Maha Geeta #38

Certainly there is a difference between recitation and recitation. Mechanical repetition is not recitation. Having it by rote is not recitation. Only when it becomes heart-seated does it become true recitation. And to carry anything to the heart, utter alertness is needed; only then can the event happen. Rote learning, in fact, becomes a way to avoid waking up.

Any work you become skillful in no longer seems to need awareness. Drive a car when you’re new to it, learn to swim, learn to ride a bicycle—the first days demand great alertness; a slight lapse and you fall. Lapses are costly; so awareness becomes necessary. But once cycling, driving, swimming become familiar, awareness dims. Then you can smoke, sing, listen to the radio and drive; chat with a friend, think of a thousand things. Gradually the act of driving becomes so mechanical that psychologists say drivers sometimes nod off for a moment, and the car still keeps moving. Most accidents occur around three or four o’clock at night; psychologists say that is a depth-of-sleep window. The driver’s eyes droop, he imagines in a dream that the road is clearly visible—then the accident happens.

As one becomes expert at something, the need for awareness drops. So when I praise recitation, I do not mean skillful rote. It is precisely that “skill” which killed this country. There were people here who had the Vedas by heart, yet no flowering of the Veda in their lives—no blossoms, no fragrance.

They say Alexander wanted to take a Vedic samhita to Greece. In a village of Punjab he inquired where he could get a copy. He found that an old Brahmin had a manuscript of the Rigveda. Alexander surrounded his house and said, “Hand over the Rigveda, or I will burn your house, you, and the manuscript.” The Brahmin said, “There’s no need to be so troubled; I will hand it over in the morning. Keep your guards.” “Why do you need the night?” Alexander asked. The Brahmin replied, “To perform the rituals and farewells. For generations this text has been in our family; it deserves to be sent off with respect. In the morning I will offer it to you.”

Alexander saw no harm in that—the house was guarded, the Brahmin couldn’t run. He didn’t imagine subtler ways of “escape.” The Brahmin lit the sacrificial fire and began to recite the Rigveda.

By morning when Alexander arrived, the last page of the manuscript was in the Brahmin’s hand. He had read each page and consigned it to the fire, one by one. His son sat listening. When Alexander arrived, the Brahmin said, “Take my son. The Rigveda has been made by heart in him. This is the samhita. The scripture itself I could not give you; my guru forbade it. But my son I can give; there is no prohibition on that!”

Alexander could not believe that one recital would make the boy memorize the entire Rigveda. He summoned scholars and had the boy tested—he was astonished: the Veda was indeed by heart.

Many methods had been devised here to organize memory. For a very long time we did not even permit the Vedas to be written—there was no need. We had structured the human mind in such ways that texts could be inscribed on memory itself.

Mind is no small thing. The brain is a great event—the greatest event in existence. As many atoms as there are in the universe, so many bits of information can be contained in your small brain. All the libraries of the world—given time and method—could be stored in a single mind. You use hardly any of your brain. Even the finest philosophers, thinkers, seers, scientists use ten to fifteen percent; the remaining eighty-five percent simply lies unused. We had methods to organize the whole mind, to use the whole mind. The science of memory was explored completely. The Vedas could be memorized mechanically—like recording on a tape. But none of that makes one wise. To have the Veda by heart only means that man can repeat mechanically; he has become a parrot, not a knower.

Uddalaka said to his son Shvetaketu, “My son, remember one thing: you go to the guru’s house. Return knowing That by knowing which everything is known.” The boy was distressed. He learned everything that could be taught, but not That by knowing which all is known. He returned expert, accomplished in the Vedas, learned in all the scriptures. The father’s first question—one he feared—was, “Have you known That by knowing which all is known?”

Shvetaketu said, “Forgive me. Whatever my guru knew, I have learned. Whatever scriptures are available, I have mastered them—examine me if you wish. I passed my tests; that is why I could return. But of That by knowing which all is known, I found no trace.”

His father said, “Then go back again. In our home there have never been Brahmins in name only. In our family there have always been true Brahmins, not nominal ones. He who knows Brahman is the true Brahmin. The nominal Brahmin knows the Veda but not Brahman. And without knowing Brahman, knowing the Veda is meaningless. Go back. You have brought home rubbish. Know That by knowing which everything is known.”

Memorizing is one thing; there is no great virtue in it. Awakening is entirely another. Memorizing increases your stock of information; awakening brings a revolution in your consciousness. Awakening lights the lamp. Awakening makes you radiant, luminous. Awakening makes you a Buddha. Whether the Veda is by heart then or not—whatever you say becomes the Veda; each of your words becomes scripture.

So there is indeed a difference between recitation and recitation. You can read the Gita, the Quran, the Bible; read them every day and line after line will carve grooves. The rope that goes over the well-stone, coming and going, leaves a mark even on stone. Repetition will draw furrows in your brain; memory will form along those grooves.

But memory is not awareness; it is not wisdom. Then how should you recite? Recite in such a way that when you repeat the Veda, it doesn’t become mere repetition. Let it not be a routine. When you read the Gita or the Quran today, read as if new—as if you had never known it. And you haven’t known it. Had you known, what need would there be to read today? You missed until yesterday; hence the need to read today. Since you have not known, make today’s effort fresh, intensely alert. Whether you recite the Veda or the Quran, let a witness stand behind as you repeat. Don’t get lost in the repetition. Let the witness remain behind, watching that you are reading the Veda, reading the Quran, repeating. As the witnessing becomes full while you read…

…it is not what you read that gives birth to knowing. Reading is only a pretext, a device. Knowing arises from the awakening of the one standing alert behind. Therefore it is not necessary that you read the Veda. If you listen, wakefully, to the songs of birds, daily, that too becomes recitation. If you sit by a stream and listen, wakefully, to its murmur, that too becomes recitation.

Remember: wisdom is not born from reading the Veda. Reading is a device. Some device must be employed to invoke the witness. And what more beautiful device than the Veda! What sweeter device than the Quran! For the Quran arose from the consciousness of one who had attained knowing; some fragrance of Muhammad’s awareness clings to those words. There will be a taste of Muhammad there. Those tones arose from Muhammad’s emptiness; his music will be present. The Vedas arose from the inner illumination of rishis; whatever arises from a source carries news of that source. However muddy the Ganges may become, some trace of Gangotri still remains in its waters.

They are fine instruments—remember, instruments. The real work is awakening. On the one side, let the lips repeat the Gita, the Veda, the Quran, the Bible; on the other, let the witness stay awake behind, watching. Do not drown, do not go unconscious; otherwise you will end up able to recite without even opening the book—yet no revolution will happen in your life.

There is certainly a difference between recitation and recitation. Whatever passes in unconsciousness strengthens unconsciousness. Whatever passes in awareness strengthens awareness. Therefore, the more moments that pass in awareness, the better. Eat with awareness.

That is why Kabir says: “Whether I rise or sit, it is circumambulation; whatever I eat or drink, that is service.” No need to go to the temple for circumambulations. Rising and sitting are enough. No need to perform worship or offer food in a temple; even when I eat and drink, that too is service—because even there I watch, knowing it is an offering to the Divine. Outside of the Divine, there is nothing else. When you begin to see wakefully, every act becomes worship, every thought and every ripple is offered at his feet. All becomes his oblation; the whole of life becomes a song of offering.

Look, another moment has passed—
we lost, the age won.
If a moment goes in unconsciousness, you have lost.

Look, another moment has passed—
we lost, the age won.
If a moment goes in awareness, you have won, the age has lost.

