Samund Samana Bund Main #1

My beloved Atman!
I want to begin the first talk of this gathering of wisdom with a small story. An emperor was in the last moments of his life. He had to decide which of his sons would inherit the kingdom. He had three sons. He was deeply troubled. Among the three, who is the most worthy, the most qualified? No decision seemed easy. And now the final hour of life was drawing near; a decision had to be taken. He called for an old sannyasi of the city and said to him, Show me a way! Among these three, who is capable of holding the reins of the state?
The sannyasi whispered something in the ear of the dying emperor. The next morning the emperor summoned all three sons, gave each a hundred rupees, and said, With these hundred rupees, fill your palaces with whatever you can. Within this amount, bring whatever can fill the palace—fill it. This will be your test. The one who succeeds will be the heir to the throne.
A hundred rupees—and the palaces of princes are vast. What can be used to fill such palaces for a hundred rupees? Diamonds, jewels, piles of gold—impossible! What could fill those great palaces for a mere hundred? The first prince thought and thought, but nothing came to him. He locked the door and went to sleep. Nothing could be done with a hundred rupees. He gave up hope.
The second prince thought, The palace has to be completely filled for a hundred rupees! Only if the palace is filled to the brim will the emperor consider me worthy. But what can be bought for a hundred rupees? There is only one way. He went outside the village to those who haul away refuse. He said to them, I will give you a hundred rupees—bring as much garbage as you can and fill the palace. Only with garbage could the palace be filled. He had the village refuse—trash, filth—dumped into the palace. Every crevice, every doorway, every corner he packed with waste. He was very pleased. Nothing could be cheaper. And there was no other way to fill so much space. He thought, I will win; my worthiness will certainly be proven.
But the stench from his palace spread so far that even walking along the royal road in front of it became difficult.
The third prince too considered, and he too did something.
The time for the test arrived. The emperor went first to the palace of the first prince. The door was closed, a lock on it. The prince rose from sleep. He said, I have failed. I could not think. Here are your hundred rupees! What can be bought for a hundred rupees? You too speak madness—is this any way to test? The palace is too big.
The king went to the second prince. Even reaching his palace was difficult. But yes, he had filled the palace—with trash, with filth. The emperor was eager to flee from there at once. The prince said, At least look! I have not left even a single corner empty. The palace is completely full. Think for yourself—one cannot fill the palace with diamonds and jewels for a hundred rupees. I had only a hundred. Strength was limited, means were limited, the palace immense. There was no other way.
The emperor reached the third prince’s palace. The third prince had lit lamps throughout the palace and filled the entire palace with light.
The emperor asked, The palace is empty—you have not filled it? The prince laughed and said, I have filled it—but the thing I have filled it with requires eyes to see. The emperor said, I am seeing with my eyes—the palace is empty! The youth said, I have filled it with light. He had lit lamps worth those hundred rupees. Look carefully. Light alone fills an entire palace. If I filled it with anything else, something would remain empty. Light has filled it completely. Not an inch can be found where light is not.
The third prince passed the test.
Among these three, you will find mostly only two kinds of people. Man too receives life as a kind of examination, an opportunity. Perhaps some great kingdom, some Kingdom of God, some immense spiritual richness can become available to him. But with what do we fill life?
Some do just what the first prince did. They say, Life is short, strength is limited, nothing can be done. They lock the doors of life and go to sleep. The greater part of humankind is of this kind: they leave life empty—filled with despair and frustration. In the final moments, before the Lord, perhaps they have nothing left to say except: What could we have done? Life was very short, strength was limited; what could be done? Nothing could be done.
Then there are those who fill life with trash and refuse. They themselves suffer from that stench, and they make others suffer it too. They think, We have filled life; we have attained fulfillment. In the market of life, diamonds, jewels, money—are not much more than refuse. One can fill life with them and yet remain empty. It would have been better to remain empty—for to be filled with stench is no filling at all. Very few are the people who fill their life with light. And those who fill their life with light gain the entire wealth of the world’s joy, of Truth, of Beauty. In the coming three days, I wish to speak to you of how we may become filled with such light.
