Zarathustra was coming down from a mountain. He was in great haste, as if some utterly urgent news had to be carried to the valley below. Running and panting he reached the marketplace, the open square. In the crowd he cried out, Have you got the news? Have you got the news? People asked, What news? Zarathustra was astonished—such a great event has happened and you don’t know! You haven’t heard the news that God is dead! People were bewildered. Then Zarathustra felt that perhaps he had come too early, that the news had not yet reached the people. I was reading this incident, and it struck me that no truly important news ever reaches the people. And those who bring such news always feel that perhaps they have arrived before time, too soon.
I too want to ask you: do you know? Has the news reached you that India has died? Perhaps you also will be startled and say, What kind of news is this? Perhaps you too have not come to know that India has died. But maybe it has been dead for thousands of years, so one no longer notices. Perhaps the matter has grown so ancient—so long has this event been—that now no memory remains. Yet I want to say to you that India died long ago.
Iqbal has sung, Kuchh baat hai ke hasti mitati nahin hamari—There is something in us that our being does not perish. As I read that song I felt: even if there were such a being, it too could perish. And if that being has already perished and nothing remains to perish, then what is left now that could perish? After all, a man can die only if he is alive; if he has already died, how can you make him die again? A man can go mad only if he has intelligence. To be mad, intelligence is necessary. Without intelligence, a man cannot even go mad. A healthy person can fall ill, but if there is no health at all, what illness can there be!
Could it be that the real reason India’s being never perishes is simply this—that India’s being perished long ago, and now there is nothing left in us to perish? With this news I wish to begin.
For thousands of years this country has been a dead country, and this country needs a revival, a new life, the discovery of a new soul. Surely, the teacher could have become a collaborator in this search, but to this day he has not—that too must be understood. He could become one; he has not. Until now the teacher has not proved to be the torchbearer of a new life. Until now he has been merely the agent of the dead, archaic society. That society which has died, those traditions which have died, that world of the past which has decayed—the teacher has, up to now, been the instrument, the medium for depositing that same dead world into the minds of the new generation.
A teacher could become the medium for the birth of a new world, a new life, a new humanity—but he has not. Not yet. This truth about the teacher must first be understood.
What has the work of the teacher been up to now? What work has society taken from the teacher?
Society says that from the teacher we take the work of giving children education and knowledge. But deep down, society also takes the work, through the teacher, of injecting all its old diseases, all its ignorance, all its superstitions into the hearts of the new generation. Society cannot tolerate the teacher being revolutionary. Society wants that the teacher never be revolutionary. For the day the teacher becomes revolutionary, that very day society will be transformed, a new society will be born. The teacher’s becoming revolutionary could become the fundamental cause of the whole society changing. Therefore the effort has always been to keep the teacher reactionary, regressive. He is given much respect—this is true—but even that respect society grants only so long as no ray of revolution is visible in him. The moment a ray of revolution appears, society begins to press its hands around the teacher’s throat.
It will surprise you to know that from the world of teachers there has never arisen any revolutionary idea, nor any new vision, nor any new seeing. The entire class of teachers—a large class, the most resourceful and powerful, because the entire mind and the whole soul of the new generation is in its hands—society has always striven to save this entire class from becoming revolutionary, lest it become revolutionary. If it became revolutionary, a fissure would appear between the old society and the new, for the teacher alone transfers the old society to the new. The teacher is the link through which the past enters the future. Much lies in the teacher’s hands as to what he does; but perhaps he has not even the idea of being the forerunner of revolution.
Until now the teacher has put all his labor into the effort of adjusting the minds of the new generation to the old generation, and has striven to implant in the minds of the new generation the beliefs, the outlook, the faith of the old. He has endeavored to make the thoughts of the old generation reach the very blood of the new generation. The old generation honors the teacher precisely for this reason. This respect and honor are granted because the teacher becomes the foundation, the cause for preserving the old past. The day the teacher becomes a rebel, that day a new society could be born every day. Every generation could raise its eyes toward a new life.
But the teacher is not a rebel. And in my vision, a teacher who is not a rebel is no teacher at all; he has forfeited the right to be called a teacher. How can one be a teacher who is not rebellious! Without rebellion, eyes do not open toward the direction of knowledge. Without rebellion, the human soul never breaks its shell and comes out. Without rebellion, no one is ever able to walk in step with life.
And what shall we call that knowledge, that education which cannot give birth to an independent soul? We may call it a burden, information, data, learning—but not education. Education should become the discovery of the soul—but it does not. Until now the teacher has not adopted the stance of a rebel. Hence the old rotten society goes on, remains alive, keeps itself alive. Even that which has died continues to remain alive in one guise or another.
In India this calamity has become particularly unfortunate. India has not even changed its clothes; to speak of renewing the soul is far off. India’s whole history is a history of revolutionlessness. No revolution, no transformation. And when a society does not pass through revolution, its life ceases to be a flowing stream and becomes a closed, stagnant pond, which rots, grows filthy. Slime spreads, stench spreads—but there is no current, no flow. One kind of life is like a river, running toward the ocean, the unknown ocean—cutting through mountains, crossing valleys, leaping over unfamiliar plains. One is the life of a river toward the sea; another is the life of a pond—closed within itself, going nowhere.
The life of Indian society has become the life of a pond. It is not the life of a river. Yes, the life of a pond is in one sense secure—there is nowhere to go, no hardships on the way; no obstacles of the path, no wanderings on unknown roads; no mountains to cross, no unknown ocean to dream of—enclosed in one’s own place, at ease in one’s own place. The pond has its own comfort. India is enjoying the comfort of a pond, not the struggle of a stream. And we have become so habituated to this comfort that we have for thousands of years stopped taking any kind of risk.
But remember, the society that stops taking risks gradually diminishes its inner flame. Only in the face of danger does the inner light flare up. Nietzsche kept a plaque on his table with two words written on it. Whenever someone asked him, If the essence of your life had to be summed up, what would it be?—he would point to the plaque. On it was written: Live dangerously.
The truth is that only by living in danger does one come to know life. Living in security, one never knows life. That is why those who dwell in graves live very securely. There is no danger there. The life of a pond is a life of avoiding danger. But the pond decays, grows old, is destroyed, becomes filthy. In India too, for centuries we have chosen a life of security. We have made our shells and sat inside them. We do not care to enter the expanse of the world, nor to journey among the moons and stars, nor to go anywhere at all. We are bound to our homes. We are less like men and more like trees, whose roots are tied to the earth—and there we remain stuck, without even a stir. Every son takes the place of his father. Generation after generation, places are occupied. Repetition goes on. Men change, but society remains exactly as it was.
