Bahutere Hain Ghat #3

Nityananda, this sutra is among my very dearest—almost as if I had said it myself. It rings with the very music of my life-breath. I agree with it one hundred percent. Except for this sutra, all the definitions the scriptures give of Satya-yuga, Dvāpara, Tretā, and Kali are wrong. This is the one aphorism that points in the right direction.

This sutra frees the idea of Satya-yuga through Kali-yuga from time; it frees it from society; it frees it from past, future, and present—and it installs it in the consciousness of the individual, in one’s awakening, in one’s samādhi.

And to me, neither society is true, nor time is true; only the individual is true—because the individual has a throbbing life, awareness, soul. Society has neither a soul, nor a heartbeat, nor any possibility of awakening. There is no one there who can wake up; there is no intelligence there.

And time is an extension of human desires.

The past has no existence. What is gone is gone; it exists nowhere except in your memory. A traveler passes and the dust keeps rising; the flying dust is not the traveler. A song departs and an echo remains; the echo is not the song. The temple bells have rung and their resonance lingers for a while in the silence of the temple—that is how your memory is: no more than the dust of the past, no more than its smoke, an after-sound of what has already gone. Beyond your memory, there is no existence to the past. And the future has no existence either; it has not yet come—how could it exist? But the unhinged live only in past and future. The liberated live in the present—because only the present is. It is unrelated to your memory and unrelated to your craving.

The past is a heap of memories—the corpses you carry. They are dead bodies—rotting, stinking; that stench has made your life a hell. Yet you won’t drop them. You decorate them. You worship them. You are devotees of the dead, worshipers of death. Then if your life gets crushed under this very death, poisoned by this very venom, it is no surprise; it is the natural outcome. And even if somehow you slip out of the past, you do not slip out of madness—you instantly enter another madness: the future. The past is memory; the future is desire and imagination: “Let this happen, let that happen.” And what you want never happens. If once in a while by mistake, by coincidence, it does happen—not by your doing, but by sheer chance—even then no fulfillment comes.

Here the ones who fail, fail anyway—and ninety-nine percent fail; but here the ones who succeed, their failure is even greater—greater than the failure of the failures. Because the one who fails still has hope that perhaps tomorrow victory will knock at the door; his future is not over; his desire just moves from today to tomorrow. That is the way of desire: it always keeps receding. The past is the shadow falling behind you; the future is the shadow falling ahead of you. What reliance on shadows? You move forward and the shadow moves forward. Shadow is māyā. You don’t call this shadow māyā; you call the world māyā. You call what is, illusion—and you marry yourself to what is not. Whoever lives in the “is not” will remain empty and die empty.

If by accident the future does get fulfilled—remember, by accident; nothing can be achieved by your doing—you are very small; existence is vast. A drop contending with the ocean—what hope of victory? A leaf contending with the very tree that feeds it—what chance of triumph? Defeat is certain. And if by mistake the dice fall in your favor, a bigger defeat, a deeper sorrow surrounds you—because the victory comes to hand, but the promises victory had made are not fulfilled. The day victory lands in your hand, it becomes clear: there is no defeat greater than victory—because you staked life for what you thought was gold.

Not only small people—your very Maryādā Puruṣottam Rāma runs after a golden deer! He loses the real Sītā chasing a fake golden deer. And this is everyone’s story: people lose the real running after the unreal. They chase a golden deer. Even the craziest person can understand there are no golden deer!

The world is called a mirage. This very Rāma calls the world dreamlike, māyā, like the mirage that deludes a thirsty deer in the desert when the sun’s rays...

There is a way the sun’s rays behave. Falling on bare sand, they heat it; heated sand reflects rays back. Those returning waves from afar look exactly like water rippling. Not only do they seem so, they appear with “proof”—because when the rays return, the ripples look water-like, and the silhouettes of trees nearby appear in those waves like reflections in a lake. Seeing that reflection, the deer becomes convinced, logic complete: “There must be water—how else the reflection?” And the thirst is such that to believe in water is natural. The more the thirst, the more the eyes are veiled by thirst; where there is no water, water appears—and with “proof.”

So if a deer is deceived, it is forgivable. But Rāma I cannot forgive—Rāma is inexcusable. Speaking words of wisdom and doing worse than a deer! Even the dullest would grasp there are no golden deer—yet Rāma runs after one and loses Sītā.

Nor was only Rāma at fault; Sītā too was at fault. When Rāma cried out from the forest, “Save me, I’m in danger,” Sītā shoved Lakṣmaṇa, “You go!” Rāma had told him to guard. Lakṣmaṇa was torn—“Obey Rāma or Sītā?” And Sītā struck a wound in Lakṣmaṇa that made him writhe; there must have been a hidden sore which she touched; the touch is meaningful. Sītā said, “I always knew your eye is on me—that if Rāma dies, you will claim me.”

