Krishna Smriti #12

First, we must understand the meaning of completeness. Completeness too can be one-dimensional or multi-dimensional. A painter can be complete in painting, but that doesn’t make him complete in the way a scientist might be. A scientist can be complete in science, but that does not make him complete like a musician. So one meaning of completeness is one-dimensional.

Therefore I call Mahavira, Buddha, or Jesus complete in a one-dimensional sense. I call Krishna complete in a very different sense—multi-dimensional. Life has many dimensions, many directions. It is possible to renounce all directions and become complete in one direction. Such completeness also leads to the ultimate truth. The river that flows as a single stream also reaches the ocean. And the river that splits into a thousand streams and flows toward the ocean also reaches the ocean. In this, there is no distinction as far as reaching the ocean is concerned. Mahavira reaches the ocean, Buddha does too, and so does Krishna. But Mahavira arrives like a river with a single current; Krishna arrives like a river of innumerable currents.

Thus Krishna’s completeness is multi-dimensional; it is not one-dimensional. Let no one think from this that Mahavira somehow does not reach beyond the seventh body—he absolutely does. But Krishna reaches there by many, many paths, and without negating any element of life. Mahavira or Buddha do not reach without negation.

Therefore in the lives of Mahavira and Buddha there is an indispensable element of negation. In Krishna’s life, there is no element of negation. Krishna’s life is wholly positive, wholly creative. Mahavira arrives by leaving things behind; Krishna arrives by assimilating everything.

That is why I say Krishna’s completeness is different. Do not conclude from this that Mahavira is incomplete—only understand this much: Mahavira’s completeness is one-dimensional; Krishna’s completeness is multi-dimensional. And for the human being of the future, one-dimensional completeness will not mean very much. For future humanity, only multi-dimensional completeness will carry meaning. Keep one more point in mind: whoever becomes complete in one direction does not merely negate other directions in his own life; by becoming complete in one direction, he makes the other directions forbidden in the lives of others as well. But when a person travels in all directions in his own life, then those who travel in different single directions also find support through him. For instance, we cannot even imagine that a painter, a sculptor, or a poet could attain the Absolute based on Mahavira’s contemplation. We simply cannot imagine it. With Mahavira’s one-dimensional sadhana, not only does his own life negate the remaining directions, but those who understand that sadhana will also find the rest of the directions negated in their lives. We cannot imagine that a dancer, while remaining a dancer, could arrive at Brahman—with Mahavira we cannot imagine it. With Krishna we can. If someone, leaving all else, goes on dancing and drowns in dance, then through that very moment he can be available to what Mahavira attains through meditation. This is possible with Krishna.

So through his life Krishna confers a Bhagavata—divine—character upon all directions, all of them. All directions become sacred with Krishna. With Mahavira, not all directions are sanctified; only the direction he travels becomes sacred. And because that one direction is sanctified, everything else becomes inevitably profane; a deep condemnation and denigration of the rest follows as a matter of course. This does not happen only with Mahavira; it also happens with Buddha, with Christ, with Mohammed, with Rama, with Shankara.

Krishna is the one person of whom we can say that he has endowed the whole of life, all directions, with sacredness. From any direction a person may travel, he can reach Brahman. In this sense Krishna is multi-dimensional. Not only in his own life, but also for the lives of others, he is multi-dimensional. One can attain Brahman even by playing the flute, because in its final, consummate moment the state of the flute, too, will be samadhi. But with Mahavira or Buddha, no one can attain Brahman by playing the flute. There is nothing in their personality that could grant the flute the same dignity that meditation and samadhi possess. There is no way. According to Mahavira, Meera cannot be on the path of attainment; she is on the path of raga, attachment. And in Mahavira’s view raga can never lead to the divine; only vairagya, dispassion, can. With Krishna the dispassionate reach, and the passionate reach as well. In this sense I said that Krishna’s completeness has no parallel, no comparison.

The next question asked is whether the twenty-three Tirthankaras—leaving even Mahavira aside—were not complete. They all attained completeness—but only one-dimensional completeness. And because of that one-dimensional completeness, Jain thought could not become very widespread—it cannot. It has been two and a half thousand years since Mahavira died; even today the number of Jains is not more than thirty to thirty-five lakhs. It is something to ponder: a man of Mahavira’s genius, whose thought had behind it not only himself but the vast vision of twenty-three Tirthankaras—yet that vision has reached only thirty or thirty-five lakhs? If in Mahavira’s own time thirty or thirty-five people had been influenced by him, their offspring alone would have produced so many! What is the reason? There is a reason: it is one-dimensional; it is not multi-dimensional. It does not touch many directions; it touches only one. Therefore it cannot influence very varied kinds of people. Many different kinds of people cannot find themselves at home in that one dimension.

Then there is another rather amusing fact: if we look closely at these thirty-five lakhs of Jains, we will be astonished. Many among them behave with Mahavira as it would be appropriate to behave with Krishna but is inappropriate with Mahavira. They wave the arati lamp before Mahavira! With Krishna that can work; with Mahavira it cannot. They practice devotion to Mahavira! Which means that those born in Jain homes also do not find their minds fitting into that dimension. It is an axis meant for very few. So, being born in Jain homes, a person remains Jain, but he keeps adding to it everything that is not of Mahavira’s dimension. Devotion has entered Jainism; worship, prayer, ritual—none of these have any relation to Mahavira. All this is impropriety toward Mahavira. In Mahavira’s personality there is no place for these. But this is the limitation of the Jain’s personality: without these he finds no fulfillment, so he goes on attaching them to Mahavira.

Hence let me tell you another thing: with all one-dimensional personalities, impropriety will continually occur. Only with a multi-dimensional person can you not commit impropriety—because whatever you do, he can agree to it. With Krishna, thousands of different kinds of people can be in accord; with Mahavira, only one particular type can be in accord.

