My beloved Atman! Just as an individual grows old, so do societies grow old. And just as an individual dies, so do societies and cultures die. An individual cannot refuse old age, nor can he refuse death. But a society, a culture, a civilization—if it chooses—can refuse to grow old, can refuse to die. Yet the society that refuses to die stops giving birth to a new life.
To refuse death is easy—but if new life ceases to come, a peculiar dead life begins. This has happened to this country. For long, our culture and civilization have stopped being born afresh. For thousands of years we have remained as we were. And if there have been any changes, they have come from the outside, not from within. If we have moved forward, it has been because others have pushed us—our own inner being has not called us forth. We have advanced by compulsion; our life-breath remains fettered to the past.
Ours is almost a dead society; the sprouts of new life ceased long ago. Yet we are neither sad nor troubled—we are, on the contrary, very pleased and consider ourselves greatly fortunate! We keep proclaiming that no civilization is older than ours. We keep proclaiming that no books are older than our books; no temples older than our temples. And it never occurs to us that this noisy insistence on antiquity is proof that we have stopped becoming new; otherwise why would we talk so much of the old?
One who retains the capacity to be new dissolves the old and becomes new every day. One who has lost the capacity to be new keeps singing the old songs, keeps reading the old stories—keeps carrying old names, old scriptures upon his head. But this entire load is a dead load, a dead weight—it crushes the intelligence and soul of a country; it destroys, it does not develop. That is why there is no nation on earth more desolate than we are today. Our desolation is like the state of an ancient ruin—a house long fallen into disrepair, dust settled thick, refuse accumulated. Such has our mind become.
Where the streams of new life are blocked, life becomes sad. And where the streams of new life stop, stench and filth also arise. Stop a river and it will rot and foul. So too the stream of India’s consciousness has been blocked; it stagnates, it decays. Hence, everywhere, on every side, there is stench.
It is not only that the lanes of your village are filled with garbage and filth. The condition of the whole country’s mind has become like the lanes of your village. But the lanes of the village can be seen; the lanes of the mind cannot be seen. And the village lanes—today or tomorrow—we will change; the world will not tolerate such roads. But the inner lanes, since they are invisible—who will change them, who will even notice? The danger is that the outer lanes will be repaired while the inner lanes will remain filthy. Then, even the outer repairs will not help much. New things have come into our country; new houses are being built; children are born new every day—but our mind remains old, utterly old. And our oldness is not the ordinary yesterday—it is millennia old.
Lift up the rules of our society and look: after Manu, we have scarcely moved forward. At least three and a half thousand years must have passed since Manu. The shudra whom Manu created is still alive today. And even today, to speak of abolishing the shudra is considered revolutionary! If to speak of erasing the shudra is seen as revolutionary, understand how strong the shudra remains. A rule made by one man three and a half thousand years ago still lives; it will not die, it will not end.
Who knows in what distant past of our history we fixed upon fate as the law—that man lives by fate. Humanity has transformed the entire earth; everything that was said to be fate, man has changed. He has altered his lifespan, conquered diseases, transformed almost everything—but India still lives with fate. Our fatalistic tendency has not changed. Even today you will see the sight of a university student paying four annas to a roadside astrologer to have his palm read. If a university student will show his palm, then what will become of this India? Sometimes he will even deny it; he will refuse to believe in such things—but when exams approach, the same student will stand with folded hands before Hanumanji’s temple.
Our consciousness is old. Outwardly we may become modern—the clothes have become new, the garments like those of the entire world. But inside we remain ancient. Our instruments are new, but the man is old. Everything is becoming new—but remember, we are not making it new; we are being forced by the world’s shove to appear new. Inside, where the world does not push, where no one comes to shatter us, we remain as old as ever.
I stayed once at a doctor’s house in Calcutta—an eminent surgeon, an FRCS, educated in Europe, greatly respected. One evening he was taking me to a meeting. We came out to the porch; his daughter sneezed. The doctor said to me, “Just a minute—let us wait; the girl sneezed.” I asked, “What is the connection between your daughter’s sneeze and my waiting? And you are a doctor—you know well the causes of a sneeze. You too would stop me?” He said, “I know the causes well enough; still, what harm is there in waiting? We can go in a minute.” I said, “The harm is immense. Your daughter’s sneeze is not the issue—the notion of stopping because she sneezed is the issue. That notion is to stop the nation’s very soul. The notion of stopping is dangerous. It is not a matter of a minute or an hour; the grave matter is that in the twentieth century we still think in such language. Then we shall stop—we cannot go forward. And if even a doctor thinks like this, the difficulty becomes profound.”
Our ways of thinking have become so rigid—iron-hard—that even shaking them is difficult. In truth, because of them we have stopped thinking altogether. For thousands of years we have even been taught: do not think. There is great opposition to thinking. The thinking person is not considered good—because wherever there is thinking, some kind of rebellion arises. Those who do not think become less human, more like sheep. One follows another. The one in front is walking—this alone becomes enough reason for me to walk. The one in front has the same reason—that another is walking ahead of him—and thus the whole crowd goes on.
If one were to enter the Indian mind and ask, “Why are you doing this?” there would be only one answer: “My father did the same.” Is that an answer? It is an insult not only to us but to our fathers as well. Enter the father’s mind and you will find the same answer; go back thousands of years and you will find the same. “Because it has been so, therefore we do so.”
Now the world knows well how rain falls. Never has rain fallen by yajnas, nor can it. The whole world knows that if water is not coming into a single tap, no amount of yajna can produce water from the spout—what then of bringing rain from the sky! If a well has dried up, no yajna can fill it—what then of drawing water from the clouds! Yet on the earth we are dragging down water from the sky. And there are countries that, where they do not want rain, chase away the clouds; and where they want rain, they bring the clouds.
But that can happen only when our old notions are broken. We think there is no need to disperse clouds. We think only a fire must be lit and some mantras recited. We think a fire must be lit and wheat and ghee must be offered. There is a shortage of wheat and ghee—we perform a yajna to call them forth, and into that very yajna we burn wheat and ghee. And they have never come—otherwise, after so many yajnas, we should have been the most prosperous society on earth.
In America you will not hear of any yajna, yet wealth has rained from the sky. In Russia, if anyone tried to perform a yajna they would send him to a madhouse—and yet Russia’s poverty has been erased. And we? We have performed yajna upon yajna for five thousand years. And no one is willing to ask: what madness is this? Even if a government—say, in Gujarat—declares that no yajna will be allowed, the reason it gives is not that a yajna is wrong, sinful, adharma. The reason they offer is: we do not have surplus wheat; we will not allow waste. They do not have the courage to speak plainly: we will not allow yajnas—wheat or no wheat. Even if we have wheat to burn, we shall not allow it. They lack even this courage. They say: ration is scarce, therefore do not burn wheat.
