Sabai Sayane Ek Mat #10

Behaviorist psychologists consider man to be nothing more than a machine. They allow no soul in man. Hence, all human behavior is mere conditioning. Reward the right behavior and it will increase; punish the wrong behavior and it will decrease.

For example, someone smokes and can’t quit. The behaviorist says: whenever he smokes, give him an electric shock. Every time he lights a cigarette, he gets a shock that shakes every fiber of his being. In a few days, the moment he lifts a cigarette, anxiety and trembling begin, because the electric shock and smoking have been paired. The association is formed. In his mind, the two get linked. Smoking becomes impossible.

This much is correct. But while man may perhaps be made more conforming to society—made to do what society wants—behaviorist psychology in the hands of the state will hand over a great power, greater than any weapon or police or court. Man will become more crippled, not nobler. His behavior may become socially convenient, crime may decline, prisons may empty—but the emergence of saintliness will end forever.

Where does the greatness of a truly noble human being lie? Not in his behavior, but in his awareness. His greatness is not in what he does, but in what he is.

This is man’s greatest downfall: he is treated like a machine. A machine can be skillful or unskillful; the question of higher or lower does not arise. Your electric fan runs well or badly. Running well means it runs efficiently; badly means it’s inefficient, noisy, throws air askew. But you cannot call an electric fan auspicious or inauspicious; noble or ignoble. From a technical standpoint there can be a distinction of skillful and unskillful—nothing more.

Pavlov, Skinner, and their followers are spreading everywhere the idea that religion has failed; it could not change man. We will change man.

They will change him the way one “cures” a patient by killing him. The disease disappears—and so does the patient.

If you ask me, I will say: even if man remains bad, even if he commits crimes, it is still all right—for at least he has a soul. Today he commits a crime; tomorrow, if he wills, he will not. But any change that comes by force is an assault on the soul; it destroys the soul. Only those changes in life are worthy of welcome which arise out of your own willingness, which are the flowering of your awareness and understanding.

And what these psychologists are saying is nothing new. Society has always done this. Your so‑called religions have done it too. Understand this a little.

Religion says: do good and you will be rewarded in heaven; do bad and you will be punished in hell. This too is an electric shock—more subtle, but not very different.

A father’s son disobeys, so the father beats him. If he obeys, the father gives sweets or money—“go, buy yourself whatever you like, bring home some toys.” This too is behavioral psychology. When the son does something unfavorable, you hit him. By hitting, you link fear to that behavior. The behaviorist does the same thing, only more skillfully. How deep can a slap go? He says the electric shock goes deeper—a slap may do little, but it does do something.

Even in society the difference you see between the “good” and the “bad” is largely a difference in conditioning. Someone is raised in a “good” home; his ego is tied to certain conduct—“You are from a noble family. If you behave like that, the family, the prestige, society… your ego will be humbled, your image will be shattered.” And society punishes the wrongdoer in every way—there are courts, lawsuits; reputation is destroyed.

This too is the behaviorist’s idea.

Therefore my entire emphasis is: never accept being forced by someone else into any mold. That is how you lose your soul. The only meaning of soul is your freedom. And the only meaning of freedom is the freedom to be bad or to be good. If you wish, you can be bad; if you wish, you can be good. Let that wish be yours. Let there be no external control over it. Only then does the soul appear within you and grow.

It may be that the human race, the entire earth, could be made crime‑free. It may be that all wrongdoers could be forcibly changed. But there will be no benefit from it. The earth will become empty. You will see machines—human machines. Man will be lost. The dignity of man will be lost. Even that “good” earth will be a corpse, not living.

You are alive because of your inner freedom, because of your capacity to choose. If you are bad, be bad by your own choice. If you are good, be good by your own choice. Any will imposed over your will will destroy you.

Hence a very great danger has arisen from the behaviorist psychologist, for he has devised very subtle arrangements.

Skinner has designed electric electrodes. They can be implanted in the brain. Someday some China, some Russia, some dictatorial government will use them. Once something is invented, avoiding its use becomes almost impossible—especially when its use is so advantageous to the state, to society. As soon as a child is born, a small operation—the parents would not even know—and a tiny electrode will be inserted into the child’s brain. It will function for life.

After that electrode is implanted, a politician sitting far away in Delhi can operate you. Just as radio is broadcast from Delhi and you listen at home, a politician sitting in Delhi can operate your brain. He can tell you, “Be good; don’t smoke; don’t drink”—and you will not be able to. You will feel as though your own inner soul is telling you not to smoke, not to drink. He can say, “Go, kill Muslims,” or “Kill Hindus.” And you will say, “This is the voice of my conscience.” And this voice will be so compelling that you will not be able to resist it. It is only an electrical device working within you. And you can be operated.

Behaviorist psychologists stand today on this earth with the most dangerous proposition. They have found everything. They say, “Now there is no need for man to be bad.” In truth, they are saying: there is no need for man to be a man. Think a little: if you go to the temple and perform worship because your brain is being operated from Delhi and an order has been sent to worship, what value will your worship have? Not worth even two pennies. Better that you had never worshiped. At least then you were you. Now you are no longer you. Now there is no soul; now Delhi is your soul. Now you are no longer your own master; now the state is your master. And you will not even know.

