At an exhibition there was a great crowd. Many new things were there to be seen. Many people had gone to look. One man had even brought a kangaroo to show. Outside his shack too there was a big crowd. But one family was deep in thought. The husband was very worried, the wife was worried as well. They too wanted to see. But they had eighteen children, and they were twenty in all. The ticket was ten paise. Even then, for twenty people it came to two rupees. The man exhibiting the kangaroo also noticed their difficulty, came to them and said: You look very troubled?
The man said, We are twenty—eighteen are my children, my wife and I. Could you let us see more cheaply? Some concession rate? The showman asked: These eighteen are your own children? The father said, They are my own children. Then he said: Then do not worry. The kangaroo will be very pleased to see you. We’ll bring him out—let him see you! And here, take these ten paise—payment for the kangaroo’s seeing you!
When I heard this, I thought, now even animals must be eager to see man! Enough of it—so long we have stared at animals. In the condition man has come to on this earth, animals too must be eager to look at him. Some arrangement should be made that there be museums of human beings, and animals can go there to see man. In fact, there may be no need to build museums at all; if animals could be taken to Delhi, the job would be done.
The capitals have become museums. Strange sorts of men—the in-between of man—have gathered there. All kinds of mad and deranged are collected there. But whatever has appeared in the capitals—of all that we are responsible. In some measure we all are partners. The whole human race has become one vast museum.
I have heard that when Darwin died… while alive, people harassed him because he said that man is the evolution of monkeys. Man had always imagined himself God’s son. God never said so, never issued any certificate! Man just kept thinking so. But when Darwin said man was born from monkeys, people were very angry with him. Darwin thought, at least the monkeys will be pleased with me. But when he died, the ghosts of monkeys surrounded him and said, You have done us great injustice. You call man our evolution? Man is our degeneration. Strayed monkeys have become men, fallen monkeys have become men, degraded monkeys have become men. Correct your theory. Darwin said: Indeed, that is what I wanted to say. But when even evolution made men harass me so, had I said degeneration, I would have been in real trouble!
Jokes aside, man’s problem is very serious. And the greatest problem is this: we attempted to create society, but a museum has come into being. When I used to pass through a zoo, this thought would come. I have seen animals in the forest as well—their freedom, their delight, their exuberance. The birds’ songs, their dances, their leaps, their runs—under the open sky, beneath the open sun. And then I have seen animals in the zoo—sad, shut in cages, restless, disturbed.
Passing through a zoo, it struck me: these very animals are in the jungle, and these very animals are in the zoo, yet the difference is immense. The chief difference: in the forest they are free, independent; in the zoo they are caged behind bars. Then I began to inquire what differences arise between animals of the forest and animals of the zoo—and I was amazed. I discovered that diseases never found among animals in the jungle arise in animals in the zoo. For instance, ulcer does not happen to an animal of the forest, but it happens to an animal in the zoo. Ulcer is in truth born of deep anxiety—wounds form in the stomach from deep worry. Ulcer is a mental disease. The very diseases that afflict man afflict the animals of the zoo—not the animals of the forest.
I was further startled to learn that any kind of derangement hardly ever occurs among animals in the wild; commonly it does not. Wild animals are not generally found going mad; animals in zoos go mad. I also learned something astonishing: no animal in the wild has ever attempted self-destruction, suicide; but animals in zoos attempt suicide as well.
Then I began to think: man does all these things that the animals of the zoo do. Is it not that man has lost the freedom that was necessary? Is it not that man has lost the life that could have been his? Is it not that he has lost the open sky, lost liberation, lost the sun—and has built enclosures, raised bars with his own hands, and shut himself inside them? Otherwise, this madness, this self-destruction, so many illnesses, such mental diseases—do not seem possible.
In animals of the forest there is no sexual perversion, no pathological kink; but in the zoo animals acquire the very perversions found in man. In the wild, no animal masturbates; but in the zoo animals begin to masturbate. In the wild, no animal is homosexual; in the zoo animals become homosexual.
These facts were so startling that I felt somewhere we have gone wrong. Man’s society did not come into being; a zoo did. For every kind of disease, every kind of perversion, every kind of mental disorder—what we call society and civilization—perhaps that itself stands behind us as a great disease. If it can be understood, perhaps it can be changed.
In the direction of understanding, two or three things must be considered. First, we must inquire: what are those bars that have stolen man’s freedom? They are not visible. I walk along the road—no bars around me. You sit here—no bars around you. Had the bars been visible, perhaps we would not be so deluded. But man has invented such bars as are invisible, and within those bars we have been increasingly confined.
Take, for example, nation. Nation is a prison that is invisible. If I wish to cross the border of India, I need the government’s permission. I cannot cross the border. If I wish to enter Pakistan, I need Pakistan’s government’s permission. At the border stands an enclosure through which no one can pass. After all, what prison does a prisoner have? Within the prison walls he too is free; only he cannot go outside the walls—there the guards stand. But the prison wall is small—it can be seen. The wall of the nation is vast—it cannot be seen. Yet guards stand there too. And beyond the national boundary there is no entry anywhere. Nation is a vast prison—unseen. Within it we may roam in great freedom.
Then we have made smaller prisons—religious prisons. Nation is one thing; but if within a nation there are ten religions, then there are ten smaller prisons. Each has its limits—you cannot go outside them. Outside them you cannot marry, outside them you cannot invite a friend to supper. Outside them, eating becomes impossible. Outside them, to extend a hand in friendship is very difficult. The Hindu has his own prison, the Muslim his own. Sometimes they enter each other’s prisons—but not as friends, as enemies. As happened recently in Ahmedabad. They break into each other’s walls to murder—not to befriend. With those whom marriage is forbidden, only their killing can be done. With those with whom friendship cannot be made, only enmity can be made. Sometimes the walls of religions break—but they break only when the desire to enter each other’s houses to kill arises.
Then there are the prisons of Hindu and Muslim, of Jain and Buddhist. That too does not suffice; those are big prisons, then there are smaller prisons: among Jains—the prisons of Digambara and Shvetambara. That too does not suffice; within the Shvetambara, the prisons of Terapanthi and Sthanakvasi. That too does not suffice; we keep splitting. If you look closely, there are boundaries within boundaries, prisons within prisons. As if you have seen a magician’s nested boxes—within a box a box, and within it another, and yet another—no end to boxes, and panic begins to arise.
Thus man is shut in a thousand kinds of prisons. If he does not become a zoo animal, what else can he become? If we are to create a society of man, not a zoo—not a crowd of deranged, mad, sick people, but a society of living beings filled with love, brimming with compassion—then we must show a willingness to break all kinds of prisons. It does not matter what the prison is called. People of the big prison try to break the smaller ones. Those to whom the nation appears lovable say: break the prisons of religion—so that the nation’s prison may be strengthened. Those who find the nation valuable say: break the provinces’ prisons—so that the nation’s prison be strengthened.
But as yet, in the world very few are eager to break prisons as such—who do not say: break the small prison for the sake of the big. As long as we think in this language, prisons will never break. Man cannot be outside captivity, cannot be outside the bars. Once for all, man must understand that we do not wish to live behind bars—whether the bars are named Hindu, or Jain, or Brahmin, or Shudra, or India, or China, or Pakistan—we do not wish to live behind bars. All kinds of bars are dangerous and are driving man mad. Why? Why do bars drive man mad?
Every person needs a living space to be alive, a vastness is needed. The greater the expanse, the freer the life; the lesser the expanse, the more life shrinks. The larger the expanse, the more the soul spreads; the smaller the expanse, the more the soul contracts. This is the difference between living in a big house and living in a small cell. In a small cell we too shrink; in a big house we too expand.
The more the expanse, the broader the foundation of life; the more the soul unfolds. But we break into fragments. Even after splitting into small fragments we are not satisfied; then we break into even smaller fragments. Splitting and splitting, in the end, each person remains a fragment—each one a tiny piece. Boundaries gather on all sides; closed from every side, man becomes restless within.
This has a double consequence. First: the soul never gets to spread; and when the soul cannot spread, madness begins; derangement sets in. Second: false ways have to be found to spread the soul. When life is bound on all sides, one has to search for ways to spread the soul that are wrong in themselves. As today, all over the world, to expand consciousness people are using drugs—LSD, mescaline.
Do you know, man has shrunk so much that only by becoming unconscious can he feel he has spread! They call LSD a consciousness-expanding drug. They say that by taking LSD a man’s consciousness expands for a while. For six hours, ten hours, all limits break; he becomes one with the whole universe. The moon feels one with himself; flowers seem to bloom within; the sun does not seem distant, it comes near; the world’s boundaries fall.
On the one hand we go on creating boundaries, and man is so restless that to touch the limitless he is compelled to use chemicals like LSD. Religious people oppose LSD—but the irony is, the very boundaries that religious people erect force people to take LSD. On the one hand man goes mad, bound in limits; on the other, sick of limits, he searches for pathways of unconsciousness.
Look at the whole history of the human race this way and you will be surprised: in the long history of humanity we have used wine, intoxications, ganja, opium, mescaline, soma—up to LSD—so that consciousness might expand, spread, that limits might break. From the rishis of the Rigveda to America’s modern beats and hippies—so human consciousness might expand.
But why can man’s consciousness not expand? We have tied boundaries all around. Those boundaries we are not ready to break. If this remains the situation, then in the next fifty years the consciousness of man will be buried under unconsciousness and chemicals. There will be no other way left—to feel expanded. But is this a right way? Does the experience of expansion under intoxication have any spiritual value? None at all.
By feeling expansion in intoxication no transformation happens; coming back, one shrinks again. But can we not truly experience expansion? Can we not break all limits? Who stops man from breaking limits? Only we have no idea. We do not see that the limits we ourselves have created have cast our souls into prisons—and within them we have become restless and troubled. That turmoil appears in many forms.
Today there is revolt and rebellion everywhere. All over the world there is a rebellion. The new children are eager to break all the old things. The new are going mad to erase all old values. Who is responsible? The new boys? No. All those who till now gave rules and principles to the human race are responsible, who did not make man free but dependent; who bound him so hard that the bondage has reached the last limit—and the children have become eager to break those chains.
