A dark night, a small village, and at the door of a fakir’s hut someone is knocking hard. Ordinarily, if someone knocks on your door you will ask: Who is it? Who is calling? But that fakir asked in reverse. He asked: Whom are you calling? Who is being called? The fakir is inside his hut; someone pounds the door from outside; from within the fakir asks: Whom are you calling? Normally no one asks this. People ask: Who is calling?
The man pounding from outside said: I am calling Bayazid. Is Bayazid at home?
And then the fakir inside began to laugh loudly, and kept laughing. The man outside became restless. He said: Your laughter won’t help. I am asking: Is Bayazid inside?
The fakir said: If you have set out to find Bayazid, it is very difficult. I myself have been looking for Bayazid for fifty years, and have not yet found him. People like you mistake me for Bayazid! But I have been searching for Bayazid for fifty years and have not yet found him. That is why I laugh—at the absurdity that you too are looking for a man who has not yet found himself!
That man must have thought he was mad. This is Bayazid himself—and he says he does not know who he is!
We all think we know who we are. And because of this false knowing we never attain to the truth of life, nor to life’s joy, nor do we come upon life’s mystery. A basic error occurs—we have assumed we know who we are. We have assumed we know what life is. And if a man is deluded into thinking he knows life, there is no wonder if he remains forever deprived of knowing it.
First thing: What we do not know—we must know that we do not know.
To take the unknown as known is the doorway to great delusions and endless wandering.
If we do not know what life is—how can there be any revolution in life?
And since the idea has settled within us that we know what life is, life gestures a thousand ways all around us, yet we do not see those gestures. It sends us a thousand messages, and we do not listen. It manifests in a thousand forms, but our eyes remain blind. It sings in a thousand tones, yet our ears do not hear. It comes in myriad forms, but our arms cannot embrace. Because we “know” that we already know, we neither lift our eyes to see nor spread our hands to receive, we do not listen with the ears nor engage our very breath in the direction where life can be known.
More astonishing is this: we do not know life at all, yet we malign life in a thousand ways, abuse it in a thousand ways, find a thousand faults with it—we find thorns by the heap. Those who have not known a single flower of life keep gathering piles of thorns. Those who have never received a single ray of light keep collecting darkness. Such are we—how can there be revolution in our lives?
I want to begin this thread of sutras with a small story.
I have heard: An emperor was passing through a hilly part of his kingdom. He had never come by that route. Rugged mountains, and in deep dense caves lived people. He knew it was his border, but had never gone there. Passing through that region he was amazed. The mountain folk knew nothing of building houses. They slept under trees. When it rained they hid under rocks. They had no sense of the art of making a dwelling; they had never seen houses. They had never come down into the plains, and the people of the plains never went there.
He returned and called for his greatest architect, the finest craftsman who built palaces for the court. He said: Go, and build a beautiful building in that region so that travelers may stay, guests may find shelter, and the people there may learn how to build houses. There is not a single house there.
The craftsman went. The emperor had ordered a very large palace. It was difficult to take that many workers so far. It was also fitting to employ the local people, so they would learn to build, and news of the palace would spread far to the scattered hamlets in the mountains.
He gathered the people and said: I have been sent by the emperor to build a palace here.
They began to laugh. They said: A palace! No such thing exists. Why are you telling us lies? What is a palace?
It was very difficult to explain to those people what a house is—they had never seen one. The whole crowd laughed among themselves; they suspected the man was some trickster, some conspirator trying to deceive simple poor folk. A house! Have you ever seen one? Heard of one?
They were many; he was alone. The craftsman was in great difficulty. He had built many palaces in his life, yet could not make these people understand what a palace is. So settled were they in their ignorance that they denied that a palace could even exist.
Still the craftsman labored. He said: I will build it and show you. He selected some people. Everyone wanted to become a laborer to build the palace—there was much wealth to be paid from the emperor. But not all could be chosen. Nor were all needed, nor were all competent or intelligent enough. He chose those who were intelligent and capable of building, and began the work.
Those who were not chosen started spreading rumors around: He seems to have chosen his own men. We will not allow this palace to be built. It is dangerous. What we do not know, we should not allow on our land. They spread countless rumors: Whoever enters this palace will die. If this palace is built, our land will be filled with a curse. What we have never seen, what our ancestors never saw—we neither want to see it nor have it built.
By day the craftsman built; by night the others came and pulled out the bricks. The palace was being made for them—and they were the ones trying night and day to tear it down! With great difficulty they were persuaded: Let it be completed. If you do not like it, then you may demolish it.
When the palace was half done, people in the nearby villages spread word: This is not being built for us; the craftsman is building it for himself. Have you ever heard of anyone climbing a mountain to do service for others? Who does anything for others? The craftsman tried hard to explain: I am building it for you. No one was ready to believe it. Who climbs a mountain and labors for someone else? He must be building for himself.
He sent those who had worked with him to explain in the people’s own tongue. They went, but the villagers said: These are his servants, his spies; they eat his bread and sing his tune—we will not listen. Send the craftsman himself to explain.
The craftsman went. The time that should have gone into building the palace was being spent explaining to those for whom it was being built. Leaving a thousand tasks he went to persuade them.
They said: Now you come to explain? You answer only after we accuse? Answers should have been given first.
The craftsman said: How could I answer first? You asked, so I have come to speak.
They said: Do not think us fools. We at least understand this much: No one climbs a mountain to work for others. There is some conspiracy behind this. We will be in trouble. We do not want this palace.
He tried to reason.
They said: Reasoning is useless. We have enough sense; we will not be led astray. But among the crowd one sensible man said: If this man says the emperor sent him to build a palace, he should have some document. All said: If there is a document, show it.
The craftsman brought the document. But in the whole region no one could read or write. They all said: You are trying to make fools of us. This paper has only black lines—nothing else. Where is the document?
The craftsman said: This is the warrant. The emperor’s signature is here. But there was no one who could read—great difficulty!
They said: We are being deceived. There is nothing written here—only a paper with black scratches.
For those who cannot read, writing is nothing more than black lines. Hardly did a man from the crowd step forth and say: I can read. But he took the craftsman aside and whispered: I will need many thousand coins to read it out.
The craftsman said: The warrant is genuine. I refuse to give a bribe for truth.
That man went back and spread the rumor: Nothing is written on that paper. It is a complete fraud. The craftsman is trying to deceive us.
People said: We asked what you are building and for what. And you try to confuse us with talk of reading and writing?
The palace could not be completed. The people of that region pulled out every brick and threw them away. The craftsman had to return.
I heard this story—and it seems utterly true to the life we live. We live almost such a life as if we knew no art of making it. First of all, we do not know what life is. If you do not know what a house is, the art of building one is very difficult. And if someone comes who has known life and says: This is what life is—we refuse to accept. Because what we “know,” we know fully; we are not ready to know anything different.
Thus men like Jesus are crucified, Mansoor’s limbs are cut, Socrates is given poison. They are the ones who bring news of life’s palace—the craftsmen. And we are filled with anger! Because we have neither heard of such a life, nor seen it, nor are we willing to accept it. They too bring documents, but to us they are only papers and lines. We demand proof—and they show us papers and lines! You talk of reading and thinking? We want direct evidence. But how can we read a language we do not know? And how can we recognize a life at the door of which we have never knocked, never peered in?
What that craftsman experienced among the villagers—life’s craftsmen ever experience among us.
