Jyon Ki Tyon #8

Material prosperity is the foundation of spiritual life, but a building is not raised by the foundation alone. It can happen that the foundation is there and the house is never built. A house never exists without a foundation, but a foundation can exist without a house. One may lay the footings and leave them filled in—then there will be a foundation, not a building. But wherever there is a building, it cannot be without a foundation.

Prosperity is the base of detachment. Without becoming prosperous, no one ever really discovers that prosperity is futile. Without having wealth, no one ever realizes that nothing essential is gained by wealth. The greatest gift of wealth is not wealth—it is the breaking of the illusion about wealth; it is disillusionment. If wealth is never attained, its futility is never known. The poor, the needy, the destitute find it very hard to be free of wealth. How can one be free of what one does not have? To be free of something, one must first have it. Only that which comes to us can we be free from.

That is why I keep saying that only a prosperous society can become religious, and that prosperity itself carries one beyond wealth.

When in the last talk on non-possession I said that fewer things bind less and more things bind more, many friends may have felt—as this question suggests—that there is a contradiction between the two statements. There is no contradiction. It is very difficult to break free from a small slavery; freedom becomes possible only from a great slavery. If the chains are few, one tolerates them; if the chains are many, rebellion happens. The poor man’s chains are so few that the very idea of breaking them doesn’t arise. As the rich man’s chains multiply, the idea of breaking them is born.

There is no opposition between the two points. Only when objects increase does one see that a useless load has been gathered—one that was expected to bring freedom, but brought none; it only crushed. One thought it would give wings, but there was no flight—only the legs became too feeble even to walk.

Greater bondage brings one nearer to freedom. Just as the darkness deepens before dawn, so bondage intensifies before the possibility of freedom. The prosperous person is in deep bondage; therefore the awareness of bondage is also there. We adjust to minor forms of bondage; we swallow and endure them. The greater the bondage, the harder it is to endure. And we endure small bondage in the hope that perhaps tomorrow it will lessen.

So the poor also possess something, but the idea of renunciation does not arise, because their life is consumed in the chase for what is missing. The rich man has achieved what he was chasing, and now there is nothing left to acquire—and yet he finds that nothing has truly been gained. Nothing remains to be pursued outside, and inside stands utter emptiness. This very moment is the beginning of spiritual life in the life of the prosperous; it is the first ray.

But I do not say that all prosperous people come to this revolution. Most remain only with the foundation; the edifice of inner transformation never gets built. There are reasons for that as well. Nor do I say that a poor person can never be spiritual. The poor also become spiritual—and there are reasons for that too.

First, remember well: apart from experience, there is no knowledge. Experience is knowledge. The experience of wealth brings freedom from wealth. And if someone in this life, though poor, becomes spiritual, then somewhere in the journey of past lives there must have been the experience of wealth; otherwise there is no knowledge. Without the experience of wealth, no one can be free of wealth. How will we know the futility of what we have not known? How will we conclude that a suffering we have not tasted is to be renounced? What is unfamiliar cannot even be recognized as an enemy.

Even to recognize the enemy, one must become familiar. To know the false, one has to pass through the false. The potholes of the road are known to those who have fallen into them and wandered lost. There is no other way in life.

Yes, it may be that what we call a life is very small, while the journey of life is very long. A person may be so saturated, so filled, by the experience of wealth in past births that in this life even from poverty he can make the leap into spirituality. Otherwise, there can be no other cause. And if in this life someone attains wealth fully and yet remains poor and destitute within, not free from wealth—then I would say: the one who becomes free of wealth gives the proof that he has truly known wealth fully. Truly rich is the one who can let go of wealth. If he cannot let go, the poor and the destitute sit within him. If, even after attaining wealth fully in this life, he cannot awaken the thirst for religion, it means that many ancient lives were spent in such poverty that even this much wealth cannot erase his inner poverty. The inner destitution still stands. He is still poor within. The experience of wealth is new; it has not yet become knowledge.

Often experiences must repeat many times before they become knowledge. Knowledge is the distilled essence of many experiences—the perfume of many flowers. For this person the experience of wealth is a first; it has not yet crystallized into knowledge. The moment the experience of wealth becomes knowledge, one begins to be free of wealth.

Both my statements carry the same meaning; there is no contradiction in them.

In the same way I keep saying: one who has not known the scriptures can never be free of the scriptures. One who has known them becomes free of them.

Likewise I say: one who has not known anger can never be free of anger. But one who has known the full pain and fire of anger becomes free of anger.

Likewise I say: one who has not known lust can never be free of lust. One who knows lust goes beyond its circumference.

Experience is liberation, because experience is knowledge. The experience of wealth too leads one beyond wealth.

