Bahuri Na Aiso Daon #6

Anand Ragen! To the one who truly comes to know me, I become an insoluble riddle. Then it becomes very difficult to make statements. Only one who does not know me can speak about me with ease; the less he knows, the greater his certainty; if he knows nothing at all—then absolute certainty.

Ravi Shankar is certainly a great artist. I am an admirer of his sitar playing. But that Brahminism, that punditry inside, those Hindu conditionings—they don’t fall away so easily. Conditionings are unconscious; they run like an undercurrent.

He comes to India; he comes to Poona too. And when he comes to Poona, ninety percent of those who go to listen to him are my sannyasins. Even so, he could not muster the courage to come to this ashram. And it’s not that he doesn’t visit mahatmas and gurus—he goes to Sathya Sai Baba. There, the fossilized, dead culture of India finds endorsement.

To pundits I look like fire. Coming to me takes courage. Only one prepared to be free of the past can become acquainted with me. I am a challenge. Only the one who dives will reach the other shore. The pundit sits on this shore and talks about the far shore. And does it cost anything to sit here and speak of there? No turmeric, no alum, and the dye turns out brilliant!

In this country, knowledge has filled bone, flesh, and marrow. Those who have known nothing still consider themselves authorities on ultimate truths—because a few sutras from the Vedas, the Gita, the Ramayana have been memorized like parrots.

People like Ravi Shankar are so bound by India’s past that recognizing and understanding me is far away; they don’t even have the capacity to come close. Only the moths can come to me, because this is a flame. The invitation is for the one ready to burn—because only by burning does one become new; only by dying does one have a rebirth.

And keep one thing in mind: however well someone plays the sitar, you won’t agree to have him perform surgery on you; you won’t say, “He’s a great sitarist, so let him remove my appendix.” You’ll say, “He may be a sitarist, and very great, but what has that to do with taking out an appendix?”

Yet in many areas of life our thinking is just as deluded. A man may be a great chemist or physicist; if he says something about God, his word is taken as authoritative. That is as foolish as having Ravi Shankar remove your appendix because he is a great sitarist. A person may be a knower of physics; that does not make him acquainted with Brahman. Someone may be a great mathematician—that does not make him a great musician. Someone may be a great musician—that does not make him a great jeweler. These are small facets of life. To know one thing, in truth, you must remain unaware of many others. To know one, you must forgo knowing many. Here one has to choose. And in choosing, certainly, if you gain something you will lose something—and most often you have to lose more.

Science is defined as: knowing more and more about less and less. The definition is exactly right. If that is the definition of science, what would be the definition of religion? Knowing less and less about more and more. Then what would be the definition of spirituality? Knowing nothing about all—the total. To become zero before the whole.

My entire teaching is just this: if you want to know the Whole, become zero. If you want to be filled with knowing, become a non-knower.

But India’s ancient tradition is not like this; it is constructed by pundits. Not that from time to time a Buddha has not stood up and proclaimed revolution—but we removed those Buddhas from the way. We used different devices. The easiest device is worship. Whoever creates too much disturbance—worship him. Worship is our polite submission: “What you say is absolutely true—we accept it, we won’t argue—but for now we don’t have the capacity. For the present we’ll offer a couple of flowers; when we have the capacity we will certainly walk your path.” This is a device for evasion. You are great; we ordinary folk are separate. You are supernatural; we are worldly. You are an avatar, a tirthankara, a Buddha—and we are the Tom, Dick, and Harrys. Our job is only to worship you, to remember you. If you ferry us across, we will be saved! You are the savior, the boatman, the helmsman. Nothing will happen by our doing.

So India waits.

He has never taken an avatar, and he never will. God is not some person who takes birth on demand. God is an experience—of godliness—that life does not end in matter. But lazy, indolent, slothful, and dishonest people—who don’t wish to do anything, who want to escape the revolution of life—have invented this trick: when there is crisis, darkness, and a decline of dharma, then Krishna will come, Mahavira will come, Buddha will come, and all our sufferings will be taken away. Were they taken away before? Buddha came, Mahavira came, Krishna came, Rama came—so many avatars came, so many tirthankaras came—when were your troubles removed? When did your darkness disappear? We hear that many lamps were lit, but you stayed under the lamp—and under the lamp it is dark. You remained under the lamp praising it.

When I was a university student, there was the very first university convocation. Dr. Tripathi—a great historian, once a professor at Oxford and in many other universities around the world—was the vice-chancellor. A confirmed alcoholic! But a pundit. Learned! A scholar of the shastras, deeply grounded in history. On Buddha Jayanti he delivered a discourse on Buddha and said, “Sometimes I wonder how blessed it would have been if I had been alive in Buddha’s time—I would certainly have sat at his feet, listened to his ambrosial words, been exhilarated, delighted, transformed!” I was just a student, but I cannot tolerate such falsehoods. I stood up and said, “I have a request: please reconsider that. Close your eyes for a minute or two and reconsider. Is it really true that if you had lived in Buddha’s time you would have sat at his feet? Do you think there is no Buddha living today? In this very life, have you sat at anyone’s feet?”

He hesitated a little. I said, “Please close your eyes and reflect for a bit. I don’t want a quick answer; I am less interested in your reply than in your going inward for a moment.

“In your lifetime there was Ramana Maharshi. Either tell me Ramana was not a Buddha—say that and the matter ends—or say why you did not go to his feet. And don’t say you lacked the means. You had the means to go to Oxford, to America, to Japan, to all corners of the world—but only to Arunachala you could not go?

“He didn’t have the courage to say Ramana wasn’t a Buddha—then he was in great difficulty. And I said to him, ‘Krishnamurti is still alive—have you sat at his feet? Have you sat at anyone’s feet in this life?’ But people enjoy saying, ‘If I had been there twenty-five centuries ago, I would have sat at Buddha’s feet.’

“I tell you: you would have abused Buddha. You would have been among those who abused him. You would have thrown stones. You would have insulted him. These very people—while a Buddha is alive they insult and abuse him; when he dies, they place flowers on his shrine. How cunning people are, how dishonest! And then they keep remembering: ‘Let the Buddha come and deliver us.’ You create the trouble and Buddha must rescue you! You spread darkness and Buddha must bring light! What kind of arithmetic is that? Where is the logic?”

But a pundit has a certain stiffness, a certain ego. And a pundit always lives in the past; he has no future and no present.

