Prabhu Mandir Ke Dwar Par #4

It will be useful to understand a few things in this regard. First, I neither believe in being influenced by anyone nor in influencing anyone. I consider both influencing and being influenced to be spiritually very dangerous—a toxic disease. The person who tries to influence another harms the other’s soul; and the one who allows himself to be influenced commits a violation of his own soul.

But in this world many have thought, many have inquired. If you too set out to inquire, then on that endless path, in that vast forest with many paths and foot-trails, you will often, for a little while, meet many travelers—and then part. If that meeting and parting has any value, any meaning, it is only this: two lines of thought may, for a time, run parallel. The way I think, the way I see—very often it has happened that for a little while Mahavira has seemed to be walking beside me; for a little while his very opposite, Buddha, has also seemed to be beside me; sometimes Jesus Christ, for a while; sometimes his opposite, Friedrich Nietzsche; sometimes Confucius on the path, and sometimes, on the contrary, Lao Tzu; sometimes Socrates, sometimes Zeno, sometimes Plotinus, sometimes Ramana, sometimes Ramakrishna, sometimes Gandhi, sometimes Krishnamurti, sometimes M. N. Roy.

In this long human history all kinds of thoughts have been left in the sky of human consciousness. And whenever anyone begins to think, time and again someone will seem a companion for a while. Then the point of divergence comes. With many it often seems we are together; a little later it becomes clear we are not. The truth is, apart from oneself there is no companionship that is constant. So in thought, you may often feel someone’s nearness; but that does not mean anyone is influenced by anyone, nor is there any need to be influenced. No one becomes anyone’s guru; no one becomes anyone’s disciple. Nor should it be so; it is neither necessary, nor beneficial, nor conducive to well-being.

When I look around, in that sky of thoughts where there are constellations of many ideas, many symbols of thought, many stars of thought—and when one sets out to inquire, one passes near some star. But passing near a star does not make one belong to that star, nor does that star become one’s own. All such questions rest on small, superficial alignments.

Someone may lift a single sentence from Mao—“ideological revolution is necessary”—and since I too have said “ideological revolution is necessary,” he concludes, this man agrees with Mao. Such a person’s intelligence would have to be called childish. If I say “God must be sought,” and someone says the seers of the Upanishads also said “God must be sought,” then I am influenced by the Upanishads? If I say “man must doubt,” he will say, Nietzsche says the same. If I say “do not fight with your passions, do not repress,” he will say, Freud says the same. If you pick up isolated words and fragments, of course—quite naturally—many matches will appear. But when you try to see the whole, the total, the complete vision, my entire perspective, it is only mine. It belongs to no one else.

And the truth is, if you try to discover your own vision, it too will be only yours and no one else’s. In this world every person is absolutely unique—not just I; you as well. Even the most ordinary person is unique, incomparable, one-of-a-kind. He is himself, and like no other. Such a one has never been, and will never be. The way you have loved, no one on this earth has ever loved and no one ever will. Because you are here for the first time. There is no repetition in this world. Many have loved; many may seem to think the way you think. But no one thinks exactly as you do. Otherwise the person would disappear and only the crowd would remain. Each individual is an individual. And each individual has his own destiny. So why are we in such a hurry?

But we are addicted to hurry. Because we are used to thinking in a language where there must be a guru, there must be a disciple; someone walks ahead, someone behind; someone above, someone below; someone who influences, someone who is a Tirthankara, someone who is an avatar, someone a follower. We are accustomed to this language. We are not accustomed to thinking in a language where each person is, in his place, only like himself—incomparable. Can anyone be compared to another? From the smallest to the greatest, each person stands in his own place, in his own way. No one is comparable to anyone else. Comparison is not necessary. The very idea of comparison is deluded, dangerous; it is a scheme to place one human being below or ahead of another. There is no need for anyone to be influenced by anyone. Nor to make someone a guru, nor to become someone’s disciple, nor to make disciples. The ego takes many forms.

Only one thing is to be remembered: that I should inquire. Whatever instruments I have, whatever strength, I should employ them in the search for truth, and move on. On this journey one will pass along paths others have also trod—at other times, in other contexts, in other ways. At times your feet will fall upon footprints where others’ feet have once fallen. Yet ultimately the whole of your personality must be your own. It should be your own. Whoever loses his own personality and becomes influenced by others slowly commits suicide. People say, so-and-so committed suicide; that is only the killing of the body, not the killing of the soul. Someone stabs himself and dies; someone drinks poison; someone jumps off a mountain. That is only bodily death. It is not soul-death. Soul-death is something quite different.

