Trisha Gai Ek Bund Se #4

You have asked a very amusing question. If God is a communist, then I am a communist too. And God must be a communist, because in his eyes no one is unequal; all are equal. And whoever sees all as equal will naturally wish that, if they are not yet equal in the eyes of others, they gradually become equal.

Mahavira must have been a communist, and so must Buddha and Jesus—though no one ever asked them. And Gandhi certainly must have been a communist. Someone did ask Gandhi, and he said, “I am more communist than any communist.”

If goodwill for all, the wish for everyone’s flowering, the aspiration that everyone’s welfare be served—if that is communism, then how can any religious person remain without being a communist?

But in another sense, I am not a communist at all.

The truth is, I do not believe in any “ism,” any sect, any scripture. Communism too is an ism, a doctrine, a belief, a creed, a sect. It is the newest religion born in the world. It has its priests, its temples; it has its Mecca, Kaaba, and Kashi. The Kremlin is to the communist what Mecca is to the Muslim and Kashi to the Hindu. Marx’s book, Capital, is to them what the Gita is to some, the Bible to others, and the Quran to others.

In that sense, I am not a communist. I do not believe in any ism. I am neither a communist, nor a socialist, nor a fascist, nor a Gandhi-ist. Nor do I want anyone to divide themselves by any ideology. The moment a person is bound to an ideology, he is a slave. Ideology is a symptom of slavery. Once a person is tied to an ism, the freedom of his consciousness ends. The moment someone concludes, “This is my doctrine,” his connection with truth begins to break. You can belong either to truth or to a doctrine. You can belong either to religion or to a sect. And whether sects are religious or political, all sects collaborate in enslaving the human mind.

So I have no relation with any ism whatsoever. If I were to put it precisely, and you insisted on using the word “ism,” then I am an anarchist. Although even the word “anarchism” is quite wrong, because anarchy has no ism. Anarchy means: one who has no ideology.

But my words often create misunderstanding. Let me explain with an incident from the life of Buddha that comes to mind, because the same kind of confusion arises around me.

One morning Buddha left a village. His monk Ananda was with him. On the way, a man met them and said, “I am a theist; I believe in God. Do you also believe in God or not?”

Buddha said, “God? There simply is no God—what is there to believe!”

The man was startled; he thought to himself, “This Buddha seems to be an atheist.” Ananda, who was with him, was also startled that Buddha had so bluntly said there is no God—what is there to believe! But he kept quiet.

At noon, another man came and said to Buddha, “I am an atheist; I do not believe in God. What do you think—is there a God?”

Buddha said, “Only God is; there is nothing else!”

That man concluded, “This Buddha is a theist.” And Ananda was thrown into great difficulty, because he had heard both answers. The first man went away assured that Buddha is an atheist; the second man went away assured that he is a theist. But what was Ananda to understand? Still, he thought, “I’ll ask in private at night.”

By evening, yet another incident occurred. A third man came and asked, “I have no idea whether God is or is not. What do you think?”

Buddha remained silent and gave no answer.

That night Ananda said, “You have ruined my sleep; I cannot sleep. What is going on? In the morning you said one thing, at noon another, and by evening you were silent. There is great contradiction among these three responses!”

Buddha said, “I did not give you any answers—why did you listen? The answers were for others.”

But Ananda said, “I couldn’t help it; I was with you. I heard all three. They went away reassured, but I am in great trouble. What are you?”

Buddha said, “I am simply myself.”

“But why did you give three different answers?”

Buddha said, “If you understand, you will see. The man who comes to me saying ‘There is no God—what do you think?’ wants my support for his atheism, so he can go back assured. Whoever believes wants to believe more strongly. I want to break everyone’s beliefs. So I told him, ‘God? God is!’ I wanted to shake his belief, because the believer is a slave and will never know truth, whatever the belief may be. And the second man who came said, ‘God is; do you agree?’ He too had come seeking my support for his belief. I told him, ‘God? God is absolutely not—what is there to believe!’ I was shaking his belief too, so that he could become free of belief and search for truth. And the third man had no belief. He said, ‘I don’t know whether God is or not—what do you say?’ So I said, ‘It is very good that you don’t know. Now if you remain silent, you may come to know.’ Therefore I remained silent.”

To this day it has not been settled whether Buddha was a theist or an atheist. Scholars still debate it. And it will never be settled—because Buddha is neither a theist nor an atheist. Buddha has no doctrine. Buddha wants each person to be free of every doctrine, because one who becomes free of doctrine attains to truth.

The same sort of tangle happens with me from morning to evening. You hear one statement of mine and get upset, thinking surely I must be the opposite of what I was just criticizing. If I speak against capitalism, you conclude I must be a communist.