Ravi Shankar is a pundit. Being a pundit creates an obstacle in coming to me. And if a pundit does come, I behead his punditry without mercy, because unless you cut off the pundit’s head you cannot do him any real service. If his head is cut off, life may happen to him.

Being a sitarist gives him no authority to make pronouncements about me. If he knew me, he could speak. But there are other obstacles too. My growing popularity in the West has become a cause of jealousy for all those who, for one reason or another, are popular in the West. Maharishi Mahesh Yogi has a problem. Just the day before yesterday I received a letter from a friend: he went to Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, and Maharishi told him, “I am part of the tradition; my roots reach back to Shankaracharya. You people are uprooted, because the questions you ask are anti-tradition. If you want to ask such questions, go to Rajneesh. Only for corrupt people like you is that the proper place—there is nowhere else for you. If you come here, you must come in the traditional way.” So Maharishi has difficulty. Muktananda’s very life is under a shadow of crisis. Others have hurdles too—like Ravi Shankar. My field and his field have nothing to do with one another; I am not a sitarist, and he has not realized any truth of life. But someone else’s popularity becomes a cause of envy. The ego gets hurt. Wherever they go, they are asked about me. Many friends have told me: whenever we ask Ravi Shankar, he gets angry and speaks against you. And the amusing thing is that whatever he says is based entirely on ignorance. He is not familiar with me, not even from afar; he himself says he doesn’t know me personally. The matter should end there. Is there any other way to know anyone in this world? If you are to know, you know personally, in presence, in nearness, in intimacy. And this kind of knowing is not the sort where someone introduces you and in half an hour you are done. It takes days, weeks, months, years—perhaps a lifetime. It depends on how swiftly and intensely someone sits down to know, how deep the longing and how ardent the thirst.

But when it comes to issuing pronouncements, no one can compete with Indians. If you want someone to speak for or against anything, they have no difficulty at all. If your popularity is rising, they will speak in your favor; if their popularity suffers by it, they will speak against you. They are ready to say whatever the ego finds convenient.

Because of me, many egos are being hurt. I am helpless. This has always happened. I cannot do anything about it. The person whose ego dissolves inevitably hurts many egos by his very being. Only one whose own ego is still alive can flatter your ego and butter it up, for he expects your reciprocation: “I praise you, you praise me.” I praise no one. Naturally, my presence pricks people like a thorn. That prick emerges in many forms; the pus oozes out.

And what he has said is extremely foolish. He says that over there one need not renounce anything. Who told Pandit Ravi Shankar Shukla that here one need not renounce anything? It is precisely here that renunciation is demanded! One must renounce punditry, renounce knowledge, renounce ego. Everything else is easy to give up. To leave one’s wife is not very hard. Pandit Ravi Shankar abandoned his wife; his wife came to me weeping and pleaded about the abuse she had suffered, how she had been left miserable and destitute. Why run away from your wife? There was no obstacle there. In fact, running away made things convenient—then one could behave licentiously at will.

And remember: people can give up wealth because wealth is outside; but they cannot give up “knowledge,” because knowledge is inside. They clutch it tight; that is their life’s treasure. So it seems to him that here nothing has to be given up, because I do not tell anyone to give up wife, children, home. I believe those who abandoned wife, home, children were cowards—escapees—not religious at all. Religion has nothing to do with leaving these things. I also believe that those who abandoned all their relationships and fled to the forest were weak, turning their backs on the battle of life—cowards who could not grapple. And I believe that because of such people a great deal of misery has spread in the world. How many women became widows while their husbands lived! How many children became orphans while their fathers lived! How many women had to beg, how many children had to beg, and how many women must have become prostitutes because of these sannyasins—has anyone ever reckoned that?

Today Hindus have some five and a half million sannyasins. Let us collect some data about the women and children they abandoned. You will be astonished: as much sin has come into the world because of these so-called renouncers, hardly anything else rivals it. And the irony is that these renouncers live off the very householders they condemn and deserted. Who gathers their food, their bread, their clothes? Who builds temples and tirthas for them? Who crowns their temples with golden spires? The very people they revile, the ones they ran away from.

Ravi Shankar says: “There you don’t have to renounce anything.” That is one hundred percent wrong. Here one has to renounce what is subtle, unseen—but what is the real renunciation! If you leave your ego, no one will know. If you leave your home, your wife will weep, your children will cry; the neighborhood and village will know. And this is a world of fools: your photo will appear in the newspapers—“Behold, what a great renouncer!” If you drop the ego, not even a whisper will be heard. If you give up wealth, then this society—mad for wealth like vultures—will swoop upon you; even in the temple they ask for money.

Ramakrishna used to say: however high the kite flies, its gaze remains fixed below on the garbage heap—looking for a dead mouse or a dead snake. It may soar in the sky, but its eyes are on the filth and the carcasses.

You go to the temple—yes, you are “flying in the sky”—but what do you ask for? More money, more position, more prestige. The craving doesn’t leave you till your dying breath.

Yesterday I was reading a statement by Morarji Desai—very amusing. He said that anyone under forty-five should have no right to be a member of the Indian parliament; only at forty-five should one be eligible! Well then, let him also say the other thing—why hide it?—that one should become prime minister at eighty-five! So only he qualifies as prime minister. And if someone becomes a member of parliament at forty-five, then there is a good chance he might become prime minister by eighty-five; more likely, he will become posthumous prime minister—after his death, as with posthumous awards: the Nobel Prize and such—“So-and-so has died; now appoint him prime minister.” At least he can make no mistakes then; one thing is certain—he won’t harm anyone.

What foolishness! Someone reaches parliament at forty-five—when a man is drawing near to death, when his ties with life are loosening, when his vitality is waning. India’s average lifespan is thirty-six years. So on average no Indian could become a member of parliament at all. In a country whose average age is thirty-six, if you set such a condition, there will be great trouble.

Those enamored of the past, those worshipers of death, also worship old age. The older someone is, the more valuable his words become. But donkeys also grow old; they don’t become wise by it. An old donkey remains a donkey; an old mule remains a mule. And a horse even when young is a horse. The truth is that the genius children have, the old never do. Only a very few fortunate ones preserve the genius of their childhood; otherwise society rusts the edge of everyone’s sword. And when the blade is blunted, we say, “Ah, what an ancient sword!”

My words are as new as the morning dew, as fresh as a just-opened flower. Pundits cannot understand such words. They need old stones—and the older the better—and if the script upon them is in Brahmi, then nothing more is needed—their head bows to the ground. Worshipers of the ancient, of the dead, of the cremation ground!

