Naye Samaj Ki Khoj #4

There is only one sutra in life—do not be evil. Those three are very outer. The inner sutra is this—do not be evil. And if someone is evil within and avoids seeing evil, nothing changes. If someone is evil within and avoids hearing evil, nothing changes. If someone is evil within and avoids speaking evil, nothing changes. Such a person will simply go mad—because the evil will remain within. If he at least saw it, there would be some relief; that too won’t come. If he spoke it out, a little would be released; even that won’t happen. If he heard it, there would be a slight satisfaction; that too will not be possible. The inner evil will remain unsatisfied.

No, that is not the real question. But man always thinks from the outside. The real question is of being, not of doing. The question is: What am I? What I do is secondary—because what I do springs from what I am.

Yet all the teachings till now have not emphasized the person; they have emphasized what the person should do. Doing is secondary. What one is within—doing arises from that. We act as we are. But if we choose, we can deceive. Evil can be suppressed inside. Suppressed evil becomes double.

I am not saying, “Do evil.” I am saying: by suppressing evil you cannot be free of it. The state of being evil has to be transformed. Therefore there is only one sutra: do not be evil. But how will we not be evil—when we are? So this being-evil must be known, one must awaken to it, recognize it. This is what I have been saying for three days: if we completely know our evil, we can leap out of it.

But we never get to know evil because we keep thinking it is coming from outside. “If we see evil, we will become evil; if we hear evil, we will become evil; if we speak evil, we will become evil.” We think evil is entering us from the outside. We imagine we are good and evil is coming in from without.

This is a deception! Evil does not come from outside; it is within. Evil moves from the inside to the outside. The thorns on a rose do not come from outside; they arise from within. The flower too arises from within; it does not come from outside. Goodness comes from within, and evil too comes from within—thorns from within, flowers from within.

Therefore it is very important to know: What am I on the inside? Recognition of what I am there brings transformation, brings revolution.

But teachings keep imparting such outer instructions. They are very superficial, very external. Hence, all teachings together have changed at most a man’s wrapper, not his core. And what happens by changing the wrapper? The issue is the transformation of the inner being. Even if the wrapper is made beautiful, what is the use? The issue is the inner becoming beautiful.

Yes, a difficulty arises: the wrapper can be beautified while the inner remains ugly. Then man is split in two—the real man within, the fake man without. As things are. There is a fake person, the one we present outside; and there is a real person, the one we are inside. What is inside is what we are. And if there is a God, when we stand before him, what is inside is what will be seen. The fake will fall away; it will not go along.

Therefore, if you want to bring revolution, don’t be so concerned with conduct; be concerned with the inner—because conduct comes from the inner. Yet we are taught as though conduct itself were the inner. Then man sets about changing conduct. Even if conduct changes, the inner does not. Only when the inner changes does conduct change.

This morning I was saying: if one sows wheat, straw is produced along with it. Wheat is the inner; straw is conduct, the outer. But if someone starts sowing straw, wheat does not grow and even the straw rots. Sow wheat, and the straw comes on its own without being sown. Sow straw, and not only does wheat not come, the straw too rots. Conduct is straw; the inner is the soul.

Therefore the sutra is one—do not be evil.

But we are evil! What will “do not be” achieve?

“Do not be evil” means: know and recognize what we are—that we are evil. This much is certain: if a person recognizes his own evil, he cannot remain evil. Being evil becomes impossible.

Countless murderers have admitted in court that they did not commit murder consciously; they were unconscious when it happened. Some have even said they have no memory of when they committed the murder. At first it was assumed they were lying. But now psychologists, investigating their memory, say they are telling the truth—they do not know when they killed. They became so unconscious in anger that the murder happened; it never even formed a memory. When they regained awareness, the murder was already done.

Those who know deeply say: man always does evil in unconsciousness. No one commits evil in awareness. In awareness it cannot be done. All evil is in sleep. Therefore the real issue is to break unconsciousness.

Someone asked Mahavira, “Who is a sadhu?” Mahavira did not say, “One who wears a mouth-band.” That would have been a great mistake—if he had said that, we would all become sadhus. He did not say, “One who eats in such a way, sleeps like this, rises like that.”

No. When asked, “Who is a sadhu?” Mahavira said, “One who lives awakened.”

“Who is unholy?” Mahavira did not say, “One who goes to a prostitute, who smokes a bidi, who eats meat.” Mahavira said, “One who lives asleep is unholy.”

We are all living asleep. We do not even know we are asleep; in sleep we do everything—held by a slumber, we just go on.

There is one deep sutra of religion: that we awaken. I will speak about that in the last question.

They will indeed be destructive, indeed about demolition.
Jesus once said, “I have come not to destroy.” And I would like to say, in Jesus’s words, “I have come to destroy.” But my meaning is the same as Jesus’s. Jesus said he had come not to destroy, but to build. I too want to say I have come to destroy, because without destroying nothing can be built. Destruction is a part of the process of creation. And remember, a people who forget how to destroy also forget how to build. One must have the courage to dismantle; from that very courage comes the courage to create. Building is the second step. First, you have to erase; only then does construction happen. There is no path to creation without demolition.

But our mind has long believed that creation and destruction are opposites. It has been mistaken. Creation and destruction are two limbs of the same process. Pulling down is preparation for building, and building too is preparation for pulling down. They are parts of one process. Birth is preparation for death; death is preparation for birth again. What we call a beginning is the onset of an end; what we call an end is a new beginning.

