Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #10

Ramnarayan! The old notion of sannyas was anti-life. My sannyas is grace toward life—love, joy, celebration. The old sannyas was prohibitive, negative—in truth, atheistic. My sannyas is theistic.

Negativity can only be atheistic. You may talk endlessly of God, heaven, hell, liberation; but if you lack the capacity to accept life, you are tangled in fantasy. Your God is hollow, your heavens and hells are only your dreams. Your grand doctrines are merely garments to hide behind—walls behind which you conceal your dark pits, your wounds. At best they are consolations, not truth.

Real theism means reverence, hospitality, welcome for life. The courage to embrace life is the very meaning of theisticness. Only the one who drinks life’s juice to the full knows that God is. Others merely talk—entangling not only others in talk, but themselves too. For me there is no separation between the Creator and the creation. Apart from the creation, there is no Creator. “Creator” is only a name for the vast process of creativity. The seed sprouting and becoming a sapling, the river flowing to the sea, the moon and stars orbiting in the sky, the infinite expanse of existence—its totality is what I call God. There is no God other than this. The sum of it is God. “God” is only a noun; God is not a person.

The old sannyas was astonishing: it denied the whole that is here, the obvious, the very life we live in and cannot be without even for a moment. It called this “maya,” illusion—and entrusted itself to what is not, to conjectures of God for which there is neither knowledge nor experience. And for what is not, it taught you to abandon what is. No other single idea has harmed humanity as much as the old sannyas. Fine-sounding ideas can be very costly. They look good, but can be poison within. Often falsehoods are sweet at first; truth is bitter at first. Lies are charming, hypnotic—because our mind is itself false, our ego is false; lies resonate with our ego, they duet together.

The old sannyas was egoistic. Nothing feeds a man’s ego more than renunciation. A terrible ego is born: “I kicked away millions, position, prestige, honor, the world. Where everyone runs like insects, I turned away.” Old sannyas made you a pinnacle of pride.

So if you find old sannyasins angry, do not be surprised. If there were rishis like Durvasa, do not be surprised—there will be! Furious, filled with ego and curses—their very soul full of curses. Such persons, rishis and sages! And what is the basis of our praise for them? When you praise a “mahatma,” have you noticed what values underlie your praise? How much he left! Negation is the basis of your praise. Hence people exaggerate what they renounced.

Ask the Jains: “How much did Mahavira leave?” Their scriptures list huge numbers: so many elephants, horses, jewels, palaces—all sheer fabrication. Mahavira was a prince of a very small state. There wasn’t even room for so many elephants and horses. In Mahavira’s time India had two thousand kingdoms. His stature was little more than a sub-divisional officer—at most a deputy collector. There were not such elephants and horses. But those who wrote the scriptures had to write so—and as time goes on the numbers keep growing. Each newer scripture increases the numbers, to surpass the older. There was a competition with Buddha. As Buddha’s disciples increased his elephants and horses, so did Mahavira’s. For by what else do you measure renunciation? How do you measure it—by how much was left!

Isn’t it amusing? In the world you measure by wealth—how much one has; and in sannyas you measure by wealth—how much one left. The same scale serves both! How many beautiful women did he leave? How many palaces? How much wealth, how many stockpiles? That is why the Jains’ twenty-four tirthankaras are all princes. How could they accept a poor man as a tirthankara? The first question was: what does he have to renounce? Buddha is a prince; Krishna and Rama too. The Hindus’ avatars, the Buddhists’ Buddha, the Jains’ tirthankaras—everyone in this land is a prince! The reason is obvious. How can a poor man be a tirthankara or an avatar? What will he leave? If a naked man bathes, what will he wring out? First there must be something to wring out—only then can you claim you bathed.

But the stories outrun the facts; the scriptures teem with exaggerations.

Eighteen akshauhinis of armies arrayed on Kurukshetra—impossible to stand there. Kurukshetra is a small field—good enough for a football match, at most! Eighteen akshauhinis? Only if the entire North India were the battlefield. Then elephants, horses, vast battalions! And kings from different lands brought their armies. What you call the Mahabharata was not a grand war; it was a family quarrel, a small dispute on a small ground. But exaggeration is our habit. Until we inflate, our ego is not satisfied. Our ego keeps inflating.

Three boys were walking to school. One said, “If you want to learn swimming, learn from my father—he can stay underwater five, seven minutes!” The second said, “That’s nothing. My father—half an hour!” The third said, “That’s nothing at all. Learn from my father—seven years ago he dived in and hasn’t come up yet. Only problem is: where will you find him to learn from?”

Once exaggeration begins, why stop at five minutes? Keep inflating!

Since the old sannyas stood on renunciation, it was uncreative—a burden on the earth. It has no future; it is dead. You can carry its corpse for a while—your pleasure! But even a corpse is difficult to let go.

They say when Parvati died, Shiva roamed for twelve years carrying her corpse. If that is Shiva’s condition, what will be yours? He wandered with the body seeking some physician, some miracle-worker—but what to do, there was no Sathya Sai Baba then! So Lord Shankar wandered about. No juggler could be found. Parvati’s limbs began to fall off—of course they would; they were rotting. But Shiva was a man of his own stubbornness. No concern! A hand fell, a foot fell, the skull fell—he kept wandering with whatever remained. The scriptures say wherever her limbs fell, a shrine arose. Be that as it may, at least note Shiva’s intelligence: he kept roaming with a dead woman. Here we strive to free people from clinging to living women, and Shiva won’t let go of a corpse.

