Bahuri Na Aiso Daon #4

Jinswaroop! Many things here are worth pondering. First, know this: a guru does not get angry. He may appear to, he may act it out, but he does not get angry. One who has come to be at ease with himself cannot be angry with anyone else; it is impossible. So if a so‑called guru became angry, he was not a guru.

The word ‘guru’ is very significant. A guru is not a lecturer; not a teacher, not an acharya. ‘Guru’ is formed from two syllables—gu and ru. Gu means darkness; ru means the remover. And anger is darkness. Saying a guru gets angry is like saying darkness has gathered around a lamp. For a guru to be enraged falls outside the very law of his nature; it runs counter to the foundations of life.

Yet we have long heard of such “gurus” who get angry—stories of Durvasa and the like. Those stories only say this much: we mistakenly took a teacher to be a guru. And this mistake is easy, because a teacher speaks the same words a guru speaks—perhaps with even greater logical neatness. The guru will sound a little outlandish. He will, because one who has known truth finds all contradictions dissolved into a single energy. In his life, life and death meet. In his being, matter and spirit are no longer divided. In his conduct, the choice between the essential and the nonessential disappears. For him, gold is mud; and mud is gold. For him, the world is liberation; and liberation is the world.

Someone asked the Zen mystic Bokuju: say something about liberation.
Bokuju said: Samsara is moksha.

Only a guru can say this; a mere teacher does not have such a vast heart—such courage—as to call liberation the world. This unprecedented statement becomes possible only at the meeting with the Vast.

In that tale from the Taittiriya Upanishad, there could not have been a guru; there must have been a teacher—a fine one. He must have been adept in the art of instruction. And out of a hundred “gurus,” ninety‑nine are only teachers. One is expert in the Gita, another in the Vedas, another in the Koran, another in the Bible—but these are teachers. A guru is one who has drunk the Divine. A guru is one behind whom God follows like a shadow. Kabir says it exactly: “Hari tags along behind me, calling, ‘Kabir, Kabir.’” Kabir says: I don’t even bother—what have I to do with Hari? Yet Hari keeps trailing me wherever I go—awake or asleep—day and night humming, “Kabir, Kabir!”

Devotees have called out to God a great deal, but such a chest belongs to Kabir—to a guru—who can say, “Hari follows after me, calling ‘Kabir, Kabir.’” The “guru” in the Taittiriya Upanishad—first of all, he is not a guru. And what anger in a guru? Neither is the guru a guru, nor the disciple a disciple.

The distinction between a disciple (shishya) and a student (vidyarthi) is as essential to understand as that between a guru and a teacher. Students gather around a teacher; disciples around a guru. Even if a mere student reaches a guru, he cannot remain; he cannot remain for long; and if he does, he gains nothing.

As if surrender could be complete or incomplete! As if surrender could have fragments! As if surrender could be a percentage—ten percent, twenty percent, fifty percent, eighty percent, ninety-nine percent! No, Guna, surrender either is or it is not. The Master’s word appeals to the disciple; even if it does not appeal to the world, it still appeals. Even if it does not fit into logic, even if the intellect cannot grasp it, it still appeals. A disciple is one who, when faced with the choice, “Shall I follow the Master’s word or my own logic?” follows the Master and bows to logic—sets it aside with a namaskar.

A student goes with the teacher only as far as his logic allows. A student never goes even an inch beyond his own logic with the teacher. In fact, he doesn’t go with the teacher at all; he only nourishes his own logic. He will collect some knowledge, some information from the teacher. Transformation of life is not his aspiration, not his yearning.

Guna has known me for many years. But the distance remains the same—and it seems it will remain so. From my side there is every effort to break this distance, but if your intellect still has to decide which words appeal and which do not, then surrender is impossible. Where there is no surrender, there is no discipleship.

And remember, the Master deliberately says many things that will not appeal to the intellect. He says them knowingly, because that is the touchstone—that is the test. Whoever passes through it is a disciple; whoever cannot, remains a student. If the Master were to go on saying only what your intellect already finds agreeable, then it would be impossible to distinguish between a disciple and a student.

A student cannot attain the dignity of a disciple. The student drags himself along with the teacher. The disciple dances before the Master. The Master merely hints—and the disciple is off, gone! He does not even ask, “Where is the map? Which route should I take? Are there any dangers on the way? Let me arrange all the conveniences and securities first, then I will go. First let my whole logic agree, then I will go. Let me think a little more, deliberate a little more.”

This appealed to him. Perhaps the feeling for sannyas arose then. But now an obstacle has appeared, because here he sees that the sannyasins have arranged for security—everyone is checked at the gate, there are guards. So the obstacle has arisen. Now the intellect has begun to worry: if even stabbing cannot remove me, then why arrange security?

He heard only half. We hear only as much as we want to hear. I had said: "I cannot be removed by stabbing me. I cannot be saved by arranging security. I will tell neither those who stab to stop, nor those who provide security to stop. If those who stab are free, why put a hurdle in the way of those who protect?"

That much intelligence did not arise in him. In such matters, that kind of intelligence is not in the intellect at all. The intellect is, in truth, unintelligent!

At the time of Mahatma Gandhi’s death, his foremost disciple, Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, had all the security arrangements in his hands. He was the Home Minister, the Deputy Prime Minister. And Sardar had received information from reliable sources that a plan to assassinate Gandhi was underway. One or two attempts had already been made and had failed. So Sardar went and asked Mahatma Gandhi, "Shall we arrange security?" There is dishonesty even in this asking, because those who were coming to shoot were not coming after asking permission. When the enemy does not ask, why should the friend ask?

There is dishonesty in the asking also because if Mahatma Gandhi had said, "Yes, arrange for security," then Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel’s very faith in Gandhi would have collapsed: "Strange—this man who was saying until yesterday that when Ram wishes to take me, he will take me, is now saying, ‘Arrange security’?" Sardar’s reverence would have slipped. Unconsciously, Sardar must have gone with the expectation that Gandhi would say there is no need for security. I can say with certainty he carried that expectation: that Gandhi would say, "What need is there for security? God is security." And that is exactly what Gandhi said, and Sardar returned pleased. It suited the disciple; and the whole country liked it too: "This is faith! What faith in God! No need for security!"

