Naye Samaj Ki Khoj #13

My beloved Atman!
Before saying anything on the question, “Does India need a spiritual revolution?” it is necessary to understand a most misleading notion that has possessed us.
For hundreds of years we have sat convinced that our country is spiritual. And this very conviction has prevented us from becoming spiritual. If a sick man deludes himself that he is healthy, all possibility of his becoming healthy ends right there. The sick man must know that he is sick. Only through that knowing can he fight the illness, transform it, and become healthy. But cursed is the sick man who falls into the illusion, “I am well,” for that very illusion will never allow him to make any effort to be free of illness.
India is under the illusion that we are spiritual. We proceed in all matters taking this for granted—that we are spiritual. Then nothing remains for us to do. The whole story of moral decay in India, the entire tale of character’s collapse, has stood upon one foundation: that we accepted the belief that we are spiritual. And we are not spiritual at all. We have no relation to spirituality—not even from afar!
Yes, we have erected a false spirituality, and we do have a relation to that. And because of that relation we have managed to convince ourselves that we are spiritual. We have put up a pseudo-spirituality—a sham. False spirituality is a very cheap thing. To be truly spiritual is to pass through a revolution. To be truly spiritual is to be reborn into a new life. False spirituality is nothing but persuading oneself, “I am spiritual.” And we have found many devices to persuade ourselves. Because of these devices we have been living in deception for five thousand years. We neither manage to be spiritual nor, with honesty, material.
Material we are; materialistic is our mind; yet we stand wrapped in the cloth of spirituality. About the West at least one thing is true: they are materialists—and they know they are materialists. Our situation is dishonest. We are materialists—and we think we are spiritualists. This is a very deep cunning, a profound deception and hypocrisy.
And the man who rightly understands, “I am a materialist,” cannot remain a materialist for long—just as one who understands, “I am sick,” cannot remain sick for long. Illness has its own pain that says, “Become healthy!” And materialism has its own anguish that says, “Rise above this!” There is every possibility that the West, in the coming future, will become spiritual—but our possibility of becoming spiritual seems very small indeed.
So first it is necessary to see that we are not spiritual. Individuals have been spiritual—Mahavira has been, Buddha has been, Krishna has been, Rama has been. But on the basis of individuals no country becomes spiritual. Recently there was Gandhi: a nation of forty crores—if one man becomes spiritual there is no need for forty crores to create the illusion that they have become spiritual too. If a musician is born in a country, the whole country does not become musical. How then can an entire nation become spiritual because one spiritual man was born? Suppose a Ramamurti is born, whose bones work like iron, on whose chest stones can be broken and a car pulled—but we do not fall into the illusion that stones can be broken on our chests, nor do we shout that the whole nation has become Ramamurti.
Yet, concerning spirituality, we have carried exactly such an illusion. Individuals have been spiritual—yes. And we need not even think they appeared only on this soil; they have appeared across the whole earth. But because of those individuals no country in the world has nurtured within itself the illusion that “We have become spiritual.” Our community has nurtured this illusion.
There are Ramas, Krishnas, Christs, Buddhas, Mahaviras. Have you ever reflected that the Buddha and Mahavira were not representatives of our land; they were exceptions. If they had been our representatives, it may not even have been necessary to remember the Buddha for twenty-five centuries. If many like the Buddha had lived, we would have long ago forgotten him. We do not forget those who are extremely rare—alone, like far-off Himalayan peaks. Twenty-five hundred years have passed since Mahavira and Buddha, yet we still remember them. This is proof that in these twenty-five centuries we have not been able to produce men of that height. Otherwise, we would have forgotten Mahavira and Buddha long ago.
Is it possible that in a land where there are many good people one good man would have to be remembered for thousands of years? Forget remembering—there it would be hard to even find who is “the good man.” In a dark night lightning is seen; when the sun has risen and lightning flashes, it goes unnoticed. Go into a schoolroom and look—there are blackboards; the teacher writes with white chalk on blackboards, not on white walls. Because on white walls white letters cannot be seen; they are seen on the blackboard.
