First question:
Osho, what does "atheist" mean?
Man Hi Pooja Man Hi Dhoop #6
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
पहला प्रश्र्न:
ओशो, नास्तिक का क्या अर्थ है?
ओशो, नास्तिक का क्या अर्थ है?
Transliteration:
pahalā praśrna:
ośo, nāstika kā kyā artha hai?
pahalā praśrna:
ośo, nāstika kā kyā artha hai?
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, the scholars of scripture say that for women the recitation of the Vedas, listening to the Gayatri Mantra, and uttering the word Om are forbidden. Master, Om slips out of my mouth spontaneously; especially during Nadabrahma meditation one has to chant it. So a kind of fear arises in the mind—why has this been said? Should women not pronounce Om? Kindly have mercy and explain.
Sumitra, the scriptures were written by men, and the whole past of humankind is a history of the male exploiting the female—man’s exploitation of woman. Men did not give women a chance, did not grant equality, did not provide the conditions for growth. And there was fear behind this, because wherever women and men work side by side, the woman is more graceful, more blessed. A woman has an inner intuition which man lacks.
Man lives by logic; woman by feeling. And whenever there is a race between feeling and logic, feeling wins and logic loses. Woman has a natural emotional depth; therefore she connects with existence more easily. Man is hard; to make contact he has to melt a lot. Long ago, by nature, men became apprehensive, frightened of women’s capacities. And every man has his domestic experience of women: no matter how much he struts around outside puffing his chest, the moment he comes home he becomes a meek lamb—the bravest of the brave! Even a Napoleon would tremble before his wife! So men also have this experience: every woman can bend even the strongest man. There is something there—her love, her subtle indirect ways—these force a man to surrender.
That is why men decided centuries ago to at least confine woman to the house. If she keeps her hold there, fine; but if she is given a chance outside, she will establish her hold there too. Out of fear and intimidation, they said: do not educate women; do not let them read the Vedas; do not let them recite mantras; do not allow the Gayatri; do not let them intone Om; do not let them meditate; do not let women become sannyasins; keep them entangled in the kitchen and the hearth.
Men adopted these measures for self-protection. And remember, self-protective measures always weaken one. So let me state a paradox. People think men were able to oppress women because women are weak—because women are soft and delicate. That is utterly wrong. Certainly, women are soft and delicate, but not weak. Their strength is of a different kind; that much is true. Their power is not like a man’s; it is not brute, not harsh.
Lao Tzu has said: a man’s strength is like rock, a woman’s strength like a stream of water. But let the stream fall upon the rock and the rock’s stiffness will turn to dust, to sand. At first you won’t notice; the rock will stand there arrogantly. But give it time—slowly, slowly, without your even noticing, the rock will be worn away. The stream is gentle, but it breaks the hard stone.
Lao Tzu said: I tell my disciples, do not be like rock, for rock is weak; be like water. He said, my way is the way of water. And it is true that the most unique lotuses that have bloomed on this earth—Buddha, Lao Tzu, Jesus—bear in their person far more of the qualities we call feminine than masculine: that same softness, grace, beauty, delicacy. Buddha is no wrestler, no Muhammad Ali, no Gama, no Ramamurti. Buddha’s strength too is the strength of love, of compassion, of poetry—an indirect power. It is not the power of the sword; it is the power of a lamp’s flame.
Friedrich Nietzsche wrote against Buddha and Jesus, saying that both are effeminate. He wrote it in opposition, because he was a partisan of man’s power. Nietzsche said: the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, which I can never forget, was one morning—the open sky, the sun rising—and a troop of soldiers passing before my house! Their shining boots, their gleaming bayonets! The sound of their feet, the rhythm of their marching. Their file moving past like music—never have I seen a more beautiful sight. Not the moon and stars, not flowers, not dawn, not moonlight, not the full moon, not the eyes of a beautiful woman—the thing he called most beautiful was drilling soldiers and their bayonets glittering in the sun!
A man like that will naturally oppose Jesus and Buddha, because they are feminine. His objection is that they taught the world such gentleness that, because of it, masculine qualities were lost; man’s strength and virility were lost.
Leave his objection aside, but there is truth in his observation. I too would say: Buddha and Jesus and Lao Tzu and Krishna—he didn’t know of Krishna or Lao Tzu, otherwise he would have been even more bewildered. Just look at Krishna—peacock feather in his hair, golden-yellow silk, a flute in his hand, his way of standing, his charm, ornaments, long hair! Krishna appears downright feminine. We have not shown beards and moustaches on Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, or Rama. The Jains’ twenty-four tirthankaras—none is shown with beard or moustache. Either they all trusted in shaving every morning—no scripture supports that. They couldn’t have, for Mahavira and others carried nothing, not even a razor. They even plucked their hair once a year with their hands; they didn’t want to depend on any implements. They pulled it out by hand.
A man who once a year plucks his hair by hand—would he shave his beard and moustache every morning? Unlikely. And you cannot pull out beard and moustache hair by hand daily; those hairs are too small—how would you catch them? And if one were to pull beard and moustache hair one by one, day and night would pass in that alone; there would be no time left for meditation.
No—the reason we do not show them with beard and moustache is symbolic—to declare that their souls are like water, feminine; not like rock. Of course they had beards and moustaches. Sometimes it happens that a man doesn’t grow facial hair; someone may be effeminate. So one or two tirthankaras might have been like that, but all of them? And Buddha, and Krishna, and Rama—none with beard or moustache! Where did they learn this Western style? It was never India’s way. In India, rishis and munis always grew their beards and moustaches. That is why this looks so contrary. If you look at the rishis, you won’t find them without beard and moustache—big beard, moustache, matted locks. The bigger the locks, the greater the rishi! People even bought false hair and added it to their locks till they hung to the ground—proof of how great a rishi they were!
In a country where matted locks were so highly valued, how is it that Mahavira and Buddha are shown beardless and without moustache? It is symbolic, a sign that their person has been suffused with the softness that women have. To that extent I agree with Nietzsche; beyond that I do not. For he says that because of their influence, men lost their qualities.
First of all, their influence did not prevail. If it had, the earth would be paradise. Secondly, man has not lost his qualities—not a bit. On the contrary, they have advanced—far ahead. From the club he has reached the atom bomb—what more do you want? And what is development of qualities if not this? Murders have increased, suicides have increased. In three thousand years man has fought five thousand wars—what more do you want? Even that does not satisfy Nietzsche—he wants more war. The whole earth has become a battlefield. Every nation, even the poorest, is starving, yet spends at least seventy percent of its national income on feeding and maintaining soldiers. People starve, cutting their own bellies to feed the hulks. And what is the use of those hulks? Because the other country also has hulks... They award them the Mahavir Chakra. At least do not defame the name of Mahavira! Mahavir Chakras to soldiers! To sannyasins—fine, that one could understand—but to soldiers! The more people you kill, the greater the soldier; the more the murders, the faster the promotions!
No, man has not lagged behind in his “qualities.” Nietzsche is wrong. Man’s grotesqueness, his hatred, his anger have reached their peak. So with the rest I disagree, but I agree with his observation that there is a certain grace in Buddha and Jesus that is feminine. If only he had known Krishna or Lao Tzu, he could have made his point with even more force.
People think women are weak; therefore men subdued them. That is false. My understanding is different: man is afraid of woman; hence it became necessary to suppress her. If women are educated, there is trouble. Go and see in the universities. Wherever women and men study together, women win more prizes, pass more often with first class, get more gold medals. A woman has a certain one-pointedness: whatever she undertakes, she pours herself into it totally. That is her gift, because she is to be a mother and must pour her energy one-pointedly into the child. It is her natural disposition. If she sets herself to learn an art, she empties herself into it.
Man fears this—has feared it for centuries. And the first measures he took were to keep women uneducated. Not educating means cutting off their legs. Do not let them read the Vedas, the scriptures, the Upanishads—then they will always depend on male pundits.
Now you can see who actually sustains the pundits and the so-called religious leaders—women! Look at a Ram-katha—who fills the audience? Women! Who offers money, ornaments in the temples? Women!
The benefit of keeping women ignorant was that they had to depend on the so-called knowers. Then women were intensely maligned as the gateway to hell. Even in this malignment is man’s fear. Man is afraid of woman because the sexual desire within him is aroused the moment he sees her. He has no control over it. In that respect he becomes utterly helpless. He is drawn to her despite a thousand vows. So fear grows. Keep women at a distance. Do not let them come near holy places.
