It was the pitch-dark night of an amavas, and it happened in a small village. Midnight had passed; the whole village lay drowned in sleep. Even the dogs, after barking and barking, had fallen asleep—when suddenly a cry rose from a hut, weeping and shouting that woke everyone. Half-asleep people began to run toward that hut—old and young, all. In that sleeping village, a kind of mad rush set in. No one understood anything; still they gathered around the hut. From within came a voice: "There is a fire! I am burning! My house is on fire!" A few people even came with buckets of water. But there was no sign at all of fire around the hut. Fire? Not even a lamp was lit in that hut.
It was the hut of a poor old woman. When people pushed the door, they found it already open. Someone brought a lantern and the crowd went inside. The old woman was weeping loudly, beating her chest, and shouting all the while, "There is a fire! My house is on fire!" The villagers were astonished at the sight. They said, "Have you gone mad? Where is the fire? We will surely extinguish it—but where is it?" Hearing this, the old woman stopped crying, burst into loud laughter, and said, "I am not mad—you are mad. The fire is in your houses, and you have come here to put it out? Go and search for the fire in your own homes. There is a fire within me, too—but how will you see it? And how will you extinguish it? I alone will have to extinguish it. The inner fire has to be quenched by oneself. Had the fire been outside, you would certainly have put it out—but the fire is within." Saying this, the old woman again began to wail and cry, "My house is on fire! I am burning...!"
I too was present in that village that night. And were you not present as well? Perhaps you have forgotten the incident—but I have not. I saw you, angry with the old woman because your sleep had been broken for no reason, and you went back to sleep. And in the morning, when you woke, you had forgotten it. The whole village forgot; the whole earth has forgotten. In that small village, after all, dwells the entire humanity.
You fell asleep again, but I could not sleep anymore. That old woman broke my sleep forever. For when I peered within to look for the fire, I found there was no fire—there was sleep; and that very sleep was the fire. Life is burning in sleep; that sleep itself is sorrow, that sleep itself is pain, that is the flame. But you could not see it, because you fell asleep again—and began to dream.
Dreams are companions of sleep; they do not allow sleep to break. They are like ghee poured into the fire. Painful dreams do raise a little smoke and make one turn over on the bed; but in the hope of pleasurable dreams one endures even those. And without them, even pleasurable dreams would not be possible, for on their dark background alone the white lines of pleasant dreams can emerge. Like a yoked pair of bullocks, these dreams of pleasure and pain pull along the cart of sleep. And in sleep, life is lost—for one who sleeps, is he alive at all?
This tale of life’s sorrow is very ancient—ancient as man himself. Yet he who says, "Life is on fire," appears mad, and we ask him, "Where is the fire?" We run with buckets of water to extinguish it. But because the fire is not outside, eyes that look only outside cannot see it. And because it is not outside, how can water from outside put it out?
Whether visible or not, everyone feels its burning in life. If it is, it will burn—whether we see it or not. Its burning does not depend on our seeing. In truth, because we do not see, it is able to burn us. Our not-seeing is its very existence; in our blindness lie its very breaths. And when it burns and a person is singed and tormented by that unseen, unknown fire, then instead of seeking where the root-source of that invisible fire lies, he runs in search of water. This search for water is what the world is.
We are all running in search of water—whether that water be wealth, or fame, or moksha. The inevitable sign of the water-chase is that it is always outside; and the second inevitable sign is that one must run to obtain it. Whatever is outside necessitates running. And the greatest irony is: the one who runs for water finds the inner fire growing stronger, because the running heats him even more, his fever grows more intense. The more he runs, the fiercer the fire becomes. The fiercer the fire, the more he runs. Such a vicious circle is created. Is that circle not what we call the world—samsara?
And first, the water is not found at all, for most lakes prove to be mirages. And even if water is found, it proves useless—how can water from outside quench the fire within? In other words, those who find water and those who do not—both are ultimately equally unsuccessful.
World and success never meet, because the vicious wheel of the world is bound to fail. The world’s failure is its inner inevitability.
Alexander the Great died. Hundreds of thousands came to see him. His two hands were outside the bier, which was entirely against custom. Hands, in every land, are always within the bier. When people asked the reason, it was learned that Alexander had desired his hands be kept outside so that people could clearly see: his hands too were empty. He too was leaving the world empty-handed. Would that the hands of all the dead could be kept outside their biers—then this truth, day after day, would be visible to everyone, that there is no connection between the world and hands filled.
The fire within man cannot be extinguished by any means from without. The sorrow within man cannot be erased by any pleasure without. The darkness within man cannot be dispelled by any sun outside.
And yet, this has been the story so far: the fire is within; the effort to put it out is without. Science was born of this very effort.
I am not against science; I am a friend to science. But this much I must say: alone, it is not capable of giving man’s life peace, bliss, and meaning—nor will it ever be. It can provide conveniences, and conveniences at most can help, for a moment, in the forgetfulness of sorrow. But soon conveniences become accepted habits, and sorrow returns to its place. By conveniences sorrow does not end; it is merely concealed. Hence conveniences breed more demand for conveniences, and a race begins that has no end. That race itself becomes a tension, a restlessness, a sorrow. That endless race becomes madness.
On the plane of the body, science has meaning and purpose. On the body’s plane, in removing pains, it has great utility; for the pains are outside, and so the outside water can quench them. But the center of man’s torment is not bodily pain. They are surely the circumference of torment; the center is the inner sorrow. And all the pleasures brought to the circumference may well assist in forgetfulness of that sorrow, but they cannot eliminate it. Rather, within their encirclement, the burden of inner anguish returns sharper and heavier. This is why beneath rising peaks of outer prosperity, chasms of inner poverty and wretchedness inevitably gape wider.
It is no wonder that Mahavira and Buddha saw this sorrow fully clearly in the midst of outer pleasures. But now, due to prosperity brought by science, the whole of humanity is gradually coming near that very seeing. With the progress of science, a great delusion has been shattered: that outer prosperity can give birth to inner music and peace. The development of science has made clear both the power and the powerlessness of science. Its limits and strength are now no longer vague. Science is neither useless in the sense blind religious people used to think, nor complete in the sense blind lovers of science imagined.
In fact, blindness of any sort never allows facts to be seen as they are. Blindness always imposes theories upon facts. To impose theory upon fact is, in truth, not to see fact. Seeing facts directly opens the eyes; and the knowing that arises frees life, it does not bind it.
Because life has been seen through pre-fixed frameworks of doctrine, man has remained fragmented and crippled. He has not been able to see life whole and entire. He has not seen life without choice. Therefore life as it is—in its fullness, its totality, its indivisibility—he has remained deprived of knowing and living.
Under the sway of religion, the outer was rejected; in opposition and reaction, the inner was then rejected. This second rejection gathered itself around science. Religion and science came to stand opposed not because they are enemies, but because, in man’s consciousness, one extremity evoked the opposite extremity. Man’s mind swings in extremes, like a clock’s pendulum. One extreme gives birth to the other. And in extremes, truth never is. An extreme is always partial; if it were not, it would not be an extreme. Truth is in the middle. Truth is where both extremes are zero and silent. Transcending extremes is truth.
