Es Dhammo Sanantano #99

First, in the times of Mahavira and Buddha human consciousness was not yet capable of understanding so vast a synthesis. Even today it is hard to say how far consciousness has ripened. But the first rays are descending into human consciousness. What has become possible today was not possible twenty-five centuries ago. Today I can tell you that the Bible says what the Gita says. Today I can tell you that Buddha says what Mahavira says. And a few people—just a few—on the earth have become ready to understand and to listen to this.
In those days this was not possible. In those days, whoever listened to Mahavira had not listened to Buddha; whoever listened to Buddha had not listened to Mahavira. Whoever had read the Gita had certainly not read the Dhammapada. Whoever savored the Vedas had never, even by mistake, savored the Tao Te Ching. People lived in small circles, utterly unfamiliar with one another.
The chief beauty of this century is that all the scriptures have become available to everyone, and people have become eager—and somewhat able—to understand one another. Not everyone, I am not saying that; because not all people are contemporaries of their own time.
If you search in Poona you will find some who still live two thousand years ago, some who live five thousand years ago, some who have not yet left their caves. A few are living right now; they can understand. And a few are of tomorrow—of the coming day; for them the matter can be absolutely clear.
Man has evolved; human consciousness has grown; the bounds between have broken; the walls have fallen. What I am doing today was not possible earlier. Buddha and Mahavira must have desired it—I say with certainty they must have; how could they not?—but it was not possible. You cannot give a university education to a small child; he must first be sent to school, begin with the primary class. And much of what is taught there will be found to be wrong at the university. Much of it will be found unnecessary. But it was necessary to teach it; otherwise reaching the university would have been difficult.
So keep this first thing in mind: the level of human consciousness changes—it is dynamic, in movement. What is possible one day is not possible every day. What I am telling you here cannot right now be said in China; the same cannot be said in Russia. What I am telling you here, even if Mohammed had wanted to say it in Arabia fourteen hundred years ago, he could not have. There was no one to hear it, no one to understand it.
And there are many things I want to say to you but I am not saying them, because you will not understand. If I sometimes utter one of those, an obstacle arises immediately. Sometimes I try to say something you will not understand—something the future will understand. But the moment I say such a thing I find you become restless, disturbed. What you do not understand increases your trouble; it will not lessen it. You cannot be in favor of what you cannot even comprehend; you will turn against it, become its enemy.
So Buddha and Mahavira surely must have wanted to say, “What we are saying is the same”—and in essence there was no difference; there was a difference of language, of terminology, of conceptual frame; a difference of style. They had reached the same peak by different paths.
And you are right that if Buddha and Mahavira had stated it, then the harm to the two religions would not have happened. That is true—if it could have been said. It could not be said, because there was no one to hear, no one to understand. Had it been said, the harm to religion would have been less—that too is true.
But the event of saying depends on two—the one who speaks and the one who hears. Do not remember only Buddha and Mahavira; remember the listeners as well. One does not speak from the sky, from the void; one must look at the person being addressed. He has to be shifted inch by inch, advanced step by step. Tell him of something too far away and he sits down exhausted. He panics: “This is beyond me; I cannot go that far, nor do I want to.” He must be moved an inch. Once he dares an inch, the capacity to move another inch arises. You cannot speak of very distant things; you cannot speak of a destination he has not even glimpsed.
Had Buddha and Mahavira, without any concern for their listeners, declared, “What we say is one and the same,” only confusion would have increased. People would have started thinking, “If both say the same, then what exactly are they saying?”
So Mahavira had to say, “What I say is the truth.” And Buddha had to say the same. And therefore, what is said otherwise is wrong. And they said it knowing that it could also be said otherwise.
Consider this: you go to an allopathic doctor for treatment and ask, “The Ayurvedic physician suggests something different; the homeopath recommends another remedy; the naturopath says no medicine is needed at all—sit in water, apply mud packs, fast, and all will be well. Are they all right?” If the allopath says, “All are right—different roads to the same end,” and the homeopath says the same, and the Ayurvedic and the naturopath too, you will fall into great confusion. You will ask, “Where should I go? Whom should I listen to? Whom should I follow?”
Hearing that “all are right,” the likelihood is very small that anything beneficial will happen in your life—perhaps harm may occur. You came seeking a firm resolve. You wanted someone to pound the table and say, “What I say is right.” You are full of doubt; you are searching for trust. You need someone whose language, voice, and certainty can kindle in you the confidence that “Yes—staying here, something will happen.” If he says, “This is right, that too is right. Stay here or there—you will reach; all paths reach the same,” the great likelihood is that you will walk on no path at all—you will be very confused. Because the languages of Buddha and Mahavira are very different.
Mahavira says: To know the self is knowledge. Buddha says: There is no greater ignorance than to believe in a self. Now, both are right! If, in addition, Mahavira says, “I am right and Buddha is right,” and Buddha says, “I am right and Mahavira is right,” think of the poor listener! If “to know the self is the greatest knowledge,” and “to believe in a self is the greatest ignorance”—if both are right—then the listener will feel that both are mad. Instead of following them he will bow and depart: “You both be well; I am going! I will seek somewhere else where something is said cleanly, in pure logic, understandable.” People seek the clarity of mathematics.
For this very reason Mahavira did not get many followers, because he took a little more risk—more than Buddha. Buddha got more followers; he took less risk. You may be surprised to hear me say this. Mahavira showed great courage; its name is syadvada—anekantavada.
Someone asked Mahavira, “Is there God?” Mahavira said, “There is—and there isn’t; both are true, and both are false.” This is syadvada. Mahavira says, “Every statement can be made in many ways. What can be said through ‘is’ can also be said through ‘is not.’ Affirmation and negation can both be employed to express the same. They can even be employed together. And you can deny both together as well.”
Whoever heard Mahavira, his legs wobbled. “Syadvada! We came seeking faith, and we get ‘perhaps’—maybe this is right, maybe that too is right!” People afflicted with doubt cannot be satisfied with “perhaps.”
Therefore Mahavira did not get many followers. How many Jains are there—just a few! Their numbers never grew very large. And Jainism did not travel outside India—this hides both the difficulty of Jainism and the glory of India. Jainism could not reach beyond India because even in India—such a developed land then—only a few were found who could understand Mahavira. Outside India they could not find even a single person who could understand him.
