Shiksha Main Kranti #9

My beloved!
I was very delighted that I would have a chance to say a few things among the young and among students. The very first thing that arises in my mind for the young is this—and upon it I will speak to you in some detail today.
The old have the world behind them; for them there is only the past—what has gone by, that alone counts. Children imagine and desire the future; the old worry over and ponder the past. For the young, there is neither future nor past; there is only the present. If you are young, you are young only by the capacity to live in the present. If within your mind there runs the rumination of what is behind, you have begun to grow old. If your mind is still running after future fantasies, you are still a child.
Youth is a balance-point in-between. It is a state of mind where there is neither future nor past. When we live exactly in the present, consciousness is young—fresh, alive, living. The truth is: other than the present, nothing has any existence. Neither the past has any being, nor the future; being belongs to the present—to the moment that is.
How many are there who live in the moment that is? The one who lives in the present moment—I call that one young. The one who attains to the capacity to live in the present, his mind is youthful—neither old nor childish. But generally what happens is that people pass straight from childhood into old age; very few ever become truly young. It is not necessary that one must pass through youth—this is not inevitable. And the great wonder is: the one who once discovers youth never becomes old. For one who has known the secret—the very key—of youth, there is no need to become old. The body will age, it will come and go; but consciousness can remain in a continuous youthfulness—ever fresh, ever young, radiant and alive.
So first let me say: do not assume you are young merely because your age lies between childhood and old age. No one becomes young by that. To be young is a very deep affair. I will say a few things about it. And you say you are students—yet that too I do not quite see. If there were truly students in the world, knowledge should have multiplied immensely. But students go on increasing, universities go on increasing—and knowledge does not increase. Rather, ignorance thickens. Students multiply, seats of learning multiply, yet the world goes on becoming worse and worse. If knowledge were truly developing, the world should be getting better as a result. If someone takes me into a garden and says, “We have planted many flowers; the plants are growing and the blossoms are coming,” and yet the stench keeps increasing, filth goes on piling up—if foul odor rises instead of fragrance—one would be surprised and forced to ask: what kind of flowers, what sort of plants are these that as they grow, stench grows?
Universities increase, books increase. I hear five thousand books are published every week—across the world, five thousand books a week! In a world where five thousand books are added every week, where the number of students rises daily, where education expands—yet that very world keeps falling lower! Wars become ever more murderous; hatred grows more widespread; jealousy and envy become more intense—then surely something is wrong at the very foundation. And for this fault, none bears the responsibility as much as those connected with education—be they teachers or the taught.
In the last five thousand years the world has tried many revolutions. It has seen economic revolutions and political revolutions—but not yet any basic revolution in education. And it has become a matter for deep consideration: can there be any revolution in human culture without a fundamental revolution in education? It cannot be—because education determines the very structure of your mind; and once that structure hardens, to be free of it becomes nearly impossible. A youth spends fifteen or twenty years in schooling; in those years his mental mold is set. For the rest of his life, to escape that mold is very difficult. Those rare ones who have courage may break it; generally, people cannot.
Might not the very framework our education gives be wrong? Certainly it must be, because the results are wrong. Results are the test; they alone tell whether what we are doing is right or wrong.
These children who come out “educated,” they emerge as distorted human beings. Do not think I am saying the old form of education was good and we should return to it. Such talk is foolishness. One never returns backward. Nor was education in the past basically right; otherwise this wrong education would not have been born from it. Right does not give birth to wrong; wrong begets wrong. It was wrong then; it is wrong now.
Let me speak a little of the bases of the wrong.
Around what center does our entire education revolve? That center itself is wrong. It is that center which births all the trouble. That center is ambition. Our whole education revolves around ambition—around the axis of craving for importance.
What is taught to you, taught to us? Ambition is taught. A race is taught: get ahead—get ahead of others. A small child goes to kindergarten; even to that little one we inject anxiety—the anxiety to be first! There is no greater anxiety in the world than this. There is but one worry in the world: how shall I get ahead of the other, how shall I leave others behind!
