To think of India at all fills one with anxiety. The moment I think of India, a certain line starts circling in my mind like a paper boat caught in a whirlpool. I don’t even know whose line it is, nor what other links might follow it. But as soon as India comes to mind, that line goes on spinning in my head. And the line is this: “On every branch an owl sits—what will be the fate of the garden?”
If in a flowering garden owls were perched on every branch, what would become of that garden? Look at the owls—and what will happen to the garden? ...A worry arises.
Something of that sort has happened in India. The rudder of India is in the hands of mindlessness. India’s destiny rests in the hands of inertia. We have a long history of foolishness, an ancient tradition of superstition, an age‑old habit of blindness—and all that holds this country’s fate.
But then the question arises: why has India’s destiny fallen into the hands of blindness? Why is our fate in the grip of darkness? Why is good fortune absent from our life—why only misfortune?
A nation in slavery for a thousand years, poor and destitute for millennia; a nation which, even after thousands of years of thought, could not create its own science, could not generate its own competence—so that the most ancient civilization must stretch out its hands and beg before the newest! America’s total age is three hundred years. Their culture is three hundred years old; ours can be called eternal—ten thousand years, perhaps. And yet we must beg before them. What were we doing for those ten thousand years? What have we contributed to the earth? What bears our name? Were we just sitting in silence...or did we live with closed eyes and squander ten thousand years? And the situation is only growing more distorted.
An American thinker has recently written a book: Famine 1975! The whole world is discussing it—except India. In Famine 1975! he speaks of India, and here there is no discussion at all. He writes that between 1975 and 1978 India will suffer a famine greater than any famine in human history, anywhere. By his estimate, between one hundred and two hundred million people may die—in India alone. His figures are accurate; there may be small errors, but not in the direction of fewer deaths—if there is an error, it will be that more may die.
In Delhi I mentioned that book to a prominent leader. I asked, “Have you read Famine 1975!? It speaks of the possibility that within ten years between one and two hundred million may die in India of famine.”
The leader said, “Nineteen seventy-five! Nineteen seventy-five is very far away.”
For those to whom 1975 still looks far, you cannot say they have eyes to see. In the life of a nation, years pass as quickly as moments pass in the life of a man. In a nation’s life, centuries pass as a man’s whole life passes. Centuries slip by unnoticed. But with eyes one can see ahead; without eyes, one cannot.
Nineteen seventy-five will keep approaching—and we will keep producing children. In fact, we produce nothing but children. We have decided not to produce material things. We are not materialists, after all; we will produce only human beings, only “spiritual” things. And we go on producing them. The numbers have begun to touch the sky...and we have no other production. We are managing by stretching out our hands and begging. But we will not look at the pit we are sliding toward.
Leaders say, “It’s very far.” Sadhus and sannyasins say, “Children are created by God—what hand does man have in it? And if God creates them, he will also provide. He always has; he will in the future.” The holy men explain it so. Leaders see no trouble other than elections. In their eyes there is only the election; they see nothing else. And because they see only the election, they see only the chair.
All this must be the result of some fundamental mistake. That mistake is this: for thousands of years we have been educated that India need not think. That is the root of our misfortune.
In India you must believe, not think; have faith, not intelligence; accept, do not inquire—this is what is taught. The long lineage of gurus has done one thing only: uproot the seeds of thought from each person and plant the roots of credulous rubbish. We have been told that to believe is the supreme religion. And I tell you: one who believes never becomes religious. He does not even become a real human being—religion is far away.
The power of thought alone makes a human being human. Awakened discrimination is man’s very soul.
India has been losing its soul—because we are enemies of intelligence and thought. We say: just accept. Accept the Gita because Krishna said it; accept Gandhism because Gandhi said it; accept the words of the Buddha because he is a God; accept Mahavira’s words because he is a Tirthankara. But who decides who is a Tirthankara, who a Mahatma, who a God? That too must be accepted—because the scriptures say so. And then, whatever is said—whether intelligent or unintelligent, appropriate or inappropriate, beneficial or harmful—must be accepted. Acceptance itself is our one qualification. If you do not accept, you are an atheist, you are lost.
I tell you: believers go blind—because a believer has no need to open his eyes. Who needs eyes if one has already accepted? Eyes are needed by one who wants to see for himself, to think, to walk, to understand.
But to open your eyes in this country is a sin. To keep your eyes closed is the sign of a pious soul. Close your eyes to life. Whatever the world may be thinking, do not open your eyes. Then what else can happen but that the country will fall into misfortune, accident, darkness? And where there is such blindness, where there is such darkness, it is natural that creatures who dwell in darkness will begin to lead. No surprise.
I have heard: in a village in Bengal, early one morning, an incident took place. A small oil‑seller sat in his shop, selling oil. A village thinker came to buy some. He set his container down to be filled and saw that behind the shop a bullock was turning the oil press. But there was no one driving the bullock; it moved on its own. The thinker was astonished. He said, “Your bullock seems very religious. No one is driving it, and yet it moves. In India, from the peon to the president, nothing moves unless someone is driving from behind. What sort of bullock is this? It doesn’t look Indian—what is its breed? Why does it move on its own?”
The oil‑seller said, “The bullock is purely Indian—that’s exactly why it moves. If it were another breed, it would stop to check whether someone was behind it or not. Perhaps you aren’t observing, sir: I have tied a blindfold over his eyes. He cannot see whether anyone is behind him. Whoever you want to exploit, tie a bandage over his eyes—whether bullock or man. Without a blindfold, exploiting a person is very difficult. Whether the exploitation is political or religious, the exploited must be blindfolded. Only the blind can have their blood sucked. How will you suck the blood of one who can see?”
The thinker said, “Fine, the eyes are bandaged. But can’t the bullock at least stop and find out if anyone is driving him? If no one prods him, he could figure out that no one is there.”
The oil‑seller said, “Sir, do you think the bullock is smarter—or I am? If he were smarter, he would sell oil and I would turn the press. I have hung a bell around his neck. As long as the bell rings, he walks; the bell rings, I know he’s moving. If the bell stops, I jump up and prod him. My back is turned to the bullock, but my ears are there. The bell rings—I know he is walking.”
