Jevan Rahasya #5

Thought is a process; thought is a ladder. And there is a remarkable fact about ladders that must be understood. Very few people grasp even the simplest truths. The striking truth about a ladder is this: if you want to reach the roof, you must both climb the ladder and then step off it. You have to put your feet on the rungs and then you have to leave the ladder behind. If someone says, “I will certainly climb the ladder but I won’t get off it,” he will never reach the roof. And if someone says, “If I have to get off anyway, what is the point of climbing?” he too will never reach.

I have heard: a train stood at a station bound for Haridwar. Thousands were boarding. All over the platform there was only one cry: “Somehow get in! Push the luggage in! Grab a seat! Make room!” A few friends were surrounding a man, trying to persuade him. He kept asking, “What’s the point of getting on this train when I’ll have to get off at Haridwar anyway? If I must get off, why get on at all?” His logic sounded right. Often logic sounds perfectly right—only apparently so; at the foundation it isn’t. He was right in saying, “Why board a train you have to get off?”

His friends said, “The train is leaving; we have no time to argue. We’ll push you in.” They forced him aboard.

At Haridwar, the argument resumed. The man said, “Now that I’ve boarded, I won’t get off. If I climbed on with such effort, was it only to get down?”

His friends pleaded, “The train is about to go—are you getting off or not? Don’t be crazy.” There was no flaw in his argument. But life does not obey arguments; life has its own logic. The most delightful paradox of life is: whatever you use as a ladder, you must both hold it and relinquish it.

Thought is a process; one must take hold of thought—totally so—that the whole mind passes through the fire of thought. Then a moment comes when thought too has to be dropped. The ultimate experience of truth happens to a thought-free mind. Where even thought no longer remains, there truth is known.

You may say, “If truth is known by a thought-free mind, why think at all? If thought has to be dropped for a moment and one has to be without thought, why get into thinking? Why not remain without thought from the beginning?” But getting off at Haridwar and never boarding any train are two different matters. The one who never boards does not reach Haridwar.

The one who never thinks remains stuck in belief. Belief is blindness, and a blind person can never know truth. The one who does not think stands on belief and is therefore vulnerable—his eyes are bandaged; he can be exploited and misled. He will never reach truth. The first condition for reaching truth is: be free of belief.

What is belief? Someone says—and we accept; we do not know. Someone else knows—or claims to know—and we agree. Belief means: the eyes belong to someone else, the news of light comes from someone else. We do not see the light, we don’t have the eyes; we merely accept. Such acceptance is dangerous.

Ramakrishna used to tell this story. There was a blind man. Some friends invited him for a meal. While eating he kept asking, “What is this? And this? And this?” Delicious sweets had been prepared. He asked, “How is this sweet made? From what?” His friends said, “From milk.” The blind man asked, “What is milk? First explain milk to me.” They said, “You don’t know milk? What color is it? It’s white—like a heron. Have you seen a heron? A bird that flies? Milk is as white as that.”

The blind man said, “Why weave riddles into riddles? I don’t even know what a heron is. Explain the heron first!”

The friends did not think: to one without eyes you can explain neither milk nor a heron; nothing about color can be explained.

Then one friend had an idea. The blind man said, “Explain it in a way I can understand. I don’t know what a sweet is; you say milk. I don’t know what milk is; you say heron. What is a heron? You say white. What is whiteness?”

A friend came close, held out his arm and said, “Run your hand over my arm. See how it is shaped, curved? That is how a heron’s neck is.”

The blind man stroked the arm, jumped up dancing and said, “I’ve understood! Milk is like a bent arm!”

His friends with eyes smacked their foreheads: “What a mistake! It was better when you knew that you didn’t know—that at least was true. This ‘knowing’ is more dangerous—worse than not knowing.”

Second-hand knowledge is worse than one’s own ignorance, because another’s knowledge can never become your own. If a man has no eyes, it makes no difference that the whole world sees the light. The entire world cannot explain to one blind what light is like. Light can only be known, not explained. Beliefs rest on explanation, not on knowing. Hence all beliefs are false and dangerous.

We believe “God exists.” That belief is as false as the blind man’s saying “Milk is like a bent arm.” We have heard talk of God—Krishna says, Rama says, Christ says, Mohammed says—we have heard. On hearing, we have formed some notion of God. That notion is just as false as the blind man’s notion. The God of our notion is nowhere and never was. The blind man’s notion of light is nowhere and never can be. A blind man can only believe; he does not know.