But even the children do not know what they are breaking. Setting a bus on fire cannot break the bondage of consciousness. Nor can throwing stones at school windows break the fetters of the soul. Not with bottles of liquor, nor by burning school furniture, can these chains be broken. These bonds are very invisible. The bonds of Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian are very inner—hidden—they are not seen. Without breaking them man’s soul cannot be free.
Is it not possible that man be simply man? Is it not possible that the whole earth be our mother—not Mother India, not Mother Pakistan—the whole earth our mother? Is that not possible? The truth is precisely this: the whole earth is one. Nowhere are India and Pakistan split. There is no crack anywhere on earth where India ends and Pakistan begins, where Germany ends and Russia begins. There are no lines upon the soil—except on the maps of insane politicians. The earth is not divided anywhere. But the politicians divide her.
I said: the first kind of bondage that has driven man mad has been given by religionists. The second kind of bondage that has fragmented the earth and set man against man has been given by politicians. The fetters of religion slowly grow slack, because the disease is old—we gradually awaken to it. But the fetters of politics are new, and we have not yet even thought to awaken to them.
In truth, in place of the religious guru, the politician has come. In place of Mecca and Medina, capitals have come. Now Mecca is not important—Kremlin is important—that too is a new kind of Mecca! Now Kashi is not important—Peking is important—that too is Kashi for new people. Now the Gita and the Quran are not as important—Das Kapital is more important—that too is a scripture for the new religious. The old gurus are replaced; in their place have come new gurus—and more dangerous. The new gurus are politicians who are dividing man again, fragmenting him place by place. They have cut the whole earth into pieces, and then the small pieces into yet smaller pieces.
So many pieces—and because of them, so many wars. Because of so many wars, the flowers of peace and joy cannot bloom in human life. In the last three thousand years there have been fifteen thousand wars. An average of five wars per year—somewhere on earth, a war goes on. Somewhere a fire blazes—be it Vietnam, be it Korea, be it Kashmir. Somewhere flames will rise; somewhere man will burn. In some corner or other, disturbances and wounds keep forming. Not even one day has there been complete peace on earth. Somewhere there is turmoil!
Why? Who breaks man? Who sets him face to face? The politician breaks him. But the politician is compelled to break, because without dividing one cannot rule.
Under the British in India, Indian politicians used to say: the British rule by divide and rule. But who will ask: what is the rule of politicians all over the world? The same—divide and rule. As long as the earth is broken into fragments, thousands of politicians will rule. The day man becomes one, politicians will have to depart. The unity of mankind would be the suicide of politicians—therefore the politician will never allow man to be one.
Hitler wrote in his autobiography: If your country has no enemies, create false enemies; for until you create an enemy, you cannot become a great leader. For a great leader, the prelude of war is necessary. If real enemies are found—well and good; otherwise, create false ones. But enemies are necessary. For when there is an enemy, the public stands behind the leader—in panic, in fear, in insecurity. They say: save us. And he who promises to save becomes great. Therefore all wars produce great leaders.
If one is to be a great leader, war is very necessary. In times of peace great leaders do not arise. For a great leader, struggle is necessary, war is necessary, violence is necessary, killing is necessary. The more the killing, the more the violence, the greater the leader becomes. In times of peace a great leader does not appear. And if peace were to become permanent, leaders would fade out entirely—no one would even ask of them. They are needed only then.
At the crossroads a policeman stands. Why is he there? Because there are thieves. In the court a magistrate sits—because there are thieves. If the thieves were to depart, the policeman would depart; the magistrate too would depart. Therefore, while the magistrate punishes thieves outwardly, inwardly he prays to God: let them come daily. It is natural—his trade depends on thieves, his life depends on thieves.
The politician says outwardly, We want peace—and releases doves, doves of peace! But inwardly he desires war. Without war, the political leader has no place. Without war, politics has no place. In truth, politics is born out of war. If a big war is not going on, a small one must be kept going. If there is no fight outside the country, there must be one inside. If not inside either, then split the one party into two and run a fight there!
A great leader is born in battle; small leaders live in peace. The small can never become great while there is no fight. So a fight must go on—on any planes. On a thousand planes a fight must go on. War makes the leader great. It excites the public, lifts their eyes to look at the leader. Therefore the leader is constantly engaged in contriving new fights.
And the irony: every day he stands on the platform and says, We need peace, we need unity. Let men gather together, let all be one. On the stage he will say this; behind the stage he will do all the things that prevent man from being one, that prevent mankind, that prevent the earth from ever uniting. Behind the stage that effort goes on—and we can understand it.
There is a doctor—he treats patients and strives from all sides to heal them. The doctor is there to cure. But you know: when epidemics spread—plague, or flu—doctors say among themselves: the season is good! The season for a doctor comes only when flu spreads, plague spreads, malaria spreads—when people become ill on a large scale! Here the doctor treats the patient; there he prays that the ill increase! A rich patient is very difficult to cure—for the poor, there is no interest in keeping them sick for long. The rich are often perpetually ill, because the longer the rich remain ill, the more in the doctor’s interest. Outwardly the doctor appears to fight illness; inwardly he prays for illness.
Therefore, remember: the faces seen on the stage are not the same behind the stage. On the stage the faces are entirely made-up. On the stage they say one thing—and ninety-nine times out of a hundred they will be doing the very opposite behind the stage. Whenever talk of peace goes on, behind it arrangements for war are underway. Therefore it is strange that all the wars of the world are for peace! All wars are for peace. They say: We are fighting so that there may be peace in the world. Fighting is necessary; to protect peace, war is necessary. Hitler fights to protect peace, and Churchill too. And Roosevelt and Stalin—each fights for peace. India and Pakistan too—each fights for peace.
But the politician’s life depends on unrest. He cannot desire peace. And if the world desires peace, it is necessary to bid farewell to the politician. He should step aside; he should have no place. But today he has every place. We give him all power. And he is the basic ground of our unrest. We feed him. We honor him and garland him—because he speaks words of peace. But words of peace have nothing to do with peace.
I have heard: One night, in a hotel, some friends kept dining and drinking until late. As they departed around one in the morning, the manager said: If such good gentlemen come daily, the moons of our life will shine. One of the guests, who had paid the bill, said: Pray to God that our business goes well—then we will come daily. The manager said: I will pray every day that your business go well; but do tell—what is your business? He said: Do not ask—or praying may become difficult. Still, the manager insisted: At least tell us your business; we will pray. The man said: I sell firewood at the cremation ground. If our business runs daily—if ten or five people reach the cremation ground every day—we will come daily.
Someone’s business too is selling wood at the cremation ground. He is waiting for you. He is waiting for me. Waiting for us to die—his shop isn’t running.
The politician’s business is exactly selling wood at the cremation ground. He waits: when will war come, when will people die, when will violence erupt?—so that he may come and tell people: Peace is needed. On the one hand he will instigate war, cause riots; on the other, to quell those riots he will form peace committees. The same person who sets up the conflict arranges for peace as well.
When will we recognize these double faces? If we do not, man’s condition will grow worse day by day. It is very necessary to understand that the mullah or the pandit who stirs quarrels is the same one who becomes a member of the peace committee. He is the same one who then prays in mosque and temple. He prays that there be peace among all. And who, besides temple and mosque, creates unrest in man? Temples and mosques will create unrest. The priest will explain that the cow is mother; if even the tail of the cow is cut, riots will ensue. Then he will explain: Keep peace! You have become irreligious; a religious man is always peaceful. The mosque’s man will explain: This hair is of the Prophet; this hair is very precious—this Hazratbal is no ordinary hair. If this hair is stolen away, hundreds may be killed; but the hair must be protected. And when riots and arson happen, when corpses are strewn, that same mullah will explain: Muhammad’s message is peace—let all live in peace. Islam itself means peace; all should live peacefully.
When will we recognize these double faces? The politician will incite war and continue to talk of peace. If we do not recognize these double roles, this duplicity, society will never become society—this zoo will continue. But these faces can be recognized. A probing can be done within.
Why is the politician so eager for war?
All ambitious people are eager for war. Because ambition is the birthplace of war. All ambitious ones will yearn for war; for in peace, the sapling of ambition cannot grow. It grows only in unrest; unrest is manure to it. And the politician is ambition to the ultimate degree—ambitious par excellence. Beyond him there is no greater ambition. He is dying of ambition. He has to be something; he has to be somebody; he must become something—and to become that something, who knows how many nets he will weave—of principles, of ideologies, of the poor, of socialism, of welfare, of general good. He will talk of all these things, and behind there is only one thing—it is necessary to recognize that second face—otherwise great difficulty. The second face is: he has to be something. Whether he becomes something by the stairway of socialism, or of communism, or of Gandhism—that is secondary. The stairs are meaningless. He has to be something; he must reach the station of somebody. And once he reaches, he kicks away the very stairs—because others might come up on those same stairs. Let him reach once; his first task is to break the steps by which he came.
Stalin reached power in the name of communism, then he began to pull down the steps. It is said that he poisoned Lenin. It cannot be said with certainty—because when a man like Stalin poisons, to detect it is very difficult. But Lenin’s last statements and letters say that surely something amiss happened—Lenin was suddenly put out; slowly he was poisoned. Lenin—the very ladder on which Stalin climbed—had to be cast down.
Trotsky had to flee Russia—the second step by which the revolution rose. In Mexico, Stalin’s man smashed his skull with a hammer and murdered him. Trotsky’s dog had been left back in Russia—Stalin’s people shot the dog and dragged it through the streets. Even the dog—Trotsky’s dog—should not be spared. Someone might climb even on a dog; it could be a stair. Trotsky’s dog! If Gandhi’s wooden sandals can become a stair, why not Trotsky’s dog? Anything can be used to climb. So it too was gunned down.
Then Stalin killed from sixty lakhs to a crore of people in Russia. Where a crore of capitalists in Russia? In no country of the world. Then who were killed? Workers too, the poor too.
The strange thing: in whose name the revolution happened—the poor—those very poor were gunned down. The stairs had to be broken; all stairs had to be broken. Stalin wiped out man by man, broke spoke by spoke of the ladders—he went on breaking.
