Nari Aur Kranti #3

Beloved sisters!
I am immensely delighted. I shall be able to share a few things of my heart with you. Many people live so unintelligently, so ignorantly, so mistakenly, that they neither taste the joy of life, nor ever become acquainted with that music which could have played upon the veena of their hearts, nor do they ever receive the fragrance of those flowers which could have perfumed their very life-breath. Very few, a rare few, among millions and billions, ever come upon the meaning and the significance of life.
Today, in this gathering, I want to say a little to you about how your life may learn that art so that the misfortune which befalls most does not become your fate. Your life is just beginning. If a true seed, a true direction is given, it is possible that what happens to all may not happen to you — and within you, life may unfold in its fullness, in its total music. Before I say anything further on this, I will tell you a small incident so that we can begin from there.
Mao Tse-tung once wrote a small reminiscence of his childhood. He wrote: When I was small, one thing stands out among my childhood memories — my mother had an extraordinary garden. People from far-off villages would come to see the flowers that bloomed there. Those flowers were praised greatly. In her old age that was her joy — her flowers, her garden. Once she fell ill; so ill that it became impossible for her to care for the plants. She was not as distressed by her own illness as by the thought that her flowers were wilting, and those plants which she had nurtured with her very blood were nearing death. Her worry was not for her illness, but for the devastation of her garden.
So Mao said to her, “Do not be anxious, I will take care of your flowers.” From morning till evening Mao looked after that garden. But after two or four days it became clear that all his efforts were going to waste. The garden kept withering, flowers drooped, leaves dried, the plants became lifeless. In fifteen days the garden was desolate; the buds had withered, flowers stopped appearing. When the mother recovered a little and came out, she went into the garden, saw the state of it, and tears streamed from her eyes. Mao too began to weep and said, “I kissed each flower, bathed each one with water, wiped each leaf and dusted them. For fifteen days I have been almost mad — neither sleeping nor eating properly. Yet somehow the flowers have kept withering and the garden has gone to ruin.”
His mother said, “Foolish boy, wipe your tears! I have understood where the mistake is. You forgot — and perhaps you did not even know — that the life of the flowers is not in the flowers, but in the roots. The roots are not seen; flowers are seen, leaves are seen. The roots are hidden in the earth.
Whoever cares for the flowers and forgets the roots — his flowers will wither and his roots will dry. But one who cares for the roots — his flowers will blossom by themselves, his plants will become healthy and vibrant on their own.”
Life is in the roots, but the roots are not visible. And what is visible — flowers, leaves, fruits — has no life of its own. That which is seen has its life in that which is unseen.
I have told this small story so that I may also tell you that the same is true of life. In life, the life of what appears is hidden in mysterious sources that do not appear. Like roots, life keeps its very life-force concealed in the utterly invisible.
The body of man is visible, but the life of the body is in that Atman which is not visible. Man’s life seems to be spread outward — in his actions, in his conduct — but the entirety of his conduct, his deeds, the whole expanse of his outer life is hidden in that Atman which is invisible and unseen.
The mistake Mao made is the same mistake that most people make with life. They forget; they exhaust themselves tending to the flowers and leaves of life — and life withers and is lost. It does not occur to them to water the roots.
One who waters the inner life — in his outer life many flowers bloom. But one who forgets the inner — in his outer life no flowers ever come. No matter how hard he labors, runs, toils — all outward effort is futile until the understanding and the art of tending the inner roots is attained. In that inner life alone are the roots.
But neither our education has anything to do with it, nor our civilization. Neither our conditioning, nor our society, nor our parents are concerned that we come into any relationship with the Atman within. The result is that we give children a very expensive education; we give them good clothes, good food; we arrange all kinds of facilities for their lives. Yet in the end the person seems utterly withered. No fragrance emanates from his life — rather a stench. There seem to be no flowers in his life — perhaps only thorns remain. No note of joy is born in his life — rather a dark night of sorrow descends. What then is the meaning of all our effort, our education, our universities, our conditioning? What use are they?
And when a wrong kind of person is created, he is not wrong only in himself — he vitiates the entire air around him. Thus a world has come to be that is full of suffering, of great pain, and in which there is no sign of joy.
You must have heard people say — and you have read songs in your books and heard such statements — and as you grow you too will experience this: that the happiness of childhood keeps decreasing as the days go by. Ask old people — they say, “In childhood there was much joy; afterward there has been no joy.” They long to become children again, to return to childhood.