But the old mind is so frightened of breaking that it does not break—so it cannot build either. It goes on carrying on its chest the dead, the rotten.
We are such people that if someone dies in my house—whom I love deeply—and I take him to the cremation ground, the villagers would say, “You seem very destructive: the one you loved so much you are taking to the cremation ground!” If there were a village where burying the dead looked like destruction, then no living person could remain there; only corpses would remain. The dead would pile up—remember, the dead are always more numerous than the living. If all the dead gathered on the earth, where would the living stay? It is because we bury the dead that room is made for the living; otherwise, it cannot be. Granted we loved the dead person very much—then out of love we will bury him, not quarrel with it.

The old must die; otherwise the new is not born. The day a son is born, the father’s journey toward death begins. In fact, in olden times people wanted a son for this very reason: otherwise who would perform the last rites? Who would bury? If there were no son, who would light the funeral pyre? So the old man was anxious that a son must be born. Now even others’ sons help out; earlier the thought was: “one’s own son!”
But the point is right, entirely right: there must be a readiness for demolition.

The very word “destruction” has thrown a shadow of fear, as if it were something bad. If destruction is bad, then how will construction happen?
So they are right to ask, my friend: I am destructive. This country, this society, this man has been “constructive” for too long; there have been too many so-called constructive programs. But with constructive programs the spinning wheel turns—and nothing else happens. Now a program of demolition is needed. Some people will have to gather the courage to make a destructive program now, to prepare to erase.

And remember, man has a strange quality: if the old falls, he cannot remain without building anew. But if the old remains, in laziness he keeps living in the old. He thinks: we’ll pull it down tomorrow, the day after tomorrow—what’s the hurry? Do a bit of tinkering with the old; change the paint; put on a new varnish; a wall has lost some plaster—fix the plaster; go on living in the old. We’ll build; what’s the rush! But if the old collapses, how long can you live without the new?

A living society is always ready to pull down the old and eager to make the new. A dead society is keen to preserve the old and forever afraid of the new. Now we must decide how we want to be. If you want to block the invitation to the new, then preserve the old. And if you want to invite the new, the old will have to be removed. Sometimes removing the old is painful, because we have lived with it so long. But even with pain we must bid farewell. One has to say goodbye to the old; only then can there be an embrace of the new. I am destructive—because apart from that, now there is no way to be creative. There never was.

To say the old human being is bad is not on the basis of any criterion or ideal. It is because of the sorrow-soaked, decayed life the old human being has lived.

If you come down with TB or cancer and a doctor says, “You have cancer, you have TB,” and you reply, “What is the criterion of health? First show me the ideal of health; only then can you prove I have cancer,” the doctor will never win against you—because no definitive standard of health has ever been fixed, nor will it ever be. The doctor can tell you what disease is; the definitions of diseases are written in his books—what this disease is, what that disease is. But in no scripture is there a precise definition of health. There is only one: when no disease remains, what is left is health. And then you will have to go back without taking treatment.

No—the physician will say, “Forget health! It is enough to know that TB is consuming you, rotting you; you are nearing death.” You don’t need a yardstick of health to know TB; TB is sufficient to announce itself.

The old society, the old human has lived in great misery, in violence, in struggle, in war. In three thousand years there have been fifteen thousand wars on this earth. In three thousand years—fifteen thousand wars! Humanity must have been deeply pathological. It looks as if man’s only occupation has been fighting; he has done nothing else. Occasionally there are five or ten days in between for a breather—but even those are not truly leisure: they are for recovering from the last war and preparing for the next. The whole story of man is a tale of war, violence, hatred, anger. His life has not been of love and flowers, but of thorns and filth. Do we really need a criterion to decide this?

No—the sadness spread across the world says it, the suffering says it. Human life itself says it. Every day people are eager to commit suicide; they are not eager to live. So many come to me and ask, “What should we live for? What’s the point of living? If we die, what harm?” Every second, somewhere on the earth, one person takes their own life. I will speak for sixty minutes; how many will commit suicide in that time! Every second someone is doing it in some corner. And the number keeps rising. The juice of life is drying up; life is becoming more and more desolate. And people have begun to ask—what is the meaning of life? Why should we live?

Dostoevsky wrote somewhere that if he were to meet God, he would ask only one question: “What fault of ours was it that you gave us birth?” And he would return the ticket: “Here, keep your ticket; we want to leave this edifice of life.” And he would ask, “How could you send us into life without asking us?”

Many people must have imagined many questions to ask God. But what Dostoevsky says seems exactly right. It would be necessary to ask—why did you create us? What was the need to create? Perhaps that is why He is in hiding—because that would be a very difficult question to answer. As man is, he himself testifies that he is not dancing in bliss, he is not singing his song.

A little story comes to mind. Divyar has written a short story.

There was an alchemist. He labored all his life, practiced alchemy, discovered some elements, and finally found the elixir of immortality. He had obtained that substance which, if one were to drink it, one would become immortal. By then he was seventy. He happily lifted the cup to his lips—now to drink. But just then a thought arose: “Then you will never be able to die; for after drinking the elixir there is no death.” He said, “Let me think for two minutes—this is a serious matter. After drinking the elixir, you will never be able to die. Do you really intend to exist forever? Then death will be impossible! Jump off a mountain—no injury; drown yourself—no drowning; burn in fire—no burning. After the elixir, there is no death!” He set the cup down. “Let me think for two days; what’s the hurry!”