So the first sutra I would say to you: We do not know what life is. If this much is felt, we can set out on the journey to know. If we feel we have no clue what life is, perhaps we will stir from where we have become petrified, and a new journey may begin. If we consent to admit that what we know is not all that can be known, that much remains, much is still left; if we accept that what appears to us is not sufficient, much remains unseen, unheard, untouched. If we sense that around us the unfamiliar ever outweighs the familiar, then perhaps we will lift our eyes toward the unknown, take steps, spread our hands, make some effort, build some boat, some house—begin some path, some endeavor, some sadhana in that direction.
Life’s revolution is a sadhana.
To know life is not accomplished by merely being born. A man is born—that does not mean he knows life. Birth is like a seed. If the seed is sown in a garden, it may one day become a flower. The flower is hidden in the seed, but the seed is not itself a flower. And if the seed concludes, I am a flower—the matter ends. It will remain only a seed—rot, decay, but never become a blossom. The seed must recognize it is a journey of becoming, a possibility, a potentiality. It is not yet—it can be.
A man can be something; he is not yet. We can become something; we are not yet. We are only a possibility of becoming. We are a seed which, if it breaks open, may bloom; if it does not, it may rot, decay, and stink.
From the seed becoming a flower, fragrance spreads and the sky dances with colors. But if it never becomes a flower, remains a seed, then only stench spreads—no dance, no fragrance. The seed will rot, perish, and die.
We die, we perish; but we are neither alive nor do we attain life. We are like seeds gone mad, thinking we have become flowers.
Man must recognize he is only a seed—a possibility. Something can be; but has not yet happened. This is the first sutra I want to tell you.
We exist in order to become. Like an arrow set upon a bowstring—an arrow on the bow is only a possibility. It can fly to where it has not yet gone; it can reach targets far away. Yet for now it rests on the bow.
Man is an arrow set upon the bow. If he flies, he can reach Paramatma; if he stops, he remains upon the bow. We are souls mounted upon bodies. If we move, we can reach Paramatma; if we stop, we reach nowhere but the grave. But we have taken birth to be the whole story.
A man is born and assumes the matter is complete—now he must “live.” How will you live what you have not yet received? Only birth has happened. Birth is not life. Birth is merely an opportunity. If you wish, life can be found; if you wish, it may not be found.
Yet all around people accept that this is life: The child is born, grows up, is educated, gets a job, builds a house, earns money—and life is attained. Is this life? Then he builds houses, earns money, begets new children—and one day he dies. From birth to death the journey is complete. But where is the juice of life? Where its fragrance? Where is the music of life heard?
Like a man who roams all his life with a veena on his shoulder saying, I have music. He is not lying, yet he is. In one sense he is right—the veena is with him, from which music could arise. But the veena is not music. And if a man carries a veena all his life, music will not arise by itself.
The veena is not itself music; music can be born from it.
Birth is not itself life; life can be born from it.
And a man may carry the veena of birth upon his shoulder right up to the gate of death—life will not be attained.
Birth is received from parents; life must be earned by oneself. Birth is given by others; life must be found by oneself.
Birth is given. Life must be sought.
The search for life is an art.
And being born is purely a natural event, not of great value—except that after it, life can be attained. Yet among millions upon millions, only once in a while does someone attain life.
We all live dead—and die dead. We are merely born and we die. The long stretch between birth and death—we imagine that is life.
We certainly accumulate wealth, we accumulate knowledge, we gather status and prestige, and perhaps we think what we have amassed—that is life. However much wealth is gathered—what has life to do with wealth? And however many scriptures you may learn, however great a scholar you become—what has scholarship to do with knowing life? Conquer the whole world, be emperor of the earth, plant flags on moon and stars—what has any of this to do with life?
I have heard a Russian folk tale. A poet sits under a tree at dawn reading his poems. There is no one there—except a crow perched on the tree. He reads his first poem and says: I have obtained all the wealth of the world; I have found Solomon’s treasure; I am Kubera himself. I have everything that can be had. He looks around with great pride.
There is no one—only the crow above. The crow laughs loudly and says: So what? What comes of it?
The poet is startled. There is no one. A crow is sitting above. He says: Did this crow say—So what? I have read my poems before great men and they praised me, and you, foolish crow, say—So what? What comes of it?
The crow says: Indeed, I say it. For as far as we understand, the stupidity about wealth belongs only to humans, not to animals, birds, or trees. If you read among humans that you have found Solomon’s treasure, they will clap—because they too want to obtain it within. They are as foolish as you are. Their foolishness does not become poetry; yours has become verse—that is the only difference.
The crow says: But suppose you have obtained all treasure—what then? So what?
The poet says: You foolish crow, you will not understand. I will recite another poem. But the man is the same; however many poems, his mind is the same, his greed the same. In the second poem he says: I have conquered the whole earth; I am a universal emperor. None stands above me; all are beneath my feet.
The crow laughs again: So what? What will come of it? Suppose everyone is beneath your feet, and you are master of all—what will happen then? What will you gain?
The poet, in anger, recites a third poem: Let that be. I have read all the scriptures—the Gita, the Koran, the Upanishads, the Bible. I have known all knowledge. None is more learned than I. I am omniscient. I know everything.
The crow says: So what? What will come of it? You may know everything—and still one thing will remain unknown. You have obtained all wealth—and one treasure will remain unpossessed. You have won all kingdoms—and one realm remains unfamiliar. The crow goes on; the poet, enraged, throws away his poem and walks off.
Another crow asks that crow: You kept saying in every case—So what? What poem would have made you applaud?
That crow says: There is only one poem of life—and that is the knowing of life! Not in knowing wealth, nor fame, nor punditry is poetry born. The one poem of life is born from knowing life itself. And that poet knows nothing of that poem. Until he sang that, I had to go on saying—So what?
I would say to you: When your mind says gather all wealth, ask yourself—So what? What will happen? When the mind says conquer the world, reach the thrones of kings, ask—So what? What will come of it? Whenever mind proposes its races—the proposals it makes every day—keep asking: So what?
Until I know myself and the tone of life, what is the meaning of all I know and all I gain? When this question arises, the beginning of religion happens in a man’s world.
I do not call that man religious who asks: Is God? The religious man has no business with such a God. I do not call religious the one who asks: Who created this universe? Questions of creation can be asked by scientists; to a religious man it is not worth a farthing who made it. I do not call religious the one who asks: How many hells, how many heavens? What business has a religious man with heaven and hell? The anxious about hell are those doing such work as will take them there; or anxious about heaven are those doing the work of hell, hoping that by knowing its address they may bribe their way in. But the religious man—what has he to do with heaven and hell?
The religious man has one question only, one inquiry only—one ultimate concern: I am—but what am I? I exist—why do I exist? If I were not, what loss would there be? And if I am, what is the purpose? Shall I go on squandering this being upon the most trivial? Rising each morning and doing the same for forty or fifty years—office, shop, house, sleep, food. Shall I go on like an ox at the oil-press, or shall I also ask why I am, for what, what is the purpose of my being?
A religious man wants to know why I am at all. And the moment this question arises—Why am I needed?—he begins to ask: Then let me know who I am, what I am, from where, for what. And if attention turns toward the search for all this—life can be known.
But we seek life where it is not. We seek where life has no connection. We will keep seeking until we perish, and still life will not be found.
Ask the dying—he too was doing what you are doing. But he had not asked those who died before him. Everyone is dying and everyone is doing what the dead have done. No one asks, What are we doing?
One night an emperor lies awake in his palace. Sleep does not come. What emperor sleeps easily? It is very difficult. Those who deprive many of sleep—how can their own sleep come? He tosses and turns—emperors always do. And to ease their turning, the finest mattresses and pillows must be arranged. The sleeper cares not for soft beds. To whom sleep comes, the earth is a royal mattress. To whom sleep does not come, cushions feel like thorns.
