Anahad Mein Bisram #3

Sharanananda!
The sutra itself is simple, but thousands of years of commentaries have made it very complicated. When the uncomprehending set out to untangle, they tangle it more! You must beware of quacks. The illness itself is not as dangerous as a quack can turn out to be. An illness has a cure; but once you fall into the clutches of a quack, there may be no cure. And the world is full of quacks.

A man had a cold—chronic, recurrent. He went to many famous doctors; none could cure it. Then he met a quack. The quack said, What’s the big deal! Child’s play! I’ll snap it away! Do this: on these cold winter nights, get up at midnight, go to the lake and bathe naked. Then stand on the bank and breathe in the icy wind!
The man said, Are you sane or mad? It’s freezing; the wind is glacial. If I bathe naked at midnight and stand there, my bones will rattle! Will that cure my cold?
The quack said, When did I say it will cure your cold? You’ll get double pneumonia! And I know how to treat double pneumonia! Then I’ll fix you!

Life wouldn’t be so complicated if you hadn’t met the interpreters of life. They’ve turned the common cold into double pneumonia.

This sutra is straightforward. But when you read it, you aren’t reading the sutra—you are reading it through layers of interpretations that have encrusted its beautiful words.

When you read “truth,” what do you understand? When you read “tapas,” what do you understand? “Right knowledge,” what do you understand? “Brahmacharya,” what do you understand? The words have been lost in the jungle of commentaries. What remains in your hands are the interpretations.

The word “truth” reminds you of scriptures—and truth is not in scriptures; truth is not in words at all. Truth is in emptiness. And you’ve always been told: speak the truth. In you, truth and speaking have become associated. Truth cannot be spoken; it is lived, it is experienced. Yes, one who has experienced truth will have its fragrance in his conduct, his sitting and standing, his movements; even his words will carry an echo of truth—an echo, not truth itself. And that echo will be recognized only by one who has known truth within.

Those who can recite the Gita by heart, who carry the couplets of the Ramayana, who shoulder the Bible, the Quran, or the Dhammapada—truth has gone far away from them. Truth is the essence of your life. It isn’t outside; it is within. It is not in the Vedas, not in the Puranas; it is the fragrance of your consciousness. Truth is in meditation.

But when you hear the word “truth,” scriptures pop up: the Vedas, the Quran, the Bible; Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ, Mohammed. Does the word “truth” ever remind you of yourself? It should. Not Buddha, not Krishna—truth will be found only through remembrance of yourself.

But what a dense forest of interpretations! Centuries of conditioning have made even a simple, plain statement difficult to grasp; it gets distorted, fragmented, broken.

Truth is the experience of meditation, emptiness, thoughtlessness. In that experience there is no thought, no imagination, and no “you”—for you yourself are imagination, a thought. The ego is a mere wave of thought, a ripple. Where all ripples disappear, the ego disappears.

Truth is the realization of egolessness. But is that what you recall when you read “truth”? When you read: “satyena labhyas tapasa hy eṣa ātmā”—this Self is attained by truth, by tapas, by right knowledge, by brahmacharya—what arises in your mind?

“Tapas” makes you think of people standing on their heads! People fasting! The sun blazing fire and they sitting surrounded by sacred fires! What images does tapas evoke? People lying on thorns! Standing naked in icy rivers in winter! Sitting cross-legged on burning sand in summer! Matted hair! Enemies of the body! Busy corroding, rotting themselves! Such self-murderers come to mind. The very word tapas brings to mind those who are skilled at tormenting themselves.

There are two kinds of violent people. One, those who torment others. They are the lesser violent. If you torture another, at least he can defend himself; he can retaliate, run away, beg, find a way out, bribe, flatter, serve, become a slave. The other kind are self-violent—those who torture themselves. There is no defense there. That violence is greater. If you yourself decide to put your hand in the fire, who will save you? How can anyone stop a suicide? Laws are made, but do they save anyone? The law says: one who attempts suicide will be punished. But he has already committed suicide—how will you punish him? At best, you can punish the one who tried and failed—who was only threatening, manipulating for effect.

