In a church, a fakir had been invited to speak. The people of that church had said to him: please say something about the search for truth. The fakir stood up to speak. Before speaking he said, I want to ask a question of the people gathered in this church. Only after that will I begin. He asked: those gathered here—do you study the Bible?
All the people waved their hands. They did.
The fakir said: I want to ask one more thing—there is the book of Luke in the Bible; have you read the seventy-ninth chapter of Luke? Whoever has read it, please raise your hand.
There was a big crowd in that church. Except for one man, everyone raised their hands.
The fakir began to laugh heartily. He said: now I will say something about truth. But first let me say, there is no such thing as a seventy-ninth chapter of Luke in the Bible—no such chapter exists at all.
And yet all those people had raised their hands to say, we have read it. There is no seventy-ninth chapter of Luke in the Bible—no such chapter exists!
So the fakir said: now I must surely say something about the search for truth. Because among all the people gathered here, no one seems to have any real relationship with truth.
But he added: I am surprised—how has a man who speaks truth come into this temple? One man had not raised his hand. The fakir went to him and said: I thank you. People who speak truth are not to be found gathering in temples. How did you stray in here? You did not raise your hand? Still—blessed is the chance that at least one lover of truth has come to the temple.
The man said: please speak a little louder—I hear poorly. I could not grasp what was being asked. Did you ask: the seventy-ninth chapter of Luke? I recite it every day! But I did not quite understand, so I did not raise my hand. I am a little hard of hearing.
The whole personality of man is untrue—and we want to search for truth!
The whole personality of man stands upon falsehood—and we want to search for truth!
Man’s entire display is erected upon the untrue. Surely, with an untrue personality in tow, truth cannot be searched for. For the search for truth, the untruth in the personality must disappear.
Therefore the first sutra I want to say to you is this: are we false people? Is our personality untrue? Have we created a pseudo personality, a false covering—garments of a personality? The one who has no connection with religion is seen performing worship in the temple. The one whose inside is filled with darkness has gone in search of white clothes to wear. And the one whose inside seethes with anger—on his face appears forgiveness. And the one in whom nothing but violence resides—he sings songs of love. We have made our whole personality a lie.
On the road a man meets us and we bow and say, how fortunate that at daybreak itself we beheld your auspicious face. And inside we keep muttering, how did this wretch show up so early in the morning! Those to whom we display love—no prayer rises in our being for them, no love arises. What we speak has no relationship with our soul. What we appear to be has no connection at all with what we truly are.
I have heard: there was an extraordinary photographer in London. In front of his studio he had put up a board. On it he had written the prices for different kinds of photographs. He produced three kinds of photos. A rustic villager went to be photographed. He saw on the board that it said: those who want the first kind of photo—the price is five rupees. And the meaning of the first kind is—exactly as you are. Those who want the second kind—the price is ten rupees. And the meaning of the second kind is—as you want to appear to people. And the third kind costs fifteen rupees. And the meaning of the third kind is—as you had wished that God would make you.
The villager was very astonished! He had thought there must be only one kind of picture. He asked the studio owner: can there be three kinds of pictures of one man?
The photographer began to laugh. He said: we do not have so many facilities—there can be a thousand pictures of each person.
And each person has a thousand pictures. In front of the wife his picture is one thing; in front of the sons, the children, it is another; in front of the boss, yet another; before the servants, another still. The man keeps changing pictures twenty-four hours a day. He keeps changing like a chameleon all the time.
A man can have a thousand pictures. Our means are limited, so we take only three kinds. Which kind do you want?
The villager said: I am amazed! People must surely choose the first kind. As a man appears, that is the picture to be taken. Do people also come here who choose number two or number three?
The studio owner said: you are the first person who has even thought of choosing the first kind. Up to now, no such person has come. Whoever comes—first of all he wants number three. If money is short, he settles for number two. No one has come yet to take the first kind.
No one wants to appear as he is. What is true, the man wants to hide inside; what is false, he wants to drape upon himself. We have invented innumerable tricks to make our personality a thing of lies and deceptions. And then this very man begins to think, I will search for truth! This same man begins to read the Gita, the Koran, the Bible; this same man sings hymns and kirtan. This same man stands with folded hands before the idol of God and prays that I may come to know truth. And this man never asks: if I myself am untrue, how can I come to know truth? If I am untruth, how can I have any relationship with truth?
The first step in the search for truth is this: our personality must be true. Our personality should be exactly as it is—straight, clear, simple. As we are, so must be the acceptance. But such acceptance is nowhere within our minds.
And it is a great surprise: those whom we call good men have even less of that simplicity than those whom we call bad. Those whom we call criminals may still be simple; but those whom we call respectable and religious are not simple at all.
Therefore, the more civilization and culture have developed, the more man has become false. In the village, in the countryside, far away in the forest, you may still find a tribal who is simple. But he knows nothing of religion, he has read neither the Gita nor the Koran nor the Bible; he is neither Hindu nor Muslim; he has no idea of Moksha; he has not composed scriptures about truth; he has not argued over truth. There, in the distant forest, you may meet someone who is a true man—as he is. But the more culture develops and civilization progresses, the more man becomes false. We keep draping garment upon garment. Slowly the man is lost and only a heap of clothes remains. Then this heap of clothes wants a relationship with truth—that I may know God, that I may recognize life. That is impossible.
It is a wonder that the civilized man is the untrue man. It should have been the reverse. Only the man of truth should have been called civilized. But the more civilization, the more culture, the more education—the more cunning, the more cleverness, the more deceit, the more lies.
In London a play of Shakespeare was running. This is a story from a hundred years ago. Throughout the town there was talk of the play. Whoever spoke of it, praised it. The arch-priest of London, the highest prelate, was also told by people: it is a marvelous play and the actors are so skilled, so alive, the like has never been seen. But that priest—as is the habit of gurus and priests—immediately said: a play! You are thinking of going to hell! Seeking entertainment? Seeking pleasure? There is no essence in all this.
This is what the priest said outwardly. But inside the priest is as much a man as anyone else. Outwardly he said, you will go to hell—why meddle with plays? Seek truth, seek God. Why waste time? Life itself is a play—what do you go to see in a playhouse? But inside he did not sleep all night. Again and again the thought came—what would the play be like? What would the characters be like? What would the acting be like? He had never seen a play.
The next day, after thinking it over, he wrote a letter to the theatre manager: I also wish to come to see the play. Is there any arrangement by which, if there is a back door, I might come in by it so that no one can see me, and I can see the play? If such a thing is possible, please arrange it—I will be very obliged. I do not want those who go to the play to see me. So from the back, when the play has begun and it is dark, I want to enter. Is there a back door?
The theatre manager replied to his letter and wrote: in every town we have to make arrangements for back doors, we have to build them. For gentlemen always come in from the back door—they never come from the front. From the front come those who have no notion of the vanity of being a gentleman. Those who have no ego that we are great men, learned, saints, mahatmas—those poor simple people come through the front door. They are straightforward people, not clever. The clever always come from the back door. So we have to keep a back door. You are welcome—please come.
But after the letter he added a postscript, and in that postscript he wrote: I do wish to remind you of one thing. There is indeed such a door in the theatre by which, if you enter, no one will be able to see you. But I cannot assure you that God also will not be able to see you. And it may even be that you do not believe that God exists—because a priest hardly believes in God. He tries to make the world believe that God is, but he knows full well he is doing a trade in the name of God. So the theatre manager wrote: I suspect you may not even believe that God is.
There is, to this day, no proof on earth that priests believe in God. For if priests believed in God, the Hindu priest, the Muslim priest, the Christian priest could not be different. Because God is not three, nor three hundred. And if priests believed in God, there would have been no religious wars and violence in the world till today. For those who know and accept God—there remains no resort to violence. For them, no path remains except love.
So the theatre manager wrote: it may be you do not believe that God is. Even then let me remind you of one thing—no one will be able to see that you came into the theatre, but at least you will see that you came into the theatre. That I cannot arrange—that even you should not come to know that you came into the theatre.
Man has developed all kinds of pretence, hypocrisy, and made for himself back doors. And slowly the world is becoming so civilized that the need to keep front doors in theatres will gradually end. All doors will be at the back. Because all people are becoming gentlemen. Man’s entire personality is being made artificial, false—constructed. We wear a face to show to others, and we all know within that this face is false. We are well acquainted that this face is false. And not only in relation to life have we made a false face; in relation to truth also we have made a false face. If we understand that a little, we can take steps forward in the search for truth.
If I ask you: is there God? Surely, most people will say: yes, there is God. Perhaps a few will say: there is not. But if I ask a second question—those who are saying there is God, and those who are saying there is not—are they saying it knowing? Do they know? Those who say, God is—do they know of God’s being? And if they are saying it without knowing, then they are speaking untruth. And they are placing a false picture even before God—that I am a theist. And those who say there is no God—have they searched life and existence and found that there is no God, have they attained to his non-being? If they have not yet found the non-being of God, then they are speaking untruth. And before God, before truth, they are standing with the false face of an atheist.