The thinker must have been stubborn, as thinkers are. He said, “All right, I understand—the bell. But the bullock could stand still and just shake his head to ring the bell.”
The oil‑seller said, “Maharaj! Please don’t speak so loudly. If the bullock hears this I’ll be in big trouble. And please buy your oil from some other shop in the future. Keeping company with people like you is not good—association has its effect.”
The Indian mind has been treated like that bullock: blindfold on the eyes, a bell around the neck—and India has been yoked to the mill. Some have benefited. If no one benefited it would never have continued. Those in power benefited—whether that power was political, religious, or economic. For the powerful it is advantageous that people do not think, do not inquire—because inquiry opens the eyes.
The method of blindfolding is: have faith; believe; follow; go behind; never rely on your own intelligence. Believe in Krishna, believe in Rama, believe in Gandhi—but never in yourself. Avoid one thing only: believing in yourself. Believe in everyone else—no harm in that. For the man who keeps believing others slowly loses his own capacity to know and to think. What need is there for it, when others have already pronounced the truth? If a man sits with closed eyes for three years, even his eyes lose their light.
India has not used the mind for thousands of years. If India has lost its intelligence, nothing accidental has happened. For millennia the brain has been paralyzed; no one is using it. The father tells the son: “Believe what I say—because I am your father.” As if fatherhood guarantees truth! The teacher tells the student: “Believe what I say.” As if being born thirty years earlier makes what you say true!
Age is not the criterion of truth. Nor fatherhood, nor teacherhood. Other standards determine truth. There is reason, there is inquiry. There are causes for something being right or wrong. “Accept because of who I am” is not a cause. And because this has been our formula till now, children are born in India but their genius is crippled, it does not develop. India’s intelligence does not unfold.
There is no air here for thinking. And if you want to wrestle with life, you must think. If you want to be defeated, don’t think. If you want to conquer life, there is no force, no key in your hands other than thought. If you want to know the secrets of life, to master the powers hidden in matter, to discover nature’s mysteries, to reach out to the sky and the moon and the stars—then thought, thought, thought...there is no other way. Otherwise you become destitute, impoverished, enslaved. And then there remains one path only: blame it all on fate—“It was written, nothing else.”
For believers, other than fate there remains no court of appeal. Just fate. Any people who become believers become fatalists. Everything feels fated: if a child dies young—fate; if someone lives to eighty—fate; illness—fate; health—fate; poverty—fate; wealth—fate; if the country is enslaved—fate; if the English go mad and grant freedom—fate. What fault is ours? We had no role in attaining freedom—the British blundered. We were ready to remain slaves for thousands of years. The British lost their minds; who knows what confusion seized them? They left. We would have sat on fate. We would never have done anything.
The shadow of belief is fate. And where fate installs itself in the mind, human effort dies. It is suicide. Then the question of doing does not even arise.
Doers are those who believe that their doing will make a difference. Those who believe nothing will come of their doing, that someone else does everything; we are mere puppets, and God holds the strings—he makes us dance. What a showman this God must be—why is he making these puppets dance? And he’s not tired yet? We have tired out; the puppets are weary. The puppets say, “We want release from coming and going, we want moksha.” But the showman does not tire—he keeps on making them dance.
Are we merely playthings in someone’s hands? If so, life becomes a satire, a joke—and a very dangerous joke. But this is our view. Believers become fatalists; fatalists lose effort, labor, resolve, the capacity and courage to struggle with life. Crying is all that remains. They sit in rows and weep, and call it religion: “We are doing a religious act.”
What are we doing in temples? Is anyone praying there? Other than crying, nothing happens in temples. Someone stands with folded hands and weeps for relief from an illness; someone weeps for his son’s job; someone for something else. People are weeping in temples. Our prayer is nothing but weeping. We weep twenty‑four hours. Because we can do nothing—things just happen. We can only wail. If rain doesn’t fall in the land, we can perform a yajna; a yajna is weeping. In three time‑zones there is no relation between yajnas and rainfall. However many fires you light, however much grain and ghee you burn—it means nothing to the clouds. They have no idea what madness you are up to. They don’t even know your brahmacharis and sannyasins are pouring ghee into the fire, running around like crazies, chanting mantras. The clouds don’t know. And if they did, they would laugh heartily: “How foolish these people are! What are they doing? What does this have to do with rain?”
But what can fatalists, believers, do? The book says if you do this, rain will fall—so they keep circling and doing. If rain doesn’t fall, the believer says, “There must have been an error in our performance—otherwise the rain would have come. The age is degenerate, that’s why these mishaps occur. Otherwise the rishis could always bring rain.”
Over there, in Russia, they will draw the clouds to their fields. Clouds can be brought wherever one desires. Man can compel the clouds to release their rain. But not with mantras and yajnas. Yajnas and mantras are symbols of our impotence, not of our power. Those who can do nothing resort to yajnas and the like. It is the last refuge of the destitute. They bang their heads, waste time. But no—because for thousands of years that is what we have been taught. We will not even doubt it. If doubt arises, thinking arises; and if thinking arises, human effort is born.
Doubt is the first key. When doubt arises, thought is born—because doubt says: think; what is true? If this is not true, then what is? If this is already settled, there is no need to think; the matter is over. “Our ancestors settled it forever; there is nothing left for us.” What question, then?
When doubt arises, thought is born; when thought is born, effort is born—the question of doing arises. When man begins to think, he tries to see: can it be done or not?
A few years ago a Western doctor from Denmark came to India. He had read a book by Swami Sivananda—many of you have read it too, because besides reading useless books we do nothing. In that book it is written that chanting Om cures every illness immediately. It is also written that chanting Om with complete faith can conquer death itself. Many books say so. It is not Swami Sivananda’s fault; he must have copied it from somewhere. In India no one writes anything original—only carbon copies. So it is not his fault. He simply repeated what the ancestors have said.
