Es Dhammo Sanantano #116

History is worth two pennies. I have no use for history. The story is valuable in itself—whether it happened in history or not. Its happening will not increase its value.
The value of a story is in its feeling, its spirit. And even historically, it could have happened; it’s not such a difficult thing. If Kabir lived a hundred and twelve years—which is possible—then Kabir and Meera could have met.
People live even to a hundred and fifty. In Russia there are thousands who have reached close to a hundred and fifty.
But that is not the point. I am not saying Kabir lived a hundred and twelve years. I am not saying Kabir ever met Meera.
The story’s worth lies in its inner tale, its inner intent. Perhaps they did not meet on this earth—so what! Suppose fifteen hundred sages gathered in heaven and invited Kabir. And Kabir said, “Until Meera comes—or Sahjo, or Daya, or Rabia, or Teresa, or Lalla—I will not come.”
The story means simply this: where there are only men, something is incomplete. Where there are only men, something becomes hard, rough. The moment the feminine arrives, a little sweetness comes. The moment the feminine arrives, a little song comes, a little music comes. With the feminine, a few flowers bloom in spirituality; otherwise spirituality becomes a desert.
Since the scriptures of spirituality were all written by men, the scriptures are dry and arid. Since women were barred from temples, mosques, synagogues, religion has lived like a corpse. Life will return to religion...
The story means that Kabir is saying woman and man have equal value. One. Therefore, call Meera—only then will I come.
Second: where the energies of woman and man unite and dance, wholeness dwells there. Man is half, woman is half. Where the two meet, the whole is born.
Neither man alone can give birth to a child, nor woman alone. Life flowers when two meet. When two opposite energies fall into each other, a third energy is born.
Spirituality has remained barren because it has been only male energy.
People ask me, “Why is there no woman Tirthankara? Why no woman avatar? Why no daughter of God? Why no woman prophet?”
They ask rightly. Women have been worthy—worthy to be prophets, to be counted among avatars, to be counted among Tirthankaras—but the male ego does not allow their inclusion.
This story strikes at the male ego. Its whole point is that Kabir is saying, “I refuse to pander to the male ego. A woman’s glory is equal to a man’s. Her height can be just as high as a man’s.”
But to accept Meera or Sahjo as a Tirthankara is unthinkable—so much so that in Jainism there was one woman Tirthankara, and they changed her name so that no one would know she was a woman. Her name was Mallibai; the Jains say Mallinath. They counted her as a man. The matter must have stung. She must have been a woman of unparalleled majesty—certainly of greater majesty than Mahavira. Otherwise, being a woman, she could not have been counted among the Tirthankaras. Her glory must have been such that even men could not deny it; her light so luminous that despite being a woman they had to accept her.
Twenty-three Tirthankaras are men; among them one woman as the twenty-fourth—Mallibai! At that time, they must have accepted it—the force of her presence! The pressure of her presence. But later, the male ego must have been hurt—“A woman, and a Tirthankara! A woman, and such height!” And the scriptures declare that from a female embodiment liberation is not possible.
Those are scriptures written by men, which say liberation is not possible in a female embodiment. No woman can go to liberation directly from the woman’s body. First she must die; be born a man in the next life; then she can go. There is no door to liberation without being a man.
This is gross nonsense; indecent. But men ruled. Men were the masters. Women were not allowed to study, to understand, to think!
And when a woman did become a Tirthankara, what then of the scriptures that say there is no liberation in a female embodiment? They altered the story. A little trick; a legal provision; a technical device. Don’t call Mallibai “Mallibai”; call her “Mallinath.” Once a woman had manifested such glory, we erased her name.
This is all the story in Kabir: fifteen hundred pundits gathered in Kashi and invited Kabir to come. He went. He saw: all men. He turned back. He said, “Call Meera.” If Meera dances, Kabir will also come. If Meera dances, Kabir will also speak.
Where there is no woman, something is incomplete. There is no motherhood there; there is no love. There will be logic; webs of doctrine. There will be erudition. There may even be conduct; there may be character. But that character will have no fragrance. That character will have no sweetness; no intoxication. There, people will become knowledgeable like stones. There will be no flow.
You have seen: ten men sitting in a room, the air is one way. Then a woman enters, and the air turns different. With her mere presence, tension lessens. People laugh more. People argue less. People cease to use coarse words. They stop abusing!
Fifteen women sitting—there too, great back-and-forth bickering goes on. Over petty things the relish of slander flows. A man comes in, and the talk steadies.
Woman and man are two facets of the same truth; two sides of the same coin. And up to now we have accepted only one side of the coin—the male—and rejected the female; hence the world has become very impoverished.
There will be fewer wars in the world if woman is accepted as much as man is accepted. There will be more love in the world—and that is badly needed. When love falls short, bayonets increase, swords increase, bombs increase.
Let woman be accepted; let there be balance. Woman and man are equal. Therefore Kabir said: when Meera comes...
Meera was sought. When Meera came and danced, then Kabir spoke. Certainly, the quality of this speaking changed. When Meera danced, fluidity entered. The faces of the serious pundits must have relaxed. The net of argument must have loosened a little inside. The pundits must have climbed down from their skulls and dipped into the heart a little.
Meera danced. She tied on her ankle-bells. “Pad ghungharu bandh Meera naachi re!” The atmosphere must have cooled. A few jasmine flowers must have showered. Then Kabir spoke. Now he spoke in a different atmosphere.
What pointless babble are you carrying about “history”! This is not a university. Here such idle topics are not being discussed. Here there isn’t even the concern whether Kabir was or not! Whether Meera was or not! That too is of no concern. The story is so lovely that because of the story Kabir will have to be, Meera will have to be. The story has value in itself; its poetry is such.
But your gaze gets stuck on the petty! You keep busy with petty bookkeeping. You want whatever happened to be “certain.” And remember: only the petty becomes “certain.” The more petty, the more certain. Adolf Hitler—about him there is no doubt, because he is so destructive he leaves many ruins behind—symbols and witnesses.
That Krishna existed is doubtful. He may have been; he may not. Because what Krishna brought into the world vanished with him; there is no proof to be found for it. He left no ruins here. He did not pave the earth with corpses. He did not sign his name on stones. He came, blossomed like a flower in the morning, and by evening disappeared. And when the flower has gone and its fragrance has flown into the sky, where will you search? Where will you find proof?
There is no proof for the Krishnas. There is no proof for the Buddhas. There is no proof for Jesus. There is proof for Nadir Shah. There is proof for Tamerlane, for Napoleon, for Alexander. There is proof for these.
It is always possible that two thousand years from now there will be no proof of Ramana. What proof will there be for Krishnamurti? Searching the newspapers you will not even find the name! There will be proof for Joseph Stalin. There will be proof for Mao Tse-tung. There will be proof for Mussolini. But what proof will there be for Krishnamurti? Two thousand years hence, Krishnamurti will become just as doubtful as Krishna is today. There will be no difference.
The higher the thing, the fewer the proofs it leaves. Because the higher belongs to the sky; the lower belongs to the earth. The lower creeps on the ground and leaves tracks. The higher flies in the sky. Birds flying in the sky leave no footprints. The bird has flown; you find no tracks. But those who walk on the earth—after they have gone, footprints remain. After they have gone, there is proof.
History speaks of the petty. Therefore this country had to discover a new thing; we call it Purana. The notion of Purana exists nowhere else in the world.
The ancient scriptures say: Itihasa and Purana. Purana does not mean history. Purana is something else. Purana means: that which history will not be able to keep account of—cannot keep account of—has no means to keep account of. History keeps account of politics, of small-timers—those who have no real worth—who come upon the stage for a moment and make a great din; for a moment their echo pervades—for a moment!
History records those who seem very influential for the moment. Purana records those who are glorious forever.
Now there will naturally be a difference between the two. That which is glorious forever—esa dhammo sanantano—takes thousands of years to be recognized; how will you make its history! History forms about that which you can recognize right now. The Buddha has not yet been recognized! With Kabir you still have no acquaintance! Even now, Kabir stands waiting—to be understood, to be recognized.
Thousands of years pass, then... and even then, only a few recognize what Buddhahood is. By then the Buddha is gone; the body is gone; the body’s proofs are gone. By the time the recognizers arrive, all signs have vanished.
Therefore we—only we in the world—discovered the thing called Purana. Purana means: that whose marks do not remain on the current of time; that which is connected with the Eternal should also be mentioned, should also be gathered.
Westerners who read India’s Puranas do not have the vision of the Purana. Indians too are no longer Indian. When they read the Puranas, they too lack the Purana-vision. They say, “This is not history.”
Who said it is history! Do you even understand the word “history”? In Sanskrit itihasa—split as iti and haas—“thus it comes to its end, thus it fades.” That which quickly comes to an end and is lost in dust—that is the meaning of history.
What does Purana mean? Pur + aan: that which has been coming forever and keeps on coming—that which is eternal, perennial. To grasp that, another approach is needed.
So when I tell you something, remember: in that telling there is none of the nonsense of history and the like. I am completely free of that history. I am telling you only that whose being is eternally true. Whether it has happened or not. If it has not happened, it will happen sometime.
But your mind keeps revolving in these futile matters. You think: if it actually happened, the value would increase. How would the value increase?
Suppose, truly, Kabir lived a hundred and twelve years. And with people like Kabir—who knows! If he did live a hundred and twelve years, and met Meera, then what? Would the value of the story increase?
By adding only this—“Yes, indeed, in one hall in Kashi fifteen hundred pundits gathered. Then Kabir called for Meera. Meera danced.”—what difference would it make? Is the story not complete in itself? By assembling such verification from another angle, would the meaning become any deeper? Nothing at all would change.
The meaning of the story is in the story. Whether it happened or not. If it did not happen, it should have happened. If it did not happen, it will happen sometime. If it did not happen on this earth, it happened somewhere else. If not on earthly ground, then in some heaven. But it has happened. It will happen. It goes on happening. Whenever Kabirs are born, Meeras will be called. And the Kabir who does not call Meera is a little incomplete—afraid. To associate fear with Kabir would not be right.
And to whom it does not become visible that the same light shines in woman and in man; one who still clings to the category of woman and man—what kind of Kabir is that? There is no Buddhahood there yet. He is still stuck at the body; he has not yet known the soul.
By the body one is a woman or a man—but that is the language of the body. Kabir should see beyond the body. He should have the vision of the transparent that is hidden within the body. Kabir should see: who is man? who is woman? It is all the expansion of the One. Only the One is.

