Naye Samaj Ki Khoj #16

Yes, it was bound to happen. What Marx said was very revolutionary; but the moment Marxists were born, that revolution was gone.

That is precisely why I say society needs continuous revolution. If I say something, that does not mean the revolution is finished; tomorrow I too can become an established vested interest. The need for revolution will remain. Someone else will have to revolt. My point is that revolution is a constant element of life. A day will never come when revolution is not needed. Because whatever revolution comes will very quickly—as soon as it succeeds—turn into an established vested interest. Until a revolution succeeds, it is a revolution; and the moment it succeeds, its own vested interest begins, its system takes shape. So my point is: the revolution must go on. And one who is truly revolutionary, truly revolutionary, will even turn against his own revolution the moment its vested interest becomes fixed.

Indeed, a flower—indeed, it will keep blossoming.

If he is truly an iconoclast, he will try to save people even from his own image. But if he only wants to smash others’ idols and, deep down, relishes the idea that his own idol be installed, then such iconoclasts, by the back door, turn into idol‑worshipers and the initiators of idol‑worship. In my view, if the iconoclast is really an iconoclast, he will not let his own effigy be set up; he will keep up that struggle too. For his fight is not with someone’s particular idol; his fight is with the very making of idols. The moment an idol is made, it becomes opposed to truth.

And the danger you point to is always there, because the statues of all the past iconoclasts have been made. Jesus is an iconoclast, and Buddha is an iconoclast. But so many images of Buddha were created that the very word “but,” meaning idol, is a corrupted transformation of “Buddha.” So many idols were made that “but” came to mean Buddha—idol came to mean Buddha.

Thus idolatry arises. This is how it has been up to now. Those who are iconoclasts should learn from this. The first lesson is: do not allow your own idol to be set up in any way. It does not matter which idol sits in your mind; if there is an idol in your mind, the matter is finished. Your consciousness must be free of idols. For my part, I will make every effort that no image of me be established.

For example, only yesterday I told you I make no claim to character. If I wanted to install my own idol, I would have to claim moral character.

In the popular mind, the statue of an unvirtuous person has never been worshipped, nor is there any possibility of it. There is no possibility of a statue of the unvirtuous being installed. Do you understand what I mean? After all, the collective mind has its own rules for making idols. I must claim that I am God, I must claim that I have attained liberation (moksha); only then is a statue installed. And I must say that by touching my feet you will attain liberation. I must also tell you what benefits you will get from making my statue. If there were no benefit in making my statue, the statue would never be made.

I understand. My position is that an active program is born from the churn of thought. I have no eagerness for active programs—no eagerness. My eagerness is for an intellectual revolution. And my view is that if the atmosphere of thought is prepared, active programs will arise from it on their own. I have no direct interest in them.

As I said yesterday too, when that happens it is a lapse. In my mind there is no place for what you would call a positive program. My fundamental vision is negative. And I also hold that the perspective of revolution is, of necessity, negative. But from the impact of that negation, many constructive programs are born. That is another matter—it is a by-product. I have no direct connection with it.

It is a by-product.
Yes, entirely a by-product. Therefore I have no use for it. My only concern is that my understanding be clear, and that it reach people clearly. Then that which I am negating—if it becomes clear—constructive programs will necessarily arise out of it. I am not concerned about that.

Yes, yes, absolutely.

Two things. First: whatever could possibly rush in to fill the space, I negate each of those. For example, if someone in this room asks me, “What is a chair?” I say: the table is not a chair; the bed is not a chair; the wall is not a chair. Leaving the chair aside, I negate everything else. Only the chair remains!

And my understanding is that whoever comprehends so much negation will see the chair.

As the Upanishads say: neti-neti—“not this, not that.” They go on saying: not this, not this, not this. They leave only that which is. When all this is denied, what is will remain. And one who passes through so much denial will see it—he will see it.

And why don’t we insist on saying directly, “This is it”? Because the moment we say, “This is the straight way,” the person does not pass through the revolution of negation—and it is that very revolution which develops his mind.

No growth happens by grabbing the positive. If I say, “Here is the chair,” he believes me and seizes the chair. He still doesn’t know why this is a chair and not a table, because he has not denied the table, nor has he denied the wall. The chair was handed to him; he grabbed it on my authority.