If a man from a thousand years ago were to come today into an Indian village, he would face no difficulty. He would notice no change—the same everything, just as it was. And we are very pleased about this. We say, our leaders say, Rome has died, Greece has died, Egypt has died. Where now is Syria, where Babylon? But we? We still are. We greatly honor our stability. This stability is not a matter for respect; it is a great humiliation. It says that within us the capacity for transformation has been lost. That fitness for change has gone. We have become fixed. A stone lies near a rose. In the morning the rose blooms, dances in the sunlight, tries to rise into the sky; by evening it withers and falls. The stone lying there in the morning lies there in the evening exactly the same. The stone must think to itself—the flower perished, but we remain as we are. Many flowers came and went, but we? We remain as we are. The stone must feel very happy. But the stone does not know what the joy of being a flower is! The stone does not know the thrill of transformation! The stone does not know that to be alive—to bloom, to wither, to fall—has its own meaning, its own secret. And the stone does not know that only those wither who bloom. Only those fall who rise. And only those die who live. If you want to avoid dying, then avoid living. If you want to avoid falling, then avoid rising. If you want to avoid withering, then do not bloom at all. But what does the stone know?
I have heard that one morning in a garden a strange event occurred. In the crevices of the stone wall, some small grass-flowers were pressed and lived there. Sheltered by the wall of stones they survived. Storms they did not know, for the wall always became a screen. They knew nothing of the sun’s light—when it rose, when it set. They lived hidden in their stone shelter, their little cave. When the rains came, they did not know. When the moon and stars blossomed at night, they did not know. But they were very safe; there was no danger.
Among those grass-flowers, the mind of one went a little mad. One day he peeped out and saw a rose raised above the wall toward the sky. A longing, a dream arose in him: Could I too not become a rose? Could I too not rise like that? That night he prayed much to God: Make me a rose. God explained to him, Mad one, you are very safe. The rose blooms in the morning and by evening it falls. Your flower, once it opens, remains for months. The grass-flower said, That I understand. My flower remains for months because in truth it never blooms. The grass-flower is already dry, so it does not wither. No, I want to bloom like a rose. Velvet buds like the rose—let me have buds too. No, I do not want to live in the shelter of this stone. I want to rise in the open sky. If only for a moment, let me rise—let me raise my head.
The grass-flower would not listen. The neighboring flowers also tried to explain, Have you gone mad? Never in our lineage has such a thing happened. It has always been our custom to stay here, pressed under this stone. Our fathers and grandfathers never thought thus. Nor their fathers and grandfathers. Such a thing has never been thought; nowhere is it written in our ancient scriptures. This is sheer madness! It seems your head has gone wrong in the company of strangers. Remain within yourself; remain within your limits. Stretch your legs only as far as your sheet. To stretch beyond is dangerous. You will die. Did you not see how much suffering the rose endures? Just the day before yesterday a storm came and the rose lay on the ground—did you not see? When the rains fell, every leaf of the rose was weeping. And when strong winds blow, even the roots of the rose tremble. We are safe and happy. And who knows—though the rose blooms in the morning, by evening its petals begin to fall, while we remain for months.
But the grass-flower did not agree. He said, No, I must be a rose for one day and see. He did not agree. And if you do not agree, what can even God do? Only if you agree can something be done. If you do not agree, what can even God do?
He did not agree—and he became a rose. In the morning, that which had been a grass-flower became a rose plant. But the sun rose, clouds gathered in the sky, strong winds began to blow; those grass-flowers below peeped out and began to shout, See, mad one, now you will die. For a moment’s happiness you have lost eternal happiness. For a moment, to be a rose, you lost that security which was yours forever. Clouds thundered, rain began to fall, stormy winds blew. The delicate branches of the rose swayed in the sky. Its petals began to fall, its leaves began to fall, then the whole plant fell. Its roots were uprooted. As it breathed its last, those grass-flowers bent near and said, Friend, did wisdom come at last? For the sake of rising into the sky for a moment, see what a fruit you have harvested. But the dying rose said, Friends, what I came to know in that one moment, I would not have known in a thousand years hiding behind a stone. To rise into the sky even for a moment, to grapple with storms! Even for a moment, to stand before the open sun of the sky! Weak branches though they were, to struggle with tempests! To bloom only for a little while—but to bloom! The taste I knew, the life I knew, the juice I knew! Thanks to the Divine. And shame on you—you will never know. You will live and die under the shelter of your security. Your living is not even living, because you have no idea what it means to live in a storm.
Who knows if this story ever happened—but in India’s life it seems to have happened. We have sat down under the shelter of security. Gradually, our attachment to security has grown so deep that the courage to step into any danger has disappeared. And then the old is secure, because the old is familiar. The unfamiliar is insecure, unknown; it gives fear. To set out on an unrecognized path is frightening. So we have made one fixed path and, like an oil-press bullock, we keep circling on it. We have been circling on it for thousands of years. And our teacher too initiates the new generation into the same rut. On that same press-path where fathers and grandfathers circled, there too we initiate our children.
No—this way a new India cannot be born. The teacher will have to take a step. Teachers all over India will have to take a courageous step—that we shall break the rut on which India’s consciousness has been circling for millennia. Certainly there will be the danger of the unknown. But what is there to fear in the danger of the unknown?
Better the unfamiliar danger than the familiar security, because the taste of life, life’s energy, life’s challenge—there they are found.
If India’s teacher decides that we shall free the new generation from the beaten tracks, then the soul of India can be born; otherwise not. And we shall initiate them into danger, not into security. We shall tell the children of the coming generation: Go into danger. Cross the seas, climb the mountains, journey into the sky. But no—even to go into a little darkness we restrain children: Do not go into the dark. It is late at night. Do not swim in the river in spate; there is danger to life. Do not enter the ocean. What need is there to climb Everest? Only those with a cracked brain climb. What profit is there in climbing Everest? Everest is a peak of India itself. Westerners have been trying for a hundred years to climb! Hundreds and thousands of climbers died, and we laughed, sitting in our cave: Are you mad? What do you climb for? What is there except snow?
But we do not know that the race whose children stop climbing mountains—the soul of that race stops climbing.
There, thousands of children climb the Alps every day. Each year hundreds of children die climbing the Alps during their holidays. Everyone knows that this year too hundreds of children will die climbing the Alps, but no parents, no teachers forbid: Last year so many died; you must not go; you too may die. Where there is youth, there must also be mountain-climbing.
