Bahuri Na Aiso Daon #3

They say: We wrote the books by reading the scriptures. But we have not had the experience of meditation. This mind simply does not become quiet.
Yet every day they explain to people: quiet the mind, be without thought, be seedless. But someone should ask them: Have you become seedless? Has your mind become quiet? Have you found silence? On what basis should we call you a muni?
I am raising these points only because the time has come for this country to rethink. This country needs to clean up its thinking. If we want to reawaken the soul of India, we must sift out the trash and save the diamonds.
But Hiralal Jain must have been hurt. Being a “Jain” is giving him trouble.
He has written: “That day you spoke of our revered...” — we were hurt; our ego was hurt. You called our revered ones ‘Thothumal’! Then what is left of our standing! We are reduced to nothing!
Each person stuffs his ego by clever tricks. Every disciple finds tricks to stuff his ego. If someone abuses me, a disciple of mine who does not understand me is immediately hurt. He is not hurt because I was abused; he is hurt because if my master is abused, I too am implicated. My guru must be great; on that basis I am great. The disciple of a great guru is great; the disciple of a hollow guru is hollow.
Hiralal must have felt I had called him hollow. But he cannot say it straight; he goes the long way round: you called our munis, our acharyas “Bhondumal,” “Thothumal.”
I have seen their ways. Everything I had said in private — taking notes on it all — Muni Nathmal gave as a sermon. There had been no prior announcement of his sermon. The talk was to be mine; at my time, his sermon happened. I even asked: What is this sudden change in the program? No answer. And he repeated every word. He repeated it in such a way that I had absolute proof the man is a parrot, mere rote: he repeated my words exactly as I had said them.
There was a gathering of some twenty thousand people. In the evening, Ramnik Jhaveri — who had taken me there; a dear man! If you ask me, superior to both Tulsi and Nathmal, I consider Ramnik Jhaveri. This man has some virtues. He is neither muni nor sadhu, but he has a simplicity — and simplicity is sainthood. He has a naturalness. And he has courage. In the evening he came and told me: It’s astonishing, I too was jolted — why was Nathmal called at your time? And when Nathmal spoke, I understood point by point: these are all your points which he is saying, things he had never said before. So that very evening I went and told them this is not right. I told Tulsi-ji: this is not right. You had told me to invite him; I invited him and brought him. Even I was shocked — this was improper. And yet I tell you: your muni Nathmal had no impact on the public, because there was no life in those words.
When words are borrowed, there is no life in them. You can repeat them, but they remain on the lips; there is no soul. Inside, you have no support.
And what did Tulsi-ji say? Ramnik Jhaveri told me that Tulsi-ji said the reason there was no impact is that Rajneesh uses a loudspeaker, and my munis do not use a loudspeaker. Therefore there was no effect on the people.
And you will be amazed: from the very next day their monks began using the loudspeaker. Centuries of tradition broke just like that! These are bazaar people; their principles are worth two pennies. Until then there were great principles being discussed: How can we use a loudspeaker, for nowhere do Mahavira or the Jain scriptures mention the use of a loudspeaker. And it is a device, a modern machine. They even keep a mouth-cloth lest a loud sound or hot air come out, lest insects, microbes die. To speak on a loudspeaker is to speak so loudly — who knows how many living beings will die? They forgot everything. All the doctrinal chatter that ran until yesterday — stopped.
And I call them “Thothumal,” “Bhondumal” for this as well: even if these things were accepted honestly — that the times have changed, and now if we have to address twenty thousand people we will use a loudspeaker — that would be fine. But even here, trickery. What trickery? The next day Acharya Tulsi sat to speak and a man brought and placed a mic there. When he sat down there was no mic. After he had sat — he had not yet begun speaking — the mic was brought and placed; then he began. He was asked: Are you speaking on a mic? He said: No, I am speaking. If someone brings and puts a mic there, what can I do? You see — this I call trickery! I call this dishonesty! And you say I am abusing them? And from that day a mic has been placed every day. All right, once or twice someone might have put it there by mistake. But since then fifteen or sixteen years have passed; a mic is placed every day. And not only before him — before seven hundred sadhus and sadhvis mics are placed. All over India mics are placed. Who are these mic-placers? And what compels them? And when their gurus are against the mic, are these people trying to send their gurus to hell? Then let someone come and remove their mouth-cloth as well, no? “What can we do, someone came and removed our mouth-cloth!” If you can speak on a mic, then if someone comes and puts shoes on your feet — “What can we do, we were walking along, this man came and put shoes on us!” Someone grabs you and seats you in a car — “What can we do! We were walking along, this man met us, pushed us and seated us in the car!” Then someone brings meat — “Now what can we do! We were eating, he served it on our plate. It isn’t proper to leave food on the plate, so we ate it.” Then where is the obstacle? What is the obstacle to anything?