And all of us are such people. Even about the supreme truths of life we have fashioned false faces—the theist, the atheist. And we never ask ourselves: with such false faces, shall we set out to search for truth—and hope to find it? Even regarding truth we carry false assumptions.
A fakir was staying in a village. The people of that village said: will you not come to our mosque to give a discourse?
The fakir said: but if I knew something, I would say it. I know nothing.
But the people of that village had heard that those who attain supreme knowledge begin to say precisely this—that we know nothing. So surely this sage must know something. They entreated him greatly and forcibly took him to the mosque. They placed him upon the platform. Then the fakir asked the people of the mosque: before I say anything, I want to ask you one thing. On what subject do you want me to speak?
They said: surely, we want to hear about God.
The fakir asked: do you know that God is? Do you believe God is? Do you know God is?
All the people of the mosque said in one voice: yes, we know—God is, the Paramatman is, only He is.
The fakir said: then forgive me! When you already know that He is, what more need I say? If you did not know, perhaps there would be some meaning to my speaking. When you know—then the matter is finished. Beyond knowing God there remains no journey of knowledge at all. That is the ultimate, the final knowing. After that there is no journey of knowledge. There the limit is reached. All that was knowable has been known. All that was attainable has been attained. God means the end—the ultimate. So what need remains for me to say anything more? Forgive me. Why should I labor in vain—and you sit here for hours? I am going.
The people of the mosque were nonplussed. They thought—this is a great mess. How were we to know that by saying God is, this man would just go away? They said, next Friday we should request him again. And this time we shall decide to say: no—there is no God. We do not know that there is God. We do not know. A second answer.
On the second Friday they fetched the fakir again.
He again asked: friends, what are your intentions? Do you want to know about God? The same question: is there God? Do you believe? Do you know?
All of them said: what God? Where is God? We know nothing. Whether God is or is not—we know nothing. We neither believe nor know.
The fakir said: the matter is finished. If you neither believe nor know about God, what is the point of futile labor? What is the use of speaking about a thing that is not even a question for you? It would be talk without subject—talk in the air. I am going. God is not your problem.
The fakir climbed down and left. If God is not their problem, why speak to them of God?
The villagers were greatly bewildered. This is a big difficulty. This fellow turned out to be quite a trickster. The first time we said yes and he spoilt it. This time we said no and he spoilt it again. What can be done now? The villagers thought and decided that there could be a third answer. On the third Friday we should catch him again.
On the third Friday they again brought the fakir. And he asked: friends, what are your intentions? What is the answer now?
The villagers were clever—as villagers always are. And those clever people had discovered a third answer. Clever people keep finding answers without knowing. Therefore all the answers of the clever are worth two pennies. The answers of the clever have no value—because they do not know; they manufacture answers by thinking. The villagers prepared a third answer—as if it were the villagers’ right to prepare answers concerning God.
The fakir asked: what is your intention today? Is there God or not? Do you believe or not?
Half the mosque raised their hands and said: half of us know that God is. And the other half said: we do not know that God is. Now what is your intention?
This then could be the third answer—a compromise of the earlier two.
The fakir began to laugh. He said: then my coming is utterly useless. Those who know—let them tell those who do not know. I am going. Of what use am I?
And the fakir left. I asked that fakir: Did they not come the fourth time? The fakir said: If they had come the fourth time, then I would have had to speak. So I asked him, Why would you have to speak the fourth time? He said: By the fourth time only one response would have been left for those people of the mosque—that I would ask, and they would fall silent and give no answer. Only one response remained: I would ask, and they would be silent, give no answer; then I would certainly have to speak. Because apart from silence, nothing can be a true expression in relation to truth. To take any position regarding truth is to stand on the side of untruth. The first experience of the seeker of truth will be silence. He will say, I do not know anything. So what should I say—yes or no? He will be afraid even to say yes—yes could be wrong; he will be afraid even to say no—no could be wrong. I do not know. So the first stage of the seeker of truth will be silence. On life’s ultimate questions he will fall silent. He will not stand with any side. Silence is impartial. Yes and no divide into camps—theist and atheist. Therefore neither is religious. Neither is searching for truth. The theist takes the side of yes; the atheist takes the opposing side of no. But both are taking sides; none is impartial. And truth can be sought only by one who is impartial, unprejudiced—one in whose mind no side has made any place. One who says, I do not know; so how can I join any side? The day I know, that day I will stand with some side. But the great wonder is: those who have known have gone beyond all sides; they never stood with any side. Those who have known have gone outside of sides, and those who do not know are split into sides. Thus the search for truth was murdered in the world because, in the name of truth, camps were formed. Truth has no side. Truth has no doctrine. Truth has no sect. Truth has no denomination. Truth has no religion. But all humanity is divided into sects, religions, sides, doctrines, philosophies, systems—the whole world is divided. Everyone has adopted some side. And whoever has adopted a side has stepped onto the path of untruth. His journey to truth cannot be. To move toward truth, an impartial heart is needed, an unprejudiced mind—a consciousness that says: I do not know; so how can I be divided into any side? One who says: I am not a Hindu; I am not a Muslim; I am not a Jain—because I do not know what truth is, how can I decide where I stand and who I am? One who says: I am neither theist nor atheist. The person who musters so much courage as to say, I am ignorant, I do not know anything—how can I take a side? To take a side, one must first assume oneself to be knowledgeable. That is why I say: taking sides leads a person onto the journey of untruth. To join a side means I have accepted that I know—only then can a side be taken. And we do not know, and yet we imagine that we know. Not only have we taken sides, we have even wielded swords for our side. In the name of religion, as many killings have happened till today—neither bandits, nor thieves, nor ruffians have committed that many. It is a great wonder. In the name of religion as many houses have been burned, as many women violated—even all the sinners put together have not matched it. It is astonishing. How can this happen in the name of religion? And if all this happens in the name of religion, then nothing remains for irreligion to do—what will irreligion do then? The religious have left no method for irreligion. It has been possible in the name of religion only because we have taken religion to be sect, to be side. Religion has no relationship with side or sect. A religious person is nonsectarian, impartial. Are you a religious person? You will say, We are religious. I am a Hindu, I wear the tilak, I keep the sacred thread; I am a Muslim, I go to the mosque every day; I am a Jain, I recite the Namokar every morning sitting down. I am a religious man. And it may never have occurred to you that you have taken a side—you are no longer religious. Only a religious person can search for truth, not the irreligious. And for being religious the first sutra is impartiality. But from the very birth of children we try to shove poison into their brains. A child is born and we hurry to make him a Hindu—lest he gain some intelligence and refuse to become a Hindu, then it will be too late; so quickly pour into his blood that he is a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian, a Jain. The atrocity committed upon innocent children for ten thousand years is hard to compute. To this day, what humankind has done to children it has done to no one else. Children were bound into sides—this is the greatest wrongdoing. Their search for truth was crippled forever. They will never again be able, with courage, to ask: What is truth? They were given answers in advance. Before they had asked questions, answers were handed out. Before they set out to inquire, scriptures were thrust into their hands. Before they could awaken their own curiosity, doctrines were shoved into their hands. Those children will live in untruth forever, die in untruth; they will never be able to search for truth. The second sutra of the search for truth is inquiry. The first sutra is an impartial mind. The second sutra is curiosity, inquiry. And we kill all the curiosity of children. We have devised methods to kill curiosity. We have ready-made answers for every curiosity. Whatever the question, the answer is ready. For us, the answer has more value than the question. Suppress the question; impose the answer from above. The child asks, What is after death? And you say, The soul is immortal. You yourself do not know that the soul is immortal. No—yourself you know nothing. But you impose on the child’s mind that the soul is immortal. The child had asked: What is death? The child raised a question, a great question of life: What is after death? And I tell you, the child raised a more precious question—it was far more valuable than your answer. Because your answer is false; you know nothing. Only when death comes will you know whether the soul is immortal or not. Then you will panic and cry out, Save me somehow—now I am dying. Then you will know that all that talk I used to make about the soul’s immortality—I did not know; I had heard it and was repeating it. And I was repeating it only because there was great fear of death in the mind. I was mustering courage: No, the soul is immortal, the soul is immortal, the soul is immortal. I will not die—gathering courage. A man walks through a dark alley and starts saying, “Hare Ram, Hare Ram,” out of nervousness, out of fear—do not think this is religious. By shouting loudly he creates the illusion that he is not afraid. But his shouting loudly shows that he is afraid. If he were not afraid, there would be no