But I am against capitalism and against communism. I am against isms as such. I want a society that is not hemmed in by ideologies. I oppose isms as such; I oppose sects as such. I have no sect. Hence I get into trouble: those who have sects take me as their enemy. And there is hardly anyone without a sect. So becoming friends with me keeps getting more and more difficult.

No: I am neither a communist, nor anything else. I keep my eyes open, I see, and I say what seems right to me—whether it belongs to anyone’s camp or not. And when something seems wrong, I say it is wrong—whoever it belongs to. And I want you too never to be bound by any ideology.

Even my words can be turned into an “ism,” and you can bind yourself to it. Some friends fall into the illusion that there are “followers” of mine. They are greatly mistaken. I have no followers—nor do I want anyone to be my follower. Because then that too becomes an ism; you get bound to me.

I want a human being to be free of everything. Till now, man has always been bound—to something or other. I don’t care what the name of the peg is; I care only about whether you are tied to a peg. Whether the peg is Gandhi’s, or Marx’s, or mine—if a person is tied to a peg, he is not right. I want a person free of pegs. When I speak against one peg, the owner of that peg thinks, “Good—he must be in favor of the opposite peg! He’s trying to untie people here only to tie them there.”

I am not trying to tie you anywhere. I want the mind to be freed. A mind freed of everything attains to God. What is needed is an unclinging, a free-heartedness of consciousness.

So I belong to no ism. I have no relation with any ism—nor can I ever have one. I oppose isms as such. I am not against any particular ism; I am against ism as such. And wherever there is an ism, the stench of slavery begins to arise for me—whether it is Gandhism, communism, or anything else—Hinduism, Islamism, or Jainism—it makes no difference.

Understand this: whenever the mind clutches an ideology, its journey into the infinite stops. A stone is placed upon it; it can no longer fly. Its wings are clipped. If you want your consciousness to have wings, never get bound—do not bind yourself to anything. That is why, even regarding the great ones of the world, when I sometimes speak against them, you become very restless. You assume I am opposed to the great ones.

If I were opposed to the great ones, it would be hard to find anyone who loves the great ones more than I do. I am not even an opponent of Godse—so how could I be an opponent of Gandhi? But when I criticize some great person, I am not opposing the person; I am trying to shake the peg to which you are tied, so that you may be free. You praise the peg so much that your praise becomes the reason for your bondage. Therefore I try to break even your praises. Do not mistakenly think I have any enmity.

But our understanding is so small—so very small. And the understanding of the prejudiced is always small. One who has a doctrine has no understanding, because he is already bound and looks at the world only through that fixed lens. Difficulties arise. He cannot grasp what is being said—what the meaning is, what the purpose is, what the indication is.

The indication is only this: drop everything so you can come to yourself. Do not remain bound outside, so that the flower that is yours and within you may blossom.

One who is tied outside never reaches within. And anyone who is bound—bound he is. Bondage is the obstacle to reaching God. In that open sky which belongs to the Lord, in that open sky which belongs to truth, in that open sky which belongs to knowing—only those fly who have no stones of dogma, doctrine, or scripture on their chests.

So once and for all understand this clearly: I have no relation with any ism. And if we are to create a good world, we will have to create a world free of isms, where there is no insistence on ideology.

It continually seems to me that the ideologue becomes incapable of understanding the facts of life. His whole effort is to have the facts of life prove his ideology true. For him, ideology is more important; the facts of life are not as important. The facts become secondary; the ideology is primary. The facts must be made to prove the ideology.

But the situation is the reverse. No ideology is primary; the facts of life are primary. We have to move in accordance with the facts of life, not in accordance with isms.

For thousands of years man has been moving according to isms. The old types of isms have become a bit stale, so new isms have appeared. The old chains have gathered some rust, so we have forged new shiny chains. And we imagine that if we break the old chains and quickly put on new ones, we can strut about claiming we have become free of chains.

If you avoid being a Hindu and become a communist, it is the same story—the name of the chain has changed, nothing else. If you avoid being a Jain and become a Gandhian, you have made a fool of yourself. One ism dropped, another embraced. You did not escape; you did not escape isms. The soul could not remain free, could not remain independent. The individual does not survive in ideology; the sect survives in ideology; the individual comes to an end.

And I want each person to be a blossomed, free flower—blooming in his own right. That is why I have no relation whatsoever with any ism. Not even a distant relation.

For the creation of a good world, what is needed is a free and liberated consciousness.

Because I do not find anyone more important than Gandhi. And also because I thought that by speaking a few things in opposition to Gandhi, a process of thinking would be stirred in the country. But I became disappointed. No thought arose—only abuse. And I was very surprised! I had thought Gandhi’s followers were nonviolent people. That proved to be my delusion. I had thought that if I began to criticize Gandhi, the Gandhians would say, “Please come, talk with us, explain to us, discuss with us. What is right, what is wrong—we will consider.” Not a single Gandhian said this to me. In fact, a Gandhian who would sometimes be seen listening to me vanished completely. There was no trace of where he had gone.

