Bahuri Na Aiso Daon #9

Ramdas Gulati! The mistake is at the very root. If my ideas match your ideas, then I should be asking whether I can be of any use to you. You already possess enlightenment, it seems. You should be looking for disciples, not a master. And if you already have ideas, why are you busy matching them everywhere?

But this is the situation with many people, whether they say it or not. You’ve said it straight. You’re from Chandigarh, a Punjabi. You don’t know how to sugarcoat. No, what people mean is exactly what you’re saying; they just say it a little differently, with some camouflage. You’ve spoken the naked truth.

People have no relationship with truth; whatever matches their opinions, that they take to be truth. As if their opinions themselves are truth—beyond all doubt! As if they’ve already attained truth! Prejudices, conditionings, borrowed talk, second-hand knowledge—that’s what you call your ideas. If you are not even there as a presence, how can your ideas be yours? Have you ever reflected, is even a single idea truly yours? If you search and inquire, you’ll find all your ideas are borrowed, leftovers. One is from the Gita, another from the Quran, another from the Guru Granth Sahib. One from here, one from there—bricks from anywhere, stones from elsewhere, and you’ve patched together a motley heap. And then you call this heap “my ideas”!

Thoughts are never original; they cannot be. Originality is not the mind’s nature. Originality belongs to meditation. Meditation means no-thought. And if you want to be in tune with me, it has to be in no-thought, not in thought. Is agreement of thoughts any real agreement? Today they match, tomorrow they won’t. One thing matches, the next won’t.

Many people fall in step with me—thinking their ideas match mine. But they can’t walk even two steps, because I’m not bound to any idea. So what I’ll say tomorrow cannot be decided today. It may be that tomorrow I say something that doesn’t match you—then the bond breaks, the divorce happens. While ideas match, we walk together; when they don’t, we part ways. Simple arithmetic.

There can be no bond with me through ideas. I am not a politician. A politician speaks after measuring your opinions. He speaks what matches you—careful that the match is never broken. He wants to exploit you. He wants followers and servants. I want neither followers nor servants. I want nothing. I have no work left to do. My work is complete. I am vītakām—beyond all craving; no tasks remain. Not merely niṣkām (desireless)—vītakām (beyond desire).

These three words are worth understanding:
- The realm of kām: “This to do, that to do; this to become, that to become.” A crowd of wants and cravings. Kāma means lust, thirst. Something is lacking and must be filled—though it never can be. The mind has no bottom. Pour in whatever you like; the mind never fills. Try filling water into a bottomless bucket—will it fill? The mind is just so; whatever you pour is lost, and the mind remains as empty as ever. And the time you spent trying to fill it is also gone. Thus day by day one grows more dejected. As age advances, hope breaks. Flowers don’t bloom; even the buds fall away. Leaves wither too. By old age one becomes a bare stump—of despair and frustration. Then, in that frustration, one may start remembering God, singing hymns and chants. It’s just a way to hide the defeat. They say, “He who is defeated takes to the Name of Hari.” Defeated you are; now how to hide the defeat? So you fix on God’s name. But defeat is not hidden that way. No one has ever won in the mind. In the mind there is only defeat. And the mind is entirely borrowed—a heap of trash you’ve collected.
- If your link with me is through mind, if this or that opinion happens to match, this friendship won’t last; two steps is a lot. Many have come and gone. They walked a few steps—so long as my words matched their opinions. But since I don’t care for their opinions, and have no eagerness to match them, I don’t want their ideas to match me. I want them to be free of ideas. Why strengthen their ideas by matching them? Matching only gives them more power, nourishment, support.
- Perhaps this is what pleased you. One of my statements happened to match one of yours—pure coincidence. So many people sit here; someone’s idea will match something sometime. The ego feels very gratified: “Ah, what a seeker I am! I already knew it; now it’s confirmed.” As if knowing still needs “confirmation”! One more support gained, one more prop. As if truth needs props! Props are needed by untruth.
That’s why thoughts demand argument, seek props, ask for scriptural support. But truth asks for no support. Truth can stand on its own feet. It needs no crutches.

The world of thought is the world of kām. Those who connect with me through thought are not truly connected—there is a misunderstanding, a deception.

Above kām there is another realm—niṣkām. Niṣkām is exactly the opposite. In kām there is a rush of craving; in niṣkām there is a rush in the opposite direction—against craving. But the rush is still there. Kāma is attachment; niṣkām becomes vītarāg—disattachment, vairagya, indifference, renunciation. Kāma is the world; niṣkām is leaving the world. But beyond both there is a third realm—vītakām. Neither desire remains, nor “non-desire.” I have nothing to accomplish, nor any fear that something might remain unaccomplished. I am neither eager for the world nor non-eager. This breath that went out—if it doesn’t return, I am content; if it returns, I am content. If it comes, good; if it doesn’t, good. Nothing of mine is unfinished. I need no one’s cooperation or support.

And when flowers themselves deceive so much, who can trust thorns! When supports betray so often, who can trust supports! The real joy is in being supportless. And if you must ask for support, ask it of the divine—why ask it of man? Man himself is supportless; how can he support anyone?

So I have no work left to be done. As long as I am here, I will sing the song of delight and ecstasy. Till the last moment the flute will keep playing—sometimes in words, sometimes in silence. Whoever wants to drink, drink. Don’t talk of tasks and duties. Talk of drinking, of living.

But you are stuffed with ideas, and you are seeking a prop for them. My effort here is exactly the opposite. I want your ideas to end, because whatever I have found, I found in freedom from thought. When thought dissolved into zero, life became whole. If no-thought flowers, then a true connection with me arises. Two zeros can meet; two persons cannot. If two persons meet, there will be clatter—like two pots placed side by side. Two zeros can meet. And the beauty is: when two zeros meet, only one zero remains—not two. Even if fifty zeros meet, there is only one zero. The meeting of zeros is what I call sangha, a commune. My sannyasins who are meeting me are meeting by becoming zero. In this sangha of sannyasins, not many “join” as separate ones. It is like rivers meeting the ocean—they dissolve; few remain as separate. Ganga drops her “Ganga-ness,” Yamuna drops her “Yamuna-ness.” All merge into the ocean’s one taste; all become salty.

