A certain emperor once had a bird, who sang in the forests, seized and caged. Even singing can be a crime—if those around are wrong. That poor bird would not even have known that song can turn into bondage. The emperor kept that bird in a golden cage; the cage was inlaid with diamonds and jewels—a cage worth millions.
But for one who has known the freedom of the open sky, what meaning has gold? What meaning have diamonds and pearls? For one whose own wings have tasted flight, who has sung in the boundless sky—whether the cage be gold or iron, it is all the same.
The bird began to beat his head and weep. Yet the emperor and the palace folk thought he was still singing. There are people who weep beating their heads, but those who do not know take it to be a song.
The bird was bewildered, distressed. And slowly the greatest anxiety began to dawn on him: a fear that in this cage, in this confinement, might I not forget how to fly?
A prison cannot inflict any greater harm than this—only one: that the wings forget how to fly.
The bird had but one concern: that I may not forget the very memory of the joy of the open sky. For even if I am freed of the cage someday—what then? Freedom is known only by those whose very breath has tasted the experience and ecstasy of freedom. Simply being let loose in the open sky does not make one free. The bird feared: while living in dependence I may become accustomed to dependence. He was in great disquiet: how to be free?
One morning the bird heard a fakir singing. The fakir sang: For those who would be free there is but one path—that path is Truth. For those who would be liberated there is but one door—that door is Truth. And what is Truth? The fakir’s song said: Truth is that which is. To see whatsoever appears, exactly as it appears; to know it as such, to strive to live it as such, to express it as such—that is Truth. And those who come upon Truth are freed. This was the essence of his song.
He passed along the streets singing. Humans did not hear—but the bird heard. For birds still have the taste of the open sky. Humans have forgotten it completely, have forgotten the whole taste of the open sky. Birds still know they have wings to fly. Man does not even know he too has wings, and he too can fly—into a certain sky. People heard, yet they did not hear. Mere hearing is not hearing. If hearing alone sufficed, by now all humans would long ago have been liberated.
That fakir shouted in the village—a bird heard; the men did not!
And that very day the bird made a small experiment with Truth.
The emperor was inside the palace; someone had come to call on him. The emperor told the guards to say that the emperor was not at home. The bird cried out: No, the emperor is at home; and it is the emperor himself who has told the guards to say he is not at home.
The emperor was enraged.
Truth enrages everyone—because everyone lives in untruth. And those who are emperors—whether of power, wealth, or religion—who hold any kind of authority, are most angered by Truth. For authority always sits upon the throne of untruth. Hence those in power crucify Truth—because if Truth lives, it becomes a gallows for the powerful.
The emperor ordered: Throw this bird out of the palace at once.
Where is Truth to dwell in palaces! It may roost on trees, but for Truth to dwell in palaces is exceedingly difficult.
The bird was taken out—but his heart’s desire was fulfilled. He began to dance in the sky. And he said: The fakir spoke rightly—if freedom is your longing, Truth is the only door.
The bird danced. But a parrot, perched upon a tree, began to wail and said: Mad bird! You dance after leaving a golden cage? Such cages are good fortune. Not everyone gets them. They come as the fruit of merits from past lives. We had longed for that cage, and you, fool that you are, do not know—there is an art to living in cages.
The first art of living in a cage is: say only what the master says. Do not think whether it is true or false. Whoever begins to think can no longer remain in cages. For thinking is rebellion; and in whose life thought is born, he cannot remain enslaved.
Why did you think, mad bird? Thinking is dangerous. The clever never think. The clever remain in their prisons and take their prisons for houses, for temples. If the discomfort was too much, then from inside you could have decorated the bars of your cage. A decorated cage begins to feel like home. Remember, multitudes decorate their cages and take them for homes—because they have adorned them. But decoration does not change the nature of a cage.
The bird did not even listen; he was dancing in delight, weighing his wings against the winds—he had come to the open sky!
But the parrot said: If you would enjoy living in a cage, learn the art from parrots. We say precisely what the master says. We never say what is true. We do not concern ourselves with Truth. We repeat only what the master repeats—that is all we say. Do not say what the master does. Do not see with your own eyes; do not think with your own mind. See with the master’s eyes; think with the master’s thoughts. So the parrot kept shouting. And into the open cage from which the bird had escaped, the parrot flew and sat inside. The gatekeeper closed the cage.
That parrot is still in the palace cage. He says only what the master says. He will remain there forever—because there is only one way to be free: Truth. Parrots say everything, but never Truth.
And parrots are not only parrots—among human beings the number of parrots is beyond reckoning. These parrots, too, speak only what the master says. For thousands of years they have been repeating what the master says.
In the name of shastras parrots have taken their seats; in the name of sects parrots have taken their seats; in the name of temples parrots have taken their seats. The whole world, all humanity, is harassed by the parrots’ chatter. Listening to their voices, slowly we too become parrots. And we remain unaware that there is also an open sky, that we have wings, that there is Atman, that there is liberation.
If you want to live peacefully in bondage, never even utter the name of Truth. If you take bondage itself to be life, never lift your eyes toward Truth. And if anyone speaks of Truth, consider him an enemy—for Truth is dangerous, because Truth leads toward freedom.
Freedom carries great insecurity. Bondage carries great security.
How secure is the cage! There is no fear of storm or rain, no dread of tempests rising in the sky—no pouring clouds, no cracking lightning. No—no fear at all. Inside the cage a man is utterly safe.
In the open sky there are great fears. A small bird—and such a vast sky! Storms rise, hurricanes come; there is no one to save you, no protection.
Bondage is very safe; bondage is very secure. Freedom is very unsafe; freedom is great insecurity. That is why most people have agreed to be bound.
If you crave security, ask your own mind: Do you crave bondage? If you want security, do not even talk of Truth. If you want security, bondage is best—be it political bondage or religious, bondage to wealth or bondage to words—whoever wants security, bondage suits him.
But here, for these three days, we are contemplating a search for Truth. This search is not for those who take a safe life to be everything. This search is for those in whose life-breath there is no fear of being unsafe. This search is for those who have not forgotten their wings, who have not forgotten the sky, and in whose beings some ancient memory keeps striking—a call to break all bonds, break all walls, fly to where there are no walls, where there is no chain.
But how few such people there are! Peer into hundreds of thousands of eyes, and in only one or two you may see a thirst for freedom. Knock on the hearts of multitudes, and from one in a million you may hear a faint resonance for Truth.
What has happened to all humanity?
Humanity has taken safety to be everything. Security is our religion—somehow remain safe, live, and be finished!
I have heard: An emperor built a palace—so safe that no enemy could possibly enter it.
We all, likewise, build such palaces in life, into which no enemy may enter; in which we may remain absolutely safe. After all, what does a man do all his life? Why does he earn money? To be safe. Why does he seek position? To be safe. Why does he seek fame? To be safe—so that no fear remains in life, so that life may become fearless. But the strange and secret is this: the more you increase safety, the more fear increases.
That emperor had conquered everything. Only one fear remained—that someday some enemy... For whoever sets out to conquer others, creates enemies. The one who goes out to conquer others, slowly makes everyone an enemy. Yes, only the one who is ready to be defeated by others can create friends in this world.
