Geeta Darshan #9

The mind divides outside—yet it divides inside as well. Whatever we know through the mind about the outer, that certainly gets fragmented; and because of the mind we become fragmented within too. It is necessary to understand this second aspect of the mind.

With the mind, no person is ever a single person; he is a crowd. Within, the mind is not one, it is many. Since forever man has believed he has one mind inside. It is not so. Within you there are many minds—a multi-mind. Now psychology accepts it: man is poly-psychic; there are many minds within, not one. And the many are there because wherever the mind places its foot, it splits.

Understand this—the fragmented condition of the inner mind must also be understood.

Perhaps you have never encountered any state of mind whose opposite tone was not present within you. If you have loved someone and did not, alongside, also hate that person—it is impossible. If you have had reverence for someone, and within, one part of the mind was not filled with irreverence—impossible. If you desired someone, and did not also wish to escape from that very desire—it will not happen.

Whenever the mind decides, it decides only in conflict; its opposite note is also present within. One whom you take as a friend—somewhere in the depth of some mind within you, you also take him as an enemy. That is why friendship so quickly turns to enmity. Otherwise, how could the person I considered a friend for fifty years become an enemy in a single instant? There is no device, no chemical process by which fifty years of friendship turns, in a moment and by a single word, into enmity.

And yet it happens. If you search deeply you will find: on the surface friendship was being made; within, enmity was also being nurtured. So in one moment friendship went down and enmity rose up. Only one pan of the scale became heavier. When we were placing friendship on one pan of the balance, we were already placing enmity on the other. It is only a matter of time and chance: the day the enmity pan becomes heavier, that day enmity will manifest. But with the mind no one can make anyone a friend with an undivided feeling.

The mind is, in a sense, a democracy. The mind is parliamentary. Whatever decisions are made within it are made by a majority, but the minority keeps standing in opposition. And there is no certainty that the member who voted in favor today will do so tomorrow. Inside the mind too there are party-hopping members; they switch sides.

So whatever decisions we take with the mind are decisions of the major mind—the majority within says, fine. But the minority waits: how long will it be fine? Time will come, the situation will change, and we will break it. Hence our mind never attains a single tone—nor can it. The very mode of the mind’s functioning is duality.

Kierkegaard has said—and of the few who have descended into the depths of the mind, he is one—that with the mind there is a continuous dialogue, a conversation in which the mind keeps splitting itself into two and conducting a debate.

Whenever you think, your mind splits in two: one speaks for, one speaks against. All thought is the mind broken in two, conversing. It is a game you play inside—this side too, and that side too.

What are the consequences of this splitting within the mind, and of the world outside also splitting into two? The first consequence is that we cannot have the vision of the One in the world—the One that is hidden in all. And when there is duality within, we cannot have the vision of the One within either—the One that is present.

So whether someone sees the One outside, the condition will be the same: see without the mind. And whether someone sees the One within, the condition is still the same: see without the mind. And when the inner One is seen, the division of inner and outer also drops—because that too is the language of two. Inner and outer—this too is the language of duality. When the inner One is seen, both inner and outer are lost; only the One remains. When the outer One is seen, still only the One remains; the duality of inner and outer is lost.

In brief: the whole journey of religion is the journey of losing the mind, and the whole journey of the world is the journey of empowering the mind. The world means strengthening the mind; religion means dissolving the mind. Religion means attaining such consciousness where the mind is not. And the world means attaining such a mind where consciousness is not—the mind remains the mind alone, and the soul is not seen at all.

It happens. Sometimes by a river you may have seen a flood of leaves come, moss spreads—an entire cover. The whole river gets covered; nothing is seen, not even a particle of the water beneath. Leaves spread over the river’s breast, and the river hides within.

Just so, the mind can spread so much that the Atman is no more visible at all. The river is fully there; there is but the slightest thickness of a leaf between. How thick is a leaf? And yet, nothing is seen—it is veiled.

The world means: the mind remains the mind alone, and the soul shows no sign at all.

Do you have any sign of your soul?

Do not say, merely to pacify the mind, that yes, you do. Knowing the Atman is not easy. Because all our effort is to strengthen the mind. These leaf-like thoughts are what we keep feeding with power, and we spread them. Still, we believe there is a soul. But that belief itself is a thought of the mind—a leaf of the mind.

We believe there is a soul. That too is because of the mind. Therefore that belief never becomes complete; a small inconvenience comes, and doubt arises—does it exist at all?

Today a friend wrote to me. He is a retired ICS officer—an educated man, a great devotee. He has cancer now. The doctors have given up: there is no treatment—death must come. Only time remains to be waited for. Today, tomorrow, any day he may die. It may take a month or two.

He wrote: my whole devotion is lost; I have no trust left in any God.

The cancer has not spread only in the body now; it means it has reached the soul. This cancer is no longer a bodily disease; it has spread to the soul.

He wrote: earlier I had trust.