He turns and turns. Past midnight he hears footsteps above on the roof. Who is there? He is frightened. Emperors have guns and swords and guards. In truth guards stand around those who are very afraid within. One who is not afraid inside needs no guards outside. He is terrified. Who is there? he shouts.
From above a voice says: Do not be alarmed. I have nothing to do with you. My camel is lost; I am searching for my camel.
The emperor says: You seem mad! Do camels get lost on palace roofs—on tiles and rafters?
He awakens the guards: Go, see who is above. Catch him. But the man has vanished.
Still the emperor thinks all night: What did it mean—a man searching for a camel on the roof? He cannot sleep. At dawn he dozes and sees a dream: The same man is searching on the roof. He asks him: Are camels found on roofs? Camels are not lost on roofs! The man replies in the dream: And you are searching for life where it is not lost! If life can be found in wealth, in fame, in position and prestige, then camels too can be found on roofs. In fact camels can be lost on roofs—but life? Life is not lost in wealth or rank or outer goods or mansions. Life is where you are. He wakes, trembling.
In the morning he sits in court, troubled. An unknown man enters the court. The doorkeeper tries to stop him, but he does not stop. The doorkeeper asks: Where are you going?
The man says: I wish to be a guest for a few days in this dharmashala, this inn. I want to stay here.
The doorkeeper says: You must be mad. It seems the lunatics have been let loose. Last night one lunatic was on the roof searching for a camel. Now you call the king’s palace an inn? This is not an inn; this is the emperor’s residence.
He says: I will not talk to you; I will speak to the emperor.
He enters. In the court he says to the emperor: I wish to be a guest in this inn for a few days. You have no objection?
The emperor says: This is difficult talk. This is my residence, not an inn.
The stranger says: Residence? A few years ago I came and saw another sitting on this very throne.
The emperor says: That was my father. He passed away.
The stranger says: I came even earlier and saw a third.
The emperor says: My father’s father. He too passed.
The man laughs: Where, before my very eyes, residents keep changing—is it right to call this a residence? How long shall you stay? As I see it, when I come again there will be a fourth man here saying: Those who sat before were my fathers; they passed away. That is why I call it an inn—and I want to stay a few days. You have no objection?
The emperor at once feels—this must be the man who searched for the camel. He descends and touches the man’s feet.
The man says: Do not touch my feet—catch hold of your own! For your feet are carrying you where you should not go. Your feet are taking you where nothing is to be attained. Your feet have set you on a journey that ends in emptiness. Hold your own feet—and walk where life is, where truth is.
That emperor left the palace that very day. His household said: Where are you going, leaving the palace? He said: If it were a residence, I would not leave. It is an inn—one has to leave. To cling to it will only bring trouble and nothing else.
But in life we take inns for homes. Pebbles for diamonds. The crowd around us for friends and family. And the one thing which, if understood, could change everything—we keep that in darkness: our own being.
If someone comes and knocks upon the door of your chest and asks, Who is inside? will you, like Bayazid, be able to say: I have been searching for fifty years—I have not found out? Have you even searched? Not at all. To search and not find is one thing; but not to search—then no one else can be held responsible.
The first question in the direction of life’s revolution is: Why am I? Why this existence? For what do we breathe, for what do we rise in the morning, for what do we sleep at night? Life must become a question, an inquiry, a seeking.
But we accept others’ answers—we do not search ourselves. Others say, This is life. The father tells the son, This is life, and the son believes. Teachers tell students, This is life. Leaders tell followers, This is life. The departing tell the arriving, This is life. And we all go on believing.
One who believes like this is not even worthy to be called a man. He has not raised his own question. He has not even asked—Is this life? And if this is not life, then what is life? We seem to be practicing democracy about life too—taking a vote on what life is and accepting what the majority says.
I have heard: In a village a man “died.” He was not dead—only unconscious. But villagers are in a hurry; when someone dies they want to dispatch him quickly—to make space for another.
A president dies—before he is even dead the race for the next begins. They do not even manage to send him off—faces hang long at the funeral, but within, the search goes on: Who will sit in his chair?
The man was “dead.” They quickly tied him to the bier and set off. He was not dead—only fainted. The village authorities issued a certificate: dead. No one searches for the living; who would search for the dead? The certificate was given.
They reached the grave. As they lowered him, the man stirred, sat up, and said: But I am alive!
The villagers said: How can that be? We have a certificate that you are dead—issued by the authorities. Our authority never errs.
The man said: Be that as it may, I am alive!
They said: How can we accept it? It has never happened before.
He looked around—fifty had come to send him off. Among them was a judge reputed to be impartial. He folded his hands to the judge: Please decide—I am alive!
The judge said: You have heard the statement of the allegedly dead man. What is your testimony?
They all said: How can we speak against the authorities? In front of the whole village a certificate has been issued—this man is dead. We accept that he is dead.
The judge said: Then I too decide—bury him. This man is not alive!
Why do you laugh? He took others’ decision about death. We have taken others’ decision about life! We are sitting with others’ opinions about life. Others say, This is life: run, earn, build ever taller houses, travel from earth to moon—and die. This is life. There are thousands of years of testimony—judges say so, leaders say so, the so-called wise say so, the crowd all around says so. Under the pressure of this crowd every man accepts: This is life.
I tell you: This is not life at all. It is worse than death. It has nothing to do with life. Life is something utterly different. This is only livelihood. It is not life—it is merely living. It is just bread-winning. Bread-winning is useful only if the search for life is ongoing. If the search is not ongoing, earning bread is utterly meaningless—futile, without purpose.
To pour water and manure into a seed from which no flowers will come is meaningless. We water and manure so that flowers may bloom. But we go on giving water and manure as if the plant’s entire goal is to keep receiving manure and water! No flowers, no fragrance, no veena ever sounds! What is this? What kind of life?
A question must arise: Is this life?
It is very difficult to ask a question. Asking others is very easy, for others have ready-made answers. Asking oneself is very difficult, for there no answers are ready-made. Asking there means entering a long labor, a sadhana, a journey. But we have fixed answers for all the important questions of life. Everything has been taught to us. We have cultivated answers—and whenever life raises a question, we promptly give an answer; either our own or borrowed from others.
What we give is also learned from others—fed into us since childhood. If someone says: No, this is not life; the life of the body is not life; the life of the soul is life—he too may be saying it from a book or some guru. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred he has merely heard it. If he is saying what he heard, it is also meaningless. There is no significance in it.
Who knows whether Atman is or not? One must know oneself. Another’s answer cannot do.
Who can say that with the body’s end everything ends? Only one who knows can say. But what use is his saying to another? To the other it is nothing more than an echoing voice in the sky.
Someone says: There is Atman. I say: There is Atman. What does that mean to you? Nothing at all. A word resounds and fades. We remain bodies; by hearing the word we do not become souls. Yes, you may memorize the word—and when life asks, you may start saying: I am Atman, I am immortal, I am Brahman, I am Paramatma! All of that will be false babble. This must be known. And it will be known only when this inquiry, this question, pierces our very being like an arrow, encircles every hair of us, until each particle asks: Who am I? For what am I?
We have never asked. When thirst comes, we ask with great urgency for water. But never with that urgency have we asked: Where is life? When hunger comes, we cry with our whole being—never has such a cry arisen for life.
Then people come to me and say: We want to seek God! In their hearts there is not even the thirst they would have for water. They ask: Where is liberation? As if someone will lift them up and take them there.
Who will take whom? And is God sitting somewhere that you will go and find him? That you will fold your hands in a temple, break a coconut, chant a mantra—and he will be found? If he is, he is within you. If anything is true, it is with you. It must be sought. The search is arduous, very arduous.
Ready-made answers are always easy. But ready-made answers are driving men insane. The whole world has become a madhouse because of ready-made answers.