need to cry out “Hare Ram.” In a cold river in the morning a man goes to bathe, pours water over himself and shouts, “Jai Sitaram, Jai Sitaram”—do not think this is a religious man. He is trying to forget the cold by shouting. If he keeps his mind engaged in shouting, he forgets that he is feeling cold—he can get out of the river quickly. Those who keep chanting “the soul is immortal”—do not think they know anything of the soul’s immortality. If they knew, their life would become a fragrance, a truth; their life would become utterly different—they would be different beings. The person who has come to know that there is no death has entered another world altogether. He has known that truth which, when known, all is known. He has experienced the nectar of the deathless. And the one who has experienced the deathless—will there be hatred in his life? Will there be anger in his life? Will there be dishonesty in his life? In the life of one who has known the deathless, where is the possibility of anger? Anger was a device to save oneself from death; it was a safety measure. One fears someone might kill him, so to gather his strength he becomes angry and protects himself. Hatred is a device to save oneself from death. These are all measures of self-protection. The one who knows there is no death—can he have any enemy in this world? Perhaps you have never even thought about it. Enemies are born out of the fear of death; otherwise there is no enemy—then all are friends. When no one can annihilate me, how can there be an enemy? Enemy means one who can annihilate me. Where there is the possibility that someone can annihilate me, he is my enemy. But if I cannot be annihilated at all, how can there be an enemy? Then all are friends. But no, we know nothing of the soul’s immortality. We repeat, in order to deny death, that the soul is immortal. And if a man sits in a corner and starts repeating, “I am a man, I am a man,” what will it mean? It will mean that he himself doubts his being a man; otherwise he would not repeat. We repeat precisely that which we doubt; otherwise we never repeat. What we know, we know—there is no need to repeat. In temples and ashrams people sit and say, “I am the ageless, deathless soul.” From morning they chant the mantra, “I am the ageless, deathless soul; I am deathless.” They have gone mad. If you have come to know that you are the ageless, deathless soul, then why keep this babble going? For whom are you putting on this broadcast? Why are you repeating it? And if you have not come to know, then do not remain in the delusion that by repeating it many times you will come to know. If truth were so easy—that by repeating something many times we would become knowers of it—then by now everyone in the world would have known the truth. Repetition can create delusion; repetition cannot bring the knowing of truth. What I do not know—whether I repeat it once or a million times—what I do not know, I do not know. Yes, but by repeating it a million times that first foundational fact—that I do not know—may be forgotten, become obliterated. By repeating it a million times the illusion can arise that I do know—because for so many years I have been repeating that the soul is immortal. But by your repeating, nothing ever happens. A child has asked a fundamental question: What is there after death? If you don’t know, then accept your ignorance. That will be for the child’s good and benefit, and it will help increase the child’s curiosity. And tell the child, “I don’t know. I too am searching and have not been able to know yet. You also search—and before you have really inquired, never, even by mistake, settle into belief, because the moment one believes, one’s search stops. The moment one believes, one’s search stops!” Curiosity means not belief, not faith, not blind devotion. Curiosity means a whole-hearted urge to know: What is the truth of life? What is life’s mystery? What is hidden in this entire existence? Who is concealed within this vast nature? Who is the invisible within the visible? Who is the bodiless within this body? What truth is within these words? What beauty within these flowers? What is hidden within all life and the world? I want to know—I want to know! And if I am to know, I must be saved from secondhand talk.
But the hypocrisy of humankind—these borrowed words—has had a huge hand in our misery. Krishna knows what truth is. Buddha knows what truth is. They know—and we repeat their words, and we think we too will come to know. Those words are borrowed—stale and dead. In the one who knows, words have life. But the moment those words reach us, they become lifeless. Only the words reach us; the experience is left behind.
A poet once went on a sea journey. In the morning, as he reached the shore, he saw the foaming waves rising toward the sky. From afar, waves could be seen approaching; gusts of wind; the streaming rays of the morning sun; air fragrant with dawn. Suddenly, he remembered his beloved, who lay ill in a hospital. His heart wished, “If only she could come and see this beauty!” But she was ill and could not come. “What can be done?” he wondered. Then he thought, “I’ll buy a beautiful chest, and I’ll fill it with the sun’s rays, with the wind, with the sea’s beauty—and I’ll send it to her. She will at least have a glimpse!” He was a poet; so he could think such foolishly innocent thoughts.
He went to the market and bought a beautiful chest. Very beautiful. He went back to the seashore, opened the chest in the sunlight and breeze, then shut it tight. He locked it and sealed it on all sides so no ray of sunlight or whisper of wind could escape. He wrote a letter to his beloved: “I have experienced a unique beauty; I am sending it to you, packed in this chest. You too will be delighted—at least a little glimpse you will have!”
The chest arrived; the letter too. His beloved was very surprised. Women, since always, are more practical than men; foolishness does not easily appeal to their minds. That’s why, seeing women, who knows how many poets are born—but women themselves rarely write poetry. She was astonished: “Has he gone mad? Since when can sea-breezes and sunlight be shut in a chest? Since when can morning’s beauty be locked away?” Still, perhaps he had devised some trick. She read the letter, opened the chest—and there was nothing. Pitch darkness. No rays, no breeze, no fragrance, no beauty—nothing at all. The chest was empty.
Those who have reached the shore of truth must also feel in their hearts, “May this beauty, this experience of truth, reach those who are left behind on the journey.” Out of compassion they pack the news of that beauty into words and send it to us. But the words reach us; the beauty remains there—on truth’s shore. And we carry these word-chests on our heads all our lives. Someone carries the Gita, someone the Samayasara, someone the Quran, someone something else. These are chests of words. Carrying these chests will never bring you to the shore where those senders stood. It is like this madness: I raise a finger toward the sky and show you the moon; and you grab my finger, rejoicing, “How fortunate—we have found the moon!” I point to the moon, and you clutch my finger as though you have attained it. I too would knock my head in despair. If Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, and Christ are anywhere, they must be tired from knocking their heads: we pointed toward the beyond, and people grasped the pointers and comfortably concluded that they had attained the truth.
Words are pointers, scriptures are pointers—and we cling to them. And gurus, abbots, saints explain: “Keep faith, keep your eyes closed, and keep holding on.” If you open your eyes even a little, there is a danger things will go wrong—because with eyes opened you will also see that the chest is empty. So do not open your eyes; keep them closed. This, they say, is the mark of the devotee, of the religious person: do not open your eyes. Thus the whole world has filled with hypocrisy and falsehood; the human personality has become false.
What is needed is to open the eyes. Even if in opening them, the truths we have cherished for years collapse—let them collapse. We must open our eyes. We must think. Even if the edifices we built over thousands of years turn to dust—so be it. For any structure that cannot bear the gaze of open eyes is a house of dreams, not a house of truth. Any “truth” that cannot stand before genuine curiosity is worse than falsehood. Real truth, under the fire of curiosity, only becomes more refined and clear. Truth needs no faith; truth has never asked for belief. Falsehoods beg: “Believe!”—for only by belief can falsehood stand. Truth says: belief is not needed. Think, inquire, search. Truth knows: the more you inquire and think, the nearer you will come to me.
So I tell you: all those who teach the world, “Believe, have faith, accept,” are, in fact, allies of untruth. They strengthen untruth in the world. Truth needs no support of belief. Truth can stand on its own feet. Falsehood needs belief; truth needs nothing. Truth never says, “Close your eyes and accept me.” Truth says, “Search, break, test. Cut away as much as you can—but what is true will remain.” Falsehood trembles: “Do not think!”—for if thinking begins, its life ends. Remove belief, and the ground beneath it slips away.
In a village one morning, a conversation took place in a shop; I overheard it. Let me tell you. There was an oilman’s shop. He sold oil. A man came to buy oil. Right behind the counter where the oilman sat, an ox was turning the mill, pressing oil. The customer was amazed. There was no one driving the ox; it walked on its own and pressed the oil. He was astonished: “This ox seems very old and very religious, very ‘religious.’ Where now do you find such beings who move without being driven? Nowadays even if the whole country tries to make people move, they don’t. The small clerk won’t move, the big clerk tries to move him. The big clerk won’t move, the superintendent tries to move him. And from the small clerk up to the president—no one moves. Each tries to move the other, and no one moves. But this ox—so religious, so trusting!” The customer said, “Compliments to your ox! What a wonder—no one drives it and it runs the oil-press!”
The oilman said, “Perhaps you don’t know; we shopkeepers know how to devise tricks.”
“What trick?” the man asked.
“Look closely,” he said. “We’ve tied blinders over its eyes. It cannot see whether anyone is behind it or not.”
If there are blinders on the eyes, how will it see? Those whose business runs on darkness, on blindness, ask you to tie bandages over your eyes. Priests are very old businessmen. Ordinary folk trade in ordinary things: groceries, cloth, gold and silver. The priest sells God. His business is very deep. He tries to tie equally deep bandages over a man’s eyes. The more blind a person is, the more he can be exploited in the commerce of falsehood.