Those who conduct yajnas are clever—they will say, “We will do a yajna without wheat.” Then the yajna will continue—throw in some herbs, chant some mantras, find some other way—the yajna will go on. But even those who refuse lack strength in their reasons. They too do not speak straight: “Come and demonstrate in a laboratory what a yajna can do. You say a yajna brings world peace? If a single disturbed person is brought to peace by your yajna, that will suffice. Go to a madhouse and perform a yajna—show us how many madmen become sane, and we will believe. And where the whole world is insane, will your yajnas make it peaceful?” No—the false, the counterfeit remedy. The greatest harm is not that wheat is wasted—that is not the main issue. The greatest harm of clinging to a false remedy is that while we are entangled in it, the right remedy cannot be sought. That is the real difficulty.
If a man believes diseases can be cured by a talisman tied to his arm, then the science of medicine will not develop. The harm of the talisman itself is small—one man will die, ten will die. The far greater harm is that in such a country medical science will not develop. Medicine develops only when we enquire—“Not by talismans, not by shamans, not by priests, not by mantras—these do nothing. Let us discover what does; what is the cause of disease, whence does it arise? Let us break disease there, remove its cause.” Then perhaps disease can be eradicated.
Today in Russia, America, Sweden, Switzerland, the percentage of illness has fallen so low that never before has man been so healthy. The lifespan has increased beyond measure. In 1917, when the revolution came in Russia, the average lifespan was only twenty-three years. Today, Russia’s average lifespan is seventy-two. One could say: each year, the average climbed roughly a year. In Sweden and Switzerland, the average is eighty-two. And their scientists say: if we will it, there is no great difficulty in giving man an average lifespan of one hundred years. And the day the average is one hundred, there will be elders of two hundred and fifty. For even now, when in our country the average is around twenty-nine or thirty, one can still find an eighty-year-old. If at an average of thirty one can find ninety-year-olds—three times the average—then at an average of a hundred, three hundred-year-olds will be found. Even today in Russia there are over a thousand people above one hundred and fifty years of age.
The whole world keeps changing, but our frames are fixed. We say we lack wheat, we lack food, we lack clothing—and we speak in such a way as though nothing lies within our power. For five thousand years we have been hungry and naked. Our ways are such that we will remain hungry and naked for another five thousand years. The fault is neither of earth nor sky. The fault lies in us—in our modes of thinking.
After 1940, Russia burned wheat in its trains in place of coal—because coal seemed more precious and wheat cheaper; wheat can grow each year, coal takes millions of years to form—therefore coal is precious, do not burn it. On one patch of earth, a country burns wheat in its locomotives; on another, there is not even wheat to burn inside the stomach! One must think a little—what is the matter?
And it is not that Russia or America were always wealthy. In the last fifty or sixty years, wealth has been created; earlier they were as poor as we were. And note: the original inhabitants of America are still poor. So it is not a virtue of the soil of America.
A German thinker, Count Keyserling, returned from India and wrote an astonishing line in his book. Reading it, I was amazed. He wrote: “India is a rich country where poor people live.” I asked within: what has happened to this man? If the country is rich, how can poor people live there? And if poor people live there, what does it mean to call it a rich country? Then I understood his jest. He is saying: the country can be rich, but the minds, the hearts, the modes of thought of those who live there are poor—they can never be rich. If people like those of America were to live here, then in comparison America would become the poorer country.
We possess everything—except a thinking mind. For thousands of years our habit has not been to think, but to escape from thinking. The moment thinking is required, we want to evade. Any trick to avoid it, and we will run at once, hands folded, to a temple. We will not think, we will not enquire what is to be done.
I was recently in Bihar. Thousands of famines have occurred there. From the time of Buddha till now famines have recurred, yet the people of Bihar have done nothing. Beneath Bihar’s soil there is ample water, yet they have not dug wells. They wait for famine—and then they wait for alms—and go on living as before. When famine comes, they accept and ask for charity; when it passes, they return to their routine. When famine returns, the leaders of the land go begging for donations; when it passes, no one worries that the situation remains the same, that famine will return tomorrow. Nothing is changed.
A renowned economist wrote a book—its 1975 edition contains a terrifying prediction, which may well prove true. He wrote that between 1975 and 1980, a famine of such proportions could strike India that between one hundred and two hundred million people may die. He says: never in history has there been a famine as great as the one that may soon strike India.
But we will read this—and continue with what we were doing. “When 1978 arrives, we will see.” Then “God is with us”—we will pray to God, we will perform more yajnas, bigger yajnas. If God is not with us, at least his agents—the sadhus and sannyasins—are with us; we will pray to them. And we are praying to them. And they in turn keep advising us the same tired old things—things that have been suggested a thousand times and have borne no fruit. But we are not ready to think. When trouble arrives, it is the same gurus we find; to them we go again, to them we keep asking. We have never thought to think for ourselves about our situation.
And now we will have to think—otherwise not only will we remain poor and hungry, but our consciousness and soul may fall far behind those who have entered space. The gap may grow so vast that, within fifty years, the distance that now exists between us and the primitive tribal will become the distance between us and America, us and Russia, us and Europe.
Even today the world is frightened of us—this vast mass of beggars is so immense, it seems impossible to satiate it; and it refuses to do anything. Twenty years ago they thought: a little aid and things will set right. But with their aid we have been doing only one thing: producing more children. We have enlarged our problem. Such a danger now looms before them that if the conditions of the Eastern countries—especially of India—continue as they are—numbers increasing, poverty increasing, less food, less clothing—then the peace of the whole world is in danger. For such a vast sorrow cannot be borne on earth all at once.
But what are we doing?
If you look around at the issues of our life—pick up a newspaper—you will not find us thinking about any major issue of life. What do we think about? We think whether the waters of the Narmada belong to Madhya Pradesh or to Gujarat. Fools like us are hard to find. Our newspapers argue whether a district should be in Mysore or in Maharashtra—people will be shot. Whether a factory should be in Aurangabad or in Ahmednagar—people will be shot. The things we discuss are not issues; they are diseases. And the problems that stand before life with their mouths wide open—we do not even glance at them. Only when they seize us by the throat do we cry and wail. Then only one recourse remains—to pray to God. Because when we could have done something, that time we lose; and when nothing can be done, when we become helpless, then there is nothing left but prayer.
And remember: if God has ever listened to anyone, he has never listened to those who only pray. If he has listened, he has listened to those who even compel God—who do so much that God has to concede, “Do something.” If there is a God anywhere, he too listens to those who act.
Swami Ramatirtha once went to Japan. On the ship there was an old German, about ninety years of age—learning Chinese! To learn Chinese is difficult—perhaps no other language on earth is so difficult. There is a reason: Chinese has no alphabet, no A-B-C-D, no ka-kha-ga. It is pictorial—the language of images. For each word there is a symbol. If one wishes to write “quarrel” there is no word—only a picture: two women sitting under one roof. Two women under one roof means quarrel. A roof, and under its symbol two women—this is quarrel. In this way, one must learn at least a hundred thousand symbols even to know ordinary Chinese. This ninety-year-old was studying Chinese—gone mad! Ramatirtha felt the old man must be crazy. He would sit on the ship’s deck from morning on, studying Chinese, and not know when the sun set. Only when darkness gathered and his aged eyes tired would he go inside.
