Sahaj Samadhi Bhali #19

Sufism is a rebellion. All religions are rebellions. To be religious is to be a rebel. And one who does not know revolt will remain deprived of life’s ultimate truths. One who trails behind the crowd never reaches the temple. That path is for the solitary. It is rugged and deserted. To walk it is to take destiny into one’s own hands, to shoulder total responsibility for one’s life.

We agree with the crowd because it is convenient. But what has religion to do with convenience? Religion is tapascharya—austerity.

We go along with society because it is easy—less trouble, fewer risks. The more you merge with the crowd, society, the group, the state, the nation, the more you lose your individuality. Religion values your individuality above all.

First, understand this: religion means freeing yourself from society. Don’t follow the crowd like a blind person.

There is a psychology of the crowd, and great conveniences in following it. That is why almost everyone follows it. The first convenience: responsibility is no longer yours.

It is said an individual alone can never commit the dreadful sins he can commit in a crowd. A single Muslim may not burn a temple; in a Muslim mob, a temple can be burned. A single Hindu may not kill a Muslim; in a Hindu mob, the person disappears. Ask a member of such a mob later, “Was what you did right?”—he will hesitate. Perhaps he will say, “I went along with the crowd. It wasn’t really right.”

In a crowd you become less than yourself. The lowest element in the crowd drags everyone down to its level—like water finding its own level. Pour water and its final surface will be at the lowest point; no part can remain above. So no great soul can be born of the crowd; it is impossible. Because the lowest person sets the level for all. Great ones are born in solitude. Mahavira had to go to the forest; Buddha chose aloneness; Mohammed and Moses entered the mountains and deserts. Whoever has flowered in divine splendor has been born out of solitude.

The crowd has never produced a single Mahavira, Buddha, or Krishna. The crowd produces the petty—because its law is simple arithmetic: just as water settles at the lowest level, consciousness in a crowd settles at the level of the lowest man.Whenever you go into a crowd, think twice. You will always return having lost something.

In the crowd responsibility disappears, and that is a great relief. You no longer feel personally accountable. The greatest discipline of life is the experience of responsibility. When you feel “I am responsible,” anxiety arises, because where there is responsibility there is tension. The crowd takes all responsibility on itself.

After the Second World War, the Nazi officers were tried for heinous crimes—unprecedented in human history. They had burned millions of Jews. What did they say? They didn’t even deny the crimes. They said, “We only obeyed orders. We are soldiers.”

When you obey orders, your responsibility vanishes. That is why we train soldiers in obedience—because we want them to do things they would never do in their own individuality: commit sins, kill people, burn innocent children, bomb sleeping cities that have done nothing to them.

The man who dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima slept soundly that night. One hundred and twenty thousand human beings were reduced to ash—none of whom had any personal enmity with him, none had harmed him, none even knew him. Yet he returned and slept well. When asked the next morning if he slept well, he said, “Of course. I fulfilled my duty, then I slept peacefully.” He felt no anxiety! You crush a tiny insect knowingly underfoot and you feel a pang. Anxiety arises only with responsibility: “I am accountable.” If you feel, “I am not responsible; I received an order from above; I executed it,” you can sleep. And the joke is: the one above also claims he was following orders from above!

In a crowd, you cannot catch hold of the responsible person. Ultimately who is responsible? No one. Hence such colossal sin prevails. It will prevail so long as individuals do not hold themselves personally responsible for their actions.

The moment you stand with the crowd your anxiety vanishes; you are no longer a person, you are a Hindu, a Muslim, an Indian, a Pakistani—no longer a human being. Religion concerns your humanity. Therefore religion is disobedience. Understand this a little.

Religion is rebellion. Soldier and sannyasin are poles apart. The soldier is obedience personified. The sannyasin is disobedience—violation of all orders. You will not find two poles more opposite.

The soldier says, “Orders!” He executes them mechanically, without feeling any personal hand or sin: “I am just an instrument. You say, ‘Left turn’—I turn left. You say, ‘Stop’—I stop.” Soldiers are made mechanical because to grow in consciousness one must take great responsibility.

