Jyon Ki Tyon #9
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, today the questions are on “achourya” (non-stealing). To understand achourya, I would like to understand “theft” very closely. So for now let us talk only about theft. You have said that at the level of body, feeling, or mind, imitation or following another is theft. But life is a web of inter-relationships; everything here is interconnected. Then how can a person distinguish his purest originality from the subtle waves coming from outside—their influence or imposition? How does one avoid that?
Life is a web of inter-relationships; but life is not only inter-relationship. To be interrelated, the person is needed. A relationship is always between two persons. Both are needed for a relationship to happen. So the life we see outside is inter-relationship; but there is another life inside—the one who relates. If that “person” is not there, then all inter-relationships become false—who will relate?
Love is a relationship; but the lover’s individuality is also needed. And if that individuality is borrowed, it isn’t individuality at all. What is borrowed is never one’s own being; it is only a deception—a mask we put on to show others. Behind that mask there is no one—no one alive, intimate, an individuality. What we ordinarily call a person is not an individual; it is only a personality. What we ordinarily call a person is not innermostness; it is a pile of borrowed garments. Like an onion: you peel off layer after layer thinking the next one will be the onion itself—yet you find only layers; you never find the onion. So are we, a bundle into which everything borrowed has been gathered. But if you go behind this borrowed personality, you will find only emptiness. If behind it there is no soul, no innermostness, then the whole life becomes false.
The deepest theft in life is imitation—copying, following. Whenever a person strives to become like someone else, he becomes a thief deep within. Whenever someone drapes another over himself, he becomes counterfeit, not real. He loses his authentic individuality.
This does not mean we should not receive the waves that come from others. Nor does it mean we should not relate to others. We certainly should, but while preserving the “self.” For who will relate if the self is lost? Waves will come from others; we will have to receive them—but receive them in such a way that they do not become your very waves. Receive and give; but remain beyond them as well. Let someone stand behind, untouched; let someone remain who is outside the entire give-and-take.
In English there is a word—“ecstasy.” We have the word “samadhi.” Those who translate samadhi into English call it ecstasy. “Ecstasy” is a remarkable word; it means “to stand outside.” Ecstasy means: while being in the whole current of life, to be standing outside at every moment. To flow in life—and yet, within, something remains outside of life. That is our innermostness; that is our being. If we get totally lost in life and nothing remains with us other than our relationships, we have lost our soul.
The soul means nothing else. The very meaning of soul is: let everything be, and yet within, something remains untouched, untainted, outside. You are walking on the road; but even as you walk, something within you should not be walking. You are filled with anger; but even in that moment of anger, someone within you should be seeing your anger. You are eating; but even as you eat, someone within should not be eating; rather, should also know that eating is happening.
If, moment to moment, within the web of life we are able to preserve someone inside, that remainder—the remaining—is our individuality. One who does not have the existence of that innermostness is no longer worthy of being called human. He has no soul; he has lost his soul.
Very few of us have a soul in this sense—very few. We are a heap of skins, a heap of garments; behind that, nothing. This too I have called theft. It is theft. To steal someone’s wealth is not such a great theft; but to put on someone else’s personality is a much greater theft. To steal someone’s clothes is not such a great theft; but in the effort to become like someone else, to lose oneself is a far greater theft. To seize someone’s house is not that great a theft—it is theft, I am not saying it is not—but it is not as great a theft as losing your own soul and becoming the shadow of another soul.
I have heard that in a certain man’s life the gods became displeased and cursed him. The curse was unusual: “From today your shadow will be lost!” The man laughed. He said, “What use have I for a shadow? If I remain, what will be lacking if my shadow is gone? Whether my shadow falls or not, I have never worried. Are you gods mad? If you are angry, this curse doesn’t seem of much consequence.” But the gods laughed; they knew more than that man.
He returned to his village laughing, thinking the gods must be crazy. “What will I lose if I lose my shadow!” But upon arriving he discovered the gods were not mad; he himself had landed in trouble. Whoever saw that his shadow did not fall ran away on seeing him. His wife shut the door. His father said, “Go away—never come before my eyes again. You are a ghost, a spirit—what are you?” Friends closed their doors. Customers stopped coming to his shop. When he walked the street, people would call their children indoors: “Come in—the man whose shadow is missing is passing by.” Life in that village became impossible for him.
Eventually the villagers decided to exile him. “He is dangerous. We have never heard of a man without a shadow.” And so they cast him out. Then he realized that by losing a shadow, he had lost a great deal.
But leave that man aside. We are only shadows; we have lost the soul. How much we have lost is hard to reckon. We are only shadows. That man lost only his shadow and he was put in such difficulty; our soul is lost—how much difficulty must we be in! But since everyone’s is lost, no one banishes us from the village. And if a shadow is lost, others can see it; when the soul is lost, only oneself can know it, no one else can. For the soul is not an outer event.
Therefore, while understanding “achourya,” one question should be asked of oneself continuously: Do I have anything I can call my own innermostness? Something I was born with? Something I did not learn in life? Do I have anything that was mine even before birth?
If you can recall anything you have that was with you even before birth, you can be assured that when you die, something will remain with you. But if everything was gained only after birth, death takes it all away. If there is something from before birth—something that feels unlearned, not taken from life, which you brought with you, which is your nature—then you have no reason to fear death. What you did not get from life cannot be snatched by death.
Yet we all fear death. Not because death is painful—no one has ever said that death is painful—but because in what we call life we possess nothing that can remain with us beyond death. All will be taken. Whatever we have received from others cannot be carried across death: whether wealth, fame, knowledge, or personality—whatever it is—what we have obtained from others is not mine.
So we are thieves. What we have collected from others—that is our theft. This is a very deep theft; the court will not catch it. It has nothing to do with man’s law. This theft is related to another, far greater law, whose name is dharma. This theft too is tried in a court—but that court is God’s court.
Do we have anything that is ours? About which I can say: not learned, unlearned; not taken from anyone; this is me. If there is nothing of that sort, then the life we are living is a stolen life. And it need not be so. But if even once it occurs to you that you possess no wealth that is truly yours, no innermostness that is yours, then revolution begins in life.
So do not think, “I have never stolen a penny.” Do not think, “I have never stolen from someone’s house.” What has that theft to do with religion! That theft, man’s law can handle. Religion is concerned with another theft—the one the law cannot catch; the courts cannot decide; which lies beyond the judge’s jurisdiction.
Religion is concerned with the theft of influences, the theft of personalities, the theft of faces. And we are all living as the stolen. We are all living as if we were someone else. We are not ourselves. I am not I; I am living like someone else.
In this sense I have said that “achourya” is the path to the attainment of individuality in the human soul, and “theft” is the method of losing the soul. This can happen at the level of feeling, at the level of thought, or at the level of the body.
We do not even walk in our own way; we even learn our walk from others! We do not think in our own way; we learn thoughts from others! We do not feel in our own way; we learn feelings from others! A man reads the newspaper in the morning and then all day long he talks to people about what he read! And it never occurs to him that nothing of what he is saying is his own. He reads the Gita and repeats it all his life, and never turns back to ask, “In what I am saying, is there anything of mine?”
All our speaking, thinking, getting up, sitting down—everything is learned. In such a life, the rain of bliss cannot fall. In such a life, there cannot be even a glimmer of nectar. Such a man will be a dry desert. For springs always flow from life, and from them greenery is born. One who lives on borrowed springs is like a man who counts other people’s houses and thinks they are his; who counts other people’s eyes and thinks they are his; who counts other people’s thoughts and thinks he has become wise; who collects scriptures and believes knowledge has come!
Such a man lives in so fundamental a delusion that he can waste his entire life. We do waste it. But once this question arises before us, it will pursue us: Am I a thief? And if this question begins to pursue us, we will begin to see, moment by moment, that just now when I laughed, that laughter I learned from someone else’s lips; just now when I cried, those tears were not true; just now when I offered namaskar, there was no breath of life in it; just now when I loved, there was no love at all—I had read about it in some drama; just now what I said to my beloved was a dialogue I heard in some film.
If only this question were to arise in a man’s life—then, if not today then tomorrow, he begins to be free of theft; his individuality begins to surface; then he laughs in his own way.
And this world could be very beautiful—if people here laughed in their own way, cried in their own way, thought in their own way—this world could be very vital and alive.
Right now the world is not alive; it is a vast collection of corpses, where all the dead are living. We do not notice it because all around us are dead like ourselves. We too have read the morning paper; the neighbor has read it too; he speaks from the paper, and so do we. We have read the Koran; he has read it too; he speaks from the Koran, and so do we. He has learned from the same place we have learned. Our words agree, and it seems as though everything is fine. But nothing is fine.
There could not be so much suffering if life were going right. And one who finds himself—even if nothing else remains—his very being is so sufficient that, even if nothing else is there, his joy cannot be taken away. Everything may be snatched from him, but not his joy. For there is no joy greater than individuality.
When a flower blossoms in its fullness, the fragrance of joy spreads all around. The flower’s full blossoming is itself its joy. So too with man: when the flower of his innermost individuality fully blooms, life is filled with joy. Fulfillment happens; all is filled. Then even if nothing remains—no wealth, no fame, no position—still everything is present. And if this innermostness is absent, then even if positions are high, wealth abundant, fame sufficient—still nothing is there; inside all is empty.
Today in the West one word is being discussed intensely—“emptiness.” All the great thinkers of the West—be it Sartre, Camus, Marcel, or Heidegger—say: we feel utterly empty, completely hollow. It seems there is nothing within; we have become only containers with no content. We are only a box with nothing left inside. Within, everything is void and empty.
Emptiness is much discussed in the West today; it need not be. For today they have wealth in a measure the earth has never seen. Their palaces touch the sky, before which the palaces of Ashoka and Akbar become huts. They have the power to reach the moon. They have the vast machinery to destroy the whole earth in half an hour. Then why emptiness? Why this emptiness? What is the reason that within all is empty?
