Jevan Rahasya #10

I would like to begin today’s talk with a small incident.
Alexander the Great had died. Hundreds of thousands of people stood along the avenues of the city, awaiting his funeral bier. The bier came, and it moved out from the palace. In the minds of those hundreds of thousands who stood there, one question spread across the whole city, one single wonder passed from mouth to mouth. Something unprecedented had happened. Funeral biers pass every day, people die every day. But when Alexander’s bier came out, something strange, something never seen before, was there. From the bier, Alexander’s two hands were hanging outside. The hands are always inside the bier. Had someone made a mistake that the hands were left dangling outside? Yet to think a mistake could happen in Alexander’s funeral was also impossible. Not one or two—hundreds of people had carried that bier from the palace. Someone must have noticed—his hands are outside. The whole town asked: why are his hands outside?
By evening the people came to know. At the moment of death Alexander had said, do not place my hands inside the shroud. He wanted his hands to remain outside, so that the entire city could see that his hands too were empty.
At the time of death, everyone’s hands are empty—those whom we know as Alexanders, their hands too are empty. Yet Alexander had this thought, that people should see his empty hands—he who wanted to conquer the whole world, who wanted to fill his hands with everything—those hands too are empty; let the world see it.
It has been many days since Alexander died. But perhaps hardly anyone has yet truly seen that even Alexander’s hands are empty. And we all are small or big Alexanders; we too are busy filling our hands. But has anyone, to this day, at life’s end, ever attained hands that were full? Or do the hands remain empty? Do we fail to fill them, and all our effort and all our strength become mere waste?
Most people die unsuccessful. It may be that they achieved great success in the world. It may be that they earned much fame and wealth. Yet still they die unsuccessful—because at the moment of death, the hands are empty. Not only beggars die empty-handed, emperors die empty-handed too. Then where did the labor of an entire life go? If the work of a whole life could not become wealth, could not bring a completeness within, then were we building palaces on sand? Or drawing lines upon water? Were we seeing dreams and wasting time? What is this futility of the whole race?
Another small story comes to my mind.
At the gate of a palace a vast crowd had gathered. And it kept growing. From noon onward the crowd began to swell; by evening the whole village had nearly assembled at that royal gate. What had happened there? A small event—yet so baffling that whoever heard it just stood transfixed, watching. No one could make any sense of it.
A beggar had come early in the morning and held out his begging bowl in front of the king’s palace. The king told his servants, give him something.
The beggar said, I accept only on one condition. This bowl accepts a gift only if a promise is given that you will fill it completely—only then will I take anything.
The king said, what difficulty is that! It is a small bowl—we will fill it! Not with grain, but with gold coins we will fill it.
The beggar said, think once more, lest you have to repent later. For with this bowl I have gone to other doors as well, and countless people gave this same promise—to fill it completely. But they could not fill it, and later they had to ask forgiveness.
The king laughed and said, this small begging bowl! He ordered his ministers: fill it with gold coins.
That is what happened—the king kept pouring in gold coins, yet the bowl would not fill. The whole town gathered at the gate to watch. No one could understand what was happening. The king’s treasury was emptied. Evening fell, the sun began to set, yet the bowl remained hollow. Now even the king panicked, fell at the beggar’s feet and cried, what is the secret of this bowl? What magic is this? Why will it not fill?
The beggar said, there is no magic, no secret—only a very simple thing. I was passing by a cremation ground, found a human skull, and from that skull I made this bowl. A human skull never fills with anything—therefore this bowl does not fill.
Man goes empty-handed, not because it is necessary to go empty-handed—but because there is some mistake in man’s skull. Not because leaving empty-handed is some law or inevitability of life. No; one can go with full hands. And some have gone. Whoever wishes can go with full hands. But there is some error in man’s head. And so we gather much, but nothing gets filled—the hands remain empty.
What is this error? What is the secret? What is the mystery lurking with the human mind that it cannot be filled? What spell is this? Do not think that only some beggar stood at a royal door and his bowl could not fill. Beggars stand at all our doors—and their bowls cannot fill. We are all beggars; our bowls too are not filling.
Here we have gathered in such numbers—half of life has passed for almost all of us. For some, more than half has passed, for some, less than half. But have our bowls filled even a little? And if after half a life they have not filled at all, then how will they fill in the remaining half? The bowl is empty; the bowl will remain empty—because something is wrong with the human mind. What is wrong? On that, a few words I will speak with you this evening.
