Jeevan Darshan #3

My beloved Atman!
I would like to begin today’s talk with a small incident.
It was early morning. The village children had just reached school when, unannounced, an inspector arrived for inspection. He went into the first grade and said: Among the three most capable, the most intelligent students of this class, let them come to the board one by one and solve whatever question I give.
One student rose quietly, came forward. He solved the question on the board, returned to his seat. Then a second student came; he too solved what was given and sat down in silence. But the third student took a little time to appear. And when he did come, he came hesitantly, stood at the board. He was given a problem. Just then the inspector noticed: this is the same first boy, the one who came before! He said, As far as I understand, you are the first student who has come up again?
The boy said, Forgive me. In our class, the third-smartest boy has gone to watch a cricket match today. I am here in his place. He told me, 'If any work of mine comes up, you do it for me.'
Hearing this, the inspector flared up. He began to shout loudly, very angry. He said: Has such a thing ever been seen or heard—that one student should solve another’s questions? That one should sit another’s examination? What could be more unethical than this! He lectured the students at length that this was a very erroneous thing. Then he turned to the teacher and said: Sir, you are standing here watching and could not stop them? You stand here quietly while I am being made a fool! You did not even say that this boy has already been once?
The teacher too became angry with the students.
But in the end the inspector asked: It seems to me as if you do not recognize these students?
The teacher said: Forgive me! Actually, I am not the teacher of this class. The teacher of this class has gone to watch the cricket match. He told me to stand in for him for a while.
The inspector was beside himself. He said: What is this, what is this situation! You too are deceiving me! You are another class’s teacher and you are standing here? He abused the teacher roundly. Then suddenly he softened a little and said: Well, it is good—your good fortune—that the real inspector has not come for inspection today; he has gone to watch the cricket match. I am only a friend of the real inspector. Had he come today, you would have been in great trouble.
I begin today’s talk with this incident for a reason: we are all in the same boat. We are all equally at fault—and equally responsible. What is important here is not that we raise our fingers at others, but that we turn back and look at ourselves—what state are we in? We are all in the same boat. We share the same responsibility for the shaping of this society and this world. And in the darkness of this world, our contribution is there; we too are partners.
It is very easy to see others’ mistakes. Very easy to see others’ nakedness. That is not difficult. It is easy, pleasant, even gratifying. Why? Because whenever we look at the dark spots in someone else’s life, two satisfactions arise. One: in the face of others’ dark patches, our own dark patches begin to appear quite ordinary. It seems, ‘Everyone is like this. Then there is nothing especially wrong in me.’ Second: seeing the darkness in others spares us the pain, the inward sting, the churning that should arise when we look at our own bare facts. It does not arise.
Yesterday I said to you that on the path of dharma each person must see the facts of his own life. We all look at the facts of others’ lives; not our own. We peep into others’ lives; not into our own. And then, then no descent of dharma into our life is possible.
Dharma is self-critique. Dharma is seeing oneself with an extremely sharp, piercing eye; a clear analysis of oneself; an intense alertness toward oneself.
Until we know ourselves in our full truth, there is no way for transformation. Whoever sets out to change himself, to pass through a revolution, in whom the thirst has arisen to illumine life—he must look at himself with very fine eyes.
And as I said yesterday, we hide our own facts. We cover them over. It would be one thing if we covered them from others; but we cover them from ourselves. We deceive ourselves.
In my eyes, this is the definition of adharma: whoever deceives himself lives in adharma.
And when a person becomes incapable of deceiving himself, the journey of dharma begins in his life.
In London, a play of Shakespeare was running. It was much praised; the whole city spoke of it. The city’s chief priest, the highest pastor, too felt, ‘I should go and see this play.’ But for a priest to go to the theater was not considered proper. After all, priests have themselves abused and condemned the theater. How could the priest go himself? Yet his mind was full of keen curiosity: ‘I must see it.’
He wrote a letter to the theater manager. In it he wrote: My friend, I have a strong desire to come see the play. Is there not some back door in your theater, by which I may come and watch, yet remain unseen by other onlookers?
The manager’s reply was wonderful. He wrote: By all means, come. You are welcome. There is a back door. Through it, priests and sannyasins often come. We had to build it specially for them. Please come, you are welcome. But let me submit one thing: we do have a door by which you may come and others may not see you, but we have no door by which you may come and Paramatma may not see you!
I do not know whether that pastor went or not. Very likely he did. For priests are the ones least afraid of Paramatma.