Life is not exclusively outer, nor exclusively inner. Life is both—or neither. To see life only as inner leaves only the center, and the circumference is lost. How can there be a center without a circumference? Only because there is a circumference can there be a center. And to see life only as outer loses the center; only a circumference remains. How can there be a circumference without a center? Life is in both—and thus is not confined to one.
Science is the search of the outer—the circumference. Dharma is the search of the inner—the center. Science is entry into matter; Dharma into Paramatma. Outwardly they appear in inner opposition; in truth they are aspects of a single reality. Their contradiction is only in man’s words. Man’s fragmented vision has fragmented all—yet life is one, undivided.
Life is the indivisibility of inner and outer. The breath that comes in is the same that goes out. Within and without are two points on its journey. What is breath itself? Inner or outer? It is both—and neither. From the inner point, it is inner; from the outer point, outer. In the very nature of breath, it is both and not both. So too is life: from one point, outer; from one point, inner; in its very suchness, both—and neither.
The outer point is science; the inner point is Dharma.
And then, there is the suchness of life itself—that is known only by one who becomes empty of inner and outer. For only the one who becomes zero of all angles, views, and points finds abiding in life’s wholeness. As long as there is a viewpoint, an angle, a point, there is fragmentation—because so long, I am somewhere, and therefore cannot be everywhere. Where there is no viewpoint, no angle, no point, there I am not—and then what is, simply is. That is truth.
Truth is not a viewpoint; it is where all viewpoints fall to zero. Where viewpoints are not, there is its seeing—that seeing is truth. And the experience of truth is the water that can extinguish the fire burning in life.
But where man finds himself ordinarily is a mind-state divided into inner and outer. On this division man finds himself. His sense of ego stands behind it. Because he is, the division is; because the division is, he is. In this very fire we all stand—and burn. Then one who goes toward the outer finds the division and tension growing, for his circumference expands and the center recedes farther and farther. Therefore science has a beginning, but no end. Science is a journey, a means—it is not the goal. It moves—but arrives nowhere.
Dharma is the direction of the inner. Perhaps not a direction, but a no-direction—for all directions point outward. Dharma is movement toward the inner. But no—perhaps not movement, but non-movement; for all movements carry us away from ourselves. Dharma is the gaze toward the center. But no—the distinction of seer, seeing, and seen belongs to the circumference; at the center there is no such distinction at all.
Science is definable—but then what is Dharma?
Dharma is not definable. Only what is outer can be defined. The inner cannot be defined. In truth, where definition begins, science begins, for there the outer begins. Science lives in word; Dharma in shunya. For the circumference is expression, and the center is the unknown, the unseen, the unmanifest. Like the tree and the seed are they. Science is the tree; Dharma is the seed. Science can be known; Dharma cannot be known—but one can be in Dharma, one can live in Dharma. Science is knowledge; Dharma is life. Therefore science can be taught; Dharma has no teaching.
Science is the search of the known and the knowable. Dharma is immersion in the unknown and the unknowable. Science is acquiring; Dharma is dissolving. Therefore there are many sciences—but Dharma is one. Therefore science is evolutionary; Dharma is eternal.
Going toward the circumference carries one away from the center. Yet a great wonder: one who goes toward the center does not move away from the circumference; on the contrary, the circumference draws nearer. And at the very center the circumference dissolves—because the center dissolves. At the circumference there is both circumference and center; at the center there is neither center nor circumference. The inner finally becomes the doorway to that which is neither inner nor outer.
Therefore I say: science may have a quarrel with Dharma, but Dharma cannot have a quarrel with science. The outer may oppose the inner—but for the inner, the outer simply is not. The son may oppose the mother—but for the mother, the son’s being is her own being.
Dharma cannot be in opposition to science—and if it is, it is not Dharma. Dharma is not even against the world. The world may be against Dharma, but Dharma cannot be against the world. Dharma is universal non-opposition; hence Dharma is freedom. Where there is opposition, there is bondage. Where there is opposition, there is restlessness, there is fire. That old woman was right to shout, "My house is burning! There is a fire in my life!"
And people arrived with science’s buckets—with water from the outside—so she began to laugh. She laughs even today, because the fire burns even today; the night is still amavas. The village still wakes from sleep; neighbors still come running—but they ask the same questions. They say, "Where is the fire? It is not visible. Tell us—we will put it out; we have brought buckets of water." Every night this happens; the same scene repeats.
But the fire is within—and the water is of the outside. How will the fire be put out? The fire only grows stronger, and man goes on being scorched. It may happen that the fire will not be extinguished—and man himself will be. Or it may happen that in the extreme heat of the fire a man is transformed, and his sleep breaks. And from this fire he emerges like gold, more refined. Remember: science has not been able to quench the fire—on the contrary, the discoveries of science have helped to inflame it further.
How much labor has man not given for science! Through tireless seeking, science has arisen. But the fire remains where it was; only its flames have grown as vast as the power placed in man’s hands by science. That power has become the fuel of that fire.
In the hands of ignorance, power becomes self-destructive—what wonder is there? To me, the two world wars appear as complete rehearsals for a universal suicide by humanity. Perhaps a hundred million people were killed in the two wars—and the preparations continue. The third world war will be the last. Not because man will then have renounced war—but because there will be no man left to wage it.
Humanity’s eagerness to destroy itself is not without cause. Perhaps the one-sided search of the outer, and the failure that followed, have set in motion this vast arrangement of self-annihilation. After all his running here and there, man’s hands are empty—life itself is empty, meaningless, a void. Alexander came to know his hands were empty as he was dying; thus he did not take the responsibility for death upon himself. Perhaps now man has known this while still alive—therefore he is ready to kill himself. He does not even wish to trouble Paramatma for his death. When hands are empty, the soul empty—what purpose remains to live, what meaning, what intent?
Life is meaningless—because man is unacquainted with life. And what he has taken to be life is surely meaningless—because it is not life. If life is only the race of the outer, with the inner lost, it inevitably becomes meaningless—for then what remains are things and more things. He who gathers these by selling his soul summons his own death with his own hands.
And one who moves toward the inner in hostility and enmity toward the outer becomes crippled—for even his life, caught in inner conflict, loses peace and music.
The soul is found only by those who live in music and in beauty. Enmity toward the outer creates a kind of ugliness. Opposition to the outer brings a kind of inertia. Inner conflict strengthens the ego, but the soul is not attained through it.
Life is in the meeting of outer and inner. Life is in the music of outer and inner. Life is between the outer and the inner. Through opposition, tension, conflict, and repression it is not attained. It is attained through peace, simplicity, naturalness. And peace, simplicity, and naturalness come through awareness—awareness toward life—awareness toward what is—awareness meaning de-stupefaction, awareness meaning wakeful consciousness. In the light of awareness there is a gradual movement from the outer to the inner. And then, from the inner, a movement toward that which is neither outer nor inner—which simply is.
