Jyon Ki Tyon #3

My beloved Atman!
One dimension of violence is Parigraha—possessiveness. To be possessive without being violent is impossible. And when possessiveness becomes deranged, goes insane, theft is born. Theft is the madness of possessiveness, possessiveness that has gone mad. If possessiveness is healthy, slowly slowly Aparigraha can be born. If possessiveness is unhealthy, slowly slowly theft takes birth. Healthy possessiveness gradually transforms into giving, unhealthy possessiveness gradually transforms into stealing.
Unhealthy possessiveness means that another’s thing begins to appear as one’s own—even though the other does not appear as one’s own. Unhealthy possessiveness is that insane possessiveness which still acknowledges the other as other, yet dares to deem the other’s things as one’s own. If the other too becomes one’s own, then giving is born. And when only the other’s things become one’s own, while the other remains other, then theft is born.
Between theft and giving there is a deep kinship. They are two ends of the same thing. In theft there is the effort to make the other’s thing one’s own; in giving there is the effort to make the other oneself. In theft we snatch the other’s things and make them ours. In giving we make our things belong to the other. In one sense, giving is the atonement for theft. Often a giver is a thief of some past life; and often a thief is a giver of the future. If theft remained confined to things, it would not be such a great matter. As far as theft of objects goes, it has connection with law, justice, the state, society. Religion, however, concerns a far deeper theft.
A day may arrive when property is abundant, affluence prevails, and theft of objects ceases; even then Achaurya will remain significant. The “religious person” who speaks about stopping ordinary theft—such theft will end very soon. But a Mahavrat never ends. Therefore Achaurya has a deeper meaning that will remain ever meaningful, ever relevant. If society someday becomes completely prosperous, theft of things will stop. The theft of objects is born mostly of poverty. But there are other thefts. The Mahavrat is related to those deeper thefts.
Let us first understand that deeper theft in which we all are involved—even those who may never have stolen any object from anyone.
What does theft mean?
The deeper spiritual meaning of theft is: to declare as mine that which is not mine. Much that is not mine I have declared to be mine—even if I have never stolen anything from anyone.
The body is not mine, yet I declare it mine—that theft is already done, in the spiritual sense theft is done. The body is alien, the body has been given to me, the body is in my possession. The day I declare “I am the body,” on that day theft is done. In spiritual terms I have laid claim upon something without right; I have gone insane. Yet we all take the body as ours—not merely ours, but as our very self—and we go on living so.
In your mother’s womb you had one kind of body. If it were placed before you today, your bare eyes could not even see it. A powerful microscope would be needed, and you would refuse to accept that “once this was me.” Then in childhood there was another body, changing every day. Each day the body is flowing. If we kept the photographs of a man’s entire life side by side, he would be shocked: so many bodies I was! And the wonder is, while traveling through all these bodies, at each point he believed, “this I am.”
I was reading the life of an American actor. Many times the lives of sannyasins are hollow; there is nothing in them. Those we call so-called “good people” often have no real life. Hence to write a story around a good man is very difficult. He has no life—flat land, no slopes and rises. The one we often call a bad man has life—ups and downs. And often the bad man has deep experiences of life. If he uses them, he can become a saint. A good man never becomes a saint. He remains just a good man—respectable, a gentleman. Gentleman means mediocre. One who never even dared to be bad, can never gather the strength to be a saint.
I was reading this actor’s life. His life was full of upheavals—darkness and light, sin and virtue. But his final conclusion stunned me. The final thing he wrote—the matter that most troubled him his whole life—if only it could trouble you too. He says: my greatest difficulty is that I have performed so many roles, so many actings, become so many persons, that now I cannot decide who I am. Sometimes he was a character in Shakespeare, sometimes someone else from another story. Sometimes in a story he was a saint, sometimes a sinner. Having been so many characters, in the end he says: I no longer know who I really am. So many roles, so many masks, that my own face is no longer certain to me.
He said another very deep thing: whenever I go on stage to play a role, I am at ease—because there is no need to be myself, only to perform a part; so I am completely comfortable, I can carry it off. To step into a role is easier. But to step out of it becomes complex. The moment I step off the stage and leave the role behind, my difficulty begins: now who am I? Till then it was decided who I was; now who am I?
