Deepak Bara Naam Ka #5

Anand Maitreya! The Qur’an is the utterance of a very simple, straightforward heart. In the Upanishads, the Dhammapada, the Gita, the Tao Te Ching, there is a certain refinement—because Buddha came from a highly educated, cultured royal background. Muhammad was unlettered. When Krishna speaks, there is logic in his speech, a process of thought, a kind of mathematics. Muhammad’s utterances are utterly simple—like a freshly mined diamond, straight from the quarry. The jeweler’s chisel has not yet touched it. No polish yet, no facets cut.

This brings both a gain and a loss—and Islam has experienced both. The gain is that, like the language of a rustic, there is power, freshness, a cutting edge—straight talk, needing no elaborate explanation. That is why commentaries were not written on the Qur’an; it is plain. There is no scope for commentary. The Gita has thousands of commentaries—thus thousands of meanings—because its manner of expression is complex; it can suggest many meanings. A single word can carry numerous possibilities, so hair-splitting is possible.

Put the Gita or the Buddha in the hands of a logician and their truth gets lost; the Qur’an’s truth will not. The Qur’an does not lend itself to argument. Those who would understand it must approach it without logic, in utter simplicity. This is the gain.

But there is a loss too: since the statements are very plain, their depth may not be apparent, nor their height, nor their many dimensions—they can look ordinary. In comparison with the Upanishads, the Qur’an’s words may seem plain. Consider the Upanishadic prayer: Asato ma sadgamaya—Lead me from the unreal to the real, O Lord; Tamaso ma jyotirgamaya—From darkness lead me to light; Mrityor ma amritam gamaya—How long must I live in death? Open the gates of immortality! Lift the lid from the golden vessel! Remove the veil that I may see the nectar! Here infinite depths can be probed.

The Qur’an has no less depth, not even a bit; but Muhammad’s statements are simple. He was unlettered—he could neither read nor write. When the first verses of the Qur’an began to descend upon him, he was greatly shaken. Within, something in his heart cried out urgently: Write! Muhammad said, “But I do not know how to write; how can I write?” Sing, an inner voice urged. Muhammad said, “What can I sing? I have no trained voice, no art of song. I am completely uneducated. What shall I sing? How shall I write? How shall I sing?” So frightened was he that he ran home; he had been sitting on the mountain in silence—and it is in silence that the ultimate event happens: truth descends. And when truth descends, it longs to express itself. As the flower blossoms and fragrance must spread; as the lamp is lit and light must pour; as the sun rises and trees awaken, birds burst into song—so when the sun of truth rises within, you cannot hide it. It will insist on expression; it will call out: Express me!

Such was Muhammad’s inner summons: Speak, write, proclaim, share! Yet to him, this seemed far beyond his limits.

The same proclamation occurred in Buddha’s life, and he too refused to speak—but for different reasons. Muhammad refused because he thought: How can I speak? I have no words, no language, no logic—who will listen to me? How shall I write? I cannot write. How shall I read? I cannot read. These were Muhammad’s reasons.

When truth manifested in Buddha, the story goes—symbolically, as with Muhammad—that voices from within said: Speak, sing, hum! The gods themselves descended and pleaded: Give expression, share, speak; do not remain silent! Buddha offered reasons for silence, but of a very different kind—revealing the difference in personality. Buddha said: “If I speak, who will understand?”

See the difference.

Muhammad said: “How can I speak? My understanding is small.” Buddha said: “Even if I speak, who will understand?” The matter is too profound—whom shall I tell? Muhammad said: “How shall I tell?” Buddha said: “To whom shall I tell? Whomever I tell will misunderstand. If I speak to a hundred, ninety-nine will not understand at all; if they hear, they will hear wrongly—harm will result rather than benefit. And if the hundredth one understands rightly, he has no need of my words.”

The gods asked, “How so?” Buddha replied, “The one who understands instantly would arrive even without me. After all, I realized without anyone’s words! The capacity to understand—such clarity, such sharpness—if someone has that, will he wait for me? He will reach—perhaps a day or two later. But for that one, I will not create disturbance in the lives of the ninety-nine. Therefore I will not speak.”

I want you to see the difference. Buddha and Muhammad experienced the same truth. But Buddha knew well he could speak, yet who would understand? Muhammad never wonders who will understand; he wonders how he will speak at all. “If I can speak, perhaps someone will understand—but how shall I speak? I am a rustic, poor, uneducated, uncultured.”

The gods persuaded Buddha by finding arguments—one must speak to Buddha’s intelligence. They consulted and returned: “You are right: the one who can understand would do so even without you; we agree. Those who cannot understand will not, however much you explain; we agree. But do you not admit that there may be some in between—who would understand if you explained, and without your explanation might wander forever? Can humanity be divided so absolutely into two categories with no one in the middle?” This argument was clear to Buddha: surely there are some in between. Perhaps one in a thousand—but someone must be there. Humanity is a continuum; child to youth to old age—one must pass the middle step. Those who become the hundredth were once among the ninety-nine and crossed the boundary between them. Many will be on that threshold. If someone awakens them, gives a hint, they may set out.

