Krishna Smriti #7

I called marriage immoral—the institution of marriage—not the act of marrying. Those who love will also want to live together. So a marriage that grows out of love is not immoral. But we are doing the reverse: we are trying to extract love out of marriage, which cannot happen. Marriage is a bondage; love is a liberation. Those in whose lives love has arrived will naturally want to live together—but let their living together be only the shadow of their love.

I am not saying that the day the institution of marriage disappears, men and women will stop living together. The truth is: only then will they be able to live together rightly. Right now they appear to be together, but they do not truly live together. Being together is not the same as being in communion. Being close is not necessarily being intimate. Being joined is not being one.

I am calling the institution of marriage immoral. And the institution of marriage would prefer that love not remain in the world. Any institution is opposed to the spontaneous stirrings of life—otherwise institutions cannot endure. When two people love, that love is unique; no two people have ever loved in exactly the same way. But when two people marry, it is not unique; millions have married in the same way. Marriage is a repetition; love is an original event. The more dominant marriage becomes, the more love is strangled.

But the day we give primacy to love in life, and two people’s living together is not a compromise but the natural flowering of their love, then marriage will not exist in the sense it does today—nor will divorce exist as it does today. If two people wish to live together, it is their joy; if they do not wish to, that too is their joy. Society has no business to interfere.

So I have said the institution of marriage is immoral. Marriage as the shadow of love is perfectly natural; there is nothing immoral in that.

Many difficulties will appear. But they appear because we keep thinking on the basis of old assumptions. In truth, the day we can give love the supreme value, the very idea that children belong to individuals becomes meaningless. Children are not anybody’s personal property; they never were. There was a time when the father was not known, only the mother was known—a matriarchal age. You may be surprised to know that the word “father” is not very old. “Uncle” is older. “Mother” is very ancient; “father” is quite new. The father appears only after we fixed the private arrangement of marriage; otherwise there was no trace of the father. All members of the tribe were father-like. The mother was known. The whole tribe held a loving attitude toward the children. And because the children did not belong to anyone, they belonged to all. It is not that having children belong to individuals has benefited us; if children belong to all, the benefit can be much greater.

You ask, the day we make love the basis, what will happen to the children? Will they become a social problem?
No. Right now children are a social problem, because we have left them to individuals. And seeing what is becoming possible day by day in the future, we should understand that the foundations we laid in the past are not going to last.

For example, in the old world, for a child to be born at least the father had to be alive. In the future, not so. Even today it is not necessary: if I die, my sperm can be preserved for a thousand years, ten thousand years. I will be gone, yet my child could be born ten thousand years later. The mother has so far been indispensable, but in the future she will not remain so. We have nearly found the means; the day we do, we will not burden the mother with carrying a child in her womb for nine months. The facilities the womb provides can be provided by a device—and more systematically. On that day, who is the mother and who is the father will become difficult to say. We will have to change the whole structure. The women of the whole society will be mothers, the men of the whole society fathers. And those children will have to grow up belonging to everyone. Certainly, everything will change.

What I am saying will also become necessary because of the scientific work going on in the world. It doesn’t occur to us yet because we keep thinking in old ways. When a child is born at your home, you bring the best doctor’s medicine; you don’t think, “I am the father, so I will prepare the medicine myself.” You have clothes made by the best tailor; you don’t think, “I am the father, so I will cut and sew them myself.” If understanding deepens a little, you will not even insist that your child must be born of your sperm—if better sperm is available in society. It is better your child not be born crippled, better not be born dull; better that the best seed be available. The mother too will not want to drag a child in her belly for nine months just to be a mother, when better facilities are available by which the child can be born healthier, more intelligent. So the function the mother and father have had up to now will not remain in the future. And the day the functions of mother and father bid farewell, what remains of your institution of marriage? What basis remains? It loses meaning. That day only love remains as the basis. Technology is bringing humanity to that point, and our understanding of the human mind is bringing us there too, where personal proprietorship ends.

This does not mean that all problems will end. Every new experiment brings new problems. The big question is not that problems should vanish—human problems never will. The question is that problems should become better day by day: today’s problems better than yesterday’s. It is not that by removing marriage all conflicts between people will disappear. No. But the conflicts that arise because of marriage will disappear, and they are considerable, not small. Some new things will arise, some new problems will arise. To live on earth, problems are necessary. We will solve them; in them lies our growth. We will wrestle with them and move ahead.

One thing must be kept in mind, and the difficulty comes from this very point: we have become accustomed to the framework in which we live, and we have grown used even to its problems. If a better arrangement becomes available, it will come with new problems to which we are not accustomed, and that feels difficult. But the work of intelligence is to understand those problems, resolve them, and to think: if we can have better problems than the old ones, we should change. Likewise, I hold that until the flower of love blossoms fully in a person’s life, the luster—what we might call the salt—of personality does not arise; life becomes insipid. And I value, over a bland personality, a bright and sparkling personality full of problems.

A small story, and then we will take the next question.
I have heard that in a garden a tiny flower—a grass flower—lived pressed between bricks in the shelter of a wall. Storms would come but could not strike it; there was the cover of the bricks. The sun would rise but could not torment it; there was the cover of the bricks. It would rain, but the rain could not topple it, for it already lay close to the ground. Nearby were rose flowers.

One night that grass flower prayed to God, “How long will I remain a grass flower? If you have even a little grace for me, make me a rose.” God counseled it a lot: “Don’t get into this mess. A rose has great troubles. When storms come, even its roots get loosened. And when a rose blooms, it cannot even fully blossom before someone plucks it. And when the rains come, the petals scatter and fall to the ground. Don’t get into this mess; you are very safe.” The grass flower said, “I have lived in safety long enough; now I feel like taking on some trouble. Just make me a rose—if only for a day, for twenty-four hours.” The neighboring grass flowers advised, “Don’t fall into this madness. We have heard stories that some of our ancestors fell into it and then came great misfortune. Our collective experience says that where we are, we are quite fine.” But it said, “I can never talk to the sun, never fight the storms, never endure the rains.” The nearby flowers said, “Fool, what need is there? We live comfortably in the shelter of the bricks. Neither sunshine torments us, nor rain, nor can the winds touch us.”

