Geeta Darshan #4

If Paramatma himself were to give his own introduction, it would certainly be a very difficult thing. Even when a man tries to introduce himself, it becomes difficult. And if Paramatma were to introduce himself, it becomes all the more difficult.

It becomes difficult, first, because even if Paramatma were to speak of himself, it would always remain incomplete; it can never be whole. Existence is so vast—and words fall so small. Even if the Divine tries to say it, he will find that what had to be said could not be said. What he wanted to convey slips away; and what is said brings news from very far away.

Krishna faces just such a difficulty. And whenever Paramatma has expressed himself through any person, this same difficulty has always arisen. We can understand Krishna’s pain. The examples he takes up, the supports by which he tries to explain, are very ordinary. But apart from that there is no device, no alternative. If one has to speak to man, one must speak in man’s language.

He points. They are no more than pointers. And the man who catches hold of the pointer will go astray. And our habit is to cling to pointers. We clasp mile-stones to our chest, thinking the destination has been reached. Yet every mile-stone is only an arrow pointing ahead, saying the destination is further on.

If I show the moon with my finger, there is great danger you may catch hold of the finger and think it is the moon. The finger is not the moon; yet the finger can indicate the moon. But that indication will make sense only to one who can leave the finger, forget it, and look towards the moon. If I raise a finger towards the moon and you think perhaps, since the finger is raised, there must be something in the finger—and you get stuck with my finger—then you will never reach the moon.

The finger points to the moon; it is not the moon. It has to be dropped; it has to be forgotten. Only when it is left far behind and the eyes are raised to the sky—there will be no finger there; there will be the moon.

So these things that Krishna is saying are fingers. Incomplete hints, partial. There is information in them. Whoever clings to them will be in danger. Whoever drops them, goes beyond them, rises above them—he may become capable of understanding the hint.

Last night also he gave some hints. One hint remained; let us speak of that too.

He said: Among men I am Purushatva.

Among men, Purushatva—not Purusha. What is Purushatva? This Sanskrit word is very precious. It is necessary to lift a few layers from it.

We all know that pur means city, settlement. Those who used the word Purusha said: this man is a city, a pur; and within it there dwells a master—that is Purusha. The one hidden in this city.

So Purusha does not mean what stands opposite to woman. Purusha does not mean male. Purusha is in woman too. The words woman and man, as we commonly use them, report on the city. The woman’s settlement is different, her body different; and the one we call man, his settlement is different and his body different. But within, the Purusha who dwells—the master who resides in the midst of the city—is one.

Therefore someone may feel Krishna has not mentioned women at all. He should have said who he is among women! It seems unfair. He speaks of all, and woman is no small event that she can be left out. In fact, compared to what we call man, she is even a greater event. In the creation of life, man is incidental; woman is fundamental.

But Krishna has not spoken of woman—knowingly—because in Purusha, woman is included. Had he spoken of the city, there would have been a distance between woman and man. He is speaking of the indweller, the one who abides in the midst of the city. In the woman, too, that Purusha is; in the man, too, that Purusha is.

Still he does not speak of Purusha; he says: among men, Purushatva. As when thousands of flowers are distilled and we get a little attar. Just so, wherever there are men, within them the Purushatva—the quintessence, the fragrance—that am I.

This, too, is worth pondering. For when we say man, a particular, a specific person comes to mind. When we say Purushatva, the universal truth comes to mind. When we say man, a boundary forms; when we say Purushatva, it becomes boundless.

In Greece, what Plato called the Idea, the archetype—Purushatva is an archetype, an Idea. When we say lover, a limit is drawn; when we say love, all limits shatter—it becomes infinite. When we say man, a line is drawn all around; when we say Purushatva, all spreads vast like the immense sky.

Purushatva has no boundary. Men will come and go, be born and pass away. Purushatva is eternal. Forms will change, houses will change, cities will arise and fall. Today you have one name, in the previous birth another, and in the next yet a third. So many notions of being this or that will arise in you. But within, that which is nirguna, that which is formless, is one.

For this reason he said Purushatva. When we speak of waves, there is always the fear the ocean may be forgotten. Krishna is saying: in the waves, I am the ocean. The wave may be visible—but it only appears; it is appearance, a mere semblance. The truth is the ocean beneath.

A delightful irony: go to the seashore and only waves are seen; the ocean is never seen. Often you say, “I have had the darshan of the ocean.” But that is wrong. You should say, “I have seen the waves.” The ocean is not seen; waves are seen. Yet you say, “I have seen the ocean,” with the sense that why count the wave! You did not even see the wave before it died, and another had already formed. In the wave that dissolved, and in the wave that formed—what was and is there, though you did not see it—still you report, “I have seen the ocean.”

