Osho - Dimensions
Beyond the Known
Chapter 1
Question 1
Osho, I have read your literature; I have
heard you. Your language has hypnotic charm and is very clear. Sometimes you
speak on Mahavira, sometimes on Krishna or Buddha and sometimes you tell about Jesus
and Mohammed as well. You divulge the secrets of the gita in a most inspiring manner,
you give discourses on the Upanishads and the Vedas, and you would not hesitate
to go to temples or churches to give discourses. All the same, you maintain
that you are not influenced by any of the personages mentioned above. You say
that you have nothing to do with them and you do not agree with them.
Continuously, you criticize and shatter to pieces the ancient religious beliefs
and scriptures. What is your purpose? Do you want to establish your own
religion? Do you want to show that you have limitless knowledge? Or do you want
to confuse everyone? You speak and explain in words, but at the same time you
say that "you will not reach anywhere by clinging to words." you say,
"neither believe me nor cling to me; otherwise you will commit the same
mistake." you also say that this negation itself is an invitation. Kindly
explain who and what you are and what you want to do and say. What is your
intention?
Firstly, I am not influenced by
Mahavira, Buddha, Christ or Mohammed. It is the beauty of religion that in one
sense it is always old. It is in this sense that religious experiences are
known to many persons. No religious experience is such that one can say that
"It is mine only."
There are two reasons for this.
Firstly, on having a religious experience, the sense of "my-ness"
dies. That is why, in this world, a claim of "my-ness" can be made
for everything, but not for religious Frexperience. This is the only experience
which falls beyond the orbit of "my-ness", because this experience
can be had only on the death of "my-ness".
That is why the claim of
"my-ness" could be there for everything, but not for a religious
experience. Nor can anyone say that such an experience is new, because truth is
neither new nor old.
It is in this sense that I
speak of Mahavira, Jesus, Krishna, Christ and others: they had religious
experiences. When I say that I am not influenced by them, I only mean that what
I say comes out of my own experience and knowledge. I speak about them, I use
their names, because what I have known tallies with what they have known. But
for me the test is my own experience.
On that test I find them right,
and that is why I use their names. I am telling what I tell out of my own
experience. They also prove right in my experience; therefore, I talk about
them. They are my witnesses; they are witnesses of my experience as well. But
this experience cannot be called new.
Yet, in another sense, it can
be called new. This is the riddle and fundamental mystery of religion.
A religious experience can be
called new because to whomsoever this experience dawns it is absolutely new and
happening for the first time. It has not occurred before. It may have occurred
to someone else, but for the one who has experienced it for the first time it
is new. It is so new to him that he cannot conceive that such an experience
could have occurred to someone else.
As long as this experience has
a relationship with the consciousness of the person, the experience is for the
first time. The experience is so novel, so fresh, that whosoever experiences it
never feels that it can ever be old. It is like the freshness of a flower
opening in the morning, its petals wet with dew, the early rays of the sun
falling on them. Looking at this flower, one who may have seen it for the first
time cannot say that this flower is old, even though every morning a new flower
opens.
Every morning the dew and the
rays of the sun fall on new flowers. Someone's eyes may have seen these flowers
daily, but whoever has seen the flower for the first time in this setting
cannot even think that this flower could have been seen before. It is so new
that if he says that truth can never be old, that it is always new and
original, he is not wrong.
We say that religion is ancient
and eternal because truth is everlasting. But religion is also new, because
whenever truth is realized the experience is new, fresh, virginal. If a person
believes that religion is old or if he believes that religion is new, he will
not be inconsistent with truth. If he says that truth is eternal and maintains
that it cannot be new, you will not find him to be inconsistent.
Another person, on the other
hand, may hold that truth is always new.
Gurdjieff, if asked, would say
that religion is eternal and ancient; Krishnamurti, if asked, would say that it
is absolutely new, that it can never be old. But both of them are consistent.
The question that you ask me
could not be asked either to Gurdjieff or Krishnamurti. Their answers would
only be half-truths. Half-truths can always be consistent, but a total truth is
always inconsistent because in a total truth the opposite is also included.
One person may say that light
and only light is the truth. He will then ignore darkness and look upon it as
false. But just by calling darkness false, the existence of darkness is not
denied. He can be consistent because he denies darkness and does not bother
about its existence. His philosophy
can be clear, straight and
consistent like mathematics. In his philosophy there will be no riddles.
However, someone else who says
that there is darkness and only darkness everywhere, that light is only an
illusion, can also be consistent.
Difficulty arises with a person
who says that there is darkness and there is light also. The person who accepts
the existence of both accepts the fact that darkness and light are only two
extremes of the same thing. If darkness and light are two different things,
then by the increase of light darkness should not be reduced, and by the
decrease of light darkness should not increase. But it is a fact that by the
increase or decrease of light, darkness can be decreased or increased. The
meaning is clear: that light is somewhere a part of darkness and vice versa.
Both are two ends of one thing.
Therefore, when I try to tell
the whole truth, the difficulty is that I seem inconsistent. I am telling at
the same time two things that seem contradictory. I say that truth is eternal
and it is wrong to call it new; at the same time I also say that truth is
always new and there is no sense in calling it old. When I say both of these
things together, I am attempting to catch the whole truth at once in its
complete fullness.
Whenever truth is told in its
fullness, in its multiple meanings, then opposing, inconsistent statements will
have to be made. Mahavira's theory of syatavada is only an attempt at balancing
the opposing views. Against whatever is said in the first sentence an opposite
statement will have to be made in the second sentence. In this way, the
opposite, which would otherwise remain unsaid, is also included and
comprehended.
If the opposite is left out,
the truth will remain incomplete. Therefore, all truths that appear clear and
unambiguous are really half-truths. Inconsistency is inherent in truth, and
that is its beauty and its complexity. But its power lies in the inclusion of
polar opposites.
It is interesting to note that
something false cannot include its opposite. That which is false can live only
at the opposite pole of a truth, while truth absorbs within itself its own
opposite. That is why falsity is not very ambiguous; it is clear.
Life as a whole is founded on
polar opposites. In life there is nothing that occurs without the struggle of
opposites, but we try with our minds and our reasoning to eliminate the
inconsistencies. Our reasoning is an attempt to become consistent while the
total will appear inconsistent. In existence, all inconsistencies are there
together. Death and life are bound together.
Logic appears neat because it
divides things into opposites. For logic, life is life and death is death; both
cannot go together. In logic we say that A is A, and it is not B. We say life
is life; it is not death.
Similarly, death is death; it
is not life. In this way we make our concepts neat and mathematical, but the
mystery of life is lost. That is why you cannot arrive at truth by reasoning.
One is an attempt to be consistent, and the other, by its very nature, is
inconsistent. You can, therefore, achieve consistency by reasoning. You can
reason so well, so logically, that you cannot be defeated in argument. But you
will miss truth.
I am not a philosopher or a
logician, but I always use logic. I am using this only for the purpose of
leading your thinking to the point where you can be pushed out of it. If
reasoning is not exhausted, one cannot go beyond it. I am climbing on a ladder,
but this ladder is not my goal; it has to be given
up. I use reasoning only to
know what is beyond it. I do not want to establish anything by reasoning.
