Geeta Darshan #12

A most fundamental question about life is raised in this sutra. And the answer given is radically revolutionary. Its revolution does not appear to us, because we recite the Gita—we do not understand it. We read it, repeat it, but do not enter its depth. In fact, the more we repeat it and the more familiar we become with its words, the less necessary understanding seems to be. The words become clear, and we presume the meaning is clear too!
If only meaning were so easy and could be obtained from words, all the riddles of life would have been solved. But meaning is far deeper than words. Words touch only the outer crust of meaning. And words can be memorized. When the sound of the words keeps echoing in the ears again and again, the words begin to feel familiar. And we mistake familiarity for knowing!
In this sutra Krishna says that conduct is not important. Hearing such a statement from Krishna’s mouth will surprise you. Krishna says: conduct is not important; the inner being is important.
All religions, as we generally think from the outside, seem to emphasize conduct. They say, do this and do not do that! And if your conduct is virtuous, you will attain the Lord. The talk of virtue seems fine. Who would dare say that without virtue, the Divine can be attained? Who would say that even an immoral life can reach God?
We all assume morality is the foundation. But morality is not the foundation. The situation is exactly the opposite. There is no inevitability that through virtuous conduct one attains God. Yes, whoever attains God certainly becomes a man of virtue. That awakening to the Divine is primary and essential; conduct is secondary, derivative.
It must be so; for conduct is an outer event, and God-experience is inner. Conduct arises from the inner; the inner does not arise from conduct. Whatever I do comes out of me; but my being does not come out of my doing. My existence precedes my doing. My being is deeper than all my doings. All my doings are like leaves spread above me; they are not my roots, not my soul.
Therefore it can happen that what my acts say about me may not be the true testimony of my soul. Acts can deceive; acts can be delusion; acts can be hypocrisy. Within me there may be quite another soul of which my acts give no hint.
We know it well: I can behave exactly like a saint while being thoroughly un-saintly within. There is no great difficulty in this, for behavior is a matter of arrangement. However false I may be within, I can speak truth; there will be obstacles and difficulties, but with practice it will become possible. However violent I may be within, I can appear nonviolent. In fact, it often seems that whoever wants to be outwardly nonviolent must carry much violence within. For to force oneself to be nonviolent requires great violence; one has to suppress oneself; one has to seize one’s own throat!
It may be that my anger does not appear outwardly and yet within there is much anger. It is very possible that I am so angry a person that anger becomes a threat to my very life—that either I rage or I live. And if I want to live, I must suppress anger.
Hence it often happens that those who are mildly hot-tempered never suppress their anger; their anger is not that costly. Life can go on with that much anger. But one who is greatly wrathful has to suppress his anger; otherwise life becomes impossible. Living itself becomes difficult. The fire is so much it will burn everything. No relationship will remain possible.
So the deeply angry person must suppress anger. And suppression itself requires anger—for suppression is an act of anger, whether you suppress the other or suppress yourself. So it can happen. It happens. It is not difficult. It is very common that what appears in conduct is not present within. Through conduct we can deceive.
But the deception of conduct can be only upon the eyes of others; it cannot be done upon oneself. Morality concerns itself with not deceiving others; religion concerns itself with not deceiving oneself. Morality is to appear virtuous in the eyes of society; religion is to be virtuous before God.
To be moral is easy. The truth is: to be immoral brings so many difficulties that one is compelled to be moral. But to be religious is very difficult; because from not being religious no difficulty arises. In fact, the moment you become religious the difficulties begin, the obstacles begin.
To live religiously is an act of great daring. To live religiously means: now the law of my life will arise from within me; now no law of the world will be important for me; now I myself am my law. And whatever the consequence—be it suffering, even hell—I remain true to my own law.
To live religiously is supremely difficult. One has to bear the consequences. A Jesus is crucified, a Socrates must drink hemlock. This is almost inevitable. To live religiously is arduous.
Remember, to live immorally is also arduous; for the moment you become immoral you are in conflict with society—law, courts, police. The moment you are immoral you collide with the social order. It is very difficult to live immorally. To live religiously is also very difficult; because the moment you become religious you begin to live independently. Immorality brings trouble because you harm the interests of others. Religiosity brings trouble because you cease to conform to others. You begin to live as if you are alone upon the earth, as if nobody else exists. All your rules begin to arise from within. That too brings difficulty.
Remember, immorality is difficult; religiosity is difficult. Morality is convenient; morality is comfortable, part of respectability. In that respectable society surrounding us, to live morally is the most convenient. Hence the more cunning a person is, the more he lives morally.
