Jeevan Kranti Ke Sutra #4

Reason, in itself, is utterly useless—useless all by itself. By itself, reason is an old man’s children’s game, nothing more. Yes, when reason is joined with experiment, science is born. And when reason is joined with yoga, religion is born. Reason in itself is like zero. Zero by itself has no value—put it after a one and it becomes ten; it gains the value of nine. In itself it has no value; placed next to a digit it becomes valuable. Reason in itself has no value—sit it on top of experiment and it becomes science; sit it on top of yoga and it becomes religion. By itself it is a mere game, a mesh of words.

I have heard: In a large city, a man came to a village and had the town-crier beat the drum to announce that this evening a horse would be exhibited the likes of which had never been seen. The special feature: the horse’s mouth was where its tail should be, and its tail where its mouth should be.

The whole village rushed to the hall where the horse would be shown at dusk. The tickets were expensive; people bought them. If you had been in that village, you too would surely have gone—no wise person stayed behind. A crowd inside and out, breathless waiting, and the announcer kept coming on stage: Please wait a moment, just a moment. Finally there wasn’t room even to breathe. People began shouting: Hurry up now! When the curtain rose, there stood an ordinary horse. For a moment everyone was stunned—completely ordinary. They looked closely, then shouted: This is a fraud; the horse is ordinary!

The man said: Look carefully! I promised precisely this. The feedbag that is tied at a horse’s mouth was tied to its tail. He said: See, my news was that the horse’s mouth is where the tail should be, and the tail is where the mouth should be. In the feedbag was a tail, where the mouth ought to be. And if you understand logic even a little, go back quietly.

People had to leave quietly, out the money they’d paid. The logic was correct. But this is all logic can do: put a tail where a mouth should be, and a mouth where a tail should be. Swap the feedbag. Beyond that, logic can do nothing.

And the fun with logic is that it is a sword with two edges; it cuts both ways. There is no argument that cannot be cut down by another argument. Thus the theists who try to prove God by logic end up, through their logic, having God disproved. The theists who argued for God created the atheists who shattered God. Atheists were created by those theists who argued for God.

The day the argument-giving theists bid farewell to the world, the argument-giving atheists will vanish too. As long as the theist exists, the atheist cannot die, because the atheist is the reply to the theist’s argument. And if you want the world to become religious, the theists must die—then the atheists will end.

The world will be religious the day it is understood that to argue for God, to argue for truth, is foolishness.

A theist who argues to prove God is a kind of simpleton. To try to prove God means to claim that we are greater than God: we are the ones who prove Him. If we do not prove Him, He will be disproved. If we fail to prove Him, He is dead, defeated, gone. Whether God stands proved or not is in our fist—so says the theist: We will prove God. The theist claims to be bigger than God. The atheist, filled with anger, says: And we will disprove Him.

Both the theist and the atheist are enemies of God. Whoever pours argument into truth is always truth’s enemy.

Truth has little to do with argument and far more to do with experience. If someone calls experience itself a kind of logic, that is another matter; otherwise, experience is a different dimension altogether.

Those who ask, “Can truth be attained by reason alone?” I would say: by reason truth is far off; even untruth is difficult to get. Reason is like trying to clench air in your fist: the tighter you squeeze, the more the air slips out. If you want air in your hand, keep your fist open. This is the paradox—if you want air in your fist, keep the fist open! And the harder you clench, the less air remains within; if the fist is absolutely tight, there is no air at all.

Whoever tries to bind truth with argument watches truth slip from his fist.

In fact, what does logic mean? It means the human intellect draws a line, a boundary: “This is truth.” How large can the boundary drawn by intellect be? What worth can it really have?

Last night I was telling some friends a story about a wise fakir in a village. The king of that land announced: I want to end untruth in my kingdom. Whoever is caught lying will be hanged.

The villagers said: There is an old fakir here—ask him whether this is possible. It has never been done. No one has ever stopped untruth, because no one has ever decided what truth is and what untruth is.

They called the fakir. The king said: Bless me that my plan succeed; I want to eradicate untruth from my realm!

The fakir looked up quietly and asked: How will you end untruth?

The king said: I will hang anyone caught lying. Tomorrow is the new year. Tomorrow morning I will catch a liar and hang him at the city gate so all may see and know.

The fakir said: Then I won’t speak now. Tomorrow morning, meet me at the gate. We will talk there.

The king was puzzled. Next morning he hurried to the gate. As it opened, the fakir was entering on his donkey. The king asked: You—and on a donkey! Where are you going?

The fakir said: To the gallows.