And inevitably the pundit is a past-worshiper, because his only wealth is memory. Knowledge is not his wealth.

Those who gather around me are the true renouncers—because they renounce something in their innermost core. In my calculations, one who renounces within gives birth to enjoyment within—for renunciation is not a value in itself, not a goal. It means only this: to create the space to flow in the stream of the divine, to become available to his bliss. Renunciation is a means, not the end. The end is enjoyment—supreme enjoyment! Bhagavat-bhoga! One who renounces inwardly attains the inner celebration.

So in those who are with me an unprecedented event will happen. In one sense there will be inner renunciation. I call that renunciation “meditation.” In it the ego dies, the mind dissolves, “knowledge” is dropped. All the junk is thrown out. Emptiness is born. And emptiness is the vessel. Into that vessel the ambrosia of the divine showers. That is enjoyment.

They who renounced are they who enjoyed. Tena tyaktena bhunjithah! They who renounced are they who enjoyed. I value this Upanishadic utterance immensely. There are very few sayings in the world that belong to this caliber, that reveal such grandeur and dignity. But pundits have hollow minds. How much can they understand?

So he said, “There you don’t have to renounce anything. And Westerners can get there, in the greatest measure, precisely what they want.”

The Indian ego never lets go. Now Ravi Shankar lives in the West. I live in India. And he is a patron of Indian culture! What are you doing in the West? Amassing money. All kinds of indulgence that Indians condemn—and he himself would condemn! The Indian mind is so hypocritical and cunning. Old nations become like this: age brings cunning, dishonesty; simplicity is lost. They will call the West materialistic—and all these “spiritualists” keep running to the West.

Muktananda sits on Miami Beach. What are you doing there? Because he knows perfectly well that in Gobarpuri—the ashram he has built—who is going to come? Gobarpuri’s Ganesh—Gobarganesh! But on Miami Beach if someone from India arrives and is advertised as a siddha saint, a paramahansa—that is enough. And why Miami Beach? Because tourists come there—to spend money. Only those with money to spend come there. He has built an ashram there; what is that ashram? A hotel. And what does Muktananda do there twenty-four hours a day?

One of my sannyasins, Nirgrantha, was just there. Muktananda stands in the kitchen all day, preparing Indian food—because Americans are attracted to Indian cuisine. And this is how “spirituality” is being propagated! Indian meals are prepared, Indian sweets are prepared, and sold. The Americans are delighted—the taste, the specialness, and then a splash of spirituality too, since the chef is a “siddha,” a “paramahansa”! But he is not a paramahansa—he is a cook!

What difficulty would Ravi Shankar have in practicing his sitar in India? Why sit in America? Because the money is there—while he abuses money!

Bertrand Russell used to say: if someone’s pocket is picked and the commotion rises—“Catch the thief!”—then first catch the man who shouts the loudest: “Catch the thief! Beat him! Where is he?” For the highest probability is that he is the thief—this is the trick to escape suspicion. Because one who makes such a racket—“Catch him! Don’t let him escape!”—no one will suspect him: “Poor fellow, such a decent man, eager to catch the thief.” That is the way to save yourself.

All these materialists abuse the West—but there is a deep psychology in that abuse. Its aspects are subtle and delicate.

Those who go to hear Jain monks, their lay followers are all wealthy. And the job of the Jain monk is to abuse wealth, to condemn money. And the lay followers nod their heads, “Yes, Maharaj, true, Maharaj! Blessed are you, Maharaj!” Because they too feel, somewhere deep down, “What rubbish we are engaged in!”—but they cannot leave it. So the one who condemns it seems to be speaking truth. The more the monk abuses wealth, the more wealthy people flock to him. It is astonishing how sweet abuse of wealth tastes to the wealthy—because they too feel their foolishness. And the monk knows your psychology: he abuses money precisely to influence you. Thus a fine collusion develops between the two.

If you read India’s spiritual scriptures you will be astonished. The description of women from nail to crown is such that even writers of obscene literature would hesitate. And it is given by “spiritual” men and “siddhas.” They leave nothing out—every detail, every proportion, the classification of how a woman sits and rises. Nowhere will you find such beautiful descriptions of women as in Indian religious texts. And alongside, abuse! And condemnation! The descriptions are offered under the pretext of warning you—“Beware of these features; these are the things that attract you to woman.” Under the guise of warning, they are savoring the descriptions.

Just think: how much relish they must have! Such relishing descriptions surely betray an inner attachment, a pressure somewhere, some repression. They take their pleasure by this ruse. Two things are abused: women and gold. Because the Indian mind is filled to the brim with precisely these two things. And on the basis of these abuses Indians imagine themselves to be renouncers, vow-keepers, spiritualists!

This Pandit Ravi Shankar left his wife here and, who knows, how many women he has lived with and lives with there! So his wife told me. Here too he had relationships with women; that’s why he couldn’t get along with his wife. So he left India. And he tells people that Westerners can get there, in the greatest measure, what they want. What foolishness! If Westerners want women, why come to Poona? Is there a shortage of women in the West that they should travel so far? There are women everywhere in the West; the beaches are full of naked women. Why should they come to India and suffer Poona’s “hell,” endure a thousand diseases—amoebas, dysentery, hepatitis, and who knows what else they have never faced in the West—enfeeble their bodies—for women? If someone is looking for “such women,” they are more easily available in the West. Ravi Shankar is looking for women there, and Westerners are coming to Poona to look for women! Do they want to wrestle with Maharashtrian women? Are they coming to Poona to drink alcohol—where alcohol is prohibited! The best liquors are available in the West without any legal hindrance. Will they drink there or come here? And is ganja, bhang, marijuana, LSD, hashish not available in the West? Here nothing is pure.

Here, Mulla Nasruddin one night wanted to die by taking poison. He kept checking his watch through the night: “Have I died yet?” Dawn began to break, the milkman knocked. He said, “This is outrageous—what kind of dying is this! Outrageous—has even the milkman come to heaven? The same watch, the same room—what’s this? Has my whole room moved to heaven?” When his wife entered, he said, “Heaven? Nonsense—this is the same old house.” He beat his chest, ran to the chemist’s, grabbed him by the neck, “Wretch! You kept me awake all night, took my money—what kind of poison did you give me?”

The chemist said, “Leave my neck! What can I do? Does anything pure exist in this country? Water isn’t pure—where would pure poison come from? Where’s my fault? Keep trying—by chance, someday you may get something pure.”