Look, another moment has passed—
we lost, the age won.
All the sorrow on the lips,
imprisoned in the eyes;
on moonlight’s head
one more hair has turned white;
the sun’s sharp gaze
has gained another limb;
into the feet of the dream
one more thorn has lodged;
Rama kept weeping,
Sita dissolved into the past;
the Ramayana is over—
now begin the Gita.

Look, another moment has passed—
we lost, the age won.

But whether you finish the Ramayana or begin the Gita, if you go on sleeping, all is wasted. He who sleeps, loses; he who awakens, attains.

So when I speak in praise of recitation, remember: I want your whole life to become recitation. The Gita, the Quran, the Bible are beautiful—but they are not enough. Life is an unbroken stream. If you recite for an hour in the morning and wander lost for the remaining twenty-three, that recitation will not serve you. It is like cleaning one corner of the house while the rest remains filthy, dust swirling everywhere—will that corner stay clean? Or like leaving the whole body dirty and only splashing water on the face—fine, you can fool others, but you cannot fool yourself.

Religion must become an unbroken current. Wake up in the morning—wake up with awareness. Bathe—bathe with awareness. Then sit for worship and recitation—be aware in worship and recitation; it is a beautiful act. Go to your shop—be aware in the shop. Be aware in the marketplace. Return home—be aware at home. Go to sleep—be aware right up to the last moments of falling asleep.

At first, even while awake, awareness will slip again and again. Many times you will grasp it and it will slip away. The fist won’t hold; it scatters. Awareness is like mercury: grasp it and it scatters. Slowly the fist holds. Then you will be amazed—awareness remains in waking; and one day, suddenly, you will be startled to find that sleep has come and awareness remains. That day an unprecedented bliss is born! That day the flute begins to play! That day the gates of Vaikuntha open! That day heaven is yours. The day you fall asleep at night and the stream of awareness keeps flowing; you see your body asleep, your mind slack, tired, fallen; the day you are awake even in sleep—then nothing remains to be done; the circumambulation is complete. In the ordinary course, even while “awake” we are asleep. It should be the other way.

I say:
Be still now, O mind,
coiled like a serpent;
sleep where the source is.
Become a witness and watch.
Let the body’s dharma
move of itself.
As for your destination—
who has ever walked there?
Let the gold melt;
let it take shape by itself.

There is nowhere to go. Who has ever gone anywhere? If you become a simple witness, the gold shapes itself; the ornaments appear. The Divine pours himself, slides into you; you become luminous, you become a Buddha.

I say:
Be still now, O mind,
coiled like a serpent;
sleep where the source is.

And the source is your consciousness—your capacity to awaken. You have come from a vast wakefulness; you have descended from the Divine. There your roots spread.

Sleep where the source is.
Become a witness and watch.
Let the body’s dharma
move of itself.

Become a sakshi, a witness. Understand these two words: sakhi and sakshi. There are only two paths—either become the beloved (sakhi), the path of love; or become the witness (sakshi), the path of knowledge. The difference is only a single vowel, a tiny diacritic—nothing big.

So when I spoke about recitation, I meant becoming a witness. Become a witness. Then you will be amazed: there remains no quarrel—one reads the Gita, another the Quran, another the Dhammapada—no quarrel at all. If all three are cultivating witnessing, what quarrel can there be? The event happens through witnessing, not through the Gita or the Quran. Then what is there to fight about? Until now the quarrel has been that the Gita-follower says, “Knowledge comes from reading the Gita,” and the Quran-follower says, “It comes from the Quran; has it ever come from the Gita? How could it!” I tell you: neither the Gita nor the Quran produces knowledge; it arises from recitation done in the spirit of witnessing. Then the matter changes. Read the Gita with witnessing—then it will happen through the Gita. Read the Quran with witnessing—then it will happen through the Quran.

You will be astonished to know that Krishnamurti read nothing but detective novels. Even a detective novel will do—it is a matter of witnessing. You will be surprised—detective novels and Krishnamurti! But he says, “I am fortunate I never read the Gita, the Quran, the Bible,” seeing how many unfortunate people are entangled in them. Even a detective novel will do—if read wakefully. If you watch a film wakefully, meditation happens. It doesn’t matter where you are or what you are doing; what matters is how you are—awake or asleep. If you are not awake, the Divine knocks at your door and goes back, again and again; he finds you asleep. You don’t hear the knock. Or if you do in your sleep, you misunderstand it.

They came and went,
moments, again and again,
so generous—
how many times were they deceived!
Windows rang,
leaves trembled,
something hovered over the buds.
I saw
sun-rays run
right up to the door,
but seeing the closed doors
they hesitated, silent—
like secret conversations
they turned back.
Who were they?
The sun went down;
they came and went.
Hurt,
they turned back again.
They came and returned,
moments, again and again,
so generous—
how many times were they deceived!

The Beloved comes every moment; you do not wake up—so the meeting cannot happen. He comes with every ray, every breath, every heartbeat; you are asleep—so the meeting cannot happen. It is as if I come to your house and you lie fast asleep, snoring—how will we meet? To meet the Divine, you must awaken as the Divine is awake. Awakening meets awakening. The awakened and the sleeping do not meet. If you sleep and I sit by your side with my hand on your head, even then there is no meeting—you sleep, I am awake. Two sleeping ones do not meet; nor does one awake and one asleep. Only when both are awake is there meeting.

Become a witness. Then you will find that whatever you do, gradually, it all becomes recitation.

First thing: the crowd is as it has been and will remain so; don’t entangle yourself with it. The ultimate truths of life have been available only to individuals, not to the crowd. They cannot be available to the crowd—there is no way. The crowd belongs to the unconscious. There, even in the name of religion, only sin will proceed; behind the most beautiful slogans, murder will march. Hindus will butcher Muslims, Muslims will butcher Hindus. Christians will kill Muslims, Muslims will kill Christians. Hindus uprooted the Buddhists and finished them off.

Today no one even raises the question of how many Buddhist monks Hindus burned, how many monasteries were set on fire. To raise it would itself ignite trouble and strife. No one brings it up. Mahavira’s influence was so immense—how did the Jains go on shrinking into little pockets? How many Jain monks were killed, burned; how many temples erased—there is no reckoning. Not even the facility to keep accounts. It is not considered proper to raise it; a riot would erupt instantly.

The sins man has committed in the name of religion he has committed in the name of nothing else. Even politics falls behind in that respect. As many people as have been killed and have died in the name of religion, so many have not been killed even in the name of the state. If you simply keep the account of sin, one thing is certain: the greatest sins in the world have been through religion, not through anything else. And those whom you call saints and holy men are at the very root of the unrest; they inflame you, they set you against each other—while handing out beautiful, appealing slogans.

Now if a Sikh guru declares that the gurdwara is in danger, killing and dying are immediately on the agenda—as if man exists to save the gurdwara! If Muslims shout that Islam is in danger, Muslims go mad—Islam must be saved! This is a great joke. Is it you who must save Islam, or was Islam supposed to save you? Or someone goes and breaks somebody’s Ganesha—the poor thing was already sitting ready to topple, such a heavy head, someone must have just given a push and he fell flat on his back! Danger! Hinduism is in peril! And now, because these clay or stone Ganeshas fell, who knows how many living Ganeshas will be murdered. And the irony is that you worshiped these Ganeshas to protect you, and now you have to protect them! What a strange joke. What a contradiction.

You have to protect God? You have to protect religion? Then that is not religion; it is your projection, your mind’s web. These are mere pretexts for fighting and killing. Then great assurances are handed out. The mullahs of Islam explain that if you die in a holy war, in jihad, heaven is guaranteed. Temptations are lavished: whoever dies in a religious war becomes beloved of the Lord. No one comes back to tell. Nothing is known by return. But how will killing and dying make one beloved of God? One becomes dear to God through love, for no other reason. God stands for life. He is pleased by that which enhances life, whose energy opens new doors of auspiciousness in life, that which is a blessing to life. He is pleased with whatever is on the side of life. The more creative one is, the more religious.

