Krishna Smriti #18

First of all, one must understand the meaning of nonattachment. Nonattachment is among those few unfortunate words whose meaning has not been understood. People take nonattachment to mean dispassion or aversion (virakti). Nonattachment is not virakti. Virakti too is a kind of attachment—it is the name of attachment to the opposite. One person is attached to lust, to desire; another is attached to brahmacharya, the opposite of lust. One person is attached to wealth; another is attached to renouncing wealth. One person is attached to adorning the body; another is attached to making the body ugly. But the one who makes his body ugly will appear to be a renunciate, the one who renounces wealth will appear to be a renunciate, because their attachments are negative.

Attachment has two forms: being attached in favor of something, or being attached in opposition to something. The one who is attached in opposition is just as attached as the one attached in favor. Nonattachment is the name of freedom from both kinds of attachment. Nonattachment means: neither attached nor disaffected; neither clinging nor rejecting. Nonattachment is a transcendence of both. That is why I said nonattachment is one of those few unfortunate words—it has become synonymous with virakti.

There are many such words in the spiritual world that have become confused in this way. Vitaraga is one such word. Vitaraga has become a synonym for viraga. Vitaraga means: beyond both raga and viraga—beyond passion and dispassion. In Mahavira’s current, what vitaraga means, in Krishna’s current that is what anasakti (nonattachment) means. Anasakti and vitaragata are synonymous. But Mahavira will be vitaraga by dropping both raga and viraga—there the emphasis is on renunciation. Krishna will be nonattached by accepting both—there the emphasis is on acceptance. That is the difference. And these are the only two ways. So the culmination of vitaraga and nonattachment is the same, the paths are different. Vitaraga means one who has left both passion and dispassion—emphasis on leaving. Nonattached means one who has accepted both passion and dispassion—emphasis on acceptance. Therefore, very deeply, the word vitaraga is negational, while the word anasakti is affirmational—it is positive at its very depth.

This nonattached mind, which has accepted everything—and this is the delightful point—is the mind of one who has agreed to things as they are. In such a person’s consciousness no line is left by anything. If we grasp something hard, a line is imprinted on the mind; if we reject something forcefully, a line is also imprinted. But when we neither grasp nor reject, we become like a mirror—no line is left. A mind that is unmarked, on which no line remains—such a mind is called nonattached.

All are ordinary until non-attachment arises. So the question is not how it can come to “ordinary” people. Until it comes, everyone is ordinary; only when it flowers does extraordinariness bear fruit in life. Hence there are not two paths—one for the ordinary and one for the extraordinary—because “extraordinary” only means one who has attained non-attachment. Ask instead: how to attain it? How is this non-attachment to be realized? And before we ask that, first see how it was missed in the first place. How have we gone astray from non-attachment?

In Krishna’s vision, non-attachment is our very nature. How did we miss our nature? So it is not that we have to do some special practice to acquire non-attachment. We only need to understand how we drifted from our nature. How did we lose non-attachment? Someone came to me and said, “I am searching for God.” I asked him, “When did you lose him? If you have lost, you can search.” He said, “No, I have never lost him.” Then I said, “Searching is madness. How can you search for what has never been lost?” The real question, I told him, is not how to find God; it is to inquire whether you have lost him at all. And if it becomes clear that he has never been lost, the search is complete.

Non-attachment is our nature. This is the delightful thing: precisely because non-attachment is our nature, we can be attached and we can be detached. If attachment were our nature, detachment would never be possible; if detachment were our nature, attachment would never be possible. A tree’s branch leans westward when the wind blows west, and eastward when it blows east. It can bend either way because it is not fixed in the east or the west; it rests in the middle. Heat water and it becomes hot; cool it and it becomes cold, because in itself water is neither hot nor cold. If water were inherently hot, it could never be cooled; if inherently cold, it could never be heated. Its nature is beyond hot and cold; hence both are possible.

If our nature were attachment, detachment could never happen. Yet we see people who are detached. If our nature were grasping, renunciation would be impossible. Yet we see people who renounce. And if our nature were renunciation, how would attachment be possible? We see people clinging fiercely to things. This only means our nature is neither of the two. Because our nature transcends both, we can incline either way. We can open the eyes and we can close them, because the eye’s nature is neither openness nor closedness. If the eye’s nature were to be open, how would you close it? If it were to be closed, how would you open it? The opening and closing are outer events; deep within the eye is neither open nor closed—it is only the eyelids that blink and open. Deep down, our consciousness is non-attached. Only the “eyelids” become attached or detached.

So the first thing to understand: our nature is non-attachment. And note this too: only what is our nature can be attained; what is not our nature can never be gained. We can only realize what, at a great depth, we already are. A seed becomes a flower because, in essence, it is a flower. A stone never becomes a flower because, even at the surface, it is not a flower. Sow a stone and it remains a stone; sow a seed—though to the eye it looked like a pebble—when planted it reveals it was not a stone at all; it becomes a flower. We can then say the seed already was a flower, hence it became a flower. Had it not been so, it could not have become so.

One of the deepest sutras of life: we can only become what we already are—what we are at some inner stratum will eventually manifest at the circumference. Non-attachment is our nature. Attachment or renunciation is not our nature; that is why both are possible to us. And because non-attachment is our nature, it can be realized. What is seed can blossom.

