Geeta Darshan #7

As the paths are many and the goal is one, so too the forms of the Lord are many; that which takes form is one. It is not that He can be seen only in one form. There is no limit to His forms. Whichever form one chooses to seek Him in, one can find Him in that. All forms are His. Whatever is, is only Him.

In this sutra Krishna points to many words. Those word-pointers are worth understanding; for through them the path of sadhana also opens wide. He says, Arjuna, I alone am the dhata — the one who holds, sustains — of this entire universe.

We are familiar with the word Dharma. Dharma means that which holds, that which sustains. Dharma does not mean religion. Nor does it mean sect. A sect is pantha, a denominational path. The root meaning of the word religion is that by which we are bound — religare — that which binds us. But India has cherished a precious insight: it does not think of Dharma as that by which we are bound; it thinks of Dharma as that on which we are poised, by which we are supported.

The word bondage is distasteful, ugly. Perhaps the West has looked upon religion as a boundary that binds; hence the West has also tried to be free of religion. That by which we are bound, from that we shall also want to be free. Bondage, even if it be of gold, will provoke rebellion.

Indian wisdom does not regard Dharma as a bondage; it sees Dharma as a liberation. Dharma is not a knot that fetters us; Dharma is a freedom in which we can be free. Dharma means that which has held us. We are not bound by it; we have issued forth from it.

There is a tree. Descend beneath the tree and you will see the spread of the roots. The tree could as well think that the earth is that which has bound it. And even in thinking so it would not exactly be wrong. For the tree can see that it is in the earth that its roots are entangled, and by which it is bound. The relationship between roots and earth can be seen as bondage. And the tree can also see: the earth is not my bondage; it is the earth on which I am steadied. Between roots and earth there is not bondage, there is a relationship of life.

If the tree looks and concludes, “I am bound by the earth,” then the effort to be free of the earth will begin. That very seeing will set the effort in motion. That very vision will be the beginning of escape. And the tree will be unfortunate. For as long as it is only an idea, there is no harm if the tree thinks, “I am bound by the earth; I cannot fly in the sky.” But the day the tree attempts to be free of this bondage, that day the tree will commit suicide by its own hands. For roots are not bondage, they are life.

Dharma means that which has held us. It is not bondage; it is the source of our life. Roots are not fetters; they are the life of the tree. And the earth has not tied it, it has given it life. In truth, it is because of the roots that the tree is able to spread into the sky. The sap, the life, the energy that comes through the roots becomes leaves and flowers blossoming in the sky. This journey of the tree rising toward the sky, the ambition to touch the heavens, is founded upon the roots.

And remember: the deeper the roots go into the earth, the higher the tree will rise into the sky. If the roots penetrate the very life of the earth, the tree will touch the sky. The depth of the roots will be the height of the tree. The roots are not enemies; they are not obstacles to rising high; they are companions, allies, in the tree’s flight into the sky. Without them the tree would not survive at all — what to say of flying!

Indian wisdom says: Dharma is that which holds us.

There is another delightful point here: if someone were to put you in bondage, it could not be done without your knowledge. And to put you into bondage would mean that once you were outside it, then you were thrust into it, and one day you might again be free of it.

Here take note of another sutra. The Indian vision is this: Dharma is that from which, even if we want to, we cannot be separate — there is no way. Even if we desire it, we cannot be apart from Dharma, because Dharma is the very ground of our life. Apart from Dharma, we simply cannot be; our existence would not be.

Just as a tree cannot exist apart from the earth, and a fish cannot exist apart from the ocean. For the ocean is not merely a medium in which the fish lives; it is its very life. The ocean has held it, birthed it, nurtured it. The ocean will absorb it back into itself. The ocean itself is running in the veins of the fish. Therefore it is impossible for the fish to live outside the ocean. It may survive for a little while — so long as the ocean that was within has not dried up. A tree too may remain green for a short while, so long as the stream of sap drawn from the earth still remains. Then it will wither.

Dharma is that from which we cannot be separate. It is our very soul. Therefore India’s second great definition of Dharma is by Mahavira. The Hindus have said: Dharma is that which holds. Mahavira has said: Dharma is our swabhava, our intrinsic nature. It is the same. For our nature is what holds us; and that which holds us is our nature, our intrinsic being; it is what we are.