That Danish doctor also learned that Sivananda was a doctor before he became a sannyasin. He did not know that no Indian doctor is worthy of belief—outside he is a doctor; inside sits the same Indian crazy mind. Who knows when he will put on ochre robes, who knows when he will start muttering “Ram‑Ram”? Even while giving injections, who knows if he isn’t muttering inside? The Dane thought, “A doctor has written this, so he must have thought it through. If he says chanting Om cures disease, he must have verified it. And if he says even death can be conquered, he must have experimented. In the West no one just writes whatever comes to mind.” He didn’t know our habits—we care nothing for what we write or say; we can say anything, we can write anything.
That man rushed to India. You will say he was naive. In Anand, many have read such books—but do they rush anywhere? They read and sit at home. But he became restless: “If there is a key by which all disease is cured, the world will be blessed. Hospitals, medical colleges, all this medicine—everything can be shut down. A small device, a secret! This is a great discovery; this man deserves the Nobel Prize this very moment. Why give it to those who discover some small drug? To Pasteur, to so‑and‑so—you give them the Nobel. The man who discovered this deserves it now!” He arrived breathless in Rishikesh and told Swami Sivananda’s secretary, “I must see Swamiji at once!”
The secretary said, “You cannot see him now. Swamiji is ill, and the doctor is giving him an injection.”
The man stood dumbfounded. “Swamiji—ill? That cannot be. How can it be? Swamiji can never be ill. I have read his book that says chanting Om conquers all disease.”
The secretary said, “You may have read it, but Swamiji is ill. The doctor is with him. You cannot see him now.”
If we had been there, we would have said, “Oh fool, don’t you understand? Swamiji is playing a divine play. This is lila. He is not ill; he is demonstrating lila, testing the devotees—who has faith and who lacks it. Those who still believe he is healthy are true devotees; those who don’t are atheists.”
But the Dane felt as if he had fallen from a mountain. He writes, “I was amazed. On what basis did this man write that? How are people like this?” But none of us would say anything. We would say, “What’s the issue?”
It would not even occur to us—because we have stopped thinking. Others think such thoughts—those who want to inquire, to experiment, to test, to draw conclusions. We only make proclamations.
This condition does not allow thought to be born in the country. And if thought is not born, India has no future.
We have slipped far behind—and we keep slipping. In every direction we are backward. The cause is one: we clutch what we have held for thousands of years and never even doubt what it is we are clutching. Open your eyes: see what you are gripping. But we are afraid that if we think, our ancestors and rishis might be proved wrong. So even if our lives are destroyed, we have vowed never to allow our ancestors to be proved wrong. But did the ancestors take a contract to be right forever? Did they make us wrong forever and themselves right forever? If the dead ensnare the living like this, it becomes a great misfortune. We have to live—and yet we must obey what they said. We have to struggle with life—but by their rules. It cannot go on this way.
So the first thing: the foundation of India’s misfortune is belief—blind belief. To accept with closed eyes—on every front! Whatever the front, it does not matter. The key to break this misfortune is not belief, but thought, doubt, inquiry. Our condition has become like that of sheep.
I have heard: in a school a teacher was asking math questions. He asked: “Inside a garden enclosed by a wall there are twenty sheep. One sheep jumps out. How many remain inside?” A boy who never raised his hand suddenly waved it.
The teacher asked, “What’s come over you today?”
He said, “We keep sheep at home, so I can answer: not a single one will remain. If one jumps out, all will follow. You say one got out—none will remain.”
The teacher said, “What do you mean, fool? There were twenty; one got out.”
The boy said, “In arithmetic one got out—but in real life all went out. Sheep follow.”
The same arithmetic applies to India: if one gets out, the whole country follows behind, shouting, “Victory to the Mahatma!” waving flags. No one asks why you are following the sheep. Each person must stand on his own feet. Why go behind anyone? But this thought never comes. We too have been given intelligence by God; thinking is our challenge too. Why should we follow? But following is convenient. Thinking is laborious; following is effortless. Thinking is inconvenient, it brings discomfort, you have to strain the head. Following is easy; you just grab someone’s tail and move along. And we don’t even know that the one ahead is also grabbing someone’s tail—for it cannot be that he is not. If he lost the tail ahead of him he too would panic: now he must think. He may be holding the tail of the living or the dead, but a tail he holds. A procession of tails stretches back for thousands of years.
Buddha said: “Once, at the foot of a mountain, I was meditating at noon when I noticed a frenzy in the forest: all the animals were running. Birds in the sky flew in lines; rabbits, deer, lions, elephants—all were fleeing. I tried to keep my eyes closed, but then I was astonished—this had never happened. I opened my eyes, stopped a lion; even he wouldn’t stop, he was trembling. ‘What’s the matter? Where is the whole kingdom of the forest running?’ The lion said, ‘Don’t stop me; the final deluge is coming—we are trying to save ourselves.’ I asked, ‘Who told you the deluge is coming?’ ‘Those ahead,’ he said.”
Buddha ran ahead and asked other animals, “Friends, where are you running?” “The great deluge is coming—don’t you know?” “Who told you?” “Those ahead.” He ran all day; by evening he reached the head of the procession: a line of rabbits. “Friends, where are you going?” “The great deluge—don’t stop us!” “Who told you?” “The rabbits ahead.” He stopped the lead rabbit—a small fellow who wouldn’t stop, tried to dodge, shouted, “Don’t stop me!”
Buddha said, “Friend, at least tell me—who told you?”
“No one,” he said, “I was asleep under a bush, dreaming. There was a loud thud. My mother had told me in childhood that when such a crash happens, the great deluge has come. I ran. When I ran, the other rabbits ran; when they ran, the whole forest ran.”
Buddha asked, “Under which tree were you sleeping—was it a mango?”
“Yes, a mango.”
“Fool—did a mango fall?”
“It could be.”
“Come with me.” He took the rabbit to the bush. The mark of his sleeping place was in the dust; nearby lay a big mango, as big as the rabbit. “Was this the crash?”
“It could be,” said the rabbit, “but my mother had told me in childhood that when there is such a crash, the deluge comes. So I ran.”
Buddha later told his monks, “That the animals ran is not just something to laugh at—my whole country runs like that. Ask anyone ‘who said so?’ and he will say, ‘the one ahead’—such‑and‑such a saint, such‑and‑such a holy man. Catch that holy man and he will always point further ahead. In the forest I could catch the rabbit; here you cannot catch anyone—the ones ahead are dead. Where will you dig up their graves? Their ashes are scattered. There is no way to reach the first man. And on every issue the chain is like this. This chain must be broken—quickly.”