If you want to be with me, join in emptiness. But to join in emptiness takes great courage. As yet you are not even a sannyasin. What sannyas, for heaven’s sake...

You say, “Your ideas match my ideas.”

Now what should I do—take sannyas from you? You seem more important; your ideas seem more important. It is my good fortune that my ideas match yours.

When the servant arrived at eight, the master, angry, said: I told you to set the alarm for six before going to sleep—how did you get so late?

The servant replied: Sir, there are seven people in my house. I set the alarm for six; the other six woke up on time. I alone was left. Now tell me—what is my fault?

He set the alarm for six, so six got up. How was the seventh to rise?

You are hearing something entirely different. What you have said makes it obvious. You have needlessly exposed yourself—needlessly made yourself naked.

In her mother’s absence, twelve-year-old Farida had to make tea for the guests. A guest said: Hey, Nasruddin, the tea made by your daughter is a real treat.

Peeking from behind the door, Farida said: Uncle, if the cat hadn’t peed in the milk, it would have been even tastier.

Drop these childish things. Bring a little maturity. But children have this habit. Even when a small child is walking holding his father’s hand, he thinks it is the father who is holding his hand.

Eight-year-old Hari was traveling to Delhi with his father. His father went to make inquiries about reservations and took a very long time. Hari got scared that perhaps he had gotten lost. After thinking it over, he found a solution. He went to the inquiry counter and handed in a note for a loudspeaker announcement: Hari’s father, Mr. Devakrishna, is lost. He is wearing white trousers and a blue bush shirt. There is very little hair on his forehead and his four upper front teeth are missing. Whoever finds him is requested to bring him to his son at the inquiry counter.

He himself isn’t lost—the father is! He is the one lost, yet he thinks the father is lost. Children have their own ways of thinking. Children can be forgiven. But you are not a child.

My whole work is to slowly pull out your thoughts one by one—brick by brick—so that this house of your mind collapses, is leveled to the ground. Then what remains—emptiness, sky free of walls—that is you. Tat tvam asi! The meeting is with that, because that is what I am. That is this whole existence. Right now you have got it all wrong. The conclusion you have drawn is so dangerous that the sooner you wake up the better; otherwise you will soon become my enemy.

To be my enemy is very easy; to be my friend is very difficult, because to be my friend one has to lose the ego. That is why I end up creating so many enemies for no reason. I don’t want to, but it happens—because they are not ready to lose the ego. They wanted me to nourish their ego, to adorn it a little more, to decorate it, to dress it in new clothes, to give it a little youth, a little longevity, my blessing, to hoist it higher on the throne of victory, to tie a peacock-feather crown upon it—then they would have been pleased with me, would have been my friends.

So many people have come with me. When these twenty years are rightly understood, there will be amazement. Thousands came and went. They came for different reasons, but they all left for the same reason.

There was a large group of Jains with me, because they felt that my thoughts matched theirs. Then that group thinned. The few Jains who remained were precisely those who had not thought in that way; they were connected with my emptiness, they had made no alliance with my thought; to be with me, they had dropped their own ideas rather than nourished them. A few—meaning those who were ready not to be, who were ready even to wipe away their very being-Jain—stayed with me; the rest became enemies.

There was a great crowd of Gandhians with me. They walked a little way, as long as they felt my ideas matched theirs. The moment I said a few things, they were shocked, frightened, uneasy—and became enemies. Vedantins were with me. As long as it seemed I was speaking Vedanta, they stayed. As soon as it felt that this had gone a little beyond, had become something else—they fled, became enemies.

Many kinds of people were with me—socialists, communists. But a few people kept on staying, and they stayed for one reason alone. Those who left had come for different reasons, left for different reasons; they had their various ideas—sometimes they matched and they joined, sometimes they didn’t and they became enemies. But those who stayed, stayed for one reason only: they were willing to erase themselves.

This is a congregation of the dissolving ones. This is a world of drunkards. You seem very sober. You are doing arithmetic. You are thinking: “Good—this is exactly what I thought; this is exactly what I thought. So I was thinking perfectly. So I am a perfectly right man.” You are heading for trouble.

Chandulal said to his friend, “Hey idiot, you were against second marriage—then how did you get married?”

Ahmaq Ahmadabadi replied, “Chandulal, you didn’t understand. I found a girl exactly of my ideas—she too was against second marriage!”

This matching of ideas can prove dangerous. Be a little cautious with it, or you will waste your life for nothing. What are thoughts anyway? Bubbles of water, lines drawn on water. Most people waste their lives in thoughts.

Life is as if some storm has gathered;
All around, the paraphernalia of death is arrayed day and night.
People keep on living, but have not even the art of living—
Where shall we go, whom shall we seek who will tell us the secret of life?

And I am telling you the secret of life—but will you listen? You are already a pundit, a knower. A pundit and a Punjabi—you are in big trouble!

Life is as if some storm has gathered;
All around, the paraphernalia of death is arrayed day and night.
People keep on living, but have not even the art of living—
Where shall we go, whom shall we seek who will tell us the secret of life?

The stench of past memories chokes the breath—
How can a breeze move in this room filled with rot?
Eyes do not open, battered by the smoke of dreams;
One cannot see one’s own hand—what can the sun do?

In the daytime commotion the time passes;
The emptiness of the heart pricks a little late at night.
We have heard, of course, from preachers the answers of the prophets;
We are the fools that not even a single question gets resolved.