So outside India Mahavira found no adherents—not that the Jains did not go. Jain monks went—to Egypt, to Arabia, to Tibet; there is evidence. The very word “gymnosophist” in English is their name. Gymno derives from “Jain.” Gymnosophist means a Jain seer. Jain monks went right into the heart of Egypt. But they found no one who could understand. Buddha found people across Asia who could. The lesson was not so difficult; it was simple, accessible.
Then the Jain monks had another insistence: they would not allow the teaching to be mixed, even a little; they would keep it purely pure. That insistence created difficulties. The Buddhist monks had no such insistence. In Tibet they compromised with Tibet; in China with China; in Korea and Japan too; wherever they went they compromised with what was there. They harmonized Buddha’s language with the local language. Buddhism spread—widely; all Asia became Buddhist.
Both were contemporaries—Mahavira and Buddha—both attained the same experience. Mahavira’s few followers can be counted even on fingers—now, even after twenty-five centuries, their number is not large: two and a half to three million. Is that a number! Had twenty-five to thirty families been initiated by Mahavira, their children would by now have become two and a half to three million. Very few were drawn to Mahavira—not because he was wrong, but because he was speaking a little ahead, of distant things. Buddha’s lesson is simple; many understood it.
But neither of them could muster the courage—neither Mahavira nor Buddha—to say: “Buddha is right in what he says; it is the same as what I say,” or the reverse. Their competition was direct. And such a statement would have spread great confusion. People need support, not entanglement.
Your question is right: many hassles would have been avoided if both had sat on the same platform and declared, “We both say the same.” Many hassles would be avoided—but many benefits would stop. The hassle would be avoided, quarrels not arise; but the benefit would cease, because no one would set out. The quarrel arises only when someone becomes a Buddhist and someone else becomes a Jain. Quarrel is the outcome of decision. When one man accepts with certainty that Mahavira is right and another that Buddha is right, then conflict begins.
Thus neither benefit nor harm would occur. If that is so, then what happened was appropriate—let there be some harm, and some benefit too. And those who needed to fight would have fought for some other excuse. Remember, those who are intent on fighting only need a pretext; they will find a new excuse anyway. The fighter’s urge does not vanish so easily; it simply finds new pretexts.
Did you notice? When India was under foreign rule, Hindus and Muslims fought. To stop the fight, India and Pakistan were divided. The partitioners thought, “This will end the quarrel—each has his own country; now there will be peace.” But was there peace? Bengali Muslims began to fight Punjabi Muslims. Gujaratis began to fight Maharashtrians. Hindi speakers began to fight non-Hindi-speaking Hindus.
These had not previously fought—did you ever notice? As long as Hindu and Muslim were fighting, Gujrati and Marathi were not; Hindi and Tamil were not. As long as Bengali and Punjabi were both Muslims, there was brotherhood—they had a common foe, the Hindu; they were united. Hindus were united against Muslims. Then the Muslim was cut away—Pakistan for Muslims, India for Hindus. Now whom to fight? The mind that wants to fight remained. Fight one must—new excuses had to be found. Bengal was cut off; there was a terrible war with Pakistan. Muslims fought Muslims more bitterly than Hindus and Muslims had ever fought. And in these last twenty or thirty years Hindus are fighting in a thousand ways. Now who are you fighting? Any small excuse—whether one district belongs to Maharashtra or to Mysore—will do; knives will be drawn. Whether Bombay should be Maharashtra’s capital or Gujarat’s—knives will be drawn. Which language—Hindi, Tamil, Bengali—should be the language of the country? And do not think such quarrels are easy to settle. Make one state for Hindi speakers and another for non-Hindi speakers—and you will find Hindi speakers fighting among themselves: Braj, Magadhi, Bundelkhandi, Chhattisgarhi—new quarrels!
If man wishes to fight, he will find new pretexts. If one must fight, any occasion will do.
Therefore I say: those who wanted to fight would have fought anyway. It would not be wise to deprive those who could benefit merely to pacify the fighters.
Buddha and Mahavira called those who could be helped—those who could find certainty—those in whom faith could take root—and they told them, “This is the path—this alone is the path,” so they might be utterly and deeply involved, without a flicker of doubt that there could be another way. Some reached. Some reached by Mahavira’s path, some by Buddha’s.
Yes, many fought. Forget the fighters—they would have fought in some other name. They simply need to fight.
But today the situation has changed; today the winds have changed. Today the world is a better place. The world has shrunk. Science has made it small. Now people read the Bible and the Gita and the Dhammapada. I have been speaking here on the Dhammapada for months; it is not that only Buddhists are listening. Hindus, Jains, Muslims, Christians are listening. This was not possible in the past. For the first time it is happening. The world has come closer, brotherhood has increased, people’s petty boundaries have cracked a little.
Not everyone’s—I am not saying that. Those whose boundaries have cracked are the owners of the future—the sons of the future—those who have arrived before their time. The future will be shaped by their hands. The rest are sliding along in the darkness of the past; they do not matter much. Those with a little understanding of the future, a little light in the consciousness, have begun to see that this earth is one, man is one—neither white and black are separate, nor Hindu and Muslim, nor Brahmin and Shudra. We are a single humanity, and the whole heritage of man is our heritage. Whether Krishna or Christ, Zarathustra or Mahavira, Buddha or Saraha—all are ours. We have to assimilate all; we have to drink all.
And today a possibility is arising that when one says, “All are right,” people will not be confused. In truth, now people can move only through this very understanding. Now, to say “Mahavira right and Buddha wrong,” or “Krishna right and Christ wrong,” creates confusion. If Krishna is wrong, then even a follower of Christ will begin to doubt: if Krishna is wrong, how can Christ be right? They say almost the same. If Mahavira is wrong, Buddha cannot be entirely right either—such questions arise now in the Buddhist’s mind; they never arose then.
Consider: Mahavira, Krishna, Christ, Moses, Zarathustra, Kabir, Nanak—thousands of saints—if only the one you believe in is right and the rest are all wrong, what does that mean? You believe in Nanak—only Nanak is right, the rest are wrong. Today a new doubt arises: if all the rest are wrong, it is highly likely that Nanak is wrong too. Ninety-nine are wrong and only Nanak is right—even though the ninety-nine say almost what Nanak says! Now, if Nanak is to be right, the ninety-nine will also have to be right. This is a new phenomenon.
In olden times it was the reverse: for Nanak to be right, the ninety-nine had to be wrong. Only then could the dull-minded, the narrow-minded proceed. Today the situation has turned completely; the whole wheel has revolved. Today, if Nanak is to be right, then Kabir must be right, Lao Tzu must be right, Bokuju must be right—wherever there have been saints in the world—of whatever hue, style, language, manner—they all must be right; only then can Nanak be right. Nanak can no longer stand alone; now he can stand only with all.