Even Buddha was anxious whether or not to accept women into the monastic order. In this matter I will praise Mahavira. Mahavira is perhaps the first person in all human history who straightforwardly included women in his order of monks. He did not fuss or refuse in the least. Buddha postponed it for years. His reason was: if women are admitted as nuns, our monks may become corrupt.
This fear—that the monks may become corrupted—is why women were kept away. Though Mahavira admitted women to the sangha to be sadhvis, yet even he left one undesirable statement: that liberation is not attained in the female state. So he placed woman a little below man. A woman must be born once as a man, then liberation is possible.
What kind of statement is that? What has liberation to do with male or female? Is moksha dependent on biology? On menstruation? On the arrangement of the body and the womb? Then liberation would be very material and bodily. Moksha pertains to the soul, to meditation. In meditation neither man nor woman remains. Meditation means that we find ourselves apart from the body, separate, other—the witness. And the witness is neither male nor female.
All religions, more or less, have tried to suppress women. And since all religions were created by men—no religion was founded by a woman—naturally women were trampled much more. In Jainism there is only this report that a woman, Mallibai, became a tirthankara. But see the male dishonesty! They wiped out the name Mallibai and changed it to Mallinath. So when you read the list of Jain tirthankaras, you will not find Mallibai—only Mallinath. How can a woman’s name be kept in the line of tirthankaras, since a tirthankara must attain liberation! Then what would become of the doctrine that liberation is not attained in the female life? So just change the name—call her Mallinath.
Mallibai must truly have been an extraordinary, dignified woman! She must have had a powerful presence—radiant, luminous! So luminous that while she was alive even the Jains had to accept her as a tirthankara. But after her death, the crafty cannot help their craftiness—they simply changed the name.
As a child when I read the list of tirthankaras, it never occurred to me that Mallinath was not Mallinath but Mallibai. And one thing is certain: in those days there were no operations as there can be now—turning a woman into a man or a man into a woman. There is no mention anywhere of such operations. There is one possibility: occasionally, by accident, some women become men and some men become women, due to a disturbance in hormones. The difference in hormones between male and female is a matter of degree; a little more or less and a woman can become manlike, a man womanlike.
But if something like that had happened, it should have been recorded clearly: first Mallibai was Mallibai, and later, with a change in hormones and bodily characteristics, she became Mallinath. There is no such mention. So the dishonesty is obvious: simply to prevent a woman from receiving such prestige, they changed the name.
Sumitra, you ask: “The scholars of scripture say…”
Who are these scholars? Men write, men interpret. And women—what to say! They accept scriptures written by men, interpretations made by men—and make them their own. Wake up a little now!
That is why I have spoken on women who were rarely spoken about—Sahajo, Daya, Mira. Their songs were sung, at least Mira’s songs were, but no one spoke about them, no one interpreted them. I have done so deliberately—so that they receive equal honor. Alongside Kabir, Nanak, and Dadu, Mira, Sahajo, and Daya should be honored. Alongside Mahavira and Buddha, Lalleshwari of Kashmir, Rabia, Teresa—these too should be given the same place.
Women must step forward a little, make a declaration. Half the population of the earth is women. Cut out all those lines in the scriptures that are written against women! If you have a Ramayana in your house, cut out every statement that maligns women. Do not be afraid of Tulsidas; I take responsibility! Tear out such passages, burn those scriptures, because they are false—founded on fundamental untruth, products of male ego.
What madness is this—that the scholars of scripture say Vedic recitation, listening to the Gayatri, and uttering Om are forbidden to women!
Does anyone have a monopoly on Om? Is Om someone’s hereditary estate? And when inner silence deepens, the sound of Om arises on its own; no one “does” it. Then what will you do? Will you forcibly choke it off? Om is the inner resonance of this universe, the tone of the world’s very life, the music hidden in existence, the unstruck sound! When a man is silent it will be heard; when a woman is silent it will be heard.
That is why Om is the one word on which all the world’s religions agree. This will surprise you. The Jains do not deny Om—they accept its glory. The Buddhists accept the glory of the word Om. The Hindus of course do. And the Christians call Om “Amen”—it is a form of Om. Every Christian prayer ends with Amen. And the Muslims say “Ameen”—that too is a form of Om.
This is how it happens with words: when the inner resonance of Om arises, if you are a Muslim it will sound like Ameen, because that is what you have heard all your life. If you are a Christian, it will sound like Amen; a Hindu hears Om. What has that to do with woman or man?
Have you ever sat in a train? If you want, you can hear it as chuk-chuk-chuk; if you want, as bhuk-bhuk-bhuk. Whatever you please—the train won’t object. Who can say whether the train is going chuk-chuk or bhuk-bhuk? The train is making a pure sound; you impose upon it whatever your conditioning is. Likewise, when the inner sound arises, a Muslim hears Ameen because that is what he has always heard; a Christian hears Amen; a Hindu hears Om. What has that to do with male or female?
Do not be afraid, Sumitra. Let your mouth resound with Om to your heart’s content. And your scholars of scripture are no more than parrots—worse than parrots.
Once, for an interfaith conference, Shri Matkanath Brahmachari and Mulla Nasruddin were both invited to speak. Both were thoroughly bored. The speakers were droning on about God knows what. Matkanath said to Nasruddin, “Mulla, what a pack of nonsense these fellows are sprouting! I’ve got a headache. Since I came here I feel nauseous. The only good thing is that you are here; at least there’s one person I can chat with and enjoy a little.”
Mulla replied, “You’re truly fortunate, Brahmachariji! By God’s grace you at least found one human being with whom you feel some joy; poor me—I didn’t even get that.”
Who are your “scholars”? It’s hard to find a real human being among them—they’re parrots, mechanically repeating. They probably don’t even know why they say what they say. It is written in books, so they repeat it. They have nothing but words. And what is there in words? One needs some experience.
A new chemistry teacher, Chelaram, asked in class, “What is KCN?” A little boy stood up and said, “Sir, it’s right on the tip of my tongue.” Chelaram shouted, “Spit it out—this instant! Spit! Or you will die. That’s potassium cyanide!”
Even if the word “potassium cyanide” is on your tongue—it’s only a word; it won’t kill you. Nor will words free you. If they can’t kill you, how would they liberate you! Does the word “fire” burn anything? Does the word “water” quench anyone’s thirst?
Those scholars who tell you, Sumitra, don’t do this, don’t do that—just peek into their lives. Is there anything there? Do you hear any Vedic tones rising in them? Any shadow of the Upanishads? Do you hear within them the resonance of Om?
Sit near them—you will find them poorer than yourself. They are parrots, repeating, because repetition brings profit; because for centuries their tradition has been repetition. Their forefathers did the same; generation after generation their work has been to repeat. Even parrots have a little more sense than that.
I have heard: a woman bought a parrot—such a lovely bird. But the shopkeeper said, “Madam, better not buy it. It has been in bad company and sometimes uses foul language. I shouldn’t hide this: since you are paying so much, don’t blame me later. It curses now and then. It has been in a gambling den and even in a brothel. So best not to buy it.” But the parrot seemed so charming that she said, “We’ll reform it, teach it. If it can speak so well, we’ll make it forget its bad habits. If it has been spoiled by bad company, good company will set it right.”
She brought it home—then regretted it, because at odd times it would blurt nonsense. The lady was Christian. The priest came; the parrot said, “To hell with this priest!” The lady was flabbergasted—what to do! She apologized profusely. The priest said, “Do this: I also have a parrot, very devout, absorbed in the Lord’s prayer from morning till night. Keep your parrot with mine for a few days.” The lady agreed; the parrot was sent to the priest’s house. They put the two in one cage.
Eight days later the lady came to see how things were. To her surprise, her parrot was not cursing—he said nothing at all; he didn’t even notice the lady or the priest. And the priest’s parrot, who used to chant with a rosary in hand all day long, had thrown away his rosary; it lay in a corner. He wasn’t praying; he too paid no attention to the lady or the priest.
The lady asked her parrot, “What happened to you? What about the cursing?” He said, “No need anymore.” She couldn’t understand. The priest asked his parrot, “And what happened to your prayer?” He said, “What can I say! The one I prayed for has arrived. I needed a beloved. This is no parrot, she’s a she-parrot. For her I was chanting, ‘O Lord, send me one!’ At last He heard. Now what’s the need for prayer!” And the lady’s parrot said, “I used to curse because I was angry—my life was being wasted. A companion was needed. Now that I’ve found one, the cursing has stopped.”
Even parrots have a bit more sense. Pundits just go on repeating.
Sumitra, steer clear of the scholars! Listen to the true masters. And there is a great difference between a scholar and a master. The scholar has read books; the master has seen the scripture within. The scholar speaks second-hand; the master speaks first-hand.