But that which came through Nathuram Godse was also God. And that which came through Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel was also God. How do you choose between God and God? Does the God of Nathuram Godse seem somehow more God? I do not call this devotion. I call it ego hiding in the form of humility.

I would say that if Gandhi truly had faith, he would have said: "As He wills! If He sends someone to stab, if He sends someone to shoot, and if He has someone arrange security—as He wills! It is His play! I am a witness; I will watch. If I go, fine; if I do not go, fine. If I remain, I will do His work; if I am taken, I will be taken while doing His work." That I would call devotion.

Gandhi is not a devotee. He trusts the killer, but not the protector. And Sardar Patel became completely carefree that everything was just right. Truly speaking, more than Nathuram Godse, two men are responsible for Mahatma Gandhi’s assassination: Morarji Desai and Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel. Because Morarji Desai was the Chief Minister of Maharashtra, and he too knew that the plot was being hatched in Maharashtra. And Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, the Union Home Minister, also knew that the plan was underway. Yet both sat silent. And to justify their silence they found a beautiful cover in Gandhi’s statement: "What will security do? As long as He wants to keep me, He will keep me; when He wants to remove me, He will remove me."

I think in another way. Through those by whom He wants to have someone removed, He will have it done; through those by whom He wants someone to be protected, He will have it done. I tell no one to come and shoot me, nor do I tell anyone to stop the one who comes to shoot. Who am I? If it is His will, let the bullet be fired; if it is His will, let the bullet be stopped. For me, both are play.

So neither was this a guru, that person of the Taittiriya Upanishad, nor was the one sitting before him to learn a disciple. This was a teacher, and that a student. He was repeating memorized bits; the other was memorizing them, so that tomorrow he too would become a teacher and make others memorize. The guru got angry at the disciple over something!

A guru does not get angry with the disciple. That is impossible. A disciple does not get angry with the guru; that too is impossible. Leave aside the guru being angry—why, even the disciple does not get angry! This is the culmination of love. Where is there any entry for anger here? This is harmony in its ultimate form. Here, notes do not clash or fall apart. Here the rhythm is total, complete.

But students do get angry; they flare up over trifles. Thousands of students have come to me and gone—over the tiniest things. It doesn’t take any time to filter them out. The day I decide to sort the students, I can do it in a moment. I often do, because when rubbish and trash accumulate, they must be sifted. Pebbles and stones get mixed in; they must be sorted. And the sorting is so easy, you cannot imagine: say a single thing, and they’ll be offended. Those who run away don’t even look back. Then for the rest of their lives they will hurl abuses. Just as they were eager a moment ago to fall at the feet here, in a single instant that falling at the feet can turn into abuse—in a single instant! It takes no time.

This story says the guru got angry with the disciple. And if angry, what is a guru to do? He wasn’t a guru at all—so what will he do if he gets angry? He said, “Give back the knowledge I taught you!” Only a teacher can say such a thing, because what a guru imparts can neither be returned nor asked back.

It is a transformation of life; there is no way to vomit it out. The food you have digested—what has become your blood, flesh, marrow, entered your bones, reached even your soul—how will you vomit that? Yes, what is undigested, what has not become blood, what lies in the belly like a stone, what is a burden—that can be vomited. Throwing that up will only make you feel light. Its expulsion is health-giving.

The “guru” got angry. He said, “Return the knowledge I taught you.” These are childish things. They do not befit the mouth of a guru. In the first place, a guru does not really teach anything. The guru erases what you have learned. A guru does not give instruction; a guru takes instruction away. A guru does not give knowledge; a guru snatches knowledge. The guru frees you from knowledge, makes you innocent. A teacher gives knowledge, so a teacher can also take it back. What can be given can be taken away. But a guru gives nothing—what will he take back? The guru cleans you out; he frees you from rubbish and junk. There is nothing to take back; he never gave anything.

Those whose minds are full of greed gather around teachers, because something will be obtained there. Only the greedless can sit with a guru, because there one has to lose. Not just something—ultimately, one has to lose oneself. One has to become a zero there. The one who becomes a zero is the disciple. With a guru, every day you return more and more empty. The intellect goes, reasoning goes, the ego goes, desires go, ambitions go, hankerings go. Not only the world goes—moksha, nirvana, samadhi, all go. Nothing remains. The guru leaves nothing. He raises the sword and keeps cutting. When utter silence settles within you—no noise, no sound—when such great peace condenses within you, then you are qualified to be called a disciple. Now what is there to be taken away from you? What was to be taken has already been taken.

And no one can steal this emptiness, because emptiness is your very nature. It cannot be vomited. Only that which is alien can be vomited. What has been put in from the outside, you can throw out. But that which is within, which is your innermost essence—there is no vomiting it.

Jinswarup, you did well to bring up this story. It is an important story. In it, neither is the guru a guru nor is the disciple a disciple. And so the teacher got angry with the student and said, “Return my knowledge.” What childish talk! What petty talk! What hollow statements! “Return it.” At the slightest thing—“I gave it, so return it.” Even the giving is conditional: “If you make the slightest mistake; if you go a little against me, are not compliant, I will snatch it back, I will take it back.” What kind of knowledge is this that can be taken back?

In this world, what you have truly known—how will you give it back? If the eyes of a blind man are opened and he has seen the light, whatever he does now, how will he undo it? He may say as much as he likes, “I have not seen it; let us agree I have not seen it”—but he has seen.

One of the ultimate truths of life is this: what is known cannot be made unknown again. And that which can be made unknown is something you never really knew. What seeps into your very fibers cannot be abandoned. Let me mention a few things within your experience; then it will be clear. For there is no point in speaking of what you have not experienced.