As the question, so the answer. Or, as the questioner, so the answer.
And sometimes harshness is needed out of compassion as well. Sometimes only when a blow lands on your head do you come to a little awareness. You are asleep in such a deep slumber! The fear is that you might even swallow the blow and still not wake up.

Some ask only to show off their scholarship. Take, for example, the question that the meeting of Kabir and Meera is not historical. Here come the blind worshippers of history—those who have read the petty chronicles of kings and queens, the tales of wars, memorized dates and details. Their heads are stuffed with rubbish; now they can see nothing else. For them, unless something is certified by the petty apparatus of proof, it becomes meaningless.

Such people will be in great difficulty. They will not be able to grasp the Vast. And if they try, they will make demands that themselves become obstacles.

The stories say… These are stories; they cannot be proven in history. It is said: when Mahavira walked on the roads, the thorns that lay upright, seeing Mahavira, quickly turned themselves upside down.

Does this ever happen? Do thorns care so much? People don’t care; what would thorns care!

It probably never happened. Thorns lying on the path, Mahavira approaches, and seeing him they hurry to flip over lest they prick him, hiding their heads and burrowing into the dust—would thorns do that?

But the story holds a great meaning. It says that even thorns ought to do so. When a being like Mahavira comes, the thorns on the path should turn themselves upside down. And what actually happens? People standing on the roadside fling stones!

In the story there is an expectation; a pointer, a message for you: do not become a thorn on Mahavira’s path. There, even thorns should turn over. But you become thorns on Mahavira’s way. Humans turn into thorns!

The stories say that when Mohammed walked in the desert, a cloud would cast its shade over him. Which cloud cares! How much awareness could clouds have? And if they did, think: what an insult to you! Clouds give shade to Mohammed—what did human beings do? They tried to snatch away even his shade; they tried to take his life.

You will say: there is no historical proof of this! I am not saying there is. It has nothing to do with history. This is a matter of great grandeur. It is poetry; it carries hints and indications.

The indication is: this is how it should be—that even clouds should shade Mohammed. If there is a man like Mohammed, how could clouds not shade him! And what happens is that men become eager to kill Mohammed.

The stories say that when Buddha entered the forests, dry trees turned green; out-of-season flowers bloomed.

This is how it should be. If Buddha arrives, flowers should bloom out of season. Why sit fussing about seasons then? Buddha has come, he sits beneath a tree, and the tree says, “When spring comes, I will blossom.” Does that make sense?

Spring has come—that is the meaning of the story. When Buddha comes, spring has come. What further spring are you waiting for? In Buddha’s presence, the flowers of human beings bloom. That is spring.

The story is saying: the flowers should blossom—what further spring are you waiting for? The Master has arrived; you are waiting for the servants!

But I am not saying the flowers actually bloomed. If people did not blossom, how would flowers blossom! These are poems—epic poetry. The Puranas are not written in the language of mathematics; they are written in the language of poetry. The Puranas do not acknowledge the language of arithmetic; they acknowledge the language of feeling.

And if I tell you that this historical junk stuffed into your skull should be burned, thrown into the garbage, you will say I have given a harsh answer.

It is not harsh, sir! If it were up to me, I would even take your head off. That would not be harsh. Your head is of no use. You are jumping about needlessly, troubling yourself for nothing. Lose this head, and you will gain everything. This very head stands as a barrier between you and the Divine.