There is a reason. Outside, everything; inside, nothing—no soul, no individuality. Everything is, only man is not. Everything is—the power to reach the moon is there—but not the capacity to reach oneself. Wealth is abundant, but there is no being one’s own. Palaces are huge; the dweller is very small—next to nothing, zero!
This is the outcome of theft. The West will have to learn achourya; then emptiness will vanish. Marcel, Camus, Sartre will have to learn and search for the disciplines to awaken individuality.
Only when everything is attained does one discover: I am not. And then the pain that seizes the mind—no poverty in the world can inflict such pain. This achourya is the formula for attaining individuality; and theft is the formula for losing oneself.
Love is a relationship; but the lover’s individuality is also needed. And if that individuality is borrowed, it isn’t individuality at all. What is borrowed is never one’s own being; it is only a deception—a mask we put on to show others. Behind that mask there is no one—no one alive, intimate, an individuality. What we ordinarily call a person is not an individual; it is only a personality. What we ordinarily call a person is not innermostness; it is a pile of borrowed garments. Like an onion: you peel off layer after layer thinking the next one will be the onion itself—yet you find only layers; you never find the onion. So are we, a bundle into which everything borrowed has been gathered. But if you go behind this borrowed personality, you will find only emptiness. If behind it there is no soul, no innermostness, then the whole life becomes false.
The deepest theft in life is imitation—copying, following. Whenever a person strives to become like someone else, he becomes a thief deep within. Whenever someone drapes another over himself, he becomes counterfeit, not real. He loses his authentic individuality.
This does not mean we should not receive the waves that come from others. Nor does it mean we should not relate to others. We certainly should, but while preserving the “self.” For who will relate if the self is lost? Waves will come from others; we will have to receive them—but receive them in such a way that they do not become your very waves. Receive and give; but remain beyond them as well. Let someone stand behind, untouched; let someone remain who is outside the entire give-and-take.
In English there is a word—“ecstasy.” We have the word “samadhi.” Those who translate samadhi into English call it ecstasy. “Ecstasy” is a remarkable word; it means “to stand outside.” Ecstasy means: while being in the whole current of life, to be standing outside at every moment. To flow in life—and yet, within, something remains outside of life. That is our innermostness; that is our being. If we get totally lost in life and nothing remains with us other than our relationships, we have lost our soul.
The soul means nothing else. The very meaning of soul is: let everything be, and yet within, something remains untouched, untainted, outside. You are walking on the road; but even as you walk, something within you should not be walking. You are filled with anger; but even in that moment of anger, someone within you should be seeing your anger. You are eating; but even as you eat, someone within should not be eating; rather, should also know that eating is happening.
If, moment to moment, within the web of life we are able to preserve someone inside, that remainder—the remaining—is our individuality. One who does not have the existence of that innermostness is no longer worthy of being called human. He has no soul; he has lost his soul.
Very few of us have a soul in this sense—very few. We are a heap of skins, a heap of garments; behind that, nothing. This too I have called theft. It is theft. To steal someone’s wealth is not such a great theft; but to put on someone else’s personality is a much greater theft. To steal someone’s clothes is not such a great theft; but in the effort to become like someone else, to lose oneself is a far greater theft. To seize someone’s house is not that great a theft—it is theft, I am not saying it is not—but it is not as great a theft as losing your own soul and becoming the shadow of another soul.
I have heard that in a certain man’s life the gods became displeased and cursed him. The curse was unusual: “From today your shadow will be lost!” The man laughed. He said, “What use have I for a shadow? If I remain, what will be lacking if my shadow is gone? Whether my shadow falls or not, I have never worried. Are you gods mad? If you are angry, this curse doesn’t seem of much consequence.” But the gods laughed; they knew more than that man.
He returned to his village laughing, thinking the gods must be crazy. “What will I lose if I lose my shadow!” But upon arriving he discovered the gods were not mad; he himself had landed in trouble. Whoever saw that his shadow did not fall ran away on seeing him. His wife shut the door. His father said, “Go away—never come before my eyes again. You are a ghost, a spirit—what are you?” Friends closed their doors. Customers stopped coming to his shop. When he walked the street, people would call their children indoors: “Come in—the man whose shadow is missing is passing by.” Life in that village became impossible for him.
Eventually the villagers decided to exile him. “He is dangerous. We have never heard of a man without a shadow.” And so they cast him out. Then he realized that by losing a shadow, he had lost a great deal.
But leave that man aside. We are only shadows; we have lost the soul. How much we have lost is hard to reckon. We are only shadows. That man lost only his shadow and he was put in such difficulty; our soul is lost—how much difficulty must we be in! But since everyone’s is lost, no one banishes us from the village. And if a shadow is lost, others can see it; when the soul is lost, only oneself can know it, no one else can. For the soul is not an outer event.
Therefore, while understanding “achourya,” one question should be asked of oneself continuously: Do I have anything I can call my own innermostness? Something I was born with? Something I did not learn in life? Do I have anything that was mine even before birth?
If you can recall anything you have that was with you even before birth, you can be assured that when you die, something will remain with you. But if everything was gained only after birth, death takes it all away. If there is something from before birth—something that feels unlearned, not taken from life, which you brought with you, which is your nature—then you have no reason to fear death. What you did not get from life cannot be snatched by death.
Yet we all fear death. Not because death is painful—no one has ever said that death is painful—but because in what we call life we possess nothing that can remain with us beyond death. All will be taken. Whatever we have received from others cannot be carried across death: whether wealth, fame, knowledge, or personality—whatever it is—what we have obtained from others is not mine.
So we are thieves. What we have collected from others—that is our theft. This is a very deep theft; the court will not catch it. It has nothing to do with man’s law. This theft is related to another, far greater law, whose name is dharma. This theft too is tried in a court—but that court is God’s court.
Do we have anything that is ours? About which I can say: not learned, unlearned; not taken from anyone; this is me. If there is nothing of that sort, then the life we are living is a stolen life. And it need not be so. But if even once it occurs to you that you possess no wealth that is truly yours, no innermostness that is yours, then revolution begins in life.
So do not think, “I have never stolen a penny.” Do not think, “I have never stolen from someone’s house.” What has that theft to do with religion! That theft, man’s law can handle. Religion is concerned with another theft—the one the law cannot catch; the courts cannot decide; which lies beyond the judge’s jurisdiction.
Religion is concerned with the theft of influences, the theft of personalities, the theft of faces. And we are all living as the stolen. We are all living as if we were someone else. We are not ourselves. I am not I; I am living like someone else.
In this sense I have said that “achourya” is the path to the attainment of individuality in the human soul, and “theft” is the method of losing the soul. This can happen at the level of feeling, at the level of thought, or at the level of the body.
We do not even walk in our own way; we even learn our walk from others! We do not think in our own way; we learn thoughts from others! We do not feel in our own way; we learn feelings from others! A man reads the newspaper in the morning and then all day long he talks to people about what he read! And it never occurs to him that nothing of what he is saying is his own. He reads the Gita and repeats it all his life, and never turns back to ask, “In what I am saying, is there anything of mine?”
All our speaking, thinking, getting up, sitting down—everything is learned. In such a life, the rain of bliss cannot fall. In such a life, there cannot be even a glimmer of nectar. Such a man will be a dry desert. For springs always flow from life, and from them greenery is born. One who lives on borrowed springs is like a man who counts other people’s houses and thinks they are his; who counts other people’s eyes and thinks they are his; who counts other people’s thoughts and thinks he has become wise; who collects scriptures and believes knowledge has come!
Such a man lives in so fundamental a delusion that he can waste his entire life. We do waste it. But once this question arises before us, it will pursue us: Am I a thief? And if this question begins to pursue us, we will begin to see, moment by moment, that just now when I laughed, that laughter I learned from someone else’s lips; just now when I cried, those tears were not true; just now when I offered namaskar, there was no breath of life in it; just now when I loved, there was no love at all—I had read about it in some drama; just now what I said to my beloved was a dialogue I heard in some film.
If only this question were to arise in a man’s life—then, if not today then tomorrow, he begins to be free of theft; his individuality begins to surface; then he laughs in his own way.
And this world could be very beautiful—if people here laughed in their own way, cried in their own way, thought in their own way—this world could be very vital and alive.
Right now the world is not alive; it is a vast collection of corpses, where all the dead are living. We do not notice it because all around us are dead like ourselves. We too have read the morning paper; the neighbor has read it too; he speaks from the paper, and so do we. We have read the Koran; he has read it too; he speaks from the Koran, and so do we. He has learned from the same place we have learned. Our words agree, and it seems as though everything is fine. But nothing is fine.
There could not be so much suffering if life were going right. And one who finds himself—even if nothing else remains—his very being is so sufficient that, even if nothing else is there, his joy cannot be taken away. Everything may be snatched from him, but not his joy. For there is no joy greater than individuality.
When a flower blossoms in its fullness, the fragrance of joy spreads all around. The flower’s full blossoming is itself its joy. So too with man: when the flower of his innermost individuality fully blooms, life is filled with joy. Fulfillment happens; all is filled. Then even if nothing remains—no wealth, no fame, no position—still everything is present. And if this innermostness is absent, then even if positions are high, wealth abundant, fame sufficient—still nothing is there; inside all is empty.
Today in the West one word is being discussed intensely—“emptiness.” All the great thinkers of the West—be it Sartre, Camus, Marcel, or Heidegger—say: we feel utterly empty, completely hollow. It seems there is nothing within; we have become only containers with no content. We are only a box with nothing left inside. Within, everything is void and empty.
Emptiness is much discussed in the West today; it need not be. For today they have wealth in a measure the earth has never seen. Their palaces touch the sky, before which the palaces of Ashoka and Akbar become huts. They have the power to reach the moon. They have the vast machinery to destroy the whole earth in half an hour. Then why emptiness? Why this emptiness? What is the reason that within all is empty?
There is a reason. Outside, everything; inside, nothing—no soul, no individuality. Everything is, only man is not. Everything is—the power to reach the moon is there—but not the capacity to reach oneself. Wealth is abundant, but there is no being one’s own. Palaces are huge; the dweller is very small—next to nothing, zero!