And I know he did. Two years ago when I told him that such trust is not of great value, a small thing will break it—because it belongs to the mind—he was unwilling to agree; he insisted, he was angry: Why do you not trust me when I say I have trust?

I told him: I have no difficulty in trusting you; I have nothing to lose or to gain. And yet I tell you this trust is of the mind. It is not experience; it is a thought. And the mind makes such thoughts because it has its own fears it wants to hide. The mind knows death will come, and fears it; so it believes in the Atman—that the Atman is immortal. The mind fears that I am alone in the world; so it believes in Paramatma—that there is a support.

Now all that has been uprooted, because the physicians say nothing can be done. The temple’s worship and prayer can do nothing; saints’ prasad can do nothing. All trust has broken.

Precisely for this reason it was there, and for this reason it has broken. That for which it was kept is not happening: God is not supporting; death draws near. It was out of the fear of death that God was believed in; out of the fear of death the soul was believed in. Now death is coming, the fear stands before him. How to believe in that God now? How to believe in that soul?

The mind believes either due to fear—or due to temptation; fear and greed are two sides of one coin. The mind may also believe because there is temptation in believing in the Atman—of heaven, of moksha; temptation in believing in God—of his darshan, of his bliss. The mind can believe for this too.

But whether greed or fear, the mind’s belief is trust placed upon the floating leaves; there is no glimpse of the living current below. That living current we will know only when we step out of the duality of the mind.

Whatever the duality—of greed or non-greed, of fear or fearlessness; of truth or untruth; of life or death—makes no difference: the language of duality is the language of the mind.

In this aphorism Krishna says: those who practice with desire, who ask for pleasure, they return again and again. Because to pursue pleasure is to refuse suffering, to accept only joy and reject sorrow.

Duality has begun. There is something we say we do not want; and something we say we do want. We have made a division. We have not accepted life as indivisible. There is no total acceptability—no acceptance of life in its wholeness as it is. We discriminate: we are okay with this aspect of life; if life gives joy we are okay; if it gives sorrow we are not.

But the difficulty is: sorrow is the shadow of joy. Someone is pleased with me and says, Come home—but do not bring your shadow with you; you are invited, welcome, but leave your shadow behind.

At most I can hide my shadow behind me; how can I leave it? I will come in such a way the shadow does not fall in front, it stays hidden behind. And when I step into the house, the shadow steps in too—because the shadow cannot be cut off.

Sorrow is the shadow of joy. Whoever asks for joy asks for sorrow too. Not knowingly—no one asks for sorrow. And yet whether he asks or not, in asking for joy the invitation to sorrow is included. Sorrow follows behind; joy is seen ahead. When we meet, in a little while the joy disperses and the ashes of sorrow are left in the hand.

Again and again we have this experience. Wherever we clench our fist upon joy, in the end we find sorrow remains in the hand. Wherever we weave dreams of joy, there we find that except sorrow, except sorrow-dreams, nothing comes to hand. Wherever we go in search of the flower of joy, the thorn of sorrow pricks us. Yet the mind keeps asking for joy—and the more forcefully it asks, the more forcefully sorrow arrives.

We may change the content of our demand—people do. They give up asking to build mansions, to expand big shops, to gain big positions and wealth. But the mind does not change. Then it begins to ask for the same pleasures in heaven, in the hereafter.

So Krishna says: and having enjoyed that vast heaven-world, when the merit is exhausted they attain the mortal world again. Thus, those who take refuge in the sakama karma spoken of in the three Vedas, desirous of enjoyments, they obtain repeated coming and going.

The Vedas will not be able to help; Krishna will not be able to help; no one will be able to help—if your demand is wrong. This world moves by its own laws. If you have asked wrongly, you will get the wrong.

You will say: But we asked for joy! Yet to whom will its shadow belong? To you as well. Look in totality. The mind splits—and so joy appears separate, sorrow appears separate. Understand a little and look without the mind; then you will come to know they are not two. Only due to the mind do they appear two—they are one.

In what do we find joy? And in that very thing we can find sorrow—and in truth, we do find sorrow. Have you ever received sorrow from anything in which you had not first found joy? Where joy is found, there sorrow is found; in what joy is found, in that sorrow is found. From whom you tie expectation, from that very source expectation breaks. From whom you fasten hope, from that very source grief ripens. The seed is one; yet we fail to see—and birth after birth this story keeps repeating. This to and fro goes on.

Where does the difficulty lie? It lies in the mind’s way of seeing. The mind, when it sees joy in something, has sorrow as the hidden part—it is concealed behind; the mind cannot see the whole. When it sees joy, it declares: here is joy. Sorrow is not seen—it remains veiled, opposite, not even coming into thought. And when sorrow appears, then joy is veiled, not seen.

This incomplete mode of seeing—because of it the one, integrated truth appears to us split in two. Can we see life’s truth whole, without the mind?