He wished to conquer the whole world—so the whole world became his enemy. When the world turned enemy, fear grew. With fear grew the need for security. He built a great palace with only a single door—no windows, no other doors, not even a small aperture—lest any enemy enter. One door, a vast palace, and at that door, a guard of thousands of naked swords.
The neighboring king came to see this secure palace. The news had spread far and wide. Seeing it, he was much impressed. He said: I am delighted; I too will soon build such a palace. This is absolutely safe—no danger at all.
As the neighboring king took leave and mounted his chariot, the owner of the palace came to see him off. Then once again the neighboring king said: I am very pleased, your understanding is marvelous. No king has ever built such a safe palace. I will quickly go and build one like it. Just then, an old beggar sitting by the roadside began to laugh loudly. The owner of the palace said: Madman, why are you laughing? What is the matter?
The old beggar said: Lord, here is my chance to say what I have long waited to say—I have stayed here many days hoping to meet you at the gate. One mistake remains in this palace. All else is fine. There is one door—that is the mistake. Through it the enemy can enter. You should go inside and brick up this door too—then you will be absolutely safe. Then no enemy can ever enter.
The emperor said: Fool! If I go inside and brick up the door, would this not become a tomb?
The fakir said: It is already a tomb. Only one door remains; that is the only lack for it to be a tomb—complete it too. There is one door; the enemy may enter. If not an enemy, at least death—death will enter through this door. Do this: go inside; then even death will not enter.
The king said: There is no question of going—before death can enter, I will die.
The fakir said: Then understand correctly: the more doors there were in this palace, the more life you had. As the doors were reduced, life reduced. Now one door remains—so a little life remains. Close this too, and that, too, will end. That is why I say: one mistake remains.
And he laughed loudly again. He said: O king, once I too had palaces. Then I realized that palaces become prisons. So I began to make the doors bigger; then I began to pull down the walls. Then it occurred to me: no matter how many doors I make, how many I remove—still the walls remain. So I went outside the walls altogether. Now I am under the open sky—and now I am fully alive.
But we too have built our walls to the extent of our capacity. And the walls that are visible—of stone and clay—are not so dangerous, because they can be seen. There are subtler, more delicate walls—transparent, glassy—unseen. There are walls of thought, of doctrines, of the shastras—utterly invisible. We have erected them around our very souls, so that we may feel safe.
And the more such walls we have gathered around the soul, the farther we have gone from the open sky of Truth. Then the life-breath writhes, the Atman flutters—but the more it flutters, the more we strengthen the walls. Fear arises: perhaps this panic, this restlessness is due to a lack of walls? It is due to the walls themselves.
So long as a man’s soul is enslaved, he can never come upon bliss.
Except for bondage, there is no sorrow.
And remember: the bondage another lays upon you is never the real bondage. What others impose remains mostly on the outside; it never reaches within. But the bondage you yourself accept enters to your very soul. We have accepted many such bondages ourselves.
Who told you that you are a Hindu? Who told you that you are a Muslim? Who told you to bind yourself to Gandhi? Who told you to bind yourself to Buddha? Who told you to bind yourself to Marx? Who told you to bind yourself—at all? No one. You yourself bound yourself with your own hands. Who binds himself with the Gita? Who binds himself with the Quran? Who binds himself with the Bible? No one—you yourself have bound yourself.
There are slaveries others impose upon us, and slaveries we ourselves accept. The slaveries others impose do not go much deeper than the body; but the slaveries we accept bind our very Atman. In this way we are all enslaved.
With such an enslaved mind, how can there be a search for Truth? With such a bound mind, how can there be a journey? With your life-breath bound in chains on every side—how will you rise toward the sky? The chains are heavy indeed.
Trees are bound to the earth because their roots are in the soil. Men appear to walk about—it is a lie, this walking—for their souls’ roots have penetrated the ground even more deeply than trees. That ground is tradition; that ground is society. Into that earth our souls’ roots are clenched. Until we are uprooted from there—until those chains are snapped—there can be no journey toward Truth.
Therefore I want to speak to you today on the first sutra of the journey to Truth: to realize clearly that we are slaves. Man is a slave. Of whom? Of his own stupidity, his own inertia, his own ignorance, his own mindlessness.
We are slaves because of ourselves. If this slavery becomes utterly clear to us, then we can do something to break it.
The most unfortunate slave is he who does not even know he is a slave. The most unfortunate slave is he who takes the prison to be his home. The greatest slave is he who takes chains for ornaments—for once chains are taken as ornaments, we do not break them, we guard them.
I have heard of a magician who raised sheep to sell. He kept sheep, sold them, sold their flesh. He fed them, fattened them; when they were plump with fat and flesh, he slaughtered them. But first he anesthetized his sheep and taught them one thing—he must have been very clever. He hypnotized them and taught them: You are not sheep; you are lions. So each sheep thought itself a lion. Yet every sheep considered other sheep to be sheep. Each took itself to be a lion. So when other sheep were being slaughtered, each would think: I am a lion; there is no question of my being slaughtered. Sheep are slaughtered; they are being slaughtered.
And so sheep were slaughtered every day; yet the remaining sheep felt not the slightest concern. They continued to count themselves lions. Only when their own turn came did they discover that things had gone badly. But by then it was too late; nothing could be done—the time to run had passed. If, seeing other sheep slaughtered, it had occurred to them that we too are sheep, perhaps they would have fled; they might have found some means of escape. But they were under the illusion that they were lions.
When a sheep takes itself to be a lion, you will not find a weaker sheep in all the world—for the very thought that I am a sheep is erased!
Someone asked that magician: Do your sheep never run away? He said: I have done to them what every man has done to himself. What we are not—that is what we have believed ourselves to be. What these sheep are not—that is what I made them believe.
Every man believes: I am free. A greater lie cannot be. And so long as a man keeps believing I am free, I am a free soul, he will do nothing to seek freedom.
Therefore the first Truth to understand is: we are in bondage. We means not the neighbor—we means I. Not the others around me—I.
I am a slave. And it is necessary to feel the full pain of this slavery. It is necessary to become aware of all the dimensions of this slavery, of all the directions from which it holds you down. In what forms it sits upon your chest—this too must be seen. What are the links of this slavery—those too must be seen. Until we become thoroughly acquainted with this spiritual bondage, this spiritual slavery, it cannot be broken.
If a prisoner wishes to escape a prison, what is the first thing he will do? First he must understand: I am a prisoner, I am in a prison. Second, he must become familiar with every wall, every corner of the prison—for no one has ever escaped from a prison without first becoming acquainted with it. To get out from a prison, acquaintance with it is essential. The more acquainted one is with it, the easier it is to be outside of it.
That is why the owners of prisons never allow prisoners to get familiar with the walls and corners. A prisoner familiar with his prison is dangerous—he can slip out at any time. Knowledge always liberates—even knowledge of the prison liberates. Hence, for the jailers, a prisoner’s acquaintance with the prison is dangerous.
And if you want to keep a prisoner unfamiliar with the prison, the first trick is: Convince him that this is not a prison, it is the house of God. It is not a prison at all. Convince him: You are not a prisoner—you are a free person. Convince him: The world is only as much as you see within these walls. There is no world outside—this is all. And if he feels discomfort, tell him to plaster and paint the walls, to scrub them. The walls are dirty—that is why it hurts. Clean the walls—the prison walls. If there is discomfort, plant gardens inside the prison; grow flowers and flowerbeds—fragrance will come, delight will come. Decorate the prison—if there is discomfort, adorn the prison, because it is not a prison, it is home.
