Diya Tale Andhera #3

Before we come to this Sufi story, a few fundamental points need to be understood. First: society functions through the psychology of the crowd. In society, no one really cares about truth; what is cared about is that we remain in agreement with others. The concern is how a person can stay adjusted to society. If society is false, the individual has to become false. The individual is very alone, society is vast. And until one finds the support of something greater than society, there is no option but to conform.

Only those who find the support of the divine can rise beyond society; then they have linked themselves with the vast and the infinite, with the ocean itself. If their link with the river, with the pond, even breaks, it makes no difference.

Only on entering the divine does one become free of society. Otherwise society is a very big phenomenon. People all around are of the same kind; the moment you differ even a little you are “mad,” the moment you are even slightly other, you are “foolish.”

James Thurber has a famous story: In a land of snakes, a peace-loving mongoose was born. The mongooses immediately began to educate him: “Snakes are our enemies.” The mongoose asked, “Why? They’ve never harmed me.” The old mongooses said, “You fool, they may not have harmed you, but they have always been our enemies. It’s a hereditary feud.” The gentle mongoose said, “If they haven’t harmed me, why should I harbor enmity?”

News spread among the mongooses that a wrong mongooose had been born—friend of snakes, enemy of mongooses. The mongoose’s father said, “The boy is mad.” His mother said, “The boy is sick.” His brothers said, “Our brother is a coward.” They lectured him: “It’s our duty, our national obligation, to kill snakes. That’s why we exist—to rid the earth of snakes; all evil is because of them. Snakes are the devil.” The gentle mongoose said, “I don’t see any such difference. When I look at snakes, I don’t see devils. Among them I see saints and devils, just as among us.”

Word went round that the mongoose is in truth a snake—he crawls like a snake and must be watched, for his face is mongoose but his soul is snake. The elders gathered, formed a council, and for the last time tried to talk sense into him: “Don’t be crazy.” The mongoose said, “But thinking for oneself is necessary.” A mongoose in the crowd shouted, “Thinking is treason!” Another said, “Thinking is the work of enemies.”

When they couldn’t persuade him, they hanged him. Thurber ends the story with this moral: If your enemies don’t kill you, your friends will. One way or another, you’ll be killed.

Such is everyone’s situation. When you are born, you are born connected to the divine—because without that there is no life. You are linked to the purest source. You haven’t yet drunk the water that makes a man mad—the water of social education, civilization, culture—the water society will hurry to make you drink. Once you drink it, you’ll forget that within you a clear spring still sings.

That’s why society rushes to educate children. Why such hurry? If the child remains uneducated a little longer… Psychologists say that by age seven a child learns fifty percent of all he will learn in life; the remaining fifty percent he learns in the entire rest of his life.

So parents, religions, sects, priests quickly grab the child by the neck. Muslims and Jews will circumcise him. Hindus will invest him with the sacred thread, perform the upanayana. Christians will baptize him. The eagerness is to turn him into a part of the crowd. Man as such is unacceptable; the solitary, pure human is unacceptable to all. You must be Hindu, or Muslim, or Christian, or Jain, or something. There are three hundred insanities on earth—three hundred religions.

And I call these religions insanities. Because if there are three hundred, it is madness. Religion can only be one; only then is it not madness. And the spring of that pure religion is not found with a pandit, a mullah, a church or a temple. That pure spring is within you; you will find it the day you free yourself from the poison society has made you drink. A child is born brimming with that spring. That’s why there is a saintliness in children’s eyes, a glimpse of the infinite. And whenever anyone attains knowing, the same childlike glow returns to his eyes. The circle is complete.

Jesus said, Only those who are like children shall enter the kingdom of God. He spoke rightly. But society won’t let you remain like a child. It cuts, prunes, corrects, fashions. Society is not content with the way God made you; it deems itself wiser than God. It will cut your limbs, trim your intelligence, impose control. Society won’t leave you like a tree in the forest; it is like a gardener who will clip you from all sides into a shape he calls beautiful. The tree’s soul is cut, its life writhes, and the gardener’s “beauty” is produced.

