Prabhu Mandir Ke Dwar Par #8

Two things need to be understood here. First, I have never said that one should believe in God. Believing in God is not the mark of a theist. Belief in God is only a device to hide the atheist within. The point is not believing, but knowing. Second, remember this as well: one who has not known Him can never have true compassion in life. Only by knowing Him does the source of compassion open and become manifest.

Understand this clearly: service can be service in the perfect sense only when your life has become connected to the divine. Otherwise, service too is self-interest. It becomes a gratification of the ego, a hunger for fame; and even through service a person will try to become a master.

In this country we know well how many “servants” have become masters—and every servant is trying to become one. Outwardly he will be a servant; inwardly he will be seeking mastery. Or, if service does not become a worldly self-interest, it will become a self-interest for the next world.

Karpatri-ji wrote a book in which he argued against socialism: “If socialism comes and there are no poor, no beggars, to whom will you give alms? And without alms there is no liberation. So if you want liberation, poverty must be preserved. Beggars are essential; they are the very rungs on whose heads you place your feet to climb to moksha.” If service grants liberation—if that were so—we would have to maintain people who need service.

No. No one can truly serve until his ego has dissolved, until the “I” has disappeared. And the one whose “I” disappears comes to know the divine. Only upon knowing the divine, only when the wall between “I” and “you” falls, does service become possible—because then the other’s joy is my joy, the other’s pain is my pain. Then there is neither “I” nor “other.” Only then can service be meaningful, substantial, deep. Otherwise, service taught from the outside is dangerous—and very costly.

I have heard: In a school, a priest was instructing children, “If you want to go to heaven and behold God, serve others. Every day you must perform at least one act of service.” The children asked, “What should we do?” He said, “If someone falls into water, save him. If a house catches fire, even at risk to your life, get the people out. Serve any elderly, any sick—whatever service you can, do it.”

Seven days later he returned and asked, “Did any of you serve?” Three out of thirty raised their hands. He said, “Still good—three out of thirty. No harm.” He asked the first, “What did you do?” The child said, “I helped an old woman cross the road.” “Very good,” said the priest. “Old people should indeed be helped across.” He asked the second, “And you?” “I also helped an old woman cross.” The priest felt a twinge of doubt, then thought, “No matter—there are many old women.” He asked the third, “And you?” “I too helped an old woman cross.” The priest said, “So all three of you found three old women?” They replied, “No, not three—there was only one. The three of us together got her across.” The priest asked, “Was she so feeble that it took three?” They said, “Feeble? She was very strong—barely got her across. Actually, she didn’t want to cross at all. But you told us service is necessary, so we had to perform a service.”

If service becomes mandatory in the world, it becomes dangerous. And “servants” have often proved more mischievous, more disruptive, than anyone else. The world needs to be saved from its servers. Of all the turmoil in the world, ninety percent comes from “servants.” Christians are serving, Muslims are serving, Hindus are serving, Jains are serving; all kinds of monks are serving; new kinds of volunteers are serving—and they are casting humanity into strange nets, because service must be done; and it must be done, for service is necessary to reach heaven.

No—I do not say you should serve anyone. As long as the idea persists, “I am serving,” the “I” becomes stronger. Therefore I do not say that through service one will know God. Yes, if someone has known God, then his life becomes service. But then service is not a profession. Nor is it deliberate; nor is there any sense of “I am serving.” Service does not become ego. It seeks no worship. The server does not try to become the master. Service becomes like breathing, like walking, like a shadow following you. In just this way, in one whose life has moved even a little toward the divine, service starts following behind. Service is not religion—but becoming religious certainly means becoming a true servant. No one reaches religion through service. But the one who has reached religion—his whole life becomes service.

Understand both these points well. And compassion too—compassion arises only in a heart whose ego has been dissolved. Apart from ego there is no hardness; apart from ego there is no cruelty. Whatever harshness and cruelty there is springs from ego.

A man amasses wealth—can he possibly see how much poverty and misery his hoarding creates around him? No. But he calls it compassion when he builds a dharmashala, raises a temple, performs rituals and oblations, opens an ashram for monks; he builds pens—cages—for people and for cows, and calls it compassion, charity, kindness, service. And on the other side he keeps pulling in wealth. Where is compassion in this man’s life? If compassion were there, how could this drawing in of wealth continue? He siphons off hundreds of thousands and gives a little in donation—arranging comfort both for this world and the next.

No—compassion can only flow from a heart whose center of ego has shattered. And that shatters only in a religious person.

So do not ask: “If we are compassionate without being religious, what is the harm?” You cannot be compassionate without being religious. That is impossible. And if you are truly compassionate, then in my eyes you are religious. Being religious does not mean that someone who worships in a temple becomes religious. Nor does it mean that reading a few lines of the Gita in the morning makes one religious. Nor does going on Hajj, to the Kaaba, to Kashi, on pilgrimage—none of that is what religiousness means. The truth is, in the pilgrimages and temples you see no one but the irreligious. Why would a religious man go there? Wherever a religious man is, there is the temple, there is the pilgrimage.

