Krishna Smriti #17

Truth is beginningless. Beginningless does not mean old. Beginningless means: that which has no beginning. Beginningless means: without a beginning. Beginningless does not mean ancient. The old always has a beginning. Truth never begins. And what has turned old cannot be truth, because truth is still here, this very moment. So truth is neither new nor old. Whoever declares that truth is new will find it old by tomorrow. Everything we call old was once new; and what we call new today will be old tomorrow. The new turns old; the old was once new. Truth can be neither old nor new. Truth is that which always is. That is the meaning of beginningless. Beginningless does not mean old or ancient.

So if Krishna says that he is speaking the very truth which is beginningless, do not understand him to be saying, “I am speaking the old.” Krishna is saying, “I am speaking that which is.” Beginningless simply means: I am saying that which is. Those who knew before—if they knew truth, they knew this. Those who are knowing today—if they know truth, they will know this. Those who will know tomorrow—if they know truth, they will know this. Only untruth can be new or old. Truth cannot be new or old. Therefore there can be two ways of declaring truth.

Buddha does not talk about all the ancient ones who have known truth. There is no need. Because when Buddha himself is knowing truth, adding further testimonies makes no real difference. What he knows, he knows. By listing who else has known it, nothing gets added to truth. Even if a thousand others have known it, naming them adds no “edition” to this truth—its dignity does not increase, its prestige does not change. Hence Buddha directly and simply says, “What I have known, I tell you.” And precisely because he has known, he does not invoke the names of the ancients, for by Buddha’s time invoking the ancients had become dangerous. Buddha also tells his listeners: Do not accept something because I say it; do not accept it because Buddha has known it. Until you know, do not gather proof from who said it or who knew it.

So those to whom Buddha speaks are seekers. Those to whom Buddha speaks have set out in search of truth. The listener in front of Buddha is very different from the listener in front of Krishna. Before Buddha are people who have left home to seek truth. To such people one must say, “Do not believe me,” because otherwise how will they proceed into their own search? And if Buddha were to repeat past authorities, he would be paving the way for those after him to repeat Buddha’s authority. Therefore Buddha resolutely refuses to bring in past connections. He says, “This is what I have known; this truth I have seen; this I tell you. And until you yourself know, do not accept it because Buddha has said it.”

But the person in front of Krishna is of a very different kind; he is not a seeker; he has not set out in search of truth. The person standing before Krishna is not the one standing before Buddha. The one before Krishna is not searching for truth—he is merely deluded, bewildered, confused; the situation has frightened him. Therefore Krishna is not as eager to unveil truth before him as he is to declare what truth is. He has not come for unveiling, either. So Krishna says, “What I am telling you is not something only I am telling you; it has been told by others to others before.” If Arjuna were a seeker, he could be asked to realize truth for himself. He is no seeker. He is only eager to understand what truth is; there is no question of a quest for Arjuna. He has not gone to an ashram or a mountain cave to sit by a master to learn truth. He has not come in search of truth at all. He has come to wage war, and the situation of war has frightened and shaken him. So Krishna tells him, “What I am saying is not spoken by me alone; others before me have said it to others. That which is beginningless, which has always been said—that I am saying to you.” For Arjuna this has meaning. Had Arjuna gone searching on his own, it would be different; he is not going to seek. Therefore Krishna speaks to him of the long stream of truth. He wants to make one thing clear in Arjuna’s mind: it is not only Krishna who is speaking.

There are other reasons too. The person who comes to Buddha has come into Buddha’s refuge. Arjuna is a friend; he is not in Krishna’s refuge there. Often it happens that Buddha’s monks accepted his word, but Buddha’s wife did not. When Buddha returned to his village and met his wife after twelve years—by then far and wide he had become the herald of truth, people from distant places came to his feet seeking truth, for the world he had become the Buddha—yet when he came home, he was not the Buddha to his wife. She began exactly where things had stood twelve years earlier when he had left home. She was just as angry, saying, “You deceived me! You ran away from me!”

