Anahad Mein Bisram #5

Sahajanand!

Before we enter into an analysis of the sutra, it is useful to understand a few foundational points.

First: As long as there is desire, the self is not pure. What else could the impurity of the self mean? The mire of desire! Whether the desire is for wealth, position, prestige; or for liberation, nirvana, Brahma-knowledge—it makes no difference. Mud is mud. So long as there is desire, how can there be purity? Where there is desire, there is the world. The world is the expansion of desire. When desire is emptied, the world ends. If the world is desire, then the emptying of desire is sannyas. And where even the seed of desire has been burned, there alone is sattva-shuddhi, purity of being.

Therefore this sutra is fundamentally wrong.

Second: When the self has become pure, then where is the mind? This becomes sheer derangement. It is like saying, on the one hand, that the lake is calm, and on the other, launching into a discussion of storms, tempests, and waves rising in the lake! If the lake is calm, silent, mirrorlike—no waves, no ripples—then what storm? What gale? What turbulence?

Where the self is pure, mind is impossible.

What does “mind” mean? The unsteadiness of the self; the wavering of the self; the self in vibration; the self filled with waves—waves of thought, waves of memory, waves of imagination. Where waves upon waves keep arising—that is what is called mind. “Mind” is simply the name of the soul when it is diseased. And where the disease is gone, there the mind is gone. When the soul is healthy, then there is sattva-shuddhi.

So to say, on the one hand, that one whose soul has attained supreme purity will, with the mind, get whatever he wills—this is downright foolishness.

Some deranged person must have written this sutra. That it is found in an Upanishad makes no difference. I do not go by scriptures; the statement must stand my touchstone. My touchstone depends on my experience, not on any scripture. So whether it is the Mundaka Upanishad or some other Upanishad, the Vedas, the Koran, or the Bible—these big names make not an iota of difference to me. I will only say what stands true on the touchstone of my inner experience.

But for centuries our habit has gone astray: “If it is in the Mundaka Upanishad, it must be correct! How could there be anything wrong in an Upanishad?”

Something wrong can appear anywhere, because all statements are written by human beings. And the Upanishads and Vedas were written by many people. In a single Upanishad there are the utterances of many individuals.

Even if, in one Upanishad, all the utterances belong to a single person, remember: it is possible that some sutras are from a time before he had known, and others from after he had known. And he himself may not have written them; some disciple, having heard this and that, may have compiled them.

What am I to do? The fault lies with your scriptures. Your scriptures are riddled with contradictions. I haven’t taken a contract to plaster over their inconsistencies. I have no such responsibility. I say what I see. If it happens to agree with your scripture, that is the scripture’s good fortune. If it doesn’t, that is the scripture’s misfortune. It has nothing to do with me.

This particular aphorism is downright deranged. Not merely wrong—worse than wrong!

‘यं यं लोकं मनसा संविभाति
विशुद्धसत्वः कामयते यांश्च कामान्।’

“One whose inner conscience is pure—such a knower of the self, whatever realms he desires in his mind and whatever objects he wishes for, he attains those realms and those objects.”

One who has known himself—what remains for him to attain? If one has attained oneself, is there any treasure beyond this? Any empire beyond this? Any journey beyond this? What will he desire now? From here on, any desiring is a fall. Like someone who has reached the summit of Gaurishankar—where else can he go? Now every movement is descent; every step goes downward; every journey is on a slope.

An “atmavetta” is one who has attained the supreme peak of consciousness. And remember, the key word here is “viśuddha-sattvaḥ”—it is immensely precious. It does not simply mean “whose conscience is pure.” Conscience is a two-penny thing. Don’t overvalue conscience.

Conscience is not the soul—remember this distinction well. Society’s entire conditioning tries to erase this distinction. Dictionaries will tell you, commentators will tell you, linguists and priests will tell you: conscience equals soul. But fundamentally this is false. Strictly speaking, there isn’t even any real “conscience,” let alone soul—because conscience is produced from the outside; it isn’t inside to begin with. Conscience is manufactured by society. It is society’s device to keep the individual enslaved.

Just as society arranges police outside, magistrates, courts, laws, legislatures—so that outwardly you are restrained and, out of fear, you don’t commit mistakes. But man is clever. Make as many laws as you wish, create as many regulations as you wish—he will find loopholes in all of them. After all, it is men who make the laws; so men will also invent tricks to circumvent them.

What do lawyers do all day? Their business is precisely to find, within the law, ways to go against the law. That’s why, no matter what case you take to a lawyer, he will say, “Don’t worry; victory is certain. It will cost a lot, but victory is certain.”

Mulla Nasruddin once went to a lawyer and laid out the entire matter. The lawyer said, “No need to panic. The case is tough, it will cost money, but victory is certain.”

Mulla asked, “You’re absolutely sure victory is certain?”
The lawyer said, “Hand on my chest, God as my witness—victory is certain. I’ve practiced all my life. Don’t I have that much experience? I’ve won many such cases!”

Mulla stood up to leave. The lawyer asked, “Where are you going?”
Mulla said, “Well then, that settles it.”

“You’re not going to fight the case?”
“I had presented to you the other side’s case. You say victory is certain—then why bother? Let’s settle it between ourselves. Since his victory is certain...!”

Only then did the lawyer realize he’d been fooled for the first time: the man had presented his opponent’s case!

The entire legal machinery exists to wring tricks out of law. Those who make the laws are the ones holding the stick. The buffalo belongs to the one who holds the stick! Those with vested interests make the laws.

But they know that outward laws cannot chain a man’s whole soul. Chains may be placed on his hands and fetters on his feet, but inside he will remain free. So inner chains are also necessary—only then will a person be totally enslaved. And vested interests want you one hundred percent enslaved—so that there remains no possibility of rebellion, so that you never say no, never disobey. To arrange this, they have created conscience.

Conscience is a social invention. A child has no conscience. We slowly install it. And every religion, caste, country installs a different conscience.

Offer meat to a Jain—what will his conscience say?
It’s impossible for him to eat it, because since childhood the idea has been implanted that meat-eating is wrong, a great sin. This is conditioning. Repetition is the method by which conscience is created. From childhood, the message is repeated in a thousand ways, with fears added: if you eat meat, you will rot in hell. If you abstain, you will enjoy heaven—what pleasures of heaven! What temptations! And what terrors of hell! Between fear and greed the child is squeezed. Stories are repeated; Puranas repeated; taken to temples; made to sit with priests, pundits, monks.

