Krishna Smriti #14

In Krishna’s vision and philosophy there is simply no place for sadhana. Therefore there is no method for the seven bodies either. The milestones that appear on the path of sadhana are not found on the path of upasana. Sadhana divides a human being in a way that upasana does not. Sadhana builds stairs, and so it breaks a person’s personality into seven parts and arranges for climbing one step at a time. Upasana does not break the personality at all; it makes no fragments. It dissolves the whole, undivided being of a person into devotion.

Hence seekers have created many steps, planted many milestones, and made many divisions—some have divided the human personality into seven bodies, some into seven chakras, some into three parts. Different seekers have apportioned the personality into different ladders and practiced accordingly. But in the world of upasana there is no division. There, as a person is, the whole person is simply to be remembered. Remembrance is never fragmentary; sadhana can be. No one remembers in pieces, thinking “I am a little bit God and a little bit not.” When remembrance happens, it happens total; otherwise it does not happen.

The very process of remembrance is different. It is sudden, not gradual. Remembrance happens all at once, in a single leap. It is an explosion. Sadhana has a sequence; remembrance has none. For example, suppose you know someone’s name perfectly well. The time comes to recall it and it doesn’t come. You say, “It’s on the tip of my tongue.” It’s amusing—on the tip of the tongue, and yet you can’t remember it. In fact both things are registering in you: “I do know it” and “I can’t recall it.” It’s a great quandary. You know that you know, you are well aware that you know—and yet it won’t come. That is precisely what forgetting is: you know, but it doesn’t reach you. Some deep layer of the mind knows, but the news doesn’t reach the surface. The bridge in between isn’t forming. The deep mind says, “I know,” but the shallow mind says, “The message isn’t getting through.” So we say, “It’s on the tip of my tongue, but it won’t come.” Both things are remembered together: “I know”—that too is known; “it won’t come”—that too is known.

Then what do you do? You try hard. You strain, you clench your fists, you search in every way—and the more you search the more you find that it still won’t come. The more you strain, the more difficult it becomes. Why? Because as you strive, tension fills you. And tension cuts you off from your deeper mind. A tense mind becomes fragmented; a quiet mind gathers itself. So the more you insist, “Let me remember, let me remember,” the more you get into trouble. The one who is saying, “I must remember,” is simultaneously holding in mind, “It is not coming.” He is receiving double suggestion at once. He keeps saying, “Remember,” and keeps knowing, “It isn’t coming.” His self-trust diminishes and his mind tightens. He will not be able to remember.

Then the person says, “Let it go. If it doesn’t come, let it go.” He sits to smoke, or works in the garden, or turns on the radio, or reads the newspaper—and suddenly it comes. And when it comes, does it ever come half? It comes whole.

Why? In that sudden relaxation, in that state of non-tension, why does it come? Because the strain has dropped, you stopped trying to remember. The two minds that were split and fighting—one trying to remember and the other in which the memory lay—were opposing each other. The one insisting “it must come,” tense and tight, was the obstacle itself. Once that drops—you’re gardening, reading, listening—suddenly it comes. What striving could not bring, arrives unbidden. What effort could not find, in effortlessness becomes available. And when it comes, it never comes incomplete, because what you knew, you knew in full.

I gave this as an example from ordinary memory. In this memory, two parts of the mind function: what we call the conscious mind and what we call the unconscious mind. The conscious mind is that part we use all the time; the unconscious is that part we only sometimes draw upon—it is not in use twenty-four hours a day. The conscious mind is our illuminated portion; the unconscious is the part sunk in darkness. In the example, the memory was buried in the unconscious, and the conscious was trying to recall. The conscious was struggling against the unconscious. So long as it struggles, it won’t come. The moment the struggle is dropped, the two meet and the memory rises. What stood at the gate of the unconscious, ready to enter the conscious, is exactly what you were calling “on the tip of my tongue.”

But remembrance of the Divine, or self-remembrance, is a deeper matter. It is not buried merely in the unconscious. Beneath the unconscious there is yet another layer—the collective unconscious. Beneath that, a deeper layer still—the cosmic unconscious. Think of it like this: the conscious mind is the top, the illuminated part. Below it lies our personal unconscious, our own portion sunk in darkness. Beneath that is our shared, group-mind—the collective unconscious. And beneath that is the cosmic unconscious—the mind of the totality of existence, all of life, all that is, submerged in darkness. The remembrance of the Divine is buried in that cosmic unconscious. Remembrance means only this: that we become so one within ourselves that we link not only with our personal unconscious, but also with the collective unconscious, and below that, with the cosmic unconscious.

For example, when you sit in meditation and it begins to deepen, first you descend into the personal unconscious. Someone begins to cry, someone to laugh, someone to dance, someone to sway—these are actions repressed in your personal unconscious surfacing. But within about ten minutes, you are no longer merely a person; you become a collectivity. You are no longer separate. Those who go deeper descend into the collective unconscious. In that moment it no longer seems “I am dancing.” It seems “a dance is happening and I am a participant.” It no longer seems “I am laughing”; it seems “laughter is bursting forth and I am sharing in it.” It no longer seems “I am.” Rather, everything is dancing—the whole existence, the moon and stars, plants and birds, whatever is around, every particle—all is dancing, and I have become a part of that dance. Then you have descended into the collective unconscious.

Still deeper lies the cosmic unconscious. The day you descend into that—you will reach it only through the collective; as the group-mind deepens and deepens—you will not even know “all are dancing and I am a part.” Even the sense “I am a part” will disappear. Only this will be known: all and I are one. Not even a part. I am not a fragment of the Total; I am the Total. In that very instant, like an arrow, a remembrance flashes up from the cosmic unconscious into your conscious mind. Then you remember that you have realized what you always, already knew—who you are. I am Brahman! The knowing “aham brahmāsmi” spreads through the conscious.

I have divided this process of remembrance into four for the sake of explanation. Krishna does not divide it. I divided it to make it easier to understand. These are not four separate things—they are one continuous deepening. As depth increases, we give different names to the segments for the sake of talking.

In our deepest depths we already know that we are the Divine. We do not have to become the Divine; we only have to discover—uncover—it. The rishis say in the Upanishads: “O Truth, covered by a golden vessel—remove the covering.” What is covered must be uncovered. Being the Divine is not an acquisition; it is an unveiling. What covers it? Our own forgetfulness. We live only at the very front of the mind, like someone who lives in a large mansion but stays only in the porch. Born in the porch, grown in the porch, living there, he has forgotten, he does not even know that there is a vast house behind. He manages life there—sleeping, working, eating, drinking—and has no remembrance of the mansion attached to that porch. In truth, there is no porch that exists by itself; a porch is part of a larger house. That larger house is unknown to us. Our conscious mind is that porch—just the outer bit, where a little shed gives shade—and we live there. We have no clue of the inside. And yet, deep within, there is a memory of the inner house. But we have not descended into our own depth. The descent will not happen in fragments; only the explanation and discussion are divided.