Buddha’s wife had her own angle. And if Buddha told his wife, “I am the Buddha,” she would say, “Leave it! No Buddha at all—you are the same as before!” For Buddha’s wife, Buddha would have to speak differently. She had her own standpoint. There is a very sweet story connected with this.

When Ananda was initiated, he was Buddha’s cousin. At initiation he said, “I want to bind you with a few promises. After initiation I will become the younger; right now I am the elder brother, so please give me some promises now which I may not be able to take later. After initiation I will become small. Right now I am elder and you younger—so let me take a few promises now.” He took three promises. He said, “First: I will always stay with you. You will never be able to say, ‘Go wander there, go to this place or that’; I will always remain with you. Second: whenever I wish to bring someone to you—even at midnight—you must meet them. And whenever I wish to ask or have asked any question, you will not be able to evade it; you will have to answer it. And third: however private a conversation you may be having with anyone, if I wish to be present there, I will not be stopped.” These three promises he took from Buddha before initiation. Buddha, being the younger cousin, played along: “All right.” Ananda was not asking too much; Buddha agreed.

But a great difficulty arose—Buddha had not foreseen it. When he went to meet his wife, Ananda said, “I cannot leave your side.” Buddha said, “You are being foolish—think a little! For her I am not Gautama the Buddha; I am her husband. For her I am still the husband. And if you go with me, she is very proud and will be very angry: ‘You came after twelve years and even then you brought someone along!’ Give me a little space so that in solitude she can pour out twelve years of sorrow, pain, all her anger.” So Buddha said to Ananda, “Granted I gave you my word, but I request you, please, this once do not insist on it.”

This is worth pondering—how superhumanly human Buddha’s words are. Ananda said, “Is there a ‘wife’ even for you?” Buddha replied, “Not for me—but for her, I am the husband; how can I erase that for her, and right now? It is not in my hands.” Ananda stood aside, and Buddha went to his wife. She began to rail at him. Twelve long years—there was much pain. He had left in the middle of the night without a word; her grief is entirely natural. Buddha stood silently and listened to it all. Then when she wiped her tears, Buddha said to her, “Look carefully: I am not the one who left. I have not come to you as your husband. Your husband has died. I am someone else. Now speak to me—who are you talking to?”

Between Krishna and Arjuna the situation is very different. Arjuna is a friend—arms around each other, they have roamed, played, gossiped. If Krishna were to say only, “What I have known I tell you,” Arjuna would say, “We know you—and your truth too!” So Krishna says, “This truth has been said by others before, and that same truth I tell you. Do not, taking me as a friend, fall into that notion.” It is a particular situation; if you miss this, you will go wrong. Buddha is not in such a situation. Buddha can say, “This I say.” Whether someone else has said it to someone else or not is of no use to him. And he tells you plainly, “Do not accept it because I say it.” Therefore it does not appear that Buddha is making an egoistic proclamation. The egoist would say, “Accept it because I say so.” Buddha speaks of sheer inwardness: “I say it—do not accept it because I say it; but it is I who am saying it.”

We know that what Buddha says has also been said by others. We know that what Buddha says has been said by the Upanishads. We know that what Buddha says has been said by the Vedas. But why does Buddha insist as he does? Even if someone told him, “This is in the Vedas, this is in the Upanishads,” Buddha would say, “No—this I am saying to you.” There are circumstantial reasons. By Buddha’s time the tradition of the Vedas and Upanishads had completely decayed. To utter even a word in favor of the Vedas and Upanishads would have been to support an entire tradition that had badly rotted. Knowing full well that what he was saying in essence is the same as what the Vedas and Upanishads had said, still he could not lean on them, because that leaning would support a vast net of hypocrisy that was plundering the people, dragging them about, leading them astray, drowning them in superstition. Therefore, with regard to the Vedas and Upanishads, he remained completely silent.