Sītā could not have said it baselessly; Lakṣmaṇa’s intentions must indeed have been “second-groom” intentions. In our culture the husband’s younger brother is called devar. Devar literally means “second groom.” If the elder goes, seniority belongs to the devar; he is “number two,” waiting: “Big brother, won’t you go now? Enough already—let a few crumbs fall to poor me!”

This Lakṣmaṇa had likely harbored such a mind. Sītā’s blow was deep and true—otherwise Lakṣmaṇa would have laughed it off: “Don’t joke, sister-in-law; I’m not going.” But the blow touched a wound; pus must have oozed; he flared up.

Such anger doesn’t arise for nothing. When someone abuses you and it burns, it means they’ve touched a tender spot you were protecting.

I get abused plenty; no worry—no tender spot, nothing hidden. I enjoy how loveable some people are! How hard they work! With the effort they spend on abusing, a song could blossom. If they poured that labor into song, springs would flow in their lives too! I feel compassion for them.

Lakṣmaṇa grew angry and left. He too left—meaning, he too validated the danger; the golden deer is real; the danger born of the golden deer is real. Rāma—synonymous with God in this country, i.e., omnipresent—could not even grasp this much, could not permeate this golden deer! Omniscient, all-knowing—and did not know there are no golden deer? What omniscience is this? What omnipresence? Nonsense. And omnipotent—what danger can there be to the omnipotent that he cries, “Save me”? Who will save the omnipotent?

But the blind go on living by blind beliefs—never questioning, never asking, “Let us reconsider.” And Sītā gets abducted. Sītā was real. In that abduction, all three had a hand—Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa, Sītā. Rāvaṇa alone is not responsible; he is number four. Had these three not erred, Rāvaṇa couldn’t have stolen her.

This is everyone’s condition: living in the past—which is not; living in the future—which is not; and squandering what is.

This sutra has freed the idea of Satya-yuga and Kali-yuga from time. That is exactly my effort. You have been told, first was Kṛta-yuga, Satya-yuga, the golden age. Nonsense. That would mean man has been declining, falling—first all was noble, now all ignoble. When time was perfectly balanced, then it was Kṛta-yuga; whatever you did bore fruit instantly—that’s why it was Kṛta. Satya-yuga—because what you spoke was truth; there was no falsehood. Golden age—no misery, no slavery, no poverty.

All lies. The farther back you go, the more poverty, the more misery, the more slavery. In Rāma’s time human beings were sold in the marketplace. Cabbage, tomatoes, potatoes—and human beings, auctioned on the block, prices shouted.

Mulla Nasruddin came home yesterday battered. Bandages, a cast on his arm. I asked, “What happened? Car, truck, train—under what did you get run over?”

He said, “Nothing. I’m a husband; I got run over by my wife. A tiny mistake—and she pounded me so hard I remembered my mother’s milk!”

I asked, “What mistake that made her so mad? What?”

Nasruddin said, “What to say! Why ruin my reputation further! It was over a dream.”

“A dream?”

“Yes. The night before she had a dream. ‘Strange dream, Fajlu’s father,’ she said, ‘I must tell you. I saw a place where brains were being auctioned. One brain for ten thousand, one for twenty-five thousand, one for fifty thousand. I asked, How so? Turns out, a scientist’s brain, a saint’s brain, a mathematician’s, a musician’s, a poet’s, a painter’s—very expensive.’”

Nasruddin asked, “Was my brain also being auctioned?”

She said, “It was. That very auction woke me up. A rupee a dozen! Tied in bundles. Others were sold individually; yours by the dozen—for a rupee a dozen! And the seller said, ‘If you want more, I’ll give you more. Who buys these anyway!’”

Naturally Mulla was hurt, shocked. So he said, “In the morning I invented a dream in return—and this is what happened to me. I said I too saw an auction of mouths. Big blabbermouths! Some priced at fifty thousand—presidents. Some at a lakh—prime ministers. Some at twenty-five thousand—great poets. Some at fifteen thousand—great singers.”

The wife asked, “And was my mouth being auctioned?”

Nasruddin said, “It was. Your mouth was where the auction was being held!”

“As soon as she heard that—you see what happened to me!”

You are living in dreams. The past is a dream; the future is a dream. One has gone, one not yet come—and between these two millstones you are being ground. Yet the stories told to you say: first there was Kṛta-yuga; whatever you did happened. Then the proverb “Man proposes and God disposes” did not exist; you proposed and God accepted instantly—that was Kṛta-yuga. Satya-yuga—no one lied. People did not lock their homes.

All nonsense. Utter nonsense. Misery was terrible. In Rāma’s time men and women were sold in markets—what greater misery? Poverty was crushing. It’s another matter that the poor were so crushed they couldn’t even think of rebellion. To rebel one must first have tasted a little comfort.

Revolutions always arise from the middle class—not from the destitute, the beggars. You have not seen revolutions by beggars. A beggar has never known the taste of well-being; how will he revolt? Marx, Lenin, Engels, Mao, Stalin—all middle class. They talk of the poor, inflame the poor—because only with the poor’s strength can they stand against the rich. They cannot inflame the rich. But remember: the inflamer stands in between; he is neither poor nor rich; he is like Trishanku. He has enjoyed a little of wealth and a lot of the pain of poverty; he believes with a little push he can become rich; he must use the poor.

