1.	Krishna

1.1 Introduction

In this chapter we will look at some Indian-born sages from the perspective of Pure Consciousness Mysticism, primarily at the figure of Krishna, but also19th and 20th century mystics including Sri Ramakrishna, Ramana Maharshi, Jiddu Krishnamurti, and Mother Meera. The latter figures are well documented (Meera is still alive at the time of writing), meaning that they are accessible as persons, in contrast to Krishna — however, they have been selected for the purpose of shedding light onto his possible personhood. We will focus on the figure of Krishna as revealed in the sacred Hindu text, the Bhagavad Gita, though what little we know from other sources is mentioned. The Gita takes a similar place for Hindus that the four Gospels do for Christians; it is both new and a codification of what went before (Jesus: 'Do not suppose that I come to abolish the law and the prophets; I did not come to abolish but to complete'; Krishna: 'Sacred action is described in the Vedas and these come from the Eternal, and therefore is the Eternal everpresent in sacrifice'). Strictly, the Gita is not a canonical text for the Hindu religion (these are the Vedas) though sometimes the Gita is called the fifth Veda. It is probably one of the more difficult texts to tackle from the perspective of Pure Consciousness Mysticism, not because the text poses difficulties for this analysis, but because of the special place that the text has as a sacred book. The figure of Krishna is problematic for the same reasons, for Krishna takes the place of both God and Jesus (approximately) for Hindus, and millions of words have been spoken and written about him over the last 20 to 25 centuries. Problems arise because many say that either he is not a historical person, or that he is God, or a god, or some combination of these. In the West Aristotle's law of the excluded middle does not easily allow for a person to be God and a man, and much of Christian theology has become an endless form of mental gymnastics to accommodate this contradiction. Thankfully, the Hindu tradition allows for a more fluid thinking, where such a contradiction does not bring intellectual stalemate but intellectual creativity. Neither is the question of historicity so important in India as in the West, and it is also of little importance to this analysis because the value of the text lies mainly in the reality that it expresses.
It has been stated in the introduction to Pure Consciousness Mysticism that as a world-view it has no dependence on the concept of divine beings, so Krishna can either be ignored as myth, treated as metaphor, or considered as an ordinary human being with unusual insights. It is the latter treatment that we shall accord him, and if this offends anyone I ask for patience, because the intention is that his teachings should emerge from this with renewed vigour, not with ridicule. The very reason for choosing the Gita is that it is hard to find a text within which the infinite, the eternal, and the embracive shine more strongly. The Gita, as mentioned above, is in some senses a summary of the Vedas which precede it, which are also remarkable for the infinite, the eternal and the embracive. In Eastern religions the mystical is more apparent than in Western religions, so the idea of a mystical critique being radically different from a religious critique is not easily supported in an Eastern context. It follows from this that some, though not all, the conclusions drawn here about the Gita will be familiar to those who have a background in Indian thought. The central proposition of PCM is that it represents a relationship with reality that is available to anyone: hence, in examining Krishna as a man, we are asking what is his reality (for it seems godlike), and how it is available to ordinary people, particularly those living in the West today. The particular nature of the Gita means also that the secondary questions raised are to do with devotion and renunciation.
Krishna's life has some similarities with that of Jesus. The circumstances of their births (according to what texts we have) are similar: both were born in humble surroundings under the threat of death by a king who feared the future man as a rival; in Jesus's case the prophecy was given to Herod of a coming 'King of the Jews', and in Krishna's case to his uncle (king Kansa) of a young pretender to the throne. Krishna was born in captivity rather than a stable, and escaped to be brought up by villagers; on discovering this Kansa had the baby boys in his kingdom killed, as did Herod, though Krishna's story is placed between two and five hundred years earlier. While similarities in their teachings exist, the princely nature of Krishna gave his life a different flavour; for example he was educated, knew the Hindu scriptures well, and engaged in the politics and administration of a small kingdom. The deaths of the two men could not be more different however: Jesus died on the cross, while Krishna died in a hunting accident while asleep under a tree. The accidental nature of his death reflects the unpredictable and light-hearted universe that Krishna inhabited: the manner of his death had no significance at all.
  Krishna's boyhood is recounted in legends; his body was blue (or black in some versions); he was as naughty a child as you could wish, stealing food and jewellery to bedeck himself with, even peeing in other households. He was notorious for liking butter, and in one episode was caught by his adoptive mother who asked to look in his mouth for proof. He tried to avoid this, but when he did open his mouth she saw the sun and the moon and this stars inside it, and in her shock let him get away. Another well-known episode took place later in his youth when he stole the clothes of the cow-girls (gopis) who were bathing in the river. The girls were forced to come out of the river naked in order to retrieve their clothes, covering their modesty with their hands, but he tricked them into folding their hands on their heads before allowing them their clothes back. These stories are a mixture of the irrepressible prankster and the divine being who performs miracles, like picking up a mountain to protect his village. The gopis all loved him, but one in particular: Radha, who was to be his deepest love, though not his wife. Krishna was a lover on an epic scale, in his early years spending his nights with Radha in the forest, while later supposedly marrying 16,000 women. Radha was an integral part of Krishna's life — their love was legendary, and like all of the events in Krishna's mythology, larger than life. The two names are so interlinked that variations on 'Radhakrishna' as a name are seen throughout India; for example a well-known modern writer on Hinduism and Buddhism is called Radhakrishnan. Such was the strength of their bond that Krishna and Radha supposedly even incarnated in the same body, in 1486, in the form of the sage Chaitanya. A devotee of Chaitanya is confused, for where he had seen a renouncer, he starts to see in him the form of Krishna. Chaitanya says that his intense love of Krishna causes him to see Krishna, as he would see him anywhere or in anything, but the devotee is not satisfied with his explanation telling him to give up the pretence, upon which Chaitanya reveals himself in the dual form. The devotee faints after which Chaitanya revives him, again in the form of a renouncer, saying that he has revealed his nature to no one else, and to keep it a secret. While some may wish to take this episode literally (as with all the myths about Krishna), Chaitanya is more likely to be using the figures of Krishna and Radha as representing the fundamental male and female energies, otherwise represented in Hinduism in the persons of Shiva and Shakti, or in the concepts of Purusha and Prakrti (see Abhayananda for further examples).
The Mahabharata within which the Gita appears is a classical Indian epic written in Sanskrit, traditionally ascribed to a legendary sage Vyasa, but possibly compiled by many anonymous poets and Hindu priests. The date of the Mahabharata is given variously as between the 5th century BC and the 4th century AD, or between 3000 AD and 1500 AD.  The poem is composed of more than 90,000 couplets that relate the turbulent history of the ancient kingdom of Kurukshetra, which is a town in the present-day state of Haryana in India and the traditional site of the battleground of the great war. The Bhagavad Gita is eighteen chapters long, perhaps representing the eighteen days of the war. The Mahabharata tells the story of the Kurus and the Pandavas, two closely-related clans, and how they came to war over the kingdom of Kurukshetra, which Duryodhana, the head of the Kurus, was temporarily in control of. The Pandavas were the rightful heirs, though this was clouded by problems of lineage and a game of dice which resulted in their exile. On return from exile they found that Duryodhana had consolidated his power and the Pandavas, which included Arjuna as the central character of the Gita, were forced into a fratricidal war. Almost as bad for Arjuna as facing the prospect of killing family members was that of killing old retainers at the court, including various teachers and gurus that were dependent on their patron Duryodhana.
  Krishna (a prince from a neighbouring kingdom) was a friend and brother-in-law of Arjuna, having had contact with the Pandava brothers from the time of their joint marriage to Draupadi. Krishna encouraged Arjuna to court his sister and lent him his chariot to abduct her (a traditional method of courtship apparently) and soothed the irate relatives afterwards. Krishna in the Mahabharata was a minor figure who acted strangely: he was approached by leaders of both sides, Arjuna and Duryodhana, and was asked for help. He said that out of love for them both he would offer one his army, and the other himself (he had already fruitlessly tried to mediate between them for peace); Arjuna was given first choice and he chose Krishna, while Duryodhana received the army — the scene was set for the great war that followed. Later in the Mahabharata, once battle commenced, Krishna, having made one of the most extraordinary and spiritually-motivated decision that the commander of an army could possibly do (join the side of good out of principle, but give his army to the wicked out of fairness), then proceeded to use all kind of trickery to help defeat the opposition, (magical ones as well as human ones) that some commentators have since found contemptible.
Many say that the serious divinity that Krishna reveals in the Gita is a different person to the Krishna of legend, not finding it easy to reconcile a naughty child, prodigious philanderer, warrior and cheat on the battlefield, dancer, showy dresser, and player of the flute on one hand (as if those weren't enough contradictions already!) with the teacher of the highest spirituality shown in the Gita. As no one can really separate out any facts from the myths and poetry that surround Krishna, he is open to many interpretations; for example I have been influenced by Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh's Krishna - The Man and His Philosophy. We shall be looking at the Krishna as revealed in the Bhagavad Gita, however, and the other stories concerning his life are only mentioned here to give an idea of how he is perceived amongst Hindus.

1.2 The Bhagavad Gita

In the first chapter of the Gita the scene is set for the battle, giving a list of the participants on both sides. Krishna has agreed to be Arjuna's charioteer, as a way of entering the war as a non-combatant — traditionally this is in intimate role, as the charioteer protects the warrior in danger, sings his successes (the charioteer is bard also), stays silent on his failures, and may even prevent him from fleeing the battle, as Krishna does here. Given the teachings that follow, which indicate the 'divine' nature of Krishna, this is a humble task, and symbolic of Krishna's friendship for Arjuna. Arjuna asks him to drive the chariot between the opposing armies in the tense silence that precedes battle. Once Arjuna sees his many friends, relatives and revered teachers amongst the opposing army, he is overcome with grief at the prospect of their deaths and his part in their deaths. Krishna spends the rest of the Gita persuading Arjuna to fight. Much hand-wringing and soul-searching has gone on ever since about the role of the so-called divine being Krishna persuading Arjuna to fight: pacifists like Mahatma Gandhi later insisted that this fight was purely a symbolic fight between good and evil. Most scholars consider that the battle at Kurukshetra did take place in fact and resulted in a carnage on such a scale that the Indian psyche in some ways never recovered. The Jain religion, one of extreme non-violence (even to insects), could not come to terms with Krishna's actions, so in their mythology he was sent straight to hell, though after a bit of thought they decided that he would start a new round of Jain saints (tirthankaras) in the next cycle of creation. (Indian religions deal with new prophets in odd ways: Jainism sent Krishna to hell, while Hinduism pondered over the Buddha for a while, and then decided that he came from hell to lead people astray — in particular over the caste system.) 
How though does Krishna respond to Arjuna's initial despair? First he tells Arjuna to snap out of it, more or less, to which Arjuna responds that he would rather become a beggar than a king at the expense of the deaths of his revered teachers. Krishna then repeats a piece of ancient Hindu wisdom: that nothing dies, or is born; that if the body is destroyed the soul simply moves on to another — in other words Krishna starts his instruction to Arjuna by reminding him of the principle of reincarnation. (The following extracts, as all in this chapter, are from Juan Mascaró's translation.)

11	Thy tears are for those beyond tears; and are thy words words of wisdom? The wise grieve not for those who live; and they grieve not for those who die — for life and death shall pass away.
12	Because we all have been for all time: I, and thou, and those kings of men. And we all shall be for all time, we all for ever and ever.
13 	As the Spirit of our mortal body wanders on in childhood and youth and old age, the Spirit wanders on to a new body: of this the sage has no doubts.
14 	From the world of the senses, Arjuna, comes heat and comes cold, and pleasure and pain. They come and they go: they are transient. Arise above them, strong soul.
15	The man whom these cannot move, whose soul is one, beyond pleasure and pain, is worthy of life in Eternity.
16	The unreal never is: the Real never is not. This truth indeed has been seen by those who can see the true.
17	Interwoven in his creation, the Spirit is beyond destruction. No one can bring to an end the Spirit which is everlasting.
18	For beyond time he dwells in these bodies, though these bodies have an end in their time; but he remains immeasurable, immortal. Therefore, great warrior, carry on thy fight.
19	If any man thinks he slays, and if another thinks he is slain, neither knows the ways of truth. The Eternal in man cannot kill: the Eternal in man cannot die.	(pages 49 - 50)

