Jeevan Ki Khoj #3

There are many questions. Very valuable questions. Reading them, I felt moved to speak at length on each one. Even so, it may not be possible to answer all of them. Some questions are similar—there may be slight differences of wording, but the inquiry is the same—so I will answer them together. Some questions will remain; we can take them up tomorrow. To begin with, three or four questions have been asked.

First of all, let me say I am not opposed to upavasa. But “upavasa” is not the same as not eating. The name for not eating is anāhāra. I am opposed to anāhāra. Let me explain the difference.

In the word upavasa there is no echo of “not taking food.” Upavasa means: to dwell near the Self; to abide near the Divine. It has nothing to do with food. One who eats can be in a state of upavasa; and one who doesn’t eat may not be in upavasa at all. Ordinarily, when someone doesn’t eat, the mind stays very close to food. It does not abide near the Self; lacking food, its attention clings to the body. For twenty-four hours it keeps thinking of food. Upavasa is something entirely different.

A monk stayed at my house as a guest for a few days. One day he said to me, “Today I will fast.” I said, “Can you ‘do’ upavasa? You can do anāhāra—skip food. But if not eating brings one near God, then it’s a very easy matter indeed. Nearness to God would simply mean dying. If a man refuses food and dies, then he would be liberated—certainly he would reach near God. If upavasa is another name for death by starvation, and reaching God is not just dying hungry, then how will being hungry for a day bring you closer to the Divine?”

I told him, “You can refrain from food, yes—but upavasa is something else.” He asked, “Then what is upavasa?” I said, “If inwardly the mind becomes so absorbed that the very memory of food does not arise and the meal is missed, that is upavasa. If attention in the soul becomes so deep that even the body is not remembered and meals are missed, that is upavasa. Missing meals does not produce remembrance of the soul; but in remembrance of the soul, meals can be missed. In upavasa, anāhāra may occur; but in anāhāra, upavasa is not necessary. Upavasa means letting your inner attention become absorbed in the Self.” He said, “But that is very difficult—then upavasa is no longer in our hands.” He stayed with me for some days, and I told him, “On a day when your mind is very quiet and you don’t remember the body at all, understand that that day upavasa has happened.”

One day he came and said, “The whole day has passed. I was so inwardly absorbed that I didn’t remember anything. Only now do I realize the day is over and I haven’t eaten.” I said, “Now break your fast. The upavasa is complete.”

The moments spent in self-attention that do not bring up the memory of the body—those are moments of upavasa. Such moments certainly lift a person upward in life. But what you call fasting is little more than starving. And if starving were a virtue, then we should increase poverty in the world and create more ways for people to starve. Starving is not a virtue.

It is said that by withholding food the senses become sluggish. Then that is self-harm. Jump in a well, jump off a mountain—the senses will be destroyed; will that make you find God? The aim is not to make the senses sluggish but to master them. If you think you will win by dulling the senses, you are mistaken.

Sluggish senses lose strength, but they do not lose desire. Sluggish senses lose power, but not passion. Does merely becoming old make one celibate? The senses grow weak, yet the old man’s mind is often more obsessed with sex than a youth’s. Precisely because the senses are sluggish and there is no way to fulfill, the mind becomes all the more agitated by desire—craving and brooding over fulfillment. So merely becoming old does not carry one beyond the senses; rather, the senses torment even more.

Recently, at an American university they conducted an experiment. They kept twenty young men without food and studied daily what changes occurred in their mental states. For three or four days they felt very strong hunger. After about the fourth day, hunger generally stops pressing—one gets used to being hungry and a change occurs in the body.

The body is an amazing mechanism. The flesh and fat stored in our body are not without purpose. If we stop eating, the body starts digesting its own fat and flesh—a kind of carnivory. We begin to eat our own meat. That is why your weight drops. If you don’t eat for a day, a pound can drop—you’ve digested a pound of your own flesh. The body has to work every day and needs to digest flesh; ordinarily you supply it from food and all goes on. If you stop eating, the stock of flesh you carry begins to be consumed. Within four or five days, the body drops the habit of taking new food and starts digesting its own tissues.

You must have seen frogs—they almost come alive in the rains and spend the rest of the time almost like dead, buried in the earth; they dry up and digest their own flesh. In Siberia there are bears: when heavy snows fall, they lie buried in the snow. When they get buried, their bodies are very heavy; after a month, two months, four months, when the snow melts and they emerge, they are just skeletons. In between, lying there, they have digested their own flesh.

So if you stop eating, your flesh begins to be consumed. That is why I said it is a kind of violence. Whether you eat someone else’s flesh or your own, it is violence in both cases. And whether it is another’s body you are eating or your own, the body is always “other” to you. Another’s body is as much “not-me” as my own body is “not-me.” In both situations, body is body and flesh is flesh. Therefore fasting-as-no-food, where you put the emphasis on mere abstinence, is a kind of self-carnivory.

In that American experiment, after four or five days the urge of hunger subsided; the senses began to grow dull. By the seventh day, many of their interests had changed. They were given nude photographs—they never picked them up. Filthy books were placed near them—they remained utterly indifferent. By fifteen days, no matter how sexual the talk before them, they felt no arousal. They became completely detached. After fifteen days of fasting, dispassion arrived. Then they were fed gradually, and in the same measure that desires had vanished with the dropping of food, they began to reawaken. In fifteen days they were back to being the same men.