With constant repetition, the conditioning sinks deep. Put meat in front of him today and he will be in distress. He’ll retch. Eating meat is impossible. His entire conscience screams “Sin! Great sin!” He can’t even look at it, can’t touch it.

But the whole world eats meat. Ninety-nine percent are meat-eaters. Not only outside India—inside too, most people eat meat. Leave aside a few Jains and some Brahmins—not all Brahmins either. Kashmiri Brahmins eat meat; that’s why Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru had no pangs of conscience eating meat—Kashmiri Brahmin. Bengali Brahmins eat fish; Ramakrishna had no obstacle in eating fish, no conscience interfered. So don’t count all Brahmins among vegetarians. And how many Jains are there? Some three-and-a-half million. And a few North Indian Brahmins. Apart from them, the world eats meat. No pangs of conscience.

If conscience were truly the inner voice, it should speak in everyone. If it were the voice of God, of the soul, it should arise in each one! The irony is, conscience arises even about things you never imagined or thought about.

Once a Quaker Christian mendicant visited my family as a guest. In the morning I asked, “Will you have tea, coffee, milk? What would you like?” He said, “Milk! Do you also drink milk?”
He asked me as if I had invited him to commit a great sin! I didn’t know that Quakers consider drinking milk a sin. Here, milk is the most sattvic food—the food of rishis and seers! In Raipur I once stayed near an ashram called Doodhadhari—the Milk-bearers—monks who drink only milk. Their very eminence lies in drinking only milk!

I asked, “Is there some problem with milk? Does it trouble you?”
“Trouble? What’s the difference between milk and blood? Blood comes from the body; milk too comes from the body. That’s why drinking milk increases blood; your face becomes ruddy. Milk is akin to blood. It arises from the body; it is part of the body. Whether meat, milk, or blood—these belong to the same category. Milk is a very unsattvic food!”

Here people consider milk sattvic; their conscience says so. Quakers consider it utterly unsattvic; their conscience won’t let them drink it. They’ll be uneasy seeing milk.

What is this “conscience”? If such a thing existed, it would be the same in all. But it isn’t. Leave others aside—take Digambara and Shvetambara Jains: one sect, no major differences, same philosophy of life. Yet even there consciences differ.

During Paryushan, the Jain religious festival, Digambara Jains don’t eat green vegetables. I was born in a Digambara family; since childhood I knew eating greens in Paryushan is sin. Around age twenty I stayed with a Shvetambara family. I was shocked to see bananas being relished during Paryushan! I asked, “What’s this? There’s a prohibition on green!” They said, “Where is this green? Bananas are yellow.”
See how “green” is understood! The Jain scripture says “green things”—meaning fresh, newly plucked. But here “green” means color. Don’t eat green bananas, but ripe yellow ones are fine. No qualms.

Conscience is implanted from outside.

Christians find no problem with wine; Jesus himself drank wine. There was no objection. No Christian sees any evil in it.

But the Indian mind is deeply troubled even hearing of alcohol. Here, Morarji Desai might drink his own urine, but he cannot drink alcohol! His conscience finds no obstacle in drinking urine—nor should it, perhaps, for the Indian mind has drunk cow urine for ages. If cow urine, why not self-reliance!

Not only cow urine—the Hindu consumes “panchamrit.” By that they mean mixing five cow-products—dung, urine, milk, curd, ghee—pounding them together and drinking. In a land that drinks panchamrit, Morarji has discovered only one elixir! Wait and see—some “great saint” will come along who extracts panchamrit out of humans, and we’ll accept that too without a qualm.

Conscience is not the soul. It’s an outside overlay. One who seeks the soul must be free of conscience. He needs neither a Christian’s conscience, nor a Hindu’s, Muslim’s, Jain’s, or Buddhist’s. He needs no conscience at all. Whatever has been imposed from outside must be dropped.

This is what I call tapascharya: the renunciation of conscience. Then the voice of your own nature arises within—spontaneous, not taught by anyone—the very tone and music of your own life becomes audible.

So Sahajanand, don’t translate this sutra as “one whose conscience is pure.” That would create confusion. By one standard someone’s conscience will be pure, by another the same person’s conscience impure. Is Jesus’ conscience pure or not? He drank wine and ate meat! Leave Jesus—will you call Ramakrishna’s conscience pure? He was a Paramhansa—yet he ate fish.

Whose conscience is pure? As long as there is conscience, there can be no purity. Conscience means impurity, alien; something external has been put in—that is the very mud within you. When only what is inner remains within, that is self-purification.

Therefore the sutra’s word is far more apt: viśuddha-sattvaḥ—one whose being, whose nature, whose very essence has become pure. It means all that is alien has been thrown out.

One who is viśuddha-sattvaḥ will be neither Hindu nor Muslim, nor Christian, Jain, Buddhist, Parsi, Sikh. He will be pure consciousness. Only in such a state does one know oneself, become a knower of the self.

As long as you meditate with beliefs, you will only come to know your beliefs. A Christian sits to meditate and sees Jesus. A Jain sees Mahavira. A Buddhist sees the Buddha. A Krishna devotee sees Krishna; a Rama devotee sees Rama. This is projection of your belief. It is not self-realization.

Where all beliefs drop, where there is nothing left to project, where only emptiness remains within—without stain, without thought, without alternatives—in that state of consciousness, the victory is of the Self; one becomes Jina, becomes Buddha. One truly wins, truly awakens—for the first time.

“And by such a knower of the self,” says the sutra, “whatever realms he imagines with his mind...”
What realms will he imagine? Is there any realm beyond this? Any knowledge beyond self-knowledge? Any peak beyond Buddhahood? Beyond this supreme samadhi, what remains? Will such a person desire heaven? Heavens are far behind—mere dreams now. Will he want Indra’s throne? Thrones are now ridiculous. The ultimate seat is attained, the lotus asana—everlasting, timeless—the fragrance that won’t fade. Life is now a celebration, a spring of colors, flowers in bloom; song, music, festival; lamps upon lamps lit.

Kabir says, it is as though thousands of suns have risen within—that is the state of the knower.

What will he desire? Which realm will he imagine—Urvashi, Menaka, Indra’s seat? Become a god? Ask for the wish-fulfilling tree? Such talk is foolishness. That would mean there is something beyond self-knowledge; that self-knowledge is not the goal, only a means. But self-knowledge is the goal, not a means.

“And whatever realms he imagines, and whatever wishes he wishes—he attains those realms and those wishes.”
First of all, there will be no wishes; the seeds of desire are burnt. That is why Patanjali calls such a person “burnt-seed”: nirbija samadhi. Where the seeds are ashes, what sprouts can grow?

