Jevan Rahasya #6

The chief minister of a great state had died. The rule of that state was: the chief minister would be chosen by searching out the most intelligent man in the land.
Examinations were held across the country. Three intelligent men were found. There would be a final test, and whosoever proved the most intelligent among the three would become the grand vizier. For the final test the three came to the capital.
They must have been anxious; it was a matter of life and death. All three wished they could somehow find out what question would be asked in the test. When they came into the city they were even more astonished: every single resident of the capital already knew what the examination would be. Whoever they asked said, Be at ease. The king had a building made long ago. Tomorrow the three of you will be shut inside it. On the door of that building he has had a lock fitted that has no key; the lock is a mathematical puzzle. The numerals of the puzzle are engraved on the lock itself. Whoever solves the puzzle will open the door and come out. And whoever comes out first will become the grand vizier.
None of the three were thieves who understood locks, nor engineers, nor even mathematicians. One of them simply went to his lodging, pulled a sheet over himself, and went to sleep. The other two friends thought perhaps he had given up the idea of taking the test. The two were very worried. They ran about the capital, met locksmiths, met mathematicians, met engineers, brought a few books of puzzles. They read the books all night. It was strange: they had never thought about locks — how would they open one! They did not sleep at all. It was only one night — and tomorrow, for the whole of life, a great wealth, a great honor, a great post could be attained. The two prepared the whole night through. So much preparation, no sleep, books upon books, puzzles, mathematics — by morning they were in that condition in which exam takers often are: if someone had asked them how much two and two make, they could not have answered.
Then they set out for the royal palace. The companion who had slept arose, sang a song, bathed, and went along behind them. The two thought: What will this man do? He has made no preparation. But many times it happens that those who do not prepare accomplish something; and many times those who prepare fall behind.
The three reached the royal palace. The rumor was true. They were shut up in a room. And the emperor said, This lock is on the door, there is no key to it. If anyone solves the puzzle whose figures are engraved upon it, come on out. Whoever comes out first will become vizier. I will wait outside.
The three were locked in. Two had hidden books in their clothes. They took them out and began to solve the problem. The one who had slept all night sat down again in a corner with closed eyes. The two were astonished: Why has this man come? He slept all night; and now, when it is time to solve the problem, he still sits with eyes closed. What has happened to him? But there was no point in worrying about him. It was actually good that he would not participate, would not compete. Good — let the decision be between the two. They set to work on the problem.
That man sat for half an hour. He did nothing at all. He sat utterly still; his hands and feet did not move, not even the lids of his eyes. Then suddenly he rose, went to the door, and pushed it. The door had no lock on it, it was merely latched. He stepped out. The emperor brought him back inside and said, Friends, now close it. The one who had to come out has come.
The two were greatly astonished. They said, This man who did nothing came out! How did he get out?
The emperor said, There was no lock — the door was only stuck. And we are examining intelligence. The first mark of intelligence is this: before solving a question, first find out whether there is a question at all. If there is no question, then by any attempt it can never be solved. If there is a question, it may be solved. But you did not show the first sign of intelligence. You did not even care to see whether the door was closed or open. You set to work to open it. How could you open it? If a door is closed, it can be opened; if it is already open, then there is no way, no method, to open it. This man has shown the sign of intelligence. He first examined whether the door was closed or open. We will make him vizier.
The two asked the man, How did you think to check whether the door was closed or open?
The man said, At night, as soon as I heard a lock had to be opened, I told myself: whatever I know, none of my knowledge can help solve this puzzle — because whatever I know, whatever I have known, whatever information I possess can only solve those questions with which I am familiar. The unfamiliar can never be solved on the basis of familiar knowledge. The unknown can never be solved on the foundation of known knowledge. The unexperienced can never be resolved through what is already experienced. What we know, we can solve by means of what we have learned before. But if there is a question that is unfamiliar, unknown, unknowable — it cannot be solved by the known. So I thought there is only one way: let me calm my mind and even forget what I know. Perhaps then a glimpse of what I do not know may arise in my life-breath, in my mind. All night I tried to forget what I know — lest, because of what I know, my knowledge erect a wall between the unknown and my mind. You spent the night gathering knowledge; I spent the night dropping knowledge. All night I tried to become utterly empty, like a clean slate that knows nothing. That is why I lay silent all night. Even here, after bathing, I continued the same effort — that everything I know fall away from me, so the mind become pure and still. Only a silent mind can find the solution to a new question — not a restless mind. And a mind crammed full of knowledge is very restless. So I sat for a while and let everything be forgotten. And as soon as I forgot all, suddenly from within I felt that the door is not locked — it is open. I got up and went out. I do not know how it happened.