Mascaró uses the word 'Spirit' in this passage for the eternal core of a person, but no equivalent is found in van Buitenen's more scholarly translation: instead he refers to the imperishable, and translates verse 16 to include a reference to the interface between being and non-being. This is only mentioned because although the term 'Spirit' could be a useful shorthand for the concept of 'the interface between being and non-being', it is not until later in this book that ideas concerning this interface will be developed. For now it is recommended that any words such as 'Spirit' be treated more as a poetic necessity than a term that can be precisely defined (in fact it is just because of Mascaró poetic gift that his translation is used here in preference to van Buitenen's or any other's).
Reincarnation as a teaching or principle is not a common factor amongst the mystics, and so it is not directly part of the PCM world-view. However, in many cases, as here, it is way of dealing with the eternal: it is part of the teachings of the Upanishads, the Vedas, the Yoga Sutras; India was steeped in it, yet Krishna needed to remind Arjuna of it. Clearly, reincarnation was part of the ultimate reality that Krishna existed in, while it was not part of Arjuna's reality, any more than it is for most people; whether from the East, where it is a prevalent belief, or in the West where it is not. Mystics of the East often express their sense of deathlessness in terms of reincarnation, while mystics of the West tend to be more vague. It is part of many occult traditions in the West however, Rudolf Steiner for one having lectured and written voluminously on the subject. Krishna is not suggesting that Arjuna kill his opponents simply because of reincarnation however, as one could justify any killing on that basis. Reincarnation is introduced to lead Arjuna to find the deathless in himself, and, as incarnation is central to any account of mysticism, we also need to consider the possibilities and implications of reincarnation. By incarnation one normally means the concept that the human spirit, soul, consciousness, mind, ego, awareness, or whatever, becomes associated with the human body. It may sound a little vague to lump all these concepts together, but in practice it is very hard to identify and separate any of these entities: spirit, soul, consciousness, mind, ego, or awareness. Or, if one is psychoanalytically minded; ego, id, superconscious, unconscious, subconscious. Or if one is versed in Indian concepts; Atman and Brahman. As academics, one needs these concepts, but if, in silence, one explores oneself, what does one find? There is one's body, and something else, something that perceives. Incarnation is about the relationship between this something, Mascaró calls it Spirit, and the human body, while reincarnation is about the moving of this something from one body to another, including possibly all forms of living organism, or even inanimate objects.
Without contemplating reincarnation, some of the questions posed by the Gita are hard to consider, the key one in this context being identity. Reincarnation is a difficult subject, arousing strong opinions, and perhaps it better belongs to the world of the occult, but it is too central to the Gita, and to the question of one's identity, to ignore. The difficulty with reincarnation, like any aspects of the occult, is that, without direct evidence, one has no reason to treat it other than a plausible or implausible theory, depending on one's inclinations. Rudolf Steiner prefaced his Occult Science with the promise that his work was scientific in the sense that his theories can be verified by anyone who cares to enter the 'spirit world'. In some way the parallel with conventional science holds up: anyone with a billion-dollar particle accelerator and a doctorate in particle physics can verify the existence of baryons and leptons. In practice even verifying Newton's laws of motion with a hundred-dollar school science kit is hard to do: I used to teach this for years and found the results that sixth-formers actually obtained were only likely to convince the most precise and sensitive of student. Few people can stand up and verify Steiner's occult science as a whole, but it just so happens that in the case of reincarnation I have some experiences which convince me of its truth, at least as far as myself goes. Those with no personal experience of reincarnation tend to fall into two camps: those instinctively in favour on the basis of hoping that either they were somebody important in a previous life, or that they will not disappear completely at death; and those instinctively against on the basis that 'I am me; how could I have been somebody else?' Rational arguments can then put forward for either case. However, it is a crucial point in relationship with the ideas Krishna is putting forward: if there is reincarnation, what about my identity? We will discuss this in more detail later, but for now I will describe some personal experiences related to reincarnation which changed my own views on identity.
In my mid-twenties I participated in psychotherapy workshops and meditation techniques, even doing a one-day workshop with the legendary R.D.Laing, who seemed at the time to live mostly in a whisky bottle. I was also a follower of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh (later known as Osho) for a while, and joined a group called Subud. Some teachers or group leaders were good, some were bad; one advantage to the very eclectic route I took was that it was easier to tell the good practitioners after a while. There is much concern these days about unlicensed therapists, particularly hypnotherapists, and the dangers of 'false memory syndrome', and there are probably dubious practices going on. However, either I was lucky or I had enough discrimination to avoid any particularly bad experiences, and it became a period of getting to know myself, and to explore the effects of some childhood events that had shaped my psychology. A common therapy at that time was 're-birthing', a group-oriented way of re-living the birth trauma, where members of the group would physically constrict the subject as they went through an emotional simulation of the trauma (or so-called trauma). My first past-life experience actually took place in a meditation, part of a week's retreat involving re-birthing, which was normally of an hour's length and consisted of some simple hand-movements to music of gongs and bells. Half-way through I began to experience an extreme form of distress, and because of the nature of the group I was with, I allowed this to take over. I would add that it was only because of the circumstances and because of a period of acclimatisation to such possibilities that I could let go: more recently, in the wonderful though highly formal surroundings of the British Library reading room, I was moved to tears by something I was reading, but suppressed the emotions and was left with a headache all day (there is a time and a place for everything). The distress that I felt in the meditation reached such a pitch that I started screaming, which rudely interrupted the meditation for the others, but, having experience with re-birthing, they gathered round and proceeded to help me re-live the birth trauma. It turned out that I was re-living a death not a birth, for my screams reached a crescendo, after which I said, 'They killed my with knives", and collapsed. The cook came from the kitchen and needed comforting, for she said that the screams were the worst thing she had ever heard. In the meantime I was left in a different world: I somehow 'became' another personality, a violent individual from the 10th century, and it was some hours before I felt myself again. This was the start of a period of exploration of past lives; I found a number of hypnotherapists who had experience in this area. One of them in particular, Joe Weselowski, had made it a speciality: he had been a conventional hypnotherapist for years, but found to his distaste that people would go 'off the bottom' as it were, and dredge up stuff prior to birth — this was not supposed to happen. In the end he decided to go with it, becoming convinced of the validity of these experiences, and we worked together for a while. Past life therapy is useful for some individuals: in my case I was drawn to it by a 'bleeding through' of past life issues that could not be dealt with in other ways; however it suffers from the problem of most types of regression therapy that it can encourage self-obsession. I fell into this trap to some extent, but also found it a route to the transcendent, which Weselowski was wary of and could not help me with: I found that in some sessions I would pass beyond any 'personal' material and enter a more cosmic awareness, where the planetary system and the stars seemed to be directly perceivable and inside of me. I only mention this because the nature of this perception is not unlike the imagination, and because such 'visions' will be discussed later — I would like to stress their ordinariness at the outset.
This is not the place to go into the details of my own experiences, as I don't want to make an issue of reincarnation; however, it did profoundly change my attitude to my sense of identity, and to death of course. It leaves me in a difficult position: I would like to assign reincarnation to the area of the occult, and therefore leave it out, but as it is integral to my weltanschauing and therefore to this analysis of the Gita it is only fair to say why. Another reading of the same experiences could be made through C.G.Jung's concept of the collective unconscious, but this approach begs the question: why experience particular memories if the source is collective? Many suspect that Jung was in fact sympathetic to reincarnation, and that material suppressed by the family executors of his estate would demonstrate it. It is worth pointing out that Jung's orientation is more towards the archaic in the psyche than to the transcendent (at least in the terms of PCM), and that reincarnation would not be that out of place in his thinking. However there is not space here to argue in detail this assessment of Jung.
There is another aspect of reincarnation worth investigating, and that is karma, which is the idea that actions in one life lead to results in another: good actions lead to a 'better' birth, happy circumstances and so on, while bad actions lead to a life or lives of misery. My own understanding of my past lives, as far as it goes, shows this to be true: apparently I was a baron in Wales in around 960 A.D., and murdered, raped and tortured in the pursuit of power. The karmic come-back was not only to die an unpleasant death at the end of that life, but to spend the next thousand years worth of lives (with no gaps between them as far as I can tell) in miserable circumstances. This perception has naturally affected the way I live, and caused me to reflect on the workings of karma. Imagine for example a soldier in the trenches of the first world war. He might kill thirty enemy soldiers a day, with no karmic result: it is his job as soldier, as it was Arjuna's. Yet, imagine that the hundredth man to die at his hands was pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket as our soldier shot him — something barely glimpsed; he saw it in time to prevent his finger squeezing the trigger, and many thoughts went through his mind at that moment: is his opponent surrendering? Is he blowing his nose, cleaning his gun, or was it imagined? Our soldier is subject to many pressures: how did he cope with the horrible deaths of his friends around him day in and day out? Does fear get the better of him? Do military orders over-ride his compassion? Let us say that every bullet fired up to then had been accompanied by no undue emotion, but out of the moral confusion of the situation that last bullet was fired with a livid access of instantaneous hatred: karma arises. Real life situations are like this — commonplace until that one moment where the sum total of what one is is called into question, and one's action then stays with one for the rest of one's life, or, if one believes in reincarnation, for many lives. This is why, I believe, that Krishna, having been unable to prevent the war, goes for it whole-heartedly: war always was the ultimate test of a human being, and it was in Krishna's character to be a provoker of situations. The urgency of any life or death situation lays bare an individual in the intensity of the moment: there is no time to think or dissemble. However I would add that it is probably no longer acceptable to see war in these terms, for the simple reason that technology has made it a matter of too much destruction — even for Krishna I think. The pilot of the Enola Gay was doing his job, as Krishna exhorted Arjuna to do, but there was nothing immediate about the situation either for the pilot or for the victims of the bomb, and the karmic ramifications remain unfathomable. 
Karma is a useful concept, but at the end of the day it is a mechanical one, like the theory of gravitation. It may be the engine behind the drama of the universe, but any deeper knowledge of it must belong to the realms of the occult, as does the idea of the 'Akashic records', for example. Karma's relevance to Indian mysticism lies in the idea that liberation not only involves not being reborn, but that an individual's karma must somehow 'balance' or be pure before enlightenment is possible. Although reincarnation in terms of Pure Consciousness Mysticism may be a way of introducing the eternal, it is ultimately irrelevant however because PCM stresses the eternal now.
Let us return from this digression to the Gita. Krishna's argument develops, saying that there is no greater good for a member of the warrior caste than to fight in a righteous war: not to fight would be dishonour. If he dies he is glorious in heaven, if he lives he is glorious on earth. Krishna then proposes one of the central themes of the Gita: that salvation lies in carrying out the work one's life leads one to, without attachment to the outcome. Arjuna's whole life leads to this point: he is a soldier, and to abandon his duty at this point is to attach significance to the outcome (i.e. the deaths of his friends and relatives), and it is for life as a whole to determine the outcome. Arjuna should set his heart on the work, in the way that any tradesman does for example, but not on its reward. Wisdom and peace lies in surrendering the fruits of work, but to work nevertheless.
Arjuna then asks what is the work of the man of wisdom, and what is his peace; Krishna then gets deeper into his exposition: work for its own sake and not for its reward are to do with desirelessness. Peace is freedom from the violence of the senses; desires arise from pleasures of the senses. Much of the widely varying interpretations of the Gita now depend on the reading of Krishna's subtle and lengthy explanations of these ideas. At one extreme one can take Krishna to be advocating 'holy works' (though this doesn't quite square to our modern sensibilities concerning the killing of relatives and teachers) and a life of religious convention: chastity, poverty and obedience, and at the other extreme to be advocating a secular life where all acts are rendered sacred through an inner transforming discipline.
In chapter three Arjuna then asks the obvious question: if Krishna values wisdom and peace (or understanding or vision in the various translations) above acts, why does he insist on Arjuna pursuing the war? Krishna now expands on the differences between a holy, or consecrated action, and renunciation of action. 

9	The world is in the bonds of action, unless the action is consecration. Let thy actions then be pure, free from the bonds of desire.
10	Thus spoke the Lord of Creation when he made both man and sacrifice: 'By sacrifice thou shalt multiply and obtain all thy desires.
11	By sacrifice shalt thou honour the gods and the gods will then love thee. And thus in harmony with them shalt thou attain the supreme good.
12 	For pleased with thy sacrifice, the gods will grant to thee the joy of all thy desires. Only a thief would enjoy their gifts and not offer them in sacrifice'.
13	Holy men who take as food the remains of sacrifice become free from all their sins; but the unholy who have feasts for themselves eat food that is in truth sin.
14	Food is the life of all beings, and all food comes from rain above. Sacrifice brings the rain from heaven, and sacrifice is sacred action.
15	Sacred action is described in the Vedas and these come from the Eternal, and therefore is the Eternal everpresent in sacrifice.
16	Thus was the Wheel of the Law set in motion, and that man lives indeed in vain who in sinful life of pleasures helps not in its revolutions.
17	But the man who has found joy of the Spirit and in the Spirit has satisfaction, who in the Spirit has found peace, that man is beyond the law of action.
18	He is beyond what is done and beyond what is not done, and in all his works he is beyond the help of mortal beings.
19	In liberty from the bonds of attachment, do thou therefore the work to be done: for the man whose work is pure attains indeed the Supreme.			(page 57)

In the previous extract Krishna was describing the principle of reincarnation in straightforward terms, that is with little reference to exclusively Hindu concepts, but in this extract he is talking about consecrated action in terms that are culturally dependent. He introduces a Lord of Creation, and makes references to specific practices of consecration described in the Vedas, which are unique to the religion of Hinduism. It is the job of the PCM critique to subtract out such cultural and religious superstructures in the expression of universals, in this case the universal theme of consecration. In PCM terminology there are no gods or a single God, so consecration is to be seen in terms of disinterestedness and devotion. The disinterestedness springs clearly from the extract and requires no religious background to understand: by acting in a disinterested but committed way, one removes the bitterness of failure and the intoxication of triumph and retains the tranquillity necessary for pure consciousness. How do we relate the devotional aspect of consecration to PCM however? Devotion is a central theme in the Gita, and is emphasised by many mystics — indeed it is often an obvious part of their orientation towards ultimate reality. It is a complex issue however, partly because other mystics place little emphasis on it, or expressly forbid the expression of devotion towards themselves, and partly because of this very confusion: is the devotion towards the person of the mystic or to what they represent? This question will be dealt with in greater depth later, as other devotional aspects of the Gita reveal themselves.
Krishna is adamant that by merely refraining from action one is not free from it, firstly because one may dwell on the pleasures of action mentally, and secondly because in a profound sense one cannot live without action: even the life of the body would not be there without action. It is the inner space from which action comes that leads to bondage or freedom: Krishna repeats that it is attachment to the action and its outcomes that is bondage. By removing selfish desires from the action it becomes pure and leaves the individual in peace and inner freedom.
This is very difficult: Arjuna is about to enter battle, both as a commander and as a warrior in his own right; he will initiate killings, and he will personally kill, and in the thick of battle any of his kinsmen, friends, or teachers may appear in front of him. How can he be at peace in his actions? How can he consecrate these actions? How can he avoid the kind of karmic consequences described earlier in connection with our imaginary soldier? The war is just; his enemies are making false claims on the kingdom but nevertheless Krishna is asking Arjuna to virtually destroy the world that produced him. Krishna then says that if your aim in any action is the good of all, then your acts are consecrated. He goes on to talk about himself, a brief outline that he later expands on.