It is not that Buddha was unaware of this. But many times in history a moment comes when the truths of yesterday have to be uprooted by today’s truth-teller, because yesterday’s truths, by virtue of being of yesterday, have become so badly mixed with untruths that to support them now is to support the untruths with which they have been joined and allied.

Krishna faced no such problem. Before Krishna, the tradition of the Vedas and Upanishads had not become impure; it was at its height, at its peak. In truth, this is why we can call the Gita the essence of all the Vedas and all the Upanishads. In fact, we may say that Krishna is the quintessence of the culture the Upanishads had created. Whatever was essential in that culture—Krishna gives it utterance. So Krishna was born at the summit of that culture, and Buddha was born in its pit of decline. It was the same culture, but Buddha was not born in its peak condition; he was born in its fallen state—when it was covered with dust and everything had decayed. The Brahmin was no longer a knower of Brahman; he had become merely an exploiter in the name of Brahman. And all sorts of filth had become attached to that culture which had nothing to do with religion.

Thus Krishna is born on the peak. The Upanishads are at the crest of their glory. The light that appeared in the Upanishads was diffused on every side; in the air and in every particle there was news of it. For Krishna the Upanishads were not a dead thing. In every particle, in every breeze, in every flower, in the clouds of the sky—everywhere there was the resonance of the Upanishads. At such a time, when he affirms them, he is not giving the testimony of something old; he is bearing witness to what is fully present.

By Buddha’s time all that had decayed and perished, and only the corpse remained. Buddha could not testify to that corpse. For this reason, there is neither any ego in Krishna that he seeks the support of the ancients, nor any ego in Buddha that he proclaims only himself.

This is a very delightful sutra. There are two points in it.
The first is that Krishna declares himself the finest in each category—spring among seasons, Airavata among elephants, Kamadhenu among cows. But the second amusing point is that he seeks his comparison even among what we would call lower beings like cows and horses. These two things go together. These two things go together! On the one hand he declares himself supreme in every genus, yet he is not bothered in the least about which genus it is. After all, Airavata will still be found only among elephants, won’t he? And Kamadhenu will still be among cows, won’t she? And spring will still be within the seasons, won’t it? These two things go together. Even in the lowliest he proclaims the loftiest. There is a reason. Why is this proclamation of the highest being made?

Seen from the surface it looks like an ego statement—because we hardly see anything except ego. Seen from within, it becomes clear that when he speaks of the best in each genus and class, he is really saying this: when he says, “Among elephants I am Airavata,” he means that those elephants who have not become Airavata have fallen short of their own nature. Every elephant is born to be Airavata. A season that does not become spring has deviated from the very nature of season; every season is born to be spring. A cow that does not become Kamadhenu has not truly become a cow in the real sense; she has slipped from her own intrinsic nature. In this declaration Krishna is only saying: I am the consummation of each being’s nature. Whatever can be at the ultimate peak—that I am. Do you see the meaning?

It means not that an elephant who is not Airavata is not Krishna—he too is Krishna, but a backward Krishna; he has not become what he can be, what he is potentially. Krishna is saying: I am the potentiality within all. Put it in a single sentence and it means: the seedlike possibility within everyone, the possibility of the final flowering, the summit of ultimate growth—that I am. And whoever lags even a little behind that slips from the crest of his own nature; he remains deprived of finding himself. There is nowhere, not even by mistake, any proclamation of ego here. The plain meaning is simply this: until you become Airavata among elephants, you will not find me. Until you become spring among the seasons, you will not find me. You find me only in your full blossoming, in your complete flowering. This is what he is explaining to Arjuna—he is saying to him: become the very best among kshatriyas, and you will be Krishna.

If Krishna were to come a thousand or two thousand years later, he would certainly say: among kshatriyas, I am Arjuna—yes, a thousand, two thousand years later he would surely say it. When Krishna makes this declaration of his being, it is not a claim to superiority. For to claim superiority, would he need to descend into horses and elephants, into cows and bullocks? A superiority claim could be made directly. But he is not making it directly. In truth he is not claiming superiority at all. He is speaking of an evolutionary unfolding: when you manifest yourself in your utmost form, you become the Divine.