William James, the great psychologist, once sat in a shop explaining to a friend how a soldier becomes mechanical. A soldier passed by carrying a basket of eggs on his head. James shouted, “Attention!” The man dropped the basket and stood at attention; eggs smashed all over the street. Furious, he demanded, “Who said ‘Attention’?” It turned out he had left the army ten years earlier; he was retired. James said, “We have a right to say anything. Why did you need to listen? Why to obey?” The man replied, “It’s not in our control. When we hear ‘Attention,’ we stand at attention. It’s not a question of awareness—it’s unconscious habit.”

All military training is for unconsciousness. If conscious, a soldier might ask: “What has this man done that I should riddle him with bullets? What is his fault?” If he thinks, it’s dangerous.

Blind following is the mark of a soldier. The more unconscious, the more efficient the soldier. To create this unconsciousness there is a great apparatus. For years we drill soldiers: “Left-right, left-right.” No one asks “Why?” Why waste life on such foolishness? Millions march left-right for hours daily, for years. There is a secret: to thin their consciousness, make them mechanical, accustom them to obey senseless orders. “Turn left”—and the soldier does not ask why. If he asks, he is useless.

I heard of a philosopher who enlisted. A thoughtful man—unfit for the army. When ordered “Left turn,” everyone turned; he stood still. The officer barked, “Why are you standing?” He said, “I am thinking: Why should I turn left? What is the purpose? I can do nothing without thinking and deciding.” They tried hard—useless. They put him in the mess hall. On day one he was asked to sort peas—big ones separate, small ones separate. An hour later the officer found him sitting with eyes closed in meditation, the peas untouched. “What are you doing?” “Thinking. Some peas are big—granted; some are small—granted. Some are medium—where shall I put them? Until it’s clear, I cannot move my hand.” They had to dismiss him. One who thinks cannot be used for foolish acts. The less intelligence, the better the soldier.

Thinking culminates in the sense of responsibility: “I am accountable; ultimately I will be asked, ‘Why did you do it?’ What will I say before God? This murder? This bomb?” The soldier says, “There was an order. I am nothing. I only obeyed. No responsibility, no sin.”

The sannyasin is the opposite. He says, “Even the blinking of my eyelids is my doing—and if some microbe dies because of it, I am responsible. If an ant is crushed under my feet, I am responsible.”

On one side is a sannyasin like Mahavira, who places his feet with breath-soft care, won’t step on wet ground where organisms are likely to live; defecates on dry earth; does not turn over in sleep at night lest insects may have crept near—he sleeps on one side; does not walk at night because in darkness life could be harmed. These are the supreme images of renunciation.

Sannyas means the whole responsibility is mine. I cannot hide behind “orders.” For ultimately the question is not that someone ordered; the question is: you obeyed.

The man who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima—could he not have said, “I will not drop it”? He could. The result would be he’d be shot. So be it. “I prefer to die by a bullet than kill a hundred and twenty thousand innocent people.” But then he would not be a soldier; he would be a sannyasin. In this world he would be a criminal; before the divine he would be incomparable in dignity. On earth, perhaps no one would care; in the other realm he would be first.

Jesus said again and again: Those who are first here will be last in my Father’s kingdom; those who are last here will be first.

Religion’s first sutra: do not obey blindly; do not shift responsibility onto another.

Obedience is pleasant because it frees you of responsibility. Hence the abundance of followers. No one becomes a follower for nothing. Becoming a follower means the leader bears all responsibility.

Democracy adds a further convenience. The leader says responsibility lies with the voters; the voters think it lies with the leader. In the end, it lies with no one. Crime increases.

Religion’s fundamental discovery is: the responsibility is yours. If you miss and pass it on to someone else, he will pass it on further, and it will vanish.

This is karma: you are responsible. Whatever you do, you cannot escape. So even your smallest act—do it knowingly: I am doing it. Your fate, your destiny—you are their maker.

Sufis are rebels. Understand this first; then the story becomes simple.

Second: the more you feel “I am responsible,” the more aware you become; awareness increases; you live alert, careful, watchful. The more you think someone else is responsible, the easier it is to sleep; no fear.

Modern psychology has made it very convenient to commit crimes. The three greatest “discoveries” of this century have had the result of freeing man from responsibility.

First, Newton and company: the universe is ruled by mechanical laws; no exceptions. Man is a machine. If you are a mechanism, how can guilt arise? There is no consciousness—only matter.

