Hansa To Moti Chuge #5

Krishna Prem! Indian “culture” is a great hypocrisy. Perhaps nowhere on earth is there a hypocrisy so vast. How could there be? It is the oldest hypocrisy—its history runs back ten thousand years. It is the most ancient disease on this planet. The mask is one thing; the inner core is utterly rotten. Here the talk is noble, the ideas are lofty—but they remain talk and ideas; behavior is entirely different. Here there are teeth to eat with, and other teeth to show.

If you try to understand India from the front door, you will fail. At the front door there is “Welcome” written, festoons hanging, flowers all around. But India does not live at the front door—it lives at the back. It comes and goes through the back door. Only if you understand this distortion will you be able to make sense of the “accident” that happens here almost every day.

For thousands of years India has denied life. But life cannot be denied. We are life—how will you deny it? Life is our nature; how will you go against nature? Whoever goes against nature falls into hypocrisy. If you try to annihilate nature, nature will not be annihilated—you will be. Then there is only one way to save face: buy cheap masks in the market and hide your filth, your dirty eyes, behind them. That is what India has been doing.

That is why people who come from the West arrive with a certain viewpoint, because they have known India through books: the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Dhammapada, the Gita, Ramakrishna, Ramana, Krishnamurti. But that is not India. Not even a spoonful of this vast ocean. India is the very opposite. Yes, there have been Buddhas here, but they can be counted on your fingers. And because of their prestige, India borrowed a prestige that is secondhand, stale, not its own. India has garlanded itself with the aura of the Buddhas. That aura is false; behind it there is no existential support.

A Westerner knows the India of books, not the real India. When he encounters the real India, he falls into a great dilemma. Krishna Prem, the same dilemma has arisen in you. He cannot reconcile the contradiction. He imagines all Indians to be Buddhas—and then discovers people worse than in the West. The West may not have many Buddhas, but people are better, because they have created the kinds of systems that help human beings to be better.

A certain background of affluence is needed if hypocrisy is to lessen in life. India is poor; it talks of renunciation, but its eyes are fixed on wealth. Ramakrishna used to say: the kite flies high in the sky, don’t be deceived—its eyes are fixed on the garbage heap below, where a dead mouse may be lying. India talks of renunciation, but its gaze is on indulgence. And it does not want to admit that gaze. So it wears dark glasses: the eyes can stay on dead mice while the talk stays in the skies. High talk becomes a clever device to hide those eyes.

The West has created affluence; it accepts life; it is not against life. The West has freed itself from the grip of Christianity. India is still chained by religious orthodoxy and superstition. India is still tied to the past; those stones lie heavy on its chest. There is no movement here; it is a stagnant pool where everything rots. In the West there is some flow, and where there is flow the water stays pure. Where there is affluence, petty dishonesty and theft tend to subside.

The West honors the body. There is respect for the body, even prizes for bodily beauty. India is anti-body, an enemy of the body. But how can you be the enemy of the body—you are the body! Granted you are more than the body, but first you are the body; only then can you know the more. If the body becomes your staircase, perhaps you can discover that “more.”

The West’s mistake is that it has stopped at the body. India’s calamity is that it has not accepted the body at all. If I had to choose between the two mistakes, I would prefer the Western one—because from that mistake it is not too hard to move on to the right insight. India’s mistake prevents the first step itself, so the second is impossible.

The Western error has a certain logic: “Man is only the body”—false, but from there it is still possible to move to “Man is more than the body.” India insists “Man is not the body at all.” Then how will you reach the second statement, that man is soul? You have smashed the temple steps while dreaming of the temple. In the West there may be only steps and no temple—yet with steps, a temple can someday be built. Without steps, never.

So the Western mistake is the more meaningful one. If India must err, let it err like the West. Opposing the body has stuffed the Indian mind with sex-obsession. There is constant talk of brahmacharya, of celibacy—but it is only talk. Until sex-energy is transformed, what celibacy? And transformation is not achieved by repression. Whatever you repress will harass you your whole life.

Mulla Nasruddin was going early one morning to visit some friends when, after many years, an old friend dismounted from his horse. Mulla said, “You’ve come at the wrong moment. Rest here. I promised to see a few friends; I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

The friend said, “We meet after years; I came with such longing! I’ll come along. But my clothes are dusty—long desert road. Lend me something tidy; I’ll change quickly and join you.”

Mulla had a suit the emperor had gifted him—he had never worn it, saving it for a special occasion. If he must give, he should give something grand—so he brought that suit. He gave it, but his heart hurt. He had never worn it himself; he had kept it carefully—and now he was giving it away. Outwardly he gave; inwardly he could not.

At the first house, naturally the splendid suit drew the host’s eyes more than Mulla’s friend. The host kept looking at him. Mulla said, “This is my friend, Jalil. He’s come after many years. And as for the suit—it is mine.”

Jalil was shocked. Outside he said, “This is not right. Why bring up the suit at all? If you wanted to insult me, why bring me along? At least don’t say it’s yours!”

Mulla said, “Forgive me.”

At the second house the same thing; the host’s eyes clung to the suit. Mulla said, “This is my friend, Jalil. As for the suit—it is his.”

Outside his friend said, “Won’t you stop? Why talk about the suit? Introduce me!”

Mulla said, “Pardon me. I thought I’d correct the first mistake.”