I have heard: An emperor was to visit a village. The notable people of the village were to be presented before him. There was also a fakir, very well known, whom the villagers revered. They said: Our fakir will go—he will stand first in our delegation.
But the emperor’s attendants said: The fakir has never met an emperor; he does not know manners and etiquette. He may blunder, he may say something—he must be taught what answers to give.
The villagers agreed; the fakir too. He said: I do not know what to say in court; what will be asked—I may blunder. The emperor’s men taught him four or six things. First, they said, the emperor will ask your age. An old fakir—How old are you? He said: Seventy years. Remember. Then: How many years have you practiced sadhana? He said: Thirty years. They prepared a few such questions and answers.
The emperor came—and everything went awry. He first asked: How long have you been a fakir? How many years of sadhana?
The man said: Seventy years. For the answers were prepared.
The emperor said: Seventy years! Then you must be very old. How old are you?
He said: Thirty years. The answers were prepared.
The emperor said: Impossible! How can this be? You are thirty years old—and for seventy years you have been doing sadhana! Are you mad? Either you are mad or I am mad.
The fakir said: We are both mad.
The emperor said: What do you mean? You call me mad!
The fakir said: Certainly. Because you ask the wrong questions—and I have to give wrong answers. And all is prepared. The attendants have taught everything in advance and warned me not to blunder. You are mad—asking wrong questions; I am mad—giving wrong answers. But I am compelled; the answers are ready.
Our answers are ready too. If we are ever made to stand before Paramatma and he asks us something—will there be a single answer that is our own? One answer you can truly say: I am giving it? If not even one answer is yours, no outline of life, no hint, no end or beginning can be found.
Imagine yourself standing before Paramatma. He asks you—do you have even one answer of your own? Or are all learned—at school, in the monastery, from gurus, monks, scriptures, society, parents? Not one answer is yours! At least regarding life there should be one answer of your own.
What is life? This question has not arisen within us—whence will the answer come? And we are afraid to ask. Because if we do, what we have been calling life may begin to fall apart.
A man goes hoarding wealth like a madman. If he asks, What is life?—certainly he will no longer be able to go on madly hoarding tomorrow. This question will disrupt everything. If hoarding must go on madly, then you must avoid the question. So we all avoid life’s real questions. We say: Tomorrow we will ask.
A young man says: I am still young—talk of God can wait till old age. He says: Tomorrow, the day after. We postpone day after day. Why such fear? The real questions of life must be asked now, here—here and now. Not tomorrow, for there is no tomorrow; whenever there is, it is today, it is now.
I have heard: A Sufi fakir set out on a pilgrimage. Four or six friends were with him. They stayed in a village. Those four begged alms. Then they told the Sufi: Go to the market and buy halva.
He bought halva and brought it. A dispute began among the five—there was little halva, five were many, and hunger was great. They argued: Who should get the largest share? One devotee said: I am dearest to God—my share should be largest.
A yogi said: What are you talking about? None has ever done headstands like me. I deserve the most.
A pundit said: None knows more scripture than I. The first right is mine. I will take first—what remains is yours.
The dispute grew. Morning passed—evening came. The halva lay aside. The quarrel continued. No decision—who should take.
The Sufi suggested: Let us do this—we five will sleep. In the night whoever sees the most exalted dream will tell it in the morning. We five will recite our dreams—whoever’s is highest, he is the owner.
They had to sleep all night. At dawn, the devotee said: I dreamt God was standing and saying—none is dearer to me than you. Therefore the halva is yours.
The yogi said: As soon as I slept I entered Samadhi—such nirvikalpa Samadhi as few ever attain. I am the rightful one. All four made their claims. Then came the Sufi’s turn. They asked: What is your claim?
He said: In the night I saw God telling me—Get up and eat the halva! So I had to obey; I am compelled to keep his command. I got up and ate the halva.
That Sufi wrote this story in his autobiography and said: It is not just for laughter. Whoever wants to taste life must hear the same command—Get up and taste now. It cannot be for tomorrow. Dreamers will go on losing it to tomorrow.
Life must become a question.
Make your life a question.
There will be difficulty, restlessness. Life already has many questions; this one will disturb you more. But the restlessness of this question is profoundly meaningful. If it unsettles you, soon you may reach life’s very door. If it churns your whole being, the amrit may emerge that comes from churning. If this question shoves you and sets you on a journey—you may reach where the temple of the Lord is. But you must accept the restlessness of this question.
So the first sutra for life’s revolution is: A mind that asks. Not one that grasps answers, not one that clutches at conclusions—a mind that questions!
The courageous ask; the impotent and the weak only seize others’ answers and sit. Someone sits as a Hindu, someone as a Muslim, a Jain, a Christian, a Sikh, something or other. We have all become something and sat down.
How have we become like this?
These are learned answers. We have not asked. We have not confronted Paramatma face-to-face, we have had no encounter. We have not seized life and demanded: What are you? We have accepted others’ borrowed answers—and we busy ourselves measuring the trivial.
A man buying a two-paisa earthen pot in the market taps it all around to test it. For a two-paisa pot he tests carefully. And life? We are all sitting on borrowed knowledge.
He who sits on another’s knowledge—sits on ignorance. He who has tied another’s knowledge in his fist should know—his fist holds nothing. He who on the basis of another’s knowledge concludes I have known—more dangerous an ignoramus you will hardly find. He whose answers are borrowed and whose own question is absent—that man is dead, not alive.
We need an arrow of inquiry in our very breath—one that asks. And if we gather the courage to ask, Paramatma is always ready to answer. But if we do not ask, his answer cannot come. Those who ask, receive.
A fakir used to say daily: Knock—and the doors will open.
As Jesus said: Knock, and the door shall be opened unto you.
An old woman, Rabia, used to sit in his gatherings. One day Rabia stood and said: Enough of this—knock, knock. How long will you go on saying knock? The door is not closed at all. Open your eyes and see—the door is open. But who will lift their eyes?
An eye filled with the question begins the search; it rises and asks. And the one who asks is, in some moment, granted that answer after which we no longer need to ask others what life is—we know it.
When we know life as blood coursing through our veins; when we know life as breath rushing in the lungs; when we know life as love slips through the chambers of the heart; when we know life as the Ganga flows, as the winds move, as the stars blossom in the sky—when we know life in its totality with our very being—then a detonation, an explosion happens. A new man appears in our place. The old man—gone. In his place a completely new man arrives. The name of that fresh, new man is the religious man.
In these three days I will speak on those sutras by which that new religious man may arrive.
He exists within each of you. He must be called, invoked, brought out. We sit above, clad in old skins. Throw them away. The moment they are cast off, a new sprout will emerge from within. And on that sprout great flowers bloom. The name of those blooming flowers is the experience of Paramatma. From those flowers great fragrance spreads. The name of that spreading fragrance is prayer. In those flowers there is great amrit. One who knows that amrit—nothing remains to be known. One who attains that amrit—has attained all.
From one who has attained that amrit you may take away everything—he will go on laughing. Because you cannot take anything of his. He has attained that which cannot be taken. And whatever we possess can be snatched away. He who has only what can be snatched—is poor. He to whom comes that wealth which cannot be snatched—becomes truly rich, master of the kingdom of the Lord.
So today I leave you with the sutra of asking. Ask—ask as you fall asleep at night, ask as you rise in the morning, ask as you eat, ask while working at the shop, ask as you go to the office: What is life? Is this life—to go round and round like an ox at the mill? And do not accept any stale, prefabricated answer. The answer will surely come—the one that is truly yours, the one that Paramatma gives.