Thus revolutions are made by middle-class people, using the poor. Whoever cuts, the poor are cut—whether by the rich or the middle class.

My father’s father, a simple villager, had a few priceless sayings. In his little cloth shop he would ask a customer up front, “What is your intention? Should I tell you the right price—then there will be no haggling. Or do you want to haggle? Then I will proceed accordingly. Remember: whether the watermelon falls on the knife or the knife falls on the watermelon, in both cases the watermelon is cut. Your choice—you will be the one cut.”

People agreed; the saying appealed to villagers. “True—knife never gets cut.” So they agreed: “No bargaining; tell us the right price. If I’m to be cut, better be cut as little as possible—so let the knife decide.”

The poor have always been cut. In those days they were cut so much they couldn’t even cry out. And the story that there were no locks on homes is also false. Otherwise why would Buddha, Mahavira—and the Ṛgveda’s first Tīrthankara of the Jains, Ṛṣabhadeva—exhort, “Do not steal”? If there was no stealing, are these saints mad? Brains addled?

Perhaps people didn’t know how to make locks; that I can understand. To make locks some science must develop. Or perhaps there was nothing inside worth protecting; why spend on a lock? A lock too requires means. And if you put a lock with nothing inside, it’s an invitation! A thief will come seeing the lock. Will any thief visit a home with no lock?

But theft surely occurred; even the Vedas speak against theft. The oldest inscription we have found in the world, seven thousand years old from Babylon, says: Do not steal, do not cheat, do not swindle—this is human degradation. It says: wives do not obey husbands; sons do not obey fathers; no one listens to anyone; disciples revolt against gurus. What does this tell you? That the world was worse than today.

All scriptures support war; not one opposes it. Today millions oppose war. All scriptures support the slavery of women; today hundreds of millions support women’s liberation. All scriptures told slaves, “This is your destiny; God has written it on your skull; there is no escape; accept it calmly.” None proclaimed revolution. What golden age?

Yes, a golden age for a few. People say India was once a “golden bird.” Those for whom it was then, it still is—for Birlas, Tatas, Singhanias, Sahus. For them it always was. But that is not truth about all India.

Actually, the more poverty in a country, the more enormous wealth gathers in a few hands. It’s inevitable. Apical wealth requires a vast base of poverty—like a pyramid: a broad foundation below, tapering to a peak. If you want a high peak, the base must be vast.

Remember: who built the pyramids? Those who built them had gold, plenty. But in building each pyramid thousands lost their lives. Raising those stones was no easy task; there were no machines—whips drove the stones upward. A single stone sometimes took a thousand backs, whipped like beasts, bleeding chests, to hoist. Now we glorify the beauty of the pyramids.

People come from afar to see the Taj Mahal. Sure—the patron had gold. But those who built it—three generations—had their hands cut off, so no second Taj could be made. And as for the woman for whom it was built—there was no special love. He had hundreds of women. It was a proclamation of ego, not a tomb for some Mumtaz. This Mumtaz too was someone else’s woman, seized by force. What did that matter? The emperor wanted a mausoleum.

Shah Jahan, who built it—his son Aurangzeb knew well that the mausoleum symbolized ego. Shah Jahan was building another across the Yamuna—this one in white marble, that one in black; his own tomb, larger than his wife’s—naturally! Only the foundation got laid; Aurangzeb imprisoned him: “This will not be built. These pinnacles of ego will not rise.”

When Shah Jahan was jailed he made one request: “Give me thirty children to teach; I need something to pass the time.”

Aurangzeb writes in his memoirs: “The relish of ruling hasn’t left him; now he will crush these thirty children—sit as emperor among them, command them.” Old habits die hard.

Yes, some had wealth—because the wealth of all had been sucked dry. And you call that a golden age?

Priests have propagated this notion that all beauty is behind us; ahead is only darkness and despair. So accept despair, live in darkness; live with quietude and contentment so God will reward your contentment later.

It is a way to strangle revolution. They say: when there was Satya-yuga, time stood on four legs—like a chair with four legs is stable. Then came Tretā—one leg broke; like a tripod, still standing but less stable. Then Dvāpara—one more leg gone; now time stands on two legs—and not like an ox-cart but like a bicycle: keep pedaling or you fall, and break your limbs. Worst is Kali—only one leg left; everyone is lame, on crutches, half-paralyzed, one eye blind, one ear rotten, one lung dead. This is Kali. Ahead only the grave. Wait—one foot is already in the grave; the other barely outside. Do not hope for much; no possibility of joy. No Tīrthankaras now, no avatars, no Buddhas—only fools among fools, and no escape.

