In a village there stood a very old church. Its walls were on the verge of collapse. Even the thought of entering it made one’s heart tremble. It could fall at any time; it was practically waiting to fall. When thunderclouds rumbled, the villagers would say, “Today the church won’t survive.” At night, when lightning flashed, people came out of their homes to see whether perhaps the church had finally fallen.
Who would pray or worship in such an ancient ruin? The church committee and the priest pleaded with the people again and again, but no one began coming to the church.
Then the church committee met—outside the church, not inside. Even the priest and committee members didn’t dare go in. Sitting outside, they passed four resolutions.
First, they accepted—most sorrowfully—that the old church must be demolished. Sorrowfully! Because tearing down the old always hurts. Second, they resolved that they would quickly build a new church—but it would be exactly like the old. They would not change the old foundations. On that very base the new church would be raised. Now, on the old foundations nothing truly new can ever be built; but this committee decided they would raise new walls on the old base.
Third, they further resolved that only the old bricks would be used in the new church—only the old doors, the old windows, the old tiles. Not a single thing of the old church should be lost; it should all be fitted into the new. And on the old site, on the old foundation, the new church must be built. It would be new in name alone, because everything in it would be old.
And fourth, they passed this too: until the new is completed, the old will not be demolished!
That church is still standing. It will never fall, and the new will never be built.
The story of that church is the story of this whole country. The nation has grown so ancient that dying would be easy; to live has become difficult. It is so decayed, so decomposed, so rotten that even dying is hard. You know—even to die you need a little life! The dead don’t die—surely you know that? To die you need life. It seems we have died so much that we have even lost the capacity to die. Our being has become a ghostly existence. And this has been so for thousands of years. It’s not new. For thousands of years we have forgotten how to bring forth the new. For thousands of years we have clutched the old to our chest. For thousands of years we have given the old so much respect, so much love, so much reverence that the birth of the new has stopped—who knows since when! Who knows when this land grew old and died!
And now, whenever the word “revolution” arises, the greatest obstacle is precisely this: we are so old, so worn and decrepit, so rotten—if we want revolution, where do we begin? What shall we change? When everything needs changing, where to start? How to start? That is why in this country there has been no revolution for thousands of years; at most, a few reforms. A wall is whitewashed here, a door is freshly painted there, some plaster that has fallen is patched up, a wall that’s leaning is propped up. We keep making do with the old temple, the old church, somehow keeping it from collapsing.
If there is to be a revolution in the life of this country, the first sutra I wish to give you is this: the first key to birthing the new is the courage to drop the old. A society that loses the courage to drop the old also loses the worthiness to give birth to the new.
The power to create belongs to those who also have the power to destroy. The art of construction is known only to those who also understand the art of demolition. We have forgotten the art of demolition. We don’t know how to erase. And know this: the moment we forget how to erase, we also forget how to create. Because the first step in creating is always erasing. Without erasing the old, a new society cannot be born.
So first: lessen your reverence for the old, your respect, your celebration of it. Increase your welcome of the new. Honor the new, open your hands to it, embrace it.
But we are people frightened of the new. We fear it because the new is unfamiliar. The unfamiliar cannot be trusted; the old is familiar—and familiarity breeds trust. Our condition is such that we find it hard to let go even of old illnesses, because they are familiar. We find it painful to drop old chains, because we have worn them so long we have forgotten they are chains—we take them to be ornaments, jewelry. And when a society begins to mistake chains for ornaments, and to treat illnesses as companions, then who can forecast its destiny?
There is a fortress in France called the Bastille. When the revolution came, as soon as the revolutionaries seized power, they remembered the Bastille. There the most dangerous criminals were incarcerated—those sentenced to life. Some had been imprisoned thirty years, some forty. A few had been there fifty years. They were seventy or eighty now, awaiting death. No one left that prison before death; only death released you. The shackles they used had no keys; they were removed by cutting the hand—at death. The revolutionaries stormed the fortress. They thought: how happy the prisoners will be when we set them free! They dragged them out of their dark cells by force.
But a prisoner who has lived fifty years in darkness becomes afraid of light. He grows accustomed to the dark. His eyes lose the capacity to see brightness. A man who has been alone for fifty years is disturbed by another’s presence. A man who has had food at fixed times, sleep at fixed times, finds life itself a nuisance. The very business of living seems arduous.
When the revolutionaries dragged them out, many said, “We refuse to go. We are fine. We have forgotten we are prisoners. This place has become our home.”
After fifty years, a prison can feel like home. If it didn’t, living would be very hard. You must teach yourself to feel at home in prison. Otherwise, you cannot go on. But the revolutionaries were revolutionaries; by sheer obstinacy they forced them out.
But can revolution ever be forced? Can a person be made free by force? No one can be enslaved by force unless inwardly his soul agrees to be enslaved. Nor can anyone be freed by force unless he longs to be free. And for the one who longs for freedom—you may enslave his body, but you can never enslave his soul. And for the one eager to be enslaved—you may free his body, but his soul can never be free.
Even so, the revolutionaries dragged them out and broke their chains. Then an astonishing event occurred—perhaps unique in history. By evening, half the prisoners had returned to their cells and sat down. They said, “We refuse to go out. We would rather die than leave our prison. The day was unbearable—beyond measure. People frighten us. In the sun our eyes won’t open. And now that you’ve taken our handcuffs, we feel naked, as if something is missing from our bodies. How will we sleep tonight? We cannot sleep without that heavy weight on our hands. We sleep only supported by that weight—we have grown used to it. Give us back our chains.”
If we look at the Indian mind, the Bastille story seems apt; it is happening to us every day. We are so accustomed to the old that we’ve forgotten the new is possible.
Do you know how ancient our poverty is? Since we can remember, we have been poor. Don’t be misled by fairy tales that say India was a “golden bird.” These are outright fictions. India may have been a golden bird for a few—for everyone, never.
A few have ridden that golden bird for a long time. But real India has always been hungry, destitute, and meek. Real India has never been wealthy. After thousands of years of poverty, slowly we became reconciled to it. We dropped even the idea that we could be prosperous. Not only dropped the idea—we developed a philosophy that poverty is sublime, and wealth is something to be kicked away. This is cunning in the extreme. It is the poor man’s last consolation—to deem wealth not worth having. He says, “What is there in riches? Gold is dust!” The country can’t even get dust, and we call gold dust! We have died hungry, for millennia. We have forgotten that we could also live with a full belly. Long hunger becomes habit. Not only habit—it breeds a sense that even poverty can be honorable.