Mahavira and Buddha are seen because we are all like blackboards—on us they appear like shining lines. If we were all white too, then it would be difficult to even locate where Mahavira and Buddha are. On the basis of a handful of names the entire nation has kept this illusion that we have become spiritual; this deception must be shattered. And if it shatters, a spiritual revolution can arise in the country. And it is very much needed. Because a nation without an inner life has no life at all. A nation that has no vital energy, no sacredness, no love in its life—such a nation becomes poor, beggarly; everything of that nation is ruined.
But this cannot break until we see clearly: individuals have appeared who were religious; no nation has ever been religious on this earth—no society has ever been religious. Individuals have appeared, as exceptions.
Two thousand years from now people will forget my name, and they will forget yours; Gandhi’s name will remain. And two thousand years hence people will imagine, “What wonderful people lived in Gandhi’s time—people like Gandhi! How lovely people they were!” Their imagining will be utterly wrong—fallacious, false—because Gandhi was not our representative. Godse may represent us; Gandhi certainly does not. We are not at all like Gandhi. Gandhi is purely an exception. And on the basis of that Gandhi, two thousand years hence, people will think, “How good the people were! What a golden age!” Their notion will be untrue. On the basis of one man an entire age or an entire nation cannot be judged.
Yet with regard to the distant past, that is exactly what we have kept doing. We say, “The land where Rama was born! The land of Buddha! The land of Mahavira! A religious land.”
From Rama, Buddha, and Mahavira a land does not become religious. A land becomes religious when the greater number of its people become religious. One man becoming religious does not make the nation religious—in fact, the very visibility of that one religious man is proof that the rest are not religious.
The day all people on earth are religious, that day there will be no place left for “great men.” Great men live only so long as small souls exist in great numbers. Otherwise, the great will have to bid farewell. The day the birth of a great humanity happens, there will be no place left for great personages. In a way the great exploit a condition: because man is small, there is the privilege of being “great.” If you wish to be a great man, hurry—after a thousand or two thousand years it will be very difficult! The day true great humanity is born, there is no space for bigger-than-life figures.
It is because man is small, lowly, poor, sin-ridden, standing in darkness—that one person, holding a lamp in his hand, stands out as a great man. And for thousands of years we have to remember that one man who had a lamp in his hand.
This is a sad tale; it is not a matter of glory and joy. From this we have only created an illusion and sat down believing, “Our community is religious; we are spiritual.”
And when we are spiritual, nothing remains for us to do except preach to the whole world. Naturally, what else remains for one who has become spiritual? And when an entire nation, an entire race, an entire society has become spiritual—then what is left for us? One thing remains: we should become the guru of the whole world and preach to it!
So for thousands of years India has been busy only preaching, and has forgotten that we ourselves do not have the very treasure we talk about; we ourselves do not have the truth for which we make such a noise; we ourselves do not have the experience about which we shout so loudly that we have it. Our fists are empty, our life-force is empty. We have books; we have histories of great beings. But we—we are not religious; we are not spiritual. In fact, the situation has reversed. Because we committed this basic dishonesty with ourselves—without being spiritual we assumed we are spiritual—we have fallen into vast delusions.
The delusion is such that we have found ways to give every single thing the shape of a lie. We have made everything into a deceit, into a deception—because we cannot accept directly. We cannot directly own something as it is within. We accumulate wealth too—but while abusing wealth we accumulate it.
An American traveler wrote in his memoirs after returning from India: I arrived in Delhi, and right at the Delhi station a Sikh sadhu caught hold of my hand and began to read it. I said to him, “Forgive me, I don’t want my hand read; I don’t believe in astrology.” But he wouldn’t listen. He said, “First listen; then you will believe.” And he began telling me that such and such will happen in the future. I said, “Forgive me; I don’t want to know about the future; please let go of my hand.” But the Sikh said, “Then give me two rupees as my fee for what I have told you.” The American gave him two rupees so he could be free—out of good manners and courtesy.
But after taking the two rupees the man kept holding on to his hand, and went on saying more things. The American said, “Look—please forgive me! Otherwise you will again charge a fee; I don’t want to listen.” But by then the man had said so much that his fee came to two rupees again. The American said, “But now I will not give you two rupees, because when I am saying, ‘Don’t speak,’ why do you go on speaking? When I am not asking, why are you telling? Now I won’t pay.”
