Jevan Rahasya #12

Let me tell a small story, and begin my talk from there.

One night, at an inn, a fakir arrived. The inn was full, the night was far gone; the other houses in the village were closed and people were asleep. The innkeeper too was about to shut the place when the fakir reached and said, Whatever it is, wherever it is, I must have a place to stay for the night. In this dark night where shall I search now, where shall I go! The innkeeper said, You can stay, but it will be hard to get a room to yourself. There is one room; a guest has just arrived and taken it. He must be awake. Will you be able to sleep in his room with him? The fakir agreed. Two guests were put up in one room.

The fakir lay down on his bed; he did not remove his shoes, nor take off his turban; he lay down with all his clothes on. The other man staying there was surprised, but it was not proper to say anything to a stranger, so he kept quiet. But the fakir, who fell asleep with his turban on, began to toss and turn; sleep eluded him.

The other guest could no longer bear it and said, Sir, at this rate no one will sleep the whole night, you will keep turning over. Kindly take off your shoes, remove your clothes, then lie down properly. Become a little simple, perhaps sleep will come. To sleep being so complicated is very difficult.

The fakir said, I too think the same. But if I were alone in the room, I would take off my clothes; because you are here, I am in great difficulty!

The man said, What difficulty is there in this?

The fakir began to speak, The difficulty is that if I take off my clothes and sleep, in the morning when I wake up, how will I recognize who I am? I recognize myself only by my clothes. When this coat is upon me, I feel that I am I. When this turban is on my head, I know that I am I. Wearing this turban and this coat I stand before a mirror and recognize that I am I. If I were alone in the room, I would strip and sleep; there would be no danger of confusion. But when I get up in the morning, how shall I recognize who I am and who you are?

The man said, You seem to be a great madman! I have never seen anyone as mad as you!

The fakir said, You call me mad! Everyone I have seen in the world I have seen recognizing himself by his clothes. If I am mad, then all are mad.

Do you recognize yourself by anything other than clothes? There are many kinds of clothes—name is also a garment, caste is also a garment, religion is also a garment. I am a Hindu, I am a Muslim, I am a Jain—these too are clothes; these too were made to be worn after childhood. This is my name, that is my name—these too are clothes, put upon you after childhood. Do we think these are our being? Then we will become complicated, we will indeed become complicated.

In a great metropolis a most wondrous play was running. It was a play of Shakespeare. In that city there was only one talk: the play is marvelous; the actors are highly skilled. The city’s greatest religious head too felt, I should see the play. But how can a religious head go to see a play? What will people say? So he wrote a letter to the manager of the theater: I too wish to see the play. Hearing the praise again and again I am going mad. But how shall I come? What will people say? So I have a request: do you not have any door at the back of your theater by which I might enter, so that no one sees me?

The manager wrote back: Please come gladly; our theater does have a back door. We had to build a back door for religious heads, respectable gentlemen, and sadhus, because they never come through the front door. There is a door; come happily—no one will be able to see you. But I too have a request: people will not be able to see that you have come, but it is hard to guarantee that Paramatma will not see.

There is a back door; people can be deceived. But it is impossible to deceive Paramatma. And it could even be that someone deceives Paramatma, but to deceive oneself is utterly impossible. Yet we all are deceiving ourselves. Thus we will become complicated; we cannot remain simple. Whoever deceives himself will become difficult, will get entangled, and go on getting more entangled. Upon every entanglement he will seek a new deception, a new untruth, and get more entangled. In this way we have become difficult and complex. We have found back doors so that no one can see us. We have made false faces so that no one can recognize us. Our salutations are false, our love is false, our prayer is false.

Early one morning a man meets you on the road; you join your hands, salute him, and say, I am so happy to meet you. And inside you think, How did this wretch’s face appear to me so early in the morning! Then how will you be simple? On the surface one thing, inside another. On the surface the talk of love, inside the thorns of hatred. On the surface prayer, songs; inside abuses and profanity. On the surface a smile, inside tears. In this contradiction, in this inner opposition, in this self-contradiction, complexity will be born; confusion will arise.