What I want instead is to prove
its uselessness.
My statements will, therefore,
be inconsistent and illogical. As long as they appear to be logical, please
understand that I am only using a system that makes them appear so. I am
preparing the groundwork for what is to follow. I am tuning up the instruments;
the music has not yet started.
Where the line of demarcation
between reason and non-reason is lost is where my original, my unique music
begins. As soon as the instruments are attuned, the music will start. But do
not misunderstand the tuning for the music; otherwise it will create
difficulties. You will ask, "What is the matter? Before you were using a
hammer for the drum. Why are you no longer using it?" But a hammer is only
for tuning the drum, not for playing it. Once the drum is tuned, the hammer is
of no use. A drum cannot be played with a hammer.
In the same way, reasoning is
only a preparation for what is beyond reasoning. One of the difficulties I have
is that those who approve of my reasoning will find after a few moments that I
am taking them into an area of darkness. As long as one can see reasoning,
there is light and things look bright and clear. But then someone will say that
I promised to show him the light and now I am talking about leading him into
darkness. He will, therefore, be displeased with me and will tell me, "I
like what you have said until now, but I can go no further with you." He
trusted me to reason out the truth for him, and then I tell him that he must go
beyond reasoning in order to reach it.
Those who believe in trust will
also not accept me, not follow me, not walk with me, because they want me to
talk only about incomprehensible mysteries. Thus, both types of individuals
will have problems with me. Believers in reason will only follow me up to a
certain point, while those who believe in trust, who believe in the irrational,
will not follow me at all, never understanding that only if they follow past a
certain point can I take them into thoughtlessness.
I understand this. Life is like
that. Reason can only be an instrument, not the goal. I will, therefore, always
make illogical statements after talking about fully logical matters. These
statements will appear inconsistent, but they have been well thought out and
are not made without a reason. There is a clear reason from my side.
I will say at certain times
that I am not influenced by Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna or Christ, that I do not
say anything under their influence, that everything I say, I say only after
knowing it myself.
Nevertheless, when I came to my
own realization, I knew that it was identical to that which had been attained
by these others before me. Thus, when I am speaking about them or quoting what
they have said, I myself forget that I have been speaking about them. I merge
with them so totally that their statements become my own.
In fact, I do not see any
difference between my statements and theirs. When I start to speak about them
there is the deep realization that I am only speaking about me. Therefore, when
I repeat their statements, I make no conditions. I dissolve myself completely
in them and in their words. Those who have heard me say that I am not
influenced by these others will wonder, "How is it that you become one
with them? Even those who are under their complete influence do not do so; they
maintain a distance."
Those who are influenced by
someone or something will, of necessity, have to maintain a certain distance
between themselves and the source of the influence. Those who are influenced
are ignorant. We are influenced only in ignorance. With self-knowledge the very
word "influence" has no meaning.
In self-knowledge there is no
question of influence. Rather, there is a similarity of experience, a similar
resonance, the hearing of similar voices. If I am singing and the same tune is
coming at the same time from someone else, my rhythm and the rhythm of the
other singer are so at one with each other that there is no room between us for
being influenced. In order to be influenced, in order to be a disciple,
distance is necessary, the other is necessary.
However, as far as I am
concerned there is no distance. When I start explaining a statement of Mahavira
or when I speak on the Gita of Krishna, I am only more or less explaining my
own statements. Krishna or Christ or Mahavira provide an opportunity, an
excuse, an occasion to speak, but I soon forget that I was speaking about them.
I start with them, but end only on what I have known. I am not even aware of
when I cease talking about them and begin to explain my own statements, of when
I have merged totally with them.
Perhaps it would interest you
to know that I have not read the Gita even once. I have started to read it
often, but upon reading eight or ten lines I felt that it was enough and closed
the book. When I speak on the Gita, I am really hearing it for the first time
as I speak about it. As I have no background in it, I have no way of
criticizing it. One who has studied the Gita, who has pondered over and thought
deeply about its statements, can only criticize or define what he has read. Not
having read the Gita, I can do neither.
Another interesting thing to
mention is that when I pick up the Gita to read I put it back after a few
moments, but when I come across some very ordinary book I read it through from
beginning to end because it is not a part of my experience. This may seem odd
to you. I cannot restrain myself from reading through an ordinary book, because
it is not within the range of my experience. Yet, when I begin to read the
Gita, I put the book back after reading only a few lines of it, since I do not
feel that it will open up anything new to me.
If a spy story is given to me,
I may go through it fully, because for me it may be something new. But
Krishna's Gita seems as if it was written by me. I know it, because whatever is
written in it is known to me. Without reading it is known.
Therefore, when I speak on the
Gita, I do not actually speak on the Gita; it is only an excuse. I start with
the Gita, but I speak only about what I want to speak and only about that which
I can speak. If you feel that I have dwelt a great deal on the Gita, it is not
because I am influenced by Krishna, but because Krishna said the very same
things that I am saying.
Thus, what I am doing is not a
commentary on the Gita. What Tilak has said on the Gita, what Gandhi has said
on the Gita, was their commentary or explanation of the Gita. They were under
the deep influence of the Gita. But what I am saying does not come from the
Gita at all. The tunes that are touched upon by the Gita are touched within me
as well. They lead me to my own tunes; I begin to explain my own self. The Gita
only provides me with an occasion. When I am speaking on Krishna, during those
very moments that I am most deeply revealing Krishna you will begin to feel
that I am talking about my own self. It is in those moments that I am speaking
only about me.
The same thing is true with
Mahavira, Christ, Lao Tzu or Mohammed. For me, what differentiates one of them
from another is only a difference in name. They are different lamps, but the
light that shines within them is the same. Whether that light is burning in the
lamp of Mohammed or in the lamp of Mahavira or of Buddha does not make any
difference to me.
Many times I speak against
Mohammed or Mahavira or Buddha. This creates a problem. I am speaking deeply
about them, and yet, at the same time, I am speaking against them as well.
Whenever I seem to be speaking
against them, it appears to be so only because the listener is giving
importance to the lamp. But for me, when I am revealing something very deep,
the emphasis is on the light. So whenever I appear to be speaking against, it
is because the emphasis is on the lamp and not the light.
When I see a person enamored of
the lamp, of the material with which it is made, I will always speak against
the lamp. The person will be confused. It is natural that he will be confused,
because for him there is no distinction between Mahavira the lamp and Mahavira
the eternal light. For him, the lamp and the light are the same. That is why,
when it appears to me that someone is placing too much emphasis on the lamp, I
start speaking against it. When I feel that it is light that is discussed, I
become one with it. This is the difference.
There is a difference between
the lamp of Mahavira and the lamp of Mohammed. It is only due to this
difference that there is a difference between a Jaina and a Mohammedan. Lamps
are made differently. The lamp of Christ and the lamp of Buddha are also
different; they are bound to be so. But these are differences of body, of
surroundings and of shape. To those who are fond of shapes and surroundings,
that light will not be visible, because whosoever sees the light will forget
the lamp. It is impossible that one will still remember the lamp after he has
seen the light. The lamp is remembered only after the light is no longer seen.