Krishna is not speaking of the waves; he is speaking of the ocean. He is not speaking of men; he is speaking of Purushatva. Upon which the whole play is woven. One form, another form, a thousand forms does that Purushatva take, and still it is the formless. Innumerable shapes arise and dissolve, yet it remains without shape.

So—among men I am Purushatva!

In this sutra he says other things too, precious things. He says: I am the virya of the valiant—free of vasana, free of kama. I am the strength of the strong—without lust, without craving. I am valor—free of desiring.

A man, sunk in vasana, can perform great acts of bravery. But Krishna says: the virya, the seed-energy that arises within man, I am that only when there is no kama, no vasana there.

Let me remind you. Mahavira’s birth-name was Vardhaman. Later he was given the name Mahavira—“great warrior”—because of the very courage Krishna is speaking of. Mahavira fought with no one. Far from fighting, he placed his feet so softly that not even an ant be crushed. No rivalry with anyone, no competition with anyone. What kind of courage is this?

Look at Mahavira and you find nothing happening around him that tells of valor. He does not fight on battlefields, nor does he stand amidst swords and spears. How could he be a hero! Yet this land called him Mahavira. This land called him so because of this very sutra: there is no vasana—then a new flowering of virya has arisen. Let us recognize a little what that virya is like.

Mahavira undertook sadhana. He plunged into austere tapas. He forgot the world, remembered only himself. Naked, he would stand outside the village. People began to harass him.

One morning such an incident occurred. A cowherd brought his cows there to graze. Something urgent came up, so he said to the standing Mahavira: “Listen, watch my cows a bit, I’ll be right back.” He was in a hurry; he did not even care whether this naked sadhu said anything. Or he thought silence is consent—and left.

When he returned at noon, Mahavira was in another realm altogether. By then the cows, grazing, had wandered far away. He asked Mahavira much; Mahavira said nothing. Eyes closed, he stood, and kept standing. The cowherd thought: either this man is mad, or he is cunning. The cows have been stolen; this man’s hand is in it. Or he is mad, or deaf and dumb.

He went to search for the cows, roamed the forest, but did not find them. And when in the evening he passed by Mahavira, the cows had returned from pasture and were sitting by Mahavira again. Now his suspicion was certain. He thought: this man is dishonest. He deceived me. He hid the cows and now at night he will take them away.

He abused Mahavira. He beat him. He hammered wooden pegs into his ears. “So—you think you are deaf and don’t hear? Then we will complete your deafness!” He drove pegs into the ears. Blood flowed, Mahavira’s ears streamed with blood. He drove in the pegs and went away with his cows.

A sweet tale says: the gods were distressed and agitated. Indra came and said to Mahavira, “Forgive us! Give us permission so that we may protect you. Let this never happen again—else it will be our disgrace that while the good were upon the earth, pegs were driven into Mahavira’s ears. Permit us.”

Mahavira opened his eyes and said, “That cowherd came in his way to disturb me; you have come in your way to disturb me. Leave me to myself. Whatever is to be, let it be on me alone. Birth after birth I took many kinds of companionship; all proved futile. Now I am alone. Birth after birth I placed my hand upon many shoulders, hoping they would be companions; no companion ever became one. Now I am alone.”

This virya, this courage, will not be seen outside on any battlefield. Those who are brave in wars are children. Mahavira’s courage is this: he says, “Now I will not make companions. Now I am enough alone. Births upon births I made so many companions; all went in vain. At last I found I am alone. Now let me be alone. And one came to distract me in one way; you have come to distract me in another.”

Indra said, “Do not misunderstand us. We did not come to distract you—only to protect you.”

Mahavira said, “Whoever promised to protect me, whoever said they would protect me—soon they became my prisons. Whoever said they would protect, whoever said they would stand by me, be companions, save me from sorrow—at last I found they became my very cause of sorrow, the walls of my prison. No more. I am enough alone. Whether joy or sorrow, I am enough alone. Leave me to myself.”

Mahavira has said: there is only one courage upon this earth—the courage to be alone.

Even the bravest cannot be alone. At least he keeps a sword in his hand. Hence, if you see a sword in the hand, know that a coward hides within. Otherwise—for whom the sword? Mahavira stands naked; not even a stick in his hand.

Krishna says: where vasana has dropped, where kama has ceased—in that one I am virya. In him I am strength. I am his strength.

Understand one more thing. Wherever there is lust, to be “brave” is as easy as liquor poured into a man and sending him to fight. To be brave in intoxication is easy—because in intoxication one is stupefied. That is why, when sending elephants to war, they are given liquor—so that the thought of death does not remain, so that awareness does not remain.

Kama-vasana, too, is a poison—an intoxicant. When you are filled with lust, a man filled with lust can enter a burning house.

We have all heard the story of Tulsidas. A man filled with lust crossed a river by placing his hand on a corpse, mistaking it for a log. He never knew it was a corpse. He thought it a piece of wood and, using it as support, crossed over.

