A merchant had an Indian bird. He kept it shut in a cage.
When the merchant was about to return to India, he asked the bird, “What shall I bring you from your homeland?”
The bird said, “Bring nothing. Only go into some forest in India and tell the free birds there about my imprisonment.”
The merchant did just that. But as soon as he spoke, a wild bird fainted and fell to the ground.
The merchant thought, “Because of me, this bird has died.”
When he returned home, his own bird asked him for news of its country. The merchant said, “The news is bad. A bird related to you fell at my feet and died when it heard of your condition.” Hearing this, the merchant’s bird fainted too and rolled to the bottom of the cage. The merchant thought, “It too has died from the grief of its kinsman’s death,” and he took the bird out of the cage. Instantly the bird revived and flew into the open sky.
Please explain the meaning of this story.
Death is the doorway to life. Only the one who consents to die can be free. The one who is ready to be effaced will find the sky of freedom. The bargain is not struck for less. Try to bargain for less, and you will be deceived—by none other than yourself.
If you want to find the Divine… and by the Divine I mean liberation, I mean moksha, I mean ultimate freedom—then as long as you remain, you will not find it. Only when you are lost will it be found. Only when you dissolve can that great union happen.
This is the secret of this small story.
The Sufis have used it greatly. Their grasp is deep. They have placed the keys to life’s ultimate mystery inside small tales. Where scriptures miss, stories do not. Where the grand arrows of theory fail to reach the target, tiny stories pierce the heart.
Let us try to understand this story. It is the story of human bondage and human freedom. Let us unfold it step by step, as one peels an onion.
You may have noticed: if you keep peeling an onion, in the end your hands hold emptiness. One layer opens, another appears; then the next. But if you go on, finally you are left with the void. That very void is the great freedom, the great liberation!
So let us peel this story layer by layer, until the emptiness hidden within falls into our hands. In this story that emptiness is called the sky. And the state of flying in that emptiness is called liberation, freedom.
The first stage of the story: a bird is captive. He is outside his homeland, in a foreign land.
Such is man. Wherever we are, we are in exile. This is not our home. Where we dwell may be a rest house, a hospice. Whether we are among friends or foes, whether we are welcomed or barely tolerated as a burden, still this is not our home. We are in a strange land. That is why we are restless. And until we find the way home again, the restlessness will continue.
The search for home is religion.
There was a thoughtful American, Coolidge. He became President of the United States. Thoughtful people rarely reach such positions; sometimes, by accident, it happens. As was his habit, Coolidge went out strolling around the White House each day. One morning an unknown man met him on the road. The man did not recognize that this was Coolidge, the President, nor did he, in the morning’s dim light, realize that the large building nearby was the President’s residence, the White House.
As they walked, he asked, “Who are you?”
Coolidge said, “That I don’t know either. I am walking to find out. I haven’t found the answer yet.”
The stranger must have thought, “A crank!” To be rid of him, he asked, “And that big white house there—who lives in it?”
Coolidge laughed and said, “No one lives there. People come and go; nobody lives here.”
Where we are, people come and go; no one lives there. This is not a home, it is a halt. Not the destination. If we pause here for a moment’s rest, fine. But if we start believing it is our home, we are lost. A traveler resting under a tree’s shade to escape the journey’s fatigue—understandable; but if he becomes attached to the shade and forgets which way he was going, what he set out to seek, and makes his home there—he is astray.
The world is a wayside inn; there is never peace at an inn. There may be a little rest, but not bliss. And the only meaning of rest is that we are ready again to work, to set our feet on the road once more. Rest is merely a link between; it is not a goal, not an attainment. A great journey is afoot, and in it we have strayed from our home. Wherever we find ourselves, we find ourselves homeless.
The bird is captive in a foreign land where none are his own; he is alone.
Who here is truly yours? You too are alone. But the bird was not as clever as you. He was simple; you are cunning. Where none are truly yours, you have still created relations. Where there is no home, you have taken the hospice for home. Where no one is yours, you have woven connections. You have arranged everything to look as if you are in your own house, not at a mere stopover; as if you are among your own, and not in a foreign land.
What are our relations and bonds?
Jesus used a very hard saying, for which he was greatly criticized. Bertrand Russell used it in his critique of Jesus. At first glance anyone might think Russell is right and Jesus is wrong.
The story goes: Jesus was standing in a market surrounded by a crowd. Someone said from within, “Jesus, your mother is outside, waiting to see you.” Jesus said, “Who is whose mother? Who is whose father? Tell that woman, ‘Nobody is my mother, nobody is my father.’ Tell that woman: I have no mother and no father.”
These words seem harsh, especially on Jesus’ lips—Jesus, who said that God is love, who made love the essence, who grounded religion in service, whose entire alchemy was humility—and he says, “Tell that woman, who is my mother? Who is my father?” And he added to the crowd, “Unless you stand against your mother and become enemies to your father, you are not mine.”
Those who get lost in words will side with Russell. His argument is straightforward: this man was wicked. He calls his own mother “this woman!” His talk of love is empty talk; his humility seems a form of pride.
Those who lose themselves in words will think so. But Jesus cannot be cruel. He speaks with a purpose. He wants to tell you: you are a stranger here, and none here is truly yours. Neither your mother is mother, nor your father father. If you were born to a woman, it is mere coincidence. Do not take it as relationship. You could have been born to another woman. Neither did you choose this woman as mother, nor did she choose you as son. It was an accident. Neither did she know that you were coming as her son, nor do you know you were making her a mother. Two people bumping into each other in the dark—there is no light on the road, you fall into step for a while. This journey is like that. Everything is in the dark. Everything is a coincidence.
Who is your friend? Whom do you call friend? Everyone lives for their own interests. Your “friend” too is attached to you for his interest, and you to him for yours. If your friend fails you in your hour of need, you will break the friendship. The worldly wise say, a friend is one who stands by you in need. Why? Because when my interest requires, he serves me. But he too thinks: when you serve me in need, you are my friend. You want to use the other—what kind of friendship is that? You want to exploit the other—what kind of relationship is that? All relationships are of self-interest.
A father with his hand on his son’s shoulder; a son bowed at his father’s feet—still, all relationships are of self-interest. Where self-interest is primary, how can there be relationship? But the mind craves; it is afraid to be alone. So it wants companions.
Companions are the mind’s invention, because alone we are frightened. The greatest fear is to be utterly alone. So we marry, call some woman wife, some man husband, make someone a friend. We build a small world around us. In that world we feel we have our own people, a home. But whoever awakens even a little will find that homelessness is man’s destiny in this world. Here home is an illusion. We are homeless here.
Buddha gave many names to his monks; one is “Agrahi”—one who has no home. It does not mean he won’t rest under any roof. Even Buddha would sometimes take shelter from rain, sleep under a roof from the sun.
It means the delusion is gone, the illusion broken, that in this world one has a home. There are stopovers, inns; people come and go but no one stays. Before you were, many were here. After you, many will be here. The crowd keeps moving; the marketplace stays busy. The moment you leave, someone else fills your place. The moment you go, someone else calls your house his home.
There was an emperor, Ibrahim; later he became a fakir—of great worth. His name is among the great Sufis. One night, as he slept, he heard someone walking on the roof. He shouted, “Who is the fool? Who is the thief? What are you doing on my roof?” The man said, “Your roof is nothing to me. My camel is lost; I am searching for it.”
Camels get lost on palace roofs? Ibrahim thought the man mad. Yet there was a certain power in his voice. When he said, “Go to sleep; I have nothing to do with your roof—I am searching for my camel,” the tone struck deep. Ibrahim could not sleep. He thought, is this man mad or does he have a purpose? In the morning he sent men to find the one who searched for a camel on the roof at night. He wanted to meet him. It was hard to find him—no name or trace.
At noon, when the court was full and Ibrahim sat on his throne, the guards came saying, “A man is creating a disturbance. He is formidable; we cannot meet his gaze. When he speaks sharply, our chests tremble—though we are brave guards—he frightens us.”
Ibrahim asked, “What does he say?”
They said, “He says he wants to stay in this hospice for a few days.” We told him, “This is the king’s palace, not a hospice. It is his residence, not an inn. The inn is in the market; go lodge there.” He said, “I want to meet the one who imagines this his residence.”