I had not expected that after thirty–forty years of Gandhi’s labor to awaken a process of thought in India, it would have ended so completely. Yet our understanding is so meager that, even in my criticism of Gandhi, those who are intelligent know I have only carried Gandhi’s work forward. But what accounting can one keep of the foolish!

Gandhi’s work came to a standstill with his death. Truth be told, it had already stalled before he died. And Gandhi’s whole longing had become: when will I die, when will I die? That current itself came to an end.

It is necessary to give movement again to that current—so that we think again! I had thought a shock would be useful, that the nation would think. But I found there is no use giving shocks to the dead—no use at all. In the last two or three months the experience I have had has been very revealing: this country has lost the very capacity to think. We have simply stopped thinking.

And with a person like me, engaging in thought is very easy, because I never say that what I say is the truth. So there is very little ground for quarrel with me, because I say that what I say is what I say—it may be true, it may be false. Conversation can be had; decisions can be taken. I want a dialogue to arise in the country, a current of thought.

But it does not arise. If I offer some criticism, the other side starts hurling abuse. Instead of examining what I have said and deciding what is right, that very matter is set aside and some other things begin.

This is so sad and so worrisome for India’s future that it is difficult to measure. If not today, tomorrow, we will have to think about it.

I have great love for Gandhi; the question of enmity does not arise. So a friend asks: are you his enemy? I am no one’s enemy; I am incapable of enmity. And because I cannot be an enemy, I speak openly and directly about what seems right to me—at least about our own, one can speak openly and directly.

But we have become so fearful that we cannot speak openly and directly even about our own. That talk did not proceed. Much talk did happen, loudly; who knows what all was written, read, and spoken. But the thought that ought to have been born was not born. India has lost thought. People imagined perhaps I want to topple Gandhi’s statue and install my own.

I, who am opposed to statues—why would I want to install my own? And is there any need to demolish someone else’s statue to set up your own? There is so much space in the world—build your little shrine elsewhere; set up your idol anywhere. Why pull down another’s idol? And are there so few madmen in the world that by worshippers leaving one, there will be a shortage of worshippers? You will find others.

So many gods are worshiped—is there any shortage? There are some three hundred religions in the world, and each religion has countless deities and gods. In India there are thirty-three crore deities. Every person has one of his own. Is there any difficulty in getting one’s own idol worshiped here? Is there any need to topple someone else’s idol? Bringing it down only creates more complications—for if deities get angry, the era of your idol will become very difficult. Here the sensible thing is to praise all the deities and carve out a small space for yourself; then it becomes very easy.

But I want no space, I want to found no path, no sect; I want no worship. I only want this much—that thinking be awakened in the country, that thought be awakened in the country. That people begin to think, to inquire, to see—so that they do not remain blind.

But it seems we have sworn to remain blind. And if someone comes and tries to open our eyes, we get angry—“You are breaking our sleep! We were sleeping comfortably, seeing a beautiful dream, and you spoil our sleep!”

This is my constant experience—that asking anyone to think seems like inviting enmity. The person becomes annoyed. Because there is a convenience in not thinking; the moment you begin to think, inconvenience begins. As soon as thinking starts, life begins to look wrong and change becomes necessary. If someone thinks regarding the inner, he will have to change himself; and if someone thinks regarding the outer, society will have to change. Thought is the process of revolution. Once thinking begins, change is inevitable.

Therefore, if you want to avoid the hassle of change, the first essential is—never think! Make this the basic mantra—never think! It brings great convenience. Sleep becomes deeper, and one does not have to bear the difficulty of truly living; one lives half-dead and dies.

This has been our process for thousands of years. Our foundation has been: do not think! Therefore anything that forces us to think fills us with anger, not with joy, not with gratitude—that someone who pushes us to think should be thanked for compelling us to think.

We thank the person who gives us the convenience of sleep. Someone comes and offers an opium pill—“Take this and sleep comfortably”—we say you have been very gracious, you’ve brought the opium pill; now we can sleep well. The opium pills are being thanked.

Another friend has asked me something else, which I thought to leave aside, but perhaps in this context it is not appropriate to leave it. He has asked: Osho, did you ever have any relationship with Gandhi?

When he was alive, not very much. When he was alive, I was young. Only once there was a small contact, a brief meeting, but it is not worth counting. After his death, however, I have had a continual relationship with him—not only in thought, that I think about him, but in deeper senses as well. I had thought to leave this unsaid, because it would be beyond understanding; but since it has been asked, I would like to say it. There is no need to believe it.

We ordinarily think we can have relations only with those who have bodies. We also think we can have relations only with those present before us. These ideas are fundamentally wrong and unscientific. Relationship is a very long affair. Two people separated by thousands of miles can be related, just as two sitting side by side can be.

