Diya Tale Andhera #9

Truth is born only in the innermost core of an individual. Sects manufacture crowds. The sun of truth rises in a person’s heart. The prison of doctrines and scriptures built around truth is made of rumors. The difference between religion and sect is the difference between truth and rumor. But people live by what they have heard, not by what they have seen. Your life runs on the ear, not on the eye. No wonder, then, that your life is little more than wandering and confusion.

The ear is not trustworthy. The ear cannot see. The ear cannot test authenticity. The ear hears—and is blind. The multitude of religions, scriptures, traditions on this earth is proof that people have believed by hearing, without seeing. And whoever believes by hearing will miss knowing.

That is why we have called the sages seers. We call the inquiry into the elemental nature of things darshan—seeing. The reason is simple: the rishi is a drashta, a seer; he believes only after seeing. You, at best, are listeners—you believe by hearing. And as long as you believe by hearing you will live on borrowed goods. Stale, rotten—that is what will come to you. The fresh requires the eye. Hence we call philosophy darshan: it is the art of seeing. Anyone can hear. It is hearing that creates so many impediments. Why?

When you see, you encounter the fact; when you hear, you absorb the theory. When you look at a flower there are no words. When you watch the morning sun rise the mind falls silent. The sun rises; you are not there. But when someone gives you news of the sunrise, of the flower’s beauty, only words reach you. Words are a pale music—so pale that it is like having tasted jaggery and known sweetness, then hearing with the ear the words “jaggery,” “sweetness.” The difference between the taste of sweetness and the word “sweetness” is exactly the difference between the morning sun and the report of the morning sun.

The moment truth is said, it is distorted. Words are tiny; truth is vast. The very act of saying begins to turn truth into untruth.

Hence Lao Tzu said, “The Tao that can be spoken is not the eternal Tao.” Religion has forever remained unsaid. It can be seen; it cannot be heard or said. To speak is like someone giving you a map of the Himalayas. Will you know the Himalayas from a map? Lines on paper! And if you clutch the map to your chest and begin to worship it, you will never reach the Himalayas. The splendor there, that could have turned your very soul into the peak of Gaure Shankar, will never descend into your life. You’ll stay pinned under the map—polishing it, dusting it, decorating it with colors that are all false. Generation after generation the map becomes more false.

I have heard: In a certain household the children were very young, born when the father was quite old. They remembered one thing from childhood: after meals their father would clean his teeth with a twig, which he would keep in the wall niche. The father died; the mother too. When the children grew up, this one thing remained: father always kept a twig in the niche. Surely it held some secret. Whatever happened that twig was always there; whatever happened—good or bad, morning or evening, joy or sorrow—after meals father would go to the niche. So they thought, we must keep a twig. The old twig was long gone, thrown in the trash. They had a beautiful sandalwood stick made and kept it there. It was quite large—no longer related to cleaning teeth. They grew richer, built a new house, and thought: what is the point of a little piece of wood? Our father was poor; hence the small stick. Why a niche? Let’s build a temple! So they built a small temple right opposite the kitchen, where meals were taken, and planted a large carved sandalwood pillar in the middle. After meals, as a rule, they would bow with folded hands before the temple.

I have heard the process continues. The children’s children have children. The house has grown small; the temple has grown vast. Earlier the temple faced the kitchen; now the kitchen faces the temple. The pillar has grown bigger every year. It is no longer sandalwood; it is gold, studded with diamonds and pearls. The worship is no longer done by the children; lest there be some mistake in such a sacred act, priests have been hired. That tooth-picking twig has become a sect. And when I say this, don’t think it is just a story. This is what is happening in every temple.

In Sri Lanka the most famous Buddhist temple is in Kandy—there a tooth of Buddha is kept. Not a toothpick—a tooth. For hundreds and hundreds of years it has been worshiped. Devotees have never asked why the tooth is so big it cannot be human. The first suspicion arose only a hundred years ago in the mind of a Christian missionary—only because he was a Christian. He investigated and found it was an animal’s tooth. Proofs were conclusive: if it were Buddha’s, he would have been fifty feet tall; or, in a six-foot man, such a tooth would have killed him. No scripture says Buddha was fifty feet tall.