I want to tell you how we can fill life with light. For this I will need to speak of the emperor’s two sons as well—the first man too, who left the palace empty. So many of us leave life empty. What are the reasons that a man leaves his life like an emptiness—vacant, futile? I will need to talk to you of those causes. Then I will also speak of those who, in the race of life, fill themselves with trash. The notion of being filled is satisfied, and yet they remain empty. And worse than emptiness happens—that they become filled with stench.
Even if only for oneself one becomes filled with stench—somehow that might be borne; but when a man is filled with stench, the very roads become difficult for others to walk. Whatever happens within us begins to be distributed around us. If fragrance arises within me, the winds will carry it far. If stench arises, the winds will carry that too far. What happens within each one of us resounds across worlds—its shadow and its echoes begin to spread far and wide.
In these three days I must speak on three sutras. Today I will speak to you on the first sutra alone: What are the reasons because of which man remains empty and void, a nothing—like a seed that could have sprouted, on which flowers could have blossomed, from which fragrance could have spread.
This did not happen—the seed remained a seed, and rotted. There was no attainment; he arrived nowhere. What are the reasons by which a man becomes a futile seed? What are the reasons by which man lies like a veena never touched—out of which no song ever arose? A song could have been born; for this the veena was made—but no one ever plucked its strings, no one’s life-breath ever touched it. Why does man remain like a sleeping veena? About this I wish to say a few things.
Those who begin to think that birth itself is life—such people miss. Birth is not life. Birth is merely breath, not life. By birth no one is truly born. To be born, another birth must be taken. This unique event happens only with man. Animals and birds assume life with birth itself. We cannot say to a dog that you are a little less of a dog. We can say to a man that you are a little less of a man. We cannot say to a dog, Attain to life—be a true dog! A dog is true as he is. He is born complete. He is born ready-made—he has no freedom. He does nothing about life; life is given to him as a gift. Only man has this dignity—but most turn it into misfortune. Man is not born complete—only possibility is born, only an opportunity arises. If we wish, we may use the opportunity; if we wish, we may lose it.
After birth, life has to be earned. Manhood is earned—attained through labor, resolve, sadhana. That is why among human beings, there can be so many kinds of men. There can be a Godse, there can be a Gandhi. There can be a Ravana, there can be a Ram. There can be a Judas, there can be a Jesus Christ. There can be talents touching the very hell; there can be those who offer the fragrance of heaven. There can be those who descend into the lowest depths, drowned in darkness; there can be souls who take wing toward the sun, filled with light.
Man is an infinite possibility. He can touch both ends. He can touch the netherworld; he can touch the sky. And with birth he is born only with the possibility of touching. He is born with merely the possibility—the possibility of flying, the possibility of walking—but the destination is not in his hands. He can go east, he can go west.
A story comes to my memory.
In Rome there was a great painter. When he was dying someone asked him, What are the greatest paintings you created in your life, and how many? He said, I created two great paintings—one when I was young, and one now that I am old. The questioner asked, Which are these two paintings? The painter said, You will be surprised to hear their story. Let me tell you the story—only then will you understand why I call them great.
When I was young, I set out in search of a man in whose face there was a glimpse of God—whose eyes revealed the beyond, who was embodied love and light. I went seeking him so that I might paint the image of the Divine. After years of searching, by a small village near a mountain spring I saw in a shepherd that very glimpse. He played the flute and his sheep grazed. In him I saw the aura of joy, of nectar. I painted his portrait. I named it The Image of God. That painting was so praised, thousands of reproductions were made and it reached every corner of the land.
Twenty years later, the painter said, when I had grown old, another thought arose in me—I had painted God’s image, but I had not been able to paint the Devil’s image. Before going, let me search for a man in whose eyes and face there is the shadow of the devil. Let me paint another picture, which I may call The Image of the Devil. Before dying, these two paintings will together complete man’s portrait.
In old age I again went from village to village. I searched many places—in madhouses, in taverns, in gambling dens—for that man whose eyes held all the signs of darkness, whose face had become the very statue of violence and cruelty. In a prison I found that man. He had committed seven murders. He had been sentenced to death and was awaiting the gallows. A face like his would be impossible to find—such violence, such blood, such hatred, such jealousy—as perhaps on no other human face.
