Shiksha Main Kranti #17
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Questions in this Discourse
Osho, as I understand your teaching, you want every individual to be aware and to understand life in its totality. But today’s society is very complicated. Our environment is so complicated that it does not allow us to live a free life, to love people, or to live in the state in which we could live a very clean and smooth life.
Society is as it is; only by accepting this truth can anything be done. Society is like this—but if a person can see that apart from a simple, loving, joyous, clean life there is no life at all; if he sees that without becoming loving he will remain deprived of life’s joy; if he sees that without becoming simple there is no path to reach truth—then he will drop worrying about what society is like. For what can society give him—what is it giving? Once he sees that in another direction—which society does not offer and in fact obstructs—there lies the doorway to his life’s bliss, he will begin to move toward it.
Certainly the social order will create obstacles. But for such a person they will not be obstacles; they will turn into challenges, and he will try to make steps out of them. The stones thrown onto his path will not stop him; by climbing upon them he will begin to reach greater heights. Things appear to be obstacles only so long as there remains in our mind a deep belief that this social arrangement is right, and there is not even a ray in our mind that life can be sought in another dimension. Only then do these seem like obstacles. In truth they are not obstacles; by calling them obstacles we only want an excuse to stop. Since there is no real urge in us to go, we take them as obstacles and halt.
Once a slight glimpse of that other side begins, no one in the world can stop anyone. In fact, the reverse happens: the person who moves in the direction of bliss and truth becomes so strong that society cannot stop him at all; rather, that person begins to reveal the power to carry along many parts of society with him. No one can stop him; he even kindles in many who are stuck the tune, the thirst, the rush to move with him.
We are weak only so long as we are not—until then, we are weak. Properly understood, our weakness before society is the sleep of our individuality; it is our absence. Our very absence is our weakness: we are not! As long as that is so, we are weak. The day we begin to be, on that day society is utterly weak—because then we have truth, and society has nothing but dreams; then we have love, and society has nothing under the name of love but false attachments; then we have light, and society has nothing but darkness.
So we have no reason to be defeated by society. We are defeated because we are not. The day we begin to be, society’s defeat is certain. And if enough individuals arise, society will crack at many places. If such an education arises that we begin to uproot society from its very foundations, then this society that seems so strong will be swept away, will evaporate—like the dewdrops that, when the morning sun rises, bid farewell in its light and vanish; you cannot even tell where they have gone. All night in the darkness they were there, seemingly strong—no one could erase them, we could not even imagine they would disappear. In the morning light they are gone.
An education that gives birth to love can break the structure of society on a large scale. But even a single person who enters the state of love shakes the very framework of society.
Certainly the social order will create obstacles. But for such a person they will not be obstacles; they will turn into challenges, and he will try to make steps out of them. The stones thrown onto his path will not stop him; by climbing upon them he will begin to reach greater heights. Things appear to be obstacles only so long as there remains in our mind a deep belief that this social arrangement is right, and there is not even a ray in our mind that life can be sought in another dimension. Only then do these seem like obstacles. In truth they are not obstacles; by calling them obstacles we only want an excuse to stop. Since there is no real urge in us to go, we take them as obstacles and halt.
Once a slight glimpse of that other side begins, no one in the world can stop anyone. In fact, the reverse happens: the person who moves in the direction of bliss and truth becomes so strong that society cannot stop him at all; rather, that person begins to reveal the power to carry along many parts of society with him. No one can stop him; he even kindles in many who are stuck the tune, the thirst, the rush to move with him.
We are weak only so long as we are not—until then, we are weak. Properly understood, our weakness before society is the sleep of our individuality; it is our absence. Our very absence is our weakness: we are not! As long as that is so, we are weak. The day we begin to be, on that day society is utterly weak—because then we have truth, and society has nothing but dreams; then we have love, and society has nothing under the name of love but false attachments; then we have light, and society has nothing but darkness.
So we have no reason to be defeated by society. We are defeated because we are not. The day we begin to be, society’s defeat is certain. And if enough individuals arise, society will crack at many places. If such an education arises that we begin to uproot society from its very foundations, then this society that seems so strong will be swept away, will evaporate—like the dewdrops that, when the morning sun rises, bid farewell in its light and vanish; you cannot even tell where they have gone. All night in the darkness they were there, seemingly strong—no one could erase them, we could not even imagine they would disappear. In the morning light they are gone.
An education that gives birth to love can break the structure of society on a large scale. But even a single person who enters the state of love shakes the very framework of society.
Osho, should I understand that not accepting a challenge is a kind of escapism?
Yes, not accepting challenges is a kind of escape, an escapism. And until we accept challenges, our real birth cannot happen. The second birth I speak of will happen only when we accept all challenges. We accept them, we fight with them, we face them; in that very facing, the soul is born within us. In an escapist, the soul is never going to be born, because he runs away from the very occasions where the soul takes birth.
Take a seed: the gardener plants it in the soil. If the seed gets frightened and says, “I am not going into the darkness of the earth; I was fine lying in a corner of the gardener’s house. I will not go into the earth, into the dark,” then the seed is refusing the challenge of descending into darkness—no sprout will ever arise in it. Or suppose the seed is placed in the soil; now the sprout has to burst forth. But the sprout is afraid: inside the seed it is safe; to come out is dangerous. Afraid of the danger, it retreats—and then no sprout will be born.
Life is a challenge at every moment, and the deeper we wish to descend into life’s experience, the greater the challenges that will stand before us. Each great challenge we must face with joy. Because only by facing it can we cross it, rise above it. Escapism in every direction does not allow the soul to be born in man. So the more escapist a country or a society is, the more soulless it becomes. And the strange thing is that the escapist too can talk about the soul; even under the name of the soul one can hide escapism. For example, a man is running away from life and says, “I am leaving life to search for God.” He does not know that it is in the challenges and struggles of life that the experience of God is to happen. Under the name of God he is merely finding a new escape; he will leave life and run away, and God will never be found—because if God is anywhere, he is in the midst of life’s struggles. One who passes through those struggles might reach that depth, that height, where God is known.
The difficulty with man is that he can give his escapes grand names that have nothing to do with their reality. He can rationalize his escapes, make them seem intelligent. But whether we rationalize it or not, whenever we run away from any question in life, we can never rise above that question. It will continue to stand exactly where it is, no matter where we flee—and it will follow us.
Until we grapple with a problem, no solution is found. The solution lies in grappling with the problem, in the struggle itself. And it is a most wondrous thing that the deeper one descends into struggle, the deeper a peace is attained. Peace is not in running to the opposite of struggle; peace is in entering the struggle in totality. The solution is not stored somewhere far away from problems, in some cave in the mountains. The solution is in entering the problem wholly. The one who runs will lose; through running, victory is not even possible. The one who fights, who wrestles—that one can win.
In all the questions of life—whether of love, of knowledge, or of day-to-day difficulties—do not run. The one who runs calls challenges “great obstacles” and says, “I don’t want to get entangled in them.” Don’t get entangled, then—but you will never be born. It is through these very obstacles—understand this well—that birth happens. Just as a child is born from the mother’s womb and the pain of labor is inevitable: the mother endures that pain to give birth, and the child too passes through a great agony. What is the comfort, ease, and peace of the womb compared to being thrown into the unknown, unfamiliar world outside! The mother undergoes pain to give birth, but the child’s pain is even greater, because much of the mother’s pain is physical; the child’s pain is deeply existential. He is entering a helpless world—until yesterday he had no concern about food, not even about breathing. The mother breathed, the mother fed, the mother made blood—she did everything. He was in complete bliss; he had nothing to do. Now he is being thrown into an unknown world where he will be separate from the mother, where day by day he will grow more separate, where gradually all responsibility will become his. If a child were given a choice to be born or not, perhaps one in a million would be born; the rest would insist on staying inside: “Too much hassle, too many challenges, too much struggle. I won’t go.” But because this birth is inevitable, no child can avoid it.
