Es Dhammo Sanantano #26

It’s a good sign; there is nothing to worry about.

The moment you speak, the other becomes important. As soon as you start talking, the mind begins to say what will please the other. Speech immediately brings the mind within the bounds of courtesy and social conventions. The instant we speak, we cease to be ourselves; our gaze gets stuck on the other. That’s why it is very difficult to speak and remain honest, to speak and remain authentic.

It’s good that this understanding has begun. It’s auspicious. The more you can, remain silent. The first art to learn is silence. Speak only as much as is absolutely essential. Whatever can be left unsaid, leave it. You will suddenly find that more than ninety percent was pointless—had you not spoken, nothing would have been lost; by speaking, much was.

The great thinker Pascal said: ninety percent of the world’s troubles would diminish if people stayed a little more silent. Quarrels would lessen, disturbances would lessen, courts would be fewer—if only people stayed a little more quiet.

Much of the turmoil on earth is because of speech; you speak—and you get entangled. A chain reaction begins with words.

The whole secret is to learn silence. Silence is authentic—because in silence there is no “other”; there is no need to be false. In speech one lies; in silence what question of lying? Silence is bound to be true. When you are quiet, you are free of the other; when you speak, you fall within the circumference of the other. The moment you speak, society begins. Alone and silent, there is only the soul.

Animals, birds, trees—they have no society. Man has society because man speaks. Language gave birth to society. What society can the mute have? And even if they do, it will depend on some kind of signs—some mode of “speaking.”

When you don’t speak, you become alone in solitude. Stand in a crowded marketplace and remain silent—and you are on a Himalayan peak. Whoever learns the art of silence learns how to be alone in a crowd. He begins to dive within. There, authenticity reigns; there, truth is beautiful; there, there is no reason to be false. There, there is only you.

As you become authentic in your bathroom, you take off your clothes—you are just you. But if you come to know someone is peeping through the keyhole, instantly you become false; at once you wrap a towel around yourself; immediately you start thinking: Who is it? Did someone see me? A moment before you were humming a tune—no concern, because there was no listener.

In the bathroom, everyone becomes a singer. Try singing in front of others—you hesitate, you feel shy. The presence of the other creates shame, creates hesitation. You worry what the other will think. What if I cannot please them? What if I sing and they laugh, mock, make fun?

Have you noticed? Before the mirror in the bathroom you become a child again—you make faces, you even laugh at yourself. Those intervening years vanish; you are a little child again. Authenticity returns, truth returns. The moment you step out, you become another person. At home you are one; in the marketplace you become yet another.

As the presence of others—of strangers—grows, the web gets bigger, the entanglement increases: you have to please thousands of eyes, keep thousands of people happy. Hence so much hypocrisy.

Only the person who has dropped worrying about what others think can be true. Yet we call that man mad, who stops caring what others say. That’s why, in the life of a seeker of truth, there comes a stage when he must become almost mad; he drops worrying whether others laugh, mock, make jokes—he lives as if there were no others.

Jean-Paul Sartre has a famous saying: “The other is hell.” Alone, a man is in heaven. The moment the other appears, the trouble starts. The presence of the other creates tension; you become restless; you lose your center; an inner agitation begins.

Naturally, as soon as you speak, you feel you have been dishonest.

So first, master silence. First, let your energy descend into silence; deepen your silence. A time will come—it always does; and if it doesn’t, no harm—but it does come.

Mahavira remained silent for twelve years. Then he returned from the forests to the towns and began to speak. Buddha lived in solitude for six years, then returned. Whenever Jesus felt that people’s company had covered him with dust, he went to the mountains into solitude to dust his mirror clean. When he saw the mirror again clear, when the pure stream of consciousness flowed once more, when dust and debris were gone, when innocence returned, when he regained the original source—then he would return. The disciples even asked him: Why do you go into silence?

When speech tires you, when talking becomes a burden, dropping into silence is like a man, tired from the day, going to sleep at night.

When you are weary and troubled by the presence of others, it is wise to close your eyes and lose yourself within. There you will find freshness, because the source of your life is hidden there; it is not in the other—it is in you. Your roots are within.

That is why you often find that those who spend their entire lives among others become utterly shallow and petty. This is the politician’s affliction. He becomes trivial, superficial; he loses all depth—because his whole life is spent with the crowd. And not just any crowd—one that must be pleased; a crowd before whom he must forever hold out a begging bowl for opinions, for votes; a crowd he must watch constantly.

They say a politician is even his followers’ follower. He keeps looking back to see where the people want to go—and he proceeds in that very direction. It seems he is leading the people, but the reality is the opposite. The real “leader” is merely the one who recognizes ahead of time where people want to go. The one who insists on his own way, without recognizing the crowd, is quickly defeated and ends up alone.

Mulla Nasruddin was riding his donkey through the village bazaar. Someone asked, “Where are you going?” He said, “Don’t ask me—ask my donkey. At first I tried to steer him, and it proved embarrassing. He would balk in the middle of the road, a crowd would gather, people would laugh, he would freeze and refuse to move. Finally, I learned a trick. I learned politics. Now, wherever he goes, I remain seated. If he stops, I pretend I’m the one who stopped him; if he moves, it’s because I urged him on. Now I just keep an eye on him. Since then, no more disgrace, no more trouble.”

Those who live in politics will slowly find their lives have fallen into other people’s hands. They have no life of their own left. They have nothing they can say that comes from their own soul—though politicians talk about an inner voice! There is no inner soul—where will its voice come from? Their “inner voice” is the voice of the crowd. Their skill lies in sensing where the crowd wants to go even before the crowd itself knows. And the pretense continues.

Whoever spends an entire life in the crowd, with his gaze fixed on the other, will find that the doors to the inner are gradually blocked—because the paths we don’t use fall into disrepair. The roads we don’t travel forget us; we forget their maps.

And the one who has made his life’s savor pleasing others lives on the periphery. Like standing by your boundary wall to chat with the neighbor, always at the edge of your house—so when you are busy pleasing the other, you must stand outside yourself.