22	I have no work to do in all the worlds, Arjuna — for these are mine. I have nothing to obtain, because I have all. Yet I work.
23	If I was not bound to action, never-tiring, everlastingly, men that follow many paths would follow my path of inaction.
24	If ever my work had an end, these worlds would end in destruction, confusion would reign within all: this would be the death of all beings.			(page 58)

In this statement Krishna ceases to be what we recognise as a man, and speaks as God. Few mystics are bold enough to speak like this, though some are explicit about their identity with God, for example Mansur al-Hallaj who was executed for it after ten years in prison in Baghdad. When Krishna says that all the worlds are his is this a supernatural statement (which means in PCM either occult or fantasy), or is it a way of expressing the unitive state that many mystics describe? Many other mystics also say that they have nothing to obtain because they have all, but does that just mean low expectations? Or do they know the same truth as Krishna, but usually put in a less colourful way? We will reflect on this throughout the book, but let us note for now that Krishna adds to what mystics say in a very important way: he has all, and yet he works. What's more he claims that if he did not work, the universe itself would fall apart. Can we test such a statement in our own lives? Yes, I would say, if I ceased to do anything I would become ill, and my universe would fall apart, and I would land up on a drip in hospital, and eventually die, and with it the universe. This is not the same, one can say, as the universe coming to an end! This is just a bit of verbal trickery. No, I would reply, but we will look at the implications of this later.
Krishna leaves this theme for now and says that the wise do not disturb the unwise with these ideas, but rather, shows by example, working for the good of all. The wise man sees how some forces of Nature act on other forces of Nature, and becomes not their slave. This is another important part of the teachings in the Gita: everything, including oneself as body, thought and emotion, is under the forces of Nature, and interact with other forces of Nature. From some vantage point where the forces of Nature do not act, it is possible to stand back and watch nature act out its drama, even through the violence of the battlefield. What separates Arjuna and Krishna is that Krishna has this vantage point, has made his home there, and Arjuna lacks it; Krishna is using Arjuna's crisis to lead him there: the outcome of whether he fights or not is immaterial. Krishna stresses that even the wise man is under the impulse of his own nature, so what use is restraint? Arjuna should do his duty, and to realise that to die in one's duty is life, whereas to live another's is death. Duty is probably not the best word to use here as it implies an obligation to some human, local, secular authority: Krishna means something more than this, something deeper, something related to the growth of an individual to their unique potential, unique flowering.
Arjuna questions Krishna again: what is it that drives one to act unwisely, even if unwillingly? Krishna now tries to subtly unpick the issue of desire: desires are part of the forces of Nature, even in the wise; to renounce desire is a desire in itself — yet somehow desire is at the root of the problem, at the root of suffering. He starts off by saying that the problem is greedy desire, a desire that somehow has found a place in the senses, blinding the soul and reason. Krishna instructs Arjuna to set the senses in harmony, and to defeat sinful desire, and gives this clue as to how to do it: greater than the senses is the mind, greater than the mind is reason, and greater than reason is He — the Spirit in man and in all. Does this make any sense? Krishna is appealing to an ultimate principle to harmonise the senses, by which perhaps he means to bring the desires that relate to each individual sense into harmony with life as a whole. Centuries of argument and dispute; many volumes on the subject; a range of opinions; you will find every shade of view on this from the extreme ascetic who deadens the senses, withdraws from objects of desire (objects of desire in Indian religions are summarised traditionally as 'women and gold'; nothing is said of what women desire!), to the Tantric yogi who practices ritual sex.
Krishna finishes this section by saying to Arjuna: 

43	Know Him therefore who is above reason; and let his peace give thee peace. Be a warrior and kill desire, the powerful enemy of the soul.		(page 60)

This first part of this emphasises again that Arjuna should find the part of himself above and beyond himself. This is the same baffling advice from a thousand mystics, using a thousand metaphors! Sometimes one 'gets' it and later it is lost again; in the searching it retreats further away, and then suddenly it is with one again. One might sit at the feet of the mystic for weeks and find it nowhere; go and work in the kitchens for a day, and it is with one. It is the same with the Gita or any other work of that nature: one can read it for months and not 'get it'; later one can pick it up, read a paragraph at random, and be transformed. The second part of this statement, 'kill desire' is what leads many to treat the Gita as metaphorical: the battle for Arjuna is between good and evil. Krishna knows the subtlety of it all so he continues on another tack: he returns to reincarnation.
In chapter four Krishna tells Arjuna that he revealed the sacred wisdom to the most ancient of ancestors (he actually talks about the sun, symbolically father of all beings). Jesus also claims to precede his Jewish ancestors: 'In very truth I tell you, before Abraham was born, I am'. Krishna says that the teachings were passed on from father to son in ancient times, but are lost in the revolutions of time and he is revealing it again to Arjuna because he loves him and is his friend. This is one of the appealing parts of the Gita: Arjuna is put in the role of a disciple of Krishna, and it seems at times a rather recalcitrant one, but Krishna talks of him as a friend: this friendship (and it is a very special type of friendship) is almost unknown in the world today. Much damage has been done to this special friendship, and in the West particularly the concept is tainted with scepticism — stories of Gurus, Masters, Acolytes, all of whom are seen as part of a warped power-structure that ends in tragedies such as Jonestown and Waco. But, to return to the Gita: Arjuna questions him on this; how could he have revealed it to the ancients when his birth is more recent? Again Arjuna forgets reincarnation, one of the central religious principles of his culture, again showing that no aspects of ultimate reality can be taught as dry knowledge; one has to know it. Krishna reminds Arjuna then that both of them have been born many times, though only Krishna remembers his previous lives. 
We now have another clue as to Krishna's nature: is it a special one, or is he born and reborn like everyone else? Is Krishna radically and fundamentally a different type of being to Arjuna or is it just that he is more aware of his previous existences? More identified with the whole than the part? Krishna now spells out that he is the Source of All, and that he comes into being (as a man) when righteousness is weak, for the fulfilment of righteousness. On the surface of it Krishna is saying that he is God, that he is different to Arjuna. Looking ahead to one of Nietzsche's memorable phrases, he says: "if there were gods how could I endure not to be one. Therefore there are no gods" — and he is right to say this! For the theistic mystic the journey is more a case of: "if there is God, I want to be Him", though usually put more modestly: "if there is God, then I seek union with Him". However, to claim memories of past lives is not to claim godhood, as countless individuals both in the East and West have such memories, or can gain access to them with little difficulty. (Approximately one-third of the population are susceptible to hypnotism; approximately one-third of the population claim religious experiences of some sort; I would guess that probably one-third of the population could gain access to memories of past lives, if motivated.) Krishna's contention that he returns when 'righteousness is weak' is also debatable: despite the story about Chaitanya there is no general consensus amongst Hindus that Krishna returns periodically (either as an incarnation of Vishnu, or as 'himself'), or that his life was entirely devoted to restoring 'righteousness' in the first place. It was mentioned before that his later conduct in the war seems far from righteous, and it is also worth pointing out that there is nothing essentially new in his teachings: what we are looking at in the Gita is more of a unique encounter than a unique teaching. We will return to these issues later.
Krishna continues to urge Arjuna's devotion to wisdom (through devotion to the ultimate in Krishna). He who has penetrated the mystery of Krishna's birth comes to wisdom and is born no more. He returns to the theme of disinterested work, and other ways of consecrating one's actions, including the discipline of Pranayama (breath control). One of these paths is devotion to him, Krishna. This is hard to imagine in some ways: you ask your friend Krishna who is your brother-in-law and friend of many years to drive your chariot to the battle-line; he insists that you should fight, and then reveals that he is God, and that your salvation can come through devotion to him. This is not an ordinary moment in someone's life!  
In this chapter we also have the first introduction in the Gita to the theme of silence, which we shall return to later:

17	Know therefore what is work, and also know what is wrong work. And know also of a work that is silence: mysterious is the path of work.
18	The man who in his work finds silence, and who sees that silence is work, this man in truth sees the Light and in all his works finds peace.			(page 62)

Krishna finishes chapter four by again urging Arjuna to conquer his doubts with the sword of wisdom and to arise (and fight), giving more ammunition to those wanting to treat the Gita metaphorically.
In chapter five Arjuna stubbornly continues to ask Krishna questions (thankfully, or the Gita would have been cut very short!) He asks again which is the better, the path of renunciation or holy work, saying that Krishna praises both. Does he praise renunciation? This really is the crux of the Gita. I don't think that Krishna is praising renunciation, in the sense of walking away from friends, loves, occupations, ordinary pleasures; we may remember that Chaitanya's devotee also seemed to make the distinction between Chaitanya as a renunciate and Chaitanya as Krishna (a non-renunciate). That Arjuna understands renunciation as Krishna's message is just the problem that we all have in getting at Krishna's meaning, and Krishna's problem in explaining it. It doesn't get much clearer in the following section: in some sense I think Krishna is talking about something else, something indefinable. One renounces in some ways but one doesn't in other ways; one surrenders the attachment to ones works, but doesn't surrender one's work; but the goal is renunciation, on the other hand it isn't. The following passage indicates how Krishna suggests that one relates to the varied activities that make up work:

8/9	'I am not doing any work', thinks the man who is in harmony, who sees the truth. For in seeing or hearing, smelling or touching, in eating or walking, or sleeping, or breathing, in talking or grasping or relaxing, and even in opening or closing his eyes, he remembers: 'It is the servants of my soul that are working.'					(page 66)

In a later passage he indicates a crucial component of the disinterestedness at the core of the mystic's world-view: love. This may be hard to understand if one's experiences of love are the sort that leads to possessiveness, but it is also love that is at the heart of the mystic expansion, mystic union, and mystic embraciveness:

18	With the same evenness of love they behold a Brahmin who is learned and holy, or a cow, or an elephant, or a dog, or even the man who eats a dog.		(page 67)

A little cultural background is required here: a man who eats a dog is doubly beyond the pale, or outcast, because Hindus regard all forms of meat-eating as unholy, and a dog especially so (as it would be in the West). The inclusion of the man who eats a dog is a recognition of the Tantric or left-handed path to enlightenment; even today, the adepts of certain Tantric sects are required to live in unclean places (such as burial grounds) and eat otherwise forbidden food. The important part of this passage, is not however the inclusion of what Hindus regard as unclean, but the evenness of love characteristic of those who orient themselves to the infinite and immortal.
In chapter six of the Gita Krishna recommends for the first time the practice of meditation. Like many other terms general to mysticism, and also terms specific to Indian thought like Atman and Brahman, the term meditation carries many meanings and implications. Just as there is no intention here to become too worried about the precise meaning of either the technical terms like Atman and Brahman, or of words in general currency like spirit and soul, there is no intention to pin down the word meditation. However, because of the external aspects of meditation, we can see clearly that this is what Krishna is recommending.

10	Day after day, let the Yogi practice the harmony of soul: in a secret place, in deep solitude, master of his mind, hoping for nothing, desiring nothing.
11	Let him find a place that is pure and a seat that is restful, neither too high nor too low, with sacred grass and a skin and a cloth thereon.
12 	On that seat let him rest and practice Yoga for the purification of the soul: with the life of his body and mind in peace; his soul in silence before the One.
13	With upright body, head, and neck, which rest still and move not; with inner gaze which is not restless, but rests still between the eye-brows;
14	With soul in peace, and all fear gone, and strong in the vow of holiness, let him rest with mind in harmony, his soul on me, his God supreme.
15 	The Yogi who, lord of his mind, every prays in this harmony of soul, attains the peace of Nirvana, the peace supreme that is in me.				(page 70)

This passage is typical of the density of the Gita; so many issues arise in just a few verses. Krishna is repeating an inventory of Indian wisdom in his teachings to Arjuna, most of which would have already been familiar to the great warrior. However, to hear these teaching from childhood, as we have all heard the teachings of our own traditions from childhood, is rarely useful, more often merely deadening — it takes a Krishna to bring life to them. In this section we have to subtract out the specifically Hindu, so we can leave aside the issue as to what a Yogi is (we can take him to be an aspirant), and also the traditional accoutrements, the sacred grass and skin. We can also leave for now the reference to the One, and to God, as different translators choose different terms, and leave out holiness which others translate as celibacy (brahmacharya). This is at its simplest a description of a specific meditation, with two key elements; firstly that the aspirant is to meditate 'on' or perhaps 'through' the person of Krishna, and that the goal is nirvana (or beyond nirvana in other translations). The recommendation to meditate tells us little about Krishna's being however (as we have no indication that he practices any form of meditation), which reminds us that a mystic's pedagogy is often not the same as his reality.
Krishna has mentioned inner peace, and now expands on another critical teaching in mysticism: let the mind be in silence. Once the mind is in silence ultimate reality is there, inexpressible, overwhelming, ordinary. The Zen teachers have emphasised this to the exclusion of all else, and call it no-mind: Krishna has talked about devotion, now he comes to awareness as the second path to no-mind. The Hindu religion is as steeped in 'silence of the mind' as it is in devotion and reincarnation, so Arjuna is quick to put to him the age-old question: my mind is restless, what should I do? This is typical of even contemporary Indian society: whereas stock religious questions in a Christian context may revolve around moral and theological issues, a stock religious question in India (often asked with little passion and the answer received with even less) is: how do I still the mind? The West has no tradition of silence of the mind, an issue that deserves a more detailed analysis than space allows for here. We note however that C.G.Jung made two interesting points in connection with this aspect Indian philosophy; firstly how Indians seemed to 'observe' their thoughts rather than think them, and secondly he commented that the concept of nirvana was for him one of amputation. We can only ask why one of the greatest Western thinkers of the 20th century could be so unsophisticated about the role of thought, and briefly suggest that perhaps thought has been proved so 'successful' in the West that to challenge its privileging is as absurd as to challenge 'health'. This theme will be taken up later. Let us first see a fragment of the debate on silence between Krishna and Arjuna:

					ARJUNA
33	Thou hast told me of a Yoga of constant oneness, O Krishna, of a communion which is ever one. But, Krishna, the mind is inconstant: in its restlessness I cannot find rest.
34	The mind is restless, Krishna, impetuous, self-willed, hard to train: to master the mind seems as difficult as to master the mighty winds.

