Krishna Smriti #20

Christ’s neutrality, Buddha’s disregard, Mahavira’s dispassion, and Krishna’s non-attachment share many similarities, yet there are fundamental differences. The similarity is at the end, in the attainment; the differences lie in the paths. In the final moment, all four bring you to the same place. But the roads are very different.

What Jesus calls neutrality and what Buddha calls disregard have a deep kinship. One can become neutral toward the world as it is—its currents, its inner conflicts, its distinctions and oppositions. But neutrality can never be joyous. Deep down, neutrality becomes sadness. Hence Jesus is sorrowful. And if he does find a kind of bliss, it comes to him through the pathway of that sorrow. But the path as a whole is tinged with sadness. He does not set out on life’s way singing. Neutrality inevitably turns into melancholy—and Jesus’ neutrality becomes a great sadness.

If I choose neither this nor that, if there is no choice at all, then the streams flowing within me will come to a halt. If a river does not flow east or west, south or north—if it becomes neutral—it turns into a dejected pond. A pond, too, reaches the ocean, but not by the river’s route; it gets there by the pathways of the sun’s rays. Yet the river’s journey—dancing and singing in the middle—does not belong to the pond. The pond dries in the sun, is heated, evaporates, becomes cloud, and reaches the ocean. But the river’s cheerfulness, its exuberance, its ecstasy—these are not the pond’s lot. That sadness is natural. To be scorched in the sun and to turn to vapor can only be somber. A pond does not mount the clouds dancing; a river descends into the ocean dancing. And even the pond does not reach the ocean directly; in between it must become vapor and then reach. So Jesus is like a melancholy cloud hovering in the sky on its way to the ocean—not like the dancing river.

Thus there is a certain closeness between the life-attitudes of Buddha and Jesus, but not complete identity, because Buddha is of another kind. Where Jesus’ neutrality turns into sadness, Buddha’s disregard makes him only peaceful, not sad. That is the difference. Buddha’s disregard simply makes him calm. There is neither Jesus’ sadness nor Krishna’s dancing song, nor Mahavira’s quietly overflowing bliss and joy. Buddha is serene. He is not merely neutral; neutrality would usher in sadness. He has attained to disregard—having found this to be futile and that to be futile, no alternative can excite him any longer. All options have become equal for him. For Jesus, neutrality remains, but all options have not yet become equal; Jesus will still say, this is right and that is wrong; do this and do not do that. Though he is neutral toward both, deep down his choosing continues. Buddha attains choicelessness. If we understand Buddha rightly: nothing is right and nothing is wrong; only choosing is wrong, and choicelessness is right. Choice is wrong; choicelessness is right.

Therefore, even within his holy indifference Jesus goes into the temple, picks up a whip, strikes the moneylenders, and overturns their tables.

In the Jewish temple—the synagogue—the priests also did moneylending. Each year, at the festival, people gathered, and they would loan them money and take interest. The interest rates had risen so high that people could never repay the principal, not even the interest; they labored all their lives only to come each year and pay the priests their interest. The wealth of the whole land was accumulating in the synagogues. So Jesus took up a whip and overturned the usurers’ tables.

Jesus is indifferent, neutral, but his choosing continues. He says we must have a holy indifference toward the world. Yet if wrong is happening in the world, Jesus chooses. But we cannot imagine Buddha with a whip in his hand. He has no choice at all. Because of choicelessness he has attained a deep silence, a profound peace. Hence, the most important word when understanding Buddha is peace. The feeling that emanates from Buddha’s image and flows all around is peace. We could say, peace has become embodied in Buddha. There is no agitation—not even the pond’s agitation. The pond at least becomes vapor in the sun’s rays and rises into the sky. Buddha is so peaceful that he says, “I do not even carry the urge to go to the ocean; if the ocean wants to come, let it come.” He is not prepared even for that much journey. Even that is tension.

Therefore Buddha denied all ocean-words, all questions about the beyond. Ask him, “Is there God? Is there Brahman? Is there liberation? What happens to the soul after death?”—such questions he laughs away: “Do not ask. If there is something, then the journey toward it is born, and journey becomes restlessness. I am where I am. I have no journey to make, no choice to make.”

So if you see deeply, Buddha’s disregard is not only of the world—Jesus’ disregard is only of the world, but his choosing for God continues—Buddha’s disregard is also of God. He says, “Even to attain God is a desire of the mind, a thirst and an envy. Why should the river want to attain the ocean? And what will it gain by attaining it? If the ocean has more water, that is only a difference of quantity. The river has water too. What is the difference between the river’s water and the ocean’s?” Buddha says, “We are what we are—and we are peaceful right there.” Therefore Buddha’s disregard is journey-less. On Buddha’s face, in Buddha’s eyes, no journey can be seen. They are steady, stilled, at rest—like a lake utterly still, neither running like a river nor rising skyward, perfectly calm, without a ripple, not a single undulation. Such is Buddha’s being.

Naturally, Buddha’s peace is negative. Krishna’s manifest joy cannot be there, nor even Mahavira’s unmanifest joy. But one who is so peaceful—so peaceful that he has no desire even to reach the ocean—will he not, finally, attain to bliss? He will, but it will be Buddha’s inner state. In his innermost core a lamp of bliss will be lit. Yet outwardly his entire aura will be one of peace. Where the deep flame burns, there is joy; but its halo is only peace. It is difficult even to imagine Buddha moving. When we contemplate Buddha it hardly seems he could ever have stood up and walked. See his image—it seems this man must have always remained seated. Did he ever rise, move, lift his foot, open his lips, speak? It doesn’t seem so. Buddha’s image is the image of pure stillness—where all things have come to rest, where there is no movement of any kind.

So Buddha’s aura is of peace. His disregard is a disregard of all tensions—even if they be the tensions of liberation. Even if someone desires liberation, Buddha will say, “You fool! Where is liberation?” If one says, “I want to realize the Self,” Buddha will say, “You fool! Where is the Self?” In truth, as long as there is anything to attain, Buddha will say, “You cannot attain.” Stand where there is nothing to attain—then you will attain. But he never says this so plainly, because if he even says “then you will attain,” we will instantly start running to attain. So Buddha only negates. He says, “There is no God, no Self, no liberation—nothing at all.” Because as long as anything is, you will want to get it; and as long as you want, you cannot get. What is to be realized is realized by stopping, by resting, in silence, in stillness, in emptiness. And your craving will keep you running. Craving is fundamental for Buddha, and disregard is the key to release from craving. Do not choose at all; do not even ask if there is anywhere to go. Do not make a goal. There is no goal.

