As if there were a vast garden, many plants, but not a single flower in bloom—such has human society become. There are many people, yet no flowers of beauty, of truth, of prayer. The earth keeps filling up with men, and with stench as well—not fragrance. With hatred, anger, violence—not with love and prayer. In three thousand years, humans have fought fifteen thousand wars. It seems as if, apart from waging war, we have done nothing else. Fifteen thousand wars in three thousand years—five wars for every single year. And if there is one field where development has truly occurred, it is this: we have perfected the art of killing human beings.
Today there are about fifty thousand hydrogen bombs ready on the ground. Strange, because fifty thousand hydrogen bombs are far more than necessary—seven times over. There are three billion people, and we have prepared seven times the capacity to kill them. If there were twenty-five billion people, these bombs could conveniently kill them too. As it is, we have arranged to kill each person seven times over—lest anyone escape by accident. One death is enough, but just in case someone survives, we can kill him again—and yet again. We have a surplus arrangement for killing.
Fifty thousand hydrogen bombs are so many that the earth is too small for them; to erase it, they are far too many. When the atom bombs fell on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, people thought nothing more dangerous could ever be invented. But within just twenty years, hydrogen and super-bombs created such a situation that those bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki became children’s toys, of no worth at all. One bomb killed a hundred thousand people—yet now it is a toy. The reach and power of what we possess today are immense. This, over the whole span of history, is what man has achieved—an intense longing for destruction and death. It makes one suspect that somewhere, man is ill, diseased, unwell. A healthy person longs to live; the unhealthy longs to die.
And remember, when the longing to die—or to kill—becomes very strong, it can only mean that our mind has fallen sick. Something psychopathic grips us, some mental disorder. There is less joy in living, more thrill in killing and erasing. A suicidal tendency is growing in man. We now stand at a place where any day we could bring ourselves to an end.
A few days before his death, someone asked Einstein, “What do you think about World War Three?” Einstein replied, “About the third I cannot say anything; about the fourth I certainly can.” The man asked, “What do you mean? If you can’t speak of the third, how can you speak of the fourth?” Einstein said, “One thing can be stated with certainty about the fourth: it will never happen. Because after the third, there is no hope that any humans will remain to fight the fourth. But about the third, it is difficult to say anything.”
What is the reason we have dragged humanity right to the edge of death?
The first thing I see is this: moments of joy—of bliss—have grown scarce in human life. Life has become a long tale of sorrow. And if life is so full of suffering, one inevitable result follows—the unhappy man becomes eager to make others unhappy. And it seems just: I can only give what I have. If I am miserable, I can only give misery; there is no other way. And we are all miserable. The smiles you see on our faces are counterfeit. The truth is, we have invented smiles to hide our inner sorrow. We keep laughing on the surface so that the illusion is not created that we are unhappy. Laughter echoes around the world.
Once an emperor went to meet Buddha and asked, “Do you ever laugh or not?”
Buddha said, “Now that sorrow within is gone, there is no need for laughter either—because laughter was only to conceal sorrow. We used to laugh on the surface to forget the pain within.”
Someone once asked Nietzsche, “You laugh so much; you look very happy.”
Nietzsche said, “Don’t touch that topic. I laugh so that I don’t start crying. One must not have spare time; if gaps appear, the tears may come. To keep tears away I put my energy and time into laughing.”
Do you know, as human sorrow has increased, something else has grown too—entertainment. Have you ever considered that entertainment is invented by the unhappy? A happy person is so full that he needs no entertainment—he is happy. The need for devices arises only when we are not happy within. Then we need alcohol; then we invent newer forms of sex; we need films, television, radio, music. And when these, too, grow stale, there is mescaline, marijuana, LSD—something more to seek. But they too become stale and old. Man’s misery is such that even after trying every kind of laughter, he cannot erase it; the sorrow remains as it is. And when sorrow gathers thickly within, naturally we begin to relish giving sorrow to others.
When a person is in joy, he delights in giving joy to others. In fact, there is one sure test of one who is blissful: if you can be happy in another’s happiness, you are blissful. And if you can be happy making another happy, you are blissful. But if you taste sweetness seeing another in pain—and feel pain seeing another in joy—then you are a miserable person.
How strange is the human mind! When it sees someone in sorrow, it displays much sympathy, appears very compassionate. And this creates the illusion that he is suffering because the other suffers. But have you ever noticed? When someone shows sympathy, there is also a certain relish in his eyes—he is enjoying it. There is a subtle pleasure in sympathizing with another. Because the one we pity becomes lower, and we stand higher. People are on the lookout for a chance to show you sympathy.
If your house catches fire, people will come to show sympathy. But these are the same people who would have been filled with envy if you had built a big house. The arithmetic is odd! Those who were envious when your house grew large cannot be truly unhappy when it burns. They will show sorrow, display sorrow—but inside, sorrow cannot be there. For when they could not be happy seeing your house grow, how could they be unhappy seeing it reduced?
I once stayed at a friend’s house. He had built a very large home. During my first visit, from morning till night he would bring the conversation back to the house. Whatever the topic, the house came in. Sometimes his swimming pool, sometimes his bathrooms, sometimes his garden and lawn. After three days there, I felt he had invited me to talk about his house. I stayed there again later; again, the talk was all about the house. It seemed to me that perhaps the house was more important; its owner, far less—he said nothing about himself, only about the house.
The third time I stayed with him, he did not bring up the house. I was already bracing myself—now the house will come, now it will come. But it didn’t. Evening came, night was falling, so I asked, “When will you talk about the house?”
He said, “Leave it. Let it be.”
I hadn’t noticed the reason: there had been an event in the neighborhood—a bigger house had been built next door. The next morning, when I went out, I saw the cause. As we walked in the garden, I said, “You never mention your house anymore! It’s the same house, the same pool, the garden is better, the flowers more abundant.”
He said, “Don’t bring up the house. Since that bigger one went up next door, my heart has been very depressed, very sad. But don’t worry; in a year or two I’ll build an even bigger one. Until then, better not to talk of the house.”
But the neighbor had called me over—and he talked about his house. I said, “How long will you carry on like this? If someone builds a bigger place next door, you’ll be in trouble.”
We cannot feel even a little joy in another’s joy. Therefore when we show sorrow at another’s sorrow, it is false; it is deceptive.
And we go on laughing. We have gathered all this laughter from the surface. We have made faces. One face is our real one, which we keep suppressed within. Perhaps even we wouldn’t recognize it if it appeared. If the person I truly am were to meet me, I might not recognize him—so long it’s been since we met. And another face we have made up.
Psychologists say if two people meet in a room, two do not meet—at least six do. If I meet you in a room, then there is the me who I am, the me I show you, and the me you imagine me to be. And you too are three. Six people will converse. The real ones fall far behind; the false ones step forward and talk.
Who knows how many faces we have erected—all false. And society grows more and more miserable.
In truth, a happy person has only one face—because he has nothing to hide. The unhappy must invent many faces, because he has to conceal his pain. There is no point in revealing it, no use in telling it to anyone.
There is a Jewish mystic, Liebman, who wrote a memoir. He writes: I looked at people. Whoever I saw on the road, appeared laughing. Whoever I met, seemed in high spirits. If I asked, “How are you?” he would say, “Everything is fine—very happy.” But when I looked within, I found nothing but sorrow. Ask anyone, he says, and he says he’s fine. Only I was miserable; everyone else was happy. So one night I prayed to God: “Why are you angry with me? Everyone is happy. Whoever I ask says all is well. Only I am the wrong man—only I am troubled. I ask not much of you: give me any stranger’s sorrow and give my sorrow to him. I’m ready. In this village I’ll take anyone’s pain—just exchange mine.”
That night Liebman had a dream—an extraordinary dream. He dreamt his prayer had been heard. A huge hall appeared, and a voice rang through the village: “Everyone, tie up your bundle of sorrows and bring it on your shoulder to the hall.”
Liebman ran first. He thought perhaps others would not even arrive—since no one has any sorrow; everyone is fine. But he saw people running faster than he was. Those he had asked in the morning, “How are you?” and who said, “Good,” were racing with huge bundles. He was astonished! Not a single villager was missing—everyone had come with their bundle. The mayor was there, the priest, the renunciate, the saint—everyone! And more astonishing still: not one person had a bundle smaller than his; all seemed larger!
