Bahuri Na Aiso Daon #5

Swami Dharmateerth! The soul of religion does not live in institutions; it lives in living individuals. When a flower blossoms, butterflies fly in on their own to sip its nectar. Bees get the news from miles away. Bumblebees set out from faraway places. But the flower must blossom. If, in place of a flower, you put plastic flowers, neither bees nor butterflies will come, nor will bumblebees hum.

Seekers, explorers, the longing ones gathered from far and wide around Mahavira; around Buddha. People traveled thousands of miles to come. This fragrance spreads to the corners of the world. But where is life in institutions! Not two crores—build an institution worth fifty crores: you will still have only buildings. And it’s true: if there are buildings, some slothful, lazy idlers who have nothing to do will certainly gather there under the cover of the name “seeker.” Or some salaried employees, for whom those institutions become merely a means of employment, a way to earn their bread—they will gather. A true seeker will not be found there.

You say: “Very few seekers were seen there.” Those you saw aren’t seekers either. They are there, but not for sadhana.

A Shankaracharya once invited me. His secretary came to bring the invitation and fetch me. I asked, How long have you been with him? He said, For two years. What have you learned? He said, Who is there to learn from! On the contrary, he is learning from me. I’m there because I get a salary.

Where were you two years ago? I asked. He said, Two years ago I was with Acharya Tulsi. But I get a higher salary here now, so I’m here. Tomorrow, if someone pays more, I’ll go there.

Earlier he used to promote Tulsi. When he first met me, he was a devotee of Tulsi—he spoke of Jainism, sang the praises of Terapanth, lauded Tulsi. This time everything had changed: talk of the Hindu religion, praise of the Shankaracharya. I asked, You changed so quickly? He said, What do we care! We sing for the one whose salt we eat. Tomorrow if someone else pays more, we’ll go there.

When this commune began to take shape, a letter came from him too—his name is Haribhajan Lal Shastri—saying, “I want to come into your service. Please just call me to you. Only thing is, I have a wife and children, and aged parents; if you can make a little arrangement for them, I will sing your glories, eulogize you, and spend my life.”

I sent word back: this is not a place where friends like you can find a place. This is not for professionals. Here the invitation is only for truth-seekers, for those filled with the longing for truth. You are a hireling for bread. Whoever tosses you two rotis, you’ll wag your tail before him. No relationship can form between you and me.

Then there was no news of him. If such a longing for truth had arisen, he should have come and said, “I don’t want to come for a job.” Now he has reached some third saint. And the saint he is now with he has declared a “national saint.”

Pandits, priests, shastris—you will find such people gathered. Some simple folk will also be there, who have no understanding of what sadhana is; who have heard a few traditional things from birth and started believing them. From birth only one thing has been taught: “Have faith.” No one tells you to search; before the inquiry begins, accept! No one invites you onto a journey of exploration; quietly accept, impose it upon yourself. So someone is a Jain, someone a Hindu, someone a Muslim—these are all imposed identities.

Then the grand names... In this country there is a great attraction for grand names. Small things simply don’t happen here. In some neighborhood there will be a poetry gathering, the locality’s poets will collect—even they won’t all gather because there are factions and groupism, quarrels and lawsuits—but the title will be: All-World Poets’ Conference, International Poets’ Conference. Well, the name is in your hands—call it what you like.

One gentleman’s first son was named Antar-ranjan. The second was Sant-ranjan. The third was Pant-ranjan. When a fourth son was born, a big problem arose: what to name him! He asked me. I said: Dantmanjan! (Tooth powder!) After all, names are in your hands—and tooth powder will sell more. What “Santranjan”? There are no saints now, so why “Sant-ranjan”? And what “Antar-ranjan”—what has this to do with inner entry? Dant-ranjan, dantmanjan—choose something like that. It will be realistic.

He got annoyed: What kind of suggestions are you giving! What kind of name is this! Now whatever name I keep, I won’t be able to forget this “dantmanjan.” It will stay in my mind; whenever I see the boy, tooth powder will come to mind.

So I said: Whenever you remember tooth powder, always remember—Monkey-brand Black Tooth Powder.

Names... “Jain Vishva Bharati!” How many Jains are there? Only three and a half million. And only in this country. What standing do they have in the world? Not even one Jain muni—neither Acharya Tulsi, nor Anandrishi, nor Acharya Vidyanand, nor anyone else—is willing to accept even my small challenge. My small challenge is: You talk of the world; at least establish one Jain village—just one village in which all the work is done by Jains. Only then will you have the right to call it a society.

What does “society” mean? Which Jain will do the cobbler’s work? Shoes will be necessary. And which Jain will clean the latrines? And which Jain will sweep the streets? And which Jain will take on the thousands of small tasks? In twenty-five hundred years they haven’t been able to establish even one Jain settlement—not even one village. And they speak of the world!

I do not call the Jains a society, nor a civilization, nor a culture. It is only a doctrine—a doctrine with no roots. It sits upon the chest of others. Even agriculture cannot be done by Jains, because there will be violence in it. Then what kind of society is this? They live off Hindus, Muslims, Christians. A Christian woman works as a nurse; will a Jain woman agree to work as a nurse? To clean pus, to clean patients’ excreta... ugh! What corrupt, mleccha work! They will go to hell!

This is the great fun: those who evacuate will go to heaven, and those who clean the excreta—untouchables—will go to hell. What kind of logic is this, what arithmetic? Those who clean should go to heaven, those who make filth should go to hell—then it would make sense. The ones who do the cleaning you send to hell! Then if there is a Jain heaven, who will do the cleaning there?