All the contrivances of instruction and counsel fail—
How can the self be deceived by this babble of words?
Confusions keep increasing here every day;
Who has the leisure to ever reflect upon oneself?

Life is hard here, death very cheap—
Unbought, it suddenly throws its arms around your neck.
Under the burdens of sorrow the back keeps bending;
It seems the breath will break under this very mountain.

Life is as if some storm has gathered;
All around, the paraphernalia of death is arrayed day and night.
People keep on living, but have not even the art of living—
Where shall we go, whom shall we seek who will tell us the secret of life?

By a fortunate coincidence you have been brought to a place where you can understand the secret of life. But the condition has to be fulfilled. There is only one condition—call it small, call it great: listen in a state of no-thought.

I am not giving you thoughts. I am not a thinker. I am not a philosopher expounding some philosophy of life. I am giving you the alchemy of being free of the mind. And you—you're busy misunderstanding everything.

Ahmaq Ahmadabadi said to Chandulal, “Brother, the flies in your house are very annoying. I shoo them away again and again, yet they come and sit right on my nose.”

Chandulal said, “I too am very troubled by their habit. Whatever dirty thing they see, that is exactly where they sit.”

Thoughts are like flies. They settle on strange, filthy things. They keep buzzing—buzz, buzz—inside. It is in this buzzing that you are going insane.

Ramdas Gulati, drop this buzzing. Drop these flies. Wake up—you have slept long enough in these dreams. Now let us journey into the void. Come, sit—in the boat of emptiness! Then there will be the meeting. Then the great union—one that never breaks again.

Kailash Kothari! Ram is Ram, Krishna is Krishna, Buddha is Buddha, and I am I. Neither are they of my category, nor am I of theirs. In this world no two persons are ever the same—so how will there be categories? Are you talking about objects or about people? And these are no ordinary people either! These are the flower among flowers! Do such beings come in categories? Has there ever been another like Ram?

Do you think Ram and Krishna belong to the same category? Do you see any harmony between Ram and Krishna? Ram is maryada purushottam—the supreme exemplar of propriety—placing each step with utmost caution. Obedient—utterly obedient. Traditional, conformist. His doddering old father sent him to the forest for fourteen years, and he went—even without asking why, for what reason! And the father was certainly doddering. Whenever old men marry young women, trouble follows. Ram’s father married a young woman; then whatever she demanded had to be granted. In any case, every husband has to concede—but the older the husband, the more he must. She extracted a perfectly absurd, inconsistent, unjust demand: send Ram into exile for fourteen years. And Dashrath could not even ask, “What sense does this make?” Well, let’s say Dashrath couldn’t—fine. But Ram! There is no rebellion in Ram at all. Ram is pure “Yes, sir!” There is no revolution in him—no spark of revolt. Utterly obedient—downright a blockhead.

Even if I were of Ram’s category, I would refuse it. I couldn’t sit with him. We would not get along. If my father had told me, “Go to the forest for fourteen years”—forget fourteen years—even for fourteen minutes, it would not have been easy. I will do only what feels right to me. I cannot act even an inch contrary to my experience, to my awareness—no matter who says otherwise: father, tradition, scripture, priest or pundit.

Priests and pundits, of course, are delighted with Ram. That’s why, for me, Ram has no stature as God; yet priests and pundits have made Ram synonymous with God. The word Ram became a synonym for God. The word Krishna did not. Remember that. The word Buddha did not. In this country no other name became synonymous with God. Ram became synonymous: say “Ram” and you’ve said “God.” Chant “Ram” and you chant “God.” Ram means Allah. Ram means Khuda.

Why did priests and pundits hoist Ram’s name so high? There is a reason: Ram is past-oriented. It isn’t only that he obeyed his father—obeying the father is a symbol. To obey the father means to obey the past—the bygone, the dead, the decayed. To worship the past… obeying the father is only a symbol! Father means the past. And whoever bows to the past will bow to the priest as well.

What foolish, mindless things Ram accepted! The priests said, “Melt lead and pour it into this shudra’s ears, because Manu-smriti says if a shudra hears the Veda, you should pour molten lead into his ears.” Ram did it. I could never do that. Molten lead aside—I could not pour even water into a shudra’s ears. How could I be in Ram’s category? I am free of tradition—a rebel against tradition. What have I to do with Ram? I am not even willing to accept Ram as God.

The day this country becomes free of Ram, there will be revolution here—before that, there cannot be. Because behind Ram’s façade, the pundit hides, the priest hides—all the vested interests of this country hide. They begin teaching children from the start, “Be like Ram—see what propriety, how he obeyed his father!” I give no value to such things. Who sings the praises of obedience so loudly? Only those who don’t want any transformation in society.

I am a rebel. I want to see this life transformed. Man has lived long enough in misery, long enough in hell. This earth can become a paradise.

So I am not of Ram’s category. Nor of Krishna’s, because Krishna is full of politics. Politics has nothing to do with my life. Krishna has no hesitation in cheating either. Krishna is opportunistic—ready to do whatever the occasion demands. What harmony can there be between his life and mine? Krishna fled from the battlefield—that’s why one of his names became Ranchooddasji. We are clever at giving nice names—didn’t call him “deserter,” we called him Ranchooddasji. And Krishna proved himself dishonest as well. He vowed not to lift a weapon in the war, and he lifted one—he broke his word. Words have no value to him—just like politicians: now this, now that. Who knows what they say, what they do. Krishna carried off who knows whose women—accumulated sixteen thousand of them! I have no relish for such things.

I am also not fully in agreement with Krishna’s Gita, because fundamentally it is a message of violence—not of love, not of peace. And the Gita is full of inconsistencies and contradictions—because the effort is to somehow assimilate all the then-prevailing notions of religion. Politicians always do this. Gandhi too was busy doing exactly that. That’s why he called the Gita “Mother.” Of course he would call her Gita-mata, because he was engaged in the same hocus-pocus: “Allah-Ishwar tere naam, sabko sanmati de Bhagwan.” Not that he cared for Allah, or for Ishwar. Not that he really wanted everyone to gain right understanding. The point was something else entirely: to keep India from being divided.