For this reason I said that the twenty-four Tirthankaras are of one form, on one and the same journey. They all have one direction, one sadhana. It is not that they do not arrive—do not misunderstand me—they absolutely arrive. In the final moments, it is not that they do not receive what Krishna receives; they do receive it. What difference does it make whether the river flows in a thousand streams to the ocean or in a single stream? Upon reaching the ocean, the matter is finished. But a river flowing in a single stream cannot encircle the whole earth—this we must understand. A river flowing in a thousand streams may encircle the whole earth. The trees on the banks of a single-stream river receive water; a river with a thousand streams can nourish the roots of trees on a thousand paths. That is the difference, and it cannot be denied; it must be kept in mind. By “multi-dimensional” I wished only to say this much.

The third question raised is: If we drop repression, then what is the meaning of restraint?

Ordinarily, in the language of renunciation, restraint means repression. In the language of renunciation, restraint means repression—yes. That is why the Jains even use the expression “body-suppression.” The body must be pressed down, suppressed. But in Krishna’s language restraint cannot mean repression. How could Krishna make restraint mean repression? In Krishna’s language restraint has a completely different meaning. Words themselves create trouble—because the words are the same, whether on Krishna’s lips or on Mahavira’s. “Restraint” is the same word. But the meanings are entirely different, because the lips are different, and the one using the word is different. The meaning comes from the personality; it does not come from the dictionary. The dictionary supplies meaning only for those who have no personality; for those who do, meaning arises from within. What “restraint” means on Krishna’s lips cannot be said without understanding Krishna. What “restraint” means on Mahavira’s lips cannot be said without understanding Mahavira. The meaning of restraint will emerge from Mahavira, or from Krishna. Looking at Krishna, we can say: restraint cannot mean repression—because if anyone in the world has been un-repressed, unsuppressed, it is Krishna.

So what will restraint mean?

In my own understanding, the deep meaning of restraint is not repression. “Restraint” is a wondrous word. For me, restraint means balance. Neither this side nor that—the middle. The renunciate is unrestrained—toward renunciation. The voluptuary is unrestrained—toward indulgence. The indulger touches one extreme; the renunciate touches the other. These are the two extremes. Restraint means non-excess, not extreme—the middle. On Krishna’s lips, restraint means the middle. Neither renunciation nor indulgence—or, indulgence suffused with renunciation, renunciation suffused with indulgence. This alone can be the meaning of restraint on Krishna’s lips. Renunciation-filled enjoyment, or enjoyment-filled renunciation; or neither renunciation nor indulgence—such is the meaning of restraint. The person who never leans toward any excess—that person is restrained.

One man is mad after wealth—he goes on hoarding, filling his strongbox; he is unrestrained. Wealth has become his goal; it is the excess of his life. Another man turns his back on wealth and flees—he will not even look back, he just keeps running, always afraid that he might somehow encounter wealth. He too is unrestrained. For him, renouncing wealth has become a goal in the same way that hoarding wealth became a goal for the other. Who, then, is restrained?

In Krishna’s sense, a person like Janaka is restrained. Non-excess is restraint. Being in the middle is restraint. Starving is not restraint; overeating is not restraint; right diet is restraint. Fasting is not restraint—it is un-restraint toward hunger. Overeating is not restraint—it is un-restraint toward indulgence. Right diet—only as much as is necessary, neither more nor less—is restraint. On Krishna’s lips, restraint means balance, equilibrium, music. Move even a little this way or that, and there are a well and a precipice. And one can deviate in two ways—toward raga (attachment) or toward vairagya (dispassion).

We have seen the pendulum of a clock. When it swings left, it goes straight to the right; it never stops in the center. When it swings right, it goes straight to the left; it never stops in the center. And there is another delightful thing to learn from the pendulum: when it is going to the left, we see it going left, but throughout its leftward swing it is gathering the momentum to go right. While going left it gathers the power to go right; while going right it gathers the power to go left. The one practicing a fast is preparing to overeat. The one overeating is preparing for a fast. The one drowning in attachment is preparing for dispassion. The one running toward dispassion will run toward attachment. The two extremes are always linked. Only the pendulum that stands still in the middle—neither going left nor right—is not preparing to go anywhere; it is not preparing to go left, nor to go right. And this pendulum standing in the middle is the symbol of restraint. Un-restraint comes in two forms—leftist or rightist. Restraint means the middle.

This is the meaning on Krishna’s lips. On Krishna’s lips, there cannot be any other meaning. If we bring this meaning into real life, what will happen? In the depth of actual living, it will mean two things: such a person can neither be called a renunciate nor an indulger—or, he can be called both. But such a person will be both at once. In his enjoyment there will be renunciation; in his renunciation there will be enjoyment.

With this meaning of restraint, no renunciation-based tradition will agree. For a renunciate tradition, restraint means dispassion; un-restraint means passion. The one who leaves passion and moves toward dispassion is restrained. Krishna is neither a renunciate nor a hedonist. If we place him anywhere, he will stand exactly between Charvaka and Mahavira. In enjoyment he will be second to none before Charvaka, and in renunciation second to none before Mahavira. So if any mixture, any synthesis, of Charvaka and Mahavira could be formed, it would be Krishna. Therefore, on Krishna’s lips the meanings of all words will be different. The words are the same; the meanings will change. Their meanings will arise from his personality.

There is nothing like sadhana in Krishna’s personality. It cannot be. The fundamental element in sadhana is effort. Without effort, sadhana cannot be. The second essential element is asmita—ego. Without the “I,” sadhana cannot be. Who will do it? Without a doer, how will sadhana happen? Someone must do it; only then can it be. If we understand it very deeply, the word sadhana belongs to the non-theists. The word sadhana is for those for whom there is no God—there is only the self. Sadhana is theirs: the atman will discipline, will strive, and will attain.

Upasana is the word of the opposite kind of people. Generally we drag both words together, but they belong to opposite camps. Upasana is for those who say there is not the self, there is God. There is only going near to Him; there is nothing like sadhana. Upasana means to go near, to sit near—upa-asan—coming nearer and nearer. And to become near means to erase oneself—nothing else. We are only as far from the ultimate truth of life as we are. Our distance from the ultimate truth is exactly as much as our being is—as much as our I, our ego, our atman. The more we dissolve, melt, and flow, the nearer we come. The day we are utterly not, that day upasana is fulfilled and we become God. Like ice becoming water—upasana is simply that ice is melting... melting...

