Es Dhammo Sanantano #118

It was only natural. The unnatural never really happens; whatever happens is natural. It was inevitable; it had to be so. Whenever a people, a society, moves to one extreme, it will have to swing back to the opposite extreme. Life is in balance, not in extremes. Life is in the middle, and the human mind wobbles like a pendulum—from one extreme to the other. Sensualists become ascetics; ascetics become sensualists—and both miss life.

Life is in the middle, where yoga and bhoga meet, where renunciation and enjoyment embrace. One who believes only in the body will, if not today then tomorrow, begin a journey toward the spiritual. In the West, spirituality is gaining prestige day by day. The reason? The same eternal reason.

For three hundred years the West has been relentlessly materialistic: there is nothing but matter—no soul, no God. The body is everything. This three-hundred-year obsession has taken the West to an extreme, to the ultimate height of materialism: there is wealth, there is science, there are comforts. But when one goes to an extreme, the throat of the soul begins to be choked. The body is well provided for; the soul becomes impoverished. And how long can you endure the soul’s poverty? Sooner or later the soul will rebel, and you will have to turn in the other direction.

Therefore, if the West is moving toward the East, don’t think it is some special virtue of the East. Your so‑called mahatmas think so; your politicians keep babbling the same. They say, “People from the West are coming to the East—see our glory!” Your glory has nothing to do with it. If the West is turning Eastward, it is because of the excess of materialism. One extreme has been seen and found wanting: the body fared well, the soul suffocated.

And man is the sum of both; man is the meeting of both. Man is neither body nor soul; he is the music that arises between the two, the harmony between them. Man is the dance of body and soul dancing together. When the dance is complete, when body and soul are united, there is fulfillment.

The same happened in the East. Soul, soul, soul—the world is maya, false, unreal; the body is not, it is a dream. An extreme was created. The heights of the soul were touched, but the body began to writhe like a fish gasping on hot sand in the sun—India’s body began to choke. The suffocation of the body has produced the present outcome. Whenever man’s balance breaks, the journey toward the opposite direction begins.

Therefore I repeat: here ascetics become hedonists; hedonists become ascetics—both miss. For both are sick. Disease means excess. The ascetic suffers from the excess of the soul; the hedonist suffers from the excess of the body. There is no real difference: both are afflicted by extremes. One has strangled the body; the other has strangled the soul. Neither has embraced the wholeness of life.

I am teaching you to embrace the totality of life. Do not deny anything. You are body, and you are soul—and you are also neither. You have to live in both, and, living in both, go beyond both. Be neither a materialist nor a spiritualist. Enough mistakes have been made on both sides; the earth has suffered enough convulsions. Now create a harmony; let music arise between the two. Their union is very beautiful. I call that union religion.

Understand these three words: the materialist—an atheist; the so‑called spiritualist—a theist. In between, where you are neither theist nor atheist, where yes and no meet—as day and night meet at twilight, as morning joins night and day—there, where yes and no embrace, you are both atheist and theist, because you know you are a union of both. Deny the body and, sooner or later, the body will rebel. Deny the soul and the soul will rebel. And rebellion is what brings about downfall.

The question is meaningful. The East reached great heights—but crippled heights, like a bird that has flown very high with only one wing. How high can it truly go, and how far? Maybe it flutters a bit, rides the winds a little, drags itself some distance—but not for long. Seeing just one wing, you can already say: this bird will fall; its fall is inevitable. Flight happens with two wings. A lame man can walk, but how different that walk is from walking on two sound legs. The lame walk is painful, compelled. One with two healthy legs sometimes runs for no reason, even dances, strolls with nowhere to go. The joy in the meeting of those two legs is complete in itself.

Therefore I do not tell my sannyasin to renounce the world. The world has been renounced and the result is clear—those who left it fell badly, flat on their faces. Nor do I say the world is everything. Those who made the world their all have also fallen badly. I tell you: create a rhythm between the world and renunciation. Live in the house as if it were a temple. Sit in your shop as if in a shrine. Be in the marketplace as if on the Himalayas. In the crowd and yet alone. Walk in the world in such awareness that the world’s water does not even touch you. Then health arises.

God has made you both body and soul. Yet your mahatmas go on preaching that you are only soul. However much they insist, how will you deny the truth God has given you, that you are also body? Even the mahatma cannot deny it. When he is hungry he does not say, “I am not the body”; off he goes begging for food. Tell him, “The world is maya—where are you going? Who is there to give alms? What need of alms? You are not the body—you are Shiva! Why go? Where is the body? The body is only a dream.” Say this to a mahatma and you will see: he still has to beg, to arrange his meals. When he feels cold, he needs a blanket—yet “all is maya”: the body is maya, the blanket is maya! When it is hot he sweats, he becomes thirsty. When he is ill he needs medicine. What greater falsehood is there than a mahatma who says the body is illusion?

And on the other side are those who say the body is everything, there is no soul. Ask them: why do you feel hurt when someone insults you? Curse a stone and it is not offended. And when someone plays a veena, why do you become delighted and absorbed? A stone does not become ecstatic. There must be something in you that is not in a stone—something that rejoices, is enraptured; that feels an unusual peace on seeing the morning sun or the moon and stars at night. What is that? These are not the attributes of the body. The body does not know what moon or sun are, what beauty is, what peace is. There is another dimension within you—something more.

Understand it this way. A rock is only outside; there is no interior to it. You can dig and dig and you will not enter within—it has no “insideness.” A rock is merely exterior. Then there is a rose. In a rose there is a little innerness—more than petals. When you look at a rock, it is plain and simple, one‑dimensional. When you look at a rose, it is not so one‑dimensional: there is a hint of life, of beauty, a melody. Then you see a bird in flight—there is something more still. Let a bird come near and you will find: there is yet more. It fears coming too close; a rose does not. Try to catch it and it flies away; a rose does not fly. When a bird’s eyes look into yours, you know there is someone within. Then there is a human being. Seeing a person, you know the body is not all—there is depth. Look into the eyes and you feel: not just body, there is soul. And then there is someone like a Buddha, whose inner depth is infinite—you can go on peering in and there is no end. In a rock there is no interior; in a Buddha there is inner, and inner, and inner. This inner dimension is what we call soul.

One who says, “I am only the body,” denies his depth and will be in trouble. One who says, “I am only the soul,” denies his exterior and will be in trouble. You are the meeting of the outer and the inner, and within you a marvelous union is happening. This is the mystery of existence—that contradictions meet and merge into one another, embrace each other.

India was destroyed—it had to be. America is also being destroyed—it is bound to be—because humanity has not yet created an integral culture, a total culture, one that says yes to all: where love is accepted and meditation too. Remember, meditation means the soul, the way inward; love means the way outward. When you love, you love someone; when you meditate, you break from all and are alone—meditation is aloneness. In meditation you close your eyes, you forget the outer, even the body; the world disappears, you live and throb within, sinking deeper into consciousness. In love you forget yourself; your eyes are fixed on the other—your beloved, your lover, your child, your mother, your friend. The one you love becomes all. You forget the self and remember the other in love; in meditation you forget the other and remember the self.