Why have I told this little story? I want to tell it because those who want to know the truth of life also sit opening scriptures — and never know the truth of life. Those who want to know life, who want to open the door of life, sit with books and words; they become filled with words, become learned — yet ignorance does not disappear. They become pundits, but the door of prajna does not open. They come to know everything, and yet know nothing. They remain confined within books, words, scriptures, doctrines. And that door of life which is not locked at all — remains closed. That which is always open does not open for them. To see it, one must become like that third man — forget what you know, let what you have learned slip into oblivion; become quiet, become silent — so that in a moment of silence the openness of life’s door can be seen.
There was a great musician in Germany, Wegner. At his door musicians from all over the world came to learn. He had put up a board at his doorway. On it he had written: Those who know absolutely nothing of music — the fee is this much. Those who already know music — the fee is double. And those who are very great pundits of music — I do not teach them at all.
People would ask him, Have you gone mad? You won’t teach the music pundit?
Wegner would say, A pundit must first drop his punditry; only then can he learn. One who is occupied with the idea “I know” cannot learn. Those who have learned a little must first forget what they have learned. For months I have to work with them — forget the old, so that you can learn the new. To learn the new, forgetting the old is necessary. Yes, the newcomers who have learned nothing — I teach them for a small fee.
Wegner was right.
There was Raman Maharshi in the South. A German thinker, Okbarn, came to meet him and began to ask, I want to know God. What should I learn? What should I learn, so that I may know God?
Raman said to him, Do not learn; unlearn what you have learned — and you will know God. Unlearn. Do not talk about learning. Forget even what you know.
It sounds inverted. The man was shocked. He said, Even forget what I know? How will I know God through that?
Raman said, If you forget what you have learned, your mind will become light, unburdened. The stones of knowledge lying upon it will be removed; your mind will become so light that you can rise upward. A light mind rises; an empty mind rises.
As when some dust has gathered upon a mirror, then the reflection does not appear — so it is with the human mind. If the dust of knowledge settles upon it — and remember, only one dust settles upon the human mind, the dust of knowledge — if that dust settles, then in the mirror of the mind the reflection of Paramatma never appears.
This is what I want to say to you: if you remain “knowers” — and we are all “knowers”, for we all think we know something without actually knowing anything. What do we know? We do not even know ourselves — and knowing anything else is a far-off matter. One who does not know himself, what else would he know? Yet we are under the illusion that we know very much. That illusion of knowing very much covers the mirror of the mind like dust. In that mirror the reflection of Paramatma, of Truth, never forms. And those whom we call seekers of God — they are even more stuffed with books.
A sannyasin had set out in search of God and stopped at an ashram. He stayed there fifteen days, then grew bored. The old guru of that ashram knew a few small things; every day he repeated the same. Then the young sannyasin thought, This guru is not worthy of me; I will go elsewhere. Here there are only a few things, and their repetition. I shall leave this ashram tomorrow morning; this place is not suited to me.
But that very night an event occurred — and then that young sannyasin never left that ashram for the rest of his life. What happened? Another sannyasin arrived as a guest. At night all the friends of the ashram gathered, all the sannyasins gathered, to listen to the new guest. The new sannyasin spoke great knowledge — spoke of the Upanishads, spoke of the Vedas. He knew so much, his analysis was so subtle, his knowledge so deep, that he spoke for two hours. Everyone listened, spellbound. Then in the mind of the young sannyasin arose: A guru should be like this. From him something can be learned. That old one — he sits silently; he knows nothing. Having just heard, the old one must be feeling great sorrow, repentance, shame — that I have known nothing, and this stranger knows so much.
The young sannyasin thought, Today the old guru must be feeling very, very inferior in his heart. Just then the visiting sannyasin stopped, and asked the old guru, How did you find my talk?
The old guru burst into laughter and said, Your talk? I have been trying to listen for two hours — you aren’t speaking at all. You aren’t speaking at all.