On a dark, rainy night Tulsidas climbed up by catching hold of a snake hanging from the eaves, thinking it a rope! A rope was seen; the snake was not seen. The eyes were blind. What else does lust do but blind?

One could say Tulsidas must have been very brave—he climbed holding a snake! But Tulsidas did not climb holding a snake—lust climbed holding the snake. And lust is blind; there is no bravery in it. Had Tulsidas seen the snake, he would have fled. It did not appear—his eyes were blind. When his eyes opened, then he knew what he had done.

In the intense moment of lust you are stupefied, unconscious. In unconsciousness, what meaning has strength? In madness, what meaning has power?

Therefore Krishna cuts it off. He says: apart from lust, I am the strength of the strong.

And, in the same context, he also says: I am Kama too—but of the one who is filled with Dharma. These statements may seem reversed. For the strong he says: I am the strength of the one who is free of kama and vasana. Then the question can arise: what of kama? Krishna says: I am Kama, too—of him who is filled with Dharma. What can this mean? What is kama suffused with Dharma?

As soon as Dharma descends into a person’s life, kama is no longer vasana. Sex is no longer sex. This must be understood.

When Dharma dawns in someone’s life, then all of his life becomes dharmic. Dharma is so all-drowning that it will not only drown your intellect—not only your heart—it will drown your body too. Dharma is such a great happening that, if it happens, you will be drowned in it totally. Where, then, will your kama remain? That too will be drowned in it. It is better to say: the amrita of Dharma is such that even if a drop of poison falls into it, it becomes nectar.

It is difficult for us to understand. Our ordinary understanding says the entire nectar would turn to poison if a drop of poison fell in. Because we are familiar with poison; we are not familiar with amrita. We have known poison; we have not known nectar. In truth, the very touchstone of amrita is whether it can turn poison into nectar. Otherwise there is no test, no proof of it.

The touchstone of Dharma is this: that the poison within you becomes amrita. The sex within you, the vasana, the craving—that, too, becomes offered to Rama, surrendered to the Lord. That energy, too, becomes the energy of Brahman.

What happens? When one is filled with Dharma, what becomes of the movement of kama? It changes at the roots.

At present you are filled by lust unconsciously, stupefied, deranged. You decide a thousand times: I will be free of lust, free of lust! And you go on deciding, while inside, vasana keeps gathering. A moment comes when the stone of your resolve is flung aside and the spring of lust bursts forth. Tomorrow, again, you will repent—and after repenting, you will again repress and store it. And then will come the time when, breaking your resolve, lust flows again.

Right now, lust attacks us; we are the victims. If you see it rightly, we are not masters of lust—we are prey. Lust seizes us like a spirit, a ghost; and makes us do what, perhaps in our senses, we would never have done. When we come to, we repent, we are sad and troubled: how did we think this, do this! And yet it happens again.

We are like dolls with strings in the hands of lust—dancing. Prakriti uses us. We are slaves of Prakriti. Nature commands, and we set to work.

For one filled with Dharma, Prakriti stops giving commands. In truth, the one who attains to Dharma goes beyond the realm of nature’s commands. Nature can issue no order to him. A new event happens: the man of Dharma begins to command Prakriti. A radical transmutation.

As long as we live in adharma, nature orders us—we are like slaves. We are driven; we do not walk. We are pulled; we do not move. We are pushed; we do not go. Our life is the coercive pressure of our instincts. You have never “done” anger; anger has been done through you. You have never “done” lust; lust has been done through you. You are only a victim, a prey. From all sides you are shoved.

Like a leaf trembling in the wind. If the wind blows left, left; if right, right. The leaf too perhaps thinks: I am tired of blowing left; now I will blow right. When the wind begins to blow right, it thinks: now I am blowing right. Similarly you think: I am getting angry; I am filled with lust.

No—you are merely being filled. You are a helpless victim.

The man filled with Dharma rises above Prakriti; he begins to command nature. In such a life, kama is no longer vasana. Yes—even if some event of kama happens—and such events have happened—the causes there are entirely different.

It is said about Jesus that he was born of the Virgin Mary. I give this example so that Krishna’s statement may be understood. Jesus was born of the Virgin Mary. How can anyone be born of a virgin?

It can be—if Krishna’s sutra is understood. Mary—the mother of Jesus—if she did not enter into intercourse out of lust, but, to give birth to the soul of Jesus, she issued a conscious command to the nature of her body, then she is a virgin.

Let me tell you: even when you give birth to a child, you do not know that the soul of that child is hovering around you, urging you to give it birth. But you are unconscious. For that, nature pushes you and makes the birth happen.

But the day kama is transformed by Dharma, you can consciously converse with a soul that wants to take birth through you. And if you want to give birth, you instruct your body to enter into passion, to enter into the sexual act. But it is a command—and therefore the fundamental difference.

