Bahuri Na Aiso Daon #10

Sahajanand! If the first point really makes sense to you, the second will, too. And if the second does not make sense, then the first hasn’t truly been understood either—there’s only been the illusion of understanding. Because the first is the harder; the second is very simple.

The first sutra says: wherever a saint sits and rises, wherever a buddha walks and wanders, there a tirtha— a place of pilgrimage—comes into being. Understand tirtha. A tirtha is a ford, a crossing-place: from where one can enter the unknown; from where one can take a leap out of mind into no-mind; from where one can leave time behind and taste the timeless. Wherever the divine is directly encountered, that is tirtha. And that encounter happens only in the presence of the awakened. They are the bridge.

That is why the Jains called their awakened ones Tirthankaras—makers of fords, makers of crossings. But the human mind is narrow. Jains think only their Tirthankaras “make” tirthas—as if Zarathustra did not; as if Buddha did not; as if Lao Tzu did not; as if Jesus did not! Blessed will be the day when we can call all makers of crossings Tirthankaras—be it Nanak or Kabir, Farid or Junayd, Basho or Bodhidharma, Chuang Tzu or Mencius, Socrates or Pythagoras. It does not matter what color the boat was, or whether it was made of wood, copper, or iron; where it was made or by whom. What matters is that it took you across. Whatever carries you to the other shore is the boat—and no one has a monopoly that “only from this ghat shall people cross.” The One is one, but the ghats that lead to it are many.

Even so, to say “they make” is perhaps not quite right. No Tirthankara sits down with calculations to “construct” a pilgrimage place. A tirtha is never made by arithmetic; it is born of love. It has no mathematics; it has poetry. It cannot be measured—its very nature is measureless. It is not a liquor to be poured out by the cupful. It is like an ocean—brimming, boundless.

There is a sweet story about Jesus: once he turned an entire ocean into wine! I won’t say this happened historically, nor am I eager to insist on it. But the point is worth savoring: an ocean into wine! Wherever an awakened one’s touch falls, nectar begins to flow; there intoxication with the divine is born.

So the first sutra is: wherever a buddha walks, dwells, sits, stands—there a tirtha springs up. Because from there, those who sit near him, walk with him, and drown in him, transcend matter and enter the divine. To sit silently by a true master is simply to sit in the boat.

Now the second point is very simple. Sahajanand, why could you not understand it?

You say: “That I understood.”

But this is the greatest miracle of all—that in someone’s presence a boat is found that carries you from the known to the unknown, from the transitory to the eternal, from the small to the vast, from the limited into the limitless; that makes the drop the ocean; that gives a mortal a taste of the deathless.

You say: “That I understood.”

If that had truly been understood, the second would be very simple.

The second point is: “The Shrimad Bhagavat says that saints themselves sanctify the places of pilgrimage—svayam hi tirthani punanti santah. This I do not understand.”

This is simple, sweet, honeyed. It means: the moment a true master leaves the body, the tirtha begins to wither. Outwardly everything remains the same. In Bodh Gaya everything is still as it was—the very tree, carefully preserved for twenty-five centuries, its branches grafted again and again so the lineage not die out. The same tree under which Gautama Siddhartha became Gautama the Buddha. The same leaves, same branches, same sap, same earth, same sky—everything in Bodh Gaya is the same. But where is the tirtha? People come from far away to sit under that tree and leave again untouched. Nothing is tasted, nothing happens. The tirtha has gone to ruin. Once there was a living oasis; now there is a desert. Once wondrous flowers bloomed—rare, celestial—now not even the grass blossoms. Priests and pundits have occupied the temple.

And you will be astonished to know: a Brahmin priest presides over Buddha’s temple—a Hindu priest! The very Brahminism Buddha opposed all his life, the very varnashram hierarchy he rebelled against and set on fire—its custodians now control Buddha’s temple.

When Mohammed was in the Kaaba, he threw out the three hundred and sixty-five idols, clearing that sanctuary of its rubbish. Then it was a tirtha. Today it is not. Once again a stone—the Black Stone—has taken the place of an idol. Earlier people kissed the feet of statues; now they go and kiss this stone. Mohammed must be weeping: was this what all the struggle was for?