The king said: To the gallows! Why lie? You know well I will hang any liar!

The fakir said: Then I have lied—hang me. But remember: if you hang me, what I said becomes true. And if you don’t hang me, then a liar lied and you did not hang him. Now tell me, what will you do?

The king said: This is difficult. If I let you go, you are a liar who is spared. If I kill you, you become truthful, and I hang a truth-teller. What shall I do?

The fakir said: You think it over. When you have decided, inform me. Only then start your law.

They say the king lived many years and died—he never called the fakir again, because he could not decide whether to hang him or not. He dropped the whole idea of deciding truth and untruth.

What does man do through logic? He tries to draw a boundary, a distinction, a line: this is true, that is false.

First we should ask: Does the intellect have the power to decide truth and untruth? How did we assume that the intellect will determine what is true and what is false? The intellect is very utilitarian; how can such ultimate verdicts be its jurisdiction? The intellect can think; it cannot know.

Understand this well: the intellect can think; it cannot know. It can think, but that knowing—the direct knowing—is not the work of intellect. Knowing is the function of your whole being. Intellect only thinks.

And what is it you think? Have you ever thought about what you think? Whatever you think is borrowed and stale. You have never thought anything original. What you think has been heard somewhere, gathered from here and there, and then vomited back out. Everything you say, speak, write—where does it come from? First it is put in from the outside; then it comes out.

Thinking is never original. There is no such thing as “original thinking.” All thinking is borrowed; all thinking is second-hand and stale.

“Original thinker”—we say it, but the term is false. No thinker is original; all thinkers are borrowers.

Where, then, does originality come from? Not from thought, but from no-thought. One who becomes free of thought can be original.

If you are bound by thought, you are always borrowed and stale. Thoughts always come from others; we collect them. Yes, we can at most break the heads and legs of ten thoughts and stitch together a new thought, and the world may feel it is new. It is not new. You can dream, for example, of a flying golden horse. No one has seen a flying golden horse—what an original idea! But people have seen horses, they have seen birds flying, and they have seen gold. By breaking and joining these three, you create a flying golden horse. That is not creation; it is composition, mere patchwork, not creative birth.

Thought is not original; truth is. Truth is always original, ever fresh. That which is perpetually fresh, original, new—how will a stale, borrowed intellect know it? Go seeking truth with this borrowed mind and you will not know it. Yes, you can return with a doctrine, an opinion—an opinion, not truth—and declare: This is the truth.

One man says Jainism is truth. That is an opinion. What has truth to do with Jainism? Another says Christianity is truth. That is an opinion. Opinions can be a thousand; truth cannot be a thousand—truth is one. Opinions, doctrines, sects can be countless. As many people as there are, there are that many opinions.

Do you imagine two Christians agree? A Christian father and a Christian son do not agree. Two Muslims? Do not fall into that illusion. A Muslim husband and a Muslim wife do not agree.

As many people, as many opinions—but truth is one. And the intellect has nothing but opinion. Carrying opinions, the intellect goes to know truth, and because of opinion, it cannot know; the wall of opinion stands in between.

And opinions are borrowed. If you are a Hindu, how did you become one? Have you ever thought about being a Hindu? It came from your father. What an unfortunate world, that even being a Hindu or a Muslim is willed to you by inheritance! A day may come when being a Congressman or a Communist is also inherited: born in a Communist’s house, you must be a Communist because your father was.

Strange! If the father is a Muslim, what necessity is there that the son be a Muslim? Until sons refuse this madness, the world cannot be sane. Sons should say: It was your choice to be a Muslim; our choice is to be human. It was your choice to be a Hindu; our choice is to be human. Kindly do not make us Hindu or Muslim.

The day sons refuse to inherit opinions from their fathers, the earth will be different. Then such madness as India–Pakistan will not be seen.

I heard a story: When India and Pakistan were partitioned, a lunatic asylum fell right on the border. The question arose—should it go to India or Pakistan? It was a big headache. Neither Indian nor Pakistani leaders were eager to take the mad. They were busy with their own madness. They said: Ask the madmen themselves. The mad were asked: Where do you want to go, India or Pakistan?

They said: We want to stay right here; we don’t want to go anywhere.

Officials said: You will stay here, yes, but where do you want to go—India or Pakistan?

They said: You are talking madly! If we are staying here, how can we go to India or Pakistan? How can both things be true at once?

Officials beat their heads: Nothing gets through; you are utterly mad.

They said: We understand everything. But if we are staying here, the question “where to go” is meaningless!