Therefore I say: it is sleep—stupefaction—trance—that is the fire in which life burns and suffers. And awareness, de-stupefaction, wakefulness—these are the lights in which life transforms into the Supreme Life. The very energy that, in sleep, is a burning fire becomes, in awakening, a life-giving light.
When man is aware, every power in his hands is auspicious. Beyond stupefaction and unconsciousness, there is no inauspiciousness. Powers are always neutral and impartial; what will be done with them depends not on them but entirely on the man who wields them.
For human consciousness established in Dharma, even the fire of science is not a self-destroying hell, but self-creation, heaven. United with Dharma, science can give birth to a wholly new humanity.
A king once asked an old fakir, "I hear much sleep is bad, but I sleep a great deal. What is your view?" The old fakir said, "The sleep of good people is bad—but the sleep of bad people is good. For as long as they are awake, they labor to turn the world into hell."
Around the center of peace, a circumference of power is auspicious. But around a center of unrest, even powerlessness is auspicious. In the hands of Dharma, science is auspicious; in the hands of adharma, how can it be deemed auspicious? Power with knowledge is good; but ignorance with power will become disaster. Man is caught in just such a calamity. Science has given power—but where is the peace to use it rightly? Without peace there will be destruction; with peace, unheard-of pathways for life and creation can open. Power is outside man, unrest within. The arithmetic is simple and clear. This conjunction is itself the crisis.
An agitated, sorrowing mind finds pleasure in making others agitated and sorrowful; for a sorrowing mind has no other pleasure. In truth, we can give only what we have. One who is unhappy, on seeing others happy, becomes more unhappy. His happiness is that no one be happy. This is what is happening; this is what has been. Into the hands of a man filled with sorrow, unrest, and darkness, science has placed such power as can destroy all life.
Humanity now has complete instruments for self-suicide. The ceremonious preparations for a great death now underway cannot be called accidental. In what work are we all engaged? In which direction is this immense labor moving? For what do we live and die? To bring death! To bring the great death!
Previously, so-called religious people labored and did sadhana individually to be rid of life. Now science has opened a door for collective, public escape from life. Who would not wash their hands in this flowing Ganga? In this astonishing festival of death, we all have become collaborators and companions. Those who are not companions and helpers for life are still ready, even to annihilate themselves, to send one another to death. Astonishing is this feeling for sacrifice, this attitude of renunciation! Those who are enemies in life become comrades in the great sacrifice of death.
Should I say man has gone mad? Perhaps that would not be right—for it creates the illusion that once he was healthy. Man is as he has always been. Only the powers that were not in his hands before are now in his hands, and they have revealed his hidden madness. No one becomes mad by receiving power; power merely provides the opportunity for unmanifest madness to become manifest.
Man’s madness has become fully manifest. For such unveiling we must be deeply grateful to science. All the clothes of man have been stripped away; he stands utterly naked. In this nakedness he can be destroyed—or he can be reborn in an utterly new form. To stand thus naked before oneself is indispensable for a new ascent of consciousness. The false garments upon man were dangerous; better true nakedness than false clothes. For false clothes not only deceive others—they deceive oneself.
Because of this self-deception, no fundamental revolution has yet occurred in man. But now the moment has come when we can see man’s madness in its manifest form. And that illness which becomes manifest—surely something can be done to be rid of it.
In the brief three thousand years of human history, roughly fifteen thousand wars have occurred—five wars per year! If this is not madness, what is? And all these wars have been waged for peace! If this is not madness, what is? Since man’s arrival, the earth has known only two kinds of periods—periods of war, and periods of preparation for war. Peace as a period has never yet been known—for the time between two wars is not peace, it is a time of preparing for war. If this is not madness, what is? Is man living in order to fight? Science has taken this disease to its extreme, where either no patient will remain—or, if he is to remain, then he must abandon the disease, no matter how old and dear it may be. Diseases, when old, become dear; by becoming traditional they gain an honored place.
The mere oldness of anything becomes the argument for its continuation. And this disease of war is the oldest inheritance. It is man’s deepest culture.
I want to tell a story. The story is wholly untrue—but what it says is altogether true, a hundred percent. After the second world war, Paramatma became very worried seeing what man had done to man. But his worry peaked when his messengers reported that mankind was now engaged in preparing for a third world war. Tears came to Paramatma’s eyes at this madness of man, and he summoned the representatives of three great nations—England, Russia, and America.
Paramatma said to them, "I hear you have begun preparing for a third world war. Did you learn nothing from the second?"
Had I been there, I would have said, "Humanity has always learned lessons. From the first war, it learned for the second; from the second, it has gained knowledge for the third!" But I was not there; what I could not say to Paramatma, I say to you.
Following his old habit, Paramatma said again, "I can grant each of you one wish—anything you desire—if you promise to save yourselves from this suicidal tendency. The second world war is enough. Having made man, I have repented deeply; in my old age, do not trouble me further. Do you not know, after creating man, I fell into such distress that I have created nothing since?"
Had I been there I would have said, "O Paramatma! That is quite right. He who has been burned by milk blows even on buttermilk." But I was not there.
America’s representative said, "O Supreme Father, our desire is not great—just a small wish. If it is fulfilled, there will be no need for a third world war." Paramatma looked pleased for a moment. But when the American said, "Let the earth remain, but let there be no trace of Russia on it—this alone is our small, single wish," he became as sad again as perhaps he had not been even after creating man. Surely man was fully repaying the debt of being created!
Then Paramatma looked toward Russia. Russia’s representative said, "Comrade, first of all, we do not accept that you exist. Years ago we bid you farewell forever from our great land. We have broken the illusion that you were. But no—if you wish, we can once again worship you, and allow you to reside in the ruined, desolate churches, temples, and mosques. Only do a small thing for us: on the world map, we desire no color for America. If you cannot do even this, there is no cause for worry; sooner or later we ourselves will accomplish it without your help. Whether we survive or not, this work we must do; it is a historical inevitability we must fulfill for the sake of the proletariat. Man’s future lies only in the death of America."
And then, with eyes drenched in tears, Paramatma looked toward England. And what did England’s representative say? Can you even imagine it? No—you cannot imagine, for it is such a unique thing.
England’s representative said, "O Lord, we have no desire of our own. Only fulfill both our friends’ desires together, and ours will be fulfilled of itself."
Such is the situation. Is the story false? What truer story could there be? And it is not about one nation; it is about all. Wherever there is nationalism, there is war—that fever which culminates in war.
Nor is this only about nations—it is about individuals too. For unless the fever is in individuals, how can it be in nations? The individual is the unit of everything that happens in the human world. Whether the Ganga be of love or of hate, the Gangotri is always the individual. Even if the vast sky of life is covered by clouds of hate so dense as to shroud the entire earth, the root spring must be sought in the small heart of the individual—from where tiny vapors of anger, hate, enmity, ambition, sorrow, anxiety, and torment rise little by little and gather to cover the whole sky. And when the hatred and violence of one individual collide with that of another, there is not addition but multiplication. This multiplication goes on spreading, and the clouds of death that then overcast the sky are far more than the sum of individuals’ violences. But this process of multiplication need not alarm us—what has happened with hate can happen with love as well.
