Ek Naya Dwar #2

It is necessary to divide acquired knowledge into two parts. The knowledge that pertains to the outer world will, of course, be acquired knowledge. What we know about matter, about the world, has to be obtained from outside. The knowledge that relates to the outer is available only from the outside.
But the knowledge that pertains to oneself is not available from outside.
Self-knowledge is not available from outside.

Mathematics, chemistry or physics, geography, languages—whoever wants to know them must learn from the outside. In relation to the “other” there is no way without learning. That is why it is not even right to call what we know about the “other” knowledge—it is information, nothing more.
Knowledge, in the true sense, is only that which we know in relation to ourselves. For what is outside us we can only become acquainted with; we cannot truly know it. We cannot enter into the inner being of what is outside us; we can only circle around its exterior and get acquainted—acquaintance is possible; knowledge is not. Science is not knowledge; science is only acquaintance. Knowledge can be of that alone into whose life-breath our life-breath can enter. What we can know from within—that alone can be known. And that is why, however much science investigates, it does not come upon the soul. Science cannot go deeper than the body. Acquaintance cannot go deeper than the body.

But there is another path. There is another path—the same path is religion. Science is knowledge of the “other,” religion of the “self.” Science can be learned in schools, from books; but religion cannot be learned—neither scriptures nor schools can teach it.

Science has a tradition, a lineage. If we remove Newton and Edison, Einstein will not be able to stand. Science is a continuous tradition. What has been known before is what later science stands upon. But if we take away Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ—even then religion can be known. Religion has no tradition. Religion is personal experience. And science is a tradition.
If all the religious scriptures in the world were destroyed, religion would not be destroyed; but if the books of science were destroyed, science would be destroyed. Even if all the religious scriptures were lost, religion would not be lost; because religion is not in books. Whenever any person goes within, he will know his nature and recognize religion. But if the scientific texts are destroyed, then one will have to begin from A B C again. Where Mahavira or Buddha end, the experience of religion does not begin from there. Where Einstein ends, the thinker who comes after will begin after Einstein. But the experience of religion has to be begun from the very beginning by each one; there is no way to stand upon someone else’s shoulders.
Religion has no tradition; yet we have made a tradition of religion. And religion has no teaching; yet we teach religion. And for this very reason religion has been ruined, dissolved; its connection with our life-breath has grown slack. We want to explain and teach religion in the style of science. This is not possible.

This I said to you yesterday: regarding religion, the acquired knowledge within us has to be dropped. What does dropping mean? What does dropping mean? Dropping does not mean that you will forget what you have come to know. What is known cannot be forgotten. Dropping only means that if, regarding religion, you come to see, “This is not my knowing,” then its grip on you will end. If it becomes clear to you, “This learned knowledge is not knowledge, this is not my knowing,” then the clutch and bondage it has on you will dissolve.
Knowledge has no chains—we assume it has; the chains exist only in our belief. A man may think two and two make five; if someone tells him two and two make four, will he ask, “How shall I drop what I have known as two and two make five?” No. If he understands that two and two are four, then “two and two are five” drops by itself; it does not have to be dropped.
Knowledge has no chains that need to be broken; they exist in our assumptions and our beliefs. But for thousands of years we have been taught to believe. We have been told: believe; do not think. The result is that, on the blind basis of belief, we have learned certain notions and have been caught by them. And that captivity tethers our consciousness to the ground; it does not allow the journey upward. Someone has become closed by being a Hindu, someone by being a Mohammedan, someone a Buddhist, a Jain, a Christian. All of us have become closed in our respective prisons.
And remember, the prisons that separate man from man can never connect man with the divine. The walls that break men apart cannot become bridges that join man to God. Humanity has not yet even reached the point where all walls between human beings fall. And what are these walls? Other than words, what walls are there? I have learned certain words; you have learned other words. Our words differ. So I am a Hindu and you are a Mohammedan; you are a Christian and I am a Jain. We have learned a few words and those words have separated us.
Truth will not divide—it will gather, it will connect. But words divide. Words cannot be truth. Words are very hollow, lifeless and dead.