Officials said: Still, tell us—who among you is Hindu, who Muslim?

They said: We are only mad; we are not Hindus or Muslims. At most we can say we are human—if you don’t object, because you object to everything we say. At most, we are human.

Even the mad say, “We are only mad!” And the so-called sane say, “We are Hindu, we are Muslim.” They said, “We are only mad; we don’t know who is who. At most, we are human.”

With no alternative, they drew a line through the asylum. The rooms that fell on one side became Indian—their mad became India’s mad; the others became Pakistan’s. A wall went up. The mad still climb the wall and say to each other: Strange thing— we stayed exactly where we were, and yet you went to India and we went to Pakistan! What is this? What has happened? Even the mad cannot understand it.

It is that kind of thing the world has become.

Opinion—comes from behind, and we accept it. Thoughts come from others, and we accept them. Then a grand khichdi gets cooked inside—streams of notions gather—and you are deluded that you, too, think. Have you ever thought even one thought that you can truly call your own? You will find a golden horse, that’s all; you will not find a thought truly your own.

With such a borrowed mind, such a collection of thoughts, their arguments and their intellect—how will you move toward truth?

One who would move toward truth must see that the intellect is stale, borrowed. He must also see: these thoughts are others’; they are not mine. He must also see: these opinions are thousands—how will I know which is true? If I knew truth, I might be able to tell which opinion matches it. But without knowing truth, how can I call any opinion true?

Here I am before you; you have seen me. Tomorrow you see my photograph and say, Yes, this is his picture. But suppose you have never seen me and someone asks you: Is this photograph of so-and-so—true or false? What will you say? You will say: Nonsense. I don’t know the man; how can I say whether this picture is true or false? I can only say: It is a picture. Whose, I cannot say. The question of true or false doesn’t arise—because I do not know the original; how can I verify the copy?

Without knowing truth, you say: Hinduism is truth; Jainism is truth; our Master is truth; our Baba is truth! Without knowing truth, to call any doctrine truth—what state could be more untrue than that?

No—the truth must be known first. Opinions must be dropped. Reason, thought, intellect, opinion—all must be dropped. Whoever gathers the strength to drop them and stands in silence before life—the life that is outside and inside—whose consciousness, having left thought and logic, becomes utterly quiet like a mirror—in that mirror life is reflected. That is truth.

Truth has never been found through logic, thought, intellect. Only by dropping them— and the moment you drop them, you find that it was never lost.

Let me repeat: No one has ever found truth through intellect, thought, logic. Whoever has dropped intellect, thought, logic and stood silently has found that what he was seeking had never been lost. It was present within—only buried under the crowd of opinions, the mob of thoughts, the so-called knowledge that is stale and borrowed; beneath that, the real was pressed down.

Truth is what we are. Our very being is truth. Will we go to know our own being through thought? That is like trying to see your own eye with your own eye, or to grasp your own hand with your own hand.

Reason and thought try to seize truth, but truth is present behind—at the very source from which thought arises, from which the intellect draws its power.

So I say: You cannot attain truth through reason. But can nothing at all be done with reason? One thing can: If a person reasons rightly, thinks and reflects, he will reach an important result—he will see that reason is futile. If he thinks rightly, he will find that thought must be dropped. This much can indeed be gained—and it is a great gain. To know that it must be dropped. But only one who has used it can drop it. Those who have never used it—blind from the start—what will they drop? Before dropping, you must first do.

I have heard: At a railway station there was a great throng—people going to a fair. The platform was noisy: Get in, get in! Put the luggage up! Find the boy! Where is the wife? A train to Haridwar was leaving. One man stood on the platform saying: Promise me one thing firmly—once I get on, I won’t have to get off, will I? If I will have to get off, I won’t get on.

Friends said: Hurry up, the whistle has blown, the flag is waving—this is no time for chatter or argument; we’ll talk on the way. You will have to get off—when the train reaches Haridwar—but first you have to get on. Get on now!

That friend said: I never get onto anything I will have to get off. What is the point of boarding if I must alight?

His logic is neat. But his friends didn’t agree; they pushed him into the carriage.

The train moved. At Haridwar station, the reverse cries rang out: Get down! Where’s my luggage? Where’s my boy? Hurry, the train is leaving! His friends pulled at him; he said: Now I won’t get off. If I had to get off, why did you make me get on? And since I got on, why get off now?

They said: That was another station where we got on; this is another where we get off. There boarding was necessary; here alighting is necessary.

You have to board logic—to get down from it; but the stations change.

