Bin Bati Bin Tel #16

A wealthy old woman had given shelter to a sadhu for twenty years.
She had a hut built for him and fed him.
One day she decided to test the sadhu. For this she sought the help of a prostitute.
She told her, ‘Go and embrace the sadhu.’ And then ask, ‘Now what?’
The prostitute went to the sadhu, expressed love toward him, and then asked what should happen now.
The sadhu replied, ‘Like an old tree clinging to a cold rock in winter; there is no warmth anywhere.’
The prostitute returned and told the old woman everything.
The old woman was furious and at once went and burned down the sadhu’s hut.
What would you call this old woman’s behavior?

There are two ways of looking at religion. One is to see it in opposition to the world, as if religion were the enemy of the world; as if religion were simply the reverse of whatever we do here. If food is delicious, then fasting will be religious. If there is delight in bodily beauty, then deformity and ugliness will be religious. If the mind is engrossed in accumulating wealth, then renouncing it will be religious. Turning your back on the world will be religious.

This is one perspective. It is very ordinary. There is no deep experience in it. It is the mind’s simple arithmetic. The mind’s rule is to run from one extreme to the other. When you see that wealth didn’t bring happiness, the thought immediately arises: by giving up wealth, happiness will come. You married and happiness didn’t happen, so the mind immediately says: divorce will bring happiness.

Your mind insists you will find happiness—just do the opposite of what you did. But that happiness itself is never questioned. Only the direction is changed. You were going east, you didn’t find it, so go west—but you will get happiness; only the direction needs changing. You used to sit in a shop; now sit in the temple or mosque. You used to read obscene pornography; now read scriptures, religious texts—but you’ll get it through reading. Only the direction needs changing; turn it upside down. This is the mind’s natural rule.

You love your child, you explain, he doesn’t listen—instantly you pick up a stick. If he won’t obey with love, he will with harshness. If he won’t be persuaded by reward, he will by punishment. First you tempt with heaven; if no one agrees, you threaten with hell. The mind immediately seeks the opposite.

For the mind there are only two: either this, or the reverse; there is no third. And if this didn’t give, then half the possibilities are over; half remain, look there. Such “religion” never goes beyond the mind. It remains within the mind’s duality.

Religion truly begins only when you go beyond the mind. When you choose neither of the two, but drop both. When wealth is dropped—and so is infatuation with poverty. When woman is dropped—and so is man. But do not grasp the opposite. Let it not happen that you avoid the well only to fall into the ditch. That is hard. For the mind, switching polarities is easy; becoming free of duality is difficult.

The deepest form of religion is freedom from duality. This story points in that direction.

The sadhu must have believed in the first kind of religion. Usually sadhus do. That is why they remain sadhus and never become saints. The old woman was seeking the second kind of religion; she was seeking sainthood. Understand this distinction clearly.

In the world there are two kinds of people: the unholy and the holy, the asadhu and the sadhu. But both are within the world. The saint is beyond the world. That is why the saint is hard to understand. The sadhu is easy to understand—his arithmetic is yours. You understand indulgence, you will understand renunciation. It isn’t far; it is close to you. You understand greed, you will understand charity—charity is simply greed’s opposite; not far, very near. You understand ego, you will understand humility—because humility is ego’s subtlest form.

When someone approaches you humbly, how delighted you are! You say, what a humble man! And how do you understand humility? When someone is humble, your ego is gratified. Someone bows and touches your feet, you say, how humble! But what does his humility mean? His humility is a balm to your ego. Your ego understands humility perfectly. You go to someone to ask for two coins, he gives you four; your greed easily understands his charity. Greed has no difficulty grasping charity—the language is the same.

One man is running madly after women. Another man turns his back on women and flees to the forest. You understand that perfectly. It is the language of lust. Such celibacy is not outside lust; it is still within it. But you will not understand Krishna’s celibacy—because it is completely outside your lust; not the opposite of it, but beyond it. Understand this well.

Opposites remain within duality. Liberation is not the opposite of the world; it is beyond the world. Sainthood is not the opposite of the unholy; it is beyond both the unholy and the holy. If the unholy man stands on his feet, the sadhu does a headstand. There is no real difference between the two; they are the same kind. You go to a sadhu and place a thousand gold coins at his feet; he throws them away and says, ‘Remove this trash! Why have you brought this here?’ You instantly understand: this is a sadhu. But if he says nothing—you place a thousand gold coins at his feet and he sits silently—then you become suspicious. Understanding is in trouble.