You too are a cut tree—pruned on all sides. What was cut off was also given to you by God, but the pundits and priests have snatched it away. And if you step even a little off the track, you are mad.

In the West, psychologists have done deep work. They have concluded that many people in asylums are not mad; most have simply stepped off the beaten track and are labeled insane for it. R. D. Laing, the foremost psychiatrist of the West today, says that many in madhouses, if given a chance, would have become saints—or had the potential for great genius. The trouble began when they started deviating from the line.

The gifted always step off the line; only the dull walk it.

Kabir said, “Lions do not move in herds; saints have no congregations.”

Lions never move in crowds; only sheep do. And you will not find a society of saints; a saint shines alone. The greater the genius, the more he steps off the line—and the more society takes revenge on him. You can follow fools, not the wise. Your leaders are like you—your kind of madness, your kind of fetters—perhaps even more so; that’s their appeal.

I’ve heard: In a madhouse a new doctor replaced the old. The inmates held a grand welcome, garlanded him, threw flowers, danced with joy. The doctor grew uneasy. He’d worked in other asylums and had never seen such rejoicing; lunatics are usually angry with the doctor. He asked the inmates’ chief, “What’s the reason for so much happiness?” The chief said, “You look exactly like us. The previous doctor was completely mad. You look exactly like one of us. At a glance anyone would say you too are an inmate. That’s why we’re so delighted.”

The mad will choose a madman as leader; the dull will follow the dull. The hardest thing for you is when you begin to feel you are wrong. A gifted person will always tell you that you are wrong. There is only one way to protect yourself—let all those he calls wrong gather together and strangle him. Hence you poison Socrates, crucify Jesus, throw stones at Buddhas. There is a cause: it’s your self-defense. If such a man is left loose, left free, sooner or later the ground of your confidence will be pulled from under you; he will make you doubtful.

Thinking is treason; thinking is the enemy’s work. The “wise” you honor is the one who walks the rut, who follows tradition, who doesn’t move an inch beyond the past—merely a repetition, stale, borrowed, in truth dead. There isn’t much difference between your leaders and you.

I’ve heard—who knows how true!—when Morarji Desai was Deputy Prime Minister, he fell ill, lost consciousness. The best doctor in Ahmedabad examined him: “He must be taken to Delhi at once; he won’t regain consciousness here.” A plane was arranged. He was brought to the airport. The doctor was anxious: the plane was ready, but an hour passed and no one boarded the minister. He asked the officials, “Why the delay? It’s life and death!” They said, “We know, but the garlands haven’t arrived.” The doctor said, “Are you insane? Is this the time for garlands? Put the minister on the plane now!” Morarjibhai opened his eyes and said, “No harm waiting a little. Flowers always suit my health.”

The very ego that fills you also fills your leaders—that’s the bond between you and them. The same derangement in you is in your gurus; that’s the bridge between you.

Therefore when a Buddha is born, your first reaction is opposition. You laugh at him. You try in every way to prove that he has lost his mind—because only two possibilities exist: either he is mad, or you are. And to accept yourself as mad is extremely difficult, for the whole edifice of ego collapses. No madman ever thinks he is mad—none! The maddest consider themselves perfectly fine.

And remember: the day a madman understands “I am mad,” his madness is gone. Night breaks; that dream can’t run on. To see “I am mad” is a great intelligence. Socrates said the first mark of wisdom is to understand “I am ignorant.” The first sign of a healthy person is to see “There is madness in me.”

H. G. Wells used to tell a story: “Once I boarded a train. A man sat beside me, so dejected that I had to ask, ‘Why so sad? What’s the trouble?’ He sat like a corpse, as if he’d die any moment. The man wept his sorrows: ‘Whom can I tell? My wife has gone mad and believes she is a hen. Twenty-four hours a day—cluck-cluck-cluck. The clucking spins in my head day and night.’ I told him, ‘No need to be so upset. Show her to a good analyst; she’ll be fine. Greater illnesses are cured.’ He sank deeper, ‘Sir, that’s fine—she’ll be cured—but we also need the eggs.’”