Once a man went to Ramakrishna and said, “I am going for a dip in the Ganga. Bless me that all my sins may be washed away.” Ramakrishna said, “What fault is it of the Ganga? You committed the sins—what has Ganga to do with it? Why be angry with Ganga?” The man said, “Not angry—I have heard that bathing in the Ganga washes away sins.” Ramakrishna said, “It may wash them away. But remember one thing: have you seen the big trees along the riverbank? When you dive into the water, your sins will leap out and sit on the trees. But how long will you stay under? Eventually you will come out, and the sins will jump back onto you. If you remain submerged and never emerge, then fine; otherwise they’ll mount you again. Don’t labor in vain—and don’t trouble the Ganga for nothing. When you were committing sins you didn’t ask anyone—not the Ganga, not the temple, not God—so why go asking anyone to wash them off?”

But man is dishonest: he sins himself and goes to a pilgrimage to wash it off; he is himself restless and searches for peace in temples. This is the mistake. You must search out the causes of restlessness; you must dissolve it as you created it. If sin was committed in stupor, that stupor must be broken for sin to drop. Nothing will come of Ganga and pilgrimages.

If you think that is what being religious means, then there is no need to be religious at all. But that is not religiousness. Being religious is something else entirely. It is the search for truth: Is this body that is seen all there is, or is there more? Is this outer expanse everything, or is there something deeper within it? This continuity of life, this infinite stream of existence—what does it mean? What is its depth? What is its purpose? Who am I? What is my relationship with the whole of existence? The search of religion is not the search for rituals and hypocrisy; it is a supremely scientific inquiry—the supreme science, the ultimate science. Without seeking the deepest truth of life, a person never lives in the full sense—he lives half, lives on the surface; he does not know within who he is, what he is. Beyond our clothes, do we recognize anything within?

I have heard: there was a huge crowd at a pilgrimage. A fakir, too, had come and was staying in a dharmashala. There was much rush. The manager said, “There’s one man already in a room; you can stay there too.” The fakir agreed. He lay down on the bed wearing turban, shirt, coat, shoes—fully dressed. The other guest in the room said, “You’ll sleep in all those clothes? You won’t be able to sleep.” The fakir said, “I know—but taking off my clothes is very difficult.” The stranger thought it better not to ask too much. Later, the fakir kept tossing, sleep wouldn’t come—shoes on, turban on. Many people sleep with their shoes and turbans on: they take the day’s tension, the day’s drama, their acting, into bed. This man too lay down with all his costumes. The neighbor repeatedly said, “Forgive me—you can’t sleep, and when you toss I can’t sleep either. Please take off these clothes; then sleep will come.”

The fakir sat up and said, “I know—but taking off my clothes is very difficult. If I were alone, I would shut the door, undress, and sleep. But you are here, and apart from these clothes I have no identity. If I take them off, in the morning how will we know who’s who? Am I me, or are you me—who is who? Beyond clothes I don’t recognize anyone.” The man said, “Then do this: take off your clothes, and tie this little rattle to your leg.” A child’s rattle lay nearby. “Tie this to your ankle; it will be your identification—this is you. In the morning, put your clothes back on.”

The fakir said, “That makes sense. Without an identity a man can get lost. One needs recognition.” That’s why people write their names: so-and-so, then M.A., B.T., LL.B., D.Litt., Padmashri, Rai Bahadur—these are all rattles by which a man recognizes, “This is me.” He tied on the rattle and undressed and slept.

At about four in the morning the other man had a mind for mischief. He woke, removed the rattle from the fakir’s leg, and tied it to his own. Around six the fakir awoke and panicked. The rattle was not on his ankle—great difficulty! “Who am I?” He shook the neighbor and said, “Trouble! This is what I feared—and it has happened. The rattle is on your leg; therefore it is proved that you are the fakir. But who am I? This is the problem. How will I recognize myself now?”

The fakir was making a deep joke—laughing at all humanity. Do we know ourselves beyond our garments and our rattles? If someone asks, “Who are you?” we can only give our name. Name is a rattle tied in childhood. No one is born with a name; it is false, imagined, pasted on from outside. You are nameless; I am nameless. I could change my name today, yet I would not change. Names change. Then there are degrees, titles, fame, honor, respect—everything is externally attached, nothing more than clothes. Who am I within? Who was born? Who lives? Who will depart in death? There is no recognition. Religion is the search for that truth—the center and ground of our life. If we do not know that, we are not religious. We may go to temples, we may worship, we may pray—but we cannot enter the temple of God. For one who does not even know who he is—what will he say upon entering? What will he declare before God—who comes? He knows nothing. We may enter men’s houses and men’s temples; but to enter God’s temple, we must first find that which we truly are.