The East attained heights in meditation but missed in love. Missing in love, the fall was certain, because love is food—utterly necessary, profoundly nourishing; without it no one can live. Love is like breathing: you take breath from the outside—there is no other way. If you stop breathing from outside, the body suffocates; and if love ceases to come and go from the outside, the soul suffocates. India’s soul suffocated for lack of love.

The West has spread love widely, but it knows nothing of meditation; hence love there is shallow, superficial. It cannot have depth, because people do not even accept that there is any depth within. So love becomes just another small activity—an entertainment, a little bodily relaxation, a respite from entanglements—but with no possibility of depth or interiority. Two lovers merely meet each other’s bodily needs; there is no soul‑need at all. So when the body’s needs are fulfilled or the body is tired, there is nothing left but to separate—because there was never a real joining within; the souls never met, they were never even acknowledged. It was only bone, flesh, marrow meeting; it cannot be deep.

The West has dropped meditation; therefore love is shallow. The West too will fall; it is already falling. Having touched the peak of an extreme, the edifice has begun to crumble. This is the consequence of excess.

I would have you know that you have the capacity for meditation and the capacity for love. Let meditation take you into yourself; let love take you into the other. And the deeper your meditation goes within, the greater will be your capacity and worthiness to love. And the greater your capacity for love, the more it will help you go deeper into meditation. With these two wings you can fly—then God is not far.

Unfortunately, no culture has yet arisen that accepts both. It hasn’t, and there is a reason: to bring both together requires a madman like me! The two are opposites; they do not fit comfortably within logic. Choose one, and everything looks neat and linear. Choose both, and because they are contradictory, systems don’t cohere; a philosophy cannot be constructed. That is why I am not constructing a philosophy. I am only giving life a rhythm—not a philosophy; I am giving life a poetry—not a philosophy. I love life—not doctrines. If doctrines fascinated me, I too would be caught in the same net in which others have been trapped, because doctrine demands its own order. If the body is, doctrine says, then the soul cannot be—because the limits of the body would have to be imposed upon the doctrine. And if there is a soul too, it must be like the body—where is it? It is not visible as the body is. Where is it? The body’s weight can be measured; the soul does not weigh on any scale. Where is your soul? We dissect the body thoroughly and nowhere find it. One who asserts the body has already accepted a logic: whatever exists must be body‑like; only then can it be. Then the soul cannot exist, because it is utterly different, opposite.

One who accepts the soul falls into a similar tangle. If he declares, “The invisible is the truth,” then the visible becomes false. These are the compulsions of arranging logic. If the invisible, the infinite, is true, then what of the finite? What of the seen, the tangible? If you accept the invisible, you will have to deny the visible. You may be surprised to know: there is not much difference between Karl Marx and Shankaracharya. Marx says only matter exists; Shankara says only the soul exists. There is little difference; their logic is the same: only one can be. Both are non‑dualists. Their chains of reasoning are identical. Though they say opposite things, in my view they belong to the same school, the same sect—because both have accepted that only one can be. And if only one can be, how can its opposite also be?

I want to tell you: life stands upon opposites. As a mason builds a doorway, have you seen how he sets the bricks? He places opposing bricks on both sides. Only by laying opposing bricks can a doorway be made; otherwise it cannot stand. If all the bricks are set in one direction, the house will collapse; it cannot stand. Opposing bricks support each other. Their mutual challenge, their tension, is their strength.

Look at life from all sides and you will find duality everywhere: woman and man, the polarities. Between them a child is born; new life flows between the two, as a river flows between two banks. If God had any sense, he would have made only men—or only women! If Shankaracharya had to create, he would make only one; if Marx had to create, he too would make only one. Both are non‑dualists; there is no difference. One proclaims, “God is illusion; the world is truth.” The other proclaims, “God is truth; the world is illusion.” But the logic is the same. Look at life: birth and death are together—opposite and joined. Night and day together; heat and cold together—opposite and joined. Wherever you look, duality is present. Life is dual, dialectical.

I side with life. I tell you openly as life is; I have nothing to impose upon it. One who has a theory always sides with his theory; he selects what suits it and discards what does not. I have no theory; my eye is blank. I have not decided beforehand how it should be. I carry no logic, no scale. I tell you life as it is. And because life is contradictory, I am contradictory; my statements are contradictory. I have only mirrored life. I have been a mirror.

An integral culture has not arisen because cultures have been forged by philosophers. Culture should be created by poets—then there will be wholeness. A doctrinaire can never be whole. Therefore I advocate the renunciation of all doctrines. Drop doctrines; look at life. As life is, so it is—embrace it. In that acceptance there is movement, there is growth; and in that acceptance the Ultimate will happen within you. And that Ultimate will not be impoverished or mean.

Shankaracharya’s Ultimate is poor; it cannot tolerate matter, so it denies it. Marx’s Ultimate is also poor, mean, deprived; it gives no place to the soul. My Ultimate is supremely rich; that is why I call it God—by God I mean the Affluent One. The Ultimate is rich, a meeting of all polarities. God is not a single‑stringed instrument, like the ektara your sadhus carry—there is a reason they carry an ektara: to preach the One, they carry one string. God is multi‑stringed, with many strings, many colors, many forms. God is seven‑hued, like a rainbow. If you do not force your one‑sided insistences upon life, you will see so many colors—such diversity beyond measure. In this diversity lies opulence; in this diversity God is hidden. If God were a single string, he would be boring; he would create ennui. But the juice of life never runs dry; one never gets bored with life. If someone is bored, he must have taken up some ektara. One who keeps his eyes open and sees life’s seven‑colored forms—sees all forms, auspicious and inauspicious, good and bad, pleasant and unpleasant—one who accepts all, from the tavern to the temple, becomes capable of seeing God’s rainbow. One who accepts all—from the drunkard to the saint—because all are his forms. The staggering drunk is also his form, and the saint sitting silently under a tree is also his form. Mahavira is his form, and in Majnun too he is hidden. With such a vast vision, an integral culture can arise.

That is why those who come here with one‑sided cultures feel great difficulty. Sometimes a communist comes and says, “Everything is fine—but please don’t talk of soul and God. These celebrations, these dances, are fine; but why bring in God, the Absolute? If you leave that out, we can also join you.” Sometimes an old‑style sadhu comes and says, “Everything is fine—the way you speak of God and soul is perfect. But this dancing and singing, this breeze of love, this atmosphere—these young men and women walking hand in hand, dancing—this doesn’t look right. If you stop this, we are all ready to be your disciples.” These are one‑sided people. Neither of them can relate to me. What is being attempted here—its dignity you will not understand today. It takes thousands of years to understand something.