Having enacted a thousand roles, it has become difficult for him to decide who he is. One could say: the moment of Achaurya is nearing in his life. But in our lives we do not notice. The truth is, no actor performs as much acting as we all do. Not on the stage, so the idea doesn’t arise. From childhood to death, a long story of acting. There is not even a single person who is not an actor. Skill may differ, but actor—everyone is. And if a person ceases to be an actor, religion is born within him.
We live by stealing faces. We take the body to be ours—though it is not; and the personality we take to be ours—that too is not ours. All of it is borrowed. The faces we put upon ourselves—the masks, the persona, the disguises with which we live—none of those are our real face.
The greatest spiritual theft is the theft of faces, the theft of personalities.
Benjamin Franklin wrote a reminiscence of his childhood. He wrote: I had a desire to be perfect, so I fixed twelve rules by which I would become perfect. In those twelve rules, all the noble things praised by all religions were included: restraint, resolve, character, peace, silence, goodwill… all the good things fitted into those twelve.
Benjamin Franklin wrote: But how to attain them? I began to practice one conduct at a time. I stopped speaking evil; whenever evil arose I pressed it down. Each night I kept accounts: today did I utter any bad speech? Did I act intemperately? Commit any impropriety? Did I think of theft? Was I lazy? He kept accounts daily and practiced—then the practice became established.
And he wrote: I perfected my conduct; then a Christian monk told him: you have accomplished all, but you have become very egoistic. Naturally, one who has accomplished will become egoistic. Having attained, he will be proud. So the Christian fakir said: add a thirteenth rule—humility. Benjamin Franklin said: I will master that too. He then mastered humility; he became humble.
But in his reminiscence he wrote a very precious line: eventually I felt that whatever I had attained, it is just an appearance. Whatever I had mastered became merely a face; it did not become my soul. Naturally, whatever we achieve from the outside becomes only a face. Only that which arises from within is the soul.
We all practice religion from the outside. Adharma is within, dharma is outside. Theft is within, Achaurya is outside. Parigraha is within, Aparigraha is outside. Himsa is within, Ahimsa is outside. Then faces get trained. Hence among the people we call religious, it is very hard to find a thief of personality more perfect than they are.
A thief of personality means: they go on believing and showing themselves to be what they are not. In spiritual terms, theft means: the attempt to show what you are not—the claim upon it. We all do that—from morning to night we go on making claims.
That American actor forgot his original face; but not only he—we too have forgotten. We all keep many faces ready. As the need arises we put on that face; what we are not, we begin to appear as. Seeing someone’s smile, do not be deluded; it is not necessary that there are no tears within. Often a smile is an arrangement to hide tears. Seeing a man cheerful, do not assume there is a fountain of joy flowing within; often it is just a device to suppress sadness. Seeing a man happy, there is no reason to assume he is happy; often it is an arrangement to forget sorrow.
A man is not outwardly as he is inwardly—this is spiritual theft. One who falls into this theft may not have stolen objects, but he has stolen personalities. And theft of objects is not a very great theft; theft of personality is a very great theft.
Therefore one who would enter Achaurya must first understand: never, even by mistake, steal a personality. Whoever takes a personality from Mahavira will become a thief. Whoever takes one from Buddha will become a thief. From Jesus, from Krishna—he will become a thief.
Thief means: he is not what he is; he has draped what he was not. No other person can become Mahavira again—cannot. The totality of conditions that happened with Mahavira cannot be repeated. Neither the father can be found again who was Mahavira’s, nor the mother, nor that soul which was Mahavira’s, nor that body, nor that age, nor those same moon and stars—nothing can be found again. In this world, the moment that has flowed away has flowed away.
Therefore whenever someone tries to be Mahavira, he becomes a stolen Mahavira. Someone tries to be Krishna—he becomes a stolen Krishna. Whenever a man tries to be another man, he falls into spiritual theft. He has begun to steal personalities. And this is what we have understood religion to be: become like someone; be a follower; imitate; trail behind; drape yourself in someone—anyone—but do not remain yourself. Hence someone is Jain, someone Hindu, someone Christian, someone Buddhist. None of these are truly religious. In the name of religion they have fallen into a deep theft. A follower is bound to be a thief, in spiritual terms: he has stolen another’s personality and draped it over himself—what he is not. The result will be hypocrisy.
