Jeevan Darshan #7

My beloved Atman!
I would like to begin my talk with a small story.
At the gates of a royal palace there was a great crowd. From morning people had begun to gather; by noon the numbers had only increased. Whoever came and stood there did not return. The whole city was curious, wondering what was happening at the palace gate. An extraordinary, almost impossible event had taken place. Early in the morning a beggar had held out his bowl before the king. Beggars are many, but a beggar does not usually come with a condition, with a stipulation. This beggar did. He said to the king, I accept alms only on one condition—and that is this: if you can fill my begging bowl completely, all right; otherwise I will go to another door.
Naturally the king laughed. What could be lacking in a king that he could not fill a beggar’s bowl! Filled with pride he said to the mendicant, Since such is your condition, I will not fill your bowl with grain—I will fill it with gold coins. But the beggar said, First understand my condition well, so that you do not have to regret later. I want my bowl filled to the brim; I will not go away with it half-full.
The king told his vizier, Go, fill his bowl with gold coins.
Gold coins were brought and poured into the beggar’s bowl. But a great surprise occurred. The coins dropped in seemed to vanish God knows where; the bowl remained empty. A difficulty arose. The vizier kept running back and forth with more coins; the bowl kept being filled and yet—before it could be full—it was empty again. Noon passed. The capital was filled with excitement. People gathered at the gates. It seemed the king would not be able to fill that bowl.
The king too became anxious. He had won great wars, fought mighty battles. But never had such a battle stood before him. There seemed no possibility of victory. He would have to accept defeat before this beggar. Yet, until the last moment, the king persisted.
He emptied all his treasuries. Evening approached; the sun began to set. The king’s defeat became certain. His vaults were empty, and still the beggar’s bowl remained empty. Finally the emperor fell at the beggar’s feet. He begged, Forgive me! Pride led me into error. I cannot fill this bowl. Please go to another door. But before you go, tell this defeated man one small thing. If you tell me that, I will take it that I have been forgiven. My small question is—by what magic is this bowl made? By what mantra? What is its secret? What is the mystery? Why does it never fill?
The beggar said, No secret, no mantra, no magic. I used to pass through a cremation ground; there I found a human skull. From that I fashioned this bowl. Even I was puzzled why it never fills. Later I learned—human skulls are such that they never fill. Hence, this bowl never fills.
I begin with this story because I call only that education true which can teach a way to fill the human skull. But the education we have given humanity till today does not fill the human heart—rather, it empties it even more. As the king was defeated before that beggar, so has our education been defeated before the never-to-be-filled mind of man. We have not yet been able to fashion a human being who can be fulfilled by life, satisfied, brimming, whole—who can attain fulfillment in life, and say: I did not remain empty; I am filled. Because we have not yet developed such an education, the whole of humanity is unhappy and tormented.
In this connection, let me say a few things to you.
You too are on the same road upon which millions before you have gone—unhappy and afflicted. And after a lifetime of lack, of inner emptiness, their begging bowl still stands, their hands still outstretched. A bowl that is empty is not filled even after a lifetime of filling—and then, then death arrives. A whole life of sorrow, poverty, pain, lack, restlessness, dissatisfaction—and then death. That is the tale; that is the road. On that very road you too are a traveler. Your journey has begun.
Will you end as those before you ended? Or will you attain a life that is full—a life satisfied and overflowing with joy—whose bowl is filled? I wonder: has this ever occurred to you at all? In this connection I wish to say a little more. And before I say it, understand this: most people depart from life empty. Their running, their labor, achieves nothing.
The day Alexander died—perhaps you have not read this in your history books. The writers of history seem deliberately to omit what is essential, while what is not at all essential—things that only spread poison and sicken the human mind—those they print in bold letters. This too is a part of mankind’s collective insanity.
