Jeevan Sangeet #7

In the search for truth, in the direction of knowing that by knowing which nothing else remains to be known. And for attaining that without which we writhe and gasp, like a fish flung out of water onto hot sand. And upon attaining which we become as quiet and blissful as a fish that has reached the ocean again. In search of that bliss, that nectar, this evening I shall speak of yet another direction and doorway.
What is the instrument to seek truth? What is the path? What is the means?
It seems man has only one means—thought. It seems he has only one power: to think and to investigate. But by thinking and pondering, no one has ever attained truth. Through thought no one ever reaches anywhere. Through thought we may come to know something about the world outside of us, but that which abides within, we cannot know through thought. And we pass our lives merely thinking and thinking.
Who knows how man became deluded that by thinking he will know. There is no connection between knowing and thinking. The truth is: only the one who drops thinking can know. Thinking and reasoning, like smoke, encircle the mind and dim the mirror of the mind. The mirror of the mind becomes utterly unclouded, stainless, only when there are no thoughts within.
But perhaps you will say: then should we believe, should we have faith, and truth will be attained through that?
Not even through that. Faith is a state below thought. Faith means blindness.
Not through faith. Not even through thought. One has to rise higher still. If we understand this, perhaps it will become clear how we are to search.
So first let us understand what faith is.
Faith is blind acceptance. Faith means: I neither think nor search; I neither meditate nor enter no-thought; whatever another says, I accept it. Whoever believes in another in this way—his inner Atman remains hidden; it is never challenged to awaken. And we all are moving by believing others.
You must have heard a story. But you must have heard it only half. Somehow only halves have been told to people. And if truth is told in half, it becomes more dangerous than untruth. Why? Because untruth is visible as untruth; half-truth does not even look like untruth. Half-truth appears like truth. And remember, there is nothing like half-truth. Either truth is total, or it is not. If someone says to you, I love you half. You will say, Half-love? Have you ever heard such a thing? Love is not half; either it is or it is not.
Nothing significant exists in halves; the moment you halve it, it is destroyed. And many half-truths are in circulation. This story too is propagated only half. It is taught in every school. When you were children, you read it. And your children go on reading the same half story. We all know it.
A peddler sold caps. He was going to a fair to sell them. On the way he grew tired and rested under a tree. He fell asleep. Monkeys came down from the tree. They saw the peddler wearing a cap. There was a basket of caps to sell; they put the caps on. The peddler woke up, the basket was empty. He laughed, for he knew the habit of monkeys. He looked up: all the monkeys sat proudly with caps on! No one sits with such pride wearing a cap except monkeys. Is there any pride in wearing a cap? And if it is a khadi cap, then the pride grows even more!
No doubt they were khadi caps, for the monkeys sat with great swagger! Then the peddler took off his own cap and threw it down. All the monkeys took off their caps and threw them down. Monkeys imitate. They follow someone else. On their own they neither think nor reason. Monkeys as they are—why would they think or reason? They believe. The peddler threw his cap, so they threw theirs.
The peddler gathered the caps and returned home. This much you must have read. Now I will tell you the rest of the story.
The peddler’s son grew up. And he took up the same business as his father. Unintelligent sons always do what their fathers did. It is the sign of unfit sons. Sons should go beyond their fathers. But neither do fathers like that their sons go beyond, nor do sons have the courage to go beyond. He too began to sell caps. He too went to the same fair. He too stopped under the same tree, where his father had stopped. Because he said, where our father stopped, there we should stop. Under the same tree he placed his box exactly where the father had kept it. Monkeys were on the tree. Not the same ones—their sons, perhaps. They saw the caps. They had also heard the story that our fathers had put on caps. The peddler’s son slept. The monkeys came down, wore the caps, and climbed back up.
The peddler’s son woke and laughed. But this laugh was false. It was based on his father’s story. The father had said: don’t be afraid; if the monkeys wear caps, don’t panic. Snatching caps from monkeys is not difficult. Take off your own cap and throw it. The son also took off his cap and threw it. But a miracle occurred. No monkey threw his cap. One monkey who hadn’t found a cap climbed down, picked up that cap, put it on, and went up the tree.
By now the monkeys had learned. And man had yet to learn. The monkeys had been deceived once. The same trick could no longer work. This half-story is not written in any book. And unless this second half is told, the first half is dangerous.