I have been repeating this small challenge for ten years; no Jain muni has dared to accept it. And their chest is splitting with anxiety, because I am showing preparations to build a commune. So to prevent the commune from coming into being, a thousand kinds of obstacles are being placed. Because the challenge I have given, they could not fulfill; but I can fulfill it and show. There is no hindrance. Even today, in this small commune, there are sannyasins who make shoes; they are as honored as anyone else. There are sannyasins who clean latrines; no one calls them bhangi, nor harijan. Does anything change by giving people pretty names—that a bhangi is called a harijan, that a chamar is called a harijan! We have a great insistence on nice names! Write a nice label and everything is all right. But the work is the same, the trouble is the same. Earlier there was rape on the wives of shudras, the untouchables; now there is rape on the wives of harijans. The rapes continue. But to rape a harijan’s wife ought to be counted a religious act! Harijan... as Narsinh Mehta has said: “He who knows another’s pain is the man of God!” The one who knows another’s pain—that alone is a harijan.

We plaster good words over the filthiest things and then think the matter is resolved.

The Jains dearly wish to become a world religion. But they cannot establish even one settlement. They want to create a world-university. When Jains gather, when their conferences happen, the discussion is: there should be a Jain University—like the Hindu University at Kashi or the Muslim University at Aligarh—there should be a Jain University. But in a Jain University, who will dissect frogs, who will teach medicine? For that they will have to invite non-Jains—those who are going to hell! So: “Jain Vishva Bharati!” And where? Ladnun, a place whose name no one has even heard! A small village—there, “Jain Vishva Bharati!” Jains have money; so not two crores, they can spend fifty crores. But in this world not all things can be bought with money.

Whatever is valuable in this world is obtained only through love, not through money. With love even money can be had, but with money love cannot be had.

You ask that their places of practice are lying completely deserted. They will remain so. Poor fellows can build houses—but where will they bring seekers from? They will erect buildings—there is no difficulty in that. They can build tirthas, but without a tirthankara what kind of tirtha is it? Just think: there is no ford without a ford-maker. The tirthankara first, the ford after. The siddha first; then the seekers arrive. The true master first; only then is the disciple born. The disciple is born from the womb of the true master.

So these poor fellows remain engaged in hollow works. To spread the ego, one must do something—so they do.

Now you ask me to speak of their sadhana, spiritual knowledge, and experience. What on earth can I say! If there were something, I would speak. Neither do they have any sadhana, nor any spiritual knowledge, nor any experience. There is nothing to say. Only empty bookish information. If you call that spiritual knowledge, that’s your choice. It is not spiritual knowledge. Anyone can read a book. What difficulty is there in reading a book? If one cannot read, one can listen to someone else. One can learn to discuss Brahman, begin to talk spirituality; one can indulge in theoretical hair-splitting about atma and paramatma. But no spiritual knowing comes from that. Spiritual knowing happens only through self-experience—one who descends within, who dives within; who finds himself; who lights his inner lamp; the hidden lotus blossoms within him and fragrance spreads; a light dawns in his life such that he himself is illumined, and whoever sits near him is illumined too; a music plays within him such that those who have never known music—if they come near—find the strings of their heart begin to vibrate. And this music is of such a kind—it is not produced by instruments. You do not have to place a flute to your lips—and it begins to play. You do not have to tie anklets on your feet—and they begin to ring.

I haven’t tied anklets on my feet:
I haven’t tied anklets on my feet—
Why is this ever-ongoing jhanan-jhan, jhanan-jhan, jhanan-jhan?
I haven’t worn bangles on my hands—
haven’t worn them—
I haven’t worn bangles on my hands—
Why is this ever-ongoing jhanan-jhan, jhanan-jhan, jhanan-jhan?
I haven’t tied anklets on my feet.

No craving, no hope at all,
No craving, no hope at all—
Tell me, my heart, what feeling is this?
An uninvited longing has arisen in the heart,
For some days the heart has been restless.
I have not struck up the melody of love:
I have not struck up the melody of love—
Why is this ever-ongoing jhanan-jhan, jhanan-jhan, jhanan-jhan?
I haven’t tied anklets on my feet.
No craving, no hope at all—
Tell me, my heart, what feeling is this?
Someone has begun to call to me,
From where have these graces come to me?
For some days a strange yearning has awakened,
The breezes have begun to tickle me.
My veil is within the circle of arms,
My veil is within the circle of arms—
Why is this ever-ongoing jhanan-jhan, jhanan-jhan, jhanan-jhan?
I haven’t tied anklets on my feet.
No craving, no hope at all—
Tell me, my heart, what feeling is this?

Something begins to happen that is invisible; it does not come within the grasp of the ordinary senses, and yet it happens. Every hair of the body starts to vibrate.

Spiritual knowledge is a feeling; not information, an experience. It has nothing to do with the outer world. It is not in the scriptures, not in words—on the contrary, it is in the wordless, in the void.

I know them—Tulsi too, and Nathmal too. So many of their monks have come to me and gone. Now their courage has broken; now they are afraid even to come, because to come to me is to make enemies of the lay followers. Just now messages began to arrive from Kutch from Jain monks: “We are on your side and want to issue statements, but then what will happen to our future? If we say even that much—that we are on your side—the Jain community will at once expel us. We will be hard-pressed even for bread and water. So we are helpless; we remain silent. We want to speak in your favor, but cannot, because this is a question of life and death for us.”

I sent word to them: Speak without worry. I have thousands of sannyasins; count yourselves among them. Only keep one thing in mind: you will not be able to bring your Jain framework here. If you have that much courage, be initiated—these doors are open to you. But if you say, “We will walk about with mouth-filters; we need a separate platform to sit on; we will eat this kind of food and that kind; who cooked this food—Italian, French, Christian, Hindu? We will take food only from a Jain shravika’s hand; we will drink milk that has been kept for so many hours; we will eat ghee that is so many days old”—if you bring these hassles, I cannot accept them. You come; leave the hassles outside. If you find my words pleasing and your heart wants to speak plainly....