This is the outcome of theft. The West will have to learn achourya; then emptiness will vanish. Marcel, Camus, Sartre will have to learn and search for the disciplines to awaken individuality.
Only when everything is attained does one discover: I am not. And then the pain that seizes the mind—no poverty in the world can inflict such pain. This achourya is the formula for attaining individuality; and theft is the formula for losing oneself.
Osho, you have said that to be a Hindu, a Jain, a Christian—this is all following behind some person, so it is all theft. But are “Hindu,” “Jain,” “Christian,” “Buddhist” merely borrowed personalities? And are these not distinct cultures grounded in eternal laws? Can there not be an auspicious flowering of life among these diverse cultures? Where do you see theft in this?
Mahavira is not a thief; it would be hard to find a person less inclined to steal than he. But Mahavira is not a Jain; Mahavira is a Jina. And it is worth understanding the difference between Jina and Jain. A Jina is one who has conquered himself; a Jain is one who walks behind the conqueror.
Gautam Buddha is not a thief; it would be hard to find a person less given to theft than he. But Gautam is a Buddha, not a Buddhist. A Buddha is one who has awakened; a Buddhist is one who walks behind the awakened one.
In the same way, Jesus is no thief; Jesus is the Christ. “Christ” means one who has offered himself to the cross and attained that which becomes available by effacing oneself. But Jesus is not a Christian. A Christian is one who walks behind the man hanging on the cross. And then the differences become vast. Jesus’ neck hangs from the cross, and the Christian hangs a little cross around his neck. Necks do not wear crosses; it is necks that hang on crosses. Jesus climbs onto the cross—that is why he is the Christ; the Christian hangs a golden cross on his throat! To begin with, crosses are not made of gold; if you make crosses of gold, what will you make thrones out of? And crosses are not hung on throats; throats hang on crosses. Christians are thieves.
Muhammad is one thing; the Muslim is another. It is a joy, a beauty, that Muhammad should be in the world; it is dangerous that the Muslim should be. Mahavira in the world is worthy of welcome; a Jain in the world is dangerous. Buddha is something else altogether, a fragrance; the follower of Buddha is a stench, not a fragrance. There are reasons.
The first reason is that the very moment a person decides, “I will walk behind someone else,” he begins to lose his soul. There is actually no way to walk behind another. In truth, to follow another means: this person wants to avoid the real journey of life. The one who does not want to be a Jina becomes a Jain. The one who does not want to be a Buddha becomes a Buddhist. The one who cannot gather the courage to be a Christ becomes a Christian. It is a compromise. To be a Christian requires nothing of you; to be a Christ is to risk your life. What does it take to be a Jain? To be a Jina demands great austerity. To be a Jain requires only worshiping the Jinas. Worship is play. To be a Jina requires no worship—it requires practice, sadhana. Sadhana is peril; sadhana is labor; sadhana is resolve.
In truth, the person who does not wish to undertake the labor of finding his own soul consoles his mind by performing some sort of worship, by playing a game. The one who will not find himself starts playing the game of walking behind someone else. And by walking behind another, no one has ever found himself. The other is always outside; and no matter how far I walk behind the other—even if I circle the whole earth—I will not arrive within. If I am to reach within, then I must stop walking without. Following is always movement outward. In following, you will always be going outside; the other is outside, and behind him you must go outside.
Mahavira follows no one; Jesus follows no one; Krishna follows no one. It is a great irony that those who did not go behind anyone are the ones behind whom crowds go! Buddha follows no one, yet multitudes go behind him. If you must learn from Buddha, at least learn this one thing: do not go behind anyone. If you must learn from Buddha, learn this one thing: do not go behind anyone. If you are to learn from Mahavira, learn this one thing: nothing will happen through anyone’s worship; Mahavira was not engaged in worshiping anyone. If you are to learn from Jesus, learn this one thing: God can be realized without being a Christian. Jesus himself was not a Christian. If you are to learn from Muhammad, learn this one thing with certainty: God has nothing to do with being a Muslim. Muhammad himself was not a Muslim. God can meet Muhammad too, who is not a Muslim.
Those behind whom the whole world runs do not run behind anyone. And we run behind them hoping to obtain what they obtained! But if you look closely, the science has been mistaken, the arithmetic is wrong somewhere. They attained precisely because they went within; and we want to attain by going behind someone!
Going behind is going outside. That is why I call all kinds of following a theft! And from such following, culture has not been born; rather, it has obstructed the birth of culture. Culture has not arisen; its birth has been hindered. And all these followers, except for fighting, have done nothing else on this earth. These followers, in the name of Muhammad and Mahavira, Krishna and Christ, have not brought the earth to bloom with flowers; they have filled it with blood and gore. Churches, temples, mosques, and gurdwaras have become arrangements, instruments, for making human beings fight. Human history is full of religious wars. Having accepted Muhammad and Mahavira, Krishna and Christ, these followers did not bring about the event of becoming a Krishna or a Christ; but they have shown great skill in murdering one another.
That murder takes many forms. Some leap in with swords; others simply keep wielding swords of ideas—doctrines. The Jain refutes the Muslim; the Muslim refutes the Hindu; the Hindu refutes the Christian; the Christian refutes the Buddhist—doctrines are refuted endlessly. If the heat rises and doctrines cannot prosecute the quarrel properly, then the swords are unsheathed too.
Because of the being of Buddha and Mahavira and Christ, man ought to have become more joyful; but because of their being, great tumult has occurred. Bertrand Russell once wrote: what would it have cost God if he had not sent Jesus? At least Christians would not have been. In the Middle Ages, Christians laid corpses across all of Europe.
If for Jesus’ sake a man as significant as Bertrand Russell must entertain such a prayer—what harm would it have been if God had not sent Jesus; by not sending this one man the earth might have been more peaceful, at least there would have been no quarrelsome Christians—then it is a matter for reflection.
Jesus’ coming did not make the earth worse. Had Jesus come, the earth would have grown more fragrant; songs would have spread; the earth would have been blessed. But it did not happen, because Jesus had hardly arrived when the Christian arrived right behind him. What Jesus builds, the Christian demolishes. Jesus says, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” and the Christian sharpens his sword for the neighbor. Muhammad says there is one God and all are His sons; but the Muslim sets out to slaughter those very sons. The Hindu says, “Everything is God,” yet at the touch of a Shudra—that “everything is God”—this Vedantic idea suddenly vanishes. Even the greatest “knower” succumbs! When sitting with a Muslim, even the greatest sage slides away a bit—he who had said, “Brahman indwells everyone.” Suddenly it turns out that Brahman is afraid to indwell a Muslim.
With Jesus, Krishna, Christ, Mahavira, Buddha, Confucius, the world was fortunate. But behind them there comes a flood of troublemakers who raise organizations, and then set organizations against one another. Bands of followers arise, and religion becomes politics. The moment religion falls into the hands of followers, the moment it is organized, it becomes politics. Religion is not an organization; religion is sadhana. Followers make organizations. Then sadhana is put aside, and organization becomes important. Those outside the organization become enemies; those inside are one’s own; those outside are “others.”
And so every religion keeps cutting man into fragments. Today on earth there are roughly three hundred religions. Man stands cut into three hundred pieces. Religion should unite; religion is not for division. But who divides? Does Mahavira divide? Does Muhammad divide? Only one of two can be true: either Mahavira is the divider, or the Jain is; either Muhammad divides, or the Muslim does; either Jesus is the disturbance, or the Christian is.
It is my understanding that Mahavira, Jesus, and Muhammad are not the disturbance. Those whose own lives have found the peace beyond disturbance cannot become a disturbance in another’s life; they are a message of peace for others too. But when the follower steps in behind them…
And there is a secret with the follower, a scientific formula worth understanding. It is a very amusing matter: often it is the opposite type who becomes the follower—often. If Mahavira has renounced everything, then those who have everything will gather at his feet. Why? If Mahavira lives fasting, then the gluttons will crowd around him! There is a reason. If Mahavira has no concern for food, the man who thinks about food twenty-four hours a day is the first to be impressed. He thinks, “This Mahavira seems most extraordinary! I eat even in my dreams, and this man does not eat for months! He is a great ascetic!” He falls at his feet. Mahavira stands naked; the one who is excessively attached to clothes, who cannot even bare the body a little, will revere Mahavira as no ordinary man.
Therefore it is no surprise that the followers of Jainism run clothing shops all over the land. Mahavira’s nakedness has something to do with it—there must be something at work there.
Nor is it surprising that Christians devastated much of the world and spread empires across it. Where is Jesus—who said, “If someone slaps you on one cheek, offer him the other; if someone snatches your coat, give him your shirt as well; if someone asks you to carry his load for one mile, go two”—and where are those who, in his name, enslaved the globe! They will snatch your coat and your shirt too; they will make people march not for two miles but two thousand; they will slap one cheek and then turn your head to slap the other as well. Jesus could never have imagined that around a man so humble such people would gather. But they did!
In truth, the opposite attracts. As a man is drawn to woman and woman to man, so too in life all attraction is polar; the opposite attracts. Around the renunciate, pleasure-seekers gather. At the feet of ascetics sit those who cannot practice any austerity at all. Around seekers of God swarm those who clutch the world like madmen. And these are the ones who become followers. Hence the perversion begins immediately. At once, what Mahavira said, the Jain distorts. What Jesus said, the Christian destroys. What Muhammad said, the Muslim becomes the one to efface it. It is most unfortunate; but so it is. The opposite is attractive.
Therefore I say: the entire breed of followers needs to bid farewell to the earth. Let Muhammad remain, let Buddha remain, let their fragrance remain—but let there be no follower in between. Let there be talk of Mahavira, but let there be no followers. Let people listen to Mahavira, understand him, read him—but let no one fall into the madness of saying, “I am his follower.” Understand, read, reflect, rejoice, dance—but do not cling. We have had enough clinging; and not knowing the basic formula of that clinging has created great difficulty.