If you wish to recite the Vedas, recite them. If you wish to recite the Gayatri, recite it. If you wish to let Om resound, let it resound. It is your birthright. But I am not telling you to recite the Vedas. Only if you feel to! Because reciting the Vedas will not give you anything. The scholar says: you have no right to recite the Vedas. I say: the right is yours fully—but the exercise is useless. You will gain nothing. Read them as literature if you like—beautiful sayings, noble utterances—but no more than literature. Do not make more of it.
And what will happen by repeating the Gayatri? If it feels good to repeat it, I never stand in the way of anyone’s pleasure—whatever it may be. You ask about the Gayatri; if someone who smokes asked me whether he should continue because he enjoys it, who am I to interfere? That is between you and God. If it gives you pleasure, smoke. It’s no great crime. You take smoke in, you blow it out. It is foolish, because when you could take in pure air, you take in impure. When you could fill your lungs with morning freshness and the fragrance of flowers, you fill them with rotten smoke, rotted tobacco. But if it pleases you, you are not committing such a sin as to rot in hell. You can smoke. It is not a sin; it is unwise.
And that is what I say to you, Sumitra: if you want to chant the Gayatri, chant it—but it is idle talk; you will not get anything from it. Some people pass their time playing cards; some pass it with the Gayatri. Although in one respect playing cards is better than chanting the Gayatri: a card-player does not grow the ego that he is doing something religious; he remains a little humble, knowing it isn’t a noble thing. But the chanter of the Gayatri—his ego starts flying like a flag. He wants to show the world: “I chant the Gayatri; I am no ordinary man!” A Durvasa rises in him; he begins to think, “If I wish I can turn someone to dust; my Gayatri is becoming siddha—if I curse someone, they will rot for lifetimes; if I bless someone, wealth will rain!” Such ego and such nonsense take hold. And if he chants too much, insanity is a danger. Some chant for twenty-four hours.
A Sikh gentleman was brought to me; he recited the Japji twenty-four hours a day—kept it going within. He also did other work outside; he was a captain in the army. His wife brought him to me saying, “We are in great difficulty. He doesn’t listen—he’s immersed in the Japji. Talk to him and he isn’t there. Say one thing and he does another. Send him to the market for eggplant and he brings potatoes—says you asked for potatoes. Now the situation is worsening; his superiors are annoyed because his work is all mixed up. And a fear has arisen. He walks on the street absorbed in his chant; a car horn sounds and he doesn’t hear. One day there will be an accident. And he gets up in the middle of the night. From two in the morning he recites the Japji so loudly that the neighbors complain. The children are troubled; exams are near—when are they to study if he won’t let them sleep?”
The Sikh said, “Hold on! Middle of the night? I get up in the morning, not the middle of the night.” His wife said, “Two o’clock at night you call morning?” He said, “By the English clock it is morning. Twelve ends the day, and the next day begins. I call two o’clock morning by English reckoning. I rise at two—what does anyone have against that? And I do no bad deed; I recite the Japji loudly so you all can hear too; otherwise you’ll go astray. If it reaches your ears, it will benefit you.”
And in the end, what had to happen did. They had to admit him to a hospital. He had to be given tranquilizers. Only after some three months of treatment did he somehow get free of the Japji.
Sumitra, if you wish to chant the Gayatri, chant it, but don’t overdo it. These things catch hold; they get a grip. And greed makes one do more: the scriptures say, chant a crore times and so much benefit; ten crore and so much; a billion and so much. But if you chant a billion times, forget benefit—you’ll go insane. Repeat any word that long and you’ll begin to lose your mind.
No, I won’t advise it. Note why I stop you: not because you are a woman. I say the same to men and to women—this kind of repetition of the Gayatri will bring no real benefit.
As for Om—you wrote: “Master, Om slips out of my mouth spontaneously.”
What happens spontaneously is auspicious. Do not strive, do not force, do not make effort. Through effort things become false. Whatever arises on its own is blessed. If it is flowing by itself, let the spring flow, let it burst forth.
And in Om are contained all the Vedas, all Gayatris, all Qur’ans, all Upanishads, all Bibles. No one has a monopoly on Om—not men, not Hindus, not Jains, not Buddhists—no one.
Beware of the pundits and priests; they have exploited you enough.
If the oar is held in one’s own hands,
then perhaps this boat can be saved.
In these times, friends, the condition for living
is to hoist the corpse of conscience on one’s shoulder.
Even if the ways of the whole garden go astray,
let the fragrance at least be saved from waywardness.
To kindle these smoke-choked torches,
draw a little fire from the heap of ash.
There are many in this town who live
as if compelled to perform a ritual.
Now perhaps no other color will take to this—
let this picture be adorned, dyed with blood.
Sumitra!
If the oar is held in your own hands,
then perhaps this boat can be saved.
There is no other way. Appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. What is there to ask of pundits and priests?
There are many in this town who live
as if compelled to perform a ritual—
if you live by asking pundits and priests, you will live like that: as a mere ritual, a formality, a pretense, a hypocrisy, a social courtesy. And with the Divine, relationships are of love, not of etiquette.
And then, Sumitra, my color has settled on you—now no other color will take.
Now perhaps no other color will take to this—
let this picture be adorned, dyed with blood.
This ochre hue—the color of my love, the color of dawn, of the east, of flowers, of spring—once it soaks in, no other color can take.
That’s all for today.
Man lives by logic; woman by feeling. And whenever there is a race between feeling and logic, feeling wins and logic loses. Woman has a natural emotional depth; therefore she connects with existence more easily. Man is hard; to make contact he has to melt a lot. Long ago, by nature, men became apprehensive, frightened of women’s capacities. And every man has his domestic experience of women: no matter how much he struts around outside puffing his chest, the moment he comes home he becomes a meek lamb—the bravest of the brave! Even a Napoleon would tremble before his wife! So men also have this experience: every woman can bend even the strongest man. There is something there—her love, her subtle indirect ways—these force a man to surrender.
That is why men decided centuries ago to at least confine woman to the house. If she keeps her hold there, fine; but if she is given a chance outside, she will establish her hold there too. Out of fear and intimidation, they said: do not educate women; do not let them read the Vedas; do not let them recite mantras; do not allow the Gayatri; do not let them intone Om; do not let them meditate; do not let women become sannyasins; keep them entangled in the kitchen and the hearth.
Men adopted these measures for self-protection. And remember, self-protective measures always weaken one. So let me state a paradox. People think men were able to oppress women because women are weak—because women are soft and delicate. That is utterly wrong. Certainly, women are soft and delicate, but not weak. Their strength is of a different kind; that much is true. Their power is not like a man’s; it is not brute, not harsh.
Lao Tzu has said: a man’s strength is like rock, a woman’s strength like a stream of water. But let the stream fall upon the rock and the rock’s stiffness will turn to dust, to sand. At first you won’t notice; the rock will stand there arrogantly. But give it time—slowly, slowly, without your even noticing, the rock will be worn away. The stream is gentle, but it breaks the hard stone.
Lao Tzu said: I tell my disciples, do not be like rock, for rock is weak; be like water. He said, my way is the way of water. And it is true that the most unique lotuses that have bloomed on this earth—Buddha, Lao Tzu, Jesus—bear in their person far more of the qualities we call feminine than masculine: that same softness, grace, beauty, delicacy. Buddha is no wrestler, no Muhammad Ali, no Gama, no Ramamurti. Buddha’s strength too is the strength of love, of compassion, of poetry—an indirect power. It is not the power of the sword; it is the power of a lamp’s flame.
Friedrich Nietzsche wrote against Buddha and Jesus, saying that both are effeminate. He wrote it in opposition, because he was a partisan of man’s power. Nietzsche said: the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, which I can never forget, was one morning—the open sky, the sun rising—and a troop of soldiers passing before my house! Their shining boots, their gleaming bayonets! The sound of their feet, the rhythm of their marching. Their file moving past like music—never have I seen a more beautiful sight. Not the moon and stars, not flowers, not dawn, not moonlight, not the full moon, not the eyes of a beautiful woman—the thing he called most beautiful was drilling soldiers and their bayonets glittering in the sun!
A man like that will naturally oppose Jesus and Buddha, because they are feminine. His objection is that they taught the world such gentleness that, because of it, masculine qualities were lost; man’s strength and virility were lost.