Buddha agreed.

Muhammad also agreed—but not through argument. He could not be convinced by logic. The inner voice simply commanded: Muhammad, I tell you: speak! You must speak. No reasons—just a direct order.

To Buddha, the gods had to speak to his refined intelligence. Muhammad had heart, not cultivated intellect. The heart obeys command, not argument.

When the voice pressed so strongly—“You must”—he trembled, fever came upon him. He ran home, frightened he had gone mad. What he said to his wife then is beautiful. He said, “Quickly, cover me with blankets; I have a high fever.” She said, “You went out quite well—how suddenly such fever?” His body burned; his eyes were as she had never seen—not feverish eyes! She covered him and asked what had happened. Muhammad said, “One of two things has occurred: either I have gone mad—or I have become a poet.”

These two words are worth pondering.

“Either I am mad—or a poet. It’s not clear.” Some voice within speaks as never before. “Or perhaps I have become a poet; for I have heard that poets hear an inner voice.” His wife said, “I can see from your eyes that something unprecedented has happened. Such radiance was never there on your face. You are shaken and restless—hence the fever; otherwise you are possessed by a vast energy you cannot digest. Rest; it will settle.” It is for this reason that Muhammad’s wife became his first disciple—the first Muslim—for she was the first to hear.

Slowly she asked what was happening within. What he said was simple, yet it had depths.

These words, too, are straightforward. On the surface you may not be impressed; but polish these diamonds a little, cut a few facets, clean them—and you will find in the Qur’an the same grandeur as in the Upanishads, the same fragrance as in the Dhammapada.

Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim…
In the very beginning I take the name of Allah.

One of Allah’s names is Awwal—the First. And the one who remains at the very end is also Allah—the Last (Akhir). A simple statement: the first name—Awwal; the second—Akhir. All in between is play, drama. An actor appears on stage as Rama; behind the curtain is his reality, on stage he plays the role: bow in hand, battles, and when the curtain falls, he is what he was—no longer Rama.

Before the curtain rises and after it falls lies reality; between them, drama.

The Divine is the First and the Last—and what is First and Last is Truth. All in between is the mind’s play—waves of thought, roles: woman, man; some sit in mosques, some in temples; some live this way, some that; some are saints, some not. But all this is the play between the rising and falling of the curtain. Behind it there is no saint and no sinner; only the Divine—Awwal and Akhir. So first of all I take that name—Allah. Whose else? Begin prayer with what truly is.

Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim…
In the very beginning I take the name of Allah.

In Islam, God has a hundred names: ninety-nine expressed and the hundredth unexpressed. On lists of the Beautiful Names you will see “one hundred,” but count and you will find ninety-nine. The hundredth is left blank—that is the true Name, unsayable. Yet we must call Him somehow—thus we say “Allah.”

“Allah” is the first in the chain of ninety-nine. The last—the real Name—cannot be given; it is nameless, emptiness. In Buddha’s language it is nirvana, shunya, anatta. The Upanishads call it Brahman.

But see the delicacy in Islam: even “emptiness” would still be a name. Better to say nothing—leave a blank.

Among Sufi fakirs there is a book called “the Book of Books”—a blank book, nothing written. The master hands it to the disciple; it has been preserved for centuries—empty pages! And you too must become like that—empty. When you are void of all inner script, the hundredth Name is realized.

For a beginning, provisionally, there are ninety-nine names—for people of diverse tastes and temperaments. No single name may delight all. But all must remember: your chosen name is provisional. The real Name cannot be spoken or heard. It is to be experienced—and that experience is not sound, not audible vibration; it is the unstruck, the silent music of the void.

Therefore, to read the scriptures rightly, read between the lines, not in the lines. The lines contain words; the spaces contain truth.

So it is within you too. One thought goes, another comes; between them is a little space. Glimpse that space and meditation happens. But we keep leaping from word to word, thought to thought, never noticing the empty gap. It passes unnoticed, not part of our gestalt.

“Gestalt” is a German word adopted in psychology; it means a particular mode of seeing. You must have seen those drawings in which two different figures can be seen. Look one way and you see an old woman; keep looking and suddenly she vanishes and a young woman appears. Focus on the young woman and after a while she fades and the old woman reappears. Even after you know both are there, you cannot see both simultaneously—the same lines compose both; when you see one, you cannot see the other. Mind does not stay still; as it tires of one view, it flips to the other. This shifting configuration is called “gestalt.”

When you look within at thoughts, your gestalt is set: a thought goes, but you do not see the interval; the next comes and you see it. You likely never noticed that between two words on a page there is empty space, between lines an empty sheet.

A small child stands by the road, wanting to cross. A shopkeeper watches him long: “Son, what’s the matter? Shall I help you cross?” The boy says, “I will go when the empty space comes.” You notice cars, buses, trucks—but not the emptiness between them. The child waits for empty space to arrive! It never seems to come—always a vehicle is coming.