There are people who walk by watching others; they never walk on their own. There are people who learn prepackaged answers from others; they never search for any answer themselves. There are people who always borrow solutions; they have none of their own. And when problems are new every day, and solutions remain old, things become very difficult.
Imitation cannot work in the search for truth. Ready-made, bound answers cannot work in the search for truth. Things learned and memorized from the Gita, the Quran, the Bible do not work in the search for truth. One has to search by oneself.
And all who are believers are no more than imitators. They lose their own personhood and become monkeys. Whoever follows another with closed eyes loses the right to be human. But gurus profit from this: that man not be man, he be a monkey. So around every guru you will find a large troop of monkeys gathered.
Those who do not gather courage to do anything on their own and follow someone, they are exploited. Exploitation is not even the worst of it—they remain deprived forever of knowing truth. Because the first step toward truth is to stand on your own feet. Your own courage, your own daring, your own capacity, your own search. Whoever is not ready for this and says: we will borrow from another, we will hold someone’s foot, we will hold someone’s tail, we will follow someone and all will happen—that one is mistaken. Faith takes no one anywhere.
Faith is borrowed thought. But does this mean that if we think, we will arrive? If we keep thinking on our own, will we arrive somewhere? Look a little deeper, and you will see: even the thoughts we think seem to be ours but are not. The believer is borrowed, but the thinker too—though he seems not to believe—if you examine his thoughts deeply, you will find they are all borrowed. There is a little difference. He has collected thoughts by arguing, not blindly, he has thought. But what can a man think? Think what? Can one think that which is unknown? That which one has no knowledge of, no direct sense of—can one think that? We can think only what is known. What is not known, we cannot even think. The unknown—how will we think it?
Faith will not do, because it is borrowed from others. Thought will give some strength, some courage, it will help you stand on your own feet. But thought alone will not take you there; thought can walk only as far as the known. Where the known ends, thought stops; beyond that it finds no path.
Have you ever thought of something of which you had absolutely no knowledge? You will say, many times. You will say, many times we imagine we are flying in the sky on a horse made of gold. We don’t know a golden horse. We have never seen one. A golden horse doesn’t fly. All are unknowns, and yet we think.
No, this is not thinking. You know a horse, you know gold, you have seen birds fly. By joining and rearranging these three, you make a flying golden horse. This is not new. It is a new arrangement of three known things.
Thought can collect many ideas and create something that appears new—apparently new—but in truth it is not; it is a rearrangement. But from this no revelation of truth will happen. If we were to spread all our thoughts before us and search which of these is truly mine, we would find that all are borrowed from others, heard from somewhere, read somewhere, gathered; and out of all this we have made a new compilation. The new compilation seems original.
But no thought is original. Thought cannot be original. Thought too is borrowed. The believer is borrowed, but blind in his borrowing. The thinker is borrowed too, but he borrows with a show of reason, he uses reason and argument a little. But what does argument yield? What has it ever yielded?
Believers become theists; rationalists become atheists. Neither is religious. The theist is not religious, nor the atheist. The theist is a believer, he has clutched at another’s belief. The atheist too clutches at another’s thought, but after passing it through the process of reasoning. But what does reasoning prove? Reasoning is a game for the aged children. Those whose years have become many can play the game of logic.
I have heard: a man went to a great American city and announced across the town that he had brought a horse such as no one had ever seen. Such a horse had never been. It was absolutely original. The uniqueness of the horse was that its tail was where its mouth should be, and its mouth where its tail should be.
Tickets were ten dollars. Thousands gathered. If you were in that city you too would have gone. Not a person remained in the town. Everyone went. Such a horse had to be seen. The hall was packed, people shouted, hurry up, bring the horse.
The man said, wait a little. This is no ordinary horse. Bringing it takes time. Then there was the inconvenience that there was not an inch of space. At last he brought the horse, lifted the curtain from the stage. For a moment people looked, but the horse was completely ordinary, like any horse. People shouted, what trickery is this? Are you joking? This horse is completely ordinary.
The man said: Silence! Understand my logic correctly. I announced that the horse’s mouth is where the tail should be, and the tail where the mouth should be. Look carefully!
People looked again. It was an ordinary horse, tail where the tail should be, mouth where it should be. But then it occurred to them, and they burst into laughter. The bridle, which is tied on the horse’s mouth, he had tied on its tail.