What is the mistake with the human mind? What entanglement, what riddle is this that will not be solved? And whoever, without solving this riddle, begins to run about in life—that person is utterly mad. One who has not rightly understood the problem of his own mind, this tangle, this mystery—his whole race of life is futile, meaningless. He sets out to solve, without even understanding the problem. And if one has not understood the problem, how will one find the solution?
In Tibet there is a famous story about a teacher—later he became a fakir. When he was a teacher at the university, for thirty years he taught mathematics. Each year, when new students came and his class began, for thirty years he started with one and the same problem, one and the same question. On the first day, the first day of the year, he would welcome the new students, then go to the board and write two numbers—four and two—and ask, what is the solution? Some boy would shout, six! He would shake his head. Another would shout, two! He would shake his head again. Then all the boys would shout—now only one possibility remained; addition and subtraction were tried, multiplication remained—so they would shout, eight! He would still shake his head. There were only three answers possible; a fourth was not there. So the boys fell silent.
Then the teacher would say to them, your greatest mistake is this: you did not ask me what the question is, and you began to answer. I wrote four and two—that is fine—but where did I state the question? Yet you began to answer. And he would add, from my experience I tell you, this mistake is not made only in mathematics; most people make this same mistake in life. They do not understand life’s question, and they begin answering.
What is life’s problem, life’s question? What answer are we striving after? Which riddle are we off to solve? Before anyone can solve a riddle, he must first know it properly—what is the question? What is the problem of life?
Man’s problem is his mind. And the problem of mind is—no matter how much you fill it, it does not fill. The mind does not fill. What is behind this? What kind of mathematics is it that we do not grasp, and so we weep and are harried our whole life long? What is the key that will unlock this problem of life? Without understanding this, whether we pray in temples, bow in mosques, or raise our hands to the sky in worship of Paramatma—nothing will happen, nothing at all. For one who has not yet been able to set right his own mind—his prayer can have no value. And one who has not yet become clear within about life’s problem—wherever he goes, he will carry disturbance with him there. From the temple he will not return peaceful, but he will surely disturb the temple’s peace. One who is tangled within—whatever he does, a confused mind will only breed more confusion, more trouble, more entanglement.
We do not go to a madman for counsel, because whatever he advises will cause further mischief. Whatever solution a madman offers will only be more madness.
A king once had a minister who went mad. And often ministers go mad. The truth is, those who are not mad never become ministers at all. The minister had gone mad. The king was asleep; the minister went and kissed the sleeping king. The king woke in a fright and said, what are you doing! There can be no punishment for this except death—how dare you kiss me!
The minister said, forgive me—I thought the queen was asleep there.
This was his reply. The king was astonished: surely your mind has gone wrong. For the crime you committed, and then the argument you make to escape—this is an even greater crime.
Almost in the same way, whatever we do to solve life’s problem only creates a bigger problem. Our minds are tangled—what solution can we produce carrying such a mind? Yet we are very strange people. With this tangled mind we read the Gita, we even write commentaries on it; we read the Quran and write exegesis; we read the Upanishads. But when we read the Gita or the Upanishads with such a mind, what we come to know is not the Gita or the Upanishads. Our tangled minds tangle the Gita as well, tangle the Upanishads too. Then our confusion just grows and spreads, and it becomes hard to find any end or beginning in it.
Therefore the first and fundamental question must be asked: what is the problem of this mind? What is this mind’s issue?
The very first thing is this: within us there arises a craving and a race—to fill ourselves, to have fulfillment, completeness, attainment, to become something. This race arises because we sense that within we are empty, there is lack inside—emptiness—there is nothing within. Inside there is a feeling of nothingness, of shunya; to fill that emptiness we run, we run, we run.
But do you know—whatever you bring from the outside can never fill the inner emptiness! For emptiness is within, and all empires will be outside. Empires may grow, the emptiness will remain where it is. That is why Alexander dies empty-handed. Otherwise, Alexander had a vast empire, enormous wealth. Perhaps no one has ever possessed such a realm, such riches. Why does this man die with empty hands? What does this emptiness of hands announce? It announces that the inner emptiness could not be filled. Outside, everything was gathered—but within, nothing could be reached.
What can reach within?
Nothing of the outside can ever reach the inside. Outer friends are outside, outer possessions are outside, the wealth outside, fame and prestige outside—everything is outside. And inside—I am. None other than me is within. My being is my within. My being is my inner void, my inner emptiness. Within I am empty; outside I run to fill, to fill. We collect much by running. But when we lift our eyes we find—inside all is empty. The race has been in vain.