Leave his objection aside, but there is truth in his observation. I too would say: Buddha and Jesus and Lao Tzu and Krishna—he didn’t know of Krishna or Lao Tzu, otherwise he would have been even more bewildered. Just look at Krishna—peacock feather in his hair, golden-yellow silk, a flute in his hand, his way of standing, his charm, ornaments, long hair! Krishna appears downright feminine. We have not shown beards and moustaches on Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, or Rama. The Jains’ twenty-four tirthankaras—none is shown with beard or moustache. Either they all trusted in shaving every morning—no scripture supports that. They couldn’t have, for Mahavira and others carried nothing, not even a razor. They even plucked their hair once a year with their hands; they didn’t want to depend on any implements. They pulled it out by hand.
A man who once a year plucks his hair by hand—would he shave his beard and moustache every morning? Unlikely. And you cannot pull out beard and moustache hair by hand daily; those hairs are too small—how would you catch them? And if one were to pull beard and moustache hair one by one, day and night would pass in that alone; there would be no time left for meditation.
No—the reason we do not show them with beard and moustache is symbolic—to declare that their souls are like water, feminine; not like rock. Of course they had beards and moustaches. Sometimes it happens that a man doesn’t grow facial hair; someone may be effeminate. So one or two tirthankaras might have been like that, but all of them? And Buddha, and Krishna, and Rama—none with beard or moustache! Where did they learn this Western style? It was never India’s way. In India, rishis and munis always grew their beards and moustaches. That is why this looks so contrary. If you look at the rishis, you won’t find them without beard and moustache—big beard, moustache, matted locks. The bigger the locks, the greater the rishi! People even bought false hair and added it to their locks till they hung to the ground—proof of how great a rishi they were!
In a country where matted locks were so highly valued, how is it that Mahavira and Buddha are shown beardless and without moustache? It is symbolic, a sign that their person has been suffused with the softness that women have. To that extent I agree with Nietzsche; beyond that I do not. For he says that because of their influence, men lost their qualities.
First of all, their influence did not prevail. If it had, the earth would be paradise. Secondly, man has not lost his qualities—not a bit. On the contrary, they have advanced—far ahead. From the club he has reached the atom bomb—what more do you want? And what is development of qualities if not this? Murders have increased, suicides have increased. In three thousand years man has fought five thousand wars—what more do you want? Even that does not satisfy Nietzsche—he wants more war. The whole earth has become a battlefield. Every nation, even the poorest, is starving, yet spends at least seventy percent of its national income on feeding and maintaining soldiers. People starve, cutting their own bellies to feed the hulks. And what is the use of those hulks? Because the other country also has hulks... They award them the Mahavir Chakra. At least do not defame the name of Mahavira! Mahavir Chakras to soldiers! To sannyasins—fine, that one could understand—but to soldiers! The more people you kill, the greater the soldier; the more the murders, the faster the promotions!
No, man has not lagged behind in his “qualities.” Nietzsche is wrong. Man’s grotesqueness, his hatred, his anger have reached their peak. So with the rest I disagree, but I agree with his observation that there is a certain grace in Buddha and Jesus that is feminine. If only he had known Krishna or Lao Tzu, he could have made his point with even more force.
People think women are weak; therefore men subdued them. That is false. My understanding is different: man is afraid of woman; hence it became necessary to suppress her. If women are educated, there is trouble. Go and see in the universities. Wherever women and men study together, women win more prizes, pass more often with first class, get more gold medals. A woman has a certain one-pointedness: whatever she undertakes, she pours herself into it totally. That is her gift, because she is to be a mother and must pour her energy one-pointedly into the child. It is her natural disposition. If she sets herself to learn an art, she empties herself into it.
Man fears this—has feared it for centuries. And the first measures he took were to keep women uneducated. Not educating means cutting off their legs. Do not let them read the Vedas, the scriptures, the Upanishads—then they will always depend on male pundits.
Now you can see who actually sustains the pundits and the so-called religious leaders—women! Look at a Ram-katha—who fills the audience? Women! Who offers money, ornaments in the temples? Women!
The benefit of keeping women ignorant was that they had to depend on the so-called knowers. Then women were intensely maligned as the gateway to hell. Even in this malignment is man’s fear. Man is afraid of woman because the sexual desire within him is aroused the moment he sees her. He has no control over it. In that respect he becomes utterly helpless. He is drawn to her despite a thousand vows. So fear grows. Keep women at a distance. Do not let them come near holy places.
Even Buddha was anxious whether or not to accept women into the monastic order. In this matter I will praise Mahavira. Mahavira is perhaps the first person in all human history who straightforwardly included women in his order of monks. He did not fuss or refuse in the least. Buddha postponed it for years. His reason was: if women are admitted as nuns, our monks may become corrupt.
This fear—that the monks may become corrupted—is why women were kept away. Though Mahavira admitted women to the sangha to be sadhvis, yet even he left one undesirable statement: that liberation is not attained in the female state. So he placed woman a little below man. A woman must be born once as a man, then liberation is possible.
What kind of statement is that? What has liberation to do with male or female? Is moksha dependent on biology? On menstruation? On the arrangement of the body and the womb? Then liberation would be very material and bodily. Moksha pertains to the soul, to meditation. In meditation neither man nor woman remains. Meditation means that we find ourselves apart from the body, separate, other—the witness. And the witness is neither male nor female.
All religions, more or less, have tried to suppress women. And since all religions were created by men—no religion was founded by a woman—naturally women were trampled much more. In Jainism there is only this report that a woman, Mallibai, became a tirthankara. But see the male dishonesty! They wiped out the name Mallibai and changed it to Mallinath. So when you read the list of Jain tirthankaras, you will not find Mallibai—only Mallinath. How can a woman’s name be kept in the line of tirthankaras, since a tirthankara must attain liberation! Then what would become of the doctrine that liberation is not attained in the female life? So just change the name—call her Mallinath.
Mallibai must truly have been an extraordinary, dignified woman! She must have had a powerful presence—radiant, luminous! So luminous that while she was alive even the Jains had to accept her as a tirthankara. But after her death, the crafty cannot help their craftiness—they simply changed the name.
As a child when I read the list of tirthankaras, it never occurred to me that Mallinath was not Mallinath but Mallibai. And one thing is certain: in those days there were no operations as there can be now—turning a woman into a man or a man into a woman. There is no mention anywhere of such operations. There is one possibility: occasionally, by accident, some women become men and some men become women, due to a disturbance in hormones. The difference in hormones between male and female is a matter of degree; a little more or less and a woman can become manlike, a man womanlike.
But if something like that had happened, it should have been recorded clearly: first Mallibai was Mallibai, and later, with a change in hormones and bodily characteristics, she became Mallinath. There is no such mention. So the dishonesty is obvious: simply to prevent a woman from receiving such prestige, they changed the name.
Sumitra, you ask: “The scholars of scripture say…”
Who are these scholars? Men write, men interpret. And women—what to say! They accept scriptures written by men, interpretations made by men—and make them their own. Wake up a little now!
That is why I have spoken on women who were rarely spoken about—Sahajo, Daya, Mira. Their songs were sung, at least Mira’s songs were, but no one spoke about them, no one interpreted them. I have done so deliberately—so that they receive equal honor. Alongside Kabir, Nanak, and Dadu, Mira, Sahajo, and Daya should be honored. Alongside Mahavira and Buddha, Lalleshwari of Kashmir, Rabia, Teresa—these too should be given the same place.
Women must step forward a little, make a declaration. Half the population of the earth is women. Cut out all those lines in the scriptures that are written against women! If you have a Ramayana in your house, cut out every statement that maligns women. Do not be afraid of Tulsidas; I take responsibility! Tear out such passages, burn those scriptures, because they are false—founded on fundamental untruth, products of male ego.
What madness is this—that the scholars of scripture say Vedic recitation, listening to the Gayatri, and uttering Om are forbidden to women!
Does anyone have a monopoly on Om? Is Om someone’s hereditary estate? And when inner silence deepens, the sound of Om arises on its own; no one “does” it. Then what will you do? Will you forcibly choke it off? Om is the inner resonance of this universe, the tone of the world’s very life, the music hidden in existence, the unstruck sound! When a man is silent it will be heard; when a woman is silent it will be heard.
That is why Om is the one word on which all the world’s religions agree. This will surprise you. The Jains do not deny Om—they accept its glory. The Buddhists accept the glory of the word Om. The Hindus of course do. And the Christians call Om “Amen”—it is a form of Om. Every Christian prayer ends with Amen. And the Muslims say “Ameen”—that too is a form of Om.
This is how it happens with words: when the inner resonance of Om arises, if you are a Muslim it will sound like Ameen, because that is what you have heard all your life. If you are a Christian, it will sound like Amen; a Hindu hears Om. What has that to do with woman or man?