When you descend into lust, you are unconscious. When such a man enters sex, he is totally aware. He uses the body as a tool, as an instrument. He is the master; the body is not using him.

Therefore Krishna says: I am kama too—but that of those who are filled with Dharma.

Humanity had discovered many truths that, slowly and again, are lost; this is one of them. In this context, let me say something.

Today, all over the earth, there is a movement for birth control. Everywhere, by any means, the coming children are to be stopped. But only one kind of device is known—something must be altered in the body. No other way is known. Glands are to be cut, or chemical substances inserted, or some arrangement made so that the soul that is entering us finds no opportunity and cannot enter.

This is a very helpless condition. Could it not be otherwise? Looking at man as he is, one would say: perhaps not. And yet another way is possible.

Out of Krishna’s sutra another way emerges. We can make persons so conscious—not by changing the body, but by changing awareness—that when a soul petitions them to become givers of birth, they can refuse; or, if needed, they can give birth.

For thousands of years India experimented with this. There are hundreds of proofs. A whole science of this experiment was developed.

If you have read the lives of Mahavira or Buddha, this land created an entire dream analysis—a science of dreams. Freud has only just begun to understand the signs of dreams—his understanding is still very infantile, not very deep.

But the Jaina tradition says: when a Tirthankara enters a mother’s womb, these dreams—at these times—begin to come to that mother. They are the news that a soul of the rank of a Tirthankara wishes to enter that womb. Those dreams are messages; from them one knows that some vast soul wants to enter the mother. Those dreams are symbolic messages.

And it is a great wonder that the twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jainas appeared with very long distances between them—at least ten thousand years, perhaps more—and yet the sequence of dreams that came to their mothers is the same.

Those dreams are indicators. They carry the message: do not refuse. Because the one who is to be born is merely using you as a path, but for this world he is of great use—do not refuse him. He is no ordinary soul who is coming through you.

And in the case of Buddha it was evident that the mother from whom Buddha would be born would die immediately after giving birth—she would not survive. For to give birth to a being like Buddha!

We know how much birth-pain there is in giving birth to an ordinary child. There is pain in the body. To give birth to one like Buddha—the pain enters even the soul. It is no small event. A great event, a vast event, is happening within the body.

So it was evident that Buddha’s mother would not live after giving birth. Even so, she consented. Because to give birth to one like Buddha is not a fortune to be missed. It is said the gods persuaded Buddha’s mother in many ways: do not refuse. The one who is coming will illumine the lives of millions. Be prepared to bear so much suffering for him.

Buddha declared: two thousand years later, I will descend again upon the earth in a new form—as Maitreya. Two thousand years have passed, but the right womb for Maitreya is not found. Hence an obstacle has arisen. Those concerned with the depths of life are most anxious about this: that some mother be ready to receive Maitreya. But no such mother is seen upon the earth.

So that Buddha’s word not go in vain, other experiments were attempted. They too failed. If no mother to give womb is found, the attempt was made to bring the soul of Buddha into the body of a living person, so that two souls could work through a single body—the existing soul would contract and make space for that soul. Those experiments did not succeed. Such was attempted with Krishnamurti too; that, too, did not succeed.

There was a deep science of the womb—conceived, understood, realized. Krishna is speaking of that. He says: the day the chitta is filled with Dharma, even the kama there is—I.

The eternal cause of all beings!

There are two kinds of causes. First, what we ordinarily call causes. We say, water turned into steam. Cause? The heat was applied. We say, a man died. Why? Cause? His heartbeat stopped. In truth, these are not causes. These are temporary, surface-level sequences of events. It’s the same kind of illusion as if someone installs two clocks in his house.

David Hume, a British thinker, used to speak of this. He was strongly against the doctrine of cause and effect. He would say: You say heating water makes it steam. I don’t understand! I’ve seen you heat it, I’ve seen the fire, I’ve seen the water turn into steam—but I have never yet seen the exact moment when “because of the heat” the water became steam. I saw the heat; I saw the fire; I saw the water become steam. But I have not seen the event called “from heat it became steam.”

You say, the heartbeat stopped and therefore the man died. Hume would say: I have seen the heartbeat stop, and I have seen the man die. But I did not see the connection that “because the heartbeat stopped, he died.” I did not see the link between the two.

Hume used to say a man can make two clocks in his house. He can arrange them so that when one strikes seven, the other chimes seven. When one shows eight, the other rings eight. Now if someone who knows nothing of clocks comes in from behind, he will think: when the hands on this clock reach seven, that causes the other clock to chime seven. Whereas there is no intrinsic connection between them at all. What we call causes are similarly events joined only on the surface.

Therefore Krishna does not merely say “the cause of all beings”; he says “the eternal cause”—the ultimate cause—the first, the last, the beginningless.

If you go seeking causes one by one, there are infinite causes in the world. Everything has infinite causes. And nothing happens because of a single cause; things are multi-causal.