This despair is spread by pundits. It is unfortunate. In a nation where such despair settles in the mind, the future darkens—not because the future was dark but because this belief darkens it. And every belief has a vicious circle. If you walk believing the future is dark, you live in a way that light cannot be—so why light a lamp? Even if you have oil, wick, lamp, matches, you do not light it—because “it is not the season of light.” Then darkness remains; and when darkness remains, your belief gets nourishment: “The sages were right; there is only darkness!” The darkness has never blown out a lamp; what power does darkness have? Darkness is impotent; it is nothing. If a lamp is lit, you can pour baskets of darkness over it—the lamp won’t go out. But out of fear of darkness people don’t light a lamp—so darkness remains. And then the scriptures appear right!

If you abandon the effort to make life beautiful, you rot. Then your sages seem right: “It had to be.” Whether you agree or not, “what is fated will be.” In this way India has been made fatalistic.

That is why I am fully in agreement with this sutra—it is revolutionary, fiery. If you understand it, a new definition of religion, a new understanding will dawn.

Kaliḥ śayāno bhavati... This changes the meaning. “He who is asleep is Kali.” It severs the link with time; it links it to unconsciousness.

That is the gift of the awakened ones: they turn your thorns into flowers; they give direction to your foolishness; they transform superstition into the dimension of trust.

“He who is asleep is Kali.” Whoever is unconscious—whether a thousand years ago or ten thousand—he was in Kali because of his sleep.

Kaliḥ śayāno bhavati, saṃjihānas tu dvāparaḥ. “He who sits up from sleep is Dvāpara.” Whenever one sits up, shaking off sleep—no longer lying down—the Dvāpara begins. Whether today, in the past, or in the future—whenever you sit up, that is Dvāpara.

Uttiṣṭhan tretā bhavati... “And he who stands up is Tretā.”

People are asleep—unconscious. They don’t even know who they are, why they are, for what, from where, to where, what their nature is. That is unconsciousness—being unfamiliar to oneself.

The first ray of becoming familiar with oneself—when you sit up, eyes open—that is the beginning of Dvāpara. These are stages of your consciousness, not of time.

...kṛtaṃ saṃpadyate caran. “And he who starts walking becomes Kṛta-yuga.” Sleeping, sitting up, standing, walking. The one who starts walking becomes Kṛta-yuga—morning of gold dawns in his life. Movement brings life. With movement, there is dawn; the night breaks—completely breaks. Charaiveti. Charaiveti. Therefore the Aitareya Upanishad gives this formula: “Keep moving, keep moving.” Do not stop. The journey is endless; it has no destination. The journey itself is the destination. Every step is the goal—if you live each step in its totality, there is no other destination; it is here, now, in the present—not in the future, not in the past, but in your awareness, in the wholeness of your awareness.

I am completely with this sutra: Charaiveti! Charaiveti! Keep moving. Keep moving. Do not stop anywhere. Stop, and you die. Stop, and you rot. Flow, and you remain fresh.

This country rotted because it stopped—long ago. It still talks of golden ages, Satya-yugas, Kṛta-yugas—still lost in babble. Still watching Rāmlīlās; fools still performing Rāslīlās. The same drama every year; for centuries the same play. No strength to add anything new to the play; and if something new is added, there is an uproar.

In a college at Rewa, young men staged a Rāmlīlā. They used their wits—they dressed Rāma in suit, tie, hat. Bow and arrow didn’t fit with suit and tie, so they gave him a gun. Everything must match. Sītā following behind had to be updated too—high heels, mini-skirt. The public was angry—and peeking too! Indian public! The Indian mind is unique! People kept bending down. “What are you looking for?” “My cap fell,” one said; another, “My ticket fell.” Everyone had dropped something. Peeking, and fuming: “You’re mocking Rāmlīlā!”

When Sītā lit a cigarette, the matter exploded. People leaped on stage. Those very Rāma and Sītā whose feet they always touched—they beat them up, tore the curtain. In the commotion someone tore Sītā’s skirt too—such an opportunity, who would miss! Blouse ripped. Thankfully “Sītā” was not actually a woman but a village boy. That made them angrier: “Bastard, have you no shame—playing Sītā!”

The same Rāmlīlā, the same drama—centuries, and we are stuck. We have become stagnant pools.

Charaiveti! Charaiveti! Flow, walk, be in motion. Drop the past. Break these chains. Drop this stupor. Gather a little awareness. All the processes of meditation are processes of gathering awareness. Only through meditation can this sutra be fulfilled: Kaliḥ śayāno bhavati—through meditation you will rise; this trance of thoughts will break; the garbage of centuries in your skull will burn; only the fire of meditation can reduce it to ash.

...saṃjihānas tu dvāparaḥ. With eyes open you will sit up—how long can you lie? One who awakes starts seeing: flowers have bloomed, the sun has risen, birds are singing; then it is hard to lie down. This allure and beauty of life—God’s hidden ways of calling you—his invitation. Awake, and you hear. Then you will stand and walk—in search of truth, beauty, godliness. One who starts walking attains—because the one who walks becomes Kṛta-yuga, becomes Satya-yuga.

