Geeta Darshan #6

There are many paths; the destination is one. There are many routes of travel, many travelers, and many methods of journeying; but until the traveler dissolves, until the path and the methods themselves dissolve, that which is the destination does not become available.
To reach Paramatman there cannot be one and the same way for two persons — impossible, because two persons are different. Whatever they do will be different; however they do, it will be different. And one has to begin the journey from where one is.
I will begin from where I am. You will begin from where you are. The initial point of our journeys cannot be the same, because two persons cannot stand in the same place. But the final station can be one, because at that station the person dissolves. When the person dissolves, the differences of persons disappear.
As long as I am a person, whatever I do will be different. Not understanding this truth has filled the history of man’s religions needlessly with bloodshed, with needless violence, with needless hatred.
Each one can have the feeling that the path on which I am going is right. There is no mistake in this feeling. But the trouble begins the moment this illusion also arises: that the path on which I am going alone is right. Perhaps even that much would not create much trouble — if I know that this path is right for me. For me, this path alone is right. But the ego does not stop there. Unknowingly the ego draws a conclusion: that what is right for me must be right for all.
Hence the disturbance in the name of religions is not of religions, it is the disturbance of egos. My ego is not ready to concede that some other way too might be right. It is not ready to admit that apart from me, anyone else could also be right. Then only my way will be right, my method of worship will be right, my scripture will be right. And my being right will give me juice only if I make all others wrong.
Remember, the one who engages in making others wrong has no energy left to walk the very path he called right; his power and energy are expended in condemning those he need not walk with at all.
This mischief became even deeper because we made religion a matter of birth. Religion cannot be by birth. Religion is by personhood. No one can be born a Hindu, or a Muslim; nor a Christian, nor a Jain. By birth one is born only with the possibility — to become religious or irreligious.
There are two possibilities, two doors remain open — one can be religious or one can be irreligious. But Hindu or Muslim or Christian — no one is that by birth. Nor can one be. For a father’s religion, a father’s belief, does not enter the child by blood. And by examining a man’s bones and blood we cannot declare that these belong to a Muslim, or a Hindu, or a Jain. Examine the whole body of a person, enter his cells, descend to the seed-atom itself; even then, no trace of religion will be found.
But a calamity arose because we made religions hereditary. Then a Muslim’s son has to be a Muslim; a Hindu’s son has to be a Hindu. It is not necessary that this should match the person’s inner structure. Then dangers arise. The great danger is this: that the religion which could have been his path, if it did not come to him by birth, an obstacle arises. That obstacle is deep.
I know people who, had they been born in a Muslim home rather than a Hindu home, would have been helped. I know people who, had they been born in a Hindu home rather than a Muslim home, flowers of religion would have bloomed in them. Their personal structure and their birth-structure do not match.
Birth is one thing; religion another. Birth pertains to the body; religion is the search for the type of the person. Religion is the inquiry into the individual’s inner being. And each person should seek his religion in his own way. Swadharma cannot be fulfilled by birth; Swadharma has to be found.
Hence another phenomenon occurs: all religions, when they first descend, have a certain life and radiance, which with time diminishes. Whenever a new religion descends — a new religion means: a new type, a new style of personality discovers a way towards Paramatman — then a new religion is inaugurated. Whenever a new religion is born, there is a freshness, a cheer, a flow of life in it.
What was the beauty in Islam in Muhammad’s time is not there today. It cannot be. What happened around Krishna, in Krishna’s presence, cannot happen today. Those who first became Jain with Mahavira — their children cannot be Jain in the same sense. Because those who decided in Mahavira’s presence to become Jain had made a conscious decision; it was a resolve born of awareness. They chose it. It was their own devotion. It was not borrowed. It did not come from forefathers. For it they searched themselves.
Therefore those who became Jain around Mahavira had a taste, a vitality in their Jain-ness, which cannot arise in a Jain’s son. There is no reason for it to arise. Because that taste and that life arise from one’s own choice.
Even if a person chooses a wrong path with total devotion, I say he will reach Paramatman — because devotion reaches, not the path. And if a person, with borrowed devotion, chooses the exact right path, he never reaches — because devotion reaches, not the path. Strength is in devotion. Not in the path, but in my resolve lies the power.
But resolve is not inherited at birth! What is inherited at birth are doctrines, scriptures; words are inherited, not resolve. Hence as long as the world ties religion to birth, the world will be compelled to remain irreligious; man will have to remain irreligious — because we do not give the choice to be religious.
Understand it this way: I am born in a Muslim home. If that path does not fit my personal inclination; if I am not there from where I could set out on that path; if I am not such that I can be in tune with that path; if there is no harmony between me and that way — then only one course remains for me: to become irreligious.