This non-attachment is everyone’s nature. It is not that some have it and others do not. Wherever there is consciousness, consciousness is always non-attached. Yes, its behavior—the blinking and opening of the eyelids—becomes attached or detached. Understand well: consciousness is non-attached; behavior is attached or detached—behavior. If I were left utterly alone, where only my consciousness remains, in that moment would I be attached or detached? No—then I would be neither. Attachment and detachment always arise in relation to the other. If I say, “That man is attached,” you will immediately ask, “To what?”—for how can there be attachment without an object? If I say, “That man is detached,” you will ask, “From what?”—because detachment without a reference has no meaning. Attachment and detachment are relationships with objects, persons, with the Other. They are our behavior—our behavior; they are not what we are.

Understand this second point clearly: attachment or detachment is our behavior. Hence it is also easy to see that what we are attached to today we may be detached from tomorrow, and what we are detached from today we may be attached to tomorrow. Not only tomorrow—sometimes, within a single moment, we are attached to one aspect of a person and detached from another. Even toward one and the same thing, we are ambivalent, in conflict—one side seems worth grasping, another worth dropping. But one thing is certain: attachment and detachment are behavior, not nature. “Behavior” means the other is indispensable—what cannot occur without the other, what cannot happen in aloneness. “Nature” means what is present in utter aloneness. If I am left completely alone—without things, people, thoughts—if I remain in total loneliness, there will I be attached or detached? No—both notions are irrelevant there. I would be neither, because these are words indicative of relationship. There I would be unsoldered, unlinked—or say, non-attached. I say it only to suggest the meaning of the words; once you grasp their import, the attainment will not be difficult.

Attachment-detachment is relationship; the other is required. Without the other, it cannot be. Therefore attachment is slavery and detachment is also slavery—bondage—for in what cannot be without the other, you can never be free. The attached person is a kind of slave, and the renunciate is a slave of the opposite sort. Without his strongbox the attached man is troubled; put a strongbox in the renunciate’s room for a night and he is equally troubled. Both have a deep tie to the strongbox. Without a woman or a man the attached one is troubled; lodge a woman or a man in the renunciate’s room for a night and he is equally troubled. Both are slaves, dependent on the other—whether the other is present or absent makes no difference; the other is crucial to their very sense of self. The greedy cannot imagine themselves without wealth; the renunciate cannot imagine himself with wealth. But at the center of both, the Other is always present.

Once you see this as behavior, then mere changes in behavior do not matter—often the attached become detached and the detached become attached. Those in deep attachment come to me weeping: “We are in great bondage; how to be free?” Those who are detached ask, “Have we made a mistake? We ran away from life. Perhaps there is something that others are getting that we are missing?” The detached constantly suspect: perhaps the attached are looting something! The attached constantly suspect: perhaps the detached are getting something I am not! Their situations differ, their circumstances differ, but their mental state is not different. Both are other-dependent. From other-dependence there is neither freedom nor truth; there is neither joy nor liberation. The other is bondage.

The renunciate says, “Then we shall leave the other and run away.” He does not know that relationships do not end by running away; only a new relationship—of running away—is formed. And that which we run from pursues us. It does not really pursue us, but because we have fled from it, we are afraid of it, anxious about it; our very attitude chases us.

And where will you go leaving the other? The other is everywhere—except at one place: within your own self. Leave home and there is an ashram; leave wife or husband and there are disciples and devotees; leave the village and there is the forest; leave palaces and there are huts; leave precious things and there is the loincloth, nakedness. The other is everywhere. You cannot flee the world, for the world itself is the other—where will you go? Wherever you go, the world will be. So you cannot run from the world, nor from the other. Yes, it will appear in new forms, take new shapes; but the other does not change by new forms. Wherever we are in the world, the other will be—except at one place: at the very deep center of oneself, where the other is not. Not because the other cannot enter there, but because at that deepest center the self itself dissolves; therefore the very possibility of the other’s being disappears.

Understand this now in another way: as long as “you” are, you cannot escape the other. Even if you close your eyes and the world is not present, still the other will be—yes, within closed eyes, in dreams, in desires, imagination, passions—but the other will be. So long as you are, the other is.

“Nature” means where the self also dissolves. The word swabhava—nature—is unfortunate, because it literally suggests “the feeling of the self.” But where nature begins, the self ends. Nature has nothing to do with the “self.” Nature means: that which was before “we” were; that which will be after “we” are gone; that which is whether we are or not. In deep sleep, the “self” is not, yet nature is. In deep swoon the “self” is not, yet nature is. The difference between deep sleep and samadhi is only this: in sleep the self is absent due to unconsciousness; in samadhi the self is absent due to non-unconsciousness, due to awakening, due to knowing. So long as there is “world,” there is the “other.” And so long as there is “I,” there is the other. Put differently: so long as there is “I,” whatever appears to me is “the world”—the world is reality seen from the point of “I.” Therefore, the other is. If my “I” dissolves, there remains no other—then whom to escape and to whom be bound? Then only That is.

Non-attachment is our nature. How to move toward it? The greatest mistake is to move toward renunciation in order to attain non-attachment. Remember, attachment is not as dangerous on the path to non-attachment, because no one will mistake attachment for non-attachment. Who will ever mistake grasping at wealth for non-attachment? But the mistake is common to take the abandoning of wealth as non-attachment. Thus the real danger on the journey to non-attachment is not attachment—its face is clear—but renunciation; renunciation wears a veil. One who does not recognize renunciation will carry around a counterfeit coin in the name of non-attachment. Therefore, the first caution on the journey to non-attachment is to be wary of renunciation. Renunciation too is a form of attachment. The moment you understand this, alertness arises.

