I would like to begin today with a small incident. In a small village, on a dark night, a loud cry rose from within a hut: There is a fire, I am burning, someone save me. The voice was so intense, so full of grief and compassion, that the sleeping neighbors awoke, filled their buckets with water, and ran toward the hut. It was a moonless night, but when they reached the hut, they saw no sign of fire. A tiny hut. From inside the cries continued: There is a fire! But there was not a single sign of flames. They pushed the doors—those doors were open. It was the hut of a very poor woman. For her there was no question of locks and bolts. Inside, a woman was weeping loudly and beating her chest. Everyone was disturbed. They said: Where is the fire? We will certainly put it out! The woman who was crying began to laugh and said: If the fire were outside you could extinguish it. This fire is burning within me. And no one but I can put it out. So go back. Better still, go home and look inside—perhaps a fire is burning there too. Instead of running to douse someone else’s fire, look first: maybe your own needs quenching. Perhaps those neighbors did not understand what she said. She was a fakir-woman named Rabiya. Almost always a fire has been burning inside the human being. There have been all sorts of attempts to douse it. In the entire history of humankind, we have not succeeded in extinguishing that inner blaze. A few may have put it out, but humanity as a whole is still tormented and burnt by an inner fire. Just as the neighbors ran with buckets that night to put out the old woman’s fire, almost all our efforts till now have been of the same kind—to extinguish the blaze within by means applied without. From this attempt—this outward attempt to extinguish—science is born. The fire is inside, man’s suffering is inside. His sorrow, his anxiety, his anguish are within, yet the remedies we have devised to quell them are all from the outside—and from them science has been conceived, developed, and raised up. Science has stood up strong. Over the past few centuries, the labor of man has made visible the great summits of scientific progress; we have conquered them. But the fire? It remains exactly where it was. Perhaps today its pain has even deepened. It has deepened because we had the hope, the aspiration, that our exploration of the outer world, our knowledge and prosperity, would extinguish that inner fire. That too has failed. That hope is shattered. Outwardly, development has occurred in the most intense and explosive way. But within, man looks poorer than ever. Because outside there has been so much growth and inside man is the same as before. And this inner poverty has begun to bear very fatal fruits. In the few recent decades there have been two world wars. In those two wars we killed perhaps a hundred million people. One hundred million is no small number. When a single person dies, we know what passes through us. To kill one hundred million! And then, in the preparations that followed, it may happen that we wipe out the whole of humanity—this too is possible. A few days before his death, someone asked Einstein, What weapons will be used in the third world war? Einstein said: About the third I can say nothing, but about the fourth I am certain. The man was astonished: If you cannot say anything about the third, how can you speak of the fourth? Einstein said: Two things are certain. First, the fourth world war—so far as that is concerned—will not happen at all. The man asked: Will it be that man will give up fighting? Einstein said: No. After the third war there will be no possibility of man’s survival. The fourth will not happen because there will be no man. And if there ever is a fourth—ever—there will be a gap of thousands of years between the third and the fourth. And the weapons used in the fourth will be the same as those of the first—stones and wooden tools. This fear, this possibility stands before us—that perhaps the whole of humanity will end. After such a flourishing of science, if the Atman within has not been cultivated, then power in undeveloped hands becomes dangerous. When Nadir Shah was marching toward Hindustan, on the way he met a very wise man. Nadir asked the wise one: I hear that sleeping in the day is bad, and sleeping too much is bad; can you tell me whether sleeping more is bad or sleeping less is good? The elder said: It depends on each individual. For people like you, sleeping more is good—because when you are awake some trouble or other will arise. Better that the wicked sleep. In the same way, it is better that power not fall into the hands of the ignorant. If ignorance is inside and power comes into the hands, nothing but calamity can ensue. Science has given power, but man does not have within him the peace to use that power rightly. His inner turmoil has only increased. And the result of that turmoil can only be this. Understand this clearly: a person who is disturbed, inwardly miserable, worried, in pain—such a person has only one pleasure, only one—and that is to drag others into pain and suffering too. The unhappy man has but one joy: to make others as unhappy as possible. He can imagine no other joy. Man is in sorrow within, and his Atman is on fire. Then the power of science is very dangerous. It gives him the chance to inflict infinite suffering on others. For fifty years and more we have been ceaselessly searching for ways to bring more and more pain and more and more death. It is astonishing. Surely the human mind is ill, diseased, deranged; otherwise there could not be such elaborate planning for death. I will tell you a small, entirely untrue story. Then I will say more on this. I am fond of this story. Absolutely untrue, absolutely fictitious—but perhaps nothing today is truer about man. I have heard that, seeing the state of things, Paramatman was perturbed—deeply perturbed. What is happening to man? Why is man so engaged in suicide? He became concerned. He summoned three great nations—England, Russia, and America. This story must be a little old; otherwise who would summon England? It is old. In those days perhaps England was still a power. He called them, and said to the three representatives: We are very worried; all your power has been directed toward killing man. There is the fear that you will destroy the whole of humanity—not only that, perhaps all living creatures. Terrified by this fear, I myself grant you an opportunity and beg you to ask for one boon each. Whatever you desire I will grant, so that life may be saved. Tell me—what do you want? After all, what is the intention behind this race? The American representative said: O God! We have no big ambition, only a small one; if it is fulfilled we will be at peace, and all this nuisance will cease. God said: Speak—say it and I will grant it. Perhaps He had not imagined what would be asked. The representative said: Father, it is a small wish: let the world be—but let there be no trace of Russia in it. Then all will be peace. The only difficulty tangled in life is the existence of Russia. God had given many boons—so the old stories say—but such a boon had never been asked. He was startled! He turned His eyes toward Russia. The Russian said: Comrade—or perhaps he said, Sir; I do not know. He may have said Comrade. He said: Sir, first of all we do not believe that you exist. Some fifty years ago we drove you out from our temples, mosques, and churches. In our country no worship is offered to you, no lamps are lit, no flowers placed. We have been free of your illusion for a long time. But still, we can begin to worship you again and accept that you exist, and accept with closed eyes whatever you say—if only a small desire is fulfilled, so that there is proof that you are. We want a world map—but for America we want no color in it. God grew very nervous and looked toward Britain. What the British representative said is worth keeping in the heart: O Supreme Father! We have no desire of our own; if both of their desires are fulfilled together—ours will be fulfilled. Such a situation—while the story is wholly false, the situation is not false. This is what is going on in our minds. This is the destruction we are eager for. And it would be a mistake to think that only Britain, America, and Russia are involved. We too; all the people of the world, wherever they live—everyone’s longing is to cause suffering, to hurt, to erase others. This goes on at the level of nations and at the level of individuals as well. You build a big house and become very happy. Do not remain under the illusion that your happiness comes from the big house. It comes because you have made someone else’s house seem small. And if a bigger house is erected near yours, then this very house that pleased you will become a cause of pain. When we can make someone else’s house smaller, we are pleased. When we can outstrip someone, we are pleased. When we can cripple another, maim another, we are pleased. There is only one mark of a sorrowful mind: it rejoices in giving sorrow. And there is only one mark of a blissful mind: it rejoices in sharing bliss. What we have—that alone we can share. That alone can we distribute. Sorrow is deep within man. And science has placed in his hands an immeasurable power—there will be danger. Our capacity to give pain has increased, and within we are in pain. Our capacity to bring death has increased, and