But this is the nature of the world. No garden lasts forever here. However splendid a palace you build, today or tomorrow it will turn to dust. Even if someone draws God down into the world, he cannot keep him here for long. As long as he is here, like an anchor he holds the ship. Once the anchor is gone, the ship melts back into the infinite.

Yet, wherever a buddha once created a tirtha, reviving it again is very easy. That is the meaning of the sutra. Some imprint remains in the air; some fragrance lingers; some resonance continues. It is impossible to believe that the very leaves of the tree beneath which Buddha attained awakening bear no signature of that awakening. It is impossible to believe that the stones near the Bodhi tree—on which Buddha must have placed his feet thousands, hundreds of thousands of times—remember nothing. He developed two meditations: one seated, vipassana; and one walking, chankraman. He would sit and watch the breath; then walk and watch the breath. Day after day, hour upon hour, he would pace a small stretch by that tree. Those stones must have touched his feet millions of times.

People forget; stones do not so easily forget. People lapse into oblivion; in stones memory hides. So if a buddha wished, reviving Bodh Gaya would be very easy—and in another sense, very difficult.

I went to Bodh Gaya with the idea that if possible I might stay. But it is impossible. The priests who have occupied it through twenty-five centuries could not tolerate my remaining there. Their trade would die; their roots would be cut. What have they to do with Buddha? With tirtha? They have vested interests.

You will be surprised: when I held a meditation camp at Bodh Gaya, only one Buddhist monk dared to come secretly at night to see me—only one! Secretly, and with courage—at night, in private! Had he come openly, and the monks come to know, there would have been trouble instantly: “Why did you go to another master? You are a follower of Buddha!” And as for me—I am certainly not a Buddhist. When you can be a buddha, why be a Buddhist? If one who can be a Jina becomes a Jain, he is a fool. And when you can be linked directly with the divine, why put Jesus in between? As far as possible, let the connection be direct.

The true master’s work is precisely this: he does not come in between the disciple and the divine. If he does, he is a false master; a pseudo-guru. The true master takes your hand, helps you learn to walk, and as soon as you can, he lets go—quickly getting you to stand on your own feet.

Buddha told his disciples: If ever you meet me on the path to truth, cut off my head. Do not let me stand for even a moment between you and truth. Cut off my head.

These are the words of the true master. But what can priests and pundits do? They are in a bind.

There is a Jain nun—Chandana. She has great love for me. She heads Veerayatan, a Jain ashram at Rajgriha. Every now and then she sends word: Why don’t you come here? Rajgriha—Mahavira’s tirtha. He sat, rose, spoke, walked there. Who knows how many flew with him into the sky and found their wings! How many flowers bloomed! Why don’t you come? Beautiful hills and lakes—Rajgriha is a lovely place!

When my sannyasin Swami Chaitanya Kirti went to see Chandana—even though she sends messages quietly—there is doubt among the Jains about her. As soon as he asked someone, “I wish to meet Chandana,” the man looked him up and down and said, “That one—Rajneesh’s disciple? You want to meet her? For what?” He did arrange the meeting. And Chandana at once said, “Tell Bhagwan to come here—everything is delightful; we are waiting.”

But do you think the Jains will let me enter Rajgriha? They do not let me enter Kutch, where not even one of their Tirthankaras ever went; where no Tirthankara was born, no buddha, no Krishna, no Rama, no Zarathustra, no Lao Tzu. There is no mention of any avatar in Kutch—perhaps only the tortoise avatar; maybe that is why it is called Kutch! Who knows! There the culture is “in danger,” religion is “perishing,” life itself is “under threat!” Will they let me into Rajgriha?

Palitana is a Jain tirtha. Its Maharaja sent word: “I have a palace and a hundred acres—come, take it; I will donate it.” I said: You may donate it, but five thousand Jain monks and nuns are there. How much pain their souls will feel! Think of their suffering, too. I can come—what obstacle is there for me? But those five thousand monks and nuns—Palitana is a Jain tirtha. I could re-enliven it; breathe life into it again. But if I do, those whose vested interests are tied to a dead tirtha will be in trouble.

