Man is in misery and only imagines happiness. Man is in ignorance and only imagines knowledge. Man is not truly alive; he only imagines life.
In this morning’s meeting I would like to say something about this: precisely because we keep imagining, we do not become that which we can be. If a sick man imagines he is healthy, he will stop taking steps toward health—when he believes he is already healthy, the question of becoming healthy does not arise. If a blind man imagines he knows what light is, that blind man will give up seeking eyes.
The blind should know they do not know light. The sick should know they are not healthy. The unhappy should know they are not happy. But to console and soothe ourselves, we imagine what we are not.
The unhappy man lives in the imagination of happiness. And remember, the imagination of happiness does not dissolve misery; through the imagination of happiness, misery simply continues—and grows.
If misery is to end, the imagination of happiness must be dropped, and misery itself must be known. The one who knows misery—his misery disappears. The one who believes in happiness—his misery gets hidden; it does not end, it keeps running within.
If ignorance is to end, do not imagine knowledge—know ignorance itself. The one who knows ignorance attains to knowledge. But the one who clings to knowledge—false, imagined knowledge—his ignorance goes underground; it does not end. And he never receives knowledge, because imagined knowledge means nothing at all.
It will be good to see this from two or three angles.
For example, I want to ask: Are we happy? Have we ever known happiness? If someone looks back at his life with full impartiality, he will find: happiness—happiness has never really been known; only misery has been known.
But we forget misery. And that happiness which we have not known, we imagine and impose. Yes, there is a hope in the mind that someday we will know it. And hope is always of that which has not been known. Happiness has not been known; hence we keep thinking—tomorrow, in the coming days, in the future happiness will arrive. Those who are even more given to imagination think: in the next life. Those even more fanciful think: in some heaven, in some moksha, happiness will be attained.
Had man known happiness, the imagination of heaven would never have arisen. The imagination of heaven belongs to those who never tasted happiness at all. What they have not known, they are hoping to manufacture in heaven!
Have we ever known happiness? Is there a single moment in life of which we can say: I knew happiness? And remember, do not be quick in saying so; for the one who has known happiness even once becomes incapable of knowing misery. The one who has known happiness becomes incapable of knowing misery. Then he simply does not know misery, cannot know it. Because the one who knows happiness comes to see: I am happiness. This is something very curious. And because we go on knowing misery and more misery, that itself is proof that we have never known happiness. There is only hope, imagination. And sometimes we also force happiness upon things.
A friend has arrived; he embraces you and you say: I feel so much happiness. How much bliss in that embrace! But have you ever considered: if that friend were to keep embracing you—ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty minutes—and refused to let go, you would begin to feel that a policeman should somehow appear and free you: What is he doing? And if for two hours he does not release your neck, it will feel like a hanging.
If it were happiness, more would mean more, would it not? If in one moment it was happiness, then in ten moments it should be tenfold. But what seemed happiness for one moment becomes like a noose in ten! It was not happiness; it was imagined—and in a single moment it was lost. What is imagined lasts only a moment; what is true is forever. What is imagined is momentary. Whatever is momentary, take it to be imagined. Because that which is, is eternal, it is ever. It is not in a moment, it is perennial, it never ceases. It is—and is—and is. It was—and will be—and will be. There will never come a moment when it is not.
Whatever happiness turns into misery—know it to be imagined. It was never happiness. And all the happiness we know is capable of turning into misery.
You sit down to eat, and the food seems delightful, and you keep eating—and at a certain point, misery begins. And if you keep on eating, as some people do, the whole life becomes afflicted with the misery of eating.
Doctors say: of what you eat, half fills your own belly, the other half fills the doctors’. If you eat just half, there would be no need of any doctor at all. You eat more, illness comes—and the doctor follows it. If we go on eating, food can become death. A man can die from overeating.
Someone sings you a song; you say, how much happiness it gave. He sings it again; you do not say any more that it gave happiness—you keep quiet. He sings the third time; you say, now please stop. He sings the fourth time; you say, forgive me now. The fifth time he sings; you will try to run away. And if the door is locked and he sings the sixth time, your head will begin to spin. And if he goes on singing, you will go mad. The very song that gave delight the first time will drive you insane.
If it were happiness, ten hearings should make it tenfold. Take this as a touchstone to recognize. Make it your criterion: whatever happiness vanishes in a moment, and the very repetition of it brings misery, that could not have been happiness—you must have imagined it. Once you imagine, the second imagining becomes harder; the third time, harder still; by the tenth time, imagination is uprooted—things stand as they are, clear and plain. All our happiness turns into misery.
Happinesses are miseries; we only imagine happiness, we assert from above that this is happiness. How long can an asserted happiness last? We have not known happiness; we have only imagined it. Misery we have known. And why have we imagined?
We imagine because if we do not, misery will take our very life—how will we live with it? So by weaving nets of false happiness we try to pass our misery, to forget it. Our whole life is nothing but a long attempt to forget misery. A long attempt to forget.
Nietzsche laughed a lot. Someone said to him: You laugh so much—how happy you must be.
Nietzsche said: Do not ask that, do not say that. The reason for my laughter is altogether different.
His friends said: What other reason could there be except that you are joyous?
He said: Leave this talk—the cause is anything but joy. Joy is no cause at all.
They asked: Then what is the reason?
Nietzsche said: I laugh so that I do not start crying. If I do not laugh, weeping will begin. The weeping is going on within. By laughing I keep myself distracted, so that the weeping stays halted.
Therefore the more the world seems engrossed in the pursuit of happiness, know that the world has become that much more miserable. We want happiness twenty-four hours a day because misery is present twenty-four hours a day. So we go on inventing new means of entertainment. The invention of entertainments is proof of a miserable world. The man who is not miserable never goes in search of entertainment.
Those sitting in cinema halls—if they were happy, they would be at home. They are unhappy, therefore they are in the cinema. Those sitting in bars—if they were happy, they would be at home. They sit in bars because they are unhappy. Those watching a prostitute’s dance—if they were happy, they would close their eyes and be absorbed in their happiness. They sit there because they are unhappy, trying to forget their misery. On every side the attempt to forget misery is going on.
And do not think that only the one in the cinema is forgetting misery, or the one drinking alcohol, or the one sitting at a prostitute’s door. No, the one who sits in a temple and sings bhajan-kirtan is also forgetting misery. There is no difference. Why would a happy man go and beat cymbals and manjiras? Has he gone mad? Why would a happy man fold his hands and stand before some statue? The unhappy man is forgetting—seeking a device. He chants ‘Ram, Ram’; as long as the rhythm of ‘Ram, Ram’ continues, he forgets misery. Then misery stands again. As long as he moves the beads, he forgets misery. Whatever he entangles himself in, he forgets misery.
Whether he watches a cinema or watches a Ramleela—it makes no difference. The attempt to forget misery is on. The attempt to forget oneself is on. The same thing is happening in alcohol and in prayer. One is a bad route of forgetting, one a good route—but both are routes of forgetfulness. Somehow to forget oneself. The man who is miserable wants to forget. One forgets by playing cards, another by chess, another by reading the Gita. What are you doing?
We have no clue about being happy. We are miserable. We want somehow to escape this misery, to forget it—somehow to forget! Whether you look back to the age of the Vedas—there too soma was drunk. Soma means alcohol. But when seers and sages drink alcohol, it is called soma; when an ordinary man drinks soma, it is called liquor! From the Vedas right up to modern America! From soma to mescaline and lysergic acid! Today all over America lysergic acid and mescaline and marijuana are being used. And great thinkers of America, like Aldous Huxley, say: There is so much misery that we need some means to forget! We want to forget misery.
Are not all our measures of ‘happiness’ only routes to forgetting misery?
Hence all measures fail. A man goes mad after a woman and thinks: if she is attained, happiness will be. And the day she is attained, that very day she becomes futile. People look at the faces of beloveds; has anyone looked at the faces of wives? The one brought home becomes futile. The imagination is shattered in a single moment. The wife has come home; now she is forgotten. Neighbors may see her and find happiness in her, but the husband seems to find none.
