Deepak Bara Naam Ka #8

Sahajanand! Sambodhi means the disappearance of ego—the end of the “I,” the dissolution of asmitā. Where the “I” is not, the question of death does not arise. Only the “I” dies. It is the ego that dies, because the ego is like a house of cards—one small gust and it collapses. It is false; today or tomorrow it must fall. It is imaginary, dreamlike; it will break. How long will you stretch it? How long will you persuade yourself, distract yourself? A small shock and it scatters.

Since the ego is untrue, death too is untrue. If there is no “I,” who will die? How could death happen? To die, one must first exist.

That is why Buddha called the supreme state of samadhi “nirvana.” The word is exquisitely beautiful, unique, almost unimaginable. Nirvana literally means the extinction of a lamp. Ordinarily one would think: in the supreme state the lamp will be lit. But Buddha says: in the supreme state, the lamp is extinguished. The “lamp” here is the flickering flame and smoke of your ego. The oil runs out; the lamp goes out. While there is oil and wick, the deception continues—but both are limited. What depends on the momentary must itself be momentary. Hence Buddha says: the lamp goes out.

But that is only one part—the first half of the journey. When the lamp of “I” goes out, it is not that darkness remains; the opposite happens. To understand this, a reminiscence from Rabindranath Tagore’s life helps.

He would often take his small houseboat onto the Padma River, anchoring in some quiet solitude. His finest poetry was born there. One full-moon night, the sky was flooded with light, the earth aglow, every leaf shimmering, silver rippling on every wave of the Padma. In his tiny cabin, doors shut, he was reading by a small earthen lamp a great Western aesthete—Croce—on “what is beauty?” Beauty was showering outside, dancing on every atom—sky and earth, lake and trees—a cuckoo calling from a distant grove. But unaware of all this, Rabindranath, eyes strained in the poor light—old now—kept trying to read Croce on beauty. As though beauty could be grasped by thought! Beauty is to be lived, felt. Analysis never found beauty; the tighter the fist, the emptier the hand. Sing, dance, play the veena; become one with a flower; lose yourself in the realm of moon and stars; perhaps a drizzle will touch you, a tremor, a throb in the heart—yet not through thought, only through no-thought, not through mind, but through silence.

It was midnight. He understood nothing more of what beauty is—and what he did know was disturbed; doubt arose. Thought begets doubt; no-thought brings direct experience. There is resolution in samadhi; in thought there are only problems. Tired, eyes fatigued, he blew out the lamp and closed the book. Then—he wrote in his diary a few but priceless words—at that very instant, through every crack of door and window, moonlight poured in. The moon began to dance within. That little lamp, its sickly, smoky, yellow light, was preventing the moon’s splendor from entering. The lamp went out—and the moon came in. The lamp’s extinction is one half; the moon’s entry is the other.

He opened the doors and windows; in a moment there was a revolution, a magic. He stepped outside: if so much was within, how much more without! Such a night—lovely, silent; the cuckoo’s call; silver on the Padma’s waves—the mind came to a standstill, as if time stopped.

Then he wrote: what I was seeking in scripture was raining all around. I was stuck in a book, so I could not see what was. I was entangled in words while Truth was knocking at the door—but where was the leisure, where the awareness to hear the soft knock, the moon’s whisper? Inside a thousand thoughts were racing; amidst that noise, where the cuckoo, the moon, the river? That lamp’s feverish light blocked the moon. The lamp went into nirvana—and the moon entered. And when the moon came in, Rabindranath went out.

Buddha uses nirvana in exactly this sense. When the flickering lamp of ego is extinguished, the whole sky is yours. The moons and stars are yours. When you are not, everything is yours.

Understand this paradox well—here lies the secret of religion, the distilled essence of the mystics and seers. The sutra of the Chandogya is profound—very profound. Let the ego dissolve; you are no more; then all is yours. When you are not, nothing is “other.” It is the “I” that creates the “you,” the division. When the line of “I” disappears, the courtyard becomes the sky. Demolish the walls you have drawn around your yard—your courtyard is the open heavens.

Na pashyato mṛtyum...
To the knower death is not seen—he does not know death, he does not die—because whatever could die he let die in advance. Ego could die—and what is unreal alone can die. What is, is eternal. What is, never becomes not; and what is not, you can never make real—at best you can deceive yourself for a while. Today or tomorrow, in this life or another, you must know: ego brings death. The false dies; the true is nectar. The false is defeated; truth ever triumphs—satyam eva jayate. The false is afraid; the true welcomes every challenge. What fear can truth have?

Socrates was being put to death—poisoned—for the “crime” of speaking truth. Traffickers in untruth do not like the language of truth; and there are many such merchants—temples, mosques, gurudwaras, churches are full of them. Their lies are ancient, so they have great standing; here antiquity is valued—however rotten, the older the more venerable. Socrates spoke truth—priests, pundits, politicians were upset.

He was sentenced to drink hemlock. His disciple Crito asked—an extraordinary dialogue—“After you die, how shall we perform your last rites? Should we bury you, cremate you, set you afloat?” Socrates laughed: “Fools! They think they will kill me, and you think you will bury me! Enemies believe they can kill me; friends are planning whether to bury or burn me—but both of you trust death. I do not. I do not see death. And, Crito, even after those who kill me and those who bury me are gone, I will still be alive. You will be remembered only because somehow you were connected with a living man.”

And so it is. Who would remember Crito otherwise? His name lives only because it is joined to Socrates. Socrates said: “You will all die; I will remain—because whatever in me could die died long ago. That is why I accept ‘death’ with such joy.”

Even the court felt pity; the judge must have felt guilt—killing such a lovely man was injustice. Yet jurors and Athens at large wanted his death; the judge could not oppose them. Still he tried to save Socrates: “If you leave Athens and promise never to return, I can spare you.”

