Krishna Smriti #5

For the birth of a consciousness like Krishna, any time, any age, any set of circumstances can do. No particular age, no particular situation is the cause of a Krishna-like consciousness coming into being. It is another matter that in certain conditions such a consciousness may have to behave in certain ways. But such consciousnesses are not time-dependent. Except for those who are asleep, no one depends on time. No awakened person is born of his time; in fact, the truth is exactly the opposite—an awakened person molds time to himself. The sleeping are born according to the time.

Yet we go on thinking that Krishna is born because the age is bad, because times are dire. There is a basic mistake in this understanding. It implies that a person like Krishna appears as a link in a causal chain, in a sequence of cause and effect. It makes Krishna’s birth utilitarian; we reduce it to utility. It also means we can see a person like Krishna only in terms of our use, not in any other sense.

If flowers blossom along a road, a passerby may think they bloom for him, they give fragrance for him. He may even write in his diary that the flowers bloom on the path he takes because of him and for him. But flowers bloom on deserted paths too. Flowers do not bloom for anyone; they bloom for themselves. That someone else receives their fragrance is another matter.

People like Krishna are not born for anyone. They are born out of their own bliss. That others receive fragrance from them is a different matter. And what age is there in which, if a person like Krishna were born, we would not find some use for him? In every age we would. In every age there is need; every age is afflicted, every age suffers. So a person like Krishna will become “useful” at any moment. Who does not long for fragrance? Whose nostrils are not eager for it? Let a flower bloom on any path, and whoever passes will take its scent. I want to tell you that to think of people like Krishna in the utilitarian language of usefulness is itself wrong.

But we are conditioned. We think of everything in terms of use: What use will it be? The useless has no value for us; the purposeless has no meaning for us. Clouds drift across the sky and we think they must be moving to bring rain to our fields. If the watches tied to your wrists could think, they would likely imagine that man was born so they could be worn. Surely, if eyeglasses could think, they would conclude that eyes were created so they might be fitted upon them. They cannot think, so we are spared. But man can think, and he egocentrizes everything. He centers all around his ego. He says, “Everything is for me.” Krishna is born for me; Buddha is born for me; flowers bloom for me; the moon and stars move for me. Everything is running for man. The moon and stars move in the sky—also for us. The sun rises—also for us.

It is another matter that when the sun rises we take light from it, but the sun does not rise in order to give us light. The stream of life is not a stream of utility. To think only in the language of utility is mistaken. In life everything is happening, not for someone, but for the sheer joy of happening. Flowers bloom in their own delight; rivers flow in their own delight; clouds move in their own delight; the moon and stars move in their own delight. For whom were you born? For what cause were you born? You live in your own joy. And a person like Krishna lives wholly in his own joy. Whenever such a person appears, we certainly will make some use of him. Whenever the sun rises, we will bring his light into our homes. Whenever clouds rain, we will grow crops. Whenever flowers bloom, we will make garlands. But none of this is the reason it happens.

Yet we constantly think in this language: Why was Mahavira born? What political situation produced Mahavira? Why was Buddha born? What social situation produced Buddha? Beware: there is another danger hidden here—the notion that a person’s consciousness is produced by social conditions. This was Marx’s view: consciousness does not create circumstances; circumstances produce consciousness. But even those who are not communists think this way without knowing it. Whenever someone says Mahavira was born because of this, or Krishna because of that, he is saying that social conditions were the cause of their birth. No—social conditions are not the cause of their birth. There is no social condition capable of producing a Krishna-like consciousness. Society lags far behind when a Krishna is born; it does not have the capacity to give birth to such a consciousness. Rather, Krishna, by appearing, unknowingly gives that society new directions—new paths, new shapes, new outlines.

I do not give much value to circumstances. I give more value to consciousness. And I want to tell you: life is not utilitarian; life is like play—like leela. One man is walking on a road; he has to reach somewhere—there is a destination, a purpose, a task. He walks the same road. Another man goes out for a morning walk: he has nowhere to reach, nowhere to go, no goal—he has gone just to walk. Have you noticed? That very same road, when you go for work, becomes heavy; but the same road, when you go just to stroll, becomes full of joy. The same feet, when going to work, grow heavy; the same feet, when just strolling, grow wings and feel light. The same person, going to work, feels tons of burden on his head; and along the same path, with the same steps, covering the same distance—just for a walk—there is no measure to his joy, no burden at all.