Now you will be surprised to know—Lakshmi has just returned via Kutch, so I asked, What is the situation? She said—she herself was surprised—to find that, though the newspapers are making such an uproar against me, the people of Kutch are waiting with open arms. Lakshmi was in Mandvi for only fifteen minutes and a thousand people gathered and said, “Come soon; let’s see who stops you!” And about those issuing statements—who are they? They have vested interests. And they said, “If you wait half an hour, we can gather ten thousand people right now for a welcome—right now! When the whole ashram comes, we will gather the whole of Kutch.”

But who are these people giving statements? Some mahant, some saint, some pandit, some priest, some politician, some Jana Sanghi, some bigoted Hindu, some bigoted Jain, some muni, some acharya—people of that sort. And the amusing thing is, even among them how many are truly willing to oppose is hard to say, because they have their own vested interests. They are afraid, nervous. What sadhana do they have, what courage? Such weak people! And their worship has been going on for thousands of years!

You ask: “Say something about their sadhana.” They have no sadhana. I do not call it sadhana to take one meal a day. I do not call it sadhana to keep only four pieces of clothing. I do not call it sadhana not to go out at night, not to light a lamp. These are childish things; they do not transform life. There is only one sadhana, and that is the inward journey; that is meditation. Of that they have no inkling, not even a distant one. No news of it has reached their ears. That jhanan-jhan sound has not been heard by them. Only then can such futile things be said.

You asked, Dharmateerth, that Nathmal says: “Through music the momentum of meditation does not go beyond a certain limit.” What do they know of music? What do they know of meditation? What do they know of momentum? Were those people mad who said that in the supreme state of samadhi the explosion of sound occurs? In truth, the experience of music happens only in samadhi; before that it never happens. What you call music before that is not music; it is only a distant echo of music. A very far-off echo. As when you go to a mountain and call out, the voice echoes among the hills. That which echoes from the mountains is an echo, not the original sound. In the same way, when you pluck the strings of a sitar, the sound that rings is an echo, not the Sound; it is not music. Only a few have known music. Those who have known have said: Ek Onkar Satnam! Omkar is the name of that supreme music. It is heard within, and it is heard when everything becomes empty. When not a single thought remains, not a single desire remains—not even the desire for liberation, not even the desire to be freed from the cycle of birth and death, not even the aspiration to go to Vaikuntha or heaven. In that supreme moment of silence, when there is no stirring within, when all is still, then the explosion of the Sound happens. Then one knows what music is—the divine music! That alone is Nada Brahma. Out of that music the whole creation has arisen. That music, condensed, has become existence. You are made of that music. It is playing in every pore of your being, but there is no one to listen; you are unconscious, or lost in the uproar of your thoughts. A marketplace crowds your head. Whether in that marketplace you are doing debit-and-credit accounts, or pondering Kundkundacharya’s Samaysara, or ruminating on the words of Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna—it makes no difference. Whether you are thinking about pebbles and stones or about diamonds and jewels—it makes no difference. As long as the process of thinking is ongoing, there will be no experience of music.

What experience of music does Nathmal have that he can say music does not carry meditation beyond a certain limit? But such foolish statements can be made, because who are the listeners—what do they know? Say anything, people will listen. They don’t know, and you don’t know. The blind are leading the blind.

What is the panic about my writings? If my writings are wrong, then your disciples, your monks, your nuns—who have reached such pinnacles of meditation that they can even declare that music accompanies one only a little way, whose self-realization is of such a kind—what harm can my writings do to them? What is the panic? What is the fear? The fear is this... The first fear is that whoever reads my writings will not be taken in by their hollow talk. Their talk will begin to seem hollow, two-penny stuff. That is the panic. And the second, an even deeper anxiety, is that what they are saying, they are saying after reading my writings. So if people too read my writings, they will immediately recognize, “Ah, you are repeating the same things like parrots; you change a few words, you cite the scriptures, you put a little fence of scripture around it, but what you are saying is the same.” That will be a problem. That will be an obstacle.

One of my sannyasins, Swarajyanand, was a Jain—an elderly Jain. And he had been a chief devotee of the very renowned Kanji Swami, especially famous among the Digambara Jains. Kanji Swami’s fame among the Digambaras rests largely on this: he was born a Shvetambara and then left the Shvetambara path and became a Digambara. Whenever someone abandons one religion and enters another, a two-bit man suddenly turns into a diamond, because the people of the new religion feel elated: “See, another proof—ours is the true religion, the other was wrong!” So the Shvetambaras strongly opposed him, but the Digambaras strongly supported him.

Swarajyanand was also a Digambara. Then he took sannyas with me. After becoming my sannyasin he went to meet Kanji Swami—only to request forgiveness: “Now I can no longer go along with you.” And Kanji Swami had continually been warning him against me, even telling him not to read my books. That day he arrived without a word, without any prior notice, and found Kanji Swami reading Sadhana Path! Kanji Swami got flustered and quickly flipped the book over so that its title wouldn’t show. But those familiar with my Sadhana Path recognize even its back. Swarajyanand asked, “What are you reading?” Hiding it became difficult. He said, “I’m just taking a look at what this person says, because so many people are getting corrupted by him! But you must not read it. Even touching this man’s book is a sin.”

But Swarajyanand had already “gone bad”—he had become my sannyasin. He said, “I’m already spoiled, and now I have nothing to do with you—no guru–disciple relationship remains. Let two truths be spoken plainly: since I began reading his books I’ve been amazed to discover that what you have been teaching us is precisely what is in his books; the only difference is that you supply quotations from the scriptures, whereas he speaks it directly. You wrap the same thing in scripture and present it roundabout. And if we touch his scripture it’s a sin, but if you read his book it’s merit! Now that you’ve touched this book, who will bear the sin?”

Kanji was very surprised. He said, “What odd things are you saying today?”

He replied, “I’m not saying anything odd; I’m saying the truths I should have said earlier but didn’t out of hesitation.”

