Geeta Darshan #11

The Mahabharata neither ever begins nor ever ends; it continues along with man’s ignorance. Krishna spoke the Gita; even before that it was going on. Krishna completed the Gita; even then it went on.
Ignorance itself is the Mahabharata. At times cool, at times hot; at times manifest, at times unmanifest—but in stupor you go on fighting. In stupor, fighting seems to be life itself.
In a thousand forms the war is going on; you just don’t see it. For there to be war, bombs do not have to rain down from the sky. That is the final culmination, the last form of war. But the preparation goes on in every home; the preparation goes on in every heart. Wars are not fought on battlefields; they are fought in the darkness of man.
Understand this rightly, otherwise a deception arises. The first deception that arises is that we begin to think the Mahabharata is some outer war.
The Mahabharata is not an outer war. If it were an outer war, there would have been no need for the Gita to be born. The war is inner. Its echo is heard outside too; there are outer consequences as well. But the war is always within.
You are divided and fighting twenty-four hours a day. You will fight with the other later; first you are fighting with yourself.
There is not a single moment in your life when, in some way, you are not in conflict. And where there is conflict, how can there be peace? Where there is conflict, how can samadhi ripen? Then your conflict spreads into those you are connected with—for trivial things!
Have you ever noticed how small the things are over which you fight? As if the issues are only excuses; you want to fight, therefore any excuse will do.
There is a very famous Hungarian story. A man got married. He had a quarrelsome nature, as men generally do. His parents thought, “Perhaps if he marries he’ll be a little less hot-tempered, get engaged in love, get entangled in life, and won’t create so much trouble,” so they got him married.
Married he was. And if men are quarrelsome, women are even more so. To be quarrelsome is the full scripture by which a woman lives. The girl’s parents, too, thought that once she marries, builds a home, has a child, she will be occupied and the quarreling will lessen.
But where two quarrelsome people come together, quarreling does not diminish; it does not even double; it multiplies to infinity. When two quarrelsome people meet, arithmetic does not work—two and two are not four; it becomes a multiplication.
On the very first night, the wedding night, the first thing—both were eager to open the gifts that had come—he took the first box in hand; it was beautifully packed. The husband said, “Wait. This rope won’t open like that. I’ll get a knife.” The wife said, “Hold on. In my house too, many gifts have come and we’ve given many gifts. Do you take me to be from some uncultured, ragtag house? Such lovely ribbons are not cut with knives, they are cut with scissors.”
A terrible quarrel broke out over whether the ribbon should be cut with a knife or with scissors. It was a matter of prestige for both. The matter escalated so much that the box could not be opened that night at all; even the wedding night was ruined in that quarrel. And since it had become a matter of reputation, the honor of both families was at stake—who is more refined!—the quarrel went on for years. Then it became so established that whenever a fight threatened, it was enough for the husband to say one word, “Knife!” and the wife would instantly scream back, “Scissors!” They became symbols.
Years were spoiled. At last it went beyond the husband’s endurance. And the box remained unopened. For until it was decided—scissors or knife—how could it be opened? Who would dare open it?
One day the quarrel escalated greatly. The husband coaxed and cajoled the wife to come to the lake. He seated her in a boat, rowed to where the water was deep, and said, “Now let it be settled. You see this oar? I’ll bring it down on your skull and throw you in the water. You can’t swim; you’ll die. Now what do you say? Knife or scissors?” The wife said, “Scissors.”
Life may go, but honor cannot be abandoned! The code of the Raghu lineage has always been: life may go, but not one’s word.
That day the husband had decided to settle it once and for all. Life had been ruined—and ruined over knife and scissors!
But he only saw that the wife was getting it ruined. He did not see that he too was fixed on the knife just as she was fixed on the scissors. So the two were not that different. But one’s own fault is not visible in the moments of war, of opposition, of anger.
He struck with the oar powerfully; the wife fell into the water. He said, “Even now, say it!” As she was drowning, she cried out, “Scissors.” She went under once; water entered her nose and mouth. She came up again. The husband said, “You’re still alive. I can still save you. Speak!” She said, “Scissors.” Now even her full voice did not come, because her mouth was full of water. She sank a third time and rose. The husband said, “Say it now; this is the last chance!” She could no longer speak, she drowned—but one hand remained above the water, and with two fingers she kept making the sign of scissors. With two fingers she kept indicating scissors—while drowning, in the very last moment.
