wealth so that a way of life may be found in which there is no worry, no anxiety; a life with security, not insecurity; where there is no fear; where he does not feel helpless within himself. He seeks such a life. But he seeks it through wealth. Wealth cannot give such a life — yet the longing is precisely that.

When a man seeks wealth there is a second thing: he wants such a wealth as cannot be taken away. Hence all the arrangements for safes, banks, security — the whole arrangement so that it cannot be snatched away. The longing is for wealth that none can rob. But whatever wealth we arrange can be taken away — it is taken away. Man has found no way yet to acquire wealth that cannot be snatched. All measures fail.

But if we search into man’s longing, he certainly wants to find such a treasure that remains his forever; that never becomes alien to him. Every man wants a possession that is eternally, unchangingly his own. Other than Paramatma there can be no such possession that cannot be taken away. Only That cannot be robbed.

When a man seeks wealth there is a third thing: within he feels emptiness, a hollowness; he wants to fill it. After running a whole life, the sums of money pile up, but the inner emptiness is not filled. Yet he seeks for this very reason: that the inside be filled, that there be an inner fulfillment, an inner contentment, a sense of fullness; that no lack be felt, no deficiency be tasted; that within there be satisfaction, contentment — that not even for a moment should it seem that “I need something more.” This is the third thing.

Man seeks wealth so that such a state arrives where nothing remains to be asked for, nothing remains to be desired; where nothing pricks him as lacking, no emptiness pricks him; the feeling, “I have everything,” brings contentment. But no matter how much wealth is obtained, such contentment does not happen. Such contentment happens only to the one who attains the wealth of Paramatma.

So even if the search for wealth is wrong, even if the direction is mistaken, the longing is absolutely right. The seed within is utterly right. The path of the sprout may become distorted, yet its unknown search is entirely authentic.

A man seeks position. He seeks position for three reasons: that he may not feel inferior to anyone, lower than anyone. But however one may struggle for position, someone ahead always remains. Up to now not a single man has reached any position from where he could say, “Now there is none ahead of me.” However high a stair he climbs, he finds that others were already upon higher stairs.

And this is everyone’s experience — for complex reasons. Life is not a single ladder; it is a composite of many ladders. If you climb one ladder, often in the very act you climb one you step down on another. If you climb two ladders, you may have to descend four. The price has to be paid.

A man reaches a high office; for the sake of reaching it the restlessness and trouble he had to bear makes him lose his health. Then one day he sees a fakir walking on the road with an immense wealth of health, and his mind fills with envy. On one ladder he is up, on another he is down.

A man, in the race for position, loses his genius. In truth, to complete the race for position genius is not needed. If there is genius, it is a danger; the race becomes difficult. A deep stupidity is needed; then one can plunge blindly in the race for office — that is the qualification. Genius is lost. When he arrives at the office, he finds lamps of genius burning all around, and in that ladder he is lagging behind.

Life is many ladders. If you climb on one, you descend on others. And however much you climb any ladder, yet you find that others are higher still!

Yet man’s longing is right. He wants a state where he remains lower than none.

Except by realizing Paramatma there is no way.

But there is a strange thing. Man wants not to remain lower than others, therefore he sets about making others lower. He does not know that what he is doing, everyone else is doing too. I am one man; there are three billion on the earth. I too am engaged so that I may not remain lower than anyone — and for that I am engaged in making others lower. Three billion people are engaged in the same effort! They too are busy making others lower so that they may go higher. Each man is fighting against three billion men! If he does not lose, what else will happen? Three billion are engaged in making me lower; I am engaged in making three billion lower. It is a crowd of madmen, in which no one can arrive anywhere.

Lao Tzu has said, “I have known the formula of peace in this: sit at that place than which no place is lower — otherwise you will be made to fall. Fall into that pit than which no pit is lower — otherwise you will be kicked into it.” Lao Tzu said, “I found peace and contentment when I did not merely stop making others lower, but accepted myself as the lowest. From that day no one could make me lower.”

Jesus said, “He who consents to stand last in the line — he shall be first.”

But what will happen to us who are eager to stand first in the line? We will struggle, fight, be harassed — and in the end we will find we have not reached the front. Perhaps the line is not straight — it is circular. That is why no one can ever experience that he has reached the front. However much one runs, one cannot reach the head of the queue. The queue is circular; otherwise someone would have reached. Some Alexander, some Napoleon, some Hitler, some Stalin would have arrived somewhere and one day declared, “All right — I have reached the very front; I am number one!” But wherever anyone reaches, he finds people ahead of him.

Only one meaning is possible: life does not move in a straight line; it is circular. If a dozen people stand in a circle, however much one runs and strives, even spends his life to be number one — he will never be number one. In a circle there is no number one. There is always someone ahead, someone behind. Wherever you go, there is always someone ahead and someone behind.

But the longing is appropriate; it brings a true message: until a person knows himself one with Paramatma, inferiority does not dissolve. And until inferiority does not dissolve, jealousy does not dissolve. And until inferiority and jealousy do not dissolve, the effort to make others lower will not dissolve. The final result of all this is nothing but anxiety and suffering. Yet man longs for the supreme state. He longs for Paramatma. He may not be conscious of it — that can be.

