Hansa To Moti Chuge #6

Yugal Kishore! Faith is an expression of courage. Faith is not cowardice, not weakness. Faith is the blooming of the lotus of life-energy—faith is not so emasculated that it hesitates or gets frightened.

The very meaning of faith is that nothing can unseat it now—go wherever you wish, hear whatever you hear, understand whatever you can. Hesitation itself shows that the faith is of the weak, of the cowardly, of the impotent. There is doubt hiding behind such faith. On the surface, faith; inside, doubt. Then the fear arises that the slightest scratch and the faith will shatter. It is made of glass; one must walk on tiptoe. Deep down one knows the inside is full of doubt—anyone can provoke it, ignite it, and the doubt will flare up.

Those “devotees” you speak of—I don’t call them devotees. They are people full of doubt, without even the courage to admit their doubt. They don’t even have enough self-respect to own their doubt honestly: to say, “We are uncertain; faith has not yet been born.” They are not devotees; they are dishonest. They are deceiving—not only others but themselves. And whoever deceives himself deceives the divine. They are self-deluders. What has fear to do with faith? Faith is so powerful it can enter any situation. It is ready to pass through fire. Real gold becomes more pure by going through fire. Fake gold will be scared, hesitant, trembling; it will panic and run to avoid the flames.

The people you call devotees are not devotees; they are doubt-ridden. They have draped themselves in faith out of fear. Whether they are in Ramakrishna’s ashram or Aurobindo’s or Raman’s—no matter where—their faith is only a cloak. And they know perfectly well that inside the fire of doubt is burning and can erupt any moment; all it needs is an occasion. Given the opportunity, the inner fire will blaze forth—hence their fear.

A true devotee knows no fear. One whose faith is in Ramakrishna will find Ramakrishna here in me as well. Because of me, his faith in Ramakrishna will not decrease; it will deepen. And if it does decrease because of me, then he has neither recognized Ramakrishna nor has he any relationship yet with faith. The notes may differ, but the song is the same. The instruments may differ, but the music is one.

Whether Ramakrishna, or Raman, or anyone else—they are different expressions of the same truth! And one whose faith is in truth will be capable of loving all of truth’s expressions. Faith has no boundary; if there is a boundary, know that it is not faith. If someone says, “I have faith only in the rose, I cannot go near the champa; how could I, my faith is in the rose”—he is merely confessing his fear that the fragrance of champa might overwhelm him; that he might drown in champa and forget the rose; that champa might captivate him and he might not return to the rose!

No: one who has faith will enjoy the rose, and the champa, and the jasmine too—because his faith is in beauty. Beauty has no limits; it is infinite, immeasurable, indefinable. Faith is not so narrow as to be bound to one. “Faith” and “narrowness” are contradictory terms. Faith is vast, like the sky. A devotee can go to a church, a temple, a mosque, a gurdwara—and his faith will suffer no scratch. His faith will ripen, grow, blossom, and become richer.

For surely there is something in the words of Jesus that is not in the words of Krishna. And there is something in Krishna’s words that is not in Jesus’. Krishna’s words bear a unique, cultured refinement. Jesus’ words carry a rustic gentleness, simplicity, straightness. In Buddha’s words there is something—the words of a prince—highly polished. And in Kabir’s words there is something else—the fragrance of the soil. Buddha’s words may be of the sky, but Kabir’s words contain what Buddha’s do not: the scent of the first rain on parched earth. That earthy fragrance has a world of its own.

One who has faith will take the plunge in Kabir and in Farid and in Nanak too—and gather diamonds from everywhere.

Imagine a man saying, “I know how to swim, but only in the Ganges; I will not swim in the Narmada—what if I drown? I won’t swim in the Godavari either; why risk my life? I can only swim in the Ganges.” What will you think of such a swimmer? His swimming is surely a delusion. If he can swim in the Ganges, what obstacle is the Narmada? What obstacle is the Godavari? For one who has learned to swim, rivers are no barrier; all rivers become his. One day, even the oceans will be his. One who swims on earth—if there is an ocean on the moon or on Mars, he will swim there too. Because the art of swimming is not bound to particular rivers or ponds. Faith is like that.

Faith is an art. When trust dawns that the divine is; when one begins to sense that existence is not made only of clay and stone—that consciousness is hidden even in clay and stone; when the conscious begins to be glimpsed in the unconscious—this awakening is called faith. By what finger it happened—Ramakrishna’s, Raman’s, or Krishnamurti’s—what difference does it make? Whether you see the moon by my finger or by Krishna’s finger or by Christ’s finger—the moon does not change! Fingers differ—black or white, long or short, thin or thick; these are differences of fingers, not of the moon. One who has had a glimpse of the moon is a devotee. And then, from as many fingers as possible, he will loot that glimpse—fearlessly! Now nothing can hinder him. All temples are his, all pilgrimages his. The Kaaba is his, Kashi is his, Kailash is his. But those about whom you speak, Yugal Kishore, are impotent people. They know nothing of faith. Their faith is narrow, small, shallow. In truth, it is not there at all—only a cover thrown over doubt. Somehow, with coaxing and self-persuasion, they have propped themselves up. Therefore they are afraid.

It is the theist who is afraid to talk to the atheist—what kind of theist is that? I have never seen an atheist afraid to talk to a theist. But I do see so-called theists afraid to talk to atheists. How upside-down! The atheist should be afraid—poor fellow, he has no God to lean on; his existence is empty, his life meaningless. For him to be afraid—yes, the arithmetic works. But the theist—who says the whole cosmos is pervaded by God—he trembles! What nonsense! How will you solve this riddle? It sounds like one of Kabir’s upside-down utterances.

But the reason is clear. The atheist is honest; the theist is dishonest. Your so-called theist is utterly dishonest; hence the fear. Fear does not come from the outside—what can an atheist do to you? Fear comes from within. He is afraid of his own doubt. He knows he is sitting on suppressed doubt. Someone might provoke it, poke it, say something that sets his doubt ablaze, that makes his faith wobble! So, “Better not go to such places.”