Will you get pure hashish here? Can you get pure ganja or bhang? Nothing is pure here.

I was a guest at a friend’s house. He had a sago factory. I said, “A sago factory! I used to think sago grows on plants.”

He said, “Those days are gone. Now we make sago out of rice.”

So the sago you eat isn’t sago at all—rice is ground into pulp, rolled into little balls, and given the appearance of sago. And we feed sago to the sick! We save them from rice and feed them sago—which is even more objectionable. At least rice is pure; with sago there is no guarantee. Can you get anything pure here?

Kashmir got its very name from saffron; it once grew all over Kashmir. But to get pure saffron in India—impossible! Manju brings saffron from Africa for my milk. You cannot get it pure here. The fibers from corn cobs are cut, dyed saffron, and sprinkled with a little real saffron to lend some fragrance—there, saffron! You are savoring corn silk in the name of saffron.

In the West everything is available pure. Must one come to Poona to get it? What a foolish thing Ravi Shankar has said! And here one has to endure all sorts of hardships—thousands of them. My sannyasins endure difficulties here they have never faced in their lives. The austerity they have to go through here they never had to go through before.

Who is keeping them here? And Ravi Shankar could at least come to this ashram and see it. I am pining for ganja and bhang—one can’t get either. However much you pine, there is no way. Ganja and bhang are strictly prohibited in the ashram! But people say anything—it seems he must have been smoking ganja and bhang when he said those things.

Who needs to come here for sex? Who needs to come here for ganja and bhang? If people are coming here, they are coming for inner growth. Countless people who came here have dropped ganja and bhang, have given up meat, have let go of alcohol. Though I don’t tell anyone to give up anything, my vision of life is this: if your understanding ripens, then things fall away on their own. If you drop something because I tell you to, tomorrow if someone else tells you the opposite, you will start again. If it falls from your own understanding, then no matter what anyone says, you cannot start again.

People are coming here because they are tasting something of life here.

For Indians, everything is possible. No one in the world finds it as easy to talk rubbish as Indians do.

They say that if two Englishmen have a drink, they will sit absolutely silent—then they won’t speak at all. They don’t talk much anyway, but if they drink, they become completely quiet; their innermost shows up—they take no relish in the other. If two Germans drink, a quarrel is certain—there will be fighting, bones will crack, a great hullabaloo. And if two Indians drink, they will begin a spiritual discussion. Then nothing else remains—straight to Vedanta! Straight into the sky they fly.

I have a friend; his wife came and told me, “Everything was somehow tolerable—I managed twenty years with my husband—but since he started listening to you, my trouble has grown a lot.” I said, “I don’t understand.” She said, “He’s an alcoholic—drinks every night. But that was fine; he would drink and go to sleep. Since he started listening to you, a great problem has arisen: he neither sleeps nor lets me sleep. When he drinks himself full, he forgets who he is; he imagines he has become you, and I am the only listener. And when you speak, at least there are three thousand people, so it’s divided; but I’m alone! Then for hours he gives ‘discourses’ and eats my head! Shaking me, sitting me up: ‘Sit! Understand this—what God has said!’ I get so angry I feel like cutting this wretch’s neck. He’s drunk, his breath stinks, and he’s going on with spiritual babble!”

So I told her, “If it’s like that, your house is big—move into the next room; live separately.” That worked one day. The next day she said, “That’s another problem; he was better in the same room.”

I said, “Why?”

“Because now he comes at night and knocks at the door: ‘Open up! Oh, I’ve remembered something amazing!’ And then he drags in who-knows-what and mixes it with your talks—film songs come, whole film plots arrive as examples! Before, at least I lay in bed; he could babble whatever he wanted. Now he bangs on the door. If I don’t open, he makes a racket outside; the children wake up, and the neighbors have started asking, ‘What’s going on?’”

This is the Indian trait—ananda-ragena. They take more relish in babbling about spirituality than anything else. And it is all babble. No experience at all—just babble. If Pandit Ravi Shankar has the capacity, I challenge him: let him come here and sit before me. Let’s see how much spirituality there is, how much knowledge, how much erudition, how much understanding! It cannot be much, because anyone who goes to Sathya Sai Baba I count among donkeys. Though I am amazed that this donkey plays the sitar well! That’s another miracle, because generally donkeys don’t play the sitar. Hee-haw—they know only one kind of music. But the sitar…!

I challenge him—let him come. I’m always ready. Let’s sit here and exchange a few words. Let it become clear what is spirituality and what is babble.

A husband and wife had the habit of addressing each other with “O ji, listen.” Seeing this, their four-year-old boy also stopped saying “Mummy” and “Papa” and started calling them “O ji, listen.” The couple became very worried. Finally the husband suggested, “You call me ‘Papa’ and I’ll call you ‘Mummy’; then this rascal will improve. Otherwise he’ll never improve.”

That is how the spirituality of this country is—“O ji, listen.” Listening and listening, little children too are saying, “O ji, listen.” Spirituality sits on people’s tongues.

And I have created fear—great fear. Because I am speaking of a spirituality that is not on their tongue. They are very anxious about me. Their security has been threatened; their scholarship has been threatened. If I am true, millions of pundits will lose their bread and butter. Therefore, there is opposition to me. If I am true, millions of Brahmins’ privileged card will be cut. From every side there will be efforts to prove me wrong.

Suresh said to his grandfather, Seth Chandu Lal, “Grandpa, do you have teeth in your mouth?”

Chandu Lal said, “No, son. Why do you ask?”

Suresh said, “No special reason—please keep my walnut for me; I’m going out to play for a bit.”

Their walnut is in danger in my hand! I am not a Vedantin; I am not be-dant—without teeth. I have teeth! Their walnut is in danger. Even little children act by calculation. And as for saying things—what does it take? People will say anything!

Three women were discussing their husbands. The first said, “We’ve been married so many years, and not once have we had a spat.”

The second sighed deeply, “I wish I could say that!”

The third said, “Then you say it too! After all, she only said it—what gets made or unmade by saying?”

Now, who doesn’t know that there’s “you-you, me-me” between husband and wife? Which couple doesn’t have it? If they don’t, they’re not husband and wife at all.

Dhabbuji said to Chandu Lal, “Brother, yesterday when you were out walking with your wife, you didn’t even look at me.” Chandu Lal said, “How did you know she was my wife?”

Dhabbuji said, “Oh, what’s there to it? From the authoritative way she was abusing you, it was clear—who else but a wife can abuse with such authority! And you were scurrying along with your tail tucked in—you didn’t even look my way. I coughed, cleared my throat, but you didn’t look. You slipped by as if I didn’t exist. Then I understood you were with your wife.”