within we are in pain. Our capacity to destroy life has increased, and within there is no joy, no beauty, no music—so war becomes inevitable. The pursuit of the power of science, in itself, has proved fatal. But the mind of man swings to extremes. There have also been lands and cultures—ours, for instance—that, in just such an excess, have also pursued religion to an extreme. And I would say this: religion alone too proves fatal. Let no one think only science becomes dangerous; religion alone becomes dangerous as well. Religion alone proves dangerous because while inward peace grows, outwardly there is helplessness, weakness, misery, and poverty. And among all the cultures that have developed in the world, none has been so complete as to have found a balance and a harmony between the inner and the outer. Either the Eastern countries followed religion in such a way that they became outwardly poor, weak, and enslaved—or the people of the West followed the outer so much that they lost the soul within. Until now man’s mind has swung between these two extremes. And even today those who think about these matters are mostly partisan: either partisan to religion or partisan to science. My submission is that such biases are dangerous as far as man is concerned. We must see and accept the human being in his totality, in his wholeness. Man is neither merely body nor merely Atman. If he were only body, science would suffice. If he were only Atman, religion would suffice. But man is a wondrous confluence of both. A wondrous balance of both. A unit born of the alchemy of both. Therefore, if his life, his culture, his civilization choose only one, they will go astray. Till now all human civilizations have missed the way. They are all one-sided. A small story comes to mind. In Rome a king fell ill. Very ill. For many years he was treated. Healers and physicians were called from afar. But he could not be cured. The disease itself could not be found. It was not even understood. Finally the physicians said: It is impossible for him to live. A day or two—then it will be over. His eyes stopped opening; his breath began to break. He lay almost half-dead upon the bed. Just then a minister brought news: Do not worry, do not despair—a fakir has come to the village. People say he can raise the dead. Since you are still alive, at least he can save you from death. The king opened his eyes and said: Hurry, waste no time. For who knows if the breath that goes out will return. They ran and brought the fakir. The fakir said: This is no great illness. That is why the physicians failed. Because there was no disease, how could they find it? And the medicines they have given have brought this man near death—not the illness. The cure is very simple. The king, who had been lying for months, sat up and asked: What cure? The fakir said: Very simple, very easy. Go into this great capital and bring the clothes of a man who is both happy and prosperous—and dress him in those clothes. That is all. By morning he will be well. The ministers danced with joy. The extinguished lamps of the palace were lit. There was song and dance. The cure was easy. They ran to find the garments of someone who was both happy and prosperous. But as they went from house to house, their despair grew. Whoever they met said: I would give my very life to save the king, but my clothes will not work. Prosperity I have, but happiness—I am unacquainted with it. I have wealth, houses, great power, high office—but I have not known happiness yet. I still desire it, I still dream of it—I have not found it. With each home their despair increased. Evening approached, the sun began to set, and the ministers gathered together. They said: It seems difficult to save the king. We were living in an illusion. The servant who had run with them all day said: I understood that from the very beginning—that this would not be possible. When I saw the king’s ministers going out to beg for someone else’s clothes, I suspected it. If it were possible, the ministers could have given their own. When you went out to ask others, I understood the cure would not happen, the king would die. How can we face him? Let us wait till dusk, till the sun sets—then we will go. At sunset they turned toward the palace. Behind the palace flowed a river, and from that direction they heard a flute. Across the river someone sat on a stone and played. There was such magic in his notes, such joy, such a fragrance of happiness. They thought: Let us make one last attempt. Perhaps this man is happy; his notes are steeped in joy, in love, in delight. They went and, in the dark, folded their hands before him: Our emperor is close to death. We are searching for a man who is happy—his clothes will heal our king. Will you be kind enough to give your clothes? The man began to laugh. He said: I am happy indeed—but in the dark you cannot see that I am sitting here naked. I have no clothes. Then the king died. For they found some who were prosperous but not happy—and one who was happy but not prosperous. And the king died. Man too suffers from just such an illness. He stands almost at the verge of death. And even now we cannot find garments that hold both happiness and prosperity together. Either we pursue inner peace and become outwardly poor and wretched—as has happened in this land and in other Eastern lands—or we pursue prosperity and happiness withers, the mechanisms of joy break down. This has happened because we have regarded the inner and the outer as enemies. Because we saw body and soul as antagonists. Because we did not know that the search for happiness is a single, indivisible quest—and we dismantled the search for life into fragments. We have not yet accepted the human being as an indivisible, whole unit. Those who accept man as body deny his Atman. Those who speak of his Atman, knowingly or unknowingly, become enemies of the body. We need a culture that becomes a bridge between man’s inner and outer—and joins the two. In truth they are already joined. So we need neither a religious culture alone—that is also a side, an extreme—nor a scientific culture alone—that too is a mistake at the opposite extreme. We need a culture that accepts the indivisible nature of man and can set that nature in motion toward bliss. Remember: no search for the Atman is possible without the foundation of the body. When Saint Francis was dying, he took leave of all, and at the end he folded his hands. People thought: Now he will thank God. But what did he say? He said: O my dear body, I tormented you much, harassed you much. I always thought you were my enemy. Today my eyes have opened and a lamp is lit in my heart: I can see that you were forever my companion—not my enemy. You accompanied me through pleasure and pain. If I oppressed you and caused you trouble, still you were my companion. And the Atman I came to know—I could not have known it without climbing upon your steps. Therefore I thank you and ask forgiveness for the wrongs I did to you. Those who truly look at the human being will see: body and soul function like steps and goal. Those who truly look at life will see: science and religion function like means and end. If science remains alone, danger arises—the steps remain, the road remains, but there is nowhere to reach. If religion remains alone, then a destination remains—but all the paths leading to it are broken. Then life is crippled. Life has been crippled till now. There is one direction we call outer: there science has explored matter and its mysteries. There is another direction we call inner: there religion has discovered certain truths. But the truths of science could become more influential—because science is a public truth. The truths of religion have not become so influential—because by religion we have meant Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jaina, Buddhist. Religion is still broken, mutually opposed—fragmented into conflicting pieces. Therefore religion could not have the influence that science has had. Science stands as a single truth. The distance between East and West has fallen. The gaps between sects have fallen. The small provincial enclosures have fallen. The beliefs of each clan have fallen. The science of the whole of humanity has stood up. The religion of the whole of humanity has not yet stood up. Religion is losing every day—not because it is weak—but because the camp of religion is divided and at war with itself. When the Hindu, the Muslim, the Christian, the Jaina, the Buddhist fight among themselves, naturally their strength is spent in inner conflict, and the powers of irreligion grow by themselves. There is no fault in science; the fault lies with the religious people. At this time, for anyone whose heart is even a little religious, the first thing is this: if he is truly religious, let him be free of being Hindu or Muslim. Because it is precisely due to these names that religion cannot be born. There are some three hundred faiths, some three hundred communities on the earth, and all are opposed to one another. Two hundred and ninety-nine stand against each other. Their entire energy is spent in mutual fighting. Religion is also a power, like science. And the truths of religion are as universal as those of science. But we are still highly partisan in the realm of religion. Our religious thinking is three to four thousand years old—and thus it cannot stand as a