The other birth, the second birth I speak of, is not inevitable. If we wish to avoid it, we can. That is why very few become dvija, twice-born. Twice-born does not happen by putting on a sacred thread, nor by being born in a Brahmin household. Twice-born means: one who has taken a second birth. This second birth depends on our acceptance; we can avoid it if we choose. If we avoid it, we will remain confined to the level of the body; we will never reach the level of the soul. At the level of the body, birth was given to us by our parents; at the level of the soul, our own choice will decide whether we are born or not. And there, in front of all the difficulties and obstacles, we will be tempted to run. If we run, we avoid the birth—but then we also avoid life. If we grapple and fight, birth happens—and life happens.
Escapism is self-destruction; it is suicidal. And the more we want to escape, the bigger we make the obstacles. For the one who wants to fight, obstacles become very small. The decision to fight itself makes obstacles small. For the one who wants to run, obstacles grow huge. In truth, to enable his running, he himself magnifies the obstacles; and to enable his fighting, he reduces them.
In my view, the size of the obstacle depends on the size of your will to fight. If the resolve is small, the obstacle will be big; if the resolve is big, the obstacle will shrink. If the resolve is total, the obstacle will dissolve; nothing will remain of it. With total will, there is no obstacle at all—in other words, what we call an obstacle is nothing but a lack of will, a lack of resolve. Wherever we see an obstacle, know that our resolve is weak there. And the resolve is weak because we have not understood that only by fighting with obstacles does the movement and growth of life happen. Once it is understood that every struggle is an opportunity for growth—every kind of struggle is an opportunity—then the very question of running away will disappear.
Take a seed: the gardener plants it in the soil. If the seed gets frightened and says, “I am not going into the darkness of the earth; I was fine lying in a corner of the gardener’s house. I will not go into the earth, into the dark,” then the seed is refusing the challenge of descending into darkness—no sprout will ever arise in it. Or suppose the seed is placed in the soil; now the sprout has to burst forth. But the sprout is afraid: inside the seed it is safe; to come out is dangerous. Afraid of the danger, it retreats—and then no sprout will be born.
Life is a challenge at every moment, and the deeper we wish to descend into life’s experience, the greater the challenges that will stand before us. Each great challenge we must face with joy. Because only by facing it can we cross it, rise above it. Escapism in every direction does not allow the soul to be born in man. So the more escapist a country or a society is, the more soulless it becomes. And the strange thing is that the escapist too can talk about the soul; even under the name of the soul one can hide escapism. For example, a man is running away from life and says, “I am leaving life to search for God.” He does not know that it is in the challenges and struggles of life that the experience of God is to happen. Under the name of God he is merely finding a new escape; he will leave life and run away, and God will never be found—because if God is anywhere, he is in the midst of life’s struggles. One who passes through those struggles might reach that depth, that height, where God is known.
The difficulty with man is that he can give his escapes grand names that have nothing to do with their reality. He can rationalize his escapes, make them seem intelligent. But whether we rationalize it or not, whenever we run away from any question in life, we can never rise above that question. It will continue to stand exactly where it is, no matter where we flee—and it will follow us.
Until we grapple with a problem, no solution is found. The solution lies in grappling with the problem, in the struggle itself. And it is a most wondrous thing that the deeper one descends into struggle, the deeper a peace is attained. Peace is not in running to the opposite of struggle; peace is in entering the struggle in totality. The solution is not stored somewhere far away from problems, in some cave in the mountains. The solution is in entering the problem wholly. The one who runs will lose; through running, victory is not even possible. The one who fights, who wrestles—that one can win.
In all the questions of life—whether of love, of knowledge, or of day-to-day difficulties—do not run. The one who runs calls challenges “great obstacles” and says, “I don’t want to get entangled in them.” Don’t get entangled, then—but you will never be born. It is through these very obstacles—understand this well—that birth happens. Just as a child is born from the mother’s womb and the pain of labor is inevitable: the mother endures that pain to give birth, and the child too passes through a great agony. What is the comfort, ease, and peace of the womb compared to being thrown into the unknown, unfamiliar world outside! The mother undergoes pain to give birth, but the child’s pain is even greater, because much of the mother’s pain is physical; the child’s pain is deeply existential. He is entering a helpless world—until yesterday he had no concern about food, not even about breathing. The mother breathed, the mother fed, the mother made blood—she did everything. He was in complete bliss; he had nothing to do. Now he is being thrown into an unknown world where he will be separate from the mother, where day by day he will grow more separate, where gradually all responsibility will become his. If a child were given a choice to be born or not, perhaps one in a million would be born; the rest would insist on staying inside: “Too much hassle, too many challenges, too much struggle. I won’t go.” But because this birth is inevitable, no child can avoid it.
The other birth, the second birth I speak of, is not inevitable. If we wish to avoid it, we can. That is why very few become dvija, twice-born. Twice-born does not happen by putting on a sacred thread, nor by being born in a Brahmin household. Twice-born means: one who has taken a second birth. This second birth depends on our acceptance; we can avoid it if we choose. If we avoid it, we will remain confined to the level of the body; we will never reach the level of the soul. At the level of the body, birth was given to us by our parents; at the level of the soul, our own choice will decide whether we are born or not. And there, in front of all the difficulties and obstacles, we will be tempted to run. If we run, we avoid the birth—but then we also avoid life. If we grapple and fight, birth happens—and life happens.
Escapism is self-destruction; it is suicidal. And the more we want to escape, the bigger we make the obstacles. For the one who wants to fight, obstacles become very small. The decision to fight itself makes obstacles small. For the one who wants to run, obstacles grow huge. In truth, to enable his running, he himself magnifies the obstacles; and to enable his fighting, he reduces them.
In my view, the size of the obstacle depends on the size of your will to fight. If the resolve is small, the obstacle will be big; if the resolve is big, the obstacle will shrink. If the resolve is total, the obstacle will dissolve; nothing will remain of it. With total will, there is no obstacle at all—in other words, what we call an obstacle is nothing but a lack of will, a lack of resolve. Wherever we see an obstacle, know that our resolve is weak there. And the resolve is weak because we have not understood that only by fighting with obstacles does the movement and growth of life happen. Once it is understood that every struggle is an opportunity for growth—every kind of struggle is an opportunity—then the very question of running away will disappear.
Should I take it, Osho, that an escapist cannot love and cannot be nonviolent?
Yes, an escapist can neither love nor be nonviolent. But an escapist may appear to love, and he can even put on the costume of nonviolence—and often he will do exactly that. The escapist cannot love because he has not yet been born; he is not yet there. Who will love? As I have said, it does not depend on the one who is loved; it depends on the one who loves. Only one whose individuality has dawned within, whose person has been born, can love. And the person is born out of struggle and challenge, by fighting every day—just as a sculptor chisels a stone. If the stone refuses to be cut and struck, no statue appears; it remains a rough rock.