The painter said, I made his portrait. The day the painting was complete, I took with me to the prison that painting I had made twenty years earlier, so that I could put both side by side and see which is greater, which is more valuable from the standpoint of art. As I looked at the two, I seemed to hear someone weeping. I raised my eyes—the prisoner whose portrait I had just made was sobbing, tears streaming from his eyes.
I was astonished. I asked him, Why are you crying? What pains you? Do you not like my paintings?
The man lifted his eyes and said, I like the paintings very much—but perhaps you have not recognized me. The first painting too is of me. I am the same man. Twenty years ago, on the riverbank, playing the flute—the one you met was me.
Such is the possibility in a single man! Such the possibility of two opposite journeys! Every man is a path to an unknown pilgrimage—he can go downwards and upwards. At birth only the door of the journey opens; then we set out.
But those who mistake birth for the end—their life is wasted. Most of us have taken birth to be the end. We are born—as if the matter is complete, as if it is enough that we were born and we have received life. We do not receive life at birth; the truth is the reverse—what we receive with birth is death, not life. What is available with birth is the process of dying; for with birth the arrival of death within us begins. We are not yet born and death has begun to come. The day of birth and the day of death occur together.
You may think death comes one day suddenly—then you are mistaken. Death comes from nowhere outside—she keeps growing within you from the very moment of birth. You die every day; we all die every day—moment to moment we go on dying. One day this process completes itself and we are gone.
What we take as birth—those who know call it the beginning of dying. It is the start of death. It will take seventy years for death to complete itself. The seed you sow in your garden today—perhaps it will take seventy years to become a full tree. But the tree is hidden in the seed; death is hidden in birth. And we take birth to be life; then we live by that alone as life—and we are wasted. Birth is not life; life has to be earned, has to be attained. Birth is only a chance. Life can be gained—and it can be lost.
I call that man religious who is engaged in the process of earning life—not the one who goes to the temple, not the one who reads the Gita or the Koran in the morning, not the one who wears the sacred thread or grows a tuft of hair, not the one who goes to the mosque or the church—none of these has any necessary relation with being religious.
The necessary relation with being religious is this: one who is engaged in the creation of life; one who has not merely accepted life, but is involved in crafting it; one who, every moment, wrestles with death and seeks Amrit; one who is not sitting quietly waiting for death to come and carry him away; one who is not merely awaiting death; one who is struggling, who is in a battle—How, amidst this encirclement of death, can I attain to the immortal? How can I find that which has no death? For only that can be life—only that is life.
But what do we do? We all struggle, we all fight—not to attain the nectar, not for that which is life. Perhaps we are engaged in a reverse effort—we are busy only with avoiding death. No one can avoid death by methods of avoiding death. He who attains to life—that one is saved from death. But the one who keeps running to escape death reaches right into its mouth.
Another story comes to mind. An emperor saw a dream one night. In the dream, in the darkness of the night, some black shadow placed a hand on his shoulder. He sprang up and asked, Who are you? The shadow said, I am your death, and tomorrow at sunset I am coming. I came to give you the news. Be at the right place at the right time. The emperor said, Death! He wanted to ask, Which is the right place?—not so that he would reach there, but so that he would not reach there, he could avoid it. But the dream broke. He could not ask which was the precise place where he had to arrive.
He was greatly disturbed. The dream broken, the shadow vanished—whom to ask? Tomorrow at dusk death is to come. He could not be at ease. In the night he sent for the city’s renowned astrologers, interpreters of dreams, scholars. Come at once, he said—I am in great crisis.
The pundits arrived with their scriptures. The pundits have little besides books. They brought their books and began to interpret, to search out meanings. The king said, This is the dream—what does it mean? Is death to arrive? And if it is to come, what shall I do to escape?
You too would ask the same: If death is to come, what shall I do to avoid it? This is fundamentally a wrong question. It is not a question of escaping death—you stand in death already. It is not about avoiding death—you entered into it the day you were born. Had you escaped birth, you could have escaped death. Now there is no way to avoid death—it came with birth. Therefore, he who is born will die. To run to avoid death is futile. But you too would ask, What shall I do to escape death?