power in the face of science; it is continuously defeated. So a few things need to be considered. First: whatever man may discover outside, if not today then tomorrow the inner lack will begin to sting. Because no matter what I obtain—however large my houses, however many instruments and means—if within me I cannot experience the throb of a blissful Atman, then what I have obtained will become a bondage for me. And what I have obtained will begin to give me sorrow. For the capacity to enjoy happiness is a way of seeing, an approach, a vantage point from which the personality looks. When we look from a particular place within, things become blissful. If within we have no capacity and no receptivity to stand at the point of joy, life becomes sorrowful. One morning a man halted his bullock cart on the outskirts of a village and asked an old man sitting there: What sort of people live in this village? I want to settle here. The old man said: Before I tell you what the people here are like, will you kindly tell me what the people were like in the village you left? The man said: The very mention of them sets fire in my eyes, flames of anger rise in my heart. Such wicked people are impossible to find on the earth. The old man said: Friend, that is why I asked. The people of this village are worse. I have been here some seventy years. Look for another village. You will find them worse than those you left. He went away. He had hardly gone when another bullock cart stopped. Another traveler, who asked the same question: What sort of people are here? We want to settle here. The old man said: First tell me what the people were like in the village you left? The man’s eyes filled with happiness, with tears of joy. He said: The very memory of them fills my heart with sweetness—such good people are hard to find anywhere. The sorrow, the misfortune is that due to some compulsions I had to leave. But I carry the hope that today or tomorrow I will return to that village. So lovely were the people there. The old man said: Come—welcome. I have lived here seventy years. You will find the people here even better than those there. If the vision with which we see life is joyful, then everything outside becomes joyful. If the vision is full of sorrow and darkness, everything outside becomes dark. Science is building the outer world; it should be built. Only the totally lazy and lifeless, those with no zest to do anything, can accept the outer world as it is. Certainly the outer world should be changed, it can be constructed better. But to say only this is incomplete and erroneous—because the outer world can give only what the inner man is ready to receive. If the inner man is wrong, even a right outer world will become a hell. The question is not fundamentally what the outer world is like; deep down the question is what the inner man is like. If within us the angle from which we see is sorrowful, the outer world will become sorrowful. And till now the so-called religions have, if we look closely, used the outer sorrow of the world as a tool in their argument. They say: The world is filled with suffering; birth and death are suffering—therefore seek a Moksha where all is bliss. These are false and foolish words. They are false because in this way they too overemphasize the outer world and forget the inner man. For this very world becomes a moment of unsurpassed joy for some. So the question is not to run away somewhere else. The real question is: how to transform oneself in the midst of this—so that what we know as sorrow and hell becomes bliss and Moksha. The fundamental concern of dharma is to transform the capacity and the receptivity to see within the individual. The concern of science is to make objects as convenient as possible. The concern of dharma is to see life from the maximum angle of joy. Without dharma, science will be incomplete; without dharma, science will be dangerous; without dharma, no ray of joy can enter life. But by dharma I do not mean Hindu or Muslim. By dharma I do not mean what has been repeatedly told, the scriptures and traditions. By dharma I mean the way of living life in a blissful manner. Whoever—whether a poet singing a song, a sculptor shaping a statue, a scientist researching, a teacher teaching, a shopkeeper trading, a cobbler making shoes—whoever succeeds in seeing the totality of his life from a standpoint of joy, I call him a religious man. Whoever becomes capable of seeing life from the point of bliss, I call him religious. Whoever becomes capable of dwelling in Moksha at every moment and every place, I call him religious. He is not religious who seeks Moksha somewhere far away in the sky; he is not religious who seeks Moksha beyond birth and death. He alone is religious who, within himself, here and now, becomes capable of attaining Moksha. To attain Moksha means that his way of seeing—his very vision of life—has changed. Two fakirs returned one evening to their hut in Japan. The rainy days had come. Clouds were thick across the sky; today or tomorrow the rains would fall. They had been traveling for many days, and from fear of the rains, before they began, they were running toward their hut. But as they reached it, they were taken aback. One said: O God! This is why doubts arise about you—what have you done? The wind had blown away half the thatch of their roof. One fakir said: This is why distrust arises about your existence. In the village, sinners have great mansions standing—and you chose to blow off the roof of poor fakirs! If the winds had to test their strength, let them test on a mansion. If your heart was set on breaking things, break some big palace—did you feel no shame in breaking the poor man’s hut? He turned to his companion: Do you see! But when he looked, he was amazed. The other fakir was kneeling, hands folded to the sky, tears of joy flowing. He shook him: What are you doing? The other said: I am thanking Paramatman. Great is His grace and compassion—otherwise, who knows with these winds, they might have carried away the whole hut. They left half the roof. Storms cannot be trusted—they could have brought down the entire roof; but they left half. How can I not give thanks? Great is His grace and compassion. That night both slept in the same hut. The first could not sleep—the whole night anxiety gripped him. The second slept deeply, and in the morning he wrote a song: O Paramatman! I did not know what the joy of a half-roof is; otherwise we would not have troubled your winds—we ourselves would have removed half. Many times in the night when I opened my eyes, through the half-roof the stars were visible, the moon too. And now what wonder there will be—the rains are near—half we will sleep, and in the half the raindrops will fall; their music we shall hear. We had no idea. Otherwise we would not have troubled your winds; we would have brought down half ourselves. The second too was under the same roof—but the whole night he was in anger, in rage, in worry. Of these two, I call the second religious, not the first. He who becomes capable of looking at life from its side filled with joy and light—that man is religious. Then he does not need to seek Moksha; it comes. Then he does not need to run anywhere; wherever he is, in that very place, that very state, he attains that without which life can never become beauty, never become blessedness. By dharma I mean attaining a blissful vision of life. By science I mean that the world spread around us is also of Paramatman. Matter is also of Paramatman. The secrets hidden within it—the mysteries—are to be discovered. By discovering those mysteries, life can be greatly enriched. But if the vision is not attained by which we can delight in things—then not. Then life will become more unhappy. Sorrow within and power without: that is all that will happen. Therefore do not be concerned with the conventional names of religion; rather, consider the original revolution that religion is—a revolution in man’s mind. Looking at whether you go daily to the temple—this is not being religious. Whoever wants to fake religiosity can go daily to the temple—no difficulty in that. Not by what clothes you wear—perhaps you wear a loincloth; that has nothing to do with being religious. Perhaps you read the Gita every morning—or the Koran—still it has nothing to do with being religious. Being religious is related to how you take life from moment to moment—as bliss or as burden. As life appears before you: as a loving invitation, or a load on your head. Till now the so-called religious have taken life as a burden; they say we seek release from birth and death. On his deathbed Rabindranath said to a friend: I have only one prayer to make to Paramatman—that if you consider me worthy of life once more, give me life again, for I have been blessed in receiving your life. I have known all that was loving and blissful. If I have not known, the fault was mine, not yours. He who takes life with such joy is religious. But we call religious those whose faces are long, who take life grimly—sad and serious. No—these are sick people. The sad and serious are sick. The religious is joyful, flowering, with a song resonating in his soul, with music... In China there were three fakirs. They came to be called the Three Laughing Saints. In whichever village they went they gave no sermons; they stood at the crossroads and began to laugh. And they laughed so