Paramatma is not difficult, but man is difficult. If the difficult man finds Paramatma difficult, it is no wonder. In the morning I said, Paramatma is simple. The second thing I must say to you is that this simplicity will reveal itself only when you too are simple. This simplicity can reveal itself only before a simple heart. But we are not simple.

Do you wish to be religious? Do you wish to attain bliss? Do you wish to be at peace? Do you wish that into the darkness of your life the lamp of Truth might descend?

Then remember—remember the first step—without simplicity Truth does not arrive. Only in those hearts does the seed of Truth sprout where the soil is simplicity.

You must have seen, a farmer throws the seed. If it falls upon a stone, then no sprouting comes. Why? The seed was the same! And if the same seed falls upon simple, straight earth, it sprouts. The seed is the same! But the stone was hard, difficult; the seed became powerless, it could not sprout. The soil was simple, straight, clean, soft; not hard—tender; the seed sprouted. Between the seed fallen upon rock and the seed fallen upon earth there was no difference in the seed at all.

Paramatma knocks at the door of everyone’s heart—Open the door! The seed of Paramatma longs to enter the soil and sprout. But in those whose hearts are hard and difficult, the seed fallen upon their heart will dry up; it will not be able to sprout. Neither will there be shoots upon that seed, nor branches burst forth, nor flowers arise, nor will fragrance spread from that seed. But those who are simple—their heart will become soil, and the seed of Paramatma will be able to sprout.

Therefore the first sutra of the evening I wish to say to you—be simple. And do not ask, How can we become simple? For the moment the feeling of how begins, difficulty begins. As soon as you ask—How shall I become simple?—you have begun to become difficult.

Simplicity is your nature. You do not have to become simple; only stop becoming difficult, and you will find you are simple.

Suppose I clench my fist and then begin to ask people, How should I open my fist? What will anyone say to me? One does not have to open the fist; one certainly has to clench it. One does not have to open the fist; one certainly has to clench it. Now I have clenched my fist and I ask people, How should I open it? He who knows will say, Simply stop clenching, and the fist will open. Do not clench; openness is the fist’s nature.

A child is pulling down the branch of a tree, and asks, How shall I return it to its place? What shall we say to him? Must some device be arranged to return it? No—the child should let go the branch. The branch will shake, tremble, and return to its place of itself.

Man’s nature is simple; complexity is cultivated. Complexity has been brought in by effort. Complexity has been practised. Simplicity is not to be practised; only let there be no complexity, and simplicity is present. Do not ask, How shall we become simple! Understand how you have become difficult, and stop being difficult, and you will find that simplicity has come. Simplicity is always present.

How did you become difficult? How have we made ourselves more and more difficult every day?

The first thing I said: we have given our life the structure of untruth. Untruth is our pattern; untruth is our framework. In untruth we live, we breathe. In untruth we walk. Search whether your whole life is not perhaps standing upon untruth.

A small child was making his signature on the sand of the seashore. He was crafting his signature very finely, very skillfully. An old man said to him, Fool, you will not even be able to finish your signature; the winds will come and the sand will scatter. You are laboring in vain, wasting time, inviting sorrow. For what you shall make, and then find it has scattered, pain will come. There will be pain in the making, then pain in the erasing. But you are making on sand—its disappearance is certain. You are sowing sorrow. If you must sign, then sign upon some hard, solid rock that cannot be erased.

I have heard that the child began to laugh and said, What you call sand was once a rock; and what you call rock will one day become sand.

Children sign upon sand; old men sign upon rocks—upon temple stones. But both are writing upon sand. What is made upon sand is false; it is untruth. We build our whole life upon sand. We make all our boats out of paper. And then we launch them into the great ocean, thinking they will reach somewhere. The boats sink, and with them we sink. Sand castles fall, and with them we fall. Untruth gives us pain day after day; and to escape the pain of untruth we search for bigger untruths. How then can life be simple? Recognize whether the framework of my life is not untruth. And we are so clever that it is not only that we have built ourselves upon untruth in little things—we have built even our religion upon untruth.

I went to an orphanage. There were a hundred children—orphans. The organizer of that orphanage said to me, We give the children religious education.

