Jeevan Darshan #1

My beloved Atman!

I would like to begin my talk with a small incident.

Just as you have gathered here today, so too, one night in a church many people had assembled. A monk was to speak to them that night on Truth. A stranger—an itinerant monk—had come to address them on Truth. He arrived. People had been waiting a long while. But before he began to speak, he asked a question—a small question to those seated there. He asked, “Has anyone among you read the seventy-ninth chapter of Luke? Those who have, please raise your hands.”

In that hall, almost everyone raised their hands. Only one old man did not. All the rest affirmed they had read the seventy-ninth chapter of Luke.

The monk burst into loud laughter. And he said, “My friends, you are precisely the people to whom it is most necessary to speak about Truth—for there exists no such chapter as the seventy-ninth chapter of Luke. There is no such chapter at all! And here all of you sit with your hands raised, claiming to have read it. Only one man sits with his hands down.”

The monk had finished speaking, and as everyone was leaving, he went over to that old man, caught hold of him, and said, “I am astonished. Why would a man like you come to a church? I have never seen any connection between Truth and the church. You did not raise your hand—and that amazed me. That the others falsely raised their hands, that is understandable; there is nothing surprising in that. But seeing you with your hand down—I was astonished. Why did you not raise it? I thank you. If a few like you still remain on earth, religion will not perish.”

The old man said, “Sir, you misunderstand me. My arm aches; I could not lift it. I wanted to raise my hand too. Please forgive me—compulsion. If you come again and ask us to raise our hands, by then I will be well and I shall lift it too.”

In the days to come I also have a few things to say to you concerning Truth. So the thought occurred to me—shall I have you raise your hands as well? But then I was afraid perhaps someone’s arm might be in pain and he would be unable to raise it—and feel troubled. So I will not ask for raised hands. And now that this story has been told, to raise hands would be a little difficult anyway. But I will say this to each one: at least raise that hand within. Because if a person has set out to inquire into life but cannot be true within himself, then no inquiry of his will ever be fulfilled.

If one has become eager to know Dharma, or Paramatma, the meaning of life—yet is not a little true toward himself—then his search will prove futile. His labor will be in vain. He may go to temples, churches, mosques; he may wander anywhere—to holy places, to mountains—but if within, toward himself, he remains false, wherever he goes he will not find Truth.

The first step in the search for Truth is to be true to oneself. And we have even forgotten that we must be true to ourselves. Perhaps we do not even know what it means to be true to oneself. Nor is this falsehood the doing of one person alone. Nor of one generation alone. It is not that in some one century man became false toward himself. For thousands of years falsehoods have been harbored and nurtured. They have become so ancient that today even to doubt them seems impossible. When lies are propagated for long enough, they begin to look like truth. For thousands upon thousands of years, when words are spoken in support of some lie, and thousands use it, then gradually the fact that it is a lie is altogether forgotten. It begins to appear as truth.

So it is not necessary that the lies surrounding our lives are of our own making. It may be that traditions have developed them over millennia. And because we ourselves have not fashioned them, we remain unaware that we are supporting a lie. We do not remember. It never even occurs to us. And until it does occur—until we break all the veils of falsehood within—we shall not know what Truth is.

And he who does not know Truth will never come upon freedom in life. He who does not know Truth will never have fountains of bliss springing within. He who does not know Truth—his life can never become a music. He will live in sorrow and die in sorrow. In meaninglessness his time will be squandered in vain. His life will be spent, and he will remain deprived of knowing life.

Yet we most certainly wish to know Truth. That is why we wander before those doors where we imagine Truth may be found. We are surely thirsty—otherwise who would go to temples and mosques? There must be a longing within us. But longing alone is not enough; thirst alone is not enough. Within, we must break down those walls we ourselves have erected out of untruth—only then can there be any contact with Truth.

I have said that the untruth enclosing us today is not of our invention; it is an old tale. Each generation repeats more or less the very same untruths that the previous generation repeated. It is a repetition, an echo, that goes on and on.

I have heard: one night a resident of a small village came into a great city. Though he lived in a small village, in his youth he had come to the city to study. A boy from his neighborhood still studied in the same school, lived in the same hostel where he once had lived. At night it occurred to him: I should go and see. The hostels must have changed; the school must have changed. It has been thirty years since I studied there. Everything must be different. He went and knocked at the door where the boy from his village lived. The door opened. He entered and said to the young man, “Son, I have come to see—surely in thirty years everything must have changed.”

