Sabai Sayane Ek Mat #4

The wise are all unanimous; it is the followers walking behind them who are not. Among the truly wise there is no division. If there were, they would not be wise. But a great division arises among those who trail behind. A follower cannot live without division. Even to cling to his own master, a follower needs someone to oppose.
This needs to be understood a little.
That you love someone is one thing. But when you hate someone—when someone is your enemy—you even display love for your enemy’s enemy; that is a very different thing. To love someone is one thing; to show love to the enemy of your enemy is quite another. The first belongs to religion; the second to politics. The political maxim is: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. There is no true friendship in it; the only relation is that he is the enemy of your enemy.
If you love your master, there is no question of comparing him with any other master. But in your life love is less important; hate is more important. In truth, you love your own master less than you hate another’s. And it is in reaction to that hate that you fall in “love” with this person. You have not loved Mahavira; it is that you have not loved Krishna, therefore you cling to Mahavira—because he appears to stand opposite. You have not loved Krishna either; it is that you have not loved Buddha, therefore you cling to Krishna—because from Buddha’s perspective Krishna seems to go in the opposite direction.
Your life-current is stirred not by love but by hate. That’s why whenever there is an opportunity to express hate, your enthusiasm knows no bounds. If something auspicious happens, you scarcely notice. If something inauspicious happens, you gather in crowds to stand and look.
You are going to the hospital; your wife is ill, the child is hungry, you must bring medicine, earn a meal. But if two people are fighting in the street, your feet won’t move. You will want to stop and watch. And if it so happens that there is lots of noise and abuse but no real fight, and people separate them, you go on with a heavy heart—“nothing happened.” Something feels left unfinished inside, as if something should have happened—if only a knife had flashed, if only some blood had flowed, life would have felt a little movement.
That is why in war-time people look fresher, more alive. Those who never wake at dawn now get up at dawn to hunt for a newspaper. Those whose lives have nothing in them are stirred by the news that hundreds of thousands are dying. Psychologists say that every ten years the earth almost needs a big war—because people live on hate. If there is no outlet for hate, life loses its taste for them.
Notice your newspaper reading: murder, theft, someone’s wife eloped, a riot broke out, there was an accident—instantly your spine bends over the paper, your eyes concentrate. They do not focus so much even on the Name of Rama as they do on an accident reported in the paper. The mind sticks to whatever is wrong.
News-gatherers do not collect auspicious news—who would read it? It has no value. If someone helped a man who was falling, who will read that? What’s the point? Where is the juice in it? If someone massaged a sick person’s feet—is that news? There is no excitement in it. If such a thing appears at all, it occupies a tiny corner. For religion there is hardly any space left in newspapers; there is space only for irreligion. Politicians dominate the front pages in bold headlines—because around them all kinds of disturbances swirl. Around them, all kinds of wrong are on the move.
Our gaze is fixed on the wrong; our relish is in hate. We are not very drawn to the friend, but to the enemy. This is the great reverse current of life—as if the Ganges were to flow back toward Gangotri rather than toward the sea.
Naturally you suffer much from this; you get much pain. But this is your way. You will never go to a temple, but if a chance to burn a mosque arises, you will surely go to burn it. You never went to a mosque to pray, but if someone shouts that Islam is in danger and idols of the Hindus must be smashed, a great enthusiasm will arise in you.
Have you ever seen those who go to burn mosques worship in a temple? You will find different people worshipping in temples. And will a man who worships in a temple go to burn a mosque? If he has truly worshipped, then the mosque too has become a temple. If someone has offered namaz in a mosque, for him the whole world has become the house of God. Will he go to break a temple’s idol? For whomever you break, you only break God. And whatever you do, you do only with God.
But you will meet another kind of man: he awakes only when Islam is said to be in danger; otherwise he sleeps. He awakes only when the cry is raised that Hindu dharma is in danger. He delights in danger because then mischief can be wrought.
Your tastes are diseased. When you say, “I am on Krishna’s side,” look carefully: Are you really on Krishna’s side? If you were, you would become Krishna-like. You would be transformed. In truth, you are on the opposite side of Mahavira, of Buddha, of Mohammed. In order to be on the opposite side of all these, you need to be on someone’s side—therefore you are on Krishna’s side! Your taking sides comes not from your love, but from the poison of your hate.
That is why so many religious people are visible in the world and religion itself is not visible at all. It is hard to find a person who is not “religious.” Everyone is “religious”—some Hindu, some Muslim, some Christian. But where is the religious? To be religious is a great revolution, an absolute transformation of life, a change from the very roots.
So I tell you: the wise are unanimous. Mahavira is not against Krishna, and Krishna is not against Mahavira. And even if sometimes it seems to you that they oppose each other, first try to understand your own intellect. Because the higher the peak of knowing rises, the more the meanings of words are transformed. A word means only what meaning you give to it.
Mahavira says, “The soul alone is truth.” And Buddha says, “Nothing is more untrue than the soul.” Naturally they look opposed. Even a blind man can see it: one says the soul alone is truth and attaining it is everything; the other says the soul itself is untrue and to be free of it is liberation.
But if both are wise, then you have to understand their words properly. What Mahavira calls “soul,” Buddha does not call “soul” at all. For Buddha, “atta”—“self”—always means ego, the sense of I-ness. “Self” carries that meaning too: “I,” the self-sense, atta. So when Buddha uses the word “self,” he is speaking of ego. When ego is dissolved, Buddha says, nirvana happens. You will remain, but the “I”-sense will not.
Mahavira does not use “soul” in the sense of ego—although that connotation is contained in the word too. Mahavira uses “ego” separately. Mahavira also says: only when ego disappears will you attain the soul.
Analyze a little. When two wise ones seem to speak opposites, don’t be in a hurry. Somewhere within their statements the same meaning must be hidden. The words will differ; but the wise cannot have two opinions.
And sometimes the wise even stand opposed to each other. Then the play is very deep; a very deep understanding is needed to grasp it.
I have heard it happened in a village that two confectioners fell into a quarrel. They were hereditary halwais, not some new upstarts—generation upon generation making only sweets. Even when they quarreled, they had no habit of picking up stones and throwing them; it wasn’t in their blood. Instead they began hurling laddus at each other—their shops faced one another. The whole village gathered and rejoiced, because the laddus met mid-air, fell on the ground, and people looted them. People said to the halwais, “It would be good if you fought every day. We have never seen a fight like this. It’s bliss! It’s like Diwali has come to the village.” The whole village gathered.
When there is any opposition between Mahavira and Buddha, it is a quarrel between two confectioners. They cannot throw stones. If you see stones, the error is in your eyes. It is your misunderstanding. They can throw only laddus. Sweetness is their nature. Sweetness is in their blood, in their breath.
But you may not understand. Do not impose your misunderstanding on the wise. You will recognize the wise only when you too become wise; there is no other way. So drop worrying about whether the wise are unanimous or not. Become wise—and suddenly you will see they are all unanimous.
To be wise is to reach the peak. Paths that appeared to circle the mountain from different sides and look separate all meet at the summit. For those standing below in the foothills, lost in the dark, it seems impossible that all paths will reach the summit—because one road goes east, another west. They seem opposite. How can they end at the same place? But the peak is one; all the paths end there.
Paths can differ, words can differ, expressions can differ—they can differ? Better to say: they will. Because when Buddha speaks, he will speak in his own way; when Mahavira speaks, in his own. The difficulty arises when you rush to interpret, without considering that your vision has not yet widened or risen to the height where you can see opposites meet.