Only through the experience of desires does one become free of desires; because apart from experience there is simply no path to liberation. The world itself is the gate to moksha; hell is the gate to heaven; the prison is the gate to freedom. The very pain one experiences in the world becomes the path that takes one beyond the world—this I say again and again. I have also said that tendencies are never satisfied. They are circular. Run within them and no end ever comes. However far you run, the line ahead is always left over. Run further—the line still remains. Just as if a person were running on a circular track: the circle never ends. Tendencies never end anywhere. No tendency is ever completely satisfied. And yet, on the other hand, I say that only by a deep experience of the tendency does one become free. These two statements appear contradictory—they are not.

A person is not satisfied by deep experience; by deep experience he becomes free. If he were satisfied, there would be no need for liberation. He is not satisfied—that very fact becomes the cause that leads him into liberation. He has run a thousand times on the same circular track—finds himself running in the same place, like the ox around the oil-press—and no satisfaction comes.

This insight itself is the deep experience of the tendency: I run a lot, I search a lot, I even attain, yet I am left empty-handed. And not once—many times. One who descends into the depth of this experience does not find that his tendency is satisfied; rather, he stops running and stands still. Because he says, I have run enough on this same path, going round and round; I never arrive anywhere, I have never arrived anywhere. That is the depth of experience. If he still feels, Let me run two steps more—perhaps I will arrive, then understand that the experience has not yet become deep enough for freedom from running. If he says, Let me do one more lap; perhaps until now I did not get it—now I will, then understand that the experience is still not complete.

The completion of experience does not mean the satisfaction of the tendency. The completion of experience means the satisfaction of the running. Now the running is over. I have gone many times, run many times, and never arrived anywhere. Now the man has stopped. Now, however much you tell him, There is a gold mine one step ahead, he says, I have walked a thousand steps and seen; the gold mine only appears—it is not. However much you say, Go a little further and you will get all that you have desired, the man says, Whatever I desired, I have never obtained. I have now understood this much: desiring is not the path to obtaining.

This—this is the depth of experience. He says, I ran and the goal did not come. You say, Run a little faster and the goal may come—he says, I have tried running very fast; I have run until I was out of breath, drenched in sweat; I have been running for lifetimes. I have learned one thing: the goal is not attained by running. Now I will try to attain the goal by standing still.

Freedom from desire is not the satisfaction of desire. Freedom from desire is the total, the absolute becoming-futile of desire. I am saying absolutely futile. If desire has become futile only partially, a new desire will catch hold. If desire has become utterly futile, then desire will no longer be able to seize you.

The state of mind in which desire itself has become futile is not a state of frustration; it is not a state of dissatisfaction. Because where there is frustration, it has not yet been seen that desire is futile. Frustration—sorrow—means: a desire was to be fulfilled, it was not fulfilled; but the hope still remains in the mind that it could have been fulfilled. I wanted to succeed; I failed; but the hope remains that had I taken some other measures, I could have succeeded.

The person who only meets with failure while hope does not die—that person experiences melancholy, the mind’s sorrow, frustration. But one in whom not only failure happens but hope also dies—he no longer attains sorrow. He attains non-desiring, desirelessness. He stands still. He says, Running is futile. I searched a lot by running; now, standing still, let me receive.

And the strange thing is that what never came by running is found as soon as you stand still. Because that which we are seeking is within us; because that which we are seeking is with us; because that which we are seeking has been ours from the very beginning.

Therefore, the more we run, the more we miss that which is already given.

To see what is in your own house you will have to stop running outside. To see within, you will have to abandon the journey outward. To see what is near, your eyes must turn back from the far. To find what is in your own hand, you must stop prying open other people’s fists.

The depth of experience is not the name of the satisfaction of lust. If lust could be satisfied, then Mahavira is naive. If lust could be satisfied, then Buddha is mad. If lust could be satisfied, then Jesus would need psychotherapy, psychoanalysis. Lust cannot be satisfied. Buddha has said: desire is insatiable. It can never be fulfilled. But this very experience takes one beyond lust. And that which was not found through lust is found in lustlessness.

The completion of experience is the name of the complete failure of the tendency, of lust. And then the flower of non-possessiveness blooms. In one whose tendencies have fallen, whose desires have dropped, the flower of aparigraha blooms within. Then he does not run; he rests, he stands still. Then the goal is not far; it is under his feet. Then there is nothing outside to attain; the attainer himself becomes the final object of his own attaining, the final goal of his running. The attainer, the seeker, becomes the search. The seeker becomes the seeking; the seeker becomes the sought.

He who is searching within discovers: I was searching only for myself. But perhaps I was searching in mirrors. I searched in many mirrors, and did not find. Now he leaves the mirrors and looks at himself; and he finds that in the mirror I could never have been found. Because in the mirror there was only a reflection; only I was being reflected in the mirror. There was no one in the mirror—there was only an illusion, a virtual space, the illusion of a false sky. What appeared in the mirror was nowhere—it was nowhere in the mirror; and if it was, it was outside the mirror. But someone has set out to search in the mirror...!

We are all searching in mirrors—as long as we search within lust. The day a man, after breaking many mirrors, after breaking his head, crashing into mirrors, bleeding, one day turns his back to the mirror and stands, and says: I have searched enough in mirrors; now I will not search in mirrors—that very day he comes to know that what he was searching for was only his own reflection.