The crowd has always created disturbances; it cannot exist without turmoil. Psychologists say the crowd is in such a stupor that it must have some pretext to fight and kill. You have seen it: when Hindus and Muslims were together in India, Hindus and Muslims fought. It was thought that if India and Pakistan separated, the quarrel would end. It did not. When Hindus and Muslims were no longer there to fight—those who fight had not disappeared; the human beings remained the same—then Gujaratis began to fight Marathis. Then Hindi speakers began to fight non–Hindi speakers. Then whether a district should be in Karnataka or in Maharashtra—knives started flashing over that. What a joke! Earlier one could at least say Hindus and Muslims had opposite religions, so they quarreled; now Hindus fight Hindus! Gujaratis are Hindus, Marathis are Hindus; but who will control Bombay? And knives come out. It seems man remains the same.

Separate the Gujarati from Bombay—and the Marathi will fight the Marathi. Deshastha or Konkanastha?

Someone asked Vinoba, “Are you a Deshastha Brahmin or a Konkanastha?” Vinoba said, “I am a swastha Brahmin—a healthy Brahmin.” The reply is right, but not quite right. Being healthy is enough—why drag in a dirty word like “Brahmin”? It would have sufficed to say, “I am healthy.” To be swastha—centered in oneself—is what “Brahmin” should mean. One who is established in oneself, swastha—that is a Brahmin. Why make the redundancy, “I am a healthy Brahmin”? Because there is danger in it: tomorrow “Healthy Brahmins” will take up a separate flag—kill the Konkanasthas, kill the Deshasthas; we are Healthy Brahmins! But still Brahmins! Had Vinoba been more gracious, he would have cut away even “Brahmin.” Being healthy is enough. Let a person be centered in himself—that is sufficient.

But only very few individuals become centered in themselves; the crowd never does, it cannot.

I have seen the crowd
carrying the burden of imposed discipline,
flinging meaningless slogans,
fighting others’ wars,
digging its own graves;
but I have never heard
of any crowd ever forcibly
plucking the unfading parijat blossom
of felt experience
that blooms in the inner consciousness
of an individual!

The flowers of individual consciousness the crowd has never plucked—the crowd cannot. The crowd never becomes a Buddha; an individual becomes a Buddha.

People come to me and ask, “Why don’t you do something for society?” One can do something only for the individual; nothing can be done for “society.” And the moment you get ready to do something for society, you step into politics. Religion relates to the individual; society relates to politics. Religion has no relation to society. Religion is antisocial. Religion is individualistic—because it trusts in the individual’s total freedom, in spontaneity.

You ask: “In human life crimes spread from lies to rape and murder.”

They always have; they always will. It is as if someone comes to me and says, “Look, in a hospital diseases from tuberculosis to cancer are rampant!” Well, in a hospital they will be; if not in a hospital, where else? That is what a hospital is for. Healthy people don’t stay in a hospital; diseases do. Only the diseased are in the hospital. Ask the wisdom of the East and it says: those soaked in sin are the ones sent into the world. Out of them a few understand this truth and rise beyond the crowd; they become like lotuses. Then their coming back ceases.

This world that you speak of is a hospital for sinners. That is why in India we never longed for repeated birth. Those who know say, “O Lord, free us from the round of birth and death! O potter, now release this clay! We are tired of whirling on your wheel. Now give us a holiday.”

What is the meaning of moksha? Simply this: we have seen enough—here there is nothing but disease, on this shore only disease breeds—now call us back to the other shore!

This becomes visible to an individual. The crowd goes on running like the blind—after greed, wealth, position, respectability—running, rushing! In the midst of this crowd, one or two slip out. It is a wonder that anyone can slip out. The net of the crowd is very strong. It does not allow anyone to move outside it. In every way it sits on your chest and grips you by the throat.

Just yesterday a friend asked, “You say live by nature, in spontaneity, in freedom. It is very difficult, because there is society, there is the state; if we live spontaneously, to the rhythm within, many obstacles will arise.”

He asked rightly. Obstacles will arise. Those very obstacles are your austerity. I told him: as far as possible, live by your own nature; and where it seems that to do so would make living impossible, there act—play a role. Do not take it seriously there; make it a play.

A rightly aware person lives in spontaneity. But since we have to live among the crowd, and not all can run away from it—where would they go? If all ran away, there too a crowd would form. So there is no such solution. The same disturbances would begin there. Wherever there is a crowd, there is turmoil. Nor does disturbance end by being alone, because if the crowd were only outside you could go to the forest and it would be over. But the crowd has entered you. Even in the forest you will remain a Hindu—the crowd has entered within. Even in the forest you will chant the name of Rama or of Allah—the crowd has entered within. Even sitting in the forest you will not easily be free of the crowd’s conditionings. Had the crowd been only outside, it would be very easy; but it has gone inside. It has made a home in you. Therefore there is only one way now: remain in the crowd to the extent necessary.

And for ninety percent you can live spontaneously; ten percent there will be hindrance. Take that hindrance as drama, as acting. Take it as a game. For example, the rule on the road is “keep to the left.” Now your spontaneity may feel like walking in the middle—still, don’t, because there is no point in it. That kind of “freedom” has nothing to do with anything. Keep to the left. If everyone walked “freely,” walking on the road would become impossible. Even with rules, what a hassle it is—walking is difficult enough. So follow the rule. That is a simple acceptance—accept it consciously: this much is the price we pay to live with the crowd. Ninety percent we free ourselves and offer ourselves to the Divine; ten percent we pay as the price of living with the crowd.

A price has to be paid for everything; nothing comes without cost. But remember one thing: religion has nothing to do with the crowd; religion relates to spontaneity. Spontaneity belongs to the individual. The soul belongs to the individual; the crowd has no soul.
It is asked: “Since time immemorial, saints and great men have inspired virtuous deeds.”
For the most part, it is these saints and great men who are the source of the trouble. Not all among them are people of realized knowledge. Out of your hundred saints and great men, perhaps one is a liberated soul; the rest belong to the crowd. Most have nothing to do with religion. They may be “of good character”—but what does that mean? “Good character” means one who falls in line with society, accepts the norms society has laid down, honors its code of conduct.

That’s why you see Rama enjoys such great prestige. People even take Krishna’s name a bit timidly. Even a devotee of Krishna chooses carefully what to speak of Krishna. Surdas, for example, sings only of Krishna’s childhood; when it comes to Krishna’s youth, Surdas seems afraid to go there—because youth is risky. Childhood is all right: breaking the milkmaids’ pots—fine. But when a young man breaks things, it becomes a mess. So Surdas makes his selection—Bala-Krishna! He does not go beyond that. He keeps the child hopping about—anklets tinkling, the child frolicking. He doesn’t let you go further, because up to there, even if Krishna teases, it will do. But when he grows up and begins stealing women’s clothes and perches atop trees, there’s a snag; there Surdas hesitates.

Most people accept Krishna only because of the Gita. Up to the Gita, Krishna is complete for them; they don’t venture into the Bhagavata. The Bhagavata is dangerous. The Krishna of the Gita is acceptable; no difficulty there. But Rama is acceptable in his entirety. Have you noticed the difference? Rama, from beginning to end, is embraced. He is Maryada-Purushottam—the supreme upholder of decorum. He does exactly what “should” be done. Krishna is not one you can rely on—he is too free, too spontaneous, living from consciousness.

