Es Dhammo Sanantano #95

Sir, you think your advice is useful to others! Advice is useful to no one. If your own advice is not of use to you, how will it be of use to anyone else? What you yourself have not found worthy enough to use in your own life—who is going to use it?

Someone once asked Luqman, “What is that thing in the world which everybody gives and nobody takes?” Luqman said, “Advice.” It is given in plenty; no one takes it. You yourself are not ready to follow your own advice—think!

I have heard: a Sufi fakir was approached by a woman with her son. She said, “Please explain things to him. I am exhausted, his father is exhausted, his teachers are exhausted; everyone has tried, he doesn’t listen. You are our only hope. He eats too much jaggery.” The fakir said, “Come back after seven days.” The woman couldn’t understand why. She returned after seven days with the boy. The fakir said, “Forgive me—come after another seven days.” When he said the same thing the third time, the woman asked, “What is going on?” He said, “I will tell you when you come after seven more days.”

On the twenty-first day the fakir looked at the boy and said, “Son, stop eating jaggery.” The woman slapped her forehead: “For this advice, you made us run around for twenty-one days!” He said, “It is not such a small piece of advice. I myself was very fond of jaggery. Before telling this small boy to stop eating it because it’s not good, I had to stop first. It took me twenty-one days to quit. Had I given him that advice earlier, it would have been dishonest, false.” The boy raised his eyes to the fakir, bowed at his feet, and said, “Then I too will stop.”

Your advice has value only when you live it. If your life runs contrary to your ideas, people look at your life, not your ideas. No one is influenced by ideas; people are influenced by life—by the fire within you. You may speak of fire while in your life there is only ash. Your life will belie your words. Everyone talks beautifully; what does it cost to talk? It costs nothing to spin words. People know talk is trash. And in this country all the more so. So much advice has been given here, so many sermons preached, that people are weary. People are bored. They want to be rid of it.

You think, “I am very skillful at giving advice, but why doesn’t my advice work for me?” It doesn’t work for anyone. If it doesn’t work for you, it will work for no one.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin’s neighbor had a very valuable parrot. The parrot didn’t pass stool or urine for seven days, so the neighbor panicked. It had never happened before. Humans get constipated, not parrots; parrots aren’t spoiled yet, life hasn’t gone that wrong yet. Worried, not knowing what to do, he thought, “Let me ask Mulla Nasruddin—an elder, an old man, who has seen life; his hair didn’t turn white for nothing.” He called Nasruddin.

Mulla adjusted his spectacles, walked around the parrot’s cage, inspected it carefully, thought a good while, then said, “Brother, why have you lined the cage with a map of India?” The neighbor said, “So the droppings don’t fall through; I always line it with a newspaper. But ever since the Emergency ended, there have been strikes even in the newspapers. Seven days ago there was a newspaper strike; no paper came, so I spread out this map of India. Is something wrong with that? Did I make a mistake? Do you object?” Mulla laughed and said, “No objection—the problem is solved. Parrots are not as dull as humans; parrots are intelligent and sensitive. India has borne as much excreta as it could; its capacity is exhausted. Seeing that, the poor parrot sits holding himself like a yogi. Remove this map of India!”

Your preachers, your advisers, your so-called gurus have filled your head with rubbish. Nowhere else has so much advice been dispensed as in this country. This is the biggest cause of the country’s decline. And the one who gives the advice doesn’t care whether there is any evidence for it in his own life. His life contradicts it. What he says, his life says the opposite.

Understand this. Leave aside elders—even little children don’t listen to what you say; they listen to what you do. A child is not influenced by what the parents say to him; he is influenced by what the parents do. The child watches. You may tell him a thousand times, “Don’t lie,” but the child will lie, because you lie. You may tell him, “Be fearless,” it makes no difference.

I have heard: a small boy rushed into the house and said to his mother, “Mommy, Mommy, a lion is coming.” Startled, the mother looked—there was a scrawny dog approaching. She said, “The limit of lying! This is a lion? How many times have I told you, a thousand times, don’t lie. Now close your eyes right now and pray to God and ask forgiveness.” The boy sat cross-legged, closed his eyes. After a little while he got up and said, “I’ve asked forgiveness.” The mother asked, “What happened? What did you say?” He said, “I said, ‘Lord, a dog was coming, and I told my mommy a lion was coming. She got very angry and says one must not lie. What is Your opinion?’ The Lord said, ‘Don’t worry—when I was little I too used to scare my mother by calling a dog a lion.’”

The child knows—even your God is false! To whom are you asking him to pray? He called a dog a lion; there is at least a hint of truth in that exaggeration. But when you close your eyes there is no one there—whom are you calling God? You have no experience, nor does anyone: layers upon layers of falsehood piled on falsehood.

Children can see that falsehood prevails everywhere. The father says, “Don’t lie,” and then when the landlord comes to the door, he sends the son to say, “Tell him your father isn’t at home.” The child sees this is a lie. What does it mean? It means: when you have to speak, say “one should not lie”; and when it is time to lie, say whatever brings benefit. The message is that clear.

If even small children can see through your truth, won’t grown-ups—who have become quite dishonest and have plenty of life experience—see through it?

There is a story from the South. There was a famous scholar, Pandit Mani, a devotee of Lord Murugan (Kartikeya). One day a “devotee” came to him, rudraksha beads round his neck, sacred ash on his forehead, chanting “Muruga, Muruga.” He said to Pandit Mani, “I am thinking of building a temple to Lord Murugan. Last night the Lord appeared in my dream and said, ‘Don’t worry; go to Pandit Mani—he will give you whatever you need.’” Pandit Mani very politely said to the devotee, “Please stay at my place tonight; we’ll talk in the morning.”