India, by remaining poor, developed a philosophy that honors poverty. This is the most dangerous thing—it prevents life from changing. As long as you honor poverty, your destiny will be tied to it. You can never be free of what you honor. We become what we revere.
For thousands of years India has honored poverty and abused prosperity. And behind this abuse there was a great support: for three or four thousand years, the sons of the rich chose poverty. Their choice stamped India’s poverty with sacred approval.
Mahavira was a king’s son; Buddha was a king’s son; the twenty-four Jain Tirthankaras were princes; Rama was a prince; Krishna was a prince. All of India’s Tirthankaras, all its avatars, all its enlightened ones—princes. Not a single poor man has become a Tirthankara or avatar in India—remember this, never forget it.
All India’s gods are sons of kings. This has created a serious mischief. Princes grow weary of wealth, tired of palaces, bored with luxury and indulgence.
The mind has this rule: the poor grow weary of poverty, the rich grow weary of riches. Whatever you have, you tire of it. Those who walk on foot yearn for the cars they see. Those riding in cars try to taste the joy of walking.
The sons of the rich grew tired of wealth. They kicked it away and became beggars. Because of their becoming beggars, India’s poverty got its seal of sanctity. The poor thought: when even the rich kick away wealth to become poor, then God has been very kind to us to make us poor from the start. We must be enjoying the fruits of past-life merits—thank you, God! If we have to be poor anyway, better to be born poor. But they don’t understand that when a rich man becomes poor, there is a certain thrill in it. For the rich man, poverty is a change—a luxury. When everything has been had, he says, “Now I will also taste poverty.” Only the rich can enjoy the luxury of being poor.
Recently I was in Benares. Two rich boys from America had come there as hippies. They came to see me—millionaires’ sons. Barefoot in Benares, they begged ten paisa here and there to meet their expenses. I asked them, “Fools, what’s happened to you? You are begging in a poor land? You are rich men’s sons!” The hippies said, “You don’t know how much freedom we feel in being poor. We sleep wherever we feel like. No worries, no fears. We beg; we have no possessions to guard, no security to maintain. For the first time, in poverty we taste freedom.”
But for the poor, this is beyond comprehension—how can poverty feel like freedom? Ask famine-stricken people whether rich folks, while fasting, feel spiritual bliss. You who are dying of hunger—do you feel any bliss in hunger? They will say, “It is beyond our understanding how hunger can be bliss.” Yet for those whose bellies are full, fasting sometimes does bring a peculiar joy. This is not a lie. For the affluent, occasional hunger feels good.
But the poor cannot even imagine it. For the rich, even poverty can be a thrill—the last luxury. When there is nothing left to gain, he says, “Now I will also gain poverty.” Only the rich can enjoy the fun of being poor.
What I want to tell you is this: only the rich can enjoy being poor. The overfed can enjoy fasting and hunger-strikes. Those with many clothes can savor standing naked. But those who have nothing—this is beyond their imagination, beyond their dreams.
Yet the renunciation of India’s rich sons gave the poor a sweet comfort: “We are good; we are blessed.” And poverty in India became honorable.
From the day poverty was honored, we abandoned the effort to become prosperous. The soul-energy that creates wealth shrank. The soul-energy that delights in expansion and growth, that too withered. We settled for what is. And we developed a philosophy of contentment.
As long as India clings to the philosophy of contentment, there can be no change in its misfortune. Do contented people make revolutions? How can contentment create revolution? There is no idea more anti-revolutionary than contentment. When we are satisfied, what question of revolution remains? What question of change? And India’s saints and sages roam the land teaching: “Be content as you are; thank God.” Slowly, India has become content—in poverty, slavery, meekness, rot, ugliness—we are content in all of it. We have become content—and we have died. If you want to die, no medicine is better than contentment. It is the surefire remedy for death.
Why were we taught contentment? Because poverty was so vast that to survive it there were only two ways: either destroy poverty by creating wealth, or become content with poverty. Wealth doesn’t fall from the sky; it has to be produced. Remember, wealth is a human invention. Nature doesn’t give wealth; nature gives opportunities to create wealth. Man creates wealth. Wealth is a human invention. It is not lying around; we must manufacture it.
America is three hundred years old. People lived there before that too—on the same land—but they were always poor. Their life-philosophy was not to become wealthy. In the three hundred years since, those who settled there piled up mountains of wealth. Never before has so much wealth been created in one country. Where did it come from? If you settled Indians in America, America would be poor. The “fault” lies with Americans—they created wealth. We will never create wealth.
A German traveler, Count Keyserling, returned from India. In his diary he wrote a sentence that startled me. I thought perhaps it was a printing error. Then I remembered the book was printed in Germany—there, printing errors don’t happen as they do here. In our books, the first five or seven pages are “Errata”—and even those have errors! But this was printed in Germany—it couldn’t be wrong.
He wrote: “I have returned from India, and one thing keeps echoing in my mind: India is a rich country where poor people live!”
I thought, how can this be? If a country is rich, how can its people be poor? And if the people are poor, how can the country be rich? The two statements contradict.
Then I understood his joke—he was teasing us. He meant: had the people been intelligent and wanted to be rich, the country—being rich—could have made them rich. But the people are foolish and want to remain poor. The country can’t force them to be wealthy.
In five thousand years, what technology have we developed? What techniques to produce wealth? What machines have we invented that create wealth? What social structures have we designed that generate wealth? We have done nothing of the kind. We accepted poverty. We took what is as the end of things.
We are not a developing people. We are inert. Whatever happens, we accept it. If rain falls, we thank God; if it doesn’t, we grumble a little, and that’s that. The thought that we too could make it rain is beyond us. The thought that we could do anything arises only if we wish to do something—but contentment prevents us from wishing.
Poverty is sanctioned by the shadow of contentment. How then will there be revolution? Transformation? The birth of the new? We clutch the old to our chest and call it contentment. Do you know, the old tree dies by giving birth to new seeds? The old person departs by giving birth to new children. Old leaves fall so new leaves can sprout. But our social beliefs—old beliefs—neither die nor depart. There is no space for the new. No room where a new sprout could break through—no chance, no opening.
No—the old must be rejected; we must be dissatisfied with what is. Only then can we create what should be. Dissatisfaction with what is is essential to give birth to what ought to be. But does anyone teach us to be dissatisfied? Even small children are told: be content; there is great joy in contentment.
There is no joy in contentment; rather, there is contentment in joy. Let me repeat: we are told, “There is happiness in contentment.” That is false—utterly false. There is no happiness in contentment, but where there is happiness, there surely is a great contentment. When joy is present, a cool shadow of contentment spreads across life. But when there is no joy, when there is sorrow, then by cultivating contentment we merely console ourselves and hide our sorrow—we do not become happy.