So Krishna gives his first definition: he says, I am Dharma; I am the holder; I am that which sustains.

That which holds us — we may forget it, but we cannot be apart from it. We may forget it, but we cannot be separate from it. We can be in oblivion of it, but not cut off from it. For births upon births we may not remember it — that can be — but we cannot be different from it even for a single moment.

Hence, throughout the world Dharma has been understood in the language of learning; Dharma too is a learning, an instruction. India has not understood it in that language. For India, Dharma is not a teaching; it is a remembering. We can only forget it; we cannot lose it. And what is most near is the easiest to forget.

If a tree forgets its roots, it is not difficult to understand why. There are several reasons. First, roots are hidden in the earth. Wherever birth takes place, a hidden darkness is needed. Whether a child is born in the mother’s womb — a secret darkness is needed. And whether the tree is born in its roots — the hidden darkness of earth is needed. Wherever birth happens, such intimacy is needed that even light may not intrude. Such silence, such stillness is needed that even a ray of light may not cause a tremor.

With light, movement begins. Darkness is great peace. And that is why we fear darkness — because we do not want any peace. Whoever longs for peace will not fear the dark; he will begin to love it. The more restless one is, the more one will fear darkness, be frightened of it. I know people who cannot sleep in the dark! They will sleep only with a light on. This is the last limit of restlessness.

Roots grow in darkness, therefore they are hidden. Whatever is important is secret. What becomes manifest is relatively unimportant.

Remember, whatever is essential remains hidden. Roots are hidden; they are essential. They cannot be exposed. Branches are exposed; they are not so essential. We can cut the branches — new branches will grow. If a whole tree falls, new shoots will still sprout and a new tree will be born. For the life is hidden below. It remains untouched by blows. But cut the roots — the whole tree will wither and die.

Therefore where the formula of life is, life has kept it concealed. Roots are hidden; a tree can forget. It is very natural that the tree might not remember its roots. Flowers can be seen; branches can be seen. They are in the light; they spread into the sky; they are part of ambition. Birds come and rest upon the branches. Flowers arrive; the birds sing. In the morning the sun rises, winds pass through, storms come, rains fall, moonlight showers at night — everything happens upon the tree. The tree can get lost in all this and forget its roots.

But even when the tree has no remembrance at all of its roots, still the roots are holding it. When it has no memory whatsoever, when it never says a single word of gratitude to the roots, never turns back to thank them, still the roots are holding it.

So if a person is an atheist and denies God — it makes no difference; it is God alone who is holding him. And if a person forgets, and has no awareness of God — even then it makes no difference; it is God alone who holds him.

Krishna says, I am the holder; I am that which sustains. Whether one knows or not; recognizes or not; remembers or not; even if one denies — still I uphold all.

You can deny, but you cannot escape God. You can run — run as much as you like. It is as if a fish were to run from the ocean while still in the ocean, circling for miles only to find it is still in the ocean. So every person who flees God one day finds that that in which he was fleeing — that itself is God. Where is there any place to run to?

Therefore we have taken a most original, foundational definition of Dharma: that which holds us. And not only you…

Throughout the world religions have made man the center. Hence there are many religions that say animals have no soul, so they can be killed; trees have no soul, they can be cut; only man has a soul. Most religions are anthropocentric — they have made man the center.

Not so in India. India does not say, “That which holds man is God.” India says: that in which existence itself is gathered, that which holds existence — that is God. It is not only that God holds you; that which holds the tree is also God. That which flows in the river is also God. That which melts into fire in the sun is also God. And it is not only that which is pleasing to you that is God; that which is displeasing is also God. Not only nectar is God; poison is God too. For poison’s very being also needs His ground. Without Him nothing can be.

Understand it thus: by God we mean the essence of existence. Therefore God, for us, is not a person. He is not someone seated on a throne beyond seven skies, governing a kingdom. Our conception is not so childish. That is God for children — and beyond that depth children cannot go. For us, God means that in which all is flowing — all; both birth and death; creation and dissolution.

What will this mean for a seeker?

For a seeker it means: whenever you see anything, attend less to its branches and more to its roots. And whenever you see anything, pay less heed to what is manifest, and more to what is unmanifest. Less to what appears, and more to that because of which it appears. See a fish — remember the ocean. See a tree — let the roots be recalled. Always search for that which is hidden beneath and holds all together.