Now who is mad? No madman considers himself mad; all madmen consider the other mad. The day you see you are mad, a ray of revolution enters your life. The day you see you are ignorant—because the ignorant all think themselves wise. The day you see you are lost—after that one cannot remain lost; that very day you are on the right path.

But society pours poison with the milk. All goes on unconsciously. Fathers, mothers, society, gurus cast the child in the same mold they themselves are in—without asking if the mold is fundamentally wrong. Look closely at this earth: if these molds weren’t wrong, why such a need for wars? Every ten years a great war becomes necessary. Until millions are killed every decade, humanity cannot rest. And for such absurd reasons! If you come to your senses, you’ll laugh.

A piece of cloth on a stick is called a flag. If someone lowers it, war can erupt. For a piece of cloth millions may die. You build a temple, buy an idol in the market and install it; if someone breaks it, there will be riots. Even little children aren’t so childish; break their doll, they’ll make a fuss and then forget. But your riots go on for a lifetime—lifetimes—generation after generation, because someone broke a temple.

Can anyone break the temple of God? This whole existence is His temple. Only those temples you have built can be broken; for they are not His temples. The very fact that it can be broken proves it is not of God. Whatever can be made can be broken. The mistake was in making it; that’s why it got broken.

Someone sets a mosque on fire—and Muhammad spent his life explaining that God has no dwelling-place, He is everywhere; He has no name, no form, no image. But a mosque is no different from a temple: there may be no idol inside, but the mosque itself becomes the idol. And our madness is such that if you make an idol, you are a kafir, a sinner, ignorant. It has gone so far that if someone makes an image of Muhammad, his life is in danger. Print a picture of Muhammad and there will be upheaval—because “there must be no images.”

No image of God—fine; but of Muhammad there can be. God is formless; Muhammad is not. His picture can be made. But no—when madness rises, it goes to extremes.

From childhood the religion of the father and mother, the family’s religion, is poured into the child. The methods are so subtle you don’t even notice. He is taken to the temple they have always gone to. But no one asks whether these temples have brought peace to the world—or increased conflict?

But thinking is treason; thinking is the enemy’s work. No one asks whether these scriptures have united humanity—or torn it apart. What wall stands between man and man? The wall of scripture. No one asks whether your religions have joined you or separated you. All religions have fragmented man—into pieces. Within one religion there are fifty sects. Catholic Christians and Protestants are as much against each other as they are against Hindus—perhaps more. All religions preach love; all proclaim brotherhood and friendship, that the whole earth is His, one Father and all are His children.

But it remains talk. Those who preach it lift swords—and also say, “Without the sword, how will there be peace? We must wage war for peace.” For peace, war becomes necessary. No one asks: we have kept waging war—why hasn’t peace come?

In three thousand years, there have been fifteen thousand wars—five per year. Historians calculate that it’s hard to find a single day when somewhere on earth a war wasn’t underway: Vietnam, Korea, Israel, Kashmir, Bangladesh—somewhere there must be war. Humanity is never healthy—now the foot is sick, now the head, now the hand—some operation is always going on. No one asks whether the seeds of poison lie somewhere in this culture itself.

And even when large wars aren’t raging, small wars are. They are going on in every home.

In a school a teacher asked a child, “Tell me, what is the greatest war you know of?” The boy said, “I could tell you, but I’m not allowed to.” The teacher said, “Fool! Who forbade you? History is precisely to be told.” He said, “The greatest war is between my mother and father—but please don’t tell anyone.”

The big wars are visible, but tiny wars go on every moment. The whole earth is filled with strife at every instant. Even in the name of love there is hatred and strife.

Someone asked Mulla Nasruddin, “Do you ever forget your wedding date and year?” He said, “Never. Pain doesn’t forget even if you try. Happiness you’ll forget; pain never.”

Love has become pain. No one asks whether there is some fundamental flaw in the very structure of our lives because of which all goes wrong. Nothing seems truly right. And those whom you call “right”—how right is their right? A man works, goes to his shop, runs his business, manages home and family. Do you think that proves he’s healthy, not mad? Then look at him in anger—you’ll see he’s mad.