I went to see a renunciate. Some fifty people were gathered. He spoke with me for a bit and then said, “I composed a song today; let me sing it—you may like it.” He sang. As he sang, all fifty heads began to nod with delight—“Wah! Wah!” But I was astonished. What did the song say? It said: the renunciate addresses an emperor, “You remain on your golden throne; I kick your golden throne away. I care nothing for you or your golden throne. I am content in my dust; I am immersed in my dust.”
I asked him, “Have you ever heard an emperor write a song: ‘Remain absorbed in your dust; I kick your dust away. I am in great bliss on my golden throne. I don’t care about your dust’?” No emperor has ever written such a thing. But why do renunciates keep writing it?
Isn’t this just a trick to talk oneself into contentment? The golden throne is shining clear before the mind; to pacify itself it hurls abuse—“We kick your golden throne.” If a golden throne is truly worthless, why bother to kick it? And if you are really blissful in your dust, let those on golden thrones be envious—why praise your dust with your own mouth? But people lying in the dust seek contentment by proclaiming, “We are happy in our dust.”
Contentment is a way to hide sorrow, not to erase it. And sorrow must be erased, not hidden.
Contentment hides sorrow; it does not remove it. A society that hides sorrow through contentment slowly accumulates so much pain over centuries that the whole soul becomes wounds and grief. This is what has happened here. We always hide sorrow; we do not cure it. To hide it, we wrap ourselves in the blanket of contentment and “be satisfied.” If a man dies at twenty-five, we are content: “That must have been his allotted span—written in fate.” If a child is born blind, we are content: “He must have committed sins in a past birth; hence this misfortune.” If poverty grows, we say: “Those who sinned in past lives must now bear the suffering of poverty.” By some trick or another we become content—we settle for it.
There is no rebellion, no revolt, no longing for change. And why not? Because there is no discontent.
A contented society is not a revolutionary society. Life needs the burning fire of discontent. That fire of discontent is the very sign of being alive. It is the evidence of life. The dead are content. The living are eager each day to touch a new peak, to walk new paths, to explore new expanses, to embark on new quests—right up to the last breath, they strive for the new.
Discontent is a divine trait.
I say: Divine Discontent is God’s greatest gift to humanity. It goads us—“Grow, and grow, farther and farther; life never ends, it goes ever beyond.” But us? We abandoned life long ago. We have sat down by the roadside. The caravan of life moves on; we sit on the shoulder. The dust of its passage settles on our heads; we close our eyes and bear it and say, “One should be content. There is great happiness in contentment.”
Contentment is a trick to hide suffering. Contentment is escapism. Those who want to flee life—fine: close your eyes and be content. But those who want to live—contentment is not for them. And if an entire society becomes contented, then it is collective suicide.
The whole society has become content. Nothing wounds us anymore. A man begs on the street and our hearts feel no shock! Has the human in us died? A man sits in filthy clothes asking for alms; we pass by and feel nothing. We have accepted it all. This is how life is: flowers and thorns; sorrow and joy; the rich and the beggars. We accept everything. However ugly, however absurd, however unacceptable life may be, we silently watch and walk on. Have we lost the capacity to be struck, to be hurt? We have.
In a contented man, all capacity is lost. And then contentment teaches: never stretch your legs beyond your blanket. “Stay within your blanket,” it says. If the blanket is short, pull your legs in—but don’t try to lengthen the blanket. Don’t stretch your feet beyond it. Staying within your blanket is the mark of a sensible man.
But let me tell you: the blanket does not grow by itself, and you do—so the blanket grows shorter day by day while you grow bigger. You keep shrinking yourself—now the hand is exposed, now the foot, now the back, now the head. The blanket has become tiny. Like putting a child’s pajama on a grown man. Better to be naked—you would at least feel some freedom. But that childhood pajama is strangling him. And he won’t drop it—because it was worn by the ancestors; how can it be abandoned? The forefathers dressed us in it. If they return and remove it, fine—but how can we? They won’t return; they have gone beyond return. And the pajama remains. The man grows, the pajama stays small. And we have been taught: never stretch your feet beyond your blanket. But the man keeps growing.
In Buddha’s time, India’s population was twenty million. That’s when the proverb was taught: “Keep your feet within your blanket.” Even Buddha could not have imagined that the man under the blanket would become so huge that the blanket would vanish.
When Pakistan was carved out, it seemed Jinnah had snatched away many of our people. Now Jinnah’s spirit must realize: it’s hard to snatch people from us. In twenty years we produced twice as many as Pakistan took away. We manufacture only one thing. We don’t produce things—are we materialists, that we would produce things? We are a spiritual society—we produce only people! A spiritual society produces new souls; materialist nations produce new things. What good are things? People are the real thing. We produce the real thing; others produce useless things that bring no good.
But the man grows bigger and the blanket smaller. The philosophy says: don’t enlarge the blanket. The philosophy says: don’t stretch your legs out. Life becomes unbearable.
I say: those who dare to stretch their feet beyond the blanket are the ones who also find ways to grow the blanket. Because feet cannot remain outside for long—you will be forced to enlarge the blanket. So if you want to enlarge it, always keep your feet outside—so the urge to enlarge arises. If you keep your feet inside, the idea to enlarge will never come.
And remember, the blanket can be enlarged—as much as you like. The earth has such wealth that even if the world’s three or three and a half billion become thirty billion, there is no reason for a single person to go hungry. The earth’s wealth is immense, and its untouched, virgin sources are many—the oceans still untapped; from the seas alone we could produce so much food that billions could eat and it would make no dent. The winds remain unused; from the air we could extract such nourishment that billions could live without hardship. So far we have ploughed only the land; neither the seas nor the winds have been ploughed. So many fields are still unploughed. But who will plough them? Those who say, “Don’t stretch your feet beyond your blanket”? No—stretch them, so that life gains momentum toward expansion, so that revolution and transformation can happen.
So today I want to press one sutra: contentment is suicidal. Contentment teaches you to live in poverty. Contentment teaches you to live in slavery.
We were enslaved for a thousand years—an astonishing fact! No nation has remained enslaved for a thousand years, nor can it. What does it mean to be enslaved for a thousand years? That we had no desire for freedom. That we could be kept enslaved for a thousand years means we did not want to be free.
