The "search for a new society" is not a new search at all; perhaps there has never been an older search. Since man has been, he has been searching for the new. But each time, what is searched for is new, and what is found turns out to be old. Revolutions come, changes happen, yet what emerges is the same old. Perhaps there is no greater astonishment, no more wondrous event than this: that all of humanity’s revolutions until now have failed. Society remains as ancient as ever. Every kind of remedy has been tried, and society refuses to become new. Why does society remain so old? Why does the search for a new society never come to fruition?
On this point, the first thing I would like to say to you is: a very deep mistake has been repeated—hence the new society could not be born. And that mistake is this: the effort goes on to change society without changing man. Society is only a fiction; society is only a word. If you go out to look for society, you will not find it. Wherever you go, you meet a man, you meet a person—you never meet society! Wherever you go, you find the individual; society is nowhere to be found.
Society cannot even be located—making it new is far more difficult. If it could be found, perhaps we could make it new. But society is not found; what is found is the person. And yet the whole effort is directed toward changing society. Therefore society cannot change. And even if society could be found, who would change it? If the person remains unchanged, who will change society?
Revolutions happen again and again. After the revolution, the old mind again takes hold of society. For thousands of years we have tried to break slavery. The old slavery seems to break—and even before it does, the old slavery stands up again in a new form. Those who enslave change, the faces of the enslavers change color, their clothes and flags change—the slavery remains exactly where it was. Because man’s mind is a slave; without changing that, slavery in the world can never end.
The slavery of the English can end, the slavery of the Muslim can end, the slavery of the Hindu can end—but slavery does not end; it returns in new shapes. The very same ancient slavery again sits upon the throne.
Yes, one difference occurs: we had grown weary of the old slavery; it takes a little while before we grow weary of the new. Then the wish to change that arises again. It is as if a man carries a bier to the cremation ground. One shoulder begins to ache, so he shifts the bier to the other shoulder. There is a little relief for a while. Then the other shoulder begins to ache. The bier is the same, the burden is the same; changing shoulders changes nothing.
Slaveries have changed; slavery has not been erased—because man’s mind is a slave. We try to remove society’s slavery, and the enslaved mind of man creates new slaveries. Demolish one temple, and another begins to rise. Erase one idol, and the second starts being fashioned. Get rid of one guru, another appears. Man’s mind is a slave; it discovers ever-new slaveries. They are the same old slaveries returning with new fashions and new labels.
All kinds of efforts have been made, and all kinds of efforts fail. Because who will change? Who will make the effort?
There was a revolution in France—a great revolution—but after it, nothing had happened. There was a revolution in Russia—a great revolution—but after it we found that the Tsar had returned in a new form, seated on the throne under the name of Stalin. The same old began again. Here in India there was a revolution—but again nothing happened. Then we realized that the white skin had been replaced by black skin, but slavery continues. Now we think socialism should come, and we are making a great clamor that socialism must arrive.
It will not. Because the men who would bring socialism are the same men. There is no difference within those men. Again there will be a deception. For a few days we will shift the bier to the other shoulder. For a while we will think, now everything will be all right, now everything will be all right. Then we will tire again and ask for yet another change. Nothing is becoming right.
If man does not change, society cannot change. The project of changing society fails because the alchemy—the chemistry—of transforming the person has not been discovered. I want to begin with changing the individual. In the search for a new society, the search for the new man is the first sutra. Not society—the man is what matters.
But the very word ‘society’ creates a great deception—as if there were such an entity.
Here so many of us are sitting: a society seems to be sitting. Let each person from this society step out, one by one. We will station guards at the door and instruct them: when society comes out, catch it. As each person exits, the guards will think, a single person is going, we will catch society when it comes. Then the hall will be empty and the guards will still be standing—and society will never come into their hands.
Society exists only as a word, as a sum; it is not a reality. Reality belongs to the individual, truth belongs to the individual. Science has understood this, but sociologists have not yet.
Science says the stone has no existence—atoms have existence, molecules have existence. They say matter is a false thing; in truth, the atom within is the reality. Matter is only the name of a collection of atoms. Remove the atoms and matter will vanish. Matter is a society—a crowd of atoms; the truth is the atom.
Society too is a crowd, an aggregate of individuals; the truth is the individual. And yet revolution is always wished for at the level of society—and society is nowhere. The individual is. Revolution must be wanted for the individual. We will have to search for the new individual.
If we are to search for the new person, then we must first recognize the old person rightly. Because the old must be erased—only then can the new be born. What are the traits of the old person? We must recognize them. Perhaps then we will become capable of giving birth to the new. In truth, if any person truly sees what the old man is, he will not agree to remain the old man for even a single moment. If the mere remembrance arises that “this old man is me,” the beginning of the new man begins—just as, in a dream, if you remember, “I am dreaming,” the matter is finished; the dream ends, and waking begins.
In a dream you never remember that you are dreaming. If you do remember, know that the dream is already broken. If I come to understand who the old man within me is, the new man has begun. Because the one to whom it becomes clear—“this is the old”—that one is already the new man. The old cannot even understand what old and new are.
Each person must search within and ask: what is the old man? What are the bricks of the old? How was its edifice constructed?
I want to give a few sutras today; then daily we will inquire into them.
Among the basic foundations of the old man, one foundation is this: until today man has not lived; he has tried to live in ideals. The old man stands upon the foundation of ideals. And as long as man clings to ideals, he cannot be new.
The meaning of an ideal is: he has no concern to know what man is; he has great concern to know what man should be. He is not concerned to discover what it means to live on the earth on which we are living; he is preoccupied with what it will mean to live in heaven when we get there. There is no need to know what it is to love the wife I love; but it is essential to know how one should love God. The idealist lives in the sky, not on earth. And life is on earth, not in the sky.
If a tree were to fall into the delusion that it should spread its roots into the sky and detach itself from the earth—like the banyan, which does something of this sort, though it never severs its true roots from the soil—and those roots that hang are false, merely for show; the real roots remain in the earth. If a tree were deluded that the roots should be sown in the sky, that tree would die. Roots spread only in the earth.
Man is a tree that has tried to spread his roots into the sky of ideals. That is why the old man is a dead man. He does not blossom, he grows no leaves. One cannot live in ideals; one can only live in reality, in that which is, in fact.
For example—if there is violence within me, I may engage in attempts to live in ahimsa. I will remain violent while attempting to live in nonviolence. And my whole life will remain full of violence, because my reality is violence. Ahimsa will remain my imagination; my eyes will remain fixed on ahimsa and my life stuck in violence. In fact, to be violent will become more convenient—because I will keep telling my mind: do not be worried; soon we shall become nonviolent. Until it happens, no matter; but soon we will be nonviolent. Tomorrow we will be nonviolent. The hope of tomorrow becomes the convenience for today’s violence. The hope of tomorrow becomes today’s ease. I will console myself: do not worry—tomorrow we will be nonviolent.
Tomorrow never comes; when it comes, it comes as today—and today I will live in violence. My real roots will spread in violence and my wishful roots will try to reach the sky—the sky of ahimsa.
Our land is called nonviolent. Yet if we peel back a little skin from any single person, within we will find a violent man. Beneath the garments of ahimsa sits the ancient violent one—skin-deep. Not even skin-deep; the skin is very thick. Scratch a little on the surface and violence begins to ooze out. For thousands of years we have been talking about ahimsa. This is not the talk of a day or two; for thousands of years we have said, “Ahimsa is the supreme dharma.” And have those who have carried the ideal of ahimsa for thousands of years become nonviolent?
No; they live in violence. There is no real difference in the way they live their violence.
For thousands of years we have spoken of love. All the religions of the world teach love—and together they have murdered love. All the religions say: love, love! And then they quarrel over who loves more! Swords are drawn precisely over this—whose love is true!
Astonishing, isn’t it? When all the world’s religions say, “Love,” then why do religions fight?
No—the injunction to love is an ideal; fighting is the reality. We will fight today, tomorrow we will love. And then it seems even the protection of love requires fighting; even for the protection of ahimsa one must raise the sword. Even ahimsa must be defended by the sword.
In ideals, man only deceives himself. He is seeking a way to escape truth and to falsify truth. Not wishing to look at the truth, he fixes his eyes upon ideals—he looks at the sky. The earth is very dirty; the sky is very pristine. He starts to walk by looking at the sky; he says, we will not look at the earth at all. The earth is bad; why look? But one must walk on the earth. And if there are thorns on the ground and filth, then thorns will pierce the feet and the dirt will rise with the breath and enter one’s life. One does not become pure by looking at the sky. One must look toward the earth.
For thousands of years ideals have led man astray. Ideals confer great conveniences. Ideals say: God abides in every man. And everyone is delighted—God resides in us all. And he forgets even to look in the mirror for a moment—does God abide there? He opens a holy book every morning and reads, “God abides in every man.” Reading this, he firmly believes: whether God abides in others or not, He certainly abides in me.
I was in a village; Kanji Swami had come there. I could see gathered before him all the sinners of the village; they were greatly pleased.
What pleased them? I inquired why all the sinners of the village run there. What is happening? And why do they listen to Kanji with such delight?
Kanji was explaining to them that the Atman never sins. The sinners were very pleased. “Swamiji, you speak rightly,” they nodded their heads. Kanji asked, “Do you understand?” All the sinners answered, “We understand perfectly, Guruji.”
They will get up and sin again. They are coming from sin even now. But now an ideal has given them great relief: the Atman does not sin. They will accept this doctrine; this ideal is very pleasing. For a sinner, there can be no more beautiful ideal—because the burden that was upon his life is removed. He is facilitated in being a sinner—he can be a sinner properly now. For the Atman does not sin. If the Atman does not sin, what harm in sinning?