Yet, if you understand, those who have known say Rama is an “aṃśāvatār”—a partial incarnation—while Krishna is a “pūrṇāvatār”—a full incarnation. The meaning is clear. In Rama, the divine is present in part; in Krishna, it is present in full—because the freedom is total. In Rama there are mere splashes of the divine; Krishna is the full Ganges. But to embrace Krishna requires capacity.

Those you call saints and great men are, by and large, people who go along with your conditioning. A Jain calls someone a saint according to his own definition: no eating at night, water filtered before drinking, eating only once a day—his particular definition. That is not the Hindu’s definition; the Hindu has no problem there. For a Digambara Jain, the definition is that a saint lives naked. So unless someone is naked, he is not a saint; the moment he becomes naked he is a saint—even if he got naked out of madness, still, a saint. That’s why Jains don’t call Buddha “Bhagwan” (Lord); they call Mahavira “Bhagwan,” and Buddha they call “Mahatma” (a respectable figure)—“All right, workable, lukewarm; he hasn’t attained the final state. In the final state, there is Digambarhood!” Mahavira stands naked.

The Jains cannot even call Krishna a Mahatma. They have consigned him to hell—the seventh hell! Because Krishna brought about a war. All the violence of the Mahabharata is put on Krishna. Poor Arjuna was escaping; he wished to be a Jain. He kept saying, “Let it go, Master; this violence doesn’t suit me. I will go to the forest, sit beneath a tree, and meditate.” He was ready to run away. Krishna dragged him back, counseled him, coerced him—caught a poor man in the net! So, for the violence and killing, who is responsible? For all the bloodshed in the Mahabharata, who takes the blame? Surely not Arjuna. Only Krishna can. Any court would place the responsibility on Krishna. Arjuna was at most an accomplice, but the principal center of the whole “disturbance” is Krishna. So Jains have put him in the seventh hell.

Now, Jains aren’t many; they fear the Hindus, so they’ve left a loophole: In the next cosmic cycle, when creation is renewed, until then Krishna will have to remain in hell; but he is a man of caliber—this is also true—so in the next creation he will be the first Tirthankara. That way the Hindus are also appeased. In the next creation—whenever it happens—he’ll be the first Tirthankara; but until then he will rot in hell.

Who is a saint, who a great soul? It’s difficult to say. The Jains are not even willing to accept Krishna as a saint. Would you call Muhammad a saint—with a sword in hand? Would you call Jesus a saint?

I was speaking with a Jain muni. He asked, “Why do you praise Jesus so much? He was hanged!” I said, “Indeed, he was.” He said, “One is hanged only if one committed some great sin in a past life; otherwise how would a hanging happen?” The logic seems neat. Even a thorn pricks only as a fruit of karma; so a hanging… In the Jain reckoning, those who hang you are not as responsible as the one being hanged—because he must have committed great sins. How can such a one be called a saint!

In the Jain account, if Mahavira walks along a path and a thorn lies upright, it quickly rolls over on its side. Mahavira is approaching; a thorn cannot pierce him; he has done no sin. A noose becomes a garland of flowers—if it had been put around Mahavira’s neck. But Jesus… how can he be a saint! Difficult.

Ask a Christian. He says: “What is there in your Mahavira, Buddha, and all the rest? They care nothing for life. They are all selfish, sitting under their trees, doing their own meditation. Look at Jesus—active for the welfare of all, ready to be crucified for the salvation of all! He gave his life. He is the saint, the martyr!”

It’s all a matter of definitions. But let me say this: If you look very carefully, setting aside all definitions, you will find that out of a hundred “great souls” maybe one will truly appear to be a great soul. Who is a great soul? The one whose hand is in God’s hand—only that one. Such a one is very difficult to recognize. As long as you are a Hindu, you will have a tendency to call a Hindu saint a saint; as long as you are a Jain, you will have a tendency to call a Jain saint a saint. These biases won’t let you recognize a saint. Drop all your biases; then open your eyes and look. You will be shocked: out of your hundred great souls, ninety-nine are politicians and busy serving society. Their work is the same as that of the police. They are occupied with managing society. What a magistrate does, your “saint” also does. The magistrate says, “I’ll send you to jail”; the saint says, “You’ll go to hell if you sin.” The saint says, “If you do good deeds, you will go to heaven.” They are stoking your greed and fear.

So, when you say: “Since ancient times, saints have inspired good deeds…”

First, it’s not certain how many among them are true saints. Second, in the very inspiration to do good is hidden the provocation toward what is called evil. A real saint does not inspire you to action at all; he inspires you to non-doership. Understand this. This is the very essence of the Ashtavakra Gita. It does not tell you: Do good deeds. It says: Become a non-doer! You did not do, you are not doing—be established in that witnessing, become a sakshi.

The real saint constantly says that action belongs to the Divine, not to you. You are merely an instrument. Keep watching. Let this play of nature and the Divine go on. Let this bustle go on; you remain awake, watching. Do not even take sides—this is bad, this good; I will do this, I won’t do that. Let whatever happens, happen; you remain merely a dispassionate witness. Let there be reflection in you like a mirror—but let no judgment arise of good and bad.

A real saint makes you a non-doer. Those you call saints—I understand what you mean—they inspire you toward “good deeds.” And what does “good deeds” mean? Whatever society calls good.

Consider this. A disciple of Lao Tzu became a magistrate in China. The very first case came up. A man had stolen from a rich man’s house—and the magistrate sentenced both of them, thief and rich man alike, to six months. The rich man protested, “Are you out of your mind? Do you know anything of law and order? Why am I being punished? He robbed me, and I am punished! This is the limit.”

The case went to the emperor. The emperor was puzzled—he had appointed this man with thought, a wise man. What is this? Has anyone ever heard of punishing the one who was robbed? The emperor asked, “What is your intention?” The magistrate said, “The intention is clear. This man has amassed so much wealth—if there were no thefts, what else would happen? He is the cause of thieves being born. As long as he keeps hoarding the wealth of the whole village, it is not right to hold only the thief responsible. People are starving, have no clothes, and he keeps piling up more. He has so much that to call a theft from his house a sin is not right. If he had robbed from a poor man’s house, it would have been a crime; but theft from his house—where is the crime? And he himself is a thief. How else has so much wealth been amassed? If you keep me in office, I will punish both. If he hadn’t hoarded, there would have been no theft.”

Now, what does your “saint” say? He says: “Do not steal!” Therefore, the rich man is always on the saint’s side. He says, “Absolutely right, Maharaj, one must never steal!”—because theft cuts against the rich man. For centuries, those who have possessions have stood by the “saints,” and the “saints” have blessed those who possess. And the saints have invented intricate, crafty devices to protect what the possessors possess. They say, “You are poor because of sins in your past birth. That man is rich because of merits in his past birth.”

What a delicious trick! The man is exploiting now—that’s why he is rich. This man is being exploited—that’s why he is poor. But the device says, “You are poor because of past-life sins.” And nobody knows a thing about past lives. The past life is just a story—maybe, maybe not. On the basis of a past life, to run this con game—then Marx begins to look right: people have turned religion into an opium; the poor are drugged, made to believe they are reaping their own karma.

Then there are practical snags. We see daily: the dishonest man, the swindler, is making money; he isn’t suffering the fruit of sin. The honest man goes hungry. Yet the “saint” keeps explaining, “Wait, in His house there may be delay but not darkness.” Who discovered this “delay”? “There’s delay, but not injustice—just wait! Let him do it in this life; in the next life, see—this dishonest man will rot!” Strange! Put your hand in fire and it burns now—no delay. But steal and you’ll reap the fruit in the next life! Practice honesty and you don’t get joy now; you’ll get it in the next life! Is this not chicanery? Is this not the net spun by society’s exploiters?