Schopenhauer, a German thinker, once went walking in a garden at midnight. The gardener heard someone speaking loudly—perhaps two people were in the garden. Astonished, he took a spear and a lantern, went in, and shouted, “Who’s there?” Schopenhauer burst into laughter and said, “You’ve put me in a great difficulty. This is exactly what I am asking myself: Who am I? And no answer comes. How can I tell you? I myself have not yet found any answer.”

No doubt the gardener thought the man was mad. But who was mad—Schopenhauer, or the gardener? Or are we the mad ones? Who is mad? The one who does not even know who he is—is he not mad? We all are mad. And Schopenhauer was wise. At least he had realized: “I do not know who I am.” The moment one knows even this much—that “I do not know who I am”—a search, an inquiry, a journey begins. The name of this journey is pilgrimage. And the pilgrimage is within.

I have heard a story. I have heard that when the earth was made, everything was created, man was created—and the moment man was made, God became worried. He asked the gods, “I am in great trouble. I have created man, but he will stand at my door every day with a thousand questions. I want to avoid this. Tell me a place where I can hide and this man cannot reach me.”

The gods said, “Go hide on Everest.” God said, “You don’t know—very soon a Hillary will be born, a Tenzing will be born; they will climb Everest.” So they said, “Then go to the moon.” He said, “That won’t work either; very soon the astronauts of Russia and America will reach the moon. That won’t help. It’s only a matter of moments, a little time. Man will catch me. Tell me of a place where man simply cannot reach.”

Then one of the gods whispered in God’s ear, and God agreed. That god said, “Then hide inside man. There man will never reach.” And God went and hid there. Once in a while someone does arrive; generally no one reaches there. Leaving just one place, we go everywhere—leaving ourselves, we go all over. That which is nearest has become the farthest; that which is within has become the most distant, as if outside. What I myself am, that alone I leave out, while I gather everything else. We lose ourselves and gain everything. What is the meaning of such gaining, in which everything is attained and the self is lost? What is the value of such knowledge in which I know everything but cannot know myself?

Swami Ram had gone to Japan. A house caught fire. Thousands of people gathered; it was a big house, the house of a great tycoon of Tokyo. People were carrying things out, and the house was being gripped more and more by the flames. Ram stood watching too. The owner of the house was standing outside unconscious with shock, being supported by four men. The man’s eyes were glazed; he couldn’t think of anything. Finally some people came out from inside and said to the owner, “If there is anything else essential left, tell us. We have brought out all the papers, the safes, the furniture—we have brought out everything; whatever was valuable we have taken. If there is any other necessary thing, please tell us. Because this is the last chance we can go inside. After this, it will be impossible to enter the flames.” The owner said, “I can’t remember anything. You yourselves go in once more and look; whatever seems necessary, bring that too.”

They went back inside and then came out beating their chests, carrying the corpse of a child with them. And they all wept and said, “A great mistake has happened. We got busy saving the belongings, and the owner’s only son was left sleeping inside. The owner—the real owner, the one who was to be the owner tomorrow—has been burned. And all the stuff has been saved.”

Ram wrote in his diary: “What I saw today is exactly what is happening in the whole world. Man saves everything except himself. He himself burns; the owner burns; the goods are saved. In the end, a heap of possessions remains, and the man is lost.”

Religion says: save yourself first. First know and search for that which is the self; then everything else is secondary, everything else is outside, non-essential, not the essence. The essence is the self. Religion is concerned with this. Therefore, let no one say, “What is the harm if we avoid religion?” No one can avoid religion. To get free of religions, however, is of great benefit. Do not avoid religion; certainly get free of religions. By “religions” I mean Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Parsi—be free of these. Whoever is encircled by these will not come to know religion. Whoever wanders in religions will miss religion. And one who wants to enter religion should bow to the religions and move on. Religion has nothing to do with the religions. So long as religions are crowding the earth, Religion cannot be born. As long as there is a crowd of religions, the birth of Religion is very difficult. But whenever a person wants to search, he should leave the religions and go in search of Religion. Why do I say this? I say it because Religion can only be one.

I speak against them because religion can only be one. There cannot be a thousand religions. Truth cannot be a thousand. Remember this: untruths can be many; truth can only be one. Illnesses can be many; health is one. There are so many of us here—if we all decided to fall ill, I would be ill in my way, you in yours; there would be as many illnesses as there are people. Everyone would fall ill differently. But if we all became healthy—perfectly healthy—there would not be a hair’s breadth of difference between my health and yours. The experience of health is one; the experiences of sickness can be many.

So the experience of religion is one—whether it happens to Buddha or Mahavira, to Mohammed, to Jesus, or to Krishna, the taste of religion is one. Then why do these separate religious camps stand facing each other? They are not founded on the experience of religion; they stand upon exploiting the human thirst for religion. Religions, as institutions, have nothing to do with God; they have to do with the priest. And remember this: there has never been any friendship between the priest and God. There is friendship between the priest and the Devil, not between the priest and God—nor can there be. Between God and man there is no need for any agent, any broker. Between truth and the seeker no go-between is needed. If your own eyes open, truth stands before you. The more dishonest the business—theft, mischief—the more agents are required. For irreligion, brokers are needed.

