Jyon Ki Tyon #10

Ahimsa, aparigraha, achaurya, akam, and apramad are the fundamental sutras of the “art of sannyas.” And sannyas is an art. All of life is an art. Only those who master the “art of living” become available to sannyas. Sannyas is the art that takes you beyond life. Those who experience life in its totality naturally enter sannyas; it must be so—it is simply the next step in life. God is the temple reached by climbing the very staircase of the world.

So first let me make it clear: there is no conflict between “the world” and “sannyas.” They are two stations on one journey. It is in the world itself that sannyas develops and blossoms. Sannyas is not the hostility of the world; it is the deep experience of the world. The more deeply one experiences the world, the more one finds one’s feet moving toward sannyas. Those who do not understand life, who cannot dive deep into worldly experience, are the ones who remain far from sannyas.

Therefore the first thing to understand is: in my vision the flower of sannyas blooms in the midst of the marketplace. It is not enmity with the world; it is a transcendence of the world—going beyond it. In the search for happiness, when a person finds that happiness is not found, and the more one seeks happiness the deeper one falls into sorrow; in wanting peace, when one discovers that peace does not come, that the desire for peace breeds a deeper restlessness; in seeking wealth, when one finds that inner poverty thickens—then the eyes begin to lift beyond the world. That upward turning of the eyes is called sannyas.

So these five sutras we are discussing are, properly understood, sutras of sannyas. And they are of no use to one whose eyes have not begun to rise beyond the world.

Many friends tell me, “What you say is too subtle—it goes over our heads.” I tell them, “Then raise your heads a little, so it does not go over them.” When the eyes rise even a little above the world, the head rises, too. And then these words won’t pass overhead; they will enter the depths of the heart. These are less ‘deep’ than they are ‘high.’ In truth, height becomes depth. And they are not high in themselves—we are standing too low, sunk in the world; hence they look high. Height is relative.

And be mindful of this: do not move just a little above the world, nor look only slightly beyond it—remain in the world, there is no harm. Standing on the earth, the stars can still be seen. Stand in the world, but lift your eyes a little; then all this becomes simple. In fact, only then do these things seem simple; worldly things grow more and more complex. They must, for if their final fruit is nothing but suffering, their final outcome nothing but ignorance, their final conclusion nothing but deep darkness, they cannot be simple. They are very tangled—seeming one thing, being another; creating illusions, while truth is elsewhere. But we are so lost in the world that even the imagination of another truth does not arise.

I have heard: someone went to the French novelist Balzac. He was talking with Balzac about the characters of his novel. Gradually the talk drifted to politicians and national politics. After a while Balzac said, “Forgive me—let us come back to reality again,” and he returned to the characters of his novel. For Balzac, his characters were reality, more real than the so-called living figures on life’s stage. “Leave these unreal matters,” he said, “let us return to our real subject.”

We are so immersed in the world that we see nothing as true except the world. Yet whoever has lifted the eyes upward finds that the world instantly becomes an unreality. Sannyas means lifting the eyes beyond the world: the world is not all; there is that which is beyond. The eyes that turn in that direction—this is sannyas.

Let me say a few things to make it clear.

Such sannyas is almost on the verge of leaving the earth. Until now the sannyasin lived by breaking away from the world. In the future there is no possibility of such a sannyas surviving, one that lives by separation from the world. That is why the sannyasin has disappeared from Russia, is being made to disappear from China; half the world is empty of sannyasins. How long the remaining half will keep them is uncertain. This century may be the last century of sannyas on earth—unless new meaning, new dimensions are given to it.

Why is that sannyas departing? What we preserved by breaking it away from the world was a hot-house plant—it can no longer withstand the buffeting of the world. And the society that kept sannyasins alive by separating them from the world has itself come to an end. When society is transformed, its forms and institutions collapse. The society of kings and courts is gone; with it the court poets are gone. The society that sustained the sannyasin is leaving; unless sannyas takes on a new form, it cannot survive.

So I find something vitally important: sannyas must be saved. It is the deepest fragrance of life, the highest truth of life. Therefore it must be connected to the world. Now the sannyasin cannot live outside the world; he must live in the world—in the marketplace, at the shop, in the office—only then can he survive. He can no longer live unproductive; he must participate in life’s productivity. He can no longer live dependent on others; he must be self-reliant.

And I also see no need to abandon the world for sannyas to flower. It is not necessary. In fact, where life is densest, the touchstone of sannyas is there. Where life is a thick struggle, there is the joy of the witness. Where life carries all its stench, there—when the flower of sannyas opens—its fragrance is truly tested. Sannyas can blossom quite readily in the world. Once you understand what sannyas is, you see there is no need to run away from home, family, wife, children, shop, office. And a sannyas that can survive only by running away is a very weak sannyas. Such sannyas cannot last. Now we need a courageous sannyasin—one who stands in the midst of life and is a sannyasin.

One is transformed where one is. Transformation is not of circumstances; it is of the mind-state. Not outer, but inner. Not of relationships, but of the person who relates.

Oscar Wilde has written a little incident. In a house, a man lies dying. His wife beats her chest and weeps. The doctor stands nearby. The man is respected; a newspaper reporter has arrived to note the death. With him a press artist has come; he wants to observe a death, to paint it. The wife is wailing. The doctor seems sad—defeated; his profession has failed. The reporter has pen poised to note the time of death and rush to the office. The artist watches intently.

