Jevan Rahasya #11

It is indeed a matter to wonder about—why should anyone touch another’s feet! Why should anyone fold their hands! But perhaps that friend has never considered: I too am not in favor of anyone touching anyone’s feet or folding their hands. Yet one condition must be made clear: if a person thinks that by touching feet something will happen, he is mistaken. If he thinks that by folding hands he will receive prasada, some blessing, he is in illusion. He is trying to strike a very cheap bargain. He is foolish if he thinks something is going to happen by touching someone’s feet. If that is the reason he bows, he is in error. That whole worship-trade starts again—that is a mistake. And such a mistake should not be made—at least not with me.

But this does not mean I am saying touching someone’s feet is a sin. I am saying: if feet are touched with the condition, with the idea, that touching will bring some gain, then it is wrong—nothing is going to be gained. But if something has already been received, and out of sheer grace and gratitude the feet are touched, then touching feet can never be banned in this world. If touching feet is simply a thank you!

You may say: thanks can be given by folding hands too; what need is there to touch feet? Perhaps you don’t know: when you are filled with anger toward someone, why do you want to take off your shoe and strike his head? Have you ever thought? All over the world—this is not about India or China—when a person is full of rage, why does he want to hit someone’s head with his shoe? What will happen by striking the head with a shoe? It’s madness, isn’t it? What can come of putting a shoe to the head?

When someone is filled with love anywhere on earth, why does he want to hold another to his heart? What does love have to do with pressing chests together? Bones will meet bones—will that make love? Yet perhaps you have never asked why two lovers press each other to the heart; and why two people maddened by anger want to place their foot upon the other’s head. Since such a high jump is difficult, they settle symbolically for the shoe on the head. They want to place the foot on the head, but that’s hard—so they take off the shoe: symbolic—“I’ve set my foot on your head.”

In anger, one wants to bring one’s foot to the other’s head. In love, one wants to bring the other to one’s heart. And in reverence, in respect, in devotion—what then? It is exactly the reverse of anger: one wants to bring one’s own head to the other’s feet. These are only symbolic; they mean no more than that. Nothing is to be obtained from them. Something has happened within, and these are its means of expression.

We love someone and take his hand in ours. What will happen by holding hands? And yet, somewhere love has happened and the person is helpless—how to express it? He feels, “Within I have joined; how to show that joining?” By taking hand in hand, he shows the bond. If the feeling is still deeper—“I have truly merged”—he presses heart to heart; he embraces. He declares through bodily symbols, “Union has happened.”

I do not want anyone touching anyone’s feet. But there can be a moment when one doesn’t even know that one has touched someone’s feet—then it is a different matter. If you touch feet by thinking, calculating, making a bargain, you are doing a futile drill; it will yield nothing. So never touch anyone’s feet merely because you think, “People touch this man’s feet, so I will too.” Useless effort. By touching his feet you will not cross heaven and Vaitarani. You are mistaken, deceived. By touching his feet you will not gain knowledge. It is a vain desire. But there are moments when we are not even aware that we have bowed. That spontaneous bowing has a spiritual meaning, a value.

And then it is worth asking: someone else is bowing, and some third person is getting upset! If they were bowing and they themselves were troubled, it would be understandable. But one person bows at someone’s feet and another person gets disturbed. What a strange disturbance! Why are you disturbed? Why should I be disturbed? Two people are loving—and I become disturbed! I grow restless: why are two people loving? What does my restlessness reveal? One person is giving another respect, reverence, thanks—and I get upset. Why am I disturbed?

There can be two or three reasons.

One: seeing others bow, my inner ego, which never knows how to bow, gets badly hurt. If no one bows, it relaxes. If someone bows, it feels wounded.

Like this: three men are walking and a beggar stands before them. One of the three takes out money and gives it, and the other two don’t want to give. His giving hurts them, because now not giving becomes being shamed before the beggar. Had this friend also not given, all three could have marched on in their stiffness—since no one gave, all were equal.

A man commits a theft, and if he comes to know that everyone here is a thief, his sense of crime melts away: no fear—everyone is stealing. Theft is normal. That’s why you pick up a newspaper and first look where the theft was, where a murder happened, what went on. To reassure yourself: no worry, it’s happening everywhere. It’s not just us; everyone is doing it. It’s a universal phenomenon. Then one feels at ease within: all is fine. We are ordinary people, like everyone else.