He said: What I said—see it: the mouth is where the tail should be, and the tail where the mouth should be. The bridle is on the tail. Do you see?
There was nothing more to say. The logic was right enough. People quietly slipped out.
But with logic you can only play such games—no more. At most logic can put the tail where the mouth was, and the mouth where the tail was. No more. Things remain as they are; logic changes nothing. And logic is a two-edged thing—use it for the proposition or for the opposition, it makes no difference.
A very close friend of mine, a great lawyer, carried heavy workloads. He had cases in India and in London. He lived in great strain. Many times he had no chance to prepare. One day he went into court to argue a case. He couldn’t quite remember whether he was for the plaintiff or for the defense. So he began to speak against his own client. The client panicked: What is this man saying? For half an hour he argued vigorously. His client’s life drained away: finished—we are doomed—our own lawyer is proving the case against us! And he argued so strongly that the opposing lawyer was bewildered: what shall I prove? What is happening? Then his clerk came up and whispered: What are you doing? You are speaking against your own man!
He said: Is that so? Then wait. He turned to the magistrate: Your honor, I have just now presented the arguments my learned opponent will present. Now I begin to refute them.
Logic has no meaning. It is a game. Just a game! Scholars play it, lawyers play it, leaders play it. Logic is only play. And while the world remains entangled in the game of logic, no decision about truth is possible. It has no relevance. Logic can speak this way or that. The very argument that proves Ishwar, disproves Ishwar too.
The one who proves Ishwar says: How could the world exist without Ishwar? The world is, therefore Ishwar must be. Everything has a maker. The world is, therefore it is made; hence a maker is necessary. The theist says, this is my argument, I prove Ishwar. The world is; there must be a maker. The maker is Ishwar.
The atheist says: We accept your premise. But your argument does not prove Ishwar, it disproves him. If everything needs a maker, Ishwar is—then who made Ishwar? If you say the world cannot come into being without being made—we accept, Ishwar made the world. Now we ask, who made Ishwar? For if nothing can come into being without being made, then how could Ishwar come into being without being made? Nothing comes into being unmade.
Now the game goes on. Theists and atheists have been playing for thousands of years.
Once it happened, in a village there was a great theist and a great atheist. The village was in trouble. Wherever there are pundits, the village is in trouble. The theist preached Ishwar is; the atheist preached Ishwar is not. Day and night—the people were bored. They would say, leave us alone. Whether Ishwar is or is not, we do not care. Let us do our other work.
But would they stop? One would preach, the other would come behind and undo it. Finally the villagers said: This is a great nuisance. We must decide something.
The whole world is in this condition. Muslims, Hindus, Christians, Jains, Buddhists—all have made the world miserable. One sect’s monk goes, another sect’s renunciate comes, a third’s pundit arrives; one says something, another says something. They all tangle it up.
The villagers said: Settle it between you in one night. Whoever wins, we are with him. We are always with the winner. We don’t care whether Ishwar is or is not.
The debate was held on the full-moon night. The entire village gathered. A marvelous debate. The theist argued so that he proved Ishwar is; the atheist argued so that he proved Ishwar is not. And in the end, the theist was so impressed by the atheist that he became an atheist; the atheist was so impressed by the theist that he became a theist. And the village’s trouble remained as it was. For again there was one theist and one atheist. The villagers said: What benefit is this to us? Our predicament is the same.
Logic has not much meaning. What logic proves, it disproves as well. Logic is only play, sport. That is why, by logic, nothing has ever been ultimately proven. Has it been proven that the Hindus are right? If it had been, the whole world would have become Hindu. Has it been proven that the Jains are right? If it were, the whole world would be Jain. If it were proven that the Muslims are right, the whole world would be Muslim. Nothing is proven. Nothing can be proven by the path of logic. Only the game goes on.
And the game the pundits play is so subtle we do not even understand it. It is so fine, hair-splitting goes on, and the common people cannot fathom it. The people say, all right, as you wish.