But it would not listen, and God granted the boon; by morning it had become a rose. And the troubles began from morning itself. Fierce winds blew; every fiber of its life trembled, the roots began to loosen. The flowers of its species pressed below said, “See the fool—now he’s in trouble.” By noon the sun grew intense. The flowers had bloomed, but began to wither. The rains came; the petals began to fall. Then the rain grew so heavy that by evening the roots were uprooted and that rosebush fell to the ground. When it fell, it came close to its old flowers. They said to it, “Fool, we told you before. You wasted your life for nothing; you took new troubles upon yourself. We had our old comforts—granted, old troubles too—but we were used to them; they were familiar. We lived together; all was fine.”

The dying rose said, “Unwise ones, I tell you this: to be a rose for twenty-four hours is far more joyous than to be a grass flower hidden behind bricks for a lifetime. I have found my soul. I have fought the storms, I have met the sun, I have wrestled with the winds. I am not merely dying—I am dying having lived. You are living as dead.”

Certainly, if we want to make life alive, many living problems will arise—but they should. And if we want to make life dead, perhaps we can end all problems, but then man lives half-dead.

So I say: new problems will come—they should—and man should have enough trust and self-confidence to grapple with them. There is no reason he cannot. The arrangement we have built so far stands on fear—every kind of fear. Its very origin is fear-orientation. Out of that comes, “This will happen, that will happen; what will become of this, what of that?” Thinking all these fears, we stay shut in our houses. And we never ask what is happening to us. For fear of what might happen, we do not take a new step; and we do not look at what is happening, because if we look, we will have to take a new step—and then who knows what may happen. So we keep dragging what is, like a burden.

In recent times I have had the chance to meet hundreds of thousands of people, to look very closely into their eyes and hearts. I have hardly seen a man fulfilled by marriage, nor a woman blissful in it. Yet if you tell them this, they will say, “These problems will arise.” But the greater joke is this: in the place where you are living “without problems,” do you even know its problems? Are you aware? You pass through them twenty-four hours a day, so you don’t notice—you have become habituated. If we go to a caged bird and say, “Fly in the open sky!” it will say, “Many difficulties will come; here there is safety.” Difficulties will come—and more so to the caged bird, because it has no experience of the open sky. Granted that there is great safety in the cage—but what comparison between the joy of the open sky and the safety of a cage! There is great safety in the grave too.

First thing: is life work, or celebration? If life is work, it becomes a burden. If life is work, it becomes duty. If life is work, we drag it and somehow get it over with. Krishna does not take life as work, but as celebration, as festivity. Life is a great festival of joy, not a job. This doesn’t mean that when you take it as celebration you don’t work. You do work—but work gets dyed in the colors of celebration. Work becomes drenched in dance and music. Certainly, this way not a lot of work will be done—only a little. The quantity won’t be great, but the quality will be beyond measure. The amount will be less, but the depth of the quality will be immense.

Have you noticed how those who turn everything into “work” have filled life with tension? All our anxiety is the creation of the hyper-work-minded. They say: do—keep doing—do or die. Their slogan is just that. If you’re alive, do something; otherwise die. Do only that one thing. And they have no other vision. But for what? Why does a person do? We do in order to live a little while. And then what does “living” mean? Living means celebration. Even work is only so that in some moment we can dance. But work grips us so tightly that there remains no chance to dance, no chance to sing; where is the leisure to play the flute? From office to home and home to office; the office sits in the head at home, the home rides along to the office—everything tangled up. Then one runs all one’s life hoping someday the moment will come when one will rest and enjoy. That moment never comes. It cannot come to the work-obsessed.

Krishna sees life as celebration, as a play, a sport. As flowers see it, as birds see it, as the clouds see it—as the whole existence, except man, sees it. Ask the flowers, “Why do you bloom? What work is that? Blooming for nothing?” Ask the stars why they shine. Ask the winds why they blow. What “work” is that?

Except in man, there is no “work” in existence; there is festivity. A celebration is going on every moment. Krishna brings this cosmic celebration into human life. Not that in celebration there is no doing: the winds are indeed running, the moon and stars are moving, the flowers “do” a lot to bloom. But doing becomes secondary; being becomes primary. Doing recedes; being comes first. Celebration first, work behind. Work becomes merely the preparation for celebration. Go to primal tribes: they work all day so they can dance by night; the drum sounds and songs arise. But the civilized man works by day and by night. Ask him why and he says, “So that tomorrow I can rest.” He postpones rest and goes on working—and that “tomorrow” never comes.

So I am in full accord with Krishna’s celebrative stance.

And my observation is: even with all this doing, what has man really achieved? If doing itself is the goal, that’s another matter. But what have we actually done?

There’s the story of Sisyphus: the gods cursed him to push a boulder up the mountain; as he reached the peak it would roll down again. He must go down, haul it up—and down it rolls again. The work-minded man lives Sisyphus’ life: always pushing stones up, stones always falling. Sometimes hauling them up, sometimes racing down to catch them. That moment of rest, of celebration, never arrives.

These work-fanatics have turned the world into a mad-house. Everyone is crazed, rushing to reach somewhere—don’t ask where. I’ve heard of a man who jumped into a taxi and said, “Drive fast!” The driver sped off. A little later he asked, “But where to?” The man said, “That’s not the question—the question is speed!”