Psychologists have discovered sedatives—tranquilizers. Their discoveries are now very subtle. They say: there is no need for people to create disturbances, to quarrel and fight; there is no need to explain, to give speeches and lectures. Mix sedatives into the city’s water source. The whole town will drink the water. No one will even know, but the sedative will nullify from within the tendency to fight. The very urge to fight will not arise. You will grow sluggish. You won’t know. Anger will not arise, because anger can be chemically blocked.

Or, when the state wishes that now Indians should be made to fight the Chinese, or the Chinese the Russians, it will stop that agent and mix the opposite agent into the water. Then you will at once become like ferocious wild animals. You will fight like madmen. If you do not get an opportunity to fight, you will commit suicide or set your house on fire. You will crave for some war somewhere. You will go utterly insane to kill and be killed.

These inventions are dangerous. In my view, more dangerous than the atom bomb. Because the atom bomb can only kill your body. These discoveries will destroy your very soul. Man will then be mechanical.

No—the behaviorist psychologists will not make man superior; they will render man no longer man. Excellence is attained by ascending the steps of freedom. If you ask me for a definition of excellence, I have only one: the freer you are, the more excellent you are. If you are perfectly free, you are supremely excellent. Therefore we have called the Supreme “the Free.” And the state of supreme excellence is called moksha.

Moksha means: your freedom is so absolute that no power in the world can snatch even a particle of it. You have become the complete master of your own soul. Your ownership is final; there is no claim upon it now. Whatever measures may be tried, you cannot be operated. You have begun to live in your own light. You have become your own lamp. No one else runs you. You move by your own life‑breath, or you stop by your own life‑breath. There are no longer anyone else’s fingers on your inner veena. The song that arises from your veena is your own. Your feet dance to your own rhythm—not to any government’s war drums, not to a brass band, not on any social cue. You move by your inner wisdom, your awareness, your inner light.

Granted, that light is not like the sun; it is like a small lamp. But that is enough. To walk, you do not need a sun; a small lamp is enough. If only four steps of ground are visible, that is sufficient. When you have walked those four steps, the next four will become visible. No person takes more than one step at a time. If even one step is clearly visible, it is enough. And, step by step, journeys of a thousand miles are completed.

Buddha’s last words as he departed this earth are worth remembering. They are: Appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself!

Your excellence will arise from your freedom. Yes, your behavior can be operated by others. That is why I have not given behavior a place higher than morality. The inner is religion; behavior is morality. Morality fits you for society; it does not fit you for the divine.

There is another morality that manifests in your life when you become fit for the divine. The music of that morality is different; the joy of that morality is different; the fragrance of that morality is freedom.

So take freedom as the touchstone. Take moksha as the goal. And inch by inch, you have to go on expanding your freedom. Keep one endeavor in mind: you were born to be yourself, not anyone’s copy. You were not born to live by someone else’s diktat. Your destiny is hidden within you. If you want to find your destiny, keep proclaiming your own being. Do not bow before compulsion. Do not be a slave. Neither make anyone a slave nor be anyone’s slave. Protect your own freedom and safeguard the freedom of others. Only then will the noble human being be born within you. Otherwise, there is no way.

It’s a slightly intricate question. We will have to go into the subtle. The matter is delicate. If you listen with alertness, you may understand.

Society has no need for saints. Society can live quite comfortably without saints. In truth, because of saints society cannot live comfortably. A saint creates an uneasiness. He gives you a dream of another world. In him you see embodied your own future. You become restless. You are filled with the longing to be like that.

Had there been no Buddha, no Mahavira, no Krishna, no Christ, no Kabir, no Dadu—you would have been perfectly at ease in your shop. These people created the difficulty. They awakened in you a voice that seems almost impossible to fulfill—and yet without fulfilling it you cannot be at peace. They made you restless. They stirred a thirst.

You were fine at home—children, wife, all was going well. You didn’t even know there is another way of being. You sat in your shop, customers came, the cashbox filled—everything fine. Everything truly was fine—until someone made you aware that you are spending life picking pebbles while treasures of diamonds lie close by.

Without the saint, society runs smoothly—no hurdles. It is because of the saint that hurdles arise. Understand this first. A saint startles you in your midst; he awakens you. You were lost in sleep, dreaming a sweet dream: that you are an emperor, that your realm is vast, that your palaces are of gold. And the saint wakes you in the middle—your sleep breaks, the dream shatters. You are angry at the saint. You have never forgiven any living saint.

Yes, when a saint dies, you worship him. Even that worship is a device to forget. In worship you say: you are a different kind of being, an avatar; you were made of some other stuff. We are ordinary, poor humans; we cannot be like you. We will only worship you. Let a little grace fall upon us through this worship, and if something happens—fine; but don’t expect too much from us.