There can be such love on earth that is infinitely more than the sum of all individuals’ love. The name of that love is Paramatma. But what there is now is the demon of hate—call it the devil if you will—but remember: neither Paramatma nor the devil is other than man. They are creations of man.
What is auspicious in man is God. What is beautiful is heaven. What is inauspicious is hell. As a man makes himself, so he fashions the world. What I am—that is my donation to the world. By that gift I create the world as well. Every person is thus a creator.
It is essential to know that this ugly world—the orgy of violence, anger, hatred, and war—has every individual as a shareholder. The responsibility lies on each. Each is answerable. For the greatest wars, the smallest person is also responsible. For society is but the spread of the individual. Where else is society? The individual is society.
And the individual is fevered with ambition. Everyone wants to be something—and in the race to be something, he forgets what he is. The wonder of wonders: a person can only be what he is. To be other than oneself is impossible. What is not in the seed, how can it be in the tree? Yet everyone is running to be what he is not. This produces a feverish life that inevitably leads to violence and destruction. When a person grows as he is in seed, there is neither race, nor fever, nor madness. There is a quiet, silent, invisible growth—the pace of which has no audible footfall. But when a person tries to be what he is not, there is much noise—and nothing happens. This noise, this struggle, this tension, this unrest—these arise out of competition.
In being what one is, there is no competition. One becomes only in oneself, not in comparison with the other. In such growth, the other has no relevance; the mind moves in peace, free of quarrel. The wastage of energy that occurs in contest and struggle is saved; the person becomes a serene reservoir of power. This quiet conservation of energy gives life a dynamic in which there is full movement but zero friction. But where one lives by comparison with others, one does not live at all.
Life is in oneself; it is not in the other. In comparison with the other there is jealousy, anger, violence—and these are not life, they are deaths. Living amid these deaths, the world becomes as ugly as it has become—inevitably. And when, after all manner of ambitions and competitions, the doors of joy do not open, when the hell of sorrow deepens, then in this failure and melancholy a person begins to take revenge upon the whole world. He turns destructive. One who could not create himself—in revenge begins to destroy others.
The absence of self-creation becomes destruction and violence. That is why I say: a world founded upon ambition can never be nonviolent—whether that ambition be of the world or of moksha. Where there is ambition, there is violence. In truth, ambition is violence. And science has placed limitless power into the hands of the ambitious man. Now, unless Dharma takes ambition out of man’s mind, destruction is certain.
Why does this ambition arise—and from where? It arises from a sense of inferiority. In his inner depths, a person feels extremely poor and lowly. There all is empty and void. Nothing is there. There is lack, a hollow of every kind. He runs from this lack, this emptiness. For this flight he creates ambitious goals, so they can give him fever and haste to run. Essentially he does not run to any place; he runs away from a place.
But to run away from a place without having a place to reach is impossible; thus he fixes destinations and goals. The root is flight from lack—but outwardly it appears that everyone is running to reach somewhere. In truth, we are fleeing from ourselves. But to see this fact is to slay the race itself. Therefore we talk of destinations, ideals, mokshas. This self-deception is very deep. He who lacks the courage to break it can never be healed of the fever of ambition. One ambition proves futile—he creates another.
When worldly ambitions fail, he will craft ambitions for moksha, ambitions to attain Brahman. Before the worldly person can even forego the world, he becomes a sannyasin. Thus ambition returns in new clothing. And is not ambition itself the world—samsara?
The descent of Dharma into life begins from the very moment a person starts to see and recognize the root cause of his race. The seeing of this truth—that the root of ambition is flight from inner lack—becomes the opening of a new direction in life.
Fleeing from one’s inner emptiness is the world. Awakening into one’s inner emptiness and void is Dharma. To flee is samsara; to awaken is Dharma. The runner finds the void only grows larger; the awakened one discovers the void does not exist. What appeared as void in sleep becomes fullness in wakefulness. Friend, flight enlarges the emptiness, for the farther we are from ourselves, the more empty and void we become. The distance from our own being is the measure of our emptiness. Remember: the greater the Alexander hidden within a man, the emptier are his hands.
And emptiness enlarges by fleeing from oneself because the root of flight is fear. To flee is to accept fear. To run away is to embrace fear. What we accept and embrace grows. Fear does not decrease by fleeing; it increases. The greater the fear, the less the self-being—and so the inner void grows, and grows more painful.
But one who does not flee from himself, instead awakens to himself, attains a wholly different experience of life. His hands do not remain empty. His soul does not remain hollow. His whole life becomes filled with a unique wealth.
For one who awakens to himself discovers there is no lack there. There is Paramatma. Lack is not in the self; it lies in stupefaction about the self. I am asleep—that is the lack. If I awaken, the lack is not found—just as darkness is not found once the sun has risen.
Do you know that once darkness wrote a letter to the sun, complaining, "Why are you after me without cause?" The sun was astonished upon receiving darkness’s letter. He sent word back, "Friend, I do not even know you. Come someday and accept my hospitality. If unconsciously I have committed any offense, I wish to seek forgiveness in person." But countless centuries have passed since that invitation; darkness has still not been able to come to meet the sun. And now even the sun has begun to suspect whether darkness exists at all. That letter may have been forged!
The moment I awaken, there is no lack. The moment I become the sun, there is no darkness. I say this having awakened; I say this having become the sun. I say this brimming in every way—come, look at my hands. Are they not full?
Remember, you too are the sun, and your hands too are full. But your eyes are closed; you sleep. Because of this sleep, your filled hands do not appear filled. And then, to fill them, you dream by the thousands.
But, friend—can those hands ever be filled that are not empty? And can that inner lack be filled that is not? Therefore man’s whole chase inevitably ends in failure. This inevitable failure is man’s torment.
And one who is in torment spreads torment. One who is in sorrow distributes sorrow. Man is bound to give what he is—for without distributing oneself, one cannot live. Flowers share fragrance because they are fragrance. Stars share light because they are light. Man shares sorrow because he is sorrow. But man can also share bliss—because he can be bliss.
Dharma is the doorway to bliss. For Dharma is awakening to oneself. One who awakens to himself finds there is no lack; this in itself fills him with bliss, for then nothing remains to be attained. All that is to be attained is attained—is known to have already been attained.
Lack is not the nature; bliss is the nature. Thus to be conscious of oneself is to attain bliss. And the moment bliss is found, it begins to radiate. A mind scattering rays of bliss is a mind established in Dharma. In the hands of such a mind, the power of science is fragrance in gold. Such a meeting of science and Dharma is long-awaited.
My friends, will you be the bridge that can bring this union? Man must become the bridge. Each one must become the bridge. For only across such a bridge will the long-awaited golden age descend upon the earth—not something that came and went in the past, but something that is in the future, now about to arrive.