Have you ever sat in a train? If you want, you can hear it as chuk-chuk-chuk; if you want, as bhuk-bhuk-bhuk. Whatever you please—the train won’t object. Who can say whether the train is going chuk-chuk or bhuk-bhuk? The train is making a pure sound; you impose upon it whatever your conditioning is. Likewise, when the inner sound arises, a Muslim hears Ameen because that is what he has always heard; a Christian hears Amen; a Hindu hears Om. What has that to do with male or female?
Do not be afraid, Sumitra. Let your mouth resound with Om to your heart’s content. And your scholars of scripture are no more than parrots—worse than parrots.
Once, for an interfaith conference, Shri Matkanath Brahmachari and Mulla Nasruddin were both invited to speak. Both were thoroughly bored. The speakers were droning on about God knows what. Matkanath said to Nasruddin, “Mulla, what a pack of nonsense these fellows are sprouting! I’ve got a headache. Since I came here I feel nauseous. The only good thing is that you are here; at least there’s one person I can chat with and enjoy a little.”
Mulla replied, “You’re truly fortunate, Brahmachariji! By God’s grace you at least found one human being with whom you feel some joy; poor me—I didn’t even get that.”
Who are your “scholars”? It’s hard to find a real human being among them—they’re parrots, mechanically repeating. They probably don’t even know why they say what they say. It is written in books, so they repeat it. They have nothing but words. And what is there in words? One needs some experience.
A new chemistry teacher, Chelaram, asked in class, “What is KCN?” A little boy stood up and said, “Sir, it’s right on the tip of my tongue.” Chelaram shouted, “Spit it out—this instant! Spit! Or you will die. That’s potassium cyanide!”
Even if the word “potassium cyanide” is on your tongue—it’s only a word; it won’t kill you. Nor will words free you. If they can’t kill you, how would they liberate you! Does the word “fire” burn anything? Does the word “water” quench anyone’s thirst?
Those scholars who tell you, Sumitra, don’t do this, don’t do that—just peek into their lives. Is there anything there? Do you hear any Vedic tones rising in them? Any shadow of the Upanishads? Do you hear within them the resonance of Om?
Sit near them—you will find them poorer than yourself. They are parrots, repeating, because repetition brings profit; because for centuries their tradition has been repetition. Their forefathers did the same; generation after generation their work has been to repeat. Even parrots have a little more sense than that.
I have heard: a woman bought a parrot—such a lovely bird. But the shopkeeper said, “Madam, better not buy it. It has been in bad company and sometimes uses foul language. I shouldn’t hide this: since you are paying so much, don’t blame me later. It curses now and then. It has been in a gambling den and even in a brothel. So best not to buy it.” But the parrot seemed so charming that she said, “We’ll reform it, teach it. If it can speak so well, we’ll make it forget its bad habits. If it has been spoiled by bad company, good company will set it right.”
She brought it home—then regretted it, because at odd times it would blurt nonsense. The lady was Christian. The priest came; the parrot said, “To hell with this priest!” The lady was flabbergasted—what to do! She apologized profusely. The priest said, “Do this: I also have a parrot, very devout, absorbed in the Lord’s prayer from morning till night. Keep your parrot with mine for a few days.” The lady agreed; the parrot was sent to the priest’s house. They put the two in one cage.
Eight days later the lady came to see how things were. To her surprise, her parrot was not cursing—he said nothing at all; he didn’t even notice the lady or the priest. And the priest’s parrot, who used to chant with a rosary in hand all day long, had thrown away his rosary; it lay in a corner. He wasn’t praying; he too paid no attention to the lady or the priest.
The lady asked her parrot, “What happened to you? What about the cursing?” He said, “No need anymore.” She couldn’t understand. The priest asked his parrot, “And what happened to your prayer?” He said, “What can I say! The one I prayed for has arrived. I needed a beloved. This is no parrot, she’s a she-parrot. For her I was chanting, ‘O Lord, send me one!’ At last He heard. Now what’s the need for prayer!” And the lady’s parrot said, “I used to curse because I was angry—my life was being wasted. A companion was needed. Now that I’ve found one, the cursing has stopped.”
Even parrots have a bit more sense. Pundits just go on repeating.
Sumitra, steer clear of the scholars! Listen to the true masters. And there is a great difference between a scholar and a master. The scholar has read books; the master has seen the scripture within. The scholar speaks second-hand; the master speaks first-hand.
If you wish to recite the Vedas, recite them. If you wish to recite the Gayatri, recite it. If you wish to let Om resound, let it resound. It is your birthright. But I am not telling you to recite the Vedas. Only if you feel to! Because reciting the Vedas will not give you anything. The scholar says: you have no right to recite the Vedas. I say: the right is yours fully—but the exercise is useless. You will gain nothing. Read them as literature if you like—beautiful sayings, noble utterances—but no more than literature. Do not make more of it.
And what will happen by repeating the Gayatri? If it feels good to repeat it, I never stand in the way of anyone’s pleasure—whatever it may be. You ask about the Gayatri; if someone who smokes asked me whether he should continue because he enjoys it, who am I to interfere? That is between you and God. If it gives you pleasure, smoke. It’s no great crime. You take smoke in, you blow it out. It is foolish, because when you could take in pure air, you take in impure. When you could fill your lungs with morning freshness and the fragrance of flowers, you fill them with rotten smoke, rotted tobacco. But if it pleases you, you are not committing such a sin as to rot in hell. You can smoke. It is not a sin; it is unwise.
And that is what I say to you, Sumitra: if you want to chant the Gayatri, chant it—but it is idle talk; you will not get anything from it. Some people pass their time playing cards; some pass it with the Gayatri. Although in one respect playing cards is better than chanting the Gayatri: a card-player does not grow the ego that he is doing something religious; he remains a little humble, knowing it isn’t a noble thing. But the chanter of the Gayatri—his ego starts flying like a flag. He wants to show the world: “I chant the Gayatri; I am no ordinary man!” A Durvasa rises in him; he begins to think, “If I wish I can turn someone to dust; my Gayatri is becoming siddha—if I curse someone, they will rot for lifetimes; if I bless someone, wealth will rain!” Such ego and such nonsense take hold. And if he chants too much, insanity is a danger. Some chant for twenty-four hours.
A Sikh gentleman was brought to me; he recited the Japji twenty-four hours a day—kept it going within. He also did other work outside; he was a captain in the army. His wife brought him to me saying, “We are in great difficulty. He doesn’t listen—he’s immersed in the Japji. Talk to him and he isn’t there. Say one thing and he does another. Send him to the market for eggplant and he brings potatoes—says you asked for potatoes. Now the situation is worsening; his superiors are annoyed because his work is all mixed up. And a fear has arisen. He walks on the street absorbed in his chant; a car horn sounds and he doesn’t hear. One day there will be an accident. And he gets up in the middle of the night. From two in the morning he recites the Japji so loudly that the neighbors complain. The children are troubled; exams are near—when are they to study if he won’t let them sleep?”
The Sikh said, “Hold on! Middle of the night? I get up in the morning, not the middle of the night.” His wife said, “Two o’clock at night you call morning?” He said, “By the English clock it is morning. Twelve ends the day, and the next day begins. I call two o’clock morning by English reckoning. I rise at two—what does anyone have against that? And I do no bad deed; I recite the Japji loudly so you all can hear too; otherwise you’ll go astray. If it reaches your ears, it will benefit you.”
And in the end, what had to happen did. They had to admit him to a hospital. He had to be given tranquilizers. Only after some three months of treatment did he somehow get free of the Japji.
Sumitra, if you wish to chant the Gayatri, chant it, but don’t overdo it. These things catch hold; they get a grip. And greed makes one do more: the scriptures say, chant a crore times and so much benefit; ten crore and so much; a billion and so much. But if you chant a billion times, forget benefit—you’ll go insane. Repeat any word that long and you’ll begin to lose your mind.
No, I won’t advise it. Note why I stop you: not because you are a woman. I say the same to men and to women—this kind of repetition of the Gayatri will bring no real benefit.
As for Om—you wrote: “Master, Om slips out of my mouth spontaneously.”
What happens spontaneously is auspicious. Do not strive, do not force, do not make effort. Through effort things become false. Whatever arises on its own is blessed. If it is flowing by itself, let the spring flow, let it burst forth.
And in Om are contained all the Vedas, all Gayatris, all Qur’ans, all Upanishads, all Bibles. No one has a monopoly on Om—not men, not Hindus, not Jains, not Buddhists—no one.
Beware of the pundits and priests; they have exploited you enough.