The houses were new. The school building had become very large. Where once there had been a few students, now there were many. The roads had become beautiful. Gardens had bloomed. Everything had changed in that way.

He went in and picked up a book lying on the boy’s table. The Bible was right there on top. He lifted the cover of the Bible—and inside there was no Bible; inside was a novel. The youth panicked. He said, “This is not my book, I borrowed it from a neighbor. What is this?”

The old man said, “Do not be alarmed. We too hid such books inside the cover of the Bible. The old story—the same old story. There is nothing to worry about.” He glanced around the room and saw a wardrobe. He opened its door—and he was startled. Standing inside the wardrobe, a girl was hiding. The youth said, “Forgive me, she is a distant cousin—she had come to see me.” The old man said, “Absolutely do not panic. We too used to hide girls just there. The old story—the same old story.”

He returned. Back in the village, people asked him, “What did you see?”

He said, “I came back amazed by what I saw. The houses had changed, the roads had changed, the gardens had become new—but the story is ancient as ever. Man is just the same. We too used to hide books in the cover of the Bible—books that have nothing to do with the Bible, books that are the very enemies of the Bible. Those very books I saw with the new student. What I saw there is exactly what was present in my life thirty years ago. The same today.”

But that old man must have been very courageous. Old men seldom admit that man remains the same. Not because man has changed, but because they forget what they were in their youth. Not because humanity is different, but because they weave a delusion that they themselves were very different. Otherwise, the realities are alike.

For thousands of years man has been repeating himself. No new man arises in a new generation. The old ailments persist, the old diseases, the old stories—everything old.

The untruths surrounding us are not new. For thousands of years they have persisted. No one single man bears responsibility for their invention. Generation upon generation has developed them. Therefore an individual hardly notices what binds him—are these things true or false?

We stand with folded hands before a temple, but the man who stands with folded hands did not build that temple. And the God before whom he stands, he did not fashion that either. The temple and the deity were only bequeathed to him. And in the unknowing moments of childhood he was taught to bow, to worship, to pray. He does so.

He has no idea whether the temple before which he stands is a temple of Truth or of untruth. He knows nothing of whether the Paramatma to whom he bows exists, or is but the imagination of some people. He does not even know whether what he is doing has any meaning or is mere futility. He has simply accepted.

Therefore I want to say to you—first thing: the person who accepts, without thinking or understanding, what society and the crowd say—such a person stands on the side of untruth. He who would stand on the side of Truth should not fall into such blind acceptance. His eyes must be open. Thoughtful awareness should be present. Reason must be luminous. His mind should not quietly consent to mere acceptance. Within him, doubt and inquiry should be cultivated. Only then will he be saved. Otherwise, some untruth will lay hold of him, and he will be encircled by it.

And to be encircled by untruths is so comforting that it defies calculation. To be enveloped in untruth brings such gratification that it cannot be measured. To attain Truth is arduous; to attain Truth is an austerity; to attain Truth is a labor. Untruth—we can accept even in our sleep. No labor, no tapas is required; only our assent. And if that assent gratifies our ego, gives satisfaction, then nothing more is required.

If I say to you, “The Atman is immortal,” your mind is immediately ready to agree. Not because you have glimpsed Truth in what I said, but because your mind fears death. Because there is fear of death, anyone becomes ready to accept the immortality of the Atman. It is not that you experienced any truth in accepting the immortality of the soul; rather, the fear of death within found a screen to hide behind. We feel fearless by believing the Atman is immortal—that death is not going to happen.

Hence those who fear death the most, who are most frightened, become the strongest believers in the immortality of the Atman. The more death-fearing a community, the more “religious” it becomes. Such religion is untrue, because religion has nothing to do with fear.

Religion is related to fearlessness—to abhaya. With fear—what connection could Dharma have? Dharma belongs to fearlessness.

But our acceptances stand upon our fears. The untruths that surround us give us consolations, a kind of solace.

In a family, someone dies—and we go and say, “The Atman is immortal. Do not weep, do not be distressed.” Great comfort arises; great solace is felt. And those who say this—tomorrow someone will die in their house, and they too will weep. And those whom they consoled will come to console them: “The Atman is immortal. Do not be afraid; what dies is only the body.” They had offered consolation, and now they will receive it. Neither of them knows anything of the immortality of the soul. But the immortality of the soul has become a comfort, a consolation. And then our minds cling to this untruth.