Once, in a village, Buddha was staying. Some villagers brought a blind man to him and said, “We have tried to explain and failed. We tell him there is light; he won’t accept it. He makes arguments—blind men make many arguments, for they cannot know, they only argue. He says, ‘If there is light, let me touch it! Let me taste it! Let me smell it! Strike it so I can hear it!’ We have no way, because light can only be known by the eyes, not by ears, hands, nose or tongue. We are defeated. We know there is light—we see it—but we cannot prove it.”

What can a seeing man prove to a blind man? Nothing. If the blind man agrees to believe, that’s another matter—but then he errs, because what he agrees to he has not known, and belief will never make it known.

Buddha said, “Why have you brought him to me? If I too were blind, I would also say ‘Let me touch it.’ If you were blind, you would say the same. Don’t take him to a thinker; take him to a physician. He needs treatment, not preaching. His eyes must be healed.”

There is only one way to know light: the eye. Belief cannot stand in for eyes. And if a blind man does ‘accept,’ what difference does it make? Will acceptance make him see? Will it open his eyes? Will it give him the experience of light? Nothing will happen. Only one thing will happen: he will remain blind and yet imagine that he knows light—which is very dangerous.

They took him to a vaidya. By good fortune, he had a cataract—within six months of medicine it dissolved. He danced through the village, knocking on every door, crying, “There is light!” He came to Buddha too, fell at his feet, weeping, “There is light!” Buddha said, “Let me touch it.” The man said, “Can one touch light?” Buddha said, “Let me taste it.” The man pleaded, “Don’t make fun of me. Those were the arguments of a blind man. Now my eyes are open; I know those arguments were wrong. But that was the fault of my blindness, not mine. And if I had believed then, that belief too would have been false, because what I have known today, I could not even have imagined—literally inconceivable.”

For a blind man even darkness is unimaginable. You think a blind man cannot see light—then you are mistaken: a blind man cannot even see darkness, for darkness too is a perception of the eye, the felt absence of light. Without eyes, even darkness is not seen. If he cannot conceive darkness, how will we hand him a conception of light?

Yet we all cling to beliefs in the realm of life. These beliefs are dangerous. Let belief go; let thought come. But this does not mean that through thinking truth will be known. No. The function of thought is negative. Through thinking you will discover what is not true. Through thought, you will see what is not truth. As the Upanishads say: neti, neti—“not this, not that.” Thought reveals: this too is not truth, that too is not truth. But thought will never tell you what truth is.

A moment will come when what is untrue has been seen through; thought will be tired, exhausted in its search, and still truth will not be found. Then, in the final state, thought too drops. And what awakens then is called discernment—vivek. That discernment experiences truth.

Thought is a process, a path that brings you to vivek; and vivek is the door through which truth is experienced.

So, as I said yesterday: thinking is necessary; stopping at belief is not. Whether you want revolution in society or in the individual—whether you wish to turn a glass of water into steam or the whole ocean—the formula is one. How much water you boil is not the point; the principle is the same.

A society that has halted at belief can never be revolutionary; a person who has halted at belief can never be revolutionary. One must pass through the fire of thought. But by thought alone no one reaches truth. There comes a time when you must climb the ladder of thought, and a time when you must let it go. The day thought too drops, what remains is called discernment, prajna, meditation, samadhi. There we know what is. To know what is, is to pass through a revolution.

The day a blind man knows light, do you think he remains the same man who did not know light? No. Knowing brings transformation. The more we truly know, the more we are transformed; we become new.

Consider for a moment: if our eyes were shut, ears closed, nose blocked, no touch, all senses sealed—what would we be? What would our experience be? What difference between us and a stone?

In the animal world the evolution we see is the evolution of the senses. Whose capacity to know has grown more rises higher among animals. But beyond the senses there are suprasensory doors, available when, free of belief and free of thought, discernment opens. What is known in the blaze of that discernment is what we call God. What is recognized by that path is what we call Truth. And Truth brings revolution; it transforms the whole of life—whether individual or social.

Therefore I said: let belief go, let thought come. And when does thought come? When we gather the courage to doubt. The courage to doubt is the very life-breath of thought. Only one who can doubt can think. But for thousands of years we have been taught, “Do not doubt.” Not merely “do not”—we have been taught that doubting is wrong. We have been initiated into blind acceptance. Hence thought does not arise. Doubt is wondrous; it is the mark of every thoughtful person. And one who cannot doubt is not religious.

Until now it has been said: the believer is religious. I say to you: the believer is not religious; the doubter is.

Why? Because one who doubts thinks. And it is astonishing but true: the doubter one day reaches truth; the believer never does. Belief means the journey has been stopped. Belief means: we have accepted; the journey is over. The one who does not accept, his journey continues. He says, “Not this, not this. I shall search further, and further I shall go.”