In the mirror of desires we have been clutching at our own faces. In the mirror of desires we are searching only for ourselves. Each person is searching for himself. But he is searching where there is reflection, not where there is truth. Truth is here—he is searching there. Truth is now—he is searching sometime. Truth is every moment—he is searching in the future. Truth is within—he is searching outside. The happening of this recognition is the depth of experience.

Desires are circular; they are never completed. But the runner, by running and running, comes to the experience—and stands still. He drops the circle. He steps aside from circular, cyclical desires and stands.

And the day a person stands in non-desiring, in desirelessness, that day nothing remains to be attained. He attains all.

In the very desire to become a master lie the seeds of slavery; because whatever we decide to master, we also, unknowingly, have to become its slave. We become slaves because our mastery depends upon that which we own. Without it, our ownership cannot exist. And when ownership depends on something, how can we be the owner of our ownership? The real master is that upon which it depends.

If I have ten slaves, I am the master of ten slaves; but my mastery depends on those ten slaves being there. If these ten slaves are lost, my mastery will be lost with them. The key to that mastery is not in my hands; it is in the hands of those ten slaves. In a very deep sense they have become my masters, because without them I cannot be a master. And how can we be masters of those without whom we cannot be masters at all? Without whom our mastery would collapse—knowingly or unknowingly, we have become their slaves! We are bound to them!

And the amusing thing is that the slave would want to be free; nobody wants to remain in slavery. So if the master dies, the slaves will rejoice; but if the slaves die, the master will weep. Now we should ask: who among the two was the slave—the one who weeps, or the ones who laugh?

The desire for ownership makes one a slave. Only that person in this world is truly a master who does not want to be the master of anyone. Only one who has not made anyone a slave can be a master, because his mastery cannot be taken away. His mastery is independent. And if mastery is not independent, how can it be mastery?

Things too sit upon our chest. Things come to be on top of us. The possessor becomes the possessed. The one who is holding on to objects slowly forgets that things were meant to serve him, and he does not even notice when he began to serve things.

He will not notice—because it is not that things came to him; he went to things. Only slaves go; masters never go. Whomever you go to, you make the master.

Things never come to you; you go to things. Man seeks things; things do not seek man. So that which you seek, for which you toil and suffer, which you obtain with great difficulty—if you then press it to your chest and keep it guarded, and end up crushed beneath it, it is no great surprise; for the fear is constant that it may be lost!

I have heard that one night a thief entered the hut of a Zen monk named Ryokan. Ryokan stood before the thief with folded hands and said: Forgive me—you have come to the wrong place. But you have walked eight or ten miles to get here, and in this poor man’s hut there is nothing at all! Only this blanket—please, take it.

He gave the thief his blanket. Ryokan became naked; for he had only the one blanket, and it was a cold night. The thief protested, “What are you saying! You have nothing, and still you’re giving me your blanket!”

Ryokan said: Remember this! Tonight you have entered the house of a master. Until now you were entering the houses of slaves. They could not give you a single thing. Those whom you think have much cannot give you anything. But remember, there are such masters whose very mastery is that they have nothing. In fact, they are masters precisely because they have nothing. Take the blanket.

The thief went away with the blanket. The moon was out that night, as it is tonight. Ryokan sat at his doorway—cold night, moonlight, the chill wind. He began to shiver.

Had he been a slave, he would have said, “How unfortunate—the blanket was stolen, or I gave it away.” But he was a master. Seeing the biting cold, no thought arose in him that it was bad that the blanket was gone.

He wrote a poem that night: If only I could gift this moon to the thief as well! Poor thief—so caught up in stealing that he cannot even see the moon!

He wrote that night: If only I could gift the moon to the thief! Poor fellow, in the frenzy of theft he cannot see the moon above!

This is the way of a master.

You appear to be wearing the blanket—do not be deceived. Often it is the blanket that wears you. You seem to wear diamonds around your neck—do not remain in that illusion. Often it is the diamonds that wear your neck. You live in big houses—do not believe that you live in them. When houses converse among themselves, they say, “Inside which man am I living?” It cannot be that you simply live inside a house; the house lives so deep within you that how can you be living within it?

The possessor becomes the possessed. The one who owns things becomes the slave of things. But do not think that things are at fault. Things have no hand in it; it is a completely one-sided transaction. It is you who become a slave. It is your very vision and way of thinking that brings slavery. What can things do to enslave anyone? Things do not even know which man had the illusion of being a master and which of being a slave. We—man—get bound and confined by our own attitudes. Even with chains upon his hands a person can be free, and one adorned with gold ornaments can be in a prison.

Life is very strange. And there is no creature that walks more crookedly, more zigzag, than man. He does peculiar things. He renames his slaveries as ownerships! He calls his chains ornaments! And even if he is inside a prison, he decorates the walls so much that it appears he is sitting at home!