Look from another side.

Every man is afraid of death, trembling. Every man is scared. However secure he may be, death seems to be standing somewhere on the edge and can clutch his throat any moment. Every person is afraid of death.

A small child is born — he too is afraid, fearfully born. A sudden loud bang and he trembles. Darkness comes, he begins to be frightened. No one is near, he is alone — he begins to cry out. From the very first day he is born into fear.

The whole life is a leaf trembling with fear. We make arrangements, many kinds, to save ourselves from death. The longing is perfectly right, but no one has yet been able to escape death — nor will anyone.

And often it happens that the more measures are taken to escape death, the sooner one dies crushed by one’s own arrangements. It is as if a man, lest death should come, puts an iron armor around himself, wears iron garments lest death should enter from anywhere. He will die immediately. He will not need to wait for tomorrow. We all make our life so secure from all sides that life itself dies.

Life exists in insecurity. Life exists in uncertainty, in the un-fixed. We make everything fixed, arrange everything neatly — and sit inside like corpses. Only a corpse can be saved from death; only one already dead can be safe. One who is alive will die.

So however much we plan, death is not held back — in the planning we lose life. Life is lost in the very effort to escape death. The time for living is used up, the clock-hand turns, and death arrives. Then we are flustered and say, “We were only arranging to escape death! We wasted our time in avoiding death — we have not yet lived at all.”

Living ends in the arrangements for living. The chance to live does not come, the opportunity does not arrive, the allowance is not found. But the longing is correct. The longing to escape death is correct — the direction is wrong.

There is only one way to be free of death: know That which is amrita, immortal; recognize That which never dies; seek our unity with That which has no death. This is the right direction. We keep arranging to avoid death and remain attached to that which will die; we cling to the body, which by nature must die, in which death is intrinsic. We arrange to save that. Time passes in arrangements and death arrives. We do not seek That which has never died and never will die — and That is present.

If this longing is in the right direction, it becomes the search for the immortal. If it goes wrong, it becomes a defense against death. If the search for wealth goes right, it becomes the search for the supreme treasure. If it goes wrong, life will be spent gathering metal shards. If the search for position goes right, there is no position other than that of Paramatma. If it goes wrong, we will waste our energy in seating people lower and higher.

This is man’s...

(Someone stood up in the middle and asked something.)

Write down whatever you have to say; from so far it will not be heard. Write it down — and do not disturb people. Send it forward in writing.

Krishna says in this sutra: “Arjuna, even those devotees who, endowed with faith, worship other gods — they too worship Me.”

“Whatever worship is being done — in the end it is My worship,” says Krishna. The worshipper himself may not know whom he worships, yet it can only be My worship. Why? If even the worshipper does not know, in what sense is Krishna saying, “It is My worship”?

He is saying it in this sense: your desires may run anywhere, your worship may fall at any feet, you may lay your head with faith anywhere — but you are seeking only Me. It makes no difference where your eyes are going; ultimately your eyes are searching for Me. Seek wherever you will — the ultimate refuge of your eyes is Me.

“But their worship is without the right method, born of ignorance.”

They worship Me indeed — yet not knowingly. For they do not know what they are seeking. They themselves do not know.

Sakama worship means worship done for wealth, for position, for life; worship done for pleasure. One stands in a temple asking God for something, before any deity he may ask; their names are thousands, their forms are thousands, their shrines are thousands — but whenever at any shrine, before any image, one is asking for anything, he is filled with ignorance. For in the presence of That by which all is attained simply by being near, if one still has to beg, it means one does not know how to be near. If you have to ask even there where the very nearness grants all, it means you have not reached near at all — there has been no upasana, no sitting-near.

Therefore Krishna says, it is avidhipurvaka — without the right seeing, without right knowing. He does not even know what he is doing.

If someone stands before the sun with folded hands and says, “O sun, give me light,” one thing is certain: he is blind. Standing before the sun with open eyes, light is received; there is no need to ask for it. But if someone begs before the sun with folded hands, pleading, crying, kneeling — “O sun, give me light!” — then it is decided: he is blind. He does not even know he is standing before the sun. And being before the sun is itself the receiving of light — nothing more need be asked.

So if one comes before Paramatma and still asks for something, one thing is certain: he does not know that where he asks, there is Paramatma. His very asking shows he has no idea of being near. He is enclosed in his asking. Demand surrounds him on all sides. Upasana is not possible for him; he is crushed under vasana.

Hence Krishna says, even though he performs many methods...

Methods — many! In truth the one who does not know the real method does many, very many, methods. How many rituals are not done by those who worship and pray! Sakama rituals are by the thousand, by the million. So many arrangements to be made! What materials to gather! Steps to be taken one by one, in exact order.