Second, Freud: when you sin you are not responsible. Your upbringing, parents, family, culture—the environment is responsible. If you steal, you could do nothing else; you are the sum of your conditioning. It is not an act, it is a blossoming of causes; you are not responsible.

Third, Marx: economic conditions ultimately determine everything. Man is a thief because he is poor, dishonest because he is hungry. Exploitation causes sin. When there is no exploitation there will be no sin.

Under these three notions, crimes have multiplied as never before. And the chain is hard to break because the criminal does not consider himself criminal.

Mahavira, Buddha, Mohammed, Krishna, Zarathustra—teach the opposite. They say: you are responsible for every act. In their analysis even your birth to certain parents is your choice. Your soul chose that womb. It is not accidental. The society you came to is of your choosing. Whether born in a Brahmin home or a Shudra’s—fruition of your own desires. Ultimately, you are responsible. Poor or rich—it’s your choice.

You are the center of your life—your acts are the circumference, you are the deciding center.

From one angle this seems dangerous and frightening—responsible for everything? Anxiety arises. But from another angle it is supreme dignity: you matter; you are precious; if you will, you can create a revolution. No need to change the whole world; change yourself.

If you follow Marx, Freud and the rest—against Mahavira and Buddha—your anxiety ends, but your dignity is lost. No worry; you are fine as you are—yet you have no glory, no freedom.

With anxiety comes freedom; with responsibility your freedom deepens. The religious person passes through profound anxiety.

Kierkegaard wrote: No anxiety is as deep as the religious man’s. After that anxiety comes peace—but through revolution in life.

Throw responsibility onto others and you’ll also feel a peace—but it is the peace of the graveyard; you no longer exist; you are worth pennies. The day you said “Others are responsible for my acts,” you died; you lost value.

So keep this second point in mind: all religions insist that your destiny is yours; your fate is the flowering of your own decisions. You are the master, the owner, the free one. As you are—good or bad—you have made yourself. And you can change. Tomorrow depends on today’s decision.

No one else moves you; you walk on your own feet. No one pushes you; your desires propel you. Your glory is that the center of decision is within.

The center of decision is the soul. Hence Marx and Freud cannot accept soul—if the center of decision is not within, what soul?

Keep these two points, then we can understand the parable word by word.

“A certain emperor believed that what he knew and held to be true was right. In a sense he was just.”

Whoever gets a little power falls into the illusion that whatever he knows and believes is right. That is why people chase power—because on the throne whatever you say becomes truth.

There are two ways to approach truth. One: seek the truth—you may have to abandon thrones, because the search is so precious. A man on a throne cannot reach that depth. The seeker relinquishes the throne.

One search is of Mahavira and Buddha; the other is: if you want “truth,” reach the throne—then whatever you say, by virtue of your power, people will call it truth, and you will be deluded: if so many agree, it must be true.

Napoleon said: “I am the law; I am the state.” A man on a throne naturally feels his word is the rule.

Either you live according to truth, or you become so powerful that you claim truth must live according to you. These are the two journeys: politics and religion. Hence the politician is never religious, and the religious man cannot be a politician. The quests are different: one seeks power, one peace; one seeks truth, one the throne. In the search for truth, crucifixion may come, never a throne. In the quest for a throne, a throne comes, never truth. Yet power can force people to bow and agree. Refusal becomes dangerous.

Molotov, Stalin’s close associate, came to London for a political conference. He needed to consult Stalin by phone to answer an urgent question. A journalist sat in the room. Whatever Stalin said, Molotov kept saying, “Yes, sir. Yes, yes.” Suddenly at one point he said, “No. Absolutely not.” The journalist was startled—saying no to Stalin is impossible! He waited. When the call ended he asked, “Forgive me, but on what did you say ‘absolutely not’?” Molotov laughed, “You cannot say ‘no’ to Stalin. But at that moment Stalin said to me, ‘Molotov, you decide.’ So I said, ‘No, absolutely not.’”

Power can make you say “yes” regardless of your heart. Those on thrones are deluded that they possess the truth.

This emperor too believed his beliefs were right. No one could deny him. More dangerous: he was not just powerful; he was also “just.” A man who has both power and virtue is most dangerous. If he were merely powerful, we know it’s only his delusion; but if he is also “good,” it becomes very difficult—you cannot even say no inside; you must say yes all around.