You kill living saints and raise statues to dead ones. Dead saints don’t disturb your sleep. They don’t make you restless. Dead saints become part of your sleep; perhaps you decorate your dreams with them, even dream of becoming saints yourselves. Rituals begin, incense burns, lamps are lit, temples are decked out—but in your life no temple descends.

The living saint startles you, breaks your sleep. You resent him. You crucified Jesus, you stoned Mahavira, you gave hemlock to Socrates. This has always been your way. And I understand why: these are the very people who robbed you of your former ease. They startled you and gave you a glimpse of a far shore. Now, whatever you do, you will never sleep the old sleep again. You will sleep, but that inner tune will go on, some far call will keep calling. Your sleep can never be what it was. Throw stones, give poison, fire bullets, hang him on a cross—you will still not forget. Jesus will follow you—even hanging from the cross he will follow. Again and again you will remember, and you will be ill at ease.

Society lives happily without saints. Saints are not “necessary,” nor can they be—because a saint has no utility. He is life’s supreme poetry. What utility is there in poetry? Do you think life would cease without poetry? What obstacle would appear in the world if poetry disappeared? If poets vanished, what loss would there be to shops and households, to worldly dealings? What help are poets, after all?

If music disappeared from the world, what difference would it make to the world of banknotes? You can’t mint money out of music; you can’t melt money and produce music.

No; in life some things are useful and some are non-useful. They are meaningful, yes, but have no utility.

A saint is pure poetry, pure music—so pure he needs no veena to carry it. And such pure poetry it needs no words—its resonance is in the void. The saint is the last word about man, the summit, Gauri Shankar—the Everest. What is his use? Will you sell him in the marketplace? What will you do with Everest? What is its use? You stand at a distance and behold—it is beautiful, majestic, its snow-laden peaks enchant the eyes for a while; then you return to your market. If Gauri Shankar did not exist, would it make any difference in Bombay? What difference does its existence make to Bombay? None.

If there were no saints, nothing in the world would stop. A saint has no utility—you can neither sell nor buy him, you can’t mint coins from him, nor cast cannons or bombs. He is of no use for war, nor for peace—of no “use” whatsoever.

Then what is the use of a saint?

He is a majesty, a beauty, a music. Seeing him, dreams arise within you. Seeing him, a longing awakens. Seeing him, the hidden seed within you stirs, cracks open, wants to sprout. For the first time the thought arises: if such a happening can occur between bone, flesh, and marrow—this form of majesty manifest—then I am missing out. Everything is within me too, yet I am being deprived of this happening. I have not taken life to its peak. I kept wandering in the lanes of the market; I never reached the temple. I knocked on many doors; all were worldly doors. I did not knock on the door where such majesty manifests. It has no utility—yet without it, life is useless.

Saintliness has no utility—but without saintliness the whole of life is non-useful. Saintliness is not of this world; it is the descent of another world into this one—like a ray entering the dark. In the darkness that ray has no relation; it is alien, from elsewhere.

A saint is always a foreigner. He is never of your country. He is from beyond, a stranger. He is among you, but not from you. Hence in his presence you always feel a certain unease. He doesn’t understand your language, nor you his. He does not consent to your ways, nor you to his.

Even so, in his nearness you sense: something has happened. Something has happened, and until it happens to you, restlessness will not leave you. A happening has occurred—unfathomable, unknown, eluding grasp. You try to clench your fist on it, it slips away. It won’t fit in definitions or words. Yet something has certainly happened. You feel its touch. Your life-force trembles, is stirred. Only when something like this happens in your life will the dullness and boredom, the ash settled over your life, fall away. The ember within will glow; the light-born will be born.

A saint is not necessary in the sense of utility. He is no commodity. He has no place in economics, no seat in politics. Where will you seat him in the market? Wherever he goes in your world, he is an alien. You cannot put him to use. Yet the moment you see him you will recognize: this is what must happen within me—otherwise my life is wasted.

That is why people fear going to saints. An awakened one passes through the village; you sit at your shop with your scales, weighing rubbish. The awakened one passes your door; you have no time, you keep talking to your customer. He even knocks at your door; you say, move along, I’m busy.

You are saved. The reason is clear: you sense, however unconsciously, that to go near such people can be dangerous. And it is dangerous! Your sense is right—because you will not be able to remain who you were. Your sleep will be snatched forever. What you took to be happiness will begin to look like misery. And the world you had never even thought of will become the very center of your life; like iron to a magnet you will be drawn to it.

No, society manages fine without saints. No need at all. But without saints society is a corpse—whether it exists or not, it’s the same. Only in the presence of a saint does your future flash for the first time—like lightning in a dark night revealing the road ahead. Then the lightning vanishes; you no longer see the road, you stand again in darkness. But you are no longer the one you were before the flash. You’ve had a glimpse. If now you do not walk, that will be your own fault—and you will not be able to forgive yourself. The road is there. It is a matter of feeling your way, of a little search.

Saintliness is God’s expression in this world.

What utility can God have? Have you ever thought what use God might be? Is there anything in the world more “useless” than God? Yet what is supremely, ultimately useful will appear useless—because its use is not in the sense of objects, but in the sense of the soul.

