Geeta Darshan #4

In this sutra many things are said—important for reflection, important for practice; deep, and lofty.

First, if the Divine creates the world, how does He create? As a potter throws a pot upon his wheel? Or like a sculptor chisels stone and brings forth an image? Or like a poet arranges words and composes a song? By which method does the Divine create?

Here a very profound point is given. And for those who understand even a little science, it will be easy. Science accepts that there is a kind of creation in which the doer does nothing—his mere presence brings about the happening. Science calls it a catalytic agent. Without it, the event does not take place; through its presence alone the event happens; it itself does nothing.

For example, mix hydrogen and oxygen—water will not arise. Yet when you break water down, nothing is found except hydrogen and oxygen. If we decompose water, we get hydrogen and oxygen; but merely putting hydrogen and oxygen together does not produce water. Strange! Since nothing else is found in water, naturally hydrogen and oxygen joining should make water.

But something is missing—a missing link. Hydrogen and oxygen do not combine unless electricity is present. If electricity is present, oxygen and hydrogen join and water is formed.

And the delightful thing is: electricity does nothing except be present; it does not enter into the water. If it did, when we decomposed water electricity should be found as well. But when we split water, only hydrogen and oxygen appear. Without electricity present, the event does not happen. When electricity is present, it doesn’t enter in, yet its presence suffices and the event occurs. Just presence. Presence enters; electricity itself does not.

Understand this a little. And presence cannot be extracted by breaking the product. When we decompose water, the electricity that was present at the moment of its making cannot be drawn out of the water.

Krishna is saying: by the presence of the Divine, the world is formed. He is saying: I am a catalytic agent. I do not make; my very being sets creation in motion.

This is very deep. And it must be so. Because if the Divine had to construct the world as a potter builds a pot, then His status would be no greater than the potter’s. If He too must engage in work, it implies that what He works upon is not wholly His. Complete mastery means that not even a gesture is needed—merely presence is enough.

If a father returns home and must signal with his eyes to his son, “Touch my feet; I am your father, pay me respect,” then he is no father—the father’s mere presence should become reverence. He is present—reverence should happen.

If a teacher enters his class and must pound his stick upon the table to quiet the students, then he is no teacher. His entering the room should be silence. His presence should suffice.

Teachers come and say to me: “There is no respect left for gurus.” I tell them: whenever there is a guru, respect is inevitable. It must be that the gurus are no more. If you say there is no respect left for gurus, I suspect it is because gurus are no more. For guru means: in whose presence reverence arises—he need not produce it, arrange it. By definition, a guru’s presence gives birth to honor. If even a guru must generate respect, he is no guru; he is something else. What must be produced is always artificial.

Krishna says: in my presence the chain of creation begins. I do not make it; it is not my action. My mere presence—no sooner am I there, than life starts moving.

In the morning, the sun appears—flowers open. The sun does not go to each bud and pry it open. Merely his presence. Birds begin to sing. The sun does not seize each bird by the neck and make it sing. Only his presence. Sleep breaks, eyes open, wakefulness spreads. The sun does not knock on anyone’s door: “Get up!” Just his presence.

But there is a still subtler point than this—catalytic agent. Sunrays do come—though they do not knock at the door, at some subtle plane they do. Though the sun does not take each bud in his hands, his rays touch and caress them. He does not press the birds’ throats to force a song, yet his rays give a deep contact and the song bursts. He does not shake you by the shoulders and say: “Wake up!” Yet at a deep chemical level his rays increase the oxygen content of the air; and the increase of oxygen gives you an inner jolt—and you must get up.

A catalytic agent is subtler still. It does not even do that much. It is only present. And the presence works; mere presence does the work; no chemical entry occurs. Therefore when we later break down what has been formed, we can never find the one in whose presence it happened.

Hence, however much we search the world, we do not find the Divine. Science is right to say: we search and search, but God is not found. And until He is found, how can science accept Him? Science is right, because we find everything else—God is not found anywhere. And if this is His creation, then somewhere in His creation He should be found.

But if Krishna’s sutra is remembered, science will not be impatient. Because science fully knows that catalytic agents exist and that their presence enables events. And once the event has happened, the catalyst cannot be detected by breaking down the product.

Thus, not as a creator laboring, not as a maker working, but as sheer presence functioning—as a catalytic agent—I bring this world into being.

If this is understood, then science will experience the Divine only on the day science becomes present in the process of creation; He can never be found by analyzing the created.

