Diya Tale Andhera #17

Life is a great balance. Whoever fails to understand that balance wanders into extremes. The world is one extreme, liberation the other. The wise live between the two—so fully that the world and liberation feel one. Overeating is an extreme; fasting is the opposite extreme. The intelligent stand in the middle, where right nourishment is a way of life. While shaping your way of living, always remember balance. Buddha called his path the Middle Way. Confucius called his vision the Golden Mean.

Confucius once passed a village and asked the people he met on the road, “Is there a wise man in your village?” They said, “Certainly! A very wise man lives here—elderly, experienced, supremely knowing.” Confucius asked, “How did you know he is supremely wise?” They replied, “Before doing anything, he thinks at least three times.” Confucius said, “Thinking once is too little; thinking three times is a bit too much. The wise think exactly twice.”

The wise always discover the middle. The foolish always go to the extremes. And for the foolish, swinging from one extreme to the other is easy—like a clock’s pendulum from left to right and back again. It never stops in the middle; if it did, the whole clock would stop.

Misers often become renunciates. Even if they don’t, they greatly revere renunciates. You will always find the stingy bowing at the feet of ascetics. One extreme bows before the other. Bowing means: “I wish I could become like that.” We bow where we secretly want to be. Violent people are often found praising nonviolence—the other extreme!

It may surprise you that India’s philosophy of nonviolence arose from Kshatriya (warrior) houses, not from Brahmin homes. Mahavira, Buddha, Parshvanath—the twenty-four Jain Tirthankaras—all were Kshatriyas. Violence was dense there; swords were in hand day and night—yet nonviolence was born there. Not a single Brahmin became nonviolent in the sense that Buddha and Mahavira were.

If you seek the most violent figure in the Hindu tradition, it is Parashurama. Born in a Brahmin house, he repeatedly annihilated Kshatriyas from the earth. Violence arose in a Brahmin home; nonviolence was born in warrior homes. Why? It would seem straightforward that nonviolence should arise in Brahmin homes. But mind moves to extremes. It goes from one extreme to its opposite.

You will always find that in affluent societies fasting is honored. Where there is abundance of food, fasting is celebrated. In a poor society, if a religious day arrives, the only way to celebrate is with a feast—best dishes, full meals. In rich homes, the religious day is observed by fasting. Jains fast because among Indians they have long been the most affluent. How can the poor fast on a religious day? He fasts all year anyway. So when the religious day comes, he does the opposite—wears new clothes, cooks the best food. That is his holy celebration.

If you learn how a person celebrates religious festivals, you can immediately infer his economic condition. If he celebrates by fasting, he has plenty to eat. If he celebrates by feasting and inviting friends, he is poor. For us, religion becomes the opposite of our world—another extreme. Only by flipping to the other extreme do we feel we are “keeping” it.

So it goes in our whole life. If a libertine ever changes, he becomes utterly celibate. And if a celibate falls, he becomes a complete libertine. To stop in the middle—at the point of balance—is exceedingly difficult. The greatest art of life is how to avoid extremes. For here is a well, there a precipice.

Why is man so enamored of extremes? Because extremes gratify the ego. Either amass the most wealth, and the ego swells; or kick all wealth away, become the greatest renunciate, and the ego is gratified. In the middle there is no place for the ego to feed; in the middle the ego dies. As when a clock is stopped, the ego’s tick-tock ceases. Therefore no one wants to halt in the middle. Yet equanimity is the essence. If your whole life stands in equanimity, you have become wise.

This Sufi story is about equanimity. Before entering it, understand a few more things.

There was a Sufi fakir, Al-Hallaj Mansur. He was sentenced to the gallows for declaring, “Ana’l-Haqq—I am the Truth. I myself am God.” He uttered the Upanishadic supreme statement, “Aham Brahmasmi—I am Brahman.” This contradicts Islamic law, which says you can be a devotee, not God. And there is danger in such a declaration—it could be the ego speaking; you could be deranged; it could be inner pathology. The ego craves the supreme throne; it can announce “Ana’l-Haqq,” “Aham Brahmasmi.”