You have listened to my words with such love and peace—I am deeply obliged. And in the end I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
A dark night, a small village, and at the door of a fakir’s hut someone is knocking hard. Ordinarily, if someone knocks on your door you will ask: Who is it? Who is calling? But that fakir asked in reverse. He asked: Whom are you calling? Who is being called? The fakir is inside his hut; someone pounds the door from outside; from within the fakir asks: Whom are you calling? Normally no one asks this. People ask: Who is calling?
The man pounding from outside said: I am calling Bayazid. Is Bayazid at home?
And then the fakir inside began to laugh loudly, and kept laughing. The man outside became restless. He said: Your laughter won’t help. I am asking: Is Bayazid inside?
The fakir said: If you have set out to find Bayazid, it is very difficult. I myself have been looking for Bayazid for fifty years, and have not yet found him. People like you mistake me for Bayazid! But I have been searching for Bayazid for fifty years and have not yet found him. That is why I laugh—at the absurdity that you too are looking for a man who has not yet found himself!
That man must have thought he was mad. This is Bayazid himself—and he says he does not know who he is!
We all think we know who we are. And because of this false knowing we never attain to the truth of life, nor to life’s joy, nor do we come upon life’s mystery. A basic error occurs—we have assumed we know who we are. We have assumed we know what life is. And if a man is deluded into thinking he knows life, there is no wonder if he remains forever deprived of knowing it.
First thing: What we do not know—we must know that we do not know.
To take the unknown as known is the doorway to great delusions and endless wandering.
If we do not know what life is—how can there be any revolution in life?
And since the idea has settled within us that we know what life is, life gestures a thousand ways all around us, yet we do not see those gestures. It sends us a thousand messages, and we do not listen. It manifests in a thousand forms, but our eyes remain blind. It sings in a thousand tones, yet our ears do not hear. It comes in myriad forms, but our arms cannot embrace. Because we “know” that we already know, we neither lift our eyes to see nor spread our hands to receive, we do not listen with the ears nor engage our very breath in the direction where life can be known.
More astonishing is this: we do not know life at all, yet we malign life in a thousand ways, abuse it in a thousand ways, find a thousand faults with it—we find thorns by the heap. Those who have not known a single flower of life keep gathering piles of thorns. Those who have never received a single ray of light keep collecting darkness. Such are we—how can there be revolution in our lives?
I want to begin this thread of sutras with a small story.
I have heard: An emperor was passing through a hilly part of his kingdom. He had never come by that route. Rugged mountains, and in deep dense caves lived people. He knew it was his border, but had never gone there. Passing through that region he was amazed. The mountain folk knew nothing of building houses. They slept under trees. When it rained they hid under rocks. They had no sense of the art of making a dwelling; they had never seen houses. They had never come down into the plains, and the people of the plains never went there.
He returned and called for his greatest architect, the finest craftsman who built palaces for the court. He said: Go, and build a beautiful building in that region so that travelers may stay, guests may find shelter, and the people there may learn how to build houses. There is not a single house there.
The craftsman went. The emperor had ordered a very large palace. It was difficult to take that many workers so far. It was also fitting to employ the local people, so they would learn to build, and news of the palace would spread far to the scattered hamlets in the mountains.
He gathered the people and said: I have been sent by the emperor to build a palace here.
They began to laugh. They said: A palace! No such thing exists. Why are you telling us lies? What is a palace?
It was very difficult to explain to those people what a house is—they had never seen one. The whole crowd laughed among themselves; they suspected the man was some trickster, some conspirator trying to deceive simple poor folk. A house! Have you ever seen one? Heard of one?
They were many; he was alone. The craftsman was in great difficulty. He had built many palaces in his life, yet could not make these people understand what a palace is. So settled were they in their ignorance that they denied that a palace could even exist.
Still the craftsman labored. He said: I will build it and show you. He selected some people. Everyone wanted to become a laborer to build the palace—there was much wealth to be paid from the emperor. But not all could be chosen. Nor were all needed, nor were all competent or intelligent enough. He chose those who were intelligent and capable of building, and began the work.
Those who were not chosen started spreading rumors around: He seems to have chosen his own men. We will not allow this palace to be built. It is dangerous. What we do not know, we should not allow on our land. They spread countless rumors: Whoever enters this palace will die. If this palace is built, our land will be filled with a curse. What we have never seen, what our ancestors never saw—we neither want to see it nor have it built.
By day the craftsman built; by night the others came and pulled out the bricks. The palace was being made for them—and they were the ones trying night and day to tear it down! With great difficulty they were persuaded: Let it be completed. If you do not like it, then you may demolish it.
When the palace was half done, people in the nearby villages spread word: This is not being built for us; the craftsman is building it for himself. Have you ever heard of anyone climbing a mountain to do service for others? Who does anything for others? The craftsman tried hard to explain: I am building it for you. No one was ready to believe it. Who climbs a mountain and labors for someone else? He must be building for himself.
He sent those who had worked with him to explain in the people’s own tongue. They went, but the villagers said: These are his servants, his spies; they eat his bread and sing his tune—we will not listen. Send the craftsman himself to explain.
The craftsman went. The time that should have gone into building the palace was being spent explaining to those for whom it was being built. Leaving a thousand tasks he went to persuade them.
They said: Now you come to explain? You answer only after we accuse? Answers should have been given first.
The craftsman said: How could I answer first? You asked, so I have come to speak.
They said: Do not think us fools. We at least understand this much: No one climbs a mountain to work for others. There is some conspiracy behind this. We will be in trouble. We do not want this palace.
He tried to reason.
They said: Reasoning is useless. We have enough sense; we will not be led astray. But among the crowd one sensible man said: If this man says the emperor sent him to build a palace, he should have some document. All said: If there is a document, show it.
The craftsman brought the document. But in the whole region no one could read or write. They all said: You are trying to make fools of us. This paper has only black lines—nothing else. Where is the document?
The craftsman said: This is the warrant. The emperor’s signature is here. But there was no one who could read—great difficulty!
They said: We are being deceived. There is nothing written here—only a paper with black scratches.
For those who cannot read, writing is nothing more than black lines. Hardly did a man from the crowd step forth and say: I can read. But he took the craftsman aside and whispered: I will need many thousand coins to read it out.
The craftsman said: The warrant is genuine. I refuse to give a bribe for truth.
That man went back and spread the rumor: Nothing is written on that paper. It is a complete fraud. The craftsman is trying to deceive us.
People said: We asked what you are building and for what. And you try to confuse us with talk of reading and writing?
The palace could not be completed. The people of that region pulled out every brick and threw them away. The craftsman had to return.
I heard this story—and it seems utterly true to the life we live. We live almost such a life as if we knew no art of making it. First of all, we do not know what life is. If you do not know what a house is, the art of building one is very difficult. And if someone comes who has known life and says: This is what life is—we refuse to accept. Because what we “know,” we know fully; we are not ready to know anything different.
Thus men like Jesus are crucified, Mansoor’s limbs are cut, Socrates is given poison. They are the ones who bring news of life’s palace—the craftsmen. And we are filled with anger! Because we have neither heard of such a life, nor seen it, nor are we willing to accept it. They too bring documents, but to us they are only papers and lines. We demand proof—and they show us papers and lines! You talk of reading and thinking? We want direct evidence. But how can we read a language we do not know? And how can we recognize a life at the door of which we have never knocked, never peered in?
What that craftsman experienced among the villagers—life’s craftsmen ever experience among us.