But if about one man you hear that he is honest, truthful—you don’t believe it at once. You make a thousand efforts to find out: is he really truthful? really honest? You try every way to discover: is he truly so? And until you manage to find, “Ah, there too it’s all dishonesty; it was just a façade,” an unease persists in the mind: how can it be that one man is honest and I am dishonest! His honesty starts looking high compared to my dishonesty; I feel low. An inferiority grips. So the effort goes on. We are not willing to accept a good person’s goodness at once. Only under compulsion do we accept it, when no other way remains.

But tell us someone is dishonest, a thief—we accept it immediately. We do no investigation. If someone said he was fifty percent a thief, by the time we pass the news it has become a hundred percent. Our heart finds relief in the news that he too is dishonest. The feeling of inferiority inside us disappears. And why do we inflate his fifty percent theft into a hundred? Because the bigger a sinner we can make the people around us appear, the smaller our own sin becomes and the higher we rise.

You must have heard the old story: an emperor drew a line and asked his courtiers to make it smaller without touching it. They were perplexed. But the court poet, the jester, drew a longer line beneath it. He didn’t touch the first line and it became smaller—because a bigger line was drawn below.

When we hear of the sin around us, we make it big at once. It’s hard to shorten our own line of sin, but we can lengthen others’ lines—and instantly our line looks small.

That is why slander tastes so sweet. Not even music has such savor, nor spirituality; the relish in gossip and condemnation is astonishing. Why is it so? Because by enlarging others’ faults we shrink our own and feel elevated.

So, one reason is: if no one bows, our ego—accustomed never to bow—stays at ease. But if people around start bowing at times, our stiffness begins to feel troubled. We want to establish somehow that the bowing ones are wrong, so that it is proved the non-bower is right.

But I say to you: the bowing ones are wrong if they bow out of desire—but the non-bower is wrong in every case. The bowing ones are wrong only in one situation: if they bow in order to get something, then they are absolutely wrong. But the one who does not bow is wrong under all circumstances. Because if we look closely, the tendency not to bow equals the tendency not to learn. The attitude of learning is the attitude of bowing. The more one bows, the more one learns; the more humble one becomes.

On a riverbank a woman stood with a pitcher on her head. She had been standing for hours. Another woman came, also with a pitcher. She bent, filled her pitcher, and started off. The standing woman said, “How strange! I’ve been here an hour and my pitcher is still not filled!”

The other replied, “Your pitcher would be filled; the river is always ready to fill. But you will have to bend; you will have to incline the pitcher. The river keeps flowing; it does not say, ‘Don’t fill.’ It is always ready to enter anyone’s pitcher. But it can enter only those pitchers which are bent down to the riverbed. You are standing stiff. So stand—birth after birth. This pitcher won’t fill.”

Ego never learns. Humility learns. What does humility mean? It means the capacity to bend—not merely before a person, not merely before a God, not merely before a guru—the capacity to bend. It is not about whom you bend to; rather, be bowed. It is not a question of bending to someone; it is about a mind inclined, ready to bow at every moment. Learning comes through that very bowing. Those who do not wish to learn remain standing stiff.

Humility filled with blind belief is futile. But ego is futile in every situation. And if one must choose—between ego and bowing tinged with superstition—then I say, choose the second. Because the one who bows today out of superstition will, by bowing, learn so much that his superstition may dissolve. But the one who stays stiff will never learn anything; and without learning, ego cannot melt.

This too can be the second cause of pain: within me too a strong urge to bow has arisen, but the old habit of stiffness stands rigid, while my life-breath longs to bow. An inner conflict arises. And the only way to resolve it seems to be to declare that those who are bowing are doing wrong—so that I can also tell my inner urge to bow, “You are wrong.”

If the feeling to bow has arisen within, it is good fortune, a blessedness. It is not a matter of bowing around a particular person—and certainly not around me. But the mood of bowing has great value.

Third point: till today there have been people in the world who want others to bow at their feet. If we look closely, those who insist that “I must never bow anywhere” are one face of the coin; the other face is the person who says, “Everyone should bow at my feet.” The long tradition of gurus is largely a lineage of such deluded people who have wanted others to bow before them. For five thousand years they have excessively exploited human beings. They have induced bowing with temptations: “Bow, touch the feet, place your head at my feet, surrender at my feet, and liberation, heaven, merit—all will be attained. By my grace all will be given. By the grace of the guru’s feet all will be obtained.” The gurus have taught this. They have even said: if guru and Govind stand together, bow first at the guru’s feet, for it is the guru who points to Govind. They say without the guru there can be no knowledge; therefore, there is no way but to catch hold of the guru’s feet.

