Jevan Rahasya #9

My beloved Atman!
It seems somewhere a mistake has slipped in. I am not a thinker. Nor do I believe that thinkers have ever benefited the world. The quarrels and disturbances that have filled human life — the thinker is their cause. And the diminishing capacity to truly live life — that too is because of the thinker. Who knows in what unfortunate moment of history man imagined that life could be lived through thought? Whatever is supreme in life is never found through thinking — neither beauty, nor truth, nor love. Thought is a deception.
I have heard: one night Rabindranath was traveling on a barge. It was a full-moon night, the whole moon was in the sky. In the little hut of his boat, he had lit a small candle and was reading a book — a book on aesthetics, on the science of beauty. Until midnight he went on reading — ‘What is beauty?’ Then he felt bored. He closed the book and blew out the candle. And just then, as if a revolution took place — from the door, the windows, from every crevice of the barge, moonbeams poured in! The faint glow of the candle had kept the moon outside.
Rabindranath began to dance. And in the morning he said, ‘How unfortunate I am! Beauty was present outside; beauty was waiting the whole time — and I went on reading a book about beauty! When I blew out the candle and closed the book, beauty entered my room and began to dance.’ He came out, he looked at the moon, he looked at the lake, he looked at the silence of that night — beauty was present there. But in the book only thoughts were present. In the book there can be only thoughts — beauty cannot be.
The thinker too has only thoughts — not truth, not beauty, not love. And thoughts are nothing but a stringing together of words. All thoughts are stale, all thoughts are borrowed; no thought is original. No thought can be original. What is original is experience — and experience is without thought.
But the old mistake is ancient indeed — and in that mistake I too have been called. The mistake is this: we even call Mahavira a thinker. Mahavira is not a thinker. Whatever Mahavira is, he is that by dropping thought. We call Buddha a thinker. Buddha is not a thinker. Whatever Buddha is, he is that by going beyond thought. Many among those whom we call thinkers are not thinkers at all. Whoever has given something to this world has given it not through thought but from beyond thought. Thought can be a vehicle of expression, it is not the path of attainment.
Yet there are some who are only thinkers — people who possess nothing but a hoard of words. And they have mistaken that hoard for life. Therefore the thinker dies long before death — he has nothing but the corpses of words, no life at all.
I have heard of a fakir, a strange man. He made a great satire on thinkers. But thinkers are so uncomprehending that even a satire upon thought does not reach them. One day this fakir was returning home. A friend presented him with a piece of meat — and also gave him a book in which the method of cooking that meat was written. He tucked the book under one arm, held the meat in his hand, and hurried home. A kite swooped down and carried off the meat. The fakir called after the kite, ‘Fool! I have the method for cooking — what will you do with the meat?’
He reached home and told his wife, ‘See, a foolish kite snatched away my meat, but the book is with me, the one that has the recipe. What will the kite do with the meat?’
His wife said, ‘You seem to be a thinker. The kite has no use for a book or for a recipe. You saved the book and left the meat. It would have been better to hand the book to the kite and bring the meat home.’
But for thousands of years the thinker has been saving the book and letting life slip away. So as thought has increased in the world, life has diminished and withered. And as thought increases day by day, man grows more sad, more troubled, more bewildered — because the very meaning of life is being lost. The juice, the significance of life, is available only by living — not by thinking. And this becomes a substitute: we drop living and clutch at thinking.
If I go to a flower and sit there and start thinking about the flower — then I am a thinker. But the one who sits thinking about the flower will remain deprived of knowing the flower. A wall of thought will arise — the flower will be on that side, I will be on this side. Around every thinker, a wall of thought forms — a wall of doctrine, scripture, ideology. And they become enclosed within their own wall; their connection with the outer world, with life, is severed. The flower will go on calling from outside: ‘Come!’ — but the thinker will go on thinking.
If one is to know the flower, there is no need to sit by the flower and think. Sitting near the flower, one needs to drop thinking — so that the flower can enter within; so that somewhere my Atman and the flower’s Atman can meet. Thought never allows meeting. Therefore, the more thought increases in the world, the more men grow separate from men. The quarrels of the world are quarrels of thought — because all the walls are walls of thought.