So, the more “religious” a society, the more hypocritical. Because there no person is what he is. Everyone is what he is not. Understand it thus: no one stands in his own place; everyone stands in someone else’s place. No one is seeing with his own eyes; everyone is seeing through someone else’s eyes. No one laughs with his own lips; everyone laughs with others’ lips. No one lives from himself; everyone lives from someone else—which is impossible. Neither can I live in another’s place, nor die in another’s place. I cannot laugh with someone else’s lips nor feel with someone else’s heart. My experience will necessarily be private. And the day it becomes private, that day I will attain Achaurya; before that it cannot be. The day I am simply myself, with no borrowed personality upon me, that day I attain Achaurya; otherwise I remain a thief.
Remember, thieves of objects we lock in prisons. But what shall we do with the thieves of personality—those who have stolen personalities? We honor them; we revere them in temples, mosques, churches.
Remember, the thief of objects has not committed a very great theft; the thief of personality has committed a very great theft. And the theft of objects will end very soon—because things will become abundant; theft will end; but the theft of personality will continue. We shall go on stealing; we shall go on draping others upon ourselves.
Reflect a little: did you gather the courage to be yourself in life or not? If not, then the foundational stone of your personality is inevitably theft. Have you tried to become someone else? In your conscious or unconscious, is there the insistence to become like someone? If yes, then it is necessary to understand it rightly and be free of it. Otherwise the state of Achaurya—no-theft—will not arise. And this theft is such that no one can stop you, for personality thefts are invisible. Go to steal money—you may be caught. Go to steal a personality—who will catch you? How? Where? And the theft of personality is such that you snatch nothing from anyone, yet you become a thief. Personality theft is easy and simple. From morning onward watch how many times you become someone else. We fail to be a person because of personalities. Because of personalities the person does not happen.
This word “personality” is beautiful. It comes from Greek drama. In Greek drama each actor had to wear a mask, a face. That face was called persona. And the character fashioned by that face was called personality. Personality meant: what you are not. Personality means: that which you are not.
Therefore, the bigger the personality, the bigger the thief. Much will be stolen. A monk takes on Mahavira’s personality. He stands naked like Mahavira, walks, sits, rises like Mahavira; eats, drinks like Mahavira; speaks Mahavira’s very words—absolutely like Mahavira. But this becoming can only be from the outside. Within, he can only be what he is. This is personality.
Hence, thieves often have their own personality. Monks often have none of their own. If you go to the prison and look into the eyes of thieves, it will seem they are what they are. Go to temples and look into the eyes of monks—it will seem they are what they are not.
The bad man is often what he is—because no one drapes “badness” upon himself. The good man is often what he is not—because the mind desires to drape goodness. To be good is very difficult; to drape goodness is very easy. To be good is austerity—arduous. To drape goodness is a convenience—very convenient. And to be good carries great difficulties, because the world is not good. The good man comes into trouble with the world. To be moral in an immoral society, to be good in a bad society—that is the monk’s austerity.
The monk’s austerity is not to stand naked. The monk’s austerity is not to go hungry. These are cheap and simple things any naive person can manage. In truth, with understanding, it becomes difficult to manage; with stupidity it is easy. The monk’s austerity is: to be moral in an immoral world. From all sides blows will come. So it is convenient to drape garments—garments of morality outwardly, immorality within. Remain immoral and you will have no trouble from the world; wear the clothes of morality in the marketplace, in public places.
Thus we have two kinds of faces: private faces and public faces. And the rule is: never take your private face into public. No one does. Sometimes if someone drinks, a mistake happens—otherwise not. If someone drinks, he forgets that this is a public place and that face is private; then there is trouble.
Hence “good” people are very afraid of alcohol. Bad people are not so afraid, because their face—there is no worse face behind it. If all the good people of the world could be gathered and made to drink, you would know what private faces are.
In Greece there was a fakir, Gurdjieff. Whenever someone came to him, he would first ask: are you a good man or a bad man? Rarely would anyone say, “I am bad.” Such a good man is hard to find who can say, “I am bad.” People would say: what a question! I am good; I have come to practice! If I were not good, why would I come? Though in fact the truth is opposite: why would a good man come to practice?
