What is natural is dharma. To acknowledge the intrinsic nature of that which is natural, and to act accordingly—this is the practice of dharma. How to achieve the complete development of our bodily and mental constitution; how to advance and ensure the welfare of our society, our environment; how to guide them gradually toward success—to contemplate these questions and to act in accordance with such reflection: this is true dharma.
A question may arise: how shall we know—if we do this, it will bring welfare; if we do that, it will not? With a little reflection, a little attentiveness inward, we can perceive from within ourselves—what is right, what is wrong. No one finds difficulty in understanding good and evil, welfare and harm. This is the very nature of life. The needle within us, the instrument of inner consciousness, always points in one direction, telling us: this is right, that is wrong; this is good, that is ill. Yet many perform evil deeds even so. They do them, yes, but the inner instrument always signals—this wrong you are committing. A hunter who kills a tiger or a lion and wins acclaim, intoxicated by that praise, continues to hunt; but the mechanism within him, now and then, tells him truly—this work is not right. If his inner instrument said, "What you are doing is perfectly right," then there would be nothing to answer against his own consciousness. Follow that inner voice, that wakeful word within, and there is no confusion—for to act in accord with one's own consciousness is dharma, and to act against it is adharma. Therefore, one must keep one's gaze fixed on that compass of the mind and move forward.
Which is good, which is evil, which should be embraced, which rejected—our senses are highly alert to such matters. In practical affairs, before our sense organs act, they caution us, alert us as to how we should or should not conduct ourselves with another. Just as the needle of a compass always points north, steadying the traveler's course, and even when lost, the wanderer can correct his direction by watching that instrument, so too within each person's mind there exists a compass of conscience, showing him the true way, illuminating the direction of his path, telling him: this is the way of dharma, the way of truth, the way of welfare—therefore, walk this path.
Again, in accord with the laws of nature and creation, it also warns—this is not right, that should not be done. If one keeps one's gaze steady on the needle of that caution while walking the path, one will never lose one's way. Even if, caught in the storms of the world, the path is momentarily lost, it can be found again; the destination can yet be reached.
Let me offer a simple illustration. When something foul lands on the tongue, the body instantly spits it out. Should a speck of dust enter the eye, naturally the tears come forth and wash it away. In just this manner, all the senses remain perpetually vigilant, ensuring that nothing harmful finds its way in. Should something unwanted slip through by accident, according to nature's own law, the body thrusts it away. Until it is gone, the body wages constant struggle against it. And what is acceptable, what belongs, the body naturally absorbs and assimilates.
In the food we consume, the inner mechanisms of the body themselves determine what nourishes and what harms. What is beneficial naturally passes into the blood; what is waste naturally departs. Yet there are foods—many of them—that tantalize the palate yet poison the body. In such cases, even before consumption, the mind's warning apparatus speaks: better to leave this alone. Before we have thought it through, the body casts it aside. But should someone, ignoring that voice of caution and yielding to greed, consume what is harmful, then the body must wage war against it—must suffer sickness—to expel the poison. Just so, when a society ignores the warning thorns of conscience, society itself falls into affliction.
All parts within the mind, like all parts within the body, perpetually signal to us: is the action we are about to undertake beneficial or transgressive? When we disregard these directions, mental suffering arrives as surely as physical suffering does. From this springs social anguish, unrest, chaos, and disorder. Therefore, if we walk in step with the warning voice of mind and senses, if we do not turn away from nature's laws, then life becomes simple, unforced, beautiful, and natural. To live beautifully and naturally—this is to live rightly; and to live rightly is to live according to dharma.
If we observe nature's laws with care and attention, we will see that along the path of life, she signals caution in countless ways and forms. These are nature's gifts—the inherent endowments bestowed upon us. But should we take from them what suits us and discard what does not; should we sometimes heed their guidance and sometimes ignore it—that cannot work. It bears no good fruit; rather, it obstructs the path to success. Whether the success of the individual, or of the collective, or of society itself—all depends upon attending to what this inner apparatus tells us and acting accordingly.