We are all in life like that. “Hurry up!” Where are you going? Everyone is shouting “Hurry!” But where? Do whatever you’re doing—harder. But why? What will be the fruit? What do you wish to gain? There’s not even time to think; “No—if I think I’ll be late; the neighbor will get ahead!” These work-obsessed have caused great harm. One harm is that they have stolen the moments of celebration from life. Festivals are becoming fewer and fewer. In place of celebration comes entertainment, which is something very different. In celebration you yourself must participate; entertainment you merely watch. Entertainment is passive; celebration is deeply active. Celebration means: we are dancing. Entertainment means: someone else dances, we paid a ticket and watch. But where is the joy of dancing, and where the joy of watching? We have worked so much that by evening we’re tired and want to watch someone else dance.

Camus wrote somewhere that soon the time will come when people will get even their loving done by their servants—because who has the leisure? No time from work. Hire someone at home: “You do the loving, I’m too busy!” Love is celebration; it yields no further “result.” It is its own end. So who will do it? Not the work-people. A secretary can be hired to get it “handled.” This manic race for work has squandered the moments of celebration; the thrill, the sway that celebration brought to life is lost. Hence no one is truly glad, radiant, blossoming.

We sought a substitute—entertainment. Because we need some moments of rest. But entertainment is borrowed celebration: the other celebrates, we watch. It is like someone else making love while we observe. In the cinema what are you doing? Someone loves, you watch. Please—love yourself! This substitute will not work; it’s sham, paper-thin. It will not resolve anything. You’ll imagine something happened, but your thirst for love will not be quenched—only grow hungrier.

Krishna is a celebrant; he takes life as a great lila, a great festival.

These doers haven’t benefited the world; they’ve snarled it into complexity—so much that to live sanely within it has itself become difficult.

It is also true that if we look at Rama’s devotees—Hanuman for instance—they appear industrious, steadfast, celibate, powerful. A Krishna devotee doesn’t look like that. Mira dances and sings; that vibe is different. Of course—because Rama sees life as work; Krishna sees life as celebration. Seeing life as celebration is a different matter altogether. But if you had to choose to live 24 hours with Hanuman or with Mira—you’d have to think. With Hanuman it’s good to have a little distance; what will you do with him in a small room for 24 hours? With Mira you could live 24 lifetimes.

It’s true that the Krishna-lover moves away from outward activity, from extroversion, and sinks into an inner rasa. He will, because he sees that for a whole lot of nothing you are losing something wondrous within.

And the day Miras increase in the world, there will be great peace. If Hanumans increase, there will be great commotion. Wrestling pits will open in every village and disturbances will erupt. One or two Hanumans per village may be all right, not more. Mira’s attunement is with very deep layers of life. Poor Hanuman is a doer, a servant, a volunteer—perfectly as a volunteer should be: living for someone else’s work, resolute. But Mira’s melody of bliss is the melody of being, not doing. The joy is not in doing something, it is in the moment of pure being. Being itself is blissful. And if she sings, the singing is not work; it is an overflow of her being’s joy. She is so blissful that only song can flow out of her.

I would like the world to be filled—slowly—with music, song, dance, celebration. And this so-called outer world of work—its right use is only so far as it serves the inward journey. No more than that. We must earn bread, yes—but earning bread is not life. Bread is earned so that, having earned it, we may live. Some people keep piling up loaves upon loaves and forget to eat. By the time the stock is amassed, the hunger has died—because it wasn’t fed. Then they stand bewildered: now what?

When Alexander came to India he met Diogenes. Diogenes asked him, “Where are you going? What is all this?” Alexander said, “First I must conquer Asia Minor.” “Understood,” said Diogenes. “Then?” “Then conquer India.” “Then?” “Then the whole world.” “Then?” Diogenes was lying naked on the sand in the morning sun. Alexander said, “Then I intend to rest.” Diogenes burst into laughter and called to his dog in its den, “Come, see this madman Alexander! We are resting already; he will rest after all this commotion.” And to Alexander he said, “If in the end you want to rest, come lie down by the riverbank—plenty of room. I’m resting now. If rest is the goal, you can do it now.” Alexander said, “Your point appeals to me—but I can’t do it now; first I must conquer.” Diogenes said, “What has conquest to do with rest? We are resting without conquering.” Alexander replied, “It appeals to me, but I’ve already set out. I can’t turn back halfway.” Diogenes said, “You will turn back halfway—who ever completes such a journey?” And so it happened: returning from India, Alexander never reached Greece; he died on the way.

All Alexanders die halfway. Loaves get amassed; the time to eat never comes. Instruments get collected and tuned; the time to play never comes. By the time you’re done hammering and fixing, the hands are empty—and there’s nothing left to do.

No—life must be taken as celebration; that is its true melody. Ask yourself—deep within—are you doing in order to live, or living in order to do? Then the answer will be clear. And Krishna will feel very close. You are doing everything to live—not living to do. If you are doing to live, then do only as much as allows you to live. Why do more? It has no meaning.

Naturally, if this attitude spreads, many disturbances will cease—because many arise from our excess of doing. The world will be more peaceful, more joyful, more radiant, more delighted. Certainly some things will disappear—worries, tensions, madhouses, thousands of mental illnesses. That loss will occur. So many things will go.

Therefore I say: I am in accord with Krishna’s celebrative consciousness.

Beard?

Yes, your third question. It’s a good one. In this country neither Rama, nor Krishna, nor Buddha, nor Mahavira—none of the 24 Jain tirthankaras either—have beard or moustache in their images or paintings.

What could be the reasons?

I don’t believe all of them literally had no facial hair. Maybe one or two—but not all. Factually that won’t hold. Yet we have not given them beards. So there must be reasons. Several.

