Rom Rom Ras Peejiye #3
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Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
Someone has asked: Osho, was Buddha’s leaving his family a weakness?
If Buddha had left his family, it would certainly have been a weakness. But my submission is this: some people leave, and with some people things fall away. What falls away is not weakness; what you deliberately leave is weakness. To leave is weakness; to have it fall away is not. Like dry leaves fall from trees—the tree doesn’t leave them; they simply fall away. In the same way, as awareness grows, certain things begin to drop; you don’t have to drop them. The things you have to drop break off like unripe leaves and leave a wound behind.
Let me tell a little story; it will make the point clear.
In a village lived a husband and wife. Both were very simple, straightforward, saintly people. Each day they would cut firewood, eat their evening meal from whatever they earned, and give away what remained. At night nothing was left with them. They slept unencumbered by possessions. In the morning they would again go to cut wood. But once, unseasonal rain fell for seven days, and they could not go. They did not consider it proper to beg, nor to become a burden on anyone. So they stayed hungry; they fasted.
After seven days the sun came out and they went to cut wood. Hungry for seven days, they cut wood, tied the bundles, and started home. The husband was ahead, the wife behind, a little distance between them.
As the husband came along the forest path, he saw by the side a traveler’s pouch had fallen, full of gold coins—some scattered outside, some still inside. He thought, “I have renounced gold; I have conquered gold. I am a victor; greed does not grip my mind. But who can trust a woman! A man has never truly trusted a woman. And a husband certainly never trusts his wife.” He too did not. “Who knows—her mind might waver!”
Because of this, in scriptures written by men, women were given no right to liberation. There is no trust of women. A man simply cannot trust. If women had written the scriptures, they too would not have trusted men or sent them on. They too would have decreed that until you are born in a female form you cannot attain liberation.
So, thinking, “Lest the woman’s mind waver, lest weakness arise in her—seven days of hunger, hardship,” he quickly slid the pouch into a pit and covered it with earth. He had not even finished covering it when the wife came up from behind and asked, “What are you doing?”
Now he was in a fix: they had taken a vow to speak the truth. They could not lie; they were stubborn about their vows; they could not break them. And yet to tell it was difficult—but he had to tell. He said, “A thought came to me that I have conquered gold, dropped the attachment to wealth. And here lay a pouch of gold coins. I thought your mind might be tempted by them, so I am putting them in a hole and covering them with earth.”
His wife said, “You still see gold? And you feel no shame in putting dust on top of dust?”
The husband had left gold; in the wife, gold had fallen away. That was the difference.
Buddha never left his family; Mahavira never left his family. Family fell away. It became meaningless; there remained no meaning in it. As a snake sloughs off its skin and comes out of it, so something fell away, something became futile. There is a fundamental difference between leaving and having it fall away. And the difference continues to matter afterwards as well. In his entire later life Buddha never said, “I left the kingdom, I left my wife, I left wealth.” He never said that.
I was once with a sadhu. He said, “I have left hundreds of thousands of rupees.” I asked, “When did you leave them?” He said, “Some twenty or twenty-five years ago. I gave them a kick.” I said, “The kick didn’t land properly. Because for thirty years the remembrance—‘I left them, I kicked away lakhs’—why does that memory persist? If the kick had truly landed, there would be no memory.” If there is memory, then when you had lakhs you must have kept thinking, “I have lakhs.” And now for thirty years the ego is enjoying a second flavor: “I left lakhs.”
When someone leaves, the ego is not affected in the least. The ego grabs hold of that leaving and says, “I am a renunciate; I left.” But when things fall away, you don’t even know when they fell away. And along with that, the feeling of renunciation doesn’t arise either—“I renounced, I left.” Things become useless and they go.
Every day you throw out the trash from your house; do you go to the newspaper to get a report printed: “Today I renounced the garbage! Blessed am I! Welcome me and honor me!” No—you throw the trash and forget.
One day in life it also happens that what we had been taking to be very precious, with the growth of awareness becomes like trash. It doesn’t have to be left; it just drops. No memory of it remains.
So if Buddha had left, then he would certainly have been weak. If Mahavira had left, then he too would certainly have been weak. As their devotees say—that they performed great renunciation—if that is true, then they were weak.
But I say: they never left. They knew nothing of renunciation. Only the devotees know that Buddha renounced and Mahavira renounced. They never left. Things had become useless, and they came out beyond them—just as you throw out the garbage every morning, in the same way, that which had become garbage they moved out of. What leaving is there in this? What renunciation! Only the ignorant have practiced renunciation; the wise have never renounced anything. The ignorant can renounce; the wise never renounce. With them, things fall away; renunciation has nothing to do with it.