Then another voice: “Hang your bundles on the pegs.” Everyone rushed to hang their bundles. Then: “Now pick whatever bundle you choose.” Liebman writes: I panicked and ran—not toward another’s bundle, but toward my own—lest someone else grab it. At least my pains are familiar. Strangers’ pains—those bundles look no smaller, only larger. In a fright I snatched my own bundle—lest someone else lift it. And to my amazement, everyone had done the same! All ran to pick up their own! Each feared someone else might take it. For till yesterday, we had seen only the false faces of others—our own sorrow, their laughter. Today that falseness vanished.
People are so full of pain! And so we keep finding new ways to hurt one another. In the name of religion we find ways to torment; in the name of politics too. By any pretext, we discover ways to persecute. If we wish to kill a person, it is difficult; but to kill a Hindu, a Muslim—that is easier. So we become Hindu or Muslim and find our routes. If not Hindu-Muslim, then Sikh-Hindu can fight. If not Sikh-Hindu, then Gujarati-Marathi. If not that, then North and South Indians. And if nothing remains, do you think we’ll sit peacefully at home? Husbands and wives will fight. Fathers and sons will fight. Masters and disciples will fight.
We want a fight. We need a way to give pain to the other. A system for torturing the other. And it is not only “bad people” who torment others. Those we call “good people” find refined ways to torment. There are “good” methods too.
A saint tells people to fast—“Without starving you will not find God.” He has found a “holy” way to torment. He says: “Stand on your head; standing on your feet is no good. Stand on your head to find the divine.”
God didn’t make that mistake; he made man to stand on his feet. The saint insists headstands bring God. And when a few simpletons stand on their heads, the saint starts to feel happy—he has begun to give pain; he has found techniques of torture. Those we call good also torment. Their torment is more dangerous—because they do it “for your own good.” Then it becomes very difficult.
It is easy to guard against a Hitler; it is very hard to guard against a Gandhi. For Hitler torments like an open enemy. Gandhi torments “for your welfare.” Hitler puts a knife on your chest; Gandhi puts it on his own. He says, “I will die if you don’t obey me.” This he calls nonviolence.
Killing another is violence—how does killing yourself become nonviolence? If I press a knife to your chest and say, “Do as I say,” it is violence and a criminal act. And if I press it to my own chest and say, “I will die, set myself on fire, if you don’t obey,” I become a “mahatma.” But this too is a criminal act; this too is violence. Only, it is violence of a refined kind—by it we cleverly torture the other. If I sit at your door and declare, “I will starve to death if you don’t concede,” then even if I am wrong, this “good kind” of violence will coerce you, will torture you.
The bad torment; the good torment. We are all busy tormenting one another. And we have devised such tricks that it is hard to detect all the ways we do it. If you love a woman, you soon begin to torment her. If a woman loves you, very soon—who knows when—she begins to torment you. We grab each other by the throat. We become a noose around the necks of those we love.
Fathers torment their sons when they are small—the children are weak, the fathers strong. But soon the boat turns: children become strong, the father grows old. Then the children begin to torment. In old age, children torment—because now they are strong. The father tormented in youth—children were weak; it was easy. Whoever can torment, torments. We are all troubling each other. Some have made a deliberate art of discovering new ways to torment.
Aurangzeb imprisoned his father. After ten or fifteen days, the father sent a message: “Alone, my mind does not settle. If you give me thirty boys to teach, my mind will engage.”
Aurangzeb had it written in his memoirs: “My father could not bear living without tormenting others. He asked for thirty boys; with a stick in hand he sat like a monarch among them and began to torment—calling it education.”
In this matter, much research persists: many who choose certain professions do so to satisfy their tendency—to choose work that allows them to torment.
This man, so full of sorrow; this man who keeps tormenting others; this man who has turned the whole earth into hell… I have heard: a man died. His wife went to a medium. “I hear you can communicate with spirits,” she said. “I want news about my husband.” The medium called his spirit. The wife asked, “Are you well?”
He said, “I am very, very well—in utter bliss.”
She said, “Tell me more about heaven!”
He replied, “Heaven? You misunderstand. I have come to hell.”
His wife said, “You are in hell—and you’re well?”
He said, “Compared to earth now, hell is far more beautiful, wholesome, peaceful, joyous. Compared to where I came from, hell is pleasant. I know nothing of heaven. I have come to hell. But let me tell you—the rules have changed. Once, those who sinned on earth were sent to hell; now, those who sin in hell are sent to earth.”
How will flowers bloom in a man so loaded with pain? How will blessings manifest in his life? How will a ray of joy appear?
And if no glimmer of joy appears, then whether one lived or not—what difference? If joy never comes, what we might have received from life we never take. The plant is planted, but no flower blooms. We brought a lamp home, but a flame never burned. We bought a veena and set it in the house—but our fingers never touched its strings, and no music ever arose.
Many are like this—who have a veena at home, but no music ever comes from it.
A veena alone cannot produce music. Being born is not enough; after birth, another birth is needed. One birth we receive from our parents, and one birth we must grant ourselves. With birth we don’t get life—only the veena, not the music. Music must be learned.
But here is the great misfortune: man learns everything—except life. He learns mathematics; one could even do without it. He learns geography; one could do without it too. Chemistry and physics—humanity managed long without them. We learn everything that is in life, and omit just one thing—how to live. The art of living, that alone is left out. No school, no college, no teacher for that. No one is even curious.
Because we have assumed life has already been given—what remains to do? We brought home a veena—what more is needed for music? If the veena is here, music is here.
Music is not in the veena. The veena can only be an opportunity for music to be born. Life is not in birth; birth is only an opportunity for life to blossom. The music of life must be learned—separately. That art must be learned.
To me, what I call religion is the art of living. But what we have so far called religion does not appear to be the art of living. Rather, it seems the defeated of life—the ones who missed, who lost, who are sick, ill, deranged—are condemning life in that religion. What we have called religion till now is, deep down, a condemnation, an opposition to life. It is life-negative, not life-affirmative. If we exclude a handful across human history—one Kabir, one Nanak, one Buddha, one Krishna, one Christ—names that fit on fingers; aside from them, the religions we see—the temple’s, the mosque’s, the Qur’an’s, the Gita’s—are all condemning human life. And when religion condemns life, why would it teach the art of living? When it condemns, it teaches the art of escaping life. It says: how to die. It says the real thing is after death.
Our religions so far are not concerned with transforming the earth. They say this earth is worthless, vain. Real life is after death—some heaven, some moksha, some Vaikuntha—that is where true life is. This life is an inn, a waiting room at the station—sit a while, the train will come, and we’ll go.
Have you ever seen how people behave in a waiting room? You can tell: everyone dirties it—throws peels, spits, dumps betel juice. And if you ask him, he says, “It’s a waiting room, not my home! Two minutes here, then I go.” The one who comes after does the same, and the one after him. If the waiting room becomes filthy, it’s no surprise. If it begins to stink and is hard to sit in, it’s no surprise.
For five thousand years, those we call gurus, priests, pundits have been saying, “Life is an inn, a waiting room. We are to leave it. No need to beautify it. It cannot be made beautiful.” They also say, “Happiness here is impossible—only sorrow is possible. You can never find joy here.”
And remember, if for five thousand years it is proclaimed that happiness is impossible, happiness will cease to happen—not because it is impossible, but because propaganda bears fruit.
I have heard of a small experiment by a psychologist in an American university. He wanted to see the result of suggestion. In a mathematics M.A. class of fifty, he split them into two groups. Twenty-five were taken to one room, twenty-five to another.
He wrote the same problem on the board for the first group. Before writing, he said, “Listen carefully: you will not be able to solve this problem.” Those who were leaning forward to see the board slumped back in their chairs. If it cannot be solved, the matter is finished! Astonished, they asked, “Then why give it?” The professor said, “Only to see whether, out of fifty, perhaps one or two can even start in the right direction. It cannot be solved, but if someone begins with the right method, that would be a marvel. Great mathematicians have failed; this is not a solvable problem.” He wrote less of the problem and spoke more about its impossibility. “Don’t worry too much; it cannot be solved. It is very difficult. Perhaps an Einstein or two in the world could do it. But Einstein is dead—so there’s little hope. Still, try.”