Jain scriptures say: even if a mad elephant is chasing you, do not take refuge in a Hindu temple nearby. It is better to die crushed under the elephant than to take shelter in a Hindu temple. Why? Because you might hear false words there; some wrong knowledge might enter your ears and then you will wander for lives on end. What can the elephant do—take only the body; but false words, a false guru, a false scripture—if their words enter your ears, not just the body, the soul will be corrupted.

And Hindu texts say the same thing—because such texts are written by the same kind of people: if refuge is found inside a Jain temple, it is better to die under the elephant’s feet.

You’ve heard the story of Ghantakarna, haven’t you?—the man who tied bells to his ears! Your theists are all Ghantakarnas. Why did he keep bells on his ears? So that no name other than his chosen deity would reach them. If his chosen deity is Rama, he chants “Rama, Rama” and keeps bells on his ears; as he walks, the bells keep ringing, so no other devotee—say, of Krishna—can slip the name “Krishna” into his ears.

Leave aside the small theists; your big theists fail the test too. In Tulsidas’s life there is a story: he was taken to Krishna’s temple in Mathura, and he did not bow. His friend who took him said, “Won’t you offer your salutations?” Tulsidas replied, “No, I bow only to Rama. Until he takes the bow and arrows in his hands, I will not bow.”

Tulsidas claims to see Rama in every atom, yet he cannot see Rama in Krishna—what kind of joke is this! Then that “Rama in every atom” talk is humbug. Tulsidas has nothing to do with Krishna or Rama; the government stamp, the label of the bow-and-arrows, seems more valuable. He won’t bow before Krishna; he will bow before Rama—on the condition that Rama takes up the bow and arrows. Now it is left to Krishna: “If you want the pleasure of my bowing, pick up the bow and arrows.”

Those who wrote the story must have been dishonest: they say Krishna quickly took the bow and arrows in his hands—the statue took them; then Tulsidas bowed. But one thing is clear: this is not devotion; this is bargaining with God! Even God is made to pass a test. Tulsidas becomes cheap—and if Krishna picks up the bow and arrows, he becomes cheap too. What kind of thing is this? If Tulsidas doesn’t bow, what is lost? Is bowing such a relish that God sits waiting? Suppose a devotee of Tuladhara the grocer had arrived and said, “Pick up the scales,” Krishna would have picked up the scales. If a devotee of Mohammed came and said, “Take the sword in your hand,” Krishna would have to display a sword. If a Jain devotee arrived and said, “Stand naked—Digambara,” then quickly he would have to strip and stand. What absurdity! Yet this is the condition of your theists. Your theist is weak, false. To me the atheist is dearer—he is at least honest: “I don’t know, so how can I believe?” He may one day know, because he has not hidden his ignorance—he has acknowledged it. And the acknowledgment of ignorance is the first step toward truth.

So first thing, Yugal Kishore: the friends you ask about—their piety is false; their faith is barren. Secondly, wherever they are stuck, they found nothing, otherwise why come here at all? What for? If one lives on the banks of the Ganges and his thirst is quenched, why would he go searching for the Brahmaputra? Water is water. If thirst is quenched, the matter ends. The very desire to come here—from Ramakrishna Ashram, Aurobindo Ashram, Raman Ashram—shows that nothing has happened there. And with impotent faith nothing can happen anywhere. What can Ramakrishna do, what can Raman do, what can I do, what can anyone do? If your faith itself is absent—if within you there is only weakness, falsity, hollowness, pettiness—then wherever you go, nothing will happen. Nothing happened there, so they want to come here. Otherwise, why come? Now a new fear arises: if they leave, those in whom they have so far believed might be displeased! Nothing was received there, yet “what if they get angry, what if my faith totters!”

And your priests keep teaching you this. They have turned the master–disciple relationship into something like husband–wife—monogamy! But this is not a marriage—this is a search, an inquiry. Fine, you have explored one place; put in your total effort. It may not work there. It is not necessary that because you didn’t receive, therefore nothing is there. Perhaps it did not harmonize with you; perhaps it does not suit your temperament.

Ramakrishna cannot suit everyone—otherwise variety would vanish. For someone only the Quran fits, and its words alone sprout the seeds lying in his being. For someone else, it is only the Gita that rains upon him. What is the purpose—to eat the mango or to count the pits? But people are attached to pits; they have no idea of eating mangoes; they just heap up seeds. If you have found it there, don’t take the trouble of coming here. If not, then to linger even a moment is self-destructive—who knows, death may come tomorrow!

So search, run, move—go wherever there is news that the sun has risen. This is the seeker’s life: a life of quest. Where harmony happens—who knows where! With whom your heart will fall into rhythm—who knows which instrument will enchant you! Until such a place arrives, many doors must be knocked. To reach your own door, many doors must be tried; to find your own temple, many temples must be searched.

But people don’t want to search—they are blockheads. Wherever they sit, there they sit; they won’t get up, whether something happens or not.

Let me remind you again: I am not saying there is nothing there. There may well be. But you have not received—that is the point. Others may have received—let them know. If you have not, then rise and go. The earth is not empty; here the divine manifests in myriad colors.

And then, Shirdi’s Sai Baba or Gajanan Maharaj—now they are no longer present, nor Ramakrishna, nor Raman. The moment a true master departs, a net begins to gather there: people who start exploiting his name. It cannot be prevented—who will prevent it, and how? Cunning, clever people will take advantage of the master’s name. In his lifetime they cannot—his presence makes it difficult. But once he is gone, they will set up his tomb, circulate tales of miracles, spread stories, open a marketplace, a shop. Such shops have gathered around the samadhi shrines of Shirdi’s Sai Baba and Gajanan Maharaj. They know only one use of everything—how to exploit it. They will surely tell you: “If you leave here, Baba will be displeased.” Baba is not pleased as it is, but he’ll surely be displeased! If he is not pleased, what will his displeasure do? Baba is gone. And a true Baba is not one to be displeased.