After two or three days Ramatirtha asked, “Do you know I have heard it takes at least ten years to learn Chinese? When will you learn? How old are you?” The old man said, “Age? God must be keeping that account; I do not indulge in such futile work. Where is the leisure from work?” Ramatirtha said, “Even so—it will take ten years to learn, and your chances of living are not great.” The old man said, “My ninety years of experience say that since the day I was born I could have died any day—yet I have kept deceiving death. Ninety years have passed; this increases my trust that perhaps I can live even more. But how old are you?”
Ramatirtha was embarrassed; he was only thirty. “I am thirty.” The old man said, “Son, this is why your country has grown old—you do nothing; you only wait for death. Then, of course, you will grow old.”
Then he added, “My feeling is—if there is a God anywhere, seeing an old man labour so much, he will show some compassion; and if there is no God, then let go of that worry. And if he is somewhere, seeing this old man toil like a child, he will think to grant him more and more years.” And I heard—astonishingly—that the old man lived fifteen more years. He not only learned Chinese and read Chinese books—he even wrote a book in Chinese. And Ramatirtha passed away two years later. That man lived to one hundred and five.
I feel his vibrant outlook contributed greatly to his longevity. One who struggles so for life—if there is a God, he will surely take note.
In Russia they have transformed deserts into fields; here our fields are slowly becoming deserts. Where nothing ever grew, they have made things grow; where a drop of water never reached, they have brought rivers; where there was nothing, they have created abundance; where yesterday there was only desert and man had not yet entered, they have built beautiful villages. If there is a God anywhere, he must listen to the prayer of their labour.
Our prayer without labour has never been heard—so far it has not been heard. Even now we continue with prayer devoid of labour. No—such impotent prayers can never be heard. But we are not ready to think. We have stopped thinking. Even our children no longer think. We simply move like a crowd of the blind.
Is this right?
This is the question I ask everywhere in the land: is this right? Is it beneficial that we go on like the blind—or shall we, regarding life, make some decisions, make some effort to make life beautiful?
No—we have devised such interpretations that the very question of making life beautiful is cancelled. We have invented tricks by which there is no need to think, no need to work, no need to change anything. If a man is poor we say: it is his fate. If a man is rich: it is his fate. Then we must accept that in India all are born ill-fated, and in America God shows special grace—only the fortunate are born there. If a man is poor we say he must have sinned in his past lives; if a man is rich, he must have earned merit in past lives. Then it follows that God considers our land a kind of hell—he sends all sinners here. Does this seem right—that all sinners are born here and all the meritorious elsewhere?
No—this interpretation is wrong. The truth is: to eradicate poverty we would have to think—and we have avoided it. We have found an explanation: the poor man is poor because of past lives. Now there is no need to think—the matter is finished. Improve your next birth; nothing can be done in this one—it is fixed by the last. We throw the matter back—and we throw it forward. And today? Today we escape from both thought and action.
Such suicidal notions must be dropped. I do not say: what I say is the truth. I say: nothing becomes true because someone says it. We should prepare for collective thinking, revive each question, place all the nation’s issues squarely before it—and do not mould the coming generations into belief. Enough of belief—give them momentum in the process of enquiry.
Even in school and college our method of teaching is such that students do not return as thinkers. They learn science, but the structure of their mind remains old. They grasp even science like the blind. They do not know that to grasp science blindly is dangerous—because science changes every day. By the time we graduate, the truth we learned has already changed. There is no need to clutch blindly—there is need to think, to enquire, so that I can do something to address life directly.
If a great nation begins to think—ours is vast—if the process of enquiry becomes free here, we could perhaps change life on every front. There is no longer any need to remain poor; only ignorance keeps us poor. There is no need to suffer so many diseases; only ignorance sustains them. There is no need to make the earth a hell—science has released such powers that, if our minds are thoughtful, we can use them to make the earth a paradise.
But this is not happening because our minds are old and their structure is closed. All minds are shut as though a man had sealed all doors and windows and hidden inside his house—opening none to the sun or to the winds. Inside, he rots and dies. So are we—closed.
No—what is needed is an open mind—open on all sides. We need doubt regarding the Gita, doubt regarding the Ramayana—doubt regarding Krishna, Gandhi, Buddha, Mahavira. Only thus will the mind open, only thus be free—only then will we begin to think. But we say, “Mahavira was omniscient; what he knew is true forever. What is written in our book about the moon is correct.” Even Shankaracharya is saying: first of all, people never went to the moon—this is a false rumour. Second, “If they did go, then that is not the moon described in our scriptures—the real moon is much further away.” See how tightly we have locked our minds!
An old woman came and said, “Have you heard what Shankaracharya has said?” I said, “I have—and if this nation has any sense, the minds of such people should be treated.” She said, “What are you saying? He is our jagatguru—what he says is right.” I said, “It seems right to you because your mind is as closed as his. But in the world this will not stand. Today or tomorrow he will be proven mad—and the whole flock behind him will be proven mad. Yet we will go on.”
I was in Patna recently; Shankaracharya was with me on the same platform. He declared there: there is no need to educate women. Why? Because, he said, Hindu dharma has given such respect to women that further education is unnecessary. He even said—people were listening, and no one refuted him—“In the West if a woman wants to be a doctor, she must study medicine. Our Hindu dharma is so great—just marry a doctor and the woman becomes a doctoress! There is no need to study.” And the women present clapped and praised, delighted that in India one becomes a doctoress so easily—no need to study; being a doctor’s wife is enough.
If we think in this manner—are we thinking at all? We are not.
We keep listening to such things—and keep acting in such ways—that the whole world laughs at us. The world thinks: what has happened to this nation? Perhaps its mind rusted long ago and it has stopped thinking. And it happens thus: if you leave a leg unused for two years, bind it—then it will no longer walk. The leg is not at fault. If a man sits in darkness for two years, keeps his eyes closed—then they will not open to the light; if forced open, they will shut again. The eyes will lose the capacity to see; light will terrify them. And if a people—a race, a society—stop thinking for thousands of years, then thinking itself ends.
What we do is what endures; what we do grows sharp, becomes refined, develops. What we do not do remains undeveloped. We have not thought—rust has gathered on thought. Therefore we cannot think about anything. We stand unarmed, helpless, in the current of life—wherever a shove comes, we go. If slavery comes, we become slaves; if freedom comes, we become free—this freedom too we accept as if it were slavery. Nothing happens within us. If tomorrow slavery returns, we will become slaves again—it will not trouble us. If illness comes, “All right.” If poverty comes, “All right.” If famine, “All right.” If floods, “All right.” Whatever happens, we accept.