Whoever has tried to see has had to drop the mind. To drop the mind means to drop desire, because the mind is an expansion of desire. Mind is vasana, mind is desiring—this I must have, and this, and this, and this! And the difficulty is: if it is not had, there is sorrow; and if it is had, there is still no joy. If it is not had, there is the sorrow of lack; if it is had, there is boredom, weariness.

Is there any joy you have known which, once had, does not bore you? One from which boredom never arises?

The poor man’s sorrow is of absence; the rich man’s sorrow is of attainment. The poor man suffers from what he has not gotten; the rich man suffers from what he has gotten.

What is Buddha’s pain? That in all he attained there is no joy. He leaves home and runs. All the most beautiful young women of that region and age were available to Buddha—he fled, frightened. What is Mahavira’s difficulty? All is attained, yet joy is not seen—so he goes out to beg on the road. The rich man’s sorrow is that what he wanted he has gotten; the poor man’s sorrow is that what he wanted he has not gotten.

The sorrows of poor and rich are different, yet there is no difference in sorrow—they are two ends of one thing. The poor stands where once the rich stood; the rich stands where the poor, if he keeps striving, will some day stand. But both are unhappy.

The poor sees only that things are not there, hence he is unhappy; he does not see the other side. The rich sees that things are there, and he is unhappy; he does not see the other side either. And we remain eager to change sides. So the poor is ready to become rich; and many times the rich have been ready to become poor.

In the end the sons of the rich—Buddha and Mahavira—left everything and stood as beggars. What is the reason for going to the other end? Only this: from whatever we possess, sorrow begins to arise. The farther it is, the more the flavor of joy appears; the nearer it comes, the more sorrow reveals itself. Whatever comes close begins to hurt; whatever is far seems pleasing. Because it is far—so it cannot give, it can only promise an aroma. If a person now were to receive, right this moment, all he has ever desired, there would be no one more miserable than him in the world.

We hear of the Kalpavriksha in heaven: one sits beneath it and whatever he wishes is granted. Perhaps we think, How could those who sat under it not attain joy? I tell you a secret: if ever you find that tree, do not sit under it by mistake; otherwise no one more miserable than you will exist. For joy abides only in the hope of what is not yet attained—and only until it is not attained. When it is attained, sorrow arises.

So the glow we call joy is the glow of desire. As long as desire is unsatisfied, there is the glow of joy; when desire is satisfied, all falls apart. Yet man keeps desiring! He will want fame, not infamy; joy, not sorrow.

But whoever wants fame will surely get defamation—it is its shadow. Whoever wants profit will fall into loss—its shadow. Whoever is enamored of life will be frightened by death—its shadow. If you want to be free of the fear of death, you must be free of the infatuation with life. And if you want to be free of falling into sorrow, you must drop the attraction to joy. The one who drops the attraction to joy—no one can make him unhappy. And the one whose ambition for honor is gone—he cannot be insulted.

My insult can be arranged only by me; you cannot do it. If I crave respect, I can be insulted. If I want fame, defamation can be done to me. If I want praise, then I can be abused. But if I do not want praise at all, then your abuse becomes utterly futile—of no value. Because if I do not want something, what will you gain by taking it away? If I want honor, I should be ready for dishonor; and if I am not ready for dishonor, then I must drop the very idea of honor. Then no one can dishonor me. There is no way—I am outside.

So Krishna says: those who, out of desire for pleasure, engage even in religious practice may deceive themselves as much as they wish—they will return. However great a pleasure they attain, merit will be exhausted; the moment it is attained, it begins to be spent. The price is collected, the labor done; the fruit has come to hand—then even heaven grows stale.

I have heard that even the gods of heaven begin to long for earth. The Puranas tell: the gods grow bored with the apsaras, terribly bored. They start craving earthly women. Pururava’s tale says he asked leave of heaven: let me go to earth, so that I may love some earthly woman!

What happened to Pururava? Here on earth people are mad for apsaras; even here women try to adorn themselves like apsaras—though the attempt fails. But what happened to Pururava—that leaving apsaras he wished to come love an earthly woman? In heaven—so the stories say—no woman grows old; their age stops at sixteen. Men want this so much, write so many poems; women try so hard—after sixteen their age should not increase! They try a lot—yet here all grows older. There, it never grows older. Why did Pururava get bored?

Even if everyone’s age were to stop at sixteen, it would become tiresome; it would become unnerving. A flower that never withers would begin to look like plastic. A flower that never withers looks plastic. So apsaras must have appeared utterly plastic—paper-like. They do not wither; no sweat comes; age never declines; tears never fall from the eyes; and the smile on their lips stays stuck, like the smile stuck on politicians’ faces—it never leaves. Even when apsaras sleep, their lips keep smiling. That smile too becomes unnerving, tasteless.

Pururava was alarmed. He said: grant me leave to go to the earth, to love a woman who also grows old, who also weeps; on whose body sweat also comes; in whose life there are all the ups and downs—so that I may taste some reality; here all has become paper.