In life we wish to deceive others—that is understandable; but we also want to deceive ourselves. Is there any door by which we can enter and not see ourselves entering? Perhaps even Paramatma might miss it. Perhaps He might not see. After all, at how many doors can He keep watch, and for how long? By now He must be bored, even exasperated. But is there any door by which I can slip out and not know it myself? There can be no such door.
But we are clever: we pass by with our eyes closed. We do not let even ourselves know. And this deception goes deeper and deeper. The burden of it grows. The soul becomes more and more burdened. And then, if we long to know the soul—how will it be possible? The one who has continuously deceived himself—himself—how will he know himself? He may deliver one last deception and imagine, without knowing, that ‘I have known myself.’ And we even do this.
We read of the soul in the scriptures; we hear ideas of Paramatma from tradition and we learn them. Then we begin to speak as if we know. As if we know! We start to feel that borrowed knowledge is our own. This is the final deception one gives oneself. In this very way the pandit deceives himself. What he has not known—what he has only heard and learned, what he has read and memorized—that too he takes as knowledge.
We are all sitting here; some of us believe in God, some in Atman, some in moksha. Yet none of us knows the truth of these things. But by repeating these words continuously, an illusion arises as if we know. And when we begin to explain such things to others, and we see a glimmer in their eyes, that they seem to understand—then seeing that reflection in their eyes we ourselves begin to believe that what we are saying must be true, and we must have known it.
Today at noon I was telling a story. In America, a man started the very first bank. Forty years later, when he had grown old and a jubilee was being celebrated, a friend asked him: ‘How did you start the first bank?’ He said: ‘I had a signboard made that said ‘Bank’ and hung it in front of my house. I sat behind with a small cash box and some ledgers. An hour later a man came and deposited fifty dollars. Two hours after that another man came and deposited a hundred and fifty. Seeing those two make deposits, my own confidence grew so much that I deposited my own fifty dollars there as well. Watching those two depositors, my faith rose that this bank would surely run. That is how the bank began.’
From the scriptures we learn words. We pass those words to others. If we see a glow in their eyes as if it makes sense to them, our own faith grows so much that we feel what we are saying is absolutely right. Thus words become knowledge—words that are borrowed and stale. We memorize scripture and forget that we know nothing. This is the last deception a person can give himself.
If I ask you: Is there God? And if you remain silent and say: ‘I know nothing; I am utterly ignorant’—I will say: You are a religious person; you are not deceiving yourself. But if you say: ‘Yes, God is—and He is of this color, this form; the deity of this temple is the real God and the one of that temple is false’—I will say: You have begun to deceive yourself.
What do we know of such a thing as God? The truth is unknown. And with our petty intellects we learn a few lines and begin to claim we know. Or another person declares, ‘There is no God’—he is equally dogmatic. Without knowing that of which he knows nothing, to deny it is not right. The one who will be true to himself will say, ‘I do not know. I have no idea.’ In such simplicity and truthfulness, an inquiry begins within; a search begins.
Yesterday I also told you: we must see the facts of our life with utter ruthlessness and truthfulness. Today I will speak to you of the sutras for seeing those facts.
What are the sutras for seeing the facts of life?
Today I will speak of three sutras.
The first sutra is: thought.
But we have not created any space for thought in our lives. We all go on living by belief. And the person who lives by belief becomes blind. Belief means: to accept what we do not know. And when we acquire the habit of accepting what we do not know, gradually life becomes blind; we lose our eyes.
Not belief, but thought is needed for self-inspection.
Keen thought is needed; a sharp, penetrating thought that can cut through our darkness and our blindness. But perhaps we have lost the habit of thinking. We seem full of thoughts, but I tell you: you never think. You are certainly filled with thoughts, but you have hardly, if ever, thought. The first condition for thinking is this: do not accept any assertion. Make your consciousness fully alert on the question; see and reflect for yourself.
There was a Muslim fakir, Nasruddin. One evening someone gave him a piece of meat in alms—about three pounds. He came home, gave it to his wife and said: Today is a happy day; instead of just bread, we shall have meat. I will go and call a few friends; you prepare it. When he returned with his friends, his wife, true to her habit, had done what she always did. Before he came back, she had hidden the meat. As soon as he arrived she said: Forgive me, a big problem. As soon as you left, our cat ate the meat.
If you had been in Nasruddin’s place, what would you have done? He had brought four friends. They were standing at the door. And his wife said the cat had eaten the meat. If he were a believer, he would have accepted his wife’s words in silence. If he were a disbeliever, he would have doubted, quarreled. But he was neither believer nor disbeliever. What did he do? He ran to the neighbor’s shop and brought a scale. He put the cat on the scale—three pounds. Nasruddin said, ‘If this is the meat, where is the cat? And if this is the cat—where is the meat?’