The struggles of life polish the statue within. If we refuse them, we remain stone. If individuality, soul, being, have not yet arisen within, who is there to love? And as I said, when bliss awakens inside, the radiance that spreads from that flame is love. If bliss has never bloomed in this person, love is impossible. Yet he will seem to love; he will stage love. Even this pretense is part of his escape, because by talking of love and displaying love he reduces conflict. He wants to fight with no one, to grapple with no one. So he must wear a shell of love. That love becomes his armor, because through it he can avoid all kinds of fights, quarrels, hassles, disturbances. He will say to everyone, “We are all brothers, all friends; there is no enemy.” His talk of love is a security arrangement. He wraps himself in a protective cloak and appears loving on all sides, so that no possibility of hostility remains, so that no one turns into an enemy.
Such a man will talk a lot about love; he will embrace a lot. But behind it all his fear is at work: “Only through love can I be safe.” For him love is a security measure. He will also talk of nonviolence—not because he has become nonviolent, but because by professing and practicing nonviolence he can avoid the violence that might come from others. If he himself were violent he would invite violence in return, and he is afraid of violence.
A man frightened of violence also wraps himself in nonviolence. The coward often drapes himself in nonviolence. The truth is, up to now there have been very few truly nonviolent people in the world; for the most part cowards have put on the cloak of nonviolence. And they do it as a protective armor, because when I wear nonviolence I also contrive to stop the violence in you. If I commit violence, violence will return. If I do not, it will not. So I must not be violent, for I am afraid I might be destroyed. Such a man will adopt nonviolence as a defense against violence, and he will also erect the garment of love all around so that no one’s lack of love is provoked. But such a man will be filled neither with love within, nor with nonviolence.
For me, love and nonviolence are two names for the same thing. A person becomes filled with love only when he fights the challenges and problems of life like a soldier. In my view, a sadhu is one who battles the deep problems of life like a soldier; and the one who runs away is neither a soldier nor a sadhu. He is merely a man who has fled—weak—and by fleeing he will become weaker still. Little by little a kind of impotence, a paralysis, will surround him. In that impotence he will also talk of nonviolence and love, because now only these can serve as his protection. But that love will be utterly dead, that nonviolence utterly lifeless.
The person I am speaking of—who, passing through all of life’s struggles, gives birth to individuality and reaches the place where the flower of bliss blossoms—there will be love in his life, but it will be a very living love, very alive. There will be a radiance in that love, and it will not be any kind of armor. That love has nothing to do with what you do; that is not the question. He will love. Even if you plunge a knife into him, his love will continue to flow. Like Jesus on the cross, he will pray, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Even at the moment of death there will be no lessening of his love. His love was not his armor. If love were an armor, it would end the moment people came to kill, because he would have donned love only so that no one could harm him.
So one in whom love has arisen will be loving even at the moment of death. He will go on sharing love till his last breath. And the question of being violent simply does not arise, because to be violent means to find pleasure in another’s pain; and to be nonviolent means to find no pleasure in another’s pain—indeed, to feel pain—and to find joy in another’s joy.
Therefore the one who has attained to love becomes happier the more he shares it, and he discovers others becoming happier through him. Through him there is no possibility of suffering for anyone, because in causing another pain he himself would be pained. A loving mind means exactly this: another’s sorrow makes you sorrowful, another’s joy makes you joyful. The state of a mind filled with hate is just the opposite: another’s sorrow gives it pleasure, another’s happiness makes it unhappy. When someone appears happy, jealousy, restlessness, and anguish seize it. When someone appears miserable, outwardly it speaks the language of sympathy, but inwardly it tastes a certain relish, a secret joy.
If a man has a big house, the neighbors become unhappy—though no one goes and says so. When they meet him they will express great delight, “What a beautiful house you have,” but even then their eyes will betray a shadow of sorrow. And if that grand house catches fire, all the neighbors will feel happy, yet they will come and say, “We are so sorry.” But even while expressing sorrow, the sparkle in their eyes will reveal that deep down they are enjoying it.
A mind filled with hatred spreads misery in the world; it erases happiness. Not being happy itself, how can it bear to see others happy? It is itself miserable—what else can it distribute except misery? A mind filled with love comes to such happiness, such bliss, that jealousy simply cannot arise. It stands in a place where jealousy is impossible, because so much has been received—so much, infinite—whom to be jealous of now? From there, only compassion is possible, not jealousy. But in our ordinary minds there is almost nothing but jealousy; compassion cannot arise. Such a person, whatever he does, will do what increases others’ happiness; he will not want to give pain to anyone—therefore he will be nonviolent. This nonviolence will be a wondrous kind of bravery, because no matter how much violence others do to him, he will remain nonviolent. Others’ violence does not provoke violence in him.
Such a person is of a totally different order. But the so-called nonviolent and the chatterers of love are merely seeking devices for social safety. “Do not abuse, so that no one abuses you”—that is why they do not abuse. “Do not hit anyone, so that no one hits you”—that is why they do not strike. “Do not hurt anyone, otherwise people will hurt you”—that is why they refrain from hurting. But nothing deeper is involved. Therefore all their nonviolence is an acting, with a violent man sitting inside it; and their love is an acting, with a strongly hateful man sitting within. Yet the deception passes; the deception passes. In fact, many times it will be the case that the one truly filled with love is the hardest to recognize.
The struggles of life polish the statue within. If we refuse them, we remain stone. If individuality, soul, being, have not yet arisen within, who is there to love? And as I said, when bliss awakens inside, the radiance that spreads from that flame is love. If bliss has never bloomed in this person, love is impossible. Yet he will seem to love; he will stage love. Even this pretense is part of his escape, because by talking of love and displaying love he reduces conflict. He wants to fight with no one, to grapple with no one. So he must wear a shell of love. That love becomes his armor, because through it he can avoid all kinds of fights, quarrels, hassles, disturbances. He will say to everyone, “We are all brothers, all friends; there is no enemy.” His talk of love is a security arrangement. He wraps himself in a protective cloak and appears loving on all sides, so that no possibility of hostility remains, so that no one turns into an enemy.
Such a man will talk a lot about love; he will embrace a lot. But behind it all his fear is at work: “Only through love can I be safe.” For him love is a security measure. He will also talk of nonviolence—not because he has become nonviolent, but because by professing and practicing nonviolence he can avoid the violence that might come from others. If he himself were violent he would invite violence in return, and he is afraid of violence.
A man frightened of violence also wraps himself in nonviolence. The coward often drapes himself in nonviolence. The truth is, up to now there have been very few truly nonviolent people in the world; for the most part cowards have put on the cloak of nonviolence. And they do it as a protective armor, because when I wear nonviolence I also contrive to stop the violence in you. If I commit violence, violence will return. If I do not, it will not. So I must not be violent, for I am afraid I might be destroyed. Such a man will adopt nonviolence as a defense against violence, and he will also erect the garment of love all around so that no one’s lack of love is provoked. But such a man will be filled neither with love within, nor with nonviolence.
For me, love and nonviolence are two names for the same thing. A person becomes filled with love only when he fights the challenges and problems of life like a soldier. In my view, a sadhu is one who battles the deep problems of life like a soldier; and the one who runs away is neither a soldier nor a sadhu. He is merely a man who has fled—weak—and by fleeing he will become weaker still. Little by little a kind of impotence, a paralysis, will surround him. In that impotence he will also talk of nonviolence and love, because now only these can serve as his protection. But that love will be utterly dead, that nonviolence utterly lifeless.