Try to understand this logic a little. Are these the arguments of honesty or not? And you say such people belong to the same category as the Arhants, Siddhas, Acharyas, Upadhyayas, Sadhus... I will not accept it.
And you ask: “You supported this in one discourse on the voice of Mahavira.”
Certainly I did. I still do. It seems to you a contradiction; there is none. I have supported the Arhants, Siddhas, Acharyas, Upadhyayas, Sadhus. I bow to them. But these Thothumals, Bhondumals — they are neither Acharyas nor Arhants, nor are they worthy of salutation. They are seasoned frauds and politicians.
Look: a few years ago in Raipur a big controversy arose around Acharya Tulsi because he had written some things about Rama that inflamed the Hindus. News reached me; his people came with a request that I issue a statement in his support and against those opposing him. I said: The opposition is not proper, because every person has the right to express his views. So I will certainly give a statement. I gave a written statement. I sent it to them — they could have it published wherever they wished — saying that every person has the right to express his ideas. If he does not like Rama he has the right to say so; if he wishes to criticize something he should be able to. If even this much freedom is not there in a democratic world, then what kind of democracy is this?
But in that statement I also reminded them: What has Acharya Tulsi to do with Rama? He has twenty-four Tirthankaras; let him write about them. He is not a person like me, who lays claim to every true master in the world. I will speak on Jesus, because I love Jesus as much as I love Mahavira. And I will speak on Buddha and on Krishna and on Lao Tzu, because I belong to no one religion. All religions are mine. I claim this whole sky as my own. In this garden, all the flowers that bloom are mine. When the heart wishes, I will gather champa blossoms; when it wishes, I will gather roses.
But Tulsi has a boundary; he should live within it. What need has he to speak on Rama? What give-and-take has he with Rama? What business has he with Rama? I will speak on Rama — and I do speak. And what criticism has Tulsi made of Rama — nothing! What I have said in criticism of Rama, that is criticism. I give Rama not the slightest value. Tulsi has written a whole epic on Rama. I wouldn’t be willing to write even a poem on Rama. Why would I waste even that much time? For what?
So in that statement I also said that Acharya Tulsi need not say anything about Rama. You are not a Hindu. You are a Jain. You have a fixed tradition. You are shut up in a little pool. You are a fish of a pond; talk of your fish, of crocodiles if you wish. But why meddle in someone else’s waters? You have no business there.
What trick did they play? From my statement they cut out the part that was against them and gave to the newspapers the part that was in their favor! When I read the statement I was amazed — they had removed all the portions where I had raised the point that what need have you to say anything, and they had given all the portions where I had argued that everyone should have freedom of speech and thought. This I call trickery. If you had to do this, you should have asked me. To give half a statement, the part that suits you, and drop half — will you call this honesty?
And think a little: no one had stabbed him, no one had shot him — it was only criticism. Recently a dagger was hurled at me; an attempt was made to kill me. Did any religious leader in India condemn this? Did any religious leader even say that this is improper? And these are all worshipers of nonviolence! Did they say anything? Did Acharya Tulsi say anything? Did Kanji Swami say anything? Did Sushil Muni say anything? Did Acharya Vidyanand say anything? All these Jain monks of various orders — these are worshipers of nonviolence — at least they should have said that to put a knife to someone’s neck to silence his voice is disgraceful. But not one religious leader opposed it. What does this mean? As if inside, unconsciously, all of them supported it: good that it happened. If they felt any pain it would be that the man missed.
Except for Indira Gandhi, not a single political person in India opposed this. Only Indira Gandhi wrote me a letter: I am deeply pained and shocked. Such an incident should not have happened. It is ugly. And I will make sure such a thing does not happen again.
Indira alone spoke; no other politician in the country spoke, no religious leader spoke. No rationalist, great writer, poet, litterateur, thinker — no one spoke. As if nothing special had happened! To stab someone — no big thing! Obviously one thing: behind this dagger there is the unknown, unconscious support of all these people. They must have been delighted, rejoicing that good — this is what they too want but cannot do. They don’t even have that much courage.
Acharya Tulsi should have thought: when it was only your criticism, I still issued a statement for you; when a dagger was thrown at me, at least you could have said that this is unseemly. Even that could not be said by him.