Whatever we do, the answer must lie in our own intelligence, not in someone else’s. For whatever I do or say, I must have my answer—why I say it, why I do it. If I say, “Because so‑and‑so said so,” then I have lost the qualification to be human. I am disqualified at that very moment. I cease to be a man; I fall below. If you say, “So‑and‑so said it, therefore it’s true,” the matter is finished. Let your own intelligence speak—let your own discrimination speak. Even if you err by your own intelligence, it is auspicious. To be saved from error by someone else’s intelligence is inauspicious—because the one who errs by his own intelligence will sooner or later see the error; he has his own light, and he will go beyond it. But the one who moves by another’s intelligence will never cross over. He has no means of testing, no touchstone, no measure.
India has failed to produce individuals—because of belief. Therefore I say: take care of thought; think; do not accept anything unexamined. It will be troublesome; it will demand labor. But what are we afraid of in labor? And remember: the more labor you do in the world of thought, the more bliss the soul attains. The more you labor in thought, the nearer you come to the divine. Labor in the world of the body creates wealth; labor in the world of thought creates truth. Labor outside creates prosperity; labor inside creates truth.
Truth is the only power.
Believers have no power—because they have no truth. They have borrowed talk, borrowed words—stale words stuffed into our skulls. Thus we wander and are deluded, but we arrive nowhere. The whole boat of the nation circles like a bull at the oil press. No shore is in sight. Where to go? This condition must be broken.
And the moment this country begins to think, the seeds of effort will sprout within it. With thought, rays of human endeavor will spread. With thought, each person will feel there is much to be done, because thought inspires: “Do this; this is possible. Try this and see.”
Science did not arise in India because thought did not arise. Without thought, how could science arise? In the West it did—not always; only in the last three hundred years. Since men there began to think, science opened its stream. With science, the breath of human effort opened. Today their youth, their people, are planning to set foot on the moon and the stars. And we? We are preparing to vacate even this earth. One foot in the grave, one on the ground—waiting for the slightest push to sink into the grave. We are preparing for entry into the tomb. They are setting forth as travelers of the far sky—to know what no man has known, to place their feet where no human feet have ever trod. Our children will be left hungering even for the right to live on the ground. But we look on silently. We say, “What will you do by going to the moon and stars? What is there? Sit in the village Hanuman temple and sing bhajans. That yields great benefit—great inner peace. Why all this running around?”
But the divine is with those who labor—within and without. The divine is with those who are evolving the consciousness of life and the consciousness of the future. The divine is with those who are lifting evolution to new heights. The divine is with those preparing to win the future. The divine is never with the dying.
We will be lost like dust on the road. Take care: we already stand on the roadside of life’s stream. We are no longer part of its main current. Yet we stand at the edge and shout, “We are the world’s guru. We will teach the world; the world looks to us for guidance.” Who is looking at you? Does anyone ever look at those stranded by the roadside? But you think so, because travelers glance at you in passing, and you imagine they are gazing at you. They are moving on; no one is looking at you. Yes, now and then some crank comes over—some Beatle, someone—and we say, “Blessed! Look—India is the world’s guru!” Will India become the world’s guru by attracting two, four, ten crazies? Someone goes from here to the West—a Maharshi, some guru—and twenty people orbit around him, and we think India has become the world’s guru.
That is not the question. That is not how one becomes a world‑teacher. We have been severed from the stream of the world. Often it happens: those who have lost everything try to console themselves with grand fantasies. Beggars sitting by the road dream that their forefathers were emperors—indeed they do. Visit beggars and you will find that’s what they think. Beggars dream only one thing: that they were something grand. And in their dreams they all become emperors. No beggar ever dreams that he is a beggar—you know that?
I have heard: beneath a tree a cat lay dreaming. A dog passed by, woke her, and said, “What were you seeing? You were relishing it; drool was dripping from your lips; you were licking your whiskers. What was the matter? What were you seeing?”
The cat said, “You broke my dream for nothing. I saw it was raining—raining rats! Nothing but rats. No water—just rats, torrents of rats. And you ruined it.”
The dog said, “Foolish cat, even your dream was wrong. I have heard from my ancestors that sometimes such rains happen—but bones rain down, not rats. No scripture, no purana says rats fall; bones do. Sometimes we too dream—and bones fall. Not rats. You even dream wrong.”
But cats can only dream of rats. Dogs can only dream of bones. This India keeps dreaming of being the world’s guru. People dream of what they lack; no one dreams of what he already has. Those who are truly gurus today do not go around declaring it. And we, who have become destitute, go around shouting. This shouting is our weakness—proof of our defeat.
When will this fate change? How will it change?
I have said a little: the country needs a revolution of thought to shake its very soul. All beliefs are to be uprooted and thrown out. On every aspect of life the door of doubt must be opened. Every issue must be reconsidered—again and again.
Nothing in life is worthy of silent acceptance. Whatever has been said across thousands of years must be taken up and questioned anew. Again questions, again inquiry, again questioning—and hammer blows on each and every thing. Whatever stands the test we will accept; whatever fails we will discard, no matter if some great saint, some rishi, some muni said it.
No—it must be tested on the touchstone of thought and reason. And if the nation can gather this courage, there is no reason for misfortune ahead. Till now we have been unlucky; good fortune can come. I am full of hope. It is possible. It may even be that our not having thought till now was not a boon but a curse—and that curse can become a boon in the future. If a field has lain fallow for long, and after years seed is sown, the harvest can surpass all others—because tremendous energy has accumulated and bursts into bloom when it embraces the seed.
India’s brain, India’s talent, has lain fallow for thousands of years; no cultivation has been done upon it. Who knows—if in the coming future the children find courage and sow the seeds of thought, no nation on earth may be able to match this land’s genius. Because energy has been lying dormant for millennia; if it bursts forth, the flowers that bloom here may bloom nowhere else. But only if we do it.
These few things I have said.
You have listened to me with such love and quiet—I am deeply obliged. And in the end I bow down to the God who dwells within all. Please accept my pranams.