In ten thousand years we have given man ideals, not humanity. And ideals have proved to be deceptions. No ideal has helped man to know his reality; rather, it helped to hide his reality. What is needed is that man should see his reality wholly—if he is naked, then naked; if he is dirty, then dirty; and if he is a sinner, then a sinner. As I am, I must know myself completely. The amazing thing is: if I come to know fully what I am, I cannot remain the same even for a day—I will have to change.
If I see that my house is on fire, will I come and ask you whether I should step out or not? If it becomes clear that flames surround my house, will I go searching in a shastra for the method of leaving when a house is on fire?
No—if I see that the house is aflame, after seeing I will not even know when I am out—I will be out. But my house is on fire and I keep saying, flowers are blooming all around—flowers of ideals. And the sadhus and saints explain that nectar is showering. These are not flames; this is Prasad falling from God. Then I sit quite comfortably in my burning house.
We do not change because we do not recognize our reality; we never look within to see who I am. But whenever we ask the question “Who am I?” the ancient answers resound: aham brahmasmi! I am Brahman, I am Atman, I am the pure, awakened Paramatma. All these ideals are heard, echo in the ears. Then what I am is forgotten—and what I am not appears to be known. Ideals have not allowed man to change.
And the amusing thing is: every ideal claims it has come to change man; ideals claim they want to transform man. I say to you, no ideal has ever been able to change man. Reality changes, not ideals.
No—I must know what I am. If I am a sorrowful, pain-filled hell, I must know it. I must recognize who I am. If I truly recognize who I am, and ideal-talks do not mislead me in between, then I cannot remain for even a day the one I was. I will leap in the same way that, when a house is on fire, a man finds himself outside; and if a snake appears before us, we leap down from the path. Who wishes to lose his life!
But because of ideals we fail to know our truth. Man’s truth is very painful. Who knows what kind of people invented the notion that hell is beneath the earth. Hell is not so far. Just turn your neck and look within—hell is present there. Hell is not as distant as it has been described. Hell is very near; we all are standing in hell.
The first thing I wish to say to you is this: if a new society is to be sought, a new man must be sought. And what was the fundamental error of the old man? The fundamental error was: he lived in reality, but fixed his eyes upon ideals; he existed in imagination. Only the mind can exist in imagination—yet we must live in reality. And the realities of life are something else, and the truths of life are quite ugly, full of poison, infernal. To know them it is necessary that the mind be freed of ideals.
No—there is no ideal; there is reality. And the one who knows reality begins to change. If I fully recognize my violence, it will become impossible to be violent. And if I do not recognize my violence, I can try to be nonviolent while remaining violent. Even if I manage to become nonviolent, my nonviolence will be violence in its depths, and I will use ahimsa itself for the work of himsa.
The nonviolent man too can do the work of violence. He can harass, suppress, and torture another. He too can knot his fists on another’s neck. In truth, a violent man feels a little fear in pressing another’s throat—lest it be violence. The nonviolent man feels no fear at all—there is no cause for fear.
Therefore, if one must do an evil deed, always paste a good label upon it. For doing evil, a good label is very helpful; a bad label causes a little trouble. If I am certain that squeezing your throat is violence, then my mind will prick me, my life will say, what am I doing! But if I squeeze your throat for your own good, then there is no question. If it is for your welfare, for your upliftment, for raising your soul, then there is no question.
All the gurus of the world are pressing man’s throat—but for his own good. Then the sting of pressing disappears.
If a violent man forces nonviolence upon himself, he will begin to commit violence in new ways—he will commit violence nonviolently. And the greatest danger is this: if he somehow restrains himself from doing violence to others, he will begin to do violence to himself. And when one does violence to oneself, no one objects—on the contrary, we are delighted; we are very pleased. We say—what great tapascharya, what great tyaga!
If a man stands on his head in the blazing sun, we bow to him. If a man begins fasting, we touch his feet. If a man lies upon a bed of thorns, we must build a temple for him and arrange his worship. If a man tortures himself, we are all ready to give him honor.
We do not know: to torture is the same—whether you torture another or yourself. And remember: if you torture another, the other can try to save himself; if you torture yourself, there is no one to save you. There is no one to rescue you, no one to run away, no one to protect you.
The man who is violent within and who wraps himself outwardly in ahimsa will become engaged in self-torture—self-violence. We have been calling it tapascharya, we have been calling it renunciation. We also enjoy it. We enjoy tormenting others; and when someone spares us the labor and torments himself, we enjoy it even more. Hence the worship of the renunciate. The worship of the renunciate is a part of our tendency to torture. We want to torture someone. And he is very kind who spares us the effort and arranges to torture himself. He becomes very worth seeing; we must go and have his darshan.
Society is full of two kinds of violent people. Some take delight in torturing others—they are sick. And some take delight in torturing themselves—they too are sick. There are sadists and there are masochists. Those who torment others the law sometimes catches; those who torment themselves no law catches.
If violence is inside, the ideal of ahimsa can only give violent acts nonviolent forms. The man does not change—the man remains the same. Only a pretense of change happens.
If the new man is to be born, then we must tear apart and throw away the idealism of the old man, and look at the naked man as he is.
No, we will not impose any ideal; man should not try to become anything. Man should know what he is. If it is anger, then anger; if it is hatred, then hatred; if it is violence, then violence. Whatever it is—kama, vasana, lobha, moha—whatever it is, it must be known, recognized.
I was in a town; a sannyasi was instructing people there. He was telling them: “Give up greed, and you can attain heaven.”
I said to that sannyasi, “You are saying a very strange thing! You are giving them greed—‘If you want heaven, give up greed.’ You are teaching greed. You say, ‘Give up greed if you want heaven.’ What does greed mean? Greed is always ready to give up something—something must be gained; to give up, it is always ready.
“One man bears every sorrow throughout the day. He cannot sleep; he endures anxieties—because he wants wealth. We call him greedy.
“Another man gives up wealth because he wants heaven—we call him renunciate.
“There is no difference between the two. Every greedy man is ready to give up something, he must get something. But the one who gives up wealth for heaven—if he learns today that the law has changed, that heaven is no longer obtained by giving up wealth—will he still give it up?”
A fakir from India went to China—some eighteen hundred years ago. Bodhidharma. Before him many Buddhist monks had gone. They had taught the emperors and great rich men of China that if you seek moksha, if you seek heaven, give dana—give much dana.
The sannyasin has always praised dana—without it, how would he live? From morning to evening the sannyasin sings the glories of charity, because charity is his livelihood. And the greedy for punya become ready to give, for a greater greed becomes their inspiration.
Those monks who went earlier instructed: give dana, give dana.
There was an emperor, Wu of China; he too donated millions. Then Bodhidharma came; word spread that a great sannyasin was arriving. Emperor Wu went to welcome him. He bowed at his feet. Bodhidharma asked, “Why do you touch the feet?”
Ordinarily a sannyasin never asks this—he extends his feet forward. There is no need to ask why you touch the feet. If we do not touch them, surely the sannyasin’s eyes say—why aren’t you touching my feet? He may not say it aloud, but the eyes say it, the gesture says it, the face says it—“Still you have not touched the feet!”
Bodhidharma said, “Why do you touch the feet?”
The emperor said, “I have heard that touching the feet earns great punya.”
Bodhidharma laughed and said, “You will not leave greed even in touching feet! It is great kindness upon me that you have touched my feet. And you will earn punya—so what will happen to me? If touching earns merit, then the one whose feet were touched will surely incur sin. I am not prepared to go to hell for nothing. Take back your touching of my feet!”
Emperor Wu was astonished. He said, “What kind of man are you! I have seen many monks; they are delighted to have their feet touched. They are pleased, and we are pleased.”
Then Emperor Wu thought—let me ask him: “I have donated millions, built viharas and temples, fed millions of monks, printed scriptures—what will happen because of all this?” Bodhidharma said, “Nothing—nothing at all.” Emperor Wu said, “You do not seem to be a right man. All monks say—much will happen.” Bodhidharma said, “If monks do not say this, O fool, how will they make you do all this? They make you do it. You are greedy. Now that you are nearing the end of life, growing old, you wish to become emperor in heaven as well. The palaces here are slipping away; there you also want palaces. Your greed is being exploited. Nothing at all will happen from your building temples and printing scriptures and giving to monks.” He said, “But I give up so much greed, so much wealth. Will nothing happen?”
Who will explain to him that he is giving up greed for the sake of greed. Then nothing is being abandoned; nothing is being left.
The man we have produced till now is violent, trying to become nonviolent. He is greedy, trying to be non-greedy. He is lustful, trying to be desireless.
But think a little: how can the violent become nonviolent? And if the violent, remaining violent, tries to become nonviolent, then who will try? Violence itself will try! Violence will become stronger and stand disguised as nonviolence. And if the greedy tries to be non-greedy, who will try? The greedy one—and the greedy cannot try without greed. And even if he gives up greed, he will give it up for the sake of greed—he will invent new greeds.
What does this mean? Does it mean there is no way—that the violent cannot become nonviolent? I am not saying that. I am saying: by trying to become nonviolent, the violent will not become nonviolent. If the violent fully knows and recognizes his violence and lives with it consciously, perhaps he will leap out of it. Remember: violence harms the other later; first it harms oneself. Anger torments the other later; first it torments oneself.
If I rage against you, I must first stoke my anger. I must first boil in its fever. Anger does not descend from the sky all at once; an entire factory within must prepare it before I can throw it at you. To rage at you, I must labor for hours, I must prepare, then I can rage. And even then it may be that, if you are intelligent, my anger will not hurt you at all; but I will be hurt for sure.
We can be saved from another’s anger—but how will he save himself? Another’s violence may not touch us at all—but how will he be saved? In truth, the one who goes to give poison to another must drink poison first; without that one cannot give it.
So if we can fully recognize our violence—and we will only recognize it if the ideal of ahimsa paramo dharmah is not spinning in our skull. Otherwise it will rescue us from seeing violence; it will say—what are you getting into; strive to be nonviolent! Strain your water through a cloth!