The basic formula is this: the opposite is attractive, and we gather around it; and as soon as that gathering happens, the matter falls into the enemy’s hands. This rule in life is about as reliable as this: put a straight stick in water and it will appear bent—though it is not; it appears so at once. The laws of water and air differ. The moment you take the stick out into air, it appears straight again. In Mahavira, the stick is perfectly straight; in the Jain, it appears completely bent. In Buddha, life is straight and simple; in the Buddhist, it becomes utterly tangled and crooked. In Muhammad’s life, there is love; in the Muslim’s life, it becomes hatred. In Jesus’ life, there is surrender; in the Christian follower’s life, that very surrender turns into aggression. The history is ample to warn us against followers.
This does not mean I am an enemy of Mahavira. Their enemies are their followers. This does not mean I am an enemy of Jesus. Their enemies are their followers. If Jesus is to be preserved in his purity, we must remove the follower’s lenses. And by becoming a follower, no man gets anything. He only corrupts—the teachings, the life—of the one he follows; he achieves nothing in his own life.
I was just reading a little story. A child was speaking to his father. The child read a proverb from his book: “A man is known by the company he keeps.” He asked his father, “Is this true?” The father said, “Absolutely true.” The child asked, “Then one more question. A good man and a bad man are friends. By whom will which be known? The bad man is in the company of a good man—should we take him to be good? And the good man is in the company of a bad man—should we take him to be bad? Now who shall be known by whom?” The father was perplexed.
Jesus is being known through the Christian; thus it has become difficult to know Jesus. Mahavira is being known through the Jain; thus it has become difficult to know Mahavira. If the followers step aside, then their flowers can bloom in full beauty; their lamps can burn in full flame. And one more joy would happen: we would become the owners of the wealth of the whole world.
Right now, the man who accepts Mahavira imagines Muhammad is not his property. And the one who accepts Muhammad thinks, “What have I to do with Buddha? He is not my concern. He belongs to someone else, not to us.” If one day there are no followers, then the entire heritage of the world will belong to everyone. Socrates will be mine; Muhammad will be mine; Mahavira will be mine. And we will be more affluent. Then culture will be born.
As yet, culture has not been born. There are many kinds of distortions, and we keep calling those distortions our respective “cultures.” Human culture will be born the day everything in the whole world is ours. Think of it with another example and it will be clear.
If in science, too, twenty-five sects were formed, would science grow or perish? Suppose those who “believe in” Newton form one faction; those who “believe in” Einstein form another and say, “We cannot accept Einstein; he has contradicted some statements of our master.” Those who “believe in” Max Planck make a third faction; those who “believe in” Fred Hoyle make a fourth; and so on. In two or three centuries, for the fifty great scientists that appeared, fifty factions arise. Would science develop or die?
Science could develop because science has no factions. Whatever scientists have given is the collective inheritance of all scientists. Religion could not produce culture because religion fractured into factions. There are some three hundred factions in the world; how can religion be born? If these factions were to disperse…
Mahavira has given, from one corner, a vision of truth; Buddha, from another corner, has given that vision; Muhammad, from a third corner; Christ brings news of still another facet of the same. All this wealth is ours—humanity’s. If all of it were gathered as one, and we were all the heirs, culture would arise in the world. As of now, there is no culture, only fragmented distortions. And if all this wealth were ours, a religious mind would arise in the world. Right now there is no religious mind—only a sectarian mind. There is no religious mind in the world.
Yes, now and then an individual of religion is born, and instantly sectarians gather around him. And what that person discovers with a lifetime of labor, those who gather around him destroy and distort in a few short days.
Mahavira belongs to no one—or to everyone. Buddha belongs to no one—or to everyone. No one is their owner, no one their claimant—or else all are claimants. If such a situation arises, religion too will become a science. In my vision, religion is a science—the supreme science. But it has not yet become so. If religion becomes science, life will be cultured, refined, evolved. As yet, religion has produced perversion—because only sects are produced, nothing else.
Who is responsible? The follower is responsible. And if at least the follower had reached somewhere after creating all this mischief, we could have said something. But the follower reaches nowhere. The follower has never reached anywhere—and never will—because he has forgotten the fundamental formula.
If you are to find yourself, you must walk within. The one who goes behind another can only lose himself; he can never find himself.
Gautam Buddha is not a thief; it would be hard to find a person less given to theft than he. But Gautam is a Buddha, not a Buddhist. A Buddha is one who has awakened; a Buddhist is one who walks behind the awakened one.
In the same way, Jesus is no thief; Jesus is the Christ. “Christ” means one who has offered himself to the cross and attained that which becomes available by effacing oneself. But Jesus is not a Christian. A Christian is one who walks behind the man hanging on the cross. And then the differences become vast. Jesus’ neck hangs from the cross, and the Christian hangs a little cross around his neck. Necks do not wear crosses; it is necks that hang on crosses. Jesus climbs onto the cross—that is why he is the Christ; the Christian hangs a golden cross on his throat! To begin with, crosses are not made of gold; if you make crosses of gold, what will you make thrones out of? And crosses are not hung on throats; throats hang on crosses. Christians are thieves.
Muhammad is one thing; the Muslim is another. It is a joy, a beauty, that Muhammad should be in the world; it is dangerous that the Muslim should be. Mahavira in the world is worthy of welcome; a Jain in the world is dangerous. Buddha is something else altogether, a fragrance; the follower of Buddha is a stench, not a fragrance. There are reasons.
The first reason is that the very moment a person decides, “I will walk behind someone else,” he begins to lose his soul. There is actually no way to walk behind another. In truth, to follow another means: this person wants to avoid the real journey of life. The one who does not want to be a Jina becomes a Jain. The one who does not want to be a Buddha becomes a Buddhist. The one who cannot gather the courage to be a Christ becomes a Christian. It is a compromise. To be a Christian requires nothing of you; to be a Christ is to risk your life. What does it take to be a Jain? To be a Jina demands great austerity. To be a Jain requires only worshiping the Jinas. Worship is play. To be a Jina requires no worship—it requires practice, sadhana. Sadhana is peril; sadhana is labor; sadhana is resolve.
In truth, the person who does not wish to undertake the labor of finding his own soul consoles his mind by performing some sort of worship, by playing a game. The one who will not find himself starts playing the game of walking behind someone else. And by walking behind another, no one has ever found himself. The other is always outside; and no matter how far I walk behind the other—even if I circle the whole earth—I will not arrive within. If I am to reach within, then I must stop walking without. Following is always movement outward. In following, you will always be going outside; the other is outside, and behind him you must go outside.
Mahavira follows no one; Jesus follows no one; Krishna follows no one. It is a great irony that those who did not go behind anyone are the ones behind whom crowds go! Buddha follows no one, yet multitudes go behind him. If you must learn from Buddha, at least learn this one thing: do not go behind anyone. If you must learn from Buddha, learn this one thing: do not go behind anyone. If you are to learn from Mahavira, learn this one thing: nothing will happen through anyone’s worship; Mahavira was not engaged in worshiping anyone. If you are to learn from Jesus, learn this one thing: God can be realized without being a Christian. Jesus himself was not a Christian. If you are to learn from Muhammad, learn this one thing with certainty: God has nothing to do with being a Muslim. Muhammad himself was not a Muslim. God can meet Muhammad too, who is not a Muslim.
Those behind whom the whole world runs do not run behind anyone. And we run behind them hoping to obtain what they obtained! But if you look closely, the science has been mistaken, the arithmetic is wrong somewhere. They attained precisely because they went within; and we want to attain by going behind someone!
Going behind is going outside. That is why I call all kinds of following a theft! And from such following, culture has not been born; rather, it has obstructed the birth of culture. Culture has not arisen; its birth has been hindered. And all these followers, except for fighting, have done nothing else on this earth. These followers, in the name of Muhammad and Mahavira, Krishna and Christ, have not brought the earth to bloom with flowers; they have filled it with blood and gore. Churches, temples, mosques, and gurdwaras have become arrangements, instruments, for making human beings fight. Human history is full of religious wars. Having accepted Muhammad and Mahavira, Krishna and Christ, these followers did not bring about the event of becoming a Krishna or a Christ; but they have shown great skill in murdering one another.
That murder takes many forms. Some leap in with swords; others simply keep wielding swords of ideas—doctrines. The Jain refutes the Muslim; the Muslim refutes the Hindu; the Hindu refutes the Christian; the Christian refutes the Buddhist—doctrines are refuted endlessly. If the heat rises and doctrines cannot prosecute the quarrel properly, then the swords are unsheathed too.
Because of the being of Buddha and Mahavira and Christ, man ought to have become more joyful; but because of their being, great tumult has occurred. Bertrand Russell once wrote: what would it have cost God if he had not sent Jesus? At least Christians would not have been. In the Middle Ages, Christians laid corpses across all of Europe.
If for Jesus’ sake a man as significant as Bertrand Russell must entertain such a prayer—what harm would it have been if God had not sent Jesus; by not sending this one man the earth might have been more peaceful, at least there would have been no quarrelsome Christians—then it is a matter for reflection.
Jesus’ coming did not make the earth worse. Had Jesus come, the earth would have grown more fragrant; songs would have spread; the earth would have been blessed. But it did not happen, because Jesus had hardly arrived when the Christian arrived right behind him. What Jesus builds, the Christian demolishes. Jesus says, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” and the Christian sharpens his sword for the neighbor. Muhammad says there is one God and all are His sons; but the Muslim sets out to slaughter those very sons. The Hindu says, “Everything is God,” yet at the touch of a Shudra—that “everything is God”—this Vedantic idea suddenly vanishes. Even the greatest “knower” succumbs! When sitting with a Muslim, even the greatest sage slides away a bit—he who had said, “Brahman indwells everyone.” Suddenly it turns out that Brahman is afraid to indwell a Muslim.
With Jesus, Krishna, Christ, Mahavira, Buddha, Confucius, the world was fortunate. But behind them there comes a flood of troublemakers who raise organizations, and then set organizations against one another. Bands of followers arise, and religion becomes politics. The moment religion falls into the hands of followers, the moment it is organized, it becomes politics. Religion is not an organization; religion is sadhana. Followers make organizations. Then sadhana is put aside, and organization becomes important. Those outside the organization become enemies; those inside are one’s own; those outside are “others.”