Gurdjieff would say: the first practice will be this—fifteen days you must drink wine. Usually the good man would run away. One cannot imagine a fakir telling you to drink. But Gurdjieff’s point was meaningful. He said, for fifteen days I will make you drink so I can see your private face. Otherwise with whom should I speak? With whom should I deal? Whom should I transform? For what I see now—if I change it, the effort will be in vain because you are not that. This repainting will be useless; it will be upon your mask, not related to your face. And the mask is a totally different thing—you can take it off anytime, change it. Do not waste my effort. First let me see your original face.
Usually the “good man” fled at the very mention of wine. That very flight showed something hidden inside that fears to be revealed. But if someone stayed, there would be wonder. For fifteen days Gurdjieff would go on pouring wine—much as possible—and search for the real face.
What a misfortune, that to find a man’s real face we must first make him unconscious! So many layers of fake faces; the theft so deep, so long, of countless lives—that the real face has hidden very, very far behind. Remove one mask and there is another beneath. Man has become like an onion. Peel one skin, another; peel again, another.
Do not remain in the illusion that you will finally find “the onion.” Keep peeling and only skins will go on coming off. In the end nothing will remain. The last skin will also come off. You will ask: where is the onion? It will be known that the heap of skins itself was the onion; the onion had no independent existence.
Across near-infinite lives we have stolen so many personalities, donned so many masks, that our own face is no more. If our skins are peeled, in the end emptiness will remain. And from that very emptiness one must begin—because from that emptiness the movement into Achaurya will happen. Before that, nothing can happen. If a man comes to know, “I have no face at all,” this is a great attainment.
So I would say to you: do not mistake the attempt to avoid theft as Achaurya. The one who has avoided theft is also a thief saved from theft. The one who has committed theft is a thief caught in theft. Both are thieves. The theft is within; it makes no difference. One’s theft has reached behavior; one’s theft remains in the mind.
But the true deep spiritual meaning of theft is this: do you have your own face?
You will not find it. Stand before a mirror—the face that appears will turn out to be someone else’s, though till now you took it as yours. Nor is it that you have only one face with which you manage twenty-four hours. Functionally, you change many faces in a day—a wife must be something else before her husband; the husband is something else before his wife. Before one’s own wife he is something else, before the neighbor’s wife something else—the face changes instantly. Before one’s master one is something else, before one’s servant something else. Seat my boss to this side of me and my servant on the other, and my servant will see one half of my face, my master the other—two faces at once. Here I will be suppressing the servant; toward the master I will be wagging my tail. Both things at once.
Often when you are among many people you become a chameleon—this way for one, that way for another. It becomes very difficult.
I have heard about Nasruddin. Nasruddin had two girlfriends. He must have been a modest man; otherwise who stops at two? He met them separately. To meet both together is very difficult—because to each you have shown a face, made a promise, that you have shown to no one else. To each you say: except you I love no one.
But girlfriends are clever; they find out immediately. They investigate the other girlfriends more than the lover. Those two learned of each other and one day trapped Nasruddin and said: today answer us both together. Nasruddin said: do not entangle a poor man like this. When you are separate it is very convenient—I change faces in between. But they caught him and said: tell us—who is more beautiful? Nasruddin said: each of you is more beautiful than the other; you surpass each other.
Who knows if they understood. Perhaps not, because love has little to do with intelligence. Perhaps you too did not catch it! Nasruddin says: each of you is more beautiful than the other! What a thing to say—such deep humor upon man. When both faces must be managed together, what can the poor fellow do? He has become a chameleon; he says: each of you surpasses the other.
In twenty-four hours we change twenty-four faces. Not twenty-four—many more. And this changing of faces creates tension. Tension is the changing of faces. The man who has one face has no tension—no cause remains. Tension always arises from changing faces again and again. So many changes are required, it becomes very difficult; and between the changes there is a gap—when you remove one face and bring another. That gap generates great anxiety—because at that moment you have no face, you are in difficulty. That American actor speaks truly: to step into a role is easier; but to step out is arduous. And we have to do it all day long—change, change, change.
But man is very clever. Earlier cars had conventional gears—you had to shift. Now there is automatic transmission. Those who are very skilled have automatic gears for faces. They do not change faces—the faces change by themselves. We have fixed automatic gears for the changing of faces; we no longer need to change them. The servant arrives—the face shifts. The master comes—the face shifts. The wife appears—another face. The beloved—another. A friend—another. The face keeps changing by itself. The old man had a certain convenience in becoming religious: he had conventional gears. He had to change the face, so he also knew, “I am changing a face.” Modern civilization removed the conventional gears; now they are automatic. I make only this difference between the civilized and the uncivilized: conventional gears and automatic gears—no other.