One event is occurring: a man is dying. But for the wife, the doctor, the reporter, the artist, not one event but four different events happen. For the wife, it is not simply that someone is dying; she herself is dying. This is no external scene; it is happening in the core of her being. Not ‘someone’ is dying—she is dying. She will never again be the one she was with this husband. Something in her will die forever. She is totally involved; the distance is minimal.

For the doctor, no one is dying within; someone dies outside. Yet he is sad—not grieving, but defeated. The one he was to save, he could not. For the wife, something dies in the heart; for the doctor, something dies in the intellect. He thinks: Could I have given other medicines? Were the injections right? Was my diagnosis wrong? Next time, what must I do? His mind is at work; his heart is not tied to the man’s death.

The reporter not even that much. He keeps checking the clock, to jot down the time and file the story; then a cup of tea at a cafe, a movie at a theater—the matter ends. His link is minimal: when does he die?

For the artist, whether the man dies or not is irrelevant. He studies the darkness spreading on the face, the last glimmer of life at the moment of death, the room filling with shadows. For him, it is a play of colors; he wants to capture the form of death in color. He is an outsider; A, B, C, D—anyone might die, it makes no difference.

The circumstance is one; the mind-states are many. Life is the same for the worldly person and the sannyasin; the mind-state differs. The same shop, the same wife, children, husband—but the sannyasin’s mind-state is different; he tries to see life from other vantage points. Sannyas and the world are mind-states—mental attitudes. Therefore there is no need to flee circumstances, no need to change them. And the great surprise is: when the mind-state changes, the circumstances no longer appear the same; they appear as the mind-state is. The one who runs from the world to become a sannyasin is still worldly, for he still believes in changing circumstances: if I change the situation, everything will change. The sannyasin is the one who says: if the mind-state changes, everything changes. He trusts inner change; that understanding makes him a sannyasin. The belief that changing the outer changes all—that is the worldly mind.

My emphasis is not on circumstance at all, but on mind-state. Such a sannyasin can survive. And I say sannyas is worth saving.

The West has given science—that is its contribution to humankind.
The East has given sannyas—that is its contribution to the world.

The best the East has given is sannyas. The greatest persons given are Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ, Mohammed—all Eastern. Even Christ is not truly a Western man; all came from Asia.

Perhaps you don’t know where the word “Asia” comes from—a very ancient word, about six thousand years old, first born in Babylon. In the Babylonian tongue there was “Asu”—from which “Asia” arose—meaning the land of sunrise, just as “Japan” means. “Europe” is its opposite, from the Assyrian “Eresh”—the land where the sun sets; evening, darkness.

The lands of sunset gave science, scientists. The lands of sunrise gave sannyas. The two greatest gifts so far came from the two poles: science arises where matter is probed; sannyas where the immaterial is sought. Those who wrestle with darkness give birth to science; those who love the light of dawn set out in search of the divine.

This Eastern sannyas may be lost in the future, because the structure that sustained it has collapsed. Therefore sannyas must be saved—but not in ashrams, not in forests, not in the Himalayas.

The Tibetan sannyasin has perished; perhaps the deepest kind was in Tibet—but it is departing; it cannot be saved. Now sannyas will survive in factories, shops, markets, schools, universities. Wherever life is, the sannyasin must stand there. The sannyasin can change place easily; sannyas must not perish.

Hence I stand for giving sannyas from within life. Let each one become a sannyasin where he is—only change the orientation, the mind-state. Let nonviolence replace violence in his mind; non-possessiveness replace possessiveness; non-stealing be his joy; desirelessness grow in his vision; vigilance replace negligence—then, wherever he is, the mind-state will change, and everything changes.

So those I call sannyasins are not people who have fled the world. They will remain where they are. And note well: today fleeing the world is easier; to stand in the world and take sannyas is far harder. Running away has few obstacles. But if a man runs a shoe shop and becomes a sannyasin there, there are great difficulties—same shop, same customers, same shoes, same selling and buying—and amid all the old, one person lives with a transformed mind-state. Everything is old; only one mind aspires to change. To change this mind amidst the old is arduous. That is tapascharya, austerity. Passing through it is a wondrous experience. And remember: the cheaper the sannyas, the less deep it goes; the costlier, the deeper. To be a sannyasin while standing in the world is great austerity—that is first.

Second, up to now sannyas had become institutionalized. But sannyas can never be an institution. Whenever sannyas becomes an institution, its beauty, its flavor, its mystery departs. Make it an institution and it dies.

Sannyas is a personal realization. It blossoms in each individual, as love blossoms. You cannot institutionalize love. Love flowers and spreads in a single life; so does sannyas, which is love of the divine.

Therefore there is no need for organizations of sannyasins. The institutional sannyasin ceases to be a sannyasin. Institutions are built for security. A sannyasin is one who has pledged to live in insecurity, in danger; who gathers the courage to live riskily. Hence, ahead, sannyas cannot be bound to any institution; it will be personal, a private joy. Wherever sannyas becomes institutional, an absurd thing is added: there is an entrance but no exit. There is a door into the temple of sannyas, but none to come out. And wherever there is entry without exit, even if it is called a temple, it soon becomes a prison—because bondage is certain.