If you see a pair walking along looking sad, understand they’re husband and wife. If a couple looks like husband and wife and they seem happy, then they must be husband and wife—but the wife belongs to someone else and the husband to someone else. Only then is there a little cheerfulness; otherwise where would cheerfulness be kept!

What does it take to say something? So whatever occurred to Ravi Shankar, he said it. But I tell my sannyasins: wherever you meet Ravi Shankar, convey my challenge. And again and again—whenever you meet him. Tell him to come. He comes to Poona, so there’s no difficulty. Let there be a face-to-face, a few words exchanged. Let it be clarified that playing the sitar does not confer spirituality.

...First, this isn’t a question at all—nor does it expect an answer. You’ll see once you hear it. The so‑called questioner is Ashok Kumar Vachaspati. A pandit—how can he ask a question? Questions are asked by the ignorant; he is the “knower.” He has offered advice; the “question” is just a pretext. In fact, it isn’t advice either; it’s an order—a notification of what should be. And the poison of erudition runs through his veins—he hasn’t even offered a salutation. He could have written something! If he is such a great pandit, he might at least have written, “Child!”—something! But no salutation. Why bother! Straight: “I have a question; kindly answer.” He even wrote “kindly”—that itself is a great kindness. It must have slipped in by mistake, out of old habit, mere formality.

Listen to his so‑called “question”: “This is a statement from the Atharvaveda, and similarly the Brahmana texts: on the very day total dispassion arises, that day one should take sannyas. Only the fully learned, self‑restrained, free from all craving for sensory enjoyment, intent on the welfare of others—such a man or woman should take sannyas. And the Vedas also say: only the fully knowledgeable and learned should take sannyas. The Katha Upanishad says: one who is not free from misconduct, who has no peace, whose self is not yogic, whose mind is not quiet—such a one, even after taking sannyas, cannot know even the self, let alone the Supreme, through the womb of wisdom, the highest knowledge, or instruction, nor can he attain it. Do you give sannyas to men and women endowed with such qualities? If not, the culture of your country, your caste, your people will be destroyed. Therefore give sannyas only to those endowed with the said qualities, and to no others. And it is also true that just as doctors, professors, etc., without qualifications cannot perform their work, so too sannyas has its own dharma. If one is without qualities, do not give him sannyas.”

Where is the question in this? That’s why I was at a loss as to what to answer. But he has said, “Kindly answer.” If I don’t show kindness, that too won’t do. So I shall be “kind.” Now bear it! It won’t be grace; it will be a blade!

Whether it is the Atharvaveda or the Brahmana texts—no one has a monopoly on sannyas. Christians have had sannyasins—not because of the Atharvaveda or the Brahmanas. There are Muslim sannyasins, Jain sannyasins, Hindu sannyasins, Buddhist sannyasins; there are three hundred religions in the world and each has its own shape of sannyas. Does the Atharvaveda rule tyrannically? Do the Brahmana texts have the franchise to define sannyas? My sannyas will be defined by me. My sannyas is not Hindu sannyas. And even among Hindus, how many kinds of sannyas there are! Shankaracharya’s sannyas and Ramanuja’s have no concord. Ramanuja says Shankaracharya is a “crypto‑Buddhist,” promoting Buddhism under cover. How will you reconcile a Buddhist monk with the Vedas? Buddha does not accept the Vedas; he considers them rubbish. And the Vedas are ninety‑nine percent rubbish; if you find even one percent that isn’t, it is with great difficulty, by much sifting—otherwise, rubbish upon rubbish. Even Krishna, in the Gita, doesn’t rate the Vedas above trash—let alone others. Krishna says the Vedas are for people of lower understanding, not for the higher. And Mahavira insisted one must be free of the Veda. Hindus called Mahavira an atheist for this very reason—he was anti‑Veda. What Veda is there in Kabir? What Veda in Nanak? Yet all have sannyasins. If so many have their own conceptions of sannyas, then I too have my own.

Ashok Kumar Vachaspati, I am bound by no scripture. What I am saying now is my scripture. If it matches your scripture, that is your scripture’s good fortune; if it doesn’t, that is your scripture’s misfortune. I have nothing to do with it.

Now, it is necessary to examine each of your words.

You say, “On the day total dispassion arises...”

If total dispassion has arisen, what need is there for sannyas? This is as foolish as saying, “On the day you have perfect health, get admitted to the hospital.” Is your skull stuffed with holy cow dung? Why would you be hospitalized when you’re perfectly—perfectly!—healthy? Note the word “total.” Sannyas is the process to bring dispassion to completion. The very practice of sannyas is to perfect your dispassion. You make it the first condition! It’s like requiring a matriculation certificate before admission to school; no entry into matriculation unless you’ve already passed matriculation! Admission to university only if you already hold an M.A. But then where will the M.A. come from?

How will “total” dispassion happen? Dispassion is attained through continuous practice, by gradually purifying oneself. That’s why Mahavira and Buddha emphasized giving sannyas to the young. The Vedic notion was sannyas in old age—like Morarji Desai: what a connoisseur of Gita‑wisdom! Remarkable: a Member of Parliament at forty‑five, and—what he doesn’t dare say, but I will—Prime Minister of India at eighty‑five! The Vedas thought the same: sannyas at seventy‑five! First, how many even live to seventy‑five? And if someone survives to seventy‑five by drinking his own urine—is that living? Better to have died. And how many will be willing to “live” on such terms? Sannyas at seventy‑five!

Mahavira and Buddha made a great revolution. They said: take sannyas while life’s energy is full—when you are young. That was the disagreement—how can a youth attain total dispassion? I tell you: precisely a youth can attain it—if he passes through sannyas. It cannot be the first condition, because a youth won’t yet be “total.” By passing through sannyas he will touch the boundaries of dispassion. Yes, a seventy‑five‑year‑old you may call totally dispassionate—or totally impotent. Your choice. I’ll call him impotent. I call two and two four; I have no taste for upside‑down talk.

At seventy‑five, what does “total dispassion” mean? You can’t digest food, can’t have sex, can’t win in the race of life. The young have arrived; they are running. You have nothing left; so you hoist a new flag—sannyas! Life has left you, and you say, “I renounce life!” Whom are you deceiving? This is self‑deception. When life has already left you, what exactly are you renouncing? The joy is in renouncing when life is at its peak, in storm.

