The whole journey of man’s life is a journey to know that which is unknown. A journey to seek that which has not yet been known. A journey to find that which is still unfound. To bring the distant near. To make the difficult simple. To make the unavailable available. Man’s journey has, by its very nature, taken two directions. One moves outward from man; the other moves inward. There was a fakir woman, Rabia. One morning a fakir friend of hers came to her hut, calling from outside: Rabia, what are you doing inside? Come out. The sun is rising. Such a beautiful morning has been born. I have never seen such a lovely dawn. Why do you sit inside with the door closed? Come out. Rabia began to laugh from within and said: Hasan, I have seen many suns outside, many dawns outside; I have seen very beautiful mornings, very beautiful nights. They are wondrous indeed. But since I have come within, what I have seen there makes the beauty outside nothing at all in comparison. So I say to you, Hasan, you come inside. What are you doing outside? Who knows whether Hasan understood or not. But there is a world that is seen by the eyes, and there is a world that is not seen by the eyes. There is a truth that comes within the reach of the hand’s touch, and there is a truth of which a glimpse comes in dreams. There is a world outside us, and there is a world within us too. And both worlds have their own beauty, their own truth. Each has its own reality, its own suchness. Perhaps, ultimately, these two worlds are two aspects of one and the same thing. But ordinarily, seen from above, they appear as two. And it is because of these two that religion and science were born. The search for the outer world—for the unknown outside—has become the journey called science. And the search for the inner world, the unknown within—becoming acquainted with it, living it, knowing it—has become the journey called religion. And man’s richness and peace depend upon this one thing: that these two journeys not be in opposition—but be cooperative, be companions, be integrated. It has not happened so far. Up to now, those who have inquired into the world of matter have been opponents of Paramatma. And those who sought Paramatma have been condemners of matter. Both kinds of people have prevented human culture from becoming complete. Both have hindered its fulfillment. For man is not only body, nor only soul; man is not only matter, nor only Paramatma; man is the wondrous meeting and music of both. Man’s life is a bridge between the two. And this has been forgotten, denied, until today. Those who praised Paramatma did so by condemning matter—and this was wrong. Paramatma could have been praised through the glory and dignity of matter as well. Those who investigated matter and conquered it, achieved that victory with neglect, opposition, and denial towards Paramatma. That too could have been done with Paramatma, with prayer to Paramatma. There was no inherent opposition. But for certain reasons it did not happen. Science and religion have stood like two enemies. Their enmity is proving very costly for man. The West has become the symbol of science. The East has become the symbol of religion. Science has become the symbol of atheism, religion of the supernatural. Both positions are deluded and wrong. Both are incomplete and one-sided. A small story comes to my mind through which I would like to make this clear. In Rome an emperor fell ill. He was so sick that finally the physicians gave up and said he could not be saved. The emperor and his dear ones became deeply anxious. Now they could only wait for death hour by hour. Just then a rumor spread in Rome that a fakir had arrived who could even raise the dead. Hope returned to the emperor’s eyes. He sent his viziers to bring the fakir. The fakir came. He looked at the emperor and said: Who says you are going to die? You do not even have any great illness. Get up, sit up—you can be healed. Do a small treatment. The emperor, who had been lying for months, who had not risen at all, sat up. He said: What treatment? Tell me quickly before I come to an end. The physicians say I cannot be saved. The fakir said: Is there not, in your capital, at least one person who is both happy and prosperous? If there is, bring his clothes. Put them on—and you will be saved. Death is not near you. The viziers said: That is very easy. Such a large capital! So many happy, so many prosperous people! Palaces touching the sky—can you not see? We will bring such garments at once. The fakir laughed: If you bring the garments, the emperor will be saved. The viziers ran off. None of them understood the fakir’s laughter. They went to the city’s richest merchant and said: The emperor lies on the deathbed, and a fakir has said he can be saved if we bring the clothes of a happy and prosperous man. Give us your clothes. Tears came into the merchant’s eyes. He said: If my life could save the emperor, I would gladly give it—not only my clothes. But my clothes will not work. I am prosperous, yes—but I am not happy. In search of happiness I gathered wealth, but I have not yet met happiness. And now my hope too is breaking, because whatever wealth was possible has come to me and still I have had no vision of happiness. My clothes will not help. I am unhappy. Forgive me. The viziers were astonished. They remembered the fakir’s laughter. Still, it seemed proper to ask others. They went to other wealthy men of the city. Evening began to fall. Whomever they asked said the same: there is much prosperity, but as for happiness—there is no acquaintance with it. Our garments will not serve. Now they were very troubled: what face would they show the emperor? He had become hopeful. And this remedy they had thought cheap now seemed very costly, very difficult. Just then the emperor’s old servant came running after them and laughed: When the fakir laughed, I understood. When even the emperor’s chief vizier did not think to give his own clothes, but ran to ask for others’ clothes, I knew the remedy was difficult. These garments are hard to find. For even the emperor’s vizier does not think: I will give my clothes. The vizier said: How could I give my clothes? I do have prosperity, but I too have no relationship with happiness. The viziers thought: The emperor will die—it is hard to save him. The fakir has deceived us. How shall we face the emperor in daylight? Let night come—then in the dark we will go and, with tears and apologies, tell him this remedy cannot be done. When the sun set they reached the palace. Behind the palace flowed the village river. In the dark, from across the river, the sound of a flute floated over. The music was very sweet, carrying tidings of peace. Along with the waves of that music there was a certain melody of joy. The viziers thought: Perhaps this flute-player has found happiness. Ask him—before we refuse the emperor. One more attempt. They crossed the river and came to the man in the dark. As they came closer they felt increasingly: This may be the man whose garments will work. There was something in his music such that even their own life-energies, filled with despair and sorrow, thrilled and began to dance. They approached the man: Friend, we are in great trouble—save us. The emperor lies on his deathbed. We have come to ask: have you found joy in life? The man said: Joy? I have found joy. Tell me, what can I do? They overflowed with delight and said: We need your garments. The emperor is on his deathbed, and he needs the garments of a happy and prosperous man. The man laughed: I would give my life to save the emperor—but I have no clothes. I am sitting here naked. In the dark you cannot see. That night the emperor died. They found the prosperous who had no acquaintance with happiness, and one happy man who had not even a garment. They met incomplete men; not one whole man. No man was found who had both garments and soul. Therefore the emperor died. I do not know how far this story is true. But today the whole of humanity lies on the deathbed. And the same question stands today: can we create such a human being who is both prosperous and at peace? Who has garments and has soul? Who has wealth outwardly and inwardly too? Who has comforts of the body and the bliss of the soul? The West has produced garments. Science can produce only garments. Science cannot give man a soul. Science can give prosperity, and can give much. It can enrich man with an unprecedented abundance. The West