He who does not ask that, and asks, What shall I do to attain life?—that man I call religious. He who asks, What shall I do to avoid death?—that man I call irreligious. Because in trying to avoid death, the measures he adopts lead him into adharma. He builds a great palace, raises strong walls, accumulates wealth, posts guards with swords—he makes all arrangements of security, of safety: that somehow I may not die! And in all this arranging he must become irreligious.
The king asked, What shall I do to escape death?
The pundits said, Wait. First let us interpret the dream, explain its meaning—for we are not in agreement amongst ourselves. Our scripture says one thing, his scripture says another, and his yet another. All the scriptures speak in different tongues.
They fell into contention over their scriptures. Morning came, the sun rose—the king grew anxious. Their disputes seemed only to tangle matters further, not resolve them—just as all matters seem to be tangled in the disputes of pundits. When the dream was seen it was somewhat clear; hearing their talk it became more obscure. They were plunged into profound, grave discussions and were speaking of such subtle doctrines as seemed to have no direct relation to the dream.
The king repeatedly said, Look, the sun has risen! And when the sun has risen, how long till it sets? Evening draws near—and I must be saved from death—and you have not yet found even the meaning of the dream! Afterwards, you must also discover how I am to be saved from death!
They said, First let the meaning of the dream be determined; only then can we devise a way to escape.
The king had an old servant who sat listening to all this. He whispered in the king’s ear, You may not know—never have pundits reached any conclusion in the whole history of mankind. There is no hope that by evening they will reach one. Evening will come; it will not wait for their conclusion, and death also will not wait. My advice is—let them reach their conclusion if they want; you take a swift horse and begin to ride. At least get away from this palace, away from this dark royal house where death has laid its hand on your shoulder. Run from the place where death touched you. That much is certain—flee from here. The world is vast; run anywhere—but run from here.
This sounded rational. It seemed right. What would you do? What would anyone do? When death faces you, nothing occurs except to run. Whenever death confronts man, he runs. The methods of running differ, but man runs. The king too thought, Yes, it is right—fleeing is proper. He called for a swift horse—he had the swiftest—and began to run.
Mounting the horse, fleeing, he did not even remember the wife to whom he had said, Without you I cannot live even a moment. He did not remember. At farewells, who remembers whom? Those were words said in playfulness of life. Death spoils all play. All talk is destroyed. He did not remember those friends without whom a moment had no charm. Today there was the horse and there was he. And even his relation to the horse was only that it ran fast—no other relation. The man who flees has no relation with anything except as his mount, his instrument, his opportunity to exploit.
He rode on, rode on, rode on… Hundreds of miles were crossed. He felt neither hunger nor thirst—for to pause even a moment to drink water is to lose time, and who knows how far one could have reached in that time! To stop and rest is dangerous when death is in pursuit—where is the time to rest?
Does not everyone in the world look as though running like this—that there is no chance, no time, no opportunity for rest? Tell anyone: Do you ever pray? Ever meditate? Ever remember the Lord? He will say, Where is the time!
When death chases you, no one has time. If life is attained, there is time and only time. But when death is on your heels, where can there be leisure?
The king went on running. Evening began to fall; the sun began to go down—he sighed with relief. He had come hundreds of miles away. He thanked the horse and said, My dear, you fulfilled my hope. For the day I had bought you—that day when I would need your speed—today you have served me. How can I thank you!
He did not even know what he was saying. He tied the horse to a tree. The sun was setting, almost at the horizon. As he was tying the horse, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw—the same black shadow! He trembled. You! Who are you? His life-force shivered—Was the day’s running in vain?
Death said, Do you not recognize me? Last night I came to give you the message. How much I should thank your horse—he brought you to the right place at the right time. I was very anxious—would you be able to reach here or not? It was fated that you die beneath this tree. I was worried—would you manage to come so far? But thanks to the horse—he has delivered you here at the exact moment.
What must have passed through the king’s mind! Two moments earlier he too had thanked the horse. Those whom we think our friends at one moment—two moments later we see they have become enemies. Those we thought were the support beneath our feet—two moments later we find the same have dropped us into the pit. That which we thought was the security of life becomes our insecurity. And that which we thought was life turns out to be death. But two moments earlier we know nothing. The king had believed he was running to be saved. He did not know that from that which he was fleeing, step by step he was arriving into it.