This man is using thought. He weighs, tests, measures; he places things on the touchstone. He said: ‘If this is the cat, where is the meat? It was three pounds of meat. And if, as you say, this is the meat, then where is the cat?’ His wife had never imagined the cat would be weighed.
We have long ago stopped weighing facts on the scale. With eyes closed we either accept or reject—but with eyes closed. With eyes open we do not weigh the facts of life, the truths. Then gradually the whole way is lost and darkness spreads.
We need intensely alert thought. Everything needs a touchstone. Life is no play; life is a great test, a great assay. Each moment of life is an opportunity—to awaken the sleeping powers within, or to let them sleep.
The person who believes does not give birth within himself to the faculty of thought and reason.
If someone does not use his eyes and keeps them closed for a few years, they will stop functioning. If someone ties up his legs and does not walk for a few years, his legs will cease to work. The faculty we stop using grows weak; the faculty we use more grows strong.
But for thousands of years those who exploited humankind never wanted man to think. Because thinking is dangerous. Thought is rebellious. The one who thinks cannot be exploited; he cannot be deceived, cannot be misled onto false paths. And to this day, like a grand conspiracy, a few have been leading mankind astray for their own interest. For this it was necessary that the seed of thought not be allowed to sprout in man.
So they taught—believe. The religious priests, the politicians, the rich—all taught: Believe. Belief bears fruit. Belief is the foundation of religion. Whoever believes attains Paramatma. Such things were taught—utterly false.
No one has ever reached truth or God through belief, nor can one. Because the open eyes needed to observe truth, to see, to behold—belief closes them. Therefore whoever longs to lay his life bare, to enter within and know the power of life—he must know this: he will have to think.
Thought is a great austerity. Because many illusions will be snatched away. And many illusions are very pleasant; their loss hurts the heart, causes tremors. When all illusions are stripped, restlessness arises. But before one reaches truth, the illusions must go. The sharp sword of thought tears the net of illusion. Thus, one must think. Not accept or reject another, but think for oneself with the whole of one’s awareness. Turn every fact over and over. Weigh it on the scale of reason. The first sutra is thought.
Where thought is awake, a special radiance arises in life. Where thought fades, dullness enters—slackness, sadness, lethargy. The brightest flame in man is thought. The more thought-filled one’s breath, the more light and radiance there is in life.
There was a great thinker. One morning he went to buy oil at the village oilman’s. While the oilman weighed the oil, the thinker watched the mill behind him. A blindfolded bullock was driving the mill. There was no one prodding him. The thinker asked: No one is driving him, yet he moves—how is this?
The oilman said a meaningful thing: Do you not see? We have covered his eyes. When the eyes are closed, the bullock never realizes whether anyone is driving him or not. If his eyes were open, he would know there is no driver; he would stop.
The thinker asked: But if he stops, how will you know—you sit with your back to him?
He said: We have tied a bell to his neck. When he walks, the bell rings. As soon as it stops, we make him move again. It never occurs to him that there was no driver in between.
The thinker said: But it could also happen that the bullock stands still and just shakes his head—the bell would keep ringing.
The oilman folded his hands: Please, leave from here. If the bullock hears you, we will be in great trouble. Go elsewhere for your oil. The poor beast is doing his simple work; if he hears such things, everything will be ruined.
The owner does not want thought to reach the bullock.
In the world, no owner wants thought to reach man.
Man is yoked to many mills; much work is extracted from him. Bells are tied around his neck, ringing. And the man goes on with his eyes closed.
What closes the eyes?
Belief. The bandage of belief is on man’s eyes.
That is why one color of bandage makes one a Muslim, another a Hindu, a third a Jain, a fourth a Christian. Otherwise—what difference is there between man and man, apart from beliefs? Is there any wall? Any trench? Anything to obstruct love—other than belief? I become a Muslim, you become a Hindu, because I was fed one kind of poison from childhood, you another. A different bandage was tied over your eyes. You were yoked to one mill, I to another. Whatever the mill, one thing is certain: our eyes were closed. Every door to their opening was shut. No thought should even arise within.
And if anyone comes to provoke thought, the owner of the mill says: Please go away. If the bullock hears you, we are in great trouble.
Thus, whenever those who give birth to thought have appeared, we have killed them—crucified them or given them poison.
Greece gave Socrates poison. He was a man who tried to awaken thought. He roamed the streets of Athens crying out, ‘You are asleep, you are blind.’ The vested interests of that place could not tolerate him. They said: This man must be finished. He says such things that if people hear, no one will be able to exploit them. So they said to Socrates: You are corrupting the youth.