Why would we want freedom? Our scriptures say, “Whoever is king—what is that to us? Whatever king there is, what loss is it to us? We will chant the name of Ram in our little huts and sing kirtan. What have we to do with kings?” When a society is taught such things, it can agree to live under any situation. We agreed to a thousand years of slavery. And don’t think we attained freedom by our own strength. Had it been left to us, we would never have entered the hassle of freedom—we would have remained slaves. The English were strange people—they would not listen and left us free. Otherwise, we were not ready. We staged a “revolution” in 1942, and got freedom in 1947. Have you heard such a thing? The bullet is fired now and hits five years later? And that bullet too was a dud—no sound, nothing.
Not one Indian leader knew we were about to be free. Freedom descended upon our chest as an accident. We were startled—we were never so startled by slavery as we were by freedom. And we have been more troubled these twenty years by freedom than we ever were by slavery. You can see that. Freedom is a stranger to our mind. It was not our heart’s longing. To be free, you need great discontent.
In the Second World War, I have heard, Germany decided to attack Holland. Holland is a poor country—not poor like us. In the West, “poor” means what we would call average well-being. Holland is not very rich. Its difficulty is that the sea stands higher than the land, and walls must be built all around to keep the water out. Half the nation’s strength goes just to hold back the sea. When Germany decided to attack, Holland was in trouble. What to do? They had no army to fight Germany. Should they become slaves?
If it were us, we would say, “What a fine opportunity—why miss it? Drop your hassles, let others take responsibility.” Slavery has its perks. In slavery there is no personal hassle; others worry. Our worries end. Freedom brings responsibility, burden. Freedom brings danger. In freedom, you make your own mistakes. In slavery, neither mistakes nor dangers are yours.
But those Dutch must have been a troublesome lot; they said, “We will not be slaves.” Then what can you do? The enemy is strong, you are weak. Do you know what they decided? That whichever village the Germans captured, the villagers would break the dikes, let the sea in, drown and be done. Holland would drown rather than be enslaved. Holland would die rather than be a slave. And history would at least record that a nation died but refused slavery.
One who refuses slavery—no one on earth can enslave him. Kill him, yes. Enslave him, no. But we are inwardly ready to be enslaved. Even now. We can find new ways of slavery.
If China were to attack, millions among us would be ready to welcome them. In the name of communism, or some other name. Inside, a slave Indian sits—ready to serve anyone. He would feel relief in a new slavery, “Good—our trouble is over. You take over.”
No—our long slavery was the outcome of our wrong way of thinking. Neither the Muslims nor the Turks nor the Huns nor the English are to blame. If anyone is to blame, it is we ourselves.
But our leaders say we are blameless. “They attacked—what could we do?” What delightful logic! If someone attacks, nothing remains to be done?
Our leaders boast: “Our society is brave—full of lions.” You saw, when China attacked, lions were born all over India—writing poetry. The whole country erupted in verse: “Don’t provoke us; we are sleeping lions.” Have you ever heard sleeping lions say, “Don’t provoke us,” or recite poetry? Where did those lions go, and their poems? China sits on hundreds of miles of our land. All those lions vanished, those poets too—some got Padma Shris and such. It all disappeared. Where did the lions go? If we had so many lions, what could stop us? But we had paper lions—poetic lions! China took the land.
In Delhi, I asked a great leader, “What about that land?” He said, “Why talk about that? It is useless land—nothing grows there. Why fight over it?” These are our leaders! Our vanguard! But it isn’t their fault alone. Our entire mindset accepts things; it does not reject. The nation lacks a rebellious mind. We do not have a rebel’s heart. We have a contented mind.
We do not need a contented mind. We need a rebellious mind. We need a dissatisfied mind. We need a burning fire of discontent in which the old is reduced to ash—old attachments fall, old rags burn, old nonsense is consumed—so the heart can be new, the nation can be new, and ready to welcome the new.
This can happen. On these sutras I want to speak with you for three days.
Today, the first sutra: Discontent.
Discontent with everything—as it is, it is not acceptable; much can be changed; it can be made new. But what do we say? “Spin the charkha, twist the spindle”—and presto, revolution! Travel by bullock cart; or go further—some sages say, “Travel on foot”—padayatra.
We are halted at the bullock cart—while the world has gone far beyond. They have reached jet planes, they have reached spaceships. We are stuck with bullock carts. It makes one weep—anyone who thinks feels like beating his chest when a bullock cart goes by. Where are we? Where will we stand? With bullock carts—what future? How will we compete? How will we stand tall?
But we feel no discontent. We are content with the bullock cart. We are trained to flee. We are escapists.
Confucius records an incident. “Once I went to the mountains and saw a woman weeping over a grave. I asked, ‘Why do you weep? What has happened?’ She pointed to the grave: ‘My husband—eaten by a tiger. I weep for him.’ Confucius asked, ‘Where do you live?’ ‘Here in the mountains,’ she said. ‘Earlier, a tiger ate my son—the grave is behind. Before that, it ate my father—his grave is further back. Now my husband is gone. I am alone.’ Confucius said, ‘Foolish woman, why don’t you go down to the town? Why live here in the mountains?’ She replied, ‘In the town? The king is very bad. To escape the king, we live contentedly in the mountains.’ Confucius said, ‘If the king is bad, the king should be changed—not that you abandon the town and flee to the mountains.’ But she said, ‘We are content here—the king is too bad there.’”
When I used to read this, I thought: if only I could meet Confucius—hard, since he lived twenty-five hundred years ago. But life is mysterious—who knows! If I met him, I would say, “Go climb that mountain again. Perhaps that woman was Indian!” For I suspect she was.
This is the Indian mentality: wherever there is trouble, run away and hide. If family life is painful, don’t change family life—become a renunciate. If a man finds woman troublesome, don’t change the structure between men and women—drop the woman and flee. If children bother you, abandon them—but don’t change the life that is the source of the trouble.
What does this mean? It means escapism. Run—do not face life. To face life you need the capacity, the worthiness, the courage to be dissatisfied. If you want to die, fine—contentment is perfect. But if you insist on contentment, then why breathe? Even breathing is done by the dissatisfied. If one became utterly content, why breathe? Why drink water? Why eat? Nothing would be needed. Either be that content—utterly dead—or drop contentment, take the road of life, and gather the courage to change life.
This courage can be gathered. We can place our hopes in the new sons, the new children. One can glimpse a sparkle of courage in their eyes.
But the old are working so hard to spoil them that there is great fear they will succeed. In India, a young person can scarcely be born—the old collaborate to make him old first.
In the next three days we shall speak of how this country can become young, how it can learn rebellion, how it can pass through revolution.
Today I have spoken on the first sutra: drop contentment; accept discontent. Discontent is the path of change; discontent is the path of revolution; discontent is the path to the attainment of a new life.