The students picked up their pens, but their souls were not with their hands. The hands remained; the spirit had withdrawn. They were trying to solve what they knew could not be solved.
He left them and went to the other room. He wrote the same problem. He told them, “This is very simple. I don’t expect there is a single student among you who cannot solve it—everyone will.” Those slumped in their chairs slid forward. One student asked, “If everyone can do it, why give it?” He replied, “We only want to see if perhaps one student has wandered into this class who cannot solve such a simple problem! Students in lower classes have solved it. We only want to know whether there is anyone here who cannot.”
They began to solve it. Their souls were with their hands.
And the result was astonishing: in the first class, only three out of twenty-five succeeded; twenty-two failed. In the second class, twenty-three succeeded; only two failed. How did such a difference arise? They were the same level, the same problem.
For five thousand years, man has been told: life is suffering, life is vain, life is the fruit of sin, one must escape life, be liberated, never be born again.
Tagore was dying. A friend came and said, “Enough of poetry now!” He was writing even on his deathbed. “Why waste your time? Pray to God that you are not born again.”
Tagore replied, “I cannot pray like that. I have known so much joy in his life, so much music, so much beauty, that I will keep praying as I die: if you do not find me unworthy, send me once more into life. If I am unfit, that is another matter. Your life is wondrous. I will die giving thanks that you gave me a chance! Even to the unworthy, who had no claim to come into life, you gave it. And if you find me even a little worthy, give me one more chance—that will be my prayer.”
Surely Tagore takes life differently. But over five thousand years, the gurus have taken life in a tone of condemnation—opposing it, speaking only of destroying it somehow.
This has had consequences. Today’s miserable man bears the imprint of these teachings. Two things happened. First, we accepted that life is sorrow. Once we accepted that, we gave up the journey to open the doors of bliss; we stopped seeking joy. At most, one path remained: since life is sorrow, at least find ways to forget it—that’s enough. Drink, and the sorrow is forgotten—not erased. See a film, watch a dancer—sorrow is forgotten for a while, not erased. These are crude forgettings. The finer ones: sing bhajans and kirtans, clash cymbals, dance and shout—there too sorrow is forgotten, not erased. So man has found gross and subtle intoxications. We have become certain that joy is impossible in life.
I heard a story—who knows how true. In a restaurant in heaven, three extraordinary beings met one day: Buddha, Confucius, and Lao Tzu. The three sat at one table, chatting. An apsara came with a pitcher full of the elixir of life. She came to Buddha and asked, “I have brought the wine of life—will you taste?”
Buddha immediately closed his eyes. “It is vain, pointless; no meaning, no essence,” he said—and closed his eyes.
Confucius kept one eye half-open, half-closed—he believed in the golden mean, never extremes, neither fully open nor fully shut. From a half-open eye he looked and said, “I will taste but not drink. Drinking would be an excess; not tasting would also be an excess.” He tasted and said, “Tasteless.”
Lao Tzu took the entire pitcher in his hands and drank it all. When he finished, he began to dance. They asked, “How is life?” Lao Tzu said, “You cannot know without drinking it whole.” He said to Buddha, “You closed your eyes; your judgment cannot be right—deciding without knowing.” To Confucius, “You only tasted; until life reaches the veins, becomes blood, runs in every fiber, how will you know? A lick on the tongue tells nothing. The tongue is only a gate—and you turned back at the gate.” And Lao Tzu danced, saying, “Drink life whole—and the joy of life is revealed.”
But those who speak like Lao Tzu have been very few on earth. The teachers who dominated here stood against life.
There is a reason for their opposition. They mistook the veena for music. Then, when music did not arise from the veena, they said, “Break it—it’s useless.”
They did not realize the veena does not produce music by itself. It can only offer an opportunity for music to be born. Something more must be done.
If we assume life is given with birth, we have erred. This error must be broken. And if it breaks in someone’s life, such joy becomes available that measuring or weighing it is impossible. And the one who experiences the joy of life alone can experience God—for God means the depth of life. God is not some person sitting somewhere whom you will meet. The deeper we descend into life, the nearer we come to God. The farther we stand from life, the farther we are from God.
It is a strange irony that religions have kept us away from life, and thus away from God. It may sound paradoxical, but in a sense our saints have proved enemies of God. For they say: do not live life. To live is itself a sin. Escape. Wherever life is, flee. Where a door opens into life’s depths, run away—don’t stay, lest life call you, entice you. Thus religions have driven people into forests; they have torn humans from humans, wives from husbands, sons from fathers and fathers from sons. Religion has used every means to separate man from life.
In my understanding, true religion will connect you to life, not sever you from it. If there is a God anywhere, he cannot be the face of death; he must be the face of life. And if there is a God, we will know him by descending into the very depth of our life-stream—feel him flowing in our veins, breathing in our breath, seeing through our eyes, loving through our hands. If there is ever a meeting with God, it is like the vast current of life—not a monarch on a throne. We have sculpted God in the image of kings, seated him on thrones, placed crowns on his head. There is no such God. There is no God who will be found somewhere so we can stand at his door with folded hands and he will shower grace. God is flowing within us twenty-four hours a day. We are waves of God.
But a wave that moves inward becomes the ocean—because beneath the wave is the ocean. A wave that only looks outward remains a wave, never becoming the ocean.
Go to the seashore: you see waves, not the ocean. Have you ever seen the ocean? You have not. Only waves are seen; the ocean is not—it is hidden in depth. If waves could look around, they would think the neighboring wave is other: when that one rises, I am falling; when I rise, that one falls—we cannot be one. The neighbor dies, I live—how can we be one? The neighbor is young, I am old—how can we be one? The neighbor is healthy, I am sick—how can we be one? Looking outside, a wave sees one rising, another sinking—how can they be one?
No, the wave will never accept it. And if the wave goes in search of the ocean, she will be in trouble—asking the moon and stars, the trees on the shore, the people: where is the ocean? She will be in trouble—because the ocean is inside the wave, beneath her.
Curious: the ocean can be without waves, but the wave cannot be without the ocean. The wave is only a part—a crest raised on the ocean’s breast, nothing more. It will soon subside and be ocean again.
We too are waves in the ocean of existence—in the ocean of God. Where are we searching for God? What we seek is present within us every moment. But religions have erected a false God outside, to be searched for. He is not within us, not with all of us—he is far away; we must travel to reach him.
There is a reason. If God is as near as the ocean is to the wave, then there is no need for a middleman. The brokers and agents must be dismissed. A broker is needed only when connections must be made over distance; then a medium is required. Between man and God, the priest has no place to stand—not even a sliver. Between wave and ocean, where will you insert a priest? There is nowhere. And if a priest stands between, he will not connect the wave to the ocean—he will separate them. Anything placed in between separates.
Between man and God, the priest has been a divider, not a joiner. The closeness here is like that of wave and ocean. And yet we search elsewhere. God has been placed far away. For if God is not far, who will ask for the path? If he is not distant, who will ask for the method, the means? If he is not distant, who will make himself your guru? Who will you need as a guide? Keeping God distant is essential—otherwise the entire business collapses. The priest’s trade secret is this: keep God far. And since God is near, only a false god can be kept far—so a false one has been erected. And naturally, since there are a thousand priests, there are a thousand gods—the Hindu’s god, the Muslim’s, the Christian’s.
So many gods—so many kinds!
I have heard of a fakir, Abu Yazid. One night he slept and dreamt—a dream he had longed for: to reach God’s city. He reached it. Great lamps were lit, dazzling light, firecrackers bursting. He asked, “What is this?” Someone said, “It’s God’s birthday.” He said, “Wonderful.” Multitudes were crowding the streets. “The procession will begin,” someone said. He stood at the side.
First came a splendid chariot with a majestic figure. He asked the person next to him, “Is this God?” “No,” they said, “this is Jesus Christ.” Millions were behind Jesus shouting, “Long live Jesus!” The procession moved on. Another grand chariot appeared—another glorious figure. “Is this God?” “No, this is Ram.” Hindus behind, shouting his praise. The procession continued—Buddha passed, Mahavira passed, Nanak passed—all the wondrous ones, and their flocks passed with them. Then the streets grew empty; the onlookers dispersed.