What will ice do in sadhana? If it undertakes sadhana, it will become harder and harder. Because sadhana will mean the ice protects itself. Sadhana will mean it hardens itself, becomes more crystallized, more self-assertive. Sadhana means the ice preserves itself and does not lose itself.

The ultimate meaning of sadhana, then, is the atman. The ultimate meaning of upasana is Paramatman. Therefore those who go by the path of sadhana will stop at the soul as their final destination; beyond that they will not be able to speak. They will say, “Ultimately we have attained ourselves.” The upasaka will say, “Ultimately we have lost ourselves.” These two statements are utterly opposite. The upasaka melts like ice and vanishes like water. The sadhaka keeps growing stronger and stronger.

Hence there is no element of sadhana in Krishna’s life. Sadhana has no meaning there. What has meaning is upasana. The journey of upasana is reverse. Upasana means: “We have attained ourselves”—and that very idea is the mistake. That we are is the error. To be is the only bondage. Not to be is the only liberation. When the sadhaka speaks he will say, “I want to be liberated.” When the upasaka speaks he will say, “I want to be free of the I.” The sadhaka will say, “I want liberation; I want moksha,” but the I will remain. The upasaka will say, “It is freedom from the I that is needed.” The moksha of the upasaka is the state of “no-I.” The moksha of the sadhaka is the supreme state of I. Therefore, in Krishna’s language there is no place for sadhana; there is place for upasana.

Now let us understand what this upasana is.

First, understand that upasana is not sadhana—that will make it easier. Otherwise the confusion continues. And also note this: very few of us would like to be upasakas. Almost all of us would like to be sadhakas. Because the sadhaka has nothing to lose; he has to gain. And the upasaka has nothing but loss; there is nothing to gain. Losing is the gaining—just that. Who would want to be an upasaka? That is why even those who revere Krishna turn into sadhakas; even the followers of Krishna begin to speak the language of sadhana. Because the ego within forces the language of sadhana: “Practice! Attain! Arrive!” Upasana is very difficult—arduous. There is nothing more arduous than this: melt, disappear, lose yourself.

Certainly we will ask: Why should we disappear? What is the benefit of disappearing?

No matter how lofty his words, the sadhaka will think in terms of benefit. His moksha is his happiness. His liberation is his liberation. Therefore, it is not surprising if in a very deep sense the sadhaka is selfish; he will never be able to rise above self-interest. The upasaka rises above self-interest; therefore the upasaka speaks of parmarth—he speaks of the supreme meaning, where the self is lost.

What will be the meaning of this upasana, and what will be its movement and journey? It will be difficult to understand. That is why I say in advance: drop the word sadhana completely; it has no place. Then we can move to understand upasana.

As I said, upasana means to come near, to be nearer. So what is the distance? One distance we can see is physical space. You sit there; I am here; there is a gap between us. If I come to you or you to me, the physical distance ends. We can sit utterly close, hand in hand, arm in arm—the distance is over. But two people with arms around each other can be miles apart. There is an inner space, an inner distance, which has nothing to do with physical distance. And two people miles apart can be very near. And two people embracing can be far.

So one distance is outside us. Another distance belongs to the mind, within us. Upasana is the method of erasing the inner distance. But even the devotee is eager to erase the outer distance. He too says, “The bed is made—come!” He too says, “How long will you torment me? Come!” He too is eager to erase the outer distance. But the delicious irony is: however much the outer distance is erased, distance still remains. However close we come from the outside, we still do not come close. Nearness is purely an inner event. Therefore the upasaka can be near to that God who is not even visible—where there is no way to erase a physical distance—yet he can be near.

How does this inner space arise? How is this inner distance created? We understand how the outer distance arises: if I start walking away from you, turn my back and run, the outer distance is created. If I turn toward you and walk in your direction, the outer distance lessens. How does the inner distance arise? It does not arise from walking, for inside there is nowhere to walk. The inner distance arises from being: the harder, the more rigid I am, the greater the inner distance. The more fluid I am, the more the inner distance breaks. And if I become utterly fluid, so that inwardly I can say, “I am not; I have become a void,” then the inner distance ends.

Upasana means becoming a void. Upasana means becoming a nothingness—non-being. To know the truth “I am not” is to become an upasaka. To cling to the fact “I am” is to go farther from God. The very declaration “I am” is our distance.

Rumi wrote a song. A lover knocks on his beloved’s door. It is a Sufi song, and the Sufis know upasana. Perhaps on this earth only a few have known upasana—the Sufis. If anyone can rightly understand Krishna, the Sufis can. They are Muslim fakirs—but what does that matter! In Jalaluddin Rumi’s Sufi song, the lover knocks at the beloved’s door. From inside a voice asks, “Who is it?” The lover says, “It is I—don’t you recognize me?” Then there is no answer from within. The lover keeps knocking and says, “You don’t recognize my voice? It is I!” At last, with great difficulty, only this much is said from within: “As long as you are, the doors of love cannot open. When have the doors of love ever opened for an I! Go—come the day when you are no more.”

The lover returns. Years come and go—rains and sun and moon. After years he returns, knocks again. From inside, the same question: “Who is it?” Now the lover says, “Now, it is you.” Here Rumi’s poem ends. He says the doors open.

But I say Rumi did not understand upasana fully; Rumi’s understanding did not reach Krishna. He went a little way and stopped. If I were to write this poem, I would say that then the beloved says from within: “So long as there is a you, the I will be there too—somewhere, hidden. For the awareness of ‘you’ is not possible without an I. Whether someone says ‘I’ or not, as long as there is a ‘you,’ the ‘I’ will exist—hidden, unmanifest, pressed into the dark, sitting in some corner of the mind—but it will be there. For who is it that says ‘you’?” This is merely switching the sides of the scale; nothing has really changed. So if I were writing the poem, I would say she then says, “As long as there is a you, how can the I be erased? You have come having lost the I; now lose the you as well—and then come.”