In the morning he called the devotee and said, “Sir, the Lord also appeared to me last night and said that beneath that palm tree in front, at a depth of five feet, a treasure is buried. Dig it up and hand it to the devotee.” “And if there is no treasure there?” the devotee asked suspiciously. “I had the same doubt,” said Pandit Mani, “and I gathered the courage to ask Lord Murugan. He immediately replied, ‘If there is no treasure, bury the devotee there.’” On hearing this, the bogus devotee grabbed his lota and towel and ran away.

You don’t trust your God, your children won’t, and neither will those to whom you give advice. Your life tells your tale. You cannot keep a lie running; it will be caught.

Now you say, “I am very skilled at giving advice.” This skill is proving costly. Drop this skill. No one benefits from it; your life will be wasted. Because of it, no one will ever thank you. People only get bored with your advice. Do not give advice until someone asks for it. And when someone asks, give it only if it arises from your living experience—so that it actually serves someone, opens a path in someone’s life, lights a lamp in someone’s darkness.

Keep two touchstones in mind:
- First, do not give unsolicited advice. No one likes it; it is insulting. Unsolicited advice implies you are trying to prove the other ignorant. It hurts the other’s ego. He will take revenge. Your advice won’t help him; it may harm you. People do not forgive advisers.
- Second, even if someone asks, consider what your own experience is. Do not give advice contrary to your own experience.

If you can manage these two things, you will neither harm nor insult anyone, nor fill people’s minds with rubbish. Drop this “skill”! It is of no use; it is a noose around your neck. And if you keep these two in mind, your life will slowly gain luster—because you will do what you say, and say what you do.

When, in a person’s life, deed and thought come into harmony, supreme music arises. Otherwise it’s like this: the tabla beats one way and the sitar another—no coordination. It is out of tune. Your ideas go one way and your life goes another. The oxen hitched to your cart pull in opposite directions; the cart is in distress. Music, peace, and happiness arise only when there is harmony between your thoughts and your life, a consonance, a coordination.

Say only what you have known. Be honest. If you have not known God, don’t tell anyone that God exists. Say, “I am seeking; I have not found Him yet—how can I say?” If I find, I will report back. Or if you find before I do, have compassion on me and let me know. Tell your small children the same: “I am seeking God; I haven’t met Him yet. Son, perhaps you may meet Him—maybe even before me—who knows? If you do, remember me and tell me. Your father is still in the dark; your mother still wanders!”

If you could be this true with your children, your neighbors, your friends and loved ones—imagine what fragrance would come into your life! How beautiful you would become!

Drop this “skill.” And first, whatever you are about to tell someone—test it, examine it, weigh it on the touchstone of life: is it true? If you feel it is true, that it gives you flavor, that joy flows in your life, a little light dawns, your eyes’ haze clears—then do speak. Naturally, when you see, you will want to share with those you love. But as it is, most often you advise others merely to prove, “I am more knowledgeable than you; I know more.”

When I was little there was a great scholar in my village, a friend of my father’s. I would pester my father, raise any question at all. But he was an honest man; because of that honesty I have immense respect for him. He would say, “I don’t know. Go to the pundit.” I never felt any reverence for the pundit, because I could not see any truth in what he said. I would go to his home, sit and observe him. There was no harmony between what he said and how he lived. Yet he would speak lofty words about Brahman, would comment on the Brahma Sutras. When I argued too much he would say, “Wait—when you grow up, when you gain years, then you will understand.” I said, “Fix a date for ‘gaining years.’ If you’re alive, I’ll come report back. Don’t just put me off.” To put me off he said, “At least become twenty-one.”

When I turned twenty-one, I went back. I said, “I still experience nothing of what you describe. I am twenty-one now—what’s your plan? Will you now say, ‘become forty-two’?” If I become forty-two, then you’ll push it further. Don’t stall! If it has happened to you, say so. If not, say it hasn’t. That day, I don’t know in what mood he was—no one else was there; otherwise his devotees would be sitting and it would be harder. That day he closed his eyes; two tears fell. That day reverence arose in me for him.

He said, “Forgive me. I had been lying. It hasn’t happened to me either. It was only to put you off. Even then you were small, but you recognized it, because I could see in your eyes there was no reverence for me. You understood I was deferring it to ‘when you grow up.’ I myself don’t know. What does age have to do with it! I only said it to get rid of the hassle.” I said, “Today reverence for you has arisen in me. Until now I considered you utterly dishonest.”

Remember: whenever you give advice not born of your living experience, you are taken as dishonest, not honest. Say only what you have known. Then how little remains to be said! Ever thought of that? How little remains to be said—you could write it on a postcard. All the junk falls away. And you will be amazed: the few words written on that little postcard become so precious. Each sentence weighs like the Himalayas. Whoever receives it will feel blessed.

You ask, “Why is it so easy to advise others?” What difficulty is there? You don’t have to do it—the other has to. If he doesn’t, he’ll regret; if he does, he’ll regret. You’ve created trouble for him. What obstacle is there for you? You have no compassion for the other. Only the compassionless give free advice. You lack empathy.

I have heard: Nasruddin’s wife came out of the kitchen and said, “Nasruddin, my tooth hurts a lot today.” Nasruddin looked up from his newspaper, quite indifferently, and said, “Then have it pulled. If it were my tooth, I’d have it pulled immediately.” The wife said, “Exactly! But it isn’t your tooth! If it were yours, I too would leave no stone unturned to get it pulled.”

When it’s your own tooth, there is difficulty. When it’s another’s tooth, what difficulty is there in advising? That’s why I say: think before you give it. Don’t give it half-baked. Don’t give it casually. Don’t give it just to get rid of someone. Don’t give it to show off empty knowledge. Don’t give it for hollow display. Give it with feeling, thoughtfully, from experience; give it with empathy for the one you advise.

Then you’ll find that whether or not your advice changes the other, it changes you. In every piece of advice you will find your life being refined. Each piece of advice will become a chisel’s stroke upon you; your statue will stand out more clearly.