A positive pointer always creates belief; a negative pointer never creates belief. Passing through doubt, a person becomes truly thoughtful. Having become thoughtful, when it becomes clear to him, “This is a chair,” then the whole matter is of another order. Truth should be directly realized. I can point out what is false: this is false, that is false.

Do you understand what I mean?

And the moment a void is created by negation—inevitably a void cannot continue; it will be filled. We want it to be filled—we do. But we want the void to be filled with truth. And if there is a precise understanding of the false, then this emptiness will never again be filled by the false.

No, no—neti-neti is always of use. Negation has always worked. You understand, don’t you? In this world, whatever is significant is always negative.

Yes, I understand; you're right, of course. The Upanishads came to mind because no other scripture in the world has used the word “neti-neti” as directly as they have. You understand what I mean, don’t you? The straightforward application of the process of neti-neti. The Upanishads are utterly negative.

No, choiceless awareness is not a choice. Choiceless means we do not make any choice, we do not select any option; we simply awaken. In that awakening we do not decide, “This is right, that is wrong; this should be accepted, that should be dropped.” We make no decision. We simply look, awake. In this awakened seeing there is no choice at all. And as long as there is choice, we cannot see with awareness. “Awareness with choice”—there is no such thing. Awareness, as such, is without choice. Awareness by its very nature is choiceless. So awareness can never be together with choice, because choice means bias has begun; sleep has begun.

There are so many people sitting here: if I say, “Bacchu-bhai is a fine man,” then I cannot be aware in relation to Bacchu-bhai either, because my attachment has begun. Nor can I be aware in relation to Jayant-bhai, because my rejection toward him has begun. I can be awake to everyone in this room only when I have no preference, when I am simply looking, awake.

So that choiceless awareness is not a choice.

No; because a morality that stands upon prohibitions I call immoral. That very morality is what I reject.

And I also think—and I don’t call it a latrine—that if you keep the “bathroom” of sex open, will only fragrance spread?

Let me take this up; but first, this.

What we have called morality up to now is not morality at all. It simply is not. If a so‑called morality has to be propped up by fear—by threats and temptations of heaven and hell, by the anxiety of sin and virtue, by pressure, by coercion—I do not call it moral. For the very process of coercion is itself immoral.

To be moral means: a person’s consciousness becomes awake. And out of that awakened consciousness, inevitably, only the auspicious arises to be done; that consciousness does not generate an urge toward the inauspicious. You see what I mean, don’t you? So I am not taking responsibility for leading people toward immorality. I am striving to lead from immorality to morality.

The “negative”?

Yes, negative. And about your other point—that by keeping sex’s latrine open…

Not a latrine, I say bathroom.

Call it a bathroom; what difference does it make? It’s the idea of a latrine you carry, therefore you say “bathroom.” I am not saying that by keeping sex’s bathroom open only fragrance will spread. First of all, sex is neither a bathroom nor a latrine.

A garden?

That is not the question. The moment we choose, the moment we impose something upon it, we are taking a stance. Sex is simply a natural fact of life, a plain factuality. That factuality—if we want—can be turned into a latrine, and if we want, into a garden. Sex in itself is a neutral fact. Understand this well. I am not saying it is a garden.

So you are not with Freud and Lawrence?

No. I am not saying it is a garden, nor am I saying it is a latrine. I hold that the old morality which called it a latrine provoked Lawrence’s revolt. Lawrence is reactive. He removes sex from the latrine and calls it a garden.

I am saying I have nothing to do with the old morality, nor with these rebels. I take sex as a neutral fact. We can turn it into a latrine—and if you want it to be a latrine, the first thing is to close the door. Or we can turn it into a garden—and if you want it to be a garden, the first thing is to open the door. I am only saying the first thing; the work is not finished by that alone. You follow?

But sex can be made fragrant—so fragrant that it becomes prayerful; so fragrant that it becomes a spiritual act. And it can be made so degraded, so base and condemned that it becomes…

But that making will depend on the subjects, won’t it—the subjects who are in communion? The social order…

On them, yes. That is what I am saying. You understand what I mean by “making,” don’t you?

About you I cannot say. But those…

No, no—on them it will depend. But their minds are fashioned by society. If, from childhood, society teaches children to condemn sex, society is arranging for a latrine. If a boy or a girl is taught for twenty years that sex is sin, vile, shameful—

But now there is a little release; it isn’t like before.

Yes, yes, I am saying there is release.