No one is born in Satya-yuga; Satya-yuga must be earned. We are all born in Kali. Of us, whoever wakes—that is Tretā; whoever sits up and starts walking—that is Kṛta. And whoever keeps walking—that one is divine, attains godliness. Hence, to walk with the godly is difficult—he keeps walking.

Many walked with me and stopped—stopped at milestones; each according to his capacity came thus far and stopped. Fear arises: “Further is risky.” He made a milestone his destination—and grew angry that I would not stop: “Why don’t you stop?”

People of every sort walked with me. Jains walked with me until the milestone of Mahavira; once it arrived, they stayed. I said, “Beyond Mahavira we must go. Twenty-five centuries have passed; life has moved; the Ganga has flowed!” They had made Mahavira final—destination and terminus.

Buddhists came and stopped at Buddha. Devotees of Krishna stopped at Krishna. Gandhians stopped at Gandhi. Wherever they felt I was going beyond their figure, they became my enemies. I made many friends; slowly many turned into enemies. It was natural—as long as I suited their belief, they stood with me.

Only those can walk with me whose very belief is charaiveti-charaiveti—who take movement itself as destination, who see the goal in inquiry, in research, in the very adventure. For whom movement is the goal—only they can walk with me. For me each day is new; a new sun rises every day; what sets is gone—let bygones be bygones.

Yet even here people come asking questions—I don’t answer theirs—“Fifteen years ago you said...”

The one who said it fifteen years ago has long died. Am I the same man I was fifteen years back? How many springs have come and gone! How many days, how many nights! So much has passed in fifteen years! They cling to fifteen years ago: “Shall we believe that or what you say now?”

Believe what I say now—and remember, I am saying it only now; do not assume I will say it tomorrow. I will not stop anywhere; stopping is death. By stopping and stopping we have become filthy ponds. Someone stopped at Mohammed and became a Muslim—a dirty pond. Band, drum, Quranic verses, camphor and incense, tazias, saintly processions—you can do it all, but the scum remains; its filth cannot be hidden.

Whoever stopped with Krishna stopped long ago—there is only sludge now; water no longer drinkable; a few worms perhaps—but no Krishna. Swans will not alight there; don’t talk of Paramahansas! What sludge and what swans! Yet those wrapped in Krishna’s mud appear to you as Paramahansas because the mud is Krishna’s, ashes of Krishna smeared on them—“Ah, a great saint!”

All fraud. If Krishna returned today, he could not agree with them. Krishna would abide by charaiveti-charaiveti. Krishna would have to utter a new Gita—just as I must.

I have spoken Krishna’s Gita; soon I must speak my own. Certainly Krishna will be scandalized in it—that is what I am preparing you for, slowly coaxing you. Ramayana must be written anew; and things will have to be put into Rama’s mouth that Hindus will not like—because they want to hear only what Rama said before, whether or not it has any present context.

So never ask me what I said fifteen years ago. Forget fifteen years—don’t ask what I said fifteen days ago. Forget that—don’t ask what I said yesterday.

Picasso was painting. A friend asked, “You’ve made thousands of paintings. Which is the most beautiful?” Picasso said, “This one I am making now—and only until it is finished; once finished, my connection is cut. Then I will paint another—and surely the next will be my best, because making this I learned more; my hands grew surer, my colors more refined, my insight deeper.”

Yet you ask about what I said fifteen years ago on the Gita, or twenty on Mahavira. Since then my hand has steadied, my brush refined, my colors have blossomed. Let that babble go; it is historical. What I say today—whoever is in tune with that is with me. And remember: to be with me is to be with charaiveti-charaiveti. Tomorrow I’ll move on; you must not say, “But we pitched our tent just yesterday—now pull it up? We thought we had arrived!”

I will break all your assurances. I want to make you nomads.

“Khāna-badosh” is a lovely word. Khāna means house—like may-khāna (wine-house), dawā-khāna (clinic). Doś means shoulder; badosh—on the shoulder. Khāna-badosh: one whose house is on his shoulder—one who has set out and keeps going, never stopping on this endless journey of truth. Its beauty is precisely that it is endless—no full stop. The day it ends, what will you do? Life becomes futile; nothing remains but suicide.

So those who taught you that with moksha everything is achieved, that liberation or samadhi is the end—have given you a wrong notion; they gave you a stopping place.

And you are so eager to stop; you don’t want to move—first of all. You want to remain in Kali. Kaliḥ śayāno bhavati. Someone tells you the bed itself is the place: “See, Vishnu is reclining on Sheshanaga!” That Vishnu is forever in Kali-yuga; his sleep has not broken. The serpent with a thousand hoods is guarding him—a poisonous protection; he will not let him rise; if he tries, the serpent hisses, “Where are you going? Lie down! Where can a child go?” This bed is not to be left. And even if he escapes somehow, Lakshmi is there massaging his feet.