When someone puts on someone’s rosary, lets someone whisper a mantra into his ear, and falls in behind someone—that is soul-death; that is suicide. There is a law against killing the body, but there is no law against killing the soul. The day a good world dawns there should be clear thinking against killing the soul as well. The follower is suicidal; and the one who allows himself to be influenced is also suicidal. To the extent that I am influenced by someone, to that extent I cease to be myself; to that extent another’s shadow falls upon me and I am crushed. To the extent that I accept someone, to that extent I am destroyed; someone else takes me over. And we are all crazed in our eagerness to accept others: we cannot rest until we become a Gandhian, a Marxist—until we become some kind of “-ist.” Our restlessness does not cease until we have sold ourselves. Only by pawning our soul somewhere do we feel peace. Everyone has pawned his soul. And if ever someone refuses to pawn his soul, people start hunting for places of agreement. “Where do you and I match?” A lot of matching can be arranged—but it is all false. There is no real “matching” between two individuals; and if there is, know that one of them is no longer an individual—only a machine. Otherwise, such matching is impossible.

There are Buddha and Mahavira, Epicurus and Lao Tzu, Confucius and Charvaka, the seers of the Upanishads, Nagarjuna, Shankara, Marx, Freud, astonishing modern minds, Krishnamurti, Ramana, Aurobindo, Ramakrishna, Dostoevsky, Sartre, Camus, Kafka. Such wondrous beings there are in the world. If someone thinks, he will, who knows how many times, find himself parallel to how many of them. Don’t be hasty. Do not quickly conclude: this man agrees with that man—finished. Why are we so eager to force an agreement upon someone? Because labels make things convenient. We think: now it’s sorted. “This man is a communist.” Then we needn’t think about this person any further; whatever we think about a communist will be applied to him—case closed. But even one communist is not like another communist. One communist means: communist one. Two communists means: communist two. Three communists means: communist three. Even three communists are not alike. But with the label “communist” we gain great convenience; we no longer need to think. Someone comes and says, “That man is a Muslim.” Then whatever ideas we have about “Muslim”—now there is no need to know this person. The idea is enough; we will impose it on this man. And this man? He is utterly unique. Our idea is entirely different from him. This person has never been before. He is not Muhammad, not Muhammad Ali Jinnah, nor like any other Muslim. He is himself. But by pasting the “Muslim” label we free ourselves, and we imagine we have known him. It is only a trick to avoid truly knowing the other. Put on a label, and whatever we believe about that label is the whole story—finished.

No, if you want to know a person, you must know him directly. Labels in-between are dangerous, because no one is truly like his label. Everyone is only like himself. No one is like anyone else. But where is the leisure? We are in a hurry. We want decisions about everyone, and the easiest trick for decision is to say one thing and be done; paste one label and be rid of it. In this way no one can become acquainted with the human soul. Such a person will live and die in ignorance. He can never peek into another, because he shuts the door of the other at the outset. Have you ever really looked closely at your wife? No—you have pasted the label “wife,” and that’s that. Before marriage you might have looked. After marriage—no more. Twenty-five years may pass; it seems you see each other daily, but have you ever looked with care? There is no more need; “wife”—case closed. “Husband”—case closed. The son born in your house—have you seen him? “Son”—and the matter ends.

Buddha returned to his village after twelve years. His father was angry. It is hard to find fathers who are not angry with their sons. Even with a son like Buddha, he was angry. He had left home and ruined the household; the only son, all hopes and ambitions shattered. The old father was hurt. Reports came from time to time: the son has attained enlightenment. How could a father believe that his son has attained enlightenment? Reports came; the father said, “We will see.”

Then the son arrived. The whole town went to receive him; Shuddhodana too. Buddha stood at the city gate, and what did his father say? He said, “I can still forgive you; my door is still open. Foolish one, return. You have made a great mistake. You have caused us much sorrow.”

Is this father seeing the son who stands in front of him? No—the picture from twelve years ago is hanging there before him. This son is not that one. Buddha said, “Look closely. I have returned utterly different. I am not the one who left.”

His father said, “Will you teach me? I am your father; your blood drop by drop is mine; I do not know you? Will you instruct me?” Buddha laughed and said, “No; but let me remind you: being a father does not guarantee understanding me. To understand oneself is difficult enough; to understand another is more difficult still. May I submit that though I have come through you, you did not manufacture me. You were like a path, a road through which I passed; but my journey is endless, very different from you. We met at a crossroad—that crossroad was you. I passed through you and came into this world. But that does not mean you know me. Can the road through which I passed say that it knows me?” But the father kept insisting, “You are my son. I am your father. I know you.” The label “son” was causing him great pain. It would have been better if Gautam Buddha had not been Shuddhodana’s son; then perhaps Shuddhodana could have understood Gautam Buddha more easily—there would have been no label in between. Labels always become obstacles.