What can I call such people? And all these people keep a permanent camp in Delhi. And what is their work in Delhi? Only this: their flatterers go and plead with politicians, “Please, go to Acharya Tulsi Maharaj, please go to Sushil Muni Maharaj — just for two minutes!” And what happens there? Whoever goes will naturally fold hands in greeting. And a Jain muni does not greet anyone; he gives blessings.
So what trick did Acharya Tulsi devise? For six months people kept after Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru: please go once to Tulsi-ji. He kept deferring, deferring. When he was tired and harassed, he went — for two minutes. He folded his hands in namaste, which is perfectly natural. Tulsi-ji gave him blessings. The cameraman is ready — quickly he clicks the photo. They print a calendar: Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru bowing to Acharya Tulsi. The calendar is distributed free all over India.
These tricks, these dishonesties — do they have anything to do with religion? Any purpose, any meaning? I only want you to think, to reflect. And if such big things are not visible to you, then you are absolutely blind.
A cyclist got angry. He shouted: Hey, couldn’t you have given a hand signal to turn? I might have gone under the truck!
The truck driver said: Brother, think yourself — when you couldn’t see my long, broad truck, how would you have seen a hand?
You are not seeing anything at all. And those before whom you bow — what are you gaining from them? What revolution is happening in your life? What medicine are you receiving?
Sohanlal Dugad was among Acharya Tulsi’s devotees. Toward the end my hands had begun to give me trouble. One night he said to me — I was a guest in his house — What should I hide from you? In my life I have taken a vow of celibacy four times at Acharya Tulsi’s bidding. A simpleton was sitting beside me; he was greatly impressed: A vow of celibacy four times! I gave him a light slap on the skull. I said: You are such a dyed-in-the-wool fool that you don’t even understand what it means to take a vow of celibacy four times! You’re impressed? I have never taken it even once in my life, so naturally the one who has taken it four times must have done great austerity! First think, you idiot, what does it mean to take it four times! Now ask him why he didn’t take it the fifth time.
Then he came somewhat to his senses. And I asked Sohanlal: Tell me why you didn’t take it the fifth time. He said: You are the first person who is asking why I didn’t take it the fifth time. Otherwise people are impressed — as this brother was — “four vows of celibacy!” I didn’t take it the fifth time because after taking it four times and breaking it again and again, I got tired; I understood this is not going to happen with me — that’s why I didn’t take it.
I told that Mr. Fool, who was sitting there impressed: Have you heard the story of the politician who went to visit a mental asylum? He asked: When a madman gets well, how do you decide he is well? The superintendent said: We have many tests. For example, if he is educated we ask him: The pilot of the first airplane to circumnavigate the earth took four laps; during those four laps he was killed once — in which lap was he killed?
The politician said: That’s a very difficult question. I too... I haven’t read history. If you ask me, I too cannot tell you. If I haven’t read history, how can I tell you in which lap he was killed?
I said: You are of the same class of fool. Get yourself admitted to a mental asylum. A man took four laps of the earth, and you can’t tell in which he died? Obviously in the fourth! If he had died in the third, who would have taken the fourth? Such a straightforward thing doesn’t enter your brains!
The Anuvrat movement goes on like this: people take vows and keep breaking them. There is neither any meaning in the vows nor any question of maintaining them. But Tulsi-ji has become the originator of Anuvrat, the disciplinarian of Anuvrat.
In this country revolutions never happen, but there are plenty of revolutionaries. There are so many who want to reform this country that sometimes I wonder: who is left to reform?
A deaf patient said to the doctor: Doctor, my hearing has become so poor I can’t even hear my cough.
The doctor said: Don’t worry. Take these two pills; your cough will get stronger, then you will be able to hear it properly.
Such physicians are around!
Only rough words
are heard,
half meanings,
voices cracking,
locks fixed on the doors,
houses dozing,
these days here too
there is no habitation.
Who knows where everyone is —
at work, or outside,
or inside?
Or is everyone being swallowed
by loud doubt,
by the fear of silence?
Life, looking at mortuaries,
does not laugh.
These days in this village
everything exists, yet
there is no living settlement.
It seems this country has become a cremation ground. The dead are worshiping the dead. The dead are taking out processions for the dead, shouting hurrahs. No one thinks, no one reflects. And if someone asks you to think and reflect, you flare up at once.
I am saying all this only to shake you awake, so that you may once enter into reconsideration. If the thought of this country dies, its soul dies. This country must be shaken. And unless a storm comes, a tempest comes, perhaps you will not awaken; otherwise you cannot.
Oppose me — oppose me to your heart’s content!