If you leave Shirdi and come here, Sai Baba’s soul will rejoice, will be delighted, that you have set out again in search—perhaps another door will open. That door has closed.

When a master departs from this earth, his fragrance is absorbed into the sky; what remains are footprints, and around the footprints gathers a crowd of priests and pundits. And they are very skilled at exploitation—of every possible kind.

Yugal Kishore, tell your friends: your hesitation shows your faith is false. Your hesitation shows that what needed to be found has not been found. Your hesitation shows you still have to search for your temple. Your hesitation shows you have fallen into the clutches of shopkeepers.

And faith is vast, like the sky; it accommodates all. One who has faith contains within himself Rama and Krishna and Buddha and Mahavira and Nanak and Kabir—all. Such is the alchemy of faith: in it, the distinctions between Rama and Krishna, Jesus and Zarathustra, Mahavira and Meera disappear. The chemical process of faith is such that it assimilates all truths. And when, by assimilating all truths, the supreme truth appears—its richness is unique, its bliss incomparable.

Faith gathers all instruments and creates an orchestra. Yes, the flute has its own charm—played in solitude, it is delicious. But when the tabla joins the flute, the flavor deepens. When a sitar awakens in the background, the relish grows. And when someone takes up the tanpura as well, the experience becomes more profound—new dimensions arise.

The divine is not exhausted yet—there will be many more Mahaviras, many Buddhas, many Mohammeds, many Jesuses. And even then the divine will not be exhausted. New instruments will keep being added; the music will grow denser, deeper. Don’t be miserly, don’t be stingy. Open your heart to this vast sky. Embrace the whole of the divine, embrace all his forms. Then dwell where your heart delights—but let there be no rejection. Faith means an inner “yes” has arisen. And in “yes,” there is no “no.” In “yes,” there is no bargaining.

Tell your friends this... And who knows—perhaps in the name of friends you are really asking about yourself. That fear is strong; the likelihood is great. We do not ask directly, because if you ask directly, who knows—I might strike your head like a club! So people ask in the name of “friends.”

A gentleman once came and said, “My friend is impotent! Is there any meditation for him?” I said, “You troubled yourself needlessly—why not send your friend?” He said, “I told him much, but out of shyness he didn’t come.” I said, “You could have told him to go and say, ‘I have a friend who is impotent; is there any meditation for him?’” He became a little uneasy. I said, “Your uneasiness—your eyes, your face—tell me which friend you are talking about. Speak straight; speak about yourself.”

Yugal Kishore Thakur! Being a Thakur, what are you saying? Why drag in these friends? Speak of yourself, plainly. If such imagined friends exist, tell them too—but first, heed for yourself. Leave them to themselves. Now that you have come here, don’t stand far away out of fear—thinking, “My faith is different; it’s fine that I came, but I’ll stand at a distance.” Neither enter meditation nor drown in prayer. Even when you listen, do it from behind a screen—keeping your wall of concepts in between.

If you do this, you will miss. If you do this, another opportunity will have come and gone in vain. Don’t lose the opportunity; opportunities are rare.

Rajkishore! I am in favor of technology. But that does not mean there are no deadly possibilities tied to it. I warn about those dangers too. A wise person can turn poison into nectar, and a fool can turn even nectar into poison.

Science has placed a tremendous power in human hands—technology, the world of machines. With it this whole earth can become a paradise. The age-old dream of a heaven somewhere high in the skies can descend upon the earth—upon our earth. Science has released a vast energy. But there are hazards. I caution about those as well. The greatest danger is that the mechanical may dominate the human, that man becomes a mere slave to the machine. Human mastery must remain. If man is the master and the machine the servant, it is auspicious. If the machine becomes the master and man the servant, it is disastrous.

So on one side I fully support technology. Without it the earth will now starve. Without it man cannot become prosperous—indeed, even the basic amenities of life will not be available. Our numbers have swollen so much! They are increasing every day. The earth is still the same size. If each person brought with him a hundred or a hundred and fifty acres, it would be different. People keep arriving, but the land remains the same.

In Buddha’s time the total population of this country was twenty million. Today, leaving out Pakistan and Bangladesh, it is six hundred million. If you include those two, it is nearing eight hundred million. By the end of this century India’s population will be one billion. You will not be able to feed this billion, nor clothe them, nor provide medicine or shelter. People will swarm like insects—and you go on singing the song of the spinning wheel!

By the time this century ends, you will realize that there could be no greater foolishness than what you have done in the name of Gandhism. Gandhi had no sense of the future. He was a worshiper of a dead past. He was against the train, against the telephone, against the post office, against medicines. He was against everything human beings developed to enrich life. He wanted man to return to the days of primordial man. But that cannot be done—unless first you murder millions.

In Buddha’s time, when India had only twenty million people, there was a kind of affluence—naturally, so much land, such a vast country, and only twenty million people! Even today, if the population were twenty million, the country would become affluent: no one would die of hunger. And even today, with only twenty million people, you would not need locks on your doors. Those were not human virtues then, no special morality—people simply didn’t need locks. There was no question of it.

But today the same country has eight hundred million people—forty times more; the land is the same. And in these twenty-five centuries we have exhausted the land. All its chemicals and minerals we have consumed, and we have returned nothing. In other countries when a person dies, he is buried; whatever minerals and vitamins his body contains go back into the earth. We don’t do that—we burn the dead. So whatever he ate and drank all his life, we reduce to ash; it never returns to the soil. For twenty-five centuries we have been burning our dead and exploiting the land. The land has become barren; it seems nothing wants to grow. Meanwhile, numbers keep rising. There is no way now except the machine.

Therefore I am wholly, totally in favor of technology. The doors of the country should be opened. We have turned the country into a closed prison, and that is why we are rotting. If it were up to me, I would open every door; I would invite the whole world: Come! We should invite the world’s capital to come, to bring their machinery, to bring the new tools of science, and let as many industries as possible spread across this land.