I am deeply grateful for the love and peace with which you have listened. And at the end, I bow to the God dwelling within each of you. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
In a village there stood a very old church. Its walls were on the verge of collapse. Even the thought of entering it made one’s heart tremble. It could fall at any time; it was practically waiting to fall. When thunderclouds rumbled, the villagers would say, “Today the church won’t survive.” At night, when lightning flashed, people came out of their homes to see whether perhaps the church had finally fallen.
Who would pray or worship in such an ancient ruin? The church committee and the priest pleaded with the people again and again, but no one began coming to the church.
Then the church committee met—outside the church, not inside. Even the priest and committee members didn’t dare go in. Sitting outside, they passed four resolutions.
First, they accepted—most sorrowfully—that the old church must be demolished. Sorrowfully! Because tearing down the old always hurts. Second, they resolved that they would quickly build a new church—but it would be exactly like the old. They would not change the old foundations. On that very base the new church would be raised. Now, on the old foundations nothing truly new can ever be built; but this committee decided they would raise new walls on the old base.
Third, they further resolved that only the old bricks would be used in the new church—only the old doors, the old windows, the old tiles. Not a single thing of the old church should be lost; it should all be fitted into the new. And on the old site, on the old foundation, the new church must be built. It would be new in name alone, because everything in it would be old.
And fourth, they passed this too: until the new is completed, the old will not be demolished!
That church is still standing. It will never fall, and the new will never be built.
The story of that church is the story of this whole country. The nation has grown so ancient that dying would be easy; to live has become difficult. It is so decayed, so decomposed, so rotten that even dying is hard. You know—even to die you need a little life! The dead don’t die—surely you know that? To die you need life. It seems we have died so much that we have even lost the capacity to die. Our being has become a ghostly existence. And this has been so for thousands of years. It’s not new. For thousands of years we have forgotten how to bring forth the new. For thousands of years we have clutched the old to our chest. For thousands of years we have given the old so much respect, so much love, so much reverence that the birth of the new has stopped—who knows since when! Who knows when this land grew old and died!
And now, whenever the word “revolution” arises, the greatest obstacle is precisely this: we are so old, so worn and decrepit, so rotten—if we want revolution, where do we begin? What shall we change? When everything needs changing, where to start? How to start? That is why in this country there has been no revolution for thousands of years; at most, a few reforms. A wall is whitewashed here, a door is freshly painted there, some plaster that has fallen is patched up, a wall that’s leaning is propped up. We keep making do with the old temple, the old church, somehow keeping it from collapsing.
If there is to be a revolution in the life of this country, the first sutra I wish to give you is this: the first key to birthing the new is the courage to drop the old. A society that loses the courage to drop the old also loses the worthiness to give birth to the new.
The power to create belongs to those who also have the power to destroy. The art of construction is known only to those who also understand the art of demolition. We have forgotten the art of demolition. We don’t know how to erase. And know this: the moment we forget how to erase, we also forget how to create. Because the first step in creating is always erasing. Without erasing the old, a new society cannot be born.
So first: lessen your reverence for the old, your respect, your celebration of it. Increase your welcome of the new. Honor the new, open your hands to it, embrace it.
But we are people frightened of the new. We fear it because the new is unfamiliar. The unfamiliar cannot be trusted; the old is familiar—and familiarity breeds trust. Our condition is such that we find it hard to let go even of old illnesses, because they are familiar. We find it painful to drop old chains, because we have worn them so long we have forgotten they are chains—we take them to be ornaments, jewelry. And when a society begins to mistake chains for ornaments, and to treat illnesses as companions, then who can forecast its destiny?
There is a fortress in France called the Bastille. When the revolution came, as soon as the revolutionaries seized power, they remembered the Bastille. There the most dangerous criminals were incarcerated—those sentenced to life. Some had been imprisoned thirty years, some forty. A few had been there fifty years. They were seventy or eighty now, awaiting death. No one left that prison before death; only death released you. The shackles they used had no keys; they were removed by cutting the hand—at death. The revolutionaries stormed the fortress. They thought: how happy the prisoners will be when we set them free! They dragged them out of their dark cells by force.
But a prisoner who has lived fifty years in darkness becomes afraid of light. He grows accustomed to the dark. His eyes lose the capacity to see brightness. A man who has been alone for fifty years is disturbed by another’s presence. A man who has had food at fixed times, sleep at fixed times, finds life itself a nuisance. The very business of living seems arduous.
When the revolutionaries dragged them out, many said, “We refuse to go. We are fine. We have forgotten we are prisoners. This place has become our home.”
After fifty years, a prison can feel like home. If it didn’t, living would be very hard. You must teach yourself to feel at home in prison. Otherwise, you cannot go on. But the revolutionaries were revolutionaries; by sheer obstinacy they forced them out.
But can revolution ever be forced? Can a person be made free by force? No one can be enslaved by force unless inwardly his soul agrees to be enslaved. Nor can anyone be freed by force unless he longs to be free. And for the one who longs for freedom—you may enslave his body, but you can never enslave his soul. And for the one eager to be enslaved—you may free his body, but his soul can never be free.
Even so, the revolutionaries dragged them out and broke their chains. Then an astonishing event occurred—perhaps unique in history. By evening, half the prisoners had returned to their cells and sat down. They said, “We refuse to go out. We would rather die than leave our prison. The day was unbearable—beyond measure. People frighten us. In the sun our eyes won’t open. And now that you’ve taken our handcuffs, we feel naked, as if something is missing from our bodies. How will we sleep tonight? We cannot sleep without that heavy weight on our hands. We sleep only supported by that weight—we have grown used to it. Give us back our chains.”
If we look at the Indian mind, the Bastille story seems apt; it is happening to us every day. We are so accustomed to the old that we’ve forgotten the new is possible.
Do you know how ancient our poverty is? Since we can remember, we have been poor. Don’t be misled by fairy tales that say India was a “golden bird.” These are outright fictions. India may have been a golden bird for a few—for everyone, never.
A few have ridden that golden bird for a long time. But real India has always been hungry, destitute, and meek. Real India has never been wealthy. After thousands of years of poverty, slowly we became reconciled to it. We dropped even the idea that we could be prosperous. Not only dropped the idea—we developed a philosophy that poverty is sublime, and wealth is something to be kicked away. This is cunning in the extreme. It is the poor man’s last consolation—to deem wealth not worth having. He says, “What is there in riches? Gold is dust!” The country can’t even get dust, and we call gold dust! We have died hungry, for millennia. We have forgotten that we could also live with a full belly. Long hunger becomes habit. Not only habit—it breeds a sense that even poverty can be honorable.
India, by remaining poor, developed a philosophy that honors poverty. This is the most dangerous thing—it prevents life from changing. As long as you honor poverty, your destiny will be tied to it. You can never be free of what you honor. We become what we revere.