It is established that the tooth is an animal’s—but worship continues. Devotees say: a Christian discovered it; Christians are bent on destroying our religion. This tooth is Buddha’s. And Buddha is no ordinary man to be measured by ordinary dental dimensions. He is extraordinary, divine; what can he not do? All miracles are possible. This tooth has been kept to test devotees. It is a trial of faith.

Even today on Buddha Purnima hundreds of thousands worship that tooth. No one opens his eyes to see that it cannot be Buddha’s. And even if it were, what difference would it make? By worshiping a tooth you will not attain Buddhahood. When the Buddha’s whole body returned to dust, how will you be saved by worshiping a tooth? If worshiping teeth could grant liberation, Buddha wasted six years in austerity and meditation—he could have worshiped some dead great man’s tooth!

But man is like this. In a mosque in Srinagar a hair of Muhammad is kept. Some years ago the hair was lost; there was great upheaval. Many died. Until the hair was “returned” there was near-revolution in Kashmir. No one knows whether it is Muhammad’s hair or not. And even if it is—what difference? And man being what he is, it is hard to trust that a real hair would have survived. The one “found” later is suspect—it may have been located only to calm the riot. And even then, among hairs, how will you tell one from another? How will you prove it was Muhammad’s? And what will come from worshiping a hair?

And when a Muslim worships, it is astonishing—he claims to be an iconoclast: destroyer of temples and images—yet worships a hair! What then is the difference between iconoclast and idolator? He will not allow an image of Muhammad, not even a picture in a book—there will be riots—yet he worships a hair. Is a hair not an idol?

In truth, a sect cannot escape idolatry—only religion can. For a sect does not have truth—only maps. Maps are idols. What map you draw, what colors you fill, depends on you.

There are three hundred religions on earth, and at least three thousand sects—because each religion contains many sects. Does no one consider that truth must be one—how can there be three hundred truths? God must be one—how can there be three hundred gods? And yet among the worshipers of these gods there are petty quarrels—small points for which lives are sacrificed. Man has little use for truth; he has tremendous investment in his own opinion. And how much truth can there be in the opinion of the ignorant? No more than in a rumor.

You have heard rumors about Mahavira; you have heard rumors about Buddha. Your scriptures are built on those rumors. That is why scriptures appear so inconsistent. Anyone who thinks a little will be troubled; there are contradictions that only rumors can produce—mutually negating concepts that only rumors can hold; ideas so foolish that anyone with a little sense would reject them. But in the name of religion we swallow all poison.

Read the Hindu Puranas and you cannot invent greater gossip and tall tales. Monkeys leap oceans. The semen of lustful gods falls into the mouths of fish and rishis are born. You will find things that feel like bad dreams, not truths. You will see the noblest men entangled in the lowest concerns. Yet you raise no doubts, because we have been taught for ages: a devotee never doubts. Keep the eyes closed. Forget the facts. Do not trust your eyes—trust your ears. Whatever is said—believe.

Let me say one thing: faith is immensely precious—nothing equals it. But you must understand the meaning and the delicacy of faith. It is very delicate, very fragile; only one who handles it with great skill can hold it. Faith does not mean you never raise a question. Faith does not mean that what goes directly against your intelligence and understanding must be accepted. Faith does not mean you keep accepting what never enters your experience.

Faith means only this: keep your understanding open even to that which is beyond it. Don’t close off. If today you don’t understand, say so—“I don’t understand”—but don’t become stubborn in your not-understanding. Faith means: I shall use my understanding, but I will never say that truth ends where my understanding ends. There is truth beyond my present understanding. Until I know, I will not believe; but I will keep myself ready to know. I will not say I am unwilling even to prepare to know. I will not close my mind—I will keep it open. My doors will stay open. If an unknown truth knocks, wishes to be my guest, I am ready to host it. I will not say: you are unknown, so I will not let you in.