If the oar is held in one’s own hands,
then perhaps this boat can be saved.
In these times, friends, the condition for living
is to hoist the corpse of conscience on one’s shoulder.
Even if the ways of the whole garden go astray,
let the fragrance at least be saved from waywardness.
To kindle these smoke-choked torches,
draw a little fire from the heap of ash.
There are many in this town who live
as if compelled to perform a ritual.
Now perhaps no other color will take to this—
let this picture be adorned, dyed with blood.
Sumitra!
If the oar is held in your own hands,
then perhaps this boat can be saved.
There is no other way. Appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. What is there to ask of pundits and priests?
There are many in this town who live
as if compelled to perform a ritual—
if you live by asking pundits and priests, you will live like that: as a mere ritual, a formality, a pretense, a hypocrisy, a social courtesy. And with the Divine, relationships are of love, not of etiquette.
And then, Sumitra, my color has settled on you—now no other color will take.
Now perhaps no other color will take to this—
let this picture be adorned, dyed with blood.
This ochre hue—the color of my love, the color of dawn, of the east, of flowers, of spring—once it soaks in, no other color can take.
That’s all for today.
Osho's Commentary
The old definition of the atheist has become petty, too small. So I do not say that the atheist is the one who rejects Ishwar; the atheist is the one who lives in rejection. Naturally, my definition of the theist will also be different. A theist is not one who believes in Ishwar; a theist is one who lives in acceptance. One who lives in trust is a theist. One who lives in distrust is an atheist.
Ordinarily, ninety-nine percent of people out of a hundred are atheists, because No is their way of life. In everything—No. No sits easily on their tongue; Yes is very difficult. And the reason is simple. Saying No nourishes the ego; saying Yes brings the death of the ego.
Watch a little, observe, look within. Whenever you say No, a stiffness arises—a subtle stiffness. Others may or may not notice it, but you certainly will. Something inside hardens like a stone. The more you say No, the more you feel you are somebody! And the more you say Yes, the more you feel: I am nothing, a nobody.
To know oneself as nothing is theism. To know oneself as shunya is theism. But before one can know oneself as shunya, the ego has to die. The more your life becomes filled with Yes, with acceptance, the sooner the I will bid farewell. Just begin saying Yes and you will be amazed—the ego will throw obstacles. You say No even where there was no need to say No, and you stumble even in saying Yes where it would have been in your own interest to say it. One who says No, who makes No his way of living—that one is an atheist.
Ishwar is not a person to whom you must have faith—or upon whom you can disbelieve. There is none like an Ishwar; there is Ishwar-ness, godliness, divinity. There is no person seated on some golden throne in the sky controlling the whole universe. There is an order, a rhythm. If you flow with that rhythm, you are a theist; if you move separately and aloof, you are an atheist. If you cook your own little porridge in isolation, you are an atheist; if you join in the vast symphony of the cosmos, you are a theist. If you try to save your little drop, you are an atheist; if you allow your drop to slip into the ocean and become one, you are a theist.
So cut the word theist–atheist free from Ishwar. It has nothing to do with Him. Those who did not accept Ishwar have been theists—and those who accept Ishwar you meet every day, and they are not theists at all: in temples, in mosques, in gurudwaras, in churches. Are they in short supply? On the surface they look theists, because they offer two flowers in a temple, light a lamp. But within? If you look closely at their lives, do you find anywhere the fragrance of theism? Do you see anywhere a light of theism? Do you see anywhere a flower of reverence blooming? They profess trust in Ishwar—at least they say so—yet they do not trust anyone! The husband does not trust the wife; the wife does not trust the husband; friend does not trust friend. No one trusts anyone here. Everyone is on guard against everyone—and these are the theists!
One night thieves entered a Zen fakir’s hut. There was nothing in the house—only a blanket that the fakir was wrapped in as he lay. A cold night, a full-moon night. The fakir began to weep, weeping out of the pain that thieves had come and there was nothing to steal. Hearing his sobs, the thieves asked, Why are you crying, brother? They could not help themselves. The fakir said, You came—at least for once you came; for the first time in my life you have come! You bestowed this good fortune upon me! Even to a fakir you gave this chance! People do not come to steal at a fakir’s house; they go to emperors. You did not come to steal—you have made me an emperor! For a moment it seemed to me that thieves could come to my house too! Such a benediction! But then my eyes filled with tears. I tried hard to hold them back lest I disturb your work, but I could not—sobs escaped, because there is nothing in the house. If only you had sent word two days earlier, I would have made arrangements. Next time you come, at least inform me. I am a poor man. If I had two or four days, I could have begged and gathered something. For now I have only this blanket—take it. And see, do not refuse. If you refuse, it will wound my heart deeply.
The thieves were shaken; they could not make head or tail of this. Never had they met such a man. They had stolen all their lives, but it was the first time they were meeting a man. There is much crowd, but where are men? Faces look human, but where is the human being! For the first time shame arose in their eyes; modesty was stirred. For the first time they bowed before someone; they could not refuse. Why hurt him by refusing? They took the blanket. To take it was difficult, too—there was nothing else! When the blanket slipped away, it became evident the fakir was naked. That blanket was his only garment—the same wrap, the same bedding. But the fakir said, Do not worry about me; I am used to being naked. And you have walked three miles from the village on this cold night—who leaves home on such a night? Even dogs are curled up. Take it quietly—and next time you come, inform me.
The thieves were so startled that they rushed out at once. As they were going out, the fakir shouted, Listen—at least close the door and thank me!
Strange man, thought the thieves. His voice had such authority that they thanked him, closed the door and ran. Then the fakir stood at the window watching the thieves as they went into the distance, and he wrote a song—the meaning of which is: I am so poor that if it were in my power, tonight I would have plucked the full-moon from the sky and offered it to them! Who knows who will come to whose door at midnight!
This is theism. He has no belief in Ishwar, but he has trust in the Ishwar-ness of each person. There is no person like Ishwar, but within all persons that which is throbbing, which indwells as the temple of life, which is breathing—his trust is in that ocean of spread-out Ishwar-ness.
Later the thieves were caught. A case was brought to court; that blanket was found. And the blanket was a well-known blanket—it belonged to that famous fakir. The magistrate immediately recognized it: This is that fakir’s blanket—so you have stolen even from that poor fakir! The fakir was summoned. The magistrate said, If the fakir says this is his blanket and you stole it, we need no other evidence. One statement from that man is weightier than the statements of a thousand men. Then I will give you the harshest punishment I can. Whether your other thefts are proved or not—I do not care. If that one man says…
The thieves were trembling, perspiring profusely—when the fakir came into the court. He said to the magistrate, No, these people are not thieves—they are very good people. I gifted the blanket to them, and they thanked me. And once thanks has been given, the matter is finished. I gave the blanket; they gave thanks. Not only that—they are so good that when they left, they even closed the door.
This is theism. The magistrate released the thieves because the fakir said, Do not harass them; they are dear people, good people, virtuous people. The thieves fell at the fakir’s feet and said, Initiate us. They took sannyas. And afterwards the fakir laughed much and said, I gifted the blanket so that you could enter into sannyas. You could not possibly have digested it. All my prayers were woven into that blanket. In that blanket was the whole story of my prostrations. It was not a blanket—as Kabir says: jhini-jhini beeni re chadariya!—it was woven of prayers. Wrapped in it, I had meditated. It carried the color of my Samadhi, its fragrance. You could not have escaped it—I was certain. That blanket would bring you back; and at last you have come. That night you came as thieves; today you have come as disciples. I was sure—because there is no such thing as a bad man.
Whoever trusts even in the worst of men—that one is a theist. One who can see the un-thief in a thief—that one is a theist. One who can see the honest within the dishonest—that one is a theist. One who can search for saintliness even in the un-saint—though there be a heap of un-saintliness, yet somewhere the diamond of saintliness will be buried—that one is a theist. And the opposite is the atheist. The atheist is one who, going to a rosebush, does not see the rose at all but counts thorns. And if you count thorns, the thorns will prick you; your hands will be bloodied, anger will arise.
It is said that a theist in New York fell from the one-hundred-and-twentieth floor of his building. People leaning out of windows along the way asked, How are you? He said, So far so good.
A theist lives moment to moment—so far so good! Once he reaches the ground, then we will see. And whoever can say, while falling toward the ground after stepping off a building, So far so good—everything will ever be good for him. Even if he shatters on the ground, only the body will be scattered; there is no way to shatter his consciousness. His consciousness has attained to the immortal. One who has such trust will see the world filled with beauty—overflowing with truth. Such a one will see on every leaf the signs of godliness, on every flower the fragrance of godliness, on every wave the play of godliness.