Buddha’s wife did not come to receive him. The whole town came; Yashodhara did not. The label “husband” blocked the way. She sat in her palace, filled with anger. She waited: come and placate me. As a wife expects—twelve years ago you left me enraged; now return and soothe me. She sat in the palace. The whole household went, the whole town went; Yashodhara did not. The label “husband” stood in between. Buddha looked around and asked Ananda, “Yashodhara has not come?” “She cannot come. I am her husband, after all. It is very difficult for her to come.” Buddha said, “Then I must go. There is a door in-between... she does not know me. She cannot recognize me.”

This “being a husband” is the obstruction. All the notions we accept in-between prevent us from seeing the person directly. If someone comes having already decided that I am a man of Mao’s ideas, he will not see me; Mao’s picture hangs in-between—and where is Mao’s picture, and where am I! If someone comes having already decided that I tally with M. N. Roy, he is not listening to me. I am speaking; what is being heard is M. N. Roy. If someone comes having decided that my ideas are like Krishnamurti’s, he is not listening to me; he is checking inside, “Yes, this is what Krishnamurti also said.” Then you are not listening to me; you are wandering among your own notions and idols. If you get used to listening this way, you will never be able to listen to anyone. And if this is your way of thinking, you will never be able to think. To think requires an image-less mind—impartial, without any prior assumption, without any label, without any spectacles in-between—so you can see directly, through and through, what is. See only what is—why compare?

You stand before a rose, and immediately a man says, “I have seen better flowers than this.” You may have—but you have never seen this flower. Those better ones may have been—but this flower is of its own kind. Such a flower has never been. Look at this one! Why drag in those past flowers? But the mind cannot look straight; it will bring something in-between, and then look. Then seeing becomes difficult. When many layers come in-between, we neither hear, nor see, nor think; we are sealed within the walls of our own ideas, assumptions, and prejudices—entombed in our own grave. No communication, no dialogue is possible with the outside.

Do not think in the language of whose views my view matches or doesn’t. It is pointless. Understand what I am saying; reflect on it. Understand only what I am saying, listen to it; and don’t bother whether you match with me or not. There is no need. Why should you match? It may happen that we walk together for a while—that is enough. Then we will part.

I have come down the road; someone from a neighboring path has also come. We meet, we walk ten steps together, parallel; then he goes on his way and I on mine. For ten moments we were together—good. Now we are not—also good. Walking with many, again and again, one discovers that one can be only with oneself, with no one else. Why the hurry, why the insistence, to grab someone? Why such weakness? So while listening to me, don’t even worry whether you agree or disagree. If you get entangled in that concern, you will not understand me. You will be lost in agree-disagree, and time will pass. Listen directly, clearly. See what in it is true, what is false. Do not fall into comparison. Comparison is extremely lethal. And being influenced is very dangerous. There is no need for anyone to be influenced by anyone. But there are those who want to influence. Why? Who are these people who want to influence? Those who too are afflicted with an inferiority complex. By influencing others they try to compensate their sense of inferiority. All gurus, all leaders are afflicted with a sense of inferiority. By gathering a crowd of ten around them, by riding on their chests, they experience: “I am something.” “How many are behind me?” The guru keeps count: how many disciples, how many shaven heads, how many ears have I initiated? The leader worries: how many followers? He increases the numbers. And what is the reason behind all this? Some self-reproach, some self-inferiority: being oneself is not enough; only by amassing a crowd will I feel I am something. Being alone is not enough. And one who is not enough unto himself will never know the beauty of truth.

The beauty of truth is not in filling oneself with crowds, but in emptying oneself of the entire crowd. In that space where the mind is utterly silent, solitary, and alone, there bloom the flowers of truth, beauty, and the good (shivam). But we—each of us binds himself to someone or something. There are many ways to bind oneself: someone binds himself to a wife, someone to a husband, someone to sons and daughters, someone to parties, someone to sects, someone to disciples, someone to ashrams. But everyone is bound.