Faith is an openness. It does not mean you cannot raise questions. Without questions, how will you grow? But a question can be asked from a faithful heart. This is its delicacy. You imagine questions can be asked only in disbelief. The truth is: with disbelief there is no question left—you have already concluded.

An enemy can question; a disciple can question. The enemy asks because he is already certain you are wrong. The disciple asks because he wants to know. The enemy questions to argue; the disciple to search. His curiosity is the beginning of a journey. He wants to know; he does not know. So he will not say, “You are wrong.” He will say, “I don’t understand. Help me expand my understanding.”

Understand the difference. The disbeliever says, “What you say is wrong.” The faithful says, “What you say I do not understand. My understanding is small. I am willing to broaden it.” Yet even the faithful will not accept until it enters his understanding.

But the religious leaders, pundits, priests have taught people, in the name of faith, things whose outcome is not wisdom but stupidity. Then no matter how many things you memorize or how devout you seem, inside your ignorance remains hidden—because that is what you hid on the very first day. It stays buried within.

I have heard: An emperor’s only son was born. The emperor’s great hopes rested on him—where hopes are great, disappointment follows. The boy was handsome and healthy, but utterly dull. The empire was to be entrusted to him—the emperor was worried. Friends and wise men advised: send him to Kashi—this is a Chinese tale—send him to Kashi, then the center of knowledge. He will return a wise man. The emperor sent him, saying, “Do not return until you are wise. Die there if you must, but do not come back without wisdom. This gate will open to you only when you return wise.” The dullard worked hard. Hard work never made anyone wise. He labored; he succeeded—he became a pundit. He memorized all the scriptures. Ask him anything, and the answer was ready-made.

A wise man has awareness; a pundit has answers. Wisdom awakens; the pundit’s memory fills. Examinations are not of wisdom but of memory. We have not yet invented an exam for wisdom. Memory can be greatest in fools. Often a very intelligent man cannot remember many things; a dull man remembers a great deal—because he has no use for intelligence. His mind is like an empty storeroom—fill it with things. Intelligence has no living function; collecting is its only use.

After fifteen or twenty years the son wrote: I am now accomplished; all that was to be known here, I have learned; all exams passed; call me home. The emperor welcomed him with great honor. A grand banquet was held; the wise of the kingdom were invited to see that the prince had become wise. The prime minister sat next to him and, merely to test him, asked, “What have you learned?” The boy said, “Everything learnable: astrology, numerology, palmistry, grammar, mathematics, logic, geography, history. Not only that—I have learned parapsychological methods. Hide something and I can tell what and where.” The minister was amazed. He slipped off his ring under the table into his fist and said, “Tell me what is hidden in my hand.” The boy closed his eyes: “According to my science, a round circular object is in your hand with a hole in the middle.” The minister was astonished. “You’ve surprised me! Can you also tell its name?” The youth said, “There is no provision in scripture for telling names—I can give characteristics. But with my general intelligence, I can name it too.” He closed his eyes again and said, “It must be the wheel of a chariot.”

Scripture can give words, not understanding. Scripture can give knowledge—thin, superficial—not wisdom. The inner flame cannot be borrowed.

That is why tradition is so valuable to people: cheaper understanding is unavailable. It is free—just agree, and you are “wise.” Everyone wants to be wise; therefore everyone is ready for “faith.”

Don’t think that if you are an atheist you are not faithful—you are, only in reverse. Don’t think that if you are a communist you are not faithful—you have faith in communism. No difference: you don’t accept Mahavira or Buddha; you accept Marx and Lenin. You drop Ramakrishna and Ramana; you clutch Mao and Che Guevara. Your clutch is the same. Scriptures change; you stand on your head rather than your feet—what’s the difference? You remain the same.

Russia—two hundred million people—one of the old religious lands, with a deep Orthodox tradition. Revolution came; in a few years religion began to disappear. Those who went to church and accepted Jesus began worshiping Marx and Lenin. Astonishing! Does religiosity change so quickly? It was never religiosity; it was tradition. A new tradition replaced it—as people buy a new model of car every year, each generation or century buys a new model of tradition. Man does not change.