The world looks so irreligious not because people are so irreligious. Their misfortune is one: they are engaged in binding religion with birth. And when for twenty or twenty-five years you give a person the conditioning of a religion, it enters the unconscious; then he cannot even change.
If a Hindu becomes a Muslim, he may make a thousand efforts to be a Muslim, yet the Hindu within — which has been built for twenty-five years — can never be erased. It will remain within.
A Hindu may become a Christian, but what has entered the unconscious will remain the base. Beneath his Christianity the hue of the Hindu will remain. He will fold hands to Jesus in a church, but the style of folding will be the very one used in Rama’s temple. His unconscious is already formed.
Now psychologists say that by the age of seven the unconscious is formed. And after seven it is near impossible to change. At seven the foundations are laid; the building will rise upon them.
If a person is born into a religion that does not suit him — and in ninety out of a hundred cases this will happen. Because birth has nothing to do with religion; religion is related to a deliberate choice. One has to become religious; no one can be born religious. And this is a matter of glory.
If we were born religious, religion would become very ordinary. If we became religious just as we get eyes from the father, hands from the father, the color of the body from the father — if religion were gotten in that way, then religion too would be a biological happening.
Then it would mean that not only the body, but the soul too we get from the father — which is sheer untruth. The body is received from the mother and father; so whatever pertains to the body comes from parents. But the soul is not received from parents; the journey of the soul is otherwise — separate.
And the most important station in the soul’s journey is that the soul grows with each resolve. The greater the resolve, the stronger the soul becomes. And religion is the greatest resolve in this world; the greatest challenge; the greatest adventure — audacity. Because it is a leap into the unknown; a search for that of which we have no clue; a voyage towards that side from which no signals are received; to enter an ocean for which no map exists. And there is the fear of getting lost on an unfamiliar path; the hope of reaching is small. Therefore religion is the greatest courage — audacity. Religion is not the work of the weak.
But ordinarily we see the weak standing behind religion. Often it appears that the weaker people all take shelter under religion. These very weaklings have made religion a matter of birth — because it is convenient. Even the difficulty of choosing religion is removed! One need not exert even that much — that one chooses religion. It gets attached to birth like a label. We will not have to choose it, search it, inquire, err and correct — we will be saved from all mistakes!
Then what will be given is only a label; religion will not be received.
Krishna has said: Swadharma. But people often understand Swadharma to mean the religion into which one is born. Do not misunderstand so! No one is born into a religion; religion has to be found. It is an inner search. It is an inner search for truth, and it is private. And everyone has to search. It is not available on loan.
If someone thinks it will be got from a guru, or from someone else, that is a mistake. One has to seek. Only if you seek will a guru too be found. Only if you seek will the way to meet anyone be cleared. But this is not transferred like goods. No father can write in a will: along with my wealth I bequeath my religion to my son. Otherwise, as wealth has multiplied in the world, religion too would have multiplied.
In the world, wealth has greatly increased. Two thousand years back — less wealth. Five thousand years back — still less. Everything in the world that can be willed has increased. Only religion has not increased. In fact it seems to have decreased. There must be a reason.
Whatever can be bequeathed will grow. Languages have grown; scientific knowledge has grown; books have grown; houses have grown; population has grown — everything that can be willed has grown. Because the father gives to the son; the son begins earning from that base, adds his own, hands it to his son. The son begins where both the father’s and his own earnings stand.
Thus everything in the world goes on increasing, progressive, moving; only one thing goes on decreasing — religion. Perhaps you have never pondered why. Why is religion decreasing?
The unintelligent say that religion is decreasing because scientists have said irreligious things; they say people have become atheists; they say people have become materialists; they say people have gone astray.
All this is wrong. No one has gone astray. No one has become atheist. Nothing of religion can be harmed by any materialist’s talk. And if religion is so weak that it vanishes by a scientist’s statements or a materialist’s arguments, then it is worthy of disappearing. Religion is not so weak. The cause of its decline is elsewhere.
Religion cannot be bequeathed. Therefore, in the matter of religion, you cannot stand on your father’s shoulders. You have to find your own ground under your own feet. Hence there cannot be an automatic increase in religion with each generation. There is only one way for growth — that each generation goes on seeking religion anew. But if we rely on a father’s will to give us religion, we will lose religion. Then we will stand in false religion.
Therefore in this sutra Krishna has said something of great value. First: that by very many forms, ways come towards me. There are those who worship my vast form, Paramatman, through knowledge. For them, knowledge itself is their sacrifice, their yajna. With the feeling of oneness — that whatsoever is, is Vasudeva — they worship. This is the first great class.
There are three classes. One is the type whose personality is molded by knowledge. Let us understand. Even within it there will be many branches, yet a rough division can be made.