Osho's Commentary
To think of India at all fills one with anxiety. The moment I think of India, a certain line starts circling in my mind like a paper boat caught in a whirlpool. I don’t even know whose line it is, nor what other links might follow it. But as soon as India comes to mind, that line goes on spinning in my head. And the line is this:
“On every branch an owl sits—what will be the fate of the garden?”
If in a flowering garden owls were perched on every branch, what would become of that garden? Look at the owls—and what will happen to the garden? ...A worry arises.
Something of that sort has happened in India. The rudder of India is in the hands of mindlessness. India’s destiny rests in the hands of inertia. We have a long history of foolishness, an ancient tradition of superstition, an age‑old habit of blindness—and all that holds this country’s fate.
But then the question arises: why has India’s destiny fallen into the hands of blindness? Why is our fate in the grip of darkness? Why is good fortune absent from our life—why only misfortune?
A nation in slavery for a thousand years, poor and destitute for millennia; a nation which, even after thousands of years of thought, could not create its own science, could not generate its own competence—so that the most ancient civilization must stretch out its hands and beg before the newest! America’s total age is three hundred years. Their culture is three hundred years old; ours can be called eternal—ten thousand years, perhaps. And yet we must beg before them. What were we doing for those ten thousand years? What have we contributed to the earth? What bears our name? Were we just sitting in silence...or did we live with closed eyes and squander ten thousand years? And the situation is only growing more distorted.
An American thinker has recently written a book: Famine 1975! The whole world is discussing it—except India. In Famine 1975! he speaks of India, and here there is no discussion at all. He writes that between 1975 and 1978 India will suffer a famine greater than any famine in human history, anywhere. By his estimate, between one hundred and two hundred million people may die—in India alone. His figures are accurate; there may be small errors, but not in the direction of fewer deaths—if there is an error, it will be that more may die.
In Delhi I mentioned that book to a prominent leader. I asked, “Have you read Famine 1975!? It speaks of the possibility that within ten years between one and two hundred million may die in India of famine.”
The leader said, “Nineteen seventy-five! Nineteen seventy-five is very far away.”
For those to whom 1975 still looks far, you cannot say they have eyes to see. In the life of a nation, years pass as quickly as moments pass in the life of a man. In a nation’s life, centuries pass as a man’s whole life passes. Centuries slip by unnoticed. But with eyes one can see ahead; without eyes, one cannot.
Nineteen seventy-five will keep approaching—and we will keep producing children. In fact, we produce nothing but children. We have decided not to produce material things. We are not materialists, after all; we will produce only human beings, only “spiritual” things. And we go on producing them. The numbers have begun to touch the sky...and we have no other production. We are managing by stretching out our hands and begging. But we will not look at the pit we are sliding toward.
Leaders say, “It’s very far.” Sadhus and sannyasins say, “Children are created by God—what hand does man have in it? And if God creates them, he will also provide. He always has; he will in the future.” The holy men explain it so. Leaders see no trouble other than elections. In their eyes there is only the election; they see nothing else. And because they see only the election, they see only the chair.
All this must be the result of some fundamental mistake. That mistake is this: for thousands of years we have been educated that India need not think. That is the root of our misfortune.
In India you must believe, not think; have faith, not intelligence; accept, do not inquire—this is what is taught. The long lineage of gurus has done one thing only: uproot the seeds of thought from each person and plant the roots of credulous rubbish. We have been told that to believe is the supreme religion. And I tell you: one who believes never becomes religious. He does not even become a real human being—religion is far away.
The power of thought alone makes a human being human. Awakened discrimination is man’s very soul.
India has been losing its soul—because we are enemies of intelligence and thought. We say: just accept. Accept the Gita because Krishna said it; accept Gandhism because Gandhi said it; accept the words of the Buddha because he is a God; accept Mahavira’s words because he is a Tirthankara. But who decides who is a Tirthankara, who a Mahatma, who a God? That too must be accepted—because the scriptures say so. And then, whatever is said—whether intelligent or unintelligent, appropriate or inappropriate, beneficial or harmful—must be accepted. Acceptance itself is our one qualification. If you do not accept, you are an atheist, you are lost.
I tell you: believers go blind—because a believer has no need to open his eyes. Who needs eyes if one has already accepted? Eyes are needed by one who wants to see for himself, to think, to walk, to understand.
But to open your eyes in this country is a sin. To keep your eyes closed is the sign of a pious soul. Close your eyes to life. Whatever the world may be thinking, do not open your eyes. Then what else can happen but that the country will fall into misfortune, accident, darkness? And where there is such blindness, where there is such darkness, it is natural that creatures who dwell in darkness will begin to lead. No surprise.
I have heard: in a village in Bengal, early one morning, an incident took place. A small oil‑seller sat in his shop, selling oil. A village thinker came to buy some. He set his container down to be filled and saw that behind the shop a bullock was turning the oil press. But there was no one driving the bullock; it moved on its own. The thinker was astonished. He said, “Your bullock seems very religious. No one is driving it, and yet it moves. In India, from the peon to the president, nothing moves unless someone is driving from behind. What sort of bullock is this? It doesn’t look Indian—what is its breed? Why does it move on its own?”
The oil‑seller said, “The bullock is purely Indian—that’s exactly why it moves. If it were another breed, it would stop to check whether someone was behind it or not. Perhaps you aren’t observing, sir: I have tied a blindfold over his eyes. He cannot see whether anyone is behind him. Whoever you want to exploit, tie a bandage over his eyes—whether bullock or man. Without a blindfold, exploiting a person is very difficult. Whether the exploitation is political or religious, the exploited must be blindfolded. Only the blind can have their blood sucked. How will you suck the blood of one who can see?”
The thinker said, “Fine, the eyes are bandaged. But can’t the bullock at least stop and find out if anyone is driving him? If no one prods him, he could figure out that no one is there.”
The oil‑seller said, “Sir, do you think the bullock is smarter—or I am? If he were smarter, he would sell oil and I would turn the press. I have hung a bell around his neck. As long as the bell rings, he walks; the bell rings, I know he’s moving. If the bell stops, I jump up and prod him. My back is turned to the bullock, but my ears are there. The bell rings—I know he is walking.”