Now, if it is the gurus themselves who are preaching this, the purpose is obvious. So I also say: never bow, even by mistake, at the feet of one who wants to make you bow. The person who says, “Bow at my feet,” is indulging in a great sin. Do not bow at his feet! The very asking has made those feet impure. Bow neither because someone else desires it, nor because of your own desire to get something.

But if ever a moment comes in life when you do not even know when you have bowed—do not miss that moment. For what will be available in that moment, the experience you will pass through, the felt sense before and in that moment—there is no way to say what that is.

My point has become a little difficult. Because I am not on the side of those who tell others, “Bow at my feet,” nor am I on the side of those who tell others, “Never bow.” My position is: bowing has its own joy; its own meaning; its own symbols. But only those know it who, uncaused, for no reason, without any wish for fruit, suddenly find that bowing has happened. Such bowing has a spiritual value. It is a gesture—indeed, a very spiritual gesture, a wondrous expression. I do not wish to erase it from the world.

But this does not mean that on the basis of that expression some people should teach others to bow at their feet and exploit them. I am not in favor of that either. Therefore, regard the person who says, “Come, touch my feet,” and lures you—regard him as a criminal, as one committing a crime; in a good society there would be arrangements to punish such people. But the person who stands stiff and says, “I will never bow, and never bow anywhere,” he too is a criminal—because he too is teaching something wrong.

Storms and winds come; great trees remain standing stiff; small plants bend down and lie upon the ground. The great trees resist the winds and snap. The small plants bow; the winds pass; the plants rise again and begin to dance—they survive. Those small plants know some wondrous alchemy of bending which the big trees do not. The big trees are hard and rigid like ego: they break, but they do not bend.

And remember: the one who has abandoned the art of bending has grown old and come near to breaking. This is the difference between child and old person: the child is supple, flexible; he bends; he is full of elasticity; he can bend any way. The old is stiff; he cannot bend—if he bends, he will break. The bones have become too rigid; bending is difficult. So the old dies and the child lives. The child will grow into youth; for the old, only death remains. The person whose mental bones have all turned hard, whose inner nerves have all become stone, who has lost the capacity to bend—his soul has come near to death, has already died. But one who remains supple at the inner level, who bends in the winds and storms, is creating the eligibility to come close to a greater life.

Watch sometime in a storm how small plants bend—how gracefully, how full of grace. In their bending there is no pitiableness, no pain, no sorrow—there is beauty even in their bowing. And look at the trees standing stiff—rigid. In their stiffness there is neither grace nor blessing. In their stiffness there is only the conceit, “I am so big—how can I bend?”

That very illusion will break them—will uproot them. And these little plants, whose roots are small, whom the storm and winds could have blown away anywhere, will come out alive—more powerful than before, more filled with joy than before. Because to pass through a storm is an experience; to come out alive is an attainment.

There is an art needed in life: that we be so fluid, so simple, so humble that there is no sense of pain in bending. One who feels pain in bowing does not know the flexible art of life.

But this does not mean that being humble, simple, fluid means closing your eyes and becoming blind. It does not mean that whoever says, “Come, bow,” and shouts loudly, you bow there.

I tell you—this will look very paradoxical, very contradictory—but I tell you: only those who have the capacity to bow, if one day they decide not to bow, then no storm in this world can make them bow or break them. Only those who are always ready to bow, if one day they decide not to bend, no force in this world can bend them. Because the power not to bend, they have gathered through the very medium of bowing, and in a measure beyond calculation.

But those who always stand stiff, determined never to bend, they do not realize how much of their energy is wasted in the effort not to bow. Gradually they become impotent; gradually all their strength is exhausted in fighting themselves—“I will not bow.” In holding themselves, restraining themselves, resisting, all their energy is spent; within, they become hollow—like trees that are hollowed out within. Then even a small gust of wind can bend them.

This will seem a very upside-down statement.

People like Jesus, who are always ready to bend—on the day they refuse to bow before untruth, then even death cannot bend them; no power can bend them. People like Socrates, whose humility is beyond measure, who are ready to learn even from a small child, who have never taken up stiffness in their lives—when the fight for truth arises, they are ready to drink the hemlock.

Even in their standing firm there is no ugliness—because that standing is not for ego; it is for truth. Ego is the greatest untruth. One who stands for ego is standing for untruth. One who stands for truth never stands for ego—because truth is available only to one whose ego has dissolved.