What does man do his whole life? He runs from death. His whole life he runs from death. And where does he arrive at last? Just into death. Have you seen anyone arrive anywhere else? Every man arrives at death. And every man remains running to avoid death. We shut our eyes to death, turn our backs upon it. When a bier passes on the road, a mother calls her son inside—Come in, close the door; someone has died—don’t look.
We avert our eyes from death. We don’t build cremation grounds in the midst of our towns; we build them far outside so that they may not be seen. But the cremation ground is built in the midst—whether seen or not. Whether you avert your eyes or not—nothing is more certain than death. Death is the one assured fact. All else may be uncertain; death is certain. Why certain? Because it has already happened with birth. You imagine it will happen ahead. What is to happen ahead can be altered; but that which has already happened behind cannot be altered by any means. What is yet to come may be changed—it has not yet occurred; but that which is already done behind has no path of reversal.
Death has already occurred with birth—but there is no remembrance of it. And the long process of that very death is what we call life—this gradual death, this slow, slow-coming death. If we take this death to be life, then life remains empty, void. And the day we stand before God, the house will be empty and full of darkness. The life that could have been filled with bliss cannot be filled with anything else. Without the experience of life—without attainment to that element which has no death, without becoming available to that direction which has no end—no one can be filled with joy.
The taste of joy is the shadow of the experience of Amrit. Only those come to joy who come to the experience of the deathless. But that experience has to be created and developed. Those who take birth to be everything—there they end; all possibility of their growth ends.
Have you considered birth itself as the end of your being? Have you believed, The matter is done? If so, you have died long before your dying. Your death has already happened. You live like a ghost. And most on the earth live like ghosts. Their life has no future—because there is no creation, no creative effort through which they might build and evolve their life.
There was a Sufi fakir. He was very hungry. He had remained hungry all day, but had decided, Today I will accept food only if I receive it from God. A day passed, two days passed, a week passed, a month was about to pass—he remained hungry. His hunger grew, and so did the cry of his life-force. On the thirtieth night, God appeared to him in a dream. God asked, What do you want? He said, I want food—but from you. God said, Go to such-and-such a place—there is water, there is salt, there is wheat—everything is there—you will get food there; I send you there.
He rose from sleep and went to the place indicated. He reached a well; there was a wheat field; nearby a salt mine. He sat among the three and thought, What will this do? I want food. A day passed, night came again, and again he saw God in his dream. God said, Why don’t you make the food? He said, I want food. God said, Grind the wheat into flour, draw the salt, draw water from the well—mix the three and make your food.
The next day he did this—he ground wheat into flour, drew salt, drew water, mixed them and sat down. But the food was still not ready—he remained hungry. At night again he saw God in his dream. God said, Why don’t you cook the food? He said, I mixed the three, but still the food is not made. God said, Fire is also available—bake it, a roti will be made. On the third day he made the bread—but he set it aside and sat. At night again God appeared in his dream and said, Fool, why don’t you eat? He said, I did not have your permission. I thought perhaps something more remained, so I fell silent—I have made the bread and set it aside. God said to him, You are like those humans to whom I give everything, but who continue to wait—that someone else will make it, someone else will do something, some command will come. They have everything—water, salt, wheat—but they cannot make bread. And even if they make it, they cannot satisfy their hunger with it.
Life is an opportunity where everything is available. Everything is available that can fill us with joy; everything is available that can bring fulfillment; everything is available through which we become apta-kama, in which nothing remains to be desired. But perhaps we are not ready to do anything—and so we are wasted.
So the first sutra: do not take birth to be everything. After birth there is needed an intense discontent—a holy discontent. With birth there must arise a sharp pain: How shall I craft life? But we begin to ask—There is no flavor in life, no joy comes, what is the purpose of life? I go from village to village—youth ask me, children ask me, old people ask me—No joy in life?