It has been vain because we labored in the opposite direction from where the emptiness was. It has been empty because where the pit was, we did not fill; we made heaps elsewhere. The pit remained a pit; the heaps grew higher and higher—but the pit did not vanish.
Inside there is a pit, a trench, a gulf. Look within—utterly empty. There is nothing there. There is no house of yours there, no money, no wealth. It may be that outside one has a mansion and another has nothing, standing in the street. But inside? Inside both are equally empty. Within there is no difference between beggar and emperor; the inner emptiness is equally the same. Within, we are all mendicants.
There was a Sufi fakir, Farid. He went to meet Akbar. His friends had told Farid, request Akbar to build a school in our village. Akbar honored Farid greatly. Farid thought: let me go. He went, early in the morning. Akbar used to say his namaz. Farid stood behind. Akbar finished his namaz, folded his hands toward Paramatma and said, O Supreme Father, expand my kingdom, increase my wealth.
Farid turned back. When Akbar rose, he saw Farid descending the mosque steps. Akbar ran to him and asked, how did you come, and why are you leaving?
Farid said, I thought I was going to a sovereign. Here I saw—here too is a beggar. By mistake I heard the last part of your prayer. You asked for more realm, more wealth. You too are asking! I turned back—one who himself is still begging, to ask him would be improper, discourteous. And I thought: the One from whom you ask—if there is asking to be done, we too will ask from Him; why take you in between?
But when he returned to his village Farid said, friends, I had thought Akbar is an emperor and I am a beggar. When I peeped, I found—Akbar is a beggar too! So I could not ask him to build a school. He himself is still asking. When his asking ends, then we may speak to him.
But does anyone’s asking ever end? Till the last breath, the final moment, man goes on asking. Why? Because the inner emptiness does not fill. Even in the last moment we think—perhaps we might get something, and we will be filled; we will feel that we have become something and have attained something. No—this does not happen. It cannot happen. It is an impossibility—there is no way it can be.
Not because there is no way at all—but because emptiness is within and the materials are outside. Then what shall we do? How to fill this inner emptiness? How will we come to feel that now there is no more asking in us?
A person arrives somewhere in life only on the day when no asking remains—the day his inner beggar dies. Religion wants to take every person to such a space where he becomes a king within. Outwardly it appears there are emperors in the world, but those who know will say: there has never been an emperor in the world—all have been beggars. It is another matter that some beggars are small, some are great; another matter that some have a small bowl, others a large one; another matter that some beg for bread, others for kingdoms. But as far as asking goes there is no difference—there is no distinction in beggary.
Religion understands that only those can be emperors who attain an inner completeness. All their asking disappears. Their race, their begging bowl—breaks.
Twelve years after his enlightenment, Buddha returned to his village. In his hand was a begging bowl, his robe that of a monk. His father came to receive him outside the village. The father said to his son, it pains me to see you! Born in a royal family, why do you stain our name by carrying a begging bowl? What is lacking with us that you go about with a bowl?
Buddha laughed and said to his father, forgive me—but as I see it, the beggar is you; I have become an emperor. All my asking has ended; I have stopped asking—I ask for nothing. Your asking continues—you go on asking. Yet you call yourself an emperor?
We do not see this; it does not occur to us that we go on asking and asking. What are we asking for?
We all are asking for one thing only—that somehow this inner emptiness be erased, that this nothingness within dissolve. That we become full, that something enter our lives which can complete this sense of lack, this inner nothingness. That somehow we may become whole.
But this will not happen so long as we go on running outward. The illusion must shatter—that by running outward we will fill ourselves. To break it no great effort is needed—only to open the eyes. To look at life with open eyes. To look around with eyes open. To look at Alexander’s empty hands; to look at everyone’s empty hands. To look around in life—what are people doing and what are they getting? What is being gained? What is their attainment? What is the conclusion of a whole life? Where have they reached? Have they reached anywhere, or are they going round like the bullock at the oil-press? Does it merely seem that they are moving, or are they arriving anywhere? Ask people—look at people, understand people, peer within people—who is arriving where? And within yourself as well—where am I arriving?
Whoever does not even ask this much, but goes on, swept away—he loses even the right to be called human. Then if entanglements in his life keep increasing, who is responsible? Who is answerable? None but oneself.
We never pause to inquire into life, never stand to search, never open our eyes to see—what is happening? In the same pits where we see others falling, we march toward those very pits. On the same paths where we see others wasting their lives, we too go running. We look all around, yet perhaps we do not see with eyes open. Otherwise how could it be—how could it be possible—that the same mistakes that humans have made for thousands of years, every generation keeps repeating!