And out of compassion for you the wise have sometimes spoken against each other. There is no other reason. Out of great compassion they have spoken in seeming opposition; they are not opposed. The situation is this: if Mahavira told you “All are right,” as he did say, he could not gather many followers. Mahavira tried hard to say nothing false. So if you asked Mahavira, “Is there God?” he would give seven answers—because the wise so far have given seven answers. He repeated all the sages’ answers so that he would not be opposed to any of them. Non-violence was his principle, his vision, his philosophy. He collected all the possible statements the wise have made—and more than seven cannot be made. About a single thing, there can be seven modes of predication; beyond that there is no way. If you ask Mahavira, “Is there God?” he will say, “There is.” That is one statement. He will add, “That is not the whole. There are also wise ones who say, ‘There is not.’” That too is a statement about God. “And there are wise ones who say, ‘He both is and is not.’” That too concerns God. “And there are those who say, ‘He neither is nor is not.’” That too concerns God.
Thus Mahavira gives seven statements. His logic is called saptabhangi—the sevenfold predication. He gathered all the possible modes of saying; beyond seven you cannot go, for they encompass all the situations—of being, of non-being, of their conjunction and disjunction, of both together and of neither.
But Mahavira could not gather many followers, because when a man says, “All are right,” no definite conviction forms in your life. You become more confused. Nothing clear stands up in you—what should we believe? You come seeking a belief, a conviction, and this man says, “All are right.” “What I say is right; what my opponents say is also right.” Your problem then is: How do you choose?
You are standing at a crossroads. You ask, “Which road goes to the river?” Mahavira says, “The one to the left goes; the one to the right goes; the one to the north does; the one to the south does; east, west—all roads go there.”
You will not listen to such a man. You will say he is mad. You seek someone who will tell you exactly which road leads to the river. You want to reach the river. This man does not seem in his senses. “All roads go to the same place!”
It may be that, on reaching the river, you too discover that he was not mad—he was right. But how to walk by his word? Because he calls all four roads right. He leaves you no scope to choose.
You want someone who will tell you: “Only the left-hand road reaches the river; beware of the other three!” Such a man creates action in your life. You can do something; a method appears. There is a convenience for going; a convenience for choosing. Now you can decide whether to go or not, you can ask two or four others—but some grounds for decision appear. Finally you too will find that the one you took for a madman was the true man. All the roads did go there. But it is very difficult to proceed by his word—how will you walk on four roads at once? The goal can be one, the walker is one, but the roads are four—you must choose.
So Mahavira did not get many followers. Even today, the number of Jains in India is scarcely three million. Is three million a number after twenty-five hundred years? If thirty couples had followed Mahavira, they would have produced that many children. It is no number at all.
The followers of Jesus number a billion. The followers of Islam, of Mohammed, number over eight hundred million. There must be a reason. Mahavira spoke as he knew, exactly as it is. In Mahavira there is non-violence, but not compassion.
This is a little hard to grasp, because we usually take ahimsa (non-violence) and karuna (compassion) to be the same. Ahimsa means: within, the feeling is of non-violence—you are filled with non-violence—but there is no special consideration of the listener: “What I say is exactly right as far as I am concerned; but what will happen in the listener’s life?”
Take J. Krishnamurti—he is exactly a Mahavira-like person. Non-violence is complete, compassion is not there. He says what is right—as it seems right to him—and does not change it by even a grain. But where the listener stands, what he is going through, what results will follow—he has no concern for that.
A doctor worries less about his knowledge and more about the patient. He considers what effect his words will have on the patient. He may see clearly that the patient will die in two days, cannot last longer. Yet he smiles and says, “All is well; tomorrow you will be up and walking.” He knows the patient cannot last more than two days. But if he tells the “truth” that you will die in two days, the patient will die now—he will not last even two days. And if he lasts two days, there is more possibility; there is still a support, still time to try treatment, to attempt other measures.
So there is the statement of pure knowledge, and there is the statement of love. Those who spoke the statement of knowledge said, “All are right.” Those who spoke the statement of love said, “This alone is right”—because you have to move. So they said, “If you go to the left, only then will you arrive.”
That is why Jesus has said, with great love, “Those who are not with me will not reach.” This was not said from ego. It was said from deep love: those who are not with me will not reach. It does not mean others will not reach; it only means: “You, be with me.” So that you can join him Jesus says it. Do not start calculating what will happen to all those who are not with him. From this take only one worry: that you be with him.
You are frightened, greedy, wandering in darkness. You need a hand that assures you firmly, “I will save you.” If that saving hand talks in doubts—“You might be saved; you might not; maybe some other hand will save you; maybe a third”—then the drowning man will say, “Better to drown alone! Why take on your confusion too? I am already in trouble; my mind is wavering; and you have come to shake me further.”
Mahavira’s doctrine is called syadvada. Whatever statement Mahavira made, he added “syat”—“perhaps,” “in a certain respect.” This does not give motion to the one who must walk. It can give understanding to the one fit to understand, but not momentum to the walker. And where are such understanders? You have yet to walk; only then will you reach the temple of understanding.
So Jesus says, “Whoever walks with me!”—with certainty. Not “perhaps.” You were already wavering; if you hear, “Perhaps by walking with me you will arrive; perhaps you won’t,” who would want such a guide? You need a steady voice—so that the fear trembling within you can be stilled, so that your shaking legs can become steady. Once you arrive, you too will find it was almost a joke. Once arrived, Jesus himself will laugh and say, “What to do? It was a compulsion! For your sake it had to be said. There was no other way to save you, so I had to become a savior. Otherwise, who saves whom?”
Mahavira has said exactly this: “Who saves whom? Each saves himself; each drowns himself.”
It is a hundred percent true. This gold is pure 24-carat—but you cannot make jewelry out of it. What will you do with the gold—carry it on your head? Jesus’s gold may not be 24-carat, may be “Morarji gold,” but jewelry can be made. If your focus is on others, you will have to make jewelry. If your focus is only on yourself, you can speak of pure gold.
So Mahavira speaks as if into the void. He is not speaking to you; he is conversing with himself. It is a monologue. Jesus speaks to you; Mohammed speaks to you. Mahavira speaks from his summit; Jesus descends into the valley.
Jesus has said: If a shepherd loses one sheep, he leaves all the rest in the dark night and goes searching the hills for the lost one. He leaves those who have come along and goes in search of the one who has strayed. And when he finds the lost sheep, he hoists it on his shoulders and returns. “So am I. I will come into your darkness. You are the stray sheep; I will carry you on my shoulders.”
Mahavira cannot say such a thing. Mahavira will say, “What nonsense! Who carries whom? You wander by your own cause; you return by your own cause. The soul is bondage and the soul is liberation; the soul is the blessing.”
He speaks exactly right—hundred percent right. But what support will that give to the heart of the sheep who has strayed? How will that give light and assurance to its life?
Therefore, if the message of Jesus has become such a force, do not think it is just because of Christian missionaries. The reason lies behind it; the reason is Jesus himself. His statement is definite—not “perhaps.” Although, the day you arrive, you will sit with Jesus and laugh. He will say, “What could I do? Compulsion! You would not have listened had it not been said this way. You listened because it was said so. Listening, you arrived; arriving, you can now know that it was not strictly true; it was makeshift, hypothetical. A toy given to a small child. But that toy brought him relief. In that relief he grew calm; in calm, understanding expanded; with understanding, the journey began.”
