Anahad Mein Bisram #8

Purnananda!
“Contemplation of the essence is supreme” because in truth, the essence cannot be contemplated at all. Tattva is not an object, not a thing outside you. Tattva is your very life-energy, your nature, your consciousness. You don’t think the essence—you become conscious as the essence. The essence is known only when all thinking falls away, all worry drops, every thought becomes a zero. Where no ripple stirs upon the mind, where the mind is still and unrippled—there is the experience of the essence.

Hence this aphorism of the Maitreyi Upanishad is important: it points. But pointing with words is, if not impossible, at least very difficult. One must use whatever words are available; all words are man-made, whereas the essence is not. No word can contain it.

Mulla Nasruddin once walked into a hotel on a blazing summer day, exhausted and drenched in sweat. He sat down. The manager came and asked, “How may I serve you?” He was a bit of a philosopher, given to reading in his spare time.
Mulla said, “Nothing else right now. First of all, a glass of water!”
The manager replied, “Forgive me. I can give you a glass—but where am I to get a glass of water?”
Strictly speaking there is no “glass of water”—only a glass with water. We all say it and we get by; the one who understands, understands. So take the opening of this sutra in that sense: don’t get stuck on the phrase the way one might on ‘a glass of water.’

“Uttamā tattva-cintā eva—supreme is the contemplation of the essence.”
Don’t imagine there is some “contemplation” of the essence as such. There isn’t. The essence is only experienced—and even that happens when contemplation is zero.

Use any word and trouble arises. If you say “meditation on the essence,” the mischief begins, because you always meditate on something—some object. The greedy meditate on wealth; the lust-ridden meditate on sex. How will you meditate on the essence? Meditation as we usually mean it is of an object.

People come and ask me, “On whom shall we meditate—Rama, Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira? Which meditation will bear fruit?” The word has misled them. Words have misled for centuries. People lost in forests eventually find their way home; those lost in words wander for lifetimes. New words keep getting added; new branches, new leaves, new flowers of verbiage sprout. The chain of words is endless.

To ask, “On what shall I meditate?” is fundamentally the wrong question. Still, I understand their predicament: they always think in the language of the outside, because language itself is for the outside. Inside there is silence. Inside, language is not needed at all. Language is for speaking to someone else—for dialogue. Where there is I and Thou, language has use; where there are two, language is. Where only the One remains, what language? There silence remains. That is why I say, God has only one language: silence. Speak there, and you will miss. Don’t speak, and you will arrive. Let a single word arise, and heaven and earth are sundered. Better not speak at all.

The great Western thinker, the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber, wrote his most famous book, I and Thou—among the most significant books of this century. But Buber is a philosopher, not a seer; a thinker, not a knower. He has thought and understood, but he has not recognized, tasted, drunk. His thirst remains.

Words cannot quench thirst. A thirsty person will not be satisfied by beautiful talk about water, by songs of rain, by Megh Malhar. A hungry person gains nothing from cookbooks; dry crusts would do far more. But regarding God we are caught in cookbooks.

What are the Vedas, the Qur’an, the Puranas, the Bibles? There is a hunger for Brahman, for Truth—and only platters of words are laid out, beautiful platters! You sit starving, and someone hands you a gorgeously printed menu—what will you do? You may flip through it, but your belly will not fill. No one’s hunger has ever been satisfied by a menu.

Such is the philosopher’s condition. Buber wrote an important book, saying that the relation of prayer between God and the individual is an I–Thou dialogue. But where there is I and where there is Thou, can there be dialogue? There, there is quarrel—Thou–Thou, I–I. Dialogue is where I and Thou melt into one; where I is no longer I, Thou is no longer Thou, and two have slipped away, the nondual remains. And there, when there is neither quarrel nor two-ness, what need of dialogue? In silence it is said; in silence it is understood. God’s language is silence.

So the prayer Buber speaks of is not true prayer. He says prayer is an I–Thou dialogue; I say, as long as there is I and Thou, there is no prayer. Where I is not and Thou is not—where both have gone; where no one remains; where the house has fallen utterly quiet; where quarrel ebbs, dialogue ebbs; where the empire of emptiness is established—in that emptiness a music arises, the heart-strings tremble; the wordless, the melting silence descends—eyes moisten with bliss, the life-breath thrills, a dance takes you over. That moment is prayer. That same moment is meditation. Only the words differ: prayer is the lover’s word—of Meera, Chaitanya, Rabia, Jesus, Zarathustra; meditation is the knower’s word—of Patanjali, Lao Tzu, Mahavira, Buddha. The meaning is one.