You are walking on the road and a car runs into you—do you know how many causes there are? Thousands.

The particular manner in which you were walking—had you not left home after quarreling with your wife, perhaps you wouldn’t have been walking that way. But your wife wouldn’t have quarreled if the child had returned from school on time. The child could have returned on time, but he met friends along the way.

And the man driving the car that hit you might not have hit you, but someone had given him liquor. His friends insisted. They couldn’t refrain from insisting, because this friend had insisted and served them many times before.

Trace it back and you may find that behind this one car hitting you today, there are as many causes as there can be in the universe—everything! Behind this tiny event, the entire universe will stand spread out as a web of causes. If you go a little deeper and deeper, you will be frightened and you will say: Enough—this search is futile. There can be no end to it. It is a web of causes.

Krishna is not talking about these causes. He speaks of one cause, the eternal cause. Eternal cause means: all this has arisen out of me and will dissolve back into me. All this has come from me and will return to me—everything. Eternal cause means: without me nothing can be. If I am not, nothing is. If I am, all is. The moment I withdraw, all will be void. If my gaze turns away, all will be empty. It is all my play. Eternal cause means that from which everything emerges and into which everything returns. It has nothing to do with the in-between web of causes.

We all see the surface causes; hence we get into trouble. Arjuna too sees surface causes. He says, if I strike them with my sword, they will die.

Krishna says, don’t worry, because I know. They live because of me. And as long as I live, no one can die. Fight without worry. I tell you of the eternal cause. They are not going to die because you strike; nor will they be saved because you refrain. Their being or non-being depends on me—I am the eternal cause.

If it is rightly understood that the Divine is the eternal cause of all things, you will fall out of the delusion of being the doer. The craving to be the doer will not remain. You will say: Fine. Whatever happens is fine. Whatever comes to be is fine. Whatever does not happen is fine. And the day you accept everything so simply, that day there will be no place left within you for the ego to stand.

The awareness that the Divine is the eternal cause drops your doer-ship, erases it, turns it to dust. And only when the sense of doer-ship falls do we take a step upward toward the Divine. And remember, we are such lazy folk that even if the Divine were to say, “Just take one small step,” we still wouldn’t take it.

I have heard that a village was fed up with a certain man. They were fed up because he neither worked nor produced anything. Yet they couldn’t bear to see him starve, so they had to provide for him. He would just lie under a tree or in his hut. If the neighbors brought him to the tree, he would come. If they took him from the tree into his hut, he would go. If the neighbors didn’t take him out on a given day, he would voice his complaints from inside the hut.

The village grew weary and thought, “How long will we carry him?” Then a famine fell, and they decided, “Now we should bury him—alive or dead. In any case, his living makes no difference.” But they wondered, would he agree? “Let’s go and see,” they said.

They went to him and said, “We’ve decided to bury you. Your being or not being makes no difference. One day we will have to bury you anyway when you die. For us, you are as good as dead. And for you too, it doesn’t appear you are truly alive. Do you agree?”

He said, “I can agree. But who will carry me to the cremation ground? I have no problem. The carrying—you’ll have to do.” They said, “We didn’t expect you would agree so quickly!”

They prepared a bier, laid him on it, and set off. He lay down in it. Even they felt a bit uneasy; they didn’t trust him that much.

A stranger happened to be in the village and heard that a living man was being taken to be buried. He stopped them on the way: “Brothers, what are you doing?” They said, “We are fed up. We have no other recourse. We are going to bury him alive. We have neither grain nor food to give.” The stranger said, “Wait. If you’ll accept my suggestion, I’ll provide his grain for a year. Let him go.”

Before the villagers could speak, a voice came from the bier: “First, let’s make things clear. Is the grain clean? Otherwise who will deal with the trouble later! Decide this first, villagers—make it clear: Is the grain clean? And second, if they leave me here and go, who will take me back home?”

The man of this story was a Sufi fakir, not an ordinary man. When they set the bier down and the stranger heard him, he thought, “He is an extraordinary man; I should meet him.” He looked at him, and the stranger said, “You astonish me!”

The man said, “Because you can peer a little into my eyes and understand, I’ll tell you a secret. All these people think I am lazy. But I have set out on the most arduous journey. And they think they are hard-working; whatever they are doing is worth two pennies. You must be thinking I am unwilling to take a step to go home. I tell you, none of them is willing to take a single step toward their real home. And the house you are taking me to is not my true home. That’s why I am willing even to go into the grave, because for me the grave and that house are the same. And this body you are trying to save—that is why I asked, ‘Is the grain clean?’—for I see no need to labor so hard to save this body. I am busy saving another home. And I tell you, you are all idle; and you all think I am idle. And remember, you are burying me alive. When you are buried, then come meet me. Then I will tell you who the real lazy one was.”

Who knows whether the villagers understood or not—but I tell you, we do not dare take even one step in that direction.