And the sutra continues: “Therefore, he who desires his own welfare should worship the knower of the self.”

The first statement is steeped in greed, and so is the second. The self-knower is given such power—that whatever he wants, happens; whatever he asks for, he gets—instantly, with no delay. You’ve heard the saying, “In God’s house there may be delay but not darkness.” That is for the ignorant. For the wise there is neither delay nor darkness. They demand here and receive there; before they can even ask, it is given. They sit under the wish-fulfilling tree. This too is an extension of greed. And the next: “Therefore, he who seeks his own welfare should worship the self-knower.” Go to the sages, worship them—why? To gain your own welfare. Even here there is desire, there is lust.

People go to temples, mosques, gurdwaras, churches. Ask why. Desire is there too. Where there is desire, there is no prayer. In the stench of desire, how will the fragrance of worship arise? Burn incense and lamps by the thousands—there will be no real light, no real fragrance. You can only cover up the stench, smother the darkness for a while. But it won’t go; it will return. These lamps will soon go out; the incense will be scattered by the wind; the stench will be back. It is deception, self-delusion.

Even worship of the self-knower, in the hope “my welfare will be done”—and by “my welfare,” what do we mean? That I will also reach that place where anything asked for is granted, where any realm desired is instantly attained. Therefore, worship the self-knower—this too belongs to greed.

The disciple–master relationship cannot be of greed. If it is, then it is merely worldly—like the relationships of husband–wife, parent–child, brother–sister. Then there is no qualitative difference.

The qualitative difference is: worldly relationships are of profit and gain, while the guru–disciple relationship is solely of love—neither greed nor gain. Love means the relationship is so intrinsically precious that nothing more is desired. The disciple’s innermost feeling is: having found the master, I have found all; there is nothing else to gain, nowhere else to go.

And the wonder is, for one in whom such a sentiment arises, flowers begin to rain upon him. The whole sky showers flowers. He asked for nothing, desired nothing, and yet all showers upon him!

There is a dear story of Manjushri—Buddha’s first disciple to attain nirvana. The day he became enlightened, he sat quietly beneath a tree—tranquil, thought-free—watching himself awakened. Watching, watching—it happened. It happens by ripening. Everything stilled. The mind stopped; time stopped; thoughts vanished—as if suddenly the clouds withdrew from the sky and the sun appeared! Deep silence. And instantly he saw flowers raining from the sky. Flowers such as he had never seen or heard of; fragrances unknown. He was startled: it isn’t even spring! The tree he sits under has not a single blossom. So many flowers! Innumerable! They poured and poured. He looked up—and saw gods showering flowers.

It is a parable, a symbol—don’t take it as history. Its meaning is deep, but the facts are not literal. Truth has to be told obliquely; there is no straight way to say it.

Manjushri asked the gods, “What has happened to you? Why are you showering flowers? You must be mistaken. The Buddha is sitting yonder under another tree—shower flowers there! I am only Manjushri, a small disciple. I have fallen in love with him. I need nothing more. If you must worship, worship him—there is my master! Why shower on me? I have done nothing; I have no worthiness, no qualification.”

The gods said, “Manjushri, we are celebrating the glorious moment when you delivered a marvelous sermon on emptiness!”

“On emptiness? I did not utter a single word!”
They laughed: “Nor did we hear a single word. You said nothing; we heard nothing. That is the great sermon on emptiness! We shower in that joy. You said nothing; we heard nothing—and it was done. Without saying, it was said. From now on, these flowers will continue to fall. Once they begin, they never stop.”

Understand—this is an awakening parable. Don’t sit under a bush and keep peering up for gods in a flying chariot! You’ll mess everything up.

Know only this: what is the sermon on emptiness? When that happens, there is no need for flowers to fall from the sky; flowers bloom within you; spring comes in the inner world. Then what desires? What lusts?

A disciple never even thinks of worshiping the self-knower because he is powerful and greatly accomplished. No—he falls in love causelessly. Love is always without cause. Where there is cause, there is business. Where there is no cause...

Ask my sannyasins what they get from me. Nothing at all. Ask them why they are bound to me, why they sit with me—years come and go and they remain—why? They won’t be able to answer. Those who can answer are not my sannyasins. There is no answer. It is unreasonable.

Sahajanand, what should I say of the import of this Mundaka Upanishad sutra to you? The sutra is utterly wrong—fundamentally wrong. An out-and-out derangement. Some madman must have said it. How it entered the Mundaka, who knows!

But there’s no end to what pundits can do. Pundits are a nuisance. They don’t know—and the misfortune is, they are the compilers.

Mahavira spoke, but pundits compiled. It’s no accident that his eleven chief disciples, the eleven ganadharas, were all Brahmins. Mahavira was a Kshatriya. All twenty-four Jain tirthankaras are Kshatriyas. It was essentially a Kshatriya revolt against Brahminism, against punditry. But the misfortune is, even Mahavira’s words were compiled by Brahmins—the eleven ganadharas themselves! There the distortion happened; poison was mixed at the source.

The Buddha was a Kshatriya. In a sense, those who seek to know themselves must be Kshatriyas—warriors—for it is a fierce battle against one’s own darkness, one’s own torpor and sleep. They too must wield a sword—not against others, but against their own tamas. But those who compiled the Buddha’s words were pundits—Brahmins.

That is where distortion happens. The pundit knows language, grammar, owns words—but has no experience. And this whole matter is of experience. A pundit is like a parrot: he memorizes and repeats, writes like a machine. There is no lived realization.

I do understand the compulsion, though. Whoever spoke the Mundaka probably was supremely wise, because there are sutras in it that are unparalleled—impossible without experience. But the difficulty is, where will you find another awakened one to write down the sutras? Some fool will write. Why would a buddha write? For what?

There’s a charming story from the Buddha’s life. While he lived, no one bothered to compile what he said. They were so blissful, so filled with ahobhaav—who would worry! Lamps were lit every day, Diwali daily, color scattered, Holi each day. Who had the leisure to write? But after his death, the first issue before the disciples was to compile his words.

You’ll be surprised: those who could have compiled had forgotten them. They asked Manjushri, the first enlightened disciple. He said, “I remember nothing. I don’t remember myself! Those days passed soaked in nectar. Who cared for words? I’m not sure what he said and what I heard; what he said and what I understood. Since my awakening, it is no longer a matter of words—a silent communion. How shall I write that? A blank page would suffice.”