So Krishna says, I am the sustainer. And whosoever searches for Dharma reaches me.

I am the father, the mother, and the father’s father.

Strange words. For he says, I am the father! If he says father, he should not say mother too; yet he says, I am the mother as well! And even that might be acceptable; but then it becomes yet more illogical — he says, I am also the father’s father, the grandfather! What does he wish to convey? Let us try to understand it from a few angles.

You are born. You think there is a date of birth and there will be a date of death, and between the two you will be finished. But in this world nothing is isolated. Nothing is separate. Before birth also, you must in some form have been; otherwise your birth would not be possible. The world is a chain — every link is joined to the one behind it, and to the one ahead. What you call birth is only the beginning of one link; the previous link is hidden behind. What you call death is the end of one link; but the next link lies ahead. Nothing here is discontinuous. Life is a continuous chain, a flow.

If you want to seek God, you will have to see the flow. If you want to avoid God, keep looking at the person. If you look only at the person, you will not find God.

“I was born, I will die” — if this is life, there can be no inquiry into God. My birth then is meaningless, an accident — it seems I happened; and my death will be another accident. Beyond these two, what relation has my existence with existence as a whole? When I was not, the world was; when I shall not be, the world will still be. Then I am separate; my connections are broken.

And when I am not, flowers will still blossom. When I am not, spring will still come and birds will still sing. When I am not, streams will still flow and dance toward the ocean. Then there is even a kind of enmity between me and this world! For my being or not being seems to make no difference to the current of this vast flow. I am separate, a fragment.

This is the Western way of seeing — the person as a fragment. Hence in the West the way of looking at life has become one of struggle. If I am separate, life is struggle; if I am one with all, life will be surrender.

If I am separate from this world, and my birth is of no use to it — when I was not, what lack was there in the world? None. When I am gone, what lack will there be? None.

Then my being and the world’s being do not seem related. If they were related, when I was not, there should have been some lack; and when I am gone, there should remain a hollow that cannot be filled.

But it will not be so. Whether I am or am not, not even a whisper of difference will be heard in this vast flow. So I am one thing and this world another. And surely the relationship between me and the world cannot be of friendship and love; it will be of struggle and enmity. I must conquer the world so that I can live more. I must guard myself against the world so that it does not crush me.

The world appears utterly indifferent. You stand beneath a tree and it falls upon you; it does not even warn you to step aside! A storm comes and you may fall. The wind can destroy you. The ocean can drown you. The mountain can bury you. Existence all around seems to have no concern for you. There is a hostility; the world is out to annihilate you. So be ready to struggle with it.

Thus the West has found a language — the language of war, of struggle. Books have been written in the last fifty years in this idiom. Bertrand Russell too wrote a book called “Conquest of Nature.”

The word conquest belongs to the language of struggle and war. How can we conquer that which is our very life? How can we conquer that which sustains us? What struggle can there be with that? What struggle can a fish have with the ocean? What struggle can the roots of a tree have with the earth? It all depends on one’s vision.

So Krishna says, I am not only in you, I am in your mother, in your father, and in your father’s father.

He is giving news of the chain. He is saying: you are not only in you; you were in your mother; you were in your father; you were in your father’s father. You will also be in your children; and in your children’s children. This world will never be empty of you; it never was. This world has always been filled with you, and always will be. You are an indispensable part of it. Between the world and you there is a family bond. This world is not merely your neighbor; between the world and you there is the same bond as between mother and son, father and son. You are a link in it.

A wave rises in the ocean, for a moment dances in the sky, tries to touch the sun, and then falls. The wave can think, “I am separate from the ocean.” It can think so. For a moment it is separate. It appears distinct — leaping skyward, the ocean remains below; only the wave rises.

So if the wave gets the notion, the ego, “I am separate,” it is not altogether wrong. And when the ocean begins to pull the wave down, it seems to the wave that the ocean wants to destroy it, and the winds too want to break it; the whole world is against it, set upon destroying it — so it must fight! This too is logical. After the first conclusion, the second follows naturally.