And if the prisoner believes these things—can he ever be free? The very question of his being free vanishes. And we have believed such things!
First, we do not even remember that we are shut within a prison. From birth to death we are confined in countless prisons. Walls on every side—but not prison walls, no. When a Hindu says, I am a Hindu; when a Muslim says, I am a Muslim—he does not say, I am confined within the wall of being a Muslim. He proclaims it with pride—as if to be a Muslim, a Hindu, a Jain is some achievement. When a man says, I am Indian, and another says, I am Chinese, it is with great pride. He does not know that these too are walls, that they prevent meeting with the greater humanity.
Whatever obstructs is a wall.
If I am kept from meeting you, whatever stands in between is a wall. If something obstructs between Hindu and Muslim, it is a wall. If something obstructs meeting between the Shudra and the Brahmin, it is a wall—whether visible or invisible. Wherever anything comes in the way of meeting, there is a wall.
And how many walls are there around man—of how many kinds! But these walls are transparent, glassy; you can see through them, so we suspect no wall. Through a stone wall you cannot see. Through the wall between Hindu and Muslim you can see—hence the illusion that there is no wall. That is why transparent walls are most dangerous. You can see through them, but you cannot extend your hand. From the Hindu’s side can a hand really reach toward the Muslim? A wall will intervene; the hand will curl back. Can a meeting occur between Shudra and Brahmin? There is no meeting there.
But it does not occur to us that these are our prisons—walls of doctrine. It does not occur to us that each person sits enclosed within his doctrines—and then nothing is seen.
In Russia they teach that God does not exist. The child grows up hearing only this—there is no God. Around his soul a Lakshman-rekha is drawn: there is no God. Now all his life he will live within this line—There is no God. Whenever he looks at the world, he will look from within this circle—There is no God. He will move carrying this circle with him.
The outer prisons force you to be inside them—you cannot carry them with you. The prisons of the soul are very strange—they travel with you wherever you go, moving all around you.
Now in the mind of the man in whom this idea has been fixed—There is no God—he will live confined within this wall all his life. God can never appear to him, for man can see only what he is prepared to see. And his capacity to see has been crippled, closed; he has decided there is no God. Now nothing will appear to him.
You may say: We are better—we believe there is God. We are in no better condition. The one who has decided there is God will never lift his eyes to search where He is. He has believed it—and it is finished. He thinks: There is—and that ends it. What more is there to do?
He who has believed that God is—gets enclosed in ‘is’. He who has believed that He is not—gets enclosed in ‘is not’. One is enclosed in atheism, one in theism—both have their shells.
But the seeker of Truth says: Why should I make a shell? I do not yet know whether He is or is not. I will fashion no shell. I will search without a shell, without walls. I do not know—therefore I refuse to chain myself to any doctrine. Any kind of doctrine binds a man, and the search for Truth becomes difficult.
A fakir was staying in a village. The villagers said to him: Will you not come and tell us whether God is or is not? The fakir said: God! What concern have you with God? Do your work.
No one has any real concern with God. If we had, this world would be a different world—not so ugly, so filthy, so absurd. If we truly cared for God, we would have made this world another kind of world. Those who sit in temples do not care either; nor do the priests, sadhus and sannyasins—the whole clan. Those who break coconuts before walls of stone do not care. If we cared for God, this world would have become altogether different—because a world that cares for God cannot be so dirty and ugly.
The fakir said: What concern have you with God? See to your work—do not waste time.
But they would not relent. They said: Today is a holiday; you must come.
The fakir said: Ah, now I see—because it is a holiday you remembered God!
On holidays people remember God. When there is no work and one cannot sit idle, he does something—something for God. The idle person always finds something—at least he can twirl a rosary.
The fakir said: Very well, if it is a holiday, I will come. But what shall I say about God? About God nothing has yet been said. Those who knew, remained silent. If I speak, I shall prove myself a fool—by speaking I will prove I do not know. And you ask me to speak. Well then, I will come.
He went to the mosque. The villagers gathered a great crowd. A crowd always creates an illusion—even for understanding God. A crowd gives the illusion that people want to understand God.
The fakir said: So many are eager for God—first let me ask a question: Do you believe in God? Is there God?
The whole village raised their hands: We believe in God; God is.
The fakir said: Then the matter is finished. Since you already know, there is no need for me to speak. I am going back!
The villagers were in a fix. There was no remedy now. They did not know, but they had said they knew; they had raised their hands. To deny at once would not look good.
Who knows? Do you know? But if asked, Is there God?—you too would raise your hand. These hands are lies. The man who can lie even before God—what chance is there for Truth in his life? He who can give false testimony for God—Yes, I know, God is!—when he knows nothing—no ray of God has ever entered his life, no lamp of God has ever been lit in him, no prayer has ever descended, no flower of God has ever bloomed—and yet he says Yes, God is! He never looks within to see he is speaking sheer falsehood.
Fathers lie to sons; gurus lie to disciples; religious leaders lie to followers—and they know nothing of whether He is or not. Of whom are they speaking? If you shake them hard, their God will fall apart. Inside, no voice will say He is. Perhaps while they are telling you He is, within, another voice is saying: What nonsense—you know nothing.
The fakir said: Since you already know, the matter is over. Yet I am surprised—if so many in this village know God, this village should be different. But your village is like all others I have seen.
The villagers were troubled. They said: What shall we do? They said: Next time we will come again. The next Friday they held his feet, saying: Please come and explain God to us.
He said: I came last time, and you said you knew God. The matter ended. Once you know God, what remains to know?
They said: Sir, those must have been other people. We are others. Please come and explain to us—we know nothing; we do not believe in God.
The fakir said: Thanks be to the Divine! These are the very same people; I recognize their faces. Yet they are changing!
Truly, the so-called religious man takes no time to change. There is no more dishonest man than the religious man as such—he can change in an instant. In the shop he is one thing; in the temple he becomes something else. In the temple one thing; stepping out, something else.
If you wish to learn the art of changing, learn it from those who go to temples. In a moment they change even their souls! Film actors are not so skilled, for they can only change faces, costumes, paint. But those who go to temples change even the soul. Look into the eyes of the same man in his shop—you will see one thing. Watch him in the temple with his rosary—you will see another man. And a moment later—yet another.
The one who was reading the Quran a moment ago in the mosque, seeing Islam in danger, can plunge a dagger into someone’s chest. The one who was reading the Gita a moment ago, a moment later can set fire to someone’s house for the sake of Hinduism. It takes no time for the religious man to change. And so long as such chameleon-like people are regarded as religious, irreligion will not leave the world.
The fakir said: Thanks to God—they have changed! Fine, if they are others, I will come. He went. He stood in the mosque and said: Friends, I will ask the same question again, since today different people are here—though I recognize every face. Is there God?
The people of the mosque said: There is not. We do not believe; we do not know. Now speak.
The fakir said: The matter is finished. Since He is not, what is there to say? What is the use of speaking? About whom do you ask, friends? About that which is not? Which God? What God?
The people said: This is trouble—we cannot get past this man.
He said: Go home. Never come to the mosque again by mistake. Why do you come here? To seek that which is not? Your search is complete—you know He is not. The matter is finished; there is no further journey. Forgive me—I am going!