This experiment happening here—if it succeeds, and the possibility is small because one‑sided people are powerful, with crowds and centuries behind them—if it succeeds, only after thousands of years will you see what I was doing. When the whole building stands… right now even the foundation has not been laid. I can see the whole edifice—how it will be if it is built. You can see only that some pits are being dug, some foundations filled, some bricks brought; you cannot see more. It takes thousands of years. But the time has come. Victor Hugo has a famous saying: when the time for an idea has come, no power on earth can stop it. It is a matter of time. Spring has arrived for this flower to bloom. The world is tired of one‑sided experiments; every time they have failed. Now we must try a multi‑colored experiment. Let us create a sannyasin who is worldly, and a worldly man who is a sannyasin. Let us now create meditators who can love, and lovers who can meditate.

First thing: I am not Dronacharya. Dronacharya, for me, is among the more unsavory names. And it became so unsavory precisely because he rejected Ekalavya.
He should not even be called a guru. And if he ever was a guru, then only in the sense in which we call a schoolmaster a “guru.” There was no gurutva in him—no gravitas of a master. It was sheer politics.

He refused Ekalavya because he was a Shudra. But deeper than that, there was politics: the boy had the talent to surpass Arjuna. How could a Shudra outstrip a Kshatriya prince? Dronacharya’s Brahminhood could not stomach it.

Besides, he was the king’s hireling. The king’s son had to be made the greatest archer in the world. Having eaten the king’s salt, he had to play his master’s tune. A slave. He refused Ekalavya because he saw the youth had the capacity to put Arjuna to shame. In fact, he did put him to shame—even after being refused!

So the excuse was “You are a Shudra.” Behind that excuse was a deep political move: my special disciple Arjuna must be number one in the world—on top of all. If the prince is on top, I gain. And if this Shudra rises to the top, what will I gain from that? So he refused.

But Ekalavya was extraordinary. Dronacharya, to me, is among the dirty names; Ekalavya, among the dearest. A singular disciple—exactly how disciples ought to be. Dronacharya is an example of how a guru should not be; Ekalavya is how a disciple should be.

He didn’t fret. He harbored no complaint. He surely saw the politics, yet once he had accepted someone as guru, how could he complain? He went into the forest and made a statue. “I’ll do it before the statue...”
Not a trace of grievance! No anger. Once he had accepted a guru, he had accepted. Even if the guru rejects, how can the disciple reject? The disciple must have thought: perhaps this is for my good; that’s why he refused.

The guru was a politician; the disciple, religious. The disciple thought: if he has refused me, it must be to my benefit. Something good will come of it—otherwise why would he refuse?

He made a statue, worshiped it, and practiced archery before it. When feeling is that deep, such faith and trust, what need remains even of a living guru? It is because faith is lacking that you feel you need a guru.

So he arrived without a guru—he arrived through a statue. With faith, a statue becomes alive; without faith, even a living guru remains a statue. It all depends on your trust.

He must have said to the statue, “Keep watching—I’ll practice; if I slip, alert me. If needed, stop me.”

In that unique process he reached a place where Arjuna turned pale. News began to fly: Ekalavya’s aim has become infallible—such accuracy no one has ever seen!

With such faith, the aim must be unerring. It is the arrow of trust—how can it miss? And one who has such faith in a statue, naturally has that much trust in himself as well.

Your trust in another is possible only when you have self-trust. You trust another exactly to the extent you trust yourself. One who has no faith in himself—how will he even trust his own trust? One who trusts himself is the only one who can trust his trust. Everything begins there. Faith must first be within.

Ekalavya must have been remarkable. Seeing such faith, Drona must have been alarmed: this man could prove dangerous. In his eyes Drona must have glimpsed that spark, that blaze.

But he was mistaken. One who has such self-trust—even if the guru rejects him—still arrives. And one who lacks it—even if a thousand gurus accept him—where will he go?

News came: Ekalavya has arrived; he has reached his goal. The very guru who had refused to make him a disciple came to collect his dakshina!

Even dishonesty must have some limit! He felt no shame. Drona should have drowned himself in a handful of water—died of shame. He should have gone and touched that disciple’s feet. But then politics intrudes; scheming returns.

He went with a plan: “I will ask for his right thumb.” He knew the boy would give it; he had seen in his eyes that he was one who would give his very life. To call him a Shudra is utterly false—he was more Kshatriya than Arjuna. He would not refuse whatever I ask. If I ask for his neck, he will give his neck. There was talk that he had made a statue of me and practiced before it.

Drona arrived. He saw Ekalavya’s marksmanship; his chest must have trembled. All his disciples were pale shadows. He himself was pale. Before this Ekalavya, he was nothing; so where would his disciples—Arjuna and the others—stand! Terrified, he said, “All right, you have learned. I am your guru; I have come to take my guru-dakshina.”

Tears must have welled up in Ekalavya’s eyes. He had nothing to give. He was poor. He said, “Ask whatever you wish; if it is with me, take it. What do I have to give otherwise!”

Ekalavya is extraordinary also because he was ready to offer dakshina to the very guru who had refused him—and whatever he might ask, without conditions!

The guru is scheming, a consummate politician; the disciple utterly simple and innocent. And Dronacharya asked for his right thumb—because if the thumb is cut, he can never again be an archer. To destroy his archery, he asked for the thumb.

And Ekalavya gave it. He was unparalleled. He was a Kshatriya when he came; I cannot call him a Shudra. He was a Kshatriya when he approached the guru; by giving his thumb he became a Brahmin. The surrender is incomparable! He knew that with the thumb gone, years of hard-won archery would be washed away. But was that the question? The thought never even arose. Not for a moment did doubt arise in his mind that this was a bit of trickery!

So let me tell you: I am not Drona.

You ask: “Can I, even as a Shudra, become your disciple?”
All are Shudra. All are born as Shudra. And the very Shudra in whom the longing to be a disciple arises has already begun to move beyond Shudra-hood. The journey has begun. With that feeling, revolution starts. The spark has fallen.

If you want to be a disciple, it is impossible that I would refuse you. I sometimes even accept those who don’t want to be disciples at all—who blurt it out by mistake. I accept them too.

Drona rejected Ekalavya. I even accept those who are the exact opposite of Ekalavya—who are full of a thousand doubts, a thousand ailments, a thousand grievances; who have never heard a note of prayer, in whom no sprout of faith has ever budded; who do not even know the meaning of the word trust.

I accept atheists as well. I accept because for whatever reason, if one has become eager to be a disciple—good, a window has opened. Then the other doors can be opened too. A tiny pore is found—if I find even the slightest chink in you, I will enter through it. If there’s the tiniest crack, the sunbeam does not insist you open the main door first. When a small gap is left between the roof tiles, the sunbeam slips in through that.

If, in the shingles of your skull, I find even the smallest seam, I am ready to enter. I don’t ask you to open the front door; I don’t ask you to call a brass band; I’m not concerned with big announcements. At any moment, in some Brahman-moment...

This question must have arisen in some Brahman-moment. A Shudra doesn’t even raise it. How would a Shudra come here? A Shudra is against me. That you have come here happened in some Brahma-muhurta, some Brahman-moment.

The feeling to be a disciple has arisen in you—good.

I am not Drona. And I would like that if you wish to be an Ekalavya, then be so understanding the whole context of that ancient Ekalavya—because the modern Ekalavyas are doing very odd things!