The sannyasin said, I have been speaking for two hours — are you insane? You say I am not speaking?
The old man said, Yes — the Gita speaks from within you, the Upanishads speak, the Vedas speak. But you do not speak, not even a little. In all this time you have not spoken a single word. Not one word did you speak; all that was spoken was learned, was remembered. Not a single word that was truly known by you did you speak. Therefore I say you are not speaking; books are speaking through you.
There is a knowledge that is borrowed, that we learn. Through such knowledge the truth of life is never known. The truth of life is known only by those who are free of borrowed knowledge. And we are all filled with borrowed knowledge. We have information about God. And what can we possibly know about God when we do not even know ourselves? We have information about moksha. We have information about all the truths of life. And we have no knowledge about the small truth that we are. Those who do not know themselves — what value can their knowledge have?
Yet we carry such knowledge. And taking this knowledge to be knowing, we live — and are ruined. Man is born in ignorance and dies in false knowledge; knowing is never attained. There are two kinds of people in the world: the ignorant, and those ignorant ones who are under the illusion that they are knowing. A third kind of man is rarely born. But unless one becomes that third kind of man, there can be neither happiness nor peace in his life. Because where there is no Truth, happiness is impossible. Happiness is the shadow of Truth. In a life without Truth, music is impossible — for all music arises from the veena of Truth. In a life without Truth, beauty is impossible — for beauty is not the name of garments, nor of the body. Beauty is the dignity born of the realization of Truth. And a life without Truth will be a life of powerlessness, of impotence, of nissattva — for there is no power in the world other than Truth.
We are all ugly, half-dead, unlovely — rotting and decaying, moving day by day toward death. We do not even know that we are not truly alive. For until Truth is found there is no life. Only one who finds Truth finds life; one who does not find Truth lives in death, falls into death, is destroyed in death.
There is no life apart from Truth.
There was an emperor, Ibrahim. He took sannyas and, outside a village at a crossroads, built a hut and began to live there. But quarrels erupted at that hut every day. Because anyone who came to that hut would ask, Which way is the settlement? Two roads went from there — one toward the town, one toward the cremation ground. Whoever asked the fakir at the crossroads — he was at the crossroads, and no one else was — Which way is the settlement?
The fakir would say, Go to the left; do not go right. The right-hand road goes to the cremation ground.
People would go left — and after walking three miles they would arrive at the cremation ground. Then they would be furious: What kind of man is this? He plays jokes upon strangers on the road! They would walk three miles back in anger and seize him: What kind of man are you? You said so emphatically: Go left; left is the settlement. And we went left. You forbade us: Do not go right; the right-hand road is the cremation ground. What kind of man are you?
Ibrahim would say, Then our definitions must be different. What you call the settlement I call the cremation ground — because there everyone is sitting preparing to die. Today someone will die, tomorrow someone else, the day after another. And what you call the cremation ground, I call the settlement — because whosoever settles there, truly settles. He is never again uprooted; he never goes from there. Why did you not first say which settlement you meant? For settlement means a place where, upon settling, one is never uprooted. We call the cremation ground the true settlement.
Those who know will not call us living. They will say: we are dying people. And what else is our life? From the day we are born, dying begins. Our entire life is a long process of dying — a gradual process of death. Slowly, slowly, we go on dying. After birth what else does man do but die?
But we think death comes sometime, suddenly, after seventy years.
Death does not come like that — all at once, seventy years later. Death walks beside us every day. Daily we die, daily we grow old. Each day something slips away from life — the foundational stones, the bricks of life — and death keeps advancing. One day death is complete. What we call the coming of death is not death’s coming; it is death’s completion. As a seed grows and becomes a tree, so birth grows and becomes death. And from a birth out of which death emerges, can that birth be called life? And a birth whose final outcome is death — what shall we call it? Shall we call it a long process of dying, or shall we call it life?
An emperor was sleeping at night and had a dream. He saw a dark shadow standing with her hand upon his shoulder. He was very frightened and asked, Who are you?
In the dream the dark shadow said, I am Death, and this evening I come to take you. Be at the right place at the right time. Be mindful of the time — as the sun sets, as the light goes.