Morality is often a part of cunning. Religion is the outcome of innocence, of guilelessness; morality is of cleverness, calculation; immorality is the outcome of foolishness, ignorance.
Understand: immorality is the result of un-intelligence, of ignorance; morality is of smartness, of calculation; religion is of innocent courage.
But society insists that without being moral one cannot be religious. Therefore, if you want to reach God, be moral!
Society’s insistence is understandable. Without that insistence society cannot survive. If society is to live, it must establish a whole structure of morality. It is a necessary evil. Until the whole earth becomes religious, some arrangement of morality will be necessary; because living immorally is nearly impossible. So morality must be organized.
Even if ten thieves form a gang, they too must create a code of morality among themselves. Even ten thieves! With society they are immoral, but within their gang they are hyper-moral. And the strange thing is, thieves are often more moral within their circle than saints are within theirs!
There is a reason. The thief understands well that since it is so hard to live immorally in society, if we are immoral inside as well, then our alternative society, our small brotherhood, will become impossible. We already live against the whole society—that is difficult enough. If the ten of us also behave immorally among ourselves—if at night we pick each other’s pockets; if we give our word and do not keep it—then life will be impossible.
Hence thieves have their own moral arrangements. They have their own moral code. And note, their code has always proved superior to that of saints. The reason: a saint lives morally with society; he need not create a separate moral micro-society. Therefore it is difficult to gather even two saints together. To gather a hundred or a hundred and fifty saints is to invite trouble! But assemble a hundred thieves, and a highly moral society appears among them.
The bad man has his own moral code; because he knows without it he cannot live. Outside he is already at war; if he also wars within his gang, life becomes unbearable.
Society must maintain moral order because man is so ignorant. But society also insists that until one is moral one cannot be religious. This statement is necessary for society, yet it is dangerous and untrue. The truth is the reverse: until one is religious, one’s morality will be imposed, enforced from the outside, temporary; it will not be inner, it will not be of the soul.
Only by being religious does true morality arise in a person’s life—the morality not enforced by fear, not practiced for temptation, reward, heaven; not out of fear of hell, not out of longing for paradise; not for prestige, not for respectability, not for convenience; but because now, inwardly, only in being moral is there joy, and in being immoral there is suffering. But such morality is born after religion.
So Krishna utters a sutra here that is worth understanding. He says: Even an extreme wrongdoer, if with single-hearted bhakti he is devoted to me and remembers me constantly, is to be regarded as a sadhu; because he is of true resolve.
Here Krishna says something astonishing about the definition of a sadhu. Ordinarily we understand a sadhu to be a man of good conduct. Sadhu means virtuous; asadhu means vicious. Here Krishna says, even an extreme wrongdoer, if he sinks into my devotion with ananya bhava, is a sadhu.
The whole definition of sadhu is overturned. Sadhu means virtuous conduct; here Krishna says, even an extreme wrongdoer is worthy to be called a sadhu! Then what will define a sadhu?
Krishna says: because he is of true resolve—a firm determination.
A true resolve—that is the definition of a sadhu here. And what is that true resolve? The true resolve is remembrance of the Lord. The true resolve is surrender to the Divine. The true resolve is his single-hearted bhakti.
Let us understand two or three things. First, to call one of true resolve a sadhu is a fresh thing. Perhaps while reading this sutra you never noticed it. For Krishna is saying that even an asadhu is a sadhu, if he is a man of true resolve. Asadhu means wrongdoer. To recognize even the asadhu as a sadhu if he is of true resolve, and his resolve has turned toward me.
Two points: what is the meaning of true resolve? It has two meanings. First, it must be total; no contrary current should exist in the mind—only then will it be true, otherwise it will waver. It must be taken with the whole mind; the whole life-energy must say yes. If all your prana have consented, that resolve becomes true. If your total life-energy has not consented, the resolve remains imaginary, not real. The mind will keep wavering; you will build and demolish yourself; with one hand you will lay the bricks of resolve, with the other you will pull them down. You will work both sides—on one side deciding, on the other side arranging to undo the decision. You will reach nowhere. True resolve means it is taken with the whole consciousness.
A Sufi fakir, Hasan, came to a village. It was past midnight; there was nowhere to stay—he was a stranger. The innkeeper said, bring a witness, then I will let you stay.
Midnight—where to find a witness? He knew nobody in that unfamiliar village. Distressed, he was going to sleep under a bush when a man passed by. Hasan asked him for a little help: please come and tell the innkeeper that you know me!