After the Second World War a German general said to his English counterpart, “I don’t know why we lost. It will remain a secret. We had greater power; scientifically, technically, we were more advanced. Still we lost while you won—mathematically it doesn’t add up!”
The English general smiled, “The secret is small but deep. We began every day of battle with prayer. Perhaps we were behind scientifically, but when God is with you, nothing else is needed. That’s why we won.”
The German general said, “That complicates it even more. We too prayed—every day without fail—before battle. If prayer decided it, our prayer was no weaker.”
The Englishman burst out laughing: “You don’t understand. In what language did you pray?”
“German, naturally.”
“There you are! Do you think God understands German? We prayed in English. So ours reached him; yours didn’t.”

Don’t just laugh. Generals can be fools, and may be forgiven; but your priests say the same. They say Sanskrit is the language of the gods; speak in Sanskrit and He will understand. The Jains say Prakrit; the Buddhists, Pali; the Jews, Hebrew; the Muslims, Arabic—and all these are human inventions. If Arabic weren’t God’s language, why would the Qur’an descend in Arabic?

All languages are human; He has none. Silence is His language. And thought is the absence of silence. To know the essence you must become empty.

So understand this first line rightly: uttamā tattva-cintā eva.
The seer calls contemplation of the essence supreme precisely because it is not contemplation. It means becoming free of contemplation, beyond the thinkable—without thought, without choice, seedless. That is why it is supreme. Where there is emptiness, there is fullness. You become empty, and the Full descends. The Full only descends into emptiness. To fill a pot, first empty it of trash.

Nature dislikes a vacuum; it fills it instantly. Cup your palms in a stream; raise the water in your hands. At once water rushes from all sides to fill the slight hollow left behind. So too, become empty even a little, and from all sides the energy of the Divine pours toward you; it flows into you and fills you as you have never been filled—not the filling of the ego, for in this fullness you are gone and only the Divine remains. It is like a flute: because it is hollow, music can flow through it.

Thus “contemplation of the essence” is supreme because it is not contemplation at all.

I am in search of myself; there is no guide for me.
What path will they show me who know nothing of their own address?
He seeks delights, but this heart knows:
Were there no sorrow-of-life, where would be life’s savor?
I know nothing of the wisdom of prostration;
do You keep the honor of my bows—
this head, before Your threshold,
has never bowed to another.
These are their temples, their mosques, their gold-worshippers’ shrines—
if these are the houses of their god,
then in them my God is not.
I have long heard they punish every fault;
I have been punished thus,
that I have committed no fault.

This sutra is revolutionary—there is fire in it. If you can burn in it, you’ll be made new; burn, and a new life will be born.

“Uttamā tattva-cintā eva”—supreme is contemplation of the essence.
“Madhyama śāstra-cintanam”—middling is contemplation of scripture.
Why? Because contemplation of scripture is borrowed, stale. Someone else knew, someone else lived; you only heard. Someone tasted, you got words. Someone drank the nectar and became nectar; you were left with the bare saying. Scriptures are footprints in the sand of time—the prints of the feet of the awakened who have passed by.

But on the sand of time fools also walk, and the prints of the awakened and the unawakened don’t differ much. Moreover, even if they are the awakened ones’ footprints, following them won’t take you where they went. No two persons are the same. Whoever tries to follow another has written failure into his fate and arranged his own ruin.

Listen to everyone; digest for yourself. Understand what the awakened have said, but don’t become the slave of a line. The scholar becomes just that—blinded by scriptures. So many scriptural lenses pile up on his eyes that he can no longer see. Nothing has made more people blind than scriptures. The world is crowded with scriptural blind! When you press books to your eyes, how will you see?

And if there were just one or two books—perhaps. But there are mountains of them—webs of words. You weave those webs and miss what is. You miss that which stands before you, surrounds you, is within you and without you—the One besides whom nothing else is: the essence.