Still, since this friend has requested, let me inform you on his behalf: do not touch my feet—even by mistake. I have no taste for it at all. You bow and rise, and I too have to bend a little and lift you up; I get tired, and nothing happens. What could I possibly get from your touching my feet? What can I gain from your bowing? So his request was right: no, do not bow at my feet—even by mistake.

But I am not saying: forget bowing in life; keep yourself prepared for it. Because for those who bend, the river of life comes into their pitchers; and those who remain stiff are deprived of the river of life.

One or two small questions more, and then I will conclude.

Hearing me, they have fallen into a misunderstanding—that by doubting, what is good may no longer appear good; what is bad may no longer appear bad.

My point is: if, on the touchstone of doubt, the good does not ring true, then it was never good. And if it truly is good, you may doubt it as much as you like—you will not be able to erase it through doubt. It is like putting gold into the fire. Someone may fear, “If we put gold in the fire, might it burn?” Whatever burns proves it wasn’t gold. Gold does not burn. What burns shows it was not gold. And what comes out of the fire more refined—that alone proves it was gold.

In the fire of doubt, whatever is true is not destroyed; it emerges burnished, more radiant. And whatever rubbish had gathered around truth and the auspicious—trash and debris—all of that is burned away.

Certainly, many of our society’s notions are full of trash. When we doubt, that rubbish will be washed away—it should be. Precisely because of that rubbish our society talks so much about morality and is so immoral. Surely, at the very root of our moral notions, the disease of immorality has crept in. Otherwise, how could people who speak endlessly of ethics be so unethical? But we do not see it.

A man goes to give a bribe—he gives five rupees and gets his work done. We say, “But he’s such a good man; we’ve seen him offer coconuts at the temple, do worship, offer flowers, light incense and lamps. Such a good, moral man—how can he be giving a five-rupee bribe?” How is it possible?

No, you did not look rightly; you did not understand. That coconut too was a bribe, those flowers too were bribes laid before God. The man is perfectly consistent. He behaves there exactly as he behaves here. When he offered the coconut, inwardly he was saying, “God, have my boy pass his exam; I offer a five-anna coconut. And if he passes, rest assured, I’ll offer one more coconut.”

What was he saying there? “Sir, I’m giving you a five-anna bribe—please have my boy pass.” That bribe is old; we didn’t notice it. The kind of bribe that is current today will run for another two to four hundred years, and even that won’t be noticed. Even now it’s becoming less visible. As visible as it was in 1947, it no longer is. Habit! Now we’ve begun to accept that it, too, exists; slowly it will become institutionalized. Just as a man gets a job, so he gets bribes. People ask quite cheerfully, “What’s your salary? And how much do you get under the table?” And those who answer say quite casually, “Such-and-such is the salary, and so much comes under the table.” That too is part of the salary—the second part. There is no sin in it, no shame, no sense of wrong.

When this man was offering bribes in the temple, we couldn’t catch him; when he began bribing men, then we caught him. And the poor fellow has behaved entirely logically. He saw that a five-anna bribe settles even God—so what’s wrong with settling a human being? If there is no sin in settling even God with a bribe, what harm is there in settling a man?

In the fire of doubt, what is futile will burn away; what is meaningful will remain. And if it does not remain, understand that it was futile. That is to say, I take this as the touchstone: whatever does not survive the fire of doubt was not truth.

There is much that is untrue: untruth in the name of morality, untruth in the name of religion, untruth in the name of merit—utterly untrue. But we have never doubted, never thought it over.

A man amasses wealth; he has to commit all kinds of theft and dishonesty, because without theft and dishonesty it is impossible to accumulate wealth. It has never been possible; it is not possible today; I do not see that it ever will be. On one side he amasses wealth by every wrong means; on the other, he gives charity—builds a temple. And we say, “He is generous, a virtuous soul.”

What a strange social vision! How strange! This social morality is dangerous—because it believes that even with money that has come from theft and dishonesty, you can do virtue.

How can that be? How can it be that I pick your pocket, collect the money, and then build a little shrine to Hanuman in the village? How can a shrine born of my theft become a place of religion? How? How can that be virtue?

Yet social morality has accepted this up to now. It doesn’t ask where the money came from; it asks only whether you gave it in charity—and the matter is closed.

There was Lao Tzu in China, an extraordinary man. He was the minister of law in a certain state. A theft occurred; the first case that came before him, he sentenced the thief to six months—and he also sentenced the moneylender to six months.

The moneylender said, “Have you gone mad? In which law is it written that the one whose house was robbed also serves a sentence?”