What is ten thousand years of history? Beyond repeating five or ten errors again and again—what is it? Even if each generation made new mistakes, it would be fine—it would at least indicate some growth, some development. But every generation makes the same mistakes, the same repetition, repetition. The mistakes my father made, those his father made, and his father—those very ones I repeat, those my children will repeat, and theirs. Humanity seems to have fallen into a mill-circle. Nearly the same mistakes every generation repeats and is finished.
Even new mistakes would be welcome—but if the old ones recur again and again—only one thing is evident: perhaps man does not even look with open eyes; he moves on in sleep. Perhaps we walk asleep, perhaps we are not awake—a deep slumber holds us. Otherwise how could it be, how is it possible, that for ten thousand years man keeps repeating some basic mistakes? The foolishness of ambition for ten thousand years is still not visible to us. The madness of ambition still we do not see. Ten thousand years of violence, war—their stupidity still we do not see. We change the names and still we keep fighting—change the names, continue the wars.
In five thousand years man has fought fifteen thousand wars. Fifteen thousand wars in only five thousand years! Three wars per year! Either man is mad—or what is this? And those who fought every war believed they were fighting for peace. Fifteen thousand wars! And every side believed: we fight for peace. And even today in the wars we fight, we say: we fight this war for peace. Fifteen thousand wars have been fought for peace—peace has not come. Will peace come by one more war? Does the foolishness of fifteen thousand wars still not show?
Not at all. Each new war appears to be a different kind. Perhaps the earlier people were mistaken. The war we fight is a different matter—by this peace will be secured.
They too had the same delusion. If they had not, they would not have fought. And as long as we too have this delusion, we will go on fighting—war cannot end. But the delusion does not break. After fifteen thousand wars, the stupidity of war, the unawareness—still we do not see. And so it is in every matter, in every matter the same.
Billions upon billions lived before us upon this earth—what they did, we are doing. For what things they lived and died—we are doing the same.
A Chinese sage, Chuang Tzu, was once passing by a cremation ground. It was no ordinary cremation ground. There were two in that capital—one for common people and one for the great. People are small and big while alive—and even after death they keep their distance. The great have their own cremation ground. They mix with dust, yet the notion of greatness does not mix. Separate tombs, separate pyres. Chuang Tzu passed there, and his foot struck a skull. He picked it up and said to his friends, a great mistake has happened—the foot has touched the head of some great man.
His friends laughed, saying, if a foot touched a dead man, what harm?
Chuang Tzu said, do not laugh! For this man was alive someday, and there was a time when not only touching his head with a foot—even raising a finger toward his head could have been dangerous. By chance the poor fellow died. It was not in his power—otherwise he would not have died either. Still, I must ask forgiveness—a mistake has happened.
He brought that skull home. He kept it with him always. People asked, what are you doing with it? He said, every day I ask pardon of it. Had it been a living man, a single request for forgiveness would have been enough, and forgiveness would have come. But now it is dead—it does not speak, it does not answer. I am in a great fix. A living man can forgive; a dead one makes forgiveness difficult. That is why those who are inwardly dead never forgive anyone; the living can forgive.
Chuang Tzu said, it is a difficulty. This is a dead one, my foot struck it—surely it must be annoyed. For one who is alive is not so easily offended—the dead are very offended, they get very angry. I ask this skull for forgiveness—who knows whether it reaches it or not—so I ask each day. And there is one more thing—keeping it with me brought a benefit. The illusion I had about my own skull—my delusion—has broken. Now if someone were to kick this head of mine, I would still laugh—for I know this head today or tomorrow is bound to be under someone’s feet. That which is bound to fall beneath feet today or tomorrow—what sense is there in worrying for it?
Chuang Tzu said, gazing at this skull, many truths about my own head became clear. I was in vain illusion about it; I always tried to hold it high, above. Then I came to know—its destiny is to fall below. So one thing became visible to me.
How many of us see this? And if we do not see, then if we go on walking like the blind or asleep—what error is there in saying so? Nothing at all is seen by us. That is why we do not see that the outer race has always proved futile—yet we keep running in the same race. The truth is, we see nothing at all. We have lost all connection with seeing. On no level of life can we look with open eyes. We do not see—or perhaps we do not want to see.
There was a fakir, Ibrahim. He lived outside a village. Many travelers passed that way—a crossroads where other roads also met and branched. Travelers would ask him, which way to the nearby settlement? Trouble arose daily, disputes daily. The fakir must have been a great disturbance. One day a major quarrel erupted. A man even struck his head with a stick. That man had asked, which way to the settlement? Ibrahim said, go toward the east—after two or three miles you will reach the settlement. And do not by mistake go west—no settlement there.