A tiny child goes to a tiny school; into his mind too we mount the ghost of worry—he too must be ahead. He will be rewarded if he comes first; he will be humiliated if he comes second; if he fails, he will be shamed. If he succeeds, he will be honored. Teachers will respect him; at home he will be respected. We are sowing competition in him. And competition is a kind of fever. Yes, in fever a certain power comes. If you are feverish, you can run faster; if feverish, you can hurl abuse more swiftly; in fever you can do things you could not ordinarily do. In fever there is haste, a kind of energy.
We have based the entire race of education on fever. We say: outrun the other. The children’s egos are pricked; they become eager to be ahead. In wanting to be ahead they labor, they strive, they pour in their entire strength, their very life-breaths.
But for what? Simply to be ahead of others. There is a competition, a fever of competition. And once that fever grips them, it does not leave them when they come out of school. They want a house bigger than the other’s, a shop larger than the other’s, a position higher than the other’s. The junior clerk wants to become a senior clerk; the teacher wants to be headmaster; the deputy minister wants to be minister; someone wants to be president—someone wants to be something. A mad race seizes them. And lifelong each remains possessed by the madness to become somebody. In this mad dash, the whole peace of their life, all their strength, their entire capacity is consumed.
What do they gain finally? Finally, they arrive nowhere—because wherever they arrive, there will always be someone ahead. And so long as anyone is ahead of them, they cannot know peace. And in this world there has never been a person who could say, “I have come ahead of all,” because there are always some beyond. The world is vast, and all of us stand in a circle. Stand in a circle, and who is ahead, who behind? Everyone finds someone ahead. The race goes on and on. Has anyone ever come first of all? If it were possible, someone would have by now. Surely we are running in circles. In a circle there is always someone before us. No one has ever come ahead of all. Yet we go on teaching children: come ahead. We are teaching them insanity, pushing them into a race in which they will waste their lives.
All education stands upon jealousy. We say to people: do not be jealous, do not be violent, do not envy—yet our entire education is built upon envy. Holding up one child, we say to another: look how intelligent he is, and how dull you are—be like him! We are stoking jealousy, arousing envy. He too must become like that one, he too must overtake him.
What are we creating inside him? We are pouring poison—the poison of envy. Whenever we say to a child, “Get ahead of others,” we are injecting poison; we do not love that child. That poison will circulate in his veins all his life; it will haunt his mind. He will always want to be ahead. A race to get ahead will always possess him. But tell me—has anyone ever truly come ahead? And can any joy be had by standing ahead of someone else? What has bliss to do with being ahead? What has peace to do with getting in front of others? No—basically this is wrong.
Education revolving around ambition is wrong. If we wish to build a new world, we will have to change this center and give birth to a new one.
What center can take its place? I want to say to you: competition cannot be the center of education; it should not be. Love should be the center of education.
What do I mean by love? Here we sit together—if all of us wish to learn music, one way is to fall into the rush to outstrip others: can music be learned in that fever? Lest others leave us behind, lest we be insulted—lest we be discredited, lest we fail, lest we become nobody—we must become somebody, must show something to someone—shall we learn music in that race? But will that be love of music—or love of the ego? And where there is love of ego, how can music be learned? Where the ego is loved, how can anything be learned?
To learn requires humility. Yet our entire education teaches ego, not humility. The teacher complains: students have no humility. How can they? When we teach students, “Get ahead of others,” we are teaching ego. How can humility arise? It is false to expect it. It will not arise; nor should it. For we are feeding ego—“Get ahead of others.” The moment he gets ahead of others, his humility is destroyed and he becomes afflicted with ego. With a crowd so afflicted with ego, neither music can be learned, nor anything in this world.
The key to learning is humility. The key to learning is egolessness. But everyone’s ego is being incited, fanned. “You must win gold medals at the university. You must become a Bharat Ratna; someone must become president; someone, something.” The fire of envy is being lit in all minds; ego is being aroused. How will they learn music? How will they learn mathematics? How will they learn the very art of life? For to learn anything at all a non-competitive, non-ambitious mind is needed.