Ibrahim said, “Don’t let him go. Bring him in at once. This must be the man who was searching for his camel on the roof last night.” When the man came in, Ibrahim said, “What insolence is this? You call my residence an inn?”
The man said, “The insolence is yours. I came before, and another man was committing the same insolence. You were not on this throne then; someone else said, ‘This is my house.’ Before him, I came and found a third man. And I assure you, when I come again, you will not be here; someone else will claim it. Whom am I to believe?”
Ibrahim said, “That was my father. And before that, my grandfather.” The fakir asked, “Where are they now, whose residence this was? The house stands as it is—where are they?” Ibrahim said, “They have gone.” His courage broke. The fakir said, “People come, people go, they stay awhile—why call it a residence? I want to stay a few days in this inn.”
Ibrahim must have been a man of great courage. He rose and said, “If this is an inn, then you stay here—I will go. Your point rings true. This is no longer my home. I will search for my home, and until I find it, there is no question of returning.” Ibrahim became a great fakir, attained. One day he found his own home.
But that home is not where your eyes search. It lies where your eyes never turn. This is the foreign land where you see and hear; but the place from which you see and hear—that is your homeland.
The bird was in a foreign land. And whoever is in a foreign land is in bondage. How can you be free if you aren’t in your native place? If you are not in yourself, what meaning can freedom have? Surrounded by strangers and aliens, you will remain a slave.
Only in one’s own house can one be carefree and free. In that house where there is neither coming nor going; where you have always been and will always be; which is eternal, beginningless and endless.
You are in the condition of that bird. The bird represents you. His owner was going to the bird’s homeland. He asked the bird if he had any message for his kin or friends—any letter to carry.
Note the second point: only the owner can go. How can a captive go? How can he seek? Only the master can search. That is why Hindus call the seekers swami—owner, master. They gave the sannyasin the name Swami—one who at least has this much mastery: that he can set out in search.
You do not even have that much mastery to set out. You are caged. You will ask someone else, “If you are going, take a message,” or, “Bring back news!” You cannot go yourself; your wings are bound. That is why you need to go to a guru, to find a master who can bring news of the homeland. Without a guru, your work cannot proceed.
This bird would have remained caged, but his owner was going—the owner can go. Until, in some sense, you become the owner, you too cannot go.
Thus the first sutra of practice is: gain a little mastery.
Mastery means your mind does not run you. You do not parrot the mind’s shadow; rather you become master of the mind, and the mind follows you. When you say to the mind, “Be still,” the mind is still. When you say, “Think,” the mind thinks. When you say, “Be without thought,” the mind instantly becomes thoughtless. When the mind obeys you, you are the master.
Hence meditation is the first sutra of practice. Through meditation, slowly your mastery arises; otherwise you will remain caged. The mind is your cage. And you have forgotten. By obeying the mind again and again, you have completely forgotten that you are the master, that you can command and the mind will obey.
A Zen master, Linji, was speaking. A stubborn, troublesome man stood up and said, “You are deceiving people. You must have hypnotized them. Your disciples who surround you do whatever you say. Let someone make me obey! Give me an order—then I will accept you as a master.”
Linji said, “I am a little hard of hearing. Come closer.”
The man stepped forward and stood on Linji’s left.
Linji said, “My left ear is useless—come to the right.”
The man moved to the right.
Linji said, “Mistake—my right ear is bad; the left is fine. Come to the left!” The man came left. Linji said, “Sit down! How will we talk while you’re standing?”
The man sat. Linji said, “Shall I begin my talk? This fellow is very obedient. Whatever I say, he does. You are fit to be a follower—you will become a perfect disciple.”
Until you can make the mind sit on the left, shift to the right, you cannot be the master. And the mind is very stubborn. The truth is, whatever you tell the mind, it instantly does the opposite—because its mastery would be lost if it obeyed you. You say, “Sit,” and the mind stands—to make it clear you should not repeat this mistake. You will never be able to command; it will never obey.
This has become an old habit. As if a slave’s master slowly forgot he was the master and, out of attachment, began to obey the slave; now the slave is hard to convince. Over many births, you have allowed the slave to become the master—but it makes no difference. If once you call out truly, with your whole being, the slave will freeze where he is. For a slave is a slave; you are the master. Mastery cannot be lost; you can forget out of habit. But where would the master go? The slave has nowhere to go. The slave has no journey.
The master was going to the bird’s homeland. He asked, “Shall I carry any message for your kin?” Surely the kin can only be in the homeland. Here, relationships are only in name. The friend of today can be the enemy tomorrow.
Machiavelli, the Chanakya of the West, wrote The Prince. One of his counsels to rulers is: do not tell your friend what you would not tell your enemy, for today’s friend may be tomorrow’s enemy. And do not say of an enemy what you would not say of a friend, for today’s enemy may be tomorrow’s friend.
Relationships here change like leaves trembling in the wind. When do they change direction? It depends on the wind. They have no direction of their own. The wife of today may divorce you tomorrow and become your enemy. The son of today may murder you tomorrow. Who is yours here? In a foreign land, no one can truly be anyone’s. All bonds here are like shadows. Two people stand, their shadows overlap—is that a relationship? Move the people and the shadows move; shadows do not truly meet.
Plato, the great Greek thinker, said this world is like a shadow. The real world lies elsewhere. This world is a reflection. Stand by a river and your reflection appears in the water; similarly, reflections appear in this world. They even meet each other, but their meeting is not real, for they are shadows. Opposite this world there is another. In that world the true meeting happens. Here it is all a play of names. Friendship is a name for one game; enmity for another. And change takes no time here. Everything is in flux. Heraclitus said, except for one thing, everything changes—and that one thing is change. Change alone seems stable; all else is unstable.
The master asked, “I am going to your land; any message to carry?” The bird must have been wise. He sent no letter. He said, “Instead of taking a message, simply tell my condition there.” Very wise.
If someone asked you, you would scribble a long letter. He spoke the essence: what more is there to say? Only this: I am imprisoned here in a cage; the open sky has been snatched away; my wings are becoming useless. I am forgetting how to fly. Life is a sorrow and a burden. Go to the forest and cry out to my friends and kin that such is my state—your companion is captive in a foreign land.
The bird was very alert. He sent this news hoping perhaps some bird knew the secret of freedom. Perhaps someone knew a trick. Perhaps someone had once been enslaved, then returned home. Perhaps someone had passed through this trouble and held the key. Perhaps a master would be found.
That is all a guru means: one who was once bound and is now free. One who once stood where you stand and is no longer there. One who has moved from the world of shadows to the world of reality. Whose inn has vanished and who has found a home. Only such a one can be your guru.
It is a curious thing: the Divine cannot be your guru directly, because the Divine has never known bondage. So you will not find the keys to freedom with Him. Even if you could meet God and ask, He would not understand your condition. You could say, “I am in bondage, in great trouble—give me a way,” but God cannot give you a trick.
For God has never lodged in an inn; He is ever in the home.
So all religions conceived that the Divine does not answer directly. Hence, “the Son of God,” Jesus, appears. This is merely a story, but it means that first Jesus becomes man: first he passes through bondage, is caged—only then can freedom be discovered.
Hindu thought speaks of avatars. Why does God not answer directly? Why the need for Ram, Krishna? Why not the Self speaking directly? The Jains say the answer will come through a Tirthankara. The Buddhists, through a Buddha.
Why does existence not answer? Ask the sky—why does it not reply? The sky cannot, for it has never been caged. Only one who has known your trouble can answer. The key can be with only that person who has been in prison and also gotten out. Ask the prisoner who leapt the wall and escaped. Those who are outside cannot tell you the way out, for they do not know what the prison is like—the height of the walls, the strength of the stones, the rigor of the guards—nor from where an exit is possible. Find the prisoner who has somehow got out; he is your guru.
Thus the bird said, “Go to the forest and cry out that such is my state. Say nothing more.” There is nothing more to say. He thought that if someone knew the secret, news would arrive in some way.
The man went. In the forest, seeing birds of that bird’s species perched in the trees, he cried, “Listen! A bird of your kind, from your world, one just like you, is imprisoned in a cage. He has sent news of his sorrow and pain.”