It happened—Kabir had a son named Kamal. If Kabir is a sadhu, Kamal is a saint. The son had taken one step further than the father. People could understand Kabir; they couldn’t understand Kamal. The king of Kashi asked Kabir, many people worship Kamal too, they go to him as well. But I can’t make sense of Kamal. A king can understand a beggar. Kabir was intelligible—he had renounced everything.

The king said, ‘Send Kamal away from here. He’s a nuisance. He seems greedy.’
Kabir asked, ‘How did you discover that?’
The king said, ‘One day I went to him with a precious diamond. I offered it to Kamal: a priceless gem as a gift. I have brought gems to you too, and you say, it is a stone. My heart overflows. It is all in vain, I understand!’
Kamal said, ‘Now that you’ve brought it, where will you carry this burden back? Leave it.’ This was a bit difficult to digest. I asked, ‘Where shall I put it?’ Kamal said, ‘You ask where to put it? You still don’t understand—but fine—’ It was a thatched hut of reeds where Kamal lived—‘stick it into the thatch.’
The emperor said, ‘I stuck it into the thatch. But I know, I can’t have left before someone pulled it out. By now it must be sold.’
Kabir said, ‘Go one more time and find out what happened to the diamond.’
The emperor went and asked Kamal, ‘About six months ago I brought a diamond, very precious. You said, “Leave it.” I pushed it into your thatch. Where is it?’
Kamal laughed and said, ‘That day too I told you, it wasn’t a diamond, it was a stone. And that’s precisely why I said, leave it—since you had already committed one stupidity dragging it all the way here, why commit a second by taking the weight back? You stuck it into the thatch. Now I don’t know. If no one has taken it, it must still be there. And if someone has taken it, we aren’t sitting here to guard it!’ The king’s suspicion hardened: surely it had been taken. Even so, as he was leaving, he looked up and was startled. The gem was still there. No one had taken it.
You take money to a renunciant and he says, this is trash, remove it—you understand. But if it is truly trash, why such hurry to remove it? Kamal’s sainthood will escape your grasp. Because Kamal says, it’s a stone—where will you take it back now? If Kamal were to say, it’s a stone, take it away—you would understand. But the person who says, it’s a stone, take it away, is talking in opposites.
If it is a stone, why the urgency? Many stones lay around Kamal’s hut; he never shouted, take them away. But he shouts when he sees a diamond, take it away. He may say it’s a stone, but he also sees a diamond. He too feels fear, greed grabs him inside. Kamal, however, has neither fear nor greed; so he says, ‘You’ve already brought it; you made one mistake, why make another? Leave it.’

A saint who tells you, leave the diamond—he leaves your understanding. He will be within religion, but beyond your intellect. And religion happens precisely when it goes beyond the intellect.

This old woman had served this Buddhist monk for years. She fed him; when he was ill, she nursed him. She built his hut. She arranged for his prayer, worship, meditation. Then, as she came near death—she must have been an extraordinary old woman—she called a prostitute and said: all my life I have served this man; I want to know whether he has gotten anywhere, or not. Was my service being poured into the sands, and the one I worshipped unworthy of worship? She wanted to know whether he was merely a sadhu or truly a saint.

The distance between sadhu and saint is subtle, and vast. The recognition is difficult. How will you know whether a man’s lust has disappeared—that’s why he is celibate; or whether he has only suppressed lust—that’s why he appears celibate? On the surface, you will see celibacy in either case. And the one who has suppressed will appear more. Because whatever we suppress, we exaggerate its opposite to display. We ourselves are afraid: if the opposite is not made visible, something hidden may show! And where celibacy has come not by suppressing lust but because lust has evaporated, there will be no display. There is nothing to hide—why show the opposite? It is difficult.

So, usually the repressed celibate will be visible to you—you will recognize him. But the one whose lust has been pacified, quieted, will not be recognized. The exhibitionist is always visible; the one with no exhibition is not.

This old woman’s dilemma is yours: how to tell a saint from a sadhu? To distinguish a sadhu from an unsaintly man is easy, clear—they stand opposite each other. To separate a saint from a sadhu is very hard, because they look almost alike. Yet the difference is like that between a paper flower and a real flower. The paper flower can be perfumed—and if you sprinkle rose essence on it, it will smell stronger than the real rose. The paper flower needs extra perfume for the deception to work. The rose is not eager for publicity. Whatever fragrance comes, comes—if the breeze blows, it carries it; if not, not. The rose is not anxious to advertise itself.

As she lay dying, the old woman wanted to know whether her worship had been in vain. Whether her service had been wasted. The one whose feet she tended for so long—was he a sadhu or a saint?