Those who move by the path of sadhana try to cultivate one fragment at a time. Krishna says only this: you are the Divine—remember it. That is why the Upanishads repeat: Remember! Remember! Only remember who we are. We have forgotten it; we have not lost it. It is not something in the future to become. It is only forgetfulness.

This changes everything. In sadhana, it is not only forgetfulness; sadhana assumes something has been lost, or something not yet attained must be attained; or some wrong attachment must be cut off. In the process of remembrance there is nothing to cut, nothing to separate, nothing wrongly attached, nothing to become, and we have not become otherwise than what we are. We are what we are—only forgetfulness covers it. Other than forgetfulness, there is no veil.

Krishna’s whole foundation is upasana, and the foundation of upasana is remembrance. But the worshipers forgot remembrance and began sumiran instead. They forgot smaran and now they do sumiran—sitting and chanting “Ram-Ram.” By chanting “Ram-Ram,” the remembrance “I am Ram” will not arise. The word smaran gradually became “sumiran”; smriti gradually became “surati.” The connotation changed. Even if someone sits and repeats, “I am the Divine, I am the Divine,” it will not help. Repetition has nothing to do with it. It can even create an illusion—one may never descend inside and yet in the conscious mind keep believing “I am God,” without any awareness of the inner layers.

So what will be the process of remembrance? What will be the path? What will be the door?

As I see it, if you simply sit quiet and empty, doing nothing, your doing will only become a hindrance. Through doing you can obtain what you are not; through doing you can acquire what you do not have. The deepest meaning of remembrance is total inactivity—akarma. That is why Krishna emphasizes akarma so much—deep inaction, no-activity.

As I said, even with a small forgotten thing: so long as you actively try to remember, you cannot; when you leave it alone—become inactive regarding it—the remembrance arrives.

If we become totally inactive, then from the cosmic unconscious—where it lies buried—something shoots up like an arrow. As a seed sprouts, so from some deep soil of consciousness, the husk breaks and a shoot rises into the light of the conscious, and we know who we are. Akarma is the key. In sadhana the key is always karma; in sadhana the path is always activity. In upasana the doorway is always non-activity; the path is akarma.

Krishna’s akarma needs to be understood rightly. I feel it has not been rightly understood. It is difficult. Those who commented on Krishna could not grasp akarma. They took akarma to mean “run away from the world.” But running away is an act. Renunciation is an act. Constantly akarma was interpreted as “do nothing—don’t keep a shop, don’t work, don’t be a householder, don’t love—just run away; only renounce.” But renunciation is as much karma as enjoyment is karma. So Krishna could not be understood. Akarma came to mean abandoning, fleeing, renouncing. India’s long tradition has been fleeing, leaving, renouncing. No one looks carefully enough to see that the one who speaks of akarma stands in the midst of immense action. So “running away” cannot be its meaning.

Krishna uses three words: akarma, karma, and vikarma. Karma does not mean merely “action.” If action alone is karma, no one could ever enter akarma; then akarma would be impossible. Krishna calls karma that action in which the sense of doership is present—ego-centric action. Action in which the doer is present, acting with the idea “I am doing.” So long as “I am the doer” remains, whatever we do is karma. If I take sannyas, then sannyas is karma. If I renounce, renunciation is karma.

Akarma is precisely the opposite: action in which there is no doer. Action where there is no center from which the feeling “I am doing” arises. If the “I am doing” drops, then all actions are akarma. When the doer is gone, all action is akarma. Therefore none of Krishna’s actions are karma; all are akarma.

Between karma and akarma stands vikarma. Vikarma means “special action.” Akarma is “no karma”; karma is “action with doership”; vikarma is “special action”—in which there is neither doer nor deed, and yet things go on. One still breathes. Breathing is an action. Blood circulates. Food digests. Where do these belong? They are vikarma—midway. Here there is neither doer nor the sense of doing. The ordinary person lives in karma; the sannyasin lives in akarma; God lives in vikarma—where there is no doer and no deed. Things are simply happening, like breathing—just happening.

In human life too there is a little of this. That is all vikarma—and it is done by the Divine. Do you breathe? If you were the one who breathes, you could never die. Death would stand there and you would keep breathing. Or try to stop the breath and you will find it won’t stop—it will happen anyway. Hold it out, and you will find it refuses; it will rush back in. Neither are we doing it, nor are we the doers, as far as breath is concerned. Many activities of life are like this.

One who understands the mystery of vikarma enters akarma. Then he says, “Why needlessly be a doer? If all that is essential is happening without me, why should I carry the load?” He is a very intelligent man, a wise man. Like the man I have heard about who boarded a train and kept his trunk balanced on his head. Fellow passengers asked, “Why carry it on your head? Put it down.” He said, “The train would be burdened; so I thought I would share some of the weight.” They were amazed. “Are you mad? Even if you carry it on your head, the train bears the weight anyway. The train will bear it—and you will suffer needlessly.” The man laughed and said, “I thought you are worldly people, but you seem to be sannyasins. I only kept it on my head seeing you.”

He was a sannyasin. He said, “I kept it on my head thinking you were worldlings. But you laugh? In your whole lives where have you kept your burdens—on your heads or left them to God? Because whether you carry them or not, they rest on God anyway. Why carry them?” Saying so, he not only put the trunk down, he sat on it. “Now I can sit as is natural to me,” he said. “This is my way. I only adjusted myself thinking you might find me strange.”

One who understands vikarma descends into akarma. Karma is our present condition, the way we live. Vikarma is our understanding. Akarma becomes our being.

Krishna’s sadhana—upasana, whatever name we give it—at its depth is akarma. You have nothing to do; let what is happening happen. Let your doer dissolve. The day the doer disappears, the wall in between will break and remembrance will come. The doer is your obstacle. The doer—the one who says “I am doing”—is the steel, the iron plate beneath which remembrance lies buried. So long as you remain a doer, remembrance will not return.

Therefore, sitting and repeating “Ram-Ram” will not do; repeating “I am the Divine” will not do; because it is your doer who is repeating. It is you—the doer—who is saying “I am.” Kindly let the doer go.

How will the doer go?