Psychiatrists say anger is temporary madness—and it catches everyone two, four, ten times a day. How long would it take for temporary madness to become permanent? Look at the depressed; look into your own mind and you’ll be astonished at what goes on in there. You will find every kind of madman present. What goes on within is astonishing—you just never look. Try writing down for half an hour exactly what passes in your mind; then you won’t be willing to show even your closest friend what’s inside you.

We don’t look within because there we see madness. There is no qualitative difference between you and a madman—only one of degree. You are at ninety-eight degrees; he has reached a hundred—he’s boiling into steam.

A truly healthy mind is hard to find, psychologists say—someone mentally absolutely sound. Bodily healthy people you will find, because physical health is no great quality; all animals are healthy. Bodily health is part of animality. Mental health is Buddhahood—that is difficult. Once in many millions, one or two people become healthy enough that we have to call them tirthankara, avatar, God. We have to—otherwise there’d be no need—if many were mentally healthy, why call anyone an avatar, a Buddha, a tirthankara? No need. They are so few, countable on the fingers, that we must set them apart from ordinary men.

It is a sad affair. It should be natural that all men attain godliness; only occasionally should someone fail and fall ill. Imagine a world in which everyone lives in hospitals, and outside—homes—there’s maybe an occasional person. What kind of world would that be?

That is the present state of the mind. But no one thinks. When a new child is born, a new world could begin—but our old mind quickly whitewashes him into agreement with us. We have egos: a father wants the son to be like him—without considering what he himself has attained for which he is preparing to ruin his son. I was what I am making my son—what did I gain? The family wants the boy to be like us, our representative. We’ll be gone, but our name should remain through the son. But what is in your name? If you investigate, you’ll run into trouble.

A man became rich. He hired a great historian to research his genealogy so he could make a family tree. I asked him months later, “Has the historian found anything?” The rich man said sadly, “Yes—he has found too much. Now I have to pay him to keep quiet. What he’s unearthed is dangerous: a murderer back there, someone who rotted in prison, a madman. He’s discovered all this. Now I must pay him to hush.”

Earlier he paid him to search. If you search your lineage, you’ll find all the crimes man has committed—because you are the descendants of all humanity; you come as a wave in the human stream. It is necessary to think before we “educate” a new child—and if our knowledge seems false, and we have nothing worth giving, we should fold our hands and ask his forgiveness: “We have nothing; you must search for yourself.”

Better an empty bowl than one filled with poison. That is what this story is about.

Now let us try to understand the story piece by piece. The Sufis have crafted it very knowingly.

In ancient times, Khidr, Moses’ master, warned that after a certain date, the quality of all the world’s water would change, and whoever drank it would go mad. Only those who saved a little water separately and drank only that would remain sane. Only one man paid attention to Khidr’s warning.

First point: Even if God were to descend from the sky and tell you, only one in millions would pay heed. You will hear—and then ignore. For to heed implies readiness to change your entire way of life.

People must have laughed: “What madness! Has such a thing ever happened? How could it? If it never happened before, why now?” People live by the past and think the future will be a repetition of the past. So they say, “Gather experience; live by experience.” The one who lives by experience will simply re-enact the past into the future. I tell you: live by awareness, not by experience. Experience is dead—it belongs to the past. Awareness is always of the present. What has happened will never happen again. Life changes every moment. The Ganges flows on, the sun burns on—everything changes—and you live by experience—by the past. The moment you impose the past upon the present and future, you miss.

The event from which you got that experience will never occur again. Nothing in this world occurs twice. There is no repetition here. Every moment is new—every bud is new, every morning’s dew is new—so each instant is new. You bring old rubbish into this newness—that’s the mischief. Become new yourself; remain, like a bud, ever fresh, aware. Then whatever your response to life, it will be right.

This is the difference between a pundit and a wise one. The pundit lives by past experience; the wise live by awareness, not knowledge—by wakefulness, not carrying the past around for calculation.