The thinker must have been stubborn, as thinkers are. He said, “All right, I understand—the bell. But the bullock could stand still and just shake his head to ring the bell.”
The oil‑seller said, “Maharaj! Please don’t speak so loudly. If the bullock hears this I’ll be in big trouble. And please buy your oil from some other shop in the future. Keeping company with people like you is not good—association has its effect.”
The Indian mind has been treated like that bullock: blindfold on the eyes, a bell around the neck—and India has been yoked to the mill. Some have benefited. If no one benefited it would never have continued. Those in power benefited—whether that power was political, religious, or economic. For the powerful it is advantageous that people do not think, do not inquire—because inquiry opens the eyes.
The method of blindfolding is: have faith; believe; follow; go behind; never rely on your own intelligence. Believe in Krishna, believe in Rama, believe in Gandhi—but never in yourself. Avoid one thing only: believing in yourself. Believe in everyone else—no harm in that. For the man who keeps believing others slowly loses his own capacity to know and to think. What need is there for it, when others have already pronounced the truth? If a man sits with closed eyes for three years, even his eyes lose their light.
India has not used the mind for thousands of years. If India has lost its intelligence, nothing accidental has happened. For millennia the brain has been paralyzed; no one is using it. The father tells the son: “Believe what I say—because I am your father.” As if fatherhood guarantees truth! The teacher tells the student: “Believe what I say.” As if being born thirty years earlier makes what you say true!
Age is not the criterion of truth. Nor fatherhood, nor teacherhood. Other standards determine truth. There is reason, there is inquiry. There are causes for something being right or wrong. “Accept because of who I am” is not a cause. And because this has been our formula till now, children are born in India but their genius is crippled, it does not develop. India’s intelligence does not unfold.
There is no air here for thinking. And if you want to wrestle with life, you must think. If you want to be defeated, don’t think. If you want to conquer life, there is no force, no key in your hands other than thought. If you want to know the secrets of life, to master the powers hidden in matter, to discover nature’s mysteries, to reach out to the sky and the moon and the stars—then thought, thought, thought...there is no other way. Otherwise you become destitute, impoverished, enslaved. And then there remains one path only: blame it all on fate—“It was written, nothing else.”
For believers, other than fate there remains no court of appeal. Just fate. Any people who become believers become fatalists. Everything feels fated: if a child dies young—fate; if someone lives to eighty—fate; illness—fate; health—fate; poverty—fate; wealth—fate; if the country is enslaved—fate; if the English go mad and grant freedom—fate. What fault is ours? We had no role in attaining freedom—the British blundered. We were ready to remain slaves for thousands of years. The British lost their minds; who knows what confusion seized them? They left. We would have sat on fate. We would never have done anything.
The shadow of belief is fate. And where fate installs itself in the mind, human effort dies. It is suicide. Then the question of doing does not even arise.
Doers are those who believe that their doing will make a difference. Those who believe nothing will come of their doing, that someone else does everything; we are mere puppets, and God holds the strings—he makes us dance. What a showman this God must be—why is he making these puppets dance? And he’s not tired yet? We have tired out; the puppets are weary. The puppets say, “We want release from coming and going, we want moksha.” But the showman does not tire—he keeps on making them dance.
Are we merely playthings in someone’s hands? If so, life becomes a satire, a joke—and a very dangerous joke. But this is our view. Believers become fatalists; fatalists lose effort, labor, resolve, the capacity and courage to struggle with life. Crying is all that remains. They sit in rows and weep, and call it religion: “We are doing a religious act.”
What are we doing in temples? Is anyone praying there? Other than crying, nothing happens in temples. Someone stands with folded hands and weeps for relief from an illness; someone weeps for his son’s job; someone for something else. People are weeping in temples. Our prayer is nothing but weeping. We weep twenty‑four hours. Because we can do nothing—things just happen. We can only wail. If rain doesn’t fall in the land, we can perform a yajna; a yajna is weeping. In three time‑zones there is no relation between yajnas and rainfall. However many fires you light, however much grain and ghee you burn—it means nothing to the clouds. They have no idea what madness you are up to. They don’t even know your brahmacharis and sannyasins are pouring ghee into the fire, running around like crazies, chanting mantras. The clouds don’t know. And if they did, they would laugh heartily: “How foolish these people are! What are they doing? What does this have to do with rain?”
But what can fatalists, believers, do? The book says if you do this, rain will fall—so they keep circling and doing. If rain doesn’t fall, the believer says, “There must have been an error in our performance—otherwise the rain would have come. The age is degenerate, that’s why these mishaps occur. Otherwise the rishis could always bring rain.”
Over there, in Russia, they will draw the clouds to their fields. Clouds can be brought wherever one desires. Man can compel the clouds to release their rain. But not with mantras and yajnas. Yajnas and mantras are symbols of our impotence, not of our power. Those who can do nothing resort to yajnas and the like. It is the last refuge of the destitute. They bang their heads, waste time. But no—because for thousands of years that is what we have been taught. We will not even doubt it. If doubt arises, thinking arises; and if thinking arises, human effort is born.
Doubt is the first key. When doubt arises, thought is born—because doubt says: think; what is true? If this is not true, then what is? If this is already settled, there is no need to think; the matter is over. “Our ancestors settled it forever; there is nothing left for us.” What question, then?
When doubt arises, thought is born; when thought is born, effort is born—the question of doing arises. When man begins to think, he tries to see: can it be done or not?
A few years ago a Western doctor from Denmark came to India. He had read a book by Swami Sivananda—many of you have read it too, because besides reading useless books we do nothing. In that book it is written that chanting Om cures every illness immediately. It is also written that chanting Om with complete faith can conquer death itself. Many books say so. It is not Swami Sivananda’s fault; he must have copied it from somewhere. In India no one writes anything original—only carbon copies. So it is not his fault. He simply repeated what the ancestors have said.