heartily, with such freedom and bliss, that slowly a wave of laughter spread through the whole village. And for as long as they stayed, people kept laughing—and in that laughter they came to know something. He who takes life with seriousness does not know. He who takes life with the simplicity and delight of children—he knows. When one of the three died, the villagers said: Now certainly the other two will be sad and mournful. But the two companions came out at dawn dancing. People asked: Today you are only two—where is the third? They said: He is most fortunate—he has set out on a great journey before us. We are preparing to bid him farewell with dance and song. For to bid farewell with sad and tearful eyes to one with whom we spent such moments of joy—this would be a betrayal of friendship. We are making ready to bid him farewell laughing. The one who died had thought: When I die—people love me; when they place me on the pyre they will be very sorrowful. It will not be good that I depart in their sadness. So he told his friends: Do not remove my clothes; in the very clothes in which I die, place me upon the pyre. It was his last wish, so it was done. The village was sad. The two friends went to the cremation ground singing and dancing, but the whole village was mournful. Yet as soon as the body was laid upon the pyre, laughter began to spread; those gathered around the pyre began to laugh and dance. What happened? The dying fakir had hidden fireworks in his clothes. They began to burst upon the pyre—and people laughed. They said: Even in death he is making us laugh! A religious man is one who lives in joy and dies in joy. He who discovers the secret of living joyfully—death too becomes joy. For death becomes a meeting with Paramatman. It is not a farewell to life, it is a union with the supreme life. I call that man religious who seeks to live each moment in joy. But I do not call religious those who change garments, leave homes and villages, abandon families—and suffer in the desire for some faraway Moksha. These are greedy people. Their greed is not satisfied by the transient pleasures of the world, so they want Moksha. These are supremely lustful in their desire. Since the fleeting joys of the world do not satisfy them, they desire a permanent joy. They want such bliss as never breaks. Such a Moksha as never fades. Because they have found no joy in the little things of life, they want to have God—and only then will they be pleased. But I submit: the one who has not found joy in the tiny flowers along the small path—he will not be joyous even meeting God. The one who has not seen the thrill of delight in the smallest drops of the stream of life—if he reaches Moksha he will still not be blissful. For he will remain the same, with the same way of seeing, the same angle, the same habit of understanding. Even if he is seated in Moksha, he will begin some practice to be free of Moksha. The one obsessed with freedom will, even in Moksha, try to be free of Moksha. Religion has less to do with becoming free than with living life to its fullest depth. This obsession with liberation has deprived us of living life in its full depth. And since we have no life on the plane of religion, only science remains, and the life of the body. So I say: the life we ordinarily know is not the whole of life. A greater life is close at hand. And the one who seeks happiness in this life alone is mistaken. He must pass himself through such creativity, such creative fire, that he becomes capable of seeing greater joys. Where a stone appears, there the Divine can appear—only eyes are needed to see. Where nothing appears, there everything can appear—only a seeing heart is needed. And a seeing heart... The Rabiya of whom I spoke—one day people saw her outside her house, searching for something. A passerby asked: What are you looking for? She said: I’ve lost my needle. I’m searching. The traveler was kind; he began to help her. Two or four more came and joined in. Then someone asked: A needle is very small, the road is very big, darkness is falling—tell us exactly where you lost it, otherwise it will be very hard to find. Rabiya said: Better not ask. Those who are already searching did not ask—why do you ask? The man said: This is very strange. The others too stopped. They said: It did not even occur to us to ask first where you lost it. Rabiya said: I lost the needle inside my room. But I am a poor woman; I have no means to light a lamp. When the needle fell, darkness began inside—so I came to the verandah by the door; there was a little sunlight. When that too was gone, I came to the road. Where there is no light, how can one search? They said: You are a mad woman! You are always up to some madness. What kind of madness is this? If the needle was lost inside, the light must be taken inside—instead of searching where there is light. However much you search, it cannot be found. Rabiya began to laugh and said: That is exactly what I wanted to explain. I did not lose any needle. I see everyone searching outside—and no one asks whether what we are searching for outside is actually lost outside. No. But the light of the eyes looks outside, the hands reach outward, the ears hear outward—our senses throw their illumination outward. Therefore we search outside, without knowing where the loss occurred. The wise person will first ask: Where did I lose it? What have I lost? And if even that answer is not clear, still it would be right—before setting out to search this vast earth—to at least search within. If it is not found there, then set out to search outside. But the experience is this: those who searched within, found. Not one person in all of human history has said: I searched within and did not find. And not one person has said: I searched outside and found. The outer search has been without exception a failure; the inner search has been without exception a success. To descend into the search of who is within—that is religion. To open the eyes toward what is within—that is religion. How those eyes can open—about that I will speak with you tomorrow. For now I have said these two things. How the eyes can open toward the inner truth, how the light can reach there—I will speak of this tomorrow. Let me say one thing at the end: whatever the scriptures say, whatever the Master says—until one’s own eyes open, there is no experience of religion. With science there is a convenience: science is a tradition. Science is not a personal experience. The light is burning—we do not know how it burns. But we press the button and it lights. Someone must know; but we all do not need to know. Science is not something each person must know in order to use it; anyone can use it. With religion the opposite is the case. Religion must be known by each person for him to use it; otherwise he cannot use it. Religion is utterly private, utterly individual, utterly personal experience. As love is an experience, so is the experience of the Divine—deeply personal. From another’s experience, nothing opens; from another’s experience, nothing is known. In front of a blind man you may speak of light—nothing will reach him. But if his eyes open, he will know light. Therefore religion is a deeply personal seeing. Only when one’s own eyes open can one know—only then; there is no other way. In the realm of religion, nothing can be borrowed, nothing can be learned second-hand. That is why science can be taught in colleges and universities. Religion cannot be taught—there is no way to teach it. Science becomes a collective property; religion remains an ever personal experience. And whenever we make it collective, then the Hindu is born, the Muslim is born, the Christian—these are diseases; they are not religion. Whenever we make religion collective, an organization arises—which proves dangerous. And remember: whenever an organization arises, the devil is the first to take hold of it. The devil is always trying—if people gather somewhere, he takes possession. And if people do not gather, he tries to gather them. Once the devil received news from his friends—and he has many friends everywhere: his newspaper men, his journalists, his news agencies. They brought news that a man is on the verge of realizing truth. The devil ran with his companions. On the way more friends arrived: You are going in vain; he has already attained truth. The devil said: Then hurry—go and beat the drums in the villages. Announce everywhere that so-and-so has attained truth. So that people gather around him. Fill people with such fervor that they organize. Once they organize, truth will die—because truth is utterly personal. Wherever an organization arises—there, turmoil. The devil was not at all worried. He spread the news. People gathered; crowds formed. They formed an organization. And within that organization, the lamp of truth that had been lit—was extinguished. All organizations have murdered truth. Religion is absolutely personal. It has nothing to do with organizations, groups, collectives. It has to do with each person, with descending into his private consciousness. And how the eyes may turn toward that truth—I will speak of it with you tomorrow. You have listened to me with such peace and love; I am deeply obliged. May Paramatman—science has stood everyone upon his feet—may He slowly stand everyone in religion too. For the Paramatman dwelling within all, accept my salutations.