Women often attempt suicide in this way: they will take two or four sleeping pills—but never enough to die; just enough to trouble you. Call the doctor! Hide it from the police! Be afraid now! Don’t repeat your mistake; toe my line! It’s a Gandhian technique: by tormenting oneself, gain control over you.

What does tapas evoke in you? Self-suppression, self-torture. But tapas has nothing to do with this.

The precise meaning of tapas is simply this: life has many sufferings; to accept them with ease, patience, contentment, and gratitude. There is no need to manufacture suffering. Are there too few already? Every step is strewn with thorns. But to accept even suffering as a blessing—that is tapas.

Anyone can take joy as a blessing. One who takes suffering as a blessing is a tapasvin. When illness comes, take it as the Lord’s grace; learn from it. When bad times come, find within them the seed of good times. When there is a dark night, do not forget the dawn. Even in the darkest cloud, do not forget the flash of white lightning.

There is no need to impose extra pain—are pains lacking? That’s why I do not tell my sannyasins to leave the world, go to the forest, torture themselves. Is there a shortage of suffering in the world that you need a jungle? Life everywhere is full of struggle, competition, hostility, envy, jealousy, malice. Not one enemy—thousands. Even those you call friends are enemies; when they will turn, you cannot say.

Machiavelli, in his remarkable book The Prince, writes: do not tell even your friends what you would not tell your enemies. Why? Because today’s friend can be tomorrow’s enemy. He is the Chanakya of the West. Do not bare your heart even to a friend; one day he will exploit it; then you’ll repent.

Thorns everywhere—why make a bed of thorns on top of it? Isn’t your daily bed thorny enough? Isn’t husband and wife giving you sufficient grief?

I’ve heard: a husband and wife were quarreling because the husband came home late.
The wife said, If you come after nine again, I’ll leave you and marry someone else.
The husband said, Then marry our neighbor Mr. Gupta!
The wife asked, Astonished, Why Mr. Gupta?
The husband calmly replied, I want revenge on him!

Is there any shortage here?

A friend told his buddy: It’s about to rain; I’m trembling; my wife has gone shopping.
His friend said, What’s there to fear? Rain won’t dissolve her—she’s not made of clay. If it pours, she’ll step into a shop and stand there.
That’s exactly the fear, he said. Whichever shop she steps into, she buys on credit!

Look at the suffering in life—shortage? Where are you going to do tapas!

A doctor said to Chandulal, Chandulal, there’s some old disease destroying your peace.
Chandulal put his hand over his mouth and, pointing toward his wife, whispered, Speak softly, doctor! She’s standing right there.

A man and a woman were sitting in a park, talking loudly. Suddenly the woman stood up, slapped the man, and stormed off. A passerby asked the man, Was that your wife?
The man snapped, Of course! Do you think I’m such a spineless fellow that I’d take a slap from any stray woman?

Two old college friends met after many years.
How have you been all these years?
Nothing special. Right after college I got married.
That’s good.
No, my wife was a fighter.
Oh! Life must have been poison.
Not that bad. I got five thousand rupees in dowry.
That must have helped.
No. I opened a shop with it, but there were no sales.
Then you were in trouble.
Not too bad. In wartime I sold the shop at a high price—made ten thousand cash.
Well done!
Not so great. I bought a house with it—and the house burned down.
Such bad luck!
Not that bad. My wife burned in it too!

What shortage is there here!

For me, tapas has one meaning: life has thorns and flowers. Anyone can welcome flowers. The one who welcomes thorns too is a tapasvin. You need not invent thorns. There are days and nights—no need to blow out lamps. Day naturally delights you; accept the night’s darkness too.

Contentment is tapas. Acceptance is tapas. Tapas is not self-violence, not self-torture. Torment is always evil—whomever you torment, you are involved in it. But whatever comes—joy or sorrow, success or failure, defeat or victory—let nothing inside you be shaken; remain steady and unmoving—that is tapascharya.

No need to sit in a Himalayan cave—that is running away from tapas. What tapas will there be in a cave! Life challenges you every moment. Every challenge pierces like a dagger. To accept it like a flower is tapascharya.