Within you, between thoughts, empty spaces are coming every moment—but your attention is elsewhere. Your gestalt is fixed.

Hence the marvelous device of witnessing for meditation. Simply stand aside as a witness and watch thoughts passing—intently. Soon, as the old woman turns into the young, your inner gestalt will shift; you will notice that between every two thoughts a gap appears. The moment you see the gap, you can also leap—from one gap to the next, leaving thoughts aside. Now you are leaping over thoughts into gaps. That is the process of meditation: stringing together the inner spaces. Thoughts are disregarded; you become indifferent to them.

Meditation is the capacity to see the empty intervals. The moment this capacity arises, the curtain falls. Then you perceive That which is First and Last.

“In the very beginning I take the name of Allah, who is infinitely compassionate, merciful.”

Plainly: the Divine is compassion. Buddha says the same in a cultivated philosophical way: when the lotus of meditation blooms, the fragrance of compassion arises. Compassion is the ultimate flowering of samadhi—and its test. If compassion appears in one’s life, know that samadhi has happened. Within, samadhi burns like a lamp; without, compassion radiates.

Muhammad says the same in his simple way: that which is First and Last, nameless yet named for our remembrance, is infinitely compassionate—mercy itself.

This also declares: do not be afraid of your mistakes; His compassion is far greater than your errors. Do not be trapped in guilt. You are human; error is natural. Do not make a mountain of a molehill.

The so-called religious often inflate molehills. In Augustine’s Confessions began a trend of writing out one’s sins and penances—Tolstoy did it, Gandhi did it. To me, they exaggerated much—making small faults loom large. There is a reason behind it.

You know the story of Akbar and Birbal. Akbar drew a line on the wall and promised a hundred thousand gold coins to whosoever could make it shorter without touching it. Birbal drew a longer line beneath it. Without touching the first, he made it shorter and pocketed the prize. This is the secret of exaggerated confessions: first make the sin huge, then your virtue will look huge by contrast.

If you stole two coins and renounced stealing, who will care? “Two coins? First you didn’t even steal properly; then you renounced—what renunciation!” But if you stole two billion and renounced, then your renunciation is grand!

Thus the twenty-four Tirthankaras of the Jains are princes—no poor man could qualify by the Jaina criterion of renunciation. A pauper has nothing to renounce. Kings, like Buddha, Rama, Krishna: Hindu avatars, Jain Tirthankaras, Buddhist Buddhas—all princes.

In this respect, Islam and Christianity made a great revolution—insufficiently appreciated: for the first time they declared ordinary men as prophets of God. Jesus, a carpenter’s son; Muhammad, from a poor home, a shepherd. They freed religion from the monopoly of royalty and wealth—hence their mass appeal among the humble.

People also exaggerate repentance. Ego is cunning: it wants even sins to be great. And even if one has not sinned greatly, one can write it that way in one’s autobiography. First prove yourself a great sinner, then undertake vows, fasts—become a great saint! Therefore, in Augustine, Tolstoy, Gandhi, I find much that is untrue—though Gandhi called his book Experiments with Truth, there is much exaggeration. For great virtue you first need great sin. Islam declares: however great your sins, God’s compassion is far greater.

…Rahmanir Rahim.
He is infinitely merciful, gracious, compassionate.

Do not get entangled in repentance; do not keep scratching your wounds. One who keeps scratching never lets wounds heal; they remain fresh and bleeding. Let them heal. Why keep looking back?

Islam says: trust the boundlessness of His compassion.

But Islam’s way of saying it is very simple and direct.

“(O Prophet, people call you the son of God and ask you about God’s nature; so you should) say: Allah is One.”

Hindus have thirty-three crore deities—almost as many gods as people. Each person his own deity—hence this country could never be united; even its god-concepts are fragmented.

Buddha died, and soon there were thirty-two sects. Mahavira left, and at once the Jains split—first two, then twenty. Hinduism defies counting—hardly one religion, more a fair at the Kumbh: some worship Ganesha, some Hanuman, some Shiva, some Rama, some Krishna, some trees, stones, rivers—each as he pleases.

Islam said one clear thing: God is One. The result was significant. If God is One, His followers too can be one; the tendency to fragment diminishes.

Thus Islam freed religion from the need of images. If you make an image, there will be many—different faces, two hands, four hands. Form leads to fragmentation. God is formless; call to Him. God is a state of feeling—enter that state, be absorbed. God is the ocean—dissolve in it.

“(O Prophet, people call you the son of God and ask you about God; so you should) say: Allah is One, and Allah is self-sufficient (in need of none).”

He needs nothing. He is self-born. Whether you accept Him or deny Him—it makes no difference. Whether you are theist or atheist—it makes no difference. His compassion rains regardless; saint or sinner—there is no stinginess in His grace. He does not enquire after your worthiness. If you are willing to receive, He is always ready to enter. He stands at your door and knocks; if you do not invite Him in, that is your choice—otherwise He is ready to enter every home.