Even attaining heaven, vasana will not be exhausted; it will find new dimensions—new worlds to explore, new places to search. And then what is attained—even heaven, even pleasure…

Psychologically, heaven means: whatever pleasure is attained begins, the very moment it is attained, to wane. Whichever peak we reach, the moment we arrive the descent begins.

Krishna says: back he will return—the one who practiced with desire. Even one who wanted and asked for Paramatma through desire will get pleasure, but he will return.

And remember: one who returns after knowing pleasure falls into great sorrow. Have you seen—walking on a dark night, silence, darkness on the road—and suddenly a car passes; bright light flashes into your eyes. The car passes, and behind it you experience a darkness greater than before. The darkness is the same, but your eyes have changed—your eyes have tasted light; now darkness will seem denser.

So whoever goes to heaven and knows pleasure, upon falling back he experiences a great hell below. To know pleasure is a costly bargain; the fall will happen. And when the mind falls back, everything becomes sorrow—everything. The mind becomes filled with a stronger demand for pleasure, and everything saddens; everything hurts.

Krishna says: such a person’s coming and going continues. He wanders in a circumference, like a spoke on a bullock-cart wheel: it rises, then goes down; rises again, then goes down.

Samsara has been a very significant word for us. Samsara means the wheel. The wheel that keeps turning: what is up now in a little while comes down; what is down rises. And the wheel goes on. And the one below keeps hoping to come up; and even before he fully comes up, the going down begins—because the wheel turns. The one above, however hard he tries to remain above, cannot—he must descend.

Krishna says: even if heaven is attained through desire, return will happen. No attainment of desire is real; no attainment of desire is the truth; no attainment of desire is more than a dream. The dream will break. However long a dream may be seen, it will break.

Is there a way for a person to get out of this dreaming and this turning of the wheel?

Krishna says: those who, with an undivided heart, abide in me, who constantly contemplate me and worship me with nishkama feeling—of those who dwell in me with perpetual oneness, I myself take care of their yoga-kshema.

There are three points to understand here.

First: those who worship me without desire. It is very difficult. This is the difference between upasana and vasana. Our upasana too is vasana. Even when we go to God, we do not go for God; the reason is something else: someone is ill, so he goes to the temple; someone is unemployed, so he goes; someone is poor, so he goes; someone childless, so he goes.

Whoever goes to the temple for any reason—he does not reach the temple. The body may enter within, the image may stand before him, but upasana is not possible. Where there is vasana, upasana is not possible.

Upasana means: to be near the Divine. And when I go near him to ask for wealth, then I am near wealth; how will I be near him? My asking is my nearness. That which I want is near me; and the one from whom I want is only a means. If God fulfills, good; if he does not, I will not go there again. If someone else fulfills, I will go to him. Wherever my desire will be satisfied, there I will go. If God can, I will try him too. But God is not part of my desire; my desire is something else.

Ramakrishna once said to Vivekananda. He was in difficulty: his father had died; many debts were left; at home there was nothing but hunger. Roaming the streets hungry and thirsty he would come back; to save his mother from sorrow he would say, Today I am invited at a friend’s home; and he would enter home laughing, rubbing his belly, with a false belch.

Ramakrishna came to know. He said: You fool—why don’t you go into the temple and tell Mother? Tell her your trouble.

Ramakrishna said it, so Vivekananda could not avoid it. Ramakrishna sat at the door of Dakshineshwar and pushed Vivekananda inside: Go, tell the Mother—everything will be taken care of. Leave it to her—she will look after your yoga-kshema.

Vivekananda went in. An hour passed. Ramakrishna peeped—he was standing with folded hands; tears streaming from his eyes. Ramakrishna waited; another hour passed. He called out. Vivekananda came out, blissful; tears were smiling like flowers; his mind was full of joy; he came dancing.

Ramakrishna said: I told you before—why didn’t you just say it? She will look after all.

Vivekananda said: Which things will she look after?

Ramakrishna said: I told you to tell her there is nothing at home.

Vivekananda said: I forgot—it did not even occur to me. Her nearness was such that there was no space left between us for a third thing.

Ramakrishna said: Idiot—go again. It won’t be solved like this. Even Mother does not listen if the child does not cry. Go and tell her.

Vivekananda went again; returned again full of joy—but forgot again.

Ramakrishna asked: What is there to forget?

Vivekananda said: It is not an issue of forgetting. I come so close that there is no room, no space left for any other thing to enter between us.

Ramakrishna said: That is why I sent you again and again—to know whether vasana is still there, or upasana too can happen!

This is the difference between vasana and upasana. Vasana will be sakama—there will be something to ask for. Then what we ask for is supreme; the one from whom we ask is not supreme. We call him supreme because he gives. But the supreme for us is what we want.

Upasana means: a new world of nearness begins—where there is nothing to ask for, where mere nearness is enough joy; where no other demand remains. Upasana means: to be near God, and to take that nearness as the whole attainment—near enough that in that nearness all is attained—heaven, moksha; beyond his nearness there is no other desire.