When Mansur declared, Islam stood against him. The Caliph had him arrested and said, “Seek forgiveness, do penance, otherwise you will be hanged.” The Caliph himself respected Mansur. He kept Mansur in the palace for years, but Mansur said, “There is no way to change, for it is not I who speaks. It is He who speaks. Who can persuade Him? And He does not fear the gallows, for He is not mortal. If it were me, I would fear and find a way out. But I am not; He is—and He speaks. Do not wait. If you must hang me, hang me.”

The Caliph was in a quandary. A remarkable event—he respected Mansur as a precious being. Except for this one statement—“I am God”—all else was fine. No conflict with Islam. His whole life matched religious rules. Only this one thing went against Islam. Why not change this small point? The Caliph waited. Then he asked Mansur, “What shall I do?” Mansur said, “Do not worry—hang me. It will bring great benefit.” “What benefit?” asked the Caliph.

Mansur said, “I will suffer no harm from the gallows. Today or tomorrow this body will fall away. How it falls is irrelevant—illness, bed, the scaffold—what does it matter? And I know well that nothing changes when it falls. It is like garments. I will remain. He who says ‘Aham Brahmasmi’ has no end. So I will not be harmed—but people will benefit. Those who declare ‘I am God’ under the spell of ego will be frightened. They will not agree to the gallows.”

The ego fears death above all, for only the ego dies; the soul does not. The ego craves the throne, not the cross. If in God’s name a throne is offered—fine. If a cross is offered, the ego instantly turns back.

Mansur said, “Give me the cross. It will not harm me; death was certain anyway. The body is an obstacle—when it falls, my union with the Infinite becomes irrevocable. This body is the last garment keeping me a little apart. When it too is gone, it is all gain for me. And for all: no one will dare to declare from ego. And those who declare from experience—their proclamations were never stopped by gallows.”

With Mansur’s own consent, Mansur was crucified. Mansur remained Muslim and a supreme Vedantin. He agreed because the ignorant need rules; the knowing need none. For the knower there is no Quran, no Gita, no Bible; no boundaries. Yet the knower still lives within boundaries—only keeping the ignorant in mind. If it appears the knower has no boundaries, the ignorant will license themselves in licentiousness. What is freedom for the sage becomes unrestrainedness for the unripe. So the knower abides by your rules, fully knowing they are empty—yet useful for you. While you are blind, you need a stick to grope your way. The knower knows that when eyes open, the stick is discarded—but even so, he won’t throw the stick in your presence, lest you imitate and discard yours. You are imitators.

You all know the story: A peddler of caps rested by the roadside and dozed off, wearing one cap, with a basket of a hundred or two beside him. Monkeys saw him with a cap, climbed down, each picked a cap, and sat up in the trees wearing them. When he awoke, all caps were gone. He looked up—monkeys, delighted, all capped. He was in a fix. He had to go to market; with what to sell? Then he recalled: monkeys imitate. He threw off his own cap. Instantly all the monkeys threw theirs down. He gathered them and went on.

Some twenty years later his son took caps along the same road. The same thing happened. He slept under the same tree; sons tend to sleep where fathers slept and do what fathers did. Monkeys repeated their sires’ trick—came down, took caps, sat above. The young peddler woke, remembered his father’s story, threw down his cap. One monkey without a cap climbed down, seized his too, and fled up. For the father had told his son the story—but the monkeys had also told their sons: “Be careful next time.”

Man is as imitative as monkeys—but monkeys can learn; man scarcely does. The monkeys were alert enough not to repeat the old mistake; the man’s son still made it.

No rule exists for the knower—but there is a society of monkeys all around. Seeing you, he must move within rules.

Now, let us turn to the story.

One day the great Sultan Mahmud was walking through the streets of his capital, Ghazni. He saw a poor porter, bent under a heavy stone slab, nearly dying under the load. Moved to pity, Mahmud ordered in royal style: “O porter, drop that stone.”

