Kya Ishwar Mar Gaya Hai #2

By looking at human beings it becomes clear that God has died. You won’t find God’s corpse anywhere by searching. Nor will you find a tombstone saying he was buried here. And even if you scour every corner of the earth, you won’t discover witnesses before whom he died. No; we ourselves are the testimony—each and every person! What is so much suffering in life, so much darkness, so much pain and restlessness a sign of? It tells us that the source of bliss, the source of light in life, has been cut off from us. The connection has broken.

One night a blind man was a guest at a house. After midnight, when he was about to leave, the family said, “The road is dark, it’s a moonless night—take a lantern with you.”

The blind man laughed, as was natural. He said, “What difference will it make whether I carry a lantern or not? I am blind. Whether the night is dark or bright, whether it is day or night, it makes no difference. For me everything is darkness. And even if I carry a lantern in my hand, what will happen? Even when the sun is in the sky, nothing happens for me.”

He was right. But the people of the house were logical too; they wouldn’t agree. They said, “It’s true that for your eyes a lantern will make no difference. But others coming in the dark will at least see the lantern and avoid colliding with you. Isn’t even that something?”

Before this argument the blind man had to concede. He took the lantern and set out. But he had gone barely a hundred steps when someone bumped into him. He was surprised. He asked, “My friend, are you also blind? Can’t you see the lantern in my hand?”

The other man said, “Sir, your lantern went out along the way.”

How is a blind man to know that the lantern has gone out! You ask, “How are we to know that God has died?” How is a blind man to know the lantern has gone out? He knows from the collision. The collision itself is the proof that the lantern is out.

And we are all colliding with one another—is this not proof that God has died? This is proof that the lantern has gone out.

What are we doing in life?
Are we living or fighting?
Are we loving or raging?
Are we giving to one another or snatching?
Are we companions in each other’s lives or enemies?
From this the evidence will be known—whether God has died or not. Don’t go asking anyone else whether God has died. Look at your own life. And if it creates clashes around you, breeds hatred, anger, and violence, then know that the lantern in your hand has gone out and our link with the source of life has been severed. No one needs to go searching anywhere else for this.

So how did I know that God has died?
By looking at man. Man has become God’s grave. And what greater news could there be? What greater news than that man is living like a corpse? Within him is ash, and no flame of life. Inside, everything is dead. Nothing is alive and burning; everything is extinguished. This is the news, this is the message. And if even this is not a message, then what greater message could there possibly be?

No. There is no connection at all between the death of God and despair. In fact, if the false god—the one we had been taking for God—has come to an end, then the search for the true God can begin. The enemies of diamonds are not stones, but fake diamonds. Stones have no enmity with diamonds; they have no relationship with them at all. Counterfeit diamonds are the enemies of diamonds. Those who say there is no God are not opposing God; the real hostility toward God comes from those who have fabricated false gods. They have blocked humanity from reaching the true God.

So do not be afraid of atheists. An atheist, one day, will become a believer through the very anguish of his atheism. And if someone is an atheist through and through, he cannot remain an atheist for long; his atheism itself will lead him into faith. Atheism is a ladder.

But those who are false believers will never become truly faithful, because they have never had the ladder of atheism to cross over into belief. One who has never, with his whole being, doubted the prevalent notions of God will never be able to move toward the true God, because doubt is the very force that topples the false god. He did not use the power of doubt. He simply believed in the false god, believed in the conventional idea. As everyone else believed, he too believed.

Do you not know that the wealth of trust appears in the lives and destinies only of those who know how to doubt rightly? Only those who know how to practice Right Doubt attain the treasure of trust—not those who are afraid to doubt. For one who is afraid to doubt will have a false trust. He fears doubt because he knows that the moment doubt comes, his trust is gone.

So people with false trust go on advising others, “Do not doubt,” because in the fire of doubt their trust—purely paper-thin—cannot survive; it will burn away. Therefore, whenever someone says, “Trust—don’t doubt,” understand that his trust is false. He is unwilling to pass through doubt’s trial by fire. Only that trust which is ready to go through the fire-ordeal of doubt is true.