For Jesus there is a goal. Therefore he speaks of a holy indifference toward the world, but he cannot be indifferent toward God. If there were such a person indifferent even to God, that would be unholy indifference. Holy indifference is toward the world. If we ask Jesus, “Buddha says there is no God—what God? No soul—what soul? There is nothing to gain; nor anyone to gain it.” Buddha says, “When this feeling is fully settled within you…” Buddha says very astonishing things. Ask him, “Is there really nothing?” He answers, “What appears to us is only a compound, only a composition.” Like a chariot: take off its wheel, separate the horses, remove the shafts—and the chariot does not remain. The chariot is just an assemblage. Likewise you are an assemblage. The whole world is an assemblage. When things break apart, nothing remains—no soul, no God. And this, he says, is the very thing to be realized. But he says this always within; he never proclaims it outside.

Therefore only those who can understand very deeply can grasp him. Otherwise, all who are thirsting to attain something return empty from Buddha. Those who want to get something say, “This man is useless; he has nothing to give.” “We did not come merely to be peaceful; we came to gain.” And Buddha laughs, for he knows that only by becoming peaceful can that which is God be realized; only by becoming peaceful can that which is soul be realized; only by becoming peaceful can that which is liberation be realized. But do not make these into goals. If you ask me, “Is there liberation?” and I say, “There is,” you will instantly make it a goal, and a man running toward a goal is never peaceful. Thus Buddha has his own difficulty. His disregard leads into peace—so deep a peace that there is no journey at all.

Mahavira’s dispassion aligns, for a while, with Buddha’s peace, because in regard to this world he too favors disregard. And for a while Mahavira’s dispassion aligns with Jesus, for with respect to the other world he does choose for liberation. Mahavira is not choiceless regarding liberation. He will say, “If there is no liberation, then what is the point of becoming peaceful? Then what harm is there in being unpeaceful?” Mahavira says, “If everything is to be renounced, it is because there is something to be attained. And what is to be attained is precisely what warrants renunciation.” Therefore, regarding liberation, Mahavira does not advocate disregard. His dispassion carries you beyond the world’s dualities; it is the path to the state beyond conflict. But Mahavira’s dispassion is a path to an attainment. Buddha’s disregard is a doorway to non-attainment—where all becomes void and all is lost.

Buddha’s renunciation, in a sense, is complete: even God is not demanded. In Mahavira’s renunciation there is a place for liberation; and he says renunciation is impossible if there is no liberation—what for? Because Mahavira’s thinking is highly scientific and causal. He says that without causality, without cause and effect, nothing happens. Hence he will not agree with Buddha that we simply become peaceful for no reason. Mahavira says there is a cause for being unpeaceful and a cause for being peaceful. Nor will he agree with Krishna that we accept everything as it is; because, Mahavira says, if we accept everything, then we cease to be self-aware; we become like stones. The very meaning of having a soul is discrimination. For Mahavira, to be a self is to be discerning: this is right and that is wrong. And what is wrong must be dropped. Attachment is wrong and so is aversion; therefore drop both, and take hold of dispassion. For Mahavira, dispassion is an attainment, and from dispassion comes liberation.

Thus Mahavira is not merely peaceful; he is peaceful—and joyful as well. The rays of the attainment of liberation spread not only within him; they begin to dance outwardly from his very body. If we place Mahavira and Buddha side by side, Buddha is in utterly passive silence—as if he is not. Mahavira is in active silence—so very present, solidly present. Yes, in his being there is an intense radiance of joy all around.

Yet if we place Mahavira beside Krishna, even Mahavira’s joy seems silent, calm; and Krishna’s joy seems stirred, in motion. Krishna can dance; Mahavira cannot. If you wish to see Mahavira dance, you must see it in his silence, his stillness, his immobility. It can be seen—through every pore, every breath, the slightest movement of the eye, his walking—his joy can be seen everywhere; but he cannot dance. That dance must be perceived indirectly.

So Mahavira’s dispassion openly proclaims joy. That is the difference between Mahavira’s and Buddha’s images. In Mahavira’s image, joy appears to be manifest; something seems to be emanating outward. Buddha has gone entirely inward; nothing appears to go outward. He has become as though he is not. Mahavira has become as though he is completely there. The declaration of his being is total. Therefore Mahavira denies God, but he cannot deny the soul. He says, there is no God. How could there be! I myself am God. Thus Mahavira declares, the soul itself is God. You are all God; there is no other separate God. This proclamation arises from his profound joy, his ecstasy. In beatitude he declares, “I am God. No other God sits above.” For Mahavira, the guarantee of freedom lies only in there being no God. God and freedom cannot coexist. If someone sits above as a ruler whose law governs the world, what then is the meaning of my liberation? If tomorrow he decides, “Send this liberated man back into the world,” what could I do? Hence Mahavira says, the only guarantee of absolute freedom is that there be no God above. He denies God, but proclaims the soul with great intensity: the soul itself is God. Therefore in Mahavira, manifest joy is visible—that is his dispassion.

In dispassion he agrees with Buddha about choicelessness regarding attachment and aversion—do not choose between liking and disliking. But on the matter of choosing between the world and liberation, he does not agree with Buddha. He says, “Between the world and liberation, one must choose.” In this he agrees with Jesus. Yet Jesus’ God is in the other world; and Jesus can rejoice only after death, when he meets God. Mahavira has no God beyond; his divinity is within, and he rejoices here and now. Therefore Jesus is sorrowful, and Mahavira is not.

Krishna’s non-attachment has some alignment with all three, and some fundamental differences. If we call Krishna the sum of the other three—and a little more—it will not be wrong. Krishna’s non-attachment is not disregard. He says, “If there is disregard toward something, we cannot be non-attached to it, because disregard is only attachment of the opposite kind. To look at you is a kind of attachment; to refuse to look is also a kind of attachment—its opposite.” And then Krishna asks, “Disregard toward what? Other than God, what is there? Whatever you disregard is God. If the entire world is nothing but God, then disregard toward whom? And who will disregard? And how will the one who disregards be free of ego? Who will disregard? I will disregard the bad for the sake of the good; I will disregard the world for the sake of liberation—who is this ‘I,’ and what will it disregard?” Therefore Krishna cannot use a negative, condemnatory word like disregard.

Nor can he use neutrality. Krishna will say, “Even God is not neutral; how can we be? One cannot stand on the bank—life is a current; there is no bank to stand upon. Wherever we are, we are in the stream, in life, in existence. To be, to exist, is the stream itself. How then can we be ‘on the bank’ and neutral?” The word neutrality does not fit for him.

Nor can he use the word dispassion in the sense of repudiating passion and aversion. He will say, “If attachment is bad and aversion is bad, why do they exist? How can the bad exist at all?” Either we must suppose two powers in the universe—a power of the auspicious, God; and a power of the inauspicious, the devil—as Zarathustra supposes, as Christians and Muslims suppose. Their trouble is this: if evil exists, we must separate the power of evil from God; God as the source of evil? Zarathustra could not accept it, nor Mohammed, nor Jesus. So they make a place for Satan, the devil. Krishna says, “If evil exists, even if distinct, is it by God’s sanction or without it? Does it need God’s support to exist, or is it independent? If independent, then it is a power equal to God. Then why would the good ever prevail? Why should evil be defeated at all? Then there would be two Gods in this world—and the very idea is impossible.”