Surely, if a thinker tells a bullock, ‘Think and see,’ the owner will say: You are spoiling the bullock!
Socrates was given poison.
For three or four thousand years, whenever a ray of thought was about to be born, and fear arose that the winds might carry it far and kindle a spark in everyone’s heart, then quickly the self-interested killed it, extinguished the spark at once.
Even today we stand in almost the same darkness as the time of Socrates. No difference has arisen.
There is a conspiracy. In the interest of a few it is necessary that mankind remain blind. Then anything can be made of these blind people. Tell them, ‘Islam is in danger—set fire to Hindu homes’—and these blind men will burn them. They will not ask: What can burning homes have to do with religion? Tell them, ‘Hindu dharma is in danger—burn the mosques’—and they will burn them; they will kill unarmed children. They will not ask: What has killing someone’s child to do with protecting Hindu dharma? They will not ask—because the one who thinks is the one who asks. The believer does not question; he takes commands as commands. He accepts.
That is why, to this day, who knows what foolishness has been fed to man; he has been made to fight and kill for it. A basic trick has been used: do not let thought be born. Because thought will question, hesitate, doubt, reason; it will inquire. And only when it feels it is right will it take a step forward.
Therefore those who wish to keep disturbance alive in the world, to keep exploitation and war going, do not wish thought to arise. They want belief. Hitler wanted the same, Stalin wanted the same; other leaders want the same; religious leaders too want the same.
Hence I say: whether religious leaders or political—they all agree on one thing: the greater humanity’s eyes must not open. And thus they all are party to the same conspiracy.
I request you: open your eyes. Ask. Raise questions. Life is not something to be accepted like a blind man; it is to be searched with open eyes. But we have accepted all the answers without asking. That is why our entire knowledge is dead. There is no life in it. Knowledge that we gain by asking, seeking, carries aliveness.
In a village in Japan there were two temples. As temples do, they had an ancestral feud. For generations they were enemies. Many had died across generations, but the enmity remained—parents love their children so much that they even make a bequest of their hatred: ‘Take care of this.’ The priests changed, the temples were a thousand years old; but each priest bequeathed to the next: the other temple is the enemy. The enmity was such that there was no conversation between them.
In which religion is there any conversation within, let alone between? Between mosque and temple—any conversation? Church and temple? There never is. There is no exchange.
Between those two temples there was none either. Yet each had a small boy attending on the priest for minor tasks. Now children are children! Sometimes the two would meet on the road and share a smile, a word. Elders do spoil children, but it takes time; children cannot be spoiled at once. Though their priests warned them: ‘Do not talk to that other boy,’ still children are children; it takes time to spoil them. Sometimes they would talk.
One day the northern temple’s priest saw his boy speaking with the boy from the southern temple. When his boy returned, he scolded him, ‘What were you talking about? I told you not to!’
The boy said: ‘I myself wanted to ask you. Something happened today and I was left without an answer. I asked that boy, ‘Where are you going?’ He said, ‘Wherever my feet take me.’ Then I had no idea what more to say to him.’
The guru was very angry. He said: ‘That is a bad thing. To be defeated by that temple’s boy is an insult to our temple. Tomorrow, ask him again, ‘Where are you going?’ When he says, ‘Where my feet take me,’ you say: ‘Understand further—if you had no feet, where would you go? Would you go at all?’ Then he too will be stuck; he will find no answer.’
Next day the boy stood at the usual place. The other boy came out. He asked: ‘Where are you going, friend?’
But that boy did not say, ‘Where my feet take me.’ He said, ‘Where the winds carry me!’
Now it was difficult. The prepared answer was futile. He had come ready to say, ‘If you had no feet, would you go?’—but now there was no point.
He became angry: ‘That boy is dishonest. Yesterday he said one thing; today something else.’ He returned and said to his guru, ‘I lost again. That boy seems very dishonest.’
The guru said: ‘Dishonest boy—has anyone ever been anything else in that temple? They change at the drop of a hat! But do not be afraid. Tomorrow ask again. When he says, ‘Where the winds carry me,’ you say: ‘And if the winds are still, will you go anywhere?’
The boy again went to the place. He had no thought of his own—no intelligence, no reflection. He had rehearsed answers. He stood there with them—just as we all stand with rehearsed answers. He asked, ‘Where are you going, friend?’ The other boy truly was dishonest—as life is dishonest, changing every day. He said, ‘To buy vegetables!’ And the rehearsed question and answer about the winds were left hanging.
Life does not accept prepared answers. Each day life changes the question—while our answers remain ready-made, learned by rote.
Life does not want fixed answers; life wants a thought-filled consciousness. Whatever the question, it will be reflected in that consciousness. There will be a challenge—and the answer will arise. In thought the answer arises.