has gathered wealth—more and more garments piled up. But the inner soul has been lost, inner peace has been lost, inner bliss has been lost. Man stands there, panic-stricken: everything is with us—everything, except ourselves. Inside all is empty; outside all is filled. Within, man has become more and more vacant; without, things have gone on increasing. Today it has become difficult to find man among the very objects he has amassed. The West, traveling only with science, has become prosperous. The East has become poorer and poorer. Its garments have been snatched, its bread has been snatched. It has become hungry and poor. It has found some notes of peace. Some inner flute was played, some music was experienced—some Buddha, some Mahavira, on certain heights felt some very deep bliss. But the majority became naked and unclad, hungry, wretched, enslaved. The journey of religion alone could do only this. The search for religion alone could only make man destitute. For the inner, sacrificing the outer had this inevitable result—that nations, peoples, who one-sidedly took to the inner journey became slaves. Those who had power on the outside went on becoming conquerors. Those who had no outer power kept being defeated. Religion alone made the East outwardly wretched. Science alone made the West inwardly wretched. The East died because of religion’s one-sidedness. The West is dying because of science’s one-sidedness. Is some synthesis, some coordination between the two not possible? The East has ended, the East has died. And the East now sees only one path—to imitate the West. It sees no other way to survive than to become the West’s follower. And if it sees that by following the West, where will it arrive? Only where the West has arrived! That does not look like a happy hope. That destiny, that future, does not seem desirable. But no other option appears. The West too has reached such a place that it wants to become the East’s follower. A strange incident is occurring. The scientist of the West is increasingly honored in the East; the sannyasins of the East are increasingly honored in the West. It is like what once happened in a village. There were two very great scholars in a village. One was theist, one atheist. There was fierce dispute between them. The village was harassed. Villages are often troubled by scholars. The village became very distressed and fed up. Neither would let anyone rest. The theist went on preaching theism; the atheist went on preaching atheism. People’s minds became more entangled. Nothing remained clear—what is true, what is false? When the villagers became very upset, their peace and sleep ruined, and those two scholars pursued them everywhere, they pleaded: This whole village will gather—both of you debate. Whosoever wins, we will follow. We do not want disturbance. At last, on a full-moon night, the scholars debated. The whole village gathered. The theist offered powerful proofs for theism. The atheist offered equally powerful proofs. The fun of logic is that it can become anyone’s proof, anyone’s ally. Logic is like a prostitute—it can go with anyone. It belongs to no one. Both marshaled many arguments, many proofs. By morning an astonishing thing had happened: in that village the theist was influenced by the atheist, and the atheist was influenced by the theist. The village’s trouble remained the same. Next day the theist became an atheist and the atheist a theist. The village council remained where it was; the controversy began again. Both set out once more to preach. Such is the condition of the world today. The East will become the West and the West will become the East—and the stupidity will remain as it is. Man will be just as harassed. Here Einstein becomes influential; there Vivekananda becomes influential. But the madness remains the same; nothing will change. For Vivekananda too is partisan to an incomplete culture, and Einstein too is partisan to an incomplete culture. From the extreme that we become weary of, we become eager to run to the opposite extreme. The poor man, bored with poverty, tries to become rich. Those who become very rich, bored with riches, become fakirs. Mahavira and Buddha were both princes; they became fakirs. The fakir wants to be rich; the rich want to be poor. The rich tire of wealth; the poor tire of poverty. The theist tires of theism; the atheist tires of atheism. The East tired of the East; the West tired of the West. Religious people have become tired of religion; scientific people have become tired of science. They want to switch extremes. And man’s mind is like the pendulum of a clock—it moves from one extreme to the other, and then to the other again. It never stops in the middle. There is no need to be very delighted. If a yogi or two from the East go to the West and boys there form gangs following them, do not be very pleased. It is the same symptom of madness as your boys running after science. Their boys gather around yogis; your boys crowd around laboratories and cinemas—do not be astonished. These are the same things; there is no difference. Their minds are weary of their extreme; your minds are weary of yours. But so far no one has tired of extremes themselves; from one extreme we simply choose the other. I want to say: a more synthetic culture, a more integrated civilization must evolve—one that is not extremist. One that has the capacity to stand in balance, in harmony, at the center. One that can give science its place and religion its place. One that can accept that science has its own value; science is not meaningless. The world has its own value; the world is not maya in the sense of nonexistence. And that can also accept: even though the world is true, there is a truth beyond the world. Paramatma is not futile because the world is true. Paramatma is all the more true. When the world too is true, Paramatma becomes available as an even deeper truth. The hostility and chasm between Paramatma and the world should end. The greatest misfortune in human life—the greatest calamity—has been that we dug a deep gulf between truth and world. The man who wishes to go toward God runs away from the world. He says: the world is worthless, the world is a dream, it is maya—and he flees. But his fleeing only proves that the world is not worthless, not a dream. For there is no need to flee from dreams. From that which is without substance there is no need to run. If a thing is not, what need to escape? A man says: I don’t believe in ghosts; they don’t exist—and he runs to save himself from ghosts. What shall we say? Either the man is mad, or he has no trust in what he says. A man declares: the world is maya—and yet says, I have renounced the world. How can you renounce that which is not? No—the world is. Whether you enjoy it or renounce it, whether you drown in it or run from it—it is. Its being cannot be wiped away. One mistake is made by the sannyasin who says: the world is unreal, I leave it; I go to Paramatma. And precisely the opposite error is made by the materialist: he says, the world is substantial, meaningful. And when the world is substantial, Paramatma cannot be. For those who believe in Paramatma have declared the world unsubstantial; on the world’s unsubstantiality they rest their proof of God. So the man who sees substance in the world will naturally regard Paramatma as unproven—believing only one of the two can be true. This is wrong—that only one of the two can be true. Both can be true together, and both can be untrue together. There is no necessity that when two are in view, only one be true. Life has many kinds of truths. Matter has its own truth; money has its own truth. Love has its truth; Paramatma has his truth. Among truths there is a valuation—by which we move ceaselessly toward higher and higher truth. But one truth is not the negation of another. Dreams have their own kind of truth, and waking has its own. Sleep has its truth, and awareness its truth. Between these truths there is no such opposition that if one is, the other cannot be. And the day a person touches the deepest boundary of both truths, that day he laughs, that day he is astonished. He finds that what he had taken as two were simply two ways of looking at the same truth. Two perspectives—not two truths. One thing can be seen in many ways. Buddha once gave a discourse at night. His daily custom was that after the discourse he would say to the bhikkhus: Now go and engage in the final work of the night. That