Therefore Krishna says there is only one power, and from it everything arises. The same power that produces the sound fruit produces the rotten fruit. No separate power is needed. From the same mind that gives rise to vice arises virtue; no separate power is required. The auspicious and the inauspicious are transformations of a single energy; darkness and light are transformations of one and the same force. Hence Krishna says, “I do not tell you to leave both; I tell you to live both in their totality.”

Non-attachment does not mean attachment to one side against the other—not attachment to the auspicious against the inauspicious, nor for or against. It means no attachment at all, no choosing at all. It means total acceptance of life as it is, and one’s own total surrender into this whole of life. Non-attachment means: I am not separate from this world; I am one with it. Who will choose? What will be chosen? As the ocean moves me like a wave, so I flow. I am not separate.

In this, some similarities appear. Krishna will arrive at a peace like Buddha’s, because he has nothing to attain—whatever is, is already attained. At times he will appear dispassionate like Mahavira, for his joy knows no bounds. He will appear to proclaim God as Jesus does—but not because there is a God sitting in this world or the next: rather, because all is God. Krishna’s non-attachment is total surrender—“the disappearance of ‘I.’” To know that the “I” is not. Once this is known, whatever is happening is happening. There is nothing to be done about it. There is no possibility of our doing anything. Krishna sees himself as a wave in the ocean. Since there is no choosing, there is no attachment. If we understand correctly, non-attachment is not a state of mind; it is the dropping of all states of mind, the dropping of all positions—and becoming one with existence.

In this oneness Krishna arrives where Mahavira, Jesus, and Buddha arrive by their own narrow lanes. But their choices are of footpaths; Krishna’s choice is the royal road. Those on the footpaths arrive, and the one on the highway also arrives. The footpaths have their conveniences and inconveniences; the highway has its conveniences and inconveniences.

It is a personal choice. Some prefer the footpaths; they enjoy the journey only when there is a narrow trail, when they are alone—no one ahead, no one behind—when there are no jostling crowds, and when at every step they must find their way through dense forest. Only then does their consciousness feel challenged; they will reach by discovering footpaths. Others will not relish the footpaths at all. Being alone will weigh on them. Their being is with all, their joy is in togetherness, cooperation, companionship. They will walk the highway.

Certainly, those on footpaths may walk in a kind of quiet sadness. Those on the highway—if they walk sadly—they will be shoved onto the footpaths. Where millions walk, one can walk only dancing, only singing. Those on the footpaths can walk in peace. Those on the highway will also have clouds of unrest pass over them; they must be ready for those too—this will be their peace. On the footpaths one can be absorbed in the bliss of utter privacy; on the highway one must also share in the joys and sorrows of others. These distinctions will remain. But Krishna, as I said, is multidimensional; his choice is the highway.

And if we understand rightly: there is not a single path to God. From wherever one is, a path can be made for each to reach. There is no ready-made road. All can reach in their own way. Upon arriving, the journey completes at the same destination—whether by dispassion, by neutrality, by disregard, or by joy.

The destination is one; the paths are many. And each person should choose what accords with him, with his nature. He should not fret over who is right and who is wrong, but be concerned with what suits his own being.

This aphorism is invaluable. Krishna’s saying that one remains unperturbed in pleasure and pain—that is the sthitaprajna. The question is very good, meaningful: if one is not happy in happiness and not unhappy in unhappiness, will his sensitivity, his sensibility, not die?

There are two ways to be unperturbed in pleasure and pain. One is the way raised in the question itself. One way is to kill sensitivity, so that pleasure will no longer feel like pleasure, pain will no longer feel like pain. If you burn the tongue, you won’t taste what is pleasant or unpleasant. If you gouge out the eyes, you won’t know darkness or light. If you destroy the ears, you won’t know music or cacophony. The straight, obvious route seems to be: destroy sensitivity, kill sensibility, and a person will become unperturbed in pleasure and pain. And generally, those who have not understood Krishna have taken it exactly so—and have tried to do exactly that. What we call an ascetic, a renunciate, a dispassionate one—he has been doing precisely this: he has kept killing sensitivity. If sensitivity dies, naturally there is no sense of pleasure or pain.

But Krishna’s aphorism is something altogether different. Krishna says: unperturbed in pleasure and pain. He does not say: insensitive in pleasure and pain. He says: unperturbed—beyond them, past them, above them. It is clear from this that he does not say pleasure and pain should be abolished. If pleasure and pain were to disappear, how would you be beyond them? If pleasure and pain are not even known, what meaning would “unperturbed in pleasure and pain” have? It would have no meaning. A dead man is outside pleasure and pain; he is not unperturbed.

No—therefore I take it in an entirely different sense.

There is another path, Krishna’s path. If someone experiences pleasure totally—totally—so totally that nothing remains outside, if he becomes wholly the pleasure, if he is utterly sensitive to pleasure, he will be unperturbed; because there will be nothing left outside from which agitation can arise. If someone plunges totally into pain—into total pain—then who remains outside the pain to be the sufferer? What Krishna is saying is not the end of sensitivity; it is the fulfillment of sensitivity. If we become wholly sensitive… Suppose suffering comes upon me. I know suffering has come upon me because standing apart from it I think, “Suffering has come upon me.” I do not say, “I am suffering.” And even when we say, “I have become unhappy,” we still maintain a distance; we do not say, “I am sorrow.”

It is useful to understand this a little.

In life we split everything, though those splits are not true. When I say to someone, “I love you,” linguistically it may be correct, existentially it is wrong. When love happens, it is not that I have love toward someone; it is that I am love toward someone. I become nothing but love. Nothing remains in me that is not love. And if even a little remains in me so that I can still say, “I have fallen in love,” I have not gone wholly into love. And one who has not gone wholly into love has not gone into love at all; he cannot go. When pleasure comes or pain comes, we do not become whole in them. If we become whole and nothing remains inside us outside of them, then who will speak? Who will be agitated? Who will be afflicted? If I become sorrow itself, then sensitivity reaches its fullness, its utmost intensity. My every pore will be filled with sorrow; my breath, my eyes, my very being will become sorrow. But then who remains to be agitated? I am sorrow—who will be perturbed?

In the same way, when happiness comes and I become the happiness wholly, who will be agitated? I will be happiness itself. And if in pleasure and pain I go on becoming whole like this, how will the opportunity ever arise to compare pleasure and pain? Who will weigh and say, “When I was unhappy it was very bad; now that I am happy it is very good. And henceforth there should be happiness, not sorrow.” When each moment pervades our whole being, sensitivity becomes total, complete—and agitation disappears. There remains no cause for agitation, no ground for it.