And remember: if anyone strains his water before drinking, be a little cautious—he may be able to drink a man without straining. Be a little wary! He is trying to find a cheap nonviolence—becoming nonviolent by straining water. Then he imagines he is saved from all his inner violence—because he strains his water.
Self-proclaimed nonviolent people come to me: “We strain water; we do not eat at night; we are nonviolent.”
If ahimsa were so cheap, the world would have changed long ago and we would have birthed a new society. Ahimsa is not so cheap—because violence is very deep; it will not be erased by straining water, nor by not eating at night. These are deceits we practice to conceal our violence. Then we begin to feel that we are nonviolent—then the matter is finished. The house continues to burn and we think flowers are showering—not flames, but blossoms of tesu.
We need freedom from the ideal of ahimsa. If ever the flower of ahimsa is to bloom in life, the ideal of ahimsa is not needed at all. Remember: ahimsa is not the opposite of himsa; ahimsa is the absence—the absence of violence. It is not that you will become nonviolent by being against violence. It is that on the day you leap out of violence, whatever remains is ahimsa. Ahimsa cannot be attained as an ideal; ahimsa is attained by leaping out of violence.
It is not that the flowers are blooming outside my house and, to reach them, I will step out. I cannot step out—within the house are my gold and silver and jewels. How can I go out? If I go out, what will become of my jewels, of my stones?
No—the day these jewels are known to be poison, I will jump out of the house and say, “Living inside this house is not possible even for a moment.” In that moment I will see the sun is shining and the flowers are blooming—they will be mine.
Ahimsa is waiting for you; you should leap out of the house of violence.
But you say: we will stay in the same house and cultivate ahimsa here. Who will go outside! We will practice it right here—gradually. All ideals give man the illusion that change in life can be gradual.
Change in life is never gradual. All ideals say: slowly leave violence, slowly become nonviolent. I say to you: it is precisely this notion of gradual evolution that has not allowed the new man to be born. The new man is a leap—a jump. The new man is not the old man slowly becoming new. The new man is a jump out of the shell of the old. He is not the modification of the old man, slowly turning new through effort. If the old man, by effort, becomes new, he will remain the old—modified, a little changed, repainted, with new clothes, a patched-up house—but old all the same.
The new man is a leap. And a leap is never gradual. No violent man can become nonviolent gradually; no greedy man can become non-greedy gradually; no angry man can become free of anger gradually; no restless man can become peaceful gradually.
In truth, the doing is something else, but we have been doing something else. The work is not to seek peace; the work is to discover how restless I am. We hide it; we hide our restlessness even from ourselves. We fear that if our restlessness is known completely it will be very difficult. We have not only crafted false faces for others; we have crafted false faces for ourselves. We do not look within to see how much fire, how much poison is there. We are afraid if it becomes visible, it may be too much to handle. Our condition is as if you are made to stand over a deep chasm and, out of fear, you close your eyes so the chasm is not seen. But remember: with closed eyes, the possibility of falling is greater; with open eyes, the possibility of being saved is greater.
We will have to open our eyes and see: what is inside? Violence?
Yes! People lie when they say Brahman dwells within. People lie when they say moksha dwells within. Within is complete narak. Yes—if you leap out of that narak, where you arrive is moksha. If you leap out of that hell, where you arrive is amrit. But the leap will only happen when you see clearly that poison surrounds you on all sides, that this is no place to stand, that not a single moment can be lived here. When this intensity, this urgency arises, the leap happens that very day.
Ideals do not let the leap happen. The thought of gradual evolution does not let the leap happen. Hence the old man remains old. He keeps on being modified. We make a few adjustments here and there. Nothing has changed—man is where he was ten thousand years ago. The roads have changed, the houses have changed, the clothes have changed—but nothing else has changed. Mahavira lost, Buddha lost, Jesus, Krishna, all lost; nothing changed—man remains as he was. A fundamental mistake kept happening—hence they had to lose. And in the future too Krishna will lose, Jesus will lose, Buddha and Mahavira too will certainly lose—unless that mistake becomes clear to us.
And that mistake, the first sutra—idealism.
The second sutra of the mistake—man has taken life with great seriousness, too seriously.
Krishnamurti tells people to be very serious—to be serious; only then can truth be found. The more serious you are, the sooner truth can be attained.
I tell you: seriousness is a disease. The serious man will accumulate stones upon his chest—not truth. The serious man will carry a burden upon his head—not truth. In fact, seriousness may be a trick to die—not to know life. Only those know life who take it as a play, not seriously. Just a play—no more than that. But we are very strange people—we take even play seriously.
I was a guest in a home. I returned at night; the children were playing monopoly, playing business. Children are children—old people too play business; if children play, what is wrong? When I arrived there was great tension: someone had cheated someone out of a station.
When the big ones take stations by cheating, what of the small! There was great tension, a great quarrel; accusations of deceit were flying; the children were angry.
When I arrived, they were embarrassed, then one laughed, then another. I asked, “What is the matter? You were so angry, so upset—why are you laughing?” They said, “You came and we remembered—oh, we are only playing! And here we are becoming so disturbed!” They turned all the stations over, the accounts, the houses—everything collapsed. They quickly stuffed everything into the box. I asked, “So soon? You were so angry, so disturbed, accusing each other of fraud. It seemed a big fight had occurred.” They said, “No, nothing—we were only playing.”
Buddha has said: one evening some children were playing on the sand by the river, building houses. Then someone’s house—how long does a sand house take to fall—someone’s foot touched it and it fell. Then they seized one another’s throats, fought, shouted, struck each other. Each one protected his own house and said, “Walk carefully! Do not knock down my house!” Each was building his house and very serious. Each tried to make a bigger house than the others, because if one’s house remained smaller than another’s, the heart would feel great hurt. Yet they were building houses of sand. All the houses are of sand—even if you mix in cement, still sand it is; and cement is also sand. Still, they are building sand houses, playing and fighting.
Then evening fell. And Buddha says: I was passing that way. Then their mothers called, “Sons, come home now, the sun is setting.” Then all of them began to return laughing. Buddha stood near them. The children who had built the houses kicked down their own houses, leapt and jumped and returned.
Buddha asked them, “What is this you do? For the houses you were fighting—those very houses you kick and go!” The children said, “Mother has called; it is evening; the game is over.”
Evening comes for us too; our game ends as well. We too hear the mother’s call. But no—the seriousness does not go; it clings. The play is not recognized—not even in the last breath.
Life is a play. And upon humanity a great stone has been placed on the chest—the constant admonition: life is a seriousness. Live very seriously. Place each step with great care. This is not a play. Life is the razor’s edge—walk carefully, otherwise you will wander, otherwise you will fall. All these preachers together have made man so serious, so sad, so heavy that his capacity to fly is lost—his wings are cut. And if wings are cut in life, the capacity to fly is lost, and if the courage to take life as a play disappears—then the new man cannot be born.
Do you know the difference between the old and the child?
The child is new; the old man has become old. And the old man becomes old in proportion to his seriousness; as he begins to take play seriously, he becomes old. Children play even with life; old people take even play as life. The freshness in small children—why does it vanish? Where does the freshness go?
Have you ever noticed—perhaps you have not inquired—no child is ugly. Why do all small children seem beautiful? Later, grown up, so many people do not look beautiful. What happens? All children seem beautiful; then why do they not remain beautiful as they grow? Where do they get lost? So many beautiful children are born—why are there not so many beautiful old people? What happens?
Seriousness destroys beauty. Seriousness etches scratches upon the face like stone. Seriousness makes wounds. Then life is no longer a flower; it becomes a thorn.
If the new man is to be born, we must snatch seriousness away from man. And if the statue of Buddha does not laugh, we must cast a new statue in which Buddha is laughing. And if Jesus appears sad, we must find new painters and say: change these pictures! We need a laughing Jesus.
Until now man has not found a laughing religion—a dancing religion. Somber, serious, old—it has made man old, sad, serious. Man has become a tomb—a tomb of sadness, wherein everything is sealed. There the flute never plays, no song ever bursts forth. Those who are already old, sad, bound in tombs—they become very angry with small children. They quickly say to the children, “Find your tombs fast and lock yourselves in! Do not make a racket, do not laugh, do not speak loudly, do not dance, do not jump—lock yourselves in; find your tombs.” As if life is only a long procedure to find a grave—the one who finds a grave is blessed. We scold our children. Before the ray of their life dawns, we kill them.
If the new man is to be born, we must ensure that man is freed from sadness. There is no need for seriousness.
But all our mahatmas are serious. In truth, to carry a weeping face is a necessary qualification for being a mahatma. If that is not there, you may become anything else—you cannot become a mahatma.
Can a laughing man be a mahatma—cheerful, blissful, dancing?
No, no—such a man cannot be a mahatma. For us sad people, we worship sadness, we worship suffering. The sadder the face, the more serious and profound it appears.
Remember: a sad face is not profound; it is only shallow. It is dead, stale, not alive. The sutras of life are very astonishing. The deeper life is, the fresher springs keep gushing forth in it. The deeper life is, the farther the roots draw in new fragrance. The deeper, more blissful, more joyous life is, the more everywhere it begins to feel fulfilled and grateful.
A religious man has one mark: he is so blissful that out of his bliss he can thank the Paramatma.
A sad man cannot thank God, he can only complain. And if ever our mahatmas happen to meet God—which does not happen and cannot happen, because even God must be fleeing such sad mahatmas—if they were to meet Him, they would seize Him and immediately recite the list of grievances. If God appeared laughing to them, they would be greatly pained—“What kind of God is this who laughs!”
When I was small, there was a Ramleela in my village. In that Ramleela, Ram performed great deeds with great seriousness. There was a Ravana, the whole drama unfolded. When I first watched the Ramleela, my greatest curiosity was: they all come from behind the stage, and then go back behind—what happens behind? What happens behind? What is behind the stage?