A Sufi had the habit of never eating alone; he would invite someone. One day he searched but found none—people had eaten, or were going elsewhere; no one agreed to come. He thought, “Then today I must remain hungry.” Just then an old man knocked: “I am very hungry—can I have something to eat?” “Blessed am I!” said the fakir. “You must have been sent by God—His compassion is boundless.” He laid out the meal; the guest was about to begin when the fakir noticed: the man had not taken the name of Allah. He caught his hand: “Wait—no prayer?” The old man said, “I don’t believe in Allah; why should I take His name?” “Then you cannot eat,” said the fakir.

The story says a voice of Allah was heard: “Fool! I have been feeding this man for seventy years and he has never taken My name, and you—on the very first day—set a condition! You held the hand of a hungry old man! And you make even food conditional! Is there any condition in love? You should be grateful he accepted your invitation; instead you impose terms! He is better than you—he is ready to remain hungry but not betray his principle. I have fed him for seventy years—you cannot feed him one day?”

The fakir fell at the old man’s feet: “Please eat; it was my mistake. In the name of religion one must not lay down conditions.”

God is unconditional. His grace is not because of your merit; compassion is His nature.

Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim.
It is His nature—to be merciful and compassionate. It is not about you; it is about Him. The rose gives its fragrance; the jasmine gives its own—without checking who passes by, worthy or unworthy. The sun rises and light happens—for the theist and the atheist, the saint and the sinner. The sun sets no conditions.

The nature of the Divine is compassion. This is a great realization of Islam—Muhammad’s profound contribution to human evolution.

We have long thought in terms of karma: as our actions, so our results. Properly seen, this is a proclamation of ego: I do good, I get merit; I do bad, I get sin; I go to heaven, I go to hell—emphasis on “I,” the doer. The logical culmination of this emphasis is Jainism’s denial of God. If karma alone rules, what need for God? The Hindu position, in this sense, is illogical—they accept both karma and God. Either Islam is right or Jainism is right.

Islam says: His compassion—not our deeds. No ledger of our doing—His grace. The Jains say: only the ledger of deeds; God is unnecessary. If one does evil, God cannot send him to heaven; if one does good, God cannot send him to hell—God becomes superfluous.

The Hindu stands between—holding both. To me, either the Jains are logically right—if karma is the law, God is needless—or Islam is right—if God is, then karma is not sovereign; emphasis shifts away from “I.”

Hence you will find Jain monks more ego-centered than others; their whole thinking revolves around “I”: my austerity, my fasts, my vows, my penance. And you will find Sufi fakirs the most humble—because nothing is theirs; all is His grace.

Tajalli rue-janan ki…
For the revelation of the Beloved’s face,
I have chosen as the title of the Book of Beauty:
Both elbows propped, face resting upon the hands—
One who looked might think a Qur’an rests upon a lectern.
Your beauty, by my eye, is truly the very Book of God.
Your worship is one thing—but merely seeing you is wine.

Bound later was the desert, to crown the victorious;
Life became a bride for your champion.
One passion alone—that you be before my eyes:
Such it should be for such a worshiper.
Merely seeing you is wine…
Your worship is one thing—but seeing you is wine.

Your longing is your choosing,
From whose tender splendor come beauty and youth.
Why should I not call you the fruit of my love?
You are the pride of the heavens, incomparable.
Seeing you is wine…
Your worship is one thing—but seeing you is wine.

Tradition…
I have not yet forgotten the tales of Mansur and Sarmad;
I hold to my heart the desire for martyrdom.
My eyes, parched, remain yearning for your face—
Lift the veil from your countenance…

Lift the veil from your face, the glorious court is present;
This heart is present, I am present, my life is present.
Lift the veil…
Lift the veil—see, my very life is present.

I agree…
I agree my head may rest at the threshold,
But grant this one desire: that I behold your face.
Lift the veil… see, my life is present.
I agree my head may rest at your door,
But only let me see you.
Lift the veil…
Your worship is one thing—but seeing you is wine.

Do not hide…
Do not hide and break the heart of longing;
Do not dishearten your own lover.
We too will don the pilgrim’s garb of your madness;
We too will watch the spectacle of your Layla.
Do not hide and break the heart of longing…
We too will don the pilgrim’s garb of your passion…
We too will behold the pageant of your love.
Lift the veil…
Your worship is one thing—but seeing you is wine.

O beloved,
O rose-bodied,
O soul of the garden,
O sovereign of my heart,
O merciful one,
O king of the fair,
O beloved of my soul—
Lift the veil…
Lift the veil…
Lift the veil…
O beloved,
O rose-bodied,
O soul of the garden,
O sovereign of my heart,
O merciful one,
O king of the fair,
O beloved of my soul—
Lift the veil; seeing you is wine.
Your worship is one thing—but seeing you is wine.

O friend, come,
My heart is sad—
Grant me a glimpse,
For my heart is heavy.
Come as the very picture of love,
For love’s sake, come as my destiny.
The hem of love is spread to give alms—
I am restless for your meeting.
Lift the veil; seeing you is wine.
Lift the veil…
Your worship is one thing—but seeing you is wine.