For the Mahabharata you don’t need a Kurukshetra; the Mahabharata is in your mind. You fight over trifles. In the moment of fighting you can’t even see for what pettiness you have become so adamant. And so long as your ignorance is deep, your darkness dense, your ego compact, you will not even be able to see that your whole life is a quarrel. From birth to death, you do not live—you only fight. Sometimes you appear to not be fighting; those are the moments of preparation for fighting, when you are preparing.
The beginning and end of the Gita have no connection with it. Nor has it anything to do with eight planets coming together.
Man is very skilled at putting the blame on the other. You will wage the war, and the gathering of eight planets will be held responsible. That too is a device, a dishonesty. You will wage the war, you will fight; the war will arise from within you—what has war to do with eight innocent planets coming together?
But we always seek to save ourselves by blaming someone. If no one at all is available, then the innocent planets are made to stand in: that the planets are aligning, that there is a solar eclipse, that there is a lunar eclipse.
What devices man invents, only to avoid seeing one thing: there is no peace within you. You are restless. Whatever you do, whatever you touch, you will spread the disease of restlessness there. Whomever you approach, strife will arise there. You will go to make love, and only hatred will be born. You will touch gold and it will turn to dust.
The disease is within you; the eight planets are aligned within you. And then there are pundits and priests who will join in, saying war is imminent, the eight planets are aligning; great fire sacrifices for peace must be performed. Millions of rupees will be poured into grand sacrifices.
The great sacrifice is needed within you. And there pouring ghee into some fire will not do. There you will have to offer yourself into the divine fire. That is the one and only sacrifice, the life-sacrifice, where you offer yourself and allow your ego to be burned away. What remains after ego is gone—then there is no war; then there is simply no possibility of war.
The inner knot must break.
As man is, he will keep on fighting. However much you try to prevent him, however much you teach him, read him lessons of nonviolence, nothing will change. He will fight for nonviolence. It makes no difference. Swords will be raised to defend nonviolence. However much you teach religion, he will fight for religion—Islam is in danger, Hindu dharma is in danger.
Let any fool raise a loud clamor that Hindu dharma is in danger; then no one even asks where this Hindu dharma is that it could be in danger! Are religions ever in danger? But for fighting, excuses abound. Any excuse will do.
Man has fought over such things that it’s hard to believe now. He has fought over very petty matters. From this one thing is proved: the matters themselves are irrelevant; man wants to fight. Matters are only excuses; they are pegs on which we hang our inner hatred, malice, envy, jealousy. What do pegs have to do with it? If you don’t find a peg for your coat, you will hang it on the corner of the door. You will find some place to hang it.
The real issue is not war; the real issue is the war-filled state of human consciousness. And try to understand this state a little deeply. For the first foundation point of this state is fighting with oneself.
You go to fight with others later; first you fight with yourself. And your so-called idealists have taught you that fight. They say, “There is anger within you—fight anger.” The war begins. “There is lust within you—fight lust.” The war begins. And when you fight with yourself, you cannot live without fighting with anyone in the world. One who cannot be without fighting himself—how will he be without fighting others!
Therefore, behind all wars there is not the hand of devils; there is the hand of your so-called mahatmas. They have divided you, broken you into two. They say, “Your lower part is bad, the upper part is good. Fight!” “There is a devil hidden within you; fight him.” They fragment you, and turn you into a battlefield.
Then you fight with yourself. As if someone were to make his own right and left hands fight. There is never victory; you only wither, rot, are ruined, finished.
And the more life is lost in fighting, the more anger increases. Because you did not get to taste the joy of life. You came and went; the opportunity slipped away. You reached the very gate of the temple and did not enter within. Incomplete, unfulfilled, unsatiated, you depart. Death draws near.
Your idealists have taught you to fight yourself. Krishna’s entire teaching to Arjuna is just this: do not fight yourself, accept yourself. You are a kshatriya; do not make a needless effort to be a brahmin. That is not your quality, not your nature.