I have heard of an incident. A priest was hurrying along a roadside; he had to give a sermon in a church. From a nearby ditch a voice cried out, “Listen, I am dying. Someone has stabbed me—save me!” The priest looked down and saw a man drenched in blood; a knife was lying nearby. But the priest was in a hurry. He had to deliver a sermon on love. And if he got entangled in this man’s treatment, he might land in trouble; who knows, he might be accused of the stabbing himself.

The priest ran on. But the man shouted, “Priest! I know you well. I’m from the very village where you are going to speak. If I survive, I will tell everyone that you were in such a hurry to preach on love that you didn’t even climb down to save me.” The priest was frightened. He climbed down, wiped the man’s face—and at once recognized him. The priest said, “You look familiar.” The man replied, “Of course I do. I’ve had an old relationship with priests. I am the Devil. My picture even hangs in your church.” The priest exclaimed, “Good Lord! I’ve polluted myself by dipping my hands in your blood. Saving you is out of the question—it would be better if you died. It’s for your death that we make all our efforts.” The Devil burst out laughing. “Foolish priest,” he said, “you know nothing. The day I die, you die too. So long as the Devil exists, the priest’s business exists. If I die, what will you do? Save me quickly. If God were to die, it wouldn’t harm your trade—but if I die, you are finished.”

The priest thought, “That’s true. If people didn’t remain bad, what would happen to those who try to make them good?” He hoisted the man onto his shoulder and said, “Brother, don’t die. I’ll take you to the hospital and try to get you well. Thank you for the reminder—this is perfectly right. What do we have to do with God? If everyone attained God, the priest would be finished. But if people remain ensnared by the Devil, the priest’s work goes on.”

That is why, the more evil spreads in the world, the more immorality spreads, the more irreligion spreads, the better the trade of monks, sadhus, priests runs. It’s all a matter of “season.” When people fall physically ill, it’s the doctor’s peak season. When the soul falls ill, it’s the peak season for priests, pundits, monks, mahatmas—an odd kind of season. Outwardly it seems the doctor lives to cure the patient, and he works hard at it. Inwardly, he prays every day to God that the number of patients increase. He, too, is caught in a contradictory business.

I have heard this as well. One night, in a hotel, a group of friends sat drinking late, eating meat. At two in the morning they left, paying a large bill. The owner said to his wife, “If such generous people came every day, our fortunes would shine.” As they were leaving, the customers said, “As for us, we can come every day. Pray to God that our business keeps thriving like this, and we will come daily.” The owner said, “We will pray—but first tell me, what is your business?” The man replied, “I sell wood at the cremation ground. If more people die every day, our business runs every day—and we will come every day.”

What is the business of priests and monks? Man is bad, characterless, astray, in darkness—bringing him “back to the path” is their trade. Their pact is with the Devil. Priests have erected the religions; this web of religions is the priest’s web. Hindu, Christian, Muslim—these are the fences erected by priests. Man himself is not divided anywhere. How would God divide man? If there were a living experience of the divine, man would be joined; not only man, animals and birds would be joined; not only animals and birds, stones and flowers too would be joined. Connection would go on expanding—God is the joining of the infinite.

But in the name of religions, man is fragmented—into pieces. If there is fragmentation, surely something is wrong. The mistake is that we take religions to be religion. If man is to become truly religious, he must be freed from being Hindu, Muslim, Christian; his being simply human is enough.

Certainly, what I say is negative. And only through the negative can your own intelligence arise within you; there is no other way. Watch a sculptor at work. What is he doing? He does not “make” a statue. He simply picks up a chisel and hammer and chips away the edges of the stone. If you tell him, “What are you doing? Make the statue—you’re only breaking off flakes, knocking away the sides,” he will say, “The statue is hidden in the stone. I will only remove the useless stone and the statue will be revealed.” The statue does not have to be created; only the unnecessary has to be removed. It is hidden within; it will appear.

When I speak in the negative, my whole effort is to shake loose and drop what is superfluous around you—the stone that has gathered around everyone’s genius. It must be struck with the chisel and hammer. What will be revealed is already within you; no one else can give it to you. No one can give you genius. But the net around your genius can be broken.

The sole meaning of education is: how can the genius hidden in each person be uncovered? It is covered—how can it be brought into the open? Genius is already within everyone; it is not something to be given. If genius had to be given, the task would be impossible. No one can give knowledge; only ignorance can be taken away, broken, dismantled. When ignorance falls, knowledge is revealed.

I speak negatively knowingly, deliberately. In truth, the entire process of religion is negative. Religion wants to reveal what is within you. It does not want to give you something; it wants to take something away—what is futile—so that only the essential remains within. The essential will shine and the inessential will fall apart. We are all a mixture of the trivial and the meaningful, and on top of us lies a heavy tradition of the nonessential. So many books, conditionings, traditions, and superstitions have settled on the mind that, under that burden, the soul can no longer rise. We must be freed from the useless.