He had three daughters. One day he called them and said, “All my wealth shall be yours. Your life came from me; by my will your future and fate will be formed.”

Two princesses agreed. The third said, “Though circumstances demand that I obey the law, I cannot accept that my fate will be shaped by your will.”

Buddha’s father once spoke similarly to Buddha. When the enlightened Buddha returned home, his father was angry—the only son had run away. His ego was wounded: the generous family whose ancestors never begged, whose wealth fed millions—its sole heir begging on the streets! When Buddha stood at the door, the father said, “Throw that begging bowl away! Enough of this drama. My doors are open. Come back; I will forgive you, though your sin is grave and unpardonable—yet out of affection, I will forgive.”

Buddha said, “Please look closely. The son who left is not the one who has returned. He died. This is another being entirely. The body may be the same, but the indweller has changed. The house is old; the owner is new. Try to recognize me.”

The father said, “I gave you birth—must I try to recognize you? Who knows you better than I? My blood, bone, marrow—and I do not know you?”

Buddha said, “You may have given birth, but you did not create me. I passed through you; you were a crossroads through which I travelled. Does the road know the traveler?” These unheard-of words—no son had spoken so. The father, whose eyes were filled with tears of anger, wiped them and looked carefully: indeed, this was not the boy who left.

The third daughter said, “Although circumstances require me to obey the law, I cannot accept that my fate will be made by your will. You are my father; you gave me birth—true. You may be my past. But that you are my future—I cannot accept. My future is free; it will not be shaped by your will. I am not a machine. I have my own life. I am not dead; I am conscious.”

“I am an independent entity.” This declaration is the declaration of the soul. Hence Mahavira denied a creator God. He said, “There is no God.” If God—the Father—exists, the son cannot be free. If God created the soul, what is created can be destroyed—no eternity for the soul. And if God made the soul, your efforts are meaningless; God can change your condition at any time—make the virtuous sinful and the sinful virtuous. He is the ultimate owner. Religious people call God Father—the Great Father. If God is Father, he can claim not only, “You are born of me,” but “I made you.” Religions tell the story: God fashioned a clay image, breathed into it, and man was created. Mahavira said: If such a God exists, man’s dignity is lost—no freedom, and then sin and virtue are meaningless; liberation is futile. If strings are pulled from above and we puppet-dance, what freedom does a puppet have? Whether the puppet is a thief or a saint depends on the string-puller. Then this world is a foolish tale. So Mahavira said: “There is no God. Only you are.” Think on this. Mahavira said, “You are God.” The Sufis say the same. That is why orthodox Muslims were angry with them. Mansoor was crucified for proclaiming the deepest Vedanta—the essence of Mahavira—within Islam. The deepest religion places God within you, not in the sky. If God is in the sky, you are dependent; if God is within, you are free; only then is liberation possible. If God is other than you, you are worth nothing; religion loses value.

Sufis hold that each person is his own master, his own creator; destiny is in one’s own hands.

This third girl symbolizes the Sufis; she is their representative. She says, “Circumstances demand…” It would be easy to agree as her two sisters did—but it would not be true. The worldly person bows to circumstance and abandons truth. The sannyasin clings to truth and lets circumstances break if they must.

Whether you value circumstance or truth decides whether you are a householder or a renunciate. If circumstance is valuable—world, home, family, prestige—you are a householder. The two sisters symbolize this. The third is of a renunciate mood. She says, “Circumstances demand that I obey the law. You say so, therefore it is truth—but I cannot accept that my fate will be shaped by your will.”

Therefore the truly religious person often appears rebellious—Jesus, Buddha, Mahavira. And the so-called religious become eager to kill him. Those who killed Jesus were “religious” people—temple-goers, worshippers of the book and the law. But for them “situation” was supreme; above it, nothing. Jesus proclaimed inner state and called circumstance worthless. Mahavira was stoned; Buddha was insulted. Naturally, those who did this were not atheists; atheists had no stake. Theists did.

There is the visible, so-called religious who always follows orders and bows to circumstance. And there is the truly religious who lifts his head—this hurts us.

The girl spoke a great rebellion: “I cannot accept that my future will be shaped by your will.” The emperor said, “We shall see,” and imprisoned this “rebellious” daughter, where for years she suffered. Meanwhile, her share of wealth was consumed by the emperor and the loyal daughters. The emperor said to himself, “This girl is suffering not by her will, but by mine. It is clear my will is her destiny.”