Joy does not come to life by itself—it must be brought. Joy is not found—it must be earned. Joy does not rain from elsewhere—it must erupt from within. Joy is effort; joy is resolve; joy is labor; joy is a sadhana. And we ask as if by taking birth we have fulfilled all the conditions—now we ought to be granted joy. Such joy has never been available, nor can it ever be.
The first sutra: do not take birth to be all.
The second sutra: man accepts life in such a way that by that very acceptance all possibilities for the arising of joy are destroyed; all doors are closed.
An incident of a temple comes to mind. A temple was being built. Hundreds of laborers were breaking stones, carving statues, shaping steps, making bricks. I happened to pass by the temple and I asked one worker, Friend, what are you doing? He lifted at me eyes full of anger and said, Are you blind? Can’t you see what I am doing? I am breaking stones!
I was alarmed. I had not expected such an answer to a simple question. Then I thought—how else? A man breaking stones can only be angry—what else can he be? How can breaking stones be a joy? Then compassion arose for him—of course, a man who breaks stones will be full of anger. Though the opposite is also true—a man full of anger, whatever he does, his life becomes like breaking stones.
I went ahead and asked another man. He too was breaking stones, but he seemed somewhat different. His eyes were sad, his face drooped; he was as if life were a burden. I asked him, Friend, what are you doing? He answered with difficulty, as if forced, as if he did not wish to reply. He raised his eyes slowly, did not even look at me, and said, I break stones; I am earning bread for my children.
He was so sad, so weighed down. I felt, that is right—how can one be joyous who is earning bread for his children? Earning bread is no great joy—it can only be a work of burden.
Then I asked a third man. He too was breaking stones. But he was humming a song as he worked—immersed in some joy, some ecstasy. I asked him, Friend, what are you doing? He lifted eyes full of happiness, full of delight—flowers seemed to fall from them—and said, What am I doing? Do you not see? I am building God’s temple. He returned to breaking stones. Then I thought, That is right—he who builds God’s temple—if he is not full of joy, what else would he be?
But all three were breaking stones; all three were doing the same work; yet their outlooks were different. One was full of anger toward life. One was full of sadness toward life. One was full of ahobhaav—wonder and gratitude—that I am building God’s temple. And when a man fills with thanksgiving, the doors of joy begin to open in his life. What we invite, that alone comes within. The guest we call—that guest arrives. What we call for, what we thirst for—that stream begins to flow toward us.
So remember, if life appears sorrowful—know then, as surely as two and two are four—you must have been inviting sorrow. Your outlook on life must have been sorrow-centered. You must have been calling sorrow; hence sorrow has come. If you are afflicted, know this: it is as scientific a law as any law of science—that what you are is the ultimate fruit of your outlook.
If life is dull, afflicted, sad, anxious, tormented, full of darkness—know that knowingly or unknowingly, waking or sleeping, you have invited darkness; you have summoned suffering. The manner of your seeing, the doorways of your mind were not open to the sun. When the sun arrived, you sat with your doors shut.
There are such people that if you stand them by a flower, they will not see the flower; they will see the thorns, and count the thorns. And then they will say, Everything is futile! On such a big bush one rose has bloomed and there are a million thorns. All is useless; life has no substance—somewhere, barely, a flower blossoms and a million thorns arise. If you reach to pluck the flower, only thorns meet you. And even if you pluck the flower, what is the benefit? In a little while it withers. Thorns never wither—they are always ready. They will say, There is no meaning in the flower. Such people exist—and do not laugh that such a man is your neighbor. In ninety-nine out of a hundred cases, you are that man. For more than ninety-nine out of a hundred are sad, depressed, and afflicted. Their entire way of looking at life is wrong and deluded.
A poet was imprisoned for some offense. His friend was also imprisoned for the same offense. The day they were locked in the prison—it was a full-moon night—they both came and stood at the bars. The sky was full of the moon, moonlight pouring—such a beautiful night, such silence in the prison. But his companion said angrily, What a wretched prison they have shut us in! Do you see that puddle in front—stagnant water, mosquitoes breeding, filth.
The other said, Friend, you reminded me and now I see it; I was lost in gazing at the moon. I did not even think there might be a puddle here. But with the moon there, how did you manage to see the puddle? How did the puddle catch your eye—with such a great moon, with such a vast sky, with such moonlight poured infinitely—how did you see that small puddle?