But the kind of scene Christianity has, in our culture it’s not so—

The very moment you say “there is release,” you admit that something is still seized up and only a little has been released. But as a fact—as a neutral fact—it is not yet accepted anywhere.

It must be lying in the subconscious.

It is there, fully there. For thousands of years it has been lodged in our collective mind. Even what we release a little is never total. And that partial release creates tension, because half is released and half is pulled back. It is like a man driving a car with his foot on the accelerator and the brake at the same time. What will happen to the car is what is happening to the mind. On one side he presses the accelerator—“the car should move”—on the other, his unconscious applies the brake. Nothing will come of it but breakdowns and accidents. Even the old condition was better—only the brake. The West had the opposite—only the accelerator. The new mind is caught in the turmoil between the two.

My understanding is: the accelerator is worth pressing, and there is a right time to press it. The brake is also worth applying, but it too has its time. Never both together. You follow me? One who wants to make sex beautiful will not smash the brake; rather, I say his brake will be stronger, cleaner. And the brake won’t be because sex is sin; the brake will be because sex is powerful energy, and the higher you want to raise that energy, the more it must be conserved.

Now, about A. S. Neill, the author who speaks of self‑regulation—without inhibitions. There was a church; outside, boys played on the playground making noise. One Sunday they themselves, by their own self‑policy, decided: “Today there is a program in the church, so we won’t create a racket here.” That is a Christian example; such examples exist where things happen by themselves, without imposed inhibition.

Such examples can be found.

So is it person‑based? But that was a group of boys.

Not person‑based so much as based on the social mechanism. In truth, the church does not summon anyone. Understand. Nor does it forbid boys to play. But the church can be made so attractive, so serene; the music so melodious; the prayer so joyous, that the boys playing outside feel: “Today let’s go to the church.” But if anyone thinks the boys went “to the church,” he is mistaken—the boys went for the music, for the prayer.

Not to go to the church as such.

You understand my point? If rich music is flowing, prayer is happening, people are sitting in silence, the boys may also pause and say, “Let’s not create a disturbance.” That too is possible. And the more natural it is, the more right, important, and noble it is.

There is no harm in that.

No harm at all. The more natural life is, the more significant it is. And yes, the personality should indeed be without inhibitions.

In the daily paper your statements about Gandhi—like “burn the spinning wheel”—work as shock treatment, certainly. But in the mass mind, won’t such things slightly harm your benevolent aims—your mission?

I understand. Two things. First, what is my mission? My mission is to awaken thought in people. Nothing in that will be harmed by such statements. Second, I never said, “Burn the spinning wheel.”

But it was shocking! It was printed in the popular press.

What I said was this: A time had come—once Gandhi had people burn foreign cloth. Now a time has come when the cap Gandhi gave people has become a symbol of power, bureaucracy, exploitation. A time has come to burn the Gandhi cap. I said this in the context that those whom we once took as servants—their cap has today become the emblem of authority. A time has come when that Gandhi cap should be burnt. I never spoke of burning the spinning wheel. The cap! And even then I said: the time has come when that cap has become fit to be burned.

But all such things get given a different shape.

Nehru kept his image by hypnosis, and you, saying you do it for people’s good, have made your image a bit egoistic—people think so.

I have never said that either. This too needs to be understood. I only said that human beings—and the larger humanity—are less influenced by ideas and more by suggestion. The great crowd‑mind of the world is affected less by thought, more by suggestion.

So I said: Hitler knowingly used every hypnotic technique. He would keep the hall dark and stand on a high platform. The lights would shine only on Hitler; all else was darkness. For two hours no one could look at anyone else; for two hours one had to look only at Hitler’s face. That image would penetrate within. Scientists were consulted: how high should the listener’s eyelids be so that the ocular nerves relax and the mind becomes suggestible?

Hitler did all this knowingly. I said that Hitler knew what he was doing. Nehru never did such things consciously. But even so, with Nehru this happened; it certainly did. It happened as part of the process; Nehru himself did not know it. But it happened. You understand my meaning, don’t you?

Even his rose became a symbol.

Yes, everything becomes a symbol. If you put another man in Nehru’s place to give a speech and tell the crowd “Nehru is speaking,” with the rose and the whole staging, the crowd would be equally influenced. The crowd is not influenced by Nehru, but by its own image—by the image it carries.