The villagers said: What must be done? We must hear this man—surely he hides some secret. He is no ordinary man, because ordinary men are eager to talk. Give them a chance and they speak. This man leaves the chance and runs away. Strange—there must be some secret, some mystery.
On the third Friday they again begged him: Come to our mosque. He said: I have come twice and the matter ended. They said: Today is a third case. Please come—we have prepared a third answer.
The fakir said: Whoever prepares answers—his answers are always false. Do answers have to be prepared? Preparation means the answers are unknown. He who knows does not prepare; he who does not know prepares.
Remember: all the answers you have prepared are false. In life, true answers come—they are not prepared. Truth cannot be prepared. Truth comes; lies are prepared. What we prepare is false; what comes is true. Man does not manufacture Truth.
All that man manufactures is false. That is why all the scriptures, all the sects, all the doctrines that man has made—are false. Man cannot make Truth.
Truth comes when the illusion breaks that I can make Truth. When man abandons all manufactured lies, Truth answers instantly.
The fakir said: Since you have prepared an answer, it is certainly false. Without hearing it I can say it is false. But I will come.
He came the third time. The villagers must have been very clever. But cleverness can prove costly—unbeknownst to them. Cleverness is expensive precisely in those matters where cleverness does not work, where simplicity works. In the realm of Truth, cleverness does not work—cunningness does not work. Simplicity works. There, the simple win; the clever lose.
But the villagers were very clever. They had said they had prepared well. They said: Today we will surely ensnare the fakir. But they did not know that fakirs are hard to ensnare—for a fakir is one who has broken all the ways of being ensnared. Nor did they know that in trying to ensnare another, one often gets ensnared himself.
Anyway, the fakir arrived and said: Friends, the same question again—is there God or not?
Half the mosque raised their hands and said: God is. The other half raised their hands and said: God is not. Now we have given both answers—now you speak.
The fakir folded his hands toward the sky and said: Lord, this village is delightful! And he said: Fools! Since half of you know He is, and half of you know He is not, let those who know tell those who do not. Why do you drag me in between? What need is there for me? Since both kinds are present in this very mosque, settle it among yourselves. I am going.
They never went to the fakir a fourth time. They tried hard to find a fourth answer—but there is none. In truth, only three answers are possible: Yes, No, or both. What fourth could there be?
The fakir stayed many days, waiting—perhaps they would come again. They did not. Later someone asked the fakir: Why are you still here?
He said: I am watching the road—perhaps they will come a fourth time. But they did not.
The man said: How can we come a fourth time? There is no fourth answer. What could we say when you ask?
The fakir said: If I tell you that answer, it will become useless—for for you it will become a learned answer.
Later the fakir wrote in his memoir: I waited, hoping the villagers would come and take me. And when I asked the question, they would fall silent—give no answer at all. If they gave no answer, then I would have to speak—for their silent answer would tell me they are seekers. They had not assumed anything beforehand. They are ready to journey, ready to know. They have not believed anything. He who has believed never sets out on the journey to know. He who has a belief, who has faith, never goes in search of Truth.
Therefore, the first thing I want to say to you: Those set out in search of Truth who become capable of breaking the prison of doctrines.
We are all bound by doctrines, bound by words, bound by shastras—Truth cannot be for us. And these shastras are golden, studded with jewels. Cages can be of gold and studded with gems—but a cage does not cease to be a cage because it is golden. In fact, it becomes more dangerous, for an iron cage you feel like breaking; a golden cage you wish to preserve.
The mind is imprisoned—we have bound ourselves with our own hands.
This is the first thing to know: until we are free of this, our eyes cannot lift toward Truth. Then we will not see what is. We will keep trying to see what we want to be. And so long as we want something to be, we cannot know that which is. So long as we insist that Truth must be thus, we will keep imposing our desire upon Truth. So long as we say God should be like this—flute in hand; or like that—with bow and arrow—we will continue to impose our imaginations upon God.
It may happen that you have visions of a God with a bow; it may happen that Krishna appears playing his flute; it may happen that the image of Jesus on the cross appears. But all these images will be projections of your own mind. They will have no relation to Truth—not even remotely. They will be the web of your imagination, your projection, the play of your desire—your dream. And once a man takes a dream to be Truth, his chances of meeting Truth are finished.
No—the only ones who can know Truth are those whose souls carry no insistence of doctrine. Those in whose minds there is no demand that it be this way. Those who say: Whatever it is, we are ready to know it. And in readiness to know, we are ready to lose all our chains.
And here is the wonder: Truth says only this—Drop your chains, and I will be yours. Truth asks nothing else—only the chains. Drop your chains, and I will be yours.
But we are not ready to drop the chains. We become attached even to chains. And to old chains—most attached. If the chains have come down from forefathers, there is great attachment. Fathers pass their chains to sons; sons pass them to theirs. Men die; chains go on from generation to generation—thousands and thousands of years old. We have even forgotten that we are bound by them.
But take note today—for the first sutra this is essential: so long as there is even a single doctrine holding your mind—whether of the theist or the atheist, whether communist, whether Hindu or Muslim or Christian—so long as any doctrine holds you, you cannot have the darshan of Truth. For what meaning has it to say a doctrine is true before Truth itself is known?
Until I have met Truth, how can I say which shastra is true? If you have seen my photograph and have seen me as well, then you can say which photo is true. But if you have not seen me and a thousand photos are placed before you—can you say which is true? Having seen me, you can say; without seeing me, how will you tell which is true? Whichever photograph you call true then—you are walking the road of falsehood.
Which shastra is true? How will you know—until you know Truth? Which doctrine is true? How will you know? Which Tirthankara? Which Avatar? Which son of God is true? How will you know, unless you know Truth?
You do not know Truth—and you know that some doctrine is true; you know that some scripture is true. Then we are bound to falsehood—and a man bound to falsehood will not come upon Truth.
The first sutra: Look closely at the chains of your mind—of doctrine. And if you can gather courage—here is the strange thing: once the chain is seen, not much effort is needed to gather courage. The chain is unseen; that is why courage is hard. Once it is clear—here is my slavery—no one ever agrees to endure his own slavery. Then breaking it becomes easy.
We will speak of the methods of breaking. But for today, go with this much: Are you also not a slave? Is your mind not imprisoned? Have you not erected walls? Has your mind not settled down clinging to some Truth? If it has—be alert. If it has—stand up. If you have grasped some bondage—drop it.
Once a man gathers courage, such power arises within. Once courage is kindled, the birth of the great soul happens. And once you decide, then no power can keep you a slave. And when a man’s eyes begin to lift toward the sky, toward the open sky—the approach of the Divine begins.
Paramatman is like the open sky. Those who spread their wings and fly within it—surely they come upon That. The bound ones, shut in cages, cannot reach That.
Does it never occur to you to ask: Have we wings or not? Does a thirst never arise in your life-breath—to be free? Have you never seen your bondage? With these questions I complete today’s first talk. Go on asking within, and before sleep ask again and again: Am I also a slave? And if I am a slave—am I willing to be a slave by my own hands?
Then tomorrow morning I will speak to you on the second sutra.