But to go back in life is impossible. What does this oft-repeated statement mean — that childhood is the time of great joy?
On the surface it sounds pleasant; in truth it is very wrong and very dangerous. It implies that after childhood life becomes increasingly miserable. It should have been the opposite: after childhood life should have been increasingly filled with happiness and joy. Because childhood is only the beginning; the last days of old age should have been the days of the greatest joy, peace, and music — for life is developing. If life is developing, childhood is the start, the beginning; old age is the fulfillment. In old age there should be joy, achievement, a sense that “I lived — and I attained something.”
But the old man says, “The days of childhood were the best.” What does this mean? It clearly means that the direction of his life did not go rightly. He did not know the art of living. He did not understand the mystery of how life develops. He failed to recognize those sutras by which life is created, by which something is attained, some treasure found.
Yet this is true of almost all. You are still young, but even you must have begun to feel that childhood days were good. If such a feeling has begun, know that your life has started to move on wrong paths. With life, joy should increase; happiness should grow. Each day you should feel that “Compared to yesterday, there was nothing — today is richer.” Every new day should arrive bringing greater joy, deeper music, and a larger blessing. Only then know that your life is moving in the right direction. Otherwise life becomes a decline. If there is happiness in childhood and sorrow in old age, life is a fall, not a growth; a descent, not a rise. It is astonishing — and we hardly even notice the astonishment!
So the first thing: Life becomes available only to those, and the joy of life only to those, who learn the art of living. Only then does meaning arise. Otherwise all is in vain. Many are born human, but very few come to know life.
By what paths can life be known and attained?
First — at the very foundation — is the point I have made about roots. The art of life is, first of all, the art of knowing life’s roots. It is essential to know: Where is the center of my life? Where do my pranas draw their energy from? Is it outside or within? Is it my body, or something deeper than the body? From where does my life receive vitality? From where does it draw strength? What is the very ground of my life?
Certainly, as I said, when we approach a tree, its roots are not visible — they are hidden underground. Why hidden — have you ever wondered? They are hidden in the earth because all the processes of life, all its workings, its mysterious growth, happen in silence, in stillness, in solitude. If we keep a person from sleeping for ten or fifteen days, he will go mad. Why? Because the processes of life, the order of health, work in sleep. When a person is asleep, the entire life-energy engages in its tasks. Keep a man awake for fifteen days — he will go insane. Keep him awake longer — he may die, he may commit suicide.
In ancient China the greatest punishment was to deprive a man of sleep. Two guards would stand day and night, prick him with needles to keep him from dozing. Within two or four days he would suffer unbearable torment, he would scream, go mad, bang his head against the walls. He would endure a pain greater than death. What has happened? The forces of life which work — by which strength is renewed each day, by which fatigue dissolves — those forces cease to function. For them to work it is necessary that everything fall silent, quiet, still; that all fall asleep. In that darkness, in that silence, those energies do their work.
A child grows in the mother’s womb — unseen, invisible. Roots hide within the earth — unseen — and keep working. Within our bodies, life is at work twenty-four hours, and we have no idea. Blood flows; bones and flesh are formed. You have eaten — in the dark it is being digested, becoming blood and tissue. The whole of life is silently at work in the dark. Within each body such a vast factory is running that if it made noise, living in the world would be impossible.
Till now man has not been able to build a factory where bread can be turned into blood; where you put in grass and milk comes out; where you put in certain things and bones are produced. We have not been able to make it — we never will. For whatever we make will be too overt and exposed, while for life’s work a deep hush is needed, such secrecy that no one even knows it is happening.
Perhaps you also do not know that wherever you see life at work in the cosmos — call it life, call it Paramatman — it works absolutely silent, hidden in the dark. People ask, “Where is God?” They want to see God in front of them.
Leave God aside; ask anyone: “Where is life?” You will not find it by looking for it. Life also works silently in the hidden roots. From that life all plants are born, animals, birds, man, the moon and the stars — all arise from those processes veiled in the dark.
In foolishness we may assume that the tree visible above ground is all that is true, and that the hidden roots do not exist because they are not seen. “What is not seen is not” — if this logic enters our thought — and it has entered everyone’s thought — “what is seen is, and what is not seen is not.” If this notion takes hold, we will stop caring for the roots. We will care for the plants, the leaves, the branches. How long will such a plant live? And even if it lives, it will wither day by day, its greenness will diminish, its flowering will become rare. One day it will die.