A politician always wants a big country; he is uneasy with small ones. The smaller the country, the smaller his politics—more limited his game.

Gandhi was also a great devotee of Ram. Even at the last moment, when the bullet struck, “Hey Ram” came from his lips. And yet he spoke of the so-called “Harijans.” But Gandhi was the very reason the Harijans were kept within the Hindu fold. Harijans should long ago have freed themselves from the Hindus. Why remain with people who, besides oppressing you, have done nothing for you? Those scoundrels who pressed your chest for five thousand years—why stay with them? Break away, move away! But Gandhi tried by every means to keep the Harijans, even giving them a sweet name—“Harijan.” “Untouchable,” “shudra” sounded ugly—so he gave a nicer label. “Stay on.” He tried every persuasion to keep them. Gandhi kept trying to get them entry into the very temples that made the lives of Harijans unbearable.

If someone told me “Harijans should be given temple entry,” I would say: even if the Brahmins touch their feet and say, “Come to our temples,” they should not go. These temples are symbols of slavery. They symbolize the oppression of these very people. They are built with the mortar of their blood. They should not set foot in these temples—not even go to spit there. But Gandhi’s whole life-effort was just this. His disciple Vinoba’s effort too: grant Harijans entry into temples. Whose temples are these? Meaning: don’t let Harijans go outside the Hindu enclosure, otherwise numbers will drop and politics will weaken. Keep the Harijan also; stop Pakistan too from forming. Therefore, speak nice religious words, hold bhajans and kirtans.

What have Krishna and I to do with each other? Buddha lived twenty-five hundred years ago. Do you think man is the same as he was twenty-five hundred years back? I have come twenty-five hundred years after Buddha. In these two and a half millennia man has evolved—immensely! Buddha was afraid to give ordination to women, while I have entrusted the whole sangha into the hands of women. For years Buddha refused to ordain women; he feared, “If women enter the sangha, my religion will perish.” What kind of religion is that, which gets ruined by the inclusion of women? A very weak religion indeed—destroyed by women! It seems Buddha was still afraid of Yashodhara—even then! They say the scalded one blows on buttermilk. Who knows how much Yashodhara had tormented him that such fear remained! Buddhahood came, enlightenment arrived, yet the fear of Yashodhara didn’t go. He refused women: “We won’t include them.” And when he did, he did it under compulsion. Buddha’s mother had died at his birth. His stepmother raised him. When the stepmother came to take sannyas, Buddha could not refuse. She who had raised him, nurtured him, loved him more than even a real mother could—how could he say no? He could not refuse—he had to accept. And once the mother was accepted, naturally the door opened for other women as well. So on the day he initiated his mother, Buddha declared: “My religion would have lasted five thousand years; now it will last only five hundred—because women have been included—now everything will be corrupted.”

How can you place me in Buddha’s category? Buddha told his monks when they went traveling: “If you meet a woman on the way, don’t look.” Where could I find any harmony with that? I would say: if you meet a woman on the way, look your fill—so you won’t have to keep turning back to look again. If needed, walk a little way alongside her. Walk along a little, look properly—so she won’t haunt your dreams, won’t keep troubling you later.

Buddha said: don’t look at women at all. He told his monks to keep their eyes no more than four feet ahead, to fix their gaze on the ground. “No bamboo, no flute”—if you only look four feet ahead, how will you ever see a woman! You won’t see her at all.

Ananda used to question Buddha. Humanity owes Ananda a great debt, because he asked questions that, had he not asked, we might never have known Buddha’s answers. Ananda said, “Bhagwan, it could happen—one may have to look. There could be a situation where one must look.”

In truth, I will ask: until you see whether it’s a man or a woman, how will you even decide “don’t look at women”? First you will have to look to see who it is: man or woman? If it’s a woman, don’t look. But the looking has already happened. Now close your eyes, squeeze them tight, bind a cloth over them—but you have already seen! Or else say, “Don’t look at anyone at all—woman or man, donkey or horse, elephant or camel—don’t look at anything!” That would be consistent. When you say “don’t look at women,” then you must first discriminate: is it a horse, a mule, an elephant, a man, or a woman? One time you will have to look. Then you may lower your eyes, close your eyes—even gouge them out!

So I say: until you have seen the woman, the question of “not seeing” doesn’t arise. And once you have seen her, what is the point of pretending not to see! Better look—look your fill. Finish it properly. If you look in a half-hearted way, the image will keep shimmering in your mind. And human imagination can make a woman more beautiful than any woman is in reality, and a man more beautiful than any real man. Imagination paints in rich colors. It creates rainbows where there is nothing. It brings blossoms where not even ash exists. It sets stars where there isn’t even darkness. It turns night into day. It turns dust into gold. Imagination is magic.

But Ananda asked: if in some situation one has to look, then what? Buddha said: then don’t touch. Even if you see—even by mistake—avert your eyes and pass by. But don’t touch.

On one hand you say the body is bone, flesh, marrow—what’s in it? On the other you say “don’t touch!” Don’t touch bone-flesh-marrow! On one side you say the body is an earthen doll; on the other you say don’t touch. The two statements contradict each other. If the body is an earthen doll, then touching or not touching is the same. You touch earth every day. You don’t avoid earth.

Buddha even told his monks: don’t wear shoes. If it were truly dangerous to touch earth, a Buddhist monk should never remove his shoes—whether while sleeping at night, eating—whatever he does, he should keep his shoes on. Because what if his feet touch earth! If earth is the substance of the woman’s body, then you should also be nervous about touching earth.