If you have learned to swim, can you ever forget it? Nowhere in the world has it ever happened that someone forgot how to swim. Even if he does not swim for fifty years, no one forgets swimming. Impossible. Why? Why is it impossible to forget swimming? This needs deep inquiry: why can there be no oblivion of swimming? Mathematics is forgotten, geography is forgotten, history is forgotten, science is forgotten—everything is forgotten—but swimming! Swimming is not forgotten. There is a secret. In truth, we do not learn to swim; we only remember it anew. We know it by nature. In the mother’s womb the child floats in water for nine months. The womb gathers a fluid like the water of the ocean. That bulging of the mother’s belly—one reason is the presence of the child, of course, but even more it is the accumulation of water for the child to float in. And the chemical composition of that fluid is the same as that of seawater. And the child’s first expression is like a fish. From this scientists have inferred that human birth must have first happened in the sea. It has been millions of years, but man must have first appeared like a fish.

Perhaps this is the notion behind the Hindu avatara of Matsya, the Fish. God took his first incarnation as a fish. It is another way of saying the same thing: that life first descended as a fish. And in nine months every child has to swiftly recapitulate the journey the human race took over millions of years. By understanding the distinct stages of the child’s development in the womb, we can understand the entire evolution of the human race. Then Charles Darwin appears true, because there comes a moment in the child’s life in the mother’s womb when he is like a monkey; he even has a tail. Then the tail drops away. By the end of nine months he manages to arrive at the human form. But the beginning is as a fish.

If, millions of years ago, man’s primary life began as a fish, then in the innermost of his nature there is swimming. We have forgotten the language; that is another matter. But our nature still remembers it.

And what are we really doing when we swim! Does anyone actually teach anyone to swim? In fact, throw anyone into the water and he will begin flailing his arms and legs. He flails them a bit awkwardly because he lacks finesse. Once he begins to move those very arms and legs with a little method, swimming has arrived. One who teaches swimming knows only this truth: the whole work is simply to keep the learner confident that someone is there to protect me, there is no need to panic; his self-trust increases. Swimming is hidden within him; it will manifest.

A Japanese psychologist has taught six-month-old babies to swim! And now he is experimenting with three-month-old babies. Six-month-old babies begin to swim. It sounds unimaginable: how will a six-month-old swim! But when in the mother’s womb the baby keeps swimming for nine months, then a six-month-old will swim, a three-month-old will swim, a three-day-old will swim. Swimming is our nature.

True vidya is that which is the discovery of our nature. With a guru, nothing is taught to us; rather, what we have lapsed into forgetting is brought back to remembrance, recalled. The guru reawakens within us the language we had forgotten. The notes that lie asleep within us begin to tingle to the resonance of the guru’s notes. The guru sings, and his echo becomes a humming within us. The guru dances, and the jingle of his feet sets the anklets within us ringing. The guru plays the sitar, and the pluck of his string becomes a stroke upon the heart-string within us.

Vidya is not ordinary education. Through vidya that is known which we already knew and had forgotten. And through education that is known which we had never known; therefore it can be forgotten at any time.

So this teacher—and I will call him a teacher—got angry with the student and said, “Return it; return my knowledge.” What could the student do either! He said, “So be it,” and vomited the knowledge. This story is very charming. He vomited it and said, “Here, take what you put in—what more can I do?” It was undigested anyway. It must have been only a burden. He put the burden down. He said, “Take care of your trash!” He must have felt only a lightness.

“And the gods took the form of a partridge and gathered it up.” These gods are strange folks! We have made the gods perform such tasks that no one should do. Now someone has vomited, and they, becoming partridges, gathered even his vomit! That is why we do not take the gods as some ultimate state.

The outcome—the conclusion—of this land’s thousands of years of spiritual experience is that man is a crossroads. And whoever is to set out on the journey to moksha must set out from being human. Even a god must become human; only then can he journey toward liberation. A god is not above man—different, but not higher. He may be happier than a human. Those in hell are more miserable than man. Those in heaven are happier than man. Understand heaven as affluent, prosperous; understand hell as impoverished, destitute. But great poverty has one danger: a person becomes content with poverty. We can see this in the countries of the East—people have become content with poverty. Not only have they become content, but if you strike at their poverty they become angry. They will contend with you; they will fight you. They will protect their poverty. Ancient poverty of centuries, eternal poverty, their eternal religion—how can they leave it? Leave it so easily? How can they give up being Daridra-Narayan just like that? They are sitting as Narayan for free! How can they leave it? It cannot be left by them.

