Bahuri Na Aiso Daon #8

Dinkar! I do not emphasize doing. My emphasis is on being. Act is an outer event—the circumference of a human life, not its center. However much we decorate the circumference, the soul remains as impoverished as before. Yet for centuries a curse has ridden on the human chest: the ghost of doing—What should we do! No one asks, Who am I? Without first knowing who I am, people keep asking—What should I do? Then whatever you do will go wrong. Inside it is dark; even if you call yourself Dinkar (day-maker), it will make no difference. The eyes are blind; you may put on spectacles, they still won’t help.

Mulla Nasruddin went to an eye doctor. The examination went on, and again and again he asked, “Doctor sahib, once the glasses are made I’ll be able to read, won’t I?” The doctor told him several times, “How many times must I say it? Of course you’ll read. Once you have glasses of exactly the right number, why wouldn’t you read!” Nasruddin listened, yet couldn’t trust it. After a while he asked again, “Tell me truly—will I be able to read, start reading again?” The doctor said, “Are you in your senses or mad? Do you want treatment for your eyes or your brain? How many times must I say it—shall I give it to you in writing?” Nasruddin said, “I keep asking because, actually, I don’t know how to read. So when the glasses are made, I will be able to read, won’t I?”

If you don’t know how to read, how will glasses help even if they’re perfect? And if there are no eyes at all, you can keep piling up spectacles; they’ll only become a burden. You’ll fall into pits you wouldn’t have fallen into otherwise. These spectacles will prove costly.

Yet this is exactly what man is doing. He doesn’t bother to know who he is; what his very being is; what is the nature of the consciousness within; how to recognize the flame of life that burns within. After this recognition, mistakes will vanish from your life of their own accord. Because one who has known oneself becomes incapable of doing wrong. And one who has not known oneself is incapable of doing right.

Do not ask, What should I do? For now ask, Who am I? For now, make self-acquaintance.

The soul is the center, action the circumference. Because we live only on the circumference, our questions are also related to the circumference. You can whitewash the tombs and paint them in beautiful colors—what will come of it?

Jesus said again and again: you are like whitewashed tombs—outwardly clean and gleaming, within all is rotting. Yet your so-called saints and holy men all insist on conduct. Their language and your language have no difference. Their plane and your plane are the same. They live outside, and so do you. You run toward wealth; they run with their backs toward wealth, but both run. And for both, wealth remains the cause of running. You run for position; they run to avoid position; but at the root of both runs is ambition. When will you stop? When will you be still? Action will keep you running, keep you running.

Action means: Now what shall I do? Now what else shall I do?

My emphasis is not on conduct but on the soul. Be still; there is no hurry to do anything. Know. And from that knowing, doing will arise by itself.

And by now you must have done a great deal. This cannot be the first time you’re asking this question. God knows how many people you must have asked before. Asking and asking is how you have reached here. How much you must already have done—worship, recitations, fire rituals, pilgrimages, mantra-japa, yantra-practice—what all you haven’t done! Are you not tired of doing yet? When will you be tired? God grant you tire soon! An intelligent person tires quickly. He sees that running is futile until I recognize who I am. Then without running one arrives.

Listen well: I am saying, without running one arrives. Because where you have to arrive, you already are. You have never moved an inch away from there. It is your ultimate intimacy, your very nature. There is nowhere to go that would require running. One has simply to come to where one already is. A forgetfulness has happened. Awareness is needed, remembrance is needed, a re-collection is needed.

Nothing to do—only to awaken! And awakening is not an act. But our languages get fixed, and our language-fixes bind us.

Seth Chandulal, a Marwari merchant, went to see a psychologist because he was full of anxiety, sorrow, deep gloom. Friends advised him; family pushed him. But he wouldn’t go—kept delaying—because the fee was high. He’s a seth, he has no shortage of money. But a Marwari seth can be more miserly than a beggar. Finally a friend was exhausted and said, “I’ll pay the fee.” So Chandulal agreed and went. The psychologist began: “Seth Chandulal, which kind of moods have the most harmful effect on a man?” Chandulal said, “The moods of the market.”

A fixed frame forms. A set way of thinking. A bound language. Even if you try to change it, nothing changes.

Mulla Nasruddin came home one day. The house was steeped in mourning, gloomy. He hesitated at the door, frightened. Night had fallen and no lamp was lit. He guessed, “Today I will surely hear bad news.” As soon as his wife appeared, he said, “Listen, hear me first. I’ve returned harassed by the whole day; I’ve faced many troubles. I lost my job, my pocket was picked, I lost a case in court—and what more shall I say! Thoughts of suicide even came to me. In such a state don’t give me bad news.” The wife said, “Why would I give bad news! We have seven children; six of them are still alive.”

Say it this way or that—the thing is the same. You can say, “One child has died,” or, “We have seven children and six are still alive”—what difference does it make?

A general summoned one of his colonels and said, “Look, Laliram’s mother has died. Inform him gently, lovingly, tactfully—he’s a sensitive fellow, he might be badly shocked. But how to say such news?—that his mother has died!” The colonel went and said, “Hey, you son of Laliram! Do you know anything? Look at you swaggering along! Your mother kicked the bucket!” Laliram collapsed on the spot. The general called the colonel and said, “I had instructed you, and still you were your usual oafish self. If such a matter comes up again, speak slowly, in stages. Why blurt it out at once so the man just collapses!” As fate would have it, seven days later Laliram’s father also died. The general again called the colonel and said, “Now be careful. It’s Laliram again; his father has passed away. Say it gently, bit by bit—what’s the hurry!” The colonel said, “I’ve thought it all out.” He lined up all the soldiers and commanded, “Those whose fathers are alive, take one step forward.” Naturally Laliram also stepped forward. The colonel shouted, “Not so fast, son Laliram—slowly, slowly! Don’t step with such confidence; easy there, don’t be in a hurry.”

