Deepak Bara Naam Ka #2

Sahajanand! This is one of those few sutras that are filled with nectar. The more you drink, the less it seems.

“Nāyam ātmā pravacanena labhyo...”
This Self is not available through words. Whether those words are from the Vedas, the Quran, or the Bible—there is no difference. The Self is not attained by listening. Whether the sayings are of Buddha, Mahavira, or Lao Tzu—no difference. Why? Why can the Self not be attained by hearing discourses? Because the Self is not an external object; it is an innermost experience. The Self is the taste of immortality. Explain light as much as you like to a blind person—how will he understand? He has never seen light; he has no impression, no encounter. He will get it all wrong.

Ramakrishna used to tell a sweet story: A blind friend, poor and blind, was invited to a meal. Kheer (sweet rice pudding) was served. He asked the friend sitting by him, “It’s delicious—what is it?” The friend said, “It’s kheer—made of milk, a dessert.” The blind man asked, “What is milk like?” “Milk? It’s white, pure white.” “Don’t confuse me with riddles,” said the blind man. “You mention kheer—I don’t know what that is. Then milk—I don’t know that either. Now you say white—I know nothing of white. What is white?”

The friend said, “Haven’t you seen a heron? Like a heron—white.” (It’s an old story; today the friend might have said, “Have you seen a politician in pristine white khadi?” And there is much kinship between herons and leaders anyway. Herons are the original politicians. See a heron standing on one leg at the lake’s edge? What an ascetic! An old yogi, a great practitioner—stands on one leg without moving, so the water won’t ripple and alert the fish. He stands as if he isn’t there—only then do fish get caught. So too politicians stand—only then do fish get caught. Same business! But the story is old; in Ramakrishna’s time the Gandhian leader hadn’t arrived. We should update the story a bit...) “Have you seen a heron? White like that.”

The friend must have been a pundit—a scholar worse off than the blind. Who else would explain color to a blind man! The blind man said, “If I ask more, we’ll only go farther astray. I’ve never seen a heron. Say something I can grasp. Speak to my blindness.” Then the friend woke up. He said, “Here, feel my hand.” He bent his arm to mimic a heron’s neck. The blind man ran his hand over it: “You see—this is what a heron’s neck is like.” The blind man was delighted: “Thank you! Now I understand what kheer is like—like a bent arm!”

Naturally. Don’t laugh at the blind; understand his compulsion. And with regard to the Self, almost everyone is blind, for the inner eye has not opened. Whatever is said about the Self will be misunderstood. By the time the words of the awakened reach you, they become something else. Buddha says one thing; you hear another. And this is natural. To understand what Buddha says, you must be awakened yourself, live on the same plane, in the same intensity of consciousness—the same awareness, the same samadhi, the same meditation, the same inner sky of light, the same rapture, the same emptiness, the same silence. Only then can the Buddha convey his taste to you. But one who has come to such a state has nothing left to understand.

Between two Buddhas, words are unnecessary; everything is understood without speaking, for both stand in the same place, in the same state of consciousness—there are not two. Where two Buddhas meet, only one remains. Let a thousand rivers fall into the ocean—what difference does it make? They all become one with the ocean; all become salty; all take on the ocean’s taste. Let a thousand Buddhas gather—there are not a thousand Buddhas there. Light a thousand lamps—the light is one, though the lamps are many. In a thousand bodies the lamp of Buddhahood may burn, but the radiance is one. And all radiance is one. What is there to say? To whom?

Those who could understand each other do not speak—there is nothing to say. Those who speak a lot are “buddhus” (fools)—and there is no one there to understand. This world runs on such chatter! Lives are lost, swords drawn. Two fools speak much and no one understands. Two Buddhas do not speak and all is understood.

So there is no dialogue between Buddhas, and none between buddhus. Between buddhus there is dispute; between Buddhas, silence.

Where then is speech meaningful? Only when an awakened one speaks to the unawakened—there there is some modest utility; not much. For this sutra is very clear:

“Nāyam ātmā pravacanena labhyo...”
The Self will not be found through discourses.

Then why do Buddhas speak? Why did this Rishi of the Upanishad speak at all? Why say even this much? Buddhas speak not in the hope that you will understand, but in the hope that perhaps a thirst will be kindled in you, a longing will arise. The longing is asleep in you; the fire is hidden. A little prodding is needed, a little ash brushed away—and the flame can blaze.

They do not speak expecting you to grasp, but hoping you may set out on the journey to understanding; that a search may be born; a longing to know: What is this? What is the Self? What is the truth of our life? Who are we, from where, and where are we going? Who is it within us that speaks, sees, hears, lives? What is this life?

To even look at them—look from afar,
It is not the lover’s way to disgrace beauty.
To even look...

Let them come here upon their promise, O cloud of spring,
O cloud of spring...
Let them come here upon their promise, O cloud of spring—
Then rain as you please afterwards.
Then rain as you please afterwards.
To even look at them—look from afar,
It is not the lover’s way to disgrace beauty.
To even look...

Whether it is evening or dawn—keep only their remembrance,
Keep only their remembrance...
Whether it is evening or dawn—keep only their remembrance,
By day or by night—let our talk be only of them.
By day or by night—let our talk be only of them.
To even look at them—look from afar,
It is not the lover’s way to disgrace beauty.
To even look...

I cannot understand, Hasrat, what this is—
What this is... what this longing is:
I cannot understand, Hasrat, what this longing is—
That even after meeting them, do not declare your desire.
That even after meeting them, do not declare your desire.
To even look at them—look from afar,
It is not the lover’s way to disgrace beauty.
To even look...