Hearing this, one bird instantly fell from the tree and died!
The man was filled with grief: “What ill-omened news I brought! Was the pain so great for this kin? Perhaps a husband, a wife, a friend? So much pain that on hearing a loved one is captive, it died! The shock was too great.”
The man was distressed, but nothing could be done. The incident had happened. He returned. Sadly he said to the caged bird, “When I gave your news and told your tale of sorrow, I have very sad news: a bird fell from the tree and died at once. I felt great pain.” As he spoke, he saw his own bird fall in the cage and die.
But this was the key the guru had sent. And the guru could not give it in words—only in action. What could words give? A guru gives by example. The guru sent the key by behavior. That bird must have been very astute, freed from some strong prison. That is the very trick he sent—the same method he had used: he died in the tree. And when one dies, no one imprisons the dead; only the living are caged. No one imprisons the dead.
That is why Lao Tzu said, “Become like the dead; then no one will imprison you.”
Hence the Upanishads say, die while living, and none can bind you. The dead are taken to the pyre; who would bind them? You are bound because you are alive.
And Lao Tzu also said: the more alive you appear, the more trouble you will invite—for more people will want to bind you. The more beautiful you are, the more the hassle—more will want to bind you. The more intelligent you are, the more you invite trouble—more will want to bind you. Become like a corpse—no intellect, no beauty, nothing. Become a nobody and none will bind you. Lao Tzu and his follower Chuang Tzu delight in such tales.
Lao Tzu was passing through a forest. All the trees were being cut—save one. It was a great tree; a thousand carts could rest in its shade.
Lao Tzu said, “Go and ask that tree its secret. When all have been cut, how did you survive?” The disciples said, “How will a tree answer?” Lao Tzu said, “Still, go and find out. Ask the laborers felling the other trees.”
They went and asked. “That tree is good for nothing,” the men said. “It would be hard to find such a useless tree in the world. Animals won’t eat its leaves. Its branches are so twisted nothing can be made from them. Burn them and the smoke is so noxious the house becomes unlivable—so you can’t even burn it. You can’t use it for fuel, nor for furniture; its leaves are good for no one. There is no tree on earth so useless. That is why it has been spared.”
Lao Tzu said, “Understand: if you want to be spared, be utterly useless. The tree has the key—learn from it. While all are being cut, see how it spreads free into the sky, unafraid! The straight ones were felled first. The beautiful, shapely ones have become furniture. The rich ones, standing proud in the sky, can hardly be found anymore. Be like this tree—be. Only then will your life blossom.”
Lao Tzu passed through a village where men were being conscripted, for the kingdom was at war. Every young, strong man was taken—except for one hunchback. Lao Tzu said, “Ask this hunchback his trick for survival.” The hunchback said, “Because I am deformed, I am of no use. My back is bent.” Lao Tzu said, “Learn: if your back is straight, you will be cut down like goats in the battlefield. This hunchback has survived. Be useless.”
Yet you can only be totally useless when you are as if dead. Otherwise some use will remain. The hunchback can still be used for something. Even the useless tree’s use could be found—smoke to harass the neighbors, to drive away mosquitoes. As long as you are, there is danger; when you are not, there is none—you are beyond danger.
This bird must have been caged before and escaped by dying. In dying he found the key. Until he died, he remained bound. He left life; the cage fell away; he became as if dead.
The definition of sannyas is: to be like a dead man in the world. Then no one will catch you; no one will bind you.
Who binds the dead? People won’t keep a corpse at home even for an hour. The moment he dies, preparations begin to take him away. Wood is gathered for the pyre; the bier is prepared. Family aside—even the neighbors, who were never of any use—hurry to bring bamboo and what is needed, as the family is weeping and there is urgency. You are bound—and off you go!
The bird knew the key. But how to deliver it? Through the messenger the key could be distorted. The medium could destroy it. Words are a medium; action is immediate, direct. If he had used words, they would fall into the man’s hands—how much would he retain, how much omit, what interpretation would he give? Who knows what would be delivered! The messages transmitted by scripture from masters have not reached you. If this man had carried words, they would have become scripture—the message would not have arrived. So masters have sent messages in two ways. One: through scriptures, which did not reach—they failed. Second: by themselves—through their being, their way of being—and that reached.
But that way of being can only reach you when a living master is present. Therefore, while a living guru can be found, do not wander in scripture. When a living guru cannot be found, only then wander in the scriptures. In the presence of a living master, scripture is worth two pennies. Without him, scripture has some use—you can grope in the dark. But if one who is alive is ready to take you, do not sit reading the Ramayana and the Gita—you will miss.
When news passes through a medium, it gets distorted.
The bird fell from the tree. The man could not alter a thing. Action strikes directly. The man was stunned. In that stunned moment, his thoughts must have gone silent when the bird died. For a moment he must have become meditative. The bird was very skillful; he used the medium perfectly. For a moment, when the bird fell dead from the tree, the man’s thoughts would have stopped—the event was so sudden! If the bird had spoken, the man’s thoughts would have kept whirring; he would have listened with his thinking mixed in. The pure key would not have reached him. And a key only opens the lock if it reaches exactly as given; the slightest deviation, and the lock won’t open. A lock is very subtle.
The bird fell; the man was dumbstruck. Shocked that he had caused such a thing! “What ill omen have I carried? I am responsible for this death; I have become a murderer—needlessly!”
He returned, but it never crossed his mind that a key was being sent through him. He did not know. How could he? Nothing was said or heard. Had words been spoken, he might have grasped the message. It was being sent by action. The thought did not even arise. It does not arise in you either. Had he understood, he might have freed himself too.
Often a true master uses such mediums as do not themselves know they carry the key that will open someone’s door to freedom. They are carriers of the key but cannot open any door themselves. This has happened many times.
Mahavira had ganadharas, disciples through whom he spread the keys. Yet his special disciple, Gautam, remained ignorant till the end. He was the most skillful messenger. Whatever Mahavira sent through him arrived pure. But he could not open his own lock. He did not even know what was happening. That is what happened with this man. It has happened often. Ramakrishna sent the key through Vivekananda to the whole world. Some opened their locks with it, but Vivekananda could not open his own. He never realized what was happening.
This story is extraordinary. The man did not recall, did not suspect, no thought arose that something had been sent through him. The sender was so skillful. If he had said, “Here is the key—guard it carefully,” the man might have lost it. When you guard something too carefully, fear of losing it arises. Put a diamond in a safe—and it gets stolen. The truly wise put the diamond in the trash basket—there it is never stolen. Who will suspect the trash basket? The safe…
He returned. The bird was waiting. The man said, “A strange thing happened. It is hard to believe—sad news. Some lover of yours, some relation, someone close: when I said in the forest, ‘Your companion is caged, in pain, enslaved,’ he was so grieved—this is my explanation—that in grief he died. He fell and died.”
But as he spoke, he saw his own bird drop in the cage, dead on the floor. Still he did not understand.
Messengers often do not understand. Pandits carry scriptures for centuries and do not understand. The scholars pass the message from one generation to the next, yet their own locks remain closed. They remain in prison.
Still he did not understand. He thought, “This story is inauspicious. It was wrong to speak of it. His relative there died; on hearing of that death, this one died. I should not have brought it up.” But since the bird had died in the cage, there was nothing to do but open it. He opened the cage, and to his amazement the bird fluttered and flew into the sky.
This was the secret of freedom. The bird understood the way. He grasped that it is not the bird that is bound—it is the bird’s aliveness that is bound. The cage exists for the living bird, not for the dead. If the bird dies, the cage is finished. The one who shut the door himself will open it. That is the sutra.
In the cage of your bondage, the chains that surround you are there because of your liveliness. Become lifeless, and the one who bound you will open your door. Then the open sky is yours. Become like the dead if you would attain supreme life.
Hence Jesus says, “Whoever would save his life shall lose it. Whoever is willing to lose it shall save it.”
If you try to save, you will stay in the cage. If you give it up with your own hands, the cage becomes useless.
What does it mean to become like the dead?
It means you have no desires, no cravings. For craving is synonymous with life. As long as you want, you live. What is the difference between you and a corpse? That the corpse wants nothing; it has no desire. The dead lie where they are; you travel. Your longing drives you into the future. The corpse is in the present; you are in the future. That is the only difference. Breathing or not breathing does not decide life or death. One whose desires have ended has become like the dead.
