Anahad Mein Bisram #6

Yes, Pratiksha!

“Sādhu—and worldly!” The very phrase is a contradiction. Then what remains as the difference between a sādhu and a non-sādhu? The non-sādhu is one who is worldly—whose vision cannot see beyond matter, who gets stuck in matter; one who is blind. For what could be a greater blindness than to see only matter!

Existence is brimming with the divine—with beauty, with truth, with bliss; and if all you can see is matter, it only shows that you do not have eyes for the subtle; only the gross falls into your grasp.

A non-sādhu is one who recognizes only the gross. Not only that—he also denies the subtle to protect his ego. The person who says, “What can I do? For now I only see the gross. Perhaps the subtle also exists; I will search, inquire, explore. I have not shut the doors of my mind”—such a person can be forgiven. But the one who declares, “There is nothing beyond matter”—he cannot be forgiven, because he has blocked the very path of the subtle’s entry. For him the meaningful will appear meaningless; there will be no taste of significance.

So my first objection to Vashistha’s aphorism is this: he says, “laukikānām hi sādhūnām artha vāg anuvartate—of worldly sādhus, their speech follows meaning.”

There is no such phenomenon as a worldly sādhu. And if there is, then don’t call him a sādhu. Will you call one a sādhu who has not even had the slightest glimpse of the divine? Will you call a man with no ray in his eyes “sighted”? Will you call someone a poet, a connoisseur of beauty, who has no sense of beauty? Will you call one a lover in whose life even a drizzle of love has never happened?

A worldly sādhu is only a hypocrite. Although it is true—and perhaps that is why Vashistha said this—that out of a hundred sādhus ninety-nine are worldly sādhus. It seems Vashistha did not wish to be harsh, so he sugared the pill. He was not like Kabir.

Kabir says:
“Kabir stands in the marketplace, a cudgel in hand.
Whoever has the courage to burn his house, come with me!”

Come if you have the courage to burn your house—then walk with me. Stick in hand, Kabir says, I stand in the marketplace! Kabir strikes straight; there is no compromise in his blow. Vashistha tells even truth after whitewashing it—adding a little sweetness, a syrupy glaze!

Worldly sādhu? There is no such thing. If he is worldly, he is not a sādhu; if he is a sādhu, he is not worldly. To join opposites like that is like saying “dark daylight,” like a midnight sun that has risen!

Yet in one sense Vashistha is right: ninety-nine out of a hundred so-called sādhus are like this—sādhus in name only. They wear the garb of a sādhu but not the soul. The outer robe is easy; conduct is cheap. There is no difficulty in acquiring the outward conduct of a sādhu—just a little practice. Eat once instead of twice, avoid this food, refuse that drink. Or, as Dongre Maharaj said yesterday, “When you drink water, remember the Lord first. If you eat grain without remembering the Lord, you have eaten sin! If you drink water without remembering the Lord, you have drunk sin!”

I once met such a “great soul.” I was passing through Agra—returning from Jaipur. I had about six hours between trains. A friend had been writing for long, “When you pass through Agra—and you must pass through, because we hear of your visits to Jaipur—come and sanctify my house.”

I agreed and informed him. I didn’t know him except by letters. The gentleman who came to pick me up said as soon as we met, “Quick! Before my elder brother arrives!”

I asked, “Were you the one writing me?”

“No,” he said, “my elder brother wrote. But he and I are sworn enemies. I can’t allow him the chance to welcome you. I got here first. The house is divided; he lives in one half, I in the other. You must accept my hospitality, because I came first!”

I said, “What does it matter to me? Half yours, half his—fine, let’s go.”

We were halfway when the elder brother arrived, running! He burst out, “Om! I wrote the letter. Where is this scoundrel taking you? Sit in my carriage!” The younger had warned me to hurry; if the elder arrived, there would be trouble. The elder was built like a wrestler; the younger, frail. The elder didn’t hesitate—lifted my luggage and, saying “Om!” even as he did something quite wrong, grabbed my hand and seated me in his carriage. The poor younger stood silent—what could he do! I could see that even if the elder beat him, he would say “Om!” first. And that is what happened.