last work was the night’s meditation. The monks would take leave, meditate, and sleep. So Buddha did not need to say every day: Now meditate. He would simply say: Do the night’s final work. That night a thief was in the assembly, and a courtesan too. As soon as Buddha said: Now go and begin your night’s work—the thief thought: Ah, what am I doing here? Night has fallen; time for my work has come. The courtesan also thought: It is late—time to open my shop; I should go. And the monks went to meditation. The same sentence. The very same words. But three meanings were taken. There were three hearers—three ways of seeing. From three sides that one statement was taken and each took his own meaning. Life appears as we look at it. Those who look through the lens of matter see life as matter. Those who begin to look through the lens of consciousness see life as consciousness. It depends on us—how we see. A poet looks at a flower and says: How beautiful. Statues of beauty whirl through his mind. He may remember his beloved’s face. He may see stars walking in the petals. He may recall on those petals the ripples of a lake. With the fragrance may come the feel of distant fragrances. With the flower some song of dreams may open within his heart. The flower remains where it is; the poet moves into the world of dreams. A scientist looks at a flower; he sees neither beauty, nor moon and stars. He sees some chemicals. If someone tells him, The flower is very beautiful, he will ask: Where is this beauty? In my laboratory when I cut and analyze, I find no beauty. Yes, I find chemicals, some minerals, and other things. But beauty—I have examined much in the lab, and I have never found beauty. Beauty cannot be found in the laboratory; thus the poet becomes a liar. But the poet finds only beauty in the flower; he finds no minerals, no chemicals. Does that make the scientist a liar? The flower is a vast reality. There are a thousand ways to see it. Each small thing is so infinite that infinite perspectives are always open. One perspective does not invalidate another. A perspective only says: This is how I looked. When the poet says: I saw beauty in the flower—he is not saying beauty is an objective constituent in the flower; he is saying: I looked like a poet. When the scientist says: I found minerals and chemicals—he is not saying the flower consists only of chemicals; he is saying: I looked like a scientist. These are our modes of seeing. Science is one mode of seeing life; religion is another. Both enrich our vision of life. Neither should be dismissed. The perspective of science increases power; the perspective of religion increases peace. Power is needed, and peace is needed. Power alone is dangerous—especially in the hands of the unpeaceful. Better that an unpeaceful man remain weak; if he becomes powerful he is perilous. For when power comes into the hands of unrest, upheavals increase. Nadir Shah once came toward India. He halted in a capital, and an astrologer came to meet him. Nadir asked: I sleep a lot; much sleep comes to me. I sleep twelve, thirteen, fourteen hours. People say so much sleep is very bad. What do you think? The astrologer said: For a bad man to sleep more is good. For a good man to be more awake is good. You should sleep more; if you could sleep all twenty-four hours, that would be best. Because the longer a man like you stays awake, the longer turmoil increases in the world. Your waking brings benefit to no one—neither to the nation nor to anyone. The astrologer said: Let a bad man sleep as much as possible. Wakefulness is recommended for the good—not for the bad. Let power be in hands that are peaceful—then it is all right. Otherwise, weakness is not bad. In the hands of the unpeaceful, power is suicidal and homicidal. Science has given power but not peace; it is proving murderous. We have seen two world wars; preparations for the third are on. And the third will be dangerous—very dangerous. Before his death, someone asked Einstein: Will you say something about the Third World War? Einstein said: About the third it is very difficult to say anything. Yes, about the fourth I can say something. The listener was astonished: You cannot say about the third—what can you say about the fourth? Einstein said: About the fourth one thing can be said with certainty—that there will never be a fourth world war. Because in the third all men are to be finished. About the third nothing can be said. The preparations are astonishing. We have devised means not only to annihilate humanity, but all life. Not only life—perhaps the earth itself may shatter and break apart. Let me give you a small picture so you can sense how much power has gathered in unpeaceful hands. At this moment there are some fifty thousand hydrogen bombs on earth. The number fifty thousand tells us little—what does it mean? One hydrogen bomb destroys all life in forty thousand square miles—not only human life, but animal, plant, even tiny bacteria and amoebae—all. One H-bomb for forty thousand square miles. Fifty thousand hydrogen bombs are enough to destroy seven earths like ours—not one. Or think thus: if we had to kill every human being one by one, we could kill each seven times. In fact a man dies in one blow—he is that fragile. It has not been heard that a man had to be killed twice. If he dies, he dies once; if he does not, that is another matter. But one blow is enough; there is no need to kill twice. But we are very clever; it is best to make every arrangement. If someone survives once, we can kill him again and yet again. Seven times is enough. That anyone could survive seven times—this cannot be imagined. So man has done all the calculations, made all the arrangements. Now we are preparing for when to finish everyone. What does a hydrogen bomb do? That a man dies is not the astonishing part. But through what agony he passes—that we cannot imagine. At one hundred degrees water boils. If we throw someone into boiling water, what will happen to him? But a hundred degrees is not very hot. At fifteen hundred degrees iron melts. If we throw someone into molten iron, what will his life know? What bliss will he experience? Think a little. Which Paramatma will he remember then? But fifteen hundred degrees is not that hot. At twenty-five hundred degrees iron begins to vaporize. Throw someone into that—what will happen? But even twenty-five hundred degrees is not very hot. The heat produced by a hydrogen bomb is a hundred million degrees. Into this furnace of a hundred million degrees we have arranged to throw man. This is the heat of the sun. Till now you saluted Surya Devata from afar; he was very distant. We have made arrangements that he come to your home—so you might meet, might have a face-to-face with the Sun-God. Scientists have arranged this. The scheme by which we are turning the earth into such a vast hell—why? Because power has reached the hands of unpeaceful minds. Had this power reached peaceful hands, today the earth could become a heaven—the very dream of the rishis. There would be no need to go to heaven in the sky. In man’s hands such great energy has come that for the first time he could make this entire earth a paradise. Today there is no need for anyone to be poor on earth; except for the devilry of politicians there is no other cause. There is no need for anyone to be wretched, ill, short-lived, ugly, unhappy, in pain—except that power rests in unpeaceful hands. Today the earth could become a unique place. Such energy is in our hands. For the first time the moon and stars are within reach. For the first time the greatest power hidden in matter is in our hands. What we could do today cannot be estimated. But we can do nothing—because power is in the hands of the unpeaceful. They say: We will prepare to die and to kill. Unpeace always generates the longing for death. Unpeace always engages in killing others and killing oneself. Unpeace is suicidal. Whenever power comes into unpeaceful hands, first it kills others; if none are found to kill, or none agree to be killed, it kills itself. By some route it will kill. Unpeace is a journey toward death. Science has given power; giving peace is beyond it. Do not expect it. Do not demand it; the question does not arise. It is as if one were to ask mathematics to give poetry—how can mathematics give poetry? Mathematics gives mathematics; it has its own necessity. Poetry cannot be given by mathematics. Or if one were to ask poetry to build