Remember this; we must go a little deeper. Srishti means: that which has already become. From what has already become He can never be found, because it has arisen through His presence. No imprint of His hand remains upon it. There are no signatures. However much we put detectives on the job, nowhere do we find His trace. A flower blossoms—no trace. Mountains rise and fall—no trace. Moons and stars are born and disappear—no trace. That which is already made will not bear His mark.

Therefore science seems powerless. It passes so close—and still there is no glimpse of the Divine. And until there is clear evidence, science is bound by its own discipline not to accept.

Who gains a glimpse of the Divine? One who does not go to search within the created, but becomes present in the process of creation itself.

Hence it is a wondrous thing: sometimes a poet receives a glimpse—the scientist does not. Sometimes even a sculptor receives a glimpse. Sometimes a dancer too. A meditator has always received it. All these are present in the process of creation.

Understand it so. Whenever a song was to be born in Rabindranath, food and drink would stop—simply stop. He could not eat or drink. He would lock his doors; meetings would cease—simply cease. The lips would close—speech became impossible. He would lock the doors and remain hungry... He could not sleep. Whenever a song was to be born within him, until it was fully born he could do nothing else. It was forbidden—when Rabindranath was writing behind a closed door, no one should come near.

Sometimes it would happen—for the moments of creation cannot be predicted—he would be sitting, friends or disciples nearby, and suddenly his eyes would close and the birth of a song would begin. Those around knew to withdraw silently. Not the least interruption—not even to say, “I will go now,” for even that would obstruct the inner process.

Gurdayal Malik has written: I was newly arrived. I knew the rule, but had a desire—when a song is truly born, let me hide and watch what happens to Rabindranath.

Five or seven friends were sitting gossiping; Rabindranath was making tea with his own hands and serving them. Suddenly the cup slipped from his hand. Everyone quietly got up and left with half-finished tea. They signaled to Malik as well. He did not want to leave, but when the others insisted he too had to go.

They left. Malik hid outside, crouching by the wall. Tears began to flow from Rabindranath’s eyes; a thrill and a shiver passed through his body. As if every hair was filled with an unknown energy; as if subtle vibrations were entering every pore. Malik too felt that some uncanny power had surrounded the room. A presence!

Sometimes you too feel fear—“Someone is here but unseen.” So Malik grew frightened. A double fear: first, “I am committing an offense; I should not remain.” Second, all around, someone had become present—the space was no longer empty.

A minute or two—then Malik’s feet became rooted. He wished to flee, to move away, but he could not; as if some pull had bound him to the ground. He wanted to blink, but the eyes would not blink. Breath seemed to pause. Some vastness descended all around. The whole space filled with Someone’s presence. Rabindranath swayed like a tree swaying in the wind; Rabindranath danced like a peacock in the monsoon; something was happening within him, as when a child is born from a mother’s womb.

Night deepened; Rabindranath remained in that state. Then he returned, became normal. As soon as he returned, Malik’s feet as if came free from the ground—he fled. The next day he went to Rabindranath and said: Forgive my offense. I remained standing, hiding, in the night. It felt as if you were effaced; Someone else had become present.

Rabindranath said: Till today I have never written anything myself. Only when I am effaced, Someone writes through me. Only when I am not, Someone sings through me. However much I try to arrange lovely words, rhymes can be made—but poetry is not born. Poetry is born only when I vanish, root and branch.

If, in that very moment of the birth of a poem, Rabindranath were to experience God—why not? For whenever anything in the world is created, it should be said: in the moment of creation—not when it has been created; not once it has been produced; when it is creating, in the very process—then sometimes a glimpse is had. Because without His presence, nothing can be born. Without His presence, without that catalytic presence, not even a poem is born.

Sometimes creators sense Him—this is the reason. And the poet who has never known this innermost experience of creation is a mere rhymer, not a poet. He has learned to join words. His poetry is construction, not creation; composition, not creation. He has arranged and fixed; he knows the language, he knows the play of language, he knows the rules; he seats the words snugly. But he has never seen the birth of poetry.

Therefore in our land we have always kept two categories of poets. One category: those who construct and amass words—we call them poets. The others are also poets, but within them poetry is born—we call them rishis. Rishi means poet; only with a slight difference. Rishi is he who vanished—and in whose within something was seen at the very moment of birth.

Sometimes, in a moment of creation, His glimpse may come—because in every creation He is present. Have you ever noticed—when a woman becomes pregnant for the first time, something beyond the body begins to descend into her beauty? In truth, without motherhood a woman never attains to the full blossoming of her beauty. When within her a birth is taking place, a creation is occurring, then the aura of the Divine—His image and presence—inevitably surrounds her.

If women come to know this truth—that when something is being formed within them they are closest to the Divine—if those moments become suffused with awareness, then no separate sadhana is needed for a woman. Her motherhood itself can be her sadhana.