Therefore I leave the sannyasin to his personal decision. It is his joy to take sannyas. If tomorrow he wishes to return to his familiar mind-state and circumstances, there should be no one to condemn him. There is no cause for blame. It is a personal matter; he decided—and he may decide otherwise.

This will have a double result. Many more people may take sannyas if they know that if it does not suit them, they can reverse their decision. And later, if courage grows again, they can experiment again. When sannyas is organized, a stubbornness begins: a sannyasin cannot return—and then all institutions of sannyas become prisons, because at the moment of entry a person cannot know much; only after going in does he learn what is inside. By then he has lost the freedom to come back. I know hundreds of sannyasins who are unhappy because they cannot return. Sannyas must not be a prison.

So the second principle in this “new vision of sannyas” is: sannyas is a personal decision—no one else’s pressure or involvement. It is an individual insight, an inner seeing. Come and go. Along with this I want to speak about “periodic renunciation.”

I hold that one should not bind oneself to lifelong sannyas. In truth, today no one can decide forever. Who knows tomorrow? What seems right today may seem wrong tomorrow. If I decide for my whole life, it means the less-experienced person has decided for the more-experienced person I will be. Twenty years later, I will be wiser; the decision made twenty years earlier will become a stone on the chest of the older man. A child’s decision should not bind the old. A ten-year-old may take sannyas, and a seventy-year-old may repent all his life because it was “lifelong.”

No—no sannyas should be lifelong. In this life, everything is time-bound, periodic. And such a precious thing as sannyas should be time-bound. One takes it to know, to inquire, to seek. If there is real nectar in sannyas, it itself will hold you—that is another matter. But if you stay only by vow, rule, law, then you do not trust the flavor of sannyas.

I believe that whoever once goes into sannyas will not return. But that strength should be in the experience of sannyas, not in oath or law. One should enter with the feeling: I enter freely; if tomorrow I find my decision mistaken, I can return. Everyone should have the right to learn from his mistakes—and only mistakes teach. Where one must make a mistake permanent, so one cannot learn from it, ignorance is imposed in place of wisdom. Lifelong sannyas has helped make sannyasins less wise, more ignorant.

There are two countries with arrangements for periodic renunciation—besides lifelong—Burma and Thailand. One may become a sannyasin for three months. Thus in Burma there are hundreds of thousands who have been sannyasins—some three months, some six, some a year. After a few years, if convenient, one goes again for three or four months.

If in forty years a man lives even ten times for a month as a sannyasin, at death he will not be the same as one who never entered sannyas. If one lives even a month a year as a sannyasin, he will not return the one he was; the remaining eleven months become different. Life flows from within.

So I say: there is no need to take it “for life.” If it becomes lifelong, that is grace; if it spreads over life, that is the divine’s compassion. But for our part, a decision for a single moment is enough; today’s decision suffices.

Third, all past forms of sannyas have been bound to sects; hence the sannyasin has never been free. Some sannyasins are Hindu, some Muslim, some Jain, some Buddhist, some Christian. At the very least, a sannyasin should be simply religious. This does not mean he should not go to a mosque or a temple; that is his joy. He may read the Quran or the Gita—his choice. He may love Jesus or love Buddha—his affair. But on becoming a sannyasin he should belong to no sect, for then no single religion is “his”—all are his.

Therefore I add a third point to sannyas: non-sectarianism. The sannyasin should be beyond sect. If we can create sannyasins who are not Christian, Hindu, Jain, Buddhist, then we can more easily lead the world toward true religiosity. If sannyasins cease to be Hindu, Buddhist, Jain, many bases for conflict will fall, and many bridges for joining people will be built.

So I call the sannyasin simply religious—a religious mind. He belongs to no particular religion, because all religions are his. It is another matter that he loves the Gita and reads it; that he loves Krishna and sings his songs; that he loves Jesus and sleeps in a church. These are personal matters. But now he is not Christian, Jain, Hindu, Buddhist. If a village temple invites him, he stays in the temple; if a mosque calls, he stays there; if a church invites, he becomes its guest. If we can create even a hundred or two hundred thousand such trans-religious sannyasins, we can take the greatest step toward dissolving enmity between human beings.

I like to divide such sannyas into three streams, for clarity:

- Those who wish to continue their lives as they are and be sannyasins—let them be so. Merely declare sannyas to themselves and to the world; decide for sannyas, but change not a grain in outer situation—begin changing what they are.

- Many elderly people meet me who are in distress at home, for the coming generations have no interest in them; all bridges are broken. The elderly should certainly move to ashrams. In this land there was a system: students up to twenty-five lived in the forest; those above seventy-five, the elder sannyasins, also lived in the forest as teachers. We brought the youngest generation into dialogue with the eldest. The setting sun met the rising sun and handed over what was learned on the twelve-hour journey. That link is broken; the results are dangerous. There is no dialogue between old and young; they do not understand each other’s language. The old are angry; the young laugh at them. When generations stand like enemies, life becomes chaos; its music is lost.

So in my view: some sannyasins remain in their homes amidst responsibilities. But many will be free of responsibilities; many already are. Those with none become a burden at home—having always been busy, they cannot bear emptiness; then they busy themselves in useless tasks, which hinder others. They should leave the market’s crowd and go to ashrams—meditate, seek the divine; and whatever they have known, give it to children who come to them for a month or two. I would have such ashrams become universities. Let them pass on all they have learned.