You have listened to my words with so much love and silence—for that I am deeply obliged. And in the end, I bow to the Paramatman seated within each of you. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
A certain emperor once had a bird, who sang in the forests, seized and caged. Even singing can be a crime—if those around are wrong. That poor bird would not even have known that song can turn into bondage. The emperor kept that bird in a golden cage; the cage was inlaid with diamonds and jewels—a cage worth millions.
But for one who has known the freedom of the open sky, what meaning has gold? What meaning have diamonds and pearls? For one whose own wings have tasted flight, who has sung in the boundless sky—whether the cage be gold or iron, it is all the same.
The bird began to beat his head and weep. Yet the emperor and the palace folk thought he was still singing. There are people who weep beating their heads, but those who do not know take it to be a song.
The bird was bewildered, distressed. And slowly the greatest anxiety began to dawn on him: a fear that in this cage, in this confinement, might I not forget how to fly?
A prison cannot inflict any greater harm than this—only one: that the wings forget how to fly.
The bird had but one concern: that I may not forget the very memory of the joy of the open sky. For even if I am freed of the cage someday—what then? Freedom is known only by those whose very breath has tasted the experience and ecstasy of freedom. Simply being let loose in the open sky does not make one free. The bird feared: while living in dependence I may become accustomed to dependence. He was in great disquiet: how to be free?
One morning the bird heard a fakir singing. The fakir sang: For those who would be free there is but one path—that path is Truth. For those who would be liberated there is but one door—that door is Truth. And what is Truth? The fakir’s song said: Truth is that which is. To see whatsoever appears, exactly as it appears; to know it as such, to strive to live it as such, to express it as such—that is Truth. And those who come upon Truth are freed. This was the essence of his song.
He passed along the streets singing. Humans did not hear—but the bird heard. For birds still have the taste of the open sky. Humans have forgotten it completely, have forgotten the whole taste of the open sky. Birds still know they have wings to fly. Man does not even know he too has wings, and he too can fly—into a certain sky. People heard, yet they did not hear. Mere hearing is not hearing. If hearing alone sufficed, by now all humans would long ago have been liberated.
Mahavira cries out, Buddha cries out, Christ cries out, Krishna cries out—who hears?
That fakir shouted in the village—a bird heard; the men did not!
And that very day the bird made a small experiment with Truth.
The emperor was inside the palace; someone had come to call on him. The emperor told the guards to say that the emperor was not at home. The bird cried out: No, the emperor is at home; and it is the emperor himself who has told the guards to say he is not at home.
The emperor was enraged.
Truth enrages everyone—because everyone lives in untruth. And those who are emperors—whether of power, wealth, or religion—who hold any kind of authority, are most angered by Truth. For authority always sits upon the throne of untruth. Hence those in power crucify Truth—because if Truth lives, it becomes a gallows for the powerful.
The emperor ordered: Throw this bird out of the palace at once.
Where is Truth to dwell in palaces! It may roost on trees, but for Truth to dwell in palaces is exceedingly difficult.
The bird was taken out—but his heart’s desire was fulfilled. He began to dance in the sky. And he said: The fakir spoke rightly—if freedom is your longing, Truth is the only door.
The bird danced. But a parrot, perched upon a tree, began to wail and said: Mad bird! You dance after leaving a golden cage? Such cages are good fortune. Not everyone gets them. They come as the fruit of merits from past lives. We had longed for that cage, and you, fool that you are, do not know—there is an art to living in cages.
The first art of living in a cage is: say only what the master says. Do not think whether it is true or false. Whoever begins to think can no longer remain in cages. For thinking is rebellion; and in whose life thought is born, he cannot remain enslaved.
Why did you think, mad bird? Thinking is dangerous. The clever never think. The clever remain in their prisons and take their prisons for houses, for temples. If the discomfort was too much, then from inside you could have decorated the bars of your cage. A decorated cage begins to feel like home. Remember, multitudes decorate their cages and take them for homes—because they have adorned them. But decoration does not change the nature of a cage.
The bird did not even listen; he was dancing in delight, weighing his wings against the winds—he had come to the open sky!
But the parrot said: If you would enjoy living in a cage, learn the art from parrots. We say precisely what the master says. We never say what is true. We do not concern ourselves with Truth. We repeat only what the master repeats—that is all we say. Do not say what the master does. Do not see with your own eyes; do not think with your own mind. See with the master’s eyes; think with the master’s thoughts. So the parrot kept shouting. And into the open cage from which the bird had escaped, the parrot flew and sat inside. The gatekeeper closed the cage.
That parrot is still in the palace cage. He says only what the master says. He will remain there forever—because there is only one way to be free: Truth. Parrots say everything, but never Truth.
And parrots are not only parrots—among human beings the number of parrots is beyond reckoning. These parrots, too, speak only what the master says. For thousands of years they have been repeating what the master says.
In the name of shastras parrots have taken their seats; in the name of sects parrots have taken their seats; in the name of temples parrots have taken their seats. The whole world, all humanity, is harassed by the parrots’ chatter. Listening to their voices, slowly we too become parrots. And we remain unaware that there is also an open sky, that we have wings, that there is Atman, that there is liberation.
If you want to live peacefully in bondage, never even utter the name of Truth. If you take bondage itself to be life, never lift your eyes toward Truth. And if anyone speaks of Truth, consider him an enemy—for Truth is dangerous, because Truth leads toward freedom.
Freedom carries great insecurity. Bondage carries great security.
How secure is the cage! There is no fear of storm or rain, no dread of tempests rising in the sky—no pouring clouds, no cracking lightning. No—no fear at all. Inside the cage a man is utterly safe.
In the open sky there are great fears. A small bird—and such a vast sky! Storms rise, hurricanes come; there is no one to save you, no protection.
Bondage is very safe; bondage is very secure. Freedom is very unsafe; freedom is great insecurity. That is why most people have agreed to be bound.
If you crave security, ask your own mind: Do you crave bondage? If you want security, do not even talk of Truth. If you want security, bondage is best—be it political bondage or religious, bondage to wealth or bondage to words—whoever wants security, bondage suits him.
But here, for these three days, we are contemplating a search for Truth. This search is not for those who take a safe life to be everything. This search is for those in whose life-breath there is no fear of being unsafe. This search is for those who have not forgotten their wings, who have not forgotten the sky, and in whose beings some ancient memory keeps striking—a call to break all bonds, break all walls, fly to where there are no walls, where there is no chain.
But how few such people there are! Peer into hundreds of thousands of eyes, and in only one or two you may see a thirst for freedom. Knock on the hearts of multitudes, and from one in a million you may hear a faint resonance for Truth.
What has happened to all humanity?
Humanity has taken safety to be everything. Security is our religion—somehow remain safe, live, and be finished!
I have heard: An emperor built a palace—so safe that no enemy could possibly enter it.
We all, likewise, build such palaces in life, into which no enemy may enter; in which we may remain absolutely safe. After all, what does a man do all his life? Why does he earn money? To be safe. Why does he seek position? To be safe. Why does he seek fame? To be safe—so that no fear remains in life, so that life may become fearless. But the strange and secret is this: the more you increase safety, the more fear increases.
That emperor had conquered everything. Only one fear remained—that someday some enemy... For whoever sets out to conquer others, creates enemies. The one who goes out to conquer others, slowly makes everyone an enemy. Yes, only the one who is ready to be defeated by others can create friends in this world.