One class of human beings has the frame of knowing. By a frame of knowing I mean: such a person is eager to know. Such a person can even lay down his life to know. Knowing is his greatest joy. Inquiry is his path. He can lose anything, risk everything. If he is assured that by an inch his knowing will deepen, he can stake all. If you ask such a person, ‘Having known, what will you do?’ he will say, ‘There is no need to do anything after knowing; knowing is enough.’ Such a person will say, ‘Knowing is sufficient — knowledge for knowledge’s sake. Knowing just to know. Knowing is enough, what else is there to do!’ A Buddha-like person — for him, knowing becomes his very soul.
One who moves in the direction of knowing will ultimately find that only One remains — because the final stage of knowledge is Advaita. Why is this so? Let us understand.
Whenever we know something, in the happening of knowledge it breaks into three. The knower stands apart; the known, the object, stands apart; and between them the relationship of knowing arises. Knowledge splits into three — knower, known, and knowing; the knower, the known, and the knowing. Knowledge breaks into three parts.
But the aspiration of the true knower is not to know anything from the outside. Because what is there in knowing from outside! If I come near you and, circling around you, ‘know’ you, the knower’s desire will not be fulfilled — that is not knowing, it is only acquaintance. If I circle a tree and observe, that is not knowing; it is acquaintance, recognition.
The one whose quest is knowing will not be satisfied with so little. He will say: until I become the tree, knowing is not complete. For as long as I remain even a little distant from the tree, it will remain an outer acquaintance, not an inner recognition. There is only one way to inner recognition — that I do not look at the flower from outside, but dissolve into the tree in such a way that I spread into its leaves, branches, roots, flowers. I become one within the tree. Let not even a hair’s breadth remain between me and the tree — then knowing will happen. Then I can say, ‘I have known the tree.’ If I know from the outside, I can only say, ‘I have some acquaintance with the tree.’ But there is distance in that acquaintance.
In the process of knowledge, the event splits into three. Yet the seeker of knowledge will strive that a day may come when the knower becomes the known; when the observer becomes the observed; when both become one. Before this, there is no fulfillment for the knower.
Therefore, if we tell a knower, ‘God is in the sky,’ he will not be ready to accept. He will say, only when He is in my inner being can I accept; or only when I can enter into the inner being of Paramatman can I accept. Before that there is no way for me to believe.
Hence, a God in the sky won’t work for the knower. If we say, ‘God is in the idol of the temple,’ he cannot accept it. For one can circle an idol, but how to enter it? If we say, ‘God is in the scriptures,’ he will say, ‘Scriptures can be read; words can be understood — but how to enter?’
The ultimate quest of the knower is: when can I become one with That — only then shall I know that I have known. Before that, what we call knowing is not knowing.
Bertrand Russell has divided knowing into two parts; he is right. He says there is knowledge by acquaintance and knowledge proper. Acquaintance means from the outside; knowledge means from the inside.
This means the entire science is acquaintance — because no matter how much a scientist knows, he remains outside. In fact the very basis of science is this: the knower must stand outside. Here the difference between religious knowing and scientific knowing appears.
The scientist stands outside. He stands in the laboratory, investigating. The event is occurring on the table; he stands afar, watching. The rule of science is that there must be enough distance so that personal emotion does not enter. The scientist must be utterly impartial. For impartiality, distance is needed, perspective is needed; a gap is needed. If you come too close, attachment of the mind may arise. There must be no attachment. Stand far away, like a judge, and watch. See only what is happening. Do not enter yourself into it. Otherwise you may see what is not — what you want to be may be imposed on what is. Therefore keep distance; do not enter within. Be an observer, but do not be a participant.
Hence science can never know Paramatman in the sense Krishna speaks of the knower. For there the condition is opposite: do not be just an observer — be a participant. Do not stand outside — come within. Do not keep distance — drop it. From far, what you know will be outer acquaintance. Come within, enter the innermost. Come to that center beyond which there is no further going. Leave the circumference. Only at that center will you know.
So knowledge is one direction. In this direction too there are many pathways, for knowledge has many forms. But in a broad way humanity can be divided thus.
For those whose quest is knowing, devotion will always appear futile. A kirtan will be happening and they will say, ‘What madness is this!’ Someone will sing a song — ‘What will come of it!’ Someone will worship in a temple — they will not understand.
Another’s path is never understandable. But the truly intelligent one is he who gives room for the other’s path to be, even if it does not make sense to him. When I say, ‘This kirtan does not make sense to me,’ I am only saying that it does not find a resonance in me. But we quickly go further; we say, ‘This is wrong.’ There the mistake begins. It may be wrong for me; yet for someone else it can be perfectly right. It may be delusive for me; not right for me — yet for another, wholly right.
Krishna says, this is the first division — that of knowledge.