a factory—how will poetry build a factory? Poetry can give song, can give love, can give the thrill of bliss, can give dance; how would it give a factory? These are insane demands. To ask the ear to see, and the eye to hear—just such demands. Do not expect from science. Peace will be given by religion. The science of peace is religion. And the science of power is science. The effort and discipline by which the inner consciousness becomes more and more peaceful, untainted, available to bliss—that is religion. But religion can give only peace; it cannot give power. Peace alone makes one feeble, weak. Peace alone creates a kind of impotence. India has become so impotent—there is no other reason. In India’s poverty, wretchedness, and weakness, the religious who denied science and cultivated only religion are implicated. The peaceful man will become weak. And for a peaceful man to become weak is as dangerous as for an unpeaceful man to become powerful—both are equally dangerous. If the peaceful man becomes weak, it is dangerous for the whole world—because then the peaceful lose all power to change the world. Then the good, the virtuous, lose all courage to transform. Then they have only one task left—to sit in their temples and go on praying to God. And that too only until some strong man arrives, breaks and throws away their god’s image. Until then they pray. And know this too: a man who becomes weak cannot remain peaceful for long. The destitute cannot remain peaceful for long. A man in suffering cannot remain peaceful for long. Then unpeace is born again. And once the circle begins—unpeace is born, science is sought, power is acquired; power falls into unpeaceful hands. This vicious circle has tormented humanity until now. The moment power comes to man, he begins to seek peace. In India, when waves of peace and religion rose, India was very prosperous. The time of Buddha and Mahavira was a golden time. Very prosperous. A veritable golden bird. In that time there were waves of peace, teachings of religion. The powerful man, seeking to become peaceful, gradually becomes weak. And the weak man, becoming unpeaceful, immediately begins the search for power. The East was prosperous; it sought peace, and became poor. The West was poor; it sought power, and became rich. But power and peace together have not yet been created. Both experiments have failed. Science failed—Hiroshima and Nagasaki were born. And now a third world war will be born. Religion alone failed too—out of it came India’s destitute, poor, beggars, slaves; the largest country became the slave of small nations. They made it kiss their feet and trampled on its chest, and it lay there. It went on muttering Ram-Ram, went on chanting Om-Om. These two experiments have failed—the ones man has tried so far. In a third experiment lies all possibility and the whole future. And that third experiment is: the entire opposition between religion and science should end. There is no cause for opposition, no basis, no reason. Religion and science must become limbs of one culture. When will this be, and how? So long as we posit opposition between the world and Paramatma, it cannot happen. There must be the acceptance of a deep relatedness between matter and Paramatma—two aspects of one thing, two faces of one coin. Let religion stop calling the world unsubstantial; let science stop calling Paramatma futile. Let the meaningfulness of both be joined and brought together. Let the search for peace and the search for power proceed together—then a new man and a new culture can be born. In my vision there is no opposition between the two, nor any reason for it. The opposition stood upon our ignorance. Now we can either save our ignorance, or save ourselves. Both cannot be saved together. The East should drop dreaming of being Jagatguru—the world teacher. Such notions are madness. Incomplete cultures cannot be Jagatgurus. The West too should drop dreaming of being Jagatguru. Incomplete cultures cannot be world teachers. Now a single culture must be born—neither Eastern nor Western. A culture that is neither of science alone nor of religion alone. A culture of the whole man—integrated, of the total human being. For the first time there is an opportunity to create a human culture. And that opportunity can succeed only if coordination arises between science and religion. Science is one extreme; religion is the other extreme. United and interwoven, religion and science will be the midpoint—the golden mean. The middle way, the Majjhim Nikaya—the path of balance. A small incident, and I will complete my talk. In Buddha’s time a prince came to him and was initiated, became a sannyasin. Princes often become sannyasins—leaping from one extreme to the other. This prince was a young man of very luxurious habits. It is said that even on the streets carpets were laid before he walked; he never set foot on bare earth. In the palaces he walked on flowers. When he climbed stairs, naked maidens stood on either side; he took support from their shoulders as he ascended. He was initiated and became a monk. The bhikkhus were astonished: such a sharp turn! The man at the peak of indulgence—will he suddenly ascend to the other peak of yoga? They asked Buddha. Buddha said: Man’s mind moves in extremes. Often it happens that those at the pinnacle of bhoga dream of being yogis; and those who are yogis dream of indulgence. This is common. If one could draw out the dreams from the sannyasins’ minds, the world would be very surprised. And if one could draw out the dreams from the minds of the indulgent, the world would be surprised too. The one we took to be so indulgent harbors fantasies of renunciation; and the one we took to be so renounced harbors such dreams of indulgence. Dreams are substitutes. What we do outside as one extreme, inwardly the dream of the other extreme goes on. Buddha said: It is natural. I had thought this man would become a monk sooner or later. Now watch—he will go to the other extreme. Within six months the monks saw he had gone to the other extreme. While others wore robes, he left even clothes. While others walked on paths, tracks, or roads where there were no thorns, he deliberately chose those where there were thorns and no paths. His feet bled; blisters and wounds appeared. His body began to dry under the sun. Where monks rested in the shade of trees, he sat under the blazing sun. Where monks sought warmth in the cold, he lay in the open in winter. In six months his beautiful body had withered to a thorn. After six months it was difficult to recognize him as the same prince. He had become an entirely different man—extremely haggard, ill, diseased. Buddha came to him after six months and said: Shrona—his name was Shrona—I have come to ask you something. I have heard that when you were a prince you were skilled in playing the veena. Tell me: if the strings of the veena are too loose, does music arise? Shrona said: If the strings are loose, how can music arise? Loose strings cannot be struck; no resonance is possible. With loose strings, how can there be music? Buddha asked: And if the strings are too tight—does music arise? Shrona said: Strings that are over-tight snap; there too no music is born. Buddha said: Then when does music arise? Shrona said: Music arises when the strings are neither loose nor too tight. There is a certain state of the strings in which it can be said: the strings are neither loose nor tight. That midpoint—there music is born. Buddha said: The law of the veena—I have come to tell you—is also the law of life. In life too, music is born where the strings are neither too loose nor too tight. On one side are the loose strings of science, which have left man’s soul altogether slack. On the other side are the over-tight strings of religion, which have pulled man’s soul so taut. Between the two, man has died. Between the two, man’s veena has broken. Between the two, the music of life has been lost. We have to bring the strings of life to that point where they are drawn neither too much toward matter nor too much toward soul; where they are not mad after bhoga nor after yoga. Where they are at that midpoint of which it can be said: this man is neither bhogi nor yogi; neither a materialist nor a worshiper of Paramatma. When man stands at the very middle point, the perfect music of life becomes available. And in the experience of such perfect music he knows: matter too is Paramatma, and Paramatma too is matter.