If someone other than Nehru wore such a rose…

I am not talking about someone else; I am saying that in Nehru’s place, if people believed Nehru himself was speaking, and you recreated the full Nehru image, the crowd would be equally affected by this man who is not Nehru.

They are working with the image. Their relationship is with the image.

Yes, the crowd is influenced by the image, not by Nehru per se. And today, bring Nehru himself in a different guise, and if people do not know it is Nehru…

I read this about Thakkar Bapa: he was traveling by train—perhaps coming to Ahmedabad or nearby. He was to speak there; newspapers had carried his photo and the notice. In a third‑class compartment, a man lay spread out on his bedding. Thakkar Bapa was standing in that crowd and said to the man, “Brother, move a little so I can sit.” The man barked, “Stand, old man! Don’t make trouble!” Then, reading the paper, he said to the fellow beside him, “Thakkar Bapa is giving a speech—let’s go listen; he’s an amazing man!” And Thakkar Bapa stood right there, not being given a seat. That same man would listen tomorrow in the crowd and be “influenced.” We live by images.

So I said: Nehru’s entire persona and the whole arrangement—about fifty thousand rupees a day spent on Nehru—the logistics, the show: this entire staging is what affects people.

And I have never said that I practice hypnosis. First, I do not use hypnosis. Understand me well! I want people to become alert to hypnosis and not be influenced by hypnotic routes at all, because that is the most dangerous device by which a person’s faculty of thought is violated. I explained it precisely so that each person knows by which tricks your mind is led into hypnotic sleep—and stays alert to them. The more alert one is, the less hypnotic exploitation the world can do. That is why I said it. I do not say I practice hypnosis.

But a journalist muddled it. What happened: he traveled with me by train to Bombay. He told me he had a stomach complaint. And doctors said there was nothing wrong with the stomach—perhaps it was in the mind. “Can you tell me if hypnotic techniques could help?” I told him, “Certainly—if the complaint is false, hypnosis can help.” He asked, “Could you help me sometime?” I said, “If I have time, come for two–three days; through hypnosis I can help fully.”

I told him: hypnosis can serve as therapy. But as a tool to influence the mass mind, it is a very dangerous invention.

You see the difference, don’t you?

I told that gentleman it can be therapeutic. And it is. If the illness is imaginary, an imaginary cure will do—no problem. That is what I told him. He went and printed that I say my hypnosis is beneficial—because I had said I could help his “illness”—while others’ hypnosis is harmful.

I am firmly against hypnosis—except as therapy. I regard hypnosis as a therapy. And so long as people fall ill in false ways, it can work. And people do fall falsely ill; seventy‑five percent of illnesses are imaginary—only in the mind.

The damage can occur in understanding the moral. From my side, it does not. Because in my vision there is a coherence between the two, and that is what I am pointing toward. But it can happen sometimes. A parable has many facets. I am emphasizing one facet; your attention may go to another.

No. First of all—first of all—whatever anecdotes I use are, for the most part, not historical. If they are historical, then I do not change them even a bit; I keep them exactly as they are, not changing them at all. Yes, if they are not historical...

Yes, I had said it was about Nagarjuna. Now, what has happened here is that the fables that are in circulation have been used by everyone—you will find them in Jain scriptures, you will find them in Hindu scriptures, you will find them in Buddhist scriptures. So fables have become collective property; no one has any exclusive claim over them. Everyone has used them in their own way. And therefore they can be used in many ways—certainly they can.

And this possibility remains, because an anecdote has multiple facets. Now I may be speaking from one facet; if another facet occurs to you, then...

Two things should be understood. First, what I mean when I say “religious person” is the so-called religious person—the one we commonly call religious. In my view, the person we have so far considered religious—the so-called religious—is unscientific. My perspective is that if there is scientific thinking, a new kind of religious mind is born—one that is scientific. In that scientific consciousness, religion will enter as a science, not as a superstition.

You are not saying that about Radhakrishnan.
No, I’m not saying that! Secondly, I do not consider Radhakrishnan a religious man to begin with, nor do I consider him a thinker or a contemplative. Radhakrishnan is nothing more than an exegete, a commentator, a translator. A good translator, a beautiful translator, with very poetic expression. But he has neither an original thought nor is he a religious person. Religious in the sense of someone like Ramana; religious in the sense of someone like Krishnamurti. In that sense he is not religious at all.

In that sense he is not!
That is the only sense in which I use the word “religious.”