But whenever one goes across one’s own type, one injures others. To walk one’s own path is appropriate; to disturb other paths is inappropriate.
Very often those on the path of knowledge, unwittingly, have created great obstacles for those moving on the path of devotion. Because what does not seem right to them, they declare not right — while on another path it may be perfectly right.
Krishna says, those who worship through the yajna of knowledge abide in the feeling of oneness — whatsoever is, is Paramatman. That is their worship. They find me in all. They see me in everyone. They remove all screens and glimpse what is hidden behind.
This glimpse is a glimpse of One; all differences are of screens. If the screens drop, what is hidden within is one. As if we demolish all the houses — the sky that reveals within all the houses will be one.
But as long as the houses stand, the sky encircled by their walls appears different. Some walls are red, some yellow; some poor, some rich; some houses touch the sky, some touch the earth. Many distances. There are huts and there are palaces; the sky hidden within appears different.
Who will be ready to concede that within the hut too the same sky is that is within the palace? Who will be ready?
No one is ready. One says, the sky in the palace is of another order — gold-adorned, studded with jewels, filled with fragrance; its splendor is different, its luxury different. The hut has a poor sky — lowly, destitute.
But can the sky itself be different anywhere? The hut may be poor; the palace may be prosperous; but the inner sky, the empty space within both — how can it be different? Yet the hut appears different, the palace appears different.
The undivided will not be seen until we demolish both hut and palace and then look. Demolish the hut, demolish the palace; then try to find a distinction in the sky that was hidden within them — is any difference left? One poor, one rich? One gold-plated, one filled with a beggar’s bowl?
No difference will remain in those skies now.
The knower’s quest is for that which is hidden within all forms, all shapes. And until the knower discovers the formless that pervades all forms, he is not satisfied. Hence the knower will often appear to be against those who worship the form. The reason is his search — he is searching the formless. So when he sees you worshipping a form, he will say, ‘What madness! Seek that which is formless!’
He does not know that someone else can also travel through form towards his very goal. We shall speak of that later.
This one who sees the formless, the oneness, who sees Vasudeva in all — you should inquire: is this my way? Search, attune — is knowledge my quest? Am I the type who, dropping all forms, seeks the formless? Will that satisfy me? Is that my soul’s yearning, my thirst? If not, never fall into that trouble. If yes, forget all else and be utterly immersed in it. This is the search for Swadharma.
Krishna says, the second worship me with the feeling of separateness, in duality — as master and servant.
The second class is the devotee. The devotee’s quest is entirely different; its end is the same, but the path is entirely different. The devotee says: what purpose is there in knowing? To the devotee, knowing seems dry, arid. Indeed the very word knowledge is dry. No stream of juice flows in it. Knowledge looks like a mathematical formula, not a flower in bloom.
The devotee says: what will happen by knowing? Love! Knowing has no meaning. He says: until I can love Him, there is no fulfillment. Not knowing — loving. Not knowing Him, but drowning in His love.
The devotee says: even knowing remains outside; however far inward you go, knowing remains outside. And the devotee is right — from his standpoint, wholly right. He says: unless you drown in love, where is true knowing? Because the devotee says: love is the way to knowing.
Consider this. A doctor stands by a patient in a house. The patient is near death — dying. The doctor holds his pulse in hand, alert. Every beat of the pulse is known to him. The heartbeat is known. The circulation is known. The condition of the patient lies in his knowledge.
Nearby, the patient’s wife beats her chest and weeps. Her hand is not upon his pulse. She knows nothing of the heartbeat. She has no knowledge of the condition. Yet her tears are flowing. Her life is in danger. It is not the patient who is dying — she herself is dying. With the death of this patient, her dying is taking place.
There is a great difference between these two ways of knowing. However deep the doctor’s knowing, it is not very deep. The wife’s knowing is none at all — she knows nothing of whether he will die in an hour or survive; what is lacking in the body, what is excess, what is failing — she knows none of it. She knows nothing of the mathematics. But in some innermost place she knows the event is ending. The flame is flickering out. She knows nothing — has no instrument for knowing. But her inner consciousness is filled with tears. The shadow of death has fallen upon her innerness.
The doctor consoles: ‘Do not panic; there is no need yet.’ But the panic does not stop. The doctor says, ‘He will survive’ — even then trust does not come to her eyes. She is knowing in some other way that survival is impossible.
Nor is physical nearness essential. Events have happened where the son is dying thousands of miles away, and the mother here at once becomes filled with a sensing that something unprecedented is happening. Even scientists now research this and say there is a scientific base. The heartbeat of the child has beaten with the mother’s heart for nine months; there is a rhythm between the two hearts that does not respect time and space. If the son’s heart far away begins to falter and death nears, in the mother’s heart too a flutter arises — whether she understands it or not.