But when the I is lost and the you is lost, will the lover come? Here my poem will fall into difficulty—how will he come? And to whom? From where? Where to? No—then he will not come at all. Then there is no question of coming or going, because the gap—the inner distance within which coming and going are possible—has broken. That inner distance was the distance of I and you. Therefore, in the end my poem will be in great trouble. Perhaps Rumi ended his poem where he did for this very reason—how could he end it further? There the poem collides with the rock of life and shatters. For then who will come? To whom? Why? As long as someone is coming, a gap remains. And when neither I nor you remain, there is no gap; what is, is met right where it is.

For upasana there is nowhere to reach. It happens right where we are. There is no reaching someone; only erase yourself, and nearness happens.

Please say something in reference to Martin Buber.

There is the atheist, the non-believer in God, the one who holds that only matter exists. His world is not the world of I and Thou; his world is I and It. Thou does not exist for him, because to be able to say “Thou” one must acknowledge the presence of a soul in the other. The atheist’s world—“I and It”—becomes very complicated, because he calls himself “I” and declares himself to be a being with soul, while reducing everyone else to less than I—turning them into “It,” into matter, into objects. If I know there is no soul, then you are for me nothing more than matter—whom, then, shall I address as “Thou”? “Thou” can be said only to one who is alive inwardly.

Therefore Martin Buber says: the theist’s world is not I and It; it is I and Thou. When my I can say Thou to existence, that is the theist’s world.

I would not say so. I would say: even this theist, deep down, remains an atheist—because he still divides the world into I and Thou. Or say it thus: this is the world of a dualistic theist. But since dualism is false, dualistic theism has no ultimate meaning either. In one sense the atheist is a non-dualist, because he says there is only one, matter. And in one sense the soul-affirming seeker is also a non-dualist, because he too says there is only one, consciousness. My view is that it is much easier to move from one to One than from two to One. Hence the dualist is in greater entanglement than even the atheist. If, some day, the non-dual atheist sees that matter is not the ultimate—that consciousness is—his journey changes instantly. He already affirmed the One; the quarrel was only about what that One is: matter or the divine? But the dualist believes there are two—matter and God. For him to arrive at the One is very difficult.

Buber is a dualist. He says “I and Thou.” Yet his dualism is very human, because he removes “It” and grants the other the status of Thou, the status of soul. But between I and Thou there can only be relationship; there cannot be unity, cannot be oneness. However deep a relationship may be, a distance remains. Relationship both joins and divides. It does a double work. With whom we are joined, from that very one we are also sundered. Where the bridge is built, there also the split is. The bridge that connects also separates. In truth, anything that joins also divides—inevitably so. Therefore two can never become one through relationship, no matter how deep the relationship is. Even the deepest relationship keeps the two.

However deep the love, the two do not dissolve. And until the two have dissolved, love cannot be fulfilled. Hence all loves are unfulfilled. There are two kinds of unfulfillment in love—when the beloved is not found, and when the beloved is found. If the beloved is not found, there is the ache that what was sought has not been attained. And if the beloved is found, there is the ache that what was sought has been attained, yet the meeting does not happen—the distance persists. We have come very near, but where does distance disappear? Hence, at times, the one who does not find the beloved is not as unhappy as the one who does. The one who has not found still has a hope that someday it may happen. The one who has found—his very hope is shattered: now what? Found, and yet no meeting!

In truth, no “union” can become a union, because within “union” there is still relationship, and relationship keeps two. So Martin Buber speaks of the deep relationships of I and Thou, which is very human. And in this world that has become increasingly materialistic, Buber’s words appear very religious. To me, they do not. I would say this is not religion; it is only a compromise: if unity cannot be, then at least let there be relationship between I and Thou.

This is the difference between love and worship. Love is relationship; worship is relationlessness. Relationlessness does not mean two have become unrelated; it means the relation between two has dropped—the relationship itself has fallen away. That which linked has also vanished; now the two are no longer two—they have become one. This becoming one is worship.

Therefore the next step of love is worship. And we cannot meet completely the one we love until he becomes divine, becomes godly, becomes God. The union of two human beings is impossible—their very humanity will remain a hindrance. Two human beings can, at most, be related. Only two essences of the divine can unite, for then there remains no one to divide. There remains no one to join either. Therefore Martin Buber can, at most, arrive at love. Krishna arrives at worship. Worship is a very different thing, wholly other. There the other has vanished, and I have vanished. And when both of us have vanished, what remains—that which remains—what name shall we give it? Shall we call it matter? Shall we call it soul? Shall I call it I? Shall I call it Thou? Any name we give will be wrong.

Therefore the supreme worshipers have remained silent; they have given it no name. They have said: it is nameless. They have said: it has no shore, no beginning, no end; it has no name, no form, no shape; no word can be given to it. They have remained silent. They have remained in silence.

The supreme worshiper remains silent—he makes no proclamation about that truth, because every proclamation falls into duality. Human language has no word that does not lead into duality. The moment we use words, we split the world in two. Bring a truth through language, and it instantly breaks into twoness. Just as sunlight, passing through a prism, splits into seven colors, so too any truth, passing through language, splits into two. Language is the prism that breaks every truth in two—and in that very breaking, truth becomes untruth. Therefore the supreme worshiper remains silent, remains in silence. He has danced, played the flute, sung songs, made gestures—but he has not made a declaration. Declarations are in words. He has indicated through gestures—has said what it is by dancing, by laughing, by remaining silent. He has raised his hand toward the sky and said what it is—and yet he has remained silent. With his whole being he has said what it is.

During the time of the uprising, a monk was bayoneted in the chest by a British soldier. The monk was passing by—he had been silent for years, for thirty years he had not spoken. And the day he took the vow of silence, someone asked him, “Why do you take a vow of silence?” He had said, “What can be spoken is not worth speaking, and what is worth speaking cannot be spoken. So what else can I do but be silent?” For thirty years he remained silent. The rebellion was on, the British were suspicious. The monk, naked, passed in the dark of night near their camp. They caught him, thinking he must be a spy, a detective. They asked him, “Who are you?” Even had he answered, perhaps they would have understood—but he stayed silent, he kept laughing. When they asked, “Who are you?” he laughed. Then they were certain he was a spy and not prepared to speak. They thrust a bayonet into his chest. The one who had been silent for thirty years laughed as he died, and he uttered one word—an Upanishadic Mahavakya. He said, “Tat tvam asi, Shvetaketu!” To that soldier who had thrust the bayonet he said, “You too are that which I am. And you ask, ‘Who are you?’”