Buddhas speak so that a sleeping memory in you may awaken. For now you will only see from afar—like one who, when the sky is clear, sees from hundreds of miles away the towering peaks of the Himalayas, the virgin snow upon them. To even look at them—look from afar.

Whether it is evening or dawn—keep only their remembrance,
By day or by night—let our talk be only of them.
To even look...

The purpose of the Buddhas’ words is not that you hear the words and knowledge happens. Only this: perhaps their words may awaken some forgotten thirst; their presence may spark curiosity, inquiry, mumuksha. They speak so their words may strike the strings of your heart. Not that you will know the Truth—but that you will remember: Truth is to be known. Even this much is enough. Awakened ones have spoken only to say: Look, we have awakened; our misery has vanished; our torment has fallen away; flowers have blossomed in our life; smell this fragrance—it is yours too! This treasure lies within you as well. Dig a little and you will find it.

But the stupid catch only the words—like parrots repeating “Ram, Ram”—they recite the Vedas and the Upanishads. The irony is that this very verse is in the Mundaka Upanishad, and I know people who have been reading it all their lives, know it word for word, and feel not the least unease quoting this shloka—though they have not known, their eyes have not opened.

“Nāyam ātmā pravacanena labhyo.”
How much is said in so few words—an ocean condensed into a drop! No, it is not available through discourse. Yes, listen to those who know—but don’t cling to their words. Buddha said: Do not pay too much attention to what I say; attend to what I am. What I say is not so important; the source from which I say it is important. And don’t believe me because I say it; believe only when you know. Till then, experiment.

“Na medhayā na bahunā śrutena.”
Not by great intellect, talent, argument, or cleverness is the Self attained. Reason’s arms are very short. You cannot touch the stars with logic. For logic the Self is like in Aesop’s fable: the fox leapt for the grapes, couldn’t reach. After checking no one was watching, she muttered, “Anyway, the grapes are unripe—sour,” and walked off. A rabbit hidden in the bushes cried, “Auntie, you couldn’t reach them!” The fox snapped, “Silence, brat! If I could reach, then what? They’re unripe—sour. Let them ripen; then I’ll reach. By jumping I’ve seen they’re sour!” Without tasting, without touching—she “knew” they were sour!

Reason’s leap is that short. But its ego is huge. So it has one device: declare the soul does not exist. “Sour grapes.” If the Self eludes logic’s grasp, then the Self cannot be; thus, it isn’t. With such denial, logic saves its ego.

Reason does reach certain things—hence it is valid in science, for it grasps objects, investigates them. But the Self is not an object. The Self stands behind logic—trans-logical. Logic can touch what is in front of it; what is behind it—what can logic do? What is before the mirror is reflected; what is behind the mirror—how will it be seen? If the mirror had an ego, it would also declare, “What is behind me does not exist—if it did, it would appear in me.”

Before logic stands the world; behind it are you. And your being is the Self. Reason yields no reflection of you. Hence reason is inevitably atheistic.

“Na medhayā”—not by intellect. What is intellect? A chain of thoughts. Has anyone ever known the Unknowable through thought? Thought’s domain is the known; it only chews cud. Have you seen buffaloes chewing cud? Thought does the same. It masticates what has been heard, read, known. But the Self can neither be read, heard, nor known beforehand—what cud will you chew? For the Self one must go beyond thinking—into no-thought. Logic decides between alternatives—this or that. To know the Self one must be beyond alternatives—nirvikalpa. This is the definition of samadhi: beyond thought, beyond options, beyond mind. Only there is the Self known.

“Na medhayā na bahunā śrutena.”
You may listen much, gather heaps of information, commit all the scriptures to memory—yet nothing will enter your experience. Many have the Gita by heart—does that make them Krishna? Many recite the Dhammapada—are they Buddhas? Many repeat verses of the Quran—does that make them Muhammad? If only it were so easy! We could mechanically repeat the scriptures and inherit their treasures. Then universities could teach religion.

I tell you: religion cannot be taught. I am amazed that people who quote this very sutra of the Mundaka still talk of “religious education.” Then I see they missed it; even this sutra has not entered their grasp—let alone the Self. “There should be religious education!” Pundits, priests, mullahs, pastors, monks—all have one desire: religious education. Can religion be taught—that is the question!

When I was a professor at the university, India’s Education Ministry invited about twenty professors to Delhi for a symposium on religious education—by some mistake they invited me too. They must have hoped I would suggest how to impart religious education. I simply quoted the Mundaka:

“Nāyam ātmā pravacanena labhyo,
na medhayā na bahunā śrutena.”
Religion cannot be taught. And whatever can be taught is not religion. A university can teach about religion—what Hindus say, what Muslims, what Christians—but no university can produce a Jesus, a Mahavira, a Zarathustra. Mathematics can be taught. Science, geography, history can be taught. But religion cannot be taught. About religion can be taught—but remember the difference: knowing about love is not knowing love. One who has never loved can know about love. Libraries are full of books. Knowing about God is not knowing God. Anyone can know about God—there are countless books. But knowing “about” and knowing Truth are two different things. The danger is that you may get lost in information, stuck in it. Many are stuck—that’s what you call “pundits.”

“Na medhayā na bahunā śrutena.”
Read the Sruti and Smritis as much as you like, collect beautiful sayings, memorize noble aphorisms—nothing will happen. You will remain as ignorant as before. A greater danger arises: the illusion that you have become knowledgeable. And that is the greatest danger. When the ignorant believe they know, their condition becomes pitiable; there is hardly a remedy left.