But the person who clings to such untruths… I am not saying the Atman is not immortal; I am saying that to cling to such notions without knowing is to cling to untruth.

Knowing—seeing—understanding—through experience, when such recognitions dawn in one’s life, then one comes upon Truth. If our approach, our reach, our vision is that of blind acceptance, we will never rise above untruth. And not only do we accept untruths regarding life and the world, we accept untruths about ourselves as well.

They are pleasant, those untruths—very agreeable. Tell man, “God made man the most superior among all creatures,” and all men are immediately ready to agree. The ego is greatly satisfied. But were any other animals or birds ever asked to testify on this matter? Have they ever said, “You are superior to us”? Has anyone asked them? Or did humans pass a one-sided verdict—deciding themselves that they are supreme?

Ask men whether men are superior to women—every man will agree at once. No need to take the testimony of women. Any man whose ego is gratified becomes ready to consent.

Ask Indians and they will say, “On this earth there is no nation more superior or civilized than us. This is the sacred land. Here alone God takes birth.” No one raises a doubt—because this satisfies our collective ego. Ask in Germany—they too believe likewise. Ask in China—they also do. And should a time come when man becomes capable of asking animals and birds, he will be astonished—they too will believe, “None is more superior than us.” We accept such untruths because they gratify our egos.

When Darwin first said that man is also an animal among animals, the whole world opposed him. Not because what he said was untrue, but because it wounded our ego. We were sons of God—and that naïf declared, “You are all sons of animals.” Great anger arose.

For thousands of years we believed the sun revolved around the earth. Then a man, Galileo, said, “No—the earth revolves around the sun.” The whole world protested. Priests and churchmen said, “This is false. For God made man in His own image. And He made the earth the center of the world and created man here. The sun must revolve around the earth—how could the earth revolve around the sun? We live on this earth. Will the earth on which man lives go around the sun? No—the sun must circle us.”

The earth was the center of the world because our human ego believed it so—the center of the universe. All stars, the sun—everything circled it. And for thousands of years no one doubted it—because to doubt would have hurt our ego; it would have disturbed us greatly.

Later, in this very century, Bernard Shaw said one day, “Galileo was wrong—I say the sun revolves around the earth.” Someone asked, “On what basis do you say this? By now it is conclusively proven that the earth moves.” Shaw said, “On this basis—that I, Bernard Shaw, live on this earth. The earth I live on cannot possibly go around anyone.”

He said it as a joke. But it became a joke upon all of humanity. Man is not ready to accept that he goes around anything. The earth never goes around, he insists. But shocks came—and man had to come down lower.

Then Freud said some other things, which made us even more restless. He said, “Man’s entire life revolves around sex.” Then we were more shaken, more agitated. Then it seemed that everything had been snatched from us. We believed we revolved around God—and this man says, Freud, that everything revolves around sex. That the mind of one’s twenty-four hours circles around it. A great blow. Enemies of Freud appeared across the world. Man was not ready to accept—“I—who was made only a little lower than the gods—and I revolve around sex? False statement! If he had spoken of the Atman, of Paramatma, of love—of pure love—that might have been acceptable. But of lust and desire!”

When the ego is hurt, man does not accept. He accepts only those statements that gratify the ego. And this has been going on for thousands of years. The result is that man has woven around himself a myth, a web of imagination. And he continues to believe within it. And that web is so false that whoever is entangled in it will never even be able to lift his eyes toward Truth. He himself will be afraid—for lifting one’s eyes toward Truth will mean the breaking of that web.

And until we know plainly the facts of human life, we cannot know the Truth of life. Before knowing Truth, one must know the facts. Whatever the facts are—they must be known. However bitter, however sharp, however burning they may be—they must be known. And fantasies, however pleasant, sweet, or agreeable—they remain fantasies. No one can travel upon them. You cannot sail an ocean in boats made of dreams. Nor can anyone draw even a drop of water from the ocean that exists in a dictionary. And as for boats of imagination—there is no question of sailing upon the sea in them.

The greatest calamity that has befallen human life is this: man has woven around himself such a mesh of imaginings, and he hesitates greatly to break it—he trembles. He goes on weaving it. Gradually he gets lost within it. And then it becomes difficult even to find out who is inside there.