So understand, I am no advocate of blind belief. Don’t misunderstand me to be saying: Don’t think, don’t reason; just grab someone’s feet, tie some talisman, and enjoy. Don’t think at all; believe whatever anyone says. I am not saying that. That state is worse than reason.

I am speaking of three states:

1) Belief, faith—this is the lowest, meanest, most dangerous state.

2) Thought, reasoning, logic—this is better than belief, but it is an intermediate state. From thought come the sciences.

3) No-thought, meditation—this is above thought. From this arise truth, religion, what may be called philosophy.

The believer is an enemy of thought, and the meditator is also an enemy of thought—but their enmity is entirely different. Keep that in mind.

I too am an enemy of logic and thought—in favor of meditation; and I am a friend of logic and thought—against belief.

Belief must be uprooted by reason; and then reason must be uprooted by meditation. In meditation, nothing remains to be uprooted; what remains is that which cannot be uprooted.

It is like a thorn in the foot. To remove it, we say: Bring another thorn. The man protests: I am already harassed by one thorn; why bring a second? But we insist, and with the second thorn we extract the first. The man agrees. We take out the first thorn. If then he says: Now put this second thorn back into the wound; it was so helpful—I will keep it safe in the wound—trouble begins afresh. After removing the first, the second also is meaningless, to be thrown away.

Reason and thought have one use: to remove the thorn of belief. Once belief is out, reason and thought too are to be discarded. Then the state that comes is not belief but knowing—not thought but no-thought. And what is seen then is original.

For the search of this original truth:
- Those standing on belief: drop belief; take up thought.
- Those standing on thought: drop thought; take up meditation.
- Those standing on meditation: there is nothing left to hold or to drop—there is nothing to say to them.

But from this a great misunderstanding arises.

One morning Buddha entered a village. At the gate a man said: I am an atheist; I do not believe in God. Do you believe in God?

Buddha said: I believe in God. God is. Nothing exists but God.

Buddha moved on. In the middle of the village another man stopped him: I am a theist; I believe in God. Do you believe?

Buddha said: God? There is no God. There is no God—so belief doesn’t arise. Nothing is more untrue than God.

In the morning Buddha said: God is—the only truth. At noon he said: God is not—untruth.

In the evening a third man came and said: I don’t know whether God is or is not. I am neither theist nor atheist. What should I do?

Buddha said: Now drop all worry. Be silent. Drop both theist and atheist talk. Say no more.

That much was fine—those were three different men. But Buddha’s attendant, Ananda, heard all three answers. You can imagine his plight—what is the truth? In the morning God is; at noon God is not; in the evening both are to be dropped and one must be silent!

At night he tossed and turned. Buddha asked: You are very restless—what is it?

He said: You’ve taken my life. What am I to do—is there God or not? I heard three answers from the same man on the same day! I am feverish, my mind is in turmoil.

Buddha said: Foolish one, not one answer was given to you. Why did you listen? Those answers were for them. Who told you to hear them?

He said: How could I not? I was there—I heard them; and hearing them has trapped me.

Buddha said: Those who listen to what is given to others, who look at others’ paths, who fall under others’ influence—this is their fate. What had it to do with you? Since you heard, I will tell you: In the first man I found something to uproot—I uprooted it. In the second, I found something to uproot—I uprooted it. We are uprooters; we pull out all the rubbish. In the third there was nothing to pull out—so I cautioned him not to pick anything up.

And when the field of consciousness is left empty—where there is no belief, no thought, no logic; no opinion, no sect—there the vision of that which is arises—that which is. That alone is truth.

Many friends had asked about this, so I have spoken on it.

This is a very tricky matter. Someone can give you water, but no one can give you thirst. And if you go out to ask for water, you will find it anywhere; but if you go asking for thirst, where will you get it?

Yet there is not a single person who does not have thirst. If there were no thirst, there would be no way at all. Not a single person exists who does not have the thirst to know truth.

Even a small child—an ant is crawling by; he catches it and breaks it. Don’t think he is practicing violence. He is inquiring; he is investigating: “This creature is moving—what is the matter inside?” He breaks it open to see. A child does not kill an ant because he has enmity with ants, or because the ant is a Muslim, or a Christian, and must be killed. The child breaks the ant to see what is going on, what moves it from within. Curiosity!

Hang a curtain somewhere and write: Do not peek here. Then tell me, can anyone pass by without peeking?

I have heard: A Sufi fakir lived in a forest. By the roadside he put up a big signboard. On the board was written: Eating stones is strictly prohibited. Strictly forbidden. If you eat stones, it won’t be good. Whoever wants to meet me, my hut is in the back.