So I asked a few elders, “What happens behind the stage?”
They said, “Leave aside what is behind the stage; you look at the front. What need have you to know what is behind? We have come to watch the Ramleela; what have we to do with the backstage?”
Then I saw they would not answer. In truth, they too did not know about the backstage. Who knows the backstage? No one knows what happens behind the stage. Who knows the place from where Ram enters, from where Ravana comes? So I thought—leave the elders; if I stay with them I too will become an elder and begin telling small children, “What have you to do with the backstage! You look at the front, where we have come to watch.”
I left their company, ran behind, and lifted the curtain and peeped in. I was stunned. From that day I never watched the Ramleela again. The matter ended that day. I saw there that Shri Ramchandra was smoking a cigarette—and Ravana was lighting it. Then I returned home and thought: if this is happening behind the curtain of this Ramleela, who knows what is behind the curtain of the real Ramleela!
All this seriousness is in front of the curtain. Behind, life is something else entirely. If there is a God anywhere, I cannot even imagine that He would be sad. If even God is sad, then who will laugh? I cannot even imagine that God is serious. If He were serious, He would have ended this world long ago. For all the mahatmas are very eager to end it. They say, ask for freedom from the wheel of life and death. All the mahatmas have one complaint—why did God make this world! You created great trouble. Somehow destroy it—call us back; we do not want this. All the mahatmas are engaged in one search—how to end the world!
Certainly God cannot be sad; He is not yet tired of the play. He keeps the play running. Each day He creates a new play. He appears to be very relishing of play. Nor does He become bored; He does not tire.
I went to meet an old painter. He had grown old. I asked him, “Do you not paint anymore?” He said, “I am bored now. I painted a lot; I am tired. What shall I paint again and again? Men, trees, rivers, mountains—I am tired.” I said, “You got tired too soon. And God—since when has He been making trees, men, rivers, mountains—He is not yet tired! His capacity is astonishing—He never tires. If He were sad He would have tired long ago. He would have been bored. He would have said—stop all this now; I will not run it.” But He is relishing life, and His capacity to create is infinite.
No—God is not sad; man is sad. And man is sad because of seriousness. He has turned life into a job, not a play. We are so skilled at turning everything into work that even play is made into work.
Recently I was a guest in a home. At five in the evening, he picked up his bat and was going to play. His wife said, “Do not go today.” I was in the bathroom; I heard. His wife said, “Do not go today.” He said, “How is that possible! It is my fixed time to go play!”
He is going to play—and even there he has a fixed time—another routine.
He said, “Do not worry, I will be back soon. But I must go.”
Man turns even worship into work. If he must go to court early, he will ring the bell with a little extra vigor—quickly. That too is work. In life we have turned everything into work. Love too has become work. The husband speaks a few words of love to his wife, the ones that ought to be said—and she hears the ones that ought to be heard. And both know it is only the completion of a job—nothing else is happening here. The father strokes the son’s head, and the son knows well—it is only the task his father does each morning. This is the routine before leaving for the office.
We have made the whole of life into work. There is no play anywhere. If a son presses his mother’s feet, he says this is my responsibility. My mother—therefore I press her feet. Even pressing the mother’s feet is work. The entire life is work. Man has taken life with seriousness. Seriousness has turned play into work. And if we can reverse it, work too becomes play.
Kabir kept weaving cloth—his life changed; a revolution happened; still he wove cloth. People said, “Now you can stop weaving; you need not work.” Kabir said, “I am no longer working; now I am playing.” They said, “But you still weave cloth!” He said, “Everything has changed. Earlier it was work—now it is play.”
And people saw that he spoke rightly. Earlier he wove cloth, sad, pacing from this corner to that. Now he wove—and danced. Earlier he took his cloth to sell in the market—sad, weighted with stone, heavy. Now too he went—but with a bundle of cloth under the arm and running along. If someone asked, “Where are you going?” he said, “Ram must have reached the market by now; I have woven his cloth—I go to give it to Him.” Standing in the market—there were no longer any customers; all were Ram. If there was haggling, he said, “Ram, do not delay. Do you know how much I danced to weave this—how difficult it was!” The customer, startled, looked: “What is this man saying?” Kabir would laugh: “I speak rightly, Ram! For me there is no customer except Him. He is the only buyer. We are the sellers—and He is the buyer. And now we are ready to sell ourselves too—when He wills, let Him buy.” Then—even that had become play.
Life should become play. For the religious man, life is play; for the irreligious, even play is work. Those who thought that the more serious we make life, the better man will become—they made a fundamental mistake. A serious man cannot be a good man; a good man cannot be serious. Seriousness is a disease—a sickness.
So the second sutra I want to give you for the birth of the new man is this: take life as lila—as play. Do not turn life into a heaviness. Build as big a house as you like—but know it is a house of sand; evening will come, you will kick it down and go. Do whatever great work you wish—but know it is a sand play and it will collapse. Not because I say so—if you look rightly at life, you will see. Which houses endure? What remains?
I was a guest in a village. Nine hundred years ago, that village had a population of seventeen lakhs. Today it has only nine hundred. On the signboard at the motor stand the population is written as nine hundred thirty or nine hundred thirty-three. Nine hundred years ago, it had seventeen lakhs. Even today there are such vast ruins of dharmashalas in which ten thousand can stay. Such vast mosques in which ten thousand can pray. Such vast temples—miles of ruins.
Some friends were with me. I stayed three days. I thought surely one of them would say something. But none said a thing. Not one thought occurred to them that where seventeen lakh people lived there is now only a cremation ground. And those who made great mansions—now they are only ruins.
No, they did not say it. One of my friends said to me, “I have designed a house-plan. Please look—it needs to be approved; I must build.” Next to him are the ruins of the houses of seventeen lakhs! I said, “Come, let us sit outside—there is open air.” I led him out. But how blind man is! He spread out the plan and said, “How shall we build—how to make it strong?” I said, “At least look around!” He said, “It is a lovely evening; please quickly see the plan. The night is descending, darkness is falling.”
Man’s blindness is astonishing. He does not see the ruins, the cremation ground, the corpses spread across the earth. On whatever soil you sit—someone has died there. There is no piece of land where no one has died; there is no patch of earth where no one has been buried. Where you sleep, beneath, someone else sleeps—forever. But you pay him no attention.
If we look closely at life, what is it more than play? Yes, it may be that the children’s play runs from morning to evening; our play will run from birth to death. It may be that their play is completed in four or six hours; our play will take fifty, sixty, seventy years.
One small story, and I will end today. Tomorrow we will speak further of the sutras. I have heard: a seeker roamed, asking many people one question—what is the secret of life? None could answer. He kept on asking, and no one could answer. He read the shastras, searched for gurus, but nowhere was the answer found—and he did not invent any answer of his own. God took pity on him; one day He stood before him and said, “Ask! What do you want to ask?”
If he had accepted some guru, God need not have come. If he had accepted some scripture, what need of God? If he had concocted an answer of his own, still God would not be needed. But the man was extraordinary. He accepted no one’s answer; nothing satisfied him; he kept asking and asking. Then there was no one left to ask—so finally God had to appear. He said, “You wanted to ask—ask!”
The man said, “I do not want to ask much; I want to ask this—what is the secret of life?”
It was blazing noon; the sun was fierce. God said, “I will tell you the secret of life in a little while. I am very thirsty—can’t you see the heat? Go and bring a glass of water from somewhere.”
The young seeker went to fetch water. He entered the village, knocked at a door. It was noon—silence—the people were asleep. A beautiful young woman opened the door; her father was away. The youth had come to fetch water—but a new thirst arose. And when one’s own thirst arises, what does another’s thirst matter! The beauty before him awakened a new thirst. The young woman asked, “Why have you come?” He said, “I have come for you. I have been wandering in search of you. I have been seeking you in some unknown corner of my heart. If I find you, everything is found; otherwise everything is lost.” Meanwhile the father returned. The youth was handsome, young; the father married them. They began to live together.
God must have been standing thirsty in the sun—he forgot all about it. When one’s own thirst arises, who remembers another’s!
Then children came. Then they grew up. Then they married. Then their children came. The man grew old, near death. Then there was a great flood in the village. The river swelled; it kept rising; the flood did not recede. The whole village began to drown. Whom should he save—his wife, his children, his sons, his daughters-in-law? The current was strong; the house was being swept away. He tried to save all—he grew old, his strength had diminished. If he caught one child, the girl slipped; if he went to save the girl, the wife slipped. In the end, trying to save all, all slipped away. Trying to save everyone, only one remained whom he had not thought to save—himself. Weeping, crying, beating his chest, he fainted and fell on the bank.
Again he felt a hand upon his head, heard a voice, “Get up!” He opened his eyes; God stood there. He said, “How long you have taken! I have been sitting thirsty—did you not bring the water?” The man said, “Water! There was so much water—everywhere water. Where is it? I see it nowhere.” He said, “What has happened? How many ages have passed! It must be seventy years since I went, leaving you. I have grown old, near death. I had children, a wife, sons—where are they? There was a flood—where is it all?” God said, “How do I know? I am sitting thirsty. Do you not see the noon sun? Where is the water? Did you not bring it?”
The seeker placed his head at God’s feet and said, “I understand the secret now. Do not try to tell me more; I have understood.”
Life is a play—and a play dreamed. There is no need to take it so seriously.
If you have any questions about this, ask in the evening; questions for the morning—tomorrow morning.
If man is made new, then a new society can be born. All revolutions failed because they focused on society, not on man. The only revolution that can succeed will put man at the center—and by breaking the old mind of man, make it new.
The new man is the foundation of the search for a new society.