Those upon whom it is happening can at least do this much: renounce the Hindu religion. If they don’t do even that, why should I do anything? The very superstition because of which they are oppressed—they cling to that very religion. What will my doing change? For centuries this entire disturbance has been organized by priests and pundits; and they still wash those same priests’ feet and drink that water, they still worship them. Not only that, they insist on entering those very temples whose enthroned gods are the cause of all their miseries.
I was once in a village. The Harijans there came to me and said, “You have come; people listen to you here. Please get us the right to enter the temple.” I said, “Are you not tired of them yet? You want to go into their temple? The very temple with the same scriptures, the same gods, the same priests, the same pundits who have exploited your lives for centuries upon centuries? Spit on that temple! Even if they tell you to come in, don’t go. Kick that temple!”
“Arre,” they said, “what are you saying? Spit on the temple, kick the temple! What are you saying? Are you an atheist?”
I am an atheist, and they are theists! And you ask me why I don’t do something for them? These fools cling to their sicknesses, to their diseases. Who is holding them back? Why don’t they drop it? Why don’t they move away? Who is stopping them? And you can see, the difference appears immediately: that same Harijan whom you wouldn’t seat beside you on the cushion—if he becomes a Christian and comes, you stand up at once: “Please come, sir, have a seat.” The same gentleman is now worthy of being seated on the cushion. If he becomes a Muslim you say, “Please come, Mir Sahib!” Otherwise, outside on the steps...
I know a friend, Macwan—he was principal of Leonard Theological College, Jabalpur. A Gujarati. One day he took me to his home. He said he wanted to show me a few things. He introduced me to his mother. She was quite old, must have been about ninety. And he showed me his father’s photo. Then he called his daughter—Saroj Macwan. She had just returned from America with a Ph.D. and had married an American young man. And he said, “Just look at these three generations—this is my father, this is my mother, this is me, this is my wife, this is my daughter, this is my son-in-law. In three generations, such a revolution!”
His father was a beggar. He sits with a broken begging bowl in the photo. He lived hungry, he died hungry. He never knew anything else in life. He was a Harijan. He was only ever despised. When the father died the mother was distressed—out of hunger and hardship she became a Christian. Even now all the lines of poverty are etched on her face. Even now you can recognize in his mother that the imprint of “Hindu Sanatan Dharma” hasn’t gone.
I asked him, “Your mother became a Christian, so now she must have no interest in the Hindu religion?” He said, “Don’t ask—she still recites the Hanuman Chalisa. She still believes in Bajrangbali.” He himself is principal of a big college. His wife is also a professor. It’s difficult to connect the dots, because when the mother became Christian, the Christians sent Macwan to America to study. He grew up there, married there. And as for his daughter, you wouldn’t believe it—one of the most beautiful young women I have seen. And in three generations, such a revolution!
Who is stopping the Harijans from stepping out of the Hindu enclosure? Leave this rotten enclosure. Where you have received nothing but sorrow and pain, where you have received nothing but insult, contempt, and kicks—on what hope do you stay? The very Ram who had molten lead poured into a Shudra’s ears—of that same Ram you still sing praises? No hesitation, no shame! The Manu who did not even count you among human beings—of that same Maharaj Manu’s social order you remain a part? The Tulsidas who counted you with animals—“Drum, boor, Shudra, beast, woman—all are fit for chastisement”—and said you should be thrashed, you are deserving of it; that torment is your right, and our tormenting you is our right—you still memorize the couplets of that same Tulsidas! And the followers of that very man commit adultery with your wives, cause abortions, set fires, commit murders, shoot bullets—and still you want to remain within their circle!
Man makes peace even with suffering; he clings to suffering too. That’s why there is no escape from hell. It’s a great irony that man tires of happiness, not of suffering. This is an extraordinary truth about human psychology: man does not tire of suffering; he tires of pleasure. In suffering there remains a hope that perhaps tomorrow I will be happy; if not today, tomorrow the suffering will end; after all, karmic bonds will wear thin someday! But in happiness all hope is lost.
Heaven is our imagination—of the happy: those who have earned great merit become gods and goddesses. But they get bored. There are stories in which gods and goddesses prayed to be allowed to return to earth. But I have never heard, nor read, a story in which someone in hell said, “We want to go back to earth.” Urvashi gets tired dancing before Indra and prays for a few days’ leave. “I want to go to earth. I want to love some son of the soil.” Love with gods cannot be very pleasant. They are airy, vaporous. There is no earth there, nothing solid. Wave your hand right through a god and nothing will catch. Think of them as mere notions, dreams. However beautiful they may seem, they are like rainbows.
Naturally Urvashi must have tired. Women are earthy. They need something solid. Dancing and dancing near rainbows, Urvashi must have grown weary—that, I can understand. Urvashi said, “Let me go. Let me go to earth for a few days. I want to breathe the earthy fragrance. I want to see roses and champa flowers that bloom on earth. Once again I want to love some son of earth.”
It hurt Indra deeply, because it was insulting. But he said, “All right, go—but one condition: let no one know this secret that you are an apsara. The day you reveal this secret, that very day you will have to return.”
Urvashi descended and fell in love with Pururava. It’s a very lovely tale, the tale of Urvashi and Pururava! Pururava—a son of earth; when the sun shines he sweats, when it’s cold he shivers. Gods neither feel cold, nor sweat. Think of them as dead. Do corpses sweat, no matter how hot it gets? Nor do they feel cold. Have you ever seen a corpse’s teeth chatter? How could they chatter! And if a corpse’s teeth did chatter, you would run in such a way you would never look back again. Urvashi fell in love with Pururava. She was so beautiful that naturally Pururava had a curiosity—curiosity is human—that again and again he asked, “Who are you? O Urvashi who looks like an apsara, who are you? Where have you come from? Such beauty, such unearthly beauty, does not exist on this earth!”
And some things about her worried him. When Urvashi stood in the sun she did not sweat. Urvashi was airy, light, not solid. Delightful, but like a doll. A toy. She neither got angry nor quarreled. Curiosities began to arise in Pururava. At last one day he became adamant. One night, when they were both on the bed, Pururava said, “Today I must know who you are. Where have you come from? You don’t seem to be of our world. You are a stranger, unfamiliar. If you don’t tell me, this love is over.”
It was a threat, but Urvashi got frightened and said, “Then understand one thing. I will tell you, but the moment I tell you, I will vanish. Because that is the condition.”