When you think the word “soul,” what arises in your mind? When you think the word “God,” what arises? Only what you have been taught. If you say “God” before a Hindu—he thinks of Rama; if he worships Krishna, then Krishna. Say it before a Christian, and he thinks something else; before a Muslim, something else. For every word they think what they have learned. And the great point is: to know truth the mind must be empty of all words; only then can it be experienced. Because words, too, are a kind of tension, a restlessness; words are a burden on the mind. When in every way the mind becomes empty of words, it becomes like a lake empty of waves, a mirror; and only in that mirror does the experience happen.
Words are obstacles. And we have clutched these words on the basis of belief. Who told you they are true? Tradition says so, and we believe. Did we think? Did we inquire? No. We have abandoned the most important human quality—thinking. Man has become almost like sheep. They follow someone; they do not think; they do not think for themselves. They are followers and believers. And all the exploiters of the world want just this: that man remain a believer, not become thoughtful. Politicians want it; religious priests want it. All want that thought not arise in man. Because thought is very rebellious; and if thought arises, there will be a great revolution in the world. Therefore, let there be belief, not thought; and from belief no revolution ever happens. Belief makes man like sheep; there is then no question of revolution.

I have heard: In a school a teacher was teaching his students mathematics. He asked the children: “In a small pen, in a little garden, eleven sheep are penned. Five of them jump out—how many sheep are left inside?”
A child waved his hand, a very small child waved his hand first.
The teacher asked: “What is the answer?”
The child said: “Not a single sheep will be left.”
The teacher said: “You are absolutely crazy! Five sheep went out and eleven were inside—none will be left inside?”
The child said: “You may know mathematics; I know sheep. We have sheep at home. If even one sheep jumps out, none will remain behind. You may know mathematics, but I know sheep—there are sheep in my house.”
Can we not say the same about man—that he has behaved like sheep? Can we say we are thoughtful like humans, or do we just follow? Whoever follows from behind loses his humanity. All of us follow someone. None of us has had enough self-respect to stand on our own feet and walk—to think, and then walk.
No, we walk without thinking. Are you a Hindu by thinking? Are you a Muslim by thinking? Are you a Jain by thinking? A Christian? What are you? You are so without thinking—out of belief. Not out of thought. And one who lives by belief lives in bondage. He can never be free, because belief is blind; belief has no eyes. And the strength of belief does not lie in the fact that what is being said is true, but in the fact that what is being said is being propagated in such a way, so systematically, that it begins to appear true.
Adolf Hitler wrote in his autobiography: there is no falsehood which, repeated again and again, cannot be made into truth for people. There is no falsehood which, repeated again and again, cannot be made into truth! Hitler wrote: this is what I have learned in my life—what is untrue, when propagated repeatedly, begins to appear true. By repeated propaganda anything begins to appear true. With repeated suggestion a conditioning is created in the human mind, impressions are created, and anything begins to feel true.

If we worship in a temple every day, and since childhood it has been said to us that this worship is the worship of God, then it never even occurs to us to question whether what we are worshipping is truly God—or whether we are worshipping an image of our own making. But if it has been said to us again and again, it begins to appear true.
There is, up to now, nothing that cannot be made to appear true by repeating it again and again to any part of a human being. What are the bases of our beliefs? Other than this—that since childhood certain things are repeated—what bases are there? A child born in your house—if you are a Muslim, and from childhood you place that child in a Jain household—grown up, he will not be a Muslim; he will be a Jain. Why? Because what he will hear from childhood in that Jain home he will learn to repeat; it will settle in his mind.
A great scientist named Pavlov did some experiments. He fed a dog. As soon as the food came, water began to drip from the dog’s tongue—natural. Pavlov would give bread and ring a bell as well. After fifteen days he did not give bread; he only rang the bell—and saliva began to drip from the dog’s mouth.
Saliva dripping upon hearing a bell is absolutely unnatural; there is no connection. What connection is there between ringing a bell and saliva dripping from a dog’s mouth? None. But fifteen days of propaganda created a connection; for fifteen days the bell rang with the bread—an association was formed; bread and bell got connected. The bell would ring and the dog would feel bread is about to come. Today bread did not come—only the bell rang—and saliva began to drip. This became a propagated truth. That saliva should drip at bread is natural; but that saliva should drip at a bell is a propagated truth. Propagate it for fifteen days and the dog agrees.
We all live within such propagated truths. We are told: this idol is God; and our hands begin to fold. Another—our neighbor—is told: this idol is not God; and his hands do not fold. The idol is the same—one folds hands, one does not. Why? What is the difference? One man passes in front of a temple and feels like folding his hands; another passes and feels, “If I destroy this temple, that will be religion.” The Hindu wants to tear down the Muslim’s mosque; the Muslim wants to tear down the Hindu’s temple. What is a place of religion for one becomes a place of irreligion for another. Why? The propaganda is different. One mind has been taught one thing; the other mind has been taught another. And anything can be taught. Any kind of foolishness can be taught. And it can be carried on for thousands of years. And millions can keep believing it.