So sometimes their statements may seem opposed. They have sprung from their compassion. Buddha has often opposed Mahavira; Mahavira has not—because Mahavira’s speaking is a monologue. He is not speaking to another; he speaks from his purity. It is like a cuckoo calling in solitude. The cuckoo is not cooing for a listener. She is no Tansen worrying about audience and connoisseurs. Solitude will do. If someone hears, let him hear; that is his luck—he will know it for himself. If no one hears, no matter. But Buddha’s statement is not like a cuckoo’s call echoing in solitude; Buddha’s statement is like Tansen’s singing. It is sung for you—composed especially for you. You are in his awareness. Buddha says, “If you are not in my awareness, what is the point of my speaking to you?”
Once it happened that Buddha came to a village, sat down; people gathered; the whole village assembled—yet he remained silent. Someone asked, “Please begin. We are all here. Soon night will fall, it will be dark.”
Buddha said, “The one for whom I came to speak is not present.”
People looked around. All the scholars were there, the rich, the prominent, the respectable—no one seemed missing who could be counted.
They said, “All are present. Whom do you mean?”
Buddha said, “As I came along the road, a young woman was going to the fields. She said to me, ‘Wait—I’m coming.’ And she said it with such longing that in her absence I cannot speak. I do not see that longing in anyone’s eyes here. These are all the town notables. They have come out of social propriety: ‘Buddha is here; it is our duty to go. If we are absent while the dignitaries are present, our prestige will suffer.’ They have come to show themselves in the crowd. But that girl told me to wait. She has not yet come. I must wait.”
When the young woman arrived—she was a chamar, a woman of the tanner caste—the notables had never even seen that she lived in the village. First, a woman; second, a chamar; poor, ragged. But as soon as she arrived, Buddha began to speak.
Buddha’s song is like Tansen’s. The cuckoo’s song has its own charm; Tansen’s song has its own joy. He sings for you.
That is why Buddhism became vast—flowed beyond borders. Even Christianity cannot match it, nor Islam. Islam used the sword to spread religion—coercion. Christianity offered economic inducements—bread to the poor, food to the hungry, clothes to the naked, education to the uneducated, hospitals to the sick. On that basis millions became Christians. But Buddhism used neither the sword nor bread nor wages. Buddhism simply sang the song of Buddha. Such was the beauty of that song that the whole of Asia was immersed. Mahavira remained like an island.
I do not say there should not be islands. The cuckoo is needed too. Tansens alone will not suffice. Sometimes one even tires of Tansen; and the cuckoo’s song has a great natural sweetness. But the cuckoo’s song cannot become the foundation of an art of music. Fine—listen to it in some quiet afternoon. The art of music will be born from Tansens.
Their statements will differ. Because Buddha will speak for you; Mahavira will speak for himself. Mahavira is non-violent; Buddha is great compassion. This is the difference of their personalities.
But what they are saying—in the final hour you will find—it is exactly one: all the wise are unanimous. But you will find that in the final hour. For that unveiling you too must reach the summit. Then you will understand that it was out of compassion that Buddha altered his statements.
Ask Buddha, “Is there God?” He gives no answer. Mahavira gives seven. “Is there a soul?” Buddha falls silent. “Is there rebirth?” He is silent. “Heaven and hell?” He is silent. Mahavira answers each question seven times. Buddha does not answer such questions. He says, “Listen! I was passing through a village. A hunter’s arrow had pierced a man’s chest. He lay by the roadside. I said to him, ‘Brother, let me pull the arrow out.’
“He said, ‘Wait! Was the one who shot the arrow friend or enemy? Is there rebirth after death or not? Is the soul eternal or not? Is the arrow poisoned or not? Answer these first.’
“So I said to him, ‘Let me pull the arrow out first. Otherwise I will keep answering and you will die. This is no time for philosophy. Let me pull the arrow; then, at leisure, prattle as much as you want, ask whatever you like.’”
Buddha says: Your life is pierced by the arrow of death. And you ask, “Is there rebirth?” This moment is slipping away. The breath can break any instant. You ask, “Did God make the world or did it arise on its own?” Such questions have no essence right now. First let the arrow of suffering be pulled; then ask.
And Buddha says: Whoever has had the arrow pulled no longer asks. Because one who is immersed in bliss...
Have you ever noticed? You never ask about joy—“Where did it come from?” You enjoy it. About sorrow you ask, “Where did it come from?” We seek the cause of that which we want to remove. Why seek the cause of what we do not want to remove? No one does.
We search for the cause of death; no one searches for the cause of life. When you are healthy you accept it; when you are disturbed you go to the physician. You diagnose disease; do you diagnose health? Do you go to the doctor and ask, “Tell me exactly why I am healthy. What is the cause of my health? Until I know the cause and have a proper diagnosis of my health, I will not be at peace”?
No—you do not ask. When you are healthy, you enjoy. When you are ill, you seek diagnosis, path, cause, remedy. The cause of suffering is sought.
So Buddha says: First the arrow is removed, then ask. I have removed many arrows—and then they do not ask.
Who has the leisure then? What is the purpose? One does not ask whether God is or is not—because one becomes God. In that state of bliss the image of your own temple is revealed within. Now what temple will you go to? One no longer asks questions. For one in whose life bliss rains day and night, questions are washed away as floodwaters wash away trash and leave the banks clean—just so the mind becomes clean.
This is Buddha’s way. He is keen about your suffering. Buddha is a psychologist. His concern is to remove your suffering.
Mahavira is a philosopher. His concern is not to remove your suffering. His concern is to reveal truth in its purest form—to say it as it is. What will be the result, what will not—he has no relation to that.
There are many kinds of wise ones, but their view is one. They come in many colors and forms. If you see only their dress, you will go astray. If you hear only their words and do not enter their wordless, you will be mistaken. If you hear only what they say and do not hear the music of their life that plays behind their saying—the inner veena—you will go astray. If you hear that inner veena, you will find that whatever be the styles and shapes of the instruments, the note is one; the same note rises from all veenas.
What is the value of outward form? None. Buddha will walk in his way; Mahavira in his; Krishna in his. Their ways differ, but their view does not.
Understand it like this: I raise my finger to point at the moon. My finger is one kind. Mahavira raises his finger to point to the moon—surely his finger is different: longer, shorter, larger, beautiful, not beautiful. Buddha raises his finger—his too is different. But the moon to which these thousands of fingers of the wise point is one.
If you grasp the finger and start analyzing it, and even carry that finger to the hospital to test it, you will find different things in each. One’s bones may be longer, another’s shorter. One’s blood may be diseased, another’s not. One’s nail small, another’s large. One’s skin healthy, another’s not. You will bring all these findings back and write them down—and out of that your scriptures will be made, and the moon will have nothing to do with it. That which was being shown will remain unseen, and your eyes will be fixed on that by which it was shown.
When someone points to the moon, look at the moon and forget the finger. Then you will find: all the wise are unanimous. If you stare at the fingers, you will get entangled—and the finger itself will become a barrier between you and the moon. Because of it, you will not be able to see the moon. And if you put that finger to your eye, you will be blind.
This is what has happened. You have put the words of the buddhas before your eyes. One says, “I am Jain,” another “Hindu,” another “Buddhist,” “Muslim,” “Sikh,” “Christian.” You have placed the words of the enlightened in your eyes; your eyes have gone blind.
These Sikh, Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Christian—these are names of the blind, not of those who see. Nanak is one who sees; Nanak is not a Sikh. Mahavira is one who sees; Mahavira is not a Jain. Jesus had no idea that something called Christianity would exist. Mohammed did not imagine that Islam would be formed. These are the doings of those who grabbed the fingers, the words, the doctrines, the scriptures. There are some three hundred religions on this earth. Can there be three hundred religions? There can be only one—and it will be nameless. It will have no name. These three hundred are three hundred fingers. The moon is one.
However much opposition you may find in the words of the enlightened, do not be deceived. Even if they seem to be fighting in front of you, look closely: they will be throwing laddus. They can only throw sweetness.

