Verse 5

In plain words

1. The Principle of the Avatāra The histories of all those who have a very close bond with devotees and with God may rightly be called Bhāgavata histories. God assumes many forms and performs līlās of many kinds. Those who became the instruments of such līlās, those who became the recipients of His grace, the many forms in which He made Himself manifest to those devotees, and the history of the state of oneness as well — all this is what is called the Bhāgavatam. The Bhāgavatam is common ground for all the Vedic ācāryas. For the diseases of worldly existence — bodily, divine and mental — it is a divine medicine. The Bhāgavatam is brimming with rasa, sweet as amṛta, and takes the form of a description of the Lord's līlās and the bodies He assumed for them. The chief content of the Bhāgavatam is the principle of the Avatāra. In the story of the Avatāra, rakti, sakti and the gathering of Bhāgavatas all arise together at once. A task done without relish does not last long; in a task done without taste, no rasa is found. That is why those in whom jijñāsā has first arisen, and who yearn to experience through the outer and inner senses the devotional feelings that foster rakti toward God — such people are called Bhāgavatas.

The Avatāra Is the Rasa of the Devotees' Ānanda It is natural for the world to think, as it commonly does, that the divine Avatāras come merely to punish the wicked and protect the good. But that, one may say, is only one part of the Avatāra. The Avatāra comes for the fulfilment of devotees; for the protection of Dharma; for the nurture of the good. The Avatāra is the very form taken by the devotees' own feeling; the Avatāra is the very rasa of the devotees' Ānanda. Therefore it may be firmly said that He incarnates for the sake of devotees alone. What matters is the root purpose. The cow holds its milk for its own calf alone. Yet just as others too make use of the milk that exists for the calf, and just as it becomes a benefit to others as well, so too, though God incarnates solely to bless His devotees, the punishment of the wicked and the protection of Dharma follow from it as incidental fruits and so become its purposes too. There is no doctrine that the divine Avatāras must come only in human form, or only upon this earth. He may assume any form whatever; He may enter into anything at all. In whatever form, in whatever place, and in whatever way the protection of devotees requires, He incarnates by His own saṅkalpa in that form and in that place, following the needs of each occasion and circumstance. God is beyond the bonds of place and time; He is without attributes; He transcends the guṇas. To Him all beings are equal! Humans, demons, gods, cattle, birds, beasts and the rest, worms and insects — the differences lie only in their forms and names; in their nature as living beings, all are one. In each upādhi a different process goes on. That alone is no reason to observe distinctions between beings. For example, one and the same electric current delivers different results in different machines.

Merely on that account, to imagine a difference in the current itself is a mark of ajñāna; it is a tattva not understood. In just the same way, the one Paramātma guides the jīva-tattva in each upādhi along a different path, granting each a different fruit. To the eyes of the ignorant these appear as separate distinctions, but to the eye of the Paramātma they are all equal. God sees bhāva-advaita; He does not observe karma-advaita. The fruits of karma apply only to those in the grip of body-delusion; to those absorbed in the Ātma they do not apply. Not only that — His Avatāras have no end. His Avatāras are countless. Among them some are kalā-avatāras, some aṃśa-avatāras, some āveśa-avatāras and some yuga-avatāras; beginning in this way, He keeps incarnating under various names. The Bhāgavatam Is God's Līlās with His Devotees The very hearing of the story of the yuga-avatāra is called Bhāgavata-sevā. The Bhāgavatam is the līlā-drama of the devotees and of God together. Therefore, holding the hearing of such a work to be the root foundation of Ātma-sākṣātkāra, many great ṛṣis gave the hearing of the Bhāgavatam so sacred a place and bestowed on it the very essence of devotion. Generally, human beings in the world have an abundant taste for sense objects alone. Why? Because no training needs to be given for sensual enjoyment. It follows from the saṃskāras of previous births and keeps pursuing one in unbroken succession. The moment it is born, a child drinks milk; a calf goes straight to its mother's udder. By what training was this habit formed? Who taught it? Yet if the child is to walk, or to talk, for that some training is needed. What is the reason? Not everything comes from previous births.