A person like Krishna does not live for a task. His life is like a stroll, not a journey to somewhere. His life is a play. Certainly, if along the way he finds thorns on the path, he will remove them—that too is part of his joy. But Krishna did not set out to clear thorns. He set out, and if there were thorns, he removed them. If on that path someone had lost his way and asked for directions, he told him. But that man should not think Krishna was a traffic policeman standing there for him, to show the way. Krishna happened to pass; you asked; he told you. All this is non-causal. It has no chain of cause and effect. Therefore I am not ready to think of Krishna, or Buddha, or Christ, or Mahavira within our causal sequence. They happen without cause—or say that their causes are inner, not our social and outer causes.

This is precisely what we mean by a person’s soul, a person’s consciousness: that inwardly he is utterly free. Nothing binds him. Nothing can bind him.

I have heard about a great astrologer whose townspeople were very troubled by him—whatever he said always came true. Two young men decided that at least once this astrologer must be proved wrong. In winter they hid a pigeon inside a large overcoat and went to him. “In this coat,” they said, “we have hidden a pigeon. Tell us: is it alive or dead?” They had planned that if he said “alive,” they would wring its neck inside; if he said “dead,” they would take it out alive. Once—just once—this astrologer had to be wrong. The old astrologer looked them up and down and gave a marvelous reply: “It is in your hands.” He said, “The pigeon is neither alive nor dead—it is in your hands; as you wish.” The youths said, “You tricked us well!”

Life is in our hands. And for people like Krishna, it is entirely in their hands. They live exactly as they wish to live. No society, no circumstance, no external pressure can alter that. Their being is their own. Certainly, we may notice differences—of course. Because they live among us, many events occur among us that would not have occurred had they lived in another time. But those are secondary, irrelevant, inessential; they have nothing to do with Krishna’s inner life.

So please understand: Krishna is not born for any society, nor for any political situation, nor to save anyone. Yes, many are saved—that is entirely another matter. Many find a path—that too is another matter. Krishna blooms in his own bliss; and that blooming is as uncaused as clouds moving in the sky, flowers opening on the earth, winds blowing. It is that uncaused.

But we are not so uncaused—there lies the difficulty in understanding. We live by causes. Even when we love, we love for a reason. Even the flower of love does not bloom without cause for us. We cannot do anything without a reason. And remember: until, in your life, the capacity for doing without cause is born, religion will not be born in your life. The day something begins to happen in you without cause—when you do without conditions, when there is no reason to do it, when the joy of doing is the only reason—that is the day it begins.

Yes, Krishna says that whenever there is a decline of dharma, I come.
What, then, does this mean?
Only one who is utterly free can say such a thing. You cannot say that whenever something happens, you will come. You also cannot say that if it doesn’t happen, you will not come. Our coming is a coming under bondage. It is the bondage of long karmas, a causal chain. We cannot make such a vow; we cannot give such a promise. We do not even have the courage to make such a vow. Krishna even dares this. The very reason for this courage is that he does not live bound by causes; it is his joyous spontaneity—out of this, anything can arise. Such a promise is possible only from a free consciousness. If Krishna says, I will come if such a situation arises, then he will not come because of the situation; he will come out of his freedom. Not because of the situation. Krishna is not saying that if such a situation arises, he is compelled. It is not so. It is a promise, a vow: I will come, if such a situation arises. But who can give such a vow?

There is a very wondrous incident in the Mahabharata. One morning Yudhishthira is sitting outside his house, and a beggar comes to ask for alms. Yudhishthira says to him, Come tomorrow. I am a little busy now; it would be good if you come tomorrow. The beggar leaves.
Bhima is sitting there and hears this. He picks up a drum lying nearby, starts beating it, and runs toward the village. Yudhishthira says: What are you doing? He replies: Lest time slip by, let me go and announce in the village that my brother has given a promise for tomorrow. My brother has become the master of time. I did not know you had become the master of time. Is it certain you will be alive tomorrow—certain? Is it certain this beggar will be alive tomorrow—certain? Is it certain that tomorrow there will remain in you a mind fit to give—certain? Is it certain that tomorrow this beggar will still have the mind to ask—certain? Is it certain you two will meet—certain? You have conquered time—shall I go announce it in the village? Because I have no assurance that if even a couple of moments slip by, I will still be alive. So I run beating the drum. Yudhishthira said: Wait, I have made a mistake. Only those who are utterly free can give such a vow. Call the beggar back. Whatever I have to give, I will give today; there is no certainty about tomorrow.