He changes only in that moment of revolution when you shift from ear to eye. The ear is tradition; the eye is religion. The ear is scripture; the eye is truth. Between ear and eye there are four finger-widths. Between truth and scripture lies an infinite distance.

A Sufi fakir, Farid, was asked: What is the distance between truth and untruth? He said, four finger-widths. The man was surprised: Only four fingers? We have heard it is very difficult to go from untruth to truth. Only four fingers? The fakir said, Exactly the distance between your ear and your eye.

It is four fingers—and infinite. Moving from ear to eye is hard. Why? Because the ear demands no discipline. The ear is passive. You hear, and it is over. Truth is obtained free; you need do nothing. Hence gradually man becomes passive everywhere. You have made everything passive.

There was a time when if someone wished to dance, he danced. Now if you feel like dancing you go to watch someone else dance. You sit idle; someone else dances. There was a time when one who wished to sing, sang. Now you play a record or turn on the radio. There were amateur theater groups in every village—people who savored would enact Ramlila or Raslila. Now the same people sit idly in cinema halls. Life has become passive everywhere.

Why? It is convenient, lazy. It has been written in scripture: soon people will have servants make love for them. True—who will take the trouble of loving?

I have heard, one afternoon Mulla Nasruddin lay relaxed under a tree by a lake, his fishing line floating. The cork was bobbing wildly—a fish was hooked. He watched, but who would get up! A man passing by noticed and said, “This is the limit—I’ve never seen a lazier fisherman. Why don’t you get up?” Mulla said, “Brother, now that you are here, do this little favor. You’re already standing—just take a couple of steps and pull it in.” The man caught the fish. Mulla said, “Now please bait the hook again and drop it.” As the man left he said, “Nasruddin, better have a couple of children to do these things for you. You are a great lazybones.” Nasruddin said, “If you know any pregnant woman, let me know—who will do that much work?”

Such is man’s laziness. And then you complain there is no joy. Joy is an active state. When you dance, joy happens; how will you be joyous when another dances? When you sing, when your throat expresses, there is joy; how will you get joy by listening? Only when action flowers in your life do you become authentic—otherwise you are dead, a corpse. Others do everything for you. Your life’s activity is outsourced. You are borrowed. If you were not, nothing would be lost.

Thus tradition seems cheap—everything is free. You have heard it since childhood.

A little boy returned from church on Sunday and said to his mother, “It would be best if I became a priest.” The mother asked, “You mean church has impressed you?” He said, “No, but every Sunday we have to go anyway because we’re Christian. So instead of sitting and listening, it’d be better to stand on the stage and shout.”

The child is wiser than you. He says: instead of sitting pointlessly and listening, it is better to stand and shout. And since I must go every Sunday anyway, between the two I choose the better.

We have chosen the ear because it is easy and cheap; nothing is required. If you wish to see God with your eyes, you must pass through fire. Life must become a tapas. You cannot know until you are refined. Understanding doctrines is free—Bibles are distributed free; Gita can be bought for a few coins. Sellers crowd around to give you truth quickly. You only have to say yes. Even if you don’t say yes, they knock at your door and leave a Bible: “Read a little.”

But if you wish to know truth, you must cut away the veils from your eyes. Until your life is pure like gold you will not harmonize with the Supreme Pure. He will be seen the day you are like him—at least in some measure. Only the similar is stirred by the similar, recognizes the similar, meets the similar. As long as you stand in darkness the sun will not be seen. You must travel. With closed eyes, you cannot see; you must practice opening them.

Hence people quietly accept tradition. No effort of reasoning or reflection is needed; you need do nothing. Others serve you chewed food; you swallow. That is why we trust so quickly.

Understand one more thing before entering the story: whenever we accept something without investigation, without labor, without discipline, some unconscious motives are at work. One: we do not value it enough to labor for it. We labor for what we value. We work for money; we do not satisfy ourselves with studying economics. You don’t say: I’ve read Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations; now what else is needed? I know all economic theories; now why need money? You know studying economics yields nothing—you need cash; scripture will not give it. So you toil. Even if you study economics it is to find money.