Scripture is second-rate. For the coward who lacks the courage to enter the essence directly, there are scriptures. If nothing else, repeat the words of the awakened. But no matter how long you repeat, you remain a parrot. Parrots chant “Rama” all day and do not realize God; while Valmiki, chanting “Mara” (Rama reversed), arrived! What is the secret?

It is not what you recite but the feeling, the depth, the absorption, the drowning, the being dyed-through. The parrot says “Rama,” but only says it.

I heard of a man who, late at night, knocked at a hotel door, exhausted. The manager said, “It is midnight; I don’t want to turn you away. I can see you are tired, hungry. But all rooms are full. If you agree, there is one room with two beds; a rabbi is staying there. He is a good man and won’t refuse—you may sleep.”
The fellow said, “I only need to sleep. Give me a little something to eat and drink, and I’ll go.”
He went up and was startled, a bit at a loss. The rabbi was kneeling by his bed, immersed in prayer. Two beds in the room—Which should I take? he thought. It would be proper to ask, since the rabbi was there first. But he is praying; how to interrupt? And who knows how long he’ll go on; he seems absorbed.
He gathered courage. “Revered sir, forgive me for disturbing your prayer—but please just indicate which bed I should take.”
Without breaking his prayer, the rabbi gestured with his hand: “That one.”
Relieved, the young man made up the bed, then he felt thirsty. Should he get up and rattle around for water? It might disturb the prayer. Better ask.
“Revered sir, I’m very thirsty. May I drink some water?”
The rabbi, still praying, gestured: “Yes, yes, drink.”
Emboldened, the fellow asked, “Your Eminence, one more thing—may I bring my girlfriend too?”
The rabbi gestured: “Bring two!”

The prayer continues and so does all this business! However purely you intone, even in Hebrew—what will come of it? It hasn’t reached even the throat, let alone the heart. Nothing is soaked. It is empty chatter.

You can memorize scriptures—but if it were so easy to learn others’ words and know truth, the world would have known by now. Not one ignorant person would be left. The earth would be a festival of lamps. Every flower would bloom; fragrance everywhere; every lute resounding; unstruck music; rest in the soundless.

Everyone “knows” scriptures—Hindus read the Gita, Muslims the Qur’an, Christians the Bible. Yet nothing is soaked; no heart dives. How will you dive into words? Hang a picture of a lamp in a dark room—it won’t give light, no matter how beautiful.

And there is danger with scriptures. The danger is this: realization happens in silence. Once it is put into words, it is already distorted—much is lost. A drizzle remains. Where is the ocean, where the drop? Then in speaking, what little remains is further lost. Not a thousandth of the drop remains. Then when another hears, whatever little was left is lost, for he hears according to himself—his beliefs and conclusions filter it.

And usually, others wrote the scriptures. Krishna spoke the Gita; he did not write it. Jesus gave the Sermon on the Mount; he did not write it. The awakened have always spoken, not written.

Why? Because in speaking there is at least the chance that if the listener is love-drenched, if his heart is open, if he knows how to sit near the Master—upasidana, upanishad, upasana—if he sits in silence, in joy, in surrender; if he becomes part of the Buddha-field; if he joins the company of the intoxicated, the moths ready to die in the flame—then, though the Master speaks words, his gesture, his posture, his eyes, the rhythm of his breath—these will wrap the words and enter the listener’s heart.

But the written word is a corpse. It carries neither the Master’s presence nor his gestures. Not even a far glimmer of him remains—only the press’s imprint, ink on paper. A cadaver; nothing living.

Therefore Masters chose to speak: perhaps some ray clinging around the words might reach a taker. Kabir cries, “Is there a taker? Is there a taker?” If there is, perhaps a glance into his eyes is enough; perhaps a touch of the hand; perhaps, with his head at the Master’s feet, the unsayable can be said.

The awakened did not write scriptures; listeners did. So the Buddhist sutras rightly begin: “Thus have I heard.” A disciple’s remark: “Thus have I heard—The Blessed One was in the Amra grove; he stayed by the Niranjana; he resided in such-and-such city; spent the rains in Shravasti. Thus have I heard. Now I write what he spoke—as much as my capacity permits. He spoke from his capacity; I write from mine.” A great difference indeed!