The uncivilized has to change the face. Because he must change it, each time he knows “I am doing something.” The civilized man means: such training as saves you from the labor of changing faces. Such education as saves you from the effort, and the faces change on their own. Therefore the civilized man finds it hard to be religious. He doesn’t even notice the theft. He doesn’t perceive the gap—the brief moment between two faces where an empty space opens. His tension increases—because tension arises from changing faces—but the awareness “let me not change faces” does not arise, because the gear is automatic. Thus, the more civilized, the farther from religion we seem to be.
Jesus, Buddha, Mahavira were born in an uncivilized world. In our civilized world we cannot produce men of the stature of Jesus, Mahavira, Buddha. There are reasons. The restlessness is actually greater now. The uncivilized man was not so restless. The restlessness is much, but we do not know why. Our sense for its cause has diminished.
So I would say: to understand Achaurya, you must become alert to your changing faces. There is a device and a meaning of alertness: the more alert you become toward anything, the slower its process becomes.
Have you watched a film? If the projector goes faulty—meaning, it slows—the movement on the screen becomes sluggish. What was one man lifting his hand suddenly becomes ten men lifting slowly, with gaps between positions. When I lift my hand, it does not rise in a single jerk; only your eye cannot catch such speed. Otherwise the hand takes perhaps twenty positions to rise this little. But if you watch carefully—and your machine slows… and by careful watching it slows. When you look with great care, the process slows. For two reasons: to look carefully you must first stand still—you must stop. If you watch with great care your process of changing faces, it will slow, and you will see when you changed—and you will be able to laugh at yourself: “There, the face has been changed!”
In the Mahavrat of Achaurya, watch your changing faces. A man goes from his shop toward the temple. He should keep track: at which step did he change his face? On which stair of the temple was the face changed? The face at the shop and the face in the temple—they cannot be the same; somewhere the change occurred. Where did the shopkeeper recede and the seeker arrive? Where did the man at the shop go and the one who enters the temple come? Is it where you take off your shoes? Not necessarily. In fact, shoes are removed there to say, please change your face here; now the place has come where your old way will not do—leave the shoes here. Where it is written, “Please leave shoes here,” beneath it there should be another board: “Please leave faces here.” Many carry their faces inside. If someone went in wearing shoes there would be less impurity than taking in his old face; but no one notices.
So I say: when you change faces, be aware of when it happens. There will be great fun. Till now you have laughed at others; then you will begin to laugh at yourself. And when you knowingly change faces, changing will become difficult. Slowly you will say, “What madness is this? What acting am I doing?” And gradually changing will become hard. The day changing becomes hard and the interval widens—and sometimes you remain without a face—then your original face will be born. From within, your face will begin to come.
So, first: throughout the day, keep watch on the changing faces. Second: never try to make someone else’s face—Mahavira’s, Buddha’s, Krishna’s, Christ’s—your own. Do not be a follower; otherwise there is no way to avoid being a thief.
A follower commits two thefts. The very sincere follower—one should say the very sincere thief—steals faces. The insincere one steals only ideas. He does not don Mahavira’s face; he only clings to Mahavira’s thought. The pundit’s theft is of ideas; the so-called monk’s theft is of faces.
Beware: there are weak thieves. They say, Mahavira’s face is hard to wear, but “Ahimsa is the supreme dharma”—this we can write inside. We can read Mahavira’s scripture. Krishna’s face is difficult to put on, but we can memorize Krishna’s Gita.
There are two kinds of theft: of ideas and of faces. The one who steals faces we call a very sincere thief—because he did as he thought. Note well: one who lives by thought will put on a face. Religion has nothing to do with fixing a doctrine and then following it. Otherwise Benjamin Franklin’s incident will unfold: appearances will be created—show.
We often say: act according to what you think. This is the formula for producing thieves—though sincere, honest thieves. We tell people to act according to their thought. But first we should find out: did the thought come by theft? Otherwise action will lead into deeper theft. When we say someone’s thought and action are exactly one, we should inquire: did his thought arise from his action, or did his action arise from his thought? If his thought came from his action—then he is religious. If his action came from his thought—then he is a thief. But this difference is not immediately visible.