One man says, ‘I am a Muslim.’ Another says, ‘I am a Hindu.’ What is the difference between a Hindu and a Muslim? Is there any difference of blood? Of bones? Of the soul? Between a Hindu and a Muslim, there is only the difference of thought. The Muslim has grabbed hold of certain thoughts; the Hindu has grabbed hold of other thoughts. And between them there is a wall of thought. Then thought can become so important that Hindus kill Muslims and Muslims kill Hindus. Thought can become so important that we kill life and save the book, save the idea. This is what keeps happening. Life is being destroyed every day, and books are being saved. New ideas bring new quarrels. Communism is a new idea — it has raised new quarrels and built new walls.
Is it not possible that man live existence — and not think it?
It is possible. All the depths of life become available by descending into existence. And whoever wishes to descend into existence has to leave thought behind.
I have heard: there was a great fair on the sea-shore; crowds had gathered on the beach. They sat on the shore and began to think, ‘How deep is the sea?’ They were great thinkers. They started thinking on the shore: ‘How deep is the sea?’
But sitting on the shore one cannot know the sea’s depth. There is no way to know it from the shore. One must go into the depth of the sea. But thinkers always remain seated on the shore. They thought and thought; then a dispute arose. No clue to the depth of the sea was found — but out of the dispute parties formed, sects arose, religions arose. Someone said, ‘It is so much.’ Another said, ‘In our book, it is written this much.’ They brought their books — and the quarrel began.
I have heard, by mistake two dolls of salt also reached that fair. They listened to all this and said, ‘You have gone mad! If you want to know the depth of the sea, what is the need to think? Jump into the sea!’ But the thinkers said, ‘How can we jump until the depth is known? When the exact depth is determined, then we shall jump. Only when there is firm knowledge of the depth shall we jump.’
The thinker says, ‘When by thinking I have reached a firm conclusion about God, then I will begin the search.’ The thinker says, ‘I will go to love only when I have understood the entire philosophy of love.’ The thinker says, ‘I will enter life only when I know what life is.’ He remains seated on the shore.
Remember: one of the salt dolls said, ‘Then wait. I will jump; I shall find out and return.’ The salt doll jumped. As it descended into the sea, it began to dissolve. It reached the depths, it arrived at the very bottom — and knew the depth; but by the time it knew, it was lost. There was no one left to return and tell.
This is a wondrous thing — the greatest paradox of life: those who go on thinking are capable of telling, and those who descend into the depths of existence are lost; they cannot tell. Those who know truth cannot say it, and those who do not know at all go on talking. Those who do not know truth go on thinking about it; those who know it are gone.
In my understanding, the ego of the thinker is the greatest ego in human life. Some people collect wealth, some people collect thoughts. The one who hoards money we question: ‘Why this collecting?’ But the one who hoards thoughts? We do not question him the same way: ‘Why are you busy collecting thoughts? What will you gain by gathering thoughts?’ Nothing comes of collecting wealth — nothing comes of collecting thoughts either. But every kind of hoarding strengthens the ego.
If I have money, a stiffness arises in me: I possess wealth. If I have ideas, a stiffness arises in me: I possess knowledge. And the stiffness that comes from knowledge, erudition, and thought — there is no greater stiffness than that. The ego that arises from it — there is no greater ego. And remember: the greater the ego, the less the capacity to go deep. For the moment one goes deep, the salt doll melts — just so, the ego melts. Whoever would go into the depths must leave the ego behind. And whoever would leave the ego has to leave not only wealth — he has to leave thoughts as well.
A layer of thought is spread over our consciousness. Recently I stayed in a village. I went to see the river there. The whole river was covered with algae and leaves. I pushed aside one patch of leaves — and the river peeped through. The friend who had taken me there said, ‘The whole river is covered with leaves.’ I said, ‘Man’s entire soul too is covered with the leaves and scum of thought. Push a little thought aside, and the river of the soul begins to show from within.’
The thinker is a man covered with leaves. And all thoughts are borrowed — they come from outside. Knowing arises from within; thoughts come from without. So do not fall into the mistake of taking the thinker to be the knower. Thoughts always come from outside — from scriptures, teachings, information; and knowing always wells up from within. Whoever would bring knowing must end the journey of importing thoughts from outside.