					KRISHNA
35	The mind is indeed restless, Arjuna: it is indeed hard to train. But by constant practice and by freedom from passions the mind in truth can be trained.
36	When the mind is not in harmony, this divine communion is hard to attain; but the man whose mind is in harmony attains it, if he knows and if he strives.		(page 72)

Krishna in essence merely responds: try with all your heart. And if I fail in this lifetime? You will be born again, but into better circumstances, perhaps even into the family of holy persons. This is a common theme in Buddhism: to carry out good works in order to earn the good karma of a propitious birth. In the Tibetan Book of the Dead all efforts are made to instruct the dying person to avoid incarnation, but the last prayer where all this has failed is for birth to couples of purity — an idea supported by an examination of the parents of many mystics in whom we find a pattern of spirituality or devoutness.
In chapter 7 Krishna speaks of how Arjuna is to have the full vision of him; how Krishna should be his refuge supreme. Krishna starts to explain his nature to Arjuna in more detail as the Source of All. It becomes harder now to maintain that Krishna is against desire, and in favour of renunciation, because why should he extol the characteristics of intelligence, beauty and power when these are synonymous for renunciates of the very source of worldly corruption? (In fact in extreme cases of renunciation we find the self-willed destruction of exactly these three things: intelligence, beauty and power.) This is what Krishna says:

4	The visible forms of my nature are eight: earth, water, fire, air, ether; the mind, reason, and the sense of 'I'.
5	But beyond my visible nature is my invisible Spirit. This is the fountain of life whereby this universe has its being.
6	All things have their life in this Life, and I am their beginning and end.
7	In this whole vast universe there is nothing higher than I. All the worlds have their rest in me, as many pearls upon a string.
8	I am the taste of living waters and the light of the sun and the moon I am OM, the sacred word of the Vedas, sound in silence, heroism in men.
9	I am the pure fragrance that comes from the earth and the brightness of fire I am. I am the life of all living beings, and the austere life of those who train their souls.
10	And I am everlasting the seed of eternal life. I am the intelligence of the intelligent. I am the beauty of the beautiful.
11	I am the power of those who are strong, when this power is free from passions and selfish desires. I am desire when this is pure, when this desire is not against righteousness.
									(pages 74 - 75)

This section amplifies Krishna's earlier description of himself, but is only a foretaste of a later eulogy on his own nature. In this chapter Krishna adds another ingredient to the pot of ideas concerning his nature — a possible clue to the distinction between Krishna and the gods: 

19	At the end of many lives the man of vision comes to me. 'God is all' this great man says. Such a spirit sublime how rarely is he found!
20	Men whose desires have clouded their vision, give their love to other gods, and led by their selfish nature, follow many other paths.
21	For if a man desires with faith to adore this or that god, I give faith unto that man, a faith that is firm and moves not.
22	And when this man, full of faith, goes and adores that god, from him he attains his desires; but whatever is good comes from me.
23	But these are men of little wisdom, and the good they want has an end. Those who love the gods go to the gods: but those who love me come unto me.		(pages 75 - 76)

Those who love the gods go to the gods: but those who love me come unto me. This is an important statement: in PCM gods in the plural exist only as symbols, as objects of symbolic devotion, and as such can only limit devotion by representing aspects of the infinite and eternal. Krishna on the other hand represents the totality for Arjuna, and at the same time is it for himself, but is also generous: if a man worships a god then Krishna gives him faith; from the god the man attains his desires but from Krishna what is good. And what is good? The infinite and eternal.
In chapter eight of the Gita Arjuna asks Krishna to explain the meanings of Brahman, Atman and Karma, showing again that he needs Krishna to breath life into these ancient concepts, to make them real for him. What is unusual in Indian scripture about Krishna's reply is not that he gives a radically new interpretation of the terms, but that he places himself at the centre of the exposition. A Christian equivalent might be a mediaeval knight asking his spiritual mentor to explain the virgin birth, the resurrection and the holy trinity, and receiving the reply that his mentor encompassed all these things and was the path to their realisation.
Krishna also describes the implications of success or failure on the path:

23	Hear now of a time of light when Yogis go to eternal Life; and hear of a time of darkness when they return to death on earth.
24 	If they depart in the flame, the light, the day, the bright weeks of the moon and the months of increasing light of the sun, those who know Brahman go unto Brahman.
25	 If they depart in the smoke, the night, the dark weeks of the moon and the months of decreasing days of the sun, they enter the lunar light, and return to the world of death.
26	These are the two paths that are for ever: the path of light and the path of darkness. The one leads to the land of never-returning: the other returns to sorrow.	(page 79)

All the metaphors in this passage relate to love or its absence, and it stresses a well-known part of Indian religious thought already mentioned: that the fully realised person does not return, is not reborn. Remember that as far as PCM goes this is an irrelevance, as only one's present reality counts. However it is worth noting that Krishna previously stated that he returns from time to time, so one has to ask why non-return should be praised so highly (we will return to this issue).
In chapter nine Krishna expands further on his nature.

4	All this visible universe comes from my invisible Being. All beings have their rest in me, but I have not my rest in them.
5	And in truth they rest not in me: consider my sacred mystery. I am the source of all beings, I support them all, but I rest not in them.
6	Even as the mighty winds rest in the vastness of the ethereal space all beings have their rest in me. Know thou this truth.
7	A the end of the night of time all things return to my nature; and when the new day of time begins I bring them again into light.
8	Thus through my nature I bring forth all creation, and this rolls round in the circles of time.
9	But I am not bound by this vast work of creation. I am and I watch the drama of works.
									(page 80)

Note that Krishna contradicts himself in verse 5 above, saying previously that all things have their rest in him and now saying that they do not. Van Buitenen explains this by saying that as 'an order of being completely transcendent to the creatures' Krishna is not summed up by them (the manifest world). PCM takes a subtly different line: as a (human) being Krishna is summed up by the manifest, but as the infinite and eternal, he is not any kind of being at all — he is the unmanifest pure and simple. This distinction is explored in more detail later, but for now the point can be made that there is no need for Krishna to be of any kind of transcendent order, or at least not any more than any other person: he is merely able to shift his identity to the whole.
In this chapter Krishna also reiterates the previous point about the gods:

25	For those who worship the gods go to the gods, and those who worship the fathers go to the fathers. Those who worship the lower spirits go to the lower spirits; but those who worship me come unto me.							(page 82)

PCM does not say anything about the objective existence of the gods or spirits of any kind, neither denying Rudolf Steiner his panoply of disembodied spirits, or to the less sophisticated the reality of their ancestors as spirits (as with Jung). Whatever reality they have, and in Krishna's time they were very real to many people, Krishna is saying that they represent a lesser truth. 
In chapter ten Krishna enters into the great eulogy on his nature, enumerating natural phenomena and how he is the source of each. Krishna describes all of Nature as emanating from himself, and all the human qualities as emanating from himself, though significantly all the best qualities. Arjuna, perhaps realising that this is a never-to-be-repeated moment in his life (or in the life of any aspirant), asks him to go on, even though there seems to be nothing more that Krishna could possibly add:

					ARJUNA
18	Speak to me again in full of they power and of they glory, for I am never tired, never of hearing thy words of life.

					KRISHNA
19	Listen and I shall reveal to thee some manifestations of my divine glory. Only the greatest, Arjuna, for there is no end to my infinite greatness.
20	I am the soul, prince victorious, which dwells in the heart of all things. I am the beginning, the middle, and the end of all that lives.
21	Among the sons of light I am Vishnu, and of luminaries the radiant sun. I am the lord of the winds and storms, and of the lights in the night I am the moon.
22	Of the Vedas I am the Veda of songs, and I am Indra, the chief of the gods. Above the man's senses I am the mind, and in all living beings I am the light of consciousness.
								(pages 85 - 86)

Krishna continues in this vein. He identifies himself with elements of traditional Hindu culture like Vishnu and the Vedas and Indra, and with universals like mind and consciousness. There is no system in this exposition, it is poetry, and can be considered to work on Arjuna more in the sense of a hypnotism than a teaching. Mystics are often condemned for the hypnotic powers of their rhetoric, and this is a natural fear because great manipulators and dictators use similar techniques. Arjuna is more like a son however and loves to hear the words of Krishna as from a father, the precise meanings of which rank second to the vision behind them:

36	I am the cleverness in the gambler's dice. I am the beauty of all things beautiful. I am victory and the struggle for victory. I am the goodness of those who are good.
37 	Of the children of Vrishni I am Krishna; and of the sons of Pandu I am Arjuna. Among the seers in silence I am Vyasa; and among poets the poet Usana.
								(page 87)

These verses are especially poignant for Arjuna — the reference to gambling must strike at his heart, because the war they are about to embark on has come about through the reckless gambling of his family, engendering the struggle for victory and the victory itself, though at this point whose is unknown. Krishna also says that he is Arjuna. Arjuna is not offended, because he is not concerned with the logic of it, but we can only be astonished, for out of all the challenges to one's identity posed by the Gita this is the most direct: how can one person say that they are another? Krishna goes on to finish this section with:

42	But of what help is it to thee to know this diversity? Know that with one single fraction of my Being I pervade and support the Universe, and know that I AM.
								(page 88)
	
Arjuna begs him to go on as his divine words touch his depths, and finally asks him to show him his ultimate reality directly. Arjuna wants to see, to know, for himself. 
At this point Arjuna is no longer listening to the words of his friend; something happens to him. This may be the moment of transmission, where the teacher actually reaches his disciple and he begins to apprehend the infinite, and is presented in vivid imagery. Whether this is the imagery of centuries of elaboration by unknown scholars, or whether Arjuna saw it as written does not matter much: the lives of the mystics are full of visions whose contents can easily be questioned: why does Julian of Norwich see Christ; why does Ramakrishna see Kali? Arjuna sees the divine nature of Krishna as the blinding sun, as the stars, as rushing torrents, as a host of gods — all images of immense power and mystery, and in an echo of the event in Krishna's childhood where his adoptive mother saw the sun and the stars in his mouth. 

					ARJUNA
4	If thou thinkest, O my Lord, that it can be seen by me, show me, O God of Yoga, the glory of thine own Supreme Being.

					KRISHNA
5	By hundreds and then by thousands, behold, Arjuna, my manifold celestial forms of innumerable shapes and colours.
6	Behold the gods of the sun, and those of fire and light; the gods of storm and lightening, and the two luminous charioteers of heaven. Behold, descendent of Bharata marvels never seen before.
7	See now the whole universe with all things that move and move not, and whatever thy soul may yearn to see. See it all as One in me.
8	But thou never canst see me with these thy mortal eyes: I will give thee divine sight. Behold my wonder and glory.
					SANJAYA
9	When Krishna, the God of Yoga, had thus spoken, O king, he appeared then to Arjuna in his supreme divine form.
10	And Arjuna saw in that form countless visions of wonder: eyes from innumerable faces, numerous celestial ornaments, numberless heavenly weapons;
11	Celestial garlands and vestures, forms anointed with heavenly perfumes. The Infinite Divinity was facing all sides, all marvels in him containing.
12	If the light of a thousand suns suddenly arose in the sky, that splendour might be compared to the radiance of the Supreme Spirit.
13 	And Arjuna saw in that radiance the whole universe in its variety, standing in a vast unity in the body of the God of gods.					(pages 89 - 90)

I mentioned earlier a capacity that I have for a similar sort vision (though I could be quite wrong about its similarity), and bring it up again, not to diminish the power of this passage, but to de-mythologise it. We will see later how the infinite is highly accessible to anyone, without the privileging of any unusual experiences, but for now I want to propose that sometimes the first intimations of it can be accompanied by the kind of imagery in the above passages. It is probable that a sudden encounter with the infinite stimulates the imagination in this way, though we can find examples of mystics where this is totally absent. Note that the imagination has an important role in PCM, though not in the usual sense of the word (this is developed later in the book). The important point is that Arjuna's visions of Krishna, though highly expressive of the infinite, do not necessarily indicate a special status for Krishna.
However we choose to understand it there is no doubt that it is a transforming moment for Arjuna, and he praises the ultimate in Krishna, and even apologises for treating him as 'merely' a friend: 

40	Adoration unto thee who art before me and behind me: adoration unto thee who art on all sides, God of all. All-powerful God of immeasurable might. Thou art the consummation of all: thou art all.
41	If in careless presumption, or even in friendliness, I said 'Krishna! Son of Yadu! My friend!'; this I did unconscious of thy greatness.
42	And if in irreverence I was disrespectful — when alone or with others — and made a jest of thee at games, or resting, or at a feast, forgive me in they mercy, O thou Immeasurable!
									(page 93)

The Teacher, whoever he or she is, has that effect: one may know them as friend, but when confronted with the immensity that they have access to one is humbled. We cannot assume however that Arjuna addresses Krishna as 'God' in the above passage: van Buitenen's translation just gives 'All'.
There is a difference between this vision, and the ones of Julian and Ramakrishna mentioned above: this is a vision induced by the teacher. This is probably the wrong word, however, as most accounts suggest more a process of empathy where the disciple falls into an appropriate mental frame because the master is in that frame. Arjuna would not have had such a vision on his own, but cases like this are rare in the history of mysticism, perhaps because transmission generally is rare: more individuals come to the ultimate more-or-less on their own than through a teacher or guru. They may also be rarely recorded because it is such an intimate moment. The episode between Chaitanya and his devotee mentioned previously is of the same kind of intimacy, and Chaitanya insisted that it stay a secret. Luckily for us it did not, though our problem is to try and understand it.
After the vision dies away for Arjuna he asks Krishna: should he worship Krishna as embodiment of the Transcendent, or should he worship the Transcendent directly? Krishna's answer, for his friend, and for that era, was: it is harder for a man to reach the Transcendent directly. It is inevitable that Krishna says this, because his life-long experience would be that people change in contact with him: a person who lives in the infinite and eternal inevitably affects the orientation of those around them. We only know in detail of the impact he had on Arjuna, but he must have affected others; however with Krishna we have a mystic who appears to have mainly adopted the life of a lay person (admittedly the rather exclusive one of a prince) and not that of a preacher. 
  Another way to look at Arjuna's experience is in terms of expansion and contraction, terms which are used by the Sufis to describe the states of an adept. A Sufi saint called Bayazid said "The contraction of the heart lies in the expansion of the ego, while the expansion of the heart lies in the ego's contraction." Both states are gifts of God (the 'Beloved' in Sufi terms). A student on the Sufi path will experience contraction and expansion as alternating, but in each expansion there is the possibility of a further widening: eventually to become one with the Beloved. Arjuna experiences for a moment what it is to expand to the point of being the universe; Krishna is permanently in this state, (though we need to examine in more detail what this means). In ordinary life we know this rhythm; in its extreme it is a manic-depressive condition, but ordinary events expand or contract one: a pay rise, praise and success, falling in love, seeing one's football team win, or one's country do well at the Olympics, a sense of elevation from music or painting or drama or comedy: all these expand one. The feeling when blamed for something, on losing something, on losing one's job, and in the extreme the death of someone close: all these shrink one. The Sufi poet Rumi consoles his reader on the inevitable contraction that comes with expansion:

When contraction comes to you O traveller,
It comes for your own well-being — do not despair!
For in expansion and joy you keep on expending,
But expenditure requires an income for stocking provisions.
If it were always the season of summer,
The heat of the sun would set upon the garden
And burn up its beds to the very roots.
That ancient place would never be green again.
Although December's face is sour, it is kind.
Summer laughs, but also burns.
When contraction comes, behold expansion with it!
Be fresh and do not throw wrinkles upon your brow!
				(from the Mathnavi) 

How do we relate this to Krishna? Has the sun burnt up the roots of his being, so that he is in a permanent state of expansion? I think not: the expansion that Krishna shows Arjuna is not a question of holding on to some exalted state, for as Rumi says, this expenditure would deplete one. It is more a recognition that in the depths of one's being one is all of that — or in the words of the Upanishads "thou art that". The pain of contraction, or loss of the 'Beloved', will accompany every phase of expansion, teaching one in the end that the real expansion is not a process of elevation, but a shift of identity. For the Sufis, contraction and expansion is an intermediate state.
At the end of the Gita Arjuna is eventually lifted in spirits, and rises up to fight. The story continues in the Mahabharata, and the scene that we just witnessed is lost in mythology and epic adventures. What is not commented on unfortunately is any change in Arjuna beyond the recovery of his will to fight. If we can assume that Arjuna had what is often referred to as a mystical experience (one in which he loses his normal boundaries and gains access for a brief moment to the infinite and eternal) we can also see that we know of no permanent change in his orientation (although the one often leads to the other, it cannot be assumed). What we do know is that he sees Krishna in a new light, and this in itself is promising — what is more important to us however is an understanding of Krishna.