The condition of a follower is
such that he can only remain in the dark shadow of the lamp and look out from
there. From there he cannot see the light; only the bottom of the lamp is seen.
The bottoms of all lamps are different, and there is deep darkness under them.
Their followers stand quarreling over the bottoms. Therefore, whenever I see
someone standing in someone's shadow, I speak against this rather harshly.
That is why I always say that a
follower can never understand. To become a follower, he has to stand in the
shadow, in the darkness, beneath the lamp. The more one is a follower, the more
he is in the density of the shadow. Followers who are standing on the shadow's
periphery can understand others a little, but those who are directly in the
shadow's density can never understand. However, if someone really wants to see
the light, he will have to go completely out of the shadow's periphery.
Once he sees the light, the
controversy over lamps no longer has any meaning for him.
Thus, for me, there is no
difference whether I speak on Christ or Krishna or Buddha. I am talking about
the same light - a light which has illuminated many lamps. But I am not
influenced by the lamps. I am speaking only about that which I know. Whenever I
feel a certain resonance, whenever I feel that the same note is vibrating, I am
not able to deny it, because to deny it would be equally wrong. It would be
like standing with my back to the light. The follower commits the error of
sitting under the bottom of the lamp. Turning one's back or sitting in the
shadow are both similar errors.
But if you ask Krishnamurti, he
will not accept this resonance. He will not accept that whatever has
happened to him could also have
happened to Krishna. He will not accept that what has happened to him could
have happened to others as well. He will not discuss this.
This is wrong because truth is
totally impersonal. The greatness of truth does not diminish if one accepts
that it was also revealed to someone else. On the contrary, its greatness is
enhanced; it does not diminish. Truth is not so weak that it becomes stale
simply because it has also been experienced by someone else. Therefore, the
temptation to deny that truth could be shared is also wrong.
My difficulty, therefore, is
this: that WHEREVER I see truth, I will accept it. I am not influenced at all.
But wherever I see that in the name of truth people are changing to something
that is not truth I shall deny it and oppose it. Whatever I do, I do totally.
That is why I become difficult to understand.
I am against compromises
because by compromise nobody can ever reach truth.
It is my nature to say whatever
I say with the full force of my vital being. So if someone is talking about the
light, I will say that Mahavira is God, Krishna is an incarnation of God and
Jesus is the son of God. But if someone who is only talking about the lamps
says these things, then I say that the speaker is guilty of a criminal act. In
both these cases, whatever I assert, whenever I assert it, I shall stand fully
for what I have said.
When I am making a statement
about something, I do not ever remember my previous statements on the subject.
But the statements are true and complete and do not negate each other. If I am
speaking about your body my statement will be death-oriented, but if I am
talking about you I will say that you are immortal. Do not think that these two
statements are in opposition, however; they do not negate each other. There is
no necessity for any compromise between them. Your body is bound to die; it is
death-oriented.
If you believe that you are the
body, then I will state with full force that you will die. I will not allow
even for a slight chance of your being saved. If the discussion is about the
soul, then I will say that you have never been born at all. Then you are unborn
and immortal; the question of death does not arise. These two statements are
complete in themselves; they do not cancel each other. Their dimensions are
different, so this always creates difficulties.
The difficulty becomes even
more confusing because all my statements are spoken and not written.
In statements that are written
down there is a sort of indifference. They are not addressed to anyone.
The listener or the reader is
not sitting opposite while it is written down. The listener or the reader is
out of the picture. But when something is spoken, the listener is present and
he is also taken into consideration. Thus, whenever I speak about something, I
alone am not responsible for the statements. The listener is also responsible.
Responsibility, therefore, is
shared. I am definitely responsible for the statements, but the listener is
also responsible for creating a situation that called for the statements being
made in a particular manner. If another listener had been there, my statements
might have been different; in the presence of a third one, they might have
again been different; if my statements were unaddressed to anyone, they might
have been different again.
All my statements are
addressed, and all spoken words are more alive. They receive life from the
speaker as well as the listener. When there is no listener, then the speaker is
making a sort of bridge
toward something that is not
there. There is no other bank for the bridge to reach across to. But how can
there be a bridge without two banks? There cannot be. A bridge standing on one
bank is bound to fall.
Therefore, in this world, all
the significant statements about truth are spoken and not written. If I write
anything, I write letters, because a letter is as good as something that is
spoken. It is addressed. I have not written anything except letters, because to
me they are a manner of speaking. The other is always there before me when I
write a letter.
Thus, when I speak before
thousands of people at a time, then the statements are multiplied in thousands.
When these are reproduced by someone, he also includes himself in the
statements he reproduces. This creates more and more difficulties, but that is
as it is and I am not interested in making any attempt to do something about
it. I am interested that you too fully understand the difficulty. If you
understand the complexity of a revealed truth, only then will you grow.
I am, therefore, not interested
in reducing this complexity, because in attempting to do so the wholeness of
the truth is destroyed. It can be simplified, but then a few of its limbs may
be severed.
Then it will be as good as
dead. So I am not in the least interested in reducing its complexity. My only
interest is that you should find the simplicity right in the heart of the
complexity. Then you will grow.
If I want, I can make the
complexity appear simple. There is no difficulty in that. Then my statements will
become clear and mathematical and then my difficulties will be over. But I am
not worried about my difficulties; they are not difficulties at all. But if you
can see simplicity in complexity, if you can see the truth with its
contradictions, if you can see the consistency in inconsistencies, then there
is growth and your vision will be raised. And only if your vision is raised
will you see it. Then only will the complexity become simple for you.
While climbing a mountain, we
see several paths on the way up - difficult, steep paths, cutting through each
other. But upon reaching the top, the same paths appear easy. When you can see
everything in its totality, in one expanse, you see that all the paths are
running toward the peak.
Neither do they cut each other
off, nor do they run against each other. When someone is climbing up, all other
paths except his seem to be going the wrong way. But when one who is looking
down from the top of the mountain says that all paths are leading to the top,
or when he tells one person that this path is right and another person that it
is wrong, then it creates confusion.
All my statements are addressed
to someone; each of my statements has its proper address. Such statements are
for the benefit of a particular person in terms of his particular
circumstances. If I see a person with a divided mind on a certain path, and I
tell him that this path is right and that other paths are wrong, then that
statement is only for his benefit. After reaching the top, he will also know
and will laugh upon seeing that other paths are also coming up.
However, if after reaching half
way to the top he finds by his side another path ascending and begins to walk
upon it, and if a little later he finds a third path ascending and attempts to
go on that as well, he may not reach the top at all with such an uncertain,
divided mind. To such a person I will have to say, "You are on the right
path. Keep on going; other paths are wrong." But if another person on a
nearby path is also in a similar situation, is also of a divided mind, I will
tell him the same thing: that
his path is the right one. If
these two persons ever happen to meet and compare these two different
statements, it will create difficulties.
Buddha and Mahavira did not
have to face a situation like this. Their statements were not recorded in their
presence. And after five hundred years their followers were in trouble because
of this. The question which you are asking of me could not be asked of Buddha.