At the third house the same again. The people kept staring. Mulla said, “This is my friend, Jalil. As for the suit, let’s not mention it. Whose it is—what does it matter? We’ll remain silent about the suit.”

Whatever you repress will force its way out, again and again.

India has repressed sex viciously; so it erupts from all sides.

What you describe happens daily in Poona. It is hard for sannyasinis to walk. They are shoved, abused, stoned. They are beaten with sticks, with iron chains. To strike a passing woman with an iron chain is a symptom of deep sickness. Such a man has never touched a woman with love; this is his perversion. There is a joy, a grace, a poetry in touching a woman with love—she too is a manifestation of the divine. The violence is a twisted outcome of repressing the simple, sacred touch of love. It is the other extreme.

Those who commit rape are precisely those who have never loved a woman. Anyone who has loved even one woman grows a reverence for all women. One who has never loved, but has been taught that love is sin, accumulates such poison that it must spill.

And in this country people love to make claims like “Poona is Oxford.” This habit is everywhere. Don’t be overly disturbed by it. Here every small thing is inflated. A little local conference becomes “International Conference.” India has become so impoverished, its self-respect so trampled, that it puffs up everything. A village with a post office and a bus stop feels ready for a university. “What’s lacking?” And so “universities” spread everywhere.

In these thirty years of freedom, so many universities—and not one with real stature. Half of them remain closed most of the year due to riots, strikes, beatings, gheraos of vice-chancellors. Teachers who reach home in the evening thank God: “Another day survived; life is saved.” They recite the Hanuman Chalisa before leaving for campus: “O Hanuman, protect me!”

Oxford? And Poona?

Our five years here have shown it to be a reactionary town, stuffed with rotten beliefs. Where is culture, where is civilization? Parroted punditry, clinging to the past, imprisoned by it. But culture is a growing, moving thing. The truth is: culture has not yet happened. We are still waiting.

Someone asked George Bernard Shaw his opinion of civilization. He said: “It’s a great idea—someone ought to try it.” It hasn’t happened yet.

Beware of this country’s claims; it excels at boasting. Claims are all that remain; inside there is hollowness.

Look at people, their behavior, their inner being—darkness. Yes, there is a thin veneer of manners, but only a veneer; not even skin-deep. Scratch a little and the savage appears. Scratch anyone...

Krishna Prem, there is no need to be fooled by such claims.

For sannyasinis, living is difficult. As if woman were some strange creature here—as if she had descended from the moon! For centuries there has been no natural contact with women. No place in society, no place outside the home, no movement in public life. She is confined.

A man’s wife suddenly went mad. They took her to a psychologist. He asked, “How did this happen so suddenly? Any history?” The husband said, “We’ve been married twenty years; never anything like this. Frankly, in twenty years she has hardly ever stepped out of the kitchen.”

If a woman doesn’t step beyond the kitchen for twenty years, how will she not go mad? Women have been locked away; and when society becomes all-male, it grows harsh—coarse and brittle. Men are hard; the gentleness of society is lost.

Have you noticed? When ten men are sitting and a woman enters, a softness arrives. Her presence brings a fluidity; abusive talk stops; loose chatter changes. Her mere presence transforms things.

A society that shuts women in becomes harsh and barbaric. In this country women are shut in. They must be brought out, given place, given rights, equality. Their return to society is essential for the whole society to become gentle again. That is why there is friction.

My sannyasinis move freely—assuming this is a human society. But every day that assumption is contradicted. Wherever they go, vulture-eyes circle them. If those men get a chance, they are ready for any outrage. The reason is simple: the link with woman is broken. Man has isolated himself, made his own world, leaving women aside as if they were not part of Indian life at all.

Hence your trouble. And here women are to be fully covered. This is an indictment of men. That a woman must be so covered is an admission that men’s eyes are dirty, that men are lechers.

Understand the word luchcha. It comes from lochan, the eye. Luchcha means one who stares and ogles. Men here are luchche, so a woman must swathe herself. My Western sannyasinis are amazed; they move freely, do not cover themselves, see no need—they assume a civilized world. That is the mistake. Where is a civilized world here? There is every kind of incivility, every kind of hardness.

In the West you can bathe naked at the seashore—no problem. No man will pounce on you. Here the situation is the reverse. If your arm is showing, it means you lack character; you are attackable. If you were wrapped in a sari, you would be certified as a lady of a “good family.” Here people are weighed by their clothes.

So Western visitors naturally face difficulties. They continue to behave as they learned from childhood. There is nothing wrong in that behavior. Among decent people, bathing naked at river or sea should be no issue. Nakedness is natural. Yes, wear clothes in office and market—but there should be some place where one can move free. Here there is none.

Mulla Nasruddin went to his doctor. The doctor had hired a newly trained Western girl as an assistant. Mulla kept staring. Inside he said, “You’ve hired such a beautiful girl that, seeing her bare arms, I felt like biting them off.” The doctor said, “That wouldn’t have hurt much. I’ve told you: don’t take too many calories. That would be only about thirty-five calories. No harm. Even if you had bitten them off—just thirty-five calories.”

Don’t laugh—that is your psychology. Seeing a beautiful woman, you don’t remember the divine. You want to bite, chew. At least push her—if nothing else. And you wear khadi; even if someone saw, he wouldn’t believe it of a khadi-wearing Sarvodaya leader! Don’t miss the chance... Whenever the opportunity arises, the repressed urges surface. Only the opportunity is lacking. So if, in the darkness of night, a woman walks alone—trouble. Indian women don’t do that; they lost their freedom long ago. They no longer even remember the joy of walking under the trees at midnight in moonlight when the town sleeps. It has vanished from their memory, even their imagination.