Mind you, she was not trying to find out whether he was irreligious or a sadhu. That was obvious—he was a sadhu. He was not irreligious; twenty years would have exposed that. Sadhu—this much was certain. One more question remained—a subtle distance—how to know?

She called a prostitute. Because that which is repressed within you cannot be recognized until it is provoked to the surface. And a prostitute is skilled in bringing out your repressions.

You may be surprised; psychologists say many men are impotent with their wives. They come alive with a prostitute; their manhood returns. Their own wife cannot arouse them; a prostitute can. The prostitute is skilled, an artist. She has cultivated expertise in sexuality. For her, sex is not merely a natural event—it is a crafted art.

In Japan, the class of courtesans—the geisha—attained great mastery of desire. And those who love a geisha even once, no other woman can arouse them thereafter. She has discovered so many subtleties in the body that whatever is pressed or dormant anywhere, she can awaken it. An ordinary wife cannot. Also, one you live with continuously loses allure. The new has attraction, the stranger has attraction, the unknown has attraction; you want to get to know her.

The old woman summoned the finest prostitute in town and said: go, embrace this sadhu, and test whether lust is stirred or not. After the embrace, ask, ‘Now what? What do you intend?’ The prostitute went. At midnight the sadhu was absorbed in meditation. The door was open—sadhus have nothing to guard from thieves. She opened the door. The sadhu opened his eyes. A wave of fear ran through him. At midnight, a courtesan at the door! And surely the sadhu had seen this woman many times in town.

It is impossible that a sadhu’s eyes won’t linger on a prostitute. They are the two ends of the same trade, two parts of the same process, two extremes of the same line. You immediately see your opposite; avoiding it is difficult. It is impossible that a prostitute doesn’t notice a sadhu, or a sadhu a prostitute. The ones in-between may be ignored. Opposites stand out—like a black line drawn on a white wall, it stands forth. He must have seen this woman many times. Many times desire would have stirred for her. Whatever we renounce, our relish for it grows, it doesn’t diminish.

If renunciation diminished relish, the whole world would have become buddhas long ago. Renunciation is easy. Drop anything and you’ll find your relish increases. If your relish for food is gone, fast—and relish will return. In nature-cure centers fasting is prescribed. Those who go there are usually the ones who have accumulated too much fat—overfed. Hence in poor countries nature-cure centers cannot flourish; they do in rich countries. If Uruli Kanchan thrives, it is because of Bombay. Where people overeat, arrangements have to be made for fasting.

Curiously, nature-cure centers have found that those who reduce weight in two or three months gain it back within three weeks. Fasting rekindles hunger; this is overlooked. If you fast for three months, hunger will blaze for the first time; digestive fire becomes pure. Then you eat more—and a vicious cycle is born. Overeat, fat increases; reduce it, hunger increases.

Hence the poor have more relish in food than the rich—the poor are hungry; hunger brings relish. The poor enjoy wealth more than the rich can—because what you possess loses relish, what you don’t have creates relish.

In the West, new research among the young shows a curious element: young men and women are losing interest in each other. They found it late; the East knew long ago. That’s why even husbands and wives weren’t allowed to meet by day, alone. Relish was preserved. Years passed and a husband might not have seen his wife’s face clearly—meeting in darkness at night, the face remained strange.

And it is almost impossible—if you could raise the dead and ask: did you ever see your wife naked? Impossible. Wives stayed at a distance.

Prostitutes teach their trainees: do everything, but never fully reveal yourself to the man you want to enchant. The hidden longs to be uncovered. So a prostitute is never fully naked—half-naked. Leave something for his imagination to complete. What is covered he completes in fantasy—and reality is never as beautiful as imagination. How can the world compete with dreams! Hence the courtesan wears clothes that reveal the trivial and conceal what you want to uncover. She never fully reveals herself; the day she does, her profession is finished. She will attract, but not allow you close.

The East understood this. Otherwise a precious scripture like Vatsyayana’s could not have been written. Vatsyayana advised: a wife may allow her husband to come close, but never completely close—because the day he comes completely close, that day the wife becomes meaningless.

The West’s young are losing interest in sex—they will. Sex is so readily available, overfed; becoming pointless. Woman is becoming pointless, man is becoming pointless. The deepest charm of life is decreasing in the West. Now they realize the East was wiser.

This sadhu must have seen the prostitute many times. Many times his mind must have wavered—because mind’s nature is wavering. Whatever we prohibit becomes attractive. Put a sign on a door: ‘No peeking here.’ Then no man can pass without peeking. If you pass out of modesty, you will return. If you cannot manage to return, you will come in your dreams at night. But peeking into that door—inevitable. Wherever we shut a door, our attraction intensifies there.