I have heard about an emperor. Every day, for one hour, he would lock himself inside a certain room of his palace. Everyone in the palace was curious—queens, courtiers, ministers—what does he do there? Everyone was curious. But no one ever went within. He kept the key with himself. For an hour he would open the lock, go in, and bolt the door. At last their curiosity reached a peak. And all the household—the queens, the minister, his friends and relatives—conspired to discover what he did there. When they asked him, he would laugh—and never tell. Finally they all agreed to make a small hole in the wall overnight so that the next morning, when he went in, they could peep and see what he did.

And whoever peeped quickly withdrew from the hole, saying, “Ah! How strange!” He was doing a most unusual thing. Each one peeped and withdrew swiftly. What did he do? He would go in and take off all his garments, casting them aside, and stand naked. And he would say to Paramatma, “This is me! That was not me—the one wearing clothes a moment ago. With those garments on, how can I pray to You when they are false? With those garments on, how can I come to You when they are lies? Those clothes were adornments of my ego—not my truth. I am this—naked, utterly naked. Only naked can I come to You.”

This king must have been remarkable. And each person must be just so, if he is to draw near to Truth—naked. No one can go near Truth wearing garments. Because garments are false. The more beautiful the clothes, the uglier the man within. The more glittering the garments, the more colorless the person inside. In fact, to hide the inner pallor, we buy shining garments. To cover inner ugliness, we search for outer beauty and gather it. As we are outside, within we are just the opposite.

And that which is within—that is the fact. That inner nakedness must be known. If we know it, we can rise above it. If we know it, we can bid it farewell. But if we do not know it, there is no reason to let it go. What we do not recognize cannot be renounced. And whatever measures we go on taking will be of no use. Because the basic cause—the fundamental ground within—will remain unseen.

A man was ill. His illness was peculiar, and no physician could discern its true meaning. His eyes bulged outward, there was a buzzing in his ears, and his head seemed to spin. He was very wealthy. He went to the greatest physicians in the land. One said, “Your eyes are weak; you need spectacles.” He began wearing glasses. But the illness remained where it was—no change. He went to other doctors. Someone said, “Your teeth are bad; all must be pulled.” All his teeth were extracted. But the illness remained. Another said, “There is something wrong in your stomach; the appendix must be removed.” Even the appendix was operated upon. Still the illness remained.

He was distressed. But the illness would not go. Finally he went to the last doctor. After examining him, the doctor said, “No cause for the illness can be found; therefore it cannot be cured. And I will tell you plainly—do not trouble yourself in vain—you will not live beyond six months. I tell you the truth. Get your teeth pulled, remove your eyes, remove whatever you wish—you will not rise from this illness—six months more.”

The man thanked the doctor and said, “You have been kind. Good—I return now. Since it is settled that I will not live beyond six months.” He bought a mansion. He purchased beautiful cars. Whatever was available in the country for enjoyment—he bought everything. “If I am to live six months, I will enjoy them well.” He went and placed an order for two hundred suits with the greatest tailor in the land. “I will wear new clothes every day. What meaning is there now in repeating old clothes?”

The tailor took his measurements. He dictated them to his assistant. He measured the neck and said, “Write sixteen.” The man said, “No, I always wear a fifteen collar.” The tailor said, “Not fifteen—you may wear whatever you like—but if you wear a fifteen collar, your eyes will appear to bulge, your head will seem to whirl, you will feel dizzy. Not fifteen—wear sixteen, as you wish.” He said, “What are you saying! I have always worn fifteen! And my eyes do seem to bulge! And my ears do buzz! And I do feel dizzy.” The tailor said, “Of course. When the collar is too tight, this is bound to happen.”

He wore a sixteen collar. That man is still alive. It has been thirty years since. And it is he who told me this—“With a sixteen collar everything became all right.”

No physician could cure him. His illness was not where the physicians were looking. Man’s illness is not where priests tell him it is, nor where doctors imagine it is. Their treatments, in fact, make the man sicker—his teeth were pulled, his eyes were disturbed, his appendix removed. Had he remained in their hands, gradually they might have extracted all his bones. But that was not where the illness was. The illness was very simple and straightforward—but invisible to the physician’s eye.

Man’s illness too is very simple and straightforward. But those who have become lost in the complexities of scriptures cannot see it. They cannot see it because they are so entangled—so lost in scriptures—that they no longer have the capacity to see facts. And then the diagnoses and treatments they offer only bring new illnesses. Their treatments and diagnoses have increased the disease.

Which disease?