The decline of the world, the deep darkness in human life today—its cause is nothing else. Atheism is not its cause, nor is the development of science its cause, nor is the increase of material prosperity its cause. Its sole cause is this: for five thousand years man has been taught belief, not thought. Thought has become inert within man. His capacity to think and understand has grown feeble. He can only accept, believe, have faith. He cannot search, he cannot know, he cannot recognize; he cannot make his own effort. If someone says something, he will accept it. The greater the authority of the one who speaks, the quicker he will accept. Therefore people of all religions say: our scripture is written by God himself. They create a great authority: our scripture is written by God himself! Others’ scriptures are written by men. Who can be more authentic than God? It makes propaganda easy. And the older the thing being propagated, the more easily it settles in the mind.
That is why every religion in the world says: we are the most ancient religion; all other religions are new. Why? Why such a craving to be old? There is a reason. The older something is, people feel it must be true; otherwise how could it have survived so long? The older it is, the truer it must be. But stupidities are also old; foolishnesses are ancient too. Being old accomplishes nothing.

Aristotle—a very thoughtful person, called the father of logic in Greece—even he wrote in his book: women have fewer teeth than men. In Greece there was this notion that women have fewer teeth than men. And it did not occur to any sensible person to count a woman’s teeth! Aristotle himself, such a great logician and thinker! And he had not one but two women—two wives. But it never occurred to him to sit and count their teeth! The notion in Greece was that women have fewer teeth. The real thing is that men never understand that women can be equal to them in anything—so how could the teeth be equal! No man thought it proper to count the teeth. And women did not count their teeth either; for women are followers of men—they go where men go.
For a thousand years millions in Greece believed that women have fewer teeth than men. When the first man counted the teeth, people said to him: you are mad—has it ever happened that the teeth are equal? And if your wife’s teeth are equal, that must be a mistake of nature. Your wife’s teeth may be equal, but women’s teeth are never equal to men’s, nor have they ever been! For thousands of years, a thinker like Aristotle wrote that women have fewer teeth.
Thousands of kinds of foolishness have continued in the world just because they were old. But no one doubted them, no one thought about them. And whoever does think appears mad. Because in a crowd of those who do not think, a person who thinks appears crazy. Where everyone “thinks” the same—and they “think” the same precisely because they do not think—where the crowd stands, if one person thinks even a little differently, he will suspect himself: perhaps I am wrong; so many people on that side! The crowd has its own power. And therefore I say: truth has no relation to the crowd. Only those attain truth who are capable of freeing themselves from the crowd. Only he can be free of taught knowledge who becomes free of the influence of the crowd.