Who in a crowd will speak like a living man,
as though speaking of life among stone-carved idols?
Where it is common to prefer falsehood over truth,
who will speak of wisdom there?
It is mere self-delusion—yet we fancy debate yields profit;
it is mere self-delusion—will the curse-struck speak of blessings?
If you wish to move toward your destination, keep walking,
no matter how much the world talks of whirlwinds and storms.
Only he who can walk with his own cross upon his shoulder
has the right to speak of faith.

Until you have walked carrying your own cross, do not speak of faith. Until you have borne the difficulties on the path of religion, do not speak of religion. Until you have offered your head at the feet of the Lord, do not speak of God-experience. Until you have turned your mind to ash and ended it, do not speak of meditation or samadhi.

Only he who can walk with his own cross upon his shoulder
has the right to speak of faith.

Then you have the right. Otherwise it is unauthorized talk. It is violence. Stop it. Drop it. Break this net, come out of it. Then your very life becomes the advice. Rays will fall on people from your every movement. A glance of your eye will be enough.

For now, you may hammer with all your might, yet even when you speak loudly, your inner weakness is obvious. You speak of faith while doubt stands within you. There is nothing of faith in this “faith.”

When Gurdjieff first met his great disciple Ouspensky, he said to him, “Here is a blank page. On one side write what you know. On the other side write what you do not know.” Ouspensky asked, “Why?” Gurdjieff said, “So that about what you know, we shall never speak—if you already know it, why talk of it? We will speak about what you do not know. What you do not know, I will try to make you know; what you know, that is finished.”

Imagine what difficulty Ouspensky found himself in! He took the paper, went into the next room. It was a cold night, snow falling outside, yet he began sweating. He picked up the pen, but nothing came to mind—what do I know?

And this time it was costly—not cheap—because once he wrote it on that paper, he knew Gurdjieff was such a man that if he wrote “I know God,” then Gurdjieff would never speak of God. If he wrote “I know meditation,” then he would never speak of meditation. If he wrote “I know love,” then he would never speak of love. Today it was difficult—very difficult. This bargain was costly. Today he had to write only after deep thought. He pondered hard: Do I know love? Do I know meditation? Do I know religion? God? the soul? He had written great books before—Ouspensky—he was world-famous. No one even knew Gurdjieff, a poor fakir! But Ouspensky was a celebrity; his books had been translated into many languages; people regarded him as a man of knowledge.

But this “man of knowledge” must have been an honest man. After an hour he returned, handed Gurdjieff the blank page, and said, “I know nothing; begin with A, B, C. I am utterly ignorant—start from there.” Gurdjieff said, “Then something is possible. I was wondering how much ignorance you have peddled in your books! How much you have advised people! Today will be the test of whether you are honest. You are. I accept you. You will be able to proceed on this path.”

The greatest honesty in the world is to accept: we do not know. Those who accept that they are ignorant may one day become wise. Those who hesitate to accept it, who continue to claim hollow and false knowledge as their own, have no possibility of becoming wise.

When a human being is born, he is born like a blank sheet of paper. When a human being is born, he is born as pure innocence. When a human being is born, he is born as total freedom—unconditional. There is no limit upon him, no boundary—unbounded, infinite. When a human being is born, he is born as soul. Then society, family, father, mother, teacher, school, college, university—all together erect a layer of mind around this soul. They build a wall of mind.

Remember, mind is manufactured by society. The soul is yours, the body belongs to nature, and the mind belongs to society. Mind is entirely borrowed, stale. The body too is beautiful, for nature’s beauty lives in it—the babble of streams runs in your blood, the fragrance of earth dwells in your flesh, the energy of the stars lives in your life-breath; your body has come from nature; it is natural. Your soul has come from the divine. Both are beautiful—uniquely beautiful. Between the two stands a wall: the mind. The mind is made by society. Mind suppresses your body and slowly distorts your nature. Mind also presses upon your soul, surrounds it, and shuts it in a prison.

The mind has two tasks: to control the nature of the body, and to cast the soul’s unimpeded freedom into a jail.

The entire secret of religion is only this: how to be free of the mind. What society has done to you, religion negates. This is the whole function of the awakened ones, the only purpose of being with a true master: what society has done to you, the master slowly undoes—he helps you undo it. The wall of mind, of thoughts, that society has raised on your side—he slides its bricks out one by one.

The day the mind dissolves, that day samadhi happens. The day the body is natural and the soul is free, a note of samadhi rises between the two. The Chinese Wall—mind—has kept them apart. No-mind is the formula of samadhi—unman, no-mind. To be free of mind is the meaning of meditation.

So the foundation-stone of all religion is one: how to undo what society has done. How to return again to the place where you were when you were born. How your eyes may again become as smokeless and dustless as they were the first moment you emerged from your mother’s womb and opened them—no veil. How your ears may open again as they were when you heard sound for the first time. How your touch may regain the sensitivity it had on the first day of your birth. How you may breathe again as freely as you did in your first breath. How you may laugh again—virginal—and how you may weep again—virginal. How to become virgin again; how to remove everything society has imposed upon you.

In society’s imposition, parents play the largest part, for they are your first society. Then came your brothers and sisters, then neighbors, then school, college, university, then the entire expanse—layer upon layer; like an onion, one layer over another has kept forming. By now you are lost in the crowd. Now you no longer know who you are. Now you have to ask, “Who am I?” You will have to strive for years to know who you are; only then will an answer come. Because the place from which the answer can come has become separated from you by such a gap—so many walls, so many curtains, so many hindrances, so many obstacles have arisen. Religion means: how to remove these obstacles.

This does not mean we can raise a child in such a way that no veils fall upon him. That is impossible. Understand this. On hearing me, many feel, “Then why give the child any conditioning at all?” You cannot avoid giving conditioning. You will have to give it. It is a necessary evil.