We reached his house. The house was divided, except for a large central room left common. As I entered, the elder said at the door, “Om, please come in!” The younger, from his doorway, pleaded, “At least sit in the central room; then I too can come, and he also. If you stay in his house, I cannot come; if in mine, he cannot.” I said, “That seems right.” But the elder said “Om!” and carried my luggage into his own rooms.

He was a photographer. “Before the younger creates a scene—he’ll keep coming, inviting you to eat, to this and that—let me take your picture. That was my real intention in writing.”

“As you wish,” I said. “I’m in your hands for six hours.”

And how he took the picture! Every little act began with “Om!” He was a devotee of Dongre Maharaj. Plug in—“Om!” Unplug—“Om!” Seat me—“Om!” Turn the camera—“Om!” Fit the plate—“Om!” He brought a comb to fix my hair—“Om!”

I said, “Leave me as I am.” He flared up—an angry man. “As you wish!” “Om!” He flung the comb and ruffled my hair thoroughly.

Just then a neighbor came in—he had heard I was there. He sat down to talk after the photo. The elder’s maid was passing; the neighbor said, “Sister, a glass of water.” It was hot. The elder barked, “Om! Aren’t you ashamed, a man asking a woman for water? The tap is right there; fill it and drink! A man asking a woman!” Then turning to me, murmured, “Om! He’s my brother’s friend—I set the scoundrel straight.”

“Om” on his lips—and what didn’t he pack inside that “Om”! Such so-called sādhus will chant “Om,” and within their “Om” everything contrary to it will be crammed. They will fix the outer conduct, but inside their life runs in the opposite direction.

Two Digambara Jain monks once got into a fistfight—something that should be impossible. A Digambara monk has renounced everything—even clothing—what cause remains for brawling? People say wealth, woman, land—the three roots of quarrel. They have none of the three! Yet they found a way to quarrel! If a man wants to fight, he will—wealth, woman, land are excuses, pegs to hang the fight upon. If there is no peg, he’ll use a nail; if no nail, a window; if not, his own shoulder—but he’ll hang it.

Where did they fight? Early morning, while relieving themselves in solitude. How did they beat each other? They had nothing—except the picchī, the Jain monk’s woolen fly-whisk used to gently clear a spot lest even an ant be hurt. It has a small stick with a tuft of wool. The whisk is to sweep the place softly so that even an ant, if present, is nudged away. But that stick! Mahavira never imagined the stick could be hollowed out and used. That day it was. They beat each other with the picchī—using the stick!

Some villagers caught them mid-fight and took them to the police. With great difficulty they were saved. There was an uproar among Jains—how could monks behave so, who speak of self-knowledge and practice austerity!

And the cause of the fight? When the police investigated, it became even more amusing. The picchī stick—bamboo—had been hollowed out and stuffed with hundred-rupee notes! That was their wallet. If you ever see a Jain monk’s picchī, look closely at the stick—there is nothing else they can use. Man is inventive: they had filled bundle upon bundle of notes inside. The fight was over division—the elder monk wanted more than the younger, a question of seniority! The younger insisted on equal halves: “This is conspiracy, not a government office!” They thrashed each other; the money was found. The community hushed it up with bribes lest it come out. They came to me: “What should we do?”

I said, “Publish it in the newspapers—with photos!”

They cried, “What are you saying! We came to ask how to hush it up. It is the prestige of the monk—of our religion.”

I said, “It is also a question of religion’s prestige for me—and of the monk. Ninety-nine such monks are drowning the one true monk. Whom should we save—the one, or the ninety-nine?”

But people work to save the ninety-nine; let the one drown. Numbers carry weight—everywhere numbers rule.