But is the ocean eager to destroy the wave? How could it be? It is true that the wave subsides into the ocean; yet the ocean has no intent to destroy it. Because the wave does not know that it is a raised hand of the ocean, nothing else. It is a ripple on the ocean’s own breast. It is the ocean’s own chest. It is the ocean’s own ambition leaping up. It is not other than the ocean. Why would the ocean destroy it? The ocean itself is that wave.

Krishna says, I am the mother, the father, and the father’s father.

He is saying: I am the infinite chain of which you are a link. I am hidden behind you like your father; hidden behind you like your mother; behind them and behind them — always I stand behind you. You are my extended hand; you are my wave, my ripple. And not only you — your mother too; your father too; their fathers too.

Understand. One vision is to regard the person as a person, atomic, separate. Leibniz found a fitting word in the West — monad: a unit without windows or doors, closed on all sides.

We can take the person to be a monad: windowless, doorless, atomic, closed — a house shut on every side, no windows, no doors; sealed everywhere, no bridge to the outside; no conversation possible; no way to meet the neighbor; no hand to extend in friendship; closed on all sides. If each person is such a sealed atom, then the world will be a terrible struggle, and a terrible failure too.

Krishna says, the world and the person are not separate things; they are a long chain, in which each link is joined to the one before and the one after. The root of the tree is joined to the flower on the tree’s summit. If Krishna were speaking to a flower instead of Arjuna, he would say: I am within you, and I am within your roots. And I was within the seed from which your roots came. And the tree on which that seed ripened — that too am I. And the roots from which that tree arose — those too am I. Go back and back — I am your whole history, the whole history. I am your infinite history. All that has happened before — in that I was. And what is happening now is a connected limb of that.

Only when a person does not see himself as separate from existence does he enter into the experience of Dharma. If he sees himself as separate, the journey into adharma begins. When a person knows himself to be one with the world, instantly the wave spreads and becomes the ocean.

And would that I could see that I existed in my father, in my mother, in their fathers, their mothers, through infinite chains in some form! Then my birth is no longer some odd event; it becomes a part of a long continuity. Then my death too will not be death; for if my birth is not my birth, how can my death be my death? My birth is a part of a long chain, and so will be my death.

And then Krishna says a third thing: and the sacred Omkar, worthy of knowing — that am I.

He spoke of the past: that am I. The entire chain of the past — I am that, I am the past, the whole past. And immediately he speaks of the future: the Omkar to be known — that too am I.

The experience of Omkar is the ultimate, final experience of this world. It is the ultimate future — the last possibility.

So Krishna says, I am also the future. Not only am I your past, your father, your father’s father; all your possibility in the future — that too am I. What you can be — that too am I. What you were — I am that; what you are — I am that. What you can become — that flower which has not yet blossomed but will — that too am I. Not only am I this world’s past; I am its total possibility. Whatever can be — that too am I.

Because if Paramatma were only the past and not the future, He would be useless. The past has already happened; we have nothing to do with it now. Our hope lives only in what has not yet happened. If Paramatma were only our past, the future would be darkness. The past is gone, dead, done. Fundamentally, Paramatma must be our future. Only then can a meaningful hope be born, a meaningful longing — that ambition which longs to taste the ultimate.

Krishna says, I am also your future. And the last event that can happen in the future — he names it. He says, Omkar too am I.

Omkar is the name of the sound that showers when one experiences oneself as one with the cosmos. On the day the sky confined in form falls into the formless sky; on the day the small, limited wave dissolves into the boundless ocean — the music that rains that day, the sound that is experienced that day, the primal mantra that resounds that day — its name is Omkar. Omkar is the name of the music that resounds in the supreme silence of existence.

There are two kinds of music. One is the music we make — we must raise notes, awaken words, produce sounds. To produce sound means somewhere there will be friction. Clap both hands — a sound is born. Between two palms the friction, the conflict, produces sound.

So the music we know is the music of conflict. Whether lips strike lips, throat muscles strike within, or the breath from my mouth strikes the air ahead — sound arises out of collision. All our sounds are disturbances. Whatever we speak is a disturbance.

Omkar is the name of the sound that is heard when all disturbances cease, all clapping stops, all struggles fall asleep, when the whole world is absorbed in vast peace — even then, in that stillness, a sound is heard. It is the voice of silence; the tone of emptiness. In that moment, in that stillness, the sound that resounds is called Omkar.