1.3 Alternative Readings of the Gita

Before considering in more detail the personhood of Krishna that we can extrapolate from our analysis of the Gita we shall consider some other interpretations, and also look at more recent mystics who appear to speak like Krishna. Firstly some commentaries on the Gita are worth mentioning, in particular two early and influential ones—the first by Sankara, and the second by Ramanuja. Sankara's commentary derives from his position as India's great non-dualist, emphasising renunciation and a direct approach to the Imperishable. Ramanuja, exponent of 'modified' non-dualism, is more devotional in his treatment of the Gita. An emphasis on devotion inevitably leads to a qualified non-dualism: although the aspirant may be instructed that the object of devotion is not separate from the devotee in principle, some separation has to creep into the language in order for the necessary humility and opening to devotional love. (We note in this context that Krishna is free to adopt a non-dual position by stating his identity with Arjuna, whereas Arjuna at no point can say the same about Krishna.) It is probably fair to say of both of these influential commentaries of Sankara and Ramanuja that renunciation is stressed more than in the Gita itself, perhaps also as a result of the devastation of the great war it presages. Whatever the reasons, the principle of renunciation seems to increase its grip on the Indian religious imagination, from its mild form in the Upanishads to extremes still apparent in modern times, and perhaps exemplified in the life of Mahatma Gandhi.
Mohanadasa Karamchand Gandhi, later to be known as Mahatma ('great soul') Ghandi, was born in 1869 in India. He trained as a lawyer in England, going on to practice in South Africa, and gained an international reputation as the promoter of non-violent resistance to British rule in India. He was greatly influenced in his philosophy by the Gita, and eventually finished a Gujarati translation of it in 1929. Gandhi had considerable difficulty reconciling his principle of ahimsa (non-violence) with Krishna's message to Arjuna; despite this he felt the teachings of the Gita were what all Indians should aspire to. The following passages show some of his difficulties:

Even in 1888 - 89, when I first became acquainted with the Gita, I felt that it was not a historical work, but that, under the guise of physical warfare, it described the duel that perpetually went on in the heart of mankind, and that physical warfare was brought in merely to make the description of the internal duel more alluring.

But if the Gita believed in ahimsa, or it was included in desirelessness, why did the author take a warlike illustration? When the Gita was written, although people believed in ahimsa, wars were not only not taboo, but nobody observed the contradiction between them and ahimsa.

Gandhi is taking a moral interpretation of the Gita, a perfectly legitimate one, but much too narrow in the context of Pure Consciousness Mysticism. The characteristic of his commentary is its basis in logic: people believe in non-violence, but they go to war, therefore they are not observing the contradiction. Gandhi applied the logic of his legal training to every aspect of his life, leading to such absurdities as sleeping with young girls to test his celibacy (a logical response to the principle of renunciation). It is not the intention here to debate the pacifist stance, or to detract from Gandhi's achievements: the point is that Gandhi illustrates well what a highly intelligent person can make of a mystical text when they have no instinct for mysticism. Gandhi is touchingly honest when he is confused by the imagery of the Gita, for example with verses 24 and 25 of chapter eight (quoted earlier on page 24) where Krishna describes how men who depart in 'times of darkness'  return to 'death on earth' :

I do not understand the meaning of these two shlokas [verses]. They do not seem to me to be consistent with the teachings of the Gita. The Gita teaches that he whose heart is meek with devotion, who is devoted to unattached action and has seen the Truth must win salvation, no matter when he dies.

If one's instinct does not tell one immediately that these two verses are a poetical illustration of the state of a person at death, then there is probably little hope of penetrating the Gita. Gandhi later tells us that the Unmanifest that Arjuna asks about in verse 1 of chapter 12 is beyond us:

Mortal man can only imagine the Unmanifest, the Impersonal, and as his language fails him he often negatively describes It as 'Neti', 'Neti', (Not That, Not That). And so even iconoclasts are at bottom no better than idol-worshippers.

Gandhi's distinction between iconoclasts and idol-worshippers corresponds loosely to the distinction in PCM between the path of awareness (direct apprehension of the Unmanifest) and the path of devotion, but he rejected both, as his ideal was perfect renunciation. The reader is referred to his autobiography to see the lengths that Gandhi went to in this pursuit, quite oblivious to the picture of Krishna presented in the scriptures as renouncing absolutely nothing in his life, including warfare. Perhaps by elevating Krishna to Godhood one can avoid facing the awkward facts of his non-renunciation (see also Rajneesh's comments on Gandhi's attitude to Krishna). We do of course have examples of great mystics who were also renunciates, but Gandhi is a clear example of how renunciation in itself does not bring one to the infinite and eternal. Let us look now at two modern renunciate mystics from India: Sri Ramakrishna and Ramana Maharshi, both of whom often speak like Krishna, and, like Krishna in the Gita, use the ancient scriptures in their teachings alongside their own vision.

1.4 Ramakrishna

Some twenty-five centuries after Krishna lived one of the greatest modern mystics: Sri Ramakrishna. Like Krishna he advocated the path of devotion as being the fastest and most suitable for his contemporary age, and represents one polarity of the mystic type: one who follows the path of love, devotion, and surrender. He was an uneducated village boy, with an early love for religious festivals and observances, and for acting in religious stories, often the woman's part. As a boy he watched a flock of swans fly up from a nearby lake, and lost consciousness in the first of many religious trances. He became a priest, and was offered a place at a Kali temple built by a rich devotee, but his parents were worried by his other-worldliness (even though his mother had a premonition before his birth of his spiritual stature), and arranged a marriage for him. The marriage had little effect, for they had to wait six years before consummation could be possible, and in any case they managed to choose as spiritual a girl as it would be possible to find for him, later to become revered in her own right as a teacher. By the time that they did come to live together both were so far on the spiritual path that consummation never in fact took place. 
Romain Rolland gives an account of a formative stage in Ramakrishna's development, where his instinct for the devotional was challenged by an encounter with a formidable exponent of the path of non-dualism — a man known as Tota Puri from the Naga sect of Advaita Vedanta.

"The naked man, Tota Puri, taught me to detach my mind from all objects and to plunge it into the heart of the Atman. But despite all my efforts, I could not cross the realm of name and form and lead my spirit to the Unconditional state. I had no difficulty in detaching my mind from all objects with the one exception of the too familiar form of the radiant Mother [Kali], the essence of pure knowledge, who appeared before me as a living reality. She barred the way to the beyond. I tried on several occasions to concentrate my mind on the precepts of the Advaita Vedanta; but each time the form of the Mother intervened. I said to Tota Puri in despair: 'It is no good, I shall never succeed in lifting my spirit to the "unconditioned" state and find myself face to face with the Atman.' He replied severely: 'What! you say you cannot? You must!' Looking about him, he found a piece of glass. He took it and stuck the point between my eyes, saying: 'Concentrate your mind on that point.' Then I began to meditate with all my might, and as soon as the gracious form of the Divine Mother appeared, I used my discrimination as a sword, and I clove Her in two. The last barrier fell and my spirit immediately precipitated itself beyond the place of the 'conditioned', and I lost myself in Samadhi."
…
"The Universe was extinguished. Space itself was no more. At first the shadows of ideas floated in the obscure depths of the mind. Monotonously a feeble consciousness of the ego went on ticking. Then that stopped too. Nothing remained but Existence. The soul was lost in Self. Dualism was blotted out. Finite and Infinite space were as one. Beyond word, beyond thought, he attained Brahman."

The meeting between Ramakrishna and Tota Puri is unusual in the history of mysticism because there seems to have been a mutual transmission: Tota Puri then learned the devotional from Ramakrishna. Each in turn became master, and each in turn came to 'understand' the path of the other, though understand is too mild a word to capture what took place between them. Though each probably remained true to their basic impulse or orientation (one to what we call 'awareness' in this book — but also variously known as non-dualism, jnani yoga, knowledge and so on — and the other to devotion) their secondary realisation of the other path gave them an unusual basis from which to teach.
Ramakrishna is typical of the Indian renunciate, though his story is unique as this brief introduction has shown. Despite his realisation of non-dualism he taught devotion to the divinity Kali, and his students were allowed to express this as devotion to him; he in return delighted in the young men that come and shared his worship. He warned them against 'women and gold', and advised them to keep away from women until they were sufficiently pure for a woman to be no danger, much as a young tree is fenced around to prevent elephants damaging it, but when fully grown needs no fence. His teachings were full of these simple metaphors, part of his culture, but brought to life by the intensity of his personality and realisation.
The Gospel of Ramakrishna documents life at Dakshineswar, on the banks of the Ganges in what is now Bengal, and is a diary written by one of his devotees, modestly calling himself only 'M'. Aldous Huxley provided a foreword, calling Ramakrishna a saint, with the lucky provision of a competent reporter on his life. This is probably the first well-documented Indian mystic, and probably only because of the influence of the British in things bureaucratic, and it is a remarkable glimpse into the Hindu tradition of guru and disciple, and into life in nineteenth century India. 
The teachings of  Ramakrishna represent a mixture of via positiva and via negativa, as he urged his listeners to surrender to divine love, to God-intoxication, while renouncing the pleasures of the world. Ramakrishna was quite happy to take 'householders' as disciples, urging them only to restrain their sexual demands on their wives. Ramakrishna seems to be so genuinely beyond the sexual (he admitted somewhere that physically it simply didn't work any more), that his advice has the ring of a warm recommendation rather than of moralising. His renunciation had quite a different nature to that of Gandhi: there was no sense of struggle with himself; but on the other hand his only interest in the manifest world seemed to lie with his disciples and their potential for self-realisation.
An issue that crops up again and again in M's Gospel is whether Ramakrishna was a divine or ordinary incarnation, echoing our questions over Krishna. Ramakrishna himself offered no definitive view, though both his parents had intimations of a divine incarnation (though whether of Shiva or Vishnu is unclear). His refusal to be dogmatic is typical of the fluidity of all his thought, and his respect for all paths, shown in this quote:

"Greeting to the feet of the Jnani [seeker on the path of awareness (knowledge)]! Greeting to the feet of the Bhakta [seeker on the path of devotion]! Greeting to the devout who believe in the formless God! Greeting to those who believe in God with form! Greeting to the men of old who knew Brahman! Greeting to the modern knowers of Truth. …"

Christopher Isherwood was more certain that Ramakrishna's incarnation was special, as we see from this extract from his biography of Ramakrishna:

On August 13th, Naren [Vivekananda, discussed below] was again in Ramakrishna's room, alone. The body on the bed seemed barely alive and quite preoccupied with its pain. Could this abjectly suffering creature be an incarnation of God? 'If he would declare his divinity now, in the presence of death,' Naren said to himself, 'I'd accept it.' He was instantly ashamed of the thought and put it from his mind. For some moments he stood watching the Master's face intently. Then, slowly, Ramakrishna's lips parted and he said in a distinct voice, 'Oh Naren — aren't you convinced yet? He who was once born as Rama, and again as Krishna, is now living as Ramakrishna within this body — and not in your Vedantic sense.'
By adding 'not in your Vedantic sense' Ramakrishna was, of course, emphasizing that he did not merely mean he was essentially the Atman, as is every being and object, according to Vedanta Philosophy. Ramakrishna was explicitly declaring himself to be an avatar and an incarnation of former avatars.

Isherwood was a devotee of Ramakrishna and may have been making too much of this conversation; Ramakrishna's statement here is not typical and may have been only said for the benefit of a particular disciple.
For those seeking a justification of the perennial philosophy from a mystic, rather than from an academic, Ramakrishna is worth studying as he could see into the heart of all traditions and mystics and comment on their essential unity — from an experiential level. The initial encounter with Tota Puri, leading to his dissolving the boundaries of the devotional and the non-dual paths, became an active examination of all the traditions that he came across, including Christian and Moslem. Ramakrishna's embraciveness, present in its usual form of love and compassion for his students, was thus characterised by an additional and intense curiosity for any manifestation of the mystical impulse in any culture or tradition. However, in contrast to what we know of Krishna, we have to call him a renunciate, as he had no possessions and gave his whole life to teaching and worship.
Ramakrishna is also known for his disciple, Vivekananda, who, unlike his master who never travelled, went to the United States in 1983 and introduced Ramakrishna and Hindu thought to the West. His name previous to his departure for the States was Narendra (or Naren), and Ramakrishna had a presentiment of his arrival at Dakshineswar and the great role that lay ahead of him. The following passage describes this, but is also of interest as a description of Ramakrishna's inner world:

One day I found that my mind was soaring high in Samadhi along a luminous path. It soon transcended the stellar universe and entered the subtler region of ideas. As it ascended higher and higher, I found on both sides of the way ideal forms of gods and goddesses. The mind then reached the outer limits of that region, where a luminous barrier separated the sphere of relative existence from that of the Absolute. Crossing that barrier, the mind entered the transcendental realm, where no corporeal being was visible. Even the gods dared not peep into that sublime realm and were content to keep their seats far below. —

In Pure Consciousness Mysticism we may well want to be cautious about such a description of 'realms', beyond perhaps noting correspondences with other accounts, for example the Tibetan Book of the Dead. What is interesting here is that the gods (which we can take to be disembodied beings) are subordinate to Ramakrishna: they cannot enter the Absolute. Ramakrishna continues:

— But the next moment I saw seven venerable sages seated there in Samadhi. It occurred to me that these sages must have surpassed not only men but even the gods in knowledge and holiness, in renunciation and love. Lost in admiration, I was reflecting on their greatness, when I saw a portion of that undifferentiated luminous region condense into the form of a divine child. The child came to one of the sages, tenderly clasped his neck with his lovely arms, and addressing him in a sweet voice, tried to drag his mind down from the state of Samadhi. That magic touch aroused the sage from the superconscious state, and he fixed his half-open eyes on the wonderful child. His beaming countenance showed that the child must have been the treasure of his heart. In great joy the strange child spoke to him, 'I am going down. You too must go with me.' The sage remained mute but his tender look expressed his assent. As he kept gazing at the child, he was again immersed in Samadhi. I was surprised to find that a fragment of his body and mind was descending to earth in the form of a bright light. No sooner had I seen Narendra than I recognised him to be that sage.