The man went east—after three miles he came to the cremation ground. He was furious—this man is mad! He returned, and found the settlement lay to the west. He went to Ibrahim: is your mind rotten? You point to a cremation ground as a settlement! And you told me there is no settlement to the west—where it actually is!
Ibrahim said, brother, I have lived here long. Those who settle in the cremation ground—I have never seen them move from there, so I call that the settlement. And those who settle here—every day they shift, every day they pass away. So here I see only a crowd of dying—today one will die, tomorrow another, the day after someone else. How shall I call that a settlement? But in that cremation ground—whoever settles there, settles; I have never seen anyone leave from there.
But who will understand him? The man beat Ibrahim and said, you are mad; shift your place from here. You have not only misled me—you must have misled countless others to the cremation ground.
But I tell you—Ibrahim could see. And truly, those who can see always appear to us as if they are misleading. Among the blind, if a few ever gain sight, the blind fall upon them and kill them—finish them off, this man is not one of us, something is wrong. It seems his eyes have gone bad. That is why we give Socrates poison, we crucify Christ, we shoot Gandhi.
Among the blind, to have eyes is dangerous—living becomes very difficult. Among the insane, there is no misfortune greater than being healthy—for the mad become restless. Why do they become restless? Because whenever an eyed man is born in the village of the eyeless, his eyes become our insult—they become painful to us. His eyes make us feel that we are blind. And no one wants to see himself as blind. So we become eager, even mad, to finish him. After finishing him we are at ease again, our worry is gone. The rest are blind like us; with our companions we feel no unease. The other blind are not a criticism of us, not an insult to us. But an eyed man is a criticism—his very existence is our insult.
Until we all open our eyes, it is not possible that the futile should be dropped and our steps turn toward what is meaningful. The central thing is this: one who will not look with open eyes will find at death that his hands are empty. It is necessary to look at life with open eyes.
Not at the scriptures! There is no difficulty in looking at scriptures. One can read scriptures with eyes closed. But life cannot be seen with eyes shut. Scriptures can be read with eyes closed. If this were not so, then those who read scriptures would have attained truth. But those who read scriptures seem very far from truth. There is no difficulty in reading with closed eyes—just as the blind read books, they have their own method. So too the Gita and the Quran can be read with eyes shut—no difficulty. Otherwise would Hindus and Muslims fight? Would mullahs and pandits fight? If they had read the scriptures with eyes open, could there be wars? But there is no prerequisite of open eyes for reading scriptures. One can read comfortably with eyes closed.
But whoever would see life must open his eyes. Life cannot be seen with closed eyes. Life surrounds us on all sides. Life’s mistakes and right moves are all around. Thousands walk along the road—their steps wobble, they fall. Every day someone falls, someone perishes all around us—his hands are empty. Yet we do not look with open eyes. We are so busy with our race that we have no leisure to open our eyes.
One thing must be learned—pause a little and look at life. In twenty-four hours, set aside a while to pause and look at life. On the street where you live, have you ever sat half an hour at the roadside and watched the running people? Likely not—who has the time? Yet if you had sat half an hour and watched the runners, you would have been very startled: are these people mad? Where are they rushing? What are they doing?
Have you ever looked carefully at your wife’s face? Ever really looked at your husband? Ever sat in silence fifteen minutes and watched your child?
No one has time. What will you see of life? What vision of Paramatma will you have? These are far-off matters. Even those around us, present on all sides—our eyes are not open toward them. The tree standing at your gate—have you ever looked at it for two moments? Who has the time! Every night so many stars appear in the sky—have you ever gazed at them in silence half an hour? Who has time! The race is fast, and no one has time to stop. And where does the race bring us? By running very fast we arrive at death. No one has time to stop.
So I request—if you wish to arrive anywhere in life, learn to stop a little. Only those few who can stop become capable of seeing. The first condition for seeing is—to stop. Stop for a while and look! Look around—what is happening?
If you look carefully around, you will not be able to commit the very mistakes being committed all around you.
Let me tell a small story—through it my point will be understood.
A young man came one night to stay at a friend’s house in the capital. He was anxious—tossed and turned, could not sleep. His friend asked, what is the matter?
It is an old story, not of today. Otherwise, no matter how much someone turns, no friend asks what is the matter. In the old stories, friends did ask. Seeing someone turn and toss, they would ask—what is the matter? Today no friend asks—if you toss, he goes into deeper sleep. But it is an old tale; I have not changed it.