The customer was astonished. “I understand,” he said. “But,” he must have been a man who could think—a rarity—“but even with bandaged eyes, the ox could stop and check whether someone is behind driving him or not. Doesn’t the ox have even that much intelligence—to stop and find out?”
The shopkeeper said, “If the ox had that much intelligence, we would turn the press and the ox would run the shop. We’ve tied a bell to his neck. The ox keeps moving, the bell keeps ringing—we know he’s walking. If the bell slows even a little, I spring up and drive him on. I never allow him to suspect that no one is always behind him. As long as the bell rings, I know he’s moving. Let it slow, and I rise and prod him. The ox remains under the illusion that someone is always there behind.”
But that man was still somewhat thoughtful—rare indeed. He said, “I understand about the bell. But the ox could also just stand still and shake his head to make the bell ring. You sit with your back turned.”
“Brother,” said the shopkeeper, “speak softly! If the ox hears you, we’ll be in great trouble. And from now on, please buy your oil from some other shop. This is an expensive business.”
So it is with human beings. Those who tell you, “Believe,” also warn you, “Do not go anywhere to listen to doubt or curiosity. Do not hear anything that might shake your faith.” And I say: anything that can be shaken has no value—worth two pennies at most. Therefore, be sure to think through and inquire into all that might shake your belief. If it trembles, let it tremble and fall; it had no value. And remember, that which collapses under a little doubt will not withstand the jolt of death. Death’s shock will reduce it to dust. What falls at the touch of doubt—how will it endure death?
Hollow believers, in the moment of death, come to know they have wasted life. They knew nothing; they only believed—and everything was in vain.
Therefore, the third sutra I give you is: thought.
The first sutra is: an impartial mind. The second sutra is: curiosity—intense curiosity that refuses to accept anything on hearsay. And the third sutra is: thought—relentless thought.
You will have to think—test every aspect of life from all sides. And until the whole of your intelligence accepts a thing, do not accept it. Until your whole being is ready to say yes, it matters not if some great guru says it, or some Tirthankara, or some avatar—you need not accept it. Not because Tirthankaras and avatars speak falsely, but because believing is wrong. They may speak truly; your believing is wrong. If you do not believe, and if you courageously persist in fierce contemplation, thought, and inquiry, then the result one day will be that the mirror of your being becomes clear. And what the Tirthankaras speak of, what the avatars speak of—you too will see. That day all scriptures will be true—for you; not before.
No one attains truth through scriptures, but attain the truth and all scriptures become true. No one reaches truth through a Tirthankara, avatar, or guru; but attain truth, and you see that all the world’s gurus and Tirthankaras are saying the same thing—the same truth.
We are traveling in reverse. We are seeking through belief, through faith, by clinging to feet. We will never reach truth that way. To reach truth needs courage—courage to stand in the dark, courage to stand in not-knowing, the courage to say, “I do not know.” And I tell you, on this earth there is no greater courage than accepting one’s ignorance. To say, “I don’t know,” is the greatest moral courage. Only a few have the bravery to say, “We do not know.” Only those few set out on the journey of discovery. Because the one who does not know—within his being a pain, a tension arises: “Let me know.” And the journey of knowing begins.
I have given you three sutras for the journey of knowing; let me repeat them—and then a small story, and I will finish.
Be impartial—set fire to all sides and factions. A human being needs no sides. Humanity needs no sects. If you want religion to be born, become free of religions. If you want religion in the true sense, bid farewell to religions. Be impartial. Inquire. Do not be afraid. Do not fear that inquiry and questioning might topple your cherished beliefs. They surely will. Let them. They should fall. If the sword of curiosity shatters everything—so be it. The more intense one’s curiosity, the dearer one becomes to the Divine; the greater the thirst, the deeper the urgency. Such a one refuses to place any idol between himself and truth. He says, “I will know truth. I am not willing to learn anything secondhand from middlemen. I want to know.”
Have you ever thought: can anyone else love in your place? Perhaps a world may come where this happens. Aldous Huxley once wrote that when the world becomes more comfort-loving, people will love comfort so much that, as they now hire servants for other tasks, they will hire servants to do love for them. It could happen—human beings are strange. One might employ a servant: “Do the business of love for me; don’t involve me in all that.” It could happen, because for thousands of years we have already had others do our praying. And prayer is love’s deepest form. A man engages a priest: “You pray; I will mind the shop. We will pay you a salary for prayer.” We hire others to do our praying; someday we might hire others to do our loving. It is only one step further. If we put a middleman between ourselves and God, what difficulty remains in putting one between ourselves and a beloved? What logical obstacle is there?
No—the one whose curiosity is intense will not accept anyone in between. That is what intense curiosity means: “Between me and truth, I will accept no one.” And those who try to stand between a person and truth are deceivers; they are tradesmen. Truth is not obtained through commerce.
And the third thing needed: tireless thought. Even if life fills with fire, even if all faith is lost, all consolations vanish, all contentment disappears, and life becomes worry and anxiety—do not abandon thought. For thought is the boat that reaches discernment; and discernment is the mirror in which truth’s image is imprinted.
Thought is the boat—storms will come. There is a comfort in standing on the shore—no storms there, no gusts, no fear of drowning or dying. That is why the less courageous remain standing on the shore of belief. The brave take the boat of thought and push out into the infinite ocean—where there are storms, tempests, the fear of death. But remember: the one who lacks the courage to face death never truly lives. Your capacity to live deeply is exactly as great as your capacity to enter death. The more one accepts death, the more deeply one becomes alive. So people sit on the shore—the shore of belief—content, peaceful, sitting there; no restlessness of the sea, no fear of drowning.
The boat of thought rocks a thousand times; storms arrive; water begins to fill; it seems all is lost. Many times the mind longs to return to the shore of belief, where everyone sits peacefully. But if you would reach the far shore, where truth is, you must cross the ocean in between. This is what I call tapas—austerity.
Austerity is thought. Austerity is not standing in the sun; those are circus tricks. Austerity is not starving; those too are circus tricks. Austerity is thought—because thought will shake your very being. All satisfactions will be destroyed; all consolations snatched away; all knowledge stripped—and you will be thrust onto an unknown journey, where there is no companion, no friend—only the boat of thought and the infinite sea. That is the meaning of tapas. And those who go with thought, surely reach.
Till today, no one has ever reached by belief; and the one who has gone by thought has never been stopped—he surely reaches. Thought carries you to the shore of discernment; and on that shore, one meets that which is called truth. Out of love we may call it God, or we may call it liberation—give it any name you like. Truth is—but its shore is far. Between lies an unknown ocean. And there is only one boat a human being has: thought. What else do you have by which you will go? Apart from thought, what strength do you have? What energy? What consciousness? Other than thought, there is nothing. Therefore the path is made by thought, and by thought a person arrives and attains.
I have said these few things. One more story, and I will complete.
It is a full-moon night. Some friends of a village have gathered in a tavern, drinking. Moonlight is showering down. They sing, they dance.
Human life has become so unhappy that except under alcohol a person neither dances nor sings. This is very sad. When he is sober, man is grave, unhappy, worried, troubled. Only when intoxicated is he a little joyful. It should have been the reverse: in awareness, a person should be blissful and joyful; in unawareness, sad and depressed. The day this happens, alcohol will disappear from the world. Otherwise leaders may shout themselves hoarse—it will not vanish. Because the ordinary life of people has become empty of joy; only in drink do they seem happy.
They danced, they sang; they were drunk. Someone said, “Ah, it is full moon!” They all lifted their eyes to the sky.
In awareness, hardly anyone looks at the sky. Who looks at the moon? In a city like Bombay, perhaps no one even knows when the full moon comes and goes.
In their stupor, their heads rose: “The moon!” And someone said, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to go boating on the river in such streaming moonlight?” They went to the river. The fishermen had left. They climbed into a boat, took up the oars, and began to row. It was past midnight; dawn neared. With the cool breeze, a little sobriety returned. One of them said, “Who knows how far we have gone, or in what direction? We must turn back; it is almost morning—people at home will be wondering.” “Let someone climb down and see how far we have come,” they said. One man stepped out, looked—and cried, “Fools, all of you get down! We haven’t gone anywhere. The boat stands exactly where it stood at night.”
They all got down—and were stunned. In truth, they had forgotten to loosen the chain that moored the boat to the bank. They had rowed a lot through the night—but how could the boat move? It was chained.
A chain from the shore binds the human mind as well. Therefore, row all your life—you will not reach truth. I have given you three sutras to break that chain. Break it, and truth is exceedingly near. Nearer than your own self is truth.