He even takes prasada from Tirupati!
Yes, yes! He is not religious at all. In fact, in my view, if he can be weighed anywhere, he is a very cunning kind of politician. He is nothing more than a politician—and I say a cunning kind at that. Because even a politician, if he is clean and straightforward, has something to him. He is neither clean nor straightforward. He has traveled the whole journey of politics by back doors.

When Radhakrishnan was Vice-Chancellor at Banaras University, Raj Bahadur was the president of the students’ union there. Later, Raj Bahadur said that when I was union president, Radhakrishnan would flatter me and say, “Recommend me to Congress leaders; try to push me forward.” And Dr. Lohia even presented his statement in Parliament.

“Is it not to be printed?”
No, I’m not saying that. Print whatever you want—there’s no harm in it. No harm at all. There’s nothing to worry about.

I do not consider Radhakrishnan either a religious man or any great thinker.

As for Vivekananda and Dayananda—
Yes, Dayananda is a great pandit—a scholar—and in many ways an original one; he has a very original line of thought. But he is a pandit, not a religious man. Compared to Dayananda, Vivekananda is more of a religious person, and an original thinker as well.

Vivekananda seems to me a much more religious man than Dayananda. But I say “much more”; not fully religious. Those I regard as fully religious—like Ramana, like Ramakrishna. These are the people one would rightly call truly religious, a religious mind.

But that is inaction, only through negating action throughout your life...
Yes, yes, it’s quite possible. The expressions of a religious person can be of many kinds. A religious person can be perfectly active. A religious person can be perfectly inactive. But there is an amusing thing: a common feature will remain between the two. If a religious person is perfectly active, he will still be inwardly inactive; and if outwardly he is totally inactive, he will still be inwardly perfectly active.

In my view you are Ramana’s counterpart, in action...
That may be. In my vision there can be two states of a religious person—either there will be renunciation within his engagement, or engagement within his renunciation.

I have complete trust. I have complete trust in the humanity of the individual; I have complete trust in the individual. But trusting one person does not change the whole of society. I trust you; I trust you too. If all individuals together accept what I am saying and change, society will change. But if you change and the 400-million-strong social machine does not change, then what?

I trust you; I trust each and every one. But if one person changes and the 400-million machine does not, your change is not going to bring about a revolution in society.

Therefore it is necessary that we persuade each person, explain and convince them—not to change alone, but to make a collective effort to change the social mechanism. Because the group mechanism will not change merely because individual hearts have changed; that mechanism too will have to be changed.

For example, we are sitting here, so many of us. The air conditioner is running—that is a mechanism. Bacchu Bhai has changed; he says the air conditioner should not run. But ten of us say it should run. Do you understand? So what can Bacchu Bhai do? What can Bacchu Bhai do? It is a mechanism that runs by the will of the ten. Bacchu Bhai also had a will; he withdrew his will, so Bacchu Bhai will fall outside the mechanism. But the mechanism will continue, and another person will take Bacchu Bhai’s place. To change that mechanism it is necessary that… even if all ten of us agree, and yet we do not change the mechanism—even if we ten agree and sit down but do not change the mechanism—the mechanism will still continue.

Is it possible?

That is why I said Gandhi’s idea of trusteeship will not work. It expresses a faith in the individual, but it is unscientific. Because when and in what situation will we ever persuade the world’s three and a half billion people to give up private property, or to become trustees of private property?

So my point is: we must win over the individual mind—and we must also break and change the process of the group mechanism.

You are absolutely right.
First the social order or the environment? First the environment or the social order?
No—the very question of before and after is misplaced; the whole thing is simultaneous. It’s the chicken-and-egg question: which comes first? None comes first. If the individual’s mind changes—society will change. If society changes—the individual’s mind will change. They are so interconnected that we must make efforts on both sides.

No, absolutely not. It is hard to find even a single instance to the contrary of what I am saying. That is, it is difficult to find even one person who, having donated land, then stopped the act of exploitation—not even one! What I am saying is: he stopped the act of exploitation. He cannot do that while alive, because the whole society is exploitative. The moment he lives here, he will continue to exploit.

He is just a cog in a great machinery.

Yes, within that big machine, what can he do? And suppose he renounces everything—then he will sit with a begging bowl, the Sarvodaya bowl, and the exploitation will continue. What else will he do, when the machinery of exploitation is running and you have to live within it...?