I have heard a story:
A new man came to a king’s court. He said to the king: Why are you dressed like ordinary men? Your kingdom has no boundaries; almost the whole earth is under your sway—yet you wear clothes like men! I can bring for you the garments of the gods.
The king was very impressed. He said: How much will it cost? Do not worry about expense, but be sure to bring the garments of the gods.
The man said: The garments of the gods have never come to the earth. This will be the first occasion. You will be the first person to wear the garments of the gods. Human garments do not befit you.
The king began to make many plans, and he told the man to try to bring the garments.
Thousands of rupees the man spent. Courtiers were suspicious: the garments of the gods have neither been seen nor brought—might this man be a cheat?
But on the appointed date—after he had spent thousands—the man arrived carrying a very large chest. In court the people were reassured: surely he has brought the garments. He set down the chest in the court and said to the king: I will open the chest; you remove the garments one by one as I hand them to you. But there is one condition: when I set out, the gods told me these garments will be visible only to those who are born of their own father. These garments will not be visible to everyone. In this court, only those will see the garments who are born of their own father. Those whose fathers are doubtful will not see them.
The king took off his coat. The man brought out empty hands from the chest and said to the king: Here is the coat—put on the gods’ coat. The king could not see anything at all. But it was not proper to lose one’s father. He quickly put on the coat that did not exist. And the man continued to have the king remove one garment after another. Now it was difficult for the king to say: I am becoming naked. And the courtiers clapped and said: How beautiful the garments are! Such garments we have never seen! Each courtier tried to outdo the others in praise—who would risk having his father suspected?
All saw the king becoming naked. At last the king was naked. All his garments were removed and the garments of the gods were put on. The king saw, “I am naked,” but all the courtiers were clapping and saying, “The garments are very beautiful!” The king thought: Perhaps my father was not my father. What else could be the reason? For when so many people say so, it must be right. Will so many be wrong?
Then the man said: These garments have descended to earth for the first time; the people of the capital will be eager to see them—let there be a procession.
The king was afraid. But he thought: there will be at most ten or five people in the capital whose fathers are doubtful; perhaps to them I will appear naked—everyone else will see the garments. Now whatever will happen, will happen. It would not be right to refuse; refusal would mean the king doubts the garments exist. The courtiers too said: This is absolutely right.
The whole town heard the news that the king would come out wearing such garments as are visible only to those whose fathers are true. The procession started and the whole town began to clap. Millions stood on the roadside saying: How beautiful the garments are! Such garments we have neither seen nor heard of!
The king was naked; the whole town saw him naked—but who would say so? A small child had the courage; he stopped the king in the middle of the road and said: Who says there are garments? You look completely naked!
The elders of the town said: You are a child; you do not yet know; you do not know what you are saying. By this you have made your father doubtful. And besides, you are a child; we are experienced; we are elders; we know.
The child was removed to the side of the road. Only one child had the courage; no elder had any courage—because all the elders were sensible. They all praised and applauded the garments.
The naked king returned to the palace. Each person kept thinking: I alone may be mistaken—how can the whole city be mistaken? And no one spoke to anyone else, because to say it to another could create great trouble.
Our beliefs are not much different from this. We cling to them only because all the others too are clinging to them. Since the crowd clings to them, we do not have the courage to drop them. And when we are made to stand before a clay idol and told, “This is God,” we do see a clay image—the king does appear naked—but when everyone says, “This is God”(—and the king is wearing clothes), we too fold our hands and bow and say, “God!”
Whoever is swept away by this collective hypnosis—this hypnosis of the crowd, this influence of the crowd—can never search for truth. His consciousness never musters enough courage to see things as they are. To see things as they are! To see the facts as they are—naked and straight.
No, the crowd’s hypnosis is very deep. And that is why when the crowd is strong, the individual is lost. In riots, if a thousand or two thousand people are setting a house on fire, you too join in. It could have been that, alone, if someone had asked you to set the house on fire, you would have said: this is a very bad deed. But when two thousand were setting a house on fire, you joined too—because the hypnosis of two thousand says to you: you must be wrong; two thousand people cannot be wrong.
Therefore the greatest sins in the world are never done by individuals; they are always done in crowds. Small sins may be done separately; great sins are always done in crowds. The responsibility for great sins in the world is never on individuals; it is on the crowd. In a crowd a man loses his personal responsibility.
At the time of the partition of India and Pakistan, what did the crowds not do! Good people were in those crowds—people who read the Quran every morning, who read the Gita, who did satsang in temples and mosques—such people were involved. If you meet them alone and ask them, they will say: we cannot understand how it happened. But when they stood in the midst of the crowd, they did it too.
In the crowd our individual consciousness is lost.

Therefore I say to you: religion has nothing to do with the crowd. The crowd pertains to politics. What has religion to do with the crowd? But politicians are very clever—they have exploited religion too and erected religious organizations. Where there is no relation to the crowd, there can be no relation to organization either. The truth is: up to now those alone have known truth who went alone, who went out of the crowd. Not those who formed organizations and gathered crowds and who joined the crowd. Those have known who became free of the crowd, who went alone, into aloneness. And when their consciousness became, in every way, free of the crowd—where the crowd’s hypnosis broke, where the trance broke—there they knew what truth is. The crowd had taught certain things; until they dropped those things, they could know nothing.

What was Mahavira doing alone in the hills? You perhaps think he was reading scriptures. Mahavira took no scriptures with him. You perhaps think he was making an image and worshipping it. Mahavira had no image with him. What would he be doing in that aloneness? In that aloneness Mahavira was trying to become free of the crowd. He was trying to be free of the crowd. What was Christ doing alone? Or Mohammed? Or Buddha? They were trying to be free of the crowd. And that alone is not enough—that one run away from the crowd to the forest. That is not enough. The crowd will go there too with the mind. What is necessary is that the mind be free of the crowd’s impressions. What we have been taught—if the effects of that are removed from our mind, then we will be outside the crowd; even if we stand amidst the crowd, we will still be outside it.
All our beliefs, our assumptions—these are our bondage.