I am grateful for the peace and love with which you have listened to my words. Finally, I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
The "search for a new society" is not a new search at all; perhaps there has never been an older search. Since man has been, he has been searching for the new. But each time, what is searched for is new, and what is found turns out to be old. Revolutions come, changes happen, yet what emerges is the same old. Perhaps there is no greater astonishment, no more wondrous event than this: that all of humanity’s revolutions until now have failed. Society remains as ancient as ever. Every kind of remedy has been tried, and society refuses to become new. Why does society remain so old? Why does the search for a new society never come to fruition?
On this point, the first thing I would like to say to you is: a very deep mistake has been repeated—hence the new society could not be born. And that mistake is this: the effort goes on to change society without changing man. Society is only a fiction; society is only a word. If you go out to look for society, you will not find it. Wherever you go, you meet a man, you meet a person—you never meet society! Wherever you go, you find the individual; society is nowhere to be found.
Society cannot even be located—making it new is far more difficult. If it could be found, perhaps we could make it new. But society is not found; what is found is the person. And yet the whole effort is directed toward changing society. Therefore society cannot change. And even if society could be found, who would change it? If the person remains unchanged, who will change society?
Revolutions happen again and again. After the revolution, the old mind again takes hold of society. For thousands of years we have tried to break slavery. The old slavery seems to break—and even before it does, the old slavery stands up again in a new form. Those who enslave change, the faces of the enslavers change color, their clothes and flags change—the slavery remains exactly where it was. Because man’s mind is a slave; without changing that, slavery in the world can never end.
The slavery of the English can end, the slavery of the Muslim can end, the slavery of the Hindu can end—but slavery does not end; it returns in new shapes. The very same ancient slavery again sits upon the throne.
Yes, one difference occurs: we had grown weary of the old slavery; it takes a little while before we grow weary of the new. Then the wish to change that arises again. It is as if a man carries a bier to the cremation ground. One shoulder begins to ache, so he shifts the bier to the other shoulder. There is a little relief for a while. Then the other shoulder begins to ache. The bier is the same, the burden is the same; changing shoulders changes nothing.
Slaveries have changed; slavery has not been erased—because man’s mind is a slave. We try to remove society’s slavery, and the enslaved mind of man creates new slaveries. Demolish one temple, and another begins to rise. Erase one idol, and the second starts being fashioned. Get rid of one guru, another appears. Man’s mind is a slave; it discovers ever-new slaveries. They are the same old slaveries returning with new fashions and new labels.
All kinds of efforts have been made, and all kinds of efforts fail. Because who will change? Who will make the effort?
There was a revolution in France—a great revolution—but after it, nothing had happened. There was a revolution in Russia—a great revolution—but after it we found that the Tsar had returned in a new form, seated on the throne under the name of Stalin. The same old began again. Here in India there was a revolution—but again nothing happened. Then we realized that the white skin had been replaced by black skin, but slavery continues. Now we think socialism should come, and we are making a great clamor that socialism must arrive.
It will not. Because the men who would bring socialism are the same men. There is no difference within those men. Again there will be a deception. For a few days we will shift the bier to the other shoulder. For a while we will think, now everything will be all right, now everything will be all right. Then we will tire again and ask for yet another change. Nothing is becoming right.
If man does not change, society cannot change. The project of changing society fails because the alchemy—the chemistry—of transforming the person has not been discovered. I want to begin with changing the individual. In the search for a new society, the search for the new man is the first sutra. Not society—the man is what matters.
But the very word ‘society’ creates a great deception—as if there were such an entity.
Here so many of us are sitting: a society seems to be sitting. Let each person from this society step out, one by one. We will station guards at the door and instruct them: when society comes out, catch it. As each person exits, the guards will think, a single person is going, we will catch society when it comes. Then the hall will be empty and the guards will still be standing—and society will never come into their hands.
Society exists only as a word, as a sum; it is not a reality. Reality belongs to the individual, truth belongs to the individual. Science has understood this, but sociologists have not yet.
Science says the stone has no existence—atoms have existence, molecules have existence. They say matter is a false thing; in truth, the atom within is the reality. Matter is only the name of a collection of atoms. Remove the atoms and matter will vanish. Matter is a society—a crowd of atoms; the truth is the atom.
Society too is a crowd, an aggregate of individuals; the truth is the individual. And yet revolution is always wished for at the level of society—and society is nowhere. The individual is. Revolution must be wanted for the individual. We will have to search for the new individual.
If we are to search for the new person, then we must first recognize the old person rightly. Because the old must be erased—only then can the new be born. What are the traits of the old person? We must recognize them. Perhaps then we will become capable of giving birth to the new. In truth, if any person truly sees what the old man is, he will not agree to remain the old man for even a single moment. If the mere remembrance arises that “this old man is me,” the beginning of the new man begins—just as, in a dream, if you remember, “I am dreaming,” the matter is finished; the dream ends, and waking begins.
In a dream you never remember that you are dreaming. If you do remember, know that the dream is already broken. If I come to understand who the old man within me is, the new man has begun. Because the one to whom it becomes clear—“this is the old”—that one is already the new man. The old cannot even understand what old and new are.
Each person must search within and ask: what is the old man? What are the bricks of the old? How was its edifice constructed?
I want to give a few sutras today; then daily we will inquire into them.
Among the basic foundations of the old man, one foundation is this: until today man has not lived; he has tried to live in ideals. The old man stands upon the foundation of ideals. And as long as man clings to ideals, he cannot be new.
The meaning of an ideal is: he has no concern to know what man is; he has great concern to know what man should be. He is not concerned to discover what it means to live on the earth on which we are living; he is preoccupied with what it will mean to live in heaven when we get there. There is no need to know what it is to love the wife I love; but it is essential to know how one should love God. The idealist lives in the sky, not on earth. And life is on earth, not in the sky.
If a tree were to fall into the delusion that it should spread its roots into the sky and detach itself from the earth—like the banyan, which does something of this sort, though it never severs its true roots from the soil—and those roots that hang are false, merely for show; the real roots remain in the earth. If a tree were deluded that the roots should be sown in the sky, that tree would die. Roots spread only in the earth.
Man is a tree that has tried to spread his roots into the sky of ideals. That is why the old man is a dead man. He does not blossom, he grows no leaves. One cannot live in ideals; one can only live in reality, in that which is, in fact.
For example—if there is violence within me, I may engage in attempts to live in ahimsa. I will remain violent while attempting to live in nonviolence. And my whole life will remain full of violence, because my reality is violence. Ahimsa will remain my imagination; my eyes will remain fixed on ahimsa and my life stuck in violence. In fact, to be violent will become more convenient—because I will keep telling my mind: do not be worried; soon we shall become nonviolent. Until it happens, no matter; but soon we will be nonviolent. Tomorrow we will be nonviolent. The hope of tomorrow becomes the convenience for today’s violence. The hope of tomorrow becomes today’s ease. I will console myself: do not worry—tomorrow we will be nonviolent.
Tomorrow never comes; when it comes, it comes as today—and today I will live in violence. My real roots will spread in violence and my wishful roots will try to reach the sky—the sky of ahimsa.
Our land is called nonviolent. Yet if we peel back a little skin from any single person, within we will find a violent man. Beneath the garments of ahimsa sits the ancient violent one—skin-deep. Not even skin-deep; the skin is very thick. Scratch a little on the surface and violence begins to ooze out. For thousands of years we have been talking about ahimsa. This is not the talk of a day or two; for thousands of years we have said, “Ahimsa is the supreme dharma.” And have those who have carried the ideal of ahimsa for thousands of years become nonviolent?
No; they live in violence. There is no real difference in the way they live their violence.
For thousands of years we have spoken of love. All the religions of the world teach love—and together they have murdered love. All the religions say: love, love! And then they quarrel over who loves more! Swords are drawn precisely over this—whose love is true!
Astonishing, isn’t it? When all the world’s religions say, “Love,” then why do religions fight?
No—the injunction to love is an ideal; fighting is the reality. We will fight today, tomorrow we will love. And then it seems even the protection of love requires fighting; even for the protection of ahimsa one must raise the sword. Even ahimsa must be defended by the sword.
In ideals, man only deceives himself. He is seeking a way to escape truth and to falsify truth. Not wishing to look at the truth, he fixes his eyes upon ideals—he looks at the sky. The earth is very dirty; the sky is very pristine. He starts to walk by looking at the sky; he says, we will not look at the earth at all. The earth is bad; why look? But one must walk on the earth. And if there are thorns on the ground and filth, then thorns will pierce the feet and the dirt will rise with the breath and enter one’s life. One does not become pure by looking at the sky. One must look toward the earth.
For thousands of years ideals have led man astray. Ideals confer great conveniences. Ideals say: God abides in every man. And everyone is delighted—God resides in us all. And he forgets even to look in the mirror for a moment—does God abide there? He opens a holy book every morning and reads, “God abides in every man.” Reading this, he firmly believes: whether God abides in others or not, He certainly abides in me.
I was in a village; Kanji Swami had come there. I could see gathered before him all the sinners of the village; they were greatly pleased.
What pleased them? I inquired why all the sinners of the village run there. What is happening? And why do they listen to Kanji with such delight?
Kanji was explaining to them that the Atman never sins. The sinners were very pleased. “Swamiji, you speak rightly,” they nodded their heads. Kanji asked, “Do you understand?” All the sinners answered, “We understand perfectly, Guruji.”
They will get up and sin again. They are coming from sin even now. But now an ideal has given them great relief: the Atman does not sin. They will accept this doctrine; this ideal is very pleasing. For a sinner, there can be no more beautiful ideal—because the burden that was upon his life is removed. He is facilitated in being a sinner—he can be a sinner properly now. For the Atman does not sin. If the Atman does not sin, what harm in sinning?
