Krishna was building an argument the way a mason builds a wall — one brick at a time, each one resting on the one below.

First: there are people who treat scripture as a vending machine. Put in the right ritual, get out the right reward.

Second: these people gather followers. Their flowery words attract crowds the way sugar attracts ants.

Now the third brick: those followers — the ones who listen, who nod, who perform the elaborate rituals and dream of heaven — they lose something. Something essential. Their minds are carried away. The Sanskrit word is apahṛta — stolen, seized, taken from them like a purse snatched in a crowded market.

What is stolen? Their compass. Their ability to sit still and know what is true without being told.

Think of it this way. Imagine you are walking through a forest. You have a compass in your pocket — a small brass one that always points north. As long as you check it now and then, you can wander freely. You can explore side paths, sit by streams, get wonderfully lost — and always find your way back.

Now imagine someone walks beside you and fills your ears with promises. "Follow this path and you will find gold. Follow that one and you will find a palace. Come this way — I know a shortcut to paradise." Their voice is beautiful. Their confidence is absolute. And slowly, without noticing, you stop reaching for the compass. Why would you need it? This person knows the way.

That is what Krishna means by "their resolute intellect is not established." It is not that these people are stupid. It is not that they are bad. It is that they have handed their compass to someone else, and now they are walking in someone else's direction, toward someone else's destination, and calling it their own.

Samadhi — the deep stillness that Krishna points toward — cannot be reached by following directions. It is reached by becoming so quiet inside that you hear your own north.

And you cannot hear it if someone else is always talking.