- There may be youths whose very orientation is such that they do not wish to enter the world; there is no need to force them. Many, by journeys from past lives, have reached a point where marriage has no meaning; the world holds little meaning. Forcing them into the world is as mad as forcing initiation on one who is yet meant to marry. Those who naturally carry the fragrance to live outside the circle should indeed live in ashrams—though their ashrams should be productive: farming, orchards, small industries, schools, hospitals—produce and live on that production.

And those who can do none of these can at least do this: take fifteen days a year as holiday. The word “holiday” is beautiful—it means a holy day, not mere leave. Sunday is a holiday in the West, a holy day, because on that day God also rested after creating the world—six days He worked, the seventh He became a sannyasin. Those who work six days need rest on the seventh. Those who work all year should take a month of holy days—forget the world; immerse in another journey. Live as a sannyasin in an ashram for a month and return. You will return a different person—more inward, more soulful. The world will be the same, but your perspective will have changed.

This is what sannyas means to me. It is a personal decision and choice. If such sannyas spreads on earth, we can prevent sannyas from vanishing; otherwise it will be very difficult to save. The stronger communism spreads, the more systematically sannyas will be killed.

Today in China, where the statue of Buddha once stood, it has been broken and Mao’s photo hangs. In Chinese schools astonishing slogans are on the walls: “A child who doesn’t read Mao for one day loses his appetite; two days, he loses sleep; three days, he falls ill; four days, his life becomes dark.” There is nothing in Mao’s book that any child anywhere need read—yet this is drilled.

A traveler in China passed a monastery on a mountain and asked his guide, “That monastery on the hill—monks must live there?” The guide said, “Forgive me, you seem very old-fashioned; that is the Communist Party office. Monks no longer live there. They used to, but those exploitative days are over.”

Buddha is replaced with Mao; ashrams become party offices. There is nothing wrong with party offices or Mao’s picture; but where it is placed, the world loses much. Where Buddha—and where Mao! Where the joy of Buddha’s life, the love and compassion, the heights of his consciousness, the nirvana on his mind, the nectar of each word—and where Mao! No comparison, no relation.

But it is happening; it will happen worldwide. It is happening in Calcutta; it will happen in Bombay. On Calcutta’s walls it is written: “China’s Chairman Mao is our Chairman too.” Calcutta and Bombay are not far; the hands that write on Calcutta’s walls and the hands of Bombay—there is little difference.

If someone wishes the flower of religion to vanish from the world, then one should cling to the old concept of sannyas. But if we want to preserve the flower of religion on this earth, then it is essential to give birth to a new vision of sannyas.

Words have their own journeys. The meaning a word held twenty-five centuries ago is not the meaning it holds today. This creates great confusion. What Mahavira called sangha and what we call sangha today have drifted far apart. Mahavira did not call a sangha an institution. For him, sangha meant the meeting of like-spirited people, those who shared the same inner music. Sangha meant the friendship of people resonating in unison on the same journey—fellow-travelers. For Mahavira the sangha did not mean an organization. Because an organization is always made against someone. An organization is always against; it arises out of enmity—either for defense against someone or for attack upon someone.

Now Mahavira had neither to defend himself from anyone nor to attack anyone. Hence, for him sangha could not mean what it does for us. For us, we organize only when... The Muslim says, organize! because Islam is in danger. The Hindu says, organize! because Hinduism is in danger. India says, organize! because China is attacking. Pakistan says, organize! because India is the enemy standing next door. For us, organization always means attack or defense. For Mahavira—whom was he to attack, from whom to defend himself?

For Mahavira, sangha meant something else entirely. For him, sangha meant a communion; the meeting of like-spirited seekers, fellow-travelers on the same quest, the same pilgrimage. There is no organization in it—no outer structure of organization. Suppose four people in a village love music; they sit together at night and hold a little mehfil—one plays the tabla, another the harmonium. This is not an organization; it is simply the coming together of people of like spirit and like longing.

In a village four people meditate. They sit together in a room and surrender themselves to the Divine. This is not an organization. It is not against anyone, nor in favor of anyone. It is a meeting.

For Mahavira, sangha means communion: a gathering of those who have set out on the same search, the same journey. Such a coming together can be useful—not in the sense of organization, but in the sense of communion. It can be useful, very useful. Because in this world our whole life is interconnected with what surrounds us. If you alone in a village love music, and there are ten others who love music and they sometimes gather and sing together, all ten return enriched, more inwardly affluent.

And I have heard—who knows how true, yet it feels true—that if you play a sitar in an empty house and place another sitar in a corner without playing it, a master musician, by playing only the first, can set the strings of the second humming. One instrument is played, yet its sound waves stir the sleeping strings of the other, and they too begin to quiver.

If ten meditators sit together, and even one among them goes very deep, the vibrations, the waves arising from him will set the sleeping strings of meditation in the others humming too.

Therefore, collective meditation has its own utility. Collective sadhana has its own utility. Collective prayer has its own utility. For us who are weak, a group becomes meaningful—very meaningful.

The sanghas Mahavira spoke of were meeting-places for those engaged in a common search. There was no arrangement there for or against anyone. The only reason for that meeting was love.