Grant at least this reward of love, O heart-pleaser:
Favor me with the beauty of your grace.
You are the Lord who nurtures the longing of my heart—
Now come, for I await you.
If you will not be angry, let me say this:
My love is your mirror;
What you think is your loveliness
Is the glow of my gaze.
Such is the ritual of kingship and supplication:
I err—and you bestow grace.
There is no answer to my faults,
No accounting for your mercy.
I err—and you bestow grace.
There is no answer to my faults,
No accounting for your mercy.
Seeing you is wine…
Your worship is one thing—but seeing you is wine.

Among Islam’s gifts is this: there is no “answer” to my sins, and no “account” for Your grace. I am matchless at making mistakes—and You are matchless in forgiving them. Therefore, in Islam there is no place for repentance. Why look back? Why brood over past errors? In truth, the more you repent, the more you reinforce the very patterns you regret—repetition hypnotizes. Decide a thousand times not to be angry, and you will be angrier—because ego sits inside your resolve.

Ego causes anger—understand this secret. Who gets angry? Not you, your ego. Ego also repents—and says, “What have I done!” Why? Because it fears what people will say: my prestige, my image has cracked. “Till now they said I was so calm, so humble—what will they think now?” So you rebuild the fallen idol—through repentance, apologies.

In Jainism, asking forgiveness is paramount. After Paryushana—Michchhami Dukkadam: “Forgive me.” Yet nothing really changes; the same people repeat the same acts, ask forgiveness again each year. If last year’s forgiveness worked, why again? This ritual goes on because it enables repetition: like bathing in the Ganges to wash sins—and then sinning afresh. Some say, “The heart pure, the basin is the Ganges”—wash daily, and at death return your sheet “as pure as given.” This is a trick of the mind.

Islam has no place for repentance—because repentance is ego’s restoration. From ego came anger and sin; by repentance you decorate the ego again, give it fresh injections—next time it will sin bigger, having learned the cheap trick: say “sorry” and all is settled.

A rustic, newly elected MP, came to Parliament—what a scene! Everyone shoves you and says, “Sorry!” He thought: if this is all it takes—he slapped an MP and said, “Sorry!” Watch your own life: you shove, you say sorry—and shove again. The root is your sense of doership.

Islam says: the only Doer is God. What He makes us do, we do; what repentance? What sin, what virtue?

Only one who has surrendered will understand His compassion. In surrender, the connection with His grace is made.

“‘O Prophet, people call you the son of God… Qul huwa Allahu ahad. Allahus-samad.’ They ask you about God—tell them: Allah is One, Allah is self-sufficient.” He has no need for your belief, your faith, your prayers, your praises. He is self-existent.

“He has no son.”
And heed this: the inner voice warns Muhammad—“He has no son, nor is He begotten.” Existence is not born of anyone; it always is and will be. To say “God created the world” breeds a second error: who created God? The theist argues: such a vast, intricate, harmonious universe must have a maker. The atheist answers: fine—then who made that even subtler, more complex Maker? There your theism kneels and says: no one made Him. If so, why not say the same of existence itself? Your argument collapses.

Existence and God are not two; they are one. “God” is love’s name for existence; “existence” is logic’s name for God. The reality is the same—seen by intellect as nature, by heart as God.

He is not born, nor does He beget. “He has no son, and there is none comparable to Him.” For nothing exists besides Him—how can there be an equal? He alone is—one without a second: neither greater nor lesser, for there is no other. He pervades you and me, the trees and flowers, the moon and stars. Those who have known this presence—and felt its compassion—have called it “God.”

Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim.
In the very beginning I take the name of Allah—Rahman, Rahim—the Great Compassion.

Qul huwa Allahu ahad.
O Prophet, people call you the son of God—beware; do not fall into that illusion.

Allahus-samad.
They will ask you about God—tell them: Allah is One, Allah is self-sufficient.

Lam yalid wa lam yulad;
Wa lam yakun lahu kufuwan ahad.
“He needs nothing from anyone.” He is aptakami—desireless. What need could He have? He is utterly fulfilled. “He has no son, is not begotten, and none is comparable to Him”—for He is One; there is no second.

A short sutra, spoken in plain language—yet if you understand it, many secrets of life open.

To read the Qur’an you need a very simple heart—one like Muhammad’s.

Partha Sarathi! As I see it, from my side Krishnamurti is right. But for you, I am right. You can see I myself neither wear ochre robes nor am I a sannyasin! But for you, Krishnamurti is not right. For you, I am right. The expression of truth is relative.

A man asked Buddha: Is there God? Buddha said: No. That same afternoon another man asked: Is there God? And Buddha said: Yes. And that evening a third man came and said: Would you please explain something to me about God? Buddha said nothing. He closed his eyes. That man also sat down with closed eyes. He sat quietly for a while, then rose, touched Buddha’s feet and said, Thank you—thank you for your answer!