The man came close—seeing Hasan he recognized a fakir—and said: first let me introduce myself; I am a thief, and I am out at night on my work. Will the testimony of a thief help a saint? I do not know! The innkeeper may not believe me. My testimony may not have much value. But I will make a request: my house is empty. I will be out all night at my work; you may come and sleep there.
Hasan was a little concerned. He said: you are a thief, and yet you trust me enough to host me in your home?
The thief said: whatever worst can be done, I do it. What worse can you do? At most you will steal! That is my routine work. Come and stay at my house.
He found no space in the inn. The inn had been built by good people. A thief gave him space! And the thief said: what worse can happen now! And still Hasan was afraid: should I stay in a thief’s house or sleep under the bush?
Later Hasan said: that day I realized my saintliness was weaker than the thief’s. The saint in me was afraid to stay in the thief’s house; the thief was not afraid to host a stranger! The thief did not fear that this saint is my enemy, that he may change me! The saint feared: what if my saintliness gets destroyed by living with a thief!
Hasan later said: that day I saw that the resolve of my saint was weaker than the thief’s resolve. He was the more determined.
He went, stayed at the thief’s house. Before dawn the thief returned; Hasan opened the door. Hasan asked, did you get anything? The thief laughed, not tonight—but I will try again.
He was not sad, not anxious, not worried; he came and slept with ease! The next night he went again. Hasan stayed for a month in his house, and every day it happened that he returned empty-handed; Hasan would ask, did you get anything? He would say, not today—but I will try again!
Years later Hasan attained self-knowing. That thief was far away, without any trace. The day Hasan became enlightened, he offered his first gratitude to that thief, and said to God: my thanks to that thief! For from him I learned that a man goes out to steal an ordinary wealth and returns empty, yet he is not sad; he does not tire; his resolve does not break. He never says, this profession is useless, let me drop it; nothing comes of it!
And when I set out to seek God, to seek the supreme treasure, countless times it felt as if all this is useless; nothing is found. No God appears, no experience of the soul happens. Perhaps I have gotten into all this nonsense—let me quit. And whenever I felt like quitting, I remembered that thief—that to steal an ordinary thing his resolve is stronger than mine; and I have set out to steal the supreme treasure, yet my resolve is so shaky!
So the day realization dawned, he offered his first thanks to that thief, saying: my true guru is he. Hasan’s disciples asked: the reason for calling him your true guru? Hasan said: his firmness of resolve!
Firm resolve means that your whole life-energy is so assimilated that whether there is defeat or victory, success or failure, the decision does not change. Firm resolve means, even if there is failure, even if success is far, even if one must wander births upon births, the decision does not change. The search continues. Everything outside may be lost, but within, the intention to seek is not lost. It goes on. Everything turns against you, all becomes adverse; no companion, no friend, not even a ray of experience; dense darkness; no hope of breaking through—still within some life-energy keeps whispering: the goal is, and I will go; and I will go on. This utter vow is called firm resolve.
And Krishna says: firm resolve is the mark of a sadhu.
Let us set aside worry about good or bad conduct. If we go a little deeper, we will see why Krishna sets it aside.
Remember, what is the root cause of bad conduct? The desire for virtue arises in everyone, but if the resolve never becomes firm, bad conduct is born. Deep down, bad conduct is the lack of resolve.
It is hard to find a person who never wished to be free of anger, who never wished to stop lying. For lying hurts oneself deeply; anger burns oneself; slander dirties one’s own mind; and what we call injustice creates an inner ugliness, a leprosy. Who has not wished?
But wishing does not do; because the wish does not become a vow. We wish much, we wish much, and at the moment of action everything scatters. There is no inner resolve; the wish remains only a wish, it does not become decision.
So Krishna says: even if someone is a wrongdoer, it is not the issue; the real question is—does he have a firm resolve or not?
And it is a curious thing that bad men often have a kind of resolve that good men do not. The bad are stubborn in their badness. They pursue their wickedness with a doggedness no good man pursues his goodness with. The bad suffer in every way for their badness, yet they remain adamant; while the good may not suffer and yet keep wavering!
Is it not possible that what we call a good man is good only out of fear—he has no firm resolve? Is it not that he does not steal because he fears being caught? Is it not that he refrains from theft because who will suffer hell! Is it not that he refrains because of possible disgrace? Perhaps his non-stealing is but cowardice. Perhaps the man who becomes nonviolent says, we do not want to strike anyone; because deep down he knows: if you strike, be prepared to be struck. If someone sets out to beat and is not prepared to be beaten, how will he go? Perhaps all his ahimsa is only a defense of inner cowardice—neither will we hit, nor be hit. Perhaps it is even a device to save oneself from being beaten: beat me as much as you like, I am nonviolent, I will not answer.
