I went to see a museum of curiosities—a zoo. There I saw many animals confined. I have seen those very animals free in the forest as well. The animals were the same, yet in the jungle it felt as if they possessed a soul. In the zoo, that soul seemed absent. In the forest I had seen them exuberant; their life was a free song. In the zoo they were there too, but it felt as if life had been lost and yet death had not arrived—they were stuck somewhere in between. Life is gone, and death has not come. In their eyes I saw a great sadness, restlessness, and anxiety. I saw a lion in his cage pacing from one bar to the other. Once he must have run across hundreds of miles—leaping across trees, mountains, rivers—his footprints reaching beyond limits. Now, in a tiny cage, he moves all day from one corner to another, from one row of bars to the next. If that lion has gone insane, there is nothing surprising in it.
Returning from that zoo, a search arose in me. Could it be that man, instead of creating a society, has created a zoo? And what we call society is not society at all—just a menagerie, a museum of human curiosities. The more I inquired, the more this conviction grew firm within me. In the wild, animals rarely fall ill—unless they are injured from outside. But in the zoo, the animals catch precisely the sicknesses that afflict the owners who built that zoo.
Across thousands of generations of monkeys in the forest, perhaps none ever developed ulcers; yet in the zoo monkeys get ulcers. The diseases that seize zoo animals are the diseases that seize man. I investigated further and was astonished: the mental distortions we speak of are rarely seen among wild animals; but in the zoo the very mental disorders that haunt humans begin to haunt them. One scarcely finds a wild animal going mad; in zoos, animals go mad.
And madness, fundamentally, is man’s invention—one of his distinctive features. You have never heard of any animal in the forest committing suicide. But in zoos, animals have even attempted suicide. A wild animal will not be caught masturbating; a zoo animal begins to masturbate. Homosexuality is hardly found among wild animals; in zoos, homosexuality appears. Then we must reflect: is the society man has built truly a society, or a zoo? For what arises in animals inside a zoo has arisen throughout man’s society.
My realization is that, instead of a society, we have built a zoo. And among the deepest depths of human sorrow is this: he has lost all freedom, lost all spontaneity, and has been shut inside cages.
Today, on the third sutra, I would like to speak a little.
We will say: where are we confined? We are free! The zoo’s creatures are imprisoned; we are not. But have you ever truly felt that you are free, not confined? Certainly there are no iron bars—but iron bars can be broken. There are bars that cannot be seen, cannot be broken, and yet are there—stronger than iron.
We build a prison: we raise high walls on all sides, station guards outside, mount guns. Have you ever noticed that the nation is a vast prison, ringed by rows of sentries? If you wish to cross the border without the state’s permission, you cannot. At once you become a criminal. But the nation is a huge thing and its borders are far, so you don’t see them. The prison is enormous, our eyes’ reach is small; yet the prison stands there, with sentries posted.
As long as nations exist, man’s society cannot come into being—only zoos will. And within that vast prison we have made smaller prisons. Within nations there are little nations. India is one prison; China another; Pakistan a third. And within India’s great prison there are smaller prisons—one for Muslims, one for Hindus, a third for Jains, a fourth for Parsis, a fifth for Sikhs. They too have drawn their boundaries and put up bars: ‘Do not cross, or you will be in trouble.’ Those bars are not visible. When a Hindu and a Muslim meet, are there bars between them or not? You cannot see them, but they are there—hard walls, difficult to cross. They surround us. And it is not that between a Muslim and a Hindu there are no further bars.
Recently I was in a village in Kashmir. There was not a single Hindu there—only Muslims. I asked the man attending to me, ‘Are you a Muslim?’ He said, ‘I am not a Muslim. I am Sunni; I am not Muslim. Muslims are the Shias.’ In that village, there was conflict between Shias and Sunnis. So the Sunni said, ‘I am no Muslim; the Shias are the Muslims.’
In that village the tension between Shia and Sunni was as great as between Hindu and Muslim. A wall stood between them too. Among Hindus there are Brahmins and Shudras—with a great wall between them. And it is not that among Shudras there are no walls; between a Chamar and a Bhangi there is a wall as great as any. We have made cage within cage within cage.
You have seen those magic nested boxes—box within box within box. The animals in the zoo are held by a single cage; man, in his zoo, is held by cages within cages—and they keep multiplying. If we were to see the entire chain of our cages, we would go mad. If the thought even arose that we are imprisoned in so many cages, the head would split. And that man today is becoming so deranged—its reason is this: all these cages are becoming starkly visible, one by one.
What is the basis of all these cages? What is the basis of this slavery? What is the compulsion that tells man to lock himself inside bars? Perhaps you have never considered it—but you must.
At the base of all our cages is our family—that ‘family’ which we glorify. We call the family a heaven, something sacred, the center of our culture—the center of all human culture!
But I say to you: the family is the center of all our distortion, not of culture. As long as the family exists, culture cannot be born. Because the family is our first cage that breaks us off from others. Your family and my family break one another apart. As long as families exist, humanity cannot be free of cages. As long as that ‘family’ is there.
The family is the foundational stone of our slavery.
Yet we teach every child the pride and arrogance of family. ‘You belong to a special family. Keep the honor of your family. Maintain the honor of your lineage. Honor your forefathers.’ We separate him from the rest of mankind. We do not say to him, ‘All of humanity—this vastness—is your family.’ We say, ‘These few, these ten or five persons—this is your family. These are your father and mother, your brothers and sisters. This is your family—for which you must live and die, whose honor you must guard, whose ideals you must preserve, whose policy, history, tradition, glory you must protect.’ From childhood we pour this poison in. Do we know that we are tearing him away from the larger family of humanity?
The teaching of small families must result in a rupture from the greater family. We bind him to a tiny unit, and bound thus he will never experience freedom. Then larger units appear—along with family comes caste, along with caste comes community, and along with community comes nation. Units upon units stack up—but the first unit is the family.
Because of the family, culture has not come to be.
We imagine it is our unit—if family is, all is. We do not even suspect the diseases the family has bred. I wish to speak of a few of them. For that cage—that first imprisonment—if it breaks, then the rest can break, for they are born of it.
The family teaches religion; the family teaches caste; the family teaches nation. Once a man is bound to his family, he is bound to his family’s caste; bound to caste, then bound to religion; bound to religion, then bound to nation. The family bequeaths all its ancient diseases and dust to the son.
Every family hands over to its son the dust and disease of thousands of years—and we call it education. We say, ‘Parents are educating the child.’ Parents are loading the burdens of the past onto the child. Education should not be the burden of the past—it should be the liberation of the future; it should orient us toward the future. But the family and the education tied to it turn us toward the past—for the future does not belong to the family.
The future belongs to the individual; the family’s wealth is in the dead past.
Bear in mind: the family has no future. Its entire treasure is in the past—dead past. The individual’s treasure is in the future—unborn future. Into the unborn future of the individual we impose all the dead traditions and rigidities in the name of family. The individual is shackled, closed. He too becomes past-oriented, no longer future-oriented.
Therefore I say: that mother truly loves her son who does not bind him to family and past, but makes him a free human being for the future. That father loves his child who loves, yet does not pass on his own diseases, doctrines, religion, caste to the child. And the father who hands down his religion, caste, traditions—he is surely his son’s enemy—none greater. He binds the son from behind.
But the Muslim father makes his son a Muslim; the Hindu father makes his son a Hindu—firmly, strictly. Lest a mistake occur, parents hurry—before intelligence arrives in the boy or girl, bind them—because once intelligence arises, rebellion may arise. So parents are eager to teach everything early in childhood. We even give children different names so that their identities remain distinct.
By a Muslim child’s name one should know he is Muslim; by a Hindu child’s name one should know he is Hindu. By clothes one should know whether a man is Hindu or Muslim; by manner and color one should know. We mold the child so that in the world he is recognized not as a human being, but as a bound unit. Hence the names.
A friend asked me—his son was born—‘What name should I give him?’ I said, ‘You can name him X, Y, Z—anything.’ He said, ‘X, Y, Z would sound bad.’ I said, ‘Name him Number One, Number Two, Number Three.’ He said, ‘That will sound strange. What will people say? Tell me a proper name.’ I said, ‘Name him Albert Krishna Ali.’ He said, ‘That will create great difficulty—no one will understand whether he is Hindu, Muslim, or Christian. Albert Krishna Ali—what a problem!’
I said, ‘I want there to be a problem. Do not hook him to family, caste, nation.’
But parents are eager to hook. They are eager that the son become a link in the same chain of which they are links—never mind that those chains have proved to be diseases. They want to make him part of a stream of tradition—lest he become an individual.
The family does not allow anyone to become an individual.
And until individuals are born upon this earth, freedom cannot be born.
To be an individual is the deepest freedom.
One who is not an individual but merely a part of a large family, caste, clan, tradition—is only a cog in a big machine, nothing more. And thus it becomes convenient to stick labels.
If a Hindu–Muslim riot breaks out, you may stab your neighbor in the chest, though he has never harmed you—because he is a Muslim. He has harmed no one; yet the label ‘Muslim’ suffices. Strange indeed. If in Calcutta a Muslim stabs a Hindu, then in Bombay a Hindu can take revenge by stabbing a Muslim—what kind of answer is this?
A friend told me a story. A Pathan had a guest. Pathans are hospitable. The host had nothing in the house, so he said, ‘Please wait, I will go to the market for provisions.’ He went to sell his pots and pans to arrange a meal. Meanwhile, the neighbor Pathan, who had a feud with him, said to the guest, ‘Why stay with that poor man? Come to my house and be my guest.’ He insisted and took him. When the host returned and saw his guest eating at the neighbor’s, fury seized him. He took his gun and said to the guest, ‘I will shoot—come back. I have made arrangements for you.’ The guest trembled. But the other Pathan said, ‘Do not worry. If he kills one of our guests, I will kill thirty of his guests. Go in peace. If he shoots, we will take revenge on thirty of his guests.’ The guest said, ‘But how does that help me? What relation have I with those thirty guests?’
Yet the word ‘guest’ can be used, and under a word, human beings can be placed who have no actual relation. The word ‘Muslim’ suffices—one can use it. If there were no Muslims, Hindus, Christians, then if A stabs B in Calcutta, no riot could ensue anywhere. Because A stabbed B—this is settled in court. But if a Hindu stabs a Muslim, the fire can spread across the world—because under the word ‘Hindu’ we have collected multitudes.
The family is the first operation for stealing individuality—where we strip a person of his individuality and force him into a mold of the group. That first cage remains for life.
Strangely, what we learn in childhood clings. We may not remember it, yet it pursues us. A child loves his mother—the mother rejoices that the child loves her; she loves him deeply. But the image of the mother that forms in the child’s mind—neither the mother nor the child imagines that it may become the very disturbance of his life. If the mother’s image sits firmly in the son’s mind, he will search for his mother in his wife his whole life—which he cannot find. He will live in frustration—tension and trouble—because he is searching for the mother. He wants a wife like his mother.
Where will he find such a wife? She was a unique woman. And the mother cannot be made into a wife. There is no way. He is seeking his mother’s qualities and image—and he will never find them. No wife will ever satisfy him. Every marriage will bring trouble—because an image of the mother sits within him since childhood. It will haunt him for life. He will never be at peace.
Therefore every man ‘knows’ what kind of woman he wants, and every woman ‘knows’ what kind of man she wants—a hazy inner image—and we go on seeking it, never to find it. The girl’s mind holds the image of her father, the boy’s mind the image of his mother; such persons cannot be found again—no person is born twice.
What sits in childhood pursues for life. Even if later, by intelligence, a person understands, ‘I am simply a human being—not Hindu nor Muslim; not of this family nor that country,’ deep down he remains the same.
A friend of mine lived in Germany for twenty years. He spoke German like a native, and upon returning to India he struggled with Hindi, speaking it as if a German had learned it. Then he fell ill. His brother told me, ‘We were in great difficulty. When he fainted, he forgot German and began to speak Hindi. At night the doctor would request us to stay, because when he became unconscious, we could not understand him. In unconsciousness he spoke Hindi; when awake, he scarcely understood Hindi.’
What is learned in childhood sits very deep.
I have heard that in King Bhoj’s court a great scholar arrived and challenged the pundits: ‘If you can identify my mother tongue, I will gift one hundred thousand gold coins. If you fail, you must give me one hundred thousand.’ In Bhoj’s court there were great scholars. They accepted the challenge. Day after day, pundits lost. He spoke some thirty languages so perfectly that each seemed to be his mother tongue. On the eighth day, Bhoj said to Kalidas, ‘I am in trouble. What shame for me! Not one pundit can recognize a mother tongue.’ Kalidas said, ‘I am thinking. I will try something.’ When, on the eighth day, the scholar was leaving with the prize, he stood with Kalidas at the great steps. As he began to descend, Kalidas pushed him hard—he tumbled down twenty-five, thirty steps. Rising, he let out a curse—in his mother tongue. Kalidas said, ‘Forgive me—I had to cause this pain; there was no other way. This must be your mother tongue. We did not care for the prize—we sought to discover your mother tongue.’
What sits in childhood sits deepest. It pursues for life. No matter how much we learn later, to be free of childhood’s mental diseases is almost impossible—possible, but very difficult. And that humanity appears so sick is the result of the mental diseases contracted in childhood.
In childhood we teach boundaries, not the boundless. We bind the child to the past; we do not liberate him toward the future. We teach religion, ideals; we teach everything—and childhood becomes a prison that lasts a lifetime.
You may go anywhere; to leave your house is easy—but to leave being a Hindu is difficult. Hindu-ness clings around you. Wherever you go, the wall of being a Muslim travels with you. It is a mesh stuck to your body—hard to escape. The family is its beginning—the primary stage.
Can man be freed from the family?
Certainly. And if parents love their child, they should not bind him to the family. They should constantly attempt to let him live as freely as possible—that he have no identity, no identification, with any group; that he stand as an individual—not as a link in a chain, but in his own stature.
Aurobindo’s father was a very unusual man. He sent Aurobindo abroad at the age of five or six. In the English school he instructed the teachers and principal: ‘Give my boy no religious instruction.’ They were surprised: ‘Some religion should be taught.’ Aurobindo’s father said, ‘I do not want any religious instruction. So many have been given religious instruction, and what they do is nothing but irreligion. If in his life he needs to, he will search. And never treat my son as a Hindu or an Indian.’ The principal said, ‘How is that possible?’ His father said, ‘I want my child to grow as a free person—without the memories of any caste, without becoming a link in any tradition. I want him to stand on his own feet—not on others’ shoulders.’
He fell ill, yet did not call his son. He must have been a man of great courage—to be father to an Aurobindo needs courage. Family members said, ‘Shall we call your son—you are ill?’ He said, ‘It is good that he not be bound to me. Let him not even remember that he has a father—so that the link with the past is cut.’ He died; Aurobindo did not even know. When Aurobindo returned to India, he learned that his father had passed away. ‘We did not inform him lest any memory bind him to me—he should be a citizen of the future, not bear the burden of the past.’
We are all citizens of the past.
And in the genius that blossomed in Aurobindo, ninety percent belongs to his father. The inspiration toward the future that arose in him, the vision of man’s future evolution—all this bears his father’s hand, for he cut the burden of the past—he broke the chain to the past.
Can we create a society where parents are not the joiners but the disconnectors of the child from the past? Only then can we lower man from the cross of suffering; otherwise it will be very difficult.
Today I want to state this third sutra: we must free children from the past so they can become free citizens of the future. But we are all bound from behind. There are certain moments in one’s life that I call ‘moments of exposure’—as with a camera: one click, the shutter opens, and in a single instant whatever enters is imprinted on the film. Similarly, in the human mind there are moments of exposure—when the mind opens and catches hold of certain images.
In a man’s life there are a handful of such moments. If a mistake happens in those moments, the mistake lasts a lifetime. In childhood such moments abound—when the child’s mind is open, whatever enters goes in, and its image is stamped upon his soul.
I read a startling account. A scientist was experimenting with chicks. The moment a chick emerges from the egg, it begins to run behind its mother. From egg to growth, it follows the mother. The scientist did a strange experiment: when the chick was about to hatch, he removed the mother and put a red gas-filled balloon in her place. When the egg broke, the chick did not see the mother; it saw the balloon. That is the moment of exposure. When the chick first arrives in the world, the mind is fully open; whatever enters then becomes its ‘mother.’ The chick began to run after the balloon. Later the mother was brought, but the chick paid no attention. However much they tried to make it follow the mother, it could not recognize her—the balloon had become the mother. It would place its head on the balloon and sleep, sit under it, run after it, peck at it expecting food—yet it could not recognize its mother. The chick died. Many such experiments were done; it was found that the first imprint becomes the mother.
So it is with us. When a child is born, and the immense love for the mother arises—the first reason is this: in the moment of exposure, the mother is the first available. His mind is open, the mother-image enters. But this is dangerous in a sense, because the boy’s mind receives the mother’s image, and the girl’s mind also receives the mother’s image. One major obstruction to human love and marriage is this.
For the image that enters the boy’s mind—he will seek it his whole life. First he finds it in the mother’s love, strengthens it; then, when sexual maturity comes, again a moment of exposure arrives. What people call ‘love at first sight’ is nothing else—it is the same mechanism by which that chick fell in love with the balloon. The mind opens and the balloon is imprinted within.
When sexual maturity first arrives, the mind opens again, and the first image that enters, enters deeply. But if that image conflicts with the earlier image, the person will never live in peace—and they do conflict.
In Israel there is an experiment—the kibbutz—that has found success. It is done with this moment of exposure in mind—and sooner or later the whole world will have to do it. They do not keep a small child with the mother for long. Rather, they change the nurse every three months, so that no fixation, no single image forms of one woman as ‘mother’. As the child grows, he loves twenty, twenty-five nurses in a motherly way, and the mother-figure keeps changing. When twenty-five images are formed, they blur—no single image remains. It is found that such a child can love any woman more easily than one who has a fixed, sharp image of the mother.
Now the whole institution of marriage has decayed—laden with crucifixion. Everyone hangs on a cross, yet no one looks within to find the causes. The image of the mother in the boy’s mind may be fine; but if the mother’s image also sits in the girl’s mind, the difficulty increases. It is essential that the image of the father sit in the girl’s mind. But in our arrangement, mothers raise all the children; fathers raise none. In the future, girls should be brought up more closely by fathers, and boys more closely by mothers—only then can we remove suffering and conflict from marriage. Otherwise not.
Thus, in five thousand years, all experiments in marriage have failed, because the experiments are external while the roots are inner—so deep we hardly conceive them.
If the mother’s image sits in the girl’s mind, there is danger—she may never be able to fully love a man. The first image can be dangerous. The first image in a girl should be of a man—and not of a single man either; better that there be more, so no fixed image forms, and the search for a fixed image does not begin in life.
If this can be done, we can remove the sting, conflict, suffering of marriage. Otherwise not. No attention is paid to this. Each person is disturbed and seeks techniques for peace—‘How can I be peaceful?’ But the causes of unpeace are so deep, so collective, so tied to the past, that it is beyond the capacity of a single person to do much. He feels helpless, bound by fate—writhes, suffers, and dies.
Shall we ever contemplate such a society? We must. It is essential. Otherwise man has no future. We have reached the point where the illnesses man cultivated in the past are reaching completion. Perhaps the curtain is about to fall—this whole human society may perish. Heat water: at one degree it does not turn to steam, nor at ten, nor at ninety, nor at ninety-nine. At one hundred degrees it becomes steam. Then someone may say, ‘The fault is of the last degree that turned water into steam,’ forgetting the ninety-nine degrees gathered by the past.
The violence, anger, enmity, wars visible everywhere today—these did not arise today. Do not think the age of Rama has no hand in it, or the age of Buddha, or of Christ. All ages have a hand. We are only adding the last degree that turns water into steam. The kind of man we have made in the last five thousand years has reached the final point—one last degree and all becomes steam. We stand near the point of vaporization. Hence, there is great need for concern, contemplation, inquiry, and search.
Let me say two or three more small things and complete.
Until now, we have continually made each person a member of the past—not of the future. To do this we have used many devices. The greatest is this: we impose the ideal figures of the past upon every child. We say, ‘Become like Rama, like Buddha, like Mahavira’—as if being oneself were a crime. Yet each person is born to be himself. No one can become another; no one can become Rama—and even if one could, it would be a misfortune.
For when one imitates another, one’s soul is lost. Only acting remains—no soul. The soul is only where there is an authentically individual being. Rama may have had a soul; the ‘Ramas’ of the Ramlila have none. Yet we keep advising people to become like the Ramlila’s Rama.
We impose the great men of the past upon the children of the future—though the future’s children are citizens of the future. Do not impose the past upon them. It is enough to acquaint them with Rama—but never say, ‘Become like Rama.’ Rather say, ‘Rama belonged five thousand years ago, and you must become the man of the future. Rama cannot be your guide. Understand Rama precisely so that, by no mistake, you do not become like him—Rama belongs to the past, not to you. If you become Rama, you will be in great trouble.’
If someone became Krishna on the streets of Bombay today—what would happen? He would be taken nowhere but the police station. At once he would be arrested. Krishna is a lovely, wondrous man—but wondrous five thousand years ago. Today it is meaningless. To stand as Krishna today will look theatrical. On a stage, in a Ramlila or Raslila, people may tolerate it—but on the street, trouble will arise.
We force the past upon children. First we implant the images of the great men of the past—utterly wrong, because they can never become them. And once that image is lodged, they will continually feel self-condemnation: ‘I have not yet become Rama.’ A woman will feel, ‘I have not become Sita. I should be Sita.’ Her whole life becomes trouble and pain.
When we tell someone, ‘Become like someone else,’ we teach him self-condemnation. And one who learns self-condemnation—his capacity for joy is finished.
Joy comes from self-delight, from self-acceptance—from being able to rejoice in what one is. Our education says: never be happy as you are. You can rejoice only when you become Rama, Krishna, Christ—only then.
Thus we impose molds upon children, which condemn them forever. They live, yet feel they are living wrongly. ‘I am living a wrong life—because I have not become Sita, or Rama, or Krishna. I must be at fault; my life is wrong.’
Each of us feels we are living wrong. If the whole world feels this, how can a right life arise? The foundational stone of a right life will be to give each person the capacity, freedom, liberation, and support to become what he can become. Now we are all obstacles to what a person can be.
In Tagore’s home there was an old book. On the birthdays of the children the elders would write remarks about them. Tagore had ten or eleven siblings—a large family. In that book, there were good remarks for all the children—none for Rabindranath. His own mother wrote, ‘We have no hope from Rabindra—how this boy took birth in our house, we do not know.’
For the other children won first classes, gold medals; with this boy, even passing was doubtful. They tried hard to impose on him, ‘Become like this, become like that’—he did not become. Blessed is that boy that he did not obey his parents. Had he become what they wanted, the world would have been deprived of a great man. But many have become—and the world has been deprived of many.
We all impose: ‘Become thus.’ Rabindranath’s being Rabindranath is joy enough; there is no need to become someone else. This is not only true for him—even a simple man’s being himself is enough. He can live by his own fragrance, walk his own path; he will have his own song, steps, dance. No matter if his name is not read in world capitals or on front pages. Life has no connection with newspapers.
In truth, those who seek newspapers are those deprived of life. Capitals are sought only by minds that have not reached life’s capital. Another’s praise—what has that to do with life?
Life is that I become blissful. Life is in living—not in someone’s praise, nor respect, nor honor. Yet we tell every child: ‘Live an honorable life. Watch what others say—never do what others call wrong; always do what others call right.’ We are cutting the child off from living; we tell him to live a borrowed life: ‘First see through others’ eyes what to do.’
What others say has no relation to life. What you experience—that is life. But no parent tells the child: ‘Be alive—live from your own stature. Even if the whole world calls it wrong, if you find joy and peace in it, follow your path—do not worry about the world.’
In truth, those who walk the royal roads never glimpse joy. Those who go by footpaths—the footpaths of their own lives—only they enter the deep mysteries of life. The cemented highways lead to capitals; the little trails through forests, where one must walk alone and hew one’s own way—there is the reach into life’s depths. But we never teach this.
And a third thing we neither learn nor teach: that we have any relation with the vast cosmos spread all around. We connect the child only to people: ‘This is your mother; this your father; these your siblings.’ But is there any relation with the moon and stars? Any with the waves of the sea? Any with the clouds wandering the sky? With the flowers blossoming on trees? With sunlight and shade? With stones and sand? With the earth? No—none.
Man has created relations among men and severed relations with the whole. Yet life can never be juicy, full of rasa, until we are connected with the whole. We are connected—but in mind we have become separate. Sitting by the sea, you feel joy for a moment—have you looked into why? Why does peace descend by the ocean? Why does the roar of the sea echo the voice of your soul? Have you pondered?
Perhaps you do not know: millions of years ago, the first birth of man was in the sea; and even today the blood in our bodies has the same proportion of salt as the sea. The ratio of salt in the water of our bodies is the same as in the ocean. When the child is in the mother’s womb, the amniotic waters around him have the same salt ratio as the sea. From this scientists first surmised that life began in the ocean. Even today, if the salt ratio in the body falls, we are in trouble—it must remain that of the sea.
When you go to the sea, sympathetic waves arise in your person—you are a part of it. Once, we were fish. Going near, those waves rise again within.
When you go to the mountains and see the stretch of green trees, the mind becomes peaceful, delighted. What is it in green? In our blood and bones circulates what is taken from trees—we are made of them, connected to them.
When cool breezes blow and you are carried by them, joy arises—because air is our life-breath. We are joined—never separate.
When you look at the full moon at night, some song begins to pour within; some poetry arises. In English the word for ‘moon’ is ‘lunar’; for ‘madman,’ ‘lunatic’—from the same root. In Hindi too one says, ‘chand-mara’—moon-struck. It is believed that more people go mad on full-moon nights than on other nights. There is a reason. The full moon brings unknown tides into us. Not only does the sea rise to touch the moon—our life-waves too rise to touch it. Yet we have no relationship with the moon.
We have broken life from all sides. If man severs himself from the whole and builds only a human world, that world will be sad and untrue—because it will not be real. Its roots must spread into the entire cosmos.
I call that man religious whose relations spread beyond human beings—who is related to all life: to animals, plants, birds. Have you seen an eagle, wings outstretched, weighing the winds in the sky? If you keep watching, you will slip into meditation—how effortlessly it rides the currents, without flapping. Watch long enough, and within you too an eagle will unfurl its wings and flow.
Life is interconnected from all sides; man has severed it. Severed life has gone mad.
Therefore I said: we have not created a society—we have built a zoo. We are far from making society. We have constructed cages and torn man from nature—inner and outer. We have torn him from the natural and erected an artificial, forced man—a great deception.
One small story and I will complete.
A poet was passing a village and saw a scarecrow standing in a field. You too have seen scarecrows—if you have seen fields, though now even seeing fields is rare. In London, a survey found that a million children had never seen a cow. They asked: ‘What is a cow?’ Three hundred thousand children said they had never seen a field.
The poet saw a scarecrow—an earthen pot for a head, sticks for bones, a shirt hanging. The poet felt pity and approached: ‘Friend, standing in the field you must be very tired. The work is so monotonous—rain, cold, day, night, heat, summer—you stand here. I have passed this way often; you are always here. Don’t you get bored? Don’t you panic? Never take a holiday?’ The scarecrow said, ‘There is great joy in this work. There is so much delight in frightening others that I never notice my own trouble. Day and night I frighten—one comes, I frighten him; another comes, I frighten him. There is so much joy that I have no leisure to think of myself.’ The poet reflected and said, ‘You speak truth. I too, when I can frighten someone, feel great joy.’ The scarecrow laughed: ‘Then you too are a scarecrow, for only scarecrows delight in frightening others. You too are a man of straw—an earthen pot on your head, sticks inside, a shirt draped.’
I began to think: what is the difference between a scarecrow and a real man? An earthen pot head, sticks, a shirt—what is the difference?
Only this: the scarecrow is closed within itself; it has no roots connected with life—no breath connected to any sky; no blood connected to trees; no water connected to oceans. Within, it has no connection without—that is why it is false.
And what will it mean for a man to be true?
That he is connected—connected to all: every fiber, every vein, every particle. Connected to the sun, to the moon, to oceans, to the skies—to all. The more connected a man, the truer he is. The more severed, the more he remains an earthen pot, sticks, and shirt.
And nearly all men have become scarecrows. This whole humanity has become humanity of pots, sticks, and shirts. There is no inner soul, for soul is the possibility arising from infinite connectedness. About this I will speak to you tomorrow.
Friends who come for meditation in the morning—arrive before eight, bathe, come from home in silence with eyes lowered, and speak nothing there either.
You have listened to my words with such peace and love—I am obliged. Finally, I bow to the God seated within all. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
I went to see a museum of curiosities—a zoo. There I saw many animals confined. I have seen those very animals free in the forest as well. The animals were the same, yet in the jungle it felt as if they possessed a soul. In the zoo, that soul seemed absent. In the forest I had seen them exuberant; their life was a free song. In the zoo they were there too, but it felt as if life had been lost and yet death had not arrived—they were stuck somewhere in between. Life is gone, and death has not come. In their eyes I saw a great sadness, restlessness, and anxiety. I saw a lion in his cage pacing from one bar to the other. Once he must have run across hundreds of miles—leaping across trees, mountains, rivers—his footprints reaching beyond limits. Now, in a tiny cage, he moves all day from one corner to another, from one row of bars to the next. If that lion has gone insane, there is nothing surprising in it.
Returning from that zoo, a search arose in me. Could it be that man, instead of creating a society, has created a zoo? And what we call society is not society at all—just a menagerie, a museum of human curiosities. The more I inquired, the more this conviction grew firm within me. In the wild, animals rarely fall ill—unless they are injured from outside. But in the zoo, the animals catch precisely the sicknesses that afflict the owners who built that zoo.
Across thousands of generations of monkeys in the forest, perhaps none ever developed ulcers; yet in the zoo monkeys get ulcers. The diseases that seize zoo animals are the diseases that seize man. I investigated further and was astonished: the mental distortions we speak of are rarely seen among wild animals; but in the zoo the very mental disorders that haunt humans begin to haunt them. One scarcely finds a wild animal going mad; in zoos, animals go mad.
And madness, fundamentally, is man’s invention—one of his distinctive features. You have never heard of any animal in the forest committing suicide. But in zoos, animals have even attempted suicide. A wild animal will not be caught masturbating; a zoo animal begins to masturbate. Homosexuality is hardly found among wild animals; in zoos, homosexuality appears. Then we must reflect: is the society man has built truly a society, or a zoo? For what arises in animals inside a zoo has arisen throughout man’s society.
My realization is that, instead of a society, we have built a zoo. And among the deepest depths of human sorrow is this: he has lost all freedom, lost all spontaneity, and has been shut inside cages.
Today, on the third sutra, I would like to speak a little.
We will say: where are we confined? We are free! The zoo’s creatures are imprisoned; we are not. But have you ever truly felt that you are free, not confined? Certainly there are no iron bars—but iron bars can be broken. There are bars that cannot be seen, cannot be broken, and yet are there—stronger than iron.
We build a prison: we raise high walls on all sides, station guards outside, mount guns. Have you ever noticed that the nation is a vast prison, ringed by rows of sentries? If you wish to cross the border without the state’s permission, you cannot. At once you become a criminal. But the nation is a huge thing and its borders are far, so you don’t see them. The prison is enormous, our eyes’ reach is small; yet the prison stands there, with sentries posted.
As long as nations exist, man’s society cannot come into being—only zoos will. And within that vast prison we have made smaller prisons. Within nations there are little nations. India is one prison; China another; Pakistan a third. And within India’s great prison there are smaller prisons—one for Muslims, one for Hindus, a third for Jains, a fourth for Parsis, a fifth for Sikhs. They too have drawn their boundaries and put up bars: ‘Do not cross, or you will be in trouble.’ Those bars are not visible. When a Hindu and a Muslim meet, are there bars between them or not? You cannot see them, but they are there—hard walls, difficult to cross. They surround us. And it is not that between a Muslim and a Hindu there are no further bars.
Recently I was in a village in Kashmir. There was not a single Hindu there—only Muslims. I asked the man attending to me, ‘Are you a Muslim?’ He said, ‘I am not a Muslim. I am Sunni; I am not Muslim. Muslims are the Shias.’ In that village, there was conflict between Shias and Sunnis. So the Sunni said, ‘I am no Muslim; the Shias are the Muslims.’
In that village the tension between Shia and Sunni was as great as between Hindu and Muslim. A wall stood between them too. Among Hindus there are Brahmins and Shudras—with a great wall between them. And it is not that among Shudras there are no walls; between a Chamar and a Bhangi there is a wall as great as any. We have made cage within cage within cage.
You have seen those magic nested boxes—box within box within box. The animals in the zoo are held by a single cage; man, in his zoo, is held by cages within cages—and they keep multiplying. If we were to see the entire chain of our cages, we would go mad. If the thought even arose that we are imprisoned in so many cages, the head would split. And that man today is becoming so deranged—its reason is this: all these cages are becoming starkly visible, one by one.
What is the basis of all these cages? What is the basis of this slavery? What is the compulsion that tells man to lock himself inside bars? Perhaps you have never considered it—but you must.
At the base of all our cages is our family—that ‘family’ which we glorify. We call the family a heaven, something sacred, the center of our culture—the center of all human culture!
But I say to you: the family is the center of all our distortion, not of culture. As long as the family exists, culture cannot be born. Because the family is our first cage that breaks us off from others. Your family and my family break one another apart. As long as families exist, humanity cannot be free of cages. As long as that ‘family’ is there.
The family is the foundational stone of our slavery.
Yet we teach every child the pride and arrogance of family. ‘You belong to a special family. Keep the honor of your family. Maintain the honor of your lineage. Honor your forefathers.’ We separate him from the rest of mankind. We do not say to him, ‘All of humanity—this vastness—is your family.’ We say, ‘These few, these ten or five persons—this is your family. These are your father and mother, your brothers and sisters. This is your family—for which you must live and die, whose honor you must guard, whose ideals you must preserve, whose policy, history, tradition, glory you must protect.’ From childhood we pour this poison in. Do we know that we are tearing him away from the larger family of humanity?
The teaching of small families must result in a rupture from the greater family. We bind him to a tiny unit, and bound thus he will never experience freedom. Then larger units appear—along with family comes caste, along with caste comes community, and along with community comes nation. Units upon units stack up—but the first unit is the family.
Because of the family, culture has not come to be.
We imagine it is our unit—if family is, all is. We do not even suspect the diseases the family has bred. I wish to speak of a few of them. For that cage—that first imprisonment—if it breaks, then the rest can break, for they are born of it.
The family teaches religion; the family teaches caste; the family teaches nation. Once a man is bound to his family, he is bound to his family’s caste; bound to caste, then bound to religion; bound to religion, then bound to nation. The family bequeaths all its ancient diseases and dust to the son.
Every family hands over to its son the dust and disease of thousands of years—and we call it education. We say, ‘Parents are educating the child.’ Parents are loading the burdens of the past onto the child. Education should not be the burden of the past—it should be the liberation of the future; it should orient us toward the future. But the family and the education tied to it turn us toward the past—for the future does not belong to the family.
The future belongs to the individual; the family’s wealth is in the dead past.
Bear in mind: the family has no future. Its entire treasure is in the past—dead past. The individual’s treasure is in the future—unborn future. Into the unborn future of the individual we impose all the dead traditions and rigidities in the name of family. The individual is shackled, closed. He too becomes past-oriented, no longer future-oriented.
Therefore I say: that mother truly loves her son who does not bind him to family and past, but makes him a free human being for the future. That father loves his child who loves, yet does not pass on his own diseases, doctrines, religion, caste to the child. And the father who hands down his religion, caste, traditions—he is surely his son’s enemy—none greater. He binds the son from behind.
But the Muslim father makes his son a Muslim; the Hindu father makes his son a Hindu—firmly, strictly. Lest a mistake occur, parents hurry—before intelligence arrives in the boy or girl, bind them—because once intelligence arises, rebellion may arise. So parents are eager to teach everything early in childhood. We even give children different names so that their identities remain distinct.
By a Muslim child’s name one should know he is Muslim; by a Hindu child’s name one should know he is Hindu. By clothes one should know whether a man is Hindu or Muslim; by manner and color one should know. We mold the child so that in the world he is recognized not as a human being, but as a bound unit. Hence the names.
A friend asked me—his son was born—‘What name should I give him?’ I said, ‘You can name him X, Y, Z—anything.’ He said, ‘X, Y, Z would sound bad.’ I said, ‘Name him Number One, Number Two, Number Three.’ He said, ‘That will sound strange. What will people say? Tell me a proper name.’ I said, ‘Name him Albert Krishna Ali.’ He said, ‘That will create great difficulty—no one will understand whether he is Hindu, Muslim, or Christian. Albert Krishna Ali—what a problem!’
I said, ‘I want there to be a problem. Do not hook him to family, caste, nation.’
But parents are eager to hook. They are eager that the son become a link in the same chain of which they are links—never mind that those chains have proved to be diseases. They want to make him part of a stream of tradition—lest he become an individual.
The family does not allow anyone to become an individual.
And until individuals are born upon this earth, freedom cannot be born.
To be an individual is the deepest freedom.
One who is not an individual but merely a part of a large family, caste, clan, tradition—is only a cog in a big machine, nothing more. And thus it becomes convenient to stick labels.
If a Hindu–Muslim riot breaks out, you may stab your neighbor in the chest, though he has never harmed you—because he is a Muslim. He has harmed no one; yet the label ‘Muslim’ suffices. Strange indeed. If in Calcutta a Muslim stabs a Hindu, then in Bombay a Hindu can take revenge by stabbing a Muslim—what kind of answer is this?
A friend told me a story. A Pathan had a guest. Pathans are hospitable. The host had nothing in the house, so he said, ‘Please wait, I will go to the market for provisions.’ He went to sell his pots and pans to arrange a meal. Meanwhile, the neighbor Pathan, who had a feud with him, said to the guest, ‘Why stay with that poor man? Come to my house and be my guest.’ He insisted and took him. When the host returned and saw his guest eating at the neighbor’s, fury seized him. He took his gun and said to the guest, ‘I will shoot—come back. I have made arrangements for you.’ The guest trembled. But the other Pathan said, ‘Do not worry. If he kills one of our guests, I will kill thirty of his guests. Go in peace. If he shoots, we will take revenge on thirty of his guests.’ The guest said, ‘But how does that help me? What relation have I with those thirty guests?’
Yet the word ‘guest’ can be used, and under a word, human beings can be placed who have no actual relation. The word ‘Muslim’ suffices—one can use it. If there were no Muslims, Hindus, Christians, then if A stabs B in Calcutta, no riot could ensue anywhere. Because A stabbed B—this is settled in court. But if a Hindu stabs a Muslim, the fire can spread across the world—because under the word ‘Hindu’ we have collected multitudes.
The family is the first operation for stealing individuality—where we strip a person of his individuality and force him into a mold of the group. That first cage remains for life.
Strangely, what we learn in childhood clings. We may not remember it, yet it pursues us. A child loves his mother—the mother rejoices that the child loves her; she loves him deeply. But the image of the mother that forms in the child’s mind—neither the mother nor the child imagines that it may become the very disturbance of his life. If the mother’s image sits firmly in the son’s mind, he will search for his mother in his wife his whole life—which he cannot find. He will live in frustration—tension and trouble—because he is searching for the mother. He wants a wife like his mother.
Where will he find such a wife? She was a unique woman. And the mother cannot be made into a wife. There is no way. He is seeking his mother’s qualities and image—and he will never find them. No wife will ever satisfy him. Every marriage will bring trouble—because an image of the mother sits within him since childhood. It will haunt him for life. He will never be at peace.
Therefore every man ‘knows’ what kind of woman he wants, and every woman ‘knows’ what kind of man she wants—a hazy inner image—and we go on seeking it, never to find it. The girl’s mind holds the image of her father, the boy’s mind the image of his mother; such persons cannot be found again—no person is born twice.
What sits in childhood pursues for life. Even if later, by intelligence, a person understands, ‘I am simply a human being—not Hindu nor Muslim; not of this family nor that country,’ deep down he remains the same.
A friend of mine lived in Germany for twenty years. He spoke German like a native, and upon returning to India he struggled with Hindi, speaking it as if a German had learned it. Then he fell ill. His brother told me, ‘We were in great difficulty. When he fainted, he forgot German and began to speak Hindi. At night the doctor would request us to stay, because when he became unconscious, we could not understand him. In unconsciousness he spoke Hindi; when awake, he scarcely understood Hindi.’
What is learned in childhood sits very deep.
I have heard that in King Bhoj’s court a great scholar arrived and challenged the pundits: ‘If you can identify my mother tongue, I will gift one hundred thousand gold coins. If you fail, you must give me one hundred thousand.’ In Bhoj’s court there were great scholars. They accepted the challenge. Day after day, pundits lost. He spoke some thirty languages so perfectly that each seemed to be his mother tongue. On the eighth day, Bhoj said to Kalidas, ‘I am in trouble. What shame for me! Not one pundit can recognize a mother tongue.’ Kalidas said, ‘I am thinking. I will try something.’ When, on the eighth day, the scholar was leaving with the prize, he stood with Kalidas at the great steps. As he began to descend, Kalidas pushed him hard—he tumbled down twenty-five, thirty steps. Rising, he let out a curse—in his mother tongue. Kalidas said, ‘Forgive me—I had to cause this pain; there was no other way. This must be your mother tongue. We did not care for the prize—we sought to discover your mother tongue.’
What sits in childhood sits deepest. It pursues for life. No matter how much we learn later, to be free of childhood’s mental diseases is almost impossible—possible, but very difficult. And that humanity appears so sick is the result of the mental diseases contracted in childhood.
In childhood we teach boundaries, not the boundless. We bind the child to the past; we do not liberate him toward the future. We teach religion, ideals; we teach everything—and childhood becomes a prison that lasts a lifetime.
You may go anywhere; to leave your house is easy—but to leave being a Hindu is difficult. Hindu-ness clings around you. Wherever you go, the wall of being a Muslim travels with you. It is a mesh stuck to your body—hard to escape. The family is its beginning—the primary stage.
Can man be freed from the family?
Certainly. And if parents love their child, they should not bind him to the family. They should constantly attempt to let him live as freely as possible—that he have no identity, no identification, with any group; that he stand as an individual—not as a link in a chain, but in his own stature.
Aurobindo’s father was a very unusual man. He sent Aurobindo abroad at the age of five or six. In the English school he instructed the teachers and principal: ‘Give my boy no religious instruction.’ They were surprised: ‘Some religion should be taught.’ Aurobindo’s father said, ‘I do not want any religious instruction. So many have been given religious instruction, and what they do is nothing but irreligion. If in his life he needs to, he will search. And never treat my son as a Hindu or an Indian.’ The principal said, ‘How is that possible?’ His father said, ‘I want my child to grow as a free person—without the memories of any caste, without becoming a link in any tradition. I want him to stand on his own feet—not on others’ shoulders.’
He fell ill, yet did not call his son. He must have been a man of great courage—to be father to an Aurobindo needs courage. Family members said, ‘Shall we call your son—you are ill?’ He said, ‘It is good that he not be bound to me. Let him not even remember that he has a father—so that the link with the past is cut.’ He died; Aurobindo did not even know. When Aurobindo returned to India, he learned that his father had passed away. ‘We did not inform him lest any memory bind him to me—he should be a citizen of the future, not bear the burden of the past.’
We are all citizens of the past.
And in the genius that blossomed in Aurobindo, ninety percent belongs to his father. The inspiration toward the future that arose in him, the vision of man’s future evolution—all this bears his father’s hand, for he cut the burden of the past—he broke the chain to the past.
Can we create a society where parents are not the joiners but the disconnectors of the child from the past? Only then can we lower man from the cross of suffering; otherwise it will be very difficult.
Today I want to state this third sutra: we must free children from the past so they can become free citizens of the future. But we are all bound from behind. There are certain moments in one’s life that I call ‘moments of exposure’—as with a camera: one click, the shutter opens, and in a single instant whatever enters is imprinted on the film. Similarly, in the human mind there are moments of exposure—when the mind opens and catches hold of certain images.
In a man’s life there are a handful of such moments. If a mistake happens in those moments, the mistake lasts a lifetime. In childhood such moments abound—when the child’s mind is open, whatever enters goes in, and its image is stamped upon his soul.
I read a startling account. A scientist was experimenting with chicks. The moment a chick emerges from the egg, it begins to run behind its mother. From egg to growth, it follows the mother. The scientist did a strange experiment: when the chick was about to hatch, he removed the mother and put a red gas-filled balloon in her place. When the egg broke, the chick did not see the mother; it saw the balloon. That is the moment of exposure. When the chick first arrives in the world, the mind is fully open; whatever enters then becomes its ‘mother.’ The chick began to run after the balloon. Later the mother was brought, but the chick paid no attention. However much they tried to make it follow the mother, it could not recognize her—the balloon had become the mother. It would place its head on the balloon and sleep, sit under it, run after it, peck at it expecting food—yet it could not recognize its mother. The chick died. Many such experiments were done; it was found that the first imprint becomes the mother.
So it is with us. When a child is born, and the immense love for the mother arises—the first reason is this: in the moment of exposure, the mother is the first available. His mind is open, the mother-image enters. But this is dangerous in a sense, because the boy’s mind receives the mother’s image, and the girl’s mind also receives the mother’s image. One major obstruction to human love and marriage is this.
For the image that enters the boy’s mind—he will seek it his whole life. First he finds it in the mother’s love, strengthens it; then, when sexual maturity comes, again a moment of exposure arrives. What people call ‘love at first sight’ is nothing else—it is the same mechanism by which that chick fell in love with the balloon. The mind opens and the balloon is imprinted within.
When sexual maturity first arrives, the mind opens again, and the first image that enters, enters deeply. But if that image conflicts with the earlier image, the person will never live in peace—and they do conflict.
In Israel there is an experiment—the kibbutz—that has found success. It is done with this moment of exposure in mind—and sooner or later the whole world will have to do it. They do not keep a small child with the mother for long. Rather, they change the nurse every three months, so that no fixation, no single image forms of one woman as ‘mother’. As the child grows, he loves twenty, twenty-five nurses in a motherly way, and the mother-figure keeps changing. When twenty-five images are formed, they blur—no single image remains. It is found that such a child can love any woman more easily than one who has a fixed, sharp image of the mother.
Now the whole institution of marriage has decayed—laden with crucifixion. Everyone hangs on a cross, yet no one looks within to find the causes. The image of the mother in the boy’s mind may be fine; but if the mother’s image also sits in the girl’s mind, the difficulty increases. It is essential that the image of the father sit in the girl’s mind. But in our arrangement, mothers raise all the children; fathers raise none. In the future, girls should be brought up more closely by fathers, and boys more closely by mothers—only then can we remove suffering and conflict from marriage. Otherwise not.
Thus, in five thousand years, all experiments in marriage have failed, because the experiments are external while the roots are inner—so deep we hardly conceive them.
If the mother’s image sits in the girl’s mind, there is danger—she may never be able to fully love a man. The first image can be dangerous. The first image in a girl should be of a man—and not of a single man either; better that there be more, so no fixed image forms, and the search for a fixed image does not begin in life.
If this can be done, we can remove the sting, conflict, suffering of marriage. Otherwise not. No attention is paid to this. Each person is disturbed and seeks techniques for peace—‘How can I be peaceful?’ But the causes of unpeace are so deep, so collective, so tied to the past, that it is beyond the capacity of a single person to do much. He feels helpless, bound by fate—writhes, suffers, and dies.
Shall we ever contemplate such a society? We must. It is essential. Otherwise man has no future. We have reached the point where the illnesses man cultivated in the past are reaching completion. Perhaps the curtain is about to fall—this whole human society may perish. Heat water: at one degree it does not turn to steam, nor at ten, nor at ninety, nor at ninety-nine. At one hundred degrees it becomes steam. Then someone may say, ‘The fault is of the last degree that turned water into steam,’ forgetting the ninety-nine degrees gathered by the past.
The violence, anger, enmity, wars visible everywhere today—these did not arise today. Do not think the age of Rama has no hand in it, or the age of Buddha, or of Christ. All ages have a hand. We are only adding the last degree that turns water into steam. The kind of man we have made in the last five thousand years has reached the final point—one last degree and all becomes steam. We stand near the point of vaporization. Hence, there is great need for concern, contemplation, inquiry, and search.
Let me say two or three more small things and complete.
Until now, we have continually made each person a member of the past—not of the future. To do this we have used many devices. The greatest is this: we impose the ideal figures of the past upon every child. We say, ‘Become like Rama, like Buddha, like Mahavira’—as if being oneself were a crime. Yet each person is born to be himself. No one can become another; no one can become Rama—and even if one could, it would be a misfortune.
For when one imitates another, one’s soul is lost. Only acting remains—no soul. The soul is only where there is an authentically individual being. Rama may have had a soul; the ‘Ramas’ of the Ramlila have none. Yet we keep advising people to become like the Ramlila’s Rama.
We impose the great men of the past upon the children of the future—though the future’s children are citizens of the future. Do not impose the past upon them. It is enough to acquaint them with Rama—but never say, ‘Become like Rama.’ Rather say, ‘Rama belonged five thousand years ago, and you must become the man of the future. Rama cannot be your guide. Understand Rama precisely so that, by no mistake, you do not become like him—Rama belongs to the past, not to you. If you become Rama, you will be in great trouble.’
If someone became Krishna on the streets of Bombay today—what would happen? He would be taken nowhere but the police station. At once he would be arrested. Krishna is a lovely, wondrous man—but wondrous five thousand years ago. Today it is meaningless. To stand as Krishna today will look theatrical. On a stage, in a Ramlila or Raslila, people may tolerate it—but on the street, trouble will arise.
We force the past upon children. First we implant the images of the great men of the past—utterly wrong, because they can never become them. And once that image is lodged, they will continually feel self-condemnation: ‘I have not yet become Rama.’ A woman will feel, ‘I have not become Sita. I should be Sita.’ Her whole life becomes trouble and pain.
