To understand the second Mahavrat, Aparigraha, first one must understand Parigraha. There is great confusion around Parigraha. Parigraha does not mean having things. Parigraha means the feeling of ownership over things. Parigraha means possessiveness. How many things you have decides nothing. Everything depends on the vision with which you relate to things, the manner in which you connect with them. And not only with things—we are possessive, parigrahi, toward persons as well.
Yesterday I spoke to you a little about violence. Parigraha, possessiveness, is one dimension of violence. Only a violent person becomes possessive. The very moment I declare ownership over a person or a thing, I descend into deep violence. It is impossible to be an owner without being violent. Ownership is violence. Ownership of things is one thing; we go so far as to claim ownership over persons as well.
The husband is the owner of the wife. The very word ‘pati’ means owner. We call the husband ‘swami’—swami means the owner. Parigraha means the hankering for ownership. A father may become the owner of the son, a guru the owner of the disciple. Wherever there is ownership there is Parigraha, and wherever there is Parigraha relationships turn violent. Because one cannot be an owner without doing violence to someone; and one cannot be an owner without making someone a slave. Without imposing dependence, possessiveness is impossible.
But why does the human mind crave so intensely to be an owner? Why this longing to be the master of another? Why so much relish in becoming another’s owner?
It is most amusing—because we are not our own masters. The day a person becomes his own master, the very idea of owning another evaporates. But since we are not our own masters, we spend our lives compensating by becoming masters of others.
Yet even if one became the owner of the whole earth, the lack would not be fulfilled. For the joy of being one’s own master is one thing, and being the master of another brings nothing but misery. To be one’s own master is bliss; to be another’s master is perpetual sorrow. Hence the greater the ownership, the greater the misery it generates. All our life we try to compensate for that one thing that is missing—we are not our own sovereigns—by becoming the owners of others.
It is like trying to quench thirst with fire—and the thirst goes on increasing. Thirst cannot be quenched by fire. By becoming the owner of others one cannot come to one’s own mastery. In fact something even more curious happens: the more you make another your possession, the more you become that person’s slave. In truth, ownership is twofold bondage. The one you make a slave does become your slave, but you too must become his slave. The owner is also the slave of his slave. However much a husband becomes the owner of his wife, he becomes a slave as well. And the emperor, though he owns a vast kingdom, becomes totally enslaved. Enslaved to fear—because those we subjugate we fill with fear. And those we subjugate begin to rebel against us. And those we subjugate want to subjugate us in turn.
I have heard: a man was leading a cow into the forest, tied with a rope. A sannyasin passed that way. The man was dragging the cow and heading to the jungle. That sannyasin stopped and asked the villagers, I want to ask a question. Is the cow tied to the man, or is the man tied to the cow?
The villagers said: It is simple and obvious—the cow is tied to the man.
The sannyasin asked: If the cow runs away will the man run after her, or not?
They replied: He will have to run.
The sannyasin said: The cow is bound by a very visible rope; this man is bound by a very invisible rope. He too cannot leave the cow. The rope around the cow’s neck is clear and can be seen. Around this man’s neck too is the cow’s rope—clear, but not visible.
The difference between the master and the slave is only this: one’s slavery is visible, the other’s is invisible. There is no other difference. Those whom we make slaves also enslave us. The possessor becomes the possessed. Parigraha is the search for a way to become the master of oneself.
I have heard: a fakir was nearing death. He had a little money. He told his disciples, I want to give this to the poorest man in the village. The next day all the poor gathered. But he would not accept anyone as the poorest. One by one he said, Not you, not you; the truly poor has not yet come.
By noon, the emperor passed in his chariot. The fakir threw his pouch of coins onto the emperor’s chariot. The emperor too had heard that the fakir intended to give the money to the poorest man. The emperor laughed and said, You have gone mad—throwing money upon the richest man? You had announced it for the poorest!
The fakir said: Those who have few things have a small bondage, a small poverty. You have many things, your bondage is great, your poverty is great. And the strange thing, O emperor, is that those who have little may have given up hope of further search; those who have much have an endless hope for more. I know no one on this earth poorer than you. I offer these coins to you.
Perhaps the fakir was right. The greatest slaves are those who fall into the illusion of being emperors over others. The greatest poor are those who try to erase their inner poverty with outer wealth. And the most dependent are those who try to impose dependence on others while wandering in the fantasy of their own freedom. No one can become free by enslaving another. Parigraha is the name of this very delusion.
I want to be free, so I think: if I make someone dependent upon me, I will be free. But the bondage becomes double. Chains tighten from both sides. In the prison, it is not only the prisoners who are confined. The guard who stands outside is equally bound. One is bound on the inside of the wall, one is bound on the outside. Neither can run away. And the curious thing is, the one inside at least attempts escape; the one outside does not even attempt it. He lives with the idea that he is free.
I have heard: a gang of bandits stopped a car in the forest and captured a political leader. But these bandits were humorous folk. The leader was terrified. The bandits said, Do not worry, we are of the same caste—of the same kind. The leader said, I don’t understand. They replied: In many ways we are well matched. Ahead of you walks the police; behind us follows the police. There is not much difference. You are bound from the front by the police; we are bound from behind. And remember, with police ahead it is a little difficult to run; with police behind, one can sometimes run.
One of the strange secrets of life is this: whomever you bind, you must be bound by. To bind, you must be bound. Parigraha has great depths. If its subtlest layers are understood, then its outer expanse can be understood as well.
The first attempt of Parigraha is this: let me forget that I am dependent. Let me forget that I am limited. Let me forget that I am not my own master. But such forgetting is impossible. If I am not the master, I am not. However much I expand to forget this, in the midst of all that expansion, deep within I will know I am not the master. Alexander knows he is not the master; Hitler knows he is not the master. The more one discovers, I am not the master, the more one expands outward ownership, reinforces it. The stronger the outer ownership becomes, perhaps for a little while one forgets; but again and again remembrance returns: I am not the master.
Why are we not masters within? We do not even know what is within—how then can we be masters of it?
Swami Ram went to America. The American president came to meet him. He found Ram’s words very strange. Of course the language was different—the language of a sannyasin belongs to another world. Ram always referred to himself as Badshah Ram—Emperor Ram. The American president asked, I do not quite understand—what do you mean by it? ‘Emperor Ram’—what does it mean? I see nothing with you. You have nothing except a loincloth. How are you an emperor?
Ram said: This loincloth is a slight hindrance to my emperorship—hence I announce it softly. Otherwise I am not tied to anything. Only this loincloth remains. I am an emperor! For I have no need of anything. I have no demand. I have no desire. This one loincloth is binding me a little. But what can a loincloth bind me with? I have tied it. So both of us seem bound. The loincloth is tied to me; I am tied to the loincloth.
Certainly, Mahavira could call himself an emperor. Mahavira’s elder brother must have thought, The younger one has left the kingdom—mad fellow! He handed the empire to the elder and himself became a naked fakir. Foolish! But very few understood: Mahavira became the emperor, and the elder brother remained a slave.
Emperorship begins when what I am is enough. It is enough to be oneself. There is no lack I must fill. There is no deficiency that keeps me empty. There is no incompleteness that makes me feel something is missing. Emperorship is an inner fulfillment, an inner sufficiency. Everything is—hence nothing is lacking. But the worldly emperor has nothing. There is much around him that can be seen, yet he himself is not with himself. Within there is an emptiness, a void.
Within, we are all empty. We try to fill this emptiness with furniture, with houses, with wealth. We try to fill it with fame, position, prestige. Yet we find: all the honors are gathered, the piles of wealth have risen, and the inner emptiness stands where it was. In fact, earlier it was not so visible; now it becomes starkly visible because of the contrast—the heaps of wealth outside make the inner emptiness appear more profound. A poor man never sees his poverty as clearly as a rich man begins to see his own.
To me, the one benefit of wealth is that it reveals poverty. Hence I always favor wealth—for without it, poverty may never become visible. As white lines stand out on a blackboard, so the inner destitution stands out against aggregated outer wealth. Everything is outside, and inside there is nothing. It is to fill this inner emptiness that Parigraha exists.
But one might think: If I abandon outer things, will inner emptiness disappear? This is the real question: if we renounce outer things and run away, will the inner emptiness vanish?
If the presence of outer things did not remove inner emptiness, how will their absence remove it? If their presence did not help, how can their absence help?
But the human mind is trapped in basic errors. First it thinks: by collecting outer things, I will be filled. When it discovers that outer things have been collected and the fullness has not come, it thinks: by leaving outer things I will be filled. But this is madness. If things could not fill you, how will the removal of things fill you?
Therefore remember, Aparigraha does not mean abandoning outer things. Aparigraha means attaining inner fullness. And when inner fullness arises, the race to fill oneself with outer things departs on its own.
So I said: Parigraha is not about things; it is about possessiveness. A Janaka can live in a palace and yet be non-possessive. Possessions may be many, but Janaka is not a possessor. And a sannyasin may appear non-possessive and yet be possessive; often it happens. Because he has made the second mistake. He thinks: I will remove things. But what will the removal of things do? The inner emptiness may stop being so visible—that much can happen. When outwardly there are no things, outside becomes empty; when inside is empty too, the contrast disappears and so the emptiness may stop appearing. But inner emptiness is not erased by outer emptiness. Within, a positive fulfillment is needed; within, a constructive birth of completeness is needed. Only then does the outer grip bid farewell; otherwise it cannot.