The so‑called good man, nine times out of ten, is good out of weakness. That is why goodness is so weak in the world and evil so strong. You may punish the bad man twice, hang him, put him in jails—yet he persists. One must respect at least his strength; his evil is evil, but his strength is deep and, in itself, beautiful.
So Krishna says: if a man of firm resolve is a wrongdoer, still regard him as a sadhu. Because if he turns that resolve toward me, transformation will happen in a moment.
Hence it has often happened that a Valmiki—bad in every way: murderer, thief, robber, bandit—suddenly becomes a maharshi! How can so great a revolution come from so small an incident? If conduct has been evil for lifetimes, how can it become virtuous in a flash?
There is only one possibility: the firm resolve that stood behind his evil, if that now stands behind the good, revolution will happen in an instant. Even his evil was moving because of that resolve. Bad men are strong; they are crazy; whatever they do, they do it with total madness.
It is hard to find a sadhu as intense as a Hitler. Very hard. A Stalin as intense as a sadhu—rare. If a fixation possesses Stalin, he can have ten million people killed! If a notion possesses Hitler, he can set the whole world on fire; he can burn himself and burn the world. So much power for evil—that in the end yields nothing but suffering—is indeed a profound thing. One must say: such people have a kind of soul; a potential, a seed‑soul!
Hitler has a greater soul than the man who has become a saint out of fear. For fear rusts the soul. Hitler is bad, utterly bad, a devil—as devilish as one can be. But even this devil has a soul, a resolve. And the day that resolve turns, in that very moment this man will pass through revolution. In some life, somewhere, when the transformation of resolve happens in this Hitler, from his soul a great luminous being will be born in a single instant. For this current is not a thin stream, not a brook. It is an oceanic current. If it flowed toward evil, the whole world drifted with it toward evil. If it flows toward the good, an equally tremendous tempest will drive toward the good.
Krishna says: wrongdoing is not the real question; the real question is that inner capacity for resolve, that firm determination. One. And a second point: resolve alone is not enough; for with resolve you can do evil as well as good. Resolve is a neutral power. Therefore the second condition: with ananya bhava he becomes my devotee and remembers me incessantly—such a one is to be regarded as a sadhu. And he will quickly become righteous. Quickly he will become dharmatma.
What is the meaning of this consciousness of firm resolve? If we understand our consciousness, it is like drawing water from a well with a bucket full of holes. You lower it into the well and pull—water will surely fill, but it will not reach the top. While the bucket is immersed, it looks full to the brim; but the moment you draw it up, it begins to empty. There will be a great gurgling in the well as all the little streams pour down. Much noise, and nothing in hand. The hand returns with an empty bucket.
Such is our consciousness. So many holes in our resolve that many times we fill completely, and it seems all is now right. But only so long as it remains immersed in imagination. As long as it is immersed in fantasy, all seems to be fine. In the evening we decide, and it seems I have become a saint now, there is no more reason to falter. We sleep like a saint. And in the morning—the empty bucket! In the night there was much gurgling, many sounds of a full bucket rising.
Remember, when a bucket rises full there is no sound; when it rises empty there is much noise.
How much noise there is in our minds! Every day we decide, every day we fall apart. Slowly we come to know well that our decisions have no value. The day you realize your decisions have no value, your resolve has no potency—that day, understand, you have died. The body may continue a few days, that is another matter—you are dead, spiritually dead. Corpses can live; they do live. The day you discover you have no resolve, that day you died.
So we go on deceiving ourselves; we do not let even this be seen. We go on making fresh decisions. And even the smallest of decisions is never fulfilled. Try a very small resolve, and your holed bucket will drain it away!
Our consciousness is holed—full of punctures. The more the holes, the more difficult resolve becomes. Firm resolve means a bucket without holes. It means a consciousness that, once filled by its resolve, does not spill, does not scatter. What to do to make it so?
We know our consciousness is holed. What to do? How to close the holes? How to be free of them?
First thing: never make big resolves. From childhood we teach everyone to take big vows—and they fail. Take very small resolves. The real question is not big or small; the real question is success. Take very small resolves, but carry them to fulfillment. Do not make big ones. Because when failure happens, inferiority grows within. Every failure becomes a hole. Every failure becomes a hole. Every success plugs a hole. Take very small resolves—there is no need of big ones.
In Tibet, when a novice enters an ashram, they begin with very small resolves. They tell him: sit at the outer door, keep your eyes closed; until the master comes and tells you, do not open your eyes.