Krishna is the opposite of all the mahatmas. That’s why the mahatmas are a bit afraid even to take Krishna’s name. And if they do, they impose their notions upon Krishna, their interpretations upon him.
What is Krishna’s fundamental message to Arjuna? A small thing Krishna is trying to make him see: your swadharma, your own way of being, the kind of man you are—you are a kshatriya, a warrior. The whole art of your life, your skill, lies in your valor, in your kshatriyahood. Today, suddenly, you are being filled with the idea of being a brahmin; today, suddenly, you are going to fight your own kshatriya nature.
Arjuna thinks he is avoiding a great war. And Krishna sees that he is initiating a great inner war. This is a very fundamental and subtle matter.
From the outside Arjuna appears to be saying, “Let me go; I will renounce. The stage of vanaprastha has come. Now dispassion has arisen. What is the point in killing these people? I feel no relish for this war.”
“O Krishna, my Gandiva has grown slack; my limbs have grown weak. There is no surge to fight, no energy to fight, no urge to fight. What will I do after killing my own? Better I become a sannyasin. What is the essence in gaining wealth? Position, prestige, kingdom, throne—what will I do? My own will not remain, those to enjoy will not remain, those to celebrate will not remain—what is the gain? I step aside. Let the Kauravas hold it all; let them enjoy. I separate myself from the war.”
Whoever looks from the outside will feel that Arjuna wants to withdraw from war, is a pacifist—Bertrand Russell, Mahatma Gandhi, a follower of Vinoba, a pacifist. The first pacifist. And to the one who looks from the outside it will seem that Krishna is warlike, because Krishna says, “Fight.”
And I tell you, the matter is exactly the opposite. Krishna is saving Arjuna from war, because Arjuna is attempting to enter an inner war. The outer wars are only echoes; the real war is within.
Arjuna is denying his kshatriyahood, which resides in his blood, in every hair. What is hidden in every drop, what he is made of in every particle—everywhere within him is kshatriya. By nature he is a kshatriya.
Krishna’s saying is utterly wondrous: swadharme nidhanam shreyah—better to die in one’s own nature, in one’s own dharma, in one’s own manner, one’s own style. Paradharmo bhayavah—another’s dharma, another’s style is fearsome, Arjuna. You will miss. To be a brahmin is not your destiny. To be a kshatriya is your destiny. For that you were fashioned. That is in your flesh and bone; that is your very soul.
Krishna is saying, do not falsify your ownness. Even if you run off into the forest and sit as a sannyasin under a bush, if a deer appears before you, beauty will not be your first thought—you will grope around, “Where are my bow and arrows?” Seeing a deer will not give rise to poetry in your mind; the search for bow and arrow will begin. If a lion appears and you have no bow and arrow, you will leap and jump upon him and enter the fight. Every hair of yours is that of a kshatriya. That is your quality, your swadharma.
I too say to you: swadharme nidhanam shreyah. If you are a householder, and that is where your ease and peace are, and if there you have found your destiny, then do not listen to the sannyasins. Perhaps their swadharma is renunciation; yours is not. Wherever peace comes to you, where your life-energy seems to flow naturally, where there is no slip in the energy, where life is a flow—if it is in the shop, then the shop; if in the office, then the office; if on the mountain, then the mountain.
I do not say any particular place is to be chosen. What is to be chosen is the naturalness of your life.
There is a very unique story that occurred in Ashoka’s life. It is hard to say how far it is factual, but it conveys a very deep truth.
One evening, in the rainy season in Pataliputra, in Patna, Ashoka was standing on the bank of the Ganga. There was a terrible flood. The Ganga was flowing beyond her limits, vast and fearsome in her dance of destruction. Who knows how many villages she had swept away, how many fields ruined; how many animals and birds were being carried along.
Ashoka stood with his officials and ministers. He said, “Is it possible, is there some way that the Ganga could flow backward?” Suddenly this thought arose in him: is there a way for the Ganga to flow upstream toward her source? The officials said, “Impossible. Even if attempted, it would be exceedingly difficult.”
A courtesan too came to the riverbank with Ashoka. She was the greatest courtesan of the city in those days, and courtesans were much honored then. She was the city’s courtesan. Her name was Bindumati. She began to laugh and said, “If you command, I can make her flow backward.”
Ashoka was startled. “What way? What path do you have to make her flow backward? What art do you possess?” The courtesan said, “The truth of my ownness.”