You have listened to me with such love and peace; for that I am deeply grateful. I bow to the Divine seated within all. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
In a church, a fakir had been invited to speak. The people of that church had said to him: please say something about the search for truth. The fakir stood up to speak. Before speaking he said, I want to ask a question of the people gathered in this church. Only after that will I begin. He asked: those gathered here—do you study the Bible?
All the people waved their hands. They did.
The fakir said: I want to ask one more thing—there is the book of Luke in the Bible; have you read the seventy-ninth chapter of Luke? Whoever has read it, please raise your hand.
There was a big crowd in that church. Except for one man, everyone raised their hands.
The fakir began to laugh heartily. He said: now I will say something about truth. But first let me say, there is no such thing as a seventy-ninth chapter of Luke in the Bible—no such chapter exists at all.
And yet all those people had raised their hands to say, we have read it. There is no seventy-ninth chapter of Luke in the Bible—no such chapter exists!
So the fakir said: now I must surely say something about the search for truth. Because among all the people gathered here, no one seems to have any real relationship with truth.
But he added: I am surprised—how has a man who speaks truth come into this temple? One man had not raised his hand. The fakir went to him and said: I thank you. People who speak truth are not to be found gathering in temples. How did you stray in here? You did not raise your hand? Still—blessed is the chance that at least one lover of truth has come to the temple.
The man said: please speak a little louder—I hear poorly. I could not grasp what was being asked. Did you ask: the seventy-ninth chapter of Luke? I recite it every day! But I did not quite understand, so I did not raise my hand. I am a little hard of hearing.
The whole personality of man is untrue—and we want to search for truth!
The whole personality of man stands upon falsehood—and we want to search for truth!
Man’s entire display is erected upon the untrue. Surely, with an untrue personality in tow, truth cannot be searched for. For the search for truth, the untruth in the personality must disappear.
Therefore the first sutra I want to say to you is this: are we false people? Is our personality untrue? Have we created a pseudo personality, a false covering—garments of a personality? The one who has no connection with religion is seen performing worship in the temple. The one whose inside is filled with darkness has gone in search of white clothes to wear. And the one whose inside seethes with anger—on his face appears forgiveness. And the one in whom nothing but violence resides—he sings songs of love. We have made our whole personality a lie.
On the road a man meets us and we bow and say, how fortunate that at daybreak itself we beheld your auspicious face. And inside we keep muttering, how did this wretch show up so early in the morning! Those to whom we display love—no prayer rises in our being for them, no love arises. What we speak has no relationship with our soul. What we appear to be has no connection at all with what we truly are.
I have heard: there was an extraordinary photographer in London. In front of his studio he had put up a board. On it he had written the prices for different kinds of photographs. He produced three kinds of photos. A rustic villager went to be photographed. He saw on the board that it said: those who want the first kind of photo—the price is five rupees. And the meaning of the first kind is—exactly as you are. Those who want the second kind—the price is ten rupees. And the meaning of the second kind is—as you want to appear to people. And the third kind costs fifteen rupees. And the meaning of the third kind is—as you had wished that God would make you.
The villager was very astonished! He had thought there must be only one kind of picture. He asked the studio owner: can there be three kinds of pictures of one man?
The photographer began to laugh. He said: we do not have so many facilities—there can be a thousand pictures of each person.
And each person has a thousand pictures. In front of the wife his picture is one thing; in front of the sons, the children, it is another; in front of the boss, yet another; before the servants, another still. The man keeps changing pictures twenty-four hours a day. He keeps changing like a chameleon all the time.
A man can have a thousand pictures. Our means are limited, so we take only three kinds. Which kind do you want?
The villager said: I am amazed! People must surely choose the first kind. As a man appears, that is the picture to be taken. Do people also come here who choose number two or number three?
The studio owner said: you are the first person who has even thought of choosing the first kind. Up to now, no such person has come. Whoever comes—first of all he wants number three. If money is short, he settles for number two. No one has come yet to take the first kind.
No one wants to appear as he is. What is true, the man wants to hide inside; what is false, he wants to drape upon himself. We have invented innumerable tricks to make our personality a thing of lies and deceptions. And then this very man begins to think, I will search for truth! This same man begins to read the Gita, the Koran, the Bible; this same man sings hymns and kirtan. This same man stands with folded hands before the idol of God and prays that I may come to know truth. And this man never asks: if I myself am untrue, how can I come to know truth? If I am untruth, how can I have any relationship with truth?
The first step in the search for truth is this: our personality must be true. Our personality should be exactly as it is—straight, clear, simple. As we are, so must be the acceptance. But such acceptance is nowhere within our minds.
And it is a great surprise: those whom we call good men have even less of that simplicity than those whom we call bad. Those whom we call criminals may still be simple; but those whom we call respectable and religious are not simple at all.
Therefore, the more civilization and culture have developed, the more man has become false. In the village, in the countryside, far away in the forest, you may still find a tribal who is simple. But he knows nothing of religion, he has read neither the Gita nor the Koran nor the Bible; he is neither Hindu nor Muslim; he has no idea of Moksha; he has not composed scriptures about truth; he has not argued over truth. There, in the distant forest, you may meet someone who is a true man—as he is. But the more culture develops and civilization progresses, the more man becomes false. We keep draping garment upon garment. Slowly the man is lost and only a heap of clothes remains. Then this heap of clothes wants a relationship with truth—that I may know God, that I may recognize life. That is impossible.
It is a wonder that the civilized man is the untrue man. It should have been the reverse. Only the man of truth should have been called civilized. But the more civilization, the more culture, the more education—the more cunning, the more cleverness, the more deceit, the more lies.
In London a play of Shakespeare was running. This is a story from a hundred years ago. Throughout the town there was talk of the play. Whoever spoke of it, praised it. The arch-priest of London, the highest prelate, was also told by people: it is a marvelous play and the actors are so skilled, so alive, the like has never been seen. But that priest—as is the habit of gurus and priests—immediately said: a play! You are thinking of going to hell! Seeking entertainment? Seeking pleasure? There is no essence in all this.
This is what the priest said outwardly. But inside the priest is as much a man as anyone else. Outwardly he said, you will go to hell—why meddle with plays? Seek truth, seek God. Why waste time? Life itself is a play—what do you go to see in a playhouse? But inside he did not sleep all night. Again and again the thought came—what would the play be like? What would the characters be like? What would the acting be like? He had never seen a play.
The next day, after thinking it over, he wrote a letter to the theatre manager: I also wish to come to see the play. Is there any arrangement by which, if there is a back door, I might come in by it so that no one can see me, and I can see the play? If such a thing is possible, please arrange it—I will be very obliged. I do not want those who go to the play to see me. So from the back, when the play has begun and it is dark, I want to enter. Is there a back door?
The theatre manager replied to his letter and wrote: in every town we have to make arrangements for back doors, we have to build them. For gentlemen always come in from the back door—they never come from the front. From the front come those who have no notion of the vanity of being a gentleman. Those who have no ego that we are great men, learned, saints, mahatmas—those poor simple people come through the front door. They are straightforward people, not clever. The clever always come from the back door. So we have to keep a back door. You are welcome—please come.
But after the letter he added a postscript, and in that postscript he wrote: I do wish to remind you of one thing. There is indeed such a door in the theatre by which, if you enter, no one will be able to see you. But I cannot assure you that God also will not be able to see you. And it may even be that you do not believe that God exists—because a priest hardly believes in God. He tries to make the world believe that God is, but he knows full well he is doing a trade in the name of God. So the theatre manager wrote: I suspect you may not even believe that God is.
There is, to this day, no proof on earth that priests believe in God. For if priests believed in God, the Hindu priest, the Muslim priest, the Christian priest could not be different. Because God is not three, nor three hundred. And if priests believed in God, there would have been no religious wars and violence in the world till today. For those who know and accept God—there remains no resort to violence. For them, no path remains except love.
So the theatre manager wrote: it may be you do not believe that God is. Even then let me remind you of one thing—no one will be able to see that you came into the theatre, but at least you will see that you came into the theatre. That I cannot arrange—that even you should not come to know that you came into the theatre.
Man has developed all kinds of pretence, hypocrisy, and made for himself back doors. And slowly the world is becoming so civilized that the need to keep front doors in theatres will gradually end. All doors will be at the back. Because all people are becoming gentlemen. Man’s entire personality is being made artificial, false—constructed. We wear a face to show to others, and we all know within that this face is false. We are well acquainted that this face is false. And not only in relation to life have we made a false face; in relation to truth also we have made a false face. If we understand that a little, we can take steps forward in the search for truth.
If I ask you: is there God? Surely, most people will say: yes, there is God. Perhaps a few will say: there is not. But if I ask a second question—those who are saying there is God, and those who are saying there is not—are they saying it knowing? Do they know? Those who say, God is—do they know of God’s being? And if they are saying it without knowing, then they are speaking untruth. And they are placing a false picture even before God—that I am a theist. And those who say there is no God—have they searched life and existence and found that there is no God, have they attained to his non-being? If they have not yet found the non-being of God, then they are speaking untruth. And before God, before truth, they are standing with the false face of an atheist.