But Western women can imagine it. “The moon is out, the heat of the day has gone, the trees are swaying, it’s midnight—let’s walk!” But if a woman goes out then, there will be trouble. Hungry wolves on all sides—these “guardians of Indian culture” are hungry wolves. You will be in difficulty. Your intention was only to enjoy a moonlit stroll.

Society ought to be such that even at midnight anyone can walk freely. The night is ours; the moon is ours; the stars are ours. But Indian women surrendered that right centuries ago. They walk like shadows behind their husbands—his maidservants; he is their “protector.” To go out alone is unthinkable. Even in broad daylight she goes with husband or brother.

Here every year the sister ties rakhi to the brother: “Protect me for the year!” Protect from what? Protect from “Indian culture”! From the web of scoundrels all around. It is humiliating. A self-respecting woman would not tie rakhi, because asking a man for protection robs her of dignity.

Sometimes someone comes to me to tie rakhi. For what? “So you will protect me.” Why talk of protection? From whom? But Indian women have been taught this for centuries.

So when you come from the West, you don’t know that here the man is protector—and the woman without a protector becomes prey to other men. Then if a beautiful woman who was beaten goes to the police to report, the inspector himself ogles her. He too is equally afflicted. He has no sympathy; and if he shows some, it is only to create an opening for the same thing.

Just now a young girl—really still a teenager, only fifteen—was almost raped by a senior police officer in Poona. Where will you go? To the magistrate? His eyes will also ogle. This is a network of the same kind of people. You must be a little careful. You have come to me in search of truth; you will have to pay this price. I know it is useless; it should not be needed. You are not paying it to me; you are paying it because this country is as it is.

Often I think of leaving this country. But then other troubles arise. In any other country, it will not be easy for me to stay even for a moment, because what I say no society can stomach. Here they cannot throw me out; elsewhere they can, any time. Seeing your difficulties, many times I think of leaving. But one must be somewhere. And wherever I go, the troubles will increase. It may make things easier for you, but I won’t be able to remain long; I’ll be moved on. With my moving, you will be moved again and again. Then we will never be able to create the Buddha-field we are trying to create.

That is why I am in a hurry... perhaps six months more... soon we will move into the hills, where you can roam freely; meditate beneath trees without being attacked; where no one looks at you like a predator. We will make a small world of our own; only then can you be safe. If we sit down to change the whole society, that is work for centuries—and my work with you will stop. So I don’t want to get into that. Let those who want to rot, rot. Let them live as they wish. Those who are ready for transformation can come to me. We will create an alternative society. Even for that, obstacles are being thrown—because it threatens; it is an alternative. People from all over the world will come and see how society can be: someone sitting naked under a tree and no one is disturbed; each person has total freedom to be himself; no interference; each has the innate right to live in privacy.

Krishna Prem, endure Indian “culture” a little longer. Live among these hypocrites a little longer—watchfully, intelligently. Bear these sticks, these chains, these blows a little longer. And perhaps you can even use all this for your inner growth. Even this! This jungle around you is real; it shows the actual condition of man. This experience is not without value; you can draw great conclusions from it.

The revolution we speak of will begin on a small scale, with a few people, in an alternative society. If it succeeds, its seeds will travel the world.

For the ochre revolution I speak of, we first need a place of experiment. I don’t believe in empty rhetoric—going about making big speeches on revolution. In this country there is a “revolution” every day.

Just now another revolution happened! The first changed nothing; the second changed nothing—except it seated more corpses in power. Those who belong in graves now sit in chairs. The country has fallen into even more decayed hands. Such revolutions change nothing. I want a laboratory of revolution—a crucible through which a few people pass and become living proof of what man can be—so beautiful, so poetic, so loving, so free! Free in themselves and able to give freedom to others. Where the person is the ultimate value. If a small society like that can exist, then from there we can send rays out into the whole world.

But first a laboratory. This is its beginning. I know your difficulties. They prick my heart like thorns. They moisten my eyes. I know—but there is no other way. Endure a little while longer.

Rajkishore! The system is not the cause of poverty; it exists because of poverty. This apparatus of corruption cannot be eradicated until poverty is eradicated. Poverty is the root of all disease. But you are taught the reverse; you are made to believe false promises that the apparatus of corruption must be eliminated, and then poverty will disappear. That is foolish. In a poor country, the apparatus of corruption simply cannot be eliminated. Poverty gives birth to corruption. The system is not fundamental; poverty is fundamental.

Yet in this country the talk is always—eliminate corruption, eliminate bribery, eliminate dishonesty! None of these disappear; on the contrary, they grow by the day. And the more laws you make to eliminate them, the more facilities you create to break those laws. After all, by whom will you get corruption eliminated? Those who are to eliminate corruption are themselves part of this poor country, they are just as corruptible. The leaders you seat in office are as corrupt as anyone else. The only difference is that while they are in power you won’t know; once they step down, you find out. As long as they hold office they keep everything concealed.

I am not saying: eradicate the apparatus of corruption. It cannot be eradicated. That is where the flaw lies in Jayaprakash’s thinking. The result of that flaw was so much upheaval—and nothing in hand. Poverty must be eradicated. Where there are poor people, there will be corruption. Corruption can disappear only where people are affluent. Where there is affluence, there is a certain dignity. A man becomes corrupt out of compulsion.