Understand vikarma. Keep acting, and understand vikarma. Keep living, and understand life. That very understanding will reveal what “I” am doing. I am neither born nor do I die, nor do I breathe. No one ever asked me, “Do you want to be?” No one will ask me, “It is time to go; do you wish to leave?” No one asks when I become young or when I grow old. No one asks me anything; nothing really depends on me. If I am not, what difference will it make? When I was not, what difference did it make? Were the moon and stars any dimmer? Did flowers bloom any less? Were mountains smaller? Were clouds sorrowful? Was the sun anxious? Before I was, everything was as it is. When I am no longer, everything will be as it is. Like a line drawn on water vanishes, so shall I. Nothing will be different. Everything will go on as it has always gone on. Then why needlessly carry this “I”? If everything will go on without me, why don’t I also go on without “me”? If without me nothing anywhere changes, why bring change within myself by this “I”?

Understanding vikarma is called prajna—wisdom. One who understands vikarma understands all. Then karma instantly becomes akarma. Vikarma is the alchemy, the doorway between. Passing through karma, you will encounter vikarma. And in akarma, remembrance arrives—you do not have to bring it. Any remembrance you bring will be karma. The remembrance that comes comes from beyond your doer—from the cosmic, from the Brahman.

That is why we could say the Vedas are apaurusheya—not of human authorship. It does not mean the writers were not human; it means the “news” recorded there did not come from their person, but from beyond their person—outside their personality—cosmic news. Therefore we could say the Veda is the word of God. Not only the Veda: whenever any news arises within someone from beyond the person, it is God’s word. That is why Muhammad’s Quran could be called God’s revelation; why Jesus could say, “What I tell you, I do not speak; it is the Father who speaks.”

Thus Krishna could say directly, “I am not; only the Divine is.” “All this is being done by me”—meaning the cosmic—“this play, this war, I am doing it.” “Do not be afraid, Arjuna, for those whom you will kill I have already killed.” The ease with which Krishna says, “Those whom you will slay, I have already slain; they are already dead. Your work is only to carry the news to them that they are dead; nothing more. The work is already done.” The one who speaks thus is no longer a person; it is a cosmic message. It arises from the depths of the cosmos: “Those who seem alive before you, I tell you they are already dead. In a moment or two, you are but a means.” “So do not think ‘I am killing’—if you think you are the doer, fear will arise; with the doer come fear, choice, anxiety, sorrow. Don’t think it; don’t even know it so—this is your delusion. You are not doing. In the hands of the cosmic, of Brahman, you are no more than a gesture, a mere indication. Let That do what It is doing. Drop yourself.” Therefore he says, “Sarva-dharmān parityajya…”—abandon all—“leave everything and come. Leave yourself and come. Enter akarma.” Akarma is the process of remembrance.

Krishna says: to have done all actions and yet to be as though no action has been done—that is yoga. To have done everything, and yet to be as though nothing has been done—that is yoga. In other words, to be established in non-doership is yoga. The other statement he makes is the other side of the same truth: while doing nothing, to know that everything is done—that is sannyas.

Sannyas and yoga are two sides of the same coin. Of course, the sides are opposite. But the two faces of one coin are joined, and it is very hard to decide where one ends and the other begins. If you try to split the coin to find the precise line where the front finishes and the back begins, you will land in great difficulty. They don’t end anywhere; they are utterly joined together. What we call the background, the reverse, is just the back of the very face we call the front.

So if you approach the enlightened one from his face, he will appear a yogi; if you approach him from his back, he will appear a sannyasi. There is no confusion in Krishna’s two definitions. He is defining the knower from both sides. He is saying: he acts while not being a doer; and, not acting, he acts. And remember, in the knower both these things can only be together; they cannot be separate. For only the one who, while acting, is not a doer can, while not acting, be the one in whom all is done. These are two aspects of one thing. And remember, no coin has ever been made with only one side. The second side will be there. From which side we catch hold of it depends on us. Krishna takes hold from both sides. He is trying to help Arjuna understand from every angle. He says: if you are inclined toward yoga, then yoga means to arrive at non-doership while acting. If you say, “I am not interested in yoga, I will take sannyas; I will renounce everything—do not entangle me in the subtleties of yoga. I am distressed by sorrow, fear, delusion. I will not kill them; I will renounce,” then he says: be a sannyasi—but know that a sannyasi is one who, while doing nothing, yet in whom all is done.

He is simply encircling Arjuna from every side—nothing else. That is why at places his statements seem contradictory. With you I find myself in the same situation. I surround you from every side. If you say no from one side, I say, “Let it be; we will begin from another side.” But be willing from somewhere. Where you were unwilling, you will find that by saying yes from the other side you reach the very shore to which you had said no. However Arjuna says yes—if he agrees to be a yogi, Krishna says, “Good.” Because he knows that a coin has two sides—the other cannot be left out. You say, “We will take a straight coin.” Take it. Where will its reverse go? It will land in your hand.

There is a Taoist story that may help.

Lao Tzu’s fakirs have told wondrous stories—unlike anything the world has known. There was a fakir who lived in the forest; he kept ten or twenty monkeys. One morning a seeker came and asked a question like yours: “Sometimes you say this, sometimes you say that; we get very confused. In the evening you say one thing, in the morning another—we get entangled.” The fakir said, “Sit and watch.” He called his monkeys and said, “Listen, from today your food will be changed. You used to get four rotis in the morning and three in the evening. From today it will be reversed: three in the morning and four in the evening.” The monkeys at once got angry. “We will revolt. This we cannot tolerate. We will stick to the old rule—four in the morning.” He said, “That will not do. Three in the morning, four in the evening.” The monkeys were about to attack. He said, “All right—wait. Take four in the morning.” The monkeys were delighted. The fakir turned to the visitor and said, “Do you see? The rotis are seven either way, but the monkeys were furious at getting three in the morning. Still seven will be given—whether four in the morning and three at dusk, or three in the morning and four at dusk. But now they are pleased.”

Krishna encircles Arjuna just like that. Sometimes he says, “Take three.” Arjuna says, “Impossible.” Then Krishna says, “Take four.” The rotis are seven. How Arjuna agrees to take them—Krishna leaves that to Arjuna. That is why the Gita runs so long. Again and again he shifts: “All right, be a devotee; be a yogi; practice karma-yoga; if not, practice bhakti-yoga; if not, then jnana-yoga. Practice whatever you say.” But the rotis are seven. Only toward the very end of the Gita does Arjuna understand that the rotis are seven, and this man will not give more than seven; then it doesn’t matter from which side they are taken.

Now, the second question.

Shankara’s definition is the definition of a partisan. It is the definition of a choice. Shankara is a strong opponent of action. He says action is bondage; action is ignorance. Without dropping action there is no way. Here he turns Krishna’s akarma into “dropping action”: abandon action. And by dropping action he means: run away from the world of the doer, withdraw from the relationships of action.