When a thought comes from action, its fragrance is different—because action arises from the soul. When action comes from thought, thought comes from scripture. A thought coming from scripture is itself theft; then shaping life according to that thought is an even greater theft. Those who wander in such thefts lose the soul; they cannot discover who they are.
No, I do not say act according to thought; I say think according to action. You will fall into difficulty—because where will you find action? If action is to be according to thought, thoughts can be found—but where to get action? There is no shop for action. Thoughts are sold; books of thoughts exist. There are no books of action. There is no scripture of action. So where will you get action? If you take it from Mahavira, it came through thought; from Buddha—through thought; from Krishna—through thought. If you take action from another, first thought will come. If you take it from yourself, it will be otherwise. Then first experience will come, not thought.
If your conduct is that of a thief, then please also think like a thief. There will be a simplicity in this. Your conduct is thieving—think also as a thief. And I tell you: if your conduct is that of a thief and your thought is also of a thief, you will go beyond theft! If your conduct is that of a thief but your thought is of non-theft, you will never go beyond theft. You will say: conduct is outer; the real thing is thought. Thus inwardly I am non-thief; compelled by circumstances I become a thief. Gradually I shall train myself; conduct too will change. When thought has changed, conduct will also change—I will take vows, oaths. You will go on postponing, because inwardly you will feel: thought is of non-theft; within I am good; outer conditions make me a thief—I am not a thief.
Note: your behavior is very far from you; your thought is very near. So if we point out the wrong in a man’s thought, he will not agree. If we say: there is a boil on your leg, he doesn’t fuss; he says, give me the remedy. But if we say: there is a disease in your mind, he is ready to fight—he says your seeing is mistaken.
A man accepts bodily disease; it is far. He does not accept the boil in the mind; it is too near. A blow upon the mind’s boil is a blow upon him. So we have invented a technical trick: we keep good thoughts inside and bad conduct outside. The convenience is this: we go on believing inwardly that we are good. If I abuse you, I will not say, “I am the man who abuses”; I will say, “I never abuse, but this man abused me so I had to abuse.” He is responsible for producing my abuse. When you fight, you do not say the fight is within you; you say, this man created the situation—I had to fight. By nature I am not a fighter. And you will even believe this, because you never think of fighting within; your thoughts are always of Ahimsa, Achaurya, Aparigraha; you read scriptures of Ahimsa, Achaurya, Aparigraha, Brahmacharya. Your thoughts are very good; conduct—someone else becomes responsible, and you are saved. Another convenience: since thoughts are good, if not today then tomorrow, with some willpower, by setting conditions right, conduct will also change—so postponement is possible.
Remember, one who wishes transformation must avoid postponement. It is a very cunning device. A man says: I am violent now, but I accept Ahimsa; slowly I will become non-violent. He will say: tomorrow, the day after; in this life; in the next. He will go on postponing and remain violent. The pain of being violent he will avoid, because the hope of becoming non-violent will soothe him—it is consolatory.
So I say: if you steal, then keep the thought of stealing too. And set fire to all scriptures of non-theft. Write on your walls at home: theft is the supreme dharma. Know in your heart: theft is the supreme duty. He who does not steal is in error.
If you think as a thief and act as a thief, you will not be able to live with yourself. No one can live with a thief—least of all your own being. You will become a complete thief—in conduct and in thought—your whole personality a thief. Then your soul will find it impossible to live with this thief—not even a moment.
But there is a device for living: we say, “I will fix it tomorrow. My thoughts are good; conduct is bad.” Conduct is bad because of others. Such ideas find many proofs. For instance, a man goes to the forest—there he does not get angry. He says: see, others cause anger. Now I am in the forest; where do I get angry?
Hence the monk runs to the forest; there he gets assurance: I am a perfectly good man, I was always good; bad people surrounded me—therefore the trouble. So the husband runs away, leaves his wife and thinks: see, I am now beyond Maya. It was the woman that caused attachment. Therefore male scriptures write: woman is the gate of hell! Having fled from woman, they now say woman is the gate of hell—she entangled me; I was always free. One finds reasons.