Hundreds of boys and girls cross the English Channel. And we? We have lost the courage to cross even a small rivulet. We will first find out everything—how deep the rivulet is. First there must be measurement. And did any ancestors go through this rivulet or not? If the ancestors have not gone, then we, who come behind, can never go by ourselves. We cannot take any initiative. Who will enter danger? Our life is going comfortably; why put it in danger?
This fearful personality of ours clutches the old corpse and does not let go. And we press the corpse of the old so hard to our chests—how then can the new be born? Let the old vacate space and the new will be born.
The teacher has one task—most important—that he free India from its attachment to the old. And the teacher must know that he is committing a crime if he is trying to generate in children the attachment to the old once again. The invitation of the new, the allure of the new, the welcome of the new; the attraction of the unfamiliar, the call of the unknown, the far and the unseen—to prepare children to hear that call.
Children in Russia and America think of building settlements on the moon and stars. And Indian children? Indian children do nothing except watch the Ramleela. Ram is very dear, and Ramleela is very dear. But how long will you watch? By now even Ram must be exasperated. Why are these fellows after me every year? The same, the same—why is this perpetuated! More Rams will be born in the future; do not worry for them. There will be more Ramleelas too. Not only on this earth, but on the moon and stars, on Mars too. There will be more plays. In the future more Rams will be born.
But no, for us everything happened in the past, and now nothing is to happen in the future. India’s everything has already been done. Our work is complete. The god of our history has shut the door and gone. Now there is no further history. Now there is only one work: to ruminate on the old history! Like buffaloes sitting and chewing again the grass already chewed, so we go on ruminating! What has already happened, keep ruminating upon it. Nothing else is to happen; nothing is to be created; no future is to be born. Are there no dreams in our life-breaths that we shall create tomorrow, the coming tomorrow—and create it where no ancestor has ever set foot? For if we are to set our feet only where the ancestors set theirs, then what is the purpose of our being here at all?
No—we shall place our feet on those paths where no ancestor has ever gone. We shall see all those vistas which no ancestor has ever seen. We shall undertake all those journeys that have never been made. We shall walk those virgin roads on which no one has ever walked.
But no—our aspiration is broken. We hunt out the beaten rut and walk only upon it. From this, the birth of the new does not happen in India. And when the new is not born, life becomes sad. Life has become sad. Each individual is sad. Each individual is defeated and tired. Each one prays only one prayer to God: deliver me from birth and death. Somehow let there be release from all this life. Where is Moksha, where liberation? Living men ask, Where is liberation, where is Moksha—when shall I be freed from this life! We have made life so miserable that no prayer occurs except to be rid of it!
Everything has become desolate, the whole country. It will become desolate. Living in the old—continually in the old—makes the mind depressed. As in a house where a calendar is hung, each day we tear off the old date and throw it away. In the same way each day the old should be set aside, so that the new date hidden behind may be revealed. But in the mind of India the new date never appears. The calendar, I say, is millions of years old. It has so many old dates that the new date is never visible—where is it! Even if you search, you cannot find it! We never tore off the old dates and discarded them, so that day by day the new might be unveiled, the new discovered.
And when the new is discovered, the life-breaths fill with joy in welcoming the new; they dance with delight. A dance descends into life, a happiness. Because there is a juice in knowing the unfamiliar. What is familiar has been known; to know it further has no juice. India has become juiceless—and therefore it has died.
Juice is the mark of life.
If we wish India to be reborn, then the teacher has one important task—perhaps none more important than this, and none other can do it except the teacher. No other class in society can bring this revolution. Let it occur to the teacher: do not let the new children become old. Before they become old, sow the seeds of the new. Before their skulls are burdened with the old, let the music of the new be heard. Before their ears become deadened by old ragas, let the sound of new songs reach them—so that they awake and engage in the search for the new.
The children of Hindustan need to be saved from their parents—who will do this? What I say may sound very strange. The children of Hindustan need to be saved from their parents, otherwise their parents will mold those children into their own likeness and finish them. They have always done so. They do not depart until they have molded their children. Once they have molded them, then they depart. When it is certain that the boy too has come into the same place, then they leave. Every generation does this—by hammering the new generation into its own mold. The grooves are made, the frames are ready. Every new traveler is being fitted into them. Who will stop this? Who will save the children from their parents? And if children cannot be saved from their parents, a new country is never born.
A teacher can save them. But the teacher has no awareness, no wakefulness. He is the agent of the parents. He is doing their work. The parents are paying him precisely so that he may assist in the molding of their children. Thus there is a vicious circle, a great noose. How to break it? Someone must gather courage from somewhere and break it. There will be difficulty. For those who break are not honored by society. But someone will have to bear this difficulty; otherwise this country will never be born anew.
Except for the teacher, my eyes do not turn toward anyone else. From political leaders, to hope anything is a mistake. To expect anything from them is wrong. If good days come for them, there should be some arrangement for their psychotherapy—that is all right. But otherwise no hope can be placed in them. In every capital, if all the politicians were suddenly taken and treated, the world would become altogether different. But that is very difficult. Perhaps travelers from Mars may come and do something. From these, no hope—because they are the representatives of our illnesses. They exploit our diseases. They have turned our weaknesses into steps and climbed upon them to their posts. How can we expect from them the removal of our weaknesses—for whom our weaknesses have become ladders? Our weaknesses are their steps; our diseases are their paths; our ignorance, our superstitions, our stupidities become the stones on which they climb. How can we hope that they will remove those stones? They will hammer them in more firmly.
From whom then can hope be placed?
From sadhus and sannyasins? From them too, no hope. There was a time when sadhus and sannyasins were revolutionary, but that time has gone. Now a sadhu-sannyasin is not revolutionary. There was a time when there were men like Buddha, Mahavira, Christ, Shankaracharya. That time is gone. Now the sadhus and sannyasins are servants of society. Society gives them two chapatis and they keep singing society’s praises. More than this they have no status left. From them there is no hope now.
There is one class—untouched until now—which has never really cared to think. It is the class of teachers. And it is a very large class; it has great strength. And its greatest strength is this: the coming generation is in its hands. Before the new generation becomes spoiled, the teacher can give it direction, can give it understanding. In his hands is so great a power—beyond accounting. And if new formulas for changing life occur to his mind, then in twenty years the condition of the whole nation can be changed. For in twenty years the old generation moves away and a new generation takes its place. The rubbish of thousands of years can be cleared in twenty years—just twenty years. But only the teacher can do it; no one else can.