So what happened? Were any drives destroyed? Only the drives were dulled; only the senses became sluggish. The root drive remained intact within.

Therefore the person who leaves food and imagines he has conquered the senses is only being naive, ignorant. Give him food again and the senses will awaken. All the senses will resume their full activity. Not eating does not destroy desire; it only makes the senses sluggish while the desire lies hidden like a seed.

The issue is not to slacken the senses but to transform desire. Look at Mahavira or Buddha: do their senses appear dull to you? See their statues, their pictures—do their senses look sluggish? You will hardly find people with healthier senses. But look at many of the monks who follow them—their senses do appear dull.

They practiced upavasa—these others practice anāhāra. The enlightened ones did not “give up” food; sometimes food dropped away, and the mind dropped away too. And here is a great secret: if food drops away on its own, the adverse effect on the body is minimal; but if it is renounced by effort, the body suffers a great deal. It suffers because you think about it all the time: “I haven’t eaten.” This suggestion—this auto-suggestion—“I haven’t eaten, I am growing weak, my senses are becoming dull,” affects your mind and it weakens the body.

But in one who does not remember the body at all, who has no thought, “I haven’t eaten,” “my senses are growing dull,” “my body is growing weak,” those auto-suggestions do not take hold. Such a person’s body remains, to a great extent, intact, able to conserve its strength.

Upavasa is a very different thing. What I opposed is anāhāra. I am against anāhāra, because in my view we are not to dull the senses but to transform desire. And for the transformation of desire, healthy senses are essential. A person with unhealthy senses cannot attain the transformation of desire.

So don’t mistake an ordinarily sick man for a spiritual man. Don’t confer spiritual worth on one whose senses are withered. Yet the world has come to this—especially in countries like ours—that illness and unhealthiness have gradually been marketed as spirituality.

There was a Count Keyserling in Germany who was greatly influenced by India. In his books he wrote that health is a non-spiritual thing—that to be healthy is unspiritual. If dulled senses are spirituality, then disease is spirituality, and healthy senses would be opposed to it. The senses should be healthy, and desire should be empty—then life attains fulfillment. But if desire remains full and the senses become sluggish and dull, life turns ugly and unhealthy; such a person lives only in frustration and pain and never attains inner bliss.

I say this because I do not take the body to be the enemy of the soul. The body is only a vehicle; it serves whatever use you wish to make of it. If you want to go into sin, the body cooperates. If you wish to go into virtue, the body cooperates. The journey to hell is through the body; the pilgrimage to liberation is also through the body. The body has no insistence upon you about what you should do. Whatever you choose, the body is always ready and willing. The body is an amazing instrument—not an enemy, always a friend. Go to sin, and it is your friend; go to virtue, and it is your friend. The body makes you do nothing—it merely does what you want to do.

But we become enemies of the body and imagine that by fighting the body we will attain the soul. There is no question of opposing the body; opposition to the body is not spirituality, it is a reaction.

In the world the body serves for bhoga—indulgence—so we think: a body that serves indulgence, how can it serve yoga? Oppose it, destroy it. The hedonist’s mistake is to think he indulges through the body. Indulgence, too, is through the mind; the body is only a tool. The yogi’s mistake would be to think he will attain yoga by destroying the body. Yoga, too, is through the mind. The body is always a collaborator—your shadowlike companion. Wherever your mind wishes to go, the body is eager and ready to go. Those who know feel grateful toward the body; they do not feel opposition or enmity. They feel thankfulness.

Yesterday I spoke of Saint Francis. On the day he died he offered final thanks to his body. He said, “My body, I owe you so much. Through you I have had all my experiences. Through your experiences, through your journey, I have gone forward and risen higher. You were always my companion—whether I did good or bad. Now, at this last moment, as I bid you farewell, how shall I thank you? In what words can I thank you?”

And I can see: one who knows will drop his opposition to the body. The body is not an enemy; it is always a friend. At no moment is the body your foe. But through our own delusion we make the body an enemy, and then our life is spent fighting it. In my view, the person who fights the body is, in a sense, a materialist—not a spiritual man. He places great importance and insistence on the body.

Recently I was at a place. A nun asked me some questions, written on a sheet. I said, “Please give me the paper.” She stretched her hand very far to drop it, as if our hands must not touch. I asked, “Why extend your hand so far and make the effort? What fear is there of my hand? Even if my hand were to touch yours, what trouble would arise?”

Surely, fear of a touch is proof of an intensely materialistic mind. Such a mind believes in the body, not in the soul. I said to her, “You keep saying you are not the body, you are the soul—then what is this fear of bodily touch?”

In truth, sex has been repressed within, and another’s touch would instantly stir it, awaken it. That inner repression, that anxiety—that is what troubles you; the hand does nothing. The body can do nothing. But when the mind is repressed, one begins to feel enmity toward the body. We then project the mind’s errors onto the body. It is our habit—always to blame the other. If I quarrel with you, I will blame you; you will blame me. When we feel pain in life, we do not blame our mind—we blame this poor body. Then we start fighting it. All this is confusion. There is no question of enmity with this body. And one who becomes an enemy of the body will never be capable of transforming its energies.