After five hundred years,
therefore, different sects came into being. Statements had been spoken but were
not recorded, so there was no way of comparing them. One thing was told to one
person, another thing to another, a third thing to a third, but none of the
three recorded anything. Therefore, there was no opportunity to find out by
comparing that one person was told this, another was told that and a third was
told something altogether different. These statements were made to three
different people privately, for their personal benefit. But when they were
written down, problems began cropping up.
That is why, for a long time,
old religions insisted upon not preparing any scriptures. When things are
recorded, the contradictions become clear. As soon as they are written down,
questioning will start. At first the statements are personal. Immediately after
they are written down, they cease to be personal.
So the difficulty which I am
facing was not faced by Buddha and Mahavira. But now there is no way out. Now,
whatever is spoken will be recorded, even though it was addressed to a
particular person. After it is recorded, it will become the property of the
society. Then all those statements made at different times to different people
will be gathered together, and it will be difficult to find a single thread of
consistency.
Now, this is how it must
happen; there is no other way. And I think it is good. If statements were
recorded in Buddha's presence, he could have replied to them. But they were
written down only after five hundred years. Then, when questions arose, there
was no Buddha to reply. The result was that one person who believed one
statement to be true founded his own sect, while another who believed that the
contradictory statement was true established another sect. Whoever had a
statement established a sect. All sects are born in this manner.
With me there is no possibility
of any sect being born. I can be asked directly for clarification. There is no
necessity to wait until tomorrow; it can be cleared up today.
You have also asked me to
clarify why, though I speak in words, I still maintain that nothing can be
conveyed by words. For those who want to speak, there is no other way except by
using words.
Ordinarily, I can express what
I want to say only in words, but it is also true that what has to be said
cannot be conveyed by words. Both of these things are true. Our situation is
such that we can speak only with words. There is no other way for a dialogue.
We should try to change this
situation. For those who can go into deep meditation, dialogue is possible even
without words. But to take them into deep meditation, first I will have to use
words.
A time will come, after a long
continued effort, when communication will be possible without words.
But until that time comes, I
will have to express through words.
To carry you into the wordless
world, I will have to use words; this is the situation. But it is full of
danger also. I will have to speak in words, knowing full well that if you cling
to the words, if you believe in them as they are, then all the trouble we are
taking will become useless. We are trying to reach the wordless, but we must
speak in words. It is sheer helplessness; there is no other alternative. If you
cling to the words, the whole effort becomes useless because the purpose is to
take you into wordlessness. While speaking only in words we will have to speak
against words, and in that speaking against we will also have to use words.
There is no other way.
One can become silent; there is
no difficulty. There are those who became silent because of this difficulty.
They avoided complications, but they knew that what they had to tell could not
be communicated.
I have no difficulty in
becoming silent. I can become silent, and it will not be surprising if I become
so because what I am trying to do seems to be a nearly impossible effort. I am
trying to make the impossible possible. But by my becoming silent nothing can
be achieved, nothing can be communicated to you. The danger is the same.
If I speak, you will cling to
the words. The danger is that if you cling to the words, what I want to
communicate and achieve will not happen. But if I become silent, there is no
question of communicating anything. In the first instance, if I talk, there is
the possibility that what I have said will reach some people. If I talk to a
hundred persons, there will be at least one who may perhaps receive what I have
said without clinging to the words. For the other ninety-nine, the effort will
be useless. Let it be so! This way at least something can be communicated to
one, but if I become silent even that one possibility is not there. Therefore,
my effort continues.
It is interesting to note that
one who believes that things can be communicated by words does not speak much.
He speaks a little, and that is the end of it. But one who believes that things
cannot be expressed in words will speak much, because howsoever much he may
speak, he knows that what he has to say has not yet been communicated. He will
speak again and again and again.
This speaking by Buddha over a
long period, morning and evening daily for forty years, was not because he
thought that by words things can be expressed or communicated. It was because
every time, after speaking, he felt that what had to be said had still not been
communicated. So Buddha would speak again. He would speak in some different
way, in some different manner, in different words. That is why forty years were
passed in speaking.
But then the fear remains that
if I speak for so long a period as forty years, it may happen that people will
hold onto my words only. Because for forty years my method of giving is through
words, I have to go on shouting, "Do not cling to my words!" This is
a peculiar situation. However, there is no way out of it.
For taking one beyond words,
words will have to be used, there is no other way. The situation is something
like this: there is a room, and in order to go out of this room, five to ten
steps will have to be taken within the room itself. From where we are sitting,
five or ten steps have to be taken to go out. Someone may ask, "By walking
within the room, how can one go out of it?" Everything depends on how you
walk in the room.
If a person walks around and
around in the room, he may walk for miles and he will not come out of the room.
But a person can walk directly toward the door also - not in a circle, but in a
straight line.
If while walking he walks in a
circle, he will merely walk around the room. If he walks in a straight line
toward the door, he can walk out through the door also. But in both of these
cases he will be walking only in the room.
If I tell a person who has
taken many rounds in the room that he can take just ten steps and he will be
out of the room, he will immediately ask me whether I have gone mad. He will
say, "You are talking of taking only ten steps, but I have been walking
for miles and I have not yet come out of the room." He is not saying
anything false, but he has simply been going around and around.
It is interesting to note that
in this world everything is going around and around. Our movement is circular.
All movement is circular. Unless you make an effort, things will move
circularly. To walk straight requires considerable effort.
In this world, all movement is
circular. Whether it is an atom or a room or the life of a man or a thought,
everything moves around and around in this world. Walking straight requires an
effort; walking straight is itself a great achievement.
You do not realize at what
moment you begin to walk in a circle. That is why geometry says that a straight
line cannot be drawn. All straight lines are only parts of a big circle. We
have an illusion of lines being straight, but there is no such thing as a
straight line in this world. A straight line cannot be drawn; it is only a
definition. Euclid said that the straight line is just a definition. It is
imaginary; it cannot be drawn. Howsoever straight a line we may draw, we can
only draw it on the earth. As the earth is round, the line will also be round.
We can draw a straight line in this room, but it is only a part of a larger
circle of the earth.
Question 2
Is it a curve?
It is such a small curve that
we cannot see it. But if we go on extending it on either end, we will find that
it is really a circle that goes around the world. We will find that the
straight line has become round; that is why it is impossible to draw a straight
line.
When we think about it deeply,
the greatest problem in meditation is that all thinking is circular.
Even our consciousness moves in
a circle. What is most arduous, what is the greatest tapascharya, austerity, is
to take a jump out of this circular movement. But there seems no way out.
Words also move in a circle. We
never have any idea about how words can be circular, but words are circular.
When you define a word, you make use of other words. If you open a dictionary
and see the word "man", you will find the meaning is "human
being". If you then look for the word "human", the meaning is
"having the qualities of man". What is all this? It is a great
madness. We do not know how to define man or human being. What does this mean?
Those who refer to dictionaries
do not have any idea that dictionaries are circular. One word is used to define
a second word and the second word is used to define the first. A man is a human
being
and a human being is a man.