Yet you ask: “Sometimes you give very harsh answers!”

A washerwoman was driving her donkeys home when a jester met her on the way. He said, “Salutations, mother of donkeys!”

Do you know what the washerwoman said? She said, “Bless you, son!”

What else could she say!

There is a gentleman: Miyan Babban—an eccentric by nature. Wherever he stands, he starts asking prices. Once he walked into a big shop. “How much is the lentil per kilo? And this toothbrush? And this paste looks inferior—still, how much will you let me have it for? And this hairbrush?”

The shopkeeper kept calmly quoting prices. By the time Miyan Babban had asked the price of everything, morning had turned to evening. Then he came to the telephone and asked, “Tell me, sir, how much is this phone for?”

There is a limit! The man had wasted the whole day. The shopkeeper—he must have been quite a patient one—kept bearing it and bearing it. But when the price of the phone too… after everything in the shop had been priced, only the phone was left. Perhaps next he would ask the price of the proprietor himself!

The shopkeeper, still calm, had been quoting prices, but now things seemed to go beyond the limit. When Miyan Babban asked, “Sir, how much is this phone?” the shopkeeper shouted, “Fifty paise for turning each number; three paise to put it to your ear; and every word you speak charged by the word, like a telegram.” Miyan Babban said, “I asked the price of the whole phone, sir! Why are you shouting?”

He is indeed asking the price of the whole phone!

Some people are like that—they have no purpose. They don’t even know why they are asking. They ask just to ask. They have no intention to “buy” anything.

When I see that you are asking only for the sake of asking, I don’t have so much time to waste from morning till evening. For one who is asking merely to ask, I give a hard answer. That is precisely what he should get.

One who asks out of mere curiosity is asking from the wrong place. Yes, if there is true inquiry (jigyasa), my answer is gentle. And if there is mumuksha—the longing for liberation—I pour my entire life into answering your question. If you truly ask to be free, then I make every effort.

But when I see it is only an itch—some itchiness in your skull—I do not scratch. Scratching only increases the itch. Then I prefer to give a hard answer.

You should receive exactly what you need.

Taru, neither Lalit nor the children are the Truth; because meeting Lalit and the children is like the chance conjunction of a river and a boat. You were there before. Lalit and the children were there before—before this very birth. But you had never met. You will be there ahead; Lalit and the children will also continue. But perhaps you will not meet again. And even if you do, there will be no recognition of who is Lalit, who are the children, who am I!
On the road of this world we are all strangers. We meet for a moment, then the paths separate. For a moment we walk together, and out of that we build a whole world. Then the paths part again. When someone dies, his path simply goes a different way. Then there is nothing to do but bid farewell. To find him again in the endless ages—impossible.

Therefore neither the children are the Truth, nor the husband is the Truth, nor the wife, nor the brother, nor the sister, nor the mother, nor the father. These are relationships, not Truth. And relationships too are momentary.

A little more true. The guru–disciple relationship is a little truer than the husband–wife relationship. Because the husband–wife relationship is completed at the level of the body, or if it goes very deep, it reaches the mind.
The guru–disciple relationship begins with the mind and, if it deepens, reaches the soul. Yet still I say: only a little more true. Because even the guru–disciple relationship does not reach God; it reaches only the soul. And you have to go to God, so one day even the guru has to be left behind. When the boundary of the soul is reached, that day the guru is gone.
Therefore Buddha has said: Even if you meet me on the path, cut off my head. Meeting me on the path means: if I begin to come between you and your God, remove me.
If the guru is a doorway, good. The very meaning of a door is that one has to go beyond it. No one stays at the door! How long will you stand at the door? A door is not a place to stop. Through it you enter and go on.
So the guru is a door. That is why Nanak said it rightly; he called his temple a Gurudwara. Precisely so: the guru is a door. Through it one has to go beyond. The guru is a pointing; you must go in the direction indicated.
Therefore the guru is only a little more true, but the real Truth is God.
So here there are three things: worldly relationship; spiritual relationship; transcendental relationship. Worldly relationship—husband, wife, children. At their highest they reach the body; if very deep, the mind.
Spiritual relationship—the relationship of disciple and guru; or sometimes the bond of lovers when they descend into a very deep love. It begins at the mind; if it deepens, it reaches the soul.
And then no relationship at all; you remain alone. In your aloneness God is revealed; you become God. Then there is no relationship. Between God and man there is no relationship—there is a non-relationship. Because God and man are not two.
So you ask: “Are you the Truth?”
A little more—than Lalit and the children. But a little less than your relationship with God.

Dharma is truth. Dharma means: a state of non-relationship. Dharma means: to be steady in one’s own nature; to be immersed in oneself. Nothing remains outside. No kind of connection with the outside remains. Not even the relationship with the master remains.
The true master is the one who brings you to the place where you are freed even from the master. Such a master is called a satguru. The one who entangles you in himself is called a false guru—who says, “Don’t go beyond me. This is your halt; the destination has arrived. No further.” The one who holds you stuck in himself is a false guru. The one who lets you go beyond himself, who becomes a ladder, a doorway—so you climb and pass through—he alone is the satguru.
And remember: a feeling of gratitude arises only toward the satguru. Toward a false guru, anger will arise—if not today, then tomorrow—because the false guru is in fact your enemy. First he tempts you with the promise of growth, and then he traps you! First he gathers hope—stirs up great hope in you that he will give liberation—and then you find a new kind of bondage has appeared. The chains have changed; new chains have come. You have entered from one prison into another. One kind of slavery was there; now another kind of slavery has begun.
So toward a false guru you can never truly feel gratitude. Gratitude is felt only toward the one through whom you receive supreme freedom, unconditional freedom.
Dharma is truth.
“And is what I understand the truth? Please make clear what truth is.”
What you understand is not truth. But the one within you who understands—that is truth. The one within you who awakens and sees—that is truth. The knower is truth; the content of understanding has no great value. Understanding, too, has to be dropped. First ignorance has to be dropped; then understanding has to be dropped. First the world has to be left; then spirituality has to be left. First household life has to be left; then even renunciation has to be left.
In the end, only that remains which is the knower of all. The thought-free witness that remains—call it dharma, call it God, call it liberation, call it nirvana—use whatever word is dear to you. But it is your innermost nature.

I am not against politics. Politics is only a symptom. I am against the inferiority complex in man; that inner sense of smallness. And politics is a symptom of that very disease.

The more a person suffers from an inferiority complex, the more he hankers after position. The more he is filled with inferiority, the more he hankers after wealth.

Understand this. An inferiority complex means: inside you feel, “I am nothing, a nobody, a two-bit fellow.” But this rankles. “I—and two-bit!” The mind cannot swallow it. “I will show the world that I am somebody. I’ll become a prime minister, a president. I’ll amass the world’s wealth and prove to the world that I am somebody.”

Politics is the device to fill that inner sense of two-bit-ness, meaninglessness, emptiness. Politics means ambition—whether for money or for office, it makes no difference. Sometimes it is even the ambition for renunciation; that too makes no difference.