I said, Religious education! Those words seem contradictory. The education of irreligion may be possible—but how could there be education in religion? Ignorance can be taught; but knowledge being taught—this has never been heard of! Hatred can be taught, war can be taught; but schools of love have not yet been seen! Even so, since you say so, I will come; let me see what you teach.

They took me gladly. And before me they began to ask the children: Is there God? The children raised their hands. They had been taught that God is; drilled that God is—they raised their hands that yes, God is. They were asked: Is there Atman? The children said, Yes, there is Atman. Just as if they had been asked, Two and two are four?—they would say, Yes, two and two are four. Then they were asked, Where is Paramatma? The children placed their hands upon their hearts and said, Here.

I went to a small child and said, Son, will you be able to tell me where the heart is?

He said, That we have not been taught.

God is—taught. Taught God becomes false. Known God is true. Those hands which the children raised, they did not raise by knowing that God is. It is written in the book that God is. The teacher says that God is. This is the answer to be given in the examination—that God is. So the children say—God is—and raise their hands. Are those hands true? If those hands were true, the world would be filled with the light of Paramatma. Those hands are false. And even if only the hands of the children were false, it would still have been all right; but the hands of the old who are raised are equally false. Because what is learned in childhood a man goes on repeating throughout life, without asking whether I am speaking by knowing, or without knowing am I speaking.

The very framework of our life is untruth. We stand with folded hands before the temple. Those hands too are false, the feeling for Paramatma is false. For if the feeling for Paramatma were true, then hands joined once would remain joined forever. And once passing by a temple, it would become impossible to leave the temple behind. Then wherever one stood, that would be his temple; and whoever was seen, to him his hands would be joined. But this is not seen. Those who go to the mosque kill those who go to the temple. Those who go to the temple kill those who go to the mosque. What a wondrous religion! It must be a very false religion.

But our whole framework, our entire pattern, the foundations upon which our life stands—we have made them of false beliefs. How then can a man be simple?

If you wish to be simple, know this—let him who does not know, know that he does not know. If you do not know Paramatma, then say with purity, I do not know, I do not know; I cannot raise a false hand.

In the world two kinds of false hands are raised. In Soviet Russia a hand is raised that says God is not. That too is a taught thing, told in the school. And in the Eastern lands hands are raised for God—that God is. Those hands too are false; those too are taught. If you are raising your hand on the basis of learned talk, then withdraw your hand; perhaps you may become simple.

A fakir had halted in a village. He must have been a very wondrous fakir. The people of the village said to him, It is Friday; come, speak to us in our mosque a little on God.

The fakir said, If anything has ever been explained regarding God, then I too will explain.

But they would not agree; the more the fakir refused, the more they pressed him. Such is people’s mind: where doors are closed, there they begin to knock; where doors are open, they do not even go. On the very door where it is written, Do not peep in here—there they circle about.

The fakir said, No, no, I will not go. What can be said about God? Nothing at all can be said.

But the people would not agree—they took him along. Since they did not agree, he went. In the mosque he stood upon the platform and said, My friends, before I say something concerning God, let me ask you something. First: do you know something of God? Does God exist?

All the people waved their hands that we know God is.

The fakir said, Then pardon me; when you know, there is no need for me to speak. I will return. Why should I ruin futilely my time and yours? How was I to know that you know! Then why have you brought me? When you know that God is, and your hands are raised in testimony to it, there remains no need for me, I go.

People were greatly astonished; their mind became more eager—we should certainly have heard this man. A mistake was made. They decided that next time we will bring him again. And this time when he asks, Do you know that God is? we will say that God is not; we know nothing. Then he will speak.

The second Friday came. Again they went to the fakir and said, Come, speak a little about God. The fakir again began to evade. But they did not agree; they brought him. He stood upon the platform. He again asked, Before I say anything concerning God, let me know one thing—does God exist? Do you know anything of God’s being?

The people said, God is not, and we know nothing.

The fakir said, Forgive me. When God is not, what need is there of me? I go back. And you all know that God is not—the matter is finished. What remains to be known now? Those who have known even this much—that God is not—what else could remain for them to know? The ultimate limit of knowledge has arrived when even this is known, that God is not.