The child in this passage is taken to be Ramakrishna himself. Narendra, like Arjuna, was of the warrior caste and physically and intellectually well-developed and of an acutely independent mind, but his first visit to Ramakrishna only persuaded him that he was eccentric, for Ramakrishna had recognised him from his vision and drawn him aside, to babble incoherently to him that at last he could 'pour out his spirit into the breast of somebody fitted to receive my inner experience!' Narendra returned however:

"I found him alone sitting on his small bed. He was glad to see me, and called me affectionately to sit near him on one side of the bed. But a moment later I saw him convulsed with some emotion. His eyes were fixed upon me, he muttered under his breath, and drew slowly nearer. I thought he was going to make some eccentric remark as on the previous occasion. But before I could stop him he had placed his right foot on my body. The contact was terrible. With my eyes open I saw the walls and everything in the room whirling and vanishing into nothingness.… The whole universe and my own individuality were at the same time almost lost in a nameless void, which swallowed up everything that is. I was terrified, and believed I was face to face with death. I could not stop myself from crying out, What are you doing? I have parents at home.…' Then he began to laugh, and passing his hand over my breast, he said, 'All right. Let us leave it at that for the moment! It will come, all in good time.' He had no sooner said these words than the strange phenomena disappeared. I came to myself again, and everything both outside and in, was as before."

Ramakrishna is Krishna to Vivekananda's Arjuna: also striking is the image of Ramakrishna placing his foot on him, as in so many images of the goddess Kali. Vivekananda's discipleship was troublesome but also nectar for Ramakrishna, and later Vivekananda said of them both: "Outwardly he was all Bhakta, but inwardly all Jnani.… I am the exact opposite."
Ramakrishna's ecstatic form of devotional mysticism touches on questions at the heart of Pure Consciousness Mysticism. In my Introduction Robert Forman's Pure Consciousness Event (PCE) was mentioned as a particular type of experience, beginning and ending in time, where consciousness is awake but devoid of content. The very interesting and valuable collection of essays that make up his book unfortunately gives few recorded examples of such a state (I have not found a single reference to Ramakrishna), though there is reference to the various theories found in Indian and other systems of thought. These theories relate to a form of samadhi, an ecstatic state, which is considered to be either with or without content, and is theorised about at length in the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali. We have many accounts of Ramakrishna's samadhi, one of which took place during a rare opportunity in front of a photographer, resulting in one of the best-known and best-loved photographs of the saint. In the photograph his hands are raised in a spontaneous gesture of bliss, and he has to be supported by one of his followers. According to Rolland Tota Puri himself was so awed by the body of Ramakrishna in samadhi 'rigid as a corpse for days on end', that this persuaded him to break his rule of only spending three days in any one place and resulted in him staying eleven months to learn from the man who had previously been his disciple. In the many accounts in M.'s biography, Ramakrishna said of his samadhi that they were empty of content: he lost consciousness of his surroundings and entered (in Forman's terminology) a state of pure consciousness. It is possible that Socrates' fits of abstraction were also of the same type.
Pure Consciousness Mysticism does not however require that a mystic be capable of such states for several reasons: firstly, it is not the common factor amongst mystics, any more than celibacy, pacifism, or vegetarianism is. Secondly, it is clear that no one could live for long in such a state, partly because they could not function normally, and partly because of an instinct we all have that such a peak of experience is usually followed by a valley (as in the Sufi's picture of expansion and contraction). What then are we to make of the Pure Consciousness Event, assuming that Ramakrishna presents us with a good example of it? There are two possibilities. Firstly, despite the indications in the Yoga Sutras and elsewhere that this is the highest state obtainable, and the goal of Yoga, it is in fact something of a transitory experience. Many mystics experience such states during the stages of transformation or enlightenment, possibly as a result of the shock of a new identification with the whole, or loss of identification with the narrower self. Arjuna's visions of Krishna could be understood in this way: a form of Pure Consciousness Event which can only be described (by a third party incidentally) in terms of a cosmic imagery. We will see with Krishnamurti that, shortly after an intense period of transformation, he spoke in similar terms, but his mature writings make no reference to it.
Another view, more in accordance with ancient Indian thought, is that the PCE is indeed the goal of Yoga, and the highest experience possible to man, but is the forerunner of complete dissolution into the Universe that is said to take place on the death of the enlightened one. Its repeated manifestation in life then indicates the approach of this dissolution. If we pursue this second line of thinking, what then of an enlightened being who incarnates again, as we assume of Krishna? Is the PCE simply Krishna's state between incarnations, much as dreamless sleep is said to be the state of the mystic between daytime wakefulness? Wherever these speculations lead us, it is important to come back to the point made earlier that the Pure Consciousness Event is not a common factor amongst mystics, unless we equate it with dreamless sleep (more on that subject later). Pure Consciousness Mysticism is concerned with any manifestation of the infinite and the eternal, and clearly the PCE is such a manifestation. But PCM is more interested in what is sustainable as a ground of being than in any particular experience, more interested in orientation.

1.5 Ramana Maharshi

Let us look now at another Indian mystic whose life and teachings are relevant to some of the issues raised in this chapter: Ramana Maharshi. He was born in 1889 to a middle-class Brahmin family in South India, showed no special aptitude for religion and had no training in spiritual philosophy, but, at the age of seventeen underwent a spontaneous transformation. Ramana described the awakening in his own words.

It was about six weeks before I left Madura [Maharshi's home town] for good that the great change in my life took place. It was quite sudden. I was sitting alone in a room on the first floor of my uncle's house. I seldom had any sickness, and on that day there was nothing wrong with my health, but a sudden violent fear of death overtook me. There was nothing in my state of health to account for it, and I did not try to account for it or find out whether there was any reason for the fear. I just felt "I am going to die" and began thinking what to do about it. It did not occur to me to consult a doctor or my elders or friends; I felt that I had to solve the problem myself, there and then.
The shock of the fear of death drove my mind inwards and I said to myself mentally, without actually framing the words: "Now death has come; what does it mean? What is it that is dying? This body dies." And at once I dramatised the occurrence of death. I lay with my limbs stretched out stiff as though rigor mortis had set in and imitated a corpse so as to give greater reality to the enquiry. I held my breath and kept my lips tightly closed so that no sound could escape, so that neither the word "I" nor any other word could be uttered. "Well then," I said to myself, "this body is dead. It will be carried stiff to the burning ground and there burnt and reduced to ashes. But with the death of this body am I dead? Is the body I? It is silent and inert but I feel the full force of my personality and even the voice of the 'I' within me, apart from it. So I am Spirit transcending the body. The body dies but the Spirit that transcends it cannot be touched by death. That means I am deathless Spirit." All this was not dull thought; it flashed through me vividly as living truth which I perceived directly, almost without thought-process. "I" was something very real, the only real thing about my present state, and all the conscious activity connected with my body was centred on that "I". From that moment onwards the "I" or Self focused attention on itself by a powerful fascination. Fear of death had vanished once and for all. Absorption in the Self continued unbroken from that time on. Other thoughts might come and go like the various notes of music, but the "I" continued like the fundamental sruti note that underlies and blends with all the other notes. Whether the body was engaged in talking, reading, or anything else, I was still centred on "I". Previous to that crisis I had no clear perception of my Self and was not consciously attracted to it. I felt no perceptible or direct interest in it, much less any inclination to dwell permanently in it.

Ramana had entered into a state of pure consciousness. His description of it, generally uncluttered with technical terms, is useful for PCM: he is describing an unbroken awareness of the centre of his being, capable of existing as the ground to all his sensations and not overwhelmed by them. Any aspirant on the path of awareness will know that attempts to maintain such awareness in the supposedly ideal circumstances of formal meditation practice, where distractions are at a minimum, is hard enough, but to do so while reading or talking is nothing short of miraculous. Ramana had a maturity at seventeen that was remarkable, for the onset of his experience would have been simply frightening even for most adults. Instead, he turned the experience into an enquiry into his nature, an approach that became the core of his pedagogy for the rest of his life.
For some weeks after his transformation he attempted to continue the life of a schoolboy and son to his parents. It became obvious to them that he had changed, as he lost interest in boyish things and became indifferent to food. Legend has it that he stole the collection after worship at the local temple and used the money to make what was to be the last journey of his life — to the holy hill of Arunachala. His flight from family and friends is a little reminiscent of the English mediaeval mystic Richard Rolle, who persuaded his sister to steal his father's cape and cloak in order to make a rough monk's habit out of it. Ramana found a cave on the sacred hill and abandoned himself to his revelation, to the point of neglecting his body. He is supposed to have been infested with vermin by the time that locals began to look after him, in no doubt that he was a holy man.
Ramana's change of orientation was so sudden and so complete that we see him becoming quite indifferent to the manifest world, to the point where he might have died of disease or starvation. This initial period, where he displayed no interest in disciples or teaching, gradually gave way to a more normal life and led to a fifty-year spell of teaching the path to self-realisation. We can say that the quality of embraciveness, initially totally absent, asserted itself in the 'classical' form of love and compassion for others, and expressed as a willingness to teach. Ramana's example leads one to speculate that there must be cases of self-realisation, where the individual becomes so wholly identified with the infinite and the eternal that the embracive never asserts itself, and the individual (as a body) dies. What both Ramakrishna and Ramana Maharshi show us is that the desire to teach, or to share the blessedness of their condition, is a basic component of the embraciveness that arises from self-realisation, though what is of greater interest is the much broader nature of the embraciveness shown by other mystics, including what we know of Krishna.
Ramana did not advocate renunciation in his pedagogy however, teaching that the challenges of every-day life were to be used as raw material for the quest for one's true identity. Although by temperament his teachings were not explicitly devotional, he exhorted his disciples to rest in the 'cave of the heart', an ancient expression that implies both love and silence. He also recognised that contact with genuine Masters, as opposed to mere 'gurus' (let us be cautious about his terminology while recognising the distinction), could bring the disciple to self-realisation more effectively than any practice, thus acknowledging an aspect of the devotional sometimes referred to as satsang or darshan (being in the presence of the Master). Ramana prefers the more neutral term association:

    1.	Association with Sages who have realized the Truth removes material attachments; on these attachments being removed the attachments of the mind are also destroyed. Those whose attachments of mind are thus destroyed become one with That which is Motionless. They attain Liberation while yet alive. Cherish association with such Sages.
    2.	That Supreme State which is obtained here and now as a result of association with Sages, and realized through the deep meditation of Self-enquiry in contact with the Heart, cannot be gained with the aid of a Guru or through knowledge of the scriptures, or by spiritual merit, or by any other means.
    3.	If association with Sages is obtained, to what purpose are all the methods of self-discipline? Tell me, of what use is a fan when the cool, gentle, south wind is blowing?

Ramana was the cool wind and who am I? was his pedagogy. His own transformation can be seen in terms of a radical shift of identity, from body to Spirit (though as always in this book we prefer to be vague about the precise meaning of this word). As a body, one is ordinarily identified with a discrete, separate, and highly vulnerable fraction of the universe: one's energy is used in maintaining this fiction and in anxiously dealing with its needs, both physical and emotional, in a material and emotional world of limited resources. With the shift in identity from the body to the inner core of awareness the individual's investment of energy has shifted from the finite and temporal to the infinite and eternal. "I am not the body" sums up this shift, but as Ramana says so clearly, this is not a dull process of thought, but a living truth. This shift, for Ramana, seems to have taken place in the space of a few hours, and resulted in a permanent residence in the infinite and eternal. The lack of any peak experiences, visions, or manifest ecstasies marks Ramana's case as a clear illustration of Pure Consciousness Mysticism. It is easier to understand a continuum of pure awareness in which events take place, even if one has only ever had brief moments of it, than moments of consciousness entirely devoid of content, as Forman's PCE postulates. Unfortunately, human nature being what it is, one tends to be more impressed by Ramakrishna's ecstatic states of samadhi (indeed one cannot fail to be moved by even the single photograph of him in this state) than Ramana's sober continuum. The contrast between the two men also illustrates the difficulties that the perennialists face in building a convincing argument that one is, at heart, dealing with the same phenomenon. A longer acquaintance with the lives and teachings of these two men shows however that the differences are those of temperament and understanding. The two men came to realisation in very different ways, one through a long period of devotional practice, and the other through a sudden, almost uninvited shift of awareness; both then used the inherited scriptures of their culture to describe their condition and to teach. They illuminate their scriptures, rather than the other way round. In the next example we look at a 20th century Indian mystic who made little or no reference to his scriptures in over fifty years of teaching: Jiddu Krishnamurti

1.6 Krishnamurti 

Krishnamurti was born in 1895, some nine years after Ramakrishna died and six years after Ramana was born, and represents, as does Ramana, the other pole of the mystic type: one who exemplifies the path of awareness. Devotion, gurus, love of God: all these are not part of Krishnamurti's vocabulary, though love is his climate as with all the examples in this chapter. While Krishna, Ramakrishna, and Ramana Maharshi are mystics firmly within a major world religion (Krishna almost defines Hinduism), Krishnamurti is outside of religion, and is therefore important to our reflections on the concept of a lay mystic. Where Ramakrishna may have represented the idol-worshipper for the 'modern' mind of Gandhi (actually Ghandi had great respect for him), Krishnamurti would undoubtedly have represented the iconoclast. It is not that Krishnamurti started out innocent of religion, it is more that it was forced on him, and in particular, the occult aspect of religion was forced on him. His later rejection of occultism is consistent with the ideas behind Pure Consciousness Mysticism, but his dismissal of other teachers and teachings is extreme.
Krishnamurti's mother may have had some of the presentiment that Ramakrishna's mother had about her future child: she chose, against the explicit religious and caste instructions regarding birth, to deliver Krishnamurti in the puja room (shrine room) of her small house. As a child Krishnamurti was not considered unusual in any way, but was discovered in 1909 by Charles Leadbeater, a leading member of the Theosophical Society. His secretary had pointed him out, but was astonished at Leadbeater's prediction that Krishnamurti would one day be a great spiritual teacher, as he found the boy particularly stupid. Krishnamurti was in fact practically educationally subnormal, and even after his private education and strict training failed to get into Cambridge University. This would come as a shock to anyone who read his later works, or perused the conversations between Krishnamurti and the eminent physicist David Bohm; perhaps this is a good example of how the conventional assessment of intelligence is often inadequate. The Theosophical Society had as its stated goal the preparation for a new World Leader, and before long it declared that it had found it in the person of Jiddu Krishnamurti. (This was to the disgust of Rudolf Steiner, who then left the Theosophical movement and founded the Anthroposophical movement.) Krishnamurti was prepared for his role through occult initiations at the hands of Leadbeater and Annie Besant, a process that involved communications with so-called disembodied 'Masters', and ultimately the excruciatingly painful preparation of his body to become the vessel for the (Buddha) Maitreya. Krishnamurti in later life had no recollection of most of these experiences, and vigorously denied that they contributed to his illumination. He gradually shook off the ministrations of the Theosophical Society, and in a dramatic gesture dissolved the Order of the Star, which was the organisation founded to support his work. He could no more shake of his destiny than Arjuna however, and entered a life of teaching that lasted fifty years. The teachings were his, however, and could be summed up in one phrase: choiceless awareness.
Krishnamurti could not be in greater contrast to Ramakrishna: he was educated (though mainly privately), sophisticated, an intellectual, and earnestly against the whole concept of devotion, either to a living person or to a deity. He simply jettisoned the whole of Indian religious history (as well as all other religious apparatus) and talked for fifty years on the pristine state of a silent mind that lives with choiceless awareness. His emphasis on no-mind borrows nothing from the Zen Buddhists, and he seems to have taken no interest in any mystical figure or teaching, however similar to his own: he was reputed to read detective novels or watch Clint Eastwood movies by way of relaxation. But his being was illuminated and silent; others made Christ-comparisons throughout his life — here are some comments from contemporary figures:

George Bernard Shaw called Krishnamurti "a religious figure of the greatest distinction," and added, "He is the most beautiful human being I have ever seen."
Henry Miller wrote, "There is no man I would consider it a greater privilege to meet …"
Aldous Huxley, after attending one of Krishnamurti's lectures, confided in a letter, "… the most impressive thing I have listened to. It was like listening to the discourse of the Buddha — such power, such intrinsic authority … "
Kahlil Gibran wrote, "When he entered my room I said to myself, 'Surely the Lord of Love has come.'" 