So do not stand on your head; do not light fires around you; do not smear ash; do not grow matted locks; do not die fasting. None of it is needed. Existence has balanced joy and sorrow perfectly; everything is in balance—otherwise it would fall apart. As much joy as sorrow; as much night as day; as many successes as failures. If you can take both with equal mind, that is tapas.

But your interpretations have made things difficult! They’ve taught you all kinds of nonsense.

In my view, tapas is a natural, simple practice of life, not an unnatural one. The day you are ready to accept everything as a blessing, with gratitude—to thank God for life and also for death—know then that tapas has arisen in you. Truth is the inner experience of emptiness, silence, thoughtlessness, seedlessness. And tapas is the equal gaze with which you look upon the life spread outside.

The third word is samyak jnana—right knowledge. You find this in Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain texts; but the Jains made it their foundation. Ask a Jain pundit and samyak jnana means: the knowledge contained in Jain scripture is right; knowledge not in Jain scripture is wrong! Jain scripture—scripture; non-Jain—false scripture! Jain guru—guru; non-Jain—false guru! The idol in a Jain temple is a true god; in any other temple, a false god!
Such a beautiful word, so dear a word—they made it so dirty!

Samyak jnana means: knowing exactly as it is. Samyak means correct. To know a thing as it is. Only one condition is necessary. You don’t need to be Jain, Hindu, or Muslim. The condition is—you’ll be surprised—you must drop being Jain, Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim. If you want samyak jnana, drop all those notions that prevent your knowledge from being right.

If you carry a prior idea, how will you see what is? You will only see what you want to see. A film covers your eyes; a picture is imprinted; on that basis you’ll view reality. Such seeing is wrong knowledge. If the Quran stands in between, or the Gita, Mahavira or Buddha, what you know will be wrong.

Let no one come in between; know directly. Let your capacity to know be clean, clear—uncovered by prejudice, unfilled with preconceptions—be like a mirror: whatever comes before it is reflected; as it is, it is reflected. The mirror does not say, I won’t show this face; it is not beautiful.

It is said Tulsidas was taken to a Krishna temple and he refused to bow. He said, I bow only to Rama with bow and arrow. He said to Krishna: Tulsī mātha tab navai—this head will bow only when you take bow and arrow in your hands!
See the hidden ego! Even this head bows conditionally. First fulfill my condition. Not for you will I bow; if my condition is met, then I bow. My condition is: take up bow and arrow.

What was wrong with Krishna? What was wrong with the flute? It is more evolved, more delicate than the bow.

But no—the fixation. This is not Tulsidas’s disease alone; this jaundice covers everyone’s eyes.

I was born in a Jain household. My playmates were Hindus. I would go with them to temples. The older Jain boys would tell me, Don’t bow! These are not our gods! This is a Hindu temple, not a Jain temple. And when Hindu boys would come to a Jain temple with me, they wouldn’t bow either! They’d say: naked ascetics! Why bow here! They’d make fun.

If it were only children, it would be forgivable. But in grown-ups there is little difference—only age; the children remain.

Take a Jain monk to a Krishna temple—he will not bow. How can one bow to a false god! Take a Hindu renunciate—he will not bow to Mahavira; Mahavira is a “non-believer”! Nor to Buddha—the “corruptor”! They ruined the nation! They sowed the seeds of decay!

When you pass a mosque, do you ever feel like bowing, going in for a moment of prayer? Not even a question. But smear red on a stone under a tree, place two flowers—and in an instant you’re on your knees reciting the Hanuman Chalisa! A Muslim won’t feel a thing there.

Your own notions cloud your eyes; you see through them. So you see something else—you don’t see what is. The one who becomes like a mirror attains samyak jnana. A mirror has no insistence, no bias. Whether a beautiful face stands before it or an ugly one; Rama with bow, Krishna with flute, or naked Mahavira—no difference. The mirror reflects all three alike.

Samyak jnana means: to know exactly. For that, freedom from scriptures, doctrines, notions, prejudices is necessary. When you put all this junk aside—neither Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian, nor Jain—you will attain right knowledge.