Therefore, before trust can arrive, know that the footfalls of doubt must be heard first. One who doubts with a whole heart finds that, in that very doubt, the untrue trusts are burned away, and only the true returns, refined—the kind on which life can be based and made to move.

So do not be frightened of doubt. Whoever becomes afraid of doubt will never become religious.

No; priests know a great deal. That is precisely the danger. If they were ignorant, there would be far less danger. They know a lot—and the danger lies in what they know.

Let me tell a small story; perhaps it will make my point clear.

Early one morning a royal court was filling, and a stranger arrived—a traveler from a distant land, it seemed. His dress was unfamiliar, his face unknown. But he carried himself with great dignity and presence. Everyone in the court found their eyes drawn to him. He wore a magnificent turban—unlike anything seen in that country—rich with multicolored patterns and glittering ornaments on top. The king asked, “Honored guest, may I ask how expensive this turban is and where you bought it?”

The man said, “It is very expensive. I had to spend a thousand gold coins.”

The vizier, seated beside the king—and viziers are naturally shrewd, otherwise who would make them vizier?—whispered in the king’s ear, “Careful! This turban looks worth no more than twenty, twenty-five rupees. He’s saying a thousand gold coins. He must be planning to swindle you.”

The guest, too, must have read the vizier’s whisper from his face. He was no novice; he had seen many courts, many kings and viziers. As soon as the vizier moved his mouth away from the king’s ear, the newcomer spoke up: “Shall I then take my leave? I was told there is only one emperor on earth—only one king—who can buy this turban. Shall I depart and conclude that this is not the court I seek? I have turned back from many courts. I was told there is a single king on earth who can purchase this turban for a thousand gold coins. So shall I go? Is this not that court?”

The king said, “Give him two thousand gold coins and buy the turban.”

The vizier was astonished! As they were leaving, the guest whispered in the vizier’s ear, “Friend, you may know the price of the turban, but I know the weaknesses of kings.”

So priests, preachers, and religious leaders do not know God; they know human weaknesses. They know people’s weaknesses—and that is the danger. On those very weaknesses, exploitation proceeds. And human beings are very weak; their weaknesses are many. Those weaknesses are being exploited.

Remember: one who knows the power of the divine cannot see anyone on this earth as weak, and one who knows the divine cannot exploit anyone.

Yet human beings are being exploited—in the name of religion, in the name of temples and mosques. For thousands of years this exploitation has continued. And we—we all—are participants in it. It may be that we are not the ones doing the exploiting; but if we allow it to be done to us, we help to keep it alive—we are its companions. And let no one imagine that he will be spared the consequences of the sins committed on this earth. Whatever has happened here has happened with the participation of us all. Each one of us is responsible for what goes on. No one will be spared. Knowingly or unknowingly, we collaborate. We are accomplices.

Human weaknesses are exploited by politicians, by religious leaders—and by who knows how many other kinds of people. But the deepest exploitation has been by the religious leaders. Politicians are latecomers to this race. Only recently did they understand what the priest has been doing. So the current politics that has spread across the world—be it communism, fascism, or anything else—stands in opposition to the priest. Why? Because two thieves have their eyes on the same man’s wealth.

Hence present-day politics—new, recent—confronts religion. There is no other reason: both attack the same person. Both want to prey upon the same person—the weak person. Their clash is old, but it has become very intense. Politicians are trying to remove religion. In many countries they have removed it—dismissed God from the temples—and installed new gods there, set up new idols. But the exploitation of human beings continues, because human weakness remains. If one exploiter stops, another will begin.

I want to appeal to you: only those are truly religious who understand human weakness and, in the face of its ongoing exploitation, give birth to a worldwide consciousness against it.

What are human weaknesses?
And in what ways are they exploited?