In ten thousand years we have given man ideals, not humanity. And ideals have proved to be deceptions. No ideal has helped man to know his reality; rather, it helped to hide his reality. What is needed is that man should see his reality wholly—if he is naked, then naked; if he is dirty, then dirty; and if he is a sinner, then a sinner. As I am, I must know myself completely. The amazing thing is: if I come to know fully what I am, I cannot remain the same even for a day—I will have to change.
If I see that my house is on fire, will I come and ask you whether I should step out or not? If it becomes clear that flames surround my house, will I go searching in a shastra for the method of leaving when a house is on fire?
No—if I see that the house is aflame, after seeing I will not even know when I am out—I will be out. But my house is on fire and I keep saying, flowers are blooming all around—flowers of ideals. And the sadhus and saints explain that nectar is showering. These are not flames; this is Prasad falling from God. Then I sit quite comfortably in my burning house.
We do not change because we do not recognize our reality; we never look within to see who I am. But whenever we ask the question “Who am I?” the ancient answers resound: aham brahmasmi! I am Brahman, I am Atman, I am the pure, awakened Paramatma. All these ideals are heard, echo in the ears. Then what I am is forgotten—and what I am not appears to be known. Ideals have not allowed man to change.
And the amusing thing is: every ideal claims it has come to change man; ideals claim they want to transform man. I say to you, no ideal has ever been able to change man. Reality changes, not ideals.
No—I must know what I am. If I am a sorrowful, pain-filled hell, I must know it. I must recognize who I am. If I truly recognize who I am, and ideal-talks do not mislead me in between, then I cannot remain for even a day the one I was. I will leap in the same way that, when a house is on fire, a man finds himself outside; and if a snake appears before us, we leap down from the path. Who wishes to lose his life!
But because of ideals we fail to know our truth. Man’s truth is very painful. Who knows what kind of people invented the notion that hell is beneath the earth. Hell is not so far. Just turn your neck and look within—hell is present there. Hell is not as distant as it has been described. Hell is very near; we all are standing in hell.
The first thing I wish to say to you is this: if a new society is to be sought, a new man must be sought. And what was the fundamental error of the old man? The fundamental error was: he lived in reality, but fixed his eyes upon ideals; he existed in imagination. Only the mind can exist in imagination—yet we must live in reality. And the realities of life are something else, and the truths of life are quite ugly, full of poison, infernal. To know them it is necessary that the mind be freed of ideals.
No—there is no ideal; there is reality. And the one who knows reality begins to change. If I fully recognize my violence, it will become impossible to be violent. And if I do not recognize my violence, I can try to be nonviolent while remaining violent. Even if I manage to become nonviolent, my nonviolence will be violence in its depths, and I will use ahimsa itself for the work of himsa.
The nonviolent man too can do the work of violence. He can harass, suppress, and torture another. He too can knot his fists on another’s neck. In truth, a violent man feels a little fear in pressing another’s throat—lest it be violence. The nonviolent man feels no fear at all—there is no cause for fear.
Therefore, if one must do an evil deed, always paste a good label upon it. For doing evil, a good label is very helpful; a bad label causes a little trouble. If I am certain that squeezing your throat is violence, then my mind will prick me, my life will say, what am I doing! But if I squeeze your throat for your own good, then there is no question. If it is for your welfare, for your upliftment, for raising your soul, then there is no question.
All the gurus of the world are pressing man’s throat—but for his own good. Then the sting of pressing disappears.
If a violent man forces nonviolence upon himself, he will begin to commit violence in new ways—he will commit violence nonviolently. And the greatest danger is this: if he somehow restrains himself from doing violence to others, he will begin to do violence to himself. And when one does violence to oneself, no one objects—on the contrary, we are delighted; we are very pleased. We say—what great tapascharya, what great tyaga!
If a man stands on his head in the blazing sun, we bow to him. If a man begins fasting, we touch his feet. If a man lies upon a bed of thorns, we must build a temple for him and arrange his worship. If a man tortures himself, we are all ready to give him honor.
We do not know: to torture is the same—whether you torture another or yourself. And remember: if you torture another, the other can try to save himself; if you torture yourself, there is no one to save you. There is no one to rescue you, no one to run away, no one to protect you.
The man who is violent within and who wraps himself outwardly in ahimsa will become engaged in self-torture—self-violence. We have been calling it tapascharya, we have been calling it renunciation. We also enjoy it. We enjoy tormenting others; and when someone spares us the labor and torments himself, we enjoy it even more. Hence the worship of the renunciate. The worship of the renunciate is a part of our tendency to torture. We want to torture someone. And he is very kind who spares us the effort and arranges to torture himself. He becomes very worth seeing; we must go and have his darshan.
Society is full of two kinds of violent people. Some take delight in torturing others—they are sick. And some take delight in torturing themselves—they too are sick. There are sadists and there are masochists. Those who torment others the law sometimes catches; those who torment themselves no law catches.
If violence is inside, the ideal of ahimsa can only give violent acts nonviolent forms. The man does not change—the man remains the same. Only a pretense of change happens.
If the new man is to be born, then we must tear apart and throw away the idealism of the old man, and look at the naked man as he is.
No, we will not impose any ideal; man should not try to become anything. Man should know what he is. If it is anger, then anger; if it is hatred, then hatred; if it is violence, then violence. Whatever it is—kama, vasana, lobha, moha—whatever it is, it must be known, recognized.
I was in a town; a sannyasi was instructing people there. He was telling them: “Give up greed, and you can attain heaven.”
I said to that sannyasi, “You are saying a very strange thing! You are giving them greed—‘If you want heaven, give up greed.’ You are teaching greed. You say, ‘Give up greed if you want heaven.’ What does greed mean? Greed is always ready to give up something—something must be gained; to give up, it is always ready.
“One man bears every sorrow throughout the day. He cannot sleep; he endures anxieties—because he wants wealth. We call him greedy.
“Another man gives up wealth because he wants heaven—we call him renunciate.
“There is no difference between the two. Every greedy man is ready to give up something, he must get something. But the one who gives up wealth for heaven—if he learns today that the law has changed, that heaven is no longer obtained by giving up wealth—will he still give it up?”
A fakir from India went to China—some eighteen hundred years ago. Bodhidharma. Before him many Buddhist monks had gone. They had taught the emperors and great rich men of China that if you seek moksha, if you seek heaven, give dana—give much dana.
The sannyasin has always praised dana—without it, how would he live? From morning to evening the sannyasin sings the glories of charity, because charity is his livelihood. And the greedy for punya become ready to give, for a greater greed becomes their inspiration.
Those monks who went earlier instructed: give dana, give dana.
There was an emperor, Wu of China; he too donated millions. Then Bodhidharma came; word spread that a great sannyasin was arriving. Emperor Wu went to welcome him. He bowed at his feet. Bodhidharma asked, “Why do you touch the feet?”
Ordinarily a sannyasin never asks this—he extends his feet forward. There is no need to ask why you touch the feet. If we do not touch them, surely the sannyasin’s eyes say—why aren’t you touching my feet? He may not say it aloud, but the eyes say it, the gesture says it, the face says it—“Still you have not touched the feet!”
Bodhidharma said, “Why do you touch the feet?”
The emperor said, “I have heard that touching the feet earns great punya.”
Bodhidharma laughed and said, “You will not leave greed even in touching feet! It is great kindness upon me that you have touched my feet. And you will earn punya—so what will happen to me? If touching earns merit, then the one whose feet were touched will surely incur sin. I am not prepared to go to hell for nothing. Take back your touching of my feet!”
Emperor Wu was astonished. He said, “What kind of man are you! I have seen many monks; they are delighted to have their feet touched. They are pleased, and we are pleased.”
Then Emperor Wu thought—let me ask him: “I have donated millions, built viharas and temples, fed millions of monks, printed scriptures—what will happen because of all this?” Bodhidharma said, “Nothing—nothing at all.” Emperor Wu said, “You do not seem to be a right man. All monks say—much will happen.” Bodhidharma said, “If monks do not say this, O fool, how will they make you do all this? They make you do it. You are greedy. Now that you are nearing the end of life, growing old, you wish to become emperor in heaven as well. The palaces here are slipping away; there you also want palaces. Your greed is being exploited. Nothing at all will happen from your building temples and printing scriptures and giving to monks.” He said, “But I give up so much greed, so much wealth. Will nothing happen?”
Who will explain to him that he is giving up greed for the sake of greed. Then nothing is being abandoned; nothing is being left.
The man we have produced till now is violent, trying to become nonviolent. He is greedy, trying to be non-greedy. He is lustful, trying to be desireless.
But think a little: how can the violent become nonviolent? And if the violent, remaining violent, tries to become nonviolent, then who will try? Violence itself will try! Violence will become stronger and stand disguised as nonviolence. And if the greedy tries to be non-greedy, who will try? The greedy one—and the greedy cannot try without greed. And even if he gives up greed, he will give it up for the sake of greed—he will invent new greeds.
What does this mean? Does it mean there is no way—that the violent cannot become nonviolent? I am not saying that. I am saying: by trying to become nonviolent, the violent will not become nonviolent. If the violent fully knows and recognizes his violence and lives with it consciously, perhaps he will leap out of it. Remember: violence harms the other later; first it harms oneself. Anger torments the other later; first it torments oneself.
If I rage against you, I must first stoke my anger. I must first boil in its fever. Anger does not descend from the sky all at once; an entire factory within must prepare it before I can throw it at you. To rage at you, I must labor for hours, I must prepare, then I can rage. And even then it may be that, if you are intelligent, my anger will not hurt you at all; but I will be hurt for sure.
We can be saved from another’s anger—but how will he save himself? Another’s violence may not touch us at all—but how will he be saved? In truth, the one who goes to give poison to another must drink poison first; without that one cannot give it.
So if we can fully recognize our violence—and we will only recognize it if the ideal of ahimsa paramo dharmah is not spinning in our skull. Otherwise it will rescue us from seeing violence; it will say—what are you getting into; strive to be nonviolent! Strain your water through a cloth!