And I hold that such loving people should indeed continue to gather. People gather for bad things easily enough; thieves gather without difficulty, but it seems very difficult for seekers to gather. The cunning collect themselves quickly, but it appears hard for the virtuous to come together. Yet the rogues’ unions are always for someone and against someone. A seekers’ sangha is neither for nor against anyone; it exists simply for the joy of meeting.

And if in this world only the cunning keep gathering and their power keeps accumulating, no wonder! There must also be ways for seekers to gather. If, in a town, the bad keep meeting—filling hotels and clubs—and keep generating coarse and dark vibrations everywhere, while the good have no place to meet from which they too might create vibrations of sattva, of truth, of love—then great harm befalls the world.

Temples, mosques, churches were once such meeting-places. Not now. Not now! Once they were places where the pure vibrations of the village were born, from where the call to the journey toward the Divine went forth. Even today temple bells are rung, but no one hears. Once they were the call of the Divine, reminders, the news that says: Awake! There is Something More—those bells used to bring remembrance. Even today the adhan is given from the mosque, yet people’s sleep is only disturbed in the morning and nothing else happens. The one who gives it does so as a professional chore—he too thinks, how early this morning seems! Today all this has become meaningless.

What Mahavira longed for—a meeting—was meaningful. In today’s language, it is not an organization. In the language of the unwise, sangha carries one meaning; in the language of the wise, another. If you see this much, the difficulty disappears. But however noble the things are that a man like Mahavira establishes, he cannot save them—he cannot save them. It is a misfortune. Much effort is made to preserve things in their purest form, but they do not survive. The reason is this: Mahavira lives eighty years and departs. What he leaves falls into our hands—hands that are not Mahavira’s, that have no connection with that state of consciousness. Then we do what we do.

I have heard that Moses had a flute, and sometimes sitting on a mountain he would play it. Passing shepherds would stop, sheep would stand still, deer from the forest would gather, birds would fall silent and encircle him. Then Moses died. The shepherds who had heard that divine flute kept it under a tree and began to worship it.

But it was a hollow stick of bamboo. Not even one or two generations had passed when people said, What is there in this bamboo tube? There ought to be something worship-worthy! The elders said, That is true. So they plated that flute with gold, so it might be worthy of worship. When it was gilded, people felt, Yes—now it is no bamboo tube; it is a golden flute. They continued to worship it.

After a generation or two people said, What is this mere gold plating! Some bought jewels and set them into it. But now, blow from any side, no sound would arise. When a musician passed by and asked, I have heard Moses’ flute is worshiped here—I would like to see it. He went and looked—there was no flute at all. The gold plating had covered it; over the plating were set jewels. He blew from both ends. There were no holes left through which one could blow.

Mahavira’s flute becomes like this, Buddha’s flute becomes like this; with Jesus’ flute we do the same. Into whose hands the matter falls, they distort everything. The responsibility for this distortion is not on Mahavira, Buddha, or Krishna. It is on us. And that is why if a man like Mahavira were to return today, he would have to speak against “Mahavira.” He would have to, because the image you have made of Mahavira must be shattered. If a musician were to return, he would have to speak against that very flute and say, This is not a flute. If Jesus were to return, he would have to speak against “Jesus.” Because in two thousand years we have fashioned such a figure that even Jesus would not recognize it: Was I ever here—was this my face?

Everything deteriorates in human hands. There is only one remedy: if only we could say to those who loved Moses, Please, do not worship the flute—learn to play it. If those around Moses learned to play—even if they could not play as Moses did—if they at least learned to play, one thing would be certain: no one would plate the flute with gold or stud it with jewels. Because then they could say: the worship of the flute is not of the flute, but of the music that arises from it. And that music arises only when the flute is hollow. Fill it with gold and no music will arise.

Do not worship Mahavira and Buddha; rather, what happened in their lives—the heights that manifested, the summits they touched—if we too set out, even for smaller hills, perhaps there will be no distortion.

But we get busy worshiping. Worship itself becomes the distortion. Whomever we worship, we spoil. Whomever we worship, we destroy. Because we are the ones who worship, we gradually mold the worshiped into our own image—only then can we worship; otherwise we cannot. We weave stories around him, stories that are ours. We go on making him “worthy of worship.” Slowly his living presence becomes mere dead ash.

Moses’ flute, near enough, is in everyone’s hands the world over. But no music emerges from it. What can be done? It has always happened so. Perhaps it will continue to happen. It is unfortunate; it should not be so. Yet our habits, our compulsions are what they are. We keep doing the same thing. Still, the effort to awaken has continued without pause.

Buddha tells people, Do not worship me. Mahavira says, You are yourself God. One who tells others, You yourself are God, is saying, Do not worship me. He is saying, The one you worship is your own self. Now there is no need to worship anyone else. Mahavira says, Go without refuge; drop all refuges. For whose refuge are you going? You yourself are That which is being sought. But we go to take refuge in Mahavira. We say, You showed us the way of arerefuge; great compassion. At least allow us to come to your feet. Buddha says, Do not worship. We say, We will worship no one—but you have spoken such a lofty word; at least let us worship you. And we continue Buddha’s worship.