After two days he felt, “This is taking on too great a risk; this is very dangerous.” He had found, at the cost of a lifetime, the very thing he had sought—but he could not muster the courage to drink it. Then he thought, “It would be a waste to let so much effort go to nothing; let me ask some friends.”

He went to a friend’s house. The friend was delighted: “Blessed, blessed! Come, come!” But before letting him drink it, the friend asked, “Why don’t you drink it yourself?” He said, “I thought to drink it—but then I would never be able to die.” The friend said, “Do you take me for your enemy? Take it somewhere else!”

He wandered from village to village; no one was willing to drink it. He went to the emperor. He said, “I am tired; I am near death. All my life I searched for something I thought would be of great use. This is the elixir; you drink it.” The emperor drank it! Emperors generally have little intelligence—otherwise they wouldn’t want to be emperors. He didn’t even ask. After drinking, he asked, “Now what will be its effect?” The alchemist said, “Its effect has already begun. Now you will never be able to die.” The emperor said, “Ill-mannered fellow! Why didn’t you say so first? What do you mean I won’t be able to die? Never?” He said, “Never.”

The emperor said, “Throw this man in prison.” The alchemist was imprisoned—and died in jail. The emperor’s sons grew up and died; his wives died; his grandsons died; his sons’ sons died; their daughters-in-law died; their sons’ sons died; but the emperor did not die. He began to wander like a ghostly shadow. The whole village wanted him to die. His entire household wished he would die—because no one remained who loved him. He had no bonds left with anyone. People began to fear him, to run from him. They feared simply being near him—what kind of man is this? Why doesn’t he die? His own family stopped speaking to him—too many generations had fallen between them.

He throws himself from mountains, leaps into fire, drinks poison, stabs himself—but he does not die. He prays only one prayer, and goes to every kind of shrine: to temples, churches, mosques—hoping some God might hear him, the Muslim’s God, the Christian’s, the Hindu’s. No one hears him. He says, “I want to die!” The mosque stands silent. In the church he cries, “I want to die, Jesus!”—but no voice comes. In the temple he calls, “Krishna, Ram, someone help me; I want to die!”—there is no answer. He calls out to God, “I want to die!” But in God’s file there is no reply to that—because people have always made only one plea: that they should not die. For that there is an answer. But no one had ever asked, “I want to die.”

It is said that man is still alive. But now he slips away into distant forests and mountains; he hides. He avoids people—because when he sees a human being he feels jealous: this one will die, and I will not. It may be that someday he comes to Rajkot; you might even meet him.

What has happened? If that fool received a whole immortal life, why should he be so tormented? There is a reason—what we call life is worse than death. It is not life at all; it is only a long tale of suffering. We tolerate it because it is short. If it were long, it would become unbearable. All long things become difficult. Because it is brief, we somehow bear it. We don’t even notice—it passes, so we endure it. But if it stretches long, it becomes impossible.

But is this thing “life,” the thing we get bored of? If we get bored even of life, then what in the world would we not tire of?

No—something has gone wrong with man. Somewhere he missed the way; somewhere a fundamental error has crept into the very design of man’s making. That is why I say the old human being was wrong. Because the old human being is unhappy, restless, troubled. The old human is not dancing. We cannot assert that the human of the future will certainly be dancing—how can we say we will break free of the old net, make the leap?

Yes, one thing is certain: from time to time, even in the old days, someone has made that leap—sometimes a Krishna, sometimes a Buddha—jumped out of this fire. Then his flute began to play; then his consciousness filled with bliss. Then flowers blossomed in his life that do not blossom in ours. Then songs arose in him that do not arise in us. Then he touched the strings of a veena we have never touched. Then he says—there is abundant bliss; there is great light; there is deep peace; there is immortality; there is God.

But we ask—what kind of God? what kind of bliss? We become suspicious. Our suspicion reveals that we have missed. Do we feel trust in Krishna? We do not. Krishna says, in life it is all bliss, all dance—and we don’t believe it. Buddha says, it is peace, only peace; nectar; there is so much joy within it cannot be measured. We hear—and we doubt: is this man really speaking the truth? Because there is no testimony for it in our lives. Buddha seems false; Mahavira seems false; Jesus seems false. Socrates—none of them seem quite right. Because we—and our crowd—say something else: we say life is suffering; who says life is bliss? In life we find only thorns; who says flowers bloom?

Surely either we have made the mistake—or Buddha and Mahavira have. One party or the other is mistaken. If it is they—Buddha and Mahavira, Krishna and Christ—then that is a kind of mistake worth making. And if it is we who are mistaken, then that is a mistake to leap out of—to come out from, beyond.

The monk has nothing except his attire; so I have chosen that from him, and the other things I have chosen from those who have them. The monk has nothing but clothing. But clothing he does have. And remember, it is very scientific attire. Trousers and ties are not scientific. In fact, the best garments are those that do not erase the sense of nakedness. The best garments are those that do not tighten, do not bind, do not turn into a prison. The best garments are those that do not fasten you anywhere, that keep you always open and free.

But we are used to living in cages, so we build our houses like cages. Then we are not satisfied with the house—because how will we carry the house around outside?—so we make our clothes like cages too, tight from all sides. And when nothing else is left, we even tie a tie. Do you know what a tie means? A tie means a noose. It should be called a neck-noose, necktie, the noose of the neck. That too we put on. We are addicted to bondage; we want to be bound from all sides, not open anywhere.