Whom do you call a saint? Most of your saints have been partisans of a rigid, exploitative social order. They call those deeds “good” which keep the status quo intact; they call those deeds “bad” which disturb it—lest the position of those who have be unsettled.

That is why I say there is a tie between the moneyed seth and the sannyasi—and therefore your sannyasi turns out to be a spoiler of truth.

No social revolution could ever happen in this land. It could not—because we discovered such devices that revolution became impossible. We invented counter-revolutionary doctrines. Your saints did keep speaking, granted; but what they said had little power—it was a deception. Hence it bore no result.

And what your saints said often seems contrary to nature and temperament. They teach people upside-down things which cannot be, which don’t accord with their nature. When such things cannot come to pass, a sense of sin is born in them. For instance, hunger arises. You prescribe fasting. You say, “Fasting is a virtuous deed; hunger is sin. Fasting is merit—so fast!” It is the body’s property to feel hunger. It is natural. There is no sin in it. Nor is there any inherent merit in fasting. If you instill the dangerous notion that fasting is merit, you set a trap. If you fast you’ll be in trouble, because you will feel hungry—then you’ll think, “How sinful I am—I feel hunger!” If you eat, you will feel guilty: “What kind of person am I that I could not succeed in fasting?” You have been thrown into a net you cannot escape.

“Sexual desire is sin!” But you were born through sexual desire. The whole play of life stands on sexual desire. Every hair of you is formed by it; every atom of your body is composed of sex-energy. And you say sexual desire is sin!

Young men come to me and say, “Very bad thoughts are arising.” I ask, “Tell me—what bad thoughts?” They say, “How can we tell you? You understand. Very bad thoughts!” This is the blessing of your saints. When I press and probe, they admit, “Thoughts of women arise.” What is bad here? Had such thoughts not arisen in your father, where would you be? What is bad? It is natural. To go beyond it is certainly important, but there is nothing bad in it; there is no sin in it—it is natural. To transcend it is indeed glorious, because whoever goes beyond nature deserves glory. So the one who attains to brahmacharya deserves honor; the one who has not attained does not deserve condemnation.

Understand me rightly. One who is in sexual desire is natural, healthy, normal; there is nothing to condemn; what ought to be is happening. But when one begins to move beyond sexual desire, then something great is happening—some higher law beyond nature begins to operate in his life. This is auspicious. Welcome it. In my view, the higher rungs deserve welcome; the lower rungs do not deserve condemnation. Because condemnation has harmful consequences. By condemning the lower rungs, you do not gain the higher rungs; you only create such disturbance on the lower steps that crossing over becomes almost impossible.

If you accept sexual desire naturally, one day you will go beyond it. Be a witness. Be a sakshi. Don’t weep and wail, don’t shout, don’t call it names, don’t hurl abuses. If God has given sex, there must be a purpose. Nothing can be without purpose. If He has given it to all, surely there is a great purpose.

And have you ever heard of a eunuch attaining Buddhahood? Have you ever? No—because it is the same sex-energy that becomes Buddhahood. The same sex-energy, slowly freed from craving, freed from lust, becomes Ram.

Gold lies in ore, in the mine. It is true it must be purified. But there is no condemnation of the gold smeared with earth. That is how it begins. The gold has to come out of the mine. When it comes out, there will be dross mixed with it. Then it is passed through fire; the dross burns away; what is to remain remains.

If one passes through the fire of life with witnessing, whatsoever is false drops away by itself; you don’t have to fight it.

Your saints have put a noose around your neck. They have so frightened you—“all is sin, all is wrong!”—that you are so filled with self-condemnation your life is saturated with melancholy; nowhere does a ray of the sun appear.

Accept life. Life belongs to the Lord. Accept it as He has given it. And out of that very acceptance, slowly you will find that as you remain awake, awakening dawns—and everything is transformed.

Your saints have not freed you from wrongdoing; they have only given you the guilt of being a sinner. And once guilt arises, a great obstacle arises in life—they have placed a stone upon your chest.

I see it now: you love your wife, and at the same time you think, “Because of her I am in hell!” Then even love becomes impossible—for how can you love the one because of whom you are in hell! You embrace your wife—you embrace with one arm, and push away with the other. There is no satisfaction in the embrace. If there were satisfaction, you would move beyond. But satisfaction does not come, because you never embrace fully; the saints stand in between. You are embracing your wife; the saints stand in the middle. They say, “What are you doing? This is a misdeed.” Because of them, you never embrace your wife fully. And he who has never fully embraced a woman will never be free of woman.

Our freedom happens through knowing. Whatever is truly known—by that we are freed. Know rightly. And to know, it is necessary to experience. Go as deep into experience as you can. Know the experience through and through. In the very knowing you will be free; then nothing remains to be known. When nothing remains to be known, there is liberation.

It is because of the saints that you are not becoming free of sexual desire. And because of the saints you are not becoming free of many things in life—because they do not let you know; they keep you stuck; they keep you entangled.

So you ask, “Saints have always inspired virtuous deeds…”

It is because of their inspiration that you have gone astray. I call only those “saints” who inspire witnessing—not “good deeds.” Because with “good deeds,” the feeling of “bad deeds” has already crept in. With “good deeds” comes condemnation, comes valuation. Those who taught you to be free of valuations—I call only them saints. I call Ashtavakra a saint. I call Janaka a saint. Understand their message. Nowhere do they say what is bad and what is good. They say only this: whatever is, as it is, see it while awake. Awakening is the only thing of value. Not action—non-doership.

We say, don’t take it badly—
Youth is a sweet, golden shadow,
A dream, a magic, a trick,
A line drawn on water,
The world watches daily the spectacle of its making and unmaking;
This tickle, this ailment,
It titillates the mind, wears the body thin.
We say, don’t take it badly—
Youth is a sweet, golden shadow.

It is a shadow—yet very sweet, very golden! There is no condemnation in this. It is beautiful, golden, very sweet—but it is a shadow, maya, a line drawn on water; even as you draw it, it vanishes. A dream seen with closed eyes—perhaps a dream seen within a dream.

Have you ever dreamed that, within the dream, you are going to sleep and then begin to dream? At night you slept; you dreamed that you were standing in your bedroom and about to sleep. You lay down on the bed, fell asleep—and began to dream. A dream within a dream; and within that, yet another dream is possible.

This whole life is itself a dream; within it are smaller dreams—someone dreams of wealth, someone of position, someone of sex. Within the small dream there are still smaller dreams. The seed is dream; then there are branches, trees, fruits, flowers—all dreams. And all are beautiful—because it is His maya. This play too contains some deep teaching; some great message is hidden in it.

So I don’t say to you that this is wrong; nor do I say to you that it is right. I say only this: it is a dream—wake up and it will break.

Inspiring good deeds means: in a dream you became a thief; a saint came and said, “See, to be a thief is very bad; be a holy man.” In the dream you became a holy man. Whether in the dream you were a thief or a holy man—what difference does it make? In the morning, all will be equal. Whether you were writing hymns on water or hurling abuses—what difference does it make? On water, all drawn lines vanish. You cannot say, “Let mine not vanish because I was writing hymns.” You cannot say, “Let the other’s vanish, all right, because he wrote abuses; I was writing ‘Ram-Ram’—mine should not vanish.” But on water, whatever line you draw—auspicious or inauspicious—everything is equal.

In this world, good deeds and bad deeds are equal. This is the ultimate proclamation. Wherever you hear this proclamation, know that you have come near a saint.

If a so-called saint says, “Do good deeds—don’t black-market, don’t steal, pay your taxes on time,” then he is a national saint. He is in politics. He is a government agent. He is saying: Do as the government wants. I am not telling you to black-market. I am not telling you not to pay taxes. I am telling you: whoever speaks thus is a political operator.