These are gestures. Or there is the language of paradox—people have called Kabir’s language sandhya-bhasha, the language of twilight. The language of twilight means you cannot be sure whether it is day or night; whether it is yes or no; whether you accept or reject; whether you are theist or atheist. In such language nothing can be made definite. Therefore even now the meaning of Kabir’s language cannot be fixed; nor can Krishna’s. Whoever has spoken truth—their language becomes the language of twilight. For they will say both together—yes and no; or they will deny both together—and they will not fit into our logical arrangements of language. Therefore those who have known That have remained silent—at the place where both I and Thou are lost.

Putting you into a muddle is my job. When the distance between sadhana and upasana—practice and worship—drops, then the meaning of the camp has been understood.

Sartre and other existentialists say: existence precedes essence. It is a strange statement, because in the world it has rarely been held; almost always the opposite has been believed: essence precedes existence.

Understand it well.

Before Sartre, the entire range of metaphysical thinking held that the seed is prior to the tree—naturally. Sartre says the tree is prior to the seed. In general, philosophers would say: the soul is before existence; only then can existence be. Sartre says: existence is first, then the soul; because if there were no existence, how could “soul” be constituted?

What would it mean in Krishna’s context? In truth, all of man’s metaphysical battles are childish—very childlike. The whole of metaphysical controversy, even by the greatest philosophers, collapses into the tiny question children ask: Which came first, the chicken or the egg? The grandest philosophies keep fighting over this small point. Those who know will say: the chicken and the egg are not two; therefore only an ignorant person can ask who is first—and only a great ignoramus can answer.

If we understand rightly, what does “egg” mean? Only “a chicken concealed.” And what does “chicken” mean? “An egg concealed.” If egg and chicken were two different things, the question “which precedes” would be meaningful. But egg and chicken are one and the same thing—two ways of seeing the same thing, two moments in which the same thing appears. They are not two things. Egg and chicken are two phases of one process, two modes of one manifestation. Seed and tree are not two. Birth and death are not two. They are two ways of the one being—or perhaps we do not see fully, and so we split the one into two. Our vision is small.

Imagine a large room, a big building, and a tiny hole. I press my eye to the hole. The whole room doesn’t appear. Through the hole I first see one chair. I move my eye and see a second. I move again and see a third. I can ask, “Which chair is first?” But if I go inside the room, what will I say? Which is first? All are simultaneous. They are there together. But from the hole I saw first one, then the second, then the third. Inside the room, they are all at once.

There is a laboratory at Oxford University which, I believe, has made some of the most remarkable discoveries of this century. For the future, its work may be the greatest. Its name is the Dilabar Laboratory. A most astonishing event occurred there: while photographing a bud, the photograph that came was not of the bud but of the flower. With an extremely sensitive film—the most sensitive yet made—placing the bud before the camera produced a photo of the rose in bloom. That created great difficulty. The bud had not yet become a flower; it would become one. How could its photograph already appear? Either, in some mysterious dimension, the flower already is—only we cannot see it, while the camera saw what we missed. Perhaps the camera entered “the room” where bud and flower are simultaneous, whereas our eye saw from outside, where first there is a bud, then a flower.

But perhaps there was an error—the film might have been exposed earlier; maybe some other flower’s image got in; some chemical mishap. So they waited until that very bud became a flower. And then the real trouble began—because the flower that emerged was exactly the one already captured. The earlier photo was no chemical mistake; it was the photo of this very flower. This small incident in a little room at the Dilabar Laboratory becomes deeply unsettling.

It means that because of our way of seeing, at one time we see the egg and at another we see the chicken. But if we had eyes like Krishna’s, could we not see both together? It will trouble us, because this goes beyond logic. Yet in the last twenty-five years science has accepted many matters that lie beyond logic. Let me give you another example, so it doesn’t seem I am being unscientific.

Fifty years ago no one could even imagine it, but in these recent decades, with the discovery of the atom’s explosion and the electron, a great difficulty arose for the first time: What shall we call the electron? Sometimes the electron’s photo appears as if it were a wave; sometimes as if it were a particle. And sometimes two cameras take photos at the same instant: one shows a wave and the other a particle. But there is a vast difference between wave and particle. What shall we call it? If we say “wave,” then it cannot be a particle; if we say “particle,” it cannot be a wave. So in English a new word had to be coined—other languages have not yet reached that depth—“quanta.” A new term was needed. Quanta means both simultaneously—wave and particle. But “quanta” is a very mysterious matter: both at once—wave and particle. Yes: chicken and egg—quanta.

So I do not agree with Sartre, nor with Sartre’s opponents. Those who say “first existence, then soul,” and those who say “first soul, then existence”—I agree with neither. My understanding is: existence and essence are two ways of seeing the same truth. Because of the weakness of our vision, we split the one into two. Existence is essence; essence is existence. They are not two things. Therefore when we say “the soul has existence,” we are using wrong language. When we say “God exists,” that too is wrong language—because “God exists” implies that God is something and existence is something else that belongs to him.

No. If we understand rightly we will say: God is existence. “God exists” is wrong. A flower exists—because tomorrow the flower may not exist. But when will God’s existence not be? That which can never pass into nonexistence should not be said to “have existence.” We can say “I exist,” because tomorrow I may not exist. But we cannot say “God exists,” because there will never be a time when he does not. So “God exists” is a mistake of language. “God is existence” is correct.

But language keeps creating trouble. Even when we say “God is existence,” that word “is” is a nuisance; it relates God on one side and existence on the other, linking them by “is.” So we must drop yet another word. Instead of “God is existence,” we must say: God means is-ness. Not “is linked to,” but “means.” God means being, is-ness, existence. Even the word “is” becomes a redundancy. To say “God is” is repetition—because “is” also means God, and God also means “is.” Whatever is—that is the name “God.” Hence the great difficulty of language. As soon as we enter within… Therefore, one who knows says: leave the entanglement, be silent. Who will say “God is”? Whoever says it sets himself apart. To whom will you say “God is”? The moment you say it to someone, he becomes an object. Better to remain silent.