This is not a big resolve. You will say: I can keep my eyes closed. But sit with closed eyes for two or four hours and you will know! Many times the urge to cheat will arise. Many times you will want to open a tiny slit—has the master come or not? Who is passing? At least you will feel the urge to check the clock—what time is it? How long has it been? And the mind is so dishonest that you will not even know when you have done it.
A very tiny resolve—but the person sits with eyes closed. Six hours pass—he sits with eyes closed. No big work has been demanded. But if he has kept his eyes closed honestly, authentically, after six hours many holes in his bucket will have closed. It is a small experiment. Not a big experiment. Very small.
All religions have small practices. They are not for religion; they are for resolve. Understand: one religion says, fast today. Another says, today do not eat this. Another says, today do not wear that. Another says, do not sleep tonight. Another says, eat nothing in the day, eat at night. None of these has any direct relation to religion. They are related to resolve—to filling that holed bucket.
But as I said, the temptation to open the eyes will at least be visible, because you must open them to cheat. If you have fasted, the fast breaks the moment you begin to imagine food; the moment you start eating in fantasy, it breaks. After that, the fast has no value. No value at all.
And generally, what do fasting seekers do? As among the Jains, fasting has been used much. During Paryushan, when they fast, they go to the temple, listen to the monk, listen to the scripture, sit in the temple—food is not seen, nor discussed, nor remembered. Thus they defend themselves there.
This is deception. The value is not in eating or not eating; the value is in awakening resolve. So I say to you: the day you fast, pitch your camp in the kitchen; do not leave the kitchen that day. And all the dishes you like, have them cooked and placed around you—and sit in the middle, meditative. Look at each item intently; and maintain an inner vigilance that if the thought arises to eat—
And you will be amazed: in the temple, thoughts of food will arise; in the kitchen, they will not! Do not make any rigid rule that you will not eat under any circumstance. If the thought arises, then rather than thinking, eat. Because the thought goes deeper than the eating. Eating does not go so deep. Food goes into the body and passes; the thought goes into the resolve and makes a hole.
One must pass through the discipline of small resolves. Do not make big vows. Do not touch what you cannot fulfill; touch only what you can.
A friend of mine was tormented by cigarettes—a chain smoker. All day he smoked! A good man, visiting saints and monks. He swore countless oaths; all broke. Many times he decided—and could not last even an hour or two. Sometimes he pulled through for a day or two—but then it became such a burden that it would have been better to smoke. If one has to stop all work only to not smoke, life becomes impossible.
No sleep at night, no work in the day, irritability, ready to quarrel with everyone! I said: then the cigarettes were better. This twenty‑four‑hour quarrelsomeness! Boiling over at everyone—as if he has done some great work because he hasn’t smoked! Seeing everyone’s faults. Whenever he left cigarettes for a day or two, all the world seemed sinful to him! Naturally—he had done such a lofty feat, the idea arises.
Having tried every trick, he gave up. A deep humiliation fell on his mind that he could not accomplish even a small thing. He asked me: what shall I do? I said: do not ask me. Tell me the number of cigarettes you smoke.
He said: roughly thirty, at least, every day.
I said: swear that from tomorrow you will smoke sixty—but not one less.
He said: you are mad!
I said: every resolve of yours has always broken and caused greater harm. At least fulfill one resolve. Smoke sixty tomorrow. But if you smoke even one less, do not come to me again.
He said: what are you saying! But his heart became very happy. Outwardly he said: what are you saying!—but his eyes, his face, were delighted. What a man you are—you say smoke sixty!
But if you smoke one less than sixty, do not come back to me.
He began to smoke sixty. It was hard. Hard—because he had to force himself to smoke thirty extra. He did not want to smoke and had to. And whenever one has to do what one does not want, distaste grows; and when one wants and cannot, craving grows. The human mind is very strange.
After three or four days he came and asked: how long must I keep this vow? I said: that is in my hands—go on. When I say, then we will break it.
He said: this seems very difficult.
Continue! At least do one difficult thing in life. On the seventh day he began to fold his hands. He said: I feel like a madman; I don’t want to smoke and I am smoking! And you have spoiled my other thirty too—now all sixty seem worthless!
Keep smoking for another week or two. Let it become sheer hell; just as earlier you became irritable by leaving, now become irritable by smoking; quarrel and create a scene—then we will see.
In three weeks he was nearly crazy. After three weeks he came. I said: now no problem—drop it. Tell me now: how do you feel? Will you be able to quit?
He said: what are you saying! Anyhow I must be freed from it.