Nishkama practice means: to want God for his own sake—not for any other reason.

In this world we want everyone for some reason. If I love a woman, it is because she is beautiful. But tomorrow she may not be beautiful—how will love remain? Because that beauty for which love was there is gone. Then only deceit will remain; I will have to drag it, I will keep saying all right, still there is love—but love will have disappeared, because it had a cause.

Someone is young, so I love him; tomorrow he will be old—how will love remain? Someone is intelligent, so I love him—a cause. Someone is wealthy, healthy, an artist—some cause.

In this world, all relations we make are with a cause, sakama. By habit, we also make relations with God on the same basis—sakama. That is why if you study the statements and songs of a sakama devotee about God you will find what he is saying. He says, Your eyes are very lovely—therefore; you are Manmohan—therefore; you created all—therefore; you are the sustainer—therefore; you are the support of the fallen—therefore; you have redeemed sinners—therefore. Behind everything is a therefore.

But if he were not the redeemer of sinners? If his eyes were not beautiful—if they were ugly? If he were not Manmohan—then what?

We try to relate with God on the same grounds we relate in the world—this is sakama.

Krishna is saying: whoever worships me in nishkama feeling—

Not for any cause—without cause. One who says: there is no reason, no why; without cause, your nearness is enough. How you are—no condition. What you will do—no demand. What you have done—no accounting. That you will give joy—not certain. That you will not give sorrow—not certain. None of this is certain. But to be near you, however you are—this itself is my joy. In your nearness all ends; I have arrived.

Therefore nishkama practice is very difficult; man cannot even think it. Someone wants because the mind is restless; because he is sorrowful; because there is distress, anxiety—without cause? The language of the causeless does not enter our understanding!

But remember: whatever is important in this world happens without cause; whatever is trivial is with cause. If love ever happens in the world, it is like upasana, not like vasana. Sometimes we love a person for no reason at all; just his nearness is enough. Not what he will do—no demand, no expectation. Just that he is, is enough. His presence suffices. What comes from him—no accounting. Without cause.

So in the world too, the flower of love sometimes blossoms without cause; prayer too, if ever without cause, becomes a flower.

When you go to the temple, leave all causes outside where you remove your shoes. Even if a shoe enters inside, the temple will not be defiled—but do not take causes within. If you take causes in, all is defiled. Leave the causes where you leave the shoes. Leave all causes, all vasanas there. Go into the temple only for the joy of being. For a little while be near him. Do nothing there. Nothing is necessary. Just sit silently. Simply sense his presence. And even sensing—what is there to do? Sit silently and sensing will begin. He is there, everywhere.

Once it begins in the temple, there is no reason it should not be in the mosque; once it begins in the mosque, no reason it should not be in the church; and once it begins somewhere, no reason it should not be everywhere. Anywhere—sit silently; he is present. Fall silent—feel his presence—and that is upasana.

And let there be no demand at all—not a grain. Not even a grain. Even if he becomes ready to give, even if he says, Ask—search within and find no asking. You will have to say: I am unable—there is no asking. Only in such a state will there be nishkama upasana.

And whoever worships without desire—Krishna says—I take care of both his yoga and his kshema.

Understand the word pair yoga and kshema.

Yoga means the supreme realization, the final realization of union with the Divine—becoming one with the whole, the event of the person dissolving into Paramatma—that I take care of. And kshema means: until that event happens, whatever is needed—I take care of that too. Kshema means: until yoga happens, whatever is necessary; if the body is needed, I will care for the body; if food is needed, I will care for food; if breath is needed, I will care for breath. Until that ultimate event, I will look after whatever is necessary—that is kshema. And when, beyond kshema, the final event happens—that too I will see to.

Krishna says: once you drop your asking, I am ready to take care of all. And as long as you keep asking, I can take care of nothing. There is reason I cannot: because as long as you keep asking, you consider yourself wiser than me.

Asking means this. A man goes into the temple and says to God: What have you done? You have given me cancer! What kind of justice is this?

He is saying: We have more intelligence than you! We understand this is unjust. What are you doing sitting there?

The friend I mentioned wrote in his letter to me: Is God just? If he is just, why do I have cancer? He wrote: I have never taken a bribe, never done wrong, never hurt anyone—then this is my fruit? Prove that God is just.

Surely injustice has happened—because cancer came! It means: this man says I have done no wrong—he is confident of this; he has no doubt that perhaps he did wrong. He has no doubt that he should not have cancer. He has no doubt that there is injustice in cancer happening; he does not think perhaps cancer is not such an evil that should not happen. One thing becomes firm: God is unjust. If today he prays and his cancer is cured, then he will believe. If it is not cured, he will not believe.

This is conditional, sakama feeling. A true nishkama devotee will say to God: Whatever you have given, I am delighted—if you shower flowers, and if you shower cancer. Whatever you give I am delighted—because what you give will be right. Wrong happens only when it goes against my desire. When I have no desire, there is no way for wrong to happen. Injustice appears when I thought I would get one thing and another comes. When I see that whatever comes is justice—then there is no question.