Worship is a whole ritual — a kriya-kanda; in it there should be no error, no lapse; it is all an arrangement of calculation. When any worshipper, filled with desire, sets about worship, he keeps exact accounts; he follows the whole method precisely. And Krishna says: avidhipurvaka — “though,” he himself says, “Arjuna, even those devotees who, endowed with faith, worship other gods, they too worship Me; yet their worship is without right method.”

They too know the method — the outer method presents no difficulty. Each step is known and executed. And yet Krishna calls it avidhipurvaka.

There is a reason. With Paramatma, mere nearness is the sufficient method — no other method has meaning. All other methods are self-deceptions. If only the art of being near arises, if the door to experience His presence opens, the sufficient method has arrived. But they practice methods!

Krishna says, born of ignorance.

Ignorance can practice method — often it does, it will. And it has no other way. We have, in ignorance, developed countless methods and woven a complex mesh.

We see Buddha walking, rising, sitting — and we construct a method. We think: if we walk thus, rise thus, sit thus, what has happened to Buddha will happen to us.

We see Meera dancing, singing, overflowing with bliss. We think: the clothes Meera wore, the tilak she applied, the temple she stood before, the image of Krishna she made, the mode of worship she followed — if we too follow that mode exactly, what was given to Meera will be given to us.

And it could be that we follow Meera’s method completely — yet what came to Meera will not be ours through this. For what we saw was only the outer frame, not the soul; what could not be seen — the real method, the capacity for upasana, for nearness — that is no frame. It cannot be seen. It is inner.

Ramakrishna was appointed a priest at Dakshineshwar. After eight days the trustees had to summon him. Many complaints had come: Ramakrishna does not know the method of worship. To find a priest deeper than Ramakrishna would be difficult in the whole history of man. But the trustees — who paid him a fourteen-rupee wage; naturally, they were the masters — called him into their court. “We will have to dismiss you, for it is known to us that you do not know the method of worship.”

Ramakrishna said, “What has worship to do with method? If there is worship, why bother for method? And if there is method but no worship, what will you do with the method?”

The trustees could not understand — nor was it to be expected. “Is this any answer? The complaint runs deeper: it is criminal. We have news that you first smell the flowers and then offer them! And that you first taste the food and then offer it to God!”

Ramakrishna said, “Keep your job; I will worship only thus. For when my mother cooked, she first tasted the food — if it was not fit for me, she would not give it. I cannot offer to God without tasting; if it is not fit to eat, I will throw it away and prepare again. But it is impossible that I should offer first without knowing what I am offering.”

There, the method is completely broken. Certainly, how can a flower be offered after smelling it! But Ramakrishna says, “Without smelling I cannot offer. What if the flower has no fragrance? How will I know? And I will offer to God only what is dear to me; so first I must know whether it is dear to me or not.”

Ramakrishna said, “Either I worship thus — or you may keep your job, for a job cannot be allowed to interfere with worship.”

Such a man, Krishna would call “according to the real method,” though all outer methods are broken. For in his method there is intimacy, there is rasa; there is heartfelt love. In his method the flower is not important, the food is not important, the outer formality is not important; the inner offering of the heart has become everything. When he stands before God, all the outer has fallen away; only the inward devotion remains.

One day it happened that Ramakrishna stood weeping. The flowers for worship had withered, the lamp lit for worship had gone out — and Ramakrishna stood weeping; worship had not even begun. Those who had come to watch worship, after a while got bored and began to go away. “What kind of worship is this? The lamp is dead, the flowers are withered, the food offered is cold, and Ramakrishna stands with closed eyes weeping — how long will this go on?”

People left; the temple emptied; it was midnight. Ramakrishna opened his eyes, and the sword hanging before Kali he drew from its sheath. Crying out he said, “Enough offering of flowers and food — nothing has happened from it; today I offer myself!”

The sword was at his neck in a flash — and lightning flashed. Who snatched the sword from his hand, he does not know. How it fell to the ground, he does not know. Morning found him unconscious. Unconscious — yet upon his face had come a golden aura that appears once in hundreds of years upon a face.

It took three days to come to. When he awoke, people asked, “What happened?” Ramakrishna said, “Worship happened; the worship is complete.”

After that day Ramakrishna no longer offered flowers, no longer offered food. After that days would pass and he would not even enter the temple. Another priest had to be appointed to do the worship when he did not come. Sometimes Ramakrishna went, and there he would converse as friends converse. Someone would ask, “Have you stopped worship?” Ramakrishna would say, “I have offered myself — that which would worship is no longer there.”

The ultimate of worship is when one offers and surrenders oneself. But the methods are formal, outer. Krishna knows well that the worship of gods, even though it proceeds “by method,” He calls it “without method” — for in ignorance only avastha of avedana can be. In knowledge alone is the real method born. And that method is not like methods; it is personal, intimate, one’s very own.

Because I am the enjoyer and the Lord of all yajnas.

Offer flowers anywhere — they reach Me. Sing your song anywhere — it arrives to Me. Do what you do — the whole of it is consecrated to Me.