But Krishna is not promising tomorrow; it is a far greater promise. The promise is: whenever, then I will come. A prisoner cannot make such a promise. If we lock someone in a prison, he cannot promise, If there is need tomorrow, I will come. One whose hands are in chains cannot promise. Only utter freedom can make such a promise: I will come. There are no chains. But remember, this coming is not because of circumstances; this promise is because of free consciousness.

It is necessary to understand this distinction rightly.

Even in this promise Krishna is conveying only this much: that I have no bondage to time or circumstances. I am free. It is a declaration of freedom. But many times declarations are very paradoxical; then we get into great difficulty. We think Krishna too will have to come—as if, when you heat water, it has to become steam at one hundred degrees. If someday water were to say to me, Don’t worry—if the heat is less, I will become steam even at ninety degrees, then know that water has become free; now the bondage to one hundred degrees is gone. Such assurances arise from the awareness of perfect freedom. Where dependence has utterly fallen, such flowers of freedom—of assurance—bloom; otherwise they do not.

No, a person like Krishna does not come because of you; he comes because of himself. We all move bound.

“To protect the righteous and to end the evildoers, I will come.” All right. Both clauses mean the same. “To end the evildoers” means the same thing too. When does the end of the wicked really happen? By killing them? Killing does not end wickedness, because Krishna knows perfectly well that nothing truly dies by being killed. The end of the wicked happens only when the wicked can be turned into a saint; there is no other way. Killing does not end the wicked; it only changes his body. Nothing essential changes. The end of the wicked comes only when he becomes a sadhu.

And the amusing part is the second clause: “to protect the sadhus.” Protection is needed only when they have become showpiece sadhus, otherwise not. Why would a sadhu need protection? If even a sadhu needs protection, things have gone very wrong. “I will come to protect the sadhus” means: the day so-called sadhus are false, the day the non-saint appears as a saint, that day I will come. Only the non-saint who looks like a saint might need protection; why would a true sadhu need it? And if Krishna does come, the sadhu would say, “Don’t trouble yourself; even in our insecurity we are secure.” A sadhu means secure in his insecurity. The one who is at ease even in danger—that is a sadhu. A sadhu is one for whom no insecurity remains. Why would Krishna need to protect such a one?

This saying is very delightful. In it Krishna is saying he will have to come to protect sadhus. The day a sadhu is no longer a sadhu—when the non-saint appears as a saint—on that day he will have to come; and on that day the wicked will also need to be transformed. Otherwise, true sadhus can do this work themselves; why would Krishna be needed? Anyone can kill a wicked person—we all do it, courts do it, punishments and laws do it. All that is killing the wicked; it is not transformation. The wicked must be turned into sadhus. But in a world where even the “sadhus” are not sadhus, what hope is there for the wicked?

Yet this sentence has been strangely understood. Sadhus think, “He will come to protect us.” The one who needs protection right now is not a sadhu. And the wicked think, “He will come to kill us.” The wicked’s understanding is predictable, because the wicked are eager to kill others; they can only imagine he will come to kill them. But no one can really be killed; he will return as the same. Krishna cannot be so foolish.

“Destruction of the wicked!” The destruction of wickedness happens through saintliness. “Protection of the sadhus!” Protection is needed when “sadhu” has become mere appearance, a show, and inside there is no soul of saintliness left. This saying is very astonishing.