So, he writes, the Sikh let go of my hand in anger and said, “You people of the West are materialists—you are dying for two rupees!”
See the fun! The man says, “You are materialists—you are dying for two rupees!” And what is he doing? He is trying by force to extract two rupees from the other’s pocket. And this is a spiritualist, a holy man!
If we search among our own we will be shocked. The very things we abuse are the very things we nourish all the time. We hurl insults and condemnations—and we live exactly those same things. This deceptive, self-betraying condition we have created—how did we create it? We abuse wealth; yet is there today any people on earth who cling to wealth more than we do? And we abuse wealth. The real fun is, if we reflect a little…
I was staying in Jaipur. A friend came and said, “A very great muni is in the city; you will be very happy to meet him.” I asked, “How did you come to know that he is a very great muni? What is your measure? What scale do you have by which you knew he is very great?” He said, “What is there to know? The Maharaja of Jaipur himself touches his feet!”
So I said, “That means the Maharaja of Jaipur is the great one for you; not the muni. Because the Maharaja touches his feet, therefore the muni becomes great. If the Maharaja does not go there, then the muni will become small. Who, then, is truly great? And why is the Maharaja great? Because he is a ruler, because he is wealthy—isn’t that so?”
Scriptures have been written about Mahavira and Buddha. And it seems the writers of those scriptures did not know Mahavira and Buddha at all. For they attempted to write: Mahavira renounced so many horses, so many elephants, so much wealth, so much silver and gold! He was a great renunciate! As if, had he not had these things, he could not have been a great renunciate. The measure is: how many horses were renounced, how many elephants, how much gold. Then what is truly valued—Mahavira, or the gold, the horses, the elephants? And if Buddha is to be shown greater in renunciation, then his disciples must have him renounce more horses and more elephants than Mahavira; only then can he be greater—otherwise not!
Have you ever considered: among the twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains in India not one is the son of a poor man; all are sons of kings. Buddha is a king’s son. Rama and Krishna are princes. Until today, in India, a poor man has not been given the stature of God. Why? Is there no possibility of God being born in a poor man’s house? Does God too keep account of poor and rich? Does he have to consider, before incarnating, “Where should I descend—into a rich house, a royal lineage?”
No, that is not the reason. The truth, however, is this: if someone from a poor home renounces and leaves, we have no way to measure that he has renounced. Our measure is wealth. When a prince renounces, we can see it. When a poor man renounces, he leaves no trace. A poor man becomes a beggar when he takes sannyas; a rich man becomes a swami. What measure do we have? What is our standard? And we claim we do not honor wealth. It would be hard to find people who honor wealth more than we do!
I tell you: in lands outside India—Mohammed was not a king’s son. Yet the Arabs granted a poor man’s son the stature of the messenger of God. Jesus Christ was not a prince; he was a poor man’s son, a carpenter’s son. Yet the people of Jerusalem granted him the stature of the Son of God. India has not been able, even today, to grant a poor boy the stature of an avatar. Outside India, sons of the poor earned the courage to be God’s own; but this has happened outside India, not within. There must be some reason: our attachment to wealth is extreme—although we abuse it. It may even be that we abuse it because our attachment is so intense. If there were no attachment, perhaps wealth would be forgotten, and there would be no need to abuse it so much.
I have heard: if a theft occurs—suppose in this very neighborhood, and the news comes—then the thieves in this crowd will be the first to condemn theft. They will fear lest someone suspect, “Was it not he who stole?” So the thief will shout the loudest: “Theft is a sin! Catch the thief—where is he?”—so that the crowd clearly hears that this man is against theft; at least this man cannot be a thief.
If there is theft, the thieves are the first to condemn it. If there is dishonesty, the dishonest stand against dishonesty. If there is corruption, corrupt leaders climb the dais in Delhi and declare, “We shall end corruption utterly!”
And we are deceived. We think, “One who stands against corruption—how can he be corrupt?”
We do not know. Those who know a little of man—his tricks, his cunningness, his dishonesty—know that the best way for the corrupt to save themselves is to speak against corruption. The best way for the thief to save himself is to become the enemy of theft. These are strategies for survival.