For the knower there is no action—this is true. But Shankara’s interpretation of it is not right; it is incomplete. For the knower there is no action—utterly true—because for the knower there is no doer. But the emphasis should be on the absence of the doer—that is what Krishna tells Arjuna. Shankara shifts the emphasis. He puts it on action: there should be no action. In truth, action has two poles—the doer and the deed. Krishna’s whole emphasis is that the doer should disappear. Action will remain. Even God is not without action—otherwise either he is a doer, worldly, ignorant, or what? God too is not without action, because this world is his action. Otherwise how does this world move? Why does it move? There is a moving energy behind this movement. So even God is not outside action—how then could the knower be? Krishna’s emphasis is on the absence of doership. But the renunciate who flees the world, the escapist, will say: drop action. Then Shankara is compelled to say that the world is maya. He has to say: this is not God’s action, it is only our delusion. Otherwise he is in trouble: if this is God’s action—flowers blooming, mountains arising and dissolving, the moon and stars rising and setting—if this is God’s action, then even God is not a renunciate. Then what can one expect of man? So Shankara is pushed into another complication.

Arguments have their own tangles. Take up one premise and its corollaries bind you; you have to go all the way to its logical conclusion. Logic is a hard taskmaster. Once Shankara said that action is bondage, action is ignorance, and the knower has no action, then a great difficulty arose: this vast web of action! There is no way out but to call it a dream. It is false; it only appears. It is mere appearance—maya, magic, a hypnotic trick: a magician sows a seed, a mango tree grows, mangoes appear—no seed anywhere, no mangoes, no tree—only a hypnotic illusion.

But here is the rub: the hypnotic trick may be false for the viewers; for the one doing it, it is action. For the hypnotist it is indeed action; he must perform it. So Shankara gets caught in the net, and the difficulty deepens: how to explain maya now? If maya is only our delusion, created by us, still at the very least God must be allowing it. That much action of his must be admitted—that he permits us to see delusion. Without his permission how would we see it? We are seeing a delusion; the delusion may be false, but the very seeing of it is an action.

Thus Shankara cannot get free; the circle widens. He is in great difficulty. Still, he is a superb logician and makes a deep effort to show that action is unreal, is not. For the knower there is no action—that is right—but his emphasis is not so much on dissolving the doer as on dissolving action. Am I saying Shankara did not reach truth? No, I am not saying that. He reached. For the day you utterly annihilate action, how could the doer remain? How? The doer can remain only so long as the notion of action remains. So Shankara’s logic is absurd, wrong, but his realization is not wrong. He reached by a very wrong route. He wandered much, circled around the temple again and again, and then entered—but he did enter. For if action can be totally forbidden—even in concept, even in knowledge—then where will the doer survive? He can survive only with the sense that action is. So he began from a wrong end, not from Krishna’s end.

Krishna says: let the doer go, because when the doer is gone, action is gone.

These are two ends of the same thing. Yet I am willing to choose Krishna over Shankara. Because Shankara’s entire exposition becomes escapist. Shankara turns into one who makes people flee. And those who flee must still depend on those who do not. If the whole earth agreed with Shankara, the world could not run even for a moment. There would be no way to keep it going. Therefore the whole earth cannot agree. And however much Shankara tries—however much he calls action maya—maya persists. Shankara still goes out begging, still takes alms, still goes to explain, still strives to explain. Shankara’s opponents have mocked him well. They say: whom are you explaining to? If all is maya, why fall into delusion? Why roam from village to village? What is this walking for? Whom are you addressing—one who does not exist? Where are you going—to a place that is not? From where are you going—from a place that was not? This begging bowl, this begging for alms, this hunger, this thirst, this being satisfied or not—Shankara says, all is maya.

A story comes to mind. A Buddhist monk, who held the world to be maya, went to a king’s court. He argued brilliantly and proved that everything is false.

There is one convenience in logic. Logic can never prove what truth is, but it can prove what is false. Logic can never tell you what is, but it can surely tell you what is not. It is like a sword. A sword can kill, but cannot give life; it can break, but cannot make; it can erase, but cannot create. Logic has a sharp, destructive edge. It has never constructed anything—nor can it.

In the king’s court he proved all is false. But the king had his own way. He said, “All may be false, but there is one thing that cannot be false; I will summon it.” He had a mad elephant. He cleared the road and let the elephant loose—and let the poor monk loose too. The king stood on the terrace; the whole town stood on its roofs. The mad elephant charged; the monk ran and shouted, “Save me! I am dying! I will be killed! Save me!” They kept the elephant chasing him through the town; finally the elephant caught him in its trunk. The monk screamed, folded his hands, begged, “I will die!” Then they rescued him, brought him before the king, and asked about the elephant. The monk said, “All is false.” “Your crying?” The monk said, “You were deluded; all is false. The elephant was false, my existence false, my screaming false, my fear of death false, my prayer false, you to whom I prayed false, your rescue false—nothing is true.”

This brings a great difficulty. Even the mad elephant is defeated; nothing remains. For the man is consistent: if everything is false, how can my cry be true? Why call for rescue? He says, “All is false; the cry for rescue is false.” The one who is ready to call the whole world maya is very hard to persuade—because he is ready to call everything maya.

Shankara’s opponents mock, but it makes no difference to Shankara. He says, “Your seeing that I go to explain is false; that I explain to someone is false; that someone understands is false; that there is an explainer is false. There is no explainer, no one to understand—everything is maya.” Once he has said all is maya, logic leaves no way out.

And yet, however right this may be logically, even if we name life maya, still maya is. Shankara cannot deny its being. It is. At night we dream; the dream is false—but it is. Its existence cannot be denied. However false the dream, it is. I may see a snake in a rope, but I did see it. The question is not whether the snake is; at least my seeing is. If there is no snake, the rope is. If there is no rope, my seeing is. If there is no seeing, the one to whom it appeared is.

We cannot ultimately deny existence. It remains—after, after, after. Yes, Descartes is right: negate everything, but how will you negate the one who negates? We cannot negate the negator. Make everything false—but Shankara? Shankara remains. Therefore his exposition is incomplete, one-sided. He emphasizes one side of the coin, denies the other—whereas the coin has both sides.

Thus, Shankara is less confusing than Krishna; Shankara creates less bewilderment. Therefore those who stand with Shankara stand very confidently. He was able in India to produce a great, self-assured class of sannyasis—Krishna could not. The truth is: it is only Shankara who produced an unambiguous class of renunciates, because he speaks of only one side, without caring that the other side also exists. But if the other side is to be included, it requires very deep understanding.