This sadhu must have seen her often. A householder might pass without seeing a prostitute—he has a woman available. But how can a sadhu pass without seeing? A full belly may pass the sweet shops; how can a hungry man? In a market, a hungry man sees only the sweet shops; everything else disappears. Food appears in everything.

Heinrich Heine wrote that once he lost his way in a forest. For three days he couldn’t find the path. Then the full moon rose and he was astonished: he didn’t see the moon; he saw a loaf of bread floating in the sky. A man hungry for three days—the moon becomes bread. He wrote, ‘I’ve written many poems, read many, but I’ve never seen the metaphor of the moon as a floating loaf! Sometimes you see a beloved’s face in it, a lover’s—that you can understand; but bread!’ But a hungry belly projects. We see outside what we hide inside.

Surely this sadhu had seen this prostitute in his dreams too. A sadhu’s dreams are equivalent to an unholy man’s life. The unholy often dreams of being a sadhu. The sadhu often dreams of being unholy. If a sadhu’s dreams were displayed, you would be shocked. We dream what we cannot do in life. Dreams are substitutes, compensations. You fast by day; at night there is a banquet in a palace—dream. By day you avoid her; at night you will see her.

What we cannot do, the mind completes in dreams. The poor dream of being kings. And kings often dream of being monks, walking in forests, resting under trees—no palace hassles, no soldiers, no ministers, no worries—free like a mendicant.

If Buddha and Mahavira became monks, they fulfilled the kings’ dreams. And if hundreds of kings came to touch their feet, it is because what they saw in their own dreams was actualized in these men. Among Buddha’s and Mahavira’s followers were the most kings and princes. They felt, we too wish this; we can’t do it—weakness, compulsions, difficulties. You have done it—you have fulfilled our dream.

The poor dream of riches. At night we become what we are not by day. Sadhus often dream of sin, of debauchery.

Sadhus come to me and say: everything else is fine; by day we somehow get free of the mind—but at night! At night we are helpless. So a sadhu becomes afraid of sleep. A saint’s sleep becomes supremely deep—dreamless. A sadhu fears sleeping—because all unholiness begins to erupt.

Gandhi was a supreme sadhu. He wrote that even at seventy he dreamed of lust. He was honest, an utmost sadhu. Other sadhus aren’t that honest. Gandhi said: by day nothing comes to mind, but at night I have lustful dreams. A saint’s dreams disappear; a sadhu’s dreams become unholy.

He must have seen this woman in dreams too. She is not as beautiful as she appears to him. Suddenly, seeing her at the door, the sadhu must have been startled. Shaken. Alone, night dark, no one nearby, his hut far from the village!

At first he must have thought: am I dreaming? He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The prostitute was standing there. All his repressed lust would have surged; a storm within. Whatever was pressed must have surfaced. His every pore charged. His whole body became aroused. He was afraid.

This story has many versions. In one version he panicked. Though the night was cold, beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. The prostitute was only at the door, and he shouted, ‘How did you come here? What need to come at such an hour?’ His voice trembled with fear. When we repress something, we sit atop a volcano. As if seated in lotus posture over a volcano—it doesn’t matter if the posture is perfect; the volcano is beneath.

And it’s hard to find a greater volcano than sex. All other fires can be quenched; the fire of lust is the hardest to extinguish—almost impossible. Only when the fire of lust is extinguished does the peace of liberation become available. Otherwise one burns in that fire. Lust is a fever. Cold night—but sweat beads on his brow. He was frightened. His throat choked; words wouldn’t come.

He stammered, ‘At such a late hour… at midnight… what need? Go out. Move away.’
The prostitute moved closer. As she came closer, so did the repressed lust from his unconscious. The fear was not of the prostitute—it is always one’s own fear. The awakened can sleep in a prostitute’s house as serenely as under the Bodhi tree. You cannot sleep under the Bodhi tree without a prostitute. You will lie alone and in the night you will find you have become two. Under the Bodhi tree you will still dream of a woman.

She came near and embraced the monk. He must have composed himself. Years of asceticism, years of suppression. He pushed the fear down again, became alert. The incident was sudden, so he trembled—because it was unexpected, an accident. But soon he must have regained balance.

And when the prostitute asked, ‘Now what?’
That fever that had arisen, that storm—that trembling lust—was now controlled, balanced. Then the sadhu-ness suppresses the unholy again. He said, ‘Your embracing me is like a tree embracing a cold rock at night. Not a trace of warmth is produced in the rock—it remains cold.’