Socrates said, “Do you think you can save me from death? If not today, then tomorrow; if not here, then elsewhere. Since death is certain, why this fuss? Leaving Athens would only show I still cling to ego, to save a few days. What does it matter? Do not worry, and do not feel guilty. Pass the sentence. I am not going anywhere—not even after ‘death’.”

This is what Ramana Maharshi said as he “died.” A disciple asked, “Where will you be after death?” Ramana said, “Right here. Where else? I am here before birth, here before ‘here,’ and here after death. Where to go? Whence to come?” This is liberation from the wheel—knowing nothing is born, nothing dies; your real nature is eternal, beyond time, ever the same. Yes, you have built sand-castles around you; they will fall. Only they die.

The judge still tried: “Stay in Athens, but vow to stop speaking these truths; people object to your words.” Socrates replied: “Then what would be the meaning of living? My own work was complete the day I knew myself. Now I live only to awaken a few others. If you wake someone from a sweet dream, he is angry; so I do not blame them for wanting to kill me. But I will not stop. Truth is my life. I will speak truth when I speak, be truth when I am silent, walk truth, sit truth. If truth must be silenced, then better to drink the poison.”

He could refuse both options because he had known the nectar within. Whoever drops ego knows the immortal.

The sutra is right: na pashyato mṛtyum—the knower has no experience of death; even at the moment of dying he does not see death. He sees his eternal life within, the inner consciousness. He sees the body going—but when was the body “me”? He sees the mind going—but when was the mind “me”? He sees the breath stopping—but when was I the breath? He sees that this house will soon be empty—but I was never the house. I was a guest—and the house itself was no house, just an inn.

There was a wondrous Sufi, Ibrahim—once the emperor of Balkh and Bukhara. One restless night, sleepless, he heard footsteps on the roof. “Who’s there?” he shouted. A voice replied, powerful and ringing: “No need to worry—neither thief nor murderer. I am looking for my camel.” Ibrahim said, “Madman! Do you seek a camel on rooftops?” The man laughed: “Yes, I am mad—and you are wise! You seek bliss on a throne. If I search for a camel on roofs, what fault? You cannot even find sleep, and you seek bliss! Who is mad—you or I?” The words cut like a blade. Ibrahim leapt up, called the guards: “Find that man! He is the one I have been seeking—the one who can wake me.” But he could not be found.

Next day in court, the same voice at the gate: arguing with the doorkeeper, calling the palace a “sarai,” an inn. The laughter was the same. Ibrahim recognized it. “Let him in,” he ordered. The man entered. Ibrahim said, “You must be crazy. This is my private residence; you call it an inn?” The man said, “It is an inn, that’s why I say so. What emperor? Whose dwelling? I came before and saw another man on this throne; when did you sit here?” “My father,” said Ibrahim. “And before him?” “My father’s father.” “And yet you call it yours! I will come again and not find you here. Many have come and gone. This is an inn. Let me stay too.” Ibrahim fell at his feet: “You stay in this inn; I am leaving. You have blessed my life—else I would have been ruined in this very inn.”

Ibrahim became a renowned Sufi. He lived in a hut outside Balkh, at a crossroads. Travelers would ask the way to the town. He would say, “Go left—don’t go right. If you go right, you’ll reach the cremation ground; left is the settlement.” They went left and after a few miles reached the cremation ground. Angry, they returned: “Are you mad? You insisted left was the town!” Ibrahim said, “Then our languages differ. Those who settle in the cremation ground never shift; that’s why I call it the ‘settlement.’ And what you call the town I call the cremation ground, because everyone there is in line to die—today, tomorrow, the day after. Numbers are called and they go. That is a cremation ground. And what you call the cremation ground I call the settlement—whoever settles there never moves again!”

This body is an inn, this mind is an inn. Whoever knows this in meditation, whoever deeply realizes “I am not body, I am not mind,” has no more death. I am the witness. You are right, Sahajanand, to say: “Bhagwan, you are a witness—does a buddha truly see the Self even in death, disease, and sorrow?” There is no other way. A buddha means the “I” is gone; with it all darkness, madness, stupor. Awareness has dawned—and in awareness one finds: I am the witness, only the seer. I see the body; I see life; I will see death too—but neither life nor death is mine. I am beyond both. This transcendence is buddhahood.

Beyond the moon and stars there are other skies;
Beyond the skies, other worlds—
Love still has other tests to pass.
This is the last test—beyond it there is none. If you are tied to the body, you are in the world; tied to the mind, you are still unbalanced. Know yourself apart from body and mind and ego collapses. Ego is identification with body-mind; egolessness is the breaking of that identification. The process is simple: witnessing. Just watch. When illness comes, watch illness; when health comes, watch health. When hunger arises, watch hunger; when satisfaction comes, watch satisfaction. When thirst arises, watch thirst; when the throat is quenched, watch that relief. You are the watcher in all states—neither thirst nor quenching, neither hunger nor fullness. Anger arises—watch anger; compassion arises—watch compassion. Desire stirs—watch desire; brahmacharya dawns—watch brahmacharya. Do not become a “celibate” as an identity; the lustful turn into “yogis”—one identification dropped, another grabbed. Out of one prison they run into the next.

I tell my sannyasins: neither yogi nor bhogi—only a witness.

Na pashyato mṛtyum—then death is not seen. Pashyati na rogaṁ noto duḥkhatām—then disease and sorrow are not seen. Not that disease does not come—do not fall into that mistake. Ramakrishna died of cancer; Ramana Maharshi too. Mahavira died after six months of dysentery. Buddha died due to poisoned food that sickened his body. Not understanding these sutras—and how can you without meditation?—Jains invented tales that Tirthankaras do not fall ill.