If a plant begins to wither, we understand that some mistake is being made. But man withers day by day, and we do not understand that a mistake is being made. Man grows more and more sad and depressed, and we do not recognize that something is wrong.
One mistake is there: we have forgotten man’s roots. We have no remembrance of those invisible energies within man; we have become oblivious of them.
In the art of life, the first thing is to seek life’s roots. Certainly the roots are within, for thence all unfolds. From where does our love blossom — have you ever thought? From where are our thoughts born — have you ever considered? From where does all our strength come? From within! One day a thought suddenly arises within, love is born within. Something rises from the within and expands outward. Life moves from within to without.
Yet our whole education, our whole society, our entire culture is from the outside toward the inside. What are we doing in our universities and schools? We are stuffing some knowledge from outside to inside. “Learn these things.” Things are being poured in from the outside, and we are gathering them within.
This knowledge is false; it cannot lead to life. Yes, through this knowledge a job can be found; through this knowledge livelihood can be managed; you can get clothes, a good house. Through this knowledge you can obtain outer things because it comes from outside. But through this knowledge you cannot find the inner roots, you cannot find the Atman. To know That, a knowledge must be born that comes from within. Hence man has come to stand in a very unbalanced state. His connection with the roots is broken; he stands cut off from his own roots, with no link to them.
What to do? How to find our roots?
And to find one’s roots is precisely to find the Atman. If dharma has any meaning, it is only this: how a person may discover his Atman. And by Atman I mean the roots of life — the place from which all the branches of the tree of our life emerge — how to find that place. If we can find it, our joy will increase each day; the greenness of our life will increase; our happiness will grow. By the moment of death we should have reached a fulfilled life. At the time of dying one should be as ecstatic as never before.
A child is born crying. If he does not cry, the parents grow anxious to make him cry quickly. Because if the newborn does not cry, perhaps he will not survive. He has been torn from the mother, from where there was utter peace, utter silence, utter bliss; one who does not cry at such a rupture is either ill, his consciousness dim, or dead, or near death. So we try to make him cry quickly. Birth begins with weeping; the last moment of death should be completed in laughter. If a child does not begin with crying, he is sick, wrong, will not survive. And if an old man does not die laughing, understand — he too lived dead; he was not truly alive. Birth begins with sobbing; death’s fulfillment should be perfect laughter.
There was a fakir who laughed day and night. No one ever saw tears in his eyes, nor pain, nor sadness. Then the day of his death drew near. He gathered his many friends — and there were many; for a man who laughs all his life is never short of friends! One who weeps has enemies, but not friends — for the bridge of friendship is laughter, and through weeping we are cut off from people. Who wishes to befriend one who is ever crying? We are already burdened with our own sadness; to take on a sad friend would be to increase the load. Who wishes to keep close to the heart those who are miserable, sorrowful, afflicted?
That is why friendship is waning in the world, love decreasing — because everyone is sad and sorrowful. Whether husband or wife, friend or father or son — all are sad. Hence all the fragrance of friendship has left life, all the joy of love has gone.
That man had laughed his whole life; whoever came near became his friend. Have you ever been an enemy to laughing flowers? Thorns may have enemies — but who is the enemy of flowers? One who lives in joy becomes like a flower whose fragrance binds all in love. All were his friends. When news of his death spread, hundreds of thousands gathered in that small village. Morning came — the very morning he had said his breath would cease.
And let me tell you this too: one who lives in sorrow is so afraid of death that he never becomes aware of his own dying. But one who lives in perfect joy gradually begins to see when the moment of sinking and departure has arrived. As a river, upon nearing the ocean, senses that the ocean is before it — so one who lives in bliss knows the moment when his breath will scatter and merge into the Infinite, when his prana will unite with the Mahaprana, when his river will fall into the sea. It becomes visible to him. Because one who is joyful is not afraid — his eyes are open. One who is afraid, frightened, filled with sorrow — his eyes are closed. Hence the greatest thing that should be seen — the hour when one’s life-stream meets the vast ocean of Paramatman — even that he cannot see. Closed eyes can see nothing. Tears and sorrow close the eyes.
So that man knew: “Tomorrow morning I will dissolve.” Many friends gathered. He said to them, “My friends, I have one prayer. I have never asked anything of you my whole life, yet you have given me much. I did not ask, but my begging bowl was always full.