So Shankara could produce a great order of sannyasis—but also gather in great numbers the unintelligent among them. India’s sannyas was born with Shankara, and with Shankara it also became dull-minded. Both things happened together. For to stand with Krishna requires great intelligence—one that does not get confused, that is not fazed by contradiction, that is not bewildered by opposites. Most of us are bewildered by opposition.

Therefore Shankara’s interpretation of Krishna’s Gita became the most popular. The reason is that Shankara, for the first time, made the Gita unambiguous; he removed all ambiguities, cleaned it up, trimmed away all contradictions, and gave a straight, uniform commentary.

But in my view, no one has done as much injustice to Krishna as Shankara—though it may also be that had Shankara not written his commentary, the Gita might have been lost. That too may be. For it is because of Shankara’s commentary that the Gita survived in the world. And yet, so it is.

You can assign any meaning you like. But Shankara calls change itself false. What Shankara is saying is precisely this: that which is not the same forever is untrue; that which was one thing yesterday, is something else today, and will be something else tomorrow—this is mithya, the unreal. In Shankara’s definition, change is the very synonym of falsehood, and the unchanging the synonym of truth. For him, truth is that which is eternal—eternity itself—what simply is, as it is, without ever undergoing any change and in which change is not even possible.

What does this imply? It means that what was one thing a moment ago and becomes something else a moment later—what does that mean? It means what it was a moment ago, it truly wasn’t; and what it becomes a moment later, that too it isn’t—because in the next moment it will be something else again. That which is not is called the false. That which was the same a moment before, is the same a moment after, and will remain the same—that which simply is—only that is truth. In Shankara’s understanding of truth and untruth, change becomes the very mark of the unreal, and changelessness the very mark of the real.

But what I am saying—and what Krishna would say—is that change is as true as the changeless is true. Krishna is saying: change is as true as the changeless. For the changeless cannot be without change, and the changing cannot turn without the pivot of the changeless. In fact, for the unchanging to be, change is necessary; and for change to be, the unchanging is necessary. The Unmoving is only recognized because movement whirls around it. With Krishna—Krishna absorbs the whole polarity from all directions—he says: motion rests on non-motion, and the being of non-motion depends on motion. If we understand Krishna, it means that even for truth to be, untruth is indispensable—otherwise truth too could not be. Untruth is as necessary to truth as darkness is to light, death to life, sickness to health. The opposite is indispensable. In truth they are two aspects of one and the same thing. Our trouble is that we insist on taking them as opposites. They are two facets of one coin.

That is why we keep asking, “Where did untruth come from?” Why don’t we ask, “Where did truth come from?” If truth can arrive without coming from anywhere, what difficulty is there for untruth? In fact, the strange thing is that those who discuss Brahma-knowledge keep asking where untruth came from, and not one of them bothers to ask where truth came from. And if truth arrives from nowhere, why should untruth be obstructed? To tell the truth, untruth has more ease in coming from nowhere than truth does. Truth ought to have a source; why would the false need one? The false means that which is not—what source does the not require?

No—the very thinking, “From where did truth and untruth come?” is mistaken. Truth and untruth are yugapat—simultaneous. They are two aspects of the same existence. There is no question of their coming and going. The day your birth arrived, death arrived that very day—it is not that it will come later. Death is the other face of birth. That you see one face now and it may take seventy years to see the other is another matter—that is your incapacity to see both together. It takes you seventy years to flip the coin. But the day birth came, death came with it. The moment truth appeared, untruth appeared. To say “appeared” is itself a wrong use of language. Truth is; untruth is. Existence is; non-existence is.

Shankara emphasized one aspect; along with it we must also keep the other in view.

Shankara insisted that what appears—the world—is maya. That is one aspect. Buddha, pressing the opposite aspect—which finds its culmination in Nagarjuna—said: the one to whom it appears is maya. In Shankara’s language the world becomes false; in Nagarjuna’s language the self becomes false. Nagarjuna says: between what appears and the one to whom it appears, the fundamental basis is not the appearing object; the fundamental basis you imagine within—the seer—is what is false, and from it all falsities are born. I close my eyes and the world disappears, yet I begin to dream. Eyes closed, the world is not seen, and still I dream. The basic untruth is “I.” Even if the world were not, I would produce dreams. The amusing thing is, within a dream I can produce more dreams. You must have had such dreams in which you dream that you are dreaming. It’s quite miraculous: a man dreaming that he is dreaming. Like a conjurer’s nested boxes, there are dreams within dreams within dreams. You can see yourself watching a film; in the film, your own story; in that story, you fall asleep and begin to dream—boxes within boxes. There is no obstacle to this. So Nagarjuna says: why bother calling the world false? The real falsity sits within. That inner one is the false.

The real point is that in this world truth and untruth are together. If someone leans heavily on “only truth,” he will still have to show where untruth is. If someone leans on “only untruth,” he will have to show where truth is. Krishna’s “dilemma,” his paradox, is very deep. And those who are not in such a dilemma are usually shallow. To be in paradox is a great blessing. It means we have begun to see life in its wholeness. We do not say “this alone is false and that alone is true.” We do not say “only truth is,” nor “only untruth is.” We look and we find that truth and untruth are harmonies of one and the same thing, tones of one and the same music. From one and the same flute, existence and non-existence are both being played. And when a person sees in this completeness, you can understand his difficulty: whatever he says will sound confusing. Hence all of Krishna’s statements sound confusing. Only out of very deep vision can such “confusing” statements be uttered.

Shankara will have to compromise. Whoever insists on a partial truth will have to compromise at some level. Because the other cannot be denied—it is. One has to accept it in some form—call it maya, call it the truth of renunciation (nivritti), call it conventional truth (vyavahar)—give it some name, but somewhere you will have to grant it recognition, because it is. Even Shankara cannot say, “We won’t talk about maya,” because why talk at all about something that does not exist? Yet he has to speak of it. So Shankara has to compromise!

Only a man like Krishna is non-compromising. He has no need to compromise, because he accepts both together. He says: both are. Whoever denies one will, at some deeper level, have to make a compromise with the other, the very one he has denied. The one who accepts both has no reason left to compromise; there is no longer any need for compromise. Say it this way: the compromise is already there from the very beginning.

I said that dilemma is a blessing. This does not mean that remaining in a dilemma is a blessing. It means that in those in whom a dilemma arises, an effort begins to go beyond it. In those in whom it never arises, they simply stand where they are; they don’t go anywhere.

So dilemma is a transition. Dilemma is a point on the journey. If a dilemma arises, one will have to go beyond it. This going beyond can happen in two ways. Either you drop down and take one side—then the dilemma will disappear. Agree with Shankara, or agree with Nagarjuna, and the dilemma will disappear. And many agree for precisely this reason: the dilemma is gone; they are out of the hassle. But they lose the dilemma by losing reason. One who has no reason never has a dilemma. Drop reason, and the dilemma ends. But I consider this a costly, unfortunate way of ending it. The dilemma should end by the transcendence of reason, and it should end upon reaching a point where both are seen as one, and the dilemma no longer remains.