Therefore everyone has decided that the religion into which we are born is our religion. A cheap device. Because if we have to decide by argument, it will never be decided. A whole life will pass, and you will not be able to decide whether you are Hindu or Muslim or Christian. So we invented an inexpensive formula: wherever one is born, that is one’s religion. Now what fault is there in being born? A man is born in a Muslim home; his son is a Muslim. Why? Because if the son were to decide by thinking, a lifetime would pass and it would never be decided—should he be Hindu or Muslim? So we invented a device that requires no decision at all.
What has birth to do with being Hindu or Muslim? It is sheer insanity! Tomorrow a Congressman might say, my son is a Congressman because the father is a Congressman. A Communist’s son might say, I am a Communist because my father is a Communist. So far such stupidity has not arrived. But it will, because the same logic works there. And when nothing else can be decided, people will say, decide it by birth.
Have any principles ever been decided by birth? Has any truth been decided by birth? For thousands of years we have hovered around logic. Some wander around faith and go astray; some around logic and go astray. No decision is possible; for it is groping in the dark.
In a kingdom a monarch decided: I will soon banish falsehood from my country. I will not allow untruth to remain. Whoever speaks untruth shall be hanged. And every day one man shall be hanged at the gate, so that the whole town can see the fate of those who lie.
He did not know. No lawmaker has ever known that by hangings, by flogging, by imprisoning, nothing is ended. Nothing is ended. Everything only grows. Imprison thieves—thieves grow. Jail the corrupt—corruption grows. And those appointed to catch the corrupt prove doubly corrupt. And those set as guards to catch thieves turn out to be the fathers of thieves. It is bound to be so.
In England up to a hundred years ago, thieves were flogged in the public square; so that the whole town might see what happens to thieves.
But it had to be stopped. And do you know why? Whenever thieves were flogged in London, thousands gathered to watch. And it was found that when thousands watch the flogging, many pockets are picked. A thief is being flogged, a crowd comes to watch, people are enrapt—pockets are being cut! Right there where the flogging is going on!
Then they thought, this is foolishness. It has no meaning. It only provides opportunity for more pickpockets. Crowds gather, pickpockets pick pockets.
The king said: I will ban untruth.
But the elders said: It has always been difficult to determine untruth—how will you ban it? How will you decide what is false and what is true?
He said: Everything will be decided.
Then he worried: How will it be decided?
There was an old fakir in the town. He said: Call him, he speaks much about truth.
They called him and said: We have decided that tomorrow morning, the first day of the year, a liar shall be hanged at the gate, so that the whole town may see.
The fakir asked: How will you determine truth and untruth?
The king asked: Is there not some logic to decide what is true and what is false? I will put all my scholars to work.
The fakir said: Good. Tomorrow morning I will meet you at the gate.
The king said: Meaning?
He said: I will be the first to enter the gate. Be present with your scholars. I will speak untruth. If there has to be hanging, I shall be the first to climb the gallows.
The king said: We invited you for counsel! What are you saying?
He said: We shall speak tomorrow. Bring your scholars.
The king stood at the gate with his scholars. The gate opened. The fakir entered, riding his donkey.
The king said: On a donkey, and you! Where are you going?
He said: I am going to the gallows.
The king turned to the scholars: Decide whether this man speaks truth or lies.
The scholars said: We fold our hands. This is a very troublesome man. Nothing can be decided here. If we say he speaks truth, he must be hanged. And a truth-speaker must not be hanged. If we say he lies, he must be hanged; and if he is hanged, what he spoke will become true.
The fakir said: Speak then—what is truth, what is untruth? Decide by logic. And if you cannot decide, when you can, come to me; then make your rule.
That rule was never made. For it is almost impossible by logic to determine what is true. Logic determines nothing; it is only play. And when between two arguments one wins, it does not mean the winner is truth. It only means the winner is more skillful at this game. Nothing else. In chess, when someone wins, is he truth? No, he is more skillful. The one who loses—untruth? No, less skillful. By winning and losing, truth and untruth are not determined; only skill and lack of skill are shown. And the more skillful, who wins, says: what I am is truth. Logic is but a chessboard of words and ideas, nothing more.
Therefore let no one think that when I say you will not know through faith, that you will know through logic.
I say: you will not know through logic, nor through thought either. You will say to me: if not through faith, then we must think; and you say, not through thinking either?
Certainly—that is what I say.
It is as if a thorn has entered someone’s foot, and we say: bring another thorn, so we can take out this thorn. The man says: What are you doing? I am already tormented by one thorn and you bring another! We will say: don’t be alarmed. The second thorn is to remove the first. If the first were not there, we would never bring the second. But since the first is lodged, we bring the second.