Place a straight stick in water; it looks bent. Pull it out—straight as ever. Put it back—it appears bent again. Water adds that much distortion. The straight word of the awakened, entering you, becomes crooked—askew—something else!

So scripture is second-rate.
“Madhyama śāstra-cintanam. Adhamā tantra-cintā.”
Worse still is preoccupation with tantra, mantra, yantra—rituals, rites, ceremonies, sacrifices, havans, worship paraphernalia—all this ritualism in the name of religion. That is third-rate.

Yet the world is tangled in this third rate. Someone performs Satyanarayan katha; someone conducts a yajna for world peace.

Recently a tantrik in Chandigarh performed a yajna for world peace. Afterward he announced: “The yajna was successful; world peace has been established!” Fifteen days later he began another in Delhi. When I heard, I said, “Why another? Peace was already established by the Chandigarh yajna. Which other world remains?” But another peace was being arranged!

And it won’t end there: he has vowed to perform one hundred and twenty yajnas—meaning, to establish world peace 120 times! A bit too much peace. Will you let people remain alive or kill them? It will become a cremation ground. If peace keeps getting established, people will stop breathing; all noise will cease; speech will be lost!

This is ritualism. The Maitreyi Upanishad says: Adhamā tantra-cintā—tantra-worry is inferior. Now it isn’t even chintan (contemplation); it has become chintā (anxiety). The first was the unthinkable—direct experience. Scripture is contemplation, a fall. Now worse: falling from contemplation into anxiety and greed—this charm, that charm—amulets and talismans.

“And wandering among holy places is worse than the worst.”
“...tīrtha-bhrānty adhamā-dhamā.”
Pilgrimage-wandering is the lowest of the low, beyond which there is no further fall.

Someone goes to Kashi; another to Kaaba, to Kailash, to Girnar. What madness! God resides within, and where are you going? The One you seek is hidden within the seeker. As long as you search elsewhere, you will keep losing. The day you drop all seeking and settle within—resting in the soundless—that very moment you find.

He was never lost; he is present within you every moment. You only forgot—amnesia. A mere remembrance is needed. That remembrance perhaps can flower in the satsang of a true Master; but what will you find in pilgrimage?

How did holy places arise? A Master was once there—and the place became sacred. But the Master departed long ago.

Bodhgaya became a tirth because Buddha once sat there. Now Buddhists from all over the world travel there. What madness!

Someone explain what this color of the tavern is:
the cup’s fame rises because of the cupbearer’s glance.
It was the cupbearer’s eye that brought intoxication.
Someone explain what this color of the tavern is:
the cup’s name rises from the cupbearer’s glance.
O tellers of tales about the candle’s heat—
you have never yet seen the moth’s dance.
Who knew the price of reason before?
The sober world is indebted to the mad lover.
The cupbearer’s glance comes to me at every step—
lest I forget the way to the tavern.
Now every evening passes in that same lane—
this is the result, O moralist, of your counsel.
To pass through the station of sorrow is easy, Iqbal;
love is the name of passing beyond oneself.

The point is to pass beyond yourself. Yes, in a living Master’s eyes, you may catch a glimpse. But what is there in tirthas? They are mausoleums.

Someone explain what this color of the tavern is:
the cup’s fame rises because of the cupbearer’s glance.
O tellers of the candle’s heat,
you have not yet seen the moth’s dance.

Seek the company of the intoxicated. If you want to see the dance, watch the moth, not the lecture.

Where a Buddha is present, the tavern is alive. There wine-springs burst forth; there the drinkers gather. Once they gathered at the Kaaba—not for the stone of the Kaaba but for Muhammad’s presence. In Muhammad’s presence, even the stone of Kaaba intoxicated. The cupbearer’s eye—and the cup got the name! Thus tirthas are born; and for centuries people wander among them.

The sutra speaks truly:
Adhamā tantra-cintā ca tīrtha-bhrānty adhamā-dhamā.
Anubhūtiṁ vinā mūḍho vṛthā brahmaṇi modate,
pratibimbit-śākhāgra-phalāsvādana-modavat.

A lovely image: “As one might, under a tree, savor the fruit that appears only in its shadow, reflected…”
Sit beneath a tree; in its shade the fruit appears—its shadow shows the mangoes. And someone, munching on those shadow-mangoes, becomes delighted—that is how foolish you are if you are entangled in scriptures, in tirthas, in tantras and mantras.