Osho's Commentary
In a small village, on a dark night, a loud cry rose from within a hut: There is a fire, I am burning, someone save me. The voice was so intense, so full of grief and compassion, that the sleeping neighbors awoke, filled their buckets with water, and ran toward the hut. It was a moonless night, but when they reached the hut, they saw no sign of fire. A tiny hut. From inside the cries continued: There is a fire! But there was not a single sign of flames. They pushed the doors—those doors were open.
It was the hut of a very poor woman. For her there was no question of locks and bolts. Inside, a woman was weeping loudly and beating her chest. Everyone was disturbed. They said: Where is the fire? We will certainly put it out! The woman who was crying began to laugh and said: If the fire were outside you could extinguish it. This fire is burning within me. And no one but I can put it out. So go back. Better still, go home and look inside—perhaps a fire is burning there too. Instead of running to douse someone else’s fire, look first: maybe your own needs quenching.
Perhaps those neighbors did not understand what she said. She was a fakir-woman named Rabiya. Almost always a fire has been burning inside the human being. There have been all sorts of attempts to douse it. In the entire history of humankind, we have not succeeded in extinguishing that inner blaze. A few may have put it out, but humanity as a whole is still tormented and burnt by an inner fire.
Just as the neighbors ran with buckets that night to put out the old woman’s fire, almost all our efforts till now have been of the same kind—to extinguish the blaze within by means applied without.
From this attempt—this outward attempt to extinguish—science is born. The fire is inside, man’s suffering is inside. His sorrow, his anxiety, his anguish are within, yet the remedies we have devised to quell them are all from the outside—and from them science has been conceived, developed, and raised up. Science has stood up strong.
Over the past few centuries, the labor of man has made visible the great summits of scientific progress; we have conquered them. But the fire? It remains exactly where it was. Perhaps today its pain has even deepened.
It has deepened because we had the hope, the aspiration, that our exploration of the outer world, our knowledge and prosperity, would extinguish that inner fire. That too has failed. That hope is shattered.
Outwardly, development has occurred in the most intense and explosive way. But within, man looks poorer than ever. Because outside there has been so much growth and inside man is the same as before. And this inner poverty has begun to bear very fatal fruits. In the few recent decades there have been two world wars. In those two wars we killed perhaps a hundred million people. One hundred million is no small number. When a single person dies, we know what passes through us. To kill one hundred million! And then, in the preparations that followed, it may happen that we wipe out the whole of humanity—this too is possible.
A few days before his death, someone asked Einstein, What weapons will be used in the third world war? Einstein said: About the third I can say nothing, but about the fourth I am certain. The man was astonished: If you cannot say anything about the third, how can you speak of the fourth?
Einstein said: Two things are certain. First, the fourth world war—so far as that is concerned—will not happen at all. The man asked: Will it be that man will give up fighting? Einstein said: No. After the third war there will be no possibility of man’s survival. The fourth will not happen because there will be no man. And if there ever is a fourth—ever—there will be a gap of thousands of years between the third and the fourth. And the weapons used in the fourth will be the same as those of the first—stones and wooden tools.
This fear, this possibility stands before us—that perhaps the whole of humanity will end. After such a flourishing of science, if the Atman within has not been cultivated, then power in undeveloped hands becomes dangerous.
When Nadir Shah was marching toward Hindustan, on the way he met a very wise man. Nadir asked the wise one: I hear that sleeping in the day is bad, and sleeping too much is bad; can you tell me whether sleeping more is bad or sleeping less is good? The elder said: It depends on each individual. For people like you, sleeping more is good—because when you are awake some trouble or other will arise. Better that the wicked sleep.
In the same way, it is better that power not fall into the hands of the ignorant. If ignorance is inside and power comes into the hands, nothing but calamity can ensue. Science has given power, but man does not have within him the peace to use that power rightly. His inner turmoil has only increased. And the result of that turmoil can only be this.
Understand this clearly: a person who is disturbed, inwardly miserable, worried, in pain—such a person has only one pleasure, only one—and that is to drag others into pain and suffering too. The unhappy man has but one joy: to make others as unhappy as possible. He can imagine no other joy.
Man is in sorrow within, and his Atman is on fire. Then the power of science is very dangerous. It gives him the chance to inflict infinite suffering on others. For fifty years and more we have been ceaselessly searching for ways to bring more and more pain and more and more death. It is astonishing. Surely the human mind is ill, diseased, deranged; otherwise there could not be such elaborate planning for death.
I will tell you a small, entirely untrue story. Then I will say more on this. I am fond of this story. Absolutely untrue, absolutely fictitious—but perhaps nothing today is truer about man.
I have heard that, seeing the state of things, Paramatman was perturbed—deeply perturbed. What is happening to man? Why is man so engaged in suicide? He became concerned. He summoned three great nations—England, Russia, and America. This story must be a little old; otherwise who would summon England? It is old. In those days perhaps England was still a power. He called them, and said to the three representatives: We are very worried; all your power has been directed toward killing man. There is the fear that you will destroy the whole of humanity—not only that, perhaps all living creatures. Terrified by this fear, I myself grant you an opportunity and beg you to ask for one boon each. Whatever you desire I will grant, so that life may be saved. Tell me—what do you want? After all, what is the intention behind this race?
The American representative said: O God! We have no big ambition, only a small one; if it is fulfilled we will be at peace, and all this nuisance will cease. God said: Speak—say it and I will grant it. Perhaps He had not imagined what would be asked. The representative said: Father, it is a small wish: let the world be—but let there be no trace of Russia in it. Then all will be peace. The only difficulty tangled in life is the existence of Russia.
God had given many boons—so the old stories say—but such a boon had never been asked. He was startled! He turned His eyes toward Russia. The Russian said: Comrade—or perhaps he said, Sir; I do not know. He may have said Comrade. He said: Sir, first of all we do not believe that you exist. Some fifty years ago we drove you out from our temples, mosques, and churches. In our country no worship is offered to you, no lamps are lit, no flowers placed. We have been free of your illusion for a long time. But still, we can begin to worship you again and accept that you exist, and accept with closed eyes whatever you say—if only a small desire is fulfilled, so that there is proof that you are. We want a world map—but for America we want no color in it.
God grew very nervous and looked toward Britain. What the British representative said is worth keeping in the heart: O Supreme Father! We have no desire of our own; if both of their desires are fulfilled together—ours will be fulfilled.
Such a situation—while the story is wholly false, the situation is not false. This is what is going on in our minds. This is the destruction we are eager for. And it would be a mistake to think that only Britain, America, and Russia are involved. We too; all the people of the world, wherever they live—everyone’s longing is to cause suffering, to hurt, to erase others. This goes on at the level of nations and at the level of individuals as well.
You build a big house and become very happy. Do not remain under the illusion that your happiness comes from the big house. It comes because you have made someone else’s house seem small. And if a bigger house is erected near yours, then this very house that pleased you will become a cause of pain.
When we can make someone else’s house smaller, we are pleased. When we can outstrip someone, we are pleased. When we can cripple another, maim another, we are pleased. There is only one mark of a sorrowful mind: it rejoices in giving sorrow. And there is only one mark of a blissful mind: it rejoices in sharing bliss. What we have—that alone we can share. That alone can we distribute.
Sorrow is deep within man. And science has placed in his hands an immeasurable power—there will be danger. Our capacity to give pain has increased, and within we are in pain. Our capacity to bring death has increased, and within we are in pain. Our capacity to destroy life has increased, and within there is no joy, no beauty, no music—so war becomes inevitable.