But what was the girl thinking in prison? Here is the beauty: life is complex and we create our own interpretations. The emperor’s logic sounds reasonable: “She is in jail by my will.” The girl likely thought, “I am in jail by my own will. Had I bowed to circumstance, obeyed, I would be in the palace, not the prison. It is my will that I am here.” The emperor’s reasoning seems right on the surface, yet if you look deeply, the girl is there by her own will; the emperor is only a nimitta, an instrument. Two girls are in the palace by their own will; the emperor is just an instrument.

The religious person regards himself as an instrument, not the doer. If, through him, something happens in another’s life, he still sees himself as nimitta, not karta—the doer. The irreligious puffs up: “Look, you are in jail by my will. Your future is the prison created by my will.” Ego’s logic looks right from above, but it isn’t. Whatever happens ultimately happens by your own will.

The man who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima—he did so by his own will, because it was in his hands to say yes or no to the order. The final determinant is your will. The world may say anything, but at the end you decide: shall I obey or not? Therefore, if there is ever a Last Judgment, the bomber will not be able to say, “I obeyed orders,” for he will be asked, “Was obeying or not obeying in your hands?”

Do not deceive yourself. Do not say, “My father told me,” or “Society told me.” Whatever anyone says, the final decision is yours—always. You cannot escape it.

The emperor’s argument looks right from the outside, but is false within.

Someone asked Mulla Nasruddin, “What is the age difference between you and your brother?” Nasruddin said, “My brother is three years younger, and getting younger every day.” Half made sense; the rest was puzzling. Nasruddin explained, “Reasoning! A year ago I heard my brother tell someone he was two years younger than me. A year has passed—now he is three years younger. Soon I’ll be old enough to be his father. If I live long enough, his grandfather! He keeps getting younger while I get older.”

Egoic logic only looks one way—its own increase.

The king looked only from his side: “By my decision she is in prison.” He did not see that ultimately it is her decision. If she agreed today, she would return to the palace—again her decision. I am only a nimitta.

Egolessness begins when you see that for others you are an instrument, and only for yourself a doer. When you think you are doer for yourself and for others, delusion arises and ego is born.

To be the doer for yourself carries no ego; it is responsibility—essential, or you will scatter and fall apart.

You are the doer for yourself; your destiny is your decision. But others’ destiny is not your decision; they are their own doers. Whatever relation you have in their life is instrumental.

“Nimitta” is a precious word. It means: if you were not there, someone else would do the same; your being is not indispensable. This girl would be in prison with any father who played the egoic role; her revolt would arise; her suffering would come.

“And the subjects agreed with the king’s view.” Subjects always agree with the king; that is why they are subjects. They agree with whoever has power.

In 1917, Russia had a revolution. Before it, Russia was among the most religious lands: church-going, Bible-toting, crosses on necks. After the revolution the communists came to power; with a stroke of the pen, a whole nation became “atheist.” The same people who went to church began burning churches, killing priests, making hospitals out of cathedrals, burning Bibles at crossroads. The same people! What kind of faith was that? They were not faithful; the Tsar was. They were subjects of the Tsar. Then came Lenin, Stalin—atheists. The subjects agreed. The subject has no opinion; he sides with power.

Mulla Nasruddin served a king. The king liked him and called him at meals. One day okra was served; the king praised it. Nasruddin said, “Marvelous! In all botany, nothing compares to okra—king of vegetables.” The cook heard and served okra again the next day. The king said nothing; Nasruddin remained silent. On the third day the king lost his temper, shoved the plate to the floor: “Every day okra! I’m fed up!” Nasruddin kicked the plate, “Okra! This is fit for animals!” The king said, “Two days ago you called it king of vegetables.” Nasruddin replied, “My lord, I am your servant, not okra’s. Where the wind blows, there we go. Praise poison, and we’ll call it nectar. We are with you, come what may.”

So it goes: change the king, the subjects change. There is no reliance; they have no stance.

China—land of Buddhas; seven hundred million Buddhists once—Mao changed it. Buddhas vanished; Mao’s statues appeared. No one says “Namo Buddhaya.” For thousands of years they built stupendous temples—like the Temple of Ten Thousand Buddhas; then suddenly emptiness. Were they truly Buddhists? It was an illusion. The emperors had been converted; the people followed the emperors. Now Mao is emperor; they are communists.