And now science has confirmed this. Earlier it was only the talk of those esoteric people who worked in the inner world. They knew that a distance of thousands of miles is no distance. If the art of relating from within is known, one can be related across thousands of miles. And for thousands of years people have been related in this way. But now science too has given its approval—that this is not merely a possibility, it is a fact! And the approval came from where you would not expect—from Russia, first of all. A scientist named Fyadeyev succeeded in experiments establishing connection over a distance of fifteen hundred miles. Sitting in Moscow, he successfully sent a message to a man sitting in a garden far away in Tiflis.

A man, a thousand miles away, was resting on a bench in Tiflis. He was being observed. A stranger walking along the road sat down to rest on the bench—say, bench number eleven. And from Moscow, Fyadeyev and his colleagues were on the phone with observers in that garden. They said: A man has come and sat; it is such-and-such time; you now send a message that this man should go to sleep at once. And Fyadeyev sent the inner message—from his mind—suggesting to that man, focusing on him: Sleep, sleep, sleep... Fifteen hundred miles away, and in a little while that man closed his eyes and lay down.

But it could also be that the man was tired and fell asleep. So his friends said: yes, he fell asleep; at this exact time, now you wake him up at once. Then we’ll feel sure; otherwise it may be he simply fell asleep. And from there Fyadeyev suggested: Get up! And that man opened his eyes and got up.

They asked him: Did you notice anything different? He said, I certainly noticed something different. When I fell asleep, I felt as if someone were saying, “Go to sleep.” But I thought I must be tired, that my own mind must be saying it. I slept. But even on waking I heard as though someone were saying, “Get up.”

Then Fyadeyev did further experiments. In fact, they are experimenting so that contact with spacecraft can be maintained telepathically, by thought. Because there is always a possibility that instruments in space vehicles may fail, and then all contact will be broken. If once an instrument fails, with the traveler who has gone into space we will have no relation. Where he will drift and be lost in the infinite, it will be difficult to find out. So it is necessary that when instruments fail, the inner instrument be employed; otherwise space travel will become very difficult. For this they are working.

But at the same time, not only can relations be established with persons far away; they can also be established with those who have died. That will seem even more difficult to us.

You will be surprised to know that for five hundred years after Mahavira’s death, Mahavira continued to maintain contact with some of his lovers, with certain people. And for this very reason Mahavira’s scriptures were written five hundred years later—when the possibility had ended that there remained anyone capable of maintaining such inner connection, and his speech would be lost if not written down.

For thousands of years scriptures were not written. And they were not written for this reason: as long as the possibility remained that relations could be kept even with a departed enlightened one, there was no need to write books. You may be surprised to learn that writing books is not only a sign of development; in one sense it is a decline. The Veda was not written down for thousands of years. No important scriptures were written for thousands of years. They were written out of compulsion! For five hundred years after Mahavira’s death there was no need to write books, because Mahavira could be asked. But when persons of that caliber were lost, then it became necessary to write down the scriptures.

The Buddha’s scriptures were written a hundred and fifty years after his death. And with Jesus the matter is even more astonishing. And I also want to say this: today, among Mahavira’s monks, there is not a single person who can establish connection with Mahavira; but there are still monks who can establish connection with Buddha. And the number of people who can establish connection with Jesus is even greater. And the religion whose living connection with its source remains possible appears alive; as soon as that living link is destroyed, it is destroyed.

I also want to tell you that Gandhi labored all his life, but he never paid attention to the fact that he did not have even a single person with whom he could establish a relationship after his death.

But it is not only that Mahavira and Buddha did this—it continues today. After Blavatsky’s death, Annie Besant maintained connection with Blavatsky. After Annie Besant’s death, J. Krishnamurti has inner connection with Annie Besant. But Krishnamurti fell outside Theosophy; and the Theosophy movement died, because within Theosophy there is today no one who maintains connection with Annie Besant or Blavatsky.

Relations can be maintained even with those who have died. In fact, there are many obstacles to relating with the living, because the body always stands as an obstruction. Since you have asked, I will say: when Gandhi was alive I had no relation with him; but after his death, of late I have made every effort to keep contact. And I also want to tell you that with a little experimentation, contact can be maintained with anyone.

And I also want to tell you that Gandhi has not taken birth again. And it will be very difficult for him to be born again, because there is no womb fit to give birth to that person. One may have to wait a very long time.

But these are other matters. And therefore I never speak of them, because nothing can be said about them, nothing can be thought about them, and no proof can be given regarding them. So I leave them aside. But since it was asked, I have said it. And I want to say this clearly: I did not criticize Gandhi without consulting Gandhi. Otherwise I would never have done it; I would not even have raised the matter. Only when I knew for certain that criticism should be made, and that Gandhi’s consent could be there, did I speak on it.