A true master does not teach you what the Self is, nor what God is. A master does not give you knowledge; he gives you meditation. Meditation means: no-thought, no-choice; freedom from scriptures, words, doctrines, information. The first meaning of meditation is to accept your ignorance. Socrates is right: “I know only this much—that I know nothing.” This is the first step toward wisdom. Those who fancy they know—an illusion born of fine words—are lost. Knowledge drowns more people than ignorance does. The Upanishads say: the ignorant wander in darkness; the “learned” wander in a great darkness. The irony is—pundits memorize even this verse and parrot it!

“Yam evaisha vṛṇute tena labhyaḥ...”
This Self is attained by the one whom It chooses. This is a significant statement—but it has been gravely misinterpreted, and inevitably so. The more significant the statement, the more wrong the meanings people will give, because it lies far from their experience. You understand only what lies near your experience; Truth is far—no relationship for lifetimes; the distance has only grown.

People have taken it to mean: “The one upon whom God bestows His grace—only he realizes the Self.” Not through discourse, nor intellect, nor information—then how? “When God’s grace descends.” Easy! Then what is there to do? Nothing remains to be done—only wait for His grace. This is the root of this country’s laziness, lethargy, deadness, misery, the long slavery of twenty-two centuries. With such meanings we have turned nectar into poison. “Not a leaf stirs without His will”—then how could slavery happen? And if all is His will, what can we do? Then it’s best to accept bondage—it is His wish. If not a leaf stirs without Him, how will disease arise? Then accept disease. Drag along somehow; rot; do nothing—what can we do? “When He wishes...”

“Yam evaisha vṛṇute tena labhyaḥ...”
We cannot attain the Self; it isn’t in scriptures, words, knowledge, intellect—what to do? Only wait for His grace. Which also implies: He graces some and not others. Most are ungraced; once in a while, someone is favored—Buddha, Mahavira, Yajnavalkya, Kabir. Fine! What can the rest do? Wait for lifetimes till grace falls. If it doesn’t—keep dragging, rotting, dying.

No—this is not the meaning. Fatalistic meanings have been imposed. In the hands of the ignorant, even nectar becomes poison. The greater meaning is: “It is attained by the one whom It chooses.” But whom does It choose? God’s grace showers equally on all—it must. If God were partial—on some more, on others less; on Brahmins more, Shudras less; wear the sacred thread—more; don’t wear it—less; grow a tuft—more; cut it—less; fast—more; with a full belly—less; stand on your head—more; walk on your feet like a sane person—less; ring temple bells—more; don’t ring—He’s displeased! What madness to attribute such foolishness to God! His grace rains equally on all. But some vessels are upside down. The rain of nectar falls, yet the vessels remain empty.

See it in a rainstorm: put a pot upside down—even in a torrential downpour, how will it fill? There is no stinginess in the rain; the vessel must be upright. Or, the vessel is upright but cracked—then it seems to fill, yet never holds. Or the vessel is upright and sound, but already full of filth—then even if it fills, the water is undrinkable, it won’t quench your thirst.

So, remember three things:

1) The vessel must be upright. This means: your heart must be ready to receive—this is shraddha (trust). Shraddha means readiness to welcome. Like waiting at your doorway for a guest—door open, eyes on the path, lamp lit, wreath in hand. “When you come, you will not find my door closed.”

The doubter is an upside-down vessel—ready to reject, not to receive.

2) There must be no holes. Your life has so many leaks! How much energy you spill in anger—what do you gain? Nothing; you lose much. A thousand desires are leaks. Someone chases money, someone status—everyone chases mirages. Running drains energy; and all roads end in the grave. Whatever direction you run—wealth, fame, power—one day you arrive at the grave, and nowhere else.

Before the grave swallows you, seal the leaks. Drop this frenzy. Who ever truly “had” by having wealth? Ask the wealthiest—inside he is a beggar, weeping. Outside heaps of money; inside empty. Outer wealth cannot fill inner emptiness. And death will snatch the outer. You came empty-handed, you will go empty-handed. When you came, your fist was at least closed; when you go, even the fist opens. Children are born with closed fists—possibilities clutched; old people die with open hands—emptiness displayed. The hands tell the tale and the woe of a life.

Desires are holes.

3) And if there are no holes, yet the inside is filthy—the pot should be empty. If it is already full of trash, the rain may fall, the pot may fill, but you will remain thirsty.

Just sit sometime, think—how much rubbish is crammed inside! Sit alone with a blank page and write whatever arises in the mind—whatever. You needn’t show anyone; lock the door so no one peeks. Be honest; then burn the paper. At least you will see clearly. Write for ten minutes—you will be shocked at the garbage in your skull: what-all is going on, from where it flows—relevant, irrelevant. One moment a devotional line, the next a film song. A dog barks next door and you remember your beloved—she had a dog. Off you go! Remember the beloved, then the wife: “That wretch ruined everything!” Then you begin cursing your fate, “On what evil day...”

I asked Mulla Nasruddin, “Women greet you, but you never return the greeting—why?” He said, “Twenty years ago I did greet one—still paying for it! No more. One mistake is enough—I just want to survive it! I see no escape; this wife of mine will kill me!” Women live, on average, five years longer than men—worldwide. God’s arrangement—so you keep hoping and hoping!