After Stalin’s death, Khrushchev spoke at a gathering and said: Stalin had so many people killed, and in this way harmed socialism. A man stood and said: You too were with Stalin all your life—why did you not speak earlier? Khrushchev said: Sir, stand up a moment so I can see your face clearly—what is your name? The man did not stand, nor did he speak again in that crowd. Khrushchev said: Why have you fallen silent? For the very reason you are silent—I too had to be silent. For if this face were seen, then tomorrow it would not be seen at all. Therefore I had to remain silent. If I had spoken once—then forever… When Lenin and Trotsky could not be spared, what hope for poor Khrushchev? By silence he could be saved.
It goes this way the world over—the steps by which man climbs must be broken. But these climbers, their sole craving is to be something. It does not matter which stairs they use—they always use those that have popular appeal. On the shoulders of the poor many climb—because the poor carry great pain in their hearts, and anyone who says, We stand for you—yet until now, on this earth, none has really stood for the poor. Until the poor stand for themselves, none can stand for them. Until then they will find new nets of exploitation.
The politician’s basic craving is the gratification of ego. The day this race of ego-gratification ends, there will be no politician. The deep race is: I must be something. And this race is not only in politicians; they are only those among us who become most imbued with it. A few others run in other directions. In truth, we teach the child to be a politician on the first day. Your boy goes to school the first day—you say, You must come first. You have begun to sow the poison of politics. Neither the child knows it, nor you, nor his teacher—that a politician has begun to be born. First rank! We have poured poison into his blood. Now all his life he will try to be number one. If he goes utterly mad for first place, he becomes a politician; if a little less mad, he may find some satisfaction in other directions—he may become a painter, a sculptor, a religious guru. But if the race catches him hard and reaches the extreme, then there is no way but to be a politician. Every person wants to be number one.
We are so many here; if we draw a great circle and say, Here is the president’s chair—and all must reach it—this hall will go mad at once. We will all begin to run. And the one who reaches will not be able to stay either, because all the others are pushing him to remove him. He who has not reached cannot rest, because he must reach; he who has reached cannot remain, because others must push him off. If this hall goes mad, is it a surprise?
Human life has come to stand in a zoo because we all are in the mad race to be number one—whether in wealth, in fame, in position—it makes no difference. Until we free man from the race of being number one, he cannot be healthy.
Therefore I want to say the second thing: all boundaries should break, and the very roots of human ambition should be cut. If ambition remains, it will manifest in new forms. Ambition is strange—it says: I must become something. But the delight is this: I am that which I am—there is no question of becoming. The very talk of becoming is wrong. I am that which I am. And every person is unique. Life is wondrous—each is incomparable, unmatched. I am I; you are you. Who says I must become you—or you must become me? If such things arise we will go mad. Even two thumbprints are not alike in this world—how can two souls be alike? Even the lines of two palms are not the same—how can two lives be the same? Each person is incomparable. But the whole old history of humanity teaches comparison—ahead of the other, like the other, above the other. No one says: be like yourself. Until we can teach children that each must be himself—never fall into the race to be like another—there can be no freedom from politics. But we do not accept any child as he is. We do not accept him. We say he must become someone else. We tell the child: Become a Rama, become a Buddha, become a Krishna, become a Gandhi, become a Rabindranath, become a Vivekananda. Become someone—but by mistake never become yourself—leave only that, become anyone else!
What fault has the child committed that he must become a Vivekananda? And whom did Vivekananda become like—someone may ask. Vivekananda became like himself. What fault in this child that he must become like Vivekananda? Vivekananda did not become like Rama, nor like Krishna, nor like Buddha. And Buddha cared for no Rama, no Krishna; he became like himself.
The few names on this earth that seem fragrant to us are those who became like themselves. The rest of humanity loses its fragrance, because it falls into the race of becoming like others—the race to be in another’s seat, to have another’s house, another’s clothes, another’s position. From the lowest peon to the president, all are engaged. In this race, life cannot attain to fragrance or beauty. When someone becomes devoid of inner fragrance and inner beauty, when he becomes ugly, when he fails to make the flowers of his life bloom—then he begins to strive that others’ flowers not bloom. Then he thinks: If I could not become something, let me at least prevent another from becoming; that too will be some satisfaction. He who becomes unhappy within engages in erasing the happiness of others. He who becomes restless within is left with one joy—that no one else become peaceful. Then, rather than a journey toward our own happiness, we get busy in making others unhappy. Our hands are on each other’s throats.
Chesterton one morning was in a garden. He and Bernard Shaw were walking. Bernard Shaw asked casually—Chesterton was very fat; Shaw thin and lean, hands in his pockets—Could it be that a man live his whole life with his hands in his own pockets? Chesterton said: It is possible—only the hands should be his own and the pockets someone else’s.
He said it as a joke—but it is true. Our hands are ours; the pockets are always others’.
We all have our hands in others’ pockets. If everyone’s hand is in someone else’s pocket, and everyone’s hand on someone else’s throat, and everyone’s hand busy in snatching another’s happiness—can life be happy? Life becomes miserable, ugly, meaningless—a gang of killers, a gang of the dishonest. Where there is so much dishonesty, so much killing, so much theft, so much hatred and violence, so much desire to cause others pain—how can even a single person be peaceful? It becomes very difficult. And so, as civilization grows—civilization meaning: hands in others’ pockets—our fingers on others’ necks tighten. As civilization grows, man goes mad. It is not difficult to imagine that in a thousand or two thousand years we might have to shut the good people in prisons—because the mad will be so many that to build prisons for them will be difficult, and the good will be so few that they must be protected. This could happen. It is not very difficult. Because things gradually get worse. But we give beautiful names to madness. We put fine labels on ambition. The double act then deceives; we give madness a good name. If I stab you, I am mad. But if I say I am a Hindu and you are a Muslim, then I am not mad—this is the great joke. If I burn a child in the fire, I am mad; but if the child is a Hindu and I am a Muslim, then I am not mad. What difference will it make to the burning child whether he is Hindu or Muslim? The child will burn in the fire in any case. The same pain will be in his life—no less for being Muslim, no more for being Hindu. The child is a child—and for the sins of old men he is being given the fruit. The same pain will be in his burning, and the same ugly event is happening in this world. The one who burns the child is turning to stone within—whether he be Hindu or Muslim makes no difference. But if I burn a child for no reason, I will be taken for mad, a murderer; but if I burn a Muslim child, I may even be carried in procession as a very religious man. We give names to madness!
A man lives next door to me—he draws water at the public tap. If any woman passes by, he washes his pot again. If a woman appears, he washes again. Sometimes a hundred times he must do it—because it is a street; no woman can be stopped. He is poor—no tap at home—he must fill at the crossroads tap. But if a woman is seen, his pot is defiled—so he washes it. People of the neighborhood call him religious. Many touch his feet. I asked one day: Why so much respect? They said: You do not know—he is very religious. If a woman passes, he washes his pot again. Such a man is mad; he should be in a madhouse; he needs treatment. But he has become religious—because ten madmen have gathered who say: How marvelous—washing the pot! This ritual is of a madman. A man sits at home fingering a rosary—and we say: He is religious. Think! If fingering a rosary were not religious in our idea, and suddenly someone in the house began to run his fingers over beads with eyes closed, we would call the doctor: What has happened to this man?—eyes shut, sliding beads? But we do not call a doctor because we have assumed this label of religiosity.
In Tibet they have made a prayer wheel. They are more clever. They made a wheel like a charkha, with 108 spokes and a mantra on each spoke. We finger 108 beads; they made a 108-spoked wheel—prayer wheel. They spin it; give it a push—it turns ten or five rounds—they get the benefit of that many mantras. Now electricity must have reached there; they should plug it in—it will whirl all day. This is a religious man. As many rounds turn—so many times 108—he gets the merit of mantras. The day there is a little intelligence, we will have to treat this man. What is he doing? But when we put labels on, madness becomes hard to recognize. For this very reason, in Eastern countries the number of mad seems fewer than in the West—there is no other reason. Many kinds of madmen here have other labels; there, all kinds of mad are labeled mad. There the count looks higher; here it looks lower. The numbers are the same; the only difference is that here there are many classifications. Some are religious mad—so we do not call them mad. Some are political mad—we do not call them mad. Some are mad in other ways—mad of diverse kinds—we do not call them mad; thus fewer mad remain—because many escape the label ‘mad’ and wear another label. But we must recognize this.
Ambition too gets other labels. Someone says, I must serve the people—but he says this only until he holds office. The moment he reaches office, what is ‘people’?—no meaning remains. The service of the people is complete—because the fellow has reached the post. He needed to reach—that is why he had to serve the people. Now, having reached, the people depart; he has no concern with them. By labeling ambition as ‘service of the people,’ he obtains cover, and ambition can operate. Therefore we must now be cautious of ‘servants of the people.’ The harm done by servants of the people is greater than that done by outright villains—because we can be cautious of villains; from the villain we can protect ourselves—he may cause harm. But the servant begins by massaging the feet and ends by grabbing the throat. It is hard to recognize, because from massaging feet no one imagines he will seize the neck. And while he massages, we fall asleep—and his hand reaches the throat. In truth, massaging the feet is the stair to catch the throat—a trick.
Humanity needs to be cautious of these double faces. Peel off the labels and see the inner truth. Then perhaps we can create a society of man; otherwise, society will not be created.
One or two more things to understand in this connection. Why is there so much sickness of mind in man? Why? Why is man not simple, not natural? Everyone teaches: be spontaneous, be simple—but man is not simple at all; he is very complex. Indeed, those whom we call simple—their complexities are even more remarkable.
One day I traveled by train; with me a sannyasin boarded. He was wrapped in coarse rags—bandages of burlap. Many people had come to see him off. I asked someone and was told: He is a very simple man—don’t you see he wears no clothes, only rags—so simple. I wondered: What has tying rags to do with simplicity? Still, since so many had come to praise, perhaps they were right. The train moved. I lay with eyes closed. He removed his rag-strings and set them aside. There was a small basket—two or three more rag-bands inside—perhaps his other clothes. He looked toward me to see if I was awake. I lay with eyes closed. From beneath the rags he took out money, quickly counted it, put it back under the rags. The money must have been offerings. Still, he was afraid—though only we two were in the compartment—so he put the money beneath his head, pressed under the rags, and slept.