Pururava said, “Whatever the condition...” He thought it was all trickery—women’s tricks! “What things she is coming up with! Vanish—where will she vanish!” So she told him: “I am Urvashi. I was weary of the gods. The earthy fragrance of the earth began to call me. I longed for the patter of raindrops on the roof, for sunrays, for the rising of the moon, for nights full of stars, for the embrace of a real, solid, flesh-and-bone human chest. But now I cannot stay.”
Pururava slept that night, but even in sleep he clutched Urvashi’s sari. In the morning when he awoke, only the sari was in his hand—Urvashi had gone. Since then, they say, Pururava wanders, roams about, asking, “Where is Urvashi?” Searching for her.
Perhaps this is the story of all of us humans. Every person is searching for Urvashi. Sometimes in a woman there is the illusion: here is Urvashi. Then quickly the illusion breaks—by the time the honeymoon is over, it breaks. The very clever don’t go on honeymoons at all: “If we don’t go, it won’t break.”
Chandulal got married. He was making a great fuss: “We’re going to Shimla for the honeymoon, to Shimla, to Shimla!” I asked, “When are you going?”
He said, “In a day or two.” A few days later I met him again. I asked, “Chandulal, didn’t you go to Shimla?”
He said, “I sent my wife.” I said, “You sent your wife, on the honeymoon, alone!”
He said, “I’ve already seen Shimla—what’s the need to go again? Now my wife will go and see it.”
Such a honeymoon will last. A Marwari’s honeymoon can last. If you never went, what will break! That’s why marriages last in this world; love doesn’t. Because love is a leap toward the sky—you’ll have to fall. Marriage has no leap; you crawl on the ground—how will you fall? Marriage is like a freight train running on tracks. Love is like the flow of rivers; who knows which way it will turn.
Each person is searching for Urvashi. Even the word “Urvashi” is very sweet—“she who dwells in the heart.” Somewhere in the heart there is a hidden image one is searching for. Psychologists say: within every man there is an image of a woman; within every woman an image of a man—which he, which she, is seeking. Nowhere does the image really appear. Sometimes there is a glimpse: “Yes, this woman seems like that image.” But quickly it becomes clear there’s a great distance. Sometimes some man seems like that one; then quickly one sees there is a great distance. And that is when distances start to grow. As you come closer, closer, closer—everything becomes far.
There are stories of gods descending from heaven. You have heard many tales: gods come down, make love to the wives of rishis. The poor rishis have been told to go bathe at brahma-muhurta, so they go at brahma-muhurta; and the gods wait for that time—when the rishis have gone to bathe at brahma-muhurta, then the moon, Indra, etc., etc., come and knock at the door. How would the rishi’s wife know? She thinks the rishi has returned! And the gods assume the rishi’s form—matted hair and all—returning. They make love and disappear. From heaven there are such stories in the Puranas, that gods come down to earth, apsaras descend; but from hell I have heard no story. The reason is clear, psychologically deep. Man does not wish to leave suffering; he will leave happiness. He gets bored of pleasure; slowly his mind is sated. But of suffering he does not tire, because hope remains. In happiness there is no hope.
But whether it is hell or heaven, our observation through the ages is—and I agree with this observation—that every being must return to the crossroads of humanity. Man is a crossroads. From there roads go everywhere—to animals, to birds, to hells, to gods. And the final path is there as well—to nirvana, to moksha—where everything is lost; where all wombs are lost; where you remain neither man, nor beast, nor bird, nor god; where you remain only thought-free, empty awareness. From there no one ever wishes to return. The question of returning does not arise; the one who could return is no more.
Knowledge is only that which gives you nirvana. Knowledge is only that—“Sa vidya ya vimuktaye!”—that alone is knowledge which liberates you, which gives you moksha. That must not have been knowledge; it must have been so-called learning. Mere information. The disciple vomited it out. And unfortunate gods—they digested even that vomit. They digested it by becoming partridges! Perhaps coming openly did not seem proper; they came in disguise, came under a cover, came as partridges. That garbage, that vomit, that stinking stuff—they swallowed it again. And gathering that together, they made the Taittiriya Upanishad.
Do not read the Taittiriya Upanishad. Now this is the gods’ vomit...the vomit of vomit. Do anything you like, but do not read the Taittiriya Upanishad.
I have been asked many times why I have not spoken on the Taittiriya Upanishad. This very story stops me. The matter does not go any further. I want to free you from regurgitated knowledge, and that is a collection of regurgitated knowledge. But even if it were about one Upanishad, it would be okay; most of your Upanishads, most of your Vedas, your Quran, your Bible, your Talmud are filled with this kind of leftover, secondhand knowledge.
Some courageous fellow must have attached this story. There must have been some troublemaker like me, who placed this story atop an Upanishad. And the gullible pundits are such that to this day no one has tried to understand this story properly—that this story itself is enough to say: beware of garbage.
All knowledge is leftover, if it does not come from your own experience.
The word “Upanishad” is sweet. Upanishad means: to sit near the guru—only to sit near the guru. Up + nishad. Up means “near,” nishad means “to sit.” To sit near the guru. To sit near the one who has known. To become the breath of his breath. To sway with his breathing. To become the heartbeat of his heart. The distance between his heartbeat and yours disappears, and both hearts begin to beat as one. When his breath goes in, your breath goes in; when his breath comes out, yours comes out. This is Upanishad—not the Taittiriya Upanishad.
And only those who have known, have known. Then no one can steal it; no one can take it back from you, because it is your own nature; it is the discovery of your own nature.
Becoming healthy is Upanishad. That is the Veda. Veda means knowledge, awakening. That is the Quran—the song of your life-breath, the humming of your prana. That is the Bible—the book of books. Not a book—the book of all books! You are carrying in your heart the secret of all secrets. There is no need to become a partridge. There is no need to collect leftovers.
Jinswarup, you did well to remind me of this story. This is precisely my whole experiment here. I don’t want to give you anything regurgitated—though you are very eager for leftovers, because they are cheap, they come free. If need be you’ll become a partridge, a rooster—you can become anything, if something is free. But where there is a price to pay, where life has to be staked, there your very breath trembles. But the secret of life is not attained without staking life itself. It is not for traders; it is only for gamblers.
My sannyasin will have to learn to be a gambler. If he remains a businessman he will remain a student. If he becomes a gambler, the unprecedented realm of being a disciple opens its doors at once.