Silence will bring you back within. Come back within—that is the supreme realm of life. There are the infinite springs. From there you were born—and into that you will drown in death. The sun rises from there; it sets there. Bathe in it again and again. Whenever you return from that depth, you will find yourself fresh again—rich with new life—new strength has arisen; fatigue gone, melancholy gone, worry gone!

As a bath cools and calms the body, so when one returns from within—bathed in silence—the whole being grows quiet and serene, joyful. You have tasted the juice again; the tree has received water; the roots have found earth; everything is green again; spring has returned.

This is the benefit of deep sleep. All the healing sciences say: if someone is ill, before any treatment, the greatest remedy is that he be able to sleep. If the sick cannot sleep, no medicine works. Medicines are external supports; the real medicine is within. If one can dive into oneself, reconnect with the life-source.

Deep sleep means even dreams do not arise—because in dreams too the shadows of others are present. Even in dreams you are not yourself; falseness enters there too.

Freud said man lies even in his dreams. Our lie goes so deep that even where no one is present, we lie.

Freud said: if a person harbors a desire to kill his father—not that he truly wants to kill, but in anger such a desire arises—then he will dream he killed his uncle. He will not kill the father even in the dream! The uncle somewhat resembles the father—he will kill him. The lie persists even there.

You are not true even in your dreams; for while the other is not present, his shadow is. And the shadow still belongs to the other.

When even dreams cease, that is sushupti—dreamless deep sleep—and it is life-giving, a sanjeevani. When one falls so deep within that even dreams cannot reach—let alone others, even their shadows don’t appear; when you are so completely with yourself—then in the morning you feel the night passed in bliss; you feel freshness, vigor, strength. The day you don’t sleep deep, you wake tired—even if you lay in bed eight or ten hours, even if you tossed and turned; dreams encircled you, you stayed shallow, the crowd kept hold of you; you could not be alone. Even in sleep you could not be silent!

To be silent in sleep is sushupti. And even more refreshing than deep sleep is silence—because in deep sleep you are unconscious; in silence you are as deep as deep sleep and yet aware.

Patanjali defines samadhi exactly thus: deep sleep plus awareness. Awareness is present, and the profound stillness of dreamless sleep is present—where not even a ripple arises.

Dive into silence. You will receive an ineffable nectar there. And as you begin to abide in silence you will also find that the little you do speak now begins to carry truth. One who has tasted his own juice drops worrying about others’ opinions. The only real concern remains living from one’s own savor; what concern with the other now?

One who has come to trust his own beauty no longer cares whether others call him beautiful. The whole world may call him ugly—it makes no difference; he is drunk on his own beauty. One who has begun to know the truth within stops worrying whether people consider him truthful; others’ talk has no value.

You care so much about what people say because you have no trust in yourself. All your confidence is borrowed. First you look into people’s eyes: Is someone calling me beautiful? Is someone calling me saintly? Only then do you begin to believe it. Strange! You cannot recognize your own saintliness; you go to others to ask! The larger the crowd that begins to call you a saint, the more your self-confidence grows that surely I am a saint.

What a joke! You don’t know yourself; even about yourself you take a borrowed opinion. You have no taste of your inner bliss; but if people say, “You look so joyous, so cheerful—when you appear it’s like spring has arrived, flowers bloom in our eyes; you are so light-hearted,” you begin to smile. People instill confidence in you. Slowly you begin to believe you are cheerful and happy. Look closely at the beliefs you hold about yourself—others have built them.

At Harvard University, psychologists ran an experiment. They split a class into two groups. To one half, in a separate room, they said: “The problem on the board is very difficult. There is hardly any hope that any of you can solve it. Even students in higher classes struggle with it. Only great mathematicians can solve it. We’re giving it just to see—by chance, perhaps—there is no assurance at all—maybe one of you might head a little in the right direction. Solving it completely is impossible, still try.”

They tried. Out of fifteen students, only three solved it.

To the other fifteen, in another room, they said—about the same problem—“It’s very simple. So simple that if any of you fail to solve it, it would be surprising. Students in lower classes have solved it.”

Amazingly, twelve solved it; only three failed. What happened?

Your confidence is borrowed—others hand it to you. Someone calls you intelligent—you become intelligent. Someone calls you a fool—you become a fool. If people repeat it often enough, you begin to believe them. There is hypnotic power in public opinion. And one who would step toward self-knowing must break this hypnosis. He will have to trust himself directly.

Remove the intermediary of the other. The other does not know even himself—how will he know you? He in turn depends on you to tell him: “You are very wise, very handsome, I have never seen such a simple-hearted man.” He too has come begging. Thus a mutual begging goes on.

I’ve heard: in one neighborhood two astrologers lived. Each morning, when they met, they showed each other their hands to know how their day would go. They even paid each other’s fees—four annas each—no loss to either, and they got their information. Now an astrologer who asks his own astrology!

Once a famous astrologer was brought to me. His fee was one thousand and one rupees. He said, “My fee is one thousand and one.” I said, “No problem—look at my hand.” He examined it. We talked a long while. Two or three times he hinted about his fee. I deflected. Again he reminded me. I said, “You couldn’t even tell that you aren’t going to get this money from me? You should have looked at your own hand before leaving home. You forecast my future, but you don’t even know your own present!”

But that mutual exchange continues. We praise you; you praise us; both return home pleased.

Dive into silence. Forget the other as much as you can. I am not saying run away from life. I am saying become true in life. Slowly a strength will arise in you—from within. Then you will find that even while speaking, your authenticity remains; it doesn’t vanish. In fact, you will find that even in speech, your silence is unbroken—a steady undercurrent flows. You speak, yet you do not lose yourself. You use words, yet your wordless core is not fractured by them.