Second: wherever we go, the other will be. So go only where the other will not be—go within. Go into yourself, into your solitude, your aloneness. But what does this mean? Should I close my eyes to the outer world and thus descend into solitude? We close our eyes every day, but solitude does not happen, because the images and symbols we have absorbed from outside begin to arise within. Thoughts come, imaginings come, dreams and daydreams come—and we go on looking at the world. Yes, now the world is imagined; what was outward and real becomes only shadows, only a film—now the thing itself is not there.

We use our eyes and our mind like a movie camera: whatever we see, we keep recording; then we close our eyes and watch it on the screen of the mind. It keeps running. This too is the shadow of the other. When this too falls away, we descend into the Self. And it can fall away—there is no great difficulty. It runs because we run it. If we cease to be eager to run it—if our interest is withdrawn—those images immediately collapse; they lose meaning. Our relish is the basic fuel of the inner film; and note, not only relish but also distaste. What we want to remember returns, and even more forcefully what we want to forget returns. But what we neither want to remember nor to forget suddenly drops away; it becomes meaningless to our mind; it leaves the screen.

If one simply looks at this inner film with pure witnessing—just sees, taking neither relish nor distaste; neither attached nor renouncing toward it—then in a short while this awareness makes the film fade. A moment comes when naked consciousness remains alone—no object, contentless awareness. What is experienced in this contentless awareness is non-attachment. The behavior that flows from this contentless awareness is called the yoga of non-attachment. Naturally, the behavior will now be wholly different.

One who has recognized this non-attachment of his nature, who has understood that the fist can clench and can open, yet neither act defines the fist, therefore it can do both—such a person, returning from within to the outer world, will not be the same as he was when he went in from the outside. Having recognized the mirror of consciousness, he will use the mind not like a camera but like a mirror. Now, connection will not become bondage. Relationships will occur, but there will be non-clinging. He will love as one draws a line on water. He will fight as one draws a line on water. His mirror will reflect both love and fight, but he will remain outside both the whole time. His mode of behavior will become that of acting. He will no longer be the doer; he will be an actor.

Krishna, if anything, is an actor—and none more skillful has walked the earth. He has made the whole earth a stage. Other actors accept a small platform as a stage; he has made the entire earth the stage. What difference does it make? Instead of laying a few planks and playing upon them, why should the whole earth not be the stage? And the actor is bound neither by tears nor by smiles. When he cries, he does not cry; when he laughs, he does not laugh; when he loves, he does not love; when he fights, he does not fight. His friendship is not friendship; his enmity is not enmity. Such a person’s life becomes a triangle. We are not a triangle; our third angle is sunk in darkness. Only two angles are visible to us—attachment and renunciation. The third angle that joins them is in shadow. In the non-attached person that third angle comes into light. His whole life—on the two angles he behaves, but he abides always on the third. Whenever there is relation with others he appears attached or detached, but it is only appearance. He remains always on his third angle. To abide on this third angle is called non-attachment. We all have the three angles, but two are before our eyes and one is behind our eyes. Two are clear—left and right: raga and viraga; on one side the well, on the other the cliff; and the third angle is submerged within. Only when we descend within, into solitude, does it become clear; only then does light reach there. One who has found his third angle has found Krishna, has found Buddha, has found Mahavira—nothing remains to be gained. For once he knows: while attached I am non-attached; while detached I am non-attached—then attachment and detachment become a play.

A thinker wrote a book called “Games People Play.” He discussed many games, but not the fundamental game. The fundamental game is this: while remaining non-attached, the play of attachment and detachment. That is the ultimate play. Very few play it; perhaps that is why he could not speak of it.

Non-attachment is attained by going within, and going within is possible through witnessing. Therefore, from any angle of life, begin to be a witness—you will reach within. And the day you reach within, that day you become non-attached.