Kanhaiyalal! Miracles have never happened. They cannot happen. A miracle would mean something occurring against the law of life—which is impossible. The law of life is God. How could anything be contrary to God? Whatever happens is in accord with that law, with dharma. Yes, perhaps the law doesn’t fit into your understanding; that’s another matter. It may look like a miracle to you; that’s another matter. But miracles have never been, and never will be. What can be done, however, is the exploitation of your ignorance.

Kanhaiyalal, if you are looking for a conjurer, then go—there’s Satya Sai Baba; he will materialize ash and declare a miracle. He’ll pull out watches made in Switzerland—another miracle! I don’t know what kind of government this is! It arrests smugglers—why doesn’t it arrest Satya Sai Baba? That is smuggling! If someone produces Swiss-made watches, isn’t that smuggling? Ash is still all right, but there are such simpletons in this country that they will call ash “vibhuti,” sacred ash. No one can beat us at playing with words! Ash appears, and they’ll say vibhuti is appearing.

Miracles are fabricated—because there’s no other way to impress fools. They say Jesus raised the dead, though he could not save himself from the cross. He gave eyes to the blind, but could not grant inner sight to those who crucified him! He gave ears to the deaf, but could not give ears to the Jewish priests! They say he made the lame climb mountains, yet when he had to carry the cross up Golgotha, he fell three times and his feet were bloodied! He made the lame climb mountains, but himself—on that little hill of Golgotha, a mound really, not even a hill—he fell three times! You say he looked at the sea and turned it into wine, and yet he couldn’t change Judas’s heart! He could have dropped a few drops of that wine into Judas too—he’d have become intoxicated! If you can turn seas into wine, could you not intoxicate a man or two? Judas sold Jesus for thirty rupees.

These stories are invented later. “He resurrected after three days.” But then what happened after those three days? Christians have no narrative of what happened next—where he went, what he did.

Such tales are concocted afterward—to impress the dull-witted. And there is a crowd of the dull-witted. They are the ones who marvel at such things. In tribal areas Christianity has had a lot of impact because tribal people are simple and can be impressed by small tricks.

I have a friend, a sannyasin. He told me he went to a village where a Christian priest was explaining to the tribals, “Look, you worship Rama because you think he will save you, right?” They said, “Yes.” So the priest said, “First make sure he can save himself.” He took two idols from his bag—one of Rama, one of Jesus. The idol of Rama he had made of iron inside, polished with wood on the outside; the Jesus idol was hollow wood. To the eye they looked alike. He filled a vessel with water and dropped both in. Naturally Rama sank, and Jesus floated. The villagers were astonished—no doubt they were Kanhaiyalals. They said, “Alas, whom have we been following! He cannot even save himself; he’ll drown us too! He himself sank!” They were all ready to become Christians.

The sannyasin was watching. He said, “Listen, before you decide anything—light a fire!” He had understood the trick—one idol of iron, one of wood. “Light a fire! Is water the real test? In our land it has always been the fire-ordeal.”

The people said, “That’s true.”

“Did Rama give Sita a water-ordeal or a fire-ordeal?” “A fire-ordeal,” they said.

“Then a fire-ordeal it shall be.”

Now the priest panicked. In a fire-ordeal he’d be in trouble. And he was. They lit a fire and put both idols in. Rama, with his bow and arrow, stood firm—what could fire do to him! But Jesus was reduced to ashes, a heap on the ground. The tribals danced with delight: “Ah, our Rama!” In the meantime the priest fled. The sannyasin looked around and the priest had disappeared.

These crude absurdities impress only fools. Miracles have never happened.

The followers of Mahavira say that when he walked on the path, if thorns lay upright, the moment Mahavira approached, they turned themselves upside down. Thorns! Flowers aren’t that intelligent—what to say of thorns! People aren’t that intelligent—what to say of thorns! And if that is true, then what happened to the miracle when someone hammered nails into Mahavira’s ears? The nails should have leapt out and lodged themselves into the ears of the torturer! If thorns had that much intelligence, wouldn’t the nails?

The followers of Buddha say that from a mountain a massive boulder was rolled down—with full calculation—so it would crush him as he meditated on the hillside. But a miracle occurred. The boulder came right up to Buddha, paused, spared him, and went on, altering its path slightly to leave him to one side, then resumed its calculated course. If that is true, then how did the poison in his food end his life? If a rock had such intelligence, could the poison not have shown some kindness—not mixed itself in his food, or if mixed, at least not poisoned his body?

They say a mad elephant was set upon Buddha—a beast that had killed many—but when it came to Buddha, it bowed at his feet. I can only say: either it really was mad. With mad ones—who knows? If madmen can do anything, why not a mad elephant? That bow would be part of its madness. Not a miracle. Because when men did not bow—the very men who unleashed the elephant—why would a mad elephant bow!

But such stories are woven afterward.

At Buddha’s birth they say he emerged standing—standing—from his mother’s womb. Standing! Such people are not born in ordinary ways! The mother too was standing—she was plucking flowers from a tree when suddenly Buddha popped out! She felt no pain. Had there been pain, she would have lain down. She kept plucking flowers and Buddha popped out. And that’s not all. When people are inventing stories, why be miserly? He then took seven steps. Not only that; when you’re at it, complete it! After seven steps he looked to the sky, raised his hand and declared, “A Buddha like me has never been before and will never be after. I am the supremely awakened one!” He thundered. The heavens trembled, the earth shook!

Kanhaiyalal, is this the sort of miracle you want to see? Such foolish tales are concocted by pundits and priests—because there are people like you. You ask for such stories. And the really clever ones stage such stories even in their lifetimes.

In Bengal there was a very famous Bengali baba—because he once showed a miracle. Crowds of Kanhaiyalals must have gathered. The miracle was this: He boarded a train. The ticket collector came and asked for his ticket. The baba said, “Take your words back. No one can ask a fakir for a ticket.”

The ticket collector got angry. It was under the British Raj; the collector must have been English. He said, “This rudeness won’t do. Be a baba in your own house. This is a government train. Without a ticket I won’t let you ride.”

The baba too got angry. “Let me see who stops me!” The argument escalated. The English conductor pushed him off the train. The baba stepped down, planted his staff, and said, “Now let’s see this train move even an inch!”

The guard waved his flag, the driver tried everything, the whistle blew and blew—but the train wouldn’t budge. An uproar! The whole station gathered, all the passengers crowding. The Bengali baba had done wonders—the train was stopped! The driver said, “I’m amazed too. There’s nothing wrong with the engine. Everything’s fine. It just won’t move.”

The station master ran about, officers rushed around, but nothing helped. At last the station master told the ticket collector, “Brother, apologize. Ask the baba to board and let the train go. People have a thousand places to be. Now they’re eating me alive—someone has to reach court, another to his office—how long will the train sit here?”

