of humanity, life has an extensive meaning, and to that extent
pain becomes less important to him. To live the life of goodness
is to live the life of all. Pleasure is for one's own self, but
goodness is concerned with the happiness of all humanity and for
all time. From the point of view of the good, pleasure and pain
appear in a different meaning; so much so, that pleasure may be
shunned, and pain be courted in its place, and death itself be
made welcome as giving a higher value to life. From these higher
standpoints of a man's life, the standpoints of the good,
pleasure and pain lose their absolute value. Martyrs prove it in
history, and we prove it every day in our life in our little
martyrdoms. When we take a pitcherful of water from the sea it
has its weight, but when we take a dip into the sea itself a
thousand pitchersful of water flow above our head, and we do not
feel their weight. We have to carry the pitcher of self with our
strength; and so, while on the plane of selfishness pleasure and
pain have their full weight, on the moral plane they are so much
lightened that the man who has reached it appears to us almost
superhuman in his patience under crushing trails, and his
forbearance in the face of malignant persecution.
To live in perfect goodness is to realise one's life in the
infinitive. This is the most comprehensive view of life which we
can have by our inherent power of the moral vision of the
wholeness of life. And the teaching of Buddha is to cultivate
this moral power to the highest extent, to know that our field of
activities is not bound to the plane of our narrow self. This is
the vision of the heavenly kingdom of Christ. When we attain to
that universal life, which is the moral life, we become freed
from the bonds of pleasure and pain, and the place vacated by our
self becomes filled with an unspeakable joy which springs from
measureless love. In this state the soul's activity is all the
more heightened, only its motive power is not from desires, but
in its own joy. This is the _Karma-yoga_ of the _Gita_, the way
to become one with the infinite activity by the exercise of the
activity of disinterested goodness.
When Buddha mentioned upon the way of realising mankind from the
grip of misery he came to this truth: that when man attains his
highest end by merging the individual in the universal, he
becomes free from the thraldom of pain. Let us consider this
point more fully.
A student of mine once related to me his adventure in a storm,
and complained that all the time he was troubled with the feeling
that this great commotion in nature behaved to him as if he were
no more than a mere handful of dust. That he was a distinct
personality with a will of his own had not the least influence
upon what was happening.
I said, "If consideration for our individuality could sway nature
from her path, then it would be the individuals who would suffer
most."
But he persisted in his doubt, saying that there was this fact
which could not be ignored--the feeling that I am. The "I" in us
seeks for a relation which is individual to it.
I replied that the relation of the "I" is with something which is
"not-I." So we must have a medium which is common to both, and
we must be absolutely certain that it is the same to the "I" as
it is to the "not-I."
This is what needs repeating here. We have to keep in mind that
our individuality by its nature is impelled to seek for the
universal. Our body can only die if it tries to eat its own
substance, and our eye loses the meaning of its function if it
can only see itself.
Just as we find that the stronger the imagination the less is it
merely imaginary and the more is it in harmony with truth, so we
see the more vigorous our individuality the more does it widen
towards the universal. For the greatness of a personality is not
in itself but in its content, which is universal, just as the
depth of a lake is judged not by the size of its cavity but by
the depth of its water.
So, if it is a truth that the yearning of our nature is for
reality, and that our personality cannot be happy with a
fantastic universe of its own creation, then it is clearly best
for it that our will can only deal with things by following their
law, and cannot do with them just as it pleases. This unyielding
sureness of reality sometimes crosses our will, and very often
leads us to disaster, just as the firmness of the earth
invariably hurts the falling child who is learning to walk.
Nevertheless it is the same firmness that hurts him which makes
his walking possible. Once, while passing under a bridge, the
mast of my boat got stuck in one of its girders. If only for a
moment the mast would have bent an inch or two, or the bridge
raised its back like a yawning cat, or the river given in, it
would have been all right with me. But they took no notice of my
helplessness. That is the very reason why I could make use of
the river, and sail upon it with the help of the mast, and that
is why, when its current was inconvenient, I could rely upon the
bridge. Things are what they are, and we have to know them if we
would deal with them, and knowledge of them is possible because
our wish is not their law. This knowledge is a joy to us, for
the knowledge is one of the channels of our relation with the
things outside us; it is making them our own, and thus widening
the limit of our self.
At every step we have to take into account others than ourselves.
For only in death are we alone. A poet is a true poet when he
can make his personal idea joyful to all men, which he could not
do if he had not a medium common to all his audience. This
common language has its own law which the poet must discover and
follow, by doing which he becomes true and attains poetical
immortality.