However you say it, the same thing will be said. People’s logic-chains become fixed. Yours too have become fixed.

A schoolteacher went hunting and took his little son along. They went far into the jungle and lost the way. Finally, in anger, he began to beat the child. A teacher, after all! When a teacher gets angry, what can he do? He beats children. A husband gets angry—he beats his wife. The wife gets angry—she beats the children. The children get angry—they smash their toys. Psychologists say: many who become teachers know well that in life they won’t be able to torment anyone else; at least they can torment small children—so become a teacher, it’s a good trade. He thrashed his son and said, “You scoundrel! I’m wandering because I’ve lost the way—but why don’t you go home? You go home!”

You ask, Dinkar: “What should I do?”
Do nothing. For an hour or two, drop doing entirely; descend into non-doing.

A friend wrote: “I have taken initiation into Kriya Yoga.” I said, “Kriya has tormented you your whole life; now you’ve taken initiation into Kriya Yoga as well!”

Our Swami Yog Chinmaya’s earlier name was Kriyananda—I don’t know which fool gave him that name—Kriyananda! He is utterly a-kria-nanda! But since he had taken initiation into Kriya Yoga, he was called Kriyananda.

Dinkar, practice non-doing. If even for one hour out of twenty-four non-doing settles, the truth of life is not far—very near. For one hour do nothing at all. Don’t even chant “Ram-Ram,” don’t turn a rosary. Don’t recite a mantra. For one hour, don’t do anything—just remain. Don’t practice yogasanas either.

One after another, new yogasanas are coming into vogue! A brand-new one has appeared—Chamchasan, the Sycophant Pose!

First stand straight. Bring innocence to your face and cunning to your eyes. Then gradually turn innocence into meekness and cunning into flattery. Now, keeping the legs straight, bend slowly and rub your nose on the shoes already placed on the ground. Breathe deeply. Press the elbows to the belly and join both hands in a gesture of reverence. Do not stand up straight until the shoes have been withdrawn. At first this posture is difficult and self-respect gets in the way; but with a week of continuous practice, self-respect will be thoroughly destroyed, and the practitioner, becoming a qualified toady, will reap unexpected benefits.

Benefits of the Sycophant Pose:
Jobless and idle, with no post in sight?
By Chamchasan’s grace, your future turns bright.
Your future turns bright—wave gloom away,
With no hard work, get promotion and pay.
Your torn old fate can be stitched up free—
A job will arrive through sycophancy!

The old postures were already there; new ones keep getting added! Another new pose I’ve heard of—Clerkasan, the Clerk Pose! This one is done with a chair and a desk. First, sit erect on the chair, absolutely straight. Imagine files in your mind. With the right hand, make the gesture of lifting imaginary files from the left and putting them to the right. Then, with a flick, gesture throwing the left file to the right. Now grip an imaginary cigarette between two fingers; inhale and hold the breath—keep the smoke inside—and then exhale the smoke-laden breath through the nostrils. Repeat the whole sequence five times. On the last exhalation, round your lips as if pronouncing the English O and expel the breath in a puff so that smoke-rings seem to float in the air. Now rest both hands on the chair’s arms, draw both legs up and gently stretch them out on the desk and relax. If you wish, you may snore.

Benefits of the Clerk Pose—
From home to office go, eat breakfast to the brim.
Shuffle and reshuffle files, light a smoke on a whim.
Light a smoke, sniff perfume’s cotton swab with flair;
Feet on the desk stretched out, doze without a care.
At home, because of children, rest remained unsure—
In office you will finish your full sleep-quota for sure!
Leave essential work on paper, neglect it with a shrug,
Overtime will be sanctioned—and you’ll earn double the slug!

Neither the old nor the new—do not get entangled in any posture, any action, any religious technique. You look eager to get entangled. You ask me, “What should I do?” Ask me, Who am I? How will you know who you are by doing? Doing will only reveal what you did. The thief will learn he stole; the shopkeeper will learn he traded; the prayerful will learn they prayed. But a thief can pray; prayer can be a thief’s tool. A shopkeeper can pray; a prayerful man can keep shop. Acts can be a thousand, but you are one. Your center is one. The circumference can be vast, and everyone’s circumference is very large. But this is a disease of centuries. We have been taught: Do this, do that; do it this way, do it that way; get up at this hour, sleep at that hour; eat this, drink that; speak like this, sit like that. People remain busy in this hocus-pocus and think their life is becoming religious. Life is slipping from their hands. Life can become religious in only one way: recognize the one who sits behind all doing; the witness of all action; not the doer, the witness—the seer only. Neither doer nor enjoyer—just the seer.

Three words are worth understanding. Doer—outermost. Enjoyer—somewhat inner. Witness—innermost. Better to be an enjoyer than a doer. Better to be a witness than an enjoyer. Because the more inward you come, the closer you come not only to yourself but also to the divine.

I don’t give commands. To tell the truth, I don’t even give sermons. Mahavira has said: a tirthankara does not give commands, he gives upadesh. I don’t even give upadesh. If you understand the difference between adesh and upadesh, you will also understand why I don’t give upadesh.

Adesh means a clear instruction, a directive—“Do this.” Its emphasis is on the act. “Rise in the brahma-muhurt at dawn”—that is a command.