Man’s fundamental mistakes are the cause. Until now man has kept “winning,” and Mahavira-Buddha have kept “losing.” Who knows whether this story will change ahead or not? The effort should continue. The effort should continue that henceforth Buddha and Mahavira do not lose; that whoever brings the message of the Divine keeps on fighting; and that he keeps moving against the mistakes man has made. It cannot be said for certain that man will listen—nothing can be said for certain—but the effort must continue.

One last thing in relation to this question: however many mistakes people have made, however much gold they have plated onto Moses’ flute, even today if we scrape off the gold, the flute hidden within can be found. Whatever followers have overlaid upon Mahavira—if we remove those coatings; whatever the followers of Buddha have draped over him—if we take off those garments, then the truth within is still present as it ever was.

But why go about removing Buddha’s accretions—Buddha who lived twenty-five centuries ago? What need is there? With the same effort you can remove the accretions from the Buddha within you, the Mahavira within you.

And remember: until I find Mahavira within myself, I cannot recognize any Mahavira outside. Until I find Krishna within, no Krishna can be meaningful to me. Until the Buddha arises within me, not a single word of Buddha’s is in my language. If we find ourselves, we find everyone.

Go to those who know, but do not take what they know on faith! Investigate it. Do not turn what they know into belief; turn it into inquiry. Do not clench your fists around it blindly; open your eyes to it, probe it. Inspiration does not mean accepting the other. Inspiration means accepting the other’s challenge.

If you go to Mahavira, inspiration does not mean you set about becoming like Mahavira. Going to Mahavira, the meaning of inspiration is: if this light could blossom within Mahavira, why can it not blossom within me? That is the challenge!

In English there is the word “inspiration.” It is a very precious word. One must pay attention to the “in” in inspiration. But we always take inspiration from the other; then the word is quite wrong. Inspiration means inner-spiration. The other can serve as a catalyst, but not as a foundation. The other can be a challenge, not a rule.

A lit lamp can become a message to an unlit lamp that I too can be lit, for I too have a wick, I too have oil, I too am a lamp. But if the lit lamp becomes only an object of worship or imitation for the unlit lamp, and the unlit lamp just places its head at the feet of the lit lamp and sits there for eternity—nothing will happen.

Inspiration means challenge. Wherever something is seen, it should provoke this challenge within: why can this not happen in me? Whatever has happened in even one person in this world—why can it not happen within me? All the instruments are present. That heart is present which can become Meera’s song. That intelligence is present which can become Buddha’s wisdom. That body is present, within which people have found the divine. Those eyes are present, by which not only the visible but the invisible has been seen. Those ears are present, by which Kabir heard not only the music outside but the inner sound as well. But if Kabir can hear the inner sound, why can I not hear it?

Inspiration means challenge. It means: go everywhere, search everywhere. Look at those who have touched heights; look at those who have found depths. And look under your own feet to see where you stand. You too can go into those heights and those depths. Beyond this, inspiration has no other meaning.

If you make it more than this, it ceases to be inspiration and becomes imitation—following. Then you become blind; you do not become one with eyes. Yes, there is a need to be saved from blindness. A blind person will not be able to find God. A blind person will only grope behind someone and wander. And how can truth be found by wandering behind someone?

Truth is within; let the blow fall. Whether from Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Christ—whoever strikes—let it strike. From whoever the challenge comes—take it! And offer thanks for the challenge too. But learn not what you have seen in the other; learn what can happen within me. Understand the difference in all this. Do not learn from the other what has happened in him. Learn only this: that what could happen in him is also my potentiality. It is my seed as well. It can happen within me too.

Place a seed beside a tree; the seed cannot even know that such a great tree might be hidden within it. But if the seed sees a tree and asks, “You have become such a great tree—were you always this big?” the tree will say, “Once I too was a seed like you, and I too asked trees how they had become so great! I was a seed just like you—small like you. But all this was hidden within. Now it has manifested.”

In truth, the seed has received a challenge. Now this seed too will crack. But this seed cannot become this very tree. Whatever tree is hidden within this seed—only that will it become.

Remember this much, and inspiration does not become harmful; it becomes a sadhana. Inspiration then does not become an enemy but a friend. Inspiration only appears to come from outside; it arises from within. It is inspiration—an inner blow. Through the impact of something outside, something sleeping within raises its hood and awakens. And for the first time we come to know: I can be this too! The remembrance of this is called inspiration. And in this sense, one has to learn; in this sense, one must keep on learning.

But learning and believing are very different things. The one who does not want to learn is the one who believes. The one who wants to learn will not believe—he will search and search. He will not agree until he has found. And even if he sets out to search, his search will not be a search for belief but a search for knowing.

Learning does not mean faith. Learning means inquiry. Learning means curiosity. Learning is a journey. Learning is a beginning, not an end.

But we all learn and then sit down. We say, “We have learned from the Gita.” What can happen by learning from the Gita? You can learn the Gita, but by learning the Gita you cannot become Krishna. Even memorizing the entire Gita will accomplish nothing. One thing is certain: Krishna did not have the Gita by heart, and had he been made to recite it again there would have been many omissions and mistakes. The Gita emerged; it was not memory. It was a spontaneous spring that burst from Krishna. And you? You are stuffing it from outside into the inside.