In Russia many experiments run on this. They have taken animals deep under the earth, deep under the sea; and up here their young are killed or cut — and there the heartbeats and blood-pressure of the animals below are studied. They were astonished: the young dies here and the mother’s heart below is all upheaval. This is animals! Kill the mother below and the offspring above is disturbed, restless, a sadness spreads.
Thousands of experiments — they have concluded: love has its own dimension, which has nothing to do with knowledge.
Now this wife too knows — by some other route. The doctor is present, the wife is present. The doctor is eager to save; but his eagerness is scientific. The wife too is eager to save; but her eagerness is not scientific.
If the man dies, the doctor will also be pained — because the case failed, the medicines did not work, the diagnosis was not useful, somewhere the mathematics erred. He is pained thus. For him the man is a case.
The wife’s pain is of another kind. With this man’s death she can never again be what she was. With his dying, much within her will die, never to be revived. Some part will be cut off and fall away.
Now suppose a third man is there — a newspaper reporter. He has come to get the news of the death, so he may file the story. He too is present, pen and paper in hand: ‘Let him die, and I write quickly.’ He too is eager — of a third kind. He is thinking how to phrase the report, how to convey to readers what is happening here. The distance of his knowing is of yet another kind than the doctor’s.
A fourth man is there — a painter. He too is interested in the man — but he is waiting for death to arrive. He wants to paint a picture on death. When death descends upon this man’s head, and its shadow envelops him, he wants to experience what happens, how colors change, how the light and shade differ. He too is eager. But the eagernesses of all four are distinct.
If we asked the four separately, we might be deluded whether they stood by the same cot or by four different people. Their statements would be entirely different.
The wife perhaps could give no statement at all. The doctor would speak in the language of medical science. The journalist in the language of reportage. The painter would say, ‘Wait! Until my canvas is finished, it is difficult to say — my painting will speak.’
And if we did not know that they stood around the same man, we would never imagine it.
Exactly so, around Paramatman we too stand, and our ways of relating to Him are different. One’s path is incomprehensible to another.
The second path is that of the devotee. He says: what is the use of knowing? And even after knowing, what then? We want to drown in His love. We do not want to know Him; we want to be absorbed in Him. We do not want to know — in knowing there is distance. We want to enter His heart and invite Him into ours.
If you say to a devotee, ‘There is only One,’ he will not understand — because if there is only One, how can love happen? For love at least two are needed.
I told you: the event of knowledge happens only when the two are erased and one remains. When one remains, knowledge happens. The necessary condition of knowledge is that twoness disappears and only the One is. The condition of love is: if only One remains, how can love happen? So love says: two!
Devotees have sung: ‘We do not want your moksha, not your nirvana. If only we may be given even the lot of a dog in the alleys of your Vrindavan, we are fulfilled! But let it be your lane. We do not want release from birth. Our only prayer is that birth after birth, wherever we may be, your remembrance remain — that is enough.’
This is another language. There is opposition between these two languages. There will be — yet both speak of the same ultimate. The devotee says: two must be there!
Now a marvel: in love too unity happens — but it appears in a language different than in knowledge. In knowledge, unity happens when two disappear. In love, unity happens when two become as if one — yet two remain. There is a unity in love also. Two remain, and within, the experience of one arises. Two heartbeats, but their rhythm becomes one. Two lives, and a single current flows between them.
Love knows a kind of unity too. And in one sense, the unity of love is richer than the unity of knowledge. The unity of knowledge is not so rich, for it is certainly one — a mathematical unity; two become one — not very complex, simple. The unity of love is more complex. The two remain two, yet the experience of one arises — richer.
Therefore from knowers have come dry utterances. Lovers have given utterances full of juice. Lovers have sung, danced, painted, sculpted.
If the whole world were only of knowers, it would not be delightful. The charm of the world is of complexity. If all were simple and straight, the fragrance would be lost. Devotees have given fragrance to existence. Religions which honored only knowledge became dry and moribund.
I am not saying let the world be all devotees either. If only devotees remain, a lack will arise. The knower too lends a color by his presence — he gives a tone, a direction. If that is absent, there is loss.
All forms in this world contribute to its richness. The richest religion is that which can assimilate all forms. In this sense, Hindu dharma is extraordinary — extraordinary because it assimilates all paths. It gives the knower the path of knowledge; to the devotee, the path of devotion. There is no other religion like this. All others proceed upon some single specialty as foundation.
For example, the Jainas — for them devotion is not the means; knowledge alone is. Hence upon the face of a Jaina monk a certain dryness will descend — inevitable. If a Jaina monk is seen dancing, we will feel uneasy. If Meera dances, we feel no discomfort. If Chaitanya dances through the village, we are not troubled. But a Jaina monk dancing is inconceivable — does not fit.