Upadesh is subtler—not so clear-cut, not so direct. Upadesh literally means: “Sit near me.” Up means near; desh means place—sit near me. The meaning of upasana (worship) is the same; the meanings of upavas (fasting, originally “to dwell near”) and Upanishad are of the same family as upadesh.

Mahavira said that a tirthankara does not give commands. He does not tell anyone, “Do this,” because he gives ultimate value to each person’s freedom. But a tirthankara gives upadesh: “Sit near me; look, understand, recognize. Then live accordingly.”

This is an indirect command. I rise in the brahma-muhurt; if you live close to me, sit near me, you too will begin to rise at that hour. I never said directly, “Rise before dawn.” But if you remain in my company… man’s natural tendency is imitation. As he sees, so he begins to do. He becomes like those he keeps company with. Live among thieves, you’ll become a thief. Live among saints, you’ll become a saint. But there is no great value in becoming either a thief or a saint, because in both cases you have merely imitated. What is the difference?

I say to you: I give neither commands nor upadesh. What I have known, what I have lived, I simply express. Then it is your joy, your choice. If it feels right to do, do it; if it does not, don’t. If it suits you, do; if it does not suit, don’t. Neither will I be pleased if you do, nor displeased if you don’t. I have no expectations at all.

I have no expectations from my sannyasins. I open my life before you. I lay bare my vision of life before you. And I am grateful to you, because you considered my vision worth understanding. You even considered me worth hearing for a few words. That you should believe—this question does not arise. Who am I to tell you to believe? And to persuade you in some indirect way also does not arise, because that too would become politics.

A lamp burns; now, whatever you wish to do with its light, do. A flower blossoms; whatever you wish to do with its fragrance, do. No command, no sermon. I can offer a prayer—not a command, not a sermon. I can make a humble request—not a command, not a sermon.

Keep at least one lamp lit in the dark,
Keep at least one lamp lit in the dark;
Dawn is about to break—keep the atmosphere ready.

Those by whose hands our hidden wounds were given,
Those very ones say: keep your wounds concealed.
Keep at least one lamp lit in the dark.

Who knows by which pathway she may pass?
Who knows by which pathway she may pass?
Adorn every thoroughfare with flowers.
Keep at least one lamp lit in the dark.

Let not every tear become an ornament for the beloved’s hem;
Save a few for your own eyelids.
Keep at least one lamp lit in the dark.

Who knows by which pathway she may pass?
Who knows by which pathway she may pass?
Adorn every pathway with flowers.
Keep at least one lamp lit in the dark.

And the lamp is already burning. Even to say “keep it lit” may not be quite right. The lamp is burning within, and the eyes are searching without—hence the lack of harmony. The lamp is somewhere, you are somewhere else; the lamp inside, you outside. Turn a little inward and begin to look.

Dinkar, for an hour or two out of the twenty-four, sit silently; do nothing. Lie down, just remain— as if you are not—void-like. And in that emptiness, slowly the inner lamp will become clear; the smoke will disperse. And the day the inner smoke clears and the eyes become capable of clear seeing—that day you are the Divine, and the whole existence is the Divine. And that experience is bliss, liberation, nirvana.

Shakuntala Parashar! It seems you have come to the wrong place. You should ask this question to Karpatri Maharaj, to the Shankaracharya of Puri, to Acharya Tulsi, to Kanji Swami. This country is full of “mahatmas.” Who here is not a mahatma? There’s a whole crowd of saints.

The old saying was wrong: “Saints don’t march in processions; lions don’t travel in herds.” Wrong! Absolutely wrong! Here there are only processions of saints. Go to the Kumbh Mela—processions upon processions. Saints of every kind, all sorts, all varieties. It seems you’ve been keeping company with such people. This feels like your first meeting with someone like me; otherwise you would never have asked such a question, not even by mistake. But now that you’ve asked it, what can I do?

First, drop the delusion that your society is some moral society that is at risk of falling. It cannot fall. Impossible—because how can you fall any lower? To fall, there must be some lower place to go.

One day Mulla Nasruddin was sitting very unhappy. I asked, What happened, Nasruddin? Both his hands were bandaged. I said, Got into a fight? Did your wife beat you more than usual, or did some enemies rob you? What happened to your hands?

Nasruddin said, Don’t ask. Pure misfortune. Just misfortune—what more is there to say! I’ve said a little; understand a lot.

I said, My situation is the opposite: I say a lot; understand a little. Tell me in detail.

He said, What detail? Yesterday I was making love to Chandulal’s wife. Nothing new—everybody knows, even Chandulal knows. But yesterday, who knows what took hold of the scoundrel—he suddenly came, knocked on the door. His wife said, Nasruddin, run! Jump from the window! Chandulal is here! In panic, without even putting on my clothes, I ran to the window. It was dark; I didn’t dare jump. I hung there from the window frame thinking, In a minute he’ll go to the bathroom or somewhere, and I’ll grab my clothes and run. But that day, who knows what mood he was in—and why wouldn’t he be? He found my clothes lying there. He asked, Whose clothes are these? She said, Do I keep accounts of the whole world—whose clothes they are? They’re someone’s! Is anyone’s name written on them? They’re yours!

Chandulal exploded. He opened every door, searched everywhere—even the bathroom, the cupboards, trunks so small no one could even fit in them. He scattered everything. Finally he opened the window. In the darkness he saw nothing—only my two hands holding the frame. He said, Aha! So here are the gentleman! He brought a hammer and smashed each finger, chanting, “Jai Bajrangbali!”