A very unique story. She said, “The truth of my ownness, the truth of my life, is my power. I have never used it. A great energy of the truth of my life lies within me. If you wish, the Ganga will flow backward; at my word she will. I am certain of it. Because I have never deviated from my own truth.”
The emperor did not believe it, but said, “Let us see.” The courtesan closed her eyes; and the story says the Ganga began to flow backward. The emperor fell at the courtesan’s feet and said, “Bindumati, we never even knew that besides being a courtesan you are something more. Where did you learn this secret, this mystery? Even great adepts cannot do this.”
The courtesan said, “I know nothing of great adepts. I am only a consummate courtesan. And that alone is the truth of my life.”
“What is the truth of your life? Speak openly,” said Ashoka. She said, “The truth of my life is only this: I know that being a courtesan is my style of life, my destiny. I have never wanted to be anything else. I have never allowed the desire for ‘otherwise’ to enter me. I am total; from head to toe I am a courtesan. Every hair of mine is a courtesan. And I have never deviated from the dharma of a courtesan.”
Ashoka asked, “What is the dharma of a courtesan? Madwoman, I’ve never heard that a courtesan too has a dharma. We consider a courtesan irreligious. And that is what I believed—that however beautiful you be, within you there is a deep ugliness. Because you sell the body, sell beauty. No business could be more petty than this!”
The courtesan said, “Businesses are not petty or great; everything depends on the one who does the business. The truth of my life is this: my guru, who taught and initiated me into being a courtesan, told me to guard just one thread, and your liberation can never be taken from you. That thread is this: whether a rich man comes or a poor man; whether a shudra or a brahmin; whether a handsome man or an ugly one; whether young or old; a leper or a sick man—whoever pays you, keep your attention on the money and treat persons equally. Do not hate the leper or the sick, do not love the handsome. That is not the work of a courtesan. You remain detached. Your work is to take the money. That’s all; the matter ends there. Keep your attention on the money. If a brahmin comes, do not touch his feet with excessive feeling. If a shudra comes, do not refuse him. Your work is the money. The courtesan’s attention is on the money. Whoever comes, you keep equanimity. That is your rightness, that is your truth.”
“And I have guarded it. I have never loved anyone, shown attachment, created clinging, delusion—no. Nor have I ever hated anyone, felt disgust—no. I have stood at a distance, detached.”
Then even a courtesan becomes a renunciate. Krishna is right: swadharme nidhanam shreyah.
He is explaining to Arjuna: recognize rightly what your swadharma is. If you say that sannyas is your swadharma—if you accept and understand that sannyas is your swadharma—then go. But till today there has been no glimmer of sannyas in you. Much of your life has passed. We are old companions. Never have I seen any glimmer of a brahmin in you; never any feeling of a sannyasin. You are a pure kshatriya. It would be hard to find a purer kshatriya than Arjuna. So you cannot be anything else. There is only one way: realize the truth of your own dharma; do not abandon your ownness.
Krishna is saying, if you abandon your ownness within and follow someone else, listen to someone else, be enticed by another’s ideal, then a duality will arise within you.
And where duality has arisen—that is the real war. Then begins a struggle whose end never comes. Because you are fighting yourself—how can there be an end!
And you all are fighting. One is fighting anger, another lust, another greed. Greed is yours, anger is yours; you are the one fighting—what will you do? You will divide yourself into two parts and fight yourself. Can anyone win? Is victory possible? You will be lost for nothing.
Accept yourself: swadharme nidhanam shreyah. Accept yourself in a total way. What you are, there is no way to be otherwise.
I am not saying there will be no revolution in your life. The day you accept that there is no way to be otherwise than what you are, that day the truth of your dharma will become available to you. You can make the Ganga flow backward. There is great energy in you, if you are undivided.
That courtesan must have remained undivided. She had, with consummate skill, realized rightness. It is not a matter of being a courtesan or a sannyasin. It may be that a sannyasin sits in the forest and thinks of a courtesan; then within him is duality, struggle, Kurukshetra. And a courtesan sits in a brothel and contemplates sannyas; within her too is duality.
Wherever you are, be whole there. Your wholeness will lead you toward liberation.
And the very unique thing is: the day you accept yourself completely, that very day revolution begins within you. One who has accepted his anger—in that very acceptance is transcendence. He has risen above anger, gone beyond it. In that acceptance he has become separate, a witness.