So, in that sense, Pratiksha, Vashistha is right: “laukikānām hi sādhūnām artha vāg anuvartate.” Those worldly “sādhus”…

Worldly means: not really sādhus at all, only appearing so; a mere label. Inside, only the world; no relationship yet with the Beyond, the non-worldly.

And these are exactly the ones you will meet—whether called Muktananda, Akhandananda or Swaroopananda—worldly sādhus. Then this aphorism becomes meaningful. Understand the worldly sādhu and the sutra is apt.

The sutra says: such men’s speech follows meaning. They have no inner voice of their own, no personal experience. No living touch that makes a word come alive; no alchemy that turns dust to gold.

So their speech will trail the scriptures. Meaning is in the scriptures for them; in their lives there is none. Meaning is in the Gita, the Veda, the Quran, the Bible, the Dhammapada—not in themselves. And meaning not rooted in oneself is a mis-meaning; don’t even call it meaning. The meaning in the Gita is Krishna’s meaning—his experience. It did not become even Arjuna’s—how will it become yours?

Reflect on this. How much did Krishna labor—that is how the Gita arose. He struggled long, while Arjuna kept resisting with clever maneuvers. The wrestling went on for quite a while. And when Arjuna finally said, “All my doubts have fallen,” I still find it hard to believe; I feel he panicked: “How long can this go on? This man won’t stop; he will keep chewing my head. If I dodge here, he attacks there.”

His arguments were defeated, but he himself was not transformed. The Mahabharata reveals this: after the Pandavas died and began their ascent to heaven, they all fell along the way—Arjuna too. Only Yudhishthira and his dog reached heaven’s gate. If Arjuna had truly understood Krishna and been transformed, he should not have fallen. The story indicates Arjuna did not experience. He consented: “How long can one argue? Better to end it—pick up the bow, fight, kill or die—finish the fuss. There is no escaping this man’s arguments.”

But argument does not transform. Arjuna was not transformed. Krishna’s meaning did not become Arjuna’s—even though they were face to face, friends, bound by love. Between you and Krishna there lies five thousand years—how will his meaning become yours? You will have to find your own meaning.

Yes, once you find your own meaning, Krishna’s meaning will be revealed too. The experience of truth is not many. Whether I know it, or you know it, or someone else—A knows it or B or C—the experience of truth is one. When truth is realized, the meanings of the Bible, the Veda, the Zend Avesta all open together.

People ask me, “Have you read all the scriptures?” For example, this very aphorism—I had never read it before. I’m not even sure it is Vashistha’s; I am answering on the basis of the question. I haven’t read it; there is no need.

People ask, “Have you read them all?” No need. I read one scripture—myself. Reading that, the meanings of all scriptures were revealed. Now bring any scripture; I have my own light by which I can see its meaning. What does it matter which book it is! If I have a lit lamp, bring the Veda—the Veda will shine in that light. Bring the Quran, it will shine; bring the Dhammapada, it will shine. The lamp does not care whether the Veda, Quran, or Bible is placed before it; its light falls equally.

So I cannot even say this is Vashistha’s sutra. Whether it is or not, one thing is clear: the worldly sādhu—so-called—has no inner wealth of realization. Inside he is empty husk. He believes in God; he does not know. And until you have known, what value is there in belief? Until then belief is untrue, dishonest, hypocrisy. Only what you have known should be believed. What you have not known—be clear: “I have not known—how can I believe?” At least do not lose your integrity. For religion, integrity is the minimum requirement.

But your so-called believers have not even preserved that much. Someone is Hindu, someone Muslim, someone Christian, someone Jain—none has known. Even the atheist has not known; his atheism is borrowed. Someone else has borrowed theism. Your entire life is borrowed.

Naturally, your speech will follow someone else’s meaning. You will sing someone else’s song. You might sing it well, but it will be hollow—surface without depth. Words upon words—with no treasure within. A row of extinguished lamps, with not a single flame lit. Because if even one lamp were lit, the whole row could be lit, the entire Diwali celebrated.