The emperor awoke in panic. He wished he had asked Death to tell the place as well — the time had been given. Not so that he could reach that place, but so that he could avoid reaching that place. Lest by mistake he arrive there. But sleep had broken, the dream had shattered, Death was no longer present. He was very alarmed. It was midnight. Even then he had a proclamation beaten through the town: Whoever knows the meaning of dreams, come.
There were many learned men in that capital; they came. And they began to interpret the dream. Now asking pundits the meaning of anything is never free of danger — because one pundit will tell one meaning, which another will never tell. A third will offer a third meaning. To be a pundit means to differ. They all began to interpret differently. They opened their books and began to draw meanings from the shastras. Morning came, the sun rose. The king grew more anxious. For when he had awakened from the dream, the dream seemed fairly clear; after listening to the pundits, there was more confusion — now he understood nothing of its meaning.
Then the sun climbed higher, and the pundits’ dispute rose along with the sun. Coming to a conclusion was far off; there was no hope they would arrive at one. Then the king’s old servant whispered in his ear, Maharaj, do not be entangled in their talk. For five or ten thousand years pundits have been thinking — but they have never reached a conclusion. Pundits do not arrive at conclusions. Evening will come quickly; the sun will set. Who knows — perhaps the vision of that dark shadow occurred right in this palace, perhaps Death comes to this very building. Best is this: let the pundits go on deciding; you mount your horse and get as far away from this palace as you can.
The king said, That is right. The pundits can decide later; later I will find out. But for now I must save myself from the evening.
He had a swift horse; he mounted and fled. Many times he had said to his wife, Without you I cannot live even a moment. But today, as he fled on the horse, no memory of his wife arose. He had said to many friends, You are the apple of my eyes. If you are there, I breathe; if you are there, there is fragrance; if you are not, nothing is. Without you I cannot live. But today not a single friend came to mind. There was only one remembrance — of himself.
In the moment of death only the self is remembered. And all life long we remember others — therefore life is squandered. Those who remember themselves in the moments of life, their lives become meaningful. But at the moment of dying, people remember themselves — and all life long they remember others. Life becomes futile, and at the moment of death nothing can be done. To do something, time is needed; and the moment of death means: time is no more.
He fled. He fled the whole day, did not stop to eat, did not stop for water. To stop was dangerous. The farther he could get from the palace the better. He had a fast horse; by evening he had gone hundreds of miles. In a garden he tethered the horse. The sun was setting; he was very happy. He patted the horse’s back and said, Well done! Today, when no one else was of any use to me, you proved useful. You are my true friend; you are my companion. My thanks to you — you saved me and brought me away.
Just then a dark shadow placed her hand upon his shoulder from behind. Terrified, he turned and saw — the same shadow! And Death said, I too want to thank your horse. I too was anxious. It was ordained that you die at this place; would you be able to arrive at the right place at the right time or not? I too was worried. Your horse is swift — it brought you to the right place at the right time. Truly, your horse is worthy of thanks.
He fled from morning to evening — and arrived in the very mouth of that from which he was fleeing. All life long we try to escape death — and reach straight into death. Do not be frightened that only the rich reach there on their horses. The horses of the poor also take them there. Those who go on foot arrive; those who fly in airplanes arrive. At the right place at the right time, every person arrives. There is never any mistake in this — because the beginning of birth is the beginning of death; with birth, dying has already begun.
And this we call life? Hence life is suffering; hence life is a pain; hence life is anxiety and restlessness. What is life other than a tension? A tension in which the life-breath trembles; moment to moment — sorrow, and sorrow, and sorrow. A tension in which nothing comes to the hand other than tears. A tension in which no event occurs other than accidents. What is life? A dream — and that too a painful dream, a nightmare.
If this kind of life is to be changed, it cannot be changed without the direct vision of Truth. And life is like this precisely because we have no scent of Truth at all. Truth means life — we have no taste even of life itself. We keep looking outward and cannot even glance within, where the source of life is.
Dharma is the science of knowing the source of life. Dharma is methodology, is method, is science, is art — of knowing that which is truly life: the life that has no death; the life where there is no sorrow; the life where there is neither birth nor an end; the life that always is, always was, and always will be. The search for that life is Dharma. That very life is named Paramatma. Paramatma is not some person sitting in the sky. Paramatma is the collective name of total life, the totality. The art of knowing such life — that is Dharma.