There is a reason — because the path is one of pure knowledge, dry knowledge. Some will go by that path. For some it is the only means — for those it is supreme. But for one of the opposite type, difficulties arise; he begins to torture himself.
If a person is born in a Jaina fold while devotion is his path, he will have great difficulty — because in Jaina dharma there is no provision for devotion. If he tries to make provisions, they will be false. The Jainas have tried — to find a path of devotion too — but the foundation fails; no roots. And a kind of injustice appears.
If someone dances in devotional ecstasy before Mahavira, it is certainly unjust to Mahavira. Unjust because Mahavira’s standing nude image does not match the dance. The dance is meaningless there.
In Krishna’s presence, the dance is meaningful — there is attunement. Krishna stands with peacock-plume and flute; in front of him if someone dances, there is harmony between the dance and Krishna. But before Mahavira, nude and austere, if someone dances, he is only saying: the religion I was born into was not for me. Nothing more — only that.
If you take a knower into Krishna’s temple, the whole affair will appear futile to him. ‘What madness is this — peacock-plume, flute — what nonsense!’
These are languages. The language of the devotee accepts two. It divides the whole world into two — on one side God, on the other the devotee — and then creates relationship.
Krishna says: there are others who worship me in the feeling of separateness. They say to me: we are separate from you. And they say so because the joy of union is only when we are separate from you.
Understand well this paradox of the devotee.
The devotee says: we are separate from you — because only then is the joy of meeting. If we are one with you from the very beginning, the meaning of meeting is lost. Whether we meet or not — it is the same.
This river that runs dancing towards the ocean — this festive rush — is because the ocean is far and other. The union will be an event.
If one tells the river, ‘You are mad; you are already one with the ocean’ — that too is true. The river is one with the ocean. It is born of it. Riding sunrays, ascending the winds, it rose from that very ocean, vaporized, became cloud, rained on the mountains, descended as Ganga, and is running to the ocean.
The knower will say: so much useless festivity; needless running and noise. What is the purpose of crossing so many hills and plains? You are already one with the ocean.
But the river will say: let the ocean remain separate, distant, other — because I want to relish the meeting. And this will be the prayer to God — let the happening of meeting go on forever. Maintain such distance that union remains possible. Hold me just that far.
This is why Islam says: let no man declare ‘I am one with God.’ Mansoor was crucified — for saying Ana’l-Haqq. His path was knowledge. He said ‘I am Truth’ — ‘I am Brahman.’ He was uttering a profound Vedantic truth, a true voice of the Sufi vision — Aham Brahmasmi. If he had said it in the age of the Upanishads in India, we would have worshipped him as a maharshi. He chose the wrong time. He said it among those who said: let no one say ‘I am Brahman,’ for if God and I are one, where remains the joy of devotion and union? He spoke the language of knowledge among devotees and was in trouble. The devotees said: stop this — this is heresy, a sin.
Right — from the devotee’s view it is sin. From the knower’s view, to say ‘God is other’ is ignorance. From the devotee’s view, to declare ‘I am God’ is sin. Both are right. Hence complexity. We find it difficult to understand the other’s path.
The star of the devotee’s quest is love. He says love is enough; knowing is vain. To be absorbed in love is meaningful — for in love, self-transformation happens.
Krishna says: such people conceive me in relationship — in master-servant, or as lover-beloved, or in other forms — but always as relationship. They create a relation.
Devotees have created every kind of relation.
For example, Sufis created a very sweet relation. Such boldness no Hindu seeker could dare. In the Hindu vision, God is masculine and the seeker moves as beloved, wife, handmaiden.
The Sufis went to the limit — they made God the beloved and themselves the lover! God as the beloved, themselves as the lover! Because of this, all the poetic streams born under Islamic influence — Arabic, Persian, Urdu — gathered a fragrance of love which could not arise in any Indian language. The reason is: when God is taken as beloved, all doors open. Then love with God can be spoken of openly — nothing remains unsaid.
Note: if God is male and the devotee is female — wife, beloved — then out of modesty she will express love with much hesitation. Thus Hindu devotees sing very hesitantly. Meera, however courageous, is still Meera. However much courage — and it was great — yet it remains veiled, as is the nature of woman. Even when she speaks, it is by hints, behind veils. The veil remains drawn. She will speak of lifting the veil — and yet speak from behind it. Inevitably.
But when a Sufi fakir goes to God as the lover — as man — considering Him wife or beloved, then the male’s expression can be direct, even shameless in one sense, which a woman cannot give. Therefore in Urdu, Arabic, Persian, the posture of love that appeared in a few words is unmatched anywhere. The sole reason was: treating God as the beloved, no inhibition remained — any song could be sung.