And remember: if anyone strains his water before drinking, be a little cautious—he may be able to drink a man without straining. Be a little wary! He is trying to find a cheap nonviolence—becoming nonviolent by straining water. Then he imagines he is saved from all his inner violence—because he strains his water.
Self-proclaimed nonviolent people come to me: “We strain water; we do not eat at night; we are nonviolent.”
If ahimsa were so cheap, the world would have changed long ago and we would have birthed a new society. Ahimsa is not so cheap—because violence is very deep; it will not be erased by straining water, nor by not eating at night. These are deceits we practice to conceal our violence. Then we begin to feel that we are nonviolent—then the matter is finished. The house continues to burn and we think flowers are showering—not flames, but blossoms of tesu.
We need freedom from the ideal of ahimsa. If ever the flower of ahimsa is to bloom in life, the ideal of ahimsa is not needed at all. Remember: ahimsa is not the opposite of himsa; ahimsa is the absence—the absence of violence. It is not that you will become nonviolent by being against violence. It is that on the day you leap out of violence, whatever remains is ahimsa. Ahimsa cannot be attained as an ideal; ahimsa is attained by leaping out of violence.
It is not that the flowers are blooming outside my house and, to reach them, I will step out. I cannot step out—within the house are my gold and silver and jewels. How can I go out? If I go out, what will become of my jewels, of my stones?
No—the day these jewels are known to be poison, I will jump out of the house and say, “Living inside this house is not possible even for a moment.” In that moment I will see the sun is shining and the flowers are blooming—they will be mine.
Ahimsa is waiting for you; you should leap out of the house of violence.
But you say: we will stay in the same house and cultivate ahimsa here. Who will go outside! We will practice it right here—gradually. All ideals give man the illusion that change in life can be gradual.
Change in life is never gradual. All ideals say: slowly leave violence, slowly become nonviolent. I say to you: it is precisely this notion of gradual evolution that has not allowed the new man to be born. The new man is a leap—a jump. The new man is not the old man slowly becoming new. The new man is a jump out of the shell of the old. He is not the modification of the old man, slowly turning new through effort. If the old man, by effort, becomes new, he will remain the old—modified, a little changed, repainted, with new clothes, a patched-up house—but old all the same.
The new man is a leap. And a leap is never gradual. No violent man can become nonviolent gradually; no greedy man can become non-greedy gradually; no angry man can become free of anger gradually; no restless man can become peaceful gradually.
In truth, the doing is something else, but we have been doing something else. The work is not to seek peace; the work is to discover how restless I am. We hide it; we hide our restlessness even from ourselves. We fear that if our restlessness is known completely it will be very difficult. We have not only crafted false faces for others; we have crafted false faces for ourselves. We do not look within to see how much fire, how much poison is there. We are afraid if it becomes visible, it may be too much to handle. Our condition is as if you are made to stand over a deep chasm and, out of fear, you close your eyes so the chasm is not seen. But remember: with closed eyes, the possibility of falling is greater; with open eyes, the possibility of being saved is greater.
We will have to open our eyes and see: what is inside? Violence?
Yes! People lie when they say Brahman dwells within. People lie when they say moksha dwells within. Within is complete narak. Yes—if you leap out of that narak, where you arrive is moksha. If you leap out of that hell, where you arrive is amrit. But the leap will only happen when you see clearly that poison surrounds you on all sides, that this is no place to stand, that not a single moment can be lived here. When this intensity, this urgency arises, the leap happens that very day.
Ideals do not let the leap happen. The thought of gradual evolution does not let the leap happen. Hence the old man remains old. He keeps on being modified. We make a few adjustments here and there. Nothing has changed—man is where he was ten thousand years ago. The roads have changed, the houses have changed, the clothes have changed—but nothing else has changed. Mahavira lost, Buddha lost, Jesus, Krishna, all lost; nothing changed—man remains as he was. A fundamental mistake kept happening—hence they had to lose. And in the future too Krishna will lose, Jesus will lose, Buddha and Mahavira too will certainly lose—unless that mistake becomes clear to us.
And that mistake, the first sutra—idealism.
The second sutra of the mistake—man has taken life with great seriousness, too seriously.
Krishnamurti tells people to be very serious—to be serious; only then can truth be found. The more serious you are, the sooner truth can be attained.
I tell you: seriousness is a disease. The serious man will accumulate stones upon his chest—not truth. The serious man will carry a burden upon his head—not truth. In fact, seriousness may be a trick to die—not to know life. Only those know life who take it as a play, not seriously. Just a play—no more than that. But we are very strange people—we take even play seriously.
I was a guest in a home. I returned at night; the children were playing monopoly, playing business. Children are children—old people too play business; if children play, what is wrong? When I arrived there was great tension: someone had cheated someone out of a station.
When the big ones take stations by cheating, what of the small! There was great tension, a great quarrel; accusations of deceit were flying; the children were angry.
When I arrived, they were embarrassed, then one laughed, then another. I asked, “What is the matter? You were so angry, so upset—why are you laughing?” They said, “You came and we remembered—oh, we are only playing! And here we are becoming so disturbed!” They turned all the stations over, the accounts, the houses—everything collapsed. They quickly stuffed everything into the box. I asked, “So soon? You were so angry, so disturbed, accusing each other of fraud. It seemed a big fight had occurred.” They said, “No, nothing—we were only playing.”
Buddha has said: one evening some children were playing on the sand by the river, building houses. Then someone’s house—how long does a sand house take to fall—someone’s foot touched it and it fell. Then they seized one another’s throats, fought, shouted, struck each other. Each one protected his own house and said, “Walk carefully! Do not knock down my house!” Each was building his house and very serious. Each tried to make a bigger house than the others, because if one’s house remained smaller than another’s, the heart would feel great hurt. Yet they were building houses of sand. All the houses are of sand—even if you mix in cement, still sand it is; and cement is also sand. Still, they are building sand houses, playing and fighting.
Then evening fell. And Buddha says: I was passing that way. Then their mothers called, “Sons, come home now, the sun is setting.” Then all of them began to return laughing. Buddha stood near them. The children who had built the houses kicked down their own houses, leapt and jumped and returned.
Buddha asked them, “What is this you do? For the houses you were fighting—those very houses you kick and go!” The children said, “Mother has called; it is evening; the game is over.”
Evening comes for us too; our game ends as well. We too hear the mother’s call. But no—the seriousness does not go; it clings. The play is not recognized—not even in the last breath.
Life is a play. And upon humanity a great stone has been placed on the chest—the constant admonition: life is a seriousness. Live very seriously. Place each step with great care. This is not a play. Life is the razor’s edge—walk carefully, otherwise you will wander, otherwise you will fall. All these preachers together have made man so serious, so sad, so heavy that his capacity to fly is lost—his wings are cut. And if wings are cut in life, the capacity to fly is lost, and if the courage to take life as a play disappears—then the new man cannot be born.
Do you know the difference between the old and the child?
The child is new; the old man has become old. And the old man becomes old in proportion to his seriousness; as he begins to take play seriously, he becomes old. Children play even with life; old people take even play as life. The freshness in small children—why does it vanish? Where does the freshness go?
Have you ever noticed—perhaps you have not inquired—no child is ugly. Why do all small children seem beautiful? Later, grown up, so many people do not look beautiful. What happens? All children seem beautiful; then why do they not remain beautiful as they grow? Where do they get lost? So many beautiful children are born—why are there not so many beautiful old people? What happens?
Seriousness destroys beauty. Seriousness etches scratches upon the face like stone. Seriousness makes wounds. Then life is no longer a flower; it becomes a thorn.
If the new man is to be born, we must snatch seriousness away from man. And if the statue of Buddha does not laugh, we must cast a new statue in which Buddha is laughing. And if Jesus appears sad, we must find new painters and say: change these pictures! We need a laughing Jesus.
Until now man has not found a laughing religion—a dancing religion. Somber, serious, old—it has made man old, sad, serious. Man has become a tomb—a tomb of sadness, wherein everything is sealed. There the flute never plays, no song ever bursts forth. Those who are already old, sad, bound in tombs—they become very angry with small children. They quickly say to the children, “Find your tombs fast and lock yourselves in! Do not make a racket, do not laugh, do not speak loudly, do not dance, do not jump—lock yourselves in; find your tombs.” As if life is only a long procedure to find a grave—the one who finds a grave is blessed. We scold our children. Before the ray of their life dawns, we kill them.
If the new man is to be born, we must ensure that man is freed from sadness. There is no need for seriousness.
But all our mahatmas are serious. In truth, to carry a weeping face is a necessary qualification for being a mahatma. If that is not there, you may become anything else—you cannot become a mahatma.
Can a laughing man be a mahatma—cheerful, blissful, dancing?
No, no—such a man cannot be a mahatma. For us sad people, we worship sadness, we worship suffering. The sadder the face, the more serious and profound it appears.
Remember: a sad face is not profound; it is only shallow. It is dead, stale, not alive. The sutras of life are very astonishing. The deeper life is, the fresher springs keep gushing forth in it. The deeper life is, the farther the roots draw in new fragrance. The deeper, more blissful, more joyous life is, the more everywhere it begins to feel fulfilled and grateful.
A religious man has one mark: he is so blissful that out of his bliss he can thank the Paramatma.
A sad man cannot thank God, he can only complain. And if ever our mahatmas happen to meet God—which does not happen and cannot happen, because even God must be fleeing such sad mahatmas—if they were to meet Him, they would seize Him and immediately recite the list of grievances. If God appeared laughing to them, they would be greatly pained—“What kind of God is this who laughs!”
When I was small, there was a Ramleela in my village. In that Ramleela, Ram performed great deeds with great seriousness. There was a Ravana, the whole drama unfolded. When I first watched the Ramleela, my greatest curiosity was: they all come from behind the stage, and then go back behind—what happens behind? What happens behind? What is behind the stage?
