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In the first chapter Arjuna collapsed in the middle of his chariot, the great bow Gandiva slipping from his hand. The second chapter rises from that exact spot: Krishna speaks for the first time, and Arjuna, for the first time, is ready to listen. Many who know the text say a reader of the Gita can begin right here, because every chapter that follows only unfolds the seed sown in this one. The recognition of the atman (self), the first lesson of karma, and the portrait of a settled human being all wait in these lines.
The first rebuke, the first refuge
Krishna spends no breath on sympathy and meets Arjuna head on. Where has this faintness come from, he asks, at the one hour that most demands a man? It is beneath you, it wins no heaven and no honor, and no one of any nobility ever stoops to it. Then the sharper word: do not sink into this unmanliness, scorcher of enemies; shake off this small weakness of the heart and stand up. He is naming the collapse for what it is, a thing that would carry Arjuna toward none of the four aims a human life is meant to serve.
Arjuna’s protest is honest. Bhishma and Drona are men he is bound to revere; how does he turn arrows on them? He would sooner live on a beggar’s alms, he says, than cut down these elders, because a throne won by killing them would reach him smeared with their blood. And he no longer trusts his own judgment. He cannot tell which is the better course, to fight or to walk away, nor whether victory or defeat waits at the end of it; the very cousins whose deaths would leave him no wish to live are the ones drawn up across the field.
Then the words turn. Even undisputed rule over the earth, Arjuna says, even lordship over the gods, would not dry the grief that is drying up his senses. He tells Krishna plainly that he will not fight, and falls silent. My nature is crippled by this weakness, he says, my mind can no longer make out where my duty lies; tell me for certain what is good, I am your student, I have placed myself in your hands, teach me. Until this moment the two had stood as equals and friends, sharing a chariot, a table, a road. Here Arjuna sets that equality down and asks to be led. The friend becomes the disciple, and here the real Gita opens.
That which never dies
Krishna answers with the faintest trace of a smile, there between the two armies, and begins. You grieve, he says, for those who need no grieving, and you dress the grief in the language of wisdom while you do it. The truly wise mourn neither the dead nor the living. Then he says the thing that reorders everything: there was never a time when I was not, nor you, nor any of these kings gathered here, and there will never come a time when we cease to be. What passes is the body, never the one who wears it.
He lays out the plainest picture there is. In this one body childhood comes, then youth, then age, and through every stage the one within stays the same. Death is one more turn of that same kind, in which the atman lays down a body and takes up another. The wise do not lose their footing over this.
न जायते म्रियते वा कदाचिन्नायं भूत्वा भविता वा न भूयः।
अजो नित्यः शाश्वतोऽयं पुराणो न हन्यते हन्यमाने शरीरे॥
This self is never born and it never dies. It did not come into being and it will not cease to be; it is unborn, deathless, without end, older than anything, and when the body is cut down it is not touched. No weapon can cut it, no fire can burn it, no water can wet it, no wind can dry it.
Behind the argument sits a single distinction. What is unreal has no being of its own; what is real never once stops being. The body, and everything the senses can reach, belongs to the first order and is already sliding toward its end. The one who dwells in the body belongs to the second, and no power anywhere can end it. Hold that clearly, and the horror that froze Arjuna begins to loosen. Whoever imagines this self can kill, or that it can itself be killed, has understood neither. It does not slay, and it is not slain. Why then should the wearing out of a body be cause for grief?
वासांसि जीर्णानि यथा विहाय नवानि गृह्णाति नरोऽपराणि।
तथा शरीराणि विहाय जीर्णान्यन्यानि संयाति नवानि देही॥
Just as a man sheds worn clothes and puts on new ones, the atman that lives in the body leaves its worn body behind and passes into a fresh one. With this Krishna loosens the oldest belief we carry, that the body is who we are. Cold and heat, pleasure and pain, all of it reaches us through the brush of the senses against the world; it arrives, it passes, so train yourself to bear it. And the one whom these comings and goings cannot shake, to whom pleasure and pain weigh the same, becomes fit for the deathless.
Since the self in every being can never be slain, Krishna tells him, there is no one here to mourn. Then he turns from what is true to what Arjuna must do. A just fight has arrived at his door unasked, a rare open gate; to walk away from it now would hand his enemies his good name and leave him a dishonor that outlasts death. Meet victory and defeat, gain and loss, pleasure and pain with one even weight, Krishna says, and fight on those terms; carried out in that spirit, the act leaves no stain.
A claim on the work alone
He has shown Arjuna how a settled man sees. Now he turns to how such a man acts, and the most famous sentence of the Gita arrives.