Words are too weak—how will they fracture the wordless? Clouds come and go—does the sky get stained? How many clouds must have passed before this sky since time immemorial, yet not a line remains. So it is with the sky of silence, the sky of emptiness within—thoughts cannot affect it. What difference can thoughts make? Not even a line is drawn. But you must know that sky.

Once you become steady in silence, even your speech will carry a fragrance. Once you descend into silence, your speech acquires new depths, a vastness.

Even when you speak, you will not speak to please others. You will speak from your inner voice. Your speaking will be musical; it will be true; it will be suffused with the fragrance of your whole being. Your words will bring coolness to others; even as you speak, the tune of your silence will play upon them; your silence will touch them.

In this land we understood a rule: only one who has touched the depths of silence should speak; the rest should remain quiet. Thus, when Buddha speaks, it is right. Buddha’s speaking is meaningful.

It is a delightful paradox: only one who has learned not to speak has earned the right to speak. One who knows how to be quiet is the worthy vessel—if he speaks, it is a blessing. The one who has learned silence—we do not let him remain silent.

It is said that when Buddha was enlightened he remained silent for seven days. The silence was so sweet, so full of nectar—every pore bathed and drenched in it—that the urge to speak did not arise. It is said the heaven-world began to tremble. The story is sweet. If there is a heaven-world, it surely trembled. Even Brahma himself grew anxious.

For eons upon eons, only after thousands of years does someone attain buddhahood. If from that peak no call comes, those who wander in deep dark valleys will not even get news of the summit; they cannot raise their heads to look; their necks are too heavy. They don’t really walk—they crawl.

A voice must be given—Buddha must be persuaded to speak. Whoever has become master of silence must be compelled to speak.

It is said Brahma, with all the gods, appeared before Buddha. They bowed at his feet.

We have placed Buddhahood above godhood—nowhere else in the world has this been done. We put Buddhahood higher than divinity. The reason: gods themselves long to become buddhas. Gods may be happy, dwelling in heaven—but they are not yet free; liberation is far away. Their craving hasn’t ended; thirst hasn’t been quenched. They have found a better world, more beautiful women and men. They say there are no pebbles in heaven—only jewels. The mountains are pure crystal. The flowers never wither. Supreme happiness!

But one falls even from heaven; from pleasure one must return to pain—pleasure and pain are two sides of the same coin. One lies in hell, another in heaven. The one in hell wants to escape hell; the one in heaven wants to clutch heaven.

Both are anxious. Both are troubled. The one in heaven is there because of some greed; the one in hell is there for the same reason. One committed sins for his greed; the other did virtue for his greed—the greed does not differ.

Brahma bowed at the feet of Buddha and said, “Please speak. If you do not speak, it will be a great calamity. And if you set this precedent, you will break the tradition. Buddhas have always spoken. They must speak. Those who have attained the capacity not to speak—their speaking may give sight to some blind ones, help some who wander in darkness. Do not be silent; please speak.”

Somehow, with difficulty, he was persuaded. The meaning of the story is simply this: when you become silent, existence itself prays that you speak; trees and stones and mountains pray that you speak; they awaken your compassion to speak. Where you have reached, many more wish to reach. They have no idea of the way; they grope in the dark. Have compassion on them—speak. You too were among them yesterday; don’t forget so soon. Look back.

Ordinary people speak out of desire; the enlightened speak out of compassion. Ordinary people speak in the hope that speaking might gain them something; the enlightened speak so that something might be shared. They speak so that you too may become a partner in their supreme experience. But first the condition must be fulfilled—becoming silent, becoming empty.

When meditation speaks, when music rises on the lute of meditation, when silence becomes eloquent—then scriptures are born. What we call scripture is the speech of those who went beyond speech. Whenever someone goes beyond speech, his speech becomes authoritative; the Vedas are reborn.

So first, master silence; descend into silence. Soon the moment will come when speech will arise from your emptiness. Then it will carry authenticity and truth—because you will not be speaking out of fear of the other, nor to beg from others. You will speak to give. Fear of what? If someone takes it, good; if someone doesn’t, also good. If he takes it, it’s his good fortune; if he doesn’t, it’s his misfortune. What is it to you? You shared what you found. You will not carry the stain of miserliness—that having attained, you hid it away.

But in truth it never happens otherwise. It cannot. Because what is attained is such that the urge to share is born with it, hidden within it. When a flower blooms, its fragrance is already included in the blooming. A flower cannot wish to bloom yet not share its scent.

Whether Brahma comes or not makes no difference—this is a story. Buddha had to speak. When the lamp is lit, its rays must shower all around—no Brahma need plead with the lamp. The story is symbolic—a lovely symbol.

First silence; then, the descent of truth into speech!

It is auspicious. It is a beginning. Do not be frightened. The hour of hypocrisy’s breaking is near.

From the beginning until today, this is Natik’s tale:
First he was silent, then he became a mad lover, now he is lost in ecstasy.

These three moments come.
First he was silent, then he became a mad lover…

Because the moment you become silent, the world will call you crazy. As soon as you fall silent, word spreads that you’ve gone mad. Thus the world protects itself. If it does not call you mad, others too will be eager to walk this path. In truth, the world is defending itself—because seeing you, the same call rises in others’ hearts; but then they would have to make a great shift. They would have to change the structure of their lives—that is a bit too hard.

By calling you mad, people feel at ease: “He’s crazy—forget what he says.” People think my sannyasins are mad. “They’re crazy; don’t listen to them.” It’s not that they truly think you’re mad; rather, they too are attracted, but they are frightened, weak, cowardly. Calling you mad, they try to save themselves. If they can prove you mad, the trouble ends—otherwise you are calling them, pulling them; to deny that pull, to escape that attraction, they declare you mad.

First he was silent, then he became a mad lover…

But this “mad lover” has a double meaning. Whether people call you mad or not, the one who becomes silent becomes mad in another sense. In what sense? In the sense that with silence, he begins to fall outside the social circle; he becomes free.