A poor laborer was carrying a great stone somewhere—dripping with sweat, back breaking—yet kept going. The emperor’s command came: Drop the stone. He dropped it.

The order was obeyed at once; but the stone lay there on the road for years, a hindrance to passers-by.

Who would remove it now? The emperor had ordered it dropped—there must have been a reason.

This is how we follow blind grooves. Whether the Sufis’ tale is factual or not, a precisely similar thing happened in England. A man stood guard beneath Victoria’s palace for thirty years. When he retired, his son got the job and stood there twenty more. Then someone investigated: Why is this man standing here? He had no work. It turned out that fifty years earlier, when his father was in service, the stairs had been painted. To keep people from touching the wet paint, his father had been stationed there to warn passers-by. The paint dried in a few days—but the man kept standing, for no one ever gave the order to move. The father completed thirty years, the son twenty—and it was sheer luck someone finally noticed. Otherwise, centuries would have gone by with someone posted there. The son didn’t know why he stood there; he collected salary each month, arrived on time each morning, left at dusk. Historians had to inquire into the original reason—then they found: once upon a time the stairs had been painted.

People are such that a signboard could have done the job. But if a sign says, “Wet paint—do not touch,” you will certainly touch. That is man! Where the sign says “Do not touch,” you will test it. Your curiosities are mostly such useless curiosities.

So the stone lay for years—because an imperial command had dropped it, surely there was some special meaning.

If you scrutinize the rules of your life, you’ll find that ninety percent are like this—long since useless. Time has passed. Once they had significance; now they do not. Yet you accept them like stones lying in the road. You dare not remove them—because the tradition is ancient, their prestige old. You cannot change them—who are you to change? When rules were made by sages and emperors—who are you to alter them? And so you are crushed daily, for rules keep piling up. Old ones must be dragged along; new circumstances breed new rules. Slowly your head is bowed under scriptures, traditions, creeds. You can’t even move. Look closely: bonds surround you. Trace each bond to its source and you will find this story.

Some emperor, out of pity, ordered a laborer to drop a stone. The order was only to save the man from dying under the load—no more than a momentary expedient. Valuable only then and there. But we think: if something was once valuable, it must remain valuable forever.

Understand this well: No rule man makes is eternal. All human rules are momentary. All your scriptures and traditions are transient, but you are deluded that they are eternal. Then you keep hauling them. In history’s mist, truth is lost; only a dead rut remains in your hand.

Examine your life—you will find many stones some Mahmud had dropped for a moment—and because of them you can hardly move. Once they had meaning; that does not mean they have meaning forever. Circumstance confers meaning; circumstances change daily, your rules are rigid, never changing.

A friend of mine went to Tibet on research. He is a Brahmin, so by rule he must rise in Brahma-muhurta, bathe, do worship, then eat. In Tibet he fell into great difficulty—deadly cold! Tibetan scriptures say: everyone should bathe at least once a year. That’s the rule, for the cold is such. Nor is there much need—no sweat, no dust; why torment the body by exposing it at five in the morning? The heart could stop, blood congeal—icy cold. He stayed three days and fled. He could not complete his research. “How can I manage?” he said. “What has always been—bath at five, then worship, then eat—must be done.” He is learned—but when he returned and told me, I said, “I doubt whether you even have a grain of intelligence.”

It’s not only him. When I was in Bodh Gaya, Tibetan lamas used to visit me. It is impossible to sit near them; a terrible stench emanates. They too are following their rule: a bath a year—now in India! They do not change clothes either; they wear many layers, one over another. They too live by their rules.

Everywhere people live by their rules—even when circumstances change. India today is not what it was ten thousand years ago; not the Vedic age; not Buddha’s time. Everything has changed, but man’s mind is rigid. If mind does not change with change, know it is dead. Only a mind flowing, alive like a river, is living. If it congeals like ice, becomes a stagnant pool, filth breeds.