In this respect man is deprived; woman is endowed with great dignity. For nothing is formed within the man; creation does not take place within him. In the woman, creation happens; a process of creation passes through her. And not a small creation: when a flower blooms on a plant, the whole plant becomes beautiful—why? Because a flower was created. But when the supreme flower—man—is being formed within a woman, naturally her entire being fills with a unique beauty. In that moment the Divine is very near.

Therefore motherhood is a deep religiosity. The day woman ceases to wish to be a mother, that day it will be almost impossible for woman to be religious.

I said: it is easy for woman because the process of creation happens within her. As once in the womb of this vast cosmos all the moons and stars were born, so in a very small way, within a woman, life is formed again and again; born again and again.

This is her glory—and her dilemma. For the very reason that such a great event of creation occurs within her, she often does not create anything outward. Woman has not produced great poems; she has not made great sculptures; in her name there is hardly any great art; she has not founded a religion. Has woman done any such unique work of creation? She has not. The sole reason is that such an immense creative event takes place within that she has little impulse left to create without. This is a misfortune too. If, in this inner event of creation, God is not experienced—and the capacity for outer creation is thus squandered—then it becomes a misfortune.

Man has created much. Psychologists say: man feels an inner lack; he compensates by creating outwardly. So when a Michelangelo paints a picture, when a Mozart gives birth to the movement of a melody, when a Tansen gives birth to a raga, when a Mahavira brings forth a new dimension of life, when a Buddha opens a new door—the realization and fulfillment they feel is the fulfillment of creation.

Remember: wherever the capacity to create exists, the experience of the Divine is easy. Therefore non-creative people never experience God.

Yet it is astonishing: many who go in search of God become utterly non-creative. In our land it is common: a person going toward God has no connection left with creation.

Remember: creation is the nearest doorway to His glimpse. If a sadhu abandons creation and begins to live like a corpse, the experience of God will not be possible—indeed, it will be difficult. For in the moment of creation His presence is inevitable. Without His presence, nothing is created. He is the catalytic agent. Wherever anything is born, He is always present. Without Him nothing can be born. And wherever there is destruction, He is farthest.

Remember: the more creative the moment, the nearer He is; the more destructive the moment, the farther.

Therefore Mahavira called himsa irreligion—violence. The reason: whenever we destroy, we are at the point most distant from the Divine. If we understand it so, a new meaning of ahimsa arises. Understand it thus: himsa means destruction; ahimsa means creation.

But the accounts of the uncomprehending are hard to keep. They have taken ahimsa to mean: do not commit violence—sit repressing yourself. Their ahimsa is not creative; it is dead and lifeless. If violence is destruction, then ahimsa should be creation—only then is it its opposite.

If I tiptoe so as not to crush ants; if I do not pluck flowers because that would be violence; if I do not harm anyone lest it be violence; if I stop all movement because violence might occur; if I tie a band over my mouth lest any tiny life die in my breath; if I filter water lest there be violence; if I stop eating at night—fine; but this is utterly non-creative.

It is not enough that ants do not die—insufficient. It is necessary that through me life be born. It is not enough that none dies because of me; it is necessary that through me life gains momentum, expands and spreads. It is not enough that I do not pluck flowers; it is necessary that I plant them, that through me they bloom.

Until ahimsa becomes creative, it is impotent. And the ahimsa of this land has become impotent—because its meaning has become only: do not do this, do not do that. “Don’t” has become its sole tone. Thus, yes—do not destroy—but what to do has no voice.

The deepest glimpse of the Divine is in the moment of creation, because without Him creation cannot be.

So Krishna says: I am present; my presence suffices. Arjuna, through my mere presence, Prakriti creates the entire world. And for this very reason the world keeps being formed and dissolved. I do nothing. I need do nothing. I need not move. I need no desire. I need no intention. My being is creation.

If we say it thus, it becomes easier: We have always said, “God is the Creator.” Better to say, “God is Creativity.” God is the process of creation; God is creativeness. Less a person, more a process. Less a person, more a flow. For a person comes to a halt; a flow is ever in movement. A person has limits; a flow has none.

Thus the Divine is a flow of creation. Wherever His presence is, there creation appears in infinite forms. The play of life is the joy of His presence. No sooner is He present than life fills with celebration. With His presence—color and song; with His presence—flowers open and songs are born.

Wherever something is being born, sit silently—God is near. When a bud is becoming a flower, do not run off to a temple!

But it is a world of the insane. When a flower is being born, they will not stand there; rather they will pluck the bud and run toward the temple—to offer it to God!