Krishna is saying: I am the center of existence. Whatever you do — your evil and your good, your right and your wrong — all reaches Me, whether you know it or not. A difference will arise if you do know; then there will be revolution in your life.

But they do not know Me, the God who is Adhiyajna, in essence.

Those who circle Me all their lives do not know in truth around whom they are circling, whom they circumambulate, around whose presence they move. They go on moving like the insane, not knowing that where they move is the Lord’s temple; it is His parikrama.

Therefore they fall, that is, they obtain rebirth.

On this a few things must be understood — foundations of Indian seeing.

First, Indian thought has always been evolutionary. It holds that a person should not fall back again and again into the same state — for that would mean there is no development in his life. If the error done yesterday is repeated today and again tomorrow, there is no growth of consciousness. If one goes round and round all one’s life, repeating and repeating the same, then one’s life is not ascending — it is circular, like a potter’s wheel. Evolution is that which discovers the new and does not repeat the old. It does not repeat — it goes forward.

Edison wrote in a letter that every evening he prays to the sun, “Do not find me this evening where you found me in the morning.” And at night he sleeps with the prayer, “O sun, leave me this evening in such a way that you do not find me the same in the morning — let something change, let something new happen.”

But our mind is repetitious. Mind repeats. I have said earlier: keep this also in view, mind is repetition — a reiteration. It does the same day after day. It makes a circle. Like a child’s train runs on a round track. Wind it up, it circles. The spring runs down, you wind it again, it circles again. Our spring runs down; every day we wind it with food. The circle completes each day. Fuel put into the body, it completes its daily round.

Study your twenty-four-hour circle and you will be astonished — day after day you do the same things. Day after day.

I do not mean that you should go to a different office each day, or open a new shop every day. The shop remains the same, the office the same. No — but your inner mental states are the same each day. In twenty-four hours you get angry as many times as you always do. You get excited as many times as usual. You become sad as many times as usual. Often you are surprised: “There was no cause for sadness just now — why am I sad?”

The time has come! As at the time for tea, or for a cigarette, so too at the time for sadness one must be sad. The hour has returned; the state comes back from within.

Mind repeats twenty-four hours, mechanically. If we expand this repeating over the whole span of life, there are larger circles: the daily circle, the yearly circle — and then the circle from one life to another. This is what India calls rebirth.

India says: as man is, if he does not make himself grow day by day, then the whole of life repeats. From birth to death, wherever we reached, death sets us back to the old place; again we begin birth; again the same, again the same.

Buddha and Mahavira discovered a unique device for their seekers: they would not take a person into sadhana until they had helped him remember his past lives.

Someone asked Buddha, “What is the use of remembering past lives? I want peace now — show me a way.” Buddha said, “Because in past lives too you have asked the same thing of other Buddhas. And paths were shown to you — but you never followed. So do not waste my time. I will show you the path; but before, you have asked other Buddhas similarly and have not followed. You are only repeating your habit. You will do what you did before. First I will remind you — remember two or three of your past births, so that it becomes clear to you that you are not repeating the same circle again.”

The man understood. He stayed a year with Buddha to remember past lives. He was amazed: in a past life, when his wife had died, he had gone to a Buddha! And before that too, when his wife had died, he had gone to a Buddha! And now in this life his wife had died and he had come to Buddha, saying, “I am disturbed — I need peace.” And the surprise was, in the first life while seeking peace he fell into attachment to a new woman; in the second, while seeking peace he fell in love with a nun.

Then he was shaken. He said to Buddha, “What is this? Am I doing this — or is it being done to me?”

Buddha said, “If you do not know, you will go on doing; for you do not know you are only repeating. Without remembrance we repeat.”

Leave aside past births — a little hard to recall — but yesterday you do remember. Yesterday you got angry on the same point, and repented, deciding not to be angry again. Today you got angry on the same point, and again repented, deciding not to be angry. You think that tomorrow it will not happen. But you repented yesterday too.

You are only repeating. You get angry, then you repent; you get angry, then you repent.

A friend comes to me — he is hot-tempered. Who is not? He is just a bit more. He says, “Somehow my anger must drop.” He repents a lot, cries, beats his chest — after he has been angry.

I say to him, “Forget anger. Drop repenting. Do one thing: you have tried all your life to drop anger — it hasn’t dropped. Accept my suggestion: drop repenting. Make one firm decision — if anger happens, I will not repent.”

He says, “What a dangerous man you are! I came to drop anger — you want me to drop repentance too! Then I will fall into great hell.”

I say, “Break any one habit. If you cannot break anger, break repenting. The circle will break. Break repentance — then the next anger will not get a chance, because one rung of the ladder is removed. Your system is: anger, repentance; anger, repentance — this is your circuit. Break the circuit anywhere; pull any wire loose. If you cannot pull it at anger, pull it at repentance. If you do not repent, I promise that the next anger due to come will find no route.”

You will be surprised to know: you do not repent because you know anger is bad; you repent in order to reach the same initial state from which you can be angry again.