I have heard:
In the Kali Age,
disciples have twisted
devotion to the guru
in such a way,
that, imitating Ekalavya,
they went and
broke Dronacharya’s
thumb!

Don’t become a modern Ekalavya. Times have changed—now disciples break the guru’s thumb!

I am not Drona, and you need not become an Ekalavya—at least not a modern one. And since I am not Drona, I will not refuse you. Nor will you have to build a statue in the forest to learn archery. I will teach you myself.

And what I have does not diminish by sharing. So why be miserly? Why this one as a disciple and not that one? Why set conditions? When you go to the riverbank, the river does not say, “I won’t let you drink.” Whoever comes, drinks. The river waits for someone to come and drink.

When a flower blooms, it does not say, “I won’t waft toward you. I won’t let my fragrance drift your way. You Shudra—keep off! I am only for Brahmins.” When a flower blooms, its fragrance is for all. And when the sun rises, it does not say, “I won’t fall on sinners; I’ll shower only on the homes of the virtuous.” The sun makes no distinction between the homes of the virtuous and the sinners.

And when clouds gather and rain falls, it is not only on the fields of the saints; it falls on everyone’s fields.

Think of me as a cloud. If you are ready to receive, no one can stop you. And this is a wealth that does not diminish by giving; it grows. The more you take, the better. New springs will open; fresh streams of energy will flow. Take! Plunder!

The beginning is boundless and the end still far;
beneath the Phalguni canopy, spring floats and sways.
On each tree’s shoulders the buds stand up,
vines wear new-leaf garments, faces in bloom;
in blue and yellow, red and white flower-jewels,
the forest-goddess sings bridal songs from village to village.
With shy omens, Dushyanta arrives—
beneath the Phalguni canopy, spring floats and sways.

At beauty’s high noon the earth adorns herself,
the body taut, the garment a little loose;
at the village well, youth invites one and all—
the chalice of beauty brims; whoever wishes, drink.
The sky bears witness and the horizons watch,
beneath the Phalguni canopy, spring floats and sways.

At the village well, youth invites one and all—
the chalice of beauty brims; whoever wishes, drink.

Don’t even ask who you are, what you are. I don’t ask either. If there is thirst within you, that alone is qualification enough.

Drink! The pitcher is brimming—fill your cupped hands!

The body is shudra. The mind is vaishya. The soul is kshatriya. The Divine (Paramatman) is brahmin. Hence Brahman is a name of the Divine; from Brahman comes “brahmin.”

The body is shudra. Why? Because there isn’t anything more in the body’s range. How far does the body run? Eat; drink; enjoy; sleep. Live and die. That’s the body’s horizon—also the shudra’s. One who lives only in the body is a shudra. Shudra means identification with the body—“I am the body,” this state of feeling.

The mind is vaishya. The mind is not satisfied with just eating and drinking; it wants something more. Mind means: more. A shudra has a kind of simplicity. The body has great simplicity: it doesn’t demand much—two pieces of bread, a roof to sleep under, a bed, water, someone to love and be loved by. The body’s demands are straightforward, few, limited. The body doesn’t ask for the impossible; it has no taste for the impossible. The body is utterly natural.

That’s why I say we are all born shudra, because we are all born as bodies. When the craving for “more and more” arises, one becomes vaishya. Vaishya means: more wealth.

Henry Ford kept launching new enterprises right up to old age—almost to his last days. Someone asked him, just before he died, “You’re still opening businesses! You already have so much; why launch more?” He was drawing up plans for new industries—even in bed, even while dying. Do you know what Henry Ford said? “I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know stopping. Until I die, I can’t stop.” That is the vaishya’s condition: if there is this much, then more; if the house is like this, a little bigger; if there is this much money, a little more.

The body is shudra—and simple. Shudras are always simple. The mind is crafty, clever, calculating—full of schemes. All the races and chases belong to the mind. The mind is satisfied with nothing. The mind is a businessman; it keeps expanding and doesn’t know where to stop. It keeps enlarging its shop—enlarging and enlarging—until it dies.

The soul is kshatriya. Why? Because a kshatriya is not overly concerned that the body’s needs be fulfilled; if necessary, he is willing to abandon all bodily needs. Nor is a kshatriya concerned with “more and more.” If he is, know that he is a vaishya, not a kshatriya.

Kshatriya means the emergence of resolve—powerful resolve—supreme resolve. And for that great resolve there is but one challenge: to know “Who am I?”

The shudra wants to know the body; he lives within that. The vaishya runs with the mind; he wants to understand the mind. The kshatriya wants to know, “Who am I?” The day this question arises in you, you have begun to be a kshatriya. Now there is no more interest in the pursuits of wealth, etc. A new journey begins—an inner journey.

You know that the greatest sages of this land were all kshatriyas: Buddha, the Jains’ twenty-four Tirthankaras, Rama, Krishna—all kshatriyas. Why? One would expect they’d all be brahmins, yet they were kshatriyas—because before one can be a brahmin, one must become a kshatriya. He who assumes himself a brahmin by birth misses; he will never know what the real matter is. If from birth one imagines, “I have arrived because I was born in a brahmin household,” he is never given the chance, the challenge, to undertake the journey of resolve.

The great knowers of this country were kshatriyas—the Hindu avatars, the Jains’ Tirthankaras, the Buddhists’ Buddhas. There is a reason behind this. Except for Parashurama, there is no brahmin avatar—and Parashurama is not a brahmin at all. Where will you find a man more kshatriya than he? He emptied the earth of kshatriyas many times over, hacking them down; his life’s work was cutting them down. He came to be called Parashurama because he roamed with an axe (parashu) in hand—to kill. “The Rama with the axe”—that is his name. He was a kshatriya through and through. To call him a brahmin is not at all accurate. It would be hard to find a greater kshatriya.

Resolve means kshatriya.

Understand it this way:
- Indulgence (bhog) means shudra.
- Craving (trishna) means vaishya.
- Resolve (sankalp) means kshatriya.
- And only when resolve is consummated does surrender (samarpan) become possible. Surrender means brahmin.

Only when you have done all you can do will you bow. Only then will the bow be authentic. As long as you feel, “By my doing it will happen,” you cannot truly bow; your bowing will be deceptive, false, hollow.

When you have run every race, done all your doing, and found that the ultimate still does not come—keeps slipping away—then, in helplessness, one collapses. When you kneel and pray by decision, that is not real prayer. The day comes when you suddenly find your knees are settling onto the earth—you are not setting them down; you are not bending; bending is happening of itself. There is no other way left. When bowing flowers effortlessly, that is surrender.

Surrender means brahmin. Surrender means Brahman. One who dissolves knows Brahman.

All four layers are within you. It is up to you which one you attend to. Just as if your radio had four stations. Where you set the tuner—on which station you hold the needle—depends on you.

All four are within: the body in you; the mind in you; the soul in you; the Divine in you.