Byron married. He was a strange man. Until he married, he was frantic that if he could not marry that woman, life would be meaningless. Then, having married her, he was coming down the church steps, her hand in his. Behind them the bells were still ringing and the guests taking leave. The wedding had just happened. The candles lit for the ceremony were still burning; they had not yet been put out. Byron held his wife’s hand, descending the steps to sit in the carriage—just then, on the road, another woman appeared.
Byron must have been a very honest man. Seated in the carriage, he said to his wife: How strange! Until yesterday I thought that if I could get you, I would get everything. And just now, as we were coming down the steps, that woman passing—my mind ran after her; I forgot you, and a desire arose: if only that woman were mine! You are already forgotten, because you are in my fist, and thus you have become useless. You are mine now—and useless.
All attraction is for what is far. All attraction for what has not been attained. What has been attained becomes futile. Why?
Because in what is not attained, the imagination of happiness can go on. But in what is attained, the imagination of happiness is shattered—because it is attained. A momentary glimpse comes and is gone. What was imagination departs and is destroyed.
One poet has said: Blessed are those lovers who never get their beloveds, for they can at least imagine happiness for their whole lives. And accursed are those lovers who do get their beloveds, for after getting them they find that they have purchased hell with their own hands.
All our happiness—on any level—is imaginary. And misery is starkly real. No one imagines misery—who would? We want to escape misery, no one imagines it. Misery is—happiness is imagined. This is the difficulty of life. And one who drifts into imagined happiness is lost. Then we can imagine in many ways.
Majnun was summoned by the emperor of his town, who asked: Are you mad? That Layla is an ordinary girl; you are insane! We will find for you much more beautiful girls than her. We have called girls; come, see. You have gone mad! Her father does not agree. Leave it. There is nothing in Layla—she is an ordinary, dusky girl.
You too perhaps suppose Layla must have been beautiful; if so, you are mistaken. Layla was extremely ordinary—what they call homely, a domestic girl. But what did Majnun say? ‘No, no—you do not know; Layla’s beauty, only I know.’
The emperor said: What do you mean? Are we blind?
Majnun said: No, you are not blind—I am blind. But what I see, I alone see; none else can. To me, only in Layla is everything seen—none else is seen.
Now no one else sees it; Majnun sees it! That is why lovers appear mad to the whole village. Everyone except themselves calls them mad. They themselves do not know. They have woven such a net of imagination that what appears to you does not appear to them; they see something else entirely.
What appears in the beloved is the projection of the lover’s imagination; it is not in the beloved at all. What appears in the lover is the projection of the beloved’s imagination; it is not in him at all. Whatever happiness we see in others is our own imagination spread and imposed upon them. And how long will that imposed imagination take to break? It breaks in a moment. It breaks on coming close. It breaks when you recognize. It breaks upon knowing. At a distance, with a gap, it was only imagination.
Not only have people imagined happiness in ordinary life—when ordinary life did not yield happiness and misery could not be forgotten, they imagined even greater things. Someone imagines God playing the flute; with eyes closed he gets absorbed in the flute-playing God. Someone imagines Jesus Christ. Someone imagines Rama with his bow. None of these imaginations lead to truth—no matter how deep the imagination. Even if a person begins to actually ‘see’ Krishna with flute, Rama with bow, Jesus on the cross, or Buddha and Mahavira—if they appear to you, Buddha, Mahavira, Rama, Krishna have no share in it, no hand in it. Apart from your imagination, there is nothing there.
But one can get lost in that imagination. And remember, this imagination can last long; because nothing tangible is near to uproot it—only imagination is there. Imagination can continue for long.
Thus ordinary lovers can sometimes be freed from imagination, but those devotees who imagine God are not even freed—because imagination is aerial. It is in your hand—whatever you want. If you love a solid man, he will not be as you wish. If you tell him: raise your left leg and place your hands on a flute and stand for an hour—he will say, forgive me, good-bye! But the Krishna of your own imagination—poor fellow—keep him standing on one leg holding a flute, he stands! He can do nothing. And as the mood takes you, say: now put the other foot down—and he must put it down! It is your own web of imagination; there is no other there. Therefore the devotee becomes very pleased to have God captured in his fist. Play him as you like—God is in your fist! But the one in your fist belongs to your imagination.
And lost in imagination—what is the gain? What will you obtain?
Misery can be forgotten, but happiness cannot be attained. If the goal is to forget misery, imagination is a useful device. But if the goal is to attain happiness, imagination is extremely dangerous. Then one must be saved from imagination.
This is what I want to say: on every side we have tried to forget misery. And the one who tries to forget misery is putting himself in such nets that it becomes more and more difficult to get out. He will have to weave new nets every day. For one lie, he will have to mint new lies every day. And such a long chain of lies will arise that he will not even know where the truth is.
Who knows how many lies we have settled upon! Birth after birth, we have formed a long queue of lies. And in that lie we are all lost. We know nothing. Our family is a lie; it stands upon imagination, not upon truth. Our friendship is a lie; it stands upon imagination, not upon truth. Our enmity is a lie, our religion is a lie, our devotion is a lie, our prayer is a lie; it stands upon imagination, not upon truth.
And we have spread such a vast net of lies that today it has become very difficult to see from where to break it. A man stands with folded hands in a temple—before whom are the hands folded? Is there any knowledge of God? If there is no knowledge, and before that unknown hands are folded, those hands become false. For what are the hands folded?
I have heard: A group of travelers were returning by boat. They were coming back with much wealth—diamonds and jewels. Traders. Among them was a fakir who had boarded the return journey. He said, I too must return to my land; let me sit along. They seated him as well. The last day came; it seemed they would touch land shortly. But a fierce storm arose. Clouds gathered, the sun was covered, winds began to blow, waves rose high. The boat seemed about to sink.
Those thirty travelers folded their hands, knelt down, closed their eyes, raised their hands toward the sky and said: O God, save us! Save us! Whatever we can do, we will. If we are saved and we touch land—one said, I will distribute all the wealth I have brought among the poor. Another said, I will dedicate all my wealth to service. Another said, whatever you say, I will do—but save me!
But that fakir sat laughing. They all said: What kind of man are you? Our lives are in danger—yours too—pray! And you are a fakir; perhaps your prayer will be heard more quickly. But the fakir said: You pray. And while they closed their eyes and prayed, the fakir suddenly shouted: Wait! Do not mistakenly make promises like ‘I will give everything!’ Land is near; land has begun to appear. They all stood up. The prayers remained unfinished. They all laughed and began to tie up their goods. They said: You warned us at the right time. Otherwise we would have promised—and it would have been a trouble.
But one man had made a vow. And all had heard his vow. He was the richest man of the village. He had said: I will sell my house, and whatever money comes, I will distribute among the poor. All said: You are in trouble now. The man looked worried.
But the fakir said to the people: Do not worry—he is so clever he will even deceive God.
And that is what happened. Fifteen days later the villagers saw that drums were being beaten in announcement. That wealthy man had spread the news: I am selling my house, and whatever money comes, I will distribute among the poor.
The whole village came—there was no house better than his; it was worth hundreds of thousands. When all had gathered, he came to the gate. A small cat was tied outside the door. People asked: Why have you tied this cat?
He said: I have to sell both—the cat and the house. The price of the house is one rupee, and the price of the cat is one lakh rupees. I will sell both together; whoever wants can buy them together.
The fakir was in the crowd; he said: I understand, I understand.
He sold it. The house was worth a lakh. People said: What do we care—we will take them for one lakh and one. There was also a one-rupee cat! No harm. Someone bought the house.
He sold the house for one rupee, and the cat for one lakh. He put the lakh in his pocket and distributed the one rupee among the poor.
He had said: I will sell the house and distribute among the poor!
These our prayers, these our adorations—ultimately they are dishonesties. We do not even step back from deceiving God. And naturally so, for we have no concern with God. We are trying to escape our misery. What concern have we with God?
When the boat was sinking, we said we would do this or that. Was there any concern with God? Any concern with the poor? It was a question of saving our own misery. When we were saved, another misery stood up—that a house worth a lakh would be lost. Now a device to escape this had to be found.