There was a fakir, Diogenes. Naked, he was walking through a forest. Perhaps he was the western counterpart of Mahavira—just as ecstatic, just as joyous, just as whole. Some men were going to market to sell slaves. They saw Diogenes—alone, naked, healthy, beautiful, powerful—and thought, If we catch him, he will fetch a good price. But they were afraid: can we catch him? They were eight, yet they feared trouble. Still, eight are many—let us try.
They gathered all their strength and attacked Diogenes. But Diogenes did not respond with attack; or say, he did respond—but in his own way. He stood in the middle, closed his eyes, and said to them, Speak—what are your intentions? He would not fight. They were trembling with fear. He said, Be reassured, do not be afraid. No harm will come to you from me. For one who has stopped doing harm to himself, how can he harm anyone? Speak, what are your intentions?
They were very embarrassed. If Diogenes had fought back, perhaps they would not have been so ashamed. Now they found it hard to say, We have come to make you a slave. They looked at each other. Diogenes said, Don’t worry, say it—whatever you say will happen. Lowering their eyes, they said, We are very ashamed, but we have come to make you a slave. Diogenes said, Good—fine! Let me be a slave. Now what? They stared at him: You will be a slave? You will not resist? Diogenes said, I am the master of my own mind. I can choose even to be a slave; where is the fight? Now where shall we go? They said, We will put chains on your hands. Diogenes said, Fools, there is no need for chains. I am already walking with you. Come.
They brought him to the market. A crowd gathered. Such a beautiful slave had perhaps never been brought for sale. Diogenes was made to stand on the auction block. When the auctioneer said, Whoever wishes to buy this slave, begin bidding—Diogenes said, Silence, fool! Ask them who has come with whom. Have they come for me, or have I come for them? Who is bound to whom? Am I bound to them, or are they bound to me? Do not use the word ‘slave’. I am my own master. Wait—I will call out myself. And Diogenes proclaimed from the block: If anyone wants to buy a master, a master has come to be sold! The crowd was astonished. A master? Diogenes said: I am master of myself.
This mastery of oneself is a creative attainment. When it happens, the outer grip drops. The outer grip is there only because there is no grip within. We go on clinging outside. And whomever we clutch outside, we begin to kill.
The violence of Parigraha is precisely this: if we cling to a person outwardly, we start to kill him—for without killing, he cannot be possessed. He must be killed. If a guru clutches a disciple, he will start killing the disciple. For a living disciple cannot be made a disciple; he must be killed. Thus come the orders, disciplines, rules, codes—within them the disciple is killed. His freedom is cut. Only when he becomes a corpse can he be a disciple. A husband will begin to kill his wife; a wife will begin to kill her husband. A friend will begin to kill a friend. For only when the other is thoroughly dead can one be assured he will not escape, will not become free.
But here lies a deep inner difficulty. When we kill a person and become his owner, the joy of ownership disappears. This is the contradiction. Without killing we cannot become owners; but once killed, the joy is gone. For there is no joy in owning the dead.
Hence the mind of the husband wanders from the first wife to a second, from the second to a third. From one house to another, from the second to a third. From one guru to another, from one disciple to another. Whatever we become the owner of becomes meaningless. For ownership turns it into a corpse; and there is no delight in owning the dead. There is no joy. One should own the living!
Thus another paradox of ownership: it kills—and having killed, it becomes dissatisfied, because delight is lost. A beloved gives a happiness a wife does not. Yet immediately one wants to turn the beloved into a wife—because ownership of a beloved is uncertain; the wife’s ownership is assured. But the moment she becomes a wife, she dies. And as she dies, she becomes meaningless.
Therefore, what we obtain becomes meaningless; we forget it, it loses significance. Those who go on collecting persons by killing them, grow weary of persons. For killing requires fruitless labor—and after labor, no fruit comes.
Hence the clever possessors abandon persons and begin to possess things. They need not be killed; they come pre-dead. Those who are tired of persons start to accumulate wealth and position. It is more convenient. Bring a chair into your house—it enters already dead. Where to place it, how to place it—you are the absolute owner. There is no struggle to kill it. But when we bring a person into our house, we try to turn him into a chair. Until he becomes a chair we are uneasy. When he becomes a chair, we are again uneasy.
So the shrewd possessors labor over things. The foolish possessors labor over persons. But both labors are ignorance. Neither with persons can we fill ourselves, nor with things. Our hands will remain empty. There is only one place we can be filled: with ourselves. There is no other fullness. There has never been any other fullness in this world. We can be filled only by ourselves. But we have no knowledge of ourselves.
How to know this Self? And how can the ‘vision of Aparigraha’ assist in this knowing? Let me suggest one thing: whatever you have—all that you have—look at it once with full attention and see: has it filled you even a little, even a fraction? All that you have—has it filled you an inch anywhere?
Everyone has something. If this ‘something’ has filled you even a little, then continue increasing this ‘something’. If it fills a little, it will fill more, still more. But if this ‘something’ has not filled you at all, then understand: however much it increases, it will not fill you. The arithmetic is very simple—but experience always loses before hope. Our past experience says Parigraha has not filled, but the hope for the future says: perhaps a little more will come—and I will be filled.
I have heard: in a village, a man’s third wife died, and he married a fourth. The villagers wanted to give him a gift, but they were tired of gifting—he had been married three times already. Each time the gifts had decreased. By the fourth, he was old, and the villagers were exasperated—what to give now? They presented him with a plaque on which was written: Victory of hope over experience. Even the experience of three wives could not stop him from taking a fourth. The whole village knew that when a wife is alive, he weeps for her death; and when she dies, he weeps for her death.
Hope always triumphs over experience. The mind of the possessor runs yoked to hope. The vision of Aparigraha will dawn only when experience triumphs over hope. Your past, your experience is sufficient to say: everything attained—and nothing attained. And those who rise to the president’s seat, who sit upon the chair, suddenly find: now that I am seated, nothing has been found.
Truly, what is to be found lies in the direction of Being, while what we keep finding lies in the direction of Having. We gather things—while what is to be attained is the Atman. Things can never become the Atman. This mistaken race does not run for one life, but for endless lives. In truth, we keep forgetting our past experience. It is not that the experiences of past lives have been lost; we have made ourselves forget. We keep dismissing even the experiences of this life. We always deny experience and go on thinking: what happened until now may differ from what will happen next. The experience of countless births cannot stop us from trying to make the object into the soul. Having cannot be transformed into Being. It is an impossibility.
Sometimes the desire for the impossible is itself intoxicating. Precisely because it cannot be, the heart longs to do it. For thousands of years men longed to reach the moon; it seemed impossible. Those who dreamt of reaching it were called mad. In English the word for mad—lunatic—comes from Luna, the moon—one who has been struck by the moon. In Hindi too we say chanda-mara—moonstruck. We are all moonstruck in this sense—we all long for the impossible. The most impossible thing in this world? One can reach the moon; so now calling moon-landers lunatic is not right. That chapter is over. They may reach Mars, perhaps another star. These are difficult, not impossible.
To me there is only one impossibility in existence: the object can never be turned into the soul—having cannot be transformed into being. It is a certainty that will remain impossible.
Therefore Mahavira or Buddha or Jesus call those mad who are caught in Parigraha. The possessor is the madman. He labors at a task that cannot be done. Perhaps precisely because it cannot be done it fascinates him. But fascination does not turn falsehood into truth. The truth of Parigraha is that it is an impossibility.
I have heard: Diogenes once said to Alexander, If you were to possess the whole world, have you thought what you would do then? Alexander is said to have grown sad. He replied, That never occurred to me. You are right—there is no second world. If I win this one, what then? Unemployment will set in, idleness will be my lot. He grew sad knowing there is no second world! Meaning? Meaning that when he wins this whole world, there will be such sadness—now it is only a thought.
Have you ever considered what will happen if you get what you want? If in this world one day a provision could be made—as the stories say in heaven—that we establish the wish-fulfilling tree here, the Kalpavriksha—then every man would have to become a Mahavira. If under a Kalpavriksha whatever you wish appears instantly, the whole world will become non-possessive. None will remain a possessor. Because the very moment a thing comes immediately, you are shocked to see it become useless; you stand again where you stood before getting it. The hunger remains, the leaning remains, the emptiness remains—after each attainment it rises before you again. Man is like a horizon.
From afar, the sky seems to touch the earth. Walk toward it; it remains just as near—ten miles perhaps, twenty miles. Soon we will reach. When you reach, you find the sky has moved twenty miles ahead. It could not have moved if it were here. Your walking and the sky’s retreat have no relation. The sky never touches the earth anywhere—it only appears so. The earth is round—thus it appears so. It does not touch anywhere.
Human desires are circular. Therefore hope appears to be becoming attainment—never becomes it. Our desires are like the round earth; hope’s sky surrounds on all sides, so it seems ten miles away: soon I will reach where hope becomes fulfillment, where what I desire will be obtained and I will be satisfied. After ten miles we see the horizon has receded. We move on, and move on all our life—and many lives.
The strange thing is, it never occurs to us that the sky that appeared to touch the earth ten miles earlier appears again ten miles ahead. Might it be that the sky never touches? Otherwise the sky would have to be running from you, changing its place of touching the earth—which is not possible.