How much salary does a policeman get? And you expect him not to take bribes? That is impossible. You are demanding the impossible. He will have to take bribes if he is to live. And if he takes bribes, you set up another secret police, an anti-corruption unit. But their salaries, their poverty... They too have to send their children to school, to college, to university. They too lack money; they too will take bribes.

Rabindranath wrote a very sweet story from his family. He had a large family—about a hundred people. A lot of milk was bought. Water kept getting mixed into the milk. Rabindranath said, “Let’s appoint an inspector to check.” His father laughed and said, “Fine, appoint an inspector.” An inspector was hired whose sole job was to ensure water couldn’t be mixed into the milk. From that day, the milk had even more water. Rabindranath was astonished. But the arithmetic works that way. Rabindranath said, “Then hire another inspector over the inspector, to watch him so he can’t cheat.” That day things went wild—along with water, a fish appeared in the milk! Because each inspector’s share got added in.

Father said, “You’re mad! Dismiss these inspectors. This is just extra expense on our heads: paying two inspectors, and now both have a cut. As it was, it was better. There wasn’t that much water at least, and certainly no fish.”

That is the condition of this country. Whom will you employ to stop corruption? Who will change this system? Whoever changes it will have to become part of it. If he has to live inside it, he can’t stand outside it. The politicians you expect to change it—how will they? They need money to contest elections. No one gives money just like that.

Jayaprakash Narayan took money from Birla all his life—how will there be a total revolution? Birla has a method to put all the revolutionaries of this country on a salary. He holds a list of who gets how much. They are all on monthly retainers! The main reason for Jayaprakash’s anger with Indira was precisely this: Indira asked him, “Tell me, how are your expenses met?” You will be surprised to know—these big disturbances don’t begin with lofty principles; they begin with small personal things. Man is small! Indira’s asking “Please explain how your expenses are met” was the real trigger that made Jayaprakash flare up; his ego felt deeply wounded, and he resolved to unseat Indira. Indira’s question was apt, because she had the record that Jayaprakash had been receiving money from Birla for years. And why from Birla? On Gandhi’s recommendation! Gandhi had written that Jayaprakash should receive a monthly allowance.

How will there be revolution? One who fights elections needs lakhs of rupees. If he takes lakhs from someone, how will he work against them? And if he doesn’t take lakhs, he can’t contest.

Who will change the system, Rajkishore?

No; my approach is different. I don’t waste time trying to change the apparatus; I don’t even think in that direction. This apparatus is the natural consequence of the country’s poverty. Poverty can be changed, because science now has the means to change it. If we are poor now, it is because of our stupidity—no other cause. We should not expend our strength on changing corruption. We should accept corruption as inevitable in this situation; why make a fuss? It will be there. If possible, we should give moral recognition—even legal sanction—to corruption, to bribery, so this useless hypocrisy ends. Consider it part of people’s salaries. Why make an uproar of it?

All our energy should go into industrializing the country. All our energy should go into creating new tools within the country. And now tools are available in the world. This country’s poverty can be eradicated; there is no reason for it to remain. But we remain engaged in useless chatter. We worry about the spinning wheel. Has poverty ever been eradicated by the spinning wheel? If you want to end poverty, focus on industry. But we keep creating trouble for industry. The very means that could remove poverty face every obstacle; the very means that increase poverty are given every facility.

For khadi the government spends crores so that it keeps going! Why keep khadi going? Why is our life stuck to khadi when mill-made cloth is more durable, cheaper, more beautiful, more useful? Why die clinging to khadi?

But our country is strange; its ways of thinking are strange! We latch on to something and then don’t know how to let go. There are other countries, other leaders—none behaves this way. Gandhi has been gone thirty years, yet the worship continues—and will continue. One must also learn to say farewell. Let him go, poor man; you too move on to some other work. But no—because Gandhi spoke of khadi, khadi has become our moral duty, our religion.

New tools... This country has talent, but we obstruct it. We are always anxious about how other countries exploit our talent. A good engineer, a good scientist, naturally goes to America. A good doctor, a good surgeon, naturally goes to America. The pay is good, the standard of life is better, there are facilities—means to think, reflect, research. Why stay here? But then we suffer a great loss. With great difficulty we educate and train our talent, and then it goes West. Endless discussions: how to stop the brain drain! But how will you stop it?

On the other hand, in my ashram, talent is coming from the West—and you won’t let them come. Scientists, engineers, doctors, physicians, professors want to come and live here, but Morarji Desai doesn’t want to let them in. All Indian embassies abroad have been instructed: if anyone wishes to come to my ashram, do not grant entry. And you know Indian “efficiency”... such foolishness that they even write such things in official letters.

A famous dentist wanted to come and live in India. He wrote to apply, and the Indian embassy in America replied: if you wish to go to Shri Rajneesh Ashram, Poona, permission cannot be granted. They wrote that outright. What to say of Indian efficiency! At least keep it hidden. If you wish to go to any other ashram, permission can be granted. But he doesn’t wish to go to any other ashram.

I could gather the talent of the whole world here. People from around the world could assemble here and transform this country. But you won’t let them enter, you won’t let them stay. On one hand you cry that our talent is leaving; on the other, when we invite talent to come, when talent wishes to come, you won’t let it. Such an unfortunate country!