Krishna says: the one who leaves all to me—I take care of him. And the one who does not leave it to me, who takes care of himself—he must take care of himself.

We all, by taking care, get crushed beneath the load. We are like those village travelers who, riding a train for the first time, sat with their bundles on their heads—thinking, We have paid only for our own seat; and we also thought why put so much weight on the train—how will it run? They were kind men; they kept their bundles on their heads and sat.

We too keep our bundles on our heads. We think, Whether life runs or not—we must drag our own. And those for whom even their own is not enough weight—they drag others’ too. Some are not satisfied even with that; until they get the burden of a nation or two on their skull—until they feel fifty crore people live and breathe because of them—they find no peace. Unless they get such restlessness, there is no rest!

We all want to think: I am running the show. How can such a person attain nishkama feeling? Only he can attain it who knows: He is running it—then why should I, here and there, put up demands: this should be so, that should not be so.

I have heard: there was a Muslim emperor. He had a slave whom he loved greatly. Even his wife could not sleep in his chamber, but the slave slept there. Whoever else was not allowed where the emperor went—the slave went. However confidential the talk, even meeting another emperor—the slave was present. Deep friendship. When the emperor ate, the first morsel he gave to the slave.

They went hunting together and lost their way. Hungry and distressed, they stopped under a tree. There was a single fruit on the tree. The emperor plucked it. As per the usual, he cut a piece and gave it to the slave. The slave ate and said: Astonishing—such nectar fruit! Give me one more piece. The emperor gave the second; the slave asked for a third. Only one piece remained with the emperor. He said: Enough now! You have crossed the limit. If it is such nectar, let me eat one piece! The slave tried to snatch it: No, master—this fruit is such nectar, give me the whole.

The emperor said: This is too much—beyond bounds. You have eaten three pieces; there is no other fruit; we both are hungry; I gave you three pieces; I plucked it—and you won’t leave me even the last piece!

The slave said: No, I will not leave it.

The emperor would not agree. He put the piece in his mouth—it was pure poison. He said: Are you mad? You call this nectar!

The slave said: From the hand that has always given me sweet fruits—if I complain of a single bitter fruit, it would pour water over a lifetime of love. The question is not of the fruit—the question is of the hand that gave it. That hand is so sweet. That is why I insisted you give me this piece—I did not want you to know; for if you knew, complaint would arise. I did not want you to know—because if, for any reason, you came to know, there would be complaint. This little complaint, in a life of such love, would be proof of my small mind. This fruit was very sweet.

The emperor said: But it tastes bitter to me.

The slave said: Of your mouth I know nothing; but the hand from which you gave me—everything becomes sweet in that hand.

Nishkama feeling means: whatever God gives is his grace; I have no demand. And for all he gives I am grateful. There is no discrimination: grace for this and complaint for that. One whose mind holds complaint is not a theist.

I have only one definition of a theist: not the man who says God is; not the man who says he can prove God is; not the man who lives with the belief God is. A theist is one who has no complaint against existence. He may not even take God’s name—no matter. He may never raise the topic—no matter. He may not speak of God—no matter. But he has no complaint against existence, against life.

This whole life is a celebration for him—an outpouring of gratitude. This whole life is grace, a thankfulness. Every tone of his breath is filled with gratitude—for whatever is. He has not the slightest wish to alter anything.

Such a person, Krishna says, worships me in nishkama feeling. I myself look after his yoga-kshema. He need worry neither about yoga nor about kshema.

Here is something wondrous. Generally, when this aphorism is read, commentators find difficulty in kshema, not in yoga. They say: yoga is fine—God will take care of the final union—but this everyday life—this earning bread, making clothes, building a house, raising children—how will God do that? The situation should be the opposite. The small things—maybe God will take care of them; but the final state of sadhana, yoga—how will he do that? Yet no one thinks so.

We are all afraid of small things—that is why. Our gaze is not on the great.

Mohammad—whatever came to him by evening, he would distribute. Whoever offered, he accepted; by evening he gave it all away and slept a fakir. A fakir like Mohammad is rare.

To renounce all in one stroke is easy. Mahavira renounced everything in one stroke—easy. Mohammad did not renounce once and for all—he renounced every day; very difficult.

In the morning people brought, he accepted; by evening he gave all away; at night he slept a fakir. The command in the house was: not a single grain of rice should be kept back. For he who gave in the morning will give again tomorrow morning—and if he does not, that is his will; if he does not, it means not-giving will be more beneficial. By evening distribute all. He who cared today will care tomorrow; if he does not, it means he wants that today we remain hungry; it means that instead of food, hunger will be beneficial.

It went well. It was Mohammad’s insistence; no one stopped it. Then Mohammad fell ill; his final night came. His wife grew afraid. She thought: on other days all was fine; tonight, in the middle of the night, medicine may be needed. In the morning he will give—but at midnight! Out of love she kept aside five dinars—five rupees.