Till now the sounds we know are produced sounds. There is a single sound that is unproduced — which is the very nature of existence; its name is Omkar.

Krishna says of this Omkar: this ultimate too am I. When everything is lost, when no note rises, when not a ripple of unrest remains, when there is not even the slightest vibration, when all is void — what you will hear even then, that sound too am I. Even when all is lost, what remains — that I am. Or say it thus: when all else is lost, I still remain. There is no way to lose me — he is saying this.

He says, there is no way to lose me. I cannot be annihilated, for I was never made. What is made can be unmade. What is united can be divided. What is organized can fall apart. But that which is from the beginning abides forever.

Omkar means the basic reality — the fundamental truth that abides forever. Upon it forms rise and fall, aggregates are made and scattered, organizations stand and collapse — but it remains. It simply remains.

The sound of that which remains forever, the music of that — its name is Omkar. It is the ultimate of human experience. It is the supreme experience.

Therefore do not think that by sitting and chanting Om, Om you will come to know Omkar. The Om you utter is only an utterance. It is a sound produced by you.

Hence gradually the lips must be closed — do not use the lips. Then chant Om within without lips. But even that is not the real Omkar. For still inner muscles and bones are being used. They too must be left. Do not even chant in the mind. Then a chanting will begin to be heard that is not your doing — you are the witness, not the doer. You do not make it; it is there; you only know it.

The day you hear within you that Om which you did not produce, which no one produced — it is happening; you are only knowing — it is happening every moment, every hour. But our minds are so full of noise that the subtlest sound cannot be heard. It is present every moment; it is the ground of the world.

Here one thing is necessary to understand. Western psychology, Western science, the entire Western inquiry have come to the conclusion that the ultimate ground of the world is electricity. Hence modern Western thought says: sound is not basic, electricity is basic; and sound too is a mode of electricity.

The East says something utterly different. The East says: sound — shabda — is the primal instrument of existence; and electricity is a mode of sound. The West regards electricity as fundamental and sound as a form of electricity; the East regards sound as fundamental and electricity as a form of sound.

Therefore in the East there have been those who lit lamps by sound, who sang a raga and lit an extinguished lamp. Whether the stories are literally true or not, the Eastern understanding is that electricity is a form of sound. If sound strikes in a particular way, fire should be kindled. If sound is created in a certain manner, lightning should begin to crackle in the sky. If electricity is a form of sound, then by the impact of sound-waves, fire should be born.

The future will decide which of the two viewpoints has possibilities. As far as I am concerned, I say this quarrel is as childish as the one about the hen and the egg. Some say the hen came first and the egg after; others say the egg came first and the hen after. Both are foolish. For whenever we say hen, the egg already precedes her; and whenever we say egg, the hen already precedes it.

It is better to drop the worry about which came first. Neither can be first. How could the egg be first without the hen? And how could the hen be first without the egg?

Perhaps the mistake is linguistic. The egg and the hen are not two things; they are two forms of one thing. We should say: the egg is the hen hidden; the hen is the egg manifest. Dividing them in two is wrong; with division, there is never a solution.

I feel the relationship between electricity and sound is exactly like this. Without sound there can be no electricity; without electricity there can be no sound. Why has this basic difference arisen between East and West? The reason is precious and must be understood. The difference is because the West conducted its inquiry by breaking matter; the East conducted its inquiry by breaking mind. Remember: in the West, matter has been analyzed; in the East, mind.

If you break matter, the final particle in your hand will be of electricity. If you break mind, the final particle in your hand will be of sound. Some day the final particle of matter and the final particle of mind will prove to be one, or two forms of the same.

If you ask me, I will say: the particle of matter is unmanifest mind; and the particle of mind is matter manifest. Even in the tiniest, the vast is hidden; and if the vast is to be manifest, it needs the support of the tiny.

By saying Omkar, Krishna says: I am that supreme existence whose only empire is the sound that was never born and never dies — the primal ground of existence. The ocean of that music is Omkar.

To reach it, remove all sounds from the mind. Drop one sound after another, one word, one thought after another, and bring the mind to such a state that it becomes soundless. The day you find the mind has become soundless, you will find Omkar has appeared. Omkar was resonating there all along — forever, from the beginningless. But you were so engaged in your noise, so busy with outer clamors, that you could not hear it.