And the other said, Since you mention it, I am looking at the puddle—but I am seeing the moon’s reflection in it. And I want to tell you—the moon in the sky may be beautiful, but the moon in the puddle is unique in its own way. And the moon does not become dirty by being reflected in a puddle—no moon becomes impure by entering a puddle. It is true that when the moon is reflected in a puddle, the puddle is sanctified; but the moon is not stained.
The first asked in amazement, You did not see the moon, the sky; you saw that little puddle! There is no proportion between them—such a vast sky, such moonlight, and that tiny puddle—how did that alone catch your eye!
But the man said, Forget your moon and your moonlight! Because of this puddle I won’t be able to sleep all night.
Such people there are—ninety-nine out of a hundred. Our way of looking at life is dark, negative. We look from where there is futility—from where there are thorns—from where there is the bad.
In Wardha, a man had just begun coming to Gandhi’s ashram. The gentlemen living in the ashram did not like his coming. They went to Gandhi and said, This man is not good—one says he eats meat, another says he gambles, another says he drinks; he is a suspicious character. His coming here is not right. Gandhi said, For whom is this ashram? Those who are good do not need to come here. If a doctor opens a hospital and says, Patients will not be allowed here because they bring diseases—only healthy people can come—then for whom is it? Gandhi said, For whom is this? If you are good, you go—but no one can be asked to leave because he is bad.
That day they fell silent, but within they felt hurt. They waited for solid proof about the man. Then one day they found it—he was sitting in a liquor shop drinking. He wore a Gandhi cap, wore khadi clothes, and was drinking.
They came rushing and said, Now forgive us—enough is enough. He is drinking in a liquor shop! Seeing it, we were so angry—the man is wearing khadi in a liquor shop—khadi is being defamed, the ashram is being defamed, and you are being defamed!
Gandhi thought for a while, closed his eyes—then opened them and said, If I were to see him drinking in a liquor shop wearing khadi, my heart would fill with joy and I would say to God: It seems the good days of this country are coming, for even those who drink have begun to wear khadi.
But they were saying, A man who wears khadi is drinking. Gandhi was saying, A man who drinks is wearing khadi. The same man was doing both. But the viewers saw from two sides—one negative, one positive; one creative, one condemnatory.
From where do we look at life?
And I want to tell you: many so-called good people have taught us to look at life wrongly. Those who have said life is without essence; those who have said life is suffering; those who have said life is to be renounced; those who have said life is sin; those who have said life is nothing, all is maya, all is futile, without substance—these have made a place within you for a negative outlook; they have prevented man from being religious. Whoever has taught enmity toward life, who has instilled life-negative habits in us, who has denied and denounced life’s juices and joys—these all have deprived man of the link that joins him to the Divine. For man reaches to God only through positivity—when he sees the juice of life in a wholly affirmative way; when in the densest darkness he sees a single flame; when in a bush full of thorns he sees one rose and can say to God, Thank you—you are wondrous, this life is miraculous—that even among so many thorns a flower blossoms: this is a miracle! When he can say this to God—then such a man opens those doors of life through which Amrit can enter.
Through darkness death enters; through sadness death enters; through condemnation death enters. For if we understand rightly, death is negativity—death is utter denial; it is the un-becoming. But the one who carries denial toward life will attain to death, not to the deathless. To attain the nectar, a creative, affirmative vision is needed—a vision that sees light, that sees illumination, that sees joy.
If I come to you and say, In Bhavnagar I have a friend—he plays the flute very beautifully. In a thousand out of a thousand cases you will say, That man? What flute will he play! He drinks, sir; he lies; he is a thief. What flute can he play! But if I come and say, Such-and-such a man drinks, lies, steals—there is little chance that even one person in your town will say to me, I cannot believe he drinks and steals. He plays the flute so beautifully—how can I believe he drinks and steals! We cannot believe it—his flute is so good. Perhaps not one will be ready to say this.
But if there is such a one, I call that man religious. He has begun to look at life from that point where, little by little, God will manifest out of the stone. He has begun to look from where a small ray of the auspicious is visible—and slowly the full sun of the auspicious will be seen.