The major one: the age before beard and moustache appear is the freshest, most dewy. After that, things begin to decline. That is the last peak of freshness; thereafter the descent starts. We experienced these people as an ocean of endless freshness. We never saw them “descending.” We saw them ever-fresh—eternally young. It is not that they didn’t grow old, that their bodies didn’t age. Those moments came—but we saw their consciousness always adolescent, eternally young. The images and paintings are not portraits of persons; they are images of what we glimpsed within them—constant freshness, a perennial youthfulness. We cannot even imagine Krishna as old. Not that he never aged, but how would you imagine this man as old? And there are children we cannot think of as children—they’re old already.

Recently in a village a girl of about thirteen or fourteen told me, “I want liberation.” I said, “You’ve grown old already? Liberation! You haven’t even lived yet. You’re not even bound yet; already you want to be free?” But her home is very “religious”—dull, dead, all waiting for liberation; who has the leisure to live? Father dead, mother dead—under the shadow of fasting the whole house is smothered. Naturally the girl has become old. If I had to paint her, assigning her the age of fourteen would be inauthentic. A camera would show fourteen, but a painter should paint eighty—because her mind’s age is that.

Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Rama—these are forever young. We could have made them twenty-five; then they would have beards and moustaches. Why did we paint the thirteen-fourteen face, the beardless time? Reasons lie behind it. Once something begins, its end is destined. If facial hair has appeared, old age must come. Making them twenty-five would be improper; facial hair has started—then it must also fall; old age must arrive. So we fixed them at the last point before it even begins. Beyond that we did not depict them. That’s one reason.

Second reason: the male conception of beauty is feminine. The male mind’s image of beauty is the feminine face, not the male. And all these poets, painters, scripture-makers are men. If Krishna must be made beautiful—he must, for what could be more beautiful than Krishna—then the facial form will be feminine. Hence the faces of Buddha, Krishna, and the rest are feminine in contour. The visage is that of woman, not of man. The male sense of beauty is feminine. Therefore as our taste evolved, men shaved off their beards and moustaches. First they “cleansed” Rama and Buddha—and then themselves. In their minds the beautiful face is the woman’s face. They try to make their own faces resemble the feminine.

This is not true from the woman’s side. In a woman’s mind, beauty is marked by the masculine. Another woman cannot appear supremely beautiful to a woman. Naturally, the imprint of beauty in her mind bears masculine signs. If women had sculpted and painted Rama, Krishna, and Buddha, my understanding is that beard and moustache would have been essential. Because without them they seem too effeminate to women. I still don’t believe that, once you remove facial hair, a woman finds a male face deeply appealing. She cannot—because with the beard and moustache, some part of the male essence departs. Imagine the reverse: suppose women wore beards—how appealing would you find them? You are just as “appealing” clean-shaven. Women may or may not say it; they lack the freedom even to say it. Their ways of thinking have been dictated by men, so they seldom assert.

Notice: whenever and wherever male beauty asserts itself, the beard returns. In any country or age, when masculine beauty is established, beard and moustache come back into vogue. But if we keep determining our faces by looking at women, facial hair will go.

Women, too, strive to be like men. It’s a global race. They prefer to wear men’s clothes; in their minds beauty means the masculine. They want to wear masculine watches, do masculine jobs; their symbol of beauty is the male. If someday a women’s society “wins”—and the fear of that is growing because men have owned too long; now the balance will tilt—the day women sit on top, don’t be surprised if women attempt to don beards and moustaches. No surprise. Today it seems odd because we can’t imagine it. But in other ways they are already trying—wanting to be the second copy of a man in every respect. Men have been trying the opposite. It’s an absurd effort.

So the sculptors and painters who fashioned Krishna, Rama, and Buddha were men—and the beauty-image in their minds was feminine. Therefore these images are not authentic portraits. Look at the 24 Jain tirthankaras: their statues are almost identical. If the symbols at their bases were removed, there would be no distinguishing them. If you take away the clothing differences between Buddha and Mahavira, they become the same. Could their faces have been identical? Impossible. When are faces ever the same? But the artist carries one and the same symbol set. The Buddha-sculptor is trying to make the most beautiful Buddha he can; the Mahavira-sculptor the most beautiful Mahavira. In that attempt at an ultimate beauty, the faces converge—and become nearly the same.

Yes, it is worth considering: did the tanpura come into Meera’s hands because of the people who “do work,” or because of those who celebrate? The work-minded do not create tanpuras. They make hoes, not tanpuras. The tanpura has nothing to do with the work-ethic. They make hoes, axes, swords—what has the tanpura to do with those who are only “doing”? Tanpuras are made by those who take life as play. Whatever is finest in life—whether a tanpura or the Taj Mahal—comes from the hearts and dreams of those who are turning life into a festival. Naturally, those who celebrate will also make use of people who take life as mere work. But those who are doing it as work could just as well have done it as celebration. I believe that you, seeing the Taj Mahal, are delighted; but the laborers who laid its bricks were not so delighted—it was work for them. Those who built the Taj Mahal were not as ecstatic; for them it was a job. But why is that? Can a brick not be laid in the spirit of celebration?

I tell a story again and again: A temple is being built. A man passes by and asks a laborer breaking stones, “What are you doing?” Without even looking up, the man snaps, “Are you blind? Don’t you see I’m breaking stones? Do you have eyes or not?” The passerby goes on and asks another worker—there are thousands breaking stones—“My friend, what are you doing?” This man sets down his chisel and hammer with a sigh, looks up, and says, “You can see I’m breaking stones. That’s how I earn bread—for my children, my sons, my wife.” He resumes his breaking. The man then comes to a third worker near the temple steps, who is breaking stones and also singing. He asks, “What are you doing?” The man says, “What am I doing? I’m building God’s temple.” And he goes on breaking stones and singing.