Understand it this way: in your life too there are inner things with no utility. What obstacle would there be without love? In fact, love brings obstacles. If there is no love at all in your life, you can become a more skillful businessman than you could ever be with love. Sometimes love will arise for a customer, sometimes for the very person whose pocket you were picking; suddenly you’ll want to give your wealth away.

No, love creates trouble. Nothing gets solved, you only lose. That’s why the clever never love. The truly worldly, the very shrewd, stay four steps away from love. They won’t get into that mess. They will marry, but they won’t love—because marriage belongs to the world of coins; it is part of economics; it’s where the marketplace is. That is why the one who marries does not decide for himself—he is young, not yet adept at the market; his father and mother decide. They are more skilled; they have seen the bazaar.

The “experienced,” as you call them—what does experience mean in your world? They have gathered more shards; their safe is a little bigger. They have dreamed longer; their sleep is deep. They have lived fifty, sixty, seventy years; every hair knows the market. They arrange the marriage. And lest even there some mistake occur, they seek the advice of priests and astrologers: are the stars and the moon in favor of this deal or not? They calculate everything. Marriage is done by calculation, by arithmetic. Astrology is arithmetic; the calculating mind arranges the marriage.

Naturally, how can children arrange it? Children are dangerous—they might fall in love.

So the very skillful communities, like the Hindus, practiced child marriage. Before love could happen, before even the possibility of love, they got you married. Ten years, twelve—at most! Because after fourteen the danger begins. If a ray of love descends once, the marriage will be bland forever. Don’t let it descend. Before the taste of the real coin is known, put the counterfeit in the hand. Before the longing for the real arises, drown the child in the consolation of the fake. Kill love. What use is love anyway?

Hence elders laugh at love. What will you do with love? Look at lineage, wealth, dowry. What will you do with love? Does love fill the belly? Does it quench thirst? Does it give bread? What will you do with love? Have you gone mad? Be sensible. Marriage supports you.

Love is entirely unnecessary. Without it life “goes on” just fine. What obstacle is there? Hundreds of millions live without love. What difficulty has arisen? Yes, those who loved—some Majnu, some Farhad, some Laila, some Shirin—they suffered. They didn’t listen to the “sensible”; they followed their own “foolishness.”

But I tell you: even if they lost everything, they gained something. If their market was looted, their shop destroyed, they went bankrupt, and they got nothing in worldly terms, yet if a single ray of love was received, the news of prayer was received, the hint of the divine was received.

There is advantage in learning arithmetic. What’s the advantage of poetry? What will become of you as a poet? You can’t cash it out. Hum your songs if you wish, but has anyone’s life ever run on humming? If you must travel the road, you must respect its rules. Learn math, engineering, business. What will you do with poetry? Live in prose—that is needed. What use is verse?

But one who has never known verse in life will never get news of God. The ancient scriptures are all in verse—a hint that the path to the divine is not prose but poetry; not utility, but joy.

In the morning you go out for a walk. Where are you going? Nowhere. The same path by which you go to the office is the one you walk in the morning. One night the sky is open, filled with stars—you go out walking, humming a song, walking in a kind of intoxication. It is the same road you take to the office or shop—where does that intoxication disappear then? The road is the same, trees the same, you the same—everything the same. But when you go to the office, the poetry of the road is finished. Then the road is prose, not poetry. Then there is a purpose, a goal, the hunger for a result. You are going to get something. The trees along the way mean nothing to you; stars in the sky—so what? Your eyes are fixed on money; you rush toward the office.

Another day, the same road—you are the same, moon and stars the same, trees the same, sun the same, all the same—but you have gone for a stroll. You are going nowhere. You are simply in delight. You enjoy breathing. You relish walking—there is a rhythm in it, a dance. You walk as in a dance. Then everything changes.

There are two ways of looking at life: prose and poetry. Prose has utility—if you must talk to a customer, don’t do it in poetry; plain prose is needed. But if you must speak to a beloved, will prose do? No. There poetry works—where there are gestures, but hazy ones, like the moon and stars; where there is light, but not so harsh as to dazzle; it entices, calls—clear and yet mysterious. Love can be spoken only in poetry. But poetry has no utility.

If your life is nothing but utility, you are dead. If alongside utility there runs a parallel current of that which has no use but has majesty—love—if you sometimes go for a purposeless walk, if you sometimes greet a stranger on the road for no reason—not seeking a job, money, or any gain, not even acquaintance—but simply for the joy of joining hands; the delight of bowing before the unknown; to make a stranger your own for a moment; two unknowns meet, bow, look into each other—and it is enough. A song is born. If along with the useful there also moves the non-useful yet meaningful, the non-useful yet majestic, non-useful in the world’s eyes but of supreme meaning in the eyes of the divine—then I call you a sannyasin.

You may say: if the non-useful is so majestic, why not abandon the useful and run to the Himalayas?

That’s what the old renunciates did. I am not in favor of that. Because in my view you cannot live by the non-useful alone. Without it you can live—your life will have no poetry—but you cannot live on it alone. There will be poetry, but you will die.