But we begin from darkness, from denial, from non-essence. And then we want life, joy, and nectar. Impossible—utterly impossible. It cannot be.
Therefore the second thing I wish to tell you: if your vision is negative you can never be religious. Though it is strange that those we call religious often carry a negative vision. Their minds are filled with opposition to life. They are engaged in the effort to prove life futile. They seek every opportunity to say Life is condemned. They look for a chance to declare, Look, this is useless; life is without essence; all is maya; there is no truth in it.
But if there is no truth in life, there can never be truth found in God either. For the paths that go to God all pass through life; they go only through life; they are paths of life itself. Therefore one who turns his back on life also turns his back on God—although he thinks, By turning from life I go to seek God. What is needed is to dive totally into life—then one reaches to the Divine. In the depths of life, too, the kingdom of that Lord is hidden.
So the second sutra I wish to give you is this: drop the mood of opposition to life, of complaint, of denigration, of condemnation. It is crammed into us, filled to the brim—so deeply that there is no measure. We look at man with that eye; we look at life with that eye; we look at the flower with that eye; we look at the sky with that eye. Everywhere we see only thorns. And with a slight shift in vision everything changes. A tiny difference—and life appears otherwise.
I remember the story of two Jewish fakirs. A great Jewish mystic, Joshua Liebman, went to his master’s monastery for sadhana. He was young; he had the habit of smoking; he used to smoke cigarettes. A friend of his entered the same monastery; he too had the habit. But smoking was forbidden there. They were in a difficulty. For only an hour they had permission to go outside in the evening, to stroll along the riverbank—not to stroll, but to contemplate God. So they thought, If any way is possible, it is that one hour by the river we might smoke. But lying or stealing would not be right—let us take permission from the master. If he himself grants it, wonderful—if not, we will think then.
Both went to their guru. When Joshua returned from the guru he came back very angry—the guru had flatly refused—No, absolutely not; you cannot smoke. He did not even listen for a moment—No, absolutely not; cigarettes cannot be smoked. Joshua, sad and angry, went to the river. But his anger grew when he saw his friend had returned earlier and was sitting and smoking! He was astonished—Did the guru grant him permission, or did he ignore the guru? He asked, What happened? Did you get permission? The friend said, Yes, I asked; he said, Yes, you can. Joshua said, This is the limit of injustice—unheard of! I was flatly refused.
His friend laughed and said, I want to ask you—what did you ask the guru? For he said Yes to me. Joshua said, What was there to ask? I asked, May I smoke while contemplating God? He said, No—absolutely not. What did you ask? The friend began to laugh and said, That explains it. I asked, May I contemplate God while smoking? He said, Yes, you may.
Both questions are the same. But who would say, You may smoke while contemplating God! And who would refuse—if I wish to contemplate God while smoking—who would say, Do not do so! At least you are contemplating—good, do it. Such a small difference—and the answers become opposite! To one, a No—to the other, a Yes.
With what outlook we go to life—the answer of life changes with that. If we go with a sad and despairing outlook, life also says, No—no! If we go with cheerfulness, with wonder, with gratitude, with hope, with love and prayer, life says, Yes! The arms of life spread around us and take us into their embrace. And if we approach from the wrong angle, the doors close.
If the doors of life are closed, none but ourselves are responsible—we are responsible. And to those whose doors opened, who beheld the nectar, who arrived at the feet of the Lord—no one else was responsible; they themselves were responsible. And the distance is so small—a matter of inches.
The distance is only this: a man stands with eyes closed and says, I am in darkness—while sunlight is pouring outside; the rays of the sun are dancing all around—and with closed eyes he says, I am in darkness. We would say: between the sun and your darkness there is this small distance—your eyelids closed or open. Open your eyes! There is no darkness—there is the sun. Just so small is the distance between a despairing, sorrowful mind and a mind filled with wonder and gratitude. But all our minds are filled with negativity and condemnation toward life.
So the second sutra I wish to give you is this: toward life, be utterly creative and affirmative. Life holds immense wealth—but it can belong only to those who come to it with the begging bowls of affirmation. Those who arrive already saying, There is nothing in life—leave their bowls at home.