Yet lately I feel it is useless to labor. Laboring with Gandhi seems pointless! His disciples have taken that man to be absolutely dead. So perhaps it is not appropriate to speak of a dead man. For they keep writing to me: Why do you talk about a man who has died?

People like Gandhi do not die! But people do not understand this, and they count them as dead. The reason is: since no one can establish living contact with them, it seems they are dead.

Of late my entire effort has been that, if a few people are prepared, I could give them experiential proof of what I am saying—help them establish such contacts. But readiness is a far cry—just coming to me, a thousand obstacles will be raised. So the very deep, esoteric work that could be done—the new sources of sensitivity that could be opened at very deep levels—no connection can be established with them.

This earth grows poorer day by day, because all the avenues of connection with its own noblest souls—who still exist—have become slack. Those avenues must be revived. But we see everything from the outside; nothing within is visible to us, because we have no inner world at all—so there is no question of seeing there.

What I have just said is like going to a blind man and telling him I can see light, that I have a relation with the sun. He will say: What sun? What light? You have gone mad! Where is the sun? Where is the light?

That blind man will not accept that he lacks eyes. No one is willing to accept that he has any absence or deficiency. He will say there is no such thing as the sun; you are mistaken.

Therefore, often it is better not to speak before the blind of the matters of those who have eyes, because he will not understand and will get into trouble. My difficulty is that what I want to say to you, I cannot say; and what I do say feels incomplete to me. To whom should it be said? And what meaning will be taken from it—that is even more amusing. And what interpretations will be made—that is even more amusing. Then it gradually seems to me that those who remained silent after knowing did so because of you. For how long can one go on banging one’s head against a wall!

There was a monk named Bodhidharma in India—one of the most astonishing people in the world. He would never speak facing people. If you went to meet him—the first thing is, you do not go; and Bodhidharma does not come to Bombay; and you do not go to meet him—if you went, you would be amazed to see that he kept his back to you and his face to the wall. Many people said to him: What device is this—that you sit facing the wall! We have come to ask you something.

Bodhidharma said, In this lies the convenience.

People asked, But what does it mean?

Bodhidharma said, It means that when I speak facing you, I feel as though I am banging my head against a wall. But by looking at a wall I at least have the assurance that the wall will not listen; that is certain. But it will not misunderstand either; that too is certain. Speaking while looking at a human being is much more difficult. A human being is a wall there too; but the wall is dangerous—he misunderstands.

Bodhidharma said that when a person comes who is not a wall, I will certainly turn my face to him.

For nine years that man kept his face to the wall! He must have been a very courageous man—because turning one’s face away from man is very difficult, very difficult. Compassion arises toward man—to say to him something that is worth saying. And then the trouble: after saying it, it turns out it was not heard; he heard something else—what was never said was what he heard.

For nine years he kept looking at the wall. In the ninth year—it could not happen in India—he kept looking at the wall. Later he left India and went to China. In China a man came and said: If you will turn your head this way, I will cut off my head. Bodhidharma at once turned and sat facing him and said: Has that man come!

The man who can cut off his head can listen. Because the truth is, in listening to truth there is every possibility that your old head will be cut off—that old head, that old ego, those old notions—“I know, my opinion, my scripture, my this, my that, I.” The possibility is that they will fall.

Bodhidharma said, The man who can cut off his head has come; now I will have to speak facing him.

But such people are vanishing. If there is no one to listen even to a living person, how can any relationship be established with the dead?

This world is not only as much as you can see. It is not only as much as is visible to the eyes and audible to the ears. Even for the eyes and ears the world is very vast; there is much in it. Around you are many other beings and souls, present near you. But you cannot see them; you cannot relate to them; you cannot even know that others are present all around.

If you have ever read events from Mahavira’s life, an astonishing thing appears. Historians are startled—this must be sheer falsehood—because history records only what is seen with the eyes, and even then only what is seen in a thousand ways by a thousand people’s eyes. What reliability is there in history!

Edmund Burke was writing a book on the history of the world. He had completed half the book—about fifteen hundred pages. Perhaps no one had ever attempted so large a history before. He was at it day and night; he had spent thirty years. As he was sitting writing, suddenly a commotion arose; from the lane behind, some people were seen running. Burke came out and asked, What happened? They said, A murder has taken place behind your house.

Burke ran over. A corpse was lying there; the murderer had been caught; a crowd had gathered. He asked one man, What happened? He said one thing. He asked a second, and he said another. He asked a third, and he said a third. They were all eyewitnesses; all had seen with their eyes. Burke said, It happened before your eyes, yet no two opinions are the same! Behind my house it has happened; the body lies there; blood is flowing; the murderer is caught; the crowd is present—but no two opinions are the same! Each person says, This happened, that happened.

Burke went inside and set fire to his book of thirty years’ labor. He said, I am trying to account for what happened two thousand years ago, when what happened behind my own house, those who saw with their eyes cannot agree on! History is useless; it has no substance. He burned it.