They do fall ill—but illness is not seen as “I am ill.” If no illness came, how would a Tirthankara die? Tirthankaras also grow old. Yet you will not find an aged image—every idol is youthful. Mahavira died at eighty, but in temples he looks forever young. We are addicted to untruth. We should say: a Tirthankara knows, “Illness is not me.” That is exactly what the Chandogya says:

Na pashyato mṛtyuṁ pashyati na rogaṁ noto duḥkhatām.

Note: he does not take on the notion “I am ill,” “I am sorrow.” Illness comes—just as hunger and thirst, youth and old age come. Disease, old age, and death arrive—but they do not affect the Tirthankara. He remains untouched, unsmitten. This is understandable. It becomes foolishness when you declare: “They never fall ill.” Then you must invent a thousand lies to cover one.

So Jains had to concoct: since Mahavira suffered dysentery for six months, how to hide it? They said Goshalak hurled on him “tejo-leshya,” a kind of black magic, an aura of wrath; out of compassion Mahavira absorbed it, else Goshalak would die. By absorbing it he fell ill. If a Tirthankara is all-powerful and “digesting” the tejo-leshya, why not digest it completely? Why a bad stomach? The lie collapses.

Similar trouble came with Buddha. A poor man invited him; the food was poisoned. But Buddhists believe Buddha is omniscient, seeing all three times; then how did he not see the poison? To protect that belief they say: out of compassion, to avoid hurting the poor host, he accepted the food. But whether you say it or not, the effect of poison occurs—and the host would know anyway. If he is omnipotent, why should the body still be affected? But the body follows its own laws—whether of buddhas or of fools. Nature makes no exceptions. The inevitable happened; death followed.

So, death, disease, and old age all occur. Yet the one established in witnessing simply watches. Nowhere does the link form, “I am ill.” At the periphery illness may be, but at the center there is health. That is the very meaning of “svastha”—established in oneself. Death too happens at the periphery; at the center the same conscious flame, the same nectar, keeps flowing.

I am a witness to this.

Therefore my commentary on the sutra is not merely verbal. I have no urge to prop up any scripture. Unless something tallies with my experience, I do not support it. This sutra I support fully: in buddhahood there is no experience of death, disease, or sorrow. Everything happens, is visible from the outside...

Ramakrishna had throat cancer. In the final weeks even water could not be taken; the throat was nothing but a wound. Drinking was agony; not drinking also agony. Vivekananda said, “If you would ask Mother Kali just once, everything would be set right. Why suffer?” Ramakrishna smiled. From outside it looked like great suffering, but Vivekananda knew nothing of the inside. Ramakrishna had no inner suffering. The suffering was “between” Vivekananda and Ramakrishna—both were witnesses in different ways: Vivekananda on the outer side, Ramakrishna on the inner. Naturally Vivekananda felt: such pain, heat of summer, and he cannot drink a sip—what torment!

This only shows Vivekananda had not yet realized witnessing; his question was ordinary. Had he known the witness, such a question would not arise.

But as he persisted, Ramakrishna—simple, indirect—said, “All right, since you are troubled, I will close my eyes and ask Kali.” He closed his eyes, then opened them: “I asked—but do you know what Kali said? She scolded me! She said, ‘Being a knower, you speak such ignorance? Don’t ever ask this again! If one throat cannot drink, how many throats are there—are they not all yours? Drink through them.’ So when I am thirsty, you have a drink.” Ramakrishna was only bringing Vivekananda to understanding. There is no Kali to be asked; for one established in witnessing, Kali and the rest are children’s toys—useful for teaching beginners.

Like teaching a child the alphabet: “A is for apple.” Times change; now they say “G is for donkey,” to keep the state “secular”—no Ganesh, lest religion enter. The donkey is truly secular—neither Hindu, Muslim, Christian, nor Jain; a perfect paramahansa—utterly indifferent to temple or mosque. If you load the Quran or the Gita on him, he carries both without complaint.

We tell children such things so “A” and “G” make sense. But if all your life you must say “G is for donkey” before reading G, you will be lost in donkeys and forests and forget the letter. In the first grade it is fine; later you must drop the donkey and retain the G. So with Kali and Hanuman—they are for learning. But people remain bound to them for life, chanting Hanuman Chalisa forever—a wasted life.

The meaning of life is witnessing.

Ramakrishna’s point was: “There is no pain in me. If I drink or you drink—it is all the same.”

Sarvaṁ ha paśyaḥ paśyati, sarvam āpnoti, sarvaśa iti.
He sees all as the Self; and he attains everything. When the “I” goes, all becomes the Self. Lose the “I” and you lose only calamity; you gain all treasure. Have you ever found joy through ego? Yet you run only to feed it—there is no greater stupidity.

See the stupidity of ego and drop it. It is not difficult. The key is small—keys are always small, though locks may be large. A tiny secret opens the lock. Without the key you hammer and damage the lock; later even the key may not work. You have done the same with your locks—much hammering, little key-seeking. So now, even with the key, it takes time. The difficulty is from your misuse, not the key.

The key is simply this: walk with awareness. See as you walk that what is moving is the body; I am unmoving, only seeing. The left foot lifts, the right foot lifts; I turn left, I turn right—not to mutter words, just to see, as if watching someone else walk. When thoughts flow—and they flow every moment—watch them. Do not fight; do not cling. “This thought is good”—don’t hug it. “This is bad”—don’t push it away. Once you fight, you become the doer; the witness is lost, ego returns. Do nothing—just watch. Sit for a while whenever you can and watch the stream of thoughts, as one sits by the road and watches passersby, or on a riverbank watching the current.

And don’t think “my mind.” With “my,” demands arise: good, beautiful thoughts, flowers not thorns—then you are in trouble. With “my,” ego awakens. Nothing is yours. What have you to do with it? Just watch, as you watch a film on a screen—no demands.

You will be amazed: watching the body, you are freed of the body; watching the mind, you are freed of the mind. Slowly, gently, a new thread is born within—the witness. When the witness matures to its peak, it becomes sambodhi, samadhi. Then body and mind are far away, along with all their play; you abide in your supreme being. There is supreme bliss, supreme life.