Yes, there is another key to learning—and that key is love for the very subject. Not competition with the musician, but love for music. Not rivalry with the fellow student, but absorption, delight, love for that which we wish to learn. It is proper that we teach love for mathematics, not competition with other learners of mathematics. It is proper that we kindle love for music, not competition with other students of music. Certainly, music can be learned through love of music—and only then. Everything is learned only when we love it. All learning follows love. But love is not taught to us. Our education has no relation with love.
This is why it often happens that if you studied literature at the university, after leaving the university you never pick up literature again—because the university will have bored you so deeply, frightened you so much, that you will have no wish to look at it. If you studied poetry at the university, your lifelong love and delight in poetry will be destroyed. Why? Because it was read in the race of ego—to pass exams, to get ahead—not out of love for poetry.
Thus, very often our entire education destroys talent. Emerson once praised a young man—the first graduate of his village. People asked Emerson to say a few words in the boy’s honor. Emerson said, “Let me observe him for a month, then I may speak.” A month later he joined the ceremony and said, “I like this young man; I praise him—he is wonderful.” Why? He said, “Because in spite of university education he has managed to save his originality—therefore I praise him.” Such indeed is the case.
They are rare who come out of the whirlwind of the university with their originality intact; generally it is destroyed. The very foundations of education are wrong. And when education is based on competition, rivalry, ambition—inevitably there will be quarrels, wars, conflicts. These children will be grown tomorrow; they will fight—group against group, society against society, sect against sect, nation against nation—because they must get ahead, must come first. Countries will fight. The whole world’s nations are fighting.
Why are they fighting? Because all those children who were schooled were taught nothing but to fight. They were not taught love; they were taught envy and jealousy. Two world wars have happened in just a few decades—one hundred million people were slaughtered. Surely such education is wrong. What sort of education is this that in ten or fifteen years the world murders millions! What kind of boys are these that the universities produce—how diseased their minds must be! How is it possible that wars keep happening and universities keep flourishing—how?
If universities were true, if education were real, war should disappear from the world. There should be no war—will an educated person fight? Will a cultured person fight? A civilized person? Will he kill? Not one or two—but millions? Yet we do it—and our well-educated go to war! He does not even sense the ugliness of war—how could he? For within him the seeds of fighting have been sown. Seeds to fight everyone have been planted; he will even taste pleasure in fighting.
Notice—whenever war breaks out, people become exhilarated. This is surely a diseased state. When war happens there is a glow on faces; people seem excited, joyous. Whether Hindustan fights Pakistan or China fights India—or some other foolishness somewhere—people look happy. Nights and days are charged for them; from morning they read the papers, listen to the radio, talk. Look at their faces, as if some great festival has arrived. They have been prepared for war. For twenty-four hours they relish nothing but fighting.
Walk on the road—if two men are quarreling, hundreds will drop necessary work to watch. What madness is this! To enjoy watching two people fight is a sign of an ugly mind, not a cultured mind. To find relish in others’ conflict is a symptom of an ugly mind. Yet that is what people do worldwide. Our minds have been prepared in this way. When one man loses and another wins, we garland the winner and neglect the loser. This is a sign of a distorted and violent mind. Why garland the one who has won and ignore the one who has lost? Does this not show you the sick person inside you? Should compassion and love not arise for the defeated—or should reverence overflow for the victor?
If education were right, compassion and respect would arise for the defeated. For the winner there would be surprise: what a cruel person—he wanted to win, to defeat someone; what a violent tendency!
To defeat someone is violence. In the urge to defeat, there is hatred. The very effort to defeat is proof of a distorted, diseased mind.
Yet we honor the victor and neglect the vanquished. Why? Because we too are eager within to win; we side with whoever wins, because we too want to win. The same taste is working in us—to sit upon another’s chest. Therefore whoever sits upon someone’s chest we garland; whoever falls, we forget. This is surely wrong—wrong at the very root.
And remember—why is there ambition in us? What is the cause that we run so madly? There is a cause: the more inferiority a person carries within, the stronger his ambition becomes. The more inferior he feels, the more he will burn with ambition. Why? Through ambition he wants to prove—both to his own eyes and to the eyes of the world—that you are mistaken to think me inferior.