The monk has chosen his attire intelligently, very scientifically. He has chosen something open, not binding. Within his robe he is utterly free; nothing constricts him. Within his attire, the breezes enter and pass through.

In your attire the air does not pass through. And if once upon a time it did, now it certainly doesn’t—because there is terylene and all sorts of plastics; clothes made of plastic do not let any air in. Talk is even afoot of making steel clothes; wearing them will be more beautiful, more shiny. But there is no scientificness in that. Scientificness is something else. Scientificness means: How should I live? How can living be blissful, independent, free? That must be considered from every side—in clothing, in food, in the way we sit and stand, and in our houses too.

But we don’t consider that. We used to build houses with the thief in mind, not the dweller. The consideration was not for the one who would live there, but for the thief who might come. And for the one who will be there twenty‑four hours a day—no concern. The thief may come sometime; who knows if he will or not? There’s no certainty. Yet we designed the house with him in mind, so the house became a cage, a prison.

We also designed clothes that keep a person cinched tight twenty‑four hours a day.

I have chosen mine knowingly. I do nothing unknowingly. I saw that the monk has good clothing, so I chose the clothing. And I saw that clothing was all he had and nothing else, so whatever else I needed I picked from wherever I found it. Whoever has something, I accept from them. If it brings joy, should it be rejected merely because so‑and‑so had it—how could I choose it then?

No—there is freedom to choose. And I also felt it would be good if I wore a monk’s clothes. It would also make it clear that by wearing a monk’s clothes one does not become a monk. People should see that this man too wears a monk’s clothes and yet is not a monk.

Recently I boarded a train—every day there are such amusing incidents. Some friends had come to see me off. The gentleman in my compartment saw many people there and thought, “Surely he must be a mahatma.” When I got in and the train started, he quickly bent to touch my feet and said, “Mahatmaji, we’ve had satsang—very good!” I said, “You’ve made a big mistake. If I’m not a mahatma, how will you now take back the feet you have touched?” He said, “What are you saying? Are you joking?” I said, “I’m not joking. I am not a mahatma. I just have a taste for these clothes, so I wear them.” He said, “What are you saying?” I said, “If there’s some way, quickly take back that touching of the feet.” He said, “No, no, how can that be?” I said, “But it has happened; I’m standing right here. I’m not a mahatma.” Then he said, “At least you are a Hindu, a Vaishnava?” I said, “That makes it even more difficult. You should have asked before doing all this. I’m not a Hindu, not a Vaishnava.” He said, “What do you mean? Are you a Muslim?” I said, “If I am a Muslim, what will you do?” He said, “No, no, that could never be.” I said, “Don’t reassure yourself. Anything is possible. What difficulty is there in my being a Muslim?”

He looked me up and down again. I said, “Sit down, don’t be nervous. What has happened has happened. Now begin the satsang.” He said, “I don’t want any satsang. But what kind of man are you? Are you a Muslim?” I said, “Even if I am not a Muslim, do you have any objection to my being just a human being? Will you not allow me to be simply a man?”

That gentleman called the conductor, gathered his belongings, and went to another compartment. A moment earlier he was delighted at the prospect of satsang. Later I went and knocked on his door. I said, “Won’t you do satsang?” He said, “Why are you after me?” I said, “I’m not after you; I am a Hindu.” He said, “Come, come! I already thought you were a Hindu.” I said, “Don’t you see? At the slightest doubt you were shaken! Clothes don’t tell you I am a mahatma!” He again touched my feet and said, “You are indeed a mahatma; that I was firmly believing.”

This is where our intelligence is stuck—somewhere on clothes, somewhere on words. This must be broken. Non‑mahatmas should wear mahatmas’ clothes; mahatmas should wear non‑mahatmas’ clothes. This pattern should break. Hindus should adopt Muslim names; Muslims should adopt Hindu names. This pattern should break. Fifty years from now it should not be possible to tell who is a householder and who a renunciate, who is a Hindu and who a Muslim. It should not be discernible. This discernibility has done great harm. Many walls have been erected between human beings. All those walls need to be torn down if we are to create a new society and a new human being.