The city of Pompeii burned; the volcano erupted. It was past midnight—around three. The whole town ran. Someone sought his children, someone his wife, someone his disciples, someone his followers, someone his wealth, someone his house—each trying to save what he could. There was one man, a sannyasin, who each morning at three took his staff and went for a walk. He went out for his walk. The whole town was running. Whoever passed by him looked at him closely and said, “Empty-handed? Where is your baggage? Alone? Where are your companions? Where is your family, your dear ones?” The sannyasin said, “There is no one—only I. I am my family; I am my beloved; I am my wealth. There is nothing to save. What I am, I am alone. I walk.” In that crowd, one man was calm. In that uproar, one man walked as if on his morning stroll. The volcano blazed; people, burdened with their belongings, ran. They grieved for what was left behind; what remained, they clutched to their chest—afflicted, anxious, tormented. The whole populace fled from Pompeii. One man, however, was neither anxious nor afflicted nor tormented. Whoever passed near him looked carefully: “Out for a morning walk?” He swung his staff, sang a morning song, and said, “I am alone. I have nothing to lose; whatever could be lost I have already lost. Whatever could be left, I have already left. Now only that remains which can neither be lost nor left. Now I am only myself.” Someone passes by, walks with him a little; but there is no companion, no comrade. Someone takes his hand; but there is no friend, no foe. Only in such a state of mind does a person find his own soul. Without that, never. The influenced, the clinging mind, always following someone, can never be alone. And to be alone is a beauty beyond imagination.

I have heard: News reached a Japanese emperor that in a village garden the morning-glories had bloomed in a wondrous way—flowers everywhere. The emperor sent word to the gardener that he wished to come and see. The gardener said, “I will wait for you in the morning.” The emperor was told that every inch of earth was covered with flowers, nothing but flowers. Morning dawned; the emperor arrived in his chariot and stood stunned: not a single flower in the garden. As if all had been plucked and thrown away.

In a far corner, on a high branch, one lone flower was visible, carefully preserved. The emperor asked, “I had heard there were so many flowers. Where are they?” The gardener said, “Amid so many, one cannot truly see even one. Among the multitude, one cannot be seen. I removed them all and kept one, so that you might know, see, meet it in solitude. And once you meet the one, you have met all, for what is in the one is in all. In that crowd you would have compared: this small, that big; this good, that bad—and gotten lost. This beautiful, that not beautiful—and you would have missed seeing. Now there is only one. Neither small nor big, neither beautiful nor ugly—the possibility of comparison is gone. There is the flower, and there are you. Sit by this flower; live this flower. Let this flower bloom within you. In its solitude, upon your consciousness, perhaps communion will happen with this flower—its soul.”

But the emperor, standing by the flower, began to say, “Truly, I have never seen a larger flower. I have seen many, but they were small.” The gardener said, “My labor was wasted. I plucked all those flowers in vain. Comparison does not leave your mind. The flowers you saw—where are they now? What is here, see that. Why weigh it against what you saw? They exist only as memory—as ashes of memory. Remove those ashes; let the mirror of the mind be free of soot and dust; let it reflect what is.” But the king said, “You are right. This flower is huge; I have seen many—this is larger than all; more beautiful than all. Perhaps such a large flower hardly exists.” The gardener struck his head and said, “My flowers, which I plucked—I worked in vain. He who is surrounded by crowds, even standing before the alone, remains surrounded by crowds. I need not have plucked so many.” We are all similarly crowded in the mind. I am saying something to you, placing a flower before you. You ask, “Which garden does it match? I saw it in such-and-such garden, on such-and-such tree in such-and-such forest. Isn’t it the same? The petals are the same, the color the same.” No, no flower is the same. Every flower is its own kind. Everything has its own personality—and therefore its own soul. The day everything becomes the same, that day there will be no soul. But we are all enemies of the soul; we are assassins of the soul. In every way we try to wipe out individuality and want a crowd that looks alike. We want followers; we want sects. I believe neither in followers nor in gurus. I am not influenced by anyone, nor do I wish to influence anyone. Nor do I hope you will compare. Listen, understand, and then let it go. There is no need to walk with me, nor to walk behind me. For a little while we meet, laugh and speak—and then each has his own path. No one is with anyone; all are alone.

Another friend asks: they ask that…

Don’t. But you will not be able to avoid doing it. You even ask, “Why should we?” That question itself has arisen. Whoever has “why” in the mind cannot escape the search.

You ask: Why seek the Lord’s temple? Don’t seek it, I say. But you are asking, “Why?” And the one who asks “why” has already begun to search. “Why” itself is the search. Why? Whenever a person asks “why?” the search has begun.

And it is hard to find a person who never asks “why.” Can there be a person who has never, even for a single moment, asked, “Why am I?” “If I were not, what loss would there be?” “Why is all this?” “Why these stars and moon?” “Why this earth?” “Why these trees?” “Why do these flowers bloom?” “Why do the winds blow? And if they didn’t, what harm?” It is difficult to find anyone in whose mind “why” has never arisen. And if you do find such a one, know that he is the Divine. Except for the Divine, “why” arises in everyone’s mind. And if you want to erase the why, you will have to reach God.