Where is the definition of man? Thus, all definitions are circular; all
principles are circular. To explain one principle you use another, and to
explain the other you use the first. Our consciousness is circular. That is why
in old age we behave like children. The circle is complete.
No matter how much words may be
spoken, they move only in a circle. Words go around; they cannot walk straight.
If you walk straight, you will walk out of them into wordlessness. But because
we are living in words, if I have something to say against words I will have to
use words to say it.
This is a type of madness, but
I am not at fault. I speak in the knowledge that without words you cannot
understand, and then I speak against words in the hope that you will not cling
to them. If this happens, then only will I be able to convey what I want.
If you understand only my
words, you will miss what I have said. You will have to understand my words,
but along with this, whatever is indicated by them about the wordless world
will also have to be understood. Therefore, I will go on speaking against the
scriptures even though what I am saying may itself become a scripture. All
scriptures are made like that. There is not a single valuable scripture in
which you will not find statements against words. That means there is no
scripture which doesn't contain statements against scriptures themselves,
whether it is the Gita or the Koran or the Bible, or even with Mahavira or
Buddha.
There is no reason to believe
that something different will happen with me. The same impossible effect will
continue. While speaking over and over again against words, I will have spoken
many words. Someone or other may catch hold of them and make scriptures out of
them. But I cannot stop speaking because there is one chance in a hundred of
them becoming a scripture. Only if I stop speaking will there be a safeguard
against this one chance. However, there is no basis for this fear, because
someone will come along after a while who will speak against my words and the
scriptures that will have been made from them. There need be no fear!
But a strange thing happens
here and that is this: In the future, my work in this world will be furthered
by the very person who speaks against me. Today it is like this: if one wants
to work in favor of Buddha, he will have to speak against Buddha. Buddha's
words have been picked up by many like old stones, and these stones cannot be
removed until Buddha is removed. With the deification of Buddha, these stones
have lodged themselves inside the chests of the people who have picked them up.
If the stones are to be removed, Buddha will also have to be pulled down;
otherwise the stones will remain.
Now you can understand my
helplessness. You can understand why I have to speak against Buddha, even
though I know full well that I am doing his work. But how else can those who
cling to the name of Buddha or the words of Buddha be moved? Until Buddha is
moved they cannot be moved. In order to move them we have to take the trouble
of disturbing Buddha unnecessarily.
As long as the Vedas are not
cast off, there is no way of moving such people. They cling to the Vedas. As
long as a man is not convinced that the Vedas are useless, he will not drop
them. If for once and for all the mind can be emptied, something further can be
done.
But after this emptying process
I will say the same things that the Vedas have said. Then the difficulties
increase further. False friends and false enemies unnecessarily come into
being. As
things are, ninety-nine times
out of a hundred one meets false friends and false enemies. A false friend is
one who will take what I speak to be scriptures, and the false enemy is one who
believes that what I speak is against the scriptures and that I am an enemy of
the scriptures. But things are like this, it will inevitably happen like this,
and there is no need to worry about it. Such is the situation.
Question 3
So you do not want to write?
No, I do not want to write.
There are many reasons why I do not want to write. For one thing, it is absurd
and useless to write. It is useless because for whom shall I write? To me,
writing appears to be like writing a letter without knowing the address. How
can I enclose it in an envelope and dispatch it when I do not know the address?
A statement is always
addressed. Those who want to address the masses write. This is the way they
address the unknown crowd. But the more unknown the crowd, the fewer are the
things that can be said. And the nearer or more known the individual addressed
is, the deeper can be the dialogue.
Deeper truths can only be told
to a particular person. To a crowd, only temporary, simple things can be told.
The bigger the crowd, the lesser the understanding, and the more unknown the
crowd, the more one has to proceed with a presumption that there will be no
understanding. Thus, the more literature is meant for the masses, the more down
to earth and simple it will be. Flying in the skies is not possible with this
kind of literature.
If you find delicate nuances of
meaning in the poetry of Kalidas and you do not find them in the poetry of
modern poets, it is not due to any difference between Kalidas and the modern
poet. It is because Kalidas' poetry is addressed and recited in the presence of
an emperor or a few selected persons, while the modern poem is printed in a
newspaper. The newspaper may be read while taking tea in a tea shop, while
eating peanuts, while smoking. The poem may just be glanced at. Who then is it
being written for? The modern poet does not care to know. He must write for
everyman, for the lowest common denominator. He must keep everyman in view
while writing.
My difficulty is that even to
those who are the best amongst us, it is difficult to relate truth. To those
who are less than the best, to the common man, the question of relating truth
does not arise. Only those of us who are among the chosen few can understand
the deepest matters. But even among this chosen few, ninety-nine out of a
hundred will miss what I have said. So there is no meaning in telling such
things to a crowd, and writing is done only for a crowd.
There are also other reasons
for not writing. I believe that as the medium one uses changes, the content
also changes. With the change of medium, the subject matter does not remain the
same.
The medium poses its own
conditions and changes what is said.
This is not easily understandable.
When I am speaking, this is one type of medium. The whole line of communication
is alive. The listener is living and I am also living. When I am speaking the
listener not only listens: he also sees. The changing expressions of my face,
the minute changes reflected in my eyes, the raising and falling of my finger,
are all seen by him. Not only does he listen to my
words: he also sees the
movement of my lips. It is not only my words that speak, it is also my lips
that speak. My eyes also say something. All of this is taken in by the
listener. The content of what I have said will be different in a listener's
mind than in a reader's mind because all of this will have become a part of it.
When someone reads a book, then
in place of me there are only black letters and black ink, nothing else. I and
the black ink are not equivalents. There is no give and take. In the type, no
gestures or changes of expression ever appear, no scenes or pictures are ever
created. There is no life; it is a dead message. When one is reading a book, a
very significant part of the message which remains alive while I am speaking is
lost. In the reader's hands there are only dead statements.
It is interesting to note that
a reader can be less attentive than a listener has to be. When a person
listens, the degree of attention he is paying is far greater than when he
reads. While listening one must give full attention and concentration, because
what has been already spoken will not be repeated. You cannot revive parts not
understood or partly understood; they are lost. Every moment that I am
speaking, that which is spoken becomes lost in a bottomless abyss. If you have
caught it, you have caught it. Otherwise it flows away and it will not return.
While reading a book there is
no such fear, because you can re-read the same pages over and over again. There
is no necessity, therefore, to be very attentive while reading a book. That is
why the day words began to be written down was the day attention became
lessened. It was bound to be so.
With a book, if you have not
understood something you can turn back the page and read it again.
But with my speaking it is not
possible to go back. What is missed is lost. The knowledge of what is spoken is
lost forever if missed and cannot be repeated. This keeps your attention at a
full peak. It helps to keep your consciousness at its maximum alertness. When
you read at leisure, if something is missed there is no harm; you can read it
again. With a book, understanding is less and the need for repetition
increases. As attention decreases, understanding also decreases.
Therefore, it is not without
reason that Buddha, Mahavira and Jesus all selected speech as the medium for
the transmission of their message. They could have written, but they selected
this medium. They did it for two reasons: One, because the spoken word is a
more all-encompassing medium; more can be said. There are many things attached
to words which are lost in writing.