We are all sitting, decorating the walls of our own prisons. We have given them very fine names. In those beautiful names we have lost ourselves. But truth cannot be changed by giving it a name. Truth is truth. And religion begins by knowing truths as they are.

Aparigraha—non-possessiveness—is a fundamental element of religion. Aparigraha means: to realize this truth—that as long as there is desire for things in my mind, I cannot be their master. As long as I want things, I will remain in their slavery. I can be a master only on the day the desire for things leaves me from within.

I have heard—you may have heard it too—that one night a sannyasin came to a royal palace. His master had sent him, saying, “Go, and learn wisdom in the emperor’s court.” The master had tried and failed to teach him. So the sannyasin said, “If I could not learn in your ashram, in the world of austerity, how will I learn in a king’s palace?”

But the master said: Don’t argue—go! Ask there.

When he arrived at court, wine was being poured and courtesans were dancing. He thought, “What madness have I fallen into! My master has played quite a joke. It seems he wants to be rid of me! But now it is not proper to return at night.” The emperor extended warm hospitality and said, “Stay at least tonight.”

He said, “But staying is useless.”

The emperor said, “Tomorrow morning, after your bath and meal, you may return.”

The sannyasin could not sleep all night. He thought, “What insanity is this? Where wine is being poured, where courtesans dance, where wealth rains on every side—how will there be knowledge in such indulgence? I am a seeker of Brahman; I have wasted this night!” In the morning the emperor said, “Come, let us bathe in the river behind the palace.”

They went to bathe. As they were bathing, loud cries arose: “The palace is on fire!” From the riverbank they could see flames shooting into the sky.

The emperor said to the sannyasin, “Shall we go see?”

The sannyasin ran. “See what? My clothes are on the steps—what if they catch fire!”

But as he reached the steps it struck him: The emperor’s palace is burning, and he still stands in the water; my loincloth is on the bank, and I have rushed to save it! The fire has not even reached here yet. It might—if it spreads from the palace to the ghat.

He returned and fell, laughing, at the feet of the emperor. He said, “I cannot understand—your palace is on fire, and you stand here?”

The emperor said, “If I had ever considered that palace mine, I could not be standing here. A palace is a palace; I am I. How can it be mine? Before I was, it was; when I am no more, it will be. How can it be mine? The loincloth was yours; the palace is not mine.”

No—the issue is not that objects catch hold of someone. The issue is a man’s stance, his way, his attitude—his method of thinking and his arrangement of life. Everything depends on how he lives. If he is filled with desire for things, it makes no difference whether the thing is a palace or a loincloth. If he is not filled with desire for things, it makes no difference whether he has a loincloth or a palace.

Man becomes a slave because of himself; and man, by breaking these very causes, becomes free.

Mahavira left everything, not because it was wealth; he left precisely because it was not wealth. Mahavira left everything, not because there was something worth abandoning; he left because there was nothing worth holding.

But what do we see? We see that he left palaces; we see that he left diamonds and jewels; we see that he left riches. That is what we notice. As far as Mahavira is concerned, he left nothing but pebbles and stones. We see diamonds and jewels; Mahavira saw pebbles in those diamonds and jewels.

And in such diamonds and jewels there is nothing other than pebbles and stones anyway! Yes, those who wrote Mahavira’s story recorded how many diamonds, how many rubies, how many emeralds, how many pearls he left. If someone were to ask Mahavira, he would say, “How foolish you are! You’ve even given different names to pebbles?” Had Mahavira left only pebbles, we would not even have said, “He is leaving pebbles.” We have all left them.

All children collect pebbles. One day they are no longer children and they drop the pebbles. Yet in no child’s biography do we write, “This child renounced pebbles,” because we know they were pebbles. The day we know that what Mahavira left were pebbles, that day we will stop saying he left anything at all.

No—the wonder is not “Why did Mahavira leave?” The wonder is, “Why can’t others leave?” If anyone were to ask Mahavira, he would not say, “I renounced something,” for renunciation pertains to something that has value. Mahavira would say, “I renounced nothing,” because where there was no value, to speak of renunciation is meaningless.

You throw your household trash outside every day, but you don’t publish in the newspaper that today you have renounced so much garbage. At least grant Mahavira the right to discard what, for him, had become rubbish! Are we unwilling to grant him even that much?

Yes, our difficulty is that we do not see it as rubbish. Take away a child’s pebbles and then you will understand. He may cry all night, scream in his dreams. His entire “wealth,” collected from the riverbank, has been snatched away! You will say, “You’re crazy! Those were only pebbles.” They look like pebbles to you; to the child, those colorful stones seem more precious than diamonds and pearls.

In truth, the difficulty lies in the difference between the child’s level of consciousness and yours. To you they appear as stones; to the child they appear as treasures. You urge him to throw them away; he pleads to save them. Between Mahavira and us there is the same distance as between the child and the mature. And there is yet a new consciousness that dawned in Mahavira, where everything of this world that appears valuable to us has lost its value, has become valueless.

Mahavira does not “leave” things; things fall away. What has become useless cannot be carried. Mahavira does not set out by leaving; he sets out, and things are left behind. What has become pointless simply cannot be hauled along.