A friend came to me two days ago and said, “I smoke cigarettes and I am very troubled by it.” I said, “It seems you have split yourself in two—one who smokes and one who is troubled. Otherwise how is it possible? Either smoke, or be troubled.” These two can be together only if you have divided yourself into two, made two selves—two souls: one goes on smoking, the other goes on repenting. The one who repents will go on repenting all his life, and the one who smokes will go on smoking all his life. The one who repents will sometimes take vows; the one who does not repent—who smokes—will break those vows. I said to him, “Either just smoke, or just repent. If you do two things together, suffering is born. If you smoke, become only the smoker. Do not save a part of yourself behind. Do not preserve that one who stands at a distance saying, ‘You are doing wrong, you are doing right.’” And I said to him, “If someday you smoke a cigarette totally—be whole—then a whole man can also drop it totally. For the one who can do something totally can also drop it totally. He will then not live in such a split. Either he smokes totally and is joyful; or he drops totally and is joyful.”

This half-and-half, divided person suffers while smoking—from the part that regrets, “You are doing wrong.” And when he is not smoking he suffers—from the smoking part, “You are missing the chance.” His suffering has no end; he goes on suffering. He will be agitated in every condition. Agitation will become his fate, his destiny. He cannot be unperturbed. Only one who is total can be unperturbed—because then no one remains to be perturbed. One who is whole, who is entire in any situation—whatever comes, he becomes one with it totally, leaving nothing behind—such a person cannot be a mere witness; such a person has gone beyond witnessing. Witnessing is only a means, not the goal. Krishna is not a witness; he is telling Arjuna to be a witness. Krishna is siddha—accomplished. Siddha means that even the tiny distance between the seer and the seen is not maintained. Only the act of seeing remains, which seems to have two ends: at one end people say is the seen, at the other end they say is the seer. Now seeing has become complete, gathered into one.

Witnessing splits the world into two—object and subject, the seer and the seen. Witnessing is never nondual. Witnessing is the last borderline of duality. It is the place where a signboard says: “Nonduality begins here.”

But without witnessing, reaching nonduality is difficult. To be a witness means: we have stopped breaking reality into many, and have started dividing only into two. We gave up splitting into the many, and split into duality. After dividing into two, it is not very difficult; because for the one who is a witness, moments will sometimes arise when he finds that neither the witness remained nor that which was witnessed; only witnessing remained. Such moments begin to appear…

For example, I love someone. Then there is the lover, and there is the beloved. But in love moments come when neither the one who loves remains nor the one who is loved; only a wave of love remains that touches both. One wave remains that has two ends: on one end the lover appears to be, on the other end the beloved appears to be. Only a wave of love remains. And in the deep moments of love, lover and beloved do not remain—only love remains. These are moments of nonduality. Similar moments occur in witnessing—moments of nonduality. Subject and object vanish; only consciousness remains, with two poles—one far, one near. The near pole is what we have been calling “I”; the far pole is what we have been calling “Thou.” But now they are the two ends of a single wave. The day this state is attained in its fullness and never lost, that day the witness dissolves. That day only the accomplished remains.

Krishna is not a witness. Yes, Krishna does tell Arjuna to be a witness. But Krishna speaks both of witnessing and of that moment when even the witness dissolves. He speaks of the means and also of the end. He speaks of the path and also of the destination. When he says, “Unperturbed in pleasure and pain,” he is not speaking of witnessing—though many readers of the Gita have taken it that way: become a witness of pleasure, just watch, do not enjoy; then you will be unperturbed. Become a witness of pain; just watch, do not suffer; then you will be unperturbed.

But if someone “watches” pleasure and pain, even that watching is a tension, an agitation. It is a continual defensive posture. One keeps protecting oneself the whole time. And if it is still being noted which is pleasure and which is pain—because to be unperturbed, then it should not be “noted”—if it is noted that “this was pleasure, that was pain,” then some agitation persists and a subtle distinction remains. If the witness knows “this is pleasure, this is pain,” then there is agitation—subtle, perhaps invisible. Agitation continues; the distinction between pleasure and pain continues. And as long as there is distinction, there is agitation.

What I am saying is something very different. I am saying: total involvement—not standing apart like a witness, but plunging in like an actor. Plunge totally! Become one! A river drowns you because you are separate. Become the river—this is what I am saying. How will it drown you then? Whom will it drown? Who will sink? Who will cry for help? Whatever the situation is in the moment, become one with it totally. And when that moment passes, another moment will come. Once you learn the art of total oneness with the moment, you will go on becoming one with each moment. Then a delightful thing happens: sorrow comes and refines you; joy comes and refines you. Sorrow gives you something, and joy gives you something. Sorrow seems a friend, and joy seems a friend. Then at the last moment of life, as you bid farewell, you can thank your joys and also thank your sorrows—because both together made you. It is not only the day that makes you; night is included. It is not only light that is your life; darkness is also your life. And it is not only birth that is a moment for rejoicing; death too is a moment for celebration.

But this will be so only if we live each moment totally. Then we will not say that sorrow was the enemy and joy the friend. No—we will say: sorrow was the right hand, joy the left. We walked with both. When you lift your left leg you do not lift only half of yourself; you are wholly with your left leg. When you lift your right leg, you are wholly with your right leg. When you are silent you should be entire in your silence; when you speak you should be entire in your speaking.

Agitation begins when we choose. And as long as the chooser stands apart, choosing continues. Therefore witnessing is not a very high state; it is a middle state. Compared to being the doer, it is better—in the sense that the doer cannot leap directly into nonduality. The witness comes close to the springboard from which the leap is possible. But the witness too stands on the shore, and the doer too stands on the shore. The doer stands a little farther, from where no direct leap is possible. The witness stands right at the edge, from where the leap can be taken. But until both leap, both stand on the same piece of ground. After the leap, only nonduality remains.

So when Krishna speaks here of unperturbedness, he is speaking of nonduality. Let there remain no one to be perturbed; let one be wholly immersed. Therefore I hold that Krishna’s vision is not anti-sensitivity; it is not opposed to sensitivity. It is the attainment of complete sensitivity.

As for the talk of Dakshinayana and Uttarayana in the Gita—it is not about our external sun and its northern and southern movements. It is not about this earth’s sun being in Uttarayana meaning liberation is assured, and being in Dakshinayana meaning there is no liberation. It is not about our sun and our earth. It is highly symbolic. It is about the inner sun of awareness within us. Just as we have divided this earth in two, so too the human personality has been mapped in two currents. Within a person there is a movement of the sun—of light, of truth—call it what you will. And within man there is an arrangement of chakras. If, within that arrangement, the light has not begun to be experienced up to a certain point, one is not liberated. When the inner sun enters to a particular level in the inner life, one is liberated.

To go into it fully would be a long discussion; it is better to take it up some other time. For now it is enough to understand that it is not about the outer Uttarayana and Dakshinayana. Within us too there is a pattern of the sun’s movement. We have an inner being where there are movements of light. It is about those inner movements of light. And there it is said that when the light is on the Uttarayana side of the chakras, then one who leaves the body in such a condition is freed from the bondage of birth and death; he finds himself forever free. Just as we say that at one hundred degrees water turns to vapor, below one hundred degrees it does not—so it is with a certain arrangement of the inner sun.