But the “sadhus” sit in their monasteries and keep pondering, “Great grace is upon us! When trouble comes, he will surely come.” And this also gratifies the sadhu’s mind: whoever harasses us is a wicked person. This is the sadhu’s definition of a wicked person—that whoever torments the sadhu is wicked. Whereas the inner disposition of a true sadhu is such that even the one who torments him should feel like a friend, not a wicked man. If the tormentor starts appearing as an enemy, as wicked, then the one being tormented is not a sadhu. A sadhu means one who no longer sees any enemy. Torment him, and still he sees no enemy.

So the “sadhus” sit and think—meaning the non-sadhus sit and think—“He will come to protect us, and he will destroy these wicked ones who are troubling us.” That is why this verse of the Gita is recited so loudly; people cling to it with great feeling. They do not see that this saying is a great joke at the expense of the so-called sadhus. There is deep satire in it, not visible on the surface. When people like Krishna crack a joke, they do it deeply. They will not make ordinary jokes; centuries pass before the joke is understood.

There is a saying that when a joke is told, people laugh in three installments. First, those who understand it at once. Second, those who, seeing the first group laugh, also laugh, sensing that something happened. Third, those who understand nothing, but thinking they should not be taken for fools, laugh because everyone else is laughing.

It takes time to understand a joke. And when people like Krishna joke, it takes a very long time. In this saying there is deep satire, a great joke at the expense of the “sadhu.” And the joke is this: a time will come when even a sadhu will need protection.

This relationship can be understood by grasping two or three points.

Those who have inquired into the process of creation have always found that it depends on three things—it is threefold. Even when science probed the atom, it discovered that, when broken down to its depth, it splits into three. Our latest scientific achievement also says the atom breaks into electron, proton, and neutron. Those who gained deep religious insight also viewed existence by dividing it into three parts. Vishnu is one of those three.

Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—these three words are names, given by religion, to the three aspects of the creative process. And they have clear meanings. Brahma is the birth-giver, the creator, the creative force. Shankar, Shiva—Mahesh—is the force of dissolution, destruction, the end. Vishnu stands between the two—the sustainer, the one who maintains. There is death, there is birth, and in between stretches life. Whatever has a beginning will have an end; between beginning and end there is a journey. Vishnu is the journey between Brahma and Shiva. Brahma is needed once, at the moment of creation; Shiva is needed once, at the moment of dissolution; Vishnu is needed between those two points—between creation and destruction; between birth and death, life.

These three names—Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—are not the names of persons. They are not persons; they are names of energies. And as I said, creation is needed one day, destruction is needed one day, but in between there is the need of life—the life-energy, what Bergson called élan vital—that is Vishnu. Therefore all avatars in this land are avatars of Vishnu. In fact, all avatars can only be of Vishnu. You too are an avatar of Vishnu. Descent—avatarana—belongs to Vishnu. The name of life is Vishnu. Do not think the very person who was Rama is the same person as Krishna. No—the energy, the élan vital that manifested in Rama manifested in Krishna, and the same is manifesting in you. Nor is it that what manifested in Rama did not manifest in Ravana. It is the same manifesting there too—just a somewhat wayward Vishnu, nothing more; life-energy a little off the path, nothing more.

The name of all life is Vishnu. All incarnations are of Vishnu. But we have kept making a mistake, because we turned Vishnu into a person. Rama is a person; Vishnu is not. Krishna is a person; Vishnu is not. Vishnu is only the name of a force. But all the ancient insights were expressed in poetry, and poetry by its nature personifies every force. It will do so—otherwise it cannot speak. And that gives rise to bigger riddles.

I have heard: a man was dying, lying on his deathbed. He was a Christian, and the church priest came to administer the last repentance. According to ritual, the priest asked the dying man, “Do you believe in God the Father?” The man was silent. Again he asked, “Do you believe in God the Son?” Still the man remained silent. Then the priest asked, “And do you believe in God the Holy Ghost?” These are the Christians’ three names: God, Son, Holy Ghost—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. He asked, “Do you believe in the Father-form of God? Do you believe in the Son-form of God? Do you believe in the Holy-Spirit-form of God?” The dying man said to those standing around him, “Look, here I am dying and this fellow is asking me puzzles!”

Naturally, for that dying man they were puzzles. Not only for the dying—the greatest riddle even for the living is the riddle of life.

What is this life? How is it born, how does it move, how does it end? What is the energy that expands it, runs it, contracts it, bids it farewell?