As you fall silent, you become so strong that you drop social dependence. A revelry enters your life that belongs only to mad lovers; a new radiance comes upon your face; your eyes fill with a different splendor; your feet walk but do not seem to touch the ground—as if you are always intoxicated!

Ask not today the pitch of my rapture—
In the desolate heart, an astonishing festival has arisen.

Don’t ask for an account of my intoxication! In this ruined heart a strange celebration has begun, a new melody is playing!

You will become a mad lover; you will seem mad. But this is a madness worth choosing, worth doing. All your cleverness gathered together cannot match a single drop of this madness. Your worldly intelligence is worth two pennies. One who has learned to be mad has learned to be divine.

Then he became a mad lover—now he is lost in ecstasy.

And then the third moment comes—when “you” are no more, you don’t remain. That moment is called “unconscious” (behôsh)—not that your awareness is lost, but that you are gone and awareness is complete. This is a kind of unconsciousness in which awareness doesn’t disappear—it increases—but you disappear. This is the difference between worldly wine and God’s wine.

When you drink wine, you remain—but awareness is lost. When you drink the Divine, you vanish—but awareness remains.

From the beginning until today, this is Natik’s tale:
First he was silent, then he became a mad lover, now he is lost in ecstasy.

Do not be afraid. This is where the need for a true master arises. Your fear is natural. The way you have lived till now will totter. What you called life will no longer seem like life. Now a distant call has reached you. Now you have set out on a search where one must go alone—there are no highways, only footpaths. And even the paths are not pre-made; as you walk, they appear. The world will think you are gone! The world will think you are dead!

Love has bestowed on us life eternal—
But everyone thinks we have been annihilated.

People will think this man has died. First they will call you mad, then dead. They will forget you, as if you do not exist. You will slip away to the far shore. The world will think you have ended—but only you know what has happened within. Only you know the Megh-Malhar that has begun to play; only you know the peacocks that dance at the sight of monsoon clouds within. Nectar has rained inside you; death has ended—but to the world you will seem dead.

It begins with silence. At that beginning, fear will arise; you will feel like running away, like returning to converse with people; you will want to get yourself entangled somehow—because fear comes: Where am I going within? Because your inner depth is deeper than you, beyond you. As you descend into that depth, death will appear on the way—you will feel, I have died, I am gone!

In meditation, death happens. Meditation is the cross; but without the cross there is no throne. He who dies in meditation alone awakens in God. For the world, you become as if dead—and God becomes alive in you. Be prepared to die—that is the path. Only by dying is the great Life attained.

It is an auspicious hour—do not be frightened. Guard this moment—may it not break, spill, scatter. It comes with great good fortune, with great difficulty. Hundreds attempt; it comes to one or two. Consider yourself blessed and hold gratitude toward the Divine that such understanding has been given—the door is beginning to open. Much more will happen.

First he was silent, then he became a mad lover, now he is lost in ecstasy.

It happens so, it has happened till now, and it will go on happening. Because when an enlightened one speaks, he speaks from a place you cannot yet understand. To understand him, you too would have to become enlightened. And then there would be no need to understand; you would know. Understanding is needed only so long as you have no taste of your own, no experience of your own.

When an enlightened one speaks, he speaks from a peak; you listen from your valleys, dark ravines. Your darkness mixes into your hearing. Your darkness begins to interpret what you hear. You do not hear what is said; something else gets heard. The enlightened one says one thing—you hear another.

I see this every day. People come to me and say, “You said such-and-such.” I never said it—yet they did hear it. I cannot call them liars. They heard, whether I said it or not. Sometimes I am amazed: “I never said that.” Then, as they remind me, I realize that I must have said something like it—something like it, not that. They added a few words, subtracted a few, and the whole meaning changed. Even if you add a comma the meaning changes—and you do not add a comma, you add mountains! You pour your whole stuff into it. You do not listen; you think. You dump your junk into it. And it all happens unconsciously.

So first, the enlightened one speaks from a height; the very act of hearing already carries it elsewhere—beyond reach. Even the enlightened one can do nothing about it; he speaks knowing he will not be understood. Knowing this, he still speaks. When the full sun rises, at least a single ray may reach. Even if no ray reaches, perhaps the name of the ray will reach—some seed will be sown. It may not help today; in endless births, at the right time, it may sprout.

What I say to you today—there is no necessity that you understand it today; yet if you even hear it, even mishear it, a seed is sown. Someday the fruits will begin to come.

Then people hear, and people are the ones who collect—who compile. Hundreds of years pass, accretions keep piling up. The fingerprints of the ignorant stain the words of the enlightened. Slowly, only the fingerprints remain—your signatures remain. The signatures of the enlightened grow faint and are lost.

Therefore in India there has been a unique tradition: when another enlightened one appears, he revives the words of the enlightened ones of the past—wipes away your signatures; removes the dust and debris you have heaped up on all sides; polishes the mirror and unveils it again.

Religion remains pure for only a little while—very little! The moment you listen, the mischief begins. You start to organize. You form a sect, manufacture scriptures. Those scriptures, sects, doctrines, religions—will be yours, not the enlightened one’s. The enlightened one will be only a pretext. Gradually even the pretext is dropped; dead lines remain.

I have heard: In one house a first wedding was taking place. The boy’s mother had told her husband again and again, “Bring a white cat.” He had laughed it off many times: “What need is there for that?” She said, “You need not get into such matters. Just bring the cat—otherwise how will the wedding happen? When the bride comes, how will I welcome her?” The husband asked, “At least let me understand—what does a cat have to do with welcoming the bride?” She said, “When I came to this house, your mother placed a pot of sweet curd under a basket to feed me. When she lifted the basket, a white cat was sitting by the pot. So I too must welcome the bride. I must place the pot, and I must seat a white cat beside it. What has always been done must be done. These are the elders’ customs.”

The husband said, “Foolish woman! Offering curd—that makes sense. Offer curd too. But the cat was not part of the arrangement. The cat must have slipped in, tempted by the curd. You must have eaten curd licked by the cat. There is no need now to feed the daughter-in-law cat-licked curd. That was a mistake.”