Osho's Commentary
It was the pitch-dark night of an amavas, and it happened in a small village. Midnight had passed; the whole village lay drowned in sleep. Even the dogs, after barking and barking, had fallen asleep—when suddenly a cry rose from a hut, weeping and shouting that woke everyone. Half-asleep people began to run toward that hut—old and young, all. In that sleeping village, a kind of mad rush set in. No one understood anything; still they gathered around the hut. From within came a voice: "There is a fire! I am burning! My house is on fire!" A few people even came with buckets of water. But there was no sign at all of fire around the hut. Fire? Not even a lamp was lit in that hut.
It was the hut of a poor old woman. When people pushed the door, they found it already open. Someone brought a lantern and the crowd went inside. The old woman was weeping loudly, beating her chest, and shouting all the while, "There is a fire! My house is on fire!" The villagers were astonished at the sight. They said, "Have you gone mad? Where is the fire? We will surely extinguish it—but where is it?" Hearing this, the old woman stopped crying, burst into loud laughter, and said, "I am not mad—you are mad. The fire is in your houses, and you have come here to put it out? Go and search for the fire in your own homes. There is a fire within me, too—but how will you see it? And how will you extinguish it? I alone will have to extinguish it. The inner fire has to be quenched by oneself. Had the fire been outside, you would certainly have put it out—but the fire is within." Saying this, the old woman again began to wail and cry, "My house is on fire! I am burning...!"
I too was present in that village that night. And were you not present as well? Perhaps you have forgotten the incident—but I have not. I saw you, angry with the old woman because your sleep had been broken for no reason, and you went back to sleep. And in the morning, when you woke, you had forgotten it. The whole village forgot; the whole earth has forgotten. In that small village, after all, dwells the entire humanity.
You fell asleep again, but I could not sleep anymore. That old woman broke my sleep forever. For when I peered within to look for the fire, I found there was no fire—there was sleep; and that very sleep was the fire. Life is burning in sleep; that sleep itself is sorrow, that sleep itself is pain, that is the flame. But you could not see it, because you fell asleep again—and began to dream.
Dreams are companions of sleep; they do not allow sleep to break. They are like ghee poured into the fire. Painful dreams do raise a little smoke and make one turn over on the bed; but in the hope of pleasurable dreams one endures even those. And without them, even pleasurable dreams would not be possible, for on their dark background alone the white lines of pleasant dreams can emerge. Like a yoked pair of bullocks, these dreams of pleasure and pain pull along the cart of sleep. And in sleep, life is lost—for one who sleeps, is he alive at all?
This tale of life’s sorrow is very ancient—ancient as man himself. Yet he who says, "Life is on fire," appears mad, and we ask him, "Where is the fire?" We run with buckets of water to extinguish it. But because the fire is not outside, eyes that look only outside cannot see it. And because it is not outside, how can water from outside put it out?
Whether visible or not, everyone feels its burning in life. If it is, it will burn—whether we see it or not. Its burning does not depend on our seeing. In truth, because we do not see, it is able to burn us. Our not-seeing is its very existence; in our blindness lie its very breaths. And when it burns and a person is singed and tormented by that unseen, unknown fire, then instead of seeking where the root-source of that invisible fire lies, he runs in search of water. This search for water is what the world is.
We are all running in search of water—whether that water be wealth, or fame, or moksha. The inevitable sign of the water-chase is that it is always outside; and the second inevitable sign is that one must run to obtain it. Whatever is outside necessitates running. And the greatest irony is: the one who runs for water finds the inner fire growing stronger, because the running heats him even more, his fever grows more intense. The more he runs, the fiercer the fire becomes. The fiercer the fire, the more he runs. Such a vicious circle is created. Is that circle not what we call the world—samsara?
And first, the water is not found at all, for most lakes prove to be mirages. And even if water is found, it proves useless—how can water from outside quench the fire within? In other words, those who find water and those who do not—both are ultimately equally unsuccessful.
World and success never meet, because the vicious wheel of the world is bound to fail. The world’s failure is its inner inevitability.
Alexander the Great died. Hundreds of thousands came to see him. His two hands were outside the bier, which was entirely against custom. Hands, in every land, are always within the bier. When people asked the reason, it was learned that Alexander had desired his hands be kept outside so that people could clearly see: his hands too were empty. He too was leaving the world empty-handed. Would that the hands of all the dead could be kept outside their biers—then this truth, day after day, would be visible to everyone, that there is no connection between the world and hands filled.
The fire within man cannot be extinguished by any means from without. The sorrow within man cannot be erased by any pleasure without. The darkness within man cannot be dispelled by any sun outside.
And yet, this has been the story so far: the fire is within; the effort to put it out is without. Science was born of this very effort.
I am not against science; I am a friend to science. But this much I must say: alone, it is not capable of giving man’s life peace, bliss, and meaning—nor will it ever be. It can provide conveniences, and conveniences at most can help, for a moment, in the forgetfulness of sorrow. But soon conveniences become accepted habits, and sorrow returns to its place. By conveniences sorrow does not end; it is merely concealed. Hence conveniences breed more demand for conveniences, and a race begins that has no end. That race itself becomes a tension, a restlessness, a sorrow. That endless race becomes madness.
On the plane of the body, science has meaning and purpose. On the body’s plane, in removing pains, it has great utility; for the pains are outside, and so the outside water can quench them. But the center of man’s torment is not bodily pain. They are surely the circumference of torment; the center is the inner sorrow. And all the pleasures brought to the circumference may well assist in forgetfulness of that sorrow, but they cannot eliminate it. Rather, within their encirclement, the burden of inner anguish returns sharper and heavier. This is why beneath rising peaks of outer prosperity, chasms of inner poverty and wretchedness inevitably gape wider.
It is no wonder that Mahavira and Buddha saw this sorrow fully clearly in the midst of outer pleasures. But now, due to prosperity brought by science, the whole of humanity is gradually coming near that very seeing. With the progress of science, a great delusion has been shattered: that outer prosperity can give birth to inner music and peace. The development of science has made clear both the power and the powerlessness of science. Its limits and strength are now no longer vague. Science is neither useless in the sense blind religious people used to think, nor complete in the sense blind lovers of science imagined.
In fact, blindness of any sort never allows facts to be seen as they are. Blindness always imposes theories upon facts. To impose theory upon fact is, in truth, not to see fact. Seeing facts directly opens the eyes; and the knowing that arises frees life, it does not bind it.
Because life has been seen through pre-fixed frameworks of doctrine, man has remained fragmented and crippled. He has not been able to see life whole and entire. He has not seen life without choice. Therefore life as it is—in its fullness, its totality, its indivisibility—he has remained deprived of knowing and living.
Under the sway of religion, the outer was rejected; in opposition and reaction, the inner was then rejected. This second rejection gathered itself around science. Religion and science came to stand opposed not because they are enemies, but because, in man’s consciousness, one extremity evoked the opposite extremity. Man’s mind swings in extremes, like a clock’s pendulum. One extreme gives birth to the other. And in extremes, truth never is. An extreme is always partial; if it were not, it would not be an extreme. Truth is in the middle. Truth is where both extremes are zero and silent. Transcending extremes is truth.