There is no contradiction between the two. The promise on the boat was also for escaping misery, and the trickery now is also for escaping misery. And whatever a man does to escape misery can never be religion.
Religion is not a technique of escape from misery. ‘Escape from misery’ will lead you to a wrong path—because in ‘escape from misery’ a fundamental lie has already been accepted: ‘I am miserable.’ I am miserable—this fundamental lie has been accepted. Now I must escape misery.
I say the path is the other way: I must know what misery is, where it is—not escape it. And the man who goes to know what misery is and where it is, is astonished to find that misery is outside. I am separate. I have never been miserable. I am not miserable at all, so what is there to escape? From what is there to escape? And the one to whom it is revealed that ‘I am not miserable’—in what state does he arrive? The one who has seen that he is not miserable sees that he is happiness.
But we are convinced that we are miserable—‘I am miserable, I am miserable, I am miserable.’ And this very conviction is taking us into a new lie: How to escape misery?
A man went to a fakir and said: Show me some way to escape death. The fakir said: Go to someone else, because I have never died. Many times death came, and I did not die. Now I am out of this trouble. I know now that I cannot die. So I know no device. Go to the man who has died—ask him; perhaps he can tell you a device to escape death. What can I tell you—since I have never died! And now I know I cannot die. So death is not a question for me.
One thing is that we have accepted death; now we ask how to escape. First, the lie has been accepted—that we die. Now a second lie will have to be invented—how to escape dying? And the chain of lies will continue. But a mansion built upon the foundation of a lie, however tall, can never truly stand. If the foundation is false, the edifice is entirely false. Any day it will collapse. And as it begins to collapse, you will have to prop it up with fresh lies so that it does not fall. In this way we get caught in a vicious circle so intricate that it is difficult to calculate. One lie after another, lie after lie.
But we never become alert that the very mind that taught us the first lie, if we follow that mind, will go on teaching us more lies.
The mind, the chitta, if rightly understood, is a machine for manufacturing lies—lies arise from there.
Just the night before last, I told a story.
There is a poor fakir, a poor man. He remains day and night absorbed in prayer to God. His wife is exasperated. Wives do get exasperated with husbands who pray to God. She was very troubled—where is food to come from? He is only about ‘God, God’.
At last one day she said in anger: This will not go on for long. Where shall we bring food from? You continuously say, ‘I am a servant of God, a servant of God!’ Become a servant of some ordinary man at least—then you may get two loaves. And being a servant of God—what do you get?
The fakir said: Do not talk. I have never asked—that is different. If I ask, everything will be credited to my account. So many days of service to God—surely it is all deposited there. I have not asked—that is different.
His wife said: Then today ask and show me.
The man went out. He cried loudly toward the sky: Send a thousand rupees immediately!
A merchant lived next door. He had been listening to the whole conversation. A joke occurred to him. He filled a pouch with a thousand rupees and threw it over—just for fun. It had gone too far—when he heard the man commanding God from outside: ‘At once send a thousand rupees! It has been many days; I have asked nothing while serving!’
A pouch of a thousand fell. The man picked it up and said: Thank you! Keep the rest deposited. When needed, I will take more.
He went inside and threw the money before his wife. The wife was astonished—also impressed—that it had gone too far: a thousand rupees in cash before her! Now it was not proper to say anything.
The merchant thought: Let them enjoy the joke a little; then I will go. But then he saw large goods coming from the market. He said: Ah, this will become costly fun. He has sent men to buy goods. Valuable things are arriving.
The merchant ran. He said: Brother, I was joking. What are you thinking? I threw that money!
The man said: This is too much. You clearly heard that I asked God for a thousand rupees. And I also said ‘thank you’. Did you not hear?
He said: That I did hear. But I threw the money.
He said: I cannot accept that. My wife is witness.
The merchant said: This is a trap! Then the merchant said: Come straightaway to the village court, to the qazi.
The fakir said: I will not go like this. I am a poor man—look at my torn clothes. You will be mounted on a horse, dressed splendidly. The magistrate will lean toward you. When has a magistrate ever leaned toward the poor? Seeing my poor clothes, he will say: Enough of this—return the money.
No—first give me good clothes, give me your horse. Only when I go with splendor can I go. Otherwise, everything will go wrong there.
The merchant wanted his thousand back. Poor fellow gave his horse, gave his clothes. He himself walked, and the fakir rode in style.
Before the court he tied the horse. He called out loudly to the attendant: Take care of the horse—so that the magistrate hears inside. He went in, splendid in attire. The merchant presented: This is what has happened. He was praying to God; in jest I threw a thousand-rupee pouch. Did you ever hear—he asked the magistrate—that God throws money? But this mad fellow insists the money is his. I want my money back.
The magistrate asked the fakir: What have you to say?
He said: I have nothing to say. This man’s mind is deranged—he is mad.
The magistrate said: Proof?
He said: The proof is this—this man says the money is his. Ask him whose clothes these are—he will say: his! Whose horse is it—he will say: his! Is everything his?
The merchant cried: Silence! The clothes are mine, and the horse is mine too!
The magistrate said: Case dismissed. This man’s mind is unbalanced.
The merchant did not understand that a fakir who can tell so big a lie—giving him clothes is dangerous, giving him a horse is dangerous; he can tell even bigger lies.
The mind that teaches us the foundation-lie—if we go on listening to that mind, every arrangement we make is false.
But we never even suspect that we have accepted the first lie of the mind—its statement that ‘I am miserable’. This is a lie. No human being, no soul is ever miserable. Misery encircles from around, and the mind declares: ‘I am miserable!’
This identification—‘I am miserable’—this basic identity is a fundamental lie. Having accepted it, we then have to descend into a second lie: How to forget misery? Through alcohol, through prayer, through worship, through dance, through song, through music—how to forget? There is misery—how to forget it? And one who goes to forget misery can never go toward truth.
What then is the way?
In this morning’s meeting I want to tell you: Do not forget misery. No one has ever been freed from misery by forgetting it. For the one who forgets has already accepted ‘I am miserable’. Now, whether he forgets or does anything else—there is no release from misery.
The way is: Know where misery is. What it is. Whether it is at all. First recognize misery. And the one who has tried to recognize misery and has fixed his eyes upon it—misery has vanished, just as the morning sun rises and the dewdrops evaporate.
Exactly so—whoever fixes his gaze upon misery and whose sun of knowing falls upon it—misery flies away as the dewdrops vanish without a trace. And the state that remains behind is called happiness.
Happiness is not the opposite state of misery. No one becomes happy by fighting misery. Happiness is the absence of misery. When misery goes, what remains is called happiness.
Understand this well.
No one becomes happy by fighting misery. Happiness is not the reverse of misery—as if you defeat misery and bring happiness. Happiness is not the reverse. Yes—if misery is not, if it becomes zero, if it thins away, if it is seen there is none—then the state that remains is happiness.
Happiness is our nature; it is not to be brought from elsewhere.
Misery is a cloud that has gathered above; and we have become so fascinated with that cloud that we keep thinking of it and have forgotten that which is hidden behind the cloud and utterly beyond it—like clouds circling around the sun. Do clouds make any difference to the sun? Do clouds make the sun dark? Do clouds abolish the sun? Do clouds change anything in the nature of sunlight? Anything in the sun’s nature? But if the sun had intelligence, and the sun became frightened and said, ‘Clouds have gathered—I am finished! Now, how shall I escape these clouds?’
Then the sun would be in trouble. How will the sun escape clouds? How will it fight them? And the more it fights, the more the attention will get stuck on clouds, and the sun will forget that it is the sun—and with whom is it fighting? With clouds! But if the sun looks carefully and sees: the clouds are there, I am here—there is a great distance between me and the clouds. And however near the clouds may come, there is distance. And the distance is always infinite, always endless.
These two hands I may bring very close, yet distance remains—and the distance is infinite. The distance between two hands never disappears by bringing them close. If distance disappears, the two hands would become one hand. They are two; distance remains. However close you bring them, the distance remains.