I said, That truly is unfortunate. Painful.

He said, That’s nothing—the real pain hadn’t even begun!

I said, He’s smashing your fingers with a hammer!

He said, That’s nothing. He crushed one finger, then the second, third, fourth, fifth—counting them off, chanting, “Jai Bajrangbali!” I’d never seen him so delighted, so radiant. When he smashed nine fingers...

I said, That truly is painful.

He said, The pain still hadn’t begun! When he struck the tenth finger and smashed all ten...

I said, That’s terrible.

He said, You keep interrupting, saying it’s terrible—but the terrible part hadn’t even begun! When he smashed the tenth finger and I crashed down, I was stunned to find there was nothing to fall onto. I was already on the ground. There was barely an inch between me and the earth. Then I beat my head—my fingers were ruined for nothing! There was nowhere to fall; it was just too dark to see.

This is a darkness of centuries, Shakuntala Parashar. You can’t see what there is to fall to here! Where in the world will you find a character more corrupt than this country’s? Yes, one thing is certain: the character here is so corrupt it even has the audacity to declare itself virtuous. That itself is a symptom of corruption. There isn’t enough integrity to even admit its corruption. This is the pinnacle of dishonesty. Here thieves are sadhus. Here crooked politicians are revered. Here all sorts of wicked, cruel people pose as Gandhian non-violent saints. Those whose hearts are full of darkness—soot—have draped themselves in pure khadi, gleaming! What “moral collapse” are you talking about? And don’t think I’m only talking about today. There has never been a time in this country’s history when there was any moral height. Go and open your Puranas. But who bothers to look! Perhaps we don’t look from fear—lest facts break our cherished illusions. There is no other literature in the world as rotten with stories as your Puranas. And the kind of immoral incidents your gods, mahatmas, rishis and munis are involved in—no other country would dare include them in its sacred texts.

How many other men’s wives did Krishna steal? Do you think he was modern—Cambridge- or Oxford-educated? Yet we accepted it. Not only accepted—we declared him the complete incarnation. A man who gathered sixteen thousand women—declared a perfect avatar without a flicker of hesitation. Try tossing a pebble in any woman’s water pot today, or steal someone’s butter, or run off with someone’s clothes and hang them in the trees! Try stealing even your own wife’s clothes and hanging them on a branch—she’ll strip you to your bones. She’ll raise such a ruckus the whole neighborhood will gather. But no—this is “Raslila,” the divine play! And if God does lila, why shouldn’t the small fry mahatmas do it? After all, they’re chips off the same block, smaller maybe. And if they’re doing lilas, how can we deny the great Líladhar? If the bag bursts, the chips fall out.

Just look at your history, the tales of your rishis and munis. You won’t find anything like a sage’s life in them. You even call a man like Durvasa a rishi! No shame, no embarrassment! All sorts of corrupt, angry, lustful, greedy people—you call them sages.

And the way you have treated women for five thousand years—nowhere has there been anything more inhuman. Even Rama mistreated Sita. And you cannot get enough of talking about “Ram-rajya.” You want to bring it back! Gandhi was obsessed with it—as if once wasn’t enough for you! Rama had molten lead poured into a shudra’s ears, had his fire-tested wife—lest his prestige and ego be hurt—abandoned in the forest while she was pregnant! This is how you treated women. “Women are the gateway to hell”...the foulness with which you discuss women—it is astonishing women put up with it! Women serve these mahatmas most. They should be squeezing their necks. They should drive them out of town. If women once decide, no mahatma can stay. What standing does a husband have to keep a mahatma in the house? Mahatmas stay because of the women. Husbands don’t want them—“Where did this loafer show up from?”—but if the wife brings him, so be it. If the husband protests too much, the mahatma will stay and the husband will be kicked out. The husband will be the vagrant and the mahatma will settle in. Best to accept “coexistence”: whoever the wife touches the feet of, the husband too will touch—harder, to keep the wife pleased.

You say, “This will cause the moral downfall of society.”

Impossible! Your morality cannot fall.

I heard a politician was undergoing therapy with a psychologist. He said he suffered from an inferiority complex. After three months, one day when he came, the therapist said, Rejoice! Celebrate! Today is Diwali! Let’s go to a hotel—breakfast is on me. My analysis has confirmed there is no reason whatsoever for you to suffer from an inferiority complex.

The politician was thrilled. He said, But you never said this before! Only after three months!

The therapist said, I had to investigate first. Today I became certain—you cannot suffer from an inferiority complex, because you are actually inferior. Inferiority complex troubles only one who is not inferior. You’re at the lowest rank; there is nothing below it. Even if someone wanted to pull you down, he couldn’t. In the attempt to pull you down, he might accidentally lift you up!

I don’t see that this country has any moral standard—ever. You call Yudhishthira “Dharmaraj,” yet he gambled away his wife. And still he is called Dharmaraj! Does it never occur to you—what could be more corrupt than a man who gambles away his wife? To gamble at all is corrupt, and then to stake your wife—the limit! And present there were great wise men. Bhishma Pitamah—the great knower, from whom Arjuna goes to learn wisdom at the time of Bhishma’s death—the same Arjuna who had already received the Gita from Krishna; even after the Gita he goes to learn from Bhishma. Meaning Bhishma’s knowledge was superior to the Gita! And he sat quietly, watching the whole game. Loyal to the throne! Great knower, indeed! He didn’t even say, What injustice is this! You are staking a woman! Is a woman property? Like jewels and gold?

But in our country the counting goes like this: zar, zoru, zamin—money, woman, and land—the three roots of quarrels. Woman grouped right alongside money and land.