You will be surprised to know: there isn’t a single Jain monk or Jain nun in this country who has not read my books. They have to read them. They read in secret, they call for them in secret, they hide them. They tuck them inside scriptures, they put scripture covers on them. But what a strange climate—where even a sadhu is not free enough to study! Let alone sadhana, he isn’t free even to study and reflect! Is he a sadhu, or has he become dependent, a prisoner?

I tell you: they are prisoners—your acharyas, your munis, your maharajs—they are prisoners. Prisoners for two chapatis. They have sold their souls cheap. But their predicament is: now where can they go? Prestige, respect, hospitality—that comes to them only because of this status. And there are two compelling reasons they must read my books: first, because many of my people—thousands—are reading me, they go to these monks and raise questions; where will they find answers? Second, they have to read me because they craft their daily sermons by reading me; otherwise, where would those sermons come from? They have no capital of their own. They have no inner spring, no personal experience. They live entirely on borrowed stuff. Their condition is so benumbed it is pitiable.

Three opium addicts were sitting in an opium den, smoking opium. One of them said, “Let’s play a game. After a while one of us will get up and go home; the other two will then have to figure out which one went home.” Opium addicts can play such games. Opium addicts have their own world—there it’s hard even to tell who is who.

I have heard that Mulla Nasruddin went on pilgrimage to the Haj. It was his great desire to become a hajji. There was a huge crowd there. Somehow he managed to get a place in a dharmashala, and that too after much pleading. But the manager said, “We can give you a place, but there’s one hitch: you’ll have to sleep in the same bed with another man. He too has been given a free place, so he can’t object either. But you’ll both have to sleep in one bed; there’s no more space.”

Nasruddin said, “That’s quite a problem. Still, no matter—we’ll find a way.” He went. Wearing his cap, his shoes, his clothes, he began to lie down on the bed. The other man said, “Brother, as it is, two men sleeping in one bed is troublesome. I’m also here free of charge, so I can’t say much, else the manager will throw me out, but please at least take off your cap, coat, and shoes! How will I sleep with you otherwise?”

Nasruddin said, “Don’t even bring that up. I can’t take these off at all, because if I do, in the morning how will I recognize who is who? It’s thanks to these that I know it’s me. When I stand in front of the mirror—same cap, same coat, same shoes—I feel assured that I’m the same fellow.”

The other man felt like teasing him, he looked such a peculiar sort. He said, “Do one thing: take all these off. People have stayed in this room earlier; there must have been a child—looks like he left a balloon. There’s an inflated balloon lying in the corner. We’ll tie it to your leg. In the morning, when you find a balloon tied to your leg, know that it’s you.”

Nasruddin said, “That’s a good idea, because I too was worried—how will I sleep with cap, coat, and shoes on! First, to sleep with another man in the same bed, and on top of that fully dressed. Your trick is a good one.” He took everything off.

And when Nasruddin took off his clothes, he took them all off. Naked as a Digambara, he tied the balloon to his leg and slept. In the night the other man, in the mood for mischief, got up, untied the balloon and tied it to his own leg, and went back to sleep. In the morning Nasruddin woke up and created an uproar! Stark naked he ran outside, gathered a crowd, and exclaimed, “A big difficulty has arisen! Call the manager. How will it be decided now? This much is certain: Nasruddin is that other man, the one with the balloon tied to his leg. But who am I? I can’t figure that out. The one with the balloon on his leg is Nasruddin—that’s settled. But then who am I?”

Your identities are just like that. Someone comes with a cloth tied over his mouth—instantly, “Here comes a great Jain muni!” Just remove the mouth-cloth, the play is over, the show ends! The mouth-cloths come in many varieties—Stanakavasi have one style, Terapanthi another. Some are broad, some narrow. Tie a broad one—you are “finished.” Tie a narrow one—you are “accomplished.” According to another group, tie it narrow—you are finished; tie it broad—you are accomplished. What games they have made! What absurd games! And these games are taken to be sadhana. These are all stupors—nothing else.

A man was passing by an opium den when an addict came out and asked, “Brother, can you tell me the time?” The passerby said, “Three o’clock.” They both walked a few steps in different directions when the addict shouted, “Wait, brother, wait! Tell me this: is today today or tomorrow? The time is certainly three o’clock—my watch clearly shows that—but my watch doesn’t have a day calendar, so I want to ask: is today today or tomorrow?”

What a spiritual question he asked too! Let the pundits sit and ponder whether today is today or tomorrow. But they are entangled in just such dilemmas—who created the universe, and why? Why didn’t he create it earlier, why on that day? What was God doing all that time? Then why did the desire arise in him to create the world?

The Jains have a big difficulty, because God should not have desire. Since God must be without desire, the Jains do not accept that God created the world. Then how did the world arise? By itself? That lands them in even more trouble: how did things come into being by themselves? A watch doesn’t just make itself. You’re walking in a desert and come upon a watch—could you even imagine that it made itself, that lying there, the sand somehow, over thousands of years, formed into a watch, hands appeared, it began telling time, ticking away? If a watch cannot make itself, how did such a delicate phenomenon as life get constructed? And by what order is it running?

Then why this creation? What purpose? What goal? And if souls were not created, where did they come from? So the Jains had to invent a doctrine: Nigod. Nigod means a dark realm where infinite souls lie, and gradually they slip out of Nigod and come into the world and go back and forth. But where did Nigod come from? And why are infinite souls lying there, and since when? And why do only a few get free while infinite remain? You have to keep “infinite” there, otherwise, one day Nigod will slowly be emptied—Nigod ends, then the world ends. On this side, in the world, people will keep attaining moksha, and from Nigod no one will be coming; the settlement will keep thinning out, thinning out. Then what will the Jain monk do? What will become of the Jain scriptures? And what of “Vishwa Jain Bharati”? The whole arrangement will collapse. So, on the one hand, there is moksha—countless souls have already been liberated! Now enjoy the fun: infinite souls are already liberated, gone to moksha; they cannot return. And infinite souls lie in Nigod, to be liberated. They will keep getting liberated—never finishing!