As long as you are busy proving to the world that you are somebody, only one thing is proved: inside you know you are a nobody. Otherwise, why prove it?

Lao Tzu has a famous saying: the one who sets out to prove only disproves himself. He who tries to convert another to his view shows only that he himself does not trust his own view. What does Lao Tzu mean? Eyes like Lao Tzu’s are rare—very deep eyes. His saying is: one who tries to convince does not convince. In the very effort to prove “I am this,” it becomes clear that the man himself is not convinced that he is this; otherwise what need to prove it?

One who has seen clearly who he is moves in a kind of carefree grace. He has nothing to prove. He is already proven. Such a one is a siddha—accomplished.

The politician tries to prove and never succeeds. The siddha is siddha—he does not need to prove.

Politics is born of an inferiority complex.

The West had a great psychologist, Adler. He built an entire psychology on the inferiority complex. The seeker of position only declares, “I am inwardly poor; seat me on a great throne. I am very frightened within; put me on a throne where I can be seen above the world!”

Your greatest politicians are surrounded by great inferiority.

I have heard of a short-statured leader—and leaders are all short-statured. Even if the body is tall, inside the stature is small. All leaders are Lal Bahadur Shastris! All. Otherwise they wouldn’t be leaders.

A short leader was giving a speech. A voice from the crowd shouted, “We can’t see you! Please stand up and speak!”

The leader said, “I am standing and speaking.”

Again the voice came, “Then kindly stand on the table.”

“Sir,” the leader said, “I am standing on the table.”

A leader is by nature short. Inside he knows clearly, “I am a nobody.” So he gathers outer proofs: “Look at my power! My wealth! My position! Look at me!” He is not trying to convince you; he is also trying to convince himself: “When so many people acknowledge me, there must be something in me. Otherwise why would they acknowledge me? When so many worship me, when so many garlands come to me, surely there must be something inside. Otherwise what could be the reason that so many people…!”

But this illusion shatters quickly. Step down from the seat once, and you will see: that gigantic image begins shrinking, shrinking by the day. Only after stepping down do you discover that the very people who brought garlands are the ones who now arrive with garlands of shoes. The same hands that threw flowers begin to throw stones. They are the same people. And it is natural that they throw stones, because now they must throw flowers at someone else.

Whenever someone throws flowers at a politician, two things happen inside him. He acknowledges that you have power. But he also feels: “All right, today it is your turn; enjoy the flowers. Someday you will come down from the stage—then we shall see.” Then the same man takes his revenge. That is why a politician is so honored while in office, and the moment he steps down he is instantly insulted.

But while a politician is in office he gains a certain confidence within: “So, my notion that I am a nobody was wrong. I am somebody. Look, the whole world acknowledges me!”

This is delusion. You yourself do not acknowledge yourself—what will the world’s acknowledgment do? You yourself do not know yourself—what will it do if the whole world knows you? It is a false deception. Try to understand: because you do not know yourself, to forget this fact you start trying to make the world know you. You want your picture in all the newspapers, your voice on every radio, your face on every television.

What are you doing? Inside a thought is arising: “I do not know myself.” Instead of setting out to know yourself, you start on a false path: “I will make others know who I am.” You yourself don’t know!

This is the difference. Politics means: let others know who I am. Religion means: let me know who I am. Religion is an inward journey; politics is an outward journey.

I only seem to be against politics because the inner inferiority complex—the real cause of the disease, the source from where the poison rises—has to be broken.

And remember: until it becomes clear to you that politics is the false substitute for religion, you will not become religious. Until then, even in the name of religion you will remain a politician. You will renounce and begin to show the world that no one is a greater renunciate than you. “I will prove that no one is a greater renunciate than I.” You will stand naked, leave home and hearth, wife, children, comforts; you will fast, go hungry, torture the body—but inside, only one desire will remain: that the world should know that no one is a greater renunciate than I.

There is no difference in this. It is the same game. You are still interested in others—let others know who I am!

As long as your curiosity is about the other—“let the other know who I am”—you are a politician, whether you are in politics or not. The day you change your journey and say, “First let me know who I am,” things shift.

And how will another know me? No one can enter inside me except me. No one can see me except me. People will only see me from the outside: my outline, my face, my clothes, my wealth, position, prestige. But who resides within—even I cannot see that in others. I do not see another’s inner being; I see the form, the color, the face, the clothes, the wealth, the office. How will anyone enter within me to see? Only one has permission to go there—and that is me. You cannot take even your companions there, not even your beloved.

First let me know who I am; then if someone comes to know me, that would be another matter. But the one who knows himself loses even the desire to make others know him. He has found the supreme treasure. He has attained the supreme state. Whether anyone knows him or not does not concern him. That very thought has ended. He has awakened; he has come out of the dream.

Politics is the dream of the sleeping man. Religion is the art of awakening.

I have nothing to do with politics. And sometimes when I say something against politicians, do not think I am against them personally. They are only examples. Personally I have nothing to do with them. If they are not there, someone else will be in their place. There are so many sick people in the world—what difference does it make? If Indira is not there, Morarji will be; if Morarji is not there, someone else will come. Someone or other will be there. So many are ill, so many hanker after office—someone will be there.

What difference does it make who sits in the chair! Some fool or other will sit there. Among the fools, the greatest fool will sit there, because this race is such that the intelligent have no business in it.

Mulla Nasruddin went to a shop to buy a few things. It was a festival day and the shopkeeper had reduced prices a lot—or at least he had put up a board outside that what was ten rupees was now five, even if it had always been five!

There was a huge crowd. Especially women always reach such places. If something is cheap, they don’t even think whether they need it or not—if it’s cheap, they must save that much money!

A big crowd. Mulla was the only man. But his wife had sent him, so he had to go. She was a little sick; she couldn’t go herself. And the whole neighborhood’s wives were going; the women were going! So she said, “Mulla, you will have to go. The whole village is going; we will miss out. Unlucky that I am ill today. You go.”

He had to go. He stood a long time. A throng of women! The only man among them! He couldn’t push and shove much, and the women were pushing and shoving a lot. For two hours he watched. He thought, “The whole day will pass; I won’t even get inside the shop!” So he bent his head and began to cleave through the women with both hands, as one swims in water—head down he plunged straight in!

The women were startled. Two or three pushed him and said, “Nasruddin, what are you doing? Behave like a gentleman!”

Nasruddin said, “I have been behaving like a gentleman for two hours. Now I will behave like a woman! Being a gentleman won’t do now. Only if I behave like a woman will I be able to reach; otherwise I cannot.”

In politics, the more dull-witted, the more crazed, and the more head-down a person charges from behind, the more he reaches. The intelligent will have gone home long ago, saying, “Here we are powerless; this is not our work.” The intelligent will take their malas and chant Ram-Ram: “This is not our work!” The foolish…

The whole world is full of fools. Someone will surely be there. So I have nothing to do with persons; individuals are only examples.