Have you ever accepted a woman as a soul? No—you say “stri-sampada, stri-sampatti”—woman as wealth, property. When a father marries off a daughter it is “kanyadan,” the gift of a virgin. No one objects; no one is shocked. We have become accustomed to this injustice.

The Pandavas “shared” one woman—five brothers. And no one minded. No rishi-muni objected. And now you worry that “young women are blindly imitating Western fashions and ruining their character.” Which character? What character are you talking about? What character are you afraid will be lost?

A Western woman possesses a character which your women do not—she has declared plainly: my rights are equal to a man’s. That is character! What character does your woman have? She tells her husband, “I am the shoe at your feet, your maid.” Is that character? Is that selfhood?

For the first time, the Western woman has given dignity to women. But your idea of character is different—your criteria, your yardsticks are different. Your entire measure of character is that she remains tied to one husband for life—and the husband can do anything. How do so many prostitutes survive? Who sustains them? Husbands do. Or do you think the little schoolchildren do? These brothels—who keeps them running? But a man is a man! Whatever he does is fine. The woman is another matter.

Your only definition of character is that a woman remains bound to a man, however wrong the man may be. Your scriptures even praise the wife who carries her old, dying, rotting, leprosy-ridden husband on her shoulders to a prostitute’s house—because he expressed a desire to go. You call that character! If she had dumped him in the Ganges, that would be character. This is not character—this is slavery, nothing else.

The Western woman has for the first time declared equality of rights with men. That I call character. But your idea of character is bizarre: “Indian women don’t smoke; Western women do. Indian women are blindly imitating Western fashions.” If smoking is bad, it is bad for men too. If men have the right to smoke, every woman has the right to smoke. If something is bad, it is bad for all; if it is not bad, it’s not bad for anyone. Why discriminate? Why different yardsticks for women? If a man bathes in the river in a loincloth, it’s fine; if a woman does, she is characterless! Why this double standard?

These double standards prove characterlessness; there should be one measure. Why separate standards for men and women? And what is the result? The Indian man spends twenty-four hours trying to undress women—if only in imagination, in dreams. Whenever he sits, he thinks, How to strip them? He obsesses over making women naked. And women keep adjusting their veils and wrapping themselves up to protect themselves. That is your “character.”

Truth is, where women and men freely bathe nude in rivers, lakes, seas, or saunas, the urge to strip the other evaporates. In the West, if a man loves a woman, he will embrace her; but he won’t act like you do—pinching in a crowd, shoving, yanking a sari’s pallu. Look at your vulgarity! O progeny of rishis and munis! O pious men of a holy land! What do you do to women! You tug their pallus, you pull off their dhotis, and return home pleased—as if you’re some great hero because you pulled a woman’s sari; feeling elated because you shoved a few women!

These shoves will continue as long as women are kept covered.

Shakuntala Parashar, I’m in favor of Western women’s clothing.

Bertrand Russell writes in his memoirs: when I was young in Europe, you couldn’t even see the toes of the aristocratic ladies. Their dresses swept the floor. If by mistake a woman’s toe became visible, it was sexually arousing. Things devolved to the point that people put little skirts on chair legs too—because they are “legs” and a chair is “lady”—so those legs had to be covered!

And later, at ninety, Russell wrote: I’m amazed—what happened? Women show so much of their bodies and no one is bothered. No one is aroused by a foot; no one goes mad with desire at the sight of a foot.

What is openly visible loses its titillation. Now women wear such short skirts that there’s nothing left to uncover.

A little boy was crying in a shop. The manager asked, Why are you crying? He said: I lost my mom. The manager said: Next time hold your mother’s skirt. He said: That’s the problem—my hand doesn’t reach that high.

You will be uncomfortable, Shakuntala, because you were raised on old notions. But you have no understanding of psychology or of how human life is formed. If men and women become simple and natural, all this immorality dissolves.

Go to the tribal regions of Bastar and see—women are almost half-naked; their breasts are bare. You can touch a woman’s breast there and ask, What is this? She’ll say: The udder that feeds the child. And that’s the end of it. That’s exactly what it is. Among tribals there is no curiosity to look at women’s breasts—everywhere there are women, everywhere breasts—what is there to “see”? But in your mind, a single curiosity persists: to see a woman’s breasts. So women accentuate them—plastic padding, artificial contraptions to make them look firm and young. Even rubber and plastic breasts are available. And people gawk eagerly.

Have you noticed? A woman in a burqa creates a special attraction. You drop everything to follow her, hoping for some chance to see something. But a woman not in a burqa doesn’t arouse such curiosity—you’ve already seen.

What is prohibited becomes alluring. There’s no need for prohibition. All animals live without it. Humans don’t need this much prohibition either. It is male sexuality that has covered women; men have forced them to cover up—because the more covered a woman is, the more titillating she becomes. Not for character, but to make her sexually provocative—cover her, hide her. The very parts men are curious about are exactly those that are covered. Those that are exposed arouse no curiosity. If women are fully uncovered and men too, the mad obsession with each other’s bodies will die by itself.

You say, “By blindly imitating Western fashions, young women are ruining their character.”

Not at all. First, there isn’t any character to ruin. And in the West, character is being born. If women here also declare, like Western women, their equality with men, then character and soul will be born in their lives too. Men and women should have equal rights.

A young man went to see his prospective bride. During the conversation he asked, Do you know how to cook? The girl replied: We should think about every issue in a proper sequence. First tell me—do you know how to earn? Cooking can come later; first one must know how to earn!