In truth, the one who asks — his bowl remains empty; the one who does not ask — his bowl is filled. Toward one who does not beg, the heart longs to give; to the beggar one wishes to escape. Hence in life those attain much who do not ask, and those remain beggars who ask. Remember — whatever you desire, do not beg for it.”
He had never asked, and yet he had received much. He said to his friends, “You have given me so much without my asking — now I ask one last thing: when I die, do not change my clothes. Bury me in what I am wearing. As for the final bath… in that land too they bathed the dead… I will bathe myself so you are spared the trouble. Do not change my clothes.”
He bathed, dressed, lay down, folded his hands, and bid farewell to his friends. There was a great sparkle in his eyes, a radiance on his face, songs upon his lips — as though he were going to meet a beloved; as though it were not death but a journey to a dear one. He departed. They fulfilled his wish and did not change his clothes. People began to weep, sad and tearful, and carried him to the cremation ground. When they placed him upon the pyre, there were tears in the eyes, sighs in the heart — but as soon as his body lay upon the pyre, within moments the hundreds of thousands gathered there began to laugh.
What happened? Who laughs in a cremation ground? But that man must have been amazing —
He had hidden sparklers and crackers inside his clothing. Fire touched the pyre — the sparklers shot off, the crackers burst. People laughed. They said, “Blessed was he — he lived laughing, he died laughing. And lest we bid him farewell with tears, he even kept sparklers and crackers with him so that we might send him off laughing.”
If life goes rightly — not only will a man live laughing, those who come near him will also laugh and be filled with joy. Not only will he live laughing — he will die laughing. His death too will be an event of great purity and love; his death will shower benediction upon life like a blessed rain.
But for our death to shower benediction — that is far away; even our life does not shower benediction. Far from our death becoming a rain of joy, our life itself does not become a joy to others. By the way we live we bring sorrow to all who come near. In truth, we live wrongly — therefore we give sorrow.
So the first thing to know: life’s right development is a continual movement toward joy. But that can only happen… as the plant’s development is toward greenness, flowers, fruit — provided there is a living relationship with the roots, provided the roots receive care and water. We have no care for the roots. I wish to remind you of the roots. By “roots” I mean remembrance of Atman.
By what sutras can you remember this?
First sutra: Always remember — whoever wishes to attain the Atman, the roots, bliss, moksha, whatever in life is beautiful and true — must live from the inside out, not from the outside in. Live from the within toward the without — not from the without toward the within.
This may sound difficult. Let me explain.
As we live now, we live from the outside in. The formula of living from outside in is imitation — following others. We teach children: “Become like Rama, like Buddha, like Gandhi.” This is the technique of living from outside in. It is wrong. Whoever lives from the outside in will, little by little, lose his soul — for the birth and growth of the Atman happens only by living from the inside out.
The formula for outside-in is imitation. The formula for inside-out is individuality. Never go behind anyone; never imitate anyone; never try to become like someone else. Whoever tries to become like another does not become that other — cannot become — but what he could have become, that he misses.
Like entering a garden and telling the jasmine to become a rose, and telling the rose to become the juhi.
First of all, flowers are not so foolish as to obey us — but man is so foolish that he obeys. Even so, if a flower were foolish and obeyed, and the jasmine tried to become a rose, what would happen? Can jasmine become a rose? The rose is not hidden in its roots; how then will roses appear on its branches? Hidden in its roots is jasmine. If it tries to become a rose, then inevitably it must suppress its being-jasmine, lest it accidentally become what it is. It will repress and repress — “I must not become jasmine; I have to be a rose.” It will strive to be a rose. It cannot be a rose, because rose is not in its root; and it will not be allowed to be jasmine, because jasmine is being suppressed. No flowers will bloom. And when flowers do not bloom, the life-energies will become restless, agitated; it will become ugly and distorted from all sides, all beauty lost.
And when it fails to become rose, what inferiority, what humiliation will fill its mind! It will feel accursed. “Perhaps due to past karma I am unfortunate!” It will think itself cursed: “There is some ill fate — that is why no flowers bloom in me.” And when flowers bloom on others, jealousy will arise, envy will burn. If it could, it would pluck the flowers of others before they bloom. If it could, it would spray poison into other roots. “If I cannot bloom, let no one bloom. Then at least I can say: ‘Flowers do not bloom — what is my fault?’” Such will be the condition of that jasmine.