Has comparison produced growth?
Has it? — everyone has gone mad, and you call that growth! The more comparison there is, the more madness increases. Comparison means: the eyes are on the other. Comparison means: measuring myself by what someone else is doing. Comparison means: weighing myself against what has happened to another. Comparison means: the other is always at the center of my attention, and I am always secondary, forever measuring myself against them.
But remember, no two people are alike. If you lived next door to Rabindranath, you’d be in trouble. If you too started writing poems, life would become difficult. And if Rabindranath, living beside you, started shopkeeping, he would be in deep trouble. Rabindranath’s parents tried hard to make him a shopkeeper, or a doctor, or an engineer. All parents do. Who wants to miss the chance to spoil their children! But Rabindranath escaped — with great difficulty. Otherwise an extraordinary man would have been lost.
In Rabindranath’s home there was a book in which, on each child’s birthday, the elders would write predictions about the child. It was a game, to see whose prediction came true later. For Rabindranath, no one wrote a good prediction. There were eleven children in the house, and several had glowing predictions: someone always came first, someone got first division, someone did this, someone brought home a gold medal. Rabindranath never brought anything. What prediction could anyone make for him! He didn’t fit any comparison with the others.
Even Rabindranath’s mother wrote, “There is no hope from Ravi.”
That book is worth seeing. No one knows where those eleven children went in the world. Only one child’s name remains alive — the one from whom no hope was expected. If even the mother had no hope, who else would! A mother always hopes, even if no one else does. But even the mother had no hope; she wrote that nothing could come of him.
Yet this boy became something. He did because he engaged in the very thing he was meant to be. The teacher taught mathematics and Rabindranath drew the teacher’s portrait. He didn’t learn math, but he learned to draw. The teacher taught geography and Rabindranath listened to the bird singing outside. He didn’t learn geography, but the bird’s song entered his soul.
But all the other children were doing something else. Even in Rabindranath’s own house people said: Look at the neighbor’s children! Look at the other children in the house! It was a big joint family — a hundred people in the house, so many children. Everyone is moving ahead; you are falling behind!
But the boy didn’t worry. He said, “If I am going to be behind, if that’s what I am, that’s fine. What can I do? I am as I am.”
In truth, not comparing means: I am as I am. It doesn’t mean growth will stop. It means that if you agree to this fact — that I am what I am — then a growth will happen in your life, an inner growth. You cannot stop growing. Do plants grow by looking at the plant beside them?
You planted a rose. Is it growing by looking at the plant next to it, counting how many leaves and how many flowers it has, and then deciding how many it should have?
No. It takes its own nourishment, its own water, and grows by its own strength.
Life runs on inner strength. We try to give it an outer fever. Fever can be induced; it makes the run faster. But it becomes the wrong run, because you start running after someone else. You try to become what you are not meant to be. Comparison has done immense harm to human beings and to human life. Comparison is violence; comparison is himsa.
When a father says to his son, “Look at the neighbor’s boy; he is pulling ahead!” he is doing violence to his own child; he is pressing on his neck. He is saying, “Whip yourself into a fever! Run faster! Don’t let the other get ahead!”
The son will run. Everyone will prod him — the father, the mother, the teacher, the whole society. Tomorrow his wife will. Later his children will tell him, “What are you doing? Everyone’s father has bought a car! We don’t see a car at home.” He will keep running, running, and he will die. Yes, it may be he will buy a car, build a house, hang certificates on the wall, get a few felicitation ceremonies held. All that may happen — and the man will die. The car will arrive, the house will arrive, the certificates will arrive; the man will be lost.
If you want to sell the man to buy these things, then comparison is essential — comparison is the drug, go ahead and use it. But if you want to save the man… This does not mean that if the man is saved, a car cannot come. It doesn’t mean that at all. The man must be saved — that is the primary need. Car, house — these are secondary needs. If they happen, fine. But not by selling the man.
The race is fast. And in that fast race, comparison is killing us. The neighbor starts building a house, and because he is building, my house instantly becomes a problem — though nothing has changed in my house; my rooms are as big as they were yesterday. But they start to feel small because next door bigger rooms have been built. Now I don’t feel good sleeping in my house; sleep doesn’t come, because next door a grander house has appeared. What madness! My room is mine; I slept there and everything was fine till yesterday. Another house got built, and now everything is a problem.
In Calcutta I used to stay at the home of a very wealthy man. Perhaps he had the best house in Calcutta — a marble mansion, a big garden. A newly rich man invited me for dinner one day. I said, fine, I will come. He also invited my host: “You must come tomorrow.” My host said, “No, I have a lot of work; I won’t be able to come — very urgent.” The inviter said, “Come for even two minutes.” “Very difficult,” my host said, “I can’t spare even a minute. Some other time.”
When the guest left, I asked my host, “He insisted so much — you could have gone for two minutes.” He said, “I have no work at all. But because of the house this man has built, my house has become number two. I don’t even pass through that street. I take a two-mile detour in my car. Don’t worry — a year or two, and we’ll build one too. Then we will go to his invitation. Then we’ll invite him. Not now.”
I said, “Strange. Build your house if you wish — but what harm is there in going to his?”
He said, “I don’t go through that street. If I see that house, I feel very disturbed.”
The next day I went to dine at the other friend’s house. I thought the first man was mad. I told the second, “He didn’t come, though I urged him.” He said, “He never comes! Since I built this house, I’ve wanted him to come just once and see what I’ve made!”
Then I realized he too is mad. Both are in the same loop. I thought only the first was crazy; the second is too. If we went out searching for the human in human beings, we would discover that we have made a vast madhouse — a huge asylum — and everyone in it is mad.
It seems comparison brings growth. No — comparison makes you run, but running is not always growth. You can run toward hell too. You can run into a pit. And it may happen that a man goes on running and running like a madman and never pauses, never rests for two moments; never sits under a tree, never stops in shade; runs and runs and collapses and dies. Will you call this race growth?
This is almost what happens. The race starts in childhood and ends at the grave. From the cradle to the grave, the run goes on. And we say, “Great growth is happening.” Great growth — because man is running on and on.
No — this is not growth; it is a deranged race. And it is deranged because of comparison; deranged because of looking at what the other is doing.
What have we to do with the other? I am I. God has given me certain capacities. Let me enjoy those capacities. And when I enjoy them, they will unfold — without any race. If I have songs to sing, let me sing; if I have a sitar to play, let me play; if I have shoes to make, let me make shoes; if I have to press someone’s feet, let me press feet. Let me do what I am meant to do. And if joy arises in it, then that very joy will make me do more, and more, and go deeper. My joy will grow and I will deepen. But there will be no race, only a very quiet pace. Growth should have a quiet pace.
Comparison does not allow a quiet pace. It injects poison into an already feverish personality and keeps adding more, and we go on running.
It is as if we whip a man from behind and he runs. And if someone says, “Whipping is wrong,” the one with the whip says, “If I don’t whip, how will there be growth? Only because the whip falls that he runs; the skin on his back peels — that’s why he runs.”
I say, don’t run. Of what use is such growth if the skin of your back is peeled off! In this competition, this rivalry, this endless competition that holds us from all sides, even the skin of the soul is flayed. Everything is stripped away. And in the end death is in your hands and life is nowhere to be found. What is the point? Each should ask himself: what is the meaning of such a race? No — such a race has no meaning.