After all, if the child goes toward fire you will have to stop him: “Don’t go.” A conditioning will be given. On a dark night the child will want to go outside; the mother will have to say, “Don’t go; it’s dangerous.” Fear will arise; within fear, a boundary will form. If poison is kept in the house it must be kept out of reach; if his hand reaches for it, you will have to snatch it away. The child can hurt himself, can harm others. All such things must be checked. You must give the child conditioning. You must give the child discipline. If he stands anywhere and relieves himself, he must be stopped; he must be taught to do it at the right time and in the right place—he must be given toilet training. He must learn to ask for food at the proper time, not be eating all day long; not be doing any and every thing at every hour; he must be given a certain discrimination. This cannot be avoided. It must be done—more or less, this way or that—but it will be done. It is inevitable.

And what religion says is equally important: once the whole arrangement has been constructed, one day it is just as necessary to break it. It can then be broken. Only one who has come to discipline can be freed from discipline.

Understand this—understand the apparent contradiction.

In truth, only he can be freed from discipline who has first come to discipline. Until it has come, how can he be freed of it? One in whom understanding has arisen can be released from conditioning.

That is why, in this land, we kept the sannyasin free of all conditionings. We did not impose upon him the constraints of caste (varna) or of stages of life (ashrama). The moment one became a sannyasin, he was held to be outside the entire order of society—he had transcended it. For one who has renounced there is no more restriction, no obstruction; his freedom is supreme. Neither scripture, nor culture, nor society stops him. Why? Because we saw that to be a sannyasin means at least this much: one’s own understanding has arisen; now an understanding imposed from above is no longer needed.

Think of it this way: when a child begins to walk, the mother holds his hand and makes him walk. That hand is not to be held forever. One day it must be held; one day it must be let go. If out of “kindness” the mother keeps holding the hand, she is his enemy. Once the child has learned to walk, just as one day the mother, out of compassion, held his hand, so, out of compassion, she must one day withdraw her hand. Otherwise the child will be grown and the mother will still be holding his hand—he will never mature. Many mothers do exactly this; many fathers do exactly this. Their children remain lifeless—blockheads.

Give support, but do not give support beyond necessity. Give support so that one day the person can stand without support. Give rules so that he can be free of rules. Give restraint so that he can be free of restraint. Teach him everything, and when his own understanding has become clear, tell him: now drop even this understanding—now you can be free.

This second part does not happen. The first part happens; the second gets stuck. Transactional Analysis means precisely that this second part should happen. The hand that a mother once held must not be kept held; it is necessary that she let it go one day. If she does not, then you must let it go. You must become free of that hand. Your father once gave you protection, surrounded you with comforts from all sides—one day that circle must be broken. If the father is not willing to break it, then you break it. That breaking is necessary; otherwise you will die bound within that circle. That circle will become your grave.

You see it: when a sapling is planted—Mukta plants saplings here in the garden—she fixes a bamboo to support it. Now it has happened here: this eucalyptus has had its bamboo stay on. The eucalyptus has grown tall, even risen above the roof, but it cannot stand mature; without the bamboo it falls. A spine has not formed within it. The bamboo stayed longer than needed. Now no remedy is apparent—what can be done now? If we remove the bamboo, it falls and will die. If we do not remove the bamboo, there is danger—because now the bamboo is not needed; it should have been removed. Many people are in exactly this condition.

When a tree is small, we put a fence around it, an enclosure—for protection—then one day that fence has to be taken away. If we do not remove it, the tree will break it and go on.

Such too is the state of a human being. A human being is a small sapling. A child is a very delicate happening. He needs all kinds of protection around him. But slowly those protections should be removed. Only then will the child become strong; only then will a spine grow within. That is why it often happens that the sons of wealthy homes are without a spine. Those who have abundant comforts—their children are lifeless.

You must have seen: in rich households, men of genius are not born. Genius does not arise. The more money a house has, the more fools are born there. Genius needs challenge. For the rich man’s son there is no challenge; he says, “Whatever I want is already given—what is left to do? Even if I study, what will come of it? What is the point of banging my head at the university?”

I have heard that Henry Ford—the great American tycoon—brought up his sons like poor boys. In front of Ford’s big motor factory, when his sons were small, they used to shine shoes. Someone said to Henry Ford, “What are you doing?” He replied, “I shined shoes like this, and by shining shoes I became Henry Ford. If my sons are made Henry Ford already, then one day they will be shining shoes.”

There is strength in that statement; it is true. A person grows through difficulty; by comfort he is pressed down, he dies. Excessive comfort is not beneficial. There should be a little discomfort, and a little comfort. And slowly the comfort should be withdrawn and the challenge should grow greater. Remove the bamboo, remove the fence, so that the tree rises, collides with storms, grapples with tempests; then the roots will grow strong. Then its feet will dig into the earth, and strength will come, self-trust will come. The confidence will arise: I can wrestle with storms; I can journey to sun and stars alone; my feet are firmly planted—this earth is mine, this sky is mine.

The basic foundation of Transactional Analysis is precisely this: one day a person should become free of his parents. Buddha’s sutra mātaram pitaram hantvā says this very thing. Buddha says: one day one should kill one’s mother and father.

Jesus said exactly this. Christians have not caught this point and become very embarrassed; when this saying in the Bible is shown to them, they get very disturbed. They cannot resolve it. For Jesus said, “Unless you hate your father and mother, you cannot be my disciple.”

Now this from the mouth of one who preached love; who said, love even your enemy; who said, if someone slaps your one cheek, offer the other; who said, if someone snatches your coat, give him your shirt too—perhaps the poor fellow needs a shirt; who said, if someone asks you to carry a load for a mile, go with him two miles—he may be asking shyly; love your enemy as yourself. From those lips, this other saying sounds very strange: “Unless you hate your father and mother, you cannot be my disciple.”