This is the condition of most of us. Because we are told: “Become like Rama, become like Buddha.” Who knows what is hidden within us! If we set out to become someone else, one thing is certain — that which was hidden within us will remain hidden; the doors of its expression will be closed. And that hidden thing was our root, our Atman, our individuality. It got murdered. Not murdered — we committed suicide upon it.
We are all self-murderers. Throughout the earth most people are killers of themselves — fighting themselves, trying to be someone else. The blessed day has yet to come when we can tell our children, “Become your own self — not anyone else. Let that which is hidden within you unfold.”
And do you know — two men alike have never been born in this world, nor can they be. How many thousands of years since Rama — where is another Rama? Many have tried — where is another? How long since Buddha — where is another Buddha? How long since Christ — where is another Christ? Why has no second Christ been possible?
In truth, every person is unique, incomparable, one-of-a-kind. Not only man — you cannot find two identical stones. On a huge tree you cannot find two leaves exactly alike. Leaves have their individuality; pebbles have their individuality. Everything has its individuality — except man. Because in becoming like others, man has erased his individuality. He has daubed paint upon his own face. He is afraid to be different. Our entire culture teaches: “Become like others.” Wear clothes like others; walk as others walk; make your hair as others do.
Even this was still tolerable… not right, but gradually we become so habituated to being like others that man’s individuality is lost. His uniqueness, his ownness, is lost — and in that uniqueness was his soul.
I say to you: avoid being like others; avoid the crowd. Do not live forever with the effort to be like others. In being like others the virtues hidden in your individuality will never arise. And this is not confined to clothing — it penetrates to the very soul. Seek your individuality. If you have been born, it is certain that Paramatman has desired that a new person be born. Surely some treasure has been hidden in you to be revealed — some potential of flowering, something concealed that longs to express. In trying to be like others, that will remain buried; the treasure will stay hidden.
Therefore humanity decreases day by day — because we lack the courage to say, “I am born to be myself. I refuse to be another.” This rebellion and courage should be in every child. Those parents and those teachers who love the child should help him become a rebel — rebellious. He should not be a conformist, not try to become like others. This is the greatest duty of the teacher and the school — to keep telling each child that he is unique. “Find your uniqueness, develop it. Beware of others’ shadows and the desire to be like them. Do not be afraid.”
We are afraid — afraid to stand alone. That is why we all wear the same clothes, the same hair, the same ornaments, the same shoes. Little by little we become so timid that to stand apart feels dangerous. Standing with the crowd feels good — no danger, we are like everyone else, we are lost among them. But to be unique, to be oneself, seems fearful: the crowd may be displeased! The crowd may reject! “This man is not right!”
And the crowd will say so — it has always said so. The crowd crucifies Christ, because he is a different kind of man. The temple where the crowd goes, Christ says: “It is wrong to go there.” He is different. The scripture the crowd worships, Christ says: “That book is wrong.” The crowd says, “If one slaps you, slap him twice; if he puts out one of your eyes, put out both of his.” And Christ says, “If someone slaps one cheek, offer him the other.” He is different, he does not speak the language of the crowd. The crowd becomes enraged, filled with anger. “Kill such a man — for he denies the authority of the crowd.” We shoot Gandhi — because Gandhi is not part of the crowd; he is his own man. We give Socrates hemlock — because he is not of the crowd.
But know this: whenever flowers have blossomed in anyone’s life, he has never been a part of the crowd. He has always been unique, incomparable — with no counterpart. If you want the flowers of your life to bloom, beware of the crowd; dare to be yourself. If all our children can understand this, then the crowd will not be able to harass them. Who makes the crowd? We do. If there are forty or fifty girls sitting here, together they make a crowd. If each takes her unique path, where is the crowd then? Then there is only the individual — no crowd. Then there is no fear of the crowd. We make the crowd, we create the fear — then we ourselves must tremble before it and be crushed by it.
So the first sutra for finding your roots: do not imitate; seek your individuality.
To seek individuality requires great courage. The more courage you gather, the stronger your soul becomes. Life is not a path strewn with flowers — it is a great struggle. It is a struggle to save yourself from the mold in which those around you want to cast you.
A young man returned from university. He belonged to the village where Emerson lived. A ceremony was held to welcome him — he was the first from that village to attain the highest education. The old Emerson was asked to speak a few words of blessing.