Better to sit right there where the bud is becoming a flower. There the Divine was more possible than in the temple to which you carried the torn flower. Unknown to you...

Wherever anything is being born—the morning sun is rising, or the last star of night is sinking; dawn is arriving; dusk’s first star is arising—pause there. The sacred temple is very near; it is there. Abide there. Be still, become one with that creation—and His presence will begin to be felt.

This is why our century seems far from God: we are so surrounded by man-made things that there is no question of creation. In man-made things there is no growth. You build a house—it does not grow. You buy a car—it does not grow. In any man-made thing there is no growth, no development, no birth. All man-made things are dead; there is no current of life in them.

Huge buildings of cement and concrete touch the sky. Stand by them as long as you like—you will not sense the Divine, because nothing is being born there. Cement and concrete—solidified death; there is hardly a better image of deadness than this!

The more one is surrounded by man-made things, the more difficult it becomes to stand at the moment of birth, the less one remains near creation.

Recently in London a survey was done: a million children said they had never seen a field; half a million had never seen a cow.

If such children, when grown, ask, “Where is God?”—is there any difficulty in understanding? They have never seen a cow, never seen a field; if tomorrow they ask, “Where is God?”—is their question blameworthy? It is natural. For they have never seen life growing anywhere. They have seen the world of things, not the world of creation.

Then naturally, if they write poetry, locomotives will appear—not the stars of the sky. Their poems will carry factory chimneys—not blossoming flowers. If they paint—as the painting of the last fifty years testifies—then they will paste newspaper clippings into their canvases and call it collage! The distortions of man will stand out.

Look at Picasso’s paintings—they are the entire saga of our mind. But there you will not see flowers blooming, you will not see anything growing, you will not see any birth. Naturally—because we live surrounded by an unnatural world of objects, where nothing is born; everything is assembled. Where nothing is born; everything is just put together.

If man wishes to seek the Divine, he can only seek Him near creation.

Even so, those who do not know My supreme nature as the great Lord look upon Me—the Paramatma in human form—as insignificant.

“Mudha” is a technical term. It does not mean “fool”—understand this first. Mudha is a more dangerous state than fool. A fool means one who does not know; a mudha is one who does not know—and thinks he knows.

Understand this distinction well.

A fool is one who does not know. He can be forgiven. He simply does not know—ignorant. But this ignorance is only absence; he is not to be blamed. He does not know.

A small child—he can only be a fool, never a mudha. To be a mudha you need more years. A child can only be a fool, never a mudha—that privilege is reserved for the old. The older you are, the more you can become a mudha. For he knows nothing at all, yet through a lifetime of experiences, it seems to him that he knows.

Those who deny God are not merely ignorant; they are such as imagine themselves to be wise. They see themselves as knowledgeable—these can be mudhas. Mudhata means: ignorance plus ego. “I know”—and within, nothing is known; but how can my ego admit that I do not know!

Look within yourself and you will see: foolishness is not the great disease; mudhata is. How many questions do you answer without knowing!

If a little child asks his father, “Is there God?”—the father knows nothing at all; yet he will say either “Yes” or “No.” Whatever the answer, one answer he never gives: “I do not know.” That is mudhata.

But how can a father, before a child, admit “I do not know”? But how long will the child remain small? Soon he will know that his father spoke lies.

Therefore if sons, on coming of age, cease to respect their fathers, the reason is the dishonesty fathers practiced with them in childhood. At that time the father enjoyed the pleasure of being the knower. Later, the grown child discovers: this father is as ignorant as I! He knows nothing. He imposed false prestige and false ego upon me. Respect is lost.

Only that father can retain his son’s respect who is honest—who does not practice mudhata. Where is the need? What I do not know, I can say I do not know. What I know, I can say I know. The one who wavers here is a mudha.

Krishna says: even so—though the Divine’s very presence is the creativeness of life, though through Him all life moves and is fulfilled, though He is life’s source, its soul—still the mudhas, seeing all this, experiencing life all around, do not leave their mudhata.

Whenever anyone makes pronouncements about God without knowing, he commits a crime against himself and others. On petty matters we speak more truthfully; the greater the matter, the more false our statements become. Those who know nothing keep explaining to those who come to ask.

A lady used to come to me—very ambitious. When men are ambitious, the disturbance is not so unnatural; when a woman is ambitious, the disturbance is great. Woman is not by nature ambitious; when she is, no man can match her—she becomes like a mad person; it is difficult to stand before her.

This lady came—ambitious to become a guru. She would ask me only one thing again and again. Not, “What should I do?”—rather, “What should I make others do?” Not, “How may I find peace?”—rather, “Others are restless; how shall I give them peace?” Not that she needed to understand anything—she asked only, “How to explain to others?”