So the first sutra I would say to you: We do not know what life is. If this much is felt, we can set out on the journey to know. If we feel we have no clue what life is, perhaps we will stir from where we have become petrified, and a new journey may begin. If we consent to admit that what we know is not all that can be known, that much remains, much is still left; if we accept that what appears to us is not sufficient, much remains unseen, unheard, untouched. If we sense that around us the unfamiliar ever outweighs the familiar, then perhaps we will lift our eyes toward the unknown, take steps, spread our hands, make some effort, build some boat, some house—begin some path, some endeavor, some sadhana in that direction.
Life’s revolution is a sadhana.
To know life is not accomplished by merely being born. A man is born—that does not mean he knows life. Birth is like a seed. If the seed is sown in a garden, it may one day become a flower. The flower is hidden in the seed, but the seed is not itself a flower. And if the seed concludes, I am a flower—the matter ends. It will remain only a seed—rot, decay, but never become a blossom. The seed must recognize it is a journey of becoming, a possibility, a potentiality. It is not yet—it can be.
A man can be something; he is not yet. We can become something; we are not yet. We are only a possibility of becoming. We are a seed which, if it breaks open, may bloom; if it does not, it may rot, decay, and stink.
From the seed becoming a flower, fragrance spreads and the sky dances with colors. But if it never becomes a flower, remains a seed, then only stench spreads—no dance, no fragrance. The seed will rot, perish, and die.
We die, we perish; but we are neither alive nor do we attain life. We are like seeds gone mad, thinking we have become flowers.
Man must recognize he is only a seed—a possibility. Something can be; but has not yet happened. This is the first sutra I want to tell you.
We exist in order to become. Like an arrow set upon a bowstring—an arrow on the bow is only a possibility. It can fly to where it has not yet gone; it can reach targets far away. Yet for now it rests on the bow.
Man is an arrow set upon the bow. If he flies, he can reach Paramatma; if he stops, he remains upon the bow. We are souls mounted upon bodies. If we move, we can reach Paramatma; if we stop, we reach nowhere but the grave. But we have taken birth to be the whole story.
A man is born and assumes the matter is complete—now he must “live.” How will you live what you have not yet received? Only birth has happened. Birth is not life. Birth is merely an opportunity. If you wish, life can be found; if you wish, it may not be found.
Yet all around people accept that this is life: The child is born, grows up, is educated, gets a job, builds a house, earns money—and life is attained. Is this life? Then he builds houses, earns money, begets new children—and one day he dies. From birth to death the journey is complete. But where is the juice of life? Where its fragrance? Where is the music of life heard?
Like a man who roams all his life with a veena on his shoulder saying, I have music. He is not lying, yet he is. In one sense he is right—the veena is with him, from which music could arise. But the veena is not music. And if a man carries a veena all his life, music will not arise by itself.
The veena is not itself music; music can be born from it.
Birth is not itself life; life can be born from it.
And a man may carry the veena of birth upon his shoulder right up to the gate of death—life will not be attained.
Birth is received from parents; life must be earned by oneself. Birth is given by others; life must be found by oneself.
Birth is given. Life must be sought.
The search for life is an art.
And being born is purely a natural event, not of great value—except that after it, life can be attained. Yet among millions upon millions, only once in a while does someone attain life.
We all live dead—and die dead. We are merely born and we die. The long stretch between birth and death—we imagine that is life.
We certainly accumulate wealth, we accumulate knowledge, we gather status and prestige, and perhaps we think what we have amassed—that is life. However much wealth is gathered—what has life to do with wealth? And however many scriptures you may learn, however great a scholar you become—what has scholarship to do with knowing life? Conquer the whole world, be emperor of the earth, plant flags on moon and stars—what has any of this to do with life?
I have heard a Russian folk tale. A poet sits under a tree at dawn reading his poems. There is no one there—except a crow perched on the tree. He reads his first poem and says: I have obtained all the wealth of the world; I have found Solomon’s treasure; I am Kubera himself. I have everything that can be had. He looks around with great pride.
There is no one—only the crow above. The crow laughs loudly and says: So what? What comes of it?
The poet is startled. There is no one. A crow is sitting above. He says: Did this crow say—So what? I have read my poems before great men and they praised me, and you, foolish crow, say—So what? What comes of it?
The crow says: Indeed, I say it. For as far as we understand, the stupidity about wealth belongs only to humans, not to animals, birds, or trees. If you read among humans that you have found Solomon’s treasure, they will clap—because they too want to obtain it within. They are as foolish as you are. Their foolishness does not become poetry; yours has become verse—that is the only difference.
The crow says: But suppose you have obtained all treasure—what then? So what?
The poet says: You foolish crow, you will not understand. I will recite another poem. But the man is the same; however many poems, his mind is the same, his greed the same. In the second poem he says: I have conquered the whole earth; I am a universal emperor. None stands above me; all are beneath my feet.
The crow laughs again: So what? What will come of it? Suppose everyone is beneath your feet, and you are master of all—what will happen then? What will you gain?
The poet, in anger, recites a third poem: Let that be. I have read all the scriptures—the Gita, the Koran, the Upanishads, the Bible. I have known all knowledge. None is more learned than I. I am omniscient. I know everything.
The crow says: So what? What will come of it? You may know everything—and still one thing will remain unknown. You have obtained all wealth—and one treasure will remain unpossessed. You have won all kingdoms—and one realm remains unfamiliar. The crow goes on; the poet, enraged, throws away his poem and walks off.
Another crow asks that crow: You kept saying in every case—So what? What poem would have made you applaud?
That crow says: There is only one poem of life—and that is the knowing of life! Not in knowing wealth, nor fame, nor punditry is poetry born. The one poem of life is born from knowing life itself. And that poet knows nothing of that poem. Until he sang that, I had to go on saying—So what?
I would say to you: When your mind says gather all wealth, ask yourself—So what? What will happen? When the mind says conquer the world, reach the thrones of kings, ask—So what? What will come of it? Whenever mind proposes its races—the proposals it makes every day—keep asking: So what?
Until I know myself and the tone of life, what is the meaning of all I know and all I gain? When this question arises, the beginning of religion happens in a man’s world.
I do not call that man religious who asks: Is God? The religious man has no business with such a God. I do not call religious the one who asks: Who created this universe? Questions of creation can be asked by scientists; to a religious man it is not worth a farthing who made it. I do not call religious the one who asks: How many hells, how many heavens? What business has a religious man with heaven and hell? The anxious about hell are those doing such work as will take them there; or anxious about heaven are those doing the work of hell, hoping that by knowing its address they may bribe their way in. But the religious man—what has he to do with heaven and hell?
The religious man has one question only, one inquiry only—one ultimate concern: I am—but what am I? I exist—why do I exist? If I were not, what loss would there be? And if I am, what is the purpose? Shall I go on squandering this being upon the most trivial? Rising each morning and doing the same for forty or fifty years—office, shop, house, sleep, food. Shall I go on like an ox at the oil-press, or shall I also ask why I am, for what, what is the purpose of my being?
A religious man wants to know why I am at all. And the moment this question arises—Why am I needed?—he begins to ask: Then let me know who I am, what I am, from where, for what. And if attention turns toward the search for all this—life can be known.
But we seek life where it is not. We seek where life has no connection. We will keep seeking until we perish, and still life will not be found.
Ask the dying—he too was doing what you are doing. But he had not asked those who died before him. Everyone is dying and everyone is doing what the dead have done. No one asks, What are we doing?
One night an emperor lies awake in his palace. Sleep does not come. What emperor sleeps easily? It is very difficult. Those who deprive many of sleep—how can their own sleep come? He tosses and turns—emperors always do. And to ease their turning, the finest mattresses and pillows must be arranged. The sleeper cares not for soft beds. To whom sleep comes, the earth is a royal mattress. To whom sleep does not come, cushions feel like thorns.