That is why those who are partisans of life—like Nietzsche—say: never listen to the Indians. Stay away from Buddha and Mahavira; they are dangerous. The danger, he says, is that if you heed them, you will become like the dead. You will die. Life is for living. “If you want to live, listen to me.” Nietzsche says, “Spread your desires as far as possible. Increase your ambitions as far as you can. Let your ambition touch the horizon and go beyond. Do not stop in your wanting; only then will you live.” He is also right—from the other side. If you want to live, expand ambition.
But the bigger the ambition, the smaller the cage becomes. Thus the emperor is more terribly imprisoned than the beggar. The emperor’s palace is a prison he has built with his own hands. The only difference between the palace and the jail is this: in jail we station guards so the man inside does not go out. In the palace we station guards so people outside do not come in. The guard stands in both cases; the prison is the same. The difference is only that this is a self-made prison; hence the emperor does not realize he is a slave. When others build your prison, you realize you are a slave. When you build it yourself, you labor and you become a slave. You forge your own cages. Your ambitions become your cages.
Nietzsche is right too, in his way. Not contrary to Buddha, if understood properly—he is saying the same, upside down. He says, “If you want life, increase ambition. Do not fear tension; tension is part of life. Do not be disturbed by restlessness; without it you will die. Life is restlessness. Do not long for peace; peace belongs only to the dead. As long as you live, how can you be peaceful?
“And do not accept death. Desire eternal life—forever and ever. Yearn for a life that goes on without end. Do not admit death. And if, for your life, you must destroy others, do not fear—destroy. Life always lives upon other life.”
Following Nietzsche, Hitler was born—his disciple. He slaughtered millions. Destroy the weak so you can succeed.
This is one view; whether we accept it intellectually or not, we all practice it. This is our way of living. Buddha and Mahavira, and the Sufi fakirs, say: this way of living is your prison. You will remain in sorrow. Your desires will forge chains around you. The more you want, the more you will be bound.
There is another way of life: desirelessness. Its art is learning to die. Therefore all religion is the art of dying—how to dissolve. But remember: even when you dissolve, you will not die; only the false will die. You can blow out only that lamp which has oil and wick. The lamp that burns without oil and wick cannot be put out. You can only destroy what you are not. What you are cannot be destroyed. So when religion says: die—it is only the mortal that dies. It is already dead. The eternal within you does not die.
The bird too was only feigning death. The essential within did not die—else who would fly? The bird was acting. He merely lay like a corpse; he was not truly dead. It was a technique. And the technique deceived the keeper of the prison. The method worked; he opened the door. The stream of life was flowing within—never-ending, causeless, beginningless and endless. It flew into the sky.
When you too feign death, only that within you which is dead will fall away—not the stream of life. Thus sannyas is the art of becoming like the dead. Like the dead—remember—you do not die; you become as if dead. The flame of being burns more intensely, for the smoke of the body no longer smothers it. The lamp burns smokeless. And once people understand you are as if dead, you are outside the prison. The open sky is yours.
This is the Sufis’ key—the key of all Sufis, wherever they were born.
Mahavira wished to renounce. His mother said, “Do not bring this up while I live. It will break my heart. I will die.” Mahavira fell silent. Then his mother died. His father too passed. Returning from the cremation ground, Mahavira asked his elder brother for permission to take sannyas. He had refrained for the sake of their peace. The brother said, “You are utterly mad! We have not even reached home—we just buried our mother. I am crushed by grief, and you talk of renunciation? Don’t raise it.”
Mahavira remained quiet. Two years passed. Slowly the family forgot that Mahavira was at home at all. He became as if dead. He rose, walked, sat, but offered no opposition, stood in no one’s way, gave no counsel—as if he were not. Like a gust of wind—coming, going; no one noticed. Days would pass and no one remembered where he was or what he was doing.
Finally the family gathered and said, “We are keeping this man here in vain; he is already gone. We keep the cage shut needlessly; he has already died.” The family gathered; the elder brother said, “Go—for we cannot keep you. Your being here or not is the same. Why should we share in sin? You are not in this house. The palace has forgotten you. No one knows when you come like a shadow or when you go.”
Zen says a sannyasin becomes like the tree’s shadow. The tree sways, and the shadow sways—but the dust on the ground is not disturbed. The shadow moves, but the dust is still. The dust does not even know someone is sweeping above. But what broom is a shadow? Mahavira became like a shadow—dead-like.
The Sufi story is right: the family gathered and said, “Go.” They opened the cage. One who has become like the dead—how can we keep him? There is nothing left to hold. One whose desires have gone—how to hold him? For him the house is the jungle; the palace a solitude. There is no one there.
You are in a crowd because you desire. Your craving is your crowd. You are bound to a house because you are ambitious. Ambition is your house. The day you become like the dead—grasp this sutra—live as if you are not. Then see what happens. Slowly, people will forget you.
You fear being forgotten; so you keep trying to make sure everyone knows you are there. You enter the house making loud steps, banging things, making noise—so that people will know you are. Your son says, “May I go out to play?” There is no harm in his going; no need to ask you—but you say, “No.” The “no” proves you exist. If you say yes, who will notice?
The sannyasin removes himself from others’ paths. He does not make a fuss. He obstructs no one. He becomes like a shadow. He moves, but the dust does not rise. Becoming this “as if not” is sannyas. And that is the key to getting out of the world. When you become a renunciate, those who bound you open the door. If the door is still closed, it simply means you are not yet renounced. You have not fallen down as if dead. You are still sitting, awake, full of life, full of desire.
And understand the last point: if you still harbor even the desire to be free, the cage will not open. If the bird had thought—as your mind would—that the owner has been filled with compassion by the death of that bird; perhaps now he will set me free! And the bird had watched the owner with hopeful eyes—do you think the owner would have opened the cage? It would not have opened. However compassionate he seemed, it was only on the surface. Not enough to open the cage. It never even occurred to him to open it. If even that desire had remained in the bird, he would have missed the key. Even the longing for liberation becomes a barrier to liberation. No—he grasped the essence.
There is another Sufi story, parallel to this.
A Sufi fakir was bathing in a river. A great philosopher came to the bank and called, “I have been looking for you for days. People say you have found the secret of liberation. I have come to ask—and today I have caught you at the right moment, bathing in the river. You are never to be found. Where you go, where you stay—no clue. Wherever I search, I hear you have moved on. Today I caught you just in time.”
Standing on the bank he asked, “What is the secret of liberation?”
No sooner had he said this than the fakir seemed to die, and the current carried him away.
The philosopher said, “I have blundered again. Did I ask such a bad question that the man died? And now he has slipped from my hands. Where will I find him? He has died.” He turned back, mind full of thoughts on life and death—citing doctrines, scriptures to console himself: the soul is immortal; there is no cause for grief; he was a knower.
But the key was missed. Years later he asked another fakir, “I do not understand. The man was such a knower—he could at least have answered and then died! He might have spoken two words. I asked, he answered nothing, and the river carried him away. What happened suddenly? He was perfectly fine—what happened when he heard my question?”
The fakir said, “Fool! He spoke and you did not hear. He said it all, and you did not understand. He gave the whole answer. The trick is this: die in the current and be carried away.
“As long as you are alive, you fight the current. You resist; you struggle. And in struggle the ego is created. Where there is victory and defeat, the ego delights. When you die, the river carries you.
“He told you two things: become as if dead, and let life’s current carry you; do not obstruct. You will reach that ocean you seek.”
“Die” and “be carried”—two sutras.
Do not think about this story; just listen, and fall and die. Do not sit in the cage and become a philosopher—you will miss. Do not think it over. It is a key—turn it, the lock will open.
When you eat, eat as if you are not. When you walk, walk as if you are not. When you speak, speak as if speaking and not speaking are the same. If a throne comes, sit as if forced to; you happened to sit. If you lose the throne, step down as if stepping off your own chair to get on with your work. Be “not”—as if not! Get up, sit down, do everything, but become such that you are a void. Soon you will find the cage door open.
Your inner emptiness itself is the open door. And then wherever you are, that is the sky; that is liberation.