And people from around the world want to come. But our foolishness says we don’t want foreign capital, lest India be exploited. We have nothing at all—yet we fear exploitation! The naked man doesn’t bathe—he doesn’t bathe because if he bathes, where will he wring out, what will he dry? He has nothing to wring, nothing to dry! And the Indian industrialists—on whose payrolls all our leaders’ names appear—fear that if the world’s capital and science enter India, who will buy their junk? How much do you think the Ambassador car will be worth? Less than a bullock cart! If Ford, Chevrolet, Rolls-Royce, Mercedes-Benz open factories here, what will happen to the Ambassador? No one would take it even for free. At the price you pay for an Ambassador, you could get a Mercedes—one that runs for thirty or forty years and still looks fresh and new. With an Ambassador, you get it home from the showroom and it’s finished!

When Jugal Kishore Birla died, it is said he was taken to heaven—I don’t know how true the story is, but it must be true. He himself was surprised, but then he thought, perhaps I am being taken because I built so many Birla temples. In heaven he asked the gatekeeper, Why am I being brought here? The gatekeeper said, Because everyone who buys your car says, “He Ram!” No one has reminded people of the name of Ram as much as you have! Great pundits and priests have been defeated. You made the Ambassador—the likes of which don’t exist anywhere in the world: in it everything rattles, except the horn!

This is the Indian capitalist, who keeps the country’s leaders on his payroll and does not want foreign capital, technology, and science to enter. That is why you are poor, why you suffer—and you will continue to suffer. The doors of the country must be opened. The earth should no longer be divided into fragments. Science has developed so much that if we open our doors, this country can become prosperous. But we keep repeating stale slogans.

Who are our economists? People like Chaudhary Charan Singh. They don’t know the ABC of economics. Perhaps they know the science of disaster, but not economics. They still sing the praises of the village. They still keep singing about the village. The village has no future—and it should have none. The future is in cities—prosperous, educated, well-planned cities. Villages are bidding farewell to the world. Meanwhile we are pouring all our strength into the village. Our villages too should bid farewell. There is nothing in the village—disease, poverty, mosquitoes, flies, mud, junk—and slavery. Until the village dissolves, that slavery will not end. Small villages hide the slavery from your eyes. You read the poets’ stories and verses and think: Ah, what a Ram Rajya in the villages! What a glorious panchayat rule! How people must be enjoying the natural, simple life!

You have no idea of the village’s reality. The Indian village is a kind of prison. The kind of exploitation that happens there cannot happen in a city. In the village there is the Harijan: he cannot draw water from the well; he cannot sit in a row and eat with others. In fact, not only can’t he sit and eat, even his shadow falling on someone is considered a sin, and the villagers may kill him. If anyone associates with Harijans, his “hookah and water” are cut off—he is socially boycotted. A village is so small no one can live an individual life; there is no privacy there. And where there is no privacy, there can be no freedom.

Cities have given privacy. In cities, people have become private individuals.

I am in favor of increasing the use of machines. Industrialization should grow. Gradually our villages should be transformed into small towns. But we must understand the risks as well.

The greatest danger is that man might become smaller than the machine, that the machine might sit on man’s chest. Then a terrible slavery will begin. We must use the machine; the machine must not start using us. In the West there is already a fear that machines are using people. We can be alert to this. Let it not happen that machines strip human beings of their dignity and glory. It can happen—because machines are so efficient. Man cannot compete with their efficiency. A task that a thousand people do, one machine can do; then a thousand become unemployed and lose their dignity. Where will they go? What will they do?

In the West, as automation increases, the question arises: what to do with the unemployed? But the West is sensible. Here, even those who work don’t get paid; in affluent Western countries, those who don’t get work receive pay for not having work—unemployment benefits. Because that is also the responsibility of society: if you have given work to machines and people are left without, then pay them—they are willing to work.

Gradually machines will take over all work. Then dangers abound. One is that man, having worked for centuries, doesn’t know how to sit idle; if he sits idle he will create mischief—fights and quarrels will erupt. “Let our flag fly high!”—marches will begin; now that there is nothing to do, Hindus, Muslims, Christians will clash, pointless conflicts will arise. Or people will drink. Or they will stare at television all day and ruin their eyes. Or they will turn to prostitution. These are dangers. And they can be prevented. In truth, the age-old dream is close to fulfillment. Now there is an opportunity for man to learn music, to meditate, to create poetry, to sculpt, to make beautiful gardens.

So before machines take away all work, we must give man a new way and style of life—at whose center will be meditation. Without meditation man will die; the machine will sit upon his chest. Meditation means the joy of sitting silently, of being unoccupied. In olden times it was said, Don’t sit idle—an idle mind is the devil’s workshop. In those days, if someone sat idle, he had to be scolded, because it took ten people working hard just to fill a stomach. The idle had to be condemned. In the new future, when machines handle all industry, we will have to say: Sit silently—idleness is the temple of God. I am teaching precisely that art of sitting silently; I call it meditation. Meditation will be essential.

We must open new dimensions of art that were once available only to kings. True, a Tansen sat in one court and a Baiju Bawra in another; now we must bring a Tansen and a Baiju Bawra into every home. Only then can man remain happy. Otherwise the machine will do everything—what will people do? And idle people can be dangerous—very dangerous—because within them lie the suppressed diseases of centuries—anger, hatred, jealousy—and they will erupt.

That is why I caution about the dangers of the machine, yet I am not anti-machine. I am fully in favor of technology. The danger is not from machines; it comes from human foolishness. Man can be made intelligent.