In August 1922 Krishnamurti underwent three days of a very intense and painful experience at Ojai Valley in California, during which one of his companions suggested that he sit under a young pepper tree in the garden, which proved to soothe him and under which he remained for a long time. As with many of the experiences he had in the period leading up to this time, Krishnamurti had no later recollection of the most intense parts, but he wrote afterwards of the period:

On the first day while I was in that state and more conscious of the things around me, I had the first most extraordinary experience. There was a man mending the road; that man was myself; the pickaxe he held was myself; the very stone which he was breaking up was a part of me; the tender blade of grass was my very being, and the tree beside the man was myself. I also could feel and think like the roadmender and I could feel the wind passing through the tree, and the little ant on the blade of grass I could feel. The birds, the dust, and the very noise were a part of me. Just then there was a car passing by at some distance; I was the driver, the engine, and the tyres; as the car went further away from me, I was going away from myself. I was in everything, or rather everything was in me, inanimate and animate, the mountain, the worm and all breathing things. All day long I remained in this happy condition.

(later in the same account:)

I was supremely happy, for I had seen. Nothing could ever be the same. I have drunk of the clear and pure waters at the source of the fountain of life and my thirst was appeased. Nevermore could I be thirsty. Never more could I be in darkness; I have seen the Light, I have touched compassion which heals all sorrow and suffering; it is not for myself, but for the world. I have stood on the mountain top and gazed at the mighty Beings. I have seen the glorious and healing Light. The fountain of Truth has been revealed to me and the darkness has been dispersed, Love in all its glory has intoxicated my heart; my heart can never be closed. I have drunk of the fountain of Joy and eternal Beauty. I am God-intoxicated.

This is one of the rare passages where Krishnamurti talked about himself, and is typical of how mystics describe their illumination, but it is in contrast to his later writings. The eternal and infinite are everywhere in his teachings and writings, perhaps with the greater emphasis on the ending of the passage of time, through the silence of the mind. Krishnamurti's embraciveness shows in his commitment to teaching (and love is central to this as we shall see below), but also in a more relaxed attitude to the manifest world than shown by the previous two examples. Although he showed moderation in material things, he did like to dress smartly, and enjoyed sports-cars, his dogs, gardening, reading and films; his Indian instinct for renunciation only showing itself in a vague dismissal of human affairs such as war and politics, and a general distaste for the coarser sides of life. His embraciveness, though not on the scale that we are predicating for Krishna, showed another important aspect that we shall look at in the next chapter: a love of nature.
It is a commonly held view that Krishnamurti was enlightened, but a poor teacher, yet over the years of his teaching many thousands from all over the world attended his talks, attracted by his reputation and his words. I attended one of his summer camps at Brockwood park (the site of one of the schools he set up) and also saw him lecture at the Barbican in London: I think that he has influenced me as much as any living mystic that I have been lucky enough to encounter. The following passage, from The Only Revolution, gives the flavour of his teachings:

Meditation is not the repetition of the word, nor the experiencing of a vision, nor the cultivating of silence. The bead and the word do quiet the chattering mind, but this is a form of self-hypnosis. You might as well take a pill.
Meditation is not wrapping yourself in a pattern of thought, in the enchantment of pleasure. Meditation has no beginning, and therefore it has no end.
If you say: "I will begin today to control my thoughts, to sit quietly in the meditative posture, to breathe regularly" — then you are caught in the tricks with which one deceives oneself. Meditation is not a matter of being absorbed in some grandiose idea or image: that only quietens one for the moment, as a child absorbed by a toy is for the time being quiet. But as soon as the toy ceases to be of interest, the restlessness and the mischief begin again. Meditation is not the pursuit of an invisible path leading to some imagined bliss. The meditative mind is seeing — watching, listening, without the word, without comment, without opinion — attentive to the movement of life in all its relationships throughout the day. And at night, when the whole organism is at rest, the meditative mind has no dreams for it has been awake all day. It is only the indolent who have dreams; only the half-asleep who need the intimation of their own states. But as the mind watches, listens to the movement of life, the outer and the inner, to such a mind comes a silence that is not put together by thought.
It is not a silence which the observer can experience. If he does experience it and recognise it, it is no longer silence. The silence of the meditative mind is not within borders of recognition, for this silence has no frontier. There is only silence — in which the space of division ceases.
								(pages 19 - 20)

Like Ramana he does not recommend outward forms of self-discipline, but unlike him (and the others in this chapter) he is outspoken in his condemnation of all gurus, teachers, Masters and so on. His antipathy to the whole context of master and disciple may have been a result of his early training, but it placed him in a paradoxical position as a teacher, for he knew in his heart the same thing that Krishna, Ramakrishna, and Ramana Maharshi knew: association with him could change people. More than any of these masters he attempted to give the aspirant independence and self-reliance from the outset, but his own nature and background and the nature of seekers in general made this maddeningly difficult. In the following transcript of a conversation between Krishnamurti and the physicist (and friend) David Bohm Krishnamurti is the master and Bohm is the disciple, but the dialogue has the outward form of equality, or even an inversion of roles.

Bohm: You see, one of the things that often causes confusion is that, when you put it in terms of thought, its seems that you are presented with the fragments that are real, substantial reality. Then you have to see them, and nevertheless you say, as long as the fragments are there, there is no wholeness so that you can't see them. But that all comes back to the one thing, the one source.

KRISHNAMURTI: I am sure, Sir, really serious people have asked this question. They have asked it and tried to find an answer through thought.

Bohm: Yes, well it seems natural.

KRISHNAMURTI: And they never saw that they were caught in thought.

Bohm: That is always the trouble. Everybody gets into this trouble: that he seems to be looking at everything, at his problems, saying, "Those are my problems, I am looking." But that looking is only thinking, but it is confused with looking. This is one of the confusions that arises. If you say, don't think but look, that person feels he is already looking.

KRISHNAMURTI: Quite. So you see, this question has arisen and they say, "All right, then I must control thought, I must subjugate thought and I must make my mind quiet so that it becomes whole, then I can see the parts, all the fragments, then I'll touch the source." But it is still the operation of thought all the time.

Bohm: Yes, that means the operation of thought is unconscious for the most part and therefore one doesn't know it is going on. We may say consciously we have realised that all this has to be changed, it has to be different.

Arjuna asked Krishna how to still the mind; Bohm is asking the same question, but what a difference! The same drama is being played out but in the context of a twentieth century democracy, not a feudal aristocracy. Bohm is certainly Krishnamurti's intellectual equal, and Krishnamurti directs the conversation in the detached scientific manner of the debating hall, but now picks up on Bohm's mention of the unconscious and moves the interaction into a different gestalt.

KRISHNAMURTI: But it is still going on unconsciously. So can you talk to my unconscious, knowing my conscious brain is going to resist you?

Krishnamurti puts Bohm in the position of the master, and himself in the position of the aspirant; at the same time he poses the question that all masters ask of themselves —  how to reach the depth of their disciple. The disciple has come to the master, but they are going to resist him nevertheless: this is the ancient dilemma. The dialogue unfolds in a revealing way, Krishnamurti still speaking:

	Because you are telling me something which is revolutionary, you are telling me something which shatters my whole house which I have built so carefully, and I won't listen to you — you follow? In my instinctive reactions I push you away. So you realise that and say, "Look, all right, talk to your unconscious. I am going to talk to your unconscious and make that unconscious see that whatever movement it does is still within the field of time and so on." So your conscious mind is never in operation. When it operates it must inevitably either resist, or say, "I will accept"; therefore it creates a conflict in itself. So can you talk to my unconscious?

Bohm: You can always ask how.

KRISHNAMURTI: No, no. You can say to a friend, "Don't resist, don't think about it, but I am going to talk to you." "We two are communicating with each other without the conscious mind listening."

Bohm: Yes.

KRISHNAMURTI: I think this is what really takes place. When you were talking to me — I was noticing it — I was not listening to your words so much. I was listening to you. I was open to you, not your words, as you explained and so on. I said to myself, all right, leave all that, I am listening to you, not to the words which you use, but to the meaning, the inward quality of your feeling that you want to communicate to me.
 
Krishnamurti is not telling Bohm that he is ignoring him, the eminent physicist, but hinting at how Bohm should listen to Krishnamurti — not to the words but to the deeper meaning. They go on in this inverted fashion:

Bohm: I understand.

KRISHNAMURTI: That changes me, not all this verbalisation. So can you talk to me about my idiocies, my illusions, my peculiar tendencies, without the conscious mind interfering and saying, "Please don't touch all this, leave me alone!" They have tried subliminal propaganda in advertising, so that whilst you don't really pay attention, your unconscious does, so you buy that particular soap! We are not doing that, it would be deadly. What I am saying is: don't listen to me with your conscious ears but listen to me with the ears that hear much deeper. That is how I listened to you this morning, because I am terribly interested in the source, as your are. You follow, Sir? I am really interested in that one thing. All this is the explicable, easily understood — but to come to that thing together, feel it together! You follow? I think that is the way to break a conditioning, a habit, an image which has been cultivated. You talk about it at a level where the conscious mind is not totally interested. It sounds silly but you understand what I mean?
Say for instance I have a conditioning; you can point it out a dozen times, argue, show the fallacy of it, the stupidity — but I still go on. I resist, I say what it should be, what shall I do in this world otherwise, and all the rest of it. But you see the truth, that as long as the mind is conditioned there must be conflict. So you penetrate or push aside my resistance and get to that, get the unconscious to listen to you, because the unconscious is much more subtle, much quicker. It may be frightened, but it sees the danger of fear much quicker than the conscious mind does. As when I was walking in California high in the mountains: I was looking at birds and trees and watching, and I hear a rattle and I jumped. It was the unconscious that made the body jump; I saw the rattler when I jumped, it was two or three feet away, it could have struck me very easily. If the conscious brain had been operating it would have taken several seconds.

Bohm: To reach the unconscious you have to have an action which doesn't directly appeal to the conscious.

KRISHNAMURTI: Yes. That is affection, that is love. When you talk to my waking consciousness, it is hard, clever, subtle, brittle. And you penetrate that, penetrate it with your look, with your affection, with all the feeling you have. That operates, not anything else.

This is a rare admission by Krishnamurti (and his attempt to disguise it does not fool us) that he is the guru, teacher, master, or whatever, and that the master operates through love regardless of whether he teaches awareness, self-enquiry, or devotion. We continue now to look at a teacher, alive at the time of writing, who teaches the path of devotion (in some ways reminding us of Krishna): Mother Meera.

1.7 Mother Meera

Mother Meera was born in 1960 in South India. Like Ramana Maharshi she had no spiritual background, practice or guru, but from a much earlier age entered quite spontaneously into the state of samadhi, the first recorded example being at the age of six. She describes such states in terms of seeing the 'light', and we note that there is a greater content in the descriptions than we have for other examples of samadhi or a Pure Consciousness Event. The content of her states or visions includes visitations from various Hindu gods and entities, and also luminaries such as Ramakrishna, Vivekananda, and Sri Aurobindo. Her descriptions of the Light and of supramental beings reminds one a little of Rudolf Steiner, and the possibility that we are dealing more with an occult phenomenon than a clear case of Pure Consciousness Mysticism. However, my sense of her project, that is her overall purpose and orientation, is of a transcendent one not an occult one.
At the age of seventeen Mother Meera was 'discovered' by the poet and scholar Andrew Harvey at the Aurobindo ashram, and became the subject of his book Hidden Journey. Her descriptions of herself (mainly in Answers) hinge round her use of the word avatar as distinct from a self-realised person. A self-realised person, in Eastern terminology is a person who sought enlightenment and achieved it, perhaps easily, or perhaps with difficulty — people in this category would probably include the Buddha, Krishnamurti, and Ramakrishna, but not Krishna or Meera. Some consider Jesus to have attained a realisation in his early thirties (supposedly a common age for this to happen) but still regard him as an avatar. Meera does not agree with this, as we see in the following passage from Answers dealing both with Krishna and Jesus (Q is the questioner, MM is Mother Meera).

Q: If we could see you in cosmic vision as Arjuna saw Krishna, would we see the entire Divine Mother in her glory around you?
MM: Each individual will have a unique way of seeing the Avatar.
Q: You have said that there are both Mothers and Fathers. What kind of force do the Fathers bring down, and how is it different from the Mothers?
MM: All Avatars come from the same source, and the Light they bring down is the same. However, the purposes of each Incarnation are different. Both male and female may work for peace, or transformation or harmony, for example.
Q: Do Avatars know right from the beginning that they are divine, or do they come slowly into that realization? For example, wasn't it only later in Jesus' life that he understood his divine mission?
MM: Jesus knew from the beginning that he was the son of God. The changing experiences in an Avatar's life have more to do with making it clear to the world who he or she is.
Q: What, specifically, did Jesus and Krishna bring to the Earth?
MM: Jesus symbolized sacrifice. Krishna brought love and peace and destroyed some of the asuras [demons] of the time.