In the morning he stood before the mirror, tying his rags with great grooming. There is no meaning in tying rags before a mirror. If someone tied silks before a mirror—immediately one understands—he is adorning himself. But a naked fakir tying rags before a mirror—our understanding does not grasp it. He too is adorning himself, he too is preparing. In one way he tied a rag—then in another—then in a third way—and was ready. Looking in the mirror he was pleased. He thought I was asleep. I was amazed: the mind of man is so cunning. From burlap rags it can derive the work of silk and velvet. The feeling of adornment remains the same; there is no change. As a woman gets ready, so was he. I do not deny dressing up; but when the preparation hides behind rags, we feel simplicity has arrived—then we are deceived. When difficulty hides behind simplicity, we are deceived. Above there is simplicity—inside a difficult man; above white clothes—inside a black man. Deception.
Man should be simple—because without simplicity one cannot be blissful. But who did not allow man to be simple? If he wears khadi, will he become simple? If he wears rags, will he become simple? If he stands naked, will he become simple?
To be simple is not so simple. Man can be simple on one condition alone: simplicity will come if he accepts himself as he is. If he enjoys seeing his face in the mirror, let him not look secretly; let him say: I enjoy looking in the mirror. He will become simple. If he looks secretly, he will become complex. If he says: I do not like silk—I like burlap—and then views his rags in the mirror, he will treat the rags like silk—and become more complex. Let man accept himself as he is—then simplicity can come.
But the past history of mankind has not allowed us to be simple; it has taught us the opposite. Whatever is in the mind, the opposite has been taught—and man has become complex. From complexity, sick. From sickness, increasingly deranged.
Every man wants happiness. But the old culture says: bear sorrow—renunciation lies there. Every man wants happiness. If someone bears sorrow, it can be only for one reason: that he finds pleasure in sorrow. Such sick people there are—who find pleasure in pain. They are ill—for one who gets pleasure from pain is not healthy; his mind is distorted.
Yet the entire ancient teaching says: take pleasure in pain. These are ways to make man complex and mad. He will not be healthy. Man seeks happiness. Talks of renunciation, of austerity, of choosing pain—will make man complex. Outwardly he will choose sorrow; behind he will seek the ways of pleasure. He will become double-minded. Hypocrisy will develop—and nothing else.
Man has been instructed: eat—but don’t taste. We have arranged everything to drive man mad. Eat—but don’t taste. Eat without savor. Man wants taste. In truth man alone on earth can experience taste. Animals only eat. Taste is man’s special flowering—a great evolution. Man wants taste; but he was taught: do not taste. Then a man eats with eyes closed, striving not to taste. He avoids salt, avoids sugar, avoids ghee—avoids this and that. Only tastelessness remains—freedom from taste does not. Tasteless eating is a transformation of taste itself; the whole time he feels everything is tasteless—he is trying to enjoy tastelessness. He is doing the inverse, trying to stand on his head—and will go mad.
I have heard: In one corner of the earth there is a village whose scriptures say: the proper way for man to stand is on the head; he who stands on his feet is a sinner. There, from birth, children are made to stand on their heads. The result is not that children learn to stand on their heads. One result certainly occurs: they do not learn to walk on their feet. They never learn head-stand; and in striving for head-stand, the strength and training that should come to the feet does not come. Yes—some children do stand on their heads—and only those who are the most dull-witted. For the dull-witted it makes no difference—he is a Ganesh of dung—stand him however, he will stand. Mindlessness can stand on its head; the intelligent will refuse. So the mindless in that land can stand on their heads—their heads grow large, their legs small; their heads become pumpkins, not human heads. People call them mahatmas; they offer coconuts, raise folded hands. Those who walk on their feet feel self-condemned—they think: we are sinning by walking on our feet. And after walking two or four miles on their feet, for penance of sin, they bow to some pumpkin-head: O great one, we have erred—forgive us. In that village the healthy are considered sinners; the sick, the mad, the mindless are called mahatmas. I wondered: where is this village? At night, thinking and thinking, I slept. In the dream it occurred: this is news of our own country. In the morning I awoke astonished. I thought it was somewhere else—yet it turned out to be our own village, our own land.
All humanity has been trying to stand on its head. In that attempt, man has become complex, sick, deranged, perverted. We must accept man as he is—straight. If anger is within, accept anger. If sex is within, accept sex. If love is within, accept love. Taste—accept taste. Pleasure—accept pleasure. Whatever his desires are, his longings are, all must be accepted. But the old culture says: cut everything off. Cut off desires—then you can attain heaven. Burn aspirations—then you can be free. Let man cease to be what he is—destroy all—then something will happen. This is upside-down talk. The only result is: above we become something, inside something else. Life runs on two tracks—life becomes hypocrisy. A hypocritical society will be a zoo, not a society.
The rule to create a healthy society: accept man as he is by nature. Pay a little less attention to mahatmas, a little more to Paramatma. Attend to what Paramatma is giving, how He is making man. Mahatmas are old enemies of Paramatma—very much against Him. They say: the man made by God is not right; we want to make such a man—that will be right. God’s man is wrong. They are engaged in making a new man. They have not succeeded—but in their trying they have crippled man. Their attempts must now end. We need freedom from mahatmas so that we can come near Paramatma. This will seem strange—for we believe mahatmas are the gurus who bring us to God.
A mahatma can never take you to Paramatma—because the mahatma opposes all that God has created. He says: this earth is vain; this life is sin; man’s desires are all darkness, hell. As man is, not so—he has an Ideal Man—who is nowhere. He wants to mold everyone in the shape of that ideal. In their effort to mold, each person is dying—broken on all sides. They have been mighty until now. But henceforth we must be free of their might.
If we want a healthy man to evolve, we must accept human nature. With acceptance of nature, the door to Paramatma can be found. Nature is the door of Paramatma. We must accept ourselves as we are. This does not mean that by acceptance we will remain as we are. No. The moment we accept what we are, transformation begins…
…then anger becomes difficult. As long as I repress anger, this is what happens: ten times a day I repress—and once it explodes. Ten times gather, then in one outburst they pour out. Therefore beware of one who represses all day—by evening he will be angry. He who has suppressed for two or four days—do not meet him on the weekend. He who has suppressed for a year or two—do not befriend him; he may even murder. Those who commit murder are not the ones who get angry every day; the killings of the world are done by those who have not gotten angry for a long time. So much anger accumulates that they can kill. If anger flows daily, one never gathers enough to kill. The grievous criminals are those who strongly suppress; then suddenly there is an explosion—and much harm happens. The ordinary man gets angry daily, quarrels daily; it is all settled; he becomes quiet—and life goes on.
I am saying: when we totally accept anger, and know it wholly, we find gradually that anger has become impossible. Anger was possible only because we believed that anger hurts the other. But when we know anger completely, we see it hurts only ourselves. And no one wants to hurt himself. Man is selfish. Until now we have preached: be altruistic. No one is altruistic—nor can be. Those we call utterly altruistic—Buddha, Mahavira—hardly can one find more supremely selfish persons. Supremely selfish in this sense: they did only that which was their deepest good; they never did that which was not. If they did not abuse you, do not imagine that out of compassion for you they did not. No—they know abusing harms oneself, not another. If they did not get angry—it was not lest someone be harmed—it was because they knew anger is cutting one’s own feet with one’s own hands. If they did not steal—not because they were eager to save your wealth; they did not steal because only your wealth would be lost—while their soul also would be lost. They are not ready to lose it.
If man is to be made simple and spontaneous, give him a complete understanding of his self-interest. There is no need to teach altruism. If each person gains full awareness of his own nature, his own interest, his own desires—you will suddenly find he has begun to be religious. Transformation will begin; a change has entered.
One small story to complete my words.
Buddha was passing by a village. Some people surrounded him and hurled many insults, foul words. Buddha said: If your talk is finished, may I go? I must reach the next village quickly. The villagers said: Are you mad? We are abusing you, and you call it talk! It isn’t talk—we are abusing. Are you insane? Buddha said: I was insane then; had you come then, I would have thought you were abusing. But I must go to the next village—if your talk is complete, I will go. If not, I will stop on my return—you meet me here—then finish your talk. They said: It is not talk—we are directly abusing; will you not reply? Buddha said: If you wanted a reply, you should have come ten years ago. Then, if you abused me, I would have abused double. But now a difficulty has arisen. They asked: What difficulty—abuse if you must! Buddha said: The difficulty is not because of you—because of me. In the previous village some people brought sweets. My stomach was full; I said, Forgive me, thank you. They took the sweets back. Now you bring abuses. I say: Forgive me, thank you—my stomach is full. Now what will you do? You are in difficulty—what will you do? You can give abuse, but receiving is up to me. Until I accept, what meaning has your giving? You have given—fine—thank you; I do not accept. And until I accept, how can I return your abuse? To return, I must first receive—yet I will not receive. Now what will you do?
One man said: This is great difficulty. They took the sweets back—but where shall we take abuses?
Buddha said: Sit here and consider—I will go; I must reach the next village. If you had come ten years back, I would surely have accepted your abuse—because I was so foolish I would take even abuses. Now I take flowers, leave the thorns. I do not put my hand to thorns. Before, I was so foolish I never saw the flowers; only the thorns I grasped—got pricked—then cried, bled, suffered. Now your abuses look like thorns; take them back. Thank you—you made great effort, came so far, bore the sun. I am sad I cannot return anything to you.
Now this man is supremely selfish. None of you is as selfish as he. Out of pity you would have accepted the abuse immediately—and would have given a reply of double weight—then the villagers would have returned pleased, successful. But they returned unsuccessful, desolate. That day they fell into great difficulty: what to do now? If someone does not answer abuse! But Buddha is not refraining because of compassion for you; he is refraining out of compassion for himself. If we can develop life by the law of right self-interest—which has not yet happened—man will become simple, straight, clear. We must open man—naked, uncovered, entire—so that we know him as he is and accept him thus. Then there are no problems—then there is simplicity. And where there is simplicity, there a society of man can flower.
In the coming four days I shall search for this simple and straight man. Those who are curious are invited. And whatever your questions, write them and give them—so we can pursue that search rightly. If we can become capable of finding the simple and straight man, Paramatma is not far—He can be found. But if man is mad, deranged, then to seek God is impossible. From the madhouse no road goes to the temple of God.