Mulla would see any bus or truck on the road and start trembling, sweating—even on a cold morning. I asked, “What’s the matter? Lately whenever a bus or truck passes, you break into a sweat—why the panic? You’re on your way; it’s on its way, far from you.” He said, “The panic is this: my wife ran away with a truck driver. I’m afraid she might be coming back! I see a truck and lose my wits—O Lord, may she not return! She’s bound to!”

Sit for ten minutes and write whatever comes—as it comes. Don’t edit, don’t prettify. Don’t start writing noble verses—“yadā yadā hi dharmasya...” People not only deceive others; they deceive themselves. “Allah-Ishwar, in Your name, grant wisdom to all”—don’t write that! Write what actually arises—without discrimination. Then you will see the rubbish within, the mischief playing inside.

And with such a cluttered mind you want God to enter—that His nectar should pour in! On what hope? This garbage must be thrown out. The process of scooping it out is meditation. But in the name of meditation people add more garbage—chanting the Navkar mantra, the Gayatri, “Jai Jagdish Hare,” Hanuman Chalisa. Nothing will happen that way. The trash is enough already; don’t add “religious” trash. Trash is trash—religious or secular. You must empty out. Meditation is emptiness—becoming a void. Throw it all out.

The method is simple: witnessing. Whatever inner garbage arises—just watch it. Merely watch. Break identification. Drop the “mine.” I am the seer; whatever comes and goes before me is the seen. I am not the seen. Abide in this understanding, and slowly you will find the garbage gone of its own accord. The day you are utterly empty, in that very moment—

“Yam evaisha vṛṇute tena labhyaḥ...”
—you are chosen. God embraces you. The experience of the Self will kindle within.

“Tasyaisha ātmā vivṛṇute svām.”
And only then will you know the mysteries of the Self; they will be unveiled. You will know its nature.

This sutra is precious. Do not merely think about it—try to live it. Sahajanand! Such lovely sutras lie scattered! Diamonds and jewels are nothing before them. But in the wrong hands even diamonds and jewels—what will happen? How will they be recognized? People impose their notions on these sutras. That which could have liberated them becomes a new chain. In such chains Hindus are bound, Muslims are bound, Christians are bound, Jains are bound. Had any of them understood their own foundational sutras, they would have understood everyone else’s too.

From my experience I tell you: whoever has understood the foundational stone of any one religion has understood the foundation of all, for that foundation is one; it cannot be different. Therefore one who is truly a Hindu will not remain a Hindu. The false will remain Hindu. One who is truly a Muslim will not remain a Muslim. One who is truly a Jain will not remain a Jain. The false, the hollow, the hypocrites—only they will remain Jain. Whoever has truly drunk Mahavira or Buddha or Krishna—what does it matter from which ghat you drank? The taste is the same. Buddha said: Taste the ocean from anywhere—its taste is one. The ghat does not change the ocean.

A religious person will be simply religious—not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian, not Buddhist, not Sikh, not Parsi—just religious. And I am in search of that religious person. I invite only such here. So Hindus will be annoyed with me, Christians, Jains, Muslims—naturally. I understand their annoyance. But those truly thirsty for religion will rejoice. They will come here and be intoxicated, drenched. Tears of bliss will fill their eyes; songs and fragrance will arise in their being. Their life will become a pilgrimage; Kaaba and Kailash will pale before it. Wherever they sit—there is Kaaba; wherever they stand—there is Kailash. Wherever they walk—there a shrine is born.

Naturally, very many cannot come to me; people are bound in well-worn beliefs. And I want to free you from all beliefs—from all scriptures.

Ramanand Agnihotri! No country has religion as its life-breath! Not India, not China, not Japan, not Iran, not Pakistan—no country. Countries cannot be religion-breathed. Countries are political units; what could they possibly have to do with being religion-breathed! Do countries have any prana—any life-breath at all? If there is no life-breath, how will there be religion-breath?

Individuals are religious, not countries. Not castes, not communities, not organizations—only individuals. That is the dignity of the individual. Did it never occur to you that first there must be life-breath? At the very least, there should be life—religious or irreligious—but life. Do countries have any life-breath? These are political fictions, political tricks.

Just a while back, before 1947, Pakistan was India; now it is not. What will you say? Is Pakistan now religion-breathed or not? Before 1947 it was; now? Now it is not. Bangladesh earlier was religion-breathed because it was part of India; now it is not.

They are lines drawn on a map, politicians’ jugglery. These are devices to keep politics going. If nations disappeared, politics would disappear. If the world became one, what place would be left for politicians! If there were no quarrels, no conflicts, what need would remain for these political goons and strongmen! What value would they have! They have value only because there is always danger—they maintain a permanent threat of war. They will never let you sit in peace, because if you sit in peace, they die. They keep you inflamed. At one time it is a Hindu–Muslim riot; at another, Gujaratis and Marathis are fighting; and at yet another, Hindi speakers and non-Hindi speakers. They will keep you fighting. Their whole game depends on conflict. They will keep India pitted against Pakistan; Iraq pitted against Iran… and both are Muslim countries—both supposedly religion-breathed—what has happened to them! Politics does not care about any of this. Politics cares only for one thing: that somehow conflicts continue in the world. They must not end.

You say: India is a land whose very life-breath is religion.
Drop this delusion! No country is religion-breathed. Never was, never will be. It cannot be. Individuals are religious. And because of individuals we fall into confusion; basking in their glow, we start thinking the glow is ours.