Christianity has kept these sayings hidden. They are not expounded. Buddha’s saying is even more dangerous. Jesus says, “Unless you hate…”—that is nothing! My own understanding is that it is Buddha’s sutra that reached Jesus’ ears, but Jesus modified it. Because the people he was addressing could not even understand this much; if they had heard talk of killing, they would have gone mad: “What are you saying!” Buddha says: one who does not kill his mother and father cannot become a monk.

This sounds even more difficult—and from Buddha’s mouth! The great compassionate one! No one has been more overflowing with compassion than Buddha, and he is speaking of violence—“Kill your parents!”

Understand. The point is not your outer parents. Kill the parents who have been internalized within you through conditioning. Kill the voices of mother and father that have penetrated deep within you and still do not allow you to be free; break the conditioning that has been fixed within you like a chain.

You will experience this every day if you live a little intelligently, a little meditatively, if you awaken a little mindfulness—you will find this again and again.

I have a friend, a major Hindi poet. He is around fifty; he has a wife, children; his daughter is married; he has grandchildren. He once traveled with me. His wife told me, “During the journey you will discover many of his peculiarities.” I said, “But I have known him long.” She said, “That doesn’t matter. On a journey you will know.” And I did.

He is a doctor’s son. The father has died. The father was a bit of a cranky type—he was a doctor and a crank: a double ailment. He suspected everything—there might be an infection here, something may happen there. The same crankiness is in him. I had no idea. When tea came on the train he said, “No, I won’t drink.” I asked, “What’s the matter?” He said, “No, no.” I said, “Still, tell me.” He said, “No, I just don’t feel like it.” “All right,” I said, “no matter.”

Meal time came. The meal came; he said, “No, I will not eat.” I asked, “What has happened to your appetite?” He said, “Nothing, nothing.” I asked, “Are you uncomfortable? Is something wrong with your stomach? What is it?” He said, “Now if you will insist again and again—and we have to be together for twenty-four hours—the fact is: I cannot drink tea anywhere, I cannot eat anywhere. I will fast for these twenty-four hours.” I asked, “Why?” He said, “Please don’t prod me more; the fact is, I fear infection.” I asked, “Where did this fear come from?” He said, “My father!”

The father has departed, but the conditioning he left behind sits there. When Buddha says, “Kill your parents,” Buddha is saying: kill this inner conditioning. It is useless nonsense now. And if you live with such fear, there is no essence in living—better to die. Living like this, in fear, you will not be able to live at all. His wife told me that her husband had never kissed her—because of infection!

It is true that nothing in the world is more infectious than a kiss—because millions of germs pass from the other’s lips into yours. Such a husband can kiss his wife only when her lips, and so on, have been sterilized. But by then the kiss will have lost its meaning, its point. This has gone beyond the boundary of fear—this is madness.

Search a little within yourself; perhaps your case is not so exaggerated, but you will find the same pattern. When you speak to your son, watch carefully—you speak exactly as your father used to speak to you. It is amusing. You have not grown at all; you are repeating; you are a gramophone record. When you quarrel with your wife, watch carefully—the quarrel happens just as it did between your father and mother. You are often repeating the same thing. There is nothing new in it.

And if you are a woman, watch how you behave with your husband—the way you learned from your mother. What your mother did with your father, you do with your husband.

Thus things repeat for centuries. The mark of consciousness is newness. With so much repetition in life, so much reiteration, consciousness gets suppressed, becomes inert, dies; then you are no longer alive.

Examine yourself. In your expressions you will find your parents concealed. In your behavior you will find your parents concealed. In your manner of speaking and moving you will find your parents concealed; in your deeds and misdeeds you will find your parents concealed—in the good and the bad. Then where are you?

When Buddha says, “Kill your parents,” he is saying: only after that killing will your birth happen. One birth has happened; it is not enough—be twice-born; now a second birth is needed—be born again. This second birth will be the first proclamation of your consciousness. Do not repeat. Do not act a role.

Yet this is what is happening. People come to me and say, “My father behaves so badly; my mother is such a devil…” The mother is not present here; the father is not present here—I observe that person for a few days. And often in that very person the evidence appears of whether his complaint is true or not. By seeing him alone, the whole story of his parents can slowly be written. In his behavior his parents can be caught.

For this reason Buddha said: kill your father and mother. Break the conditionings that were once necessary. Remove the fence, drop the bamboo. Now there is no need for supports. Throw away the crutches. Stand on your own feet. Become self-possessed. This formula of becoming self-possessed is also the formula of Transactional Analysis: be yourself. Declare your own selfhood. Do not remain borrowed and stale.

If you observe, you will be startled: ninety-nine percent of you is borrowed. And the greatest borrowing is from your parents—naturally. And note: this does not mean Buddha is saying your parents were wrong—he is not saying that at all. No matter how good your parents were, it is irrelevant. Often it is not difficult to get free of bad parents; it is difficult to get free of good parents. A good parent’s grip is deeper—how to get free of the good? It is a golden chain; how to leave it, how to break it? From bad parents one gets free; from good parents it is difficult. With the good attachment forms, infatuation forms—such loving parents!…

Buddha is not saying your parents are wrong; Buddha’s statement is not about the parents. What your parents were like is not the point—neither good nor bad. Buddha is only saying: each person must one day gather the capacity to be free of his parents. The day this capacity becomes complete in you—that you are wholly free of father and mother—that day you become a person; that day you are self-possessed. And on that day, if your parents have even a little understanding, they will rejoice and celebrate. Your real birth has happened—your first true birthday has come. Your parents will strew flowers and light lamps. If they understand, they will host a feast and invite friends: “Today my son has attained his own selfhood. Today he is no longer our repetition; today the journey of his own life begins.”

These utterances are not about the parents. They mean only this: a man climbs a ladder. Without climbing the ladder he cannot reach the roof; but if he clings to the ladder and stops on the way, he will still not reach the roof. One must climb the ladder, and one day one must leave the ladder. And naturally, the parental imprint is deepest—because they are nearest to us; our first lessons come from them.