Stranger still, those standing ten miles ahead of us are also running. Where we think the sky touches, those standing there also run forward. Those who are ahead of them also run from where their sky seems to touch. When the entire earth is running, it is not difficult for a little intelligence to see: the sky never touches the earth anywhere. Touching is only an appearance. Hope never becomes attainment. Desire never becomes fulfillment. Longing never becomes complete. It only appears so—and man goes on running.
Therefore it is essential to look fully at the past experience of Parigraha. But we are skillful at deception. Not as skillful at deceiving others as we are at deceiving ourselves. To deceive another is difficult—for the other is there. To deceive oneself is easy—self-deception is very easy. We go on deceiving ourselves.
I think: If I get one rupee, I will be delighted. The rupee comes to my hand—I am not delighted at all. I think: let the second rupee come. But it does not occur to me that the second rupee is only a copy of the first. It comes. The third rupee—again a copy. It comes. They keep coming. One day I find I am lost, and only rupees remain. But that sky which seemed to touch me when I desired the first rupee is exactly where it is after a hundred million rupees. The distance is the same—the distance that was there in the hope for one rupee is there after a hundred million.
Hence we are surprised: why is even a millionaire so mad for a single rupee? He is as mad for one rupee as the man who has none—for the distance between hope and attainment is always the same. How much you have makes no difference. What lies ahead—the not-yet—keeps you running.
Often, the millionaire becomes even more miserly. His experience says: hundreds of millions—and still no attainment. Life is ebbing away. Now he clutches each rupee with greater force—for life is ending. Earlier, when he had one rupee, life too was near. There was strength to run. Now that strength is ebbing. So as one grows old, one becomes more possessive—grasping hard: life is short. How much can I grab quickly? How far can I travel fast...!
I have heard: a girl named Alice reached fairyland. She was in trouble—hungry, thirsty, standing. The journey from earth to heaven is long. She saw the fairy queen under a tree, calling to her. Voices are deceptive—they seem to be heard. Hands are deceptive—they seem to be seen. Around the queen were heaps of sweets and fruits. The hungry girl began to run. Morning passed, afternoon came, the sun at the zenith—but the distance was the same.
A girl is a girl; if she were old she would not even stop to think. The girl halted and thought: What is happening? From morning to noon I have been running—and what was so near is still just as near! Nothing has changed. The distance is the same! She shouted, Queen, what kind of country is yours? Since morning I have run to noon, but the distance does not lessen.
The queen said: You run a little too slowly, that is why the distance does not lessen. Run faster. You are not putting enough force into your run. It is not adequate.
This the girl could understand. An old man could too—so for a girl, not difficult. She felt: Certainly the distance does not close because my run is weak. She ran faster. Evening descended, yet the distance remained the same. She shouted again: Now darkness is falling. The queen said, Your running is weak. The girl ran faster. Now darkness thickened; the queen could hardly be seen. In the dark she cried out: What kind of country is this! Night has fallen; now hope of arrival fades.
The queen’s laughter rang out: Foolish girl, perhaps you do not know—in your world too—no one ever arrives where he wants to arrive. The distance always remains what it was at the start.
On the day of birth the distance is as much as on the day of death. Only one difference: on the day of birth the sun rises; on the day of death the sun sets and darkness falls. On the day of birth there are hopes; on the day of death there is frustration, sorrow, defeat. At birth there are desires, aspirations, and the strength to run; at death there is a tired mind, defeat, brokenness. Still, do not think the dying man becomes non-possessive. Even the dying man thinks: If only a little more strength remained, a few more days—I would have run and arrived!
There is a tale: an emperor’s death approached. A hundred years were complete. Death entered and said: I have come to take you. Prepare. Death comes to everyone and says, Prepare. That we do not listen is another matter; that we turn deaf is another matter.
The emperor said: The time has come, but I have enjoyed nothing. My hopes are fresh; no victory is complete. How can I go now?
Death said: I must take someone. If one of your sons agrees to die in your place, I will take him. Let him give his remaining years to you.
The emperor called his sons—he had many, a hundred. He said, Who will give me his years? Nothing is complete yet for me.
But his sons were human too. If a dying old man of a hundred wishes to live, why would his fifty-year-old son not wish to live? Why would his eighty-year-old son not wish to live? Why would his twenty-year-old son not wish to live? Ninety-nine sat silent. The youngest, about fifteen or sixteen, stood up and said, Take my years. Death tried to dissuade him: Fool, what are you doing!
He said: If my father could complete nothing in a hundred years, what will I complete? Let me give them to him. Perhaps in two hundred he will complete something. I have only a hundred anyway! And likely my son will not agree to give me his years when my time comes—none of my ninety-nine brothers agreed. He said to Death: At least I will have this consolation—that none of my hopes were frustrated, for I will have made none. I can die in joy. Father is dying in great sorrow. Do me one kindness—when a hundred years pass and father comes to die again, let me know what his state is.
A hundred years passed. They pass quickly. Death stood again at his door.
The emperor said: But my hopes remain unfulfilled; not a single dream is complete. The earlier hundred sons were dead, but a hundred more had been born. He said: Call my sons.
Death said: Do you not see? In two hundred years nothing has happened.
He said: If I could have a little more time—perhaps it would happen.
That ‘perhaps’ stands even at the last moment of death. Perhaps it will be completed!
Very well—the sons were called again; again one agreed. Death tried to persuade him: You are mad. He said: Better you persuade our father that he is mad. If nothing happened in two hundred years, what will I do? Before dying he asked his father: Has even a little been completed in two hundred years?
The father said: A little? Nothing. I stand where I stood the day I was born.
The son said: Then I go gladly, without sorrow.
They say this happened for a thousand years. The old man lived a thousand years. His sons kept changing; his age kept increasing. When death came at the thousandth year, death was exhausted—but the old man was not. Death said: Enough—no more. How long shall I keep coming? You learn nothing from experience. He said: But nothing has happened yet; everything is empty still. Perhaps with a little more time—he had told death this ten times. Do not laugh at this old man—this is not just a story; it is our story. We too have said this to death a thousand times—only we do not remember. He too did not. If he remembered that he had said it ten times, perhaps he would lack the courage to say it the tenth time. He had forgotten. He said to death: What experience? Death said: I have come ten times. The old man said: I remember nothing.
We want to forget pain—and we do. Every pain we forget; every pleasure we preserve. We reduce our pains; we enlarge our pleasures. Hence old people say, Childhood was bliss. No child says this. A child says, How soon can I grow up? The adult seems blissful. No child is happy. Yet all elders say, Childhood was full of joy. They have forgotten childhood’s pains. A child wants to be big very soon—for he suffers in the world of elders. Around him are elders; he is small. They converse gravely—he is not allowed to play. Their grave discussion appears to him total foolishness; only play seems meaningful. Pressure on all sides, commands on all sides—Don’t do this, don’t do that. The child longs to be big so he can tell others: Don’t do this. But elders say childhood was bliss—they have forgotten.
You might say: If a man has died a hundred times—if death has come ten times—how can he forget? You were born—do you remember your birth? Certainly you were born this time at least; forget past births. Do you remember this one? Birth is such a painful process that the mind refuses to remember. The pain a mother bears in labor is nothing compared to what the child bears. The mother is freed quickly; but the child suffers such a shock he erases it from memory.
Our memory is constantly selecting what to keep and what to drop. If no one told us we were born, we would not know it. Yet you were there at your birth, the event happened to you, you passed through it. Where is the memory? It is absent—because it was a great pain. From the dark womb of the mother, from utter rest—where even breathing is not an effort, where nothing needs to be done to live, only being—from that world of being, with a jolt, you come into a world where to remain alive you must breathe, eat, cry, scream. Where life will be a struggle. From such a peaceful and blissful state into such a painful entry—the child forgets.
But through deep hypnosis you can be made to remember your birth-experience. In deep trance, or deep meditation, even experiences of the womb can be brought back. If your mother fell and was injured, the shock reached you too; that too is within your memory—but we have forgotten. Just so we have died many times, like King Yayati whose tale I told—death came ten times, but he kept forgetting. He said: I do not recognize you. I think you have come for the first time. Give me a little time to fulfill my desires. But death said: Enough now. If you could not learn from a thousand years, you will not learn from ten million.
One who wishes to learn, learns from a single experience. One who does not, will not learn from infinite experiences. We are such people—we have stopped learning. Those we call Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna—these are those who learn from life’s experience. We are those who do not. We have shut our eyes deliberately—and we will not learn. We will go on doing what we were doing; we will go on suffering what we were suffering; the same hopes, the same sorrows, the same repetition, the same wheel.
Perhaps you never noticed: our word is ‘samsara’. Samsara means the wheel—in which the same spokes return again and again; the same hub keeps turning. The chakra drawn on India’s flag—the politicians do not know why they adopted it. It was on Ashoka’s pillars—they thought it is Ashoka’s symbol, so they chose it.
But how would a politician understand? The wheel is a religious symbol. And none is so caught in the wheel as the politician—he is inside the wheel, clinging to a spoke, spinning all the time. Some try to pull him off; yet he does not let go. Those others also want only to take his spoke into their own hands. They never realize that just as they are trying to loosen his grip, others will try to loosen theirs when they hold it. It goes on.
The world, samsara, is a wheel. In this wheel we go on doing the same things, repeating them. Yesterday you were angry; yesterday you repented; yesterday you vowed not to be angry again. Today you will be angry again; today you will repent again; today you will vow again. Tomorrow too—and the day after. Are we men or machines? If a machine keeps turning, it is understandable; if a man keeps turning, one wonders whether he is a man or a machine.