What the Vedic age called sannyas was not sannyas—it was the old man’s notion. It has no value. It was a tactic, a pretty word to cover weakness—a trick, cleverness. And in cleverness, people do anything!

Mulla Nasruddin was returning from a journey. The boat was caught in a storm. It looked like, now it’s gone. Everyone began praying. Mulla held out, didn’t pray—because praying means taking vows: “O Lord, I’ll do this, that—just save me!” He thought, better to be saved without all that. But when it really seemed the boat would sink, even the others said, “Nasruddin, you too take some vow; we’ve all taken vows. It’s your sins that are drowning us.” And at the last moment, Mulla said, “O Lord, my marble palace, the nine‑lakh palace—I’ll sell it and distribute the money to the poor—if this boat is saved.”

By chance, the boat was saved. You can imagine the snake writhing on his chest. “If only I had waited a little longer—this storm was going to pass anyway!” But he was stuck. What to do? A clever man finds a way. The whole town buzzed: “Amazing—Nasruddin will donate his nine‑lakh palace!” People knew him as such a miser that even beggars didn’t come to his door; if one came, other beggars would say, “Brother, why waste time? You must be new here. You won’t get alms. If you have anything, he’ll snatch it. He has even grabbed begging bowls.” This man will donate a nine‑lakh palace! The hot topic: when, when?

Next day, Nasruddin announced: the house is for sale. Whoever wants it, come. People came; they were astonished. In front of the mansion, tied to a marble pillar, he had tethered a scrawny cat. “What’s this cat for?” they asked. “Wait, you’ll see,” he said. “The house is for sale—its price is nine lakhs, and the cat’s price is one rupee. Both will be sold together. Everyone knows the house is worth nine lakhs—not a paisa less. But I’m in a bind. Brothers and sisters, save me from this bind. The trick is: the cat costs nine lakhs, and the house costs one rupee. They will be sold together.” Many were eager; it was a splendid house. “What do we care—one rupee more or less for a cat? We’ll throw the wretched cat away.” They bought it. Nasruddin gave the one rupee to the poor and deposited nine lakhs in the bank. He had vowed to donate the price of the house—not the price of the cat.

People become very crafty at death. They get clever as they get old.

You say: “On the day total dispassion arises, take sannyas.”

Then why take sannyas? Total dispassion has already happened. Beyond total, what remains? Surely some dishonest mind framed this aphorism—to avoid sannyas—whether it’s in the Atharvaveda or the Brahmanas. In truth, there has been no more cunning, more deceitful caste in the world than the Brahmins—they are the oldest priestly class. And they are not pro‑sannyas. They talk of sannyas, but they are not for it.

The basic revolution of sannyas came from the kshatriyas, not the Brahmins. The real sannyasins were among Jains and Buddhists—they were all kshatriyas. Against Buddha and Mahavira, which sannyasin can the Brahmins produce? You may name Shankaracharya—but I agree with Ramanuja: all Shankara says is stolen—from Buddha. Not a single word is original. He just changes names. As I told you recently, I explained Buddha’s Vipassana to Acharya Tulsi. If we call it Vipassana, it’s Buddha’s; so he gave it a new name—Preksha. Likewise, Shankara gave new names to Buddha’s principles. What does it cost to rename? Call it what you will. What Buddha called vyavahar‑satya (conventional truth)—not ultimately real but practical—Shankara called maya. It’s the same thing. What Buddha called shunya (emptiness), Shankara called purna (the full). The word is opposite, but the meaning is the same. The definition of shunya is the definition of purna. Don’t be frightened by “shunya” or enthralled by “purna.” Truth is one—if you phrase it negatively, it is shunya; positively, purna. Neither has a boundary; nothing lies beyond either.

The Brahmins have not one blazing example to stand beside Buddha. They have always been anti‑sannyas. Yet they didn’t have the courage to oppose it openly. So they split a life into four stages, as they split society into four varnas. First, brahmacharya—study till twenty‑five. Second, householder—twenty‑five to fifty. Third, vanaprastha. What a word—“vanaprastha”: “turned toward the forest.” You haven’t gone, only turned your face. You start thinking: “We will go, we will go,” preparing. Twenty‑five years of preparation to go to the forest! What postponements! From fifty to seventy‑five you will think, and at seventy‑five take sannyas. As if everyone will live to a hundred! If people naturally lived to a hundred, why would Vedic rishis bless, “May you live a hundred years”? Where people already live a hundred years, that blessing has no meaning.

Scientists have researched and found that in Vedic times, no one seems to have lived beyond forty‑forty‑five. Forty seems the outer limit; there are no skeletons older than that. This makes sense. Even today India’s average life expectancy is thirty‑six. In those bygone days, with no science, no medicine, no modern instruments—people living by mantra‑tantra, amulets and charms, exorcisms, priests making rain with yajnas, propitiating gods, doing one foolish thing after another—if they didn’t live beyond forty, what’s surprising? Then a blessing of “May you live a hundred” has some meaning.

Today in Russia many live to a hundred and fifty. Tell them, “Son, live to a hundred”—they’ll wrestle you to the ground: “You want to kill us fifty years early!” Such a blessing only makes sense where people barely make it to fifty. Double it—done!

You say: “On the day total dispassion arises, take sannyas, because one must be fully learned...”

What has scholarship to do with sannyas? Scholarship is emptiness—leftovers. The learned lick what others have chewed. What has learning to do with sannyas? And you add: fully learned! Knower of all scriptures! Knower of the four Vedas!

One who doesn’t know the Vedas can be a sannyasin. One who has read no scriptures can be a sannyasin. What will you say of Kabir? Where will you find a more carefree sannyasin? Kabir says: “I have not touched ink or paper.” And he also says: “Not by writing and reading—by seeing and being.” The scholar is a man of writing: here it says this, there it says that. Look at this “question”: not a question—“It is written in the Atharvaveda, it is written in the Brahmanas, it is written in the Katha Upanishad.” Writing, writing—no seeing.

Ashok Kumar Vachaspati, have you seen anything—or are you just tangled in texts? All leftovers. Sannyas has nothing to do with scholarship. The truth is: the more innocent the heart, the simpler, the deeper the awareness of one’s ignorance—the more capable of sannyas. Socrates can be a sannyasin—you cannot. Socrates says: “I know one thing—that I know nothing.” Even the Upanishads you cite say: ignorance misleads, but knowledge misleads into a greater darkness. Then imagine the state of the “fully learned”! He will never find shore from that darkness.