Repentance is the trick of anger. Repentance is anger’s cleverness, the ego’s craft. After anger you feel, “I am not as good a man as I thought.” By repenting you again feel, “I am exactly as good as I thought.” The ego regains its old label; it stands where it stood before anger.

Because of anger you had fallen into a ditch; a little humility had come. By repenting you stand back at your old place — the very place from which you had become angry. Now you can be angry again, because you are at the starting point.

Mind is repetition — and a man living by mind makes his whole life a repetition, a mechanical reiteration. The largest circle is a whole life. Only India has noticed this.

Apart from India no religion of the world has considered rebirth — because no other culture has understood the alchemy of man’s mind so precisely: if mind repeats, the whole life will be a vast circle — and man will repeat again! And we have repeated again and again.

Again and again we have fallen into greed, for many births. Again and again into lust, in many births. Again and again we have built houses, amassed wealth, sought positions. Again and again we have failed, in many births. And each time again the same, again the same.

Krishna says: those who worship devas — without knowing Me; that is, who turn their desires into worship, who pray out of asking — they fall again and again and gain rebirth. Because those who worship devas, reach the devas.

This is a precious sutra.

Those who worship the ancestors, reach the ancestors. Those who worship spirits, reach the spirits. Because whatever you worship, ultimately you become that. And whatever you worship, ultimately you cannot go beyond it. No one can go beyond his object of reverence.

Understand this a little.

Whom you revere becomes your maximum, your supreme, your final point. Be cautious in reverence — for your reverence will become the line of your future. Beyond whom you revere you will never go. Your reverence becomes your ultimate point; it becomes the goal of your growth. Whomever one worships, unknowingly he is deciding, “This is what I want to become.”

Notice — today if a sannyasin passes on the road, no crowd gathers around him. Once it did. Two thousand years ago, if Buddha passed through a village, if a sannyasin passed, the whole village would gather. For whether one kept a shop or farmed a field — the final reverence was: one day I too must become a sannyasin. Even if it did not happen, the pain would remain, the sting. But today, seeing a sannyasin, no crowd gathers. An actor passes — a crowd gathers. That is our reverence. That is what we want to be. Even if we cannot — we want that.

What we want to be becomes our object of reverence. Reverence means: it is the picture of my future — this is what I want to be. And what one reveres, slowly he becomes. He will become it, for reverence forms our soul, shapes our soul, transforms our soul. Choose your reverence with great care — with alertness, with intelligence. For reverence will be the mold into which you will finally be poured.

So Krishna says, those who worship the devas, reach the devas.

But the devas themselves live surrounded by desire! Even Indra is full of desire. We all know the stories: if someone on earth does great tapas, Indra’s throne begins to shake. It means he is filled with jealousy, fearing that a capable man is approaching the state of becoming Indra. “If this one succeeds in austerity I will have to vacate my seat, and he will sit upon it.”

So poor Indra is busy day and night defending his throne. Let anyone do tapas and it becomes a difficulty. He sends Apsaras — “Go and corrupt him! Make this man waver! If he wavers a little, my throne becomes steady.”

Whoever sits upon a throne will always remain afraid — trembling.

I have heard: there is a very ancient temple in Italy — still there. Its story is old and strange. At the foot of a mountain near a small lake, under a great tree, stands the temple. The priest of that temple is unique in history. There is only one way to become the priest of that temple: if someone kills the existing priest, only then can he become priest there.

So the priest stands with a sword in hand day and night. It is difficult to sleep. If he sleeps — he is gone. Life becomes hell; for at all times... There is no one else in that forest — under that tree a lone priest holds his sword to protect himself. And he knows that today or tomorrow, death will certainly come. For he too became priest by killing someone. And this is the continuous tradition. Someone will kill him and become priest. And whoever becomes priest knows well that the place he is going to is such that he must stand with a sword in hand — and someone will kill him.

This is significant: such is the state of every position. Whoever reaches there has reached by killing, removing, harassing someone. As soon as he reaches, he must stand with a sword day and night; for by the same path others will come. He knows for certain he cannot remain there always — someone will come behind. For if someone could remain there forever, he himself could never have reached; someone else would have already been there. He reached — someone else will reach.

Around every position, every wealth, every prestige, every throne — the tremor of death. Indra trembles; the gods tremble. They are full of desires and wants.

Krishna says: by worshipping devas, at the utmost, if a man is completely successful, he becomes a deva — he cannot go beyond.

But being a deva is not a very high state. This too is surprising: India alone is the country that does not consider the state of the gods as very high. And it holds that even the gods, if they want liberation, must first become human. Man is the crossroads. For the deva the path to the beyond runs through man. It seems they go onward — but if a deva wants release, he must return to the crossroads and take the path of freedom.

Man is the crossroads, the cross-road. If an animal wants liberation, it must become human; if a deva wants liberation, it must become human. In one sense the deva seems higher — he has more pleasure. In another sense he is lower — for from the state of a deva the final transformation is not possible; he must return to man.

Only through man is revolution possible. In this sense India... The gods have more power than man, longer life, more instruments to fulfill desires, more pleasures — everything — but the means of self-transformation is not there. They will have to return.