Human fraternity has grown. A new sky has opened. As science is one, so in the future religion will be one. One means this: two and two are four everywhere—whether you add in Tibet, China, India, or Pakistan; water turns to steam at one hundred degrees everywhere—America, Africa, Australia. It does not quibble, “This is Australia—here we will boil at ninety-nine!” If the laws of nature are one everywhere, how can the laws of the Divine be different? If the outer laws are one, the inner laws too must be one.
Science has laid the first foundation. Chemistry is not Hindu and Muslim; chemistry is simply chemistry. Physics is not Christian and Jain. It used to be otherwise long ago. You will be surprised to know: the Jains had one “geography,” the Buddhists another. Geography! Use some sense—geography different! But that “geography” was of heavens and hells; it was not of this earth. Of the geography of this earth they knew almost nothing. It was imaginary: seven heavens in one scheme, three in another, more in another; seven hells somewhere, seven hundred somewhere else. Maps were made—but all woven of imagination. So the “geographies” were different.
But how can this geography be different—the real geography? It is one. If this outer geography is one, the geography of the inner cannot be different either. Psychology is laying down the foundation stones: as the laws of the body are one, so the laws of the mind are one. And similarly the laws of the soul are one. The possibility has just begun that we may discover that one science, that one eternal law. What was said in the past pointed toward it, but not as clearly as it can be said today. Never was man as ready as he is now. The religion of the future will be one. In the future there will not be Hindus, Muslims, Christians; there will be the religious and the irreligious.
Styles of religion can differ. If someone delights in prayer, let him pray—but that is no cause for quarrel. If someone delights in meditation, let him meditate. If someone has a love for the architecture of temples, let him go to temples. If someone is enchanted by the design of the mosque, by its minarets, let him go to the mosque. But this has nothing to do with religion; it has to do with architecture, with aesthetic sense.
You build your house one way, I build mine another—this creates no quarrel. I build my God’s house one way, you build yours another—why should that create quarrel? I build mine round, you build yours square—there is no quarrel. The purpose of a house is one: that I will live in this round house, you will live in that square one. We build houses to live in.
There must be that much freedom—that whoever wishes should build as he likes; in old style or new; ancient design or an invented one; with a high roof or low; with a garden or without; with plants or with sand—a matter of taste! We do not quarrel about these things. Nor do we say, “You live in a slanted house, you in a round, I in a square—therefore we are different, therefore we must fight, our ‘principles’ differ.”
There is no greater difference than this between temple and mosque either. To each his own joy! The mosque is very lovely too. Remove the Hindu’s eye for a while and look—there is a great longing expressed in the mosque. Those soaring minarets toward the sky are symbols of man’s aspiration—to touch the heavens. The mosque’s silence, its peace—there is not a single image, not a single picture, because images and pictures can also be obstacles. It is silence—the very silence that should happen within in meditation. The mosque has its own beauty—the beauty of emptiness.
The temple has its own joy. It is more full of celebration, colors; there are images of many kinds, small and large. But the temple keeps its own festivity—the bell is there; ring the bell, wake the Lord, wake yourself, worship. The round dome of the temple, the form of the mandapa, the mantras rising beneath it, falling back upon you; the mantra showers again and again. In a temple if you intone Aum, the whole temple resounds and returns it to you, pours it back upon you; ring a bell and its echo continues. This world is the echo of God—maya. God is the source; this world is the reverberation, the shadow. The temple speaks a different language, but the indication is the same. And there are a thousand kinds of temples.
In the world only the religious and the irreligious will remain. But there should not be Hindus, Muslims, Christians. This is about the future. The experiment happening here is a small experiment for that future, but one that holds great possibility.
People come and ask me, “What are you making people into?” A Christian missionary came and asked, “Many Christians come to you—are you making them Hindus?” I said, “I myself am not a Hindu—how can I make them Hindus?” He asked, “Then who are you?”
I am simply religious. I am making them religious. And I am not cutting them off from their church; in truth I am joining them. If a Christian, after coming to me, does not become more truly a Christian, he has not come to me. If a Muslim does not, for the first time, become truly a Muslim, he has not come to me. A Hindu should, by coming to me, become even more Hindu. My intention is very different. Those old days are gone! That narrow consciousness is gone!
But Mahavira and Buddha—even if they had wanted—could not have done this. I know from my own side: there are many things I want to do, but cannot—you are not ready. Even in trying to do the few things I do, the crowd around me has thinned. Because whenever I want to do something and it goes just a little beyond your capacity, beyond your courage, you flee; you become my enemies. A few daring ones remain; even their courage has its limits. If I wanted to sift even these, I could do so in a single day; there is no obstacle. I know their courage—how far it goes. Beyond that, they will not hear; beyond that they will say, “Then we are leaving—now you do as you wish.”
If I were to tell you the entire future today, perhaps no one would remain here to listen except me. Then what would be the point of saying? I know it anyway—what is there to say?
Whenever someone has experienced truth, the experience is one—but when he binds it in words, he does so looking at the listener. Two things must be remembered in addressing him. First: do not say it in such a way that it fits him completely—otherwise he will not grow. Second: do not say it so opposite to him that he cannot move at all. Between these two a balance must be created. Say something that matches him, so he remains connected. And say something that does not match, so he moves forward.
Have you seen how you climb stairs? You place one foot on one step and plant it firmly; then you lift the other foot. One foot remains on the old step; you put the other on the new. When the second foot is firmly planted on the new step, then you lift the first from the old. One foot remains fixed in the old and one is raised toward the new—only then is there movement. If you lift both feet together you will break your bones—you will fall. And if you keep both planted you will not grow. Growth happens when one foot remains in the old and one explores the new. This balance has to be kept in mind.
That is why I speak on the Gita—so that one of your feet remains planted in the old. But I do not say on the Gita what others are saying; with your other foot I am sliding you forward the whole time. I speak on the Dhammapada; but no Buddhist has spoken on it the way I am speaking—because my vision is different. One foot remains planted; you feel assured: “It is the word of Bhagwan Buddha—no harm.” With the other foot I am moving you. I speak on Mahavira. You listen with great delight: “It is about Bhagwan Mahavira.” You relax. You drop all your defenses and sit completely ready, “This is our own scripture.” In that very moment I slide one of your feet forward. The more relaxed you become, the easier it is for me.
I speak on the Gita, the Bible, the Dhammapada, on Mahavira to put you at ease. You feel, “This is the old, our own scripture; there is no danger here.” Thinking there is no danger, you lay down your shield and sword. That is exactly where the danger begins. From there I pull you a little further.