Our nation has been speaking against wealth for thousands of years. My own understanding is that this is the device by which we protect our excessive attachment to wealth. In this way we display, “No, we have nothing to do with wealth; in this way we display, we are enemies of wealth.” But our intense craving for wealth is visible everywhere—in every way.
In the same way we have deceived ourselves on every plane of life—every plane. We say, “Atman is immortal,” and we do not have the courage to go to the battlefield. We say, “Atman is immortal,” and we are afraid to go into the dark. We say, “Atman is immortal,” and our very life trembles to climb a mountain or cross an ocean. For those whose Atman is immortal, for those who have experienced it, fear of death should vanish—because for one who has come to know the immortality of Atman, where is death? For him life is a play—and death too a play.
Our nation believes that Atman is immortal—and yet we fear death more than anyone. Those who say, “Atman is not immortal; with death everything ends”—even they face death with more strength and bravery than we do. Why is this?
Because “Atman is immortal” has become for us only a mantra to cover up our fear of death. We go on repeating, “Atman is immortal, Atman is immortal,” to convince ourselves that we will not die. To forget the fear of death we invent these small devices.
I do not mean to say that Atman is not immortal—this I am not saying. I am saying that for us it has become a device.
I once went into a house; someone had died. The neighbors had gathered and were consoling the family: “Why do you weep? The Atman is immortal! Why weep? The body perishes; the body is like clothing—it is cast off. The Atman has moved on in its journey. Why weep? No one has died; death is unreal.”
I was amazed. I thought, “These people have attained knowledge—great knowers live in this neighborhood! They know that the body is shed like garments.” But I did not know these were hollow words they had read in books. How could I tell they were only words? A man was saying it, so I assumed he must be right. I returned very pleased, bowing to the neighbors in my mind, “How extraordinary they are! They know the immortality of the Atman!”
By coincidence, two months later, in the home of one of those very gentlemen who had been consoling others, someone died; I had to go there too. I saw him weeping—and those whom he had consoled before were now consoling him, “The Atman is immortal—why are you upset? The Atman is immortal! The body is shed like garments, and the Atman goes on its journey. No one really dies.”
Then I was utterly astonished! I understood that there are things we say only to explain to others, of which we ourselves know nothing. Or perhaps we keep repeating them to persuade ourselves; but neither do they solve life’s problems nor grant experience of truth.
In just this way we have deceived ourselves on many planes. And deceiving ourselves in every way, we are enjoying the glamour of being spiritual—satisfying the ego with the prestige that we are spiritual. Perhaps behind this glory of being spiritual lies another reason: that in the world we have become poor and pitiable in every way. We have neither physical power, nor scientific instruments, nor food, nor clothing—we have nothing. We do not possess anything that is visible; so we can claim that which is invisible. It is difficult to claim things that can be seen.
We cannot say, “We are wealthy,” because the world will laugh hearing such madness. If we proclaim wealth, then how will we go, hands folded, to beg before America? We cannot say, “Our Bharat Mata is full of prosperity. This sujalam–sufalam, this well-watered, well-fruited land is brimming with wealth and grain.” We know that the bread in our belly today is not from our own country, not from our own soil. Of every three rupees in circulation today in India, two belong to America; and within the next five years the third rupee too will be America’s. Our food is borrowed, begged. We cannot say today that our land is the Golden Bird. Then what claim shall we make? How shall we gratify our ego? What shall we say?
We can make claims of such a sort as cannot be seen, cannot be measured—no thermometer, no measure exists to test them, no one can even disprove them. Such a claim is: “We are spiritual.” There is no method for verifying spirituality; therefore we have raised a loud cry that we are spiritual.
So long as we go on shouting this, no one else is harmed. If a beggar imagines himself to be an emperor, emperors are not harmed—on the contrary, they are safer, for this beggar will never attempt to become an emperor. Our false claims harm no one else; the harm is to us. The nation’s life, character, policy, personality, soul—fall daily lower and lower. And the lower we sink, the more loudly we cry, “We are the gurus of the world.” No one in the world ever asked who your guru is, yet village after village in India there are jagatgurus, “gurus of the world.” Someone should ask them, “Did you consult the world? Without asking the world you are self-appointed!”