Mahavira’s elder brother stayed at home. He was unhappy, thinking his younger brother had made a mistake—leaving diamonds, jewelry, wealth, fame, comfort. Between the two is the distance between a mature mind and a child’s mind. The elder brother is sad, thinking, “He is going to suffer.” But Mahavira is not going to suffer; Mahavira is so brimful of bliss that there remains no possibility of suffering.

Still, one can ask: Could he not have remained at home as I just spoke of that emperor who was in the palace, yet in whom the palace was not? Mahavira too could have remained, but this depends on the type of person.

Mahavira could not have remained; Krishna could. Janaka could; Buddha could not. This is a matter of individuals, and the individual is supreme freedom. One cannot impose one person’s rule on another. What was possible for Mahavira happened. The flower that could bloom within Mahavira, bloomed. And that blooming has its own bliss. To be in a palace without belonging to the palace has its own bliss. To live outside the palace under a tree has its own bliss. The two cannot be compared. It will depend on the person.

When Mahavira left everything…and under trees…and wandered from village to village with a begging bowl—what joy could there be in that? This needs to be understood a little, because in the element of non-possession there is something very precious and deep.

Mahavira’s understanding is this: when even breath is not taken by “me,” and birth is not taken by “me”—birth comes of itself, breath comes of itself, death comes of itself—then why should I take upon myself the arrangement of life? Let that too be left to the divine. Let That arrange it. This is the mark of supreme trust. This is supreme trust—why even arrange…!

Tomorrow morning will come; the sun will rise. If it does not, what arrangement have we made? If tomorrow the sun does not rise—if tonight it sends in its resignation, or goes on strike tomorrow morning and does not appear—what recourse do we have? And if tomorrow the winds dispense with oxygen and life becomes impossible—what will we do? What safeguards have we made? If tomorrow the earth grows cold, or tomorrow the earth breaks apart and scatters—countless earths have scattered, countless are scattering; countless suns have gone cold, countless are cooling—if that happens tomorrow, what arrangement have we made?

Mahavira says: In such a vast cosmos, in such infinite universes, where nothing of the arrangement is in our hands, what is the point in this man called Mahavira arranging even a little house around himself? What meaning is there in falling into such atheism? Mahavira says: This arrangement too—when so much disorder may have to be borne—let me add this little disorder as well. In such cosmic disorder, in such insecurity of the universe, what arrangement will I really manage with a bank balance?

So Mahavira says: I drop this useless burden. Now I drop it. From where breath comes, from where tomorrow’s morning will come, from where today’s sun has come, from where tonight’s moon has come, from where tomorrow sap will reach the roots, from where tomorrow flowers will bloom on the trees, from where birds will sing—the same Supreme, if It wishes to keep this body alive, will keep it; and if It does not wish to, then no personal desire remains in Mahavira.

By leaving all this, Mahavira declares: I am no longer living for myself. If the divine wants me alive, that is its business. I am not living from my side anymore.

Therefore there was a small rule in Mahavira’s life—let me tell you—which is quite astonishing. Perhaps no other sannyasin in the world has used such a rule. The truth is, it is very difficult to find a sannyasin like Mahavira. Mahavira had one rule: when he went out to beg in the morning, he would decide during his morning meditation, “Only if alms are given under this specific condition today will I accept; otherwise I will not.”

Now, beggars never set conditions. Can beggars have conditions? A beggar asks unconditionally. But Mahavira asked with a condition, because he was no beggar. And the condition was such that it was not told to anyone, lest anyone make arrangements. Only he knew the condition.

For example, he would set out in the morning with the thought in his mind: “If today a woman wearing black clothes, who has only one eye, gives me alms, I will accept; otherwise, I will not.”

He knew nothing about the village; he had arrived there only the previous night. If a fair-skinned, one-eyed woman in black gave him alms, he would accept; otherwise he would wander through the village and return. He would say, “It is not the divine’s will—let it be so.” For now there is no personal will to live, nor any will to die. From his side, the lust for life, the jiji-visha, is no more. If the divine wishes, it may keep me; if it wishes, it may take me.

Once it so happened that for months Mahavira went into villages and could not obtain alms, because of a condition he had taken upon himself. The condition was never told; otherwise someone would have arranged it. The village would try many ways, but the condition would not be fulfilled. Who could know what was in Mahavira’s mind? He had taken a condition: “A princess in chains, with one foot inside the house and one outside, with tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips—if she gives alms today, I will accept.”

So for months he did not receive alms. And if he did not, he would go rejoicing through the village and return rejoicing. The whole village would be distressed and in pain; the whole village would be weeping, and feeding the village itself would become difficult. People would fold their hands and beg him to accept. But Mahavira would say, “His will.”