He was a sensible man. And if historians gained some sense, they too would burn theirs; there is no great meaning in it.

In Mahavira’s life this is said again and again: so many thousands of people were listening; so many thousands of gods were listening. Now those gods will not be visible to anyone; where were they listening? The historian will say: we were present too; some people were visible; no gods were visible there. How will they be visible! But it is true that there are realms above man. And when a man like Mahavira speaks, not only humans but gods must also listen.

But that is the affair of those who can see. For the blind, to speak of it has no meaning. Many things have to be left unsaid because they cannot be spoken of. But I wish that someday all these things could be spoken. And for that I wish that people would get prepared; then perhaps they could be said.

Gradually, though, it also seems to me that I am working in the very field in which many have failed. That failure is very ancient.

Still, again and again the courage arises to make one more attempt. I know people crucify Jesus; they shoot Gandhi. They will continue their old habit. There can be no exceptions in my case either. Even so, the heart says: Come, let there be one more attempt—what is the harm? That which is destined to be effaced is effaced by someone; what difference does it make! Therefore I am engaged in one more attempt.

What opposition could I have to Gandhi? What opposition could anyone have to so loving a man? But the effort is of a different kind; perhaps someday you will understand. I will keep trying; I will keep hammering at your skull—perhaps from somewhere someone may gain a little intelligence, and it may occur: yes, there could be something to this. My aim is only one.

My aim is only one: that the slumbering current of contemplation awaken and become illumined. And apart from this, no one’s aim has ever been different. Whoever has worked with human beings has had a single aim: that the sleeping personality, the dormant soul, should wake up. They try in a thousand ways to awaken it. In their efforts, opposition may appear; there is no opposition at all.

Mahavira and Buddha wandered in the same Bihar, at the same time. If you had heard them—or those who did hear them... and among you there will be many who must have heard them. Because this is not our first time on this earth; we have been here many times, again and again, and will be many times more. Many must have heard Buddha and Mahavira. Some are here too, though they may not know it.

In that same Bihar, Buddha and Mahavira moved about and spoke against each other. People must have been shocked: how strange—Buddha and Mahavira speaking against one another! What need do they have to oppose each other? And they spoke sharply. Don’t think they said soft, gentle things; they said very hard things. Buddha made great fun of Mahavira.

Buddha said: There is one Nigantha Nathaputta, Mahavira. People say he is omniscient; and I know for certain that when he goes begging he stands at a door where there is no one at home to give alms. Only later, by calling out, it turns out no one lives there. And his disciples say he is omniscient, knows everything, knows the three times.

They said many such things against each other that would amaze you.

Mahavira says: the soul is knowledge itself, the soul is truth, the soul is dharma, the soul is the supreme soul, the soul is everything.
And what does Buddha say? Buddha says: the soul is ignorance. Whoever believes in the soul will go astray. Whoever believed in the soul has drowned. There is no greater clinging of ignorance than belief in a soul.

Very strange! One says, the soul is knowledge. One says, the soul is ignorance. Now we seem to be in trouble. But those who know, know there is no trouble. Buddha has a device, a way to rouse your thinking. Mahavira has another way to awaken your thinking. Their intention is one; the paths are different.

Mahavira says the soul is knowledge, the soul is everything. And he also says: but when will the soul be known? He says: when the ego falls, then it will be known. When the ego drops, you will know what the soul is. And Buddha says: the soul is ignorance, because the soul is the ego. When the soul is erased, then it will be known what is. There is no difference here.

On this side, all the teachers of India keep proclaiming that there are infinite births. For countless births you have been wandering, wandering, rotting, going round and round in the same wheel. How long will you keep circling? Wake up now! Over there Jesus and Mohammed say: there are no infinite births—there is only one life! A single chance: if you awaken, you awaken; if not, you are lost forever. Therefore, wake up!

This is quite amusing. Here our teacher says you have been roaming through endless births, repeatedly circling the same round. How long will you go on? Aren’t you bored? Get bored now, and wake up! Over there Jesus and Mohammed say there are no countless births; there is one life. If you miss, you miss forever; then there is no remedy. So if you are to awaken, awaken now! These two statements seem very contrary. But for those who know, they are not. They will say both are attempts to wake man.

In the words of the world’s teachers there is, and will be, contradiction. But in the mind and intention of any teacher in the world there is no contradiction at all—there cannot be. But man’s understanding is very small; he clings to words and becomes disturbed. He does not enter within to see the fact—what the fact is.

I refuse because if you touch anyone’s feet, you will be deprived of touching the Feet that are in all. There are other Feet—everywhere and nowhere. Your gaze should rise toward those Feet. In the moon and the stars there is the echo of those Footfalls. In flowers and butterflies, too, the echo of those Footfalls. In people, and even in stones, the echo of those Footfalls. Fold your hands toward those Feet that are spread throughout the infinite. There is no need to bend toward the feet of any one person.