But the whole world clutches its own junk, tightly. My junk is gold; your gold is junk. Because it’s mine, it must be gold!

Such a lovely word—samyak jnana—has been stripped of all dignity.

And what do you take brahmacharya to mean? When the word reaches your ears, what meaning springs up? Most people take it to mean: tight loincloth! My friend Lala Sunderlal did. Tie your loincloth tight—brahmacharya!

Tie it as tight as you like—brahmacharya won’t happen that way. Brahmacharya is not suppression of sex; it is transformation of sexual energy. There is a world of difference. One who suppresses will become sick. He will not attain brahmacharya; he will fall below even natural sexuality—becoming more perverse. A thousand distortions will enter his life. Yes, it is possible he might begin to worship those distortions too! Distortions are being worshipped.

If you repress sex, it will surge up in new ways you won’t recognize—new forms, new garments.

Just a few days ago Morarji Desai said in a speech: When I was prime minister and went to Canada... He was about eighty-three then. At eighty-three, what in Canada did he find worth seeing? The night club—where cabaret is danced; women shed their clothes, becoming naked.
His reason: I wanted to know what happens in a night club!
But why do you need to know? At eighty-three? Let it happen. Such a vast world—so many things happening! Was Canada only night clubs? Nothing else to see? And he went secretly—because if people knew he went to a night club to see cabaret, he’d be defamed. And Morarji is taken to be a Mahatma, a rishi-muni!

But why bring it up now? There is another reason. Before the students of Gujarat Vidyapith he was proclaiming his brahmacharya, and he slipped in that anecdote too: even there my brahmacharya didn’t waver! At eighty-three he went to see cabaret, and his brahmacharya didn’t shake! That’s like a man lying in his grave, cabaret dancing all around, and the saint in the grave proclaiming: Dance on! My brahmacharya is firm; my loincloth is tight; how will you shake me!

He narrated with relish: As I entered, four beautiful women, who recognized me from the newspapers, came and danced close, made gestures. But I stood utterly controlled, restrained, unmoved!
Now this practicing restraint, this standing rigid—what is it proof of?
The same old disease still clouds the inside—still! No difference. Otherwise why the need for restraint? Why such control? If they danced, let them dance. Sit and be glad. If the dance was good, praise it. Or at least, if nothing else, dance a little yourself! But to stand stiff, clutching yourself—lest your foot slip!
Fear of slipping? This is perversion. Then a man slips into other perversions....

Mulla Nasruddin told his son Fazlu: Look, there’s a dirty film in town—obscene. Never go to see it. If you go, you’ll regret it.
Later Fazlu told me, I went—and I regretted it. Father was right—much regret.
I asked, What happened?
He said, Two things father said came true. One, I would see things I shouldn’t. Two, I would regret. Both happened.
I said, Still, tell me what happened.
He said, First, I saw father there! He had said I’d see things I shouldn’t—and I did! And then, as soon as he saw me, he beat me: Why did you come! So I regretted as well. Though as he was beating me, I asked, Why did you come? He said, I came to see whether you’d come!

What fun goes on in this world! He went “to see whether Fazlu had gone”—and was himself watching the film! People invent excuses; what excuses they don’t make!

Once repression begins, the repressed forces start finding back doors. The person becomes double—or multiple. Many faces. Fragmented. He says one thing, does another; thinks one thing, dreams something else. His life becomes a distortion. Its unity breaks.

That is not brahmacharya. The word itself reveals its meaning: behavior like Brahman; godly conduct; divine comportment. A repressed person’s conduct cannot be divine; it becomes bestial—below the animal.

Divine conduct is possible only when the energy of sex joins with meditation. When meditation and sex-energy join within you, brahmacharya flowers. Brahmacharya is the flower of the union of meditation and sex-energy. If meditation is alone, without the vigor of sex-energy, the flower will be withered, weak. If sex is alone, without meditation, it will drag you into degeneration.