Think of it: poetry doesn’t fill the belly. If a hungry person keeps composing poems, how many days will he manage? Today or tomorrow he will die—and when he dies, the poetry will also dry up. But remember: filling the belly is not poetry. However full your stomach, poetry will not be born merely from that. You may sit with a perfectly full belly; even so, poetry may not arise. You will just sit—and die sitting.

Bread is necessary—but not sufficient. Bread is needed so that poetry can be born. Bread’s very meaning is that the non-utilitarian may be born out of it. The body is needed so that the soul may be experienced. The world is needed so that the flower of renunciation can bloom. Therefore I am not for the Himalayas. I say: in this very life of yours, open a second door. Like a train runs on two tracks—parallel. They never meet; they need not meet. Let your life have two tracks: one of prose, one of poetry. Prose for the market, for arithmetic, for livelihood; poetry for yourself, for love, for prayer, for the divine. Let the world and the divine run together in your life—only then are you balanced. Only then, I would say, you are truly disciplined.

There are two kinds of the unbalanced in the world: those who take bread to be everything, and those who take poetry to be everything. Both are unbalanced; both try to run a train on one rail. There is a crash, not a journey.

For society, a makeshift, outward morality is enough. Society has no use for your soul. That will be your concern—why would society care? Society cares about your behavior.

You visit someone, greet him properly, speak kindly, behave like a gentleman—the matter ends. Whether you are a gentleman within or not, what does it matter to him? For society, morality is like springs in a car: when the road is bumpy, the passengers don’t feel the jolt—the springs absorb it. Or like buffers between railway cars: if the engine stops suddenly, the cars don’t crash into each other; the buffers absorb the shock.

For society, morality is a buffer, a spring. When two people meet, if both meet morally, there is no bump. Otherwise, the cars collide. If you greet someone while cursing him inside, there will be a jolt. Curse inwardly if you must—you do anyway. Whomever you bow to, you’ve surely cursed inside—how else to forgive the fellow for putting you in a position where you “had” to bow!

I’ve heard: a common soldier showed great bravery in war; the state rewarded him by making him a captain. His general, pleased with his valor, made him his bodyguard. Walking down the road, the general would be puzzled: whenever a soldier would salute them smartly, this captain—once a soldier himself—would mutter under his breath, “The same for you!” This kept happening. The general asked, what is this habit? What are you saying every time?

He said, you don’t know—I’ve been a soldier. These fellows are cursing inside while saluting outside. I know because I was one of them. So I say to them: the same to you! What you’re saying inside—ditto. Who cares about the outside?

Anyone you are forced to salute, you will curse. But who cares about the curse! Outwardly the coordination works; the buffers function.

Morality is useful. That’s why shop signs read: “Honesty is the best policy.” Policy it is—don’t make more of it. Honesty, for a shopkeeper, is political skill, shrewdness; on that basis he runs his business. If dishonesty spreads, business becomes difficult. Even thieves, when they form a guild, don’t steal from each other. If ten bandits go on a raid and begin robbing one another, the gang won’t last. Among themselves, bandits are honest. Honesty is the best policy!

Shopkeepers too are honest with one another, or else the market would be ruined. Rob the customer, but don’t rob the shopkeepers. Thief to thief are close kin. Even there, morality operates. Among the worst of people, to create relationship they need rules. If two thieves want to form a society, they must define some code. Thieves have a code of conduct too—a behavioral science: how to behave. Thieves don’t lie to each other—otherwise the work becomes impossible.

For society, morality relates not to your soul but to your behavior. Curse inside if you will; stab in thought if you like. But outwardly, speak skillfully, smile, behave properly—the matter is closed. Society cares about your surface.

Hence society says: become moral; we have no use for religion. Be religious if you wish—that’s your business; we won’t get into that mess. Be atheist if you like; don’t believe in God if you don’t want to—only be well-behaved.

So society has no need of religion. Religion is a personal necessity—an inner need—an individual’s need. Society can run without religion. The individual will not be able to. He will stagger, perish, break.

For society, makeshift, behavioral morality is enough; nothing more is needed. But if you too are satisfied with that, your inner world will remain a desert. No trees will ever turn green within you, no flowers will bloom. The possibility of an oasis will vanish. However skillful you become in dealing with others, with yourself you will remain foolish. Your self-ignorance will remain deep.

Therefore I say: morality is social skill; religion is the hunger of your soul.

Atheistic societies are moral too. Russia is moral—perhaps more moral than “religious” societies—because there religion has been erased; they must rely wholly on morality. So morality has been hammered in strongly. Russia’s morality may surpass yours—but there is no question of religion. Religion is the opium drug; morality is needed.

I tell you: fulfill the outer need of morality if you must—but remember, it is an outer need. It is not your inner resonance. Don’t take it as the whole. Be skillful in conduct; I’m not saying go around picking fights or behaving badly. Behave properly. If the rule is to walk on the left, walk on the left. There is no meaning in walking on the right or in the middle, creating disturbance; you will land in trouble. Observe morality—but know that all these rules are like walking on the left side of the road. They are the rules of a crowded game; they must be observed.