Harnamdas Arya! From the name it seems you belong to the Arya Samaj. You are hiding your own point behind “others.” If you are Arya Samaji, have you read Dayanand’s Satyarth Prakash? It criticizes all religions. Then burn it—why did Dayanand discuss other religions, why did he criticize them? He should have simply preached his own meditation and religion! Why did you become an “Arya” at all?

And apply a little intelligence. Buddha criticized Mahavira, and sharply. Those were vital, splendid days; people kept an edge on their swords. Genius is a sword. They weren’t weaklings and cowards, not the sort to slink away with their tails tucked. Buddha criticized Mahavira because the Jains used to say Mahavira was trikālajña—omniscient of the three times—and Buddha laughed a lot at that.

Buddha said, “I saw Mahavira begging alms in front of a house where no one had lived for years—it was empty—and this gentleman is omniscient! He knows all three times yet doesn’t know no one lives in that house! What kind of omniscience is that? I saw Mahavira at dawn, in the dim light, going outside the village to relieve himself. In the dark he stepped on a dog’s tail; only when the dog barked did he realize a dog was sleeping there. And he is trikālajña—knower of past, present, and future! Mahavira even knew that on this very day Harnamdas Arya would ask me this question!”

Buddha made a lot of fun. I am not saying whether he was right or wrong. I am saying that when a country is alive there is sharpness in it, there is challenge. Shankaracharya heavily criticized Buddha—deeply. And Ramanuja did not spare Shankaracharya. Ramanuja so deeply criticized Shankaracharya that he tried to prove Shankara was a hidden Buddhist—a prachchhanna Bauddha. That he appears to criticize Buddha, but it’s all a ruse; from the back door he is actually spreading the Buddha’s ideas. Since direct propagation of Buddha was no longer possible—the Brahmins had uprooted Buddhism—Shankara was trying to smuggle Buddha’s dharma back in from the rear entrance.

These were people with life in them. Not dead like you.

Why shouldn’t I criticize if the sadhus are wrong? The “muni” are not munis, the “sadhus” are not sadhus. Why shouldn’t I criticize? And who holds a monopoly on religions, who has taken the contract? There are three hundred religions in the world; all three hundred cannot be right. Truth is one—how can three hundred be right? And unless the false is called false, the true cannot be called true. Only by recognizing the false does one recognize the true. And one has to start with the false, because you are filled with the false.

You are saying something like this, Harnamdas Arya: “If you want to pour nectar, then pour it into our vessel; why do you talk about cleaning our vessel?” Should I spoil my nectar? You are sitting with urine and feces in your pot—should I not have it cleaned first? I will have it cleaned first. But people are too clever by half.

I have heard: two hippies were walking down a road. One had been holding a handkerchief to his nose for a long time. After two or three miles he said, “Hey, have you defecated in your trousers? At first I thought the stench was from the drains; then the drains ended. Then I thought it must be people around us; now there’s no one here but the two of us. Have you pooped in your trousers?”

The other said, “Never! No way! What are you saying?”

He said, “Take off your trousers! The stench is so strong and has been with us for three miles...”

He made him take them off. They were full of excrement. He said, “What is this?”

The fellow said, “Oh, that’s old—it’s not from just now. You said I was doing it now, so I said no. This is from several days ago!”

Your vessels are crammed with so much filth and rubbish—should I not remove it?

Harnamdas Arya, you say, “Why don’t you simply propagate your own religion directly!”

Where should I propagate it directly? Every skull is stuffed with garbage. One is a Hindu, another a Muslim, another a Christian, another a Jain, another a Buddhist. First their garbage must be taken out; only then can the right truth be poured in. There is no other way.

But why are you fuming? If there is truth in your religions, why don’t you meet me head-on? Tell the heavyweights of your religions to answer my points. But what kind of heavyweights do you have? Ask them anything—what answer will you get?