And remember, there is no liberation except through the negative. The negative path is the path of freedom. One has to break, to drop, to remove the superfluous—because the essential cannot be broken. However much you strike at it, it does not shatter. So be at ease. Passing through the negative process, only the essential remains. It is like putting gold into fire: real gold does not fear. Yes, if—by some Ayurvedic miracle, by trick and cleverness—someone has produced imitation gold, then there can be trouble. But gold does not fear; gold says, “Throw me into the fire. Good—the dross will burn away, and I will come out.” What is true within us does not fear negation, denial, fire. The false is afraid; it says, “In the negative I will die. Save me from the fire.” Gold comes out refined; the garbage is burned.

Through negation, denial, prohibition, the nonessential in the soul is removed and the essential, the true, remains. Therefore, anyone who would seek truth must pass through negation.

That is why I say: one who cannot be an atheist can never be a theist. Without becoming an atheist, no one can truly become a theist. Theism is refined by passing through the fire of atheism; it gains radiance, strength, clarity.

But we are so frightened that we fear atheism and sit down as pseudo-believers. There are two kinds of people across the earth. First, the pseudo-theists—their numbers are vast; so vast that they have put the whole earth in danger. They are the ones who were afraid to be atheists, afraid to pass through atheism: gold that refused the fire, and by refusing it became poor and paltry. The second kind are a few atheists who have stopped at atheism. Gold should pass through the fire; it should not remain in it. If gold stays in the fire, it becomes pointless. One has to pass through, not stop. He who stops in atheism is also wasted. Pass through atheism so that what remains and emerges is theism—the true, the real, that which does not burn and does not perish.

Two kinds of people: those who never enter the fire, and those who sit down in the fire—and the earth is in trouble. Each person must pass through the fire. These four days I have spoken in the language of negation precisely so that each one’s genius may pass through this fire. Why are we afraid? Only the one who is clinging to something false is afraid. If there is truth, there is no reason for fear.

Negation is the path to the affirmative. Negation is the way to the positive. Pass through denial to attain the affirmative. Learn to say no, so that one day you can say yes. One who has never said “no”—his “yes” has no value. His yes will be impotent—without strength, without power, without courage. Learn to deny, so that the power to say yes may arise in you. And when one who has known how to say no one day says yes, that yes becomes the transformation of his life. A revolution happens.

That fear is real. The danger is definite. It’s definite because man is utterly crazy. He is so strange that he even turns those who tried to break traditions into new traditions. Buddha told people, “Become yourself,” and millions became Buddhists. If Buddha is anywhere, he must be banging his head: “What madness is this? I said, become yourself, be a light unto yourself,” and they keep chanting, “Buddham sharanam gachchhami—we take refuge in Buddha.” Buddha says, “Don’t take refuge in anyone, for within you dwells that which needs no refuge. It is self-sufficient.” And they keep saying, “Buddham sharanam gachchhami.”

Buddha said, “Worship no one; make no images.” Yet there are more statues of Buddha in the world than of anyone else. In Urdu there is a word but (idol). That word is a corruption of Buddha. So many Buddha statues reached Arab lands that when people there asked, “What is this?” they were told, “Buddha.” They concluded Buddha means idol. Thus but came into being—just a distorted form of Buddha. But-parasti (idol-worship) is really Buddha-parasti in a twisted form. And the very man who opposed images has more images than anyone!

In China there is a temple of Ten Thousand Buddhas—ten thousand Buddha statues in one temple. If Buddha is anywhere, imagine his plight: “What’s happening?” Mahavira lived naked, renounced everything, kept nothing at all; go to his followers and see—no one has hoarded as much money in this land as they have. Astonishing! It is shocking!

In the town where I live, a man I know owns a shop. Because Mahavira remained naked, he was called Digambara—clothed by the sky. My friend’s shop is named Digambara Cloth Store. A clothing store in honor of the Naked One! In memory of Mahavira they sell clothes. The poor fellow died naked, and these people sell garments! Strange, but that is how it has been.

Islam means peace—“Islam” literally means peace. Yet few have spread as much unrest in the world as those who profess Islam. Astonishing! Jesus says, “If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn the other.” Yet the sword the Christians wielded, the fires they lit, the numbers they killed—hard to even tally. Something is amiss: man is so unintelligent that whatever he is told to break, he fortifies instead. It has been so till now. It must not continue. It has proved fatal. We suffer from certain things, are troubled by them—and then we re-create the same things, repeat the same delusions.

An American psychologist studied divorce. He followed a man who divorced eight times. First he changed his wife; after six months he brought another; and so on—eight times. The astonishing finding after this sustained study was: each time, after being harassed by one wife, he chose another, and each time the second was just like the first. Psychologists said, “But the chooser is the same, isn’t he? He doesn’t change. He changes the wife, but the chooser remains the same—and he chooses the same kind again.” He changes the wife; the chooser is unchanged; he chooses the same pattern. Man remains the same.