So Krishna says, “I am the eternal cause.” He says it so that only one step remains for you: to see that you are not the doer, the Divine is the cause. If you can leave everything to that eternal cause…

But we don’t leave it to the eternal cause. If someone abuses us, we fill with anger. A slight hurt in the foot, and we are upset. If we could see the eternal cause—the One behind that stone and behind me; behind the abuser and behind me; behind the thorn and behind my pain; the One behind pleasure and pain; in birth and in death; in honor and in dishonor—if that Eternal becomes visible to us, the whole world of agitation falls silent at once. Then there is no reason to be agitated.

All the causes of agitation are temporary. One who wants to enter the world of non-agitation, of peace, should remember the eternal cause.

And Krishna says, “I am the intelligence of the intelligent.”

The intelligence of the intelligent! Not all learned people have intelligence. Most of the so-called intelligent carry only a storehouse of information, of scriptures. It is not necessary that a learned person has intelligence.

Just yesterday I was writing a letter to a friend and told him a story. Let me tell it to you.

An emperor had a son who was dull-witted. The emperor was distressed. He sought counsel from the wise; they said, “No remedy here. In a distant land there is a university; send him there.” He was sent.

After years of study, the son wrote: “Now I am fully accomplished, initiated. I have mastered all disciplines. Kindly permit me to return.” The emperor summoned him back, delighted. He returned a knower of all the scriptures—astrology, divination, knowledge of past lives—whatever sciences there were in those days.

The emperor was very pleased. He invited all the scholars of the land to welcome his son. Great learned men came. An old man also came. That old man asked the prince many questions. “What all have you studied?” The prince brought the curriculum of his university; he had marked what he had studied. He narrated it all.

For a test, since the prince claimed he could also see the invisible and infer the unseen, the old man slipped a ring off his finger, closed it in his fist, held out his closed hand and said, “Tell me, what is in this fist?”

The boy closed his eyes for a second and said, “It is something round with a hole in the middle.” The old man was astonished. He thought, “The boy has truly returned intelligent; he has learned all the scriptures.” Still, he asked one more question, “Please tell me its name as well!”

The youth closed his eyes and did not open them for a long time. Then he said, “In all the scriptures I have studied, I find no basis for naming it. Still, using my common sense, my own intelligence, I say: what you have in your hand must be a cartwheel.”

What he first said was from the scriptures; what he said next was from himself!

The wise man said to himself, “You can educate a fool, but you cannot make him wise.”

Do not fall into the illusion that all learned people have intelligence. Most have only the appearance of intelligence—borrowed.

Krishna says, “I am the intelligence among the intelligent.”

This intelligence, for which Krishna presses—what we call wisdom, prajna—it is not necessary that the wise know a great deal. Not necessary. For one who knows a lot is not necessarily wise. But whatever the truly intelligent one knows, it makes his life blossom like a flower.

Another story of this kind comes to mind. There was great news about an old sage. Two university youths decided to test him—if, as people said, he could tell anything, even your name; like the old man who wanted to know the thing closed in the fist, this sage too could tell. He was said to be very wise.

So the two youths hid a pigeon inside one of their coats and came to him. Standing before the old man, they asked, “Can you tell what is inside our coat?” He said, “I can.” They were prepared, a hand already on the neck. They asked, “Can you tell whether it is alive or dead?”

They had planned: if he says “alive,” they would twist its neck inside; if he says “dead,” they would bring it out alive. Their grip on the neck was firm.

The old man closed his eyes for a moment and said, “It depends.” He said, “Whether it is alive or dead depends on many things.” They asked, “What do you mean?” The old man said, “If I say ‘alive,’ you can crush its neck. If I say ‘dead,’ you can take it out as it is. But let me stop worrying about you; I will worry about the pigeon. I say: it is dead. Take it out—so that the pigeon does not die needlessly.” The old man said, “Forget about me; I care for the pigeon. I say it is dead. Take it out.”

This is wisdom. This is something else altogether. This is intelligence of a different order. It is not mere information; it is an insight into the mystery of life. It is not just accumulation from the outside; it is an arising from within. It is inner awakening, inner inspiration. It is not something that depends on what I knew yesterday; rather, my consciousness is awake now, seeing now; and what it will say, I will know.

The so-called learned depend on past knowledge—others’ or their own. In truth, intelligence lives in the ever-alert present—now, aware, like a mirror. Whatever comes before it is reflected and seen.

Krishna says, “I am the intelligence of the intelligent.”

Not cleverness, not erudition, not knowledge, not information—intelligence. Not intellect—intelligence. Just intelligence. We keep stuffing ourselves with information… Understand the difference; it is subtle.

You have a room. You fill it with furniture. Have you noticed? The more furniture you put in, the smaller the room becomes! Because a room means space. The English word is good—room—meaning space. The more you fill, the less room there is. This is why the rooms of “big” people often look smaller than those of the poor—things keep increasing.