Nor do I have any direct opposition to politics. If I oppose, it is only because it is the false substitute for religion.

Let people understand what religion is, so that they can attain the bliss within. And that can happen only when they become free of politics. It can happen only when their ambition drops.

That is why I oppose.

This verse carries the same import as yesterday’s story of Buddha. Atta hi attano natho—one is one’s own master; you yourself are your own lord. And until this truth is seen, one goes on living as a beggar—needlessly, without cause.

You have become beggars not because there is any real reason to be beggars; you have simply forgotten one truth: that you are the master—atta hi attano natho—you are your own master.

“What is yours is with you...”

That which you are searching for, you have brought with you; you have never lost it.

There is Lao Tzu’s famous saying: whatever can be lost is not the Way. That which cannot be lost is your nature; that is dharma.

People ask me: “We have to find God!” I ask them: “When did you lose him? Where did you lose him?” If he has never been lost, then by going out to search you will only wander, because how will you search for what has never been lost?

God is not to be sought; you only have to awaken and look within; there he is.

“What is yours is with you...”

What you are seeking is within you. You are missing because you are seeking outside.

There is a famous story from the life of Rabia. One evening people saw her searching for something outside her house. An old woman, an old fakir! The neighbors gathered and said, “We’ll help. What have you lost?” She said, “My needle has fallen.” They also began to search.

The sun began to set. Night started to fall. A thing as small as a needle, and such a big road—where to look? A sensible man said, “Rabia, where exactly did the needle fall? If we know the precise place, maybe we’ll find it. Otherwise we never will. The lane is long, and now night is coming!”

Rabia said, “Don’t even ask where it fell! The needle fell inside the house.” Then all who had been searching stopped. They said, “This is too much! You’re making us mad along with you. If the needle fell inside, why are you searching out here? Have you lost your senses? Gone crazy? Dotty in old age?”

Rabia said, “No; I am doing exactly what the whole world does. The needle fell inside, but inside there is no light—a poor woman; I have no lamp—outside there was light, so I thought I would search outside. Where there is light, there I will search.”

People said, “We can understand that without light how will you search. But if the needle didn’t fall here, how will you find it here?”

She said, “That is exactly what I cannot understand. I see all of you searching outside too. And that which you are looking for is sitting within! Perhaps for the same reason that I am searching outside for the needle, you too are searching outside.”

The eyes’ light falls outward; the hands stretch outward; the ears listen outward. All the light of the senses falls outward. Perhaps that is why man goes out to search. And the outside has no end; keep searching, keep searching. If the earth is exhausted, search on the peaks of the Himalayas. If the Himalayas are exhausted, then search on the moon. Now search on Mars. And keep going! Keep going! There is no end to this universe. You will be finished searching. And the joke is that the very one you were searching for is sitting within you laughing.

“What is yours is with you; feel for it within yourself.”

The word “grope” is very good. Because the senses are outward; inside there is darkness; you will have to grope.

Understand, if Rabia searches for her needle inside, nothing will be visible. She will sit on the floor and feel around. There is darkness, but if one gropes where the needle fell, even in darkness it can be found. And where it did not fall, even if a thousand suns are standing and everything is lit, how will it be found?

Remember the word “grope.” To grope means: you don’t know for sure where it is. Nothing is seen. All is dark.

When you meditate, you will always feel: it has become dark.

It’s going perfectly. Meditation has begun. Darkness has started appearing—this is a great event. At least something is being seen. Even the inner darkness is better than the outer light. At least something has come into your hands. Darkness is fine. Today darkness is in your hands; tomorrow light will be. Because darkness and light are not two. When you recognize darkness rightly, it turns into light. Darkness is light itself, with which we are unfamiliar.

You have seen, haven’t you—sometimes intense light also appears as darkness. Look at the sun for a moment, and then look around: everything turns dark.

Within, too, there is such an immense radiance that it feels like darkness. The eyes are dazzled. And you have not seen this light for many lifetimes. So when, for the first time, this light falls on your inner eye, a sudden darkness descends.

Do not panic. You have already caught hold of the hem of that which you are seeking. This is exactly what is needed—darkness has begun to show. Now feel your way.

“What is yours is with you; search within yourself.
Not a mustard-seed less, not a sesame-seed more.”

What is within you does not diminish by even a mustard-seed, nor increase by a mustard-seed. It is as it is—just so, exactly so. When you came to this earth, it was just as much as it is now; and when you leave the earth, it will be just as much as it is now—as it was then, at the time of birth.

Those wandering in the darkness of this world have just as much of it as the buddhas have.

“Not a mustard-seed less, not a sesame-seed more.”

Before the Divine we are all equal heirs. But some have recognized their birthright and abide in supreme bliss; and some have not recognized it—they have become beggars, begging.

It is a lovely saying: “Not a mustard-seed less, not a sesame-seed more.”

Nothing decreases, nothing increases. There is nothing to gain, nothing to lose. What is, as it is, is to be known.

“Chant ‘Hari, Hari.’”

Only when this is recognized is there true Hari-bhajan. This which neither decreases nor increases, which sits within you and is found only by feeling for it—when union with it happens, when recognition happens, when it comes into your hands—then a cry of “Hari-bol” arises. That “Hari-bol” is the real worship.

This business of sitting and muttering “Ram, Ram”—that bhajan has no value. You do not know Ram… You don’t even know yourself—how on earth will you know Ram? You have not even recognized desire; how will you know Ram? You have not yet recognized bondage; how will you recognize liberation?

Right now you chant “Ram, Ram” because you’ve heard that perhaps by chanting something might happen. Nothing happens by chanting; chanting happens when something has happened. When something happens, fragrance arises; then music spreads.

You went to see off a friend at the station; you helped him into the train, exchanged greetings, waved. The train left. Do you think the man died? He disappeared from your eyes. You can’t see him now. But do you really think he died?

You were a child, then you became young. What happened to the child? Did the child die? Now you don’t see the child anywhere. You were young, now you are old. What happened to the youth? Did the youth die? You don’t see him anywhere now.

Only forms change. The child became the youth. The youth became the old person. And tomorrow, life itself will become what you call death. It is only a change of form.

By day you are awake; at night you sleep. Day and night are transformations of one and the same. The one who was awake is the one who sleeps.

The tree is hidden inside the seed. Plant it in the soil, the tree appears. While hidden in the seed, it was not visible. In death you become hidden again; you return into the seed. Then you will enter a womb; then there will be birth again. And if you do not enter a womb, there will be the great birth: you will abide in liberation. Nothing ever dies.

Science agrees. Science says nothing can be destroyed. Not even a tiny grain of sand can be annihilated despite all scientific power. You can grind it, but you cannot destroy it. Grinding only changes the form. Grind the sand and it becomes finer. Grind it more and it becomes finer still. We can even cause a molecular explosion; the molecule breaks into atoms. And we can split the atom; then remain electrons, neutrons, positrons—finer and finer “sand”! But nothing is destroyed; only the form changes.