Let me tell you a small incident; it will help you understand. You must have heard the name of Taimur the Lame—Tamerlane. He conquered a kingdom; its king, Bajazet, was captured. Bajazet was brought, in chains, into Tamerlane’s camp. He stood there, a defeated emperor; Tamerlane sat on his throne, courtiers by his side, soldiers standing. Tamerlane looked at Bajazet and laughed. Naturally Bajazet became angry. Defeated, yes—but he was still an emperor! He lifted his head proudly and said, “Taimur, do not be foolish. Whoever laughs at another’s defeat will one day have to shed tears at his own.” But Tamerlane said, “No—I do not laugh for such a childish victory. I am not so naive. I laugh for another reason. I laugh because I am lame—and you are one-eyed. And what kind of God is this, who grants empires to the lame and the one-eyed!”
Had I been present, I would have told Tamerlane: none but the lame and the one-eyed ever ask God for empires. A healthy person would not want to be an emperor. A healthy person would not want to be a politician. A healthy person does not desire to sit over others. A healthy person does not want to force anyone to his feet. A healthy person does not want to be anyone’s master. This run belongs to the sick, the diseased, the inferior within us.
The lame and the one-eyed—these are the states of our inferiority, our inner weaknesses; to hide them we run, to conceal them we race—and we want to establish before others that we are not inferior. This race is of an inferior mind.
Education based on ambition is essentially based on violence. There is no dignity of person in it—only the poverty of person. Everyone in the world is afraid: “Lest I become a nobody, a nothing. I must be something—my name must be known; I must have a rank, a prestige, a house.” I must be something.
Who creates this madness? Our education creates it. Appropriate is that education which can say to each person: who you are is enough, is sufficient. Who you are is enough and sufficient; you need not become anything else. What you are is sufficient. Unfold your whole potential and know joy. Do not enter any race with anyone. There is no reason to race—none whatsoever! If education can bring each person to the realization that he is sufficient as he is—and help him taste the joy of that sufficiency; if it can provide the conditions for the full flowering of what he already has—not ambition, but growth; not competition, but love; not conflict with others, but the awakening of oneself—of awareness—then education can bring a fundamental revolution to the whole world. Until education is such, it is not for man’s good; it is, fundamentally, against him—it poisons him.
What is it that we lack—you and I? What does any person lack? If one does not become filled with ambition, there is no lack in the world. If one does not become diseased with the madness of ambition, he has so much—but it will not be visible to him. How will he see it? He sees only what others have. The ambitious man always sees what others possess; he cannot see what he possesses. And the irony: whatever others have—if he gets it tomorrow, it will stop being visible; then again he will see only what others have. Consider it, watch within—Is it not so? You have two eyes, hands, feet, breath is flowing, a body—what wealth! From such wealth so much can be created.
There was a king—very restless, greatly troubled. He thought of suicide. Mounting his horse, he rode into the forest. There he saw a shepherd tending sheep, a young man playing a flute. There was such magic in the melody that the king stopped his horse and asked, “You sing with such intoxication—as if you have gained a kingdom.” The youth said, “Please pray to God for me, that whatever sins I have committed, whatever mistakes I have made, I may be forgiven—but never let a kingdom be given to me!” The king asked, “You seem mad—what fear have you of a kingdom?” The youth replied, “Only so long as a man has no kingdom is he a king; the moment a kingdom is gained, he becomes a slave.”
No one has ever seen a king who was truly a king. The world has seen many naked men who were kings—men whose joy knew no bounds, whose inner music was such that thousands of years pass and the music is still heard. But from within a king no music and bliss have been seen to arise. His garments may shine—his soul is corroded with rust. His crown may glitter—inside his skull there is no light—never has been, never can be. For the very obsession shows that it cannot be. If there were inner gold in his head, the madness to carry gold upon it would not possess him. Whoever has inner gold does not care to wear a golden crown. Who would be fool enough to carry a stone? But one who has no inner gold—whose head is filled with rubbish—he uses a golden crown to cover that junk, becomes eager to wear gold.