Lust is heat—not only mentally but physically too. When you are filled with lust, your body becomes feverish. A sweat breaks over your entire body. Blood pressure rises, heart beats faster.

Earlier physicians used to say those with weak hearts should avoid sexual intercourse—because intercourse increases heart rate; there is danger of heart failure. But to date no one has died of a heart attack during sex. No case.

So physicians revised their view. Now a new theory says sexual activity is good for heart patients—because it exercises the heart. As walking exercises the body, intercourse exercises the heart. And due to that exercise, at least up to the intensity of intercourse your heart will not fail; it has been trained. Western modern medicine now permits sexual activity even for heart patients. Both views agree: heart rate increases, blood pressure rises, sweating occurs, the body becomes feverish.

He felt a fever too—otherwise why would the metaphors of rock and tree occur? Why no other image? He is whitewashing. What happened—the prostitute saw it. It is hard to hide lust from a prostitute; her whole life’s training and art is exactly that. You cannot hide from her. Her understanding becomes deep; she knows your secrets by the ounce. In your smallest gestures she detects trembling lust. She is an artist; she has learned much about the body. Hiding from her is difficult. He is now trying to cover up, to explain.

He tells her, ‘Like a cold rock embraced by a tree on a winter night—no warmth arises; the rock remains cold. So am I a cold rock. You have not caused any heat to arise.’

But precisely this gave the game away. We explain only where we are caught. This explanation spoiled everything.

The prostitute told the old woman that he said: like a cold rock touched by a tree in the night, no warmth arises.

The old woman went and set the hut on fire. This man was a sadhu, but not a saint. The one at whose feet she had spent so many days was not qualified to be a true master. He himself was still struggling, on the path, not arrived. And one who is not arrived—how can he bring another to arrival? Only one who has arrived can take you there.

He who is himself still walking may get you to walk, but he cannot get you to arrive. He himself is not sure whether the path will lead there or not. He too seeks followers because followers give courage. Seeing followers around, he feels as if he has arrived. Even a man still on the path feels reassured if followers gather—and people follow because at least someone is going, perhaps we too may arrive.

Our condition is like this. I have heard: a hunter got lost in a forest. Three days of trouble—no path, no direction! No footprints to follow. Hungry, thirsty, exhausted, almost at the point of collapse. Suddenly on the third evening as the sun was setting he saw another hunter walking out of a dense thicket. He was so happy he danced, hugged him and said, ‘Brother! I’ve been lost for three days. So good to find you!’ The other said, ‘No need to be so happy. I’ve been lost for seven.’

Even finding someone else is a joy—you feel a path will be found. One alone didn’t find it; two might. Disciples latch onto gurus to find company. Gurus gain courage. The more disciples behind, the more it seems we must have arrived; otherwise why would so many follow? But one who hasn’t arrived cannot bring you there.

The old woman understood clearly.

And we explain exactly what we fear. The husband returns home in the evening with explanations prepared. Ask for his explanation and you will know what mischief he has been up to. If he has been drinking, he will explain: there was a party, important for business, that’s why I drank. Ask for his explanation and you’ll know what he has done.

I’ve heard: a drunk was heading home at night, rehearsing various answers. Drunks always rehearse on the way home; who knows what the wife will ask! He strayed and wandered into a zoo. Somehow searching for his door, which of course could not be there, he stopped before the bars of a hippopotamus’s cage. He looked carefully, got very nervous, and said, ‘Don’t make that face. I’ve prepared answers for everything. Don’t look so terrifying. I have got explanations for everything.’

Explanations reveal the problem. What you are trying to solve shows what the issue is.

This sadhu panicked. The heat that rose in the body, the beads of sweat on his brow, the trembling—this cannot be hidden from a prostitute. Perhaps the heat could have been hidden, but the explanation cannot be hidden from the old woman. The prostitute might have been fooled, but the words he spoke—‘Like a rock touched by a tree at night remains cold; no warmth arises; so am I’—then the old woman did not delay a moment. She burned the hut.

Her final verdict: all these years I served in vain. He himself had not arrived. He is on the path, a good man, a decent sadhu—but not a saint.

In other versions of the story, the old woman tells the prostitute: sainthood has not ripened yet. If not lust, at least a little compassion could have shown. Even if he did not show desire, a little warmth of compassion—at least that. A rock may remain cold, but the heart of a buddha is warm. That warmth is not lust’s heat. This is subtler and worth understanding.