But no—these statements are rhetorical. They are for condemnation: “just dirt.” They are meant to frighten: “what is in a woman—bone, flesh, marrow, pus! And you touch that? Aren’t you ashamed?”

And what is in you? What is in your body? Your body is made from a woman’s body. Your body too is bone, flesh, marrow. And bone-flesh-marrow touching bone-flesh-marrow—who would object to that? Bone-flesh-marrow has come out of bone-flesh-marrow. Bone-flesh-marrow is bone-flesh-marrow—what’s there to be so upset about?

Buddha said: don’t touch. But Ananda was Ananda! He said: there could be situations where you must touch. Suppose some woman has fallen and you have to lift her; or forget “woman,” suppose a bhikkhuni falls into a pit—should you get her out or not? Touch or not?

Buddha said: if you must touch, then touch—but don’t speak. Do you see how chess moves are being played? Ananda advances a move, Buddha answers with his move: “Just don’t speak.” And Ananda said: there could also be a situation where one has to speak—one might have to ask, “Sister, how did you fall? Is your leg broken? Shall I take you to the hospital? Where is your house? What should I do, what not do? Will you be able to walk or should I carry you on my shoulder?” One may need to ask—and simply lifting her and running off without a word wouldn’t look right either. Others might catch you: “What’s going on? Did you push this woman yourself? Her bone is broken and you are running off without even a word! Didn’t even ask where the hurt is!” There is such a thing as decency, as courtesy.

So Ananda said: if one must ask something? Then Buddha made his final move: “Do whatever you must—but remember one thing: be mindful, be aware. Don’t lose your awareness.”

Where would you place me in Buddha’s category? I too say: be aware. But if awareness is there—then touch to your heart’s content! If there is awareness, what is there to fear? Then speak too, chatter too, touch too, dance too, sing as well! If there is awareness… Those instructions were all right for those who lacked awareness. And for those without awareness—even if they don’t look—what will happen? Even if they “escape,” what will happen?

I say: awareness is sufficient. And this is the right occasion to cultivate awareness. Where else will you cultivate it? Where is the challenge for it? Where there is challenge, there lies the opportunity for mastery.

I am twenty-five hundred years after Buddha—how can I be of the same category? There is no way.

And you say—Mahavira! How will you align me with Mahavira? It’s impossible. Mahavira believes in tormenting the body—in suppressing it, afflicting it, wasting it away. I am not the body’s enemy. I see the body as a temple. I say: love the body; the body is a gift of the divine, not the fruit of sin. Keep the body healthy, beautiful—adorn it. Mahavira is a great enemy of the body. He says: starve, fast, do austerities. I trust in right nourishment. Don’t eat too much, don’t eat too little—both are enmity to the body. Overeat, and you harm the body; undereat, and you harm the body. Eat as much as the body needs—no less, no more. Sleep as much as the body needs.

Mahavira is an ascetic. I am not in favor of asceticism. I see asceticism as a form of violence. Some torture others; some torture themselves. There are two kinds of tormentors in the world. Those who torture others are at least better than those who torture themselves—because when you torture another, at least the other has some means of self-defense. If you wield the sword, he can raise a shield; he can run; he can draw his own sword. But if you torture yourself, there is no way to defend yourself. When the protector himself becomes the predator, then you are in real trouble.

Mahavira plucks out his hair. I see hair-plucking as a sign of madness. Often women in great anger pull at their hair. When you are very angry, you too feel like tearing it out. That is in anger, derangement. But Mahavira plucks his hair—why? Because a razor is a scientific tool! The extremes we reach—razor and “scientific instrument”! Then go ahead and grind down iron at home and make a razor—what else will you do? But plucking hair! That is part of Mahavira’s asceticism. Going naked—in the sun, in the cold! How will you place me in Mahavira’s category?

And Mahavira says: the world is suffering, one must be free from the cycle of birth and death. I say: the world is joy, and it is God’s grace that he has gifted you the world. Here, in this very world, the flower of sannyas must bloom. Mahavira advocates renouncing the world. I advocate living it—in its totality, in celebration, with gratitude. How will you place me in Mahavira’s category?

Jesus says: I am the son of God. For me there is no such person as God—so the question of his son does not arise. If there is no father, how can there be a son? For me, God is not a person—Godliness is. This whole existence is suffused with godliness—and all are its children. Jesus says: I am God’s only begotten son. What a statement! “Only begotten”—then what happened? Did the mother die? Did the father die? Did they get divorced? Or did they start practicing birth control? What happened? And in all eternity he produced just one son—and this is the omnipotent God! Any Indian can beat him. Indians appear more potent than he—ribs sticking out perhaps, but they can produce ten or twelve children all the same. Is anyone in India surprised if you produce less than a dozen? No wonder gods are eager to be born in India! Where else would anyone allow them to be born? Only here can they be born, because here there are no checks, no barriers. And God produced one son—and done. And the matter is worse: at least God produced one son; Jesus produced none. “Old Kabir’s lineage, and he begot Kamal!”—at least he begot Kamal! Jesus didn’t beget even one! He could at least have begotten one—so the line would continue; otherwise the line ends.

What Jesus said made sense in Jerusalem two thousand years ago. The Jews believed in a single God as a person. And they believed that God’s son would come.

Jesus ate meat; I do not. Jesus drank wine; I do not. How will you place me in Jesus’s category—by what measure? There is no way to fit me into his category. Jesus is of his own category.

Mohammed spent his whole life fighting with the sword. His life was spent in fighting: struggle, conflict, jihad, holy war. I don’t see fighting with swords as any great art. It is a very low-level fight. When one can fight with ideas and sharpen the blades of thought, why take up the sword? Taking up the sword is a sign of weakness. When we can fight with ideas, when we can win with ideas, why pick up a sword? The man who picks up the sword is the one who finds he cannot win with ideas—then he picks up the sword. For some people there is only one argument—the sword. They know no other argument.