Lust is energy, and whoever fights with the energy of lust will be destroyed. Lust is to be transformed, not fought with. Sex, when transformed, becomes brahmacharya. Sex is not the opposite of brahmacharya. Brahmacharya is the transformed state of sex itself. In this world no energies are destroyed—only transformation happens. In this world nothing is destroyed; only transformation happens. Energies are never annihilated. The very energy of hatred, when transformed, becomes love. The very energy of cruelty, when transformed, becomes kindness and compassion. What you are calling lust—those very urges, when transformed, become forces that move life toward truth.

After all, you must have seen: just now, on my way here, I passed a place where flowers were blooming. You must have seen a garbage heap where filth lies piled up. From that filth a stench arises, a bad odor spreads; anyone passing by holds his nose. But if that same filth is put into a garden and seeds are sown, that very filth becomes fragrance in flowers. The same filth blossoms as flowers, and you buy those flowers, bring them home, and offer them as a gift of love. It is that very filth that lay on the rubbish heap—this is its transformed form.

Fragrance is the transformed form of stench. In life, whatever is noble is born from exactly what you call ignoble; it grows out of it; it is made of it. Therefore I have no opposition to the base. The superior is not in opposition to the inferior; it is the development of the inferior—its purified, ever more refined form.

I am not against lust. I am in favor of the transformation of lust. And one who fights with lust cannot bring about transformation. If someone starts fighting his anger, how will he transform anger? The point is not to fight, but to know anger, to befriend anger, to become acquainted with it, to understand its pathways. And all this can happen only in deep sympathy and love.

I am in favor of loving whatever is in this life; through love we will know it, become familiar with it. And then the path of its transformation will become possible. The way of transformation is religion. It is not the annihilation of lust; it is the transformation of lust.

Therefore I call the outlook of annihilation destructive. It is not creative. And the decline of religion in the world—the fall of religion—has a single cause: religion has adopted a very destructive approach. It does not have a creative vision. It has taken a stand against all your passions, whereas it should have become the path for their transformation.

Religion is declining because those we know as Mahavira, as Buddha—all those people—creatively transformed their passions, their energies; but those who came after them began trying to destroy those very energies. And there are reasons for this.

The reason is that when we see someone in whom passions have dissolved, we too think our passions should dissolve. But the stance we adopt becomes the mistake. People saw Mahavira; they saw that in Mahavira’s life there was no violence left—his life was perfectly nonviolent. So they thought, “We too should destroy violence.” They did not know that Mahavira did not destroy violence; Mahavira attained nonviolence.

Understand the difference between the two. Mahavira did not destroy violence; Mahavira realized nonviolence. With the attainment of nonviolence, violence dissolved. But what is visible to us is that there is no violence in Mahavira’s life; so we start treading gingerly, straining our water before drinking, not eating at night—we devise all kinds of measures so that our violence may dissolve.

In this hall a light is burning. From outside people will think the people here have somehow removed the darkness. Now let a madman go home, find his house dark, and begin pushing the darkness out—because he saw that in one room people had separated darkness and thrown it out, and then light came in.

But the truth is the opposite: darkness is not removed. Light arrives—and darkness is not found. It is not by removing darkness that light comes; it is by the coming of light that darkness dissolves. Yet what we see is “the darkness was destroyed.” In the same way it appears to us that violence was destroyed in Mahavira’s life, enmity and hostility were destroyed in Christ’s life, cruelty was destroyed in Buddha’s life. Seeing this, we set about destroying our own cruelty and violence.

Whereas the truth is that nothing is destroyed; something is attained. Buddha attained love; he realized love. Therefore all hatred dissolved. The very energy that once flowed through the channel of hatred began to flow through the channel of love. If religion is negative, its decline is inevitable. If religion is positive, creative, it grows. All those who have realized truth—or God, or the soul—were creative. Their whole approach to life was positive. But the outlook of the followers who come after them is almost always negative.

This negativity is quite natural, because we see a person’s conduct; we do not see his soul. If you look at me, you will not see my soul; you will see my behavior. So you start from behavior. Conduct is always negative—defined by what is not done; the soul is always creative—defined by what overflows.

When we look at Mahavira or Buddha, what do we see? We see that they do not commit violence—that is visible. The love that has been born within them is not visible to us. We see that they do not insult anyone, they do no harm to anyone—that is visible. But the creative essence that has arisen within them, because of which they do not do these things—that does not meet our eye.

Conduct is visible because it is outside. The soul is not visible because it is within. Then we think: if we adopt the same conduct, we will reach the same soul. That is the mistake. Conduct flows from the soul; the soul is not reached through conduct. You may imitate Mahavira’s conduct down to the last detail, but the knowing of Mahavira will not arise within you. You will become an actor.

After all, what do actors do in this world? They can perform the conduct perfectly. Many times it can even happen that the person being portrayed himself begins to doubt.