The day you reach the Divine, that very day the why drops. To know God means to know life’s why. To know God means to be free of the chase of that why which pricks like a thorn: Why? Why am I? Why is there love? Why is there anger? Why is there breath? Why is all this? And if it were not, what loss? This is erased the day we enter the Lord’s temple. If you want to be free of why, you must seek. If you want to be free of questions, you must seek. If you want to rise above curiosity, you must seek. If you want to rise beyond seeking, if you want to be free of seeking, you must seek. And seeking will happen. The search may take any form; that doesn’t matter much. Often it strays onto other paths. And when it strays onto other paths—say, a person seeks wealth—that too is a search; but it is a search for wealth. He perhaps doesn’t go deeper and ask himself, “I am seeking wealth, but for what?” The mind may say, “With wealth there will be power. I will have strength, prestige, fame.” But he does not ask, “How many people had fame? How many had power? How many had prestige? Where are they all now? Where did they all go? Wealth, prestige and power—how many had them? Where are they now?”

Chuang Tzu was once walking past a cremation ground when a skull struck his foot in the dark. He picked up the skull and begged its pardon. His friends said, “What are you doing—asking a skull for forgiveness?” He said, “You don’t know: it’s only a small difference of time. If this fellow were alive, I’d be in real trouble. It’s just a small difference of time; he could have been alive. You say he’s dead—leave it, throw it away. Perhaps you don’t know: this is not an ordinary cremation ground; it is for the great. This was no ordinary man—maybe an emperor, maybe a religious head. Even after death there are classes. Cremation grounds are separate. The small are buried in one place, the great in another. Even in burial there is a difference. Even after death there are classes—there too the rich and poor exist. This is a cremation ground of the great, not an ordinary one. If this man were alive, Chuang Tzu would be in trouble today. So it’s necessary to ask forgiveness.” Then he brought the skull home. His friends asked, “What are you doing?” He said, “I will keep this skull with me.” “For what?” “Because I know there is an identical skull inside me. Today or tomorrow it too will be kicked by passing feet in some cremation ground. Let me remember that.”

His friends said, “What’s the use of remembering? It will only make you more restless.” He said, “If it makes me restless, good—so that I can seek that place where rest is found; otherwise I will go on seeking what is restless.” He kept the skull with him. If someone abused him, he would look at the skull. If someone insulted him, he would look at the skull. If someone struck him, he would glance at the skull and laugh. People asked, “What are you doing?” Chuang Tzu said, “I am saying: it’s only a small interval of time. Today or tomorrow this skull will be lying in the cremation ground. You will kick it, and I will be able to do nothing. If I can do nothing then, what is the point of doing anything now? It’s only a small gap of time.”

We hoard money, we seek wealth—yes, we search. But what are we searching for? We chase fame—but how many have chased fame? What did they get by it? Many reach high positions—what do they gain there? What do they really get? Nobody asks. Or perhaps we do ask, but not deeply enough; not to the very end. So we waste ourselves chasing the trivial and avoid the essential. It is necessary to ask: Why do I seek fame? What for? What happens if one becomes a president?

I have heard: there is a prison, and in it a small hospital. Those who fall ill there are admitted. It is a prison hospital: no windows, thick walls. They are prisoners—even in sickness—hands and feet in chains, bound to their iron cots. There is only one door for the doctor’s coming and going. The bed nearest the door is Number One. The patient on Bed Number One becomes very prestigious in that hospital because he has Bed Number One. Not only that—he has made such a thing of it that the whole hospital prays for him to die soon so they can get Bed Number One. Every morning he sits up, looks “outside,” and says, “Ah! What a sunrise! What showers of light! The gulmohar has burst into bloom; the whole sky is filled with red flowers.” In the evening he says, “The moon has risen, night-blooming jasmine fills the air with fragrance; such beautiful people pass by—did you see that woman, such maiden grace on her face, eyes like fresh flowers!” The whole ward goes mad. They rattle their chains and cots and boil with anger: “When will God make him die so I can have Bed Number One!” But he doesn’t die.

Those on top don’t die easily. Still, they too must die. However hard, they too must die. Everyone must.

Sometimes he has a heart attack and the whole ward rejoices: “Maybe now he’s going!” All begin flattering the doctors: “Remember us if the place opens up.” What happens in Delhi happens there too—exactly the same. He fools them two or three times. People on bed one are great deceivers! The attack comes and he survives. Then everyone says aloud, “Thank God you were saved—how sad it would have been if you had gone,” while inwardly they lament, “Alas, we missed our chance again.” He knows it too—because he came to Bed One the same way. It’s not a new story; he’s not the first on that bed. Bed Number One is beginningless and endless; it has always been there. People have come and gone upon it. When he hears their thanks he smiles broadly, and the next morning the flowers bloom again, the birds fly again, the white file of egrets passes by, and everyone writhes in their chains. But how long can he keep deceiving?

