Ami Jharat Bigsat Kanwal #4

Narendra! “Eat, drink, and make merry”—for the Charvakas this is not a means, it is the goal. Here the matter ends; beyond it there is nothing. Life, for them, is complete in this much. That is why they were called Charvaka.

The word is worth understanding. Charvaka is derived from charu-vāk—sweet speech, pleasing words. To most people it sounded pleasing that one should simply eat, drink and make merry; beyond that there is nothing. Ninety-nine out of a hundred are followers of Charvaka—whether they go to temples, mosques, or churches makes no difference; whether Hindu, Muslim, or Christian makes no difference. Their life is Charvaka’s: eating, drinking, making merry—their very definition of living, whether they say it or not. Those who say it are perhaps honest; those who don’t are great hypocrites. It is because of the latter that hypocrisy prevails in the world.

Just yesterday I was reading a reminiscence. Mahatma Gandhi wrote to Pandit Motilal Nehru, the father of Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru. He had heard that Motilal drank in clubs and public gatherings. In his letter he wrote, “If you must drink, at least drink in the privacy of your home! Drinking in crowds, before people… it does not befit you.”

Motilal Nehru’s reply is very significant. He said, “Do not try to make a hypocrite of me. If I drink, why should I hide at home? If I drink, people should know that I drink. The day I don’t drink, I won’t. I did not expect such advice from you!”

Now who is the Mahatma here? In this, Motilal Nehru seems the more honest man; in this, Mahatma Gandhi seems more dishonest. By following Gandhi, the whole country has been becoming dishonest—one thing on the outside, another within. People drink at home and give speeches against alcohol outside! The same people who drink secretly at home make prohibition laws in Parliament! One face to hide, another to show. Teeth to display and different teeth to chew with.

If you look closely at people you will find neither Hindus nor Muslims, neither Jains nor Buddhists; you will find them all Charvakas. And even the heavens these Hindus, Jains, and Muslims long for are thoroughly Charvaka in flavor! In the Muslim paradise, streams of wine flow. Poor Charvaka is content with the small liquor of this world—earthen cups will do; he is content. But the angels of paradise—how could they be content with earthen cups! Rivers flow—drink to your fill; dive in, swim in wine, then you will be satisfied! In paradise beautiful women are available—more beautiful than here.

Here all beauty withers. A flower that blooms now will fade by evening; its petals will fall by dusk. Here all is fleeting. So those who are more greedy and more lustful imagined heaven. There the women are forever beautiful and never grow old. Have you ever heard a story of an old god or an aged apsara? Thousands of years since Urvashi’s story was written—and Urvashi is still young! In heaven the women’s age remains fixed at sixteen, and centuries pass without advancing further.

Whose longings are these?

Since same-sex relations were much propagated in Muslim countries, arrangements for that too exist in paradise. There not only beautiful women but beautiful boys are available. Whose heaven is this? What kind of people are these? And you call them religious?

There is no difference in the Hindu heaven either; the details may vary, but the same desires, the same cravings. In the Hindu heaven stands the Kalpavriksha, the wish-fulfilling tree: sit beneath it and all desires are instantly satisfied—instantly! Not even a moment passes. Even that much patience is not needed there. Here, to earn wealth may take years—and who knows if you will succeed. To gain a beautiful woman or man—thousands of obstacles; success is uncertain, failure more likely. But under the Kalpavriksha in heaven, the very wish arises and its fulfillment is immediate.

I have heard: a man, lost and wandering, unknowingly came under a Kalpavriksha. He did not know it was such a tree. Tired, he wished to lie down and rest a little. The thought arose, “If only there were an inn here, a soft bed and pillows!” No sooner thought than a beautiful bed with cushions appeared! He was so exhausted he didn’t even wonder where it came from. He fell upon it and slept. On waking, refreshed, he thought, “I’m very hungry—if only I could get some food.” Instantly, trays of food arrived. His hunger was so intense he still did not reflect on how this was happening. Only after he had eaten did he begin to think: he had napped, he had satisfied his hunger, and then wondered, “What is going on? Where did this bed come from? I only thought it! Where did this delicious food come from? I only thought it! Perhaps ghosts are around?”—and ghosts appeared all around. Terrified, he cried, “Now I am done for!”—and in that very fear, he died.

Under the Kalpavriksha it is instantaneous—time does not intervene. Who would have invented such a tree? The lustful. These are Charvaka longings. The ordinary Charvaka, the ordinary atheist, is content with this earth. But the extraordinary Charvakas—this earth is not enough; they need paradise, the garden of bliss, the wish-fulfilling tree. If you read the tales of the heavens of various religions, you will be astonished: in their heavens is precisely what they oppose here—exactly that, not a whit different! Here they oppose cabaret dancing, and in Indra’s court nothing but cabaret is going on! And it is for that Indra-loka that people yearn. For it they sit by their sacred fires, practice austerities, stand on their heads, fast. They think, “Life is but a few days; stake it, practice penance and once gain heaven, then eternally…” They think you are foolish, because you chase the transient; they think themselves wise, because they pursue the eternal.

They are more Charvaka than you. “Eat, drink, and make merry”—this is their life goal too; not only here, but beyond, in the next world as well. Read their stories of the afterlife: there are trees whose leaves are gold and silver and whose flowers are diamonds and jewels. What sort of people are these? Here they abuse gold, silver, jewels, and honor those who renounce them. And in heaven that is exactly what is found. What you renounce here will be granted a hundredfold there. Then whoever renounces here does so to receive it infinitely there. And one who longs to receive infinitely—what kind of renunciation is that!

Here ninety-nine out of a hundred are Charvakas. So the name given to the Charvakas is beautiful. The pundits and priests interpret it differently; their meaning is also apt—they say, “those who depend on grazing and being grazed—char.” But the root is charu-vāk—whose words are sweet to all; whose doctrine pleases.

Another name for the Charvakas is Lokayata—also very pleasing. That which delights the folk, lok—Lokayata. What most people find agreeable—Lokayata. What settles into the heart of the people—Lokayata.