On the surface it seems service-minded. I told her: first understand; explaining to others is not important. If you understand, your very presence will explain to others. First become silent. When you are silent, whoever comes near will be drawn by that silence; that silence will become the message. But she had no taste for that—no taste for herself.

This too is a basic mark of the mudha: he has no interest in his own development, his own creation, his own transformation; his eagerness is about others. He enjoys manipulating and controlling others.

It is astonishing how we oppress others—even by “good” means. Bad people oppress in bad ways; good people oppress in good ways. You can escape from the bad; from the good it is difficult—for he presses your neck with such love that you cannot even say your neck is being crushed! Hence “good” people often prove worse than bad.

That lady had only one interest: to bring revolution to the world, to reform it. Every day someone comes to me infected with the idea of fixing the world. The thought of fixing oneself frees you from mudhata; the thought of fixing others traps you deeper in it.

I explained—beyond her understanding. She asked me, “Has my kundalini awakened? Just say it.”

I said, “If it awakens, you will know—no need to ask me. The very fact that you ask means it has not.”

The day I said this, she stopped coming. Now I hear she is awakening others’ kundalini—and not only awakening, others’ kundalini has started to awaken! Mudhata has no end!

Krishna says: such mudhas—though I am present all around—cannot experience Me. They say, “Come before us, then we will recognize!”

Atheists have always said this; it is worth understanding. They say: “If God is, let Him appear!”

He is before you everywhere. He alone is; there is no other. But the atheist says, “Let Him come before us, then we will accept.” And the delightful point is: Krishna says when someone like Me stands before them, these very mudhas despise Me—the Paramatma who has taken a human body—as trivial. If I do not appear, they say, “Appear, if You are.” If I appear, they say, “You? You are only a man! How can you be God?”

One thing is certain: whether God is present invisibly everywhere, or stands visibly before you—if your vision is mudha, He cannot be seen. So the question is not whether He stands before you; the question is whether mudhata is within you.

Think yourself—you too have felt: if God stood before me, I would believe. But reflect: if He stood before you—would you?

Very difficult. Reasons for the difficulty are many—many rungs of mudhata.

First: it is nearly impossible to see one who is higher than oneself. Why? Because the eye cannot rise beyond the level to which our consciousness has grown. We can see only as far as we are.

Understand it so: you are walking; nearby passes a column of ants. You know the ants cannot know you are there. Yes, they can know in one way—if your foot falls and they die; they will conclude some calamity. But that a man is passing by, an ant cannot know. To see a man, at least the consciousness of a man is needed.

We can experience only on the same plane. What is higher than us remains invisible. You can see the ant; the ant cannot see you. From a height looking down is easy—you have already passed that way. From below, looking up is almost impossible.

You sit reading the Gita; your dog sits by you wagging his tail. Can we imagine he knows what Gita it is you hold in your hand? You may even read aloud; the dog will continue to swat flies. Your loud recitation will not enter his consciousness. If you leave the Gita behind, he may see it—but not as Gita. He may play with it, tear it, clamp it in his mouth and run out. He can do many things with the Gita, but he cannot know it as Gita. There is no way; his consciousness is closed.

Consciousness sees only as far as it has developed. So even if the Divine stood before us, we could not understand—not see. Our condition before Him is like that of an ant before us. How will our eyes grasp His Divine form? Where our consciousness has not grown, how could we see? We see only what we are.

Therefore even if Krishna stands before us, we will see a man—rightly so. We are not wrong—so far as seeing a man is concerned, we are right. Our error begins beyond that: beyond the man we see nothing. Seeing the man is fine—Krishna is a man. But then we add: “Only a man is seen; nowhere is God seen.” And when a man is before us, our ego is hurt—how can we accept that one standing of flesh and bone is God? Our ego suffers.

Remember this first sutra of our mudhata: we are unwilling even to peek beyond what we see. It will not be seen—but at least be willing to peek beyond! We do not even show the willingness—rather we display unwillingness. That is our mudhata.

We say: “Where? God is not visible.” We will place a thousand tests; by all of them we will prove: this man is not God, only a man. And having proved it, we feel very satisfied. That is our mudhata.

The joke is: by proving this we gain nothing. Even if it is true that he is only a man—by proving it, what do we gain? Mudhata.

Consider the alternative. Perhaps he is not God. But do not set out to prove he is not. Rather, since he says he is, let us seek—creatively—to break our mudhata. Let us try: “This man says the Divine is manifest—let us see, go, move a little; raise our consciousness a little; leave our place a little; change perspective a little. Perhaps he is right.”