I was reading about the Shankaracharya of Puri: in Delhi he was holding a satsang, and a man stood up and asked, “How can knowledge of Brahman be attained?” It wasn’t an improper question. And the Shankaracharya of Puri became angry right there—angry just at the question, “How to know Brahman!” In a satsang, what else will be asked but about Brahman? He fired a counter‑question at the man: “Do you have a shikha—a topknot—or not?” These days, who has a shikha? Except for donkeys, no one. What sensible man would keep a shikha? If you want to be beaten by a woman, she will grab your topknot and thrash you!

When I was small, in my village a gentleman lived next door. He had a big shikha. I was against his shikha. I told him many times, “Look, make it smaller.” He said, “Who are you to tell me to cut my shikha? What’s it to you?”

I said, “I’m your neighbor too. Because of you even I get a bad name—for living next door to such a man.”

He said, “Now that’s going too far!”

I said, “Just cut it!”

He didn’t listen. In small villages people sleep outside in the summer. One night I cut off his shikha. In the morning—what fun it was, a sight worth seeing! How he jumped and leapt and bounded—he became Bajrangbali—Hanuman! His religion was destroyed! He brought the neighborhood to my house and told my father, “This is the limit—beyond all bounds! My religion is finished; he cut my shikha!”

I said, “Brother, do this: cut all my hair—what else will you do? If you like, I’ll grow a shikha; yours got cut, I’ll grow one, and when it’s grown you can cut it. Only your shikha was cut—how has your religion been destroyed? Was your religion in your shikha? Can you prove your religion was in that topknot?”

But to the Shankaracharya of Puri, religion too seems to be in the shikha. The poor fellow was asking how to realize Brahman, and he asked, “Do you have a shikha or not?” He said, “No, I don’t.” Then the Shankaracharya asked a very spiritual question: “Do you urinate standing or sitting?” Because the man was wearing trousers. Now, wearing trousers, sitting down to urinate is a tough job. If you’re some yogi, you might manage it—if you know asanas and how to twist and turn the body. Sit down in trousers and try to urinate and even your forefathers would be swept away! He said, “Because of the trousers, how can I do it sitting?”

So he said, “You urinate standing and you’re after Brahma‑knowledge! First put your conduct in order. Grow a shikha; urinate sitting. Do you wear the sacred thread or not?”

The sacred thread was also missing. And the people sitting there—what sort of people go to such places!—all started laughing: “Look at him, he wants Brahma‑knowledge!” The poor man was humiliated.

These are your Shankaracharyas of Puri! And you want them not to be criticized? You want me to refrain from criticizing your sadhus, munis, and “other people’s religions”... Who are “other people”? I don’t consider anyone “other.” There is no “other.” When you use electricity, you don’t worry who discovered it. Did your forefathers? Did Shankaracharya discover it, Ramanuja, Nimbarka, Vallabhacharya—who discovered it? You don’t ask while running a fan at home or listening to the radio who discovered it.

If science is everyone’s right, why not religion? Religion is the inner science. Then whether Jesus discovered it, or Zarathustra, or Moses, or Mahavira—what difference does it make? Whether Krishna discovered it or Christ—what difference does it make?

All religions are mine. So no one should tell me I harshly criticize others’ religions. They are my religions! And wherever I see people mixing filth into them, I will criticize it. They are my religions! I have the right not to allow garbage to be mixed into my religions. I am not criticizing someone else’s religion.

And the fun is that Harnamdas himself asks the second question, which makes clear how much intelligence there must be.
He asks the second question:

Harnamdas Arya! Now you’re trying to trap me with the Ramayana, aren’t you? If I say anything about the Ramayana, it’ll be called criticism! And you ask me not to criticize sadhus, seers, and other people’s religions. Yet you yourself are itching to have poor Tulsidas thrashed. You’re itching—what am I to do? Tell me: should I honor your first request or your second?

Has the Ramayana taken a contract on truth? Is the Ramayana some sacred scripture? It’s a tale, a story. Read it—read it to your heart’s content! Play with the lila! But a scripture? The whole country reads the Ramayana—how many people have become religious by reading it? From chanting couplets they’ve become like quadrupeds—nothing more.

And you say, “It is clearly said in the Ramayana...”
Perhaps it is. Am I bound to obey whatever the Ramayana says? “...that a person should marry only once.” Then what will you do with Lord Krishna? Sixteen thousand wives! By the Ramayana’s measure, where will you place Krishna? And many not even originally his—he carried off others’ women; he even eloped with Rukmini. And your rishis and munis had many wives. One wife was the official “patnī”; for the others a different word was invented so they needn’t be called wives—“vadhū.” These days we use “vadhū” in a different sense; that old meaning doesn’t fit. In the Upanishadic period, “vadhū” referred to those women who weren’t your wife but with whom you related as with a wife. There was one wife—and many vadhūs. Women were sold in the markets!