Let me try with a small example.
I have heard: one man dug a well in his courtyard; another built a cistern. The ways of making a cistern and a well are entirely different — though in both, water appears. When the cistern was built and the well was dug, both contained water — the well too, the cistern too. But the cistern’s water was borrowed — it had been fetched from somewhere. The well had its own water — not begged, not brought from anywhere. The cistern is filled — but note, the methods differ: to make a well one digs, removing earth and stones, throwing them out; to make a cistern one brings earth and stones, builds walls, constructs the tank. And a great wonder: even when the cistern is completed, it is empty; when the well is completed, it fills with water. The cistern depends on others’ water.
What we call a thinker has others’ water. He will have the water of Mahavira, of Buddha, of Christ, of Krishna — but he will have no water of his own. He will have no well.
And remember: when a well is made, there is a law — it has to be emptied. The more the well is emptied, the more it fills. The more it throws out from within, the more springs open up. The thinker collects like a cistern — goes on collecting. Go and put your ear to a cistern — you will always hear it saying, ‘Bring more! Bring more!’ If you draw from it, it says, ‘Do not take; it will become less.’ Put your ear to a well — the well says, ‘Draw! Draw more!’ Because the more that is drawn, the more fresh water comes from within.
The thinker gathers; thinking is only gathering. And so he gets lost in the layer that has come from outside, and never comes to know himself. Whoever has known himself, whoever has known truth, has known it in no-mind.
Mahavira is not a thinker; Buddha is not a thinker; Krishna is not a thinker. The world needs people who can see beyond thought. That is why we call them seers — drashta. That is why the process through which knowing is attained is called Darshan — seeing — not ‘thinking about.’
But a big mistake has occurred: from the West we imported ‘philosophy’ and began translating it in our land as ‘Darshan.’ Darshan and philosophy are not synonyms. Darshan means: seeing. Philosophy means: thinking. Between seeing and thinking there is enmity. Whoever can see does not think; whoever cannot see goes on thinking.
If I am blind and I must go out of this room, then I will think, ‘Where is the way?’ I will ask, ‘Where is the door? How should I go? How to get out?’ But if I have eyes, I will not think, I will not ask — I will get up and go.
Eyes are needed. Darshan is needed — not thought. Vision is needed. And vision is always one’s own; thoughts are always others’. Another’s vision cannot be yours; you cannot see through another’s eyes. But you can collect another’s thoughts. Therefore, in my view, the thinker is always borrowed — forever borrowed. He has nothing of his own. It is hard to find anyone more impoverished, more destitute, than the thinker.
Yet it appears that the thinker has much — because what he has collected dazzles our eyes. Seeing what lies with him, we feel he has much. Hearing him, reading what he writes, we feel he has much. Then we too begin to collect thoughts. All our education is an education in collecting thoughts. That is why our education cannot produce the knower — because it performs no experiment to awaken vision and Darshan.
I would like to say a small thing in the end: in human consciousness there are two capacities — one of thought, and one of no-thought; one of thinking, and one of seeing. Whoever gets entangled in thinking will forget seeing. And whoever sees will have no need to think — he will have eyes.
Once some people brought a man to Buddha. The man was blind; he had no eyes. His friends said to Buddha, ‘He is our friend. We tell him there is light; we tell him there is the sun; but he refuses to accept. He says, How can it be? We argue with him. He says, We want to touch your light — bring it near so we can feel it. We bring light, but he cannot touch it. He says, Make your light make a sound so we can hear it. But how to make light ring? He says, Put the light into my mouth so I can taste it. How can we give light a taste? We thought: a great thinker has come to the village — Buddha has come — let us go to him.’
Buddha said, ‘You have come to the wrong man: I am not a thinker. And do not harass this man. It is good that he does not believe — for why should one without eyes believe? And if he believes, he will be caught in thought. All beliefs lead into thought. If a blind man believes there is light, then for him the existence of light will only be an idea — it cannot be an experience. Do not take him to thinkers; take him to a physician. What will a thinker do? He will give thoughts. Take him to a vaidya who can treat his eyes.’