Ananda, who lived like a shadow with Buddha, always serving him day and night, had heard all three incidents—morning, noon, evening. He was amazed, puzzled. In front of everyone he could not ask anything, but at night when Buddha and Ananda were alone, just as Buddha lay down, Ananda said, Before you sleep, set me at ease, otherwise I won’t be able to sleep. Think of me a little too! Those three men don’t know what you said to the others, but I know all three answers. Understand my plight! I won’t be able to sleep. Which one was right? To whom did you give the correct answer? And why would you give a wrong answer to anyone? Why would you speak untruth!

Buddha said: Look, Ananda, first of all, none of those answers was given for you. It’s not proper to listen to what is said to others. It’s like opening and reading other people’s letters. That is illegitimate.

Ananda said: You’re too much! I was sitting there; I have ears. I didn’t open anyone’s letters, but I do have ears—and there’s no way to shut them. God has given eyelids to close the eyes, but left the ears open—no flap to close them! What could I do! You spoke, so I heard. I did not want to listen, but it was heard anyway. And now that it has happened, set it right so I can sleep without worry. I’ve fretted all day. To one you said there is God; to another you said there is no God; and with the third you remained silent!

Buddha said: Truth is relative. The one to whom I said “God is,” was an atheist. He believed there is no God. He did not know—he merely believed. He was a talker, a logician. To break his net of logic I said, “God is.” Had I said, “God is not,” he would have swelled with ego and gone back saying, “Not only am I right, even Buddha supports me.” I had to shatter his belief, so I said, “God is.”

The second was a theist—he too had not known. He was in the same state as the first: belief without seeing. I could not endorse his cherished belief. So I said, “There is no God.” I broke his belief too. My work was the same with both, but to you it looks like I was contradicting myself. I was doing one work only—smashing beliefs. One held the belief of God; I broke it. The other held the belief of no-God; I broke that too. I swung the same hammer on both. If you can understand, I did not give different answers at all: I did the same thing—so that both beliefs collapse and both set out on the journey of inquiry. Without the fall of beliefs, the journey does not begin.

And the third man had no belief. There was nothing to hit. He was truly a seeker. Not a believer, but a searcher. So I closed my eyes and kept quiet, and he understood my indication. One without beliefs quickly catches the hint. The believer, if something is said in favor of his belief, hugs it to his chest—“Aha!” In truth he is saying “Aha!” to himself: “How right I was! This is exactly my conviction!” And if his belief is called wrong, he doesn’t even hear it—denies it within: “No, this is wrong,” and won’t let it enter. And even if it enters, he paints it in his own color—twists and distorts it. But the man who came at dusk had no belief. He was guileless, innocent, a true inquirer. I closed my eyes; he understood. He closed his eyes too. That was my answer to him: Become silent and you will know; become quiet and you will know; drown in meditation and you will know. And so, Ananda, you must have seen, he left saying thank you—for your answer, thank you!

And Buddha said... Ananda was Buddha’s cousin. They grew up together. Ananda was a little older, studied together, played together, even quarreled. Both loved horse riding. Buddha said: You haven’t forgotten, Ananda—we loved horse riding, and you know there are four kinds of horses. One, even if you thrash him, won’t budge—somehow you beat him into moving a little and he stops again. Shameless! Second, the one that moves when beaten, and doesn’t when not beaten—has a little shame. Third, you don’t have to beat—just crack the whip in the air; the sound—snap—is enough, and he moves. Fourth, you don’t even need the crack—the shadow of the whip is enough. Just the presence of the whip suffices. And men are of those four kinds too. For all four I must arrange and devise differently.

Partha Sarathi, you ask: “You put great emphasis on sannyas and ochre, but Krishnamurti neither initiates into sannyas nor values the ochre; rather he considers them wrong. And you say Krishnamurti is an enlightened one.”

He certainly is an enlightened one.

“And then tell us, between two contemporary enlightened ones, who is right regarding sannyas and the ochre?”

For you, Krishnamurti is wrong. Beware! For me, he is right. For me he is right because I too stand on the shore on which he stands—the other shore. You are on this shore. I say to you: take the boat, and you too will reach this shore. Sit in the boat! But Krishnamurti is afraid for you, because he has seen many people get into the boat—and once they sit, they never get off. Once seated, forever seated! Why get off when you are already sitting!

I have heard: at the Amritsar station there was a great uproar... Amritsar station anyway is an uproar! One never knows when kirpans may flash.

I went to Amritsar once; about two hundred people were gathered at the station against me—sticks in hand, black flags—“Go back!” And about four or five hundred were gathered for me. A clash was certain. Those five hundred had come to receive me—“Whatever happens, you must come!” Among them were three Nihang Sikhs. All three stood in front with naked kirpans drawn—“If anyone misbehaves, necks will fly.”

I said: Why so much fuss over such a small thing! If these people wish me to go, I will. Why draw swords?

They said: Never! We will not let you go. The swords are out; they won’t return to the sheath. Today blood will flow!

I said: As you wish! Then so be it. If blood must flow whether I go or come, let it flow when I come—no problem!