Sannyas requires the child’s simplicity, wonder, capacity for awe. The sannyasin needs not answers, but inquiry. You have answers. One who has answers we call learned.

“Self‑restrained”—with the senses conquered! Then what is sannyas for? You have listed as prerequisites precisely what are the results of sannyas. “Free of desire for sense‑pleasures...” If that’s so, not one of your rishis was a sannyasin—none look self‑restrained. Apsaras come—Urvashi comes—and the rishi teeters. Someone ejaculates—and in what places! Sitting in a boat, he sees a fisherman’s daughter—and the rishi ejaculates! A fish swallows the semen and becomes pregnant! What absurdities! Wake up—it’s the twentieth century. Burn this rubbish in the Holi bonfire. You burn Ravana every year and he never burns—because every year you must burn him again. Burn this trash.

Are your rishis free of lust? Why then is Indra so afraid of them? When a rishi does tapasya, Indra’s throne shakes. Curious: why should a rishi shake Indra’s throne? Because within the rishi is the desire to have that throne—he is engaged in politics, in struggle. “We will sit on that throne. You’ve made Menaka dance long enough; now we will. Menaka will be our trained dancer, not yours forever. You’ve enjoyed Urvashi long enough—leave something for us!”

Here they seem to be renouncing, but they want to indulge in heaven. Who imagined the wish‑fulfilling tree in heaven, under which all desires are satisfied? Are these people free of desire? Then the wish‑fulfilling tree belongs in hell, not heaven.

And this isn’t about one religion; all are similarly compromised. Islam says: in heaven there are not only beautiful women, but beautiful boys—because in Arabic lands homosexuality was prevalent, still is. Read Urdu poetry—the love verse is more about boys than women. Men are mad over boys. So in Muslim paradise there are houris, apsaras, and ghilman—beautiful youths. What people! What extraordinary “freedom from lust”! And rivers of wine flow in paradise. Here to drink alcohol is sin; there it is virtue.

Your Vedas are full of praise for soma. If soma is anything, it is surely some intoxicant. Scientists are still searching: what exactly was soma—juice of which herb? Certainly something like marijuana, on which rishis were getting high.

And your sadhus have smoked ganja, opium, charas for centuries. It went so far that when someone smokes these long enough, the body becomes habituated; they cease to have effect. So sadhus kept snakes: they’d have the snake bite their tongues to get a little intoxication.

“Self‑restrained, free of lust...” When and where will this happen? And the gods you worship don’t seem free of it either. Vishnu reclines on the Ocean of Milk—what is he doing there, reclining? Lakshmi is pressing his feet! What is Lakshmi doing there in seclusion? You try reclining somewhere and have some lady press your feet—there will be a crowd and uproar at once. These are Lakshmi‑Narayan! Your Lord Rama stands with Mother Sita. And Krishna—he went the farthest. Do you, Ashok Kumar Vachaspati of Nana Peth, Pune, call Krishna a sannyasin or not? These sixteen thousand queens—why were they gathered? Some fair being held? Many of them belonged to others, stolen women. Sixteen thousand don’t just happen. And that flute on the Yamuna bank and the gopis dancing—what play! And little Krishna up in a tree! Just yesterday Kanhaiyalal was here! He’s up the tree with the women’s clothes. If someone did that today, you’d say, “This is an ‘Rajneeshee’ sannyasin!” And did you see what he was doing up on that branch? Poor Indian women, out of modesty, sit sunk in the water—what can they do? He dangles the clothes temptingly. As they reach up, he pulls them higher, so they have to stand fully naked. What games! Seems Nana Peth hasn’t heard.

Vachaspati, think upon these things.

“Free of lust, intent on the welfare of others...” But the desire for “welfare of others” is also desire. It too is craving. It is not freedom from desire. “Such a man or woman should take sannyas.” You have set conditions no one can fulfill; thus no one can become a sannyasin. This was the Brahmins’ strategy to stop sannyas, because they do not want people to become sannyasins.

Sannyas threatens the Brahmin in many ways. First, the moment one becomes a sannyasin, he is free of the Brahmin’s net. He is free of varna: neither kshatriya, nor shudra, nor Brahmin—beyond class. He is also beyond prescribed conduct, beyond character codes. No rules apply. He lives spontaneously, by his own inner rhythm.

Brahmins could not tolerate this; it challenges their power. Yet they couldn’t say sannyas is wrong—people would protest: such a beautiful thing, and you call it wrong? So they devised this trick: set conditions no one can fulfill, and then declare every sannyasin false—“Look, he has desire; he is not fully learned; he is not fully self‑restrained; his dispassion is not complete.” We have an excuse to condemn sannyasins and to prevent people from taking sannyas.

The Brahmin wants people never to attain knowing; only then can his exploitation go on. He will sit on their chests and suck their blood—he has for thousands of years. Like bedbugs—the Brahmins—sucking human blood. And we still haven’t gotten free. That’s why my sannyas frightens them: it gives people a freedom by which they will be free of all kinds of Brahmins.

You say: “The Veda says only the fully learned should take sannyas.”

What authority does the Veda have? No scripture has authority over anyone. Each person should live in the light of his own consciousness. And who is “fully learned”? Will the Veda call Buddha “fully learned”? He didn’t know the Vedas. Mahavira? He didn’t either. Zarathustra? Lao Tzu? They never even heard of them. Jesus? Muhammad? Never. Whom will the Veda call “fully learned”? One who knows the four Vedas. And what is in the Vedas? Ninety‑nine percent junk. One who has hoarded that junk is “fully learned”!

Read the Vedic tales—you will be shocked. There is no sign of wisdom—petty desires, petty prayers. What good will knowing such texts do? What has this to do with sannyas?

“And the Katha Upanishad says—one who is not free of misconduct, who has no peace, whose ‘self’ is not yogic...”

These are amusing lines. Since when does the “self” become a yogi? Yoga ends with the body. Meditation ends with the mind. The self is neither yogi nor meditator; the self is the witness beyond yoga and meditation—only a witness, not a doer. Yoga is a doing; to be a yogi is to be bound to the body. To be a meditator is to be bound to the mind. One who goes beyond both meditation and yoga knows the self.

You say: “Whose self is not yogic, whose mind is not quiet—even after taking sannyas he cannot know, through the womb of wisdom, the Supreme—indeed, not even the self, nor can he attain it.”

As though there were some “Supreme” other than the self! To know the self in its purest is to know the Supreme. One who knows himself knows “That.”