If you lower a bucket into a well and there is no water, the bucket cannot draw water out. It only brings what is there. The bucket only brings up what is in the well. When I hurl abuse at you, my abuse cannot produce your anger; abuse has no power to generate anger. But your well within is full of anger; abuse becomes the bucket—it brings your anger up. Abuse does not produce; it only manifests. But if the bucket is not lowered, the well thinks: now there is no water; nothing comes up; it was the bucket’s fault—whenever the bucket came down, water trouble arose. I am always empty; see, now no bucket comes—no water comes out.
We are all in this illusion. Alone, we do not notice. In fact, our personality is known only in relation—the other provides the opportunity to express what is within.
Therefore do not make the other responsible. Whoever has made the other responsible has never become religious. Religious means: total responsibility is mine. Total, entire responsibility is mine. Irreligious means: the responsibility is someone else’s; I am good, people are making me bad. No one is making you bad.
Another trick: we keep good thoughts inside; hence we “know” within that we are good. When we come into relation with others, outwardly we become bad; thus outside badness is due to others. Avoid good thoughts if you wish to give birth to good conduct. If conduct is bad, kindly think badly too—be totally bad. It is difficult to live with a totally bad man. With a half-good man one can manage. A half-good man is worse than a bad man. Half-truths are worse than whole untruths. Because with whole untruth you will be freed; with half-untruth, never—half-truth will bind.
Therefore I say: do not make action according to thought; make thought according to action. Then things will be clear. And when things are clear, no one can live with the bad man—not even you with your own bad layer. Once you see you are living with a bad layer, you will discard it as easily as you pull a thorn from your foot. You will cast off this bad layer, this personality, these layers of personality, this onion—just as easily as you remove dirt from the body.
But if someone takes his dirt to be gold, then there is difficulty. If one gives value to one’s disease, takes it as ornament, then trouble. If we pierce a little girl’s nose, it hurts; but in hope of a golden ornament anyone agrees to have the nose pierced. Piercing the body is madness; but for the hope of gold, we are ready for madness. Piercing the body is ugliness; but in the illusion of beauty we consent to it.
We have consented to being bad because we have pinned a golden nail of thoughts behind our badness. Never act according to thought; think according to action—and your personality will be immediately cleaned. You will be what you are. There will be no possibility of deception—not of deceiving others, not of deceiving yourself. You will recognize your faces. And the day these faces are recognized from all sides—and their ugliness, their filth, their stench, their leprosy—when this is seen outwardly and inwardly, then you cannot live with them. Then it happens as when someone’s clothes catch fire—he throws them off and stands naked. Just so does transformation happen. Just so does revolution occur. When the whole personality appears diseased and aflame, you throw it away. For that you do not even need a moment’s thought—not “I will throw it tomorrow”…
Someone came to Buddha and said: give me some teaching. Buddha asked: will you do it now or tomorrow? He said: right now is difficult. Buddha said: then come tomorrow. The day you would do it, come that day. He said: but at least give the teaching; maybe at the right time I can use it—who knows if I will meet you then.
Buddha said: I once passed a village; a house was on fire. I told the people there: do not run now—run tomorrow. They said: are you mad? The house is on fire; how can we wait till tomorrow? Buddha said: as I see it, you believe you are fine right now—so you can wait till tomorrow. And if you are fine, why trouble me? Why should I talk unnecessarily? The day you know you are not fine… He said: I do know—I am not fine; I am not a good man; I do bad things—but the Atman is pure. The Atman is ever pure. This conduct—conduct I will change; give me the teaching.
We are all eager to receive teachings. Then we think we will fashion our conduct accordingly. Such conduct will be like the actor upon the stage. First he gets the script; then he memorizes; then he rehearses; then he comes and shows it on stage: here it is.
Acting means action according to thought; but the soul’s way is different—thought according to action. If action is bad, then think badly. You will break. Your personality will not survive; it will scatter. And the day your old personality completely scatters, in that empty space will be born that which is your real face.
Among Zen fakirs in Japan, when someone comes, they ask many questions. One is: please reveal your original face—show your real face. A newcomer hears this and says: this is my face. The fakir says: if this is your face, there is no need to come here. Go, find your real one and bring it. Sometimes courageous ones do bring a more authentic face. But those fakirs are amazing—they go on saying: granted, this is more authentic than the last, deeper than the previous, but still not the original. Bring your original. Bring that face which you had before birth and will have after death. Which face did you have before birth? Bring that. Or bring the face you will have after death. Please do not bring any of these in-between faces here. And when someone comes and sits faceless—without any face—then the fakir says: good; now you have come to the real place.