Therefore India has considered man, in one sense, as the peak. Nowhere else is man given such dignity. In this sense: only in the human soul can the ultimate event of release happen; the vision of the Supreme and the ultimate freedom can happen only with man. Not with animals — for they too are in ignorance; not with gods — for they too are in ignorance. Animals are in suffering, devas are in pleasure — both are in ignorance. With man all three can happen.

India says: if man wants to fall, he can fall below the animals; if he wants to rise, he can go beyond the gods; if he wants to be freed, he can leap outside the whole circle.

Krishna says: he who worships the ancestors will reach the ancestors; whatever is worshipped — if you succeed — that you will become.

But My devotees reach Me alone; therefore there is no rebirth for My devotees. My devotees reach Me. He who worships Me, slowly, slowly becomes one with Me.

Only Paramatma is not a repetition; everything else repeats. Only Paramatma has no reiteration; all else repeats. That which is eternal alone does not repeat.

This is hard to understand; keep a few things in mind and it may become clear.

In the world everything is new because everything becomes old. Whatever is new today will be old tomorrow. What is old today — remember, it was new yesterday. Only Paramatma is neither new nor old; It simply is. It will never become old, because it was never new.

Only that which has been new can become old. That which was never new has no way to become old. Therefore we coined a different word: sanatana, eternal, beginningless, endless. We said: It ever is. Paramatma does not become old, does not become new — It simply is.

What is new will become old tomorrow. What is old will, being old, perish and be lost — and then there will be a chance for the new again.

In the world everything keeps repeating. Strange things happen. If you look into the history of fashion, you will be amazed — in ten or five years fashions return. The clothes that were dropped as old return after a few years. The style of hair that was abandoned as old returns after a few years.

Five or ten years are enough — old things are forgotten; they become new again. And man’s memory is so weak he cannot notice what he is doing; he cannot even conceive it — he picks the same things again, again. In the mind the game of new and old goes on; repetition continues.

Krishna says: he who attains Me does not attain rebirth, because he has become one with the Eternal.

There is another meaning. Rebirth occurs only to him who thinks, “I am born.” And one who thinks he is born must taste the pain of death. One who knows Paramatma knows: neither am I born, nor do I die. Birth and death are ordinary events, like bubbles in the wind. He is before birth and after death. There is no birth or death for him.

Someone asked Buddha on the day of his death, “Will you exist after death — or will you be utterly lost?” Buddha said, “If I existed before death, I will exist after it. If I was already lost before, what will remain after?”

The listener could not understand; he asked again in another way: “Leave that — it is difficult. I ask this: were you somewhere before birth — or did you come into being only after birth?”

Buddha said, “If I was somewhere before birth, I will be somewhere after it. And if I was nowhere after birth, I was nowhere before it either.”

But the man still could not understand. “Do not answer with riddles. Say straight.”

Buddha said, “That which you see was born with birth and will die with death. But that which I see was never born and will never die. That seeing is inner — only I can see it; you will not be able to see. You too can see it, if you become capable of seeing within.”

But our seeing is outward. What is seen outside is within the circle of birth and death. Inside someone is certainly hidden who neither is born nor dies. If he is recognized, there is no rebirth, no return.

Understand returning in a third way.

If children are studying in a class and every year after the exams they are sent back to the same class, what would it mean? Only one thing: they studied a lot, but did not learn; they read a lot, but did not understand; they worked hard, but there was no growth within. They were sent back.

Life sends us back to any state only when we pass through it without learning. From any state through which you pass without learning, you will have to return. Only from those states you will not return through which you pass having learned.

But we pass through everything without learning. How many times anger — what did we learn? How many times love — what did we learn? How many times drowned in lust — what did we learn? How many times jealousy — what did we learn? So much greed — what did we learn? So much was done — what is the essence in the hand?

If there is no essence, you will have to return. Life forgives no one; life will give you another chance. It will say, “Return to the same place.”

And we — returning again and again — become established. Slowly we feel that coming back to this class is our home. We return again. Learning perhaps becomes more and more difficult. We become habitual. And the habitual sometimes become leaders. I know.

I entered a class new; all the other students were of one age, but one student was much older. I asked the teacher — he said, “He has been in this class six years; now he has become the captain of the class.” And the boy stood there stiff with pride. Certainly — the final outcome of returning to the same class six years is that now he is the captain! He may not want to leave the class now; in the next class he will not be captain.

In this life too the many kinds of captains you see — in politics, in wealth, here and there — most of them are like this: hardened by repetition, mechanical and strong by sheer repetition, so that the new children entering life find, standing before them, some president, some prime minister, some something. If you say to them, “Freedom from birth and death,” they will say, “No. We want somehow to return to this same position again and again — that is our longing.”

Often those who seem successful in life have one deep reason: they have failed in life’s real goal. But it is hard to understand. That which appears to be success — behind it may be a deep failure regarding life.