There is another danger: machines might destroy nature. In the West that danger has arisen. There are lakes that have died; their fish are dead, because so much oil from factories has reached them that it has acted like poison. The seas are being filled with oil. Kabir once said—he meant it as a paradox; how could he have known what was coming?—“I saw a wonder: the rivers caught fire!” Come back today and you will not say, “I saw a wonder,” because rivers are catching fire. So much oil from ships and factories floats on rivers that a layer forms and it catches fire. Rivers are dying, lakes are dying—their water is undrinkable, poisonous. In the oceans, millions of fish are dying because of the oil our ships release. The air is filled with smoke—from factories, cars, airplanes. Forests are being cut, the earth’s greenery destroyed. Tar roads keep spreading, cement skyscrapers keep rising, and everything else is being ruined. So, warning is necessary.

There are great benefits to mechanization—and great harms. Wisdom does not lie in what Gandhi says: drop the machine altogether. His logic is: no bamboo, no flute. He says, get rid of machines and the danger disappears. But the dangers created by getting rid of machines will be greater than those posed by machines. Just imagine: if there were no electricity, no trains, no cars and buses on the roads, factories closed—imagine for seven days everything science has given you is switched off. What would be the state of your world? In seven days it would be reduced to ashes; everything would collapse.

In some American cities, the electricity went out for three days and a strange experience occurred—looting erupted at once. Three days of darkness; the streets were full of hoodlums. Where had they been hiding before? In the light of electricity. In the dark they got their chance—rapes occurred, women were abducted, children were killed, shops were ransacked; going out became dangerous. When the electricity went, it was as if humanity went. Imagine seven days without what science has provided—you cannot even imagine the chaos; looting everywhere, man’s savagery laid bare.

I do not support what Gandhi says. The technology science has given is immensely useful. But man must become a little more intelligent. The technology science has given is like a sword in a child’s hand. Man is not yet as mature as the tools science has placed in his hands. We must increase human maturity; we must give meditation, we must give peace, we must give a state of bliss, a touch of compassion, a little love. That is the experiment I am engaged in here, Rajkishore!

There is no way without industry, no path other than science—we cannot go back; we must go forward. But we must make man capable of avoiding the dangers of science and making good use of it. It is not necessary that science cut down forests; we have made that mistake. Science has now given us the means that, if we wish, settlements can be established on the sea; there is no need to cut forests. Entire towns can float on the ocean. The land can be devoted to production; settlements can float on the seas. And the seas are large. The area under the oceans far exceeds the land. All settlements could float on the sea. Not only that, entire townships could be suspended in the sky—like clouds floating in space. The land could be put wholly into production. These tar roads and giant buildings could be cleared from the ground. They could be lifted into the sky where they would pose no threat. The earth could become a beautiful garden—you could descend into it now and then to enjoy, and return.

In the future there will be settlements on the sea and in the sky. We will have to free the land. Only then can we produce enough for such a vast population.

And now we have reached the moon. Sooner or later, the hazardous industries that poison the atmosphere can be moved to the moon. Whatever spreads toxins into our air can be shifted there. There is no danger on the moon—no people, no animals, no birds. If you must make atomic bombs, make them on the moon; there is no need to make them on earth.

All this is possible—only one thing is lacking: free human intelligence. Remove the old fetters from intelligence; refine it, polish it, put an edge on it. That is the great work I am absorbed in. The value of my work cannot be assessed today; it will take centuries to gauge it. You try to measure me by old yardsticks—Shankaracharya did this, Buddha did that, Mahavira did that—why don’t you do the same? They are no measure for me. What is gone is gone; it has no value now. The future is entirely new—one which Buddha had no inkling of, Kabir no imagination for. How could they think about it? What could they have said?

Only a Buddha of the twentieth century can say something about the future. A vast future stands before us. If we remain foolish, man will commit suicide. If we become a little wise; if we rise above the pettiness of Hindu, Muslim, Christian; if we go beyond the silliness of Indian, Pakistani, Chinese; if we rise above the stupidity of black and white—then this earth can become such a lovely paradise that all our imaginations will look pale. The heavens we imagined will look faded. Power is in our hands; understanding is not yet in our hands.

Rajkumar, you asked: “On the one hand you are in favor of modern technology and believe that the flower of religion will bloom only in countries that are industrially advanced.”

Certainly—because religion is the highest flowering of human consciousness.

Life has an order. On an empty stomach you cannot sing God’s name. Devotion does not happen on an empty stomach, Gopala! First the belly must be full, clothes on the body, a roof overhead. The body’s needs are the first step. One whose bodily needs are unmet may talk about God, but he will not experience God. His talk of God will only be talk of filling his stomach. His words about God will be like those of a beggar sitting by the roadside who says to you, “Give, and God will give you manifold.” Ask him: if God gives so much, why doesn’t he give to you? If you can bless us, why don’t you ask Him directly? Why this red-tape? Why should we give to you and then God give to us? Go straight to Him—the hassle ends! If God is such a great giver, He will give to you—why should we come in between? The beggar is merely exploiting you, exploiting your beliefs; neither his God nor his promise of return is real.

And remember, the one who gives to a beggar—the beggar thinks he is a fool. “We fooled him well!” Beggars talk among themselves: “Whom did we catch today? Who got trapped? Who was looted?” The one who doesn’t give—the beggar respects him: “He is smart; he doesn’t fall for my talk.” But beggars know how to stir up your old conditioning.

If you are hungry, what will you ask for in a temple? Bread, work, clothing. Stand silently in temples and listen to people’s prayers—what are they asking for? Someone asks for a job for his son; someone asks for his wife’s illness to be cured; someone asks for a house—he isn’t getting one. You ask these things of God! You have no relationship with God; you are not asking for God—you are asking for other things.

First the body’s needs must be met. When they are met, the mind’s needs arise.

The mind’s needs are music, art, literature. Say to a man whose belly is empty, “Read Kalidasa! Read the Meghaduta, in which a yaksha sends a message to his beloved by a cloud.” He will say, “To hell with the cloud and his beloved! If clouds carry messages, carry ours to God: when will bread arrive?”

Yesterday I was reading that when Sujata placed a bowl of kheer before Buddha, he took one spoonful and spat it out: “What kind of kheer is this?” Sujata said, “What to do, sir—ration rice.”