Science gives scientific names. It says: electron, proton, neutron. These three are delightful words. One names the affirmative force: proton—positive electricity; one could call it Brahma. The second is electron—negative electricity; one could call it Shiva, Shankar. And the third is neutron—oscillating between and bridging the two; one could call it Vishnu. It is merely a difference of language—one of science, one of religion—nothing much beyond that. All of life is the descent of Vishnu. When flowers bloom, Vishnu blooms. When winds blow, Vishnu blows. Rivers run, Vishnu runs. Trees grow, Vishnu grows. A human is born, grows, lives—Vishnu. All the moments of death belong to Shiva. When a person dies, Vishnu hands over the charge immediately; the matter passes into Shiva’s hands. That is why no one was willing to give their daughter to Shiva—who would give a girl into the hands of Death! Who would give a woman—who is fundamentally the stream of creation—into the hands of destruction!

The meaning of Vishnu’s avatar is not that a person named Vishnu became Rama, then became Krishna, then became someone else. No—the energy called Vishnu descended into Rama, descended into Krishna, descends into all, and will go on descending. The energy called Shankar bids farewell. Understood in this way, the matter becomes plain and clear; it is no longer a riddle.

In life, if you want to construct anything, the minimum number required is three. Less than this will not do. Two will not do. With one, it cannot happen at all; with one everything becomes uniform—one color, monotony; all diversity is lost. Two are also not enough, because to connect two, a third is always needed; otherwise they remain unjoined, separate. The minimum possibility for the world, for evolution, begins with three. It can be more than three; less than three is difficult. But those three are also faces of the One. Therefore we created the Trimurti. Therefore we did not keep these three deities separate—because if they are separate, another mistake arises: if there are three separate gods, then you will need someone to connect them, and that becomes an infinite regress—with no way to decide where to stop. So these three faces are of one energy, one élan vital, one life-force. The same one is born, the same one sustains, the same one bids farewell. Officially, we divide it into three parts. Those three parts are an official division—a division of labor. Life-energy, divided into three, unfolds into the entire cosmos.

Ask this tomorrow—it’s a big one; otherwise we won’t be able to do it now. If you have one or two smaller questions, ask those. This is very big; we can take it up tomorrow.

Frightened people should keep a little distance from Krishna!... (laughter all around... you ask just the right questions.)

Not only Krishna—no one is to be imitated. And it’s not that if you go to imitate Krishna you will fall; if you go to imitate anyone, you will fall. Imitation itself is downfall.

But we ask this particularly about Krishna. We don’t ask it about Mahavira, about Buddha, about Rama. No one says that if you imitate Rama you will fall. Why does the question arise only about Krishna? With Rama we tell our children: emulate him. With Krishna we say: be careful. That is our frightened mind!

I tell you, imitation is the fall. Anyone’s imitation is a fall. The moment you imitate, you are gone, you are lost. Neither Krishna is to be imitated, nor anyone else. All are to be contemplated, all are worthy of reflection—Buddha, Mahavira, Christ, Krishna.

And the amusing thing is: thinking about Buddha won’t be so difficult, nor about Christ. The real difficulty arises in thinking about Krishna. The lives of Mahavira, Buddha, or Christ can be contained within the methods of thought. Their way of life is circumscribed, bounded. Krishna’s life cannot be fully contained by thought. His way is unbounded, limitless, without edges. Our limits will be reached—and he will say, “Further.” We will come to the place where going beyond feels dangerous—and he will say, “Further.”

This is precisely why Krishna becomes even more worthy of contemplation. In my view, only that is truly worth contemplating which ultimately takes you beyond thought. Thought is not the final thing; it is the preliminary stage. A moment should come when one can rise above thinking. And only that will raise you above thinking which makes thought stagger, which frightens thought, which does not fit within thought and moves outside it.

All are to be contemplated, all are worthy of thought. The only one to be imitated, for you, is yourself—no one else. Imitate yourself. Understand everyone; follow yourself. Understand all, but go after your own being.

But what is the fear? Why does the question arise with Krishna?
There is fear. And the fear is this: we have made our lives into lives of repression, of suppression. Our life is less life and more pressure. Our life is not a blossoming, a flowering; it is frustration.