That can be grasped only when we understand the full matter of the chakras and the subtle bodies; so let us not take it up now. For the present, it is enough to understand this much.

What is the difference or similarity between the sthitaprajna and the devotee? Sthitaprajna means one who is no longer a devotee—he has become God. Devotee means one who is on the journey toward becoming God. The devotee is on the path; the sthitaprajna has arrived. The path is the same; the arrival is the same. But “sthitaprajna” is the name for one who has reached the destination, and “devotee” is the name for the traveler who is still moving.

There must be similarity, because the path and the goal are connected—otherwise how would the path reach the goal? There must be similarity, because the goal is simply the completion of the path. Where the path is complete, the destination appears. There must be similarity, because the one on the path is, in a sense, already at the destination—only a little distance remains, that’s all. It’s a matter of distance. The difference is between having arrived and the process of arriving. The devotee is walking; the sthitaprajna has sat down—he has arrived. Therefore, for the devotee there are all those requirements that, in the sthitaprajna, become realized attainments. Only then can he reach.

The devotee’s final destination is that his being a devotee disappears. Until he becomes God, there can be no fulfillment. However much the devotee may cry and weep for union with the Divine—and even if union happens and they stand locked in an embrace—even then the devotee’s crying will not cease. Because no matter how close an embrace is, there is still a distance. However tightly we press someone to our chest, there is still a gap between the two. Separation ends only when the two become one. An inch of distance is as much as a million miles. The measure doesn’t matter; even a thousandth of an inch is as much separation as a million miles. So even if the devotee were to sit pressed to God’s chest, still there would be no final satisfaction; even then a distance remains.

This is exactly the lover’s trouble. The lover’s suffering is that, however near he comes, he will still remain unhappy. However much he possesses the beloved, he will still remain unhappy. If it is understood that his real sorrow is that until he becomes the beloved—until there is oneness—he will continue to suffer, then it is seen how difficult that is. On the plane of human love, to become one is very difficult. How will it happen, even by coming so near? That is why, the closer lovers come, the more the suffering begins. The nearer they come, the more disillusionment arises. When they were far apart, there was the notion that coming close would bring joy. Once they are close, how will joy come now? There is no way to come any closer. Then lovers begin to get angry with each other. They may think the other is creating some obstacle; the other is causing some harm; perhaps the other doesn’t love rightly; perhaps the other has deceived them; perhaps the other has fallen in love with someone else—these worries start once they come close. The real reason is that the lover cannot be fulfilled until he comes so near that no distance remains; and that can only be when they become one.

Therefore all lovers, if not today then tomorrow, begin to become devotees—because it is impossible to come that near to an embodied person. Only with the disembodied Divine can one come so close that no distance remains. So all lovers, sooner or later, become devotees, and all declarations of love, sooner or later, turn into prayer. Ultimately they must; otherwise they go on giving pain. The lover who cannot become a devotee will remain unhappy forever, because his aspiration is that of a devotee, while he tries to fulfill it through love. He wants one thing and is doing another. What he wants is to become absolutely one, with no gap left—not even the gap of “I” and “Thou.” But with the one through whom he is trying to do this, it cannot happen; with a person, the gap of “I” and “Thou” remains. Two persons can never come so close that the gap of “I” and “Thou” drops; only two who are no longer persons can come so close that the gap dissolves. The Divine is impersonal. The day the devotee also becomes impersonal, that day realization happens. As long as the devotee remains as a separate entity… In the sense in which the devotee exists, God does not. God’s being is like non-being; his presence is like absence.

This is a matter of great wonder; it is worth holding a little in your awareness.
If we keep asking—as all devotees have asked—why does God not reveal Himself? Because if God were to reveal Himself, union would be impossible. Only with the Unmanifest can there be complete union. Devotees have continually asked, “Why are you hidden? Why don’t you come before us?” If He were to come before us, such a great curtain would fall that union could never happen. He is hidden; therefore meeting is possible. He is invisible; therefore one can drown in Him. If He becomes visible, He becomes a wall—and union is impossible.
A very wondrous mystic, Meister Eckhart, thanked God and said: Your grace is boundless that You are not seen. Your grace is boundless that You cannot be grasped. Your grace is boundless that no matter how we search, we do not find You anywhere. Why is Your grace boundless? Because in this very way You keep teaching us that until you, too, become such that you cannot be found by seeking; until you, too, become such that you are not seen; until you, too, become as if you are not—till then, union is impossible. God is formless; the day the devotee also becomes formless, that day union happens. So the obstacle is only on the devotee’s side; on God’s side there is no obstacle.

Sthitaprajna means: the devotee who has become formless. Now he no longer even cries out to God—because who is there to cry out? Now he does not pray—because who would pray? For whom? Or we can say: whatever he does now is prayer. Whether he cries out or not, it is all an offering to God. We can say it either way. Sthitaprajna means the human being has become as the Divine is. Devotee means: one who has begun the journey toward God, but is still human. And all his longings and expectations are human. How Meera cries! Her songs are wondrous in this sense—that they are profoundly human. All her crying is the cry of a lover, of a devotee. She says, “The bed is made—come now. I have opened the door and I wait for You.” These are human forms of waiting.

Devotee means: a human being who has set out toward the Divine—but is still human. Sthitaprajna means: the human being is no longer human; now he is not going anywhere, for there is nowhere to go; he is where he is. And right there the Divine has always been—only we must become formless, invisible, become not. Jesus says: Whoever saves himself will lose; whoever loses himself will find. The sthitaprajna has lost himself, therefore he finds. The devotee is still out to find—and he still is. Experience will erase him, slowly, slowly.

Kabir says: Searching and searching, I myself got lost. There was no other way. We had set out to find someone. In the end we discovered that the search itself snatched away the seeker. “Wandering and wandering, O friend, Kabir remained lost.” We had gone out to search, sister, but in the end it turned out that He was not found—rather, I myself was lost. And the day I was lost, that very day the search is complete; that day He is already found.

Lao Tzu has a very wondrous saying: Seek, and you will not find. Do not seek—and find. Because He is here and now. Because of seeking you go far away; for no one seeks here and now. Seeking means somewhere else. So one will go to Mecca, someone to Medina, someone to Kashi, someone to Manasarovar–Kailash. To seek, one will go somewhere...

Someone will go to Manali.
Yes, someone will go to Manali. And He is here, now. Therefore the seeker, so long as he keeps seeking, keeps losing Him. The day the seeker, seeking and seeking, becomes tired, is erased, and falls—whether he falls in Manali, or in Mecca, Medina, Kashi, or on Kailash—wherever he falls, there he finds that He is present. He is always present; our presence is the obstacle. Let us become absent.