And all of us are such people. Even about the supreme truths of life we have fashioned false faces—the theist, the atheist. And we never ask ourselves: with such false faces, shall we set out to search for truth—and hope to find it? Even regarding truth we carry false assumptions.
A fakir was staying in a village. The people of that village said: will you not come to our mosque to give a discourse?
The fakir said: but if I knew something, I would say it. I know nothing.
But the people of that village had heard that those who attain supreme knowledge begin to say precisely this—that we know nothing. So surely this sage must know something. They entreated him greatly and forcibly took him to the mosque. They placed him upon the platform. Then the fakir asked the people of the mosque: before I say anything, I want to ask you one thing. On what subject do you want me to speak?
They said: surely, we want to hear about God.
The fakir asked: do you know that God is? Do you believe God is? Do you know God is?
All the people of the mosque said in one voice: yes, we know—God is, the Paramatman is, only He is.
The fakir said: then forgive me! When you already know that He is, what more need I say? If you did not know, perhaps there would be some meaning to my speaking. When you know—then the matter is finished. Beyond knowing God there remains no journey of knowledge at all. That is the ultimate, the final knowing. After that there is no journey of knowledge. There the limit is reached. All that was knowable has been known. All that was attainable has been attained. God means the end—the ultimate. So what need remains for me to say anything more? Forgive me. Why should I labor in vain—and you sit here for hours? I am going.
The people of the mosque were nonplussed. They thought—this is a great mess. How were we to know that by saying God is, this man would just go away? They said, next Friday we should request him again. And this time we shall decide to say: no—there is no God. We do not know that there is God. We do not know. A second answer.
On the second Friday they fetched the fakir again.
He again asked: friends, what are your intentions? Do you want to know about God? The same question: is there God? Do you believe? Do you know?
All of them said: what God? Where is God? We know nothing. Whether God is or is not—we know nothing. We neither believe nor know.
The fakir said: the matter is finished. If you neither believe nor know about God, what is the point of futile labor? What is the use of speaking about a thing that is not even a question for you? It would be talk without subject—talk in the air. I am going. God is not your problem.
The fakir climbed down and left. If God is not their problem, why speak to them of God?
The villagers were greatly bewildered. This is a big difficulty. This fellow turned out to be quite a trickster. The first time we said yes and he spoilt it. This time we said no and he spoilt it again. What can be done now? The villagers thought and decided that there could be a third answer. On the third Friday we should catch him again.
On the third Friday they again brought the fakir. And he asked: friends, what are your intentions? What is the answer now?
The villagers were clever—as villagers always are. And those clever people had discovered a third answer. Clever people keep finding answers without knowing. Therefore all the answers of the clever are worth two pennies. The answers of the clever have no value—because they do not know; they manufacture answers by thinking. The villagers prepared a third answer—as if it were the villagers’ right to prepare answers concerning God.
The fakir asked: what is your intention today? Is there God or not? Do you believe or not?
Half the mosque raised their hands and said: half of us know that God is. And the other half said: we do not know that God is. Now what is your intention?
This then could be the third answer—a compromise of the earlier two.
The fakir began to laugh. He said: then my coming is utterly useless. Those who know—let them tell those who do not know. I am going. Of what use am I?
And the fakir left.
I asked that fakir: Did they not come the fourth time?
The fakir said: If they had come the fourth time, then I would have had to speak.
So I asked him, Why would you have to speak the fourth time?
He said: By the fourth time only one response would have been left for those people of the mosque—that I would ask, and they would fall silent and give no answer. Only one response remained: I would ask, and they would be silent, give no answer; then I would certainly have to speak. Because apart from silence, nothing can be a true expression in relation to truth.
To take any position regarding truth is to stand on the side of untruth. The first experience of the seeker of truth will be silence. He will say, I do not know anything. So what should I say—yes or no? He will be afraid even to say yes—yes could be wrong; he will be afraid even to say no—no could be wrong. I do not know.
So the first stage of the seeker of truth will be silence. On life’s ultimate questions he will fall silent. He will not stand with any side. Silence is impartial.
Yes and no divide into camps—theist and atheist. Therefore neither is religious. Neither is searching for truth. The theist takes the side of yes; the atheist takes the opposing side of no. But both are taking sides; none is impartial. And truth can be sought only by one who is impartial, unprejudiced—one in whose mind no side has made any place. One who says, I do not know; so how can I join any side? The day I know, that day I will stand with some side. But the great wonder is: those who have known have gone beyond all sides; they never stood with any side. Those who have known have gone outside of sides, and those who do not know are split into sides.
Thus the search for truth was murdered in the world because, in the name of truth, camps were formed.
Truth has no side.
Truth has no doctrine.
Truth has no sect.
Truth has no denomination.
Truth has no religion.
But all humanity is divided into sects, religions, sides, doctrines, philosophies, systems—the whole world is divided. Everyone has adopted some side. And whoever has adopted a side has stepped onto the path of untruth. His journey to truth cannot be.
To move toward truth, an impartial heart is needed, an unprejudiced mind—a consciousness that says: I do not know; so how can I be divided into any side? One who says: I am not a Hindu; I am not a Muslim; I am not a Jain—because I do not know what truth is, how can I decide where I stand and who I am? One who says: I am neither theist nor atheist. The person who musters so much courage as to say, I am ignorant, I do not know anything—how can I take a side?
To take a side, one must first assume oneself to be knowledgeable. That is why I say: taking sides leads a person onto the journey of untruth. To join a side means I have accepted that I know—only then can a side be taken. And we do not know, and yet we imagine that we know. Not only have we taken sides, we have even wielded swords for our side.
In the name of religion, as many killings have happened till today—neither bandits, nor thieves, nor ruffians have committed that many. It is a great wonder. In the name of religion as many houses have been burned, as many women violated—even all the sinners put together have not matched it. It is astonishing. How can this happen in the name of religion? And if all this happens in the name of religion, then nothing remains for irreligion to do—what will irreligion do then? The religious have left no method for irreligion.
It has been possible in the name of religion only because we have taken religion to be sect, to be side. Religion has no relationship with side or sect. A religious person is nonsectarian, impartial.
Are you a religious person? You will say, We are religious. I am a Hindu, I wear the tilak, I keep the sacred thread; I am a Muslim, I go to the mosque every day; I am a Jain, I recite the Namokar every morning sitting down. I am a religious man. And it may never have occurred to you that you have taken a side—you are no longer religious.
Only a religious person can search for truth, not the irreligious. And for being religious the first sutra is impartiality.
But from the very birth of children we try to shove poison into their brains. A child is born and we hurry to make him a Hindu—lest he gain some intelligence and refuse to become a Hindu, then it will be too late; so quickly pour into his blood that he is a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian, a Jain. The atrocity committed upon innocent children for ten thousand years is hard to compute.
To this day, what humankind has done to children it has done to no one else. Children were bound into sides—this is the greatest wrongdoing. Their search for truth was crippled forever. They will never again be able, with courage, to ask: What is truth? They were given answers in advance. Before they had asked questions, answers were handed out. Before they set out to inquire, scriptures were thrust into their hands. Before they could awaken their own curiosity, doctrines were shoved into their hands. Those children will live in untruth forever, die in untruth; they will never be able to search for truth.
The second sutra of the search for truth is inquiry.
The first sutra is an impartial mind. The second sutra is curiosity, inquiry.
And we kill all the curiosity of children. We have devised methods to kill curiosity. We have ready-made answers for every curiosity. Whatever the question, the answer is ready. For us, the answer has more value than the question. Suppress the question; impose the answer from above. The child asks, What is after death? And you say, The soul is immortal. You yourself do not know that the soul is immortal. No—yourself you know nothing. But you impose on the child’s mind that the soul is immortal.
The child had asked: What is death? The child raised a question, a great question of life: What is after death? And I tell you, the child raised a more precious question—it was far more valuable than your answer. Because your answer is false; you know nothing. Only when death comes will you know whether the soul is immortal or not. Then you will panic and cry out, Save me somehow—now I am dying. Then you will know that all that talk I used to make about the soul’s immortality—I did not know; I had heard it and was repeating it. And I was repeating it only because there was great fear of death in the mind. I was mustering courage: No, the soul is immortal, the soul is immortal, the soul is immortal. I will not die—gathering courage.
A man walks through a dark alley and starts saying, “Hare Ram, Hare Ram,” out of nervousness, out of fear—do not think this is religious. By shouting loudly he creates the illusion that he is not afraid. But his shouting loudly shows that he is afraid. If he were not afraid, there would be no need to cry out “Hare Ram.” In a cold river in the morning a man goes to bathe, pours water over himself and shouts, “Jai Sitaram, Jai Sitaram”—do not think this is a religious man. He is trying to forget the cold by shouting. If he keeps his mind engaged in shouting, he forgets that he is feeling cold—he can get out of the river quickly.