Beware of those who massage your feet—massaging feet, they will reach your neck. They too will move on—charaiveti! Who will be content with feet? Better not begin with feet! I don’t let anyone massage my feet—I know the foot-massager will inch forward and end at the neck. All servants end up on the neck; all servants become leaders—on your neck. “See how we served the nation! Now may we massage your neck? For what did we serve otherwise? Give us some reward! We massaged your feet—let us massage your neck a bit! We will enjoy it—no one else can. If we massaged the feet and someone else massages the neck—that will not do!” And once someone has reached your neck, you cannot stop him; you missed the time to stop him.

Two disciples were massaging a guru’s feet—noon in the heat. The guru must have been a guru-ghantal, a phony—true gurus don’t get their feet massaged. Why would a true guru? And by the lame and blind? The sleeping—what will they do but mischief! So he was no guru. Only two disciples; everything had to be divided—one took the left foot, one the right. The guru turned over, left leg over right. The right-leg disciple said, “Take your left leg off mine! If it lies on my leg, no good will come.”

The other said, “See these threats? Who can move my leg? Once it is on top, it will remain on top! Do what you will!”

“Move it! Obey!”

He brought a club. “I’ll break your leg in two!”

The other would not be left behind; he brought a sword. “Touch my leg—see what happens to yours! One stroke and it’s decided!”

In the noise, the guru woke, heard with eyes still closed that matters had worsened, and said, “Brothers, wait! Remember, the legs are mine!”

They said, “You keep quiet; no need to speak. Once divided, it’s divided. It’s a matter of honor. Be silent.”

That must be Vishnu’s condition: the serpent hissing here, Lakshmi massaging there—by now surely at the neck! How can Vishnu get up? He is in Kali-time—still. Yet he becomes the avatar—sometimes Rāma, sometimes Paraśurāma, sometimes Krishna. His business is one—understand, he remains on the bed; who plays his role, who knows! It is all a play. One fellow lies on India’s chest, asleep on his bed; Kali continues for centuries.

The time has come to break it. Rise! Sit up, leaving sleep. Stand up. Then walk. Whoever starts walking becomes Kṛta-yuga. That is why I oppose your religious dogmas that say, “No Tīrthankara can be now.” Being a Tīrthankara has nothing to do with time.

The Jains say, “There can be only twenty-four Tīrthankaras; they have already been.”

Suppose only twenty-four—granted. I spoke with a Jain monk who insisted only twenty-four. I said, “Granted. But what proof that these twenty-four were the ones? Perhaps not even one among them was genuine—and the twenty-four are yet to be! What proof do you have that these are the twenty-four? Was the first born with a certificate on his chest?”

Because Ṛṣabhadeva is named in the Ṛgveda, Jains proclaim their religion predates the Ṛgveda. But Hindus like Dayananda won’t allow it; they read not Ṛṣabhadeva but Vṛṣabhadeva—bull! Nandi! So was your first Tīrthankara a bull? The Jains won’t accept that. And what proof is there who was first? Did anyone bring a certificate?

I am criticized continually that I am a “self-proclaimed God.” I ask: which of your gods came with a certificate? If I am self-proclaimed, who was not? In the end, Mahavira’s claim was his own claim. In Mahavira’s time there were eight others who claimed too—only they lost to him in debate; but that proves only that the better lawyer won.

And if only argument is to decide, do I have any difficulty? If logic proved truth, then my victory is certain. Ripping logic to shreds is easy; your great logicians can be tossed, for their arguments are hackneyed and old; new arguments can be given they never even imagined.

Who will say Vishnu is living in Kali-yuga? No one has said it—yet it is obvious: forever on his bed. Alive or dead—it’s doubtful; the serpent hissing—he must be dead; how long can you live on a serpent? And sleeping—what kind of way is that? Get up, bathe, brush, have tea, sing a little—do something! Lying like a corpse—this is not a posture, it’s śavāsana.

Who brought a certificate? In Mahavira’s time Sanjaya Velaṭṭhiputta said, “I am the twenty-fourth Tīrthankara.” If he had a fault, it was only that he was a little crazy, intoxicated—not rule-bound like Mahavira—so crowds couldn’t collect around him; that is the misfortune of the intoxicated. He said thunderous things. Mahavira said there are seven hells; he said, “Wrong—he’s only gone up to seven! There are seven hundred hells; I have investigated thoroughly from the very top to the very bottom. And seven hundred heavens. Each speaks as far as he has gone; I have surveyed it all.” It is a playful jab: if you’re going to talk seven, why not seven hundred? Why be stingy!

Makkhali Gosāla claimed, “I am the real twenty-fourth Tīrthankara!” He had been Mahavira’s disciple; then seeing that if Mahavira could be twenty-fourth, why not he, he broke away and declared his claim. Naturally Mahavira felt miffed: “My disciple of twelve years, speaking my words, staking a claim against me!” Mahavira went to the town where Gosāla was. Staying at the dharmashala he said, “I want to meet him.” Gosāla came. Mahavira asked, “You were my disciple!”

Gosāla said, “This proves you are ignorant.”

“How so?”

“You cannot recognize. The body is the same, but that soul has gone; the soul of the twenty-fourth Tīrthankara has entered now, which was never your disciple. You are still stuck at the body; you see only body. See the soul! What ignorance!” Mahavira kept saying, “He lies.”