The fakir said, “But God has not yet come!” Then an old man appeared, riding a poor horse. With no one left to ask, he asked the old man, “Are you, by any chance, God?” “I am,” the old man said. The fakir asked, “No one is with you?” God said, “People have all divided—some with Ram, some with Krishna, some with Christ. No one is with me. I am utterly alone. Only this horse accompanies me—and even he often says, ‘Let me go; let me carry someone else.’ He says, ‘Other horses are having so much fun—one is Christ’s horse, another Ram’s, another Buddha’s. Let me go!’ Only this horse is with me—no one else. How is it you’re standing here? What an unlikely event! How did you remain?”
In his panic the fakir awoke, sweat on his brow, heart pounding. He ran to his neighbors. “I saw a terrible dream!” he told them. Everyone said, “A bad dream indeed. A fakir should not dream like that. These are not dreams for decent people. Why did you see it? At least you are a Muslim—you should have joined Muhammad’s procession. Why did you stay waiting for God? There is only one God, and one prophet—Muhammad. Why did you not go with him? Who knows—that old fellow may have tricked you. Always go through the proper channel. Ask Muhammad. Why did you ask directly? Who knows who that old man was? Never go like that—always through Muhammad. He has the authentic news of the true God.”
The fakir was in trouble. Whomever he asked, said, “You saw a very wrong dream.”
Had that fakir met me, I would have said: You did not see a dream; you saw the truth. It was not a dream—it was truth.
People are divided like this, and no one is with God. And the one who would be with God must drop all divisions. The one who would be with God must bow the middleman out: “Please go.” There is no distance between me and him. And if there is a distance, no power on earth can bridge it. Either there is no distance—or, if there is, it cannot be bridged. How will you bridge it? If there is distance between God and me, it can be bridged only if he wills it. And if God himself has willed the distance, then removing it is impossible. If there is distance, it will not vanish—and the atheist is right: forget talk of God; there is none. Or, there is no distance—and the theist is wrong to say we need a priest between.
No, there is no distance. We are his waves. In fact, we should stop using the word “God.” The very word creates distance—suggests someone far, separate. No: it is the name of the stream of life—life itself. Better, in the coming world, to stop naming “God” and say “Life.” And say: the art of living life in its totality is religion. To know all of life—total, whole—is to know God.
Certainly, if such a religion were to develop, it would be the religion of the earth. Such a religion would not condemn life. To know life, you cannot condemn it. If there is to be a religion that wants to play life’s music upon the veena of life, it will not tell you to drop the veena and escape. If the world were truly religious, there would be no split into householder and renunciate; there would be householders who are also renunciates. If the world were rightly religious, there would not be two categories; there would be householders who are inwardly sannyasins. Life itself would be renunciation—the art of being within life, in the midst of life, and beyond life.
But the old world split man into two: whoever would seek God must leave life. And remember, whoever leaves life will never find God. And it also said: whoever remains in life can never seek God. The one who leaves life fails to find; the one who doesn’t leave grows resigned—“How can we seek God while living?” In both positions, loss; in both, religion is harmed.
If we wish to see a religious world—and remember, without a religious world, man can never be blissful, peaceful, musical—if we wish the world to be religious, we must change the very definition of religion. We must rebuild it entirely—set forth on a new dimension. A religion that is not anti-life, but accepts life—loves life.
A small story, and I will finish.
In Japan there was an emperor. On winter nights he would ride his horse through the villages—bitter cold, no one outside. But under a tree a fakir would sit, shivering. One day, two days, three—the emperor inquired, “Who is this man?” The vizier reported, “A very remarkable man—not ordinary.” The emperor went to him on the fourth day, dismounted, touched the fakir’s feet, and said, “It would be a great grace—why remain here? Be kind, come to the palace.”
He said this, but unconsciously he assumed the renunciate would refuse. For that is our definition of a sannyasin—he refuses. Outwardly he invited, but deep down he knew the renunciate would decline. He did not know this was another kind of sannyasin. The emperor spoke; the sannyasin said, “As you wish,” and climbed onto the horse—while the emperor was still on the ground. A doubt rose in the emperor’s mind: What kind of renunciate is this? A sannyasin is one who rejects life. I said, “Come to the palace.” He didn’t even say once, “I am a renunciate; I will not go to the palace.” He simply mounted.
The emperor had no choice; he had invited—taking it back was hard. He walked, holding the horse’s reins; the sannyasin sat proudly. They reached the palace. The emperor lodged him in the finest quarters, made the best arrangements. The sannyasin accepted it all—rested on velvet cushions. The emperor thought, “What a wrong man I invited! A sannyasin is one who rejects life. I bow at a sannyasin’s feet because he has rejected what I cannot. What kind of sannyasin is this?”
He didn’t dare speak. Six months passed. One morning, while the sannyasin was strolling in the garden, the emperor came and said, “Sir, I must ask something. A doubt arises in my heart.”
The sannyasin said, “You took long to ask! The doubt arose that very night. Six months to gather courage? You seem a timid man. Speak—what is the doubt?”
The emperor said, “Not a doubt—again and again this question comes: what difference remains between you and me?”
The sannyasin said, “You want an answer? Best we go to where the doubt began.”
“What does that matter?” asked the emperor.
“It will help,” said the sannyasin.
They went—reached the tree outside the village. “Now tell me,” said the emperor.
“Let’s go a little further. I am answering,” said the sannyasin.
“I don’t understand—you’re saying nothing.”
“I am answering. That night too I answered without words; your doubt arose without my speaking. The answer can arise too. Let’s cross the river.”
They crossed; it was noon. “Now tell me,” said the emperor.
“A little farther,” said the sannyasin.
“No further,” said the emperor. “This is the border of my kingdom.”
“Our path has no borders,” said the sannyasin. “Let’s go a bit more.”
“I cannot,” said the emperor. “It’s late; people will start looking for me.”
“No one looks for me,” said the sannyasin. “Come—just a little.”
“Enough,” said the emperor. “If you must answer, answer now.”
“This is my answer: I go on. Will you come with me?” said the sannyasin.
“How can I? My palace, my wealth, my whole order—how can I?” said the emperor.
“Now do you see the difference? I am going,” said the sannyasin.
The emperor fell at his feet. “My doubt is gone. I let a supreme knower slip away! Six months I did not do satsang with you—thinking you were a bhogi, a man of indulgence. Come back!”
“I can come—ride your horse again,” said the sannyasin, “but then your doubt will return. Let me go now. It is no difficulty for me to return. Beneath the neem tree I was as close to God as I was on your palace cushions—not a bit farther. Begging for alms, I was as happy as I was eating your delicacies—not a bit sad. God was there, God is here. Wherever I go, there he is. And remember: I could have refused your palace—but how could I refuse God’s palace? You thought you were taking me to your palace; I heard his invitation and had to go. I mounted your horse not because you invited me. If he had not called, it would be different. Today he says, ‘Go—give the answer, show the distance by going farther.’ So now I go.”
We need a religion that makes renunciation possible in the midst of life. It can be done—there is no real difficulty. It is only a matter of giving the human mind a new direction. But we must break the wrong education of thousands of years. We must drop what the past has taught, so that what the future can teach may be born. We must cleanse ourselves of the dust of the past so that the new suns of the future can be seen.
The reason man has been plunged into such sorrow is this: no music has arisen from life’s veena. So much music can arise—but life must be accepted, and we must trust that much joy is hidden there. Once this feeling takes root—that joy is hidden in life—then joy bursting forth is not difficult. But if we have decided there are no springs of joy in life, then those springs dry up.
I have said these few things. Perhaps something may ring true for you. It is not necessary. Perhaps some word may touch a hidden string in some corner of your heart. Perhaps you may begin to seek the art of living. Perhaps you will not let the veena lie idle, and one day some music will be born from it. That music we make upon the veena of our life is the first prayer in the temple of the divine. No other music is his prayer. The song we bring forth upon the veena of life becomes the prayer of God’s temple.
I have said these few things in this hope—that perhaps, who knows, a seed may fall into the soil; years pass, then the rains come, drops fall, and the seed sprouts. Perhaps some seed may fall somewhere, and someday—when the divine rain comes—something may sprout.