Theism is not the name of performing rituals in temples. You mold idols of clay and stone and worship them—this is all deception. Theism is the name of a very deep awakening—an awakening so deep, an eye so profound that even on the night of the new moon one can behold the full moon. An eye so deep that even in the darkest darkness lamps begin to glow. Even in death one can find the thread of the Great Life.
The atheist is one who sees nothing—he is blind. No has layered dust upon his eyes. Saying No, saying No, his mirror has forgotten how to say Yes. And Yes is a bridge; No is a wall.
Do one experiment for a day. For twenty-four hours, whatever is said to you, say No. Your friendships will break; your family ties will break; your acquaintances will fall away. For twenty-four hours, whatever is said, reply only with No. In twenty-four hours you will find yourself utterly alone, cut off from the whole world. And then do the experiment of saying Yes for twenty-four hours—whatever is said, say Yes—and you will find connections upon connections arising.
Those who are the real victors in this world know only this secret: they know the art of Yes. They know how to say Yes—therefore they win every heart. This much is the secret of their victory.
An atheist is such that if you say to him, That man plays such a lovely flute, he will instantly reply, What flute will he play—he’s a liar, a cheat, a fraud! And a theist is such that if you say to him, That man is so dishonest, such a fraud, such a liar—he will say, No, that is impossible! Because I have heard him play the flute. He plays so lovingly—he cannot be a liar.
The atheist counts nights and says, Between two nights there is just a little day. The theist counts days and says, Between two days there is a little night, a little rest. The nights are the same, the days are the same; but the counting differs, the arithmetic differs, the angle of vision differs.
If in the beauty of nature you begin to see the image of Paramatma—if a night filled with moonlight begins to feel filled with Paramatma—then you are a theist. In the theist’s vision, matter slowly disappears and only Paramatma remains. In the atheist’s vision, Paramatma disappears and only matter remains.
The atheist is foolish, because by denying Existence he is only losing his own self and gaining nothing. The atheist is worthy of compassion. Do not be angry with him. He is a beggar. He has received life, but he does not know the art of becoming acquainted with life. He keeps groping outside the temple, along the walls; he does not find the door to enter. And when he does not find the door, in anger and ego he declares: There is no door, there is no temple—there are only walls!
The theist discovers the door through his Yes. The theist does not need to go to mosque, temple, Kaaba, Kashi. There the crowds of atheists go. The theist—wherever he is, there is Paramatma; wherever he sits becomes a place of pilgrimage; wherever his feet fall, there a Kaaba is made. His Paramatma is not some small thing that can be confined somewhere. His Paramatma is spread over the whole of Existence. The cosmos itself is his Brahman.
But Devanand, because of the definition of atheist you have heard, the question has arisen. Any intelligent person will naturally ask: whom should we call an atheist? Socrates did not believe in Ishwar, but I say he was a theist. And millions upon millions believe in Ishwar and they are not theists. And these who are not theists yet believe in Ishwar—because of them the boat of religion is sinking. Atheists have put on masks of theists.
I have heard: a pundit was narrating Krishna-lila with great relish. The way he chewed betel was undeniably charming. Turning toward the women he began: Yes, so the gopis noticed that Krishna Bhagwan had climbed a tree and sat there with their clothes! He had in his hands so long a staff that it reached straight into the river. Give us our clothes, Kishan! one gopi said coquettishly. Krishna Maharaj felt mischievous. He wrapped the gopi’s choli and ghaghra around one end of the staff and lowered the staff toward the river. The gopi raised her hands to catch the staff. Her naked arms were very shapely and fair. Krishna Bhagwan raised the staff a little higher. The fair one stretched higher. Her body was most full. He raised the staff a little more. The gopi’s waist was most bewitching. Krishna Maharaj raised the staff higher…
Enough, you scoundrel! four or five college boys shouted. Then instead of the pundit’s getting a beating, the boys were blackened in the face and paraded through the market, and all the townspeople said: They are atheists—they should be stoned to death.
Who is an atheist? Who is a theist? In the name of theism such hypocrisy has gone on that nowadays an atheist seems the better person—at least he is straightforward; at least he is free of false, borrowed beliefs; at least he stands outside the pundits’ hypocrisy.
And remember one more thing: if you truly want to be a theist, you must pass through the steps of atheism. Therefore, for me, theism and atheism are not opposites; atheism is the step, theism is the goal. Atheism is the means; theism is the end. One who is to say Yes must also have strength in his No. If your No is impotent, your Yes will also be impotent.
If you have said Yes out of mere formality, out of etiquette, said Yes because it had to be said—what is the value of that Yes? How much energy will there be in that Yes? For that Yes, how much are you willing to sacrifice? One must also learn to say No. There must be courage to be sacrificed even for No.
So if you truly want to be a theist, Devanand, you will also have to be an atheist. Only a true atheist can be a true theist. And a true atheist will inevitably become a true theist. My arithmetic will look very paradoxical to you, because for centuries you have been told: if you want to be a theist, then do not become an atheist. And I tell you: if you want to be a theist, pass through the process of atheism. No will refine you. No will sharpen you. No will make your intelligence keen. And the keener your intelligence becomes, the closer Yes is; the more you will have to say Yes. One day you will see that No has brought you to the door of Yes.
Life is not logic. Life is beyond logic. So beyond logic that things which ordinarily appear to be opposites are in truth not opposites at all, but cooperative. Night and day are not enemies of each other; they are companions, fellow-travelers. Life and death are not opposites. Without one, the other cannot be; they are like the two wings of a bird.
So it is with theism and atheism. One who has never been an atheist—his theism will remain superficial; it will not be deeper than the skin. Perhaps he is a theist out of fear. Perhaps out of greed. Or perhaps he never even thought about it; what he was taught in childhood, he is repeating parrot-like. He never reconsidered whether what he was taught is true or false. Perhaps he never had the leisure. Or perhaps he did not even consider it worthy of thought.
When people think something is not worth thinking about, they say yes-yes and be done with it.
I have heard of a man who learned the language of lions. He became so adept—in learning it for years—that when he was ready, he went into the jungle. But the lion he spoke with seemed utterly stupid. He asked something, they answered something else. He inquired if there was any intelligent lion. A fox told him: If you want an intelligent lion, you will find him in the deepest forest; he is the king of all lions and their spiritual master.
The man overcame many difficulties and reached that lion. He asked questions. He asked about the east; the lion spoke of the west. One answer, another question. The man beat his head and said, I have wasted my life learning your language. I have already spoken with many fools. Having heard about you, I came here—yet you seem the worst of all!
The lion began to laugh. He said, They were not fools—they had already met me. Each and every lion you spoke to has already spoken to me. I am their king and their guru. They are all laughing at you—that a stupid man has come to the jungle. Stupid—because till now no lion has tried to learn the language of men, for we have never considered it worth the trouble. And you have wasted your life to understand the language of lions; now you have come and you ask silly questions: Is there God? Is there soul? Is there heaven? Is there hell? So the ones you spoke to were all intelligent lions. They fobbed you off with topsy-turvy answers—and that is what I am doing. You will ask one thing; we will answer another, because foolish questions can only be answered in a foolish manner. Ask something intelligent and we will say something intelligent. You have learned the language of lions; now learn a little intelligence too.
Is there Ishwar or not—is that truly a question of your life? What of yours hangs upon this question? If there is Ishwar, then what will you do? And if there is no Ishwar, then what will you do? You will remain as you are, whether Ishwar is or is not. You will go to the office the same way, quarrel with your wife the same way, beat your children the same way, gamble on Diwali and hurl abuses on Holi the same way—whether there is Ishwar or there is not! What difference will it make? Because it makes no difference in your life, people think: why bother with these things at all? If everyone says—He is—then they must be right. Just accept it. Why get into a mess? Why waste time!
Hence, you never reconsider, you never review your beliefs. You never dig to see what all you have accepted—how much of it is born of experience and how much of it is stale and borrowed.
Ninety-nine out of a hundred people are theists, but among those ninety-nine you will hardly find a single theist. What you will find are atheists—faces, masks of the theist. Because a theist’s face is useful commercially. Clever people put on such faces as bring profit. Clever people do not live naked; they run their lives covered with garments.
Our honorable minister follows Gandhism in his eating habits.
He takes ice-cream only from goat’s milk.
He adopts Gandhiji’s simplicity
from the inside—
on the outside a gleaming
khadi dhoti-kurta;
so what if
underneath he wears a loincloth!
Following Gandhiji’s
ahimsa
he does not lay a hand
on meat—
he eats it with knife and fork.