For thousands of years India has honored poverty and abused prosperity. And behind this abuse there was a great support: for three or four thousand years, the sons of the rich chose poverty. Their choice stamped India’s poverty with sacred approval.
Mahavira was a king’s son; Buddha was a king’s son; the twenty-four Jain Tirthankaras were princes; Rama was a prince; Krishna was a prince. All of India’s Tirthankaras, all its avatars, all its enlightened ones—princes. Not a single poor man has become a Tirthankara or avatar in India—remember this, never forget it.
All India’s gods are sons of kings. This has created a serious mischief. Princes grow weary of wealth, tired of palaces, bored with luxury and indulgence.
The mind has this rule: the poor grow weary of poverty, the rich grow weary of riches. Whatever you have, you tire of it. Those who walk on foot yearn for the cars they see. Those riding in cars try to taste the joy of walking.
The sons of the rich grew tired of wealth. They kicked it away and became beggars. Because of their becoming beggars, India’s poverty got its seal of sanctity. The poor thought: when even the rich kick away wealth to become poor, then God has been very kind to us to make us poor from the start. We must be enjoying the fruits of past-life merits—thank you, God! If we have to be poor anyway, better to be born poor. But they don’t understand that when a rich man becomes poor, there is a certain thrill in it. For the rich man, poverty is a change—a luxury. When everything has been had, he says, “Now I will also taste poverty.” Only the rich can enjoy the luxury of being poor.
Recently I was in Benares. Two rich boys from America had come there as hippies. They came to see me—millionaires’ sons. Barefoot in Benares, they begged ten paisa here and there to meet their expenses. I asked them, “Fools, what’s happened to you? You are begging in a poor land? You are rich men’s sons!” The hippies said, “You don’t know how much freedom we feel in being poor. We sleep wherever we feel like. No worries, no fears. We beg; we have no possessions to guard, no security to maintain. For the first time, in poverty we taste freedom.”
But for the poor, this is beyond comprehension—how can poverty feel like freedom? Ask famine-stricken people whether rich folks, while fasting, feel spiritual bliss. You who are dying of hunger—do you feel any bliss in hunger? They will say, “It is beyond our understanding how hunger can be bliss.” Yet for those whose bellies are full, fasting sometimes does bring a peculiar joy. This is not a lie. For the affluent, occasional hunger feels good.
But the poor cannot even imagine it. For the rich, even poverty can be a thrill—the last luxury. When there is nothing left to gain, he says, “Now I will also gain poverty.” Only the rich can enjoy the fun of being poor.
What I want to tell you is this: only the rich can enjoy being poor. The overfed can enjoy fasting and hunger-strikes. Those with many clothes can savor standing naked. But those who have nothing—this is beyond their imagination, beyond their dreams.
Yet the renunciation of India’s rich sons gave the poor a sweet comfort: “We are good; we are blessed.” And poverty in India became honorable.
From the day poverty was honored, we abandoned the effort to become prosperous. The soul-energy that creates wealth shrank. The soul-energy that delights in expansion and growth, that too withered. We settled for what is. And we developed a philosophy of contentment.
As long as India clings to the philosophy of contentment, there can be no change in its misfortune. Do contented people make revolutions? How can contentment create revolution? There is no idea more anti-revolutionary than contentment. When we are satisfied, what question of revolution remains? What question of change? And India’s saints and sages roam the land teaching: “Be content as you are; thank God.” Slowly, India has become content—in poverty, slavery, meekness, rot, ugliness—we are content in all of it. We have become content—and we have died. If you want to die, no medicine is better than contentment. It is the surefire remedy for death.
Why were we taught contentment? Because poverty was so vast that to survive it there were only two ways: either destroy poverty by creating wealth, or become content with poverty. Wealth doesn’t fall from the sky; it has to be produced. Remember, wealth is a human invention. Nature doesn’t give wealth; nature gives opportunities to create wealth. Man creates wealth. Wealth is a human invention. It is not lying around; we must manufacture it.
America is three hundred years old. People lived there before that too—on the same land—but they were always poor. Their life-philosophy was not to become wealthy. In the three hundred years since, those who settled there piled up mountains of wealth. Never before has so much wealth been created in one country. Where did it come from? If you settled Indians in America, America would be poor. The “fault” lies with Americans—they created wealth. We will never create wealth.
A German traveler, Count Keyserling, returned from India. In his diary he wrote a sentence that startled me. I thought perhaps it was a printing error. Then I remembered the book was printed in Germany—there, printing errors don’t happen as they do here. In our books, the first five or seven pages are “Errata”—and even those have errors! But this was printed in Germany—it couldn’t be wrong.
He wrote: “I have returned from India, and one thing keeps echoing in my mind: India is a rich country where poor people live!”
I thought, how can this be? If a country is rich, how can its people be poor? And if the people are poor, how can the country be rich? The two statements contradict.
Then I understood his joke—he was teasing us. He meant: had the people been intelligent and wanted to be rich, the country—being rich—could have made them rich. But the people are foolish and want to remain poor. The country can’t force them to be wealthy.
In five thousand years, what technology have we developed? What techniques to produce wealth? What machines have we invented that create wealth? What social structures have we designed that generate wealth? We have done nothing of the kind. We accepted poverty. We took what is as the end of things.
We are not a developing people. We are inert. Whatever happens, we accept it. If rain falls, we thank God; if it doesn’t, we grumble a little, and that’s that. The thought that we too could make it rain is beyond us. The thought that we could do anything arises only if we wish to do something—but contentment prevents us from wishing.
Poverty is sanctioned by the shadow of contentment. How then will there be revolution? Transformation? The birth of the new? We clutch the old to our chest and call it contentment. Do you know, the old tree dies by giving birth to new seeds? The old person departs by giving birth to new children. Old leaves fall so new leaves can sprout. But our social beliefs—old beliefs—neither die nor depart. There is no space for the new. No room where a new sprout could break through—no chance, no opening.
No—the old must be rejected; we must be dissatisfied with what is. Only then can we create what should be. Dissatisfaction with what is is essential to give birth to what ought to be. But does anyone teach us to be dissatisfied? Even small children are told: be content; there is great joy in contentment.
There is no joy in contentment; rather, there is contentment in joy. Let me repeat: we are told, “There is happiness in contentment.” That is false—utterly false. There is no happiness in contentment, but where there is happiness, there surely is a great contentment. When joy is present, a cool shadow of contentment spreads across life. But when there is no joy, when there is sorrow, then by cultivating contentment we merely console ourselves and hide our sorrow—we do not become happy.