There are a few more questions; I will talk with you about them tonight.
Let me tell a little story; it will make the point clear.
In a village lived a husband and wife. Both were very simple, straightforward, saintly people. Each day they would cut firewood, eat their evening meal from whatever they earned, and give away what remained. At night nothing was left with them. They slept unencumbered by possessions. In the morning they would again go to cut wood. But once, unseasonal rain fell for seven days, and they could not go. They did not consider it proper to beg, nor to become a burden on anyone. So they stayed hungry; they fasted.
After seven days the sun came out and they went to cut wood. Hungry for seven days, they cut wood, tied the bundles, and started home. The husband was ahead, the wife behind, a little distance between them.
As the husband came along the forest path, he saw by the side a traveler’s pouch had fallen, full of gold coins—some scattered outside, some still inside. He thought, “I have renounced gold; I have conquered gold. I am a victor; greed does not grip my mind. But who can trust a woman! A man has never truly trusted a woman. And a husband certainly never trusts his wife.” He too did not. “Who knows—her mind might waver!”
Because of this, in scriptures written by men, women were given no right to liberation. There is no trust of women. A man simply cannot trust. If women had written the scriptures, they too would not have trusted men or sent them on. They too would have decreed that until you are born in a female form you cannot attain liberation.
So, thinking, “Lest the woman’s mind waver, lest weakness arise in her—seven days of hunger, hardship,” he quickly slid the pouch into a pit and covered it with earth. He had not even finished covering it when the wife came up from behind and asked, “What are you doing?”
Now he was in a fix: they had taken a vow to speak the truth. They could not lie; they were stubborn about their vows; they could not break them. And yet to tell it was difficult—but he had to tell. He said, “A thought came to me that I have conquered gold, dropped the attachment to wealth. And here lay a pouch of gold coins. I thought your mind might be tempted by them, so I am putting them in a hole and covering them with earth.”
His wife said, “You still see gold? And you feel no shame in putting dust on top of dust?”
The husband had left gold; in the wife, gold had fallen away. That was the difference.
Buddha never left his family; Mahavira never left his family. Family fell away. It became meaningless; there remained no meaning in it. As a snake sloughs off its skin and comes out of it, so something fell away, something became futile. There is a fundamental difference between leaving and having it fall away. And the difference continues to matter afterwards as well. In his entire later life Buddha never said, “I left the kingdom, I left my wife, I left wealth.” He never said that.
I was once with a sadhu. He said, “I have left hundreds of thousands of rupees.” I asked, “When did you leave them?” He said, “Some twenty or twenty-five years ago. I gave them a kick.” I said, “The kick didn’t land properly. Because for thirty years the remembrance—‘I left them, I kicked away lakhs’—why does that memory persist? If the kick had truly landed, there would be no memory.” If there is memory, then when you had lakhs you must have kept thinking, “I have lakhs.” And now for thirty years the ego is enjoying a second flavor: “I left lakhs.”
When someone leaves, the ego is not affected in the least. The ego grabs hold of that leaving and says, “I am a renunciate; I left.” But when things fall away, you don’t even know when they fell away. And along with that, the feeling of renunciation doesn’t arise either—“I renounced, I left.” Things become useless and they go.
Every day you throw out the trash from your house; do you go to the newspaper to get a report printed: “Today I renounced the garbage! Blessed am I! Welcome me and honor me!” No—you throw the trash and forget.
One day in life it also happens that what we had been taking to be very precious, with the growth of awareness becomes like trash. It doesn’t have to be left; it just drops. No memory of it remains.
So if Buddha had left, then he would certainly have been weak. If Mahavira had left, then he too would certainly have been weak. As their devotees say—that they performed great renunciation—if that is true, then they were weak.
But I say: they never left. They knew nothing of renunciation. Only the devotees know that Buddha renounced and Mahavira renounced. They never left. Things had become useless, and they came out beyond them—just as you throw out the garbage every morning, in the same way, that which had become garbage they moved out of. What leaving is there in this? What renunciation! Only the ignorant have practiced renunciation; the wise have never renounced anything. The ignorant can renounce; the wise never renounce. With them, things fall away; renunciation has nothing to do with it.
There are a few more questions; I will talk with you about them tonight.
Osho's Commentary
What we do not know—if we wish to give it, will we be able to give it? And that which is unknown even to us—will teaching it, coming from us, create reverence for us in the child’s mind? Will this not be the beginning of untruth? And can the knowing of God ever be erected upon untruth? Can we imagine that upon untruth a child will ever become religious?