A Zen fakir was asked, “Say something about God.” He laughed and swayed. The man pressed him, “Say something; what will laughing and swaying do?” The fakir danced even more. The man said, “Aren’t you mad? We are asking you to say something!” The fakir replied, “I am saying—but you do not listen.” The man protested, “This is outrageous! You’re mad and making me mad. You haven’t spoken a single word.” The fakir said, “If I speak, I will make a mistake. If you cannot understand without words, then go where they explain by speaking.”

By speaking, a mistake will be made in the ultimate. So we can speak up to the very last step—but at the final step, speech must stop. After that, one has to be silent.

After a lifetime, Wittgenstein wrote a small sentence, and it is very wonderful: “That which cannot be said must not be said.” But still, one has to say at least this much. If Wittgenstein were alive, I would tell him: even that much has to be said—that what cannot be said should not be said. And then what difference does it make how much you say? Something has to be said.

Yes, he said that in his first book. In the first book, the Tractatus, he said that whatever is to be said will be said in language. That is true only up to a point. Because if we understand a gesture as “saying,” that too is a language. A mute person raises a hand and says, “I want water.” That too is language—the language of the mute. Hence we have always said that the divine is the mute man’s jaggery. What it means is: it has to be expressed in the mute man’s language.

But whatever we say—by any means, whether by dance or by silence—we are still saying; therefore what is will slip beyond all our saying. That is why Lao Tzu spoke more deeply than Wittgenstein. Lao Tzu said: truth, when said, becomes untrue—that much only can be said. Therefore those who know remain silent.

You often say that when the “I” is complete it becomes the Whole, that is, the “not-I.” Now you seem to be refuting that. It looks as if you are only shifting the emphasis of words. Are the complete “I” and the “not-I” not one?

There is no difference. Because the complete I means simply this: no “you” remains outside; all “you’s” have been absorbed into the I. And when all “you” have been absorbed into the I, to call it “I” has no meaning left. Conversely, we can say that our I has been absorbed into the “you.” But when my I has been absorbed into the you, then to call the you “you” has no meaning left. Therefore whether we call the I complete or we call the I empty, these are two ways of saying the same thing. When the I becomes complete it becomes zero; when the I becomes zero it becomes complete. From which side we speak does not matter much. Regarding the ultimate truth, if we say “yes,” it is fine; if we say “no,” it is fine—because with respect to the ultimate truth, within Yes the No is included, and within No the Yes is included. Therefore about the ultimate truth we may say nothing at all and it is still fine; and we may go on speaking endlessly and it still will not be complete. And if we fall silent and say nothing, it is complete.

Whenever we look at truth—as it is—from any particular standpoint, we get into difficulty. And we all look from some standpoint. We stand somewhere and look. We look from some place, from some belief, from some feeling, from some thought. Somewhere or other we hold a conception, and from there we look. So long as we have any belief, any standpoint, the truth we see will be partial, incomplete, a fragment, a part. If at least we know that it is a part, a fragment, that is fine. But every standpoint declares, “I am complete.” And when a standpoint declares, “I am complete,” when a standpoint says, “I am the philosophy (darshan),” then a great delusion arises. If a standpoint says only, “I am a standpoint,” there is no danger.

Vision (darshan) will be attained on the very day when there is no standpoint. You will not be seeing from any particular angle; you will not be seeing from any particular place; you will be seeing from all places—you will have become all places at once. That day, vision is attained. There are two ways to speak of that vision—only two ways we have: negation and affirmation. Either we use negation, as Buddha did, and say it is nirvana, emptiness; or we use affirmation, as Shankara did, and say it is Brahman, the Full. And the delightful paradox is that Shankara and Buddha seem opposed, yet they go on saying exactly the same thing. They say the same thing; only their linguistic preference differs. Shankara prefers affirmative terms—he says, Brahman is. Buddha prefers negative terms—he says, emptiness.

If you ask me what I would say: emptiness is another name for Brahman, and Brahman is another name for emptiness. And where Buddha and Shankara meet, there language ends. From there the real thing begins.

No, I did not say that sadhana leads toward the total I. I said: sadhana leads in the direction of the I. If sadhana were to lead toward the total I, then it would be no different from upasana. But sadhana cannot take you there. And that is why one day the seeker has to lose the I as well. It only moves in the direction of the I. Because the total I can be only when the I is lost. Therefore, at the end the seeker will have to take one more leap. By doing sadhana he will find the I, he will attain the self; and in the end he will have to take the leap of losing even the self. If he does not, he will stop one step short. The leap the devotee takes on the very first day, the seeker will have to take on the last day—that is what I said earlier. The seeker, sadhana, effort will take you to a place where only the I remains and everything else is lost. Now this I too will have to be lost. The devotee speaks of losing the I from the very first moment. Therefore, in the end nothing is left for him to lose. There is simply nothing left to lose.

So what the seeker has to do in the end, the devotee has to do at the beginning. And in my understanding, what must be done at the end, it is better to do at the very beginning. It is not worthwhile to carry this bother for so long. A load that has to be thrown away anyway—and which, on reaching the last summit, must be dropped—there is no purpose in hauling it on your shoulder all the way up the mountain. The devotee says: put the load down at the foot of the mountain, because before reaching the final peak this burden will have to be dropped. At that height, it cannot be carried.

But we say, no—let us carry it as long as it can be carried; when the moment comes, we will see. So we lug the weight up the whole mountain. Yet just before the last peak, it has to be dropped. The devotee leaves it below; he saves himself all that carrying. That is the difference.

At the final summit there will be no difference. But when the moment comes, at the very end, to drop a load that has been dragged so far, then the devotee will go on happily and the seeker will be in difficulty. Because whatever you have pulled along for so long, attachment and fondness are bound to form with it. The mind will say: after climbing so high, after dragging it so far, now at the end we should let it go! It will weep: if only we could take it along, it would be good. Or it will think: let’s just settle here—what harm if we don’t go a little further? Let’s stop with our load. This problem will stand before him.