No need for great elaboration; we all know our weaknesses. And we know what temptations can be dangled for those weaknesses.

We know our weakness about death. Everyone is afraid of death. That is why all religions exploit death on a grand scale. People fear, “Let me not die,” so religion explains, “The soul is immortal.” To a dying person, it brings great relief to hear that the soul is immortal: “No worry, the body will go—let it go. The soul will remain. I will survive.” We all want to survive.

If you quickly believe that the soul is immortal, do not think you have come to know it—you are simply afraid of death, and so you hurry to believe.

Everyone knows that no one wishes to die. Therefore, all religious authorities try to reassure you: “Why be frightened? No one dies; the soul is absolutely immortal.” And the mind, fearful of death, wants to believe that the soul is immortal. That is why the young tend to be a little less religious and the old more so. As death comes nearer, fear increases, and the urge to accept the soul’s immortality becomes stronger. There is a hurry to accept, to believe. No one wants to die. This is our weakness. And the more a people are afraid of death, the more they tend to believe in the soul’s immortality.

We—who on earth fears death more than we do? Yet nowhere will you find people proclaiming the soul’s immortality more loudly than we do. The two are connected; they are not separate. They are two sides of the same coin.

So there is exploitation of death—of our fear of it. Human beings feel unsafe—there is insecurity everywhere. Nowhere does safety seem to exist. Life is very shaky. No support is found. Man is without support; his lack of support is a weakness. Religion exploits that weakness; priests and temples and churches exploit it. They say, “Don’t worry! How are you without support? Take refuge in God! Hold God’s hand!” And since they claim to be the middlemen in placing your hand in God’s hand, whatever fee or brokerage they demand, give it to them—and you can hold God’s hand.

Man is frightened in his aloneness. Life feels very solitary—no companion seems truly one’s own. There are moments when the wife does not feel yours, the son does not feel yours, friends do not feel yours. Weakness comes, illness comes, death approaches—and it seems all will slip away. Wealth and property no longer feel like yours. Then the priest comes near and says, “Friend, do not be afraid! The Divine is your companion. Repeat His name! He is with you—repeat His name!” And then that weakness can be exploited.

And when you begin to chant God’s name, don’t think it is out of great love for God. You are afraid—afraid of life’s loneliness—and you seek God’s company.

But no such company will come. Fear and love have no meeting. Only one whose mind is established in fearlessness can love.

How will frightened people love? How will they love God? How will they know God? Fear does not allow anything to be known. Yet our fear is exploited—and we are taught, “Be afraid! Be God-fearing! Fear God!” Why? Because if you don’t fear God, how will you fear the priest, the pundit, the religious authority? Become afraid of God—and the more afraid you are, the more you can be exploited.

A fearless person cannot be exploited; a frightened person can. Therefore, in the name of religion, from childhood we are taught fear upon fear: “Be afraid! Fear everything!” This is exploitation—the exploitation of all our weaknesses. There is the fear of hell—we are all afraid that we may be thrown into flames, cast into cauldrons, tormented. We are all afraid. So hell is dangled as a threat—and heaven as a lure. We are all tempted.

I was passing through a place; a lady handed me a leaflet. On it was written: “Would you like to live in a beautiful bungalow, where cool, gentle breezes blow, with a waterfall nearby, and great shady trees?” I was surprised—where is such a place? Who wouldn’t want to live there? I turned the page, and on the back it said: “Then accept Jesus Christ.” I was astonished. So, if you accept Jesus Christ out of greed for God’s kingdom, you will be given nice houses by waterfalls under shady trees. And if you do not believe, your place is in hell.

This is not just the mischief of the devils trailing Jesus Christ; they trail Rama too, Krishna too, Mohammed, Mahavira, Buddha—devils trail them all. And they keep inventing new ways to exploit human weakness. Whose mind would not be enticed by a world of cool breezes where no sorrow comes, no suffering arrives? And for how cheap! So cheap—go to the temple and offer a little money. Or donate a cow to a Brahmin—so cheap! Or recite a mantra daily, read a scripture daily—so cheap! Who would be so foolish as to miss such a chance?