Nitin Chaudhary! First, if my words truly taste juicy to you, how will you manage without drinking? One does not “look at” rasa, one drinks it. Rasa can be savored only by drinking. The river goes on flowing and you stand thirsty on the bank—and the river seems full of nectar to you—but what will that do? Your thirst won’t be quenched. You have to step into the river. Sannyas is nothing but stepping into the river.

For sannyas, for initiation, Buddha used a word whose very meaning is “to enter the stream”—srotāpanna—entering the current. Initiation, Buddha said, is srotāpanna: the person who has stepped into the river. But that alone doesn’t do. You could stand in the river and still remain thirsty. Hence it is said: you can lead a horse to the river, but you cannot force it to drink. What will you do? Even after stepping in, the river will not rise on its own to your throat. You will have to cup your hands, you will have to bend, you will have to lift the water to your mouth—only then will thirst be quenched.

Sannyas is nothing else; it is simply an arrangement for your bowing down. No one becomes a sannyasin by ochre robes alone; they are merely an announcement that you have bowed. If you cannot even change your clothes at my say-so, what on earth will you be able to change!

You say: “My interest is in colorful clothes!”

If, having joined with me, your interest doesn’t allow even that much change, many obstacles will come later. Far bigger issues will arise where many deep transformations will be needed. Clothes are only the beginning—it’s just holding your finger, nothing more. If your finger comes into my hand, the hand will follow. But if you won’t let your finger be held, how will the hand ever come?

And who told you that life is colorful? You haven’t known life yet! Know life and then there is no need for sannyas. Sannyas is the method for knowing life. My words taste full of rasa to you precisely because you have not yet known life. That’s why what I say about life tastes sweet. If you were to know life itself, what use would words be?

Kabir and Farid met and stayed together for two days. Both remained silent; they did not speak. When Farid’s disciples asked him, and Kabir’s disciples asked Kabir, “Why did you not speak? Why were both of you silent? We were so eager to hear you,” Farid said: “What could we speak? What I know, he knows too. The life I have tasted, he has tasted too. What is there to say?” When Kabir was asked, he said: “Are you mad? If I spoke, would I not be proving myself ignorant? I speak before you because you have not known life—I must give you some inkling of it. But to Farid, what is there to say? We both sit on the same bank. We are in the same place. What remains to be spoken?”

You have not known life yet. And if you know it, you will be amazed to find that the color of life is pure white—shubhra—not multicolored. Life becomes multicolored only when it gets fragmented. As the sun’s ray is white, but when we pass it through a piece of glass—a prism—it breaks into seven colors. That is how a rainbow appears. A rainbow does not appear always. Notice: special conditions are required for a rainbow to form.

It must be a rainy day so tiny droplets of water are floating in the air. The sky should be at least partly clear so the sun is out—or peeping through the clouds—so its rays can pass through the droplets suspended in the air. Those droplets act as prisms. As soon as a sunray passes through them, it breaks into seven parts. Thus a rainbow appears. But the rainbow is not a thing in itself. Go to where it is and you will find nothing. Close your fist on it and only your hand will get wet—no color will stain your palm.

Life is not a rainbow; life is a pure white ray. That is why Mahavira called the supreme state of meditation shukla dhyan—pure white. There everything becomes white. No color remains.

Remember, white is not a color. White is the source of all colors and the end of all colors—the beginning and the ending, the alpha and the omega. White is before and white is after—and in between is the whole jamboree of colors. When you say, “I am interested in colors,” it means you are interested in the jamboree. Interested in the rainbow means interested in the false. Rainbows are utterly false. The ray is true. The rainbow is the ray broken, distorted, fragmented. The day you know life you will find it is shukla—it is white, pure—without any color. All colors dissolve.

And you say, “Being a stage actor I want to go deep into the art of acting. Therefore I am not yet ready for sannyas.”

Then you have not understood me at all. I am saying precisely that sannyas means the art of acting. If you truly want to be an actor, where will you learn acting if not as a sannyasin? What I just told you on the Chandogya sutra means clearly: look upon life as acting. Remain a witness. Do not identify with life. In a Ramleela, someone plays Rama—he does not become Rama. He knows he is only acting; he remains who he is. Just because he has picked up a bow and arrows he hasn’t become Rama! Just because “Sita Maiya” is walking behind him and Lakshmana behind her, he hasn’t become Rama! He knows “Sita Maiya” is not really Sita Maiya—she is, if anything, a brother! They shaved his mustache and painted him up and stood him there. He knows very well: this is a lad, not Sita Maiya.

A man played Rama. His friends asked him afterwards, “Everything else is fine, but tell us one thing: did Rama and Sita have physical relations or not? Because the Ramleela never mentions it. We only learn that she became pregnant. But what happened before that? When did she become pregnant?” The man said, “Brother, I don’t know whether the real Rama had physical relations with Sita or not—I don’t know that. But I did, let me tell you! Whether the one who played Sita Maiya became pregnant or not, I don’t know—God knows—Rama knows! But I didn’t miss my chance. Whether Lord Rama did or didn’t, that’s for him to explain!”

You may play Rama, but you do not become Rama. You are only acting. Acting means: you must remain a witness. And that is precisely sannyas. The sannyasin makes this whole world his stage. The whole world becomes a leela for him. He rises, sits, works, but now he has no identification with any act. He does not join himself to any act. Within, he remains separate.

And that is the very foundation of acting: remain inwardly separate. Display love, display anger, display sorrow—and within, remain apart.