No—read Krishna’s Gita and fill yourself with the longing: when will the day come when a Gita will begin to flow from my life too? When will my very life become the Bhagavad Gita, the song of God? Be filled with that remembrance. Leave Krishna, leave his Gita. Set out in search of your own Gita. One thing is settled: if it could flow through Krishna, why can it not flow through me? Existence is not partial. If Krishna could receive the Bhagavad Gita, I too can receive it. If this celestial song could arise on the instrument of his life, it can arise on the instrument of mine as well.

But we? We are doing something else. We take learning to mean memorizing the Gita. To learn from the Gita means only this: the challenge has been received now. There will be no rest until the Bhagavad Gita begins to be born from within. There will be no rest until every note of my speech becomes the divine note. Learn this—but who learns this? Memorizing the Gita is easy; it is children’s work. And the less intelligent a person is, the faster he memorizes.

Learn what right learning is. Learn something else: learn the happening, the event. The happening that occurred named Krishna—that is to be learned. What came out of Krishna’s mouth—do not learn that. What Krishna wore—do not learn that. No—learn this: the seed within Krishna broke, sprouted, and became a tree; my seed can sprout too. Learn the aspiration to crack this seed, the ardor to crack it, the madness to crack it, the stubbornness to crack it, the resolve to crack it. Learn that from Krishna.

That can be learned from Christ as well. From Buddha too. It can be learned from a thousand pathways all around. And one who is eager to learn is reminded of the same by a flower blooming on a tree! The star shining in the sky brings the same thought! The spring bursting from the earth brings the same remembrance! From everything—the same…!

I have heard: A Sufi fakir was passing through a village. It was dusk, and a child was going to offer a lamp in the temple. He stopped him and asked, “Where did the flame in this lamp come from? Did you light it yourself?”

The child said, “I lit it, but where the flame came from…” And the child blew out the lamp and said, “Right before you the flame has gone. Tell me where it went. It went in your presence, didn’t it? Then I too can tell where it came from—because it came right before me.”

The fakir fell at the child’s feet and said, “From today I will not ask wrong questions. If I cannot answer, why ask such a question? Forgive me! And I do not even know where the flame that burns in my lamp comes from, and where it will go when it goes out. First let me find out about my own lamp; then I will inquire into this earthen lamp.”

Now this man learned something. He has learned something. He learned something from this event.

In a Zen master’s monastery an old woman had been staying for many days, and she kept saying that the happening was not happening. “Teach me something more, teach me something more.” She had learned great doctrines, learned scriptures, but the happening was not happening. She said, “Teach me more.” The master said, “You are not learning. From every side the same is being taught.”

Then one day she was sitting under a tree and a dry leaf fell from the tree. She came dancing into the monastery, shouting, “I have learned.” People said, “From which scripture have you learned? Tell us too!” There were many learners present.

She said, “Not from a scripture. Just from seeing a dry leaf fall from a tree—everything happened.”

They said, “Mad woman, we too have seen many dry leaves falling from trees—what happened to you?”

She said, “As the dry leaf fell from the tree, something fell within me too, and I felt that today or tomorrow I too will fall like a dry leaf. If I am to fall like a dry leaf, then why so much stiffness, why so much ego? And that dry leaf began to sway in the wind, east and west. The wind began to jostle it. It wandered on the roads. That which I call ‘I’ today will also be ashes one day, and the winds will push it along the roads; it will wander like a dry leaf. From today, I am no more. I have learned from the dry leaf.”

The meaning of learning? The meaning of learning is: keep your eyes open and take challenges. Let the challenges come. They come from every side. A father can receive it from his son; a son from his father. You can meet it from a stranger on the road, from a neighbor—anywhere. What is needed is a mind eager to learn.

But we have not understood this meaning of learning. We think it means memorizing. Our learning is intellectual. Learn words, learn doctrines, memorize them.

Learning happens totally—by every pore, with every breath, with every particle of life, with every heartbeat. When the whole personality becomes ready to learn, then even a slight challenge becomes a resonance, and sleeping life awakens. But one has to wait for it. And those who remain engaged in such futile learning have neither time left, nor convenience left, nor room left in the mind. Everything gets filled; no space remains for learning.

If someday you stand before God and say, “Why could I not learn You?” he will not say, “Because you learned too little.” He will say, “You learned so much that where was any space left to learn Me? You learned a lot.” We all learn a lot, but that which is worth learning gets left out. We do not learn the challenge.

Religion is a challenge. And once you learn challenge, it can meet you from anywhere. It has no fixed paths, no fixed sutras. Life can break in from anywhere. Life can seize you from anywhere. Keep the doors of the mind open. Walking on the road, sleeping, rising, sitting—keep learning. Keep taking the challenge. One day the blow will fall deep, and the veena will begin to resonate.

One last question more.

Ordinarily we only react—reactions upon reactions, counter-actions upon counter-actions. Someone abuses you and an abuse is generated within you. It is not that you give the abuse; someone extracts it from you. In this way we become slaves. If I want to make you hurl an abuse, I can: just one insult is enough and you will have to abuse. If I want to provoke anger in you, a slight shove is enough—you will become angry.

If I can trigger anger in you, you have become a slave. Whatever others can produce in us, those are our chains. Reaction is our bondage—and all kinds of reactions can be produced in us. Someone comes and praises us and our whole being thrills with delight. Someone comes and condemns us and we instantly sink into a deep, dark night. Someone says, “You are very beautiful,” and at once we feel beautiful. Someone says, “Not at all,” and immediately we feel ugly. We are nothing—just public opinion. What people say, that is what we are.