Then with the second we take out the first. The man bows to the second thorn and says, now put this one in my wound. It has been so kind, it removed the first. We will say: you are mad. Having removed the first, this too is useless—throw it away.
The only use of logic is to free you from faith. No more. The use of thought is to free you from faith. If the thorn of thought removes the thorn of faith, the work is done. Then both thorns are alike. Throw them both away.
Then where? Where to go then?
Then go into no-thought. Go where there is not even a single thought, where the chitta is perfectly silent and still. Where there is no thinking at all. Where we are not thinking what truth is. Where we have dropped all thinking. Where we are simply silent, just are. If truth is, it will reveal itself; if it is not, that too will be seen. Whatever is, let it be seen. We are so silent that we are only seeing. We are like a mirror, and seeing what is.
We are not thinking. The mirror does not think. When you stand before a mirror, it does not think: is this person beautiful or ugly; good or bad; dark or fair. The mirror does not think. The mirror shows only what is, for a mirror only reflects.
But there are mirrors which do not show what you are; they show what you are not. You have seen such mirrors—where you look long, or fat, or crooked. Such mirrors exist. They reveal that their surface is not straight and clean; it is warped, curved, uneven. To the extent the surface is warped, the reflection is distorted.
Two sutras for the search of truth: first, do not think; and second, let the chitta be simple and straight. Let the surface be clean, not high and low. If such a chitta is there, truth is reflected. We come to know what truly is, and we are freed from what is not.
Thinking acts like dust on the chitta; thoughts stick, they cling very strongly. And so many layers of thought gather that peering through them you do not see what is—you see the screen in between doing the work.
One man has decided that there is no Ishwar. This is a thought. He is fixed that there is no Ishwar. Now wherever he looks, he will see the non-existence of Ishwar.
If a man is dying on the road, he will say: See, in a world where men die, can there be Ishwar? A man is poor—he will say: See, in a world where there is poverty, can there be Ishwar? He will go to a flowering bush and say: Count the thorns—one flower has come, a thousand thorns—where a single flower emerges with difficulty among a thousand thorns, can there be Ishwar? He is fixed that there is no Ishwar; everywhere he will discover ways, paths, arguments, thoughts to support that. He is prejudiced; his chitta’s mirror is warped.
Another says: Ishwar is. He will find Ishwar everywhere. If his shop is doing well he will say: See, by Ishwar’s grace the shop is doing fine. Now the comedy is, poor Ishwar has nothing to do with your shop. Otherwise he too would be punished alongside you. But he says: See, all goes well by Ishwar’s happiness. Someone at home was ill and recovered—he will say: Ishwar’s grace. As if Ishwar is an enemy of all the others who did not recover. On your sick one alone is his grace. You must be specially favored. A lost coin is found—he says: Ishwar’s grace—see, Ishwar is. As if Ishwar’s business were to find your lost coins; as if he were employed by you to keep your accounts straight.
One who is fixed will draw his meaning from whatever happens around. And then he will not see what is.
I have heard: in a village a poor man bought a cow. He bought it from the village king. He thought: the king will have a fine cow. She was. He bought the king’s cow. But the poor man forgot that buying a king’s cow is very easy; keeping it is very difficult. Many get trapped by buying the king’s cows.
There are many kinds of king’s cows; later they prove very expensive. He brought the king’s cow home. Put dry straw before her. Where would the poor man get green grass? The cow surely had been grazing on Kashmiri turf. When she saw dry straw, she went on a fast. Ever since Gandhi went on fasts—cows and bulls, men and donkeys and horses, all have been fasting. She went on fast. She said, I will not eat. She closed her eyes and stood in deep meditation. She would not open her eyes.
The poor man pleaded: We consider you mother. We are disciples of the Shankaracharya of Puri. We consider you mother. O Mother, have compassion! Even if we are poor sons, what of it? The rich are sons, the poor are sons. A mother regards all as equal.
But why would a cow agree? No cow has ever called a man her son! No cow has ever committed the mistake of saying man is our son. Man himself goes on shouting, the cow is our mother. No cow has testified that this is true. Perhaps no cow considers man fit to be her son. What qualification has man to be the cow’s son!