And how many women did Ramchandraji’s father have? And that crotchety old codger—in his dotage, for the sake of one woman—had Ram sent to the forest for fourteen years. Had that woman not been there, there would be no Ramayana at all. All your fun would be spoiled; your whole religion would sink. Because of that fourth wife we have the Ramayana—otherwise where would poor Tulsidas be? Who would even ask about him?

And “a person should marry only once...” When did I ever say one should marry twice? I say: not even once. Try to understand me. I’m trying to take you to the heights, and you’re stuck down below. I want to save you even from the first. With one, the trouble begins. And once you’ve done one, how long will you resist two? After one comes two, after two comes three. After all, man will progress, won’t he?

I am against marriage itself. I am marriage’s enemy. I say: not even one—because the moment you marry, the danger is born: “my woman” and “another’s woman.” As if woman were property—“another’s woman”! Is a woman a thing, an object? Does she have no soul? You have treated her as property. “Another’s woman”! Even to look at her is a sin! What frightened people they must have been! What cowards! Terrified even to look at a woman. What garbage must they be carrying inside! Filled with sin inside—that’s why. Otherwise, what sin is there in looking at someone’s wife? And if someone else’s wife is beautiful, what harm in acknowledging her beauty? If roses bloom beautifully in your neighbor’s garden, do you not say, “Ah, what lovely roses are blooming in your garden!” What obstacle is there in that?

In a good world, among decent people, I would say that if someone sees a beautiful woman he would tell her husband, “You are blessed to have such a beautiful wife!” In a good world someone might even walk up to a beautiful woman and thank her: “Grace—thank you—for I had your darshan; this morning I beheld such beauty!” And she wouldn’t immediately scream and call the police—because he hasn’t committed a sin, he hasn’t shoved her. What do you do now? You don’t call her beautiful—but in a crowd you jostle her. If you get the chance you’ll tug her braid, you’ll pinch her. What don’t you do! O progeny of rishis and munis—what a plight you’re in! And you keep babbling that looking at another’s wife is a sin. What sin? Woman and man are both creations of God.

Looking at someone’s wife is not a sin. Veiling her is a sin. By putting a veil you hide God’s creation; you stamp her as property: “This is my woman; this is my veil—sealed and locked!” And don’t think those seals were unbreakable! In the Middle Ages in Europe, similar things happened—just as here. We are worse, in fact. When a king went to war, he would cut off his wife’s head—for who knows, he might die in battle; then what? The husband went to war; the women sat in the fire and burned themselves—became sati. They were taught to do this: “If I don’t survive, who knows who might seize you!” What inhumanity!

In the Middle Ages, in Europe, there was another custom; being somewhat “scientific,” they made iron belts. They would fasten these belts on the women and lock them. A woman could urinate, but she couldn’t make love. The belt was designed so that intercourse was impossible.

A certain general was going to war. He worried: what if the key gets lost on the battlefield—then I’m finished! So he thought of a dear friend, a buddy he could trust. He said, “Brother, I can’t trust anyone else. You keep this key. It will take me six months to return. I’ll take it back as soon as I come. I trust you—keep it without worry.”
At ease, he mounted his horse and rode out of the village. He hadn’t even cleared the outskirts when another horse came tearing after him—his friend, racing breathless. “Stop, stop!” He pulled him up and said, “What is it?” The friend said, “You gave me the wrong key!” He’d barely left the key when the friend had rushed off to try it—and discovered so quickly that it didn’t fit!

I’ve heard another story. A certain emperor—French—suspicious of his wife. Husbands suspicious; wives suspicious—what kind of society have we made! There’s no reverence anywhere, only suspicion. Your wife so much as smiles while speaking to someone, and that’s it—you’re dying inside. Off you run to Hanuman-ji’s temple to break coconuts and beg, “Hanuman-ji, do something—what’s happening! My wife was smiling, she was talking! She never smiles like that with me!”
What is there to smile at with you? One look at your long face is enough to stop a laughing man. When you come home, the children fall silent. Even the animals and birds fall silent. A hush descends.

And wives fear their husbands: where is he going, what is he doing? Everyone spies on everyone else. Is this a society? Is this morality? Is this life? Where there is so much suspicion, how can the flowers of love bloom? In the weeds of suspicion no rose of love can grow.