So I asked a few elders, “What happens behind the stage?”
They said, “Leave aside what is behind the stage; you look at the front. What need have you to know what is behind? We have come to watch the Ramleela; what have we to do with the backstage?”
Then I saw they would not answer. In truth, they too did not know about the backstage. Who knows the backstage? No one knows what happens behind the stage. Who knows the place from where Ram enters, from where Ravana comes? So I thought—leave the elders; if I stay with them I too will become an elder and begin telling small children, “What have you to do with the backstage! You look at the front, where we have come to watch.”
I left their company, ran behind, and lifted the curtain and peeped in. I was stunned. From that day I never watched the Ramleela again. The matter ended that day. I saw there that Shri Ramchandra was smoking a cigarette—and Ravana was lighting it. Then I returned home and thought: if this is happening behind the curtain of this Ramleela, who knows what is behind the curtain of the real Ramleela!
All this seriousness is in front of the curtain. Behind, life is something else entirely. If there is a God anywhere, I cannot even imagine that He would be sad. If even God is sad, then who will laugh? I cannot even imagine that God is serious. If He were serious, He would have ended this world long ago. For all the mahatmas are very eager to end it. They say, ask for freedom from the wheel of life and death. All the mahatmas have one complaint—why did God make this world! You created great trouble. Somehow destroy it—call us back; we do not want this. All the mahatmas are engaged in one search—how to end the world!
Certainly God cannot be sad; He is not yet tired of the play. He keeps the play running. Each day He creates a new play. He appears to be very relishing of play. Nor does He become bored; He does not tire.
I went to meet an old painter. He had grown old. I asked him, “Do you not paint anymore?” He said, “I am bored now. I painted a lot; I am tired. What shall I paint again and again? Men, trees, rivers, mountains—I am tired.” I said, “You got tired too soon. And God—since when has He been making trees, men, rivers, mountains—He is not yet tired! His capacity is astonishing—He never tires. If He were sad He would have tired long ago. He would have been bored. He would have said—stop all this now; I will not run it.” But He is relishing life, and His capacity to create is infinite.
No—God is not sad; man is sad. And man is sad because of seriousness. He has turned life into a job, not a play. We are so skilled at turning everything into work that even play is made into work.
Recently I was a guest in a home. At five in the evening, he picked up his bat and was going to play. His wife said, “Do not go today.” I was in the bathroom; I heard. His wife said, “Do not go today.” He said, “How is that possible! It is my fixed time to go play!”
He is going to play—and even there he has a fixed time—another routine.
He said, “Do not worry, I will be back soon. But I must go.”
Man turns even worship into work. If he must go to court early, he will ring the bell with a little extra vigor—quickly. That too is work. In life we have turned everything into work. Love too has become work. The husband speaks a few words of love to his wife, the ones that ought to be said—and she hears the ones that ought to be heard. And both know it is only the completion of a job—nothing else is happening here. The father strokes the son’s head, and the son knows well—it is only the task his father does each morning. This is the routine before leaving for the office.
We have made the whole of life into work. There is no play anywhere. If a son presses his mother’s feet, he says this is my responsibility. My mother—therefore I press her feet. Even pressing the mother’s feet is work. The entire life is work. Man has taken life with seriousness. Seriousness has turned play into work. And if we can reverse it, work too becomes play.
Kabir kept weaving cloth—his life changed; a revolution happened; still he wove cloth. People said, “Now you can stop weaving; you need not work.” Kabir said, “I am no longer working; now I am playing.” They said, “But you still weave cloth!” He said, “Everything has changed. Earlier it was work—now it is play.”
And people saw that he spoke rightly. Earlier he wove cloth, sad, pacing from this corner to that. Now he wove—and danced. Earlier he took his cloth to sell in the market—sad, weighted with stone, heavy. Now too he went—but with a bundle of cloth under the arm and running along. If someone asked, “Where are you going?” he said, “Ram must have reached the market by now; I have woven his cloth—I go to give it to Him.” Standing in the market—there were no longer any customers; all were Ram. If there was haggling, he said, “Ram, do not delay. Do you know how much I danced to weave this—how difficult it was!” The customer, startled, looked: “What is this man saying?” Kabir would laugh: “I speak rightly, Ram! For me there is no customer except Him. He is the only buyer. We are the sellers—and He is the buyer. And now we are ready to sell ourselves too—when He wills, let Him buy.” Then—even that had become play.
Life should become play. For the religious man, life is play; for the irreligious, even play is work. Those who thought that the more serious we make life, the better man will become—they made a fundamental mistake. A serious man cannot be a good man; a good man cannot be serious. Seriousness is a disease—a sickness.
So the second sutra I want to give you for the birth of the new man is this: take life as lila—as play. Do not turn life into a heaviness. Build as big a house as you like—but know it is a house of sand; evening will come, you will kick it down and go. Do whatever great work you wish—but know it is a sand play and it will collapse. Not because I say so—if you look rightly at life, you will see. Which houses endure? What remains?
I was a guest in a village. Nine hundred years ago, that village had a population of seventeen lakhs. Today it has only nine hundred. On the signboard at the motor stand the population is written as nine hundred thirty or nine hundred thirty-three. Nine hundred years ago, it had seventeen lakhs. Even today there are such vast ruins of dharmashalas in which ten thousand can stay. Such vast mosques in which ten thousand can pray. Such vast temples—miles of ruins.
Some friends were with me. I stayed three days. I thought surely one of them would say something. But none said a thing. Not one thought occurred to them that where seventeen lakh people lived there is now only a cremation ground. And those who made great mansions—now they are only ruins.
No, they did not say it. One of my friends said to me, “I have designed a house-plan. Please look—it needs to be approved; I must build.” Next to him are the ruins of the houses of seventeen lakhs! I said, “Come, let us sit outside—there is open air.” I led him out. But how blind man is! He spread out the plan and said, “How shall we build—how to make it strong?” I said, “At least look around!” He said, “It is a lovely evening; please quickly see the plan. The night is descending, darkness is falling.”
Man’s blindness is astonishing. He does not see the ruins, the cremation ground, the corpses spread across the earth. On whatever soil you sit—someone has died there. There is no piece of land where no one has died; there is no patch of earth where no one has been buried. Where you sleep, beneath, someone else sleeps—forever. But you pay him no attention.
If we look closely at life, what is it more than play? Yes, it may be that the children’s play runs from morning to evening; our play will run from birth to death. It may be that their play is completed in four or six hours; our play will take fifty, sixty, seventy years.
One small story, and I will end today. Tomorrow we will speak further of the sutras. I have heard: a seeker roamed, asking many people one question—what is the secret of life? None could answer. He kept on asking, and no one could answer. He read the shastras, searched for gurus, but nowhere was the answer found—and he did not invent any answer of his own. God took pity on him; one day He stood before him and said, “Ask! What do you want to ask?”
If he had accepted some guru, God need not have come. If he had accepted some scripture, what need of God? If he had concocted an answer of his own, still God would not be needed. But the man was extraordinary. He accepted no one’s answer; nothing satisfied him; he kept asking and asking. Then there was no one left to ask—so finally God had to appear. He said, “You wanted to ask—ask!”
The man said, “I do not want to ask much; I want to ask this—what is the secret of life?”
It was blazing noon; the sun was fierce. God said, “I will tell you the secret of life in a little while. I am very thirsty—can’t you see the heat? Go and bring a glass of water from somewhere.”
The young seeker went to fetch water. He entered the village, knocked at a door. It was noon—silence—the people were asleep. A beautiful young woman opened the door; her father was away. The youth had come to fetch water—but a new thirst arose. And when one’s own thirst arises, what does another’s thirst matter! The beauty before him awakened a new thirst. The young woman asked, “Why have you come?” He said, “I have come for you. I have been wandering in search of you. I have been seeking you in some unknown corner of my heart. If I find you, everything is found; otherwise everything is lost.” Meanwhile the father returned. The youth was handsome, young; the father married them. They began to live together.
God must have been standing thirsty in the sun—he forgot all about it. When one’s own thirst arises, who remembers another’s!
Then children came. Then they grew up. Then they married. Then their children came. The man grew old, near death. Then there was a great flood in the village. The river swelled; it kept rising; the flood did not recede. The whole village began to drown. Whom should he save—his wife, his children, his sons, his daughters-in-law? The current was strong; the house was being swept away. He tried to save all—he grew old, his strength had diminished. If he caught one child, the girl slipped; if he went to save the girl, the wife slipped. In the end, trying to save all, all slipped away. Trying to save everyone, only one remained whom he had not thought to save—himself. Weeping, crying, beating his chest, he fainted and fell on the bank.
Again he felt a hand upon his head, heard a voice, “Get up!” He opened his eyes; God stood there. He said, “How long you have taken! I have been sitting thirsty—did you not bring the water?” The man said, “Water! There was so much water—everywhere water. Where is it? I see it nowhere.” He said, “What has happened? How many ages have passed! It must be seventy years since I went, leaving you. I have grown old, near death. I had children, a wife, sons—where are they? There was a flood—where is it all?” God said, “How do I know? I am sitting thirsty. Do you not see the noon sun? Where is the water? Did you not bring it?”
The seeker placed his head at God’s feet and said, “I understand the secret now. Do not try to tell me more; I have understood.”
Life is a play—and a play dreamed. There is no need to take it so seriously.
If you have any questions about this, ask in the evening; questions for the morning—tomorrow morning.
If man is made new, then a new society can be born. All revolutions failed because they focused on society, not on man. The only revolution that can succeed will put man at the center—and by breaking the old mind of man, make it new.
The new man is the foundation of the search for a new society.
I am grateful for the peace and love with which you have listened to my words. Finally, I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.