At first the ticket collector balked, but when he saw it was turning into a beating—the crowd had gathered, shouting, “We’ll thrash you! You insulted our holy man! Apologize!”—they forced an apology out of him. But the Bengali baba said, “First bring a coconut. Until a coconut is offered, the baba won’t board the train.” People ran around, somehow procured a coconut. They placed coconut, sweets, flowers at his feet. “Ask for forgiveness! Touch his feet! And in future, mind you—never ask a fakir for a ticket. Ask for a ticket and there’ll be trouble.”

Then the baba got in the carriage, and the train moved.

That Bengali baba was an honest man. All his life people asked him, “What was the secret—how did you stop the train?” On his deathbed he said, “Now I’m dying; let me tell the truth. The truth is, I had bribed the ticket collector, the guard, and the driver. All three were my men. And then what difficulty is there in stopping a train? I just had to show the miracle once—and the fame spread across Bengal. Thousands upon thousands came for the Bengali baba’s darshan!”

What you call miracles are nothing of the sort; behind them are calculations, arithmetic. Magic is a kind of mathematics, a craft. Street conjurers perform it daily; go make them your gods, brother.

And I tell you, even if miracles were possible, I would not perform them. Because I don’t want people like Kanhaiyalal here at all. Even if miracles were possible and I could do them, I still wouldn’t—because the wrong people gather because of miracles. I want to keep such people outside the door, not inside. Here I want those who are eager for revolution in life. What will you do with ash? And even if I stop a train—so what? And even if I pull out a watch—so what? I have no interest in these stupidities.

O Kanhaiyalal! O Devaki’s darling! O flute-player! Brother, go graze cows! What are you doing here? Open a dairy! Utterly-Butterly… sell Amul butter! Do something sensible—this place isn’t for you. Serve Bajrangbali. Recite the Hanuman Chalisa. O lifter of Govardhan! If nothing else, make a small hill of cow-dung and lift that. People will gather around you right there—why go anywhere?

This craving for miracles is nothing but proof of India’s laziness, dishonesty, sluggishness, indolence. Having lost trust in oneself, one tries to put faith in every absurd thing. Self-trust is gone. Reverence for the soul is lost. So now talismans, ash, amulets become objects of faith.

A lazy, sluggish man was saying to his friend, “See how God does miracles and helps me! I had some trees to cut down—and a storm came and solved my problem. Then I had a heap of rubbish to burn—and lightning struck and finished that too.”

Hearing this, his friend said, “Brother, what’s your next program?”

The man said, “This time I have planted potatoes—so I’m waiting for an earthquake to harvest them.”

Mohan Bharti! Brother, then why try to drop them if they feel like death? Enjoy being indifferent, be serious. I even gave you the “definition” of a gadha—a donkey: ga means gambhir (serious), dha means dharmik (religious). So remain a donkey! Be seriously religious! Why get into the hassle of dropping it?

And you say, “Even after your explaining and striking, the habit doesn’t drop.”
The blow hasn’t reached yet; the understanding hasn’t happened yet. When understanding dawns, nothing has to be dropped—whatever is seen, drops on its own. The blow hasn’t reached you yet. Your hide is very thick, Mohan Bharti. I do strike, but there are springs in your skin. I strike, and the blow never reaches you.

Indian skin is very thick. Centuries old. What have we done, really—only toughened the hide! The skull is filled with dung. But we don’t call it dung; we use nice, fancy words.

I was a guest at a house. The householder came and, with a spoon in his hand, said, “Please take some panchamrit.” I said, Brother, first tell me—what exactly is panchamrit?
He said, “Panchamrit! Oh, panchamrit is panchamrit! A knowledgeable man like you, and you don’t know panchamrit?”
I said, No, first give me its meaning. Because in this country we use such fine words for such rotten things, it’s beyond account. Then he startled a bit, embarrassed—how to define panchamrit now! Panchamrit means the five things produced by the cow—cow dung, cow urine, milk, curd, ghee. Mix all five and you get panchamrit. I said, Brother, I don’t need “nectar” at all. Leave aside this talk of panchamrit. I have already attained the nectar. You drink this yourself. Distribute it in the neighborhood; you’ll find some donkeys to drink it.
You’re distributing panchamrit! I said, at least you did well to make it from the sacred cow. If you’d made it from a man, you’d have done something even more outrageous—whoever took it would go straight to heaven.

You say, “The habit doesn’t leave.”
There must be vested interests lodged in the habit. In this country there’s great advantage in being serious. People consider a serious man to be a good man. The non-serious they call shallow, frivolous—what of him! The one who sits with a grave face, a long face—people call him a sadhu, a saint. They say he’s an accomplished siddha. No one calls a laughing person a siddha. Siddhas never laugh.

And in this way I’m spoiling things—I’m making the siddhas laugh, and I’m making the laughers into siddhas. I’ve turned the whole arithmetic upside down, front to back.

You have a vested interest—how will the habit drop? People must be giving you respect: “Mohan Bharti, you are a siddha! Just one more step and you’ll be an arihant! Not long now.” Now how will you drop seriousness? If you drop it, they’ll all say you’ve gone astray, become corrupt.

Swami Naval Bharati, what were you doing there—bhajan-kirtan? Had you gone for devotional fervor? And I don’t find anything indecorous in it at all. If I had been there, I myself would have gone forward! If a girl has danced well, shouldn’t she be thanked? What is indecorous in that? And that sannyasin did well—at least he made my name resound in that place; people shouted, “Hey Rajneesh, get down!” Why, it’s the one who is above whom you call down, isn’t it? What’s the harm in that? The indecorum, if any, was in the way people behaved toward that sannyasin; the sannyasin himself did nothing indecorous.

This happened some fifteen years ago. Harshad had taken me in his car to show me Bombay. He’d been talking all day and said, “Let me take you out for an hour’s air.” We were passing in front of a bistro. I asked, “What is this ‘bistro’ creature?”

He said, “Shall we go?”—he said it as a joke. “Why would I go to a bistro?” He assumed I was joking when I asked what a bistro is. I said, “Why not go! Come on.” Now his life went out of him. He thought, “If some acquaintance sees us, I’ll be trapped: Why did you take him there? People will blame me. He’ll be spared—he’ll say, ‘I didn’t even know what a bistro is.’ I’ll be the one trapped.”