The courtesan, by accepting her courtesanship, became a witness, separate, other. Then all becomes a play, a lila. That is why whether a leper comes or the healthy come, the sick come, the young come, the old come—there is no difference. It is all play, all drama. The courtesan stands at a distance.
Krishna is telling Arjuna: do not come in between; stand apart—detached, without hankering for fruits, without attachment. Let your ownness manifest. Do not run from this moment, and do not run from yourself.
No one has ever managed to run away from himself. Where will you go, running from yourself? Wherever you go, you will still be you. One who has accepted himself totally—Lao Tzu called this tathata—contentment descends in his life; satisfaction showers. In that very satisfaction, revolution happens.
Try it a little. You have tried a lot by fighting—birth after birth. If you do not remember previous births, even in this one you have tried by fighting.
For one year, accept my suggestion: do not fight, flow in your ownness.
Let the world say anything; let people insist as much as they like that you must become a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Rama, a Krishna—do not listen to anyone. Because you have to be you; not Rama, not Buddha, not Krishna. They are alien to you.
Even if by effort you become a Rama, it will be false—you will be a Rama of the Ramleela. That has no value, not even two pennies’ worth. It may happen that people touch the feet of the Ramleela’s Rama; they might touch yours too. Do not be pleased by that. There is no substance in it. You were born to be you.
There is no other discipline in the world greater than Krishna’s words, which urge a person toward the ultimate acceptance of his ownness.
As soon as Arjuna agrees, understands, “I am a kshatriya, and how can I be otherwise? Who could be otherwise? My whole being is just this”—in that very moment, outside the kshatriya a thread stands apart—the thread of witnessing. Then he can enter the war. Then this war is a play.
If you want that the Mahabharata not happen, then only this much is in your hands: stop the war that runs within. And do not get into imitation. Do not try to be someone else.
Your effort is like a rose wanting to become a lotus. He will go mad. He will not become a lotus, and he will fail to be a rose. His energy will be spent trying to become a lotus, and he will be deprived of being a rose.
You can only be what you are. You have been made complete; nothing is lacking, nothing missing. For just one year, accept yourself and see how dense peace becomes all around you!
It will be very difficult. Because education of hundreds of years has been goading you, like someone prodding an ox from behind with a stick: “Become something! Run! Standing like this, you will waste your life. Become a Buddha, become a Mahavira, become a Krishna.” As if the divine does not accept you, accepts only Buddhas.
And sometimes see this too: how did the Buddhas become Buddhas? They did not try to become someone else—that is why they became Buddhas.
I have heard: a Sufi fakir sat on his master’s seat after the master’s death. Rumors spread among the people; doubts and suspicions arose. At last the villagers gathered. It had to be said. Because the matter was a little off—the disciple’s behavior was completely different from the master’s. He was not qualified for the master’s seat.
They said, “Forgive us, don’t be angry, but you are not worthy of the master’s position. For we see nothing in you that follows the master.”
The fakir began to laugh. He said, “Exactly so. My master too did not follow his master. That is why I am his disciple. My master was a man of his own way. His master was a man of his own way. I am a man of my own way. And my master did not impose himself upon me. He only supported me so that I could become what I can become.”
This is the difference between a true guru and a false one. A true guru will tell you: swadharme nidhanam shreyah. To die in your own dharma, your ownness, is good. To live wrapped in another’s ownness is wrong—even if you achieve success wrapped in another’s hypocrisy, hidden in another’s garments, that success is worth two pennies. Even if you have to fail while preserving your ownness, that failure is preferable. Because in that failure too there will be contentment that you remained you.
Only when the drop of water falls on your own throat will thirst be quenched. Falling on another’s throat will do nothing. Only when your eyes see the light will there be sunrise. Seeing through others’ eyes, nothing will happen. Do not be on loan.
Arjuna had developed a great desire to be on loan. Krishna’s whole arrangement is only that he not become borrowed money—be cash, be oneself.
From that very place war begins; then war goes on spreading. Then you fight at home, fight in the family, fight in society, in the state. Then war goes on spreading; then the whole earth becomes a war.
Do not blame the moon and stars. Look a little within. Other than man, there is no culprit.