Why? Not because bowing is bad. Bowing is something wondrous. One who does not know how to bow is worth two pennies—he has no value. But if you must bow, bow at such Feet that you never have to rise again. If you bow at my feet, a minute later you will have to stand up—the matter is finished. You bowed, then got up again—wasted effort. There was no essence in it, no meaning.

A man went to Ramakrishna. He said, “I am going to bathe in the Ganges. I have heard, Paramahansadeva, that bathing there washes away sin.” Ramakrishna said, “Certainly it does. But don’t come out of the Ganges! The moment you come out, the sins climb back on.” He said, “Do you see those trees standing on the bank? While you are dipping, the Ganges is pure; when you immerse, the sins perch on the trees. Those great trees stand there for this very reason—waiting, ‘Son, when will you come out?’ And after all, how long can the poor fellow stay under? When you emerge, the sins climb down and mount you again.”

So Ramakrishna said, “Plunge into such a Ganges of the Divine that there is no coming out. There is such a Ganges of God: once you drown, there is nowhere to emerge. Everywhere there is only That—no place to escape.”

So I too say: there are Feet such that if you bow, you bow once for all; then there is no need to rise. Only bowing to Those Feet has meaning. If you bow and then get up, it becomes a futile exercise—without purpose.

Therefore I say, there is no need to bow—to anyone in particular. Do bow! Don’t take it otherwise… this is a delicate matter. When I say, “Do not bow at my feet,” some people are delighted: “What a wonderful thing to say!” Not because they will bow at the Feet of the Divine, but because bowing anywhere makes them very uneasy—they cannot bow. They will say, “Absolutely right! One should not bow!” Wherever the ego is strong, they will applaud: “Exactly right—don’t bow!”

But I have not forbidden bowing; I have forbidden bowing to my feet. Do not fall into the error that I have forbidden bowing. I have forbidden useless bowing. It is utterly useless to bow to one man’s feet. This body is mere clay. Bowing to this clay has no meaning. It is the worship of dust. From here bad habits begin: when this man dies, a stone statue is made, and then you begin bowing to that. The habit of wrong bowing is formed.

No; there is a conscious Livingness all around; Its Feet are everywhere. To bow at Those Feet you do not have to bind your hands and feet and lower your head; bowing at Those Feet is an inner suppleness, an inner yielding, an inward surrender. One simply bows within.

And here is the delight: one who bows to Those Feet no longer needs to bow; there remains no one higher—he becomes the highest. Those Feet are so high that in bowing to Them you are not made low; by bowing you are lifted high—they are that high.

Lao Tzu used to say: Blessed are those who are bowed, because they will not need to be made to bow. Let me repeat it; this man says wondrous things. He says: Blessed are those who are defeated, because they cannot be defeated. How will you defeat one already defeated? The one who is victorious is always afraid of defeat; therefore the victor is never wholly victorious, for the fear of loss is present. Lao Tzu says: Blessed are those who stand at the back, because there is no further way to push them behind.

But behind whom? Defeated by whom? Bowed to whom? Bowed to the Infinite—such people are raised up, lifted. Defeated by the Infinite—such people have won; now there is no possibility of defeat.

So of course I say: do not bow at my feet. Because this “mine-and-thine,” this “my feet” feeling, is itself the obstacle to bowing. Where mine and thine disappear, bowing begins—bowing arrives.

So do not be upset. Some friends said to me, “Whatever you say… we will still touch your feet!” In our land, habits are strange. If someone says, “Don’t touch my feet,” it becomes a clever device for getting one’s feet touched. Tell people, “Keep your distance,” and they come closer. Abuse them, and they will think, “This man is a Paramahansa.” This is our centuries-old wrong habit, and clever people exploit it. It seems that the one who says, “Do not touch my feet,” must be a great soul; thus, his feet must certainly be touched!

That is not why I said it. I said it so that you will surely bow—but not in the wrong place. Do bow, do bow—bowing is the very art of religion: break, dissolve, scatter, flow. But where? Toward the Infinite. Toward the All. Toward the Vast, the Expansive. Do not bow to the limited, the petty, the momentary—to what is here today and gone tomorrow.

But remember, I am not opposed to bowing. Bowing is the secret; dissolving is the secret. As long as we clutch ourselves tightly and cannot bend, cannot break, we cannot arrive where we must arrive. Disappearing is the formula for attainment. Losing oneself is the path to finding. Bowing is the art of rising.

But remember—where?