I went to a village where there was such a jagatguru. I asked the villagers, “How is he a ‘world-guru’? Has he inquired from the world? How many disciples does he have in the world? How many accept him?” They said, “We don’t know about the world, but in our village there is surely one disciple.” Then they added, “If you do not tell anyone, we will tell you the truth: that disciple is salaried—he has to be paid. Nowadays there are too many gurus and too few disciples. So disciples say, ‘Give us a salary, then we will stay with you; otherwise we will find another guru.’”
There was a time when disciples were many and gurus were few. Now the time has reversed: gurus are many and disciples very few. So there is competition for disciples. Gurus clutch at disciples’ legs so that they do not run off into someone else’s circle; lest a Hindu become a Muslim, a Hindu become a Christian, a Christian become a Jain; lest one guru’s disciple go to another.
They said, “He is a salaried disciple.” I said, “This is a miracle! Until now I had heard of salaried gurus; a salaried disciple!” “And on the basis of one disciple how has he become a jagatguru?”
The villagers said, “He is a very clever man—entirely legal. He has named his disciple ‘Jagat’—World. No legal charge can be brought against him for calling himself ‘jagatguru.’”
Our whole nation seeks satisfaction in such foolishness. We are the guru of the whole world, and our hands are empty, our life-force empty. There is no prayer, no love, no Paramatma within. We have nothing—and we shout, “We are jagatgurus, spiritual; we are this, we are that.” How long will we go on uttering these falsehoods and entertaining our own minds?
A spiritual revolution is needed. And its first stage will be: we reduce to ashes this illusion—that we are spiritual; we drop this false pride. We accept truthfully what we are. Because if we truly understand what we are, then that “what” can be changed. If we rightly know our reality, then knowing it we can journey beyond it. To journey toward what we can become, it is absolutely necessary to know clearly what we are.
But this false illusion does not allow us to know. The first step of a spiritual revolution, in my vision, is to shatter India’s false conceit—its false ego. India must accept the factuality: What are the facts? What is our reality? Where do we stand?
For thousands of years we have deceived ourselves and have been falling lower. Even now there is time—let us correctly accept where we stand. If we are attached to wealth, let us say we are attached to wealth. If we love the body, let us say we love the body. If we like houses, let us say houses are good. Whatever we truly feel, let us say it—accept it.
And then, after that acceptance, let us reflect: this is our state; this is our diagnosis. What now shall we do? What difference can we bring? How can we rise above this?
But we resist knowing this. We protest when someone attempts to strip off our clothes and expose our nakedness. Many are angry with me. They say, “Why do you strip off our clothes? Why don’t you accept us as we appear from the outside?”
But how can I? I see in the tailor’s shop—men who have no shoulders at all, stuffing cotton into the coat to show shoulders. No one else is harmed by your not having shoulders. But through false shoulders of cotton you will fall into such a state that exercise could have been done and shoulders could have been grown, but now you will never grow them—the cotton shoulders will do the work; there will be satisfaction through them; false shoulders will be accepted as enough.
The invention of clothing has harmed human health immeasurably, because through clothing man has been able to deceive himself about his health. If clothing were snatched away from the world, you would not agree to live in the same body you have—because you would look so pitiful once stripped that the thought of changing this body would arise. You would be dissatisfied: “With this bony skeleton—where shall I go? How shall I stand at the crossroads?” But clothing has given convenience: inside there is a bare skeleton; wrapped in clothes we hide it and stand on the street. If the world’s clothes were taken away, within a fortnight the health of the whole world could become good—because no man will tolerate seeing himself naked and dragging such a body. He will ask, “Where can I go with this body?” But clothing has arranged a deception.
Why do I want to strip off our nation’s spiritual clothing?
Because if we see the reality—that spiritually we are so naked, lowly, impoverished, and skeletal—then perhaps something can be done. Certainly something can be done, that the soul of this land be reborn. This is the first thing I want to say: that this illusion must be shattered. This is the first stage of revolution.
And the second stage I want to tell you is this: that the scheme by which we have tried to make man spiritual until now contains a fundamental mistake. That mistake is: we have thought of spirituality as a collective enterprise—a collective effort. We have believed that to create a spiritual society we must mold each person according to the pattern of the group. This is fundamentally wrong—unscientific. Two people cannot be made alike; there is no way to do it. The day the earth becomes fully spiritual, that day each single person will be uniquely himself.