In belief, the answer is learned, fixed. We learn it from the Gita, from the Bible, from the Koran—from Krishna, Mahavira, Christ. We bring answers learned from someone and stand at life’s crossroads. But life changes daily; our answers lag behind. We are troubled.
The person who binds learned answers within his mind never matches pace with life. Life moves ahead each day. Life’s Ganges never stops; it will not wait for your prepared answers. It becomes new every day and raises new questions. By the time you open your book to find an answer and look up again, life has moved on; new questions stand before you. You are always behind.
The believer always lags behind. He cannot make contact with life. Because beliefs must be borrowed; in the borrowing they grow stale, fixed, dead. They burden life but cannot free it.
Therefore the first sutra is: awaken the power of your own thought.
How will it awaken? By thinking. Reflect. Do not accept any face of life as it is presented. Think. Lift up the scale of reason and weigh. And whatever does not stand up on the touchstone of thought—even if it be very pleasing, very comforting—have the courage not to accept it. Wait until it stands true on the touchstone. It is a great austerity, a hard thing. The mind easily agrees to accept quietly; who will labor? In thought there is labor; in belief there is none. I say it; you accept it—nothing is required of you. You are not a participant, not active; you stand far off. I spoke; you believed; you went your way. Whoever accepts passively keeps his eyes closed.
Take all of life as an active act of thought—that is the first sutra.
The second sutra: only the person who is impartial can think actively.
The second sutra is: impartiality.
The one who is bound to a side cannot think. Consciously or unconsciously, his desire is that his side be proven right. He cannot be impartial, unprejudiced. His mind is attached to the outcome: ‘This must be true.’
If you are a Hindu, you are not searching for truth; you are searching for how to prove Hinduism true. This is not an impartial search for truth; you have decided your side already. Then it becomes very easy. Life is vast; you can select things that support your side and fall into delusion.
A man wrote a book. In America the date thirteen is considered unlucky. He ‘proved’ it. How? He collected the statistics of murders occurring on the thirteenth, the number dying of various illnesses, the number of road accidents, the number of abductions, house fires—everything. He compiled them into a book and said: ‘All this happens on the thirteenth. Therefore it is a bad date.’ If you read it, you will be impressed.
But if someone wishes, he can ‘prove’ the same of the twelfth—or the eleventh. Accidents happen on the eleventh; people die on the eleventh; illnesses occur; fires happen—everything happens. But he had taken the side of thirteen; so he searched and found. You may take the twelfth and you will find; take the tenth and you will find.
This is not search; it is taking a side first and then proving it. It is not a scientific attitude. Whoever approaches life in this manner can prove anything; but no truth is discovered by such proof.
Be impartial. Go to life as a blank page. Do not decide in advance what is auspicious or inauspicious, true or untrue. Keep your mind open. Be ready to hear whatever life says. Then facts can be found. Truth can be sought. The second sutra is impartiality.
Are our minds impartial? Have we ever thought about any issue impartially? If not, then understand that you have never truly thought. Without impartiality, no thinking is possible.
But we are all partisans. We belong to some side. And when we belong to a side, our aspiration becomes something else.
A fakir once said: There are two kinds of people on the earth. Those who want truth to come and stand by their side—and those who want to go and stand wherever truth is. The first wish truth to stand beside them; the second wish to stand beside truth—wherever it is.
Between these two there is the difference of the earth and the sky. The one who wishes truth to stand by him is wrapped in partiality. Even if truth must die to stand at his side, he will insist. He loves not truth, but his own ego—and for its fulfillment he drags truth to his side. The other—who is ready to stand wherever truth is—becomes simple, egoless, and comes to truth.
Impartiality is needed. Look within: am I bound by sides?
If only a few people on the earth became impartial, there would be no cause for war. It is astonishing—no nation has ever said ‘we attacked’; all say ‘we defended ourselves.’ Then who attacks? Every government’s war department is called ‘defense.’ If all do defense, who does attack? But no one is ready to think impartially. What we do is defense; what the other does is aggression.
A Christian father told his child: ‘Ten Hindus have become Christian—thanks be to God; wisdom has dawned on them.’ The child said: ‘But father, once a Christian became a Hindu—then you did not say this. You said something else.’ The father glared: ‘Silence! Do not even take the name of that traitor who became a Hindu.’
He is a traitor if he goes from Christian to Hindu; but if he goes from Hindu to Christian, wisdom has dawned; he is dear to God!
We are all partisans; thus we cannot think, cannot see, cannot understand how life moves. We remain trapped within our wells; our eyes go no farther.