The cow did not agree. He was very angry, but what could he do? He went to ask the village elders, what shall I do? An old man said: Not much needs to be done; buy a green glass and put it over the cow’s eyes.
He bought a green glass and tied it before the cow’s eyes. She looked down and saw the grass green; she began to eat. The grass was dry, but the glass was green. The cow was deceived.
We too are deceived. We see through our spectacles. And whoever has the spectacles of prejudice can never know what is. We all have spectacles on our eyes. Someone wears the Hindu’s spectacles, someone the Muslim’s; someone the Communist’s, someone the atheist’s; countless kinds are available in the bazaar. Not a single man will you find walking without glasses. Everyone looks through lenses. Then everything goes wrong. What is does not appear; what our spectacles say is, that alone appears.
In Russia, in the revolution of 1917, there was a village with a small school. It had one teacher and one student. A small village, small school. After the revolution it had two students. The teacher remained one. Russian newspapers announced that across our villages education has progressed so much that it has almost doubled. In places there has been one hundred percent growth. In one village school the students are exactly twice what they were.
An American journalist went to see. He said: this is outrageous—there must be a limit to lies. This school had only one student; now it has two. The teacher is still one.
He publicized that in Russia there is no development of education. There are schools with two students and one teacher. And Russian newspapers are publishing that progress has doubled—exactly doubled. No one is lying. Each has his own lens. Each has his way of seeing.
In relation to life it is crucial to understand that so long as we are full of prejudice—the mirror of the chitta cannot be clear.
Therefore all prejudice must be dropped. Freedom is needed. Without being freed from prejudice, no one attains that authority by which the reflection of truth appears as it is. The reflection is always appearing, but the feelings we carry in the chitta distort it—utterly distort it. Our feelings project—then we begin to see what we want to see.
Walk past a Muslim’s mosque; nothing appears to you worthy of folded hands. A Muslim passes without folding his hands, and it feels to him a grave mistake has been made, remorse arises.
You pass by Hanumanji’s shrine, and your hands fold on their own. Another man comes and stands before Hanumanji’s shrine and says, what strange people—on a stone daubed with red color they fold hands and bow! What is here?
We see only what we are prepared to see. And it goes on and on. On every plane this is true. The one who rightly understands that he is full of prejudice will find it easy to be free of prejudice. Easy! He will drop his bias and look at things straight. And along with that, he will drop the delusion that by thinking he will know what is.
We will never know by thinking. If we could have known by thinking, we have thought a lot—through many births. We have piled up heaps of thought. We have thought a whole lifetime. All are thinking. But where does anyone arrive by thinking? We go on thinking and thinking. Heaps upon heaps of arguments, words, ideas pile up. Scholarship gathers. Still we stand where we were.
Ask a scholar: What have you known? He will recite the Upanishads, the Gita, the Brahmasutra—he will recite all. But ask him, not what you have studied—that we are not asking; we ask, what have you known? We are not asking what you have thought; we ask, what have you seen? What is your seeing? We are not asking for philosophy.
And remember, philosophy and darshan do not mean the same. As people use it these days in this country, they take it as the same. Even men like Radhakrishnan write: Indian Philosophy. Nothing could be more wrong. Darshan does not mean philosophy. Philosophy means thinking; darshan means seeing. Between seeing and thinking is the distance of earth and sky.
A blind man thinks about light, he does not see it. Therefore whatever a blind man says about light is his philosophy. One with eyes sees light; whatever he says about light is his darshan, not philosophy.
There is nothing like Indian Philosophy. That is sheer falsehood. There can be Indian Darshan.
A Western thinker has coined a new word for darshan: philosia. He says: it is about seeing, not about thinking.
If we are blind, can we think light into being? A blind man can try and try, read—there are books for the blind; in truth all books are for the blind. He reads in those books, understands. The marvel is: light is raining all around.
A blind man reads in his book—what is light? What is its meaning? What is its definition? What is it like? Who sees it? Who does not?
The blind man reads about light. The one with eyes sees. By seeing it can be known. By reading, what can be known? Yes, something can be known. By reading, even the blind can memorize the definition. And if someone asks, tell me, what is light? He can reply what he has read: Light is thus and thus. In the Upanishads it is written so; in the Gita thus; in the Bible thus; Mahavira wrote thus; Buddha thus. I know what they wrote. Light is such. But a little later that blind man asks: Where is the way out? I want to go outside. Tell him: you know light—go outside. He will say: No, I have no eyes; how do I know light? I know about light. Knowing about is one thing; knowing light is quite another.