We see then that man's individuality is not his highest truth;
there is that in him which is universal. If he were made to live
in a world where his own self was the only factor to consider,
then that would be the worst prison imaginable to him, for man's
deepest joy is in growing greater and greater by more and more
union with the all. This, as we have seen, would be an
impossibility if there were no law common to all. Only by
discovering the law and following it, do we become great, do we
realise the universal; while, so long as our individual desires
are at conflict with the universal law, we suffer pain and are
futile.
There was a time when we prayed for special concessions, we
expected that the laws of nature should be held in abeyance for
our own convenience. But now we know better. We know that law
cannot be set aside, and in this knowledge we have become strong.
For this law is not something apart from us; it is our own. The
universal power which is manifested in the universal law is one
with our own power. It will thwart us where we are small, where
we are against the current of things; but it will help us where
we are great, where we are in unison with the all. Thus, through
the help of science, as we come to know more of the laws of
nature, we gain in power; we tend to attain a universal body.
Our organ of sight, our organ of locomotion, our physical
strength becomes world-wide; steam and electricity become our
nerve and muscle. Thus we find that, just as throughout our
bodily organisation there is a principle of relation by virtue of
which we can call the entire body our own, and can use it as
such, so all through the universe there is that principle of
uninterrupted relation by virtue of which we can call the whole
world our extended body and use it accordingly. And in this age
of science it is our endeavour fully to establish our claim to
our world-self. We know all our poverty and sufferings are owing
to our inability to realise this legitimate claim of ours.
Really, there is no limit to our powers, for we are not outside
the universal power which is the expression of universal law. We
are on our way to overcome disease and death, to conquer pain and
poverty; for through scientific knowledge we are ever on our way
to realise the universal in its physical aspect. And as we make
progress we find that pain, disease, and poverty of power are not
absolute, but that is only the want of adjustment of our
individual self to our universal self which gives rise to them.
It is the same with our spiritual life. When the individual man
in us chafes against the lawful rule of the universal man we
become morally small, and we must suffer. In such a condition
our successes are our greatest failures, and the very fulfilment
of our desires leaves us poorer. We hanker after special gains
for ourselves, we want to enjoy privileges which none else can
share with us. But everything that is absolutely special must
keep up a perpetual warfare with what is general. In such a
state of civil war man always lives behind barricades, and in any
civilisation which is selfish our homes are not real homes, but
artificial barriers around us. Yet we complain that we are not
happy, as if there were something inherent in the nature of
things to make us miserable. The universal spirit is waiting to
crown us with happiness, but our individual spirit would not
accept it. It is our life of the self that causes conflicts and
complications everywhere, upsets the normal balance of society
and gives rise to miseries of all kinds. It brings things to
such a pass that to maintain order we have to create artificial
coercions and organised forms of tyranny, and tolerate infernal
institutions in our midst, whereby at every moment humanity is
humiliated.
We have seen that in order to be powerful we have to submit to
the laws of the universal forces, and to realise in practice that
they are our own. So, in order to be happy, we have to submit
our individual will to the sovereignty of the universal will, and
to feel in truth that it is our own will. When we reach that
state wherein the adjustment of the finite in us to the infinite
is made perfect, then pain itself becomes a valuable asset. It
becomes a measuring rod with which to gauge the true value of our
joy.
The most important lesson that man can learn from his life is not
that there _is_ pain in this world, but that it depends upon him
to turn it into good account, that it is possible for him to
transmute it into joy. The lesson has not been lost altogether
to us, and there is no man living who would willingly be deprived
of his right to suffer pain, for that is his right to be a man.
One day the wife of a poor labourer complained bitterly to me
that her eldest boy was going to be sent away to a rich relative's
house for part of the year. It was the implied kind intention of
trying to relieve her of her trouble that gave her the shock, for
a mother's trouble is a mother's own by her inalienable right of
love, and she was not going to surrender it to any dictates of
expediency. Man's freedom is never in being saved troubles, but
it is the freedom to take trouble for his own good, to make the
trouble an element in his joy. It can be made so only when we
realise that our individual self is not the highest meaning of our
being, that in us we have the world-man who is immortal, who is
not afraid of death or sufferings, and who looks upon pain as only
the other side of joy. He who has realised this knows that it is
pain which is our true wealth as imperfect beings, and has made us
great and worthy to take our seat with the perfect. He knows that
we are not beggars; that it is the hard coin which must be paid
for everything valuable in this life, for our power, our wisdom,
our love; that in pain is symbolised the infinite possibility of
perfection, the eternal unfolding of joy; and the man who loses all
pleasure in accepting pain sinks down and down to the lowest depth
of penury and degradation. It is only when we invoke the aid of
pain for our self-gratification that she becomes evil and takes her
vengeance for the insult done to her by hurling us into misery.
For she is the vestal virgin consecrated to the service of the
immortal perfection, and when she takes her true place before the
altar of the infinite she casts off her dark veil and bares her
face to the beholder as a revelation of supreme joy.