Yes, there is only one way: you can avoid exploitation in this setup—by dying.
Suicide?
Yes, there is no other way. So then what will you do? Jayant-bhai liked my point and he donated his land. Then what will Jayant-bhai do? He will have to do something to live in this society! Whatever he does, exploitation will continue. And it is very likely that to recover what land he has given up, he will exploit more intensely. Because his whole position has been shaken by that renunciation; he will have to recreate it.

So I am not speaking on the basis of one or two examples. I am saying it is invariably so.

Uncertainty is a very good thing. My point is: certainty is not a sign of life. Uncertainty—that very uncertainty—is the element of life.
The glamour of uncertainty.
Yes, that uncertainty is so juicy that we should create it.
It becomes a mystique.
Yes, absolutely a mystique. And we should create it. The simple truth is: security is absolutely false; life is insecurity. And the art of living depends on how much we can savor that insecurity.

Two things. First, what do we mean by character? It is what I have just said about morality. The one you call a man of character, I call merely a man made virtuous by force. He is suppressed. Whatever you call bad, he has pushed down inside. It is all there; it has not gone anywhere. The one you call virtuous—yes, if he has cultivated nonviolence on the surface, then violence is present within. On the surface he has cultivated forgiveness; inside, anger is there. Because your method of producing character is repression. So the so‑called man of character is inwardly as characterless as the other man who appears characterless to you on the outside. In fact, I hold that generally the one we call characterless may be more simple, straight, and clear; while the one we call virtuous is very cunning, complex, and conniving, because he has to manage two personalities all the time.
Split personality.
Yes, split personality. I do not call him virtuous. I say there is another kind of character that springs from the spontaneity of life, from its naturalness, from understanding life. Such a person lives the way he does because he understands life, not because of repression; not because he has to attain moksha; not because people will praise him—respectability is not his motive.
But the one you call virtuous has only one fundamental motive: respectability, that people will honor him. If people’s respect slips away, his character will slip away. I call that person virtuous who is acting neither for respectability, nor for liberation, nor for heaven, nor for merit; he does what is joyous, what is born of understanding. In my view such a person is truly of character. But such a person will make no claim to being virtuous. He will have no ego about being virtuous. He will not even know that he is virtuous; he will not even be conscious, “I am a man of character.”
“So he buys a ticket on the train for the guard’s sake—that is the so‑called man of character.”
Exactly—he buys it for him, only for him.
“All right, Mahatmaji brought religion into politics. Today people say that through religious discourses you have brought politics into religion. Any comment?”
My view is this: life is a totality. I do not break it into religion, politics, and education. For me life is an indivisible whole. And one who sets out to understand life’s wholeness will have to think over all its aspects, will have to consider all of them. I am not in favor of fragmenting life, compartmentalizing it. For me life is a single, undivided unit.
But up to now this is exactly what has been done—life has been cut into pieces. If a man is religious, he is nothing but religious; his boundary is the temple—he should not speak on any matter of life. The man who stands in politics has nothing to do with the temple; he is in his own world. We have divided it into such pieces. Because of these pieces, society too has become a split personality, and the individual has become a split personality. I want to bring all this together. For me the question simply does not arise.
For Gandhi this was a question, because Gandhi said, “I am a political man, and I am trying to become religious.” I do not say that I am a religious man trying to become political. I do not say that. I say I am a person who wants to see and live life in its wholeness. Whatever comes within that wholeness I accept. Within that wholeness I deny nothing.

Not even a trace. Because what I am saying is: what is—the person as he is—only that can be; otherwise it cannot be. Becoming cannot be other than Being. What a person is, only that can happen. The only difference is the difference between the seed and the tree. There is a seed; it becomes a tree. It becomes a tree because even when it was a seed it was, in a hidden sense, a tree. Only the expression differs. Becoming is only expression.

He is absolutely right. He is absolutely right. And I am not leading anyone, nor do I have any intention to lead anyone. I am simply saying what feels true to me, just as a flower blooms. There is no further purpose beyond that.