But what do we know in the name of religion?
In the name of religion we know scriptures. In the name of religion we know words. In the name of religion we know doctrines. One has memorized the Gita, one the Koran, one the Bible — and thinks religion has happened. No — from words, religion does not happen. One who takes words to be Truth is like a man who takes pebbles and stones to be diamonds and pearls. One who takes words to be Truth is like a man in whose dictionary it is written “horse,” and he takes that to be the horse.
No one rides upon a dictionary horse. The horse is tied in the stable — and there nothing is written “horse”; there only the horse is tied. And the horse may not even know that it is called “horse.” In the dictionary it is written “horse.” And there are such intelligent ones who will mount the dictionary and say, Horse, carry me.
No — not even a small child mounts the dictionary horse. But upon the dictionary’s God most people go on praying; and they stand with folded hands before the dictionary’s God. They take the dictionary to be Truth; they read scriptures and take doctrines to be Truth.
This entire knowledge is like this: a man reads many books about swimming, becomes a knower of swimming, and if needed earns a Ph.D. in swimming, writes books, gives lectures. But never, even by mistake, push such a man into a river — for that man can do everything, but he cannot swim. Swimming learned from a book does not work in the river. Yes, if another book is to be written, it may come in handy.
So some people read books and go on making new books. In the world the pile of books keeps increasing, but knowing does not increase. Because knowing does not come from books; knowing comes from life within — from the wells hidden within oneself. But there we never look. We bring trash from outside and carry it within. On the contrary, our knowledge covers our inner knowing and does not allow it to emerge.
In a man’s life, knowing is like water beneath the ground. And someone can dig a well, take the earth and stones out and throw them away. What does one do in digging a well? He removes earth and stones. Water? Water is within. As soon as the earth and stones are removed, it appears. What is a well? A hole, an emptiness, a hollow space. We created a hollow space — and the inner water began to manifest.
But some people do not make a well; some build a tank. A tank is exactly the opposite. A well must be dug into the ground; a tank must be raised up. For a well you must remove earth and stones; for a tank you must bring them from the market. Bring stones and earth, build walls, join them, stand them up. If a well is dug, one does not have to go begging for water — water comes of its own. When the tank is ready, then bring water too; now go to the neighbors’ wells and beg water on loan and fill your tank. To look at, a tank and a well seem similar. There is water in the tank, and water in the well. But the well has its own water; the tank has no water of its own.
In the well’s water there is life — the well’s water is living. It has relations with the ocean; its far-off currents spread; it is connected with the infinite. The tank is connected with nothing — it is closed upon itself on all sides; it has no relationship with anything. The well knows very well: the water is not mine, it belongs to the ocean. The tank believes the water is mine.
Now see the jest: all the water of the tank is on loan — yet the tank feels, The water is mine. The well’s water is not borrowed, it is its own — yet the well knows, What of mine! I am only a passage of manifestation. The water is the ocean’s, the sky’s — it comes from afar and fills me. I am only an empty space in which the water appears.
The well has no ego; the tank has ego. If water remains standing, the tank’s water will rot; the well’s water will not rot. If you draw the water out, the tank will be emptied — it will stand naked and dry. Draw from the well, and fresh water will arrive.
I have heard wells crying, Come, someone, draw my water! And tanks also crying and weeping, Stay away — do not draw our water! Bring and pour a little more.
And there are two kinds of human beings as well. One kind is like the tank, who fill their skulls with borrowed knowledge. They have nothing of their own. And there are those who do not borrow knowledge, who dig within and attain the well of knowing. The jnani are those in whom, like a well, water manifests; and the pundit are those who are like tanks.
Therefore a pundit can never come to know Truth. The ignorant may know — but the pundit cannot. I have not heard that a pundit ever reached the door of God. Not till today; and never in the future — because all that the pundit has is borrowed. A borrower cannot reach anywhere. All is borrowed, all is stale, all is dead — the words of others.