In a village, a fakir was staying. Villagers asked him to come and explain God. He said, “No one has ever explained anything about God. What will I explain? Forgive me.” They insisted, and he went to the mosque. The whole village gathered. He stood and said, “Before I say anything, let me ask: Do you know that God is? Do you believe?” Everyone raised their hands.

The fakir said, “The matter is finished. If you already know, there is nothing for me to say. Beyond knowing God there is nothing else to know. So what shall I speak?”

No one actually knew; their raised hands were false. Our hands too rise falsely—and we don’t even realize how much falsehood passes in the name of religion! If a man raises his hand falsely for religion, how will he be true in life? When someone asks, “Is there God?” and we say yes, have we thought that we are saying yes without knowing? That yes is false. If the foundational yes is false, the entire so-called religious life becomes false—because the foundation is false. They have said yes to what they do not know—without seeking, without thinking, without recognizing.

The fakir left. Next Sunday they begged again. He said, “But last time everyone knew; there is no need for me where all are knowers.” This country is like that—here everyone is a “knower,” so there is no need for knowledge; hence knowledge has stagnated. India has been stuck for three thousand years; its knowledge does not advance because all have become “knowers.” The truly unknowing advance knowledge—because they search. Those who think “we know” stop seeking; they live and die, but knowledge does not move.

They insisted, “We are different people.” He said, “Faces look familiar—but all right. Religious people are unpredictable; they can change any moment. Just now reading the Gita, next moment they may pull a knife. Just now reciting the Quran in the mosque, looking very innocent; a little later they may set a house on fire. There’s no telling with ‘religious’ people.”

It is hard to find a more dishonest personality than the so-called religious man. Even the irreligious often have some honesty, some sincerity. The atheist has a certain strength and truthfulness; the theist often lacks even that. That is why, in the name of atheists, you will find no record of crimes—no burned houses, no massacres. But in the name of theists there has been such a stream of murder and sin that one might be astonished and pray to God: “When will the world turn atheist? Do something; otherwise these crimes will not cease.” It is astonishing!

He went again, stood on the pulpit, and asked, “Is there a God? Do you believe?” They had decided to say, “There is no God; we do not believe; we do not know. Now speak!”

The fakir said, “The matter is finished. What is the point of speaking about what is not? And you think you have changed the case—you have not. Last time you claimed knowledge by saying ‘We know God is.’ Now you claim knowledge again by saying ‘There is no God.’ That too is a claim to know. The matter is over; you are knowers, and I can do nothing.”

Nothing can be done with “knowers.” No one is more dead than a pundit. Once the illusion “I know” arises, life is finished—for life is change, life is the search to know more, and it is endless. There never comes a moment when anyone can say, “Enough—knowing is finished.”

The fakir left; the villagers were troubled. “What kind of man is this? What shall we do?” He had created a taste; it felt as though if he spoke, it would be meaningful. For both his gestures had felt meaningful. He spoke truth. “But what now?” They had one device left—a third option. Once they had said yes; once they had said no; now they could compromise between the two.

They went a third time. He said, “Why?” “We have come again, but we are a third group.” He said, “Friends, the faces look exactly the same.” “That is your mistake, your illusion. The village is big.”

He went, stood again, and asked, “Is there God, or not?” They had decided: half would say yes; half would say no. Half raised their hands: “There is God; we believe; we are theists.” Half said, “We are thorough atheists; we do not believe. Now speak!”

The fakir said, “How foolish you are! Let those who know explain to those who don’t. What is my use? Why did you bring me? In this mosque both types are present—those who know and those who do not. Settle it among yourselves.” He stepped down and left.

They did not go a fourth time, for there is no fourth answer. But when the fakir was leaving the village months later, they came to see him off and asked, “Could there have been a fourth answer? Because you kept asking us to come again.”

He said, “There could have been. Had you given the fourth answer, I would certainly have spoken.”

“What is the fourth?” they asked.

“My answer cannot be your answer,” he said, “but I’ll tell you as I depart—remember, my answer cannot be yours; only your own answer can be yours. Still, hear it.”

“If I had asked and you had remained silent—no answer at all—I would have had to speak. Your silence would have told me you know nothing—neither yes nor no. That it is utterly unknown; you cannot say anything at all; you cannot even form a notion of what ‘God’ might mean. Had you remained silent, I would have had to speak. But you went on speaking—and your speaking showed you are under the illusion of knowing. One who is ignorant can come to know; a pundit never can. The ignorant has humility—he says, ‘I do not know.’ His doors are open. The ‘knower’ has shut his doors from within.”