In Japan, after the First World War, there was a very great general, famous the world over; the whole of Japan was crazy about him. A young man, training in the military at that time, also aspired to become such a general. After passing all the exams, he suffered a head injury in a swimming test and was expelled from the military. He was so distraught—his longing was to become a general—that he performed harakiri. Somehow he was saved. Afterward his father took him to America. There, little by little, he began acting, doing drama. Later, a film was made about that general, and the young man played the general’s part. In his old age the general went to see the film. He wrote to the actor: “I am astonished—if I had to choose, you would seem the real one and I the imitation.” The actor treasured that letter. He said, “It was the longing of my life to become like you. I have become so.”

And there are many such madmen in the world—who think that by acting they have fulfilled the longing to become like Mahavira, like Buddha. If Mahavira himself were to come, these “monks of Mahavira” would score higher marks than him. If there were an exam, they would pass before him; they would get more marks—because they are actors. An actor can be more skillful than the original man, for the original is spontaneous; his gestures are natural. The actor’s every move is rehearsed. He makes no slips.

Acting is born from watching conduct. And that is why religion declines. Religion is not acting. In truth, religion is not imitation at all. Whoever follows someone—whoever imitates—will inevitably become an actor. Imitation is acting.

Yet this is exactly what is taught everywhere: imitate; follow; become like Mahavira, like Buddha, like Rama. This is sheer madness. Nothing more foolish can be taught than that one person should become like another. You will become an actor—what else?

Every human being has his own dignity; every human being has his own unique nature. If we set out to search, even for a small stone, we would not find another exactly like it on this earth. Pluck a leaf from a tree and search the whole earth—you will not find another leaf exactly the same. But man is possessed by madness: “Become like Christ, become like Mohammed.” And even after twenty-five centuries of experience, our eyes do not open. Two thousand years have passed since Christ died—has a second Christ been born? Yet millions of madmen are trying to become like Christ. Two and a half thousand years have passed since Mahavira; even more since Krishna and Rama. Has a second Krishna or a second Rama been born? Our eyes still don’t open, and we go on saying: imitate, become like them.

No human being can be like another. And if it were God’s wish that everyone should be made like those few, there would have been no need to create you. You are unique; you are one of a kind; you are born with your own being. You are not under any responsibility to copy anyone. If the world fills up with imitators, it becomes distorted—because then no real person is left. The falseness in this world is exactly because everyone is trying to become someone else. If each person tried to become what he himself is—if he became that on his inner plane—the world would be better.

Religion is not imitation; religion is the teaching to be as you are. There is no question of following anyone. This is why religion has declined, in spite of so many teachings.

It is like saying, “My father was highly educated, so how can I be uneducated now? What need have I for education?” Or, “My father was a very learned man; then why should I have to study?” No—however learned your father may be, learning is not transmitted through your blood. You will have to study and learn again yourself.

In the world, great people are born, great winds blow, great societies arise—but all that ends with their generation. The new generation has to begin again from the point where they began. In the life of religion, we cannot stand on anyone else’s shoulders. We must stand on our own feet. You cannot stand on the shoulders of Mahavira or Buddha and say, “We stand on their shoulders; we should be better than they.” You stand on your own feet, and Mahavira stands on his. No one can stand on another’s shoulders. Their attainment is the fruit of their effort; your effort will become your attainment.

Therefore it cannot be otherwise. Even if right now enormous effort is made—a vast movement, a great revolution—and millions attain enlightenment, realize the Self, it does not mean that fifty years later their children will be self-realized. They will again have to begin their effort from the very beginning.

Every truth of life has to be learned by oneself—and on one’s own feet. That is why we always find ourselves back at the same place. Where others ended, from there our beginning does not happen; we must make our own beginning, from our own beginning. Hence, no evolutionary progress is visible on the spiritual plane in the world—and it never will be—because growth does not come from another. The endeavor to bring it about is one’s own and utterly personal.

What I said—awareness of death—is not something negative. Death is not false, nor is it imaginary. There is no truth greater than death. What could be more positive than death? What could be more constructive than death? Everything else may be doubtful; death alone is undoubted. All other things may or may not happen; all events may or may not occur—but death alone is beyond doubt. Then why do you call death negative? What could be more positive, more creative, than the one certain fact?

But we are people frightened of death; that is why it seems to us that if we remember death everything will become negative. It is not a question of remembering death; you are already standing in death. You are standing in it. Whether you remember it or not is irrelevant—it is not that you are being asked to force some remembrance. You are standing within it; on all sides death surrounds you. It needs to be seen.

Because it is a fact—and one who does not see facts, how will he attain truth? Only by seeing facts does the path to truth open. The fear is: if we keep a continual remembrance of death, our claws will withdraw from life, our grip will loosen. Certainly, the thing you are taking to be life—your grip upon that will loosen. And it should loosen. That is not life at all.

If it were life, the grip would not loosen. If the mere remembrance of death loosens your grip on “life,” then that is not life. What kind of life is it that becomes worthless just by recalling death? That is not life. But we are afraid because we have mistaken that for life. We have taken things to be life which are not ours at all.

For example, an Indian sannyasin, Ram Tirtha, returned after traveling in America and Europe. In India he became a guest in a small princely state. One morning the king came to him and said, “I want to know God. Please tell me something.”