But now he was trapped. He hesitated. I said, “Don’t hesitate. I know what a bistro is—that’s exactly why I asked you; otherwise you wouldn’t take me. If I had said, ‘Come, take me to a bistro,’ you would have stepped on the gas and rushed me home.”

Compelled, the poor fellow slunk along behind me inside. As fate would have it, the bistro’s manager used to come to listen to me. He came straight up and prostrated full-length! And when he did, Indians are seasoned innocents: several others who didn’t even know me got up and prostrated too! The dancing girl also came and prostrated, touching my feet. The manager said, “It’s such grace that you have come! Many times I wished your feet would fall here once, and the place would be sanctified. But how could I ask you! Yet you heard! You are amazing—what a miracle! I could never have imagined, even in a dream, that you would ever come to my bistro!”

So naturally he placed my chair right next to the dancing girl. And when the girl saw the manager touch my feet and everyone else too, she danced right beside me—naturally! And Harshad’s condition was pitiful: an air-conditioned bistro and sweat pouring off him! I said, “Harshad, why are you sweating? How are you feeling so hot? Do you have a fever coming on? Dengue fever or what?”

He said, “Now please don’t say anything—let’s get out of here quickly, because if this becomes known I’ll be trapped!” I said, “Why will you be trapped? And I’m not leaving now—the girl is dancing so well...!”

Harshad said, “Maharaj, let’s go quickly! To hell with the girl! If you want to come back, come back—but don’t get me trapped.”

Now I don’t think—You ask, Naval Bharati, that “some of your sannyasins behave indecorously in social places.”

What indecorous behavior is that? Is dance something indecent? And if a girl dances beautifully, one should go and thank her. And if someone is to go and shake her hand, whose sannyasin should go if not mine? My sannyasin is my sannyasin! He has his own qualities and signs. He has to give his own definition to the world. My sannyasin is not an escapist sitting in the forest tending a sacred fire!

And you say, “A blot comes upon your name.”

What blot can you bring upon my name? I bring so many myself! Try all you like—you cannot defeat me.

You say, “By such acts your name gets spoiled.”

What name will you spoil? Only one who has a name can have it spoiled. What of mine will you spoil? Only That is! As for “me,” that name faded away long ago.

And why did you feel bad? Your ego must have been hurt: “But I am also a sannyasin! If people are abusing him, they are abusing me too,” because people see that you too are in ochre robes with a mala, another swami standing there. Your ego was bruised. Such are our vested interests.

Mohan Bharati, habits don’t go because of vested interests.

On Seth Chandulal’s grave his wife had a marble slab placed, on which was written: Rest in peace. Three days later, when his will was read and it turned out he hadn’t left even a single paisa in his wife’s name, the Sethani was furious. Enraged, she ran to the cemetery and had the stone inscribed further: Rest in peace—until I arrive.

When vested interests are at work, it’s like saying, “Sleep peacefully for a few days—then I’ll come and give you such a taste you’ll remember it for eternity!”

You are not able to drop your aloofness, your seriousness—for that you receive respect; that is your ego. So I may strike a thousand blows, but until you understand that the ego has to be dropped, you will go on protecting it.

“Why do you put green sindoor in your parting? Married women fill their parting with red sindoor,” I asked a woman.

She said, “My husband is a train driver. When I put on red sindoor he sees the red and stops—he halts at a distance. That’s why I use green sindoor. Seeing green, he embraces me at once.”

When vested interests are there, do you watch whether the sindoor is red or green—or do you look at your husband? Whether green or red, the invitation is to embrace your husband. Try to search out your self-interest hidden in your seriousness; otherwise I will say something, you will hear something, and understand something else.

Evening was falling, but Chandulal’s wife showed no sign of finishing her shopping. Chandulal was dead tired and mentally adding up the bills. To relieve his boredom the lady said, “Look how beautiful the moon looks!”

Chandulal flared up at once, “Now I have absolutely no money left to buy that as well!”

Everyone’s private self-interest is ticking inside, whatever you may say on the surface. He panicked. Whatever she calls “so beautiful,” he has to buy. “This sari is beautiful, that thing is beautiful, that necklace is beautiful—and now this wretch says the moon is beautiful! Now I’m finished! She’ll make me bankrupt. Where will I get money to buy the moon!”

Chandulal saw a beggar. The beggar said, “Master! O master! Blessings to the giver, blessings to the non-giver too.”

Chandulal was going about some important work. He thought, “If it turns out well, good.” It was the kind of work that, if it happens once, you are set for life. He said to the beggar, “Brother, if I give you five rupees and then take them back, what will happen to me?” He couldn’t give, and he couldn’t part with five rupees. But remembering what the beggar said—“blessings to the giver, blessings to the non-giver”—he thought, “Let me get double blessings for free! First give the five—so blessings; then take the five back—so blessings!” Even Chandulal couldn’t resist the double blessing.

Beggar’s arithmetic is also Marwari arithmetic; beggars deal with Marwaris twenty-four hours. The beggar said, “Sethji, first your lottery will open.”

“Amazing!” said Chandulal. “You’re not a beggar—you’re an astrologer! I am going to buy a lottery ticket. But tell me the other thing too: when I take back the five rupees, what will happen?”

He said, “First the lottery opens, and then you’ll have a heart failure.”

Chandulal said, “I understand the first blessing; what about the second blessing?”

He said, “The second blessing is the final blessing—freedom from coming and going! No more return to this ocean of sorrow, this world of becoming.”

Chandulal said, “To hell with your blessings! I don’t want the lottery, and I don’t want freedom from the cycle either.”

Mohan Bharati, think a little. If what I say seems right to you, where do you get stuck? Surely some rock of vested interest is stopping these small streams. Remove that rock.

What I am saying is very straight and simple. If there is any crookedness, it is in you. What I say is meant to pierce your heart like an arrow—but you keep dodging.

Don’t dodge. Don’t waste time. Time is short. And then who knows when you will meet someone like me again—whether you will or not.

That’s all for today.