Are we human—or have we become like machines to which things happen and we merely watch? There is no struggle in us against life; there is no eagerness to transform life. Has our entire soul been lost? Yet we go on speaking of the soul—as though the soul were some ready-made commodity: you go to the market and purchase it, or read a book and find it, or chant “Ram Ram” and it descends. Atman is available only to those who wrestle with life’s ugliness, its sorrow, its ignorance and darkness—only to them is Atman revealed.
Atman is the fruit of struggle.
When the truth is lost, talk remains. Ask a poor man and you will always find him talking of wealth. Ask a sick man and you will always find him talking of health. None but the sick talk of health. The healthy live—they have no leisure to talk. The sick sit and talk of health—study naturopathy, read what health is, how to be healthy, the definition of health. Having lost health, they spend time defining it. The healthy live health; they have no time to read books about it. When the soul is lost, the whole country begins to talk of the soul. When the Divine is lost, talk of the Divine begins.
Whatever is lost—that is what is talked about.
But we think: because we talk so much of the soul, we are spiritual. No—we are not spiritual at all. We have done nothing to attain the soul; we have not enquired, not struggled, not accepted any challenge. Without challenge, how can Atman be born? We only talk.
One small incident—and I will conclude.
A friend sent me a magazine from America—a humorous article in it. The writer joked about the peoples of the world. He wrote: if you give liquor to an Englishman, he becomes utterly silent—then it is difficult to get even a word out of him. In truth, even without liquor the Englishman is quiet; travel with him in a train and for twenty-four hours he will not acknowledge that you exist. If you give liquor to a Frenchman, he begins to sing and dance; he is always ready to sing and dance. Give liquor to a Dutchman and he falls upon food; as it is, once a Dutchman sits to eat, it is not easy to raise him from the table.
There were such quips about people everywhere—but India was missing. My friend wrote from America asking: “There is nothing about Indians here. Tell me—if an Indian is given liquor, what will he do?” I said: the answer is obvious. If an Indian is given liquor, he will start giving sermons—he will immediately begin to talk of Atman-Paramatman. And because liquor is not easily available due to poverty, we have to give such sermons without it. Since liquor is hard to get, we must speak of Atman-Paramatman even without it. We are a people who only talk—we have stopped doing; we have stopped living—because we have stopped thinking.
The deepest element of man’s soul is thought—the basis, the foundation—thinking. Man is man only because he thinks. If man too stops thinking, he becomes like the animals. In India the condition has become almost such. In a small village you will see: a man sleeping there, a buffalo tied there, a cow standing there, an ox there—the man also asleep there. Look carefully and you will find a great resemblance—no fundamental difference between the man and the cow or ox. All stand together; all live silently. Those who make the cow into a mother certainly cannot be more than the cow’s sons.
By abandoning thought we have abandoned the human pilgrimage of struggle; we stand like animals—no development, no movement, nowhere to go—silent, static and dead. This must not go on. It cannot go on; it is not right that it go on. We must break it. No crowd is needed for this. If each person begins to think for himself, a thousand things will begin to break. When he thinks, he may untie his talisman and throw it away: “What foolishness have I bound to myself?” He will ask: “If red paint is smeared on a stone, does it become Hanumanji?” He will ask: “Can the quarrel of temple and mosque be the quarrel of good men?” He will ask. A thousand questions will arise—and when questions arise, answers must be sought. If answers are not found, then we must abandon the false; if answers are found, the true will be in our hands.
Thinking is a difficult process—painful, arduous, inconvenient. Not thinking is very convenient—someone else thinks for us, we accept it, we do nothing. We have become accustomed to getting everything done by others—even from those who were done with long ago.
How long has it been since Krishna? He once thought; we go on living on his borrowed thinking. We read the Gita every day. Even our greatest saints search only in the Gita for answers. Life raises a question—he opens the Gita; he asks Krishna to answer. Has Krishna completed all thinking for us? Is our work now only to borrow and live—on loan? If we do not think, Krishna will never be born within us. Reading the Gita does not give birth to Krishna; one who thinks with the same intensity as Krishna becomes available to the same consciousness, the same Atman.
I say this in the hope that somewhere it strikes you, and you begin to think. I do not say: believe me. Whoever says “Believe me” does not strengthen thinking; he cuts it at the root. Do not believe anyone. We have believed many for far too long. Seek on your own at least once—and take this resolve for life: if I have no thought of my own, I have lived in vain. Before I die, may I have at least something of my own—so that standing before God I can say, “This too I thought, this too I lived; I am not a man on loan.” Otherwise, when we stand before God, we will have nothing but borrowings. God will ask, “What is your own? Did you think anything yourself? Did you live anything yourself? How much consciousness did you develop?” We will say, “No—we read the Gita and memorized the Ramayana. We followed gurus, walked behind saints. Why should we think? Our country has many saints—they do everything.” God will say, “I asked those saints too—they were walking behind other saints. You kept walking behind—did you never think yourself?”
He who does not think for himself never becomes himself. He does not receive Being; he does not become an individual. And he who has avoided becoming an individual—how will he be religious? How will he know truth? How will he enter the temple of the Divine? The first condition for entry is to be an individual. You must take something of your own to offer—if surrender is asked, there must be something to surrender.
Ask yourself: what do I have that is mine to give? Seek—think—and perhaps a spring will burst forth. If a few people in this land begin to think, its antiquity will vanish, a new soul will be born; its inertia will break, consciousness will begin to develop. If the stream opens, perhaps we will again be able to stand firmly upon the earth. Others have set foot on the moon—and we are wobbling here on earth, ready to fall. They stand firm on the moon—and we? We cannot even stand on the earth where we have stood for thousands of years; our feet are unsteady—any moment we can fall. This does not befit us. But we are clever—we do not look at it. We keep chanting the old epic: we are jagatguru—we are the world’s leaders; the whole world looks to us. No one is looking at anyone—each looks to himself. Do not remain in the illusion that the world is looking to us—no one is. No one has the leisure, no one has the need. No one waits for us to come and give him enlightenment.
Our condition proclaims that we lie buried under the deepest layers of ignorance—who will come to learn from us? We ourselves are the proof. What do we have to give? Those who must beg for bread—what else can they give?
Let us not deceive ourselves with falsehoods. Let us understand the situation—let us think. At least to the new children, the new generation, the youth, the students I say: think. Do not accept your father’s word; do not accept your teacher’s word—think. If it seems right, accept it; if not, fight—do not accept.
At the Sorbonne in France, students put up a large placard. Efforts were made to remove it, but they refused. The placard is small, but marvellous. It reads: “Professors, you are old.” It hangs on the front of the great building. Much effort, much quarrel—and the students said, “We will not remove it. Each professor should read it while entering: you are old—and please take care not to make us old.” So think a little.
You have listened to me with such peace and love—I am deeply obliged. In the end, I bow to the Paramatman seated within each of you. Please accept my pranam.