And that habit of Mohammed has not left the Muslims; even now it hasn’t. They still accept only one argument—the sword. And whoever wins with the sword—his idea was true. What a joke! Can truth be decided by the sword? Then Jesus, who was crucified—their ideas were false? Then Socrates, who was poisoned—his ideas were false? Those who poisoned him had the true ideas, and those who crucified had the true ideas?

Mohammed, Jesus, Mahavira, Buddha, Krishna, Ram—each is their own kind. Why should I be included in anyone’s category? I am not keen on standing in any queue. I am of my own category.

Kailash Kothari, what futile questions you ask! I am not saying I am above them and they are below me—or they are above me and I am below. I hold that on this earth no one is high and no one is low. Not only Ram, Krishna and Buddha are neither high nor low—peacocks and deer and roses also I do not place above or below myself. This whole existence is one. There is no “other” here, so how can anyone be higher or lower? If there is any difference among people, it is only this: some are asleep—that’s their choice, they have the right to sleep. Some are awake—that’s their choice; they don’t want to sleep, they have awakened. In the world there is only this much difference: sleepers and the awakened. But there is no higher or lower among them. I do not place even the ignorant below the buddhas—because the innermost core of both is the same. What is going on outside is only a drama—someone is playing Ram, someone Ravan. Behind the curtain, after the curtain falls, Ram and Ravan sit together, drink tea, and gossip.

In my village there used to be a Ramleela. My special interest was not in the performance onstage, but behind the scenes—where the actors prepare, get dressed, step onstage, then go back in. I would somehow sneak backstage. Many times the Ramleela manager would tell me, “What are you doing here? The whole world is outside watching. What are you watching here?”

I said, “Let me watch here, because here I see the most marvelous things! Here I see Mother Sita smoking a beedi—which I have never seen out there. This is the essence, which will come in handy—and it is coming in handy, even now. Here I see Lord Ram and Ravan with arms around each other’s shoulders—which never appears out there. Here I’ve seen Hanumanji give Ramchandraji a slap—‘To hell with you!’—and Ramchandraji could do nothing. Out there, the same Hanumanji sits with tail tucked in, cross-legged at Ramchandraji’s feet: ‘Yes sir, your command!’ And backstage he gave such a slap! Because the one who played Hanumanji was the village wrestler—a ruffian. Who else but a seasoned ruffian would play Hanumanji! His face too resembled a monkey’s. And Ramchandraji was a mere lad of fifteen or sixteen—Hanumanji could destroy him if he misbehaved—fix him in a way he would remember for life never to play Ram again.”

The play I saw backstage was the real one. The play out front was fake.

This whole world is a great stage where many dramas are running. Behind the onstage roles is one single essence—one paramatma. The same essence at times stands holding the bow in Ram, at times plays the flute in Krishna, at times sits in silent meditation in Buddha, at times practices naked austerity in Mahavira, at times hangs on the cross in Jesus, at times takes the sword in hand with Mohammed to “defend the religion.” But all of it is play—roles.

If you divide into categories, each person is a category unto himself.

And you say: “Please dispel my doubts.”

How can I dispel your doubts? Become free of mind, and you will be free of doubt. As long as mind remains, doubts will arise. In the mind, doubts sprout like leaves on trees—one thing gives rise to another. The mind is full of prejudices. Now if you are a devotee of Ram, you’ll feel hurt. If you are a devotee of Krishna, you will feel hurt. If you are a devotee of Buddha, you will feel hurt.

I am no one’s devotee. I love whatever is unique in all these people. But what is not unique—what does not strike me as unique—I say plainly that it is not unique, it does not appeal to me. I have not made anyone my object of worship. I have no object of worship—neither Ram, nor Krishna, nor Mohammed, nor Buddha, nor Mahavira. What was beautiful in Mahavira—I have spoken on that. What was not beautiful—I have not spoken yet; if needed, I will. The day is approaching when perhaps I must. What is beautiful in Buddha, I have spoken—but there is much that is not beautiful; if needed, I’ll put a razor’s edge on that as well. I am preparing. Let those people gather whom I want—those who can understand me—then I will certainly speak the other side too. I won’t leave without saying it. Because so far only one side has been presented: I spoke what was beautiful in the Gita—but there is much that is not beautiful. And a misunderstanding could arise—you might think everything is beautiful. Not everything is beautiful. If it were, the Gita would become a scripture of worship for me—but I have no scripture of worship. There is much that is un-beautiful, which I have not spoken because people are not yet ready to hear it. Even speaking of what I find beautiful causes trouble—because even my sense of beauty is different. And when I expose their ugliness—then surely there will be an uproar, a serious uproar. Before that uproar, I want people to be ready. That’s why I wait. The hour will come soon.

I want to place both sides before you. No one has done this till now. Enemies spoke of what was wrong. Devotees spoke of what was right. I am neither anyone’s enemy nor anyone’s devotee. I am a witness. I want to tell the whole thing. So what is lovable in Mohammed I will say—and what is unlovable I will also say. I want to lay the whole matter open.

I am in no one’s category. Don’t take this to mean I am saying I am above them. I am saying only this: here no one ever fits into anyone else’s category. You too are in no one’s category. You are you, I am I. And it is good that each person is himself.

But your prejudices must be troubling you. That is hidden in your question.

You ask: “Are you in the category of Ram, Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira, Jesus and Mohammed?”

You must have thought I would say, “Yes, I am in their category.” Then you would have a chance to say, “See, what an arrogant, vain man—claiming himself to be of the category of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna!” Now you are in a bind—because I said I am not of their category, nor are they of mine. Don’t expect my answers beforehand—because there is no telling about my answers. I am not a dependable man. You must have thought there are only two possible answers: either I will say, “Yes, I am of their category”—so you can go and trumpet, “Ah! What an arrogant, vain man!” Or I will say, “No, I am not of their category”—then you can ask, “Then why do people call you God? Why don’t you deny it?” Now I have put you in a real fix. I am not of their category, nor are they of mine. They are gods in their own way; I am a god in my own way. Gods of many kinds and flavors!