But you do not study religious texts to seek truth; you study to avoid the search for truth. For what you value you labor. God truly has no value for you; otherwise you would labor. He is last on your list. Until your entire list is fulfilled, until you buy the whole marketplace, you will not turn there. “What is the hurry? Let us enjoy the world a little; later!” You postpone God. The world now; God tomorrow—that is your arithmetic.

You postpone to tomorrow only what you never really want to do—because you know tomorrow never comes. What is put off till tomorrow is put off forever. If someone says: be angry tomorrow—you won’t agree. Love tomorrow—you won’t agree. Greed tomorrow—you won’t agree. Now, here, cash anger, cash love, cash greed. If someone says, “Prayer?” You say, “Tomorrow.” “Meditation?” “Tomorrow.” Religion on credit; the world in cash. You postpone only what you do not truly desire.

Second: you quickly accept from others those things which, if you sought them yourself, would harm your vested interests. You are not standing empty; you have sown seeds all around, waiting to harvest; you have shops open, relationships set—benefits expected. To hear religion you must be prepared to lose much—indeed, everything. You fear: if I seek truth, what will happen to the untruth I have sown? Let me reap; then… But that harvest never completes; to harvest one lie you must sow ten more. To escape one tangle you must create ten more. Endless. There is no exit except to leap out—always midway. You want to leave the world too, but you say: let the journey finish. The journey of the world never finishes; you are always in the middle. The mind never fills, yet you say: a little longer. If you begin religion midway today, many of your “investments” will be lost—they thrive on falsehood, not truth. And where nothing is to be gained you still hope. No one has gained anything—from hope itself, the strongest intoxicant.

One day I went to Mulla Nasruddin’s house. The door was open. He stood with his ear pressed to the wall, listening to the neighbor’s side—so absorbed he did not see me enter. I asked, “Nasruddin, what are you listening to?” He gestured, “Listen.” I pressed my ear; I heard nothing—one minute, two. I said, “Nasruddin, nothing can be heard.” He laughed: “Got it? I’ve been listening for forty years; nothing is heard—did you think you’d hear something in two minutes?”

Forty years he has listened—nothing—and the hope persists. Till death hope will remain, and you will keep listening at the wall where no one has ever heard anything. The moment you turn your eye toward religion you must leave this wall—because it becomes clear how foolish it is. And it hurts a lot to see that forty years have been wasted. Better to keep going than to admit, “I have been a fool forty years.” That is why people avoid truth. And the ears are so raw.

And one last thing: if someone says something good, you may not believe; if someone says something bad, you instantly believe. If someone tells you a man has become a saint you won’t readily believe—“We’ll see, find out.” If someone says he is a sinner, a great sinner—you believe at once. Whatever comforts your ego you believe quickly. If the other is a sinner, by comparison you become virtuous. If the other is a saint, by comparison you become a sinner.

Where your ego is hurt, you do not believe; where it is supported, you believe. If you go to a Buddha you will not easily trust—because he will break your ego. He knows well: only when your ego is shattered will your divine nature arise. Only when you break will you find your real life. He will break you—hammer and chisel in hand. He will shatter your idol. He is an iconoclast. He will not let you escape; he will cut you on all sides.

Scripture cannot break you—your ego is strengthened. Scripture says what Buddha says—but scripture is dead, Buddha is alive. That makes all the difference. Scripture says, “You are Brahman”—Buddha says the same. But Buddha will say it only after breaking you; scripture says it without breaking you. Your ego delights—“Aham Brahmasmi.” Immediate belief. But if you met the Upanishadic rishi who wrote it, you would not believe him—he would say, “You are Brahman indeed, but not as you are. As you are, you are garbage, not even worth that much. If you die tomorrow, you won’t fetch two coins in the market. Even a dead animal has value—you have none. You will only rot. People rush to cremate you not because you were important, but because you will stink. Neighbors who never helped before eagerly help now—because keeping you in the neighborhood is dangerous.”

From scripture your ego swells—you accept. From the living master your ego breaks—you refuse. Hence the strange phenomenon: while the master is alive people run from him; when he dies they worship his scripture.