Even if he is not, the search will enlarge your consciousness. If he is, that is another matter. Even if he is not, you will rise through the search.

Mudhata urges us to prove “not so”—and by proving “not so,” we only block our own growth, close a door. The important question is not whether he is or is not; the important thing is to try to see.

People came to Buddha and said, “We see nothing extraordinary.” People came to Mahavira and said, “We cannot accept you as a Tirthankara.”

Not accepting does not harm Mahavira. He is not seeking votes. He will not fold his hands and say, “Accept that I am a Tirthankara, otherwise I am ruined!” Your opinion is not his foundation. Neither will Buddha plead, nor Krishna. Whether you accept or not makes no difference to them.

But your non-acceptance becomes your obstruction. Whether they are or are not is secondary. If someone even takes a stone to be God and moves in that faith—whether the stone is God is not the issue; that person will begin to rise. The question is the inner growth of that person. The grander the object we accept, the clearer the path for our consciousness to reach that grandeur.

See it this way: if a man is not mudha—if he is amudha—what will he do?

The mudha says: “Krishna gets hungry like us, therefore he is a man. Krishna’s foot is pierced and blood comes—like us. We will not accept him as God.” That is the mudha’s logic.

The amudha’s logic is the same but reversed. He says: “Krishna gets hungry—and can be God; I too get hungry—why can I not be God?” He will say: “A thorn pierces Krishna’s foot and blood flows; a thorn pierces my foot—and blood flows. If Krishna can be divine—why not I?”

For the amudha, Krishna’s humanity does not obstruct Krishna’s divinity; Krishna’s humanity becomes the doorway for his own humanity to go beyond.

But Krishna says: the mudhas consider Me—the Paramatma who has taken a human body—insignificant.

They cannot see themselves as higher through Me; because of themselves they belittle even Me. A chance was before them to be free of their own meanness, to be filled with glory, to be ennobled; to see what infinite possibility they are; to feel trust sprout in their seed; to let hopes blossom; to awaken longing; to feel the far sky near; to bridge distance with the Infinite—if only they had seen: “A man like me is also God.” But they do not see so. They say: “Ah! A man like me claims to be God. Deceiver! Petty! Such a claim is wrong!”

Mudhata means: chopping your own feet—yet the one who chops thinks he is chopping another’s. But there is no way to chop Krishna’s feet. The axe falls only upon one’s own. Therefore he calls them mudha. He says: by calling Me petty, I do not become petty; but you lose the possibility of your own dignity.

In seeing Buddha, it is not necessary to decide whether Buddha attained enlightenment or not. Seeing Buddha, one should see: if it has happened to him, it can happen to me. That trust.

To gaze into Buddha’s eyes as into one’s own future is wisdom; to place Buddha on one’s scale and weigh him is mudhata. Make Buddha a door. We do not make Buddha a door; we make ourselves a wall.

The center of man’s mudhata is his ego. Thus, secondly, whenever someone tells us something against another, our heart blossoms with delight. Notice it. If someone speaks ill of someone, our heart’s flower opens—as if rain has fallen and a fresh greenness has arisen within. When someone whispers slander, it seems like music to our ears; the life-energy begins to dance.

Hence the amusing fact: when someone slanders another before us, we never bother to ask whether it is true or false. We believe it. No one argues against slander. If someone tells you I am a thief, you will not ask even for one witness. You will say, “I already knew it.” You will not even think whether the accuser himself might be a thief. No—such thoughts would be unseemly at such a time. To doubt then would be improper; at such times faith is the only way!

When someone is slandering, our minds become so full of faith! Why? Because the goodness of another gives pain to our ego—“Then what of me?” The badness of another delights our ego—“Good; if the whole world is bad, I alone remain good.”

So we proceed assuming the world is bad. Those we do not yet know—we think only that we do not yet know; otherwise they too will turn out bad. A truly good man is impossible—this is our inherent faith. This is our religiosity: the whole world is bad—some we know, some we have yet to find out. The whole world is bad.

Thus, for those we don’t yet know, we carry a doubt: “If not today, then tomorrow.” You can deceive one day, two days—but not forever. Today or tomorrow the truth will be exposed; we will see that you too are naked. How long can you cover it?

We carry this feeling—and as soon as someone is exposed, we rejoice: “We knew it already.” This was our inner conviction; our deep faith: “This man is bad.”

But when someone says of another, “He is good,” our mind resists. Even if we hear it, we tolerate it—“All right, perhaps.” If someone insists—“No, he is virtuous, a saint”—we ask: “Any proof? Who says so? How did you know? What are the evidences?”