If only these two could meet—meditation and sex. Sex is the body’s power; meditation is the soul’s power. Where they unite, the powers of body and soul unite. On that great energy you can set out on the ultimate journey—the journey to Brahman. Then brahmacharya is in your life.

A fragmented person loses his genius. That’s why people like Morarji Desai have no trace of genius—cannot have. Intelligence becomes their enemy. Look at your so-called saints—you won’t find intelligence in them; you’ll find them downright foolish. But they don’t appear foolish to you, because your notion is: see, they fast!
What has fasting to do with intelligence? Why would an intelligent person fast? He will eat as much as needed; neither more nor less. He will live in balance. Give the body what it needs; not more, for that burdens the body; not less, for that is killing the body. He will eat, sleep, work as needed. The marks of fools are: either they eat too little or too much; sleep too little or too much; work too little or too much—never in the middle.

A famous leader was to give a speech in a village. When he reached, there was only one listener! The leader asked him, What should I do now?
As you think proper, he replied. I’m a simple farmer. When I go to feed twenty cows and find only one, I don’t return without feeding her!
Impressed, the leader spoke for an hour. After the barrage he asked, Well, brother, how was it?
Very nice, said the farmer, but I’m a simple farmer, and I know this: if only one cow turns up instead of twenty, I shouldn’t dump feed meant for twenty in front of the one! And that’s what you did—one cow, and you fed her for twenty! I kept itching to run, but alone, how to run? Your eyes were pinned on me! I tried many excuses, but none came. And it didn’t seem right—to be the only man and still run. What would you think! Still, for the future, when there’s one cow, don’t put out feed for twenty!

Even a simple farmer has more sense than your leaders—political or religious; there’s no difference.

Why do you call them leaders? Your reasons are strange. Someone spins a wheel, wears homespun khadi—leader! Someone fasts, does headstands for hours—mahatma! What has this to do with intelligence? Does spinning a wheel take intelligence? If there was a little, it would be worn away by spinning; spin long enough and you’ll become the wheel; the spindle will whirl in your skull! Some go further—twirling the little spindle wherever they sit!

Those you call religious, whom you call mahatmas—think a bit: do you see any sign of genius in them? Any spark of mind? Without that, there is no brahmacharya—remember. What greater proof of brahmacharya than the blossoming of genius—thousands of flowers opening; lotuses of talent unfolding; the fragrance spreading. Their actions will have brilliance, their sitting, walking—hence charya: their gait, their every act will carry a sharpness, a shine, a vigor.

But your religious leaders’ lives look rusted. And the more rusted they are, the more you like them—because of your notions.

Someone has been standing for ten years—Khadeshri Baba!
What has standing ten years to do with genius? What beauty has increased in the world by his standing? What wealth? What joy? What peace? Yet crowds of devotees gather, bhajans ring, because Khadeshri Baba has stood ten years! Ten years? Ten thousand—what happens? Even if he has become a stump by standing—what happens!

Or someone has become silent.
A friend traveled with me to Calcutta. On the way we were talking. He was a devotee of a “mauni baba”—a silent saint. I asked, What special thing do you see in him?
Special? he said. He has been silent for twenty years!
There’s nothing special in that. What comes of silence? What blossoming of talent? What lamps have been lit in his life? If he was a fool twenty years ago, by being silent he’d have become a bigger fool!
He said, How can you say that? If he were a fool, why would so many worship him? I’m not alone—so many!
I said, That’s another point. If I ask those others, they’ll cite you among the many. So you worship by looking at others.

Do one thing, I said. You’re coming with me to Calcutta. Stay silent for three days. I’ll see to it you’re worshiped.
He said, What are you saying! Who will worship me? I have nothing!
Just keep quiet. Not even the whole day—at night, after everyone leaves and the door is closed, tell me whatever you want. Because holding it in all day you’ll get jittery—you’re a shopkeeper, you talk twenty-four hours. But in the day, whatever happens, bind yourself: don’t speak. If something must be said, I’ll say it.
As you wish, he said. The idea appealed—worth trying.