And it is the man who sings. The man is aggressive; he will not be coy. If he is coy, he is less than man. If the woman is not coy, she ceases to be feminine — her beauty is in modesty. In unabashed aggression lies the valor of man.
The devotee may regard God as beloved or as lover — two forms. The Sufis chose God as beloved; the Hindus chose God as lover.
There are still more forms of love — for love has many forms. God can be mother, God can be father, God can be son — all these forms have been chosen. If God is mother, the stream of love will have another mood. A son loves the mother, but that love has another hue, another gait. One may love God as father too.
But one point is certain: whatever the relation, the devotee will seek relation — for relationship becomes the path of his love. This does not mean the devotee does not attain unity. He attains unity — through the density of relationship, through intimacy, through utter nearness.
And the truth is: all our other relations in life only deceive us that we have become one — we never do. No husband becomes one with a wife; no son with a mother; no friend with a friend. For a fleeting moment, an illusion happens. It seems we became one — but before it is felt, separation has begun. Only with God — even in duality — unity is established; and then it does not break.
Therefore bhakti is the eternity of love; the ultimate height of love. And the pain of lovers in the world is not because of love; it is because what they seek from love can be given only by devotion. What they want from love, love cannot give.
From love you can receive only a moment’s relationship; not eternity. Whenever one asks eternity from love, suffering begins. Eternity is available through bhakti — a duality within which Advaita can be established forever. All our other dualities are such that if even a glimpse comes, it is much — a glimpse is enough, and not to be condemned, for perhaps it becomes the hint to rise higher. But he who tangles in the glimpse is lost. The devotee’s search is of love.
Krishna says: and there are third ones too, who worship me in many ways. These third are fundamentally related to action.
These are the three parts of the human mind: knowledge, feeling, and action. Knowledge lives centered in the head; feeling lives centered in the heart; action lives centered in the hands.
Consider Jesus: he says, if you come to the temple to pray and remember that your neighbor is ill, leave the temple and go serve the neighbor — that is worship. Jesus says: service is religion.
Therefore Christianity gave birth to a wholly new genius in religion — the genius of service. And the service Christians have done, the rest of the world put together has not; nor can they. Because the entire Christian vision stands on a deep feeling that action itself is worship. Forget God — it will do; do not forget action. The knower will say: forget action — but do not forget God.
This third path — many of us are of the type whose center is action; only through doing will they attain. If they are told ‘sit quietly, be still,’ they will become more restless. Many people get into difficulty for this reason. Therefore I said earlier: if the right choice of path is not made, we suffer unnecessarily.
Someone reaches a monk, a sannyasin. The monk explains: sit silently, sit absolutely immobile for an hour. He cannot sit silent for a second — an hour! For him it becomes so painful that by the end of the hour he feels all the problems of the world have descended upon him. He is peaceful only when he is on the run.
Hence often people feel that when they sit to meditate, their restlessness increases. It means their type is not the meditation type. For them action will be the door to meditation. Meditation cannot be a direct door. They need some action in which they can be totally immersed — so immersed that the doer disappears and only doing remains. It may be anything — painting a picture, sculpting, massaging someone’s feet, digging a pit, planting a garden — any action which becomes worship.
But if you do not know your type precisely, you will remain in trouble. One difficulty necessarily arises because all types of people have realized God. One Chaitanya realized by dancing; one Buddha realized without moving a limb. Chaitanya attains through dance; Buddha through utter stillness.
By chance, if you pass by Buddha, you will attempt to sit silent without thought. Or by chance, if you pass by Chaitanya, you will attempt to dance like him. But first know clearly: what are you? What is suitable for you?
I have experienced this: if your type is known precisely, sadhana becomes so simple it is hard to calculate. If the type is not known, sadhana becomes needlessly difficult. And remember: there is no way to reach by another’s type. You can lose lifetimes if you do not recognize what is right for you.
So Krishna says: there are third ones, worshipping me in many ways. But whatever the worship, whichever the path, whatever the method — however anyone moves, one thing is certain: whether it be shrouta-karma — the Veda-ordained rites — deep within, I am that. Whether it be yajna — in the flames of the yajna, it is my fire. Whether it be oblations to the ancestors — I am the Great Ancestor. I am the father of your fathers, for I am at the root of all births, all creation. Whether they be herbs, plants, someone worshipping with leaves and flowers — I am that. I am mantra, I am ghee, I am fire, and I am the act of offering itself.
This sutra says only this much: do what you will — if with devotion and in my remembrance you do it, you will attain me. Whether you pour ghee into the fire — if with devotion, remembering me, feeling my presence, and for my sake you pour, then the ghee is me, and the fire into which you pour is also me. But remember the condition, otherwise the ghee will be wasted — the fire will die soon.