Whenever someone speaks of another’s goodness, it pains us to accept—it goes against our inner creed. This is our mudhata.

The joke of this mudhata is: the more we succeed in proving the whole world bad, the more we close the way to our own goodness. When the whole world is bad, no reason remains for me to be good. Reading the morning paper—seeing how many women were abducted, how many murders, who was caught black-marketing—inside, someone becomes happy: “The whole world is like this.”

Meaning: we can remain at ease; we are good enough. We have not yet abducted anyone’s wife—we have only thought about it! What is wrong with thinking, when people are actually abducting? Then thought is not so bad. There is black-marketing, murder—everything. Inside, a satisfaction arises: “I am good enough.” And the one who feels, “I am good enough,” has committed a suicide of the soul.

A good man is never content with his goodness; a bad man is always content with his goodness. A good man lives in a divine discontent: “How can I be better, and better, and better?” A bad man is always self-satisfied within—“I am perfectly good.” And then he falls lower day by day. If today he consents to the first hell, tomorrow he will be happy with the second; the day after, with the third. A good man, even standing in the first heaven, is not content—he longs for the second; having reached the second, he longs for the third. He keeps growing.

Remember: the one who is busy proving the world bad is a mudha. For ultimately the world’s badness returns to become his own—and no way of growth remains.

Amudha is he who carries trust that the world is good—whose inner creed is that people are good. And even if news comes of someone’s bad deed, he does not say, “He is bad.” He says only: “Man is good—but even good men can err. Man is good; even the good sometimes go astray.” His inherent faith is in goodness. He sees goodness standing everywhere. Then his own badness begins to be seen. Then he feels: perhaps I am the most backward in this world! Then the possibility of his growth, his evolution, opens.

But our mudhata has no end. We are busy proving whether Krishna, Buddha or Mahavira are God; whether Jesus was the son of God or his claim was false. That was the quarrel: the Jews argued Jesus was not the son of God—so they crucified him. For two thousand years Christian missionaries have been busy proving that he was the son of God.

Remember: when we labor too much to prove that someone is the son of God, it only shows we do not trust. Excessive proving is itself evidence. If someone spends the day saying, “I always speak truth,” understand he is tormented by his constant lying. Such testimony is not needed.

If it is inner faith that someone is divine—good. Let it become our growth. There is no need to go and convince others.

It is amusing: when you are not sure, you try to persuade others. If missionaries run around convincing people Jesus is the son of God, as others’ eyes begin to show a glimmer of belief, the missionary too feels, “Yes, perhaps.” Because he himself has no certainty. If there were trust, it would become an inner revolution.

The Jews did not trust; they put him on the cross. Just before the crucifixion, Pilate asked Jesus, “Tell me truthfully—are you the son of God?”

How can it be said? And even if Jesus says it—who will believe? Krishna has shouted—who listens?

We do not accept because we are unwilling to rise. And these are dangerous matters—if we accept, we will have to rise. We are defending ourselves—these are defense measures. “This Buddha is nothing”—for if he is something, I will feel guilty, pained, tormented: if this Buddha can be in supreme bliss, why not I? Then remorse begins. I do not want the hassle. I say: all show, all pretension. This man has sat dressed up, quiet, with eyes closed—nothing has happened inside. Nothing at all.

Why? Have you entered Buddha’s inside, or Krishna’s, to see whether there is God or not? No—we know before seeing that there is not. That knowing is our mudhata. And it has cost dearly.

Therefore a strange phenomenon occurs: we can accept people like Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira as divine only after they are dead—not while they live. Death creates conveniences. First convenience: their human form is no longer before us.

Now the Jains can believe that fragrance arose from Mahavira’s perspiration. They can now believe it. If he were standing before us, it would be difficult—we would need to verify. Now we can accept; there is no quarrel or hassle now.

Hence it is easy to accept dead persons as divine—because their humanity has vanished from sight. Even the washerman in Rama’s town did not believe he was God. Now we can easily accept Rama as God; no difficulty—his human form is gone. We no longer face the discomforting question: “He too was a man like us—how could he be God?”

As time passes we spin myths—to erase their human aspect. All our myths are attempts to dissolve their humanity. We must later prove that they were not human—only appeared human. We prove this every which way—this proving is also our mudhata. When they are before us in human form, we are troubled—for that form cannot be disproved.

Buddha too falls ill. The devotee who believes him divine feels hurt—“Buddha should not fall ill; he is not a man!” Later one must invent: “Buddha fell ill because he took a devotee’s illness upon himself.” Or: “He gathered the world’s illnesses into himself to free others.”