That Danish doctor also learned that Sivananda was a doctor before he became a sannyasin. He did not know that no Indian doctor is worthy of belief—outside he is a doctor; inside sits the same Indian crazy mind. Who knows when he will put on ochre robes, who knows when he will start muttering “Ram‑Ram”? Even while giving injections, who knows if he isn’t muttering inside? The Dane thought, “A doctor has written this, so he must have thought it through. If he says chanting Om cures disease, he must have verified it. And if he says even death can be conquered, he must have experimented. In the West no one just writes whatever comes to mind.” He didn’t know our habits—we care nothing for what we write or say; we can say anything, we can write anything.
That man rushed to India. You will say he was naive. In Anand, many have read such books—but do they rush anywhere? They read and sit at home. But he became restless: “If there is a key by which all disease is cured, the world will be blessed. Hospitals, medical colleges, all this medicine—everything can be shut down. A small device, a secret! This is a great discovery; this man deserves the Nobel Prize this very moment. Why give it to those who discover some small drug? To Pasteur, to so‑and‑so—you give them the Nobel. The man who discovered this deserves it now!” He arrived breathless in Rishikesh and told Swami Sivananda’s secretary, “I must see Swamiji at once!”
The secretary said, “You cannot see him now. Swamiji is ill, and the doctor is giving him an injection.”
The man stood dumbfounded. “Swamiji—ill? That cannot be. How can it be? Swamiji can never be ill. I have read his book that says chanting Om conquers all disease.”
The secretary said, “You may have read it, but Swamiji is ill. The doctor is with him. You cannot see him now.”
If we had been there, we would have said, “Oh fool, don’t you understand? Swamiji is playing a divine play. This is lila. He is not ill; he is demonstrating lila, testing the devotees—who has faith and who lacks it. Those who still believe he is healthy are true devotees; those who don’t are atheists.”
But the Dane felt as if he had fallen from a mountain. He writes, “I was amazed. On what basis did this man write that? How are people like this?” But none of us would say anything. We would say, “What’s the issue?”
It would not even occur to us—because we have stopped thinking. Others think such thoughts—those who want to inquire, to experiment, to test, to draw conclusions. We only make proclamations.
This condition does not allow thought to be born in the country. And if thought is not born, India has no future.
We have slipped far behind—and we keep slipping. In every direction we are backward. The cause is one: we clutch what we have held for thousands of years and never even doubt what it is we are clutching. Open your eyes: see what you are gripping. But we are afraid that if we think, our ancestors and rishis might be proved wrong. So even if our lives are destroyed, we have vowed never to allow our ancestors to be proved wrong. But did the ancestors take a contract to be right forever? Did they make us wrong forever and themselves right forever? If the dead ensnare the living like this, it becomes a great misfortune. We have to live—and yet we must obey what they said. We have to struggle with life—but by their rules. It cannot go on this way.
So the first thing: the foundation of India’s misfortune is belief—blind belief. To accept with closed eyes—on every front! Whatever the front, it does not matter. The key to break this misfortune is not belief, but thought, doubt, inquiry. Our condition has become like that of sheep.
I have heard: in a school a teacher was asking math questions. He asked: “Inside a garden enclosed by a wall there are twenty sheep. One sheep jumps out. How many remain inside?” A boy who never raised his hand suddenly waved it.
The teacher asked, “What’s come over you today?”
He said, “We keep sheep at home, so I can answer: not a single one will remain. If one jumps out, all will follow. You say one got out—none will remain.”
The teacher said, “What do you mean, fool? There were twenty; one got out.”
The boy said, “In arithmetic one got out—but in real life all went out. Sheep follow.”
The same arithmetic applies to India: if one gets out, the whole country follows behind, shouting, “Victory to the Mahatma!” waving flags. No one asks why you are following the sheep. Each person must stand on his own feet. Why go behind anyone? But this thought never comes. We too have been given intelligence by God; thinking is our challenge too. Why should we follow? But following is convenient. Thinking is laborious; following is effortless. Thinking is inconvenient, it brings discomfort, you have to strain the head. Following is easy; you just grab someone’s tail and move along. And we don’t even know that the one ahead is also grabbing someone’s tail—for it cannot be that he is not. If he lost the tail ahead of him he too would panic: now he must think. He may be holding the tail of the living or the dead, but a tail he holds. A procession of tails stretches back for thousands of years.
Buddha said: “Once, at the foot of a mountain, I was meditating at noon when I noticed a frenzy in the forest: all the animals were running. Birds in the sky flew in lines; rabbits, deer, lions, elephants—all were fleeing. I tried to keep my eyes closed, but then I was astonished—this had never happened. I opened my eyes, stopped a lion; even he wouldn’t stop, he was trembling. ‘What’s the matter? Where is the whole kingdom of the forest running?’ The lion said, ‘Don’t stop me; the final deluge is coming—we are trying to save ourselves.’ I asked, ‘Who told you the deluge is coming?’ ‘Those ahead,’ he said.”
Buddha ran ahead and asked other animals, “Friends, where are you running?” “The great deluge is coming—don’t you know?” “Who told you?” “Those ahead.” He ran all day; by evening he reached the head of the procession: a line of rabbits. “Friends, where are you going?” “The great deluge—don’t stop us!” “Who told you?” “The rabbits ahead.” He stopped the lead rabbit—a small fellow who wouldn’t stop, tried to dodge, shouted, “Don’t stop me!”
Buddha said, “Friend, at least tell me—who told you?”
“No one,” he said, “I was asleep under a bush, dreaming. There was a loud thud. My mother had told me in childhood that when such a crash happens, the great deluge has come. I ran. When I ran, the other rabbits ran; when they ran, the whole forest ran.”
Buddha asked, “Under which tree were you sleeping—was it a mango?”
“Yes, a mango.”
“Fool—did a mango fall?”
“It could be.”
“Come with me.” He took the rabbit to the bush. The mark of his sleeping place was in the dust; nearby lay a big mango, as big as the rabbit. “Was this the crash?”
“It could be,” said the rabbit, “but my mother had told me in childhood that when there is such a crash, the deluge comes. So I ran.”
Buddha later told his monks, “That the animals ran is not just something to laugh at—my whole country runs like that. Ask anyone ‘who said so?’ and he will say, ‘the one ahead’—such‑and‑such a saint, such‑and‑such a holy man. Catch that holy man and he will always point further ahead. In the forest I could catch the rabbit; here you cannot catch anyone—the ones ahead are dead. Where will you dig up their graves? Their ashes are scattered. There is no way to reach the first man. And on every issue the chain is like this. This chain must be broken—quickly.”