That’s why we keep cutting out newspaper clippings about what others say of us. It is a great mercy we don’t pin them to our clothes. All the time we are only reacting. Whatever anyone says or makes us do, that we do. We are not individuals. We begin to be individuals the day response begins.

Response is pratisamvedan—sensitive, conscious responding. There is a great difference between pratisamvedan and reaction. Suppose someone abuses you: in reaction, abuse will always arise from you. But in response, compassion may arise. Someone abuses you, and it may be seen: “Poor fellow—who knows what trouble he is in that he is abusing.” Then it is response. Then you are not behaving via his abuse; you are continuing your own way of behaving. What is arising within you is not a mechanical result of his abuse; it is a conscious reply. There is a big difference between the two.

We press an electric button and the fan starts. The fan does not think, “Shall I run or not?” Press the button—it runs; press again—it stops. Someone abuses you—button pressed, you become angry. Someone praises you—button pressed, the anger disappears. Are you a person or a machine? What you are doing is the behavior of a mechanism. Reaction is mechanicalness; response is a symbol of consciousness. Response is the bigger thing.

People crucified Jesus, and in his final moments he was asked to pray to God. He prayed, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” That is response—a conscious answer. In such a situation, reaction could not be that. Reaction would have been to abuse, to curse: “Wipe them all out—O God, these people are hanging your beloved son on a cross. Set them aflame, burn them in hell.” That would have been reaction, mechanical. Jesus said, “Forgive them; they do not know what they are doing.” This is response— a conscious answer.

Therefore, one who wants to enter the world of sadhana, who wants to walk the path of sannyas, must be alert moment to moment whether what he is doing is reaction or response. On the road someone bumps into you—pause for a moment. What is the hurry to answer? Pause and see whether what you are about to say is mechanical or conscious. And you will be in difficulty—you will no longer be able to give a mechanical answer. It may be that you smile and go your way, and say nothing at all—that too will be an answer. But we don’t give even that much of a chance: here the button is pressed, there the act happens. Here a shove—there anger bursts forth. Over there someone praises—over here we puff up like a balloon.

A joke circulates about Bertrand Russell. “Joke” is the right word, because who knows whether it really happened. I’ve heard that at the time of his death the words “O God!” came out of his mouth. A priest was standing nearby—very astonished. He had approached full of fear, because Bertrand Russell did not believe in God; how then to ask him for repentance, for a final confession? He stood there, apprehensive. But when, at the last moment, “O God” came from Russell’s mouth, his courage rose. He asked, “Do you believe in God?” Russell opened his eyes and said, “Who are you?” “I’m a priest,” he replied, “standing here fearfully. I had come to have you repent, but I thought you don’t believe. It’s good you do—then make your confession.” Russell said, “It is not proper to send a guest away empty-handed; so I will repent.” And he said, “O God, if there be a God, forgive my soul, if I have a soul!” The priest said, “What are you doing?” Russell replied, “Without thinking, I cannot do anything. I do not know whether God is, nor whether there is a soul. At most I can speak the language of ‘if.’ ‘If there be a God, then forgive this Bertrand Russell, if there be a Bertrand Russell.’”

This man is not reacting even to death. He is responding. He has not panicked in the face of death.

I have a friend, an old thinker, a great scholar; he listens to Krishnamurti constantly. Once he told me, “Now everything has dropped from my mind—Ram, Om, mantra, all have gone.” I asked, “Have they dropped for sure?” He said, “Yes, completely gone. There is no place for them in my mind now. I don’t sing hymns, I don’t take God’s name, because he has no name, no hymn. I listen to Krishnamurti; I have understood completely.” I said, “If you have, good. But you are saying ‘completely’ with such force that there must be a little doubt somewhere inside.” Still I said, “Good—so be it.”

Two months later he had a heart attack. His son sent word, “He is very frightened; please come.” I went. His eyes were closed, and he was going on, “Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram, Ram-Ram.” I shook him and asked, “What are you doing?” He opened his eyes and said, “I don’t know. I did think a little, but as soon as it felt that death is near, I said, ‘Let Krishnamurti go—death is near.’ Then it was no longer in my control. It just started coming from my mouth. I am not saying it; it is happening. In a panic, ‘Ram-Ram’ is coming out.”

Now this is reaction. This man believes in God, but he is reacting. And Bertrand Russell does not believe in God, yet he is responding. And I say, Bertrand Russell can find God someday; this man never will. Because the person who behaves consciously toward life is giving proof of being self-possessed.

Russell’s statement—“If there be a soul, O God, if there be a God, forgive”—is a very conscious statement, very self-possessed. The person who can put “if” even in relation to the soul at the moment of death, and “if” in relation to God at the moment of death, is giving full notice of being self-possessed. He is not afraid. He has not panicked before death. He stands wholly with what his consciousness says. This is responsive sensitivity. It is a reply, but it is conscious. A mechanical reply is not conscious; it is inert.

If this much difference is kept in remembrance, then you can avoid reactions and move toward response; avoid reaction and move toward conscious reply. And the day life becomes a conscious response, that very day selfhood is born in life. And only such a self-possessed person can someday become capable of attaining God.

More tomorrow.