We undertake all our actions with thought for the future—indeed, for the sake of the future. In that case, we ought to act with consideration for what the future will bring, whether good or ill. And yet the future remains, for all of us, largely unknowable. So how are we to know whether the future will bring good or harm? But if we pause to reflect, if we attend carefully, we will see that nature itself, of its own accord, offers us signs of what is to come, hints of good and ill. Before we undertake any action, if the mind comes free of doubt or inner conflict, then we may know that the deed will bring no harm to us. But when the mind's needle trembles in the sway of hesitation and discord, unable to settle anywhere, then we know that action is not fitting. From doubt and discord arises the impulse to inquire; and then we must seek counsel from those who are experienced and wise. And so, for as long as the transmitter of our mind's consciousness has not given its consent, we must continue to ask. Asking different people, we will find that here or there, from one voice or another, the mind will finally accord—yes, this is right, this is how the deed should be done. Yet not everyone can perceive these signs of the mind. And many who perceive them still do not act accordingly. The pull of the outer world becomes too great for them. Whether in our private lives or in the life of the community, to ignore the whispers of the mind and surrender instead to the tide of impulse—that is how we stumble. And that is what we are seeing happen. Many believe that these signs of caution from the mind are nothing but fear, terror, weakness. This is wrong. According to the laws of creation, every organ and limb of the body, every sense faculty, every mental faculty, every atom and particle possesses an inborn power of resistance. Mind and body are wrought from the same substance, shaped from the same material. Like water and ice, mind and body are two forms of the same thing. Therefore, the mind too possesses this power of resistance. Yet it is so subtle that no microscope, no instrument of the outer world, can detect it. Only through the quivering sensitivity of the mind's own perception can it be felt. It is not a thing to be seen with the eye, but a thing to be apprehended. Like the air itself, it escapes the eye but touches the feeling. This natural capacity of the mind to alert us—the Vedas call it consciousness-power, or caitanya. When this awakens, from that seed arise the finest of subtle sprouts: reason, intellect, conscience, discernment, wisdom. When from the stem of this intellect and wisdom there emerges, properly and truly, that plant which breaks through the soil of the mind and blooms into the outer world—that is action, the trunk of the tree of knowledge, the body of work itself. This action born of wisdom branches and spreads, extending its limbs slowly in all directions. The sum of all these branches is what we call 'knowledge.' And the fruit of this tree of knowledge, arising from that consciousness, is peace, order, progress, harmony, cooperation, resolution. If we can protect this tree of knowledge from the weeds that would choke it, then consciousness fulfills its duty of alerting the mind to each of our actions, fulfills it with dedication and truth. This consciousness-power is itself the seed of the tree of knowledge. Its natural capacity—that is, when the seed germinates, when consciousness awakens—the Vedas call this consciousness-power, or caitanya.
When the fruit ripens, there will be no need to hurry anymore. But the tree must be protected from weeds. Whenever something rises up haphazardly, not sprouting from consciousness itself, we must recognize it as a weed—and uproot it at once, root and all. To fail is to damage the field, damage the tree, damage the very environment. Weeds possess no small power! Therefore, their complete eradication is the way.
This emergence of the seed of consciousness through various layers, the cultivation of the tree of knowledge, its protection from weeds, and the creation of fitting conditions through all of this—to act according to nature's law in this way is dharma. To nurture it properly as it grows, to employ its fruits appropriately—that is dharma. Apart from this, dharma is nothing else. In a word, to live according to nature's law is dharma. In one word: truth is dharma.
Just as weeds must be uprooted for the seed to grow into a tree, so must we stand against untruth to establish truth and justice, must destroy falsehood utterly from its roots. This too is an aspect of dharma. If someone instructs us by invoking sin and virtue, heaven and hell, gods and goddesses, by spinning imaginary tales—do this, don't do that; that is wrong, this is right—we do well not to accept such things blindly without passing them through the crucible of reason. The Veda says: whatever comes before you, from wherever it comes, cast it into the furnace of your logic. Examine it thoroughly, analyze it with care, then accept it. If your instrument finds no resonance, then at once abandon that thought. Do not receive it merely on the testimony of others or the authority of anything.
It is wrong to say that one must practice the conquest of desire in order to practice dharma, in order to attain the vision of God. But the wish to see God—is that not also a desire? To know about the divine—is that not also a craving? Does merely saying "I will not gaze upon women's faces" constitute the conquest of desire? Does that alone constitute its practice? Running after women's company—if that is desire, then why would running after the company of the holy not also be desire? In both places, the same reaction stirs—that yearning—Oh! Alas, I cannot bear it! Running about, weeping for one glimpse, one touch—the pain of separation. The words are identical! Then why would one be dharma and the other adharma?
The Veda says desire can never be renounced. As long as the body exists, so too do its natural inclinations. Only when one enters the cremation ground do all desires and cravings cease—and even that is temporary. For the elements that compose the body remain within the corpse. The reactions continue without end. The body itself undergoes change—dividing into parts, taking various forms. From it emerge countless microbes—from microbes come life, insects, worms, creatures of every kind! Without desire, creation never happens, cannot happen. Thus we see—even the corpse in the cremation ground cannot abandon desire. No one can.
If God is to be found only through the renunciation of desire, then no one has ever found God, nor ever will. "Abandon desire, and you shall find God." Such talk is merely the sleight of hand of a conjurer, the deception of charlatans. Those who speak these words know full well the lie they are telling.
It is truly shameful that even today there are thousands of ascetics and renunciates who claim: we have renounced desire. They have merely tied the loincloth; but their nose, mouth, and eyes remain open! These have not been shut. Have they poured lead into their ears? Have they managed to bind cloth over their eyes? Have they sealed their nose and mouth? Then what good comes from tightening one corner while all else remains loose? They all belong to the same faculty of sensation. If the melody of music and the fragrance of flowers do not obstruct spiritual practice, then the gratification of no sensory faculty shall obstruct it either. Whether we remain naked or clothe ourselves in silk and jewels, if we walk steadfast along the path of nature's law, then nothing shall stand as a barrier to the practice of dharma.