I have heard Ramakrishna say: A blind man was invited to a meal by some friends. Kheer was made. He ate kheer and asked: What is it like—its color, its form? It tastes very delicious. The friends said: Explain to the poor fellow. They began: It is pure white, white as milk. Have you ever seen milk?
His friends must have been fools. If kheer could be seen by a blind man, milk too could be seen. They ask: Have you seen milk?
He says: Milk? What is milk? What is it like? Tell me. And don’t confuse me. I don’t even know kheer. Now you raise a new question—what is milk?
They said: Kheer is made of milk.
He said: Then good; first explain milk, then I will understand kheer.
The friends said: Milk? Have you seen a heron—flying in the sky, fishing on riverbanks—pure white, snow-white—have you ever seen a heron?
The man said: What are you saying? You have made it worse! What is a heron? First explain the heron; then I will understand milk; then I will understand kheer. You are increasing riddles. Tell me something I can understand. Explain in a way a blind man may grasp.
One friend stepped forward. He must have been more clever. The more clever are always more dangerous. He brought his hand near the blind man and said: Feel my hand.
The blind man felt his hand and asked: What do you mean by this?
He said: A heron’s neck is shaped just like this—long and slender, as you have felt my hand.
The blind man said: I understand, I understand—the kheer is slender like a hand. Milk is slender like a hand. I understand perfectly.
The friends said: You understood nothing! It is worse now! It was better when you did not understand; at least you knew you did not understand. Now a fix has arisen. Do not go and tell anyone that milk is slender like a hand. Otherwise you will be taken for a fool, and we too will be taken for fools.
The blind man said: But you yourselves are telling me.
Explain light to a blind man—how will he understand? Eyes are needed. We too think about truth. What will we think? And the more we think, the more complex it becomes. We will be caught by such definitions that the matter of the slender hand will happen again.
Ask someone: What is Ishwar? He will say something or other. You will not find a man courageous enough to say: I do not know; I have no eyes to see Ishwar; how can I tell you? I do not know whether he is or is not. I know nothing.
No; he will say: He is—he has four hands, holds the lotus, the conch, the mace! Is this a theater? What is the Divine doing—holding lotus, conch, mace?
Someone painted a picture; the blind man has seized upon it. He says: God stands upon a lotus! He has been standing so long—he must be tired. And the lotus—its life must be gone. Unless it is a plastic lotus. But why has he been standing on a lotus? A painter made a picture and the blind man clutched it. He says: God stands on a lotus!
What we will grasp will be like this; how else can it be? From where will we grasp? We have seen nothing. We have thought, read, understood. We have not known. There is no knowing; no relation with knowing has ever happened. We will clutch such things. Then the blind will quarrel with the blind.
Each has his own kind of God. The Muslim’s is different, the Hindu’s different, and so on. And they all fight, saying, yours is wrong, ours is right. It is a quarrel of the blind. And the blind incite such quarrels that man slaughters man. Nation slaughters nation. The earth has been cut into pieces. In our own land, two kinds of blind divided the country—Hindu and Muslim.
I have heard that when India and Pakistan were divided, on the border where the line was to be drawn, there was a lunatic asylum. Where should the asylum go—to India or Pakistan? They thought, ask the lunatics: Where do you want to go—India or Pakistan?
The lunatics said: We want to remain right here. Because at the madness going on in the name of India-Pakistan, we suspect we have become sane and all outside have gone mad! Have compassion on us. We want to remain here. We do not want to go anywhere. What is happening gives us firm faith that God is gracious to us. We are within these walls. Outside—there would be great trouble. Outside all have gone mad.
But the officials said: It cannot be like this. You must say clearly where you want to go. Though you will live in the same asylum, still, decide: either go to India, or to Pakistan.
The lunatics said: You say incredible things. We will live here—and go to India if we wish, or to Pakistan if we wish! How is that possible? If we live here, how can we go to India or Pakistan?
They said: This won’t solve it. All right then—those who are Hindu, go to India; those who are Muslim, go to Pakistan.