And remember, the destination of life, the savor of life, the beauty of life — they are not attained by fast running; they come by moving with great peace and patience.
Let me explain with a little story. I have heard: two fakirs got off a boat at a riverbank — one old, one young. The boatman began to tie up his boat. The two fakirs, with their scriptures on their heads, asked the boatman, “Tell us, how far is the village? The path is mountainous, evening is near, and we’ve heard the village gates close at sunset — we wouldn’t want to be locked out and have to spend the night in the forest. How far is it?”
The boatman said, “Don’t worry about the distance; just keep one thing in mind: walk slowly.”
They heard this and ran. “We’ve bumped into a madman!” they said. “If we walk slowly, we’re finished. We asked how far; he said, don’t worry about the distance, only be careful to walk slowly.” He kept tying his boat. They ran; it wasn’t worth losing time talking to this crazy man.
The sun dipped lower; their run got faster. It was a mountain path; the old fakir fell, his knees broke, pages of the books scattered. The boatman, singing, came slowly along. He stood by the old man. The old man could no longer walk; the young fakir lifted him on his shoulder. The boatman said, “I told you, but you didn’t listen. No one listens. For years I have seen: those who walk slowly, arrive; those who run, do not. The paths are rocky, evening is falling, darkness is near. Those who hurry, fall. Those who walk slowly, reach. I say this from a lifetime’s experience — but no one listens! Now you won’t reach; you’ll have to spend the night in this forest.”
But even if, for one night, you don’t reach a village, what harm? Yet if you don’t reach life’s village at all, and run your whole life — then the harm is great!
We all run. The path is stony; the path is dark; it is always like evening on the path. It is mountainous and rocky; the path is unknown, unfamiliar. Running increases the likelihood of falling, not of arriving. But we mistake falling for arriving. Yes, if someone falls in Delhi, we say, “Excellent!”
But what difference does it make if you fall in Delhi? You fell! Running and running, you fell there. Usually this is what happens: people run from the whole country and fall in Delhi. Delhi is an old cremation ground; people keep falling there. And whoever goes there never returns, because he says, “How can I return until I have fallen? I will die here; I will be buried at Rajghat; I’m not going anywhere.” So whoever reaches there clings to it. Either he falls on arrival, or a few days later. The race is for Delhi, and Delhi is puzzled: “Why do people run here — only to die? To fall? Why do they come running here?”
All centers of fame, prestige, wealth become graves. That is the final halt of the race; man collapses there.
Tolstoy wrote a little story; you must have read it. It is wonderful. Its title is: How Much Land Does a Man Require?
A guest stayed the night at a man’s house. In the night the guest told him, “Have you heard? What are you doing, wasting your time! Your land is small — sell it. Near Siberia there is marvelous land — for free. Why are you stuck here? Run!”
The man asked, “Where is this place?” That night he could not sleep. He always slept well, but not that night. He got up again and again: “Is it morning yet? When morning comes I’ll take the address and run.”
He got the address in the morning, sold his land, and ran toward Siberia. He reached the village where land was given free — though no one ever managed to buy it. If someone came to my house and told me land was free, “What are you doing here?” I too would run. There was only one condition: at dawn you plant a stake and start running; by sunset, if you return to your stake, all the land you circumscribed by running will be yours. On this condition they sold land. Yet the village’s land was never sold. The villagers must have been very wise — the wisest on earth. Not an inch ever left their hands, even though it was sold so cheaply. The trick was clever; it contained the distilled experience of all humanity.
The man arrived, breathless. He had a hundred acres; he sold them to pay his way. When he found that it was true, he gave a feast and said, “Tomorrow morning I’ll start running. Is this the only condition — plant the stake and run?” That night he again could not sleep. Which direction should he run? East or west? The land was excellent in every direction.
In the morning he planted the stake — before the sun had even risen. The village chief came, the villagers came; they wished him well: “May you encircle as much land as possible!” But the madman didn’t even ask, “Has anyone ever managed it?” No one asks; why would he? He ran. He didn’t even stop to hear their blessings — that would waste time. He ran fast. He ran on.
He had taken bread and water with him so hunger and thirst wouldn’t force him to return. He would eat and drink on the way. He kept running. He said, “Till noon I’ll only run — till twelve. Then I’ll start back. So I’ll run as fast as I can.” The farther he ran, the more beautiful the land became, the more velvety, the more precious. He was going mad. “Only one day’s chance! Whatever I get today is mine; if I miss it, it’s gone.”
He had run miles. Twelve struck. “It’s noon!” Some part of his mind said, “Turn back.” Another part said, “Run a little more — what’s the hurry? We’ll return faster on the way back.”
The mind always says this: “We’ll make up the time on the way back; let’s go a little further.” “What harm in half an hour more?” it said. “Now the best land is coming!” The lake was near; the land was exquisite, as if it would yield gold. “It would be a pity to miss this. The chance won’t come again.” He ran a little more. “I’ll put in extra effort returning; I’ll sprint.”
But remember: to run on the outgoing leg is one thing; to run on the return is quite another. Around two o’clock he convinced himself to return. But by then he was tired. Who isn’t by afternoon? When the sun begins to descend, who doesn’t tire? He was tired; his feet didn’t rise. Should he sit to eat? That would waste time. Would he reach the stake — or not? He threw away the bread.
A man wants land so he can eat — but throws away bread to get land. He threw the bread. “If I don’t eat today, what’s the harm? Many shopkeepers fast while at work. If I don’t eat today, what’s the harm?” He was thirsty, but to halt a moment to drink was dangerous, because the sun was setting fast and the distance looked endless; he could no longer even see the people and the place where he had planted his stake. There was no time to drink; he threw away the water-skin too — it felt like a burden, and there was no time.
Now he ran hard. His legs had turned to stone. They wouldn’t lift. The distance felt infinite. The sun was dropping quickly. He was running; he was crying, “I am ruined! I am finished!” Though no one had taken anything from him, and the land was free, he cried, “I am looted! I have lost! I am dead!” He ran, shouting, praying to God, “Make the sun move a little slower! I’ve never seen it move so fast — what’s happened to it?” The sun kept plunging down. He ran and ran… now he began to crawl; his legs had given out; his eyes couldn’t see; darkness closed in. It seemed the sun had already set. Sometimes it appeared, sometimes it seemed gone. The sun was where it was; his vision was failing. If you run so madly, is it any wonder your sight blurs?
He reached — just at dusk, when the sun was touching the horizon’s last edge. The villagers stood there, the whole village, shouting, “Friend, hurry, the sun is setting!” Now they were visible; hope rose again. He mustered his final strength and ran. The last effort — he couldn’t even breathe — and fell by the stake. He took his final breath by the stake. “Delhi has been reached!” And he died. The villagers laughed. In his dying moments he heard their laughter echoing and thought, “What a fool I was!”
He was dying; the villagers took the money from his pocket — the proceeds from the hundred acres he had sold. They laughed, because this happens every day in that village. Someone comes, and this is what happens. They all laugh and say, “What fools people are — utterly beyond understanding!” But all people are just like this — utterly beyond understanding.
No, life is not found by running. I am not saying don’t move. But there is a great difference between walking and running. The one who compares runs. The one who does not compare walks — at ease, in his own inner rhythm. He moves at the pace he has. When he needs rest, he rests. Because he does not look at where the neighbor has reached. He has nothing to do with that — nothing to gain, nothing to lose. When I feel like it, I walk; when I feel like it, I sleep. When it is time to rise, I rise; when it is time to sit, I sit.
Growth is a very inner matter, not an outer one. That is why I said: only if we are free of comparison can we move with a tranquil pace and reach the goal of joy.
One final question.