I was staying in a very rich man’s house. They had crammed so many things into the room that I had no idea how they even went in and out. When they tried to take me into it, I said, “Let me stay outside. There are too many things! This is no room—it’s a junkyard. Whatever they see, they buy and dump it there! They have money. Money does not necessarily bring intelligence.” Every possible model of furniture was in that one room!

When you fill a room with furniture, the room gets smaller. When you fill intelligence with information, intelligence gets smaller. Intelligence is room—it is space, empty openness.

The intelligent one keeps his intelligence always empty, fresh, alert. He does not stuff it. Stuffed, everything goes stale. He does not cram; he keeps it empty, fresh, open. The more information piles up inside, the less you need intelligence—because you manage with information.

Krishna says, “Among the intelligent, I am intelligence.”

That empty space, that inner space. The Upanishads call it the inner space of the heart—the inner cave. There is a space in the heart that is utterly empty. One who stands in that empty space enters the temple of the Divine.

So here “intelligence” does not mean intellect. Here it does not mean cunning. It does not mean adding two and two to make four. Here intelligence means to stand in the inner sky within, which is utterly empty, a void. The one who stands in that void is the intelligent one; for only standing in that void does the vision of truth occur.

Krishna says, “I am the intelligence of the intelligent.”

“Among ascetics I am tapas.” Not tapascharya. The words may sound the same, but tapascharya leans on the deed, on the act; tapas leans on the inner attainment.

There is an ascetic performing tapascharya. What he does is outward—he fasts, he practices pranayama, he does asanas, he stands in the blazing sun, he stands in the cold—these are external acts, performances. And it may well be that he goes on doing all this and nothing of tapas flowers within. For an ignorant man can do it, an egoist can do it, an exhibitionist who loves display can do it too.

And if you investigate among those who are engaged in tapascharya, you will find ninety out of a hundred are exhibitionists—eager to display themselves. And whenever you want to put on a show, such acts are very convenient.

Robert Ripley has written an incident. When he was a young man, he wanted to be famous. But he had no ladder to fame—no relation to a minister, no rich uncle, no money for university. He had nothing, but he wanted to be famous.

So he went to a very shrewd village advertiser and asked, “I want to be famous. What should I do? Give me some simple trick, because I have no support, no ladder. I want to become famous straightaway.” The man said, “What’s difficult in that? Come here.” He went inside, brought out a razor, and shaved half of Ripley’s head. He shaved one half clean. Ripley cried, “What are you doing?” The man said, “Don’t panic. I’ll make you famous in two days.” Ripley said, “But what are you doing?”

He shaved half the head smooth and on the other half he wrote “Robert Ripley”—your name. “Now go. Roam the whole town.” Ripley said, “But I’m scared.” The man said, “Don’t be. If you can’t even do this, what can I do? I can’t make you a minister’s nephew, nor suddenly connect you to a tycoon, nor get you into a university. But do as I say.”

Ripley writes, “At first I had to gather a lot of courage. Somehow I stepped out. And truly, within two days my photos were in all the newspapers. Wherever I passed, people left their work and came out. Within two days the whole town knew me; not only the town, the news spread beyond, even to the capital. And I had done nothing—just had my hair cut.”

“Then,” Ripley says, “the trick was in my hands. All my life I kept doing such things.”

He walked across America backwards. The whole world heard about it, and it was said he was the first man in history to traverse America walking backward. He tied a mirror in front of him and set off! A whole procession moved with him.

Ripley writes, “But my life went to waste—waste in collecting crowds. An exhibitionist mind! A mind bent on display!”

So much of tapascharya is mere exhibition. If you are revering some ascetic greatly, just drop the reverence for fifteen days—go on a holiday from it, stop it—and the ascetic will run away within a fortnight. When he sees no one asks after him, no one bothers, no one presses his feet, no flowers are being offered, nothing is happening—what’s the point of staying? “Run from this village; go somewhere else.”

Tapascharya can be ego-gratification too. What is tapas? Tapas is the essence. It is not an act; it is the soul. Tapas means: when a person no longer takes suffering to be suffering. And note well, not taking suffering as suffering is not the great tapas. Let me add the second thing: when a person no longer takes pleasure to be pleasure.

Not taking suffering as suffering is not that great, because all of us would like suffering not to be suffering. But the one who does not take pleasure as pleasure either… who does not take suffering as suffering, honor as honor, insult as insult, life as life, death as death—then within him a new life begins to flow. Within him the element called tapas is born. Within him occurs “crystallization”—the word Gurdjieff used—he becomes a crystal within.

That is precisely the meaning of tapas. It means the person, for the first time, becomes inwardly self-possessed. As long as sorrow shakes you, you are weak before sorrow. If pleasure shakes you, you are weak before pleasure. If one garland of flowers placed around your neck makes you tremble, then you are worth less than that garland. Your price is not very high.