But you must have a prejudice among those four or five names—a favorite hidden there. You hid it among many names.

Why does doubt arise in you at all? And who I am—why should you doubt about that? Mind your own business: Who are you? That is what will ferry your boat across. Who I am, who I am not—what concern is that of yours? It should concern me. I should worry about it.

“Hey, tree!
How long have you stood like this,
What are you so stuck on?
Don’t your feet ache?
Isn’t your body tired?
Why stand so stiff,
Why be so guarded?
Come, we’ll take you for a stroll,
A little walk somewhere far,
If nothing else, at least
We’ll buy you a cup of coffee.
If you come along, you’ll sway—in a new breeze
You’ll hear something new,
Perhaps, with a free mind, you’ll hum it too.
Then, if you feel like it, come back here,
Or move on even further.
Oh, you’re so stubborn, come on now—
Why stick so much to the old?
Why be so wooden though conscious?”

But people just stand rooted like trees. And we are such strange folk—we are so enamored of being “rooted” that we even call moving things “gaadi” (as if “fixed”): “rail-gaadi,” “bail-gaadi” (bullock cart), “ghoda-gaadi” (horse-carriage)! You even call moving things “gaadi”! What attachment you have to being stuck! You yourselves stand rooted.

“Come, walk a bit with me,
If nothing else, at least
We’ll buy you a cup of coffee.
If you come along, you’ll sway—in a new breeze
You’ll hear something new,
Perhaps, with a free mind, you’ll hum it too,
And if you don’t like it,
Then come back here,
Or move on even further.”

But people are so clung to their opinions—even if those opinions are utterly foolish—even if there isn’t a shred of evidence for them—they are stuck.

In court, when asked why she wanted a divorce from her husband, Chandulal’s wife replied: “I’m convinced my husband is not faithful to me. And the clear proof is that not one of my sons resembles him.”

See what proof she offered!

An idiotic Ahmedabadi said to his wife, “I keep hearing the word ‘fool’ from your mouth. I hope you don’t mean me.”

The wife said, “What do you think you are? Are you the only fool in the world?”

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife said to me one day, “My husband is very compassionate. He cannot bear anyone’s suffering.”

I was a bit startled. I know Mulla well. I asked his wife, “Really? You surprise me. Do you have any examples?”

She said, “Oh, there’s no lack of examples! When I am chopping wood, he goes to the neighbors to gossip. He can’t bear anyone’s suffering. When I am scrubbing pots, he goes to the tavern. He can’t bear anyone’s suffering. Why, one day he himself was ill and I was chopping wood; he couldn’t go anywhere, so he lay there with his eyes closed. I asked, ‘Why have you closed your eyes?’ He said, ‘I cannot bear anyone’s suffering.’”

A man can find “proof” for anything he wants. And the mind is very cunning—finding proof takes no effort, no time.

One day I asked Mulla Nasruddin, “Mulla, you say that until a man’s time has come, no one can harm him. Then why do you carry a gun when you go out?”

Nasruddin said, “It may be that my time hasn’t come—but someone else’s time may have come!”

Think about yourself, Kailash Kothari. How will you dispel this doubt? And why the need to dispel it? What have you to do with Ram? What have you to do with Krishna? What have you to do with Buddha or Mahavira—or with me? Who I am—what will you gain by knowing that? Even if you know without doubt—what will you gain? Worry about who you are. Ask: Who am I?

There are only two possibilities: either you are asleep or you are awake. If you were awake, you wouldn’t ask. So it’s clear you are asleep. And how will a sleeping man understand Krishna, or Buddha, or Mahavira, or me? How will the sleeping man’s doubts be dispelled?

Awaken. With awakening, doubts dissolve. And that unprecedented happening of awakening has to occur within you—not within me. I am already awake. All my doubts are gone. Truth to tell, I never really asked anyone any questions. In childhood I would ask questions of the sadhus and saints who came to our village—but only to tease them, not for any other reason. Just to harass them.

For example, one “mahatma” would come to our village—he came regularly. He would give a lecture in the Ram temple. When anyone gave a lecture in the Ram temple, they wouldn’t let me in. They said, “Come any other time—the Ram temple is open to you twenty-four hours a day, but not when a lecture is on.” I would say, “But I have doubts.” The temple priest would say, “Brother, I know for sure you have no doubts at all. You just want to harass that poor fellow. We somehow brought the mahatma here, and I tell you frankly—before agreeing to come he asked, ‘Will that boy be there?’ They put conditions on us beforehand—what can we do?”

I would tell them, “If you don’t let me into the temple, I’ll create a commotion outside. I’ll tell people: what kind of mahatma is he who won’t clear my doubt! Whoever goes inside, I’ll tell him: ask the mahatma that the boy is standing outside—he has a doubt—and you won’t let him in. If you can’t dispel one boy’s doubt, what doubts of ours will you dispel!”

So, to avoid commotion, they would let me in. And the mahatma would get flustered the moment he saw me. I would sit right in front. He weighed every word—he knew if I caught any word, there would be trouble. One day he said, “The body is just earth.” I said, “Good! If I slap you two or four times, you won’t mind—will you? If the body is just earth, why get angry? Your mud, my mud—everyone’s mud is mud!”

He said, “What are you saying?”

I said, “What are you saying? You’ve created the ruckus. You say the body is mud. Then if mud is treated as mud, what objection is there?”

One day he said, “The world is maya—an illusion.” So I picked up his kamandalu and walked off. He shouted, “Hey! Where are you taking my kamandalu?”