All three are doing the same task—breaking stones. But their ways of seeing are different. The third has turned stone-breaking into celebration.

I am not saying people should not eradicate poverty, not make machines, not create prosperity. I am saying: do all this too as celebration, not as mere work. If poverty is eliminated as work, poverty may go, but the “poor man” will not disappear. If poverty is addressed as celebration, perhaps it will not vanish as quickly, but the “poor man” can disappear. The question is: what is our attitude toward what we do? When that attitude, that inner feeling, changes, all our activity changes.

A gardener comes in the morning and works in this garden, yet he cannot take it as celebration. Who is stopping him? Granted he is earning his bread—let him earn it. But who prevents him from meeting these blossoming flowers in a festive way? And by not taking it as celebration, what extra does he earn? I maintain that if he takes it as joy—yes, the work is there, the bread is earned; that is secondary—but if in his consciousness the delight of these flowers and their blossoming becomes primary, that gardener will cease to be merely a servant; in a deep sense he will become the owner of these flowers, without owning them. And when they bloom, he will receive a joy that sheer work can never give. We must remove poverty and suffering—yet not in the mood of drudgery; rather so that everyone can be included in life’s festival.

When I say poverty must be removed, I do not mainly mean that the poor are in great distress and therefore it should go. I mean that as long as one is poor, it is very difficult to participate in the great festival of life. When I want to remove the poor person’s poverty, my meaning is not only that his stomach is empty and it must somehow be filled. No: my concern is that his soul will be hard to fill until his stomach is filled. The soul will be filled by celebration; the stomach by work.

And if there is attention to the soul, we can turn all of life’s work into celebration. In the field we can dig pits and also sing songs. It was always so. Today the factory is no longer so full of joy. But if not today, then tomorrow—I tell you—song will return to the factory. The farmer worked in his field—there was work, yes—but he also sang. His singing did not obstruct the work; it only brought rhythm to it.

In the factory, there is no room to sing. There it is only work—seven hours. A man returns exhausted, shattered. If not today, then tomorrow—and in those countries where this is being explored, they are drawing near to it—it will be recognized: if work in the factory remains only work, danger is great. Work must be transformed into joy. The day is not far when one can sing even in the factory, and moments for celebration will be sought. They must be sought; otherwise a person becomes depressed and empty.

A woman is cooking at home. She can cook the way a hotel cook does—then it is a job. Or she can cook as one who awaits her beloved—then work becomes celebration. Celebration will not tire you; it will leave you full, overflowing. Work will break you, leave you empty, drained. And in both cases the work gets done.

That is why I said what I said.

Understood. I said Krishna had gone beyond chitta. That does not mean Krishna no longer had chitta. Going beyond chitta only means this: Krishna also came to know and recognize that which is beyond chitta. Chitta was there—integrated. Krishna’s personality became larger than chitta; in it there was room for chitta as well.

There can be two meanings to going beyond chitta. If you go beyond in enmity with chitta, then chitta is cut off and broken away. But if you go beyond in friendship with chitta, chitta is included, absorbed. In that great happening which takes place beyond chitta, chitta too has its share; it retains its place. When I say, “I have gone beyond the body,” it does not mean I no longer have a body. It only means I am not just the body. The body is there—and there is also something more, something added, something plus. The body has not been cut away; something else has been added. Until yesterday I thought I am only the body; now I know I am something more as well. The body remains; that “something more” has not erased the body’s being—it has made it richer, more abundant. I am also soul. And when one knows the Supreme (Paramatma), it is not that the soul disappears; then one knows, “I am the Supreme as well.” Body, soul, and chitta—all keep being included in that vast immensity. Nothing is lost; more is added.

So when I say Krishna had gone beyond chitta, I mean he had also known that which spreads beyond chitta. But he did have chitta. He is not an enemy of chitta. He did not go beyond by fighting it; he went beyond by living it. Therefore when I say that what arose from his spontaneous chitta happened, I mean just this: now within him everything could only be spontaneous.

There is awkwardness in chitta only so long as there is conflict within it: one part says, “Do it,” another says, “Don’t.” Then there is a fight; things become strained. When the whole chitta is gathered into one, what has to happen happens, what does not have to happen does not happen. Then it is spontaneous.

But you have asked well: in that case, what difference remains between him and animals?

In one sense, none at all; in another sense, a great deal. In one sense, none. Animals too are spontaneous—but without knowing, in unconsciousness. Krishna too is spontaneous—but knowingly, in awareness. The spontaneity is the same; the knowing is different. Animals too are spontaneous—whatever is happening, is happening. But animals have no knowing that what is happening is happening. There is no awareness, no prajna. It happens mechanically. With Krishna, whatever is happening, there stands a witness behind it, seeing that this is how it is happening. The animal has no witness.

Krishna has gone beyond chitta; the animal is still before chitta. Krishna is beyond the mind; the animal is below the mind. The animal does not yet even have chitta; as yet it has only the body. There are instincts, drives, and they make it act mechanically—and it acts. The animal does not yet have chitta. Therefore, between the one who has gone beyond chitta and the one who is below chitta, there will be a certain resemblance.

There is a very old saying among fakirs: when someone attains supreme knowing, he becomes like the supremely ignorant. There is some truth in this—as with Jada Bharata. We named that supreme knower “Jada Bharata,” inert Bharata! He became as if inert. In one sense, perfect knowing will appear like perfect unknowing. At least the completeness is alike—there is one thing common to both. In knowledge there remains no restlessness, because everything has been known. In ignorance there is no restlessness, because nothing has yet been known. For restlessness to arise, at least something has to be known!