At last he dies. Then comes a fresh round of flattery. Someone wins and is promoted to Bed Number One. Watch his swagger as he moves to that bed. The chains on his hands look like ornaments; his prison clothes like garments descended from heaven. He reaches Bed One, sits, looks outside—there is nothing outside but a long stone wall. No sun, no gulmohar, no moon at night, no flight of egrets, no beautiful women, no scent of jasmine. Only a wall. He is startled; what can he say when he turns around? Then it strikes him: if I say there is only a stone wall, I’ll be the fool. People will laugh, “We told you so.” All those who campaigned to get there will say, “There is nothing there.” So he turns and says, “Ah, what a sunrise! Gulmohar blossoms raining down, clouds sailing in the blue. What a wondrous world outside! O God, thank you for giving me this chance.” And the whole ward goes mad again, “When will this wretch die?” And so it goes on and on. Those who reach Number One keep the eternal illusion alive—otherwise they would look like fools. And the illusion continues.

It is necessary to ask: What will you really find by seeking fame? Who found anything by it? What will you gain by chasing wealth? Who ever truly gained by it? The real search is something else. But in place of that search we pursue substitutes—stand-ins—until life is exhausted. We miss what had to be found and wander after what had no meaning.

What is meant by “God”? It means: seek only that which is life’s ultimate meaning. Seek that which is life’s deepest depth. Seek that which is life’s highest height. Seek that which is the essence of existence. Seek that which is existence itself, the soul of existence. Cheap talk about God has landed us in trouble. Such cheap talk has emptied the word of meaning. Its true meaning is: the soul of existence—and that is what we are. But what is this being? Why is it? Where is it? From where? Toward where? To know this whole being—this is the search for the Lord’s temple. Without seeking this, whatever else we seek, whatever else we obtain, is meaningless. The moment we obtain it, we find it empty. Whatever we get—if it is money, then the only benefit of getting money is this: once you have it, its futility is revealed, and the capacity to live without it becomes available. There is no other benefit. The same with fame: gain it, and its futility is revealed; then, if you wish, the capacity to live without fame becomes available. Nothing more.

But the self-deception is deep. We drop one illusion and immediately pick up another. Before one journey ends, a new one begins. And no one asks what any of this will bring.

I have heard a Russian folk tale. A crow sits on a tree at dawn; beneath the tree a poet is resting. The sun rises, birds fly, they sing. Beneath the solitary crow, the solitary poet begins to sing. He sings four lines: “I have obtained all wealth—everything; nothing remains. I have become Kubera; Solomon’s treasure is in my hands. What is left to gain?” The crow cackles loudly. The poet is startled, looks up. The crow says, “So what? You got it all—what happens by that?” The poet says, “Foolish crow, what do you know of the beauty of wealth?” The crow says, “You’re right. The madness for wealth exists only in humans, not in birds and beasts. We laugh when a man thinks he has gained something by gaining wealth. What use? What do you become by it? So what?” The poet says, “Leave wealth, then. I have become the emperor of the whole earth. My flag flies everywhere. There is nothing left to conquer.” The crow says, “So what? The flag flies—then what? You have conquered all—then what? What will you get by it? What will you become?” The poet says, “You don’t understand. Wait, I’ll recite a third poem.” And poets don’t stop; they go on singing even if only a crow is listening. He recites the third: “I have known the Gita, the Koran, the Bible. I have gathered all knowledge. I am omniscient. Whatever has been known, I know; whatever has been written, I have read. No one more learned than I. I am the great scholar.” The crow says, “So what?” The poet, angry, flings the book and walks off: “What a match with a senseless crow! Whatever I say, he says, ‘So what?’” The crow calls after him, “Run away and leave the book. Nothing comes of that either. So what?”

The crow speaks truly. Whether fame, wealth, erudition—or even renunciation—drop it all; nothing comes of it. Then why do people do all this? No, something does happen. Perhaps the crow doesn’t understand man, so he says such things. It may be that ultimately the crow is right. But man will say, “He is wrong. Something does happen from fame, wealth, learning, renunciation—something surely happens.” Birds and trees don’t know; humans do. What happens? The ego gets inflated: “I am something.” And the irony is: those who don’t even know what they are get the delusion that they are something. Ego swells. There is no greater untruth than ego. A lie gets strengthened. And there is no bigger lie than ego.