The devotee is still present; the sthitaprajna has become absent. The devotee still has a presence; the sthitaprajna has no presence. He has become absent. He no longer is. It is also necessary to understand: as long as the devotee is present, God will be absent. As long as the devotee is there, God is not there. And therefore the devotee keeps making God present by proxy—sometimes by installing an idol, sometimes by building a temple. This is a proxy. It solves nothing. It is a game made by the devotee himself. Soon he will be bored with it. From a god of your own making you cannot find deep fulfillment. How could you—and for how long? Eventually the proxy is exposed. Then he will throw away these idols and such. He will say, “Now I want only That which is.” But That is found only when I am not. There is only one condition: my being is the wall; my non-being becomes the door. That is the only difference between the devotee and the sthitaprajna.

The sthitaprajna is a door; the devotee is still a wall. We too are walls—but the devotee is a wall within which the cry has begun; the devotee is a wall that has begun the labor of becoming a door. We are the walls resting comfortably, whose journey has not yet begun.

Speak—speak, say them now, first.

What were the reasons for women’s extraordinary attraction to Sri Krishna? Hundreds of thousands of gopis were mad after him, and only in his company did they feel fulfilled—why was that so? One. Second: if lovingness flowers into sexlessness, then after the attainment of sexlessness how will children be born? In other words, how would intercourse happen in sexlessness? Is sexual union possible after self-samadhi, Brahman-samadhi, and nirvana-samadhi? Because for sexual union one needs a certain quickening, a play of vital energies, doesn’t one?

We have already said much in this connection, so let me bring a few more things into view.

The attraction of countless women toward Krishna is exactly like water rushing down from the mountain and gathering in the lake. We never ask why water runs from the mountain and collects in the lake. If we did, the answer would be: because the lake is a lake—a hollow—and water fills a hollow. It falls on the mountain top, but it fills the lake. Mountain peaks cannot hold water. Water, by its very nature, seeks a hollow—because there it can dwell.

If we understand this rightly: it is the nature of woman to seek man; she can dwell only in man. It is the nature of man to seek woman; he can dwell only in woman. This is nature—just as everything in life has its nature: fire has a nature, water has a nature. So too, the nature of being a man is to seek oneself in woman; the nature of being a woman is to seek oneself in man. To be womanly means: without man I am incomplete. To be manly means: without woman I am incomplete. To be incomplete is to be man and woman. Hence their constant seeking; and when that seeking is not fulfilled, there is frustration. When it is not fulfilled, there is sorrow, pain, trouble. When it is not fulfilled, there is anguish, torment, anxiety—because one is going against one’s own nature.

There is only one reason for the tremendous attraction to Krishna: Krishna is a whole man. The more complete the man, the more attractive he becomes to women. The more complete the woman, the more attractive she becomes to men. Man’s completeness found full expression in Krishna.

Mahavira is not a lesser man—not at all; he is as complete a man as Krishna. But Mahavira’s entire sadhana is the sadhana of dropping one’s manhood; his whole path is to go beyond the realm where the law of woman and man holds sway. Even so—despite all this—Mahavira had forty thousand nuns and ten thousand monks. Still, women were more attracted. Wherever four disciples took initiation under Mahavira, three were women and one a man. So if even around Mahavira—one whose whole discipline is transcendence of manhood and womanhood, who denies his being a man and denies another’s being a woman, who says: these are worldly distinctions, the truth lies beyond them—even then women gathered in greater numbers. They couldn’t so much as touch Mahavira; they could not even sit close to him. Yet they were no less infatuated. Though this has not usually been looked at this way. And of the ten thousand men who came to Mahavira, if we ever did a deep investigation, we would find a feminine tendency in their psyche as well. It is not necessary that if the body is male, the mind is also male; nor that if the body is female, the mind is female. The mind does not always harmonize with the body; very often it does not. Many times the body is male but the mind leans toward the feminine. If the men gathered around Mahavira were ever given a thorough psychological test, we would discover an abundance of the feminine mind among them. Mahavira becomes attractive only when within us… Mahavira’s magnetism is only half the story; our own psyche must flow toward him as well.

With Krishna the situation is even more wondrous. Krishna has not fled, leaving anything behind. With him, it is not that women can only stand aside as nuns; not that they can only look at him from a distance. With Krishna one can dance. So if hundreds of thousands of women gathered around him, there is nothing surprising—this is natural, utterly simple.

Buddha is likewise a complete man. And so a very interesting thing happened: Buddha refused to initiate women. He flatly said he would not. Because the danger before him was clear: women would rush in, and there would be a vast crowd of them—and not necessarily all impelled by the longing for sadhana. The sheer magnetism of Buddha could be a powerful draw. Some gopis who reached Krishna were not there seeking God-realization. Krishna himself is enough of a God—being near him is a great bliss. So Krishna has no worry about who comes for what, because he has no such selection; but Buddha does choose. And he strictly refused to initiate women. For a long time the struggle continued; a large women’s movement arose, strongly opposing Buddha: What is our fault that we should be denied initiation? Under great pressure, insistence, and entreaty, Buddha consented.

Now this bears some reflection. Why did Buddha keep saying for so long that he would not? Because to him one thing was crystal clear: among a hundred women who would come, ninety-nine would likely be coming for Buddha, not for Buddhahood. It was so clear that he resisted. But then a woman named Kisa Gotami said to Buddha: Will we women not attain Buddhahood? When will you return again—for us? And if we miss, the responsibility will be yours! What is our fault? Is it a fault to be a woman? She was the hundredth—she was not of the ninety-nine. For Kisa Gotami, Buddha had to bow. She had come not for Buddha, but for Buddhahood. She said: We have no use for you as a person; but will only men benefit from your being? Shall we be deprived merely for being women? Is being a woman such a punishment—and you too discriminate? So Kisa Gotami was granted admission. Then the doors opened—and the same thing happened as with Mahavira: men were fewer, women grew in number day by day.

Even today, temples have more women and fewer men. It will remain so until there are images of women—female Tirthankaras, female avatars—in the temples. For of every hundred who go, ninety-nine go for very natural reasons, and only one for an unnatural one.

With Krishna it is all very simple. For him there is no barrier. Krishna embraces the totality of life. He accepts his being a man, and accepts another’s being a woman. In truth, it seems Krishna probably never, even by mistake, dishonored a woman—not in the slightest. In the sayings of Jesus, of Mahavira, even of Buddha, there is a possibility of dishonor toward women. The reason is only this: they are trying to wipe away their sexual being, their biological being. By nature, woman will not let them erase it. If a woman comes near, their manhood might show through; it would be fed.

Yet even around a sad man like Jesus—whose lips carry no flute—even around him women gathered. And those who took his body down from the cross were not men, but women. The most beautiful woman of that age, Mary Magdalene, took his body down. The men had fled; the women remained. And Jesus never uttered a single word of honor specifically for women.

Mahavira says that women cannot attain liberation in the female state; they must take birth once as men and then liberation is possible.