But first the teacher must become aware that he is committing a crime if he is transmitting the old diseases into the new generations. If the old generations suffered from Hindu–Muslim divisions, and the teacher is teaching the children under him that you are Hindu and you are Muslim, then that teacher is committing a great crime. The coming generation should be taught that you are a human being, not a Hindu or a Muslim. Then a new country will be born. If the old generation said there is Brahmin and there is Shudra, and if the teacher too is creating in the coming children the feeling that you are Shudra and you are Brahmin, then the teacher is an agent of the old generations. He will perpetuate the diseases. The diseases will never end. In twenty years, by conscious effort, the teacher should wipe it out—there is no Brahmin, there is no Shudra. To be human is enough. And if this feeling is erased from the new generation, then a disease of thousands of years can be destroyed in twenty years. No one can stop it. But the teacher does not know; he has no awareness, no consciousness of what he is doing.
And there is attachment to the old. The child has no attachment to the old; he has great curiosity for the new. We hammer him into consenting to the old. He should be persuaded toward the new. There should be daily initiation into the new. Courage and daring—courage: if the teacher can impart even this one quality to the coming generations of India, if he can make them courageous, audacious—the work will be done.
But the structure we have created makes the new child emasculate. He becomes impotent—because there is restlessness. The teacher does not understand what to do, what not to do. The student does not understand. Those in society who think also do not understand what to do and what not to do. There is restlessness, but no clear path in sight. Thinking is needed—what can we do, what is possible?
And it seems to me that a golden opportunity is in our hands. For in India, the amount of rebellion in the minds of children today has never, in all history, been so. If teachers can give direction to these rebellious children, we shall be able to set fire to the old trash. And with the power of this rebellion the new can also be born.
But the teacher is unable to understand even the capacity for rebellion that has arisen in children! He cannot utilize that power of rebellion! On the contrary, he has become frightened and is trying from every side to break the children’s rebellion. He does not know he is making a mistake.
Do not break the children’s rebellion; give it the right direction. The spirit of rebellion that has arisen, that soul which has emerged—children are throwing stones, breaking windows, breaking chairs—an astonishing capacity to break has arisen in them; with it, some worthwhile things can be broken. And if we do not work with them, they will break wrong things and their anger will be wasted. Breaking chairs will be of no use. Nor will breaking glass be of any use. But the capacity to break is worth welcoming. Some other things can be broken—the Hindu–Muslim divide can be broken; Brahmin–Shudra can be broken; the foolish walls between men and women can be broken; the rotten morality can be broken. A new, healthier, more scientific morality can be born.
A capacity to break has arisen—but the teacher is afraid of it. He thinks the capacity to break is very bad. Chairs are being broken; glass is being broken. I say to you: children do not know what to break, so they break chairs. Let the teacher explain what is to be broken, and they will never break chairs. They will begin to break that which has become absolutely necessary to break. But the teacher is frightened. He says, Do not break; obey discipline.
But you do not know—breaking discipline too is an extraordinary thing. Discipline is a wonderful thing; it has its price. Indiscipline too has its price. The price of discipline is: keep society as it is. And when society has to be changed, the price of discipline does not apply; the price of indiscipline begins—if society is to be changed. This is the time for change. At this time, let us use the indiscipline that is in children. Use it to break all that is rotten and decayed. Let us change all that has become a stone burden upon life. This the teacher can do—because the teacher is closest to the children. But he too cannot understand the children! He too cannot see what is happening!
A good sign has appeared in children. If the teacher uses understanding and becomes acquainted with his revolutionary status, if he realizes: in my hand is a torch of revolution—then perhaps these children will love the teacher as they never have. And for these children the teacher will become a co-creator of a golden future as he has never been.
I have placed a few questions before my teacher friends. What I say need not be true. It may be that what I say is entirely wrong; therefore there is no need to accept it. But do reflect upon what I say. And a dialogue is needed throughout the land—that teachers think and reflect, speak with children, understand, and if they take some decisions, then I feel hope. Much can happen. The winds are hot; the moment is ripe; the Divine has given the opportunity. It is in our hands whether we will use the energy of this transition—or merely sit and watch the spectacle: Whatever is happening, keep sitting and watching! Whatever is happening, merely sit at home and condemn it as bad, and do nothing! Shall the teacher prove a mere onlooker in the life of the coming society? Will he go to school and go on teaching that two and two are four? Will he keep teaching ka kha ga, and politicians keep making atom bombs? Will he teach children mathematics, teach them geography, while politicians prepare to erase all geography?
No—this can no longer be tolerated. That two and two are four, yes, teach that. But that is not the teacher’s only work. He must also become a progenitor of revolution; only then does he become a teacher. And there must be an alertness toward all that is happening around life. There must be awareness of the new sprouts appearing in the children. And a concern for one’s role—the teacher’s role for life. If this care and concern arise, there is no reason then…
India has good teachers, but they are asleep. India has a class of intelligent teachers, but they are not revolutionary. India has the power of faithful, moral teachers—but all that fidelity and morality is conservative, reactionary. It is not revolutionary. Therefore the teacher stands watching; he seems to have nothing in his hands; he has become merely an instrument of society.
And across the world—in India too and everywhere—politicians have cut teachers off from life. They say the teacher should not concern himself with life, not with politics. The teacher should do his work within the school walls. Politicians are very clever. They know that if the teacher becomes actively concerned about life, the teacher has such a great power in his hands that he will transform the entire society. Therefore with great cunning they have torn teachers away from life; and they have convinced teachers that you have nothing to do with life. Your great, noble work is to keep teaching children that two and two make four—to keep explaining on the map where Timbuktu is—wherever Timbuktu may be! When on earth the possibility of man’s survival is diminishing, if the teacher silently watches this, I am not prepared to call him a teacher. The teacher’s responsibility is greater. He is the midwife of the new generations.
Socrates has said, defining the teacher: I call him a teacher who plays the role of a midwife in giving birth to a new soul.
Socrates spoke rightly. He was one of the most extraordinary teachers the world has known. He spoke truly: the teacher should play the role of a midwife. He should become a helper in the birth of a new soul. If you are not becoming that, if we are not becoming that, then we have no right to be called teachers. This little request I make.