However near the clouds may come to the sun—the sun is the sun, the clouds are clouds. And the distance is infinite. But if attention gets arrested by clouds, then difficulties begin.
The sun forgets itself and starts thinking of clouds. And the one who forgets himself slowly comes to believe he is that which he is thinking about. After a while the sun will say, ‘I am a cloud—I am a dark cloud!’ As we would call such a state foolish for a sun, such is man’s foolishness.
That which is inside—the soul—is bliss. Around it, clouds of misery. Gazing only at misery upon misery, it has forgotten who it is. And it has clutched at that which is visible: ‘This is me, this is me! Now how to escape? Where to run? How to be free? Shall I pray? Shall I drink? Where shall I go? Live, die—what shall I do? Stand upright, or stand on my head?’ Anything at all—because once one has grasped: ‘This visible misery is me’—then difficulties multiply.
One will have to return from this, and inquire: What is misery? Where is it? And who am I, and where am I?
The one who inquires into this—between him and misery a distance arises. And instantly a revolution takes place. He knows: misery is there; I am here. Misery is that; I am this. Misery is being known; I am the knower. Misery is the seen; I am the seer. Misery is the known; I am the knower. I am separate. I am not miserable, I am not misery. And the one to whom this is revealed—his attention returns to himself. And there is the sun, there is bliss, there is happiness. The one who gets even a single glimpse of this laughs—and goes on laughing for infinite births. Then he is amazed: How mad people are! How miserable people are!
Buddha became enlightened. That very morning people came and asked: What have you attained? Because Buddha was bathed in joy. They asked: What have you attained?
Buddha said: I have attained nothing. What was always my own—I have come to know it. Buddha said: Nothing has been attained; what was always my own and had been forgotten—of that I have come to know. Yes, much has been lost. Misery lost, pain lost, escape lost. Much has been lost—nothing attained. What is ‘attained’ is only that which already was. What was mine was already attained—whether it had been recognized or not. That is what has ‘been attained’. Much that was not mine, yet which I had assumed to be mine, is lost. What I was not, but had taken myself to be—that is all lost. Nothing has been attained—much has been lost.
Whoever awakens within will find: What is there to attain? What is to be attained is already attained. There is much to lose—what we have grasped, what we have thought. And what all have we grasped? What all can we grasp! Man’s capacity is amazing. His madness is deep. His capacity for auto-hypnosis, for self-suggestion, is infinite. We have become hypnotized by our own misery. We can be hypnotized by anything.
Let me tell a few incidents and complete my talk—so that a sense can arise.
When Nehru was alive, there were a dozen or fifty people in India who had the notion that they too were Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru. There was a man in my town. He came to think he was Pandit Nehru. He even signed as Nehru. He would telegraph to reserve the circuit house and would arrive there. When people saw him, they were astonished: Who are you?
He was Pandit Nehru! They had to keep many such ‘Pandit Nehrus’ in the asylum.
Once, in one asylum, such a mad Nehru got to meet Pandit Nehru himself. Nehru went to visit the asylum. The officers thought that the man who had been admitted three years ago, thinking himself Nehru, had now recovered—release him, and let Nehru himself give him the discharge. Great confusion followed.
They brought the man. He met Nehru. Nehru asked him: Are you fully well now?
He said: I am perfectly fine. Now I am completely fine. Thanks to the officers of this asylum—in three years my mind has become perfectly fine. Now I am leaving, fully cured.
As he was leaving he asked: But I forgot to ask—who are you?
Pandit Nehru said: You do not know who I am? Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru.
The man began to laugh: Do not worry; stay here for three years—you too will be cured. I came here in exactly this condition three years ago. But in three years I have become completely fine. Be carefree. Do not worry. The doctors here have fine treatment. They will cure you in three years.
A man can so strongly pick up the notion of being Pandit Nehru that he forgets completely.
In America something like this happened some years back. On Abraham Lincoln’s centenary, they searched for a man whose face resembled Lincoln’s. A play was staged in all the big cities; that man played Lincoln. For a year he toured, playing Lincoln. His face resembled him. And after a year of continuous practice, the man went mad and forgot who he was. He insisted: I am Abraham Lincoln!
At first people thought he was joking. But on the final night when the play ended and the troupe dispersed, he refused to take off the clothes he wore in the role.
The troupe said: These clothes must be returned.
The man said: These are my clothes. I am Abraham Lincoln!
People still thought he was joking. He was not. He had gone mad. He went home wearing those clothes. The family too advised him: Wearing these clothes in the play is fine, but if you walk the streets in them, people will think you are mad.
He said: What of madness? I am Abraham Lincoln!
At first the family thought he was joking. But when this went on day after day, they realized he had gone mad. Even when he spoke of ordinary things, he spoke in Lincoln’s cadence. If Lincoln stammered, the man began to stammer. If Lincoln walked in a certain way, he walked in that way. Those very dialogues he had learned in the play had become strong—he spoke only those.
Finally they asked physicians. The doctors said: This is difficult. So deep, so deep has the notion taken hold that ‘I am Abraham Lincoln’.
For a year, only the cloud of ‘being Lincoln’ circled him—morning, evening, night. And there was much pleasure in being Lincoln—tremendous respect.
Let someone become Rama in Udaipur—and see: the mad of Udaipur will fall at his feet, shower flowers, drink the amrit of his feet. His mind will be spoiled—what is the use of being ordinary? Why not be Rama?
He had become so. They took him to the doctors.
In America they have made a machine—the lie-detector. They use it in court to catch lies. It is a small machine. In the witness stand beneath where a person stands, the machine is fixed. They ask: What time is it by your watch? He looks and answers. Why should he lie? The machine marks the rhythm of his heart. Then they ask: Two and two make how much? He says: four. Why lie? The machine records the heart’s pace. Then they ask: Did you steal? The heart says ‘yes’—for he did; but outwardly he says ‘no’. A jolt appears in the heart’s rhythm, and the machine records it below.
They put the ‘Abraham Lincoln’ on the lie-detector. He was frightened—whatever they asked, they were going to ask: Are you Abraham Lincoln? He had decided today that however much they ask, he will say: I am not. They stood him on the machine. Doctors stood around. They asked: Are you Abraham Lincoln?
He said: No, I am not Abraham Lincoln. But the machine recorded below: This man is lying! In his heart he was saying: I am Abraham Lincoln. Outwardly he lied. The machine said: This man is Abraham Lincoln—he is lying!
So deep, so deep a mood can be picked up! This I call auto-hypnosis—being mesmerized by an idea and a feeling.
We too have been hypnotized by misery. We live twenty-four hours a day in misery. We try twenty-four hours a day to escape misery. And by night and day seeing misery alone, the hypnosis has grown deep. It is a hypnosis of suffering that spans endless births. Therefore we ask anyone we meet: What is the way to escape misery? What is the way to escape unrest? What is the way to escape darkness? What is the way to escape ignorance? And as long as we keep seeking such ways, we cannot be free—because the fundamental point is false. We are not ignorance, we are not misery, we are not bondage, we are not non-liberation. We are not these—so the question of escaping them does not arise.
But how will this be known?
You will have to concentrate your attention on your misery.
Do not run, do not escape, take no flight. When misery arises, look at it, recognize it; know where it is. And the moment you know and recognize, you will be astonished—you will feel: I am always separate; I am always other. Misery comes and goes; it encircles and runs away. And I—I am separate. I am the knower.
The soul of man is knowing—just knowing. All experiencing is false. All enjoying is untrue. Only knowing is truth. This I call dhyan—meditation. If this awakening toward misery happens, meditation has happened.
Tonight we will sit, so remember: all day reflect and come—are you misery or separate from misery? Are you yourself misery, or the knower of misery? Come knowing this, come having inquired. And if it becomes clear that misery is there and I am here—then the revolution has begun which ultimately leads man into himself and into truth.
Tonight we will sit for the experiment—how to do this experiment and enter within.
I am grateful for how peacefully and lovingly you have listened to my words. And in the end, I bow to the Paramatman seated in each one. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
Man is in misery and only imagines happiness. Man is in ignorance and only imagines knowledge. Man is not truly alive; he only imagines life.