They asked Sariputta. He said, “It’s difficult. Before awakening, had you asked, I could have written—then I had a grip on words. After awakening, I sank into the wordless. Now I’m not certain; if I write, I can’t say whether I write my words or the Buddha’s. All has mingled; my river has merged with his ocean. Don’t rely on me. The words will be true and genuine—but are they his or mine? I can write my truth, but I cannot claim he said exactly so. He must have—but I cannot assert it.”

They asked Moggallana. He shrugged: “Who wants to get into such a tangle!”

Those who had become enlightened refused. Only Ananda—who had not awakened—agreed. He remembered everything. He had no other wealth; he collected words. Whatever the Buddha said, he stored. He had no prajna, but he had memory. Where there is prajna, memory is irrelevant; where there is no prajna, memory is the only wealth.

A great dilemma arose. The assembly said, “This is difficult. Those whose words would be reliable won’t write. The one who will write isn’t reliable!” Should they take Ananda’s account? He would certainly repeat the Buddha’s words, but an ignorant man heard them—as if heard in sleep.

I speak here; some of you are asleep. You are also hearing—but in sleep. Some things are heard, some not; some are misheard—naturally. If asked to write, how authentic would it be?

Ananda said, “I can write, but I cannot claim authenticity.”

See the irony! Those who could be authentic refused to write; the one who would write could not be authentic.

So Buddha’s disciples found only one solution. They told Ananda, “Make every effort to awaken. We will not accept your words until you attain Buddhahood. You remember the most; you lived with him the longest—forty-two years without leaving him for even a moment. Day and night with him; sleeping in the same room; devoted in service. We trust you—but awaken!”

When Ananda awakened, they accepted his words. And immediately quarrels began. Ananda wrote the sayings, and thirty-six sects arose. Different groups of Buddhists rejected this line or that. Some said, “We accept these, not those.” Some said the reverse.

The ignorant split into thirty-six factions; the awakened remained silent. The Buddha had hardly died when that great light shattered into fragments. And when truth is fragmented, it becomes worse than untruth.

Sahajanand, whoever spoke the original sutras of the Mundaka must have been enlightened. But those who wrote them added much of their own.

And it isn’t that they added knowingly. I do not doubt their good intentions. But an unconscious person, no matter how sincere, will go wrong.

Here is the sutra:

‘यं यं लोकं मनसा संविभाति
विशुद्धसत्वः कामयते यांश्च कामान्।
तं तं लोकं जयते तांश्च कामान्—
तस्मादात्मज्ञं ह्यर्चवेद भूतिकामः॥’

But the translator blundered: “whose conscience is pure.” Viśuddha-sattvaḥ became “whose conscience is pure.”

A grave error. One becomes viśuddha-sattvaḥ only when one is free of conscience. And here the meaning is inverted.

“Whose conscience is pure—such a knower, whatever realms he imagines with his mind...”
Does a knower still have a mind? What need is there for mind?

It’s like the story: Jesus touched a blind man’s eyes and they were healed. Naturally, the blind man used to walk with a stick. His eyes were healed; he thanked Jesus and started to go—taking his stick along. Jesus said, “At least give me your stick as thanks! Leave the stick behind.”
The blind man said, “How will I manage without the stick?”
Eyes have come! But the old habit of a lifetime—he used to feel his way with the stick. Today, though sight has returned, the news hasn’t yet penetrated within.
“How can I leave the stick, master? Without it I cannot take a step. I walk by tapping and probing.”
Jesus said, “Fool! Your eyes are fine now—why probe with a stick?”

Conscience is the blind man’s stick. Viśuddha-sattvaḥ is the healing of the eye. What use is conscience then?

Conscience is imposed so that somehow you remain within behavioral limits. But one whose soul is awake has no prescribed limits of conduct. He is beyond code. Whatever he does is right; whatever he doesn’t do is not right. The ignorant must be told, “Do right, don’t do wrong.” For the knower, whatever he does is the very definition of right.

A revolutionary difference—and with one mistranslated word, the whole meaning is reversed.

And “still the knower has a mind”! Mind means the faculty of mentation. From “manan” comes “man,” and from “man” comes “manushya”—the thinker. But one who has eyes does not think—he sees.

A blind man thinks, “Where is the wall? Where is the door? Should I go left or right?” The man with sight simply gets up and walks out through the door; he sees. There is no mentation.

Exactly so: one who is viśuddha-sattvaḥ, in whom the flower of samadhi has bloomed, whose inner eye is open—will he think? What for?

A blind man may think what light is like; a sighted one never does—he knows. A deaf man may think what sound is like; one with ears knows.

One whose soul has been purified does not need the mind. He does not think; he sees—he is a seer. He has gone beyond man. When the mind is transcended, man is transcended. Where then is mind? Where are realms? Your heavens and hells are dreams—no geographic places. Hell is your creation out of fear; heaven, out of greed.

So you arrange in heaven everything greed wants; and in hell, the punishments you wish on those who won’t go along with you. Hell for enemies, heaven for friends; heaven for “ours,” hell for “others.” But there is no hell; there is no heaven.

The day you are free of fear and greed, you will see there is neither. As long as you tremble with fear, you are already in hell. As long as you wobble with hankering for heaven, both seem real—but they are appearances, delusions. When the mind is still, silent, they both disappear. And once they are gone, what “realm” will you ask for? What desires will you entertain?

I have heard: a man, wandering, blundered into heaven. Tired, he lay under a tree to rest. He didn’t know it was a wish-fulfilling tree: sit beneath it and whatever you wish is granted! Hungry, he thought, “If only some food would appear!”
No sooner the thought, than golden platters laden with delicacies appeared. He was so tired and hungry he didn’t think, “Where did this come from?” A hungry man doesn’t think—thinking is for full bellies. He ate quickly.

Belly full, he thought, “If only I had something to drink—Coca-Cola! Or Fanta! Limca would do!” To his astonishment, Coke, Fanta, Limca all arrived! He was a little startled—Coca-Cola had been banned! But thanks to smugglers, everything is available; smuggling can make the impossible possible. Who cared! He drank and lay down. He thought, “The belly is full, but the ground is stony. If only there were a mattress, a beautiful bed—tonight I’d sleep like never before.”
Suddenly a bed approached! He felt a twinge of unease—what is going on? But sleep was so deep he said, “We’ll think later; sleep now.” He slept on the bed—astonished to find Dunlop mattresses! “We’ll examine later,” he thought.