Even those called religious here—how religious are they? Just reflect: if God were to appear before you, what would you ask? Think a little—what would you ask? If God said, “Ask for three boons.” From ancient tales it’s always three—who knows why three! Which three would you ask for? Tell no one; think only within. You will know for certain that you too are Charvaka. In your three boons the essence of Charvaka will be contained.

In the name of religion people have created a cover of hypocrisy; inside, they are what they themselves condemn.

I too say: dance, sing, celebrate. But dancing, singing, celebrating are not the destination, not the goal—they are the means. The goal is God. Dance in such a way that the dancer disappears. Sing in such a way that only song remains and the singer is lost. Be so filled with celebration that you are absorbed, enraptured. In that very absorption, that very rapture, God reveals himself.

I do not say to you, “Do not eat, do not drink, do not enjoy.” I say: eat, drink, make merry! God is not against it. But do not end there. Charvaka is beautiful, but not enough. Make Charvaka into a step. Let the stone of the temple steps be of Charvaka; but you are to enter the temple and meet the deity within. And that deity can be met only by those who are full of celebration, within whom the echo of song resounds, on whose lips the flute of joy is playing; whose ankles are belled—with devotion’s anklets, with worship’s anklets. Whose eyes are fixed upon the moon and stars, who are mad for light. Tamso ma jyotir gamaya—From darkness lead me to light! Whose single prayer is: “Lord, lead me toward light!” Asato ma sad gamaya—From the unreal lead me to the real! In whose very life-breath there is but one longing: Mrityor ma amritam gamaya—From death lead me to immortality! “How many times have I been made, how many times unmade—this play is enough; now let me dissolve in the Eternal. I am tired of being.” Your world is beautiful; eating, drinking, making merry—all fine. But these are childish things; now lift me above them.

Let children play with toys, but will you never rise beyond childhood? And do not break the children’s toys either. I do not say, “Break their toys.” The day they are mature, they will drop them on their own.

So there is a great difference between my statement and Charvaka’s. Charvaka says: this is the goal. I say: this is the means. Charvaka says: beyond this, nothing. I say: beyond this, everything. Yes, in one thing I agree: I am not Charvaka’s opponent. Those who oppose Charvaka have succeeded only in making you hypocrites. I do not want to make you hypocrites. I do not want to split your life into two—one thing inside the house and another outside. I want to give you a single color—one that works everywhere, in all situations. I want to give you a way of life in which there is no scope for hypocrisy.

So I am in favor of Charvaka; because those who are anti-Charvaka become supporters of hypocrisy. But I do not end with Charvaka—I begin with Charvaka. For Charvaka there is nothing like sannyas—it is illusion, falsehood, a Brahminical fraud. For Charvaka, sannyas is only the trap of tricksters. For me, sannyas is life’s supreme truth, supreme dignity. For Charvaka the world is true and sannyas false. For the so-called religious, the so-called theists, the world is maya (illusion) and sannyas is truth. For me both are true. And there is no contradiction between these two truths. The world is God’s manifest form, and God is the world’s unmanifest soul.

I want to give you an integral vision in which nothing is denied. I want to give you an affirmative religion, one that can assimilate the world too; whose chest is broad; that can even swallow the world and yet whose sannyas remains unbroken; that can be sannyas-in-the-marketplace; that can live in the home yet be non-possessive; that can be in the world and yet not of it.

So in one sense I agree with Charvaka, and in another I do not.
I agree in this sense: Charvaka lays the foundation of life. But what use is a foundation alone? If no temple is built, the foundation is futile. Your so-called saints and sadhus build temples but lay no foundation. Their temples are hollow. They can fall at any time—indeed, they have fallen; if not now, then soon. Temples without foundations—what reliance can there be on them? Enter them carefully, lest they collapse and take you down with them!

I want to build such a temple in which the world and its materiality form the foundation, and sannyas and the majesty of God form the sanctum. I want to give you a vision that opposes nothing and embraces everything. And I want to give you an art, an alchemy of transformation, in which we succeed in finding God’s image even in stone, and in turning poison into nectar.

This is possible. And until it happens, there will be only two kinds of people on earth: the honest will be Charvakas; the dishonest will be theists, the religious.

These are not good options—that the honest must be Charvakas and the religious must be dishonest. Not good options. We have not given the world a proper path to choose.

I speak of the third alternative. I say: one can be religious without being dishonest.

But then Charvaka must be accepted. You cannot reject Charvaka. Eating, drinking, and merriment are life’s naturalness. The rishis who said “Annam Brahma!” must have understood this; only then did they say it. To call food Brahman—what does it mean? It means to experience Him even in eating. To taste Him in taste itself. That is the alchemy that transforms Charvaka. When you eat, eat Him; when you drink, drink Him; when you celebrate, do so around Him—do not forget Him!

And we have called God “rasa-rupa”—rasa vai sah: He indeed is Rasa. What more is needed? Let there be the proof of that Rasa. Let His current of rasa flow in your eyes. Let His song of rasa resound in your life-breath. Let your very being reflect the glimmer of His rasa—become its proof.

Therefore I say: dance, sing, celebrate. Therefore I say: if you are going toward God, why go weeping? If you can go laughing, why go crying? And even if you weep, let your tears be the tears of joy. Burn too—but in His fire. And when one burns in His fire, the fire is very cool. When one burns in His fire, it does not consume—it refines.

Charvaka is an old philosophy—very ancient, perhaps the most ancient. Primitive man first discovered eating, drinking, making merry. The search for God came much later. For God’s search, refinement is needed. Only when some hearts had become pure, when the strings of some hearts had begun to vibrate, did the search for God begin.

Charvaka is primitive philosophy, the eternal substratum. The rest came later. Make Charvaka the foundation, because what is eternal and what lies hidden within you, what lies in your base—if you deny it you will never be whole. Deny it and a limb of yours breaks off; you become crippled.

And remember, a cripple does not reach God. You must be whole. Only in your total beauty can you journey toward Him.