An Indian girl hidden behind a veil—would she dare ask such a question? But it’s necessary.

A millionaire’s son said to his girlfriend: Yesterday my father went bankrupt. “I knew your father would surely create some obstacle in our marriage,” the girlfriend said, disappointed.

This is what men always do. They are not interested in the woman; they are interested in the dowry that comes with her—money, wealth, status. But this girl startled him. Now you’ll say this is blind imitation of the West. No—the girl gave a perfect, forthright answer. That’s exactly how it should be.

We used to marry off little girls—out of fear they might start asking questions. We believed in child marriage for this reason: marry them before they know what’s happening. Decisions were in the parents’ hands. Priests decided by looking at horoscopes. That fake marriage, that hollow ritual—and you call that character! It is the beginning of immorality. It is sin—because neither the girl has ever loved the boy, nor the boy the girl. Where there is no love, there is sin. Where there is love, there is virtue.

Through matchmakers a girl’s marriage was fixed. Suddenly she began to cry. Her mother consoled her: Don’t cry, my child. Everyone marries. Look, I too was married. The girl said: That’s fine, mother. But you married father. I’m being married to a total stranger.

The child is right: you married father, so you had no problem. But I’m being married to a stranger I’ve never seen, never known.

We used to impose marriage on children. Now you’ll call it Western imitation if the girl says, I want to see the boy! The boy says, I want to see the girl—that’s fine; it’s his right! But if the girl says, I want to see the boy, I want to live with him for a month or two to see whether he is fit to live with for a lifetime—then you call it moral decline! And you call “character” deciding to live your whole life with someone you don’t know. If that is character, what then is ignorance? What is stupidity?

A hakim said to Chandulal: Who says you’re ill? Your pulse is ticking like a watch! Chandulal said: Sir, your hand is not on my pulse, it’s on your watch.

Put your hand on the real problems. The character of this country has been rotting for ages. So long that we’ve come to mistake rot for character. We’ve never seen horses; we call mules horses.

And now, when for the first time a breeze of freedom has come into the world—a breeze of democracy—and women have proclaimed equality, snakes are crawling on men’s chests. The irony is that they are crawling on women’s chests too. Women’s slavery has become so deep they don’t realize that what they revere as “character,” “Sati-Savitri,” and so on were all ideas forced upon them by men.

So many satis there have been—yet not a single “sata” from the men’s side! Isn’t that amusing? It would mean only women loved men—no man ever loved a woman. In Bombay, “processions of sati” keep being staged. Everywhere—sati temples, sati shrines!

Men shouting about these things—I understand; it is part of their scheme to keep women under control. But how foolish are the women who join! They were kept foolish deliberately—barred from reading scriptures, barred from the Vedas. Kept as uneducated as possible so that whatever men said would seem true. They too bow and worship; they never ask, Were there any “male satis”? Any shrines for them? Men never did such things. A woman dies and they remarry instantly. But when a man dies, the woman should die with him. Why? Because she is the man’s property. And the man doesn’t trust that after his death another man might love her, or that she might love again or remarry. The limit! As if he bought her soul! She’s not a person; she’s a thing. And women tolerated this. Not only tolerated—they began to feel pride in it.

The ideas we are conditioned by seep into our blood, bones, and marrow. Then awareness becomes difficult.

A fortunate hour has come in the West. There is no need to panic. In truth, humanity has so far lived in a very characterless way. But such people think themselves virtuous; so my words feel to them like I am corrupting people. I am only giving freedom and awareness, equality. It is better to live freely than in bondage. The more chains break, the better—because chains only kill souls, rot life, make it unbearable.

A beloved said to her lover: If I marry you, you’ll quit smoking, right? The lover, lighting a cigarette, said: Of course, why not! She took his hand and said: And you’ll give up drinking too, right? He, like a movie hero, said: My life, I can do anything for you—give up everything. She asked: What else will you give up? He pulled his hand away, put out the cigarette, and said: The idea of marrying you.

Stop riding on each other’s chests—“Give this up, give that up! Do this, do that!” That’s not love—it’s prison. That’s not marriage—it’s a noose. The result is a long story of suffering. Wives torment husbands, husbands torment wives. The root cause is that both are angry because their freedom has been stolen.

I am against marriage, Shakuntala Parashar. I’m far beyond the West. People in the West too think I say dangerous things. In Western countries, articles and books are written against me. They feel I’ll ruin Western “character.” That same Western character you fear—I’m busy ruining it too! Don’t worry. I will ruin the West’s character. As for yours—there isn’t any. Sleep peacefully. If a naked man bathes, what will he wring out? There’s nothing to wring, nothing to dry.

Three women died and reached heaven. They were brought before Saint Peter. He asked the first, Did you ever have relations with another man? She said, What are you saying? Have you no shame? I’m a woman from the land of Sita-Savitri—how could I even think of another man! Saint Peter said to his assistant: Take her to the palace of gold. He asked the second: Did you ever have relations with another man? She said, Only once or twice—with our neighborhood seth Chandulal. Saint Peter said: Take her to the palace of diamonds and jewels. Then he turned to the third: Tell me, did you ever have relations with another man? She said: Forgive me—I won’t lie. Whoever came to me never went away empty-handed. The scriptures say there is no virtue greater than giving. Saint Peter said to his assistant: Take her to my room.

Your saints too would fold their hands to the Sati-Savitris—“Mother, please be taken away somewhere far!”—but they’ll welcome a real woman. This woman spoke truth: I will not lie—and what is greater than giving? And there is no greater offering than love.