That is why, if you think about
it, you will notice that the day films began, novels lost their importance.
This is because films made
things alive again. Who will read a novel? It is a dead thing. The novel cannot
live much longer. It may become lost as an art form because we now have mediums
that are more living, what McLuhan calls "hot" mediums. Television
and films are live mediums, hot mediums. There is heat in their blood.
But the written word is a cold
medium, dead cold. There is no life in it; no blood flows in it. Even your
telephone may become outdated as soon as phonovision comes, just as radio began
to become outdated with the coming of television. Radio has become a
comparatively colder medium while television is a hot medium. And to me
speaking is a hot medium; there is blood and heat in it.
So far we have not been able to
find enough ways to add emphasis to words that are written. If I want to
emphasize something when I am speaking, I can speak a little louder. I can
change the
nuances in my voice, my voice
rhythm; then emphasis is conveyed. But in the words of a book there is no such
way. The words are just dead. In a book, the word love is love whether it was
written by a person making love or by one not making love, or by one living in
love or by one who does not know what love is. There are no nuances, no rhythm,
no waves, no vibrations. It is dead.
When Jesus says the word
prayer, its meaning is not the same as when someone writes the same word in a
book. The whole life of Jesus is a prayer, from beginning to end. Every
particle of him is prayer; every inch of his body is filled with it. Thus, what
Jesus conveys when he says the word prayer is very different from what is
conveyed by the word in a dictionary.
Whenever one speaks, it
immediately creates a sort of tuning in, a getting in touch with the listener.
The soul of the speaker soon
approaches that of the listener. Doors open up; the listener's defenses begin
to give way.
When you are listening, if you
are fully attentive your thinking has to stop. The more attentive you are as
you listen, the less you will think. Your doors open; you become more receptive
to the other.
Now something can enter in
directly without being hindered; you and the speaker become known to each
other. In a very deep sense, a harmonious relationship is established. The
speaking comes from without, yet it echoes deep within the listener.
Such a relationship cannot be
established when one is reading, because the writer is absent. When you are
reading, if you do not automatically understand something you have to make an
attempt to understand it. But when listening you will understand without
effort.
If you are reading a book based
on my speaking that has been reported verbatim, then you will forget that you
are reading because you know me. After a few moments, you feel that you are not
reading - that you are listening. But if the wording is changed or the style is
changed slightly in the reporting, the rhythm and the attunement will break.
When those who have listened to me once read my spoken words, reading becomes
as good as listening to me. But there are differences because, still, a change
in medium changes the intent of what is said.
The difficulty is that what I
am trying to tell will change in accordance with the form of expression.
If I use poetry, it will impose
its own conditions: a particular arrangement of words, the rejection or
selection of particular subject matter, the breaking off or cutting out of
particular things. If it is necessary to express the same thing in prose, the
content will be entirely different.
That is why, for the most part,
all of the great books in the world have been written in the form of poetry.
What was being told was so beyond logic that it was difficult to express it in
prose form.
Prose is very logical; poetry
is very illogical. Lack of logic is permitted and forgiven in poetry, but not
in prose. In poetry, if you go a little beyond the logical understanding in
places, you have license to do so. Not so in prose.
Because depth poetry is
illogical, depth prose has to be logical. If you try to write the Upanishads or
the Gita in prose, you will find that that which makes them alive is lost. The
medium has changed, and what was beautiful as poetry will be awkward and
bothersome as prose. They are not logical, but prose will try to make them so
because prose is an arrangement of logic.
The Upanishads were recited in
the form of poetry; so was the Gita. But Buddha and Mahavira did not speak in
the form of poetry. There was a reason for this change. Since the time the
Upanishads and the Gita were written, the world had changed. The period when
they were written was, in one sense, poetical. People were simple and
straightforward; there was no demand for logic. If they were told, "God
is," they simply said yes; they did not turn around and ask, "What is
God? How does he look?"
If you look at the way children
are, you will have an idea of what type of people there must have been in those
days. A child may ask a very difficult question, yet he will be pleased by a
simple answer. The child may ask from where his small sister or brother came.
You answer that he or she was brought by a stork and he is satisfied. Then he
runs away to play. He had asked a very difficult question to which even the
highly intelligent are not able to give a correct answer. The child asked a
most basic, ultimate question: "From where do children come?" You
answered that the stork brings them, and by the time you have said it the child
is already gone. He is pleased with a very simple answer. And the more poetical
the answer, the more pleased he will be. That is why in books for small children
we have to use poetry. Poetry reaches the child's heart very quickly. There is
a rhythm and a melody in it that reaches his mind quickly. A child lives in the
world of rhythm and melody.
Buddha and Mahavira used prose
because in the time period that they were living people were accustomed to
doing a lot of logical thinking. Minute questions were asked, but even with
long intricate answers people were not satisfied. Then they would ask
twenty-five more questions. That is why Buddha and Mahavira had to speak in
prose.
Now it is not possible to speak
in poetry any more. Now poetry is written for entertainment. Once all
fundamental, serious matters were told only in the form of poetry. But now
serious matters cannot be told in poetic form. Those few people who have some
leisure and the desire to entertain you still write poetry, but all matters of
value will be told in prose only. Man is no longer like a child; he has become
an adult. He thinks logically on all matters. Only prose can be used logically.
Each medium changes the
content. To my mind, as methods of communication develop, the conveying of
thought through speech will return again. For a while the printed word was the
most important, but now technological advances are leading us back to the possibility
of direct communication through a living medium, through television.
After a while, nobody will be
willing to read a book anymore. I can speak to the whole world on a television
network. All can listen directly. Therefore, the future of the book is not very
good. Now, in a way, a book will not be read; it will be seen. This will have
to be made popular; the book will have to be transformed. Now microfilms have
developed, so it is possible to see the book on a screen.
Words will very soon be changed
to pictures.
In my view writing developed
out of helplessness. There was no other way. Even now, those who want to convey
something that is very important use the medium of speech. I do not know for
whom I would write. As long as there is no one in front of me, no desire arises
within me to speak. The pleasure of speaking for the sake of speaking is not
there in me.
This is the difference between
a writer and one who is enlightened. The litterateur has a sort of interest in
just expressing something. He is pleased if he can do so. A big burden seems to
drop from his shoulders when he does so.
In me there is no such burden.
When I am speaking to you I am not receiving pleasure just because I am telling
you something. In telling something, there is no feeling of being relieved of a
burden. My telling, in a sense, is less an expression and more a response.
There is no feeling in me that
I have to tell you something. If you want to know something, only then will it
occur to me to say something. The condition of my mind is such that if you
throw a bucket in my well something will emerge from it. It is gradually
becoming difficult for me to speak unless a question has been asked. In the
future, it is going to be more and more difficult for me just to speak.
Therefore, I have to find
excuses.
I need an excuse if I am to
speak on the Gita. If you create such an excuse, then I will speak. But it is
becoming difficult for me to speak if you do not provide the excuse. If there
is no nail or peg on which to hang something, on what to hang it and why I
should hang it is a problem. I remain silent - empty. You go out of this room
and I become empty.