But people, outwardly, are not Charvakas. I know many members of Parliament who agitate for prohibition—and they drink! I have asked them: when you yourselves drink, why don’t you work against prohibition? Why do you strive for prohibition?

They say, “After all, we have to seek votes from the public, don’t we? Before the public we must keep a face, a mask. As for drinking, we can do it at home, with friends. Everyone drinks! Outside we can keep another face.”

I know leaders who go to give speeches in favor of prohibition after drinking!

When I was a student at a university, the vice-chancellor there was a great drunkard. He once gave a speech against prohibition! He was so drunk that his Gandhi cap fell off twice. The first time it fell, he felt around and put it back on his head. The second time, he was so intoxicated he took the cap off the person next to him and put it on his own head!

When the university convocation took place, two professors had to go and stay at his house twenty-four hours beforehand to prevent him from drinking. Because at the convocation he would create great chaos. Those who were to receive BA degrees would get MA; those who were to receive PhD might get BA! Once it even happened—and one couldn’t interrupt him in the middle; he was the supreme authority.

I asked him, “At least on the day you had to speak for prohibition, you could have refrained from drinking!”

He said, “If I don’t drink, I can’t speak at all. Only when I drink can I say such useless things; otherwise I can’t. This kind of empty nonsense is not possible without drinking.”

In Morarji-bhai Desai’s cabinet, of however many there are, at least seventy-five percent drink; perhaps more. Those who have calculated carefully say ninety percent. But I will say a little less—so that even in court I can provide evidence! Seventy-five percent certainly drink.

There is a hypocrisy common among so-called religious people—say one thing, do another; show one thing, be another.

We have left only two options for man: either be a pure materialist—which is not good either, because life becomes very limited. The connection with the sky is severed. Crawling on earth becomes our fate; we can no longer fly in the sky, take wing toward the sun. Or else we are left with hypocrisy. Or we become so false that we no longer even remember we are false. If someone speaks only lies throughout life, the lies begin to feel like truth.

A poet, before reciting his poetry, warned the “hooters”: “Look, if you hoot me, I will commit suicide.”

Hearing this, all the hooters who were laughing grew serious. After a while one asked, “Will you really commit suicide?”

The poet said, “Absolutely, absolutely certain. It is my old habit. I always do this.”

By lying and lying, you reach a point where even you cannot recognize that you are lying. Lies repeated constantly begin to feel like truth. Hypocrisy has become religion!

I do not want you to reject Charvaka. I want you to accept Charvaka. Acceptance of Charvaka is entirely natural. What sin is there in delicious food? In eating, drinking, and making merry lies human dignity, human worth.

Just look: animals also eat and drink. What is the difference between animals eating and drinking and humans doing so? Only one: no animal celebrates eating and drinking. If a dog gets a piece of bread, he does not invite four other dogs: “Come, brothers!” If a dog gets bread he runs to a corner, seeks solitude. He invites no one. Fearing someone may come, he turns his back to others.

Man wants to invite friends, sit among loved ones; he turns eating into a celebration. There is culture there, civility.

The vice-chancellor I mentioned was a lovable man. He never drank alone. If friends could not gather at his house, he would go to sleep without drinking. I asked, “Why so?”

He said, “What is the point of drinking alone? The joy of drinking is with four.”

You will be surprised to know that those who drink are often more sociable, more friendly, more generous than those who do not. Why? Because the joy of drinking is with companions.

Now those who drink their own urine—such people won’t drink it with four! They will become solitary. They will drink hiding. They will have to drink in secret. There can be no sense of humanity in that.

When Morarji Desai was young he wanted to marry a girl. His father was against it. Matters worsened so much that his father jumped into a well and committed suicide! Many told Morarji, “You will, of course, marry the one you wish, but at least wait a few days now!” But he did not wait. The father died, yet on the date he had decided—exactly three days after his father’s suicide—the marriage took place. He went ahead and got married. Now there was no one to oppose. Had he waited a fortnight or a month, it would have done no harm. But a certain inhumanity…

Morarji Desai’s daughter also committed suicide—because of him. His father did too—because of him. I fear the entire country may do the same because of him.

His daughter was not beautiful to look at—she must have been as he is! For a long time no groom could be found. At twenty-seven she finally found a man with great difficulty. He too was not interested in her; he was interested in Morarji—then the Chief Minister of Bombay—that he might climb the ladder through him. Morarji did not approve. Fully knowing his daughter would find it hard to get a match—her style was like his. Now this one had been found with great difficulty, whatever the pretext. But because he opposed, the daughter committed suicide, for she had no hope of finding another man in the future.

When he went to the hospital to see his burned, dead daughter, he did not utter a word. Doctors were astonished, the nurses amazed! No expression came over his face; not a word. He stood for a minute and left. Outside the room he told the doctors, “As soon as the formalities are complete, release the body to my family so that the last rites may be performed,” and he went away.

Such hardness! Such inhumanity!

No, you will not find this in drunkards. In the drunkard there is a certain good-heartedness.

One who calls four friends to eat has a certain good-heartedness, a touch of sociability. There is a feeling of friendship.

Animals and birds too eat like this; the difference between them and man is that man gives even eating a refinement. There is a table, chairs, cutlery; a way of sitting; incense is lit; flowers arranged; lights made, lamps lit. Without all this food can be eaten. None of this is part of food. But it gives food a refinement, a civility.

One can drink in a corner alone. But when you invite five friends, chat and sing while you drink, the joy of drinking is different.

I am not willing to reject Charvaka. Charvaka I fully accept. But I am not willing to stop with Charvaka. That much is not enough. Sociability is good; giving eating and drinking a refinement is good; friendship is good; but it is not sufficient; one must also seek God.

And I do not see any contradiction between Charvaka and the search for God. In truth, I see a harmony, a bridge.

I do not tell you to become hypocrites. I tell you: be true. Accept yourself as you are. And in that simplicity and naturalness, move slowly toward God.

Do not make yourself needlessly strained in going toward God. The journey to God is most beautiful when it is as effortless as possible.

