What is this dream of yours which you have been working so hard to realize for the past twenty-five, thirty years, ignoring all kinds of hindrances and obstacles?
The dream is one. It is not mine, it is centuries old. Let us call it eternal. This part of the earth began dreaming this dream from the very dawn of human consciousness. How many flowers are strung in this garland? How many Gautam Buddhas, how many Mahaviras, how many Kabirs, how many Nanaks, have sacrificed their lives for this dream? How am I to call it my dream? This dream belongs to man himself, this dream belongs to man’s inner being. We have given this dream a name: we call this dream “India.”
India is not a piece of land, it is not a political entity, not a chapter of historical facts. It is not the mad race for money, power and status. India is a longing, a thirst for the attainment of truth – the truth that resides in our every heartbeat, the truth that is sleeping in the very layers of our consciousness. It is that which although ours has been forgotten. That remembrance, that reaffirmation is India.
“Amritasya putraah – Oh sons and daughters of the eternal!” Only those who have heard this call are the true citizens of India. No one can be a citizen simply by being born in India.
Wherever one is born on earth – in any country, in any century, in the past or in the future – if his search is a search of the inner, he belongs to India.
For me, India and spirituality are synonymous, hence the true sons and daughters of India can found in every nook and corner of the earth. And as far as those who are born in geographical India merely by chance are concerned, until they are mad after the search for immortality, they have no right to be called “the citizens of India.”
India is an eternal pilgrimage, a timeless path that is stretched from eternity to eternity.
That’s why we have never written history in India. Is history something to be written? History is the name given to ordinary, insignificant, day-to-day happenings: those happenings that arise like a storm today and of which there is not a trace to be found tomorrow. History is merely a passing dust storm.
No, India has never written its history. India has only dedicated itself to the eternal – like the chakor bird incessantly watching the moon without a blink of the eye.
I, too, am just another traveler on that eternal pilgrimage. And I have only wished to remind those who have forgotten it, I have only wished to awaken those who have fallen asleep, so that India may regain its inner dignity and pride. The destiny of the whole of mankind is connected with the destiny of India. It is not a question of just one country.