I said, “You said the world is an illusion. What kamandalu? Who is taking what? When all is illusion! You yourself said everything is like a dream. Maharaj, you are dreaming about a kamandalu! And dreaming someone is taking it. In your dream you are muttering, ‘Where are you taking it…what kamandalu?’”

“Put my kamandalu down!” he shouted.

Others too said, “The boy is right. You yourself were explaining that the world is maya—he has proved it’s not!”

I would ask such questions. As for me, there was no doubt. I know perfectly well the kamandalu is real—certainly not maya. There is no such thing as maya. The world is real, the divine is real—both are two aspects of truth. Whoever denies either will land in trouble.

Is your “doubt” a doubt—or did you think you would put me in a bind? Understand one thing clearly: you cannot put me in a bind. I know every method of putting others in a bind—I have left none unpracticed. I have practiced them thoroughly. Truth be told, I have practiced nothing else my whole life. I tried them on schoolteachers, on college professors, on politicians in assemblies, on mahatmas in satsangs. I have practiced only one thing in life. No one can put me in a bind. Impossible.

When I first became a college professor, my principal told me, “Look, you’re new. The boys in this college are rascals.”

I said, “Don’t worry about them. I studied six years in college as a student and practiced such arts that I’ll make those boys drink water”—meaning, I’ll handle them.

He said, “What are you saying! They are real rascals—good for nothing but uproar.”

I said, “You relax. If they don’t soon come complaining to you: ‘What kind of teacher have you hired—he’s harassing us!’…”

And that is what happened. In two or four days, they came to him. “What’s going on? The boys are saying you bring pebbles in your pockets!”

I said, “Serving students is a teacher’s duty!”

From the first day I began my practice on them. Boys and girls sat separately. I said, “Come together.” The boys and girls were startled. I said, “If you sit so far apart, how will you pull braids? Neither the girls get fun, nor you, nor I. Come on, mix—like water in milk!”

They stared at each other: “What is happening!” Teachers usually act like constables—standing between: boys here, girls there. I said, “I won’t begin teaching until you mix.” The teacher’s work is to bring people together.

I forcibly got them to sit mixed. Now they sat all hunched and stiff. Usually they would throw notes. I said, “Where are your pebbles and your notes?”

A boy said, “Sir, what are you saying? I had brought pebbles in my pocket.” I said, “Here—take them. Without pebbles, what’s the fun! Throw pebbles! And I told the girls, “I’ve brought some for you too”—and from the other pocket I took out bigger pebbles. “You take these—crack a skull or two!”

They were terribly nervous: “What about studies?” A girl said, “Sir, studies…” I said, “Let studies go to hell! Do those who want to study come to college? I was in college six years—I never studied; nor will I let you.”

My rule in college was: first thing, “You’ve got five minutes—make noise, jump around, break desks, do whatever you like. I’ll watch the circus. Then we’ll begin the lesson. And if you don’t do something in these five minutes, remember: if you mess around later, there’s no worse devil than me. Anyone who wants to leave class can go at any time—no need to ask. No need to waste my time asking permission. My job is to teach—that’s what I’ll do, whether anyone stays or not.”

The principal called me: “The boys are saying you carry pebbles in your pockets!” I said, “Serving the needs of pupils is the teacher’s duty.”

The principal slapped his own forehead. “This is too much! You were right—they can’t trouble you. How could they!”

“Doubt,” you say, Kailash Kothari—these are not doubts; you are full of knowledge. You are displaying Indian-style humility: “Please dispel my doubts.” No—you are full of knowledge. We will dispel your knowledge. There is no doubt or anything of the sort. Does the truly ignorant man have doubts? The ignorant says, “I don’t know—what doubt can I have!”

Doubt belongs to the learned man, the pundit. Your erudition is bothering you. Because of your learning you must be having all sorts of questions. Stay here a few days. It will all be washed—it will all flow away. Here we scrub knowledge with such soap that until a person becomes utterly ignorant, we don’t stop. And once you become ignorant, then be sure: the one I have made ignorant—no “knower” on this earth can make him “learned” again.

Saint Maharaj! Do use a little of your own intelligence. No story is ever told in full, because some trust must also be placed in your imagination—that you, too, can think a bit. You could have figured out for yourself what would happen next. The matter was so clear.

My friend, what else could happen! What had to happen is exactly what happened. Saint Peter had barely dealt with those three women when three goddesses arrived. One had a white mouth-cloth tied over her face—she was a Jain nun. The second was a beautiful French model, and the third a Rajneesh sannyasin. Saint Peter first pointed toward the part below the French girl’s waist and asked, “What did you use this for?”

Preening, the beauty replied, “I used it to revel with my eight wedded husbands and about a hundred and fifty lovers. I also used it to earn money and gain worldwide fame as a model by having photographs taken in various poses.”

Saint Peter said to his assistant, “Take her and throw her into hell. There’s no room for mad people here.”

Hearing this, the Jain nun with the mouth-cloth became very pleased and began chanting the Namokar Mantra inwardly. Saint Peter asked the Rajneesh sannyasin the same question. She said, “I used my passion to move from sex to samadhi—through sex to superconsciousness!”

Peter ordered his assistant, “Escort Mother to liberation.”

When it was the Jain nun’s turn, Saint Peter pointed toward her and repeated the question. The nun said, “Sir, I used it only for urinating.”

Peter asked in surprise, “Are you telling the truth? You only urinated and did nothing else your whole life?”

Blushing, the nun replied, “How can I convince you? I only urinated, and never anything else. And I always urinated on dry ground as well, let me add.”

Saint Peter said to his assistant, “Send this woman back to India.”

The Jain nun asked, “Why—what’s the matter?”

Peter said, “Don’t talk nonsense—off with you. This is heaven, not a urinal.”

That’s all for today.