Osho's Commentary
Just as an individual grows old, so do societies grow old. And just as an individual dies, so do societies and cultures die. An individual cannot refuse old age, nor can he refuse death. But a society, a culture, a civilization—if it chooses—can refuse to grow old, can refuse to die. Yet the society that refuses to die stops giving birth to a new life.
To refuse death is easy—but if new life ceases to come, a peculiar dead life begins. This has happened to this country. For long, our culture and civilization have stopped being born afresh. For thousands of years we have remained as we were. And if there have been any changes, they have come from the outside, not from within. If we have moved forward, it has been because others have pushed us—our own inner being has not called us forth. We have advanced by compulsion; our life-breath remains fettered to the past.
Ours is almost a dead society; the sprouts of new life ceased long ago. Yet we are neither sad nor troubled—we are, on the contrary, very pleased and consider ourselves greatly fortunate! We keep proclaiming that no civilization is older than ours. We keep proclaiming that no books are older than our books; no temples older than our temples. And it never occurs to us that this noisy insistence on antiquity is proof that we have stopped becoming new; otherwise why would we talk so much of the old?
One who retains the capacity to be new dissolves the old and becomes new every day. One who has lost the capacity to be new keeps singing the old songs, keeps reading the old stories—keeps carrying old names, old scriptures upon his head. But this entire load is a dead load, a dead weight—it crushes the intelligence and soul of a country; it destroys, it does not develop. That is why there is no nation on earth more desolate than we are today. Our desolation is like the state of an ancient ruin—a house long fallen into disrepair, dust settled thick, refuse accumulated. Such has our mind become.
Where the streams of new life are blocked, life becomes sad. And where the streams of new life stop, stench and filth also arise. Stop a river and it will rot and foul. So too the stream of India’s consciousness has been blocked; it stagnates, it decays. Hence, everywhere, on every side, there is stench.
It is not only that the lanes of your village are filled with garbage and filth. The condition of the whole country’s mind has become like the lanes of your village. But the lanes of the village can be seen; the lanes of the mind cannot be seen. And the village lanes—today or tomorrow—we will change; the world will not tolerate such roads. But the inner lanes, since they are invisible—who will change them, who will even notice? The danger is that the outer lanes will be repaired while the inner lanes will remain filthy. Then, even the outer repairs will not help much. New things have come into our country; new houses are being built; children are born new every day—but our mind remains old, utterly old. And our oldness is not the ordinary yesterday—it is millennia old.
Lift up the rules of our society and look: after Manu, we have scarcely moved forward. At least three and a half thousand years must have passed since Manu. The shudra whom Manu created is still alive today. And even today, to speak of abolishing the shudra is considered revolutionary! If to speak of erasing the shudra is seen as revolutionary, understand how strong the shudra remains. A rule made by one man three and a half thousand years ago still lives; it will not die, it will not end.
Who knows in what distant past of our history we fixed upon fate as the law—that man lives by fate. Humanity has transformed the entire earth; everything that was said to be fate, man has changed. He has altered his lifespan, conquered diseases, transformed almost everything—but India still lives with fate. Our fatalistic tendency has not changed. Even today you will see the sight of a university student paying four annas to a roadside astrologer to have his palm read. If a university student will show his palm, then what will become of this India? Sometimes he will even deny it; he will refuse to believe in such things—but when exams approach, the same student will stand with folded hands before Hanumanji’s temple.
Our consciousness is old. Outwardly we may become modern—the clothes have become new, the garments like those of the entire world. But inside we remain ancient. Our instruments are new, but the man is old. Everything is becoming new—but remember, we are not making it new; we are being forced by the world’s shove to appear new. Inside, where the world does not push, where no one comes to shatter us, we remain as old as ever.
I stayed once at a doctor’s house in Calcutta—an eminent surgeon, an FRCS, educated in Europe, greatly respected. One evening he was taking me to a meeting. We came out to the porch; his daughter sneezed. The doctor said to me, “Just a minute—let us wait; the girl sneezed.” I asked, “What is the connection between your daughter’s sneeze and my waiting? And you are a doctor—you know well the causes of a sneeze. You too would stop me?” He said, “I know the causes well enough; still, what harm is there in waiting? We can go in a minute.” I said, “The harm is immense. Your daughter’s sneeze is not the issue—the notion of stopping because she sneezed is the issue. That notion is to stop the nation’s very soul. The notion of stopping is dangerous. It is not a matter of a minute or an hour; the grave matter is that in the twentieth century we still think in such language. Then we shall stop—we cannot go forward. And if even a doctor thinks like this, the difficulty becomes profound.”
Our ways of thinking have become so rigid—iron-hard—that even shaking them is difficult. In truth, because of them we have stopped thinking altogether. For thousands of years we have even been taught: do not think. There is great opposition to thinking. The thinking person is not considered good—because wherever there is thinking, some kind of rebellion arises. Those who do not think become less human, more like sheep. One follows another. The one in front is walking—this alone becomes enough reason for me to walk. The one in front has the same reason—that another is walking ahead of him—and thus the whole crowd goes on.
If one were to enter the Indian mind and ask, “Why are you doing this?” there would be only one answer: “My father did the same.” Is that an answer? It is an insult not only to us but to our fathers as well. Enter the father’s mind and you will find the same answer; go back thousands of years and you will find the same. “Because it has been so, therefore we do so.”
Now the world knows well how rain falls. Never has rain fallen by yajnas, nor can it. The whole world knows that if water is not coming into a single tap, no amount of yajna can produce water from the spout—what then of bringing rain from the sky! If a well has dried up, no yajna can fill it—what then of drawing water from the clouds! Yet on the earth we are dragging down water from the sky. And there are countries that, where they do not want rain, chase away the clouds; and where they want rain, they bring the clouds.
But that can happen only when our old notions are broken. We think there is no need to disperse clouds. We think only a fire must be lit and some mantras recited. We think a fire must be lit and wheat and ghee must be offered. There is a shortage of wheat and ghee—we perform a yajna to call them forth, and into that very yajna we burn wheat and ghee. And they have never come—otherwise, after so many yajnas, we should have been the most prosperous society on earth.
In America you will not hear of any yajna, yet wealth has rained from the sky. In Russia, if anyone tried to perform a yajna they would send him to a madhouse—and yet Russia’s poverty has been erased. And we? We have performed yajna upon yajna for five thousand years. And no one is willing to ask: what madness is this? Even if a government—say, in Gujarat—declares that no yajna will be allowed, the reason it gives is not that a yajna is wrong, sinful, adharma. The reason they offer is: we do not have surplus wheat; we will not allow waste. They do not have the courage to speak plainly: we will not allow yajnas—wheat or no wheat. Even if we have wheat to burn, we shall not allow it. They lack even this courage. They say: ration is scarce, therefore do not burn wheat.