You have listened to my words with such peace and love—I am grateful. I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
At an exhibition there was a great crowd. Many new things were there to be seen. Many people had gone to look. One man had even brought a kangaroo to show. Outside his shack too there was a big crowd. But one family was deep in thought. The husband was very worried, the wife was worried as well. They too wanted to see. But they had eighteen children, and they were twenty in all. The ticket was ten paise. Even then, for twenty people it came to two rupees. The man exhibiting the kangaroo also noticed their difficulty, came to them and said: You look very troubled?
The man said, We are twenty—eighteen are my children, my wife and I. Could you let us see more cheaply? Some concession rate? The showman asked: These eighteen are your own children? The father said, They are my own children. Then he said: Then do not worry. The kangaroo will be very pleased to see you. We’ll bring him out—let him see you! And here, take these ten paise—payment for the kangaroo’s seeing you!
When I heard this, I thought, now even animals must be eager to see man! Enough of it—so long we have stared at animals. In the condition man has come to on this earth, animals too must be eager to look at him. Some arrangement should be made that there be museums of human beings, and animals can go there to see man. In fact, there may be no need to build museums at all; if animals could be taken to Delhi, the job would be done.
The capitals have become museums. Strange sorts of men—the in-between of man—have gathered there. All kinds of mad and deranged are collected there. But whatever has appeared in the capitals—of all that we are responsible. In some measure we all are partners. The whole human race has become one vast museum.
I have heard that when Darwin died… while alive, people harassed him because he said that man is the evolution of monkeys. Man had always imagined himself God’s son. God never said so, never issued any certificate! Man just kept thinking so. But when Darwin said man was born from monkeys, people were very angry with him. Darwin thought, at least the monkeys will be pleased with me. But when he died, the ghosts of monkeys surrounded him and said, You have done us great injustice. You call man our evolution? Man is our degeneration. Strayed monkeys have become men, fallen monkeys have become men, degraded monkeys have become men. Correct your theory. Darwin said: Indeed, that is what I wanted to say. But when even evolution made men harass me so, had I said degeneration, I would have been in real trouble!
Jokes aside, man’s problem is very serious. And the greatest problem is this: we attempted to create society, but a museum has come into being. When I used to pass through a zoo, this thought would come. I have seen animals in the forest as well—their freedom, their delight, their exuberance. The birds’ songs, their dances, their leaps, their runs—under the open sky, beneath the open sun. And then I have seen animals in the zoo—sad, shut in cages, restless, disturbed.
Passing through a zoo, it struck me: these very animals are in the jungle, and these very animals are in the zoo, yet the difference is immense. The chief difference: in the forest they are free, independent; in the zoo they are caged behind bars. Then I began to inquire what differences arise between animals of the forest and animals of the zoo—and I was amazed. I discovered that diseases never found among animals in the jungle arise in animals in the zoo. For instance, ulcer does not happen to an animal of the forest, but it happens to an animal in the zoo. Ulcer is in truth born of deep anxiety—wounds form in the stomach from deep worry. Ulcer is a mental disease. The very diseases that afflict man afflict the animals of the zoo—not the animals of the forest.
I was further startled to learn that any kind of derangement hardly ever occurs among animals in the wild; commonly it does not. Wild animals are not generally found going mad; animals in zoos go mad. I also learned something astonishing: no animal in the wild has ever attempted self-destruction, suicide; but animals in zoos attempt suicide as well.
Then I began to think: man does all these things that the animals of the zoo do. Is it not that man has lost the freedom that was necessary? Is it not that man has lost the life that could have been his? Is it not that he has lost the open sky, lost liberation, lost the sun—and has built enclosures, raised bars with his own hands, and shut himself inside them? Otherwise, this madness, this self-destruction, so many illnesses, such mental diseases—do not seem possible.
In animals of the forest there is no sexual perversion, no pathological kink; but in the zoo animals acquire the very perversions found in man. In the wild, no animal masturbates; but in the zoo animals begin to masturbate. In the wild, no animal is homosexual; in the zoo animals become homosexual.
These facts were so startling that I felt somewhere we have gone wrong. Man’s society did not come into being; a zoo did. For every kind of disease, every kind of perversion, every kind of mental disorder—what we call society and civilization—perhaps that itself stands behind us as a great disease. If it can be understood, perhaps it can be changed.
In the direction of understanding, two or three things must be considered. First, we must inquire: what are those bars that have stolen man’s freedom? They are not visible. I walk along the road—no bars around me. You sit here—no bars around you. Had the bars been visible, perhaps we would not be so deluded. But man has invented such bars as are invisible, and within those bars we have been increasingly confined.
Take, for example, nation. Nation is a prison that is invisible. If I wish to cross the border of India, I need the government’s permission. I cannot cross the border. If I wish to enter Pakistan, I need Pakistan’s government’s permission. At the border stands an enclosure through which no one can pass. After all, what prison does a prisoner have? Within the prison walls he too is free; only he cannot go outside the walls—there the guards stand. But the prison wall is small—it can be seen. The wall of the nation is vast—it cannot be seen. Yet guards stand there too. And beyond the national boundary there is no entry anywhere. Nation is a vast prison—unseen. Within it we may roam in great freedom.
Then we have made smaller prisons—religious prisons. Nation is one thing; but if within a nation there are ten religions, then there are ten smaller prisons. Each has its limits—you cannot go outside them. Outside them you cannot marry, outside them you cannot invite a friend to supper. Outside them, eating becomes impossible. Outside them, to extend a hand in friendship is very difficult. The Hindu has his own prison, the Muslim his own. Sometimes they enter each other’s prisons—but not as friends, as enemies. As happened recently in Ahmedabad. They break into each other’s walls to murder—not to befriend. With those whom marriage is forbidden, only their killing can be done. With those with whom friendship cannot be made, only enmity can be made. Sometimes the walls of religions break—but they break only when the desire to enter each other’s houses to kill arises.
Then there are the prisons of Hindu and Muslim, of Jain and Buddhist. That too does not suffice; those are big prisons, then there are smaller prisons: among Jains—the prisons of Digambara and Shvetambara. That too does not suffice; within the Shvetambara, the prisons of Terapanthi and Sthanakvasi. That too does not suffice; we keep splitting. If you look closely, there are boundaries within boundaries, prisons within prisons. As if you have seen a magician’s nested boxes—within a box a box, and within it another, and yet another—no end to boxes, and panic begins to arise.
Thus man is shut in a thousand kinds of prisons. If he does not become a zoo animal, what else can he become? If we are to create a society of man, not a zoo—not a crowd of deranged, mad, sick people, but a society of living beings filled with love, brimming with compassion—then we must show a willingness to break all kinds of prisons. It does not matter what the prison is called. People of the big prison try to break the smaller ones. Those to whom the nation appears lovable say: break the prisons of religion—so that the nation’s prison may be strengthened. Those who find the nation valuable say: break the provinces’ prisons—so that the nation’s prison be strengthened.
But as yet, in the world very few are eager to break prisons as such—who do not say: break the small prison for the sake of the big. As long as we think in this language, prisons will never break. Man cannot be outside captivity, cannot be outside the bars. Once for all, man must understand that we do not wish to live behind bars—whether the bars are named Hindu, or Jain, or Brahmin, or Shudra, or India, or China, or Pakistan—we do not wish to live behind bars. All kinds of bars are dangerous and are driving man mad. Why? Why do bars drive man mad?
Every person needs a living space to be alive, a vastness is needed. The greater the expanse, the freer the life; the lesser the expanse, the more life shrinks. The larger the expanse, the more the soul spreads; the smaller the expanse, the more the soul contracts. This is the difference between living in a big house and living in a small cell. In a small cell we too shrink; in a big house we too expand.
The more the expanse, the broader the foundation of life; the more the soul unfolds. But we break into fragments. Even after splitting into small fragments we are not satisfied; then we break into even smaller fragments. Splitting and splitting, in the end, each person remains a fragment—each one a tiny piece. Boundaries gather on all sides; closed from every side, man becomes restless within.
This has a double consequence. First: the soul never gets to spread; and when the soul cannot spread, madness begins; derangement sets in. Second: false ways have to be found to spread the soul. When life is bound on all sides, one has to search for ways to spread the soul that are wrong in themselves. As today, all over the world, to expand consciousness people are using drugs—LSD, mescaline.
Do you know, man has shrunk so much that only by becoming unconscious can he feel he has spread! They call LSD a consciousness-expanding drug. They say that by taking LSD a man’s consciousness expands for a while. For six hours, ten hours, all limits break; he becomes one with the whole universe. The moon feels one with himself; flowers seem to bloom within; the sun does not seem distant, it comes near; the world’s boundaries fall.
On the one hand we go on creating boundaries, and man is so restless that to touch the limitless he is compelled to use chemicals like LSD. Religious people oppose LSD—but the irony is, the very boundaries that religious people erect force people to take LSD. On the one hand man goes mad, bound in limits; on the other, sick of limits, he searches for pathways of unconsciousness.
Look at the whole history of the human race this way and you will be surprised: in the long history of humanity we have used wine, intoxications, ganja, opium, mescaline, soma—up to LSD—so that consciousness might expand, spread, that limits might break. From the rishis of the Rigveda to America’s modern beats and hippies—so human consciousness might expand.
But why can man’s consciousness not expand? We have tied boundaries all around. Those boundaries we are not ready to break. If this remains the situation, then in the next fifty years the consciousness of man will be buried under unconsciousness and chemicals. There will be no other way left—to feel expanded. But is this a right way? Does the experience of expansion under intoxication have any spiritual value? None at all.
By feeling expansion in intoxication no transformation happens; coming back, one shrinks again. But can we not truly experience expansion? Can we not break all limits? Who stops man from breaking limits? Only we have no idea. We do not see that the limits we ourselves have created have cast our souls into prisons—and within them we have become restless and troubled. That turmoil appears in many forms.
Today there is revolt and rebellion everywhere. All over the world there is a rebellion. The new children are eager to break all the old things. The new are going mad to erase all old values. Who is responsible? The new boys? No. All those who till now gave rules and principles to the human race are responsible, who did not make man free but dependent; who bound him so hard that the bondage has reached the last limit—and the children have become eager to break those chains.