Now, let us enter the little story.

Once there was a town with two parallel lanes.

Sufi, Zen, Hasid masters never tell a story for its own sake; every symbol in their stories points toward life.

Two parallel lanes—every town has them. Parallel means: they never meet. They seem close, but never meet; and if they seem to meet at the horizon, it is illusion—as railway tracks seem to merge. If you go there, the distance is the same.

We all live parallel lives. Husband and wife are parallel lines; friends are parallel lines—appearing close, never meeting. If you think they meet, it is delusion, seen on the horizon of hope. No one actually meets.

To meet another is very difficult—for one condition must be met: you must dissolve. No one is willing. We talk of meeting to dissolve the other. Neither the husband nor the wife is ready to dissolve; neither lover nor beloved. Both say: dissolving is necessary to meet—but each means, “You dissolve, then we will meet.” What is the constant quarrel between lovers? Only this: you dissolve; let me absorb you.

Someone asked Mulla Nasruddin, “The gentleman on the corner, Hamid Sultan—are you his brother?” Nasruddin said, “I am not his brother—Hamid Sultan is my brother.”

Such is ego!

I have heard: In a church a young couple married. As soon as they signed the register, the bride threw down the pen and said to the priest, “Stop! I want a divorce.” The priest was amazed; divorces he had seen—but not so quick. Not even in Hollywood. “Why? We just signed!” She said, “He signed bigger than I did. This is trouble—he is already trying to dominate.”

People are parallel; that is why you feel so lonely. With ego, no companionship is possible; when ego falls, the whole existence becomes your companion. Then you are no longer parallel; your line meets everywhere—with trees, rocks, moon and stars, waterfalls, people. Then that which separates you is gone.

Remember: your loneliness comes from ego. Ego isolates; egolessness connects.

There were two parallel lanes; one day a darvish passed from one lane into the other.

Only a darvish does this. A darvish is a renunciate, a seeker of the divine. Only he moves between parallel lanes. Otherwise no one crosses—each stays in his own rut. You go to your temple; I go to my mosque. Sometimes a darvish goes from temple to mosque or from mosque to temple—but you call him mad.

I have heard: On a holy day a Jew found himself in a strange town. Its synagogue belonged to another sect, another rabbi. He was in a fix—his own rabbi was far. With much pain, he went to the other synagogue. The rabbi was unusual, playful—his talk bubbled with laughter and stories. The whole hall was rolling—except the stranger, who sat grave, not smiling once. Finally his neighbor asked, “What’s the matter? Are you sick, sad, hard of hearing?” He said, “I am not deaf, nor sad.” “Then don’t you understand? Such joyful talk!” He said, “I am a disciple of the other rabbi.”

Even if joy is being distributed in the mosque, you will not take it if you belong to the temple. If God himself comes to the temple, you will still read your namaz in the mosque—how can you go to the temple?

The other man said, “But these stories! Laughter comes unbidden.” He said, “I’ll laugh at home—not here. If I laugh here, it shows I have joined them.”

We don’t break parallel lines even for laughter; sects divide us even there. Every particle of us is partitioned.

Sometimes a darvish goes from one lane to another. Therefore we never trust darvishes—they look odd. Hindus did not trust Nanak; Sikhs had to form a separate path. Hindus did not trust Buddha; Buddhists had to separate. Hindus did not trust Mahavira; Jains had to separate. Jews did not trust Jesus; Christians had to separate.

Why separate? Because sometimes a saint steps from one lane into another. The people of his lane say: he is no longer ours—we saw him in the other lane. Cannot be trusted. Nanak went not to Kashi but to Mecca—trouble! Suspicion! Why go to Mecca? Are you a Muslim? Hindus withdrew trust. Muslims did not trust him either—he was born in the other lane. Saints are outsiders everywhere—strangers to all. No one claims them; everyone considers them other. Suspicious.

One day a darvish walked from one lane into the other; people saw tears in his eyes. “Someone has died in the other lane!” a man shouted.