Take away Rama, he’ll latch onto Buddha; take away Buddha, he’ll catch hold of Krishna; take away Jesus and Muhammad, he’ll cling to Stalin or Mao—someone, anyone. The human mind is a clinging mind.

What I am saying is not: leave others and cling to what I say. I am saying: clinging is wrong. Do not cling at all. You alone are enough. There is no need to hold onto anyone.

I have heard a story—about the wondrous fakir Mulla Nasruddin. He is sitting in his hut. His wife is furious: “You’ve ruined our life. You can’t bring me a new sari, can’t buy a trinket. Life’s wasted. What is this God-worship you keep at? If you’d worked for some man, we would at least get something. In God’s employment we’ve got nothing!” Nasruddin says, “Foolish woman, what are you talking about? Everything is being deposited in God’s bank. When I want, I’ll withdraw. I haven’t taken it yet, that’s all.” She goads him, “Fine, then today take it. Go—bring something back so I know God’s world yields something.”

Fired up, Nasruddin steps out, raises his hand to the sky and shouts, “It’s been long, much has accumulated. Send a thousand rupees at once!” A rich neighbor nearby has heard the whole exchange. A prank occurs to him. He thinks, “Why not toss a thousand and enjoy the fun?” He throws a pouch of a thousand rupees into Nasruddin’s yard. Nasruddin picks it up and says to God, “Thank you! Keep the rest on deposit; I’ll take it when needed.”

He takes the pouch inside. His wife is stunned. He slaps the money down: “Here!” The neighbor thinks, “Let them enjoy for ten-fifteen minutes; then I’ll go say it was a joke.” But within minutes he sees Nasruddin’s servant returning from the market with cartloads of goods. The merchant panics: “This could become a long mess.” He rushes over: “Enough of the joke—return the money. I threw it!”

Nasruddin says, “Are you mad? You must have heard clearly: I asked God to send a thousand; then I thanked Him. How could you have thrown it?” The merchant says, “It was a prank. End it—give me back the money. Does God throw rupees?” Nasruddin: “Amazing! It was my own deposit; I withdrew it. Where did you come in?” Realizing Nasruddin won’t return it, the merchant says, “Then let’s go to the qazi. It’s a thousand-rupee matter.”

Nasruddin says, “I can’t go like this. I’m a poor man, my clothes are torn. You’ll ride a fine horse in turban and coat. The qazi will be impressed. Judges are always impressed by the wealthy. He’ll say, ‘This poor man—how could he have a thousand? He’s lying.’ Your word will be believed. I can’t go. If you give me your clothes and your horse, then I can.” The merchant agrees—“To get a thousand back, I’ll do even that.”

They swap clothes; the merchant wears Nasruddin’s rags; Nasruddin mounts the rich man’s horse; the merchant walks behind. At court, Nasruddin shouts to the attendants, “Take care of the horse! Bring water, put out fodder!”—so the magistrate can hear that the man arriving is a horseman, not an ordinary fellow.

They enter. The merchant, in poor man’s garb, stands at his side. Nasruddin asks, “Tell the court what you wish to say.” The court is already overawed. The merchant says, “I threw a thousand as a joke. This man was asking God to send a thousand. Does God send rupees? I tossed them for a laugh, planning to take them back. Now he claims the money is his, sent by God.” The magistrate turns to Nasruddin: “What do you say?” Nasruddin replies, “What can I say? Only this: this merchant has lost his mind—he claims everything is his. Ask whose clothes these are, whose horse this is—he will say they are his.” The merchant blurts, “Of course they’re mine!” The magistrate declares, “Case dismissed. Merchant, you are deranged.”

The merchant didn’t realize: a man who can recover a thousand from God’s court—such a sly fellow—if you give him your horse and coat, that too will be gone.

The mistakes we pass through once—we forget, and pass through them again and again. We don’t notice we are repeating the same errors. The swindles that trapped us yesterday trap us again today. The name changes and we’re trapped; the face changes and we’re trapped; the swindler changes and we’re trapped; the trick changes and we’re trapped.

We must understand what deceits we’ve fallen into so far—what humanity has fallen into—and where we might fall again.

First, humanity has always been duped by organization. The deceit of organization. Wherever there is organization, man is in danger. Organization is always dangerous—be it Hindu, Muslim, Gandhian, communist. Why? Because organization erases the individual and erects a crowd. It wipes out the soul of the person and strengthens the machine. It tells you, “You are not; ‘Muslim’ is. You are not; ‘Communist’ is. You are not a person; you are Hindu, Brahmin, Jain.” Organization effaces the individual, wipes out his soul, aggregates a crowd, fortifies a mechanism—submerges the person, inflates the apparatus.