In Calcutta I stayed at Sohanlal Dugar’s home, a wealthy millionaire. When he came to receive me, he asked, Who is with you?
I said, This is a mauni baba.
Mauni baba! What is special about him?
He’s been silent thirty years!
He fell at his feet! The poor shopkeeper who sold cut-piece cloth in a small shop—a millionaire fell at his feet! He was embarrassed. I signaled him: Don’t be embarrassed. Now that you’re a mauni baba, don’t be afraid. This is just the beginning. If Sohanlal falls at your feet, you’ll see all the Marwaris of Calcutta falling. Why are you nervous; wait a bit.

He was so flustered he wanted to push me: Brother, this isn’t right!
At home Sohanlal quickly called his wife: Mauni baba! The neighborhood gathered: a mauni baba has come! Silent for thirty years! And the mauni baba knew what he was going through inside—waiting for night to pour his heart out to me!

As soon as night came, he shut the door and fell at my feet: Forgive me. I can’t do this! Let me go! I’ll slip away tonight. What trouble you’ve put me in! Such great people, whose houses wouldn’t even let me in—the peon wouldn’t allow me—and they’re at my feet! I feel such shame! And their women—beautiful women—touching my feet! What are you making me do?
I said, I’m not making you do anything. I’m showing you what foolishness prevails in this country. You are among those fools too! The one you’ve worshiped for twenty years.... And you’ve been silent only five or six hours, and this is the miracle! Stay three days—then you’ll see cures begin, diseases healed.
What are you saying! he cried. I have no power, no miracle!
Don’t worry. It will all appear. Just remain silent. In the day, don’t speak—and don’t shove me either; people will suspect something. If it’s unbearable, close your eyes and keep chanting the Namokar Mantra within. Let whatever is happening, happen.

In three days his fame spread. Photos in newspapers! At night he showed me: What are you doing? If the news reaches my home; if my wife and children find out—you’ll ruin me! If these papers reach there, I’m finished. And think of my shop! I came to buy cut-piece; you met me on the way! Now how can I buy anything? The very wholesalers I buy from are at my feet! Some stare at me closely as if recognizing me. A couple asked, Thirty years silent? The face looks familiar.
You must have seen him in a past life! I said. It’s a bond of births.
They said, True!
These are not ordinary seekers—these are great souls, practicing through many births. You must have met them before; hence the face seems familiar.
Yes, they said, it does look familiar. And not from a past life—from this very life.
These are accomplished beings, I said; they appear in many cities at once!

He would nudge me: Don’t talk like that! Tug my shirt: Don’t say such things! It’s all lies!
But people believed! Sweets began to arrive; fruits too. At night he told me, What are you doing? Where will I take all these sweets and fruits?
Take them, I said. Distribute to your family and neighborhood.

When people came to see him off at the station—he hadn’t bought any cut-piece; how could he! What if someone saw a mauni baba buying cut-piece!—he was angry with me all the way back: Everything else is fine, but you ruined the Calcutta market for me! I can never go back!
Don’t worry, I said. Grow a beard. Next time go with beard and mustache.
That seems sensible, he said.
Then if someone says, I’ve seen you somewhere, say: Oh, faces resemble. And if needed, I’ll come with you.
No, no need for you to come, he said. I’ll never travel with you again! If I find out you’re on my train, I’ll get off!

He grabbed my feet: Do me a favor—don’t let anyone on this train find out! These people are traveling to Jabalpur too. If the news reaches there, I’m ruined! My wife will say, Who told you to become a mauni baba? In three days you became a thirty-year mauni!

When I went to Calcutta later, people asked after him: Didn’t the mauni baba come? When will he come?
He’ll come, I said. He doesn’t like fanfare. He was very displeased with Calcutta—too much noise. He’s a simple, quiet man; likes solitude.

Those you worship, those you call mahatmas—your notions are doing all the work. You don’t open your eyes and see.

When brahmacharya happens, an incomparable light appears. That is what this sutra means:
“Satyena labhyas tapasa hy eṣa ātmā
samyagjñānena brahmacaryeṇa nityam.”