Mohammad was restless, turning; sleep did not come. It was midnight. He rose and said: It seems my lifelong rule has been broken; sleep does not come. I always slept; today I am like the wealthy—tossing. I, a lifelong poor man, never had worry; what is happening? I fear something has been kept aside.

The wife was frightened. She said: Forgive me—I made a mistake. I have kept five rupees—for fear you are ill; in the night medicine, a physician might be needed—what would I do?

Mohammad said: Even after a lifetime of experience that every morning he was present to take care, your wisdom did not awaken? And he who was present every morning—if needed, would he not be present at midnight? What experience have you that he won’t? Those five rupees—distribute them. Otherwise I will not be able to sleep. And this accusation at my dying moment—that Mohammad died with something held—that would ruin a lifetime of fakiri.

She went out. She was amazed—at the door stood a beggar. Mohammad said: Do you see? If the receiver can come at midnight, why not the giver? Midnight, darkness, no one stirring, not even a bird’s wing—and at the door a man stands with a begging bowl. Still your eyes do not open? Give it.

She gave and returned. Mohammad drew up the sheet—and his last breath left.

Those who know say: Mohammad’s breath was held back because of those five dinars. They were a snag, a weight, a stone that held him to the earth. As soon as the stone was taken off his neck, he spread his wings and flew on another journey.

Yoga-kshema I myself take care of, says Krishna.

With such a feeling—then whatever happens is kshema, remember. It does not mean such a person will never face trouble; it does not mean a check will arrive every morning. No such meaning. If you understand rightly, it means: whatever comes to hand in the morning—that is his kshema. Whatever comes—hunger, trouble, joy, sorrow—whatever—that is the kshema given by God. He will accept it as his kshema and move on.

And yoga is an even more difficult matter. Krishna says: that too I will take care of.

Meaning what? For such a worshiper there is no need of sadhana or of means; no need of austerity or of sacrifice; no need of any method or arrangement. To meet God, such a person need do nothing. If nishkama upasana is his feeling, I meet him myself. The work of meeting—I take care of it.

There are many sweet stories—bringing out deep secrets of the human interior—of God coming, seeking the devotee. These are symbolic tales; we often misunderstand them. They point toward a fact.

If the worshiper lives in nishkama feeling, he does not even need to go in search—God himself comes seeking him. He will come. As rainwater runs into a hollow—though it falls on the mountain, the mountain remains deprived, already full—its ego strong. The hollow is empty, egoless—the water runs and fills it. Just so, where there is nishkama upasana, God runs and surrounds the heart.

But not even this much vasana is needed—not even this—that he come, that he meet me. This last hard point must be taken to heart. Because if even the devotee says, Come to me—that is vasana.

The devotee says: You are already everywhere. Let me only become desireless—and you are here. Let my eyes open—and you are here. I am sitting with closed eyes—so you are not seen. The devotee does not say: Come. Not even so much vasana. He simply melts himself; with the fall of vasana, the I melts.

Vasana is the base of our ego. As long as we ask, I am. When I ask nothing, there remains no reason for me to be. I become as if not. A vacancy, a shunya happens. That shunya is upasana; that shunya is the presence of God.

Attend to this arising of shunya within the person when he is free from vasana. Attend to it, and there is no reason why those great words which seem to us empty should not become meaningful and alive.

God is an empty word for us. Nothing stirs in it for us. If someone says door—there is meaning; water—meaning; tree—meaning. When I say God—there is no meaning. With tree, a picture arises; with door, a sense; with horse, the horse stands. With God, nothing is formed.

God is not our experience—hence the word is empty. Horse is our experience—so when the word comes, the experience appears. God is not our experience—so the word is hollow. We listen; and listening again and again creates the illusion that we know the meaning.

Meaning lies in experience—not in the dictionary. The dictionary has meanings written; but meaning is in experience. And until experience happens, however many times we hear God, God, God—nothing will happen. From where will meaning arise?

So leave God aside—attend to upasana. Meaning will arise from upasana. Upasana is the real thing. Like telling a blind man: drop your concern for light—get your eyes treated. The day eyes are cured, light will be revealed. So I say: drop concern with God—concern yourself with upasana. Upasana is the eye. The day it opens, God will be revealed. He is here.

What is upasana? To continuously remember his presence—moment to moment—to sense it. Whatever happens, let him be recalled first. Whatever happens, let the first news be his. Whatever goes on all around, let the second memory be any other; let the first be his. On the road, if a beautiful face appears—let it be second; first let the news of him come. A flower seen blossoming—let it be second; first let his news come. Someone abuses—let the abuser appear later; first let his news come.

Your life will begin to change. Make his news primary—this is what I call smaran. Make his news primary. If you pass like a madman saying Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram—nothing will happen. Many pass thus. The question is not saying Ram-Ram, the question is remembrance.