And so every religion keeps cutting man into fragments. Today on earth there are roughly three hundred religions. Man stands cut into three hundred pieces. Religion should unite; religion is not for division. But who divides? Does Mahavira divide? Does Muhammad divide? Only one of two can be true: either Mahavira is the divider, or the Jain is; either Muhammad divides, or the Muslim does; either Jesus is the disturbance, or the Christian is.
It is my understanding that Mahavira, Jesus, and Muhammad are not the disturbance. Those whose own lives have found the peace beyond disturbance cannot become a disturbance in another’s life; they are a message of peace for others too. But when the follower steps in behind them…
And there is a secret with the follower, a scientific formula worth understanding. It is a very amusing matter: often it is the opposite type who becomes the follower—often. If Mahavira has renounced everything, then those who have everything will gather at his feet. Why? If Mahavira lives fasting, then the gluttons will crowd around him! There is a reason. If Mahavira has no concern for food, the man who thinks about food twenty-four hours a day is the first to be impressed. He thinks, “This Mahavira seems most extraordinary! I eat even in my dreams, and this man does not eat for months! He is a great ascetic!” He falls at his feet. Mahavira stands naked; the one who is excessively attached to clothes, who cannot even bare the body a little, will revere Mahavira as no ordinary man.
Therefore it is no surprise that the followers of Jainism run clothing shops all over the land. Mahavira’s nakedness has something to do with it—there must be something at work there.
Nor is it surprising that Christians devastated much of the world and spread empires across it. Where is Jesus—who said, “If someone slaps you on one cheek, offer him the other; if someone snatches your coat, give him your shirt as well; if someone asks you to carry his load for one mile, go two”—and where are those who, in his name, enslaved the globe! They will snatch your coat and your shirt too; they will make people march not for two miles but two thousand; they will slap one cheek and then turn your head to slap the other as well. Jesus could never have imagined that around a man so humble such people would gather. But they did!
In truth, the opposite attracts. As a man is drawn to woman and woman to man, so too in life all attraction is polar; the opposite attracts. Around the renunciate, pleasure-seekers gather. At the feet of ascetics sit those who cannot practice any austerity at all. Around seekers of God swarm those who clutch the world like madmen. And these are the ones who become followers. Hence the perversion begins immediately. At once, what Mahavira said, the Jain distorts. What Jesus said, the Christian destroys. What Muhammad said, the Muslim becomes the one to efface it. It is most unfortunate; but so it is. The opposite is attractive.
Therefore I say: the entire breed of followers needs to bid farewell to the earth. Let Muhammad remain, let Buddha remain, let their fragrance remain—but let there be no follower in between. Let there be talk of Mahavira, but let there be no followers. Let people listen to Mahavira, understand him, read him—but let no one fall into the madness of saying, “I am his follower.” Understand, read, reflect, rejoice, dance—but do not cling. We have had enough clinging; and not knowing the basic formula of that clinging has created great difficulty.
The basic formula is this: the opposite is attractive, and we gather around it; and as soon as that gathering happens, the matter falls into the enemy’s hands. This rule in life is about as reliable as this: put a straight stick in water and it will appear bent—though it is not; it appears so at once. The laws of water and air differ. The moment you take the stick out into air, it appears straight again. In Mahavira, the stick is perfectly straight; in the Jain, it appears completely bent. In Buddha, life is straight and simple; in the Buddhist, it becomes utterly tangled and crooked. In Muhammad’s life, there is love; in the Muslim’s life, it becomes hatred. In Jesus’ life, there is surrender; in the Christian follower’s life, that very surrender turns into aggression. The history is ample to warn us against followers.
This does not mean I am an enemy of Mahavira. Their enemies are their followers. This does not mean I am an enemy of Jesus. Their enemies are their followers. If Jesus is to be preserved in his purity, we must remove the follower’s lenses. And by becoming a follower, no man gets anything. He only corrupts—the teachings, the life—of the one he follows; he achieves nothing in his own life.
I was just reading a little story. A child was speaking to his father. The child read a proverb from his book: “A man is known by the company he keeps.” He asked his father, “Is this true?” The father said, “Absolutely true.” The child asked, “Then one more question. A good man and a bad man are friends. By whom will which be known? The bad man is in the company of a good man—should we take him to be good? And the good man is in the company of a bad man—should we take him to be bad? Now who shall be known by whom?” The father was perplexed.
Jesus is being known through the Christian; thus it has become difficult to know Jesus. Mahavira is being known through the Jain; thus it has become difficult to know Mahavira. If the followers step aside, then their flowers can bloom in full beauty; their lamps can burn in full flame. And one more joy would happen: we would become the owners of the wealth of the whole world.
Right now, the man who accepts Mahavira imagines Muhammad is not his property. And the one who accepts Muhammad thinks, “What have I to do with Buddha? He is not my concern. He belongs to someone else, not to us.” If one day there are no followers, then the entire heritage of the world will belong to everyone. Socrates will be mine; Muhammad will be mine; Mahavira will be mine. And we will be more affluent. Then culture will be born.
As yet, culture has not been born. There are many kinds of distortions, and we keep calling those distortions our respective “cultures.” Human culture will be born the day everything in the whole world is ours. Think of it with another example and it will be clear.
If in science, too, twenty-five sects were formed, would science grow or perish? Suppose those who “believe in” Newton form one faction; those who “believe in” Einstein form another and say, “We cannot accept Einstein; he has contradicted some statements of our master.” Those who “believe in” Max Planck make a third faction; those who “believe in” Fred Hoyle make a fourth; and so on. In two or three centuries, for the fifty great scientists that appeared, fifty factions arise. Would science develop or die?
Science could develop because science has no factions. Whatever scientists have given is the collective inheritance of all scientists. Religion could not produce culture because religion fractured into factions. There are some three hundred factions in the world; how can religion be born? If these factions were to disperse…
Mahavira has given, from one corner, a vision of truth; Buddha, from another corner, has given that vision; Muhammad, from a third corner; Christ brings news of still another facet of the same. All this wealth is ours—humanity’s. If all of it were gathered as one, and we were all the heirs, culture would arise in the world. As of now, there is no culture, only fragmented distortions. And if all this wealth were ours, a religious mind would arise in the world. Right now there is no religious mind—only a sectarian mind. There is no religious mind in the world.
Yes, now and then an individual of religion is born, and instantly sectarians gather around him. And what that person discovers with a lifetime of labor, those who gather around him destroy and distort in a few short days.
Mahavira belongs to no one—or to everyone. Buddha belongs to no one—or to everyone. No one is their owner, no one their claimant—or else all are claimants. If such a situation arises, religion too will become a science. In my vision, religion is a science—the supreme science. But it has not yet become so. If religion becomes science, life will be cultured, refined, evolved. As yet, religion has produced perversion—because only sects are produced, nothing else.
Who is responsible? The follower is responsible. And if at least the follower had reached somewhere after creating all this mischief, we could have said something. But the follower reaches nowhere. The follower has never reached anywhere—and never will—because he has forgotten the fundamental formula.
If you are to find yourself, you must walk within. The one who goes behind another can only lose himself; he can never find himself.
Osho, using the example of the onion you said that each person has many faces, masks—stolen masks. And these masks will be there, under all circumstances they will be there. One only needs to distinguish between good masks and bad masks. I hate someone, but when he comes to me I welcome him with a smile. This is an artificial face I present before him. Yet at the same time my mind is filled with immense pain, with sorrow, and still I smile. So this face, this mask, would be my good mask. A mask there will certainly be.
You have understood death, the mystery of death, and you are living life—this too, you say, is a kind of mask. You have conquered truth and conquered untruth, and you proclaim truth—this too would be a mask. And let me add something: a flute, whose body is pierced with holes, yet whose melody casts a spell over people—is that not the flute’s mask? An anklet on the foot, in whose little chambers pebbles or beads are lodged, yet from whose jingle music is born—is that not the anklet’s mask? If this is so, then we must distinguish between the two. And I request you, please explain the difference. And one more thing: if life is a vast interrelatedness, then personality will manifest in many forms and modes. How can you call this diversity of personality fake masks?
A child is born—not only of this birth; he comes carrying impressions from many lifetimes. From the mother he receives love and tenderness; from the father he receives knowledge, direction, a path; from the teacher he learns speech and is inspired to think; and wherever he travels in the world he gathers many experiences. Will these acquired experiences also fall into the category of theft? And if so, then the personality will be cut off and isolated. How will he create his own unique personality unless he absorbs something from other personalities? These two questions I place before you.
Perhaps the meaning of “mask” has not been rightly understood. Your mouth—your own face—is not a mask. When, in a play, you put another face over your face—say, you put on the face of Ravana—then that put-on face is the mask. Your face is not a mask; but when over your own face you place another false face, which has no roots in you, no connection with your life-breath, which merely hangs by a string on your ears, which has no bridge to the heartbeat—then that is a mask. The mouth is not a mask; a mask is a false face.
So first understand the exact meaning of mask.
The face is not a mask. And it is not necessary that you only wear masks made of paper or plastic to create a false face. Upon this very face you succeed in creating many false faces. As you said: I hate a man, he comes near me, I welcome him with a smile while hatred boils within. That is a mask. And it is dangerous. It appears useful—its utility is visible. In this way I avoid telling that man of my hatred. But hatred does not end by this. The danger is that while deceiving the other, gradually I will deceive myself as well. Again and again the false smile will go on suppressing my hatred within. And one day I will even forget that I hate him. I will go on smiling while hatred remains hidden inside.
No. If a religious person experiences hatred, there are only two options: either do not experience hatred and then smile; or if you are going to experience hatred, please do not smile—let hatred show on your face. There are two benefits. If he reveals his hatred on his face, then he will necessarily have to bear the consequences of expressing hatred. One should have the courage to bear them. And the very losses he suffers by expressing hatred, the very pain he undergoes because of hatred, will become the cause of changing that hatred. Otherwise why would he change? The obstacles and damage that hatred brings in life will compel him to think of transforming it—because hatred is making life a hell.