Buddha refused even to initiate them. And when he did, even then his words are startling: he said, My Dharma, which would have lasted for thousands of years, will not endure more than five hundred, because women have been initiated.

There was truth in this statement!

But that is not the question. The truth was from Buddha’s side—because on Buddha’s or Mahavira’s path, there are few provisions for women. Yet Mahavira and Buddha are highly attractive and women do come. The truth is relative to their paths; it is not absolute. There is no barrier, in the absolute sense, to a woman’s liberation. But the path would be otherwise; it cannot be Mahavira’s. It is as if there are two routes up a mountain: one a steep ascent with a signboard, “Women not from here,” and another a long, winding path with a signboard, “Women from here.” That’s the only difference. In the context of the path, Mahavira’s statement is entirely true: by his path a woman cannot go. If any woman insists on going by Mahavira’s very path, she will indeed need to return once as a man—because it is a straight, steep climb, for many reasons.

A big reason is this: on Mahavira’s way there is no God, no companion—no one on whose shoulder you may rest your hand. A woman’s personality is such that even a “borrowed” shoulder suffices; she needs to place a hand on a shoulder. She feels assured when she rests her hand on someone’s shoulder. This is her way of being—no other reason. If a man places his hand on someone’s shoulder, he feels diminished. When a woman places her hand on a shoulder, her dignity increases; when she walks with a hand on a shoulder, her grace is different; when she walks alone, she feels diminished. For a man, walking with a hand on someone’s shoulder reveals his diminishment.

Gandhi walked with his hands on the shoulders of two women.

We must speak about this. This point about Gandhi must also be kept in mind. Gandhi walking with his hands on women’s shoulders—he was perhaps the first man to do so. No man has ever walked with his hand on a woman’s shoulder.

Because he was old?

No. He did so even when he was not old. Gandhi’s walking with his hand on a woman’s shoulder was meant as a special declaration. In this land where always the woman has placed her hand on the man’s shoulder, where she has always been the “half,” and always the second half, never the first; where she has always remained behind, never in front; where being a woman has become secondary—there Gandhi felt some man should declare: a woman’s shoulders are not so weak; one can rest a hand on them too. It was only an experiment against a long tradition—nothing more. Though, truth be told, Gandhi did not look very beautiful walking with his hand on women’s shoulders, and the women under Gandhi’s hand looked burdened.

In fact, it was against nature—this is not right. Gandhi did not have a deep understanding of the being of man and woman—only a reaction against a social arrangement, that’s all. And so Gandhi left many women almost turned into men. I would not say the female sex benefitted; rather it suffered a deep loss. For woman cannot be made into man. She has her own mode of being—and its beauty lies precisely there. And it is delightful that not only does a woman grow ennobled when she rests her hand on a shoulder—she also ennobles the man whose shoulder it is. It is not only taking; there is giving. A man on whose shoulder no woman’s hand has ever rested also feels a certain poverty.

This denial of the biological personality in the figures of Mahavira, Buddha, Jesus—this is part of their sadhana. In Krishna’s life, the sadhana is total acceptance—biological included: the sexual being, the erotic body, the erotic mind—all accepted. Krishna says: all is to be accepted; nothing is to be denied. In Krishna’s view, whoever denies is, in some sense, a little or much atheist. In truth, denial is atheism. In what measure one denies—someone says, I do not accept the body: then he is atheist toward the body. Someone says, I do not accept sex: atheist toward sex. Someone says, I do not accept God: atheist toward God. But non-acceptance is the style of atheism; acceptance is theism. Therefore I cannot call Mahavira, Buddha, or Jesus as theistic as I call Krishna. Total acceptance—no denial, no condemnation. Whatever is, has its place in existence.

For this reason, if hundreds of thousands of women gathered around Krishna, it is not accidental. And around him, there was no need to keep distance.

Around Mahavira, a formal distance is necessary. Even to stand near him, one must maintain that polite space. If a woman were to embrace Mahavira, it would be taken as a gross impropriety. Neither would Mahavira tolerate it, nor would the woman feel any peace or joy—only humiliation.

Why would Mahavira not tolerate it?

Because Mahavira would not accept it at all; he would stand like a rock. His whole being would say no. He might not utter “Don’t touch,” but it would feel as if one has taken up a stone. A woman is not humiliated when someone says, “Don’t touch,” but when she touches and there is no response from the other side—no answer. Mahavira is thus—there is no help for it. He is not intent on insulting women; it is his mode of being. So women around Mahavira always kept what we might call a formal distance. One could not enter the aura of his being.

With Krishna the situation is utterly different. If a woman tries to keep a distance from Krishna, she will be in trouble. If she stands far, she will find herself drawn near. If she goes near, she will have to come as close as closeness goes; beyond that, where there is literally no further to go—that is another matter. But as near as one can come, one must come to Krishna. It is as if Krishna is calling—an invitation. I said: Mahavira would stand like a rock; even if touched, you would feel stone.

About Henry Thoreau, Emerson said: if you shook his hand, it felt like taking a dry branch of a tree into your hand—because Thoreau did not answer, he only extended a hand; the hand was lifeless, without warmth, without current. Thoreau could befriend Mahavira.

With Krishna, even if one stands far away, it seems he is touching; he is calling. His whole being is an invitation, a welcome. If thousands of women accepted this invitation, there is no surprise—it is natural.

As for the question whether for Krishna a thing like sexual union is possible:

For Krishna, nothing is impossible. For us, sex is a question; for Krishna, it is not. We do not ask whether flowers can have sexual union; we do not ask whether birds can; we do not ask whether this whole universe is absorbed in one great play of union. All existence is in intercourse! Only man begins to ask: is sexual union possible for Krishna? Because the way man is—full of tension, full of condemnation toward life—even sex, the deepest phenomenon, has become impossible for him. Even that moment of existence has turned into a mesh of complications. He stands behind walls of theories.

What does sex mean? Only this: that two bodies come as close as nature can bring them. Two bodies enter their biological intimacy. Beyond that, nature has no device. The utmost nearness on the plane of nature is sexual union. Beyond that begins only the realm of the divine.

Krishna accepts the nearness of nature; he says, nature too is of God. For Krishna, sex is not a matter for consideration, not a question, not a problem; it is a fact of life. We find it difficult because we have made sex into a problem, not kept it as a fact. Tomorrow we may make other things into problems. We could even declare that opening one’s eyes is a sin, and then we would ask: did he open his eyes or not? For now we question only those things we have turned into questions.

My understanding is: there is no boundary in Krishna’s life. This is his very personality, his specialness: he does not believe in boundaries. Boundaries are bondage; boundarylessness is his freedom. But our meaning of “boundarylessness” is not his. For us it means the violation of boundaries; for Krishna it means the absence of boundaries. Keep this in mind, else it becomes difficult. For Krishna, sex is not something to be thought about: if it flowers, it flowers; if it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. He does not run by thinking. Our situation is strange: we have made sex psychological; we even think sex. If we do it, we think it; if we don’t, we think it. Sex has become a decision. For Krishna, it is not a decision. If a moment of love comes so close that sex happens as a happening, Krishna is available. If it does not, he is not restless. In his mind there is neither opposition nor praise toward it. Whatever happens, there is only a simple assent to live it naturally—acceptance.