So far man has been destroyed by organizations; he has lost his soul in them. More turmoil has been caused by organizations than by anything else. Imagine a world without organizations—no Hindu, Muslim, communist, socialist, fascist. Only persons. Could there be wars? Could there be massacres? Could there be India-Pakistan? Could mosque and temple be enemies? With persons, love becomes possible.

As long as organizations exist, hatred will exist. Why? Because organization lives by hatred; without hatred it cannot stand. Note this: love never forms organizations; all organizations are organizations of hate. Though Muslims say, “We love each other, that’s why we are united,” Hindus say the same, Indians say the same—these are falsehoods.

Let China attack India and see how organization stiffens. When China attacks, Indians unite; when Pakistan attacks, Indians unite. While the attack lasts, Gujarati and Marathi don’t fight; they become brothers. Once the threat passes, Gujarati fights Marathi, Hindi fights non-Hindi. Why? Hatred appears—China becomes the common enemy—we band together. When hatred subsides, organization weakens. If you want the organization to continue, keep hatred going.

Adolf Hitler wrote in his autobiography: if you want to build any organization, create hatred, create danger, create an enemy. If you can’t find a real enemy, manufacture a fake one. If there is no real danger, create an imaginary one. That’s how the slogans arise: “Islam is in danger!” What danger can there be to Islam? “Hinduism is in danger!” What danger to Hinduism? And even if it is in danger, so what? Let it sink—what’s the point of saving a label? Let Hindu, Muslim, Christian go if they must. But no—“Islam is in danger!” Frighten the Muslim, tell him the enemy is sharpening his knife—then the Muslim will sharpen his knife too, he will organize; organization will bring quarrels and upheaval.

We keep changing organizations but never drop the idea of organization. We leave the old and stand in a new one—but organization continues. Can we not create a world with no ideological organizations? I don’t mean no railways or post office—those are working arrangements. But no organizations of ideology. No organizations of doctrine. Organization has been a root of man’s ruin: the person is erased, only the crowd remains. This must be dropped. That’s the first thing.

Second, it has always been believed that every person must be bound in a mold, a pattern. No one should be free. And the more one is bound in a mold, the more inert he becomes, the dimmer his consciousness. Tradition means molds. Our insistence on molding is so ancient that the moment a child is born we begin to impose a mold. We won’t let a child become what he can become; we say, “Become what we make you.” We tell the child, “Be like Gandhi.” Why? What crime has the child committed? Why should he be like Gandhi? “Be like Mahavira, be like Buddha.” Did Buddha or Mahavira take a contract that everyone must become like them? And even if one desires to, can he? Mahavira is wondrous; Gandhi too; Rama too. But why should anyone else become another Rama? And if there were many Ramas, remember—even Rama’s own joy in being Rama would be lost.

Imagine a town—say Ahmedabad—where everyone becomes like Rama. Life would be boring, suffocating. Wherever you go, men with bow and arrow. They would all decide to commit collective suicide—it would be impossible to live. The beauty of Rama is in his being alone. There is no need to manufacture a crowd of Ramas. And no matter how hard you try, you cannot. In truth, no two people can ever be the same. But striving to be, one dies inside—becomes dead, not alive. How many thousands of years since Rama? How many became Rama by chanting his name? Yes, some become Rama in the pageant of Ram-Leela—those Ramas don’t count. The real Rama is alone. Every person in the world is only himself.

To tell a child, “Accept a mold and become such-and-such,” is to murder the child. Parents have committed more injustice to children than anyone else in the world. Society’s injustice upon new generations is incalculable. The effort is always to fit them into a mold.

If you want to avoid traditions and attain a free consciousness, never try to become someone else. You are someone who has never been before. You are absolutely for the first time. You are unique; each person is incomparable. Just as no two thumbprints match in the whole world, so too no two souls. Impose a mold and the soul within begins to die; the mold cuts and trims from all sides; slowly a lump of flesh remains—no soul.

This is what has happened worldwide. In traditions, molds, patterns, ideologies, scriptures of the past—we have ceased to be alive and have become dead. This deadness must be broken. A rebellion against it is essential. It must be erased so that a ray of life, a hope of life, a dream of life can arise.

But in our country we say, “The doctrines are true, the scriptures are true, the molds are true; what is wrong is man.” I tell you, man is not wrong at all. What is wrong are the molds, the doctrines, the scriptures. In fact the very existence of molds is wrong. Let each person grow—let his branches spread, his flowers bloom. Give him water, nourishment—but do not give him a pre-fixed pattern. Guard him, nurture him—but don’t tell him whether the branch should go east or west, how far it should go. Don’t direct—give movement, breath, aliveness. Let him fruit and flower. Let him be himself. But we believe the opposite.