If worship is within, then whatever you do, from there you will find me — because I am everywhere. And if worship is not within, then surround yourself with everything — you will not find me, because you will not find me anywhere.
Worship is the eye. Worship is the essential key. Therefore what you do is not the question. How you do, from what heart, from what soul — that is the question.
We forget this. So a man says, ‘I am doing puja.’ Puja becomes an outer act. The act is completed; the act touches him nowhere. Not a single drop of that act enters the inner being.
Then, doing it daily, by repetition, it becomes habitual, mechanical. Just as you drive a car. While driving you no longer ‘do’ the driving; the driving is done. Until the driving has become automatic, you should not be licensed, because it means there is still danger — mistakes can occur.
Your driving becomes skillful the day you can forget it. Now you may smoke, hum a song, listen to the radio, gossip with a friend; do anything — the robot part of the body, the mechanical part, will go on driving. Your attention is needed only when suddenly an accident threatens; otherwise the car runs on. You will turn left or right, arrive before your house, into your garage — without doing anything consciously.
In our bodies, in our minds there is a part scientists call the robot. They say we can do so many things because there is a mechanical part to which we delegate skilled actions. Then it goes on doing. We are needed only when something unprecedented comes up; the servant asks, ‘Master, how shall I do this? It is new — there is no prior pattern.’
On the road, when an accident is imminent, the master is needed. The robot calls, ‘Come quickly — I have no training for this. And how can one practice accident? By definition it is the unforeseen.’ So this part exists within us.
But remember, this is the difference between driving and worship: one who hands worship over to the robot — his worship is futile. You may delegate all other work to the robot. Driving must be given, otherwise you can do nothing else. Eating too. The typist gives typing to his robot. We delegate tasks so we can be free. But worship is utterly different. Worship cannot be done by the robot. You must do it — and take care it never becomes mechanical. The day it becomes mechanical, it is useless.
Worship means: any act done in the constant remembrance of God — a constant remembering. Any act that keeps the remembrance of God unbroken is worship.
And Krishna says: then it may be anything — a yajna, a shrouta-rite, fire, oblation, mantra, tantra — whatever — I shall meet you within. Come from anywhere; you will reach me.
Only one thing keep in mind: once worship becomes mechanical, it dies. Our condition is such that there is no question of it becoming mechanical later — we take it as mechanical from the outset. A father takes his son to the temple and says, ‘Do puja.’ The child is given no remembrance, only the ritual is taught. The child does not even know there is God; he doesn’t know what is happening. The father bows; the elders bow; he bows. This bowing becomes a robot. He will go on bowing all his life.
I see such people. Passing by a temple on the road, their head quickly bows — robot! If you ask, ‘What did you do?’ they will say, ‘Nothing.’
I know a friend. In the village, at any temple he passes, he offers salutations. He used to walk with me in the mornings. I said to him: do one thing — once, sit quietly before a temple for a couple of minutes and bow with awareness. That will be better than doing it in scattered pieces the whole day. This quick bowing seems without substance.
He understood. One day he did it. Later we went walking. A temple came; he became very restless. He had to hold his hands and feet. He walked ten steps with me and said, ‘Forgive me.’ I asked, ‘What happened?’ He said, ‘I must go back and bow. I am afraid. I have never done this in my life — this temple I never miss. I fear harm might come.’ I said, ‘Go.’
Now it has become exactly like a cigarette habit; if he does not smoke, he is uneasy. Bowing to the temple became a habit. He has to force himself not to bow.
I asked, ‘How many years have you been doing this?’ He said, ‘I do not remember. Since childhood. My father too did the same. Walking with him I learned. Any experience in life from it?’ He said, ‘None.’
He is fifty. Perhaps forty or forty-five years he has been doing it. No experience — and forty-five years have gone in bowing before temples. The prostrations are wasted; the prayers futile. It has become mechanical. A compulsion. A part of the robot — it has to be done; he will go on doing and die.
Worship cannot happen like this. Worship means: mindfully — with remembrance. Any act done remembering God is worship. If you are digging a pit and, remembering God, you dig; the soil is not being taken out — it is God who is being brought out — then prayer has happened, worship has happened. In that pit too you will find the same. If you are massaging a patient’s feet and the patient disappears — only God remains — the feet in your hands are God’s feet; with remembrance, God’s feet begin to be pressed — you will find God in that very patient. Where is not the question; how is the question.
So Krishna says: I am everywhere; I am hidden in all. Come from anywhere — all roads come to me. Only keep me in remembrance — that is the sole condition.
Enough for today.
But do not get up. For five minutes, drown in kirtan. Make these five minutes worship. No one will get up; remain seated. And until the kirtan is complete, do not rise. Sit quietly in your place for five minutes.