The day Alexander died, in the city where his bier was taken out, people were amazed. Hundreds of thousands had gathered from far and wide to see. His life was worth seeing—and his death too. He had not lived in any obscure corner. Tales of his victories were grand. Vast empires he had conquered. His name, his fame, his glory fluttered like a banner to the farthest reaches. His name was written in the sky—on the mountains, on the hills, on the earth—everywhere, Alexander! The man had died. Crowds collected to see. They were astonished by one thing: both of Alexander’s hands were hanging outside his bier.
Hands never hang outside a bier. The whole city was disturbed, asking one another: What is this? By evening it became known: before dying Alexander had said, Let my hands hang outside the bier, so that people may see that I too am going empty-handed. My running, my campaigns of conquest, my wars, my violence, my murders, my cruelties—none of them brought anything. I was an empty man, and empty I am dying—let people see it.
But to this day we have not been able to see it. I even doubt whether the people of that capital, who saw those hands hanging outside the bier, could see the fact at all. They must have laughed and said, What a novel idea! Then they would have gone home, and returned to their own race. They too would have set out upon their little journeys of victory.
Such is man’s blindness. He cannot see what is happening all around. And he goes on repeating the very mistakes others are repeating. Perhaps from that very crowd more Alexanders were born. Man’s blindness is extraordinary.
I call that alone education which breaks this blindness and gives eyes to see life.
In England, a hundred to a hundred and fifty years ago, thieves were flogged at crossroads so that others might see that stealing is bad. They were stripped and whipped till their bodies were bloodied, their skin flayed. Thousands gathered to watch. It was thought that those who saw would never steal again.
But a century and a half ago the courts had to abolish this practice. You will be amazed to know why. Because whenever a thief was punished thus, thousands gathered to watch—and they were so engrossed in watching the beating that other people cut their pockets. So many pickpockets worked those crowds that the law decided the practice was meaningless. People are that blind.
A thief is being beaten, stripped, bleeding before their eyes—and the crowd that has come to watch is being robbed by others. Then it occurred to them—man is so blind that none of this makes any difference.
That is why I say, even Alexander’s dangling hands must have been visible to very few. Every day Alexanders die; every day they go empty-handed, yet we do not see—and we too join the same pilgrimage, that same deluded journey. Our education, our society, our conditioning, our civilization, our teachers, our parents—all strive to make us skillful in that very journey.
All our education is aimed at giving us the efficiency to become adept in this race—even though the race itself is false and deluded. We train our children so they might be leaders, not left behind, first in this race. And if the race itself is utterly wrong, what value is there in being ahead in it? What meaning?
Why is this race wrong? Why is it that from this race wholeness, peace and contentment do not come into human life? There must be reasons. What reasons?
The first reason is this: Whoever seeks his joy outside himself is bound to fail. Success there is not possible. For life’s joy, life’s peace, life’s beauty and truth—whatever is truly important—arises from within; it is not attained from without. Yet we teach the outer—we teach outward journeys, outer achievements. Within, man remains utterly poor. Outside he piles up much. The wealth, the empire he amasses outside has no value. For the sorrow, the pain, the restlessness, the turmoil—they are inside. They dwell in the innermost being. Only if we can teach a man to be quiet and fulfilled there, does he attain the summit of success in life.
One evening in a hotel some guests were invited. It was a seven-storied building, and the guests dined on the seventh floor. They were twenty-five, invited to welcome a certain sadhu who was also present. Half the meal had been eaten. They were listening to his very grave and sweet words, and eating too—when suddenly an earthquake struck the city.
If an earthquake were to come to this city now, who would remain here to listen to my words? No one would even think to stay. You would not even know when you had begun to run. Running would begin first—thought would come later: I am running.
Those guests too ran. They were on the seventh floor. There was uproar in the city; from below cries rose; buildings were collapsing, fires were breaking out, chaos everywhere. They ran. The doorway was narrow.
We do not build doors to flee during earthquakes. If we built with escape in mind we would not make doors at all—just open walls, so one could run. Man builds for convenience. He doesn’t remember that earthquakes also come.