IV
THE PROBLEM OF SELF
At one pole of my being I am one with stocks and stones. There I
have to acknowledge the rule of universal law. That is where the
foundation of my existence lies, deep down below. Its strength
lies in its being held firm in the clasp of comprehensive world,
and in the fullness of its community with all things.
But at the other pole of my being I am separate from all. There
I have broken through the cordon of equality and stand alone as
an individual. I am absolutely unique, I am I, I am
incomparable. The whole weight of the universe cannot crush out
this individuality of mine. I maintain it in spite of the
tremendous gravitation of all things. It is small in appearance
but great in reality. For it holds its own against the forces
that would rob it of its distinction and make it one with the
dust.
This is the superstructure of the self which rises from the
indeterminate depth and darkness of its foundation into the open,
proud of its isolation, proud of having given shape to a single
individual idea of the architect's which has no duplicate in the
whole universe. If this individuality be demolished, then though
no material be lost, not an atom destroyed, the creative joy
which was crystallised therein is gone. We are absolutely
bankrupt if we are deprived of this specialty, this
individuality, which is the only thing we can call our own; and
which, if lost, is also a loss to the whole world. It is most
valuable because it is not universal. And therefore only through
it can we gain the universe more truly than if we were lying
within its breast unconscious of our distinctiveness. The
universal is ever seeking its consummation in the unique. And
the desire we have to keep our uniqueness intact is really the
desire of the universe acting in us. It is our joy of the
infinite in us that gives us our joy in ourselves.
That this separateness of self is considered by man as his most
precious possession is proved by the sufferings he undergoes and
the sins he commits for its sake. But the consciousness of
separation has come from the eating of the fruit of knowledge.
It has led man to shame and crime and death; yet it is dearer to
him than any paradise where the self lies, securely slumbering in
perfect innocence in the womb of mother nature.
It is a constant striving and suffering for us to maintain the
separateness of this self of ours. And in fact it is this
suffering which measures its value. One side of the value is
sacrifice, which represents how much the cost has been. The
other side of it is the attainment, which represents how much has
been gained. If the self meant nothing to us but pain and
sacrifice, it could have no value for us, and on no account would
we willingly undergo such sacrifice. In such case there could be
no doubt at all that the highest object of humanity would be the
annihilation of self.
But if there is a corresponding gain, if it does not end in a
void but in a fullness, then it is clear that its negative
qualities, its very sufferings and sacrifices, make it all the
more precious. That it is so has been proved by those who have
realised the positive significance of self, and have accepted its
responsibilities with eagerness and undergone sacrifices without
flinching.
With the foregoing introduction it will be easy for me to answer
the question once asked by one of my audience as to whether the
annihilation of self has not been held by India as the supreme
goal of humanity?
In the first place we must keep in mind the fact that man is
never literal in the expression of his ideas, except in matters
most trivial. Very often man's words are not a language at all,
but merely a vocal gesture of the dumb. They may indicate, but
do not express his thoughts. The more vital his thoughts the
more have his words to be explained by the context of his life.
Those who seek to know his meaning by the aid of the dictionary
only technically reach the house, for they are stopped by the
outside wall and find no entrance to the hall. This is the
reason why the teachings of our greatest prophets give rise to
endless disputations when we try to understand them by following
their words and not be realising them in our own lives. The men
who are cursed with the gift of the literal mind are the
unfortunate ones who are always busy with their nets and neglect
the fishing.
It is not only in Buddhism and the Indian religions, but in
Christianity too, that the ideal of selflessness is preached with
all fervour. In the last the symbol of death has been used for
expressing the idea of man's deliverance from the life which is
not true. This is the same as Nirvnāna, the symbol of the
extinction of the lamp.
In the typical thought of India it is held that the true
deliverance of man is the deliverance from _avidyā_, from
ignorance. It is not in destroying anything that is positive and
real, for that cannot be possible, but that which is negative,
which obstructs our vision of truth. When this obstruction,
which is ignorance, is removed, then only is the eyelid drawn up
which is no loss to the eye.
It is our ignorance which makes us think that our self, as self,
is real, that it has its complete meaning in itself. When we
take that wrong view of self then we try to live in such a manner
as to make self the ultimate object of our life. Then we are
doomed to disappointment like the man who tries to reach his
destination by firmly clutching the dust of the road. Our self
has no means of holding us, for its own nature is to pass on; and
by clinging to this thread of self which is passing through the
loom of life we cannot make it serve the purpose of the cloth
into which it is being woven. When a man, with elaborate care,
arranges for an enjoyment of the self, he lights a fire but has
no dough to make his bread with; the fire flares up and consumes
itself to extinction, like an unnatural beast that eats its own
progeny and dies.
In an unknown language the words are tyrannically prominent.