Choosing one of the two—one remains, and you fall below the dilemma. Strictly speaking, that will be an irrational state. It will be an absurd state—you have fallen below reason. The insane end their dilemmas in this way: they drop reason, and then the dilemma vanishes. There is also a transrational state. Irrational is below reason; transrational is above reason. By going beyond reason, the dilemma also ends—but there both appear as one, hence it ends. There the opposition is lost—not because one survives, but because both disappear, leaving only the One.

That is why I say, dilemma is a blessing. It carries you from unreason to reason. And it is a blessing because through it the door beyond reason opens.

No commentary on Krishna is complete. It cannot be—unless a person like Krishna himself writes it.

No commentary on Krishna is complete. Each is a facet, and Krishna has infinite facets. Each commentator picks the one he finds most appealing. Shankar, in his commentary, establishes renunciation and non-action. In that very Gita, Tilak establishes action and karma-yoga. Tilak chooses precisely the opposite facet from Shankar. For a thousand years Shankar’s chosen facet prevailed; and in those thousand years his escapist emphasis weakened India’s roots in many ways. Escapism enfeebles. Whatever capacity for action India had was diminished. The experience of a thousand years swung the pendulum. It became necessary that there be a commentary on the Gita which favored action and declared loudly that the Gita speaks for action. At the opposite extreme Tilak made his statement. Shankar chose one facet—akarma, the non-action of abandoning action; Tilak chose the other facet—that of plunging into action. So Tilak’s exposition of action is equally incomplete.

There are many commentaries on Krishna—not roughly fifty but a thousand—and they grow by the day. But no commentary can do justice to the Gita. The reason is that no commentator dares to be transrational. In fact, a commentator is always rational.

All of them say they want to go beyond reason. They all say it—but if they truly go beyond reason, the Gita will be created, not a commentary. Then it becomes the Gita itself; there is no need for commentary. A commentary means: what we do not understand, we add explanatory notes to clarify. A commentary means: what you do not grasp in the Gita, I will explain. So I will offer an interpretation. And the moment I explain, it cannot go beyond reason. If anything goes beyond reason, it turns into the Gita itself; it is no longer a commentary.

What is it that I am doing right now, then?
One thing is certain: it is not a commentary.

Then is the second thing certain—that it is the Gita?
The second I leave to you. Something should be left to you too, no!

This is true. Shankara is supra-moral, a supermoralist. For a moralist is inevitably action-oriented. Moral thinking says, “Do this, and don’t do that.” Shankara says, all action is maya. So whether you steal or practice saintliness, all action is maya. At night I may dream I became a bandit; or I may dream I became a saint. In the morning I say: both were dreams. Both were equally futile. Therefore, for Shankara there is neither morality nor immorality. There cannot be. There is no possibility of choice. Can there be choice between two dreams? Choice can only be between two realities.

Since the world is maya, in Shankara’s view morality has no place. His vision is supra-moral; it goes beyond morality. Non-action naturally goes beyond morality. That is why, when Shankara’s commentaries were first translated in the West, people took them to be immoral. They thought, “This is a very immoral standpoint.” For if nothing is right and nothing is wrong, if all actions are alike and all dreams are alike, then man will drift, he will degenerate—what will become of him? In the West—shaped by Hebrew thought—religion stands on “Do this, and do not do this,” an entire culture grounded in the Ten Commandments, where religion means clearly telling you what to do and what not to do. For such minds it is not difficult to find Shankara immoral. But Shankara is not immoral. Immoral means a choice against morality. Shankara teaches choicelessness—no choice at all. Hence he is supra-moral. He does not say, “Become immoral.” He does not say, “Become a thief.” He does not say, “Choose to be this or that.” He says, “Your mistake is precisely this: choosing to be anything.” Don’t choose to be anything at all—abide in non-being. This is a supra-moral, transmoral vision.

Tilak’s standpoint is moral. He says there is choice in action: there are auspicious and inauspicious deeds; acts to be done and acts not to be done; the desirable and the undesirable. Human dharma is built around the ‘ought’. Tilak is an activist. Therefore he does not call the world unreal; he calls it real. What appears is not maya but truth. And within this truth we are decisive agents, choosing every moment between right and wrong. Religion means precisely this: at every moment choose the auspicious. So Tilak stands in directly the opposite interpretation.

The question asked is: will the matter be complete if we combine these two?
No. It will not become complete. There are several reasons.

The first and most fundamental is this: if we separate a man’s hands, feet, bones—everything—and then put them back together, will a complete man result? No, he will not be whole. When a man is whole, the bones function together; but if you join bones to make a man, a whole man does not appear. Assembling parts does not produce the whole. By adding fragments you do not create the complete. Addition never leads to the complete. Yes, in the complete the parts are integrated—that is quite another matter.

What I am saying is such that Tilak and Shankara will be contained within it. But by adding Tilak and Shankara you will not comprehend Krishna’s full vision. There is also another reason: Shankara and Tilak are only two standpoints. About Krishna there are a thousand more. Yet even if you add all of them together, you still will not get Krishna. Any addition will remain mechanical, not organic. You can assemble a machine into completeness, but you can never assemble a living personality into completeness. This is an important point. Between a mechanical assembling and an organic integration—between a dead sum and a living whole—there is a fundamental difference to be understood.

A dead sum is only the complete total of its parts. A living whole is a little more than its parts. Consider yourself: if we calculate all the constituents of your body—how much iron, copper, aluminum, salt, water, phosphorus—we could list it all. In a human body, at best there are only a few rupees’ worth of materials; most of it—perhaps ninety percent—is just water. If we were to put all this on paper, add it up, the sum would be complete. But you would not be in it. Everything would be there—except you. Because you are a living person, something more than that sum. You are within the sum, yet you are not the sum. The total can be complete, and yet you will be absent.

Krishna’s life-vision is an organic unity. A thousand commentaries have been written on its many facets. Ramanuja says one thing, Shankara another, Nimbarka another, Vallabha another, Tilak another, Gandhi another, Vinoba another, Aurobindo another. Even if you put together all these “somethings,” the organic unity that Krishna is does not arise. Yes, everything will be gathered—but Krishna will not be there. The reverse, however, is true: if Krishna is present, all these will be present in him—and something more as well.