This is the whole meaning of the second point: if a buddha takes his seat at an ancient tirtha, that tirtha becomes new again—revived. There the Ganga begins to flow again. Where Bhagirath sat, the Ganga descended. From heaven it must come—there is no other way. Hence it is said: svayam hi tirthani punanti santah—saints themselves sanctify the tirthas. Tirthas fall into impurity again and again. Perhaps, Sahajanand, your difficulty is this very phrase: “to further sanctify a tirtha”? A tirtha is by definition holy! Granted. But only so long as a living flame burns there. Once the lamp goes out, there is no place more unholy on earth than a dead tirtha. Remember this. For the higher a thing has risen, the deeper it falls. One walking on level ground—how far can he fall? But one ascending a Himalayan peak—if he falls, bones will shatter in abysses; perhaps even his pieces will be lost without trace.

This is what happens to tirthas. In the presence of buddhas they go soaring into the sky—they cease to belong only to the earth. Hence the old insight here that Kashi is not a part of the earth. It is a lovely saying. Understood rightly, it is beautiful; clung to foolishly, even beautiful things become ugly. “Kashi is not of the earth.” Of course it is of the earth—we all know—but why say so? Because so many awakened ones happened there. Buddha gave his first sermon nearby at Sarnath—he came first to Kashi. Shankaracharya went to Kashi. Kabir lived there all his life, leaving only at the time of death.

Kashi has a long, unbroken stream. It is called Shiva’s city. Perhaps Shiva was the first to make it a tirtha, and then more and more Shivas came. Whoever realized Shivahood became Shiva—and kept sanctifying Kashi. But today is there any place more impure than Kashi? No. And the reason is simple: it rose so high that when the support of the buddhas was gone, it fell equally low—fell badly. If a hut collapses, what is that fall? But when a sky-touching palace falls, then it is a fall. A hut is already half fallen—four poles hold up a thatch; fall or no fall, you can raise it again tomorrow. But when a palace crumbles, rising again is hard.

And the greatest difficulty is this: once the original buddha is gone, priests spin a web to exploit the tirtha. The name, the prestige, become a marketplace. Once real coins were used there; the rumor lingers for centuries: “Perhaps they are still in circulation.” To break such delusions Kabir said at the time of death: I will not die in Kashi. It had become a belief that whoever dies in Kashi—“turns on Kashi’s side”—goes straight to heaven.

Certainly, if one dies by the side of a buddha, where else can he go! But by Kabir’s time Kashi had become filthy; that fragrance had gone. Kabir tried hard but could not succeed, for he could not have. He was not a Brahmin; the Brahmin pundits would not even let him into their temples. Not only that, even whether Kabir was Hindu or Muslim was not “settled.” Both Hindus and Muslims loved him; but the devotees who gathered around him were of the lower strata. The upper classes hesitated; their gentility held them back. With the poor and downtrodden, to purify Kashi was no easy task. Kabir lived in Kashi yet almost outside it—an outcaste, excluded. Dying, he said: take me out of Kashi.

People said: Are you mad? People come from far away to die in Kashi. As old age approaches, they make for Kashi—for there, dying guarantees heaven.

Once, surely, this was true. Behind even the wildest untruths there is some buried truth, even if a thousand years deep. When Shiva was living there, perhaps it was true: if death happens in his presence—where life is God-suffused—death becomes God-suffused too.

Ask the few sannyasins who have died here on this path—if you meet them further along your journey. I receive letters: someone falls ill and sends word, “I want to come and die there. I do not wish to die anywhere else. I want to live here, and die here.” Why? Because where else can death become a celebration? Where on earth today can death be a festival?

When the funeral procession of Prem Chinmaya—sannyasins dancing, music around the pyre—was filmed and reached America, people were dumbstruck; they could not believe there is a place on earth where death is a celebration. As it is, life itself is no longer a celebration—how then could death be? Sheela took the film; American television instantly said, “We want to broadcast this nationwide from all our stations.” For it is extraordinary that someone dies and death is transfigured into festivity. We had neither heard nor seen such a thing.