What Krishnamurti says is entirely right—one hundred percent right. But Krishnamurti’s way is very narrow. It is completely right, yet it is like a footpath. My way is a great royal road. On my path, Buddha, Krishna, Christ, Moses, Zarathustra, Bodhidharma, Lao Tzu—all are included. So I include Krishnamurti as well; no difficulty arises for me—my house is spacious. Krishnamurti lives in a small room. The room is perfectly fine; nothing is wrong with it. In my large house Krishnamurti’s room fits easily, but my large house cannot be contained in Krishnamurti’s room.

Krishnamurti is Hinayanist; I am Mahayanist. Krishnamurti’s boat is a small dinghy—you know, in small villages at most one person sits and rows out to catch a fish. My vessel is big, a great ship—Mahayana. Come aboard from every direction, all kinds of people: those who follow every scripture, every doctrine—there is room for all. That’s why.

Krishnamurti is absolutely right, but his way is very narrow. You will arrive by that way—those who are walking it, I do not tell them to leave—certainly you will arrive; keep walking, the path leads home. It is like a narrow track. A footpath also reaches the destination. But let me say this: do not think that those who are not on that path never arrive. They arrive too. Those who walk the royal road arrive as well. Don’t imagine that because it is a royal road it fails to reach.

So Krishnamurti’s position and mine are different. I can easily praise him; I have no difficulty—what I say does not contradict what he says. But he cannot praise me, because then what I say would contradict his stance. The clean, clear path he has made—if he were to say even once that what I am saying is right—his whole path would get disturbed. Since I have called all paths right, only one who calls all paths right can call me right—remember this. I do not call any path wrong. Krishnamurti does not have that much inclusiveness.

In saying this I am not calling it a fault. Each has his own flavor. Some people enjoy walking by a footpath; there is no harm—let them walk happily. And to the one tired of his little dinghy and of walking along a narrow track, I say: if you are weary, don’t worry—come aboard the ship; bring your dinghy too, keep it with you. Whenever you wish you can put your dinghy in the water again and get down. Your footpath will also fit on this great road—bring it along. And someday, if you are tired of the crowd, of the noise and festivity of the grand highway, take up your footpath and step aside for a while.

Krishnamurti has a difficulty. He cannot say I am right. If he does, his entire approach will wobble. To say I am right would mean taking on the whole uproar, because in what I say, Krishna is included; in what I say, Buddha is included; in what I say, Mahavira is included; in what I say, Mohammed is included. To say yes to me would mean saying that all the streams of consciousness that have appeared in humankind until now are right. Krishnamurti cannot take that risk. His neat and orderly path would be thrown into disarray.

Krishnamurti has made a garden—clean, orderly, as clear as mathematics. My way is like a jungle. It isn’t neat—the jungle cannot be neat. You make a garden, lay a lawn, shape the beds, arrange everything—so is Krishnamurti’s way. Therefore those whose mathematics is keen, and who can move only by intellect, will find Krishnamurti’s message exactly right—mathematical, logical.

My way is like a jungle. It is more natural. I have not tried to shape it much; I have accepted it as it is—my path is spontaneous. Those who have the courage to enter a jungle, walk with me. Those who have the courage to walk over uneven ground, walk with me. Those who have the courage to step into the trans-rational, walk with me. The trans-rational is not the opposite of reason; it is beyond reason. The trans-rational can contain reason, but reason cannot contain the trans-rational. That is the difficulty.

So do not be angry with Krishnamurti. He has his own arrangement, his own discipline. In maintaining that discipline he cannot say yes to me. If he says yes, the discipline will break. I too would not wish his discipline to break; from that discipline some people are walking—they will arrive. He should keep his discipline strong. He should not let the jungle enter his garden. That is perfectly right. If the jungle enters your garden, your carefully arranged order will be uprooted. What will happen to your lawn? To the footpaths you have laid? To the clean, clear avenues you prepared? No—the jungle should not be allowed into the garden; it must be kept at bay.

Therefore you are right to say, “Sometimes it seems he is about to say something otherwise, but then avoids it.”
He cannot speak in my favor—that is certain. Nor does he speak against me. Because he knows that what I am saying is right, he cannot speak against it.

Take note of this: he cannot speak in my favor, because the arrangement he has made would be disturbed. He cannot speak against me, because he knows that what I am saying is true. In himself he knows that what I am saying is true.

Once it so happened that I came to Bombay—arrived that very evening from Calcutta, and that night I had to go to Delhi. Krishnamurti was in Bombay. Someone must have told him that I had arrived. He said, “Arrange a meeting at once.”

That friend came running. His name was Paramananda Kapadia, a Gujarati editor and writer—he came dashing in. I was preparing to go to the airport, sitting in the car, when he arrived. I said, “This is difficult! Of course I would have met him, but right now it’s awkward; I will return after four days…” But the next morning Krishnamurti was to leave for London, so we could not meet.

His eagerness—his immediately saying, “Arrange somehow that we meet right now”—is proof that inwardly he gives witness to what I am saying and doing, but outwardly he cannot give that witness. Nor should he. If he did, harm would follow.

I have great ease, great freedom. I have chosen a kind of non-system: today I speak on the devotee, tomorrow on the meditator; today on this path, tomorrow on that. Because I have chosen this non-system, I have a freedom such as no one has had before. Buddha is limited, Mahavira limited, Krishna limited, Christ limited, Krishnamurti limited, Ramakrishna–Ramana limited. All have their boundaries. They speak only what fits within their system. Outside that, they either evade or deny. I have great ease.

So I say: Krishnamurti is right; whoever resonates with him—certainly go with him—you will arrive. But I do not expect that Krishnamurti will say the same about me. If he does, his path will be thrown into disorder.

Understand this.
If you are full of attachment to the world, how will compassion arise at all? The greater the attachment to worldly things, the harder, more violent, more jealous the mind becomes. The more you cling to things, the less your capacity to give; mercy diminishes—mercy meaning the capacity to give.

So your question seems logical on the surface, but inside it is hollow. You ask: if one drops all attachment to the world, won’t compassion and mercy be dropped too?