In this morning’s meeting I would like to say something about this: precisely because we keep imagining, we do not become that which we can be. If a sick man imagines he is healthy, he will stop taking steps toward health—when he believes he is already healthy, the question of becoming healthy does not arise. If a blind man imagines he knows what light is, that blind man will give up seeking eyes.
The blind should know they do not know light. The sick should know they are not healthy. The unhappy should know they are not happy. But to console and soothe ourselves, we imagine what we are not.
The unhappy man lives in the imagination of happiness. And remember, the imagination of happiness does not dissolve misery; through the imagination of happiness, misery simply continues—and grows.
If misery is to end, the imagination of happiness must be dropped, and misery itself must be known. The one who knows misery—his misery disappears. The one who believes in happiness—his misery gets hidden; it does not end, it keeps running within.
If ignorance is to end, do not imagine knowledge—know ignorance itself. The one who knows ignorance attains to knowledge. But the one who clings to knowledge—false, imagined knowledge—his ignorance goes underground; it does not end. And he never receives knowledge, because imagined knowledge means nothing at all.
It will be good to see this from two or three angles.
For example, I want to ask: Are we happy? Have we ever known happiness? If someone looks back at his life with full impartiality, he will find: happiness—happiness has never really been known; only misery has been known.
But we forget misery. And that happiness which we have not known, we imagine and impose. Yes, there is a hope in the mind that someday we will know it. And hope is always of that which has not been known. Happiness has not been known; hence we keep thinking—tomorrow, in the coming days, in the future happiness will arrive. Those who are even more given to imagination think: in the next life. Those even more fanciful think: in some heaven, in some moksha, happiness will be attained.
Had man known happiness, the imagination of heaven would never have arisen. The imagination of heaven belongs to those who never tasted happiness at all. What they have not known, they are hoping to manufacture in heaven!
Have we ever known happiness? Is there a single moment in life of which we can say: I knew happiness? And remember, do not be quick in saying so; for the one who has known happiness even once becomes incapable of knowing misery. The one who has known happiness becomes incapable of knowing misery. Then he simply does not know misery, cannot know it. Because the one who knows happiness comes to see: I am happiness. This is something very curious. And because we go on knowing misery and more misery, that itself is proof that we have never known happiness. There is only hope, imagination. And sometimes we also force happiness upon things.
A friend has arrived; he embraces you and you say: I feel so much happiness. How much bliss in that embrace! But have you ever considered: if that friend were to keep embracing you—ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty minutes—and refused to let go, you would begin to feel that a policeman should somehow appear and free you: What is he doing? And if for two hours he does not release your neck, it will feel like a hanging.
If it were happiness, more would mean more, would it not? If in one moment it was happiness, then in ten moments it should be tenfold. But what seemed happiness for one moment becomes like a noose in ten! It was not happiness; it was imagined—and in a single moment it was lost. What is imagined lasts only a moment; what is true is forever. What is imagined is momentary. Whatever is momentary, take it to be imagined. Because that which is, is eternal, it is ever. It is not in a moment, it is perennial, it never ceases. It is—and is—and is. It was—and will be—and will be. There will never come a moment when it is not.
Whatever happiness turns into misery—know it to be imagined. It was never happiness. And all the happiness we know is capable of turning into misery.
You sit down to eat, and the food seems delightful, and you keep eating—and at a certain point, misery begins. And if you keep on eating, as some people do, the whole life becomes afflicted with the misery of eating.
Doctors say: of what you eat, half fills your own belly, the other half fills the doctors’. If you eat just half, there would be no need of any doctor at all. You eat more, illness comes—and the doctor follows it. If we go on eating, food can become death. A man can die from overeating.
Someone sings you a song; you say, how much happiness it gave. He sings it again; you do not say any more that it gave happiness—you keep quiet. He sings the third time; you say, now please stop. He sings the fourth time; you say, forgive me now. The fifth time he sings; you will try to run away. And if the door is locked and he sings the sixth time, your head will begin to spin. And if he goes on singing, you will go mad. The very song that gave delight the first time will drive you insane.
If it were happiness, ten hearings should make it tenfold. Take this as a touchstone to recognize. Make it your criterion: whatever happiness vanishes in a moment, and the very repetition of it brings misery, that could not have been happiness—you must have imagined it. Once you imagine, the second imagining becomes harder; the third time, harder still; by the tenth time, imagination is uprooted—things stand as they are, clear and plain. All our happiness turns into misery.
Happinesses are miseries; we only imagine happiness, we assert from above that this is happiness. How long can an asserted happiness last? We have not known happiness; we have only imagined it. Misery we have known. And why have we imagined?
We imagine because if we do not, misery will take our very life—how will we live with it? So by weaving nets of false happiness we try to pass our misery, to forget it. Our whole life is nothing but a long attempt to forget misery. A long attempt to forget.
Nietzsche laughed a lot. Someone said to him: You laugh so much—how happy you must be.
Nietzsche said: Do not ask that, do not say that. The reason for my laughter is altogether different.
His friends said: What other reason could there be except that you are joyous?
He said: Leave this talk—the cause is anything but joy. Joy is no cause at all.
They asked: Then what is the reason?
Nietzsche said: I laugh so that I do not start crying. If I do not laugh, weeping will begin. The weeping is going on within. By laughing I keep myself distracted, so that the weeping stays halted.
Therefore the more the world seems engrossed in the pursuit of happiness, know that the world has become that much more miserable. We want happiness twenty-four hours a day because misery is present twenty-four hours a day. So we go on inventing new means of entertainment. The invention of entertainments is proof of a miserable world. The man who is not miserable never goes in search of entertainment.
Those sitting in cinema halls—if they were happy, they would be at home. They are unhappy, therefore they are in the cinema. Those sitting in bars—if they were happy, they would be at home. They sit in bars because they are unhappy. Those watching a prostitute’s dance—if they were happy, they would close their eyes and be absorbed in their happiness. They sit there because they are unhappy, trying to forget their misery. On every side the attempt to forget misery is going on.
And do not think that only the one in the cinema is forgetting misery, or the one drinking alcohol, or the one sitting at a prostitute’s door. No, the one who sits in a temple and sings bhajan-kirtan is also forgetting misery. There is no difference. Why would a happy man go and beat cymbals and manjiras? Has he gone mad? Why would a happy man fold his hands and stand before some statue? The unhappy man is forgetting—seeking a device. He chants ‘Ram, Ram’; as long as the rhythm of ‘Ram, Ram’ continues, he forgets misery. Then misery stands again. As long as he moves the beads, he forgets misery. Whatever he entangles himself in, he forgets misery.
Whether he watches a cinema or watches a Ramleela—it makes no difference. The attempt to forget misery is on. The attempt to forget oneself is on. The same thing is happening in alcohol and in prayer. One is a bad route of forgetting, one a good route—but both are routes of forgetfulness. Somehow to forget oneself. The man who is miserable wants to forget. One forgets by playing cards, another by chess, another by reading the Gita. What are you doing?
We have no clue about being happy. We are miserable. We want somehow to escape this misery, to forget it—somehow to forget! Whether you look back to the age of the Vedas—there too soma was drunk. Soma means alcohol. But when seers and sages drink alcohol, it is called soma; when an ordinary man drinks soma, it is called liquor! From the Vedas right up to modern America! From soma to mescaline and lysergic acid! Today all over America lysergic acid and mescaline and marijuana are being used. And great thinkers of America, like Aldous Huxley, say: There is so much misery that we need some means to forget! We want to forget misery.
Are not all our measures of ‘happiness’ only routes to forgetting misery?
Hence all measures fail. A man goes mad after a woman and thinks: if she is attained, happiness will be. And the day she is attained, that very day she becomes futile. People look at the faces of beloveds; has anyone looked at the faces of wives? The one brought home becomes futile. The imagination is shattered in a single moment. The wife has come home; now she is forgotten. Neighbors may see her and find happiness in her, but the husband seems to find none.