The fakir returned. People were again in great difficulty. We should have heard him. Now an even more intense longing arose: who knows what this man would say! They decided again, a third answer was prepared—this time again let us go. On the third Friday they went to him—Come. They had prepared a third answer: when he asks this time, half of the people will say, We know that God is; and half will say, We do not know that God is. Now he will have to say something.

The fakir came and stood and said, Friends, again the same question: do you know that God is, or do you not? Do you know, or do you not know?

Half the mosque said, We know that God is; and half said, We do not know that God is.

The fakir said, Those who know—please explain to those who do not know. I take my leave; there is no need for me.

I too asked that fakir, Did those people come a fourth time or not?

The fakir said, A fourth answer they could not find; with three their answers were over. They never came again. I kept watching the road—if they came, I would go again.

I asked that fakir, If they had had a fourth answer, would you have gone?

He said, If there were a fourth answer, I would surely go and speak.

I asked, What could that fourth answer be?

The fakir said, If they had remained silent and given no answer at all, I would have spoken. For then they would have been true people. Then they would not bear witness to a false thing. Then they would have remained silent. They knew nothing—neither of God’s being, nor of his non-being. Then they would have remained silent in their ignorance. Their ignorance was their truth, their reality. Knowledge—the theist’s knowledge, the atheist’s knowledge—all is false, learned babble. If they had remained silent, I would have spoken, said the fakir. And till today, only then has it been possible to explain or to know or to indicate something concerning Truth—when on the other side there is a silence filled with sincerity. Not answers filled with falsity; a question filled with truth is enough. Not knowledge filled with lies; ignorance filled with truth becomes a step that leads toward Paramatma.

Let us ask ourselves: Is our knowledge true? Is our knowledge true? And when our knowledge is not true, how can our life be true? Life stands upon knowledge. But we keep saying yes to what is false. We keep saying yes silently. When people all around say yes, we say yes. We have become a part of the crowd. The crowd is a lie. We have become a part of society. Society is a lie.

Once a wondrous incident occurred. A man came to an emperor and said, You have conquered the whole earth, but one thing is lacking in your possession—you do not have the garments of the gods. I can bring you the garments of the gods.

The emperor’s greed was stirred. He thought—If I obtain the garments of the gods, what could be more auspicious! He said, How much will it cost?

The man said, It will cost a great deal. Seeing men’s bribes, even the gods have begun to take bribes. A great deal of bribe will be needed. Much corruption has spread there too. Not only in Delhi—in Indra’s city too there is much corruption. Because all those who die here—former ministers—have gathered there and are creating mischief. They demand very big bribes. Things do not move cheaply. Here a man may agree for ten or five rupees; for the gods, ten or five rupees have no value—crores will be spent; tens of crores of rupees will be needed.

But the king’s mind was seized by greed. He could not quite believe—how would the garments of the gods come? They have never been seen! Even so, he said, No matter. But see—do not try to deceive me; otherwise you will hang from the gallows. Your house will be guarded with naked swords.

The man said, Keep a guard at my house, because the path of the gods does not pass along the road. It is a very inner path. I will go to the realm of the gods from within the house. Do not worry about that.

Ten crores of rupees were to be spent; the money was given. A guard of naked swords was placed at his house. After six months, he said, I will bring the garments. Because it is government business, it is done with great difficulty. It takes a long time; it does not happen in a day or two. Government work—file upon file will move; you must feed this clerk, that office—go there—only then perhaps something can be done. You must placate some apsara; only then can Indra’s garments be had. It is very difficult. But I will try.

Six months passed. The entire capital became eager; news spread throughout the land. A wondrous event is happening! A miracle! For the first time the garments of the gods are coming to earth. Everyone had doubt and suspicion, but there was a guard of naked swords. Six months were completed. The morning sun rose and the man came out of his house carrying a precious chest, locked. Now no suspicion remained. He said, Take me to the royal palace.