No—exactly the opposite happens. The day you drop all attachment, you will find only compassion remains—pure compassion. The very energy that had become attachment becomes compassion. The moment attachment to the world falls away, waves of a single feeling remain in your heart—compassion. A wish remains to see the whole world happy. Why? Because now you are happy—what else could there be? Now you are blissful; you will wish that the whole world be blissful. Now you know such bliss is possible. And if it can happen to me, it can happen to all.

It is out of this compassion that Buddha spoke. Otherwise, why speak at all? If attachment had really ended—and if your view were true—what would there be to explain? He would have closed his eyes, drowned in himself, and disappeared.

But he could not disappear into himself—no one ever can. When they were in suffering they fled to the forest, but when bliss arrived they returned to the town. They had to share! In the forest, with whom would they share?

Keep this in mind. Mahavira fled to the forest when he was in anguish; Buddha too fled when he was in anguish. In a way, when one is in pain, going away is appropriate; staying here one would only spread pain. Pain spreads pain. They withdrew; the sick man goes to the forest so at least he won’t infect others. Your disease is contagious; it is good to go to the forest. When the disease is cut and health arises, then return. Because just as disease is contagious, health too is contagious. So the supremely wise first headed for the forest; and when they found it—when the diamond fell into their hands—they returned. They had to return: the diamond must be shared.

With the finding of this diamond, a great responsibility also comes: now give it; it can be everyone’s—let them know; awaken the sleepers; shout; climb the rooftops and call out. Do what you can so none remains asleep. If only four days of your life are left, spend them calling.

Buddha lived forty-two years after enlightenment; for forty-two years he called tirelessly—morning and evening, village to village. Mahavira too wandered for forty years, calling out, striking a blow, that somehow someone might awaken.

There is a short poem by Rabindranath Tagore—Abhisar (The Tryst). It gives a beautiful glimpse of the sannyasin’s vision of life. The sannyasin leaves the world for its pleasures, but not for service. For service, he becomes the world’s—truly for the first time, and forever. In renouncing pleasure he becomes even more the world’s. For as long as you are eager for the world’s pleasures, you are a beggar; you are asking of the world—what will you give? The day you drop the craving for pleasure, you become the master, the emperor. Now you can give. Because of pleasure we seek to be served. In renouncing pleasure, service begins—service as giving.

In this poem Tagore says: it is night. Drunk on the intoxication of youth, the city courtesan Vasavadatta goes out to her tryst.

In those days they called the courtesan the “city-dancer,” the “city-bride”—bride of all. The most beautiful girl in the city was made the city’s bride so there would be no rivalry, no chaos. For the fairest one there would be much competition, strife. So they made the fairest belong to all, not to one. Vasavadatta was supremely beautiful. It is a tale from Buddha’s time; Tagore wrote his poem on this story.

Vasavadatta goes to her assignation, riding in her flower-decked chariot. She was the most beautiful young woman of those days. She halts, seeing the Buddhist monk Upagupta by the road.

Upagupta, a disciple of Buddha, was passing by. Vasavadatta had seen emperors, emperors begging at her door; princes thronged her threshold; not all could gain her company—Vasavadatta was costly. But she had never seen such a beautiful human being as this monk Upagupta: in his saffron robe, alms bowl in hand, walking in calm dignity. He neither looked at the road nor the bustle nor at Vasavadatta; his eyes were fixed four feet ahead—as Buddha would say, “Do not look more than four feet ahead”—and he walked silently by. There was a unique grace in his gait, found only in a sannyasin’s stride. One who has nothing to get or to do has shed his tensions. He is not reading the shop signs here and there, not looking at things or people. When there is nothing to take from this world, what is there to look at? He is serene—absorbed within—silently walking on.

A sannyasin becomes uniquely beautiful. Nothing beautifies a person like sannyas. If, having renounced, you do not become beautiful, know that some mistake is happening. And the sannyasin wears no adornment. Sannyas itself is such an adornment that no other is needed.

You have seen: the worldly pleasure-seeker may look beautiful in youth, but as old age approaches he grows ugly. In the sannyasin the opposite occurs; as he grows older he becomes more beautiful. For sannyas has no old age; sannyas never grows old—it is ever young.

That is why we have made the statues of Buddha and Mahavira youthful—to declare that the sannyasin is ever young. We have made their images filled with incomparable beauty. They possess nothing—no finery, no adornment. With Krishna we have the convenience of decorating the image—peacock-feather crown, silken garments, anklets, bracelets, pearl necklaces. Buddha and Mahavira have nothing. Buddha has only a single robe draped about him; Mahavira not even that—he stands nude. And yet there is an incomparable beauty—a beauty needing no embellishment.

This is how Vasavadatta must have seen Upagupta passing. And Vasavadatta knew beauty; she had experienced the most beautiful; the most beautiful yearned to come to her—she stopped her chariot. Seeing the monk Upagupta, she was transfixed. In the lamplight—under the roadside lamp—she beheld the strong, healthy, radiant, fair-complexioned monk and could not take her eyes off him. Such a form she had never seen. The natural beauty of renunciation shook her heart. Until now, others had fallen in love with her; for the first time, Vasavadatta fell in love. She invited the monk home. The monk answered with a most precious line:

“The day the time arrives,
I myself will come to your bower.”

Vasavadatta said, “Monk, come to my house! Sit in the chariot, I will take you home!” And the monk said, “I will come—surely I will come. The day the time arrives, I myself will come to your bower. Vasavadatta, you won’t even have to call me; I will come on my own.” He waited for the right time.

And for a long time the time did not come. Vasavadatta waited and waited. She could not settle. The colors and pleasures of this world no longer charmed her. Many men came, relations were formed—she was the city’s courtesan, that was her work—but now she saw no radiance in any body, no beauty. The calm eyes of Upagupta followed her—day and night, in dreams.

But she had heard Upagupta: “When the time comes, I will come.” He had spoken so firmly that she knew clearly: Upagupta was not one who could be swayed; what he had said would be. She would have to wait for the time. “I will myself come to your bower.” So she did not try to call him again. Perhaps crossing the road now and then she saw Upagupta—but it was not fitting to speak. The sannyasin had spoken. Waiting and waiting—her whole life passed.

Then one night—a full-moon night—Upagupta was walking along the road. He saw someone lying sick at the roadside, outside the village. He lifted the person into his lap; ruined, the body eaten up by the sores of the spring-disease. In the light he looked—ah, Vasavadatta! Youth was gone, the body ravaged, the final hour near. The disease of spring had covered the body with sores; there was no way to save her. No lover remained now—at such moments where are lovers? Even the city would not keep her; they had driven her out—who would keep such a diseased body in the city? Her deadly sickness might infect others.