So the sutra is right; only I object to the term “worldly sādhu.” He should not be called a sādhu. The time has come to stop calling him that. If his vision is worldly, why call him a sādhu? Yes, he may have left his house—but that too is worldliness.

What a joke! On one hand these sādhus say “The world is maya—illusion.” On the other they say “Renounce the world.” Can illusion be renounced? Can that which is not be renounced? What madness!

At night you dream you are an emperor—vast kingdom, heaps of gold, mountains of jewels. In the morning you wake and find it was a dream. Will someone have to tell you, “Brother, now renounce the dream. Let it go!” Will you say, “I will, slowly. Not yet; when I’m seventy-five I’ll take sannyas and renounce it. For now let me enjoy the pleasures a little. I’m young; don’t talk of renunciation yet. I bow to you, I will worship you, but let the time ripen. At seventy-five I will certainly renounce the dream. The world is maya—who doesn’t know! But not now.” Would you speak like that?

To know a dream as a dream is to have dropped it. That is why I do not tell my sannyasins to leave the world. I say, if it is a dream, what is there to leave?

Not renunciation—awakening. Not flight—awakening.

For centuries you have been taught to escape. In escape the values do not change; only the direction of your running. Some run toward wealth: their value is wealth—how much can they hoard? Others run from wealth: their value is still wealth—their metric is “how much can I give up?” You weigh Rockefeller and Birla and Tata with one scale; you weigh Mahavira and Buddha with the same scale. The real issue is the scale itself.

Jain scriptures describe with relish how many elephants, horses, how much wealth and how many palaces Mahavira renounced, as if to prove he was no small sādhu but a great one. The yardstick is quantity. That is why no poor man has ever been declared an avatar by Hindus, nor a Buddha by Buddhists, nor a Tirthankara by Jains—because the criterion fails: “What did he renounce? How much?” If you say, “I gave up a loincloth,” they will shout, “Get lost! With a loincloth you aspire to be a Tirthankara? Where is your kingdom, your elephants, your horses?”

In the future it will be difficult to produce Tirthankaras—there are no kingdoms left. Perhaps only in England—or in a deck of cards! They say five kings remain: four in the deck and one in England. And even he is worse off than the card-kings—only a name. So now only hope England produces Buddhas, Tirthankaras, avatars. In India it’s impossible—no kingdoms, no elephants and horses—what will you renounce? “I gave up a bicycle”? At least a horse!

That’s why no one calls Kabir a Tirthankara. Though in what is Kabir lacking? But how to call a weaver a Tirthankara? He had nothing to clutch, what could he give up? He would weave cloth daily and sell it—just enough to eat; even that was uncertain.

There is a marvelous story, sent to me by Satya Vedant—very lovely, worth pondering, and only possible in a life like Kabir’s. Kabir’s house was always full—people came from far to soak in his intoxication. Singing and dancing began at dawn; an inner wine flowed; people drank and were drunk. At meal times Kabir would say, “Don’t go without food; now that you’ve come, eat.” Sometimes two hundred people, sometimes three hundred, sometimes five hundred. Poor Kabir—how much could he earn weaving by day? Debts piled up; his wife was harried; his son was troubled.

One day things reached a point. Kabir’s wife went to the shop to beg for rice, ghee, flour: “Two hundred people are at home. My husband has invited them. I slipped out the back door. Please—quick!” The shopkeeper said, “Enough. Pay the old debt first. This keeps growing; you will sink my shop. Kabir’s bhajans go on and my business goes bust. He invites everyone; he knows the ruin is mine. Pay first; I won’t give more.”

She said, “Do anything, but today you must give; it’s a matter of honor. How can I face them? We must feed them.” That shopkeeper had long had an eye on Kabir’s wife—she was beautiful. Even if not, living with Kabir she would have become beautiful. Bathed for years in Kabir’s joy, how could she remain plain?