Life is not exclusively outer, nor exclusively inner. Life is both—or neither. To see life only as inner leaves only the center, and the circumference is lost. How can there be a center without a circumference? Only because there is a circumference can there be a center. And to see life only as outer loses the center; only a circumference remains. How can there be a circumference without a center? Life is in both—and thus is not confined to one.
Science is the search of the outer—the circumference. Dharma is the search of the inner—the center. Science is entry into matter; Dharma into Paramatma. Outwardly they appear in inner opposition; in truth they are aspects of a single reality. Their contradiction is only in man’s words. Man’s fragmented vision has fragmented all—yet life is one, undivided.
Life is the indivisibility of inner and outer. The breath that comes in is the same that goes out. Within and without are two points on its journey. What is breath itself? Inner or outer? It is both—and neither. From the inner point, it is inner; from the outer point, outer. In the very nature of breath, it is both and not both. So too is life: from one point, outer; from one point, inner; in its very suchness, both—and neither.
The outer point is science; the inner point is Dharma.
And then, there is the suchness of life itself—that is known only by one who becomes empty of inner and outer. For only the one who becomes zero of all angles, views, and points finds abiding in life’s wholeness. As long as there is a viewpoint, an angle, a point, there is fragmentation—because so long, I am somewhere, and therefore cannot be everywhere. Where there is no viewpoint, no angle, no point, there I am not—and then what is, simply is. That is truth.
Truth is not a viewpoint; it is where all viewpoints fall to zero. Where viewpoints are not, there is its seeing—that seeing is truth. And the experience of truth is the water that can extinguish the fire burning in life.
But where man finds himself ordinarily is a mind-state divided into inner and outer. On this division man finds himself. His sense of ego stands behind it. Because he is, the division is; because the division is, he is. In this very fire we all stand—and burn. Then one who goes toward the outer finds the division and tension growing, for his circumference expands and the center recedes farther and farther. Therefore science has a beginning, but no end. Science is a journey, a means—it is not the goal. It moves—but arrives nowhere.
Dharma is the direction of the inner. Perhaps not a direction, but a no-direction—for all directions point outward. Dharma is movement toward the inner. But no—perhaps not movement, but non-movement; for all movements carry us away from ourselves. Dharma is the gaze toward the center. But no—the distinction of seer, seeing, and seen belongs to the circumference; at the center there is no such distinction at all.
Science is definable—but then what is Dharma?
Dharma is not definable. Only what is outer can be defined. The inner cannot be defined. In truth, where definition begins, science begins, for there the outer begins. Science lives in word; Dharma in shunya. For the circumference is expression, and the center is the unknown, the unseen, the unmanifest. Like the tree and the seed are they. Science is the tree; Dharma is the seed. Science can be known; Dharma cannot be known—but one can be in Dharma, one can live in Dharma. Science is knowledge; Dharma is life. Therefore science can be taught; Dharma has no teaching.
Science is the search of the known and the knowable. Dharma is immersion in the unknown and the unknowable. Science is acquiring; Dharma is dissolving. Therefore there are many sciences—but Dharma is one. Therefore science is evolutionary; Dharma is eternal.
Going toward the circumference carries one away from the center. Yet a great wonder: one who goes toward the center does not move away from the circumference; on the contrary, the circumference draws nearer. And at the very center the circumference dissolves—because the center dissolves. At the circumference there is both circumference and center; at the center there is neither center nor circumference. The inner finally becomes the doorway to that which is neither inner nor outer.
Therefore I say: science may have a quarrel with Dharma, but Dharma cannot have a quarrel with science. The outer may oppose the inner—but for the inner, the outer simply is not. The son may oppose the mother—but for the mother, the son’s being is her own being.
Dharma cannot be in opposition to science—and if it is, it is not Dharma. Dharma is not even against the world. The world may be against Dharma, but Dharma cannot be against the world. Dharma is universal non-opposition; hence Dharma is freedom. Where there is opposition, there is bondage. Where there is opposition, there is restlessness, there is fire. That old woman was right to shout, "My house is burning! There is a fire in my life!"
And people arrived with science’s buckets—with water from the outside—so she began to laugh. She laughs even today, because the fire burns even today; the night is still amavas. The village still wakes from sleep; neighbors still come running—but they ask the same questions. They say, "Where is the fire? It is not visible. Tell us—we will put it out; we have brought buckets of water." Every night this happens; the same scene repeats.
But the fire is within—and the water is of the outside. How will the fire be put out? The fire only grows stronger, and man goes on being scorched. It may happen that the fire will not be extinguished—and man himself will be. Or it may happen that in the extreme heat of the fire a man is transformed, and his sleep breaks. And from this fire he emerges like gold, more refined. Remember: science has not been able to quench the fire—on the contrary, the discoveries of science have helped to inflame it further.
How much labor has man not given for science! Through tireless seeking, science has arisen. But the fire remains where it was; only its flames have grown as vast as the power placed in man’s hands by science. That power has become the fuel of that fire.
In the hands of ignorance, power becomes self-destructive—what wonder is there? To me, the two world wars appear as complete rehearsals for a universal suicide by humanity. Perhaps a hundred million people were killed in the two wars—and the preparations continue. The third world war will be the last. Not because man will then have renounced war—but because there will be no man left to wage it.
Humanity’s eagerness to destroy itself is not without cause. Perhaps the one-sided search of the outer, and the failure that followed, have set in motion this vast arrangement of self-annihilation. After all his running here and there, man’s hands are empty—life itself is empty, meaningless, a void. Alexander came to know his hands were empty as he was dying; thus he did not take the responsibility for death upon himself. Perhaps now man has known this while still alive—therefore he is ready to kill himself. He does not even wish to trouble Paramatma for his death. When hands are empty, the soul empty—what purpose remains to live, what meaning, what intent?
Life is meaningless—because man is unacquainted with life. And what he has taken to be life is surely meaningless—because it is not life. If life is only the race of the outer, with the inner lost, it inevitably becomes meaningless—for then what remains are things and more things. He who gathers these by selling his soul summons his own death with his own hands.
And one who moves toward the inner in hostility and enmity toward the outer becomes crippled—for even his life, caught in inner conflict, loses peace and music.
The soul is found only by those who live in music and in beauty. Enmity toward the outer creates a kind of ugliness. Opposition to the outer brings a kind of inertia. Inner conflict strengthens the ego, but the soul is not attained through it.
Life is in the meeting of outer and inner. Life is in the music of outer and inner. Life is between the outer and the inner. Through opposition, tension, conflict, and repression it is not attained. It is attained through peace, simplicity, naturalness. And peace, simplicity, and naturalness come through awareness—awareness toward life—awareness toward what is—awareness meaning de-stupefaction, awareness meaning wakeful consciousness. In the light of awareness there is a gradual movement from the outer to the inner. And then, from the inner, a movement toward that which is neither outer nor inner—which simply is.