You have listened to my words with such love and peace; I am greatly obliged. And in the end, I bow to the Divine seated within each of you. Kindly accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
Zarathustra was coming down from a mountain. He was in great haste, as if some utterly urgent news had to be carried to the valley below. Running and panting he reached the marketplace, the open square. In the crowd he cried out, Have you got the news? Have you got the news? People asked, What news? Zarathustra was astonished—such a great event has happened and you don’t know! You haven’t heard the news that God is dead! People were bewildered. Then Zarathustra felt that perhaps he had come too early, that the news had not yet reached the people. I was reading this incident, and it struck me that no truly important news ever reaches the people. And those who bring such news always feel that perhaps they have arrived before time, too soon.
I too want to ask you: do you know? Has the news reached you that India has died? Perhaps you also will be startled and say, What kind of news is this? Perhaps you too have not come to know that India has died. But maybe it has been dead for thousands of years, so one no longer notices. Perhaps the matter has grown so ancient—so long has this event been—that now no memory remains. Yet I want to say to you that India died long ago.
Iqbal has sung, Kuchh baat hai ke hasti mitati nahin hamari—There is something in us that our being does not perish. As I read that song I felt: even if there were such a being, it too could perish. And if that being has already perished and nothing remains to perish, then what is left now that could perish? After all, a man can die only if he is alive; if he has already died, how can you make him die again? A man can go mad only if he has intelligence. To be mad, intelligence is necessary. Without intelligence, a man cannot even go mad. A healthy person can fall ill, but if there is no health at all, what illness can there be!
Could it be that the real reason India’s being never perishes is simply this—that India’s being perished long ago, and now there is nothing left in us to perish? With this news I wish to begin.
For thousands of years this country has been a dead country, and this country needs a revival, a new life, the discovery of a new soul. Surely, the teacher could have become a collaborator in this search, but to this day he has not—that too must be understood. He could become one; he has not. Until now the teacher has not proved to be the torchbearer of a new life. Until now he has been merely the agent of the dead, archaic society. That society which has died, those traditions which have died, that world of the past which has decayed—the teacher has, up to now, been the instrument, the medium for depositing that same dead world into the minds of the new generation.
A teacher could become the medium for the birth of a new world, a new life, a new humanity—but he has not. Not yet. This truth about the teacher must first be understood.
What has the work of the teacher been up to now? What work has society taken from the teacher?
Society says that from the teacher we take the work of giving children education and knowledge. But deep down, society also takes the work, through the teacher, of injecting all its old diseases, all its ignorance, all its superstitions into the hearts of the new generation. Society cannot tolerate the teacher being revolutionary. Society wants that the teacher never be revolutionary. For the day the teacher becomes revolutionary, that very day society will be transformed, a new society will be born. The teacher’s becoming revolutionary could become the fundamental cause of the whole society changing. Therefore the effort has always been to keep the teacher reactionary, regressive. He is given much respect—this is true—but even that respect society grants only so long as no ray of revolution is visible in him. The moment a ray of revolution appears, society begins to press its hands around the teacher’s throat.
It will surprise you to know that from the world of teachers there has never arisen any revolutionary idea, nor any new vision, nor any new seeing. The entire class of teachers—a large class, the most resourceful and powerful, because the entire mind and the whole soul of the new generation is in its hands—society has always striven to save this entire class from becoming revolutionary, lest it become revolutionary. If it became revolutionary, a fissure would appear between the old society and the new, for the teacher alone transfers the old society to the new. The teacher is the link through which the past enters the future. Much lies in the teacher’s hands as to what he does; but perhaps he has not even the idea of being the forerunner of revolution.
Until now the teacher has put all his labor into the effort of adjusting the minds of the new generation to the old generation, and has striven to implant in the minds of the new generation the beliefs, the outlook, the faith of the old. He has endeavored to make the thoughts of the old generation reach the very blood of the new generation. The old generation honors the teacher precisely for this reason. This respect and honor are granted because the teacher becomes the foundation, the cause for preserving the old past. The day the teacher becomes a rebel, that day a new society could be born every day. Every generation could raise its eyes toward a new life.
But the teacher is not a rebel. And in my vision, a teacher who is not a rebel is no teacher at all; he has forfeited the right to be called a teacher. How can one be a teacher who is not rebellious! Without rebellion, eyes do not open toward the direction of knowledge. Without rebellion, the human soul never breaks its shell and comes out. Without rebellion, no one is ever able to walk in step with life.
And what shall we call that knowledge, that education which cannot give birth to an independent soul? We may call it a burden, information, data, learning—but not education. Education should become the discovery of the soul—but it does not. Until now the teacher has not adopted the stance of a rebel. Hence the old rotten society goes on, remains alive, keeps itself alive. Even that which has died continues to remain alive in one guise or another.
In India this calamity has become particularly unfortunate. India has not even changed its clothes; to speak of renewing the soul is far off. India’s whole history is a history of revolutionlessness. No revolution, no transformation. And when a society does not pass through revolution, its life ceases to be a flowing stream and becomes a closed, stagnant pond, which rots, grows filthy. Slime spreads, stench spreads—but there is no current, no flow. One kind of life is like a river, running toward the ocean, the unknown ocean—cutting through mountains, crossing valleys, leaping over unfamiliar plains. One is the life of a river toward the sea; another is the life of a pond—closed within itself, going nowhere.
The life of Indian society has become the life of a pond. It is not the life of a river. Yes, the life of a pond is in one sense secure—there is nowhere to go, no hardships on the way; no obstacles of the path, no wanderings on unknown roads; no mountains to cross, no unknown ocean to dream of—enclosed in one’s own place, at ease in one’s own place. The pond has its own comfort. India is enjoying the comfort of a pond, not the struggle of a stream. And we have become so habituated to this comfort that we have for thousands of years stopped taking any kind of risk.
But remember, the society that stops taking risks gradually diminishes its inner flame. Only in the face of danger does the inner light flare up. Nietzsche kept a plaque on his table with two words written on it. Whenever someone asked him, If the essence of your life had to be summed up, what would it be?—he would point to the plaque. On it was written: Live dangerously.
The truth is that only by living in danger does one come to know life. Living in security, one never knows life. That is why those who dwell in graves live very securely. There is no danger there. The life of a pond is a life of avoiding danger. But the pond decays, grows old, is destroyed, becomes filthy. In India too, for centuries we have chosen a life of security. We have made our shells and sat inside them. We do not care to enter the expanse of the world, nor to journey among the moons and stars, nor to go anywhere at all. We are bound to our homes. We are less like men and more like trees, whose roots are tied to the earth—and there we remain stuck, without even a stir. Every son takes the place of his father. Generation after generation, places are occupied. Repetition goes on. Men change, but society remains exactly as it was.