They say man is a rational animal—but man gives no evidence of it. Looking at him, one cannot tell he is intelligent. It is difficult to find a creature more unintelligent. Man does not learn. The greatest thing to be learned in life is this: Parigraha is futility. I am not saying things are futile. A chair in your house is not useless. A chair can be sat upon. I am not saying the house is useless. A house can shelter you, it should. Things are not useless. They have their own utility. What I am saying is this: that we can fill ourselves with things—that has no meaning. That things can become our souls—that is impossible.
If we open our eyes even a little toward Parigraha, we will suddenly find we are entering a world where possessiveness falls away, fades, bids farewell. The day the grip is loosened, another event happens: you remain alone. Neither wife remains nor friend, nor brother, nor house. These all have their places—they are parts in a great game.
And the game is as when people play chess. There is a knight, there is a rook—but no one falls into the illusion of riding the chess-knight. Within the game and its rules, the knight is meaningful, has its utility, its moves, its wins and losses. But sometimes people go mad even with chess.
In Egypt an emperor went mad with chess. Slowly, so mad that he freed his stables of real horses and tied chess-horses in their place. He lived day and night among chess-horses and elephants! When the threat of an attack came, he said, Deploy all the chess-horses. Then his courtiers said, Now the mind is completely gone. How shall we fix this? The wise were called. They said: He has taken the game of chess for life. An old wise man rose to leave. He said, He will not be cured—for those who have come to cure him are not very different. He has mistaken chess for life; they have turned life into a game of chess. They are the same.
The emperor caught hold of the old man: You say something wise. If we are both mad alike, say something wise—what should I do? The old man said: Do nothing—only play chess, intensely. Great chess players were invited; the emperor was made to play day and night. Within a year the emperor was cured—and those who played with him went mad. Of course! The emperor recovered because he played continuously; playing, it became clear: neither the knight is a real horse nor the rook a real elephant—everything is a game.
We have played so many games. We are still playing. Yet we do not see the chess-knight as a chess-knight; we take it to be a horse.
All relationships are parts of life’s chess, with its rules—they should be followed. And remember, one who sees life as a game finds it easy to follow rules—nothing difficult remains. Then the seriousness goes—then you are not serious.
But some make the game into life; then they become serious even about the game; swords are drawn even over chess. If chess-knights and rooks had consciousness, they would laugh at the players—What are these people doing? Drawing swords over wooden pieces!
The entire arrangement of life is perfectly alright in its place. Things are things, having is having, wealth is wealth, position is position. None of these is the soul. Remembering this is freedom from Parigraha. It is not a matter of running away. Thus, those we ordinarily call sannyasins are inverted possessors—possessors standing on their heads. They are the same as you, only upside down. In many respects they are even more serious than you.
I cannot conceive of a serious sannyasin. It should be impossible. If he is serious he is merely a worldly man standing on his head. Seriousness means that the world is meaningful, precious. We can pay homage to it in two ways: by plunging into it, embracing it; or by fearing it and fleeing from it.
One last thing.
There were three sannyasins in China—whom I am willing to call sannyasins, for perhaps none were ever less serious than they. People did not know them; even their names were unknown, for names and such are part of the game. They never revealed their names. When asked, Who are you? they would look at each other and burst out laughing—so heartily that the questioner too would begin to laugh. Gradually their laughter would spread through the village. People knew them only as the Three Laughing Saints. Whenever someone asked them anything, they laughed. They answered with laughter. When asked, Why do you laugh at our questions? they said, You ask with such seriousness that any answer we give will prove dangerous—you will clutch it seriously as well.
If Parigraha is foolishness, then the renunciation aimed against Parigraha is also foolishness. To cling to things is madness; to flee from them is no less. To be infatuated with things is madness; to become disenchanted with them is no less. Both are madness—standing back to back. Each thinks the other must not be enjoying something.
Sannyasins meet me and say, Many times doubt arises in me—perhaps I made a mistake? It will arise—it is natural. In a sannyasin’s mind it is natural to think: Perhaps I erred in leaving everything and running away? Those who are enjoying there—are they not in great bliss? Those who enjoy are greatly troubled; they touch the feet of sannyasins and think: The sannyasin must be in great bliss—we are in sorrow.
This delusion goes on; our faces deceive. The sannyasin is doubtful in solitude, assured in the crowd. When people touch his feet, he is sure: No, they cannot be in bliss, or they would not come to touch my feet. In solitude doubt returns when the crowd departs.
Hence, if one wishes to preserve a false sannyas, a crowd is essential—otherwise it is difficult. Alone, the sannyasin becomes doubtful—perhaps the villagers are enjoying. Thus slowly sannyasins return to the villages. There are double benefits. People remain before them; people touch their feet and give respect; the sannyasin is assured: If they were in bliss, they would not come here. But he does not know that they too have moments of doubt; they too are filled with suspicion—perhaps the sannyasin is enjoying. In truth, we all think: the other is enjoying. We know the other’s face; we know our own soul. Our own sorrow is familiar; the other’s mask is familiar.
No—neither are things worth clinging to, nor are they worth abandoning. Therefore Aparigraha does not mean vairagya, does not mean detachment, does not mean dispassion, does not mean renunciation. Keep this last point clear—otherwise what I have said about Parigraha might turn you into renouncers, cause you to run away from the world, to abandon home and take the road to the forest.
No—one who understands Parigraha will forget about dropping—it cannot be dropped. You can drop only that which you once held. One who understands Parigraha will find: nothing can be held—what is there to drop? How can you drop? Where is the method? The other is other, the object is object—it cannot be dropped. A house is a house. Aparigraha means whether one is inside a house or outside, one becomes non-possessive. The feeling of ownership is gone. He is no longer an owner. He has stopped seeking ownership in the outer world. This does not mean he has run away from it. Where will he run? Wherever he goes, the outer world is. If one leaves home and sits under a tree, and tomorrow another sannyasin comes and says, Move—I want to set up my fire here—the first will say, Stop your nonsense. I was here first. This tree is mine—see my flag atop it. This temple is mine. This ashram is mine!
One who has fled from Parigraha will recreate it, because he has not understood what Parigraha is. He will create it again. Yes, the public will check him, disciples will check him. They will try in every way to keep Parigraha from arising. They will say, Do not let a house be built. Do not let a temple be built. Do not let an ashram be built. They will resist. Then the sannyasin will find subtle ways. If it becomes difficult to collect money, he will find subtler means. He will collect followers. The same delight some take in counting coins before a safe, he will find in counting disciples—how many are there now? Seven hundred, a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand? How many disciples? He will whisper mantras, initiate, and collect numbers. Numbers are intoxicating—whether of money or followers, it makes no difference.
Life cannot be understood by running away. One who runs, runs in unawareness. Life must be understood where it is. When it is understood, suddenly we find certain things drop of themselves. They do not need to be left. Suddenly we discover: husband and wife are in their places, but in between, possession has disappeared, ownership is gone. Now the husband is not a husband, merely a friend; the wife is not a wife, not a maid, merely a friend. The relation between has fallen away.
Aparigraha means a transformation in the relationship between us and persons and us and things. Ownership drops. If ownership falls from between me and anyone, Aparigraha has borne fruit. Hence Aparigraha is far more difficult than renunciation. Vairagya is very simple—because it is the other extreme, and the pendulum of the mind easily swings to the other extreme. One who overeats can easily be made to fast. One mad after women can easily be made to take a vow of celibacy. One very prone to anger can easily take a vow of non-anger.
But remember, the vow of non-anger too is being taken by an angry man. That is why he takes it so quickly. If he were less angry, he would think before he took it. If he were less still, perhaps he would not take it at all. For even to take a vow, some anger is needed. Until now he was angry at others; now he becomes angry at himself—and nothing has changed. Before he strangled others; now, taking a vow, he will strangle himself: Now I will not be angry—let me see how anger arises! He will seize his own neck. From one extreme to the other is always easy. Those who abide in the middle attain religion.
Confucius came to a village. The villagers said, In our village there is a very wise man—you must meet him.
Confucius asked: Why do you call him wise?
They said: He is very thoughtful.
Confucius asked: Not too thoughtful?
They said: Very, very thoughtful. Whatever he does, he thinks three times.
Confucius said: Save me from him. I will not go.
They said: What are you saying? Is he not wise?
Confucius said: He has become a little too wise—a little unbalanced. One who thinks once is at one extreme; one who thinks thrice has gone to the other. Twice is enough.
Confucius means only this: to abide in the middle is enough—the golden mean; to remain in the middle: neither renunciation nor indulgence. Neither clutching at things nor abandoning them. Aparigraha flowers in the middle.
These few things I have said. Do not worry about Aparigraha. Worry about understanding Parigraha. And remember, do not worry about dropping Parigraha—worry about understanding it. Why Parigraha? What lack is it trying to fill? On the day two things are seen clearly—first, that I want through Parigraha to fill and complete my soul, to fill the inner emptiness; that this is impossible. And second, that whatsoever we bind, binds us in return and makes us slaves. And third, that our entire past experience says: even if everything is obtained, nothing is obtained—we remain empty. When this remembrance becomes total, you will suddenly find the rays of Aparigraha descending into your life.
Tomorrow we will consider the third sutra, Achourya—non-stealing. It is an even subtler journey of Parigraha.