In my village there was a Ramleela. I was not so keen to watch the show onstage; I was curious about what went on backstage. I have always been curious about what happens behind the curtain. In front everything is fine. So I would go behind the curtain. The village manager of the Ramleela used to say, “You are a strange one! The whole village sits outside and you insist on sitting behind the curtain!” I said, “That’s what I want to see. Do you mind?” He said, “I don’t mind. Sit, watch.” So I sat in a corner and watched. And I saw such astonishing scenes that those sitting in front could not imagine; they missed them completely! I saw Sita Maiya smoking a bidi! My God, I said, this is outrageous! Sita Maiya smoking a bidi! I saw Rama-ji serving tea to Hanuman-ji. Incredible! I saw Rama-ji and Ravana eating fritters from the same plate!

I saw the real thing.

What happens on the stage is something else. There, bows are drawn and a great battle rages—and who could imagine that Rama-ji and Ravana-ji are sharing fritters from one plate! First of all, Rama-ji eating fritters—one can’t even imagine that! Onstage they surely know, even if dimly, when they go out under the lights, that it is only acting.

A sannyasin turns his whole life into acting. There is no greater way to learn the art of acting than through sannyas. If, Nitin Chaudhary, you truly want to be a stage actor, then you should become a sannyasin. Then I will make you not just an actor of the stage but an actor on the stage of life itself. That is why I do not tell my sannyasins to run away to the jungle. There is no need to escape. If it’s all acting, where would you run? Why run at all? Those who run away are taking it seriously. They think, “If I remain here, I will get entangled. If I stay here, I will be trapped.” The witness has not yet arisen in them; otherwise why go to the forest? Only the foolish go to the forest. Those without awareness go. Renunciation is done only by the dull-witted. First there was the merry-go-round of indulgence; then begins the merry-go-round of renunciation—and that merry-go-round is even bigger. Whoever enters it becomes absolutely giddy. Indulgence is enough to make you dizzy; whatever little is left, yoga turns it into a whirl.

My sannyasin is not to become a renunciate from a sensualist. If he is a renunciate, he is to be a witness. If he is a sensualist, he is to be a witness. Wherever he comes from, from whichever direction, he has only one work: to be a witness. Whether he keeps a shop, works in an office, is poor or rich, an actor, a prostitute, or a monk—it makes no difference; the process of sannyas is one. There is not one process for a prostitute and another for saints—not at all. Therefore I say even a prostitute, remaining a prostitute, can attain the ultimate liberation. Only witnessing.

And what is the obstacle?

I even feel that perhaps a prostitute can attain witnessing more quickly than a wife—because a wife clings to the idea “my husband.” What clinging can a prostitute have? No one is hers. The “husbands” change every day. There is no husband there at all. So where is the question of “mine”? I say a prostitute has no obstacle to liberation; she may even have an advantage.

An actor too has an advantage—more so than your saints and holy men. For saints stiffen up, they get terribly rigid. Someone ties a mouth-cloth; ask him to take it off, and then you will know whether he has really left the world or not. He says he left the world; he cannot remove his mouth-cloth. What on earth did he leave then? He cannot put aside a four-inch strip tied across his mouth—and he has left the world! What a tremendous renunciation!

I told Acharya Tulsi: “Remove the mouth-cloth and I will accept that you are a renunciate.” He said, “What did you say? How can the mouth-cloth be removed! I am a Terapanthi monk, the acharya of seven hundred monks—how can I remove the mouth-cloth!” I said, “If you cannot remove the mouth-cloth, what have you renounced? You do not even have witnessing toward the mouth-cloth—how will you be a witness toward this vast world!”

In my view an actor can become a sannyasin more skillfully—because his acting changes daily. Sometimes he plays Rama, sometimes Ravana. Whatever the need. Sometimes, in one play, he must do two or three roles at once. As required. If an actor falls ill, he must do that role too. And the plays keep changing. Today this play, the day after tomorrow another. Sometimes Kalidasa, sometimes Bhavabhuti, sometimes Banabhatta—the plays change. So he cannot get identified with any one. A man who sits in the same shop all his life will naturally get identified. But if the shop changes every day, how will identification take root? Today the jeweler’s shop, tomorrow the cloth shop, the next day the sweet shop—what will he think of himself? A sweet-maker? A jeweler? What? He won’t get a chance to latch on; the current keeps flowing, things keep changing day by day—how will he grasp anything in this world of change?

An actor, more than many other occupations, can become a more adept sannyasin. And the reverse is also naturally true: a sannyasin can become the most skillful actor—more than anyone else. Because he has made life itself into acting; he has no identification anywhere. Then there is no difference for him between stage and life. His art of acting becomes effortless and natural—not artificial. And that is the mark of a great artist: that the art is natural, spontaneous, self-arising.

Nitin Chaudhary, if you truly want to go deep into the art of acting, I can teach you that depth. No one else will be able to, because either there are sensualists here or there are renunciates. I am neither. For me both are roles. It makes no difference what role you play—whether you pose as a saint or as a thief, it makes no difference. Whatever you are doing, only keep this much awareness: I am only the witness. But one forgets; one keeps forgetting. A little event happens and we forget.

It happened so.

A play was being performed and the great Bengali scholar Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar was the chief guest. He was a gentleman, a man of character, very insistent on morality. In the play a scene comes where a loafer—without loafers there is no story; in a good man’s life what story is there to tell? For story you need a bad man. In a bad man’s life there is something to narrate, to portray; it can arouse rasa. Make a story about a good man’s life—no one will come to see it. What is there? A holy man sits, strums a tanpura, sometimes fasts, sings “My eyes thirst for the vision of Hari!” How long? The audience will soon say, “Brother, let something else happen!” We understand your eyes thirst for Hari—but our eyes are thirsty too! Show us something! Let some drama happen—what are you doing here! How long will this tanpura drone? The saint will be thrashed. The audience will throw him out: “Get out, away with you! If this is what you want to do, why stage a play?”

A play needs a bad character. In a bad man’s life there is a story, turns, surprises, marvels.