The person I am speaking of—who, passing through all of life’s struggles, gives birth to individuality and reaches the place where the flower of bliss blossoms—there will be love in his life, but it will be a very living love, very alive. There will be a radiance in that love, and it will not be any kind of armor. That love has nothing to do with what you do; that is not the question. He will love. Even if you plunge a knife into him, his love will continue to flow. Like Jesus on the cross, he will pray, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Even at the moment of death there will be no lessening of his love. His love was not his armor. If love were an armor, it would end the moment people came to kill, because he would have donned love only so that no one could harm him.
So one in whom love has arisen will be loving even at the moment of death. He will go on sharing love till his last breath. And the question of being violent simply does not arise, because to be violent means to find pleasure in another’s pain; and to be nonviolent means to find no pleasure in another’s pain—indeed, to feel pain—and to find joy in another’s joy.
Therefore the one who has attained to love becomes happier the more he shares it, and he discovers others becoming happier through him. Through him there is no possibility of suffering for anyone, because in causing another pain he himself would be pained. A loving mind means exactly this: another’s sorrow makes you sorrowful, another’s joy makes you joyful. The state of a mind filled with hate is just the opposite: another’s sorrow gives it pleasure, another’s happiness makes it unhappy. When someone appears happy, jealousy, restlessness, and anguish seize it. When someone appears miserable, outwardly it speaks the language of sympathy, but inwardly it tastes a certain relish, a secret joy.
If a man has a big house, the neighbors become unhappy—though no one goes and says so. When they meet him they will express great delight, “What a beautiful house you have,” but even then their eyes will betray a shadow of sorrow. And if that grand house catches fire, all the neighbors will feel happy, yet they will come and say, “We are so sorry.” But even while expressing sorrow, the sparkle in their eyes will reveal that deep down they are enjoying it.
A mind filled with hatred spreads misery in the world; it erases happiness. Not being happy itself, how can it bear to see others happy? It is itself miserable—what else can it distribute except misery? A mind filled with love comes to such happiness, such bliss, that jealousy simply cannot arise. It stands in a place where jealousy is impossible, because so much has been received—so much, infinite—whom to be jealous of now? From there, only compassion is possible, not jealousy. But in our ordinary minds there is almost nothing but jealousy; compassion cannot arise. Such a person, whatever he does, will do what increases others’ happiness; he will not want to give pain to anyone—therefore he will be nonviolent. This nonviolence will be a wondrous kind of bravery, because no matter how much violence others do to him, he will remain nonviolent. Others’ violence does not provoke violence in him.
Such a person is of a totally different order. But the so-called nonviolent and the chatterers of love are merely seeking devices for social safety. “Do not abuse, so that no one abuses you”—that is why they do not abuse. “Do not hit anyone, so that no one hits you”—that is why they do not strike. “Do not hurt anyone, otherwise people will hurt you”—that is why they refrain from hurting. But nothing deeper is involved. Therefore all their nonviolence is an acting, with a violent man sitting inside it; and their love is an acting, with a strongly hateful man sitting within. Yet the deception passes; the deception passes. In fact, many times it will be the case that the one truly filled with love is the hardest to recognize.
Do you feel, Osho, that present institutions or universities can fulfill the aim of our education in love, nonviolence, and beauty?
Difficult. As things stand today—whether in universities or in schools—without changing the entire structure, it is difficult. Because that whole structure itself is part of the same game of cunning, hatred, ambition, violence, lust for position, inferiority, superiority. Our university is not something separate from our society. It is a small replica of our society. That is, the university is a factory that keeps reproducing society’s old structure in new children—nothing else. It is not truly a university; it is a factory whose job is to transplant the old social framework into fresh minds. There too the teacher is running in the same race in which the politicians are running. There too the vice-chancellor is afflicted by the same inferiority from which politicians and ministers suffer. The same race continues there. And it is these very people, caught in all this racing and madness, who are initiating the new children into the same madness.
Our universities have become like madhouses. The very madness from which society suffers is being arranged to be imposed upon its children. The whole structure will have to be changed. Schools should rest on a completely different foundation—one that protects the individual from society instead of imposing society upon him. Wherever the old society was diseased, every new child needs to be saved from those places. Every son needs to be saved from every father. And there must be such awareness that none of the old diseases pass into this child. Fathers were fighting as Hindus and Muslims; the sons are again being initiated as Hindus and Muslims. The university is also asking, “Are you Hindu or Muslim?” The court is asking, “Are you Hindu or Muslim?” The same disease is being initiated again—the very one from which the fathers suffered.
The university should stop asking who is Hindu and who is Muslim. On a university campus there is no Hindu and no Muslim. Otherwise what is the meaning of “university”? Where the universe is not one, why call it a university? The same disease that exists in society—who is boy, who is girl, who is woman, who is man, and the whole evaluation tied to that—is being imposed in the university as well. The university should have dropped its concern with who is woman and who is man. What has someone’s gender to do with education? For us they are students. Who is woman and who is man is their own affair. That belongs to when they marry, deliberate, think, and build homes. What has gender to do with the university campus? But there too, women and men stand apart, at a distance. There too the same disease is being initiated again, the one that afflicts the whole society.
The entire structure is the same. The same ambition is taught there—be number one, take the gold medal. And big ceremonies are held which appear utterly childish. The vice-chancellor and chancellor stand on stages dressed like circus buffoons, and with such foolishness that one ought to laugh in a university and ask, “What is this madness?” But these acts are performed with great seriousness. So the rituals, the ceremonies, the stupidities that have society in their grip do not end there; they grip the university even more. A vice-chancellor feels no embarrassment standing like a circus clown, wearing a cap, and with great seriousness—most gravely distributing degrees of knowledge!
If ever a good world comes to be, we will treat such people—their minds are deranged that they are distributing degrees of knowledge! In their present condition they should be enlisted in a circus. Yet all this goes on with tremendous gravity. The stupidities of society are being implanted into children with utter seriousness: medals pinned there too, costumes worn there too. And all the games that will be enacted in society tomorrow are rehearsed there.
Our universities have become like madhouses. The very madness from which society suffers is being arranged to be imposed upon its children. The whole structure will have to be changed. Schools should rest on a completely different foundation—one that protects the individual from society instead of imposing society upon him. Wherever the old society was diseased, every new child needs to be saved from those places. Every son needs to be saved from every father. And there must be such awareness that none of the old diseases pass into this child. Fathers were fighting as Hindus and Muslims; the sons are again being initiated as Hindus and Muslims. The university is also asking, “Are you Hindu or Muslim?” The court is asking, “Are you Hindu or Muslim?” The same disease is being initiated again—the very one from which the fathers suffered.
The university should stop asking who is Hindu and who is Muslim. On a university campus there is no Hindu and no Muslim. Otherwise what is the meaning of “university”? Where the universe is not one, why call it a university? The same disease that exists in society—who is boy, who is girl, who is woman, who is man, and the whole evaluation tied to that—is being imposed in the university as well. The university should have dropped its concern with who is woman and who is man. What has someone’s gender to do with education? For us they are students. Who is woman and who is man is their own affair. That belongs to when they marry, deliberate, think, and build homes. What has gender to do with the university campus? But there too, women and men stand apart, at a distance. There too the same disease is being initiated again, the one that afflicts the whole society.
The entire structure is the same. The same ambition is taught there—be number one, take the gold medal. And big ceremonies are held which appear utterly childish. The vice-chancellor and chancellor stand on stages dressed like circus buffoons, and with such foolishness that one ought to laugh in a university and ask, “What is this madness?” But these acts are performed with great seriousness. So the rituals, the ceremonies, the stupidities that have society in their grip do not end there; they grip the university even more. A vice-chancellor feels no embarrassment standing like a circus clown, wearing a cap, and with great seriousness—most gravely distributing degrees of knowledge!