Osho's Commentary
Man’s journey has, by its very nature, taken two directions. One moves outward from man; the other moves inward.
There was a fakir woman, Rabia. One morning a fakir friend of hers came to her hut, calling from outside: Rabia, what are you doing inside? Come out. The sun is rising. Such a beautiful morning has been born. I have never seen such a lovely dawn. Why do you sit inside with the door closed? Come out. Rabia began to laugh from within and said: Hasan, I have seen many suns outside, many dawns outside; I have seen very beautiful mornings, very beautiful nights. They are wondrous indeed. But since I have come within, what I have seen there makes the beauty outside nothing at all in comparison. So I say to you, Hasan, you come inside. What are you doing outside?
Who knows whether Hasan understood or not. But there is a world that is seen by the eyes, and there is a world that is not seen by the eyes. There is a truth that comes within the reach of the hand’s touch, and there is a truth of which a glimpse comes in dreams. There is a world outside us, and there is a world within us too. And both worlds have their own beauty, their own truth. Each has its own reality, its own suchness. Perhaps, ultimately, these two worlds are two aspects of one and the same thing. But ordinarily, seen from above, they appear as two. And it is because of these two that religion and science were born.
The search for the outer world—for the unknown outside—has become the journey called science. And the search for the inner world, the unknown within—becoming acquainted with it, living it, knowing it—has become the journey called religion. And man’s richness and peace depend upon this one thing: that these two journeys not be in opposition—but be cooperative, be companions, be integrated. It has not happened so far.
Up to now, those who have inquired into the world of matter have been opponents of Paramatma. And those who sought Paramatma have been condemners of matter. Both kinds of people have prevented human culture from becoming complete. Both have hindered its fulfillment. For man is not only body, nor only soul; man is not only matter, nor only Paramatma; man is the wondrous meeting and music of both. Man’s life is a bridge between the two. And this has been forgotten, denied, until today.
Those who praised Paramatma did so by condemning matter—and this was wrong. Paramatma could have been praised through the glory and dignity of matter as well. Those who investigated matter and conquered it, achieved that victory with neglect, opposition, and denial towards Paramatma. That too could have been done with Paramatma, with prayer to Paramatma. There was no inherent opposition.
But for certain reasons it did not happen. Science and religion have stood like two enemies. Their enmity is proving very costly for man.
The West has become the symbol of science. The East has become the symbol of religion. Science has become the symbol of atheism, religion of the supernatural. Both positions are deluded and wrong. Both are incomplete and one-sided.
A small story comes to my mind through which I would like to make this clear.
In Rome an emperor fell ill. He was so sick that finally the physicians gave up and said he could not be saved. The emperor and his dear ones became deeply anxious. Now they could only wait for death hour by hour. Just then a rumor spread in Rome that a fakir had arrived who could even raise the dead. Hope returned to the emperor’s eyes. He sent his viziers to bring the fakir.
The fakir came. He looked at the emperor and said: Who says you are going to die? You do not even have any great illness. Get up, sit up—you can be healed. Do a small treatment.
The emperor, who had been lying for months, who had not risen at all, sat up. He said: What treatment? Tell me quickly before I come to an end. The physicians say I cannot be saved.
The fakir said: Is there not, in your capital, at least one person who is both happy and prosperous? If there is, bring his clothes. Put them on—and you will be saved. Death is not near you.
The viziers said: That is very easy. Such a large capital! So many happy, so many prosperous people! Palaces touching the sky—can you not see? We will bring such garments at once.
The fakir laughed: If you bring the garments, the emperor will be saved.
The viziers ran off. None of them understood the fakir’s laughter. They went to the city’s richest merchant and said: The emperor lies on the deathbed, and a fakir has said he can be saved if we bring the clothes of a happy and prosperous man. Give us your clothes. Tears came into the merchant’s eyes. He said: If my life could save the emperor, I would gladly give it—not only my clothes. But my clothes will not work. I am prosperous, yes—but I am not happy. In search of happiness I gathered wealth, but I have not yet met happiness. And now my hope too is breaking, because whatever wealth was possible has come to me and still I have had no vision of happiness. My clothes will not help. I am unhappy. Forgive me.
The viziers were astonished. They remembered the fakir’s laughter. Still, it seemed proper to ask others. They went to other wealthy men of the city. Evening began to fall. Whomever they asked said the same: there is much prosperity, but as for happiness—there is no acquaintance with it. Our garments will not serve.
Now they were very troubled: what face would they show the emperor? He had become hopeful. And this remedy they had thought cheap now seemed very costly, very difficult. Just then the emperor’s old servant came running after them and laughed: When the fakir laughed, I understood. When even the emperor’s chief vizier did not think to give his own clothes, but ran to ask for others’ clothes, I knew the remedy was difficult. These garments are hard to find. For even the emperor’s vizier does not think: I will give my clothes. The vizier said: How could I give my clothes? I do have prosperity, but I too have no relationship with happiness. The viziers thought: The emperor will die—it is hard to save him. The fakir has deceived us. How shall we face the emperor in daylight? Let night come—then in the dark we will go and, with tears and apologies, tell him this remedy cannot be done.
When the sun set they reached the palace. Behind the palace flowed the village river. In the dark, from across the river, the sound of a flute floated over. The music was very sweet, carrying tidings of peace. Along with the waves of that music there was a certain melody of joy. The viziers thought: Perhaps this flute-player has found happiness. Ask him—before we refuse the emperor. One more attempt.
They crossed the river and came to the man in the dark. As they came closer they felt increasingly: This may be the man whose garments will work. There was something in his music such that even their own life-energies, filled with despair and sorrow, thrilled and began to dance. They approached the man: Friend, we are in great trouble—save us. The emperor lies on his deathbed. We have come to ask: have you found joy in life? The man said: Joy? I have found joy. Tell me, what can I do? They overflowed with delight and said: We need your garments. The emperor is on his deathbed, and he needs the garments of a happy and prosperous man. The man laughed: I would give my life to save the emperor—but I have no clothes. I am sitting here naked. In the dark you cannot see.
That night the emperor died. They found the prosperous who had no acquaintance with happiness, and one happy man who had not even a garment. They met incomplete men; not one whole man. No man was found who had both garments and soul. Therefore the emperor died.
I do not know how far this story is true. But today the whole of humanity lies on the deathbed. And the same question stands today: can we create such a human being who is both prosperous and at peace? Who has garments and has soul? Who has wealth outwardly and inwardly too? Who has comforts of the body and the bliss of the soul?
The West has produced garments. Science can produce only garments. Science cannot give man a soul. Science can give prosperity, and can give much. It can enrich man with an unprecedented abundance. The West has gathered wealth—more and more garments piled up. But the inner soul has been lost, inner peace has been lost, inner bliss has been lost. Man stands there, panic-stricken: everything is with us—everything, except ourselves. Inside all is empty; outside all is filled. Within, man has become more and more vacant; without, things have gone on increasing.