Those who conduct yajnas are clever—they will say, “We will do a yajna without wheat.” Then the yajna will continue—throw in some herbs, chant some mantras, find some other way—the yajna will go on. But even those who refuse lack strength in their reasons. They too do not speak straight: “Come and demonstrate in a laboratory what a yajna can do. You say a yajna brings world peace? If a single disturbed person is brought to peace by your yajna, that will suffice. Go to a madhouse and perform a yajna—show us how many madmen become sane, and we will believe. And where the whole world is insane, will your yajnas make it peaceful?” No—the false, the counterfeit remedy. The greatest harm is not that wheat is wasted—that is not the main issue. The greatest harm of clinging to a false remedy is that while we are entangled in it, the right remedy cannot be sought. That is the real difficulty.
If a man believes diseases can be cured by a talisman tied to his arm, then the science of medicine will not develop. The harm of the talisman itself is small—one man will die, ten will die. The far greater harm is that in such a country medical science will not develop. Medicine develops only when we enquire—“Not by talismans, not by shamans, not by priests, not by mantras—these do nothing. Let us discover what does; what is the cause of disease, whence does it arise? Let us break disease there, remove its cause.” Then perhaps disease can be eradicated.
Today in Russia, America, Sweden, Switzerland, the percentage of illness has fallen so low that never before has man been so healthy. The lifespan has increased beyond measure. In 1917, when the revolution came in Russia, the average lifespan was only twenty-three years. Today, Russia’s average lifespan is seventy-two. One could say: each year, the average climbed roughly a year. In Sweden and Switzerland, the average is eighty-two. And their scientists say: if we will it, there is no great difficulty in giving man an average lifespan of one hundred years. And the day the average is one hundred, there will be elders of two hundred and fifty. For even now, when in our country the average is around twenty-nine or thirty, one can still find an eighty-year-old. If at an average of thirty one can find ninety-year-olds—three times the average—then at an average of a hundred, three hundred-year-olds will be found. Even today in Russia there are over a thousand people above one hundred and fifty years of age.
The whole world keeps changing, but our frames are fixed. We say we lack wheat, we lack food, we lack clothing—and we speak in such a way as though nothing lies within our power. For five thousand years we have been hungry and naked. Our ways are such that we will remain hungry and naked for another five thousand years. The fault is neither of earth nor sky. The fault lies in us—in our modes of thinking.
After 1940, Russia burned wheat in its trains in place of coal—because coal seemed more precious and wheat cheaper; wheat can grow each year, coal takes millions of years to form—therefore coal is precious, do not burn it. On one patch of earth, a country burns wheat in its locomotives; on another, there is not even wheat to burn inside the stomach! One must think a little—what is the matter?
And it is not that Russia or America were always wealthy. In the last fifty or sixty years, wealth has been created; earlier they were as poor as we were. And note: the original inhabitants of America are still poor. So it is not a virtue of the soil of America.
A German thinker, Count Keyserling, returned from India and wrote an astonishing line in his book. Reading it, I was amazed. He wrote: “India is a rich country where poor people live.” I asked within: what has happened to this man? If the country is rich, how can poor people live there? And if poor people live there, what does it mean to call it a rich country? Then I understood his jest. He is saying: the country can be rich, but the minds, the hearts, the modes of thought of those who live there are poor—they can never be rich. If people like those of America were to live here, then in comparison America would become the poorer country.
We possess everything—except a thinking mind. For thousands of years our habit has not been to think, but to escape from thinking. The moment thinking is required, we want to evade. Any trick to avoid it, and we will run at once, hands folded, to a temple. We will not think, we will not enquire what is to be done.
I was recently in Bihar. Thousands of famines have occurred there. From the time of Buddha till now famines have recurred, yet the people of Bihar have done nothing. Beneath Bihar’s soil there is ample water, yet they have not dug wells. They wait for famine—and then they wait for alms—and go on living as before. When famine comes, they accept and ask for charity; when it passes, they return to their routine. When famine returns, the leaders of the land go begging for donations; when it passes, no one worries that the situation remains the same, that famine will return tomorrow. Nothing is changed.
A renowned economist wrote a book—its 1975 edition contains a terrifying prediction, which may well prove true. He wrote that between 1975 and 1980, a famine of such proportions could strike India that between one hundred and two hundred million people may die. He says: never in history has there been a famine as great as the one that may soon strike India.
But we will read this—and continue with what we were doing. “When 1978 arrives, we will see.” Then “God is with us”—we will pray to God, we will perform more yajnas, bigger yajnas. If God is not with us, at least his agents—the sadhus and sannyasins—are with us; we will pray to them. And we are praying to them. And they in turn keep advising us the same tired old things—things that have been suggested a thousand times and have borne no fruit. But we are not ready to think. When trouble arrives, it is the same gurus we find; to them we go again, to them we keep asking. We have never thought to think for ourselves about our situation.
And now we will have to think—otherwise not only will we remain poor and hungry, but our consciousness and soul may fall far behind those who have entered space. The gap may grow so vast that, within fifty years, the distance that now exists between us and the primitive tribal will become the distance between us and America, us and Russia, us and Europe.
Even today the world is frightened of us—this vast mass of beggars is so immense, it seems impossible to satiate it; and it refuses to do anything. Twenty years ago they thought: a little aid and things will set right. But with their aid we have been doing only one thing: producing more children. We have enlarged our problem. Such a danger now looms before them that if the conditions of the Eastern countries—especially of India—continue as they are—numbers increasing, poverty increasing, less food, less clothing—then the peace of the whole world is in danger. For such a vast sorrow cannot be borne on earth all at once.
But what are we doing?
If you look around at the issues of our life—pick up a newspaper—you will not find us thinking about any major issue of life. What do we think about? We think whether the waters of the Narmada belong to Madhya Pradesh or to Gujarat. Fools like us are hard to find. Our newspapers argue whether a district should be in Mysore or in Maharashtra—people will be shot. Whether a factory should be in Aurangabad or in Ahmednagar—people will be shot. The things we discuss are not issues; they are diseases. And the problems that stand before life with their mouths wide open—we do not even glance at them. Only when they seize us by the throat do we cry and wail. Then only one recourse remains—to pray to God. Because when we could have done something, that time we lose; and when nothing can be done, when we become helpless, then there is nothing left but prayer.
And remember: if God has ever listened to anyone, he has never listened to those who only pray. If he has listened, he has listened to those who even compel God—who do so much that God has to concede, “Do something.” If there is a God anywhere, he too listens to those who act.
Swami Ramatirtha once went to Japan. On the ship there was an old German, about ninety years of age—learning Chinese! To learn Chinese is difficult—perhaps no other language on earth is so difficult. There is a reason: Chinese has no alphabet, no A-B-C-D, no ka-kha-ga. It is pictorial—the language of images. For each word there is a symbol. If one wishes to write “quarrel” there is no word—only a picture: two women sitting under one roof. Two women under one roof means quarrel. A roof, and under its symbol two women—this is quarrel. In this way, one must learn at least a hundred thousand symbols even to know ordinary Chinese. This ninety-year-old was studying Chinese—gone mad! Ramatirtha felt the old man must be crazy. He would sit on the ship’s deck from morning on, studying Chinese, and not know when the sun set. Only when darkness gathered and his aged eyes tired would he go inside.