That is why I say: belief produces pseudo-knowledge—not knowledge; false knowing. And false knowing is dangerous. Think—and destroy pseudo-knowledge. Thought will not give you knowledge; it will destroy the false. Like using one thorn to remove another: you pull out the thorn of belief with the thorn of thought—and then you throw both thorns away.

Cast out the thorn of belief through the process of thought. Then even the process of thought becomes useless. Both thorns are thrown away. What remains? What remains is consciousness, awareness, discernment, prajna. That prajna experiences truth. The experience of truth is revolutionary. Whether in society or the individual, without the experience of truth there is no revolution. That is why I say: until now there has been no revolution in the world—only pseudo-revolutions. Even the greatest “revolutions” were not revolutions. What happened in Russia, in China, in France—none was a revolution; all were pseudo.

Why do I call them pseudo? Because they do not change life; they merely shift the burden from one shoulder to the other. New names for the disease begin. In Russia the poor man disappeared, the rich man disappeared; in their place two new classes arose: the people and the power-holders. The classes remain. Yesterday the factory was run by an owner; today it is run by a manager—the power is the same. No revolution has happened; only classes have been rearranged, names changed, new classes installed. Because these “revolutions” did not arise from the vision of truth; they arose from beliefs. Old beliefs were replaced by new beliefs. And then the “revolution” re-established the old structure in new forms and names.

We mistake a change of name for revolution. Names change, and we think everything has changed. We start calling the untouchable a “Harijan”—a “child of God”—and think all has changed. The word untouchable was better, because there was a sting in it, and that sting could one day bring revolution. “Harijan” is dangerous—too sweet; no revolution arises against sweet words. Now an untouchable feels a kind of pride in saying, “We are Harijan.” Saying “untouchable” gave no pride; it hurt—and hurt can kindle revolution. “Harijan” is said with a swagger—as if others are not God’s people and only he is. Words prove dangerous.

Around 1952, in the Himalayan foothills, the nilgai—the blue bull antelope—had multiplied and was ravaging crops. But the word nilgai literally means “blue cow,” and since “cow” is sacred, they could not shoot them—Hindu orthodoxy would be inflamed. What to do? A clever man in Parliament suggested, “First change their name to nilghoda—‘blue horse’—then we will shoot.” The suggestion was passed. Nilgai became nilghoda, and the culling began; no one objected. The animal itself never knew its name had changed.

Human dishonesty has no limits. No one raised a question: “What is the harm in killing a blue horse?” Let them be killed—what have we to do with horses! Only the cow is “mother,” and only she must be saved. Change even the cow’s name, and she too could be shot—because our book says, “Cow is mother.” If the name is changed, there will be no problem.

This is the mind of man—it does not make revolutions; it changes words. It changes the labels of classes, shifts one thing from this corner to that, and calls it revolution. That is not revolution; it is new arrangement.

Revolution will not come into the human world until the energy of thought seizes life as a whole, until the fire of doubt is lit under every value, until all burns and discernment awakens. From that discernment comes revolution.

People ask, “How will we bring revolution?” Revolution is not to be brought. When discernment awakens, revolution comes—it is the consequence of vivek.

If a house is full of blind people, the blind ask, “Where is the door?” But in a house of those with eyes, no one asks, “Where is the door?” When it is time to go out, they just go. He does not even notice, “I am passing through the door.” He does not have to search. Eyes see, and one goes out. For a man with eyes, going through the doorway is effortless. But the blind man asks, “Where is the door? Left or right? Where is my stick? Hold my hand so I don’t bump the wall!” If we tell him, “When your eyes are healed you won’t need a stick,” he will say, “How is that possible? How will I find the door?” Tell him, “When your eyes are healed you will walk out without asking,” he will say, “How can anyone go without asking?”

People ask, “How will revolution happen?” I do not say “how” at all. That is not the question. The question is: let that element which brings revolution awaken within; then revolution happens. Then you cannot remain the same person you were. You begin to see. And a seeing person does not bang his head against walls. The day discernment awakens, that day he will not remain a Hindu, nor a Muslim—because “Hindu” and “Muslim” are signs of blindness. That day he will remain only a human being. And he will not ask, “How should I forget being Hindu? How should I stop being Muslim?” He will simply see: those were walls, not doors—walls on which we bruised our heads and bled; nothing more. Religion has nothing to do with Hindu, Muslim, Jain. How can a religious person be Hindu, Muslim or Jain? A religious person can only be a human being. And if one is truly religious, then India and Pakistan look like children’s games. The earth is not divided anywhere; it is divided only on maps.