This whole game sounds like the babble of opium addicts. Why not simply admit: we don’t know? Is it necessary that you must know everything? And I tell you: none of this has anything to do with self-knowledge. When self-realization happened to me, I did not come to know about Nigod, nor did I learn whether God created the world, when he created it, why he created it. Knowing oneself—there spread a supreme contentment, a supreme bliss, a supreme light! Nothing remained to ask, nothing remained to know.

Yet such pointless matters are taken to be knowledge. If at Dharamteerth you ask such questions, these people certainly know a lot—go ask them. But they have no spiritual experience. Spiritual experience frees you from all these issues. They are all groping in the dark. They spin one fantasy after another, offer one suggestion after another, hunt for one solution after another. And I tell you: apart from samadhi there is no solution. And for one to whom samadhi has not happened, all solutions are childish, dangerous—beware of them.

Santhal Pargana is a region of Adivasis. One day a big leader arrived there. He began explaining, “Our country’s population is increasing day by day. You should know that somewhere a woman is giving birth to a child every minute.”

A simple fellow pushed through the crowd and said to the leader, “Sir, why not kill that woman immediately? Finish it in one stroke!” What a simple trick he came up with! But the poor tribal—what else could he do! He understood that some single woman somewhere is giving birth every minute; she is the cause of the trouble. Why not finish her? No need for all this family-planning you’re preaching, people are starving—finish that woman. He spoke to the point—but in ignorance, talk will be of just this sort.

You also asked: “Although Tulsi says no one should read your literature, when Jain monks and nuns stay at my place they read your books, listen to your tapes, and are influenced by you.”

But these poor souls are prisoners. Give them help. And as soon as our large commune is created, set them free. Free as many Jain monks and nuns, Hindu renunciates, mahants, saints as you can. They are rotting. Against their own souls they are stuck there. But where should they go now, what should they do now? If they return to the world, there is humiliation. It feels as if they spat and then licked it back. It looks absurd. People will make fun: “Ah, you took great vows of sannyas, left everything, and now you come back? Forgot your vows? Came to your senses? You were preaching to us too. You cut off your own tail and were trying to cut off ours—now how did you return? With what face did you return?”

There are fifty to sixty lakhs of Hindu sannyasins in India. And I have met so many! In twenty years of traveling I have met thousands of sannyasins. All are afflicted and troubled. They want to be free. They left the world and found nothing; now they want to be free of this sannyas—where to go? I am seeking an alternative for them. Just this single condition must be made clear to them: when you enter my world, leave your conditionings outside. You cannot enter carrying your conditionings. If you agree to drop them, I can free you from your prison. I can give you an open sky where you can blossom and flower; I can give you soil in which your seeds can be sown, where greenery can come into your life; where for the first time you will experience the meaning, the dignity, the glory of life; where moons and stars will be strung within you.

And my sannyasins will have to work at this, because among these monks and nuns there are many good people—simple, straightforward, decent—who got entangled precisely because they are good and guileless, and who thought, “There is suffering in the world; let us seek bliss.” And in the name of seeking bliss they have been shackled in such chains that it was easier to leave the world; now leaving this sannyas has become difficult for them.

I am bringing into being a new vision of sannyas in which one does not leave the world; rather, one learns a new art of living in the world. Live in the world as the lotus lives in water: it remains in the water, yet the water does not touch it. Beyond this, all conceptions of sannyas are useless.

Ranjan Bharti! This is the land of rishis and sages! And this is exactly what the rishis and sages here have been up to for centuries. Our Puranas are crammed with impropriety, they are obscene. Our religious texts are unseemly. And the irony is, on the strength of these very scriptures India beats the drum of its virtue, its religiosity, its moral conduct. And the drum is full of holes—one thing on the surface, another inside.

Such people are both worthy of pity and deserving of a good jolt. Looking at them, you feel like laughing and crying both. And Ranjan has to meet such people every day, because she shows visitors around the ashram. She often writes to me: What should we do with such people? They come to “see” the ashram, but if they get a chance they will shove Ranjan, pinch her. They come to see the ashram. Leaders, pure khadi wearers, Gandhi caps on their heads; industrialists, wealthy men—come to see the ashram and start sending love letters to Ranjan.

Keep two things in mind. First, the Indian psyche is deeply repressed. It is repressed and not honest enough even to admit, “We are repressed.” Repressed—and on top of that a varnish: “We are very virtuous.” There has never been true goodwill in the Indian mind toward women, not even among the big names. For us a woman is a shoe on the foot—use her as you like.

Even Rama fought a war; anyone would think he fought for Sita. But you’re mistaken. In the Valmiki Ramayana—which is more authentic than Tulsidas, being earlier—when Sita is won back and brought to Rama’s camp, Ravana defeated and finished, Rama’s first words are grossly discourteous. So crude you wonder how such words could come from Rama—but they must have, because Valmiki, a devotee of Rama, wrote them; he would have written truly. Rama says to Sita: “O woman, do not imagine I fought this war for you. I fought for the honor of my lineage. It was a matter of prestige. You were merely the pretext.”

What a vulgar thing to say! The woman was only a pretext; the real issue was clan honor, tradition, the prestige of the kingdom, the ancestors for centuries! Nothing to do with this poor woman. And then he forces this poor woman to pass through fire, to give proof. Yet our standards are always double. If Rama had even a little regard for basic human fairness, he too should have passed through fire. If Sita had lived in Ravana’s camp for some years, alone, Rama too had been alone. If Sita could have been with a man, Rama could have been with a woman.

A friend of mine, Professor Navlekar, wrote a remarkable book: A New Approach to Ramayana. In it he tries to show that Shabari was not an old crone but a beautiful young tribal woman, and there was an attachment between her and Rama.