Kailash Goswami! Shri Kanti Bhatt is quite right. The people who gather around Krishnamurti are the so‑called intelligent. Because what Krishnamurti speaks is simply mathematics and logic. There is no heart in it, no feeling, no devotion, no song of life—only a dry analysis of life. There is no dance of life in it—only the arithmetic of dance.

And there is a difference between the two. One thing is that someone plays the veena; quite another is that the music of the veena is notated on paper—music does have notation—and then someone analyzes that notated music on paper. The difference is vast. People who are analysis-prone, who take relish in chopping things into bits and offering explanations, will find Krishnamurti tremendously attractive.

My passion is not for logic; my passion is for love. My passion is not for mathematics; my passion is for song. My passion is not for notated music; it is for playing the veena. Erudition is insubstantial to me; I have great reverence for divine madness.

So how could Shri Kanti Bhatt see here the distillate of intelligence? Here it must seem that the crazies have gathered, the madcaps, the revelers! This is a tavern.

Those who go to Krishnamurti are a congregation of egoists. If you want to see a pure congregation of the ego-proud, you will find it with Krishnamurti. And Krishnamurti himself is tired and bored of that crowd. But his manner of saying things, his mode of speaking, his basic proposition are such that no one other than those egoists can ever gather around him.

Krishnamurti himself has attained knowing, but his expression is dry. From his expression you get no sense that the Divine is savor and form. From his expression no possibility opens that truth can also be found through total absorption. His tone is a single tone; it is the tone of meditation—be aware, watch with a wakeful mind, remain alert.

This is one path—only one! There is another path as well, exactly the opposite; it is the path of love—drown, be dissolved. Not to remain standing off at a distance in awareness, but to be absorbed.

I speak of both paths. Because in the world there are both kinds of people. Some will be fulfilled through meditation. For them I analyze too. For them I also speak the language of logic. And some will be fulfilled through love. For them I sing intoxicating songs. Since I speak the two opposites together, since I bring both contraries into a single harmony, those who live only by thought will see contradictions in what I say; they will see disharmony. Naturally so—because when I speak on Mahavira I am pure logic, and when I speak on Meera I am pure alogic. Those who listen to me will gradually feel, “But there is contradiction here, there is inconsistency.” Therefore one who lives by logic will find disharmony in my words.

Krishnamurti’s words are highly consistent, because he has been repeating a single note for fifty years. In that note he has never made the slightest alteration, never allowed any inconsistency. Two and two are four, two and two are four, two and two are four—he has been repeating this for fifty years.

One who listens to me will hear me say at times: two and two are four. And at times: two and two are five. And at times: two and two are three. And sometimes: two and two don’t add up at all! And sometimes I say: two and two have always been one—how will you add them? So a very different kind of person is gathering around me—otherwise, a quite other kind!

Only those gather around Krishnamurti who have the delusion that they are intelligent. What has been gained? They keep gathering, they keep listening; the store of information grows. What is attained? People who have listened to Krishnamurti for thirty or forty years come to me and say, “We’ve understood everything, but we’ve received nothing!” What use is such understanding?

I do not give you understanding; I give you experience. I don’t tell you, “Know this much, know that much.” I say, “Drown this much, drown this much!” I push you into the ocean.

Those who are ready to bear that shove naturally will not look like intelligent people to Shri Kanti Bhatt. And Kanti Bhatt himself is a journalist, a writer; so he likely thinks in terms of mathematics and logic. He has no idea that beyond mathematics and logic there is a vast sky.

Those who understand me can also find Krishnamurti in my words. Those who understand Krishnamurti cannot find me in his words. Krishnamurti’s courtyard is small and tidy; he keeps a small, neat garden. A Victorian garden—England’s garden! Pruned and clipped, clean and symmetrical. A bush on this side, and exactly the same in proportion and measure on the other side. The lawn trimmed.

There is much in Krishnamurti that is Victorian. He was brought up among such people—Annie Besant, Leadbeater—raised and educated by them, in England. That imprint has remained on him.

Look at my garden; it is a forest! As my garden is, so am I. No symmetry anywhere, no imposed order. One tree tall, another short. The paths are crooked, meandering. Mukta is my gardener. Mukta is Greek—Greek logic! In the beginning she tried very hard that on this side there should be exactly the same kind of bush as on that side, there should be balance between the two. She tried hard to trim the bushes into shape. But gradually she understood that with me this would not do. Secretly, behind my back, hiding herself, she would sneak in with the pruning shears to line up the bushes along the paths. Slowly she understood that my garden will remain a forest.

In the forest I see beauty; in the clipped garden I see death. A man’s pruned garden cannot be beautiful; by pruning and clipping its naturalness is destroyed. I am a lover of the natural. And nature is vast—very vast.

A Zen master taught an emperor the art of gardening. When the training was complete, he came to examine the emperor’s garden. The emperor had a thousand gardeners. For the day of examination three years of preparation had gone in. He thought the master would be delighted. No mistake had been left— that was in fact the mistake! That was learned much later. The garden was absolutely perfect in every detail. That was the imperfection. Because in perfect things death sets in. Where there is perfection, death settles. As the master entered, the emperor expected ecstasy and praise, but the master became more and more desolate the deeper he went. The emperor said, “You’re sad! I’ve worked hard. I’ve followed every rule to perfection.”

The master said, “That is where you erred. You’ve followed the rules with such perfection that all nature has been destroyed. This garden seems false, not true. And I don’t see any dry leaves! Where there are so many trees, not a single dry leaf on the paths?”

The emperor said, “Just today I had all the dry leaves collected and thrown outside, so that everything would be clean for your arrival.”

The old master picked up a basket, went out, gathered the leaves that had been thrown away, brought them back full and scattered them on the paths. A breeze came, the leaves rustled and skittered, and the master was pleased. He said, “Now do you see? A little life has arrived. Do you see this sound, do you hear this music! This rustling of dry leaves—without it your garden was a corpse. I will come again. Work for a year more. This time, worry that this much perfection is not good; being so rule‑bound is not good; a little imperfection is auspicious; a little violation of rule is auspicious—so that nature gets a chance. You have disciplined all the trees like soldiers. You have robbed the trees of their originality, their uniqueness. No tree is like another; each is only itself.”