Everyone who passed would go to meet him—because eating stones is strictly prohibited! What is the matter? Who is this man? And what kind of board is this?

Could you walk past such a sign that says, “Eating stones strictly prohibited”? Whoever saw it would climb down into the forest, go a little way to the hut and ask the fakir: “What’s this about? Does anyone actually eat stones that you had to forbid it?”

He would say: “No one eats stones. That’s precisely why I put the board there—so we could meet. Sit down. And to this day not a single person has passed on this road who didn’t end up here. They have to come.”

Why?

If someone has written something on a board, let it be—what need is there for you to turn from your path and go?

Curiosity—what is true? What is this about?

There is a question that grips everyone’s life-breath.

Little children ask their mothers: “A new baby has come home—where did it come from?” The mother thinks the child is becoming spoiled: “What filthy questions!” Poor child—what does he know? He is only asking, “A baby has arrived; what’s the matter? From where did it come?” The parents are filthy; they impose lies: one says Hanuman brought it, another says something else, and another something else. What has Hanuman to do with this mess? And before long the child will grow up and find out that Hanuman had no fault in it at all. Then there will be a great trouble, because the child’s faith will fall away from those who imposed lies on him.

Mind this: every child insults his old father. It’s rare to find sons who truly respect their aging fathers. Then the old fathers become very sad and distressed: “All the boys have gone astray.” The boys haven’t gone astray. Before boys can go astray, the fathers must have gone astray. How else would the boys go astray? The first deviation began when, at the moment the boy asked an honest question, you plastered a lie over it. At that time he was a child; he may have accepted it. When grown, he found you out. With that lie, you became a lie forever. Your prestige was lost for good. Now true respect for you cannot arise. Yes, he can display respect. When you die, he will perform your shraddha. But while you live, every day he will secretly pray, “When will father become a resident of heaven?” Naturally so.

That thirst—to know—is within every person, on every side. Such a person is hard to find who lacks it. Yes, you may find such a person, but that person would be one who has found the truth. He has no thirst—that is right.

But someone asks me, “We have no thirst!”

If you had no thirst, how did you come here? And if you had no thirst, how did you go to the trouble of writing this paper and this question? Why be bothered at all? Thirst is there. Yes, it may be less or more. If there were no thirst, there would be no way. Less or more—this can change. If no flame is burning in the lamp at all, then raising the wick will do nothing—by raising the wick will a flame suddenly ignite? Raising the wick then is only foolishness. But if a small flame is burning, the wick can be raised and the flame can blaze high.

Everyone has thirst. No one is born without it. Call it thirst for truth, thirst for dharma, thirst for God—give it any name—it is thirst. But it may be burning dim and low. “Burning dim and low” doesn’t mean that, positively or constructively, someone’s thirst is less and someone else’s more. No, not that. It simply means that upon someone’s real thirst there is a heavier load of other false thirsts, and upon someone else’s real thirst the load of false thirsts is lighter. Where the real thirst is less burdened by false thirsts, it will appear to burn more brightly.

We have learned many false thirsts. And it is necessary to see through those false thirsts; then the true thirst will flare up at once. What kinds of false thirsts have we learned—beyond count!

A man passes from the neighborhood wearing spectacles. Until yesterday, it never occurred to you that you had to wear glasses. Seeing one man with glasses, for the first time it strikes you that wearing glasses is very necessary. Strange—there was no question of glasses for you at all. But seeing someone else wearing them, a thirst arises that you too should put on glasses!

Around you there are thousands upon thousands of people, and seeing every one of them you concoct new false thirsts—thirsts that are not yours, that come into you from the outside and that you grab and hold. And from childhood, parents and teachers are training you in this. A mother says to her son: “Look at the neighbor’s boy—see how he walks. You should walk like that.” And she does not know she is leading her child down a dangerous road—she is lifting his eyes toward the neighbor’s boy. All his life he will keep looking at the neighbor’s boys. And whatever the neighbor’s boys do, he will do as well.

The clothes you wear are not truly yours—you wear them because the neighbor wears them. That is the trouble. The cinema you go to—you didn’t choose it; your neighbor is going there and you go along. The newspaper you read—you aren’t reading it; the neighbor is reading it!

When Bernard Shaw wrote his first book, he barely managed to get it published—by pawning, scraping money together somehow. The book was printed, but who would buy it? Because a book sells only if it is already selling—people buy the book they see others buying. When some neighbor buys a book, then you buy it.