Anasakti yoga—non-attachment—is the root. And this yoga of non-attachment is the third angle; from this angle two angles of life unfold: not-doing while doing, and doing while not-doing. Call one karmasannyas, and the other nishkama karma. Nishkama karma means not-doing while doing. Even while doing there is no craving to do, no insistence on doing; even while doing, non-doing has arrived. Then there is neither sorrow nor hurt; even if no result comes from the doing, there is no despondency; even if all that was done gets undone, there is no pain. That is nishkama karma.
Let me open this a little more.
Doing while not-doing—this is subtler still. This is what I call sannyas. Doing while not-doing: “I do nothing, and yet...” I come to your door to beg; if you have stolen and you live on stolen bread, you give me stolen bread too. If a person is truly a sannyasin, he will say, “I am a thief too.” If he is not genuinely a sannyasin, he will say, “What do I care what you do? That is none of my concern.” A fake sannyasin can eat a thief’s bread and not become a thief. But a true sannyasin will say, “I do not steal, yet I am a partner.”
But suppose he does not even beg. If there is a true sannyasin on this earth, and in Vietnam people are being cut down, he will hold himself responsible: “Not doing, I too am a participant.” The collective consciousness forming on this earth cannot be without me; I am also here. If I am in this village and a Hindu–Muslim riot breaks out, and I am neither Hindu nor Muslim, I am just a sannyasin, still I am responsible. Surely I too did something that fed this quarrel—or perhaps I did nothing; I just stood by and watched, and my standing by could itself become a support for the fight. Sannyas means knowing, while not doing, that whatever is happening—since I exist too—I cannot be apart from it; I am a participant. I must be, because I am a part. And whatever I do will give rise to vast consequences. If Hindus and Muslims were fighting and I quietly walked away, at the very least I could have tried to stop it—I did not. Not stopping it is also my action. The responsibility for not stopping is mine as well.
So what people ordinarily take to be sannyas is not sannyas; it is mere withdrawal. What Krishna calls sannyas is a very difficult matter. It is the state of a non-attached person. He says, “I am responsible even for what I have not done, because I am, and ultimately consciousness is joint, gathered.”
You have seen waves in the ocean, but perhaps it has never occurred to you: waves seem to come, but they do not come. You will say, “What are you saying? Waves keep coming!” It looks as though a wave has been rolling from a mile out; you even bathe in it at the shore—so how will you believe me that it does not come? But those who know the sea will say: no wave comes; one wave only raises the next. That mile-out wave does not reach the shore. When it rises, a trough arises beside it; where the trough ends, another wave forms. By its rising, that wave gives rise to thousands of waves. It does not come. Of the thousands of pushes created by that wave, only one push arrives. When you bathe at the shore, that wave from a mile out does not arrive at you. The sea’s breast trembled due to its rising, and the tremors arrive to you. The wave you see trembling is so continuous that you never catch the distinction: is this wave really coming? But if a child drowns in the wave that came to the shore, can you hold the wave a mile away responsible, “You are guilty!” It will say, “I did not drown him. I never went to the shore. I am always here. There is a mile’s distance between the drowning of that child and my being.” No. Krishna says, if that wave is a sannyasin, it will say, “I drowned him—because I am a part of the ocean. Whether I went to that shore or not is not the point. In what went to the shore, my hand was present too.”
So, whatever is happening anywhere in the world, the sannyasin takes himself to be the doer of even what he has not done. This is very difficult. To know oneself as non-doer while doing is not so difficult. Though they are two sides of the same coin, this vision of sannyas is not in our minds. Our whole notion is: whoever has left is a sannyasin. He says, “Since I have left, what responsibility is mine?” But this world is like waves rising on the ocean’s breast—no wave can say, “I am not responsible for the pattern that is forming.” Life is very intricate; here too on the ocean of consciousness waves are rising.
I utter a word. Tomorrow I will not be here, yet the consequences of that word will keep reverberating in the world for endless time. Who will be responsible? I do not speak; I remain silent, but the consequences of my silence will go on affecting this world endlessly. Who will be responsible? I will not be there. It may be that the wave whose push raised this shore-wave is no longer, and the child drowned, and that wave says, “I never went to the shore; and when the child drowned, I was not even there.” In a human court you could not hold that wave responsible; no case could be filed. But in Krishna’s court, that wave too will be caught. Krishna will say, “Your being or not-being—both, in their way, weave this vast net. You are a participant, therefore know: even while not doing, you are doing.” This is one aspect; this is the meaning of sannyas. A person who says, “What have I to do with it?” is not a sannyasin.
In India there were sannyasins by the thousands and hundreds of thousands. The country was enslaved. Those sannyasins said, “What has that to do with us? The country’s slavery—what is it to us? It makes no difference to us; we are sannyasins.” But even that attitude of those hundreds of thousands of sannyasins contributed to making this land a slave. The responsibility is theirs; they cannot escape. A sannyasin will not run away from any responsibility. Sannyas means: even what is another’s responsibility is mine; another’s sin is mine; another’s virtue is mine. Because where are we separate? If the other does not exist, then even while I am not doing, I am the doer.
And here is the delightful paradox: if, while not doing, one becomes the doer, non-attachment happens. Because then there remains no distance between my action and the other’s. Whom shall I drop, from whom shall I flee? If I do not steal, it changes nothing—theft will still go on in the world. If I do steal, it changes nothing. So now, to claim anything as “mine” has lost meaning. If I am participant in everything—every sin mine, every virtue mine, every war mine, every peace mine—then whom shall I drop and whom shall I hold? If all hands are mine, what difference does it make if I throw away these two hands and run to the forest? And if all eyes are mine, what difference if I pluck out these two eyes? And if all houses are mine, what difference if I leave one house and go to the jungle?
Sannyas means: this vast pattern of karma, this net—we are participants; we are its parts. Therefore, while not doing, know: I am doing.
The exact other aspect Krishna says is: while doing, know that I am not doing. Now this will seem even harder after you have understood the first. Generally it seems simple: a man says, “I can do it like an actor.” But that too is very difficult. The truth is, even an actor often slips and becomes the doer. While acting he forgets again and again that he is acting; he becomes what he is doing. He is possessed, identified; he becomes that which he is doing.
Understand a little this “possession” in the actor. If the actor is seized by identification—“I have become this”—how will we, who are living life, be able to remain actors? If Rama’s Sita is lost, how will Rama remain an actor, if in the Ram Lila, when Sita is lost, the actor playing Rama begins to shed real tears? It happens, many times. Why wouldn’t it! When those watching, who are not even playing Rama, begin to cry, then the one who is truly playing Rama, his position is a little deeper—he is not a spectator; he is the doer, even if an actor. If his Sita is lost and he begins to weep, and for a moment those tears become real, do not be surprised. The actor too forgets, in certain moments, that he is acting. So here we are, in life. To know there that “I am acting” is very hard, very arduous. But if we look rightly at what we are doing, immediately it will be seen: we are acting!