There is a Sufi story.
A Sufi fakir was walking at night carrying a lantern. On the road he met another man; both were going the same way, so they walked together. The companion forgot that the lantern was not in his hand—because the light served them both. For two miles they walked together. Then they came to a crossroads where they had to part. The moment they turned onto separate paths, the other man suddenly found himself in darkness. Then he remembered: the lantern was never in his hand. It belonged to the other. For two miles he had taken the borrowed light to be his own—he had even forgotten that it was the new moon night.

Do not fall into delusion because of borrowed light! Yes, Buddha was religious, Mahavira was religious, Krishna was religious, Kabir was religious, Nanak was religious, Meera was religious, Sahajo was religious—some religious people did happen in this land! And such people have happened in every land. Do not nourish the ego that they happened only in your country. There is no country where some religious people have not happened. Only, their numbers can be counted on the fingers. The difficulty is that you know the names of the religious people of your own country, and you do not know the names of those born in other lands. Ask someone in China about Dadu, about Raidas, about Gora Kumbhar—no one will know. They will say, whom are you talking about? Or if someone asks you about Lieh Tzu, Ko Hsuan, you too will be startled: what are you talking about! If someone asks you about Rinzai, Bokuju, you will say—who are you talking about? These Japanese names are unfamiliar to you; those Chinese names are unfamiliar to you. But the same is true in China. The Chinese know their names; you know yours; the Japanese know theirs. There isn’t a single country in the world in which some religious people have not happened. And there is no country that does not harbor the delusion that “we are the best.” And that delusion is nourished in every conceivable way. Everyone thinks: none is holier than we are; none is greater than we are.

It is simply Indian arrogance to say India is a land whose very life-breath is religion. There is nothing of the sort. Occasionally a person here and there is religious; because of him, do not imagine yourself religious. If you take yourself to be religious on that basis, you will never become religious. If you want to be religious, first understand this much: you are not religious. India’s greatest misfortune, I find, is precisely this deep delusion of being religious; because of it no one feels the need to become religious. What is there to do when we are already religious—we are religious by birth! Our very blood, bones, flesh, marrow are religious.

And what is your religiosity! On what basis are you religious! I see no reason at all to call you religious. Your grip on money is as tight as anyone’s. In fact, to tell the truth, it is tighter. It has to be tighter. When there is no money, the clutch is strongest.

Remember, we clutch at what we lack. In America there is the least clutching at money because there is plenty; why clutch? What is the need! There is no reason. Here there is a clutch on every single coin. And the talk is of religion! The talk is of non-possession, of non-greed. But none is greedier than you. It’s another matter that you have nothing worth possessing. Do not fall into the story of the sour grapes. Do not think you are non-possessive. You are merely poor. Poverty does not make one non-possessive. To be non-possessive you must first have something to possess! Do not think you are renunciates, that you are vow-takers. Even to renounce, something must be there. That too is not. So then we foster delusions.

There are strange delusions in this country. People think they practice great celibacy and restraint. Utter nonsense. When Indian friends come here, the sannyasins who have come from the West complain to me almost daily that Indians should not be allowed inside—because they push, they pinch. And it’s not as if only the uneducated…

Just now three managers from Bombay’s Ambassador Hotel came to see the ashram. Their chief manager was taken to see Padma, who designs the ashram clothes. She was in her room working on designs. When she had shown the designs, two stepped out; the third ambled out slowly, and the moment he saw Padma alone, he immediately grabbed her breasts. And this is the same man who came and first asked in the ashram why so few Indians are visible here. He was caught, and Sheela—whom he had asked, “Why are there so few Indians here?”—said, Now tell me? Do you understand why there are so few Indians here? Now we are compelled to throw you out. Then he stood with his head bowed.

A police officer—whom one might expect to protect people’s lives—tried to rape a sixteen-year-old girl. She had gone to get her passport changed. He was caught red-handed.

An S.D.O. had come to see the ashram. The woman who was showing him around—finding a secluded spot he suddenly pounced and grabbed her body.

A Bombay industrialist: when Ranjan was seeing him out after the tour, he said, “I want a kiss.” Ranjan said: What? The poor fellow was startled and stammered, “A cassette—I want a cassette.” So Ranjan sold him a cassette. I told her: Keep this in mind—whenever anyone says “kiss,” immediately ask, “What?” and sell him a cassette. You’ve found a way to sell cassettes.

And you say: this is a land whose very life-breath is religion!

Where else in the world do you have so many rapes, so much arson, so much disorder! What have you been doing to the Harijans for five thousand years? And still you feel no shame saying you are religion-breathed! What have you done to women for thousands of years? And still you feel no hesitation saying you are religion-breathed!

Ramanand Agnihotri, this country is not religion-breathed.

And you ask: “One proof is that even the most insignificant gurus here do not keep their number of disciples below a hundred thousand.”

If you want the number of disciples in the hundreds of thousands, then being insignificant is essential. Only insignificant gurus can have disciples in the hundreds of thousands—because the insignificant guru fits your expectations. Muktananda, Akhandananda, Sai Baba—their numbers will be in the hundreds of thousands, because they suit you.

I receive hundreds of letters: someone has cancer, someone has TB, someone else some other disease, someone’s eyesight has failed—please cure it. I am not a doctor! I can heal the inner eye; curing the outer eye is neither my contract nor my responsibility. Nor do I know anything about the outer eye. If my outer eye goes bad, I too will have to consult an eye physician.

How will such people come to me? When they get the answer: See a doctor! This is your physical illness; why do you want to come to me for that? If you have some inner distress, come to me.