The pursuit of the power of science, in itself, has proved fatal. But the mind of man swings to extremes. There have also been lands and cultures—ours, for instance—that, in just such an excess, have also pursued religion to an extreme. And I would say this: religion alone too proves fatal. Let no one think only science becomes dangerous; religion alone becomes dangerous as well.
Religion alone proves dangerous because while inward peace grows, outwardly there is helplessness, weakness, misery, and poverty. And among all the cultures that have developed in the world, none has been so complete as to have found a balance and a harmony between the inner and the outer. Either the Eastern countries followed religion in such a way that they became outwardly poor, weak, and enslaved—or the people of the West followed the outer so much that they lost the soul within.
Until now man’s mind has swung between these two extremes. And even today those who think about these matters are mostly partisan: either partisan to religion or partisan to science. My submission is that such biases are dangerous as far as man is concerned. We must see and accept the human being in his totality, in his wholeness. Man is neither merely body nor merely Atman. If he were only body, science would suffice. If he were only Atman, religion would suffice. But man is a wondrous confluence of both. A wondrous balance of both. A unit born of the alchemy of both. Therefore, if his life, his culture, his civilization choose only one, they will go astray. Till now all human civilizations have missed the way. They are all one-sided.
A small story comes to mind.
In Rome a king fell ill. Very ill. For many years he was treated. Healers and physicians were called from afar. But he could not be cured. The disease itself could not be found. It was not even understood. Finally the physicians said: It is impossible for him to live. A day or two—then it will be over. His eyes stopped opening; his breath began to break. He lay almost half-dead upon the bed. Just then a minister brought news: Do not worry, do not despair—a fakir has come to the village. People say he can raise the dead. Since you are still alive, at least he can save you from death.
The king opened his eyes and said: Hurry, waste no time. For who knows if the breath that goes out will return.
They ran and brought the fakir. The fakir said: This is no great illness. That is why the physicians failed. Because there was no disease, how could they find it? And the medicines they have given have brought this man near death—not the illness. The cure is very simple.
The king, who had been lying for months, sat up and asked: What cure?
The fakir said: Very simple, very easy. Go into this great capital and bring the clothes of a man who is both happy and prosperous—and dress him in those clothes. That is all. By morning he will be well.
The ministers danced with joy. The extinguished lamps of the palace were lit. There was song and dance. The cure was easy. They ran to find the garments of someone who was both happy and prosperous. But as they went from house to house, their despair grew. Whoever they met said: I would give my very life to save the king, but my clothes will not work. Prosperity I have, but happiness—I am unacquainted with it. I have wealth, houses, great power, high office—but I have not known happiness yet. I still desire it, I still dream of it—I have not found it.
With each home their despair increased. Evening approached, the sun began to set, and the ministers gathered together. They said: It seems difficult to save the king. We were living in an illusion. The servant who had run with them all day said: I understood that from the very beginning—that this would not be possible. When I saw the king’s ministers going out to beg for someone else’s clothes, I suspected it. If it were possible, the ministers could have given their own. When you went out to ask others, I understood the cure would not happen, the king would die. How can we face him? Let us wait till dusk, till the sun sets—then we will go.
At sunset they turned toward the palace. Behind the palace flowed a river, and from that direction they heard a flute. Across the river someone sat on a stone and played. There was such magic in his notes, such joy, such a fragrance of happiness. They thought: Let us make one last attempt. Perhaps this man is happy; his notes are steeped in joy, in love, in delight. They went and, in the dark, folded their hands before him: Our emperor is close to death. We are searching for a man who is happy—his clothes will heal our king. Will you be kind enough to give your clothes?
The man began to laugh. He said: I am happy indeed—but in the dark you cannot see that I am sitting here naked. I have no clothes.
Then the king died. For they found some who were prosperous but not happy—and one who was happy but not prosperous. And the king died.
Man too suffers from just such an illness. He stands almost at the verge of death. And even now we cannot find garments that hold both happiness and prosperity together. Either we pursue inner peace and become outwardly poor and wretched—as has happened in this land and in other Eastern lands—or we pursue prosperity and happiness withers, the mechanisms of joy break down.
This has happened because we have regarded the inner and the outer as enemies. Because we saw body and soul as antagonists. Because we did not know that the search for happiness is a single, indivisible quest—and we dismantled the search for life into fragments. We have not yet accepted the human being as an indivisible, whole unit. Those who accept man as body deny his Atman. Those who speak of his Atman, knowingly or unknowingly, become enemies of the body.
We need a culture that becomes a bridge between man’s inner and outer—and joins the two. In truth they are already joined. So we need neither a religious culture alone—that is also a side, an extreme—nor a scientific culture alone—that too is a mistake at the opposite extreme. We need a culture that accepts the indivisible nature of man and can set that nature in motion toward bliss. Remember: no search for the Atman is possible without the foundation of the body.
When Saint Francis was dying, he took leave of all, and at the end he folded his hands. People thought: Now he will thank God. But what did he say? He said: O my dear body, I tormented you much, harassed you much. I always thought you were my enemy. Today my eyes have opened and a lamp is lit in my heart: I can see that you were forever my companion—not my enemy. You accompanied me through pleasure and pain. If I oppressed you and caused you trouble, still you were my companion. And the Atman I came to know—I could not have known it without climbing upon your steps. Therefore I thank you and ask forgiveness for the wrongs I did to you.
Those who truly look at the human being will see: body and soul function like steps and goal. Those who truly look at life will see: science and religion function like means and end. If science remains alone, danger arises—the steps remain, the road remains, but there is nowhere to reach. If religion remains alone, then a destination remains—but all the paths leading to it are broken. Then life is crippled. Life has been crippled till now.
There is one direction we call outer: there science has explored matter and its mysteries. There is another direction we call inner: there religion has discovered certain truths.
But the truths of science could become more influential—because science is a public truth. The truths of religion have not become so influential—because by religion we have meant Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jaina, Buddhist. Religion is still broken, mutually opposed—fragmented into conflicting pieces. Therefore religion could not have the influence that science has had. Science stands as a single truth. The distance between East and West has fallen. The gaps between sects have fallen. The small provincial enclosures have fallen. The beliefs of each clan have fallen. The science of the whole of humanity has stood up.
The religion of the whole of humanity has not yet stood up. Religion is losing every day—not because it is weak—but because the camp of religion is divided and at war with itself. When the Hindu, the Muslim, the Christian, the Jaina, the Buddhist fight among themselves, naturally their strength is spent in inner conflict, and the powers of irreligion grow by themselves. There is no fault in science; the fault lies with the religious people.
At this time, for anyone whose heart is even a little religious, the first thing is this: if he is truly religious, let him be free of being Hindu or Muslim. Because it is precisely due to these names that religion cannot be born. There are some three hundred faiths, some three hundred communities on the earth, and all are opposed to one another. Two hundred and ninety-nine stand against each other. Their entire energy is spent in mutual fighting.
Religion is also a power, like science. And the truths of religion are as universal as those of science. But we are still highly partisan in the realm of religion. Our religious thinking is three to four thousand years old—and thus it cannot stand as a power in the face of science; it is continuously defeated.