You are walking down the road; someone says, “How are you?” You say, “Perfectly fine!” It does not even occur to you what you are saying. Stop for a second and look carefully: “Perfectly fine?” Immediately it will be clear: what you said was an acted line. You meet someone, you bow and say, “Seeing you gave me great joy.” Stop a moment, look back: did joy arise? Then it will be seen—you are acting.
In life’s moments, whenever you are the doer, pause for a second and look back: what you are doing—does it hold? You say to someone, “My love for you has no end; I cannot live without you.” But how many lovers have died? Look back a little: “Cannot live?” The acting will come clear. Search for such points all around life; stop for a moment; look back and see what you are doing and saying—what is it? You will understand acting only when acting becomes visible.
I keep telling a story of Nasruddin. He is in love with an emperor’s wife. At four in the morning he is taking leave, going to another town. He says to her, “How will I live without you! Each moment will be hard to pass. There is no one more beautiful, more loving than you.” Hearing this, the woman begins to weep. Nasruddin looks back and says, “Forgive me—I have said these things to other women too. I have told other women as well, ‘I cannot live even a moment without you,’ but here I am. And I will live, because tomorrow I may again get a chance to say it to someone else. In fact I have said to every woman that there is none more beautiful than you.” The woman becomes very angry, very hurt. Nasruddin says, “I was only joking.” Then she becomes happy again.
Now this man Nasruddin can recognize that life is acting. But it will be very hard for the woman to recognize that life is acting. It is not that because life is acting it becomes inferior. In truth, because it is acting, life becomes skillful. That is why Krishna says: yoga is skill in action. When life is seen as acting, the sting goes, the pain goes, the thorn goes; only the flower remains. If it is acting anyway, what is the point of acting anger—are you mad? If it is acting anyway, you can act love. What is the use of acting anger? Only a madman will act anger. If it is acting, let it be love. If you must dream, why dream of poverty and pettiness? Dream of being an emperor!
By peeking into your actions, little by little it becomes clear: I am acting. I am acting the father, acting the son, acting the mother, acting the wife, acting the husband, acting the lover, acting the friend. This should become visible. Catch each act atomically, at the molecular level; see what is happening. You will laugh a lot. It may happen that tears are falling outside, and inside laughter begins—“What am I doing!” Outside one thing is happening, inside something else begins. And immediately you grow able to understand this state. As it clarifies, life becomes acting.
A Zen monk was dying. At the time of death he asked his friends, “Tell me something—many have died; I too wish to die, but in a new way! How long will we go on dying in old ways?” They said, “What are you saying—death is no joke!” The monk said, “Have you ever heard of someone dying while walking—walking, and died?” People said, “Never heard of it.” Yet an old man said, “I have read a story that once a fakir died while walking.” The dying monk said, “A fakir can indeed die while walking. He must have died. Let that way be.” “Have you heard of someone dying while standing?” Someone said, “Yes, once a man died standing.” The fakir said, “One who has lived with a way can die with a way.” “All right—have you heard of someone dying in a headstand?” They said, “We have neither heard nor can we imagine it. How can one die in a headstand?” The fakir said, “Then that way will suit me.” He stood on his head—and died.
Now there was great trouble in the monastery—how to bring him down? People were frightened. First, he seemed dangerous—one who says, “Very well, we’ll die in a headstand!” Was he even dead or not—who knew? They examined from all sides: no breath, no pulse—he had died. But who would bring down a corpse doing a headstand, and get into a mess? And this corpse did not seem ordinary. Those very people who had said, “We cannot live a moment without you,” were not ready to bring him down. Someone said, “He has a sister, a nun, in a nearby monastery—his elder sister. Whenever he created mischief, people would call her to set him right. We cannot think of anything; call her.”
That elder sister, a ninety-year-old woman, came. She banged her staff and said, “You don’t give up your jokes even while dying? Die properly, the way people always die!” The man climbed down, sat, and said, “Sister, don’t be angry—we’ll die properly. What does it matter to us!” He sat down and died. And his sister did not even look back; staff in hand, she left. She said, “What talk is this! At least in dying, keep the tradition!” The man lay down and died.
Now a man who can act even at the moment of death—his whole life is the life of an actor. This is what I call nishkama karma. Then everything becomes a play. Then we can take everything as play. But we will recognize the actor within only in the midst of our acts—then it can happen. You cannot act by trying to act. You are already acting; recognize this fact. Krishna does not say, “Act.” If someone tries to act, he will become the doer of acting and turn serious—he remains a doer, the doer of acting. Krishna is not saying, “You act.” Krishna is saying, “What you do—I know it is acting. You too know it. You too recognize it. You too search it out. And the day it is seen that it is acting, that day, while doing, you will become a non-doer.” That is the right thing.
Then, the two parts he makes—of the nishkama doer and of the sannyasin—are a matter of fitness, of taste. Some will become not-doers while doing; some will become doers while not doing. There are two types of people in the world. It is a matter of our type. I take it that it will be easier for a man to become a not-doer while doing; easier for a woman to become a doer while not doing. The types differ. The feminine mind is passive; the masculine mind is active. The masculine mind is of the doer; the feminine mind is of the non-doer. Even when a woman has to do something, she does it in the mode of non-doing. Even when a man has nothing to do, he attacks as a doer. I am making a rough division. I say “rough” because among men there are many with feminine minds, and among women many with masculine minds. Even if a woman wishes to do something, her whole arrangement will be of non-doing. Even if she loves someone, she will not want to show that she loves, not want to express it. She will hide it on all sides—she will make this love a non-doing. And even if a man does not love, he will still contrive so much display—surround from all sides and shower “love”—that “I love.” Because of the two mind-types—and there are only two in the world—I do not say “women and men,” I say “feminine-mind and masculine-mind.” There are women who attack in love, and men who wait in love. There is no difficulty. Two minds—the feminine mind and the male mind. Keeping these two in view, Krishna made the two divisions.
Sannyas has one meaning; its expressions are two. If the feminine, waiting, surrendering, losing, passive mind goes in this direction, it will say, “Not doing.” Non-doing will be its arrangement, and within non-doing, to know oneself as the doer will be its realization. Therefore, a woman never takes initiative openly in many things; often the man is deceived by this. But a woman knows very well that she has taken the initiative—only, her initiative is the initiative of waiting. She will not utter a single word of love; and if the man does not speak words of love to her, she will be hurt—though she has spoken not a word. She will be hurt because even in her not speaking, her initiative is on; only it is an initiative of waiting. If a man does not speak words of love and simply begins to love, no woman will ever like it—because she will not recognize his love unless it becomes aggressive. Until the man’s love attacks, the woman will not be able to accept that he loves. That is why a very quiet man, whose love is not aggressive, never satisfies a woman. And another person, not so valuable, not so meaningful—if his love becomes aggressive, he can give great flavor to a woman, because his aggression shows how much he loves, how much he wants! If a woman becomes aggressive, she never satisfies a man—then she becomes like a man.
These two divisions of mind give rise to the two modes: knowing oneself as a non-doer while doing, and knowing oneself as a doer while not doing. They are two faces of the same coin.