I accept and honor the individuality of each person. I don’t want to prune and make you all alike. When I see that a rose of love will bloom in you, I do not talk to you of meditation. And when I see that a jasmine of meditation will bloom in you, I do not talk to you of roses. And because I speak to one of roses, to another of jasmine, to someone of champa, to someone of kewda, inconsistency in my words is natural.

Only one who has the chest to bear a thousand inconsistencies can come to me. It takes a big heart! To listen to Krishnamurti a very small skull is enough. A small skull—know a little logic, a little arithmetic, a little school‑college education, and Krishnamurti will be understood.

With me it will not go so cheaply. With me, friendships form with drunkards. Those who connect with me are crazies and lovers—who don’t demand consistency; who have a heart that can see harmony even in disharmony, and can build bridges between contradictions. This is a different kind of world.

Krishnamurti’s teachings are only teachings. He ended up as a teacher, not a true Master. And his listeners never became disciples, they remained merely students.

Here there is no place for students. I am not a teacher and I have no doctrine of education. I myself am a madman—one who has drunk to his fill! If you befriend me, you will have to learn to stagger along with me! There is no other way.

Therefore, Kailash Goswami, Kanti Bhatt is right that the distillate of intelligence gathers around Krishnamurti. But the distillate of intelligence is of no value at all—worth not even two pennies.

For about fifteen years the same kind of people used to gather around me too. Then I had to work very hard to get free of them. That same distillate of intelligence was collecting around me. Those who go to listen to Krishnamurti used to come to listen to me—almost the very same people! I had to labor greatly to be rid of them, and only with difficulty did I manage it. Because they ruined Krishnamurti’s life. They prevented the benefit that could have come from Krishnamurti’s life. Everything remained on the plane of intellect. And I did not want the same to happen around me.

There is another difficulty. If only one kind of crowd gathers around you, trouble arises. You have to speak in the language they understand. I wanted people of all colors and all styles. I wanted a rainbow—people of all seven colors. I didn’t want a one‑string ektara; I wanted all kinds of instruments, so that I could create an orchestra in which every instrument is included.

Those people who gathered with their ektara—getting rid of them was very hard. It had to be done, because the language their crowd understood was the very language I would be compelled to speak.

Now I have a congregation that is willing to understand the language I speak, because they recognize my heart. Now my sannyasins don’t have to worry too much about my words. They read my feeling in my words. They hear my meaning in my words. Now my silence has begun to be heard by my sannyasins.

I am happy, because now I don’t have to speak to the crowds, to the common masses. I have slowly gathered those who can understand me, who can listen, who can assimilate me. I have invited them and called them close. Now I have people around me who have no expectations of me—“Say this, say it this way.” They have no expectations. They are ready to drink me. As I am, so they are ready to drink. Whatever I pour today, they are ready to drink. They won’t say, “But yesterday you poured something else, and today it is different!” Yesterday was yesterday; today is today; and tomorrow will be tomorrow. They are no longer anxious to impose consistency.

It is a bit of a difficult affair—to hold together people of all seven colors, people of all styles! There is great joy in it, and great hassle too.

Krishnamurti escaped the hassle, but then he couldn’t do what he wanted to do. Krishnamurti is deeply sorrowful—not for himself; for himself the lamp is lit, the matter is complete. His sorrow is that he could not light anyone else’s lamp. Therefore he gets angry, he shouts, he bangs his head—because people simply don’t understand. But it is not merely the people’s fault. The way Krishnamurti spoke gathered the kind of people who have no desire to change. They come only to listen, to collect a few more bits of information, to become a little more erudite; to sharpen their analytical capacity—that is why they come.

This is a congregation of egoists. Because Krishnamurti says there is no need to make anyone a guru, no need anywhere to surrender. So the people who gather around Krishnamurti are those who are incapable of surrender, whose ego is so strong they cannot bow before anyone. For them Krishnamurti’s words become a cover—a very beautiful cover! They say, “There is simply no need to bow; therefore we don’t bow.” The truth is something else: they cannot bow; therefore they don’t bow. But now they have an argument in their hand that there is no need to bow at all. “Surrender is not necessary; therefore we don’t surrender.” The truth is different. Surrender is not within everyone’s capacity; it requires great courage—the courage to erase oneself!

The experiment I am doing is unique on the earth; that is why people like Shri Kanti Bhatt will not understand it. It will take centuries to understand what I am doing. Till now many experiments have been done. Buddha spoke one language—consistent; one kind of people gathered. Mahavira spoke another—consistent; another kind of people gathered. Chaitanya spoke a third—consistent; a third kind of people gathered. Those who gathered around Chaitanya came with cymbals and hand‑bells, with dholak and mridang; they danced and sang. Those who gathered around Buddha did vipassana, closed their eyes and sat silently. Those who gathered around Mahavira fasted, purified the body. Different people, their different methods; people congenial to them gathered.

What I am doing is unique—never done. No one ever wanted to take on such a hassle. Here vipassana is also happening—for those who want to sit silent and become still, the door is open. For those who want to dance to the beat of the mridang, the door is open. For those who want to play the flute in solitude, there is a door. And for those who want to be absorbed in music with many, there is a door.

I am building a temple that will have all the doors—the door of the mosque, and the church, and the gurudwara, and the temple, and the synagogue—every door. Come from wherever you like, through whichever door appeals to you. Inside, the same Divine resides.

This is a hassle. To hold such different kinds of people together is hard work. But it seems to be happening. Slowly it is being done; but it is being done.

As usual, when Mulla Nasruddin let out his opening note at a music conference, a listener stood up and said politely, “Sir, change your singing style. Yesterday I sang just like you and was almost beaten up.”

Mulla Nasruddin began his song in his own style and said, “Sir, I think your way of singing must have been inferior. Had you sung exactly in my style, you would certainly have been beaten.”