Science says matter is indestructible—because science investigated matter and discovered its indestructibility. Religion says consciousness is indestructible—because religion investigated consciousness and discovered its indestructibility.

On this, science and religion agree: that which is, is imperishable.

Death does not exist. You were before; you will be after. And if you awaken, if you become filled with consciousness, you will see all that you have been—you will see when and what you were.

Buddha told many tales of his former lives: “I was like this then… and like that then.” Sometimes an animal, sometimes a plant; sometimes a beast, sometimes a bird; sometimes a king, sometimes a beggar; sometimes a woman, sometimes a man. He told many stories.

When one awakens, all memory returns.
Death never happens. Death is only the curtain falling.

You went to a play. The curtain fell. Do you think everyone who went behind the curtain died? They only went behind the curtain. Now they are preparing again—putting on mustaches and beards, doing the make-up. Then the curtain will rise. Perhaps you won’t even recognize that the gentleman who was one thing a moment ago has now become something else! A moment ago he had no mustache; now he appears with one. You may not recognize him.

This is what is happening. That’s why the world has been called a drama, a stage. Here forms keep changing. Here even Rama becomes Ravana and Ravana becomes Rama. They prepare behind the curtain and return—again and again.

You ask, “What is death?”
Death does not exist. Death is a misunderstanding, a deception.

Before lament melted into the ecstasy of pain, it was already there.
Before my tongue found songs of sorrow, their music was there.
If I am but water and clay in the keeping of dawn and dusk,
who then was there before space and time?
This cosmos dwelt already in Your imagining;
both worlds existed before the command “Be!” was uttered.
If the search is true, questions do arise—
but steadfast certainty stood before the sway of doubt.
In your thought there was your own perfect reflection;
your perfection was before my trial began.
My eyes beheld in the imprint of Your steps
the beauty of galaxies—before the galaxies.
This will hide, and then another just like it will arise;
a world like this existed before this world.
The eye of longing is lit by epiphanies—yet
where is that radiance which was before name and trace?

All was like this before; it will be like this again. This world will vanish, and another will arise. This earth will be desolate, and another earth will be peopled. You will leave this body and enter another. You will leave this state of mind and another will be given. You will drop ignorance and be established in knowledge—but nothing will be annihilated. Annihilation does not happen.

Everything here is imperishable. Immortality is the nature of this existence. Death does not exist.

Therefore I am compelled: I cannot answer “what is death?” How can one define what is not? How can one explain what is not?

It is as if you mistook a rope on the path for a snake out of fear. You ran, panicked. Then someone who knew said, “Don’t be afraid; it’s a rope,” took you close and showed you. Will you then ask him, “What happened to the snake?”

No—you won’t ask what happened to the snake. The matter is finished; the snake never was. There is no question of “what happened.” Will you ask him to explain the snake you saw?

It was your delusion. It was nowhere outside. The rope’s color and form, the twilight dimness, your inner fear—all combined to fabricate a snake. It was your dream.

Death is your dream. It has never occurred. It only seems to occur. And the delusion stays strong because the person who dies departs; only he knows what death is. You are not dying; you are standing outside and watching.

A doctor once came to see me. He said, “I have seen hundreds of deaths.” I said, “Don’t say what is untrue. You have seen people dying—but how could you see death? How will you see death? You are still alive! You have seen hundreds of dying people; but what of that? What can you see from outside? You see the breath grow shallow, the heartbeat sink. But that is not death. You see the body grow cold. But what happened within? Where did the consciousness go? Where did it spread its wings? Into which sky did it fly? Through which door did it enter? In which womb did it sit? Where did it go? What happened?”

Of that you know nothing. Only the one himself can tell. And the dead never return. Those who do return, you do not believe—like Buddha, who says that in meditation he saw all that is seen in death.

That is why we call a knower’s tomb a samadhi—because he died knowing samadhi, the supreme state of meditation.

You may have noticed: we do not cremate a sannyasin; we bury him. A householder is cremated; a sannyasin is buried. Why? Because the householder is to be born again. It is good that his body burns: as it burns, the soul’s attachment to that body is released. When it is burned to ash, what is there left to cling to? He flies free; he begins preparing to enter a new womb. The old house burned, so he seeks a new house.

But the sannyasin dies knowingly. He is not to accept any new house. He dropped attachment to the old house before dying. What is the point of burning what is already “burnt”? What is the point of burning one already “dead” to the body? For this reason we do not cremate a sannyasin; we bury him.

And we build a samadhi over him; we call his grave a samadhi—because he departed having attained the supreme state of meditation. He knew, while alive, that death is false.

The day death becomes false, that very day life also becomes false—for life and death are two halves of the same illusion. When death is seen through, life is seen through. Then something is revealed that is beyond both life and death. We call that the divine—never born, never dying, eternally is.

You’re saying something very lofty! When it wasn’t broken and battered, you didn’t offer it. You must have thought then: the veena is fresh, young; let’s lay it at the feet of some beautiful woman. Why bring God in between right now! We’ll see later. You must have consoled yourself: I am still young—let me enjoy. This life is only four days, who knows after that! I’ll remember God at the end. For now, let me loot this moonlight of four days.

So when you were young, when the heart was full of music, you didn’t offer it because you wanted to place it at the feet of a beautiful body. And now you say it’s broken and battered. Now should you offer it at the feet of God! It’s as if you’ve sworn never to offer it to God!

Wake up now. The heart is shattered, yet you still don’t awaken! Even now the plan is that if that goddess returns by some mistake, you’ll offer it to her. When will you wake up?

And remember: everyone’s heart breaks. If you meet the person of your desire, the heart breaks; if you don’t meet them, it breaks. The heart breaks anyway. It’s a very fragile thing—made of glass, untempered glass. Live alone, it breaks; live together, it breaks. It breaks. It has no strength, it cannot become strong—because what you call the “heart” is attachment to the false; it will remain raw.

And don’t remain in the illusion that the heart broke because the one you loved didn’t reciprocate. Go and ask those lovers who were reciprocated—what is their condition!

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife said to him one day, “It’s our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. How do you intend to celebrate?” Mulla said, “How about if we keep quiet for five minutes!” Like when someone dies and people observe five minutes’ silence. Let’s celebrate by keeping five minutes’ silence!

Go ask the ones who have tasted it!

I’ve heard: a husband ate, for the first time, a meal cooked by his new bride. The chilies were far too many. Yet he didn’t want to spoil things. Who wants to spoil things? They get spoiled in the attempt to improve them; that’s another matter. No one wants to spoil them.

So the husband said, “The food is very good.”
The wife said, “But why are you crying?”
The husband said, “From happiness!”
The wife said, “Shall I give you more?”
The husband said, “No; I won’t be able to bear any more happiness.”

Ask the seasoned sufferers. They are crying—and saying they’re very happy! Don’t go by their words; look into their eyes. Don’t get caught in what they say—that’s social politeness. Look at their condition.