The youth said, “Forgive me, and pray to God that I am never made a king.” The king was even more startled. He said, “I see your clothes are torn; your work is to graze sheep—then what is the secret of your joy?” The youth said, “Joy has nothing to do with what you have; it has to do with how you use what you have. Joy is related not to possession but to utilization.”
He said, “I have eyes—I look at nature’s beauty and am delighted. I have these sheep—I love them and my heart overflows. What do I lack? I have healthy hands and feet—I can earn two loaves. Day and night—there are moons and stars, forests and hills—what is missing? Yes, there is one thing I lack which kings have: I have no worries. I sleep in deep sleep at night.”
The king said, “Go—you speak rightly. Tell the people in your village that I, the king of this land, met you by chance here and I have also testified that what you say is true. For I came to this forest to commit suicide—I am the king of this country. And may God never give you a kingdom.”
And may God—let me say to you—never plant even the idea of kingship in anyone’s mind. Whoever gets that idea becomes sick, diseased; his life is ruined. But we are all in the race for kingship. It makes no difference what you wish to become; so long as you are in any race to become something, you are in the race to be a king. Recognize the essential, rejoice in it. With love develop the potential that is yours—then life can be filled with great joy. Every person’s life can be filled with joy. As that shepherd said—everything depends on how we use what we have.
One more small story. In Japan there were two fakirs. One evening they returned to their hut. It was the rainy season—rains had just begun. They saw that a storm had carried away half the roof. One of them was instantly filled with anger toward God: “What is this! Now what will happen? The rains have begun; clouds crowd the sky, and the storm has blown away the hut of two fakirs. Half the roof is gone. How shall we live? What shall we do? At such moments one doubts whether God exists. The palaces of sinners stand; He does not think of blowing them away. The poor man’s hut He blows away!”
But the other fakir—this first one was astonished—stood with folded hands, eyes closed toward the sky, saying, “Blessed are You, blessed is Your grace. What trust can there be in storms? They could have carried off the whole roof; You have saved half. Storms are blind; they might have blown away everything—but You saved half. You remember even us fakirs—we are so grateful!”
And that night he wrote a song: “Until now I did not know the joy that belongs to those who sleep under a half-roof. With half a roof we slept—and half the roof was the sky; the moon could be seen. With half a roof we slept. Whenever in the night my eyes opened, I looked out and saw the stars; I beheld them and slept in peace. This morning I have awakened in a joy I have never known. Had God granted me even a dream of this, I would have removed half the roof myself—what need was there for the storm!”
Everything depends on how we take things—how we accept, with what heart, what we have. Our education, from the start, creates the wrong mind. Acceptance does not come; instead comes racing. We think of what others have; there is no awareness of what we have. Then life starts upon a wrong track; only death finally delivers us from this misery—there is no other escape. This is the result of wrong education.
Right education will teach the development of what a person has—and never teach comparison. For where comparison enters, all trouble begins. But our whole world stands upon comparison.
One man is a cobbler—no one celebrates his birthday. Another man is a politician—his birthday is celebrated. Why? What virtues are in this politician? What is the benefit to the world that you are so excited? No—the seat he sits on is high; there is no chair equal to his. We have compared things wrongly and distorted all values.
You have heard the name of Lincoln. His father was a cobbler. When Abraham became president of America, many felt hurt in their hearts. In our country if a cobbler became something, we would suffer greatly. When Lincoln rose to speak in the Senate for the first time, one man could not contain himself. All were offended, but the cultured held themselves somewhat in control. One man stood and said, “Sir, do not speak so arrogantly. Remember—your father used to stitch shoes.”
Naturally—stitching shoes is such a bad thing! Though everyone wears shoes. Wearing them is not bad; stitching them is bad—this world is certainly topsy-turvy. If stitching shoes is bad, those who wear them are worse. Everyone wears shoes, but stitching is bad—what madness.