When this disturbance is quieted, when your fevered, running madness settles, what has always been playing within begins to be experienced. That is man’s ultimate state, his supreme future.

Krishna says, I am Omkar. And Krishna says, I am the Rigveda, the Samaveda, and the Yajurveda.

There is a reason for speaking of the Vedas after Omkar. Krishna says: that supreme sound am I; and all the scriptures that lead toward that supreme sound — those too am I. The fingers that point to the moon — those too am I. For besides me, who could point toward my innermost form? Who could raise a finger toward me except me?

So Krishna says, the Vedas too am I.

Veda means all that has pointed toward Omkar. Veda means the whole knowing that has opened a path toward that supreme sound. He names three Vedas. Deliberately so. Because yesterday I told you, there are three types of men; therefore there will be three Vedas. If there are three kinds of minds, there will be three kinds of knowing, three kinds of pointers.

Krishna says, those three Vedas am I.

Whether one dissolves the doer through Karma, one enters Omkar; or through love drowns the lover, one enters Omkar; or through Jnana goes beyond duality into Advaita, one attains to Omkar.

Veda does not mean only those books that are known by that name. Veda means all those pointers that have ever and anywhere been available to mankind that lead toward Omkar.

Remember, Veda is a very wondrous word; its meaning is vast. Veda means knowing. Therefore Veda cannot be confined to any book. Wherever there is knowing, there is Veda. Wherever there is a pointer, there is Veda.

In Krishna’s time, when he said this, all the knowing then available had been collected in three books; hence he named the three. If Krishna were here today, he would not name only these three; the Quran would be included, the Bible would be included, the Zend Avesta would be added, Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching would enter. In the five thousand years since Krishna, whatever pointers have been made toward Omkar have become part of Veda.

Veda is a growing stream. It is not a limited book. Hence the Veda has no author. In each Veda there are the utterances of hundreds of rishis. Up to that time, whatever knowing the seers had, was collected. Then the doors of the Veda were closed. And the day the doors were closed, that day Hinduism became dead.

The door of the Veda should remain open. New seers should keep on happening. Their words should be gathered wherever they may be.

The Veda is not anyone’s personal book. This is delightful: the Veda is a collection of uncountable persons. Up to that time all who had known were collected. But then the door was closed.

When a religion is alive, it is not afraid; it sleeps with open doors. When a religion becomes weak, near death, old — it closes the doors and posts guards. These are signs of weakness. But the day the door is closed, knowledge goes on growing while the book stops. The book remains stuck. Something similar happened recently; it will help you understand.

The Veda of the Sikhs is the Guru Granth. In Nanak’s time, the utterances of the knowers of that time were gathered. No worry was made about who is Hindu, who Muslim, who Brahmin, who Shudra. It contains the words of Farid, of Kabir, of Dadu — whoever in that time had pointers, their words were collected.

But slowly the life began to fade. Slowly the doors began to harden. Then only a Sikh could be included. Then the tenth Guru closed the door. The religion had grown weak. The tenth Guru said: now nothing further will be added to this book. That day the book became old and died. For now there could be no growth. But up to the ten Gurus the book had been growing; things kept being added.

Knowing is a stream, like the Ganges is a stream. Suppose the Ganges were to say at Prayag: from now on no rivers or streams may join me — I am the Ganges now; I will not let any dirty drain fall into me. For what match is there between holy Ganga and some ordinary gutter that might fall into me and defile me!

The day Ganga says an ordinary drain will defile me, that day she is no longer Ganga. For Ganga means: that into which anything falls, becomes pure in falling. If a drain can make Ganga impure, then the drain is more powerful.

Whenever a religion becomes afraid and fears mixture and error, so it puts fences all around — that day the books are closed.

When Krishna spoke of the Veda, these three books were living. Now they are not. Their doors were closed. Had the doors remained open, the Veda would have gathered the whole world’s knowing.

As you must have seen, Veda was to India what the Encyclopaedia Britannica is today. Each year it must bring out new editions, for knowing grows and must be included. If knowledge increases daily, the encyclopaedia must be expanded daily. Old editions go out of date. If one day the editors decide: enough, we will admit no more knowledge — that day the encyclopaedia will be out of date, that day it will die. The Veda was our encyclopaedia. Whatever pointers were made toward Omkar, we gathered in the Veda.