So a loafer is after a woman—doggedly after her. When someone goes after you, he goes after you doggedly! Why wash your hands afterwards? Wash them first! That’s why we say: “He went after her with his hands washed!” Vidyasagar grew very angry. Being a moral man, he was deeply pained. He became restless, perspiring. And that fellow was tormenting the woman so! A moment came when the woman was passing through a forest and the man caught her there. That was it. Vidyasagar leapt onto the stage without a thought, pulled off his shoe, and began beating the actor! The audience was stunned. They had come to see a play; they had not imagined such a sensational drama would erupt. A new drama began inside the drama. For a moment people held their breath, eyes fixed. Those who had dozed off awoke: What is happening? The audience is taking part! And not in any ordinary way—they are wielding shoes! And Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar! From him no one could have expected shoe-blows!

But that actor did something extraordinary. He took the shoe from Vidyasagar’s hand and touched it to his own head. He honored the shoe properly! He made Vidyasagar melt with embarrassment. And he announced to the audience: “Do not worry. This is the greatest award I could receive. It tells me that Vidyasagar forgot I am only acting. And that is the actor’s good fortune—that the audience forgets he is acting; that it seems real. Not only the audience—someone like Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar. I will not return this shoe. It is my certificate. I will keep it safe. I have never received a bigger certificate.”

Just imagine what must have gone through Vidyasagar! Cold sweat must have broken out. He must have sunk, beaten, back into his seat. He struck with a shoe—but he received the shoe. Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar is only a pundit. The actor was far more sannyast than he. He took even a shoe-blow in the spirit of acting. He kept witnessing even there. He turned that mishap into something delightful. He didn’t take it as suffering; he took it as honor. He turned the whole thing around. Vidyasagar fell into identification. He forgot it was a play.

Nitin Chaudhary, if you truly wish to descend into the depths of the art of acting, sannyas will give you keys unavailable in any other way. Because sannyas is nothing but the art of living life as acting.

And you say: “I don’t want to be limited to saffron robes.”

You don’t know what you are saying. Do you see my sannyasins as limited in their saffron? Can you find anyone on earth more free than my sannyasins? Your colorful clothes are your limitation. Say it this way: you don’t want to slip out of your limitation. My sannyasin is utterly free. The saffron robe is only his proclamation that he is my sannyasin—nothing else. It proclaims that he is willing to be connected with me, that he consents. It is a declaration of love. And you will find my sannyasins more colorful than yourself. Your colorfulness will remain confined to your clothes. My sannyasin’s clothes may be of one color, but his soul has spread into many dimensions.

I accept all the dimensions of life. I am not negative. I am not against anything. The more dimensions life receives, the richer it becomes. The more creative you become, the richer life becomes, the more the inner treasures open. But do not imagine that wearing colorful clothes will give your life variety. You remind me of Sardar Vichittar Singh! And you live in Delhi, so consider yourself close to Sardars. People say “Delhi is not far”—surely a Sardar must have said that. It is far from everywhere—only Punjab is near.

Sardar Vichittar Singh went to a tailor to order a suit and said, “Do this: make one trouser leg loose and the other absolutely tight!” The tailor said, “I have spent my life stitching clothes; not only I—my father did, and his father too; for generations we’ve done this work. But you are an extraordinary customer! Someone comes and says, ‘Make it loose’—that I understand. Someone says, ‘Make it tight’—that I understand. But you—you are extraordinary, Sardar Vichittar Singh! You truly are vichittar (odd)! What kind of fashion is this—one hem loose and the other tight?” Vichittar Singh said, “You don’t understand. I believe in variety. Why stick to one fashion? When two fashions can be worn at once, one fashion on one leg and another on the other.”

Nitin Chaudhary, be careful! If you become “colorful” in that way, you will land only clown roles in plays. You will end up a circus joker! And Delhi is full of all kinds of clowns—be alert!

If you want to know life, you must connect with someone who has known. If your lamp is extinguished, you must come to a lamp that is lit.

Sannyas means nothing else: a declaration of being with me. A declaration that there is no barrier between us. That there is no argument, no words, no dispute between us. And the day I see you no longer need saffron robes, that day I will free you of them too. Sannyas is not bound to saffron!

But I had to choose some symbol. And I chose saffron deliberately. Deliberately—because for some five thousand years saffron has been in the wrong hands. It must be taken back from them. This lovely color has become a symbol of the denial of life. Yet it is the color of life, of spring. Hence its other name: basanti—the color of spring, when all flowers bloom. I don’t know how this spring-color fell into the hands of the wrong people—enemies of flowers, lovers of thorns—people who lay thorn-beds and sleep upon them, who long for thorns, who torment themselves in every way, who are filled with violence. Since there is risk in doing violence to others—for others will answer back—they do violence to themselves. No one can answer that, no one can defend against it. It became the symbol of the self-violent. It became the symbol of hypocrites—those who say one thing and do another. This lovely, spring color must be snatched from their hands. That is why I chose it. Otherwise I could have chosen any color. Any color could have served as a declaration.

But there is a reason. An old tradition has to be totally shattered. And it can only be done by entering that tradition. This explosion—this bomb—has to be planted within the tradition itself. This rotten, decayed arrangement that has passed for religion till now must be broken from within so that a new religion can be born—a new kind of religiosity can arise. That is why I chose saffron.

But the day I feel the work is complete, I will say: now it’s up to you!

And just think, Nitin Chaudhary—if I had chosen seven-colored clothes, with seven stripes, you still would not have agreed. You would have said there will be even more mockery. “What will people say? What has happened to you?” Now at least people say, “All right, you’ve become a sannyasin”; then they would think, “You’ve gone completely mad!”

But I will keep it in mind: if I ever intend to make a change, I liked your suggestion; it sounded very juicy. I’ll choose rainbow colors. But not just yet.