There is another warmth—the warmth of compassion. Lust makes you hot, but that heat is feverish, a disease. Compassion too sends a warmth through you, but it is the warmth of welcome. In English there is the phrase ‘a warm welcome.’ When you take someone near with ardor. A mother takes her child close. A friend takes a friend close. A master can hold his disciple in his arms. But in that warmth there is no lust. It is only the heart’s warmth, compassionate; no agitation. It is merely the open door of welcome. It says, the heart is open—come.

The old woman said: there was no need to display desire, but at least a little compassion could have appeared.

Remember, one who has suppressed lust—his celibacy will not be compassionate. He will suppress not only lust, but love too. He will always fear love, because where love is shown he will be afraid the spring of lust will burst forth again. And the one whose celibacy comes by going beyond lust—his celibacy will overflow with love. There will be the warmth of compassion. He will be a lover. This is a subtle difference.

If in truth a person goes beyond lust, his total life-energy becomes love. That is the sign. His whole life becomes compassion. He will not be emptied of love—he will be filled with love for the first time. But the person who has suppressed lust, frightened, will fear love. He will be afraid even to touch your hand—because he fears that flame within, and with any small opportunity it may flare up. Out of fear of that flame he will deprive himself of love too. He will avoid situations where love could arise.

But celibacy emptied of love loses its meaning. It is like throwing out the baby with the dirty bathwater. Love should remain—love is the ultimate, love is God. In a saint’s life there will be love. In a sadhu’s life there will not be love. And that will be the line separating their celibacy.

She did well to burn the hut. It is a symbol. It is a signal—she informed the renunciant: you are still on the path; unworthy to be a master; you are still afraid; still explaining; still trying to save your face; still feeling insecure. Otherwise, what need for explanations? Who asked you? Whom were you afraid of? A man afraid of himself spins a web around himself. She did not burn the hut; she set fire to his web—so that he might see, become aware of his delusion.

In life there are two paths: suppression, and liberation. If you choose suppression, you will be spared the pains that lust brings; you won’t have those entanglements—but you will also miss the liberation that love brings, the bliss that love opens. It is a possible state: if you protect yourself from lust, you will avoid certain sufferings.

I’ve heard: a young man wrote to his father from university, in his final year: ‘I have decided to marry. I’ve chosen a girl. I await your blessing. With your blessing I will marry.’
The father replied: ‘I am happy and delighted. We have been awaiting this moment—when you would marry, when you would find a life companion. Thinking you are about to marry, I remember my own days when I fell in love with your mother. She is sitting here at my desk. All those memories return. These twenty years of happiness, this joy your mother has given me—may God grant you the same joy! Our blessings.’ And then, as a postscript: ‘Be careful! Don’t you dare get married. Your mother just stepped out, so I’m writing the truth.’

If one does not marry, he certainly avoids the pains of marriage—but gains no joy. That is the problem. The pains of relationship are real—the friction of living with another, the quarrels, the jars of two utensils. If you avoid marriage out of fear, there is no joy in living alone. You can shrink yourself. You will have no pains—but no joys either.

The one you call a sadhu is a runaway. Wherever there was pain, he shrank away. So he suffers less than you—it’s true—but he attains no bliss. Shrinking never brings bliss; expansion does. He has secured his safety—but the safety has become a grave. He will rot in it.

Sainthood is another kind of experience. Sainthood means: you do not protect yourself from suffering; you expand toward bliss. You are not trying to get free of lust; you are growing toward love. Your journey is creative. You are not worried whether lust remains or goes; your concern is: how can I become loving? You are not abandoning a home—you are trying to make the entire earth, the entire existence, your home. This journey is entirely different. This man will also be alone—but there will be a dignity in his aloneness, because it is filled with joy. He too will have no sufferings—but having no pain is not a virtue! A dead man catches no disease. If you die, you’ll never fear illness again—no doctor’s fees, no medicines. But is that health?

The sadhu is like a dead man who, seeing household sorrows, got scared. He shut every door from which pain could enter. The house became a tomb. But bliss will not ripen for him. Your sadhus suffer less than you—it’s true, because they are outside the situations of pain. No income tax, no theft, no need to cheat—these worries are absent. But that is only sidestepping. No wife, no children, no daily hassles.

I’ve heard: a man phoned his wife. ‘I’m bringing a friend home for dinner.’ His wife screamed over the phone: ‘Are you crazy? The maid has quit, the cook is sick, the baby is teething, I’ve had a fever for three days, there’s no grain in the house, the grocer refuses more credit until we pay the last bill. Are you sane?’ The man said, ‘That’s exactly why I’m bringing him—to show him the empire of bliss called marriage, since he wants to get married!’