The cigarette dropped. A year later he met me and asked: what is the secret of this? I said: there is no secret. One resolve in your life was fulfilled. Your inner energy awakened. You felt: I too can fulfill something! Even if wrong, at least I can fulfill. You had never fulfilled anything in your life.
Remember: take only those resolves that you can fulfill; otherwise do not take them; not taking is better. One breaking leaves dangerous holes. And for the many holes in every child’s life we are responsible—teachers, parents, society. We try to make them do what they cannot. Their resolves break. Their soul becomes full of holes. Then firm resolve is very difficult.
Second: proceed in the direction of building firm resolve. Small resolves, fulfilled. Slowly you will find: you too can do something. No need to take on big feats—try very small things: for one minute I will keep this finger raised, I will not let it drop.
No difficulty in this. Yet you will find that in one minute the mind will say twenty‑five times: what are you doing? Lower it. What’s the point? Don’t let anyone see that you are holding your finger up! Don’t let anyone think you have gone mad!
People come to me for sannyas and say: may we not wear the ochre? May we not keep the mala outside? I tell them: keep it outside. The mala is not the point. But whom are you afraid of? Even this much—that you will go into the market wearing a mala and ochre—will strengthen your resolve.
These are small things, but they have value. Their value is for resolve, nothing else. Nothing else.
A young American woman was with me last month. I had written to her—she had come to me three times. For two years she had been coming and going, but the weakness of resolve troubled her. From so far she came; then she could not do what I said; then she fell into conflict and went back. This time she wrote; I wrote back: come with one thing settled—whatever I say, you will not be able to say no; you must say yes—to whatever I say! Unconditional. Otherwise do not come. Come only if you are ready to say yes to whatever I say.
Naturally she had to think: who knows what I will ask? She thought of the building she lived in: twenty‑six stories. What if I tell her to jump from the twenty‑sixth floor? What is her readiness? She decided: if he tells me to jump, I will jump. I will say yes. She thought—she is a woman—that what if I say: go, walk naked around Chowpatty once in the busy market? Will she? She decided: I will. She came having decided. The decision itself changed her. I did not need to make her jump or walk naked. The decision—that “Yes”—itself transformed.
Remember, nothing much is needed for change; one deep decision—and transformation happens.
Krishna says: one who has such a deep resolve and places it in my bhajan, in my remembrance—when this current of resolve begins to flow toward me—
Let me explain with another image.
We are like a river flowing in many directions. Therefore we do not reach the ocean; a desert comes everywhere. If even the Ganga were to flow in many directions, it would never reach the sea; it would end in deserts. It reaches the ocean because it flows in one direction.
Remember also: if your consciousness flows in many directions, your life will become a desert. Everything will dry up and paths will disappear. But if it can flow in one direction, one day it can reach the ocean.
One who remembers me with ananya bhava, who is my devotee with a single heart—
It only means this: whatever he may be doing, the current of his consciousness faces me. Whatever he may do.
Sometimes you see in a home: the mother is cooking in the kitchen—washing pots, sweeping the floor—but her consciousness flows toward her child. There may be noise, storms, winds outside, bands playing, clouds thundering, lightning cracking—but the child’s faint whimper she will hear. At night the mother sleeps—even psychologists are amazed—clouds may thunder in the sky and her sleep does not break; but if the child only stirs, her sleep breaks! What is the cause? Why?
Only one cause: a single current, a love with ananya bhava is flowing.
Recently a Dutch woman came to me, a sannyasini in an ashram. She has a small child. She said: since the child was born, I cannot meditate. However much I try, only the child… When I sit to meditate, thoughts of the child come—perhaps he has slipped out, perhaps fallen from the cradle, perhaps gone under the cow, perhaps something has happened! My meditation is ruined. For two years in the ashram, because of the child my meditation is ruined. What shall I do?
I said: drop meditation; meditate on the child. Why bring meditation in between? The child is enough.
What shall I do?
Do not meditate. When the child lies in the cradle, sit nearby and meditate with your eyes on the child. See God in the child. A good opportunity has arisen. Since your attention flows so easily to the child, begin to see God in the child.
In fifteen days she felt: what I could not attain by years of meditation, I am attaining by meditating on this child. And now the child no longer feels like an enemy; when meditation was being obstructed, the child felt like an enemy. Now the child feels truly divine; because the depth my attention is reaching on the child never happened by any technique.
Ananya bhava means: wherever your attention runs, install God there.
There are two ways. One, believe God is somewhere and pull your attention from everywhere to him. This is very hard; you will be defeated; the chance of victory is one in a thousand. Rarely one succeeds in gathering attention from all sides toward God. Difficult—perhaps impossible.