If someone has the desire to
speak, the need to speak, then he will make himself ready to speak even when
you are not in the room. His mind will prepare what to say even though there is
no one present. When enough material accumulates in him, he will be impelled to
speak.
For me this is not true. I am
completely empty. If you raise a question and make me speak, only then will I
speak. That is why writing is difficult. Writing is easier for those who are
full.
Question 4
Why do you not write your autobiography?
This can also be asked - why I
do not write my autobiography. It may seem very interesting, but truly speaking
after self-knowledge there is no autobiography. All autobiographies are
ego-biographies.
What we call an autobiography
is not the story of the soul. As long as you do not know what soul is, whatever
you write is ego-biography.
It is interesting to note that
neither Jesus, nor Krishna, nor Buddha have written their autobiographies. They
neither told them nor wrote them. Writing or speaking about oneself has not
been possible for those who have known themselves, because after knowing the
person changes into something so formless that what we call the facts of his
life - facts like the date he was born, the date a particular event happened -
dissolve. What happens is that all these facts cease to have any meaning. The
awakening of a soul is so cataclysmic that after it occurs, when one opens his
eyes he finds that everything is lost. Nothing is left; no one remains to talk
about what has happened.
After one has known one's soul,
an autobiography seems to be a dreamlike version of oneself. It is as if one
were writing an account of his dreams: One day he saw this dream, the next day
that dream, and the day after that a third dream. Such an autobiography has no
more value than a fantasy, a fairy tale.
That is why it is difficult for
an awakened person to write. On becoming awakened and aware, he finds that
there is nothing worth writing. It was all a dream. The matter of the
experience of becoming aware remains, but what is known through the experience
cannot be written down. This
is so because reducing such an
experience to words makes it seem insipid and absurd. Even so, there is always
the attempt to tell about the experience in different ways through different
methods.
My whole life I shall go on
telling what has happened. There is nothing else to tell except this. But this
also cannot be written down. As soon as it is written, it is felt that it was
not worth talking about.
What is there to write? One may
write, "I have had an experience of the soul. I am full of joy and
peace." It looks absurd - mere words.
Buddha, Mahavira and Christ
went on telling their whole lives in many different ways what they had known.
They never became tired. They always felt that there was still something left
out, so they would speak again in a different way. It is never finished. Buddha
and Mahavira may finish, but what they have to tell remains incomplete.
The problem is twofold: what
can be told seems like a dream and only what cannot be told seems worth saying.
There always remains lurking in the mind the feeling that if I tell you what
has happened to me it is of no use. My purpose is to take you on that path that
may lead you to the experience itself. Only then can you someday understand
what has happened to me. Before that you cannot understand it, and my telling
you what has happened to me directly serves no purpose.
I don't think you will believe
what I say. And what is the use of my making you suspicious? It will be harmful.
The best way is to take you on that path, to that bank from which you can be
pushed to where someday you yourself may have the experience. On that day you
will be able to trust. You will know the way it happens. Otherwise there is no
way to trust.
At the time of the death of
Buddha people asked, "Where will you go after death?" What does
Buddha reply? He says, "I have been nowhere, so where can I go after
death? I have never gone anywhere and have never been anywhere." Even after
this people still asked him where he would go, but he had told the truth
because the meaning of buddhahood is nowhereness. In that state one is nowhere,
so the question of being somewhere does not arise.
If you can be quiet and silent,
what remains except breathing? Only breathing remains; nothing else. Like the
air inside a bubble, breathing remains. If you can be silent at least once for
a few moments, then you will realize that when there are not thoughts there is
nothing but breathing. The inhaling and exhaling of air is nothing more than
the going out and coming in of air in a bubble or a balloon. So Buddha says,
"I was only a bubble. Where was I? A bubble has burst and you are asking
where it has gone." If someone like Buddha knows that he is like a bubble,
how can he write his autobiography or tell about his experience? Whatever he
might say will be misunderstood.
In Japan there was one saint
called Lin Chi. One day Lin Chi ordered the removal of all the idols of Buddha.
There had never been a man like him. Only just before he had been worshipping
those very idols of Buddha, and now he was ordering them to be removed. Someone
stood up and asked, "Are you in your right mind? Do you know what you are
saying?"
Lin Chi answered, "As long
as I was thinking that I am, I believed that Buddha was. But when I myself am
not there, when I am only an air bubble, then I know that someone like Buddha
also could not have been there."
In the evening Lin Chi was
again worshipping Buddha. People again asked him what he was doing.
He said, "I was helped in
my own non-being by Buddha's non-being. That is why I have been giving
thanks. It was a thanksgiving
from one bubble to another, nothing more." But these statements could not
be properly understood. People thought that there was something wrong with this
man and that he had gone against Buddha.
Autobiography does not survive.
Deeply speaking, the soul itself does not survive. So far, we understand only
that the ego does not survive. For thousands of years, we have been told that
the ego does not survive when one attains self-knowledge. But to put it
correctly, the soul itself does not survive.
In understanding this one is
filled with fear. That is why we could not understand Buddha. He said,
"The soul also does not survive; we become non-soul." It becomes very
difficult to understand Buddha in this world.
Mahavira talked only of the
death of the ego; that much could be understood. It is not that Mahavira did
not know that even the soul does not survive, but he had in mind our limited
understanding.
Therefore, he spoke only of
giving up the ego, knowing that the soul would automatically dissolve.
Buddha, for the first time,
made a statement which had been a secret. The Upanishads also knew, Mahavira
also knew, that the soul does not survive in the end, because the idea of the
soul is a projection of the ego. But Buddha revealed the secret which had been
closely guarded for so long.
That created difficulties.
Those who themselves believed that the ego does not survive started the
quarrel. If the soul does not survive either, they said, then everything is
useless. Where are we?
Buddha was right. How could
there be an autobiography then? Everything is like a dream sequence, like the
rainbow colors formed on a bubble. The colors die when the bubble bursts. That
is a very obvious result.
Question 5
Will the processes and experiences through
which a person has passed be of any use to others if they are written down?
It may be useful for the
seeker, but it is very difficult for the enlightened one to write it. The
difficulties of the siddha, the enlightened one, are different from those of
the sadhak, the seeker. The difficulty is that for the enlightened one there
are no spirits in this room, but for you there are. The siddha knows that the
spirits do not exist, but at one time he too had a spirit which he exorcised
with the help of a technique. Now he knows that both the spirit and the
technique were false.
Knowing this, how can he say
that he had driven away the spirit with the help of the technique? Do you
follow me? This is a problem for the master. He knows that the spirit was false
and that the technique was just a help in the darkness. The spirit was false
and so also was the technique that drove it away. So how can he say that he
drove away the spirit with the technique? To say so now is meaningless. But if
he could say that he drove away the spirit with the technique, it would be a
help to you.
The master will not say that he
drove away the spirit by the power of the technique. Rather, he will say that
"spirits can be made to disappear by the use of certain techniques. If the
seeker uses such
and such a technique the spirit
will go." The master will not say that he drove away the spirit with a
technique because it would be a false statement. Now he knows that the
technique was as false as the spirit.