Life should be a simple joy, a celebration. Why make it so heavy, so burdensome? I’m not saying act against your own spontaneous consciousness. If someone feels to love only one person for a lifetime—beautiful, very beautiful! But that feeling must be inner, not imposed from above, not out of compulsion. Otherwise he will take revenge on the very person he is tied to—he will harass her, express his anger on her.

I have been a guest in so many Indian homes. I am astonished—neither husbands are happy with wives, nor wives with husbands. Both are angry. And the irony is neither is clear why. The anger is because both have become obstacles in each other’s lives. Each blocks the other’s flow. Each spies on the other. Each is busy “improving” the other’s character. And remember: those who try to improve your character are never forgiven.

It seems, Shakuntala Parashar, you are obsessed with improving others’ character. Take care of your own. Light a lamp in your own life—that is enough. You have no right to improve another’s character. Each person is the owner of their own character. If I wish to spoil my own character, as long as I don’t harm another, no one has the right to stop me. Law and society may intervene only where I intrude on another’s life. But if I harm no one and live my freedom, why should anyone obstruct me?

The society we have lived in is one where everyone’s neck is in everyone else’s hands. Let someone step out of line and the whole society descends on him. A slight transgression and—boycott! We have never granted personhood to the individual. We have stolen it—reduced him to a dead limb of society. Naturally, we remained slaves for two thousand years. No one else is responsible. Where there are no individuals, who will proclaim freedom? Where there is no taste of freedom, what difficulty is there in living in bondage? The man who accepts the bondage of his wife, the woman who accepts the bondage of her husband—what difference does it make who sits on the throne in Delhi—Mughal, Turk, Hun, Englishman? Anyone can sit! He knows he has to live a life of slavery anyway. So what difference does another master make? Let someone sit in Delhi—what does it matter!

That is why India was never ready for freedom. Even today it is not. You became free—not through your own qualities but because of global shifts. Otherwise, even now you are not free. And even today if someone wants to enslave you, you will readily agree—because slavery has sunk deep into your roots.

Where husbands tuck their tails between their legs upon entering the house, where wives tremble at the sight of their husbands, where children fear their parents and parents fear their children—where fear pervades—how can character be born there? Character needs the soil of freedom.

And I see no danger in Western fashions. What is there in them that corrupts character? If character can be corrupted by fashion, it is worth two pennies. If my character can be ruined by my clothes, then clearly the clothes are more valuable than my character.

A woman told me she went to Holland to attend a Krishnamurti camp and returned without attending. I asked, What happened? She said, The very evening before the camp, I saw Krishnamurti in a shop buying a tie. Now, this jars a bit—like finding Mahavira buying a tie, or eating fritters at a street stall! Or Buddha standing in a cinema queue buying tickets! For her, the matter ended—she didn’t attend the camp. She thought the tie had corrupted his character!

In India Krishnamurti wears kurta-dhoti—appropriate here. But in England if you wear that, your teeth will chatter—you won’t be able to speak! There he wears a suit. In cold countries a tie is practical. Those who wear ties in India are donkeys—first-class donkeys! In this heat! A tie means no air should enter even from the neck. Socks below, tight shoes; a noose at the neck—so no air can enter. These are educated bumpkins in India.

Krishnamurti dresses according to the country and the need. I call this the conduct of an awakened man. I do not call Gandhi’s conduct awakened. He went to England in the same loincloth. Fine in Wardha’s heat—absurd in England’s cold. Krishnamurti is awakened: he sees the need and lives accordingly. Clothes are for life, not life for clothes.

But the sight struck that woman like poison—my god, the “avatar” is buying a tie! Her illusion shattered; she didn’t attend the camp. For her, the tie corrupted character.

What is your character if a tie can corrupt it? Then the tie is more valuable than your character.

In England, if you rise at Brahmamuhurt you’ll get double pneumonia. There you should get up later—let a bit of sun come out, if it ever does. Here in India fine—get up at three and sing Ramdhun. Truth is, the mosquitoes won’t let you sleep. They chant Ramdhun in your ears all night. Bedbugs conduct penance from below; mosquitoes from above. If anything remains, you get up at three and start Ramdhun—tormenting the neighborhood who were just about to sleep—and launch an akhand Ramayan recital.

What is your character? What do you call character?

Here, thousands of sannyasins from all over the world have been around me for six years. Not one foreign sannyasin has pinched or shoved a single Indian woman or pulled her sari or misbehaved. And these are the “characterless” people! In these six years how many Western women have been harassed by Indians—attempted rapes, near rapes, women left bleeding, clothes torn. Every kind of attack. If not by hand, then with a car—ram them with a car and go home pleased. Seeing this, it is clear where character lies. And you talk of character!

Think again—rethink. We must reconsider what we call character. We need new standards. I am engaged in that effort. That is why so many self-appointed guardians of character and society have become my enemies—they cannot prove me wrong; their only recourse is to silence me—cut off my voice, cut off my neck, throw me out of the country. Newspapers keep printing letters: why not expel this man from the country?

Me—alone. In a land with countless saints and sages—will one man corrupt the whole country’s character? And what will all your saints be doing? But you are afraid—because within you too it is becoming clear that the nonsense your saints preach can only impress those already hypnotized. Your saints have neither reason nor evidence. Your entire history is proof of your characterlessness—and nothing else. And you must drop the delusion that India is a religious country. The sooner it drops, the sooner India can become religious. I want to make India truly religious—but first the delusion must go. How can you treat a patient who insists, “I am healthy”? First you must help him see he is ill.