Because death is the highest. Death is the summit.

There are two ways to look at death. One way is to see it as an enemy—as if it is outside you, coming to destroy you. The other is to see it as your innermost core—as if it is hidden within you, growing day by day.

Death does not come from the outside. That vision is mistaken. You are born carrying your death along with your birth. Just as the tree is hidden in the seed, so your death is hidden within you. That is why I say your life is unique, and so is your death. Each person’s life has its own flavor; his death too is one of a kind. Death is not a collective event. I will die in my way; no one else can die in exactly that way—because I lived in my way. You lived in your way; you will die in your way. Your imprint will be upon your death as well.

Someone will die weeping. Someone will die screaming. Someone will die restless, agitated. Someone will beat his chest. Someone will be dragged away, unwilling. Someone will go singing, in peace. Someone will depart laughing. Someone will go in silence. Someone will make death into meditation. For someone, death will become samadhi. Someone will go taking death to be the doorway to the divine. Each person’s death will tell the essence, the harvest of his life. Death too is special, individual. And the way you live is the way you are fashioning your death—because death is hidden within you.

Death is hidden within you exactly as sleep arises from within you. Awakening rises from within you. In the morning when the eyes open, where does waking come from—from outside? It comes from within you. At night sleep comes—does it descend from outside? It comes from within you. Birth arises from within you; death arises from within you. Birth and death are like your right and left hands. Birth and death are like the two wings of a bird. Birth and death are like your breath going out and coming in. One alone will not do. Try flying a bird with one wing. Try only inhaling and not letting the breath go out; try it. Try to walk with one leg. You will find life becomes incomplete.

Without death, life becomes utterly incomplete—arid, dry. If you could not die, you have no idea into what dilemma you would fall.

I have heard a story: on his world-conquering campaigns Alexander was, in truth, seeking something else. He had heard from wise men that somewhere, in some corner of the earth, a hidden spring of nectar exists. Whoever drinks of it becomes immortal. So he searched, conquered lands, fought wars, but alongside all that his real quest continued: to find that spring.

It is said that, crossing the Arabian desert, a hint reached him. Clues began to appear. He had maps. Symbols indicating where the nectar might be began to match. He alerted his wise men to be vigilant. The signs matched; the map fit. At last the day came when he reached that spring hidden in the desert, whose water, if drunk, bestows immortality. His joy knew no bounds.

Naturally, he took no one else inside with him. Not only that, he gave strict orders: as soon as I return, everyone must leave this place, burn all maps, erase all traces of the journey. No one must ever come to know—because if everyone attains nectar, if everyone becomes immortal, then where is the fun? The ego’s fun is in having it for oneself.

He went in. His hands trembled with delight. It was a dark cave. As he bent to drink, he saw the water—clear as crystal gems. He had never seen such water. From it life’s energy and radiance seemed to emanate. As if it were not water at all, but hidden jewels, precious stones. A unique fragrance arose. He was just about to scoop it up—to cup his hands and drink—his hands had already entered the water, when a voice came from the darkness: “Stop, Alexander! Wait a moment—listen!”

He looked and, with difficulty, made out a shape in the dark—a crow, sitting there. And the crow said, “I too fell into this same mistake. I am no ordinary crow; I am the emperor of crows. What you are about to do, I did—and I was trapped. I should warn you lest you be caught as well.”

Alexander asked, “What do you mean?”

The crow said, “I too searched for this. At last I found it; I drank its water. Now I cannot die. And I have fallen into such trouble—what am I to do? Life has dried up. I have seen what there is to see, enjoyed what there is to enjoy, done what there is to do, attained what there is to attain. Nothing remains to gain, nothing remains to taste. No juice is left, not even the desire to take a breath—everything seems futile. Now I cannot die. Now I beat my head. I took poison—no effect. I threw myself from mountains—no result, not even a scratch. I rubbed my neck against swords; the sword is cut, the neck is not. All my loved ones have gone. Centuries have passed. I sit here, arid and dry. And now I sit here so that the mistake I made may not be made by anyone else. There is no end to my anguish. Death is supremely blissful. Alexander, if you ever come to know of a spring such that after drinking nectar one can still die, then inform me. I do not forbid you; it is only a suggestion. The choice is yours.”

The crow fell silent. It is said that Alexander stood for a while, thinking, then quietly returned—without drinking the nectar.

The story is very significant, very sweet. It is false—and yet it hides a great truth. Think a little: if you could not die, if some arrangement were possible—look at life a little in breadth—you would fall into the crow’s predicament. And the crow made the mistake because crows are considered the clever ones among birds—very intelligent, the pundits! He must have found some scriptural clue, and off he went.

Alexander turned back. If you too were to reach that spring, and if you had even a little understanding, you would turn back.

Tolstoy said a few days before his death that in youth life seems all right—because the eyes are blind, there is intoxication, there is no awareness. A deep inner stupor envelops one—like a man, in a daze, drinking wine, seeing what is not there; where nothing is, dreams appear; where pebbles lie, diamonds and jewels are seen; where there is a dreadful hell, palaces of heaven appear. Then when awareness comes, the intoxication of youth fades, and a little understanding and experience arrive, life begins to seem utterly without essence. Then life becomes mere ash. At that hour, if you could not die, you would have to carry that ash in your hands—through eternity.

Think a little: if there were no death, how cursed the world would become! Then you will understand that death is not the opposite of life. The secret of life is hidden in death. It is its one wing. Birth and death—these two are the wings of life. Life hides between them. Birth and death are the two banks of the river—and the current of life flows in the middle.

Hence the great glory of death—for those who have known. Those who do not know go on singing the glory of life. Those who know have sung the glory of death.

What you call life is a kind of excitation. Death is great peace. Why do you look at death with such enmity? The reason is this: it seems to you that so many ambitions are still unfulfilled. If death comes, then when will they be fulfilled? How will they be fulfilled? So many palaces remain to be built. So much travel still to be done. And what have we done yet? So much remains to be done. If death comes, we will die unfinished.