Byron married. He was a strange man. Until he married, he was frantic that if he could not marry that woman, life would be meaningless. Then, having married her, he was coming down the church steps, her hand in his. Behind them the bells were still ringing and the guests taking leave. The wedding had just happened. The candles lit for the ceremony were still burning; they had not yet been put out. Byron held his wife’s hand, descending the steps to sit in the carriage—just then, on the road, another woman appeared.
Byron must have been a very honest man. Seated in the carriage, he said to his wife: How strange! Until yesterday I thought that if I could get you, I would get everything. And just now, as we were coming down the steps, that woman passing—my mind ran after her; I forgot you, and a desire arose: if only that woman were mine! You are already forgotten, because you are in my fist, and thus you have become useless. You are mine now—and useless.
All attraction is for what is far. All attraction for what has not been attained. What has been attained becomes futile. Why?
Because in what is not attained, the imagination of happiness can go on. But in what is attained, the imagination of happiness is shattered—because it is attained. A momentary glimpse comes and is gone. What was imagination departs and is destroyed.
One poet has said: Blessed are those lovers who never get their beloveds, for they can at least imagine happiness for their whole lives. And accursed are those lovers who do get their beloveds, for after getting them they find that they have purchased hell with their own hands.
All our happiness—on any level—is imaginary. And misery is starkly real. No one imagines misery—who would? We want to escape misery, no one imagines it. Misery is—happiness is imagined. This is the difficulty of life. And one who drifts into imagined happiness is lost. Then we can imagine in many ways.
Majnun was summoned by the emperor of his town, who asked: Are you mad? That Layla is an ordinary girl; you are insane! We will find for you much more beautiful girls than her. We have called girls; come, see. You have gone mad! Her father does not agree. Leave it. There is nothing in Layla—she is an ordinary, dusky girl.
You too perhaps suppose Layla must have been beautiful; if so, you are mistaken. Layla was extremely ordinary—what they call homely, a domestic girl. But what did Majnun say? ‘No, no—you do not know; Layla’s beauty, only I know.’
The emperor said: What do you mean? Are we blind?
Majnun said: No, you are not blind—I am blind. But what I see, I alone see; none else can. To me, only in Layla is everything seen—none else is seen.
Now no one else sees it; Majnun sees it! That is why lovers appear mad to the whole village. Everyone except themselves calls them mad. They themselves do not know. They have woven such a net of imagination that what appears to you does not appear to them; they see something else entirely.
What appears in the beloved is the projection of the lover’s imagination; it is not in the beloved at all. What appears in the lover is the projection of the beloved’s imagination; it is not in him at all. Whatever happiness we see in others is our own imagination spread and imposed upon them. And how long will that imposed imagination take to break? It breaks in a moment. It breaks on coming close. It breaks when you recognize. It breaks upon knowing. At a distance, with a gap, it was only imagination.
Not only have people imagined happiness in ordinary life—when ordinary life did not yield happiness and misery could not be forgotten, they imagined even greater things. Someone imagines God playing the flute; with eyes closed he gets absorbed in the flute-playing God. Someone imagines Jesus Christ. Someone imagines Rama with his bow. None of these imaginations lead to truth—no matter how deep the imagination. Even if a person begins to actually ‘see’ Krishna with flute, Rama with bow, Jesus on the cross, or Buddha and Mahavira—if they appear to you, Buddha, Mahavira, Rama, Krishna have no share in it, no hand in it. Apart from your imagination, there is nothing there.
But one can get lost in that imagination. And remember, this imagination can last long; because nothing tangible is near to uproot it—only imagination is there. Imagination can continue for long.
Thus ordinary lovers can sometimes be freed from imagination, but those devotees who imagine God are not even freed—because imagination is aerial. It is in your hand—whatever you want. If you love a solid man, he will not be as you wish. If you tell him: raise your left leg and place your hands on a flute and stand for an hour—he will say, forgive me, good-bye! But the Krishna of your own imagination—poor fellow—keep him standing on one leg holding a flute, he stands! He can do nothing. And as the mood takes you, say: now put the other foot down—and he must put it down! It is your own web of imagination; there is no other there. Therefore the devotee becomes very pleased to have God captured in his fist. Play him as you like—God is in your fist! But the one in your fist belongs to your imagination.
And lost in imagination—what is the gain? What will you obtain?
Misery can be forgotten, but happiness cannot be attained. If the goal is to forget misery, imagination is a useful device. But if the goal is to attain happiness, imagination is extremely dangerous. Then one must be saved from imagination.
This is what I want to say: on every side we have tried to forget misery. And the one who tries to forget misery is putting himself in such nets that it becomes more and more difficult to get out. He will have to weave new nets every day. For one lie, he will have to mint new lies every day. And such a long chain of lies will arise that he will not even know where the truth is.
Who knows how many lies we have settled upon! Birth after birth, we have formed a long queue of lies. And in that lie we are all lost. We know nothing. Our family is a lie; it stands upon imagination, not upon truth. Our friendship is a lie; it stands upon imagination, not upon truth. Our enmity is a lie, our religion is a lie, our devotion is a lie, our prayer is a lie; it stands upon imagination, not upon truth.
And we have spread such a vast net of lies that today it has become very difficult to see from where to break it. A man stands with folded hands in a temple—before whom are the hands folded? Is there any knowledge of God? If there is no knowledge, and before that unknown hands are folded, those hands become false. For what are the hands folded?
I have heard: A group of travelers were returning by boat. They were coming back with much wealth—diamonds and jewels. Traders. Among them was a fakir who had boarded the return journey. He said, I too must return to my land; let me sit along. They seated him as well. The last day came; it seemed they would touch land shortly. But a fierce storm arose. Clouds gathered, the sun was covered, winds began to blow, waves rose high. The boat seemed about to sink.
Those thirty travelers folded their hands, knelt down, closed their eyes, raised their hands toward the sky and said: O God, save us! Save us! Whatever we can do, we will. If we are saved and we touch land—one said, I will distribute all the wealth I have brought among the poor. Another said, I will dedicate all my wealth to service. Another said, whatever you say, I will do—but save me!
But that fakir sat laughing. They all said: What kind of man are you? Our lives are in danger—yours too—pray! And you are a fakir; perhaps your prayer will be heard more quickly. But the fakir said: You pray. And while they closed their eyes and prayed, the fakir suddenly shouted: Wait! Do not mistakenly make promises like ‘I will give everything!’ Land is near; land has begun to appear. They all stood up. The prayers remained unfinished. They all laughed and began to tie up their goods. They said: You warned us at the right time. Otherwise we would have promised—and it would have been a trouble.
But one man had made a vow. And all had heard his vow. He was the richest man of the village. He had said: I will sell my house, and whatever money comes, I will distribute among the poor. All said: You are in trouble now. The man looked worried.
But the fakir said to the people: Do not worry—he is so clever he will even deceive God.
And that is what happened. Fifteen days later the villagers saw that drums were being beaten in announcement. That wealthy man had spread the news: I am selling my house, and whatever money comes, I will distribute among the poor.
The whole village came—there was no house better than his; it was worth hundreds of thousands. When all had gathered, he came to the gate. A small cat was tied outside the door. People asked: Why have you tied this cat?
He said: I have to sell both—the cat and the house. The price of the house is one rupee, and the price of the cat is one lakh rupees. I will sell both together; whoever wants can buy them together.
The fakir was in the crowd; he said: I understand, I understand.
He sold it. The house was worth a lakh. People said: What do we care—we will take them for one lakh and one. There was also a one-rupee cat! No harm. Someone bought the house.
He sold the house for one rupee, and the cat for one lakh. He put the lakh in his pocket and distributed the one rupee among the poor.
He had said: I will sell the house and distribute among the poor!
These our prayers, these our adorations—ultimately they are dishonesties. We do not even step back from deceiving God. And naturally so, for we have no concern with God. We are trying to escape our misery. What concern have we with God?
When the boat was sinking, we said we would do this or that. Was there any concern with God? Any concern with the poor? It was a question of saving our own misery. When we were saved, another misery stood up—that a house worth a lakh would be lost. Now a device to escape this had to be found.