Some activities, even within the present birth, develop through a certain amount of training. In the same way, sensual enjoyments become habitual without any training at all. Sensual enjoyments alone are the root cause for the growth of evil qualities such as anger, torment, jealousy, envy and ostentation. However much training may be given in the sacred sādhanas that restrain them — japa, tapas, dhyāna, Dharma, fasting, sandhyā-vandana and the rest — and however much they may be praised again and again, no taste for them arises. The reason is that, because attachment to sense objects has taken root in the heart, Prema does not creep toward sacred acts. That is no reason to give them up. Training must not be abandoned until the taste arises. At the beginning, a human being has no great taste for anything. But by doing that same thing continuously, a taste for it springs up of its own accord. How so? In early childhood, though infants did not at first know the taste of milk, through continuous practice they will not eat rice if it is offered to them at any time in place of milk. They will not let go of milk. So the mother, very gradually, mixes in rice and feeds them a little at a time. Through daily feeding they grow fond of the taste of rice and let go of milk. Just as natural as milk once seemed to them when they drank it, so natural has rice now become to them through practice; and a human being who has grown used to eating rice as his natural food cannot go a single day without it. The Ānanda of Hearing the Stories of God In the same way, though sensual enjoyment comes naturally at the very beginning, if seekers, through practice and training, come to regard the kīrtana of the Lord's story as their loving delight and slowly strengthen their taste for it, then in time the hearing of God's story, and kīrtana itself, becomes their very food, so that not for even a single minute

does such a one leave it; relishing its rasa in that alone, he spends his time in Ānanda. Such people do not join the places where ordinary folk gather together, and do not linger in conversations about sense objects; they go to places where kīrtanas and stories of God are held and spend their time there in joy. Such conduct is the true mark by which people are known as good. Otherwise, if people call themselves sādhakas and put on outward shows of being devotees of God, yet wherever they go they play at worldly games and worldly talk, that is no place for true sādhaka-hood. One must spend one's time only where matters concerning God take place; in places opposed to them, whatever wonders may be happening, one must not go there, must not look, must not listen. Such are the marks of a Bhāgavata. In a sacred place — in temples, or in shrines, or in the pūjā room, or in the āśramas of great souls, or in the gatherings of the holy and the good, or, if none of these is at hand, in open spaces or solitary spots — when they sing kīrtanas absorbed in the story of Kṛṣṇa, they are immersed in Ānanda and forget everything. If that is not possible, one should stay near great souls who are absorbed in the stories of God, please them with service and honours offered with śraddhā and Bhakti, and, in their company, hear the stories of God. That such a liking should arise at all is the fruit of merit from previous births. Those who lack that fruit do not obtain the good fortune of hearing the sacred stories of the Paramātma. At the beginning, even if the seeker's Manas does not become absorbed in the sacred stories, it is enough simply to sit among gatherings of the holy and listen. Slowly a taste for the story grows; he begins to seek to understand its subject, and the mind turns to inquiry into it.

Rather than reading, hearing the story gives greater relish. Or hearing and reading may go together. For those who have a taste for hearing, listening together with a few other seekers is better than listening alone. Better still than joining ordinary seekers to listen is to listen in the company of great souls. And more fruitful still than listening in the company of great souls is to hear it from the very lips of the great souls themselves. Why? Because when great souls, who are the very embodiment of experience, expound with tears of Ānanda and a radiant face, the listeners too are filled all the more with rasa and can be carried away in rapture. How so? When some people are weeping, sobbing again and again in grief, tears flow from the eyes of those who watch them too. When one sees children laughing, the onlookers too feel like laughing. In the same way, the words of great souls whose hearts are full of rasa fill the listeners' hearts with rasa too. The gain that comes from drawing near to great souls and hearing from their own lips the stories of God that they tell cannot be put into words, as this much or that much. By such sacred hearing, hearts filled with impurity become light itself and attain a clear radiance. For the evil odours called viṣaya-vāsanās, the hearing of the story of Viśveśvara is a divine fragrance. How so? The hearing of the story enters the mind through the ears and makes the heart pure. The Purified Heart Is God's Own Place Such a pure heart alone is the fitting place for God; it is His seat. When God comes to dwell in the cavity of such a heart, when He establishes His dwelling there, then those who had until then made their