Under the guard of naked swords he reached the palace. Hundreds of thousands of people crowded the streets. The court was full; kings had come from far away. He placed the chest in the court. Then even the emperor felt assured he had not been deceived. The man opened the lock. Then he said to the emperor, Please come near, and I present these garments to you. He said, Remove your turban. The emperor took off his turban. The man put his hand into the chest and brought it out empty, and said, Please accept this turban of the gods. The emperor looked—the hand was empty; there was no turban.

Then the man began to laugh. He said, As I was leaving, the gods told me: only he who is born of his father will be able to see these garments. These garments cannot be seen by everyone.

The king saw the hand empty. But he said, Ah, what a beautiful turban! Never have I seen such a turban! He placed that non-existent turban upon his head.

Untruth began; the journey of untruth began. He thought, If I say the turban is not visible, trouble will arise. Rumor will spread that I was not born of my father. And another fear arose: as soon as the courtiers heard that the garments would be visible only to those born of their father, they came forward and began to praise the turban, saying, Oh, such a beautiful turban—ten crores are nothing!

Now when the whole court began to say so, queens began to say so, ministers began to say so, friends began to say so—there was not a single person in that court to say, The turban is not visible to me. Because when the entire crowd says the turban is visible to us, who would dare? Who will say the turban is not visible? Who will get entangled, who will get into this whirl?

The king put on the turban. Inside, his life-breath was trembling; but outwardly he smiled. Then his coat too came off. Then his dhoti too came off. Only one garment remained. Then the king panicked—Now I will be naked. One by one each garment was taken away, and false garments were given that did not exist. And in the court hands clapped; people praised. For a moment the king thought, What shall I do now? But whoever proceeds in untruth is led by one untruth into a greater untruth. To return now began to seem very difficult. If he said, Now I see nothing—then the man would say, All this time you were seeing? You were telling lies? You do not seem to be born of your father. He was compelled. He had to surrender the last garment too and stand there naked. And when people saw the naked king, they began to clap. Each and every one saw the king naked, but no one said that the king is naked.

And the man said, Emperor, these garments have come to earth for the first time. Their grand procession is very necessary. Ride upon the chariot through the royal roads of the capital, so that the whole city may see that the garments of the gods have arrived. People are eagerly waiting outside.

Now the king’s life-breath trembled. He is naked; at least he is in his palace. Shall he go on the road? But the journey of untruth had begun; it now seemed very difficult to stop it. He was compelled. The courtiers too said, Majesty, it is necessary in honor of the garments that you go out.

The king too had to go out. The naked king mounted the chariot. Hundreds of thousands were in the crowd, praising the garments—for the condition had reached everyone’s ears. Only in the crowd a few small children had come, seated upon their father’s shoulders to see the king. They began to whisper in their fathers’ ears, Father, the king seems to be naked! But the fathers said, Hush, foolish, inexperienced! The king is not naked—the king is wearing beautiful garments. When you grow up, you too will begin to see the garments. Be quiet for now. You have no experience yet.

Even if children speak the truth, the elders, initiated into falsehood, do not allow them to speak. If children ever indicate, I do not see this, the elders say, Hush, naive one—you have no experience yet. Experience will show you too. And experience does show—because the whole experience is a journey in untruth; when he too grows old passing through the same journey of untruth, then he too begins to see the garments.

We too are seeing the naked king’s garments. How can we be simple? By bearing witness to false garments, how can anyone be simple? Have you ever seen God in the idol of the temple? If not, why have you said that God is there? And if He has been seen there, then can there be any place upon this earth where He is not seen? Have you ever had a glimpse of Him in any mosque? In any scripture—has Truth ever incarnated in any word? But why did you give testimony? Why did you become a witness—that here I see Truth, here I see God? This false testimony—then you cannot be simple. You cannot be. You cannot be. There is no way then to become simple.

First thing, first sutra to understand in order to become simple: withdraw your testimony from the untrue. Do not be a witness to untruth; do not testify for the false.

We are all witnesses. Among us, there is none who is a witness to the True. Because he who witnesses the True becomes a sakshi of Paramatma. What we give is witness to the untrue—from morning to evening, from birth to death, the entire life is a testimony to untruth. And day by day the journey of untruth goes on increasing, goes on increasing, goes on increasing.