Therefore I say: it is sleep—stupefaction—trance—that is the fire in which life burns and suffers. And awareness, de-stupefaction, wakefulness—these are the lights in which life transforms into the Supreme Life. The very energy that, in sleep, is a burning fire becomes, in awakening, a life-giving light.
When man is aware, every power in his hands is auspicious. Beyond stupefaction and unconsciousness, there is no inauspiciousness. Powers are always neutral and impartial; what will be done with them depends not on them but entirely on the man who wields them.
For human consciousness established in Dharma, even the fire of science is not a self-destroying hell, but self-creation, heaven. United with Dharma, science can give birth to a wholly new humanity.
A king once asked an old fakir, "I hear much sleep is bad, but I sleep a great deal. What is your view?" The old fakir said, "The sleep of good people is bad—but the sleep of bad people is good. For as long as they are awake, they labor to turn the world into hell."
Around the center of peace, a circumference of power is auspicious. But around a center of unrest, even powerlessness is auspicious. In the hands of Dharma, science is auspicious; in the hands of adharma, how can it be deemed auspicious? Power with knowledge is good; but ignorance with power will become disaster. Man is caught in just such a calamity. Science has given power—but where is the peace to use it rightly? Without peace there will be destruction; with peace, unheard-of pathways for life and creation can open. Power is outside man, unrest within. The arithmetic is simple and clear. This conjunction is itself the crisis.
An agitated, sorrowing mind finds pleasure in making others agitated and sorrowful; for a sorrowing mind has no other pleasure. In truth, we can give only what we have. One who is unhappy, on seeing others happy, becomes more unhappy. His happiness is that no one be happy. This is what is happening; this is what has been. Into the hands of a man filled with sorrow, unrest, and darkness, science has placed such power as can destroy all life.
Humanity now has complete instruments for self-suicide. The ceremonious preparations for a great death now underway cannot be called accidental. In what work are we all engaged? In which direction is this immense labor moving? For what do we live and die? To bring death! To bring the great death!
Previously, so-called religious people labored and did sadhana individually to be rid of life. Now science has opened a door for collective, public escape from life. Who would not wash their hands in this flowing Ganga? In this astonishing festival of death, we all have become collaborators and companions. Those who are not companions and helpers for life are still ready, even to annihilate themselves, to send one another to death. Astonishing is this feeling for sacrifice, this attitude of renunciation! Those who are enemies in life become comrades in the great sacrifice of death.
Should I say man has gone mad? Perhaps that would not be right—for it creates the illusion that once he was healthy. Man is as he has always been. Only the powers that were not in his hands before are now in his hands, and they have revealed his hidden madness. No one becomes mad by receiving power; power merely provides the opportunity for unmanifest madness to become manifest.
Man’s madness has become fully manifest. For such unveiling we must be deeply grateful to science. All the clothes of man have been stripped away; he stands utterly naked. In this nakedness he can be destroyed—or he can be reborn in an utterly new form. To stand thus naked before oneself is indispensable for a new ascent of consciousness. The false garments upon man were dangerous; better true nakedness than false clothes. For false clothes not only deceive others—they deceive oneself.
Because of this self-deception, no fundamental revolution has yet occurred in man. But now the moment has come when we can see man’s madness in its manifest form. And that illness which becomes manifest—surely something can be done to be rid of it.
In the brief three thousand years of human history, roughly fifteen thousand wars have occurred—five wars per year! If this is not madness, what is? And all these wars have been waged for peace! If this is not madness, what is? Since man’s arrival, the earth has known only two kinds of periods—periods of war, and periods of preparation for war. Peace as a period has never yet been known—for the time between two wars is not peace, it is a time of preparing for war. If this is not madness, what is? Is man living in order to fight? Science has taken this disease to its extreme, where either no patient will remain—or, if he is to remain, then he must abandon the disease, no matter how old and dear it may be. Diseases, when old, become dear; by becoming traditional they gain an honored place.
The mere oldness of anything becomes the argument for its continuation. And this disease of war is the oldest inheritance. It is man’s deepest culture.
I want to tell a story. The story is wholly untrue—but what it says is altogether true, a hundred percent. After the second world war, Paramatma became very worried seeing what man had done to man. But his worry peaked when his messengers reported that mankind was now engaged in preparing for a third world war. Tears came to Paramatma’s eyes at this madness of man, and he summoned the representatives of three great nations—England, Russia, and America.
Paramatma said to them, "I hear you have begun preparing for a third world war. Did you learn nothing from the second?"
Had I been there, I would have said, "Humanity has always learned lessons. From the first war, it learned for the second; from the second, it has gained knowledge for the third!" But I was not there; what I could not say to Paramatma, I say to you.
Following his old habit, Paramatma said again, "I can grant each of you one wish—anything you desire—if you promise to save yourselves from this suicidal tendency. The second world war is enough. Having made man, I have repented deeply; in my old age, do not trouble me further. Do you not know, after creating man, I fell into such distress that I have created nothing since?"
Had I been there I would have said, "O Paramatma! That is quite right. He who has been burned by milk blows even on buttermilk." But I was not there.
America’s representative said, "O Supreme Father, our desire is not great—just a small wish. If it is fulfilled, there will be no need for a third world war." Paramatma looked pleased for a moment. But when the American said, "Let the earth remain, but let there be no trace of Russia on it—this alone is our small, single wish," he became as sad again as perhaps he had not been even after creating man. Surely man was fully repaying the debt of being created!
Then Paramatma looked toward Russia. Russia’s representative said, "Comrade, first of all, we do not accept that you exist. Years ago we bid you farewell forever from our great land. We have broken the illusion that you were. But no—if you wish, we can once again worship you, and allow you to reside in the ruined, desolate churches, temples, and mosques. Only do a small thing for us: on the world map, we desire no color for America. If you cannot do even this, there is no cause for worry; sooner or later we ourselves will accomplish it without your help. Whether we survive or not, this work we must do; it is a historical inevitability we must fulfill for the sake of the proletariat. Man’s future lies only in the death of America."
And then, with eyes drenched in tears, Paramatma looked toward England. And what did England’s representative say? Can you even imagine it? No—you cannot imagine, for it is such a unique thing.
England’s representative said, "O Lord, we have no desire of our own. Only fulfill both our friends’ desires together, and ours will be fulfilled of itself."
Such is the situation. Is the story false? What truer story could there be? And it is not about one nation; it is about all. Wherever there is nationalism, there is war—that fever which culminates in war.
Nor is this only about nations—it is about individuals too. For unless the fever is in individuals, how can it be in nations? The individual is the unit of everything that happens in the human world. Whether the Ganga be of love or of hate, the Gangotri is always the individual. Even if the vast sky of life is covered by clouds of hate so dense as to shroud the entire earth, the root spring must be sought in the small heart of the individual—from where tiny vapors of anger, hate, enmity, ambition, sorrow, anxiety, and torment rise little by little and gather to cover the whole sky. And when the hatred and violence of one individual collide with that of another, there is not addition but multiplication. This multiplication goes on spreading, and the clouds of death that then overcast the sky are far more than the sum of individuals’ violences. But this process of multiplication need not alarm us—what has happened with hate can happen with love as well.