Therefore what I am saying is not a commentary on Krishna. I am not interpreting him; I have no use for interpretation. Hence I am neither anxious nor afraid that there will be contradictions in my statements—there will be, inevitably. They are there in Krishna; I can do nothing about it. I am not interpreting Krishna; I am simply opening him before you. I am not imposing myself upon him in any way—I am just unfolding him. As he is—wrong and right; improper and proper; absurd, irrational, supra-rational; moral and immoral—as he is, I have no choice among these. Just as Krishna had no choice in life, I am making no choice about him; I am simply opening him up. In this I will of course encounter difficulties—just as people have been in difficulty with the Gita for thousands of years. Whatever I say will again be commentable; you will all return to comment on what I meant. Because I am laying it out whole, without calculation: not worrying that saying this will make saying that difficult. When the second point comes, I will say that; when the third comes, I will say that—just opening him as he is, wholly before you. That is why I said: this is not an interpretation, not a commentary.

“So then are you speaking as Krishna?”
The need to become arises only when one is not. What need is there to become? There is no need for anyone to become. You already are.

Aurobindo speaks of the supramental—of the super-conscious, of the supermind. But his talk is rational. Aurobindo never goes beyond the intellect. Even when he speaks of what lies beyond intellect, he speaks within intellectual concepts. Aurobindo is thoroughly an intellectual. The words he uses, the notions he discusses—these are all the concepts of Aurobindo’s intellectualism. There is great coherence in Aurobindo’s statements—a coherence that is never found in what is truly superrational. There is great consistency, great mathematics, strong logic—things that the mystic’s words do not and cannot have. In the mystic, the word that follows often cancels the one before it. Aurobindo never contradicts himself anywhere.

Aurobindo is a well-organized system-maker. A system-maker can never be superrational—cannot be. If you are to build a system, it is built by reason. And those who go beyond reason are always non-systematic. They have no system—cannot have one. How can there be order in the alogical? How can there be system in the inconceivable? That is why, in this century, whoever went a little beyond reason has been fragmentary, not systematic—whether Wittgenstein, Husserl, Heidegger, Merleau-Ponty—any of them. Or take Krishnamurti—these are all fragmentary. They form no system, no scheme. Their utterances are atomistic, molecular. One statement can contradict another—indeed it does.

Aurobindo’s case is very different. In truth, after Shankara, there has not been a bigger system-maker in India than Aurobindo. No one has been such an organizer. But this is precisely his weakness and his poverty. This is his indigence. For he is a great expert, a skilled player with words, with logic, with principles. But the real truth of life lies beyond all these. And so he divides everything up. In fact, Aurobindo’s entire education was in the West—he returned having learned logic and mathematics, the Aristotelian method of Western thinking, Darwin’s evolutionism, the rational order of science. His whole mind is Western. In this century there was no Indian more Western in mind than Aurobindo. Then, when he set out to interpret the East with this Western mind, what had to happen happened. The East has no logical framework. The East’s deepest realizations are beyond logic; its experiences are inconceivable—of the unknown, the unknowable, beyond knowledge and the knower. The East’s experience is of mystery. Aurobindo sat down with a Western mind to interpret Eastern realizations. The result was a fine system—one no man of the East could have produced. He spoke entirely of the inconceivable, and used only the tools of the conceivable.

But they remain talk—and that is why he could do it through the rational medium. If Aurobindo’s own experience had also been of the inconceivable, the categories would have shattered; he could not have lived within categories. Nowhere do his categories break. The odd thing is that he even forges concepts for things for which no concepts had ever been forged—like the supramental. He keeps producing concepts, he refutes, he sets everything into tidy mathematics; he says it all.

Your second point is also worth considering in this connection.

Religious thought, all religious thought, is in a sense non-evolutionary. Religions have split into two. One side believes in creation—srishti: Christians, Muslims, Hindus—they believe in creation, that God created the world. And whoever believes in creation, deep down cannot believe in evolution. To believe in evolution would mean that when God first made nature, creation, it was incomplete, and then gradually it developed. A perfect God cannot make the imperfect. Therefore the creationist cannot be an evolutionist. Evolution means an ongoing development; creation means the whole thing was made in one stroke—no development is taking place. Those who did not accept creation—like the Jains or the Buddhists—held that the world was never created at all; what is, is beginningless. There never was a creation. It never happened.

It is interesting: “srishti” is a Hindu word; “prakriti” is the term of the Jains, Buddhists, and Sankhyas. Over time everything has been mixed up. “Prakriti” is not a Hindu term, because a Hindu cannot say “prakriti.” Prakriti means that which is prior to creation—pre-creation—always already there, never made. Srishti means that which once did not exist and was made. So “prakriti” belongs to those who do not accept creation. And srishti belongs to those who believe the world was made in a moment. Therefore, since the Sankhyas, Jains, and Buddhists do not accept creation, they have no notion of a creator. If nothing was made, why posit a maker? Hence God had no place there, because we needed God as the maker. Those who said nothing was ever made—there the matter ended. Those who accepted creation had a creator.

Aurobindo brought from the West the notion of evolution. When he was educated, Darwin overshadowed Europe. He brought the idea of development. Here, after studying the Eastern mind and Eastern realizations—and I say studied, not known: his study is deep; his knowing not so deep. His reflection and thinking—he has a keen intellect; but his realization is very faint—after he studied the whole of the East and brought Darwin’s idea from the West, a cross-breeding took place in Aurobindo.

A hybrid.

In that hybrid thought, the principle of evolution got attached to the Indian mind. Then a great difficulty arose. For the Indian mind does not concern itself with nature, with matter; it concerns itself with consciousness—chitta, mind, atman. Aurobindo brought in the Western principle of evolution and joined it to the Indian mind’s psychic concern, and thus arose in him the idea of psychic evolution—that mind itself is evolving.

In this evolution he added one new thing—entirely his and entirely new—and for that very reason entirely wrong. Original things often go wrong—often—because a single person discovers them. Traditional things become stale and rigid, but they are rarely wrong—because millions have explored them. Aurobindo’s newest idea, the one on which his repute rests, is: the descent of the Divine consciousness.

It has always been thought that the individual rises upwards and meets the Divine—an ascent. Aurobindo says, the Divine descends and meets the individual. In one sense the two are two sides of the same coin. In truth the reality lies somewhere in between: the meeting happens where we have moved a little and the Divine has moved a little. That is where the meeting happens. We move some, He moves some. But the old view put the emphasis on our movement—for a reason: His movement is certain; ours is not. He will move anyway, so He could be left out of the reckoning. The matter is only of our moving. If we take our four steps, His four are sure to follow. So He was left outside the calculation—lest emphasizing His movement should weaken ours.