But don’t think that by becoming moral you have become religious. You always walk on the left; even if there is no policeman and the light says stop, you stop; you don’t abuse or cheat anyone—you keep yourself in order—don’t take this to be everything. Such things will not give birth to inner samadhi. What has walking on the left got to do with meditation? How will refraining from insult or injury produce samadhi within you?

If that were so, then those who fled to the forests were right. They fled because they saw: if we live here, conflict is inevitable; we’ll collide with someone. Run to solitude. If there is no “other,” there is no bamboo, and no flute can play. Without the other, how can we be immoral? To lie you need someone to lie to; to deceive you need someone to deceive. Whom will you deceive in solitude? Your own pocket? What will you do? People fled to solitude so that there would be no need for morality, and no awareness of immorality.

But merely going to the forest won’t make you religious. True, morality won’t be needed and immorality won’t be provoked—but religion will not be born. In fact, among people you constantly know where you stand. Alongside your practice, the exam runs. You cannot be deluded in the crowd because the crowd keeps showing you: it will give you opportunities to see whether anger is there or not. If it isn’t, only then will it not appear. If it is there, the crowd will draw it out; the crowd is very skilled. Someone will shove you, someone will step on your toes, someone will look at you with arrogance; you will bow and someone won’t reply—something or other will happen. If people don’t do it, something else will—the banana peel will do its mischief; your foot will slip; you will fall flat and people will laugh. Right then you’ll see clearly where you are—pain will arise in the heart, the urge for revenge will stir; you’ll want to spread banana peels on everyone’s path; plans will form to fell them all.

No—life, at every moment, is both practice and test. It is study and examination. Do not run away. Stay where you are. There, moment to moment, the touchstone works—how firm, how pure is your gold?

And if you wish to purify the gold, do not mistake morality for enough-ness. Morality is relationship with the other; religion is relationship with oneself. Morality is conduct with the other; religion is your way of being alone—calm, delighted, joyous, dancing, celebrating for no reason. If within you there is a continuous festival, you are religious.

And I tell you: one in whom there is inner celebration—his morality outside will come by itself. He won’t have to cultivate it or impose it. The one who has no inner celebration must impose morality. Imposed morality is paper flowers. Morality arising out of religion is real flowers.

Exactly what I was explaining. Gandhi’s nonviolence is moral. And even that only sometimes; mostly it is political. When it rises to morality, it rises very high; otherwise it is politics.

Mahavira’s nonviolence is religious. Something happened within Mahavira, and from that, nonviolence flowed into his conduct. Gandhi tried to make something happen in his conduct, in the hope that something would happen within.

Gandhi was an honest man. Whatever he did may have been misguided, but he did it with great sincerity. There is no doubt about his sincerity.

It is like a man trying with utmost devotion to press oil out of sand. I have no doubt about his devotion. He is doing it with feeling, with great organization, he has put his whole life into it. But what can I do! I can only say oil does not come out of sand. Your devotion is fine, but what will devotion do? No oil will come.

He was a moral, devoted, honest man. Louis Fischer wrote an article on Gandhi in which he said: “Gandhi is a religious man who tried all his life to be political.” Gandhi replied at once, “It is the other way around. I am a political man who tried all his life to be religious.”

His honesty is one hundred percent. There is no doubt that he never lied about himself. But that changes nothing. He was a political person who tried all his life to be religious. I would add only this: that attempt failed. He could not become religious. He departed as a politician.

The difference is subtle. Many times Mahavira’s nonviolence will not even be visible to you, whereas Gandhi’s will. Gandhi’s nonviolence had great spread: movements, revolution, a stamp on world history. What stamp does Mahavira have? Perhaps no ant was killed—he walked very carefully. But does an ant write history? He strained water before drinking so that no microbes would die. Did those microbes make a commotion? Mahavira did not shave with a razor, lest a louse be trapped and die between blade and skin. He plucked out his hair by hand—he practiced kesh-lunch, tearing out his hair once a year. But if some louse was saved in his hair thereby, will it write an autobiography saying, “This Mahavira showed us great nonviolence”?

Mahavira’s nonviolence leaves no history. It is an inner happening. Only those in whom it happens can recognize it. Gandhi’s nonviolence will be remembered for thousands of years—there are proofs. What proof is there for Mahavira’s nonviolence? At most we can say he did not do violence. Can we really say he practiced nonviolence?

Understand this a little. If we look carefully at Mahavira’s life, we can only say he did not commit violence. Gandhi practiced nonviolence. In Gandhi, nonviolence is in the act; in Mahavira, nonviolence is in the being. And being is within; action is without.

Therefore Gandhi’s nonviolence wobbles often, because it is a policy—or politics. All his life… When Germany attacked France and England in the Second World War, Gandhi wrote letters to the leaders of England and France: “Surrender, lay down your arms. Do not fight. See, how you will win! Invite Hitler; tell him to come. If he wishes to live in your towns, let him. Vacate the villages; give him houses.”