Rajkumar! The apparatus of corruption cannot be changed, but poverty can. And if poverty changes, corruption will end. If poverty changes, bribery will wither away on its own. In an affluent country, try offering a bribe to someone—he’ll slap you. You are insulting him... with a bribe. He has enough; what are you giving him! Only one who has nothing gladly takes it—and even thanks you.

You ask: “In a country like India, where inequality and poverty have deep roots...”
Why are they deep? Because you have honored poverty till today. Whatever you honor will grow deep roots. For centuries you have revered poverty. What you honor, increases. And Mahatma Gandhi sealed it at the end—he called the poor “Daridra Narayan,” the Poor as God! Poverty is a disease, an illness, a cancer. Do not call the poor “Narayan”! We need to bid poverty farewell, to be free of it. If the poor are “Narayan,” how will you be free? Then you would be trying to get rid of God! To eradicate poverty would then mean eradicating “Narayan.”

The poor are not Narayan. Poverty is only a disease, an illness, a lack of health. Evaluate it correctly. And for centuries you’ve made much of this—Buddha renounced wealth, Mahavira left home! Great respect! Great reverence! I do not respect Mahavira because he renounced home; I respect him because he attained the soul. The renunciation itself evokes no reverence in me; the attainment does. I do not respect Buddha because he gave up a kingdom; I respect Buddha because he found the kingdom within. My grounds for respect differ. I speak of Buddha and of Mahavira, but the reasons I honor them are very different from yours. You have honored them for the wrong reasons.

And you have hoisted fakiri, poverty, on your head for centuries; becoming poor was natural. The West too was poor; in three hundred years the West eradicated poverty. In these three hundred years the West freed itself from Christianity’s idealization of poverty.

You will have to free yourselves from your religion’s old notions. You will have to give roots within you to a new religious vision. I am speaking of that new religion. I speak of a religion that is not opposed to prosperity, not opposed to affluence. I speak of a religion that respects this earth, loves this earth; that embraces this earth. Our roots must go deep into the earth; only then can our branches rise into the sky. A tree that is against the earth will never spread its branches in the sky. That is the mistake we made.

You are poor because somewhere in your mind there is reverence for poverty. Break that reverence; let it go. In its place give honor to the affluent, to affluence, to prosperity, to splendor; that is the meaning of the word “Ishwar”—the Lord.

You ask: “In a country like India, where inequality and poverty have deep roots, don’t your teachings help maintain the status quo?”
Not in the least! Mahatma Gandhi helps maintain the status quo. Jayaprakash Narayan helps maintain the status quo. Vinoba Bhave helps maintain the status quo. And your Shankaracharyas, your Shahi Imams—all help maintain the status quo. What I am saying is fundamentally the opposite of all these.

Although one thing is true: I am not a revolutionary, because the very idea of revolution seems to me a recipe for failure. No revolution has yet succeeded—neither in Russia, nor in China, nor in France, nor anywhere else; and none will. Revolution cannot succeed. Three thousand years of human history say that all revolutions have failed. Understand the failure of revolution, because what is its basic process? You must fight—and to fight, you have to learn the enemy’s ways; how else will you fight them? In fighting, you become like them. By the time you come to power, there is not an iota of difference between you and those you overthrew. If there is any difference, it is that you are worse—that is why you could win; otherwise you would not.

If in Russia the communist party of Stalin, Lenin, and Trotsky could defeat the czar, it was because they displayed even more brutal, violent tendencies than the czar. And then the whole history is proof—Stalin poisoned Lenin, had Trotsky killed by hammer blows. One by one, all who led the revolution were killed, or rotted in prisons, or froze in Siberia. No czar proved as czar-like as Stalin. Stalin committed more violence than even Ivan the Terrible. All the Alexanders, all the Napoleons seem small. How did this happen? Stalin rose to power fighting these same czars. Whom you fight, you become like.

Have you not seen it in India? There was a revolution. Indians fought the British and took power. They turned out exactly like the British; worse—worse in every way! Then Indira was removed and Morarji came to power—worse than Indira in every way. Whom you fight, you can defeat only if you are even more dishonest, even more cunning, even more Machiavellian, even more troublemaking—only then can you win, otherwise you cannot.

I am not a supporter of revolution. My formula is rebellion, not revolution. And understand the difference. Revolution is organized, collective. It requires forming a party; it requires entering politics. Rebellion is individual, personal; each person can do it. I am a rebel, and my sannyasins are rebels, not revolutionaries. Rebellion is far above revolution.

Rebellion means: I step aside; I sever my inner ties with this rotten web; I differentiate myself from this apparatus. To separate oneself from society’s decayed web—that is sannyas. This does not mean you run away to the forest; nothing comes from running. Stay where you are, but inwardly stand apart; do not support it. Live in such a way that your life becomes contagious to others. When many people individually come to rebellion, naturally this rotten structure will fall by itself. But you are not to bring it down by fighting; you are to withdraw cooperation, cut your own cords from it. Free yourself from this system and its basic assumptions.

And the system is not as big a matter as its basic assumptions are. What are those assumptions? One is: great reverence for politics. I teach my sannyasins that politics is not worth two pennies. Not reverence—contempt. Whoever is in politics is a thug, even if he wears khadi. Politics is for thugs; either they will be in politics or they will be in thuggery. They have only two options.