If you fix your attention on the body, you become a shudra. By nature, all children are shudra, because you cannot expect children to go deeper than the body. But if the old are shudra, it is shameful. For children it is natural; life is yet unknown, so they recognize only the first layer. But if an old person dies as a shudra, it is blameworthy. All are born shudra, but no one needs to die as a shudra.

If you set your radio to the vaishya station—fix your attention on lust and craving, on greed—you will become a vaishya. If you set your attention on resolve, you will become a kshatriya. If you submerge your attention in surrender, you will become a brahmin.

Attention is the key. Whatever you become, attention is the key. Even a shudra has a kind of attention—he has put it all on the body. A woman who stands before the mirror for hours—arranging her hair, her sari, applying powder—that is shudra. Those two or three hours before the mirror belong to shudra-ness. She has put all her attention on the body. Even walking down the street, her attention remains on the body. Even when she looks at others, her attention will be on bodies. Seeing only her own body, she will see only others’ bodies; she will not see anything else. If she takes delight in spending hours draping her sari, when she goes out she will only see other women’s saris—nothing else will be visible.

The person who sits thinking, “If only there were a big house; a big car; so much money in the bank—how can I get it? What should I do?” is fixing attention on the vaishya. Gradually, attention will settle there. Often, if you always listen to only one station on a radio, the needle tends to stick there, become rigid. If you never listen to other stations and suddenly want to today, you may not be able to catch them—because what we use stays alive, and what we do not use dies.

Therefore, whenever there is an opportunity to slip out of the shudra, slip out; to slip out of the vaishya, slip out. When the chance comes—Brahmin is far, but at least—be a kshatriya for a little while; awaken resolve. And when moments arrive when the heart is clear, delighted, uplifted, then for a moment become a brahmin: surrender everything. Lie on the earth spread-eagled, as if you have merged with the dust, become one. Bow before the sun or before trees. Bowing is valuable; where you bow matters little. In that bowing, for a little while, Brahman will manifest.

In this way, slowly, slowly, the felt sense deepens, and each person, by the time of death, becomes a brahmin.

You were born a shudra; see to it that at least at the time of dying you become a brahmin. But do not imagine you can manage it all at once. Many think, “We’ll do it in the final hour.” One who has not practiced all his life will fumble for the radio dial at death—and the station will not come in. He won’t even know where it is. Death comes so suddenly that it gives no convenience. It sends no message beforehand: “I am coming tomorrow.” It arrives suddenly. It comes—and you go. It doesn’t take even a moment. In that moment, if you think you will remember Rama, you are mistaken. Whatever you have remembered all your life, only that will be remembered then.

So keep preparing; keep practicing. Whenever you get the chance, taste being a brahmin. There is no greater joy. That is the supreme peak of bliss.