What is happening around me is like the impossible becoming possible. It will take centuries to understand it. Intellect alone will not suffice—you will need the depth of the heart. Logic alone will not work, because the people gathering here are not the distillate of intelligence—they are the distillate of wholeness. Their bodies are involved, their minds are involved, their hearts are involved, their souls are involved. Those who gather around Krishnamurti are the distillate of intelligence. Those who gather around me are the distillate of totality. That is a different matter. That is a vast sky. It is not a small courtyard.

A small courtyard can be kept neat and whitewashed. How will you whitewash this vast sky? How will you keep it tidy? It has to be accepted as it is.

I am a devotee of nature. For me, nature is God. And all the forms the Divine has taken are acceptable to me. In whatever ways the Divine has expressed itself, I honor them all.

If a devotee goes to Krishnamurti, he will say: Wrong! What is there in devotion? What will come of banging your head before a stone idol in a temple? Bhajan and kirtan are all self‑hypnosis. Music and congregational singing are all ways to delude yourself.

If a devotee comes to me, I will say: God is even in the stone—because only God is! So he will be there in the stone too! But you will see him in the stone only when you begin to see him in yourself; otherwise your worship will remain false. If you do not see him in yourself, if you do not see him in your wife, in your child—how will you see him in the statue of the temple?

Yes, God is certainly in the stone, because God is another name for existence itself. And the stone is—just as much as I am, as much as you are! The very is‑ness of the stone is its divinity. But to see in stone you will need deeper eyes. For now your eyes are so shallow that you don’t see even in living human beings, not in animals and birds, not in trees—and you will see in stone!

And then, not even in all stones. Let someone tap a little with a chisel and hammer, and then you begin to see; or let someone smear vermilion on a stone and you begin to see. Just by smearing vermilion!

You know, when the English first built roads in India and put up mile‑stones, a great difficulty arose. They painted the mile‑stones red. Roads passed by villages and any stone on which red was smeared would be garlanded—people thought it was Hanumanji! The English were in a fix. People would crack coconuts, shout “Victory to Hanuman!” And the English would write on it “Mile,” how many miles to the next town. But villagers, every month or two, would smear more vermilion—because Hanuman must be offered vermilion. Layer upon layer!

Smear a little vermilion and a stone suddenly becomes Hanumanji. And if such a Hanuman meets you on the road, you will run...

As for you—Vivekananda has written in his memoirs that while traveling in the Himalayas a ferocious monkey set upon him. Monkeys and dogs have a strange enmity with uniforms—who knows why! A policeman passes by and dogs begin to bark; the postman, or a sannyasin—any uniform... enemies of uniforms! Seeing Vivekananda in ochre robes, the monkey got angry and chased him. Vivekananda was a powerful and courageous man, but if Hanumanji himself starts after you... even Vivekananda ran! You must save your life at such moments. As he ran, the monkey enjoyed it even more—as anyone enjoys chasing someone who is running. You will find plenty who love to chase the one who flees. The monkey relished it more and more.

Then Vivekananda thought, “If I keep running, he will attack.” Seeing no other way—mountain solitude, no escape, no one around—he thought, “Now there is only one remedy: turn and stand my ground. Whatever Hanumanji does, so be it.” He turned and stood. As he turned and stood, the monkey too turned and stood. After all, it was just a monkey.

If Hanumanji meets you on the road, you too will run. You will start pleading, “Hanumanji, are you angry? What is the matter?” You used to go to a stone and pray, “O Hanumanji, please appear!”

You will worship the stone and you don’t yet see God even in man! Let man be; you don’t see him within yourself—the nearest of the near, seated like breath within your breath—there you do not see!

So I will tell the devotee: surely, God is in stone—because only God is! But first search within. And if you can find him within, then he is in the temple’s statue as well. Why only the statue? He is in the uncarved rock lying by the roadside too. Then everywhere you will see only him.

Whatever you bring, I will use it to make a stair for you. I will try to turn into a step the very stone on which you stumble.

Krishnamurti has one single tune. Even an inch this way or that, he does not accept you. He has clothes tailored in advance. If there is a misfit, the flaw is in you. He will fit you to the clothes, not the clothes to you.

There is an old Greek tale: a certain emperor was crazy. His craze was a golden bed, very precious. Any guest who came to his home would be made to sleep on that bed. But there was a hitch. Nobody would visit. As people learned—some guests went and never returned—visiting ceased. Now and then someone got caught by mistake, and he would be laid on that bed. If his legs were longer than the bed, they were cut off; if his legs were shorter, two wrestlers would pull him from both sides to stretch him. Only when he was exactly the size of the bed would they let him sleep. But where was sleep then? The man was finished. And where will you find a man exactly the size of the bed! Perhaps once in a hundred thousand you might, by chance, but otherwise not. One will be an inch short, another an inch long—this way or that.

In this world no person is born according to any single logical scheme, nor is his destiny to live according to any scheme. Krishnamurti has a fixed mold for life. He says, “Other than this, there is nothing.”

I have no ready-made clothes. My respect for you is such that I don’t worry about the bed. If needed, the bed can be shortened or lengthened; you cannot be. If you are a devotee, I will add luster to your devotion. If you are a meditator, I will add luster to your meditation. I will add to what you are. If there is some rubbish inside you, I will surely say, “Throw it out, remove it.” But I will not wound the intimacy, the privacy, of your style of being.

Therefore, naturally, my words will be inconsistent. And the biggest obstacle for the so‑called intelligent is that they demand consistency. But what can I do? People are so different. Difference is the very nature of this world. That is not in my hands. The bed can be cut; you cannot. And sometimes cutting the bed works wonders.

Mulla Nasruddin was very troubled. He had one obsession: ten times a night he would get up and look under his bed to see if any thief, robber, or rascal was hiding there. And rightly so—because thieves and rascals are so influential nowadays, spread everywhere, that one must be alert. His wife was miserable too: “You don’t sleep, nor do you let me sleep. Ten times a night you light the lamp and look—no one is under the bed!” She took him to psychiatrists; they explained a lot, did psychoanalysis, interpreted his unconscious, interpreted his dreams; nothing worked. His malady continued.