Mulla Nasruddin developed the delusion that he was dead. People tried to convince him: you’re not dead; you’re alive. He said, What are you saying! I’m dead. What proof is there that I’m alive? How will you prove to a man that he is alive? Corpses never asked for proof, so proofs were never needed. Finally they took him to a psychologist, who thought up a trick. He asked, Tell me: if a man is dead, and we cut him with a knife, will he bleed? Nasruddin said, Never. Only the living bleed. The psychologist was delighted: Aha, a rule! He took a knife and nicked Nasruddin’s hand. Blood flowed. He said, Now speak, sir—alive or dead? Nasruddin said, This only proves the old belief was wrong: the dead do bleed. Clear proof—what more do you want? I am a dead man; you nicked me; blood is flowing. The old saying was wrong.

If someone is stubborn that he is not ill, it is hard even to convince him he is ill. This country is similarly stubborn: “We are virtuous; we are religious; we are holy; the gods yearn to be born here.” This flatters our ego. We have nothing else to feed our ego. Only these hollow boasts remain. We sustain ourselves on them.

But the sooner these hollow boasts drop, the better. Why? Because we have the capacity to be religious. If you understand me, I will tell you: our capacity is the greatest on earth—because for five thousand years our field has lain fallow. Like a field left uncultivated for five thousand years, its fertility accumulates. Sow seeds today and such a crop will come as has never been seen.

India has not produced character for thousands of years. Therefore its fertility has accumulated; our energy has piled up. If today the right moment is created, we can dazzle the whole earth. So many lamps can be lit! So many flowers can bloom! But first drop the delusion that we are already religious.

Saint Maharaj! It is absolutely true. Ahmak Ahmadabadi had almost slipped—escaped by a hair’s breadth. He had decided to go to Kashi to be initiated by Karpatri Maharaj. I explained a lot to him, but he wouldn’t listen. So I said: Go, as you wish. If you insist on being a donkey, then be one.
By donkey I mean “seriously” religious. I don’t believe in seriousness, nor in the so‑called hollow religiosity. My approach to religion is new—laughing, dancing, jubilant, ecstatic. There is not a trace of seriousness in it. For me, religion is dance, music, poetry. For me, religion is a festival—Holi, Diwali.
I tried hard to explain, but he had his difficulty too. Ahmak Ahmadabadi’s wife died. He was very distressed by her death—so distressed that the idea of renunciation arose at once. In this country, that’s exactly when the idea of sannyas arises—when the wife dies, when one goes bankrupt, when one loses an election. Then it takes no time at all: head shaved, robe donned, sannyasin! He was adamant about going to Kashi. I told him there was no need to be so miserable. Think also: were you happy when your wife was alive? But he wouldn’t listen. If you were happy with your wife, I could understand your sorrow. But to be unhappy with her alive and unhappy without her—that logic is beyond me. Only one thought occurs: you have become addicted to sorrow. Your wife got you so used to misery that now she’s gone—she’s gone, but she’s left behind the habit. Owls die and leave offspring; she died and left behind the habit. Now your loneliness irks you. Now there’s no one left to make you miserable. Earlier you used to tell me, “If only I could get a little time alone.” Now there’s nothing but solitude, and it’s eating you.
I told him many jokes, tried to make him laugh. But he neither laughed nor listened. What Pragya asked yesterday—whether walls have ears—of course they do. But Ahmak Ahmadabadi’s ears do not! I explained a lot; he wouldn’t hear. Walls do have ears—proof you have seen. The day I said that it won’t be the Rolls-Royce that takes me to heaven, it will be Sant Maharaj—from that very day the Rolls stalled. For a whole year it hadn’t stalled. She’s an English lady—she got huffy! She said, “All right, let’s see who takes you to Lao Tzu!” From that day she hasn’t budged an inch. When even Bhondumal and Thothumal get entry into heaven, then the Rolls’ point is also fair: “Perhaps I won’t be allowed in—let Sant Maharaj take you now!” From that day I became convinced that walls have ears. When even cars have ears!
But man falls below cars. Man is so useless—no matter how much I explained to Ahmak, he didn’t understand. So I said, Go to hell! Go to Kashi and become a sannyasin!
He left the next day in a huff. In the evening he stopped at a dharamshala, a pilgrims’ rest‑house. A little later a beggar and a beggar‑woman also came and lodged there; after them a washerman, searching for his lost donkey, arrived intending to spend the night; and finally a sugarcane seller came in with his canes and stayed there too. When it was quite late, the beggar and the beggar‑woman got into love play. It was dark, and as their lovemaking reached its peak, the beggar asked his beggar‑woman, “Are you enjoying it?” She, thrilled, said, “Aha, very much! I can see all three worlds!”
Hearing this, the washerman lying in the corner shouted, “Sister, just look whether my donkey is visible anywhere!” Startled—because she hadn’t realized others were around—the beggar‑woman quickly said to the beggar, “Quick, take it out, pull it out—hurry!”
Hearing that, the sugarcane seller shouted, “You rascals—whoever pulls out a cane, I’ll break his hands and legs!”
At this, even Ahmak Ahmadabadi burst into laughter and thought, “Now what’s the point of going to Kashi to become a sannyasin? Better to go back to the Master and become his sannyasin!” So he returned. Now he is my sannyasin. He is present here. I have changed his name so that not everyone recognizes him. “Ahmak Ahmadabadi”—that is a private name between him and me, for when we meet alone. Otherwise I have given him a very beautiful name—do your search. Ah, what does a seeker not find! Those who seek, find—they dive into the deep waters!
That’s all for today.