Yes, such an image will certainly arise. And that image...
You say: in that, the element of leading comes in.
Not in the least. I am simply expressing my vision. The moment I say, “Follow my vision,” then the element of leading comes in. All I am saying is only this much...
You say: then it’s just a matter of style, isn’t it?
No, no—it's not a matter of style; it’s entirely a matter of my vision. All I am saying is simply that whatever I have said... Even if Krishnamurti were to tell people...
You ask: but then are you not a guru?
No. Even if you tell people, “To lead someone is also a desire,” then saying that too, in that sense, becomes leading.
“But the Maharshi didn’t even speak.”
No, no, no. Even if he does not speak, that too becomes leading.
Silence too...?
What difference does it make—what difference does it make? You are saying one should not speak. What difference does that make? In truth, living is expression. You cannot exist without expression. So you will exist—with whatever your expression is! If tomorrow I sit silently in a corner, even then I am leading in a sense. Because Jayant-bhai will come to me, see, and say, “Yes, this man became peaceful by sitting silently; let us also go, sit silently, and become peaceful.”

You understand what I mean, don’t you? As long as you live, you will express; whatever you do is expression. Close your eyes, and someone will think that by closing the eyes truth is attained—and he will close his eyes. Our living is expression. Therefore, however anyone lives, so long as he lives, he will express.

So I do not call this “leading.” I say: when someone deliberately, with effort, tries to make you follow—saying, “Come after me! Believe what I say! What I say is the truth! Only by walking exactly as I say will you reach anywhere; otherwise you won’t!”—then he is leading.

That is not my work. My work is only this: whatever seems right to me, whatever is blissful, I say it. The matter ends there. Beyond that, I have no relationship with you.

I didn’t understand—what do you mean?

Yesterday you said that those who lie and play in the dust—when they talk of kicking the throne, that is their reaction. They talk of kicking the throne. My point is that your campaign is addressed to the dust-covered people.

No—what I say is before everyone. I have no special purpose with the dust-covered, nor with those who live in palaces.

When you give that parable, it sounds as if the one in the dust says to the one on the throne, “Stay satisfied there.” So from the tone of what you said yesterday, it felt as if you were saying it before the dust-covered people.

Not in the least, not in the least. The parable I was giving was only to say that people who live in misery look at the happy person and find any number of devices to derive a sense of consolation.

What I say has nothing to do with a person’s label—neither poor nor rich. It has to do with the human being. And even with this so-called “campaign,” my connection is only this much: I say what seems right to me because saying it is blissful to me. That’s all. There’s no campaign behind it, nothing like a mission.

Alright—then you would concede that in reaction truth evaporates?

It absolutely evaporates. In reaction, truth never remains, because reaction always runs to the opposite extreme. Truth remains only where there is neither reaction nor regressiveness. Where things are utterly in the middle—that golden mean—there we are neither regressive nor reactionary; we have neither gripped something tightly nor are we eager to throw it away. Standing in the middle and seeing things—that is where truth is. Truth is always in the middle; at the extremes there is never truth. And in reaction one always goes to an extreme.

Yes. I have nothing to do with “Acharya.”
Is it an imposition?
Even “imposition”—what is it? It’s just convention. When I was a professor in a college, in that region they called a professor “acharya” in Hindi.
Don’t they say adhyapak–pradhyapak?
No!
Here “acharya” means the principal.
There the principal is called “pracharya.” There the principal is “pracharya” and the professor is “acharya.” Because of that, “Acharya” got attached after my name. It’s neither an imposition nor any such issue; it’s simply convention. It should be ended altogether. We should find a way to drop it. Because, as you say, it creates confusion—so it should be dropped.

To explain the glory and importance of silence, for an entire hour…
Yes, and your point about dress and appearance remains—that part of your question was left. I wear the kind of clothes that feel blissful to me. I should wear only what feels blissful to me. If, out of fear of how it will look to someone, I were to dress accordingly, then I’m again worrying about my image in your eyes. I wear what is blissful to me.
I also wear khadi; I don’t subscribe to the Congress.
Fine—what is blissful to you is what you will wear; that’s exactly what one should wear. If, even out of this fear, I were to change my clothes lest someone, seeing them, might take me to be religious, then again I’m concerned with your eyes—what you take me to be. I am not concerned with what you think.
Sartre says, doesn’t he, that “the other people’s life is hell.”
It is—absolutely it is. Absolutely so.
To give a discourse for an hour to extol the glory of silence—isn’t that a contradiction?
Not at all, not at all. The beauty is that even to draw a white line, we draw it on a blackboard. It’s no contradiction. By speaking, one can make it clear that speaking is futile; by reading, one can come to know that reading is useless; and by walking, one can discover that no amount of walking gets you anywhere.