The animal: whatever is happening is happening—there is no awareness of it. Krishna: whatever is happening is happening—the awareness is total. It is not happening in unawareness. Therefore we say: when a saint comes to his whole being, he becomes like a child.

Someone asked Jesus, “In your Father’s kingdom, what will it be like? Or how will the person be who attains to God?” Jesus says: The person who attains to God will be like children. But Jesus does not say that children have attained—otherwise all children would have attained. No; he says, like children, not a child. Like children—just like children. If he were to say “he will become a child,” then children are already children—what need of so much trouble! No, the child is still below; the saint will be beyond. The child still has to pass through tension; the saint has gone into tension and come out. The child still carries, potentially, all the illnesses; the saint has gone beyond them all. The animal still has to pass through all the diseases that belong to man, and Krishna has gone beyond all of them. So much is the difference—and this much is the similarity too.

Take this as the last question; then we will sit for meditation. You ask: how can swadharma be vigun—without qualities? How can ownness be without qualities?

Two points are worth keeping in mind. First, at their source, things are always nirguna, qualityless; qualities appear only in expression. Right now a seed is a seed: it is vigun—there are no qualities yet, only the quality of being a seed, pure potentiality. The red flowers that may blossom are not yet here. Tomorrow, when it becomes a plant, red flowers may bloom. Then the flower will be full of qualities—its particular fragrance, its particular color, its distinct personality. But in the seed, things are qualityless. With manifestation, qualities appear.

The world is qualities; the Divine is qualityless. The Divine is seed-like. When it manifests, qualities are seen; when it becomes unmanifest, qualities disappear. One man is good, another is bad; one is a thief, another is a saint. Both fall asleep—both become qualityless. In deep sleep (sushupti) no qualities remain—the saint is not a saint, the thief is not a thief. And in deep sleep we are very close to our ownness; we are right on its edge—there, no qualities remain. In deep sleep the thief is not a thief, the saint is not a saint. Yes, as soon as they wake, the thief becomes a thief and the saint a saint. Waking brings qualities; sleep lets qualities sleep. In deep sleep we are very near our ownness; in samadhi we reach our ownness itself. So the direct experience of ownness, of swabhava, is nirguna. But the expression, the manifestation, of swabhava is saguna. Saguna and nirguna are not two things. They are not opposites. Saguna is the name of nirguna’s manifestation; nirguna is the name of saguna’s unmanifest state.

Thus swabhava has two states; ownness has two states. One is ownness unmanifest—seed-like, in the womb, not yet expressed, still sleeping, absorbed in itself. The other is ownness manifest—and when ownness manifests, it takes on form and qualities. In truth, no manifestation can be formless or without qualities. The very meaning of manifestation is that it must appear with form and color and shape.

A small story comes to mind—a Zen story. A Zen master was teaching his disciples to paint, leading them toward meditation through painting. One can go from anywhere; from whatever point in existence you are, there is a way to meditation. One morning his ten disciples gathered. He said, “Go and paint the picture for which I give you a brief: a cow, grazing in a meadow full of grass. Bring me that painting. But remember: let the painting be nirguna—without qualities.”

The ten painters went and were in great difficulty. The work of a fakir is precisely to put people in difficulty—this is his only work. Because in difficulty one might also become aware of oneself. They were in a bind: how could it be nirguna? One would at least have to use color, at least give the cow a shape, paint the grass.

Nine of them brought paintings. They had made it so that things were not very clear. Still, there was a cow. They painted the grass too—something like abstract art, where things are not sharply defined. But even then they had to use color. Seeing each other’s work, they began to ask, “Where is the cow?” One painter even said, “When I was painting, I knew exactly where it was; now I’m a bit doubtful.” They tried to make it nirguna, so now he could not say for sure where it was. But the master threw away all nine paintings: “How can there be color in the nirguna? How can there be a cow?” The tenth man came with a blank sheet. He said, “Here it is.” The other nine asked, “Where is the cow?” He answered, “The cow has already grazed and gone.” “And where is the grass?” “The cow has eaten it. Things have returned.” This is the nirguna painting. A cow grazing on grass—but it has already grazed, the grass is finished, the paper is blank.

In the deepest depth of ownness, all is formless, nirguna—devoid of qualities. With manifestation—when the cow grazes—the play appears. Then the grass appears, the cow appears, everything comes into play. Then everything bids farewell again.

This vast expanse of the world was once nirguna. It was once born from the void; it will be absorbed back into the void. All is born, all is reabsorbed. From where it arises, there it returns. In that state of emptiness, the whole is hidden, carrying all its perfections, yet it is vigun, nirguna—qualities not yet arisen, but to arise.

In this sense ownness has two forms—as do all things—manifest and unmanifest; the expressed and the unexpressed. In the expressed, qualities are visible; in the unexpressed, the qualityless remains.

Therefore, see Krishna from two sides—one, the visible personality; and two, that which is not visible. The faithless will see only what is visible. One in whom reverence has arisen will also see what is not visible. Logic, thinking, reflection will not go beyond the manifested, the expressed, the qualified. Meditation, prayer, faith will enter the unmanifested, the unseen. But those who cannot even grasp the manifested will not grasp the unmanifested.

So reason and thought have a task: to take you to that frontier where expression ends and the unexpressed begins. There, a leap is needed. There, you must jump beyond your own mind. You must go beyond yourself—beyond oneself, transcend oneself. But this does not mean that what comes later will cut off what came before. No, it will be included within it. The day the manifested and the unmanifested, the expressed and the unexpressed, come together, that day is the realization of the Absolute—the experience of the complete truth.

Now, understand two or three points regarding the meditation. First, the experiment we did on the first day—standing silently for ten minutes—only about twenty percent of friends can manage it. For eighty percent, the method used earlier at Aajol or Nargol works better. So from today we will continue with the Aajol experiment. If we run both types simultaneously, my instructions become difficult and you become confused. So we will proceed with this experiment; a few new friends should understand it.