People liked Gosāla’s cleverness: “His old soul has gone; the Tīrthankara’s has entered!” He too was a maverick; his disciples were merry souls; crowds didn’t gather. But he spoke with zest—playfully.

There were others: Ajita Kesakambali. And Gautama Buddha himself denied Mahavira’s omniscience: “How omniscient? I myself saw him beg in front of houses where no one had lived for years. He did not know the house was empty—how omniscient! Only when neighbors told him did he move on. He claims to see three times, three worlds—but cannot see behind a door! In the morning, walking in the dark, he stepped on a dog’s tail; only when the dog barked did he know—how omniscient!”

These are Buddha’s words about Mahavira. So who is a Tīrthankara? Who has the claim? Who has the certificate? Do you think an avatar is decided by vote? Who got the votes? And if votes decided, they would all have lost. How many would have voted for Buddha? For Jesus? For Mohammed?

Don’t count today’s numbers. Today there are hundreds of millions behind Jesus; but when he was crucified, not one disciple stood there; all fled. One tried to follow in the night; Jesus said, “Don’t. Before the rooster crows in the morning, you will deny me three times.” The disciple said, “Never! My surrender is total!” He followed. The enemies dragged Jesus away in chains; dark night, torches burning; the disciple mingled with the crowd. The crowd suspected him: “Who are you? Are you Jesus’ disciple?” He said, “No—I’m a stranger; I am going to Jerusalem, night is dark, you have torches; I joined you for the light.” Jesus turned and said, “Look—the rooster hasn’t crowed yet!” It happened thrice before dawn.

Would such people vote? They denied him before the rooster! And what certificate did Jesus have that he was God’s only begotten son?

I am criticized as “self-proclaimed God.” I say: there is no other way—there has never been. The one who has known godliness must declare it himself. Buddha himself declared, “I attained the ultimate nirvana.” Whose certificate? Mohammed declared, “God’s book has descended upon me.” Whose certificate? Any witness?

In fact Mohammed himself doubted whether the “book” descending was from God or he was going mad. He ran home feverish. This shows his innocence. He said to his wife, “Cover me with all the quilts; something has happened. Either I am in delirium—things are pouring out of me that aren’t mine; such beautiful verses ring within me as if my signature is not on them. Either I am delirious, muttering beyond my control—or I’ve become a poet, which is worse, for delirium can be cured, but if I become a poet there is no cure! Where the moon cannot reach, the poet reaches; they are beyond accounting.”

But Aisha said, “Tell me what is happening.” Mohammed recited the first ayats. Aisha said, “You are mistaken. You are neither delirious nor a poet. God’s words have come to you; they are so beautiful, they can only be God’s.” She gave him courage; then he could speak to others—very carefully. But what certificate? The masses did not accept him—he was uprooted from place to place, hunted all his life. Would such a man get votes?

Someone like me must announce it himself—and someone like me can be digested only by a few with strong chests.

Therefore I tell you: this sutra I myself could have said. Who else could? It is the voice of my heart—my ayat!

Kaliḥ śayāno bhavati, saṃjihānas tu dvāparaḥ;
Uttiṣṭhan tretā bhavati, kṛtaṃ saṃpadyate caran.
Charaiveti. Charaiveti.

Professor Kali Prasad Srivastava, I remember Lallu Babu very well. And I remember you too—back then you were small. I hadn’t imagined you would still be just the same, standing where you stood, wearing the same little pajama, the same shirt—still bound there. You may know this or you may have forgotten by now; because you were Lallu Babu’s son, we used to call you “Lallu ke patthe.” Now you can work out for yourself what that means! Read “Lallu” in brackets as what people really call it. You still seem to be stuck there. And what a question to ask—why do I speak against religions!

I just spoke a moment ago—was that against religion? I speak against religions because I am for religion. Religion cannot have a plural; it can only be singular. Therefore religion cannot carry adjectives—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, Buddhist. I will speak against these. And I keep my knife honed against them every day. In my spare time I do just that—keep the blade sharp. These adjectives have to be cut away. What will remain then is religion, religiosity.

I speak against religions because I love religion. Religions have murdered religion.

This one’s a Muslim, that one a Hindu; this one a Christian, that one a Jew—
on this one these restrictions, on that one those taboos.
Rules and fetters—these enslave a person spiritually.

This one’s a Muslim, that one a Hindu; this one a Christian, that one a Jew—
on this one these restrictions, on that one those restraints.
The sheikh and the pandit—what simpletons they’ve made of us!
They have seated us in tiny, cramped cells.

People have been turned into fools, made into simpletons.
The sheikh and the pandit—what simpletons they’ve made of us—
simpletons, that is—Lallu’s lads!
They have seated us in tiny, cramped cells.

Upon the palace of humankind, torrents of tyranny and ignorance—
how many flags are seen, waving!
Upon the palace of humanity… pouring down oppression and stupidity—
so many flags are seen, fluttering!