I teach disrespect for politics. Politics is for the inferior, for those afflicted with inferiority. So I tell my sannyasins: uproot all seeds of politics from your mind. Politics is ambition; I am anti-ambition. Politics is competition; I am anti-competition. Politics is rule over others; I am for self-rule. I am cutting the roots of politics. The revolutionary cuts the leaves; the rebel cuts the roots. The one who cuts the leaves is visible; the one who cuts the roots is not visible—because the roots themselves are not visible to you.

The results of my work will appear over years; centuries may be needed. But my essential tone is rebellion, not revolution. Therefore, on the surface you may feel that I help maintain the status quo, because I carry no flag, no stick; I do not stage sit-ins, strikes, or processions. You might think I am accepting the status quo.

No; something deeper is happening here. I am knocking out those foundational bases on which all politics stands, on which today’s whole social order stands. I teach meditation. Politics is a function of a disturbed mind. Exploitation is the craving of the sick. The meditative person becomes so peaceful that he does not obstruct anyone’s life. He naturally becomes creative, no longer destructive. He naturally becomes overflowing with love—he lives love, he shares love.

This, Rajkumar, may not be understood today; it will take time. And about religion’s old notions—you are right—they offered no challenge to feudal injustice. That is why I am articulating a new vision of religion. I speak on Buddha and Mahavira, on Krishna, on Christ, on Lao Tzu, on Kabir; but if you notice, you will find—I am giving them new interpretations, new values, new meanings.

The Kabir-panthis are not pleased with me. They write to me: what have you done? Kabir doesn’t mean what you say he means. Jains write to me: what kind of meaning have you given to Mahavira? That meaning is not in the scriptures. I say: to hell with your scriptures. Mahavira is a peg for me; I will hang myself on it. Kabir is merely a pretext for me; I will say what I have to say.

Then you may ask—why speak on Kabir or Mahavira at all? They are diamonds lying in mud; I will wash away the mud and save the diamonds. These diamonds are worth saving. I cannot throw the diamonds away with the mud, nor can I save the mud with the diamonds. There are those in the world who say: it’s all mud—throw it away. Nietzsche, Karl Marx, Jean-Paul Sartre say: all mud. I don’t agree; there are diamonds too. And on the other side are those who say: it’s all diamonds—where is the mud? I don’t agree with them either. I will cut away the mud and save the diamonds. I speak on the past so that whatever is beautiful in it can be preserved. That is our heritage. But it is true that in the past religious notions did not challenge feudal rule, feudal exploitation, feudal economics. Religion was escapist. Religion was a fugitive. My religion is not a fugitive, not escapist. It is challenging. Otherwise, do you think, if I too only talked of religion without any challenge, would there be so many rumors against me, such an atmosphere of opposition? No; prime ministers and ministers would come here as they go to Vinoba’s ashram. Here, their chests tremble! To dare step through this door is difficult. There is fear—fear of being associated with me. If people know someone came here, who knows what effect it will have on their politics!

If I were a collaborator of the status quo, there would be no obstacles in my work—none at all. I am the staunchest enemy of the status quo. Neither Lenin was such an enemy, nor Mao. They changed the system—but where, was it changed? It returns to the same. I am not eager to change the system; I want to change its very foundation. It will take time; it will require understanding. This revolution will not be completed with slogans; it will be carried by meditative people. Not with noise but with silence will it be born. Not with uproar but with music will its note arise. This is a fundamentally different vision, and therefore it will not be immediately recognized; recognizing it will also take time—centuries may be needed.

Akshay Vivek! There is nothing more beautiful in this world than tears. If only the tears come from bliss, if only they are born of celebration!
And your tears are celebratory tears. Yesterday when I saw tears in your eyes I was delighted. This is the beginning of melting. Akshay Vivek is a strong man, a man like iron. So naturally there will also be worry: What is happening to me? I have never cried, and today suddenly my eyes are overflowing with tears—just on hearing a word, with a mere touch! What is happening to me!
Something auspicious is happening—it is the arrival of spring. The first flowers have begun to bloom. These tears are the first flowers of your life. You will bathe in these tears; you will become new; there will be a rebirth. Honor these tears. And when they come, do not stop them. When they come, do not be shy.
Drop concern for the world! With your heart open, drowned, brimming, flow with the tears! Hidden behind these tears much else will come along. These tears are only the first flood. Much more is yet to come behind them. So do not hold back the tears.
In the wake of tears will come laughter, will come a smile. In the wake of tears will come dance, will come songs.
Tears are only the first ray of morning. You say: When you call, “Is there any taker?” the call pierces my heart like an arrow, yet I still feel some blockage somewhere.
It is natural. The ego leaves only as it is leaving. It takes time. The blows have begun; the rock has started to crack. The work has begun; now it is only a matter of sooner or later. It all depends on you. If you cooperate, the revolution will come quickly. If you do not cooperate—if you struggle, if you resist—it will take longer.
Drop resistance! In a mood of surrender, enthrone within your heart, as a guest, that arrow which is piercing you. There will be pain from the arrow’s sting, but recognize the sweetness within the pain. This pain is not only pain; there is a hidden sweetness in it too. When this arrow pierces through completely, there will be death. Akshay Vivek, you will die! But your death is the very beginning of a new life within you.
In truth, death never happens. Death is only transformation. You will ascend to a new step. There will be a vision of the immortal.
The ego is afraid, it panics. There is no other panic but the panic of dying: What is happening! What is happening to me! I was a balanced person, a controlled person; I ruled myself, I was my own master—what is happening today! Am I starting to cry like a woman? Cry like a child? Will I be wiped out? Will my old identification be shattered?
It will shatter! It must shatter. Cooperate with the breaking.