So our temptability is exploited. Our fear is exploited. Our mortality is exploited.

Priests know a lot—they know human weaknesses. And people still do not realize how greatly their weaknesses have been exploited, and are being exploited.

A true religion will be born in the world only when we set ourselves to freeing human beings from their weaknesses, not allowing those weaknesses to be exploited. We must free human beings from weakness—give them fearlessness, freedom from greed, inner independence, clarity of thought—so that dignity can arise within them, a nobility of consciousness, a grandeur of life. Then, within them, a rebellion can arise against every exploitation—a revolt, a spirit of being a rebel. Such people will be the beginning of a religious world.

Not these frightened, fearful people—not those kneeling on the ground with folded hands, begging favors from the sky, praying for their ailments to be cured; not those striving for a place in heaven; not those trying to escape hell; not those building temples to reserve a seat in paradise. Through such people the world will not become religious. Through them, the descent of the true God on earth is not possible. For that, we need human beings free of all weaknesses. And priests and religious leaders have not allowed that till today—and they are trying to ensure it never happens.

Naturally, their attempt is the lifeblood of their profession. Their efforts are not to save God but to save themselves. You know well: whenever we want to do something wrong, we invent good slogans. When we want to do evil, we hide behind a fine philosophy. And when we want to kill someone, we begin to proclaim that it is for his own good. And if the priest wants to save his profession, he must announce that he is saving God. He must say, “God is in danger!” If he spreads the word that God is in danger, the priest can be saved.

If the priest is saved, religion will not be saved.

The choice before us is stark. Either in the days to come this old profession of religious leaders will continue—and no space will be made for God—or this profession will end, and we will be able to engage in the search for truth with a freer, more independent mind.

Priests know a great deal. Their craftiness, their cunning, their shrewdness run deep. They know a human being’s weaknesses to the very last corners. And they have exploited that. The exploitation continues.
And many other things have been asked.

Why are you so frightened of being left alone? And why does the state of non-acceptance bring so much fear? Has it never occurred to you that if, even for a single moment, the mind abides in non-acceptance, a revolution will take place? Even a moment of non-acceptance can bring a revolution.

What does it mean not to accept? What is the meaning of non-acceptance? It means that I am not willing to accept any knowledge that comes from outside.

Why? Because I am thirsty for the knowledge that arises from within. Therefore I will wait, I will pause.

This is not a disrespect for outer knowledge. It is not a contempt for it. It is not a disrespect to the Gita or the Koran. It is only the seeker’s plea that he wants the knowledge that rises from the very source of life. I want to discover that which is somewhere within me. Therefore—wait! Whatever comes from outside—whether it is said by Mahavira, by Buddha, by anyone, even what I am saying now—whoever speaks from outside, tell it to wait. Let that thought remain outside. Otherwise the outer thought may come and surround my whole mind, and I may become so imprisoned in it that I forget that within me there is ignorance. This has happened.

In scholarship, the illusion of knowledge is an everyday occurrence. When we come to know many things, when much information accumulates, we get the idea that we know. And that very idea makes us forget the inner ignorance sitting within—where we know nothing at all, nothing: we do not know how birth has happened; we do not know how death will come; we do not know what this life that is going on actually is; we do not even know why this breath is moving. Nothing is known. Ignorance is deep—very deep. What do you know? What does anyone know? Even each single breath is unfamiliar.

Yet we go on collecting knowledge. And under the shadow and illusion of that knowledge we forget this deep ignorance. This becomes a dangerous situation. Death will snatch away all that knowledge, and only ignorance will remain in our hands.

Therefore the wise are not those who clutch at knowledge and become “knowers.” The wise are those who say to outer knowledge, “Wait!” Ignorance is mine; that knowledge is alien. Only on the day that the knowledge is mine will it be able to break my ignorance.