Let me repeat: not acceptance in our sense. For when we accept, it is against a lurking rejection. Krishna’s acceptance means simply that there is no rejection. That is why Krishna is the hardest to understand. Mahavira, easy; Buddha, easy; Jesus, easy; Mohammed, easy; of all on this earth, Krishna is the most difficult to understand. Hence the greatest injustice is easily done to him. All our notions have been fashioned by Mahavira, Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed, Confucius—our ideas, our theories, our interpretations of good and evil. So they are easy to understand, because we have been made by them. Krishna did not “make” us. In fact Krishna makes no one; he says: what is, is right—what is the need to make? Since we are made by the makers, and Krishna is not a maker, he is very difficult to understand.

Whenever we look at Krishna, we keep on our eyes the spectacles of Mahavira, or Buddha, or Christ, or Confucius—always someone who accepts boundaries. Through such glasses we look at Krishna. And Krishna says: if you want to see me, remove your glasses. Hard, indeed! If you won’t remove them, you will see something awry in Krishna. But it will be because of your glasses. Remove them, and you will find Krishna utterly natural—utterly natural.

One can ask: why has there not been an equally natural woman on earth? There should have been at least one, to answer Krishna. Why not a woman so natural that millions of men would be drawn to her? What is the reason?

There are some reasons. It is not only that woman was suppressed; not only that man did not give her freedom. That argument is empty. Whoever needs as much freedom as she needs, finds it; or else she refuses to live. No—the feminine has not yet been able to give Krishna an answer. Perhaps a thousand or two thousand years will be needed; then perhaps she will. Not yet. There are reasons for not. Woman’s entire personality, her entire way, her natural arrangement is monogamous—she wants to rely on one.

Like Cleopatra?

Yes—I’ll come to that… She wants to rely on one. Her mind, so far, is monogamous. Tomorrow it may not be. Man is polygamous; one never satisfies him; he becomes bored. Woman does not tire of one; she longs to live with one through many lives. If she is reborn, may it be with the same one—such is her desire.

This arrangement between woman and man has been determined less by man than by woman. Monogamy—for husband or for wife—exists because of woman. There have been biological reasons for it so far. She must depend—one cannot depend on many. Keep this in mind. She needs to place her hand on a shoulder; one cannot place it on many shoulders. She who finds joy in dependence—if she depends on many, she will become uncertain, indecisive. A climber vine must cling to one tree; it cannot climb many at once. But one tree can invite many vines. And the more vines climb a tree, the more fulfilled it feels—more tree-like. A man can invite many women—many hands—to rest upon his shoulders; then his manhood attains a deep savor.

But a woman will want to depend on one. This has not only a psychic cause; very much a biological one. She will bear children. For those children there must be some determiner, some caretaker. For nine months she will be unable; after that her time will be consumed by raising the child. If she depends on many, uncertainty will arise and difficulties. That is why I said: it will take a thousand or two thousand years—because soon women will refuse, with scientific advance, to carry children in the womb. They will be cared for in laboratories. The day woman is freed from carrying the child in her belly, that day woman too can give birth to a person like Krishna; before that, she cannot. There are reasons.

This point I made about Krishna’s naturalness—humanity’s emancipation from anxieties and tensions can grow in proportion to how deeply we understand it. Most of our tensions are the result of fighting our own nature. Our worries are anxieties about battling ourselves. The irony is: we can fight ourselves, but we cannot win—only lose. Sometimes, rarely, someone does win. A unique event. Inspired by that one, millions keep fighting themselves. And these millions only worry, fail, lose, and suffer.

My view: by Mahavira’s path, perhaps once in a while someone attains. But on Mahavira’s path, out of a hundred, ninety-nine will keep walking. By Krishna’s path, ninety-nine could attain; but scarcely one walks it. Mahavira’s path is a foot-trail; so is Buddha’s, so is Jesus’. Their ways are very narrow and arduous, for one must pass by fighting oneself. Rarely comes success. Krishna’s path is like a royal highway; multitudes could go—but very few do. Because the capacity to be natural has been lost; the unnatural has become natural. Sickness has become our health; the very notion of health is forgotten. We need to reconsider man.

I believe that reconsideration has begun. After Freud, Krishna will become more meaningful day by day. For after Freud, for the first time, a groundwork has been laid to accept the naturalness of the human mind. As man is, that man is to be unfolded. Till now, we tried to create the man who “ought to be.” Till now, the ideal was precious, and man had to reach it. After Freud, a transformation has begun in the intellectual world: having tried to make man reach and having failed, we see that occasionally someone reaches—but that does not solve anything; it is not the rule, only the exception. And exceptions only prove the rule: that not all can reach. After Freud, honest thinking began, saying: let us understand what man is.

A wife desires that her husband never feel delighted upon seeing another woman. This desire is absolutely contrary to the nature of man. Its only result can be suffering. It is, however, fully in tune with the nature of woman. If we set policy by the man’s nature, woman will suffer; if by the woman’s, man will suffer. And the irony is: if one of the two suffers, the other cannot really be happy. But this is what has been happening.

Can we not do this instead: understand both the natures of man and woman? When a man is pleased seeing a woman, the wife should not be hurt—she should know this is his nature. And when his woman appears sad or troubled, the husband should not pounce—he should know this is her nature. If we want a world free of anguish and tension, we should try to understand people’s natures—and if we must change nature, change its roots; do not attempt a moral repaint from the outside. Woman will remain jealous so long as she is not economically independent; so long as the burden of childbearing falls on her alone; so long as her status remains secondary. If we want to dissolve her jealousy, then give her first-rank status equal to man, economic independence equal to man, and freedom from biological compulsion equal to man—then we can free her from jealousy at once. And then she too will begin to take delight in other men just as men have always done. But this has not been possible so far. Now it can be. Our understanding of man has deepened.

Our old systems were based not on understanding man, but on society’s needs. We made rules for what society needed; not for what man’s nature needed. After Freud, a revolution occurred. And I hold that Freud will become the doorway for Krishna’s return. Krishna will return—through Freud’s door. Freud has done the primary work—just the alphabet. Much remains. But the blow has begun. And in the coming future, ever more people will find light in Krishna’s life. His naturalness will slowly become congenial and endearing.

And the day this becomes possible—my own understanding is: bowing to Mahavira, Buddha, Jesus, Confucius, we have not been able to create a healthy world. One experiment remains to be tried: whether we can give the world an order by looking toward Krishna. And my sense is: the world thus born will be better than the one we have made so far. For the world we created so far took the exception as the rule; now we will take the rule as the rule.