People are skilled at inferring; not at seeking facts. Give them a thread and they weave a mountain. No one asked the fakir: Why are you crying? It would have been best to ask. Everyone concluded on his own. A fakir’s eyes held tears; someone concluded: someone must have died.

It has always been like this. There is joy in Buddha’s eyes—did you ask why? There is sadness in Jesus’ eyes—did you ask why?

Everyone prefers inference. And how does one infer? If you were crying, why would you cry? That becomes your conclusion: the other must be crying for the same reason. If you see the other laugh, you think: he must have won a lottery.

I have heard: a Jewish fishmonger took a cartload of fish to market; the market was bad, buyers few. Fish, if unsold, rot—no point in taking them back. He dumped them outside town and returned, dejected. On the way he stopped to rest in a small chapel of Saint Sebastian. The statue stood with head drooped. The fishmonger said, “Ah! You too were in the fish business?”

Inference is according to oneself—that is the error. You see Buddha weep and ask, “Were you also in the fish trade?”

Children instantly picked up the man’s cry.

Children imitate. Whenever you imitate, know you are being childish. Maturity means standing on your own feet, trying to live in your own way. The mark of a child is imitation. You all do the same: your neighbor buys a certain car—now, come what may, you must buy that car. Your neighbor wears new clothes—now you must match them. Watch and you will find everyone is a child; only the age is bigger, not the childishness.

To begin with, children made the noise.

Wherever there is foolishness, children will be first to carry it. Someone infers; someone else takes it up. Truth is already lost.

In reality, only this had happened: the darvish was peeling onions.

Hence the tears. Nothing—and much. Once a clamor begins it spreads like fire.

Soon the children’s cries reached the first lane; the elders of both lanes became so anxious and frightened that they did not even have the courage to inquire into the cause.

This is the fun of the world: little children sway old men; those we call elders follow children. Their gray hairs have only been cooked in the sun; their wisdom is worthless. Age does not make one wise. It is children who agitate and lead.

A childish man like Hitler led all of Germany. Elders joined him. A great philosopher like Martin Heidegger supported him. Hitler’s mental age was not more than seven. Yet Germany—the land of professors—followed.

What happened? The child made a great commotion. First children gathered; when the noise grew, elders joined. There is little difference between children and elders—only years. The elder, the wise, is one who does not live by inference; he seeks truth, observes facts, does not live by the hearsay of ears but by the trust of eyes. Until he knows for himself, he proclaims nothing.

But the children made such an uproar that even the elders were so afraid they did not dare to inquire.

Hitler writes in Mein Kampf: the only difference between truth and untruth is this—repeat any untruth often enough and it becomes truth. Beat your chest, shout it loudly. The first time people won’t listen; no matter. Second time they won’t; no matter. Keep saying it. By repetition people conclude: a thing repeated so much must be true. All lies become truth by repetition.

The things you call true—have you considered what they have besides repetition? For centuries they have been repeated—that is why they are “true.” Is there any other reason? None. Such foolish things we accept—why? Because they have been hammered into us so often.

Ask the advertiser—this is his art. Newspapers, radio, television, cinema halls, walls—he writes everywhere. You wonder: why spend so much? Repetition. “Lux Toilet Soap.” Wherever you go: “Lux Toilet Soap.” Every beauty owes her beauty to it. Every smile hides it. How long will you resist? Your wisdom is not that great—today or tomorrow you will walk into a shop and ask for Lux. If someone asks why—what difference is there between Lux and some other soap—could you tell? Maybe by hearing it again and again you’ve begun to feel you are getting more beautiful.

Bertrand Russell wrote: let ten scientists certify a soap, and let one actress endorse it—the public will listen to the actress. The scientists—though they say something meaningful about ingredients and effects—even if all ten are Nobel laureates, and the ten in cinema are asses—people will listen to actors. Why? The scientists’ names are unfamiliar, seldom repeated; they have no place in your mind. Actors’ names are repeated around the clock; repetition has created an image inside.

Children repeat; elders get entangled. Soon the elders repeat the same things. But the sign of wisdom is this: until he knows, he remains silent.

One sensible man tried to explain: we should find the cause.