Remember: the ignorance is mine; the knowledge belongs to others. How can others’ knowledge break my ignorance? Only my own knowledge can break my ignorance.

How will my own knowledge arise? The first condition is that I do not accept borrowed, alien knowledge. If I accept it, the search will stop. If I do not accept it and remain abiding in my ignorance—what will happen?

No! If a house is on fire and you are inside, and you come to know the fire is outside and you can already see the flames, what will you ask? Will you go to someone and ask, “Now what should I do?” Will you open cupboards, pull out some scripture and ponder what one ought to do when the house is ablaze on all sides? Or will you search for some Master within that building, sit at his feet and say, “Revered Master! Now show me the way—what should I do when there is a fire?”

No. The Master too is inside the same house; the scriptures will be burning there—and at the very sight of the fire you will rush out. You won’t go to ask anyone what to do. The mere perception that the fire is there gathers all your life-energy together. In an instant you find there is no slackness, no laziness, no sleep. In a single moment you discover there is no heedlessness, no sloth. In a single moment you find the mind is sharp, consciousness is awake—and you don’t ask anyone the way; you find your way through the flames and get out. Only after you have come out you might remember, “The Master remained inside, the scriptures remained inside—neither could I bring them out nor even see what they said I should do.”

If a fire is truly seen for what it is, the very vision of that fact brings a revolution in life.

If the whole panorama of ignorance is seen, it produces a pain and a heat more terrible, more intense than a burning house. And the moment it truly occurs to you, “I am utterly ignorant,” a fierce, flaming longing arises in every fiber of your being to get out of that ignorance. That very longing, that intense thirst, brings you out. No Master carries you out.

But if the awareness of ignorance itself is suppressed—if the house is on fire and someone sits you down and explains, “Where is the fire? It’s all illusion. You just chant the name of Rama”—and you close your eyes and chant “Ram, Ram,” thinking inside, “Where is the fire? There is none”—if you sit there thinking like this, then surely escape will become impossible. The fire will finish you where you sit. And this is exactly what has happened. This is what is happening in life.

Borrowed knowledge puts us to sleep; it does not awaken. Borrowed knowledge lulls, it does not rouse! It brings slumber, not awakening.

The felt awareness of one’s own ignorance brings a wakefulness, a watchfulness; an awareness arises; a sharp intensity appears, and a sense of urgency is born: “How do I get out?” The whole being becomes involved. And whenever someone’s whole being becomes involved in a single thirst, attainment is certain. He will go beyond the thirst itself, he will transcend.

There was a fakir, Farid, who lived in a hut by a river. One morning a man came and said, “I want to have the vision of God.” Many people get this fancy to see God; many catch this mania that they must see God. That man must have caught it too; there are many reasons for such fevers. He went to Farid and said he wanted the vision of God.

Farid said, “I am just going to bathe in the river. You come along. We’ll bathe a bit; then I’ll sit with you on the bank and tell you. And it may even happen that, if the moment is right, I will tell you right there in the current.” The man was a little puzzled—what could he possibly tell in the river’s current? But with fakirs, who knows—perhaps there was some meaning.

He went along. Both stepped into the water. And as soon as that seeker ducked under the water, Farid pressed his neck down, held his head beneath the surface so it could not rise. Farid was a strong man. The seeker got into trouble. He struggled with all his might, but Farid kept pushing him down, pushing him down. After a short while, Farid noticed his own strength to hold him was failing, and that the man below was now rising upward with his entire power. Farid was strong; the seeker was a thin, weak fellow—but he lifted Farid and broke the surface.

Farid asked him, “My friend, did you understand anything?”

The man said, “Understand what! You were about to take my life, my very breath. Where was there any question of understanding? And what a madman I came to! I should have suspected when you said you might even tell me in the river’s current. I should have known then I’d come to the wrong place. But I couldn’t just leave at once, so I came along. You nearly killed me. Visions of God were far off—my own life was slipping away. Who would be left to see anything then?”