That is why politicians visit certain saints—the ones who support them politically. Naturally there is collusion. The saint who says, “Maintain discipline in the country”—those in power go to him: “Absolutely right.” But those not in power distance themselves: “This is too much! If discipline remains, how will we get to power?”

So the one in power goes to the saint of discipline, who says discipline is a great good. And the one out of power goes to the “revolutionary” saint, who says, “Break everything, destroy everything.” When he gets to power, he will change saints; then he will also go to the disciplinarian. And the one who was in power—once out—he too will begin to trust turmoil, calling it “revolution,” “democracy,” “people’s power”—fine names! But such things have nothing to do with saintliness.

Or, a saint teaches you petty codes of conduct: “Anuvrat—don’t do this, don’t do that!” He teaches you convenience in living. No—this too has nothing to do with it. These are shareholders of the social order, the social establishment. A real saint never tells you what to do. A real saint tells you only this: Know who you are. After that knowing, whatever happens will be right; without that knowing, whatever you are doing is wrong.

Understand this very well. There is full scope for misunderstanding.

People come to me and say, “Tell us what to do.” I say, “I have nothing to do with your doing. I can tell you only how to wake up. I can tell you only how you can know who you are. If you come to know who you are, if you get a little taste of inner consciousness—then whatever you do will be right. Then you cannot do wrong—because to do wrong, you need unconsciousness.”

Understand it this way. Until now you have mostly been told: If you do right, you will become a saint. I tell you: Become a saint, and right will begin to happen. You have been told: If you practice good conduct, you will become holy. I tell you: Become holy within, and good conduct will follow. Conduct is outside; saintliness is inside. First bring forth the inner. When the heart changes, conduct changes. And after the heart has changed, the extraordinary event that happens—that alone is valuable. You become free—and yet, because of you no one is harmed. You begin to live by your own rhythm—your own tune, your own song—and yet no one is harmed because of you.

Now there are two kinds of people. One: those who harm others—you call them sinners, wrongdoers. Two: those who harm themselves for the good of others—you call them saints. There is not much difference between the two. One harms others; one harms himself—both harm. I call him a saint who harms no one—neither another, nor himself. Only when such a rare event happens does a ray of religion descend. This event does not happen to the crowd—it cannot.
It is asked again: “In this context, please explain how today’s ‘enlightened’ class should solve the disorder-born problems of human life?”
Whom do you call enlightened? Because you got a university degree? Because you managed to publish a few articles in two-bit newspapers? Whom do you call enlightened? Because you can spout a little nonsense in a logically dressed-up way? Whom do you call enlightened?

“Enlightened” is a very big word. Do you call an intellectual enlightened? Because he is a schoolmaster? A college professor? Being an intellectual is one thing; being enlightened is quite another. Enlightened means: one who has awakened; who has become a buddha; in whom the inner lamp is lit! And if the inner lamp is lit, will he then ask how to solve the disorder-born problems of human life? Then what kind of enlightenment is that? If someone says, “A lamp is burning in my house; now please tell me how to get the darkness out,” what will we say to him? We will say you are under an illusion—the lamp cannot be burning. When the lamp is lit, darkness goes out by itself. If you are still asking how to remove darkness, your lamp must be extinguished; you must have dreamed that it was lit—it isn’t. Perhaps the lamp is borrowed; you picked up someone else’s and brought it home. You have not poured your own life-breath into that flame. Your soul is not burning, not radiant.

Become enlightened! That is the whole endeavor. Neither education makes anyone enlightened, nor becoming an intellectual, nor the capacity for argument. One becomes enlightened by becoming a witness. And then—then you do not ask how to solve the problems born of disorder. You see that the solution lies in witnessing. As it resolved everything for you, so it will for others. Then you engage in helping people become witnesses. That is exactly what Mahavira did for forty years, what Buddha did. What were they teaching people? They were saying, “We have awakened; you also wake up.” In awakening is the solution.

That is exactly what I am doing. I do not tell you what kind of conduct to adopt. All this talk of conduct is drivel. It has been preached enough, and you still could not manage it. Because of that very doing you have become dejected, filled with a depressed sense of worthlessness. I tell you: wake up! I have seen one thing—by awakening, all problems are resolved; without awakening, no problem is resolved. At most, you can swap problems. You will replace one problem with another, then that with a third; but it makes no difference—the problem stands where it is. In awakening lies the solution. But you can awaken others only when you yourself have awakened—never before. One whose soul is unlit cannot kindle another’s soul.
There’s a hitch. The one who has asked longs to remove people’s problems born of their vices. Tend to your own first. Then you will understand.
A man came to Buddha and said, “Please tell me how I can serve people.” Buddha looked at him—and something that had never happened before happened: a tear came to his eye. The man was a bit startled. He asked, “A tear in your eye—what is the matter?” Buddha said, “I feel great compassion for you. You have not served yourself yet—how will you serve others?”

It often happens that those who rush to serve others are the very people trying to flee from their own problems. I know many social workers. There is no peace in their own lives, yet they are busy bringing peace to others. And often, because of them, unrest enters others’ lives, not peace. If the world’s social workers would kindly just sit quietly in their own places, a great service would be done. But they create a great commotion.

I have heard: a Christian pastor told the children in his school, “At least one good deed must be done each day.” Next day he asked, “Did anyone do a good deed?” Three boys stood up. He asked the first, “What did you do?” He said, “I helped an old woman cross the road.” He asked the second; he said, “I too helped an old woman cross the road.” The pastor thought, “Well, both found old women!” Then he said, “Possible—there’s no shortage of old women.” He asked the third, “And you?” He said, “I also helped an old woman cross the road.” The pastor said, “All three of you found old women?” They replied, “There weren’t three—there was only one old woman. And she didn’t even want to cross; we managed somehow after great difficulty. But we made her cross!”

These so-called social workers don’t even care whether you want to cross or not; they will drag you across! They say, “We will get you across, come what may.” They don’t even look to see if you consent to be served.

I was traveling in Rajasthan, returning from Udaipur. It must have been around two in the night. A man climbed into the compartment. He immediately began pressing my feet. I said, “Brother, at least let me sleep!”

He said, “You sleep, but I will do service.”

“If you keep serving, how will I sleep?”

He said, “Now please don’t interrupt. I came even in Udaipur, but they wouldn’t let me enter. I said to myself, ‘You’ll return by train; you will pass by my village!’ Now I’ll serve for two or three stations at least. You don’t say a word in between.”

I said, “All right then—no issue. If this is service, go ahead.”

Often, those who are “serving” you—have you ever looked closely to see whether you even want to be served? Do those you serve actually want service?

A friend came to me; he works to educate tribals, opening schools. He had given his life to it—full of certificates from presidents and prime ministers! And the job of such people is to give certificates; little else is visible. He had them all neatly filed. He said, “I have done so much service.” He wanted one from me too. I said I would give no certificate, because I must first ask the tribals—do they want to be educated? He said, “What do you mean?” I said, “I mean this: ask those who are already educated—what have they gained by it? They are weeping! And you poor fellows are making even the poor tribals ‘educated.’ They are good people. They have no ambition, no urge to run to Delhi. You are forcing education down their throats. First be sure that those who became educated have had any flowers bloom in their lives.”

He grew a little uneasy. He said, “I never thought of that.”

I asked, “How many years have you been serving?”

“About forty years.”

He was near seventy. I said, “Forty years of service, and before beginning you didn’t even ask what education has brought into the world! Over there in America, another trend is underway. The biggest educationists are saying: shut it down.

“D. H. Lawrence wrote: Close all universities and all schools for a hundred years, and ninety percent of mankind’s troubles would cease.