I heard a story. A king sits in his palace in summer. A fan-seller passes below, crying, “Wondrous fans—never seen or heard before!” The king peeks down: the fans look ordinary—cheap ones the poor man sells for a couple of paisa. He summons him: “Are you mad? What’s special about these?” The man says, “Sire, they look ordinary, but inside they are extraordinary.” The king: “What do you mean, inside and outside?” The man: “These fans cost a hundred rupees. Not ordinary at all.” King: “What’s the virtue?” “They last a hundred years—guaranteed,” says the man. The king: “You cheat! Do you know whom you’re fooling?” The man: “My lord, I know—I sell fans every day. You buy, and if there’s a problem, I’ll be responsible. I’ll return the money.” The king pays a hundred; takes the fan.

Two days later the fan breaks. It was utterly ordinary. Next morning the fan-seller returns; he hasn’t run away. The king calls him up: “What kind of fan did you sell? It broke in two days.” The man examines the fan, looks at the king, and says, “Sire, it seems you don’t know how to use a fan. Please demonstrate how you fan.” “So it’s my fault?” says the king. “Show me.” The king demonstrates. The man laughs, “There’s your mistake. Is that any way? Then what is the way?” “Hold the fan in your hand—keep it still—and move your head. The fan will last a hundred years—guaranteed. You don’t know how to fan. If you shake the fan, it will break.”

He said something very apt. This is exactly what our pundits, priests, sadhus, sannyasins, leaders say: “Our doctrines are perfectly right; we just don’t find a follower. The scriptures are right; the age is wrong; man is born wrong. We have lofty ideals—but no practitioners.”

I say this is wrong. Man is not bad, and no age makes man bad or good. There is no Kali Yuga, no Sat Yuga. The human soul is the same. Man is born utterly good—pure good. But the molds we impose are wrong. They distort, harass, break, and twist him. At last he stands there—a distortion. Not a man—just a ruin. All have become ruins. If the human soul cannot be freed, these ruins will go mad; they are going mad. The juice and joy of life have been lost; all music is gone. Must we tolerate this—or shall we seek new paths for the human soul? New directions, new skies, new dimensions? Or shall we go on repeating the old repetitions? If we keep repeating, we are already largely dead; perhaps the last flicker of life in us is about to be extinguished.

Yet it seems India will think now. A new generation, new people, filled with new ideas and new dreams—they will re-examine. They will test everything anew. They will see: is the fan itself weak? Is the guarantee false? Are the doctrines we built the kind that bind rather than free? Do they make man inert rather than dynamic? Is the social conception we hold one that kills society rather than enlivening it? Do our beliefs take life backward rather than forward? And life always moves forward; never backward. A people who look back are destroyed. We must keep looking ahead, and ahead. We must keep dropping the past to go forward. Only when the step behind is released can the step ahead be taken; when the lower rung is left, the next rung is found. But we clutch the past—press all the dead to our chest—and won’t put them down. We are terrified.

One last little story, and I will end.

In a village there is an old church, on the verge of collapse. No one goes in. Even the priests don’t enter—it may fall any moment. Yet the priest urges people, “Come, come pray! You’ll be ruined, you atheists—where are you going?” But who will go to die in the church? A gust of wind and it could fall. The priest himself doesn’t go in, and secretly prays that no worshipper should appear—else he’d have to go inside with him. He exhorts the people, but knows no one will come.

The church committee meets to decide what to do. They meet outside—far away, where not even the shadow of the church falls. They pass four resolutions. First: the old church must be demolished—passed unanimously. Second: a new church must be built—passed unanimously. Third: we will build the new church exactly like the old, on the old foundations, with the old bricks, the old doors, the same old shape—so that no one can say it is new; those who know will say it is the very same old church—passed unanimously. And fourth: until the new church is built, we will not demolish the old—passed unanimously.

The new will never be built; the old will never be demolished. Such is the mindset of this country. We will not demolish the old; the new will not arise. Courage is needed to pull down the old—for that very courage becomes the power to create the new. In society, civilization, culture—the old must be dropped. In oneself too—the old personality, the ego must be dropped. He who drops his old becomes new—meets the Divine. The society that drops its old also becomes new—moves on the path of the Divine.

Religion wants to make both the person and the society new. It wants to connect both with the Eternal, with Truth—person, society, culture.

We are lagging on both counts. Religion has ceased to be for society or for the person—because it has become the clinging to the old. Religion must be ever-new—fresh each day, like the sun at dawn, like flowers that open every morning. Only the new truth transforms and brings revolution.

In these four days I have spoken for the search of such new truth. Do not accept what I said. I am no guru, no preacher, no priest, no giver of final words, no authority. I said what I had to say. Whoever accepts my words silently becomes my enemy. Do not accept my words silently. Think, argue, debate, refute. And when no other way remains—and if somewhere, through thought, reflection, contemplation, meditation, you glimpse some truth in my words—then it is no longer mine. If it arises through your seeing, it becomes yours. And only the truth that is yours is Truth. Only the truth that is yours liberates. The truth borrowed from another binds and becomes a chain.

You have listened to me these four days with such peace, love and silence—for that I am deeply grateful. And finally, I bow to the Divine seated within all. Please accept my pranam.