On waking, he became anxious. In this desolate place, under this tree, no refrigerator in sight, no people around—yet Coke appeared, food appeared, a bed appeared. He felt the bed to ensure it wasn’t imagination—it was real. He grew afraid: “Perhaps this tree is haunted by ghosts!”
The very moment he thought, “Ghosts? Demons? Have I fallen into their trap?”—instantly ghosts appeared all around, dancing with skulls, like the Anand Margis in a frenzied dance. “I’m finished!” he cried—and finished he was. Beneath the wish-fulfilling tree, what you say becomes so. That Coke proved very costly! It was too late. Having said, “I’m finished,” the demons smashed his head—where else do they get skulls for their dances? From those caught under wish-fulfilling trees!

There is no heaven or hell anywhere. Don’t fear hellfire; don’t desire heavenly pleasures. These are webs of your mind.

Because life here contains suffering, you imagine an opposite called heaven. And because others seem to be enjoying, you arrange hell for them. You console yourself: “No worry—life is short, it will pass. Endure a little suffering; then heaven’s pleasures await. As for these rogues throwing their weight around—go on, enjoy! In two days you’ll rot in hell, you’ll beg for a drop of water.” These are consolations, self-persuasion.

Karl Marx is not entirely wrong when he says religion is an opium. In this, there is some truth. What ninety-nine percent call religion is indeed an opiate.

Yes, the religion of Buddha, Krishna, Mahavira, Jesus is not an opiate. But how many are connected with that religion?

The vast net of priests and pundits sells only opium—keeping you numb so you can bear life’s pain. And they spin fantasies, so you can hope and be consoled.

But all that is for the ignorant—not for the self-knower. Therefore, Sahajanand, if it were up to me, I would remove such sutras from the Upanishads. Such sutras mar and destroy their glory.

But behind the Upanishads, the Gita, the shastras, stands a vast apparatus of vested interests living off precisely these sutras. The very sutras I would remove are their life-breath. And the sutras I would preserve would be poison for them.

True Vedanta!

Drink Dongre’s Balamrut; then everything will become clear. Dongre’s Balamrut—for children! That will bring Shakti, and it will bring bhakti. And amazing things will happen! And Dongre’s Balamrut is sweet, too. What a laddoo!

There are such people! What all they make people believe! If only they would straightforwardly sell Dongre’s Balamrut, fine. But what useless prattle and trash! Think a little about each point.

First point: “A person who eats food without worshipping the deity eats not food but sin.”

Then what will you say about other acts? A man who sleeps without worshipping the deity—does he sleep sin? The man who walks without worshipping the deity—does he walk sin?

So worship the deity twenty‑four hours! And there aren’t just one or two deities. In India there are thirty‑three crore deities—that’s 330 million. This sixty or seventy years of life will slip by like that; you won’t even manage to worship all thirty‑three crore deities.

And even in this little question he managed to pack in so many worships: Worship Shakti! Worship Ganapati! Worship Shiva! And he went on giving the gist of what you’ll get from whom.

Eating without worshipping a deity—or sleeping, or getting up—has nothing to do with sin. Whom do you call a deity? The sun is a deity, the moon is a deity, Hanuman is a deity, Ganesh is a deity—deities upon deities, the place is full!

Yes, the feeling of worship should be in life. But the feeling of worship has nothing to do with deities; it has to do with you. Otherwise, no Muslim worships Ganapati, nor any Christian, nor any Parsi. Will these poor souls be deprived of the laddoo? As it is they aren’t getting laddoos in this world—are you depriving them in the next too?

And are you quite sure—ask Dongre Maharaj—that what Ganapati holds in his hand is a laddoo? Because a great scholar, the learned Rahul Sankrityayan, spent his life proving that it isn’t a laddoo, it’s an egg! He too was a great pundit. He spent a lot of time proving it’s an egg. He was a devotee of eggs—he ate eggs himself—so he had to find support for his eggs! And how will you prove whether it’s an egg or a laddoo? As for Ganeshji—how reliable are they! Just look at that face! If they ate eggs, it wouldn’t be surprising!

These ridiculous things appeal to people because people are groping—let some crutch, any crutch, be found.

I am in favor of worship, but worship has nothing to do with gods. Worship is an inner state of feeling. Worship is the sense of gratitude; it is thankfulness.

This existence has given so much! It has given life. It has given the capacity for joy. It has given the possibility of knowing. It has sown the seeds of Buddhahood. What more do you want! It has given so much, and you won’t even give thanks! And in certain moments, don’t you feel like sinking to your knees? Bowing? Toward whom is not the question. Bowing is.

Understand my distinction. Dongre Maharaj’s emphasis is on “toward whom.” My emphasis is on your bowing, your surrender. The moment we put the emphasis on something outside, religion ends and shopkeeping begins. Religion is related to the within. Within there should be a feeling of surrender. Within there should be a deep sense of blessedness: so much has been given—to me, the unworthy! Not that any Ganapati gave it, nor any Shiva, nor any Mother Shakti. This vast totality of existence—this wholeness—its gift.

Do not name it. Leave it nameless. It is nameless. Toward this Nameless there should always be a feeling of thankfulness in life. Then whether you eat or rest, walk or sit or rise, within you that resonance should continue. There is no need to bind it in words. There is no need to shout, “You are the savior of the fallen, and I am the sinner! Save me! You are the savior!” No need for all that nonsense. Let a silent thankfulness ripple within you like the babbling of a spring. That is what I call worship—pujan, archan, vandan. Then you don’t have to fuss; otherwise huge entanglements arise.

Meera said: I don’t know the methods of worship, nor the manner of offering. I don’t know what to sing and what not to sing! Yet the worship Meera did—what will poor Dongre Maharaj do compared to that! No method, no manner.

It is mentioned in Moses’ life: he was passing through a forest and suddenly halted—he had to; the matter was such. A shepherd was offering an evening prayer. The sun was setting. Hands raised to the sky, he was saying, “O Lord, call me to You. Living alone You must be tired, troubled. I’ll take care of all Your chores! I know many tasks!”

Moses was astonished. He had never heard such a prayer, where a man is saying, “I know many tasks. You must be tired alone! How will You get on without me? How long can You? Call me to You. And look, I’ll give You a massage too! Champi! When You’re tired, I’ll press Your feet! Who knows whether anyone bathes You? I’ll scrub You clean! If You don’t believe me, just look at my sheep—have you seen such gleaming sheep anywhere? In any other shepherd’s flock?”

This was getting beyond Moses’ tolerance—what kind of prayer is this! And then the man overstepped the limit: “And if you get lice, I’ll pick them out for You. I even pick them from my sheep!”

Moses said, “Silence, you wretch! Ill‑mannered! Will God get lice? And you’ll pick them? And you think you are praying! If you utter even a word I’ll slap you so hard you’ll remember your mother’s milk. Stop this prayer! Who taught you this prayer?”