There is no contradiction between the two. The promise on the boat was also for escaping misery, and the trickery now is also for escaping misery. And whatever a man does to escape misery can never be religion.
Religion is not a technique of escape from misery. ‘Escape from misery’ will lead you to a wrong path—because in ‘escape from misery’ a fundamental lie has already been accepted: ‘I am miserable.’ I am miserable—this fundamental lie has been accepted. Now I must escape misery.
I say the path is the other way: I must know what misery is, where it is—not escape it. And the man who goes to know what misery is and where it is, is astonished to find that misery is outside. I am separate. I have never been miserable. I am not miserable at all, so what is there to escape? From what is there to escape? And the one to whom it is revealed that ‘I am not miserable’—in what state does he arrive? The one who has seen that he is not miserable sees that he is happiness.
But we are convinced that we are miserable—‘I am miserable, I am miserable, I am miserable.’ And this very conviction is taking us into a new lie: How to escape misery?
A man went to a fakir and said: Show me some way to escape death. The fakir said: Go to someone else, because I have never died. Many times death came, and I did not die. Now I am out of this trouble. I know now that I cannot die. So I know no device. Go to the man who has died—ask him; perhaps he can tell you a device to escape death. What can I tell you—since I have never died! And now I know I cannot die. So death is not a question for me.
One thing is that we have accepted death; now we ask how to escape. First, the lie has been accepted—that we die. Now a second lie will have to be invented—how to escape dying? And the chain of lies will continue. But a mansion built upon the foundation of a lie, however tall, can never truly stand. If the foundation is false, the edifice is entirely false. Any day it will collapse. And as it begins to collapse, you will have to prop it up with fresh lies so that it does not fall. In this way we get caught in a vicious circle so intricate that it is difficult to calculate. One lie after another, lie after lie.
But we never become alert that the very mind that taught us the first lie, if we follow that mind, will go on teaching us more lies.
The mind, the chitta, if rightly understood, is a machine for manufacturing lies—lies arise from there.
Just the night before last, I told a story.
There is a poor fakir, a poor man. He remains day and night absorbed in prayer to God. His wife is exasperated. Wives do get exasperated with husbands who pray to God. She was very troubled—where is food to come from? He is only about ‘God, God’.
At last one day she said in anger: This will not go on for long. Where shall we bring food from? You continuously say, ‘I am a servant of God, a servant of God!’ Become a servant of some ordinary man at least—then you may get two loaves. And being a servant of God—what do you get?
The fakir said: Do not talk. I have never asked—that is different. If I ask, everything will be credited to my account. So many days of service to God—surely it is all deposited there. I have not asked—that is different.
His wife said: Then today ask and show me.
The man went out. He cried loudly toward the sky: Send a thousand rupees immediately!
A merchant lived next door. He had been listening to the whole conversation. A joke occurred to him. He filled a pouch with a thousand rupees and threw it over—just for fun. It had gone too far—when he heard the man commanding God from outside: ‘At once send a thousand rupees! It has been many days; I have asked nothing while serving!’
A pouch of a thousand fell. The man picked it up and said: Thank you! Keep the rest deposited. When needed, I will take more.
He went inside and threw the money before his wife. The wife was astonished—also impressed—that it had gone too far: a thousand rupees in cash before her! Now it was not proper to say anything.
The merchant thought: Let them enjoy the joke a little; then I will go. But then he saw large goods coming from the market. He said: Ah, this will become costly fun. He has sent men to buy goods. Valuable things are arriving.
The merchant ran. He said: Brother, I was joking. What are you thinking? I threw that money!
The man said: This is too much. You clearly heard that I asked God for a thousand rupees. And I also said ‘thank you’. Did you not hear?
He said: That I did hear. But I threw the money.
He said: I cannot accept that. My wife is witness.
The merchant said: This is a trap! Then the merchant said: Come straightaway to the village court, to the qazi.
The fakir said: I will not go like this. I am a poor man—look at my torn clothes. You will be mounted on a horse, dressed splendidly. The magistrate will lean toward you. When has a magistrate ever leaned toward the poor? Seeing my poor clothes, he will say: Enough of this—return the money.
No—first give me good clothes, give me your horse. Only when I go with splendor can I go. Otherwise, everything will go wrong there.
The merchant wanted his thousand back. Poor fellow gave his horse, gave his clothes. He himself walked, and the fakir rode in style.
Before the court he tied the horse. He called out loudly to the attendant: Take care of the horse—so that the magistrate hears inside. He went in, splendid in attire. The merchant presented: This is what has happened. He was praying to God; in jest I threw a thousand-rupee pouch. Did you ever hear—he asked the magistrate—that God throws money? But this mad fellow insists the money is his. I want my money back.
The magistrate asked the fakir: What have you to say?
He said: I have nothing to say. This man’s mind is deranged—he is mad.
The magistrate said: Proof?
He said: The proof is this—this man says the money is his. Ask him whose clothes these are—he will say: his! Whose horse is it—he will say: his! Is everything his?
The merchant cried: Silence! The clothes are mine, and the horse is mine too!
The magistrate said: Case dismissed. This man’s mind is unbalanced.
The merchant did not understand that a fakir who can tell so big a lie—giving him clothes is dangerous, giving him a horse is dangerous; he can tell even bigger lies.
The mind that teaches us the foundation-lie—if we go on listening to that mind, every arrangement we make is false.
But we never even suspect that we have accepted the first lie of the mind—its statement that ‘I am miserable’. This is a lie. No human being, no soul is ever miserable. Misery encircles from around, and the mind declares: ‘I am miserable!’
This identification—‘I am miserable’—this basic identity is a fundamental lie. Having accepted it, we then have to descend into a second lie: How to forget misery? Through alcohol, through prayer, through worship, through dance, through song, through music—how to forget? There is misery—how to forget it? And one who goes to forget misery can never go toward truth.
What then is the way?
In this morning’s meeting I want to tell you: Do not forget misery. No one has ever been freed from misery by forgetting it. For the one who forgets has already accepted ‘I am miserable’. Now, whether he forgets or does anything else—there is no release from misery.
The way is: Know where misery is. What it is. Whether it is at all. First recognize misery. And the one who has tried to recognize misery and has fixed his eyes upon it—misery has vanished, just as the morning sun rises and the dewdrops evaporate.
Exactly so—whoever fixes his gaze upon misery and whose sun of knowing falls upon it—misery flies away as the dewdrops vanish without a trace. And the state that remains behind is called happiness.
Happiness is not the opposite state of misery. No one becomes happy by fighting misery. Happiness is the absence of misery. When misery goes, what remains is called happiness.
Understand this well.
No one becomes happy by fighting misery. Happiness is not the reverse of misery—as if you defeat misery and bring happiness. Happiness is not the reverse. Yes—if misery is not, if it becomes zero, if it thins away, if it is seen there is none—then the state that remains is happiness.
Happiness is our nature; it is not to be brought from elsewhere.
Misery is a cloud that has gathered above; and we have become so fascinated with that cloud that we keep thinking of it and have forgotten that which is hidden behind the cloud and utterly beyond it—like clouds circling around the sun. Do clouds make any difference to the sun? Do clouds make the sun dark? Do clouds abolish the sun? Do clouds change anything in the nature of sunlight? Anything in the sun’s nature? But if the sun had intelligence, and the sun became frightened and said, ‘Clouds have gathered—I am finished! Now, how shall I escape these clouds?’
Then the sun would be in trouble. How will the sun escape clouds? How will it fight them? And the more it fights, the more the attention will get stuck on clouds, and the sun will forget that it is the sun—and with whom is it fighting? With clouds! But if the sun looks carefully and sees: the clouds are there, I am here—there is a great distance between me and the clouds. And however near the clouds may come, there is distance. And the distance is always infinite, always endless.
These two hands I may bring very close, yet distance remains—and the distance is infinite. The distance between two hands never disappears by bringing them close. If distance disappears, the two hands would become one hand. They are two; distance remains. However close you bring them, the distance remains.