Aurobindo took the other side and began to say that the Divine will descend. This had an effect, because those not at all eager to move said, “This is dear to the heart—this fits.” That is why, in recent years, no one drew as many people in India as Aurobindo. The reason was simply that those who could not run in any deeper sense began to run toward Pondicherry. They felt this was an inexpensive affair. One can reach Pondicherry, and then the Divine will descend; after that, we…

That the Divine descends is true—but He never descends unless we have ascended. And note this too: in the matter of ascent, if I climb, He will descend upon me; if you climb, He will descend upon you. But in the matter of descent, how will it be decided upon whom He descends? Will He descend upon all? Because the Divine would descend upon all. Then will somebody keep accounts, make a selection—“upon this one I descend, upon that one I do not”?

So a notion arose in Pondicherry that Aurobindo would strive and He would descend upon all. This notion arose—and it created greed; that greed still continues. The idea was: once He descends upon one—just as Ganga descended for Bhagirath—then she did not descend only for Bhagirath; she flowed for all. Aurobindo would do Bhagirath’s work; and once the Divine has descended, all will drink the water; all will settle on the banks of the Ganges.

This illusion has caused great mischief. And I hold it to be a very wrong notion. One has to go. The descent does happen, but one must prepare. And I see no reason to think the Divine will ever descend collectively. From His side, He is always ready to descend. But when will the collective be ready? And in that collective are there only humans? Are there not birds that fly, plants, the animals of the forest? Are these stones by the roadside not there? The day the Divine descends, will the stone be deprived and you receive? Will the plants be deprived and you receive? This is impossible to think.

Therefore Aurobindo’s notion of descent gratified our greed, but it is not meaningful. Hence the experiment going on at Pondicherry—no more futile experiment has ever gone on in human history. Completely futile. But it fits our greed, so it can continue.

You reminded me of Ramana while thinking of Aurobindo. Ramana is the exact opposite. Aurobindo is a great pandit; Ramana had nothing to do with scholarship. Aurobindo is very knowledgeable; it is hard to find anyone more un-knowledgeable than Ramana. Aurobindo seems to know everything; Ramana prepares to be ignorant. Ramana does not seem to know anything. Therefore what became possible in Ramana’s life could not become possible in Aurobindo’s. Aurobindo remained knowledgeable, and Ramana came to know. In Ramana’s life, the happening happened. But since he is not knowledgeable at all, his utterances are those of a man who does not even know the language of knowledge. He has the knowing, not the language of knowing. So judged by expression, his statements are weak; judged by logic, very poor. But judged by experience, there is no measure for his richness. Ramana can build no system, give no arrangement. All his statements are atomistic, molecular. There are not many of them either—because Ramana does not have much to say. A little he has to say—that which he has known. And even to speak that, he has very few words; with those few words he keeps saying it. One could gather Ramana on a single page; even a postcard may do. As for Aurobindo—if you try to gather him, even a library is small. And it is not that Aurobindo said all he could say; he would need another five or ten births to say it. He still had a great deal to say.

This does not mean that because he had a great deal to say he did not know. No, that does not in itself become an obstacle. The Buddha has a great deal to say. The Buddha spoke a great deal. In terms of experience he is like Ramana; in terms of means of expression he is like Aurobindo. Therefore he had many ways to say it.

Mahavira? Mahavira spoke very little. Most of his time passed in silence. His statements are very few, and even those very concise—much like Ramana’s case. The Digambaras have no scripture of Mahavira at all. The Shvetambaras do have scriptures, but they were compiled five hundred years after Mahavira.

There is no such thing as near or far. Krishnamurti is exactly the kind of person Ramana is. As to why I weighed Ramana against Buddha and Aurobindo, there is a reason. Krishnamurti is a man of the same experience as Ramana, but he does not have the kind of erudition Aurobindo has. Yes, he is more outspoken than Ramana, more given to argument. But there is a great difference between Krishnamurti’s arguments and Aurobindo’s. Aurobindo is a logician; Krishnamurti is not. And if he uses logic, it is only to erase logic. If there is a sustained use of reasoning, it is solely to enter the trans-rational. But he is not very knowledgeable. That’s why I used a distant example. I brought in Buddha so that both sides become clear to you: Buddha’s experience is like Ramana’s, and his knowledge is like Aurobindo’s. Krishnamurti’s experience is like Ramana’s; his knowledge is not like Aurobindo’s.

There is a second difference. Ramana is very silent; Krishnamurti is outspoken. So even Krishnamurti’s statements, if sifted, are not very many. Those who listen to him will find he has been repeating the same thing continuously for forty years—the same point repeated. His statements could be collected on a postcard. But he takes more space in saying it; he uses reasoning. Ramana does not even take that much elaboration. Understand it like this: Krishnamurti’s statements are “atomic,” but around the statement he erects a web of argument, thought, reflection. Ramana’s statements are purely atomic—around them there is no web of statement, logic, or explanation. Ramana’s utterances are like the Upanishads: straight statements. Yes, the Upanishad simply says, “Brahman is.” Then it does not bother about why it is, whether it is or not, how it is, what the logic is—nothing. Direct, bare statements: it is. Ramana can be linked with the rishis of the Upanishads.

Say something on Ramana’s Ajatavada.
Yes. Ramana, and others like him, say that what is has never been born—ajata. This is the other side of another point we constantly repeat but seldom notice. There are hundreds of statements that what is will not die—it is immortal. The other side is this: only that which is unborn can be deathless. So Ramana says: what is, is unborn; that is why what is will not die.

Do you know when you were born? It is quite amusing—do you know when you were born? You will say, no, I don’t. Yes, there are birth records that others have told us about. If no one were to tell me that I was born, could I ever find out that I was born? This is information others have given me. Others say that on such-and-such a date, in such-and-such a house, I was born. If that news were not given, would there be any intrinsic, inner means by which I could discover that I was ever born? No. You have no inner evidence that you were born. In truth, what is within has never been born; how could there be evidence? You say that someday you will die. But do you have any experience of dying? No—you will say we have seen others die. But suppose we do not let someone see anyone die; that is not difficult. Could such a person—by any inner reason—ever arrive at the conclusion, “I will die”? He could not. That too is outer evidence: we have seen others die. But within us there is no proof, no witness, that we will die. Perhaps that is why, even though so many die, the thought does not arise in us that we will die. People keep dying; we think it must be someone else who is dying. Because there is no inner witness that I will die, nor any inner witness that I was ever born. What does the inner witness testify to? Only one thing: I am. There is no other testimony.

So Ramana refuses to accept matters without inner testimony. He says it is enough to accept only as much as there is firm evidence for: I am—that much testimony there is.

Do you also say the same?
I also say the same: I am—there is that much testimony. And if you go a little further inward, you will find: even the “I” is not—only am-ness. “Am”—just that much testimony.

We will talk tomorrow.