So Krishna says, those three Vedas am I.

And, O Arjuna, the destination to be attained, the nourisher, the lord of all, the witness of all, the abode of all, the refuge, the benefactor, the origin and dissolution, the support, the treasury into which all dissolves, the imperishable, the seed-cause — that too am I.

There are three or four important points here; we should take them in.

Gantavya — the end, the final destination worth attaining — that am I. And if anything other than me seems worth attaining to you, think a little; it cannot be worth attaining. Whoever seeks to gain anything but the Divine is, in truth, not gaining but losing.

If you gain anything other than God, in the end you will find that you lost everything and gained nothing. Whatever else we collect does not become our wealth; it becomes calamity. Not a treasure, but a burden. Whatever we accumulate remains outside us. It does not become the growth of our life; it becomes merely a load upon life. And one day death snatches all. Death snatches all.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin lay upon his death-bed. The last moment had come. He opened his eyes and said to his wife, “My house on the seashore — I want it to be given to my friend Ahmed.” He was making his will.

His wife said, “To Ahmed? I don’t even like his face. Better give it to Rahman.”

The Mulla closed his eyes in pain. After a while he opened them and said, “Fine. My bungalow on the hill — I want that given to my elder daughter.”

His wife said, “To the elder daughter? She has enough! My younger daughter needs a house on the hill. Give it to her; that would be proper.”

The Mulla lay with eyes closed a little longer. Then he opened them and said, “My big car — my friend is dead; I want to give it to his son.”

His wife said, “I’ve had my eye on that for a long time. I can’t give it to anyone. It will be useful for my younger son.”

The Mulla then closed his eyes and said, “Let me ask one last thing: who is dying — me or you? At least have the patience to let me die. After that do whatever you wish. I know at least this much: when life itself was not mine, what is the worth of a will?”

Death snatches all. Yet even so a man wants to make a will — an attempt to keep his claim even after death. But whatever we gather, death will take away. There is only one wealth that death cannot take — the wealth of God, of the experience of the Divine, the wealth of that swabhava which is hidden within us, of that Omkar which is eternal and cannot be taken.

Krishna says, I am the destination; the lord of all, the witness of all, the abode of all. Where all abide — that I am. That which moves all — that I am. And that which sees all — that too I am. The refuge, in whom you may take shelter — that am I. The well-wisher; the origin and the dissolution. Your birth is from me, your nurture is by me, and you will lose yourself in me. The ultimate seed-cause of all — that I am.

Why is Krishna saying this to Arjuna? To say: Arjuna, do not unnecessarily bring yourself in the middle.

Understand this final sutra well.

He is saying: do not unnecessarily bring yourself in. I created, I sustain, I will dissolve; do not push yourself in between.

Arjuna says, “I do not want to enter the war, for it seems a sin to me.” Krishna says, “I am the lord, I am the witness, I am the maker — and you say it is sin! I am the witness — your final witness is I; whatever you will do, I will do it within you, whether you know it or not. And you say, ‘It seems to me a sin!’ You say, ‘My mind hurts; how can I fight my dear ones!’”

Krishna says, I am the basis of all, the father of all, the future of all — but why do you insert yourself in the middle?

The meaning is: the ego thinks itself to be the lord, the decider. The ego believes it will decide — and so will it act. The ego is not ready to surrender.

Surrender will be possible only when we see: I did not make me, nor am I sustaining me. This very word is spoken by my mouth; whether another comes is not in my hands. One breath comes; if another does not come, I have no way to bring it. I am so helpless, so powerless, so close to non-being. Yet I decide: I will do this, I will not do that; this is right, that is wrong. The ego wants to be the judge.

Krishna is explaining: if you look closely, above and below, in all directions you will find me overshadowing everything. It would be good for you to drop this proprietorship. This proprietorship itself is your misery and your sin.