Advice from a nonviolent man! The leaders of England simply laughed. Who would trust such nonsense? And they did well to laugh. Because when the dispute between India and Pakistan began and there was trouble in Kashmir, Gandhi blessed the armies and said, “Go.” Then he forgot what he had advised England in Hitler’s time. He was ready to bless the armies. Seeing Indian Air Force planes flying overhead, loaded with bombs, he was pleased. Someone asked, “Do you bless these planes?” He said, “They have my full blessing. If Pakistan does not agree in straightforward ways, there is no other means but war.”

If Hitler attacks England—lay down your arms. If Pakistan attacks Kashmir—bless the arms! That is politics. This is not Mahavira’s nonviolence; it is the talk of a shrewd politician. As needed, he will change his policy. Whatever brings advantage at the time.

This brought India advantage. Because to fight the British like Bhagat Singh was madness. Bhagat Singh may have been a great martyr, but the mind was astray. What could come of it! There was no solution there. By firing a few shots and throwing a bomb in the Legislative Assembly no nation can be freed. He was courageous, ready to sacrifice himself—yes! But no freedom could come that way. Gandhi was a skilled statesman; Bhagat Singh, an unseasoned youth. Gandhi, a skillful, intelligent politician. Bhagat Singh annihilated himself; Gandhi saved the whole country. But the skill is political; the whole game is politics.

Gandhi understood one thing: there was no way to defeat the British by fighting them. And he also understood that if there was any chance at all, it would be by such a method that the British could not counter it. How do you counter nonviolence? It was beyond the British imagination. How do you counter nonviolence?

There was only one way: if Gandhi fasts, the Viceroy should also fast. That needs great preparation! How to counter a fast? If a man comes to fight with a knife, you bring a bigger knife. But if a man comes fasting, what do you do? The Viceroy is no mahatma. Fasting requires great practice. Gandhi practiced for forty years; then he could do it. Or the King of England should fast—then let there be a duel of fasts. Whoever’s fast lasts longer, wins.

It actually happened—so I have heard—that a mischievous fellow spread a cot in front of a gentleman’s house and declared, “I will fast unto death unless you marry your daughter to me.” A nonviolent agitation! The man was shaken. The village rascals—people you call politicians—gathered. They said, “The man is right. What’s wrong in it? He is doing a nonviolent movement. He isn’t doing anything bad. He is a Sarvodayist! He says, ‘Either we die, or you marry.’ He is ready to give his life—he is not threatening anyone, not brandishing a knife.” The police could do nothing. What could they do? If he were threatening to hurt someone—then something. But he was only saying, “I will die.” It’s a satyagraha.

Within two days the whole village was on his side. No one even asks what you are doing satyagraha for. They said, “Poor man, so sattvic, so decent! He is not saying anything bad. You will marry someone after all. What’s the harm? Drop your stubbornness. Drop your pride.”

The man panicked and ran to an old political leader. “What should I do?” The leader said, “Do nothing. Just do one thing: there is an old prostitute in the village, very ugly—men are frightened when they see her. Bring her here; she will take two or four rupees. Sit her opposite this man and have her declare, ‘We will marry you, otherwise we will fast unto death.’”

He brought the woman. She spread her cot too. The man asked, “What is this?” The woman said, “We will marry you. Otherwise we will die.”

That very night he picked up his cot and fled. Because only a fast defeats a fast.

So it was difficult to defeat Gandhi. British politicians could not figure out what to do. This man is ready to die; he isn’t talking about killing. If he were talking about killing, we would settle him. He is talking about dying.

And note this: had it been Germans or Japanese in place of the British, Gandhi could not have succeeded. The British have their own decency, their own culture. There are few peoples like that on earth. There is a certain morality. They understood: this man is torturing himself—why kill him? But if it had been Hitler, or the Japanese, they would have said, “Fine—die at your leisure.” No one would have cared. No one would even know when Gandhi died.

But Britain slowly let go. It seemed unseemly to kill those who were ready to die. In Gandhi’s success there is as much the British moral sense as Gandhi’s. It is fifty-fifty: fifty percent Gandhi’s movement, fifty percent British decency. That is why it succeeded. Gandhi understood there was no way to win by fighting. He invented a new trick. But nonviolence was a political device.

That is why nonviolence won against Churchill and Britain, but could not win against Jinnah. Gandhi tried countless devices, but he could not win Jinnah. Why? Because Jinnah understood clearly that these were political maneuvers. Therefore it had no impact on him, nor on Muslims. Pakistan was partitioned anyway.

There is a reason it had no effect: Jinnah knew well it was a political gambit. There is no nonviolence in it; there is no great love in it; it is only cleverness.

But Gandhi was an honest man. Whatever he did, he always did with the aspiration that it would bring good. But it did not go deeper than action. Nonviolence was not in his being. If you look closely at his life, you will understand that nonviolence was not in his very existence. Over trifles he would become violent.

Kasturba refused to clean other people’s latrines. Gandhi became so angry he pushed her out of the house at midnight though she was pregnant, shut the door, and forced her out—eight months pregnant—because she must clean latrines.