So he asks me: “Do you give sannyas only to men and women endowed with such qualities?” If such people come, I’ll tell them: you have no need of sannyas. You are already a sannyasin; the matter is finished. You are healthy. I will refuse them sannyas. If such a person comes to me for sannyas, it would be astonishing—what is left? Self‑restrained, fully learned, the mind is quiet, the self realized—what remains to take sannyas for? Will a saffron robe fill some lack? What have clothes to do with it? I will not give him sannyas. And you say give it only to him!

You say: “If not, then your country...”

I have no country; perhaps you do. I have no caste; perhaps you do. I have no culture; perhaps you do. I am not—so what of my country, caste, culture? These empty insistences don’t touch me. This whole earth, this whole existence—I know myself as one with it! And that rotten country, caste, person, culture you fear will be destroyed—I want to destroy them. They are what rot you. That cancer you clutch thinking it is your soul—it is not. It is the wound on your soul. I want to remove the pus, remove the cancer.

I want to free you from the past. “My country, my caste, my culture”—all this is the proclamation of the ego. Those who gather around me are simply human beings: no Italian, no German, no Indian, no Japanese; no Hindu, no Muslim, no Christian, no Buddhist; no white, no black; no woman, no man. None of this matters here. Those who are stuck in such petty things need psychotherapy. Humanity has suffered enough because of these stupidities. I want to throw them all into the Holi fire. I want one earth and one humanity.

You ask: “Give sannyas only to those endowed with those qualities, not to others.”

Is this a question—or crude imposition masquerading as a question? Remember: one who offers unsolicited advice is a fool. I did not ask you for advice, and you advise me. Not advice—orders.

And you say: “It is also true that just as unqualified doctors or professors cannot function, so too sannyas has its dharma. If one is unqualified, do not give him sannyas.”

Certainly: a doctor must be a doctor—he needs training. A professor must be a professor—training is needed. A sannyasin too must be a sannyasin—training is needed. Initiation into sannyas is entry into sannyas training. Initiation does not make you accomplished. That is the difference between sannyasin and siddha. Sannyas is entry; siddhahood is fulfillment. One becomes a siddha by passing through sannyas.

But if you say you will give sannyas only to the siddha, you have tied the oxen behind the cart. How will the cart move?

Yes, sannyas has its dharma—but it is not “Sanatan Dharma,” nor Hindu, nor Muslim, nor Christian. The dharma of sannyas simply means: to live according to one’s nature, according to one’s awareness.

Therefore I give initiation to those who come to me. I ask neither eligibility nor ineligibility—because I will create the eligibility. Why ask? They have expressed the inquiry—enough. They have aspired to be sannyasins—enough. And when existence gives them life without asking their qualifications, who am I to stop them from sannyas?

Near the Sufi mystic Junayd lived a man: adulterer, debauchee, alcoholic—he had all the “virtues.” One day Junayd said to God: “Lord, why don’t you take this man away? Because of him so much corruption spreads.” That night God appeared in his dream: “Junayd, how long have you lived next to this man? Only seven days. I have kept him alive for seventy years. One whom I have given breath for seventy years—you could not tolerate for seven days! He is only your neighbor; he has not harmed you. What impatience! And you do not see: if he were truly wrong, why would I keep him alive? There is some secret, some quality in him.”

When God gives life, I take it that he has given you the chance to be a sannyasin. What is life? An opportunity to become a sannyasin. An opportunity for the seeds within you to bloom. An opportunity for the rose to blossom within. Whoever comes to me I will give sannyas unconditionally. A gambler comes, a drunkard comes, a thief comes—I will give sannyas. Because I know a thief can become non‑thief, a gambler can drop gambling. One murder does not bind a man forever.

No act envelops a person totally. So I keep no account of acts. I value the person’s inquiry, his thirst. Sannyas means he is eager for the search of God. However bad, however fallen into pits and darkness—if he seeks the sun, I will support him. I care not for your Vedas, your Upanishads, your scriptures.

I am giving birth to a new conception of sannyas. I will make its scripture, its Veda. What is there to making a Veda? A scripture is anything said in the service of truth; any proclamation of truth is Veda.

Try to understand, Ashok Kumar Vachaspati—don’t try to make me understand.

People have come to explain—how many mad people!
People have come to explain—how many mad people!
If peace were found in temple or mosque,
Why would people come to the tavern?
They think they know everything, yet know nothing—
How many unknowing people!
When the time comes, they are of no use—
These familiar people!
Now that I have lost my senses,
People have come to explain—
How many mad people have come to explain!

If peace were in temple and mosque,
Why would they go to the tavern?

This is not a temple, not a mosque, not a shrine. It is a tavern. Why bring such prattle here? This is a fellowship of rinds, a congregation of drunkards. And now you come to explain—when the matter is already spoiled.

Now that I have lost my senses,
People have come to explain—
How many mad people!

You are late, Ashok Kumar Vachaspati. You should have come sooner. I am already spoiled, and I have spoiled thousands more. And now it has begun—this will not stop. A new Veda will be composed; a new scripture is coming into being. A new image of man is emerging.

My sannyasin is the proclamation of the man of the future. He has nothing to do with the past; he is related to the present and the future.

Ashok Kumar Vachaspati, you have so much knowledge—take sannyas, brother! Knower of so many scriptures—what more “full knowledge” could there be? Since you know everything that a sannyasin “should” be, what are you doing sitting in Nana Peth? How long will you go on swatting flies?

Seth Chandulal had to speak to his son—compelled, because the son requested, “I want to marry. I’m in love with a girl.” Chandulal said, “Son, heed my advice—never marry.” The son said, “Father, I will follow your advice, and give the same advice to my son.” The truth: Chandulal’s father gave him the same advice, and his father’s father did the same. There’s no harm in giving advice. When you have so much knowledge, why sit in Nana Peth? Become a sannyasin. We’ll give you a good name—Swami Nanalal Bharati!

Two opium addicts were talking. One asked, “Friend, if the river caught fire, where would the fish go?” The other said, “Don’t worry—they’ll all climb the trees.” The first said, “You’re something! What a fool! Are fish cows and buffaloes that they’ll climb trees?”

You talk of knowledge—sleep off your intoxication; wake from your stupor! All this babble is false.

Chandulal stormed into a shop: “Listen, the ivory comb I bought here was fake.” The shopkeeper said, “Sir, if even elephants have begun wearing false teeth, how is it my fault?”

Enough for today.