Let me tell you an old story. Among the Jews there is a legend that thirty-six hidden saints are always roaming the earth. They try to awaken people, to steady those who have fallen, to call back those who have strayed, to console the sorrowful. And they are hidden—there is no proclamation about them. Silently, with invisible hands, they keep doing all these things. Yet—the real thread of the story is this—nothing comes of their efforts. They can neither raise the fallen, nor awaken the sleeping, nor make the unhappy happy. But because of their striving, God keeps the world going.

It is a very sweet tale among the Jews. The day those thirty-six men lose hope, that day the earth will dissolve. Even though nothing comes of their effort; it cannot. Because the one who has fallen has fallen by his own will—you cannot raise him without his will. And all your attempts to lift him only become an invitation for him to fall further.

And the one who sleeps, sleeps knowingly. You cannot awaken him. And the one who is unhappy has invested something in unhappiness; he has an investment there—you cannot make him happy. Because if you make him happy, what will happen to his investment?

Suppose a wife is lying ill at home. She keeps weeping; she constantly talks of a thousand real and unreal ailments. And you want to make her happy. You will not be able to, because there is a secret behind her illness. This illness is a device to control the husband. It is her investment. In this way she can hold the husband...

Because when a wife is sick, what can the husband do? He has to concede whatever the wife says. You can refuse a healthy wife. But now—she is dying, bedridden—what can you say to her? You have to bend.

Once a woman discovers that illness is an easy way to be tyrannical, then it is very difficult. It even happens that when the husband goes out, the wife is perfectly fine—she visits the neighbors, chats, enjoys herself; reads the newspaper, turns on the radio. As soon as the time of the husband’s return approaches, the radio is switched off, the paper put away, she lies down on the bed. And she speaks of an illness a thousand times worse than it is.

Doctors know that one cannot rely straightaway on women’s complaints of illness; fifty percent are false. And of the remaining fifty percent, they are not as big as the mountain that is made of them. A tiny mustard seed, a sesame—told like a mountain. There are reasons.

Therefore you cannot make this woman happy, because she does not wish to be happy. She knows her unhappiness. Unhappiness is her business. She has made a path out of sorrow.

Even small children understand these things. When a child is ill, the father comes and sits by him, massages his legs. When the child is ill, neighbors come to see him. When the child is healthy, no one cares; no one looks; no one pays attention.

The child has learned an arithmetic: unless you are unhappy, no one pays attention to you. And there is a deep longing in everyone that people pay attention. When people pay attention, it confirms your ego.

So the child is ill. He goes out and comes back with a broken leg, or with an injury to his hand. He is asking for attention. He is saying, “Look at me.”

Have you ever noticed—when guests come to your house, you tell the children: sit quietly. At other times they do sit quietly, but when guests arrive they start a thousand mischiefs. Because they see that the guests’ eyes and attention are all on you. Attention should go to them too. They too want to be the center of attention. And it is not only a childish matter—the big politicians, great leaders, put all their force on getting attention.

Just now Morarji went on a fast. In that fast he tried to kill two birds with one stone: first, to make Indira bow down, and second, to seat Jayaprakash in his place. Because Jayaprakash’s name is rising rapidly. And it seems he has become the foremost in the opposition; that too is a pain. So if you go on a fast-unto-death, your name becomes foremost in the newspapers.

These are big games. From small children to the aged, it makes no difference. Because the craving to gratify the ego remains.

So among the Jews there is this tale that the thirty-six hidden saints wander the earth. Even though no one is helped by them, they cannot awaken anyone, no one listens to them, still they continue their work out of love.

What do you think—that when I speak to you, it is with the assurance that you will surely listen? That is not the big question. The possibility that you will listen is very small. But I am not disheartened by that. Whether you listen or not is up to you. I will go on speaking. From my side I will go on showing that I care for you. If you do not listen, that is your responsibility.

So it happened that there was a city, Sodom—an ancient city of Israel. In English there is the word “sodomy.” It comes from that city, Sodom. People in Sodom had become utterly corrupt. They had become so corrupt that men had intercourse with men, women with women. Not only that—people began to have intercourse with animals—dogs, cats, beasts...

Hence the English word “sodomy” means intercourse with animals. It came from that city, Sodom.

God became very angry, enraged: this city must be completely erased, burned down.

As soon as one of those thirty-six, who happened to be wandering near Sodom, got the news, he ran to Sodom. It is said that because he entered Sodom, God had to pause. Now what to do! He was just going to burn Sodom, but this saint arrived. And he began to cry out in the streets; he began to explain to people: “You will be destroyed! Awaken from sin! What are you doing? This is perversion. Let alone culture—you have lost even nature. Let alone religion—you have lost even ordinary health of life. What are you doing!”

He went around shouting, trying to awaken people, but no one listened. At first people thought he was mad; they laughed. Then, slowly, they began to ignore him. Then they even stopped laughing. Then no one paid any attention to his words at all. People became deaf. But he kept shouting.