This is exactly how the world has become irreligious. The world could have become religious, but those who, without knowing, have given teachings have pushed it into the darkness of irreligion.
There are only two results of such teaching. The child—if not today, then tomorrow—will grow up and know perfectly well that what his father and his guru said was false; they themselves did not know.
How long will you hide the truth that you do not know? Your life will reveal it, your conduct will reveal it. From every side the child will receive the news that even the father does not know whether God is. Then reverence will not arise for God; yes, irreverence will certainly arise for the father.
This steady erosion of a child’s reverence for the mother, the father, the guru—is not without cause. You are responsible for it. You have taught them such lies that within a few days they discover are lies. And then all respect for you, all esteem, evaporates.
We teach out of this fear: if we do not tell them about God, perhaps the child will never know God. But do you think that by your telling he will know God? If that were so, by now everyone would have known God—because all mothers and fathers tell their children that God is, that the Atman is.
No, knowing has nothing to do with this. What it does is begin a lie in life whose end never comes. The lie you taught your children, they will repeat to their children—at most this much can happen. Nothing more. And is God such a thing that you can teach it to someone?
I went to an orphanage. The organizers there told me, "We give our children religious education." I said, "That would be a great surprise, because I have never been able to understand that religion can be taught. Religion can be practised; it cannot be taught. Still, since you say so, I would like to understand: what do you teach? Yes, one can be taught to be a Hindu, one can be taught to be a Muslim—but not to be religious. A child can be made into a Hindu, a Muslim, a Jain, a Christian—but not into a religious being." So I said to them, "I would like to see what religious education you give."
And this is what has been done to children in the name of religion across the world. They are made into Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains. And has anything else spread as much irreligion on earth as this manufacturing has? To be a Hindu, to be a Muslim, to be a Jain—how ugly it is! How much ugliness there is in this! For a man not to be a man, but to be a Hindu, a Muslim, a Jain—is this any beauty? And this fragmented man who becomes bound to a group—do you know how many calamities he has committed? How many murders, how much blood has been spilled—do you have any idea?
If parents love their children, they will never teach them to be Hindus, Muslims or Christians. Because so much havoc has come upon the earth through such teachings that no mother, no father can want that his child too should be cut down as a Hindu or as a Muslim, or should cut someone else down, or burn a temple, or pull down a mosque. The first sign of love in parents will be that they raise the child as a human being, not as a Hindu or a Muslim. For these are great epidemics, great diseases that have taken man into chasms and darkness.
So I said to them, "It may be that you make them Hindus or Muslims—but what religious education do you give?"
They said, "No, you will be pleased to see."
So I went to see their children—around a hundred. They themselves asked the children, "Tell us, does God exist?" All the children raised their hands: God exists. They had been taught. They had learned the lesson and raised their hands. And they asked, "Where does God dwell?" All of them placed their hands upon their hearts: here. This too had been taught to them. Just as we teach children to drill—left turn, right turn; left face, right face; halt, stand—so they had taught them this as well. "Where is God?" They all raised their hands—"Here."
I asked one small child, "Where is the heart?"
He said, "That we were not told. It is not written in our book either."
He had no idea where the heart is. But when asked, "Where is God?" he answered, "Here." Naturally—what he had been told, what he had been taught, he repeated. But does he know what "here" is?
No. He will pass the examination; he will receive religious education. He may even come first, receive a prize, come home happy; and the teachers will be happy and the organizers will be happy that the child has come home with religious education. And what has the child brought home? He has not brought religion home; he has brought some words. And those words will prove so dangerous that they will never allow religion to enter within. Because whenever in life the question arises, "Does God exist?" that thing learned in childhood, which will have penetrated to the deep layers of the mind, will say, "He does." And when the question arises, "Where?" that thing embedded in the mind will say, "Here." And this hand too will be false, this gesture will be false. And the answer "God exists" will be false—because it has been learned.
Whatever is learned about religion is false. And all his life—even when he is old—what he learned in childhood will pursue him. Whenever anyone asks, "Does God exist?" he will say, "Yes." The same little child has grown old; nothing has changed; the same answer. He will go on repeating the same answer all his life. And when the answer has been obtained, why will he search? Once he "knows" God exists, what more is there to seek? The answer has become a misfortune—because it has stopped the search.
The search for God has stopped in the world because religious priests and pandits have given so much education, so much education, that everyone has agreed that God exists. Therefore the search has ceased; no one searches. We search only for that which stands before us as a question, not as an answer. That which becomes an answer—its search comes to an end. God should be a question, not an answer. The Atman should be a question, not an answer.