Osho's Commentary
When the merchant was about to return to India, he asked the bird, “What shall I bring you from your homeland?”
The bird said, “Bring nothing. Only go into some forest in India and tell the free birds there about my imprisonment.”
The merchant did just that. But as soon as he spoke, a wild bird fainted and fell to the ground.
The merchant thought, “Because of me, this bird has died.”
When he returned home, his own bird asked him for news of its country. The merchant said, “The news is bad. A bird related to you fell at my feet and died when it heard of your condition.” Hearing this, the merchant’s bird fainted too and rolled to the bottom of the cage. The merchant thought, “It too has died from the grief of its kinsman’s death,” and he took the bird out of the cage. Instantly the bird revived and flew into the open sky.
Please explain the meaning of this story.
Death is the doorway to life. Only the one who consents to die can be free. The one who is ready to be effaced will find the sky of freedom. The bargain is not struck for less. Try to bargain for less, and you will be deceived—by none other than yourself.
If you want to find the Divine… and by the Divine I mean liberation, I mean moksha, I mean ultimate freedom—then as long as you remain, you will not find it. Only when you are lost will it be found. Only when you dissolve can that great union happen.
This is the secret of this small story.
The Sufis have used it greatly. Their grasp is deep. They have placed the keys to life’s ultimate mystery inside small tales. Where scriptures miss, stories do not. Where the grand arrows of theory fail to reach the target, tiny stories pierce the heart.
Let us try to understand this story. It is the story of human bondage and human freedom. Let us unfold it step by step, as one peels an onion.
You may have noticed: if you keep peeling an onion, in the end your hands hold emptiness. One layer opens, another appears; then the next. But if you go on, finally you are left with the void. That very void is the great freedom, the great liberation!
So let us peel this story layer by layer, until the emptiness hidden within falls into our hands. In this story that emptiness is called the sky. And the state of flying in that emptiness is called liberation, freedom.
The first stage of the story: a bird is captive. He is outside his homeland, in a foreign land.
Such is man. Wherever we are, we are in exile. This is not our home. Where we dwell may be a rest house, a hospice. Whether we are among friends or foes, whether we are welcomed or barely tolerated as a burden, still this is not our home. We are in a strange land. That is why we are restless. And until we find the way home again, the restlessness will continue.
The search for home is religion.
There was a thoughtful American, Coolidge. He became President of the United States. Thoughtful people rarely reach such positions; sometimes, by accident, it happens. As was his habit, Coolidge went out strolling around the White House each day. One morning an unknown man met him on the road. The man did not recognize that this was Coolidge, the President, nor did he, in the morning’s dim light, realize that the large building nearby was the President’s residence, the White House.
As they walked, he asked, “Who are you?”
Coolidge said, “That I don’t know either. I am walking to find out. I haven’t found the answer yet.”
The stranger must have thought, “A crank!” To be rid of him, he asked, “And that big white house there—who lives in it?”
Coolidge laughed and said, “No one lives there. People come and go; nobody lives here.”
Where we are, people come and go; no one lives there. This is not a home, it is a halt. Not the destination. If we pause here for a moment’s rest, fine. But if we start believing it is our home, we are lost. A traveler resting under a tree’s shade to escape the journey’s fatigue—understandable; but if he becomes attached to the shade and forgets which way he was going, what he set out to seek, and makes his home there—he is astray.
The world is a wayside inn; there is never peace at an inn. There may be a little rest, but not bliss. And the only meaning of rest is that we are ready again to work, to set our feet on the road once more. Rest is merely a link between; it is not a goal, not an attainment. A great journey is afoot, and in it we have strayed from our home. Wherever we find ourselves, we find ourselves homeless.
The bird is captive in a foreign land where none are his own; he is alone.
Who here is truly yours? You too are alone. But the bird was not as clever as you. He was simple; you are cunning. Where none are truly yours, you have still created relations. Where there is no home, you have taken the hospice for home. Where no one is yours, you have woven connections. You have arranged everything to look as if you are in your own house, not at a mere stopover; as if you are among your own, and not in a foreign land.
What are our relations and bonds?
Jesus used a very hard saying, for which he was greatly criticized. Bertrand Russell used it in his critique of Jesus. At first glance anyone might think Russell is right and Jesus is wrong.
The story goes: Jesus was standing in a market surrounded by a crowd. Someone said from within, “Jesus, your mother is outside, waiting to see you.” Jesus said, “Who is whose mother? Who is whose father? Tell that woman, ‘Nobody is my mother, nobody is my father.’ Tell that woman: I have no mother and no father.”
These words seem harsh, especially on Jesus’ lips—Jesus, who said that God is love, who made love the essence, who grounded religion in service, whose entire alchemy was humility—and he says, “Tell that woman, who is my mother? Who is my father?” And he added to the crowd, “Unless you stand against your mother and become enemies to your father, you are not mine.”
Those who get lost in words will side with Russell. His argument is straightforward: this man was wicked. He calls his own mother “this woman!” His talk of love is empty talk; his humility seems a form of pride.
Those who lose themselves in words will think so. But Jesus cannot be cruel. He speaks with a purpose. He wants to tell you: you are a stranger here, and none here is truly yours. Neither your mother is mother, nor your father father. If you were born to a woman, it is mere coincidence. Do not take it as relationship. You could have been born to another woman. Neither did you choose this woman as mother, nor did she choose you as son. It was an accident. Neither did she know that you were coming as her son, nor do you know you were making her a mother. Two people bumping into each other in the dark—there is no light on the road, you fall into step for a while. This journey is like that. Everything is in the dark. Everything is a coincidence.
Who is your friend? Whom do you call friend? Everyone lives for their own interests. Your “friend” too is attached to you for his interest, and you to him for yours. If your friend fails you in your hour of need, you will break the friendship. The worldly wise say, a friend is one who stands by you in need. Why? Because when my interest requires, he serves me. But he too thinks: when you serve me in need, you are my friend. You want to use the other—what kind of friendship is that? You want to exploit the other—what kind of relationship is that? All relationships are of self-interest.
A father with his hand on his son’s shoulder; a son bowed at his father’s feet—still, all relationships are of self-interest. Where self-interest is primary, how can there be relationship? But the mind craves; it is afraid to be alone. So it wants companions.
Companions are the mind’s invention, because alone we are frightened. The greatest fear is to be utterly alone. So we marry, call some woman wife, some man husband, make someone a friend. We build a small world around us. In that world we feel we have our own people, a home. But whoever awakens even a little will find that homelessness is man’s destiny in this world. Here home is an illusion. We are homeless here.
Buddha gave many names to his monks; one is “Agrahi”—one who has no home. It does not mean he won’t rest under any roof. Even Buddha would sometimes take shelter from rain, sleep under a roof from the sun.
It means the delusion is gone, the illusion broken, that in this world one has a home. There are stopovers, inns; people come and go but no one stays. Before you were, many were here. After you, many will be here. The crowd keeps moving; the marketplace stays busy. The moment you leave, someone else fills your place. The moment you go, someone else calls your house his home.
There was an emperor, Ibrahim; later he became a fakir—of great worth. His name is among the great Sufis. One night, as he slept, he heard someone walking on the roof. He shouted, “Who is the fool? Who is the thief? What are you doing on my roof?” The man said, “Your roof is nothing to me. My camel is lost; I am searching for it.”
Camels get lost on palace roofs? Ibrahim thought the man mad. Yet there was a certain power in his voice. When he said, “Go to sleep; I have nothing to do with your roof—I am searching for my camel,” the tone struck deep. Ibrahim could not sleep. He thought, is this man mad or does he have a purpose? In the morning he sent men to find the one who searched for a camel on the roof at night. He wanted to meet him. It was hard to find him—no name or trace.
At noon, when the court was full and Ibrahim sat on his throne, the guards came saying, “A man is creating a disturbance. He is formidable; we cannot meet his gaze. When he speaks sharply, our chests tremble—though we are brave guards—he frightens us.”
Ibrahim asked, “What does he say?”
They said, “He says he wants to stay in this hospice for a few days.” We told him, “This is the king’s palace, not a hospice. It is his residence, not an inn. The inn is in the market; go lodge there.” He said, “I want to meet the one who imagines this his residence.”