If ever a good world comes to be, we will treat such people—their minds are deranged that they are distributing degrees of knowledge! In their present condition they should be enlisted in a circus. Yet all this goes on with tremendous gravity. The stupidities of society are being implanted into children with utter seriousness: medals pinned there too, costumes worn there too. And all the games that will be enacted in society tomorrow are rehearsed there.
What measures should we take, Osho, to keep away from society, from its activities?
As I have said, these universities, this educational apparatus, is an effort to reimpose all the foolishness and all the ignorance of society onto new children. The attempt is that the children can again create the same kind of society, repeat the same kind of society. Certainly, breaking this endeavor is a very difficult matter. It can be broken only through individuals.
So for now, it is simply a matter of carrying the message to individuals—one by one—to all those who can think, reflect, in whose presence questions have arisen, so that it can come into their awareness. Then there can be small, small schools where a few friends sit together and experiment. Let these experiments be at a very small level; gradually they can become larger experiments. And at the very least, it is certain that wherever a person is, if he comes to understand this, he can apply it in whatever he is doing. And we all are the organizers of this society. If this society is bad, then I too am responsible. Whatever I may be doing, my responsibility for the badness of society remains. If one man steals—anywhere in any corner of the world—then in that act, in that deed, I am also a participant, because in the world we are creating, stealing is happening.
So if we are responsible for all its evils, then we can certainly make some experiments—even at a personal level; because I am a father, I may be a husband, I am someone's brother, someone's sister, someone's friend. In all these relationships, whatever vision has appeared to me, I should begin to put it into practice: of love, of non-ambition, of not making anyone a means, of not considering anyone inferior or superior, of equality, of freedom. Set everyone free. Whoever comes near me should experience liberation—should not be bound, should not feel bondage. Whoever comes to me, let the relationship between him and me be, on no level, of hatred, of jealousy, of sorrow. This is something each individual can experiment with.
The question is indeed very big, because the world is vast, and there are two or three hundred thousand years of history behind us that have made man what he is today. But there is one great support: these three hundred thousand years have not been a pleasant experience. Hence restlessness has begun everywhere. This structure has become suspect; therefore, now if a few people with courage give it a push, this structure will move, it will collapse. And once this structure goes, there will be no difficulty in creating new structures, in bringing a new order.
But as much as is possible for us—wherever one is—knowing that this is an endless problem, still, whatever I can do, I should do. Do not let the very magnitude of the problem become my escape. “The problem is very big, so what can be done? What is possible? Leave it”—no. The problem is not so big that nothing can be done. Much can be done. It will start on a small scale; a few people will gather courage. But if their courage succeeds, if their experiments bear meaning, and it is seen that a new kind of human being has begun to be born, then if not today, tomorrow, the whole of humanity will begin to move upon the path where a few went, found bliss, and lived life in a new way.
There is a need to experiment throughout the whole system—in the family, in education, in economic relationships, in friendship—everywhere there is a need to experiment. And then the experiments in all these fields begin to happen by themselves. Once there is vision, the question is no longer one of extension. Once there is vision, a seeing, once one thing becomes clear, it begins to work in every aspect of our life—knowingly or unknowingly. You won’t even have to keep track of how that vision functions. Let that be your only concern.
So for now, it is simply a matter of carrying the message to individuals—one by one—to all those who can think, reflect, in whose presence questions have arisen, so that it can come into their awareness. Then there can be small, small schools where a few friends sit together and experiment. Let these experiments be at a very small level; gradually they can become larger experiments. And at the very least, it is certain that wherever a person is, if he comes to understand this, he can apply it in whatever he is doing. And we all are the organizers of this society. If this society is bad, then I too am responsible. Whatever I may be doing, my responsibility for the badness of society remains. If one man steals—anywhere in any corner of the world—then in that act, in that deed, I am also a participant, because in the world we are creating, stealing is happening.
So if we are responsible for all its evils, then we can certainly make some experiments—even at a personal level; because I am a father, I may be a husband, I am someone's brother, someone's sister, someone's friend. In all these relationships, whatever vision has appeared to me, I should begin to put it into practice: of love, of non-ambition, of not making anyone a means, of not considering anyone inferior or superior, of equality, of freedom. Set everyone free. Whoever comes near me should experience liberation—should not be bound, should not feel bondage. Whoever comes to me, let the relationship between him and me be, on no level, of hatred, of jealousy, of sorrow. This is something each individual can experiment with.
The question is indeed very big, because the world is vast, and there are two or three hundred thousand years of history behind us that have made man what he is today. But there is one great support: these three hundred thousand years have not been a pleasant experience. Hence restlessness has begun everywhere. This structure has become suspect; therefore, now if a few people with courage give it a push, this structure will move, it will collapse. And once this structure goes, there will be no difficulty in creating new structures, in bringing a new order.
But as much as is possible for us—wherever one is—knowing that this is an endless problem, still, whatever I can do, I should do. Do not let the very magnitude of the problem become my escape. “The problem is very big, so what can be done? What is possible? Leave it”—no. The problem is not so big that nothing can be done. Much can be done. It will start on a small scale; a few people will gather courage. But if their courage succeeds, if their experiments bear meaning, and it is seen that a new kind of human being has begun to be born, then if not today, tomorrow, the whole of humanity will begin to move upon the path where a few went, found bliss, and lived life in a new way.
There is a need to experiment throughout the whole system—in the family, in education, in economic relationships, in friendship—everywhere there is a need to experiment. And then the experiments in all these fields begin to happen by themselves. Once there is vision, the question is no longer one of extension. Once there is vision, a seeing, once one thing becomes clear, it begins to work in every aspect of our life—knowingly or unknowingly. You won’t even have to keep track of how that vision functions. Let that be your only concern.
So that means, Osho, you suggest direct communication and direct perception?
Yes—this is exactly what I am saying: each of us needs a direct experience of our own life. And those who have such an experience should also meet others personally, face to face, and communicate it. Even that—two individuals standing before one another and sharing their vision—is no light matter; it is so complex that if it becomes clear even to a single person, that is a great deal. For it to become clear to the crowd is very difficult. The crowd does not even think.
So the point is direct communication and direct perception. Become directly present to yourself; let yourself be directly seen by yourself. And whoever comes to see should try to help those near him or her to see as well—through one’s very presence, one’s conduct, one’s speech, one’s thought, one’s life. Fire can spread; as one lamp lights another, so the flame can move on. Millions of lamps can be lit. But this will be communication that is direct. It has to be transmitted from person to person, because only two individuals can truly stand before each other in profound sympathy.
The difficulty lies in humanity’s past, because the whole past is filled with false traditions. There is no difficulty in the future; the future is still free. If we can help people gain a clear view of the difficulties of the past, show them, awaken them—an awakening is needed—so that people see: this is what has been happening because of that, and it will keep happening if the same continues. If we can lay out all the reasons why society is decaying, who knows how many will awaken? And once someone sees that it is fire, they will not be willing to put their hand into it, nor will they allow their children to do so.
What has been the difficulty so far? That those who could awaken people have been almost nonexistent. More often than not, all the teachers and religious leaders have continually sung the praises of the past, constantly proving it to be supreme. Even when they condemned the present, it was not in praise of the future but in praise of the past: since things are not like they were, everything is going wrong; bring back the past and all will be well.