Two causes make this world so filthy: more filth comes from those whose rules are rigid, who have become stagnant ponds. Some filth comes from those who accept no rules at all, who break every rule. There are two kinds of criminals: those shackled by dead rules, and those unwilling to obey even today’s necessary rules. Two extremes. One is willing to accept everything, will drop nothing. The other refuses everything—won’t even accept keeping left on the road, saying, “We are free.”

When Russia became free after the 1917 revolution, an old woman began walking in the middle of the road. A policeman said, “Mother, keep left.” She said, “Stop your nonsense! That was a rule of the Tsar. Now we are free and will walk wherever we like.”

One type like this. Another turns every line into stone. Both are dangerous—both lead to deadness. What is needed is a living, flexible mind that adapts to each situation, remains sensitive to it; that in Tibet does not bathe at five, and in India does bathe at five. A flexible mind.

The more flexible the mind, the more alive you are. That is the difference between child and old. The child is alive because his mind is flexible. The old is dead because all has grown stiff like stone. Try bending an old man—hard. Children fall daily—you have seen. If an old man fell like that, he would not survive two days; fractures everywhere, hospital. Children fall daily and are not hurt—why? Flexibility. As the body’s tissues dry and stiffen, we call it old age; there is a deeper old age of the mind: when the mind’s muscles dry and its bones stiffen—you can’t even move. A kind of paralysis.

The stone remained. It troubled passers-by. But as a stone dropped by imperial order, no ordinary person could lift it. The same imperial order was needed to remove it.

Finally, many citizens petitioned the Sultan to issue an order to have it taken away.

This was foolish. No need to petition the emperor. There was no decree-at-large there, no rule made for all time—only a momentary order. The stone need not remain forever. The porter had been told to drop it lest he die. Two men could have removed it an hour later; the emperor would not even have inquired.

But when it lay for years unremoved, and a deputation came to Mahmud, “Kindly order its removal,” then Mahmud had to wonder whether removal would now be advisable. Where people are this blind, the seeing must walk very carefully.

With administrative prudence Mahmud said, “What was done by royal order cannot be annulled by a similar counter-order.”

Why?

“Because people will conclude that royal decrees are impulsive whims. The stone will stay where it is.”

Had the stone been removed silently, there would have been no issue. But since they came to ask, it became clear they were dangerous people. If I order removal of a stone, they will conclude that royal commands are meaningless whims. Then they will break other rules that are not mere stones. The trouble caused by this one stone is less than the trouble of all rules falling apart. You are dangerous. Remember: either faith is whole or it is not at all. There is no such thing as partial faith.

This is the life of the story: Faith is integral; there is no such thing as fragmented faith. If faith breaks at one edge, it breaks at all edges. If you come to distrust a person in one matter, distrust spreads to all.

Hence religious people face intricate dilemmas. When Copernicus first said the sun does not go around the earth; the earth goes around the sun—the whole Christian world opposed him. It is not that the Pope could not understand Copernicus was right; the scientific proofs were there. Yet the Pope said, “Repent. Kneel and confess your error.”

Why? The Pope said, “The real issue is not who goes around whom. The Bible says the sun moves. If one thing in Scripture is wrong, faith in Jesus will collapse. Faith is whole, not fragmentary. If Jesus could err in one thing, why not in others? If he is the Son of God and does not know whether the sun moves or the earth—what else does he know? Copernicus knows what Jesus does not? If, even in one matter, Copernicus’s intelligence is superior—how far can we go with Jesus on other matters? Doubt will arise.”

Now, ponder: Is it so valuable to sow doubt in people’s hearts? Or is it more valuable to know whether the sun or earth moves? To those who look from high, it seems the Pope erred—truth should be accepted. And even if the Pope didn’t accept it, within two or three centuries we had to. Truth cannot be evaded. But the Pope’s suspicion proved right—Copernicus was right, but the Pope’s fear also proved right: as this fact was accepted, faith in Jesus’ words waned. The faith that could fill your life with supreme bliss—that is not achieved by knowing that the earth moves. You gained little, you lost much.