You have listened to my words with such silence and love—I am deeply grateful. And finally, I bow to the Divine seated within each of you. Please receive my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
To understand the second Mahavrat, Aparigraha, first one must understand Parigraha. There is great confusion around Parigraha. Parigraha does not mean having things. Parigraha means the feeling of ownership over things. Parigraha means possessiveness. How many things you have decides nothing. Everything depends on the vision with which you relate to things, the manner in which you connect with them. And not only with things—we are possessive, parigrahi, toward persons as well.
Yesterday I spoke to you a little about violence. Parigraha, possessiveness, is one dimension of violence. Only a violent person becomes possessive. The very moment I declare ownership over a person or a thing, I descend into deep violence. It is impossible to be an owner without being violent. Ownership is violence. Ownership of things is one thing; we go so far as to claim ownership over persons as well.
The husband is the owner of the wife. The very word ‘pati’ means owner. We call the husband ‘swami’—swami means the owner. Parigraha means the hankering for ownership. A father may become the owner of the son, a guru the owner of the disciple. Wherever there is ownership there is Parigraha, and wherever there is Parigraha relationships turn violent. Because one cannot be an owner without doing violence to someone; and one cannot be an owner without making someone a slave. Without imposing dependence, possessiveness is impossible.
But why does the human mind crave so intensely to be an owner? Why this longing to be the master of another? Why so much relish in becoming another’s owner?
It is most amusing—because we are not our own masters. The day a person becomes his own master, the very idea of owning another evaporates. But since we are not our own masters, we spend our lives compensating by becoming masters of others.
Yet even if one became the owner of the whole earth, the lack would not be fulfilled. For the joy of being one’s own master is one thing, and being the master of another brings nothing but misery. To be one’s own master is bliss; to be another’s master is perpetual sorrow. Hence the greater the ownership, the greater the misery it generates. All our life we try to compensate for that one thing that is missing—we are not our own sovereigns—by becoming the owners of others.
It is like trying to quench thirst with fire—and the thirst goes on increasing. Thirst cannot be quenched by fire. By becoming the owner of others one cannot come to one’s own mastery. In fact something even more curious happens: the more you make another your possession, the more you become that person’s slave. In truth, ownership is twofold bondage. The one you make a slave does become your slave, but you too must become his slave. The owner is also the slave of his slave. However much a husband becomes the owner of his wife, he becomes a slave as well. And the emperor, though he owns a vast kingdom, becomes totally enslaved. Enslaved to fear—because those we subjugate we fill with fear. And those we subjugate begin to rebel against us. And those we subjugate want to subjugate us in turn.
I have heard: a man was leading a cow into the forest, tied with a rope. A sannyasin passed that way. The man was dragging the cow and heading to the jungle. That sannyasin stopped and asked the villagers, I want to ask a question. Is the cow tied to the man, or is the man tied to the cow?
The villagers said: It is simple and obvious—the cow is tied to the man.
The sannyasin asked: If the cow runs away will the man run after her, or not?
They replied: He will have to run.
The sannyasin said: The cow is bound by a very visible rope; this man is bound by a very invisible rope. He too cannot leave the cow. The rope around the cow’s neck is clear and can be seen. Around this man’s neck too is the cow’s rope—clear, but not visible.
The difference between the master and the slave is only this: one’s slavery is visible, the other’s is invisible. There is no other difference. Those whom we make slaves also enslave us. The possessor becomes the possessed. Parigraha is the search for a way to become the master of oneself.
I have heard: a fakir was nearing death. He had a little money. He told his disciples, I want to give this to the poorest man in the village. The next day all the poor gathered. But he would not accept anyone as the poorest. One by one he said, Not you, not you; the truly poor has not yet come.
By noon, the emperor passed in his chariot. The fakir threw his pouch of coins onto the emperor’s chariot. The emperor too had heard that the fakir intended to give the money to the poorest man. The emperor laughed and said, You have gone mad—throwing money upon the richest man? You had announced it for the poorest!
The fakir said: Those who have few things have a small bondage, a small poverty. You have many things, your bondage is great, your poverty is great. And the strange thing, O emperor, is that those who have little may have given up hope of further search; those who have much have an endless hope for more. I know no one on this earth poorer than you. I offer these coins to you.
Perhaps the fakir was right. The greatest slaves are those who fall into the illusion of being emperors over others. The greatest poor are those who try to erase their inner poverty with outer wealth. And the most dependent are those who try to impose dependence on others while wandering in the fantasy of their own freedom. No one can become free by enslaving another. Parigraha is the name of this very delusion.
I want to be free, so I think: if I make someone dependent upon me, I will be free. But the bondage becomes double. Chains tighten from both sides. In the prison, it is not only the prisoners who are confined. The guard who stands outside is equally bound. One is bound on the inside of the wall, one is bound on the outside. Neither can run away. And the curious thing is, the one inside at least attempts escape; the one outside does not even attempt it. He lives with the idea that he is free.
I have heard: a gang of bandits stopped a car in the forest and captured a political leader. But these bandits were humorous folk. The leader was terrified. The bandits said, Do not worry, we are of the same caste—of the same kind. The leader said, I don’t understand. They replied: In many ways we are well matched. Ahead of you walks the police; behind us follows the police. There is not much difference. You are bound from the front by the police; we are bound from behind. And remember, with police ahead it is a little difficult to run; with police behind, one can sometimes run.
One of the strange secrets of life is this: whomever you bind, you must be bound by. To bind, you must be bound. Parigraha has great depths. If its subtlest layers are understood, then its outer expanse can be understood as well.
The first attempt of Parigraha is this: let me forget that I am dependent. Let me forget that I am limited. Let me forget that I am not my own master. But such forgetting is impossible. If I am not the master, I am not. However much I expand to forget this, in the midst of all that expansion, deep within I will know I am not the master. Alexander knows he is not the master; Hitler knows he is not the master. The more one discovers, I am not the master, the more one expands outward ownership, reinforces it. The stronger the outer ownership becomes, perhaps for a little while one forgets; but again and again remembrance returns: I am not the master.
Why are we not masters within? We do not even know what is within—how then can we be masters of it?
Swami Ram went to America. The American president came to meet him. He found Ram’s words very strange. Of course the language was different—the language of a sannyasin belongs to another world. Ram always referred to himself as Badshah Ram—Emperor Ram. The American president asked, I do not quite understand—what do you mean by it? ‘Emperor Ram’—what does it mean? I see nothing with you. You have nothing except a loincloth. How are you an emperor?
Ram said: This loincloth is a slight hindrance to my emperorship—hence I announce it softly. Otherwise I am not tied to anything. Only this loincloth remains. I am an emperor! For I have no need of anything. I have no demand. I have no desire. This one loincloth is binding me a little. But what can a loincloth bind me with? I have tied it. So both of us seem bound. The loincloth is tied to me; I am tied to the loincloth.
Certainly, Mahavira could call himself an emperor. Mahavira’s elder brother must have thought, The younger one has left the kingdom—mad fellow! He handed the empire to the elder and himself became a naked fakir. Foolish! But very few understood: Mahavira became the emperor, and the elder brother remained a slave.
Emperorship begins when what I am is enough. It is enough to be oneself. There is no lack I must fill. There is no deficiency that keeps me empty. There is no incompleteness that makes me feel something is missing. Emperorship is an inner fulfillment, an inner sufficiency. Everything is—hence nothing is lacking. But the worldly emperor has nothing. There is much around him that can be seen, yet he himself is not with himself. Within there is an emptiness, a void.
Within, we are all empty. We try to fill this emptiness with furniture, with houses, with wealth. We try to fill it with fame, position, prestige. Yet we find: all the honors are gathered, the piles of wealth have risen, and the inner emptiness stands where it was. In fact, earlier it was not so visible; now it becomes starkly visible because of the contrast—the heaps of wealth outside make the inner emptiness appear more profound. A poor man never sees his poverty as clearly as a rich man begins to see his own.
To me, the one benefit of wealth is that it reveals poverty. Hence I always favor wealth—for without it, poverty may never become visible. As white lines stand out on a blackboard, so the inner destitution stands out against aggregated outer wealth. Everything is outside, and inside there is nothing. It is to fill this inner emptiness that Parigraha exists.
But one might think: If I abandon outer things, will inner emptiness disappear? This is the real question: if we renounce outer things and run away, will the inner emptiness vanish?
If the presence of outer things did not remove inner emptiness, how will their absence remove it? If their presence did not help, how can their absence help?
But the human mind is trapped in basic errors. First it thinks: by collecting outer things, I will be filled. When it discovers that outer things have been collected and the fullness has not come, it thinks: by leaving outer things I will be filled. But this is madness. If things could not fill you, how will the removal of things fill you?
Therefore remember, Aparigraha does not mean abandoning outer things. Aparigraha means attaining inner fullness. And when inner fullness arises, the race to fill oneself with outer things departs on its own.
So I said: Parigraha is not about things; it is about possessiveness. A Janaka can live in a palace and yet be non-possessive. Possessions may be many, but Janaka is not a possessor. And a sannyasin may appear non-possessive and yet be possessive; often it happens. Because he has made the second mistake. He thinks: I will remove things. But what will the removal of things do? The inner emptiness may stop being so visible—that much can happen. When outwardly there are no things, outside becomes empty; when inside is empty too, the contrast disappears and so the emptiness may stop appearing. But inner emptiness is not erased by outer emptiness. Within, a positive fulfillment is needed; within, a constructive birth of completeness is needed. Only then does the outer grip bid farewell; otherwise it cannot.