This stands before the devotee on the very first day, at the foot of the mountain. He too has his difficulty. The difficulty is that the seeker will be seen carrying the load, and it will seem to him: some people are taking it along, and I am having to leave it here. What if they reach the summit with it, and I, poor fellow, am left here! And in the end it may seem that they arrived with their load, and I reached empty-handed.

Therefore, the seeker’s difficulty is at the end; the devotee’s difficulty is at the beginning. Nothing definitive can be said—people are of different types. One may prefer one way, another may prefer the other. But in understanding Krishna, I want to tell you: Krishna’s world is the world of the devotee.

For me there is no difference. For me there is no difference at all. Words make no difference to me. The question is of truth. In meditation I speak the same truth; in prayer I speak the same truth; in sadhana I speak the same truth; in worship I speak the same truth. For me, it makes no difference. But if you ask in the context of Krishna, then there is a difference. If you ask in the context of Mahavira, then there is a difference. For Mahavira the right word is not worship. Mahavira would not agree to the word worship. Mahavira would agree to sadhana, Buddha would agree to sadhana. Emphatically, their stress would be on sadhana. Christ would agree to worship; Krishna would agree to worship; Mohammed would agree to worship. Their emphatic word would be worship.

For me there is no hassle; for me there is no difficulty. That is why it will often seem that what I said yesterday, today I am saying the opposite. I can say it with complete ease. It makes no difference to me. Right now I am speaking on Krishna, so I speak of worship; last year I was speaking on Mahavira, so I spoke of sadhana. Next year when I speak on Christ, I will speak differently. Since truth appears to me as it does, in that seeing there is no longer any difference for me as to who requires what distinction. But when you go to understand Krishna, if I put the word sadhana on Krishna, it will be an injustice to Krishna; that is not his word. Just as if I were to impose dance on Mahavira… For me there is no difference: Mahavira is standing silent in a mountain cave, absorbed in his bliss; Krishna is under a tree playing his flute, absorbed in his bliss—there is no difference for me. But if someone says there is no difference for Mahavira and Krishna, I will not agree. Mahavira would not agree to dance. Krishna would not agree to stand naked under a tree with closed eyes like Mahavira.

There is no problem for me, no difficulty. So when you ask me to help you understand Mahavira, I cannot say that Mahavira dances—that would be an injustice to Mahavira. And when you are trying to understand Krishna, I cannot say that Krishna sits with closed eyes under a tree in meditation. I cannot say that. Under the tree Krishna always danced; he never meditated. There is no report that Krishna ever practiced meditation. And that Mahavira ever danced—even before his sadhana—that too is not possible.

So when I am speaking of Krishna, I emphasize the word worship. For me there is no difference. For me, sadhana is necessary for one type of person, worship is necessary for another type. I see truth in both, and I have told you that both have their hurdles and their helps. Yet it is useful for you to understand both clearly and distinctly. For me it is not useful at all to create a gap between the two. For you, however, a decision has to be made—whether you set out on the journey of the practitioner or the devotee. For me there is no journey; I have nowhere to go. It makes no difference to me whether someone takes me to be a worshiper, a practitioner, or neither.

For your sake I want to separate the two clearly, because you have to decide. You must determine what kind of person you are: which approach is nearer to you? Will you reach through worship, or will you reach through sadhana? Those who have to reach must decide; those who have to go must decide. For those who believe they are already arrived where they stand, there is no question. If someday you come to see that there is nowhere to go and nowhere to arrive, then neither the word worship nor the word sadhana has meaning. Then you can laugh at both and say that both are kinds of madness, because you are already where you have to be—where you have to reach, you already are.

A Zen monk used to sleep outside a cave on a path along which pilgrims climbed the mountain. Whoever passed by, seeing him asleep, would say, “Hey, why are you lying here? Won’t you go on the pilgrimage?” The monk would reply, “Where you are going, I have already arrived.” Later, someone returning would ask, “Ah, you are still lying here! Didn’t you go up?” He would say, “Where you are coming from, I live there.” And he kept lying there. He never went on a pilgrimage, nor will he ever go. Pilgrims would knock their heads and move on, saying, “Madman!” But he would say, “Where you are going, I already am. Where you are coming from, I have always been.”

For such a person, neither sadhana nor worship has meaning. So sometimes I speak of sadhana, sometimes of worship, and sometimes I will also speak of the madness of both. But if you understand rightly, no contradiction will appear—because there is none.

No, I did not say that. I only said that whatever Mahavira became, he became through becoming—through practice. Whether he practiced in the last life or the one before that makes no difference. Whatever he is, he is through sadhana. Before his state of perfection there is a journey of practice. Krishna, in no life, ever practiced.

Straightaway complete?
We find that difficult. We find it difficult that one could be complete straightaway. We feel one can become perfect only by walking in zigzags. We feel… It is the same question as with that fakir. People passing by say to him, “So, you reached just lying here? We climbed all the way up to the shrine to reach—how could you reach lying here? That can’t be!” But the fakir says, “If you cannot reach while lying here, how will you reach by climbing up? Where there is to be reached is not something for which a journey is necessary.” But there are some types who cannot reach without a journey. Even to come to their own home, they cannot do it without knocking on five or ten other doors. Even to find their own house, they have to ask someone else.

This is a difference of type—the difference between Mahavira’s and Krishna’s type. Mahavira will not reach without practice. In fact, Mahavira would not even agree to it. Understand this too. If someone were to tell Mahavira that without practice this is readily available, Mahavira would say, “Forgive me, I will not take it; because to take what has not been earned is theft.” Mahavira would say that to take what has not been earned, for which no practice or method has been undertaken, is theft. We will not take it. If liberation were available as a donation, lying by the roadside, then—as I understand Mahavira—he would reject it and move on. He would say, “We will not take such a thing. We will gain it, earn it, seek it. The day it is found, we will take it. When we are worthy, we will take it.” Krishna would say, “That which is obtained by seeking—what will you do with it even if you get it? Because whatever can be got by getting can also be lost. We will attain only that which is not a matter of attaining, which simply is.”