I have heard: on the shore of a lake in California a man was “fishing.” A sign right in front said “Fishing strictly prohibited,” but there he sat, fishing. Human nature is such: wherever there is a sign, the urge to fish awakens. If you want to protect the fish, never put up a sign; otherwise they will die. He is “fishing.” Another man comes from behind and asks, “Brother, how many have you caught?” He points to a bag, “The bag is full—big ones.” The newcomer says, “Perhaps you don’t know who I am.” “Who are you?” “I am the inspector of this lake. Fishing is prohibited. I am the highest authority here. See the sign behind you?” The fisherman says, “No need to look at the sign. Do you know who I am?” “Who are you?” “I am the biggest liar living around this lake. The bag is empty; there are no fish in it. And this line—there isn’t even bait on the hook. It’s just a string dangling.” “Then why this charade? An empty bag, and you claim it’s full? Just a bare line?” He says, “Some friends are coming; I want to show them I too am a fisherman—no ordinary man. I am something.” The inspector says, “What’s the use?” The fisherman replies, “If there is no use in this, then all the races of the world are useless—because all of them are trying to show ‘I am something.’”

He speaks accurately. He is the biggest liar around that lake. And whoever tries to show “I am something,” wherever he may live, is busy upholding a very big lie.

There is no lie greater than ego. And for ego we conduct our entire search. That is one kind of search. But the person who sees that ego is a lie says, “I am—but what am I? That I do not know. In trying to prove I am this or that—by wealth, by knowledge, by fame, by learning, by renunciation—will I not go astray? First let me know who I am; then I will say what I am.” Before becoming “somebody,” first know “what” you are. The wonder is: those who go to know what they are, disappear—and become one with That which is all. And those who set out to prove “I am this”—by money, by knowledge, by fame, by scholarship, by asceticism—shrink and shrink. Walls arise on every side; an ego hardens. That very ego pricks like a thorn, brings sorrow, pain, suffering. Then the person asks, “What shall I do for peace? My mind is so restless.” If the mind is restless, know that the ego has been strengthened—that’s why the mind is restless. Then he says, “I am very miserable—how can I find bliss?” If there is misery, know that beyond ego there is no other misery. The ego has been strengthened. Then he says, “I wander in great ignorance; I need knowledge.” But ask him carefully: what is ignorance other than ego? And if there is ego, ignorance cannot be removed.

It simply means Socrates is saying that the very claim “I know” is proof of ignorance. “I know, I have known, I have attained”—this emphasis on the “I” is ego. Where there is ego, there is danger. One who truly knows will say, “Knowing is there—but where am I? Where is that ego, that ‘I’?” This does not mean that if the “I” disappears, you will disappear. Only when the “I” dissolves do you, in the truest sense, come to be. And then that “you” becomes vast—everything is contained in it.

The hunt for ego is going on everywhere. One person piles up wealth and stands upon that heap. Why? To tower over others and proclaim, “I am above you.” This is the intelligence of small children. A little child stands on a chair next to his father and says, “Look, father, I am taller than you.” The father laughs: “Yes, of course—on the chair you are taller.” So man builds a chair of wealth, a chair of scriptures, climbs up, and shouts, “I have become great.”

I have heard this: Dr. Pattabhi Sitaramayya wrote in his memoirs about a magistrate in Madras who was utterly crazy. And what was his madness? The same madness that grips us all. In his court there was only one chair outside—for himself. The other chairs he kept inside. They were numbered—seven chairs in all. Number one was a magnificent throne-like chair; number seven was a poor, wobbly stool. And for the eighth category, he kept people standing and dealt with them on their feet. He would summon a chair after sizing up the person.

One day an old man came in, leaning on a stick. The magistrate thought, “It will do without a chair.” Just then the old man drew back his sleeve and checked his watch—a costly one. The magistrate whispered to his attendant, “Quick—bring chair number three.” Before it arrived, the old man said, “Perhaps you don’t recognize me? I am Rai Bahadur so-and-so, from such-and-such village—have you forgotten?” The magistrate shouted, “Wait! Peon! Bring chair number two.” The peon turned back midway. The old man added, “No, maybe you still don’t recognize me. In the last War I donated ten lakh rupees to the government.” By then the peon was approaching with chair number two. The magistrate shouted again, “Stop! Bring number one!” The old man said, “I am tired of standing—why don’t you fetch the final number at once, because I still have more to tell you; it will take you a little while yet to identify me fully.”

But this is our identity, isn’t it? If that old man hadn’t said “Rai Bahadur,” hadn’t mentioned ten lakhs, hadn’t worn an expensive watch—finished! Is a human being only this much? Merely an aggregate of such things—clothes, titles like Rai Bahadur or Padma Shri? Just this bundle—coat, shirt, turban? Is man only the money in the pocket, the books in the skull, the renunciations stored in memory? Is that enough? Will knowing such things amount to knowing? Will the search be complete?