Once, surely, people came to Kashi to die. But those days are long gone. Many buddhas have come since, but Kashi does not let them stay. Kashi proves to be their greatest enemy. Every new buddha brings a new life, a new light, a fresh vision, a new philosophy. A new sun. In his presence the suns of yesterday fade—as they should. Yesterday’s suns are only memories; today’s is alive.

So it is hard to sanctify tirthas—very hard. Yet if a buddha settles at an old tirtha, his very presence sanctifies it. What was dead breathes again; what had slept awakens.

The sutra is true. There is no mistake in it, Sahajanand. Saints create tirthas. And for the revival of those tirthas, there is no way other than saints. But religions do their utmost to close the doors on future buddhas. Muslims say: Mohammed is the last prophet. Why? Because if another comes, he will come fourteen hundred years later—and in fourteen centuries, life has changed, how much Ganga has flowed! Must we speak today in Mohammed’s idiom? Whoever speaks it today will look mad—like an Ayatollah Khomeini, that kind of man. The old idiom is out of context. Today someone will speak the language of today. That is the fear. So Muslims closed the door: the Quran is the last book; henceforth no book will come, no revised edition, God has delivered the final message—as if with the Quran human evolution stopped!

This is absurd. Evolution never stops. New books will continue to descend, and evolution will continue. But this habit is found in all religions. The Jews could not accept Jesus precisely because he said: Your earlier prophets told you “an eye for an eye”—and I say unto you, if one slaps your left cheek, offer the right as well. Your elders said “tit for tat”—and I say unto you, if someone takes your coat, give him your shirt too. Your elders said “an eye for an eye”—and I say unto you, if someone asks you to carry his load for one mile, carry it for two.

Danger! This man was trying to purify the tirtha—to cleanse what priests had befouled. He could not be tolerated. He had to be eliminated. If he sanctified the tirtha, the entire trade that thrives around a dead tirtha would die.

If the tirtha is revived, the priest dies. If the priest must live, the tirtha must remain dead. Grasp this arithmetic and everything becomes clear. Hence pundits and priests, mahants, mahamandaleshwars, Shankaracharyas, imams, ayatollahs—such people—will always be against buddhas. Their livelihood is at stake. I understand their problem—but they go on defiling.

Our tirthas have become dumps for our filth. Nowhere will you find a more grotesque, repellent form of “religion” than in the pilgrimage places. But because you are used to it, you tolerate it silently. You don’t even wake up to what you are enduring.

Sikhs said, after the tenth Guru: enough—Guru Granth Sahib is complete; no one can add a single word. Jains said: after the twenty-fourth Tirthankara Mahavira, there will be no more Tirthankaras. Then the tirtha will rot; how can it not? If Jains die and decay, no one else is responsible. The day you said “no more Tirthankaras,” you shut the doors and windows of your temple. No sunlight enters; no moon peeps in; no pure air comes; no birds sing. Sit, then, walled in by stone—entombed within your own grave.

A finer humanity, someday, will both create new tirthas and keep reviving the old. The whole earth should be made a tirtha. Had we been wise, by now it would be. What corner of the earth is there where someone has not awakened at some time? If we had not partitioned the world into separate religions—and if each had not insisted “only we are right, all others wrong,” sealing their doors and windows—today the entire earth would be a tirtha. On every inch of this planet some buddha has walked; somewhere the voice of awakening has fallen. Names do not matter—Zarathustra or Lao Tzu, Mahavira or Krishna. If we remained willing, open, welcoming of fresh winds—bowing to the suns of yesterday, yet not forgetting to salute the suns of today—then this whole earth could become a tirtha. I am engaged in just such a vast undertaking: to make this entire earth a place of pilgrimage.

Anand Mohammed! This is what I call understanding—“a sense of clouds has arisen.” The sky is overcast—with nectar!

“A sense of clouds has arisen, the dark monsoon has spread,
again your memory has crept in on tiptoe.”