Today it has become difficult to find man among the very objects he has amassed. The West, traveling only with science, has become prosperous. The East has become poorer and poorer. Its garments have been snatched, its bread has been snatched. It has become hungry and poor. It has found some notes of peace. Some inner flute was played, some music was experienced—some Buddha, some Mahavira, on certain heights felt some very deep bliss. But the majority became naked and unclad, hungry, wretched, enslaved. The journey of religion alone could do only this. The search for religion alone could only make man destitute.
For the inner, sacrificing the outer had this inevitable result—that nations, peoples, who one-sidedly took to the inner journey became slaves. Those who had power on the outside went on becoming conquerors. Those who had no outer power kept being defeated.
Religion alone made the East outwardly wretched. Science alone made the West inwardly wretched. The East died because of religion’s one-sidedness. The West is dying because of science’s one-sidedness. Is some synthesis, some coordination between the two not possible?
The East has ended, the East has died. And the East now sees only one path—to imitate the West. It sees no other way to survive than to become the West’s follower. And if it sees that by following the West, where will it arrive? Only where the West has arrived!
That does not look like a happy hope. That destiny, that future, does not seem desirable. But no other option appears. The West too has reached such a place that it wants to become the East’s follower.
A strange incident is occurring. The scientist of the West is increasingly honored in the East; the sannyasins of the East are increasingly honored in the West. It is like what once happened in a village.
There were two very great scholars in a village. One was theist, one atheist. There was fierce dispute between them. The village was harassed. Villages are often troubled by scholars. The village became very distressed and fed up. Neither would let anyone rest. The theist went on preaching theism; the atheist went on preaching atheism. People’s minds became more entangled. Nothing remained clear—what is true, what is false? When the villagers became very upset, their peace and sleep ruined, and those two scholars pursued them everywhere, they pleaded: This whole village will gather—both of you debate. Whosoever wins, we will follow. We do not want disturbance.
At last, on a full-moon night, the scholars debated. The whole village gathered. The theist offered powerful proofs for theism. The atheist offered equally powerful proofs. The fun of logic is that it can become anyone’s proof, anyone’s ally. Logic is like a prostitute—it can go with anyone. It belongs to no one. Both marshaled many arguments, many proofs. By morning an astonishing thing had happened: in that village the theist was influenced by the atheist, and the atheist was influenced by the theist. The village’s trouble remained the same. Next day the theist became an atheist and the atheist a theist. The village council remained where it was; the controversy began again. Both set out once more to preach.
Such is the condition of the world today. The East will become the West and the West will become the East—and the stupidity will remain as it is. Man will be just as harassed. Here Einstein becomes influential; there Vivekananda becomes influential. But the madness remains the same; nothing will change. For Vivekananda too is partisan to an incomplete culture, and Einstein too is partisan to an incomplete culture.
From the extreme that we become weary of, we become eager to run to the opposite extreme. The poor man, bored with poverty, tries to become rich. Those who become very rich, bored with riches, become fakirs. Mahavira and Buddha were both princes; they became fakirs. The fakir wants to be rich; the rich want to be poor. The rich tire of wealth; the poor tire of poverty. The theist tires of theism; the atheist tires of atheism.
The East tired of the East; the West tired of the West. Religious people have become tired of religion; scientific people have become tired of science. They want to switch extremes. And man’s mind is like the pendulum of a clock—it moves from one extreme to the other, and then to the other again. It never stops in the middle.
There is no need to be very delighted. If a yogi or two from the East go to the West and boys there form gangs following them, do not be very pleased. It is the same symptom of madness as your boys running after science. Their boys gather around yogis; your boys crowd around laboratories and cinemas—do not be astonished. These are the same things; there is no difference. Their minds are weary of their extreme; your minds are weary of yours. But so far no one has tired of extremes themselves; from one extreme we simply choose the other.
I want to say: a more synthetic culture, a more integrated civilization must evolve—one that is not extremist. One that has the capacity to stand in balance, in harmony, at the center. One that can give science its place and religion its place. One that can accept that science has its own value; science is not meaningless. The world has its own value; the world is not maya in the sense of nonexistence. And that can also accept: even though the world is true, there is a truth beyond the world. Paramatma is not futile because the world is true. Paramatma is all the more true. When the world too is true, Paramatma becomes available as an even deeper truth.
The hostility and chasm between Paramatma and the world should end. The greatest misfortune in human life—the greatest calamity—has been that we dug a deep gulf between truth and world. The man who wishes to go toward God runs away from the world. He says: the world is worthless, the world is a dream, it is maya—and he flees.
But his fleeing only proves that the world is not worthless, not a dream. For there is no need to flee from dreams. From that which is without substance there is no need to run. If a thing is not, what need to escape?
A man says: I don’t believe in ghosts; they don’t exist—and he runs to save himself from ghosts. What shall we say? Either the man is mad, or he has no trust in what he says. A man declares: the world is maya—and yet says, I have renounced the world. How can you renounce that which is not?
No—the world is. Whether you enjoy it or renounce it, whether you drown in it or run from it—it is. Its being cannot be wiped away.
One mistake is made by the sannyasin who says: the world is unreal, I leave it; I go to Paramatma. And precisely the opposite error is made by the materialist: he says, the world is substantial, meaningful.
And when the world is substantial, Paramatma cannot be. For those who believe in Paramatma have declared the world unsubstantial; on the world’s unsubstantiality they rest their proof of God. So the man who sees substance in the world will naturally regard Paramatma as unproven—believing only one of the two can be true.
This is wrong—that only one of the two can be true. Both can be true together, and both can be untrue together. There is no necessity that when two are in view, only one be true.
Life has many kinds of truths. Matter has its own truth; money has its own truth. Love has its truth; Paramatma has his truth. Among truths there is a valuation—by which we move ceaselessly toward higher and higher truth. But one truth is not the negation of another. Dreams have their own kind of truth, and waking has its own. Sleep has its truth, and awareness its truth. Between these truths there is no such opposition that if one is, the other cannot be.
And the day a person touches the deepest boundary of both truths, that day he laughs, that day he is astonished. He finds that what he had taken as two were simply two ways of looking at the same truth. Two perspectives—not two truths. One thing can be seen in many ways.
Buddha once gave a discourse at night. His daily custom was that after the discourse he would say to the bhikkhus: Now go and engage in the final work of the night. That last work was the night’s meditation. The monks would take leave, meditate, and sleep. So Buddha did not need to say every day: Now meditate. He would simply say: Do the night’s final work.
That night a thief was in the assembly, and a courtesan too. As soon as Buddha said: Now go and begin your night’s work—the thief thought: Ah, what am I doing here? Night has fallen; time for my work has come. The courtesan also thought: It is late—time to open my shop; I should go. And the monks went to meditation.