After two or three days Ramatirtha asked, “Do you know I have heard it takes at least ten years to learn Chinese? When will you learn? How old are you?” The old man said, “Age? God must be keeping that account; I do not indulge in such futile work. Where is the leisure from work?” Ramatirtha said, “Even so—it will take ten years to learn, and your chances of living are not great.” The old man said, “My ninety years of experience say that since the day I was born I could have died any day—yet I have kept deceiving death. Ninety years have passed; this increases my trust that perhaps I can live even more. But how old are you?”
Ramatirtha was embarrassed; he was only thirty. “I am thirty.” The old man said, “Son, this is why your country has grown old—you do nothing; you only wait for death. Then, of course, you will grow old.”
Then he added, “My feeling is—if there is a God anywhere, seeing an old man labour so much, he will show some compassion; and if there is no God, then let go of that worry. And if he is somewhere, seeing this old man toil like a child, he will think to grant him more and more years.” And I heard—astonishingly—that the old man lived fifteen more years. He not only learned Chinese and read Chinese books—he even wrote a book in Chinese. And Ramatirtha passed away two years later. That man lived to one hundred and five.
I feel his vibrant outlook contributed greatly to his longevity. One who struggles so for life—if there is a God, he will surely take note.
In Russia they have transformed deserts into fields; here our fields are slowly becoming deserts. Where nothing ever grew, they have made things grow; where a drop of water never reached, they have brought rivers; where there was nothing, they have created abundance; where yesterday there was only desert and man had not yet entered, they have built beautiful villages. If there is a God anywhere, he must listen to the prayer of their labour.
Our prayer without labour has never been heard—so far it has not been heard. Even now we continue with prayer devoid of labour. No—such impotent prayers can never be heard. But we are not ready to think. We have stopped thinking. Even our children no longer think. We simply move like a crowd of the blind.
Is this right?
This is the question I ask everywhere in the land: is this right? Is it beneficial that we go on like the blind—or shall we, regarding life, make some decisions, make some effort to make life beautiful?
No—we have devised such interpretations that the very question of making life beautiful is cancelled. We have invented tricks by which there is no need to think, no need to work, no need to change anything. If a man is poor we say: it is his fate. If a man is rich: it is his fate. Then we must accept that in India all are born ill-fated, and in America God shows special grace—only the fortunate are born there. If a man is poor we say he must have sinned in his past lives; if a man is rich, he must have earned merit in past lives. Then it follows that God considers our land a kind of hell—he sends all sinners here. Does this seem right—that all sinners are born here and all the meritorious elsewhere?
No—this interpretation is wrong. The truth is: to eradicate poverty we would have to think—and we have avoided it. We have found an explanation: the poor man is poor because of past lives. Now there is no need to think—the matter is finished. Improve your next birth; nothing can be done in this one—it is fixed by the last. We throw the matter back—and we throw it forward. And today? Today we escape from both thought and action.
Such suicidal notions must be dropped. I do not say: what I say is the truth. I say: nothing becomes true because someone says it. We should prepare for collective thinking, revive each question, place all the nation’s issues squarely before it—and do not mould the coming generations into belief. Enough of belief—give them momentum in the process of enquiry.
Even in school and college our method of teaching is such that students do not return as thinkers. They learn science, but the structure of their mind remains old. They grasp even science like the blind. They do not know that to grasp science blindly is dangerous—because science changes every day. By the time we graduate, the truth we learned has already changed. There is no need to clutch blindly—there is need to think, to enquire, so that I can do something to address life directly.
If a great nation begins to think—ours is vast—if the process of enquiry becomes free here, we could perhaps change life on every front. There is no longer any need to remain poor; only ignorance keeps us poor. There is no need to suffer so many diseases; only ignorance sustains them. There is no need to make the earth a hell—science has released such powers that, if our minds are thoughtful, we can use them to make the earth a paradise.
But this is not happening because our minds are old and their structure is closed. All minds are shut as though a man had sealed all doors and windows and hidden inside his house—opening none to the sun or to the winds. Inside, he rots and dies. So are we—closed.
No—what is needed is an open mind—open on all sides. We need doubt regarding the Gita, doubt regarding the Ramayana—doubt regarding Krishna, Gandhi, Buddha, Mahavira. Only thus will the mind open, only thus be free—only then will we begin to think. But we say, “Mahavira was omniscient; what he knew is true forever. What is written in our book about the moon is correct.” Even Shankaracharya is saying: first of all, people never went to the moon—this is a false rumour. Second, “If they did go, then that is not the moon described in our scriptures—the real moon is much further away.” See how tightly we have locked our minds!
An old woman came and said, “Have you heard what Shankaracharya has said?” I said, “I have—and if this nation has any sense, the minds of such people should be treated.” She said, “What are you saying? He is our jagatguru—what he says is right.” I said, “It seems right to you because your mind is as closed as his. But in the world this will not stand. Today or tomorrow he will be proven mad—and the whole flock behind him will be proven mad. Yet we will go on.”
I was in Patna recently; Shankaracharya was with me on the same platform. He declared there: there is no need to educate women. Why? Because, he said, Hindu dharma has given such respect to women that further education is unnecessary. He even said—people were listening, and no one refuted him—“In the West if a woman wants to be a doctor, she must study medicine. Our Hindu dharma is so great—just marry a doctor and the woman becomes a doctoress! There is no need to study.” And the women present clapped and praised, delighted that in India one becomes a doctoress so easily—no need to study; being a doctor’s wife is enough.
If we think in this manner—are we thinking at all? We are not.
We keep listening to such things—and keep acting in such ways—that the whole world laughs at us. The world thinks: what has happened to this nation? Perhaps its mind rusted long ago and it has stopped thinking. And it happens thus: if you leave a leg unused for two years, bind it—then it will no longer walk. The leg is not at fault. If a man sits in darkness for two years, keeps his eyes closed—then they will not open to the light; if forced open, they will shut again. The eyes will lose the capacity to see; light will terrify them. And if a people—a race, a society—stop thinking for thousands of years, then thinking itself ends.
What we do is what endures; what we do grows sharp, becomes refined, develops. What we do not do remains undeveloped. We have not thought—rust has gathered on thought. Therefore we cannot think about anything. We stand unarmed, helpless, in the current of life—wherever a shove comes, we go. If slavery comes, we become slaves; if freedom comes, we become free—this freedom too we accept as if it were slavery. Nothing happens within us. If tomorrow slavery returns, we will become slaves again—it will not trouble us. If illness comes, “All right.” If poverty comes, “All right.” If famine, “All right.” If floods, “All right.” Whatever happens, we accept.