Now when the first book was written, no one knew the name Bernard Shaw. No shopkeeper would even agree to stock the book. So Shaw called five or seven of his friends and said, “Do me a kindness. You don’t have to do anything special. Wherever you happen to go, if you pass a bookshop, just stand there and ask: ‘Do you have such-and-such book by George Bernard Shaw?’ And there’s no danger of having to buy it, because the book isn’t in any shop. So feel free to ask and then move on. Do this favor for fifteen days. Wherever you see a bookshop, keep asking for George Bernard Shaw’s such-and-such book.”

Those five or seven friends, within fifteen days, had made five or ten rounds of almost every bookshop. The shopkeepers said, “This George Bernard Shaw must be a very big author—we haven’t even ordered his book yet and everyone who comes is asking for it!”

The shopkeepers ordered the books and stocked them. Shaw’s books sold briskly. And when customers came, the shopkeepers would say, “Do you know, the whole town is reading George Bernard Shaw. Whoever comes asks for his book. Have you seen it?” They would reply, “If the whole town is reading it, then we must read it.” “Give us the book!”

Bernard Shaw wrote: “I sold my first book like this. And after that, the first book keeps selling my later books.” And Shaw’s books will go on selling—you know that. Now it’s very hard to stop.

There was a Muslim fakir, Nasruddin. One day he went to the mosque. He normally never went to the mosque—good men rarely go! He went. The townsfolk had said that very wise people gather at the mosque. So he said, “Let me go have a look.” He didn’t go for the mosque; he went to see the wise! First he said, “It’s a bit difficult for wise people to gather. Fools gather—you see that. Where do you see the wise gathering?” Still, he went. He came in from the back; the crowd had grown. He sat at the rear. He tugged at the kurta of the man in front of him. The man looked back. Nasruddin said, “There is such a rule in this mosque: you have to pull the kurta of the man in front.” That man pulled the kurta of the man in front of him. That man turned startled. He was told, “I have been informed that here the rule is to tug the shirt of the person ahead.” The entire congregation began pulling one another’s kurtas! Nasruddin stood up and said, “You dung-headed fools! You have come here to seek God?”

Looking at one another we give rise to thousands of thirsts that are utterly false. And advertisers and shopkeepers the world over have discovered that man is foolish and that a false thirst can be created in him. They advertise forcefully and a thirst arises. Thousands of such thirsts lie upon us. Because of them, the thirst you were born with is suppressed and writhing.

The question is not that that thirst has become less; the question is that these other thirsts have become too many. If the load of these becomes too heavy...

Now, if a man wants to become a minister, he will have to suppress his thirst for God—he will have to put it aside. Because the race is to be a minister. So the race toward God must be kept aside. He will have to say to God: “Please wait a bit. Let me first become a minister, then I will turn to you.” And the way it is, even if you become a minister, a new trouble arises: then you must become the chief minister. And if you become chief minister, another trouble—those behind are pushing from the back and more people appear ahead. Seeing them, it seems absolutely necessary to go further still.

I have heard: There was a prison, and within it a small hospital for the inmates. Those prisoners who fell ill were admitted there. High walls surrounded it. The prisoners wore handcuffs, and they were chained to their respective cots. They could not move. There was just one door. Next to the door was Cot Number One.

Every morning the prisoner on Cot Number One would raise himself and peer outside and say, “Wondrous sky! Such a sky never seen before! Ah, what colorful clouds! What flowers have bloomed! Gulmohar has dominated the whole line of the horizon, turned it crimson, red embers spread out. Sometimes he would say, ‘The fragrance of roses is wafting!’ Sometimes at night, ‘Moonlight is showering! The night-blooming jasmine has filled the air!’”

And all the prisoners in the hospital would ache: “When will we get to Cot Number One?” Because on Cot Number One everything happens—the moon comes, the sun rises, the gulmohar blossoms, the night-blooming jasmine perfumes the air. Sometimes he presses his ear and says, “Ah! Who is singing? Never heard such a song!”

The heart longs to reach Delhi—who knows what the man seated on the President’s throne is seeing—what gulmohars are blooming, what moonlight is spreading, what is happening? When will we go? But there are cots and there are chains.

Even in that hospital they are all bound. Every day they pray, “O God, when will the man on Cot Number One die?” The one on Cot Number One enjoys a single advantage: the whole country prays for his death. Perhaps that is why God sometimes feels compassion, because so many are asking for someone to die—“Save him for a few days.” No other benefit is visible.