So a few things need to be considered. First: whatever man may discover outside, if not today then tomorrow the inner lack will begin to sting. Because no matter what I obtain—however large my houses, however many instruments and means—if within me I cannot experience the throb of a blissful Atman, then what I have obtained will become a bondage for me. And what I have obtained will begin to give me sorrow.
For the capacity to enjoy happiness is a way of seeing, an approach, a vantage point from which the personality looks. When we look from a particular place within, things become blissful. If within we have no capacity and no receptivity to stand at the point of joy, life becomes sorrowful.
One morning a man halted his bullock cart on the outskirts of a village and asked an old man sitting there: What sort of people live in this village? I want to settle here. The old man said: Before I tell you what the people here are like, will you kindly tell me what the people were like in the village you left? The man said: The very mention of them sets fire in my eyes, flames of anger rise in my heart. Such wicked people are impossible to find on the earth. The old man said: Friend, that is why I asked. The people of this village are worse. I have been here some seventy years. Look for another village. You will find them worse than those you left.
He went away. He had hardly gone when another bullock cart stopped. Another traveler, who asked the same question: What sort of people are here? We want to settle here. The old man said: First tell me what the people were like in the village you left? The man’s eyes filled with happiness, with tears of joy. He said: The very memory of them fills my heart with sweetness—such good people are hard to find anywhere. The sorrow, the misfortune is that due to some compulsions I had to leave. But I carry the hope that today or tomorrow I will return to that village. So lovely were the people there. The old man said: Come—welcome. I have lived here seventy years. You will find the people here even better than those there.
If the vision with which we see life is joyful, then everything outside becomes joyful. If the vision is full of sorrow and darkness, everything outside becomes dark.
Science is building the outer world; it should be built. Only the totally lazy and lifeless, those with no zest to do anything, can accept the outer world as it is. Certainly the outer world should be changed, it can be constructed better. But to say only this is incomplete and erroneous—because the outer world can give only what the inner man is ready to receive. If the inner man is wrong, even a right outer world will become a hell.
The question is not fundamentally what the outer world is like; deep down the question is what the inner man is like. If within us the angle from which we see is sorrowful, the outer world will become sorrowful.
And till now the so-called religions have, if we look closely, used the outer sorrow of the world as a tool in their argument. They say: The world is filled with suffering; birth and death are suffering—therefore seek a Moksha where all is bliss.
These are false and foolish words. They are false because in this way they too overemphasize the outer world and forget the inner man. For this very world becomes a moment of unsurpassed joy for some.
So the question is not to run away somewhere else. The real question is: how to transform oneself in the midst of this—so that what we know as sorrow and hell becomes bliss and Moksha.
The fundamental concern of dharma is to transform the capacity and the receptivity to see within the individual. The concern of science is to make objects as convenient as possible. The concern of dharma is to see life from the maximum angle of joy. Without dharma, science will be incomplete; without dharma, science will be dangerous; without dharma, no ray of joy can enter life.
But by dharma I do not mean Hindu or Muslim. By dharma I do not mean what has been repeatedly told, the scriptures and traditions. By dharma I mean the way of living life in a blissful manner. Whoever—whether a poet singing a song, a sculptor shaping a statue, a scientist researching, a teacher teaching, a shopkeeper trading, a cobbler making shoes—whoever succeeds in seeing the totality of his life from a standpoint of joy, I call him a religious man. Whoever becomes capable of seeing life from the point of bliss, I call him religious. Whoever becomes capable of dwelling in Moksha at every moment and every place, I call him religious.
He is not religious who seeks Moksha somewhere far away in the sky; he is not religious who seeks Moksha beyond birth and death. He alone is religious who, within himself, here and now, becomes capable of attaining Moksha. To attain Moksha means that his way of seeing—his very vision of life—has changed.
Two fakirs returned one evening to their hut in Japan. The rainy days had come. Clouds were thick across the sky; today or tomorrow the rains would fall. They had been traveling for many days, and from fear of the rains, before they began, they were running toward their hut. But as they reached it, they were taken aback. One said: O God! This is why doubts arise about you—what have you done? The wind had blown away half the thatch of their roof.
One fakir said: This is why distrust arises about your existence. In the village, sinners have great mansions standing—and you chose to blow off the roof of poor fakirs! If the winds had to test their strength, let them test on a mansion. If your heart was set on breaking things, break some big palace—did you feel no shame in breaking the poor man’s hut? He turned to his companion: Do you see! But when he looked, he was amazed. The other fakir was kneeling, hands folded to the sky, tears of joy flowing. He shook him: What are you doing? The other said: I am thanking Paramatman. Great is His grace and compassion—otherwise, who knows with these winds, they might have carried away the whole hut. They left half the roof. Storms cannot be trusted—they could have brought down the entire roof; but they left half. How can I not give thanks? Great is His grace and compassion.
That night both slept in the same hut. The first could not sleep—the whole night anxiety gripped him. The second slept deeply, and in the morning he wrote a song: O Paramatman! I did not know what the joy of a half-roof is; otherwise we would not have troubled your winds—we ourselves would have removed half. Many times in the night when I opened my eyes, through the half-roof the stars were visible, the moon too. And now what wonder there will be—the rains are near—half we will sleep, and in the half the raindrops will fall; their music we shall hear. We had no idea. Otherwise we would not have troubled your winds; we would have brought down half ourselves.
The second too was under the same roof—but the whole night he was in anger, in rage, in worry. Of these two, I call the second religious, not the first.
He who becomes capable of looking at life from its side filled with joy and light—that man is religious. Then he does not need to seek Moksha; it comes. Then he does not need to run anywhere; wherever he is, in that very place, that very state, he attains that without which life can never become beauty, never become blessedness.
By dharma I mean attaining a blissful vision of life. By science I mean that the world spread around us is also of Paramatman. Matter is also of Paramatman. The secrets hidden within it—the mysteries—are to be discovered. By discovering those mysteries, life can be greatly enriched. But if the vision is not attained by which we can delight in things—then not. Then life will become more unhappy. Sorrow within and power without: that is all that will happen.
Therefore do not be concerned with the conventional names of religion; rather, consider the original revolution that religion is—a revolution in man’s mind. Looking at whether you go daily to the temple—this is not being religious. Whoever wants to fake religiosity can go daily to the temple—no difficulty in that. Not by what clothes you wear—perhaps you wear a loincloth; that has nothing to do with being religious. Perhaps you read the Gita every morning—or the Koran—still it has nothing to do with being religious.
Being religious is related to how you take life from moment to moment—as bliss or as burden. As life appears before you: as a loving invitation, or a load on your head. Till now the so-called religious have taken life as a burden; they say we seek release from birth and death.
On his deathbed Rabindranath said to a friend: I have only one prayer to make to Paramatman—that if you consider me worthy of life once more, give me life again, for I have been blessed in receiving your life. I have known all that was loving and blissful. If I have not known, the fault was mine, not yours.
He who takes life with such joy is religious. But we call religious those whose faces are long, who take life grimly—sad and serious. No—these are sick people. The sad and serious are sick. The religious is joyful, flowering, with a song resonating in his soul, with music...
In China there were three fakirs. They came to be called the Three Laughing Saints. In whichever village they went they gave no sermons; they stood at the crossroads and began to laugh. And they laughed so heartily, with such freedom and bliss, that slowly a wave of laughter spread through the whole village. And for as long as they stayed, people kept laughing—and in that laughter they came to know something.