This great disease—what we call the disease of spring—we even chose its name well in this land! The whole body, through sexual debility, is covered with pustules. A venereal disease, yet we named it “spring disease”—the disease of youth, of spring. What had appeared as beauty now showed itself as ugliness. What had seemed a radiance on the skin became a wound. The whole body filled with sores, rotting, stinking terribly. Who would keep her in the city? She was thrown outside the village. This was the very woman people once carried on their heads; whose feet emperors kissed.

At the last hour, with the spring-disease in its final stage, with no lovers left, far from the city, helpless on the road, she lay crying, dying. Vasavadatta opened her eyes and, in a faint voice, said, “Merciful one, who are you?”

“I am the monk Upagupta—surely you have not forgotten? You have not forgotten, have you? I had said:

‘The day the time arrives,
I myself will come to your bower.’

It seems the time has come, and I am here. Tell me how I may serve you—command me. I have come, Vasavadatta! I have come prepared to serve you. That day, had I come, I would have asked service of you. On that day those came who needed your service. Today I have come, ready to serve you.”

Tagore’s poem is most precious. It helps the sannyasin keep a luminous inner remembrance. Remember it. One must drop the world; one must also drop worldly attachment. But this does not mean sannyas should make you hard, miserly, stone-hearted—if so, you missed.

And it often happens. Your so-called saints and monks—on the day they drop the world’s attachments—they also drop mercy and compassion. Your so-called sannyasis are dry people. They dropped attachment and from that day they became afraid. Out of fear they withered themselves. They are sapless. No new leaves sprout on them, no new flowers bloom. That is why you do not see beauty in their lives. There is an ugliness in their lives. They are like deserts—and you go on worshipping them! Your worship is dangerous, because looking at them, slowly you too will become dry.

This misfortune befell this country. The sannyasin of this land slowly became empty of life’s compassion. Compassion does not arise in him. Let people die—they die. Let people rot—they rot. He says, “What have we to do with it? We have renounced the world.”

Renounce the world—fine. But have you also renounced compassion? Then you will not understand Buddha’s compassion, Mahavira’s nonviolence, or Christ’s service. Make this your touchstone: compassion must arise. Only then know that renunciation is traveling in the right direction.

Patanjali has said, raso vai sah—the Truth is rasa, the sap, the savor. The sannyasin is not against rasa! Let the sap not flow wastefully into the world; let it flow as compassion, as mercy, as service. Let the sap not make you a beggar, but an emperor; not a petitioner, but a giver. Pour out the sap; give it.

Therefore, if your renunciation frees you from attachment but also robs you of compassion, know you have missed. The arrow did not hit the mark; it went astray. A mistake has occurred. The very purpose of freeing you from attachment is that your life-energy become compassion. If attachment falls away and compassion does not arise, then the world is lost and the Truth not found. You become like the washerman’s donkey—neither of the house nor of the riverbank—belonging nowhere.

And most of your monks and saints are like the washerman’s donkey—neither of the house nor of the ghat. The world has been dropped, but Truth has not been found. Outer beauty is gone; inner beauty has not arrived. They are stuck. Their stream of sap has dried up. They have become a desert. At most a few thorn-bushes grow in a desert, and that is all. No trees grow to shade a traveler, no trees bear juicy fruit to ease someone’s hunger. Neither anyone’s hunger is appeased nor anyone’s thirst quenched—these dry people stand there, and you go on worshipping them! Worshiping them is dangerous, for seeing them, you too will grow dry.

This country suffered this misfortune deeply. Its sannyasin gradually became empty of compassion. People may die—let them die. People may rot—let them rot. “What have we to do with it? We have left the world.”

Let the world go—that is fine. But if you also let compassion go, you will not understand Buddha’s compassion, Mahavira’s nonviolence, or Christ’s service. Use this as the criterion. Compassion must be born. Only then know that renunciation is moving in the right direction.

The God of the priests is only as true as they are true. Your God will be only as true as you are. Your God cannot be truer than you. After all, your God is yours! If you are false, your God will be false. If you are false, your worship will be false, your prayer will be false. It depends on you. If you are dead within, your God will be dead. Your God cannot be otherwise than you.

What is the priest’s God? A web of words. Something read in scriptures, not something lived or experienced. The priest’s God exists to exploit you, not to transform his own life. He builds temples, but not for his inner transformation; he gives sermons, but not because his life has been transformed. There is profit in it—some other gain—he keeps you entangled.

Karl Marx said religion is the opium of the people. That is ninety-nine percent true. Regarding the priest-run religion, it is absolutely right. Religion is an opiate. But it is not one hundred percent true, so I cannot agree with Marx. Because there is also a religion that belongs to the Buddhas, to the awakened ones—those who have known. If the only religion were the priest’s religion, then Marx would be completely right. Marx is both right and wrong: right about the so-called religion, wrong about real religion.

Learn your God from one who has known God. Sit with, keep satsang with, the one who has come into some intimacy with God—whose hand has at least touched God’s hand. Even if it has only brushed it, that will do; for if it has touched, it won’t be long before it is held. And when someone’s hand has come into God’s hand, his very life-breath begins to become one with God’s breath. In whom such a bridge has arisen—keep his company, do satsang with him.

That is why we call one a saint: a saint is one into whose life Truth has descended, one whose life has become Truth. Keep the company of a saint; don’t keep circling around priests. The priest is your hired help. You give him a hundred rupees and he comes to your house to perform a ritual. Don’t give him a hundred, he’ll offer a polite bow and leave. If nobody pays, the rituals stop—he will never do them. He is not concerned with worship; he is doing a job.

A rich man was sitting in his garden, talking with a friend. Mid-conversation he asked, Tell me, in making love with a woman, how much is labor and how much is joy? How much is burden, like work, and how much is play, like pleasure? His friend said, Fifty percent work—burdensome, something you have to do—and fifty percent play, pleasure. But the rich man said, No, I think it’s ninety percent work and only ten percent play.

An old gardener was working nearby. They called him over and said, Let’s ask this old gardener—what does he say? They asked, Old man, we are debating: in lovemaking, how much is joy and how much is work? I say ninety percent work and ten percent joy; my friend says fifty-fifty. What do you say? The old gardener replied, Master, it’s a hundred percent joy. If it weren’t a hundred percent, you gentlemen would have us servants do it for you. If it were only work, you would hire help for it.