The fear is not of death. Life does not fear death; ambition fears death. The real fear belongs to the ego, to ambition. If you have no ambition, nothing to acquire, nothing to become—if you are content as you are, fulfilled and satisfied—then would death appear an enemy to you? Then, if death were to come now, you would accept it with the same sense of wonder with which you accept life. Not the slightest difference, not the slightest distinction. You would be ready to go into rest. You would say, “The running about was already over. We were already prepared to depart. We were waiting on the shore: when will the boat come, so we may embark upon the other journey?”

Socrates was put to death by poison. The court said to him, “If you give us your word that you will not propagate the truth—that which you call truth—if you will remain silent, this death can be avoided. We can pardon you.”

Socrates said, “I have seen life. I have come to know it from every corner, peeled it layer by layer. And if I were given a chance to live, I would live for only one purpose: that others too may come to know life’s truth. There is no other reason left. As far as I am concerned, the work of life is complete. What had to ripen has ripened. On my part, there is no obstacle in going into death. In fact, I would like to go—because life I have seen; death is still unseen. Life I have recognized; death I do not yet know. I want to open that temple’s door as well. For me, I would rather die, I want to know—what is death? Let this question too be resolved. ‘What is life?’ is already resolved. One door remains closed; I want to open that as well. And if you let me live only on the condition that I stop speaking the truth—then I accept death.”

Socrates accepted death. When he was given the poison, he drank it and lay down. Friends began to weep; disciples sobbed in pain; tears flowed. Socrates opened his eyes and said, “This is not the time to cry. After I am gone, then cry—there will be plenty of time. These moments are precious. Let me tell you a little more of the mystery. I have told you much about life; now I am passing through death, entering it slowly—listen!

“My feet have grown cold; the feet are dead. The poison has taken effect. My thighs are becoming numb. Now I have no sensation in my legs; even if I want to move them, I cannot. Life has departed from there. But astonishing! Within me there is not the slightest reduction in life. I am just as alive. The thighs have gone to sleep, become void.”

Socrates said to one disciple, “Crito, take an ant and try it on my foot.”

He brought an ant.

Socrates said, “I cannot feel it. The feet have become dead. Half the body has died—but within, I am experiencing wholeness! The hands have become slack; they do not rise. The neck has drooped.” Even in the last moment, when the eyes began to close, he said, “I tell you one thing—remember it: almost everything has died; the final edge remains in my hand, yet I am entirely alive. Death has not been able to touch me.”

One who has known life will be eager to know death—because death is life’s other aspect, its hidden half. It is the moon’s far side, never seen.

I call the Master “death” because he will teach you how to die. The whole education of religion is an education in death. I call meditation “death” because it is the method of dying. I call samadhi “death” because it is the consummation. The Master is the teacher; meditation is the learning; samadhi is the attainment. All three are death. And “death” is a very lovely word. The day you are free of fear toward it, you are liberated; the moment your ambition no longer frightens you, and you open your eyes and look straight into death—on that day you will discover you have peered into your own being.

Life is half. Whoever has known himself only through life has known only half; his self-knowledge is incomplete. Death is the other half. Whoever has known only the day and not the night has incomplete knowledge. Day is beautiful, yes—there is the sun, there is light, flowers, birds. But night is even more beautiful—there are stars, there is the moon, the vast sky. Light has a boundary that can be sensed; the darkness of night has no boundary. In light there is a certain excitation, even a burning; night is great peace—no excitation; the ultimate emptiness. In light, differences between things are seen; in light, forms are understood. Night is formless; all forms dissolve. A great void, a great vastness remains.

Death is also like the night. Whoever has not seen the beauty of the night, who has not opened his eyes to the star-filled sky, who has not touched the darkness, tasted it, who has not drowned and been lost in the dark—he has lived in the shallow; he has not related to the depths.

If you ask me, I will say this: what you call life is only the storm of waves upon the ocean’s surface. And what I call death—what the Upanishads call death, what Dadu called death—is the ocean’s depth, where there are no waves; where all waves are lost; where forms have ended; where only the formless remains; where not even a ripple arises; where not a single thought arises; where there is the great void—never fractured, never to be fractured; where existence is virgin, without the slightest taint of distortion.

Look at death as a friend; instantly a bond will form between you and death. Through that door too you will be able to recognize life.

If you are already afraid, you have formed a belief. If you become afraid and fix a belief, how will you approach death? That temple will remain closed to you forever. You too will die—that is what Kabir says, what Dadu says, what Nanak says—but only one who dies before he dies knows death. One who dies while living—who continues to live and yet accepts death.

This is the mark of the man of samadhi. He lives, but the waves of ambition are no more; the depth of desirelessness has arrived. He walks, rises, sits on the same great stage upon which you walk, rise, sit. Outwardly his acts are just like yours—no difference. But inwardly, in his depth—one who has assimilated death within—his very quality has changed.

There is no need for recognition; no need for identification. What is, is the truth. In the depths of meditation there is no recognition arising that “what is, is the truth.” What is, simply is; there is nothing other than that. I am saying even this only to make it understandable to you. In front of a mirror a bird flies by, or a flower blossoms. The mirror has no recognition. The mirror does not identify: “This is a flower, a real flower, not an artificial one.” Its very being is its reality. There is no need to recognize it separately. And if you set out to recognize it separately, you will go astray.

Understand this: you are on a road; in the distance, in the dark, you see a policeman standing. As you come near, it is not a policeman—there has been a misperception; it is a tree stump. Now you have recognition. You have come right up close and identified it as a tree stump. Now there is no doubt.

But a little earlier, when the policeman appeared to you, there was no doubt then either; an unquestioning feeling arose in the mind that it was a policeman. Now an unquestioning feeling arises that it is a tree stump. Can you be certain that this present recognition is the right one?

And just then the alarm rings and you wake up, and you find it was a dream. You had been asleep; you never walked on the road. The road was in the dream. From afar a policeman appeared, you came close and touched it and found it was a stump—just then, out of time, the alarm rang, you awoke. It was a dream.

Can you still be sure that what you see on waking is not a dream? Might it not be that the alarm rang inside the dream, one dream ended and another began? What proof is there that recognition is ever certain?

Many times you must have dreamt that you had woken up—in the dream. A dream of waking! A dream within a dream within a dream within a dream is possible. Those with very tangled minds see such things. You may not have, but those whose minds are much entangled do. You can see this: at night you sleep, a dream begins; in the dream you see that you have woken up. Having “woken,” you are going to watch a movie. You are sitting in a cinema hall watching a film. In the film you see that the film’s leading actor is going to watch a film. It can go on like that.

That is why Chuang Tzu said: one night I dreamt that I had become a butterfly; since then all my beliefs loosened. Because in the morning I began to suspect that if at night Chuang Tzu can dream of being a butterfly, who knows—perhaps a butterfly is asleep, dreaming that she has become Chuang Tzu! If the first can be true, that Chuang Tzu can be a butterfly, why can’t the butterfly dream that it is Chuang Tzu? What obstacle is there? It is the same thing. If Chuang Tzu can become a butterfly, then a butterfly can become Chuang Tzu. And he says, from that day I had no certainty left.