That French emperor was going to war. He had a special belt made—a belt so cleverly designed that anyone would be fooled. Unlike the usual belts of the West—by the way, you can still see these in Western museums—the one he made had a blade inside: if anyone tried to have intercourse with the woman, the blade would immediately dispose of his genitals—punishment delivered on the spot. He had five ministers, and he suspected all five. He had designed it for them. He went to war. When he returned, he said to the ministers, “Strip!” They hesitated; but when an emperor commands... He drew his sword: “Strip!” The first undressed—he had already been cut. He stood with his head bowed. The emperor said, “Aha! Now we have proof.”
The second—cut. The third—cut. The fourth—cut. The fifth—uncut. The emperor said, “You alone are trustworthy! I can rely on you. I am ashamed: you were the one I suspected most. Speak—ask for anything; I will grant it.”
He said, “Mmm...”—his tongue was gone. You know the French: they invent ever-new ways of love; they love with the tongue. His tongue was missing. The emperor smote his forehead: “Finished!”

But a world founded on suspicion is not a good world. I want a society where people love—but do not suspect. And that can happen only when this diseased institution of marriage ends. Marriage is a great sickness. It has rotted humankind. Love is enough. If you love someone, live together your whole life; if love is deep, live together for many lives. But the basis must be love. The moment you impose bonds, the moment you begin to obstruct each other’s freedom—love begins to die.

In human life there are two great longings: one is love, the other is freedom. And so far we haven’t managed to arrange a life where both thrive together. Some pursued love—and lost their freedom. Others pursued freedom—and lost their love. Those who pursued freedom became sannyasins, monks, mendicants, ascetics—fleeing to the forests. They say they flee the world, but if you understand what “world” means to them, in brackets it reads: love. They flee love. Call it attachment, call it infatuation, call it lust—call it what you will—but they are fleeing love. Why? Because with love, freedom seems to be lost. They love freedom; so they flee. In a Himalayan cave, freedom can be saved—but it will be a dead freedom. Because there will be no spring of love there. It will be rocky, barren, like a desert. There will be freedom, but no song will arise; no anklets will ring; no flute will play. There will be freedom—but like a cremation ground: silence, cold, utterly cold.

And some people chose love—those we call “worldly”—and their freedom died. The wife kills the husband’s freedom; the husband kills the wife’s freedom. Whatever little remains, both together kill their children’s freedom; whatever little remains, the children together kill both of theirs. What a strange world! Everyone is the enemy of everyone else’s freedom. Even children don’t allow their parents any freedom. If mother and father sit close, whispering, the child hovers right there. If the parents are quietly talking or a little playful, the child appears at once: “I’m hungry.” Half an hour ago he didn’t want food at all—now he’s hungry; or he needs to pee, or poop; this or that. He’ll create a scene—definitely some disturbance—hovering around them.

Children destroy their parents’ freedom; parents destroy their children’s freedom; husband, the wife’s; wife, the husband’s—everyone sits like an enemy upon the other’s freedom. And the trouble is: if freedom dies, love may remain—but the juice is gone; no flowers bloom. It’s as if a bird has only one wing left—one wing called freedom, the other love. Clip either one and the bird is dead. Clip either one—it cannot fly. It cannot journey into the sky.

Can’t both wings remain intact? They can. And it is precisely for this that my entire effort, my whole arrangement, exists. I want both your wings to remain—so you can fly far into the sky; so you can journey into the infinite. Love is needed and freedom is needed. Love is needed and meditation is needed.

Therefore I do not trust the Ramayana and suchlike babble. And I do not consider Tulsidas any great psychologist or philosopher; compared to Buddha—there is no question at all. He is a rustic type—and that is why villagers found him so appealing. Tulsidas’s mind matches the village mind. It is not a developed intelligence—very rustic, primitive. Hence in the villages he made the impact that none other did. The reason is clear: the tuning matched; both spoke the same language.

And the Arya Samajis are the most rustic-minded people in this country. Otherwise Dayanand would have had no effect on them. Dayanand’s notions are very shallow, very childish. His arguments are lame, crippled.

Sometimes I feel like taking the Ramayana and tearing it from one corner to the other; and taking Satyarth Prakash and shredding it to pieces. It deserves shredding—there isn’t strength in a single argument. But then I think: why waste time on foolishness? There are better things to do. Still, if I ever have time—such time that simply won’t pass—then I’ll cut these. If I ever get the chance—though I won’t, because there are so many hassles, whom all to cut!—if I ever get the chance, I won’t spare these two: Tulsidas and Dayanand. These two have done deep harm to India; they have fouled India’s very bosom; they keep grinding their gruel on India’s chest. India needs freedom from them.

