The Central Intention of the Bhagavadgita - 2. Swami Krishnananda.

 

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Wednesday 11, February 2026, 06:30.
Article
Scriptures
The Central Intention of the Bhagavadgita: 
Swami Krishnananda.
(Spoken on November 26, 1972)

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The initial character of the human mind is fear, confusion, and a kind of overconfidence in oneself. This overconfidence is a cause, and sometimes also an effect, of a fear that does not leave the human mind. When we are not strong enough, we appear to put on a kind of strength and begin to advertise or proclaim the actions that we can do. A very strong person does not proclaim himself as much as a weak person does. A lion does not need to bark; it is only the dog that barks. Though the lion's strength is much more, it does not wag its tail but simply keeps quiet as if it knows nothing and is not concerned with anything. It is the weakling that brags, and gets irritated, and talks at length.

In the First Chapter of the Bhagavadgita, which is the beginning of the meditation, the confounded mind of the seeking soul, which is represented by the mind of Arjuna, demonstrates an overconfidence on one side and a weakness on the other side. It is the overconfidence that makes Arjuna say, “Krishna, take me to the centre of this array. Let me have a look at these idiots who are up in arms against us.” Likewise, the yoga teacher and the yoga student, both standing on a similar pedestal, may commit the mistake of entertaining an overconfidence of one's own powers and capacities in respect of the practice of yoga. But when we actually see the array in front of us, we get flabbergasted for a reason quite different from the one which made us so overconfident.

The seeker of truth, the young student of yoga, thinks he can catch God in a few days, as Arjuna thought he could vanquish the whole of the Kaurava army in no time. “I have only to look at them and see what I can do to them.” Likewise, young uninitiated and inexperienced students of yoga, having an emotional enthusiasm of God-consciousness and a vairagya boiling up in their hearts for the time being, leave their home, their father and mother, and go to ashrams to fight the war of the spirit, the battle of life, for the sake of God-realisation. This is wonderful, a very good aspiration indeed, as it was proper on the part of Arjuna to have thought himself to be so powerful, confident, and ready for victory. He was not merely experimenting with the war; he was bent upon victory. Likewise, seekers of yoga are bent upon God-realisation and are not merely experimenting with the possibility of the practice of yoga, but when they take the initial step and have a look at the vast range of powers arrayed before them, what do they see? They see something within them and also without them, something quite different from what they expected.

What did Arjuna see? He did not see generalissimos, commanders-in-chief, warriors, soldiers who were up in arms against the Pandavas. What did he see? He saw his grandfather, he saw his Guru, he saw his brothers, nephews, and brothers-in-law. These are the things he saw there, not soldiers. There were no soldiers at all, no warriors. Something else was seen there, to his surprise. This is exactly what happens to every one of us. We, as students of yoga, begin to see an obstacle in the world, an obstacle even in our own parents and relations. We think they are all good-for-nothings. They always impede our progress, talking ill of God and our aspiration for God, so we take to retreats, to monasteries, and go to Gurus. This is exactly what Arjuna did. But the next phase of Arjuna's mind also will be waiting for us. It comes to almost everyone.

When we take a second look at the world, after having left it as an obstacle or an impediment, we see it as a different thing altogether. Old memories come up. What we have left becomes a reality. The samskaras or vasanas, as we call them, begin to take concrete forms, make faces before us, and then the tender feelings of the human mind—we should call them the weaknesses of the human mind—begin to speak a different language altogether, different from the very stern voice with which they spoke earlier. We become very tender and soft towards the world of objects, and the loves which we tried to overcome become overmastering and get diverted into undesirable channels.

Loves and hatreds are hard to conquer. We wanted to give up our love for the world and the home. There was a kind of dislike for the world and for the home, the relations, etc., on account of a love for God which was thought to be there in the mind. But love and hatred have nothing to do with spirituality. Spirituality is not even love for God if it is opposed to hatred for the world, because love for God does not mean hatred for the world. The word “love” is inapplicable in this case. It is something different altogether. There is no suitable term for that attitude which we ultimately have towards God. It is not love and hatred. It is not love in the sense of loving our father and mother, our husband, wife, etc. But our concept of love is only this much. We cannot think of love for God in any other manner than as contradistinguished from hatred for things secular. We make a distinction between the spiritual and the secular, the religious and the profane. From our childhood onwards we make these distinctions that if something is good, something else must be bad. We cannot think of good unless there is also something bad, but this is not true of the spiritual nature. Spirituality is a good which is not opposed to anything else, so there is no bad when we think of the spiritual aspiration.

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Continues

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