Recognition—if the happening does not carry its own knowing within itself, you will not be able to import recognition from outside. For recognition brought from outside, you will then need another recognition to certify it. For that one, yet another will be needed. And this sequence is endless.

The question is perfectly right. Because you have never seen Him before; therefore recognition cannot already exist. When you first experienced peace, became emptiness, how would you say this is emptiness, the self, nirvana, samadhi? Had you known it before? If you had known it before, you could compare and say, yes, this matches. But you had never known it. So how will you compare it? By what will you weigh it? And if you cannot weigh it, all your statements are futile. Don’t say anything—be silent. What can you say? And even if you concede that there is such a state of emptiness, how can you be certain that it isn’t a dream? That it isn’t just imagination?

Among the atheist’s questions there is meaning; they are questions of the intellect.

But when the atheist has a headache, ask him, “Has this ever happened before?” Because some time it must have happened for the first time. It cannot be that it was always earlier, always earlier... There must have been a first time. When it happened the first time, how did you recognize that it was a headache? How did recognition arise? And suppose now it has happened many times and you recognize it—how are you certain this, too, isn’t imagination? The atheist will be ready to fight. He will say, “Is there an Aspro? There’s no need for conversation!”

Now, does a headache need prior recognition? The headache is enough; its very occurrence is the news. And even if it is the first time, you know. There is no need for it to have happened earlier. When a thorn pricks you for the first time, it still pricks. When samadhi happens for the first time, it still happens. And samadhi is the greatest experience of life. It is such a vast experience that you could even cast doubt on a headache—though even doubting a headache is difficult. When it happens, how will you doubt? Try a thousand ways to doubt—close your eyes, talk yourself this way and that—nothing makes any difference; it is. It stands there, present.

Even a small thing like a headache cannot be doubted when it becomes experience; it thickens into certainty. Samadhi is a great event. It is supreme bliss. It is the whole of the divine showering on you. It is the ocean descending into the drop. For that, no external recognition is needed. When it happens, you recognize. When it happens, you recognize instantly. And this recognition does not need to be connected to any previous recognition. The event is that vast!

Nor does doubt arise about it. Perhaps you could even manage to raise a doubt about a headache; about this, doubt does not arise. Because when this event happens, the mind that doubts simply disappears—just as dew drops vanish, become vapor, fly away at sunrise. The capacity to doubt is lost at the descent of samadhi, just as darkness disappears the moment a lamp is lit. Not even a moment’s delay, not even an instant. Here the lamp is lit; there the darkness is gone—simultaneously, all at once. It is not that first the lamp is lit, light appears, then darkness staggers, wavers, thinks—shall I go or not? Nothing like that. You light the lamp here, and you find there is no darkness.

Have you ever taken a lamp and gone to search for darkness? If you go with a lamp to look for darkness, you will never find it. Because wherever you take the lamp, there darkness will not be.

Such is the event when the great inner light arises—samadhi happens. The great sun is born. In that dense, infinite light all doubts are dissolved, all darkness is lost. In that moment, what glimmers in the mirror is not a concept. It cannot be a concept—how could there be a concept of that which was never known before? There is no thought. The happening is so stunning that what thought would you think?

Even in ordinary situations, when something sudden happens, thinking becomes difficult. You are walking along a path, a snake suddenly appears in front of you—instantly thought stops. You tried a thousand methods to meditate, thought wouldn’t stop; at the sight of the snake, it stops. For a moment you are speechless! When the great samadhi happens, consciousness becomes like a mirror. In that moment there is no thought, no notion, no construct. Only you are, in your perfectly pure state. Or, if we use Buddha’s wording, say that you are not—perfect purity is. Both statements say the same thing. In that moment, what is, is the truth—not because of any recognition. That is why truth is called self-evident; it needs no testimony.

In Europe there is a small Christian sect, the Quakers. In the last three hundred years they have suffered many hardships because of a small insistence. That insistence is very sweet. But courts, the law, the police, the state are not capable of understanding sweet things. Their measures are very gross and crude.

In all courts the rule is that a person must take an oath: whatever I say, I will speak the truth. The Quakers say, we will not take this oath. Because with this oath the lie itself begins. The Quaker says: If I say in court that whatever I say I will speak the truth, it means I have been speaking untruth until now? And if I have been speaking untruth until now, what difficulty is there in telling one more untruth—that whatever I say I will speak the truth! I could lie about this as well. If all my life I have spoken without an oath, and therefore untruth, then what reason is there that just by standing in court I will now speak truth? How can you be sure I am not lying even in this?

So the Quaker says: Whatever I say, I will say. You take care of truth or untruth. Why make me swear? An oath would mean that before God I am guilty. Because He will ask me: You took an oath in court that whatever you say you will speak the truth—what were you doing outside the court?

This is very sweet, very pleasing. But courts cannot have that much intelligence. They say, take the oath. Quakers will not swear. They have borne punishments; they did not take the oath.

It seems right to me, too. Either I speak the truth, or I don’t. What is the meaning of an oath? One who speaks the truth will not swear. One who lies is always ready to swear. Because an oath is also a device to support a lie. If you meet a liar, after every statement he swears. He says, I swear by you! I swear by God! The more a man swears, know that the more he is a liar. Otherwise, what need is there for an oath? The matter is plain: two and two make four—what is the point of swearing by God about this? Why bring God into it? Leave God out.

No, but you know—you are not enough. You need God’s support; only then will your lie look like truth.

Mulla Nasruddin, with great difficulty, had gathered some valuable cloth over two or three years to have a coat made. The days of Ramadan were approaching. So he went to a tailor. The tailor was very busy; he said it was very difficult. Mulla pleaded a lot, so he said, all right, leave it; it will take seven days.

Mulla said, are you absolutely sure?
He said, absolutely sure. If Allah wills, it will be ready in seven days.

Mulla was very pleased. He said, not only did the tailor give his word, he also took the name of Allah. The man is religious.

After seven days he went. The tailor barely glanced up. He said, it couldn’t be done. It will take seven more days.

Mulla said, Ah! But what is the gain in quarreling? Seven days are gone anyway. He asked, Is it sure?
He said, If Allah wills, it will be ready in seven days.

Mulla said, fine, perhaps there was some mistake; the man is religious—he hasn’t forgotten Allah. He went the third week. There was no sign of the coat. As tailors are, so was this tailor. He said, just one more week, if Allah wills...

Mulla said, now listen! If we leave Allah out of it, how many days will it take? This Allah is the nuisance. Speak straight, man to man. You keep bringing Allah in between; Allah is in no hurry about time, He has eternity. We will get killed for nothing.

One who swears oaths is seeking supports for a lie. A truthful man does not swear. Why should he? What is the use of an oath? A truthful man does not gather witnesses either. Only liars gather witnesses. The law has little to do with truth; it is more concerned with witnesses.

A case was once brought against Mulla. And when the opposing lawyer asked, “When this murder was committed, you say you are an eyewitness, you saw with your own eyes; how far were you standing?”

Mulla said, “Seventeen feet and three and a half inches.”

The lawyer was a little taken aback; the court roused; the jurors who had been asleep woke up; the magistrate looked up, surprised: “Seventeen feet and three and a half inches! You’re speaking as if you had measured it beforehand.”

Nasruddin said, “I knew some fool would definitely ask. I measured it; I came having exactly measured it.”