Buddha told a story of his past life. He said: In a previous birth, when I was not Buddha—when I did not know, when I lived in darkness—there was a Buddha in the world. I went to that awakened one. I touched his feet, placed my head on his feet. As I rose I was startled—I had scarcely straightened when he bowed at my feet and placed his head there. I was alarmed. I said, “What have you done? This will be sin for me. That I bow at your feet is right—for I am ignorant. But you, who know, who have attained, who have arrived—how can you bow at my feet? This becomes my sin! What madness have you done?”

That Buddha laughed—the awakened one laughed—and said to Gautam in that previous life, “You think you are ignorant; since knowledge happened to me, everyone appears as knowing to me. You think you are nothing; since I have known, I see Only That everywhere. You touched my feet; if I do not touch yours, those who know me will laugh at me. They will say, ‘He got God to touch his feet, and himself did not touch God’s feet!’”

And then he said, “Today you do not understand; but not today, tomorrow—you too will awaken and arrive there. The delay is of time—of dreams; not long.”

Later, as Buddha, he said: Now I know what he meant. Since I awoke, no one appears asleep to me. Since I have known, I see That everywhere in everyone.

You ask why I refuse? There is only one way I could stop refusing: that when you touch my feet, I touch yours. But that would create a great commotion, a great inconvenience, and take so much time—for no purpose. It is in poor taste that you fold your hands to me and I do not fold mine to you. If you greet me with folded hands and I cannot fold mine, how discourteous that is!

Yet in our country the sadhus do not fold their hands to anyone—do you know this? You join your palms; they raise a hand in blessing—and they keep a cameraman nearby to click the shot. Then they print calendars: “Such-and-such rishi, such-and-such acharya, such-and-such mahatma blessing Pandit Nehru.” And the only “fault” is that poor Nehru, out of politeness, folded his hands; the saint raised his hand—he did not even join his palms.

If you fold your hands and I cannot, what discourtesy! Likewise, if you touch my feet and I do not touch yours, that too is discourtesy. A response is required from my side as well. So there are only two ways: either you agree to refrain, or else make me do the same labor.

There is no meaning in it. Do not worship persons. Do not do it, and do not let it be done. The worship of persons has gone on long enough; because of it, the worship of Truth does not happen. Beware of persons. You slip free of one person, and another seizes you. Let persons go; let them pass. The person has no value; value belongs to Truth.

I point to the moon above and say, “There is the moon.” You seize my hand: “How wonderful—this hand is miraculous; we should worship it.” Madness! I was showing you the moon; you grabbed the hand. The moon is left aside; the worship of the hand begins.

Mahavira points: There is Truth! Jesus cries, There is the Door! Mohammed says, There is the Path, the road—come!

But the Muslim clutches the hand; the Jain clutches the hand; the Hindu clutches the hand; the Christian clutches the hand. He keeps worshipping the hand—lighting lamps, burning incense, offering garlands: “Blessed are you!”

They must be weeping, the poor fellows—they all weep. Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna—they meet up above, hold a great council, and weep together, beating their heads: “What are those people doing to whom we explained?”

End this—erase it. There is no need for it now. There is no need to offer worship to any person. Abandon the pointers; the question is to see the moon. And whoever wants to see the moon must let go of the pointer; either look at my hand, or lift your eyes to the moon. If your eyes rise to the moon, the hand will drop of itself.

One who goes toward the Divine—Mahavira will fall away, Buddha will fall away, Krishna will fall away, Rama will fall away—everyone will be left behind. They were pointers—signposts on the roadside saying, “This way lies Bombay.” Some people—clever fellows—sit hugging the very stone on which it is written, “Road to Bombay,” pressing it to their chest: “Dear one, you are so good—you have delivered us to Bombay.”

The poor stone was only pointing, “Bombay lies that way.” Move on—leave me—and reach where the arrow points. But they sit clutching the milestone. And if someone says, “Brother, get up!” they retort, “You are obstructing our religion! We are praying—we are worshipping.”

No—let the person go, so that Truth may arrive. Let go of all, so that the eyes may lift toward That which is seen only by those eyes that rise after leaving everything. The eye from which the smoke of persons, words, and scriptures has cleared; the eye from which the tears that blur have blown away; the eye from which the veils have fallen—that innocent eye becomes capable of seeing what Truth is.

And the name of the shadow cast by the attainment of that Truth is peace. One who attains Truth becomes peaceful. Peace is the outcome of Truth. When Truth is found, peace follows like a shadow. Peace is Truth’s shadow.

Therefore never seek peace directly. If I come to your house, my shadow will enter without invitation—there is no need to invite it separately. And if you send an invitation to my shadow, well, that is your affair; I will not come, and the shadow cannot come.

Those who invite peace—peace never comes. Peace is the shadow of Truth. When Truth arrives, peace comes trailing behind like a shadow.

In these four days I have spoken for the search of that Truth, so that the quest for peace may begin. That you listened to my words with such love and such peace leaves me deeply obliged. And finally, I bow to the Divine seated within each of you. Please accept my salutations.