“Without real experience, only the foolish man imagines he has attained the bliss of Brahman.”
Experience can happen here and now. No delay is needed. But the experience is the supreme—uttamā tattva-cintā eva. It happens in meditation, in emptiness, in silence.

Remove all veils from your seeing. Close the eyes to the outside; open them within. Be still—silent, empty. When the inner waters fall utterly still, not a ripple arises—then the Divine is reflected. The whole of existence, in its total beauty, flashes within you. One glimpse is enough. The long-forgotten remembrance returns; that which was never truly lost is found again.

Subhash Saraswati!
There certainly is a connection. Every day when I return from the discourse site, Subhash is seen standing along the way—utterly forlorn! Then I think, lassi and boondi are needed. He stands there as if the very life has flown out of him! Bearing the weight of the whole world! So burdened that even his neck tilts.

Then I too start thinking that after the discourse lassi and boondi should be distributed. Just look at poor Subhash!

Prasad has great value.
In my village there was a Kabirpanthi mahant, Sahibdasji—an arch-fool. Meaning, compared to him Dongre Maharaj and the rest were nothing! But he was a mahant, headed a big akhara, had plenty of land and property; so people respected him. And I took advantage of that. The advantage was: whatever gathering was held in the village, I would invite him. I used to enjoy his talks immensely. He would say such astonishing things as the eyes had never seen and the ears had never heard! Since the day he left this world, that kind of talk is no longer in the world. Generally I am not saddened by someone’s death, but when Sahibdas died, I was sad.

I would invite him to anything—any kind of meeting: politics, literature, religion—I would go and invite him, “You have to come, you must speak!” He too was very keen to speak. Sometimes he would ask me, “Do you organize all the meetings? Whatever the meeting, are you the convener?” I said, “What can I do! The villagers won’t take responsibility. They say, ‘You handle it,’ so I have to. And without you a meeting is like a wedding procession without the groom! You must come.”

And to make it certain that he would indeed come… He always did, yet still I would send someone to stand by so there’d be no delay—because without him the meeting was useless.

And whoever organized a meeting was afraid of me. They would send word to me with folded hands: “Please don’t invite Sahibdasji. We beg you, touch your feet—just don’t bring him! Otherwise he’ll ruin everything. He says things that make no sense at all. And no one can say anything to him.”

But I would invite him anyway. And as soon as he arrived, I would stand near the stage and say, “Sahibdasji, please come! Be seated, be seated!” So he, too, trusted that I was the convener. And out of fear—since he was a great mahant—no one could say, “Who are you? Why are you seating him on the stage when we haven’t invited him?”

So it worked between the two of us. No one could say to him, “Why are you climbing the stage?” And in front of him, no one could say to me, “Why are you seating him there?” He remained in the illusion that I was the convener, and the people were certain that I would bring him and not let the meeting happen without him.

Then I would plant five or seven of my students in the audience to send up slips: “There must be a speech by Sahibdasji!” From time to time I would stand up and say, “Enough blather now; we want a speech by Sahibdasji! This is the demand of the public!” The public would groan, but what to do! “There must be a lecture by Sahibdasji!”

Once we were celebrating the birth anniversary of Jaishankar Prasad. I brought him too. When I invited him, he asked, “Who is this Prasad?” I said, “Prasad means prasad! You don’t know Prasad? I mean what is distributed after every meeting!” He said, “Then fine. Then I will speak.”

And when he came he sang such praises of prasad that the audience beat their heads! “This is Jaishankar Prasad’s anniversary, and here the talk is of boondi and lassi!” And he explained that without prasad no gathering is complete.

That’s exactly what Dongre Maharaj says. And there is benefit indeed.
You saw his recent statement: first, strength is needed. Without lassi and boondi, where does strength come from? The strength Punjabis have—their lassi is the reason! When you drink a full Punjabi glass of lassi, then strength descends. And on top of that, there should also be boondi—because lassi has a bit of sourness; lest the intelligence turn entirely sour, a little sweetness is needed too.

That’s what he explained: without shakti, nothing can happen. From shakti comes bhakti! From bhakti comes dhyan! So Dongre Maharaj explains.