But the wife would not agree. She said, “I don’t get into talk of mistakes and corrections. Some ill omen might occur! What harm is it to us?”

Lines remain: “It happened this way, it was done that way, it was said so.” Then our meanings, our blindness, are added to them. Religion becomes superstition; truth loses its peaks and becomes the falsehood of the valleys. And around that falsehood, crowds gather.

Those who reached the Buddha in the beginning reached through their own awakening. Then they had children; those children had nothing to take from the Buddha, nothing to give. For them, religion is only a rite. Born in a Buddhist home—Buddhist; had they been born in a Hindu home—Hindu; in a Muslim home—Muslim. It is a matter of accident. Being born in a Hindu home is as accidental as a white cat sitting by a pot of curd. Your being a Muslim is not your choice.

Religion is to be chosen. Let me repeat it: religion is true only when you choose it consciously, with your full awareness. No person can own religion by birth. And as long as religion is by birth on this earth, irreligion will prevail.

But it is difficult. People come to me here. Husband and wife take sannyas; they bring their small child and say, “Give him sannyas too.” Not only that—women take sannyas and say they are pregnant; “Give the child in the womb sannyas.” I say, “At least let him be born. What is the hurry? Give him a chance too; ask him; let him choose—do not impose.”

So what you know as a sect is imposed religion; you did not choose it. Choosing is the work of the courageous. To choose is to stake yourself. If you have come to me, that is a choice. When I will be gone, you will be gone, and your children remember me—that will not be a choice.

If you have hung my picture in your house, that is your love. Your children will tolerate it; it will not be their love. Slowly that picture will slip away—from the sitting room to the back rooms. Because they too will love someone—and that is as it should be.

After all, when you hung my picture, you must have taken down some other picture. When you loved me, you broke some tie of love that had come by tradition. You left Rama to come to me; or Krishna, or Buddha, or Mahavira. You showed courage. You took a risk. You staked Mahavira for me; you staked Krishna for me; you staked Christ for me. If your children are intelligent, they will stake me for someone else—they will choose some living, vibrant truth.

The dead choose dead truths, because they cost nothing—and bring nothing. They are mere formalities, parts of social order.

Sects are not born from enlightened ones; but behind enlightened ones sects follow as shadows follow a man, as wheel-ruts are left on the road by an ox-cart. No one drives an ox-cart in order to leave ruts. Who drives for that!

Enlightened ones did not speak so that sects might form. Who speaks to create a sect! They spoke for a revolution—that whoever hears may be transformed. But only a few can take this blessing—those few fortunate ones. Then dust begins to settle. This is the natural order of life.

“Why is it that all enlightened ones teach the central transformation of awareness and awakening, yet the religions founded on them shrink into conduct codes and rituals?” It is natural. A child is born without wrinkles; in old age they appear. This will be every child’s fate. When an enlightened one speaks, it is truth; when you hear, it becomes doctrine; when you pass it to your children, it becomes a sect. The enlightened one speaks truth from experience; you hear. At least the one who speaks is true, even if the listener is false—so a small ray of truth remains in the dialogue. That very ray becomes a doctrine for you.

A doctrine means: you have not known, but you have known someone who has known. You have enough trust to feel, “He must be right.” You have known someone who cannot be wrong. So you make a doctrine. It is no longer truth; now it is faith.

The enlightened one speaks truth; the hearer has trust. Then come their children; for them it is only belief, not even trust. They accept—they have to accept; it has always been so, so it must be continued. A sense of responsibility remains: father and forefathers walked this path; it is not proper to break their line. They are no longer on the earth—what rebellion is there to do against them now? What harm is there in carrying what they gave? It costs nothing. It hardly feels like anything.

People go on doing it. Religion shrinks into a sect.

Religion liberates; a sect binds. Religion opens a sky like liberation; as soon as it becomes a sect it becomes a dungeon. Sect and religion are utterly opposite. Therefore remain alert, because the same can happen again—it will happen. But at least you remain alert. At least let this sin not happen through you.

A sect is part of society; religion is the revolution of the individual.

The enlightened one speaks, and immediately the politicians catch hold. Keep this in mind. Whatever the Buddha said was instantly grabbed by those near him who had the tendency to lead. They began to form gangs, build organizations, manufacture scriptures, construct temples.

The caravan has set out upon the road
Let no guide-leader arrive again

Be mindful: when you are nearing the destination, beware of leaders.

The caravan has set out upon the road
Let no guide-leader arrive again

Let no leader come to tell you the way.

Enlightened ones do not lead; they do not command—they only give counsel. Counsel means: it is said to you; accept it if you wish, do not accept it if you do not wish. It is said to you; then do not say you were not told. It is said to you; but there is no compulsion that you must accept. There is no insistence.

The moment insistence enters counsel, the counsel is corrupted. Truth has no insistence. There is no word as false as “satyagraha.” Truth is a petition, a gentle saying—what insistence can it have! As for commands, there are none. Religion is not military training that there should be orders. Leaders command: “Do this.” An enlightened one says, “This happened to me—listen.” It is not a matter of doing; it is a matter of being.

Therefore, if ever you find a living master, do not miss those moments. Dead sects will give you nothing. Dead sects are like the flowers you sometimes press in a book: they dry; their fragrance is lost; only a memory remains. Years later you open the book, and a dry flower turns up.

A sect is a dried flower; scriptures are dried flowers pressed in books. No fragrance comes from them; there is no celebration of life in them; they have no connection with the divine now. They have no roots in the earth, no link with the sky, no dialogue with the sun—cut off from all sides—they merely lie in the book: dried flowers.

If you find a living flower, let go of your attachment to the dry flower. I know, the past has a great charm. I know, it is very convenient to remain bound to tradition. I know the difficulty of letting go. There are many obstacles. A kind of chaos comes. Life loses its ground. You do not know where you stand. You are left alone. The company of the crowd is gone.