Navlekar was showered with abuse. The book was buried so deep nobody read it. Even when it was printed it didn’t sell. Who would buy such a book! And Navlekar worked hard, researched and argued with evidence. I am not saying he is right or wrong, but one thing is certain: you two lived apart for years; if you make Sita undergo a trial by fire, the same rule should apply to yourself. Both should have walked through the flames together, as you had walked around the sacred fire together at your wedding. But Sita alone went through fire, Sita alone was tested; Rama faced no test. We say: “A man is different! He’s a ‘real man’! Women—who can trust them? What honor do they have?”

We look at every woman as though she were a prostitute. And even after the fire ordeal, the way Rama mistreated Sita—no one in India condemned it. He abandoned her—after the fire test. Because of a washerman’s comment! Then what was the fire test for? A launderer’s wife was out all night; in the morning the man said, “Don’t think I’m like Rama—Sita was gone for years and he still accepted her. I won’t do that. These doors are shut for you. Where were you all night?” That was enough.

Even after the fire test Rama abandoned Sita—pregnant Sita! Without even telling her, he deceived her and had her dropped in the forest.

We have treated women very badly.

The five Pandavas shared one woman. They divided up the days, as if a woman were an object: “You use her today, I’ll use her tomorrow, the third the day after.” She becomes a prostitute then. The five brothers divided her up so there’d be no quarrel between them. This mistreatment has continued.

A rishi told his son to go cut off his mother’s head; he went and cut it off. The father’s command is more valuable than the mother’s life! Astonishing.

The father is a human invention; the mother is natural. There was a time when there were no fathers, and there will be a time again when there will be none. The father is an institution; the mother is not. She carries you for nine months, then raises you for years. What does the father do? An injection could do what he does. Value the father about as much as the syringe that gives an injection—no more. The syringe says, “Go cut off your mother’s head,” and off he goes! Because it’s about male prestige—male command, male power. What is a woman worth? A shoe—use her as you please!

Strange people—and they laid the foundations of this country and fed it strange ideas. They handed over total control of women to men. Naturally, women began to take revenge by hidden routes. After all, a woman also has a soul! So the marital life of India has hardly any happiness in it.

I know thousands of couples; I can name barely two or three whose lives I would call happy. There is no joy in the lives of millions of couples. Yet we say “marital bliss.” We should say “marital grief.” The word bliss is false. An exception should not be made a rule. Sometimes, by coincidence, two people find a relationship—by coincidence. No astrologer can match it, nor stars, nor palm lines, nor prophecies—only by accident. Because we cut love off at the roots. The result is that prostitution became inevitable. The man arranged things—he began to visit prostitutes. On the one side he remains a respectable householder; on the other, he buys a prostitute with money. The inevitable result was that women filled with rage, and their rage began to erupt everywhere.

You wrote, Ranjan, that these Bangalore industrialists came with their families to see the ashram. Because they came with their families, they couldn’t shove you, couldn’t ask for a kiss, couldn’t try an embrace. They must have kept their distance, looked like saintly gentlemen—because the wives were present. In the presence of the wife a man tucks his tail like a whipped dog. He has to—because for the way he has mistreated his wife, there is only one natural revenge: that at the first opportunity she will grip his neck.

Mulla Nasruddin said to Chandulal, “Hey Chandulal, you son of an owl, you ran away leaving your wife! You deserter! Have some shame—go drown yourself in a spoonful of water!”

Chandulal said, “Nasruddin, don’t say such things. Don’t rile me up. You don’t know my wife. If you knew her, you would never say that. I am not a deserter—I am a refugee!”

A police officer said to a woman, “Madam, we admire your courage. You attacked a thief—in the dark! And you thrashed him so soundly you broke his bones!”

The lady said, “Sir, I didn’t know he was a thief. It was dark. I thought it was my husband.”

At the border, a car stopped. After checking the passport and other items, the customs officer asked, “Everything seems fine, sir, but how will you prove that this woman is your wife?”

Mulla Nasruddin looked at his wife and said to the officer, “If you can prove she is not my wife, I’ll give you a hundred rupees on the spot! Is there a brave soul who can prove this woman is not my wife? That’s exactly the man I am searching for!”

Husbands fear their wives, they tremble. The reason is not the wife; the reason is the husband. For centuries they have mistreated women; trembling is inevitable. In their trembling is the echo of their misdeeds.

Dhabbhu-ji said to Chandulal, “Brother, don’t fight with your wife. Husband and wife are like the two wheels of the household cart.”

Chandulal said, “That’s true, Dhabbhu-ji. But when one wheel is a tractor tire and the other a bicycle tire, how will the cart move?”

And that’s how it is. How did you get your wife or husband? Some foolish priest adds up your horoscopes; your parents decide—which family is prestigious, where there’s more money, where the dowry will be bigger. Such absurd considerations decide marriage! Then love does not flower there. When love does not flower, repressed desire seeks to burst out from all sides. People read filthy books, obscene literature, watch obscene films. And when they get a chance—any chance. They go to the temple to worship, but in fact they’re shoving women. They watch the Ramlila, but they’re not interested in Rama’s play; they’re busy with their own play.

Everywhere you look, men are mistreating women. Yet we still don’t have enough awareness to understand this truth rightly, to recognize its root cause and cut it at the root.

So those poor fellows, Ranjan—have compassion for them, don’t be angry. They came the second day without their wives. They saw: Ranjan is a beautiful young woman. And among my sannyasins there are beautiful people, only beautiful people. The fact is, anyone who becomes my sannyasin becomes beautiful in the very act. Liberation brings beauty; it brings grace; it brings a certain loveliness; it gives life a new energy, a new luster, a new radiance, a new fragrance. A lamp begins to burn within, and its rays start to glow without.