There is only one sin — strengthening the sense of “I,” the ego. And there is only one virtue — melting this sense of “I,” the ego, continuously. Let there come a moment when I am not, when the sense of “I” is not — then whatever speaks in me, moves in me, rises in me, acts in me — that is Paramatma. That day there is neither my sin nor my merit. That day there is neither my duty nor my non-duty. That day whatever happens is spontaneous — as breath moves, blood flows, winds blow, the sun rises. That day there is no need of me at all.

Krishna is pointing Arjuna in that direction: understand a little. Drop the notion that you are the killer or the savior. Drop even the notion that it is upon you to decide whether this war is auspicious or inauspicious. Look around carefully. You are only a wave — risen for a moment, gone the next. I am the ocean. I tell you: you have arisen from me, you are sustained by me. I am still your lord, still your witness. When you were not, I was; when you will not be, I will remain. Look to me and leave the feeling of doership to me. Let me be the doer; you become only an instrument — a hollow bamboo. Let me sing the song; do not come in between. If you come in, that is your sorrow, your pain, your anguish.

All this is said to melt the ego. The ego is frozen within us like ice — frozen. It needs a little melting.

Have you observed? An iceberg floating in the ocean appears altogether separate from the ocean. Earlier I said, a wave appears separate. But the illusion of the wave cannot last long, for how long will a wave remain raised? In a moment it falls and is lost. But if a wave freezes into ice, the illusion can last long — until the ice melts. And if all around other waves have also frozen, the illusion can last very long indeed; for there is no warmth to be had anywhere. All around is only the coldness of ego; it freezes all the more.

We are just such frozen waves. And since all around others too are frozen, we keep giving one another coldness and keep freezing one another. Whether we know it or not, we are all engaged in freezing each other’s egos.

A father says to his son, “Bravo! You came first in school! Of course you would — you are my son!” They are freezing each other. The attempt is to freeze the son’s ego.

If the son does not come first today, the house turns sad. The mother is restless, the father looks defeated, the son is worried. What has happened? The ice began to melt a little. Our ego — “in our house no one has ever come second, and this son came second!”

Our education, our civilization, our culture — all try to freeze one another; to harden everyone inside.

If, when all the waves are busy freezing one another, who will remember the ocean beneath? That is why those who melted had to leave society: Buddha, Mahavira, Jesus, Muhammad had to go into solitude. The fundamental reason is simply this: you are all icebergs; to melt among you is very difficult — the temperature is not right. All are below zero. Even if someone wants to melt, it is difficult. People are everywhere who freeze you.

So Buddha or Mahavira has to leave society. There is no other reason. One must go alone — at least then one has to fight only one’s own cold, not everyone else’s. Alone, where there is no cold around.

I have heard: the fakir Bokozu was in the forest. News of his wisdom reached the capital. The emperor came to meet him. Since he was an emperor, he brought a gift — a priceless coat worth lakhs of rupees, set with diamonds and jewels; a unique garment, perhaps nowhere else on earth. The emperor had had it made with great care.

When the emperor reached, he found the fakir naked, leaning against a tree, seated upon a rock. The emperor bowed, placed the gift. The fakir looked and laughed. Then he looked up at the tree. Then he looked at the deer roaming nearby. Then he looked at the kites flying in the sky.

The emperor said, “What are you looking at?”

The fakir said, “I am looking to see how much trouble your coat will cause me. If you had given it to me in the capital, everyone would have praised it and said I had become very great — I received the emperor’s coat. But here there are uneducated animals, uncivilized — they know nothing. I looked up because those parrots are laughing. I looked at that kite — she will make fun. I looked at the deer — mischief is in his eyes. As soon as you go, they will all say: ‘Turned into a fool! How free he was, how blissful, naked! How free — the winds of God touched him directly! He put on a coat! And here there is no one to recognize diamonds and jewels. Even if I strut, before whom? If I walk proudly, where? If I try to strut here, the whole forest will laugh at me. Take this coat back, do me that kindness.’”

In the forest there is no one around to cool your ego; it will melt easily. That is why people have fled.

Krishna, to melt the ego, says, “All am I.” If you can remember this, Arjuna, then the idea that you are the center and everything depends upon you — that idea can drop. And unless it drops, a man’s eyes remain blind.

Ego is blindness. The moment ego drops, the eye of wisdom opens, and life as it is is seen for the first time.

Enough for today.

But no one should get up. Join in kirtan for five minutes. Only when the kirtan is complete should you rise.