Seeing her trapped, he seized his chance: “If your devotion is so strong, promise to sleep with me tonight—and I’ll wipe the debt.” She said, “As you wish. We must feed them.” She was Kabir’s wife—not the wife of a “worldly sādhu.” She said, “Agreed. If this settles it, good. Why didn’t you say so earlier! The daily trouble would have ended. I’ll come at dusk.”

She took the provisions, fed everyone. Then heavy rain began. Dressed and ready, she sat. Kabir asked, “Are you going somewhere? You’re dressed up and it’s pouring.”

“I must go,” she said. “Why hide from you?” This is love: “Why hide from you?” She told him everything: “The debt is huge; the shopkeeper refused. He said, ‘If you spend the night with me, I’ll cancel it all.’ So we have the key now—invite as many as you like. The fool should have said it before; the nuisance would have ended. I must go.”

Kabir said, “It’s raining hard. I’ll walk you there.” Only Kabir could say that. He took an umbrella, sheltered her, and said, “Go inside; I’ll sit outside—the rain won’t stop. When you’re done, I’ll take you home. It’s a dark night and heavy rain; I’ll wait in the shed.”

Kabir sat under the eaves. She knocked. The shopkeeper, who was eager yet fearful—because she had agreed so readily, which he couldn’t believe; a “chaste” woman would have raised a sandal immediately! If she raises a sandal, know she is no Savitri; the sandal itself betrays lust. She had said “yes” at once—he doubted she would come. When she did, dressed in her best, he was shaken—sweat broke out. He hadn’t imagined Kabir’s wife would truly come. He stared; also saw, in the torrential rain, she was not wet at all.

“How is this possible?” he asked. “It’s pouring, yet you aren’t even damp!” She said, “How could I be? Kabir brought me—he let himself get drenched and kept me dry under the umbrella. He said, ‘I can get wet—no matter; you must go to that poor shopkeeper. What is his fault that it rains tonight?’”

The shopkeeper staggered. “Kabir brought you? Where is he—gone or here?” “He’s here,” she said. “Sitting in the shed, because he says after you finish, who knows if the rain will stop; the night is dark—so he will take me home. Hurry up; don’t keep him waiting. He must rise in the brahma-muhurt again; the bhajans begin; devotees will gather.”

The shopkeeper fell at Kabir’s feet, ran to him, touched his feet. Kabir said, “Don’t waste time. Finish your work; let us finish ours. Don’t get entangled; touching feet can wait till morning. Come then for singing; touch my feet there. For now, finish your business.” He pleaded, “What are you saying! Don’t destroy me; don’t insult me!”

Kabir said, “We are not insulting you; these things have no value.” This is the seer’s vision. I call Kabir a Tirthankara. For me it isn’t how many horses and elephants he renounced; I see that the world and its values have no value to him. Its morality is no morality, its immorality no immorality—merely practical conventions. The Supreme Truth is untouched—ever virgin, like a lotus in water.

But who will call Kabir a Tirthankara, an avatar, a Buddha? The fixed yardstick is wealth. Those you call sādhus, you call so for worldly reasons—because they “gave up” what you value. That’s all it takes!

Now, Vashistha’s sutra gets to the point: such a sādhu’s speech is hollow. It follows someone else’s meaning; he has no realization of his own. He will say “Honey is sweet,” but it won’t be his taste.

And Vashistha says, “ṛṣīṇām punar… vācam artho’nudhāvati—the rishis’ speech is followed by meaning.”

Pratiksha, where did you add “ādi” (ancient)? The sutra simply says “ṛṣīṇām”—those who are rishis; those who have attained the state of the seer. There is no “ancient” in it. But even in translation our minds intrude; whoever translated it added “ādi,” because our belief is that whatever was best happened in the past: the golden age is over; now it is Kali Yuga—where are the rishis now! Hence “ancient.” Though the sutra says nothing of “ādi.”

It simply says, “ṛṣīṇām… vācam artho’nudhāvati”—for the rishis, meaning follows their speech. Whatever they utter becomes meaningful. Whether they speak or remain silent—their silence is significant, their speech is significant. They do not have to chase meaning; they flow like a river, and meaning flows with them. Therefore, whatever they say carries dignity and grandeur; whatever they say carries beauty.