By returning many times to the same place they have become very experienced in that one class. They have learned it by rote; become skillful, clever. Yet they have learned nothing in essence — for if they had, there would be no returning.

What we truly know we transcend. But the one who comes to know Paramatma — then there is no returning anywhere, for the final lesson of life is complete.

Paramatma means: the final conclusion of life, the essence of existence, the center of existence. The last lotus of existence has bloomed; existence has sung its ultimate song; the deepest potential of existence has manifested. There is no way to return.

Paramatma is the point of no return. From there you cannot fall back. Wherever you can fall back, know it is not Paramatma — it is still the world. Wherever you fall back, know that you tried to jump up, but that new state was not yet natural to you — you fell back into the old.

A man jumps into the air; for a moment he rises. Then the earth pulls him. He stands again on the ground. If you want to fly in the sky, you must devise a way to break the earth’s gravitation. An airplane devises a way; it goes beyond gravity, or even within gravity it remains in the sky.

We are all like airplanes whose pilot does not know we can lift from the ground. We are being used as public carriers, hauling goods on the earth. With an airplane we can take on the work of a handcart, a lorry, a truck. If the pilot does not know that it can fly, he will go on hauling on the ground.

Remember, a truck cannot fly; but an airplane can roll on the ground. In the higher, the lower is contained. But if you become habituated to the lower, the idea of the higher disappears.

The remembrance of Paramatma means only this much: You alone are my destination. Until I become You, there is no stop for me. You alone are the goal; until You are found, no halt is a destination for me. I will stop, I will rest only so that I can walk again in the morning. I will pause to restore strength to my legs — and when the strength returns, I will move again.

But we too walk much — our walking is such that we keep walking the same ground we have walked before. We cross the same place many times. Our life does not move; it shunts like goods wagons at a station. There is no final goal. In running and running, finally with the shunting we break and are finished.

Rebirth means shunting: you have not been able to set out on the journey. Returning to the same place means you have no sense of further movement.

Krishna says: he who worships Me does not return — for that worship is final.

Paramatma is the final conclusion — the ultimate. Beyond It is nothing — or, say it thus: beyond It our understanding cannot go. That beyond which we cannot even think; whose beyond and whose before we cannot imagine — that is Paramatma.

What is the meaning of worshipping this Paramatma — how to worship?

Three things I will say at the end.

First: do not let life become a repetition. With remembrance, avoid repetition. Do not go on repeating. Break the pattern anywhere. Step out of this mechanical process. With very small experiments one begins to step out — very small.

All our reactions are fixed. If I abuse you, it is predictable what you will do. Those who know you can tell exactly what you will do. A wife living twenty years with a husband knows well that if she says this, the husband will answer that. A man becomes predictable.

The husband knows well what the wife will ask when he reaches home. He prepares the answer on the way. He knows she will not accept that answer. The wife knows if I ask this, what answer will come. Knowing this, she asks; she gets the answer and does not accept it. But nowhere do we break our mechanical arrangement.

Break it somewhere. Make the effort to become unpredictable. Make the effort that no one can foretell your reaction. Let no one be able to say, “If we slap him, he will do this.”

The day you become unpredictable, the day a prior declaration of your reaction is impossible — that day for the first time you become human. Before that you are mechanical.

Nothing can be said about what Jesus will do if you slap his cheek. Nothing can be said about what Buddha will do if you throw a stone at him.

A man came and spat upon Buddha. That man could not imagine what Buddha would do. Buddha wiped the spittle with his robe and asked the man, “Have you anything more to say?”

The man said, “What are you saying? I have spat — I have said nothing.”

Buddha said, “I understand. Sometimes a man is so full of feeling he cannot express it in words, so he expresses it by some gesture. Perhaps you were so full of rage that abuse seemed too small — so you spoke by spitting. I understand. Now say, what more do you want to say?”

This is unpredictable. You cannot call such a man mechanical. He does not repeat.

But the other man fell into difficulty. All night he could not sleep. Had Buddha abused him or spat back at him, greater mercy would have been there — in a sense he could have slept, for the circle would have been completed, the event finished. Buddha wiped and asked, “Anything more?” The thing remained incomplete; the mind was restless all night. “What kind of man is this?” And it arose in him: “I spat on the wrong man. I did not do right — one should not spit on such a man.”

All night he stayed awake, disturbed. In the morning he ran back, fell at Buddha’s feet. His tears fell upon Buddha’s feet. Buddha lifted him up, wiped his feet with his robe, and asked, “Anything more to say? Today again you are in the same state: you want to say something but cannot, words are poor; you are saying it by tears. Speak — what do you want to say?”

The man said, “I have come to ask forgiveness.”

Buddha said, “Let it go. Yesterday is long since gone — of whom do you seek forgiveness? Where will you find the man upon whom you spat?”

The man said, “Are you not that man? What are you saying? Why do you put me in trouble! You are the one upon whom I spat.”