The disease of not knowing the facts of man. And those to whom we go for healing conceal our facts even further. The things they tell us weave newer myths, newer imaginations. They will tell you: “Within you is the Atman. The Atman is supremely pure and sacred. Supremely peaceful, shuddha-buddha.” And Moksha, Paramatma—who knows what else they will say. None of which has anything to do with your disease. With these words you become more lost, and your facts become more concealed.

The facts are quite different. Man’s nakedness is of another order. Hiding it beneath garments is no solution. It must be uncovered, seen, and intimately known. Life, as it is, must be seen just so. Not through the smoke of some doctrine, but directly, with open eyes.

And when a person becomes willing to see the facts of his life, a revolution begins within him. Because that which is ugly and sorrowful—by seeing it, the longing to change it is born. If we do not see it, there can be no question of change. And if we cover it in fine words, then all the more there is no question. If we robe it in doctrines and theories, it becomes invisible altogether.

Man has not only clothed his body—he has clothed his mind as well. And in a day he must change so many garments—and so many times. Outer clothes he wears once and goes about; inner garments he changes every single moment. Because with every new person he must meet wearing a different garment. He meets his servant in one attire, his boss in another. He meets his wife in one garb, his beloved in another. For twenty-four hours he changes garments—changes faces. In such a life of constant changing, a whole life of changing, he forgets what his original face is. To show others, he manufactures many faces.

We all know—throughout the day we make faces. We are all very skillful actors. The whole world is a most astonishing stage. Those who act in films and theatre are not more skillful than us. It is easy to act in cinema—in the drama of life it is difficult. Yet we all perform so much drama on the stage of life.

One morning Bertrand Russell was sitting at the door of his house. A man came, grabbed Russell by the neck, and said, “Sir, you write such books that I am greatly troubled by them. First of all, I do not understand what you write. Not a single sentence so far. Only one sentence I understood—and it is wrong.”

“Which sentence?” asked Russell, alarmed. “Which sentence?”

“You have written: ‘Caesar is dead.’ This is absolutely wrong. This is the only thing I understood in all your books—and it is absolutely wrong.”

Two thousand years have passed since Caesar died. Russell too was startled—what is this man saying?

“Do you have any proof?” asked Russell.

“I do. I myself am Caesar.”

Russell said, “Then conversation is mistaken. I fold my hands—my error. I will correct it in the next edition.”

The man went off happy. Later it was discovered he played Caesar in a film. His mind had gone astray—and since then he believed himself to be Caesar. He read in a book that Caesar is dead—and was very angry. “How can this man say so? I am alive.”

We, little by little, enact these faces—and then forget that they were acting. It begins to seem they are our own faces. “I am Caesar!” This is true of all of us. We have enacted many faces.

And then we set off in search of self-knowledge—Atma-jnana. And we forget: how will self-knowledge happen to one who does not even know his face? He who does not even know who he is—though he tries every way to show, “I am this, I am that”—twenty-four hours a day, a whole life. He may even succeed. Because where others too are actors, acting succeeds—what wonder is there? Here, if someone were to reveal the whole truth of life, we would shoot him. We would crucify him, saying, “This man is trouble.”

We live so much in untruth that if a true man stands up all at once, that true man appears so strange to us that there are only two ways we can deal with him: while he is alive—kill him; and once dead—worship him. Two behaviors we accord to such a man: while alive, we kill him; when dead, we worship him.

While living, killing seems necessary—because he becomes a condemnation of us all, a critique of us all, a reproach of us all. If he is true, then we are utterly false. And to see that I am false is most frightening. Therefore that man must be erased. So we crucify Christ, or we shoot Gandhi.

I was in a village recently. In the morning, when people sent in questions on slips, one very fine note came. It said, “Kindly tell us why you should not be shot.” I said to them, “Do not make such a mistake. Some have made that mistake before. Whoever you shoot—his dying then becomes very difficult. He does not die. He remains alive. Never make such a mistake—for the one you shoot, him you will later worship. It would be in my interest if you shot me, but it would greatly harm you. Do not shoot.” But our minds feel like shooting the one who starts to strip off our clothes and tries to make us naked.

But there is no choice—those who want to go toward Truth will have to drop their garments.

So today, in this first talk, I want to say to you: the eagerness to attain the Atman—yes, that is good. But is there readiness to drop the garments? The thirst for Truth—good. But is there the courage to leave untruth? The thought to rise toward Paramatma—good. But has there arisen the wish to step away from the false God we have fabricated?