I told them: teach children questions, not answers—if you want to make them religious.
You do not know that God exists; then do not teach your child that God exists. Tell the child, "I too am searching, but up to now I have found nothing. My being is also thirsty to know: what is this life? But I do not know. You also search. Perhaps I may not find—complete my search. You also ask, you also inquire."
So teach the child curiosity; teach the child questions; teach inquiry—do not teach answers. If you want ever to make the child religious, teach him such a passion to inquire that until he himself knows, he is never willing to believe. Teach him such courage that until he knows, no power in the world can bend him into believing. Even if he dies, let him be able to say, "I will accept only when I have found—before that, no." Because for the one who believes before knowing, the search stops. And the one whose search stops is never able to attain knowing.
So do not teach the child that God exists; rather, in the child’s mind kindle curiosity and search... and for this search, say with an open heart, "I too do not know, I too am searching." And when the child grows up and comes to know this about his father and his guru—that they were such humble-hearted people that they did not pretend to know; that even before a little child they did not wish to deceive; that with truthfulness and honesty they said, "We too are seeking—we are still on the way, we have not reached anywhere"—then to be filled with reverence for such a father and such a guru is very natural, very simple.
Fathers and gurus teach out of ego, not out of the child’s well-being. Their ego is hurt to accept before a child that "I do not know." Before a child they become omniscient—"I know everything." It is easy to be omniscient before a small child. But tomorrow the child will grow up and all the dust of your omniscience will be blown away. He will know that you are as ignorant as he is. Then what will happen? If irreverence arises in his mind for you—why be surprised? There is no surprise in it at all.
By teaching such things you are not making the child religious. Teach the child to search. And the first sutra of searching is doubt. Teach doubt. Tell him, "Doubt—do not accept anything in haste. Think, reflect; search courageously, fearlessly." Teach these qualities—courage, fearlessness. Because the child who learns fear will never be able to search. But to make him religious we teach him fear. We say, "If you do not believe in God you will be thrown into hell. God sends you to hell. There is fire there, you will be burned in it."
He is a small child—what are you doing to him? This sin has been committed against the whole of humanity: in the name of religion fear has been taught—fear of hell, fear of sin; and temptation has been taught—the temptation of heaven, of virtue, of good births. Temptation and fear are companions—two sides of the same coin. So we teach fear and we teach temptation: temptation that if you are good you will go to heaven; fear that if you do not accept God, if you become an atheist, if you doubt—you will go to hell.
We are not teaching the child religion; we are teaching him fear. And do you know which is the most irreligious tendency in the world? The most irreligious—fear. Because the one who is afraid will never be able to know the Paramatma, will never be able to know truth. The one who is afraid never travels towards the unknown. He moves only within the circle of the known. He goes only where there is light, where the path is clear. On dark paths, on unfamiliar, uncharted ways, the fearful one never goes.
And God is the most unknown, the most unfamiliar, the most filled with darkness. There the fearful will never set foot. So when it is time to go toward God, he goes into the temple built by the village priest. God is unfamiliar; this temple is entirely familiar. It is man-made—utterly familiar. And God is utterly unfamiliar, not made by man. Therefore he leaves that unfamiliar God and enters the familiar temple or mosque, and satisfies himself that he has become religious.
Can man build a temple for God? And what man builds—can that be God’s temple?
Let me tell you a small story.
One night a black man came to a church door and knocked—he shook the door. He could have come in broad daylight, but it was a church of white people; black people were not allowed there. In the day there was the fear that he would not be let in, but he thought, "In the darkness of night perhaps the pastor may take pity." Such pastors never take pity on anyone. Still he hoped: "At night, seeing me alone, with no one around, if I weep, plead, let tears flow—perhaps he may feel compassion." As the god of the temple is of stone, the temple’s priest is even more stone-hearted—he never takes pity. But hope in man is great. He thought perhaps in some weak moment the pastor would be moved and let him in.
There was only one church in that village—the church of white people. The black people had no church, because they had no money to manufacture God. Those who have money can make God; those who do not must remain without God. Because "God" is a fabrication of man; if there is money he can be made, if not—how will he be made? Therefore those who have more money have bigger gods, bigger temples. Those who have none have smaller gods. God too has become a commodity bought with money, an item sold in the marketplace.
He thought, "Perhaps the tears of a poor man will evoke pity," and went in the darkness of night. But to deceive a pastor is very difficult. Day or night, the pastor recognizes skin very carefully—and has compassion accordingly. He saw that he was a black man. He asked, "Why have you come so late at night?"
The black man said, "I want to pray to God. I too want to see God."