We have a word: Ishvara. Ishvara arises from aishvarya. When you manifest in your full aishvarya—your plenitude of powers—you become Ishvara. Ishvara is nothing but the flowering of aishvarya. But we never reflect on this. Ishvara means precisely this: Kamadhenu among cows, Airavata among elephants, spring among seasons. Whenever someone manifests in the fullness of his aishvarya, he becomes Ishvara. The meaning of Ishvara is: one in whom there is no gap between potentiality and actuality; in whom there is no difference between what is possible and what is real; whose possibility has become wholly actual—that one is Ishvara. Whoever still has a distance between possibility and actuality is journeying toward Ishvara. What is hidden within me—on the day it is fully revealed, that day I attain my Ishvara. But for now, what is within me emerges only bit by bit; it cannot become full spring. It keeps moving toward spring, yet does not become spring; the flower does not fully open.

If Krishna were to walk into this garden and say, “Among these flowers I am the one most fully open,” what would it mean? It would mean the other flowers, too, could have opened just as fully but have not. And it is appropriate that Krishna does not join himself to a half-open flower. It is appropriate that he does not join himself to what is still a bud, or what still lies hidden in the branches, or what is still in the seed. He joins himself to what is fully open, because he is speaking to one whom he is trying to bring into full opening—“Open completely; become the full flower of your kshatriyahood; become the spring of your kshatriya nature. Then you will be able to find me.” By “you will find me,” he means: you can attain your Ishvara.

Here Krishna is doing a double work all the time. Krishna’s whole role is double. On one side he is Arjuna’s companion, his friend—therefore he cannot scold him too much; he speaks the language of friendship. And yet, all the while, he is a fully blossomed flower. Amidst that friendship, declarations of his completeness keep bursting forth here and there and reach Arjuna. Both are necessary. If he remained nothing but a friend, he would be of no use. And if he became nothing but the Supreme, Arjuna would say, “Excuse me—our friendship is over!” He has to maintain harmony between the two all the time. He remains Arjuna’s friend, and in between he declares his divinity. Whenever he feels Arjuna is a little receptive, he declares himself the Divine; whenever he sees Arjuna is a bit doubtful, he addresses him again as a friend: “O mighty-armed! O Bharata!” His task is very delicate, very subtle. Such a delicate moment has rarely arisen.

Buddha did not face such a delicate moment. Whoever came to him knew exactly who he was; whoever sat before him was sure who he was—so the talk was straightforward. Mahavira did not have such a moment; the conversations were clear and direct—no double role was required. With Krishna there is great difficulty: the role is thoroughly double. To be a guru to a friend is very hard. To advise a friend is very hard—because the friend can say, “Enough! Stop spouting so much wisdom!” Arjuna could say, “Don’t flaunt your knowledge! You played with me, grew up with me—don’t show off so much!” If too much wisdom shows, Arjuna will slip away. So Krishna keeps doing both things all the time: he pats him—“O mighty-armed!”—and then he also says, “You are ignorant, man! You are not recognizing the real thing!” These two streams run together; if you keep this in mind, it all becomes simple.

First, understand this: it’s not that being a Krishna has become difficult today. It wasn’t easy then either; otherwise there would have been many Krishnas. It appears difficult to you to be Krishna; it would have appeared just as difficult to you then. If Krishna were born today, it would be just as simple—for Krishna. But the confusion starts the moment we entertain the idea of imitation; that’s where the trouble begins. You could not have imitated Krishna then, nor can you today. You simply cannot. And if you try, you are right: you will get into trouble.