Now understand how deeply we are bound. When a child is born, his first contact with the world, with existence, is the mother’s breast. The first contact, the first world, is the mother’s breast. And observe: it is difficult to find a man who is free of fascination with a woman’s breasts. Until you are free of this fascination, you remain childish—you are still that first-day child who depended on the mother’s breast.

Centuries have passed; when people make statues, the breasts are prominent; when they paint, the breasts are prominent; when they make films, the breasts are prominent; in poetry and novels too the breasts are prominent. Do not think this is only today’s phenomenon—it has always been so. Read the most ancient poetry—Kalidasa, Bhavabhuti—you will find the same: descriptions of breasts. See the most ancient sculptures: the breasts are shown very pronounced; breasts as large as shown in sculpture do not even exist—go to Khajuraho and see. Nor are the breasts as shapely as in paintings and poetry.

What is this? What is the matter? Why is man so mad about breasts? Why is the male so eager regarding the breasts? Because the first contact with the world, the first conditioning for all men, is of the breast. And for a small child the breast is a great event. Naturally, the fuller the breast, the more comforting to the child; the more shapely the breast, the more comforting—the more milk it gives. That feeling of nourishment has sunk deep. So in a woman with small breasts your interest is less.

Thus a conditioning fixed in your childhood still veils your eyes. Now, it is not necessary that a woman with small breasts be a bad woman and one with large breasts be good—not necessary at all. But Playboy, and the obscene magazines and books the world over—all insist upon large breasts.

In America, if a breast is small, women get injections—silicone injections—so the breast becomes larger, shapelier, fuller. Even if it becomes full artificially, it will do. Even if through artificial medicine, it will do. But the breast must be full—because men are attracted to it.

Men are attracted to breasts, and women are also attracted to breasts. To hold the breast in shape, who knows how many kinds of bras are made. To make the breast look larger, who knows how many kinds of padding are used. Women hide their breasts and also show them. A great game goes on—hiding and showing. Keep this in mind: they hide by showing, and show by hiding. Women know it; men know it. But this is a very childish world.

It means this world never grows up, never matures. I have said this only as an example. The whole state of the mind is likewise. You are tangled where long ago you should have passed beyond. You are stuck in places you imagine you have outgrown.

Transactional Analysis says: analyze your mind carefully—analyze the transactions of your actions in relation to others, the exchanges that are happening in your interrelationships. If you analyze these transactions rightly, you will find you are still entangled in your childhood; you have not come out. The body has grown big, but your consciousness has not developed. Your soul has remained small. This small soul must be freed; it must be brought out of the prison.

The way to bring it out is: mātaram pitaram hantvā—become the killer of your mother and father. That is why Buddha said to his monks, “Do you see this monk? He is greatly blessed—by killing his parents he has attained the supreme bliss.”

The day you become free of your parents, you become free of the world. Your parents are the gate to your world. Through them you came into the world, by their support you entered it. The day you are free of them, that day you have entered the gate of nirvana.

Transactional Analysis is still at the beginning. Buddha’s sutra is ultimate, final. Therefore I said: if the adherents of Transactional Analysis come to know such sutras of Buddha, they will be overjoyed; they will get great support. Then their work will not remain merely psychological; it will acquire a religious dimension as well.

It depends on the person.

If you renounce with understanding, it’s a very small matter. If you renounce out of unawareness, then it is a big thing—a very big thing. Understanding means you have seen that wealth has no real value. Then renunciation is a tiny thing. It was trash—you dropped it; so what did you really leave? You won’t sing its praises, won’t have others praise you, won’t hanker for it. You won’t go around saying, “I gave up millions.” There was nothing there; you saw it, so you let it go. It was refuse—you discarded it; pebbles and stones—you dropped them.

But if you left something because you heard someone, out of greed for heaven, in hope of a reward—thinking, “If I give up here, I’ll receive there; in God’s house I’ll receive much; leave a lakh here and get ten lakhs there”—if you renounce with such arithmetic, you’ll go around announcing it. Because you haven’t yourself seen that wealth is futile. You’ve abandoned this wealth out of desire for more wealth. In hope of eternal wealth, you let go of the fleeting. You are gambling even with God, buying a lottery ticket. Then you have done a great renunciation—you will proclaim it, shout everywhere, “I left so much.” But then renunciation hasn’t happened at all.

I have heard a Sufi story. A woman died. Angels came to take her. They wondered, “How can we take her to heaven? Did she ever do a good deed?” They asked the old woman’s soul. She said, “Yes, once I gave a radish to a beggar.” They said, “Come then, on the strength of the radish.” The radish appeared. The woman grabbed it and began to rise toward heaven. People saw this. Watching her ascend, someone caught hold of her feet and began to rise too; someone else held his feet and rose; a long queue formed. The woman rose, and the whole line rose with her. She felt very offended: “The radish was my charity, and these useless riffraff are coming along holding my feet!” Anger and arrogance arose.

Finally, when she reached the very gate of heaven, she said, “Let go! Leave my feet! The radish is mine.” The quarrel grew so heated that she forgot herself; in the dispute she let go of the radish and cried, “The radish is mine!” The entire line fell to the ground. That “mine”-ness brought her back from the very gate of heaven.

If renunciation has happened, its meaning is that you have understood: what here is mine, what is yours? Then it’s a small matter.

Understand it this way; listen to this small incident about Chaitanya Mahaprabhu. This was when he was a householder; his name was Nimai Pandit. One morning he was traveling by boat, holding a handwritten treatise on Nyaya (logic). With him was his classmate, Raghunath Pandit. On Raghunath’s request, Chaitanya began to read his work aloud. As he read, Raghunath’s sorrow kept growing, his heart becoming heavy. At last Raghunath burst into tears. Nimai asked the reason. He said, “What can I say? I too, with great effort, have written a treatise—Didhiti. I thought it would be foremost among works on logic, but compared to your work, who will look at mine? So I am distressed. Your treatise is certainly superior. My years of labor are wasted.”