Those who keep chanting “the soul is immortal”—do not think they know anything of the soul’s immortality. If they knew, their life would become a fragrance, a truth; their life would become utterly different—they would be different beings. The person who has come to know that there is no death has entered another world altogether. He has known that truth which, when known, all is known. He has experienced the nectar of the deathless. And the one who has experienced the deathless—will there be hatred in his life? Will there be anger in his life? Will there be dishonesty in his life? In the life of one who has known the deathless, where is the possibility of anger? Anger was a device to save oneself from death; it was a safety measure. One fears someone might kill him, so to gather his strength he becomes angry and protects himself. Hatred is a device to save oneself from death. These are all measures of self-protection.
The one who knows there is no death—can he have any enemy in this world? Perhaps you have never even thought about it. Enemies are born out of the fear of death; otherwise there is no enemy—then all are friends. When no one can annihilate me, how can there be an enemy? Enemy means one who can annihilate me. Where there is the possibility that someone can annihilate me, he is my enemy. But if I cannot be annihilated at all, how can there be an enemy? Then all are friends. But no, we know nothing of the soul’s immortality. We repeat, in order to deny death, that the soul is immortal. And if a man sits in a corner and starts repeating, “I am a man, I am a man,” what will it mean? It will mean that he himself doubts his being a man; otherwise he would not repeat. We repeat precisely that which we doubt; otherwise we never repeat. What we know, we know—there is no need to repeat.
In temples and ashrams people sit and say, “I am the ageless, deathless soul.” From morning they chant the mantra, “I am the ageless, deathless soul; I am deathless.” They have gone mad. If you have come to know that you are the ageless, deathless soul, then why keep this babble going? For whom are you putting on this broadcast? Why are you repeating it? And if you have not come to know, then do not remain in the delusion that by repeating it many times you will come to know. If truth were so easy—that by repeating something many times we would become knowers of it—then by now everyone in the world would have known the truth. Repetition can create delusion; repetition cannot bring the knowing of truth. What I do not know—whether I repeat it once or a million times—what I do not know, I do not know. Yes, but by repeating it a million times that first foundational fact—that I do not know—may be forgotten, become obliterated. By repeating it a million times the illusion can arise that I do know—because for so many years I have been repeating that the soul is immortal. But by your repeating, nothing ever happens.
A child has asked a fundamental question: What is there after death? If you don’t know, then accept your ignorance. That will be for the child’s good and benefit, and it will help increase the child’s curiosity. And tell the child, “I don’t know. I too am searching and have not been able to know yet. You also search—and before you have really inquired, never, even by mistake, settle into belief, because the moment one believes, one’s search stops. The moment one believes, one’s search stops!”
Curiosity means not belief, not faith, not blind devotion. Curiosity means a whole-hearted urge to know: What is the truth of life? What is life’s mystery? What is hidden in this entire existence? Who is concealed within this vast nature? Who is the invisible within the visible? Who is the bodiless within this body? What truth is within these words? What beauty within these flowers? What is hidden within all life and the world? I want to know—I want to know! And if I am to know, I must be saved from secondhand talk.
But the hypocrisy of humankind—these borrowed words—has had a huge hand in our misery.
Krishna knows what truth is. Buddha knows what truth is. They know—and we repeat their words, and we think we too will come to know. Those words are borrowed—stale and dead. In the one who knows, words have life. But the moment those words reach us, they become lifeless. Only the words reach us; the experience is left behind.
A poet once went on a sea journey. In the morning, as he reached the shore, he saw the foaming waves rising toward the sky. From afar, waves could be seen approaching; gusts of wind; the streaming rays of the morning sun; air fragrant with dawn. Suddenly, he remembered his beloved, who lay ill in a hospital. His heart wished, “If only she could come and see this beauty!” But she was ill and could not come. “What can be done?” he wondered. Then he thought, “I’ll buy a beautiful chest, and I’ll fill it with the sun’s rays, with the wind, with the sea’s beauty—and I’ll send it to her. She will at least have a glimpse!” He was a poet; so he could think such foolishly innocent thoughts.
He went to the market and bought a beautiful chest. Very beautiful. He went back to the seashore, opened the chest in the sunlight and breeze, then shut it tight. He locked it and sealed it on all sides so no ray of sunlight or whisper of wind could escape. He wrote a letter to his beloved: “I have experienced a unique beauty; I am sending it to you, packed in this chest. You too will be delighted—at least a little glimpse you will have!”
The chest arrived; the letter too. His beloved was very surprised. Women, since always, are more practical than men; foolishness does not easily appeal to their minds. That’s why, seeing women, who knows how many poets are born—but women themselves rarely write poetry. She was astonished: “Has he gone mad? Since when can sea-breezes and sunlight be shut in a chest? Since when can morning’s beauty be locked away?” Still, perhaps he had devised some trick. She read the letter, opened the chest—and there was nothing. Pitch darkness. No rays, no breeze, no fragrance, no beauty—nothing at all. The chest was empty.
Those who have reached the shore of truth must also feel in their hearts, “May this beauty, this experience of truth, reach those who are left behind on the journey.” Out of compassion they pack the news of that beauty into words and send it to us. But the words reach us; the beauty remains there—on truth’s shore. And we carry these word-chests on our heads all our lives. Someone carries the Gita, someone the Samayasara, someone the Quran, someone something else. These are chests of words. Carrying these chests will never bring you to the shore where those senders stood. It is like this madness: I raise a finger toward the sky and show you the moon; and you grab my finger, rejoicing, “How fortunate—we have found the moon!” I point to the moon, and you clutch my finger as though you have attained it. I too would knock my head in despair. If Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, and Christ are anywhere, they must be tired from knocking their heads: we pointed toward the beyond, and people grasped the pointers and comfortably concluded that they had attained the truth.
Words are pointers, scriptures are pointers—and we cling to them. And gurus, abbots, saints explain: “Keep faith, keep your eyes closed, and keep holding on.” If you open your eyes even a little, there is a danger things will go wrong—because with eyes opened you will also see that the chest is empty. So do not open your eyes; keep them closed. This, they say, is the mark of the devotee, of the religious person: do not open your eyes. Thus the whole world has filled with hypocrisy and falsehood; the human personality has become false.
What is needed is to open the eyes. Even if in opening them, the truths we have cherished for years collapse—let them collapse. We must open our eyes. We must think. Even if the edifices we built over thousands of years turn to dust—so be it. For any structure that cannot bear the gaze of open eyes is a house of dreams, not a house of truth. Any “truth” that cannot stand before genuine curiosity is worse than falsehood. Real truth, under the fire of curiosity, only becomes more refined and clear. Truth needs no faith; truth has never asked for belief. Falsehoods beg: “Believe!”—for only by belief can falsehood stand. Truth says: belief is not needed. Think, inquire, search. Truth knows: the more you inquire and think, the nearer you will come to me.
So I tell you: all those who teach the world, “Believe, have faith, accept,” are, in fact, allies of untruth. They strengthen untruth in the world. Truth needs no support of belief. Truth can stand on its own feet. Falsehood needs belief; truth needs nothing. Truth never says, “Close your eyes and accept me.” Truth says, “Search, break, test. Cut away as much as you can—but what is true will remain.” Falsehood trembles: “Do not think!”—for if thinking begins, its life ends. Remove belief, and the ground beneath it slips away.
In a village one morning, a conversation took place in a shop; I overheard it. Let me tell you. There was an oilman’s shop. He sold oil. A man came to buy oil. Right behind the counter where the oilman sat, an ox was turning the mill, pressing oil. The customer was amazed. There was no one driving the ox; it walked on its own and pressed the oil. He was astonished: “This ox seems very old and very religious, very ‘religious.’ Where now do you find such beings who move without being driven? Nowadays even if the whole country tries to make people move, they don’t. The small clerk won’t move, the big clerk tries to move him. The big clerk won’t move, the superintendent tries to move him. And from the small clerk up to the president—no one moves. Each tries to move the other, and no one moves. But this ox—so religious, so trusting!” The customer said, “Compliments to your ox! What a wonder—no one drives it and it runs the oil-press!”
The oilman said, “Perhaps you don’t know; we shopkeepers know how to devise tricks.”
“What trick?” the man asked.
“Look closely,” he said. “We’ve tied blinders over its eyes. It cannot see whether anyone is behind it or not.”
If there are blinders on the eyes, how will it see? Those whose business runs on darkness, on blindness, ask you to tie bandages over your eyes. Priests are very old businessmen. Ordinary folk trade in ordinary things: groceries, cloth, gold and silver. The priest sells God. His business is very deep. He tries to tie equally deep bandages over a man’s eyes. The more blind a person is, the more he can be exploited in the commerce of falsehood.