To reach Truth without leaving untruth—this does not happen. And what is untruth? The greatest untruth is that we go on displaying, twenty-four hours a day, that we are something we are not.

A sannyasin came to Gandhi. He said, “I want to serve. Your message has appealed to me, so I have come to serve.”

Gandhi said, “Do this first service: drop these saffron robes you are wearing. Drop these ochre garments.”

The sannyasin said, “Drop them? But I am a sannyasin.”

Gandhi said, “What has renunciation to do with garments? And if you go into villages wearing these robes, people will serve you—you will not be able to serve them. If you want to serve them, do not go in these clothes. These are the clothes of ‘swamis’. A master cannot be a servant. We call a sannyasin ‘Swami’! How can a master be a servant? Leave these.”

But that sannyasin—who had had the courage to leave house and home, wife, who had had the courage to leave wealth and property—could not summon the courage to leave garments dyed in two-paisa ochre. He returned. Are two-paisa clothes so precious?

In fact, the value of clothes is this: the moment we drop them, we are nothing. Because of them we are “something.” I am something. You are something. Someone is a sannyasin, someone a king, someone holds a position. Someone is something—because of clothes. If we become naked, we all become nobodies. No one remains somebody.

There is fear in dropping garments. The garments of the mind have gripped our lives deeply. We have taken them to be our very being. They have become our being—our Atman. And if they are false, how will the true Atman be found?

Therefore the first need is that each person search within: have I been sheltering untruth? Have I fashioned my personality out of layers of falsehood? Is it that the very steel of untruth is what has shaped my life? To see this—to know it with wide-open eyes—is essential. It is a most astonishing thing—and it will be very painful to see what I am. What am I? What kind of animal am I? How naked I am! How full of anger! How full of hatred! How full of violence! But we have worn garments.

Within, a man is filled with deep violence, and he drinks filtered water—and becomes nonviolent. And forgets that the violence within him—if it could be removed by drinking filtered water, how easy it would be! Then we could filter all the water on the earth. Fit a filter to every tap, everyone drink filtered water—and Ahimsa would arrive. How easy the recipe! Then wars would have ended long ago.

A man gives up eating at night—and becomes nonviolent. So cheap! By renouncing dinner, he purchases a revolution like Ahimsa for so little! Violence remains within; on the surface he becomes nonviolent. He begins to believe himself nonviolent—accepts, “I have become nonviolent.” Our whole country is filled with such “nonviolent” people. Therefore we remained “nonviolent,” but violence remained intact where it was. Nothing changed.

So it is with our other notions. We appear to love one another. Yet we know nothing of love. We speak of love, spread our arms, and embrace one another. But in our hearts there is no love. A father shows his son, “I love you.” A son shows his father, “I too offer respect and reverence.” A mother says to her daughter, “I love you.” A husband says to his wife, “I love you.”

And if everyone on earth—husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, sons—loves, then from where does hatred come? If all claim to love, then whence the absence of love? Then there would be no space left for lovelessness. If the father loves, the mother loves, the son loves, the wife loves, the husband loves—then who is left outside this circle? Who, then, does not love? Who brings hatred? Who brings violence? Who creates wars? Astonishing!

If this love is true, then wars should be false. But war is such a great reality that it cannot be called false. Only one path remains—to call this love false. If mothers loved their children, then who were those who fell on the battlefield? Which mothers sent them there? If fathers loved their sons, which fathers sent them to war? Who sends them? What sister sends her brother? What wife sends her husband to kill someone?

No—we do not love. Our loves are false—only in name. There is the flag of love—and behind it a temple of hate. There is the talk, the slogan of love—and behind it, a heart full of hatred. And then we go on talking love and go on committing acts of violence.

This must be known. Whoever would move toward Truth must uncover his love and see: is it love—or a false mask? And if it is a false mask, once that is seen, then no one on this earth will be able to live even a single moment without love. Such movement will arise in his being, such pain and longing—“There is no love in my life?” Such thirst will arise that he will discover love wherever it is, he will awaken it wherever.

But as long as we conceal, and display false love, we remain under the illusion that “I am filled with love.” Therefore the search for love does not happen. Therefore love is not born. The notion of false love will not allow true love to be born.

I tell you: our family is false. The institution of family is utterly false. There is no love in it anywhere. But we have given such forms and shapes to false things that they appear to be love. In our family, in our marriages, in our parents, in our children—there is no real love. But as long as we believe this is love, how will anything change? As long as we hide violence beneath nonviolence—how will there be any difference? How will there be revolution? How will life transform?