What did Emerson say? Engrave it upon your heart.
Emerson said, “I praise this young man — not because he has returned with the greatest degree, but because, despite passing through the university and its education, he has returned home with his individuality intact. He still has his own person; the university could not destroy it. He has not become ordinary — he has preserved his uniqueness.”
Our education is mass-production — for the crowd, not at all for the individual. Thus after fifteen years of passing through this factory it is quite natural that a man ceases to be a man and becomes a mere digit of the crowd. As in the military: if a man dies they do not say, “Ramlal has died”; they say, “Number three is dead.”
Think: when we say “Ramlal has died,” it feels as if a person has died. When we say, “Number three has fallen,” nothing is felt. How many numbers fall — who can keep count?
So in the military they keep numbers so that the sense of a man dying does not arise. “Today fifteen numbers are finished.” If you say fifteen men died, it strikes the heart. But “fifteen numbers are finished” — what difference does it make? In place of fifteen numbers, fifteen new numbers will be written. In the military there are no names — because names create individuality; a name makes a person distinct. So there are numbers — through numbers no one is distinct.
In the military everyone wears the same clothes, the same shoes, the same cap. If a thousand soldiers stand, no person is seen — a thousand soldiers are seen. Their faces have no personality left. Then from morning to evening they are made to do foolish drills — “Left turn! Right turn!” — which have no practical meaning. But there is a deeper meaning: when a thousand are told “Left turn!” and the whole line turns left in one instant, the sense of personhood dissolves; only the regiment is felt. For this reason it is strictly enforced that if the line turns and someone remains standing, he will be punished. He has declared individuality; he dared to be apart from the line. “Wrong man — punish him! Turn with the line. If the line turns left, you turn left — do not disobey.”
Living in the military, a man’s mind and individuality both are destroyed. Only then can the soldier commit such violence, such murder. If he had understanding and individuality, he could not kill so much.
The man who dropped the atom bomb on Hiroshima was asked later, “Did it not occur to you what you were doing? That your bomb would kill a hundred thousand? Did you not have the courage to say to your general: ‘Shoot me if you must — only one will die — but I will not…’?”
He said, “The question never arose. Order is order! I am habituated. ‘Left turn!’ — I turn left. ‘Right turn!’ — I turn right. They said, ‘Drop the bomb!’ It never occurred to me what it meant. I went, I dropped it, I came back.”
Can you imagine — that it did not even occur to him what the consequence would be? A hundred thousand — little children returning from school, women preparing food for their children, men returning from offices — none knew that the final moment of life had arrived. In a few moments they were reduced to ash. And the man who dropped the bomb — no thought, no reflection.
A thought would arise if he had his own soul. If he had individuality, reflection would come. If he had even a little humanity, he would say, “Shoot me — I will not drop it.”
But no — after ten years of left-right, wearing uniform, turning in line, he forgot there is an “I.” There was no question of his own being.
Gradually, what happens in a military camp is happening in the whole world. Without even noticing, we are becoming part of a great military camp. We too are becoming like soldiers — same clothes, same education, same rising and sitting, same drill, all the same. How then will the unique soul develop? It will not.
Therefore the first sutra: do not imitate. Do not forever try to be like others; rather, seek the reason and path to be yourself. But you can only seek this if you also understand the second sutra. The second sutra is: thinking — vichar.
The first sutra is individuality; its opposite is imitation.
The second sutra is thought, inquiry. Its opposite is faith, belief.
Whatever is told to you — never believe it with closed eyes. Otherwise you will inevitably fall into imitation. Think over it, reflect upon it. Even if the greatest person on earth says something — even if God himself descends and declares, “This is right” — doubt it, and say, “I will think. If, when I think, it feels right, I will accept; otherwise, I will not.”
Wherever the children of a people have thought, there science has been born. Where children have believed, there no science could arise. Our children have believed, they did not think — therefore no science developed in this land. Other nations reached the moon and the stars; we remain with the bullock cart. We cannot advance. Strange indeed — even the first man who made a bullock cart must have been a rebel; otherwise walking on foot was enough. And the first who stood on two legs instead of four must have been very rebellious; otherwise walking on four was fine. And when the first monkey stood upon two legs leaving four, you can be sure the other monkeys killed him. “A great rebel, a revolutionary — we all walk on four, and it occurs to him to walk on two!”