That is why I told you—like my sannyasini, Ma Prem Shakti. Now she has disciples too. Raj Bharati’s wife, Neelam, has become her disciple! And Neelam has written me a letter: “Bhagwan, it seems to me that I have ties of many lifetimes with Shakti!”

Of course there should be. Without shakti, where is bhakti? Without bhakti, knowledge? Nothing at all. And once Neelam became devoted to Shakti, Raj Bharati turned up two days later. He can be seen too! When the wife has become devout, what can Raj Bharati do now! The husband always has to follow the wife. Now the propagation of Shakti is underway!

So to increase that shakti the poor fellows toil: they distribute lassi; they feed boondi. And prasad has its own glory. Without prasad, is any discourse complete?

That’s why my discourses are not religious—because there is no prasad in them. And why do people go to religious discourses? For the prasad! The real thing is the prasad; the religious talk is a compulsion—you have to listen; otherwise where will you get the prasad!

Sardar Bichittar Singh was traveling by train. Popatlal Gujarati and his wife were in the same compartment. Popatlal’s wife said to him, “Pappu’s father, it’s hot—open the window!”

Now Popatlal—a poor Gujarati! Never drank lassi, never ate boondi. He tried hard, but the window was stiff; it wouldn’t open. Wouldn’t open, so wouldn’t open.

Sardar Bichittar Singh watched this and smiled. He stood up at once and in a moment opened the window. And said to Popatlal, “Lala, drink lassi!”

Popatlal felt very hurt—damned Sardar! But what could he do! And since he himself couldn’t open the window, he also understood that it’s not safe to pick a quarrel here. He couldn’t open the window; this fellow will open even the inside windows. So he kept quiet.

A little later Popatlal’s wife began to feel cold. She said to her husband, “Pappu’s father, now close the window.”

Because it was stiff, Popatlal couldn’t close it. Then Bichittar Singh got up again and closed it. And said, “Lala, drink lassi!”

Popatlal felt very bad. He was Gujarati, tolerant; he kept his peace. A Gandhian, he believed in nonviolence. Inwardly he even reflected: ahimsa paramo dharmah. But the barb hurt: “Drink lassi!” This damned Sardar, again and again: “Drink lassi! Drink lassi!” What does he think! And to be humiliated in front of one’s wife! If it had been in private, without the wife, it would still be okay. Even the wife was falling under Bichittar Singh’s spell—she kept staring at him, eyes wide: “Ah, a real man!” Popatlal was already small, and growing smaller!

Popatlal felt very bad. He decided to take revenge. He began looking for a way—some nonviolent way, since he was an ahimsavadi, where there would be no fight or quarrel, because this man was dangerous. And there was no one else there—just the wife, Popatlal, and Bichittar Singh. He would be thrashed, and the wife would also be lost—because the wife was looking at Bichittar Singh with such attention! He began making a pretended attempt to pull the emergency chain. Popatlal devised a Gandhian trick: pretend to pull the chain.

Seeing that Popatlal couldn’t pull the chain, Bichittar Singh—being a Sardar—didn’t stop to think; he took the bait and yanked the chain with a snap! And said to Popatlal, “Lala, didn’t I tell you—drink lassi!”

With a jolt the train stopped. The guard came. For pulling the chain without cause, Bichittar Singh had to pay a fine of five hundred rupees.

Popatlal is delighted—what a blow! Flat on all fours by a mere hint! Without even turmeric or alum, the dye took brilliantly. Chest puffed out, he looked proudly at his wife and smiled: “See, Pappu’s mother! What lassi I made the Sardar drink!” Now naturally it was Popatlal’s turn to speak. He said, “Sardarji, along with lassi, eat a little boondi too! Because boondi has sweetness. And knowledge is sweet. So a little knowledge is needed too. Strength is needed—but knowledge as well.”

Therefore, Subhash! Poor Dongre Maharaj distributes lassi and feeds boondi so that both shakti and bhakti remain. From lassi, shakti! From boondi, bhakti!

Why, Kabirdasji has already said: “A drop merges in the ocean—where can it then be seen? And the ocean merges into the drop—where can it then be seen?” And in boondi the ocean is contained—just search!