They stop us but say nothing. To be rescued from this fetter of
words we must rid ourselves of the _avidyā_, our ignorance, and
then our mind will find its freedom in the inner idea. But it
would be foolish to say that our ignorance of the language can
be dispelled only by the destruction of the words. No, when the
perfect knowledge comes, every word remains in its place, only
they do not bind us to themselves, but let us pass through them
and lead us to the idea which is emancipation.
Thus it is only _avidyā_ which makes the self our fetter by
making us think that it is an end in itself, and by preventing
our seeing that it contains the idea that transcends its limits.
That is why the wise man comes and says, "Set yourselves free
from the _avidyā_; know your true soul and be saved from the
grasp of the self which imprisons you."
We gain our freedom when we attain our truest nature. The man
who is an artist finds his artistic freedom when he finds his
ideal of art. Then is he freed from laborious attempts at
imitation, from the goadings of popular approbation. It is the
function of religion not to destroy our nature but to fulfil it.
The Sanskrit word _dharma_ which is usually translated into
English as religion has a deeper meaning in our language.
_Dharma_ is the innermost nature, the essence, the implicit
truth, of all things. _Dharma_ is the ultimate purpose that
is working in our self. When any wrong is done we say that
_dharma_ is violated, meaning that the lie has been given to
our true nature.
But this _dharma_, which is the truth in us, is not apparent,
because it is inherent. So much so, that it has been held that
sinfulness is the nature of man, and only by the special grace
of God can a particular person be saved. This is like saying
that the nature of the seed is to remain enfolded within its
shell, and it is only by some special miracle that it can be
grown into a tree. But do we not know that the _appearance_ of
the seed contradicts its true nature? When you submit it to
chemical analysis you may find in it carbon and proteid and a
good many other things, but not the idea of a branching tree.
Only when the tree begins to take shape do you come to see its
_dharma_, and then you can affirm without doubt that the seed
which has been wasted and allowed to rot in the ground has been
thwarted in its _dharma_, in the fulfilment of its true nature.
In the history of humanity we have known the living seed in us
to sprout. We have seen the great purpose in us taking shape
in the lives of our greatest men, and have felt certain that
though there are numerous individual lives that seem ineffectual,
still it is not their _dharma_ to remain barren; but it is for
them to burst their cover and transform themselves into a
vigorous spiritual shoot, growing up into the air and light, and
branching out in all directions.
The freedom of the seed is in the attainment of its
_dharma_, its nature and destiny of becoming a tree; it is the
non-accomplishment which is its prison. The sacrifice by which
a thing attains its fulfilment is not a sacrifice which ends in
death; it is the casting-off of bonds which wins freedom.
When we know the highest ideal of freedom which a man has, we
know his _dharma_, the essence of his nature, the real meaning of
his self. At first sight it seems that man counts that as
freedom by which he gets unbounded opportunities of self
gratification and self-aggrandisement. But surely this is not
borne out by history. Our revelatory men have always been those
who have lived the life of self-sacrifice. The higher nature in
man always seeks for something which transcends itself and yet is
its deepest truth; which claims all its sacrifice, yet makes this
sacrifice its own recompense. This is man's _dharma_, man's
religion, and man's self is the vessel which is to carry this
sacrifice to the altar.
We can look at our self in its two different aspects. The self
which displays itself, and the self which transcends itself and
thereby reveals its own meaning. To display itself it tries to
be big, to stand upon the pedestal of its accumulations, and to
retain everything to itself. To reveal itself it gives up
everything it has; thus becoming perfect like a flower that has
blossomed out from the bud, pouring from its chalice of beauty
all its sweetness.
The lamp contains its oil, which it holds securely in its close
grasp and guards from the least loss. Thus is it separate from
all other objects around it and is miserly. But when lighted it
finds its meaning at once; its relation with all things far and
near is established, and it freely sacrifices its fund of oil to
feed the flame.
Such a lamp is our self. So long as it hoards its possessions it
keeps itself dark, its conduct contradicts its true purpose.
When it finds illumination it forgets itself in a moment, holds
the light high, and serves it with everything it has; for therein
is its revelation. This revelation is the freedom which Buddha
preached. He asked the lamp to give up its oil. But purposeless
giving up is a still darker poverty which he never could have
meant. The lamp must give up its oil to the light and thus set
free the purpose it has in its hoarding. This is emancipation.
The path Buddha pointed out was not merely the practice of
self-abnegation, but the widening of love. And therein lies the true
meaning of Buddha's preaching.
When we find that the state of _Nirvāna_ preached by Buddha is
through love, then we know for certain that _Nirvāna_ is the
highest culmination of love. For love is an end unto itself.
Everything else raises the question "Why?" in our mind, and we
require a reason for it. But when we say, "I love," then there
is no room for the "why"; it is the final answer in itself.