He turns and turns. Past midnight he hears footsteps above on the roof. Who is there? He is frightened. Emperors have guns and swords and guards. In truth guards stand around those who are very afraid within. One who is not afraid inside needs no guards outside. He is terrified. Who is there? he shouts.
From above a voice says: Do not be alarmed. I have nothing to do with you. My camel is lost; I am searching for my camel.
The emperor says: You seem mad! Do camels get lost on palace roofs—on tiles and rafters?
He awakens the guards: Go, see who is above. Catch him. But the man has vanished.
Still the emperor thinks all night: What did it mean—a man searching for a camel on the roof? He cannot sleep. At dawn he dozes and sees a dream: The same man is searching on the roof. He asks him: Are camels found on roofs? Camels are not lost on roofs! The man replies in the dream: And you are searching for life where it is not lost! If life can be found in wealth, in fame, in position and prestige, then camels too can be found on roofs. In fact camels can be lost on roofs—but life? Life is not lost in wealth or rank or outer goods or mansions. Life is where you are. He wakes, trembling.
In the morning he sits in court, troubled. An unknown man enters the court. The doorkeeper tries to stop him, but he does not stop. The doorkeeper asks: Where are you going?
The man says: I wish to be a guest for a few days in this dharmashala, this inn. I want to stay here.
The doorkeeper says: You must be mad. It seems the lunatics have been let loose. Last night one lunatic was on the roof searching for a camel. Now you call the king’s palace an inn? This is not an inn; this is the emperor’s residence.
He says: I will not talk to you; I will speak to the emperor.
He enters. In the court he says to the emperor: I wish to be a guest in this inn for a few days. You have no objection?
The emperor says: This is difficult talk. This is my residence, not an inn.
The stranger says: Residence? A few years ago I came and saw another sitting on this very throne.
The emperor says: That was my father. He passed away.
The stranger says: I came even earlier and saw a third.
The emperor says: My father’s father. He too passed.
The man laughs: Where, before my very eyes, residents keep changing—is it right to call this a residence? How long shall you stay? As I see it, when I come again there will be a fourth man here saying: Those who sat before were my fathers; they passed away. That is why I call it an inn—and I want to stay a few days. You have no objection?
The emperor at once feels—this must be the man who searched for the camel. He descends and touches the man’s feet.
The man says: Do not touch my feet—catch hold of your own! For your feet are carrying you where you should not go. Your feet are taking you where nothing is to be attained. Your feet have set you on a journey that ends in emptiness. Hold your own feet—and walk where life is, where truth is.
That emperor left the palace that very day. His household said: Where are you going, leaving the palace? He said: If it were a residence, I would not leave. It is an inn—one has to leave. To cling to it will only bring trouble and nothing else.
But in life we take inns for homes. Pebbles for diamonds. The crowd around us for friends and family. And the one thing which, if understood, could change everything—we keep that in darkness: our own being.
If someone comes and knocks upon the door of your chest and asks, Who is inside? will you, like Bayazid, be able to say: I have been searching for fifty years—I have not found out? Have you even searched? Not at all. To search and not find is one thing; but not to search—then no one else can be held responsible.
The first question in the direction of life’s revolution is: Why am I? Why this existence? For what do we breathe, for what do we rise in the morning, for what do we sleep at night? Life must become a question, an inquiry, a seeking.
But we accept others’ answers—we do not search ourselves. Others say, This is life. The father tells the son, This is life, and the son believes. Teachers tell students, This is life. Leaders tell followers, This is life. The departing tell the arriving, This is life. And we all go on believing.
One who believes like this is not even worthy to be called a man. He has not raised his own question. He has not even asked—Is this life? And if this is not life, then what is life? We seem to be practicing democracy about life too—taking a vote on what life is and accepting what the majority says.
I have heard: In a village a man “died.” He was not dead—only unconscious. But villagers are in a hurry; when someone dies they want to dispatch him quickly—to make space for another.
A president dies—before he is even dead the race for the next begins. They do not even manage to send him off—faces hang long at the funeral, but within, the search goes on: Who will sit in his chair?
The man was “dead.” They quickly tied him to the bier and set off. He was not dead—only fainted. The village authorities issued a certificate: dead. No one searches for the living; who would search for the dead? The certificate was given.
They reached the grave. As they lowered him, the man stirred, sat up, and said: But I am alive!
The villagers said: How can that be? We have a certificate that you are dead—issued by the authorities. Our authority never errs.
The man said: Be that as it may, I am alive!
They said: How can we accept it? It has never happened before.
He looked around—fifty had come to send him off. Among them was a judge reputed to be impartial. He folded his hands to the judge: Please decide—I am alive!
The judge said: You have heard the statement of the allegedly dead man. What is your testimony?
They all said: How can we speak against the authorities? In front of the whole village a certificate has been issued—this man is dead. We accept that he is dead.
The judge said: Then I too decide—bury him. This man is not alive!
Why do you laugh? He took others’ decision about death. We have taken others’ decision about life! We are sitting with others’ opinions about life. Others say, This is life: run, earn, build ever taller houses, travel from earth to moon—and die. This is life. There are thousands of years of testimony—judges say so, leaders say so, the so-called wise say so, the crowd all around says so. Under the pressure of this crowd every man accepts: This is life.
I tell you: This is not life at all. It is worse than death. It has nothing to do with life. Life is something utterly different. This is only livelihood. It is not life—it is merely living. It is just bread-winning. Bread-winning is useful only if the search for life is ongoing. If the search is not ongoing, earning bread is utterly meaningless—futile, without purpose.
To pour water and manure into a seed from which no flowers will come is meaningless. We water and manure so that flowers may bloom. But we go on giving water and manure as if the plant’s entire goal is to keep receiving manure and water! No flowers, no fragrance, no veena ever sounds! What is this? What kind of life?
A question must arise: Is this life?
It is very difficult to ask a question. Asking others is very easy, for others have ready-made answers. Asking oneself is very difficult, for there no answers are ready-made. Asking there means entering a long labor, a sadhana, a journey. But we have fixed answers for all the important questions of life. Everything has been taught to us. We have cultivated answers—and whenever life raises a question, we promptly give an answer; either our own or borrowed from others.
What we give is also learned from others—fed into us since childhood. If someone says: No, this is not life; the life of the body is not life; the life of the soul is life—he too may be saying it from a book or some guru. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred he has merely heard it. If he is saying what he heard, it is also meaningless. There is no significance in it.
Who knows whether Atman is or not? One must know oneself. Another’s answer cannot do.
Who can say that with the body’s end everything ends? Only one who knows can say. But what use is his saying to another? To the other it is nothing more than an echoing voice in the sky.
Someone says: There is Atman. I say: There is Atman. What does that mean to you? Nothing at all. A word resounds and fades. We remain bodies; by hearing the word we do not become souls. Yes, you may memorize the word—and when life asks, you may start saying: I am Atman, I am immortal, I am Brahman, I am Paramatma! All of that will be false babble. This must be known. And it will be known only when this inquiry, this question, pierces our very being like an arrow, encircles every hair of us, until each particle asks: Who am I? For what am I?
We have never asked. When thirst comes, we ask with great urgency for water. But never with that urgency have we asked: Where is life? When hunger comes, we cry with our whole being—never has such a cry arisen for life.
Then people come to me and say: We want to seek God! In their hearts there is not even the thirst they would have for water. They ask: Where is liberation? As if someone will lift them up and take them there.
Who will take whom? And is God sitting somewhere that you will go and find him? That you will fold your hands in a temple, break a coconut, chant a mantra—and he will be found? If he is, he is within you. If anything is true, it is with you. It must be sought. The search is arduous, very arduous.
Ready-made answers are always easy. But ready-made answers are driving men insane. The whole world has become a madhouse because of ready-made answers.