Principles are never right. Simplicity is right; the principle is not. What’s the difference?
Whenever you practice something because of a principle, it cannot be simple. Precisely because of the principle it becomes complicated. Principles breed hypocrisy, not simplicity.
That’s why no one produced as many hypocrites in this country as Gandhi did. And I don’t mean the ones you already know are hypocrites. I want to talk to you about those you don’t recognize as hypocrites—they too are hypocrites. Those whom you regard as the very image of renunciation and simplicity—they too are hypocrites.
Take, for example, Dr. Rajendra Prasad. Who could be simpler than him! An utterly “simple” man and one of Gandhi’s closest disciples. That’s why Gandhi chose him to be India’s first President. Nehru didn’t want it. Nehru wanted Rajagopalachari—someone who understood diplomacy. Nehru’s mind was not for Rajendra Prasad; Gandhi insisted on Rajendra Prasad. So Rajendra Prasad became the first President.
Do you know the very first thing he did on entering Rashtrapati Bhavan? All his life he had sat by Gandhi reciting the mantra, “Allah and Ishwar are your names; give good sense to all, O God.” And what was the first thing he did? He removed every Muslim servant working in the President’s House! This is Gandhian simplicity!
These things don’t get written down because only praise circulates here—everything is a ledger of praise. But these are the kinds of facts that reveal a person’s reality. Why were the Muslim servants dismissed? They were dismissed—and whom did he bring in instead? Monkeys. Monkeys had been barred from the President’s House and guards would chase them away because they created havoc, leaping and tumbling everywhere.
But Rajendra Prasad… pure, orthodox Hinduism ran in his veins. Monkeys are Hanuman’s disciples, his progeny. So the second “great” thing he did: no one could stop the monkeys now. They roamed the President’s House at will—attacking children, attacking women! One day they even burst into Nehru’s room. With great difficulty they were driven out. As they left, one monkey carried off a paperweight someone had gifted Nehru. Nehru slapped his forehead: “This is Rajendra Babu’s doing!”
You’ll be surprised to hear that Rajendra Babu also wanted… he was also the chairman of the assembly—he made two “contributions” to the nation’s constitution. As chairman, his two offerings: first, “Mother Cow”; second, protection for the monkeys, the descendants of Hanuman. The second wasn’t accepted. “Mother Cow must be protected”—that, in his mind, was India’s real question! And here there are no other questions!
The world laughs at this country’s foolishness. Such enormous problems stare us in the face, and the man made chairman of the assembly has only two things in his head: that “Mother Cow” must be protected and the monkeys, Hanuman’s descendants, must be protected!
Somehow others managed to say, “All right, keep ‘Mother Cow’ in there if you must.” But monkeys—those were a bit beyond tolerance. It’s good the monkeys didn’t get a place in the Constitution; otherwise the world would laugh even more. As it is, it laughs at us.
There’s much talk of Rajendra Prasad’s simplicity: that he lived in Rashtrapati Bhavan “as a poor man would live.” I saw the room where he stayed. What did he do? He had reed matting put up on all four walls inside—mats covering the marble walls! He built a hut inside a palace—and then lived there happily ever after. This is simplicity!
If you want to live in a hut, is there any shortage of huts in this country? Then why live in the President’s House at all? But man is deeply hypocritical. He wants the palace, yet he refuses to let go of the show of hut-dwelling simplicity!
And even this is praised as “astounding simplicity!”
You’ll be shocked to know that the same perks the Governor-General and the Viceroy had were given to the President. The biggest perk: the President could spend thousands of rupees a month on entertainment. But President Rajendra Prasad never spent more than two or two-and-a-half hundred rupees a month on entertainment. The newspapers carried stories—what simplicity! When one has the facility to spend thousands, he spends only two or two-fifty on entertainment. That’s what they call Gandhian simplicity!
But do you know the reality? The reality never reaches the papers, because those in power are busy being hymned by the press. The reality was: he spent two or two-fifty a month on entertainment, but the thousands he could have spent—he transferred to his grandchildren’s names in the bank—which was entirely illegal. That money was allocated for entertainment, for receiving guests of the President. It wasn’t spent there; it was put in the grandchildren’s names.
A year later, Nehru found out. He was shocked: this is too much! Completely illegal. But the papers only got the story of “simplicity”: he spent two to two-fifty when he could have spent thousands. Those thousands went into the grandchildren’s bank accounts! No one mentions that.
Ideological simplicity is always this clever; a surface show.
Nehru had to go and explain to Rajendra Prasad: this is simply wrong—no Viceroy ever did such a thing! Spend it on entertainment—fine. You didn’t spend it—fine; don’t spend it. But this is over the line—by what accounting did the money land with your grandchildren? This must not happen again.
They say Rajendra Prasad stayed angry at Nehru for days over this—because the grandchildren’s little “sack” in the bank had stopped growing.
Now what will you call it—that he spent two hundred and fifty rupees because of simplicity? It was to save money. It was miserliness. And it was theft. This is Gandhian simplicity!
Simplicity born of principle will always be crafty, cunning.
Perhaps you haven’t heard Sarojini Naidu’s famous remark! She was one of the people closest to Gandhi, intimately close. Her famous line: “People do not know how much it costs us to keep this old man poor!”
Gandhi’s poverty was very expensive! He drank goat’s milk, yes—but do you know the goat’s feed? Cashews and raisins! From the outside it looks as though the poor man drinks goat’s milk. He traveled in third-class railway coaches, but the entire coach would be reserved for him. That’s costlier than traveling first class. Where seventy people travel, one man sits! Seventy times the expense! First class is only four times third class.
This isn’t simplicity; it’s shrewd accounting. These are the games of principle. Because of such principles, things appear one way on the surface and are something else within.
Sarojini Naidu was right. The richest of rich could not spend as much as had to be spent on Gandhi’s poverty! That poverty was expensive.
I will certainly tell you that simplicity is a wondrous thing. But simplicity must be simple. It must not stand on trickery, calculation, logic, or principle—otherwise it becomes costly.
Even if it isn’t economically costly, if inside you it stands on some calculation, then it still cannot be simplicity. For example, a Jain monk’s simplicity is not simplicity, because he thinks: by living simply I will attain the bliss of liberation.
That is not simplicity; that is a bargain. The joy is not in being simple. Simplicity is just for a while; the fun will be in heaven later. Jain scriptures say: one will enjoy the “moksha-ramani,” the enchantress of liberation. To be enthroned in the supreme state—hence the simplicity is going on! Will you call that simplicity?
I call it simplicity when the joy is in the very act itself. If you delight in being naked—no future liberation, please. The liberation to come is a merchant’s bookkeeping of the mind—more, more! If being naked feels good to you…
Then let me tell you something that will shock you: someone bathing nude on the beaches of America is simpler than your nude Digambara monk. Why? Because he is enjoying nudity. Your Jain monk is accruing merit through nudity so he can enjoy later in liberation. There’s a net of calculation within. The man on the beach, man or woman, naked in the sun, the sea’s waves, the breeze—he is simpler, more straightforward, more saintly.
My words trouble you because you are tied to fixed notions. You say, “This is the limit! So you value the simplicity of these Western nudist clubs more than the poor Digambara monk’s hard austerity?”
Yes—the austerity is precisely why I don’t call it simple. There’s accounting behind it.
The one who runs naked, plays with trees and animals… he is simple, childlike. Simplicity should be like a small child’s.
A nephew said, “Aunty, thank you very, very much for the birthday present.”
Aunty said, “My boy, what’s there to thank me for!”
The nephew replied, “I think so too—but Mom said I must say thank you anyway.”
That’s simplicity. Straightforwardness.
At dinner, with distinguished guests at the table, the host couple were eating with their eight-year-old son when he wiped his nose with his shirt sleeve.
“Son, do you remember what I told you at breakfast?” the hostess reminded him about the wrong way to wipe his nose.
“Yes, Mom, I remember,” the boy said.
“What did I say?” she asked.
Looking at the guests, the child said, “You said these wretches just had to die today.”
That’s simplicity. No calculation, no bookkeeping; as it is, so it is.
Simplicity should be like children’s. And that alone is saintliness—when you are outside exactly as you are within.
It could be that the mother in this story was a Gandhian. She probably welcomed the guests with great flourish: “What a blessing! We waited so long with eyes on the road, with carpets laid out—please come, please come.” And then in the morning in front of her son: “These damn people had to die today of all days!”
As you grow up, you grow cunning. In that cunning, simplicity is lost. Simplicity has an extraordinary joy. But I am not saying simplicity will get you heaven; I am saying: simplicity is heaven.
Gandhi’s simplicity is not simplicity. It is a carefully weighed political step. Calculated. Gandhi’s “mahatmahood” is a measured diplomatic move.
I am not a partisan of principles. Live life as it is. Live it guilelessly. Not out of hope for the future, not out of the habits of the past, not for gaining anything—just live it as it is.
Perhaps the world will not call you a mahatma. The world calls the fraudulent “mahatma.” Perhaps the world won’t call you a mahatma because you will not be a hypocrite. The world calls hypocrites “mahatma.” Perhaps the world won’t count you in any tally. But what is there to tally? Why be counted?
Say only what arises in your heart. Live only as your heart moves you. In such childlike simplicity there is no principle of simplicity.
A lady told me she went to one of Krishnamurti’s camps in Holland. In the evening she went for a stroll in the market and was stunned. She is a spiritual lady—many now consider themselves her disciples. She was shocked because Krishnamurti was buying a tie in a clothing store. A “mahatma” buying a tie! This does not fit the Indian mind. And not only was he buying, he had scattered all the ties in the shop! “This one doesn’t do, that one doesn’t do”—holding them to his neck, looking carefully.
She stood watching for a while. Her illusion shattered: “This man is utterly worldly! Worse than the worldly!” She had gone to Holland for the camp—and returned without attending it.
She came back fresh with anger and met me. “This is the limit! And you praise Krishnamurti like that! I saw with my own eyes—he was buying a tie. Not only buying, he had all the ties strewn about. He was totally absorbed! I stood there fifteen minutes—completely engrossed.”
I said, “He is simple. But this simplicity is not Mahatma Gandhi’s ‘simplicity’—you are a devotee of Gandhi—this is guilelessness.”
I said to her, “You will at least grant that Krishnamurti has at least as much intelligence as you? He too could have thought before leaving home: ‘I, a renowned wise, enlightened man, will go buy a tie—what will people think!’ If he had held back, that would have been cunning, hypocrisy. And he wasn’t sneaking into some smuggler’s den like a thief; he was standing in a shop in the middle of the market. A small town—at least six thousand people had gathered there to hear him; they were all around. He bought the tie in front of all his devotees! Do you think it didn’t occur to him that “Six thousand of my devotees are here; what will they say if they see me buying a tie!” He could have had the shopkeeper bring them home, chosen in privacy. He wouldn’t have lost devotees; no harm done. But he didn’t. That is straightforwardness, simplicity…”
And this childlike absorption—like a kid losing himself among toys—he lost himself among ties! That spontaneity—and you turned back! You turned back from the river’s edge?
You know only Gandhi’s “simplicity”—that is your obstacle. It was a weighed and measured simplicity. Gandhi took each step after calculating its result. That is not simplicity—where there’s calculation of consequences. What words to use, which words, how to draft a letter, what to write—he thought heavily about such things! Often he revised letters, changed statements afterward.
One of his devotees, Swami Anand, told me—he stayed with me one night. Then he was so upset he never came again. He said… He was Gandhi’s old devotee, with him from the time Gandhi first returned to India. He said to me, “I was stamped forever by Gandhi the very first day—I became his.” I asked, “What happened?”
Gandhi had come from Africa and spoke for the first time in Ahmedabad. He abused the English—called them “louts,” “rascals,” and such. I was a reporter for a paper. I thought: these words won’t do in print; they will harm Gandhi’s reputation. So I removed them all and cleaned up the speech and published it.
Next day Gandhi called me. He tapped my shoulder and said, “A journalist should be like you. This is journalism. What slipped out of me in anger did not need to be printed. You did right. A journalist must have such discretion.”
The speaker has no discretion; the journalist must!
Naturally Swami Anand’s heart melted—his shoulder was tapped, and Gandhi said he was a great journalist.
I said, “Did you ever do the opposite?” He asked, “What?” “That Gandhi didn’t abuse and you added abuses. Because the first was false—and the second would be equally false. What was said should have been printed as said. What you did was a lie. You removed the curses; Gandhi was pleased. Had you added curses, Gandhi would have been angry. Gandhi lacked awareness.”
This is not simplicity; this is calculated politics. And you were impressed because your ego was gratified—Gandhi praised you as a great journalist; “this is what a journalist should be.” Then you became his devotee. Then you must have kept cutting and trimming the same way all your life!
He said, “There’s truth in that.”
He never met me again! He must have grown angry because I spoke straight. Exactly as it was: Gandhi buttered your ego; he bought you. If I had been in his place, I would have said you were not a good journalist. Because what happened to the abuses I spoke?
This is how false images are built. Now the world will never know that Gandhi used abuses. The image of Gandhi in people’s eyes will be false.
Gandhi likely only used mild words—he was Gujarati; not much weight to his abuses. But Ramakrishna used the rawest, filthiest curses! Yet the books don’t record them. He was a straightforward villager-type. Books cannot write such things—what would happen to the “Paramhansa”!
But I tell you: it was precisely because he could curse that he was a Paramhansa. He was simple. If he felt someone was a thief, he called him a thief. If someone sat before him ogling women nearby, he hurled filthy abuse at him: “What you’re doing…”
I call that simplicity. I call that guilelessness. I’m not telling you to start cursing—because then that would again be calculated. “Let me become a Paramhansa; I’ll start abusing and then I’ll be a Paramhansa”—then you’ve missed again. You’ve missed simplicity.
All I am saying is: as it is, simply… As you are—good-bad, fair-dark—open yourself so. There should be no attempt to appear otherwise. Let the world know me as I am—that is simplicity.
Simplicity is an uncalculated state. It has nothing to do with principles.