Ram Tirtha said, “Do you want to know God, or do you want to meet God?”

The king said, “If you can make me meet Him, that would be an even greater grace.” But when he said, “Make me meet Him,” it never occurred to him that this man would actually agree to arrange it. Who would agree to arrange such a meeting? He had seen many renunciates and many pundits who talk about God, but when it comes to the question of meeting Him, they step aside.

Ram Tirtha said, “If you want to meet Him, do you want to meet Him now, or can you wait a little?”

The king was even more astonished. He thought, “This man is either mad or telling an extreme untruth. Now he asks whether I want the meeting now or after a while?” The king said, “Since you are saying it, let me meet Him now.”

Ram Tirtha said, “That’s what I wanted—people who want to meet now are rare. Good. Then do a small task. I’ll just inform Him that you wish to meet.”

The king was bewildered: “What are you saying? I am talking about meeting the Supreme, perhaps you misunderstood and took it to mean someone else?”

Ram Tirtha said, “I speak of none but the Divine, so there is no question of misunderstanding. Please write your introduction on a piece of paper; I’ll take it to Him. When someone comes to meet you, you also ask who he is.”

The king said, “Fair enough. When I meet someone, I also ask who he is, what he is, and why he wants to meet.”

He wrote his name on a paper, wrote, “I am the owner of such-and-such state,” wrote that he had such-and-such mansion—he wrote all these things and gave it to Ram Tirtha. Ram Tirtha laughed and said, “With so much untruth you cannot meet God.” “Untruth?” the king protested, “There is not the slightest untruth in this. I am a king. This is my name. This is my palace.” Ram Tirtha said, “How long have you been in this house? Before you someone else lived here, and before him someone else. Will you take this house with you, or will someone else live in it after you? How can you be the owner?” The king became thoughtful; being the owner of this house is difficult. Ram Tirtha said, “This is an inn, not your house. Others have stayed here; others will stay. Before you, many lived here; after you, many will live here. You too are a guest in this house. Do not remain under the delusion that it is yours.”

The king said, “What you say is true—after me someone will live in this house. I cannot take it along.” “Then that which you cannot take with you, how can you be its owner?” The king said, “Leave the house aside. But I am a king. This name—at least that is mine.”

Ram Tirtha said, “If your father had given you a different name, would you have become a different person? Or if we change your name today, would you become someone else? Would anything within you change by changing the name?”

The king said, “Nothing within would change by changing the name. Only the name would change; I would remain who I am.”

Ram Tirtha said, “Then this name is not yours; it is not an essential part of you. Changing it changes nothing. And you say, ‘I am a king.’ If tomorrow you become a beggar, what will change in you? What will change within? Outside, things will change—the palace will be replaced by a hut; many servants will become none; wealth is outside you; outside you’ll have broken utensils, a begging bowl. But within you, what will change by not being a king?”

He said, “Thinking about it, I find nothing within will change; all change would be outside.” Then Ram Tirtha said, “That which is within, which does not change despite any change—if you can introduce me to that, I will introduce you to God. Otherwise all this is false and has no relevance. This name is not yours; you are not the owner; you are not a king. Who are you? There should be some talk about that.” The king fell silent. “If that is the condition, then it is very difficult; I do not know myself.”

What we call life—is it life? If you reflect, you will find it is not. What you take to be your personality—is that your personality? Reflect, and you will find it is not. Out of the fear that this illusion may break, we think that thinking is dangerous, that thought is very negative—“Whatever you think about gets negated; therefore don’t think.” If you think so, that is another matter. But it is non-thinking that is negative. Because of it, the real life is not seen, and the unreal appears as life.

A drunkard drinks; we say to him, “Stop drinking for a while, then look at the world.” He says, “My whole world will change. All that I see under the influence of alcohol will be negated. What a negative teaching you give! My whole world will be disturbed.” We say to him, “What you see while drunk is not the world. What you will see without drink—that is the world.”

What is seen in life by inquiring, by awakening—that is truth. Therefore, death is not a negation. Death is a fact; it surrounds you on all sides. One who does not see it is blind; one who does not see it will never know life.

That is why I said: know death. But I did not say: keep a continual remembrance of death. Continual remembrance means you do not know. What you do not know, you have to keep remembering; what you know, you do not need to remember. You keep remembering only that which you do not know.

A sannyasin friend of mine, whenever he sits, always keeps remembering, “I am Brahman—Aham Brahmasmi.” I told him, “You don’t know; that is why you repeat it. If you knew ‘I am Brahman,’ why this constant chatter—Aham Brahmasmi, Aham Brahmasmi? This chatter is proof that you do not know. If you knew, the matter would be finished. What need would there be to remember?”

We remember only those things we do not know. Memory belongs to ignorance; knowledge has no remembrance—knowledge simply is. When you know, the matter is finished. If it becomes clear to you that death is, the matter is finished. You won’t have to keep grinding day and night: “Death surrounds me on all sides.” If you are repeating that death surrounds you, then you do not yet know; you are trying to convince yourself by repeating a falsehood. I see people repeating such falsehoods for a long time, and then it begins to seem to them that they have come to know something.