But who listens to such a “fool”? Where the crowd is foolish, wisdom looks like foolishness. People say, “You think you are the only wise one? The whole world believes—are all fools? When so many say it, it must be true.” The only argument in our mind: the more say it, the truer it is.

What has truth to do with crowds? Is truth a vote, a democracy? A parliamentary decision? Most often it has happened that one lone man has stood for truth, while many stood for untruth—because only a few seek truth; most avoid the trouble and repeat what all are saying.

I have heard: After a lecture Albert Einstein came out; many shook his hand, thanked him. One man said, “Whatever others may say, I will speak the truth: I have never heard a more boring talk.” The organizer told Einstein, “Pay no attention; this man is a fool. He only repeats what all say. Don’t mind him.”

The fool repeats what the crowd says; he has no trust in himself, no decision of his own. He looks to see how many are repeating and stands with the crowd. To stand alone requires great courage.

The sensible man urged inquiry, but by then people were so panicked and confused they did not know what they were saying.

Meanwhile some said, “We know this much: the other lane is gripped by a deadly plague.”

This is how it grows. Tears from onions, and a man is dead; and now—when a rumor passes through many mouths—it becomes the plague.

“The plague has spread”—and the rumor spread like wildfire. Each lane decided that the other was stricken with calamity. When some composure returned, the residents of both lanes separately decided to save themselves by leaving the city. In the end the whole city was deserted; all settled elsewhere.

Centuries later the city is still desolate. A little distance away stand two villages whose traditions say their ancestors fled an accursed city to escape some unknown disaster.

The story is important. Your towns are like this. Your habits are like this—made by your forefathers. If someone asks why you do what you do, you say: our fathers and grandfathers did it. Theirs did before them. Ask them, and they would have given the same answer.

Man looks backward and follows the dead. Kabir said, “These are the towns of the dead.” Cemeteries—run by the dead. You walk like your father; you go to the temple he went to. If asked why, you say: it has come down from our ancestors—as if that is a hallmark of truth. Usually it means no one knows truth; they walked behind their ancestors, and you behind yours. And you will teach your children to walk behind you.

The earth is in turmoil because of ancestors. Everyone has their traditions; each declares theirs the oldest. What does that mean? We have been blind longer than anyone else. Ask Hindus—they say ours is Sanatan, eternal. Ask Jains—they say, “What of your Sanatan? Before the Vedas our Tirthankaras were.” The whole world proclaims it is older—as if oldness were a value, as if being dead were a credential.

Truth is not wine that improves with age. Truth is the opposite. Intoxicants get better with age; that which awakens is better new. Truth is awareness; it is not old wine. Sects are wine—the older, the better they put you to sleep. They reassure. The new frightens.

So people come to me and ask: What tradition do your words belong to? What sect? They ask: How many corpses stand behind you? Prove that first—if many are behind, you are right.

Will the dead testify for the living, or the living for the dead? You will become dead if you follow the dead. Follow the living within you. There is a stream of life flowing in you—move with it. Open your eyes. Following forefathers will do nothing. It is easy to roll along their ruts—but ease never reaches truth. The path to truth is tapas; the greatest tapas is to trust the flame of your own consciousness.

Your villages are built like this; behind them are rumors. Your scriptures are composed like this; behind them are rumors. This does not mean there was no truth at the source. There was—as there was an onion in the darvish’s hand. That much truth you will find in Buddha and Mahavira. And as much untruth has been produced—you will find it in Buddhists and Jains. In the living masters there is that much truth; in the followers that much untruth of which this story speaks.

This is a story of truth and sect. Learn only this from it: do not trust the ear; trust the eye. Insist that until you see, you will keep yourself free; you will not bind your consciousness. Walk by seeing, not by hearing. The day you insist on seeing, an eye begins to be born within. Your whole personality becomes that of a seer. Darshan is born. And only through the window of darshan—seeing—does truth become available, through no other window.

Remember again: the distance between truth and untruth is only four fingers. The journey is very short—and very long; both. Truth is very near—and very far. Understand, and it is close; don’t understand, and it is distant.

That’s all for today.