“Rishi” is a lovely word. First understand it. We in this land have two words—unique in the world: kavi (poet) and rishi (seer). Every language has “poet,” but not “rishi.” Their meanings are close but with a hairline difference that separates earth and sky.

“Kavi” means one who sometimes gets a glimpse of truth. “Rishi” means one who abides in truth. The poet sees the snow peaks of the Himalayas—from afar. The rishi lives there.

For the poet, truth comes like a ray, a glance—a gust of wind that comes and goes. Yet even that gust makes the poet bloom. The rishi himself has become a flower. Spring visits the poet and departs; for the rishi, spring is the only season—twenty-four hours a day. Rishi means one who has known truth through meditation; whose real eyes have opened; who has seen the divine in matter; who has experienced liberation in the world.

In such hands, even ordinary words take on extraordinary meaning. In the hands of those you call sādhus, even the most beautiful words become ugly, crippled. The whole thing depends on the person. Words have nothing; persons do—persons with realization. If inside there is ecstasy, divine intoxication, the madness of moksha—whatever he speaks becomes mantra, becomes shloka, becomes richā. Without that supreme intoxication, one may arrange beautiful words—according to language, grammar, meter—but there will be no soul; only a corpse.

A corpse can be made to look like a living person; in the West there is even a trade of adorning the dead, because there the fear of death is great. It’s natural: Judaism, Christianity, Islam—all born outside India—believe in only one life. Even here people fear death, though we believe in infinite lives—before and after. But belief is only belief; fear lurks: who knows if we continue? In the West it is clear: there is no continuation, only one life; afterward one lies in the grave till Judgment Day. Imagine: when will that come? Till then you rot, bones decay to dust—and then? Who knows if it will come! The fear is natural.

So they try to falsify death: paint the face, rouge the cheeks and lips, line the eyes, dye the hair; if hair is gone, fit a wig; if teeth are missing, false teeth; dress the body in fine clothes, spray perfume, cover with flowers. The corpse may look like a bridegroom—more than a bridegroom! Then put it in an ornate, costly coffin. Deception upon deception. But however much you do, the living is living, the dead is dead.

The difference between poetry and richā is just that; between poet and rishi as between living and dead. A rishi is alive. Meters may not fit. In Meera’s or Kabir’s verses—what meters! If judged by grammar and meter, Kabir and Meera won’t rank at all—Tulsidas will seem a great poet; and he is a great poet—but only a poet, not a rishi. Kabir is not a poet; he is a rishi. His words are rough, but behind them rushes a deep meaning. The words are alive—with wings, ready to fly, in no cages.

Tulsidas’s words, however beautiful, are caged. Yet the world extols Tulsidas, because people are impressed by the trivial and fear the substantial. The substantial shakes you like a storm; it dusts you off—and you have cherished your dust. So whomever piles more dust you find lovely.

Tulsidas—a great poet. Kabir’s language is called sadhukkadi—“the language of sadhus,” rough and mixed. Pandits scoff: “sadhukkadi,” “sandhya bhasha,” “ulṭabansi”—he doesn’t speak straight, plays an inverted flute, says one thing for another. Why? Because Kabir is no scholar; he has known truth, so he speaks the people’s tongue, yet fills it with such juice that flowers pale; with such light that the moon and stars fade. Short sayings that contain the essence of big scriptures.

Therefore, Pratiksha, do not add “ancient rishis.” What has “ancient” to do with it? Rishis still happen. Whenever truth is known, a rishi is born.

Rishi simply means one to whom the inner eye of seeing has opened. Then it is true: meaning follows the rishi’s speech. He does not care for meaning, grammar, language. That is why it often happened that new languages were born from rishis’ speaking.