He who takes life with seriousness does not know. He who takes life with the simplicity and delight of children—he knows.
When one of the three died, the villagers said: Now certainly the other two will be sad and mournful. But the two companions came out at dawn dancing. People asked: Today you are only two—where is the third? They said: He is most fortunate—he has set out on a great journey before us. We are preparing to bid him farewell with dance and song. For to bid farewell with sad and tearful eyes to one with whom we spent such moments of joy—this would be a betrayal of friendship. We are making ready to bid him farewell laughing.
The one who died had thought: When I die—people love me; when they place me on the pyre they will be very sorrowful. It will not be good that I depart in their sadness. So he told his friends: Do not remove my clothes; in the very clothes in which I die, place me upon the pyre. It was his last wish, so it was done.
The village was sad. The two friends went to the cremation ground singing and dancing, but the whole village was mournful. Yet as soon as the body was laid upon the pyre, laughter began to spread; those gathered around the pyre began to laugh and dance.
What happened?
The dying fakir had hidden fireworks in his clothes. They began to burst upon the pyre—and people laughed. They said: Even in death he is making us laugh!
A religious man is one who lives in joy and dies in joy. He who discovers the secret of living joyfully—death too becomes joy. For death becomes a meeting with Paramatman. It is not a farewell to life, it is a union with the supreme life.
I call that man religious who seeks to live each moment in joy. But I do not call religious those who change garments, leave homes and villages, abandon families—and suffer in the desire for some faraway Moksha. These are greedy people. Their greed is not satisfied by the transient pleasures of the world, so they want Moksha.
These are supremely lustful in their desire. Since the fleeting joys of the world do not satisfy them, they desire a permanent joy. They want such bliss as never breaks. Such a Moksha as never fades. Because they have found no joy in the little things of life, they want to have God—and only then will they be pleased.
But I submit: the one who has not found joy in the tiny flowers along the small path—he will not be joyous even meeting God. The one who has not seen the thrill of delight in the smallest drops of the stream of life—if he reaches Moksha he will still not be blissful. For he will remain the same, with the same way of seeing, the same angle, the same habit of understanding. Even if he is seated in Moksha, he will begin some practice to be free of Moksha. The one obsessed with freedom will, even in Moksha, try to be free of Moksha.
Religion has less to do with becoming free than with living life to its fullest depth. This obsession with liberation has deprived us of living life in its full depth. And since we have no life on the plane of religion, only science remains, and the life of the body.
So I say: the life we ordinarily know is not the whole of life. A greater life is close at hand. And the one who seeks happiness in this life alone is mistaken. He must pass himself through such creativity, such creative fire, that he becomes capable of seeing greater joys. Where a stone appears, there the Divine can appear—only eyes are needed to see. Where nothing appears, there everything can appear—only a seeing heart is needed. And a seeing heart...
The Rabiya of whom I spoke—one day people saw her outside her house, searching for something. A passerby asked: What are you looking for? She said: I’ve lost my needle. I’m searching. The traveler was kind; he began to help her. Two or four more came and joined in. Then someone asked: A needle is very small, the road is very big, darkness is falling—tell us exactly where you lost it, otherwise it will be very hard to find.
Rabiya said: Better not ask. Those who are already searching did not ask—why do you ask? The man said: This is very strange. The others too stopped. They said: It did not even occur to us to ask first where you lost it.
Rabiya said: I lost the needle inside my room. But I am a poor woman; I have no means to light a lamp. When the needle fell, darkness began inside—so I came to the verandah by the door; there was a little sunlight. When that too was gone, I came to the road. Where there is no light, how can one search?
They said: You are a mad woman! You are always up to some madness. What kind of madness is this? If the needle was lost inside, the light must be taken inside—instead of searching where there is light. However much you search, it cannot be found.
Rabiya began to laugh and said: That is exactly what I wanted to explain. I did not lose any needle. I see everyone searching outside—and no one asks whether what we are searching for outside is actually lost outside.
No. But the light of the eyes looks outside, the hands reach outward, the ears hear outward—our senses throw their illumination outward. Therefore we search outside, without knowing where the loss occurred.
The wise person will first ask: Where did I lose it? What have I lost? And if even that answer is not clear, still it would be right—before setting out to search this vast earth—to at least search within. If it is not found there, then set out to search outside.
But the experience is this: those who searched within, found. Not one person in all of human history has said: I searched within and did not find. And not one person has said: I searched outside and found.
The outer search has been without exception a failure; the inner search has been without exception a success.
To descend into the search of who is within—that is religion. To open the eyes toward what is within—that is religion. How those eyes can open—about that I will speak with you tomorrow. For now I have said these two things. How the eyes can open toward the inner truth, how the light can reach there—I will speak of this tomorrow.
Let me say one thing at the end: whatever the scriptures say, whatever the Master says—until one’s own eyes open, there is no experience of religion. With science there is a convenience: science is a tradition. Science is not a personal experience. The light is burning—we do not know how it burns. But we press the button and it lights. Someone must know; but we all do not need to know. Science is not something each person must know in order to use it; anyone can use it.
With religion the opposite is the case. Religion must be known by each person for him to use it; otherwise he cannot use it. Religion is utterly private, utterly individual, utterly personal experience. As love is an experience, so is the experience of the Divine—deeply personal. From another’s experience, nothing opens; from another’s experience, nothing is known.
In front of a blind man you may speak of light—nothing will reach him. But if his eyes open, he will know light. Therefore religion is a deeply personal seeing. Only when one’s own eyes open can one know—only then; there is no other way. In the realm of religion, nothing can be borrowed, nothing can be learned second-hand.
That is why science can be taught in colleges and universities. Religion cannot be taught—there is no way to teach it. Science becomes a collective property; religion remains an ever personal experience. And whenever we make it collective, then the Hindu is born, the Muslim is born, the Christian—these are diseases; they are not religion. Whenever we make religion collective, an organization arises—which proves dangerous.
And remember: whenever an organization arises, the devil is the first to take hold of it. The devil is always trying—if people gather somewhere, he takes possession. And if people do not gather, he tries to gather them.
Once the devil received news from his friends—and he has many friends everywhere: his newspaper men, his journalists, his news agencies. They brought news that a man is on the verge of realizing truth. The devil ran with his companions. On the way more friends arrived: You are going in vain; he has already attained truth. The devil said: Then hurry—go and beat the drums in the villages. Announce everywhere that so-and-so has attained truth. So that people gather around him. Fill people with such fervor that they organize. Once they organize, truth will die—because truth is utterly personal. Wherever an organization arises—there, turmoil.
The devil was not at all worried. He spread the news. People gathered; crowds formed. They formed an organization. And within that organization, the lamp of truth that had been lit—was extinguished.
All organizations have murdered truth. Religion is absolutely personal. It has nothing to do with organizations, groups, collectives. It has to do with each person, with descending into his private consciousness. And how the eyes may turn toward that truth—I will speak of it with you tomorrow.
You have listened to me with such peace and love; I am deeply obliged. May Paramatman—science has stood everyone upon his feet—may He slowly stand everyone in religion too. For the Paramatman dwelling within all, accept my salutations.