Osho's Commentary
As if there were a vast garden, many plants, but not a single flower in bloom—such has human society become. There are many people, yet no flowers of beauty, of truth, of prayer. The earth keeps filling up with men, and with stench as well—not fragrance. With hatred, anger, violence—not with love and prayer. In three thousand years, humans have fought fifteen thousand wars. It seems as if, apart from waging war, we have done nothing else. Fifteen thousand wars in three thousand years—five wars for every single year. And if there is one field where development has truly occurred, it is this: we have perfected the art of killing human beings.
Today there are about fifty thousand hydrogen bombs ready on the ground. Strange, because fifty thousand hydrogen bombs are far more than necessary—seven times over. There are three billion people, and we have prepared seven times the capacity to kill them. If there were twenty-five billion people, these bombs could conveniently kill them too. As it is, we have arranged to kill each person seven times over—lest anyone escape by accident. One death is enough, but just in case someone survives, we can kill him again—and yet again. We have a surplus arrangement for killing.
Fifty thousand hydrogen bombs are so many that the earth is too small for them; to erase it, they are far too many. When the atom bombs fell on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, people thought nothing more dangerous could ever be invented. But within just twenty years, hydrogen and super-bombs created such a situation that those bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki became children’s toys, of no worth at all. One bomb killed a hundred thousand people—yet now it is a toy. The reach and power of what we possess today are immense. This, over the whole span of history, is what man has achieved—an intense longing for destruction and death. It makes one suspect that somewhere, man is ill, diseased, unwell. A healthy person longs to live; the unhealthy longs to die.
And remember, when the longing to die—or to kill—becomes very strong, it can only mean that our mind has fallen sick. Something psychopathic grips us, some mental disorder. There is less joy in living, more thrill in killing and erasing. A suicidal tendency is growing in man. We now stand at a place where any day we could bring ourselves to an end.
A few days before his death, someone asked Einstein, “What do you think about World War Three?” Einstein replied, “About the third I cannot say anything; about the fourth I certainly can.” The man asked, “What do you mean? If you can’t speak of the third, how can you speak of the fourth?” Einstein said, “One thing can be stated with certainty about the fourth: it will never happen. Because after the third, there is no hope that any humans will remain to fight the fourth. But about the third, it is difficult to say anything.”
What is the reason we have dragged humanity right to the edge of death?
The first thing I see is this: moments of joy—of bliss—have grown scarce in human life. Life has become a long tale of sorrow. And if life is so full of suffering, one inevitable result follows—the unhappy man becomes eager to make others unhappy. And it seems just: I can only give what I have. If I am miserable, I can only give misery; there is no other way. And we are all miserable. The smiles you see on our faces are counterfeit. The truth is, we have invented smiles to hide our inner sorrow. We keep laughing on the surface so that the illusion is not created that we are unhappy. Laughter echoes around the world.
Once an emperor went to meet Buddha and asked, “Do you ever laugh or not?”
Buddha said, “Now that sorrow within is gone, there is no need for laughter either—because laughter was only to conceal sorrow. We used to laugh on the surface to forget the pain within.”
Someone once asked Nietzsche, “You laugh so much; you look very happy.”
Nietzsche said, “Don’t touch that topic. I laugh so that I don’t start crying. One must not have spare time; if gaps appear, the tears may come. To keep tears away I put my energy and time into laughing.”
Do you know, as human sorrow has increased, something else has grown too—entertainment. Have you ever considered that entertainment is invented by the unhappy? A happy person is so full that he needs no entertainment—he is happy. The need for devices arises only when we are not happy within. Then we need alcohol; then we invent newer forms of sex; we need films, television, radio, music. And when these, too, grow stale, there is mescaline, marijuana, LSD—something more to seek. But they too become stale and old. Man’s misery is such that even after trying every kind of laughter, he cannot erase it; the sorrow remains as it is. And when sorrow gathers thickly within, naturally we begin to relish giving sorrow to others.
When a person is in joy, he delights in giving joy to others. In fact, there is one sure test of one who is blissful: if you can be happy in another’s happiness, you are blissful. And if you can be happy making another happy, you are blissful. But if you taste sweetness seeing another in pain—and feel pain seeing another in joy—then you are a miserable person.
How strange is the human mind! When it sees someone in sorrow, it displays much sympathy, appears very compassionate. And this creates the illusion that he is suffering because the other suffers. But have you ever noticed? When someone shows sympathy, there is also a certain relish in his eyes—he is enjoying it. There is a subtle pleasure in sympathizing with another. Because the one we pity becomes lower, and we stand higher. People are on the lookout for a chance to show you sympathy.
If your house catches fire, people will come to show sympathy. But these are the same people who would have been filled with envy if you had built a big house. The arithmetic is odd! Those who were envious when your house grew large cannot be truly unhappy when it burns. They will show sorrow, display sorrow—but inside, sorrow cannot be there. For when they could not be happy seeing your house grow, how could they be unhappy seeing it reduced?
I once stayed at a friend’s house. He had built a very large home. During my first visit, from morning till night he would bring the conversation back to the house. Whatever the topic, the house came in. Sometimes his swimming pool, sometimes his bathrooms, sometimes his garden and lawn. After three days there, I felt he had invited me to talk about his house. I stayed there again later; again, the talk was all about the house. It seemed to me that perhaps the house was more important; its owner, far less—he said nothing about himself, only about the house.
The third time I stayed with him, he did not bring up the house. I was already bracing myself—now the house will come, now it will come. But it didn’t. Evening came, night was falling, so I asked, “When will you talk about the house?”
He said, “Leave it. Let it be.”
I hadn’t noticed the reason: there had been an event in the neighborhood—a bigger house had been built next door. The next morning, when I went out, I saw the cause. As we walked in the garden, I said, “You never mention your house anymore! It’s the same house, the same pool, the garden is better, the flowers more abundant.”
He said, “Don’t bring up the house. Since that bigger one went up next door, my heart has been very depressed, very sad. But don’t worry; in a year or two I’ll build an even bigger one. Until then, better not to talk of the house.”
But the neighbor had called me over—and he talked about his house. I said, “How long will you carry on like this? If someone builds a bigger place next door, you’ll be in trouble.”
We cannot feel even a little joy in another’s joy. Therefore when we show sorrow at another’s sorrow, it is false; it is deceptive.
And we go on laughing. We have gathered all this laughter from the surface. We have made faces. One face is our real one, which we keep suppressed within. Perhaps even we wouldn’t recognize it if it appeared. If the person I truly am were to meet me, I might not recognize him—so long it’s been since we met. And another face we have made up.
Psychologists say if two people meet in a room, two do not meet—at least six do. If I meet you in a room, then there is the me who I am, the me I show you, and the me you imagine me to be. And you too are three. Six people will converse. The real ones fall far behind; the false ones step forward and talk.
Who knows how many faces we have erected—all false. And society grows more and more miserable.
In truth, a happy person has only one face—because he has nothing to hide. The unhappy must invent many faces, because he has to conceal his pain. There is no point in revealing it, no use in telling it to anyone.
There is a Jewish mystic, Liebman, who wrote a memoir. He writes: I looked at people. Whoever I saw on the road, appeared laughing. Whoever I met, seemed in high spirits. If I asked, “How are you?” he would say, “Everything is fine—very happy.” But when I looked within, I found nothing but sorrow. Ask anyone, he says, and he says he’s fine. Only I was miserable; everyone else was happy. So one night I prayed to God: “Why are you angry with me? Everyone is happy. Whoever I ask says all is well. Only I am the wrong man—only I am troubled. I ask not much of you: give me any stranger’s sorrow and give my sorrow to him. I’m ready. In this village I’ll take anyone’s pain—just exchange mine.”
That night Liebman had a dream—an extraordinary dream. He dreamt his prayer had been heard. A huge hall appeared, and a voice rang through the village: “Everyone, tie up your bundle of sorrows and bring it on your shoulder to the hall.”
Liebman ran first. He thought perhaps others would not even arrive—since no one has any sorrow; everyone is fine. But he saw people running faster than he was. Those he had asked in the morning, “How are you?” and who said, “Good,” were racing with huge bundles. He was astonished! Not a single villager was missing—everyone had come with their bundle. The mayor was there, the priest, the renunciate, the saint—everyone! And more astonishing still: not one person had a bundle smaller than his; all seemed larger!