Nimai smiled and said, “Only this? Such a small matter! So much sorrow over such a small thing? Here—” and he threw the manuscript into the river. In a moment it sank; the pages scattered in the water. Raghunath cried, “What have you done? Such a great work—thrown away like that!” Nimai said, “Nothing great at all; it’s all a net of words. It has no great value. Not worth two pennies. Compared to your becoming happy, it is nothing. If a smile can come to your lips, I would throw a thousand such manuscripts into the river.”

Nimai said, “A small matter!”

When you recognize the truths of life rightly, renunciation is a very small matter. When you do not recognize them rightly, then it is a difficult thing—very difficult, and very big. You inflate it. If you donate one rupee, you will say a thousand. If you give some little thing, you will slowly enlarge it. You won’t even notice that you are exaggerating it. Each time you tell it, you will tell it a little bigger—bigger and bigger; the tale will grow. You want to make it big.

The realization that nothing in this world is truly valuable—that is called renunciation. Renunciation does not mean charity; renunciation means awareness. Renunciation is not giving; it is the understanding: what here is even worth giving? what is worth taking? What belongs here will remain here. We come and we go; all the display remains. Before we came, it was here; after we go, it will still be here. In between, we unnecessarily create many quarrels and delusions with our “mine” and “thine.” Mine, yours. We give and withhold. We seize—and even savor the taste of renunciation. And nothing here is ours. The realization that nothing here belongs to us—that is what I call renunciation.

So it depends from person to person. Whether renunciation is big or small depends on you. If there is meditation, then renunciation is nothing special—an ordinary thing, the shadow of meditation. If there is no meditation, then renunciation is a big thing, a very big thing.

The other day I said: alcohol is an obstacle to meditation; that was only half the story. Let me tell you the other half: meditation is also an obstacle to alcohol. If you drink, meditating will be difficult; and if you meditate, drinking will become difficult. And remember this: if there is a wrestling match between the two, meditation wins; alcohol does not. How could alcohol win! Alcohol is a small wine; meditation is the great wine. Alcohol is pressed from ordinary grapes; meditation is the distillation of the soul. So if there is a struggle between meditation and alcohol, at first it may seem for a few days that alcohol is winning—do not be afraid—meditation will win; let the struggle continue.

Yes, I said clearly that alcohol is an obstacle to meditation. But do not conclude from this, “Then how can I meditate? Since I drink, how can I meditate?” If you do not meditate, you will not get out. Begin meditation; alcohol will interfere… You are not only alcohol. There is still some awareness in you—it has not been utterly destroyed; it is never destroyed. From that little bit of awareness, begin to meditate. In opposition to meditation, alcohol will pull you, push you, shake you; take it as a challenge. And put your awareness into meditation. Slowly you will find awareness growing larger, and alcohol’s grip growing smaller. One day awareness will be so vast that you will not even remember when alcohol dropped away.

Meditation is the remedy. There is no other. Lower the ladder of meditation into this pit. You will face a difficulty. You will say: on the one hand I say that drinking creates obstacles in meditation—certainly it does. If you meditate and do not drink, meditation will settle quickly; if you drink, it will take longer. Alcohol will hinder; it will try in every way to seduce you away from meditation. Because alcohol will feel that meditation is the enemy—you are moving into the enemy’s camp. If not today then tomorrow, if meditation happens, you will be free of it.

That is why I say: fall in love with meditation. You are not in alcohol twenty-four hours a day, Lalbhai! Sometimes you drink. If you miss meditation then, no great harm; but when you are not drinking, do not miss meditation. As the joy of meditation grows, you will find a revolution beginning.

Why does one drink? Because one is unhappy. And I know Lalbhai: he is unhappy. A good man, simple-hearted—and unhappy. There are restlessnesses in life; to forget them, one drinks. As long as one is drinking, the restlessness, the sorrow, are forgotten. Then when you come back to your senses, the sorrows stand up again. And when the sorrows stand up, no other device seems available—so drink again, forget again.

But drinking does not remove sorrow. It is no method of erasing it. It is the ostrich’s way: the enemy appears, you close your eyes and bury your head in the sand; the enemy does not disappear because of that. At some point you will take your head out of the sand—the ostrich has to go looking for food! You will have to go to shop and office. The moment you lift your head, the troubles are standing there again.

By meditating you will find the troubles begin to dissolve. You drink because of troubles; meditation begins to dissolve the troubles. Meditation starts bringing you out of sorrow. As you come out of sorrow, the need to drink will diminish. No one drinks knowingly and with real enjoyment—don’t fall into that notion. People choose alcohol in extreme misery. Only when a person is very unhappy does he want to forget himself. When one is happy, one has no desire at all to forget oneself.

I lived for many years in a certain city. A Muslim lawyer came to me and said, “I read what you say; it appeals to me. But I never came, because I knew that if I came I would get into a mess. The trouble is, I drink and I eat meat. And I assume you will certainly tell me to drop both.” I said, then you have not understood me at all. Why should I say, “Drop them”? Eat meat happily, drink happily. He said, “What are you saying! Am I really hearing this with my own ears?” I said, drink, eat, do whatever you do—I only say: begin meditation. I don’t tell you to drop something; I tell you to take hold of something. My approach is affirmative, not negative. I don’t tell you to banish darkness; I say, light a lamp. When the lamp is lit, the darkness will be gone.

He said, then if I don’t need to leave anything, it appeals; then I can be in tune with you. “I went to many saints; it never clicked, because they would at once say: drop meat, stop wine. I couldn’t do it, so the matter didn’t proceed.” I said, from today never raise before me the matter of meat and wine. That is your affair; you decide. My work is only that you meditate. From now on your relationship with me is of meditation—and swear that before me you will never again bring up wine and meat. He said, why would I? The matter is finished!