Ibrahim said, “Don’t let him go. Bring him in at once. This must be the man who was searching for his camel on the roof last night.” When the man came in, Ibrahim said, “What insolence is this? You call my residence an inn?”
The man said, “The insolence is yours. I came before, and another man was committing the same insolence. You were not on this throne then; someone else said, ‘This is my house.’ Before him, I came and found a third man. And I assure you, when I come again, you will not be here; someone else will claim it. Whom am I to believe?”
Ibrahim said, “That was my father. And before that, my grandfather.” The fakir asked, “Where are they now, whose residence this was? The house stands as it is—where are they?” Ibrahim said, “They have gone.” His courage broke. The fakir said, “People come, people go, they stay awhile—why call it a residence? I want to stay a few days in this inn.”
Ibrahim must have been a man of great courage. He rose and said, “If this is an inn, then you stay here—I will go. Your point rings true. This is no longer my home. I will search for my home, and until I find it, there is no question of returning.” Ibrahim became a great fakir, attained. One day he found his own home.
But that home is not where your eyes search. It lies where your eyes never turn. This is the foreign land where you see and hear; but the place from which you see and hear—that is your homeland.
The bird was in a foreign land. And whoever is in a foreign land is in bondage. How can you be free if you aren’t in your native place? If you are not in yourself, what meaning can freedom have? Surrounded by strangers and aliens, you will remain a slave.
Only in one’s own house can one be carefree and free. In that house where there is neither coming nor going; where you have always been and will always be; which is eternal, beginningless and endless.
You are in the condition of that bird. The bird represents you. His owner was going to the bird’s homeland. He asked the bird if he had any message for his kin or friends—any letter to carry.
Note the second point: only the owner can go. How can a captive go? How can he seek? Only the master can search. That is why Hindus call the seekers swami—owner, master. They gave the sannyasin the name Swami—one who at least has this much mastery: that he can set out in search.
You do not even have that much mastery to set out. You are caged. You will ask someone else, “If you are going, take a message,” or, “Bring back news!” You cannot go yourself; your wings are bound. That is why you need to go to a guru, to find a master who can bring news of the homeland. Without a guru, your work cannot proceed.
This bird would have remained caged, but his owner was going—the owner can go. Until, in some sense, you become the owner, you too cannot go.
Thus the first sutra of practice is: gain a little mastery.
Mastery means your mind does not run you. You do not parrot the mind’s shadow; rather you become master of the mind, and the mind follows you. When you say to the mind, “Be still,” the mind is still. When you say, “Think,” the mind thinks. When you say, “Be without thought,” the mind instantly becomes thoughtless. When the mind obeys you, you are the master.
Hence meditation is the first sutra of practice. Through meditation, slowly your mastery arises; otherwise you will remain caged. The mind is your cage. And you have forgotten. By obeying the mind again and again, you have completely forgotten that you are the master, that you can command and the mind will obey.
A Zen master, Linji, was speaking. A stubborn, troublesome man stood up and said, “You are deceiving people. You must have hypnotized them. Your disciples who surround you do whatever you say. Let someone make me obey! Give me an order—then I will accept you as a master.”
Linji said, “I am a little hard of hearing. Come closer.”
The man stepped forward and stood on Linji’s left.
Linji said, “My left ear is useless—come to the right.”
The man moved to the right.
Linji said, “Mistake—my right ear is bad; the left is fine. Come to the left!” The man came left. Linji said, “Sit down! How will we talk while you’re standing?”
The man sat. Linji said, “Shall I begin my talk? This fellow is very obedient. Whatever I say, he does. You are fit to be a follower—you will become a perfect disciple.”
Until you can make the mind sit on the left, shift to the right, you cannot be the master. And the mind is very stubborn. The truth is, whatever you tell the mind, it instantly does the opposite—because its mastery would be lost if it obeyed you. You say, “Sit,” and the mind stands—to make it clear you should not repeat this mistake. You will never be able to command; it will never obey.
This has become an old habit. As if a slave’s master slowly forgot he was the master and, out of attachment, began to obey the slave; now the slave is hard to convince. Over many births, you have allowed the slave to become the master—but it makes no difference. If once you call out truly, with your whole being, the slave will freeze where he is. For a slave is a slave; you are the master. Mastery cannot be lost; you can forget out of habit. But where would the master go? The slave has nowhere to go. The slave has no journey.
The master was going to the bird’s homeland. He asked, “Shall I carry any message for your kin?” Surely the kin can only be in the homeland. Here, relationships are only in name. The friend of today can be the enemy tomorrow.
Machiavelli, the Chanakya of the West, wrote The Prince. One of his counsels to rulers is: do not tell your friend what you would not tell your enemy, for today’s friend may be tomorrow’s enemy. And do not say of an enemy what you would not say of a friend, for today’s enemy may be tomorrow’s friend.
Relationships here change like leaves trembling in the wind. When do they change direction? It depends on the wind. They have no direction of their own. The wife of today may divorce you tomorrow and become your enemy. The son of today may murder you tomorrow. Who is yours here? In a foreign land, no one can truly be anyone’s. All bonds here are like shadows. Two people stand, their shadows overlap—is that a relationship? Move the people and the shadows move; shadows do not truly meet.
Plato, the great Greek thinker, said this world is like a shadow. The real world lies elsewhere. This world is a reflection. Stand by a river and your reflection appears in the water; similarly, reflections appear in this world. They even meet each other, but their meeting is not real, for they are shadows. Opposite this world there is another. In that world the true meeting happens. Here it is all a play of names. Friendship is a name for one game; enmity for another. And change takes no time here. Everything is in flux. Heraclitus said, except for one thing, everything changes—and that one thing is change. Change alone seems stable; all else is unstable.
The master asked, “I am going to your land; any message to carry?” The bird must have been wise. He sent no letter. He said, “Instead of taking a message, simply tell my condition there.” Very wise.
If someone asked you, you would scribble a long letter. He spoke the essence: what more is there to say? Only this: I am imprisoned here in a cage; the open sky has been snatched away; my wings are becoming useless. I am forgetting how to fly. Life is a sorrow and a burden. Go to the forest and cry out to my friends and kin that such is my state—your companion is captive in a foreign land.
The bird was very alert. He sent this news hoping perhaps some bird knew the secret of freedom. Perhaps someone knew a trick. Perhaps someone had once been enslaved, then returned home. Perhaps someone had passed through this trouble and held the key. Perhaps a master would be found.
That is all a guru means: one who was once bound and is now free. One who once stood where you stand and is no longer there. One who has moved from the world of shadows to the world of reality. Whose inn has vanished and who has found a home. Only such a one can be your guru.
It is a curious thing: the Divine cannot be your guru directly, because the Divine has never known bondage. So you will not find the keys to freedom with Him. Even if you could meet God and ask, He would not understand your condition. You could say, “I am in bondage, in great trouble—give me a way,” but God cannot give you a trick.
For God has never lodged in an inn; He is ever in the home.
So all religions conceived that the Divine does not answer directly. Hence, “the Son of God,” Jesus, appears. This is merely a story, but it means that first Jesus becomes man: first he passes through bondage, is caged—only then can freedom be discovered.
Hindu thought speaks of avatars. Why does God not answer directly? Why the need for Ram, Krishna? Why not the Self speaking directly? The Jains say the answer will come through a Tirthankara. The Buddhists, through a Buddha.
Why does existence not answer? Ask the sky—why does it not reply? The sky cannot, for it has never been caged. Only one who has known your trouble can answer. The key can be with only that person who has been in prison and also gotten out. Ask the prisoner who leapt the wall and escaped. Those who are outside cannot tell you the way out, for they do not know what the prison is like—the height of the walls, the strength of the stones, the rigor of the guards—nor from where an exit is possible. Find the prisoner who has somehow got out; he is your guru.
Thus the bird said, “Go to the forest and cry out that such is my state. Say nothing more.” There is nothing more to say. He thought that if someone knew the secret, news would arrive in some way.
The man went. In the forest, seeing birds of that bird’s species perched in the trees, he cried, “Listen! A bird of your kind, from your world, one just like you, is imprisoned in a cage. He has sent news of his sorrow and pain.”
Hearing this, one bird instantly fell from the tree and died!