Both these points need to be understood. I did not say that all bows are bows of fear. I did not say that all prayers are prayers born of fear. I only said: try to recognize whether the prayer you are doing is out of fear; whether the bow you are making is out of fear; whether the love you are professing hides fear within it.

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it is so, because man stands upon fear. And because he stands upon fear, no moment ever seems to arrive in his life when he can do something without fear—no moment at all.

Even if we greet someone on the road, we do it out of fear; it is not without a cause. But the joy of a causeless bow is altogether different—when there is no reason at all. If you have ever bowed for a reason, the bow is wasted. But if you bow without any reason, simply because on the other side too there is the same that is on this side, the same presence that is everywhere, if these hands join without any fear, then the joy of the hands coming together is beyond measure.

I said that often when we place our head at someone’s feet, we do it out of fear. But I did not say that every head is placed there out of fear. Sometimes a head is placed there out of great love. And then there is no fear. Then there is no fear.

The truth is: where love is, there is no fear.

I have heard: a young man, newly married, set out on a journey with his wife. They boarded a ship. A fierce storm arose; the ship began to pitch and roll and was on the verge of sinking. The young man sat quietly. People all over the ship were running about in panic. His wife was trembling and said to him, Aren’t you afraid? Aren’t you frightened? The ship is about to sink—aren’t you afraid? The young man drew the sword tied at his waist and placed the naked blade on his beloved’s shoulder. She laughed. The young man said, You’re not afraid? A naked sword is on your shoulder—you feel no fear? She said, If the sword is in your hand, why should I be afraid? The young man said, The storm is in God’s hand. And since I have come to know Him, there has been no fear.

What fear can there be! Where love is, there is no fear. Then even if a naked sword rests on the shoulder, there is no fear. Folding hands is another matter; even a naked sword on the shoulder brings no fear—if there is love.

So there is a bow that arises out of love, and there is a bow that arises out of fear. In both, the hands join the same way. But inwardly, in the very life-breath, entirely different events take place. One should inquire—one should inquire—so that in my life the moment arrives when hands begin to join out of love, when hands begin to rise out of love.

Right now, all our hands rise for some motive, some purpose. Where there is purpose, there is fear. Where hands rise purposelessly, there is nothing of fear.