If you don’t even have the courage to ask, how will you bear the answer? And if you don’t ask, how will you receive one? And if people laugh, let them laugh. Bring at least this much simplicity into your life.
The question is within you—however it is. People will laugh? Then let them. I tell you: the wise will understand; the foolish will laugh. Lao Tzu has a famous saying: the wise will understand; the foolish will laugh.
Why? Why will the wise understand? Because the wise knows the question isn’t only yours; it’s his too. He also couldn’t ask. He also kept it suppressed. He will thank you for asking what he couldn’t ask. He was afraid; you asked.
Only the foolish, the dull-witted, will laugh—because the fool doesn’t know that the same question is his as well. There isn’t much difference between one person’s questions and another’s. There isn’t much difference in human troubles and difficulties!
Can you ask anything that won’t also be someone else’s question? I have answered thousands of questions. I have taken each question to be everyone’s question. I have yet to find a question that is someone’s private specialty. It’s difficult—virtually impossible.
What will you ask? There are a few basic “diseases”: lust; greed; anger; infatuation; attachment/passion. If the diseases are the same, the questions will be the same. Only the proportions vary: in someone greed a little more, in someone anger a little less; in someone infatuation more, in someone attachment less. These are differences of degree. Where will you find fundamental differences? There aren’t any. Human beings are all alike. And when you hear another’s question, notice—somewhere, in some sense, it is your question too.
So the wise will understand and thank you. As for the foolish… what of the foolish? Let them laugh. If even one intelligent person understands, that’s enough. A thousand fools laughing are of no value.
And if you are this afraid, you’ll land in great trouble. Your state will become like a poem I was reading yesterday—

What I have gone through—
its details I cannot tell anyone.
The sorrows I have borne,
the burden of sins I carry on my chest,
I don’t have the nerve to speak of them.
In books written by others
I keep searching for my own tale.
Wherever I find any trace of my story,
I erase those lines,
strike them out with ink.
It seems to me that if people read them,
they’ll stop me in the street and start asking who knows what!

Do you see? He says: what I have gone through—I cannot narrate its details to anyone. Such was my fate. But understand this: what has happened to you has happened to thousands. What is happening to you is happening to thousands. You are not different. You are not an island, separate and alone. You are connected.
What I have gone through—
its details I cannot tell anyone.
The sorrows I have borne,
the burden of sins I carry on my chest,
I don’t have the strength to speak of them.

Everyone is just as weak. It isn’t that only you have committed sins. Everyone has. Who here is not guilty? It isn’t that only you are a sinner. Everyone is. Who here is not a sinner? One has to rise above sin—to go beyond it. But who is not a sinner?
An old saying: every virtuous one was once a sinner, and every sinner will one day be a saint. The saint has a past; the sinner has a future. So what’s the difference?
That’s why those who have arrived never condemn you for anything—not for a single thing. They know they have made the same mistakes. They too fell into the same pits. And until you find someone with such compassion, know this: you have not yet found a Master.
If you go before someone and say, “What can I do? Thoughts of stealing arise in my mind,” and the man at once raises a stick—“You are a great sinner; you will rot in hell!”—understand that this person has no real experience, no compassion. He doesn’t remember—or perhaps he does remember and is suppressing it—that he too has harbored the same thoughts.
His raising the stick shows those thoughts are still alive within him; they haven’t been erased. He isn’t raising the stick for you, he’s raising it for himself. He’s really saying, “Don’t provoke me. Don’t incite me. Somehow a layer of ash has settled over the embers—don’t blow on it. If the ash flies off, the embers within me will flare up too. You go away. Go to hell, go anywhere—just don’t bring up such topics here!”
If some “saint” condemns you, know that the saint has not yet been born. A saint is one who accepts you—even in your deepest offenses. Only when even your gravest fault does not create condemnation in his heart toward you, is he a saint. One who understands. One who says, “All right. This is exactly what I too have done. This is exactly what happened to me as well. Don’t be afraid. What is happening to you happened to me; and what is happening in me can happen in you—because we are not separate. My past is your future. We are connected. We are not apart. We can exchange notes with one another.”
The burden of sins I carry on my chest,
I don’t have the nerve to speak of them.