Until you long for truth, you will not rise above being a subject. With a longing for truth, you will not bow to power; you will have your own vision, your way of life. Before that, all is borrowed.

Stalin was God in Russia. Then he died; power shifted to Khrushchev; Stalin’s body was removed from near Lenin in the Kremlin; his name was erased from books; his photos cut from pictures. Those who said “Stalin is God” fell silent. Later Khrushchev fell; he was forgotten, living incognito in a remote village. People follow power. A slave of power cannot seek truth—power changes daily; truth is eternal.

“In the meantime the king tried in many ways to make the captive daughter comply; despite tortures the princess did not change her view. Finally the king had her released in a fearsome forest outside the kingdom, where wild beasts roamed and dangerous men—those exiled by the state—dwelt.”

“But on reaching the forest, the princess found caves that felt like homes; and the fruits on the trees were like those served on golden platters—perhaps better.”

This happens only when the soul is born within you. Then a fruit fallen from a tree is sweeter, fresher, more alive than fruit served on golden plates. Until the soul arises, the plate matters, not the fruit; the palace matters, not life; the throne matters, not the breath.

In prison the young woman endured torture. If you bow before suffering, your soul dies. If you stand and accept the challenge, the soul is born.

Remember: suffering is a precious moment. If you pass through it without bending, it makes you great. If you bend, it obliterates you. Suffering can be enemy or friend—it depends on you. If you stand and suffering cannot break you, you will find an energy and strength you never had.

You can see this in small things. If you fall ill and you don’t break, afterwards you’ll feel a freshness you didn’t know before. If you break, the disease will go but you remain sick—enfeebled forever.

The capacity to stand in the face of ordeal is tapascharya. Seekers have even created ordeals with their own hands to stand before them. Mahavira stood in the forest fasting—self-created ordeal. He watched: does hunger conquer me or do I conquer hunger? When hunger is defeated, he goes to beg for food. You would go to beg on the day hunger wins; he goes on the day hunger loses. Sometimes it takes fifteen days, sometimes a month, sometimes two; sometimes two days. It depends.

The girl suffered and the soul was born. Soul means the capacity to face ordeal. Then your vision of life changes. Caves feel more homelike than houses, for no house can give the freedom a cave gives. Every house has an element of prison; the cave is utterly free. The fruit in the forest—its sweetness and life—no golden plate can supply. And what to say of a free life in the wild! In that natural kingdom no one obeyed her royal father; all were rebels.

Note: the criminal and the religious have a small kinship—their common element is rebellion. The directions differ, but the revolt is the same. The criminal breaks the law and falls below it; the religious breaks the law and rises above it. Hence a Valmiki can become a sage in a moment; an Angulimala can awaken to Buddhahood in an instant. The alchemy is that the common thread—revolt—changes direction. Both know how to run; only the direction needs to change. You, the average person—neither criminal nor religious—do not know how to run; your legs are lame; you have never revolted. You take long to become religious.

Those in the forest were either exiles or this girl—rebels all. One day a rich, wandering traveler lost his way in the forest. He fell in love with the princess, took her to his land, and married her. After a time both returned to the forest. There, according to their intelligence, resources, and faith, they founded a city. Its rhythmic life absorbed all the outcast madmen.

This is the Sufi—and the mystic’s—vision: that this earth become a city where even the mad are accepted; where criminals too can merge; where we need not divide saint and sinner; where the bad and the good become complementary; where there is no enmity, only rhythm.

Remember, a society of only “good” people—as has been attempted—will not succeed. You try to run the cart with one wheel. Even if it “succeeds,” it will be dreadfully boring. Imagine a society where all are good—no flavor. Psychologists say the good man has no “story.” The bad man has life. Try to write a novel about a purely good man—you’ll be in trouble. Write the Ramayana without Ravana—it is Ravana’s story. Remove Ravana and Rama becomes meaningless; the drama evaporates. The true protagonist is Ravana; we, being pious, made Rama the hero. If Ravana had not abducted Sita, Rama would be “unemployed.” The juice and movement come from Ravana. Perhaps Ravana can exist without Rama; Rama cannot exist without Ravana. We see many Ravanas and few Ramas.