Another story comes to mind, which is very dear to me. A fakir spent the night in a temple. It was a bitterly cold night, and there were three wooden statues of the Buddha. The priest had gone to sleep. The fakir took one statue, lit a fire, and warmed himself. When the flames leapt up, the priest awoke—who lit a fire in the temple? That mad fakir must have! He came to set things right, to scold him not to light fires in the temple. But when he saw that the Buddha was burning—already ash—then not only the temple, but the priest himself caught fire. He picked up a stick. He said, What are you doing? You seem mad! You burned the image of God? You burned God?

The fakir said, God? He picked up a piece of wood lying nearby and poked through the ashes of the Buddha. The priest asked, What are you doing? He said, Looking for God’s bones. The priest said, You must be utterly crazy. How can a wooden statue have bones? The fakir said, If there aren’t even bones, how could God be there! The night is very cold—bring me one more statue; I’ll be much obliged. Three statues will see me through the night. The priest asked, Aren’t you afraid? You madman, you burned God’s statue and sit here in such merriment! The fakir said, Since I recognized God, there has been no fear.

The priest threw him out. Keeping him there was dangerous—he might burn two more statues before dawn. The night was long, and it was cold. He threw him out.

In the morning, when the temple door opened, the priest saw outside—on the milestone by the roadside—flowers laid upon it, and the same gentleman who had burned the statue sat there with folded hands. The priest said, What a madman! He went to him: What are you doing, sir! Last night you burned God’s statue, and now you are bowing to a stone!

The fakir said, The courage to burn the statue came precisely because the courage has come to bow to a stone. The courage to burn the statue came precisely because the courage has come to bow to a stone. Now we can, with equal delight, fold our hands to a stone, and with equal delight, burn a statue. Now there is no difference. Now only That is. Whether you burn or you worship, whatever you do—only That is. When we walk, it is upon That; when we breathe, it is in That; we sleep upon That; we eat That; we drink That; we live in That; we die in That. Now only That is—now all talk is finished. Now we fold our hands, and we also light a fire. The night felt very cold; we burned the statue. This morning there is a desire to give thanks, that in the cold night your statue was of great use; the night was very cold, your statue proved very handy, and the night passed in great joy—so now we offer thanks with folded hands. We have plucked a couple of flowers and placed them; we have prayed: keep such grace flowing. Whenever a cold night comes, arrange that I lodge in a temple where the statue is wooden. And please manage the priest properly—let him sleep through the night; let him not wake up in between.

Such a man is a little difficult to recognize. But this is a religious man. And a religious man is always difficult to recognize. A religious man is a mystery. And the person who is completely understandable is not religious. The religious person is a mystery; his life is full of wonder. In him, great opposites are reconciled. In him, all the upside-down things find room. Darkness and light meet in him; mud and gold become one; the distance between birth and death disappears; friend and foe are no more; even a slap and folded hands can be equal. Nothing very difficult about it.

It does not create an ideal. I am not asking you to believe that God is within everyone. If I asked you to believe that, then an ideal would be created. I am saying that God is within everyone. This is not my belief—it is how it seems to me, it is my knowing. How can I deny what I know? I can only say what I see; I cannot say otherwise. For me, “God is in everyone” is not an ideal; it is a fact.

Someone asked Sri Aurobindo, “Do you believe in God?”
Aurobindo said, “No.”
The man said, “I’ve come all the way from Germany thinking you are a great knower, that you have found God. You don’t believe in God?”
Aurobindo said, “No.”
The man said, “Then my whole journey has been wasted. Do you completely deny God?”
Aurobindo said, “Where did I deny? I only said I do not believe.”
The man said, “But that is denial.”
Aurobindo said, “You are asking the wrong question. I know; therefore I cannot believe. Do we ‘believe’ what we know? We believe only in what we do not know.”
Aurobindo said, “God is—this is my knowing, not my belief.”

The theist has belief. Therefore, there is no certainty in belief. The theist says, “We believe in God.”
Believe? Belief means it is not known. Do you believe in the sun? Do you believe in Rajkot? No—Rajkot is. There is no need to believe. The sun is. People believe in God because they do not know whether He is or not. Therefore, doubt always sits inside the believer.

No—the one who knows, knows. It is a fact. I am not telling you, “God is within you”—He is. The truth is, language makes us err. When I say “within you,” the language is misleading. But there is no other way.

Yesterday morning, in the house where I am staying, I said to someone, “Please bring a glass of water.” No one can bring “a glass of water.” How would you bring a glass of water? But someone brought water in a glass. My wording was wrong, but the meaning was understood. Commonly we say, “Bring a glass of water!” But whenever it comes, it comes as water in a glass; a “glass of water” never comes.

So when I say “within you,” the language is a little wrong, because language will be wrong here. When I say “within you,” I mean you yourself. Not that you are something separate and God is within you. You are God. And do not take “you” to mean you alone. These pillars are That, this wall that stands is That, the floor on which you are sitting is That. Do not fall into the ego that only you are! The stones lying on the road are That too.

When I am speaking to you, I am not speaking only to you. These trees are also listening, and the birds asleep on the trees are listening. Sleeping people are listening; sleeping birds are listening. Not you alone—whatever is, is God. And this is not an ideal; it is a fact.

In these four days you have listened to all this with such love and peace—I am deeply obliged. And in the end I bow to the God seated in everyone. Please accept my salutations.