They ran—and jammed at the door. The stairs were narrow. The host who had invited those guests was also running. But in the crush he looked back to see whether the sadhu they had invited, the chief guest—had he also run? He looked back and saw the sadhu still sitting in his chair—with his eyes closed.
The host was startled. A challenge arose in him: If this sadhu is not running, why should I? Whatever happens to him will happen to me. And then, anyway, what certainty is there that I will reach the ground alive? And where I am running, buildings are collapsing too. What is the point of running? In a flash, like lightning, these thoughts must have flashed through his mind. He stopped and sat down beside the sadhu.
Within a few moments the earthquake ended. The city lay devastated. Everywhere there was noise, weeping, wailing. The sadhu opened his eyes and, from the very point where his talk had been interrupted by the quake, he began again—before that single man. He did not ask where the twenty-five had gone; he did not say, There was an earthquake—how terrible! He did not speak of the uproar rising from below. He simply resumed from where he had left off.
But the host said, Forgive me. I do not even remember what you were saying before the earthquake. Something so great has happened that I am totally disoriented. My mind is unsettled; my limbs are trembling. Do not begin that talk yet. I want to ask something else. This earthquake—what happened? Will you not say something about it?
What did the fakir say? He said, My friend, an earthquake came—certainly it came. You were running, people were running. I too ran—but you ran outward; I ran inward. I too closed my eyes and I ran. You ran outward; I came inward. You had to run with your feet; I had to run with my consciousness. And you ran in utter unawareness, for where you were running, there too the earthquake was. You were running from quake into quake; you could not go outside the quake. But I went to a place where no earthquake ever reaches. I ran within. I have discovered within myself a space where no tremor from outside arrives. I went there.
There are only two kinds of journeys: outward and inward.
Whoever runs outward—let him know—he will never attain that state we call peace, contentment, bliss. Because in the direction he runs there are only earthquakes upon earthquakes. In that direction the only meeting will be with death.
But there is also a journey inward. These two journeys are opposites—and so are their fruits. The one who runs outward—in the end his meeting is with death. The one who runs inward—in the end he attains that which is amrit, deathless. The one who runs outward gathers things he must one day leave. The one who runs inward attains that which is eternal, which is never to be left. The one who runs outward—whatever he attains—must be snatched from others. For outward things are not lying on the road—someone owns them.
If I amass wealth, I must empty someone else’s pocket. If I build a big house, the huts of others must be flattened. If I pile up many garments, somewhere some people must be left naked. Outer things must be taken from someone—and whenever we take from another, we make him unhappy. If my whole life is spent making others unhappy, how can I become blissful?
In the inner world, whatever we attain need not be taken from anyone. It is not someone else’s property; it is mine. No one is impoverished by my inner attainment—yet I certainly become rich. Strangely, by my outer affluence even I do not become rich; only others become poor.
True education sets man on the journey within. But today all of us are moving outward. Whatever we learn, whatever we study, takes us outside. Slowly we are initiated into it. We even forget that there was anything within us. We forget that in our depths, in our Atman, some treasure lay hidden—some abundance, some kingdom—something worth attaining there too.
Life is so short; one does not even know when it has slipped by. Moment by moment it drips away; each day one comes closer to death. Perhaps at the moment of dying it occurs: life has been wasted and I attained nothing. But then such realization is of no use. If only this awareness could be given at the beginning of life; if only this thought, this resolve, this challenge, this call—this invitation—could be aroused in the hearts of very small children: that the most precious treasure of your life is within you. The paths that lead to it are exactly opposite to the paths that lead to exploration outside. The methods, the techniques, the craft of attaining it are very different. Its mathematics, its engineering are different. Its science is different.