But even the children do not know what they are breaking. Setting a bus on fire cannot break the bondage of consciousness. Nor can throwing stones at school windows break the fetters of the soul. Not with bottles of liquor, nor by burning school furniture, can these chains be broken. These bonds are very invisible. The bonds of Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian are very inner—hidden—they are not seen. Without breaking them man’s soul cannot be free.
Is it not possible that man be simply man? Is it not possible that the whole earth be our mother—not Mother India, not Mother Pakistan—the whole earth our mother? Is that not possible? The truth is precisely this: the whole earth is one. Nowhere are India and Pakistan split. There is no crack anywhere on earth where India ends and Pakistan begins, where Germany ends and Russia begins. There are no lines upon the soil—except on the maps of insane politicians. The earth is not divided anywhere. But the politicians divide her.
I said: the first kind of bondage that has driven man mad has been given by religionists. The second kind of bondage that has fragmented the earth and set man against man has been given by politicians. The fetters of religion slowly grow slack, because the disease is old—we gradually awaken to it. But the fetters of politics are new, and we have not yet even thought to awaken to them.
In truth, in place of the religious guru, the politician has come. In place of Mecca and Medina, capitals have come. Now Mecca is not important—Kremlin is important—that too is a new kind of Mecca! Now Kashi is not important—Peking is important—that too is Kashi for new people. Now the Gita and the Quran are not as important—Das Kapital is more important—that too is a scripture for the new religious. The old gurus are replaced; in their place have come new gurus—and more dangerous. The new gurus are politicians who are dividing man again, fragmenting him place by place. They have cut the whole earth into pieces, and then the small pieces into yet smaller pieces.
So many pieces—and because of them, so many wars. Because of so many wars, the flowers of peace and joy cannot bloom in human life. In the last three thousand years there have been fifteen thousand wars. An average of five wars per year—somewhere on earth, a war goes on. Somewhere a fire blazes—be it Vietnam, be it Korea, be it Kashmir. Somewhere flames will rise; somewhere man will burn. In some corner or other, disturbances and wounds keep forming. Not even one day has there been complete peace on earth. Somewhere there is turmoil!
Why? Who breaks man? Who sets him face to face? The politician breaks him. But the politician is compelled to break, because without dividing one cannot rule.
Under the British in India, Indian politicians used to say: the British rule by divide and rule. But who will ask: what is the rule of politicians all over the world? The same—divide and rule. As long as the earth is broken into fragments, thousands of politicians will rule. The day man becomes one, politicians will have to depart. The unity of mankind would be the suicide of politicians—therefore the politician will never allow man to be one.
Hitler wrote in his autobiography: If your country has no enemies, create false enemies; for until you create an enemy, you cannot become a great leader. For a great leader, the prelude of war is necessary. If real enemies are found—well and good; otherwise, create false ones. But enemies are necessary. For when there is an enemy, the public stands behind the leader—in panic, in fear, in insecurity. They say: save us. And he who promises to save becomes great. Therefore all wars produce great leaders.
If one is to be a great leader, war is very necessary. In times of peace great leaders do not arise. For a great leader, struggle is necessary, war is necessary, violence is necessary, killing is necessary. The more the killing, the more the violence, the greater the leader becomes. In times of peace a great leader does not appear. And if peace were to become permanent, leaders would fade out entirely—no one would even ask of them. They are needed only then.
At the crossroads a policeman stands. Why is he there? Because there are thieves. In the court a magistrate sits—because there are thieves. If the thieves were to depart, the policeman would depart; the magistrate too would depart. Therefore, while the magistrate punishes thieves outwardly, inwardly he prays to God: let them come daily. It is natural—his trade depends on thieves, his life depends on thieves.
The politician says outwardly, We want peace—and releases doves, doves of peace! But inwardly he desires war. Without war, the political leader has no place. Without war, politics has no place. In truth, politics is born out of war. If a big war is not going on, a small one must be kept going. If there is no fight outside the country, there must be one inside. If not inside either, then split the one party into two and run a fight there!
A great leader is born in battle; small leaders live in peace. The small can never become great while there is no fight. So a fight must go on—on any planes. On a thousand planes a fight must go on. War makes the leader great. It excites the public, lifts their eyes to look at the leader. Therefore the leader is constantly engaged in contriving new fights.
And the irony: every day he stands on the platform and says, We need peace, we need unity. Let men gather together, let all be one. On the stage he will say this; behind the stage he will do all the things that prevent man from being one, that prevent mankind, that prevent the earth from ever uniting. Behind the stage that effort goes on—and we can understand it.
There is a doctor—he treats patients and strives from all sides to heal them. The doctor is there to cure. But you know: when epidemics spread—plague, or flu—doctors say among themselves: the season is good! The season for a doctor comes only when flu spreads, plague spreads, malaria spreads—when people become ill on a large scale! Here the doctor treats the patient; there he prays that the ill increase! A rich patient is very difficult to cure—for the poor, there is no interest in keeping them sick for long. The rich are often perpetually ill, because the longer the rich remain ill, the more in the doctor’s interest. Outwardly the doctor appears to fight illness; inwardly he prays for illness.
Therefore, remember: the faces seen on the stage are not the same behind the stage. On the stage the faces are entirely made-up. On the stage they say one thing—and ninety-nine times out of a hundred they will be doing the very opposite behind the stage. Whenever talk of peace goes on, behind it arrangements for war are underway. Therefore it is strange that all the wars of the world are for peace! All wars are for peace. They say: We are fighting so that there may be peace in the world. Fighting is necessary; to protect peace, war is necessary. Hitler fights to protect peace, and Churchill too. And Roosevelt and Stalin—each fights for peace. India and Pakistan too—each fights for peace.
But the politician’s life depends on unrest. He cannot desire peace. And if the world desires peace, it is necessary to bid farewell to the politician. He should step aside; he should have no place. But today he has every place. We give him all power. And he is the basic ground of our unrest. We feed him. We honor him and garland him—because he speaks words of peace. But words of peace have nothing to do with peace.
I have heard: One night, in a hotel, some friends kept dining and drinking until late. As they departed around one in the morning, the manager said: If such good gentlemen come daily, the moons of our life will shine. One of the guests, who had paid the bill, said: Pray to God that our business goes well—then we will come daily. The manager said: I will pray every day that your business go well; but do tell—what is your business? He said: Do not ask—or praying may become difficult. Still, the manager insisted: At least tell us your business; we will pray. The man said: I sell firewood at the cremation ground. If our business runs daily—if ten or five people reach the cremation ground every day—we will come daily.
Someone’s business too is selling wood at the cremation ground. He is waiting for you. He is waiting for me. Waiting for us to die—his shop isn’t running.
The politician’s business is exactly selling wood at the cremation ground. He waits: when will war come, when will people die, when will violence erupt?—so that he may come and tell people: Peace is needed. On the one hand he will instigate war, cause riots; on the other, to quell those riots he will form peace committees. The same person who sets up the conflict arranges for peace as well.
When will we recognize these double faces? If we do not, man’s condition will grow worse day by day. It is very necessary to understand that the mullah or the pandit who stirs quarrels is the same one who becomes a member of the peace committee. He is the same one who then prays in mosque and temple. He prays that there be peace among all. And who, besides temple and mosque, creates unrest in man? Temples and mosques will create unrest. The priest will explain that the cow is mother; if even the tail of the cow is cut, riots will ensue. Then he will explain: Keep peace! You have become irreligious; a religious man is always peaceful. The mosque’s man will explain: This hair is of the Prophet; this hair is very precious—this Hazratbal is no ordinary hair. If this hair is stolen away, hundreds may be killed; but the hair must be protected. And when riots and arson happen, when corpses are strewn, that same mullah will explain: Muhammad’s message is peace—let all live in peace. Islam itself means peace; all should live peacefully.
When will we recognize these double faces? The politician will incite war and continue to talk of peace. If we do not recognize these double roles, this duplicity, society will never become society—this zoo will continue. But these faces can be recognized. A probing can be done within.
Why is the politician so eager for war?
All ambitious people are eager for war. Because ambition is the birthplace of war. All ambitious ones will yearn for war; for in peace, the sapling of ambition cannot grow. It grows only in unrest; unrest is manure to it. And the politician is ambition to the ultimate degree—ambitious par excellence. Beyond him there is no greater ambition. He is dying of ambition. He has to be something; he has to be somebody; he must become something—and to become that something, who knows how many nets he will weave—of principles, of ideologies, of the poor, of socialism, of welfare, of general good. He will talk of all these things, and behind there is only one thing—it is necessary to recognize that second face—otherwise great difficulty. The second face is: he has to be something. Whether he becomes something by the stairway of socialism, or of communism, or of Gandhism—that is secondary. The stairs are meaningless. He has to be something; he must reach the station of somebody. And once he reaches, he kicks away the very stairs—because others might come up on those same stairs. Let him reach once; his first task is to break the steps by which he came.
Stalin reached power in the name of communism, then he began to pull down the steps. It is said that he poisoned Lenin. It cannot be said with certainty—because when a man like Stalin poisons, to detect it is very difficult. But Lenin’s last statements and letters say that surely something amiss happened—Lenin was suddenly put out; slowly he was poisoned. Lenin—the very ladder on which Stalin climbed—had to be cast down.
Trotsky had to flee Russia—the second step by which the revolution rose. In Mexico, Stalin’s man smashed his skull with a hammer and murdered him. Trotsky’s dog had been left back in Russia—Stalin’s people shot the dog and dragged it through the streets. Even the dog—Trotsky’s dog—should not be spared. Someone might climb even on a dog; it could be a stair. Trotsky’s dog! If Gandhi’s wooden sandals can become a stair, why not Trotsky’s dog? Anything can be used to climb. So it too was gunned down.
Then Stalin killed from sixty lakhs to a crore of people in Russia. Where a crore of capitalists in Russia? In no country of the world. Then who were killed? Workers too, the poor too.
The strange thing: in whose name the revolution happened—the poor—those very poor were gunned down. The stairs had to be broken; all stairs had to be broken. Stalin wiped out man by man, broke spoke by spoke of the ladders—he went on breaking.