First, resolve to keep your eyes closed for forty minutes. Whatever happens, do not open your eyes. You will feel like opening them. But if one wants to look within, one must leave looking without for a while. This resolve has a great benefit too. If you can keep your eyes continuously closed for forty minutes, your will, your resolve, is awakened.

So when I say the eyes will remain closed for forty minutes, do not open them until I say so. If someone’s eyes open by mistake—not that he opens them, but they open—then close them immediately. Do not be disturbed by it.

Second, with hands folded, we will resolve before the Divine that we will put in our total energy. Be clear at least once that you will give it your all. Fix this firmly—that you will give it your all. Often water turns back at ninety-eight degrees and never becomes steam—even two degrees more would have done it; with a little more effort, it would have crossed over, but it returned just before the crossing. And you never know where that threshold comes at which one crosses over. Therefore, from your side, give your total energy.

In the first stage, for ten minutes, breathe deeply. Those who have any breathing difficulty should breathe slowly, but deeply. Those with no difficulty should not worry about depth—worry about speed, go fast. If you have any breathing trouble, breathe gently but as deeply as you can, and exhale deeply, gently—make depth your focus. Those with no difficulty, and those who have done the Aajol experiment, should do fast breathing—take it in fast, throw it out fast, like a blacksmith’s bellows. Empty the lungs completely of the old breath and take in fresh air. After five minutes you will feel an electrical current within—the body will begin to be electrified. Tremors will begin in the body; allow them. If the body begins to dance in this period, do not worry; let it dance. For ten minutes we will work with deep, fast breathing.

After ten minutes I will say: now cooperate with your body. If the body wants to dance, dance; to weep, weep; to laugh, laugh; to shout, shout. In these ten minutes, whatever the body does, cooperate with it fully. If the hand is moving a little, move it fully. If you are dancing a little, let there be a full dance.

Some friends say nothing happens to them. Our layers of suppression are deep. Just as you are taking deep breaths—you are doing it; it is not happening by itself—so too, start doing whatever feels natural to you without waiting for it to happen. Do it for a day or two, then it will begin to happen on its own. The blockage will break. If you want to dance, begin dancing. If you want to shout, begin shouting. Do something! In those ten minutes, do whatever you wish, but do it with your total energy. Do not be inhibited in it.

In the third ten minutes, keep dancing and, within, ask: Who am I? Ask with such intensity that only this remains: Who am I? Who am I? Let there be no gap between two “Who am I?” It may happen that as you ask strongly, sound comes out. Don’t be afraid; let it come out. Keep dancing, keep jumping, and ask: Who am I?

After thirty minutes, we will go into rest for ten minutes. These mountains are in rest, these trees are in rest—we will become one with them. Those who have gathered here to watch, I request you to stand absolutely silently and simply watch. Watch peacefully; sit comfortably; but do not talk at all, so that there is no disturbance here.

Now all of you, stand in your places, spread out a little. Do not talk. Do not spoil the atmosphere. Stand silently. What has standing to do with talking? Silently find your own place; leave a little space, because people will jump and dance, so they need room. Those who want to jump vigorously should stand a bit toward the edge of the crowd. If anyone, in the middle, feels like removing clothes, there is no need to hesitate—quietly remove them. If anyone already knows he feels freer without clothes, he can remove them beforehand. Even if the thought comes midway, quietly take off your clothes and keep them aside—don’t worry about it.

All right, I will assume you have found your spot. Stand with the awareness that there is a little space around you, because this experiment is very intense, and the results will also be very intense. So make space and stand.

Look, those standing at the back—there will be no talking. Look, those who have come to watch, watch at ease; stand or sit where you are, but do not talk at all, so that there is no obstacle to those meditating. Do this one kindness.

Close your eyes. Close your eyes. These eyes will be closed for forty minutes. Now, for forty minutes, do not open your eyes. Keep them closed by resolve. Do not open them until I say so.

Join both hands. Make your resolve before the Divine as witness. He is present all around. Resolve:

I resolve, with the Divine as my witness, that I will put my total energy into meditation.
I resolve, with the Divine as my witness, that I will put my total energy into meditation.
I resolve, with the Divine as my witness, that I will put my total energy into meditation.

Now begin. Start intense and deep breathing.
Stronger, stronger, stronger—deep and fast… Stronger, stronger; give it your total energy. Empty the lungs; breath in–out, in–out—like a blacksmith’s bellows—empty fully with power. The body’s energy will begin to awaken, electricity will spread within. The body will sway and dance—let it. You put your total energy into the breath. Whatever is happening, let it happen—put your total energy into the breath. Don’t miss—refresh the lungs with full power. Throw everything out—throw all the rubbish out…

Stronger, stronger—deep breathing, fast breathing… Stronger, stronger—deep breaths, deep breaths—put in your total energy…

Five minutes remain—give your total energy. Transform yourself completely. Full energy will awaken—let it awaken. Don’t lag behind. Let no one lag. Turn toward yourself—give your all. Deep, deep, deep—let the body sway, let it dance. Deep, deeper, and deeper breaths. Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath—fast and deep…

Stronger, stronger—two minutes remain—give your full energy; then we will enter the second stage. Only those who give their all will be able to enter the second. For two minutes, stake yourself completely. Breath, breath, only breath—let only breath remain. Apart from this breath, there is nothing in the world—just in–out, in–out—only breath. Energy will awaken, the body will sway, tremble, dance—don’t worry, don’t stop it. Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath, deep breath… Deep breath—stronger, stronger…

One minute remains. When I say one, two, three—give your total energy. One—give it everything… Two—give it everything… Three—for one minute now, give everything…