Our life today is incomplete, because we only seek, think and research the outer. It is an incomplete life. Within, all remains vacant, empty. Then that inner emptiness stings, gives great pain. As you grow up, that inner pain grows. Little by little you begin to understand: within I am nothing. I have fine clothes, a good house, a radio, a car—everything; but within? Within I am nothing. And the inner emptiness is such a vast begging bowl that even all outer riches cannot fill it. And then, in the end, one receives defeat.
Very few attain victory in life—though all could. You too can be victorious. But something will have to be done; otherwise defeat is certain. We do not see this defeat because we are surrounded by defeated people. If in this room everyone had the same illness, we would not know we were ill; it would not occur to us. One discovers illness only when others are healthy and one is ill. Since the whole world is afflicted with the disease of the outer, we do not notice it.
It happened once in a capital: one afternoon a magician came there and he dropped a packet of powder into the public well, saying, Whoever drinks this water will go mad. There were only two wells in that city: one for the public and one for the king’s palace. What to do? How long can a thirsty person remain thirsty? Even knowing it, people had to drink that poisoned water. By evening the whole town had gone mad.
Only the king, his vizier and the queen had not gone mad—they had their own well. But by evening a great problem arose. The people gathered and began to deliberate, It seems the king has gone crazy! Since the whole town was mad, the king appeared mad to them. Naturally so. The town did not seem mad—since all were mad. The king looked strange, different. They said, We must depose such a king. It seems his mind is deranged.
The king was frightened. He asked his vizier, What shall I do now?
The vizier said, There is only one way: we too must drink from that well.
They rushed to the well, because any delay and the mad populace would be very difficult to handle. They drank the water. That night there was celebration in the capital; people sang and danced and thanked God that their king’s mind had become all right again!
We too are all mad, having drunk from the outer well—hence no one notices it. In fact, if ever, by some accident, a healthy man appears among us—someone who has his own well and does not drink from ours—he seems mad to us. We think Mahavira is mad, Buddha is mad, Christ is mad, Gandhi is mad. They seem utterly crazy. We cannot understand what they are saying or what they are about.
Yet there is one sufficient proof to reconsider: those whom we have called mad—Buddha, Mahavira, Christ—those people were filled with supreme bliss. There was no line of sorrow in their lives. There was a light in their eyes, a song in their hearts, a fragrance in their lives—which we do not have. There is no light in our eyes, no song in our hearts, no ecstasy in our breath, no music in our life. There are anxieties, sorrows, pains, gloom, boredom—this is what fills our lives.
If they are mad, then I would say the whole world should become mad like them. And if we are sane, then I would say—this sanity is a great disease. We do not see it because everyone around us is the same.
Therefore, my first point to you is this: In life, wherever sorrow, anxiety and pain increase—wherever tension, unrest and unease arise—be alert, be aware. Seek the path where peace thickens, where the life-breath finds rest. Become silent—seek that direction where the path to the within is found. This is possible.
The formula of the outer direction is ambition. That is what we all are taught. We enroll a child in first grade and tell him: come first, be number one. From that moment we pour the poison. Now he will try lifelong to come first. If he earns money—let me earn the most. If he builds a house—let mine be the tallest. If he seeks a chair—let mine be the highest, let me reach Delhi; do not remain here. His whole run will be: let me not be left behind; let me be ahead, let me be ahead.
And do you know—has anyone, ever, come first? In the entire history of humankind has even one man said, I have come ahead of all? Whenever anyone looks, he finds some people still ahead of him. In ten thousand years of experience, no one has been able to say, I am in front, and now there is no further to go. What does this mean? It means perhaps we are running in a circle where no one can be first. We are running in a round track. Everyone feels someone is ahead of me, someone behind me. He keeps trying to get ahead, keeps trying—but however much he tries he finds: still someone is ahead, still someone behind. No one ever reaches the front. Man runs in a circle. And from childhood we teach him: Be ahead. He falls into this race. Then the whole life is wasted in it.