“Ivan Illich has just made a proclamation; his new proposal is: ‘Deschooling Society.’ He says, end the schools. Free society from schooling.”

I asked him, “Before beginning your forty years of service, at least think what you are going to give! The tribal is happier than you, more carefree than you, closer to nature than you—content with simple fare, immensely rich in having nothing; he dances to the evening stars, sleeps at night—in such a state of ahobhava!”

Bertrand Russell wrote that when, for the first time, he saw tribals dancing in a forest, envy arose in him—“If only I could dance like that too—but now it is difficult! If only, with ankle-bells on, my feet could also skip to the beat of the drum!”

Do you not feel envy seeing tribals dance? Do you not feel envy seeing the simplicity of their eyes?

Wherever education has reached, all the trouble has reached. In Bastar, until thirty years ago, there were no murders among tribals. And if ever one occurred, the one who committed it would walk a hundred, a hundred-and-fifty miles himself and inform the magistrate and the police, saying, “I have committed a murder; give me whatever punishment is due.” There was no theft. First, people possessed nothing worth stealing; second, objects had no value. Where life has value, what value can objects have? But these social workers!

He became very anxious. He said, “You mean I have wasted my life!”

I said, “Not merely wasted—it has been squandered in a most dangerous way. You have taken others’ lives. If you had wasted your own, it is your life.”

He said, “You are making me very sad. I have gone to many people; everyone has given me certificates.”

I said, “They too are at fault. They are social workers like you, who have given you certificates.”

Do not go to serve another until the lamp of your own house has been lit; until awareness is utterly clear; until the divine within you has fully blossomed—till then, do not serve, even by mistake. Do not preach, even by mistake. Do not attempt to solve anyone’s problem, even by mistake. Your solution will prove even more costly. The illness might be curable, but your medicine will be lethal. Perhaps the patient could have lived a few more days; your medicine will kill him outright.

If you read the books of major thinkers from two hundred years ago, they all said: “The day all people in the world are educated, the reign of supreme peace will come.” Now in the West almost everyone is educated; there has never been a time of greater unrest. It is astonishing. Those who said it were not in awareness; they were unconscious. What has education to do with peace? Education breeds unrest—because education breeds ambition.

So you ask, “There are problems born of vice; how should the enlightened class solve them?”

Most—ninety-nine out of a hundred—problems exist because of this so-called enlightened class. If this enlightened class would kindly stop propagating its enlightenment, many problems would dissolve on their own. The situation is roughly this: the enlightened class creates the problems, and the enlightened class proposes their solutions.

I have heard: a man would go to a village at night and throw tar on people’s windows—on the glass, on their doors. Three or four days later his partner—in the same business—would come to that village and shout, “Is there tar on anyone’s windows? Get them cleaned!” People had to get it done—because there was tar on their windows. No one realized the two were partners in the same trade; half the job one did, half the other. While one was busy cleaning in one village, the other went to the next and threw tar again. Business boomed that way.

This “enlightened class,” as you call it, creates the problems and then solves them. The enlightened class is not enlightened. There cannot be a class of enlightened ones. Lions do not move in herds; saints do not form congregations. At times there is a Buddha—a lone individual. Is there a class? A crowd? One Buddha is enough, and millions of lamps are lit. Before you attempt to bring light into anyone else’s house, probe carefully: is there light within you? Therefore all my attention and emphasis is on one thing: the awakening of your consciousness. Hence my insistence on meditation.

People come to me and say, “There are so many problems, and you keep people busy only in meditation! Society is entangled in problems—have them solved!”

I tell them: they will not be solved—until meditation spreads. If meditation spreads, it is possible that the problems will be resolved.

Meditate, and help others to meditate!

It is not so much a question of “dealing with” as of accepting. If you try to “deal” with it, another web will spread. Then the fool may become learned, but ignorance will not end. It is a matter of acceptance. Accept that “I am ignorant.”

And the moment you accept it, in that very humility, in that very acceptance, the first ray of understanding begins to enter. To accept ignorance is the first step toward knowing—an indispensable step.

If you don’t feel like admitting “I am a fool,” then whatever you do will go wrong. You will only try to collect second‑hand knowledge from somewhere, hoard a little of it, cover up your ignorance with garments and ornaments. But nothing will be erased by that; inside, ignorance will remain. Accept it! Own it! This is the simple truth.

And don’t think of it comparatively, as if you are foolish and others are wise. No one is wise. There are only two kinds of ignorant people in the world—those who know they are ignorant, and those who do not. Those who know their ignorance are called wise; those who do not are called ignorant. But both are ignorant.

Socrates said: The day I came to know that I know nothing, that day light dawned.

The Upanishads say: He who says, “I know,” know that he knows not. He who says, “I know nothing,” follow him; perhaps he knows!

Life is a great riddle.

Just once, accept your ignorance! And if you won’t accept the truth, what will you do? How long will you deny it? The fact is clear: we know nothing. We don’t know from where we come, we don’t know where we go, we don’t know who we are—what more proof do you need?

If on the road you meet a man at a crossroads and you ask him, “Where do you come from?” and he says, “I don’t know”; you ask, “Where are you going?” and he says, “I don’t know”; then you ask, “Who are you?” and he says, “I don’t know”—what will you say of such a man? “You are mad! You don’t even know where you come from or where you’re going. Well, at least you must know who you are!” If he says, “I don’t know. Name, address, whereabouts?”—“I don’t know”—you will say he is either mad or deceiving you.

And what is our condition? We stand at the crossroads of life. Wherever we stand, there is a crossroads, because from everywhere paths branch out—four, a thousand. Wherever you stand, there are choices. If someone asks you, “From where do you come?” do you know? Don’t repeat borrowed phrases. Don’t say, “I read in the Gita.” That won’t do. If you read it in the Gita, it only shows that you yourself do not know—otherwise why read the Gita? If you knew from where you come, you would know; what use would the Gita be then? Don’t say, “I heard in the Quran that we come from the house of God.” You know neither God, nor His house—you know nothing.

But man’s ego is great. Because of ego he cannot accept that he is ignorant. And the ego is the obstacle. Accept, and the ego falls. There is no death more significant than the acceptance of ignorance, because in that very acceptance the ego dies—finished, nothing remains. Suddenly you will find you have become light! No fear remains. You have become truthful!

People teach: “Do not lie.” And I have not seen greater liars than those who teach “Do not lie.” They tell you, “Don’t lie.” Ask them, “Who made the world?” They say, “God made it”—as though they were present there! Think a little: even lies have limits. Others who lie tell small lies. Someone says, “I have ten thousand rupees,” and has only a thousand—that is no great lie. A thousand at least he has! Everyone tells such lies. A guest comes home, you borrow a sofa from the neighbor, a carpet on loan, you put on a show—you are lying, trying to tell the guest that you have plenty.

Mulla Nasruddin opened a new shop and arranged the goods just so. He even borrowed a telephone from a friend and placed it there—no connection, of course. A man came in. Thinking he was a customer, Mulla quickly picked up the receiver and began talking: “Yes, yes, close the deal for a hundred thousand. All right, make it a hundred thousand.” Putting the phone down, he turned to the man: “Yes, what can I do for you?” The man said, “I’m from the phone company. I’ve come to install your connection.”

He was talking of hundred‑thousand deals! Man tries to show what he is not. But these are not great lies; they are small and forgivable—and they even add a little spice to life. No big harm—why even call them lies?

But if a child asks you, “Father, who made the world?” and you say, “God made it,” what a huge lie! Do you know? And to whom are you speaking? To that tiny child who trusts you! Whom are you deceiving—one whose faith in you is complete, who believes you will not lie!