The man was filled with grief: “What ill-omened news I brought! Was the pain so great for this kin? Perhaps a husband, a wife, a friend? So much pain that on hearing a loved one is captive, it died! The shock was too great.”
The man was distressed, but nothing could be done. The incident had happened. He returned. Sadly he said to the caged bird, “When I gave your news and told your tale of sorrow, I have very sad news: a bird fell from the tree and died at once. I felt great pain.” As he spoke, he saw his own bird fall in the cage and die.
But this was the key the guru had sent. And the guru could not give it in words—only in action. What could words give? A guru gives by example. The guru sent the key by behavior. That bird must have been very astute, freed from some strong prison. That is the very trick he sent—the same method he had used: he died in the tree. And when one dies, no one imprisons the dead; only the living are caged. No one imprisons the dead.
That is why Lao Tzu said, “Become like the dead; then no one will imprison you.”
Hence the Upanishads say, die while living, and none can bind you. The dead are taken to the pyre; who would bind them? You are bound because you are alive.
And Lao Tzu also said: the more alive you appear, the more trouble you will invite—for more people will want to bind you. The more beautiful you are, the more the hassle—more will want to bind you. The more intelligent you are, the more you invite trouble—more will want to bind you. Become like a corpse—no intellect, no beauty, nothing. Become a nobody and none will bind you. Lao Tzu and his follower Chuang Tzu delight in such tales.
Lao Tzu was passing through a forest. All the trees were being cut—save one. It was a great tree; a thousand carts could rest in its shade.
Lao Tzu said, “Go and ask that tree its secret. When all have been cut, how did you survive?” The disciples said, “How will a tree answer?” Lao Tzu said, “Still, go and find out. Ask the laborers felling the other trees.”
They went and asked. “That tree is good for nothing,” the men said. “It would be hard to find such a useless tree in the world. Animals won’t eat its leaves. Its branches are so twisted nothing can be made from them. Burn them and the smoke is so noxious the house becomes unlivable—so you can’t even burn it. You can’t use it for fuel, nor for furniture; its leaves are good for no one. There is no tree on earth so useless. That is why it has been spared.”
Lao Tzu said, “Understand: if you want to be spared, be utterly useless. The tree has the key—learn from it. While all are being cut, see how it spreads free into the sky, unafraid! The straight ones were felled first. The beautiful, shapely ones have become furniture. The rich ones, standing proud in the sky, can hardly be found anymore. Be like this tree—be. Only then will your life blossom.”
Lao Tzu passed through a village where men were being conscripted, for the kingdom was at war. Every young, strong man was taken—except for one hunchback. Lao Tzu said, “Ask this hunchback his trick for survival.” The hunchback said, “Because I am deformed, I am of no use. My back is bent.” Lao Tzu said, “Learn: if your back is straight, you will be cut down like goats in the battlefield. This hunchback has survived. Be useless.”
Yet you can only be totally useless when you are as if dead. Otherwise some use will remain. The hunchback can still be used for something. Even the useless tree’s use could be found—smoke to harass the neighbors, to drive away mosquitoes. As long as you are, there is danger; when you are not, there is none—you are beyond danger.
This bird must have been caged before and escaped by dying. In dying he found the key. Until he died, he remained bound. He left life; the cage fell away; he became as if dead.
The definition of sannyas is: to be like a dead man in the world. Then no one will catch you; no one will bind you.
Who binds the dead? People won’t keep a corpse at home even for an hour. The moment he dies, preparations begin to take him away. Wood is gathered for the pyre; the bier is prepared. Family aside—even the neighbors, who were never of any use—hurry to bring bamboo and what is needed, as the family is weeping and there is urgency. You are bound—and off you go!
The bird knew the key. But how to deliver it? Through the messenger the key could be distorted. The medium could destroy it. Words are a medium; action is immediate, direct. If he had used words, they would fall into the man’s hands—how much would he retain, how much omit, what interpretation would he give? Who knows what would be delivered! The messages transmitted by scripture from masters have not reached you. If this man had carried words, they would have become scripture—the message would not have arrived. So masters have sent messages in two ways. One: through scriptures, which did not reach—they failed. Second: by themselves—through their being, their way of being—and that reached.
But that way of being can only reach you when a living master is present. Therefore, while a living guru can be found, do not wander in scripture. When a living guru cannot be found, only then wander in the scriptures. In the presence of a living master, scripture is worth two pennies. Without him, scripture has some use—you can grope in the dark. But if one who is alive is ready to take you, do not sit reading the Ramayana and the Gita—you will miss.
When news passes through a medium, it gets distorted.
The bird fell from the tree. The man could not alter a thing. Action strikes directly. The man was stunned. In that stunned moment, his thoughts must have gone silent when the bird died. For a moment he must have become meditative. The bird was very skillful; he used the medium perfectly. For a moment, when the bird fell dead from the tree, the man’s thoughts would have stopped—the event was so sudden! If the bird had spoken, the man’s thoughts would have kept whirring; he would have listened with his thinking mixed in. The pure key would not have reached him. And a key only opens the lock if it reaches exactly as given; the slightest deviation, and the lock won’t open. A lock is very subtle.
The bird fell; the man was dumbstruck. Shocked that he had caused such a thing! “What ill omen have I carried? I am responsible for this death; I have become a murderer—needlessly!”
He returned, but it never crossed his mind that a key was being sent through him. He did not know. How could he? Nothing was said or heard. Had words been spoken, he might have grasped the message. It was being sent by action. The thought did not even arise. It does not arise in you either. Had he understood, he might have freed himself too.
Often a true master uses such mediums as do not themselves know they carry the key that will open someone’s door to freedom. They are carriers of the key but cannot open any door themselves. This has happened many times.
Mahavira had ganadharas, disciples through whom he spread the keys. Yet his special disciple, Gautam, remained ignorant till the end. He was the most skillful messenger. Whatever Mahavira sent through him arrived pure. But he could not open his own lock. He did not even know what was happening. That is what happened with this man. It has happened often. Ramakrishna sent the key through Vivekananda to the whole world. Some opened their locks with it, but Vivekananda could not open his own. He never realized what was happening.
This story is extraordinary. The man did not recall, did not suspect, no thought arose that something had been sent through him. The sender was so skillful. If he had said, “Here is the key—guard it carefully,” the man might have lost it. When you guard something too carefully, fear of losing it arises. Put a diamond in a safe—and it gets stolen. The truly wise put the diamond in the trash basket—there it is never stolen. Who will suspect the trash basket? The safe…
He returned. The bird was waiting. The man said, “A strange thing happened. It is hard to believe—sad news. Some lover of yours, some relation, someone close: when I said in the forest, ‘Your companion is caged, in pain, enslaved,’ he was so grieved—this is my explanation—that in grief he died. He fell and died.”
But as he spoke, he saw his own bird drop in the cage, dead on the floor. Still he did not understand.
Messengers often do not understand. Pandits carry scriptures for centuries and do not understand. The scholars pass the message from one generation to the next, yet their own locks remain closed. They remain in prison.
Still he did not understand. He thought, “This story is inauspicious. It was wrong to speak of it. His relative there died; on hearing of that death, this one died. I should not have brought it up.” But since the bird had died in the cage, there was nothing to do but open it. He opened the cage, and to his amazement the bird fluttered and flew into the sky.
This was the secret of freedom. The bird understood the way. He grasped that it is not the bird that is bound—it is the bird’s aliveness that is bound. The cage exists for the living bird, not for the dead. If the bird dies, the cage is finished. The one who shut the door himself will open it. That is the sutra.
In the cage of your bondage, the chains that surround you are there because of your liveliness. Become lifeless, and the one who bound you will open your door. Then the open sky is yours. Become like the dead if you would attain supreme life.
Hence Jesus says, “Whoever would save his life shall lose it. Whoever is willing to lose it shall save it.”
If you try to save, you will stay in the cage. If you give it up with your own hands, the cage becomes useless.
What does it mean to become like the dead?
It means you have no desires, no cravings. For craving is synonymous with life. As long as you want, you live. What is the difference between you and a corpse? That the corpse wants nothing; it has no desire. The dead lie where they are; you travel. Your longing drives you into the future. The corpse is in the present; you are in the future. That is the only difference. Breathing or not breathing does not decide life or death. One whose desires have ended has become like the dead.