You have heard the tale: A frog of the ocean once jumped into a small well. The well-frog asked, ‘Friend, where are you from?’ He said, ‘From the sea.’ The well-frog asked: ‘How big is your sea—this big?’ He leapt a foot within the well. ‘This big?’ The sea-frog laughed, ‘No, much bigger.’ He leapt a foot and a half: ‘This big?’ ‘No, still much bigger.’ He leapt again. Finally he leapt the entire eight-foot breadth. ‘This big?’ The sea-frog said: ‘No, friend, you have no measure.’ The well-frog laughed: ‘You speak crazy things. Is there any place bigger than this well? Is there?’
One who has lived only in a well—if he feels there is no larger place, why laugh? How will he know there is a larger place?
We too have made our wells and live in them. Whenever someone brings news of the ocean, we ask: ‘Are you saying what is written in the Gita? In the Bible? In the Koran?’ And if he says: ‘No, what I bring is written nowhere,’ we reply: ‘Leave it. Such a thing cannot be. Is there a place larger than our well? Is there a truth greater than words? Is there something bigger than tradition?’
We are trapped in our wells. Whoever is closed in his well is, in my words, prejudiced. For thinking you must come out of the well. The sea-frog made a mistake. I look for him, to tell him two things. He erred. The well-frog did not err. The error was the sea-frog’s. When the well-frog leapt and asked ‘This big?’ the sea-frog said, ‘No, bigger.’ This created the illusion that another leap within the well might reach it.
If I had been in his place, I would have said: ‘Friend, do not leap. And if you must leap, do not leap in the water—leap out of the well. If you wish to know the sea, there is no way to know it sitting here. Come, the path by which I came from the sea to here—I know it. I will take you to the sea.’ If he had taken the well-frog to the sea, what was impossible to explain would have become visible.
So I say to you: stop measuring within the well. Step out a little—from the Hindu well, the Muslim well, the Jain well. The ocean of Paramatma is vast. The priests’ wells are tiny. The books’ wells are small. The wells of words are small. The ocean of truth is vast. Whoever tries to measure it by the unit of his well—even if his well be very big—will never measure truth.
An impartial mind is a mind that has come out of the well.
Therefore the second sutra is: let go of sides; let the partisan mind dissolve.
The third sutra—without which even the second is not possible, just as without the second the first is not. What is the third?
The first sutra is thought.
The second sutra is impartiality.
The third sutra is awareness—jagarukta.
We live life half-asleep. Eyes closed, in a kind of slumber—not awake. Thus many truths pass us by; we do not even see them.
When Buddha was born, his father called the astrologers and asked: What will this child become? They said: either a world-conquering emperor, or a sannyasin.
It is amusing: parents do not fear so much if their child becomes a thief or a murderer as they fear him becoming a sannyasin. Because even a thief, a murderer, remains part of the familiar world; the sannyasin goes on another path—the unknown path. No father wants that, no mother wants that.
Though Buddha’s parents touched the feet of the sannyasins who came to the village. If another’s son becomes a sannyasin, what is that to us? But their own son—this terrified them. They called the learned men of the city: How to prevent him from becoming a sannyasin?
They said: There is only one way: do not let life be seen by him. Keep him in a sweet unconsciousness. If he does not see life, he will not become a sannyasin. For whoever sees life, a revolution happens within him.
So they raised Buddha in such a way that nothing of life appeared to him. It is said: the withered flowers in his garden were removed at night, lest seeing a withered flower he think: life too will wither. Old people were not allowed near him; only youth approached him, lest he think life ends in old age. Until he became a young man, he had not heard of death, lest the shock of death bring revolution.
But how long can one be kept shielded from life? Life attacks from all sides every day. And the shielding itself became the danger.
Buddha grew up. There was a youth festival in the kingdom. Buddha went to participate, seated in his chariot. On the way he saw, for the first time, an old man. Had he seen old people since childhood, the blow would not have been so deep; he would have been accustomed. We too see old people daily, pass by them. Buddha too saw—but to him it appeared deeply, as a stranger. He had never seen it. He asked his charioteer: What has happened to this man? I have never seen such a thing.
The charioteer said: He has become old.
If you had been in Buddha’s place, you would have said: ‘Poor fellow, such a bad thing—old age. Let us admit him to a charitable hospital, get him treated. Or tell the government to make a plan so no one grows old.’ You would have thought such things. But Buddha did not. He did not ask where the old man lives, who he is. As soon as the charioteer said ‘He has become old,’ what did Buddha ask? Any thoughtful person would ask: Do all people become old?
The charioteer said: Certainly—everyone becomes old.