If we want to become pundits, it is very easy. But if we want to be available to knowing, it is a little difficult — arduous, a little tapasya. Because to be a pundit one has to collect. Collecting is easy, for collecting gives great pleasure to the mind. As the collection increases, it seems: I am something. Money piles up — a man feels, I am something. Knowledge piles up — he feels, I am something. By the piling up of anything, the ego becomes strong, and it seems: I am somebody. Therefore collecting is always easy, because through collecting the “I” is fabricated; the ego becomes strong. But to one who wants knowing, it is a little difficult, arduous, an austerity — because there one has to leave off collecting. And to leave off wealth is easy; to leave off knowledge is very difficult — because knowledge seems like inner wealth; it seems to be our support.
But if we ever look within, there is no knowledge there in truth — we are utterly empty and ignorant. We are clutching false knowledge. And as long as we are holding this false knowledge, we will go on opening our books and asking, Where is the door of God? How to open the door of God? Where is the key of knowledge? Where is the key? Where shall we go? Whom shall we ask? Whom shall we make our guru? Who will give us the key so we can open the door? So long we remain entangled in our books — and in our punditry.
But there is another way. Do not ask anyone. Do not go to anyone’s door — neither to any scripture nor to any guru. Neither scripture has knowledge to give, nor guru. Knowing is within each one — within oneself. There is the scripture; there is the guru; there sits Paramatma himself. Whom are you asking?
But to go there you will have to fall silent; you will have to close your eyes; you will have to drop all that you think you know. And the one who is ready to drop everything — his knowledge — the one who is ready to relinquish what he “knows,” that man becomes available to knowing. For then he finds that there is no lock on the door; the door is open. Give it a push — and it opens.
Jesus has said, Knock, and the door shall be opened unto you. Ask, and it shall be given.
Jesus says, Knock, and the door will open. But I say, There is not even any need to knock. For the door is not locked. Open your eyes and you will find the door already open. But the eyes do not open — books are laid upon the eyes, scriptures upon the eyes. Hindu, Muslim, Christian — everyone has scriptures placed upon his chest, and each person is crushed beneath the scriptures.
We have been given ready-made answers by the scriptures. And ready-made answers are the most dangerous — because because of them no one seeks his own answer.
One small story, and I will complete what I have to say.
Ready-made answers are the most dangerous; for ready-made answers make you “knowing,” but ready-made answers never allow your consciousness to develop.
You must have heard a story. There was a man, a trader. He sold caps in the bazaars. One day, returning after selling caps, he slept beneath a tree. The monkeys came down, put on his caps, and climbed up. When his sleep broke, he was shocked — Where have the caps gone? He looked up — the monkeys sat wearing them. It was a great difficulty — how to get the caps back? Then it occurred to him that monkeys are imitators. He took off his own cap and threw it down. All the monkeys threw their caps down. He gathered all the caps and went home. This much story you have heard. But it is only half the story. There is another half — let me tell you that too.
Then that trader died; his son became a trader. The son also began selling caps. He too stopped beneath the same tree. The monkeys came down, put on the caps, and climbed up. The son looked up and remembered his father’s story. He had a ready-made answer. He thought: Father had said that if you throw your cap, the monkeys throw theirs. He took off his cap and threw it down. But unfortunately, a monkey came down, put on his cap as well, and climbed up. The monkeys did not throw their caps — for they had understood from the first affair and had decided: now we shall never again make such a mistake; the trader tricked us once. But the son had a ready-made answer; he had made his father’s knowledge his own. He fell into trouble.
All sons fall into trouble by making their fathers’ knowledge their own — because knowledge can never become someone else’s. Knowledge is never borrowed. It cannot be borrowed. What is borrowed is worse than ignorance.
But we are all stuffed with borrowed knowledge. All are the answers of fathers and grandfathers; all are memorized. Krishna’s, Mahavira’s, Buddha’s, Christ’s — we remember all the answers. And because of those answers, we do not find our own answer. Hence in life we live without knowing life — and die. Therefore our life is not a fragrance; therefore life is not a living music; therefore life is not a gurgling spring. Life has become a closed pond. And in this closed pond we have rotted, are rotting. All around is spread the stench of life; all around life has become sad.
To change such a sad life, something must be done. What can be done? Drop borrowed knowledge and look within — where the true sources of knowing are available.
My words — which I have managed with difficulty to say, and have still not said fully — even so, among so many who love to talk — this is the first opportunity of its kind in my life, I will remember your village. Still you have somehow listened to my words — for that I am very, very grateful. And in the end, I bow to the Paramatma seated within all — please accept my pranam.