From the closed cage of the eyes
the bird of remembrance has flown.
Breath stroked it
and washed its wounds many times,
a resolve lay hidden
in the moistened hairs, gathered by dreams;
in the darkness of the gentle lids
the memory of the nest is lost.

The music of love on the lips
heard it and called it,
seated it upon the eyelid-lotus,
appeased it with an imperishable gift;
in lightning-laced sighs, unbroken,
the memory of water, of tears, is lost.

Now nothing remains in these breaths
except pain alone;
dense forgetfulness surges,
a sky gone mad within the heart;
what remains now is only
this dream, this painless remembrance!

This arrow will remind you of your own nature. This arrow will become remembrance, but remembrance is painful. For centuries you have been sitting forgetful; you have not even remembered who I am. This arrow will bring to mind your divine nature.
Surely this will go against your vested interests. You have small, small vested interests; all of them stand around your ego. If the ego falls, they too will fall. So there will be fear; the thought will arise, What path have I set out upon? But now turning back is not even possible, Akshay Vivek! Seeing your eyes yesterday gave me a certainty: there is no way back now. The place to return to has disappeared.
In the past you have often wanted to turn back, and you have turned back. Many times, when you were about to come close, you slipped away. Fear won; love lost. Now that will not happen. Now love will win; now fear will lose.

Not only hardship,
O my heart—
life has more.
It just cannot be
that in love there be no sorrow,
that somewhere one’s own town exist
and the eyes do not grow wet;
there is not only one destination,
O my heart—
life has more.
It just cannot be
that today never meet tomorrow,
that there be some ocean here
and a boat find no water;
there is not only one shore,
O my heart—
life has more.
It just cannot be
that thirst find no door,
that beauty find no shade,
that age find no home;
there is not only a single stone-hearted one,
O my heart—
life has more.

Do not be afraid! What you have taken to be life is no life at all.

O my heart—
life has more.

The call has arisen; the Unknown has remembered you. Set out!

It just cannot be
that in love there be no sorrow.

There will be pain. And the greater the love, the greater the pain. Blessed are those who are ready to endure the infinite pain of infinite love.

It just cannot be
that in love there be no sorrow,
that somewhere one’s own town exist
and the eyes do not grow wet—

the eyes are bound to grow moist!

There is not only one destination,
O my heart—
life has more.

Till now what you have known is nothing, Akshay Vivek! The real is yet to be known. Till now what you have lived is nothing, Akshay Vivek! The real living is yet to be.
“Is there any taker?”—that call is being raised for this. And that call has reached your heart. Now gather courage. Now summon your nerve. Accept the challenge.
It is the challenge of the unknown ocean! And granted, our boats are all small and the waves of the ocean are tempestuous, and seeing our little boat and our small hands and our small oar we lose confidence that we will be able to cross. But I tell you: my hands are just this small, my boat just this small—and I crossed. The Buddha’s hands were just this small, the Buddha’s boat just this small—and he crossed. You too will be able to cross. In truth, the one who has the courage to cast his boat upon the ocean is the very one who, in that instant, is across. The one who has the courage to descend into the ocean—the ocean’s waves themselves carry him across.
Ramakrishna used to say: There are two ways to set a boat upon the river. One is to lift the oars and row; the other is to open the sail. Ramakrishna used to say: The one who has courage opens the sail. He sets aside the oars and lies down, blissful. The winds carry him along.
It is not only that you are eager to meet the Divine; the Divine is just as eager to meet you. His winds will carry you. But courage is needed; otherwise we sit tied by a chain to the shore. We do not leave the shore; we do not leave the safety of the shore, the convenience of the shore.
And let me tell you: to live on the shore is worse than death. And in the ocean that has called you, even if you drown in midstream, the shore is found.

Sushila! Prayer is the refinement of love. Prayer is the fragrance of love. If love is the flower, prayer is the perfume of the flower. Love is a little gross; prayer is utterly subtle.

In the realm of love perhaps a few words are exchanged; in the realm of prayer words become utterly useless. There, silence alone makes the offering.

You ask: “How to pray?”

Prayer is not a method. Meditation has methods; prayer has none. Prayer is spontaneous, a natural feeling. Whoever prays by method—his prayer is wasted; his prayer becomes fake, false from the very beginning.

Prayer is to open your eyes, open your heart, and join the great celebration happening in this existence. The trees are green—become green too: prayer has happened! Flowers have blossomed—blossom too: prayer has happened. The sun has risen—wake up too: prayer has happened. The winds are dancing—dance too: prayer has happened.

Prayer has no technique, no form, no shape, no arrangement. Prayer is ecstasy, intoxication, divine madness. Prayer is the name for drinking the wine of the Divine.