Mahavira did not speak Sanskrit; he spoke Prakrit. Because of his speaking, Prakrit took shape. Sanskrit has a certain pedantry, an aristocracy. Mahavira chose the people’s tongue—lacking pedantry but alive.

Buddha spoke in Pali—rustic, the language of the unlettered, yet very sweet. Words used by people get their edges worn smooth, they gain roundness and beauty. When a language is imposed from above, it never gains life.

After independence the greatest injury to Hindi was done by Dr. Raghuvir and Seth Govind Das—both known to me. I told them: you are enemies of Hindi—though they were considered its champions. They destroyed it. Languages cannot be imposed from above. Raghuvir’s mathematics and grammar were correct—but languages are born, not manufactured. When people use words for centuries, they gain juice, life, roundness—like stones in a river become smooth, like Shankarji’s lingam.

Raghuvir’s words have no roundness and much absurdity—though technically correct. For example, railgadi. He translated it as loh-path-gamini—“iron-path-goer.” Accurate, but who will use it? Say it and people will laugh: “Are you drunk? Going by loh-path-gamini?” Dr. Ram Manohar Lohia was better; he chose people’s words. For “report” he wrote “rapat,” because villagers say, “Did you file a rapat?” “Station” wears down into “teshan.” There is a charm in “teshan” not in “station,” a truth in “rapat” not in “report.” Kabir would file a “rapat,” not a report; he’d go to a “teshan,” not a station.

Only five hundred years ago, because of Nanak, Gurmukhi arose—simply because he used Punjab’s folk speech, and a new script and language took shape. It was not imposed; he touched what people had been using—and magic happened.

The rishi’s speech is followed by meaning. He doesn’t fuss over words; he uses any running words and blossoms of meaning bloom in them.

This sutra is useful. But drop two distortions:
- There is no such being as a “worldly sādhu.” Either one is worldly, or one is a sādhu.
- “Ancient rishis” is a wrong translation. Rishis have always been, are now, and will be. The world will lose its savor the day rishis cease to be born. As long as there are rishis, there is salt on the earth and taste in life.

Rishi simply means: one who has seen, experienced, lived—who speaks from living; whose words carry a heartbeat.