Then another voice: “Hang your bundles on the pegs.” Everyone rushed to hang their bundles. Then: “Now pick whatever bundle you choose.” Liebman writes: I panicked and ran—not toward another’s bundle, but toward my own—lest someone else grab it. At least my pains are familiar. Strangers’ pains—those bundles look no smaller, only larger. In a fright I snatched my own bundle—lest someone else lift it. And to my amazement, everyone had done the same! All ran to pick up their own! Each feared someone else might take it. For till yesterday, we had seen only the false faces of others—our own sorrow, their laughter. Today that falseness vanished.
People are so full of pain! And so we keep finding new ways to hurt one another. In the name of religion we find ways to torment; in the name of politics too. By any pretext, we discover ways to persecute. If we wish to kill a person, it is difficult; but to kill a Hindu, a Muslim—that is easier. So we become Hindu or Muslim and find our routes. If not Hindu-Muslim, then Sikh-Hindu can fight. If not Sikh-Hindu, then Gujarati-Marathi. If not that, then North and South Indians. And if nothing remains, do you think we’ll sit peacefully at home? Husbands and wives will fight. Fathers and sons will fight. Masters and disciples will fight.
We want a fight. We need a way to give pain to the other. A system for torturing the other. And it is not only “bad people” who torment others. Those we call “good people” find refined ways to torment. There are “good” methods too.
A saint tells people to fast—“Without starving you will not find God.” He has found a “holy” way to torment. He says: “Stand on your head; standing on your feet is no good. Stand on your head to find the divine.”
God didn’t make that mistake; he made man to stand on his feet. The saint insists headstands bring God. And when a few simpletons stand on their heads, the saint starts to feel happy—he has begun to give pain; he has found techniques of torture. Those we call good also torment. Their torment is more dangerous—because they do it “for your own good.” Then it becomes very difficult.
It is easy to guard against a Hitler; it is very hard to guard against a Gandhi. For Hitler torments like an open enemy. Gandhi torments “for your welfare.” Hitler puts a knife on your chest; Gandhi puts it on his own. He says, “I will die if you don’t obey me.” This he calls nonviolence.
Killing another is violence—how does killing yourself become nonviolence? If I press a knife to your chest and say, “Do as I say,” it is violence and a criminal act. And if I press it to my own chest and say, “I will die, set myself on fire, if you don’t obey,” I become a “mahatma.” But this too is a criminal act; this too is violence. Only, it is violence of a refined kind—by it we cleverly torture the other. If I sit at your door and declare, “I will starve to death if you don’t concede,” then even if I am wrong, this “good kind” of violence will coerce you, will torture you.
The bad torment; the good torment. We are all busy tormenting one another. And we have devised such tricks that it is hard to detect all the ways we do it. If you love a woman, you soon begin to torment her. If a woman loves you, very soon—who knows when—she begins to torment you. We grab each other by the throat. We become a noose around the necks of those we love.
Fathers torment their sons when they are small—the children are weak, the fathers strong. But soon the boat turns: children become strong, the father grows old. Then the children begin to torment. In old age, children torment—because now they are strong. The father tormented in youth—children were weak; it was easy. Whoever can torment, torments. We are all troubling each other. Some have made a deliberate art of discovering new ways to torment.
Aurangzeb imprisoned his father. After ten or fifteen days, the father sent a message: “Alone, my mind does not settle. If you give me thirty boys to teach, my mind will engage.”
Aurangzeb had it written in his memoirs: “My father could not bear living without tormenting others. He asked for thirty boys; with a stick in hand he sat like a monarch among them and began to torment—calling it education.”
In this matter, much research persists: many who choose certain professions do so to satisfy their tendency—to choose work that allows them to torment.
This man, so full of sorrow; this man who keeps tormenting others; this man who has turned the whole earth into hell… I have heard: a man died. His wife went to a medium. “I hear you can communicate with spirits,” she said. “I want news about my husband.” The medium called his spirit. The wife asked, “Are you well?”
He said, “I am very, very well—in utter bliss.”
She said, “Tell me more about heaven!”
He replied, “Heaven? You misunderstand. I have come to hell.”
His wife said, “You are in hell—and you’re well?”
He said, “Compared to earth now, hell is far more beautiful, wholesome, peaceful, joyous. Compared to where I came from, hell is pleasant. I know nothing of heaven. I have come to hell. But let me tell you—the rules have changed. Once, those who sinned on earth were sent to hell; now, those who sin in hell are sent to earth.”
How will flowers bloom in a man so loaded with pain? How will blessings manifest in his life? How will a ray of joy appear?
And if no glimmer of joy appears, then whether one lived or not—what difference? If joy never comes, what we might have received from life we never take. The plant is planted, but no flower blooms. We brought a lamp home, but a flame never burned. We bought a veena and set it in the house—but our fingers never touched its strings, and no music ever arose.
Many are like this—who have a veena at home, but no music ever comes from it.
A veena alone cannot produce music. Being born is not enough; after birth, another birth is needed. One birth we receive from our parents, and one birth we must grant ourselves. With birth we don’t get life—only the veena, not the music. Music must be learned.
But here is the great misfortune: man learns everything—except life. He learns mathematics; one could even do without it. He learns geography; one could do without it too. Chemistry and physics—humanity managed long without them. We learn everything that is in life, and omit just one thing—how to live. The art of living, that alone is left out. No school, no college, no teacher for that. No one is even curious.
Because we have assumed life has already been given—what remains to do? We brought home a veena—what more is needed for music? If the veena is here, music is here.
Music is not in the veena. The veena can only be an opportunity for music to be born. Life is not in birth; birth is only an opportunity for life to blossom. The music of life must be learned—separately. That art must be learned.
To me, what I call religion is the art of living. But what we have so far called religion does not appear to be the art of living. Rather, it seems the defeated of life—the ones who missed, who lost, who are sick, ill, deranged—are condemning life in that religion. What we have called religion till now is, deep down, a condemnation, an opposition to life. It is life-negative, not life-affirmative. If we exclude a handful across human history—one Kabir, one Nanak, one Buddha, one Krishna, one Christ—names that fit on fingers; aside from them, the religions we see—the temple’s, the mosque’s, the Qur’an’s, the Gita’s—are all condemning human life. And when religion condemns life, why would it teach the art of living? When it condemns, it teaches the art of escaping life. It says: how to die. It says the real thing is after death.
Our religions so far are not concerned with transforming the earth. They say this earth is worthless, vain. Real life is after death—some heaven, some moksha, some Vaikuntha—that is where true life is. This life is an inn, a waiting room at the station—sit a while, the train will come, and we’ll go.
Have you ever seen how people behave in a waiting room? You can tell: everyone dirties it—throws peels, spits, dumps betel juice. And if you ask him, he says, “It’s a waiting room, not my home! Two minutes here, then I go.” The one who comes after does the same, and the one after him. If the waiting room becomes filthy, it’s no surprise. If it begins to stink and is hard to sit in, it’s no surprise.
For five thousand years, those we call gurus, priests, pundits have been saying, “Life is an inn, a waiting room. We are to leave it. No need to beautify it. It cannot be made beautiful.” They also say, “Happiness here is impossible—only sorrow is possible. You can never find joy here.”
And remember, if for five thousand years it is proclaimed that happiness is impossible, happiness will cease to happen—not because it is impossible, but because propaganda bears fruit.
I have heard of a small experiment by a psychologist in an American university. He wanted to see the result of suggestion. In a mathematics M.A. class of fifty, he split them into two groups. Twenty-five were taken to one room, twenty-five to another.
He wrote the same problem on the board for the first group. Before writing, he said, “Listen carefully: you will not be able to solve this problem.” Those who were leaning forward to see the board slumped back in their chairs. If it cannot be solved, the matter is finished! Astonished, they asked, “Then why give it?” The professor said, “Only to see whether, out of fifty, perhaps one or two can even start in the right direction. It cannot be solved, but if someone begins with the right method, that would be a marvel. Great mathematicians have failed; this is not a solvable problem.” He wrote less of the problem and spoke more about its impossibility. “Don’t worry too much; it cannot be solved. It is very difficult. Perhaps an Einstein or two in the world could do it. But Einstein is dead—so there’s little hope. Still, try.”
The students picked up their pens, but their souls were not with their hands. The hands remained; the spirit had withdrawn. They were trying to solve what they knew could not be solved.
He left them and went to the other room. He wrote the same problem. He told them, “This is very simple. I don’t expect there is a single student among you who cannot solve it—everyone will.” Those slumped in their chairs slid forward. One student asked, “If everyone can do it, why give it?” He replied, “We only want to see if perhaps one student has wandered into this class who cannot solve such a simple problem! Students in lower classes have solved it. We only want to know whether there is anyone here who cannot.”
They began to solve it. Their souls were with their hands.
And the result was astonishing: in the first class, only three out of twenty-five succeeded; twenty-two failed. In the second class, twenty-three succeeded; only two failed. How did such a difference arise? They were the same level, the same problem.
For five thousand years, man has been told: life is suffering, life is vain, life is the fruit of sin, one must escape life, be liberated, never be born again.
Tagore was dying. A friend came and said, “Enough of poetry now!” He was writing even on his deathbed. “Why waste your time? Pray to God that you are not born again.”
Tagore replied, “I cannot pray like that. I have known so much joy in his life, so much music, so much beauty, that I will keep praying as I die: if you do not find me unworthy, send me once more into life. If I am unfit, that is another matter. Your life is wondrous. I will die giving thanks that you gave me a chance! Even to the unworthy, who had no claim to come into life, you gave it. And if you find me even a little worthy, give me one more chance—that will be my prayer.”
Surely Tagore takes life differently. But over five thousand years, the gurus have taken life in a tone of condemnation—opposing it, speaking only of destroying it somehow.
This has had consequences. Today’s miserable man bears the imprint of these teachings. Two things happened. First, we accepted that life is sorrow. Once we accepted that, we gave up the journey to open the doors of bliss; we stopped seeking joy. At most, one path remained: since life is sorrow, at least find ways to forget it—that’s enough. Drink, and the sorrow is forgotten—not erased. See a film, watch a dancer—sorrow is forgotten for a while, not erased. These are crude forgettings. The finer ones: sing bhajans and kirtans, clash cymbals, dance and shout—there too sorrow is forgotten, not erased. So man has found gross and subtle intoxications. We have become certain that joy is impossible in life.
I heard a story—who knows how true. In a restaurant in heaven, three extraordinary beings met one day: Buddha, Confucius, and Lao Tzu. The three sat at one table, chatting. An apsara came with a pitcher full of the elixir of life. She came to Buddha and asked, “I have brought the wine of life—will you taste?”
Buddha immediately closed his eyes. “It is vain, pointless; no meaning, no essence,” he said—and closed his eyes.
Confucius kept one eye half-open, half-closed—he believed in the golden mean, never extremes, neither fully open nor fully shut. From a half-open eye he looked and said, “I will taste but not drink. Drinking would be an excess; not tasting would also be an excess.” He tasted and said, “Tasteless.”
Lao Tzu took the entire pitcher in his hands and drank it all. When he finished, he began to dance. They asked, “How is life?” Lao Tzu said, “You cannot know without drinking it whole.” He said to Buddha, “You closed your eyes; your judgment cannot be right—deciding without knowing.” To Confucius, “You only tasted; until life reaches the veins, becomes blood, runs in every fiber, how will you know? A lick on the tongue tells nothing. The tongue is only a gate—and you turned back at the gate.” And Lao Tzu danced, saying, “Drink life whole—and the joy of life is revealed.”
But those who speak like Lao Tzu have been very few on earth. The teachers who dominated here stood against life.
There is a reason for their opposition. They mistook the veena for music. Then, when music did not arise from the veena, they said, “Break it—it’s useless.”
They did not realize the veena does not produce music by itself. It can only offer an opportunity for music to be born. Something more must be done.
If we assume life is given with birth, we have erred. This error must be broken. And if it breaks in someone’s life, such joy becomes available that measuring or weighing it is impossible. And the one who experiences the joy of life alone can experience God—for God means the depth of life. God is not some person sitting somewhere whom you will meet. The deeper we descend into life, the nearer we come to God. The farther we stand from life, the farther we are from God.
It is a strange irony that religions have kept us away from life, and thus away from God. It may sound paradoxical, but in a sense our saints have proved enemies of God. For they say: do not live life. To live is itself a sin. Escape. Wherever life is, flee. Where a door opens into life’s depths, run away—don’t stay, lest life call you, entice you. Thus religions have driven people into forests; they have torn humans from humans, wives from husbands, sons from fathers and fathers from sons. Religion has used every means to separate man from life.
In my understanding, true religion will connect you to life, not sever you from it. If there is a God anywhere, he cannot be the face of death; he must be the face of life. And if there is a God, we will know him by descending into the very depth of our life-stream—feel him flowing in our veins, breathing in our breath, seeing through our eyes, loving through our hands. If there is ever a meeting with God, it is like the vast current of life—not a monarch on a throne. We have sculpted God in the image of kings, seated him on thrones, placed crowns on his head. There is no such God. There is no God who will be found somewhere so we can stand at his door with folded hands and he will shower grace. God is flowing within us twenty-four hours a day. We are waves of God.
But a wave that moves inward becomes the ocean—because beneath the wave is the ocean. A wave that only looks outward remains a wave, never becoming the ocean.
Go to the seashore: you see waves, not the ocean. Have you ever seen the ocean? You have not. Only waves are seen; the ocean is not—it is hidden in depth. If waves could look around, they would think the neighboring wave is other: when that one rises, I am falling; when I rise, that one falls—we cannot be one. The neighbor dies, I live—how can we be one? The neighbor is young, I am old—how can we be one? The neighbor is healthy, I am sick—how can we be one? Looking outside, a wave sees one rising, another sinking—how can they be one?
No, the wave will never accept it. And if the wave goes in search of the ocean, she will be in trouble—asking the moon and stars, the trees on the shore, the people: where is the ocean? She will be in trouble—because the ocean is inside the wave, beneath her.
Curious: the ocean can be without waves, but the wave cannot be without the ocean. The wave is only a part—a crest raised on the ocean’s breast, nothing more. It will soon subside and be ocean again.
We too are waves in the ocean of existence—in the ocean of God. Where are we searching for God? What we seek is present within us every moment. But religions have erected a false God outside, to be searched for. He is not within us, not with all of us—he is far away; we must travel to reach him.
There is a reason. If God is as near as the ocean is to the wave, then there is no need for a middleman. The brokers and agents must be dismissed. A broker is needed only when connections must be made over distance; then a medium is required. Between man and God, the priest has no place to stand—not even a sliver. Between wave and ocean, where will you insert a priest? There is nowhere. And if a priest stands between, he will not connect the wave to the ocean—he will separate them. Anything placed in between separates.
Between man and God, the priest has been a divider, not a joiner. The closeness here is like that of wave and ocean. And yet we search elsewhere. God has been placed far away. For if God is not far, who will ask for the path? If he is not distant, who will ask for the method, the means? If he is not distant, who will make himself your guru? Who will you need as a guide? Keeping God distant is essential—otherwise the entire business collapses. The priest’s trade secret is this: keep God far. And since God is near, only a false god can be kept far—so a false one has been erected. And naturally, since there are a thousand priests, there are a thousand gods—the Hindu’s god, the Muslim’s, the Christian’s.
So many gods—so many kinds!
I have heard of a fakir, Abu Yazid. One night he slept and dreamt—a dream he had longed for: to reach God’s city. He reached it. Great lamps were lit, dazzling light, firecrackers bursting. He asked, “What is this?” Someone said, “It’s God’s birthday.” He said, “Wonderful.” Multitudes were crowding the streets. “The procession will begin,” someone said. He stood at the side.
First came a splendid chariot with a majestic figure. He asked the person next to him, “Is this God?” “No,” they said, “this is Jesus Christ.” Millions were behind Jesus shouting, “Long live Jesus!” The procession moved on. Another grand chariot appeared—another glorious figure. “Is this God?” “No, this is Ram.” Hindus behind, shouting his praise. The procession continued—Buddha passed, Mahavira passed, Nanak passed—all the wondrous ones, and their flocks passed with them. Then the streets grew empty; the onlookers dispersed.
The fakir said, “But God has not yet come!” Then an old man appeared, riding a poor horse. With no one left to ask, he asked the old man, “Are you, by any chance, God?” “I am,” the old man said. The fakir asked, “No one is with you?” God said, “People have all divided—some with Ram, some with Krishna, some with Christ. No one is with me. I am utterly alone. Only this horse accompanies me—and even he often says, ‘Let me go; let me carry someone else.’ He says, ‘Other horses are having so much fun—one is Christ’s horse, another Ram’s, another Buddha’s. Let me go!’ Only this horse is with me—no one else. How is it you’re standing here? What an unlikely event! How did you remain?”
In his panic the fakir awoke, sweat on his brow, heart pounding. He ran to his neighbors. “I saw a terrible dream!” he told them. Everyone said, “A bad dream indeed. A fakir should not dream like that. These are not dreams for decent people. Why did you see it? At least you are a Muslim—you should have joined Muhammad’s procession. Why did you stay waiting for God? There is only one God, and one prophet—Muhammad. Why did you not go with him? Who knows—that old fellow may have tricked you. Always go through the proper channel. Ask Muhammad. Why did you ask directly? Who knows who that old man was? Never go like that—always through Muhammad. He has the authentic news of the true God.”
The fakir was in trouble. Whomever he asked, said, “You saw a very wrong dream.”
Had that fakir met me, I would have said: You did not see a dream; you saw the truth. It was not a dream—it was truth.
People are divided like this, and no one is with God. And the one who would be with God must drop all divisions. The one who would be with God must bow the middleman out: “Please go.” There is no distance between me and him. And if there is a distance, no power on earth can bridge it. Either there is no distance—or, if there is, it cannot be bridged. How will you bridge it? If there is distance between God and me, it can be bridged only if he wills it. And if God himself has willed the distance, then removing it is impossible. If there is distance, it will not vanish—and the atheist is right: forget talk of God; there is none. Or, there is no distance—and the theist is wrong to say we need a priest between.
No, there is no distance. We are his waves. In fact, we should stop using the word “God.” The very word creates distance—suggests someone far, separate. No: it is the name of the stream of life—life itself. Better, in the coming world, to stop naming “God” and say “Life.” And say: the art of living life in its totality is religion. To know all of life—total, whole—is to know God.
Certainly, if such a religion were to develop, it would be the religion of the earth. Such a religion would not condemn life. To know life, you cannot condemn it. If there is to be a religion that wants to play life’s music upon the veena of life, it will not tell you to drop the veena and escape. If the world were truly religious, there would be no split into householder and renunciate; there would be householders who are also renunciates. If the world were rightly religious, there would not be two categories; there would be householders who are inwardly sannyasins. Life itself would be renunciation—the art of being within life, in the midst of life, and beyond life.
But the old world split man into two: whoever would seek God must leave life. And remember, whoever leaves life will never find God. And it also said: whoever remains in life can never seek God. The one who leaves life fails to find; the one who doesn’t leave grows resigned—“How can we seek God while living?” In both positions, loss; in both, religion is harmed.
If we wish to see a religious world—and remember, without a religious world, man can never be blissful, peaceful, musical—if we wish the world to be religious, we must change the very definition of religion. We must rebuild it entirely—set forth on a new dimension. A religion that is not anti-life, but accepts life—loves life.
A small story, and I will finish.
In Japan there was an emperor. On winter nights he would ride his horse through the villages—bitter cold, no one outside. But under a tree a fakir would sit, shivering. One day, two days, three—the emperor inquired, “Who is this man?” The vizier reported, “A very remarkable man—not ordinary.” The emperor went to him on the fourth day, dismounted, touched the fakir’s feet, and said, “It would be a great grace—why remain here? Be kind, come to the palace.”
He said this, but unconsciously he assumed the renunciate would refuse. For that is our definition of a sannyasin—he refuses. Outwardly he invited, but deep down he knew the renunciate would decline. He did not know this was another kind of sannyasin. The emperor spoke; the sannyasin said, “As you wish,” and climbed onto the horse—while the emperor was still on the ground. A doubt rose in the emperor’s mind: What kind of renunciate is this? A sannyasin is one who rejects life. I said, “Come to the palace.” He didn’t even say once, “I am a renunciate; I will not go to the palace.” He simply mounted.
The emperor had no choice; he had invited—taking it back was hard. He walked, holding the horse’s reins; the sannyasin sat proudly. They reached the palace. The emperor lodged him in the finest quarters, made the best arrangements. The sannyasin accepted it all—rested on velvet cushions. The emperor thought, “What a wrong man I invited! A sannyasin is one who rejects life. I bow at a sannyasin’s feet because he has rejected what I cannot. What kind of sannyasin is this?”
He didn’t dare speak. Six months passed. One morning, while the sannyasin was strolling in the garden, the emperor came and said, “Sir, I must ask something. A doubt arises in my heart.”
The sannyasin said, “You took long to ask! The doubt arose that very night. Six months to gather courage? You seem a timid man. Speak—what is the doubt?”
The emperor said, “Not a doubt—again and again this question comes: what difference remains between you and me?”
The sannyasin said, “You want an answer? Best we go to where the doubt began.”
“What does that matter?” asked the emperor.
“It will help,” said the sannyasin.
They went—reached the tree outside the village. “Now tell me,” said the emperor.
“Let’s go a little further. I am answering,” said the sannyasin.
“I don’t understand—you’re saying nothing.”
“I am answering. That night too I answered without words; your doubt arose without my speaking. The answer can arise too. Let’s cross the river.”
They crossed; it was noon. “Now tell me,” said the emperor.
“A little farther,” said the sannyasin.
“No further,” said the emperor. “This is the border of my kingdom.”
“Our path has no borders,” said the sannyasin. “Let’s go a bit more.”
“I cannot,” said the emperor. “It’s late; people will start looking for me.”
“No one looks for me,” said the sannyasin. “Come—just a little.”
“Enough,” said the emperor. “If you must answer, answer now.”
“This is my answer: I go on. Will you come with me?” said the sannyasin.
“How can I? My palace, my wealth, my whole order—how can I?” said the emperor.
“Now do you see the difference? I am going,” said the sannyasin.
The emperor fell at his feet. “My doubt is gone. I let a supreme knower slip away! Six months I did not do satsang with you—thinking you were a bhogi, a man of indulgence. Come back!”
“I can come—ride your horse again,” said the sannyasin, “but then your doubt will return. Let me go now. It is no difficulty for me to return. Beneath the neem tree I was as close to God as I was on your palace cushions—not a bit farther. Begging for alms, I was as happy as I was eating your delicacies—not a bit sad. God was there, God is here. Wherever I go, there he is. And remember: I could have refused your palace—but how could I refuse God’s palace? You thought you were taking me to your palace; I heard his invitation and had to go. I mounted your horse not because you invited me. If he had not called, it would be different. Today he says, ‘Go—give the answer, show the distance by going farther.’ So now I go.”
We need a religion that makes renunciation possible in the midst of life. It can be done—there is no real difficulty. It is only a matter of giving the human mind a new direction. But we must break the wrong education of thousands of years. We must drop what the past has taught, so that what the future can teach may be born. We must cleanse ourselves of the dust of the past so that the new suns of the future can be seen.
The reason man has been plunged into such sorrow is this: no music has arisen from life’s veena. So much music can arise—but life must be accepted, and we must trust that much joy is hidden there. Once this feeling takes root—that joy is hidden in life—then joy bursting forth is not difficult. But if we have decided there are no springs of joy in life, then those springs dry up.
I have said these few things. Perhaps something may ring true for you. It is not necessary. Perhaps some word may touch a hidden string in some corner of your heart. Perhaps you may begin to seek the art of living. Perhaps you will not let the veena lie idle, and one day some music will be born from it. That music we make upon the veena of our life is the first prayer in the temple of the divine. No other music is his prayer. The song we bring forth upon the veena of life becomes the prayer of God’s temple.
I have said these few things in this hope—that perhaps, who knows, a seed may fall into the soil; years pass, then the rains come, drops fall, and the seed sprouts. Perhaps some seed may fall somewhere, and someday—when the divine rain comes—something may sprout.