They said: We are only lunatics; we do not know whether we are Hindu or Muslim. At most we understand that we are human. Beyond that we cannot tell if we are Hindu or Muslim!
There was then no way out. So it was decided: send half the lunatic asylum to India, half to Pakistan. Divide it. Raise a wall in the middle. Half the lunatics went to India, half to Pakistan. A wall stood in between.
Now sometimes the lunatics climb the wall and shout: We will take Pakistan! Others shout: We will take Hindustan! Some more sensible lunatics call across the wall: What is this matter? What has happened? We are where we were, and you have gone to India and we to Pakistan!
This dividing mind, this belief, this prejudice—has cut the world into fragments—the whole man, the whole human soul.
Thought will always divide. Thought never unites, it splits. Therefore the moment a man seizes one idea, he becomes the enemy of another idea. The moment he clutches one idea, he becomes someone else’s enemy—conflict begins. The world’s conflict is the conflict of ideas.
Then ideas change. Sometimes Islam and Hindu fight, sometimes capitalism and communism fight. Faces change, ideologies go on fighting.
Truth has nothing to do with thought.
From thought a doctrine can be formed, an opinion can be formed; truth does not reveal through it.
Truth reveals to the one who drops all opinions, who drops opinionatedness, who says: I am neither Hindu nor Muslim; I am neither this nor that; neither theist nor atheist. I have no side. I want to know impartially what is. The one who leaves all sides and all thoughts and peers into silence—truth becomes available to him. Truth is always there. We are besieged by our sides and shut in, and we have no experience of truth.
But in the world there are only two types of people: either believers or thinkers. There are no people of no-thought. And whenever a person of no-thought appears—be it a Krishna, a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Christ, a Mohammed, a Moses, whoever—whenever someone descends into no-thought, into impartiality, truth stands at his door. It stands there anyway. But if we are empty, it enters. If our door opens, it enters. Our door is closed.
Not through faith, not through thought; through no-thought it is attained. Its doorway is no-thought consciousness. This is what I call meditation. To become utterly still, without thought—that is meditation.
Now we will sit for the night’s meditation.
For ten minutes, let us enter this no-thought—where all sides are left, all thoughts are dropped.
No one will leave, lest anyone disturb another. Even if someone does not wish to sit, let him sit quietly for ten minutes—for the sake of others. We shall put out the lights. Before that, move a little apart—let no one be touching another. Let each be alone.
Sit in peace. Put out this light. First, sit utterly at ease, let the body be relaxed. No tension on the body. No talking.
Let the body be completely loose. Close the eyes. Now I give the suggestion—experience with me. First of all, feel the body is relaxing. The body is relaxing. The body is relaxing. Feel that the body has become utterly loose and relaxed, so that we can step behind the body. Leave the body loose, so that we may move behind. One who clutches the body tightly—how will he go behind the body? He will remain stuck in the body. Whatever we grip, there we stop.
Let go. In the mind, let go of the body. Step back. The body has become utterly loose. Totally relaxed—as if it is not.
The breath is becoming quiet. Feel—the breath is becoming quiet. The breath is becoming utterly quiet. The body is relaxing. The breath is becoming quiet. The breath is becoming quiet. The body is relaxing. The breath is becoming quiet.
Leave the body loose; leave the breath loose too—let it come and go on its own—utterly loose. And for ten minutes now, hold one feeling: I am only a witness, I am only the knower, I am only the knowing. The winds are blowing—I am only knowing. The winds touch me—I am knowing. Coolness descends—I am knowing. A sound arises—I will know. Whatever is happening, I am knowing.
There will be pain in the leg—I will know. The body is relaxing—I am knowing. The breath has become slow—I am knowing. A thought moves in the mind—I am knowing. The mind is becoming quiet—I am knowing. If some bliss wells up within—I will know that too. I am only the knower. I am only the witness.
Hold only this feeling—I am the witness, I am just the witness. I am only knowing. I am nothing but knowing. I am only the power to know. I am the witness. I am the witness. As this feeling deepens, serenity and emptiness will descend. As it deepens, a cool bliss will spread. As it deepens, the movement inward begins.
Feel—I am the witness. I am just the witness. I am only the witness.
For ten minutes I will be silent now. For ten minutes, continue the feeling—I am the witness. I am the witness. I am the witness. I am the witness.