You don’t hire servants for love, but you do for prayer. And prayer is the ultimate flowering of love. When you love, you do it yourself; you don’t delegate it to servants. But for prayer, you hire a priest. You are having your prayer done by someone else—by a hired hand. So if your prayer never reaches the Divine, is it any wonder?

Prayer is love; it is love’s supreme state. Only you can do it. It is not the work of middlemen or brokers.

And a broker’s enthusiasm is in the money he gets from you. Give a hundred rupees and he’ll do it for half an hour; give two hundred and he’ll go an hour; give five hundred and he’ll keep at it all day. Give nothing, and he won’t come to pray even once; the temple bell won’t ring, the ritual tray won’t be set, flowers won’t be offered. So this priest who is performing worship—this ritual he does—is it worship of God or worship of money? As long as you pay, all is fine—there is God and devotion and praise; and the moment the money stops, everything vanishes.

I heard a Russian tale. It’s about an old peasant. Like all Russian peasants, his life was full of hardship. For years he and his wife lived with their two sons in a single room. One son went to the army and died at the front. The other took a job in a distant city. After some time the wife passed away, and the village soviet took his room and allotted it to a newlywed couple, arranging a corner for him behind a curtain in a neighbor’s room. For the first time in seventy years, a spark of rebellion lit up in the peasant’s heart.

Twice a year—on May Day and on the anniversary of the Revolution—the village streets were decorated with flags and placards that read: Lenin lives; Lenin lived, lives, and will live forever. Reading those words, it occurred to the old peasant: why not go to Moscow and pray to the all-powerful Lenin himself to get my room back! He had never in his life gone more than a few miles from his village, but he begged and borrowed enough for the fare and took the train to Moscow.

As luck would have it, asking around in Moscow he ended up before a high official of the Communist Party’s Central Committee. He told his whole story and said, Please arrange for me to meet Comrade Lenin, so I can ask him personally to get my room back. The official was taken aback. Concealing his surprise, he told the peasant that Lenin had died long ago.

Now it was the peasant’s turn to be shocked. The official explained that Lenin’s body was kept in his mausoleum in Red Square. But the peasant insisted: The banners clearly say Lenin lives, lived, and will live forever! The official patiently explained that this only means Lenin’s inspiration is alive and guides us. He spoke with great emotion. When he finished, the peasant quietly stood up to leave. At the door he turned and said, Now I understand, sir: when you need him, Lenin comes alive; when I need him, Lenin dies.

A priest too needs God—for some reason of his own. Keep this in mind. In 1917 the revolution came to Russia. Before that, Russia was as religious a country as India: great churches, great priests, grand houses of worship, and very religious people. Then the revolution came, and within ten years all the churches disappeared, all worship vanished, all the priests were gone, and Russia became atheist. Is it believable that in just ten years truly religious people became irreligious?

A communist once asked me, How did this happen? I said, It happened because they were never religious to begin with. If they had been religious, what difference would it have made that the state changed, the politics changed? It would have made no difference. They were never religious. It was all false religion. The priest was in a job. When employment came in God’s name, he sang God’s praises. When employment began to come in Lenin’s name, he began to sing Lenin’s praises. Earlier he carried the Bible on his head; later he carried Das Kapital, Marx’s book. He is the same man. Then too he was in a job; now too he is in a job. And the public had no real concern then, nor does it now. Then people thought hiring worship would bring some benefit, so they hired it. Now they think offering flowers at the Communist Party’s flag or visiting Lenin’s mausoleum brings benefit, so they do that.

People are not religious. The priest is false, and those who follow him are false.

Don’t get caught in this falsity. If you truly seek Truth, don’t look for brokers, don’t look for intermediaries. Stand directly before the Divine. And if you sense that in someone’s life a ray has descended, keep company with that ray. Live near a saint. With priests and pundits you will not be transformed—they are in your service; how can they change you? The priest is your hired help; he cannot change you. He does what you want. One who runs on your wants cannot transform you.

Only with saints is transformation possible—because they have nothing to take from you. If even your praise is needed by them, know that you are with the wrong person. If even your flattery is sought, know that nothing will happen there. Seek the one who wants nothing from you—neither your praise nor your approval; who has no concern with your opinions; who does not care whether you honor him or dishonor him; who has no use for you at all. If you learn to sit near such a one, perhaps the breeze of God will begin, slowly, to touch you. Sit near the one whose window is open, and a breeze will touch you too. Seek the true Master.

First of all, if you want to know more about that matter, then you should ask either Shri Sathya Sai Baba or Baba Muktananda. They know the details. And I kept silent then, and I will remain silent now. Some things can only be said through silence.
You ask what the outcome was?
The outcome is that the Japanese young woman is now thinking of coming back, of returning. She is full of hesitation, afraid, because she took part in this whole conspiracy; now she is afraid of how to come here. Yet she aches to come.
There are some Japanese friends here; I will say to them that when you go back to Japan, tell her not to be anxious and to come back. No one here will say anything to her, no one will ask anything. What happened, happened. I suffered no loss; I cannot be harmed. There is nothing you can take away from me. What is mine is so wholly mine that you cannot take it from me; I did not take it from you. Whether you offer respect or insult, it makes not the slightest difference. Your insult and your respect are the same. My reputation is not based on you. My standing rests on myself. My roots are within me; I do not draw my nourishment from you. Therefore, if you withhold nourishment, nothing of mine is diminished. That is why I kept silent.
But compassion arises for that girl. She got entangled needlessly. She has surely suffered great harm. So, to the Japanese friends here: when you return, find her and tell her to come—this is her home. And such mistakes do happen to human beings. There is no need to worry about it. Here there will be no questioning; no one will ask her anything, no one will trouble her, no one will go into the details. There is no point in going into the details. The “mahatmas” who persuaded her to carry out that propaganda did me no harm, but they badly damaged that girl’s life.
As for those who persuaded her, she can never again have faith in those mahatmas; and the one in whom she did have faith, they made her needlessly break that faith. But faith does not really break in this way. She must have fallen into temptation. She had difficulties; she must have been lured. She was a student; there were financial constraints; she still had to study; she wanted to study Sanskrit—a work of years—and she did not have a penny. She must have yielded to temptation.
But because she yielded to greed, there can be no respect for these mahatmas. And since she spoke what she did only out of greed, it cannot be that she herself feels what she said is true. Others who heard it may have believed it to be true, but how can she herself believe it to be true? Therefore her conscience pricks her. I feel compassion for her. So it would be good if someone could get this message to her.