If a man from a thousand years ago were to come today into an Indian village, he would face no difficulty. He would notice no change—the same everything, just as it was. And we are very pleased about this. We say, our leaders say, Rome has died, Greece has died, Egypt has died. Where now is Syria, where Babylon? But we? We still are. We greatly honor our stability. This stability is not a matter for respect; it is a great humiliation. It says that within us the capacity for transformation has been lost. That fitness for change has gone. We have become fixed. A stone lies near a rose. In the morning the rose blooms, dances in the sunlight, tries to rise into the sky; by evening it withers and falls. The stone lying there in the morning lies there in the evening exactly the same. The stone must think to itself—the flower perished, but we remain as we are. Many flowers came and went, but we? We remain as we are. The stone must feel very happy. But the stone does not know what the joy of being a flower is! The stone does not know the thrill of transformation! The stone does not know that to be alive—to bloom, to wither, to fall—has its own meaning, its own secret. And the stone does not know that only those wither who bloom. Only those fall who rise. And only those die who live. If you want to avoid dying, then avoid living. If you want to avoid falling, then avoid rising. If you want to avoid withering, then do not bloom at all. But what does the stone know?
I have heard that one morning in a garden a strange event occurred. In the crevices of the stone wall, some small grass-flowers were pressed and lived there. Sheltered by the wall of stones they survived. Storms they did not know, for the wall always became a screen. They knew nothing of the sun’s light—when it rose, when it set. They lived hidden in their stone shelter, their little cave. When the rains came, they did not know. When the moon and stars blossomed at night, they did not know. But they were very safe; there was no danger.
Among those grass-flowers, the mind of one went a little mad. One day he peeped out and saw a rose raised above the wall toward the sky. A longing, a dream arose in him: Could I too not become a rose? Could I too not rise like that? That night he prayed much to God: Make me a rose. God explained to him, Mad one, you are very safe. The rose blooms in the morning and by evening it falls. Your flower, once it opens, remains for months. The grass-flower said, That I understand. My flower remains for months because in truth it never blooms. The grass-flower is already dry, so it does not wither. No, I want to bloom like a rose. Velvet buds like the rose—let me have buds too. No, I do not want to live in the shelter of this stone. I want to rise in the open sky. If only for a moment, let me rise—let me raise my head.
The grass-flower would not listen. The neighboring flowers also tried to explain, Have you gone mad? Never in our lineage has such a thing happened. It has always been our custom to stay here, pressed under this stone. Our fathers and grandfathers never thought thus. Nor their fathers and grandfathers. Such a thing has never been thought; nowhere is it written in our ancient scriptures. This is sheer madness! It seems your head has gone wrong in the company of strangers. Remain within yourself; remain within your limits. Stretch your legs only as far as your sheet. To stretch beyond is dangerous. You will die. Did you not see how much suffering the rose endures? Just the day before yesterday a storm came and the rose lay on the ground—did you not see? When the rains fell, every leaf of the rose was weeping. And when strong winds blow, even the roots of the rose tremble. We are safe and happy. And who knows—though the rose blooms in the morning, by evening its petals begin to fall, while we remain for months.
But the grass-flower did not agree. He said, No, I must be a rose for one day and see. He did not agree. And if you do not agree, what can even God do? Only if you agree can something be done. If you do not agree, what can even God do?
He did not agree—and he became a rose. In the morning, that which had been a grass-flower became a rose plant. But the sun rose, clouds gathered in the sky, strong winds began to blow; those grass-flowers below peeped out and began to shout, See, mad one, now you will die. For a moment’s happiness you have lost eternal happiness. For a moment, to be a rose, you lost that security which was yours forever. Clouds thundered, rain began to fall, stormy winds blew. The delicate branches of the rose swayed in the sky. Its petals began to fall, its leaves began to fall, then the whole plant fell. Its roots were uprooted. As it breathed its last, those grass-flowers bent near and said, Friend, did wisdom come at last? For the sake of rising into the sky for a moment, see what a fruit you have harvested. But the dying rose said, Friends, what I came to know in that one moment, I would not have known in a thousand years hiding behind a stone. To rise into the sky even for a moment, to grapple with storms! Even for a moment, to stand before the open sun of the sky! Weak branches though they were, to struggle with tempests! To bloom only for a little while—but to bloom! The taste I knew, the life I knew, the juice I knew! Thanks to the Divine. And shame on you—you will never know. You will live and die under the shelter of your security. Your living is not even living, because you have no idea what it means to live in a storm.
Who knows if this story ever happened—but in India’s life it seems to have happened. We have sat down under the shelter of security. Gradually, our attachment to security has grown so deep that the courage to step into any danger has disappeared. And then the old is secure, because the old is familiar. The unfamiliar is insecure, unknown; it gives fear. To set out on an unrecognized path is frightening. So we have made one fixed path and, like an oil-press bullock, we keep circling on it. We have been circling on it for thousands of years. And our teacher too initiates the new generation into the same rut. On that same press-path where fathers and grandfathers circled, there too we initiate our children.
No—this way a new India cannot be born. The teacher will have to take a step. Teachers all over India will have to take a courageous step—that we shall break the rut on which India’s consciousness has been circling for millennia. Certainly there will be the danger of the unknown. But what is there to fear in the danger of the unknown?
Better the unfamiliar danger than the familiar security, because the taste of life, life’s energy, life’s challenge—there they are found.
If India’s teacher decides that we shall free the new generation from the beaten tracks, then the soul of India can be born; otherwise not. And we shall initiate them into danger, not into security. We shall tell the children of the coming generation: Go into danger. Cross the seas, climb the mountains, journey into the sky. But no—even to go into a little darkness we restrain children: Do not go into the dark. It is late at night. Do not swim in the river in spate; there is danger to life. Do not enter the ocean. What need is there to climb Everest? Only those with a cracked brain climb. What profit is there in climbing Everest? Everest is a peak of India itself. Westerners have been trying for a hundred years to climb! Hundreds and thousands of climbers died, and we laughed, sitting in our cave: Are you mad? What do you climb for? What is there except snow?
But we do not know that the race whose children stop climbing mountains—the soul of that race stops climbing.
There, thousands of children climb the Alps every day. Each year hundreds of children die climbing the Alps during their holidays. Everyone knows that this year too hundreds of children will die climbing the Alps, but no parents, no teachers forbid: Last year so many died; you must not go; you too may die. Where there is youth, there must also be mountain-climbing.