We are very strange people. Without dropping anything, we start asking, “If we drop, will we become inactive?” Has anyone who truly dropped ever been seen as inactive? Was Mahavira inactive? Was Buddha inactive? Who could be more active than they?

Buddha had announced that that very day he would die. He told his monks, “If you have any last question, ask now; my final hour has come and I will depart.” The monks—tears in their eyes—could not bring themselves to ask anything. Buddha went behind the shelter of a tree, closed his eyes, so that he could sink within and dissolve in peace. Just then a man came running from the village and said he had something to ask the Buddha.

The monks said, “Now he has already taken leave; he has closed his eyes. He asked if anyone had a question, and we declined. Now it is impossible.”

But the man cried out, “If it is impossible now, then when will it be possible? He will dissolve; then whom will I ask?”

Buddha opened his eyes and said, “Do not send that man back. Let it never be said that I was alive and a thirsty one turned away from my door. Bring him.” Is this man inactive?

Mahavira was moving naked and on foot from village to village, village to village. For what was he running? To win an election? To collect wealth? For what? He had found something within that he wanted to share. There was a spring inside that wanted to overflow. A fragrance within the flower—when the flower blossoms, the fragrance spreads. Who would call that inactivity?

Christ was raised on the cross and told, “If you have any last words, speak.” And Christ said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!” Only then did his disciples understand: this is the very man who had said, “If someone slaps you on the left cheek, offer him the right.” He had not merely said it—he was living it. For those who were crucifying him he prayed to God: “Forgive them; they do not know what they are doing.” Even in the last hour of dying—this man inactive? Who would say so?

Socrates was being given poison. The man holding the cup in his hand was trembling. Naturally so. To give poison to one as beloved as Socrates! But the executioner had a duty, a job; his heart was pained, yet his hand shook, the cup quivered.

What did Socrates say to him? “My friend, why does your hand tremble? Whatever we do, the hand should not tremble.”

He said, “My heart is sorrowful; I am becoming the cause of your death.”

Socrates said, “You are mad. You do not know that Socrates will not die. So be at ease. Socrates will not die. And what will die from your poison is not Socrates. Be untroubled. Do not let your hand shake; let it be steady. Do not grieve; wipe your tears.” This man who, at the time of his own death—he drank the cup of poison; his friends had gathered. Socrates said, “If there is anything to ask, ask.”

They said, “What can we ask? You have drunk the poison.”

Socrates said, “It will take a little time. My feet have begun to grow cold; then the calves will grow cold; then the hands. But for a short while I can still speak. So as long as I can speak, if anything of mine can be of benefit to you, let it be so. There is still a little time before I die. Now this body will die; it will take a little time. So while I am, let me do something.” Who could call this man inactive? Who has ever been inactive?

There is no activity greater than truth. And only that activity which arises out of peace is auspicious. The activity that arises out of restlessness is inauspicious.

We are all active, but the mind is restless. Activity born of restlessness will be dangerous; it will increase suffering, pain, violence. Activity that comes from peace gives birth to the good, to the auspicious.

Yet without doing, we ask what will happen. We ask, “If we drop all the learned knowledge, will we become inactive?”

Drop a little and see. Suppose we tell someone to learn to swim and he says, “If I fall into the water, I will drown; whoever falls into water drowns.” Still we would say to him, “Try swimming a little; one who swims does not drown.” But he says, “Until I learn to swim, I will not enter the water.” Without entering the water, no one has ever learned to swim. And the one who does not know how to swim says, “Until I learn, I will not enter—because whoever enters the water drowns.” Then the difficulty is great. The first steps must be taken into the water without knowing how to swim; only then can swimming be learned. Most people, for fear of drowning, are deprived of the joy of swimming.

And do you know, the one who drowns in midstream is better than the one who remains safely seated on the shore. For the one who drowns in midstream at least reaches somewhere—he had the courage. But the one who sits on the bank reaches nowhere.

Kabir has said:
I, the crazed one, went searching—and stayed sitting on the shore.