The Bhagavad Gita (22 page)

68-69  “But those who love Me and teach these profound 68-69 secrets to people who are ready to listen will definitely come to Me. No one renders a higher service to Me than this, and no one on Earth is dearer to Me.

70-71  “Those who, although not given to teaching others, study this sacred dialogue, are also directly revering Me. And even those who simply listen to these words with faith and acceptance are liberated from the misfortunes of life and attain the happier worlds.

72  “You have been attentive, Arjuna, but have you listened carefully and grasped this teaching? What now of your delusions and ignorance?”

73  Arjuna responds, “O Krishna, my delusion has gone. 73 Where my life seemed unbearable before, those self-created problems have dissolved. By Your grace I am shorn of all doubts. My power and joy have returned to me. My faith is firm. I am aware of my true Reality and committed to my
dharma.
I will do as You command.”

74  Sanjaya leaned away from the blind old king and said, “Thus ends the wondrous dialogue between the all-pervading Spirit, Lord Krishna, and His high-souled human friend, Arjuna. This dialogue has been so thrilling my hair stands on end.

75  “Through mystical benevolence I have been able to report these profound secrets of spiritual unity directly from the lips of God — spoken directly to His loving comrade, man.

76  “I take these not only as teachings meant for Arjuna but as lessons for myself, O King. Whenever I recall this holy dialogue, I will rejoice again and again.

77  “I feel especially blessed to have seen the astonishing vision of the Divine’s cosmic form. As other people use memories from their past to help recover a sublime state of mind, I will have this Divine vision of God’s true form to help me bring back the glory of this experience over and over again.

78  “Wherever Divinity and humanity are found together — with humanity armed and ready to fight wickedness — there also will be found victory in the battle of life, a life expanded to Divinity and crowned with prosperity and success, a life of adherence to
dharma,
in tune with the Cosmic Plan. I am convinced of this.”

^*
Again, not to be confused with Brahman, the Absolute Godhead

Arjuna looks directly into the eyes of his best friend, God Himself, and, in one of the most famous lines in the
Gita,
pledges to do as God commanded. Can we therefore rest easy assuming that the great warrior-prince lived heroically ever after? Unfortunately no. As we know, the real battle is always inner — and real life is never that easy.

Recall that
The Bhagavad Gita
is a dialogue in the middle of a much longer story. We therefore have information about what happened following this wondrous conversation with Divinity.

Arjuna picked up his mace and bow and arrows and plunged into the heart of the struggle of life. Fierce,
unafraid, he showered arrows upon the enemy, sending thousands into the jaws of death — at times fighting so furiously that both armies stopped to watch in awe.

Arjuna gained fame as the war’s outstanding hero. Hour after blood-stained hour, the battle raged for eighteen days ebbing and flowing, its outcome truly in doubt until the last moments when only a handful of soldiers remained standing on either side.

But an odd thing happened. At the most critical times in the fighting, at those turns when Arjuna came face to face with venerated relatives and teachers who were now his enemies, he faltered! Despite his direct relationship with God and regardless of his sacred vow, the great warrior softened; his arrows could not fly true. His fierce resolve dissolved; the sacred covenant he forged with his beloved Divinity vaporized into the acrid smoke of war.

Krishna, ever the greatest teacher, feigned outrage at these crucial moments — on one occasion leaping from the chariot in a show of utter disgust. These displays shocked Arjuna back to his duties. Had God Himself not intervened in this way, the battle, and
dharma,
would have been lost.

In this complicated, shifting world it is one thing to intend to do something and quite another to live up to it. As waves of change roll through, the setting alters and your mood turns, deflecting you to another place. What seemed crystalline in one situation becomes foggy in another. Then you forget, you lose your bearings and your strength seeps away. That is what happened to Arjuna. It happens to all of us.

But when we read the
Gita
again and again, as all scriptures should be read, the words grow in us. We’re first interested in the teachings, and then we become preoccupied and engrossed in the high ideals and ideas it conveys. After a while
the process of reading it becomes, as promised, an actual experience of the profound truths it brings. Each time we reopen this ancient guidebook this process repeats. Like a beautiful song, the
Gita
seems to thicken and grow richer and lovelier the more we return to it. Its messages gradually, surely seep into our innermost being, eventually penetrating and prompting every thought and act. It’s as if we become a part of the
Gita,
and it becomes a part of us.

Thus fully absorbed, we are opened up to the spiritual energy in this wondrous old scripture. We begin unconsciously, almost naturally, to put the teachings into practice. We actually are, for those moments at least, what the
Gita
prompts us to be: quieter, more aware of our highest Self, more active in the world, and yet more selfless, more accepting, more successful, and ultimately even more godly.

An experience during our recent trip to India illustrates how being immersed in the
Gita
(or any other high and holy message) can surely impact one’s life.