What I am saying now is that all that is going wrong is going wrong precisely because of the past. Therefore, we must not bring the past back at all. We must make sure it cannot return, and think about how a new future can arrive. Liberation from the past—we must awaken people to this.
Until now those who taught mankind called the past a golden age—the Golden Age that is gone. “Everything was good then; we have forgotten that order, hence the chaos.” Whereas the truth is that it is because of that very order that everything is in chaos.
If we can awaken people to this—awaken them to the old mind of customs and traditions, the traditional mind—that within it lie the seeds of disease, and if we can spread this fire—certainly it will have to be spread person to person, and each according to his or her reach and strength—then it is not difficult that within fifty years an awareness may arise across the whole world such as has never been before. And the coming generation is ready. The coming generation is bored with the old—utterly bored.
The rebellion of youth all over the world is no small thing; it is a very new phenomenon in human history. The young had never rebelled before. For the first time they are rebelling as a generation. This rebellion is spreading very strongly because the young can see that your entire education is meaningless, your status and prestige are worth two pennies, your whole structure is not for life but for death. This is becoming visible. Children—small children—in educated, civilized countries are asking their parents, “Why should we study? What did you get by studying?” Today hippies, the Beatles, beatniks are asking their parents, “Why should we take a job? Why should we pursue a position? What did you gain by reaching a position?” These are questions children had never asked.
It seems that human consciousness is reaching a point where revolution can happen. The boiling point is coming close. Therefore, very swiftly, those who have the sense of it should set to work, awakening people. It may be that in the coming fifty years humanity takes a leap—a leap greater than the one when monkeys came down to the earth and became human. They stood on two legs; from four-legged monkeys, some must have stood up—while the rest remained monkeys. That was such a great revolutionary event that the whole of human history unfolded from it. An even greater revolutionary event can occur in the next fifty years. This time the leap will be of consciousness: a freedom from convention, from the old, from the past—and it will open the doors to the future.
So a very momentous, very precious, and very revolutionary moment is near to human consciousness. If there is attention to it, and if effort is made personally as well, something can happen that has never happened before.
So the point is direct communication and direct perception. Become directly present to yourself; let yourself be directly seen by yourself. And whoever comes to see should try to help those near him or her to see as well—through one’s very presence, one’s conduct, one’s speech, one’s thought, one’s life. Fire can spread; as one lamp lights another, so the flame can move on. Millions of lamps can be lit. But this will be communication that is direct. It has to be transmitted from person to person, because only two individuals can truly stand before each other in profound sympathy.
The difficulty lies in humanity’s past, because the whole past is filled with false traditions. There is no difficulty in the future; the future is still free. If we can help people gain a clear view of the difficulties of the past, show them, awaken them—an awakening is needed—so that people see: this is what has been happening because of that, and it will keep happening if the same continues. If we can lay out all the reasons why society is decaying, who knows how many will awaken? And once someone sees that it is fire, they will not be willing to put their hand into it, nor will they allow their children to do so.
What has been the difficulty so far? That those who could awaken people have been almost nonexistent. More often than not, all the teachers and religious leaders have continually sung the praises of the past, constantly proving it to be supreme. Even when they condemned the present, it was not in praise of the future but in praise of the past: since things are not like they were, everything is going wrong; bring back the past and all will be well.
What I am saying now is that all that is going wrong is going wrong precisely because of the past. Therefore, we must not bring the past back at all. We must make sure it cannot return, and think about how a new future can arrive. Liberation from the past—we must awaken people to this.
Until now those who taught mankind called the past a golden age—the Golden Age that is gone. “Everything was good then; we have forgotten that order, hence the chaos.” Whereas the truth is that it is because of that very order that everything is in chaos.
If we can awaken people to this—awaken them to the old mind of customs and traditions, the traditional mind—that within it lie the seeds of disease, and if we can spread this fire—certainly it will have to be spread person to person, and each according to his or her reach and strength—then it is not difficult that within fifty years an awareness may arise across the whole world such as has never been before. And the coming generation is ready. The coming generation is bored with the old—utterly bored.
The rebellion of youth all over the world is no small thing; it is a very new phenomenon in human history. The young had never rebelled before. For the first time they are rebelling as a generation. This rebellion is spreading very strongly because the young can see that your entire education is meaningless, your status and prestige are worth two pennies, your whole structure is not for life but for death. This is becoming visible. Children—small children—in educated, civilized countries are asking their parents, “Why should we study? What did you get by studying?” Today hippies, the Beatles, beatniks are asking their parents, “Why should we take a job? Why should we pursue a position? What did you gain by reaching a position?” These are questions children had never asked.
It seems that human consciousness is reaching a point where revolution can happen. The boiling point is coming close. Therefore, very swiftly, those who have the sense of it should set to work, awakening people. It may be that in the coming fifty years humanity takes a leap—a leap greater than the one when monkeys came down to the earth and became human. They stood on two legs; from four-legged monkeys, some must have stood up—while the rest remained monkeys. That was such a great revolutionary event that the whole of human history unfolded from it. An even greater revolutionary event can occur in the next fifty years. This time the leap will be of consciousness: a freedom from convention, from the old, from the past—and it will open the doors to the future.
So a very momentous, very precious, and very revolutionary moment is near to human consciousness. If there is attention to it, and if effort is made personally as well, something can happen that has never happened before.
But Osho, as I understand, communication means direct communication. As I see it, that is a very difficult problem, because human beings have been conditioned, as you said, for millions of years. That is, a person carries all those impressions, and whatever he communicates will also be the imprints of the past. How should we see through our conditioning so that we can have direct communication?
The difficulty is there, of course. Man is conditioned—by language, religion, philosophy, morality. In fact, no one really thinks. He simply repeats what has been fed into him. And when something new is told to him, he immediately seeks its explanation in his old language. So the moment he hears something new he starts saying, “Ah, yes, this is what the Gita says. This is written in our Upanishads too.” He kills the new again, settles back into the old place: “All right, it is there in the Upanishads”—and the matter is finished. These difficulties are very real.
If we ignore all this conditioning, say nothing about the mind being conditioned, and simply deliver a fresh message directly, the great danger is that the conditioned mind will mold even that into its old patterns and interpret it accordingly. Nothing will come of it. Therefore an indispensable and primary part of this awakening is to make each person aware that his mind is full of old conditionings. Will he go on thinking through those samskaras, or is he ready to become free of them?
If we can explain this to a person—and it is not difficult, because it is the truth—it can be shown. We can say to someone: Do you really think, or is it the Gita that keeps speaking within you? Do you see that you are merely repeating what society has taught you? Have you ever thought anything on your own? Have you ever faced a problem directly, firsthand? Have you ever put aside everything already known and encountered it nakedly? If not, then you do not yet know how to think. So the indispensable first step of this awakening is to show each person how to wipe off that dust of conditioning—heaped upon his consciousness through thousands and millions of years.
This is not hard to make visible. It is not difficult to show a man that when he goes to a shop and says to the shopkeeper, “I want Lux soap,” we can catch hold of him and ask, “Have you thought about it—or was it simply that the radio repeated every day, the newspaper printed every day, that Lux toilet soap is good? You read it, you heard it, it settled in your mind, and today you say, ‘I want Lux.’ Is it you speaking, or is the propaganda speaking through you?” It is not hard for him to remember that he never actually thought that Lux is good. It is only propaganda speaking.