Whatever we do, the answer must lie in our own intelligence, not in someone else’s. For whatever I do or say, I must have my answer—why I say it, why I do it. If I say, “Because so‑and‑so said so,” then I have lost the qualification to be human. I am disqualified at that very moment. I cease to be a man; I fall below. If you say, “So‑and‑so said it, therefore it’s true,” the matter is finished. Let your own intelligence speak—let your own discrimination speak. Even if you err by your own intelligence, it is auspicious. To be saved from error by someone else’s intelligence is inauspicious—because the one who errs by his own intelligence will sooner or later see the error; he has his own light, and he will go beyond it. But the one who moves by another’s intelligence will never cross over. He has no means of testing, no touchstone, no measure.
India has failed to produce individuals—because of belief. Therefore I say: take care of thought; think; do not accept anything unexamined. It will be troublesome; it will demand labor. But what are we afraid of in labor? And remember: the more labor you do in the world of thought, the more bliss the soul attains. The more you labor in thought, the nearer you come to the divine. Labor in the world of the body creates wealth; labor in the world of thought creates truth. Labor outside creates prosperity; labor inside creates truth.
Truth is the only power.
Believers have no power—because they have no truth. They have borrowed talk, borrowed words—stale words stuffed into our skulls. Thus we wander and are deluded, but we arrive nowhere. The whole boat of the nation circles like a bull at the oil press. No shore is in sight. Where to go? This condition must be broken.
And the moment this country begins to think, the seeds of effort will sprout within it. With thought, rays of human endeavor will spread. With thought, each person will feel there is much to be done, because thought inspires: “Do this; this is possible. Try this and see.”
Science did not arise in India because thought did not arise. Without thought, how could science arise? In the West it did—not always; only in the last three hundred years. Since men there began to think, science opened its stream. With science, the breath of human effort opened. Today their youth, their people, are planning to set foot on the moon and the stars. And we? We are preparing to vacate even this earth. One foot in the grave, one on the ground—waiting for the slightest push to sink into the grave. We are preparing for entry into the tomb. They are setting forth as travelers of the far sky—to know what no man has known, to place their feet where no human feet have ever trod. Our children will be left hungering even for the right to live on the ground. But we look on silently. We say, “What will you do by going to the moon and stars? What is there? Sit in the village Hanuman temple and sing bhajans. That yields great benefit—great inner peace. Why all this running around?”
But the divine is with those who labor—within and without. The divine is with those who are evolving the consciousness of life and the consciousness of the future. The divine is with those who are lifting evolution to new heights. The divine is with those preparing to win the future. The divine is never with the dying.
We will be lost like dust on the road. Take care: we already stand on the roadside of life’s stream. We are no longer part of its main current. Yet we stand at the edge and shout, “We are the world’s guru. We will teach the world; the world looks to us for guidance.” Who is looking at you? Does anyone ever look at those stranded by the roadside? But you think so, because travelers glance at you in passing, and you imagine they are gazing at you. They are moving on; no one is looking at you. Yes, now and then some crank comes over—some Beatle, someone—and we say, “Blessed! Look—India is the world’s guru!” Will India become the world’s guru by attracting two, four, ten crazies? Someone goes from here to the West—a Maharshi, some guru—and twenty people orbit around him, and we think India has become the world’s guru.
That is not the question. That is not how one becomes a world‑teacher. We have been severed from the stream of the world. Often it happens: those who have lost everything try to console themselves with grand fantasies. Beggars sitting by the road dream that their forefathers were emperors—indeed they do. Visit beggars and you will find that’s what they think. Beggars dream only one thing: that they were something grand. And in their dreams they all become emperors. No beggar ever dreams that he is a beggar—you know that?
I have heard: beneath a tree a cat lay dreaming. A dog passed by, woke her, and said, “What were you seeing? You were relishing it; drool was dripping from your lips; you were licking your whiskers. What was the matter? What were you seeing?”
The cat said, “You broke my dream for nothing. I saw it was raining—raining rats! Nothing but rats. No water—just rats, torrents of rats. And you ruined it.”
The dog said, “Foolish cat, even your dream was wrong. I have heard from my ancestors that sometimes such rains happen—but bones rain down, not rats. No scripture, no purana says rats fall; bones do. Sometimes we too dream—and bones fall. Not rats. You even dream wrong.”
But cats can only dream of rats. Dogs can only dream of bones. This India keeps dreaming of being the world’s guru. People dream of what they lack; no one dreams of what he already has. Those who are truly gurus today do not go around declaring it. And we, who have become destitute, go around shouting. This shouting is our weakness—proof of our defeat.
When will this fate change? How will it change?
I have said a little: the country needs a revolution of thought to shake its very soul. All beliefs are to be uprooted and thrown out. On every aspect of life the door of doubt must be opened. Every issue must be reconsidered—again and again.
Nothing in life is worthy of silent acceptance. Whatever has been said across thousands of years must be taken up and questioned anew. Again questions, again inquiry, again questioning—and hammer blows on each and every thing. Whatever stands the test we will accept; whatever fails we will discard, no matter if some great saint, some rishi, some muni said it.
No—it must be tested on the touchstone of thought and reason. And if the nation can gather this courage, there is no reason for misfortune ahead. Till now we have been unlucky; good fortune can come. I am full of hope. It is possible. It may even be that our not having thought till now was not a boon but a curse—and that curse can become a boon in the future. If a field has lain fallow for long, and after years seed is sown, the harvest can surpass all others—because tremendous energy has accumulated and bursts into bloom when it embraces the seed.
India’s brain, India’s talent, has lain fallow for thousands of years; no cultivation has been done upon it. Who knows—if in the coming future the children find courage and sow the seeds of thought, no nation on earth may be able to match this land’s genius. Because energy has been lying dormant for millennia; if it bursts forth, the flowers that bloom here may bloom nowhere else. But only if we do it.
These few things I have said.
You have listened to me with such love and quiet—I am deeply obliged. And in the end I bow down to the God who dwells within all. Please accept my pranams.