He wished to conquer the whole world—so the whole world became his enemy. When the world turned enemy, fear grew. With fear grew the need for security. He built a great palace with only a single door—no windows, no other doors, not even a small aperture—lest any enemy enter. One door, a vast palace, and at that door, a guard of thousands of naked swords.
The neighboring king came to see this secure palace. The news had spread far and wide. Seeing it, he was much impressed. He said: I am delighted; I too will soon build such a palace. This is absolutely safe—no danger at all.
As the neighboring king took leave and mounted his chariot, the owner of the palace came to see him off. Then once again the neighboring king said: I am very pleased, your understanding is marvelous. No king has ever built such a safe palace. I will quickly go and build one like it. Just then, an old beggar sitting by the roadside began to laugh loudly. The owner of the palace said: Madman, why are you laughing? What is the matter?
The old beggar said: Lord, here is my chance to say what I have long waited to say—I have stayed here many days hoping to meet you at the gate. One mistake remains in this palace. All else is fine. There is one door—that is the mistake. Through it the enemy can enter. You should go inside and brick up this door too—then you will be absolutely safe. Then no enemy can ever enter.
The emperor said: Fool! If I go inside and brick up the door, would this not become a tomb?
The fakir said: It is already a tomb. Only one door remains; that is the only lack for it to be a tomb—complete it too. There is one door; the enemy may enter. If not an enemy, at least death—death will enter through this door. Do this: go inside; then even death will not enter.
The king said: There is no question of going—before death can enter, I will die.
The fakir said: Then understand correctly: the more doors there were in this palace, the more life you had. As the doors were reduced, life reduced. Now one door remains—so a little life remains. Close this too, and that, too, will end. That is why I say: one mistake remains.
And he laughed loudly again. He said: O king, once I too had palaces. Then I realized that palaces become prisons. So I began to make the doors bigger; then I began to pull down the walls. Then it occurred to me: no matter how many doors I make, how many I remove—still the walls remain. So I went outside the walls altogether. Now I am under the open sky—and now I am fully alive.
But we too have built our walls to the extent of our capacity. And the walls that are visible—of stone and clay—are not so dangerous, because they can be seen. There are subtler, more delicate walls—transparent, glassy—unseen. There are walls of thought, of doctrines, of the shastras—utterly invisible. We have erected them around our very souls, so that we may feel safe.
And the more such walls we have gathered around the soul, the farther we have gone from the open sky of Truth. Then the life-breath writhes, the Atman flutters—but the more it flutters, the more we strengthen the walls. Fear arises: perhaps this panic, this restlessness is due to a lack of walls? It is due to the walls themselves.
So long as a man’s soul is enslaved, he can never come upon bliss.
Except for bondage, there is no sorrow.
And remember: the bondage another lays upon you is never the real bondage. What others impose remains mostly on the outside; it never reaches within. But the bondage you yourself accept enters to your very soul. We have accepted many such bondages ourselves.
Who told you that you are a Hindu? Who told you that you are a Muslim? Who told you to bind yourself to Gandhi? Who told you to bind yourself to Buddha? Who told you to bind yourself to Marx? Who told you to bind yourself—at all? No one. You yourself bound yourself with your own hands. Who binds himself with the Gita? Who binds himself with the Quran? Who binds himself with the Bible? No one—you yourself have bound yourself.
There are slaveries others impose upon us, and slaveries we ourselves accept. The slaveries others impose do not go much deeper than the body; but the slaveries we accept bind our very Atman. In this way we are all enslaved.
With such an enslaved mind, how can there be a search for Truth? With such a bound mind, how can there be a journey? With your life-breath bound in chains on every side—how will you rise toward the sky? The chains are heavy indeed.
Trees are bound to the earth because their roots are in the soil. Men appear to walk about—it is a lie, this walking—for their souls’ roots have penetrated the ground even more deeply than trees. That ground is tradition; that ground is society. Into that earth our souls’ roots are clenched. Until we are uprooted from there—until those chains are snapped—there can be no journey toward Truth.
Therefore I want to speak to you today on the first sutra of the journey to Truth: to realize clearly that we are slaves. Man is a slave. Of whom? Of his own stupidity, his own inertia, his own ignorance, his own mindlessness.
We are slaves because of ourselves. If this slavery becomes utterly clear to us, then we can do something to break it.
The most unfortunate slave is he who does not even know he is a slave. The most unfortunate slave is he who takes the prison to be his home. The greatest slave is he who takes chains for ornaments—for once chains are taken as ornaments, we do not break them, we guard them.
I have heard of a magician who raised sheep to sell. He kept sheep, sold them, sold their flesh. He fed them, fattened them; when they were plump with fat and flesh, he slaughtered them. But first he anesthetized his sheep and taught them one thing—he must have been very clever. He hypnotized them and taught them: You are not sheep; you are lions. So each sheep thought itself a lion. Yet every sheep considered other sheep to be sheep. Each took itself to be a lion. So when other sheep were being slaughtered, each would think: I am a lion; there is no question of my being slaughtered. Sheep are slaughtered; they are being slaughtered.
And so sheep were slaughtered every day; yet the remaining sheep felt not the slightest concern. They continued to count themselves lions. Only when their own turn came did they discover that things had gone badly. But by then it was too late; nothing could be done—the time to run had passed. If, seeing other sheep slaughtered, it had occurred to them that we too are sheep, perhaps they would have fled; they might have found some means of escape. But they were under the illusion that they were lions.
When a sheep takes itself to be a lion, you will not find a weaker sheep in all the world—for the very thought that I am a sheep is erased!
Someone asked that magician: Do your sheep never run away? He said: I have done to them what every man has done to himself. What we are not—that is what we have believed ourselves to be. What these sheep are not—that is what I made them believe.
Every man believes: I am free. A greater lie cannot be. And so long as a man keeps believing I am free, I am a free soul, he will do nothing to seek freedom.
Therefore the first Truth to understand is: we are in bondage. We means not the neighbor—we means I. Not the others around me—I.
I am a slave. And it is necessary to feel the full pain of this slavery. It is necessary to become aware of all the dimensions of this slavery, of all the directions from which it holds you down. In what forms it sits upon your chest—this too must be seen. What are the links of this slavery—those too must be seen. Until we become thoroughly acquainted with this spiritual bondage, this spiritual slavery, it cannot be broken.
If a prisoner wishes to escape a prison, what is the first thing he will do? First he must understand: I am a prisoner, I am in a prison. Second, he must become familiar with every wall, every corner of the prison—for no one has ever escaped from a prison without first becoming acquainted with it. To get out from a prison, acquaintance with it is essential. The more acquainted one is with it, the easier it is to be outside of it.
That is why the owners of prisons never allow prisoners to get familiar with the walls and corners. A prisoner familiar with his prison is dangerous—he can slip out at any time. Knowledge always liberates—even knowledge of the prison liberates. Hence, for the jailers, a prisoner’s acquaintance with the prison is dangerous.
And if you want to keep a prisoner unfamiliar with the prison, the first trick is: Convince him that this is not a prison, it is the house of God. It is not a prison at all. Convince him: You are not a prisoner—you are a free person. Convince him: The world is only as much as you see within these walls. There is no world outside—this is all. And if he feels discomfort, tell him to plaster and paint the walls, to scrub them. The walls are dirty—that is why it hurts. Clean the walls—the prison walls. If there is discomfort, plant gardens inside the prison; grow flowers and flowerbeds—fragrance will come, delight will come. Decorate the prison—if there is discomfort, adorn the prison, because it is not a prison, it is home.