We can likewise say to a man bowing before a Hindu god, “Have you yourself discovered that this is God, or were you taught it? It is the same Lux-soap affair. Were you programmed from childhood: you are a Hindu, this is your god, this is your book? If you had been born in a Muslim home, would you ever have bowed in this temple? You would have gone to a mosque.” Even what is known to you has been taught. We need to shake each person into the realization that what he is doing, what he is thinking, is only given to him—nothing of it is truly his own.
The very consideration of this gives rise to a deep awareness within, and for the first time a person senses: I am enclosed in a profound inner slavery. That very insight works. And only after awakening this insight is communication possible—before that, it is not. Therefore, before giving people a new direction, it is essential to provide the whole discipline of how to listen, how to think, how to understand. Otherwise they will go on thinking as before—the conditioning of millions of years. Yet however much man is conditioned, within him there is a part that always remains unconditioned—that is his soul.
Understand it this way: what has been conditioned is the mind. What is conditioned is the mind; in fact, mind means the total conditioning. But behind the mind there is an awareness, a consciousness that cannot be conditioned—it is impossible to condition it. It is necessary to point toward that consciousness. That is why I put such emphasis on meditation. Because I hold that the moment one descends into meditation one goes behind the mind. Meditation means going behind the mind. And the very first time one steps behind the mind—leaving all thoughts, all emotions, all conditionings—at once it becomes clear: I am something entirely different from what I took myself to be—not a Hindu, not a Muslim, not the body. What I thought I was, I am not; I am something else.
The deeper this realization goes, the more direct communication becomes possible with that person—because then we are not speaking to his mind; we are related to his consciousness. That is why I have given meditation a primary value. In my view, only those who pass through meditation can journey toward new truths. Those who do not will go on living inside the mind. And the mind is conditioning—mind is always conditioning.
Only when we can crack a person out of the mind does communication become possible. Properly understood, communication is a very meditative state. That is why I have been insisting again and again: one must pass through meditation. Understanding is not as valuable as passing through meditation, because only after meditation does real understanding become possible. Meditation sweeps away everything that obstructs understanding. After meditation, a different kind of communication happens, a different kind of dialogue—where we do not get entangled in words, where learned concepts and beliefs are not brought in between, where the thing itself begins to descend directly; where we understand, we do not interpret. Direct understanding begins. This understanding can be spread through the vast experiments of meditation.
If we ignore all this conditioning, say nothing about the mind being conditioned, and simply deliver a fresh message directly, the great danger is that the conditioned mind will mold even that into its old patterns and interpret it accordingly. Nothing will come of it. Therefore an indispensable and primary part of this awakening is to make each person aware that his mind is full of old conditionings. Will he go on thinking through those samskaras, or is he ready to become free of them?
If we can explain this to a person—and it is not difficult, because it is the truth—it can be shown. We can say to someone: Do you really think, or is it the Gita that keeps speaking within you? Do you see that you are merely repeating what society has taught you? Have you ever thought anything on your own? Have you ever faced a problem directly, firsthand? Have you ever put aside everything already known and encountered it nakedly? If not, then you do not yet know how to think. So the indispensable first step of this awakening is to show each person how to wipe off that dust of conditioning—heaped upon his consciousness through thousands and millions of years.
This is not hard to make visible. It is not difficult to show a man that when he goes to a shop and says to the shopkeeper, “I want Lux soap,” we can catch hold of him and ask, “Have you thought about it—or was it simply that the radio repeated every day, the newspaper printed every day, that Lux toilet soap is good? You read it, you heard it, it settled in your mind, and today you say, ‘I want Lux.’ Is it you speaking, or is the propaganda speaking through you?” It is not hard for him to remember that he never actually thought that Lux is good. It is only propaganda speaking.
We can likewise say to a man bowing before a Hindu god, “Have you yourself discovered that this is God, or were you taught it? It is the same Lux-soap affair. Were you programmed from childhood: you are a Hindu, this is your god, this is your book? If you had been born in a Muslim home, would you ever have bowed in this temple? You would have gone to a mosque.” Even what is known to you has been taught. We need to shake each person into the realization that what he is doing, what he is thinking, is only given to him—nothing of it is truly his own.
The very consideration of this gives rise to a deep awareness within, and for the first time a person senses: I am enclosed in a profound inner slavery. That very insight works. And only after awakening this insight is communication possible—before that, it is not. Therefore, before giving people a new direction, it is essential to provide the whole discipline of how to listen, how to think, how to understand. Otherwise they will go on thinking as before—the conditioning of millions of years. Yet however much man is conditioned, within him there is a part that always remains unconditioned—that is his soul.
Understand it this way: what has been conditioned is the mind. What is conditioned is the mind; in fact, mind means the total conditioning. But behind the mind there is an awareness, a consciousness that cannot be conditioned—it is impossible to condition it. It is necessary to point toward that consciousness. That is why I put such emphasis on meditation. Because I hold that the moment one descends into meditation one goes behind the mind. Meditation means going behind the mind. And the very first time one steps behind the mind—leaving all thoughts, all emotions, all conditionings—at once it becomes clear: I am something entirely different from what I took myself to be—not a Hindu, not a Muslim, not the body. What I thought I was, I am not; I am something else.
The deeper this realization goes, the more direct communication becomes possible with that person—because then we are not speaking to his mind; we are related to his consciousness. That is why I have given meditation a primary value. In my view, only those who pass through meditation can journey toward new truths. Those who do not will go on living inside the mind. And the mind is conditioning—mind is always conditioning.
Only when we can crack a person out of the mind does communication become possible. Properly understood, communication is a very meditative state. That is why I have been insisting again and again: one must pass through meditation. Understanding is not as valuable as passing through meditation, because only after meditation does real understanding become possible. Meditation sweeps away everything that obstructs understanding. After meditation, a different kind of communication happens, a different kind of dialogue—where we do not get entangled in words, where learned concepts and beliefs are not brought in between, where the thing itself begins to descend directly; where we understand, we do not interpret. Direct understanding begins. This understanding can be spread through the vast experiments of meditation.
But Osho, as I understand it, our mind is conditioned, and sometimes it plays all sorts of monkey tricks and does not allow us to enter the state of meditation. What measures do you suggest for that?
It will happen. The mind will make every effort to save itself. It will try with all its strength to preserve itself. And the truth is, it succeeds only because we also believe that we are the mind. Therefore its efforts succeed. But these efforts can be broken, because they do not stand on truth—this is not the truth. What we have been taught is not what we are. If that were what we are, then who would there be to teach?
A child is born. He brings consciousness; he does not bring a mind. The mind will now be manufactured. He has brought consciousness, the capacity to learn, an inner awareness, a soul. Around this soul a wall of mind will be raised, on which it will be written, “You are a Hindu.” Into it everything will be written: higher and lower; Brahmin and Shudra; what is and what is not—everything will be taught. This wall will be erected. And we call this “learning”—the creation of this mind. The mind will stand in place. This boy, this child, will forget that he is anything other than this. He will think, “This is what I am.” This becomes the identity.
To enter the process of meditation means to break this identity. Am I only what I know? Whatever I have heard and understood—is that what I am? Is my mind what I am? If there is awareness about this, alertness about this, then the mind’s constant tricks to escape can be broken. The truth is, the very moment the sense arises that I am something separate, something beyond, something different, distinct, the mind’s tricks stop. Break the identity, and the tricks are gone.