There was a fakir, Diogenes. Naked, he was walking through a forest. Perhaps he was the western counterpart of Mahavira—just as ecstatic, just as joyous, just as whole. Some men were going to market to sell slaves. They saw Diogenes—alone, naked, healthy, beautiful, powerful—and thought, If we catch him, he will fetch a good price. But they were afraid: can we catch him? They were eight, yet they feared trouble. Still, eight are many—let us try.
They gathered all their strength and attacked Diogenes. But Diogenes did not respond with attack; or say, he did respond—but in his own way. He stood in the middle, closed his eyes, and said to them, Speak—what are your intentions? He would not fight. They were trembling with fear. He said, Be reassured, do not be afraid. No harm will come to you from me. For one who has stopped doing harm to himself, how can he harm anyone? Speak, what are your intentions?
They were very embarrassed. If Diogenes had fought back, perhaps they would not have been so ashamed. Now they found it hard to say, We have come to make you a slave. They looked at each other. Diogenes said, Don’t worry, say it—whatever you say will happen. Lowering their eyes, they said, We are very ashamed, but we have come to make you a slave. Diogenes said, Good—fine! Let me be a slave. Now what? They stared at him: You will be a slave? You will not resist? Diogenes said, I am the master of my own mind. I can choose even to be a slave; where is the fight? Now where shall we go? They said, We will put chains on your hands. Diogenes said, Fools, there is no need for chains. I am already walking with you. Come.
They brought him to the market. A crowd gathered. Such a beautiful slave had perhaps never been brought for sale. Diogenes was made to stand on the auction block. When the auctioneer said, Whoever wishes to buy this slave, begin bidding—Diogenes said, Silence, fool! Ask them who has come with whom. Have they come for me, or have I come for them? Who is bound to whom? Am I bound to them, or are they bound to me? Do not use the word ‘slave’. I am my own master. Wait—I will call out myself. And Diogenes proclaimed from the block: If anyone wants to buy a master, a master has come to be sold! The crowd was astonished. A master? Diogenes said: I am master of myself.
This mastery of oneself is a creative attainment. When it happens, the outer grip drops. The outer grip is there only because there is no grip within. We go on clinging outside. And whomever we clutch outside, we begin to kill.
The violence of Parigraha is precisely this: if we cling to a person outwardly, we start to kill him—for without killing, he cannot be possessed. He must be killed. If a guru clutches a disciple, he will start killing the disciple. For a living disciple cannot be made a disciple; he must be killed. Thus come the orders, disciplines, rules, codes—within them the disciple is killed. His freedom is cut. Only when he becomes a corpse can he be a disciple. A husband will begin to kill his wife; a wife will begin to kill her husband. A friend will begin to kill a friend. For only when the other is thoroughly dead can one be assured he will not escape, will not become free.
But here lies a deep inner difficulty. When we kill a person and become his owner, the joy of ownership disappears. This is the contradiction. Without killing we cannot become owners; but once killed, the joy is gone. For there is no joy in owning the dead.
Hence the mind of the husband wanders from the first wife to a second, from the second to a third. From one house to another, from the second to a third. From one guru to another, from one disciple to another. Whatever we become the owner of becomes meaningless. For ownership turns it into a corpse; and there is no delight in owning the dead. There is no joy. One should own the living!
Thus another paradox of ownership: it kills—and having killed, it becomes dissatisfied, because delight is lost. A beloved gives a happiness a wife does not. Yet immediately one wants to turn the beloved into a wife—because ownership of a beloved is uncertain; the wife’s ownership is assured. But the moment she becomes a wife, she dies. And as she dies, she becomes meaningless.
Therefore, what we obtain becomes meaningless; we forget it, it loses significance. Those who go on collecting persons by killing them, grow weary of persons. For killing requires fruitless labor—and after labor, no fruit comes.
Hence the clever possessors abandon persons and begin to possess things. They need not be killed; they come pre-dead. Those who are tired of persons start to accumulate wealth and position. It is more convenient. Bring a chair into your house—it enters already dead. Where to place it, how to place it—you are the absolute owner. There is no struggle to kill it. But when we bring a person into our house, we try to turn him into a chair. Until he becomes a chair we are uneasy. When he becomes a chair, we are again uneasy.
So the shrewd possessors labor over things. The foolish possessors labor over persons. But both labors are ignorance. Neither with persons can we fill ourselves, nor with things. Our hands will remain empty. There is only one place we can be filled: with ourselves. There is no other fullness. There has never been any other fullness in this world. We can be filled only by ourselves. But we have no knowledge of ourselves.
How to know this Self? And how can the ‘vision of Aparigraha’ assist in this knowing? Let me suggest one thing: whatever you have—all that you have—look at it once with full attention and see: has it filled you even a little, even a fraction? All that you have—has it filled you an inch anywhere?
Everyone has something. If this ‘something’ has filled you even a little, then continue increasing this ‘something’. If it fills a little, it will fill more, still more. But if this ‘something’ has not filled you at all, then understand: however much it increases, it will not fill you. The arithmetic is very simple—but experience always loses before hope. Our past experience says Parigraha has not filled, but the hope for the future says: perhaps a little more will come—and I will be filled.
I have heard: in a village, a man’s third wife died, and he married a fourth. The villagers wanted to give him a gift, but they were tired of gifting—he had been married three times already. Each time the gifts had decreased. By the fourth, he was old, and the villagers were exasperated—what to give now? They presented him with a plaque on which was written: Victory of hope over experience. Even the experience of three wives could not stop him from taking a fourth. The whole village knew that when a wife is alive, he weeps for her death; and when she dies, he weeps for her death.
Hope always triumphs over experience. The mind of the possessor runs yoked to hope. The vision of Aparigraha will dawn only when experience triumphs over hope. Your past, your experience is sufficient to say: everything attained—and nothing attained. And those who rise to the president’s seat, who sit upon the chair, suddenly find: now that I am seated, nothing has been found.
Truly, what is to be found lies in the direction of Being, while what we keep finding lies in the direction of Having. We gather things—while what is to be attained is the Atman. Things can never become the Atman. This mistaken race does not run for one life, but for endless lives. In truth, we keep forgetting our past experience. It is not that the experiences of past lives have been lost; we have made ourselves forget. We keep dismissing even the experiences of this life. We always deny experience and go on thinking: what happened until now may differ from what will happen next. The experience of countless births cannot stop us from trying to make the object into the soul. Having cannot be transformed into Being. It is an impossibility.
Sometimes the desire for the impossible is itself intoxicating. Precisely because it cannot be, the heart longs to do it. For thousands of years men longed to reach the moon; it seemed impossible. Those who dreamt of reaching it were called mad. In English the word for mad—lunatic—comes from Luna, the moon—one who has been struck by the moon. In Hindi too we say chanda-mara—moonstruck. We are all moonstruck in this sense—we all long for the impossible. The most impossible thing in this world? One can reach the moon; so now calling moon-landers lunatic is not right. That chapter is over. They may reach Mars, perhaps another star. These are difficult, not impossible.
To me there is only one impossibility in existence: the object can never be turned into the soul—having cannot be transformed into being. It is a certainty that will remain impossible.
Therefore Mahavira or Buddha or Jesus call those mad who are caught in Parigraha. The possessor is the madman. He labors at a task that cannot be done. Perhaps precisely because it cannot be done it fascinates him. But fascination does not turn falsehood into truth. The truth of Parigraha is that it is an impossibility.
I have heard: Diogenes once said to Alexander, If you were to possess the whole world, have you thought what you would do then? Alexander is said to have grown sad. He replied, That never occurred to me. You are right—there is no second world. If I win this one, what then? Unemployment will set in, idleness will be my lot. He grew sad knowing there is no second world! Meaning? Meaning that when he wins this whole world, there will be such sadness—now it is only a thought.
Have you ever considered what will happen if you get what you want? If in this world one day a provision could be made—as the stories say in heaven—that we establish the wish-fulfilling tree here, the Kalpavriksha—then every man would have to become a Mahavira. If under a Kalpavriksha whatever you wish appears instantly, the whole world will become non-possessive. None will remain a possessor. Because the very moment a thing comes immediately, you are shocked to see it become useless; you stand again where you stood before getting it. The hunger remains, the leaning remains, the emptiness remains—after each attainment it rises before you again. Man is like a horizon.
From afar, the sky seems to touch the earth. Walk toward it; it remains just as near—ten miles perhaps, twenty miles. Soon we will reach. When you reach, you find the sky has moved twenty miles ahead. It could not have moved if it were here. Your walking and the sky’s retreat have no relation. The sky never touches the earth anywhere—it only appears so. The earth is round—thus it appears so. It does not touch anywhere.
Human desires are circular. Therefore hope appears to be becoming attainment—never becomes it. Our desires are like the round earth; hope’s sky surrounds on all sides, so it seems ten miles away: soon I will reach where hope becomes fulfillment, where what I desire will be obtained and I will be satisfied. After ten miles we see the horizon has receded. We move on, and move on all our life—and many lives.
The strange thing is, it never occurs to us that the sky that appeared to touch the earth ten miles earlier appears again ten miles ahead. Might it be that the sky never touches? Otherwise the sky would have to be running from you, changing its place of touching the earth—which is not possible.