There can be such love on earth that is infinitely more than the sum of all individuals’ love. The name of that love is Paramatma. But what there is now is the demon of hate—call it the devil if you will—but remember: neither Paramatma nor the devil is other than man. They are creations of man.
What is auspicious in man is God. What is beautiful is heaven. What is inauspicious is hell. As a man makes himself, so he fashions the world. What I am—that is my donation to the world. By that gift I create the world as well. Every person is thus a creator.
It is essential to know that this ugly world—the orgy of violence, anger, hatred, and war—has every individual as a shareholder. The responsibility lies on each. Each is answerable. For the greatest wars, the smallest person is also responsible. For society is but the spread of the individual. Where else is society? The individual is society.
And the individual is fevered with ambition. Everyone wants to be something—and in the race to be something, he forgets what he is. The wonder of wonders: a person can only be what he is. To be other than oneself is impossible. What is not in the seed, how can it be in the tree? Yet everyone is running to be what he is not. This produces a feverish life that inevitably leads to violence and destruction. When a person grows as he is in seed, there is neither race, nor fever, nor madness. There is a quiet, silent, invisible growth—the pace of which has no audible footfall. But when a person tries to be what he is not, there is much noise—and nothing happens. This noise, this struggle, this tension, this unrest—these arise out of competition.
In being what one is, there is no competition. One becomes only in oneself, not in comparison with the other. In such growth, the other has no relevance; the mind moves in peace, free of quarrel. The wastage of energy that occurs in contest and struggle is saved; the person becomes a serene reservoir of power. This quiet conservation of energy gives life a dynamic in which there is full movement but zero friction. But where one lives by comparison with others, one does not live at all.
Life is in oneself; it is not in the other. In comparison with the other there is jealousy, anger, violence—and these are not life, they are deaths. Living amid these deaths, the world becomes as ugly as it has become—inevitably. And when, after all manner of ambitions and competitions, the doors of joy do not open, when the hell of sorrow deepens, then in this failure and melancholy a person begins to take revenge upon the whole world. He turns destructive. One who could not create himself—in revenge begins to destroy others.
The absence of self-creation becomes destruction and violence. That is why I say: a world founded upon ambition can never be nonviolent—whether that ambition be of the world or of moksha. Where there is ambition, there is violence. In truth, ambition is violence. And science has placed limitless power into the hands of the ambitious man. Now, unless Dharma takes ambition out of man’s mind, destruction is certain.
Why does this ambition arise—and from where? It arises from a sense of inferiority. In his inner depths, a person feels extremely poor and lowly. There all is empty and void. Nothing is there. There is lack, a hollow of every kind. He runs from this lack, this emptiness. For this flight he creates ambitious goals, so they can give him fever and haste to run. Essentially he does not run to any place; he runs away from a place.
But to run away from a place without having a place to reach is impossible; thus he fixes destinations and goals. The root is flight from lack—but outwardly it appears that everyone is running to reach somewhere. In truth, we are fleeing from ourselves. But to see this fact is to slay the race itself. Therefore we talk of destinations, ideals, mokshas. This self-deception is very deep. He who lacks the courage to break it can never be healed of the fever of ambition. One ambition proves futile—he creates another.
When worldly ambitions fail, he will craft ambitions for moksha, ambitions to attain Brahman. Before the worldly person can even forego the world, he becomes a sannyasin. Thus ambition returns in new clothing. And is not ambition itself the world—samsara?
The descent of Dharma into life begins from the very moment a person starts to see and recognize the root cause of his race. The seeing of this truth—that the root of ambition is flight from inner lack—becomes the opening of a new direction in life.
Fleeing from one’s inner emptiness is the world. Awakening into one’s inner emptiness and void is Dharma. To flee is samsara; to awaken is Dharma. The runner finds the void only grows larger; the awakened one discovers the void does not exist. What appeared as void in sleep becomes fullness in wakefulness. Friend, flight enlarges the emptiness, for the farther we are from ourselves, the more empty and void we become. The distance from our own being is the measure of our emptiness. Remember: the greater the Alexander hidden within a man, the emptier are his hands.
And emptiness enlarges by fleeing from oneself because the root of flight is fear. To flee is to accept fear. To run away is to embrace fear. What we accept and embrace grows. Fear does not decrease by fleeing; it increases. The greater the fear, the less the self-being—and so the inner void grows, and grows more painful.
But one who does not flee from himself, instead awakens to himself, attains a wholly different experience of life. His hands do not remain empty. His soul does not remain hollow. His whole life becomes filled with a unique wealth.
For one who awakens to himself discovers there is no lack there. There is Paramatma. Lack is not in the self; it lies in stupefaction about the self. I am asleep—that is the lack. If I awaken, the lack is not found—just as darkness is not found once the sun has risen.
Do you know that once darkness wrote a letter to the sun, complaining, "Why are you after me without cause?" The sun was astonished upon receiving darkness’s letter. He sent word back, "Friend, I do not even know you. Come someday and accept my hospitality. If unconsciously I have committed any offense, I wish to seek forgiveness in person." But countless centuries have passed since that invitation; darkness has still not been able to come to meet the sun. And now even the sun has begun to suspect whether darkness exists at all. That letter may have been forged!
The moment I awaken, there is no lack. The moment I become the sun, there is no darkness. I say this having awakened; I say this having become the sun. I say this brimming in every way—come, look at my hands. Are they not full?
Remember, you too are the sun, and your hands too are full. But your eyes are closed; you sleep. Because of this sleep, your filled hands do not appear filled. And then, to fill them, you dream by the thousands.
But, friend—can those hands ever be filled that are not empty? And can that inner lack be filled that is not? Therefore man’s whole chase inevitably ends in failure. This inevitable failure is man’s torment.
And one who is in torment spreads torment. One who is in sorrow distributes sorrow. Man is bound to give what he is—for without distributing oneself, one cannot live. Flowers share fragrance because they are fragrance. Stars share light because they are light. Man shares sorrow because he is sorrow. But man can also share bliss—because he can be bliss.
Dharma is the doorway to bliss. For Dharma is awakening to oneself. One who awakens to himself finds there is no lack; this in itself fills him with bliss, for then nothing remains to be attained. All that is to be attained is attained—is known to have already been attained.
Lack is not the nature; bliss is the nature. Thus to be conscious of oneself is to attain bliss. And the moment bliss is found, it begins to radiate. A mind scattering rays of bliss is a mind established in Dharma. In the hands of such a mind, the power of science is fragrance in gold. Such a meeting of science and Dharma is long-awaited.
My friends, will you be the bridge that can bring this union? Man must become the bridge. Each one must become the bridge. For only across such a bridge will the long-awaited golden age descend upon the earth—not something that came and went in the past, but something that is in the future, now about to arrive.