Then if, when he grows up, your son loses reverence for you, don’t weep. For one day he will find out that father did not know, mother did not know, and the teachers of father and mother did not know. No one knows, yet all claim to know. The day he learns this, if his reverence for you falls, who is responsible? You are! You spoke such lies as you can never substantiate.

What would it have cost to say so small a thing: “Son, I don’t know”? If only you could say that! And a father who can say to his son, “I don’t know; you search, I too am searching. If you come to know, tell me; if I come to know, I’ll tell you—but I don’t know whether anyone made it, or not, whether God is or not—I don’t know!”—perhaps today it will seem awkward, but the son will understand, one day he will understand, and he will never lose respect for you. His reverence for you will only grow. When he becomes a man, he will know how hard it is to accept ignorance, because his ego will tell him it is very hard to accept. But my father accepted his ignorance. Your imprint on him will remain unique. There will be no reason for his reverence to diminish. But people go on repeating falsehoods.

Mulla Nasruddin was scolding his son. The boy had come home from school, having failed his class. Mulla said, “Do you know that at your age Beethoven had already composed so much music, and Michelangelo had carved such statues! And look at you!”

The boy looked at his father and said, “All right. And at your age, Father, where was Michelangelo? How far had he reached? Where have you reached?” Then it hurts, it pinches, it becomes awkward.

In the name of religion, big lies go around. To cast these lies down is the mark of a religious man. That is why I say: a religious man cannot be a Hindu, a Muslim, a Jain, a Buddhist. A religious man will be simple, natural. He will only say what he knows, and even that he will say with a certain diffidence; what he does not know, he will never claim. He will lay himself open: “Thus and thus—this much I know, a little bit I know.”

A mother was saying to her daughter, “When I was your age I had not even touched a man, and you have returned from college pregnant! Tell me, when you have children, what will you say to them?”

The girl replied, “I will say the same—but with a little embarrassment, whereas you say it without any.”

Do you see the point? She said, “I too shall say that at your age my virginity was perfectly pure, that I had not touched a man. I will say exactly what you are saying. But I will not be able to say it with the shameless ease with which you say it. I will hesitate a little.”

This is falsehood. Do not speak it. Say it as it is. Say only what is. Add not a grain to what you know; do not embellish it. One who lives with naked truth like this—if one day the ultimate truth happens to him, what is surprising in that?

Do not make claims, not even an inch of false claim. The urge to claim is strong, for the ego lives on false claims. Ego is falsehood; its food is falsehood. Therefore, if someone so much as probes your lie, shakes it, how angry you become!

You say, “God made the world.” And if your son asks, “Who made God?” you flare up. You say, “Don’t ask such questions. When you grow up, you will understand.” And you know well that you have grown up and still understood nothing—how will he understand? Your father told you the same; you grew up and still understand nothing. You say the same to him, and he will say the same to his sons. Such lies pass from generation to generation, and life becomes more and more distorted.

Become truthful.

Ignorance is perfectly natural; we do not know. One aspect is this: we do not know. The other aspect is: life is a mystery; it cannot be known. One aspect is: I don’t know. The other is: life is an unknowable mystery, a riddle—how can it be known! Therefore, one who knows that he does not know becomes capable of knowing, because he understands: life is the supreme secret.

God is a mystery, not a doctrine. When someone says “God is,” he is not saying that God is a theory; he is saying: we cannot figure it out; it does not come within comprehension; it is unknowable. We gather this entire sense into a single word: “God is.” The meaning of “God” is only this much: all is mysterious and does not come within understanding; it is beyond insight, beyond intellect, beyond logic; where thought falls exhausted—there it is; where consciousness stands awestruck and speechless.

Have you ever stood, awestruck, before a tree? Life is full of such mystery! But you are so burdened by your knowledge that you cannot see it. And one who has not seen the mystery—what has he to do with religion! A tiny seed becomes a tree and you do not dance, you are not filled with wonder! Each morning the sun rises, in the sky billions upon billions of stars wheel; there are birds, animals—such vastness of life—everything is mysterious; nothing is truly known! And what you do “know” is only provisional.

Science makes great claims that it knows. Ask, “What is water?” It says: a combination of hydrogen and oxygen. But what is hydrogen? There it stumbles. It hesitates. It says, “What hydrogen is—that is a bit difficult. Hydrogen is an element.” If there is a combination of two, we can explain; water is the union of hydrogen and oxygen, H2O. But hydrogen is just hydrogen.

If someone asks you, “What is yellow?”—what on earth will you say? “Yellow is yellow.” Hydrogen is hydrogen. What more is there to say? But is that an answer—that hydrogen is hydrogen?

No, science too gives no final answer. It goes a little way, then stands still. All scriptures go a little way, then falter and fall. Man’s capacity is limited, and life is limitless—how can it be known! Therefore, one who knows that he does not know—that one is wise.

So do not be afraid. Accept. In acceptance alone is dissolution.

Free me of value; lead me toward the Priceless.
Doubt and certainty are both dilemmas; beyond them lies growth.
The mirage is the horizon; the sky is the limit of the self.
Time is time—the simple eye’s deception of dusk and dawn.
No object is complete; in feeling only its semblance glows.
What snare of language could bind pure consciousness?
A pitcher can reach the well—only so far can the rope take it.
Not gold, but the unpossessing is hard to recognize.
The five elements are naked; essence has donned a garment.
Slip the prison of the scales; let me grasp the hem of the Priceless.
Free me of value; lead me toward the Priceless.

Values are man‑made; the Priceless belongs to God. All scales and balances are ours; God is unweighable, immeasurable; there is no measure—measureless!

Whatever can be known is limited—for in being known it becomes limited. Only the small can be known; the vast cannot.

What snare of language could bind pure consciousness!
In words, in language, in doctrine—it will not be bound.

A pitcher can reach the well—only so far can the rope take it.
Lower a pot into a well—the rope can get the pot to the water; what more can it do! Reason, thought, intellect—at most they can bring you to the brink of the divine, nothing more. There awakening happens. There the rope ends. Where the rope of intellect ends, there is the water of God. Where the capacity of thought and logic breaks, falls, scatters—there is the sky of consciousness.

Ignorance is only the evidence that God is a mystery. “Knowledge” becomes evidence that even God is no mystery, that He can be read and opened. No—into His palace one may enter; no one comes back from there. One may take a plunge in Him; no one returns.

Ramakrishna used to tell a story: Two dolls of salt went to a fair held by the seashore. Many people were debating the depth of the ocean. Someone said, “Bottomless!” Though no one had gone there. “Bottomless” can be said only if you reach the bottom and find none—this is a difficult assertion. Someone else said, “There is a bottom, but very deep”—but they too had not gone.

The salt dolls said, “Listen, we will go—we will find out.” They both jumped in and began to go deeper. The deeper they went, the more they dissolved. They were dolls of salt, made of the sea itself; in the sea they began to melt. They reached great depths—but how to return? By then they had disappeared; they never came back. People waited for a few days. Then they said, “Are you mad? Will salt dolls ever bring back news? They must have vanished.”

Such is the plight of saints. They plunge into God—but they too are made of God; as the salt doll is made of the sea. The dive happens; and the deeper they go, the more they melt, the more they are lost. One day, the depth is known—but by the time it is known, they themselves have vanished; there is no way to return.

Has anyone ever returned from God? There is no way back. That is why there is no answer. The sky is answerless; existence is answerless. Before this answerless existence, bow in silence, bow in poverty of spirit. Accept your ignorance and bow. There the ray of light will descend. You are gone—and light happens. You are gone—and God manifests. Your very being is the obstacle.

Hari Om Tatsat!