The liar prepares in advance; he goes about having measured. When you begin thinking of telling a lie, you start gathering testimonies and looking for proofs. That is why the great scriptures of the world—the Upanishads—offer not a single proof for God. The rishis of the Upanishads simply say: God is. They give no proofs.

When the Upanishads were translated in the West for the first time, the thinkers there could not understand what kind of scriptures these were. Where are the proofs? These are only statements.

In Christianity there are proofs; great treatises have been written, attempts made to prove why God is. The Upanishads simply say, He is. They don’t even raise the question “why.”

The reason is clear. Whoever has sought reasons for God are people who are false; they have not had the vision of God. Otherwise, vision is proof enough; there can be no other proof. Seeing is the proof. And for God, where will you look for proof? Only He is. Besides Him there is none. From whom will you take testimony?

There is no way to put God in the witness box. Otherwise He would say, yes, I am. That way is not possible either. Because all courts would be too small. Where could you make Him stand? He is vast. Other than Him there is no one; no one can give testimony.

The Upanishads are silent. They only make statements. They only say this much: He is. There is a way to know; there is no way to prove. There is a path to become one with Him, but there is no arrangement to give proofs by logic. God is an experience. God is not a logical derivation. He is not a conclusion of your thought. Therefore neither can anyone prove Him right, nor can anyone prove Him wrong.

So those who are engaged in proving that God is are also unintelligent—you call them theists. Those who are engaged in proving that God is not are atheists; they, too, are unintelligent. Both are two sides of the same coin. Both hold the same notion: that God can be proved or disproved. Both believe that God is a conclusion of thought. That is why I say the theist and the atheist are chips off the same block; there is no difference between them.

A religious person is neither a theist nor an atheist. Then who is religious?

Religious is the one who says that God is an experience; He can neither be proved nor disproved. We can cling neither to the theist’s notion about Him nor to the atheist’s. Regarding Him we can only be silent. Silence alone is the sole approach to Him. And the more silent you become, the more He is revealed. As you become silent, you disappear; He is revealed.

Dadu says, “No one stands in between except yourself.”

You disappear, you become emptiness, you become silence—and He is revealed. The Beloved has always been revealed. He is not hidden. In your own foolishness you have hidden yourself.

The law is not cruel. Because you desire that it not be cruel, the very vision arises in you that the law is cruel. The law is neither cruel nor non-cruel. Existence is neither on your side nor against you. Existence is impartial, utterly neutral. It is up to you whether you align with it or set yourself against it. If you set yourself against it, existence will appear to you as if it were against you. That is your way of seeing.

Like little children: they bump into a table and get angry at the table. The table did not bump into them; it was standing where it was, absolutely neutral. The table made no effort to collide with the child. The child, in an unconscious state, ran into it and got hurt. Now the child thinks the table has hit him, and even tries to take revenge on the table. Often the mother must run and slap the table, knowing full well it has no fault, and the child is delighted to see the table being beaten: “Good! This table hit me.”

You laugh at that child, but almost everyone behaves like that child with existence. You collide, you get hurt, and then you get angry. You think, “Why is existence against me? Why so cruel?”

Existence is neither cruel nor kind. It has no partiality at all.

Keep one thing clearly in mind: existence does with you exactly what you do with existence. This is what we have called the law of karma. Nothing more. It is a simple matter. Whatever you do with existence returns to you. Sing, and songs come back. Hurl abuses, and abuses return.

First point: it is not cruel.

I am not saying it is very kind to you either—because that language is wrong. Cruelty and non-cruelty are both wrong ways to speak about it. Existence is utterly impartial, blank. It is a mirror. Whatever face you bring to it, it shows you that face. Do not be angry at the mirror.

I have heard of a woman who went mad. She would not look into a mirror. No matter how she was explained to, she was afraid of mirrors. She was brought to doctors. They asked, “Why don’t you look in a mirror?” She would shatter any mirror she saw—on the street, in a shop—running up and smashing it. She had created a great nuisance.

She said, “A mirror? Whenever I look into a mirror, it behaves very harshly with me. It tells me I am ugly, which I am not.”

The woman was ugly. The mirror was not at fault. Her face was frightening; anyone seeing it would feel revulsion, disgust, a desire to move away. Her face had the power to repel. But she believed the mirrors were conspiring against her, colluding to show her as ugly wherever she looked. “I am beautiful.”

Do not think only that woman was mad; some measure of this madness is in everyone. If someone gets angry with you, you don’t think, “There must be something in me that provoked his anger.” You think, “This person is wrong. The mirror is wrong.” If no one comes near you, if whoever comes moves away, you imagine the whole world has plotted against you. But you do not look to see that there must be something in you that drives people away.

A meditative person should drop enmity with the mirror. Rather, befriend the mirror, because it brings you news. If you accept the news, there is a way to change. You can become beautiful. If everyone abuses you, pause and inquire: what is the matter? You must be doing something that compels them to abuse you. Otherwise, who has the time or purpose to go around abusing you? People have enough of their own work; it is not getting done as it is. Even if you invite them, no one will come to abuse you. Announce to the whole neighborhood that you’ll sit outside for an hour daily and request everyone to come and abuse you—no one will come.

When you are transformed within, the whole world changes its behavior toward you. The world is neutral. It becomes what you make of it. Perhaps even you yourself do not know what you are doing with the world that brings bad results. But the world is not cruel—nor is it kind. The world is pure, silent—it has no bias regarding you.

Now to the question itself. Whatever you desire—say, you desire respect. The very meaning of desiring respect is that you do not consider yourself worthy of respect; first fact. Your being, as it is, does not satisfy you. You believe you are nothing until respect is conferred; until a Bharat Ratna is bestowed; until some government makes you a “Sir”; until they pin a medal on you—you are worth two bits. This is your belief. On that two-bit feeling you want to hang a Bharat Ratna—Padma Bhushan!—that there be noise all around you, garlands over your neck, processions in your honor, so that this feeling, “I am two-bit, a nothing,” gets buried.

But will it be buried? That two-bit feeling will remain inside. Someone puts a garland on you—the garland lies over those two bits. Now you worry someone will snatch the garland away. The moment it is taken off, the two bits will show. You will fear that the whole world is trying to snatch your garland.

And naturally, others too are moving about with their own two-bit feeling; they are also anxious to find someone’s garland to cover themselves with. There is fierce competition for garlands, a great struggle. Who will become president, who prime minister—great struggle. Whoever sits on the throne does not want to get down, because the moment he gets down it will be visible again that he is nothing. On the throne, the taste of being someone arises; words carry force; events occur at your command. Get off the throne and no one will listen. Even your dog will not wag his tail once you are off the throne. He will bark and say, “Go on. You’re a former president! Those days are gone. Why should we keep wagging our tails for you? Someone else is on the throne now.”

I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin worked as a cook in an emperor’s house. The emperor was very fond of him. One day he cooked okra. The emperor tasted it and liked it immensely. His face lit up with delight. He asked Nasruddin, “What do you think of okra?”

Nasruddin said, “My lord, okra is nectar. All other vegetables are ordinary; this one sits upon the throne. Okra is the ultimate. There is nothing above it!”