Hence novelists cannot write without a villain. Even in conversation, the good man is dull—everything proper. The good man’s life lacks salt. Salt is taste. The bad man has salt, sharpness—even if bitter, he has a certain grandeur.

The Sufi, the wise, do not dream of a world populated only by the good—such a world would be insipid. Bertrand Russell rightly said: I would not like to go to heaven; they say all the saints are there—life would be boring. In hell there may be some spice—the “terrible” people are there, those even God could not forgive! Great events must happen there; heaven must be tedious—people sitting on their siddha-seats staring at each other for eternity.

So the vision is not to make a world of only the good, but to create a rhythm in which good and bad cease to be in opposition; they become complementary—like multiple notes needed for music, multiple colors for art. With all notes clashing, you have a market’s cacophony; with many instruments in harmony, you have an orchestra. Today the world is a market; religion envisions an orchestra, where even the bad is used—no one is cut off, jailed, or killed. His salt is precious; his revolt gives speed and energy. We will not let his revolt become self-destruction; we will transform it into self-revolution.

“After a time they returned, built a city according to their intelligence, resources, and faith. Its rhythmic life absorbed all the outcasts. The princess and her husband were chosen its chiefs.”

“Slowly the new state’s fame spread throughout the world; beside it, the emperor-father’s state looked pale.”

Where good and bad are joined in harmony, the merely good looks pale. The emperor-father was a just man; he cut off the bad, threw them into the jungle and prisons, preserved only the good, crushed all buds of revolt. His state was “good” but dull. When the orchestra arose—where the mad were not excluded but welcomed, where even evil was creatively used—his state paled.

Finally the emperor came to see the new city. As he approached the throne he heard his daughter’s words: “Each man and woman has his or her own destiny and own choice.”

If we are to create a beautiful world, this is the sutra: each person has his or her own destiny and choice. A good world cannot be built on the crowd, on subjects; it will be built on the dignity of the individual.

In today’s world, dignity is robbed. Everywhere dignity is being taken away—fathers from sons, wives from husbands, masters from servants; the powerful rob the powerless; the rich rob the poor. No one is allowed to be a person; no one is permitted to become what he or she was born to be. Everyone is pushed to be something else.

I heard of a play where a small, delightful puppy performs—creates musical notes, hums tunes—people are charmed. Suddenly a big dog rushes from behind the curtain, grabs the little one by the neck, and drags him away. As they exit the little one shouts, “She’s my mother! She wants me not to act in plays—she wants me to become a doctor!”

Mothers push, fathers push, circumstances push—“be this, be that.” No one agrees to let you become what your destiny is. No one says, “Become what you long to be.” Hence all freedom is false. True freedom, in its deepest sense, means: each person is given the space to be himself.

Such freedom has not yet appeared on earth. Our so-called freedoms are nominal; the effort to shape you continues—even by those who fight for freedom. The true Master is the one who gives you so much freedom that what is hidden in your seed can flower in you.

The father heard his daughter’s words: each person has their own destiny, choice, freedom; each person is his own master.

But you are busy trying to be the master of others—how will you be your own? Perhaps you enjoy lording over others because you have failed to master yourself. One who becomes his own master loses interest in ruling others—why carry that burden? He will give you freedom.

Only those with soul grant freedom to others. The soulless take others’ freedom away; they make others soulless too; they steal their color and destroy them.

This is what is happening. We are after each other. So long as you are after others, you will go astray. Turn after yourself—there sadhana begins.

Remember: for every act, you are responsible. In the final testimony, none but you will be answerable for your life. If you went into darkness, you cannot say, “My wife didn’t let me go into the light.” If you wandered astray, don’t say, “What to do—family, circumstances forced me.”

There is no compulsion, no circumstance. Whatever you agree to, you agree to. The “circumstance” is your own making. If you wish, you can step out of it; no one stops you. The sky is always open.

And if you are in a cage, remember: no one has locked it—you have bolted it from within. Often, if you open a parrot’s cage and try to take him out, he won’t go; he will cling to the bars, shriek, struggle—because he is habituated. The cage is his “home.”

If dependency is your home, you cannot be religious. Only in the sky of freedom does religion bloom and bear fruit.

That’s all for today.