That whole hospital... eventually that man would also die. Many times he would give the impression of dying. People don’t die all at once; many times they give false alarms. Many times he would get a fit and everyone would rejoice. Outwardly they would look sad and say, “We will be so grieved if you go—what will become of us?” Inwardly they would say, “Just don’t stop midway! Keep going!” Because—Cot Number One!

Every patient would flatter the doctors. When he fell ill, the doctors’ season would arrive. Money would start sliding into their hands: “Please keep us in mind—if Cot Number One opens up, put me there.” As soon as rumors spread that the man on Cot Number One was dying, money would start shifting everywhere, strings would be pulled, and commotion would start: who will be Number One!

At last he dies. After all, how long can a man keep faking? He has to die. You can come back from illness many times; once, you must go. He, poor fellow, also died. He died, and another prisoner won the bidding in bribery. His chains were unlocked. All the prisoners clapped: “Now we will celebrate your birthday as Prisoners’ Day, because you have become first! For the first time in our sight, someone from among us is going to Cot Number One.” The prisoner swaggered over, sat on Cot Number One, and looked outside—there was nothing but a big stone wall! But he thought, “This is very awkward. If I report that there is only a stone wall, I alone will become a fool. And what’s the use now?” So he called out, “Blessed! What a sun has risen! What flowers have bloomed! What bliss is showering! Friends, when will you get this chance?”

And then the whole hospital prays: “When will you die? Only then can we have this chance.” “O God, vacate Cot Number One.” And it goes on, and has been going on forever. Countless prisoners come to Cot Number One, die, and are finished, but no one musters the courage to say, “Outside there is nothing—only a stone wall stands.” And the race continues.

We are engaged in countless such races. How many thirsts we have—and what useless thirsts they are! A man wears slightly better clothes and I am filled with thirst to wear better clothes. A man lives in a larger house and I am filled with thirst for a larger house. A man drives the newest model car and last year’s car suddenly looks like an ox-cart!

This whole race, these thirsts, suppress that thirst—and so it seems not to be there.

Therefore do not ask me, “We don’t have that thirst!”

The thirst is there, but other thirsts must be pressing it down. And if our energy is scattered in the directions of many thirsts, then the fundamental, central thirst—at the root—remains deprived. It dries up. Slowly we forget it entirely. The truth is that we want to forget; we make ourselves forget. Little by little we completely forget there could be any other thirst at all. Earn money, build a house, bear children—that’s enough. Life is complete. For one who believes life lies in these thirsts, it is still early. For him it is very early! The sprout of his thirst for God will take a long time to break through.

But remember: do not hold anyone else responsible for this; the person responsible is oneself.

So open yourself and look within: Have I grabbed hold of false thirsts? Am I living in them? If in them my awareness is lost, then the irrigation of the original thirst stops; its roots grow weak. That thirst is buried, almost dead.

In human life, the most important quest lies dead, while utterly futile quests have become powerful and are draining everyone’s life-breath.

There is only one way to awaken the religious thirst, the thirst for the Divine: be alert to those thirsts that are false, that are born merely by looking at the neighbor. Be alert to those that arise only out of imitation, that have no original cause within, for which there is no real inner restlessness—restlessness that has been created from outside. And now the whole business, the whole trade, rests on creating such restlessness from outside. Man does not have as many needs as are being shown to him. And the needs he ought to have—there is no trace of them; they are set aside!

In a village the Buddha arrived, and some people came and asked, “You have been coming to our village for thirty years, but in all this time how many people have attained moksha? How many have found the truth?”

Buddha said, “I will answer in the evening. Right now I am busy with an urgent matter. Please help me a little. Take this paper into the village and write down the names of those who wish to attain moksha—let them come tonight.”

The man said, “What do you mean?”

Buddha said, “I will tell you later. You go.”

It was a small village—three to four hundred people. The man went house to house: “Buddha has given the order that whoever wants moksha should gather tonight beneath the tree. Today he will send them to moksha. Please add your name.”

People said, “Go on, do your own work. We have no other task than to go to moksha? What ill-omened talk! Are we near death? We are still young! Go to the old.” He went to the old too. The old said, “Do you think because we are old we should die? Aren’t you ashamed? Go somewhere else—we have other matters.”

The man was astonished. Not a single name in the village. Every day many came to Buddha’s gatherings, but that night no one came—because all were afraid that they might actually get moksha!

Just think: If I were to call another meeting tomorrow—I won’t—and announce that only those should come who want moksha, because from here they will depart to moksha—then no one would come. Not only would no one come, no acquaintance would even pass by this road, for fear that some wind might blow, some rumor might catch him, something might happen.