Farid said, “I want to ask you one thing. When I held you under, how many thoughts were in your mind?”

He said, “Are you joking? There were no thoughts—only one idea: ‘Somehow, a breath—air!’”

Farid asked, “How long did even that idea remain?”

He said, “Only a little while. When my whole being was in danger, even that thought vanished. Then there was no thought at all—just an unknown, unintelligible impulse that was lifting me upward. There was no thought, no idea—something from within was rising. Every fiber was engaged. There was no thought about it—it was just happening. No idea like, ‘I should do this,’ or ‘I am doing this.’ Nothing of the sort. It was happening. Something had been stirred in my life-energy and was surging upward. And then, as soon as my whole strength gathered, I found you very weak; your hands went loose, and I came up.”

Farid said, “The day you dive into the search for God with just such depth—just such intensity of thirst—no power, no power at all will be able to stop you. You will find you have crossed over; you have gone beyond that boundary where you end and the Divine begins.”

Knowledge is not attained through scriptures and words. Knowledge happens through the total thirst of one’s life-energy—an integrated thirst. When the whole being is gathered into a single longing, knowledge becomes available. Knowledge is not a technique learned from scriptures; it is the realization found in the fire of thirst and longing. Knowledge cannot come from outside, because the thirst is within—and no inner thirst can be quenched by any water from outside. And if it seems to be quenched by outside water, know well that the thirst too was outer. The thirst of the life-energy holds its own fulfillment hidden within its gathering. Thirst itself is the attainment.

But we seek knowledge outside and clutch at it. And once we clutch it, doors close, the search ends, thirst slackens, the being cannot gather itself. In that slackness, in that weakness, in that fragmentation we wander. We keep remembering, repeating words, we live and die—and nothing is resolved.

This happened in Bengal. A young man sat by his father. The father had crossed sixty. He said to his son, “It may be I am a guest here for only a few more days. But I have never seen you go to a temple, never seen you read a religious book, never seen you attend satsang. So let me say to you at the end: give some attention that way too.”

The young man said, “Some attention? What are you saying? Can God be found by ‘some’ attention? Some attention? As far as I can see, that’s exactly what I see you giving Him. Every morning you go to the temple—some attention there, and the rest to the world.

“And I doubt this: one who lives twenty-three hours in the world—how can he be in the temple for one hour? And one who hums film songs right up to the temple steps—how can he sing hymns inside? Perhaps he does sing hymns inside, but their worth cannot be greater than the film songs, because the one who is humming is the same—outside the steps and inside. The question is of the hummer, not of what is hummed. It is not what you read that matters; what you are, that is the question. You may read the Vedas or the Koka-shastra, or anything else—you are you, and everything depends on you. The book will become like you are. The temple you enter will become like you. And the God whose hand you hold—you will find He has become like you, because you are the real pivot.

“So,” he said to his father, “I have watched you these thirty years. But neither did your prayers bear any meaning, nor your worship, nor your meditations.

“I will remember, someday I too will remember. But only once. For what is the point of remembering twice? If once does not do, what will happen the second time—since the one remembering will still be me. And what will the third time do? Or the thousandth? I will do it once. I will go to the temple once. I will stand at God’s door once. But I am waiting for that day when I can stand there wholly, totally. As long as I am partial, nothing is going to happen.”

For the great secret and joy is this: your becoming completely gathered is the very attainment of the Divine within you. There is no other God outside. Your becoming utterly gathered, integrated; your life-energy becoming whole—not fragmented, not disintegrated, not broken—this very gathering is your knowing. And it happened.

When the father was about eighty, he was still alive; his son had by then turned sixty. And one morning people saw the son going toward the temple. All were amazed. He had been a lifelong atheist, had never gone to a temple—and now he was going.

But he went and did not return. He stood in the temple with folded hands—and everything was finished. The breath that was out remained out; the breath that was in remained in. His life departed. In his pocket a letter was found. He had written: “Today I am in a state in which my thirst is fully awakened, and I am wholly, completely tormented by my ignorance. And today, with the fire raging all around me, perhaps I can get out.”