The shepherd fell at Moses’ feet. “Sir, no one taught me. I’m a poor, unlettered man—I make it up myself, and it comes out as it comes out. Today it came out like this. It isn’t the same every day. Don’t be angry. It changes day by day. If it’s very cold I say, ‘If I were with You I’d put a blanket over You.’ If the sun is harsh, I say, ‘I’d set up a shade for You.’ Who knows whether there is anyone there with You or not! Alone, in what difficulties You must be! Is there anyone to watch over You or not! And I’m here. Why don’t You call me? I await Your command—just give me a sign! When disease spreads—someone gets cholera, someone something else—I get scared, maybe You’ve got cholera! Then I say, ‘Don’t You worry. I know herbs! I’ll pound a decoction and make You drink it. One dose and I’ll cure You!’”

Moses said, “You are going too far! All my life I have prayed, all my life I have taught people to pray, but you… what an extraordinary religious man! Stop this foolishness. I’ll teach you prayer. Pray like this.”

“Whatever you say,” the shepherd replied. “Teach me.”

Moses taught him and went on, pleased that he had set a corrupt man on the right path. He had gone only a little way when a voice came from the sky: “Moses, I sent you to earth to bring back the lost to the path—not to lead those who are on the path astray!”

“What are You saying!” said Moses. “Whom did I mislead?”

“Just now you misled that poor shepherd,” said God. “The joy of his spontaneous prayer was something else. I used to wait for his prayer—his prayers delight me. He says such amazing things! And with such love! Look at his love—‘I’ll pick out Your lice!’ Each and every louse—I won’t let one remain! Just give me a chance!’ You ruined it. Now he’ll recite a false, hollow prayer, without his life, without feeling—parrot‑like repetition day after day. Go back and ask his forgiveness.”

Moses returned, fell at the shepherd’s feet, begged forgiveness, and said, “Brother, what I taught you was wrong. Your prayer is right. Continue with your prayer. My prayers have never reached God; yours does. Everyone I taught—none of theirs reaches either. Yours does.”

Worship should be spontaneous. To be lost in oneself is worship. Dance in ecstasy, sing, hum. What kind of madness is this—to say that if one eats food without worship, he eats sin! Don’t live without worship—that’s not about eating. How many times will you eat? Twice a day; then you’ll worship twice. What will you do the rest of the time? Settle scores—undo whatever worship you managed!

Worship is a twenty‑four‑hour state of feeling; it has nothing to do with whether you eat or not. And if some day you don’t eat—suppose you fast—will you then worship or not? If you don’t even eat, what need is there for worship!

A little boy in a Christian school was asked by the pastor, “At home you pray before going to sleep, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” he said.

“Sometimes! Why not always?”

“When I’m alone, when I’m afraid, I do. If my father and mother are sleeping in the room, why pray? If I’m not afraid, what’s the point? There has to be a use.”

The pastor was astonished. “Do you pray at meals?”

“Never. My mother cooks very good food. Why pray! Those people pray whose mothers cook such food that God’s name comes to mind—you immediately feel, ‘Ram naam satya hai!’”

“There’s a boy next door,” he continued, “he prays every day. His mother’s cooking is terrible! When she first came after marriage, the husband came home and found her sitting dejected. ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘The parathas I made—the cat ate them,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry,’ he replied. ‘We’ll buy another cat tomorrow.’ What’s there to worry about! At worst the cat dies—what else? Let someone eat your parathas—what more is going to happen! We’ll get another cat. Why worry so much!’ That woman’s son prays daily. But I don’t—my mother cooks well!”

People’s prayers are utilitarian; there’s a motive inside. Then it isn’t prayer. Prayer should be without motive. What has it to do with eating, not eating!

But in this country a thousand kinds of asinine nonsense circulate—and they bear the name “religious discourse”! People listen with great piety! As if we have sold our intelligence. It’s been ages since we sold it; we’ve kept no relationship with intelligence.

Now Dongre Maharaj says, “The first vision of Brahman happens in the idol.”

Do they even know the meaning of the word Brahman? Do they know the meaning of “the vision of Brahman”? And have you ever seen an idol of Brahman? You may have seen Rama’s, Krishna’s, Buddha’s, Mahavira’s. But have you ever seen an idol of Brahman? I haven’t! I’ve never even heard that there is an idol of Brahman.

Many foolishnesses have happened in this country, but no one ever committed the foolishness of making an idol of Brahman—because an idol of Brahman cannot be made. Brahman means: that which is inexpressible, indefinable, formless. The very meaning of the word is: that which goes on expanding and expanding, whose expanse has no end. How will you make its idol?

Yes, there are idols of Rama, Krishna, Buddha—persons. Why did we make their idols? Because they knew and recognized Brahman. But that is not an idol of Brahman.

Buddha is like the arrow mark on a milestone—pointing farther on. Yes, the direction indicated is right. Buddha’s image is a pointer toward Brahman; it is not Brahman’s image.

Nor does the first vision happen in an idol. Yes, one to whom the vision of Brahman has happened sees That in the idol too. Why only in the idol? He sees That in every stone. He sees only That—nothing else appears.

Brahman is the name of life. The first glimmer of it… and this glimmer happens within, not in an idol. There is no “vision” of Brahman; the recognition of the seer is what is called the experience of Brahman. There is no vision of It. Vision implies outside; a seen object before your eyes. Brahman is that which sits within your seeing, which is your very seeing, which is your capacity to see, your capacity to know. Brahman never becomes the known; It is always the knower. Never the seen—always the seer. That is why we have called the rishis “seers.”

There is no “vision” of That. Yes, the day you recognize your seer, symbolically one may say “the vision happened.” One who has known the seer within, who has heard the unstruck sound of life within, who has recognized the inner resonance, who has become acquainted with the stream of life flowing within—then he begins to see That in everyone.

Buddha said, “The day I attained Buddhahood, for me the whole world attained Buddhahood.” Because what I found within myself, I saw present in all.

Therefore the first “Brahman‑vision” is in your own seer‑nature. And then not only in an idol—everything becomes Its idol. Then in the mosque It is That, in the temple It is That, in the church It is That, in the gurdwara It is That. In the stone by the roadside It is That. In the mountain, the river, the cascades, the pools It is That. In the moon and stars It is That. Brahman means Existence.

“Shri Dongre Maharaj said that one should drink water only after worshipping Ganapati.”