Buddha said, “But in twenty-four hours, do you know how much water flows in the Ganges? If you go to the same Ganges to ask forgiveness, into which you spat, it will say: I do not know. In which water did you spit? So much water has flowed in twenty-four hours. Let it go. Forget it. Why are you stuck there? By spitting you made one mistake; by remaining stuck you make a greater one — you spoiled the whole night. Drop it.”

But how could the man drop it? He came the next day again: “Forgive me.” He came the third day: “Forgive me.” He came the fourth day: “Forgive me.”

He is repeating — moving in a circle. And Buddha, delighted, says: “If I forgive him, he may spit again.” He is predictable; his pattern can be announced. He is restless only because an action is not being completed. The mind wants to complete things; once complete, it is at ease. When something remains incomplete, the mind is restless — like the tongue goes again and again to the place of a fallen tooth; it keeps touching the empty place. Try however much not to touch — still the tongue goes. The tongue is saying, “Something incomplete — fill it.”

Exactly so, the mind tries to complete. But a Buddha becomes not-to-be-announced — unpredictable. So much so...

In the morning someone asks Buddha, “Is there God?” Buddha says, “There is not.” At noon a second man asks, “Is there God?” Buddha says, “There is.” In the evening a third man asks, “Is there God?” Buddha says nothing, remains silent.

At night Ananda is disturbed — he was with Buddha all day. “You have troubled me. I cannot sleep. First explain: in the morning you said there is no God; at noon you said there is; in the evening you kept absolutely silent.”

Buddha said, “The answers not given to you — why did you take them? They were answers between the one who asked and me.”

Ananda said, “But I am not deaf — I heard them. Now I am thinking which is true.”

Buddha said, “Truth is in none of the three. Go to sleep.”

He said, “Now I will not sleep at all. What is the truth?”

Buddha said, “Only this is the truth: the man who came in the morning was an theist — like most theists. He had no experience, only belief. He did not come to know God; he came so that I would support his belief. He came to get his belief strengthened, not to know. He came so that he could say, ‘I believe — Buddha also believes.’ He came to line me up in his crowd. I had to say to him, ‘There is no God.’ His ego had to be broken. It had to be said that believing like this is useless. Did you see how he trembled, as roots of a tree tremble in a storm? His face became red like fire — you saw? His ego got a terrible blow. Now he will not be able to use my name to confirm his ego. Now I will haunt him like a restlessness. He does not know if God is or is not. Buddha said, ‘Is not.’ Now he will have to seek. From now he will not dare to say, ‘He is,’ with courage.

“The man at noon was an atheist. He came to take my testimony that there is not — so he could say to people, ‘Not only I, Buddha also says there is not.’ I had to tell him, ‘There is.’ He too had to be shaken.

“As long as false beliefs are not shaken, true trust cannot be born. Until hollow beliefs are uprooted, inner reliance does not arise.

“The man at evening was simple, innocent. He had no belief; neither that there is, nor that there is not. He was childlike. For him, any answer would not be appropriate; silence was appropriate. He understood my silence; he returned delighted. He understood that regarding God, silence is the way: be silent. Do not say ‘is’ or ‘is not.’ He understood my silence; he touched my feet. Ananda, you saw! When he touched, his eyes had become like a tranquil lake. And he will find the Lord soon.”

Ask such a man again — even the answer is not fixed. It will be spontaneous, not repetitive. He will say what arises from his whole being in that moment. He will do what is born from his whole life in that moment. He will not repeat. And if he appears to repeat, the mistake is ours.

Every morning we think the sun rises, the same sun. But those who watch the dawn know — not a single sunrise is repeated. Neither the same clouds, nor the same colors, nor the same morning, nor the same songs, nor the same sky. Each morning a new sun rises — meaning, everything is new.

Such a man is new each moment.

So, keep one thing in mind: break repetition. Second: whatever you desire, search deeply — in every desire you will find the hidden desire for Paramatma. In every desire find the way to seek Paramatma. Slowly the desires will drop and only the original desire for Paramatma will remain; the outer desires will fall, the inner desire will appear.

And the third: make only the ultimate your goal — no midway halt can be your destination. Do not set anything less than Paramatma as your aim. For whatever is your aim, your arrow of consciousness will be pinned there — and will become one with it. So do not make small goals.

Our lives remain small because of small goals. We remain petty because of petty aims.

If a man’s aim is only to accumulate money, the soul of such a man cannot be large. How could it be? His soul is his longing. Accumulating wealth is the sum-total of his run. At best his soul can be a safe of iron — what else? What will be the value of his soul? It will be smaller than money itself — only then can it be so attracted toward money.

A man wants to reach a great chair — one day he may. But his soul cannot be larger than a dead chair.

Make the ultimate your goal, for ultimately that is what you will become. Place your reverence upon that which is last, even if it looks impossible. For whoever chooses the possible becomes petty. Choose the impossible.

And nothing is more impossible than God — invisible, formless, nirakar. Choose Him. Move your upasana toward Him. One day you will find: He has been found, and you are lost. One day you will find: you are not — only He remains. One day you will find: you have become That.

Enough for today.

But wait five minutes. Let no one get up in between. Let the kirtan complete — then go.