So on my very first arrival there were three men with naked kirpans in front of me, three behind me with kirpans, and five hundred with sticks. That was my welcome at Amritsar station! I never went again. I said: I don’t want to get into such foolishness!

Now, the Amritsar station story: a great commotion was going on. They were trying to seat a Sardarji in the carriage, and he kept slipping out. Finally his friends said, Brother, do you want to travel or not? With great difficulty we seat you inside and you come out again!

He said: First one thing must be settled—that you won’t make me get off later. Because once I sit, I won’t get down.

They said: What’s there in that? Who would make you get down, and why? They thought he meant “Don’t drop me somewhere in the middle.” So they said, Fine, no one will make you get down.

At Delhi station, the quarrel flared again—because now it was time to disembark, and his friends were pulling him out. He said: I told you before! Once I’ve sat, I’ve sat! Now I won’t get off. If I had to get off, why did I board at all!

His logic too is right—Sardar logic—if the plan was to get off, why did you get on! And once you’ve got on, who’s going to make me get off? Let’s see which mother’s son can make me get off! The kirpans will flash!

That is people’s logic, Partha Sarathi! Some people got into the boat and never get off. Even when the other shore arrives, they stay seated in the boat. Delhi arrives, but they won’t leave the train. They fall in love with the boat. They say, This boat brought us here—how can we leave it like this! This dear boat—the boat of Hinduism, the boat of Islam, the boat of Buddhism, the boat of Jainism—brought us here, ferried us across the ocean of becoming; now should we get down? That would be ingratitude! Never! We will remain in the boat. And if we do get down, we will carry the boat on our heads—for it has shown such grace.

Krishnamurti is afraid that if you catch hold of a boat, you might not be able to leave it. His fear is not baseless. Krishnamurti began work fifty–sixty years ago. The experience before him was not of my sannyasins. Had he seen my sannyasins, he would never have said what he said. Even today, when he speaks in front of my sannyasins, the old sannyasin comes to his mind—ochre robes! And at the mere sight of ochre his condition becomes like a bull shown a red flag!... Because the red has caused so much pain before! There is a thousand-year history behind the ochre robe. Many got trapped in this net and carried boats on their heads. They got hooked. They set out to be free and became prisoners. Krishnamurti’s acquaintance is with traditional sannyas. He opposes that. So do I.

But my own view—Partha Sarathi—arose because of the followers of Krishnamurti, just as Krishnamurti’s view arose because of the sannyasins of Shankaracharya, Ramanujacharya, Nimbarkacharya, Vallabhacharya. He saw those sannyasins become dull, insensate—intelligence turned to wood. They put on ochre and imagined they were free. As if garments alone are enough, as if changing clothes is revolution!

Revolution is inward; it does not happen by changing clothes. So Krishnamurti tried that you not get stuck in garments but transform the soul. Yet the people who gathered around Krishnamurti over fifty years—about them I have experience. Seeing them, I say arrogant people accumulated around Krishnamurti. This is humanity’s misfortune—the egoist thinks in his own way. With Krishnamurti there was to be no discipleship, no initiation, no bowing down, no touching the feet, no sannyas—the egoist was delighted. He said, This is perfect! The egoist fears nothing more than having to bow, surrender, be initiated, become someone’s disciple. That is the ego’s greatest pain.

Krishnamurti was right to say: Don’t be stuck like fools in clothes. But there are other kinds of fools—egoistic fools. Fools come in many kinds, many sizes, many boxes, with many labels! There are as many kinds of fools as there are kinds of buddhas—because from among fools, after all, a buddha arises. He saved people from one kind of foolishness; another kind surrounded him. He saved them from tradition; the anti-traditionalists surrounded him. The traditionalist was just as blind, the anti-traditionalist is just as blind.

People come to me and say, We don’t understand you. Sometimes you support a verse from the Vedas; sometimes you demolish another. They say, Either support or demolish—do one of the two! For example, today I supported this verse of the Quran, but bring me hundreds of other verses and I will tear them to shreds. Then you will be in difficulty; you will say this is babble. If you are against, be against the whole! But what can I do? I will only be against what is wrong—wherever it is: in the Quran, the Vedas, the Gita, the Dhammapada—anywhere. And I will be for what is true—wherever it is. I have nothing to do with Arabic, Sanskrit, Pali, or Prakrit; nothing to do with Buddha, Mahavira, or Krishna—I have to do with truth. I sift out the truth.

Krishnamurti’s experiment against tradition was right—but within tradition there are diamonds too, not only trash. Granted the trash is much, and diamonds very few; but if among a whole heap of garbage there is a Koh-i-Noor, even if it is just one, its value remains. Burn the trash; save the Koh-i-Noor!

There is an English proverb: When you bathe the baby, don’t throw the baby out with the dirty bathwater. Certainly throw the dirty water away—once the baby has bathed the water is dirty; it must be thrown. But there are some who say, How can we! This very water made the baby clean! Should we throw it away? It is Ganga water! We will preserve it. Such a lovely, helpful, auspicious thing—throw it away? Never! We will keep it carefully.