Therefore, the statements of
such a person will be least self-centered. He will hardly ever speak about himself.
He talks about you and what is relevant to your situation, so it is his problem
that in order to help you he will have to make a false statement.
Question 6
Do you mean that the whole sadhana process,
the process of spiritual practice, is as unreal as a ghost?
Yes, it is, because what you
ultimately achieve has always been with you and that from which you are freed
has never bound you. But this presents a difficulty for the master; that is why
I say that the master has his own difficulties. If he says that the whole
sadhana process is false, then he will put you in difficulty, because for you
the process becomes false while the spirit remains real. Even a false process
is meaningful if it serves the purpose of making the spirit false. Do you follow
me?
A spirit does not become false
just by calling it false. It is interesting to note that a wrong thing does not
cease to be wrong just by calling it right, but when something that is right is
called wrong we immediately accept it. No matter how much one says that anger
is wrong, that does not make it wrong.
On the other hand, if someone
says meditation is wrong, you immediately feel that it may be so; it does not
even take a second to become wrong. You do not immediately agree when it is
claimed that a particular person is a saint, but if you are told that someone
is a thief you immediately accept it as the truth.
Before you are willing to
believe that a person is a saint, you will try to test him, you will try to
prove in various ways whether this is so. The reason you are so cautious is
that it makes you uneasy if someone else is said to be a saint. Your ego is
hurt. You will try to prove that he is no more a saint than you are. When you
are told that someone else is a thief, you do not bother to test it; you
believe it immediately because believing it makes you happy. It assures you
that you are not the only thief, that someone else is at least as bad as you
are.
Slander and condemnation of
another are easily accepted, but not so with praise. Even when you accept
someone as being praiseworthy, even if you yourself really know that he is so,
the acceptance is still conditional. You accept it for the time being because
you have no other choice, but you continue to look for an opportunity to change
your opinion. Only condemnation is absolute. Even if something happens to make
you change a negative opinion, you will not bother to do so.
This happens all the time in
life. When something is claimed to be wrong, we immediately believe it because
this saves us from doing what is right. One must be very determined if he is
going to continue to do what is right. Anger is spontaneous; we continue to
express it even if we have been told it is wrong. But meditation must be
practiced, and this is much more difficult. So if someone says that meditation
is something bogus, we feel relieved at being saved from doing something
arduous.
Question 7
You have described meditation not as an
action, but as a state of being. Will you explain this?
The difficulty for the
enlightened person is that if he tells you everything he has experienced, you
will lose the path forever because what he says will be so far removed from
your experience. For example, I have described meditation as a state of being.
What I say is true, and yet for you meditation can only be an activity, not a
state. If you believe it is a state of being, you will feel that there is
nothing you can do to achieve it. If it is an activity, then you are required
to do something; if it is merely a state of consciousness, then you are
relieved of the need to act.
You will think, "Perhaps
it is a state of being. Then there is nothing that I can do about it."
Then your anger will continue and you will not do any meditation. Your sex,
your greed will continue.
If I tell the truth, you are
not helped by me. The difficulty is that if I say something keeping you in
mind, I have to take recourse to telling what is not entirely true. But if I
say something keeping myself in mind, it is useless for you. It is not only
useless; it is also dangerous because you happen to be the listener. Deep down
it will be a hindrance to you if I tell you the complete truth exactly as I see
it.
That is why, if I say exactly
what I feel, I cannot be of any help to you. On the contrary, what I would say would
be a hindrance to you, like Krishnamurti's talks which hinder people's progress
more than they help it. The deeper I look, the more I feel that such talks are
harmful. What he is saying is the inner truth, but for you it is not helpful.
For you it is only an excuse to stop doing anything.
Question 8
Is silence very powerful, and if so, then
why should anybody speak in words?
Yes, silence is very powerful,
but first there must be people who can hear what is conveyed in silence.
Why is it necessary to make people listen?
It is necessary to me because I
see that you are moving unknowingly toward a deep pit, and it is clear to me
that you will fall into the pit and break your hands or feet. I can convey this
fact to you in silence. But your ears cannot hear my silent message, so I have
to shout at you to warn you, "Be careful! You will fall into the
pit."
Question 9
Do you lose any energy by doing so?
No, no! No energy is lost. One
who has known the source of energy does not lose energy. Only one who does not
know the source can lose.
If I write anything like an
autobiography, it may be either truth or untruth. If it is truth, it may harm
you. If it is untruth, I would not want to write it. If it is completely
truthful, it will cause you harm because I will have to say that whatever you
are doing now is useless. You will readily agree with me that it is so.
One day an individual came to
me. He said, "Because Krishnamurti said that meditation is useless, I have
stopped doing meditation."
I said, "You have done a
good thing. But what did you gain from it? You did not gain anything. Why did
you start doing meditation in the first place? You wanted to conquer your anger
and ignorance.
Did you accomplish that by
giving up meditation? No! Then why did you stop? Because Krishnamurti said that
it is useless!"
You feel, "When a realized
person says it is useless, why should I continue to do it?" This is the
difficulty: I also know that it is useless; I also tell this to some, that it
is useless. But I will only say this to a person who has done meditation for a
long time and who can now understand its uselessness. Such a person has reached
a stage where meditation must also be given up.
But to say in the marketplace
that meditation is useless is dangerous. The listeners may have never done any
meditation. Those ignorant people have never done it. If you tell them that
meditation is useless, they will never do it. They will feel very much
relieved. For forty years people are listening to Krishnamurti, and they are
sitting around foolishly doing nothing just because Krishnamurti said that
meditation is useless. Krishnamurti is not wrong when he says so. He has been
saying it for his whole life. But I would say he is wrong because he is not
keeping you and your capacity in mind. He is only talking about his own
experiences.
It is because of this that I am
always very careful, that I do not project myself and do not say anything about
myself. If I talk about myself and only say the truth, it will be of no use to
you. It is strange that if I talk about you, keeping you in mind, then you will
come back to me and ask, "Why did you tell such things?" Then there
comes opposition. I can say things which can never be opposed, but these things
will be of no use to you. They may give you an excuse to stop where you are.
The difficulty of the
enlightened one is that he is not able to tell what he knows. Therefore, in one
way, old tradition was much more correct and went much deeper. You were told
something according to where you were at the time. All information was
tentative; nothing was ultimate. As you made progress the master would give you
new things; as you progressed further, it would be said, "Now give up
this, give up that. It has become useless."
When you reached the
appropriate state, you were told that God is useless, the soul is useless,
meditation is useless - but just on that day, not before. But this can be told
only at that moment when these things become useless; then nothing is really
useless. Then you just laugh and you know.
If I say meditation is useless
and you still continue to do meditation, then I will feel that you were the
right person to be told - that it was good that I told you. If I say sannyas is
useless - that taking sannyas is useless - and still you become initiated into
it, I will understand that you were the right sort of person to be told. It was
good.
So these things which I have
spoken about are the sort of difficulties I face. All this will be understood
slowly and gradually.
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