But in this country no one has inner distress; everyone knows the soul. The concern is bodily troubles. So crowds can gather around Sathya Sai Baba. This crowd gathers because a delusion is being created—by street-magic—that ash shaken out of the hand, which any roadside magician can do (there is nothing of value in it), impresses the stupid: a man who can produce ash from his hand, who produces Swiss-made watches, must have some power! If he wills it, he will also cure my cancer. He will cure my TB.

Neither do their cancers get cured, nor their TB. They rot, they die. Proper treatment might have helped. I regard people like Sathya Sai Baba as great criminals because they have kept people from getting treatment. Perhaps treatment could have benefited them; instead they sit trusting ash. And when Sathya Sai Baba falls ill, he secretly gets admitted to a hospital in Goa for an appendectomy. When Muktananda falls ill, he gets admitted, hiding, in a Bombay hospital. And if someone finds out and lands there, their disciples say: A great calamity was coming upon the country; Baba took it upon himself. To spare the country’s misfortune Baba is suffering.

What dishonesties!

But these dishonesties suit your mind. You like this stuff: Ah, what a religion-breathed land! Famines come and the baba does nothing; earthquakes come and the baba does nothing; floods come and the baba does nothing. If each baba would save just one flood, even at the cost of his life, it would solve the problem—both the flood would go and the baba too! They are of no use.

Let them cure their own illnesses first! And to cure illnesses, a complete science exists now—what need is there to get lost in such stupidities! But India lives in these stupidities.

How can people like that gather around me! I do not endorse any of your stupidities. I strike as deep a blow as I can. People writhe. Only those can gather around me—whether from India or outside India—who have the courage to understand, to reflect, to contemplate; who have the capacity to listen; who have a heart strong enough to accept truth—and truth will be bitter. Because you have become habituated to eating the sweets of lies, truth will taste bitter. Not everyone has the capacity to bear its bitterness.

Only a gathering of the talented can form around me. There cannot be a crowd, a rabble, here. Those who move with the herd have no place here. My number of disciples in India cannot be in the hundreds of thousands. Across the whole world it will be in the hundreds of thousands, but not in India. India has become very pitiable in terms of talent. And the reason is your religious gurus—the very gurus whose disciples number in the hundreds of thousands. They teach you such foolishness that you are suffering the full consequences, and still there is no awakening. They have taught you that everything happens by fate. So why exert yourself; prarabdha is the real thing! Do havan, do yajna, so that prarabdha gets cut.

Twentieth century—and people are burning lakhs of rupees in havans! Crores of rupees! To purify the atmosphere, to bring rain. The rain doesn’t come—or if it comes, it comes so much there are floods. It seems the havan was overdone! The charms and incantations were too many! The priests shouted too loudly, and in the panic God dumped too much water.

And you have been doing yajnas and havans for centuries!

Here no yajna is happening, no havan is happening… and your very name is Agnihotri!

A net of Brahmins lies over this country. They have sucked it dry. In the name of religion they have defiled this land. How could they be pleased with me—neither Brahmins, nor sadhus and mahatmas, nor Jain monks. They will all be frightened of me, disturbed. I am striking at the very root of all their beliefs. If I am true, then they are all false.

Only the talented can come to me. But they are the ones needed, for they are the salt. If they can be transformed, we shall succeed in transforming the very foundations of the whole country. And my gaze is not on the country alone; my gaze is on all humanity. Because I am not an Indian. It is merely an accident that I was born here. It could have been an accident that I was born in Greece. If I had been born in Greece, I still would not have been a Greek. If in Russia, I would not have been Russian. I was born in India, therefore I am not Indian. This entire earth is mine. I do not recognize political boundaries. I want the whole earth to be one, all humanity to be one.

Therefore neither the pandit will be pleased with me, nor the priest, nor the politician.

You say: even an insignificant guru does not keep his disciples below a hundred thousand.
They can keep crores too. There is no obstacle. The more foolish the guru in this country, the larger the crowd around him. The crowd of fools understands the language of fools. There is a natural harmony between them.

And everyone here has his own expectation, and it must be fulfilled. If a Jain Sthanakvasi or Terapanthi comes here, he expects a cloth over my mouth. If there is no mouth-cloth, I am not a saint. If I fulfill his expectation, then certainly I am a saint—for him. He is ready to touch my feet. Others have their own expectations. If a Digambara Jain comes, I should be naked. Only then have I attained.

I was a guest in a home in Chanda. An elderly Jain gentleman, around eighty, came to meet me. He had read my book Sadhana-Path and was deeply impressed. He said to me, You are like a tirthankara of the twentieth century. We were talking when the lady of the house came and said it was time for the evening meal. I said, This gentleman has come from far away; let me finish talking with him, dinner can wait. The sun was setting. The old man said, Wait! The sun is setting! Will you eat after sunset? I said, It is more important that you have walked twenty miles, you are elderly, and I know you have not gone anywhere for years; you have come to meet me—let me speak with you first. What does it matter if I eat an hour later? And with electric light, what is there to worry about? And this home is fully air-conditioned—there are no flies, no mosquitoes here. Don’t worry; neither a fly nor a mosquito will die.

He stood up at once. He said, Then forgive me. The words I spoke—that you are like a tirthankara—I take back. You don’t even know this much, that one shouldn’t eat at night. I said, Good that it became clear. Otherwise you would have remained in the delusion that I am a tirthankara. I am not—I eat at night.

He would not speak to me further—he stormed out and left.

His expectation had to be met for me to be a tirthankara. In a tiny matter the whole thing ended; in the space of an hour the tirthankara became a non-tirthankara! Had I eaten in daylight, I was a tirthankara. I deliberately told the lady of the house to wait, not to hurry. I needed to remind that gentleman: do not fall into delusion; I am no tirthankara. Do not load your expectations onto me.