What did he do by simply standing in that temple? And was that doing related to the temple at all? People stood there every day. No—the doing had nothing to do with that temple. Had he stood anywhere and done the same, what happened there would have happened. That doing was related to his own within. His life-energy had been able to gather at some shore into a single thirst. In that thirst something can happen—a revolution, an explosion.

Religion is an explosion. And it happens only within those who live through the full pain of their ignorance and do not hide it under false knowledge.

Therefore I said: No—books will not do; not the scriptures, the Vedas, the Quran, the Bible; not the words of Mahavira and Buddha, not anyone’s words—they cannot take you to where the Divine is. What will take you there is the thirst where you are. Let not these words and scriptures slacken this thirst, cover it over, become an ash upon this spark. They have become ash. That is why the “learned”—the so-called learned—rarely, if ever, come to know the Truth. One has not heard yet that any pundit has known the Truth. It has not happened—and it will not happen.

If you go to throw them away, it means there is some meaning in them—otherwise why go to throw them away? If you go to set them on fire, it means you are frightened of them; hence the urge to burn them. No. In both situations we give too much value to what is outside. Either we say, “We will worship,” or we say, “We will burn them.” But in both cases—whether we worship or we burn—we remain bound from the outside.

No, I am not saying: don’t worship—go and set them on fire. Because the one who sets fire to a scripture is also a believer in it; only then does he make so much effort to go and burn it. No, the question is neither of burning nor of worshiping. The question is to know this simple truth: can whatever I learn from the outside become my knowing? No, it only becomes my remembrance, my memory. Not knowing, not knowledge. However much memory you accumulate, those answers are false.

Someone has said, “If since childhood we had not been told the stories of the Gita, the Vedas, and the Upanishads, and if our mother and father had not given us that education, we would never have come to listen to you.”

It may be that you would not have come to listen to me. There was no great need to come either. But if, having learned these things, you have come to listen to me, then remember one thing: you will be under the illusion of listening, yet you will not be able to hear. Because these things will come in between and will not let you listen. And don’t keep this in mind either...

What madness is this! If all the books were destroyed, do you think God would be destroyed? If all the books in the world were burned to ashes, do you think no people would be born who would seek God? Then God would be very weak indeed if he depended on books. God would be very weak! And then, by that logic, God should be greatly increasing now, because the power of the press has grown so much. There are so many printing presses. Some five thousand books are published every week. Then in a few days God should flourish in the world. But do you know that the more books multiply, the more God keeps diminishing? There is some inverse relationship between the two.

In truth, no inspiration to seek God comes from books. The inspiration to seek God comes from the suffering of life, from life’s pain, from restlessness. As long as there is sorrow in the heart, pain and restlessness, the search for God will keep arising—whether scriptures remain or disappear. In fact, because of scriptures, cheap consolations become available. If there were no scriptures, those cheap consolations would become impossible. Then one would have to conduct one’s own search and, by one’s own effort, attain something—and only that could bring contentment.

So my request is this: I am not telling you to set fires, because whatever you worshiped—if you set that on fire too—it would not be different from your worship. I am not telling you to do anything with the scriptures—don’t misunderstand me—I am telling you to do something with yourself. The issue is not with the Gita; it is with you. Not with the Quran and the Bible; it is with you. Your consciousness should be such that it is free of words and scripture, not bound by words and scripture—free, because freedom is the first condition for the search for truth.

There are one or two small, non-serious questions—let me address those as well. Then whatever questions remain, I will speak on them the day after tomorrow.

Someone asked me: Yesterday I said that a monkey told me that man’s fall has come from the monkeys; it is not evolution. So that person asked me, “Do monkeys also speak?”