Bholeram!
Baba, are you upset with the author of the Mundaka Upanishad? As if to say, “Let’s see who this fellow is! Let’s set him right!”
I was afraid someone might ask this! Because I myself don’t know who authored the Mundaka Upanishad. In fact, when I first read it, this very question arose in me. I was quite young when the Mundaka Upanishad first fell into my hands. There was an old copy lying around the house. I picked it up and looked. The very first question that arose was: Mundaka Upanishad! Is that even a name? Who wrote it? And who gave it that name? At least the name could have been decent!
People give all sorts of names to stale, rotten things—rasmalai! chamcham! rasgulla! What names they come up with!
Mundaka Upanishad! I thought, it must be—there was a wrestler in my neighborhood, his name was Munde Pahalwan. It must be that this very man wrote it! He was a bit of a character. And “gifted” in all departments. He would drink bhang; smoke ganja; take opium; drink alcohol. And when he was high, he would discourse magnificently on Brahman! So I said to myself, surely this man, in his cups, has written the Mundaka Upanishad! And with Munde Pahalwan, the title Mundaka Upanishad fits! As if some munda—some shaven-headed fellow—wrote it!
I was friendly with him. Though there was a big gap in our ages. The reason for our friendship was that we shared a passion—kite-fighting. He had no job; swaggering was his trade. Earning a living wasn’t his concern. So he flew kites. And I too had a passion for kite-flying. He was a very famous kite-fighter—he would go as far as Lucknow to fight kites. In our village, no one even dared to challenge him. Because he spent the whole day preparing the manja, the glass-coated string—that was his job. From morning: push-ups and squats; then a solid meal of milk and jalebis; then he’d get down to the manja. His apprentices would grind glass; then make the paste; then coat the string.
My love of kite-fighting was born watching him. And I became his friend because once I cut his kite! He called me over and said, “Son, till today no one has ever cut my kite! First of all, no one even dares to fly against me—people are afraid a quarrel might start! But you—you dared to fight…”
I said, “I didn’t know the kite was yours. Otherwise I too wouldn’t have gotten into this mess.”
“And amazing—then you cut my kite!”
He was in high spirits. He blessed me: “You’ll cut the kites of the biggest of the big!” I said, “That’s…”
Since then I’ve been doing just that! Now I don’t distinguish between small and big! With equal vision I cut! A kite is all that is needed—whether it belongs to the small or the great; whether it’s Shambhu Maharaj’s, or Morarji Desai’s, or Muktananda’s, or Dongreji Maharaj’s—a kite is a kite! What difference between small and big! One should keep equal vision. Whatever blessing Munde Pahalwan gave me, that work hasn’t left me yet! Nor is it going to.
So I thought, it must be he who wrote this Mundaka Upanishad! I didn’t really understand anything inside the book, but that word—Mundaka Upanishad—caught me. So in the evening I presented myself at his court. His akhara was nearby. He had taken bhang—one apprentice was pressing his feet, another was massaging him—he lay on a cot, humming blissfully. I went and sat near him. I called him Kaka, out of respect.
I said, “Kaka, may I ask a question?”
He said, “Ask, son, of course ask. Hey, if you don’t ask, how will you know!”
When he was in his cups, he said the most amazing things!
“Be sure to ask,” he went on, “Jin khoja tin khoiyaan, gahre paani paith.” (“Those who searched got lost, diving into the deep.”)
I said, “You’ve even knocked Kabir flat in all four corners!”
‘Those who searched got lost, diving into the deep!’ Hey, if you don’t ask, how will you know! Ask.
He knew two words of English. One was: “Why not!”
Suddenly he said to me, “Why not! Ask!”
“Why not” was his pet phrase. He would say “Why not” to anything. You might greet him with “Jai Ramji!” “Kaka, Jai Ramji!” and he’d reply, “Why not!”—even when there was no connection at all!
“Kaka, where are you going?”
He’d say, “Why not!”
He had no concern with meaning. This is what they call a rishi! Whatever word he speaks, the meaning runs after it!
He said to me, “Why not! Ask, what do you want to ask?”
I said, “A book has fallen into my hands, the Mundaka Upanishad! The question is: who wrote it, and who gave it that name?”
He fell into thought! What connection did he have with Upanishads and such! So I myself said to him, “I suspect that you must have written it! Because Munde Pahalwan—you’re the only obvious candidate!”
He smiled very lovingly and said, “Son, in youth a man makes all kinds of mistakes! Ah, I must have written it! Let bygones be bygones! What’s done is done. Why are you digging up old stories! Let it go now. What’s done is done! How did it fall into your hands? I must have written it! I did many things in my youth that shouldn’t have been done. But who doesn’t make mistakes in youth!”
I said, “Why not!”
I too had started using his language. I myself didn’t know what “Why not” meant!
And his second English phrase was like this: as we say, “My heart became bagh-bagh (garden-like).” He would say, “My heart became garden-garden!”
When he heard “Why not” from my mouth, he said, “My heart became garden-garden! What a thing you’ve said! A promising sapling shows in its glossy leaves. You will surely do something!”
I said, “Let’s see—if your blessing remains, I’ll write some Mundaka Upanishad!”
Bholeram, you are asking, “Who was the author?”
I don’t know! And now even Munde Pahalwan is dead!
The Upanishads were not written by anyone. The Upanishads were spoken. In truth, no rishi ever wrote anything. Those who have known did not write; and those who wrote have not known. The knowers spoke; they did not write. Then the disciples wrote them down. The disciples took brief notes, so that they could serve the coming centuries.
These Upanishads were written by disciples; they were spoken by rishis.
Rishis speak—only speak. Because in speaking, the word is alive. And only a living word can enter from one heart into another. And only the living word is liberating.
That’s all for today.