That is why those who are partisans of life—like Nietzsche—say: never listen to the Indians. Stay away from Buddha and Mahavira; they are dangerous. The danger, he says, is that if you heed them, you will become like the dead. You will die. Life is for living. “If you want to live, listen to me.” Nietzsche says, “Spread your desires as far as possible. Increase your ambitions as far as you can. Let your ambition touch the horizon and go beyond. Do not stop in your wanting; only then will you live.” He is also right—from the other side. If you want to live, expand ambition.
But the bigger the ambition, the smaller the cage becomes. Thus the emperor is more terribly imprisoned than the beggar. The emperor’s palace is a prison he has built with his own hands. The only difference between the palace and the jail is this: in jail we station guards so the man inside does not go out. In the palace we station guards so people outside do not come in. The guard stands in both cases; the prison is the same. The difference is only that this is a self-made prison; hence the emperor does not realize he is a slave. When others build your prison, you realize you are a slave. When you build it yourself, you labor and you become a slave. You forge your own cages. Your ambitions become your cages.
Nietzsche is right too, in his way. Not contrary to Buddha, if understood properly—he is saying the same, upside down. He says, “If you want life, increase ambition. Do not fear tension; tension is part of life. Do not be disturbed by restlessness; without it you will die. Life is restlessness. Do not long for peace; peace belongs only to the dead. As long as you live, how can you be peaceful?
“And do not accept death. Desire eternal life—forever and ever. Yearn for a life that goes on without end. Do not admit death. And if, for your life, you must destroy others, do not fear—destroy. Life always lives upon other life.”
Following Nietzsche, Hitler was born—his disciple. He slaughtered millions. Destroy the weak so you can succeed.
This is one view; whether we accept it intellectually or not, we all practice it. This is our way of living. Buddha and Mahavira, and the Sufi fakirs, say: this way of living is your prison. You will remain in sorrow. Your desires will forge chains around you. The more you want, the more you will be bound.
There is another way of life: desirelessness. Its art is learning to die. Therefore all religion is the art of dying—how to dissolve. But remember: even when you dissolve, you will not die; only the false will die. You can blow out only that lamp which has oil and wick. The lamp that burns without oil and wick cannot be put out. You can only destroy what you are not. What you are cannot be destroyed. So when religion says: die—it is only the mortal that dies. It is already dead. The eternal within you does not die.
The bird too was only feigning death. The essential within did not die—else who would fly? The bird was acting. He merely lay like a corpse; he was not truly dead. It was a technique. And the technique deceived the keeper of the prison. The method worked; he opened the door. The stream of life was flowing within—never-ending, causeless, beginningless and endless. It flew into the sky.
When you too feign death, only that within you which is dead will fall away—not the stream of life. Thus sannyas is the art of becoming like the dead. Like the dead—remember—you do not die; you become as if dead. The flame of being burns more intensely, for the smoke of the body no longer smothers it. The lamp burns smokeless. And once people understand you are as if dead, you are outside the prison. The open sky is yours.
This is the Sufis’ key—the key of all Sufis, wherever they were born.
Mahavira wished to renounce. His mother said, “Do not bring this up while I live. It will break my heart. I will die.” Mahavira fell silent. Then his mother died. His father too passed. Returning from the cremation ground, Mahavira asked his elder brother for permission to take sannyas. He had refrained for the sake of their peace. The brother said, “You are utterly mad! We have not even reached home—we just buried our mother. I am crushed by grief, and you talk of renunciation? Don’t raise it.”
Mahavira remained quiet. Two years passed. Slowly the family forgot that Mahavira was at home at all. He became as if dead. He rose, walked, sat, but offered no opposition, stood in no one’s way, gave no counsel—as if he were not. Like a gust of wind—coming, going; no one noticed. Days would pass and no one remembered where he was or what he was doing.
Finally the family gathered and said, “We are keeping this man here in vain; he is already gone. We keep the cage shut needlessly; he has already died.” The family gathered; the elder brother said, “Go—for we cannot keep you. Your being here or not is the same. Why should we share in sin? You are not in this house. The palace has forgotten you. No one knows when you come like a shadow or when you go.”
Zen says a sannyasin becomes like the tree’s shadow. The tree sways, and the shadow sways—but the dust on the ground is not disturbed. The shadow moves, but the dust is still. The dust does not even know someone is sweeping above. But what broom is a shadow? Mahavira became like a shadow—dead-like.
The Sufi story is right: the family gathered and said, “Go.” They opened the cage. One who has become like the dead—how can we keep him? There is nothing left to hold. One whose desires have gone—how to hold him? For him the house is the jungle; the palace a solitude. There is no one there.
You are in a crowd because you desire. Your craving is your crowd. You are bound to a house because you are ambitious. Ambition is your house. The day you become like the dead—grasp this sutra—live as if you are not. Then see what happens. Slowly, people will forget you.
You fear being forgotten; so you keep trying to make sure everyone knows you are there. You enter the house making loud steps, banging things, making noise—so that people will know you are. Your son says, “May I go out to play?” There is no harm in his going; no need to ask you—but you say, “No.” The “no” proves you exist. If you say yes, who will notice?
The sannyasin removes himself from others’ paths. He does not make a fuss. He obstructs no one. He becomes like a shadow. He moves, but the dust does not rise. Becoming this “as if not” is sannyas. And that is the key to getting out of the world. When you become a renunciate, those who bound you open the door. If the door is still closed, it simply means you are not yet renounced. You have not fallen down as if dead. You are still sitting, awake, full of life, full of desire.
And understand the last point: if you still harbor even the desire to be free, the cage will not open. If the bird had thought—as your mind would—that the owner has been filled with compassion by the death of that bird; perhaps now he will set me free! And the bird had watched the owner with hopeful eyes—do you think the owner would have opened the cage? It would not have opened. However compassionate he seemed, it was only on the surface. Not enough to open the cage. It never even occurred to him to open it. If even that desire had remained in the bird, he would have missed the key. Even the longing for liberation becomes a barrier to liberation. No—he grasped the essence.
There is another Sufi story, parallel to this.
A Sufi fakir was bathing in a river. A great philosopher came to the bank and called, “I have been looking for you for days. People say you have found the secret of liberation. I have come to ask—and today I have caught you at the right moment, bathing in the river. You are never to be found. Where you go, where you stay—no clue. Wherever I search, I hear you have moved on. Today I caught you just in time.”
Standing on the bank he asked, “What is the secret of liberation?”
No sooner had he said this than the fakir seemed to die, and the current carried him away.
The philosopher said, “I have blundered again. Did I ask such a bad question that the man died? And now he has slipped from my hands. Where will I find him? He has died.” He turned back, mind full of thoughts on life and death—citing doctrines, scriptures to console himself: the soul is immortal; there is no cause for grief; he was a knower.
But the key was missed. Years later he asked another fakir, “I do not understand. The man was such a knower—he could at least have answered and then died! He might have spoken two words. I asked, he answered nothing, and the river carried him away. What happened suddenly? He was perfectly fine—what happened when he heard my question?”
The fakir said, “Fool! He spoke and you did not hear. He said it all, and you did not understand. He gave the whole answer. The trick is this: die in the current and be carried away.
“As long as you are alive, you fight the current. You resist; you struggle. And in struggle the ego is created. Where there is victory and defeat, the ego delights. When you die, the river carries you.
“He told you two things: become as if dead, and let life’s current carry you; do not obstruct. You will reach that ocean you seek.”
“Die” and “be carried”—two sutras.
Do not think about this story; just listen, and fall and die. Do not sit in the cage and become a philosopher—you will miss. Do not think it over. It is a key—turn it, the lock will open.
When you eat, eat as if you are not. When you walk, walk as if you are not. When you speak, speak as if speaking and not speaking are the same. If a throne comes, sit as if forced to; you happened to sit. If you lose the throne, step down as if stepping off your own chair to get on with your work. Be “not”—as if not! Get up, sit down, do everything, but become such that you are a void. Soon you will find the cage door open.
Your inner emptiness itself is the open door. And then wherever you are, that is the sky; that is liberation.
Enough for today.