The emperor was pleased, so Nasruddin made okra the next day, and the next, and the next… On the seventh day the emperor flung the plate down and said, “Nasruddin, there is a limit to everything!”

Nasruddin said, “My lord, there is indeed a limit. And okra is a rotten thing! Even animals won’t eat it, my lord. It is absolutely the worst.”

The emperor said, “What! The other day you were saying okra is above all, nothing compares, it is the Kohinoor—and you were singing its praises to the skies.”

Nasruddin replied, “My lord, I am your servant, not okra’s. I look at your face. What have I to do with okra!”

That dog wags his tail near the throne.

It happened that I was traveling with a former minister. Just outside his hometown, where he was once revered like an emperor, a policeman stopped the car at a toll checkpoint. He could not believe it. Seeing me with him, he felt even more insulted: “He stops my car—and just a common policeman!” When the policeman came up, he became angrier, because he himself had gotten this man the job when he was minister.

He said, “Hey! Don’t you see whose car this is?”

The policeman said, “I’ve seen whose car it is. Everybody’s car stops.”

The minister sagged a little, for now he had no power. Those days were gone. The policeman could create trouble. He checked the car, looked things over. “All right then,” he said.

After we drove off he said to me, “This is the limit! I got that man his job.”

I said, “That is exactly why he still hasn’t forgiven you. Get someone a job and he will never forgive you. He will take revenge someday. For on that day you were so high that you granted him a job. Pain arose in his mind then—he had to fold his hands to you, had to wag his tail before you. He will take revenge sooner or later.”

People say, “We do good, and people do bad to us.”

It is sheer mathematics. The one to whom you did “good”—what else will he do but “bad”? He must settle the score. Because whenever you did your ‘good deed,’ you must have looked at him with such arrogance: “See, you little worm! You live by my grace.”

I said, “Remember the day this man came wagging his tail before you and you got him the job. Today he is showing you the exact opposite. He wants you to wag your tail a little too. Everyone’s time comes.”

That is why whoever reaches the throne, any post, does not want to step down. He declares a thousand things: “For the nation, it is essential that I stay. If I step down, the nation will sink.” And nations never sink—or if they are already sunk, it makes no difference. But whoever is in power thinks, “The moment I leave, the world will be destroyed. It must be saved.”

No one is concerned about the world. Each person is eager only to save himself on the post. Because that two-bit feeling is concealed under the position. Leave the post, and that two-bit feeling follows you.

I have heard: a young man set out in search of wealth. He stopped outside a royal palace. He was handsome and healthy. The emperor rode out on his horse early in the morning and asked him, “How are you sitting here? Looking for work?”

He said, “I am looking for work. I have set out to earn money.”

“What can you do?”

He said, “I am a craftsman. I can build houses, palaces, temples. I can carve statues. Architecture is my field.”

The emperor said, “We have need. Come; enter the palace. Within the fort around the palace, enjoy whatever you wish; eat what you like, drink what you like, wear what you like. Nothing will be lacking. Live like an emperor. But keep one thing in mind: the day I become displeased, that very day you will have to exit the gate exactly as you sit here now—in these same clothes, with just this much possession. As long as you are here, live like an emperor. When you leave, these same clothes, these torn shoes, this same shoulder bag, the same belongings. Put them safely in the palace treasury. For now, enjoy yourself as an emperor.”

The youth set to work in the palace. He lived like an emperor, yet inside a restlessness remained. The clothes were fine, but he knew they were not his. Diamonds and jewels were his to wear, but he knew they were not his. He mounted magnificent horses; thousands saluted him. But he knew that any day a little trouble, and he would be shown out the gate—the same old bag and the same old clothes.

That is the condition of your presidents and prime ministers. The day they are out—the same old bag, the same old clothes. Hence the panic. And there is fear of being thrown out, because others are trying to get in. Effort is coming from all sides. Enemies, of course, are enemies; but those who are “your own,” sitting close to the throne, have their hands ready to grab your leg the moment a chance arises. One’s own become others; others are anyway others. Enemies are enemies; friends too are enemies.

Life then passes in that panic, that anxiety. Until the garland comes, the two-bit feeling gnaws at you. Then, once you hide the two bits under a post, you are tormented by the fear that the garland may be snatched away. And there are more garlands yet to get! So this garland must not be lost, and more should keep falling around your neck. And the utter stupidity is that even if a thousand garlands cover you in the end, you will still know that the two-bit feeling remains within. You are a nothing.

At last the young man panicked. Years passed. He came to the emperor and said, “I am going.”

The emperor said, “There is no issue. You have not been ordered to go. Are you lacking anything? Speak.”

The emperor was very pleased with him. His work was marvelous. He said, “The work is fine; there is no lack. But I know well that nothing here is mine. It is not right for me to stay. I will go where something can be mine. Please return my bag and my clothes. You may think I am very happy in these royal garments, but I am not—because inwardly I know they are not mine.”

Has anyone ever been satisfied with what is not his? A garland someone else puts on you is not yours. A position obtained by votes is not yours. Whatever is gained through another’s favor will be taken away—if not today, then tomorrow. Even if it is not taken, it is still not your being; it is not your wealth. Your soul is not in it.

The young man did the right thing. He said, “I am going. Give me back my clothes. I will now seek what can truly be mine.”

So there is one path: drop the two-bit feeling and turn within, because within sits the Supreme. Above that there is no higher post, no higher wealth. The religious person asks: Why is this two-bit feeling there? He investigates, analyzes, meditates, contemplates, studies himself. He undertakes the journey of how this two-bit feeling may drop and how the supreme inner reality may become available. It is an inner journey.

There is another journey—the outer journey; that is politics. Religion and politics are the two journeys in the world. You cannot walk both together. Therefore a religious politician is impossible; a politician cannot be religious. There is no way around it. He who walks the path of politics is trying to hide the two-bit feeling.

Hide it as you may, it will not be hidden. Even if it is hidden from the whole world, you will keep knowing it. And the more it is hidden from the world, the more conspicuously it will show itself to you—just as the youth kept realizing: these clothes are not mine, this palace is not mine; mine is that old bag. It will stand out even more for you.

That is why, when people get a lot of wealth, they become aware of inner poverty. And when they reach high posts, they become aware of their inner indigence. But by then, the whole life has been lost in a futile race.

And still very few are courageous enough to return from those heights—even if false, heights nonetheless. That youth was very courageous. He did what Buddha and Mahavira did. They left palaces, not because the palaces were theirs, but because they recognized they were not theirs, and that one day they would be thrown out with a begging bowl. Better to leave before being thrown out.

Buddha and Mahavira did exactly what that youth did. “Take care of this,” he said. “Now I go in search of what can be mine.” To go in search of the soul means to go in search of what is truly one’s own. What is truly one’s own never comes from another; it is not borrowed. My soul you cannot give me. No one can give it to me. I must discover it myself. Yes, you can give me honor; that is borrowed. In those garments my two-bit feeling can be covered. But until the sun of my soul rises, that two-bit feeling will not go. It is a part of darkness.

Inferiority, the inferior complex, is ignorance. Only when you are filled with the sense of the Self does the inferior complex dissolve. Before that it does not dissolve—and it is good that it does not, otherwise you would be buried somewhere under trash and finished.

Enough for today.