I have heard: a millionaire fell into a pond. Many people stood watching. A stranger in the crowd shouted, “Why are you just standing there? The man is drowning!” He didn’t know who the man was. He himself jumped in, and with great difficulty, at risk to his own life, he pulled the millionaire out. When the rich man came to, he said, “Thank you very much,” put his hand in his pocket, fumbled, and then presented the man with a single paisa.

The whole crowd cried out, “That’s why none of us jumped in! Just look at the man! A single paisa! He risked his life, and this is the reward?”

In the meantime a fakir had come and stood near the crowd. He said, “Don’t be angry. No one knows the value of his life more than himself. Who else could better know the price of his life? He is giving exactly right—a single paisa! He is paying the worth of his own life. It’s not about anyone else’s life. If he had died, the world would have lost a single paisa—no special loss.”

The fakir said, “Don’t be angry. No one but he knows what his life is truly worth. He has judged correctly.”

In truth, what is our worth within? In truth, where are we? Where is Being? Where is anything like a soul within us?

When Gurdjieff speaks of being “crystallized,” he means something is born within. And that is born only when the sensations of pleasure and pain no longer touch. It happens only when favorable and unfavorable become equal. It happens only when, between dualities, stillness and equanimity arise. Equanimity itself is tapas.

It is difficult. Tapascharya is easy; tapas is hard.

Krishna says, “Among ascetics I am tapas.”

In many, many ways he is sending the message: Recognize me from anywhere, seek me from anywhere. My doors are many, my paths are many. But if from anywhere you can leave the seen and enter the unseen—tapascharya is seen; tapas is unseen—if from anywhere you can leave form for the formless, shape for the shapeless, the futile for the essential, if from anywhere you can go…

So he speaks from all sides. He is saying, “May it dawn on you from any side.”

For there are moments in life when understanding is within reach. A true master has to remember that sometimes such a moment arrives.

Because our mind is in fluctuation. Our mind is never in one place. Sometimes it touches the depths, sometimes it touches the peak. All the time it is going up and down. In the morning we are in hell; by evening we are in heaven. A moment ago we were crying; a moment later flowers of laughter bloom. Our mind is rising and falling, all the time.

One like Krishna must remember: again and again the very same thing has to be said, in different forms. Who knows when Arjuna’s mind will be at its peak? And when it is at the peak, only then will the word touch. When it is down in the valley, nothing will touch; the word will pass overhead. Therefore much repetition is required.

Many people read this portion of the Gita and think, “What is Krishna going on and on about? Saying it once or twice would have been enough. Why keep saying again and again, ‘I am this in that, and that in this’? He could have said just once, ‘I am the eternal cause’; the matter would be settled. Why repeat it so often?”

He repeats because who knows when that moment of Arjuna’s mind will be there, when entry is possible. Doors are usually closed; sometimes they open. And when they open, entry happens. When do they open? It is hard to say—very hard.

That is why the masters of old tried to keep their disciples always near. Who knows at what moment…

A Sufi fakir, Bayazid, would never give teachings by day. At night, when all the disciples slept, he would keep walking around, come near them, listen to their heartbeats—perhaps peep into their dreams, perhaps descend into the layers of their thoughts. And whenever he found that a disciple was in that depth or at that height where the word could enter, he would at once wake him and say, “Listen!” and begin to speak.

Many times his disciples would complain, “What madness is this! We sit by you all day. And what is this arrangement of yours—that sometimes you wake us at two in the night, sometimes at three?”

Bayazid would say, “I know when you can truly hear—when! When you are sitting, it is not necessary that you are actually present. When you look at me, it is not necessary that within you you are seeing me—perhaps you are seeing someone else. When your ears are turned toward me, it is not necessary that you are hearing me—you may be hearing who knows what! I search for that moment when I find that, yes, now you are at that place where my word can reach you.”

One way is Bayazid’s. Another way is Krishna’s. On a battlefield there was no scope for what Bayazid did. So Krishna, again and again, many times, says the same thing in different ways, from different angles—hoping that somewhere a door will be found open. If the wind finds no passage on the left, let it circle to the right. If not to the right, then elsewhere. If not from the front, then perhaps from the back door.

Krishna’s breeze is circling all around Arjuna’s house, so that if any door, any window, even a crack is found, it may enter. That is why he keeps saying it over and over.

That’s all for today.

But don’t get up yet, because in this while perhaps some crack, some little window in you has opened. Don’t get up suddenly—otherwise it will close.

Now our sannyasins will do kirtan; keep your window a little open, for a short while—five minutes, as long as you can. Perhaps this breeze will enter you, and what Krishna was saying to Arjuna, you too may hear.

And don’t just sit. Clap your hands. Join the tune. Sway. Rejoice.