God was in a great fix; because if he paused and left the town, he would have to burn it. So because of this one man, who cared so much, who was so concerned, whose heart was so compassionate! But though no one listened to him, he kept at his chant.

One day a child stopped him; for the child used to watch him. Sometimes a dialogue happens between saints and children. Because saints are children, and children are a little saintly—so a thread connects. The child said, “Listen, sir, you keep shouting so many times; no one listens. Why don’t you stop?”

He said, “At first I used to shout in the hope that people would change, that they would listen, agree, and the calamity that is coming would be averted.” The child said, “Fine, leave aside the earlier reason—why do you shout now? No one is listening.” He said, “Now I shout… before, I shouted in the hope that people would change; now I shout in the hope that somehow people do not change me. I will go on shouting. These people seem very tough. I could not change them—but let them not change me.”

This question is that education is aggressive, initiation is aggressive, the whole society is aggressive. In this, where is the place for simple-hearted people, non-aggressive people, nonviolent people, people filled with heart—those whom Lao Tzu calls feminine-hearted? Where should they stand? Will it not happen that people will force them to be like themselves?

No, it will not happen—if you remain engaged in the effort to awaken people and to lift them up. If you keep finding ways to lessen people’s aggressiveness—even knowing that perhaps no one will change—do not be disheartened.

Compassion is never disheartened. No one has ever been able to make compassion despair. Compassion has never known despair.

So if you feel that people are aggressive, warlike, violent—then do not sit idle, do not remain silent. Do whatever you can to lessen their aggressiveness, knowing that perhaps you will not be able to do anything.

But I tell you this: in trying to change them, at least one thing will happen—they will not be able to change you. And that is no small thing. That is enough.

That is why when friends ask me, “What should we do? Your words fill our hearts. We want to go and speak to people, to explain. But then we fear that no one will listen.”

Since when has anyone listened to anyone? Has anyone listened to Buddha? Or to Mahavira? Or to Krishna? If they had been heard, the world would be different; there would be no one left needing to speak. No one has listened.

Why do you worry whether people will listen or not? At least you will hear yourself as you speak. From that your strength will grow. At least one thing is certain: people will not be able to change you. That too is no small thing.

Go! And do not worry that people will laugh. People will laugh. They have always laughed. People do not change their nature—why should you change yours?

If the feeling arises in your heart to give something to people, then give, share. Do not worry that they will laugh or throw it away. That is their business. You do not need to think about it. Pour out your heart—you will be lightened.

Like a cloud that gathers in the sky, full of rain; it pours. It rains on the mountain, it rains on the lake. Even if the mountain refuses, the cloud does not stop raining on the mountain. If the lake accepts and fills, still the cloud does not rain only on the lake—it keeps raining.

You rain. If some small realization has happened within you, do not be afraid; share that realization. By sharing it will grow within you. At least the possibility of its diminishing will disappear.

Do not worry whether others will attain that realization or not. If you worry about that, you will become afraid and shrink. And a frightened, shrunken man can be changed by others.

And remember: the violent and the ignorant are aggressive. The violent ignorant take the initiative. A peaceful man hesitates; he thinks twice—should I speak or not? The restless one does not bother; he attacks you straightaway.

If you share your kindness, your compassion, your knowing, your meditation, then around you a rampart will arise from them—they will protect you.

That fakir spoke rightly: at first I shouted in the hope that people would change; now I shout in the hope that people do not change me.

But as long as that fakir remained in the town, Sodom could not be burned. They say that then God had to devise something. He had to send a messenger: “You are needed in another town.” The other town was Gomorrah. “There is a need there; those people are even more filled with sin than here.”

The saint ran there. As soon as he was outside the town, fire rained on Sodom; Sodom was destroyed forever.

These stories are important symbols, very symbolic. It may be that the world keeps going only because a few people remain connected with God—otherwise your life would rot completely. If even one person remains connected to that source, a little stream of life keeps flowing. In your desert an oasis remains. In your burning noon there is somewhere a tree under which you can take a moment’s shade, a little rest.

Don’t get entangled in such questions.
These are chicken-and-egg questions—what comes first, the chicken or the egg? If you’ve got an egg, make an omelet; if you’ve got a chicken, make soup.
Don’t get into these riddles. Wherever you want to begin—start with the egg if you wish, start with the chicken if you prefer. It can begin either way. Buy the egg, a chicken will come; buy the chicken, she will lay an egg. But don’t get into philosophical puzzles—no one has ever solved them, except Mulla Nasruddin’s boy.