This is a difference of type—differences of personality. I am not speaking of higher or lower. These are differences between two deep kinds of personalities. For Mahavira, only that is meaningful which comes through seeking, is uncovered, is gained through labor. Hence Mahavira’s very name became Shraman—the man of labor—and his whole tradition came to be called the Shraman tradition. Mahavira says, whatever is received is received through labor. Whatever is gained without labor is theft. Even if the divine is gained without labor, there is some fraud in it somewhere, some deception, some trick. Mahavira says our self-respect does not allow us to have anything without labor. We will toil, and whatever we gain, we will be content with that. Therefore, in Mahavira’s language—in his very linguistic outlook—there are no words like prasad or grace. There are words like effort, labor, self-effort (purushartha), practice, struggle. Naturally so. Hence his whole lineage is the Shraman tradition.

In India there are two traditions—Shraman and Brahmin. The Brahmin tradition means: those who hold that we are Brahman already; it is not something to be become. The Shraman tradition means: we have to become Brahman; we are not that yet. And there are only these two kinds of people. And I consider that the Brahmin-type people are very few. They are not even Brahmins; those whom we take to be Brahmins are not Brahmins. Because to gather the courage to say, “We will have without having attained; we are entitled without becoming entitled; we have arrived without going”—this is very difficult! The ordinary mind says, “One must obtain, one must labor; how will anything be gained without doing? All our arithmetic says: without means there is no end; without labor no attainment; without effort, what kind of arriving is that?” Therefore a Brahmin-type person appears once in two, four, even ten centuries—just one. The rest are Shramans, whether or not they call themselves Jains or Shramans. That is why, despite great differences between Buddha and Mahavira, both their traditions came to be called Shraman—both traditions. Because Buddha too insists: without attaining, it will not be obtained; one must seek. Krishna is a Brahmin. He says, “We are Brahman already.”

And I am not calling one wrong and the other right—keep this in mind. Because both seem right to me. These are two styles of thinking, two kinds of personality, two kinds of consciousness—their journeys.

Even Mahavira has not, in any birth, been imperfect or ignorant. Only, he came to know it in this life. And Krishna has known it always. Nor are you imperfect and ignorant. No one is. It is only a matter of realizing it. The difference is not of being imperfect; it is of awareness.

Here everyone is asleep, the sun has risen, and one person is awake. For both the one who is awake and the ones who are asleep, the sun has risen. There is no difference in the rising of the sun. One is awake; he knows the sun has risen. The rest are asleep; they do not know. When they wake up, they will say, “Ah, now the sun has risen!” No; it would be proper to say, “The sun had risen; we have now awakened.”

Neither Mahavira nor Krishna nor you are imperfect or ignorant. But Krishna never, on any plane, takes himself to be so; hence he makes no effort. On some plane Mahavira makes an effort and comes to know that he is not imperfect and ignorant, but whole and knowing. The day he knows, it is also known that this has always been his being. Only now it has been recognized. And what difference does it make whether someone recognizes it two lives earlier and someone else two lives later! To us it seems a big problem—someone came to know ten lives earlier and someone ten lives later—because we live in time. Our whole question is: who is first, who is behind?

But in existence time has no beginning and no end. Then what meaning can “before” and “after” have in it? “Before” and “after” have meaning only so long as we posit a beginning and an end. If time has no beginning at all, then did the one who attained two days earlier really attain before me? And if time has no end at all, then if I attain two days later, did I attain after him?

No, “before” and “after” can be meaningful only if there are posts fixed at the back and the front—here time ends, there time begins. If time ever began, then one could say, “He reached two days before me,” measuring from that post; and from the front post one could measure, “I reached two days after.” But if there is no beginning behind and no end ahead, then who reached first and who reached later? The notions of first and later are our notions of time. And whoever arrives, arrives timeless—beyond time.

Therefore let me tell you a strange thing: the very moment Mahavira arrives, in that very moment Krishna arrives. But this will be difficult. One has to understand time a little to understand this.

The moment anyone reaches, in that very moment all reach. Understand it like this. Draw a large circle. In the middle of the circle is a center. From the circumference draw many lines toward the center. On the circumference there will be gaps, distances between the lines. As the lines move toward the center, the distance keeps decreasing. When they reach the center, the distance disappears. On the circumference there is distance; at the center distance ends.

On the circumference of time, one day Mahavira takes a leap and reaches the center. On the circumference of time there is distance between Krishna and Mahavira, between me and Krishna, between you and me. But the day one reaches the center, no distance remains. At the center of time all distances dissolve. This is a little hard to take in, because we live on the circumference and have no sense of the center.

Understand it another way. A bullock-cart wheel turns. The wheel moves, but the peg stands still. And the delightful thing is that it is upon the standing peg that the wheel moves: it moves on that which does not move. The wheel will travel many miles and will say, “I have journeyed ten miles.” Ask the peg, “Peg, how far have you traveled?” The peg will say, “I am where I was.” The strange thing is, the very peg on which the wheel has gone ten miles has not moved an inch! Then how did the wheel move if the peg did not move at all? And the peg will insist, “I am just where I was, I have not moved at all,” and the wheel will insist, “I have gone ten miles.” The peg and the wheel are joined together. How can both statements be true at once—that the wheel joined to the peg has gone ten miles, and the peg joined to the wheel has not moved at all? Yet they are true at once; we see it every day in the cart. It happens because the peg is at the center and the wheel on the circumference. The peg is at the center and the wheel on the circumference. On the circumference is history, time. At the peg is truth, Brahman.

Mahavira and Krishna reach there in the same instant. And when they arrive there, it cannot be told who reached before and who after. But where people live on the circumference, on the wheel, there someone arrives now, someone then, someone at some other time—these are all distances of time. There, beyond time, there are no distances of time.

We will talk a little more about this tomorrow, from a few other angles; then it may become clear.

No, that won’t do. Whatever I have to say, I will say—don’t worry about that. It doesn’t make much difference what you ask. I say what I have to say; it makes no difference.