Stranger still, those standing ten miles ahead of us are also running. Where we think the sky touches, those standing there also run forward. Those who are ahead of them also run from where their sky seems to touch. When the entire earth is running, it is not difficult for a little intelligence to see: the sky never touches the earth anywhere. Touching is only an appearance. Hope never becomes attainment. Desire never becomes fulfillment. Longing never becomes complete. It only appears so—and man goes on running.
Therefore it is essential to look fully at the past experience of Parigraha. But we are skillful at deception. Not as skillful at deceiving others as we are at deceiving ourselves. To deceive another is difficult—for the other is there. To deceive oneself is easy—self-deception is very easy. We go on deceiving ourselves.
I think: If I get one rupee, I will be delighted. The rupee comes to my hand—I am not delighted at all. I think: let the second rupee come. But it does not occur to me that the second rupee is only a copy of the first. It comes. The third rupee—again a copy. It comes. They keep coming. One day I find I am lost, and only rupees remain. But that sky which seemed to touch me when I desired the first rupee is exactly where it is after a hundred million rupees. The distance is the same—the distance that was there in the hope for one rupee is there after a hundred million.
Hence we are surprised: why is even a millionaire so mad for a single rupee? He is as mad for one rupee as the man who has none—for the distance between hope and attainment is always the same. How much you have makes no difference. What lies ahead—the not-yet—keeps you running.
Often, the millionaire becomes even more miserly. His experience says: hundreds of millions—and still no attainment. Life is ebbing away. Now he clutches each rupee with greater force—for life is ending. Earlier, when he had one rupee, life too was near. There was strength to run. Now that strength is ebbing. So as one grows old, one becomes more possessive—grasping hard: life is short. How much can I grab quickly? How far can I travel fast...!
I have heard: a girl named Alice reached fairyland. She was in trouble—hungry, thirsty, standing. The journey from earth to heaven is long. She saw the fairy queen under a tree, calling to her. Voices are deceptive—they seem to be heard. Hands are deceptive—they seem to be seen. Around the queen were heaps of sweets and fruits. The hungry girl began to run. Morning passed, afternoon came, the sun at the zenith—but the distance was the same.
A girl is a girl; if she were old she would not even stop to think. The girl halted and thought: What is happening? From morning to noon I have been running—and what was so near is still just as near! Nothing has changed. The distance is the same! She shouted, Queen, what kind of country is yours? Since morning I have run to noon, but the distance does not lessen.
The queen said: You run a little too slowly, that is why the distance does not lessen. Run faster. You are not putting enough force into your run. It is not adequate.
This the girl could understand. An old man could too—so for a girl, not difficult. She felt: Certainly the distance does not close because my run is weak. She ran faster. Evening descended, yet the distance remained the same. She shouted again: Now darkness is falling. The queen said, Your running is weak. The girl ran faster. Now darkness thickened; the queen could hardly be seen. In the dark she cried out: What kind of country is this! Night has fallen; now hope of arrival fades.
The queen’s laughter rang out: Foolish girl, perhaps you do not know—in your world too—no one ever arrives where he wants to arrive. The distance always remains what it was at the start.
On the day of birth the distance is as much as on the day of death. Only one difference: on the day of birth the sun rises; on the day of death the sun sets and darkness falls. On the day of birth there are hopes; on the day of death there is frustration, sorrow, defeat. At birth there are desires, aspirations, and the strength to run; at death there is a tired mind, defeat, brokenness. Still, do not think the dying man becomes non-possessive. Even the dying man thinks: If only a little more strength remained, a few more days—I would have run and arrived!
There is a tale: an emperor’s death approached. A hundred years were complete. Death entered and said: I have come to take you. Prepare. Death comes to everyone and says, Prepare. That we do not listen is another matter; that we turn deaf is another matter.
The emperor said: The time has come, but I have enjoyed nothing. My hopes are fresh; no victory is complete. How can I go now?
Death said: I must take someone. If one of your sons agrees to die in your place, I will take him. Let him give his remaining years to you.
The emperor called his sons—he had many, a hundred. He said, Who will give me his years? Nothing is complete yet for me.
But his sons were human too. If a dying old man of a hundred wishes to live, why would his fifty-year-old son not wish to live? Why would his eighty-year-old son not wish to live? Why would his twenty-year-old son not wish to live? Ninety-nine sat silent. The youngest, about fifteen or sixteen, stood up and said, Take my years. Death tried to dissuade him: Fool, what are you doing!
He said: If my father could complete nothing in a hundred years, what will I complete? Let me give them to him. Perhaps in two hundred he will complete something. I have only a hundred anyway! And likely my son will not agree to give me his years when my time comes—none of my ninety-nine brothers agreed. He said to Death: At least I will have this consolation—that none of my hopes were frustrated, for I will have made none. I can die in joy. Father is dying in great sorrow. Do me one kindness—when a hundred years pass and father comes to die again, let me know what his state is.
A hundred years passed. They pass quickly. Death stood again at his door.
The emperor said: But my hopes remain unfulfilled; not a single dream is complete. The earlier hundred sons were dead, but a hundred more had been born. He said: Call my sons.
Death said: Do you not see? In two hundred years nothing has happened.
He said: If I could have a little more time—perhaps it would happen.
That ‘perhaps’ stands even at the last moment of death. Perhaps it will be completed!
Very well—the sons were called again; again one agreed. Death tried to persuade him: You are mad. He said: Better you persuade our father that he is mad. If nothing happened in two hundred years, what will I do? Before dying he asked his father: Has even a little been completed in two hundred years?
The father said: A little? Nothing. I stand where I stood the day I was born.
The son said: Then I go gladly, without sorrow.
They say this happened for a thousand years. The old man lived a thousand years. His sons kept changing; his age kept increasing. When death came at the thousandth year, death was exhausted—but the old man was not. Death said: Enough—no more. How long shall I keep coming? You learn nothing from experience. He said: But nothing has happened yet; everything is empty still. Perhaps with a little more time—he had told death this ten times. Do not laugh at this old man—this is not just a story; it is our story. We too have said this to death a thousand times—only we do not remember. He too did not. If he remembered that he had said it ten times, perhaps he would lack the courage to say it the tenth time. He had forgotten. He said to death: What experience? Death said: I have come ten times. The old man said: I remember nothing.
We want to forget pain—and we do. Every pain we forget; every pleasure we preserve. We reduce our pains; we enlarge our pleasures. Hence old people say, Childhood was bliss. No child says this. A child says, How soon can I grow up? The adult seems blissful. No child is happy. Yet all elders say, Childhood was full of joy. They have forgotten childhood’s pains. A child wants to be big very soon—for he suffers in the world of elders. Around him are elders; he is small. They converse gravely—he is not allowed to play. Their grave discussion appears to him total foolishness; only play seems meaningful. Pressure on all sides, commands on all sides—Don’t do this, don’t do that. The child longs to be big so he can tell others: Don’t do this. But elders say childhood was bliss—they have forgotten.
You might say: If a man has died a hundred times—if death has come ten times—how can he forget? You were born—do you remember your birth? Certainly you were born this time at least; forget past births. Do you remember this one? Birth is such a painful process that the mind refuses to remember. The pain a mother bears in labor is nothing compared to what the child bears. The mother is freed quickly; but the child suffers such a shock he erases it from memory.
Our memory is constantly selecting what to keep and what to drop. If no one told us we were born, we would not know it. Yet you were there at your birth, the event happened to you, you passed through it. Where is the memory? It is absent—because it was a great pain. From the dark womb of the mother, from utter rest—where even breathing is not an effort, where nothing needs to be done to live, only being—from that world of being, with a jolt, you come into a world where to remain alive you must breathe, eat, cry, scream. Where life will be a struggle. From such a peaceful and blissful state into such a painful entry—the child forgets.
But through deep hypnosis you can be made to remember your birth-experience. In deep trance, or deep meditation, even experiences of the womb can be brought back. If your mother fell and was injured, the shock reached you too; that too is within your memory—but we have forgotten. Just so we have died many times, like King Yayati whose tale I told—death came ten times, but he kept forgetting. He said: I do not recognize you. I think you have come for the first time. Give me a little time to fulfill my desires. But death said: Enough now. If you could not learn from a thousand years, you will not learn from ten million.
One who wishes to learn, learns from a single experience. One who does not, will not learn from infinite experiences. We are such people—we have stopped learning. Those we call Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna—these are those who learn from life’s experience. We are those who do not. We have shut our eyes deliberately—and we will not learn. We will go on doing what we were doing; we will go on suffering what we were suffering; the same hopes, the same sorrows, the same repetition, the same wheel.
Perhaps you never noticed: our word is ‘samsara’. Samsara means the wheel—in which the same spokes return again and again; the same hub keeps turning. The chakra drawn on India’s flag—the politicians do not know why they adopted it. It was on Ashoka’s pillars—they thought it is Ashoka’s symbol, so they chose it.
But how would a politician understand? The wheel is a religious symbol. And none is so caught in the wheel as the politician—he is inside the wheel, clinging to a spoke, spinning all the time. Some try to pull him off; yet he does not let go. Those others also want only to take his spoke into their own hands. They never realize that just as they are trying to loosen his grip, others will try to loosen theirs when they hold it. It goes on.
The world, samsara, is a wheel. In this wheel we go on doing the same things, repeating them. Yesterday you were angry; yesterday you repented; yesterday you vowed not to be angry again. Today you will be angry again; today you will repent again; today you will vow again. Tomorrow too—and the day after. Are we men or machines? If a machine keeps turning, it is understandable; if a man keeps turning, one wonders whether he is a man or a machine.