Hence we fear that even to think of Krishna might cause what we have suppressed to burst forth and flow. That the arguments we have built to hold it back will collapse. That the many tendencies we have imprisoned within will come out and demand, “Let us out.” The fear is inside; the panic is inside.

But Krishna is not responsible for this. We are responsible. We have mistreated ourselves; we have committed this violence upon ourselves. We have never known, accepted, or lived our whole being. We have repressed much and tried to live only a little.

We are like most people. If you go to someone’s house, he keeps his drawing room polished and perfect. The drawing-room world is another world. But don’t think, seeing someone’s drawing room, that this is his house. It isn’t. He neither eats nor sleeps there; he only receives guests there. It is merely the face he shows to others. The drawing room is not the home; it is something separate. So don’t imagine his house from the drawing room. His house is where he lives—where he sleeps, fights, quarrels, eats, drinks. The drawing room is nobody’s home. The drawing room is a face, a mask, made to show others. The drawing room is not life.

We have done the same with life. We have built drawing rooms in life—faces for others to see. They are not our realities; our real home is within—submerged in darkness, pressed into the unconscious. We have no trace of it; we have stopped even inquiring. We are afraid of our own house and have taken up residence in the drawing room. We hesitate to go inside. Then life becomes shallow.

From this comes the fear of Krishna, because Krishna lives in the whole house—and he has turned the whole house into a sitting room. He welcomes the guest from every corner: wherever you come from, he says, “Come, sit here.” He has no separate drawing room. His whole life is open. Whatever is there, is there—no denial, no opposition. He has accepted it. We will be afraid, for we are suppressive, repressive. We have pushed ninety-nine percent of our life into the dark and live only one percent. That ninety-nine percent keeps pounding: give me a chance to live. It fights, it struggles, it breaks out in dreams. It breaks out even in waking; every day it breaks out, and we shove it back again. A whole life goes by in this struggle, pushing it down, holding it back. In fighting oneself, a man is defeated and finished. Hence the fear that if we understand Krishna—this man without a drawing room, without a mask, whose entire life is of one piece, who has opened doors on all sides, who welcomes from anywhere, who has suppressed nothing, who accepts the dark and the light—seeing him, our soul might rebel against our repression. We ourselves might rebel against ourselves. The arrangement we have made might collapse. Therefore the fear.

But reflect on this fear too. It is not because of Krishna; it is because of the way we live. If a person is straightforward and has lived simply, he will not fear Krishna—there is no reason. If he has suppressed nothing, he will not fear Krishna—no reason at all. We should understand our fear: why are we afraid? And if we are afraid, it is a pathological state—we are ill, neurotic—and we should try to change it. Therefore Krishna is indeed very worthy of reflection.

But we say, “We reflect on good, noble things,” because noble sayings help us suppress ourselves. We read Buddha’s words: “Do not be angry.” We read Jesus’ words: “Love your enemies.” We are afraid of Krishna. This fear—where is its arrow pointing? Toward Krishna, or toward ourselves?

And if you do feel afraid of Krishna, that is very good. Krishna can be of use to you. He can help open you up, strip you, make you naked, make you clear and straight. Make use of him—let him in, contemplate him; don’t evade, don’t run. Stand face to face with him. Let the encounter happen. This confrontation will be good. There is nothing to imitate here; there is only understanding. In understanding him, you will become very successful in understanding yourself. As you understand him, you will also understand yourself. It may be that, in understanding him, you come to an extraordinary realization of yourself—and you recognize: this too is me; this is what I am.

A friend came to me and said, “Krishna had sixteen thousand women—do you believe that?” I said, “Leave that. Let me ask you: in your mind, would fewer than sixteen thousand women bring satisfaction?” He said, “What are you saying?” I said, “Whether Krishna had sixteen thousand women or not is not the big question. No man, in his mind, settles for less than sixteen thousand. And if it were established that Krishna had sixteen thousand, the man within us would proclaim, ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ We are afraid of that. The male sitting within frightens us. But fearing it, running from it, avoiding it—nothing will happen. One has to face it, one has to understand it.”

We can speak more on this tomorrow.
When the rains come, joy will come to meditation.