No, I did not say: keep continual remembrance. I said: become available to remembrance. Keeping continual remembrance is one thing; becoming available to remembrance is another. It should be seen by you—this awakening should happen within you—that death is. The matter is finished. After that there is nothing to remember. Only useless things have to be remembered; what you truly know you do not need to remember.

Memory is not knowledge. Knowledge is something altogether different. Memory can be forgotten; knowledge cannot be forgotten. What has been memorized can be forgotten some day; what has been known cannot be forgotten. Because it was never “remembered”; it was known. What is known is never forgotten; what is remembered can be forgotten at any time.

So I did not say: while sitting, standing, sleeping, waking, keep remembering that there is death. That way you will certainly go mad; life will be disturbed. No. I said: know, awaken, and see what is—then you will see death. And if death is seen, a longing will arise within you: “If this is death, then what is life? If all this is death, what shall I do to know life?” A thirst will arise within you. For that thirst I said: awakening toward death is appropriate.

I did not speak of fearing death, because what does fear of death even mean? It is essential to know that death is. The one who does not know this is the one who is afraid. To be afraid means we carry the notion that someday we will die—that what we presently take to be life will be snatched away. So the fear is that death might take away our life. That is what the fear is.

But if you come to know that you are already dead, what is there to fear? If you come to see that every day you are dying, that much of you has already died, what is there to fear? As long as what you take to be life appears to you as life, the fear of death appears. And if this very thing begins to be seen as death, what fear of death can remain? Those who recognize this as death step outside the fear of death. And only the one who has gone beyond the fear of death is capable of knowing life. We are afraid precisely because we think all that we call our life will be snatched away by death. Because it will be taken, we fear that death will seize it.

There was a monk in Japan. He was staying outside a village. Some of his statements made people oppose him. His words were so rebellious that the people decided to kill him. When people can find no answer to something, they think of murder. When no understanding dawns, when nothing appears as to how to answer a man, then a bullet or a noose is made into the answer. That is why to real questions and real answers, people have so often replied with gallows or with poison.

So they decided to kill the man. A few who loved him went at night to warn him: “Leave this hut tonight—there is danger. This hut stands alone across the river, outside the village; people are planning to murder you.” The monk said, “If I had not known, I might have gone somewhere. But now they will come here searching for me and not find me—how would that look? If I had not known, I could have gone anywhere—I am a monk, I come and go. But tonight, even if I have to leave a thousand tasks, I must stay right here. They will come and I won’t be here—this would not be good. When one learns that guests are coming, and the master of the house runs away, it is not right.”

The monk stayed. The friends thought, “He is mad. Even to sit with him or be known as his companion is dangerous,” and they ran away. In the dark of night the men came to kill him. On other nights he would lock his door, but that night he left it open—why cause them needless trouble by having to break it? He lay sleeping on a cot just inside the door. They entered in the dark and raised their swords. As soon as a sword was lifted, the monk said, “It is never my habit to interrupt anyone; let a man do what he is doing. But it is hard to watch a completely wrong act being done. The side toward which you have raised your sword—my feet are there; my neck is on this side. Now you are about to do a wholly mistaken thing. If you must kill, the sword should fall toward the neck. It is dark, so you cannot see, but I can. I have been in the dark a long time; I understand it a little. You have just come; you cannot see. The neck is on this side.”

They were shaken: what kind of man is this who sleeps with the door open? He knows, he has been warned, and still he has not fled. And now he is telling them, “I cannot bear to see mistakes—my feet are that way, my neck is this way.” They asked, “Are you not afraid of dying?” The monk laughed and said, “The day I came to know that what you call life is death, that very day the fear of death dissolved. And what I now know as life—your sword can neither snatch it nor destroy it. What you took to be life has become death for me. And what you call death—that is life for me.”

The monk said, “Those who have already died from their own side—there is no way to kill them. Those who have known that death has already happened—there is now no way to kill them. Only those who are in the illusion of life can die. Only they are haunted by the fear of dying.”

What I have said is not that you should be tormented by the fear of death. No. I have said: everything is death—know it, understand it, see it—and from that seeing a revolution will take place within you.

As for saintliness—I never said I feel pity for saintliness. I feel pity for the sadhu. And there is a great difference between saintliness and a sadhu. In truth, the one in whom saintliness lives doesn’t even know whether he is a sadhu, a householder, or what. And the one who knows, “I am a sadhu,” is still acting the role of a sadhu.

Being a sadhu is not a matter of changing labels—change your clothes, change your color and form—and you are a sadhu. In fact, most of those who appear in the guise of sadhus are precisely the people who doubt their own sainthood. Otherwise, why the costume? They have a doubt. They fear you won’t recognize them as sadhus. Hence the whole show, the entire apparatus. Are sadhus like soldiers in the military—that you pin medals on them, put them in uniform, give them numbers? That is exactly the condition of the “sadhus”—they too wear badges.