He lays great stress on truth—
he tells lies outwardly,
and inwardly
speaks the truth to himself.
The real thing is the inside; what is the outer! Man is so clever at deception! And the most beautiful and easiest deceptions are those the society itself wants you to accept. If you are born in a Hindu home, the sacred thread is put on you. You put on three threads—what is lost? Yet you gain prestige, respect. You dab on a tilak—what’s the harm! But you are taken as religious. And being taken as religious is useful commercially. People will trust you. And if people trust you, you can deceive them. You can only deceive those who trust you—how will you deceive those who do not?
A great Western thinker, Immanuel Kant, discusses a principle in his ethics: I call that act immoral which, if everyone adopted it, would become impossible to do. For example, if the whole world decided we will speak only lies—then telling lies would become useless. When everyone lies, what sense is left in lying? You know that the other is lying; and he knows that you are lying.
Falsehood functions only so long as the illusion persists that it is not falsehood, it is truth—so long as someone is willing to trust you. In the world, immorality can walk only on the legs of morality. Falsehood has no legs of its own; it has to borrow them from truth. Falsehood has no face of its own; it has to wear the mask of truth.
So your so-called theism is nothing but masks. Remove these masks! Better to have your own face—even if it be that of an atheist. And every child is born like an atheist. This is the process of Paramatma. That is why the very first thing a child does in this world is to say No. As soon as the child comes to a little age—four or five years—he becomes obsessed with saying No. Whatever you say to him, he will do the opposite. You say, Do not smoke—he will smoke. You say, Do not go to the cinema—he will go. He will disobey your orders. This is a natural process. He is saying No—existentially No. And by saying No he is freeing his individuality from you.
Just as after nine months the child must come out of the mother’s womb—he cannot remain in the womb beyond that; he has grown so much he has to be delivered—so, by the time he is four or five, he has to learn No, because now he wants to be free of your psychological womb. Now he wants to have his own individuality, his own privacy. And his privacy can exist only if he violates your commands. Slowly, by saying No again and again, he will free himself from you. By the time he is young, he will become adept in No.
Therefore all the young are revolutionaries. This is nothing great—it is an essential part of youth. Just as in youth people fall in love, so in youth people make revolutions. It is as natural as love—because revolution means they will say No to everything, so that the exact definition of their personality can be drawn: who am I?
But the danger is that if people remain encircled by that very No, if they never become mature, that is dangerous. Just as one day one learns to say No, one day one should also learn to say Yes.
In my reckoning, at the age of fourteen—if a person is given the right opportunity—his No becomes complete; and by the age of forty-two—if he is given the right opportunity in life—the birth of Yes begins. The great psychologist Carl Gustav Jung has said: After observing thousands of patients, I have concluded that those who fall ill after the age of forty-two are not really psychologically ill—their illness is religious. They have become forty-two, and the art of saying Yes has not arrived; they continue to say No—childishness!
What was right in childhood… The pajama that fit perfectly in childhood—if you still wear that pajama at forty-two, it will seem you have put on Hanuman’s loincloth. It was not that once it was of no use—once it was useful; once it was a pajama—now it has become a loincloth. It is the same; you have changed, you have grown up.
There is a time when No is needed. No sharpens personality, gives it an edge. Those who do not learn to say No—or who are never given the chance, or whose No is utterly crushed—remain straw men. They look like people, but inside they are utterly hollow. There is nothing within them—only hay and chaff. They are scarecrows standing in fields. Perhaps they can frighten animals and birds, but they can do nothing more. If you remove the head, you will find a pot—under the Gandhi cap, just a pot! If you take off the achkan-kurta, there is nothing—just a stick! Perhaps the animals and birds get frightened in the dark of night—though I doubt it. One day they will be deceived, two days they will be deceived—how many days can they be deceived? Finally they will come closer to see whether the man is real or a Gandhian! And the day they see that he is a Gandhian… For I have seen birds even building nests on such Gandhians—the matter of fear is another thing!
Even birds are not so easily deceived. For a day or two—fine.
Those who do not learn to say No in life—their sword remains rusted. So I say: one must be an atheist. But there is an age for it. At fourteen, one who is not an atheist—that person is wrong. And after forty-two, one who is still an atheist—that person is wrong. A moment should come when you have learned to say No, you have taken the benefit of No, you have made manure out of No—now you should also taste the delight of Yes. Now you should also understand that No frees you from others, but it does not free you from yourself.
And the more you free yourself from others, the stronger your own ego becomes. It was necessary to be free from others—otherwise you would have no personality. Obedient children have no personality. The more obedient the child, the cheaper he is. It is convenient for the parents: tell him to sit in the corner—he sits; tell him to do his homework—he does it; he does whatever he is told. Convenient for the parents—but obtained at a great price: the child’s soul is being lost. The child is being murdered. It is a kind of foeticide. He will remain in the body, but there will be no soul within.
If there were right education in the world, every parent would teach his child atheism; would say, Learn to say No. For if you say No, you will think, you will reflect. If you say No, you will have to struggle, you will have to fight. If you say No, you will learn the lesson of standing on your own feet. If you say No, you will understand who you are; you will be able to separate yourself from the crowd; you will be able to be free of being a sheep.
In a school the teacher asked the children: Suppose ten sheep are locked in a pen; one jumps out over the fence—how many remain inside? A boy who never raised his hand began waving it wildly. The teacher was surprised: Speak—speak; you never raise your hand! He said, You ask questions of which I have no experience. This one I know by experience. Not a single sheep will remain inside.
The teacher said, Do you have any sense at all? I said ten sheep are locked up and one jumps out over the fence—and none will remain inside? The child said, You may have experience in mathematics; I have experience with sheep. We have sheep at home—that is why I waved so hard, so no one else could answer. And what is correct according to mathematics is not necessarily correct according to life. If one sheep escapes, the nine others will follow. Sheep always follow one another. Sheep have no individuality.
So a person who has not learned to say No will remain part of the crowd; he will remain a sheep. Whosoever is part of the crowd is a sheep. The crowd belongs to sheep. That is why the crowd does not want you to learn to say No. Pundit, priest, politician do not want you to acquire the capacity to say No. They teach you from the start: reverence, faith, theism, humility, obedience. These words are very lovely—but lovely only after a certain age; before that, they are poison.
Everything has its season—remember it. If you water in season, flowers will one day come to the trees; if you water out of season, the roots may rot. And do not proceed by mathematics. Life is not mathematics.
A mathematician opened a hotel. The specialty was that the price of vegetables was very high. When Shri Bhondumal came to eat and saw the bill, he was alarmed. He went to the owner and said, This is too much! Such an expensive plate of vegetables! What is in these vegetables?
Don’t you see, Shri Bhondumal, this dish is a mixture of fifty percent fruit and fifty percent vegetable! It is expensive because of the fruit.
But I did not see a single piece of fruit!
Neither do I see it—the mathematician-hotelier replied—because this dish is made by mixing one grape and one pumpkin.
There is a world of mathematics—in which one pumpkin and one grape… But life is not mathematics, nor is life science.
Mulla Nasruddin decided to make fools of his friends on the first of April. He sent a telegram to his scientist friend Chandulal, who had gone to Kashmir for a month’s holiday. He wrote only this: Dear Chandulal, now my health is fine. Nothing to worry about. Yours—Mulla Nasruddin.
The very next day a very large and heavy parcel arrived from Srinagar by V.P.P. Nasruddin had to pay five hundred and eighty rupees to take delivery. In eagerness he quickly opened the parcel. Inside was a big stone. On the slip attached was written: Dear Nasruddin, on receiving your wire such a weight was lifted from my chest. Yours—Chandulal.
Life is not straightforward, like mathematics and science. Life is poetry; life is music. And music is made of many notes. Life is a rainbow—seven-colored. Life is music—the full scale, all seven notes!
Life begins with atheism and is fulfilled in theism. Begin with saying No—and keep digging until Yes happens. And let me tell you this astounding thing: if you keep digging with No, you will surely arrive at Yes. Make No your shovel and dig! One day the springs of Yes will be struck. When Yes comes, there is fulfillment. When Yes comes, the ego goes.
From No you gained ego; through it you were saved from the crowd; it gave you a certain security, formed a shield. Now you have become encircled by this shield. Now you must learn the art of dropping it—and that comes only through Yes. First be free of the crowd—use the ego; then be free of the ego. That day you will know the secret of Existence—bliss, celebration! Another name for that is Paramatma. The theist does not believe in Paramatma—the theist knows the celebration of life. That is his Paramatma-experience.
The second question: