Bahutere Hain Ghat #2

Satyanand, first thing: there is a single word in the original that you either skipped in translation, or dodged, or mistranslated so that its meaning turned into non-meaning. Everything hinges on that word. The word is “Brahmin.” Ye tatra brāhmaṇāḥ sandarśino yuktā! Everything will depend on what “Brahmin” means.

But, Satyanand, I also understand your difficulty. If you take “Brahmin” to mean what I mean by it, the whole sutra totters. For me, Brahmin means one who knows Brahman—straightforward, clean, as clear as two plus two equals four. If someone knows Brahman, simply sitting near him will bring resolution. You will not even need to ask. Nor will you need to pattern your conduct after his. Nor will you need to follow his teaching. Just sitting near him, samadhi will happen. The art of sitting near such a one is satsang—it is samadhi. If his inner flame kindles yours, the Upanishadic flower will bloom within you too. Then you need not worry about the sutras of the Taittiriya Upanishad.

But the meaning of Brahmin in that sutra is not my meaning; it cannot be. Because one who knows Brahman would at least know this much: to live by another’s conduct is hypocrisy. How could a knower of Brahman not see that? Brāhmaṇāḥ sandarśino yuktā—one who has attained that Brahman-vision, whose eye has opened, to whom life’s truth stands revealed, in whom the sun has risen—how could he fail to see this? Impossible. He will never herd anyone along “according to precepts,” because it will be crystal clear to him that each person has a unique innermost nature, and another’s precepts will corrupt that uniqueness. He can only indicate—indicate, with very fluid hints, not solid rules. He draws lines on water: they appear and instantly vanish. If you catch them, you catch them; if you miss, you miss. His utterances are not lines carved on stone. No traditions are minted from his words. No copycat impostors are born out of his teachings.

Hypocrisy begins when one person starts walking according to another—becomes a prisoner of the rule-book. As if the jasmine wanted to become a rose. As if the rose wanted to become a lotus. Then begins the mischief, then hypocrisy, then madness. Jasmine cannot become a rose. Nor is there any need. If nature has made jasmine, then jasmine is needed; without it, existence would be incomplete. If existence were filled only with roses, even roses would lose their value. Jasmine is needed, champa is needed, lotus is needed, rose is needed. This diversity is Brahman’s multi-dimensional expression.

Brahman is not one-dimensional, not one line—he is like a sun from whom infinite rays pour forth, each ray unique and unrepeatable! Each with its own color, its own way, its own fragrance, its own personhood, its own privacy. Why should one ray follow another? A knower of Brahman will not say that. He will only point—not even preach, just point. And remember, even his pointing is not like iron chains; it is like garlands of flowers—gentle, fluid. Not that you must fit into his mold; rather, his indication bends to fit you.

Understand this distinction clearly.

Clothes exist for you; you do not exist for clothes. It is not that the clothes are tailored in advance and you must now be trimmed to fit them. If you are a bit tall, your hands and legs must be cut short; if you are a bit short, your limbs must be stretched longer. This is how man is dying—living for clothes. And who knows for whom those clothes were sewn, for whose lives those styles were made. Their height was different, their length different, their flow and form different. Ages have passed; how much water has flowed down the Ganges! Yet the world of the stupid still stands frozen—some at ten thousand years ago, some at five thousand, some at three thousand. And I tell you: even if your world is frozen a day ago, your life will be in crisis. Life is now, here, this very moment!

A knower of Brahman will never say: “Here are the principles; follow them, and if you deviate, you sin.” He will say: principles are for you; you are not for principles. The Brahmavetta proclaims the primacy of man, his freedom. Over the sanctity of human privacy he places nothing.

Chandidas has the famous declaration: “Manush satya—man is the highest truth; above it there is no other.” Manush satya sabar upar, tahar upar nahi! This is the proclamation of the knower: the truth of the human being is supreme; nothing stands above it.

You have been sacrificed like goats. You have been slain before stones; you have been hacked badly, your limbs shattered. Your hands have been cut off, your consciousness crippled, your legs broken—and in place of legs you have been handed crutches. Those who hand you crutches then say, “Behold our compassion, our mercy!” First they make you lame, then they give you crutches; first they blind you, then they hand you spectacles; first they burst your eardrums, then they donate hearing aids—great philanthropy!

Man exists for no scripture and no principle; all scriptures and all principles exist for man. And when necessary, cut the principles, prune the scriptures—but never offer yourself up on any altar.

If “Brahmin” meant this, I would agree. Perhaps that is why Satyanand left the word “Brahmin” out. He knows well what the word would mean in my hands—and then the sutra would not fit. I would choose the word Brahmin and consign the entire sutra to the fire. What have I to do with the whole sutra? But even the Taittiriya Upanishad does not intend what I intend. It says: brāhmaṇāḥ sandarśino yuktā ayuktā alūṣā dharma-kāmāḥ syuḥ, yathā te takra varteran tathā tatra varteṭhāḥ. Go to the Brahmin—when? “If ever you find yourself in doubt about your karma or conduct.”

When does doubt arise about karma and conduct? Only when karma and conduct are borrowed. If they arise from your own experience, your own prajna, your own knowing—what doubt? If they flow from your meditation, doubt is impossible, because meditation dawns only when doubt has dropped. Then where doubt? What doubt? When one walks in one’s own light, there is no doubt. In the last twenty-five or thirty years I have known no doubt. I even look for one, just one—don’t find it. I have looked from all sides, sifted through everything—no doubt appears.

It is like going out with a lamp to search for darkness—how will you find it? If the lamp is in your hand, how can darkness remain? When the inner lamp is lit, all inner darkness disappears. Doubt is darkness.

The sutra says: “If ever you find yourself in doubt about your karma or conduct...”

Which means karma and conduct are second-hand, stale. You have started walking by looking at someone else. Walk another’s gait and you will get into trouble. Make another’s life your ideal and you will be filled with doubt everywhere, because your privacy will rebel, will protest: What are you doing? Why are you committing suicide?

Following another is suicide. Leaping off a mountain and dying is only body-killing, not soul-killing. “Suicide” is not the right word for that. Drinking poison, cutting your throat—these are body-killings, not soul-killing. And does anyone die when the body dies? Na hanyate hanyamāne śarīre—Krishna says: No one dies. But if you make another’s conduct your foundation, that is soul-suicide. You will live, but on loan. Your legs will not be your own; you will walk on someone else’s legs. Your eyes will not be your own; you will see through someone else’s eyes. You will act, but within you there can be no trust that you are doing right or wrong—because the action has not arisen from within, from your own shraddha, your own knowing. Doubt arises only when you have draped yourself from the outside. You can cover yourself with a shawl embroidered with “Ram-naam” in the finest letters—what will it change? You will merely end up with “Speak the truth; the way is truth; Ram-naam is truth.” You’ve wrapped yourself in Ram’s name like a shroud. Ram must awaken within. Your own voice, your own song must be there. Then there is no doubt.

The sutra starts off wrong: “...doubt about karma or conduct...”

And the very cause of doubt is offered as the solution. You are sent right back to the source of the illness: “Go sit with some Brahmin.” And Brahmin here does not mean Brahman-knower; here it means Brahmin by birth—a parrot. One who from birth has been gulping down scriptures. The scriptures are his memory, his “hearing,” but not his insight, not his Buddhahood. He has heard and memorized.

The old languages had this advantage: they were easily memorizable—very musical, rhythmic. Sanskrit, Arabic—very easy to memorize because they have rhyme, cadence, meter. And they were sutra-ized—compressed into brief aphorisms—so anyone could memorize. Memory was taken for intelligence; so all the stress was on developing the art of memorization and you would be considered learned.

When Alexander was returning from India, he heard that a Brahmin possessed an original copy of the Rigveda. Alexander himself was not very eager about the Rigveda, but his teacher Aristotle was, and when Alexander left Athens Aristotle had said: Bring a few things back for me. If possible, bring a copy of the Rigveda—it is said to be the oldest scripture of the Hindus. And if possible, bring back a sannyasin if one agrees to come.

He tried both and failed both. He took much else—gold, silver, jewels—great loot, loaded on thousands of elephants and camels. But the two things Aristotle asked for, he could not get. He asked a sannyasin; the sannyasin laughed: “I am my own master. Who are you to command me? I live by my own say-so. Even if God commands me, I am not one to obey. I am a man of my own way, my own whim. Take this nonsense back!”

Alexander fumed. No one had spoken to him like that. He drew his sword: “Take your words back, otherwise I’ll cut off your head right now.”

The sannyasin laughed. Alexander’s chroniclers wrote his name as Dandamis—that sounds Greek; perhaps he was a dandi sannyasin, one who carries a staff. Whether he carried a staff or not, he was a man with a staff—a Kabir-like man to speak so to Alexander. As Kabir says: Kabira khada bazar mein, liye lukathi hath—Kabir stands in the marketplace with a torch in his hand: “Is there anyone with the guts to burn his house and come with me?” Whether or not he held a staff, he was a staff-man. He said to Alexander, “Don’t err! I won’t take my words back. What is given is given—do you take back gifts? As for cutting off my head—do it, right now! As for me, I cut it off long ago. The day I knew myself I saw the body is a corpse. What will you kill but a corpse? Kill it—you’ll enjoy killing, and I’ll enjoy watching. You will see the head being cut off, falling to the ground; I too will see. You will see from outside; I will see from inside. While the seer is present, what does it matter if the head is cut?”

Alexander felt ashamed, slid the sword back into the scabbard. The fakir said, “Now you put it back? Once drawn, a sword is not returned! I do not take back spoken words, and you return a drawn sword? Have some shame, some modesty!”

How can you kill such a man! He could not be killed. Alexander said, “Pardon me. I know no way to speak with sannyasins. You are the first I have met. I speak a soldier’s tongue; I understand the language of the sword. I have met emperors, cut necks, been ready to lose my own. That is what I know. Forgive me. I’ve not seen a man like you. Aristotle was right: it’s impossible a true sannyasin would agree to come. One who agrees wouldn’t be a sannyasin. I will have to return without one.”

Then he searched for the Rigveda. He heard of a Brahmin who had a copy. He surrounded the house so the Brahmin could not escape and demanded the book. Now see the difference between a sannyasin and a Brahmin! The Brahmin quaked: “I’ll give it, certainly.” Swords flashed like flames around the house; he fell to his knees: “I will give it, but there is a rule, a rite: before giving I must perform a night-long worship—a farewell. At sunrise I’ll present the book to you.”

Alexander thought: some ritual, some worship—let him do it. If not now, then in the morning. Where will he run with swords all around?

That night the Brahmin sat his son beside him, lit a fire, read out one page of the Rigveda after another, told his son, “Listen carefully, remember,” and as soon as one page was recited he threw it into the fire. By morning, when Alexander entered, the last page had been fed to the flames. Alexander was stunned. “What have you done?” The Brahmin said, “I will not break my promise. Take my son—he has the entire Rigveda by heart.”

Alexander could not believe that in one night, by a single hearing, such a vast text could be memorized. He summoned other Brahmins to test the boy—and found he had it all by heart.

Sanskrit, Arabic, Latin, Greek—all the old languages put great stress on memorization. Their insistence was memory, not insight. To “know” meant not realization, but that scriptures were memorized and could be repeated like a machine. Today scientists say the brain’s storage capacity is virtually unlimited. A single brain could memorize the entire contents of all the world’s libraries; such is its latent potential. However large a computer we invent, it cannot match the human brain—for the computer is the brain’s invention. The made can never be greater than the maker.

These were parrots. And because of such parrots karma and conduct are stuffed with doubt. Other parrots—caged elsewhere but the same kind—must have handed down that conduct, Satyanand; hence your doubts. And now the Taittiriya Upanishad sends you back to the very ones who gave you the disease: “Go to a thoughtful Brahmin.”

But a Brahmin, in my language, is one who is thought-free, not thoughtful. Only by going beyond thought does he know Brahman; only in no-thought does he know. Patanjali would agree with me, Mahavira would agree with me, Buddha would agree: one knows only by going beyond thought—thought is disturbance, distraction. In no-thought, in that void, the Full descends. Until you are void you cannot contain the Full. Only the limitless can host the limitless Guest. Shunya is our capacity; Purna is our fulfillment.

But the sutra says: “some thoughtful Brahmin...” One filled with the scrap of thought, repeating other parrots—perhaps a more skillful parrot than you, more learned, having swallowed more scripture—will hand you some solutions. But those solutions are the very cause of your problems. New doubts will arise—and keep arising—until you open the door to the sky of no-thought within. When that door opens, the lotus of shraddha blooms. Until that lotus blooms, doubts—thorns—will continue. The very energy that should become a flower, by running after others becomes a thorn; when it turns inward, the same poison becomes nectar. One who gives you this alchemy is the true Master—who teaches the art of turning thorns into flowers, mind into no-mind, who hints how to move from thought to no-thought, who turns your life toward meditation—that one is the satguru, that one is the Brahmin.

This definition—“thoughtful, austere...” What is tapasya? It means to torture oneself, suppress oneself, kill oneself. It is self-violence. Why would a knower of Brahman be self-violent? If he cannot harm another, how will he harm himself? Why would he torment himself?

And remember: one who becomes skilled at tormenting himself inevitably becomes skilled at tormenting others. He will condemn those who do not torment themselves; he will fill them with guilt: “Torture yourself; has anyone ever arrived without austerity? Look how much I torture myself—and still I am far! You are even farther; you haven’t even begun!”

They call this tapascharya: standing naked in the cold... If God intended you to stand naked in the cold he would have given you fur over your whole body, as he has given to other animals. This is simple arithmetic. When winter comes sheep grow more wool—naturally, for they have no other means. Man has no fur over his whole body—only on certain very sensitive parts. Nature covered only the most delicate organs with hair because without protection they could be injured. The rest of the body has no fur because nature trusted man to find clothing, to discover how to cover himself. Animals cannot; they must remain naked.

But some madmen teach: stand naked in the cold, and you will attain knowledge. You will turn into an animal, not God-realized. Stand in the cold and whatever little intelligence you have will shrink; your blood will begin to congeal, your intelligence will freeze, become ice. You will grow hard; your sensitivity will die. And with sensitivity gone, your humanity is gone. Man’s glory is sensitivity, receptivity. He has the most sensitive body, the most delicate senses. His majesty lies in them.

But all this austerity is the repression of the senses, the killing of the senses, thickening the hide. You know what a thick skin means: you can try a thousand ways, nothing penetrates. They hear yet do not hear; they see yet do not see. Put anything into their skulls and by the time it travels through that thick hide, something else arrives. Meanings get mangled. One fragment reaches them; from that fragment they derive “meanings.” Thick-skinned—what meanings will they extract! Even if it is a meaning, they will turn it into a non-meaning.

Yet you honor these thick-hides; you call them ascetics. I know your ascetics well—have looked and tested. One thing I always found: no intelligence. If they had intelligence, they couldn’t do such foolish things. Some stand in the blazing sun, and if the sun is not enough, they light fire-pots all around, keep a dhuni burning—as if the sun were insufficient! They need smoke as well; logs must blaze all four sides—then they are at peace.

Naturally, one who mistreats himself like this loses sensitivity. He becomes dry, juiceless. And God is raso vai sah—He is essence of juice, of rasa. These arid people, un-aesthetic people who have wrung out all juice—within whom not even leaves grow, let alone flowers—standing like dead stumps—you call these tapasvis.

No knower of Brahman is an ascetic in that sense. In my seeing, only a Brahmavetta is truly a bhogi—one who enjoys. He lives in supreme enjoyment—he enjoys the Divine. What greater enjoyment could there be?

And the definition is dragged further: “thoughtful, austere, dutiful...” The very word “duty” is ugly. To live by love I understand; to live by duty I do not. “This is your wife; therefore it is your duty to love her.” If someone loves out of duty, what love will that be? A show, a cheat, a deception. On the surface love; inside, hatred. And that hatred will seep out—how long can you suppress it? There is a limit. Block it on one side; it will spill out another. The hatred you accumulate in the name of duty... Duty is taught to everyone. Nowhere in this sutra does love appear.

A knower of Brahman overflows with love—so full it spills over. There is no duty in his life—there is love. What he does, he does out of love. What does not come into his love, he does not do. For him only love is the touchstone. What stands the test of love is gold; what does not is counterfeit.

Duty is a social device. You are trained: fulfill duty; those who do will be honored, rewarded—Padma Vibhushans, Bharat Ratnas, Nobel Prizes—fulfill your duty. Sacrifice everything to duty—sacrifice yourself: for the nation, for the family, for the religion, for the caste. The expectation is only this: become sacrificial goats! If not at this Eid, then at that Eid—but die at some Eid! Fall in some jihad, some dharma-yuddha. And if your head falls in a holy war, heaven is assured. Muslims say: one who dies in jihad goes straight to paradise. Other religions say the same: dying for religion is the easiest road to heaven. Here you die, and there the shehnai sounds at heaven’s gate. And you die while killing—no account is kept of the violence. The one who dies in jihad—why is he dying? Because he has gone out to kill. He will kill many before he is killed. Those many burned alive, those homes set on fire—no account.

Christians burned living people—in the hope that they were doing God’s work. Hindus have done the same. All religions have done it in varying degrees. Those whose numbers were small could not do it, so they spoke tolerance and liberality, but inside they were full of intolerance. When they cannot wield the sword, they wield the sword of argument.

The Jains, for example, have not killed—perhaps they could not. Possibly the oldest religion—and yet only three and a half million in number. In ten thousand years, only three and a half million. In India, where people multiply like insects! In 1947 India’s population was 350 million; in just three decades it doubled to 700 million—what production, what creativity! If anyone knows how to create, it is the Indian. In ten thousand years, only three and a half million Jains. Now they must speak of tolerance; what else? They are frightened, anxious. But the fire burns within; it leaks into their books—there is as much poison in those books as in any. Their sword is logic; they hack and slash: “Everyone else is wrong!” No one reads their books except themselves—but they are full of venom. The pent-up pus must seep out somewhere.

Being dutiful leads nowhere. And the sutra says: “of calm temperament...”

How can a thoughtful person be calm? How can a Brahmin-by-birth truly be calm? He can perform calmness, act it. And acting is what you will see. Scratch him a bit and you will find unrest, deep unrest. Scratch him lightly and anger will flare up. Without scratching you won’t know. On the surface you see sandal paste, the tuft, the sacred thread—“Ram on the lips and a knife tucked under the arm.” Look only at the face and you won’t see the knife.

These very Brahmins, the largest class in this land, have oppressed the Shudras for centuries. How calm are they? Even now their hearts are not satisfied; the mischief continues. The fire is spreading across the country. And why does it start in Gujarat? It started there before too, when those naive masses were set upon the throne. Now again it begins in Gujarat. The reason is clear: it is the result of Mahatma Gandhi’s teaching. He taught repression. Gujarat followed him the most, because their ego was gratified: a son of Gujarat became the father of the entire nation! What more could they want! They donned khadi quickly—but inside they were the same as before.

Mahatma Gandhi himself was the same as before—no essential difference. He was strongly against Shudras leaving Hinduism. He fasted to the death for this—threatened a fast unto death—that the Shudras should not get separate electorates. Why? For five thousand years they have been oppressed. Give them at least some share of power, some respect. The fear was that their numbers were large; they would outvote Brahmins if given separate electorates. Gandhi blocked that.

A threat of fasting unto death is violence, not nonviolence. Whether one man dies or not makes no difference—one must die anyway. But pressure was put on Shudras from all sides: “You will be blamed for Gandhi’s death. You are already stigmatized, untouchable; even your shadow pollutes. Why take this further stigma?” Under pressure Gandhi’s fast was broken and the Shudras lost their separate electorate.

Now in Gujarat the agitation says: the reserved seats that Shudras receive in universities, medical colleges, engineering colleges must be ended. Why? “Because in freedom and democracy everyone should have equal rights.” But how can “equal rights” be invoked after five thousand years of oppression? “Positions must be by merit.” But those who were never permitted to touch books—how will they compete with Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas? Their children will be crushed. They cannot stand anywhere without special reservation. And this will not be solved in ten or twenty years. Those crushed for five or ten thousand years deserve at least a hundred or two hundred years of special reservation, so that they become capable of competing directly. When they are, reservation will die by itself.

But this opposition to reservation is a ploy, a conspiracy. The conspiracy is obvious: you bound someone’s legs for ten thousand years, and now you remove the chains and announce: “Equal rights; everyone run in the race!” Those who have been running for ten thousand years, seasoned runners—and those whose legs were fettered—pit them together and see the result. They will stumble within a few steps and fall. How will they win? How will they stand in competition? Those who oppose reservation feel no shame.

The fire spreads—into Rajasthan, then Madhya Pradesh. And once it reaches Bihar—Bihar is a den of simpletons. If Gujarat’s fools and Bihar’s blockheads join hands, that’s enough. Nothing more is needed for this country’s ruin; it won’t take long. The Biharis know how to exploit every occasion. They are a bit slow; it takes time for news from Gujarat to reach them—but it will. And once the torch is in their hands, it will be very difficult. The conflagration will be great. And behind this fire stands the Brahmin—afraid. He devised a clever trick.

The Manusmriti is Hinduism’s foundational code, the constitution that determines Hindu policy. It says: “Women have no right to study and contemplation.” Half the population cut off. “Shudras have no right to study and contemplation.” Of those remaining, another half cut off. Now the right to knowledge remains only for Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas. For Vaishyas, only enough to conduct business. For Kshatriyas, only enough to wage war. This is what Krishna told Arjuna: “You are a Kshatriya; your dharma is to fight. Sannyas is not your dharma. Meditation and samadhi are not your dharma. Fulfill your duty. Do not talk like a Brahmin. Fight—or you will be dishonored, disgraced.”

To incite a Kshatriya, the word “insult” is enough. Bring in “insult,” and the Kshatriya flares.

I was traveling to Manali. It was raining; the road between Chandigarh and Manali is narrow and dangerous; the car was large. There was mud in places, the car slipped, the climb was steep. The Sikh driving said, “I cannot go further,” got down and sat aside. I said, “Then you sit in the back; I’ll drive.” He said, “I’ve driven these hills all my life; I fear the car will go off the edge. Perhaps you’ve never driven such dangerous roads. I won’t sit in this car. If you want to drive, drive; I am going back.”

Trouble. Just then the Punjab I.G., a Sikh, arrived in his jeep. I said, “Now you do something. Watermelon understands watermelon—this man doesn’t understand my language. You two settle it.” Instantly it was solved. The I.G. said, “Aren’t you ashamed, being Khalsa? Vahe Guru Ji ka Khalsa, Vahe Guru Ji ki Fateh! Up!” The driver sprang up, took the wheel, drove the rest of the dangerous road without a word. Whenever I saw him flagging, I would say, “Vahe Guru Ji ka Khalsa...” and he would instantly steady himself and drive on.

This is what Krishna is doing with Arjuna: “You are a Kshatriya! Will you invite insult? Your dharma is to fight, to die and to kill. You are speaking like a Brahmin, talking of sannyas, forests, renouncing kingdom, wealth. Sit in peace? No!”

So the Kshatriya learns to fight, and the crown of knowledge—meditation, the supreme fragrance of life—remains only with the Brahmin.

For ten thousand years the Brahmin has sat on India’s chest; even now he doesn’t want to climb down. He is behind these disturbances.

Calm temperament—and Brahmins? Then who produced rishis like Durvasa—who would curse at the smallest thing? Curses that would ruin not only this life but future lives, pursuing you birth after birth. And these are Brahmins! Not only Brahmins—rishis and munis. And people still call them rishis and munis without shame.

Read the stories of your rishis and munis, check your Brahmins’ past accounts—will you find calm souls there? Neither Buddha is a Brahmin nor Mahavira a Brahmin. Among those who attained peace in this land, Brahmins are hardly named. The Brahmin has been full of pride—naturally: he sat at the peak, on everyone’s head. Pride was natural. Yes, he acts humble—why? Because humility earns respect. Understand the arithmetic: humility brings honor, so he becomes humble. But it is humility in the service of ambition.

There is truth in this. I have no humility at all, because humility is only ego standing on its head. If there is no ego, how could there be humility in me? I am not humble at all. I am simply as I am—neither egoistic nor humble. As for “my sannyasins,” should I say, just to sound humble, “Chandrakant Trivedi, your sannyasins”? To hell with such humility. I don’t want anyone’s respect, so why should I run the business of a fake humility? I will speak the plain truth. They are my sannyasins—what am I to do about that? I am not, but the sannyasins are mine. Precisely because I am not, they are my sannyasins. This “my” is only a matter of language. Should I then say “your sannyasins” merely to avoid that word?
No. I have no trust in such humility, such dutifulness, such peace.

I have heard of a woman in Lucknow who became pregnant and simply stayed pregnant. Nine months came and went; nine years came and went. Imagine the woman’s plight. But the Lucknowi style—manners and arithmetic—are different. The secret came out only later—after ninety years. What must that woman have endured! After ninety years, out of necessity, her belly was cut open. Two elders emerged—elderly already. Small in size, but old all the same: white hair, white beards, one foot already in the grave. And the scene was worth seeing. The stomach was split, the secret laid bare: they were saying to each other, “After you!” That’s why they hadn’t come out in nine months. “After you!”—“No, sir, after you!” That Lucknowi politeness had killed them. The belly has been cut open, but that Lucknowi courtesy persists: “No, after you.” The doctor said, “Out with you!” He had to drag them out by force, and even then they came out with great reluctance, because the Lucknowi custom was being broken.

I am not humble; I agree with that. Nor am I egoistic. Humility and ego are two sides of the same coin. I am not peaceful, I am not unpeaceful, because those too are two sides of the same coin. And when a coin drops, it drops whole. If you try to save half, the other half will at best remain hidden; it cannot go. Behind humility, ego hides. Behind peace, unrest hides.

A brahmin, a brahma-jnani, is one who no longer has any unrest—then what will he do with peace? He is one who is no longer filled with ego—then what will he do with humility?

Humility is a whitewash on ego. It is decorating the ego. To cover ego’s stench, you sprinkle a little perfume, light incense and lamps around it—that’s conserving the ego. And peace as well. Your so-called virtues are just deceptions, frauds. What is to be gained by going to such impostors?

A sutra says, “The righteous, the learned...” The learned cannot be righteous. He can be a pundit of religion. He has erudition, so he can become a connoisseur of the Gita. Like Morarji Desai—he has become a Gita-expert ever since he turned into a ghost of the past. Nothing else was left; what else could he do? In the end, this is what remains—so now he is a Gita-expert!

Pundits do not have religion; they have only chatter about religion. Yes, their chatter will be well-arranged, logical. But religion has nothing to do with logic, nothing to do with arrangement. Religion is revolution, rebellion, revolt.

The sutra says: “Present yourself in the service of such persons and have your questions resolved.” Those whose own questions are unresolved—what on earth will they resolve for you? By mistake, do not go to such people. Beware, lest they “resolve” you! Lest they hand you something on the way! It is from those who first grabbed you that your trouble began—now these may grab you again. Beware of the learned, beware of pundits, beware of their very shadow. That is the real shudra. The moment you see one, run! “Obtain resolution from him” who has no resolution himself!

“And follow his conduct and precepts.”
This is your very disease. A very amusing sutra from the Taittiriya Upanishad! To remove a small illness, you are handed a bigger one. Often that happens: to make you forget a small illness, it is useful to give you a big one.

I have heard: in a doctor’s office—maybe it was Ajit Saraswati; why hide it now, better to say it—a young unmarried woman went in. And Ajit Saraswati told her, “You are not a virgin; you are pregnant.” She flared up: “What are you saying!” She buzzed like a wasp, face red: “I am absolutely a virgin. How could I be pregnant? I haven’t even been touched by a man—how could I conceive?” She stormed out, slamming the door—shouting, screaming, furious. Ajit Saraswati’s assistant asked, “What did you just say!” Ajit Saraswati replied, “Didn’t you see? I cured her! She had chronic hiccups. The moment I said, ‘You are pregnant,’ the hiccups stopped. Can hiccups continue at such a moment? Tell a virgin girl she’s pregnant—cured on the spot. The hiccups stopped that very instant.”

In my village there was a cobbler’s shop. A Muslim—somewhat eccentric—was famous for curing hiccups. His shop didn’t get much business, but there were many satsangs there. When the shop doesn’t run, what else is there to do? So I would sometimes hang out there too. He was quite afraid of me. With folded hands he would plead, “Brother, don’t provoke me. Don’t say such things that leave me sleepless all night—others’ hiccups I stop, but you start mine.”

So if I sat in on his satsang, he was forced to sit in on mine. He would keep folding his hands, “Now go, customers must be coming. Pandit so-and-so is on his way—please go, or there will be a fight.” Once or twice it happened that while I was sitting there, a hiccup patient arrived. Patients came from far and wide. And what would he do? Seat the patient opposite him. It was a shoe shop—flies always buzzing. He’d fill a glass with water, catch a fly, pluck off both its wings, drop it into the glass, right in front of the patient, and say, “Drink!” Before drinking, the hiccups would stop. He would perform his “pharmacy” in the glass, his “medicine”! I asked him, “What’s the secret?”
He said, “The secret is clear. Who will keep hiccuping when he sees he has to drink this? Seeing the procedure, he forgets the hiccups. Sometimes a stubborn one comes who keeps hiccuping—then he has to drink. And after drinking, they stop. I tell them, ‘If they don’t stop, come tomorrow—I have stronger medicine. If a fly doesn’t do it, a cockroach. If even that doesn’t work, a rat. Don’t worry—I’ll stop them. I’ll extract such essences that your hiccups will end for good.’”

Naturally, when a big illness arrives, you forget the small one.

Is this your solution, Satyānand? This won’t be a solution; you’ll only pick up a bigger disease, and the smaller will certainly go. You will move from a small prison into a big one, from small chains into heavy chains. Yes, if there is a brahma-jnani, then by all means go to him. But a brahma-jnani will have none of this: he is not “thoughtful,” he is thought-free; not an ascetic, but at ease in life; not duty-bound, love is his only fragrance; not of a “peaceful disposition,” he is empty, a void—where then are peace and unrest? Nor is a truly religious one “learned.” Whom will you call religious? A Hindu will call one person religious, a Muslim another, a Christian a third, a Jain a fourth. Whom will you call religious? He is religion itself, not a “religious man.” And one who is the very form of dharma has transcended all religions. He will not be a Hindu, not a Muslim, not a Christian, not a Jain. Just being is enough—simply being suffices. No adjectives will cling to him. And such a person is never a scholar. Erudition is left far behind; the disease of scholarship has been dropped. Only when it is dropped does samadhi happen. With samadhi, samadhan—resolution—arrives. And in the presence of one who has samadhi, resolution happens just by sitting near him. There is no need to follow his preaching or his conduct.

After yesterday’s discourse, Mulla Nasruddin decided that he too must go to the other shore, must cross the river whatever happens. He asked his guru, Gobarpuri Paramhans Baba Muktanand, “From which ghat should I begin the journey? Baba Paltu says there are so many ghats. But I don’t know how to swim. Once on a master’s advice I went to the river; there was moss on the steps, I slipped. After that I swore I would never go near the riverbank until I learned to swim.”

Now the difficulty arose: if you will not go near the river, how will you learn? And until you learn, “I won’t go near the river!” “And Paltu says there are many ghats! And I have to go to the other shore. Paltu has opened my eyes, but I am in a fix. I am ready to break my vow and cross today itself. If there are many ghats, there must be at least one without moss, with shallow water. So, O my supreme Master, you’re an accomplished swimmer, well familiar with the river, you’ve surely reached that ghat—take me to a ghat where there is no moss and the water is shallow.”

Baba said, “Son, there isn’t a single ghat where the water isn’t deep. But there is one ghat where there is no danger at all, not the slightest risk.”

Mulla, won over by Muktanand’s words, reached that ghat, where a board was posted: “Government reward of two hundred rupees for anyone who saves a drowning person.”

Muktanand said, “Look, you get into the water. If you start to drown, I’ll jump in and save you. That way I’ll get two hundred and fifty rupees as a reward. And if—God forbid—you actually swim, you’ll reach the other shore. In either case, sweets in both hands.”

Poor Nasruddin, persuaded by his guru’s reasoning, though afraid, stepped into the water. After only four steps he fell into a hole, went under, and shouted, “Help! Help!” Baba smiled inwardly, but stood motionless on the bank. Again the voice came, “Help me, Baba, I’m drowning! Help me!”

Muktanand said, “Arre, Nasruddin, what help is needed in this? Just drown. How can I help you to drown? Don’t make a useless racket. Take Allah’s name and drown, brother. The sages have already said: ‘Those who sought have found, by entering the deep water.’ Now dive in—don’t miss the chance. Don’t miss it, Chauhan!”

Water was filling Nasruddin’s nose. In a panic he screamed, “Baba, save me! Not this knowledge-chatter now. This isn’t the time for satsang. I’ll die. Have you forgotten you’ll get a government reward of two hundred and fifty rupees for saving me?”

Muktanand said, “Child, it’s not that I don’t care. Precisely for that reason I’m not saving you. Didn’t you read the other notice on the back of the board? ‘A reward of one thousand rupees to anyone who pulls a corpse out of the river.’”

Chandrapal Bharati, your family is not really wrong; they speak truth as they understand it. Before meeting me you must indeed have been “knowledgeable.” And my trade is to make people unknowing—because until you are rid of knowledge, until the innocence of not-knowing dawns within you, the lamp of awareness will not be lit; do what you will, it will not be lit. The one who is ready to accept this simple truth—“I do not know, I know nothing”—has taken the first step. And the journey is only of two steps; the first is already half the journey.

The one who says, “I do not know,” who accepts in his depths that whatever he knew was borrowed—junk—and that he is ignorant, begins to become again like an innocent child. He refuses what society has imposed on him. He puts down all conditioning. He becomes pure again. He is born a second time—dwij. This is the first step to being a brahmin, the first step to being a knower of the absolute. He becomes a zero, and into this zero the Whole descends.

It is the trash of knowledge with which you are stuffed. What else is there inside you? It is this junk that has to be reduced to ashes.

So your family is not wrong to say what they say. You were “knowledgeable,” and “of character,” in their language—by what they call character. What I call character will look like immorality to them. I call character: living from one’s inner felt truth. But no society will call that character. That is why their accusation comes so naturally, that I am teaching people immorality. I don’t even deny it—if their definition of character is correct, then yes, I am teaching immorality. But their definition is false. What they call character is deception, hypocrisy. In the name of character they force people to live a false life.

I want to free people from the false. I want to tell them their greatest responsibility is toward themselves. And if you are false to yourself, even if you are truthful to the whole world, before God you will still be false. He will not ask how many medals you brought—gold, silver, how many warrior’s crosses. He will not ask how many certificates you have. He will ask: Did you live in your own way, the way I made you? I made you like the jasmine, and by trying to live like a rose, you became neither jasmine nor rose. Your energy was spent trying to be a rose. But you could never be a rose—I never made you one; that was not your seed. And your energy went trying to be a rose; so you could not be what you could have been—the jasmine that could have filled the night with fragrance—because your energy took a wrong turn.

God will ask you: Are you yourself or not? And you will say, “Me? I am a follower of Mahavira, of Buddha, of Shankaracharya.” Such things won’t work there. God will say: Shankaracharya, Buddha, Mahavira—they became what they were meant to be. Who told you to be them? If I had wanted Shankaracharyas, I would have opened a factory like Ford and mass-produced them. Then why did I make you? Do you think I made a mistake and you set out to correct it?

A Hasidic mystic, Zusya, was dying. His old aunt was always against him because he spoke in ways that cut across the grain of the Jewish tradition; he suggested a way of life not in tune with convention. Many times the old woman told him, “Look, be careful now. You too have grown old; death is not far. Now take the path of Moses, drop your nonsense.” Zusya would laugh. What could he say to the old woman? He laughed and let it pass.

When he was dying, his aunt came again. She shook him and said, “At least at the time of death, set your heart on Moses. At least as you die, connect yourself to Moses.” Zusya said, “Look, God will not ask me why I was not Moses. If he had wanted Moses, he would have made me Moses. He will ask—Zusya, why were you not Zusya? That is my concern. What have I to do with Moses? Nor was Moses a Zusya, nor does Zusya need to be Moses. And I am ready to stand naked before God, for I have not wanted to be borrowed in any way. As he made me, as he left me—if that was wrong, then wrong; but I have remained that. I have not altered a hair’s breadth—though many people pulled at my legs, and you have been pulling at them all your life. But I am perfectly at ease. I can stand naked before God; I have no fear. For I have lived from my spontaneity. I have blossomed the flower of my own uniqueness; that I will be able to offer at his feet. I am dying in joy—do not worry.”

Chandrapal Bharati, your family says I have made you ignorant, made you characterless. Where you were decent and virtuous, I have made you wicked. The poor things speak what seems right to them. What is their fault? They have no eyes; they take darkness for light, and death for life.

And I understand your predicament. You say:
How can I tell what I drank in the tavern,
what you made me drink—your intoxicant has made me dumb.

Remain intoxicated. Now take no fear. These are old habits, actually—taught by those very people—that when they call us immoral we feel hurt. Drop that hurt too. When they call you immoral, sing. When they call you ignorant, dance. When they call you wicked, play the flute; tie bells to your feet. Dance so wildly that they begin to call you mad as well. And once mad—what does a madman know of knowledge and ignorance, of virtue and vice, of character and characterlessness!

Why should we again go to shoulder the cross?
Why carry our own corpse on our back?
In the longing to live we drink poison every day—
and still we set out to write our name on the wind!
Every heart’s word is jest in this world—
why should we too try to set fire to water?
No one joins in the search for truth—
why should we go to shed our blood in the quest?
Ice on the lips and waterfalls in the eyes—
how are we to keep company with life?

It will be difficult. People are hauling corpses, drinking poison. People are not alive. They have forgotten the language of life. There is no quest in them, no search for truth. They are content with their lies; they have built palaces of lies. And certainly, when you call these palaces prisons, when you call lies lies, when you take off the garments woven of falsehood and declare your innocence, they will be angry. And the crowd is with them.

For ecstasy this price has to be paid. Nothing is without a price in this world. Now you choose. If this ecstasy suits you, if springs of bliss are breaking open within, then what worry? Those standards were given by them anyway. Tell them yourself: I have become ignorant, immoral, wicked. Tell them yourself: Don’t trouble yourselves needlessly. I’m done for, a lost cause; why waste your time? Simply accept it. Why even bother to deny?

A fresh breeze has touched me, quietly, quietly;
another leaf has fallen—slowly, slowly.
How long will we, like Shiva, carry the corpse of relationships?
Let them rot and drop away—some broken, burdened bonds.
What is so strange if a few hearts break in this fleeting life?
We were not of the sky, nor were they angels.
Thorns have pricked whenever the roses of memory have bloomed;
the wounds have turned to sores, oozing little by little.
How long will we, like Shiva, carry the corpse of relationships?
Let them rot and drop away—some broken, burdened bonds.
Why complain of wounds, of hurts and blows?
Some stone-hearts have, with so much rubbing, turned into sacred stones.
A fresh breeze has touched me, quietly, quietly;
another leaf has fallen—slowly, slowly.

Let all these leaves fall—of relations and bonds, of corpses, of the beliefs of the dead. When these leaves fall, new ones will sprout. How long will you cling to these old, rotten leaves? They should have fallen long ago. Forget the language of ego—respect, knowledge, character, decency. Drop this nonsense. Be simple and natural. Troubles will come, but they will prove to be blessings. And if you are connected with me, you have already invited an uproar.

Once again those same lanes, the next circumambulation of the beloved’s well.
Good tidings for love: once again, the provisions for disgrace are ready today.

Once again those same lanes—the beloved’s lanes! Once again the rounds in the alleys of the Friend! This path to the Divine is not for all. Only a few mad ones can walk it. Only a few moths can hurl themselves at the flame. This is not for the calculating mind.

Once again those same lanes, the next circumambulation of the beloved’s well.
Good tidings for love: once again, the provisions for disgrace are ready today.

Who is there that can contain my frenzy?
I myself have fastened the chain of longing to my feet today.

Who is there who could hold my madness? I am a madman! Who can bear my frenzy? It takes a vast chest to endure it.

Who is there that can contain my frenzy?
I myself have fastened the chain of longing to my feet today.

You are in a difficulty, Chandrapal Bharati. You yourself have bound to your ankles this chain of love. This is the chain that liberates—and you have clasped it with your own hands.

I fear this fire will burn body and life to ash—
the fire that long-restrained sorrow has kindled in my breast today.
Tell the hunters—warn the flower-pluckers to be alert:
the season of roses has stretched its chain far and wide today.
A shore has risen from the womb of the whirlpool;
a little boat has gone headlong into storms today.
Blood has flared in the pulses, lamps have lit in the heart—
the fire-voiced poet has rained down flames today.

My words are embers. Whatever junk is within you will be burnt—junk of “character,” of knowledge, of pride, of respectability, of humility, of religiosity. Whatever junk is within you will be burnt.

Blood has flared in the pulses, lamps have lit in the heart—
the fire-voiced poet has rained down flames today.

I am a poet of fire—a fire-speaking bard.

The fire-voiced poet has rained down flames today.
Once again those same lanes, the next circumambulation of the beloved’s well.
Good tidings for love: once again, the provisions for disgrace are ready today.
Who is there that can contain my frenzy?
I myself have fastened the chain of longing to my feet today.
I fear this fire will burn body and life to ash—
the fire that long-restrained sorrow has kindled in my breast today.
Tell the hunters—warn the flower-pluckers to be alert:
the season of roses has stretched its chain far and wide today.
A shore has risen from the womb of the whirlpool;
a little boat has gone headlong into storms today.
Blood has flared in the pulses, lamps have lit in the heart—
the fire-voiced poet has rained down flames today.

That’s all for today.