But we try to create a heaven outside by displaying a smile, while inside hell is being constructed. How will we then eliminate that hell? Pain which we do not fully experience and instead hide within, that pain becomes impossible to dissolve.
There is another amusing point: when hatred is inside, you may think that with your lips you have welcomed the other with a smile; but when hatred is inside, the smile on the lips turns poisonous, and the other can easily see that it is a mask. You may laugh, but it is very difficult to prevent inner hatred from showing; it shows—through the lips, through the eyes, in the way you rise and sit—it shows in every way.
Therefore the false smile only suppresses; it does not communicate. No message reaches the other. He does not go away pleased. Often he may even be pleased to find that you are an authentic person. If you feel anger at someone, say it clearly: “I am angry, and I am an angry person.” Be angry; suffer the pain of anger; endure its consequences—then, if not today, tomorrow this very fire of anger will become the cause to take you beyond anger. Otherwise anger will remain inside while a smile plays outside; the anger will go on accumulating within and burning you, and the false, dry, useless laughter will spread outside—without any effect. No one will be pleased by it. No one will be delighted by it. People are not delighted by laughter; they are touched when the whole person laughs. Only when your entire being laughs does laughter carry life. Only when every pore participates does laughter carry the benediction of nectar—otherwise not.
These masks we wear—the religious person speaks of dropping them. Hence the meaning of nonstealing: to abandon such masks. It will be difficult. Religion is tapas—austerity. But tapas does not mean standing in the sun; it means the courage to stand in all the weathers of life. When anger is there, say it is there. When hatred is there, say it is there. At least be honest—be sincere. Say, “This is how it is.” Experience that pain, live it. Only by passing through it will your hands be burned, and only burned hands become the cause to refrain tomorrow. And the one upon whom you have expressed anger and said, “I am angry,” the one you have told, “I hate you”—if tomorrow you laugh with that person and love him, he will understand that love is also true. Otherwise, where hatred is fake and one laughs falsely and cries falsely, everything else in that life becomes suspect.
Therefore, if a father has never, truly and openly, been angry with his son, remember: the son will never be able to accept the father’s forgiveness with honesty either. He knows the father is insincere; who knows about his forgiveness! If a wife has never shown anger toward her husband, only suppressed and hid it and smiled, then remember: even when she truly smiles someday, trust will be difficult; because she has no authentic personality. The possibility of her love being true diminishes day by day.
One whose hatred is false cannot have true love. One whose anger is false cannot have true forgiveness. If the smile is false, what trust can one have in the tears? Then life becomes an entire tale of falsehood.
Religion is a rebellion against this. Religion is rebellion. Religion is a declaration of honesty against insincerity and dishonesty. It says: when there are tears, we will weep; when there is a smile, we will laugh. And a person who is so honest cannot remain filled with hatred for long—there are reasons. A person so honest cannot remain filled with anger for long—there are reasons. Because honesty is such a great event, sincerity is such a great event, that in the life of one who has said no to dishonesty, the thorns of anger and hatred find it difficult to take hold. Dishonesty is the seed in which everything grows. If that seed breaks, the rest begins to fall away on its own.
One who is sincere—honest with oneself—cannot tolerate anger for long. For such a person, sooner or later it becomes visible that anger is to hurt oneself with one’s own hand.
Buddha has said jokingly: when I see someone angry, I feel like laughing—because that person is punishing himself for another’s mistake. He says, “That man abused me, so I am angry.” The abuse he gave, the fault is his; the punishment you are giving to yourself!
For anger burns within. No outer fire burns like it; no fire enters beneath the skin, into the bones. But the fire of anger burns down to the soul—burns everything within, turns it to ash.
When a person pulls his hand back from a physical flame, how does he place his hand in the fire of anger? Only because he has never really seen that he is placing his hand in fire. He puts his hand in the fire of anger while pretending to be touching flowers. Within he burns in hatred, while placing a smile upon the lips—he keeps looking at the smile, gets stuck in the smile, while his hands burn inside the fire.
If one does not wear a false smile and instead looks at the whole cry of his being, his pain, his suffering, then—if not today, tomorrow—this burning fire becomes visible. In this world no one is so foolish that, once he sees anger and hatred clearly, he can remain in them—impossible. He comes out of them.
So when I said we steal by wearing masks, I did not mean that if you smile, it is a mask. A smile is a mask only when there is no smile inside and only the surface smiles. Tears are a mask when there are no tears within and only the eyes are wet. A welcome is a mask when your whole being is saying, “Why has this person come?” and still you recite, “The guest is god; please come, be seated!” In that, the guest is insulted—and the gods as well.
No—say it as it is. It will be difficult. That difficulty must arise. Only through difficulty is there liberation. It will be difficult. If a guest comes and you say, “You have put me in great trouble; you certainly do not look like a god today,” it will be difficult. It will be hard to maintain the false face. But by enduring this difficulty, if not today then tomorrow, the guest might indeed be felt as god. Because only one who becomes this simple can recognize the guest as god. One who is so cunning that within he says, “What a wretch has come!” and outwardly says, “You are divine; please be seated; joy has descended upon the house”—such a person will never know the guest as god. With so much cunning against oneself, that cunning will make him crooked, complex, twisted; his entire personality will go askew.
All our lives we collect such crookednesses, and then everything becomes false. The religious person declares that he will drop complexity, he will be simple; he will be as he is; he will show himself as he is. Then masks fall. And the real face begins to appear.
Everyone has a real face, but we have covered it with so many masks that we ourselves no longer know which is our real face. Even when you stand before a mirror, ninety-nine times out of a hundred the one you smile at in the mirror is a mask. Even in the mirror we are not what we are; we want to appear to ourselves as what we think we are. So even before the mirror a person starts preening.
I have heard of a woman who was plain. If anyone placed a mirror before her, she would break it. She would say, “What worthless mirror have you brought? It spoils my looks completely.” She would break mirrors, because the mirror showed her that her face was not beautiful; so she said, “The mirror is bad!”
We too prefer to break mirrors rather than change our faces. But breaking mirrors does not change the face; breaking mirrors does not change life.
By “mask” I mean: the false faces we impose upon ourselves—do not impose them. That does not mean faces will not change in life. Your face will change every day, but it should be your own face. When darkness spreads, tears will come to the eyes; tomorrow a friend may die—tears will come. And tomorrow a long-lost companion may return—then the heart will throb with joy and songs will arise. Your face will change moment to moment; it should. One should be responsive. But the face must be your face.
I am not saying keep one face fixed. That would be a stone face; life cannot move like that. Then you would need a single face of stone.
I have heard that an American multimillionaire was approached by a man asking for a small donation. The millionaire said, “I have a rule: one of my eyes is artificial—made of stone—and one is real. Whoever can tell which eye is artificial, to him I give alms. No one has been able to tell so far. You try.”
The man looked and said, “Your left eye is artificial.”
The millionaire was astonished: “You’ve amazed me! How did you know?”
He said, “There seems to be a little compassion in the left eye. So I thought it must be made of stone.”
Then faces cannot be stiff and hard—only the dead can have such faces, not the living. Look at a child’s face—it changes like gusts of wind passing. Look at an old person’s face—it has turned stony. An old face means the nerves and everything have become fixed. There is no fluidity left.
So when I say do not change faces, I do not mean make your face a stone. I say: do not change false faces. Let your real face be; it will change, change every moment. When the moon rises, it will be one way; when the night is dark, another; when morning flowers blossom, another; when evening flowers fall, another; when a beggar appears on the road, another. It will be—and it should be.
Life is sensitivity; life is responsiveness; the face should be fluid—but it should be yours. That fluidity must be yours. This changing will go on every moment, because everything is changing. Nothing here is static. Everything here is changing. In this change you too will change. When the wind blows, the leaf flies east; when the wind shifts, it moves west; when the wind is still, the leaf rests. Life is like a leaf hanging on a tree—everything trembles every moment. In life, apart from change, there is no permanence. Change itself is the only thing that does not change.
Heraclitus has said: You cannot step twice into the same river.
Not even in the same moment can you step in twice. Life is a river; everything in it will go on changing. But let what changes be yours; let the face be yours; let it be authentic. Be yourself, and keep changing. To change is life. And amid this changing, if remembrance can remain of that which within goes on witnessing the change, then samadhi is attained.
Let the face be yours; and behind the stream of changing faces, let there be the witness who simply sees. Let it see that when the moon rises the eyes smile; when the dark night comes the eyes weep; when flowers laugh the heart dances; when flowers fall the life-breaths cry; when the beloved meets there is joy; when the beloved departs there is sorrow—let someone within keep watching all this. There is a watcher behind.
But for the watcher to see, the face must be yours. What can it see in plastic faces? They do not change. When you change a false face, you have to change it—remove one and put on another. When your own face changes, that same face becomes new in life’s new arrangements, in life’s new flow. The face is the same; only new responses to life, new resonances, make it new. And as someone within remains awake and seeing, slowly the changing face begins to appear as the world, and the unchanging witness begins to appear as the divine. Then you go beyond yourself—beyond yourself. And only when one goes beyond oneself is there entry into the ultimate.
Let me ask one more question.
A child is born—not only of this birth; he comes carrying impressions from many lifetimes. From the mother he receives love and tenderness; from the father he receives knowledge, direction, a path; from the teacher he learns speech and is inspired to think; and wherever he travels in the world he gathers many experiences. Will these acquired experiences also fall into the category of theft? And if so, then the personality will be cut off and isolated. How will he create his own unique personality unless he absorbs something from other personalities? These two questions I place before you.
Perhaps the meaning of “mask” has not been rightly understood. Your mouth—your own face—is not a mask. When, in a play, you put another face over your face—say, you put on the face of Ravana—then that put-on face is the mask. Your face is not a mask; but when over your own face you place another false face, which has no roots in you, no connection with your life-breath, which merely hangs by a string on your ears, which has no bridge to the heartbeat—then that is a mask. The mouth is not a mask; a mask is a false face.
So first understand the exact meaning of mask.
The face is not a mask. And it is not necessary that you only wear masks made of paper or plastic to create a false face. Upon this very face you succeed in creating many false faces. As you said: I hate a man, he comes near me, I welcome him with a smile while hatred boils within. That is a mask. And it is dangerous. It appears useful—its utility is visible. In this way I avoid telling that man of my hatred. But hatred does not end by this. The danger is that while deceiving the other, gradually I will deceive myself as well. Again and again the false smile will go on suppressing my hatred within. And one day I will even forget that I hate him. I will go on smiling while hatred remains hidden inside.
No. If a religious person experiences hatred, there are only two options: either do not experience hatred and then smile; or if you are going to experience hatred, please do not smile—let hatred show on your face. There are two benefits. If he reveals his hatred on his face, then he will necessarily have to bear the consequences of expressing hatred. One should have the courage to bear them. And the very losses he suffers by expressing hatred, the very pain he undergoes because of hatred, will become the cause of changing that hatred. Otherwise why would he change? The obstacles and damage that hatred brings in life will compel him to think of transforming it—because hatred is making life a hell.
But we try to create a heaven outside by displaying a smile, while inside hell is being constructed. How will we then eliminate that hell? Pain which we do not fully experience and instead hide within, that pain becomes impossible to dissolve.
There is another amusing point: when hatred is inside, you may think that with your lips you have welcomed the other with a smile; but when hatred is inside, the smile on the lips turns poisonous, and the other can easily see that it is a mask. You may laugh, but it is very difficult to prevent inner hatred from showing; it shows—through the lips, through the eyes, in the way you rise and sit—it shows in every way.
Therefore the false smile only suppresses; it does not communicate. No message reaches the other. He does not go away pleased. Often he may even be pleased to find that you are an authentic person. If you feel anger at someone, say it clearly: “I am angry, and I am an angry person.” Be angry; suffer the pain of anger; endure its consequences—then, if not today, tomorrow this very fire of anger will become the cause to take you beyond anger. Otherwise anger will remain inside while a smile plays outside; the anger will go on accumulating within and burning you, and the false, dry, useless laughter will spread outside—without any effect. No one will be pleased by it. No one will be delighted by it. People are not delighted by laughter; they are touched when the whole person laughs. Only when your entire being laughs does laughter carry life. Only when every pore participates does laughter carry the benediction of nectar—otherwise not.
These masks we wear—the religious person speaks of dropping them. Hence the meaning of nonstealing: to abandon such masks. It will be difficult. Religion is tapas—austerity. But tapas does not mean standing in the sun; it means the courage to stand in all the weathers of life. When anger is there, say it is there. When hatred is there, say it is there. At least be honest—be sincere. Say, “This is how it is.” Experience that pain, live it. Only by passing through it will your hands be burned, and only burned hands become the cause to refrain tomorrow. And the one upon whom you have expressed anger and said, “I am angry,” the one you have told, “I hate you”—if tomorrow you laugh with that person and love him, he will understand that love is also true. Otherwise, where hatred is fake and one laughs falsely and cries falsely, everything else in that life becomes suspect.
Therefore, if a father has never, truly and openly, been angry with his son, remember: the son will never be able to accept the father’s forgiveness with honesty either. He knows the father is insincere; who knows about his forgiveness! If a wife has never shown anger toward her husband, only suppressed and hid it and smiled, then remember: even when she truly smiles someday, trust will be difficult; because she has no authentic personality. The possibility of her love being true diminishes day by day.
One whose hatred is false cannot have true love. One whose anger is false cannot have true forgiveness. If the smile is false, what trust can one have in the tears? Then life becomes an entire tale of falsehood.
Religion is a rebellion against this. Religion is rebellion. Religion is a declaration of honesty against insincerity and dishonesty. It says: when there are tears, we will weep; when there is a smile, we will laugh. And a person who is so honest cannot remain filled with hatred for long—there are reasons. A person so honest cannot remain filled with anger for long—there are reasons. Because honesty is such a great event, sincerity is such a great event, that in the life of one who has said no to dishonesty, the thorns of anger and hatred find it difficult to take hold. Dishonesty is the seed in which everything grows. If that seed breaks, the rest begins to fall away on its own.
One who is sincere—honest with oneself—cannot tolerate anger for long. For such a person, sooner or later it becomes visible that anger is to hurt oneself with one’s own hand.
Buddha has said jokingly: when I see someone angry, I feel like laughing—because that person is punishing himself for another’s mistake. He says, “That man abused me, so I am angry.” The abuse he gave, the fault is his; the punishment you are giving to yourself!
For anger burns within. No outer fire burns like it; no fire enters beneath the skin, into the bones. But the fire of anger burns down to the soul—burns everything within, turns it to ash.
When a person pulls his hand back from a physical flame, how does he place his hand in the fire of anger? Only because he has never really seen that he is placing his hand in fire. He puts his hand in the fire of anger while pretending to be touching flowers. Within he burns in hatred, while placing a smile upon the lips—he keeps looking at the smile, gets stuck in the smile, while his hands burn inside the fire.
If one does not wear a false smile and instead looks at the whole cry of his being, his pain, his suffering, then—if not today, tomorrow—this burning fire becomes visible. In this world no one is so foolish that, once he sees anger and hatred clearly, he can remain in them—impossible. He comes out of them.
So when I said we steal by wearing masks, I did not mean that if you smile, it is a mask. A smile is a mask only when there is no smile inside and only the surface smiles. Tears are a mask when there are no tears within and only the eyes are wet. A welcome is a mask when your whole being is saying, “Why has this person come?” and still you recite, “The guest is god; please come, be seated!” In that, the guest is insulted—and the gods as well.
No—say it as it is. It will be difficult. That difficulty must arise. Only through difficulty is there liberation. It will be difficult. If a guest comes and you say, “You have put me in great trouble; you certainly do not look like a god today,” it will be difficult. It will be hard to maintain the false face. But by enduring this difficulty, if not today then tomorrow, the guest might indeed be felt as god. Because only one who becomes this simple can recognize the guest as god. One who is so cunning that within he says, “What a wretch has come!” and outwardly says, “You are divine; please be seated; joy has descended upon the house”—such a person will never know the guest as god. With so much cunning against oneself, that cunning will make him crooked, complex, twisted; his entire personality will go askew.
All our lives we collect such crookednesses, and then everything becomes false. The religious person declares that he will drop complexity, he will be simple; he will be as he is; he will show himself as he is. Then masks fall. And the real face begins to appear.
Everyone has a real face, but we have covered it with so many masks that we ourselves no longer know which is our real face. Even when you stand before a mirror, ninety-nine times out of a hundred the one you smile at in the mirror is a mask. Even in the mirror we are not what we are; we want to appear to ourselves as what we think we are. So even before the mirror a person starts preening.
I have heard of a woman who was plain. If anyone placed a mirror before her, she would break it. She would say, “What worthless mirror have you brought? It spoils my looks completely.” She would break mirrors, because the mirror showed her that her face was not beautiful; so she said, “The mirror is bad!”
We too prefer to break mirrors rather than change our faces. But breaking mirrors does not change the face; breaking mirrors does not change life.
By “mask” I mean: the false faces we impose upon ourselves—do not impose them. That does not mean faces will not change in life. Your face will change every day, but it should be your own face. When darkness spreads, tears will come to the eyes; tomorrow a friend may die—tears will come. And tomorrow a long-lost companion may return—then the heart will throb with joy and songs will arise. Your face will change moment to moment; it should. One should be responsive. But the face must be your face.
I am not saying keep one face fixed. That would be a stone face; life cannot move like that. Then you would need a single face of stone.
I have heard that an American multimillionaire was approached by a man asking for a small donation. The millionaire said, “I have a rule: one of my eyes is artificial—made of stone—and one is real. Whoever can tell which eye is artificial, to him I give alms. No one has been able to tell so far. You try.”
The man looked and said, “Your left eye is artificial.”
The millionaire was astonished: “You’ve amazed me! How did you know?”
He said, “There seems to be a little compassion in the left eye. So I thought it must be made of stone.”
Then faces cannot be stiff and hard—only the dead can have such faces, not the living. Look at a child’s face—it changes like gusts of wind passing. Look at an old person’s face—it has turned stony. An old face means the nerves and everything have become fixed. There is no fluidity left.
So when I say do not change faces, I do not mean make your face a stone. I say: do not change false faces. Let your real face be; it will change, change every moment. When the moon rises, it will be one way; when the night is dark, another; when morning flowers blossom, another; when evening flowers fall, another; when a beggar appears on the road, another. It will be—and it should be.
Life is sensitivity; life is responsiveness; the face should be fluid—but it should be yours. That fluidity must be yours. This changing will go on every moment, because everything is changing. Nothing here is static. Everything here is changing. In this change you too will change. When the wind blows, the leaf flies east; when the wind shifts, it moves west; when the wind is still, the leaf rests. Life is like a leaf hanging on a tree—everything trembles every moment. In life, apart from change, there is no permanence. Change itself is the only thing that does not change.
Heraclitus has said: You cannot step twice into the same river.
Not even in the same moment can you step in twice. Life is a river; everything in it will go on changing. But let what changes be yours; let the face be yours; let it be authentic. Be yourself, and keep changing. To change is life. And amid this changing, if remembrance can remain of that which within goes on witnessing the change, then samadhi is attained.
Let the face be yours; and behind the stream of changing faces, let there be the witness who simply sees. Let it see that when the moon rises the eyes smile; when the dark night comes the eyes weep; when flowers laugh the heart dances; when flowers fall the life-breaths cry; when the beloved meets there is joy; when the beloved departs there is sorrow—let someone within keep watching all this. There is a watcher behind.
But for the watcher to see, the face must be yours. What can it see in plastic faces? They do not change. When you change a false face, you have to change it—remove one and put on another. When your own face changes, that same face becomes new in life’s new arrangements, in life’s new flow. The face is the same; only new responses to life, new resonances, make it new. And as someone within remains awake and seeing, slowly the changing face begins to appear as the world, and the unchanging witness begins to appear as the divine. Then you go beyond yourself—beyond yourself. And only when one goes beyond oneself is there entry into the ultimate.