There is a sweet Zen story. There were two temples in a village. As usual, the priests of the two temples were enemies, generation after generation. They never met; even if they crossed paths they would avoid each other. Each priest had a young boy as attendant—to fetch things from the market, buy vegetables, run errands. Children are children; even old men take time to corrupt them fully. The boys were forbidden to talk to the other temple’s boy, but children are children; corruption takes time. If they met on the road they would exchange a few words.

One day, the first temple’s boy returned dejected and told his master, “Today I got into trouble. At the crossroads I met the other boy. I asked, ‘Where are you going?’ He said, ‘Wherever the wind takes me.’ And I couldn’t think what to say. He posed a riddle.”

The guru was furious: “First you erred by asking—why ask those ignoramuses at all? When I am here, whatever you need to ask—ask me. By asking him you’ve implied we are ignorant; we always answer, we never ask. Now that you did ask, you must defeat him. You returned defeated—never has such a thing happened. Every grain of dust in this temple is victorious. Our story is victory; we have never lost. Tomorrow you must defeat him. Ask again, ‘Where are you going?’ When he says, ‘Wherever the wind takes me,’ you say, ‘And if there is no wind, all is still—then what?’ His mouth must be shut.”

This is the religious mind’s answer—shutting the other’s mouth. Eagerly the boy rose early and stood at the crossroads. The other boy came. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Wherever my feet take me,” the other replied.

Big trouble! The answer was prepared, but the situation had changed. Pre-canned answers—this is people’s condition. Their answers are ready, but life changes daily. The answer fits nowhere; it jams everywhere.

He returned sorrowful: “The boy is dishonest. Yesterday one thing, today another.” The guru said, “Those people have always been dishonest; that’s why we say don’t talk to them. They aren’t reliable. We stand firm on our answers; they are unreliable—changing with the circumstance—chameleons, opportunists. But you must defeat him. Tomorrow ask again, ‘Where are you going?’ He’ll say, ‘Wherever my feet take me.’ Then say, ‘And if you become lame—what then?’ His mouth must be stopped in any case.”

Pundits are always busy trying to stop each other’s mouths. The boy went even earlier. The other boy came. “Where are you going?” he asked. “To the market to buy vegetables,” said the other. Now no prepared answer fit—neither wind nor feet. He returned very sad: “It’s impossible to shut his mouth. I go with ready-made answers and he keeps changing.”

Life changes like that every moment—and you go to it with prepared answers. If you are missing life, you are missing because of your prepared answers. If God’s door is closed to you, it is closed because of your “knowledge.” Remove your knowledge and you will find He stands before you. But you want to stand with bow and arrow because you carry Rama’s answer—ready to play the flute because you are Krishna’s devotee.

Be a devotee if you wish—but life recognizes neither Krishna nor Rama nor Buddha; they were born within life. Life follows none of their molds; it changes every day. Life does not repeat. Krishna happened once; there won’t be another Krishna. Life is never stale; it births the new every day. They won’t come again wearing peacock-plumed crowns while you keep waiting for that Krishna. You will tire, die, disappear. That Krishna will not come. Perhaps he would come today wearing a tie—you will miss him: “A tie—and Krishna? Never!”

But why the obstacle? If he could wear a peacock crown, why not a tie? Is a peacock crown better than a tie? The peacock crown is traditional; it makes sense to you.

I once went to a town where a riot broke out. College boys staged a play—a satire, a joke. But people are dull; they don’t understand jokes. That is the mark of the dull—they cannot grasp humor at all. The play was “Modern Ramlila,” a spoof. But it sparked a riot: Rama stood in suit and tie, Sita was smoking. There was uproar; chairs were smashed, people jumped on stage, shouting, “Insult!”

Curious indeed! The scriptures say Vishnu sits in heaven chewing betel—fine. He can chew betel; he can wear a peacock crown—fine. You have heard it so often you’ve forgotten how it would look if someone in a peacock crown stood in your doorway—people would think he’d gone mad.

Life changes daily—and your answers never change. You miss life daily; you never match it. If you do not find God, it is because of your fixed answers. And when someone gives you a new answer, you will not listen—you are too crammed with the old.