But the path of religion is a solitary path. It is a quest of aloneness. Only individuals reach there; society does not. Have you ever seen a society becoming enlightened? Have you seen a crowd entering samadhi? Individuals arrive—alone, one by one. You will not meet the divine by taking a deputation; the encounter will be alone.

Organized religion is no longer religion; it has become a part of society—mere ritual, not revolution. Living religion is not a part of society; it is the flame within the individual. Therefore it belongs only to those with heart, with guts.

Hamein dair-o-haram ke tafarruqon se kaam hi kya hai
Sikhaya hai kisi ne ajnabi bankar guzar jana

What have we to do with the quarrels of temple and mosque?
Someone has taught us to pass by as strangers.

Skirt past temple and mosque with your hem held clear; do not get entangled in thorns. Wherever you feel it is dead—a corpse—even if it belongs to someone very dear, what difference does it make? When your mother dies, you still bury her; she was dear, yet the very word “bury” sounds harsh. Hardly has she died, and the bier is being prepared—off to the cremation ground! You weep, but you must go to the cremation ground. Tears flow, but you must set the pyre alight.

The same understanding and the same courage should be there toward dead religions. Those who are dead can no longer do anything. Once upon a time much happened through them—I do not deny it. Once great revolution happened through them; otherwise, how would they have remained “alive” for so long even after dying? Why would anyone preserve a corpse? The corpse must once have been very dear; it must have moved and walked. Once there was life in it. In those eyes lamps once burned; those hearts once beat. Through them people were touched and transformed. Because of them, thousands attained new life—true, I grant it.

But now? This very mother gave you birth—and now you carry her bier! One must be a little hard. Cry—there is no prohibition against tears. Tears will fall—naturally. But do not make the mistake of keeping the corpse in the house because, “It is my mother’s; how can I burn it?” If you keep your mother’s corpse in the house, it will be impossible for the living to live. And if you keep collecting such corpses, there will be no homes—only cremation grounds.

Think a little: as many people as have died in your family till now—if everyone’s corpse had been preserved, would there be room in the house for the living? Forget the house—would there be room on the earth? Where you are sitting now, scientists say that the very spot beneath each person has been a grave for at least ten people. If all the dead had been preserved, would there be space for the living? Only the dead would occupy everything—and even that space would not be enough. The living would go mad. They would bash their heads, commit suicide, poison themselves—how would one live amidst so many dead? It is good that people do not collect corpses.

But in the world of religion it did not happen so; people collect corpses. Because of those dead ones, you cannot even live. Your temples and mosques only make you fight; they do not make you arrive. Your temples and mosques do not even let you become human—let alone approach the divine.

Hamein dair-o-haram ke tafarruqon se kaam hi kya hai
Sikhaya hai kisi ne ajnabi bankar guzar jana

This is what I am teaching you. Pass respectfully by the dead bodies—offer two flowers of reverence—but keep your hem clear and move on. Do not become overly attached to the dead, for whoever loves the dead too much becomes dead himself. We become that which we love.

Seek the living, if you desire life.
Seek the true master, if you desire life.

But people are strange. They trust the dead more. There is a reason: with the dead you can do whatever you like. With a living master, you will not be able to do as you please; what he wants will happen. With the dead Buddha you can do as you choose—worship if you wish, or do not worship; smash if you wish, break if you wish. The Buddha’s statue will not stop you.

See the irony: the Shvetambara Jains. Mahavira attained the ultimate truth while remaining naked. They feel uneasy—these Shvetambaras—about his nudity. They could not clothe the living Mahavira—but they clothe the dead one. They could not adorn the living Mahavira—but they adorn the dead one. The living Mahavira renounced everything; the dead is in your hands—helpless—you do as you like.

Buddha had said, “Do not make my statues.” Yet there are more statues of Buddha than of anyone else. Now you can do as you wish. In a single temple there are ten thousand statues of Buddha; even priests are too few—ten thousand statues!

Worship ceased long ago; only the formality remains.

It’s already rather late if you still haven’t understood. I am indeed teaching you to be selfish. But don’t be in a hurry to conclude what I mean. What you call “selfishness,” I do not call selfishness; and what I call selfishness, you have no inkling of. What you call altruism, I do not call altruism; and what I call altruism, you know nothing about. So the whole setup within you will have to change. Not only your feelings but your language will have to change, for your feelings have corrupted your language too.

“Selfishness” is a beautiful word, but it has been spoiled. Its meaning is: for the sake of oneself, in the interest of oneself. Call it Self-interest. A seeker is Self-interested. The moment I say “Self-interest,” you don’t feel resistance—quite right, you even feel pleased that this is correct. The moment I say “selfish,” a hurdle appears. The “self” means the soul.

But you have taken the ego to be the self; that is why the hurdle arises. And that is the great tangle. First you mistook the ego for the Self—there the error began. That ego is not your Self, not your soul, not you; it is a fabrication you invented, and society supported your invention. Because society wants you to be false, not true. It is easy to rule the false; the true are rebellious. Truth is revolutionary. The false becomes a follower. A false personality is always afraid.

So the custodians of society want you to remain false. Politicians want you false. Priests want you false. The more false you are, the better their business runs. The more true you become, the more their trade begins to collapse. Where is there room for a truthful person in temples? What place has a truthful person in mosques? There is no place anywhere for the true.

Jesus said, “Foxes have holes to lay their heads; I have none.”

Ego is false. What does ego mean? It means: I am separate from this whole existence—isolated. I am I, and the entire world is other. This vast existence is separate, I am apart. That is the meaning of ego. It is a lie. You are not separate—not for a single moment. You are connected to breath, to the sun’s rays, to food, connected on all sides, and connected to consciousness itself.

Just as you take food every day and the body lives, so too you drink the Divine every day and the soul lives; otherwise the soul could not live either. You are joined—one. Ego is an illusion.