Tricks mean identity. And it may go on for a while; it may take time. Or it can happen in a single moment: the thought arises, “This is not me.” And because this is the truth, that thought can arise; this awareness can be awakened. The mind will try until its last breath. But none of its efforts is bound to succeed. If we get tired, it may succeed. If we go on struggling just a little, very quickly a distance arises where we are separate and the mind is separate. Only after the day this distance appears is understanding possible; before that, it is not. Before that, what we call understanding is very deceptive. It is only the understanding of what we have learned, and we keep repeating it our whole lives.
So for meditation, the first step should be this awareness, this contemplation: Am I what I know? In the mother’s womb I knew nothing, yet I was. When I was born I still knew nothing, yet I was. Then I grew, and I came to know some things. Even then, that which is within must be separate. It must be other than this layer of knowing that has gathered all around.
A child is born. He brings consciousness; he does not bring a mind. The mind will now be manufactured. He has brought consciousness, the capacity to learn, an inner awareness, a soul. Around this soul a wall of mind will be raised, on which it will be written, “You are a Hindu.” Into it everything will be written: higher and lower; Brahmin and Shudra; what is and what is not—everything will be taught. This wall will be erected. And we call this “learning”—the creation of this mind. The mind will stand in place. This boy, this child, will forget that he is anything other than this. He will think, “This is what I am.” This becomes the identity.
To enter the process of meditation means to break this identity. Am I only what I know? Whatever I have heard and understood—is that what I am? Is my mind what I am? If there is awareness about this, alertness about this, then the mind’s constant tricks to escape can be broken. The truth is, the very moment the sense arises that I am something separate, something beyond, something different, distinct, the mind’s tricks stop. Break the identity, and the tricks are gone.
Tricks mean identity. And it may go on for a while; it may take time. Or it can happen in a single moment: the thought arises, “This is not me.” And because this is the truth, that thought can arise; this awareness can be awakened. The mind will try until its last breath. But none of its efforts is bound to succeed. If we get tired, it may succeed. If we go on struggling just a little, very quickly a distance arises where we are separate and the mind is separate. Only after the day this distance appears is understanding possible; before that, it is not. Before that, what we call understanding is very deceptive. It is only the understanding of what we have learned, and we keep repeating it our whole lives.
So for meditation, the first step should be this awareness, this contemplation: Am I what I know? In the mother’s womb I knew nothing, yet I was. When I was born I still knew nothing, yet I was. Then I grew, and I came to know some things. Even then, that which is within must be separate. It must be other than this layer of knowing that has gathered all around.
Osho, as you said just now that a newborn baby acquires knowledge by learning from the environment. Then should we ignore heredity?
No, it is not a matter of ignoring it. Much—ninety percent—is learned from the environment. Ten percent also comes through heredity. What comes through heredity—perhaps today or tomorrow—ways may be found to change that too. Not today, but maybe later. Yet what comes through heredity is very fluid; it can be molded into any shape. Ultimately, what a person becomes is created by the environment. And the mind we are speaking about is created by the environment. The body comes through heredity. Many of the body’s capacities come from heredity. Many capacities of the brain also come from heredity, but the mind is created by society. Mind comes entirely from the environment. Certainly, if brains differ, society also faces difficulties in producing the same mind through the environment. But the mind is a social product.
What I am saying is: one must go behind the mind. Brains differ. One child has a brain that learns quickly; another learns slowly. One child learns in an hour; another in six days. These differences come through heredity. But whether one learns in a day or in six, what is learned is the mind—and we have to go behind that mind. If both go behind the mind, they will enter meditation. In that meditation, what is known is not something that has come through heredity. What we call the soul has not come through heredity. It has its own journey, its own realm. It has not come from the parents’ bodies.
Understand it like this: you are wearing one kind of clothing, I am wearing another. There is a difference in these clothes. You had yours stitched by one tailor, I by another. You bought yours from one shop, I from another. These are differences in clothing.
Remove the clothes and behind them there is no difference. So there is difference in the brain, because one has come from one set of parents and another from another. There is also difference in the body. And if we are raised in different societies, there will be differences in the mind as well. But these three are our layers, our garments—body, brain, and mind. To step back from all three is meditation. And when we stand apart from these three, we encounter that which is—and in that is-ness there is no difference. Call it pure being, pure existence. To know that is to know truth. In all these other things there are differences.
One person has learned Hindi, another English, another Punjabi, another German—there are differences among them. These are differences of environment. Then the brain that does the learning is given to each in a different way—there is difference there. And the body in which that brain sits is different for each as well. There are differences there: someone is ill, someone healthy, someone weak, someone strong. All these are distinctions. But as we go inward, the differences diminish. Ultimately, at the very center, no difference remains. There we all are pure existence.
And only upon reaching that do we arrive at supreme bliss, at truth, at light. Only after that event does love begin to flow; before it, it does not. Only upon reaching there is nonviolence possible; before it, it is not. We need a society, an education, a culture that can lead us to that. As of now, it is the opposite: everything is arranged so that we do not reach it. Yet it is possible to reach.
If there is an essential distillation of all religion, all philosophy, all yoga, it is only this: how to reach that which within us is essential, existential. The non-essential within us is different. It has come to us from various places; coming from different sources, it is bound to be different.
What I am saying is: one must go behind the mind. Brains differ. One child has a brain that learns quickly; another learns slowly. One child learns in an hour; another in six days. These differences come through heredity. But whether one learns in a day or in six, what is learned is the mind—and we have to go behind that mind. If both go behind the mind, they will enter meditation. In that meditation, what is known is not something that has come through heredity. What we call the soul has not come through heredity. It has its own journey, its own realm. It has not come from the parents’ bodies.
Understand it like this: you are wearing one kind of clothing, I am wearing another. There is a difference in these clothes. You had yours stitched by one tailor, I by another. You bought yours from one shop, I from another. These are differences in clothing.
Remove the clothes and behind them there is no difference. So there is difference in the brain, because one has come from one set of parents and another from another. There is also difference in the body. And if we are raised in different societies, there will be differences in the mind as well. But these three are our layers, our garments—body, brain, and mind. To step back from all three is meditation. And when we stand apart from these three, we encounter that which is—and in that is-ness there is no difference. Call it pure being, pure existence. To know that is to know truth. In all these other things there are differences.
One person has learned Hindi, another English, another Punjabi, another German—there are differences among them. These are differences of environment. Then the brain that does the learning is given to each in a different way—there is difference there. And the body in which that brain sits is different for each as well. There are differences there: someone is ill, someone healthy, someone weak, someone strong. All these are distinctions. But as we go inward, the differences diminish. Ultimately, at the very center, no difference remains. There we all are pure existence.
And only upon reaching that do we arrive at supreme bliss, at truth, at light. Only after that event does love begin to flow; before it, it does not. Only upon reaching there is nonviolence possible; before it, it is not. We need a society, an education, a culture that can lead us to that. As of now, it is the opposite: everything is arranged so that we do not reach it. Yet it is possible to reach.
If there is an essential distillation of all religion, all philosophy, all yoga, it is only this: how to reach that which within us is essential, existential. The non-essential within us is different. It has come to us from various places; coming from different sources, it is bound to be different.
Do you suggest, Osho, any literature spoken by you or written by you that can shed light on the subjects of love, non-violence, and samadhi, as you suggested?
For samadhi, “Sadhana-Path” can be useful. For love, “Prem Ke Pankh” can be useful; for non-violence, “Ahimsa-Darshan” can be useful. And in any case, whatever I am saying will be useful, because I am not writing anything. So what I say and when I say it is not fixed—nothing is decided in advance. And none of the books are written; they are all spoken. So in that sense all the books will be useful, but particular attention can be given to these.