Whether to clean latrines or not should not be imposed by another. It should be Kasturba’s own decision. If it did not feel right to her, who was Gandhi to force it? But “husband,” “master”—these are all notions rooted in violence. And to throw the wife out in such a stage of pregnancy, when there could be danger…

Gandhi’s children… Gandhi took the vow of celibacy at the age of forty. By then he had already had several children. Forty means half a life already gone. Taking a vow of celibacy at forty is no great achievement. If a person has indulged in sexuality up to forty, it is easy to decide for celibacy. Only a fool would not decide so after that. It should be natural. After those experiences he chose. But his son, Haridas, was eighteen; Gandhi told him too to take the vow of celibacy. “Swear to be celibate.”

This is violence. You decided at forty after being the father of five or seven children. You tell this boy of eighteen to decide for celibacy—how? He does not even know what sexuality is yet.

The insistence—“You must take the vow”—became so heavy that Haridas ran away and got married. When he did, Gandhi excommunicated him: “I have no relation with him.”

What sin is marriage? Gandhi himself married. The whole world does. What is this obstinacy, this coercion? If this person does not want to move toward celibacy, who are you—just because you are the father? This is violence. And this violence ruined Haridas. When Gandhi repudiated him, he became helpless—no money, no food, no place to live—and he had married. So he began taking loans here and there. He started gambling. He lived on borrowed money. When the debts became much and the matter went to court, Gandhi issued a statement in the newspapers: “I am no longer his father, nor is he my son.”

Then he began to drink. When he could not pay the debts, what else to do! He began to steal, to drink. He went on getting ruined, until he was ashamed to show his face to anyone. In anger he became a Muslim. He changed his name from Haridas to Abdullah.

At the time of Gandhi’s death, when the funeral procession took place in Delhi, Haridas was there. But it is understood that the followers did not allow him to come near. He was the rightful one—as the eldest son—to light the funeral pyre, but he was not allowed. This went beyond the limit—became absurd. Whether he drank or became a Muslim—what difference does it make! He was the elder son. But Gandhi’s lifelong opposition was so well-known that the followers knew: do not let him come near. He was not even allowed to view the corpse. He hid in the crowd of thousands and, standing far away, watched his father burn. He could not offer the fire.

These are all violences. These are not the marks of a nonviolent person. And if you examine Gandhi’s whole life closely, you will be astonished: in small matters, much violence; in great matters, great nonviolence.

This is worth deep reflection. To be nonviolent in great matters is very easy; to be nonviolent in small matters is difficult. Because a small matter is so small that, before you become aware, it has already happened. In great matters there is the leisure to think. To fight the British government—you can fight nonviolently, you can make plans. But if someone steps on your foot, it happens in a split second; if anger arises, it arises. You cannot make a plan for that. In truth, it is from small things that one knows whether a person is nonviolent or violent. Great things don’t count. Great things are futile; small things are meaningful.

If you begin to examine Gandhi’s life by the little accounts, you will be very surprised, very shocked. Yet he was an honest man; I have not a particle of doubt about that. He was more honest than you and your so-called sadhus. But his honesty moved in a mistaken direction. He could not be nonviolent; nor could he have been. Because the whole effort was to use nonviolence as a weapon. He made nonviolence into a weapon. He did want to fight. In that very wanting, violence was hidden. But since there was no other way to fight, he made nonviolence into a weapon. Nonviolence got conscripted into violence.

Mahavira’s matter is utterly different. Mahavira has no policy, no politics. Mahavira’s nonviolence arises out of samadhi. He knew himself. Knowing himself, he found the same one in everyone. Then to injure the other is to injure oneself. No one remained “other,” so love arose naturally. No one remained “second,” so the very idea of causing pain dropped. Mahavira’s nonviolence is religious; Gandhi’s nonviolence is sometimes moral, mostly political.

Certainly. A glimpse of peace comes only when something is in tune with you. Peace happens only when there is a harmony between the method and you.
Take peace as the touchstone. With whichever method you find peace, go deeper and deeper into it. Peace is the beginning. Slowly, peace will grow dense and transform into bliss.

Only if you do by seeing will “experiencing and then seeing” become possible. Only if you act with seeing will there be real experience. Merely passing through an experience is not the same as having experience happen as understanding. You have been angry many times. You passed through the experience—but did experience happen? Experience happens only when you pass through anger with watchfulness, with seeing.

So, going through an experience is one thing; having the experience become understanding is quite another. When experience becomes understanding, it means you have looked it straight in the eye, recognized it. In that very recognition the revolution happens. Then you will not be able to be angry again. If you have only passed through the experience, you will get angry again and again. But if the experience has happened through seeing—by recognizing anger as anger—anger will end. It is not that you will repent. No; anger will simply drop. There will be no remorse either.

What is seen rightly sets you free. It is the unseen experiences that keep pursuing you. You have to pass through them again and again. Darkness is what follows you; light does not follow. Light is liberation.

See any experience rightly. If it repeats, understand that there was some error in your seeing. Look again! If it does not repeat, understand that now the seeing is complete. Vision has been attained.

Vision is revolution. And apart from it, there is no other revolution.

That’s all for today.