First, you accepted the illusion that ego exists; you accepted a lie. Having accepted the ego, “selfishness” becomes bad. Once selfishness is branded bad, teachers appear to instruct you in “altruism.” Now the foundation itself is false. At the base stands the ego: “I am.” Once “I” is assumed, everything you do on that basis appears wrong. Because the “I” is a lie, whatever rests upon it becomes sin. So “selfishness” seems evil. And then, when selfishness is condemned, the remedy proposed is altruism.

But the real fun is: why not change the foundation itself? Why build a house on a wrong base? The foundation is false; then the first story goes up as selfishness, and atop it you erect the second story of altruism. Your selfishness is false, your altruism is false—because you are false.

I teach you selfishness, because I know that only in your supreme Self-interest is true altruism possible—otherwise not. I tell you: attain your own bliss. That alone is the way for your bliss to shower upon others, for it to reach them. Light the lamp within, and others will begin to see by your light; in the glow of your lamp another may find the path.

This is the meaning of satsang: in the light of someone else’s lamp you find the way—so that you may light your own. Around one who has found peace, peace showers. Around one who has realized the Divine, the Divine circumambulates. When you come near one who is established in God, you too begin to hear the footfall of the Divine; you too are touched by some wondrous happening; you find yourself carried by a different current.

Satsang means: the company of one who has realized the Truth. Take the benefit of his wave; unfurl your sail so that his wind may move you too.

On the river you either row with oars or you open the sail. Ego rows the oars; it does not open the sail. Ego insists on its own effort; it allows nothing to the Divine.

Satsang means: set the oars aside. You have rowed enough—how many lifetimes have you rowed, and where have you reached? Not even far from the shore; the moorings are still pegged to the bank. The boat is chained, and you are rowing? Needless labor; sweating in vain. How many lives wasted! Let go—open the sail. Sense the direction of the wind. If you wish to go east, see when the winds blow east; then open the sail and ride the wind.

When you come near one who has attained the Divine, open your sail. He is moving toward the Divine—moving, moving—so climb aboard. Flow for a while in his current. Taste a little. Granted, the lamp is his—but in its light, brighten your dark path a little too.

I teach selfishness, for if you become, if you are joyful, at peace, overflowing, if flowers bloom in your life—others will also receive the fragrance. If they do not wish to receive, that is another matter. You can pass by a flower holding a handkerchief over your nose—what can the poor flower do? The sun may be dancing all around; you can sit with your eyes closed—what can the poor sun do? It is your choice.

But this much I have learned: only those have truly helped others who first fulfilled their own Self-interest. It is simple, almost mathematical. One who is not yet his own—how can he serve another’s good? One who has not fulfilled his own good—how can he serve another’s? Do not set out with an unlit lamp to light others’ lamps. The danger is not only that you will fail to light them—how could you, when yours is unlit?—the danger is you may even obstruct the possibility of their lamps being lit. Out of your “compassion,” please don’t go to others.

I do not teach you service; I teach you Self-interest. Yet I know, when your Self-interest is fulfilled, service will blossom in your life. Service is the consequence.

Ordinarily you are taught the reverse: people say, “Serve, and you will find yourself.” I say, “Find yourself, and then service will happen.” How will you serve? What do you have to give? Do not go and pour your poison into others’ lives.

But that is what is happening. The husband says, “I love my wife; I want her happiness.” Ask the wife—she says, “This man gives me sorrow.” The wife thinks, “I am making my husband happy; I do everything for his happiness; I serve him day and night.” Ask the husband, “Are you happy with your wife?” He says, “I was happy when I was alone—but I realized it too late. Now I want to be alone again. But it’s difficult—there is a wife, children, responsibilities.”

You discover the joy of being alone only when you are bound and the suffering begins. Parents say, “We do everything for the children’s happiness.” Ask the children! They say, “They are tyrants; they harass us; they destroy our freedom; they impose themselves on us.” A mother sits feeding her child at the table. Tears stream from the child’s eyes; he does not want to eat; the mother sits with a stick. Somehow the child is being stuffed. Look—tears are flowing; and the mother calls it kindness, service. Ask the child. He says, “How soon can I grow up—just to be free of this nuisance!”

A mother was forcing her little boy to eat spinach. Spinach! She was explaining, “It will give you strength, power.” The child was crying. He said, “All right, I will eat—but only so that I become strong enough that no one can ever make me eat spinach again!”

You impose yourself. This world—so ugly, so grotesque, so diseased—has been made by your “service.” Everyone is serving everyone; everyone is loving everyone; “compassion” is showering—what is the result?

Somewhere a grave mistake is happening—a fundamental mistake. The mistake is this: you have not tasted the juice of life yourself, and you try to give it to others. You do not know the way of life yourself, your manner and method are not on track. Your parents spoiled you through their “service,” and you are spoiling your children through yours.

Ask the leaders—they say, “We are giving our lives to take the nation forward.” Ask the people—they say, “These are mischief-makers, tricksters, dishonest.” One Nixon gets caught; others don’t—but they are the same. The leader risks his life, thinking he is becoming a martyr. The people say, “Do go on and become a martyr; we will hold fairs at your tomb—but do become a martyr! Somehow get off our necks. You have sat on our chests long enough—move!”

That is why, as soon as a leader steps down, the people simply forget. His name vanishes from newspapers, from tongues; people forget completely. What’s the matter?

I have heard: A Christian pastor told the children in Sunday school, “Each day do at least one act of service.” Next time he asked, three boys raised their hands: they had done service that very day. He was delighted. He asked the first, “What did you do?” “I helped an old woman cross the road. Traffic was heavy—cars, buses, bicycles. She was very old; I helped her across.” The pastor said, “God will reward you; I am pleased.” He asked the second, “And you?” “I too helped an old woman across the road.” The pastor grew a bit concerned—so many old ladies all at once? He asked the third. He said, “I too helped an old woman across.” The pastor said, “You all found so many old women—today itself?” They said, “There was only one old woman. It took all three of us—because she didn’t want to go across. But we got her there!”