And there are others so eager to throw out the dirty water that they say, Throw the baby too—end the nuisance! If the baby stays, he’ll dirty things again.

The old folks kept the dirty water along with the baby; Krishnamurti threw the baby out with the dirty water. I say only this, brother: save the baby, throw away the dirty water! But you say, this brings contradiction.

Whatever in tradition is beautiful, I want to save; whatever is ugly, I want to set on fire. For this, both camps will be angry with me. The traditionalist will be angry because I do not accept his tradition wholesale. The anti-traditionalist will be angry because I do not accept his anti-traditionalism wholesale. I accept only truth. What has truth to do with old or new? Is truth old or new?

Krishnamurti opposed the robes because, thanks to those robes, fools rolled this country under their heels. That opposition was meaningful. But he did not see another thing: because of his opposition, the people who gathered around him were not truly religious, but egoists—a congregation of egotists. Those who take themselves as clever, “rational” types gathered around him—not because his words are true, but because they found a basis to oppose tradition, a basis to save their ego.

What is sannyas? The dissolution of the ego. What is discipleship? The device of bowing yourself down under the pretext of someone’s feet. The feet are just a pretext; they have no value of their own—a mere occasion. As one hangs a coat on a peg. If there is no peg, one uses a nail. If no nail, the door or window. If nowhere, a chair. One will hang it somewhere. The question is not the peg; it is about hanging the coat.

By whatever pretext your ego can dissolve, let it dissolve. Sannyas is only a device. Buddha used it; Mahavira used it; Shankaracharya used it. It is only a device. But the danger is always there—because the world is crowded with fools; they cast every device into their own mold. They clutched at the robes. They thought, If the robe is ochre, that’s the end—the journey is complete. The journey only begins with the robes; it is completed in the soul.

Krishnamurti became so harried by this millennia-long mischief that he went to the other extreme. He said: Drop it; these robes themselves are dangerous! The robes are not dangerous; the fool behind the robes is dangerous. That same fool, without robes, will do foolishness too. No one becomes wise by clothes! Whatever falls into a fool’s hands, he will mess up. He heard Krishnamurti say: No initiation is needed, no sannyas is needed, no discipleship is needed, no need to learn from anyone—the truth is within each.

Then why do you go on pestering Krishnamurti—listening to him? Why do you read him? If truth is within you, what are these people doing who have been listening to him for fifty years? And in fifty years you still haven’t understood that truth is within and you don’t need to go to anyone? Then why do you go to Krishnamurti? Clearly you haven’t found truth yet—and you still need to go to someone. But you are egoists. You want to go, yet not admit you went to anyone. This very ego will drown you.

So for you, Partha Sarathi, I say I am right. You will have to pass through sannyas. And I say: You don’t have to clutch the boat, just sit in it! Yes, when it’s time to get off, thank the boat—that’s enough. There’s no need to carry it on your head, nor to sit clinging to it. Climb by the stairs; having reached the second floor you must leave the staircase behind. It has to be left.

As your meditation deepens, the work of the boat of sannyas is fulfilled. The day samadhi happens within you, that day you are free of sannyas. So free that you won’t even need to discard the ochre robe. Because if a compulsion to discard still remains, understand you are not yet completely free. Some attachment remains—otherwise what is there to discard? You will wear some garment—green, blue, white—so what’s the harm if it is ochre? But from within, the clutching will be gone. The insistence will be gone. If even the insistence to drop remains, it means some insistence is still left inside.

Life is not as simple as people think. It is a little complex. You have to take hold and you have to let go. If you argue, it becomes that same Sardar logic again: If we must hold, then we will keep holding; and if we have to let go, why hold at all!

Having heard Krishnamurti, many egoists felt great relief: we don’t have to bow. But they gained nothing from it. Many who follow Krishnamurti have come to me and admitted: What should we do now? We understand Krishnamurti perfectly, but no benefit is happening, no revolution happens in our lives!

I tell them: Now you are in trouble. Because what he taught you is wrong for you; if I say, Meditate, you will immediately quote Krishnamurti: he says there is no need for meditation. If I say, Take initiation—you’ll say there is no need. Become a sannyasin—no need. And listening to Krishnamurti brings you no benefit either! Now you are in a great dilemma, a state of bewilderment.

Whom has Krishnamurti benefited? What benefit has he brought? Krishnamurti is certainly an enlightened one, but it is not necessary that every enlightened one can benefit people. The art of benefiting is another thing. Awakening others is a separate art; waking up oneself is one thing. One who has awakened is not necessarily able to awaken others. Krishnamurti has not been able to awaken anyone—because the process by which people can be awakened, he is not willing to accept.

Sannyas is a process of awakening—a means, not an end. Use it as a means, and when it is no longer needed, that’s the end of it! The day you are in samadhi, enlightened, then whether the robes of sannyas remain or not, it makes no difference. Whether you are naked or robed—no difference. But until that moment arrives, using the boat is necessary. To reach the other shore, the boat is essential.

Therefore I repeat, Partha Sarathi: for you, I am right!

Enough for today.