And all these flags are false. They are political. Flags are deceptions; inside the flags the truth is sticks. Sticks are hidden behind flags. And in the tatters of flags people are cut and die. The earth has been drenched in blood in the name of these religions. And still you ask why I speak against religions! Even now you ask why I speak against religions!

Just look back at the past of religions. What have they done? What have they given to man? They have snatched from him. They have trampled him. The palace of humanity—its condition has become a ruin.

Upon the palace of humankind, torrents of tyranny and ignorance—
how many flags are seen, waving.
In this murk there is not even a hint of light.
What a darkness religions have created, that no visage of light can be seen in it!

If there were only one source of this darkness, that would be one thing. There are three hundred religions in the world, three thousand sects among them, and some thirty thousand sub-sects. All of them are increasing the darkness, not lessening it. And whenever anyone speaks of light, all these partisans of darkness set about to murder him, to erase him.

In this murk there is no visage of light;
on every heart a seal is stamped—of one formula or another.
Diminishing, diminishing—man, from the resplendent sun, has become a mere star.
What a state man has come to! He was like the sun—vast! Shrinking, shrinking, he’s been reduced to a tiny flickering star. Now not even a star—just a blot of black ink.

Diminishing, diminishing—from the radiant sun to a star,
man is the victim of religion and culture.
Two things have killed man—religion and your so-called civilization, culture. These egos of yours: my religion, my civilization, my culture, my nation, my caste, my lineage!

Man is the victim of religion and culture.
Some are the sons of civilization, some the sons of creed;
those meant to dwell in oceans are imprisoned in bubbles.
And you ask me why I speak against religions! I want to burst the bubbles so you become the ocean. There is no need to be confined in bubbles.

It is a lesson to behold—this narrowness of man.
Labels of different faiths are stuck upon every chest.
On every person’s chest a label is pasted—Hindu, Muslim. Are you a human being or boxes of shoes for sale in the market—Flex shoes, or Bata shoes, or “Monkey Brand” black tooth powder? What are you? A person, or merchandise? Labels are stuck on everyone.

Man roams about, lost, astray;
some label or another hangs from every forehead.
Why does a human being get cast into tight molds?
Why does one feel ashamed to call oneself simply “human”?

Why say you’re a Hindu? Why say you’re a Muslim? Why Jain, why Christian, why Sindhi, why Punjabi, why Gujarati, why Marathi? How many insanities you carry! Madness within madness, within that more madness—never-ending. Boxes within boxes within boxes: open one and another pops out; open that and a third emerges—no end to the boxes. Are you a human being or a stack of boxes?

Why does a human being get cast into tight molds?
Why does one feel ashamed to call oneself simply “human”?
What can Hindustan do—this too is a gift of Allah:
tea is Hindu, milk is Muslim, the coconut is Sikh, the jujube is Jain.
What profit is there in rancor toward your own kind?
What good is there in living in fragments?

Religion is love. And the moment you get entangled in religions, love ends; hatred begins. Religion is friendship. And in religions there is nothing but enmity.

What profit is there in rancor toward your own kind?
What good is there in living in fragments?

I speak against religions because I do not want to see man in pieces. And so long as man is in pieces, the sun cannot rise in human life.

Now that you are here, Professor Kali Prasad Srivastava—alias Lallu’s lad!—ask something of real use. These pajamas you’re wearing have become too small. This shirt is much too tight. What’s the point of staying bound in them? Free yourself from these chains. And since you’ve come this far, drink a little of the nectar here.

Respected preacher, to come into the tavern in this manner is not proper.
But since you have come, then have a little drink—
to return without drinking is not proper.
Your admonition, O counselor—we accept with respect:
that their drinking and serving drink is improper;
but what is a reveler to do when the rain-clouds have gathered?
Not to lift the bottle then—that would be improper.
When the Day of Reckoning comes, we’ll see to it then;
why fear now, O Sheikh, without cause?
Four days of life are so precious—
to waste them like this would be improper.
If someone, after two sips, starts to lose control
and crosses the bounds of good drinking—
such a low-capacity tippler, O drinkers,
to seat by your side would be improper.
Respected preacher, to come into the tavern in this manner is not proper.
But since you have come, then have a little drink—
to return without drinking is not proper.

Now that you have come—this is indeed the tavern, the madhushala. Here the great cry of “Raso vai sah” is in the air. Here one is to drink the Divine. We are not here to lug around rotten, decayed religions. When living truth is available, when a clear stream is flowing, why bring up tin cans? Why talk of putrid muck? But our minds are entangled there. So many come here and go away deprived. That is no fault of mine.

This is something you will know only if you drink. This is something you will know only if you live it. It is not something to be explained or described. This is for revelers, for drinkers, for wine-lovers. This is the wine of God: one who has drunk it finds all other wines counterfeit; one who has drunk it finds all scriptures false. One who has tasted even a single drop has found the secret of the ocean.

I am partisan of religion; therefore I am opposed to religions. For me, religion is singular, and making it plural is impossible.

That’s all for today.