Are we human—or have we become like machines to which things happen and we merely watch? There is no struggle in us against life; there is no eagerness to transform life. Has our entire soul been lost? Yet we go on speaking of the soul—as though the soul were some ready-made commodity: you go to the market and purchase it, or read a book and find it, or chant “Ram Ram” and it descends. Atman is available only to those who wrestle with life’s ugliness, its sorrow, its ignorance and darkness—only to them is Atman revealed.
Atman is the fruit of struggle.
When the truth is lost, talk remains. Ask a poor man and you will always find him talking of wealth. Ask a sick man and you will always find him talking of health. None but the sick talk of health. The healthy live—they have no leisure to talk. The sick sit and talk of health—study naturopathy, read what health is, how to be healthy, the definition of health. Having lost health, they spend time defining it. The healthy live health; they have no time to read books about it. When the soul is lost, the whole country begins to talk of the soul. When the Divine is lost, talk of the Divine begins.
Whatever is lost—that is what is talked about.
But we think: because we talk so much of the soul, we are spiritual. No—we are not spiritual at all. We have done nothing to attain the soul; we have not enquired, not struggled, not accepted any challenge. Without challenge, how can Atman be born? We only talk.
One small incident—and I will conclude.
A friend sent me a magazine from America—a humorous article in it. The writer joked about the peoples of the world. He wrote: if you give liquor to an Englishman, he becomes utterly silent—then it is difficult to get even a word out of him. In truth, even without liquor the Englishman is quiet; travel with him in a train and for twenty-four hours he will not acknowledge that you exist. If you give liquor to a Frenchman, he begins to sing and dance; he is always ready to sing and dance. Give liquor to a Dutchman and he falls upon food; as it is, once a Dutchman sits to eat, it is not easy to raise him from the table.
There were such quips about people everywhere—but India was missing. My friend wrote from America asking: “There is nothing about Indians here. Tell me—if an Indian is given liquor, what will he do?” I said: the answer is obvious. If an Indian is given liquor, he will start giving sermons—he will immediately begin to talk of Atman-Paramatman. And because liquor is not easily available due to poverty, we have to give such sermons without it. Since liquor is hard to get, we must speak of Atman-Paramatman even without it. We are a people who only talk—we have stopped doing; we have stopped living—because we have stopped thinking.
The deepest element of man’s soul is thought—the basis, the foundation—thinking. Man is man only because he thinks. If man too stops thinking, he becomes like the animals. In India the condition has become almost such. In a small village you will see: a man sleeping there, a buffalo tied there, a cow standing there, an ox there—the man also asleep there. Look carefully and you will find a great resemblance—no fundamental difference between the man and the cow or ox. All stand together; all live silently. Those who make the cow into a mother certainly cannot be more than the cow’s sons.
By abandoning thought we have abandoned the human pilgrimage of struggle; we stand like animals—no development, no movement, nowhere to go—silent, static and dead. This must not go on. It cannot go on; it is not right that it go on. We must break it. No crowd is needed for this. If each person begins to think for himself, a thousand things will begin to break. When he thinks, he may untie his talisman and throw it away: “What foolishness have I bound to myself?” He will ask: “If red paint is smeared on a stone, does it become Hanumanji?” He will ask: “Can the quarrel of temple and mosque be the quarrel of good men?” He will ask. A thousand questions will arise—and when questions arise, answers must be sought. If answers are not found, then we must abandon the false; if answers are found, the true will be in our hands.
Thinking is a difficult process—painful, arduous, inconvenient. Not thinking is very convenient—someone else thinks for us, we accept it, we do nothing. We have become accustomed to getting everything done by others—even from those who were done with long ago.
How long has it been since Krishna? He once thought; we go on living on his borrowed thinking. We read the Gita every day. Even our greatest saints search only in the Gita for answers. Life raises a question—he opens the Gita; he asks Krishna to answer. Has Krishna completed all thinking for us? Is our work now only to borrow and live—on loan? If we do not think, Krishna will never be born within us. Reading the Gita does not give birth to Krishna; one who thinks with the same intensity as Krishna becomes available to the same consciousness, the same Atman.
I say this in the hope that somewhere it strikes you, and you begin to think. I do not say: believe me. Whoever says “Believe me” does not strengthen thinking; he cuts it at the root. Do not believe anyone. We have believed many for far too long. Seek on your own at least once—and take this resolve for life: if I have no thought of my own, I have lived in vain. Before I die, may I have at least something of my own—so that standing before God I can say, “This too I thought, this too I lived; I am not a man on loan.” Otherwise, when we stand before God, we will have nothing but borrowings. God will ask, “What is your own? Did you think anything yourself? Did you live anything yourself? How much consciousness did you develop?” We will say, “No—we read the Gita and memorized the Ramayana. We followed gurus, walked behind saints. Why should we think? Our country has many saints—they do everything.” God will say, “I asked those saints too—they were walking behind other saints. You kept walking behind—did you never think yourself?”
He who does not think for himself never becomes himself. He does not receive Being; he does not become an individual. And he who has avoided becoming an individual—how will he be religious? How will he know truth? How will he enter the temple of the Divine? The first condition for entry is to be an individual. You must take something of your own to offer—if surrender is asked, there must be something to surrender.
Ask yourself: what do I have that is mine to give? Seek—think—and perhaps a spring will burst forth. If a few people in this land begin to think, its antiquity will vanish, a new soul will be born; its inertia will break, consciousness will begin to develop. If the stream opens, perhaps we will again be able to stand firmly upon the earth. Others have set foot on the moon—and we are wobbling here on earth, ready to fall. They stand firm on the moon—and we? We cannot even stand on the earth where we have stood for thousands of years; our feet are unsteady—any moment we can fall. This does not befit us. But we are clever—we do not look at it. We keep chanting the old epic: we are jagatguru—we are the world’s leaders; the whole world looks to us. No one is looking at anyone—each looks to himself. Do not remain in the illusion that the world is looking to us—no one is. No one has the leisure, no one has the need. No one waits for us to come and give him enlightenment.
Our condition proclaims that we lie buried under the deepest layers of ignorance—who will come to learn from us? We ourselves are the proof. What do we have to give? Those who must beg for bread—what else can they give?
Let us not deceive ourselves with falsehoods. Let us understand the situation—let us think. At least to the new children, the new generation, the youth, the students I say: think. Do not accept your father’s word; do not accept your teacher’s word—think. If it seems right, accept it; if not, fight—do not accept.
At the Sorbonne in France, students put up a large placard. Efforts were made to remove it, but they refused. The placard is small, but marvellous. It reads: “Professors, you are old.” It hangs on the front of the great building. Much effort, much quarrel—and the students said, “We will not remove it. Each professor should read it while entering: you are old—and please take care not to make us old.” So think a little.
You have listened to me with such peace and love—I am deeply obliged. In the end, I bow to the Paramatman seated within each of you. Please accept my pranam.