I will not fulfill anyone’s expectations. I will live in my own way. Whoever is ready to be in tune with me—only he can be with me. I do not want to keep anyone with me by fulfilling their expectations. And in this country, everyone has expectations. It is difficult to find a person without expectations.

Just yesterday a friend wrote that he met Govind Narayan Singh, former Chief Minister of Madhya Pradesh. He said to him, You call your master “Bhagwan.” The scriptures give six defining marks of a Bhagwan—does he fulfill them? My friend said, I don’t know what those six are, nor what the scriptures say, but I can count six thousand—whether or not they are in the scriptures. He replied, It’s not a question of six thousand; six marks must be there. Without them, no one is Bhagwan.

If I fulfill his six marks, he is ready to accept me as God. But who cares whether you accept me as God! What will I do by making Govind Narayan Singh accept me as God? I am not standing here to assemble a crowd of fools.

Then whose expectations shall I fulfill? If I fulfill his six marks, the Jains will be upset. If I fulfill the Jains’ tirthankara marks, the Buddhists will be upset. If I fulfill the marks of a Buddha, the Muslims will be upset.

And why should I fulfill anyone’s marks? Do I have to solicit votes! I am living in my spontaneity; if my spontaneity matches your scripture, it is your scripture’s good fortune; if it doesn’t, it is your scripture’s misfortune. What can I do!

That is why a crowd cannot gather around me. Only a select few can. Religion has always been the affair of the select, not the crowd. How can the crowd be religious!

And what will I do by gathering the sort of people who gather hundreds of thousands strong in Ganesh processions—what will I do with them here? I am not some Ganesh! Those who sit in Hanuman temples and perform aarti—what will I do with them here! I am not some Hanuman! Whose expectations shall I fulfill? I am none of these. I am simply myself.

And my realization is that each person has to be himself, not an imitation of anyone. Whoever becomes an imitation is a carbon copy; he has bartered away his soul—sold it cheaply. I am not willing to sell my soul at any price. Even if not a single Indian is here, it is fine. What do I lose! But for the few who are here, blessedness can descend into their lives.

Whoever wishes to come to me should come with this understanding: they have to be in tune with me; I will not be in tune with them. And those who are in tune with you—how will they guide you! You are guiding them. You tell them how to stand, how to sit. I have gradually let go of all such people. They perhaps think that they have left me. They are mistaken. They are deluded. I part in such a way that you cannot even tell whether I am letting go or you are leaving. I leave you with the delusion that you are the one leaving. Why cause you pain! Why beat the beaten! Go! But I see you off by this device. I do not fulfill your expectations.

Whoever has tried to advise me—my association with him ended instantly. For one of two things must be decided: have you come here to learn from me, or to teach me? If you have come to teach me, do not waste your time. I have nothing to learn. My work is complete. What I had to learn I have learned; what I had to know I have known. I am not coming back here again; my matter is complete. This lesson is over. Do not be concerned with teaching me. Whoever comes to advise me goes astray. I have filtered out such people.

Such people advise: what you should say and what you should not; how you should speak so that no one is hurt. It would have been better, they say, if you had not said this—because it will create trouble. They think they are my well-wishers. But in your ignorance, your stupidity, your unconsciousness—how will you wish me well!

Had Jesus listened to such people, he would not have been crucified—that is certain. Because he would not have said those things that created danger. But without the cross, something would have remained incomplete in Jesus’ life—something missing. The one who would have listened to these two-penny advisers—what substance could there have been in his life! Surely these people must have advised Buddha too; had Buddha listened, perhaps crowds would have gathered around him. But he did not. He did well not to. Buddhism was uprooted from India—no harm. But Buddha lived as he had to live; he said what he had to say. Through that, light has come to the intelligence of the whole world.

Keep in mind: your Ram, your Krishna, your Parashurama, and all your divine incarnations—before the eyes of the world, none of them has the worth that Buddha has. You may have thrown Buddha out because he did not fulfill your expectations; but it is because of Buddha that there is a light in the whole world. He did well not to heed you. The one who obeys you is always worse than you. Whoever allows you to impose your terms must have some ambition to get fulfilled through you. It is a bargain. I am not ready for any bargain.

Therefore no Indian crowd can gather here—no crowd at all can. People from all countries are here; there is no crowd from any one country. And certainly, in India, those who want the joy of revolution in life are coming.

And gathering crowds would only spoil the work! Meditation is the most delicate of all work—there is no surgery more subtle, no exploration more precious and valuable. Is this a place for spectacle! To gather a crowd of the idle, the sluggish, the lazy—what will we do! Is this some Kumbh mela!

I have no eagerness for crowds in the millions. I am interested in a counted few—those of sharp intelligence and the capacity to accept a challenge. Those who are ready to receive the invitation of truth—only in them am I interested. Whether they are Indian or non-Indian, Hindu, Muslim, Christian—it makes no difference to me. I relish only one kind of person: the one who is in search of the divine.

Dinesh Bharti! The taverns will indeed empty out! Because the real drinkers are gathering here. This is the tavern. Here wine is being drunk—but not the ordinary kind.

At night I drank, by day I repented—
the rake remained a rake; paradise did not slip from his hands.
I drank with the eyes, not from the cup;
this is not the kind of intoxication that will wear off.
If today our eyes do not meet,
your lover will die at your doorway.
I drank with the eyes, not from the cup;
this is not the kind of intoxication that will wear off.