And when the sky fills with clouds and the monsoon masses begin to rumble, how many vows don’t shatter! People swear, “Now we won’t drink.” But then the clouds gather like this, roll in such a way, that one can’t bear not to drink. Partly it is the brooding monsoon, and partly it is this accursed self that begins to crave—then it becomes very hard. A man thinks, “If I break my vow once, what of it! I’ll vow again. I’ll swear again.” Why, you’ve broken it many times, and made it many times. The vow is in your own hands. And who knows if tomorrow the clouds will gather or not! Or whether tomorrow this wretched self will crave or not!

And just as, seeing the overcast sky and the peacock’s dance, the drunkard feels the urge to drink, so too does the renunciate feel it—though his wine is different, his tavern is different, his cupbearer is different.

You say:
“A sense of clouds has arisen, the dark monsoon has spread,
again your memory has crept in on tiptoe.
Today feeling has lifted its veil again,
today again the lips have sung a colorful ghazal.
Now how can I hide the state of the heart?
The tale of love has surfaced upon my face.”

No, such things cannot be hidden. Hide them as you will, they reveal themselves. These secrets don’t remain secrets. The ecstasy grows so dense! The eyes brim so full! From the rim of a little pitcher the ocean begins to overflow. How will you hide it? When these inexhaustible springs burst forth, they do not stop.

Anand Mohammed, something auspicious is happening. This is what I call understanding, what I call samadhi. Ghazals will arise, many ghazals! Songs will shower, many songs will shower.

I am only bringing your thought into my heart.
Do not think I am singing some ghazal.

Against myself I pass through myself day and night,
like the lonely, I descend into myself day and night.
Where had I left myself—where am I finding myself!

Roads of someone, someone’s city, someone’s home—
every gaze clings to me as a question.
To whom, and what, and where can I say I am going!

There was a world of dreams, a palace of hope;
the aspect of such a lovely song has changed—
I am showing myself my own mirror!

As if, from eyes seeking refuge like a secret,
like an instrument sleeping somewhere in the heartbeat—
in how many ways I am drawing near to you!

Anand Mohammed, you are coming close. Day by day you are coming. Moment by moment you are coming. Ghazals will arise, ever-new ghazals. And do not be afraid—sing! Do not hide—let this love be revealed! Let it become a ghazal on the lips. Let it become a smile on the lips! Let it become a sweet intoxication in the eyes. Let it become dance in the feet. Let it show itself in a thousand forms.

Someone whispered
something into my ears.
In the courtyard of the eyes,
new flowers
of dreams.
The sun-warmed body chimed,
and the thorny trees
of memory
turned fragrant.
Someone
opened the frightened heart’s wings.
Again and again, for no reason,
laughter overflowed the lips;
the veil became sky,
a flute sounded in my heartbeat,
someone stirred musk
into my breath.

The longed-for moment has come near—the one we await. It must come to all. And if there is delay, it is because of you.

But people are strange! They say, “In God’s world there is delay but no darkness.” I say to you: There is neither delay nor darkness there. The delay is because of you; the darkness is because of you. You are responsible. The day you accept your responsibility—there is neither darkness nor delay.

Musk has been
stirred into my breath;
someone whispered
something into my ears.
In the courtyard of the eyes,
new flowers
of dreams.
The sun-warmed body chimed,
and the thorny acacias
of memory
turned fragrant.
Someone opened
the frightened heart’s wings.
Again and again, for no reason,
laughter overflowed the lips;
the veil became sky,
a flute sounded in my heartbeat,
someone stirred musk
into my breath.
Someone whispered
something
into my ears.

The Divine is ready to speak into your ears. But there is so much trash stuffed into them—there lies the obstacle. You have packed in so much solid “knowledge,” therefore you are ignorant. You are a pundit, therefore a sinner. Be free of pedantry, be free of borrowed knowledge, be free of second-hand rubbish—and every breath will become a ghazal. And the flute will surely come to your lips. Songs will resound. Dance will awaken. And when a song arises in life—only then do we have proof of the Divine. And such a song—one for which no cause is visible, causeless! And such joy—for which there is no reason, reasonless! Only within, within. Self-sprung.