First of all, if you accept that “I am just like the monk Vajjiputta,” then you are no longer like Vajjiputta. The difference has already begun. A great distinction has arisen. The one who has realized “I am ignorant” has begun in knowledge. The one who has seen “I am foolish”—now foolishness will start to break. The one who has understood “I am in darkness” has already set out in search of light. With this very understanding, the first step has been taken.
To understand, “I am like the monk Vajjiputta—renunciate, yet my attachment to the world remains,” is a precious thing. This is precisely what Vajjiputta did not know: that he was a sannyasin and yet his attachment to the world remained. Had he seen this, things would have been different. You have seen it.
That is why the story of Vajjiputta is told—so that you may come to know. There are others here too who are like Vajjiputta, but they have not asked; only Subhash has asked. So the story has reached Subhash; Subhash has benefited. The rest must have heard and said, “It is someone else’s story; there must have been some Vajjiputta, some simpleton who became a sannyasin and yet remained worldly—we are not like that!” They did not apply it to themselves. They left Vajjiputta’s tale with Vajjiputta. They missed. Subhash is discerning. He has admitted, “I am like Vajjiputta.” In this very acceptance, the separation has begun.
And the second thing Subhash has said is, “But I am not preparing to run away.”
You will not be able to do that—for several reasons.
First, Subhash is lazy. To run away you need at least a little... a person has to do something even to run away. Your laziness is your good fortune. You won’t be able to run. So there is a benefit to laziness—don’t be anxious. Had you not been lazy, perhaps you would have run. Subhash is thoroughly lazy—he could one day become the crown-jewel of the lazy. Listen to Ashtavakra, imbibe Lao Tzu; transform laziness itself into practice. Running away and all that is not going to happen with you. To run away requires activity, diligence—that is not in your capacity.
Second, it was easier to run away from Buddha than it is to run away from me. Buddha was strict—strict in the sense that his process was arduous, strict in the sense that his path was one of austerity. I am not strict. My path is easy, not of austerity—my way is of naturalness. Yes, sometimes when I see that for a certain person the path of austerity will fit, I tell him, “Do it,” because that is what is natural for him. Remember my reason for saying yes. My yes is not because I am a partisan of austerity; it is only because, for that person, austerity itself is natural.
Sometimes I even say yes to someone for fasting: “Do it,” because I see that for that person nothing is as natural as fasting. But my reason is always naturalness. I look to see what is natural, what will come into rhythm with you, with which you can move simply. So whatever you are doing, I seek your path within that. I say, from where you are, you can reach the divine. You need not become otherwise; begin the journey from just there. As you are, begin.
Buddha’s word was strict. Buddha would say, first you will have to become such-and-such, then the journey to the divine will begin.
Understand the difference.
Buddha used to say that first you must come to a particular crossroads; from that crossroads the road leads toward truth. And between that crossroads and you there may be a great distance. Between Vajjiputta and that crossroads there must have been a long gap; he could not reach there. I say you are already at the crossroads from which the way goes. Therefore you do not have to traverse some road to come onto the way—you are already on it—and you have only to make right use of the materials available to you right there.
So I do not tell a drunkard to give up even his liquor. If it drops, that is another matter—just the other day, Taru had his bottle offered to me—yes, it drops, that is another matter; but I had never told him to. Now he has sent the bottle of his own accord; it’s up to him! If he wants it back, I can return it. I have no quarrel with a bottle of wine. What fault is there in the bottle?
She has asked me many times that Bhagwan should just say it—and I knew that if I said it she would drop it, she would agree; she was only waiting for my word. But I never told her to drop it. Because if she dropped it because I said so, it would become difficult. If she dropped it because I said so, it would be coercion. I am not in favor of coercion. I can be patient. I waited—it will drop, some day it will drop. When it drops by itself, then there is joy in it; then there is a certain beauty in it.
Now she herself has sent the bottle to me with her own hands. I am keeping the bottle safe for her—what if she needs it again? So I am always ready to give it back. The bottle can be asked back without hesitation. And even then there will be no condemnation in my mind as to why you asked for the bottle back. Because all my effort here is simply that you become as natural as possible, as simple as possible; from your simplicity a fragrance will begin to arise; from your simplicity you will begin to move toward truth.

Then, for everyone, simplicity takes a different form—keep this in mind. What is simple for one person can be difficult for another. Take Subhash, for example: for Subhash, laziness is absolutely natural. If he were to fall into the hands of someone like Buddha, he would be in trouble. Buddha will not make a separate arrangement for this. He has one system; within that system Subhash would have to fit. Subhash would have to pass through great difficulty. I have no system. For me, you are valuable. I look at you and then I put together the right arrangement.

Remember this difference. Buddha has a single order, a single discipline, a single way, a single method of practice. I have no method of practice. What I have is an eye to see you. If I see that you are lazy, I say—good. Then I write a prescription—Lao Tzu, Ashtavakra; go along with them. You will befriend them; there will be a resonance. These people were lazy and they arrived; you too will arrive—but listen to them. If I see that someone is very active, that to sit silently will simply not be easy for him, then I really make him dance—dance, jump, scream and shout, run, do yoga—I have arranged even for karate in the ashram. Some people turn up who have a mind to grapple, who will not find peace without a bout; I say to them—karate. Fine, let it be so; start anywhere.

In this community my aspiration is that all the methods that have existed in the world till now, and all the methods that can ever exist in the future, should be available, so that no person has to get stuck trying to walk by someone else’s method. Let him choose his own path. There are infinite paths to the divine! The divine is not miserly—that only if you come by one path will you be accepted. The divine has infinite paths. And for every person there is some path that will be easy. I search for that ease.

So you won’t even be able to run away from me, because I don’t give you suffering—how will you run? Even to run away you have to be given a little suffering. Even to run away you must be given a little reason. How will you run away from me? Only those can run away from me who are utterly blind, utterly deaf, utterly dull; who can neither hear nor understand nor feel my touch; in whose lives there is no sensitivity—only those people can run away. But whether they stay or go, it makes no difference—no loss, no gain. If they stay, fine—uselessly staying; if they go, fine. Because nothing was going to be gained by staying, nothing will be lost by going.

But those who have even a little intelligence—even a little intelligence—who have even a little consciousness and a little sensitivity, they will not be able to run away. Once entangled with me, then entangled. Then this is a relationship of many lives. Then it will continue. It is a kind of marriage in which there is no divorce. Take this sannyas with a little thought and understanding; I have left no way to get out of it.

That’s all for today.