But that very monkey who walked on two became the center of all human development, its primal point.
Always those who rebel have brought evolution. But rebellion happens when there is thought. Those who are habituated to belief do not give birth to thought.
You will be taught — “Believe.” Your parents will say, “If you are born in a Hindu home, you are Hindu.” Doubt this: how can a man be Hindu or Muslim? Man is man. A child is born — nowhere is it written upon him that he is Jain, Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim. Yet parents will explain, “You are Muslim, you are Hindu, you are this or that.” Along with this they will teach you all the poisons they themselves carry. “If you are Hindu, the Muslim is your enemy.” Before any capacity for thought arises, you will become the enemy of Muslims — of Christians, of Hindus. This enmity torments humanity beyond all measure.
If you think, the thought will arise: children are born as children. Place a Muslim child and a Hindu child together — will you be able to tell which belongs to which religion? No! Will they, tomorrow, be able to kill each other? No! Will they set fire to mosques, create India and Pakistan? No — children will not do such foolishness.
But the generations which committed such foolishness will attempt to teach you their un-intelligence. They will say, “Believe us.”
Therefore, if you ever wish to find your Atman, do not believe. Better to die in doubt than to live in belief. Because one who doubts, who questions, in him the power of thought begins to awaken. In one who believes, that power never arises — belief makes thought unnecessary. So do not believe.
For thousands of years in India we taught women: if your husband dies, you too must die with him upon the pyre. We roasted millions of women in the fire. Not one asked: “When a woman dies, why do men not jump into the fire? Is it not their duty and dharma?” They believed that what men said was right: when the husband dies, the wife must die with him. But no woman in India doubted: “Why do these men not die when their wives die?” Women perished. And when women believe, it becomes even more dangerous, for they instill their belief into their children.
Today there are millions of widows in India. Yet women perhaps still have not fully doubted: what madness is this? For what purpose is their life turned into hell?
We have tormented millions by branding them Shudras. Our children never asked: what are we doing to human beings?
Even our greatest so-called sages wrote such foolish things that it is astonishing. They wrote: “If a Shudra is found reciting the Veda, melt lead and pour it into his ears.” Such things have happened — boiling lead was poured into the ears of Shudras and they died. And this nation did not doubt: what is this? What madness? What stupidity?
The reason there was no doubt is that children were never taught to doubt, to question. They were told: “Accept; believe; whatever is said — believe.” Parents will say, “We have experience; we are older; we have seen life — therefore obey us.”
But you — think and think deeply. A person’s statement does not become true because he is older. In fact, if someone is truly wise with age, he will never say to his children, “We are older — obey us.” He will say, “After a lifetime of seeking, it is clear to me that even we know nothing — we too are ignorant. We do not know whether God is or is not. We do not know whether after death anything remains. We do not know whether the idol we worship in the temple is hypocrisy or dharma. We know nothing.” He will say this to his children.
Here too teachers are present — your lady teachers are here. I say to them: do not teach belief to children — teach inquiry. If a new world is to be born, a new kind of human being, a world without divisions of caste — no Shudra and Brahmin, no white and black; where poverty and wealth can be transcended; where the borders of Pakistan-India and China dissolve; where the whole of humankind gathers in love, striving together to unfold more and more joy, beauty and music — then we must teach inquiry, not belief.
And when you inquire, when you doubt, strength arises within. All strength is born of challenge. If we let our legs rest comfortably at home, within a year or two the legs will lose the power to walk. Without challenge, their strength will fall asleep. But one who runs, exercises, walks — his legs grow stronger and stronger. Challenge awakens dormant power. If you close your eyes and stop using them, gradually they go blind.
Likewise, those who do not think lose the power to think. They become like the blind, walking with their hands on another’s shoulder. Then any devil, any cunning person, will put his shoulder before you and say, “Come.” And you will walk with your hand on his shoulder.
Hitler taught the Germans: “Kill the Jews, because due to their sins our nation cannot develop.” Utter nonsense — but the German people were habituated to belief. When Hitler shouted, “Believe — this is the truth!” — the radio said it, the newspapers said it, the books said it — the Germans believed: “It is necessary to kill the Jews.” Three million Jews were murdered; five hundred were killed each day.
It astonishes us! Jinnah told Muslims: “Islam is in danger.” And Muslims agreed: “Islam is in danger.” Then millions were murdered in India; the land was cut — Pakistan created, India created.