When we tell someone, ‘Become like someone else,’ we teach him self-condemnation. And one who learns self-condemnation—his capacity for joy is finished.
Joy comes from self-delight, from self-acceptance—from being able to rejoice in what one is. Our education says: never be happy as you are. You can rejoice only when you become Rama, Krishna, Christ—only then.
Thus we impose molds upon children, which condemn them forever. They live, yet feel they are living wrongly. ‘I am living a wrong life—because I have not become Sita, or Rama, or Krishna. I must be at fault; my life is wrong.’
Each of us feels we are living wrong. If the whole world feels this, how can a right life arise? The foundational stone of a right life will be to give each person the capacity, freedom, liberation, and support to become what he can become. Now we are all obstacles to what a person can be.
In Tagore’s home there was an old book. On the birthdays of the children the elders would write remarks about them. Tagore had ten or eleven siblings—a large family. In that book, there were good remarks for all the children—none for Rabindranath. His own mother wrote, ‘We have no hope from Rabindra—how this boy took birth in our house, we do not know.’
For the other children won first classes, gold medals; with this boy, even passing was doubtful. They tried hard to impose on him, ‘Become like this, become like that’—he did not become. Blessed is that boy that he did not obey his parents. Had he become what they wanted, the world would have been deprived of a great man. But many have become—and the world has been deprived of many.
We all impose: ‘Become thus.’ Rabindranath’s being Rabindranath is joy enough; there is no need to become someone else. This is not only true for him—even a simple man’s being himself is enough. He can live by his own fragrance, walk his own path; he will have his own song, steps, dance. No matter if his name is not read in world capitals or on front pages. Life has no connection with newspapers.
In truth, those who seek newspapers are those deprived of life. Capitals are sought only by minds that have not reached life’s capital. Another’s praise—what has that to do with life?
Life is that I become blissful. Life is in living—not in someone’s praise, nor respect, nor honor. Yet we tell every child: ‘Live an honorable life. Watch what others say—never do what others call wrong; always do what others call right.’ We are cutting the child off from living; we tell him to live a borrowed life: ‘First see through others’ eyes what to do.’
What others say has no relation to life. What you experience—that is life. But no parent tells the child: ‘Be alive—live from your own stature. Even if the whole world calls it wrong, if you find joy and peace in it, follow your path—do not worry about the world.’
In truth, those who walk the royal roads never glimpse joy. Those who go by footpaths—the footpaths of their own lives—only they enter the deep mysteries of life. The cemented highways lead to capitals; the little trails through forests, where one must walk alone and hew one’s own way—there is the reach into life’s depths. But we never teach this.
And a third thing we neither learn nor teach: that we have any relation with the vast cosmos spread all around. We connect the child only to people: ‘This is your mother; this your father; these your siblings.’ But is there any relation with the moon and stars? Any with the waves of the sea? Any with the clouds wandering the sky? With the flowers blossoming on trees? With sunlight and shade? With stones and sand? With the earth? No—none.
Man has created relations among men and severed relations with the whole. Yet life can never be juicy, full of rasa, until we are connected with the whole. We are connected—but in mind we have become separate. Sitting by the sea, you feel joy for a moment—have you looked into why? Why does peace descend by the ocean? Why does the roar of the sea echo the voice of your soul? Have you pondered?
Perhaps you do not know: millions of years ago, the first birth of man was in the sea; and even today the blood in our bodies has the same proportion of salt as the sea. The ratio of salt in the water of our bodies is the same as in the ocean. When the child is in the mother’s womb, the amniotic waters around him have the same salt ratio as the sea. From this scientists first surmised that life began in the ocean. Even today, if the salt ratio in the body falls, we are in trouble—it must remain that of the sea.
When you go to the sea, sympathetic waves arise in your person—you are a part of it. Once, we were fish. Going near, those waves rise again within.
When you go to the mountains and see the stretch of green trees, the mind becomes peaceful, delighted. What is it in green? In our blood and bones circulates what is taken from trees—we are made of them, connected to them.
When cool breezes blow and you are carried by them, joy arises—because air is our life-breath. We are joined—never separate.
When you look at the full moon at night, some song begins to pour within; some poetry arises. In English the word for ‘moon’ is ‘lunar’; for ‘madman,’ ‘lunatic’—from the same root. In Hindi too one says, ‘chand-mara’—moon-struck. It is believed that more people go mad on full-moon nights than on other nights. There is a reason. The full moon brings unknown tides into us. Not only does the sea rise to touch the moon—our life-waves too rise to touch it. Yet we have no relationship with the moon.
We have broken life from all sides. If man severs himself from the whole and builds only a human world, that world will be sad and untrue—because it will not be real. Its roots must spread into the entire cosmos.
I call that man religious whose relations spread beyond human beings—who is related to all life: to animals, plants, birds. Have you seen an eagle, wings outstretched, weighing the winds in the sky? If you keep watching, you will slip into meditation—how effortlessly it rides the currents, without flapping. Watch long enough, and within you too an eagle will unfurl its wings and flow.
Life is interconnected from all sides; man has severed it. Severed life has gone mad.
Therefore I said: we have not created a society—we have built a zoo. We are far from making society. We have constructed cages and torn man from nature—inner and outer. We have torn him from the natural and erected an artificial, forced man—a great deception.
One small story and I will complete.
A poet was passing a village and saw a scarecrow standing in a field. You too have seen scarecrows—if you have seen fields, though now even seeing fields is rare. In London, a survey found that a million children had never seen a cow. They asked: ‘What is a cow?’ Three hundred thousand children said they had never seen a field.
The poet saw a scarecrow—an earthen pot for a head, sticks for bones, a shirt hanging. The poet felt pity and approached: ‘Friend, standing in the field you must be very tired. The work is so monotonous—rain, cold, day, night, heat, summer—you stand here. I have passed this way often; you are always here. Don’t you get bored? Don’t you panic? Never take a holiday?’ The scarecrow said, ‘There is great joy in this work. There is so much delight in frightening others that I never notice my own trouble. Day and night I frighten—one comes, I frighten him; another comes, I frighten him. There is so much joy that I have no leisure to think of myself.’ The poet reflected and said, ‘You speak truth. I too, when I can frighten someone, feel great joy.’ The scarecrow laughed: ‘Then you too are a scarecrow, for only scarecrows delight in frightening others. You too are a man of straw—an earthen pot on your head, sticks inside, a shirt draped.’
I began to think: what is the difference between a scarecrow and a real man? An earthen pot head, sticks, a shirt—what is the difference?
Only this: the scarecrow is closed within itself; it has no roots connected with life—no breath connected to any sky; no blood connected to trees; no water connected to oceans. Within, it has no connection without—that is why it is false.
And what will it mean for a man to be true?
That he is connected—connected to all: every fiber, every vein, every particle. Connected to the sun, to the moon, to oceans, to the skies—to all. The more connected a man, the truer he is. The more severed, the more he remains an earthen pot, sticks, and shirt.
And nearly all men have become scarecrows. This whole humanity has become humanity of pots, sticks, and shirts. There is no inner soul, for soul is the possibility arising from infinite connectedness. About this I will speak to you tomorrow.
Friends who come for meditation in the morning—arrive before eight, bathe, come from home in silence with eyes lowered, and speak nothing there either.
You have listened to my words with such peace and love—I am obliged. Finally, I bow to the God seated within all. Please accept my pranam.