But something else is possible: wherever your attention goes, install God there. Even if your feet are moving toward a prostitute’s house and your attention runs to her—do not miss the opportunity; see the prostitute as God. Your very gait will change; the flavor of your consciousness will change; and one day you will find that you went to a prostitute’s house but returned from a temple!
This possibility of revolution lies in ananya bhava, in single‑hearted devotion.
So Krishna says: even if he be a wrongdoer, it does not matter. But let him begin to see me in his actions; let him experience me all around; let my presence deepen in him; let the arrow of remembrance sink deeper—and he quickly becomes dharmatma.
He does not say—virtuous. He says—dharmatma. That is higher than mere virtue. Dharmatma means one whose atma becomes dharma. Conduct then aligns by itself. Conduct is secondary; it follows like a shadow. Because within we are nothing, outside everything is in disorder. The day we become something within, the outer becomes ordered. Seat the inner master upon the throne, and all the outer servants fold their hands in service. The inner master lies unconscious, fallen from the throne, snoring. With the master in such a state, the outer servants are in chaos.
What we call unrighteousness is the absence of the master over the senses. The master is not present; he is unconscious. Then the senses do what they can. The senses are not at fault—do not blame them. There is none to see, to guide, to indicate. So they do as they can.
And all the senses are separate; there is no inner unity. How could there be? He who weaves unity is asleep. When the root principle that binds all is asleep, the ears hear one thing, the eyes see another, the hands search for something else, the feet walk elsewhere, the mind runs somewhere—the whole becomes a mess. The river splits into many channels. No one direction remains.
Such a person becomes dharmatma. His soul itself becomes dharma. Then conduct changes by itself. He attains peace that abides.
An immoral person does not attain peace. How could he? He hurts others; others hurt him. A merely moral person also does not attain peace; he suppresses evil—evil pushes from within—give me a chance. Inside there is turmoil.
The immoral suffers unrest between himself and others; the moral suffers unrest within himself. The immoral fears being caught outside; the moral fears that what is suppressed within may burst out. Both are unpeaceful.
Only he attains peace everlasting whose within becomes dharmatma. Dharmatma means whose soul is established in the Lord. Running toward the Lord, flowing, the river falls into the ocean. The day the river and the ocean meet, the place of their confluence—that is the birth of the dharmatma. The day the atma meets the Paramatma, that confluence is the birth of the dharmatma. Then there is no unrest—neither outside nor inside.
O Arjuna, know with certainty: my devotee is never lost.
There remains no cause for loss. Those who are restless are the ones who are lost. Those who are broken within are the ones who scatter. The one who has become one within, integrated—there is no cause for his loss.
Now let us take the previous sutra:
I am equally present in all beings. None is dear to me and none is disliked. Yet those who worship me with love—they become manifest in me and I in them.
I am equally present in all beings.
It is not as people often say—that on some person God’s grace is special. God’s grace is not less or more on anyone. Do not use that word carelessly. Someone says, by God’s grace… Does he mean that sometimes there is his dis‑grace? Someone says, there is no grace upon me yet. Does that mean there is his non‑grace?
No—his non‑grace never is. Therefore grace is not a question. He is present equally in all. Even this is a limitation of language; otherwise: in all there is only he; or: all is he. Not even a speck of difference. In Krishna or in Arjuna, in me or in you, in you or your neighbor, in you or a tree, in you or a stone—no difference at all.
Yet a difference appears! There is a Buddha. How shall we accept that he is not more manifest? How accept that in Buddha he is not more and in us he is as much? It is difficult. It looks obvious—one could measure and say: in Buddha he is more, in Krishna he is more. Hence we say: Krishna is an avatar, Buddha is an avatar, Mahavira a tirthankara, Jesus the son of God, Mohammed a prophet—we separate them from ordinary men. In them he appears more.
But Krishna says: I am equally present. Then where does the difference come? None is dear to me and none is disliked.
When love is complete, none remains disliked, none remains specially dear. As long as I say someone is dear to me, it also means someone is not dear. And it also means one who is dear today may be not dear tomorrow; for one not dear today may be dear tomorrow. When love is complete, no one is dear and no one is not dear—neither today nor tomorrow. All distinctions fall. God is complete love; therefore none is his favorite and none is his rejected.
Yet those who worship me with love—they become manifest in me and I in them.
Here lies the difference. Here Buddha appears different, Mahavira something else, and we something else.
Those who worship me with love—I become manifest in them; those who do not, in them I remain unmanifest.