After twenty-three hours in the air and twelve airport hours on the ground, having crossed thirteen time zones and the international dateline (where, in an eye blink, twenty-four more hours were seemingly added to the distance already traveled), we finally arrived at the little airport at Puttaparthi. We were tired and a bit disoriented but very happy to be “home.” Louise was like a little girl returning from summer camp. It was late August. Our plan, as usual, was to stay here for six months with Swami (Sathya Sai Baba).

We settled into ashram life and I became completely involved in writing this book. Louise, normally a rather non-domestic person, gladly slipped into her writer’s wife role, which in her words is to “hold the space and fill it with love.” This meant she moved quietly around our small flat, doing chores, feeding me, making sure the “space” stayed conducive to my writing.

She eagerly joined me each evening to go over my day’s notes. We were thus fully and completely absorbed in the
Gita —
every minute, hour, and day — day after day, eating, sleeping, dreaming, and breathing the
Gita —
reaching deeply into those old teachings to hone them for Westerners. The days rolled by quietly and predictably.

But this quiet orderliness was abruptly swooshed aside in late September when something happened to Louise. We were having our lunch. Suddenly her words slurred, her eyes unfocused, and her head rolled to one side. The food fell from her mouth, her tongue lolled, each breath became a sort of rattle. I held her, straining to infuse my strength into her small body, wondering what was happening and what to do. Should I call for help? How? There’s no 911 here! Who could I call? We live in a fourth floor walk-up; how could I get her down the stairs?

After a few minutes she seemed to be surfacing from the wave of darkness that had swept her away. Maybe, I thought hopefully, this attack was just a passing incident. But as she came to and we began to talk, the wave surged again, submerging her. “Dearest, dearest, beloved Louise,” I whispered as I cradled her, “what’s happening to you?”

Our neighbor, a cardiologist at the new hospital down the road, immediately put her into intensive care and began the I-Vs and life-support monitors and other processes used for stroke victims. The blankness in her brain continued to ebb and flow for a while and then seemed to move out. She was conscious now but still couldn’t think or walk straight, and her left foot wouldn’t work, nor her right hand.

I was sitting on a folding metal chair drawn up close to her bed. The modern hospital ward’s exceptionally high ceilings seemed to allow extra space for healing. Her eyes were closed. The nurses quietly moving about in their traditional nurse’s caps added to the feeling of composure in the large, semi-darkened room.

In my own quiet, I heard Krishna’s words from chapter 12,
“Accept the knocks of life as blessings in disguise. … Be unaffected by the bad or good things that happen to you.”

One of Louise’s lucid moments arose and she opened her eyes. “Hi,” she managed weakly. I took her hand. “We have to accept this is a gift, Weez,” I said, not really understanding what that meant. “We have to see this as one of those blessings in disguise.” “Yes,” she said. We were quiet for several minutes and then she slipped beneath another wave.

A “gift?” What does that mean? The word “acceptance” came to me, clearer now. I rolled it over and over in my mind, “acceptance … acceptance … acceptance.” It took on more and more strength each time.

Then I became aware that I was feeling better, stronger now, readier to handle this crisis. I was also a bit surprised to find my anxiety had left me. In its place was a quiet, almost subdued feeling. I felt a sort of still happiness in me. Happiness? At a time like this? There was no elation in it, but it registered internally as happiness. Maybe this is what bliss is, I thought.

Suddenly I knew that everything that was happening to her (us) at that point — or ever — was part of the Universe’s plan. I knew that no matter how things may appear to turn out, everything would be okay. This wasn’t mere wishful thinking. I knew it, and was sure I knew it. It was palpable. I knew it deep in my physical being. And I was absolutely certain of it in both my mind and heart.

I referred to this mood of certainty later as a “
Prasad
Zone.”
Prasad
is Sanskrit for “gift” or “grace.” I found out later that
prasad
also means “Divine favor” and “to become clear and calm.” It all fit with what I was experiencing.

Indeed, I had
become
the serenity that comes with Divinity. All uneasiness had been swept from me. Does that mean I was Divinity at those times? Perhaps. Krishna would say so.

Not once did negative thoughts enter my consciousness. I was distantly aware of the usual what-ifs (What if she doesn’t make it? What if she can’t live a normal life? What if I can’t
handle this?), but those self-doubts didn’t take shape. Like wolves lurking in the dark beyond my circle of light, they were out there waiting to attack — but as I didn’t dwell on these negative thoughts, they never gained sufficient strength to close in on me.

Now, back in this “real world” assailed by the news-at-eleven culture of fear here in the West, it’s hard to imagine a mental state so free of negatives. But back there in that zone, I
lived
it. Clearly my task at that point was but to accept and even welcome what had come, and to perform my duty in good spirits, and to not worry about the outcomes.

This aura of harmonious acceptance had completely enveloped me. Nothing worldly bothered me — the tropical heat, electrical outages in the dark early morning when I was hurrying to shave and get to the hospital, missed taxis, skipped meals— none of those everyday annoyances impinged on that calm state.