The customer was astonished. “I understand,” he said. “But,” he must have been a man who could think—a rarity—“but even with bandaged eyes, the ox could stop and check whether someone is behind driving him or not. Doesn’t the ox have even that much intelligence—to stop and find out?”
The shopkeeper said, “If the ox had that much intelligence, we would turn the press and the ox would run the shop. We’ve tied a bell to his neck. The ox keeps moving, the bell keeps ringing—we know he’s walking. If the bell slows even a little, I spring up and drive him on. I never allow him to suspect that no one is always behind him. As long as the bell rings, I know he’s moving. Let it slow, and I rise and prod him. The ox remains under the illusion that someone is always there behind.”
But that man was still somewhat thoughtful—rare indeed. He said, “I understand about the bell. But the ox could also just stand still and shake his head to make the bell ring. You sit with your back turned.”
“Brother,” said the shopkeeper, “speak softly! If the ox hears you, we’ll be in great trouble. And from now on, please buy your oil from some other shop. This is an expensive business.”
So it is with human beings. Those who tell you, “Believe,” also warn you, “Do not go anywhere to listen to doubt or curiosity. Do not hear anything that might shake your faith.” And I say: anything that can be shaken has no value—worth two pennies at most. Therefore, be sure to think through and inquire into all that might shake your belief. If it trembles, let it tremble and fall; it had no value. And remember, that which collapses under a little doubt will not withstand the jolt of death. Death’s shock will reduce it to dust. What falls at the touch of doubt—how will it endure death?
Hollow believers, in the moment of death, come to know they have wasted life. They knew nothing; they only believed—and everything was in vain.
Therefore, the third sutra I give you is: thought.
The first sutra is: an impartial mind.
The second sutra is: curiosity—intense curiosity that refuses to accept anything on hearsay.
And the third sutra is: thought—relentless thought.
You will have to think—test every aspect of life from all sides. And until the whole of your intelligence accepts a thing, do not accept it. Until your whole being is ready to say yes, it matters not if some great guru says it, or some Tirthankara, or some avatar—you need not accept it. Not because Tirthankaras and avatars speak falsely, but because believing is wrong. They may speak truly; your believing is wrong. If you do not believe, and if you courageously persist in fierce contemplation, thought, and inquiry, then the result one day will be that the mirror of your being becomes clear. And what the Tirthankaras speak of, what the avatars speak of—you too will see. That day all scriptures will be true—for you; not before.
No one attains truth through scriptures, but attain the truth and all scriptures become true. No one reaches truth through a Tirthankara, avatar, or guru; but attain truth, and you see that all the world’s gurus and Tirthankaras are saying the same thing—the same truth.
We are traveling in reverse. We are seeking through belief, through faith, by clinging to feet. We will never reach truth that way. To reach truth needs courage—courage to stand in the dark, courage to stand in not-knowing, the courage to say, “I do not know.” And I tell you, on this earth there is no greater courage than accepting one’s ignorance. To say, “I don’t know,” is the greatest moral courage. Only a few have the bravery to say, “We do not know.” Only those few set out on the journey of discovery. Because the one who does not know—within his being a pain, a tension arises: “Let me know.” And the journey of knowing begins.
I have given you three sutras for the journey of knowing; let me repeat them—and then a small story, and I will finish.
Be impartial—set fire to all sides and factions. A human being needs no sides. Humanity needs no sects. If you want religion to be born, become free of religions. If you want religion in the true sense, bid farewell to religions. Be impartial. Inquire. Do not be afraid. Do not fear that inquiry and questioning might topple your cherished beliefs. They surely will. Let them. They should fall. If the sword of curiosity shatters everything—so be it. The more intense one’s curiosity, the dearer one becomes to the Divine; the greater the thirst, the deeper the urgency. Such a one refuses to place any idol between himself and truth. He says, “I will know truth. I am not willing to learn anything secondhand from middlemen. I want to know.”
Have you ever thought: can anyone else love in your place? Perhaps a world may come where this happens. Aldous Huxley once wrote that when the world becomes more comfort-loving, people will love comfort so much that, as they now hire servants for other tasks, they will hire servants to do love for them. It could happen—human beings are strange. One might employ a servant: “Do the business of love for me; don’t involve me in all that.” It could happen, because for thousands of years we have already had others do our praying. And prayer is love’s deepest form. A man engages a priest: “You pray; I will mind the shop. We will pay you a salary for prayer.” We hire others to do our praying; someday we might hire others to do our loving. It is only one step further. If we put a middleman between ourselves and God, what difficulty remains in putting one between ourselves and a beloved? What logical obstacle is there?
No—the one whose curiosity is intense will not accept anyone in between. That is what intense curiosity means: “Between me and truth, I will accept no one.” And those who try to stand between a person and truth are deceivers; they are tradesmen. Truth is not obtained through commerce.
And the third thing needed: tireless thought. Even if life fills with fire, even if all faith is lost, all consolations vanish, all contentment disappears, and life becomes worry and anxiety—do not abandon thought. For thought is the boat that reaches discernment; and discernment is the mirror in which truth’s image is imprinted.
Thought is the boat—storms will come. There is a comfort in standing on the shore—no storms there, no gusts, no fear of drowning or dying. That is why the less courageous remain standing on the shore of belief. The brave take the boat of thought and push out into the infinite ocean—where there are storms, tempests, the fear of death. But remember: the one who lacks the courage to face death never truly lives. Your capacity to live deeply is exactly as great as your capacity to enter death. The more one accepts death, the more deeply one becomes alive. So people sit on the shore—the shore of belief—content, peaceful, sitting there; no restlessness of the sea, no fear of drowning.
The boat of thought rocks a thousand times; storms arrive; water begins to fill; it seems all is lost. Many times the mind longs to return to the shore of belief, where everyone sits peacefully. But if you would reach the far shore, where truth is, you must cross the ocean in between. This is what I call tapas—austerity.
Austerity is thought. Austerity is not standing in the sun; those are circus tricks. Austerity is not starving; those too are circus tricks. Austerity is thought—because thought will shake your very being. All satisfactions will be destroyed; all consolations snatched away; all knowledge stripped—and you will be thrust onto an unknown journey, where there is no companion, no friend—only the boat of thought and the infinite sea. That is the meaning of tapas. And those who go with thought, surely reach.
Till today, no one has ever reached by belief; and the one who has gone by thought has never been stopped—he surely reaches. Thought carries you to the shore of discernment; and on that shore, one meets that which is called truth. Out of love we may call it God, or we may call it liberation—give it any name you like. Truth is—but its shore is far. Between lies an unknown ocean. And there is only one boat a human being has: thought. What else do you have by which you will go? Apart from thought, what strength do you have? What energy? What consciousness? Other than thought, there is nothing. Therefore the path is made by thought, and by thought a person arrives and attains.
I have said these few things. One more story, and I will complete.
It is a full-moon night. Some friends of a village have gathered in a tavern, drinking. Moonlight is showering down. They sing, they dance.
Human life has become so unhappy that except under alcohol a person neither dances nor sings. This is very sad. When he is sober, man is grave, unhappy, worried, troubled. Only when intoxicated is he a little joyful. It should have been the reverse: in awareness, a person should be blissful and joyful; in unawareness, sad and depressed. The day this happens, alcohol will disappear from the world. Otherwise leaders may shout themselves hoarse—it will not vanish. Because the ordinary life of people has become empty of joy; only in drink do they seem happy.
They danced, they sang; they were drunk. Someone said, “Ah, it is full moon!” They all lifted their eyes to the sky.
In awareness, hardly anyone looks at the sky. Who looks at the moon? In a city like Bombay, perhaps no one even knows when the full moon comes and goes.
In their stupor, their heads rose: “The moon!” And someone said, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to go boating on the river in such streaming moonlight?” They went to the river. The fishermen had left. They climbed into a boat, took up the oars, and began to row. It was past midnight; dawn neared. With the cool breeze, a little sobriety returned. One of them said, “Who knows how far we have gone, or in what direction? We must turn back; it is almost morning—people at home will be wondering.” “Let someone climb down and see how far we have come,” they said. One man stepped out, looked—and cried, “Fools, all of you get down! We haven’t gone anywhere. The boat stands exactly where it stood at night.”
They all got down—and were stunned. In truth, they had forgotten to loosen the chain that moored the boat to the bank. They had rowed a lot through the night—but how could the boat move? It was chained.
A chain from the shore binds the human mind as well. Therefore, row all your life—you will not reach truth. I have given you three sutras to break that chain. Break it, and truth is exceedingly near. Nearer than your own self is truth.
You have listened to me with such love and peace; for that I am deeply grateful. I bow to the Divine seated within all. Please accept my pranam.