place in that heart — the six inner enemies, kāma, krodha, lobha, moha and the rest — throw a cloth over their heads, take to their heels and are gone. When the evil qualities abandon the heart and depart, then the evil vāsanās that followed them as their retinue also strike their tents along with them and run off empty-handed, without a trace. Then man, with Satya and Prema, which are his own true svarūpa and svabhāva, carries on his sādhanas for the attainment of sākṣātkāra, and attains sāyujya. He leaves Māyā behind; he is freed from the Manas; he comes to know the hidden secret; he beholds Mādhava-hood. Prema is man's very svabhāva. Man cannot live without Prema for even a single minute. As soon as the so-called bad qualities, kāma, krodha, moha and the rest, which it had been loving until now, depart from man's heart, Prema, unwilling to remain alone and unable to bear its loneliness, tries to love Madanamohana — He whose form is that of a dark-blue raincloud, whose svarūpa is pure and selfless, and who has made His place on the seat of the heart; it strives for Him eagerly. Since there is no room in it for anyone else, and no one else can enter, Prema, having no other course, becomes Prema for the Paramātma alone. By degrees it grows intense, pure and selfless, attains the state of renunciation of every attachment, and achieves sāyujya. Therefore, if Vāsudeva dwells in a man's heart, there is no possibility of Vasudeva entering there. If instead the heart is set up as a seat for Vasudeva alone, Vāsudeva will never dwell in it. Well then, suppose one gives a place to both — that is not possible. Darkness and light never come together at one time in one place, nor stay there together. If one puts God in the place of wealth and wealth in the place of God, in the end it becomes neither God nor wealth, but a ghost.

It is good if man behaves as man, and good indeed if he changes into Mādhava! But he must never change into a demon or a monkey. Why? Because both physical science and spirituality have accepted that, long ago, it was born as a mineral and died as a mineral, was born as a tree; died as a tree and was born as an animal; died as an animal and was born as man. Having come into such a human birth, it is no wonder if one who came as man is born again as man. And to be born as a beast brings no glory. Only to be born as the divine gives it meaning. Therefore, admitting no evil qualities into the heart, and in the company of good qualities making one's own heart a seat for Sarveśvara — if all the vāsanās are restrained, the Mānasa lake of the mind becomes the Ocean of Milk; the haṃsa that is the jīva sports in it and experiences Ānanda. The Līlās of God Have No Beginning and No End Who can fix a beginning or an end for the endless waves of the ocean? That is impossible. If one resolves to state a beginning and an end, one may think that whichever wave one starts counting from is the beginning, and whichever wave one stops counting at is the end. That is to say, the counting that one does has a beginning and an end, but the waves have no beginning and no end. To discover one is beyond anyone's power. In the same way, the history of God too has no beginning and no end. It is like a boundless, unfathomed ocean. Wherever anyone begins it, they declare that to be its start; wherever they stop, they declare that to be its end. Apart from that, where is the beginning, and where is the end, of the boundless līlās of the Paramātma? Would you argue that the stories and līlās of God have a beginning and an end? Beginnings and ends belong only to the wave-like thoughts of those who think them — but to the stage of God's līlā-drama,

they do not belong. It has no limits. Whichever way one looks in the history of God, it is brimming with nectar alone; there is nothing extraneous in it. Anyone may enter the ocean of nectar-rasa whenever they please. Wherever one enters it, wherever one drinks from it, it is sweet throughout, with no impurity at all. In whatever way it is experienced, the Prema of God shines forth purified, sacred and full of power. Whether sugar-candy is eaten by day or at night, its sweetness is sweetness alone; no other taste comes. Darkness and light exist for the one who eats, not for the sugar-candy.