Hundreds of boys and girls cross the English Channel. And we? We have lost the courage to cross even a small rivulet. We will first find out everything—how deep the rivulet is. First there must be measurement. And did any ancestors go through this rivulet or not? If the ancestors have not gone, then we, who come behind, can never go by ourselves. We cannot take any initiative. Who will enter danger? Our life is going comfortably; why put it in danger?
This fearful personality of ours clutches the old corpse and does not let go. And we press the corpse of the old so hard to our chests—how then can the new be born? Let the old vacate space and the new will be born.
The teacher has one task—most important—that he free India from its attachment to the old. And the teacher must know that he is committing a crime if he is trying to generate in children the attachment to the old once again. The invitation of the new, the allure of the new, the welcome of the new; the attraction of the unfamiliar, the call of the unknown, the far and the unseen—to prepare children to hear that call.
Children in Russia and America think of building settlements on the moon and stars. And Indian children? Indian children do nothing except watch the Ramleela. Ram is very dear, and Ramleela is very dear. But how long will you watch? By now even Ram must be exasperated. Why are these fellows after me every year? The same, the same—why is this perpetuated! More Rams will be born in the future; do not worry for them. There will be more Ramleelas too. Not only on this earth, but on the moon and stars, on Mars too. There will be more plays. In the future more Rams will be born.
But no, for us everything happened in the past, and now nothing is to happen in the future. India’s everything has already been done. Our work is complete. The god of our history has shut the door and gone. Now there is no further history. Now there is only one work: to ruminate on the old history! Like buffaloes sitting and chewing again the grass already chewed, so we go on ruminating! What has already happened, keep ruminating upon it. Nothing else is to happen; nothing is to be created; no future is to be born. Are there no dreams in our life-breaths that we shall create tomorrow, the coming tomorrow—and create it where no ancestor has ever set foot? For if we are to set our feet only where the ancestors set theirs, then what is the purpose of our being here at all?
No—we shall place our feet on those paths where no ancestor has ever gone. We shall see all those vistas which no ancestor has ever seen. We shall undertake all those journeys that have never been made. We shall walk those virgin roads on which no one has ever walked.
But no—our aspiration is broken. We hunt out the beaten rut and walk only upon it. From this, the birth of the new does not happen in India. And when the new is not born, life becomes sad. Life has become sad. Each individual is sad. Each individual is defeated and tired. Each one prays only one prayer to God: deliver me from birth and death. Somehow let there be release from all this life. Where is Moksha, where liberation? Living men ask, Where is liberation, where is Moksha—when shall I be freed from this life! We have made life so miserable that no prayer occurs except to be rid of it!
Everything has become desolate, the whole country. It will become desolate. Living in the old—continually in the old—makes the mind depressed. As in a house where a calendar is hung, each day we tear off the old date and throw it away. In the same way each day the old should be set aside, so that the new date hidden behind may be revealed. But in the mind of India the new date never appears. The calendar, I say, is millions of years old. It has so many old dates that the new date is never visible—where is it! Even if you search, you cannot find it! We never tore off the old dates and discarded them, so that day by day the new might be unveiled, the new discovered.
And when the new is discovered, the life-breaths fill with joy in welcoming the new; they dance with delight. A dance descends into life, a happiness. Because there is a juice in knowing the unfamiliar. What is familiar has been known; to know it further has no juice. India has become juiceless—and therefore it has died.
Juice is the mark of life.
If we wish India to be reborn, then the teacher has one important task—perhaps none more important than this, and none other can do it except the teacher. No other class in society can bring this revolution. Let it occur to the teacher: do not let the new children become old. Before they become old, sow the seeds of the new. Before their skulls are burdened with the old, let the music of the new be heard. Before their ears become deadened by old ragas, let the sound of new songs reach them—so that they awake and engage in the search for the new.
The children of Hindustan need to be saved from their parents—who will do this? What I say may sound very strange. The children of Hindustan need to be saved from their parents, otherwise their parents will mold those children into their own likeness and finish them. They have always done so. They do not depart until they have molded their children. Once they have molded them, then they depart. When it is certain that the boy too has come into the same place, then they leave. Every generation does this—by hammering the new generation into its own mold. The grooves are made, the frames are ready. Every new traveler is being fitted into them. Who will stop this? Who will save the children from their parents? And if children cannot be saved from their parents, a new country is never born.
A teacher can save them. But the teacher has no awareness, no wakefulness. He is the agent of the parents. He is doing their work. The parents are paying him precisely so that he may assist in the molding of their children. Thus there is a vicious circle, a great noose. How to break it? Someone must gather courage from somewhere and break it. There will be difficulty. For those who break are not honored by society. But someone will have to bear this difficulty; otherwise this country will never be born anew.
Except for the teacher, my eyes do not turn toward anyone else. From political leaders, to hope anything is a mistake. To expect anything from them is wrong. If good days come for them, there should be some arrangement for their psychotherapy—that is all right. But otherwise no hope can be placed in them. In every capital, if all the politicians were suddenly taken and treated, the world would become altogether different. But that is very difficult. Perhaps travelers from Mars may come and do something. From these, no hope—because they are the representatives of our illnesses. They exploit our diseases. They have turned our weaknesses into steps and climbed upon them to their posts. How can we expect from them the removal of our weaknesses—for whom our weaknesses have become ladders? Our weaknesses are their steps; our diseases are their paths; our ignorance, our superstitions, our stupidities become the stones on which they climb. How can we hope that they will remove those stones? They will hammer them in more firmly.
From whom then can hope be placed?
From sadhus and sannyasins? From them too, no hope. There was a time when sadhus and sannyasins were revolutionary, but that time has gone. Now a sadhu-sannyasin is not revolutionary. There was a time when there were men like Buddha, Mahavira, Christ, Shankaracharya. That time is gone. Now the sadhus and sannyasins are servants of society. Society gives them two chapatis and they keep singing society’s praises. More than this they have no status left. From them there is no hope now.
There is one class—untouched until now—which has never really cared to think. It is the class of teachers. And it is a very large class; it has great strength. And its greatest strength is this: the coming generation is in its hands. Before the new generation becomes spoiled, the teacher can give it direction, can give it understanding. In his hands is so great a power—beyond accounting. And if new formulas for changing life occur to his mind, then in twenty years the condition of the whole nation can be changed. For in twenty years the old generation moves away and a new generation takes its place. The rubbish of thousands of years can be cleared in twenty years—just twenty years. But only the teacher can do it; no one else can.