But if you escape suffering for that reason, will you become blissful?

Out of fear of pain you shrink; you cannot expand. The journey to bliss is different; that I call the religious journey. It is creative, not negative. You do not give up—you gain the vast. You do not flee from anything—you embrace the totality. In that embrace, the petty dissolves. You do not move out of your house—you make the whole existence your home.

The saint is the great enjoyer.
You are an enjoyer; your sadhu is the opposite—abstainer; the saint is the supreme enjoyer, because the saint abides in bliss. And where there is bliss, there is love and compassion—they are its natural shadow.

The woman was right to say: burn this man’s hut now. The labor of so many days was futile. He himself gained nothing. He is still afraid, still explaining.

You should think too—these are the two roads. And your mind will always support the wrong one. Your mind will always help you choose the wrong—because the mind itself is the source of the wrong within you.

One drunk friend is seeing off another. Both have had a lot. They embrace but can’t quite manage it; they kiss and the kiss lands anywhere. Both are shaking. One says, ‘Listen, a word from experience. A hundred steps from here you’ll see two roads. Don’t turn left; that road doesn’t exist. Turn right. There is only one road, but whenever I’ve had too much, I see two. Don’t go left—it isn’t there.’

Your mind is the intoxication within you, the process of wrongness. It will always show you the left-hand road. It will seem smoother—because the mind offers no resistance going that way. When you get bored with your wife, the sadhu’s words will suddenly sound right. When someone dies at home, you will start reading scriptures. When you go bankrupt, you’ll feel a great urge to become a sadhu. Whenever you lose, you’ll chant God’s name—‘the defeated take to God.’ You’ll start singing bhajans.

Beware of this. It is your mind explaining. The same mind that installed you in a shop will now take you to the temple. The mind that made you do accounts is now making you chant Rama’s name. You failed there; it says, try here. But the right road is not the left, not the mind’s. The right road is to stop listening to the mind. Don’t ask the mind; it will only answer in dualities. And the mind has a strange habit: wherever you are it tells you to go to the opposite—and when you go to the opposite, it tells you, you left the right place.

A man is a pilot. He takes a friend up. They fly over a beautiful California valley. A lake appears below. The pilot says, ‘Strange—I used to fish on that lake as a boy. I’d cast my line and when planes flew over, my heart would say, when will I be that fortunate—when will I be a pilot! Now I’m a pilot, and every time I pass over this lake I think, when will I retire so I can fish again?’

That’s the mind. In the shop it longs for the temple; in the temple it longs for the shop. It always calls you to the opposite. The birth of sainthood is the moment you awaken and drop both.

If this person had been a saint, his response would have been entirely different. Hard to say how.

One more point: a sadhu’s behavior is fixed, predictable—opposite to the unholy. Sit for a moment and imagine yourself in that hut. A beautiful prostitute arrives. What would you do? You would think: for one day, let me drop this sadhu-business; no harm. It’s just one day; I can earn back my virtue—my own earnings. Why lose this chance? When God himself shows such grace, don’t refuse. A devotee should never refuse—always accept. You can easily imagine your behavior. The sadhu’s behavior is just the opposite. Predictable.

With a sadhu you can declare what he will do. With a saint you cannot. No prophecy is possible. A saint does not follow fixed ideologies. A saint’s behavior depends on consciousness—what arises in the moment.

A Buddhist tale: a monk was passing down the road. He was beautiful.
Ascetics often become beautiful. The world is so ugly; living in it, faces become ugly. Busy in it, faces gather the wounds that surround them. Doing evil, evil lines are etched in the eyes. Renunciants become beautiful. They are deeply attractive. Women are more enchanted by ascetics than by anyone.

A courtesan saw him pass. In those days, a courtesan was something precious. In Bihar, in Buddha’s time, the most beautiful young woman of a city could become a courtesan. It was a kind of socialist idea: a woman so beautiful shouldn’t belong to one man. She shouldn’t be a wife. She should belong to all. She was called the city’s bride—the nagarvadhu. It was an honor, for being a wife is easy, being the city’s bride is hard.

She looked down from her palace; the splendid monk was walking in his own grace. She was enchanted. She ran down, caught his robe and said, ‘Wait. Emperors knock at my door, but I cannot see all—time is limited. For the first time I am knocking at someone’s door. Stay with me tonight.’