Then one day he came to me, very pleased, and said, “My mother‑in‑law came and settled the matter in a minute.”

I said, “Your mother‑in‑law seems to be a great psychologist.”

He said, “Not at all. There is not even a trace of intellect in her. But she finished it in a minute.”

I said, “What did she do?”

He said, “She picked up a saw and cut off the four legs of my bed. Now my bed rests on the floor; now no one can hide under it. The great psychologists failed. Now even if I want to get up, it’s useless. Out of old habit my sleep breaks, but I think, ‘What’s the point? No one can hide under there; she has chopped the legs off. The bed sits on the ground.’”

If the bed’s legs need cutting, cut them. If the bed needs to be made smaller, make it smaller; if bigger, make it bigger. Leave the man intact! Have respect for the person and respect for his feeling. And therefore, naturally, my words are very inconsistent, because I sing different songs for different people. If you mix them all together and try to erect one system of thought, it won’t be possible.

Those who come here to listen with logic will get into a real mess.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin, in a great fury, kept declaiming his sharp and fiery poems for a long time. The crowd kept shouting, “Stop!” But the more they shouted, the louder he read, and the angrier he got. People clapped so that he would stop; he thought they were applauding. Finally one man stood up and said, “Sir! Will you stop reciting or not? If you don’t stop, I’ll go mad.”

Mulla Nasruddin, startled and puzzled, said, “Brother! I stopped reciting an hour ago.”

Those who come to listen to me with logic, who try to balance equations, will go mad. Those who listen with feeling—this is satsang; no instruction is being given here. Here I am sharing myself; I’m not distributing doctrines. I am pouring myself out; I am not giving you a theory. Truth cannot be transferred; truth is contagious. Here I am calling you close so that truth may catch you too, become infectious. This is a settlement of mad lovers; and it is an invitation to mad lovers. The arrogant will come and go back on their own, because surrender is the key here. The arrogant will come and won’t even hear what I am saying, because without discipleship nothing here can be heard. The rationalist will come and hear something else entirely, because what is being spoken here is of love, not of logic. Something is being said here which cannot be said at all. Here, the effort is to give utterance to the unutterable.

Then people come with their own account books. Shri Kanti Bhatt must have come with his own accounts, listened by his own reckoning, understood by his own reckoning. Perhaps Krishnamurti fills his heart too much—then a blockage arises; he keeps weighing and comparing. And whoever weighs, misses. I will say one thing; he will understand another.

A crowd had thronged to hear a poets’ gathering. As soon as Mulla Nasruddin stood to recite, a listener from the crowd shouted a question: “Sir! Before you begin, please tell us—how many hairs are there on a donkey’s head?”

Mulla Nasruddin looked for a moment toward where the voice had come from and said, “Forgive me, in this large crowd I cannot see your head.”

There is only one source of rasa—rasa vai sah! There is no other source. The Divine alone is the source of rasa; rasa is simply another name for That.

A saint says nothing of his own; he hums only Him. A saint is one who has nothing of his own left to say—nothing personal remains. The saint is a hollow bamboo reed, lifted into the hands of the Divine: whatever song He wishes to play, He plays; if He does not wish, He does not. However He plays, it is played. The bamboo reed is only a reed. If He breathes, it becomes a flute; if He does not, it remains a hollow reed. The songs are His, not the flute’s. The notes are His.

A saint is only a medium, a mere instrument—leaving himself in the hands of the Divine, like a puppet.

Have you seen puppets dance? There are hidden strings, and behind, the puppeteer is hidden. However he makes them dance, they dance—if he makes them fight, they fight; if he makes them meet, they meet; he makes them converse, he draws a thousand acts from them.

A saint is simply one who has known this one thing: I am not; God is. Now whatever He makes happen. Hence the rasa in their speech, the nectar in their words. Nectar showers because they have become connected to the source of nectar. Lotuses blossom because they have joined the source from which the lotus draws its sap.

After the fall
a new spring has come
into my voice!
On the branches of speech
flowers of feeling have bloomed,
a heady breeze flows by
bearing fragrance’s burden,
a sea of mustard blossoms
has surged and swayed
in my voice!
In the waves of speech
there flare and glow
the living, burning embers
of palash blossoms!
In the tremor of speech
a fresh pain of life
has rippled and spread!
Into my voice
a new spring has come!
The mango buds are fragrant,
swaying, swaying in ecstasy,
a new song of life,
this intoxicating new raga
the cuckoo has sung
in my voice!
Soaked in love of life
flies rosy gulal!
Feelings, with the ache of sorrow,
and the woundings of experience,
have pressed the cheeks aflush!
This rosy radiance’s
new light has fallen
into my voice!
Arrange flowers of trust,
light lamps of reverence,
with unbroken faith and
the vermilion of affection
I’ve set the platter
for worship of a new age
in my voice!
After the fall
a new spring has come
into my voice!

First let yourself shed in autumn—leaf by leaf fall away! Let nothing of “yours” remain—naked, like a tree after the fall. Then new shoots sprout, new flowers appear. Those flowers are not yours; they are God’s. Those shoots are not yours; they are God’s. Learn the art of disappearing. The day you vanish completely, that day God will flow through you—day and night He will flow, like a flood. And then not only will you be fulfilled; whoever comes near you will have the thirst of lifetimes quenched.

You ask, Vaidamurti: “From what source comes such rasa in the speech of saints? And why does the speech of saints give such fulfillment and reassurance?”

This is why there is reassurance: because a saint is the evidence of God. There is no other proof—not the Vedas, not the Upanishads, not the Quran. Proof is always a living saint. Mohammed can be a proof, Yajnavalkya can be a proof, Buddha can be a proof, Dariya can be a proof. The proof is always a living presence, around whom there is an aura—an aura you can touch, an aura you can feel, an aura you can taste; around whom there is a sweetness, a honeyed grace; in whose presence, if there is a seeker in you, you become a bee to drink the nectar.