Let me ask one more question.
Osho, you have said that adopting personalities and faces from the outside is a subtle theft and gives birth to hypocrisy and irreligion. But it is being seen that these days many new sannyasins are gathering around you, and without any special preparation or maturity you are recognizing their sannyas. Are you not thereby causing great harm to religion? Please explain.
First thing: if someone tries to become like me, I will stop him; I will tell him that trying to be like me is self-destruction. But if someone sets out on the journey of trying to become himself, I have no hesitation in giving him my blessings. Those sannyasins who want me to be a witness to their journey toward God—to be a witness on their path—I have no objection to becoming their witness. But I am no one’s guru. I have no disciples. I am only a witness. If someone wants to take a resolve in my presence that he is setting out on the journey of sannyas, I have no objection to becoming a witness. But if someone comes to become my disciple, I have a grave objection. I cannot make anyone a disciple, because I am not a guru. If someone comes to walk behind me, I will refuse him; but if someone is going on his own journey and comes to receive my good wishes, it is not possible for me to be stingy even with blessings.
Then, those sannyasins you see around you... I do not wear ochre robes. I have no mala around my neck. There is no reason to imitate me.
And you also ask, “Do I accept anyone’s sannyas without taking his eligibility into account?”
When God himself has accepted all of us without any eligibility on our part, who am I to reject? What eligibility do we have in life at all? And for sannyas there is only one qualification: that a person humbly acknowledges his unworthiness. There is no other qualification. If someone says, “I am worthy—give me sannyas,” I will fold my hands; because one who is worthy has no need of sannyas. And the one who thinks “I am worthy” will never become a sannyasin. Because sannyas is a flower of humility. It is a flower of humility. It blossoms in humility.
The person who goes to God’s door carrying certificates of merit—perhaps the doors will not open for him. But the one who will stand at the door with tears and say, “I am unworthy; I have no qualification by which to ask that the door be opened—and yet there is thirst, there is longing; still there is passion, still hunger; still the urge for a glimpse”—for him the doors open.
So if someone comes to me and asks, I never inquire about eligibility. Because if someone wants to be a sannyasin, is not that very desire enough? If someone wants to be a sannyasin, is his thirst, his prayer not enough? Is such dedication, such courage to stake oneself not enough? And what is eligibility? Other than thirst and prayer, what can a person do? Other than letting go of oneself, surrendering—what else can a person do? But does surrender itself require some prior qualification?
The qualified will not be able to surrender, because they believe they are entitled. But the one who has full awareness of his unworthiness is able to surrender. At God’s door, those who are helpless, unworthy, poor, incapable—but still filled with prayer—for them the door is always open. But those who are qualified, certified, competent, who have brought degrees from Kashi, who are knowers of the scriptures, rich in austerities, who carry a list of fasts they have observed—“I have done so many fasts”—such people only feed their ego. And there is no greater disqualification than ego.
All who think themselves qualified become filled with ego. Only those who understand themselves to be unqualified are able to set out on the journey of egolessness. Therefore I cannot ask them about their eligibility. And besides, I am not their guru that I should demand their qualifications. They have come to me only so that I may become their witness.
On this, let me say two or three more things. Perhaps if I speak with you further about it tomorrow, it will become even clearer.
Sannyas, for me, is the name of a direct relationship between the individual and God. There can be no guru in between. Sannyas is the individual’s direct surrender. There is no need of any mediator in between. And God is present all around. If a person wants to surrender to him, he can. And then the unworthy begins to become worthy through surrender. The unworthy begins to become worthy through resolve, surrender, prayer.
A sannyasin is not a siddha, not one who is accomplished; a sannyasin is only a name for a resolve—that he has set out on the journey toward accomplishment. A sannyasin is only the starting point of the journey, not the end. It is only an auspicious beginning. It is the first milestone, not the destination. But if you ask the person standing at the first milestone, who has not yet taken even the first step, “Have you reached the destination? Only then may you walk”—then the one who has reached the destination, why would he walk? And the one who has not reached, how can he show that he has arrived?
The first step will be taken in unworthiness. But that someone takes even the first step—that too is a great worthiness; and that someone gathers the courage for the first step—that too is a great resolve.
Sannyas, in my view, is a very different kind of thing. In my view, sannyas is only a remembrance of one thing: that now I dedicate myself to God; now I dedicate myself to the search for truth; now I take the courage to endeavor to live with a religious mind.
Therefore those ochre robes you see are for their remembrance—for remembering—so that the remembrance stays alive for them that they are no longer the same as they were until yesterday. Others too may keep reminding them that they are no longer the same as they were until yesterday.
By changing clothes no one becomes a sannyasin, but a sannyasin may change his clothes. By putting a mala around the neck no one becomes a sannyasin, but a sannyasin may wear a mala; and he may use the mala. The mala around the neck is the continual intimation of the transformation that has entered his life.
You go to the market to bring some item; you tie a knot in your cloth. Whenever the knot catches your attention, you remember—you had gone to bring something. The knot is not the thing; and it is not certain that one who has tied a knot will surely bring the item. Because the one who can forget the thing can also forget the knot. Even so, the one who can forget the thing ties a knot; and in ninety out of a hundred cases, because of the knot, he brings the item.
These clothes, the mala—this entire outer change—is not sannyas. It is only the tying of a knot, a reminder that I have set out on the journey of sannyas; that its remembrance, its continual remembrance, should remain in my consciousness. That remembrance is a support.
About this I will be able to speak more with you tomorrow. Enough for today.
Then, those sannyasins you see around you... I do not wear ochre robes. I have no mala around my neck. There is no reason to imitate me.
And you also ask, “Do I accept anyone’s sannyas without taking his eligibility into account?”
When God himself has accepted all of us without any eligibility on our part, who am I to reject? What eligibility do we have in life at all? And for sannyas there is only one qualification: that a person humbly acknowledges his unworthiness. There is no other qualification. If someone says, “I am worthy—give me sannyas,” I will fold my hands; because one who is worthy has no need of sannyas. And the one who thinks “I am worthy” will never become a sannyasin. Because sannyas is a flower of humility. It is a flower of humility. It blossoms in humility.
The person who goes to God’s door carrying certificates of merit—perhaps the doors will not open for him. But the one who will stand at the door with tears and say, “I am unworthy; I have no qualification by which to ask that the door be opened—and yet there is thirst, there is longing; still there is passion, still hunger; still the urge for a glimpse”—for him the doors open.
So if someone comes to me and asks, I never inquire about eligibility. Because if someone wants to be a sannyasin, is not that very desire enough? If someone wants to be a sannyasin, is his thirst, his prayer not enough? Is such dedication, such courage to stake oneself not enough? And what is eligibility? Other than thirst and prayer, what can a person do? Other than letting go of oneself, surrendering—what else can a person do? But does surrender itself require some prior qualification?
The qualified will not be able to surrender, because they believe they are entitled. But the one who has full awareness of his unworthiness is able to surrender. At God’s door, those who are helpless, unworthy, poor, incapable—but still filled with prayer—for them the door is always open. But those who are qualified, certified, competent, who have brought degrees from Kashi, who are knowers of the scriptures, rich in austerities, who carry a list of fasts they have observed—“I have done so many fasts”—such people only feed their ego. And there is no greater disqualification than ego.
All who think themselves qualified become filled with ego. Only those who understand themselves to be unqualified are able to set out on the journey of egolessness. Therefore I cannot ask them about their eligibility. And besides, I am not their guru that I should demand their qualifications. They have come to me only so that I may become their witness.
On this, let me say two or three more things. Perhaps if I speak with you further about it tomorrow, it will become even clearer.
Sannyas, for me, is the name of a direct relationship between the individual and God. There can be no guru in between. Sannyas is the individual’s direct surrender. There is no need of any mediator in between. And God is present all around. If a person wants to surrender to him, he can. And then the unworthy begins to become worthy through surrender. The unworthy begins to become worthy through resolve, surrender, prayer.
A sannyasin is not a siddha, not one who is accomplished; a sannyasin is only a name for a resolve—that he has set out on the journey toward accomplishment. A sannyasin is only the starting point of the journey, not the end. It is only an auspicious beginning. It is the first milestone, not the destination. But if you ask the person standing at the first milestone, who has not yet taken even the first step, “Have you reached the destination? Only then may you walk”—then the one who has reached the destination, why would he walk? And the one who has not reached, how can he show that he has arrived?
The first step will be taken in unworthiness. But that someone takes even the first step—that too is a great worthiness; and that someone gathers the courage for the first step—that too is a great resolve.
Sannyas, in my view, is a very different kind of thing. In my view, sannyas is only a remembrance of one thing: that now I dedicate myself to God; now I dedicate myself to the search for truth; now I take the courage to endeavor to live with a religious mind.
Therefore those ochre robes you see are for their remembrance—for remembering—so that the remembrance stays alive for them that they are no longer the same as they were until yesterday. Others too may keep reminding them that they are no longer the same as they were until yesterday.
By changing clothes no one becomes a sannyasin, but a sannyasin may change his clothes. By putting a mala around the neck no one becomes a sannyasin, but a sannyasin may wear a mala; and he may use the mala. The mala around the neck is the continual intimation of the transformation that has entered his life.
You go to the market to bring some item; you tie a knot in your cloth. Whenever the knot catches your attention, you remember—you had gone to bring something. The knot is not the thing; and it is not certain that one who has tied a knot will surely bring the item. Because the one who can forget the thing can also forget the knot. Even so, the one who can forget the thing ties a knot; and in ninety out of a hundred cases, because of the knot, he brings the item.
These clothes, the mala—this entire outer change—is not sannyas. It is only the tying of a knot, a reminder that I have set out on the journey of sannyas; that its remembrance, its continual remembrance, should remain in my consciousness. That remembrance is a support.
About this I will be able to speak more with you tomorrow. Enough for today.