Our religion is untruth. Our relationships in life are untruth. A father says to his son, I love you. And the same father sends the son to war—Go, fight and be cut down. Then he says, It was very necessary to send him for the service of the nation. If in this world fathers loved their sons, no war would ever have been possible upon this earth. Who would send his sons to be cut down? But no father has ever loved his son. He says, I love. Who arranges these wars? In the first world war seventy-five million people were killed. In the second world war a hundred million were killed. Who sent these boys to be slaughtered? Day by day boys are being cut down—who is sending them?

Mothers send them, wives send them, sisters send them, fathers send them, brothers send them, sons send them, friends send them. And we keep saying that we love. We keep shouting that we love. This love of ours seems very false. Who loves whom? And the one who becomes capable of loving even once—do you know?—he cannot remain far from Paramatma even for a single moment. Where the door of love opens, there too the door of the temple of the Lord opens.

Ramanuja had halted in a village. A man came to him and said, I want to meet the Lord; I want to move toward Paramatma; show me the path!

Ramanuja looked him up and down and said, My friend, my brother—have you ever loved anyone?

The man said, Do not talk of love and so forth. I want to find God. I have never fallen into the tangle of love. Show me the path to the Lord!

Ramanuja again remained quiet a little while, then asked, My friend, can you tell me—have you ever loved anyone at all?

The man said, Why do you keep asking only about love? I seek Paramatma—what have I to do with love?

Ramanuja asked a third time, Even so, think—perhaps sometime you have loved someone, even a little!

The man stood up in anger and said, What madness is this? I ask the path to God—I ask the West—and you show me the East. I am not asking about love.

Tears came to Ramanuja’s eyes; he said, Then you go. If you had loved anyone at all, that very love could have been transformed into prayer. If you had loved even one, then by the very door of that love, at least in one you would have seen Paramatma. And to whom He is visible in one, for him it is no great matter to see Him in all. But you say you have never loved anyone. Then I am unable to take you to Paramatma. You must search elsewhere, you must go elsewhere.

We say we have loved. Do we love? The man who has loved—no greater nearness to the Lord remains for him—because it is in the moment of love that He reveals Himself. Not in the moment of knowledge, because knowledge divides. In the moment of love—because love unites. He does not reveal Himself to the knower, for the knower’s ego is, I know. He reveals Himself to the lover, because the lover says, I am not.

So what we call love must certainly be false love; otherwise that love would have led to Paramatma. Our religion is false; our love is false; our prayer is false.

A boat is tossing upon the sea. A storm has arisen, fierce. The passengers tremble, their life-breath trembles. They all fall to their knees in prayer, pleading with God—Save us. We will give so much money in charity; we will renounce so much; I will build a temple, I will build a mosque; I will print a thousand copies of the Gita and distribute them; I will conduct a yajna; I will feed so many brahmins. All the passengers are praying.

But there is a sannyasi, a fakir, sitting there. He is sitting silently. People became angry with him and said, Do something—pray; perhaps He will listen to you! Why are you sitting silent in this hour of danger? The boat rocks—within a moment it may sink.

The fakir laughs; he sits silent. They keep praying. Suddenly he shouts in the midst—Stop, stop; do not make any vows! The boat is drawing near to shore; the shore has come close; we are out of danger. All those people left half their prayers and began to tie up their luggage.

But one man had gotten into a tangle. He was a multimillionaire; he was returning in this boat after making billions of rupees. He was so frightened that he said to God, O God, if I am saved, if the boat is saved, then the palace in the capital that I own—worth five lakh rupees—that I will donate to You; I will make Your temple there. Or I will sell it and distribute to the poor. Save me! I will distribute to the poor, or build a temple. He had already made this vow. And while the others had only begun and had given no vows, that one man had gotten caught. And the boat reached the shore. Now his life-breath was in great crisis—What will happen to the five lakh rupees? What will happen to the mansion? He said to the fakir, You seem very wise. What shall I do now? I am trapped. I have given a promise to God. What shall I do?

The fakir said, Do not worry; surely you will find some device. Because man’s prayers are so false that the vows made in them have no meaning. But you will surely find a way—do not worry. You seem a very clever man; otherwise to earn crores of rupees is very difficult. You seem a very cunning man.