Khidr warned that an hour was coming when the very property of water would change; whoever drank it would go mad. Those who wished to avoid madness should store water. One man listened.

He must have been a man of wonder. Be such a man—only then can something happen in your life. Listen to the new, ponder the new, recognize the new.

But for that you need new eyes, a new heart. With an old heart and old eyes how will you recognize the new? That’s why you miss. The divine is always a fresh descent—every moment He comes anew. His art has not run dry. Only those whose art is exhausted repeat themselves. The divine is inexhaustible art; He will never have to repeat. He will birth new Krishnas, new Ramas, new Buddhas. He will make the new every day—and your capacity to hear the new will be the door to meeting Him.

One man listened.

Only one person paid attention to Khidr’s warning.

Others must have heard too—so hearing is not enough. They heard with their ears—what went in one ear went out the other. Among them there would have been pundits who “understood” and found meanings: “This is symbolic. How can water change? There is some secret meaning here.” They must have written treatises—but they did not store water. They interpreted the warning, built grand theories upon it—but did not save water.

That is the pundit: he spends a life explaining to others what he never brings into his own life. And that is the only touchstone. What you urge on others as precious, you do not value enough to embody yourself.

There was a Greek philosopher, Pyrrho. He used to preach: “Life is futile; suicide is the only way.” He himself lived to ninety-three—never killed himself—and lived quite comfortably. In old age someone asked, “Pyrrho, you teach life is useless and suicide the only way; many believed you and killed themselves. Why didn’t you?” He said, “I’m compelled; I had to stay to keep explaining. Otherwise who would explain?”

The pundit urges you to reach God; he never goes. He stays to explain to you. Is explaining to you more valuable than reaching God? No—he never values it. What he says is his profession—another form of exploitation. It has never truly convinced him; look into the pundit’s heart and you will find doubt lurking there. He preaches faith to others while within him the worm of doubt keeps gnawing at his soul.

Many must have thought; only one paid attention. And only the one who pays attention is saved. Many “considered”; one “heeded.”

There is a difference between thought and attention. Thought means you spread out—into analysis, into fragmentation. Attention means you focus on one point; your whole life-energy is invested there—the stake is laid down. Attention means you move like an arrow toward a single target. Thought means a thousand things pull you in all directions—splintered, you begin to think what is right, what is not, what to do, what not to do.

Suppose your house catches fire and someone shouts, “Your house is on fire!”—will you think or pay attention? If you think, you’ll burn—thinking takes time, and fire won’t wait. The one who pays attention jumps out instantly. Thinking can be done later; attention becomes action immediately. Often you think precisely to avoid action. “Until we decide, how can we act?”

People come to me and say, “We are thinking about sannyas. We’re considering taking the jump; it will take time.” I ask, “Death will not ask your permission—it can come any moment. You won’t be able to say to death, ‘Wait—I’m thinking about sannyas. Let me take initiation, then I’ll die.’ Neither birth asks you, nor death—nor love; suddenly you find you have fallen in love.”

Sannyas you are “thinking about.” Whatever is important is heeded, not thought about. Only the trivial is thought about. Thinking is a device to postpone, to defer, to avoid. You invoke thinking when you want to avoid. You don’t think about anger: “I’ll get angry tomorrow—after thinking.” You get angry now. Charity—you say, “We’ll think.” You know well the moment will be lost.

Mark Twain wrote in his memoirs: “I went to a church. The preacher spoke so wonderfully that within five minutes I decided I’d give ten dollars to the church—this was worth giving to. The sermon continued—but a new problem started within me: is ten necessary? Wouldn’t five do? The moment I fixed on ten, my connection with the sermon broke, and another current began: five is enough, isn’t it? I haven’t told anyone—no one knows. I’ll give five—what’s wrong? Is five so little? By mid-sermon I was down to two-and-a-half. By the end I thought: who even gives a dollar? Those who give will give a quarter, maybe half a dollar. A dollar would be the largest gift. A dollar is enough. When the collection plate came, I didn’t put in my dollar—I took out a dollar. I thought, who’s looking? And this man wasted an hour of mine. He took an hour—so I took a dollar and went home.”