For a year he meditated—very sincerely; he was an honest man. After a year he came and said, “Forgive me, I will have to break my promise. Today I must speak about wine and meat.” I asked, what happened? He said, “After six months of meditation the taste for wine began to decline; by nine months, not only had the taste declined, but wine became a hindrance: when I drank, the bliss that would remain from meditation was lost; when I did not drink, the bliss was greater.”

Now understand: wine is for forgetting—if you are miserable it makes you forget misery; if you are blissful it makes you forget bliss. So there is only one way to drop wine: become blissful somehow. Then the real stake is on the table; if on that day you still want to drink, drink. When it has to make you forget bliss, you yourself will see it is a costly bargain. There is no substance in it. You spend money, drink, steal, quarrel with your wife, bear the strain leading to divorce, your children abuse you, the whole neighborhood thinks you mad, wherever you go you are disgraced—and the total result of all this is only that the bliss you had in your hands is lost!

So he said, “After nine months I gave up wine, because there was nothing in it anymore. Leave aside value—on the contrary, it was breaking the bliss that was ripening. It became an expensive bargain.” But until then there had been no difficulty with meat. After that, difficulties with meat began.

Meditation moves step by step, slowly. Wine was not as deep-rooted as meat, because he was a Muslim. He had started drinking only when he was grown, but meat-eating had been since childhood—he had been raised in it. Its conditioning was very deep, inherited from parents. Until you kill the parents within, you will not be free of it. That was a deeper matter; wine was superficial. So wine went first.

Then one day he came and said, “Today I went to a friend’s house for a meal. When meat was served, I suddenly felt nauseous. A great panic arose. Just seeing the meat, a storm rose within me, and until I went to the bathroom and vomited, there was no relief. And now I will not be able to eat meat. Far from eating, I am astonished just to think: how did I eat meat for the last forty-five years of my life? How?”

When your meditation deepens, these results begin to come on their own. So I say, Lalbhai: get into meditation! Let meditation and alcohol fight it out. Meditation always wins; alcohol always loses. For proof, there is the question of another drinker—Taru:

“For some time now I had been searching for just the right dose of alcohol. When unconsciousness begins to come, with resolve I hold that moment; a few moments later there is a great explosion of wakefulness, and simultaneously the intoxication drops all at once. Something inside has steadied so much that I cannot describe it. Now a certain trust in myself is growing. It seems the days I was looking for are not far. May I become capable of drowning in your wine alone—this much is my prayer. Because you left me to myself and did not condemn, today I will be able to drop a habit like drinking. How can I thank you! Now everything is going perfectly. The urge to take revenge has also dissolved. And you gave me a chance—is that a small thing! Now there is no condemnation either. But by waking and knowing, everything is falling away on its own. And it is not in my hands. This is not a question, it is a fact. Please accept my pranam!”

What has happened to Taru today can happen to Lalbhai tomorrow. One needs only a little courage, to hold one’s resolve, a little patient persistence in practice. Practice certainly bears fruit.

A very dirty child asked his father—Father, we’re all playing “detectives and thieves,” and I’m the detective. Please tell me what I should do so that my friends won’t recognize me. Son, just wash your face with soap; no one will recognize you, the father said.
“What should I do so that I may behold my true form?”
Just a little soap! Kabir called meditation the soap. Just a little meditation—give your face a wash; let a few splashes of meditation fall.

It is not a very difficult thing to understand that a politician cannot be religious. Politics means: how can I become powerful over others? The one who wants to be powerful over others is the very one who has no power over himself. It is his compensation.

Psychologists—especially Alfred Adler—say that those who carry an inferiority complex, who feel within, “I am inferior, I am nothing,” are the very people who get involved in politics. Because they have only one device: if they can sit on a big chair, they can show the world that they are somebody. And if the world accepts that they are somebody, then perhaps they too can start believing they are somebody. They have no other way.

Only people with an inferiority complex are keen on politics. The most inferior are eager for politics. In your capitals, the most inferior are gathered. The capital is almost full of criminals, full of madmen, full of the deranged.

But these criminals are very skilled criminals. They commit crimes with great order and rule. They commit crimes in such a way that it appears as if they are serving. They use the word “service” to commit crimes.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin had gone to Delhi. One evening he went for a walk in a garden. Winter was about to set in; a gentle cold had begun to grow; people had taken out their woollens. Nasruddin too put on his woollen coat and went strolling toward the garden. An old beggar asked for four annas. His condition was extremely pitiable—his stomach clung to his back, his clothes were in rags, his eyes, dim with weakness, seemed about to go out any moment.

Mulla Nasruddin said to him, “Old man, what will four annas do? For four annas you can’t get anything—not even dust! What will you buy with four annas? Here, take this five-rupee note.”

But the old beggar stepped back. He said, “No, sir, four annas are enough; because in a Delhi so full of politicians, carrying a large sum like five rupees is not without danger.”

All the dishonest, all the criminals, all kinds of tricksters gather in the capitals. The day the world has no capitals, the world will be much better. And the day there are no politicians in the world, the world will be much healthier. The day politics disappears from the world, that day there will be religion.

Religion is exactly the opposite journey. Religion means: I become the master of myself. Politics means: I become the master of others. Religion means: I go within. Politics means: my dominion should spread without. Religion is the search for the inner kingdom; politics is the search for the outer kingdom. Wealth is outside, position is outside—politics is interested in that. Meditation is within, the divine is within—religion is interested in that. Religion is an inward journey; politics is an outward journey.

So when I say a politician cannot be religious, it is a very simple matter: the one who has set out on the outer journey—how can he simultaneously go on the inner journey? To go on the inner journey, a necessary step is that the outer journey stop. The outer journey must end, must close. Because the very energy that is going out will have to come in. You have only one energy, only one life—wherever you invest it: either put it in service of the outer, or in the search within. The politician is extrovert; the religious is introvert.

That’s all for today.