Come with your hair in tangles, come up to the roof;
life and head both are offered up for this cup.
Let me catch a glimpse of the austere moon—
the time that remains will pass in rapture.
I drank with the eyes, not from the cup;
this is not the kind of intoxication that will wear off.

I vowed, then vowed again, and again, and then I broke it.
At my repentance even Repentance itself cried out, “Repent, repent!”
This is that wine in which there is no taint,
and after it there remains no need for any other wine.
Cast one glance—what will it cost you?
My ruined destiny will be set right.
I drank with the eyes, not from the cup;
this is not the kind of intoxication that will wear off.

A supplicant stands at my head, calling out:
at least give some alms, for God’s sake.
May your tavern, O cupbearer, remain ever safe—
wherever he goes, this madman will take your name.
I drank with the eyes, not from the cup;
this is not the kind of intoxication that will wear off.

Those who are true drinkers come to their senses by drinking...
Those who are true drinkers come to their senses by drinking.
It is not the wine that is forbidden; the fault is all our own.
If, in your sorrow, we are finished,
my heart’s ache will depart along with me.
If today our eyes do not meet,
your lover will die at your doorway.
I drank with the eyes, not from the cup;
this is not the kind of intoxication that will wear off.

Indeed, drinking and serving are going on here too. The taverns should empty. The taverns’ cupbearers will have to weep. When someone begins to drink the inner wine, the outer wine becomes pointless of its own accord. This is the conclusion I have drawn from observing many, many people.

Alcoholics come to me, and they are shy. They say, “We are drinkers; are we eligible for sannyas?” I say, drop your worry! Why do you drink in the first place? That too is a hidden longing for sannyas. You want to forget yourself. Sannyas is to efface yourself—that is a step further. Has anyone ever truly forgotten by forgetting? The memory returns. Ah, erase it altogether! End the matter! If there is no bamboo, there will be no flute.

From the Rigveda till today, countless measures have been tried to ban wine and intoxication in the world, but they have not succeeded—and they will not—until most people begin to drink the wine I am speaking of. Because the search for wine is, in truth, a search for relief from the ego. The ego becomes so heavy, the head so burdened, empty notions agitate the mind—churn it—so a person wants to be free for a little while. Even if only briefly, at least today let there be rest; tomorrow will take care of itself. But tomorrow comes, and the same worries return—the same anguish, grown even bigger. While you lay drunk, the worries kept growing; like plants, worries grow. You were asleep—how would any worry be reduced by that? The next day they stand there again.

There is one way to be free of worries, and it is this: drink such a wine that, by drinking, awareness arises.

Those who are true drinkers come to their senses by drinking...

It is such a wine that I am serving you. And where awareness comes, the ego goes. Where awareness comes, the mind goes. And where there is no mind, what worry can remain? There is nothing left that needs to be forgotten.

So I give sannyas to alcoholics too. And I tell them, take it without anxiety! You are better than the pundits—at least you are humble. At least you ask, with your head bowed, “Am I also eligible? Do I too have the worth? Will you accept me?” That pundit with the tilak does not bow his head; he stands stiff with pride. He is worthy already! He is a “fit vessel”! He was born in a Brahmin home! He was born knowing Brahman!

The drunkard is a hundred thousand times better than that. At least his head is bowed; he is humble. He makes no claim to worthiness. There is no ego, no self-importance. I accept him. And it has been my experience that as soon as a person begins to descend into meditation, alcohol begins to drop away.

I am not an advocate of prohibition. I want people to be served the real wine, so they will stop drinking the false wine on their own. Let such wine be served that, once drunk, its intoxication never wears off.

And this is happening day after day. Anand Swabhav has written:
The call to prayer has sounded—pour quickly, O cupbearer!
The call is sounding—pour quickly, O cupbearer!
Today I will worship, drunk with ecstasy.

And Swami Akshay Vivek has written:
Walking along, with a smile, we stopped in our tracks.
O sober ones, here—take charge; we are gone.
Thanks for the bounties you bestowed:
the world’s sorrows lifted from my head.
Unaware, I don’t know what happened to me—
I had come smiling, but I stood transfixed.
Ah! What glances you cast—
both worlds, mid-motion, came to a halt.

And Anand Usha has written:
Your wine is that wine—the one that made me forget the “I.”
Drowning in your gaze, I found myself.
What a wondrous gaze is yours—it shook a heart in the grave.
I was sleeping peacefully; you woke me.

And Swami Anand Mohammad has written:
I had no friendship with death,
no aversion to life;
yet I set forth on the journey
for which there’d been no preparation.
Now it feels as if the tautness of centuries has been released;
before this, time did not race so swiftly.
Now the heart is shattered—
and by this very shattering it finds its solace.
Before this, such a state had never come over me;
before this, such a state had never come over me.

This stupor, this wondrous stupor—it was never like this before. The word tari is very significant. It names that divine swoon that comes only by drinking God. Tari takes hold; the strings are joined. Then they never break. Then an unstruck music begins to play within. This is not the wine that is pressed from grapes; this is the wine that is distilled in the soul. In that soul of which it is said:

Na ayam atma pravachanena labhyo—
This Self is not attained by discourse,
na medhaya na bahuna shrutena—
nor by intellect, nor by much learning.
yam evaisa vrnute tena labhyah—
It is attained by the one whom That chooses;
tasyaisha atma vivrnute svam—
to such a one the Self reveals its own mystery.

But whom does the Divine choose? The drinkers, the revelers.

Break your repentance, and drink to your heart’s content.

That’s all for today.