But first the teacher must become aware that he is committing a crime if he is transmitting the old diseases into the new generations. If the old generations suffered from Hindu–Muslim divisions, and the teacher is teaching the children under him that you are Hindu and you are Muslim, then that teacher is committing a great crime. The coming generation should be taught that you are a human being, not a Hindu or a Muslim. Then a new country will be born. If the old generation said there is Brahmin and there is Shudra, and if the teacher too is creating in the coming children the feeling that you are Shudra and you are Brahmin, then the teacher is an agent of the old generations. He will perpetuate the diseases. The diseases will never end. In twenty years, by conscious effort, the teacher should wipe it out—there is no Brahmin, there is no Shudra. To be human is enough. And if this feeling is erased from the new generation, then a disease of thousands of years can be destroyed in twenty years. No one can stop it. But the teacher does not know; he has no awareness, no consciousness of what he is doing.
And there is attachment to the old. The child has no attachment to the old; he has great curiosity for the new. We hammer him into consenting to the old. He should be persuaded toward the new. There should be daily initiation into the new. Courage and daring—courage: if the teacher can impart even this one quality to the coming generations of India, if he can make them courageous, audacious—the work will be done.
But the structure we have created makes the new child emasculate. He becomes impotent—because there is restlessness. The teacher does not understand what to do, what not to do. The student does not understand. Those in society who think also do not understand what to do and what not to do. There is restlessness, but no clear path in sight. Thinking is needed—what can we do, what is possible?
And it seems to me that a golden opportunity is in our hands. For in India, the amount of rebellion in the minds of children today has never, in all history, been so. If teachers can give direction to these rebellious children, we shall be able to set fire to the old trash. And with the power of this rebellion the new can also be born.
But the teacher is unable to understand even the capacity for rebellion that has arisen in children! He cannot utilize that power of rebellion! On the contrary, he has become frightened and is trying from every side to break the children’s rebellion. He does not know he is making a mistake.
Do not break the children’s rebellion; give it the right direction. The spirit of rebellion that has arisen, that soul which has emerged—children are throwing stones, breaking windows, breaking chairs—an astonishing capacity to break has arisen in them; with it, some worthwhile things can be broken. And if we do not work with them, they will break wrong things and their anger will be wasted. Breaking chairs will be of no use. Nor will breaking glass be of any use. But the capacity to break is worth welcoming. Some other things can be broken—the Hindu–Muslim divide can be broken; Brahmin–Shudra can be broken; the foolish walls between men and women can be broken; the rotten morality can be broken. A new, healthier, more scientific morality can be born.
A capacity to break has arisen—but the teacher is afraid of it. He thinks the capacity to break is very bad. Chairs are being broken; glass is being broken. I say to you: children do not know what to break, so they break chairs. Let the teacher explain what is to be broken, and they will never break chairs. They will begin to break that which has become absolutely necessary to break. But the teacher is frightened. He says, Do not break; obey discipline.
But you do not know—breaking discipline too is an extraordinary thing. Discipline is a wonderful thing; it has its price. Indiscipline too has its price. The price of discipline is: keep society as it is. And when society has to be changed, the price of discipline does not apply; the price of indiscipline begins—if society is to be changed. This is the time for change. At this time, let us use the indiscipline that is in children. Use it to break all that is rotten and decayed. Let us change all that has become a stone burden upon life. This the teacher can do—because the teacher is closest to the children. But he too cannot understand the children! He too cannot see what is happening!
A good sign has appeared in children. If the teacher uses understanding and becomes acquainted with his revolutionary status, if he realizes: in my hand is a torch of revolution—then perhaps these children will love the teacher as they never have. And for these children the teacher will become a co-creator of a golden future as he has never been.
I have placed a few questions before my teacher friends. What I say need not be true. It may be that what I say is entirely wrong; therefore there is no need to accept it. But do reflect upon what I say. And a dialogue is needed throughout the land—that teachers think and reflect, speak with children, understand, and if they take some decisions, then I feel hope. Much can happen. The winds are hot; the moment is ripe; the Divine has given the opportunity. It is in our hands whether we will use the energy of this transition—or merely sit and watch the spectacle: Whatever is happening, keep sitting and watching! Whatever is happening, merely sit at home and condemn it as bad, and do nothing! Shall the teacher prove a mere onlooker in the life of the coming society? Will he go to school and go on teaching that two and two are four? Will he keep teaching ka kha ga, and politicians keep making atom bombs? Will he teach children mathematics, teach them geography, while politicians prepare to erase all geography?
No—this can no longer be tolerated. That two and two are four, yes, teach that. But that is not the teacher’s only work. He must also become a progenitor of revolution; only then does he become a teacher. And there must be an alertness toward all that is happening around life. There must be awareness of the new sprouts appearing in the children. And a concern for one’s role—the teacher’s role for life. If this care and concern arise, there is no reason then…
India has good teachers, but they are asleep. India has a class of intelligent teachers, but they are not revolutionary. India has the power of faithful, moral teachers—but all that fidelity and morality is conservative, reactionary. It is not revolutionary. Therefore the teacher stands watching; he seems to have nothing in his hands; he has become merely an instrument of society.
And across the world—in India too and everywhere—politicians have cut teachers off from life. They say the teacher should not concern himself with life, not with politics. The teacher should do his work within the school walls. Politicians are very clever. They know that if the teacher becomes actively concerned about life, the teacher has such a great power in his hands that he will transform the entire society. Therefore with great cunning they have torn teachers away from life; and they have convinced teachers that you have nothing to do with life. Your great, noble work is to keep teaching children that two and two make four—to keep explaining on the map where Timbuktu is—wherever Timbuktu may be! When on earth the possibility of man’s survival is diminishing, if the teacher silently watches this, I am not prepared to call him a teacher. The teacher’s responsibility is greater. He is the midwife of the new generations.
Socrates has said, defining the teacher: I call him a teacher who plays the role of a midwife in giving birth to a new soul.
Socrates spoke rightly. He was one of the most extraordinary teachers the world has known. He spoke truly: the teacher should play the role of a midwife. He should become a helper in the birth of a new soul. If you are not becoming that, if we are not becoming that, then we have no right to be called teachers. This little request I make.
You have listened to my words with such love and peace; I am greatly obliged. And in the end, I bow to the Divine seated within each of you. Kindly accept my pranam.