It is necessary to see the facts of life. Necessary to uncover them. A man must see himself—each person—nakedly, completely. Only then can the journey toward Dharma begin. Only then can the steps toward Paramatma be taken. Only then can the eyes open toward Truth.

In this first talk, I submit only this: one must know the facts of life. Not the stories of the scriptures—the facts of life. Not the words of the scriptures—the burning facts of life. Doctrines, theories—these take no one anywhere. But the unveiling, the disclosure of facts—this changes the whole of life. This is my first submission. In the talks to come, I have other submissions to make to you.

One small story—and I will complete this talk.

One night, on a dense and dark night, a caravan halted at a desert inn. The caravan had a hundred camels. They tied the camels, hammered in the pegs—but in the end they discovered one camel remained un-tethered. One peg and one rope were missing. It was midnight; the markets were closed. Where could they get a peg, where a rope?

They woke the innkeeper and said, “We would be obliged—give us one peg and one rope. Ours are lost. Ninety-nine camels are tethered, the hundredth remains untied. It is a dark night—he may wander.”

The old man said, “Do not panic. I have neither rope nor peg. But you are such foolish people—after living with camels so long you have learned nothing. Go and drive in a peg and tie a rope and tell the camel to sleep.”

They said, “Are we fools or are you? If we had a peg, why would we come to you? Which peg shall we drive?”

The old man said, “You are naïve. Pegs can be driven that are not there, and ropes can be tied that have no existence. Go—only enact the driving of a peg. It is a dark night; a man is deceived—what to say of a camel? Go—strike as if a peg is being driven; loop the neck as if a rope is being tied—and tell the camel to sleep. He will sleep. Often guests come here, their ropes are lost. And that is why I do not keep ropes and pegs—without them the work goes on.”

They were compelled. They did not quite believe him. But they went. They dug a little pit and hammered in a peg that was not there. Only the sound of hammering— and the camel sat. The peg was being driven—his nightly ritual. They placed their hands around his neck as though tying a rope. The rope was tied to the peg—the rope that was not there. The camel slept.

They were amazed. A wondrous secret came into their hands. They too slept.

In the morning they rose early—the caravan had to move on. They pulled out the ropes of ninety-nine camels, took out the pegs—the camels stood. The hundredth had no peg to pull. They did not pull his peg. They pushed him—but he would not rise. He would not get up. They said, “This is too much. At night deception was understandable—but in the daylight too? Can this fool not see there is no peg?” They pushed and pushed—but the camel refused to rise. The camel must have been very religious.

They went inside and said to the old man, “What magic have you done? The camel does not rise.”

He said, “You are great fools. Go—first remove the peg, first untie the rope.”

They said, “But where is the rope?”

He said, “Just as you tied it at night—untie it now.”

Compelled, they went. They pulled out the peg, made the sound—the peg came out. The camel stood up. They untied the rope—the camel was ready to move.

They thanked the old man and said, “You are wonderful. You know much about camels.” He said, “No—the key did not come from knowledge of camels; it came from knowledge of men.”

Man is tied to such pegs as are nowhere—and with such ropes as have no existence. And he remains bound for life. And he cries, “How shall I be free? How shall I find Paramatma? How shall I find the Atman? I want freedom, Moksha!” He cries—and yet he does not stir from his place, for pegs have bound him. He says, “How shall I loosen these pegs?”

The first key is this: look well at the pegs—are they even there?

If the facts are seen, there is no question of loosening or rising.

In the coming talks I will speak further about those pegs to which man is bound—and how they can be removed. But first this key had to be known: the facts of life must be known—with eyes open.

Even if someone is deceived in the dark—that is understandable. But we are deceived in daylight as well. Let us leave aside the previous generations—they lived in very dark nights. But today there is much light on the earth—more than ever before. And even now if a camel remains tethered to them—if surprise arises, what is there to wonder at?

So I request you: open your eyes a little—and in the light, look around: which pegs are binding me? You will find myth—not pegs. You will find imagination, stories. And it is a very old story—the oldest story. Ever since the beginning, man has gone on in it. A few have managed to break it. But each person can manage—that is what I want to tell you.

You listened to my words with such love and peace—for that I am most grateful. And in the end I bow to the Paramatma residing within all. Please accept my pranam.