I went to see a renunciate. Some fifty people were gathered. He spoke with me for a bit and then said, “I composed a song today; let me sing it—you may like it.” He sang. As he sang, all fifty heads began to nod with delight—“Wah! Wah!” But I was astonished. What did the song say? It said: the renunciate addresses an emperor, “You remain on your golden throne; I kick your golden throne away. I care nothing for you or your golden throne. I am content in my dust; I am immersed in my dust.”
I asked him, “Have you ever heard an emperor write a song: ‘Remain absorbed in your dust; I kick your dust away. I am in great bliss on my golden throne. I don’t care about your dust’?” No emperor has ever written such a thing. But why do renunciates keep writing it?
Isn’t this just a trick to talk oneself into contentment? The golden throne is shining clear before the mind; to pacify itself it hurls abuse—“We kick your golden throne.” If a golden throne is truly worthless, why bother to kick it? And if you are really blissful in your dust, let those on golden thrones be envious—why praise your dust with your own mouth? But people lying in the dust seek contentment by proclaiming, “We are happy in our dust.”
Contentment is a way to hide sorrow, not to erase it. And sorrow must be erased, not hidden.
Contentment hides sorrow; it does not remove it. A society that hides sorrow through contentment slowly accumulates so much pain over centuries that the whole soul becomes wounds and grief. This is what has happened here. We always hide sorrow; we do not cure it. To hide it, we wrap ourselves in the blanket of contentment and “be satisfied.” If a man dies at twenty-five, we are content: “That must have been his allotted span—written in fate.” If a child is born blind, we are content: “He must have committed sins in a past birth; hence this misfortune.” If poverty grows, we say: “Those who sinned in past lives must now bear the suffering of poverty.” By some trick or another we become content—we settle for it.
There is no rebellion, no revolt, no longing for change. And why not? Because there is no discontent.
A contented society is not a revolutionary society. Life needs the burning fire of discontent. That fire of discontent is the very sign of being alive. It is the evidence of life. The dead are content. The living are eager each day to touch a new peak, to walk new paths, to explore new expanses, to embark on new quests—right up to the last breath, they strive for the new.
Discontent is a divine trait.
I say: Divine Discontent is God’s greatest gift to humanity. It goads us—“Grow, and grow, farther and farther; life never ends, it goes ever beyond.” But us? We abandoned life long ago. We have sat down by the roadside. The caravan of life moves on; we sit on the shoulder. The dust of its passage settles on our heads; we close our eyes and bear it and say, “One should be content. There is great happiness in contentment.”
Contentment is a trick to hide suffering. Contentment is escapism. Those who want to flee life—fine: close your eyes and be content. But those who want to live—contentment is not for them. And if an entire society becomes contented, then it is collective suicide.
The whole society has become content. Nothing wounds us anymore. A man begs on the street and our hearts feel no shock! Has the human in us died? A man sits in filthy clothes asking for alms; we pass by and feel nothing. We have accepted it all. This is how life is: flowers and thorns; sorrow and joy; the rich and the beggars. We accept everything. However ugly, however absurd, however unacceptable life may be, we silently watch and walk on. Have we lost the capacity to be struck, to be hurt? We have.
In a contented man, all capacity is lost. And then contentment teaches: never stretch your legs beyond your blanket. “Stay within your blanket,” it says. If the blanket is short, pull your legs in—but don’t try to lengthen the blanket. Don’t stretch your feet beyond it. Staying within your blanket is the mark of a sensible man.
But let me tell you: the blanket does not grow by itself, and you do—so the blanket grows shorter day by day while you grow bigger. You keep shrinking yourself—now the hand is exposed, now the foot, now the back, now the head. The blanket has become tiny. Like putting a child’s pajama on a grown man. Better to be naked—you would at least feel some freedom. But that childhood pajama is strangling him. And he won’t drop it—because it was worn by the ancestors; how can it be abandoned? The forefathers dressed us in it. If they return and remove it, fine—but how can we? They won’t return; they have gone beyond return. And the pajama remains. The man grows, the pajama stays small. And we have been taught: never stretch your feet beyond your blanket. But the man keeps growing.
In Buddha’s time, India’s population was twenty million. That’s when the proverb was taught: “Keep your feet within your blanket.” Even Buddha could not have imagined that the man under the blanket would become so huge that the blanket would vanish.
When Pakistan was carved out, it seemed Jinnah had snatched away many of our people. Now Jinnah’s spirit must realize: it’s hard to snatch people from us. In twenty years we produced twice as many as Pakistan took away. We manufacture only one thing. We don’t produce things—are we materialists, that we would produce things? We are a spiritual society—we produce only people! A spiritual society produces new souls; materialist nations produce new things. What good are things? People are the real thing. We produce the real thing; others produce useless things that bring no good.
But the man grows bigger and the blanket smaller. The philosophy says: don’t enlarge the blanket. The philosophy says: don’t stretch your legs out. Life becomes unbearable.
I say: those who dare to stretch their feet beyond the blanket are the ones who also find ways to grow the blanket. Because feet cannot remain outside for long—you will be forced to enlarge the blanket. So if you want to enlarge it, always keep your feet outside—so the urge to enlarge arises. If you keep your feet inside, the idea to enlarge will never come.
And remember, the blanket can be enlarged—as much as you like. The earth has such wealth that even if the world’s three or three and a half billion become thirty billion, there is no reason for a single person to go hungry. The earth’s wealth is immense, and its untouched, virgin sources are many—the oceans still untapped; from the seas alone we could produce so much food that billions could eat and it would make no dent. The winds remain unused; from the air we could extract such nourishment that billions could live without hardship. So far we have ploughed only the land; neither the seas nor the winds have been ploughed. So many fields are still unploughed. But who will plough them? Those who say, “Don’t stretch your feet beyond your blanket”? No—stretch them, so that life gains momentum toward expansion, so that revolution and transformation can happen.
So today I want to press one sutra: contentment is suicidal. Contentment teaches you to live in poverty. Contentment teaches you to live in slavery.
We were enslaved for a thousand years—an astonishing fact! No nation has remained enslaved for a thousand years, nor can it. What does it mean to be enslaved for a thousand years? That we had no desire for freedom. That we could be kept enslaved for a thousand years means we did not want to be free.