I have heard: An emperor was to visit a village. The notable people of the village were to be presented before him. There was also a fakir, very well known, whom the villagers revered. They said: Our fakir will go—he will stand first in our delegation.
But the emperor’s attendants said: The fakir has never met an emperor; he does not know manners and etiquette. He may blunder, he may say something—he must be taught what answers to give.
The villagers agreed; the fakir too. He said: I do not know what to say in court; what will be asked—I may blunder. The emperor’s men taught him four or six things. First, they said, the emperor will ask your age. An old fakir—How old are you? He said: Seventy years. Remember. Then: How many years have you practiced sadhana? He said: Thirty years. They prepared a few such questions and answers.
The emperor came—and everything went awry. He first asked: How long have you been a fakir? How many years of sadhana?
The man said: Seventy years. For the answers were prepared.
The emperor said: Seventy years! Then you must be very old. How old are you?
He said: Thirty years. The answers were prepared.
The emperor said: Impossible! How can this be? You are thirty years old—and for seventy years you have been doing sadhana! Are you mad? Either you are mad or I am mad.
The fakir said: We are both mad.
The emperor said: What do you mean? You call me mad!
The fakir said: Certainly. Because you ask the wrong questions—and I have to give wrong answers. And all is prepared. The attendants have taught everything in advance and warned me not to blunder. You are mad—asking wrong questions; I am mad—giving wrong answers. But I am compelled; the answers are ready.
Our answers are ready too. If we are ever made to stand before Paramatma and he asks us something—will there be a single answer that is our own? One answer you can truly say: I am giving it? If not even one answer is yours, no outline of life, no hint, no end or beginning can be found.
Imagine yourself standing before Paramatma. He asks you—do you have even one answer of your own? Or are all learned—at school, in the monastery, from gurus, monks, scriptures, society, parents? Not one answer is yours! At least regarding life there should be one answer of your own.
What is life? This question has not arisen within us—whence will the answer come? And we are afraid to ask. Because if we do, what we have been calling life may begin to fall apart.
A man goes hoarding wealth like a madman. If he asks, What is life?—certainly he will no longer be able to go on madly hoarding tomorrow. This question will disrupt everything. If hoarding must go on madly, then you must avoid the question. So we all avoid life’s real questions. We say: Tomorrow we will ask.
A young man says: I am still young—talk of God can wait till old age. He says: Tomorrow, the day after. We postpone day after day. Why such fear? The real questions of life must be asked now, here—here and now. Not tomorrow, for there is no tomorrow; whenever there is, it is today, it is now.
I have heard: A Sufi fakir set out on a pilgrimage. Four or six friends were with him. They stayed in a village. Those four begged alms. Then they told the Sufi: Go to the market and buy halva.
He bought halva and brought it. A dispute began among the five—there was little halva, five were many, and hunger was great. They argued: Who should get the largest share? One devotee said: I am dearest to God—my share should be largest.
A yogi said: What are you talking about? None has ever done headstands like me. I deserve the most.
A pundit said: None knows more scripture than I. The first right is mine. I will take first—what remains is yours.
The dispute grew. Morning passed—evening came. The halva lay aside. The quarrel continued. No decision—who should take.
The Sufi suggested: Let us do this—we five will sleep. In the night whoever sees the most exalted dream will tell it in the morning. We five will recite our dreams—whoever’s is highest, he is the owner.
They had to sleep all night. At dawn, the devotee said: I dreamt God was standing and saying—none is dearer to me than you. Therefore the halva is yours.
The yogi said: As soon as I slept I entered Samadhi—such nirvikalpa Samadhi as few ever attain. I am the rightful one. All four made their claims. Then came the Sufi’s turn. They asked: What is your claim?
He said: In the night I saw God telling me—Get up and eat the halva! So I had to obey; I am compelled to keep his command. I got up and ate the halva.
That Sufi wrote this story in his autobiography and said: It is not just for laughter. Whoever wants to taste life must hear the same command—Get up and taste now. It cannot be for tomorrow. Dreamers will go on losing it to tomorrow.
Life must become a question.
Make your life a question.
There will be difficulty, restlessness. Life already has many questions; this one will disturb you more. But the restlessness of this question is profoundly meaningful. If it unsettles you, soon you may reach life’s very door. If it churns your whole being, the amrit may emerge that comes from churning. If this question shoves you and sets you on a journey—you may reach where the temple of the Lord is. But you must accept the restlessness of this question.
So the first sutra for life’s revolution is: A mind that asks. Not one that grasps answers, not one that clutches at conclusions—a mind that questions!
The courageous ask; the impotent and the weak only seize others’ answers and sit. Someone sits as a Hindu, someone as a Muslim, a Jain, a Christian, a Sikh, something or other. We have all become something and sat down.
How have we become like this?
These are learned answers. We have not asked. We have not confronted Paramatma face-to-face, we have had no encounter. We have not seized life and demanded: What are you? We have accepted others’ borrowed answers—and we busy ourselves measuring the trivial.
A man buying a two-paisa earthen pot in the market taps it all around to test it. For a two-paisa pot he tests carefully. And life? We are all sitting on borrowed knowledge.
He who sits on another’s knowledge—sits on ignorance. He who has tied another’s knowledge in his fist should know—his fist holds nothing. He who on the basis of another’s knowledge concludes I have known—more dangerous an ignoramus you will hardly find. He whose answers are borrowed and whose own question is absent—that man is dead, not alive.
We need an arrow of inquiry in our very breath—one that asks. And if we gather the courage to ask, Paramatma is always ready to answer. But if we do not ask, his answer cannot come. Those who ask, receive.
A fakir used to say daily: Knock—and the doors will open.
As Jesus said: Knock, and the door shall be opened unto you.
An old woman, Rabia, used to sit in his gatherings. One day Rabia stood and said: Enough of this—knock, knock. How long will you go on saying knock? The door is not closed at all. Open your eyes and see—the door is open. But who will lift their eyes?
An eye filled with the question begins the search; it rises and asks. And the one who asks is, in some moment, granted that answer after which we no longer need to ask others what life is—we know it.
When we know life as blood coursing through our veins; when we know life as breath rushing in the lungs; when we know life as love slips through the chambers of the heart; when we know life as the Ganga flows, as the winds move, as the stars blossom in the sky—when we know life in its totality with our very being—then a detonation, an explosion happens. A new man appears in our place. The old man—gone. In his place a completely new man arrives. The name of that fresh, new man is the religious man.
In these three days I will speak on those sutras by which that new religious man may arrive.
He exists within each of you. He must be called, invoked, brought out. We sit above, clad in old skins. Throw them away. The moment they are cast off, a new sprout will emerge from within. And on that sprout great flowers bloom. The name of those blooming flowers is the experience of Paramatma. From those flowers great fragrance spreads. The name of that spreading fragrance is prayer. In those flowers there is great amrit. One who knows that amrit—nothing remains to be known. One who attains that amrit—has attained all.
From one who has attained that amrit you may take away everything—he will go on laughing. Because you cannot take anything of his. He has attained that which cannot be taken. And whatever we possess can be snatched away. He who has only what can be snatched—is poor. He to whom comes that wealth which cannot be snatched—becomes truly rich, master of the kingdom of the Lord.
So today I leave you with the sutra of asking. Ask—ask as you fall asleep at night, ask as you rise in the morning, ask as you eat, ask while working at the shop, ask as you go to the office: What is life? Is this life—to go round and round like an ox at the mill? And do not accept any stale, prefabricated answer. The answer will surely come—the one that is truly yours, the one that Paramatma gives.
You have listened to my words with such love and peace—I am deeply obliged. And in the end I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.