The whole discussion about his life is not so that you imitate; it is so that, if we can understand the entirety of Krishna’s personality, perhaps it may ease the way to understanding our own lives. Not for imitation. If this Krishna’s personality—which is vast and multidimensional—opens fully, we may find the key to unfolding our own. But if you think in the language of imitation, you won’t be able to understand Krishna; it will become difficult. Whoever we want to imitate, we do not really want to understand. And we want to imitate precisely because we do not wish to understand ourselves. If we can impose someone upon ourselves and live by that, it will be convenient—we can avoid the hassle of understanding. The work of understanding begins only when we stop wanting to imitate anyone or to be like anyone, and instead seek to inquire: What am I, and what can I be? So, those who have revealed themselves with complete openness in their lives—by understanding their lives, the path to understanding our own becomes easier. That will not make lives identical; life will remain different, must remain different—there is no way they can become the same. Therefore, if through all these discussions even by mistake the thought of imitation lingered in your mind—as your question suggests—then you will not understand Krishna; and then not only Krishna, it becomes difficult to understand yourself too.

Second, as for Krishna’s views, his truths that can be of perennial use—even there I would say: they too are not for imitation. If Krishna’s living personality cannot be imitated, how can the principles and truths expressed in words be imitated? No, that too cannot be done. They can only be understood. Yes, in the process of understanding them, your own understanding grows, and that understanding can serve you. The principles will not serve you; understanding will. But in every situation our demand is imitation—either we imitate a life, or we imitate principles—but imitate we must.

So before speaking of his principles, it is necessary to say first: life is not imitable. Not because a pot cannot be broken today, not because love cannot be made today, not because a flute cannot be played—any of it can be done; there is no difficulty in that. Breaking pots created trouble then too, and it will today. Playing the flute put a man in difficulty then too, and it will today. That makes no difference. There will be small differences, but nothing fundamental. I am not saying imitation is impossible because circumstances have changed; imitation itself is wrong—even if the circumstances were identical. Imitation is self-destructive, suicidal. If you wish to kill yourself, to commit spiritual suicide, only then is imitation right.

Whom does Krishna imitate? No one appears whom Krishna imitated. Whom does Buddha imitate? No personality appears whom Buddha imitated. Whom does Christ imitate? None. It is amusing and mysterious that we imitate precisely those who never imitated anyone. It is absurd. If we understand them, we should understand at least this: these people imitate no one. Each is a blossom of his own uniqueness. And we? If we try to bloom in the style of another’s flower, we will run into difficulty. And this difficulty is not the difficulty of breaking pots or loving Radha; it is far deeper. Those are very small difficulties. And as for such things, you stumble into them every day; nobody stops. It is not as if people refrain from loving other men’s wives; it is not as if anyone, out of fear of their own spouses, never utters the names of others’ wives. Wives go on frightening, husbands go on being frightened; husbands frighten, wives go on being frightened—this is not just today, this is always. In fact, as long as there are husbands and wives, there will be fear. And if there were no husbands and wives, even that would be very frightening. Man as he is, because he is afraid, fear pervades all his arrangements.

No, the issue is not that imitation carries this or that fear. Let me tell you the fundamental fear inherent in imitation; then from tomorrow morning you may raise questions regarding life-truths. For I was not discussing life on my own; you were raising the questions. From tomorrow morning, ask about his vision and truths, and I will discuss them. The basic danger of imitation is this: in this world no two persons are alike, nor can they be. All are incomparable, unique. There is no way to compare. You are simply you, and there has never been your like before, nor will there be after. In truth, God has no mold of you in which others could be cast. Whenever you deny your uniqueness and try to become like someone else, you do what even God did not do. He made you a person, and you start trying to become a copy. He gave you uniqueness, and you begin to wear the borrowed. That is the real difficulty.