Why would we want freedom? Our scriptures say, “Whoever is king—what is that to us? Whatever king there is, what loss is it to us? We will chant the name of Ram in our little huts and sing kirtan. What have we to do with kings?” When a society is taught such things, it can agree to live under any situation. We agreed to a thousand years of slavery. And don’t think we attained freedom by our own strength. Had it been left to us, we would never have entered the hassle of freedom—we would have remained slaves. The English were strange people—they would not listen and left us free. Otherwise, we were not ready. We staged a “revolution” in 1942, and got freedom in 1947. Have you heard such a thing? The bullet is fired now and hits five years later? And that bullet too was a dud—no sound, nothing.
Not one Indian leader knew we were about to be free. Freedom descended upon our chest as an accident. We were startled—we were never so startled by slavery as we were by freedom. And we have been more troubled these twenty years by freedom than we ever were by slavery. You can see that. Freedom is a stranger to our mind. It was not our heart’s longing. To be free, you need great discontent.
In the Second World War, I have heard, Germany decided to attack Holland. Holland is a poor country—not poor like us. In the West, “poor” means what we would call average well-being. Holland is not very rich. Its difficulty is that the sea stands higher than the land, and walls must be built all around to keep the water out. Half the nation’s strength goes just to hold back the sea. When Germany decided to attack, Holland was in trouble. What to do? They had no army to fight Germany. Should they become slaves?
If it were us, we would say, “What a fine opportunity—why miss it? Drop your hassles, let others take responsibility.” Slavery has its perks. In slavery there is no personal hassle; others worry. Our worries end. Freedom brings responsibility, burden. Freedom brings danger. In freedom, you make your own mistakes. In slavery, neither mistakes nor dangers are yours.
But those Dutch must have been a troublesome lot; they said, “We will not be slaves.” Then what can you do? The enemy is strong, you are weak. Do you know what they decided? That whichever village the Germans captured, the villagers would break the dikes, let the sea in, drown and be done. Holland would drown rather than be enslaved. Holland would die rather than be a slave. And history would at least record that a nation died but refused slavery.
One who refuses slavery—no one on earth can enslave him. Kill him, yes. Enslave him, no. But we are inwardly ready to be enslaved. Even now. We can find new ways of slavery.
If China were to attack, millions among us would be ready to welcome them. In the name of communism, or some other name. Inside, a slave Indian sits—ready to serve anyone. He would feel relief in a new slavery, “Good—our trouble is over. You take over.”
No—our long slavery was the outcome of our wrong way of thinking. Neither the Muslims nor the Turks nor the Huns nor the English are to blame. If anyone is to blame, it is we ourselves.
But our leaders say we are blameless. “They attacked—what could we do?” What delightful logic! If someone attacks, nothing remains to be done?
Our leaders boast: “Our society is brave—full of lions.” You saw, when China attacked, lions were born all over India—writing poetry. The whole country erupted in verse: “Don’t provoke us; we are sleeping lions.” Have you ever heard sleeping lions say, “Don’t provoke us,” or recite poetry? Where did those lions go, and their poems? China sits on hundreds of miles of our land. All those lions vanished, those poets too—some got Padma Shris and such. It all disappeared. Where did the lions go? If we had so many lions, what could stop us? But we had paper lions—poetic lions! China took the land.
In Delhi, I asked a great leader, “What about that land?” He said, “Why talk about that? It is useless land—nothing grows there. Why fight over it?” These are our leaders! Our vanguard! But it isn’t their fault alone. Our entire mindset accepts things; it does not reject. The nation lacks a rebellious mind. We do not have a rebel’s heart. We have a contented mind.
We do not need a contented mind. We need a rebellious mind. We need a dissatisfied mind. We need a burning fire of discontent in which the old is reduced to ash—old attachments fall, old rags burn, old nonsense is consumed—so the heart can be new, the nation can be new, and ready to welcome the new.
This can happen. On these sutras I want to speak with you for three days.
Today, the first sutra: Discontent.
Discontent with everything—as it is, it is not acceptable; much can be changed; it can be made new. But what do we say? “Spin the charkha, twist the spindle”—and presto, revolution! Travel by bullock cart; or go further—some sages say, “Travel on foot”—padayatra.
We are halted at the bullock cart—while the world has gone far beyond. They have reached jet planes, they have reached spaceships. We are stuck with bullock carts. It makes one weep—anyone who thinks feels like beating his chest when a bullock cart goes by. Where are we? Where will we stand? With bullock carts—what future? How will we compete? How will we stand tall?
But we feel no discontent. We are content with the bullock cart. We are trained to flee. We are escapists.
Confucius records an incident. “Once I went to the mountains and saw a woman weeping over a grave. I asked, ‘Why do you weep? What has happened?’ She pointed to the grave: ‘My husband—eaten by a tiger. I weep for him.’ Confucius asked, ‘Where do you live?’ ‘Here in the mountains,’ she said. ‘Earlier, a tiger ate my son—the grave is behind. Before that, it ate my father—his grave is further back. Now my husband is gone. I am alone.’ Confucius said, ‘Foolish woman, why don’t you go down to the town? Why live here in the mountains?’ She replied, ‘In the town? The king is very bad. To escape the king, we live contentedly in the mountains.’ Confucius said, ‘If the king is bad, the king should be changed—not that you abandon the town and flee to the mountains.’ But she said, ‘We are content here—the king is too bad there.’”
When I used to read this, I thought: if only I could meet Confucius—hard, since he lived twenty-five hundred years ago. But life is mysterious—who knows! If I met him, I would say, “Go climb that mountain again. Perhaps that woman was Indian!” For I suspect she was.
This is the Indian mentality: wherever there is trouble, run away and hide. If family life is painful, don’t change family life—become a renunciate. If a man finds woman troublesome, don’t change the structure between men and women—drop the woman and flee. If children bother you, abandon them—but don’t change the life that is the source of the trouble.
What does this mean? It means escapism. Run—do not face life. To face life you need the capacity, the worthiness, the courage to be dissatisfied. If you want to die, fine—contentment is perfect. But if you insist on contentment, then why breathe? Even breathing is done by the dissatisfied. If one became utterly content, why breathe? Why drink water? Why eat? Nothing would be needed. Either be that content—utterly dead—or drop contentment, take the road of life, and gather the courage to change life.
This courage can be gathered. We can place our hopes in the new sons, the new children. One can glimpse a sparkle of courage in their eyes.
But the old are working so hard to spoil them that there is great fear they will succeed. In India, a young person can scarcely be born—the old collaborate to make him old first.
In the next three days we shall speak of how this country can become young, how it can learn rebellion, how it can pass through revolution.
Today I have spoken on the first sutra: drop contentment; accept discontent. Discontent is the path of change; discontent is the path of revolution; discontent is the path to the attainment of a new life.
I am deeply grateful for the love and peace with which you have listened. And at the end, I bow to the God dwelling within each of you. Please accept my pranam.