And even that happened. One day that too happened. A princess confined in prison gave alms. There were tears in her eyes because she was imprisoned; there was a smile on her lips because Mahavira had accepted her alms. She was smiling. Mahavira stopped at her door. Tears in the eyes, a smile on the lips; one foot chained behind inside, one foot outside—only that foot was free. He accepted, and returned. And for this alms the divine could never hold him responsible. If anyone was responsible, it was the divine.

This is surrender to the Supreme. This is sannyas…this is the ultimate state of sannyas—where a person does not take even a single breath from his own side. Therefore Mahavira can say: the fruits of my actions are no longer for me, and the consequences of my actions no longer bind me. Now I am not “doing” anything. Whatever is happening, is happening. Doing is not in my hands. I am not the doer. There is no desire left in me.

But this is Mahavira’s own personality. We go wrong when we begin comparing two persons. If we compare Janaka and Mahavira, there will be difficulty. Janaka has his own bliss. Mahavira says: If the divine wants to keep me, it will keep me under any circumstance. Janaka says: If the divine has given me a palace, who am I to leave it? If the divine has given me a kingdom, why should I get into the hassle of leaving?

Who is right, who is wrong? Each has his own way of looking at the divine. Both are right. There are a thousand kinds of people. Jesus is his kind of man, Buddha his, Mahavira his, Krishna his. Whenever we have compared them, we have erred, because in comparison we tilt toward the one toward whom our own personality-type leans. Then we begin to see the other as wrong.

No, there is no reason for that. On this earth, a hundred thousand kinds of personalities have bloomed; the possibilities of a hundred thousand kinds of personalities blooming exist. There is no need for comparison. Yet if we look deeply, it is the same thing. Janaka is in the palace because he says, “When the divine has given the palace, why should I leave it?” Mahavira is in the forest; but it is the same thing. He says, “If That wants to keep me, it will keep me in the forest as in a palace. Why should I worry?” Both say the same thing; but in their personalities, that one thing becomes different songs. That one thing takes on different tones. That one thing takes on different meanings. Yet it is one.

It is the matter of surrender to the divine. If this comes into our awareness, comparison should cease. If this comes into our awareness, we should try to understand each person as he is, in his fullness, without comparison. And then one day we will see: there may be a thousand flowers, but beauty is one; there may be lamps of a thousand kinds, but the flame is one; there may be oceans of a thousand kinds, but the water of all oceans is alike salty. The day this begins to be seen, persons fade away and that fundamental, original truth is revealed.

The talk of aparigraha can become a defense of poverty. The talk of aparigraha can become an opposition to progress. The talk of aparigraha can become an obstacle in the search for the fullness of life. Any truth, if taken in a wrong way, brings opposite results. Anything grasped upside down does not benefit life; it harms it. And given how man is, there is always the possibility of taking it wrongly.

Let me try to explain with a small story.

There is a village, and in that village a very wealthy man—wealthy as the wealthy often are: a miser. Not a single coin slips from his hand. A temple is being built in the village. A thousand times the village has gone to that rich man’s door… and now even when new beggars come to the village, the old beggars tell them, “Don’t go to that door! No one has ever received anything from that house!”

But a new temple is being built. The poorest of the poor in the village have given something. So the villagers thought, “Let’s make a list.” The poorest man has given something—someone has given a thousand, someone ten thousand; someone five rupees, someone one rupee. There isn’t a single person in the village who hasn’t given at least something.

“Let’s take this list with us.” A hundred or a hundred and fifty notable men of the village went to the millionaire’s door. They thought, “Today we will not return empty-handed; how can he not be affected by this? Even if he isn’t moved, at least he will feel some shame!”

They began to read out the list: “So-and-so gave ten thousand—one who has no means at all gave ten thousand! One who is utterly destitute gave a thousand! One who earns his bread day to day gave five rupees!” As they read the list and glanced at the rich man now and then to see the effect, he grew more and more curious, and looked very impressed. Then they were sure the work would be done. After the whole list was read… the rich man suddenly stood up. He said, “I am very impressed!” They thought, “Today we will not go back without something.” They said, “Then you too should give something—since you are impressed.”

The rich man said, “You have misunderstood what I mean by being impressed. I am impressed because from tomorrow I will begin to beg in this village! In a village where everyone is ready to give, not to beg is a big mistake. I am very impressed!”

Man has been impressed in just this way. Mahavira left his palace and came to the road. What should have happened is that those who had palaces should have realized that surely they are running in a futile race, because the one who had a palace has left it and is standing on the road.

No, that did not happen. What happened was that those in the huts thought, “When even the man with a palace is leaving, why should we try to make our hut into a palace?” And if the poor become content with their poverty, they can never attain that state which becomes available after the experience of wealth. They remain poor.

Seeing Mahavira begging, emperors should have felt ashamed; they should have thought, “The man who, being an emperor, couldn’t find anything—by begging he is finding something!” No, the emperors did not think this; the beggars thought, “We are very honored. Look! He didn’t get it in palaces, so he has come to beg. We have been begging from the beginning. God’s grace must be a little more upon us.”