In France there was a king, Charles the Fifth. He was possessed by the idea that all people should be of one doctrine, one conduct, one thought. He had thousands of people hanged—only because, “Why are people different? They should be the same!” Even so, he failed. He grew old. He had killed thousands, but neither could all be made of one thought, nor one character, nor be brought under one flag. Tired and weary, he eventually left the throne and entered a monastery as a monk.
But the habit of a lifetime remained. In his room he had twelve clocks placed, and he tried to make them give the same time—when it was twelve, all should strike twelve, not a second’s difference. But within a few days he saw the difficulty: even to run the twelve clocks together was hard—one would run a minute ahead, another a minute behind. In anger he smashed them. And then it occurred to him: if even twelve clocks cannot be made to run alike, then my attempt to make all the people of the land run alike was sheer madness. Clocks are dead, yet they cannot be run alike—how then can living human beings be cast into one mold?
The same madness that possessed Charles the Fifth has possessed our religious leaders for thousands of years: “Make every person the same!” While no two are ever the same. The effort to make them alike is bound to fail; it has failed.
It is essential to accept the uniqueness of each person. If we wish to make man spiritual, spirituality is not uniformity. Spirituality is not a military parade where one uniform drill is performed and everyone stands the same way. Each person has his own Atman, his own individuality. That individuality must be allowed to develop in its own way.
But so far in the name of religion we have done only this: we have tried to mold the person into the frame of society. A person pressed into society’s mold cannot become spiritual; he becomes a hypocrite. Because he cannot become what we try to make him, what is he to do? He begins to deceive: “I have become.” Within, he knows he has not. Within, he feels guilty. Yet to live he must wear faces. He says, “I have become,” while inwardly he remains disturbed, surrounded by sin and guilt—and goes to the temple to pray. If someone could peer into his life-force while he prays, you would find everything there except prayer—prayer simply cannot be there.
But social conformity—society says, “Worship is religion; applying the tilak is religion; growing a shikha is religion.” As if religion were some military drill: do these things and you will be religious. In the name of religion society has created a system. Fit into it—and you are religious. While to be spiritual means your individual consciousness flowers, your unique flower opens. There has never been anyone like you. Neither Rama is like you, nor Buddha, nor Mahavira.
This is precisely why twenty-five centuries have passed since Mahavira—and a second Mahavira has not been born. Is it because people have not tried to become Mahavira? Thousands have tried—hundreds of thousands. They have left their clothes exactly as he did; they have stood naked as he did. Even today there are such people. But not one of them has attained to the dignity, the grandeur, the bliss of Mahavira. Why?
First, because no one can be like another. There is no such possibility—and no need. That world would be absurd and full of boredom. If fifty lakh people in Bombay became Rama and went about with bow and arrow, Bombay would become frightening. If fifty lakh people in Bombay became just like Mahavira, life would be unbearable; people would jump into the sea. Such sameness would be terrifying. Life has variety—different flowers, colors, fragrances—and therefore there is a certain juice, a certain joy.
No, individuals are not to be erased. Each person must be given full freedom to become that which he was born to be. But the whole education of religions till now—what we have taught in the name of spirituality—is: become like Christ, become like Gandhi, become like Mahavira. No religion says: become like yourself. Always: become like the other!
A spirituality of becoming like another will be false. It will produce not real men but carbon copies. The world needs real men, living men—those who are themselves; who express what is hidden in their life-force; who become that for which they are born.
The second stage of a spiritual revolution, in my vision, is to free spirituality from the group—from the crowd—and to give honor and dignity to the individual. The individual has value; the crowd has none in spirituality. The crowd has value politically: for the politician, the crowd is power—he becomes a leader by gathering it. Crowds are needed where there are wars, where there is hatred, where physical force is required. In spirituality, what need is there for a crowd? There is no question of crowds—there is the value of each single person. And each person has to inquire into his own life-force, his own truth, and discover the way to express his own life.
But this has not happened because we have erected religion upon a political frame. There is the Hindu crowd, the Muslim crowd, the Jain crowd—crowds, which have nothing to do with spirituality. Spirituality belongs to the individual; there is no question of crowds. If you are to be spiritual, will you go searching for crowds? No—you will seek solitude, not crowds. You will seek aloneness. You will free yourself from others and search within.