What was Buddha’s next question? Will I too become old?
The charioteer said: You too—there can be no exception.
Do you know what Buddha said? He said: ‘Turn the chariot back. I have become old.’ He said: ‘Turn back. I am old now. What use going to a youth festival? There, youths will gather. I am old. For what has to happen is already happening. I must be becoming old this very moment; otherwise, how would I become old one day? Old age will not come all at once; it is coming daily. I have become old; take me back.’
The way Buddha saw the old man—that is to see with open eyes, with awareness.
Whoever looks at life awake, in his life a revolution will take place—everything will change within.
But we go on with closed eyes. We do not see what is happening around us. Leaves fall from trees; the young become old; the old die. Death everywhere, encircling from all sides—yet we live on. No question arises. Death does not become a curiosity. If someone tries to show you—‘Look, this is death’—you say: ‘Do not speak ill omens. Let it be; what is it to me? I am alive.’ We avoid it.
Whoever avoids death will never see life. Because the courage to see death is also the courage to see life. Life and death are two sides of one coin.
Therefore see life very awake, in its totality—its ugliness and its beauty, its pits and its heights, its darkness and its light—see all. For that a very bright, open eye is needed—not a sleeping man.
I have heard of a fakir. He went to a village in Rajasthan. As I speak here, he was speaking there that night. As you have gathered here, the villagers gathered there. In front, one man sat—fast asleep. Those who sit in front often go to sleep; there is some reason. The very attachment to sit in front is a symptom of a sleeping man. He was the village’s richest man. Other sannyasins had also come to that village; they saw he slept, but who will tell the rich man that he sleeps? Temples and religion run on the money of the rich—who will anger him? So the rich man sat with eyes closed, slept. After a day’s toil, the temple is a good place to sleep! He slept.
But this sannyasin could not tolerate it. Others said to him, ‘You listen with such concentration, Aasoji’—that was his name. He was delighted. Though he slept, the sannyasins told him, ‘You listen most meditatively.’ He was very pleased. Anyone is pleased to be told, ‘You are meditative’—and angry to be told, ‘You are asleep.’ Though out of a hundred, ninety-nine who appear meditative are asleep.
But this fakir was troublesome. He stopped his talk in the middle and said: ‘Aasoji, are you sleeping?’
Aasoji got angry: ‘Who says I sleep? I am listening with eyes closed, in deep concentration!’ When a man wishes to deceive himself, what can be done?
The fakir began again. A little while later, sleep returned. One who is near sleep—how long can he keep himself awake? In a short while he was asleep again. But this fakir was strange; he interrupted again: ‘Aasoji, are you sleeping?’
Now Aasoji was angrier. The whole village was gathered. Sannyasins said he listened meditatively; the village was happy he was so religious. And this man said it again. Aasoji said: ‘Do you not understand? I told you I am listening meditatively! I am not asleep!’
The fakir began again. In a little while Aasoji slept again. This time the fakir interrupted once more—but now he said a very strange thing. Each time he had said, ‘Aasoji, are you sleeping?’ This time he said: ‘Aasoji, are you living?’ In his sleep, Aasoji thought it was the same old question and blurted: ‘No, no—who says so?’
The fakir said: ‘Now there is no escape. You are caught. By mistake you have spoken truth once: one who sleeps is not living; to live, one must be awake.’
Do you not feel that in the twenty-four hours our wakefulness has gradations? Sometimes our waking is a little sharp, sometimes dull. Consciousness dozes and wakes on many levels. Do you notice it? Sometimes you feel more awake—especially in danger. Without danger we sleep. If you…
An incident comes to mind; perhaps it will help.
In Japan there was a great master of an art—the art of climbing tall pines, straight trunks where slipping is easy. A youth came to learn. The ninety-year-old master taught him the technique and said, ‘Climb.’ The old man sat below. A few people watched. The youth climbed to the very top, to the last branch. He began to descend. When he was about twenty feet from the ground, the old man suddenly arose and shouted: ‘Careful now—come down carefully!’
The youth was surprised. When he had been at the top in danger, the old man had not shouted. Now, when the ground was near, danger past—he shouted? He climbed down and said: ‘I am amazed—you are strange. When I was in danger, you did not warn me to be careful. When I was out of danger—you shouted?’
The old man said: ‘When one is in danger, he is awake by himself; there is no need to shout. Danger begins where a man thinks he is safe. As soon as I saw you felt the ground near and began to relax, I saw you drawing near to sleep—so I shouted: Be alert; you can still fall!’
In a few moments of life, in danger, we are awake; otherwise we are generally asleep.
How then can a religious man live always awake? Until he lives awake, the truths of life will not be glimpsed. What can be experienced by a sleeping man?