Perfect! Perfect! A little more… give it everything. A few seconds—give your all, then we will enter the second stage… Perfect! A few seconds more… total energy…

Now enter the second stage—let whatever happens to the body happen. Now enter the second stage—dance, sway, shout, weep, laugh—whatever you do, do it with your whole energy. Begin—dance for ten minutes, dance with an open heart…

Stronger, stronger—dance—give your total energy; laugh—laugh loudly; if you must shout, shout loudly. Cooperate with the body, give it full support. Dance, dance, dance—laugh, weep, shout…

Dance, dance, dance. Dance strongly, joyfully—dance with total rejoicing. Laugh, weep, shout—whatever is happening, do it with complete joy. Do not hold back, do not be miserly—do it with total energy. With joy, with joy—dance, dance, dance…

Stronger, stronger, stronger—five minutes remain—dance with your total energy; let everything fall away—whatever is in the mind. Dance with all your might. Laugh, weep, shout—intensely—and whatever is happening in the body, do it with total energy. Dance, dance, dance—strongly. Let no one remain standing still. Give your all, but in your own place—don’t move elsewhere. With full force…

Stronger, stronger—exhaust yourself completely, exhaust yourself completely. Now only two minutes remain—give your total energy; then we will enter the third stage. Dance—weep with an open heart, laugh, shout…

Stronger, stronger; if you need to shout, shout loudly; if you need to laugh, laugh loudly; if you need to dance, dance loudly. Stronger, stronger—empty yourself completely; whatever is happening, let it happen. Perfect, perfect—stronger, stronger—dance, dance, dance…

Stronger. One minute remains; then we will enter the third stage. One—give your total energy; shout so the whole valley echoes; dance, laugh…

Stronger, stronger—let the whole valley resound. Dance, shout—strongly. A few seconds remain—give your total energy, give your total energy. Dance, laugh, shout—give your total energy… Very good, very good—just a few seconds more—give your all…

Now enter the third stage. Keep dancing; within, ask: Who am I? Keep dancing; within, ask: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? In ten minutes, tire out the mind. Ask: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?…

Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Raise a storm—raise a storm within. Dance and ask within: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Let there be only one question within. Dance and ask: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Ask, ask—within, deeper and deeper and deeper: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?…

Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Ask. Five minutes remain—give your total energy: Who am I? Who am I?…

Dance, dance, ask: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Let this whole valley begin to echo with the one question: Who am I? Who am I? Do not worry if sound comes out—let it come. Ask: Who am I?…

Ask, ask: Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Keep dancing, keep dancing, keep jumping—ask: Who am I? If sound comes out, do not worry…

Who am I? Who am I? Ask—only a little time remains. Three minutes remain—give your total energy; then we will go into rest. Exhaust yourself; exhaust yourself completely. Dance, shout, ask: Who am I?…

Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Two minutes remain—give your total energy. When I say one, two, three—then jump with your full power. Who am I? Dance, dance, dance—Who am I? Shout, ask: Who am I? Dance, ask: Who am I?…

Who am I? Who am I? One minute remains—ask, ask loudly; dance and ask: Who am I? One—give your total energy. Two—give your total energy. Three—give your total energy. Shout with an open heart and ask: Who am I?…

Dance—dance strongly for a few seconds and shout: Who am I?…

Dance, dance—and ask: Who am I? Ask loudly: Who am I?…

Enough! Now stop. Be still. Now drop everything—leave the dancing, leave the questioning. Now, for ten full minutes, be in rest. For ten minutes, drop everything—do not dance, do not ask. Lie quiet for ten minutes—sink into silence. As a drop is lost in the ocean, be lost. All around is the Divine—be one with That. As if erased, as if dead, as if finished. Now only That remains—nothing but the Divine. We are not…

Only the Divine, only the Divine. Remember—around you only That; within and without, only That. The incoming breath is His; the outgoing breath is His. There is nothing but the Divine in all directions. Remember, remember: only light remains, only bliss remains. Every fiber is filled with bliss. Within, only light remains. The rain of nectar is falling—immerse, bathe—there is no one except the Divine. Remember, remember, recognize—we are gone; only the Divine remains…

Only bliss, only light, only nectar. The drop has dissolved in the ocean, the drop has dissolved in the ocean—only That remains; there is nothing other than the Divine. Recognize, recognize, remember—only the Divine, only the Divine—everywhere only That. In the trees, That; in the sky, That; within, That; without, That. Remember, remember, remember…

Only bliss, only light—dive, dive—be lost, be lost, be utterly lost—the drop has fallen into the ocean…

There is no one other than the Divine. Only That is, on all sides That is; everything is That—remember, remember, recognize. Only bliss, only light…

All has fallen silent; within, the springs of bliss are bursting forth. All darkness is gone; within, only light remains. All forms have dissolved; the formless alone remains. Recognize, recognize—every shape is gone; the shapeless alone remains. Remember, remember…

Now join both hands—offer thanks to the Divine. Join both hands, bow your head—fall at His unknowable feet, surrender. Offer thanks. His grace is boundless. The Lord’s grace is boundless. The Lord’s grace is boundless. Keep the hands joined. Keep the head bowed. His grace is boundless. The Lord’s grace is boundless.

Look—those who are watching, stand silently, do not talk.

His grace is boundless. The Lord’s grace is boundless. Now let both hands fall down. Open your eyes slowly. If the eyes do not open, place both hands over them, then open slowly. If you cannot get up, take two or four deep breaths, then rise slowly.

Those who wish to remain lying a little longer—let no one else make them get up. Those who are outside the meditation and have already gotten up in the campus, please leave quietly. Anyone who wants to sit or lie may remain lying. At six o’clock they will be helped up. The rest who have risen may go slowly.

Our meditation sitting is complete.