Lao Tzu said, “I haven’t gone mad; until now the entire law was mad! You have gathered up the wealth of the whole village—what else will happen but theft? In this theft, this thief is responsibility number two; responsibility number one is yours. Wherever so much wealth accumulates, there will be theft. By tempting, by provoking, you have instigated this theft. And if this man has stolen, the two of you are equal partners in the theft. I will punish you both.”

The king summoned the law minister and asked, “Is your mind all right? Has anything like this ever happened in the world?”

Lao Tzu said, “It has not happened—and that is precisely why theft has never been eradicated, and never will be. And I say that if what I am saying were put into practice, theft could end.”

Lao Tzu was not heeded—not even today has he been fully heeded. But until he is, that verdict, that statement of Lao Tzu will stand in the sky, written in shining letters: theft cannot end until, along with the thief, the moneylender is also punished. It will not end.

So that morality is wrong which holds only the thief responsible and not the moneylender. If that morality is passed through the fire of doubt, both will be held responsible; they are two sides of the same coin. As long as wealth accumulates, how can theft stop? It will continue.

But scriptures and moralists say, “Theft is a sin.” What they do not say is, “Exploitation is a sin.” How amusing! Theft is a sin, but exploitation is not? Theft is a sin—and wealth? Wealth comes from virtue, from merits earned in past lives. Some cleverness has been slipped in here.

The cleverness is this: the poor man steals, the rich man exploits. The rich want protection against theft. Therefore the monks and priests who hover around the rich—because this is an old alliance: the rich live by the support of renunciates, and renunciates live by the support of the rich—those monks and priests say, “Theft is a sin; never steal.” But they do not say, “Exploitation is a sin; do not exploit.” Exploitation continues, and theft continues. Theft has power; it is the shadow attached to exploitation. The day exploitation ends, theft will end.

So if you test society’s morality in the fire of doubt, you will find it is full of mischief, falsehood, hypocrisy; much of it is certainly immoral. All that will burn—and should burn. Then, out of doubt, a morality will evolve—true, a right outlook—by which life is transformed.

So do not be afraid that if you enter doubt everything will go haywire. Yes, there will be disturbance—because everything is disturbed. To heal a sick person, much turbulence has to be created in the body: medicines must be introduced, injections given. But the sick man endures it; he doesn’t say, “What are you doing, disturbing me—putting things into my body?” He knows the disorder is inside, and without putting in things contrary to it, the disease will not leave.

There is disorder in society—immorality. There is no way to erase this immorality without a great demolition. It will have to be broken. And if we do not break it, this society will go on rotting—more foul, more ugly. This society has reached the final limits of decay. Only the faces appear fine; inside, everything has rotted. The family has rotted, society has rotted, education has rotted, all the inner relationships of life have rotted—but outwardly we keep up a face that all is well.

It is exactly like this: in the morning you are going off to the office. Nothing is right. At home there is no water, no food; there is no medicine for the children; the wife is going mad—and you are going to the office. Someone asks, “Well, how are things?” You say, “Everything is perfectly fine.” That “everything is fine” is just like that—nothing is fine. It’s become a mere formality to say, “All is well.”

Just so, we keep saying everything is fine; nothing is fine. What is fine? From childhood to old age, nothing is fine. Much will have to fall, much will have to break. It should fall; it should be broken. But because we have never reflected, we have not been able to break it, we have not been able to change it.

When thought comes, rebellion will come. When thought comes, revolution will come. When thought comes, society as it is cannot be tolerated. Those who have kept tolerating it have committed a crime.

I have said a few small things. Some questions remain. But in the directions I have indicated, those whose questions remain—if they make even a little effort to think in those directions—they can receive answers from within themselves. And my answers are of very little value. What value can my answer have? It is my answer. Only when your own answer arises does it have value.

You might ask, “Then why are you speaking at all?”

I am speaking only so that at least the idea may arise in you that regarding life one must think, reflect, doubt—and then your own answers can become available to you. The question is yours; the answer, too, must be yours. Only then will the question drop and be destroyed. Another’s answers can do nothing.

But from another’s answers the idea may arise: let me also think, let me also reflect. Perhaps my own consciousness too can reach the answer and discover a solution. And the consciousness of each person can discover the solution. We have not sought; therefore we have not found. If we seek, it can be found.

You have listened to my words with such peace and love; for that I am very grateful. And in the end, I bow to the Divine dwelling within each of you. Please accept my salutations.