So gather strength. Without gathering strength, nothing will happen.
In books written by others
I keep searching for my own tale
wherever I find any trace of my story…

And while reading some novel—he says—if I come upon something that mirrors me, I get scared: someone might read this and think it is about me.
I keep searching for my own tale
wherever I find any trace of my story
I erase those lines,
strike them out with ink.
It seems to me that if people read them,
they’ll stop me in the street and start asking who knows what!

Fear of people is dangerous. It leads to paralysis; it gives you a stroke.
Here, drop your worry. Here, around me, dear ones gather—those who will understand. People gather here who will not think to condemn you. They will thank you. They will say, “You voiced what was ours. We were hiding it. You opened the wound; by the opening of your wound, we too found the medicine.”
Here, there are not the old-style mahatmas and sadhus. Here a new kind of human being is being born; a new sannyas is arising. Here you can drop fear.
Yes, I will say: don’t go and speak like this before some Jain muni. Don’t go before a Shankaracharya. There you will be fiercely condemned. There they condemn over such small, petty things it beggars belief.
I’ve heard this: the Shankaracharya of Puri was staying in Delhi. A man stood up and asked him, “I am a seeker. But I cannot bring myself to trust in God; I don’t feel faith. Please help me trust. Give me some proof that God exists.”
Do you know what the Shankaracharya said? He looked at the man angrily and asked, “Why are you wearing trousers?”
The poor fellow was inquiring about God! And he is asked, “Why are you wearing trousers?” And of course there would be other tuft-wearing men sitting there—after all, who else goes to the Shankaracharya of Puri! A congregation of dullards. They all started laughing. And the poor man shrank into himself—standing there in trousers—probably a clerk in some Delhi office.
“Why are you wearing trousers? What of Indian culture? Where is your choti, your tuft?”
The poor man had come seeking proof of God! Now he has no tuft either—consigned to hell, finished—and he’s wearing trousers!
And it didn’t end there. They laughed even more. The poor man must have thought, “What kind of question did I ask! I’ve been humiliated in front of everyone.”
What they went on to say was extraordinary “Brahma-knowledge”! They said, “Do you urinate wearing trousers too? Then you are impure. Do you urinate standing? Since you wear trousers, how will you do it sitting?”
This is “Brahma-knowledge” on display! And they all kept laughing. No one cared for the man. And he had asked something that lives in everyone’s heart.
I read this in the Shankaracharya’s own magazine. Which means those who printed it did so with great pride: “See how the Shankaracharya set the atheist straight!”
Are you setting someone straight—or are you meant to give support? And a man who talks like this—a Shankaracharya—cannot stand any higher than this; he cannot go beyond.
In insulting this man, the entire human race was insulted. And the man who does this is a deep sufferer of conceit.
Once, in Patna, I happened to share a platform with this same Shankaracharya—Maitreya-ji can tell you the whole story. The organizers invited me and invited him as well. At the very sight of me he told them, “If this gentleman speaks here, I cannot speak!”
The organizers were in a fix. What to do now? They had invited me from afar. And he says if I speak, he won’t!
I told the organizers, “Tell him I’ll speak first. Then let him speak afterward—and criticize me to his heart’s content.” That suited him.
Then he was in trouble. He got so angry that even criticizing became difficult. For criticism you need at least a little calm. He became feverish, delirious—began to babble this and that. An old man, so agitated—his foot slipped; he fell off the stage.
With such “mahatmas,” your fear is justified: be afraid. Better, don’t go at all. If you do go, don’t speak your heart. Ask fake questions. If you have no faith, say, “I have great faith within”—that will be proper. If you’re an atheist, say, “I’m a theist.” If you lack a choti, wear a cap and say you have one. If you’re wearing trousers, put a dhoti on top. And before such a mahatma asks you whether you urinate standing or sitting, tell him yourself, “I only urinate sitting.”
There, be afraid. With me, there is no need to fear at all. Ask your question as it is. If I am anything, I am a physician. If you don’t tell me your illness, how will it work? And remember: I am not a veterinarian; I am a physician of human beings.
A gentleman once told me, “So-and-so doctor is amazing. Don’t tell him anything; he puts his fingers on your pulse and tells you all your diseases.” I asked, “Is he a doctor of humans or of animals?” He said, “Of humans.” I said, “A human being can speak! With animals, you must take the pulse—because the animal cannot speak. A human can. What’s the great merit here? There is none.”
I want you to tell me your illness. In the telling, half the illness is already resolved. I can know without your saying—but my knowing will not help as much as your saying it.
First, the courage you gather to speak—that alone is tremendous. Second, to speak you must drop fear—that itself is great. Third, to speak you have to think, analyze, scrutinize within: what is my disease? In that very process your awareness grows, your mindfulness grows.
To ask the question rightly is to obtain half the answer. To grasp your question rightly is to obtain half the answer. Let half the work be yours; half I will do. If you do nothing at all, you will not benefit. If the whole work has to be mine, you will not benefit.
I can point the way; the work is yours to do.

Do not even believe the book. You can come to know for yourself. There is no need to go searching for heaven, because heaven is within you, not somewhere else. Heaven has no geography; it has only spirituality. Heaven is here—in these trees, this sky, these moon and stars, these people—heaven is nowhere else. Books speak to you of some heaven far away in the skies, beyond the seven heavens. That heaven is false. Those who wrote those books did not know either.

I am giving you heaven here. To attain this heaven there is no need to go into books; there is a need to go into yourself. You yourself are the book you look for in the Vedas, the Qur’an, the Bible, the Dhammapada. You are the book that is to be read. Who besides you will read it?

Within you lie all the Vedas, all the Qur’ans, all the Upanishads. When an Upanishad was born from some rishi, its meaning is simply this: it lies in every person. Whenever anyone awakens, from him too an Upanishad will be born. When the hymns of the Veda arose from someone, when the unique ayats of the Qur’an came—they only give the news that all this lies in the depths of every human being’s unconscious. If it could arise in Mohammed, it can arise in you too.

I remind you of your own being. There is no need to go into any book. You are the book. And heaven is not far away, it is not ahead somewhere; heaven is here and now. Heaven is a way of living. Hell too is a way of living—one wrong, the other right. That is the only difference.

Hell means that you are living in such a way that suffering is produced. You are living in such a way that worry arises. You are living in such a way that restlessness remains, that you feel continually tight and stretched.

What is the meaning of heaven? Heaven, or swarga, means: you have found the key. You begin to live in such a way that the shadow of joy remains, peace abides within. Tension goes, anxiety goes, worry goes. The future goes, the past goes; this very moment is everything. You dance in this, eat in this, drink in this; you sleep in this, you wake in this.

This moment is everything—the present. Let the past go, let the future go. The gate of heaven opens right here. The gate of heaven is in this very moment.

“People say, spring comes someday,
but we know nothing except the withering autumn.”
Spring does not come from the outside. Nor does autumn. Spring comes from within; the fall of leaves also comes from within. You are living in a wrong way; that is why you know nothing except autumn. Live rightly.

There are two sutras for living rightly: meditation and love. These are the two roots; if they take hold firmly within you, you will find spring has come. Spring had already come. Spring has always already been here. Existence knows nothing but spring.

Enough for today.