Day by day the splendor of that beauty kept increasing;
first a rose, then rose-bodied, then robed in roses.
Slowly, slowly they became the very substance of my being.
You kept coming closer and ever closer:
first my heart, then heart-stealer, then guest of my heart.
Slowly, slowly they became the furnishings of my existence:
first life, then beloved of life, then life itself.
Day by day the splendor of that beauty kept increasing—
first a rose, then rose-bodied, then robed in roses.

Each day this nectar, this love, this affection keeps growing. You have set out, Anand Mohammed. And there is a famous sutra of Mahavira: He who has set out is already halfway there.

Swami Sardar Gurudayal Singh! Even if you didn’t ask, Gurudayal, you would recognize him. He’s half a Sardar too. Fifty-fifty! And half a Sardar is more dangerous than a full Sardar. He stands out differently. A full Sardar can still hide; a half Sardar finds it hard to hide.

To be a Sardar you need the five K’s—kesh, kangha, kaccha, kara, kirpan. Ahamak Ahmadabadi is a half Sardar. He has no kesh; he has a kangha. To say he has a comb isn’t even right—he had one. One morning he was sitting very dejected, so I asked: What happened?
He said: One tooth of my comb broke.
I said: If one tooth broke, let it be. What difference does one tooth make? The comb will still do its job.
He said: You didn’t understand. It was the last tooth.
Such a realized man! Namo Siddhanam! What was he doing with a comb with only the last tooth? But he has no hair anyway. So I figured, well, a comb ought to be there, so he kept one.

He has a kaccha, but it has so many holes that it would have been better if it weren’t there. Without it, Ahamak Ahmadabadi would be less naked. There are so many holes that you can see him naked in many ways, from spot after spot. Look from here, look from there—hole upon hole.

He does have a kirpan, but there’s no edge on it. It doesn’t even cut vegetables. But the name is kirpan. The real thing is the name. The saints have said that by the name alone one crosses the ocean of becoming. So he trusts in the name; he still calls it a kirpan. It’s rusted, it won’t cut vegetables, it’s good for nothing—but he hangs it on himself. You’ll find him. Gurudayal, don’t worry.

He has a kara too, but to call it a kara isn’t quite right—you should call it a bangle. When his wife died he put on her bangle. He said, women, when their husband dies, break their bangles. I am not a woman; I am a man, a young man. The woman died—now I will wear a bangle. Whatever women do, I will do the opposite—only then am I a young man!

That’s why I call him Ahamak—he’s accomplished. And he’s from Ahmedabad. Accomplished—and Ahmadabadi! Now you think—Sardar and Gujarati! A wonder of wonders! If Kabirdas had seen it he would have said—One marvel I saw: the river caught fire!

One day Dhabbuji was asking Ahamak Ahmadabadi, Brother, what did you say in your speech last night that the applause went on for about half an hour!
Ahamak Ahmadabadi said: Oh, nothing, man, I just said this much—that if you people don’t stop clapping, I’ll end my speech right here.

Ahamak Ahmadabadi often sings a song. One night he was singing: My heart is sad, listen to what I say; where there is no peace, don’t stay there.
His wife said: Stop this nonsense. Listening to your song, three of my servants have already run away—My heart is sad, listen to what I say; where there is no peace, don’t stay there. You yourself didn’t run away, but three servants have!

Ahamak Ahmadabadi went shopping with his wife. The wife said: How strange—I have a border but no sari. I have a perfume bottle but no perfume. I have the ring from a set but no earrings and necklace.
Ahamak Ahmadabadi said: Same with me, darling—I have a pocket but no money!

Ahamak Ahmadabadi went to the police station. The officer asked: What proof do you have that your wife has gone mad? Any doctor’s report or…?
Ahamak Ahmadabadi cut in: I don’t know about all that, sir, but what I’m saying is true. This evening when I came home from the office she welcomed me with a smile, embraced me, and lovingly offered me tea—even though today isn’t the first of the month.