And who is without thirst? People keep their thirst suppressed, they keep it forgotten. But thirst is in all. Across lifetimes, what have you been seeking? When the Infinite manifests in a saint, you receive assurance that your running is not in vain; that what descended as a shadow into your imaginings and dreams is not merely a shadow, not merely maya—it can be truth. What I have asked for—if someone has attained it, then I can attain it too. If what I desired has been fulfilled in another, it can be fulfilled in me as well. If in someone just like me—in flesh, bone, and marrow—such infinite peace and bliss has dawned, then it will dawn in me too. Hence the reassurance.

Sitting near saints, trust swells, reverence awakens. Then you don’t have to “believe.” Belief is something you force. Reverence arises on its own. Those are the feet before which your head bows of itself, without being made to bow.

It happened that until the Buddha attained enlightenment, he practiced great austerities—severe, formidable. He tormented and withered his body, fasted, stood in the heat and in the cold. The day he left the palace he had a body as delicate as a flower; he shrank, grew dark, only bones remained. The stories say his belly touched his spine. Five disciples gathered around him, impressed by his austerities: “This is a great ascetic.” Then one day the Buddha realized, “What am I doing? This is self-violence, self-murder! This is no way to find God or truth. I’m only destroying myself—what am I gaining?” After six years of continuous austerity, he understood: “These six years I have wasted—only in tormenting and troubling myself. This is violence, self-violence.” In that very moment he renounced that self-violence.

Naturally, the five disciples—who were with him precisely because they were impressed by that self-violence—said, “This Gautam has fallen. Why stay with him now? He is no longer our master. We will seek another.” He had abandoned austerity.

Was there any sin in it?

Only this much happened that made the five leave: that evening, sitting beneath a peepal tree, a woman—Sujata—had vowed, “If I become a mother, I will offer a platter of sweet rice pudding to the deity of the peepal tree.” She had conceived, and now she came with delicious sweet rice to offer at the peepal.

A full-moon night, the peepal tree, and beneath it the Buddha seated in majesty. She thought the deity of the peepal had himself appeared to accept her offering. On any other day the Buddha would have refused—for it was night, and eating at night was prohibited; and in those days he ate only once, at noon, so a second meal was out of the question. But that very evening he had understood austerity to be self-violence and had dropped it. So when she offered him the sweet rice, he accepted it. Seeing him accept it, the five disciples stood up and left. “Gautam has fallen! Night-eating! Sweet rice made by an unknown woman—who knows whether she is Brahmin or Shudra? And at night! He has broken the rule of one meal.” They left.

That very night the Buddha attained enlightenment. In the fullness of that night, as the last star was setting and the sun was about to rise, the sun rose within the Buddha. The last star sank, the darkness vanished, light spread.

He remembered: “Those five have left me. But now that I have known, it is my duty to go first to them, to share it. For years they were with me. Unfortunate ones! When the event was at the point of happening, they left.”

So he set out in search of them. He could barely catch up—they had gone far, moving on in search of a new master. In each village he reached, he would hear, “They left yesterday.” At last, searching and searching, he caught them at Sarnath. Hence the first discourse, the first turning of the wheel of dharma, took place at Sarnath.

When they saw him coming, the five were resting in the shade of a tree. They said, “This fallen Gautam is coming. We will turn our backs on him. He deserves no honor. When he arrives, we will not rise, we will not salute. If he wants to sit, let him find a seat himself—we won’t even say, ‘Please sit.’ We will make it clear that we are no longer your disciples—you are fallen; we have renounced you.”

But as the Buddha drew near, a most wondrous thing happened. The five—who were sitting with their backs turned—at some unknown instant, for some unknown reason, turned and began to look toward the Buddha. All five. And when he came closer, they stood up. Closer still, and they bowed at his feet. “Please, be seated.”

The Buddha smiled and said, “But you had resolved to keep your backs to me. You had resolved not to greet me—touching my feet was out of the question. You had resolved, ‘This fallen Gautam is coming; we will not even offer him a seat.’ And now you are spreading a bed, placing a seat! What is the matter?”

The five said, “We were helpless. Earlier, when we were with you, we believed in you; today reverence has been born. That was belief—belief can break, for it is superficial. Today reverence has arisen of itself. We did nothing; on our own we turned toward you, as iron turns toward a magnet. On our own we stood, on our own we bowed; of itself our head touched your feet.”

A saint is proof. When you meet one before whom your head bows of itself, know that the temple has arrived, the gate has arrived, the threshold has arrived—beyond which there is no need ever to raise your head again. When, seeing someone, trust arises in you that God must be, then know you have met the true Master. Do not leave his company—become his shadow. For only thus have people ever arrived; in no other way has anyone ever arrived, nor will anyone ever arrive.

Vaidamurti, there is fulfillment, there is reassurance, because in saints there is proof.

Remain assured: so long as I stand on the shore of darkness,
never will I let light commit suicide.
Human endeavor stands on guard,
the ray will wander free,
wherever radiance lies imprisoned
it will open the doors.
Light cannot be purchased
from darkness;
night will speak on behalf of dawn,
with morning at her side.
O man, install them now in temples—
the auspicious hour has come;
never will I let the storm
be garlanded with the aarti.
With sweat and blood
we have mixed and made
the indelible ink
for new historians.
Destiny is to be written
by our own hands;
to inscribe the century’s truth
we have taken up the pen.
Alert to the enemy of civilization,
to the lie of destruction,
never will I allow false charges
to be laid upon history.
The new human writes
fragrant verses of creation;
the eyes of mechanical cultures
will not grow moist.
Man intends soon to settle
upon other planets—
but in the truest sense, first
let us live life rightly on Earth.
I assure you: in this deceitful age
of mere matter,
never will I let the integrity of trust
be violated.
Remain assured: so long as I stand on the shore of darkness,
never will I let light commit suicide.

The presence of a saint is enough. For those who have eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts to feel—the saint’s presence is sufficient to know that God is.

Therefore there is reassurance; therefore there is great fulfillment; therefore there is rasa. For the saint is only a representative, a messenger of the Supreme Truth—without which we are in vain, and by attaining which, everything is attained.

That is all for today.