And if the prisoner believes these things—can he ever be free? The very question of his being free vanishes. And we have believed such things!
First, we do not even remember that we are shut within a prison. From birth to death we are confined in countless prisons. Walls on every side—but not prison walls, no. When a Hindu says, I am a Hindu; when a Muslim says, I am a Muslim—he does not say, I am confined within the wall of being a Muslim. He proclaims it with pride—as if to be a Muslim, a Hindu, a Jain is some achievement. When a man says, I am Indian, and another says, I am Chinese, it is with great pride. He does not know that these too are walls, that they prevent meeting with the greater humanity.
Whatever obstructs is a wall.
If I am kept from meeting you, whatever stands in between is a wall. If something obstructs between Hindu and Muslim, it is a wall. If something obstructs meeting between the Shudra and the Brahmin, it is a wall—whether visible or invisible. Wherever anything comes in the way of meeting, there is a wall.
And how many walls are there around man—of how many kinds! But these walls are transparent, glassy; you can see through them, so we suspect no wall. Through a stone wall you cannot see. Through the wall between Hindu and Muslim you can see—hence the illusion that there is no wall. That is why transparent walls are most dangerous. You can see through them, but you cannot extend your hand. From the Hindu’s side can a hand really reach toward the Muslim? A wall will intervene; the hand will curl back. Can a meeting occur between Shudra and Brahmin? There is no meeting there.
But it does not occur to us that these are our prisons—walls of doctrine. It does not occur to us that each person sits enclosed within his doctrines—and then nothing is seen.
In Russia they teach that God does not exist. The child grows up hearing only this—there is no God. Around his soul a Lakshman-rekha is drawn: there is no God. Now all his life he will live within this line—There is no God. Whenever he looks at the world, he will look from within this circle—There is no God. He will move carrying this circle with him.
The outer prisons force you to be inside them—you cannot carry them with you. The prisons of the soul are very strange—they travel with you wherever you go, moving all around you.
Now in the mind of the man in whom this idea has been fixed—There is no God—he will live confined within this wall all his life. God can never appear to him, for man can see only what he is prepared to see. And his capacity to see has been crippled, closed; he has decided there is no God. Now nothing will appear to him.
You may say: We are better—we believe there is God. We are in no better condition. The one who has decided there is God will never lift his eyes to search where He is. He has believed it—and it is finished. He thinks: There is—and that ends it. What more is there to do?
He who has believed that God is—gets enclosed in ‘is’. He who has believed that He is not—gets enclosed in ‘is not’. One is enclosed in atheism, one in theism—both have their shells.
But the seeker of Truth says: Why should I make a shell? I do not yet know whether He is or is not. I will fashion no shell. I will search without a shell, without walls. I do not know—therefore I refuse to chain myself to any doctrine. Any kind of doctrine binds a man, and the search for Truth becomes difficult.
A fakir was staying in a village. The villagers said to him: Will you not come and tell us whether God is or is not? The fakir said: God! What concern have you with God? Do your work.
No one has any real concern with God. If we had, this world would be a different world—not so ugly, so filthy, so absurd. If we truly cared for God, we would have made this world another kind of world. Those who sit in temples do not care either; nor do the priests, sadhus and sannyasins—the whole clan. Those who break coconuts before walls of stone do not care. If we cared for God, this world would have become altogether different—because a world that cares for God cannot be so dirty and ugly.
The fakir said: What concern have you with God? See to your work—do not waste time.
But they would not relent. They said: Today is a holiday; you must come.
The fakir said: Ah, now I see—because it is a holiday you remembered God!
On holidays people remember God. When there is no work and one cannot sit idle, he does something—something for God. The idle person always finds something—at least he can twirl a rosary.
The fakir said: Very well, if it is a holiday, I will come. But what shall I say about God? About God nothing has yet been said. Those who knew, remained silent. If I speak, I shall prove myself a fool—by speaking I will prove I do not know. And you ask me to speak. Well then, I will come.
He went to the mosque. The villagers gathered a great crowd. A crowd always creates an illusion—even for understanding God. A crowd gives the illusion that people want to understand God.
The fakir said: So many are eager for God—first let me ask a question: Do you believe in God? Is there God?
The whole village raised their hands: We believe in God; God is.
The fakir said: Then the matter is finished. Since you already know, there is no need for me to speak. I am going back!
The villagers were in a fix. There was no remedy now. They did not know, but they had said they knew; they had raised their hands. To deny at once would not look good.
Who knows? Do you know? But if asked, Is there God?—you too would raise your hand. These hands are lies. The man who can lie even before God—what chance is there for Truth in his life? He who can give false testimony for God—Yes, I know, God is!—when he knows nothing—no ray of God has ever entered his life, no lamp of God has ever been lit in him, no prayer has ever descended, no flower of God has ever bloomed—and yet he says Yes, God is! He never looks within to see he is speaking sheer falsehood.
Fathers lie to sons; gurus lie to disciples; religious leaders lie to followers—and they know nothing of whether He is or not. Of whom are they speaking? If you shake them hard, their God will fall apart. Inside, no voice will say He is. Perhaps while they are telling you He is, within, another voice is saying: What nonsense—you know nothing.
The fakir said: Since you already know, the matter is over. Yet I am surprised—if so many in this village know God, this village should be different. But your village is like all others I have seen.
The villagers were troubled. They said: What shall we do? They said: Next time we will come again. The next Friday they held his feet, saying: Please come and explain God to us.
He said: I came last time, and you said you knew God. The matter ended. Once you know God, what remains to know?
They said: Sir, those must have been other people. We are others. Please come and explain to us—we know nothing; we do not believe in God.
The fakir said: Thanks be to the Divine! These are the very same people; I recognize their faces. Yet they are changing!
Truly, the so-called religious man takes no time to change. There is no more dishonest man than the religious man as such—he can change in an instant. In the shop he is one thing; in the temple he becomes something else. In the temple one thing; stepping out, something else.
If you wish to learn the art of changing, learn it from those who go to temples. In a moment they change even their souls! Film actors are not so skilled, for they can only change faces, costumes, paint. But those who go to temples change even the soul. Look into the eyes of the same man in his shop—you will see one thing. Watch him in the temple with his rosary—you will see another man. And a moment later—yet another.
The one who was reading the Quran a moment ago in the mosque, seeing Islam in danger, can plunge a dagger into someone’s chest. The one who was reading the Gita a moment ago, a moment later can set fire to someone’s house for the sake of Hinduism. It takes no time for the religious man to change. And so long as such chameleon-like people are regarded as religious, irreligion will not leave the world.
The fakir said: Thanks to God—they have changed! Fine, if they are others, I will come. He went. He stood in the mosque and said: Friends, I will ask the same question again, since today different people are here—though I recognize every face. Is there God?
The people of the mosque said: There is not. We do not believe; we do not know. Now speak.
The fakir said: The matter is finished. Since He is not, what is there to say? What is the use of speaking? About whom do you ask, friends? About that which is not? Which God? What God?
The people said: This is trouble—we cannot get past this man.
He said: Go home. Never come to the mosque again by mistake. Why do you come here? To seek that which is not? Your search is complete—you know He is not. The matter is finished; there is no further journey. Forgive me—I am going!