Someone says something — and those habituated to belief readily accept, “It is right.” Children must be taught to think, so that tomorrow some Jinnah, some Hitler, some Mussolini, some Stalin cannot ruin them — cannot use them to commit again what has been committed so far.
In five thousand years, fifteen thousand wars have been fought. Fifteen thousand! What happened in these wars is beyond imagination. This will only stop if we teach inquiry.
Learn to think — and learn to fight; do not be afraid. You will have to fight with your parents on many points, because the world they created was wrong. You will have to argue with teachers, because the world they created was wrong. If they again persuade you to be as they are, the same old world will be repeated. A new world will not be born. Those who love you will say to you: “Fight.” They will say: “Argue with us — inquire, doubt. When it becomes clear to you that something is true, only then accept; otherwise do not.” In this way, individuality will develop; the soul will grow. In this way you will begin to live from the inside out — and then a relationship with the Atman can arise.
No imitation — individuality. No belief — inquiry. These two small sutras I have given you. If you can ponder them and they take root in you… do not believe me blindly. Because here, speaking so much to you, I too have become a teacher. And I am of the earlier generation; you belong to the next. Do not believe what I say. It is possible that everything I have said is wrong. Do not believe. Think. Try to oppose me in your mind. Doubt, break, argue. If after all your arguments and thinking something appears right, it will transform your life. You will begin to move on a different path. If someone courageously experiments with his life, polishes his individuality — just as a statue is carved from stone — so from our ordinary life a special life is born.
All stones are alike, but a craftsman takes one stone and begins to chisel, to knock off the rough edges — slowly, a beautiful statue emerges. Everyone’s life is like a stone, but one who becomes a craftsman of his own life, picks up the chisel, breaks off what is wrong and develops what is right — slowly his life becomes a statue. To become such a statue, and the method of making it, I have called the art of living.
I have given you two sutras of this art, and one foundation. Let me repeat them. The foundation is this: the roots of life are invisible. What appears above is not the real life — those are only flowers and leaves. The roots are within. So always care for the roots within, seek them. To find and develop those inner roots I have given two sutras: Do not go behind anyone; never follow anyone; never accept anyone as leader; never make anyone your guru. Seek, live, learn from all sides — but do not walk behind anyone in blindness. Leaders have brought the world to such a ditch that if you continue to walk behind someone, the world may reach that great abyss called the Third World War — and all will be finished. Do not be a follower, do not be an imitator. Seek yourself, stand on your own. And do not believe; for if you believe, you will become a follower, you will imitate. Think! The more you think, the greater humanity grows within you.
One small final story, and I will end.
In a small school a teacher asked the children: “Outside a house, within a small fenced enclosure, there are twelve sheep. If six of them jump out, how many will remain?”
A small boy raised his hand. The teacher asked, “How many?”
He said, “None at all!”
The teacher said, “Wrong! Can’t you understand this much? I said twelve sheep are enclosed; six jump out; how many remain?”
The boy said, “I don’t know much arithmetic, but I know sheep very well — we have them at home. If one sheep jumps, the other eleven will follow — six is too many. None will remain.”
Sheep follow; they walk behind one another; they are conformists. Man is not a sheep. Humanity does not walk behind anyone; it makes its own path and walks it. This is the glory of man — make your own path and walk. The beaten tracks are for the weak, the lazy, the slothful. Those with a little strength make their own path and walk it. By walking thus, one day they arrive at the knowing of their Atman. That which was hidden within becomes manifest — and they know. That revelation is Paramatman.
So do not be sheep — become a man. For this I have said these few things.
To be a sheep is easy — not difficult. To be a man is very difficult, very arduous, full of labor. The choice is yours. If you wish to be sheep, you can — the whole society, the whole education is trying to make you so. All politicians, all leaders are striving to make you sheep. Therefore you will have no trouble in becoming sheep — the whole society is trying to make you one. But if you wish to be a man, you will have to work yourself — no one else can support you. No one else is there to hold you up.
Yet if there is a little awareness in you, a little life, your whole being will refuse to be sheep. If I ask now, “How many of you wish to be sheep?” not a single hand will rise. Could it? No — your very life will refuse. But this is not enough — you must also strive to become a man. How that striving is possible — a few hints, two sutras I have given you.
You have listened to my words with such love and silence — I am deeply obliged. I bow to the Paramatman seated in each of you. In the end, please accept my pranam.