Mahmud faced a similar problem. People who could not remove a stone on their own were utterly blind. The stone was dropped without long-term intent—only to aid a laborer not to die. There was no intent that it should remain forever. Yet it lay for years, and people imagined there must be some purpose. With such dull minds, if told “Remove it,” they would surely infer: the king’s orders have no meaning—this whim today, that whim tomorrow. What about other rules?

So Mahmud thought and said: “What was done by order cannot be cancelled by a similar order, for then people will think decrees are mere whims. The stone will remain.” Now the issue was not the stone nor convenience; the issue was that with the stone other rules would also vanish. Only with the stone could they remain.

Because of people like you, religions too have had to insist on petty matters. Those minor things are not valuable in themselves; they are there because of you. Break one small thing and you break all. You are not wise enough to see the trivial as trivial and the essential as essential. Then no one need be asked; you would remove the useless yourself. You came to ask—that shows you lack the awareness even to remove a stone. With the unawake one must proceed carefully.

So many customs you are carrying whose sense is lost. You yourself know they are foolish—yet why do you carry them? Because you have no royal order to discard them. Who will give such an order? If the Vedic rishis made some rules—those rishis are no longer here to rescind them. Even Mahmud, while alive, did not rescind; Vedic rishis are long gone—who can rescind? Manu wrote a Smriti; you still follow it. Manu is not present—who will cancel? And your intelligence is not enough to see how empty it has become.

Untouchability should end. It survives on Manu’s command. If you had a shred of vision you would see no caste order can survive now. It is rotten. It was a great experiment, but it failed. It could not be completed—and now it never will. Today the world’s mind is filled with the idea of equality. All experiments now—successful or failed—will be experiments in equality. Notions of inequality can no longer run. The circumstances have changed. In Manu’s time a great experiment was on. As great as Marx’s experiment of equality. That was spiritual; this one economic. This too appears not to succeed—Russia has failed; elsewhere it is unlikely to succeed. Yet efforts continue. Those still dragging Manu when the air is full of Marx do not know the world has changed. They do not see the rules they drag are now useless. They were rules for a certain experiment.

Think of it this way: we once traveled by bullock cart; now we fly. But you carry along a spare cartwheel because your forefathers always carried one. It was necessary—then. But no one rides bullock carts now; you yourself don’t. You are on an airplane yet hauling a spare wheel—exhausting yourself.

Most of your rules are like that—once effective in another mechanism. That mechanism has gone. The whole arrangement has changed, the air shifted, and you bear the old gear—while living in new ways—creating great friction.

This is what must have happened in Ghazni. A stone lay in the road. It had been dropped by royal command—who would dare move it? And I say: if people had silently removed it, Mahmud was not so foolish as to ask, “Why did you move it?”

I tell you: if you were to discard Manu’s Smriti, Manu’s soul—wherever it is—would be delighted. For what you are doing is stupidity. And Manu would never consent to stupidity. So few truly intelligent have walked this earth. But now there is no way; even if Manu returned to rewrite the Smriti, you would say, “What have you to do with us? Our Manu is the old one—that is not you.” Tirthankaras come daily—but you are so full of the old that you cannot listen to the new. Manus are born daily—but until you empty yourself of the old Manu, you cannot understand the new one’s language.

With administrative prudence the Sultan said: “What was done by order cannot be revoked by a similar order; people would think decrees are whimsical. The stone will stay where it is.”

In life the choice is often between a small evil and a great one. A stone on the road is an inconvenience—a small evil. Mahmud was intelligent. He thought: if I remove it, trust in authority will erode; once trust is lost, it is almost impossible to restore.

That is what is happening worldwide. But you do not see, and then you are shocked.

In this country, for instance, we fought colonial rule; necessary. But those who fought and led never considered that once trust in the state is undermined, you cannot restore it easily. Freedom came—but trust in the state did not return. The current turmoil is its result. Once trust departs, is it easy to bring back? Your leaders who stirred you to fight had no vision to see that in the struggle trust in authority would also evaporate. Freedom arrived; now the trouble is no one trusts the state. There is no respect. You see the policeman as an enemy. You learned that well. Now it is hard to bring order. And once you taught people to fight, the fight goes on. The rulers have changed; now they are your own—but the fighting continues. What Jayaprakash Narayan did under the British, he kept doing afterward—the same foolishness excusable against enemies, continued against one’s own. Freedom often becomes anarchy. A skillful leader is one who fights for freedom and does not let freedom turn into anarchy. None of your leaders showed that skill. They incited you, but none foresaw: after freedom, what then? How will you reestablish authority?

Mahmud is saying exactly this: “No, the stone will stay. Respect for the royal order must remain. The nuisance is a small evil; once the chain begins, rules disintegrate.”

Nietzsche declared: God is dead. When God dies, the king cannot live long—for kings everywhere were God’s representatives. God dead—next the king dies. When the king dies, the father cannot live long—for the father was the king at home. Now father is dying. You cry that fathers are no longer respected. How can they be? If the Supreme Father is gone, how long can the earthly father be respected? Life is one coherence. If there is God above, there is father at home. Where there is reverence for God, there is reverence for father. People call God “Father” not without reason. When there is no father in existence, how long can your father remain father? Then you say: “Granted, I was born through you—but what is fatherhood?” Science says a father is not even necessary; an injection can suffice. Then the father’s respect is no more than that of a syringe.

And if father has no respect, how long can mother be respected? Things are linked. If father is a syringe, mother is a womb—and that too can be grown in a laboratory. When mother is not revered, how long before you lose self-respect? When nothing is revered, self-respect is lost. Respect is a chain—from the Supreme Father to your own soul. All is linked.

Rationalists often “prove” one thing false without considering the repercussions—the echoes to come. It is easy to “prove” God does not exist—no one has proved that He does. But the question is: as soon as God is dismissed, life’s coherence, reverence, wonder—all are lost. Then man weeps, “I am miserable; life has no meaning.” Meaning was connected to God. The day you discarded God, meaning left. Life is now purposeless—a long boredom to be endured. The juice dried the day you denied God.

Whether God is or is not is not the big question. The big question is that life should have juice. The ancient seers invoked God to weave a pattern in which your life could be a flowing stream of bliss, a dance, a sense of awe. If the universe is void of consciousness, how valuable can your consciousness be? If existence is valuable, you too are valuable.

God must be brought back. Whether He is or not is not the point. If man is to live with joy and blessing, God must return. Without Him you cannot live. Nietzsche said, “God is dead.” In less than a hundred years, man has come close to dying.

All is connected. Pluck the flower from the tree, the roots are harmed. Strip the leaves, the roots begin to wither. Leaves are the roots’ hands extended into the sky; they feed each other. God was your hand extended into the sky. When you were that vast—hand reaching the heavens—you were blessed. Now you have shrunk; there is nowhere to stretch your hand. Day by day you narrow. No God, no father, no mother, no you. Life is unstrung; no poetry—only broken words, ruins.

Mahmud was right: “This cannot be. The stone will remain.” That is the story…

The result was that while Mahmud lived, the stone stayed. Even after his death, to honor the royal decree it was not removed. They say that stone is still in Ghazni. Now, without Mahmud, who will remove it? And Muslims are sticklers for the line! Now there is no room left to remove it; they had already asked Mahmud and he had refused: the stone stays where it is.

This story became famous. People interpreted it in three ways.

Three types of interpretation: One by those opposed—sheer refutation; they see thorns. One by those in favor—loving; they see flowers. And one by those who are impartial—neither for nor against. Only their interpretation can have essence, because in favor you lean too far; in opposition you stiffen too much. Both are extremes. The impartial stand in the middle and try to see the fact. The opponent has already concluded it must be wrong and only seeks how to prove it. The partisan has already concluded it is right and seeks arguments to make it look right. Both will find what they want.

If you are Hindu and you read the Quran, you will see nothing but errors. The same “errors” exist in the Gita—you never noticed. A Muslim reads the Quran and finds no error; hand him the Gita and he will find all the mistakes you found in the Quran. A great marvel! If the man can see a mistake in the Gita, why not see it in the Quran—if it exists there too?

No—one sees only what one wishes to see. Seeing itself is selection. You wish to see what fits your prior belief; you project it and call that your interpretation.

I am reading a book by a Sikh; astonishing claims—though a Sikh could see it that way. In the preface he writes: “Sikhism is the only religion born in India.” I was startled—never heard such a thing. Let me see, I thought. He “proves” it by first declaring that Jainism and Buddhism are not religions, since they have no God; without God there can be no religion—so excluded. Hinduism, he says, did not originate in India—Aryans came from outside—so it is alien. Therefore only one real religion was born in India: Sikhism.

Man finds arguments for whatever he wishes to see. The conclusion is fixed first. Tell a Jain his religion is not religion—he will be shocked. Tell a Buddhist—he will be shocked. And Hindus never accept that they came from outside. We have always been here, they say. This “outsider Aryan” thesis is an alien trick to brand us as alien. So Hindu pandits keep proving Aryans did not come from outside; the Ganga–Yamuna was always their land. Such “proofs” are hard to assess. The Vedas contain hints—six months day, six months night—which occur only in Siberia. If not all Aryans, at least the seer whose word is recorded came from the far north. But those who wish to prove the Aryans originated here can accept anything—except that. They say: this is so ancient—one hundred thousand years ago—there was no Himalaya; Siberia and India were linked; travel was easy. Easier to deny the Himalaya than to admit an Aryan migration!

It is easy for a Sikh to accept Aryans came from outside—Hinduism is then finished. But Sikhism is nothing but a branch of Hinduism. Calling it a separate religion is unwarranted. Yet to a Sikh, being a mere branch does not satisfy the ego. Buddhism is a branch of Hinduism; however far it travels, its roots are in the Upanishads. Christianity is the enemy of Judaism—still a branch. But we believe what we want and find the arguments. We reject what we don’t want and find arguments.

Thus for and against are two extremes; wisdom lies in between. Wisdom takes no sides. Taking sides means you have concluded beforehand; now there is nothing to do but justify it. Wisdom does not conclude first; it inquires first, then conclusions follow. Partisans and opponents conclude first and then labor to prove.

People interpreted the story in three ways. Those against the state—the anarchists—said: “This stone is proof of the stupidity of a government that wants to preserve itself at any cost.”

It can be so interpreted. Ask Kropotkin—he will say so. Ask Tolstoy—he will say so. The anarchist who holds the state to be an evil will say, “This is the limit! Nothing could show more clearly the absurdity of authority: a stone blocks the road and is not removed because of a decree. All decrees are like that—fit to be broken. Smash the state. The less state, the better; the more state, the worse. So long as the state is, man cannot be free.”

Those devoted to authority said, “Whatever the inconvenience, royal decrees must be obeyed; there must be some hidden intent behind them.”

“There must be! Otherwise why would the king command? Perhaps we cannot see it—we are simple; perhaps we do not understand—we lack foresight; perhaps we have forgotten the past. But behind it there must be roots, a purpose, a meaning, a mystery.” There are people who seek a mystery in everything.

I was reading a book by a great sannyasin—“Why Hinduism?”—trying to prove everything scientific. Because science has prestige; what is not scientific has none. Why do Hindus grow a top-knot (shikha)? The sannyasin writes: it is like a lightning rod atop a tall building—protects from lightning. Set the hair upright and it protects you from electricity! Meaning has to be found. Wooden sandals? A sannyasin stayed with me whose wooden sandals created a racket—clatter, clatter everywhere. I asked, “Why such noise?” He said, “They are very esoteric.” “What mystery?” “They help brahmacharya (celibacy).” “How?” “There is a nerve under the foot pressed by the sandals; when pressed, a man becomes celibate.”

People see mysteries in all foolishness. The faithless see foolishness in all mysteries—both wrong. To stand in the middle is hard. Until you do, life’s truths won’t be visible.