Kalidasa, Shakespeare, Byron, Rabindranath—you need a satisfied body to understand them. You need a roof, a garden, a library in the house, a veena to play, a lamp at night to read in peace, companionship, the right atmosphere and milieu—then there is joy. But lying hungry by the roadside in Bombay and reading Meghaduta—that is impossible.

When the mind’s needs are fulfilled, the needs of the soul arise. Those who become fulfilled by art, music, literature—their minds begin to turn to meditation, prayer, yoga, tantra—these heights. These are steps.

That is why I say religion arises only when a country becomes prosperous. When this country was prosperous, it was religious. Now it is not. Shout as much as your Shankaracharyas like—this country is not religious, nor can it be. First this country’s basic needs must be met; then it can be religious.

Religion will blossom in the West. The sun will rise in the West; in the East it has set. We ourselves drowned it. With foolish talk we drowned it—saying there is nothing of substance in the world, that all is maya, that the body is just dust. With such talk we created a negation of life whose ultimate result is that we became poor, destitute, enslaved—we rotted and decayed. To talk of religion now in this rotten, decayed country is to mock people. Religion will arise only in industrial affluence.

So certainly I say: the sun of religion will rise in the advanced countries.

Certainly! If I praise the boat, it does not mean I also praise the holes in it. I praise the boat and I warn: if there are holes, plug them; otherwise you will drown—the very boat meant to float you will be the one to sink you. And the Western boat has many holes. At least they have a boat; we don’t even have one—so where does the question of holes arise? First there must be a boat; only then can it have holes. The West at least has a boat! It is holed, but holes can be patched. But if there is no boat at all, what on earth will you patch!

So I make you aware of those holes as well. That is why, on one side I praise, and on the other I criticize. There is no contradiction between my criticism and my praise. My criticism and my praise are like this: have you ever seen a potter make a pot? With one hand he supports from within, and with the other he strikes from without. Supporting with one hand and striking with the other—that is how the pot is formed. In the same way, with one hand I support and with the other I strike. Do not think, “He strikes and he supports—what a contradiction! How can one reconcile it?” There is no need to reconcile it; the harmony is already being set. This is how harmony is created—support on one side, strike on the other. Praise what is virtuous in them, and oppose what are the holes; so that we can make a boat without holes, one that can take us to the other shore.

The saints of the past who lived and expressed the truth—truth is not confined to only that, nor does it end there. Truth is never limited, never finished. Truth is vast. Those who come after me will have to say some new things that I will not say, because there is a time to say each thing. What Buddha said was necessary for Buddha’s time. If, twenty-five hundred years ago, Buddha had said what I am saying now, of what use would it have been? As it is, even today when I say it, how many can make use of it? Twenty-five hundred years ago people would have laughed and said, “What are you talking about—airy, fanciful things!”

I have said that cities can be built in space, that cities can float upon the sea. If Buddha had said such things, people would have called them fantasies. Today these are no longer fantasies. Science has made it clear that such things are possible; there is no impediment. A settlement can even be established on the moon.

What Buddha said was suited to his time—the needs of his time. Times have changed. What is essential in Buddha I want to preserve; that is why I speak on Buddha. But this does not mean I support every single thing he said. Many things have become out of time, out of date; I do not even discuss them now. They have no value today.

For example, when women prayed to Buddha, “Initiate us as well,” he hesitated greatly—postponed it for ten years. I understand: if twenty-five hundred years ago Buddha deferred giving initiation to women, I can appreciate his difficulty. Given the difficulties I face in giving sannyas to women today, it is no surprise if Buddha had his doubts back then. He kept postponing, trying somehow to avoid giving sannyas to women, because the society he lived in was anti-woman. For centuries women had been suppressed, denied education, kept illiterate, shut inside homes, kept outside the social sphere. To give them initiation, to give them sannyas! Moreover, among the men who had become sannyasins, many were sitting with repressed sexuality—this too was clear to Buddha, because for centuries the teaching had been: suppress sexual desire. So to admit women into sannyas alongside men seething with repression would create turmoil—putting fire next to gunpowder. So he delayed. I understand his difficulty. Yet in the end he agreed—he agreed because of his Buddhahood; he postponed because of people’s foolishness.

But I will not postpone. We are living in a new world—where woman is proclaiming her freedom, reclaiming her place, and the divisions between man and woman are dissolving. Besides, repression of sexuality is not my teaching. For one who understands me, the very distinction between male and female becomes attenuated—and it must. The day the distinction between man and woman grows faint, know that the flower of brahmacharya has blossomed in your life.

So there are many things of Buddha’s I will not agree with. There are many things of Mahavira’s I will not agree with. Mahavira said: do not eat at night—and he was right. There was no light, no illumination; people ate in the dark—many in villages still do—mosquitoes would fall in, insects would fall in. Even leaving aside the question of ahimsa, from a medical viewpoint it was improper, even dangerous. But now there is electricity; at night you can create more light than by day. Therefore I will not support this particular injunction of Mahavira. And yet I will say that in his time Mahavira was right. But today that point has become out of date.

The question itself was not raised rightly. It was untimely. It is not that there were no poor—there were. But the poor in Buddha’s time were in better condition than today’s middle-class person. There was no “poverty” as we know it; there were poor people. Even the middle-class person of Buddha’s day was more prosperous than today’s prosperous person. And the poor of Buddha’s time were better off than today’s middle class. There were many reasons for this. First, there was great abundance; there was no cause for hunger. This is proved by the fact that millions became bhikkhus with Buddha, and millions became munis with Mahavira—and this country had the capacity to feed them all. None of them died of hunger. In truth, they received so much food, so much honor!... the country was richly endowed. Otherwise, who would feed so many bhikkhus, so many munis, so many sannyasins—who would give them clothes? People gave so much food and clothing that Buddha and Mahavira had to make rules: do not accept more clothes than this. And if you receive new clothes, give your old ones away immediately; do not start accumulating. Otherwise people would pile up stores. Buddha had to prescribe how much food to take; otherwise people would give so much that you would overeat.