After Stalin’s death, Khrushchev spoke at a gathering and said: Stalin had so many people killed, and in this way harmed socialism. A man stood and said: You too were with Stalin all your life—why did you not speak earlier? Khrushchev said: Sir, stand up a moment so I can see your face clearly—what is your name? The man did not stand, nor did he speak again in that crowd. Khrushchev said: Why have you fallen silent? For the very reason you are silent—I too had to be silent. For if this face were seen, then tomorrow it would not be seen at all. Therefore I had to remain silent. If I had spoken once—then forever… When Lenin and Trotsky could not be spared, what hope for poor Khrushchev? By silence he could be saved.
It goes this way the world over—the steps by which man climbs must be broken. But these climbers, their sole craving is to be something. It does not matter which stairs they use—they always use those that have popular appeal. On the shoulders of the poor many climb—because the poor carry great pain in their hearts, and anyone who says, We stand for you—yet until now, on this earth, none has really stood for the poor. Until the poor stand for themselves, none can stand for them. Until then they will find new nets of exploitation.
The politician’s basic craving is the gratification of ego. The day this race of ego-gratification ends, there will be no politician. The deep race is: I must be something. And this race is not only in politicians; they are only those among us who become most imbued with it. A few others run in other directions. In truth, we teach the child to be a politician on the first day. Your boy goes to school the first day—you say, You must come first. You have begun to sow the poison of politics. Neither the child knows it, nor you, nor his teacher—that a politician has begun to be born. First rank! We have poured poison into his blood. Now all his life he will try to be number one. If he goes utterly mad for first place, he becomes a politician; if a little less mad, he may find some satisfaction in other directions—he may become a painter, a sculptor, a religious guru. But if the race catches him hard and reaches the extreme, then there is no way but to be a politician. Every person wants to be number one.
We are so many here; if we draw a great circle and say, Here is the president’s chair—and all must reach it—this hall will go mad at once. We will all begin to run. And the one who reaches will not be able to stay either, because all the others are pushing him to remove him. He who has not reached cannot rest, because he must reach; he who has reached cannot remain, because others must push him off. If this hall goes mad, is it a surprise?
Human life has come to stand in a zoo because we all are in the mad race to be number one—whether in wealth, in fame, in position—it makes no difference. Until we free man from the race of being number one, he cannot be healthy.
Therefore I want to say the second thing: all boundaries should break, and the very roots of human ambition should be cut. If ambition remains, it will manifest in new forms. Ambition is strange—it says: I must become something. But the delight is this: I am that which I am—there is no question of becoming. The very talk of becoming is wrong. I am that which I am. And every person is unique. Life is wondrous—each is incomparable, unmatched. I am I; you are you. Who says I must become you—or you must become me? If such things arise we will go mad. Even two thumbprints are not alike in this world—how can two souls be alike? Even the lines of two palms are not the same—how can two lives be the same? Each person is incomparable. But the whole old history of humanity teaches comparison—ahead of the other, like the other, above the other. No one says: be like yourself. Until we can teach children that each must be himself—never fall into the race to be like another—there can be no freedom from politics. But we do not accept any child as he is. We do not accept him. We say he must become someone else. We tell the child: Become a Rama, become a Buddha, become a Krishna, become a Gandhi, become a Rabindranath, become a Vivekananda. Become someone—but by mistake never become yourself—leave only that, become anyone else!
What fault has the child committed that he must become a Vivekananda? And whom did Vivekananda become like—someone may ask. Vivekananda became like himself. What fault in this child that he must become like Vivekananda? Vivekananda did not become like Rama, nor like Krishna, nor like Buddha. And Buddha cared for no Rama, no Krishna; he became like himself.
The few names on this earth that seem fragrant to us are those who became like themselves. The rest of humanity loses its fragrance, because it falls into the race of becoming like others—the race to be in another’s seat, to have another’s house, another’s clothes, another’s position. From the lowest peon to the president, all are engaged. In this race, life cannot attain to fragrance or beauty. When someone becomes devoid of inner fragrance and inner beauty, when he becomes ugly, when he fails to make the flowers of his life bloom—then he begins to strive that others’ flowers not bloom. Then he thinks: If I could not become something, let me at least prevent another from becoming; that too will be some satisfaction. He who becomes unhappy within engages in erasing the happiness of others. He who becomes restless within is left with one joy—that no one else become peaceful. Then, rather than a journey toward our own happiness, we get busy in making others unhappy. Our hands are on each other’s throats.
Chesterton one morning was in a garden. He and Bernard Shaw were walking. Bernard Shaw asked casually—Chesterton was very fat; Shaw thin and lean, hands in his pockets—Could it be that a man live his whole life with his hands in his own pockets? Chesterton said: It is possible—only the hands should be his own and the pockets someone else’s.
He said it as a joke—but it is true. Our hands are ours; the pockets are always others’.
We all have our hands in others’ pockets. If everyone’s hand is in someone else’s pocket, and everyone’s hand on someone else’s throat, and everyone’s hand busy in snatching another’s happiness—can life be happy? Life becomes miserable, ugly, meaningless—a gang of killers, a gang of the dishonest. Where there is so much dishonesty, so much killing, so much theft, so much hatred and violence, so much desire to cause others pain—how can even a single person be peaceful? It becomes very difficult. And so, as civilization grows—civilization meaning: hands in others’ pockets—our fingers on others’ necks tighten. As civilization grows, man goes mad. It is not difficult to imagine that in a thousand or two thousand years we might have to shut the good people in prisons—because the mad will be so many that to build prisons for them will be difficult, and the good will be so few that they must be protected. This could happen. It is not very difficult. Because things gradually get worse. But we give beautiful names to madness. We put fine labels on ambition. The double act then deceives; we give madness a good name. If I stab you, I am mad. But if I say I am a Hindu and you are a Muslim, then I am not mad—this is the great joke. If I burn a child in the fire, I am mad; but if the child is a Hindu and I am a Muslim, then I am not mad. What difference will it make to the burning child whether he is Hindu or Muslim? The child will burn in the fire in any case. The same pain will be in his life—no less for being Muslim, no more for being Hindu. The child is a child—and for the sins of old men he is being given the fruit. The same pain will be in his burning, and the same ugly event is happening in this world. The one who burns the child is turning to stone within—whether he be Hindu or Muslim makes no difference. But if I burn a child for no reason, I will be taken for mad, a murderer; but if I burn a Muslim child, I may even be carried in procession as a very religious man. We give names to madness!
A man lives next door to me—he draws water at the public tap. If any woman passes by, he washes his pot again. If a woman appears, he washes again. Sometimes a hundred times he must do it—because it is a street; no woman can be stopped. He is poor—no tap at home—he must fill at the crossroads tap. But if a woman is seen, his pot is defiled—so he washes it. People of the neighborhood call him religious. Many touch his feet. I asked one day: Why so much respect? They said: You do not know—he is very religious. If a woman passes, he washes his pot again. Such a man is mad; he should be in a madhouse; he needs treatment. But he has become religious—because ten madmen have gathered who say: How marvelous—washing the pot! This ritual is of a madman. A man sits at home fingering a rosary—and we say: He is religious. Think! If fingering a rosary were not religious in our idea, and suddenly someone in the house began to run his fingers over beads with eyes closed, we would call the doctor: What has happened to this man?—eyes shut, sliding beads? But we do not call a doctor because we have assumed this label of religiosity.
In Tibet they have made a prayer wheel. They are more clever. They made a wheel like a charkha, with 108 spokes and a mantra on each spoke. We finger 108 beads; they made a 108-spoked wheel—prayer wheel. They spin it; give it a push—it turns ten or five rounds—they get the benefit of that many mantras. Now electricity must have reached there; they should plug it in—it will whirl all day. This is a religious man. As many rounds turn—so many times 108—he gets the merit of mantras. The day there is a little intelligence, we will have to treat this man. What is he doing? But when we put labels on, madness becomes hard to recognize. For this very reason, in Eastern countries the number of mad seems fewer than in the West—there is no other reason. Many kinds of madmen here have other labels; there, all kinds of mad are labeled mad. There the count looks higher; here it looks lower. The numbers are the same; the only difference is that here there are many classifications. Some are religious mad—so we do not call them mad. Some are political mad—we do not call them mad. Some are mad in other ways—mad of diverse kinds—we do not call them mad; thus fewer mad remain—because many escape the label ‘mad’ and wear another label. But we must recognize this.
Ambition too gets other labels. Someone says, I must serve the people—but he says this only until he holds office. The moment he reaches office, what is ‘people’?—no meaning remains. The service of the people is complete—because the fellow has reached the post. He needed to reach—that is why he had to serve the people. Now, having reached, the people depart; he has no concern with them. By labeling ambition as ‘service of the people,’ he obtains cover, and ambition can operate. Therefore we must now be cautious of ‘servants of the people.’ The harm done by servants of the people is greater than that done by outright villains—because we can be cautious of villains; from the villain we can protect ourselves—he may cause harm. But the servant begins by massaging the feet and ends by grabbing the throat. It is hard to recognize, because from massaging feet no one imagines he will seize the neck. And while he massages, we fall asleep—and his hand reaches the throat. In truth, massaging the feet is the stair to catch the throat—a trick.
Humanity needs to be cautious of these double faces. Peel off the labels and see the inner truth. Then perhaps we can create a society of man; otherwise, society will not be created.
One or two more things to understand in this connection. Why is there so much sickness of mind in man? Why? Why is man not simple, not natural? Everyone teaches: be spontaneous, be simple—but man is not simple at all; he is very complex. Indeed, those whom we call simple—their complexities are even more remarkable.
One day I traveled by train; with me a sannyasin boarded. He was wrapped in coarse rags—bandages of burlap. Many people had come to see him off. I asked someone and was told: He is a very simple man—don’t you see he wears no clothes, only rags—so simple. I wondered: What has tying rags to do with simplicity? Still, since so many had come to praise, perhaps they were right. The train moved. I lay with eyes closed. He removed his rag-strings and set them aside. There was a small basket—two or three more rag-bands inside—perhaps his other clothes. He looked toward me to see if I was awake. I lay with eyes closed. From beneath the rags he took out money, quickly counted it, put it back under the rags. The money must have been offerings. Still, he was afraid—though only we two were in the compartment—so he put the money beneath his head, pressed under the rags, and slept.