I would like to say: for monkeys, speaking is absolutely natural; not speaking is very difficult. Monkeys simply cannot keep quiet. And if such a monkey were found who could keep quiet, there would be doubt—might this be a human being? To keep quiet! Maun! Silence! Impossible. Monkeys chatter a lot. It is another matter that you may not understand their language. But by observing those monkeys whose language you do understand, you can also infer something about those whose language you do not.

Someone once told me an incident; it came to mind.

A donkey, living in human company for long, learned to speak. Whom does human company not spoil! That donkey too was spoiled. He learned to speak. And when he learned to speak, the first thing he did was gather the other donkeys and become their leader. Whoever can learn to speak is bound to become a leader. Whether he is a donkey—what difference does it make? The donkey learned to speak, and after learning to speak the next step was: he became a leader. And naturally the third step after that was that he undertook a journey to Delhi. Whoever knows how to speak and can be a leader will then go to Delhi—where else will he live! On this earth there is hardly any other proper place to live! And once you reach Delhi, what is one to do...

The first thing he did—this is an old story—was he went to meet Pandit Nehru. There was a guard at the door, but as all guards sleep, that guard too was asleep. As it is the job of all watchmen to sleep—so he too was asleep. And had a human being gone in, the guard might have become a little alert; there is some fear of human beings. But since a donkey was going, he paid no attention. The donkey walked right in without any entry pass.

It was early morning and Nehru would walk in his garden. The donkey went after him. And Nehru was walking very briskly—indeed, it was almost running. The donkey too, panting somehow, went behind him. And he said, “Panditji!” Nehru was very startled, because he did not believe in ghosts and spirits. There was no human figure visible there that could be speaking. He looked all around carefully; no one was to be seen, only a donkey was standing there. So he called out loudly, “Who is it? Come before me! I am not one to believe in ghosts and spirits. Whoever you are, come forward!”

The donkey said, “Forgive me, I am standing right in front of you. My only fault is that I happen to speak a little. You won’t be annoyed, will you?”

Nehru said, “Be completely at ease. I am so very familiar, day in and day out, with speaking donkeys—day in and day out—that you need not worry at all. You speak.”

So the donkey said, “I was afraid—who knows whether you would prefer to meet me or not?”

Nehru said, “Who comes here to meet me besides donkeys anyway?”

Then who knows what they talked about; that I do not know. They must have had some conversation, because no newspaper has published it till now. There must have been some secrecy, some confidential matter—no newspaper has published it to this day.

But let man not remain in the illusion that he alone knows how to speak—let him not remain in that illusion. Everyone speaks.

Man alone is capable of attaining the state of not speaking. Man alone is capable of attaining the state of non-speaking, non-thinking. From that very unspeaking, that very silent state, the door opens—the door that belongs to the Divine.

So I mentioned the monkey in jest. And if you cannot understand a joke, how will you understand religion! It will be very difficult. People have become so serious in the world that they cannot even understand a joke—how will they understand the Divine! Very difficult.

These few things I have just said to you—and whatever I will say tomorrow and the day after tomorrow—are not with the idea that I am giving you knowledge. Do not remain in that illusion at all. And if you come with the idea that some knowledge can be had from me, then do not come. No, my entire effort is not to give you some knowledge, but to break the illusion of knowledge that you carry.

May God grant that your false knowledge shatters and that you can know that ignorance—the original ignorance that is within. Perhaps in that ignorance that pain, that heat, that agitation may arise; that affliction, that anguish may be born; your very life-breath may so writhe that from that writhing a revolution happens in your life. For that ignorance I will endeavor these four days.

I teach ignorance. Therefore if my words do not seem right, there is nothing to be surprised about, because one who teaches ignorance cannot seem right. One who teaches knowledge may seem right, because from him you return having learned something. One who teaches ignorance takes something else away from you. When you go home, you go having lost something.

May God grant that someday you go home having lost everything; perhaps on that very day, upon arriving home, what you receive will be God.

You have listened to my words with such love and peace; I am deeply obliged. I bow to the Divine seated within each of you. Please accept my salutations.