The last question:

Rajendra! There is no secret at all. A small story will make it clear to you.

A certain leader was contesting an election. As far as elections were concerned, he was rather new to the game. He didn’t really know how to give speeches. During the campaign a friend said to him, “Brother, why be so shy? You’re a leader and you’re feeling shy!”
He replied, “Brother, I’m new to this field, and I don’t know the art of public speaking—how one should speak.”
His friend laughed and said, “Arrey, is speaking even an art? Just keep drawing one thing out of another—that’s the secret of a speech.”

After that, the speech the leader gave on stage went like this: “Brothers and sisters, I am neither a speaker nor a loudspeaker! The speaker used to be Kallan Miya from our neighborhood, and these days he is in his grave. Two kinds of flowers have been placed on his grave—roses and marigolds. And you must know that from roses we make gulkand. And gulkand is the root of all diseases. And among roots the longest root is that of the melon. And you must know that one melon changes color upon seeing another. Colors are famous in Germany. And in Germany there was Hitler, on account of whom the Second World War happened. And in that war many lion-hearted men were killed. Forty seers make one maund. And the mind is very fickle! Chanchal was the name of Madhubala’s sister. Madhubala—the one who suffered a heart attack. The heart is a temple. And many creatures pass in front of this temple, among them many dogs. And you know that a dog’s tail is always crooked. Brothers and sisters, the day a dog’s tail becomes straight, I will come again to give a speech.”

That’s how you keep spinning talk out of talk, Rajendra—there’s no special art to it. Once you know how to pull one thing out of another… and in fact everyone knows it. You do it every day. When you converse with each other—what are you doing?

I don’t give speeches, nor do I have any such art. As I would sit and talk with you alone, I simply sit a little higher on a platform and talk. Whether I speak to one, to a thousand, or to ten thousand—what difference does it make?

I am not an adept in the art of oratory. I am simply conversing.

And that so-called art of public speaking is worth two pennies; it has no real value. I am opening my heart before you. And the heart is a great mystery! Twenty years? Even for twenty lifetimes you could go on opening it, opening it, and there would still be no end to that mystery.

I am singing my love before you. From it, song upon song arises. I am sharing my meditation with you. The more you share it, the more it grows. In the godliness I have known, I am making you a partner. Twenty years is nothing—this satsang could continue for eternity.

This is a tavern. Here I am pouring for you. Here, the more you drink, the thirstier you become. And this wine is such that the more you drink, the more awake you become.

Yog Pritam has sent me this song—

What an ecstatic mood has gathered in your tavern;
A whole assembly of revelers has gathered in this sweet tavern.
Timidly we too stepped into this gathering,
And sitting here, drinking in this tavern, we too went mad.
The drinker sways, having drunk your wine, O cupbearer!
Yet awareness remains intact in your tavern.
You serve such a goblet that even the dead come alive—
What feats we’ve witnessed, O cupbearer, in your tavern.
Sri Krishna, Janab Muhammad, sit whispering softly;
A throng of buddhas, O cupbearer, in your tavern.
Mr. Jesus has come to Poona and is laughing out loud—
Seems he’s drunk a bit too much in this tavern.
Buddha has started dancing here, Meera sits absorbed in meditation;
Mahavira arrives in Rolls in your tavern.
Now yoga, now karate, Sufi dancing, tai chi—
What arcane tricks Gorakh pulls in this tavern!
Rabia is brewing tea, Sahajo is winnowing wheat,
And Daya Ma is washing dishes in this wondrous tavern.
Master Lao Tzu, with love, is watering the garden here;
Guru Nanak stands guard through the night at the tavern.
Many a Pandit Totaram lies flat out in all four quarters,
And Gurdjieff is giving a beating, seated in this tavern.
Mulla Nasruddin makes us laugh every morning in this gathering—
In laughter, who doesn’t get ensnared in this tavern?
Bhagwan is setting off firecrackers and fountains of laughter—
Every day we must celebrate Diwali in our tavern.
So much color have you poured that body and mind are dyed—
Daily the festival of Holi is celebrated in your tavern.
Truly fortunate are those who drink wine from your hands—
They drown and drown—and thus cross over—in your tavern.

That’s all for today.