Then what is the need of Hindu crowds, Muslim crowds, Christian crowds? These crowds are disguises of politics—hidden forms of politics. Hence, in the name of Hindu and Muslim, India and Pakistan are partitioned. The name is religion; the mischief is politics. Around the world wars and murders continue in the name of religion; behind the mosque and the temple—behind them stands the devil holding swords. Behind them there is always the devil; God is never there. Wherever the crowd gathers, there no sadhana remains possible.
But until now we have taken this to be spirituality: if a man is a Hindu, we say he is religious. If a man belongs to the Hindu crowd, we say he is religious. To belong to the crowd, he has to observe certain rules: grow a shikha, apply a tilak, wear the sacred thread. If he fulfills these, he is religious.
I was just reading a magazine—I was astonished: even in the twentieth century there are people who say such things. And we have neither the means to treat them nor facilities to send them to hospitals. A certain peeth’s jagatguru Shankaracharya was staying in Delhi; in his own magazine the incident is printed, so the correctness is not in question. A man came in the morning and requested, with twenty-five devotees sitting there, “We have a group; we want you to give a discourse on Brahma-jnana.” The jagatguru looked him up and down. The man wore a tie and coat and trousers. The Shankaracharya said, “Wearing a tie, coat, and trousers—you will attain Brahma-jnana?”
The man was alarmed. He had never imagined that Brahma-jnana might have any relation to tie, trousers, and coat! He grew a little afraid. Seeing his fear—and the twenty-five devotees pleased—the Shankaracharya gained courage. These gurus’ courage grows so long as the crowd is behind them. He asked, “Do you have a shikha?”
Where would that man’s shikha be! Then he said to his disciples, “Look—no shikha, and he wishes to seek Brahma-jnana!”
And then he asked something even more outrageous—which is extremely indecent, yet he asked it. His devotees printed it too, so they must have printed it in praise. He asked, “Do you urinate standing or sitting?”
This is our religion—this is our spirituality.
They insulted that poor man and said, “Go! Until you change all this you cannot even understand what religion is.”
We have taken social conformity to be religion. Wear clothes like ours, sit and stand like us—and you will be religious.
What has this to do with being religious? In fact the truth is: those among us who are most weak inwardly gravitate to this social conformity. Those who have even a little strength will not join this stupidity; the result is they stand in rebellion against society.
Today, among those who oppose society, there is much spiritual energy—but it is being misused. My vision is: more than the theist, the atheist often has deeper spiritual energy and inquiry. Because he honestly asks, “I don’t see God—how shall I believe?” His concern with God is deeper, his relationship more profound. He asks, “How can I believe that which I do not see?”
And the theist is a cheat. He neither sees God nor cares to. He says, “He must be—surely he is! Once in a while I’ll offer a coconut; beyond that there is no hassle. Whether he is or not—what is there to do? He must be—if everyone says so, then God surely is.” He appears a theist because he accepts society’s opinion—he conforms; he is society’s slave. Society honors him: “This man is just right.” The one who says, “Where is God?” who asks, “What has a shikha to do with Brahman?”—that man seems troublesome, looks like an atheist—irreligious.
I tell you, the situation in the world has become inverted: those who could truly be spiritual appear as rebels today, and those whose lives have no spirituality appear as religious. This headstand of theirs is going on.
If we want to make the coming generation religious and give a spiritual revolution to this land, then I tell you: spirituality is always rebellious. Mahavira was a rebel, Buddha was a rebel, Christ was a rebel, Krishna was a rebel. Spirituality is always rebellious. Why? Because it strives to be free of the crowd. Spirituality is always individualistic—because it declares its own Atman. It wishes to say to the whole world: “I am.” And I want to be that which I was born to be. And even if permission is not granted, I will still strive to be that—against the whole world if need be.
On the edge of a mountain, while passing a high peak, I saw from a crack in rock a seed must have sprouted—one branch has come forth, one flower has bloomed. I said to my friends, “Do you see? On a mountain’s crack, in storms and tempests, a seed asserts itself—a seed expresses itself. It has sent its branch; a flower has bloomed. How it must struggle to find water there; from where did it dig soil? A crack in rock, lifted into the sky, alone; there is no greenery for miles. Winds must come, tempests crash upon the cliff. But even a small seed has courage; it strives to save itself; it fights. It says to the storms: ‘No matter—I will grow. No matter—I will flower. No matter—once the seed is born, it will become a flower.’ It declares its intent.”