What astonishing statements! Why? Does Ganapati object to your drinking water? If you had said “afterwards,” that would even make sense—because Ganapati is the only deity who has a laddoo in his hand. If you drink water before eating the laddoo? Drink it afterwards—then it makes sense. Let the laddoo go down; lest it stick; water will help it slide.

“But only after worshipping Ganapati should one drink water!”

There is a lot of Ganapati‑mania in Maharashtra. It must click with the Marathi mind. Marāṭhī mānas! It must immediately feel right: “Of course! How can you drink water without remembering Ganapati!”

What relation has Ganapati to drinking water? Yes, I can understand this: water is also the Divine. I can understand this: food is also the Divine. The Upanishads say: annam brahma—food is Brahman. They do not say: one should worship before eating. Food itself is Brahman. Then water too is Brahman. What is there to worship!

“And Ganapati alone is the deity who holds a laddoo.”

This is to speak of distinctiveness. Therefore one should worship Ganapati, because he holds a laddoo. Whoever wants a laddoo should worship him. If you don’t worship him, you’ll miss the laddoo.

A man arrived at Chandulal’s house, got out of a car and said, “Is your wife at home? Laddoos have come from Seth Bulakiram’s.”

The wife had gone out, but Chandulal’s mouth watered. Where do laddoos come by in this Kaliyuga! He said, “She’s out, but don’t worry. Give Seth Bulakiram our thanks and leave the laddoos.”

The man hesitated.

“Don’t worry,” said Chandulal. “I am Chandulal. Nothing will happen to your laddoos!”

“You didn’t understand,” the man said. “My name is Laddoo. I haven’t brought any laddoos—just the name!”

What Ganeshji holds in his hand is no laddoo; it’s only a name! Where’s the sweetness in that? Yet they tell us, “There is sweetness in that laddoo!”

What profound knowledge is being dispensed! In this country, such fountains of knowledge flow! What an amazing thing to tell us—that laddoos are sweet! As if even fools don’t know that! Granted there is a shortage of sugar, but that there is sweetness in a laddoo—anyone knows.

And then an even more profound metaphysical insight: “Knowledge is the laddoo!”

Tell such things to little children—it makes sense. That is why I said: drink Dongre’s Balamrut. True Vedanta—you too will like it. Tasty. And it increases strength and devotion!

“He said that the Mother, Shakti, must also be worshipped.”

How much worship are you going to have people do? Is it only worship you want done, or anything else too? This foolishness went on so long in this country that people kept worshipping and forgot everything else. They kept worshipping and wasted everything. No laddoos left, no sweetness left, no knowledge left—nothing left. They just went on worshipping.

“Without Shakti life is useless.”

This is called extracting something out of nothing.

I was a professor in a university. The vice‑chancellor was also the speaker of the state assembly. His name was Kunjilal, but people called him Chhabilal! Who knows! He had no intellect at all, but he surely had a key—he could unlock things! When he became vice‑chancellor, his first speech was at the inauguration of a tournament. He said, “There are three kinds of games. You know there are three kinds of games: hockey, football, and tournament!” This is called extracting from a statement! What profound knowledge—that there are three kinds of games!

Now look: what all is Dongreji extracting!

“The Mother, Shakti, must be worshipped. Without Shakti life is useless.”

Our sannyasin Prem Shakti should understand: without Shakti life is useless. And without Prem Shakti, life is totally useless!

“Only from Shakti does bhakti arise.”

This is called splitting hairs. Say anything you like! “Only from Shakti comes bhakti!” So do push‑ups and squats! Build strength first; then devotion will come! Get a massage; eat laddoos!

“And bhakti brings steadiness to meditation.”

Now does meditation need steadiness? The very meaning of meditation is steadiness. Meditation means everything has become still. These people talk as if in delirium! Is it Dongreji Maharaj—or Maharaj Delirium?

“Meditate on Ganapati and obstacles won’t come. And by meditating on the Mother, Shakti comes.”

All right! It’s wise to take care of both father and mother! Lest there be a mishap.

Mulla Nasruddin was dying. He folded his hands and said, “O Lord, have compassion. I have committed many sins—forgive me.” Then he said, “O Satan, have mercy. I didn’t commit as many sins as I should have. Still, be kind.”

The priest standing nearby to lead the last prayer heard this. “Silence! What are you saying?” he cried.

“You be quiet,” said Mulla. “This is the last hour; who knows into whose hands I’ll fall! What do I lose? I’ll pray to both. Whoever’s hands I fall into, I’ll beg from him: please ignore the prayer I made to the other—it was spoken in illness, in fear, at the time of death. I’ll hold his feet and ask forgiveness. If I pray to God and fall into Satan’s hands—then? Will you save me? If I pray to Satan and fall into God’s hands, I’m done for! This is no time for thinking. It’s better to pray to both. Who knows in whose hands I’ll end up! Whoever’s hands I land in, I’ll settle the other matter with him.”

This is how they tell you: take care of Ganapati; take care of Mother; then take care of Father. Keep taking care! Your life will be spent just in this managing. There is no need to get into this nonsense. Be quiet. Be silent. Be joyful. Let there be gratefulness in life. That is enough.

“Shri Dongre Maharaj described Shiva as the image of restraint.”

Now this is amazing! The ultimate! Shiva—the image of restraint?

“And said that only through restraint does Shakti increase.”

See how he keeps extracting from statements!

“Therefore one should worship Shiva.”

What has Shiva to do with restraint? He doesn’t look restrained. Otherwise why fall in love with Parvati? And then he took a wedding procession. Have you seen that procession? Dongre Maharaj must surely have been in it—the procession was like that! All the crooked, skewed fellows were there! Such a procession never set out—unique!

And when Parvati died, the story goes that Shiva roamed across India with her corpse for twelve years. Is this a mark of restraint? Open your scriptures and see. Even the most foolish doesn’t do such foolishness! Twelve years? He won’t wait twelve minutes! As soon as Parvatiji goes, he quickly knots the bier. The whole neighborhood even helps, “Come on, poor fellow—let’s get him free!” No delay, not even a moment.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife died. They were bringing the coffin down the stairs. The landing was narrow. As they turned the corner, the coffin bumped the wall, the lid flew open, and the wife sat up! She wasn’t dead. They’d been in such a hurry—she was still unconscious when they took her! This is called restraint! What attachment! And woman—what is she anyway, the gate of hell!

She lived three more years. Women are remarkable—even after dying they don’t die! Only if you kill them! Scientists are puzzled why women live five years longer than men. They haven’t figured it out yet. But they do. If a man lives seventy years, a woman will live seventy‑five. She always stands ahead of the man!