And then, the rumors that have been spread about this ashram—they must have thought, “Here in the ashram there is free behavior, permissive conduct. Let’s go express a little love to Ranjan!” So the poor man came. Don’t be angry at him. Next time anyone asks you for a kiss, why have we kept the Saint sitting outside? Call the Saint at once and have him give a kiss! And the Saint will give such a Punjabi kiss that they’ll never forget it in their life—that at least their bones will creak, a couple of ribs will crack; they’ll go straight from here to the hospital and nowhere else. And we have so many karate experts in the ashram, samurai, aikido practitioners! If one kiss doesn’t satisfy them, call four or six together and have kisses rained on them from all directions—such kisses that for the rest of their life the thought of a kiss never rises again. The so-called kiss of death—let them taste it! And tell them, “Do keep coming; don’t stay away. Next time you come, we’ll arrange an even bigger kiss. By then our Saint will have done extra push-ups and be even more ready!”

These poor men are childish. Their hair has ripened in the sun.

The same passions can flare in every heart;
Your tears can spill from your eyes.
The heart is brimming with grief, the eyes with tears—
These filled goblets can spill at any time.
If you must say something hard, say it gently—
Words can prick the heart like thorns.
Tell the stars not to preen when they glitter—
Let a speck taste light and it too can shine.
Wisdom need not be tied to age—
Hair, like crops, can ripen in the sun.
Say, in the language of tears, of the heart’s grief today, “Shameem”—
The throat can go dry, the words can stick.

Ranjan, you dried his throat. He was saying “kiss,” and had to say “cassette.” There is one benefit here. Keep this in mind: you’ve discovered a great sales technique for cassettes. Even if no one says “kiss,” just threaten them: “Did you say kiss or cassette?” If you say it loudly enough, in panic he will say “cassette.” Sell him a cassette on the spot. Whether he says kiss or not, seize the moment: “What did you say—kiss or cassette?” He won’t dare say “kiss”—lest he get thrashed; he’ll say “cassette.” Don’t give him any other option.

If you go to Germany, a waiter will ask, “Will you have tea?” But in Japan a waiter won’t ask, “Will you have tea?” He asks, “Will you have tea or coffee?” Do you see the difference? Psychologically, it’s big. In Germany you can say no. The option is yes or no. If you want it, yes; if not, no. But the Japanese waiter is more psychological. He doesn’t offer you yes or no; he says, “Tea or coffee?” And usually you’ll choose tea or coffee; rarely will you say, “I don’t want anything.” He never gave you the chance to say no. He only gave you the options of tea and coffee. The German waiter gave you the options of yes and no.

So use a little psychology. This is a good trick you’ve found. Teach all the women at the reception: whenever you get a private moment, shout, “What did you say—kiss or cassette?” And you’ll be amazed: they’ll all say “cassette”! Then take them and sell them a cassette right away. At least the cassette will be sold. And even if they didn’t say kiss, the urge inside was there; that will get a jolt too. Their intelligence will wake up a bit.

Even so, they are pitiable people, poor souls. Industrialists? What kind of industrialists! Wealth, but what kind of wealth! Still begging for kisses—going about with a begging bowl like mendicants. And what would they gain even if a woman did give them a kiss? What will they get? A few germs passed from one pair of lips to another? And if you ever do decide to give someone a kiss out of pity—he’s come all the way from Bangalore, some “sage,” panting from far away—then give a French kiss. Because more germs are exchanged in a French kiss than in any other—by the millions! He’s come from so far; let him take something back!

You’ll be surprised: there are tribes in the world where kissing doesn’t exist. When they first learned there are people who kiss, they laughed and laughed—“This is the limit! The limit of filth! Rubbing lips together, rubbing spit! And not just that—in a French kiss even rubbing tongues? The height of stupidity!”

Look at what they do, and you’ll laugh too. But what they do is more sattvic. When love overflows, they rub noses. It’s more sattvic—though you may find it silly. But it’s healthier, medically sound; there are no disease germs in the nose. And no one is going to stick his nose into another’s nose; you rub nose to nose and go home. You go to your home; they go to theirs; end of the matter.

A kiss is truly a house of diseases. But obsessions mount; one after another they climb aboard. The conditionings we catch! And these are the very people who won’t allow kisses in films, lest “our children be spoiled.” They were spoiled, their fathers were spoiled, their fathers’ fathers were spoiled. Who built Khajuraho’s temples? Those who watch films? Go to Khajuraho, Puri, Konark. You should see those temples. What sculptures you will see there will shock you—what a marvel they created! You haven’t even dreamed such outlandish things—so I call these “saints” outlandish. The things those temple sculptures depict will stun you. If Freud had come, he would have blushed: “What have I done? Nothing compared to this!” If Havelock Ellis had come—he who wrote the most important books on sexology—he would have bowed his head to these rishis. The progeny of rishis and munis, of Maharshi Vatsyayana and Pandit Koka—what marvels they wrought! Thousands of years earlier they had put Freud and Ellis to shame. What sculptures beyond imagination! A woman in a headstand, a man making love to her. What rishis and munis they were! Two or three men making love with one woman. What accomplished “adepts”! These are the siddhas to whom we say: Namo Arihantanam! Namo Siddhanam! Namo Loe Savva Sahunam! These are the saints we are supposed to salute!

And when I speak the truth, fires are lit. Who created all this? Pandit Koka’s Kokashastra—also a shastra! And Vatsyayana’s Kama Sutra—these are clearly the outbursts of India’s repressed sexuality, like pus in the body that bursts forth.

Have compassion on them. They are pitiable. They live in distress. They are sick people.

A woman lost a finger in an accident. She demanded twenty thousand rupees in damages. The judge said, “Twenty thousand! That’s too much—for one finger!”

The woman said, “This was no ordinary finger. With this very finger I made my husband dance.”

Now women are making husbands dance around their fingers. They have to dance—because women were made slaves, and there is a price to pay.