Facelessness is a great attainment. But we are afraid. If the face is lost we are frightened; we quickly set about making a face.
The face must be lost, if theft is to be lost. That moment must come when you are not certain who you are. If you wish to know who you are, remove the stolen faces—whether from Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Muslim, Hindu, Jain. Remove those faces and search for what is yours. And the day all your faces fall away, suddenly that form which is yours appears before you. As soon as it appears you attain Achaurya. One who has stopped stealing personalities, faces, conduct—he cannot steal objects. It becomes impossible. Having dropped such deep thefts, he will not stoop to petty thefts; but we remain occupied with dropping petty thefts.
A friend came to me and said: I do not take bribes. He is a big officer. I asked: if someone brings five rupees? He said: what nonsense! I do not take bribes. I asked: five hundred? He did not insist as strongly. He said: no, no—I do not take. I asked: five thousand? He looked at me closely—doubt arose. I asked: five lakhs? He said: then I would have to think.
So in our being-thieves there may be degrees, measures. Perhaps you do not steal two rupees—but do not conclude from this that you are a non-thief. What difference does it make whether you steal two rupees or two lakhs? Can theft have measures? Can theft be less or more? Two rupees less, two lakhs more—thief is the same. How can theft differ by quantity? The act of theft is total. If I steal two rupees, I am as much a thief as when I steal two lakhs.
So perhaps you have your own standards of theft; I have mine. I steal two rupees; you steal two lakhs. The one who steals two lakhs can imprison the one who steals two rupees. He can—because the two-rupee thief cannot build jails; the two-lakh thief can. The big thief cannot be caught, because he can bribe anyone with two lakhs. The magistrate who punishes the two-rupee thief—how will he punish the two-lakh thief? For two lakhs he too may agree to theft. Thus big thieves trap little thieves. Big thieves remain outside the walls; little thieves inside. Clever thieves outside; simpletons inside. But the whole society is a thief—as a whole.
And so long as we think of theft only regarding objects, it will not be eradicated. It could be that I run away and say, I will not steal. But then my food will be brought by some thief; my clothes by some thief; the ashram I live in will be built by some thief. What difference does it make? I am only a more clever thief. I do not steal with my own hands; I get it done by others. I cannot escape responsibility. Society is a thief; it will remain so—until we understand theft as something other than theft of things. Society is a thief because we have taught everyone, very deeply, to be a thief.
We tell a child, become like Vivekananda. What is the child’s fault that he must become like Vivekananda? Vivekananda may have been very good, but why should this child have to be Vivekananda? And if he becomes so, he will be a thief. We say, become like Mahavira. Have you committed some fault by being born? If only Mahavira has the right to be born on earth, then the world should have ended with him—he is already born; the matter is finished. What need is there of you now? Why reproduce carbon copies of Mahavira? When the original is there, what is the use of further futile effort? One Mahavira is enough!
No one needs to be a carbon copy. Avoid stealing personalities; avoid stealing conduct—then one day your own soul will be revealed; it attains Achaurya. And after that the question of stealing objects does not arise. It is not even a question.
These few things I have said. Do not set about trying to do them—otherwise my thought will become your borrowed thought and theft will begin. There are very subtle ways of theft. You may say, absolutely right—now let us do exactly this: theft has begun. Please do not do what I am saying. Understand what I am saying—and then leave it. Let understanding remain with you, not the thought. Let the perfume remain, not the flower. Understand and leave the words here. The words have nothing to do with it; understanding will travel with you. If that understanding changes your life, allow it; if not, then not. Please do not impose from above; otherwise theft will continue. And Achaurya will never be attained.
Tomorrow we will speak on the fourth sutra: Akam.
I said: when violence takes form, one form is Parigraha; and when Parigraha goes mad, one form of it is theft.
Tomorrow we will speak on Akam. Akam is the foundation of all three. Kama—lust, desiring, wanting. It is the basis of violence, the basis of Parigraha, the basis of theft. Kama sits beneath and has slipped under all three—at their root it is there. Tomorrow we will understand Kama; and the day after, Apramad.
You have listened to my words with such peace and love—I am very grateful. And in the end I bow to the Lord seated within all. Please accept my pranam.