All color has drained from them. All dreams have shattered. The rope long ago burned; only ash remains. Look closely. Though they will say, “Yes, we are very happy”—they will say it with such deadness that when a person says, “I am very unhappy,” even then there’s more life in it. Their happiness has not even that much life!

When someone says, “We are very happy,” ask: “Then why are you crying?”

Human beings are in a strange predicament—strange because what you want, if you don’t get it, you writhe because you think, “Had I got it, I would have had heaven.” And if you do get it, you writhe again—“Alas! I got it and got nothing.” In this world there is nothing to get.

In this world everyone loses. Those who lose, lose; those who win also lose. Here loss is destiny. Here winning does not happen; victory is not written in anyone’s fate.

Knowing this truth, a person begins to turn within—because outside there is nothing but loss.

How long will you sit nursing this lament—that you loved someone, that you wanted to give everything!...

Give thanks to God that you were saved. Had you given everything, you would be repenting mightily. Many are in that state—having given all, now even escape is not possible!

And you say: “But it didn’t happen because my love was not accepted.”

You are blessed. You were spared the entanglement. That woman showed great compassion to you.

But you say, “Because of this, the veena of my heart broke.”

She didn’t even touch the veena of your heart—how did it break? If she had touched it, it would have broken; the strings would have been scattered.

Now you say, “Even at my pain, the one I loved felt no compassion.”

It seems to me you do not know the difference between love and pity. If pity had arisen, love would not have happened. Pity is not love. Pity is a sick thing, morbid. In pity there is insult. In love there is respect.

And it may be that you asked for pity—that’s why you did not receive love. No healthy person wants to pity, because pity creates a false relationship.

An acquaintance of mine began to feel a lot of pity for a widow. Many feel pity for widows! Widows have a certain allure that even married women don’t. He said, “I will marry a widow. I feel great pity for her. I will bring social revolution.”

I told him, “Think carefully. If you marry her, she will no longer be a widow—she will be a married woman. Then your pity will be over. Pity can return only if you die and make her a widow again! Your pity is for the widow. There are so many married women—do you feel pity for any of them?”

He was very annoyed, because he had brought a lofty idea—social revolution by marrying a widow.

He didn’t listen. He married her. Six months later he said to me, “Forgive me for getting angry. You were right. It was pity, not love. I was savoring my ego—‘Look, I marry a widow. No one in my caste has done it; I am the first.’ I wanted to show the world.”

Then the marriage happened—and the air went out of the balloon. Now social revolution... I said, “It’s done! Now make her a widow again so someone else can make the revolution! How long will you live? What’s the point of your living now? You already did what you had to do in the world!”

This happens often.

Yesterday a young woman came—she’s from France, a sannyasin. She brought a friend. She said, “I was in great sorrow, very tormented. This friend felt great pity for me. For two years he has served me in every way. I’m living only with his support. I’ve come so you can take me out of sorrow.”

I said, “I can take you out of sorrow. But then this friend will leave.” She said, “Why?” I said, “You know well. Now you can never fully heal, because the only way to keep this friend is to keep providing him the opportunity to pity you. You have a vested interest in this now. If you become healthy, all right—he’s gone! Then what will he do? He is not interested in ‘a woman’; the world is full of women. He is interested in pitying.”

The friend sat there puffed up. He had shown pity, after all! For two years he had served her! He expected me to give him a certificate. Hearing me, his condition worsened. But that is how it is.

You asked for pity—you asked for the wrong thing.

Remember: pity has to be begged for; love is given. And the one who begs is wrong from the start.

Your mistake was that you asked for love—that was pity. You held out your hands like a beggar. Love comes only to those who are emperors.

You were to give love. And the beauty is: if you beg, then whether you get it depends on the other. If you give, you are the master. No one can stop you. I can give love to the whole world; who can stop me? How could anyone stop me? Love is a state of being that I can go on scattering on the road. Whoever comes along, I can look upon with love. Whoever comes close, I can give love to. Even those far away can receive the waves of my love.

Love does not beg. Love is a gift. You went wrong right there—you begged for love. And the woman was wise to step away from you. You were the wrong person; your mind was sick.

Now you say, “My veena is broken! How can I offer it to God?”

Who else would accept your broken veena now? If God accepts it, that’s a lot! And I tell you, he will accept it. His shop is like a junk dealer’s shop. People bring all broken and battered things there. He takes them. He is skilled at restoring veenas. He touches clay and it turns to gold.

Don’t hesitate now. It is a broken, battered veena—at least give it now. And I tell you: at his touch, an unparalleled music will arise from this veena.

You had gone to the wrong door. Now you stand at the right one—and now you are afraid! You are hesitating!

This springtime of the heart
only in Your name.
Petals, all tinted and bright,
the garden is intoxicated,
and while telling and retelling the tale
pain fell silent;
the monsoon of kohl-dark eyes
only in Your name.
This springtime of the heart...

Innocent buds have been
slandered by scents,
the east wind has written
so many letters,
leaving the flowers unnamed;
the mirror of drowsy dreams
only in Your name.
This springtime of the heart...

Clutching the hem of darkness,
the night kept dozing,
both joy and sorrow are here today
arranging a wedding procession;
the scale of songs filled with color
only in Your name.
This springtime of the heart...

A song like this you once sang before a transient body and face; now sing it before the Divine.

This springtime of the heart
only in Your name.

You wrote many letters—to this name and that. Those names gave you no ovation. They must have had other plans, other intentions. Don’t go on weeping over it now. Don’t sit stuck there. The woman you’re stuck over may not even remember you ever loved her. Perhaps she never even knew that someone, all on his own, broke his veena!

You see it often—people, all by themselves, imagine themselves enlightened overnight! Likewise, you smashed your veena yourself. No one else broke it; in anger you flung it down. You yourself did the breaking and smashing. And it may well be—and often it happens—that the person for whom you broke your veena never even knew. This world is hard. There are no hearts here—only stones.

The scent of roses,
light, color, song, the dawn breeze—
every lovely thing
knows the murder of my feelings.
Only you
have no knowledge of this killing!

My heart, my beloved, innocent heart,
shrouded in the winding sheet
of perpetual distances,
is buried in the merciless desert of pain.
Even today my every trembling breath
laments over it.

Even today I remember
that hot afternoon’s incident,
when from the shady tree of your love
my heart—my beloved, innocent heart—
fell like a thirsty bird;
and looking once in my direction
it died in such a way
as if, in this killing, in this sudden death,
my hand too were involved.
Only you
have no knowledge of this killing!

The scent of roses,
light, color, song, the dawn breeze—
every lovely thing
knows the murder of my feelings.

The poet says: the flowers know, the moon and the stars know that I have been killed.

Only you
have no knowledge of this killing!

The very one because of whom it happened, who caused it—she alone doesn’t know.

Boo-e-gul:
the fragrance of flowers.
Roshni, rang, naghma, saba:
light, color, melody, the scented breeze.
Every beautiful thing
knows my feeling has died.
Only you
have no knowledge of this killing!