It is interesting to see how Andrew Harvey saw Meera (both the following extracts are from Hidden Journey).

Then she turned to me. Her face seemed to detach itself from her body and swim, burning, back and forth in the air before me. There was nothing but her face. I did not know whether it was separate from me or within me; all sense of distance was obliterated. The Light became more and more intense, so bright that it took all my strength to go on looking into it. The face was smiling — not gently as it had to Jean-Marc but with a tigerish, exultant smile, a smile of absolute triumph. She gazed deep into my eyes; my whole body filled with flame. In the seconds of that gaze I was only my eyes and this Fire.					(page 37)

Ma sat down, with her back to the storm. I sat on the edge of the roof next to her. We were looking into each other's eyes. The whole sky had now turned a dark purple-gray. Her eyes were larger than ever, boiling with energy. I felt frightened but could not turn away. Suddenly the entire horizon behind her from one end of the sky to the other broke into a vast flame of lightening and a thunderclap so loud I wanted to cry out.
What I saw, as clearly  and precisely as I have seen anything, was that the great unfurling of lightening was in her body. In the second of the explosion of lightening I saw her in outline on the edge of vanishing altogether, but with the whole of the purple sky and the zigzag of lightening inside her.
The storm ceased as quickly as it had begun. No rain came, and the sky cleared with eerie speed. Ma said something quiet to Adilakshmi, got up, and went downstairs.
I stayed up on the roof. In Pondicherry, in the early days, I had seen Ma, while kneeling to her at darshan, as vast with all the stars and suns inside her body. But this had been a kind of gentle dream. Now she had shown me — what? Herself. For those seconds I had been allowed to see her Divine Being in its splendor.				(page 71-72)

There are similarities in these descriptions to the visions that Arjuna has of Krishna and Vivekananda with Ramakrishna, but we must be cautious with them; as Meera herself says, each individual sees avatars in a different way. PCM gives no stress to experiences of this type, or at least to the imagery expressed in them, though the emotional intensity is not to be ignored. What is important is the change in orientation of the individual as a result of such experiences — particularly important is that such experiences themselves are not seen as a goal, and sought after, but rather that the individual comes to the infinite and eternal through them. If the 'cosmic' expansivity (the stars and suns) and the cornucopia of manifestations experienced in these moments is not also balanced by a tangible sensation of the unmanifest, or nothingness, or love and compassion, then they are meaningless. In the Gita Krishna dwells on love and silence; without this aspect we descend into the drug-induced occult mish-mash of a Carlos Casteneda.
My own experience of Mother Meera, despite my occasional tendency to expansive visions, was quite neutral. She has found her own solution to the age-old problem of how to teach large numbers of aspirants while allowing for an intimacy, by allowing a brief contact in turn with a typical audience of over a hundred visitors each night to her home in Germany. The visitors are seated facing her in a large room, and one by one come up to kneel in front of her, have their heads held briefly in her lap, and then gaze into her eyes; all this taking not much more than thirty seconds. Throughout the several hours that it takes to see each visitor one is in meditative silence, and Meera herself makes no acknowledgement of the audience, their reverent gestures, or indeed looks at anything other than the individual in front of her for those few moments. She is silent, earnest, and determined; when she looks into one's eyes there is no normal recognition or acknowledgement. For me, on the first occasion the look was almost blank, but on the second occasion there seemed to be more, though I cannot say what. Through the simplicity and silence of her method one is left with no foothold for analysis and intellectualisation — my only thoughts at the time were that I felt the weight of my history in a sombre way, and perhaps as Meera has no previous lives her lack of history made me encounter my own more forcibly. The overall experience of a visit to her is of love, and I saw many visitors lit up by it; one gentleman sitting next to me was overcome by a personal grief however, and I remembered how my first contact with a Rajneesh brought me face to face with a grief of my own. For others the apparent requirement to show reverence or even obsequiousness was a problem: in short each person encountered themselves.
 I have no doubt from the books about Meera, and from my visit, that she is permanently oriented to the infinite and eternal; her embraciveness shows in her determined efforts to reach those that can 'meet' her, and also in a daily routine when not in darshan involving household tasks. There is not space here to enquire more deeply as to the role of the more obviously occult elements in her life and teaching — as I have said before the presence of these elements do not in themselves exclude an individual from consideration under PCM. I would offer this quote from her to show both the simplicity and directness of her teachings (which auger well for Pure Consciousness Mysticism) and the lingering occult elements (which, depending on one's personality, may cause reservations):

Can I reach the Divine through art or work?

Don't go the Divine "through" anything… go directly. Realize yourself and see that everything you do is filled with light. Don't live for your work only; live for Him and do your work in Him and for Him. If you surrender to Him truly, it will no longer be you who does the work but Him who does it through you. You will become a channel for His power and His will and His light. This takes time and a great purity of heart and motive.

What attitude should I have towards my spiritual experiences?

Be grateful. Offer them to Him, but never think of yourself as special or chosen. That leads to pride, and a proud man is far from God: Whatever experience you have had, however extraordinary, remember that there are further and greater experiences. The Divine Life is endless; the being of God is infinite. Remember the aim of our yoga is not experience, not individual illumination, but the transformation of the whole life, a continual experience of Him, an unbroken ecstasy. And be careful always; there are so many ways in which the vital and mental can imitate and pervert the spiritual. In ordinary consciousness, in which most people are, it is hard to tell where an experience comes from. The best attitude is wariness and humility. Rest nowhere and become attached to nothing — even your own deepest knowledge.

1.8 Krishna and Pure Consciousness Mysticism

Having looked at Ramakrishna, Ramana Maharshi, Krishnamurti, and Mother Meera, we now are in a better position to judge whether it is reasonable or useful to consider Krishna as a man. As I can vouch for the quite ordinary physical appearance of both Krishnamurti and Mother Meera, and as our accounts of Ramakrishna and Maharshi (who both died of cancer) indicate quite normal physicalities, it is reasonable to assume that Krishna at least appeared to be an ordinary man. Arjuna certainly treated him that way up to their encounter on the eve of battle, unaware of the claims that mythology were later to make on him. The question then relates to Krishna's incarnation: is there something of a different order going on here than in the case of Ramakrishna, Ramana Maharshi and Krishnamurti, and if so, is it important to Pure Consciousness Mysticism? We may remember that the mothers both of Ramakrishna and Krishnamurti sensed something unusual about their future sons; so for that matter did Jesus's mother, while Krishna's birth is even more mythological. We can look at the issue of the nature of Krishna in terms of the word Avatar: this generally refers to a divine incarnation, rather than a guru or mystic, and is often used in connection with both Krishna and Jesus. Mother Meera, as we have seen, explicitly places herself in this category, but is there any usefulness in the distinction? Is it one of degree, or is it a fundamental difference? Krishnamurti had no patience for any label, whether mystic, guru, or avatar, yet he was specifically trained to be the 'vehicle' for the Buddha Maitreya, and there was debate throughout his life (though he did not participate in it) as to whether he was merely the vehicle, or whether he had 'merged' with the Buddha.
Meera talks of the difference between the Avatar and the realised guru as a difference of power, power that is to change the world. At the heart of PCM, however, is the recognition that one is the world; part of this recognition is an acceptance of it as it is. Although Krishna states that he comes when righteousness is at an ebb in the world we have seen that there is no evidence for this in any strict sense, and should probably not be taken literally: he may well have been stating a more general truth that the world simply produces enlightened ones at all times, and that they respond to their situations — this does not make them incarnations of Krishna or of the divine in a literal sense (if indeed there is any literal meaning in this). When Meera says that Krishna brings love and peace, it is also clear that he does not control the world — he has no power over it in the sense that one usually understands power to be the ability to effect one's will. Krishna's observation that all is to be seen from the perspective of one set of natural forces acting on another is useful here. In PCM will is a manifestation of the psyche, which in turn derives from the body and its material interdependency in the physical world, and as such it has no special place amongst the manifest phenomenon; any attempt to grasp at power or to accrue special 'powers' to oneself is a pathology, and belongs to the occult. The humility of Meera's own life suggest that her use of the term power is strictly in the context of compassion, but we should be wary of it and any emphasis on the 'spiritual' worlds she has access to. 
An ex-cult member of Aum Shinrykio, the Japanese organisation held responsible for a recent poison gas attack on subway commuters, told interviewers that he had been attracted to the cult because it promised him 'powers' — he ran a small business with seventy employees, and he thought that he could run it more effectively with these promised powers. This is a relatively innocent example, but sadly very widespread, of individuals feeling a powerlessness in their lives which makes gurus of a certain type attractive. Meera promises no such thing to her disciples, but from the type of questions that she receives it is clear that her status as Avatar has the lure of power. Even the reflected glory of being near to someone with power is among the many wrong reasons for being there. Why is it wrong? Because, firstly, power is meaningless other than an expression of compassion, and secondly it leads to laziness. The guru is meant to 'give' the revelation; to the falsely humble this is enough. This is not to say that Arjuna's visions of Krishna, or Andrew Harvey's visions of Mother Meera are not genuine or important, but only to the extent that Arjuna or Harvey come closer to making the infinite, the eternal and the embracive their own. If an Avatar is not human, as Meera implies, then their reality cannot be aspired to. Geoffrey Parrinder gives a good overview of the debate on Avatars through history and across cultures, but all the scholarly work in the world cannot change the fact that in the presence of a teacher one is sat in front of a human being. The real issue is probably one of authority: if we accept a teacher as an Avatar, then their teachings carry a special weight — however, what makes one aspirant propose or accept this status for a teacher and another reject it? At the end of the day it is the authority of the aspirant that counts: in their search for the infinite and eternal they are empowered by their human intercourse with the teacher and other followers to grant or deny this status, usually on instinct or intuition (or more sadly through gullibility). In turn it makes little difference to the teacher, because, whether they accept or deny special status of any kind, they live in the infinite and eternal and the mechanics of their incarnation affect that not one jot.
The status of a teacher is sometimes created by the followers according to perceived 'powers' (including divine birth), and paradoxically also by perceived renunciation. Krishna however was in no way a renunciate, according to all that is known about his life (though this is only through texts that have mythical and legendary status). In the Gita he is proposing a form of renunciation as one possible route to self-realisation; on the other hand the immediate aim of his teachings is to pursuade Arjuna to fight in the cause of regaining a kingdom — hardly an act of renunciation. What then is the quality of embraciveness that pervades the Gita? It is of this form: give up the part and you shall receive the whole. By losing identification with the body and its history, it is easier to identify with the awareness that is the ground to the infinite and eternal. Krishna is identified with the whole universe, but at the same time is prince of a kingdom, owner of wealth, commander of armies, and a full participant of every aspect of life of the day, including politics. Why then do we see such a strong renunciative streak in Indian religious thought, right up to the extreme examples of Ramakrishna and Maharshi? Why was Gandhi obsessed with renunciation? Perhaps the key to it lies in the simplicity of a life of renunciation: it allows one to focus on the transcendent without distraction; it can also be seen as an impulse of generosity. In terms of Pure Consciousness Mysticism however, renunciation is not an issue, other than its practicability or otherwise in modern Western society. It is worth noting that the extreme of non-renunciation that Rajneesh advocated, and attempted, may be a simple reaction to the deadly insistence (as he saw it) on linking transcendence with renunciation. More on Rajneesh later.
Krishna and Jesus taught in feudal times, Meera in a democratic era. Krishna is not just accommodating to the caste system of his day, he points out that the 'four orders of men' come from him (v. 13 ch. 4). Mystics vary widely in the positions that they explicitly place themselves in as teachers, leaders and authorities; they also vary widely in their attitude to devotion from their students. I have been in the presence of six mystics of the first rank: Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, Bapak Subuh (founder of Subud), Krishnamurti, Douglas Harding (more of whom later), Andrew Cohen and Mother Meera. The first three are no longer alive at the time of writing, while Cohen and Meera are relatively young and just establishing their reputations and followings. While Rajneesh and Meera advocate devotion to themselves, Krishnamurti and Harding are adamantly against it. Having mingled extensively with followers of all these teachers I would estimate (and this is very subjective) that I am slightly more inclined to the devotional than average, and as result experience an instinctive devotional impulse to all these teachers, regardless of their position. Accordingly, it is difficult for me to reject this aspect of mysticism, even though there may be reasons to do so in a democratic era. The greatest danger of course is a reliance on the person of the teacher, firstly to actively bring about the transformation in oneself that only oneself can do, and secondly to be an ideal. Rajneesh, for example, endlessly stated that he was not celibate, did not believe in charity, and was reckless about conventional morality and public opinion; yet, because of the devotional aspect for his following was blamed for the collapse of the Oregon community, not only by outsiders but by many of his followers. Andrew Cohen is creating a worse rod for his own back in insisting on purity in the life of the mystic, and even Krishnamurti has been the subject of attacks on his personal life. Bapak Subuh seems to have escaped this, perhaps due to the Islamic context of his teachings, but it is Douglas Harding who, probably more than any, has consistently taught in such a way as to make his person as irrelevant as possible to his teachings.
The origin of the ancient teachings on devotion lies in feudal societies: the king was seen as divinely appointed, and the aristocracy legitimised by the hierarchy of God and king; the serfs or peasants accepted their lot on the basis of this 'natural' order that formed part of their religious world-view. It is no accident that Jesus referred to the infinite and eternal as the 'kingdom of God': for the people of his time a kingdom was the greatest thing they knew; it was the microcosm for the divine universe, and, poignantly, lost to them at that point in history because of Roman occupation. In India the caste system is a special case of the more universal model of the feudal system, based in part on a belief in reincarnation. Cynics see the role of organised religion to reinforce these orders and suppress free thinking; the more generous see in it genuine channels for the expression of religious love in pre-industrial societies where widespread education and leisure was impossible. The devotional impulse in a democratic society is problematic however, for it elevates the recipient individuals in a way that is incompatible to modern notions of freedom and individuality. It is no coincidence that in the West in the 20th century it is Buddhism and Buddhist texts, which place greater emphasis on self-reliance or personal effort, that have been more widely taken up than Hinduism and the Gita.
In Pure Consciousness Mysticism the emphasis is on the identification with the infinite and the eternal, so the route to it is not so important — if the route is devotional it makes no difference. However, there are many reasons to suggest that there are routes that are more at ease with our contemporary democratic culture: these will be examined in the next chapter.