Every function of the mind arises from desire. Will itself is desire. The cessation of a mental function is the fulfillment of that desire. Desire is not merely the union of man and woman. All gratification of the senses is desire. The satisfaction of the eye, the ear, the nose, the skin, the tongue—if these do not obstruct the practice of dharma, then why should the gratification of one sense faculty become a hindrance on the path of religion? All the senses are like the sexual organ. None of them stands as a barrier to spiritual practice. Rather, it is the violent denial of these that creates obstruction on the path of dharma, on the path of truth. The more we try to suppress them and cast them out, the more they shall return in different forms, with cunning and disguise, raising their heads anew. From this springs a poisonous growth of antisocial deeds—theft, banditry, thuggery, violence, bloodshed, robbery, adulteration here, arson there, persecution of one, slander of another, and so on. These are all weeds. They do not grow from the seed of consciousness, and therefore should not be allowed to flourish. These constitute irreligious conduct. From these arise disorder, chaos, and strife. In society a terrible condition is created, and as a result such beautiful, carefully constructed things are destroyed before our very eyes.
Since desire cannot be renounced, the better path is not to struggle against it but to accept it, to live according to the law of nature—that itself is dharma. The Vedas say: it is far better to perish in one's own dharma than to adopt another's; the latter is terrible. By "one's own dharma" and "another's dharma," we are not speaking of Hindu or Muslim or Christian religion. One's own dharma is the dharma that is natural and inborn; another's dharma is conduct contrary to that natural law. The meaning of "in one's own dharma lies death, yet that is excellence; another's dharma is dreadful" is this: if a being can remain true to its inborn nature, to the law of nature itself, then that shall be good—that is the true practice of dharma. But if we reject it and attempt to do the opposite, then that "other dharma is dreadful"—the consequences that follow will be terrible indeed. Because we have violated the law of nature, our nation and society have come to this calamitous state.
Even today, all around us, there are many who exploit society in the name of sin and merit, heaven and hell, gods and goddesses. But their exploitation yields no milk—only blood is being drained away. They are purveyors of harm, sowers of weeds. It is best to pay them no heed. Wherever such people are found, one must take up the staff. There is no question of forgiveness here. Indeed, if we do not take up the staff in such cases, that negligence becomes a sin upon us. Therefore, it is only fitting that we cast aside the invocation of sin and merit into the sewers of the world, and instead act according to the dictates of conscience.
But when we say that we must act as our conscience directs, we should not accept even this uncritically. Let us place it within the instrument of our mind and observe: which way does the compass needle point? What is its indication? Then let us act accordingly. You will find that conscience itself speaks the very same truth that has been uttered. External influences may cause many to deny this at various times; but there is no deception in the chambers of the heart! There we are compelled to acknowledge what is true. Because we answer the call of the world outside instead of the call within, our society today seethes with turmoil, injustice, depravity, and chaos; and where there should be compassion, there is only malice.
What does not exist can never be found. What does exist can never be denied. Where we are—there lies eternal truth, imperishable reality, in that very place. Do you seek the divine? You must search for it in the earth itself. If we observe carefully each living creature and each object in this world of life, we shall find within them the form of the divine, the complete manifestation of divinity. Who is the divine? What is its meaning? The Veda declares: the one who gives is divine. What does it give? Yes, it bestows light—the light of knowledge. As a lamp illuminates all things through its radiance, so too does the one through whom nature's inherent gifts, nature's manifold forms, and nature's various powers shine forth—who illuminates and reveals them as they truly are—that one is the divine. That is what is true, what is eternal. Nature's inherent qualities exist within all beings. The one who has made those qualities shine forth clearly and brilliantly within oneself—that one is divine. Through whom the vast cosmos's music resounds, whose form blossoms forth, who is adorned with all virtues—that one, replete with all excellence, is the divine. To find this divine, one need not journey to heaven; it can be found right here in this world. In every living being in nature, in every object, in every place, in every matter, it is manifest.
If we can follow any single thread of its manifestation, analyzing steadily as we advance, if we can practice with proper discipline, then we shall see what mysteries it contains. The more we penetrate those mysteries, the more our mind expands; and through the analysis of matter, countless new truths will be discovered. Everything we seek will be found within it. These truths will make the path of life easier, gradually elevate it. Along with the solving of many practical problems, our nation and our life, our society and our homeland will grow increasingly prosperous.
This very thing is an analysis of one stream of the mystery of creation; and if we could follow all its currents, trace them one by one with the kind of steadfast meditation that clings like prayer, then nothing would remain shrouded in enigma. Gradually, all mysteries would dissolve into clarity. What is eternal, what is true, would resound and reveal itself. Then we would no longer need to chase after heaven—the earth itself would become the abode of heaven. There, we could grasp our beloved.