And you ask: Bhagwan, can I come from time to time for your darshan without becoming your sannyasin?

You can come to listen; you cannot come to meet. Because for meeting you are not fulfilling the condition. For listening there is no obstacle—come whenever you wish. But if you want darshan, then the condition must be fulfilled. Then you must bow. Then you must agree with me. Then you must find a rhythm with me. You must sing in my meter. You must join my dance. Only then is darshan possible. Darshan is a great thing! Listening—what is there in that? Darshan is an inner touch.

Surendra Saraswati! Punjab is very dear! But the kirpans will be drawn. First let us set Kutch right, then we’ll go to Punjab. Right now the people of Kutch are saying: Save Kutch! Let us save Kutch first, then we will save Punjab. And I have a taste for Punjab. What wondrous people there are in Punjab—they too must be saved!

Sardar Vichittar Singh and Pyara Singh were returning thoroughly drunk. Pyara Singh fell into the gutter. Lifting him up, Vichittar Singh said, “Get up, friend, get up. It’s not your fault. These damned municipality fellows pick up the drains at night and put them right in the middle of the road.”

Vichittar Singh’s sweetheart asked him, “Will you love me just as much after marriage?” Vichittar said, “Certainly—absolutely! The truth is, I dote on married women.”

Vichittar Singh came to Bombay for the first time with his friend Pyara Singh and went to a hotel. On the table where they sat, a glass was kept upside down. Pyara Singh said, “What a limit—this glass doesn’t even have a mouth!” Vichittar picked up the glass, turned it over, looked, and with even greater astonishment said, “Amazing! Incredible! This glass doesn’t even have a bottom!” Such endearing people! Surendra, we must go to Punjab too!

A tailor ran away with the customers’ clothes. All the customers gathered and began to lament their losses. Mulla Nasruddin said, “That scoundrel took my coat.” Dhabbuji said, “The bastard took my brand-new pants. I had given them to him only to put on buttons.” Chandulal rubbed his bald head and said, “I had given him my ancestral cap, handed down for generations, just for a little darning—I'm ruined, alas!” Twisting his moustache, Sardar Vichittar Singh said, “If that son of a bitch is found, I won’t leave him alive—he has ruined me.” The friends asked, “What did he take from you?” The Sardar said, “He took my measurements. Now whom shall I get my clothes made by? And how?”

Vichittar Singh went to Ahmedabad. Wearing pants with one narrow and one wide leg, a handsome coat, and shiny new shoes, dead drunk, he roamed the streets of Ahmedabad; he fell here and there, stumbled, and finally collapsed flat, utterly unconscious. A Gujarati brother came by, and finding this intoxicated man alone, took off his expensive shoes and coat and walked away, putting his own tattered shoes on Vichittar Singh. An hour later, when he came to a bit, he saw a car right in front of him honking—pon-pon, pon-pon. The driver, Mr. Ahmak Ahmadabadi, peered out the window and said, “Hey you Sardar’s whelp, get off the road! Don’t you know who I am? I’ll drive right over your legs.” Vichittar Singh cast a glance at his legs and replied, “Go on, drive over them—who’s afraid here? Hey, these aren’t even my legs; my legs had new shoes.”

Vichittar Singh was speeding along on a bicycle. A woman sat behind on the carrier. Suddenly, in a gust of wind, the woman’s handkerchief fell. Another Sardar saw this and shouted, “Oye, Sardar, your wife’s handkerchief flew off! Stop the cycle!” At this, Vichittar Singh turned back with a look of fury and said, “Mind your tongue! Aren’t you ashamed, you ill-mannered fellow, calling her my wife! She may be your wife, bastard—she’s my sister!”

Such adorable people! Punjab is calling. Surendra, we must certainly go.

At the age of ten, Vichittar Singh ran away from home. His grandmother loved him very much. At twenty, one day he suddenly returned. Others in the family were happy, but the grandmother’s joy knew no bounds. Night came; everyone went to sleep. The house had only two rooms. In one, Vichittar Singh’s father Thousand Singh and his wife slept, and in the other, Vichittar’s grandmother. ... Thousand Singh’s real name was Hajara Singh, but since his return from England he had changed it to Thousand Singh. ... Grandmother said the boy would sleep with her. A little later, Vichittar Singh began to caress the grandmother. She thought, “He has come after so many days, his love is overflowing.” But Vichittar kept going further. At last when he crossed all limits, the grandmother cried out, “Hey, hey—what are you doing!” But Vichittar sat on the grandmother’s chest. Hearing the outcry, Thousand Singh burst into the room. In the blink of an eye he understood everything and roared in anger, “You bastard!” Vichittar Singh jumped out the window and fled. From that night, the father, a kirpan at his waist, furious, went around searching for the boy.

After many days he nabbed him in the city watching a hockey match, and started tearing into the boy in pure Punjabi! A crowd gathered. People kept asking what the matter was, but Thousand Singh just went on hurling abuses, with his kirpan drawn. Then Vichittar Singh leapt up to a high spot and said, “Brothers and sisters, judge! I’ll tell you what it’s about. My fault is only this much—that once I climbed onto his mother. Whereas this gentleman has been climbing onto my mother for the last twenty-five years. You tell me—who should be punished?”

Such wondrous people!

But the kirpans will be drawn. Bole so nihal, Sat Sri Akal. We will go to Punjab too; I have to spoil this whole country. We are starting from one corner—Kutch—then we will go on spoiling, slowly. Everyone must be saved. ... Surendra is from Punjab. He was a Sardar; now he has become a sannyasin. So naturally the desire must arise in him that now Punjab too should somehow be liberated. ... The matter will be difficult, but there is no harm in trying. The matter is always difficult.
Difficulty is natural. In my work, difficulty is certain.