What did Lincoln say? He seems to have been a man of great sensibility. He said, “As far as I remember, you have reminded me of my father at just the right moment. My father stitched shoes so well—I have seen very few who stitched as well. I think the gentleman who just spoke had his shoes stitched by my father too—may I ask whether he ever stitched a wrong pair? Did his shoes tear quickly? Were they weak?” He said, “I remember my father stitched shoes with such joy that whoever took them was very happy. It will be difficult for me to be as good a president as my father was a cobbler.” He said, “To be as good a president as my father was a cobbler—that will be difficult for me.”
If education is right, if it is sound, then the prestige tied to work and position will dissolve. One man stitches shoes; one bakes bread; another is a mason laying bricks—it makes no difference. All together they create life. In life, all are needed. Those who make bricks are needed; those who sweep the streets are needed; those who govern a country are needed. No one is less than anyone; no one’s rank is lower. There is no status. All together are creating a cooperative life. Life is a cooperation. In it, no one is above, no one below. A peon is not lower than a president—and should not be. And so long as the peon and the president are thought of as high and low, peace will be very difficult for the human mind. For then the peon will want to be president—naturally; he will. If he does not want it for himself, he will want it for his children—naturally; he will.
The day we accept the value of work by seeing its contribution to the whole—the day education stops linking prestige to jobs—the value of a musician will be equal to the value of the one who stitches shoes, equal to the value of the one who stitches clothes. The question is not who does what—the question is: who, and how, does what.
Kabir was a weaver, he stitched and wove cloth. People told him, “Stop weaving—this does not befit a sannyasi.” He said, “No—if wearing clothes befits a sannyasi, why not making them?” The difference can only be this: “Earlier, when I wove cloth, my mind thought, ‘How much can I extract from man? How much money can I snatch?’ That did not befit a sannyasi. Now when I weave, the feeling in my heart is, ‘How little can I take, how much can I give?’ I weave strong cloth and my heart is as full as if Rama himself were coming to buy it.” He would go dancing with his cloth to the market and call, dancing, “Which Rama today will accept my labor, my prayer?” Whoever bought cloth from him, he would touch his feet and help him wear it, saying, “Please, wear it with a little care—I have woven it with much love, with much prayer.”
But is weaving cloth some bad thing? Is being a weaver some bad thing? For life, nothing is bad; for life, these things are necessary—works are necessary. There should be no status attached to work; there should be no rank. But our education is utterly wrong—absolutely wrong! In school, the peon has no respect—then why should children ever want to be peons? It is upon the young to bring revolution—to change the entire vision. So long as this remains, we will keep thinking in these terms, in these words—higher and lower.
Recently I went somewhere on Teacher’s Day. By mistake someone invited me to speak. I went; they said, “It is a great honor to teachers that a teacher became president.” I said, “This is completely wrong. A teacher’s honor lies in his being a good teacher, not in his becoming president. If all teachers get into the race to become presidents, great difficulty will arise.” That race is on. If not president, then a state’s education minister; if not, then a vice-chancellor; if not, something else! This is wrong.
A teacher’s honor is in being a good teacher. If a good teacher goes to become president, it is an insult to teaching, not an honor. It can be understood if a president resigns his post and becomes a teacher. It cannot be understood that a teacher leaves teaching to become a president—that does not make sense. For what comparison is there between teacher and politician? For a teacher to become a politician is a fall; for a politician to become a teacher is growth. Teaching is the simplest vocation, the simplest calling; it is a foundational thing in life. Teaching is not a profession at all—it is a joy, a service, a creativity, a sadhana. Whoever leaves it and runs elsewhere should not be honored—nor will be. But in our minds, everywhere politics and position are important. We are very strange people—sit a man upon a small stool and he becomes small.
An acquaintance once told me of an incident. Long ago there was a magistrate in Madras—somewhat eccentric perhaps; though really, who is not? Hard to decide who is mad and who not. He must have been a little more so. In his court the rest of the hall would be empty; whenever someone came, he would seat him according to status—his position, rank, the heat of his pocket. He kept seven kinds of seats in the next room—numbered one through seven. Number one was a small stool, a low wooden seat. If some poor-looking person came—ordinarily such a one would not be asked to sit at all; he would be put off standing. But if it was unavoidable, he would call for number one. Then number two; then number three; then a chair; then a better chair; then one better still—seven kinds.