Just don’t stop, O Giver of the cup!
We are not the sort to turn away and go back!
Our thirst is boundless—your splendor
is inexhaustible, inexhaustible—O lavish One!
We have come to awaken the Unseen at your door!
We have come to be effaced at your door!
Fill this empty vessel—fill it, fill it, fill it!
Make us drunk—make us, make us, make us!
We’ve stood at the gate with hands outstretched so long;
Let us become immortal—O Immortal, grant us your boon!
In a single drop the ocean of life is contained;
Fill to the brim the emptiness of the mind-heart!
And more! Here, to gain is to lose;
Hidden in smilingly drinking is the sob of thirst!
Let the rounds of joy, O let them run!
Let sorrow fill the heart’s every corner!
Reveal to us your boundless existence!
Teach us only dissolution—teach us dissolution!
We are crazy for every drop of your wine!
We do not know how to pull back our hand!
This path has no meaning, nor an end;
There is motion, motion, only motion—keep going on!
Which way to walk, from where to come?
Who has known, who has recognized oneself?
Granted there is imagination and there is knowledge—granted!
But here too is the seat of doubt and delusion!
There is a veil, woven within which
the warp and woof of day-night and pleasure-pain.
Beyond that? Let this futile striving go—let it go!
Let us attain—let us attain liberation here itself!
Let us bring our fulfillment—let us bring it!
Let the self be slain and let the world regret!
Fill this empty vessel—fill it, fill it, fill it!
Make us drunk—make us, make us, make us!
We’ve stood at the gate with hands outstretched so long;
Let us become immortal—O Immortal, grant us your boon!
In a single drop the ocean of life is contained;
Fill to the brim the emptiness of the mind-heart!

Prayer is: holding your begging bowl out before existence.
Prayer is: spreading your lap before the moon and the stars.
There is nothing to say. Prayer is a state of feeling, not a statement. By saying “Hare Krishna, Hare Rama,” prayer does not happen. By saying, “Allah and Ishwar are your names, grant wisdom to all, O God,” prayer does not happen! Prayer is a silent supplication.

Prayer is the art of bowing. Wherever you bow down, kneel upon the earth—there is prayer.

Prayer belongs to the innermost. Perhaps tears will fall, or perhaps a song will burst forth—who knows! Perhaps you will dance, tie ankle-bells to your feet, pick up the flute and begin to play—who knows! Perhaps you will become silent, utterly silent, speech lost forever—who knows!

Prayer happens for each person in an unparalleled way, a unique way. One person’s prayer is not another’s. Therefore do not imitate prayer. And this is where the hindrance has come in. We have been taught prayers—of Hindus, Muslims, Jains, Christians. Someone recites the Gayatri, repeating it like a parrot. Someone chants the Navkar Mantra, repeating it like a parrot. Someone reads verses from the Quran. Those verses are beautiful, those mantras are beautiful, and their meanings are lovely; but prayer does not happen by that alone. Prayer cannot be borrowed. Prayer is the flow of your own heart.

Sushila, heighten your sensitivity to beauty; then prayer will arise of itself.

Listen to music—the waterfalls, the wind passing through the trees, or a veena in a veena-player’s hands. Listen to the birds of morning, or to the crickets in the silence of night. See beauty—the trees, the moon and stars, animals, birds, human beings! Wherever you sense beauty, music, rhythm, the savor of rasa—there, sit with your heart open. There is the temple, there the place of pilgrimage. Slowly, the taste of prayer will come.

I cannot say what prayer is. I can only say under what conditions prayer is experienced. The deeper your sensitivity grows, the more prayer will be felt. Then, when prayer awakens, your prayer will be yours. No one else’s stamp will be on it. Only your signature will be there. And only that prayer reaches God which is yours—your own, intimate. Borrowed words do not reach there.

People even have their love letters written by others. What value will a love letter have if written by someone else? No matter how beautifully someone writes, no matter how great a pundit you hire to compose your love letter...

Mulla Nasruddin was in love with a woman. Then the love broke, and he came to ask back the things he had gifted. The woman too was angry; she returned everything. Still Mulla stood there. She said, What more do you want? I have given back everything you gave me. He said, My love letters? She said, What will you do with the love letters? Mulla said, What’s the point of hiding it now? I used to have them written by a scholar! And my life isn’t over yet. I will love someone else. Why should I pay the scholar again for nothing? You return those love letters; they will serve me again. I’ll just change the name at the top.

Will you have even your love letters written by others? Will you learn your prayers from others? That is exactly where the miss happens.

I cannot teach you prayer. I can only tell you in what moments prayer is born—in what perspective, in what background.

If you ask me how to make buds into flowers, I cannot say anything. Should I tell you to pull the buds open so they become flowers? The buds will die; they will not become flowers. If you ask me how to get flowers from trees, should I tell you to tug, to apply force? That’s not how it happens. I can only say—give manure, give water, give soil, put up a fence. Make sure the sun can reach them. You provide the conditions. One day flowers will bloom. Buds will become flowers by themselves. You provide the conditions.

Do not learn prayer; provide the conditions. And the conditions are—a sense of beauty, a sense of music. The condition is—deep sensitivity. In that very soil the flower of your prayer will blossom. And when the flower blooms, then do whatever the flower asks. Do not sit with preconceived notions. Then whatever the flower bids, do that.

And the flower will show the way. The flower will become the guide. If the flower says dance, then dance. If the flower says sing, then sing. If the flower says sit silently, then sit silently. Recognize the hint of the flower blossomed within your sensitivity and follow it. That tender thread will take you to the Divine; or, bound to that tender thread, the Divine will come to you. Either way—whether the drop falls into the ocean or the ocean falls into the drop—the fact is one.

That’s all for today.