Mulla Nasruddin asked Chandulal, “What do you call a man who makes a mistake and admits it, asks forgiveness?”

Chandulal said, “Intelligent, decent, moral, good.”

Nasruddin asked, “And who admits a mistake even when he hasn’t made one—who is he?”

Chandulal said, “A married man.”

Such people will come here.

The whole of India is diseased with sexual obsession, sorely afflicted. And it lives under grand delusions. What we are doing here is such a unique experiment that they cannot understand it—because to understand it they’d have to stay here, sit here. Instead, they go around speaking against it—there is prestige in opposing. But when they come here, their reality begins to show.

Every day rapes take place in India. There is not a day the newspapers don’t carry the news. And yet India goes on claiming: we are a holy land, a land of dharma; our mission is to make the whole world religious! First become religious yourselves. There is no one more sick or deranged on Earth right now than you. First become healthy yourselves. Then set out to make others healthy.

But when I say such things, people feel arrows pricking their souls; it seems I am the enemy of society, of civilization, of culture, of religion. The truth is exactly the opposite. They are the enemies. There is no greater friend of culture and religion than I am. But I feel dangerous to them because I want to uncover things, to present truth as it is. Only by knowing truth as truth can we bring any revolution to life.

So, Ranjan, such occasions will come again and again. Don’t be scared. Don’t worry. They will strengthen your inner resolve. Many tangles will come upon my sannyasins, of many kinds. Because we have decided to be the seeing ones among the blind. We have decided that among the sick and deranged we will not allow ourselves to become sick and deranged. We have sworn to be healthy. Naturally, we will have to endure many troubles for that. And we will have to stake much. But from all this your soul will be born; there will be revolution in your life. This will become the doorway to your liberation. So there is no worry at all. Don’t take any.

Dinesh Bharti! About to arrive? It has arrived! Why are you dragging along behind? Why do you limp? “About to arrive!”

Here we do not live in the future. Here only the present exists. Spring has arrived! Don’t be shy, don’t be reserved. Bloom!

And you say: “If it’s ecstasy you want, then press my mouth to the cask, Saki.”
I do press it; you turn your mouth away. I am placing the surahi itself against your lips. I don’t trust those little earthen cups at all—what, to serve sip by sip! I want you to drink from the surahi; and if the readiness is there, drink straight from the ocean! But you turn your face away—and you thrust your own fault onto me. Think a little, reflect a little.

You say to me you want a tale of love—
you will incur disgrace; you ought to blush.
If you have any pride, you must have the drunkard’s nature.
Let the Saki himself say: does one need a measure?
Let the Saki himself say, let the Saki himself say: does one need a measure?
If you have any pride, you must have the drunkard’s nature.

You spoil the earth for the lovesick one’s malady—
you spoil the earth, the malady of hijr, of separation…
Why, for the lovesick one?
The one who died for you ought to be buried—
buried indeed: the one who died for you ought to be buried.
If you have any pride, you must have the drunkard’s nature.
Let the Saki himself say: does one need a measure?
You say to me you want a tale of love.

The breath held in the eyes is surely for someone—
surely for someone, surely for someone.
The breath held in the eyes is surely for someone;
otherwise the patient of separation should have died.
If you have any pride, you must have the drunkard’s nature.
Let the Saki himself say: does one need a measure?

The promise was to come in the dark night, “Qamar”;
the promise was to come in the dark night, “Qamar.”
Now the moon has hidden—they should come—
they should come now; the moon has hidden,
they should come.
You say to me you want a tale of love;
if you have any pride, you must have the drunkard’s nature;
let the Saki himself say: does one need a measure?

Cultivate within yourself the standing of a drunkard. “Let the Saki himself say: does one need a measure!” I will say to you: here, take the surahi. But first, muster the courage for the surahi—the courage to digest it. You ask for love, but grow the worthiness to receive love.

“You say to me you want a tale of love.” And what is it that I am giving you? I have nothing else to give. There is love—the wine of love. And I do not trust in serving cup by cup. I want to drown you in wine. “But you must have the proud drunkard’s nature!” Are you ready to drown?

Yog Tirth has written me a letter. He writes that he was a guest in Ahmedabad at Shri Poonamchandbhai’s home. In one room there hangs a picture of the Mother of the Aurobindo Ashram. I sat there to meditate. From the picture a voice came: Be free. That is how it came in my experience. I asked Poonamchandbhai, what does it mean? He said: a similar voice had come to me. He, too, was earlier my sannyasin. From the picture the same voice came to me—Be free. So I at once understood: be free from sannyas. So I became free from sannyas. Now you too become free from sannyas. Because I tell you: God can drown you, but cannot ferry you across.

I would say, brother: be free. I can certainly drown you; I cannot ferry you across. I have no faith in ferrying across—there is no far shore anywhere. The one who drowned, arrived; the one who made it across, missed again. One has to drown—drown in the divine! Does the divine have a shore? Does moksha have a shore? Does nirvana have a shore? Here, the one who drowns in midstream is the one who finds the shore. The midstream itself is the shore! The midstream itself is the bank!

Yog Tirth, you should listen to Poonamchand. There are many fools in Ahmedabad, but Poonamchand is a seasoned fool! That voice didn’t come from any photograph and the like. After taking sannyas he got into trouble. His wife was after his life, and his friends were after his life. And he’s a weak man. Ahmedabadis—you know—just puff! Whether Ahmedabadis even have a soul is doubtful. All drum. Look for something within—you won’t find it.

The voice must have come from his wife; he says it came from the picture. And you too heard a voice—very good! This picture is doing great work. There isn’t much room in my boat anyway. This boat is going to sink in midstream. There isn’t much room in it either. You get off. Free yourself. In my boat I want to take only those who are willing to drown.

Dinesh, be willing to drown. I am ready, every moment, to drown you.
That’s all for today.