No one came. The man himself did not come back with the list, because he thought, “I’ll give the paper in the morning—after all, it’s empty. Why should I go?”

In the morning Buddha went to his house and said, “Sir, you didn’t come?”

He said, “I was afraid. Since no one else was going, why should I? I’ll give you the paper in the morning. There are no names.”

Buddha said, “And yet you ask me: ‘You have been teaching for thirty years—how many have gone to moksha?’ Should I push people by force into moksha?”

No one can give you the thirst for truth by shoving you. But I say: the thirst for truth is there. It is burning slowly, dimly, buried. You cannot see where it is, because so much is blazing all around it—bright neon lights are installed around it—so the little lamp does not stand out. It has no recognition, no news of it reaches you. Its ray is suppressed, its voice is muffled.

Search a little. Set aside your thirsts a little and ask: All these thirsts I want fulfilled—if they are fulfilled, then what? Will my journey be complete? Will I become one whose desires are satisfied? Will fulfillment arrive, will I be able to say, “I have attained all”?—I got that car, that house, that woman, that child—then? Perhaps the thought will arise: this cannot be the real thirst. Because that thirst whose fulfillment still leaves thirst remaining cannot be the real thirst.

One last thing, and I will complete this discussion.

Some friends have said that I sometimes say things that shock the mind badly.

Now, this is difficult. Your mind is very fragile—what am I to do about that? And why do you go with such a delicate mind into such a dangerous place? But I do have a definite purpose: I want to shock you.

We have become so inert that nothing gives us a jolt from anywhere. We have become like stones—we don’t move. And when a gust of wind comes strongly and shakes the stone a little, the stone becomes very annoyed. The flower is delighted, because there is life in the winds, in the dance. The stone is angry: “What disturbance is this? What wind is it that makes us move from our place? The mind is very hurt.”

Let me explain with a small story.

There was a fakir, a most extraordinary man. His name was Bahauddin Naqshband. Countless people came to him. One man came. Ten or twenty-five people were sitting with him. The man bowed at his feet and said, “I want to seek truth, I am a spiritual inquirer. Please show me the way.”

The fakir said, “Get out this instant! And from now on, drop all talk of spirituality—don’t speak of it again. And don’t come back here. Out! Up!”

All who were sitting there were shocked: What is this? What kind of man is he—so angry! The one we thought enlightened—so arrogant! The one we thought serene! Two or four stood up and left. “This man has gone wrong—he is off,” they said. “We thought he was something, he turned out to be something else.” Disillusioned, two or four walked out. Two or four more wanted to go after them, but out of some hesitation, some decorum, they stayed. A few stayed to ask before they left: “What is this about? Is this how one deals with people?”

When the man had gone, they asked, “We are very hurt. We were deeply pained to hear your words. Why did you mistreat him so? Why did you push him like that? Is this proper for a saint?”

The fakir said, “Before I throw you out—and I will throw you out—let me tell you what is the matter. I’ll make you understand by an example.”

He fell silent for two moments. Through the window a bird flew in and began circling the room. It wanted to get out but could not. And you know: when a bird flies into a room, it seeks a way out everywhere except the open door.

It’s not only human brains that are faulty—birds’ brains are the same. The door is open; it will ignore it. It will bang its beak against the walls, flutter helplessly. The more it panics, the less it comes near the open door, and it goes everywhere else.

The fakir sat quietly. They all watched to see what would happen. He was watching the bird. After several circles the bird came and perched on the door’s sill. The moment it settled there, the fakir clapped loudly. The bird startled, fluttered—and was out the door.

The fakir said, “Look, friends—when I clapped, that bird must have felt: ‘What wicked man is this? I am exhausted and he is shocking me with a clap?’ But that clap took it outside; now it is in the open sky.

“Those who can understand the clap will go into the open sky. Those who cannot will retreat deeper into their mouse-holes and shut the door, saying, ‘Never go near this man again—he is all wrong.’

“What you take as shocks are my prayers to God on your behalf. What you take as wounds—those are my petitions to the Divine for you. When you are sitting on the window-sill, I clap loudly, that perhaps you might fly. But that bird was very intelligent—such intelligent people are hard to find. Still, in the hope that perhaps such people might be found somewhere, I keep wandering. If I find one, good. If I don’t, at least I will not have to say before God that when the bird was sitting at the threshold of freedom, I did not clap. I did clap. Then it is the bird’s doing if it did not go out but went back inside.”

In these three days you have listened to my words with such peace and love—I am greatly obliged. And in the end, I bow to the Divine seated within all. Please accept my pranams.