The friend asked as he turned, what is the matter? No sleep—some pain? Some restlessness?
The young man said, there is great unrest in my heart. In the gurukul where I studied I lived ten years. The guru gave me food, gave me clothes, gave me knowledge. I took everything from him, and I had not a single coin to offer him as a gift. At the end, when I took leave, all my friends gave some offering; I could give nothing. I have just returned, my eyes are full of tears, and my heart is in great pain—that I could not offer anything to my guru.
His friend asked, do you wish to give an offering?
Not much, he said, five gold coins would be enough.
His friend said, don’t worry. The king of this town has a rule, a vow—that whatever the first supplicant asks, he gives. So go early in the morning, ask the king. Five coins will not be hard to get.
The youth could not sleep all night. One who is to receive five gold coins in the morning—can he sleep? He too could not. Before dawn, in the dark, he rushed to the palace. The king came out; the youth said, I am the first supplicant. My request is small—will you fulfill it?
The king said, welcome. And you are not only today’s first supplicant—you are the first supplicant of my entire life. Our kingdom is very prosperous—no one comes to ask. That is why I dared to vow that I will give whatever the first person asks—otherwise how would I dare! Until today no one has come; you are the first—the first of today and of my whole life. Whatever you ask, I will give.
The king said, whatever you ask, I will give. Inside the youth, the five coins dissolved—he forgot. He thought, if anything I ask will be given, am I mad to ask for five? Why not ask for fifty? Or five hundred, five thousand, five hundred thousand? The number grew and grew. The king stood before him, and inside the numbers kept growing. The youth could not decide how many to ask—because the king says, whatever you ask. He forgot that he had come to ask five; his need was five. Need vanished—there was no need now; it had become a matter of numbers.
The king said, you seem worried, unable to decide. Think it through; I will take a round in the garden and return.
The youth said, fine—great kindness. Please walk around; I will think.
What was there to think? The numbers went on increasing. At last, the numbers he knew were exhausted—came to their end. Now his heart filled with sorrow and pain. His guru had often told him, learn more mathematics. He had always been weak in it. He used to think, what is the use of so much arithmetic? Today he found there was use. Today he stumbled—at the limit of his numbers. Beyond that he knew no higher number. He would have to ask within that limit. Who knows how much would remain in the king’s treasury after that? A unique chance was slipping away. The joy of gaining evaporated; the pain of what might be lost seized him.
It happens to all; it happened to him. The king returned and asked, it seems you have decided.
Then the youth took the final leap; suddenly an insight arose—numbers are finished. He thought, let me stop talking numbers. I will ask for everything the king has. I will tell the king—two garments are enough for you; you are wearing them—step out. No need to go inside. Just as I came wearing two pieces of cloth, so you too depart. Everything is mine. In numbers there was room for miscalculation; therefore it was wise to ask for everything.
One who truly understands arithmetic would do the same. He thought the king would panic—instantly become a beggar from an emperor. Anyone would panic—might even die. But the opposite happened. Sometimes people ride a boat, and sometimes the boat rides people. That day, the boat rode him. As soon as the youth said, give me everything you have—leave only the two garments you are wearing, and go out—the king folded his hands to the sky and cried, O Paramatma, the one I waited and prayed for, You have sent him! He embraced the youth and said, not even two garments—no, I will not carry even these, lest I cause you that sorrow. I leave them too—I go out naked.
The youth was terrified—what is happening? He asked, what is the matter? Why are you so delighted, so joyous?
The king said, do not ask me. Live in the palace and see. Manage the kingdom and understand. After all, I did not arrive here free of charge—I spent thirty years within these walls—then I understood. You too live, and reflect. You are still young—what hurry is there? And in this world, has anyone ever understood by asking another? No one has. You stay. You stay and hold the throne, and I will go—and keep even these clothes.
The youth said, wait—a moment wait! I am not experienced. Give me one more chance to think.
The king said, no. Those who think get into trouble. That is why, in this world, no one thinks—everyone goes on without thinking. You too don’t think. Those who think get into difficulty; for them life becomes a problem, for them life becomes a sadhana. Do not think. There is much life ahead—think later. First you go inside—I will go out.
The more the king insisted he take charge, the more the youth weakened. His hands and feet went limp. He said, forgive me—give me a chance. I am ignorant, and you are of my father’s age. Show me this kindness—take one more round of the garden; I will think once again.
The king said, look, I will go around the garden, but whether I find you here when I return is doubtful.