One day a man came, looked poor. The magistrate first tried to put him off standing, but the man said as he entered, “I am the malguzar of such and such village.” Quickly the magistrate told the peon, “Bring number two.” The peon went in and was bringing number two when the man said, “I have been conferred the title Rai Bahadur by the government.” The magistrate said to the peon, “Wait—bring number six.” The malguzar said, “Why do you trouble yourself? I know—better call for number seven right away, because there are still many things I have to tell you. I intend to donate to the War Fund as well. You can call for number seven.”
We laugh at this man—but we are all like him. There is no reverence for the human being in our hearts. Do we honor the human as such? No—we honor the president, the prime minister, the governor. Do we love the mere human being? The bare human—without position, name, title, certificate, with empty pockets—do we have any reverence for him? If not, then remember—we have no reverence at all. All our respect is for chairs high and low.
Yet this is exactly what education teaches us! It teaches all these wrong things. Such education deserves to be burned. The entire arrangement of education is wrong. New foundations must be laid. Those foundations will be these: that we teach love, not competition; that we teach respect for the human being—the bare human—not reverence for posts and offices; that prestige is not tied to work; that the feeling is born that life is a collective contribution of all.
And then, upon that soil, what possibilities lie within our individuality—without any comparison, without measuring against another? As I said this morning: there is no need to compare with anyone else, because each person is unique. There is no need to say, “You are weaker than so-and-so, more intelligent than so-and-so, less beautiful than so-and-so.” These comparisons are dangerous, violent; they create disturbance. Each person as he is, let him be accepted. Whatever possibilities are in him—let them unfold.
The rose is a rose; the jasmine is jasmine. One tree grows tall, another remains small. There is a grass plant on which a tiny flower blooms—yet it has its own dignity, its own glory, its own joy. The secret is that the grass flower should bloom fully—not remain half-open. The issue is not to compare it with the rose. The rose has its joy in blooming; the grass flower has its joy in blooming. A small bird sings its own song; a large bird sings its own. The question is not who sang better. The question is whether anyone could sing with his whole life-breath or not. There is no comparison of one with another.
Each person is a unique creation of Paramatma—and we must accept him. Our entire education, our whole culture and civilization should bring out whatever is hidden within him—so that nothing remains concealed. And this flowering should not happen by fever, by disease, by competition—but by simple love and joy, all the flowers within should open.
When a person’s total capacities blossom, he is filled with bliss. Then flowers come within; fragrance arises; peace is born. Only such a person can search for, and know, Paramatma—Truth. Only such a mind can become available to the experience of Truth. In this life, only one who is at peace can enter deeper into life. One who is restless, caught in competition, will be restless. One who is at peace in this life—whose mind accepts itself, whose flowers are blooming and filling him with joy and fragrance—little by little, he will begin to receive intimations of Paramatma; the Divine will begin to be glimpsed all around. A miserable person can never know Paramatma. Only when all the doors of joy open within does one begin to experience Paramatma everywhere.
The final foundation of education should be this: that each person reach the fullness of his own soul—the direct experience of his own self. But as of now the situation is such that a person cannot even taste peace and happiness in the world. Paramatma becomes a very distant journey. Then, because of restlessness and trouble, he runs to temples, offers money to God, touches the feet of priests. All this is futile, meaningless. To escape anxiety he takes the support of God. He loses an election, and then runs to God. He fails in success, and then gets amulets made. Then he worries about the racecourse, touches the feet of sadhus and sannyasis.
Someone asked me yesterday, “Do you also tell the numbers of horses?” In our country all sadhus and sannyasis do. I said, “I am a very feeble man; I am neither sadhu nor sannyasi. How could I tell horse numbers? Sadhus and sannyasis—those great, real mahatmas—they tell the numbers of horses. And if you were to meet Paramatma, even He would be able to tell you a sure number! My problem is—I am no sadhu or sannyasi, no mahatma—so how can I?” But the race goes on—horse numbers and tricks to win elections. All those sadhus and mahatmas hover around Delhi, because there the winners and losers all touch their feet and ask for devices—“What next...?”