In the heart...
In my heart I have asked for something very priceless,
I have asked fidelity from the nature of a proud beauty.
Is it expediency,
is it attention, or is it conspiracy—
an enemy has prayed for my good.
In my heart I have asked for something very priceless,
I have asked fidelity from the nature of a proud beauty.
Is it expediency, is it attention, or is it conspiracy—
an enemy has prayed for my good.

Whom should the beauty love, whom should she reject?
Every face is worthy of being held to the heart.
Crushing thousands of hearts beneath her feet and kicking them aside, she said:
“Here, recognize—which heart among these is yours?”

The poisons no longer flare—who knows what happened...
Again the same screams—the rich, who knows what happened to them.
Again the same screams—the rich, who knows what happened to them...

A charity-school is being run for every new hunter;
A charity-school is being run for every new hunter;
What has happened to the consciences of the people of the garden?
What has happened to the consciences of the people of the garden...

When we will have been brought into the killer’s lane...
When we will have been brought into the killer’s lane,
even the curtains of the windows will have been drawn aside.
When some palace of mirrors was being built...
When some palace of mirrors was being built,
mad lovers were walled up within its walls.
When some palace of mirrors was being built...
mad lovers were walled up within its walls.
Whenever royal pleasure suffered a slight hurt...
Whenever royal pleasure suffered a slight hurt,
many a Sarmad was hung upon the gallows.
Whenever royal pleasure suffered a slight hurt...
many a Sarmad was hung upon the gallows.

So, friends:
Friends, never ask a murderer for love...
Friends, never ask a murderer for love.
Do not, carrying your own heart, ask for a sword.
You will fall from your messiah’s eyes—
Even by dying, do not ask for a cure for the sick heart.
Do not, carrying your own heart, ask for a sword.
So, friends:
Friends, never ask a murderer for love.

Why speak of a thing that is not possible at all...
Why speak of a thing that is not possible at all?
In the desert, never ask for the shade of a wall...
In the desert, never ask for the shade of a wall.
Do not, carrying your own heart, ask for a sword.
So, friends:
Friends, never ask a murderer for love.

Thus too the illusion of the eyes will be dispelled...
Thus too the illusion of the eyes will be dispelled:
Never ask for the fragrance of a flower from thorns.
Never ask for the fragrance of a flower from thorns...
Do not, carrying your own heart, ask for a sword.
So, friends:
Friends, never ask a murderer for love.

For speaking the truth one always receives a cup of poison...
For speaking the truth one always receives a cup of poison.
If you want to live, then do not ask for the courage to declare it.
If you want to live, then do not ask for the courage to declare it.
Do not, carrying your own heart, ask for a sword.
So, friends:
Friends, never ask a murderer for love.

Even this is a blessing—that you find any buyer at all...
Even this is a blessing—that you find any buyer at all.
Perish, but do not ask the price of self-sacrifice.
Perish, but do not ask the price of self-sacrifice...
Do not, carrying your own heart, ask for a sword.
So, friends:
Friends, never ask a murderer for love.

No melody will ever again rise from the heartbeat...
No melody will ever again rise from the heartbeat.
From a broken anklet, do not ask for a jingle.
From a broken anklet, do not ask for a jingle...
So, friends:
Friends, never ask a murderer for love.

My work is difficult. Because I am asking a broken anklet for its jingle. For five thousand years this anklet has kept breaking. Nothing remains. There is no one more empty, more devoid of self, on this earth today than this country! Twenty-two hundred years of long slavery, and five thousand years of orthodoxy—the anklet is badly broken! Yet I am asking that same anklet for its jingle. One has to make the attempt! One has to keep hope!

No melody will ever again rise from the heartbeat;
from a broken anklet do not ask for a jingle.
But I do not abandon hope. It seems to me a song can still arise; the heartbeat can still return; even from a broken anklet a jingle can still arise. It is very difficult.

Even this is a blessing—that you find any buyer at all...
Today, who is ready to take truth! Who is ready to purchase truth today!
Even this is a blessing—that you find any buyer at all;
perish, but do not ask the price of self-sacrifice.
I am ready to be annihilated. Those who are ready to be annihilated with me—those are my sannyasins. A buyer has to be sought! He can be found. I do not trust in despair.

For speaking the truth one always receives a cup of poison...
For speaking the truth one always receives a cup of poison;
if you want to live, then do not ask for the courage to declare it.
The cup of poison is possible—it will come! But for truth, even to drink the cup of poison is good fortune! Blessed are those who have drunk the cup of poison for truth!

Why speak of a thing that is not possible at all—
in the desert, never ask for the shade of a wall.
But that is exactly what I am doing. From the superstitious, the hypocrites, the false custodians of religion, I am expecting just that—as if someone in a desert were looking for a wall so he might sit in its shade.

In the desert, never ask for the shade of a wall;
why speak of a thing that is not possible at all.
Yet I have not accepted that it is impossible. It is still possible. However much ash has piled up on the soul of this nation, somewhere an ember still remains. The ash needs to be blown away—the ember can emerge again! And even a tiny spark can set an entire forest on fire. This setting the forest ablaze is exactly the device of my sannyas. These robes are not only symbols of spring—they are symbols of fire too. They are of fire; they are fiery.

Whenever a palace of mirrors has been built,
mad lovers were walled up within its walls.
Preparation is necessary. One must be mad; if you want to taste madness, you must be prepared to be walled in.

Whenever royal pleasure suffers any hurt—
whenever established interests are touched—
whenever royal pleasure suffers any hurt,
many a Sarmad is hung upon the gallows.
We must be ready to be Sarmad—heads can roll! Sannyas is a campaign, a deep longing to give rebirth to this country—and not only to this country, through this country to the whole world. Kutch is ours, California is ours; Punjab is ours, and Pakistan is ours—the whole earth is ours. Therefore, Surendra, everyone has to be awakened! But I have to sit somewhere; from there the rays can spread. The sun does not need to go to every house.

That’s all for today.