Christ said a statement most wondrous: Blessed are those who are able to stand last. How strange! This is the very opposite of our education. Hence we say Christ must have been mad—therefore we crucified such a man. If Christ were to come into our schools and tell the children: Look, blessed is the child who can be last—would we not say, Throw him out! The whole education will go wrong, the whole race spoiled. He is pulling away the very foundation.
Yet this is precisely what I have come to say. The capacity to stand last is a great spiritual attainment. Standing ahead of others is only ego—only the feeling, I am great. And the man whom this idea possesses—That I must be big, I must be ahead—becomes feverish for life. A fever grips him—the fever to be ahead. Then he neither sleeps nor wakes—he only runs. A certain intoxication holds him.
But the man who becomes capable of standing behind—his fever is gone. He becomes peaceful and healthy.
You will say, If we drop the race to go ahead, then learning will stop. We learn mathematics to get ahead of the neighbor; we learn music to get ahead of the neighbor. If we are not to go ahead, the whole run will stop.
No—the run will not stop. A new run will begin. Right now, when you learn music, you have to kindle envy toward your neighbor: I shall surpass him. So you learn music—and along with it you learn envy. One day the music is forgotten; the envy remains. Mathematics is forgotten; envy remains. Geography is forgotten; envy remains. All the certificates lie stored away—and envy remains in life. And that envy keeps you running and keeps hurting others.
We have been teaching on the energy of envy. We goad the child’s ego: Do not be left behind. See, the other child is moving ahead of you! His ego is hurt. He too begins to try to get ahead. Thus we create a fever in the child, and he starts running. He runs his whole life till he falls dead; the fever never leaves him—it clings.
Is there no other way?
Ambition is the way to make life feverish.
Is there no other way?
There is. That way is love—not ambition.
Teach love for music, not competition with the other music learner. Teach love for mathematics, not rivalry with the other student of mathematics.
I can learn music simply because I love music. Then I do not wish to get ahead of anyone; then I wish to go beyond myself every day. I want to be ahead of where I was yesterday—not ahead of another, but ahead of myself. Each day I want to transcend myself, go beyond myself. Where yesterday’s sunrise found me, I do not want today’s sunrise to find me there. Then my love becomes a deep journey.
Certainly, music can be learned through love—so can mathematics. And let me tell you: those who have truly known music in this world have known it through love; never through ambition. Those who have made discoveries in mathematics have made them out of love for mathematics, not because of rivalry with someone.
We must discover love within, we must awaken it. Education centered on love will not carry one outward; it will carry one inward. Education centered on ambition will carry one outward.
Education revolving around ambition will teach envy of others. Education revolving around love will take one into one’s own growth. These are two very different things.
Center education on love. Then what we learn we will certainly learn; alongside, our love will grow too.
If a person learns to love music, he will surely learn music—and remember: only that which is learned in love is truly learned; the rest is not truly learned. He will learn music—and, along the banks of it, he will also learn love. It may be that one day he even forgets music—but love will remain, filling his life with inwardness.
Love is the path to the within. Ambition is the path to the without.
Hence, whenever we are in love we experience joy.
Why do we feel joy in love?
Because in love we reach within. In hatred, in envy, we feel pain because hatred and envy throw us outside ourselves.
Joy is within. Therefore, whatever takes us within begins to feel beloved.
Stand one morning by the sea, and if the sea gives you joy, know that the waves have carried you within. Stand by flowers; if they give you joy, know that the flowers have led you inward. Sit beneath the night sky full of stars; if the stars give you joy, know that you have arrived within. Sit near the one you love; if their presence takes you into joy, know you have reached within. Without reaching within, no one ever becomes joyous. Therefore, seek everywhere in life: how can I reach within?
And the central key to the within is love.
The central key to the without is hatred.