And so it was—the king returned from his walk; the youth was not there. He had run away. He even abandoned the five coins he had come to take. Why? What happened?
The youth had eyes that see—he could see. This is what I call seeing. Only one who has such eyes can be religious. Seeing eyes! We all have eyes—but we never use them to see. Life is present all around, everything is present—but we do not use our eyes for seeing. Open the eyes and look a little—life itself contains all the hints that can awaken any person from the endlessly repeated errors. No scripture can do what life can do. No guru can do what life can do. But open eyes are needed. Who will open them? Can someone else open your eyes? No—the eyes are yours. From today, open them and look at life all around—observe small events.
A friend came to me eight days ago and said, you keep saying, look with open eyes, look with open eyes—what is there to look at with open eyes? This event is before me—tell me what should I do? He placed a letter before me. Someone had written to him—filled it with poison. As many abuses as could be there, were there; as much anger as could be poured, had been poured; as much insult as could be done, had been done. He was trembling with rage and said to me, I feel like doing whatever I can do to this man. Now what do you say? What should I see with open eyes? You say man has been angry for thousands of years—one should look with open eyes. What should I look at?
I said to him, write a reply to this letter—here, in front of me. He sat before me and wrote a reply. I put that letter aside and said, come back in the morning—we will post it then.
He came in the morning. I said, read once more the letter you have written. Then we will post it.
He read it and said, no—this is a bit too harsh.
So I said, write again—what harm is there!
He wrote a second letter. Between the first and second there was a difference like earth and sky. I said, come again in the evening—we will post it then.
He said, not now?
I said, had you eyes, you would understand—had we posted it last night, what would have happened? But this morning you agreed to change it. Perhaps by evening you will agree to change it again. There is no harm in waiting till evening. An abuse sent a little late—nothing is lost. Wait till evening.
In the evening he came, read the letter and said, no—it is still harsh.
I said, write again—what harm is there!
Then I gave him the letter and said, keep it with you—and the day you feel there is no further room for change, post it that day—not before.
Eight days later he came and said, there is no need to post the letter at all.
In the moment of rage, the abuses he had vomited—that letter too remained; the next morning’s letter too; and after eight days—no letter was needed. Why? In eight days, the more carefully he looked, the more the futility of anger became visible.
There was a fakir, Gurdjieff. On his deathbed his father said to him, keep one thing in mind—if you want to give love to someone, do not delay even a moment. Man is very stingy—if he delays even a moment, he will not give love. And if you want to give someone an abuse—delay it at least a moment. Man is very wise—if he pauses even a moment, he will not give the abuse.
We need a formula for seeing in life. For twenty-four hours we keep doing things—without seeing—anger, hate, all without seeing. We do not even see people—our eyes are closed; and then whatever we do in that closed-eyed state only tangles life further. So toward life’s problem our eyes must be open. This open eye is what we call darshan. Darshan is not in philosophy books. Darshan is in the capacity to see. And the one who begins to see, to observe, to witness—one thing becomes visible: the outer race becomes futile, the race of anger becomes futile, the race of violence becomes futile. Then what remains? What is left? When the whole outer race proves futile, a revolution happens within—the movement turns inward.
Do you know—nothing in life is stationary, nothing is at rest. If all movement outward ceases, then life by itself begins to flow inward. One need not make an effort to move inward—if all the doors to the outside are closed, life naturally begins to move within.
If a stream is flowing and we block its path, the stream finds another channel. The current of consciousness—the stream of consciousness—is flowing outward. If the outer race is felt as meaningless—seen as futile—where will the stream of consciousness go? For consciousness there are only two directions, no third—either outward or inward. If all outer movement is seen as meaningless, the stream by itself turns inward—enters within. And this inward turning of consciousness is entry into Paramatma. The inward turning of consciousness is entry into religion. The inward turning of consciousness is entry into truth, entry into life. On the day consciousness reaches within, that day we know—what life is, what truth is, what Paramatma is. On that day we experience meaningfulness and fulfillment. On that day we know the within is not empty. That which we assumed to be empty—that was our mistake. Within, all is full—within is Paramatma. But only those who are ready to lose the outer attain the inner fullness. Those who go on filling the outside—lose the inside.
One small story, and I will complete my talk.
A beggar came out one morning, slung his bag over his shoulder, and before leaving home he put a few grains of rice into it. Wise beggars always do this. The foolish go out with an empty bowl and stand before others’ doors. The wise put a few grains from home into their bowl before they leave. Two benefits come of this. The giver feels—I am not the only one giving; others have also given. And the giver’s ego is pricked—if others have given and I do not, it hurts the pride. Then the giver also finds comfort—I am not the only one caught by this fellow; others too have been caught. I am not the only fool being made—others have been made before me. Hence the wise beggar puts a few coins or a little rice in his bowl.