Whatever happens—first Ram, then the other. Your whole life will change. If someone abuses, and first Ram’s remembrance arises, then answering abuse with abuse will become difficult—how? Ram has come in between; now abuse becomes impossible. Even death comes—first remembrance of Ram; then even in death the sting is gone. Whatever happens—Ram stands first.

This is what I call upasana. Twenty-four hours—rising, sitting, sleeping—the felt presence of Ram, of the Divine, of Paramatma. Slowly this becomes dense—so dense that everything else melts and flows away; only this density remains. Gradually all else is veiled—only the presence of God all around remains.

Then when you walk, God walks with you. You arise—God arises with you. You move—God moves with you. You sleep—in him you sleep. You wake—in him you wake. Then all around—only he. In every breath—only he. In the heartbeat—only he.

This is upasana. And there is nothing to ask. And the wonder is: the one who asks nothing—he receives all. And the one who keeps asking for all—he receives nothing.

A man full of vasana dies a beggar; a man full of upasana becomes an emperor—this very moment. Vasana is a begging bowl: ask and ask—it never fills. Upasana is to break the bowl and throw it away. Upasana is the news that he is ours—what is there to ask? He is within me—what is there to ask? And whatever he has given is the All—what is there to add?

Upasana means the experience of the supreme treasure hidden within oneself. Vasana means the memory of a begging bowl within oneself: I am a beggar’s bowl—let me keep asking.

Swami Ram went to America; he called himself an emperor. He wrote a book: Six Decrees of Emperor Ram. The first time people saw him in America, they were a bit surprised: his mind seems a little off! A fakir, wearing a loincloth—and calls himself emperor! And Ram would not speak without the word ‘emperor’: Emperor Ram went here; Emperor Ram went there; many people met there.

A man asked: You call yourself an emperor. Why? I see nothing that looks like emperorship. You are a beggar.

Ram said: Stay with me a few days; then it will be visible. Emperorship is deep—it is not visible from outside.

The man stayed a few days. Slowly he experienced that this man is indeed something rare. He never asked anyone for anything. He seemed to have no want. He lived as if the whole world were his—whom would he ask, why would he ask? He looked at the morning sun as if by his own order the sun had risen. He looked at flowers as if they were blooming by his command. He looked at people as if they were breathing by his permission.

On the seventh day the man said: It seems to me—at first I thought your mind was a little off; after seven days, if I remain longer I fear my mind may go off! You truly look like an emperor—and yet you have nothing! What is the secret?

Ram said: There is only one secret: we broke our begging bowl; we stopped asking. And from the day we stopped asking—the whole world became ours. And I tell you—on breaking the begging bowl I came to know I myself made the moon and stars. And the one who first pointed to them with a finger—that was I.

Ram added: But what you see in me—that I am not talking about. What I see within, that which is beyond me—I am talking of that. He is the Master. Now that I have known the inner Master—whom shall I ask?

Upasana gives such dense realization of God. Vasana gradually makes one meaner and meaner. Even Alexander—living in vasana—dies mean. The greatest magnate—living in vasana—dies poor. Vasana finally enlarges the beggar.

Do not ask. We have the word ‘prayer’; but we have asked so much with prayer that prayer has come to mean asking. We always ask with prayer—so prayer appears to mean: ask for something. Pray—means: ask.

Prayer does not mean asking at all. Prayer means attuning with that cosmic music—swaying with it, dancing with it—that surrounds us. Prayer is a merging. Upasana is the name of experiencing his presence.

And the one who is ready to experience him without asking—Krishna says—he does not return. He goes beyond the circle. He leaps out of the wheel. Let the wheel turn—he does not turn.

If you have seen how parrot-hunters catch parrots in the forest—then you know. They twist two ropes and fix sticks across in the twist. The parrot sits on the stick; by the weight it flips and hangs down. When he sits, the stick seems level between two ropes; when he sits, by weight it turns and hangs inverted; he is frightened and grasps the stick tightly. Now he hangs upside down; he fears that if he lets go, he will fall; and the catcher comes and takes him.

The stick does not hold him—he holds the stick. If he lets go, he will fly off at once. But he is afraid: if I let go, who will hold me? If I let go the stick, I am hanging upside down, I will fall, my skull will break. He hangs on for hours. Even if the catcher comes late, no matter—whenever he comes, he will find the parrot hanging.

In vasana, we hang just like this. And what we grasp—we think: if we let go, we will die. Who will take care? Perhaps Krishna said—and he must have had some relationship with Arjuna—so he said: I will take care of your yoga-kshema. On this side, if we let go our stick—we think, we will die; we will fall on our head, everything will break; no one will be there to take care. Hold tight!

Sometimes we pray: O God, make the stick a little bigger so we can hold properly; make my hands stronger so the stick does not slip. These are our prayers.

Our prayers strengthen our bondage; they deepen our worldliness.

Enough for today.

But do not get up. For five minutes the sannyasins will sing kirtan. Participate, and then go. Do not stand midway. If even one stands, it creates a disturbance for others.