Ambition is a form of hatred; envy is a form of hatred. Therefore, do not compete with anyone. If you must compete, compete with yourself. Do not try to get ahead of another. If you must get ahead, get ahead of yourself. And whatever you are learning—do not learn it merely because the neighbors are learning it. Learn it because it is your love, your own joy. The day your education becomes your love, that day it will become capable of taking you within.
Before the teachers and thinkers of the whole world today, this is the question: how can we make education a door that leads man into himself?
Through love, that door can be made. And when someone reaches within—there, in that very temple, dwells Paramatma. When one reaches within, one becomes the owner of a wealth that never diminishes. One is immersed in such bliss as is the very fulfillment of life—the benediction, the attainment, the meaning of life.
Everywhere the question is the same: how can we help a human being become one who goes within?
Your life’s journey has begun. There is great fear that you too may be seized by the same fever that has seized everyone. Before the seeds of hatred, envy, ego and ambition are sown in your heart, be very alert and step in the direction of love. Whatever you learn, learn it with love.
And remember—keep inquiring constantly: What I am doing—does it come from my hatred, from my envy? Or does it come from my love? If this remains in your awareness, then day by day your steps will become more and more practiced in love. Then whatever happens in your life will happen out of love. And whatever happens out of love becomes a bridge toward the within. Love’s steps lead inward.
Hence it has been said: love is the path to Paramatma. Love itself is Paramatma. And the education that fills the heart with love for all life, for all people—that education becomes religion. Education should be religious.
But for education to be religious does not mean the Gita should be taught, or the Bible should be taught. Nor does it mean one should be made to chant ‘Jai Ganesh, Jai Ganesh.’ Nor does it mean you should be made to memorize lessons on truth and nonviolence. For education to be religious means that your heart is filled with love. How will it be filled? If you live in envy and ambition it can never be filled with love. To be filled with love means: whatever you learn…
Rabindranath wrote songs. Someone asked him, Why did you write these songs? Rabindranath said, My love would not be contained without writing. The feelings that arose in my heart—my love said, share them with the whole world. Rabindranath did not say, I wrote these to get ahead of other poets.
Vincent van Gogh, a great Dutch painter—someone asked him, Why do you make these paintings? He said, Because I love to paint.
Not a single painting of his sold in his lifetime. Today a single painting sells for four, five lakh rupees and more. But in his life, not one was sold. His family said, You are mad—why paint? No one is willing to buy even for a few coins. He said, In the making I have received that value, that joy, which I wanted. Now there is nothing to get from them. I painted them—that was my joy, my happiness, my love. I got from them what I needed.
Those who have known joy in life are precisely those who have done something out of love. Those who do nothing out of love, but only out of envy—such people can never know joy. Their hands will remain empty. Other than love, there is no wealth that can fill your hands—because love takes you within. Love takes you to that inner center where Paramatma abides.
So, in the end, I submit this prayer: let your life become a search in love—not a race of ambition. Let your life become a pilgrimage of joy—not the madness of envy. May there be that inner beauty in your life which not only fills you, makes you peaceful and content—but whose fragrance, wherever it reaches, allows others too to share in that joy.
But as of now we are sick and deranged people, in whose minds only the flames of envy and ambition are burning. Then we ourselves suffer, and we also create a world that becomes a hell. To make this earth a heaven is in the hands of those children who will be able to create a heaven within themselves.
I have said these few things to you in the hope that you will reflect upon them. Perhaps some point may ring true to you—and that very truth may become the cause of a transformation in your life. My saying so cannot change your life. Only if some truth is seen by you can your life change.
Do not accept what I have said. Think it over, reflect, test it on the touchstone of your own intelligence. Whatever seems useless, throw it away completely. And after all the searching and sifting, if even a small fragment seems right, then that small fragment will become a seed within you and will transform your life.
May Paramatma grant that your life become a life of love, not of envy and hate. We have become terrified of people filled with envy upon this earth. The need is for a man filled with love.
You have listened to my words with such love—thank you, thank you very much. And in the end, I bow down to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.