Man… man thinks like this. And therefore there is truth in the statement that in the preservation of India’s destitution the hand is that of those influenced by Mahavira—not of Mahavira. In India’s destitution, in India’s unscientific attitude, in India’s lack of progress, the hand is that of those influenced by Buddha and Mahavira—not of Buddha and Mahavira.

But it is a great difficulty! How can one heap blame upon Mahavira? Fire lights the hearth in the house and dispels the darkness at night; and if someone wants to set a house ablaze, it serves that purpose too. How can the inventor of fire be blamed?

There is the atom bomb: can the scientists who made it be held guilty for Hiroshima? They cannot be. Because with atomic energy the harvest in the fields could be a thousandfold. With atomic energy all the machines of the world could run; man could be freed from toil. With atomic energy poverty and destitution could be wiped out forever. With atomic energy human life could be lengthened. With atomic energy fatal diseases could be ended.

But man did none of this! People are dying of hunger—no increase in the harvest. People are dying of cancer—no cure sought through atomic energy. Children die before their time—no possibility sought through atomic energy to save them. The atom was dropped on Hiroshima so that a hundred thousand people might turn to ash. What can one say!

There is a saying in Arabia: whenever a new invention happens, the devil takes possession of it first. Mahavira’s is a great discovery; the devil took possession of it first. Einstein’s is a great discovery; the devil took possession of it first.

There are only two ways: either such discoveries should not be made; out of fear of the devil good things should not be created in the world; out of fear of wrong effects, alms should not be asked; out of fear of wrong effects no good work should be done—because wrong effects might occur. That too would bring a bad result. Because if the good cannot happen, what remains is the bad.

Therefore risks have to be taken. People take things wrongly—let them. What is right must go on being done. Today or tomorrow, man will understand his own mistake, his own pain and suffering. And he will understand that from that which could have made heaven, he made hell.

Mahavira is not a supporter of poverty; Mahavira is only a herald of the futility of riches. And these are two very different things.

And you asked a second thing as well.

They do not—and there is a reason. A follower can never reach the heights. A follower can never reach the heights, because the one who walks behind another sacrifices his own soul. To walk behind another, you must first commit a kind of inner murder. To follow another, you have to cut off your own discernment. To wear another’s clothes, you must force your body to be smaller or larger. To drape another’s soul over you, you have to suppress your own soul—press it down and down. A follower can never reach the heights. Whoever has decided to be a follower has taken a suicidal decision, a self-destructive decision.

I do not say become a follower of Mahavira. I do not say become a follower of Jesus. Understand Mahavira—that is enough; and then let go. Understand Jesus—that is enough; and then let go. Become only yourself. There is no way for you to become a Mahavira; there is no way to become a Jesus.

This does not mean you cannot reach the height Jesus reached. You can—but only as yourself; you cannot reach by imitating Jesus.

Imitation is copying. And remember, whoever tries to become a carbon copy will never attain the clarity of the original. And if the carbon paper is Indian, all the more difficult! Even if something can be made out, it is still hard to know what lies behind. And even a second copy is just barely readable! Mahavira has been gone for twenty-five hundred years. After thousands upon thousands of copies, you are now standing in line. Millions of copies have passed through that carbon; so many impressions have been taken that nothing remains clear. Yet people go on thinking they understand, and they go on imitating.

A follower is never religious. In fact, the follower is saying, “I want to drop the responsibility of being myself. I want to walk behind someone. I am ready to be blind. I will walk by holding someone’s hand. Let somebody take me somewhere. I refuse the responsibility of walking on my own.”

One who denies his own legs, who denies his own eyes, who refuses responsibility for his own intelligence—such a person can never grow. He has chosen all the instruments of non-growth.

Yet we have always been taught: imitate someone, become like someone. This is a dangerous teaching. No one in the world can ever become “like someone else.” It has never happened—there is no example. Many walked behind Mahavira, but who became Mahavira? It is not that those who walked did not try hard. You cannot put that blame on them. They tried greatly. At times it even seems those who walked behind Mahavira tried harder than Mahavira himself. The truth is: Mahavira did not have to make any effort to be Mahavira. He is spontaneous. None of us ever has to strive hard to be our own self; effort is needed only to be someone else. Effort, striving, is only required to become the other.

When Sita is abducted, Rama does not have to try to weep. But the Rama in a Ramlila has to try; the tears won’t come. Perhaps he comes onstage after sprinkling some water in his eyes! Perhaps he keeps a bit of chili on his hand; when Sita is lost he quickly rubs his eyes so the tears will come! For it is not easy to bring tears in a pageant. Tears have to be manufactured. Did Rama need such devices? No. For Rama, what is, is spontaneous, is natural—it is his inner state.

Mahavira’s renunciation, Mahavira’s nakedness, for Mahavira are natural. Another person can arrange to be naked, yes—but that nakedness will be circus nakedness, not the nakedness of a monk. At most he can act Mahavira—he cannot be Mahavira.

Those who walk behind Jesus, or Buddha, or Krishna, or Rama are acting. They have denied the authentic soul.