A sadhu once came to Gandhi. He was a renunciate, dressed in ochre robes. He said to Gandhi, “I want to serve. I am influenced by your words. I was in America; I have come from there.” Gandhi said, “Then do this first service: take off these ochre robes. Put aside this saffron. Do this first.” The man asked, “Why? How does this hinder you?” Gandhi said, “Are you unsure about being a sadhu? Do you suspect that if your ochre robes are taken away, your sainthood will be taken away too? And if someone’s sainthood is so bound to his garments, will you call him a sadhu?”

A sadhu is one thing; saintliness is another. Saintliness must be honored. But because you honor the sadhu, saintliness goes unhonored. You worship sadhus; therefore, many times saintliness doesn’t even come into your view. Truly, I cannot even imagine that one who carries saintliness within will roam about with a signboard: it would not occur to him to put on a show, to stage arrangements, to wear special clothes, to craft a special kind of hypocrisy. The very idea is so immature, so childish, that even a somewhat intelligent person would smell the fraud. And yet that is what we are being shown.

What has happened is this: bit by bit, saintliness has been pushed down beneath the pedestal, and the sadhu has climbed up onto it. I want to pull the sadhu down from that pedestal, so that saintliness can be established in honor. And to see saintliness you need eyes. Even the blind can recognize a “sadhu” when he passes by. But to see saintliness, you need eyes—deep eyes. Recognizing saintliness is not so easy. And honoring saintliness is harder still—harder because saintliness is not found within your ready-made molds. It never stands inside the frames you have fabricated.

That is why, whenever a sadhu with true saintliness is born, a new sect arises—because he does not fit the old sects’ molds. A new mold has to be cast around him, because he is a man of a new form. Ask the Jains, “Is Christ a sadhu?” They will say, “How could he be? He is not in Mahavira’s style.” Mahavira stood naked; Christ wore clothes. “How can he be a sadhu?” A mold was formed after seeing Mahavira; whoever fits that mold appears a sadhu to the Jains. Seeing the Buddha, the Buddhists formed another mold; whoever fits that looks like a sadhu to them. But tell me—will any real sadhu come to fit your mold? And if someone does contort himself to fit your mold, will you call that person a sadhu?

A sadhu lives his own life—natural, uncontrived. His form grows from within; he does not adopt anyone else’s mold. He lives in his own way, from his own awakening. So whenever you see people tight in molds, understand that sainthood has not yet been born within them. They are still caught in the illusion of “being a sadhu.”

I recall an incident. In an ashram there were many monks. A man came and asked the master of that ashram, “I too want to be a sadhu.” The master said, “Do you want to look like a sadhu, or be one? There’s a difference.” He asked again, “Do you want to look like a sadhu, or be one? If you want to look like one, it’s easy; if you want to be one, it’s very difficult. Looking like one is very easy. You’re sitting here now—within half an hour you’ll be a sadhu. Change your clothes, shave your head, take someone’s blessing—and you’re a sadhu. A little while ago you used to touch others’ feet; now others will touch yours. In half an hour you were a householder; now you’re a sadhu. Sainthood has been made into such a joke.”

Saintliness is a deep, lifelong attainment. No one becomes a sadhu just like that.

A very prominent sadhu recently asked me, “Why don’t you become a sadhu?” I said, “Is sainthood something you become just because you decide to? Saintliness develops—it’s growth. Very slowly, slowly, the human mind is transformed; growth happens. One doesn’t even notice when something has changed—when the world fell away and he became another man. Others may notice; he himself does not.”

Did you know on which day you became young? Did you know on which day you became old? You did not know at all. Others may have told you, “Now you’re old.” But did you know first, on which day you turned old?

Whatever is significant in life develops slowly, quietly within. You cannot tell when it happened. Yet what do we see? A man was a householder yesterday. His wife died—he is now a sadhu. A shopkeeper took a loss—he became a sadhu. Another man faced some trouble—he became a sadhu. Someone’s mind was unbalanced; he read the Gita too hard—he became a sadhu. Someone read the Ramayana—became a sadhu. Someone heard someone, was impressed, became emotional—and became a sadhu. Is it so easy?

Saintliness is a lifelong earning. The plant grows very slowly, and then the flowers come. Out of the experiences and awakenings of a lifetime, the flower of saintliness blossoms within. And when it blossoms, it does not manifest in such childish ways.

There was a king in Japan who said, “I want to meet a sadhu.” People told him, “There are so many sadhus—meet any of them.” He said, “Not these; I want to meet a sadhu.” His ministers said, “Perhaps the man who lives outside the village near the hill—a certain old man—he may appear a sadhu to you.” The king went there. He stayed near him; he was deeply impressed. After a few days he realized that this man had found something: there was a glint in his eyes, a pulse in his life-breath, a music in his conduct—he had known something. The king said, “I want to make you my preceptor.” He had a very precious cloak made, velvet, studded with jewels, and he went and put it on the sadhu. The sadhu laughed and said, “If you offer it with love, how can I refuse? But take it away—take it from here because here in the forest my friends are bears, monkeys, and dogs. If they see me wearing this cloak, they will laugh a lot—‘This old fellow is still childish, still immature, roaming the forest in a blue robe.’ So take it away. There aren’t people here who can be fooled by my robe; there are only the animals of the forest—they will laugh a lot. They’ll say, ‘He’s grown old and still his intelligence is childish—roaming around in a cloak.’ So take it away.”