They took him to a physician. There was a film over his eyes. After some days of treatment the film was cut away. The man saw light — and he began to dance. He ran to Buddha, fell at his feet and said, ‘You have shown great compassion — otherwise all those thinkers together would have killed me. They argued that light is, and I could not see it. Now I can see. And I know that what can be known by seeing cannot be known by explanation. How could I have understood that there is light? And even if I had understood, what value would that understanding have had?’
No — thought is not needed as much as vision and Darshan are needed. And if vision and Darshan are to be, then the mind must become capable of putting thoughts aside. For a little while, for a few moments at least — if in twenty-four hours a person frees himself of all thoughts and simply remains — just remains, does not think; only is — not thinking, only being — then into his life will descend all that is supreme, all that is beautiful, all that is true.
One last story, and I will complete my words.
I have heard: on a hilltop a man was standing. Morning had just dawned. Light had awakened the trees all around; birds were singing. The man stood silently. Three friends were out for a walk; they passed below and saw the man standing there. One said, ‘What do you think that man is doing there?’
In truth there was no need to ask what that man was doing — but thinkers think unnecessarily. They must have been three thinkers. One said, ‘As far as I understand, sometimes that fakir’s cow is lost; he must be standing on the hill looking to see where the cow is.’
But the first said, ‘Your idea doesn’t seem right.’ Thinkers never find each other’s ideas right. ‘It doesn’t seem right — because if he were searching for the cow his eyes would wander all around; he would be looking here and there. He is standing quietly, looking in just one direction. A seeker does not look only in one direction — he looks in all directions.’
The third said, ‘Your idea doesn’t seem right to me.’ In the world of ideas nothing ever seems right. ‘As I understand it, sometimes he brings a friend along; the friend falls behind, so he stands and waits for him.’
The first said, ‘No, that cannot be. If someone waits for a friend, he would sometimes look back. He is not looking back at all.’
Then they asked the third, ‘What do you say?’
He said, ‘As far as I think…’ — the fun is that all three can only think, for only that man can know what he is doing — ‘as far as I think, he is remembering God.’
The three decided, ‘We must climb the hill and ask him what he is doing.’
Now the great joke is that whatever the other is doing, there is no need for three men to climb a hill to know it. But to know what the other is doing, a man can climb even Everest. What we ourselves are doing — we are never concerned. The other — what is he doing!
They climbed, exhausted, sweating. They reached him. The first said, ‘As far as I think, your cow is lost and you are searching for her.’
The man opened his eyes. He said, ‘I own nothing in this world — how can it be lost? And if nothing can be lost, what shall I search for? Forgive me, I am not searching for anything.’
The second, with courage, stepped forward: ‘As far as I think, you are not searching; your friend must have fallen behind, and you are waiting for him. Am I right?’
The man said, ‘I have no friend, no enemy. Who would be left behind? For whom would I wait? I am not waiting for anyone.’
Then the third said, ‘Now certainly I will win.’ He stepped up and said, ‘I think you are remembering the Paramatman.’
The fakir laughed. He said, ‘I have no knowledge of the Paramatman. I do not yet even know myself — how shall I remember the Paramatman?’
The three asked, ‘Then what are you doing?’
The man said, ‘I am doing nothing — I simply am. I am not doing anything — I simply am. And mere being is such bliss — mere being.’
Those who have known truth — love, the divine, call it what you will: Mukti, Moksha — have all known it in that moment when all outer activity has fallen away, and within too the activity of thought has ceased; when activity as such is no more and only silence remains, and only being remains — just existence. In that moment we are joined with all, with the vast. As long as the activity of thought persists, we remain broken off, we cannot be joined.
So I have been called here by mistake. And I have taken so much of your time — for that I can only ask forgiveness. I am not a thinker, nor do I wish anyone to be a thinker. What is needed is a seer — Darshan is needed, vision is needed, that inner eye through which the supreme truth of life is experienced.
I am grateful that you listened to my words with such love and peace. And in the end, I bow to the Paramatman dwelling within all; please accept my pranam.