But until now all religions have emphasized imitation. All over the world, parents, teachers, and gurus have been teaching—be like someone, only don’t be yourself! Make just one mistake: don’t be your own. Become like Krishna, like Rama, like Buddha—only make that single mistake: don’t become yourself. Why is this? The entire world’s teachings never tell a man to become like himself. There are reasons. The chief reason is this: if each person becomes himself, it is dangerous—to society, to gurus, to parents, to administrators—to all. Because there can be no prior certainty about who will become what. But ‘be like Rama’ carries no danger. About Rama we are certain; we know exactly what Rama does and does not do. You do the same, so that you remain non-dangerous. You can be predicted; we can declare in advance what you will do. And the day you don’t, we can declare you a criminal. If each person is his own, it becomes very difficult to define what is crime and what is not, what is sin and what is virtue, what is right and what is wrong—very difficult. Hence the convenience of society’s rigid order is in keeping clear, clean lines—even if life is cut to pieces and people die; even if their individuality is destroyed and their souls are impoverished—no concern for that, but the order must remain!

It seems man exists for society, not society for man. Education is not for man; man is born so that people may educate him. Principles are not for man’s use; man is created so that principles may use him. Religion is not for man; man is for religion. Man is kept beneath, made a means, and everything is thrust upon him. That is the danger. The danger of imitation is not situational; it is existential. The danger of imitation is of slowly killing yourself, of poisoning yourself bit by bit; and on that poison you have pasted the label of Krishna, or Buddha, or Mahavira—it makes no difference.

There is no ‘type’ in the world into which all must be cast. Each has to be his own. Therefore, when I speak on Krishna, do not mistakenly think I am telling you to become like Krishna. No. The troubles that may come from outside are secondary; the inner trouble is the real one. You cannot be like Krishna unless you become dead within. And if corpses get beaten, is that any surprise? Corpses will be beaten. The fear of being beaten is the fear of being dead. A living man is simply as he is. And the more alive he is, the more he simply is what he is.

It is most amusing that the journey which society begins with condemning a living man ends in praise. It has always been so. We begin with abuse and criticism of the living man, and end in worship. That is our way. It’s another matter if that living man is not fully alive and turns back midway. If he is fully alive, your abuse will invariably reach worship; it always has—there is its own logic. But if he is a dead man, he will be frightened, turn back at the abuse, and never reach worship. That is his fault, not yours. You began rightly; he ran away midway.

Krishna is not bothered by such things. Do you think Krishna was accepted as God in his time? No; every accusation was leveled against him. Even today, only by averting your eyes can you save him from accusations; otherwise it is very difficult! The accusations were many. And when Jesus was crucified, those who crucified him crucified a vagabond, in their view. And when they hung Jesus on the cross, two thieves were hung on either side. He was not crucified alone: three crosses were raised—Jesus in the middle, and two thieves on either side—as a statement that they considered Jesus no higher than the thieves. And amusingly, even if others mocked, one of the thieves, at the last moment while dying, also mocked Jesus. He said, ‘Now we are dying together; we have a great bond. If I come to your Lord’s kingdom, keep a place for me!’ Meaning, he too was skeptical—what Lord’s kingdom, what nonsense! The thief was more assured. Not only those who crucified him were certain that this man was a wastrel and worthless; the thieves too thought, ‘We are better than you: we are dying having done something; you are dying having done nothing.’

Krishna or Christ, Mahavira or Buddha—their societies do not instantly proclaim them gods. They begin with abuse. But they are living men; they go on drinking the abuse. How long can you go on abusing? When a man keeps drinking your abuse, gradually you start respecting him. Then he drinks even your respect and remains unaffected; then you set about making him a god.

Discussion of Krishna is not important to me so that you go off to imitate him; it is important because such a person, so multidimensional, has not walked the earth. If the treasures of this multidimensional personality open before you, you may get the idea to open your own treasures. That’s all—no more. Your treasures will be your own, and no one can say that your treasures cannot be deeper and richer than Krishna’s. That is not the point. But that what happened within Krishna can happen within another—that remembrance is enough. The whole discussion is for that remembrance.

But you ask about life-principles! Our mind wants some principles so that we can impose them easily. We will talk about his principles from tomorrow morning, but even that not for imposition—rather, to understand life. When people like Krishna are born, they look at life with great depth; it would be a mistake if we did not look at life for a while through their eyes. Looking into life through their eyes changes our own capacity to see, our perspective.