And Subhash, you need both things. Drink lassi and eat boondi. From lassi a touch of sardariness will come into you. That habit of standing with your neck tilted will straighten. And from boondi your knowledge will increase a little—otherwise you’ll remain ignorant! And your condition is like Popatlal’s; for Subhash’s wife is Gujarati! So take care of your wife too. If you don’t drink lassi, some saintly maharaj of ours will run away with your wife! It is proper to warn you in advance.

Last question:

Vijay!
It’s good you reminded me. For the last eight or ten days I had completely forgotten Chandulal. And since he is your father, naturally now I’ll never forget him. A few jokes for your father.

The judge said to Seth Chandulal, who was standing in the dock, “On such a small matter, Seth, a divorce cannot be granted. Do you have any solid evidence that your wife is not faithful to you?”
Chandulal said, “Not one—thousands, My Lord! Just last night she disappeared for three hours. And when I asked, she gave the excuse that she had gone to the cinema with her friend Guljaan.”
The judge asked, “But how do you know your wife was lying?”
Chandulal said, “Because last night I myself went to the cinema with Guljaan! Now you decide for yourself whether this woman is blatantly cheating me or not!”

With your father in the picture, what am I to do, Vijay? The man is something else!

Fazlu fell for a girl named Rita who studied with him. One day, after finding out which neighborhood she lived in, Fazlu went there. The trouble was how to locate her house! He asked an elderly gentleman coming from the opposite direction, “Grandfather, do you know where Rita lives? I’m her brother, but I’ve come to this city after five or six years, so I’m not recognizing which house is hers. Everything looks different!”
The old man put a hand on Fazlu’s shoulder and said, “Delighted to meet you, son. I am Rita’s father, Seth Chandulal Marwari!”

A fat man was sitting on the seashore, staring ahead at young girls exercising in scanty clothes. As another fat man passed by he said, “What do you think, Seth Chandulal—does this reduce weight?”
Chandulal replied, “Why not! It’s to watch exactly this sight that I walk three miles here every morning! Why wouldn’t the weight go down? It does go down.”

Seth Chandulal Marwari told his friend Dhabboo-ji, “My wife is crazy about clothes. All the time she keeps demanding clothes. From morning till night she chants one refrain: new clothes! I’m going round the bend hearing it. It’s been twenty years since our marriage, and there hasn’t been a single day when she hasn’t harped on clothes. Just clothes! Clothes! Clothes!”
Dhabboo-ji said, “Strange! What does she do with so many clothes?”
Chandulal said, “How would I know! I’ve never bought her a single item to this day. When everything is going fine with the garments that came in her dowry, why waste money on new ones! Yesterday again she said that now there are only clothes in name left; the boys in the neighborhood peek through the window and watch the spectacle! ‘Do something now,’ she said, ‘the whole neighborhood is laughing.’”
Dhabboo-ji asked, “So what did you do?”
Seth Chandulal said, “What else could I do! I made a curtain out of an old sari and hung it over the window.”

Your father is a seasoned operator, Vijay!

Nasruddin had gone to the office and Fazlu to school. Guljaan was alone at home. In the afternoon, Nasruddin’s friend, Seth Chandulal, came and, bit by bit in the course of conversation, coaxed Guljaan to sell her virtue for one thousand rupees. After some reluctance, Guljaan agreed. Chandulal handed her a bundle of one thousand rupees in cash.
In the evening, as soon as he came from the office, Nasruddin asked, “Hey, did my friend Chandulal come today? His cane is standing there in the corner. Looks like he forgot it!”
Cold sweat broke out on Guljaan. But what could she do now? The cane was indeed propped in the corner. She said, “Yes, he came this afternoon.”
Nasruddin said, “Amazing. I didn’t expect this from a Marwari. Did he give the full one thousand rupees?”
Hearing this was like a bolt of lightning for Guljaan. In her panic she blurted out, “Yes, the full thousand.”
Nasruddin leapt with joy and said, “I admit it, even Marwaris keep their word. Last month he borrowed one thousand rupees and promised he would return them exactly one month later—on today’s date!”

Don’t worry, Vijay. Go home and tell your father that I cannot stop telling jokes about Chandulal. There is an easy trick: let him come and take sannyas. I’ll change his name.

That’s all for today.