Whatever you say, “We will think”—watch: you are postponing. Life has moments of action—when your entire energy peaks; only then does action bear fruit. That is why you get angry in the moment—if the peak is missed, tomorrow you may not manage it; that crest of rage may never return. Hence the wise have said: postpone evil; think about it. But for the good—pay attention and act. Tell evil, “Tomorrow”; tell good, “Now—this instant—don’t lose even a moment.” If you adopt this rule…

You are living by the opposite rule, and your life shows its result: you do evil instantly, and put off the good. Sin today, virtue next life; sin now, virtue in old age. If you must kill, do it today; if you must pray, tomorrow. That tomorrow never comes. The sinner’s formula is: evil now, good later. The godly formula: good now, evil later. What is left for tomorrow never happens. The skill of postponement is “thinking.” Thinking will take time; the urgency will pass; the moment will be gone; you will come down from the peak; the mood will evaporate.

One man paid attention—meaning, the matter gripped him so totally that his whole life was at stake. He didn’t “think.”

He stored some water. On the appointed date, what Khidr had said came to pass. Except for this one man, the whole town went mad. But when he spoke with people, he discovered they all considered him mad.

Naturally. Where all are mad, to be sane is dangerous. Where all are sick, to be healthy is to invite trouble. Where all are blind, eyes will land you in difficulty. Where all are alike and you are different, the crowd will declare you mad. And the crowd is large; it has the majority. You are alone. There is no way to prove your case—before whom will you prove it? Who will understand? People will laugh: “Look at the madman.”

This is exactly what happens in life. The crowd around you considers itself right. If you step a little off the rut, it calls you mad.

There is a famous tale: A crafty fellow told an emperor, “I can bring you the garments of the gods.” God’s garments had never come to earth. The emperor said, “Spend whatever is needed. This is historic. I will be the first to have the gods’ clothes. Bring them.” The man said, “It will cost many millions. The journey is long—and bribes! Even there, one doesn’t gain entry so easily—gatekeepers, and then from gatekeepers up to the gods—many bribes.” The emperor said, “Whatever it takes—but beware: if you try to cheat, you will lose your life.” The man said, “There will be no cheating. Give me a room in the palace—guards all around.”

A room was given, guards posted. There was no reason for suspicion. On the appointed day he came out with a beautiful chest, set it in court. All courtiers gathered. The capital buzzed with excitement; crowds upon crowds jammed the roads to the palace—everyone longing to see the gods’ garments. The man took the emperor’s turban and put his hand into the chest; he brought his hand out empty and said, “This is the gods’ turban. But one thing: when I set out, the gods said, ‘These are no ordinary garments—they can be seen only by those born of their own father.’”

His hand was empty—no turban at all. The emperor looked closely—nothing. But now there was a problem. He quickly took the “turban”: “Ah! What a beautiful turban!” Which did not exist—he “placed” it on his head. The courtiers clapped. Each saw there was no turban—but when everyone is clapping, everyone “sees,” why get into trouble?

This is everyone’s situation. No one saw a turban, but each thought everyone else must be seeing it—“Why sow suspicion about my father and my lineage?” People clapped harder and harder, outdoing each other in praise; no one dared remain silent lest there be suspicion—why is this man quiet? And when all had praised, the emperor thought, “No doubt it is my birth that is questionable—but now it’s not wise to do anything. Quietly wearing the turban is best.”

He “wore” the turban that didn’t exist. So it was with all the garments. The trickster put the emperor’s real clothes into the chest—they were valuable and had to be saved—and came out with empty hands. A coat appeared, a shirt appeared, and in the end the last garment was gone. The emperor stood completely naked, and the court thundered applause: “Never have we seen such beautiful garments!”

The trickster said, “Now prepare the chariot. Millions are gathered—everyone eager to see these clothes.” And he had the town crier beat the drum: “These are no ordinary garments; they are visible only to those born of their own father.”