It can happen—if the personality is reversed. As I said, there are two kinds of personalities. One I called the feminine personality: the way of the non-doer who “does” by not doing. If a feminine personality becomes a sannyasin, inactivity will set in—because action is not that personality’s nature. The other, as I said, is the masculine personality, which can know the non-doer only within doing; he will act—doing is his very life—and within this doing he can know, “I am not the doer.” This can be known. But if such a person descends into the world of non-doing and then tries to know “I am the doer,” he will become inert. Inactivity results from choosing a path opposite to one’s type. Therefore a very clear choice is essential, and each person must understand what his or her type is. Choosing the reverse creates difficulties; choosing the reverse only yields one result: our whole life becomes depleted.

If we do not make the mistake of choosing the opposite, action will spread, grow vast. Speed and sharpness will come; action will be refined. For the masculine mind, action is hindered only by the sense of doership. If the doer is dismissed and only action remains, it is hard even to estimate the velocity of that action. It will attain total speed; total act will be born. A woman finds doing difficult; if she is freed from that and is totally at ease in her non-doing, then from her non-doing a vast action will be born—because her entire energy will be available. The modes will differ. But we often fall into a mistake: we choose the opposite type. There is a reason for this.

All through life we are attracted to the opposite—the opposite attracts. Man prefers woman; woman prefers man. In worldly life, the opposite is attractive. In spirituality this becomes a nuisance. There, too, we choose the opposite. But spirituality is not a journey toward the opposite; it is a journey toward one’s own nature. Spirituality is not about getting what is attractive; it is about realizing what I already am. Yet a lifetime of the opposite’s attraction blocks the way.

I have heard a story. On a small island, somewhere unknown in the ocean, the people once became completely inactive and tamasic. They stopped all work. They ate and drank whatever came their way and then lay around, sleeping. The island’s rishis were deeply worried: “What to do? They won’t listen!” For someone to hear “You have become tamasic,” at least they must be a little less lazy—but none even came to listen. The rishis beat drums to summon people, but no one came. The village began to shrink and die. In great difficulty, they went to a very old man for advice. He said, “Only one remedy remains. There is an island nearby: send all the women there and keep all the men here.” “But how will that help?” “They will quickly start building boats. The women will start preparing too. Separate them. Being together is not good now. Set the opposite against the opposite, and activity will resound quickly.”

A man is active in youth and becomes inactive in old age—there is no other reason. In youth the dynamism of masculinity and femininity is at its peak—both set about building boats and making journeys. With old age, all that tires; woman understands man, man understands woman; the “opposite” becomes familiar. The magnetism of the opposite fades with familiarity, and a person droops in old age.

In the ordinary laws of life, the opposite is attractive; in the natural law of spirituality, the opposite is not one’s nature. That is why the mistake happens. Wherever spirituality spreads, those countries become inactive. Our country became inactive. The basic reason is that the attraction of the opposite pulled people there too. Those who should have chosen a masculine sadhana chose a feminine one, and those who should have chosen a feminine sadhana chose a masculine one. Both got into trouble, and the whole country sank into inactivity. One who should have been a Meera became a Mahavira; one who should have been a Mahavira took cymbals and manjira and became a Meera. Trouble was bound to follow.

Therefore the most scientific process I see for the spirituality of the future is this: we must clearly lay down that the rule of biology is not the rule of spirituality. Biology runs on attraction to the opposite; spirituality is not the attraction of the opposite but immersion in one’s own nature. It is not reaching the other but reaching oneself. But lifelong experience gets in the way.

I have heard that when electricity first came, a man who had never seen it visited Freud’s home. He had only ever seen lanterns and oil lamps. After settling him in a lit room, Freud left. The guest was in trouble: how to sleep in the light? He put up a ladder, stood up somehow and tried to blow it out—but blowing would not extinguish electricity. What could the poor man do? His only experience was that lamps are blown out. He was baffled. The switch was right there, but to his mind the switch had no connection. After all, it is experience that shows us what to do. He could not even see the “button” with his mind. He searched the whole room to figure out the mystery, climbed up and inspected the bulb for a place to blow—but there was nowhere to blow. Sleep would not come; he tossed and turned; then stood up again, guided only by his old experience. He feared asking anyone—people would say, “What a fool, you don’t even know how to put out a lamp?” Morning came, Freud entered and saw the light still on. “Didn’t you turn it off?” “I did—many times—but it wouldn’t go off. Now that you ask, I must confess: the whole night went trying to extinguish it. One can’t sleep with it on, and it simply won’t go out.” Freud said, “Are you crazy? Here is the button!” But in that man’s experience there was no question of a button. We cannot blame him.