Most people are busy only with this much. And whoever is busy with this is still hunting for clothes. And whoever hunts for clothes is wasting time.

Seek that which is inner, essential, the soul.
Yet we are all searching for clothes.

A friend asks: Why seek God? Why not go on seeking the clothes? Why seek the soul?
Don’t seek—your choice. But you will grow weary piling up clothes. The heap will become a mountain. You will be lost, suffocated beneath them. And you—you are not the clothes.

Once Bahadur Shah invited Ghalib to a meal. A poet, a poor man, Ghalib started out in his torn, worn clothes. His friends said, “Don’t go dressed like that. Such clothes are not recognized at the palace gate.” Ghalib said, “Did he invite me or my clothes? Perhaps he’s a simpleton. In this world, only clothes are invited, only clothes are recognized. The time has not yet come when one human being invites another. That time has not come.”

But Ghalib would not listen. Some people are stubborn. His friends said, “We’ll borrow clothes for you.” Ghalib said, “Is it proper to wear borrowed clothes? Better my own tattered ones—at least they are mine. No one can say they are borrowed.” They said, “You’re mad—who recognizes what is borrowed and what is one’s own? Everything in this world runs on borrowing. With borrowed knowledge people become scholars, and you worry about borrowed clothes?”

Ghalib did not agree. “What is mine is right. Even poverty is mine—then why worry about clothes? I am. I will remain the same, whatever the clothes.” His friends said, “You’re being foolish—clothes change the man. As the clothes, so the man.”

Ghalib wouldn’t budge. He went. At the gate, as he tried to enter, the guard shoved him and said, “Where do you think you’re going? Is this some dharamshala? Where are you pushing in?”

“I was invited,” Ghalib said. “The Emperor is my friend. He sent me an invitation.”

The guard said, “This is too much. Every beggar fancies himself the Emperor’s friend. Move along, or I’ll have you thrown out and locked up.”

Then Ghalib remembered his friends—he had made a mistake. Perhaps only clothes are recognized.

He returned. “Forgive me,” he told his friends. “I was wrong. Bring the clothes.” They brought borrowed clothes—borrowed shoes, borrowed turban, borrowed coat—everything borrowed. A borrowed man looks very impressive. Ghalib looked splendid. On the street every shopkeeper bowed. Human beings till today have bowed to what is borrowed. The same Ghalib had passed this way a little earlier and no one greeted him. The street is the same, the people the same, Ghalib the same—only the clothes changed, and everything changed.

He was astonished. He had never known that there could be so much truth in clothes. He reached the gate; the guard bowed low: “How may I serve you, sir? Where shall I escort you?” Ghalib looked closely at him—but the guard did not recognize him. Who looks into the eyes? People have no time to peer into eyes—they are busy looking at clothes. Who sees the person? Only when the gaze lifts from the clothes could one see the man. And those who have nothing of the human within are busy twenty-four hours with their outer attire. Someone stands draped in saffron robes—inside there is no man at all. Someone else wears another kind of costume—inside no man at all. Someone is laden with jewelry; a woman stands all decked out—inside, no person at all. As long as the surface display is intense, know there is a lack within being concealed from above. But this is the world—this is how we are recognized.

Ghalib was escorted inside. The Emperor said, “I have been waiting a long time.” He seated Ghalib for the meal. Ghalib lifted the food and said to his turban, “Here, turban, eat; here, coat, eat.” The Emperor said, “What are you doing? Your eating habits seem very strange.” Ghalib said, “Not strange at all, Majesty. I came earlier—I am no longer here. Now only the clothes have arrived. I came and went. And I will never come again—where clothes are recognized, what need is there for me? Now the clothes have come, let me feed them and then I’ll go back.”

This race we take to be life—this search we take to be a search, this journey we take to be a journey—is it more than clothes? What are we searching for? Even if we find all this, will we find that which we are?

And then you ask, why seek God? What does it mean to seek God? To seek God is to seek that which is. To seek the world is to seek that which is not. The search for the world is the search for untruth. The search for the Lord’s temple is the search for truth. The center of the false is the ego. The center of the world is ego. And the one who goes to seek God loses himself—slowly, slowly he is lost.

Yesterday I said: drop belief. Today I said: drop thought. Tomorrow I will tell you to drop something more, and the day after, something more. A moment comes when whatever is nonessential—whatever is added from the outside, whatever are mere garments—drop it all. Let that remain which cannot be dropped. And the day only that remains which cannot be lost, revolution happens. The door of the Lord’s temple opens.

I am deeply grateful that you have listened to my words with such love and silence. Finally, I bow to the Divine seated within each of you. Please accept my pranam.