Remember one thing clearly: the Divine has given each person the right to be himself. Whoever abandons this right abandons God’s greatest gift. Such a person is an atheist—not believing in the very gift of the Divine. He is saying, “You have put too great a responsibility on me. I am not worthy. Let me walk behind someone. I cannot be the engine; I am fit only to be a coach, to be shunted here and there behind some engine.” He will pass his life that way.

No—each person is born to be himself, incomparable, unique. There has never been anyone on earth exactly like you, and there never will be. God is not a mediocre creator—not some middle-class artisan who keeps producing the same person twice. He creates a new being every day.

I have heard a story. Someone bought a Picasso painting—for a million rupees or so. He asked Picasso’s wife, “This is genuine, isn’t it? Authentic? Picasso’s own?”

Picasso’s wife said, “Absolutely—buy it with complete confidence; Picasso painted it right in front of me.”

The painting was purchased. The buyer went to tell Picasso. He said, “I’ve bought one of your paintings for a million.” He brought the painting along. Picasso looked at it and said, “No, it is not real, not authentic.”

The man nearly fainted. He had lost a million, and Picasso himself declared it inauthentic! “What are you saying?” he protested. “Your wife has testified that you painted it before her eyes.”

His wife was present. She said, “What are you saying? Have you forgotten? You painted it; I was there.”

Picasso said, “I did paint it, but it is not authentic.”

Now it was even more puzzling. If Picasso himself painted it, why is it not authentic? The buyer said, “You must be joking.”

Picasso said, “I’m not joking. I did paint it, but I had painted this painting once before. This is only a copy. If someone else makes the copy, it is not authentic; if I myself make the copy, it is still not authentic. A copy is a copy; it is not original. I have already expressed this idea once.”

But the Divine never repeats an idea once expressed. Once a Buddha is born, that chapter is complete. Once a Mahavira is born, that chapter is complete. Search this earth and you won’t find even a second pebble exactly like another—what to say of a human being! Pluck a leaf from a tree; even on the same tree you will not find another leaf exactly like it. A human being is far more—an immensely complex flowering of consciousness.

Here each person is a peak. And no one has the right to follow anyone else. This does not mean do not understand Mahavira. In truth, the follower never understands—he has no need to understand. In fact, the one who wants to trail behind does so to avoid understanding. He does not enter the trouble of understanding. Understanding is for the one who will follow no one—who must walk his own walk. But others have also known; in others’ lives too the music has arisen. Others have also touched the strings of life. Others have lit lamps of knowing, of wisdom. Others’ lives too have been fragrant with the soul. Others’ lives too have known the dance of the Divine. One goes to understand them.

Not in order to imitate them, but so that, seeing these blossomed flowers, perhaps one’s own bud may be filled with thirst and long to open. So that, hearing other veenas, perhaps the strings of one’s own veena begin to quiver and long to sing. So that the sound of the bells tied to another’s ankles becomes a challenge to the sleeping bells on one’s own feet, and one also begins to dance.

But for imitation, there is no need to understand. For imitation, understanding is not needed at all. Tie a blindfold and start walking. For imitation, blindness is the highest qualification. Understanding is something far greater.

If you wish to take your life into truth, if you wish to blossom yourself, then never, even by mistake, become anyone’s follower. And do not, even by mistake, make anyone your follower. Both are dangerous. Understand others—and if someday your own flower blooms, place it in the marketplace, in the middle of the road, so that others may see. Perhaps their buds too will be challenged.

But when their buds bloom, those flowers will be theirs, not yours. And when their veena plays, that music will be theirs, not yours.

Each person must come to the door of the Divine with the offering of his own life-breath. Each person must come to the door of the Divine carrying his own soul. No one has ever entered that gate with a borrowed soul—such a news has never been heard in any age. There, the question will be asked: “Is it authentic? Is it your own? Have you come with your own face, or wearing another’s?”

At that door deception is impossible. Here on earth, perhaps deception can succeed. Here, a naked man may even appear exactly like Mahavira. Here, someone in yellow robes may appear exactly like the Buddha. Here, you may be deceived. But before the Divine, all garments will fall; all shells will be stripped away. There, you will stand naked—and in the mirror of the Divine, when your total nakedness is revealed, only that will be seen which you truly are. Not what you have put on; not what you have cultivated; not what you have practiced. Only what you are will be visible. And that day there will be great sorrow, great pain—that so many lives were wasted in imitation, in acting.

Life is not the following of another; life is the revelation of oneself. Life is not the process of becoming like someone else; it is the orchestration of becoming oneself. And the one who accepts this challenge of being oneself will not become a follower of Mahavira—yet he can reach the very same height where Mahavira reached; he can arrive where Jesus arrived; he can reach where the Buddha’s samadhi took him. Into that same nirvana, that same moksha, that same heaven, that same kingdom of the Lord—each one can enter.

But I repeat the final truth: on the altar of the Divine, you must offer the blossomed flower of your own being. There is no other way.

That’s enough for today. The rest, tomorrow.