But man is so weak that he does not declare even this much in life: “I too have flowers within—I will make them bloom. I have a personality—I will develop it. I will fight the whole world.” Society is immoral; if anyone is to be religious, he will have to fight society. Therefore only the rebellious man can be religious. What relationship can there be between an immoral society and a moral man? If society is immoral, how can a religious man conform to it? It means whoever conforms to society will be immoral. Only one who stands in rebellion against this immoral society can be religious. To be religious, the proclamation of the individual’s consciousness is necessary.
So the second thing I want to say is: the day of collective religion is gone; collective spirituality is finished—it proved false; it failed. Now the proclamation of an individual spirituality is necessary across the whole world—and in our country, especially necessary.
India needs a spiritual revolution. There will be many sutras to this revolution. But I have spoken to you on two small sutras. First: let the illusion go that we are spiritual. Second: being one with a crowd is not spirituality; spirituality means the expression of the Atman, the proclamation of the person.
On these two sutras I have said these few things to you, with the hope that you will not accept my words. Just now the friend who introduced me said that what I say you should ponder, accept, and practice. No—I would not go that far. His intentions are ambitious—he has said something too big. It is enough that you reflect on what I have said. There is no need to accept—and do not even mistakenly try to “practice.” Why? Because what I am saying is: if some point becomes utterly clear in your thought, then you will not have to do it—it will begin to happen. We have to try to “do” only when something has not gone deep enough into our understanding; then we try to force ourselves: “Do it.” Doing is a sign of half-understanding.
I do not say try to do what I say. Until now saints and sadhus have always said, “Do what we say.” I say: do not even think of it. Think over what I say—that is enough. If you think rightly, two things will happen: either my words will appear entirely wrong—then you are free of them, no need to do anything about them; or you have thought rightly and some word of mine appears right—so right that it enters your very life-force—then you will not have to worry about doing it. Once a seed goes into the soil, it does not have to become a plant—the seed breaks, the sprout emerges, the plant is born.
Once some idea goes into the depth of your life, it becomes a seed—and you will find that suddenly you have begun to act in accordance with your understanding. Conduct follows behind insight like a shadow. If insight is weak, conduct has to be dragged; if insight is right—right thinking—then conduct comes of its own accord behind it. As a bullock cart moves, the tracks appear behind; as a man walks, his shadow follows. Conduct is nothing more than a shadow—conduct is like a shadow. Insight is the real element.
So please grant me only this much: reflect upon what I have said. That is enough.
But even that much may be too much to hope for. We do not even reflect; therefore everything beyond becomes futile. We listen—and either we at once accept or at once reject; we do these two things very quickly. Either we say, “All right—absolutely right!” and catch somebody’s feet, “Gurudev, you have said it perfectly!”—and there the matter ends. We have thanked the guru, and the matter ends: there is no responsibility on us; the account is settled. Or we take the other decision: “All this is nonsense,” and with eyes closed keep pressing the old guru’s feet, “He alone is right.”
Both are signs of non-reflection. Neither should one accept quickly nor reject quickly. Listen with an impartial mind. Then very slowly, very gently, reflect upon it—utterly impartial, unprejudiced—putting aside all your old notions, reconsider: how far might what is said be true? And the day you see truth in it, you will find that truth has begun to transform your life.
Jesus has a saying: “Find the truth—and the rest truth itself will do; you will not have to do anything.”
Find the truth—and the rest truth will do; you will not have to do anything. This is what I say to you as well: attain to the capacity to think; and then thinking finds the truth—just as rivers find the ocean. The Ganges does not know the path; from Gangotri she sets out—but she reaches the ocean.
In whose life the Ganges of reflection arises—that one reaches the ocean of truth. And once truth is found, life by itself is transformed; then it does not have to be changed by effort.
I am deeply obliged for listening to me with such love and quiet. And in the end I bow to the Paramatma dwelling within each of you. Please accept my pranam.