Ahamak Ahmadabadi said to his wife: Dear, our neighbors are great misers. I’ve never seen such misers in my life.
The wife was startled—Ahamak Ahmadabadi, saying such a thing! She asked: Why?
Ahamak Ahmadabadi said: Their son Tiku swallowed a quarter-rupee coin yesterday, and to get it out those rascals called two doctors! There’s a limit to miserliness! Now our own son Chunnu swallowed a quarter-rupee—three years ago today—I didn’t even tell you so we wouldn’t have to call a doctor for no reason. And anyway we don’t need a quarter right now; when we need it we’ll have it taken out. It’s not as if the doctors are going to die!

He is an accomplished man. Gurudayal, if you do a little searching you’ll find him. That’s who he is. And don’t ask me to tell you straight who he is, because as it is I have plenty of enemies; why make Ahamak Ahmadabadi an enemy too? And he’s a good man; if he lives around here there’s a little fun in it.

After eating, Ahamak Ahmadabadi said to the manager: Forgive me, at the moment I don’t have the money to pay your bill. I’ll come some other time and pay you.
The manager was an Ahmadabadi too—one and a quarter seers to the seer. He said: No problem, sir, we’ll write your name on the wall. When you come next time, you can pay.
I didn’t like that—said Ahamak Ahmadabadi—everyone will read my name; that’s a great humiliation.
No, no—the manager said—that won’t happen, sir. Your coat will be hanging over your name. With the coat there, there’s no question of the name showing.

Ahmedabadis are a special kind of creature. In this world there are all kinds of living beings. In Ahmedabad too their own kind of creatures are born. And that’s why there is such variety in the world; otherwise why would God create Ahmedabad? After all, if he created Ahmedabad there must have been some purpose. If he wove the creation, there must have been some meaning. He could have made something else—he made Ahmedabad! There is a secret behind it. More Ahamaks are born there.

My uncle left such a long sum of money to me in his will. It seems that’s why you married me. That’s true, isn’t it?—Ahamak Ahmadabadi’s wife suddenly flared up.
Ahamak Ahmadabadi said: Wrong, absolutely wrong, completely wrong! One hundred percent wrong. If anyone else had made such a will in your name, I would still have married you. What difference does it make whether it was your uncle’s will or your father’s—the will should be there. My love is unbroken!

Last question:

Saint Maharaj! Where is the question of understanding here? India is a urinal. This is a well-known fact. An eternal fact. There’s nothing to understand. When Saint Peter looks down from above, what would he see in India? People standing everywhere—along the roadsides, against house walls—showering the waters of life. Some are watering tree trunks; some sit on the banks of rivers and streams with their sacred thread wrapped around their ear. The truth is, the residents of heaven recognize India precisely by this method, because there are no lines drawn on the earth, no map colors filled in—this is India, that is America, this is Japan. Wherever they see people peeing everywhere, they conclude: this is the sacred land of India, where even gods yearn to be born! The land of rishis and sages—ah, blessed! See how they go about sprinkling the waters of life!

But in recent years, since Indians have started going abroad, crossing the seas, Saint Peter has begun to have a bit of difficulty recognizing India; because wherever Indians go, they never abandon their ancestral tradition.

I have heard that when Russia’s Prime Minister Khrushchev came to India and one evening was strolling in the garden with Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, he was astonished to see a decent fellow squatting by the fountain, relieving himself. He couldn’t hold back. He said, “This is the limit! You say, Mr. Nehru, that your nation’s people are very civilized, religious and cultured. What am I seeing? Can your government not build public urinals for this?”

Poor Panditji—what could he say? He just lowered his head. A few years later, when Nehru went to Russia and, at dusk, was walking in the park of the Prime Minister’s residence with Khrushchev, by chance he suddenly spotted a man who, in the evening’s darkness, was crouching behind a tree, urinating. Breaking off the conversation midstream, Panditji said, “Look, look—you used to defame our country. What is that man sitting there doing?”

Without a moment’s delay, Khrushchev whistled loudly. Four guards came running. They seized the man and took him straight to lockup. Khrushchev was very surprised: who could this fellow be, sneaking into the Prime Minister’s bungalow and doing such a thing? Because only big leaders, officers and dignitaries are allowed inside! His surprise vanished the next day when a call came from the police station: “The man we kept in lockup last night—shall we release him, or punish him? You tell us, because he is none other than the Indian ambassador.”

That’s all for today.