There was plenty of wealth and grain! No one was poor in the sense in which we use the word today. It could not be so. A population of only twenty million, such a vast land! And there were not so many means then; there were not so many objects of indulgence. If you had a bullock cart, a good ox-cart, you were a rich man. If you had a fine horse, you could walk with your moustache twirled in pride. There was no hitch. Your mind did not feel the pang: “I don’t have a Fiat car—am I to ride in a bullock cart?” Means were very few, competition was very little. Because the means themselves were few, the distance between rich and poor was not great. Try to understand this. The rich ate what the poor ate: the same wheat, the same rice, the same ghee, the same milk. There was so much milk that people did not sell it. Who would buy? Everyone had milk. In such a situation—where means were few, competition was little, the race to buy was small, and the essential means of enjoyment were sufficient—the question of poverty did not arise. Today it has arisen. Therefore those saints and sages never said anything like “religion is not for the poor.” In that sense there were no poor. Therefore religion was for everyone.

Even so, let me remind you: all twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains are sons of kings. Buddha too is the son of a king. The Hindu avatars, Rama and Krishna, are also all sons of kings. What does this prove? It proves that even then, the heights of religion were attained by those who had tasted all the comforts of life. My point still stands. Why is there not even a single poor man among the twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains? Not even a single shopkeeper? Why are they all princes? A prince received the complete education, enjoyed every luxury—palaces, beauties, music, wine—and soon became weary of them. Then the ultimate question stood before him: all this, if not today then tomorrow, death will snatch away; so what is there beyond? How long will I remain lost in all this? What is the point of repeating this repetition? Who am I? So among Jains, Hindus, and Buddhists, the foremost figures—all of them—are princes. This gives evidence to my statement that the ultimate expression of religion happens only when all other games of life are exhausted, when all other enjoyments are seen to be futile.

In my view, if humanity survives—if foolish politicians do not precipitate a third world war, and somehow humanity is spared—and if science makes the whole earth one (it already has; only the politicians’ foolishness needs to be set aside and the earth is one), if we draw on the benefits of science and stay alert to its harms, then the twenty-first century will be the most religious century on this earth. The twenty-first century will produce more Buddhas, more Jinas, more Siddhas than the entire history of humankind has ever produced. The situation will be almost like this—do you know, of the scientists who have ever lived on earth, if you count, you will be astonished! Ninety percent of scientists are alive today. In the entire history of humankind—the last ten thousand years—only ten percent of scientists lived; ninety percent are alive today.

What has happened? There has been an explosion of science!

In just the same way, the hour of an explosion of religion is approaching. Ninety percent of the Buddhas will be alive in the twenty-first century. And all the Buddhas and all the Jinas of the past will remain only ten percent by comparison.

This is a great moment—a great revolution! For its prior preparation I am organizing sannyas. This Buddha-field, this Buddha-sangha, is for that great preparation, to invite that supreme opportunity, to invoke it. It is a prayer that the twenty-first century be spared from the stupidity of politicians, that science prove not harmful but a blessing; that we exercise such intelligence. Then man is approaching his real Golden Age. What we earlier called a Golden Age was nothing; it will all pale! Because never before has man had so much energy, so much capacity, so much science, so much awareness as he has today.

If the night seems very dark to you, Rajkumar, do not be afraid. Understand only this much: the morning is very near. Just before dawn the night becomes very dark. And even if on the surface my words seem not to cohere, if you search deeply, take a plunge, you will not find a single inconsistency.

Mulla Nasruddin’s son asked him, “Papa, you play great political games; what is politics?” Nasruddin said, “It’s hard to put into words; it’s a very mysterious affair. But I can make you understand through experience.” The boy said, “Explain.” Nasruddin told him, “Climb the ladder.” A ladder was leaning against the wall, so the boy climbed up. When he reached the top rung, Nasruddin said, “Jump! I’ll catch you.” The boy hesitated. The ladder was high; if he jumped and his father’s hands slipped, he could fall and break his limbs. Nasruddin said, “What—don’t you trust your own father? Jump, jump, son.” After much urging, the boy jumped. And Nasruddin stepped aside. Both the boy’s knees were scraped; blood began to drip from his nose. The son cried, “What was the meaning of that!” Nasruddin said, “This is politics, son: don’t trust even your father. Don’t make the mistake of trusting anyone—that’s the first lesson.”

It is deceit upon deceit. Dishonesty upon dishonesty. A strangulation contest.

Politics is violence—and very sly violence. Nowhere does blood appear, and yet blood is spilled. No hands are stained, and yet murders are done. People are wiped out; afterward no trace is found, and nowhere is there a sound.

A politician was trying to sell his torn, old umbrella to someone. But the prospective buyer, seeing the umbrella’s state, was a bit hesitant. He couldn’t flatly refuse either. Sometimes that politician came into power; just now he wasn’t, his condition was poor—hence he was selling the umbrella. Still, he was a politician, and who could say when he might return to power? So the fellow could not say no outright.
The prospective buyer asked, “Leaderji, I don’t really need an umbrella, but since it’s yours it must surely have a special quality. What is its special feature? Your things must be special.” He looked at the umbrella, then at the leader’s face. The umbrella was in absolutely terrible shape; it wasn’t worth taking even for free. The leader said, “This umbrella has great qualities. If you just keep one thing in mind, it will serve you for years.” The buyer asked, “What should I keep in mind?” The leader said, “Just keep it safe from sun and rain.”

Politics is exploitation, deception, fraud. Politics is the scripture of fraudulence.

Give promises—and give beautiful promises. And don’t be afraid in giving them, because no one ever fulfills them, nor is it meant that they be fulfilled. Yes, in five to seven years, till the next election, people will have grown tired of you—don’t worry. By then your brothers and cousins will have charmed the people with their own promises; they will come to power.