Our lifelong experience is of attraction to the opposite. So when we enter the spiritual realm—where the journey turns absolutely different—we keep trying to blow at the lamp; we don’t think of the button. This mistake is very old and very deep. Therefore countries where spirituality becomes influential become inactive; and countries where sex is influential become active. All active civilizations are sexual civilizations; all inactive civilizations are spiritual civilizations. It need not be so, but so far it has been.

Where sex becomes free, activity will surge dramatically. If you look into nature, activity arises from sex itself. In spring, flowers bloom for no other reason; birds begin to sing for no other reason; birds build nests for no other reason—the energy behind all is sex. The male builds a nest he has never built before; the female prepares to receive eggs she has never laid before. A hum is everywhere: songs, great bustle—this is biological activity. Human beings, for now, know only this one kind of activity: biological. So in countries where sex is free, buildings will touch the sky—it’s just an extension of nest-building, nothing more. Where sex is free there will be dance, color, song; bright garments will spread—it is the same as the songs of birds and the peacock’s feathers, only extended; there is not much difference.

Where we claim to go against biology but still obey biology’s rule—being attracted to the opposite—everything turns dull and empty. Houses remain huts, pressed to the ground; all activity wanes; no one sings; a singing person seems criminal; bright clothes disappear; color, charm, beauty are lost; everything becomes sad, subdued, and shrunken.

My own view is that both have their own laws, and a true culture stands on both. A true culture will be sex-free in the sense of being un-repressed: it will rejoice in sex, be festive in sex, and vast worldly activity will arise. And true spirituality, based on the right choice of type, will spread a web of spiritual activity. Krishna stands rightly in his own type; Buddha in his own; Mahavira in his own. Hence Krishna acts in one way, but it is not that Buddha does not act. Buddha’s life, too, is a vast web of action. Mahavira did not sit silent for even a moment: for forty years he kept moving, village to village, constantly on the run. He is engaged in some immense battle—not on a battlefield, but demolishing, remaking something far greater. Buddha does not play the flute, but in his speech there is the tone of a far greater flute. It makes no difference. What matters is that each found his type—authentically, they became what they could be. Seekers who follow later often stumble in confusion of type. It is the same meaning I spoke of earlier: “svadharme nidhanam shreyah”—it is better to die in one’s own nature than to accept another’s dharma, which is dreadful.

How to understand one’s type?

It is not very difficult. One way: whatever attracts you, know that is not your type. A simple formula. Be cautious of it. And whatever repels you, contemplate that—that will be your type.

This is the tricky part: what repels you, what feels repulsive, that is your type. For example, how does a man recognize that he is a man? If he feels no love or pull toward men, recognize it. What other way is there? Men do not attract him—they repel. How does a woman recognize she is a woman? By the difficulty she feels seeing other women, the friction that arises. It is very hard to keep two women together. They repel. They are not attractive to each other; the current of attraction does not flow, the current of repulsion does. That is why keeping two women together is difficult.

So, what attracts you—first understand that is not your type. What repels you—that is your type. This is complex. Hence a curious thing: generally, the things you condemn and oppose are your own; they live within you. The man who denounces sex day and night—know that sexuality is within him. The man who condemns wealth—know that he is greedy. The man who flees the world—know that he is worldly. I am saying the same: your opposite is attractive to you; therefore what attracts you is not your type.

What if sometimes this attracts and sometimes that?

Then understand you are a confused type. There is no other meaning.

“Shared vices make men friends!”
You ask: if vices are the same, does friendship arise?

Many points here. Friendship born of shared vices can occur even among people of the same type. But the vice will be the basis of their “friendship.” There will be no friendship between them; the vice will be the bridge. If the vice drops, the “friendship” vanishes at once. Two men drink; they “become friends” because they drink. But that is not friendship, because true friendship is always without cause. If there is a cause, it is not friendship, only association—a being together.

There is a difference between association and friendship.
Two of us walking the same road become companions—that is not friendship. Then our paths diverge toward our destinations and we part. In the same way two people following the same vice become companions. But this is not friendship. In truth, friendship occurs between opposite personalities. The deeper the friendship, the more opposite the personalities—because they are complementary. Friends are complementary to each other, they complete each other. That is why often two intelligent people cannot be friends. They are not complementary. There can be conflict, not friendship. If an intelligent man befriends anyone deeply, it will be a fool—because that is complementary. Two powerful men cannot be friends. In fact, two equals coming from exactly the same direction never become friends. Two poets rarely become friends; two painters rarely become friends. And if they do, the causes will be other than their being painters—because each person has many aspects. Both may drink; that could be the “friendship.” Both may gamble; that could be the “friendship.” But that is association, not friendship. Friendship, too, follows the rule of the opposite. Friendship is a form of love.

Therefore psychologists say that if two men have a very deep friendship, then in some deep sense they must be homosexual; and if two women have a very deep friendship, they must be homosexual. It is hard to accept outright, but there are truths in it. You will see that the friendships of childhood are never again formed later—because in everyone’s life there is a phase of homosexuality before sexual maturity. Before boys become interested in girls, they are interested in boys. Before girls become interested in boys, they are interested in girls. Before sexual maturity there is no fundamental sexual differentiation in terms of attraction. Boys are drawn to boys; girls to girls. Hence childhood friends and playmates often become lifelong. After sex is born and comes into full effect, those who are healthy and natural will shift: boys will become interested in girls; girls in boys. Old friendships slacken, becoming memories. Gradually new friendships form—with the opposite. Yes, twenty to thirty percent will not cross this stage; that means their mental age has lagged behind; they are mentally unwell.