I was at his house one morning and Mulla was in a very philosophical mood. He asked me, “You talk about big things—at least answer this: Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” Before I could say anything, his son said, “Only I can answer that.” I was pleased—and a little surprised—wondering how he would answer it! But he did. Nasruddin said, “You? What’s the answer?” The boy said, “The egg came first and the chicken later—egg for breakfast, chicken for dinner.”

That is my answer too.
Things are conjoint. People ask, “Which first—knowledge or bliss?” They are conjoint, two sides of the same coin. Turn it one way and you have knowledge; turn it the other and you have bliss. Attain bliss and you arrive at knowledge; attain knowledge and you arrive at bliss.

Awareness gives birth to self-acceptance. As you awaken, you accept yourself—for you are you; you can only be you. There is no way to be anything else. All else is impossible and futile. Whoever runs after something else loses the way and never arrives. You yourself are your destination.

The more aware you become, the more you accept. And the more you accept yourself, the more you find your acceptance deepens awareness. They grow by supporting each other.

Do you walk with the left foot or with the right foot? No one asks such a question, because it has no meaning. You walk with both. When you lift the left, the left lifts and the right holds you. Without the right holding, the left could not lift. When the left settles on the ground, the right rises. Two feet, two wings—they are not separate. The moment you split them, you create trouble, and then a question arises that can never be answered.

In the West there was a great psychologist, William James. He wrote a unique book, The Varieties of Religious Experience. No other book like it has been written since. Many tried, but William James is incomparable.

He researched widely, traveled the world. He came to India, went to the Himalayas to meet a mahatma. In his memoirs he writes: “I asked the sage, ‘Hindu scriptures say that God created the earth, then created eight white elephants and placed them in the eight directions, and the earth rests upon them.’ The sage said, ‘You have read correctly and understood correctly.’ So James asked, ‘Then on what do the elephants stand?’ The sage replied, ‘There are even larger white elephants, they stand upon them.’ James was puzzled—did the sage not understand my question? He asked again, ‘And those larger elephants, on what do they stand?’ The sage said, ‘There are still larger elephants, they stand upon them.’ James said, ‘You are not understanding me.’ The sage said, ‘I understand, but what can I do? Elephants on elephants above, elephants on elephants below. What can I do! I tell it as it is. You can keep asking for lifetimes; I will keep saying there are more elephants below—because the scriptures cannot be wrong.’”

Philosophical questions split things into two and create confusion. The moment you ask, “Where is the earth supported?” confusion begins. The earth is self-supported; no elephants are holding it up. And if elephants are holding it, trouble is inevitable, because then who holds up the elephants?

Here, everything is self-supported, because the truth of the Self is the truth of the Divine. No one is holding anyone else. Otherwise there would be no end to the regress. Turn from chicken to egg and you ask, “Where did the egg come from?”—again the chicken. Ask, “Where did the chicken come from?”—again the egg. There will be no end.

But in life we do end it. Who bothers about which came first, chicken or egg? When you are hungry and both are before you, do you philosophize? You eat.

I say the same to you. Start with awareness if you like—you will reach the same place, for awareness gives birth to self-acceptance. Or start with self-acceptance—you will reach the same place. Whether you begin with the left foot or the right makes no difference—both feet are yours, and both will carry you.

You are supported by both feet, you have both wings. Different people have different conveniences. Some will begin with the right foot; some with the left—each according to their own way.

There are two kinds of people. One kind begins with self-acceptance. These are quiet people, not very restless, people of a contented tendency. Over many lives their way has become that of contentment and peace. They can begin with self-acceptance, and awareness will come as the result.

Those who are restless and troubled—how will they accept themselves? Who can accept their own turbulence? It will be difficult. For them the journey will begin with awareness. But it makes no difference; wherever you start, it is you who walk and you who arrive.

Reaching the goal, one forgets whether one began with the left or the right.

Don’t count the pits. Ramakrishna used to say: When the mango is ripe, suck the mango; don’t count the seeds.
All this is seed-counting. Philosophy keeps counting seeds; the religious person sucks the mango. That is the difference between philosophy and religion. The philosopher goes on thinking; the religious person experiences.

I am not here to make you philosophers; I am here to make you religious.