Perhaps she truly doesn’t know. The one you loved may not even know. In this world people don’t even know themselves—how will they know another? People walk in sleep, in a haze. Who came and cast a little shade in the dream and moved on—who keeps account?

You might cross paths with that woman and she might not even recognize you. She might ask, “Who are you?” She might say, “Your face seems vaguely familiar—perhaps I’ve seen you somewhere!”

Let it go. Love the false—you will suffer. Love the trivial—you will suffer. And the way you love is also so trivial and wrong. You asked for pity and missed. Now you stand at the door of the Divine. Enough of this.

Saqi, your nights have passed
amidst the commotion of the bed;
now the dawn is near—take the name of Allah.

Enough now. Take the name of Allah. Hum a tune on the broken, battered veena. There is magic in his name. By the touch of his name the veena will be restored.

And into what are you drowning needlessly? You are drowning in a palmful of water—there was nothing there worth drowning for. If you must drown, seek the ocean.

O river of life, none has ever reached your far shore;
yet see how many are drowning,
though the water is only knee-deep.

Great ones keep drowning here—though the water is only to the knees. What was it all about? Someone’s eyes looked lovely—knee-deep water! Someone’s hair was very sweet—knee-deep water! Someone’s nose long like a parrot’s—knee-deep water! And you drowned in that! Wake up.

Bodhidharma’s meditation is going ever deeper. He is steadily immersing himself. It seems very likely that before the jasmine blossoms of this life wither, he will realize.
As your meditation begins to deepen, your questions—even if you do not ask them—will start reaching me. If meditation is not deep, then even if you ask, they may hardly reach me. If meditation is not deep, you may ask, and even if they reach me, I may not answer. If meditation is not deep, you may ask, I may answer, yet it may not reach you. And even if it reaches you, you may not understand it. And if you understand, you may not be able to do it.
There are a thousand obstacles—without meditation. And with meditation—even if you do not ask, it will reach me. I answer many questions you have not asked. But someone wanted to ask. Someone asked me inwardly. Someone whispered in my ear. It was not sent in writing.
As your meditation deepens, you will begin to experience this. Your question—before you ask it—its answer will come to you. It should be so; otherwise, what is the purpose of your being with me!

What extraordinary questions you ask! I’m no plastic surgeon. If your wife is ugly, meditate on your wife—there will be only benefit. A beautiful woman can lead you into danger; an ugly woman never does. Don’t miss this opportunity.

Someone asked Socrates… A young man came and said, “I want to marry. Should I or shouldn’t I? I’ve come to you because you’re an experienced sufferer.”

Socrates had found the most dangerous woman in the world; her name was Xanthippe—a crocodile, not a woman! She used to beat Socrates—such a sweet man! But God often puts very sweet people to great tests. He must have sent Xanthippe after him—“Stick to him!”

She beat him, scolded him, barged in between. Socrates would be instructing his disciples, and she would stand in the middle: “Stop this nonsense!” Once, while making tea, she got angry—Socrates must have been explaining something to people—she brought a whole kettle of boiling water and poured it over his head. Socrates’ face was scarred for life; half his face turned black.

So that young man said, “That’s why I’ve come to you—you’re a sufferer. What do you say—should I marry or not?” Socrates said, “Marry. If you get a good wife, you’ll be happy. If you get a wife like mine, you’ll become a philosopher. Either way, you gain.”

Now you say your wife is ugly! If you meditate on an ugly wife, a sense of dispassion will arise—you’ll become detached. Don’t miss the chance. In the next birth, if by some mistake you get a beautiful wife, troubles will come.

When Mulla Nasruddin married, he picked the ugliest woman in the village. People were shocked. He had wealth, position, prestige. The most beautiful women were crazy about him. And this fool chose the ugliest woman—the one the villagers thought would never marry. “Who would marry her? Who would want to give himself such suffering? Just looking at her was terrifying!”

After Mulla married her, people asked, “What have you done!” He said, “There are great advantages. Looking at her, I will contemplate the futility of the world. Looking at her, the words of people like Buddha will come to mind—that all is insubstantial, nothing here has essence. And second: she is ugly; because of that, I’ll always be carefree. A beautiful woman is never a sure thing. People may fall in love with her; she may fall in love with someone. With this one, I’ll always be at ease. Even if I go away for two or four years, no worry. Come home—my wife is mine.”

And the more beautiful women are on the outside, the more ugly they become inside—they keep a balance. Often a beautiful woman’s tongue will be bitter; her behavior harsh; there will be haughtiness and ego. A beautiful woman will stink from within. The same is true of a beautiful man.

An ugly woman has to find compensations. Since the body lacks beauty, she will serve, she will love, she will care. She won’t mistreat you—because there’s already enough mistreatment going on anyway due to her face and body. Why torment you further?

So it often happens that the ugly person becomes beautiful within, and the outwardly beautiful become ugly within. The beautiful one struts: “If not you, someone else!” The ugly one has no swagger: “You are everything!”

But ugly she was all the same. When Mulla brought her home, in Muslim households the new bride asks: before whom may I lift my veil, and before whom may I not? What is permitted? Do you know what Mulla said? “Except for me, you may lift your veil before everyone.”

And this story:
Because it was office time, the bus was extremely crowded. A newly married couple sat on the front seat, and before them a gentleman stood, holding the rod. At one stop the bus jolted to a sudden halt; the gentleman lost his balance and fell into the bride’s lap.

That was enough—the husband’s temper shot to the seventh heaven. He began to abuse the gentleman. People tried to explain that in such a crush anyone could have fallen. But the groom was even more inflamed. He said, “Enough, enough, you all be quiet. If someone sat in your wife’s lap, would you tolerate it?”

Mulla Nasruddin was sitting there, listening. He stood up, came over, and said, “Here is my card. My name is Mulla Nasruddin. You can come to this address any time, and sit in my wife’s lap as long as you like.”

Now the wife is ugly—then what is beautiful here anyway? In this world everyone is ugly. Everything rots here; everything becomes ugly. The most beautiful woman becomes ugly one day. The youngest man withers and grows old. The most beautiful body has to be laid on the funeral pyre one day. What will you do? What is beautiful here?

Recognize clearly the insubstantiality of this world. Recognize clearly its futility—so that, seeing its futility, you begin to descend the steps within.

Beauty is within, not without. Beauty is in oneself. And the day beauty blossoms within you, that day everything becomes beautiful. As you are, so is the world. As the vision, so the creation.

You become beautiful. Drop the concern of making your wife beautiful. You become beautiful. And your becoming beautiful does not mean by cosmetics; meditation beautifies. Meditation becomes the doorway to satyam, shivam, sundaram.

As meditation deepens, you will find an incomparable beauty rippling within you—so much beauty that if you pour it out, the whole world becomes beautiful.

Ask me about that beauty. It’s better not to bring such futile questions.
That’s all for today.