When Jesus was crucified, devotees felt: he should not die on the cross—if he dies, how is he God? The human form causes trouble. Jesus died—and devotees were pained. Then they began to weave the story: on the third day he resurrected.

If we accept that he resurrected on the third day—then when did he die again? Christians have no answer. If he arose and was seen again, when did he die? He must have died a second time—no answer.

Why? Whether he resurrected is not the important question. But two thousand years later it lends assurance: he was divine; crucified, yet he lived—he was not a man; a man would have died.

While the crucifixion was happening, devotees watched, hoping for a miracle. At the last moment Jesus would show a great feat! The same mudhata of man—he does not accept God; he accepts miracles. If there is a miracle, he feels: “All right—something different.” He produces ash from his hand, or a talisman—then surely there is something!

The man himself may be worth two pennies—but ash comes from his hand! We are interested in showmanship. We may even accept the showman as God, though in our hearts we know there must be a trick—somewhere hidden in the robe. But until exposed, better to say nothing. A Swiss-made watch comes from the hand—without hiding, how? We know it is Swiss-made—how does it emerge from the hand!

A “mahatma” in Bombay stayed at someone’s house. When he left, the lady came to me: “I am in trouble. I made all my friends and relatives his devotees only because he would produce watches and talismans. This time a great difficulty—he left and his bag remained at the house. There are two hundred Swiss watches in it.”

I asked her: “Were you certain before?”

She said: “No—there was doubt; surely somewhere the watch must be hidden. Now I have proof.”

“So what will you do now?”

“I am in trouble,” she said. “Those I made his devotees—when I tell them, they say I have lost my mind.”

I asked: “Do they have vested interests?”

“Yes,” she said: “someone’s son is ill; someone is jobless; someone’s father has gone mad; someone has this, someone that.”

“If it is proved the baba’s miracles are false, what of the job? What of the illness? What of the cancer?”

I said: “Wait. When the boy gets a job, then tell them—then they will say: ‘We knew it already.’ For now they have an investment; they have a stake in the miracle.”

You will not accept Krishna. You can accept a miracle. Because our mudhata is impressed by conjuring; miracles happen on our level. The hand is empty—and ash falls. No need to raise consciousness. The naked eye sees the trick. But the great miracle is this: if we can rise a little above our humanity, we can begin to see the form of one like Krishna.

But Krishna says: they consider Me petty—because I stand in a human body.

“Vain in hope, vain in action, vain in knowledge—these ignorant ones, possessed by the deluding nature of rakshasas and asuras.”

One final point. Man is an unfinished, incomplete consciousness. Animals have a complete personality. A cow is fully a cow; a dog fully a dog. Man is never fully man; he is more or less. Man is not born a man—he has to become one. In man there is evolution. A dog is born a dog; you cannot say to a dog, “You are an incomplete dog.” No dog is incomplete; all dogs are equally dog.

But we can say to a man: “You are a little less of a man.” To another: “You are more of a man.” To someone: “What has happened to your manhood?” Can we say to a dog, “What happened to your doghood?”—meaningless. A dog is always a dog; no confusion.

Man arrives in this world with an unfinished personality; all others are complete. Hence the great difficulty: man, not being fully man, can fall below the animals. And that is his glory too: he can rise above man—beyond even the gods.

Listen well: among animals there are no rakshasas—for among animals there are no gods. Man can be man; he can fall—become a rakshasa; or rise—become a deva. Man is a transitional arrangement—unsure; in process; in creation. He can go either way.

Remember: in life there is no standstill. If you are not moving toward God, you will move toward the rakshasa—because move you must; there is no resting. Life is a current. You must go on—there is no choice about moving; only the direction is your choice. If you are not going up, you will go down.

Therefore Krishna says: this mind that belittles Me—if the Divine stands with form, it belittles; if formless, it asks, “Where is He?”—this intelligence, this mudha intelligence, becomes demonic, asuric. Then, by its own hand, it sinks itself ever deeper into the darkness it has created.

Wherever you find a sign of the Divine, the faintest glimmer—do not deny it. That is your path of growth. Even if some evil is fully proven, keep your doubt alive; accepting it will become your way of falling. Even if the devil sits at your door, know: he is not. And if the Divine is nowhere visible, know: He is here. This sense will support your growth.

Accept the higher—even if it is not yet visible; reject the lower—even if it is plainly visible. Only then does man move upward.

Enough for today.

Do not get up. For five minutes join the kirtan. Who knows—perhaps His glimpse may come through the kirtan itself. And when the kirtan begins here, do not stand to look—remain seated. Do not try to come near. So that all can see. Sit for five minutes. Clap. Join the kirtan.