However near the clouds may come to the sun—the sun is the sun, the clouds are clouds. And the distance is infinite. But if attention gets arrested by clouds, then difficulties begin.
The sun forgets itself and starts thinking of clouds. And the one who forgets himself slowly comes to believe he is that which he is thinking about. After a while the sun will say, ‘I am a cloud—I am a dark cloud!’ As we would call such a state foolish for a sun, such is man’s foolishness.
That which is inside—the soul—is bliss. Around it, clouds of misery. Gazing only at misery upon misery, it has forgotten who it is. And it has clutched at that which is visible: ‘This is me, this is me! Now how to escape? Where to run? How to be free? Shall I pray? Shall I drink? Where shall I go? Live, die—what shall I do? Stand upright, or stand on my head?’ Anything at all—because once one has grasped: ‘This visible misery is me’—then difficulties multiply.
One will have to return from this, and inquire: What is misery? Where is it? And who am I, and where am I?
The one who inquires into this—between him and misery a distance arises. And instantly a revolution takes place. He knows: misery is there; I am here. Misery is that; I am this. Misery is being known; I am the knower. Misery is the seen; I am the seer. Misery is the known; I am the knower. I am separate. I am not miserable, I am not misery. And the one to whom this is revealed—his attention returns to himself. And there is the sun, there is bliss, there is happiness. The one who gets even a single glimpse of this laughs—and goes on laughing for infinite births. Then he is amazed: How mad people are! How miserable people are!
Buddha became enlightened. That very morning people came and asked: What have you attained? Because Buddha was bathed in joy. They asked: What have you attained?
Buddha said: I have attained nothing. What was always my own—I have come to know it. Buddha said: Nothing has been attained; what was always my own and had been forgotten—of that I have come to know. Yes, much has been lost. Misery lost, pain lost, escape lost. Much has been lost—nothing attained. What is ‘attained’ is only that which already was. What was mine was already attained—whether it had been recognized or not. That is what has ‘been attained’. Much that was not mine, yet which I had assumed to be mine, is lost. What I was not, but had taken myself to be—that is all lost. Nothing has been attained—much has been lost.
Whoever awakens within will find: What is there to attain? What is to be attained is already attained. There is much to lose—what we have grasped, what we have thought. And what all have we grasped? What all can we grasp! Man’s capacity is amazing. His madness is deep. His capacity for auto-hypnosis, for self-suggestion, is infinite. We have become hypnotized by our own misery. We can be hypnotized by anything.
Let me tell a few incidents and complete my talk—so that a sense can arise.
When Nehru was alive, there were a dozen or fifty people in India who had the notion that they too were Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru. There was a man in my town. He came to think he was Pandit Nehru. He even signed as Nehru. He would telegraph to reserve the circuit house and would arrive there. When people saw him, they were astonished: Who are you?
He was Pandit Nehru! They had to keep many such ‘Pandit Nehrus’ in the asylum.
Once, in one asylum, such a mad Nehru got to meet Pandit Nehru himself. Nehru went to visit the asylum. The officers thought that the man who had been admitted three years ago, thinking himself Nehru, had now recovered—release him, and let Nehru himself give him the discharge. Great confusion followed.
They brought the man. He met Nehru. Nehru asked him: Are you fully well now?
He said: I am perfectly fine. Now I am completely fine. Thanks to the officers of this asylum—in three years my mind has become perfectly fine. Now I am leaving, fully cured.
As he was leaving he asked: But I forgot to ask—who are you?
Pandit Nehru said: You do not know who I am? Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru.
The man began to laugh: Do not worry; stay here for three years—you too will be cured. I came here in exactly this condition three years ago. But in three years I have become completely fine. Be carefree. Do not worry. The doctors here have fine treatment. They will cure you in three years.
A man can so strongly pick up the notion of being Pandit Nehru that he forgets completely.
In America something like this happened some years back. On Abraham Lincoln’s centenary, they searched for a man whose face resembled Lincoln’s. A play was staged in all the big cities; that man played Lincoln. For a year he toured, playing Lincoln. His face resembled him. And after a year of continuous practice, the man went mad and forgot who he was. He insisted: I am Abraham Lincoln!
At first people thought he was joking. But on the final night when the play ended and the troupe dispersed, he refused to take off the clothes he wore in the role.
The troupe said: These clothes must be returned.
The man said: These are my clothes. I am Abraham Lincoln!
People still thought he was joking. He was not. He had gone mad. He went home wearing those clothes. The family too advised him: Wearing these clothes in the play is fine, but if you walk the streets in them, people will think you are mad.
He said: What of madness? I am Abraham Lincoln!
At first the family thought he was joking. But when this went on day after day, they realized he had gone mad. Even when he spoke of ordinary things, he spoke in Lincoln’s cadence. If Lincoln stammered, the man began to stammer. If Lincoln walked in a certain way, he walked in that way. Those very dialogues he had learned in the play had become strong—he spoke only those.
Finally they asked physicians. The doctors said: This is difficult. So deep, so deep has the notion taken hold that ‘I am Abraham Lincoln’.
For a year, only the cloud of ‘being Lincoln’ circled him—morning, evening, night. And there was much pleasure in being Lincoln—tremendous respect.
Let someone become Rama in Udaipur—and see: the mad of Udaipur will fall at his feet, shower flowers, drink the amrit of his feet. His mind will be spoiled—what is the use of being ordinary? Why not be Rama?
He had become so. They took him to the doctors.
In America they have made a machine—the lie-detector. They use it in court to catch lies. It is a small machine. In the witness stand beneath where a person stands, the machine is fixed. They ask: What time is it by your watch? He looks and answers. Why should he lie? The machine marks the rhythm of his heart. Then they ask: Two and two make how much? He says: four. Why lie? The machine records the heart’s pace. Then they ask: Did you steal? The heart says ‘yes’—for he did; but outwardly he says ‘no’. A jolt appears in the heart’s rhythm, and the machine records it below.
They put the ‘Abraham Lincoln’ on the lie-detector. He was frightened—whatever they asked, they were going to ask: Are you Abraham Lincoln? He had decided today that however much they ask, he will say: I am not. They stood him on the machine. Doctors stood around. They asked: Are you Abraham Lincoln?
He said: No, I am not Abraham Lincoln. But the machine recorded below: This man is lying! In his heart he was saying: I am Abraham Lincoln. Outwardly he lied. The machine said: This man is Abraham Lincoln—he is lying!
So deep, so deep a mood can be picked up! This I call auto-hypnosis—being mesmerized by an idea and a feeling.
We too have been hypnotized by misery. We live twenty-four hours a day in misery. We try twenty-four hours a day to escape misery. And by night and day seeing misery alone, the hypnosis has grown deep. It is a hypnosis of suffering that spans endless births. Therefore we ask anyone we meet: What is the way to escape misery? What is the way to escape unrest? What is the way to escape darkness? What is the way to escape ignorance? And as long as we keep seeking such ways, we cannot be free—because the fundamental point is false. We are not ignorance, we are not misery, we are not bondage, we are not non-liberation. We are not these—so the question of escaping them does not arise.
But how will this be known?
You will have to concentrate your attention on your misery.
Do not run, do not escape, take no flight. When misery arises, look at it, recognize it; know where it is. And the moment you know and recognize, you will be astonished—you will feel: I am always separate; I am always other. Misery comes and goes; it encircles and runs away. And I—I am separate. I am the knower.
The soul of man is knowing—just knowing. All experiencing is false. All enjoying is untrue. Only knowing is truth. This I call dhyan—meditation. If this awakening toward misery happens, meditation has happened.
Tonight we will sit, so remember: all day reflect and come—are you misery or separate from misery? Are you yourself misery, or the knower of misery? Come knowing this, come having inquired. And if it becomes clear that misery is there and I am here—then the revolution has begun which ultimately leads man into himself and into truth.
Tonight we will sit for the experiment—how to do this experiment and enter within.
I am grateful for how peacefully and lovingly you have listened to my words. And in the end, I bow to the Paramatman seated in each one. Please accept my pranam.