It may be that a boy reaches eighteen or twenty and is still not interested in girls but only in boys—his mental age has lagged; he is mentally ill and needs treatment. If a girl is twenty-five and still only interested in girls and not in boys, something has gone wrong with her mind; she is not healthy. This does not mean there will be no friendships later; there will be, but they will be associations: you play cards in the same club, so you become “friends”; you work in the same business, so you become “friends”; you hold the same ideology—both communists—so you become “friends”; you become disciples of the same master—so you become “friends.” But these are not the same as the deep, intense bonds of friendship before the birth of sex. That childhood friendship never returns. It cannot return—the basis is gone.

And the attraction to the opposite is very deep. If you look at it this way it will be clearer. You will often see rich lovers of fine clothes gather around a naked fakir. Pleasure-seekers will gather around a renunciate. Those who relish food and drink will worship a man of fasting. Curious, isn’t it? Mahavira was naked, and Jains mostly sell cloth! How did Jains choose the cloth trade? Think a bit. Surely, people who love clothing gathered around Mahavira. Mahavira renounced everything and became poor; in India, those who revere Mahavira are among the most affluent. This is not accidental; there are historical reasons. When Mahavira renounced everything, those most impacted were the ones clutching everything—“We cannot give up even a penny, and this man has thrown away all! He is divine!” Their attraction is because of their clinging. A renunciate will not be impressed by Mahavira; he will say, “What did you do? What’s the big deal in kicking away ashes?” But one who mistook those ashes for diamonds will immediately bow at Mahavira’s feet: “We concede—you are a man! We cannot give up even a penny, and you gave up all! You are our master.”

Then, one who cannot give up anything still harbors a desire to give up. He thinks, “This grip brings suffering; when will that day come when I drop everything?” So one who has dropped all becomes his ideal: “You attained the day I am still awaiting. No matter, I am not yet there—but you are. We can at least revere you as divine.” Thus pleasure-seekers gather around renunciates. This is a magnetic process that goes on by itself. If we recognize it, we can divide the world’s consciousness into magnetic fields—how consciousness is drawn, made, unmade. A strange, unseen movement is always going on beneath the surface.

Therefore, whenever you feel attracted to someone, understand one thing for sure: avoid this person. He is not your type; he is the opposite, complementary. In the spiritual journey he will not be a helper; in the worldly journey he may be a companion. In spirituality you will have to search only for yourself, your swadharma. Who am I? That is what you must discover. When that happens, without leaving life, without abandoning movement and action, you will attain non-action. Without leaving the world, you will attain truth. Everything remains just as it is—only you change. And the day you change, everything changes—because all that appears is your vision.

There are two or three things to keep in mind here.

First, Krishna says that violence is an untruth; it cannot really happen. It is an illusion; it is not possible. No one can be killed. Na hanyate hanyamane sharire. By killing the body, that which is behind does not die. And the body is already dead. Therefore, to say the body dies is meaningless.

Krishna first says that violence is impossible. Does this mean anyone may go and commit violence against anyone? No. Krishna says violence is impossible, but a violent tendency is possible. You may want to kill someone—that is possible; that no one will actually die is another matter. That your killing will not kill anyone is another matter. That you want to kill is an entirely different matter. In your wanting to kill lies the sin; the question of someone’s dying does not even arise—he will not die. The sin is not in violence; the sin is in violentness. You wanted to kill. That he did not die is secondary. Your intention was to kill. Likewise, that no one survives is not a virtue; that someone will be saved is not a virtue. That you wanted to save—that is virtue. A man is dying; everyone knows he will die, yet you strive to save him. He will not be saved by your effort; he may die tomorrow. But in your effort to save lies virtue. Sin is the tendency to harm another; virtue is the tendency to benefit another.

And the third thing Krishna says is: if you rise beyond sin and virtue, if you go beyond pleasure and pain, then there is neither sin nor virtue. Then nothing remains. Neither violence nor nonviolence. If you rise above both and know that, on that side, violence does not happen, then why should I needlessly fill myself with the idea of committing violence? And, on that side, no one is saved either, so why should I fall into the madness of saving? If, seeing the truth, you understand that these tendencies are futile, impossible—if you understand both points rightly—then you have already attained heaven. Not that you will attain; you have attained. For what question of “will attain” remains? In such a state, where pleasure and pain, gain and loss, victory and defeat, violence and nonviolence have all become equal—equanimity has been attained—in such a state heaven is found. There is no heaven left to be gained. Such equanimity of intelligence is what Krishna calls yoga.

He is saying there are two kinds of delusions. One delusion is that someone will die. And another delusion is that I will kill. One delusion is that someone will be saved, and another delusion is that I will save. Both are delusions. If the first delusion drops—that no one dies, no one is saved, what is, is—then a second delusion remains: that even though no one dies, if I try to kill there is sin; even though no one is saved, if I try to save there is virtue. But sin and virtue are still incomplete knowing—half-knowing. Half-ignorance remains. If that too goes—that neither do I save anyone, nor is anyone saved; neither do I kill anyone, nor does anyone die—if the whole of it goes, then there is knowing. Then a person of such knowing lets whatever is happening, happen. Outside, inside—wherever—whatever is happening, he lets it happen. For now there is no question of not letting it happen. Then he attains total acceptability, total acceptance.

So Krishna says to Arjuna: see everything and accept, and let what is happening, happen. Do not fight against the current; flow. And then you attain heaven.