The villagers said: What must be done? We must hear this man—surely he hides some secret. He is no ordinary man, because ordinary men are eager to talk. Give them a chance and they speak. This man leaves the chance and runs away. Strange—there must be some secret, some mystery.
On the third Friday they again begged him: Come to our mosque. He said: I have come twice and the matter ended. They said: Today is a third case. Please come—we have prepared a third answer.
The fakir said: Whoever prepares answers—his answers are always false. Do answers have to be prepared? Preparation means the answers are unknown. He who knows does not prepare; he who does not know prepares.
Remember: all the answers you have prepared are false. In life, true answers come—they are not prepared. Truth cannot be prepared. Truth comes; lies are prepared. What we prepare is false; what comes is true. Man does not manufacture Truth.
All that man manufactures is false. That is why all the scriptures, all the sects, all the doctrines that man has made—are false. Man cannot make Truth.
Truth comes when the illusion breaks that I can make Truth. When man abandons all manufactured lies, Truth answers instantly.
The fakir said: Since you have prepared an answer, it is certainly false. Without hearing it I can say it is false. But I will come.
He came the third time. The villagers must have been very clever. But cleverness can prove costly—unbeknownst to them. Cleverness is expensive precisely in those matters where cleverness does not work, where simplicity works. In the realm of Truth, cleverness does not work—cunningness does not work. Simplicity works. There, the simple win; the clever lose.
But the villagers were very clever. They had said they had prepared well. They said: Today we will surely ensnare the fakir. But they did not know that fakirs are hard to ensnare—for a fakir is one who has broken all the ways of being ensnared. Nor did they know that in trying to ensnare another, one often gets ensnared himself.
Anyway, the fakir arrived and said: Friends, the same question again—is there God or not?
Half the mosque raised their hands and said: God is. The other half raised their hands and said: God is not. Now we have given both answers—now you speak.
The fakir folded his hands toward the sky and said: Lord, this village is delightful! And he said: Fools! Since half of you know He is, and half of you know He is not, let those who know tell those who do not. Why do you drag me in between? What need is there for me? Since both kinds are present in this very mosque, settle it among yourselves. I am going.
They never went to the fakir a fourth time. They tried hard to find a fourth answer—but there is none. In truth, only three answers are possible: Yes, No, or both. What fourth could there be?
The fakir stayed many days, waiting—perhaps they would come again. They did not. Later someone asked the fakir: Why are you still here?
He said: I am watching the road—perhaps they will come a fourth time. But they did not.
The man said: How can we come a fourth time? There is no fourth answer. What could we say when you ask?
The fakir said: If I tell you that answer, it will become useless—for for you it will become a learned answer.
Later the fakir wrote in his memoir: I waited, hoping the villagers would come and take me. And when I asked the question, they would fall silent—give no answer at all. If they gave no answer, then I would have to speak—for their silent answer would tell me they are seekers. They had not assumed anything beforehand. They are ready to journey, ready to know. They have not believed anything. He who has believed never sets out on the journey to know. He who has a belief, who has faith, never goes in search of Truth.
Therefore, the first thing I want to say to you: Those set out in search of Truth who become capable of breaking the prison of doctrines.
We are all bound by doctrines, bound by words, bound by shastras—Truth cannot be for us. And these shastras are golden, studded with jewels. Cages can be of gold and studded with gems—but a cage does not cease to be a cage because it is golden. In fact, it becomes more dangerous, for an iron cage you feel like breaking; a golden cage you wish to preserve.
The mind is imprisoned—we have bound ourselves with our own hands.
This is the first thing to know: until we are free of this, our eyes cannot lift toward Truth. Then we will not see what is. We will keep trying to see what we want to be. And so long as we want something to be, we cannot know that which is. So long as we insist that Truth must be thus, we will keep imposing our desire upon Truth. So long as we say God should be like this—flute in hand; or like that—with bow and arrow—we will continue to impose our imaginations upon God.
It may happen that you have visions of a God with a bow; it may happen that Krishna appears playing his flute; it may happen that the image of Jesus on the cross appears. But all these images will be projections of your own mind. They will have no relation to Truth—not even remotely. They will be the web of your imagination, your projection, the play of your desire—your dream. And once a man takes a dream to be Truth, his chances of meeting Truth are finished.
No—the only ones who can know Truth are those whose souls carry no insistence of doctrine. Those in whose minds there is no demand that it be this way. Those who say: Whatever it is, we are ready to know it. And in readiness to know, we are ready to lose all our chains.
And here is the wonder: Truth says only this—Drop your chains, and I will be yours. Truth asks nothing else—only the chains. Drop your chains, and I will be yours.
But we are not ready to drop the chains. We become attached even to chains. And to old chains—most attached. If the chains have come down from forefathers, there is great attachment. Fathers pass their chains to sons; sons pass them to theirs. Men die; chains go on from generation to generation—thousands and thousands of years old. We have even forgotten that we are bound by them.
But take note today—for the first sutra this is essential: so long as there is even a single doctrine holding your mind—whether of the theist or the atheist, whether communist, whether Hindu or Muslim or Christian—so long as any doctrine holds you, you cannot have the darshan of Truth. For what meaning has it to say a doctrine is true before Truth itself is known?
Until I have met Truth, how can I say which shastra is true? If you have seen my photograph and have seen me as well, then you can say which photo is true. But if you have not seen me and a thousand photos are placed before you—can you say which is true? Having seen me, you can say; without seeing me, how will you tell which is true? Whichever photograph you call true then—you are walking the road of falsehood.
Which shastra is true? How will you know—until you know Truth? Which doctrine is true? How will you know? Which Tirthankara? Which Avatar? Which son of God is true? How will you know, unless you know Truth?
You do not know Truth—and you know that some doctrine is true; you know that some scripture is true. Then we are bound to falsehood—and a man bound to falsehood will not come upon Truth.
The first sutra: Look closely at the chains of your mind—of doctrine. And if you can gather courage—here is the strange thing: once the chain is seen, not much effort is needed to gather courage. The chain is unseen; that is why courage is hard. Once it is clear—here is my slavery—no one ever agrees to endure his own slavery. Then breaking it becomes easy.
We will speak of the methods of breaking. But for today, go with this much: Are you also not a slave? Is your mind not imprisoned? Have you not erected walls? Has your mind not settled down clinging to some Truth? If it has—be alert. If it has—stand up. If you have grasped some bondage—drop it.
Once a man gathers courage, such power arises within. Once courage is kindled, the birth of the great soul happens. And once you decide, then no power can keep you a slave. And when a man’s eyes begin to lift toward the sky, toward the open sky—the approach of the Divine begins.
Paramatman is like the open sky. Those who spread their wings and fly within it—surely they come upon That. The bound ones, shut in cages, cannot reach That.
Does it never occur to you to ask: Have we wings or not? Does a thirst never arise in your life-breath—to be free? Have you never seen your bondage? With these questions I complete today’s first talk. Go on asking within, and before sleep ask again and again: Am I also a slave? And if I am a slave—am I willing to be a slave by my own hands?
Then tomorrow morning I will speak to you on the second sutra.
You have listened to my words with so much love and silence—for that I am deeply obliged. And in the end, I bow to the Paramatman seated within each of you. Please accept my pranam.