How shall the religious man live?
He is the one who lives in danger.
At the time of his death Nietzsche was asked: ‘Tell, in a small sutra, the way to truth.’ He said: ‘Live dangerously.’ A strange saying; but true.
We live by avoiding danger. We secure ourselves on all sides. Bank balances, arrangements, strong walls, provisions—we leave no opening for danger. Then we fall asleep; we live asleep.
The sannyasin is one who lives in danger.
A king built a palace with only one door, so that there could be no theft. He did all security. A neighboring king came to see. He praised the palace: ‘Very secure; no chance of danger. No thief, no enemy can enter.’ People gathered on the road to see the visiting king.
An old beggar stood in front. When the king was praised, the old man laughed.
The owner-king asked: ‘Why do you laugh? Is there a mistake?’
He said: ‘Only one mistake. You have kept one door. Close that too. It is through that door that your death will come in. Close it also. Then you will be absolutely secure; even death cannot enter, for there will be no passage for it.’
He spoke right. If the king closed that door as well, he would be fully secure. No danger. But then he would miss life.
Life is a danger at every moment; it is insecurity. Life is like a dewdrop trembling on a blade of grass in the wind—any moment it can fall. Any moment the sun will rise and it will evaporate. Life is a quiver. Those who make it solid and secure build their own graves and sleep in them.
A religious man accepts life’s insecurity. He knows that life is continuously in danger. To live is danger; to die is security. The one who experiences life as insecurity moment to moment… And life is insecurity. The one you loved today—can you be sure he will love you tomorrow? The one you called friend today—will he be your friend tomorrow morning? The one you called your own—can you be sure he will not depart this world tomorrow morning?
Everything is insecure. The more intense life becomes, the more insecure it appears.
One who lives in this insecurity and does not weave false securities—he begins to awaken. All securities are false. No one has ever been made secure by them; death removes all. All arrangements prove false.
One who sees the falseness of arrangements and lives the insecurity—lives dangerously, moment to moment—within him awakening arises; awareness dawns.
Reflect a little: if a young man loves a young woman, he is fully awake toward her. But the day he marries and she becomes his wife, he falls asleep toward her. He hardly sees her. Recall—have you ever looked at your wife with full eyes? No. Sleep happens. Everything is secure—so it is fine.
Byron married. Leading his bride down the church steps—candles still burning, bells still ringing—he seated her in the carriage and said: ‘A strange thing happened. Until yesterday, while you were not yet mine, I was very awake toward you. Today, as I descended the steps, your hand in mine, for a moment I forgot you were even with me. I saw another woman in the street; my mind filled with desire toward her. Toward her I was awake; toward you I fell asleep.’
Until yesterday he was very awake toward her. There was a danger then; an insecurity. She might or might not become his wife. She might be found, might be lost. There was a quiver; his consciousness was alert. Today it is secure: she is the wife, in the fist, a piece of furniture in the house. No worry.
Thus we have petrified life on all sides. In this petrification we sleep peacefully. Because of this sleep, the awareness that should awaken within finds no chance.
Remember: examine whether the securities you have built are real. Will they stand? Are they security? You will see: nothing is secure. Life is perpetual danger. One who experiences this danger begins to awaken.
These three small sutras I have spoken today. Tomorrow I must say a few more things to you.
These three sutras are:
Thought must be born.
The mind must be impartial.
Consciousness must be aware.
Where these three blossom, the path for truth to arrive opens in life.
One small story, and I will take leave.
A fakir, wandering far, returned to his land. He was the childhood friend of the king. The king invited and welcomed him, and then said: ‘My friend, you have roamed the corners of the earth—have you brought a gift for me? I have long awaited that when you return, you will bring something for me.’
The fakir said: ‘I have gone to every corner and seen wondrous things. My heart always wished to bring you a gift. I knew you would ask when I returned. But whatever I wished to bring, I thought: You are such a great emperor; your kingdom’s boundaries are vast—this thing must have reached you already. So I wanted to bring something that had never yet reached you.’
The king grew very eager: ‘Then have you brought it?’
The fakir said: ‘I have. It is in my bag.’
The king snatched the bag. What could there be—a cheap bag, torn. He put in his hand—astonished still more. It was a very cheap thing: a two-penny mirror.
The fakir said: ‘You have everything, but you do not have that in which you can see yourself. I have brought this mirror.’
These three sutras I have told you: if they descend into your life, you will receive that mirror by which you can see yourself.
You have listened to my words with such love and peace; for that I am immensely obliged. In the end I bow to the Paramatma seated within each of you. Please accept my pranam.