कर्मण्येवाधिकारस्ते मा फलेषु कदाचन।
मा कर्मफलहेतुर्भूर्मा ते सङ्गोऽस्त्वकर्मणि॥
Your claim is to the work alone, never to its fruit. Do not make the fruit the motive of your action, and do not let your heart settle into abandoning action either. Read no laziness into this; the teaching runs the other way. The doing is placed in your hands and nowhere else. The fruit was never yours to command; it ripens by an order far larger than you, in its own time, through causes you do not hold. Once the fruit stops being the target, the quiet bargain of “this much is enough” loses its grip, and the work itself becomes the whole of the task.
And no step taken on this path is ever wasted. Here there is no such thing as effort lost or effort that turns back on you; even a little of this discipline carries a person across the great fear, the long dread of death after death that the untrained life never escapes.
From here Krishna hands over two plain marks of yoga. Evenness of mind is yoga: staying one and the same whether the work succeeds or fails. And skill in action is yoga: doing the work so cleanly that it never sets into a chain. Actions go on happening in any case; the chain forms only when we fasten ourselves to the outcome. Take shelter in that evenness, Krishna says, for the ones who labor with their eyes fixed on the payoff are the poor and pitiable ones. The wise, holding their balance and letting the fruit go, slip free of the long round of birth and reach the state where no sickness of the heart can reach them.
The person of settled understanding
Arjuna asks his first question of his own. What is such a settled person like, how does he speak, how does he sit, how does he walk? Krishna sets the tidy definition aside and gives working marks instead. The one who lets go of every craving that rises in the mind, and is filled from inside by his own being, that is the person of steady understanding. Sorrow comes and his mind keeps its line; pleasure comes and no thirst stirs; the pull of attachment, fear, and anger left him long ago. Good fortune lands on him without lifting him, and bad fortune without dragging him down.
Krishna gives a picture worth keeping. As a tortoise draws in its limbs from every side, this person can draw his senses back from the things they reach for, and rest. Yet withdrawal alone is not the finish. Starve the senses and the objects fall away, but the taste for them stays behind; that lingering relish, that rasa, burns off only when a person has seen the highest for himself. So Krishna adds a warning. The road is steep. The senses churn, and at full strength they can seize the mind of even a seasoned seeker and haul it off by force. Hold them in, then, all of them, gather the scattered mind, and rest it on the highest there is, on Him.
The ladder of the fall
Now Krishna opens a fine-grained point, maybe the most useful warning in this chapter. A whole ruin does not begin with some towering sin. It begins with the mind circling back, again and again, to one thing it wants.
ध्यायतो विषयान्पुंसः सङ्गस्तेषूपजायते। सङ्गात्सञ्जायते कामः कामात्क्रोधोऽभिजायते॥
क्रोधाद्भवति सम्मोहः सम्मोहात्स्मृतिविभ्रमः। स्मृतिभ्रंशाद् बुद्धिनाशो बुद्धिनाशात्प्रणश्यति॥
Dwell on an object and attachment forms; from attachment grows desire, and desire, once blocked, turns to anger. Anger clouds into delusion, delusion scatters the memory, a scattered memory wrecks the understanding, and once the understanding is gone the person goes down with it. The cure sits in those same senses and that same world, with the tug of wanting and the flinch of aversion set down. Move through the world with the senses in hand and free of those two, and a clear calm settles in; in that calm every sorrow falls away and the understanding takes its seat, quick and firm. Miss it, and the loss is steep. A mind that governs nothing has no steady judgment and no stillness to think from, and without stillness there is no peace, and where there is no peace, where would happiness come from? Let the mind trail after even one roaming sense, and it is carried off the way a gust drives a boat off its course on open water. Turn it the other way, master the senses whole, and the mind holds still. Steadied like this, a person lives right in the middle of the world, eating, listening, speaking, moving among all its things, and stays quiet underneath it all.
The gist
Krishna closes with two images. First a reversal: what is night to everyone else is the hour the disciplined one stays awake in, and what keeps the whole world awake and busy is night to the one who truly sees. Then the sea. Rivers pour into the ocean from every side and the ocean stays full and level, never breaking its banks; in the same way, let every want and every object of the world flow into a person without moving him, and peace is his. It passes by the one who is still running after them. The person who walks on having laid down all craving, the grip of “mine,” and the last of the ego reaches the state of being grounded in Brahman. Reach it, and delusion can no longer find you; hold it even at the final hour, and you come to the peace of Brahman itself. In this one chapter Krishna has pressed the map of the whole road into the hands of a broken Arjuna, and the chapters ahead will only keep opening out its regions.
Source: Srimad Bhagavad Gita