The public has a very weak memory; it forgets that you gave promises and did not fulfill them. And even if it defeats you in the election, your cousins and kinsmen will sit in power. They are just as deceitful. This is the game of politics. And between these two millstones, people go on being ground.

Just as the days of kings have passed, so now the days of politicians too should pass. You’ll be surprised to hear this. Because if, say, five hundred years ago someone had said, “A day will come when the days of kings will be over,” no one would have believed it. Who could have believed that the days of kings would ever end? Impossible! “Kings are made by God himself, they are his reflection, his representatives on earth. How could they go? Without kings the earth will wobble. If the king is happy, the subjects are happy. Without a king how will the subjects even survive?” It would have been beyond imagination. But you have seen that kings have gone. Now only five kinds of kings remain in the world. They will remain—five kinds of kings will remain: four in the deck of cards—clubs, hearts, diamonds, and spades—and the fifth, England’s. Only five kings will remain. England’s king will remain because his status is no different from the kings in the deck of cards. The rest of the kings have gone.

I tell you, politicians too are close to going. Their time too has gone. Now they are only dragging along. Not much longer. The hour of their death is near. They have created enough mischief. This century will see their end. The politician has no future now, nor can he have one.

The world needs another kind of governance—not of the politician, but of the expert; not of the politician, but of the scientist; not of the politician, but of intelligence. Then the world will be a different kind of world. But today even to imagine it is difficult.

The politician’s entire business is this: by any means, to remain seated on your chest. And not only to remain seated there, but to keep explaining to you that if he gets down from your chest, you will be greatly harmed. “For your own good I am sitting on your chest!” That is the politician’s sole job: to keep sucking you dry, while telling you it is for your own benefit.

A gentleman hired a lazy, work-shy man as a servant. That servant was none other than a politician who had lost an election. One day the gentleman told him, “Go, bring vegetables from the market.” The servant said, “Sahib, I’m new to this city. I might get lost.” Hearing this, the master himself went to the market, bought the vegetables, and said to the servant, “Here, now cook them.” The servant said, “Sahib, I’m not used to this gas stove. What if the vegetables get burnt?” Hearing this, the master himself cooked the vegetables and then said to the servant, “Now eat!” The servant, very naturally, replied, “Huzoor, it doesn’t look nice to say no to everything! If you insist, I’ll eat!”

You ask: “What is politics?”
Open your eyes a little and look around. Wherever you see deception, know that is politics. Wherever you see dishonesty, know that is politics. Wherever you see your pocket being picked, know that is politics. Wherever someone is pressing on your neck while saying, “I am a servant, a public servant”—know that is politics.

Remember: no one starts by pressing the neck. People begin by pressing the feet. Then, step by step, they reach the neck! First they start with “Sarvodaya,” the uplift of all—meaning, massaging the feet: “We have come to serve.” And who refuses service? “All right, brother—he’s a sarvodayi, let him serve.” Then, little by little, he will be pressing your neck. But by then it is too late.

Many nooses are tightened on your necks. And you slip from one noose only to fall into another. You come out of one prison and enlist yourself in another.

Understand the futility of politics. And stop giving the politician so much respect. Why do you go on carrying the politician on your head? It is the worship of petty, cruel power. It is the worship of violent bayonets. What is the politician’s power? That now the bayonets are in his hands.

The worship of power shows about you that you have neither culture nor understanding.

Let politicians come, let politicians go. Ignore them. The more politicians are ignored, the better—that if Morarji Desai comes, no crowd gathers, no garlands are placed on him. He should come and go! Then he will know the days are gone—long gone! But you are spectacle-seekers. You go wherever the crowd goes. And your crowd gives power to the politicians. Bid this crowd farewell.

Sit somewhere in satsang. Sit where someone sings the Lord’s praise. Sit where there is talk of Rama. Where a few madmen are absorbed in the beloved’s discussion, drown there. Sing some songs of love. Do some acts of compassion. Take a dip in meditation. Spend your time in such places. Neglect politics; give it your indifference. This is what I call rebellion.

I do not teach revolution against politics; I teach rebellion. Turn your back on politics. These politicians will become dejected and pointless on their own. Let them find out that people have no taste for them anymore. The less interest you have in them, the less their power will be. The less their power, the fewer will be the people who run toward politics. And gradually, take your life into your own hands.

I am not in favor of the state’s power. Therefore I am anti-socialist—not because I don’t want poverty to disappear from the world, but because socialism places the entire power in the hands of the politician. I want people to take power back into their own hands.

Life is yours; live it—as beautifully as you can. Do not hand it over to the state.

And don’t allow power to accumulate in the hands of the state. The state’s wish is that the banks be nationalized, the factories be nationalized, the lands be nationalized. And if not today, then tomorrow they will say that people too should be nationalized! That is what is happening.

I am a partisan of freedom. There is no need to nationalize anything. Liberate people. Open the gates of the country; invite the people of the whole world: Come, cooperate. Bring your science. Bring your industry. Bring your technology. Bring your wealth. There is plenty of wealth in the world.

America has invested billions and trillions of dollars throughout the world. In India, only one percent is American capital, whereas there should be at least twenty percent. But we do not open the doors. We are so frightened!

This country can become prosperous, filled with happiness. This whole earth can become prosperous, filled with happiness. But gradually the reins should pass into the hands of the scientist, the philosopher, the saint.

The time of politicians is over. Bow to politics—bid it farewell.

A politician is standing for election, asking a voter for his vote. The voter asked, “Can you name some responsible person from whom one can inquire about your conduct and character?” “Why not,” said the politician. “Ask the local police inspector—he released me for good conduct only three months ago!”

All kinds of criminals have gathered under the flag of politics.

Politics is the art of painting crimes in pretty colors and putting pretty masks upon them.

You ask me, Ravindra: “What is politics?” And you ask one who doesn’t know even the A-B-C of politics! Don’t ask me such difficult questions; I have no interest in them. Ask me: What is religion? Ask me: What is life? Ask me: What is love? Ask me: What is God?

Enough for today.