They say man is a rational animal—but man gives no evidence of it. Looking at him, one cannot tell he is intelligent. It is difficult to find a creature more unintelligent. Man does not learn. The greatest thing to be learned in life is this: Parigraha is futility. I am not saying things are futile. A chair in your house is not useless. A chair can be sat upon. I am not saying the house is useless. A house can shelter you, it should. Things are not useless. They have their own utility. What I am saying is this: that we can fill ourselves with things—that has no meaning. That things can become our souls—that is impossible.
If we open our eyes even a little toward Parigraha, we will suddenly find we are entering a world where possessiveness falls away, fades, bids farewell. The day the grip is loosened, another event happens: you remain alone. Neither wife remains nor friend, nor brother, nor house. These all have their places—they are parts in a great game.
And the game is as when people play chess. There is a knight, there is a rook—but no one falls into the illusion of riding the chess-knight. Within the game and its rules, the knight is meaningful, has its utility, its moves, its wins and losses. But sometimes people go mad even with chess.
In Egypt an emperor went mad with chess. Slowly, so mad that he freed his stables of real horses and tied chess-horses in their place. He lived day and night among chess-horses and elephants! When the threat of an attack came, he said, Deploy all the chess-horses. Then his courtiers said, Now the mind is completely gone. How shall we fix this? The wise were called. They said: He has taken the game of chess for life. An old wise man rose to leave. He said, He will not be cured—for those who have come to cure him are not very different. He has mistaken chess for life; they have turned life into a game of chess. They are the same.
The emperor caught hold of the old man: You say something wise. If we are both mad alike, say something wise—what should I do? The old man said: Do nothing—only play chess, intensely. Great chess players were invited; the emperor was made to play day and night. Within a year the emperor was cured—and those who played with him went mad. Of course! The emperor recovered because he played continuously; playing, it became clear: neither the knight is a real horse nor the rook a real elephant—everything is a game.
We have played so many games. We are still playing. Yet we do not see the chess-knight as a chess-knight; we take it to be a horse.
All relationships are parts of life’s chess, with its rules—they should be followed. And remember, one who sees life as a game finds it easy to follow rules—nothing difficult remains. Then the seriousness goes—then you are not serious.
But some make the game into life; then they become serious even about the game; swords are drawn even over chess. If chess-knights and rooks had consciousness, they would laugh at the players—What are these people doing? Drawing swords over wooden pieces!
The entire arrangement of life is perfectly alright in its place. Things are things, having is having, wealth is wealth, position is position. None of these is the soul. Remembering this is freedom from Parigraha. It is not a matter of running away. Thus, those we ordinarily call sannyasins are inverted possessors—possessors standing on their heads. They are the same as you, only upside down. In many respects they are even more serious than you.
I cannot conceive of a serious sannyasin. It should be impossible. If he is serious he is merely a worldly man standing on his head. Seriousness means that the world is meaningful, precious. We can pay homage to it in two ways: by plunging into it, embracing it; or by fearing it and fleeing from it.
One last thing.
There were three sannyasins in China—whom I am willing to call sannyasins, for perhaps none were ever less serious than they. People did not know them; even their names were unknown, for names and such are part of the game. They never revealed their names. When asked, Who are you? they would look at each other and burst out laughing—so heartily that the questioner too would begin to laugh. Gradually their laughter would spread through the village. People knew them only as the Three Laughing Saints. Whenever someone asked them anything, they laughed. They answered with laughter. When asked, Why do you laugh at our questions? they said, You ask with such seriousness that any answer we give will prove dangerous—you will clutch it seriously as well.
If Parigraha is foolishness, then the renunciation aimed against Parigraha is also foolishness. To cling to things is madness; to flee from them is no less. To be infatuated with things is madness; to become disenchanted with them is no less. Both are madness—standing back to back. Each thinks the other must not be enjoying something.
Sannyasins meet me and say, Many times doubt arises in me—perhaps I made a mistake? It will arise—it is natural. In a sannyasin’s mind it is natural to think: Perhaps I erred in leaving everything and running away? Those who are enjoying there—are they not in great bliss? Those who enjoy are greatly troubled; they touch the feet of sannyasins and think: The sannyasin must be in great bliss—we are in sorrow.
This delusion goes on; our faces deceive. The sannyasin is doubtful in solitude, assured in the crowd. When people touch his feet, he is sure: No, they cannot be in bliss, or they would not come to touch my feet. In solitude doubt returns when the crowd departs.
Hence, if one wishes to preserve a false sannyas, a crowd is essential—otherwise it is difficult. Alone, the sannyasin becomes doubtful—perhaps the villagers are enjoying. Thus slowly sannyasins return to the villages. There are double benefits. People remain before them; people touch their feet and give respect; the sannyasin is assured: If they were in bliss, they would not come here. But he does not know that they too have moments of doubt; they too are filled with suspicion—perhaps the sannyasin is enjoying. In truth, we all think: the other is enjoying. We know the other’s face; we know our own soul. Our own sorrow is familiar; the other’s mask is familiar.
No—neither are things worth clinging to, nor are they worth abandoning. Therefore Aparigraha does not mean vairagya, does not mean detachment, does not mean dispassion, does not mean renunciation. Keep this last point clear—otherwise what I have said about Parigraha might turn you into renouncers, cause you to run away from the world, to abandon home and take the road to the forest.
No—one who understands Parigraha will forget about dropping—it cannot be dropped. You can drop only that which you once held. One who understands Parigraha will find: nothing can be held—what is there to drop? How can you drop? Where is the method? The other is other, the object is object—it cannot be dropped. A house is a house. Aparigraha means whether one is inside a house or outside, one becomes non-possessive. The feeling of ownership is gone. He is no longer an owner. He has stopped seeking ownership in the outer world. This does not mean he has run away from it. Where will he run? Wherever he goes, the outer world is. If one leaves home and sits under a tree, and tomorrow another sannyasin comes and says, Move—I want to set up my fire here—the first will say, Stop your nonsense. I was here first. This tree is mine—see my flag atop it. This temple is mine. This ashram is mine!
One who has fled from Parigraha will recreate it, because he has not understood what Parigraha is. He will create it again. Yes, the public will check him, disciples will check him. They will try in every way to keep Parigraha from arising. They will say, Do not let a house be built. Do not let a temple be built. Do not let an ashram be built. They will resist. Then the sannyasin will find subtle ways. If it becomes difficult to collect money, he will find subtler means. He will collect followers. The same delight some take in counting coins before a safe, he will find in counting disciples—how many are there now? Seven hundred, a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand? How many disciples? He will whisper mantras, initiate, and collect numbers. Numbers are intoxicating—whether of money or followers, it makes no difference.
Life cannot be understood by running away. One who runs, runs in unawareness. Life must be understood where it is. When it is understood, suddenly we find certain things drop of themselves. They do not need to be left. Suddenly we discover: husband and wife are in their places, but in between, possession has disappeared, ownership is gone. Now the husband is not a husband, merely a friend; the wife is not a wife, not a maid, merely a friend. The relation between has fallen away.
Aparigraha means a transformation in the relationship between us and persons and us and things. Ownership drops. If ownership falls from between me and anyone, Aparigraha has borne fruit. Hence Aparigraha is far more difficult than renunciation. Vairagya is very simple—because it is the other extreme, and the pendulum of the mind easily swings to the other extreme. One who overeats can easily be made to fast. One mad after women can easily be made to take a vow of celibacy. One very prone to anger can easily take a vow of non-anger.
But remember, the vow of non-anger too is being taken by an angry man. That is why he takes it so quickly. If he were less angry, he would think before he took it. If he were less still, perhaps he would not take it at all. For even to take a vow, some anger is needed. Until now he was angry at others; now he becomes angry at himself—and nothing has changed. Before he strangled others; now, taking a vow, he will strangle himself: Now I will not be angry—let me see how anger arises! He will seize his own neck. From one extreme to the other is always easy. Those who abide in the middle attain religion.
Confucius came to a village. The villagers said, In our village there is a very wise man—you must meet him.
Confucius asked: Why do you call him wise?
They said: He is very thoughtful.
Confucius asked: Not too thoughtful?
They said: Very, very thoughtful. Whatever he does, he thinks three times.
Confucius said: Save me from him. I will not go.
They said: What are you saying? Is he not wise?
Confucius said: He has become a little too wise—a little unbalanced. One who thinks once is at one extreme; one who thinks thrice has gone to the other. Twice is enough.
Confucius means only this: to abide in the middle is enough—the golden mean; to remain in the middle: neither renunciation nor indulgence. Neither clutching at things nor abandoning them. Aparigraha flowers in the middle.
These few things I have said. Do not worry about Aparigraha. Worry about understanding Parigraha. And remember, do not worry about dropping Parigraha—worry about understanding it. Why Parigraha? What lack is it trying to fill? On the day two things are seen clearly—first, that I want through Parigraha to fill and complete my soul, to fill the inner emptiness; that this is impossible. And second, that whatsoever we bind, binds us in return and makes us slaves. And third, that our entire past experience says: even if everything is obtained, nothing is obtained—we remain empty. When this remembrance becomes total, you will suddenly find the rays of Aparigraha descending into your life.
Tomorrow we will consider the third sutra, Achourya—non-stealing. It is an even subtler journey of Parigraha.
You have listened to my words with such silence and love—I am deeply grateful. And finally, I bow to the Divine seated within each of you. Please receive my pranam.