This very Self can be realized here and now—it is already attained. Only this much is needed: know truth in emptiness; keep equanimity in pleasure and pain; recognize tapas; clear away borrowed knowledge and rubbish so you can see what is as it is—let right knowledge happen; and let the body’s energy—sex-energy—and the soul’s energy—meditation—join. Let kama and Rama unite within you—then this Self is attained this very moment.

“Antaḥ-śarīre jyotirmayo hi śubhro.”
In an instant you will know: within this very body is hidden that light, utterly pure.

“Yaṁ paśyanti yatayaḥ kṣīṇa-doṣāḥ.”
It is seen by those strivers who have exhausted their defects.

And these are the defects: thinking—so you cannot be empty; choosing—so you cannot be equal; borrowed knowledge—so your gaze cannot be clear; repression—so the body’s hidden energy cannot become the vehicle of the soul.

Otherwise the body’s energy is like a horse. Mount it; be its master. And you will know that supreme light within—without beginning and end, eternal. One who has known That has known all; one who has conquered That has conquered all.

Vinay Teerth!
If they steal my ideas, then they will have to oppose me. There is no contradiction between the two; they are parts of the same logic. If they steal my ideas, they must oppose me so it doesn’t become known that they are stealing from me. If they don’t oppose me, then immediately it will be obvious the ideas were stolen. If they support me, it will at once be revealed that all their capital is borrowed.
I understand your difficulty—how to forgive! But there is no other way. Theft of ideas cannot be stopped. And these thieves are not new; this theft has been going on for centuries. What they have always done, they will do with me too; they are doing it with everyone.
And in this country, open the scriptures and look—you will be astonished. The same aphorisms you find in one scripture, you will find in hundreds of scriptures. So surely theft has been going on for centuries. It has become a part of our life.

On a bus, seeing his pocket being picked,
a passenger raised a commotion.
The pickpocket seized him, took him to the police station,
and said to the inspector—
Sir!
This man spreads disorder in the city,
doesn’t let us pick pockets peacefully,
shouts like a rustic!
The inspector said to the passenger—
Well, you!
Are you new to Delhi?
If not new, then are you high on bhang?
Don’t you know the rules and regulations of this city?
You dare act tough with pickpockets?
Don’t you recognize your place?
This respectable pickpocket,
without harming your body,
was doing his work.
Instead of thanking him you shout?
In Gandhi’s land
you mock peace and nonviolence?
If he had stabbed you,
strangled your neck,
kidnapped you,
then what would you have done?
And what could we have done?
You’d have had your own throat cut
and then blamed the police!
And if these educated pickpockets
don’t pick pockets, where should they go?
What should they do—die of hunger?
Jump in a well? Fight elections?
Chew their degrees?
All of them can’t become leaders.
Brother!
By shouting, calamities don’t go away;
learn to endure them calmly.
If you’ve come to the city,
learn to live like city folk.
What are you staring at my face for?
Go to the next room
and quietly let Mr. Pickpocket
pick your pocket.

What else can you do, Vinay Teerth! Quietly let your pocket be picked.
And these owls you will find everywhere. On every branch an owl sits! You can’t even avoid them; there’s no way out. So sing their praises!

Hail to you, Brother Owl! Hail to you, Brother Owl!
You are my revered father, you are my mother!
Hail to you, Brother Owl!

You’re the enemy of the poor, uncle to capitalists,
whoever dares glare at you gets slapped in an instant!
Everyone prances before and behind you, ta-ta thaiyya!
Hail, Brother Owl! Hail to you, Brother Owl!

All the thieves and gamblers are devoted to you;
sometimes you even seem official to me—
whoever becomes like you, his boat gets across!
Hail to you, Brother Owl!

Lakshmi stays a bit miffed with us poets;
since we came to earth, our luck has soured!
Send over, for Diwali, just two lakh rupees!
Hail to you, Brother Owl!

O vehicle of Lakshmi, you are most virtuous,
on the strength of your lads the whole world runs;
perched on every branch, you keep making the coins fly!
Hail to you, Brother Owl!

And what else can you do, Vinay Teerth! That’s why I said, forgive.
That’s all for today.