The same sentence. The very same words. But three meanings were taken. There were three hearers—three ways of seeing. From three sides that one statement was taken and each took his own meaning.
Life appears as we look at it. Those who look through the lens of matter see life as matter. Those who begin to look through the lens of consciousness see life as consciousness. It depends on us—how we see.
A poet looks at a flower and says: How beautiful. Statues of beauty whirl through his mind. He may remember his beloved’s face. He may see stars walking in the petals. He may recall on those petals the ripples of a lake. With the fragrance may come the feel of distant fragrances. With the flower some song of dreams may open within his heart. The flower remains where it is; the poet moves into the world of dreams.
A scientist looks at a flower; he sees neither beauty, nor moon and stars. He sees some chemicals. If someone tells him, The flower is very beautiful, he will ask: Where is this beauty? In my laboratory when I cut and analyze, I find no beauty. Yes, I find chemicals, some minerals, and other things. But beauty—I have examined much in the lab, and I have never found beauty.
Beauty cannot be found in the laboratory; thus the poet becomes a liar. But the poet finds only beauty in the flower; he finds no minerals, no chemicals. Does that make the scientist a liar? The flower is a vast reality. There are a thousand ways to see it.
Each small thing is so infinite that infinite perspectives are always open. One perspective does not invalidate another. A perspective only says: This is how I looked. When the poet says: I saw beauty in the flower—he is not saying beauty is an objective constituent in the flower; he is saying: I looked like a poet. When the scientist says: I found minerals and chemicals—he is not saying the flower consists only of chemicals; he is saying: I looked like a scientist. These are our modes of seeing.
Science is one mode of seeing life; religion is another. Both enrich our vision of life. Neither should be dismissed. The perspective of science increases power; the perspective of religion increases peace.
Power is needed, and peace is needed. Power alone is dangerous—especially in the hands of the unpeaceful. Better that an unpeaceful man remain weak; if he becomes powerful he is perilous. For when power comes into the hands of unrest, upheavals increase.
Nadir Shah once came toward India. He halted in a capital, and an astrologer came to meet him. Nadir asked: I sleep a lot; much sleep comes to me. I sleep twelve, thirteen, fourteen hours. People say so much sleep is very bad. What do you think? The astrologer said: For a bad man to sleep more is good. For a good man to be more awake is good. You should sleep more; if you could sleep all twenty-four hours, that would be best. Because the longer a man like you stays awake, the longer turmoil increases in the world. Your waking brings benefit to no one—neither to the nation nor to anyone.
The astrologer said: Let a bad man sleep as much as possible. Wakefulness is recommended for the good—not for the bad. Let power be in hands that are peaceful—then it is all right. Otherwise, weakness is not bad. In the hands of the unpeaceful, power is suicidal and homicidal.
Science has given power but not peace; it is proving murderous. We have seen two world wars; preparations for the third are on. And the third will be dangerous—very dangerous.
Before his death, someone asked Einstein: Will you say something about the Third World War? Einstein said: About the third it is very difficult to say anything. Yes, about the fourth I can say something. The listener was astonished: You cannot say about the third—what can you say about the fourth? Einstein said: About the fourth one thing can be said with certainty—that there will never be a fourth world war. Because in the third all men are to be finished. About the third nothing can be said. The preparations are astonishing. We have devised means not only to annihilate humanity, but all life. Not only life—perhaps the earth itself may shatter and break apart.
Let me give you a small picture so you can sense how much power has gathered in unpeaceful hands. At this moment there are some fifty thousand hydrogen bombs on earth. The number fifty thousand tells us little—what does it mean?
One hydrogen bomb destroys all life in forty thousand square miles—not only human life, but animal, plant, even tiny bacteria and amoebae—all. One H-bomb for forty thousand square miles. Fifty thousand hydrogen bombs are enough to destroy seven earths like ours—not one. Or think thus: if we had to kill every human being one by one, we could kill each seven times. In fact a man dies in one blow—he is that fragile. It has not been heard that a man had to be killed twice. If he dies, he dies once; if he does not, that is another matter. But one blow is enough; there is no need to kill twice.
But we are very clever; it is best to make every arrangement. If someone survives once, we can kill him again and yet again. Seven times is enough. That anyone could survive seven times—this cannot be imagined. So man has done all the calculations, made all the arrangements. Now we are preparing for when to finish everyone.
What does a hydrogen bomb do? That a man dies is not the astonishing part. But through what agony he passes—that we cannot imagine.
At one hundred degrees water boils. If we throw someone into boiling water, what will happen to him? But a hundred degrees is not very hot. At fifteen hundred degrees iron melts. If we throw someone into molten iron, what will his life know? What bliss will he experience? Think a little. Which Paramatma will he remember then? But fifteen hundred degrees is not that hot. At twenty-five hundred degrees iron begins to vaporize. Throw someone into that—what will happen? But even twenty-five hundred degrees is not very hot.
The heat produced by a hydrogen bomb is a hundred million degrees. Into this furnace of a hundred million degrees we have arranged to throw man. This is the heat of the sun. Till now you saluted Surya Devata from afar; he was very distant. We have made arrangements that he come to your home—so you might meet, might have a face-to-face with the Sun-God. Scientists have arranged this.
The scheme by which we are turning the earth into such a vast hell—why? Because power has reached the hands of unpeaceful minds. Had this power reached peaceful hands, today the earth could become a heaven—the very dream of the rishis. There would be no need to go to heaven in the sky. In man’s hands such great energy has come that for the first time he could make this entire earth a paradise. Today there is no need for anyone to be poor on earth; except for the devilry of politicians there is no other cause. There is no need for anyone to be wretched, ill, short-lived, ugly, unhappy, in pain—except that power rests in unpeaceful hands.
Today the earth could become a unique place. Such energy is in our hands. For the first time the moon and stars are within reach. For the first time the greatest power hidden in matter is in our hands. What we could do today cannot be estimated. But we can do nothing—because power is in the hands of the unpeaceful. They say: We will prepare to die and to kill.
Unpeace always generates the longing for death. Unpeace always engages in killing others and killing oneself. Unpeace is suicidal. Whenever power comes into unpeaceful hands, first it kills others; if none are found to kill, or none agree to be killed, it kills itself. By some route it will kill.
Unpeace is a journey toward death.
Science has given power; giving peace is beyond it. Do not expect it. Do not demand it; the question does not arise. It is as if one were to ask mathematics to give poetry—how can mathematics give poetry? Mathematics gives mathematics; it has its own necessity. Poetry cannot be given by mathematics. Or if one were to ask poetry to build a factory—how will poetry build a factory? Poetry can give song, can give love, can give the thrill of bliss, can give dance; how would it give a factory? These are insane demands. To ask the ear to see, and the eye to hear—just such demands. Do not expect from science.