But those with right understanding…

Right understanding means samyak prajna—right seeing. Neither for nor against; no prior conclusion; eyes empty; impartial; willing to inquire.

Those with right understanding caught the very lesson the Sultan, regardless of the unintelligent, wanted to impart: by placing a hindrance and letting it remain, and by circulating the reasons for it, Mahmud wanted to tell the sensible to honor worldly authority—and also to understand that rulers who govern by rigid, unbending doctrines are not very useful to humanity.

Mahmud’s view was that this stone would reveal two things:

- As far as possible, obey rules—even if they cause some inconvenience. If everyone chased his own convenience, no rule could survive. It may be convenient for you to drive on the right here; it may be convenient to run a red light because you are in a hurry. If everyone chases convenience, everyone’s convenience is destroyed. Better that all bear a little inconvenience so that everyone’s convenience is secured. Where many live together, concern for others is essential. In the end, this is enlightened self-interest: you care for others, others care for you.

- Second, he also wished to warn against the stubborn, inflexible mindset that says: even if a stone blocks the road, we will not rescind an order. Such unyielding dogmatism in governance is harmful, not beneficial. In such a case, the stone should be removed; there is no point carrying it on your chest.

This is subtle—and complex—because one must avoid both extremes. One must accept some inconvenience: in society you will have to bend a little, compromise a little. Alone is one thing; the more people, the more give-and-take. We are interdependent.

“Independence” is not quite right; “dependence” is not right either—both extremes. The right word is “middle”—mutual interdependence, or mutual independence. Absolute independence is impossible—you would die at once and be dangerous to others. Absolute dependence is wrong—you lose your soul, become a slave. Life moves in interdependence. Do not stretch self-reliance so far that you live utterly alone; nor dependence so far you vanish. Let you remain—and not so much you stand isolated. In the middle, music arises.

One small incident, and I will finish. A prince named Shron (Srona) took sannyas with Buddha. A great sensualist, he swung to the other extreme—severe austerity. If the monks walked on a straight path, he walked off-road; if they wore sandals, he walked on thorns; if they ate once a day, he ate once in two days. He shriveled into bone, skin turned black; he had been a golden youth famed for beauty—now unrecognizable, feet full of sores.

Six months later Buddha came to his hut and said, “Shron, I came to ask something. I have heard that as a prince you loved the veena. Tell me: if the strings are too loose, does music arise?” Shron said, “How could it? With loose strings music does not come.” “And if strings are too tight?” “What are you asking! If too tight, they snap.” Buddha said, “Tell me, in what condition does the best music arise?” Shron said, “There is a condition in which we can say neither too loose nor too tight; that equilibrium—that is where music flowers.”

Buddha rose. “That is what I came to tell you. Life too is a veena. Do not over-tighten the strings—music will break. Do not leave them slack—music will not arise. Between the two there is a state where there is neither indulgence nor renunciation, neither for nor against, neither well nor abyss—exactly the middle. There the supreme music of life is born.”

This Sufi tale is for that supreme music. Neither smash rules and become licentious, nor obey them to become a slave. The path is delicate—like the edge of a sword, say the fakirs. But with understanding, that fine path becomes a royal road.

Whoever learns to walk it drops all suffering. Extremes bring suffering. Two extremes—one leads to hell, one to heaven; liberation is between. Live long in heaven and you will need to change the taste—toward hell; live long in hell and you acquire the capacity for heaven. They keep changing into each other. There is great traffic between heaven and hell—no passports, the gates face each other. When bored, people change flavors.

You tire of pain—and of pleasure. You tire of sweets—then you want savory; tire of savory—then sweet. Tire of rest—work; tire of work—rest. The journey between heaven and hell goes on. Liberation is between the two.

Let rules be observed intelligently; let discipline be right and rooted in understanding—they will make you neither a slave nor licentious. Then in your life the dawn of supreme freedom arises—freedom that is neither unrestrainedness nor bondage.

Enough for today.