Chapter 6

Krishna spoke: The one who does the work he ought to do without seeking any reward from it—that man, prince, is both a true renunciant and a true yogi at once. The one who lights no fire of sacrifice and lifts no hand to work is neither.

Understand that the real renouncer is the one who makes his work itself an act of worship, because without renunciation no one truly practices yoga. And it has been well said: through work the seeker rises toward faith, and sainthood comes when all work ceases—because the perfected yogi still acts, but acts untouched by passion, unbound by what he does, indifferent to results.

Let each person lift the Self by the soul, not crush the Self down, for the soul can be either the Self’s friend or its enemy. The soul is the Self’s friend when the Self has mastered itself, but it turns hostile when the soul stands against the Self as though Self were something foreign.

The sovereign soul of one who lives self-governed and at peace rests centered in itself, treating pleasure and pain, heat and cold, honor and disgrace as equal. He is the true yogi, the one truly joined—glad with the joy of light and truth—who dwells apart on some peak with his senses mastered, to whom a clod of earth, a stone, and a piece of shining gold all appear the same. You recognize him by this: he shows equal grace to companions, friends, casual acquaintances, strangers, lovers, enemies, outsiders, and relatives, loving them all alike, whether they are good or evil.

He should sit in seclusion, meditating steadily, alone, his thoughts disciplined, his passions set aside, possessing nothing. He should establish his fixed dwelling in a clean, quiet spot—neither too high nor too low—owning only a cloth, a deerskin, and some kusha-grass. There, fixing his mind firmly upon the One, restraining heart and senses, silent and calm, let him practice yoga and attain purity of soul. He should hold body, neck, and head unmoving, his gaze absorbed at the tip of his nose, withdrawn from his surroundings, tranquil in spirit, free of fear, holding firm to his vow of chastity, devoted, thinking of Me, absorbed in the thought of Me. That yogi, so devoted and controlled, reaches the peace beyond—My peace, the peace of high Nirvana.

But this discipline is not for one who fasts too much, nor for one who feasts too much, nor for the one who sleeps an idle mind away, nor for the one who wears himself out keeping endless vigils. No, Arjuna—call that the true piety which best removes the aches and ills of earthly life: where a person is moderate in eating, resting, and recreation, measured in desire and action, going to sleep at the right time and waking at the right time for his duty.

When such a person concentrates his disciplined thought on the soul—untouched within by the pressure of the senses—then he is truly joined. Look: a lamp burns steadily when sheltered from the wind. That is the image of the yogi’s mind, closed off from the storms of sense and burning bright toward heaven. When the mind broods placidly, soothed by holy practice; when the Self contemplates self and finds comfort within itself; when it knows the nameless joy beyond all reach of sense, revealed only to the soul—and knowing it, does not waver, true to that deeper Truth; when, holding this, it considers no other treasure worth comparing, and rooted there cannot be shaken by even the heaviest sorrow—call that state peace, call that happy detachment yoga, and call that man the perfect yogi.

The will must labor steadily toward this state, until effort gives way to ease and thought passes beyond thinking. Shaking off all the longings born from dreams of fame and gain, closing the doors of the senses tight with watchful guard, he comes step by step to assured peace and a quieted heart, with the mind wrapped in itself and the soul brooding free of burdens. But every time the heart breaks loose—wild and unsteady—from control, let him rein it back again under the soul’s governance. For perfect bliss grows only in the heart made tranquil, the spirit free of passion, cleansed of fault, dedicated to the Infinite. One who thus dedicates his soul to the Supreme Soul, abandoning sin, passes without obstacle into the endless bliss of union with Brahma. So united, so blended, he sees the one Life-Soul present in every living thing, and every living thing contained within that Life-Soul. And whoever sees Me in all and all in Me—I never release him, nor does he loosen his hold on Me. Wherever he lives, whatever his life is, he lives in Me, because he knows Me and worships Me, who dwell in all that lives and cling to Me through all. Arjuna, if a person sees everywhere—taught by the likeness to his own self—one Life, one Essence in the evil and the good, consider him a yogi, truly perfected.

Arjuna said: Slayer of Madhu, this yoga, this peace that comes from equanimity which you have described—I can see no stability in it, no resting-place, because the human heart is unsettled, Krishna—reckless, turbulent, willful, strong. To hold the restless wind, I think, would be just the same as taming a person’s heart.

Krishna said: Long-armed warrior, there’s no denying that the heart is hard to restrain and that it wavers. Yet it can become restrained, prince, by habit, by the practice of self-command. This yoga, I tell you, does not come easily to those who are ungoverned. But the one who is determined to be his own master will reach it if he strives stoutly for it.

Arjuna said: And what road does that person travel who has faith, Krishna, but fails in the struggle—who falls away from holiness and misses the perfect rule? Isn’t he lost, having wandered from Brahma’s light, like an empty cloud drifting between earth and heaven that vanishes when lightning splits it apart? I’d like to hear your answer about this, since, Krishna, no one but you can clear up the doubt.

Krishna said: He is not lost, son of Pritha—no! Neither earth nor heaven is forfeit, even for him, because no heart that holds even one right desire walks the road of ruin. The one who falls short while seeking righteousness arrives at death in the Region of the Just, lives there for countless years, and being born again, begins life again in some good home among the gentle and the happy. It may even happen that he descends into a yogi’s household, on Virtue’s breast—but that is rare; such a birth is hard to obtain on this earth, chief. There he regains the spiritual heights he had achieved before, and so he strives once more toward perfection, with better hope, dear prince—because his old desire draws him forward unconsciously. Simply to desire the purity of yoga is to pass beyond the Shabdabrahma, the spoken Veda. But the yogi who has striven hard and long, cleansed of his transgressions, perfected through birth after birth, sets his feet at last upon the further path. Such a one ranks above ascetics, higher than the wise, beyond those who accomplish great deeds. Be a yogi, Arjuna. And of all such yogis, believe Me: the truest and best is the one who worships Me with his innermost soul, fixed upon My Mystery.

Here ends Chapter VI of the Bhagavad-Gita, called “Atmasanyamayog,” or “The Book of Religion by Self-Restraint.”