Peace will be given by religion. The science of peace is religion. And the science of power is science. The effort and discipline by which the inner consciousness becomes more and more peaceful, untainted, available to bliss—that is religion. But religion can give only peace; it cannot give power.
Peace alone makes one feeble, weak. Peace alone creates a kind of impotence. India has become so impotent—there is no other reason. In India’s poverty, wretchedness, and weakness, the religious who denied science and cultivated only religion are implicated. The peaceful man will become weak. And for a peaceful man to become weak is as dangerous as for an unpeaceful man to become powerful—both are equally dangerous.
If the peaceful man becomes weak, it is dangerous for the whole world—because then the peaceful lose all power to change the world. Then the good, the virtuous, lose all courage to transform. Then they have only one task left—to sit in their temples and go on praying to God. And that too only until some strong man arrives, breaks and throws away their god’s image. Until then they pray.
And know this too: a man who becomes weak cannot remain peaceful for long. The destitute cannot remain peaceful for long. A man in suffering cannot remain peaceful for long. Then unpeace is born again. And once the circle begins—unpeace is born, science is sought, power is acquired; power falls into unpeaceful hands. This vicious circle has tormented humanity until now. The moment power comes to man, he begins to seek peace.
In India, when waves of peace and religion rose, India was very prosperous. The time of Buddha and Mahavira was a golden time. Very prosperous. A veritable golden bird. In that time there were waves of peace, teachings of religion.
The powerful man, seeking to become peaceful, gradually becomes weak. And the weak man, becoming unpeaceful, immediately begins the search for power.
The East was prosperous; it sought peace, and became poor. The West was poor; it sought power, and became rich. But power and peace together have not yet been created. Both experiments have failed. Science failed—Hiroshima and Nagasaki were born. And now a third world war will be born. Religion alone failed too—out of it came India’s destitute, poor, beggars, slaves; the largest country became the slave of small nations. They made it kiss their feet and trampled on its chest, and it lay there. It went on muttering Ram-Ram, went on chanting Om-Om.
These two experiments have failed—the ones man has tried so far. In a third experiment lies all possibility and the whole future. And that third experiment is: the entire opposition between religion and science should end. There is no cause for opposition, no basis, no reason. Religion and science must become limbs of one culture. When will this be, and how?
So long as we posit opposition between the world and Paramatma, it cannot happen. There must be the acceptance of a deep relatedness between matter and Paramatma—two aspects of one thing, two faces of one coin. Let religion stop calling the world unsubstantial; let science stop calling Paramatma futile. Let the meaningfulness of both be joined and brought together. Let the search for peace and the search for power proceed together—then a new man and a new culture can be born.
In my vision there is no opposition between the two, nor any reason for it. The opposition stood upon our ignorance. Now we can either save our ignorance, or save ourselves. Both cannot be saved together. The East should drop dreaming of being Jagatguru—the world teacher. Such notions are madness. Incomplete cultures cannot be Jagatgurus. The West too should drop dreaming of being Jagatguru. Incomplete cultures cannot be world teachers.
Now a single culture must be born—neither Eastern nor Western. A culture that is neither of science alone nor of religion alone. A culture of the whole man—integrated, of the total human being. For the first time there is an opportunity to create a human culture. And that opportunity can succeed only if coordination arises between science and religion.
Science is one extreme; religion is the other extreme. United and interwoven, religion and science will be the midpoint—the golden mean. The middle way, the Majjhim Nikaya—the path of balance.
A small incident, and I will complete my talk.
In Buddha’s time a prince came to him and was initiated, became a sannyasin. Princes often become sannyasins—leaping from one extreme to the other. This prince was a young man of very luxurious habits. It is said that even on the streets carpets were laid before he walked; he never set foot on bare earth. In the palaces he walked on flowers. When he climbed stairs, naked maidens stood on either side; he took support from their shoulders as he ascended. He was initiated and became a monk. The bhikkhus were astonished: such a sharp turn! The man at the peak of indulgence—will he suddenly ascend to the other peak of yoga? They asked Buddha. Buddha said: Man’s mind moves in extremes. Often it happens that those at the pinnacle of bhoga dream of being yogis; and those who are yogis dream of indulgence. This is common.
If one could draw out the dreams from the sannyasins’ minds, the world would be very surprised. And if one could draw out the dreams from the minds of the indulgent, the world would be surprised too. The one we took to be so indulgent harbors fantasies of renunciation; and the one we took to be so renounced harbors such dreams of indulgence. Dreams are substitutes. What we do outside as one extreme, inwardly the dream of the other extreme goes on.
Buddha said: It is natural. I had thought this man would become a monk sooner or later. Now watch—he will go to the other extreme. Within six months the monks saw he had gone to the other extreme. While others wore robes, he left even clothes. While others walked on paths, tracks, or roads where there were no thorns, he deliberately chose those where there were thorns and no paths. His feet bled; blisters and wounds appeared. His body began to dry under the sun. Where monks rested in the shade of trees, he sat under the blazing sun. Where monks sought warmth in the cold, he lay in the open in winter. In six months his beautiful body had withered to a thorn. After six months it was difficult to recognize him as the same prince. He had become an entirely different man—extremely haggard, ill, diseased.
Buddha came to him after six months and said: Shrona—his name was Shrona—I have come to ask you something. I have heard that when you were a prince you were skilled in playing the veena. Tell me: if the strings of the veena are too loose, does music arise?
Shrona said: If the strings are loose, how can music arise? Loose strings cannot be struck; no resonance is possible. With loose strings, how can there be music?
Buddha asked: And if the strings are too tight—does music arise?
Shrona said: Strings that are over-tight snap; there too no music is born.
Buddha said: Then when does music arise?
Shrona said: Music arises when the strings are neither loose nor too tight. There is a certain state of the strings in which it can be said: the strings are neither loose nor tight. That midpoint—there music is born.
Buddha said: The law of the veena—I have come to tell you—is also the law of life. In life too, music is born where the strings are neither too loose nor too tight.
On one side are the loose strings of science, which have left man’s soul altogether slack. On the other side are the over-tight strings of religion, which have pulled man’s soul so taut. Between the two, man has died. Between the two, man’s veena has broken. Between the two, the music of life has been lost.
We have to bring the strings of life to that point where they are drawn neither too much toward matter nor too much toward soul; where they are not mad after bhoga nor after yoga. Where they are at that midpoint of which it can be said: this man is neither bhogi nor yogi; neither a materialist nor a worshiper of Paramatma. When man stands at the very middle point, the perfect music of life becomes available. And in the experience of such perfect music he knows: matter too is Paramatma, and Paramatma too is matter.