And fifteen days later the man found a device. He distributed that mansion worth five lakh rupees to the poor. How did he distribute it? He devised a straight trick. He made a calculation of arithmetic. He announced in the village that I want to auction my house. It is a house worth five lakh rupees—everyone knows it. I want to auction the house. On such and such a day in the morning, buyers gathered. The house was wondrous—even the king came to buy it.

That fakir too reached the crowd, to see what the man would do—will he distribute to the people? The fakir stood there silently and watched.

What had the man done? He had tied a cat in front of the house, and told the people of the village, The cat’s price is five lakh rupees; the house’s price is one rupee. And I will sell both together; I will not sell them separately. Whoever wants to buy may buy. The cat’s price is five lakh rupees, the house’s price is one rupee. I will sell both to one buyer. They are not to be sold separately.

The people of the village were greatly astonished! But what did people care? They knew it was a five-lakh house. He gives a five-lakh house for one rupee. And the cat, not even worth two pennies—he says five lakh! But what did people care? He had gone mad—let him be. The house of the village was sold. One man bought the cat for five lakh; he bought the house for one rupee. The seller locked away the five lakhs in his safe, and distributed the one rupee among the poor. He had found the device. He had found the way.

Our prayer is false, our worship is false—because at the foundation we ourselves are false, therefore everything of ours is false—our knowledge, our religion, our prayer, our love—because at the foundation we are false. And a life built upon falsehood cannot be simple.

Do not ask, How shall we become simple? Know only how we have become complex. How we are becoming more and more complex every day.

Not a moment passes that we do not become more complex. Not an hour passes that we do not become more entangled. The whole life is a long tale of entanglement. Children are born simple and straight; old people die tied in knots. That is why all life long a man keeps looking back and thinking—How much happiness there was in childhood, how much bliss there was in childhood, how much peace there was in childhood. Now all is lost.

What was there in childhood? What happiness? What bliss? What peace?

The peace was this—that there was simplicity. The happiness—that there was simplicity. The bliss—that there was simplicity. As man goes on becoming complex, he becomes filled with sorrow and pain and anxiety. It ought to have been the opposite—that as a man’s age advances he would become more and more simple. And by the final moment he would become so simple that between his simplicity and the Lord not a distance remains, not a wall remains, not a knot remains, not a complex remains. But no—the opposite happens. The knots go on increasing day by day, go on increasing day by day. We all are gatherers of knots. For us, Paramatma cannot be simple. Therefore when religious teachers tell us that Paramatma is difficult, we agree completely: Rightly said—God is difficult.

I say to you, they speak untruth. Paramatma is not difficult; difficult are you. Do not thrust your difficulty upon Paramatma. Paramatma is not complex; complex are you. But whenever the fault is placed on the other, we become innocent and remain calm and at ease.

Recognize your difficulty; recognize your complexity. And the very recognition—and simplicity can begin. And I do not say it can begin tomorrow; it can begin now and here. You can return from here as a different man—this very moment. A different man—this very moment! Now and here!

But if you say, I will see tomorrow—complexity has begun. For postponing to tomorrow is the mark of the complex mind. Life does not wait for tomorrow; life is now and here. What may happen can happen now and here—this very moment! But what cannot happen in this very moment—you say, You are right; I will think, I will consider, I will ask; tomorrow I will do something. All the doors of complexity are opened. By thinking a man will go more into complexity. By doing he will go more into complexity. By postponing to tomorrow he will go more into complexity. Now and here—just see the complexity, recognize it—Where am I complex! Then whom will you tell?

A young sannyasi lives in an ashram. He is very disputatious, very argumentative; twenty-four hours debate and argument and debate—he is not silent even for a moment. Speaking, speaking, speaking. A stranger is visiting the ashram. The youth fell upon him—into debate, argument—he split every hair. The man was defeated, vanquished, and returned. The old master of the ashram sat silently watching, smiling, watching. When that stranger, defeated in debate, went away, the old man said to the young sannyasi, My son, how long—how long will you go on with this futile babble? How long will you go on with this futile babble? What will you gain by this babbling, by this argument? What is to be gained is gained through dialogue, and dialogue happens in silence. In argument there is no dialogue. In argument there is no communication. What will you gain? How long will you go on speaking futilely? How long will you play with words? Words have their chessboard; how long will you go on playing it? Speak!