And what are these people you call sadhus doing? Their intelligence is highly childish. And it is because of this childish intelligence that they have become a nuisance across the world. These “sadhus” are making the world fight and butcher and suffer. Upon these sadhus lies a great weight of blood, a great burden, immense responsibility. The irreligious have not sinned as much as these “sadhus” have—and are doing so daily. And yet we ask whether the sadhu is being insulted.

It is not a question of insulting a sadhu. I am speaking about what is going on under the label “sadhu.” I speak of it precisely so that a genuine respect for real saintliness may arise in us, so that we learn to know and recognize it. To know and recognize it, other things are needed—not a change of clothes. What is needed is a revolution of the whole of life. A revolution of the whole of life—and a natural, unforced way of living.

When someone becomes a sadhu, life becomes utterly simple. All the complexity of life dissolves. Gain and loss become zero for him. The ones you call sadhus think in the language of profit and loss twenty-four hours a day. Even if they have left home, it is with the idea that in exchange they will gain heaven or liberation. They are the same old shopkeepers. Their pattern of thinking is profit. “I gave this up; I’ll get that.”

Anyone who “renounces” so as to obtain something has not renounced at all. He is still thinking in the old profit-and-loss arithmetic. Go ask these sadhus, “Why did you leave home?” They will say, “For liberation.” That is, they are trying to balance the books—trading something as stale as “house-renunciation” for liberation. “I left my home; now I want liberation.” They want to buy it cheap. And if liberation could be had at the price of a house, how many truly intelligent people would be ready to take it—who would want a liberation that comes just from leaving home? Yet this is the thinking: “Give up something and you’ll get something.” One who leaves in order to get has not left. Letting go happens from a seeing of futility. When something becomes futile, it drops. That is a different matter.

Therefore I say: a sadhu does not leave things; things fall away from him. He leaves nothing; things drop from him. He does not practice renunciation; certain things become relinquished of themselves. Whatever becomes useless in his life—his grip on it dissolves. Not in exchange for some reward. Liberation is not the reward for renunciation. In truth, if renunciation is complete, that itself is liberation. Renunciation is not a price paid for getting something. Liberation means: when everything has dropped, you are free.

But one who gives up something to gain something else remains in bondage. The one who has become a renunciate out of the desire for liberation is still bound—still craving, still tied to transaction, still giving up something with an eye to gain. Desire has not gone anywhere. I do not call such people sadhus.

I call him a sadhu in whose understanding things have slipped away from his hands of themselves. Slowly, slowly, everything falls away and he remains alone—pure consciousness only, with no grasp on anything. In that state, when saintliness ripens, it is difficult to recognize. We are very blind people; we recognize the outer; recognizing the inner is very difficult. Hence, when a true sadhu appears, you will either throw stones at him, or shoot him, or give him poison, or hang him. And when a fake appears, you will place your head at his feet, pour wealth at him, worship and pray. The real sadhu has always been treated badly; the fake has always been treated well.

Therefore I am opposed to the “sadhu” as we commonly know him—but not opposed to saintliness. It is for that very saintliness that I am saying all this—so that it may grow.

There are many more questions; we can take them up tomorrow.

Not at all. If you want to know something about religion, then books are necessary. But if you want to know religion, books are not necessary. To know about religion, books are very necessary; to know religion, books are absolutely unnecessary. To know religion, you will have to read yourself. And to know about religion, there are texts, there are scriptures—you will have to read them. One who reads about religion does not become religious; he becomes a pundit of religion. One who knows religion becomes religious.

You do see the difference between the “religious” and the “pundit,” don’t you?

A pundit is one who knows everything about religion, but the scriptures on him are like scriptures loaded on a donkey. They have no connection with his life. He is not a religious man. He is carrying a burden. The pundit carries a load. His own wisdom has not opened; his own awareness has not awakened. But a religious man is an altogether different matter.

Therefore, many times it happens that those who have known no scripture at all still become religious; and those who have known many scriptures still do not become religious. In the history of the world, occasions have been rare when the knowers of scriptures also became religious. Mostly it has happened that not the knowers of scriptures but the non-knowers have become religious. And there is a reason for this: by knowing scriptures the mind becomes complicated, more complex.

By knowing scriptures, questions die half-born, because others’ answers satisfy us. Our own search stops. We settle that what is written in the scriptures is right. The search ends. We learn answers and begin to repeat them. And by repeating again and again, we fall into the illusion that we know. That is why so often the reader of scriptures falls into the delusion that he knows the Truth. Knowing Truth is an altogether different thing.

To know Truth, the mind must become simple—and so simple that no scripture remains in it, no word remains, no doctrine remains. When the mind is so simple that there is no scripture, no word, no thought, no doctrine, no religion—then in that simplicity, in that innocence, what is experienced—that is Truth, that is Religion. And after that experience, a revolution happens in life. The whole life changes. What is known in that peace inevitably becomes conduct. Knowing itself becomes action.

If there are a few more points on this, I can speak with you tomorrow.

You have listened to all this with such love; for that I am deeply grateful. And in the end, I bow to the Divine seated within each of you. Please accept my salutations.