But had it been the old days, the pastor would have said, "Back, untouchable! This place is not for the likes of you!" as the old pandits and temple priests used to say. But times have changed; the winds of time have changed; to speak in that way now is dangerous—it can even lead to court. So the pastor spoke with cleverness.
And you know that pastors and priests are the cleverest and most cunning people. Why not? You sell cloth, you sell gold, you run some other kind of shop; pastors and priests do the business of selling God. They are the cleverest. They have made a profession out of God. Who could be more shrewd? And such a profession that never runs out—always in demand.
So the cunning pastor said to the black man, "My friend, what will happen by entering the church? Unless your heart is pure and your mind is quiet, what use is it to come into the church? You cannot have God’s vision."
Others came there too, but they were white; to them he never mentioned the condition: "First make your mind quiet, purify your heart, then come." But to this man he said it.
The black man went back. He thought, "I will make my mind quiet and my heart pure, then I will come."
About three months passed; he did not return. One day the pastor stopped him on the road—he knew the reason. And another reason had appeared. Seeing him walking on the road the pastor was astonished: his eyes seemed filled with a very deep peace; there was a new radiance, a new glow on his face; a new awareness in his step. He had become another man.
He stopped him and said, "My friend, you never came back?"
He said, "How could I come? I was in great difficulty. You had spoken, and I took it to heart. I set to work to purify my heart and make my mind innocent. At night I would weep and pray. After three months, one night in a dream God came and asked me, 'Why do you weep? For what are these prayers?' I said, 'That church in our village—I want to go there. That is why I am purifying my mind.' God began to laugh and said, 'You are absolutely crazy! You will not be able to get into that church; it is very difficult to get in there. I myself have been trying to enter for ten years—the pastor does not let me in. When I have given up and tired out, how will you get in? Give up this hope. To find me is easy; to enter that pastor’s church is very difficult.'"
And I tell you—God named ten years so that the poor man would not be frightened; the truth is that for ten thousand years he has been trying. And not only in that church—in no temple in the world has he yet managed to enter. Nor will he ever be able to—because the priest is very clever, the pandit very clever; he will not let him in. Why not? Because wherever the Paramatma enters, love enters; and where love enters, business vanishes.
And even if he were allowed in, God could not enter—because the temple man has made is too small; God is too vast. Man’s temple is tiny; the Paramatma is immense, infinite—how will he enter into it?
When our learned religion stands upon fear, we go to the temple, take our satisfaction, and think that religion has been attained.
No. Religion is a great adventure—like a voyage upon the unknown ocean; like climbing the peaks of unknown mountains; walking not on highways but on dark, solitary paths. For that, courage is needed; for that, fearlessness is needed; for that, indomitable inquiry is needed; for that, the courage to stake one’s very life is needed.
Teach this to your child. Do not teach talk about God. Give these qualities. Then surely one day your child will discover. Religion cannot be taught—but opportunities can be created for the growth of religious qualities. Religion must be known by oneself. But the milieu can be created in which a religious individuality is born. The signs of a religious individuality will be fearlessness, courage, curiosity, search.
But we teach the opposite. We teach belief. Belief makes a man lazy and weak. His search stops. He becomes impotent; there remains no strength in his life.
We teach fear. We say, "Fear God." We say, "Be God-fearing."
What greater absurdity can there be than to fear God? And the one we fear—can we ever love him? The one we fear, we hate. Hatred is natural toward the one we fear. The one we love, we never fear. All over the world—"Fear God, be God-fearing"—the result has been that today the whole world stands against God. It is the accumulated explosion of hatred that has been gathering in the human mind for thousands of years. Because the one we fear, toward him hatred arises; the one we fear, we can never love. Love and fear have no kinship.
Yet we teach these things, and imagine we are teaching something. And we teach while we ourselves know nothing! If life has gone on becoming entangled because of this, do not be surprised. I call this one of the most heinous crimes parents can commit against their children—if they give such teachings. If those children then go astray in life, you will be responsible. And the children have gone astray—and you are responsible. Everything is wrong—everything. Whatever we teach in the name of religion is wrong.
No—but some other things can certainly be brought into life; in those we can become fellow-travelers. If we become companions in those things, if we can give the child an inquiry, then in his life he may perhaps become capable of knowing. And in giving him inquiry, we too may be freed of the ego of knowing. And perhaps we too may become capable of knowing.
So I do not say, teach your children that God is or that God is not; that the Atman is or that the Atman is not. There is no need to teach any of this—neither theism nor atheism. Teach inquiry. And when inquiry becomes indomitable, man surely can journey into truth.