Unquiet, miserable, beaten and triumphant in competitions, fear-ridden—such people all go to religion’s shelter. That religion becomes false. Their very reason for going there is irreligious. Only that one can approach Dharma who has made his mind peaceful in every way, whose mind is free of conflict, who has reverence and love for all, who has compassion—not envy. Such a person slowly, slowly draws near to religion of his own accord; he need not go to any temple. One day Paramatma Himself comes to his house. One day Paramatma lays His hand upon his shoulder. There is no need to search for Him. Real education is religious education. But religious education does not mean that you be made to memorize the Gita or the Koran. Through all that, great irreligion has spread in the world. Nothing can come now by memorizing these.
Religious education now means: creating such a mind that is non-competitive, non-jealous, non-violent—not violent, not envious, not rivalrous—but loving, filled with compassion. To provide for such a mind—that is the meaning of religious education. Such education will not make you Hindu, Muslim, Jain. These are all insanities, diseases. No healthy person is Hindu, Jain, Muslim—he is simply religious. If you truly wish to be young, your mind will be quiet—young. If you want to be available to knowing, peace will come into your life; knowing will come.
I have said a few things. If, upon this foundation, you reflect a little and look into your own being—“Shall I really fall into competition, into jealousy—or shall I seek a path of peace and joy, awaken some inner potential from which the fragrance of delight may spread?”—then you can be students in the true sense. Universities are wrong; the arrangement of education is wrong. Upon whom shall we rest hope? Teachers are wrong; the system of education is wrong—toward whom shall we raise our eyes? Who will do this work?
The young can. In them there is a little fire of revolt—a few sparks—though in Hindustan it is very much damped. For thousands of years no youth have truly been born here. The spirit of rebellion is rare here; the ashes are thick. Yet one can hope in the young—perhaps a few sparks lie hidden in the ash. Fan them a little, recognize them. If our youth rebel—against this whole arrangement, against the entire outcome of this education, if they are ready to break this whole structure—then one can hope that, if not today, tomorrow, we will end a world of war, we will end the world of nations. These boundaries—Hindustan, Pakistan—these stupidities—we will end them. We will bring down the walls of Hindu and Jain. A culture of one humanity can be born. But it depends upon the young. They must be rebellious. A great revolution—its great burden—is upon them. Perhaps never before in human history have there been moments when so great a responsibility lay upon the youth.
Think—can we bear that responsibility? If we can, mankind can be saved. If not, the matter is rotten—the story ends. All that will remain is to announce the news: man has died. There is not much time. Only the drum needs to be beaten—that man is dead. “Ram nam satya”—the last chant—will not take long for man. The entire arrangement for man’s murder is ready. At any moment we can be finished—everything is prepared. Fifty thousand atom bombs, hydrogen bombs, are ready across the world. More than enough to wipe this earth. Enough to wipe seven such earths. Three billion people are too few compared to the bombs we have—enough to kill twenty-one billion.
What will happen? Kill each person seven times—and still we have surplus. The arrangement is ready. And if even one politician’s mind goes astray—and fifty percent of them are insane—at any moment they can drown all humanity with them. Who will save it? Upon whom does the responsibility fall?
I do not know what your organizers expected—that I would speak to you of these things. Perhaps you thought I would give you tricks to pass examinations, to get ahead, to reach high positions, to be successful—how to get success. I will not give those. Those have been given enough; because of them we are suffering—suffering terribly.
May God grant that you do not succeed. Become true human beings. Success is no value. May God grant that you reach no position—that you reach into your own being. There is something there. May God grant that in your life there be no competition with anyone—that love for your own being arise; that you awaken it. May God grant that you can become a brick in the building of a new culture—that is my prayer.
You listened to my words with such love and silence—my deep gratitude. I bow to that new human being who is within us all. Accept my pranam to that God.