In the morning he stood before the mirror, tying his rags with great grooming. There is no meaning in tying rags before a mirror. If someone tied silks before a mirror—immediately one understands—he is adorning himself. But a naked fakir tying rags before a mirror—our understanding does not grasp it. He too is adorning himself, he too is preparing. In one way he tied a rag—then in another—then in a third way—and was ready. Looking in the mirror he was pleased. He thought I was asleep. I was amazed: the mind of man is so cunning. From burlap rags it can derive the work of silk and velvet. The feeling of adornment remains the same; there is no change. As a woman gets ready, so was he. I do not deny dressing up; but when the preparation hides behind rags, we feel simplicity has arrived—then we are deceived. When difficulty hides behind simplicity, we are deceived. Above there is simplicity—inside a difficult man; above white clothes—inside a black man. Deception.
Man should be simple—because without simplicity one cannot be blissful. But who did not allow man to be simple? If he wears khadi, will he become simple? If he wears rags, will he become simple? If he stands naked, will he become simple?
To be simple is not so simple. Man can be simple on one condition alone: simplicity will come if he accepts himself as he is. If he enjoys seeing his face in the mirror, let him not look secretly; let him say: I enjoy looking in the mirror. He will become simple. If he looks secretly, he will become complex. If he says: I do not like silk—I like burlap—and then views his rags in the mirror, he will treat the rags like silk—and become more complex. Let man accept himself as he is—then simplicity can come.
But the past history of mankind has not allowed us to be simple; it has taught us the opposite. Whatever is in the mind, the opposite has been taught—and man has become complex. From complexity, sick. From sickness, increasingly deranged.
Every man wants happiness. But the old culture says: bear sorrow—renunciation lies there. Every man wants happiness. If someone bears sorrow, it can be only for one reason: that he finds pleasure in sorrow. Such sick people there are—who find pleasure in pain. They are ill—for one who gets pleasure from pain is not healthy; his mind is distorted.
Yet the entire ancient teaching says: take pleasure in pain. These are ways to make man complex and mad. He will not be healthy. Man seeks happiness. Talks of renunciation, of austerity, of choosing pain—will make man complex. Outwardly he will choose sorrow; behind he will seek the ways of pleasure. He will become double-minded. Hypocrisy will develop—and nothing else.
Man has been instructed: eat—but don’t taste. We have arranged everything to drive man mad. Eat—but don’t taste. Eat without savor. Man wants taste. In truth man alone on earth can experience taste. Animals only eat. Taste is man’s special flowering—a great evolution. Man wants taste; but he was taught: do not taste. Then a man eats with eyes closed, striving not to taste. He avoids salt, avoids sugar, avoids ghee—avoids this and that. Only tastelessness remains—freedom from taste does not. Tasteless eating is a transformation of taste itself; the whole time he feels everything is tasteless—he is trying to enjoy tastelessness. He is doing the inverse, trying to stand on his head—and will go mad.
I have heard: In one corner of the earth there is a village whose scriptures say: the proper way for man to stand is on the head; he who stands on his feet is a sinner. There, from birth, children are made to stand on their heads. The result is not that children learn to stand on their heads. One result certainly occurs: they do not learn to walk on their feet. They never learn head-stand; and in striving for head-stand, the strength and training that should come to the feet does not come. Yes—some children do stand on their heads—and only those who are the most dull-witted. For the dull-witted it makes no difference—he is a Ganesh of dung—stand him however, he will stand. Mindlessness can stand on its head; the intelligent will refuse. So the mindless in that land can stand on their heads—their heads grow large, their legs small; their heads become pumpkins, not human heads. People call them mahatmas; they offer coconuts, raise folded hands. Those who walk on their feet feel self-condemned—they think: we are sinning by walking on our feet. And after walking two or four miles on their feet, for penance of sin, they bow to some pumpkin-head: O great one, we have erred—forgive us. In that village the healthy are considered sinners; the sick, the mad, the mindless are called mahatmas. I wondered: where is this village? At night, thinking and thinking, I slept. In the dream it occurred: this is news of our own country. In the morning I awoke astonished. I thought it was somewhere else—yet it turned out to be our own village, our own land.
All humanity has been trying to stand on its head. In that attempt, man has become complex, sick, deranged, perverted. We must accept man as he is—straight. If anger is within, accept anger. If sex is within, accept sex. If love is within, accept love. Taste—accept taste. Pleasure—accept pleasure. Whatever his desires are, his longings are, all must be accepted. But the old culture says: cut everything off. Cut off desires—then you can attain heaven. Burn aspirations—then you can be free. Let man cease to be what he is—destroy all—then something will happen. This is upside-down talk. The only result is: above we become something, inside something else. Life runs on two tracks—life becomes hypocrisy. A hypocritical society will be a zoo, not a society.
The rule to create a healthy society: accept man as he is by nature. Pay a little less attention to mahatmas, a little more to Paramatma. Attend to what Paramatma is giving, how He is making man. Mahatmas are old enemies of Paramatma—very much against Him. They say: the man made by God is not right; we want to make such a man—that will be right. God’s man is wrong. They are engaged in making a new man. They have not succeeded—but in their trying they have crippled man. Their attempts must now end. We need freedom from mahatmas so that we can come near Paramatma. This will seem strange—for we believe mahatmas are the gurus who bring us to God.
A mahatma can never take you to Paramatma—because the mahatma opposes all that God has created. He says: this earth is vain; this life is sin; man’s desires are all darkness, hell. As man is, not so—he has an Ideal Man—who is nowhere. He wants to mold everyone in the shape of that ideal. In their effort to mold, each person is dying—broken on all sides. They have been mighty until now. But henceforth we must be free of their might.
If we want a healthy man to evolve, we must accept human nature. With acceptance of nature, the door to Paramatma can be found. Nature is the door of Paramatma. We must accept ourselves as we are. This does not mean that by acceptance we will remain as we are. No. The moment we accept what we are, transformation begins…
…then anger becomes difficult. As long as I repress anger, this is what happens: ten times a day I repress—and once it explodes. Ten times gather, then in one outburst they pour out. Therefore beware of one who represses all day—by evening he will be angry. He who has suppressed for two or four days—do not meet him on the weekend. He who has suppressed for a year or two—do not befriend him; he may even murder. Those who commit murder are not the ones who get angry every day; the killings of the world are done by those who have not gotten angry for a long time. So much anger accumulates that they can kill. If anger flows daily, one never gathers enough to kill. The grievous criminals are those who strongly suppress; then suddenly there is an explosion—and much harm happens. The ordinary man gets angry daily, quarrels daily; it is all settled; he becomes quiet—and life goes on.
I am saying: when we totally accept anger, and know it wholly, we find gradually that anger has become impossible. Anger was possible only because we believed that anger hurts the other. But when we know anger completely, we see it hurts only ourselves. And no one wants to hurt himself. Man is selfish. Until now we have preached: be altruistic. No one is altruistic—nor can be. Those we call utterly altruistic—Buddha, Mahavira—hardly can one find more supremely selfish persons. Supremely selfish in this sense: they did only that which was their deepest good; they never did that which was not. If they did not abuse you, do not imagine that out of compassion for you they did not. No—they know abusing harms oneself, not another. If they did not get angry—it was not lest someone be harmed—it was because they knew anger is cutting one’s own feet with one’s own hands. If they did not steal—not because they were eager to save your wealth; they did not steal because only your wealth would be lost—while their soul also would be lost. They are not ready to lose it.
If man is to be made simple and spontaneous, give him a complete understanding of his self-interest. There is no need to teach altruism. If each person gains full awareness of his own nature, his own interest, his own desires—you will suddenly find he has begun to be religious. Transformation will begin; a change has entered.
One small story to complete my words.
Buddha was passing by a village. Some people surrounded him and hurled many insults, foul words. Buddha said: If your talk is finished, may I go? I must reach the next village quickly. The villagers said: Are you mad? We are abusing you, and you call it talk! It isn’t talk—we are abusing. Are you insane? Buddha said: I was insane then; had you come then, I would have thought you were abusing. But I must go to the next village—if your talk is complete, I will go. If not, I will stop on my return—you meet me here—then finish your talk. They said: It is not talk—we are directly abusing; will you not reply? Buddha said: If you wanted a reply, you should have come ten years ago. Then, if you abused me, I would have abused double. But now a difficulty has arisen. They asked: What difficulty—abuse if you must! Buddha said: The difficulty is not because of you—because of me. In the previous village some people brought sweets. My stomach was full; I said, Forgive me, thank you. They took the sweets back. Now you bring abuses. I say: Forgive me, thank you—my stomach is full. Now what will you do? You are in difficulty—what will you do? You can give abuse, but receiving is up to me. Until I accept, what meaning has your giving? You have given—fine—thank you; I do not accept. And until I accept, how can I return your abuse? To return, I must first receive—yet I will not receive. Now what will you do?
One man said: This is great difficulty. They took the sweets back—but where shall we take abuses?
Buddha said: Sit here and consider—I will go; I must reach the next village. If you had come ten years back, I would surely have accepted your abuse—because I was so foolish I would take even abuses. Now I take flowers, leave the thorns. I do not put my hand to thorns. Before, I was so foolish I never saw the flowers; only the thorns I grasped—got pricked—then cried, bled, suffered. Now your abuses look like thorns; take them back. Thank you—you made great effort, came so far, bore the sun. I am sad I cannot return anything to you.
Now this man is supremely selfish. None of you is as selfish as he. Out of pity you would have accepted the abuse immediately—and would have given a reply of double weight—then the villagers would have returned pleased, successful. But they returned unsuccessful, desolate. That day they fell into great difficulty: what to do now? If someone does not answer abuse! But Buddha is not refraining because of compassion for you; he is refraining out of compassion for himself. If we can develop life by the law of right self-interest—which has not yet happened—man will become simple, straight, clear. We must open man—naked, uncovered, entire—so that we know him as he is and accept him thus. Then there are no problems—then there is simplicity. And where there is simplicity, there a society of man can flower.
In the coming four days I shall search for this simple and straight man. Those who are curious are invited. And whatever your questions, write them and give them—so we can pursue that search rightly. If we can become capable of finding the simple and straight man, Paramatma is not far—He can be found. But if man is mad, deranged, then to seek God is impossible. From the madhouse no road goes to the temple of God.
You have listened to my words with such peace and love—I am grateful. I bow to the Paramatma seated within all. Please accept my pranam.