The monk must have been a saint. Tears came to his eyes.
She asked, ‘Tears?’
He said, ‘Because what you ask is not worth asking. Seeing your ignorance, your darkness, brings pain. Today you are young and beautiful. If I don’t come tonight, it won’t be a problem—many hungry youth will stay with you. But when no one comes to your door, then I will come.’

That is a saint’s behavior. He did not say, I will not come. He said, I will come—but not now. Right now there is a marketplace around you. Many are eager to come. I am not needed. Even if I don’t come, you will forget me. And if I do, I will be forgotten in two days. A line drawn on water—erased. But the day there is no one, then I will come. I love you too—but love can wait.

She couldn’t understand. Lust is blind; it understands nothing. Compassion has eyes; lust has none. People say love is blind. The love filled with lust is certainly blind. But there is another love that is not blind; in fact, that love alone has eyes.

This monk did not refuse out of disgust. He did not say, ‘What madness! Get away, woman! What devil’s temptation! You have defiled my robe—away! This is sin!’ No sweat appeared on his brow—tears did. No fever from lust; no explanations. He asked for nothing. He simply said, ‘When the need is there, I will come.’

Twenty years later, a dark night of new moon. A woman lies outside the village, writhing—cast out by the village; she has become a leper. The same courtesan at whose door emperors knocked. Now there is no question of knocking; her body stinks. No one will sit near her. In that dark night only one monk sits by her head. She is almost unconscious. From time to time she gains a little awareness and the monk says, ‘Listen, I have come. Now the crowd is gone. No one wants you. But I still want you. And I want to give you something—a key that truly makes life beautiful, a key that fills life with fulfillment. That day you asked, but you could not have received. And what you asked was not worth giving. Love cannot give that.’

Buddhists say that she took initiation that night, became a nun, and died fulfilled. They say she attained buddhahood. He gave her meditation—love can give only that; nothing greater can be given.

But you cannot predict a saint. If some other saint had been approached, perhaps tears would not have come to his eyes. Who can say what would arise in that situation? The saint lives spontaneously, moment to moment. What answer will come—who can say?

Another Buddhist story.
A prostitute invited a monk to stay at her house for the rainy season. The monk said, ‘I have no problem staying—that is another matter. But let me ask my master first. He won’t forbid it, I’m sure. It’s just a formality. I am his disciple. Buddha is just outside the town; I will ask and return.’

The prostitute was a little worried. What kind of monk agrees so quickly?
The monk went and asked Buddha: ‘I’ve been invited by a courtesan to stay through the rains. What do you order?’ Buddha said, ‘You may go. It is not right to refuse an invitation.’

Sensation spread among the monks. Ten thousand monks were filled with envy. It seemed he was fortunate—to be invited by a courtesan for the season. And the limit—even Buddha consented! One monk stood and said, ‘Stop! This will set a wrong precedent. Courtesans will invite monks, monks will stay in their houses, corruption will spread. This must not be allowed.’

Buddha said, ‘If you got the invitation and stayed, corruption would indeed spread. You seem eager to stay! You would never come to ask—you would be afraid. He came because he has no fear. If you came to ask, I would not say yes. And don’t be afraid. I know: if this man stays in a courtesan’s house, in three months he won’t be going after the courtesan; the courtesan will be coming after him. I trust him. He is precious.’

The monk went and stayed three months. Wild stories circulated—rumors he was corrupted, finished, listening to music, who knows if he kept his discipline. Monks could not go inside, but they lurked around and brought many reports. Buddha listened and said nothing.

After three months the monk returned and the courtesan came behind him. She said, ‘Blessed that you permitted him to stay. I tried every way to corrupt him—my pride was at stake. When a courtesan can corrupt you, she has won. But I lost. My beauty, my body, my music, my dance—none could entice him. In three months I fell into his attraction. Now I wonder: what does he have? What treasure is this, because of which I appear like trash to him? I want to find that. Until I attain that treasure, I am ready to do anything, to renounce everything. Life has no meaning until I reach the state he is in.’

Who can say what a saint will do? A sadhu’s behavior is fixed.

The old woman found that he was a sadhu, not a saint. She burned the hut. She took her service back. He could not be a true master. He is still a traveler on the path. The path is not yet complete—and not only incomplete, it is going to the left; it needs to turn right. Not only is he a traveler, he is engaged in the wrong journey.

Do not become a sadhu as the opposite of an unholy man. If you feel called to seek, if practice itself invites you, then beyond both the sadhu and the unholy there is a third journey—the saint’s journey. Go that way—beyond duality, beyond extremes, free of opposites.

Enough for today.