You have come to Manali; mountains are all around. But the amount of beauty you see in these mountains is only as much as the eye and perspective you possess. Nicholas Roerich was here; if you see his paintings, these mountains will immediately seem to be saying something else—because you have begun to look through his eyes. And Nicholas Roerich traveled all the way from Russia to these mountains. Today there are roads; then there were none. And then he remained here all his life. The Himalayas drove him utterly crazy with wonder. As I suppose, you have been in the Himalayas quite a few days, and perhaps by now you hardly even see the hills. You saw them on the first day—for a little while—and now you don’t. The matter is finished: mountains, yes, all right, finished. But Nicholas stayed here his whole life, painting and repainting the same mountains. The mountains did not get used up, nor did Nicholas’s heart.

So if you can once see through Nicholas, these mountains will begin to say something different to you. One man spent his entire life looking at them, saw them in a thousand colors and in hundreds of ways—in moonlight, in darkness, in sun, in rain, in snow, in radiant light. He saw these mountains through a thousand hues of his own being, and painted only these mountains all his life. At the final hour, while dying, he was still painting them. If you become a little acquainted with such a man, then standing among these mountains, there begins the possibility that you will see something more in them. I do not say you should see them exactly as Nicholas saw—you cannot; there is no way—but after knowing Nicholas, these will no longer be merely ordinary mountains that are exhausted after a single glance.

Many have loved, but it is useful to read of Farhad and Majnun. Our love gets spent quickly; we don’t even know when it was spent. We can hardly remember that it ever was. Inside, all becomes dry. Before the river arrives, it departs, and there is a desert. But there have been people who went on loving all their lives, and there is no way to reckon their love. If you become a little acquainted with such lovers, it will greatly help you to understand your own love; and perhaps you will remember that within you too some inner current flows. It is not that you will become Majnun. There is no way; nor is it to be. And a made-up Majnun—can he be Majnun? He may grow his hair and dress like Majnun, wander the streets shouting ‘Laila! Laila!’—but it will all be useless, meaningless; nothing will arise from within. But you too have your own love, which may perhaps be awakened, ignited, by the love of Majnun and Farhad. Perhaps the gunpowder will catch fire, and you will know: I too am not going to be spent so easily; there is a current within me as well.

In that sense I am speaking. Many have written songs, but reading the songs of Kalidas or Rabindranath, for the first time you begin to see something that perhaps you had never seen. That too was your potential—only dormant.

So we will talk about Krishna’s principles from tomorrow morning—not in the hope that by accepting them you become more doctrinaire. There is no one as non-doctrinaire as Krishna; so do not get into that trouble at all. To understand Krishna simply means: when such a fully blossomed being looks at the world, what does he say? What is his verdict? What news does he give about the depths of consciousness? What indications does he leave about this flowering? Those indications may touch some streams lying in your inner womb; not that you will become a ‘Krishna-ist,’ but that you will set out on the journey of your own being. Only then will you understand that this man who says ‘better to die in your own dharma’ cannot be one to impose doctrines upon you.

So from tomorrow, you ask. Whatever you ask, I will talk about. It helps me when you ask, because then I am spared the bother of thinking and considering. Otherwise my biggest difficulty is: what should I say? Only while I am speaking to you do words and thoughts stay with me; when I am not speaking, I become empty. Then it is very difficult for me—what to say? If you ask something, you become a peg, and I have the convenience of hanging something on it. So for me, speaking ‘something’ is a very difficult matter; I have to labor with great difficulty—what to say! Speaking on my own is becoming very difficult. Lately many friends have said, ‘Please speak freely.’ That is becoming difficult for me. I will not be able to speak freely much longer; it is very hard, because I do not understand—understanding has gone. If you ask, there is no choice; I must respond. If you do not ask, I have no way to know what to say. What is there to say! On my own, I am now silent; I speak only on your side. So tomorrow, raise questions. Whatever questions you raise, we will speak about them.

Now we will sit for meditation.