She lived three more years; then she died again. Once more the opportunity for “restraint”! They quickly nailed the coffin. As they were carrying it down and reached the corner, Mulla shouted, “Brothers, careful! You’re the ones who bump it—and I’m the one who suffers! What does it cost your father! Last time you bumped it—who bore the trouble for three years?” And he went on weeping: “What will become of me now!” This is called restraint!

And these Shivji roamed twelve years carrying Parvati’s corpse—hoping she would revive! Her limbs rotted and fell off place by place. The legend is that wherever a limb fell, a place of pilgrimage arose. So they wandered all over India! Perhaps he was looking for a doctor—maybe Urulikanchan was coming—or what was he doing! Where was he going! For twelve years he roamed. When nothing was left in his hands—when even the last bit fell—only then was he freed.

Restrained? Then Dongre Maharaj has read nothing about Shiva. If Shiva is restraint, why are these Shiva‑lingas standing all over the land? Is that a symbol of restraint? People say I say naughty things. What am I to do? With eyes open, how can I close them? Wherever you look, there sits Shivji! And search the Puranas—you’ll find the story of why the linga became his symbol. It became so because of restraint!

Brahma and Vishnu had a dispute. Nothing could be settled, so they thought: “Let’s go to Shiva and have him decide.” The doorkeeper—as with our holy men!—was probably asleep. Doorkeepers’ job is just that. He must have just woken—wondering, “What’s going on? Are they talking about me?” The doorkeeper was asleep; the two went inside. Shivji were immersed in love. Sambhogatun samadhi kade—seeking samadhi through lovemaking! What am I to do! A man of restraint—if he doesn’t seek samadhi, what should he do! And these two—Brahma and Vishnu—utterly shameless: they stood there! If you’re decent, at least close your eyes, tie a kerchief. But they stood staring—six hours they watched! And Shivji are Shivji—having taken hemp, how would he know! Poor Parvati must have felt a little shy—but what could she do! She can’t go against her husband. Husband means God! And then—Shivji! What if he gets angry! So she too kept it in mind: “Let them stand.”

They stood; they didn’t budge. They too were remarkable! Shivji restrained—these two restrained. If you get to see a film for free, why not watch! After six hours, the doorkeeper woke; he saw shoes outside; he went in; pushed them out: “Out! At least you could have asked!”

Both were furious. The gods’ work is to get angry quickly. That’s why Dongre Maharaj tells you to worship them. “Even if you drink water—worship first. They could get angry! You ate without worshipping?” Especially Ganapati—write a scripture, a ledger—anything; first remember him, otherwise they may create an obstacle.

Because Ganapati’s ancient Vedic form is that of the deity who causes obstacles—mischief‑maker! His job was to create trouble wherever anything auspicious was going on—surround the place, call a strike, raise slogans, zindabad‑murdabad! In the Vedas his form is obstacle‑maker. And since such a troublemaker must be placated beforehand, it is good to worship him first. That is how gradually the obstacle‑maker Ganapati became the remover of obstacles! The story got reversed! Therefore at the start of every work: Om Ganeshaya namah! Whether you write scripture, ledger, or account books—first remember him, so he won’t create obstacles. Thus the god who made obstacles became the destroyer of obstacles!

And I think I know the reason. It’s clear.

When I was a schoolboy they always made me the monitor in every class! Then I understood the secret of Ganapati. They had to make me monitor; otherwise I would create so many obstacles! The only way to prevent trouble was to make me the monitor. Then I couldn’t make trouble, and no one else could either—because it was my responsibility to stop trouble.

Only once a teacher didn’t make me monitor. In the end the principal called him and said, “You’re making a mistake. That’s why there’s trouble.”

“What mistake?” asked the teacher.

“Make this boy the monitor. Otherwise your class will never study—there will only be disturbance!”

He had made a simple, straight boy the monitor—thinking straightness is the criterion. That’s no mathematics! You have to make the troublemaker the monitor; that’s the easiest trick to stop trouble.

That is the whole story of Ganapati. Why did Ganapati become so honored? So he won’t create obstacles. “Just have mercy, sir. The rest we will manage—only you manage yourself!”

Gods get angry very quickly. Vishnu and Brahma were furious. They were insulted. First insult: they stood six hours and he didn’t even look! Second: in their presence he kept up such an unseemly act—continuing in lovemaking. No modesty, no decorum, no propriety! Is this Indian culture?

That’s why they don’t let me come to Kutch—lest Indian culture be destroyed! And I’m telling you, I will have to go to Kutch. Dharmakshetre Kacchakshetre! How long can Kurukshetra remain the field of dharma? The place has to change too!

They were enraged: “This is against Indian culture.” In anger they cursed, “Since you behaved so outrageously—six hours we stood and you didn’t look at us, and you continued this obscene behavior before us—we curse you: you shall forever be known only by the symbol of the genitals.”

That is the Purana story: hence the Shiva‑linga. The genital becomes his symbol. And you say Shiva is the image of restraint; and that restraint alone increases Shakti.

Your gods—if you read their stories—are not even worthy of being called gods. But who reads? Who is concerned? Who has time? Therefore the traders who do business in the name of religion go on saying anything, putting any meanings they like. And since you have no understanding, whatever meaning they tell you seems right. And your only desire is that your greed be satisfied. So to satisfy your greed they say: worship Mother and strength will increase; worship Strength and meditation will deepen; meditate on Ganapati and obstacles will not arise. Thus they go on; and you remain trapped in this merry‑go‑round.

India’s genius has been destroyed by such people. The country needs freedom from them. But these are your rishis, sages, your religious leaders—these are the ones who show you the way. That’s why I appear irreligious. It seems I am turning you away from religion.

I only want to tell you plainly what is—as it is.

If you want a renaissance of religion in this country, you will have to burn, like a Holi bonfire, all the garbage that goes by the name of religion. You have burned Ravana long enough. Now start burning your religious trash. Ravana has been burned and finished. Why burn him again and again! Now sift your scriptures to remove all the rubbish because of which this country has fallen; because of which you are blind, poor, hungry—slaves, mentally slaves, spiritually slaves… Today on earth no one is in a worse condition than you.

But you are arrogant. You think you are very religious—because you celebrate Ganeshotsav, worship Kali, worship Shankarji, worship Hanumanji!

None of these worships has anything to do with religion. Religion is about becoming quiet, becoming silent, becoming empty. When the sky of emptiness arises within you, there is the experience of Brahman. And that experience fills the whole of existence with delight.

Let your life become full of rasa—only then know that you are religious. As for God, only one definition appeals to me: raso vai sah—He is the very essence, the savor.

That’s all for today.