The youth heard—as you are hearing—he too heard that his old master had said, How long will you go on speaking futilely? Speak, answer! The youth began to laugh; he did not answer. The master began to shake him—Speak, answer! The youth began to laugh; again he did not answer. He simply became silent. After that he lived thirty more years; he lived in silence. In that very moment the thing happened; when the thing is seen, it happens. He saw, This is right—How long shall I go on speaking futilely and wasting time? The thing was seen; then he did not even say, From tomorrow I will stop; I stop now. For what was the need even to say this? It stopped. In that very moment the thing happened.

The villagers were greatly troubled—that man who spoke the most, he has gone silent. People came to his master and said, He seems to be a great madman. The master said, Would that people were so mad—then the earth would become a paradise. The man we call clever goes on thinking and thinking and thinking—Tomorrow I will do it, tomorrow I will do it; in him the capacity to leap dissolves. And Truth is accessible only to those who have the capacity to leap and to stake.

So I have said this little thing. Man’s mind is complex. See the complexity; recognize your false faces. Recognize the testimonies you have given to false garments. Recognize that love which you have called love—and behind which hatred is sitting hidden. Recognize that knowledge which you have taken to be knowledge—where in fact there is no knowledge at all. And in the very seeing you will find that a wall has fallen, some rays have begun to descend, and the life-breath has become simple, has become guiltless, has become innocent.

Blessed are those who become simple, for Paramatma becomes their wealth. Blessed are those who become simple, for through the door of simplicity they receive all. Blessed are those who become simple, for the kingdom of Truth and the Lord is theirs. But unfortunate are those who are complex. And we all—we all are complex. Our misfortune, our ill-fate, is just this—that we go on entangling ourselves, go on entangling, go on entangling.

I have said this little thing; what remains on this subject I will say to you in the talks to come. One small incident more, and I will complete my talk.

Jesus Christ went to a village. The people of the village gathered. The village priest, the village pundit, the village doctor, the village teacher, the village merchants, the villagers, men and women—all gathered. They began to listen to Jesus. And Jesus began to say to them, The kingdom of God is very near. Do you wish to enter or not? That kingdom of God is very close. Do you wish to go there, or not?

They said, Our life-breath too longs for it, but who will be able to go? Who is worthy? Who will be able to enter the Lord’s kingdom? Who is qualified? Who is entitled?

Then Jesus looked at the religious head standing in front—No, he was not qualified; for he had the thought, I am a religious head—there was ego. Jesus looked at the wealthy man standing nearby—there was stiffness in his spine, his pocket was heavy, he had gold, wealth—he was something—No, no, he too cannot be worthy. Jesus’ eyes moved away from there also. Jesus looked toward the poor man—his mind had no imagination other than bread. In the rich man’s mind was the accounting of gold and silver; in the poor man’s mind was the accounting of bread. The religious head thought he knew. The village atheist was standing—he thought, There is no God; there is no kingdom of God. Who says there is?

Jesus’ eyes began to look at each person and then slip away—No, no, none of them is worthy. And upon whom did Jesus’ eyes then rest? Upon a child, who was quietly playing in the dust outside the crowd. He ran and went to him, lifted that dust-covered child up and held him aloft upon his shoulders, and said to the people, Listen—only those who become simple like this child—only they are the heirs to the kingdom of God.

Ask yourself tonight: Do you have the simplicity of a child? If not, then God is very difficult—then He cannot be simple. And if from within your being a child speaks up—Yes, I am ready; I am not dead. Despite all your efforts I have not died. In spite of all your falsehoods I am alive—despite you. Find me; your child is still present. Even tonight the doors can open. Any moment they can open.

You have listened to my words with such love and peace; for that I am deeply obliged. And in the end I bow down to the Paramatma sitting within all. Please accept my salutations.