If any such beggar has come here who goes out without putting anything in first—then he should put something and go. Surely some have come here too. Surely—this is impossible, that none have. For beggars everywhere go about seeking something. Some go in search of truth, some in search of knowledge. They are all beggars—they have gone to ask—perhaps they will get something somewhere. Does one get anything anywhere? Yet the race goes on.
That beggar too set out in the morning. As he reached the royal road, the sun was rising—and in the distance came the king’s chariot, made of gold, studded with jewels. In the sun’s rays it glittered—like a second sun. The beggar’s eyes were dazzled. He thanked his fortune and said, blessed am I today. I used to go to the palace gates; the guards would drive me away. I could never reach the king. Today the chance has come—the king himself meets me on the road. Today I will ask to my heart’s content. Perhaps my begging might cease forever.
While he was thinking, the chariot had arrived. Dust flew. The beggar, flustered, stood there. Seeing the king, he forgot to raise his bowl. He had never seen the king before. Before he could spread his bag, the king spread his own and said to that beggar, today I set out thinking—whoever I meet first, I will become a beggar before him. Remaining king has put me in great pain—I want now to become a beggar. Remaining king I have suffered much—now I want to be a beggar. So I decided—whoever I meet first, I will become a beggar before him. You met me—give me something!
You can imagine the beggar’s plight—a mountain had fallen upon him. He had thought to ask; the scene was reversed—there was another asking. He had never given anything to anyone in life—always only taken. He had no habit of giving. Whenever he put his hand into the bag, it came out empty—he had no courage to give. There were a few grains of rice—but even those would not part. From whom do they part? However small the grains, however few—who lets go? He could not let go either. He put his hand into the bag, and pulled it back.
The king said, be quick—whatever you will give, give. If you will not, then refuse.
He gathered courage, clenched his fist, took out a single grain—and dropped it into the king’s bag. One grain! It was an act of bravery—even one grain, who can let go! And a beggar—how can he! The king sat in the chariot and departed. Dust kept swirling. The beggar kept repenting. What was to be gotten was not gotten—those dreams were dust. And a grain from his own bag was gone.
Life is very strange. You set out to ask—and instead, you end up losing. You go to seek—and return having lost what you had. It happened to that beggar too. It happens to all beggars. We go to gain, to attain—and later we find we returned having lost; what we had also slipped away. The whole day he begged. He got much alms that day; his bag filled to the brim. But—no happiness came from a full bag. The pain of the single grain he had lost was great. No matter how full the bag becomes, there is no difference—the pain of what is lost will not leave. With a weeping heart he came home.
His wife said, you seem very sad—but your bag is very full!
He said, it could have been even fuller. But one grain from my own has gone. And strange was that king—he was even ready to beg from beggars like us.
The truth is—if kings did not beg from beggars, how would they be kings? Only by looting beggars does one become a king. So he begged from a beggar—he did nothing wrong. But beggars never understand that kings become kings by begging from beggars. He did not understand. He said to his wife, I fell into great trouble. I found a king. I thought I would get something—but instead, he snatched from me.
He opened the bag—completely filled with rice. He poured it all out—struck his chest and cried—now a new sorrow! Just now he was grieving for another thing; now he grieved for something else. He opened the bag and saw—one grain had turned to gold. Then he began to weep and shout—what a great mistake! If only I had given all the grains—then all would have turned to gold!
In life, the more you hoard the outer grains, the more your inner life turns to dust. The more you let go of the outer grains, the more your inner life turns to gold. At the end of life it becomes clear—that what we accumulated proved to be mud; what we gave away turned to gold. Blessed are those who can renounce the outer life—for they find the inner life made of gold. And those who go on clutching the outer life—no matter how much their bag fills—there is no end to their sorrow. And at the end they will weep—that what we clutched became mere earth, and what we let go—that alone became gold.
But that beggar had given only a single grain—so one grain turned to gold. What will happen to those beggars who have not given even a single grain?
On this point I leave our talk. Let me repeat: that beggar had given one grain—so it turned to gold. But what will happen to those beggars who have not given even one grain?
You have listened to me with such love and peace—that delights and obliges me immensely. May it be that the inner life becomes gold. But only those whose outer clay they can drop—and can see outer clay as clay—only they can have an inner life of gold. I bow to the Paramatma seated in all of you within. Please accept my pranam.