Your “servers”—even if you don’t want your legs massaged, they will massage them.

This has happened to me many times. Once a devotee boarded my train compartment at two in the night. He started pressing my feet. I woke suddenly. “Brother, who are you? What are you doing?” He said, “You sleep peacefully; I am only serving. I have wanted to do this for days, but your devotees wouldn’t let me in. I thought, ‘We’ll see—service must be done.’ You sleep; I will press your feet.” I said, “Good man! How will I sleep—you are pressing so hard? Do you have no concern that you’ve woken a sleeping man at two in the morning?” But for an hour he did not leave me—the train halted for an hour at a junction, and for that full hour he pressed my feet. He was very pleased—he had served; he thought he had earned merit. If I had to argue before God, I could not say he earned merit. In my ledger he earned sin. But who listens to me! “Servers” listen to no one—they just go on serving.

Your service breeds wars. Your service creates nations, fosters foolishness, erects politics, weaves a thousand webs—and all in the name of service! Your service seems mistaken at the very root.

I do not teach you service; I teach you Self-interest. Yes, when your Self-interest reaches fulfillment, there will be service in your life. But that service will be of another order—gentle, born of love. And the attention will be on the other, not on yourself. If a child is not eating, leave him to his own nature. Nature has its own arrangements—when hunger comes, he will eat. Do not force food without hunger.

If you love your wife, give her freedom; do not bind her. If a wife wants her husband to be happy and blissful, do not bind him—free him. Do not raise walls of jealousy. Do not turn the house into a prison. Otherwise, the places we call homes have all become prisons.

Let your Self-interest be fulfilled—and by Self-interest I mean: realize the Divine. Then everything else will happen of its own accord. First let the fundamental be done.

“You have snuffed out the lamp of love’s gathering, and you are pleased.
You have mixed the wealth of God into dust, and you are pleased.
Will no ray of truth ever break in your heart?
Will you never come to your senses? Will the ray of truth never dawn in your life?
Will you go on deceiving yourself forever?

You have snuffed out the lamp of love’s gathering, and you are pleased.
You have mixed the wealth of God into dust, and you are pleased.
Will no ray of sincerity break in your heart?
Will saintliness never be born?

Know this: the pain of the heart is the lost paradise.
Only love—and the pain that love brings—is the lost heaven. There is no other heaven.
Know this: love alone is the eternal life.
Love is the doorway to Truth.
Love alone is the life everlasting.

If you will not become mine, then at least become your own.”

I teach selfishness.

“If you will not become mine, then at least become your own.”
If you become your own, you have become everyone’s.

The deeper you go within and find yourself, the more love will arise in your life. And such love will never be aggressive toward anyone. You will share it; you will not impose it. There will be no violence in it. It will be as delicate as the fragrance of a flower, as the first ray of morning—its footsteps will not even be heard.

Those who have known themselves and then served have never announced, “We are servers.” Whoever proclaims himself a servant knows nothing of service; he is seeking more ego even through service.

The egos of “servers” are very deep. Look closely—you will find them great egotists. And where there is ego, what service? Even service becomes exploitation there—another device to raise the flag atop the peak of ego.

“If you will not become mine, then at least become your own.”

Certainly, one has to be free from sin. I said: sin is that which takes you outward. I said: virtue is that which brings you inward. But one must be free of the outer—and free of the inner as well. First be free of the outer; then, immediately, you will find that what we had called “inner” was only inner in comparison to the outer. The moment you are free of the outer, you will discover that what had seemed inner now also appears outer—because in relation to you, that too is outside. You are where there is neither outside nor inside—you are the pure witness.

One has to be free from sorrow, and free from happiness too. Sorrow binds, and happiness also binds. That is why only in our land there are three words that exist nowhere else in the world—because nowhere has the inquiry gone so deep: heaven, hell, and liberation. Christianity has two words: heaven and hell. Islam has two words: heaven and hell. Only in this country we have three: heaven, hell, and moksha. Hell means sin—the fruit of sin, the density of sin. Heaven means virtue—the fruit of virtue, the density of virtue. Moksha—beyond both.

One who has dropped sorrow one day finds that happiness too is to be dropped, because happiness also brings excitement. And as long as there is happiness, in some way sorrow will be hiding somewhere in a corner; otherwise how would you even recognize happiness? You recognize bliss because for a long time you have experienced the absence of bliss. Bliss too has to be left behind. You have to go, to arrive where no experience remains—because all experiences bind—where you remain pure consciousness: kaivalya, moksha, nirvana.

Surely, even bliss will not satisfy.
By no form, by no name, was there any recompense;
How bitter the reality—of not meeting You.

Fulfillment will certainly not come from sorrow—when has it ever? Nor from happiness either! Not until Truth is found, until the Divine is found, until you yourself become the Divine...

By no form, by no name, was there any recompense;
How bitter the reality—of not meeting You.

Not meeting the Divine, Truth, the Self—call it by any name—is a very hard reality. Whatever else you attain, the moment you get it you will find the goal has moved further ahead. Drop misery, gain happiness; stop going out, start coming in—coming in is better than going out; happiness is better than misery—but that is a comparison with misery, not with your own Self. As yourself, you are that where neither sorrow arises nor happiness. You are mere awareness.

Sometimes white clouds gather in the sky, sometimes black—the sky is separate from both. Sometimes you wear chains of iron, sometimes of gold—you are separate from both chains. Sometimes you play with flowers, sometimes with thorns—you are separate from both. Night comes, morning comes—you are separate from both.

This is your transcendence! You are apart from every experience, because you are the seer of experience. When you say, “Great bliss,” look carefully: you are standing apart, witnessing that there is bliss. You are separate from bliss.

But first, come inward from the outward; then we will free you even from the inward. In the end, when nothing remains—when only you remain, when only your purity remains—that is Buddhahood.

Religion is not an experience; religion is beyond experience.
Enough for today.