There is no difference in all‑pervasiveness; the difference is in manifestation.
A seed—the gardener sows it; it sprouts. Another seed we keep locked in our safe. In both seeds life is equally pervasive, the possibility is complete. But one has been sown, the other is locked away. The one that is sown will sprout; flowers will bloom. If tomorrow we take out the seed from the safe and go to the tree and say: the two of you are the same, our safe‑seed will refuse to accept.
It will say: how the same? Here is the tree on which thousands of birds sing; a tree whose fragrance spreads far; a tree with which the sunbeams play. Where is the tree—and where am I, a stone‑like seed! I have nothing; I am poor; I have no soul—no flower, no fragrance. Why mock me by calling me one with this tree? Why this sarcasm?
But we know: in both the tree is equally pervasive. In one it became manifest—because it found soil; it was placed in the ground; it met water; it was free for the sun; it rose; it dared; it gathered courage; it made a resolve; it spread toward the sky; it went into the unknown—on a journey into the uncharted—and became a tree.
Krishna says: those who worship me with love—
This worship with love is the sowing of the seed in the soil. To worship with love means: the person who remembers the Lord day and night begins to collect around his seed of consciousness the very earth of God—on all sides. Rising, sitting, eating—he keeps remembering God. Slowly, around the seed of his consciousness, the soil of the Lord gathers. In that very soil the seed sprouts.
Surely, one must bury the seed in soil. The seed is manifest, the soil too is manifest. This seed of consciousness is unmanifest; its soil will be unmanifest as well. That soil must be created. One must gather the earth around—this is bhakti.
And then they become manifest in me and I in them.
This manifestation is double. When a tree opens into the sky, a double happening takes place. The tree becomes manifest in the sky—and the sky becomes manifest in the tree. The tree becomes manifest to the sun—and the sun becomes manifest through the tree. The tree becomes manifest to the winds—and the winds breathe through the tree and become manifest. Not only does the tree manifest; with the tree, the whole world manifests through it.
So when a devotee becomes a seed sown and prepares around himself the soil of remembrance, a double event happens: the devotee becomes manifest in God and God becomes manifest in the devotee. They both become manifest. They come face to face—an encounter.
We have always imagined darshan of God to be like standing face to face: he with peacock‑crown, we with folded hands at his knees.
It will not happen so. That is poetry—sweet and beloved, but poetry. In truth, the manifestation will not be like two persons facing each other; rather, like two mirrors set face to face.
Do you know what happens when two mirrors are placed opposite each other? One mirror appears in the other; the second appears in the first. Then there are endless mirrors, one within another within another. That infinity of mirrors—ever receding—each reflecting the other, and that reflected again—endless.
What happens with two mirrors—that happens when our consciousness faces God’s consciousness. We become endless. And he is endless already. We become infinite; he is infinite already. We become beginningless; he is beginningless already. We become deathless; he is deathless already. And both peer into each other. And this peering is infinite. It has no end. It never concludes.
Remember: when union with God happens, there is no more separation. That union is infinite. The night of that nuptial has no end. There is no return from there. No coming back.
But this does not mean that God loves someone and grants him vision, and does not love another and keeps tricking him—no!
It is not a matter of God’s love; it is a matter of your effort. Not his grace, but your resolve.
His grace rains every moment; but you sit with your pot upside down. You cry that there is no grace. The pot nearby is being filled—its mouth is turned upward. Yours is upside down. And if someone tries to turn your pot upright, you are very annoyed. You say: this is my way; my belief; my viewpoint; my religion; my scripture says so!
You offer a thousand arguments to keep your pot inverted. And whenever anyone tries forcibly to set your pot upright, it hurts; there is pain and disturbance—it is not pleasant. The pot has been upside down since forever; it feels as if that is its right posture. Then when the nearby pot fills, we cry: God seems more gracious to him and not to me.
God’s rain is continuous; whoever turns his pot upright is filled. There is no other hindrance. None but you is your enemy. None but you ever created an obstacle.
If you are not meeting God, it is your own doing. If you do meet, it is your grace upon yourself. God’s grace has nothing to do with it. His love is equal. His being is equally within us. His potential, his seed‑potential is the same in us all. Yet we are free. We may let the seed become a tree; or we may keep it locked away.
We are all seeds locked in strongboxes. And each has put strong locks upon his own box lest anyone open it! Lest the seed get out! There is no other obstacle.
Two or three questions people ask me every day. Let me say a word or two about them. There are some questions that have no real bearing with anything. If they are not answered, people feel hurt. For when a person’s question is not answered, his ego is hurt. He does not even care what his question was.