The old sannyas is now a corpse. Carry it if you like—as long as you like! Its limbs are falling, its stench is rising—as it must. The reason is clear: it is uncreative. Sannyas gave no gift to the world. It did not make it beautiful, did not give poetry, music, dance. What did sannyas give? So whenever you praise a mahatma, you tell how much he left.

Leaving is no virtue. What did he create? That is virtue. If he left a hundred thousand rupees, I consider it no merit. But if he composed a poem, painted a beautiful picture, planted a lovely garden, made two flowers bloom—that has more worth for me. Leaving a million—what comes of that? But if he found a way to create millions, discovered a technique, a technology, gave a science—then it has value.

But you do not praise mahatmas for that. You will not call Albert Einstein a mahatma. Nor Rutherford. Nor Newton. Yet without Newton you could not live one minute—while without your mahatmas you could live quite well. Without Newton, your day would stop. The electric bulb would vanish, the gramophone record vanish, radio vanish—and where there is no radio, how will there be television? Where there is no electricity, how a fan? Think: without Newton you could not live a single day. No fan, no electricity, no radio, no television. But will you call Newton a mahatma? He made a thousand discoveries, but no respect arises in your mind. Meanwhile some fool stands on his head and you fall at his feet—“Mahatma!” Some idiot lies on thorns and your reverence has no end. Such acts only fools can do. First one must be foolish—otherwise why stand on one’s head? Have you ever seen a deity doing a headstand? Rama upside down? Krishna head-down playing his flute? If someone asks, “What is the greatness of this mahatma?” you say, “He does headstand three hours a day.” Gone to the dogs! Back to the condition of the monkeys!

Scientists say the mental brightness in man—this consciousness, this genius—arose because man stood on two legs. It isn’t in apes, elephants, horses—why only in humans? Because man stood upright. The consequence was profound: his head turned against gravity. Blood had difficulty reaching the brain. All animals are parallel to gravity; in a horse as much blood flows to the tail as to the brain; the brain cannot develop beyond the tail. Man’s brain could develop because the blood flow to the head decreased; with less flow, finer neural fibers could form—so fine that even your hair is thicker. Scientists say if you stack a lakh of brain fibers, their thickness equals a single hair. Your small brain has seven hundred million fibers. These could not have formed if blood had kept gushing; the stream would break them. So whoever stands on his head for long—if he wasn’t foolish already, he will become so; the delicate fibers will be damaged. That is why your mahatmas show no genius. Where there is no genius, what creation will there be? They can clap wooden castanets, smear ash, sit by a fire-pit, chant “Ram-Ram.”

If someone asks you your mahatma’s specialty, you say, “He fasts so much—months at a time.” Why not do something to feed those who are hungry—that would be a virtue! These people only increase hunger—by going hungry themselves. Ten people are ill; they go and lie down too: “We are also ill!” By their going hungry, food on earth will not increase; the world’s hunger will not end. This whole arrangement of fasting is proof of a suicidal tendency. They seem like perverse types. They would have liked to torture others, but lacking the courage, they torture themselves. The most helpless person is you, if you begin to torture yourself—no one can save you then. If you starve another, the courts will catch you; even if you say, “I’m making him religious—making him lie on thorns, doing headstands,” the court won’t listen. But if you torture yourself, even the Supreme Court judges will come touch your feet—“Salutations, Mahatma!”

This negative orientation has led us to value the wrong things.

A Digambara Jain muni plucks his hair—that has become valuable! Some mad people pluck their hair in insanity. In domestic storms too, when your wife is utterly out of control, she would prefer to pull your hair—but being God, being husband, how can she? You have taught her well; otherwise she would have torn it out. So she begins to pull her own. When your wife starts pulling her hair, at once prostrate—she is becoming a Jain muni! She is doing great austerity. Jain munis do kesh-lunch (hair-plucking). Thousands gather to watch.

I once passed through a village and saw a big crowd. I asked, “What’s the matter?” “Muni Maharaj is plucking his hair.” I said, “Height of madness! A man is pulling his own hair—let him. Why the hullabaloo?” Tears ran from people’s eyes—“Ah! What great renunciation!” I said, “Fools! If this is your taste, go sit outside barbers’ shops and weep—‘Ah! The head is shaven clean! See this wicked barber cutting it all off!’” No, the thrill is in plucking. They honor the pain and suffering involved.

Old sannyas was pain-oriented—sadistic, masochistic. Psychology uses two words: sadist and masochist—one who gives pain to others, and one who gives pain to oneself. And sannyas should be delight, joy; it should be a festival! But your values are all wrong. The future will laugh at you. People will wonder why you honored such people—what for? A man stood naked in winter; you honor him—what is there to honor? If you stand for some days, the skin adapts. After all, all animals are unclothed. See fish in the coldest waters—ochre-colored fish, true sannyasins—naked and swimming happily. All creatures are naked. Man lived naked in forests for millennia. Even today many tribes are naked. Your face and hands do not feel cold; touch your nose—it feels ice-cold, yet the nose senses nothing; habit. If you remain naked awhile, the skin becomes desensitized; the delicate nerve endings die. And you honor that? The man is killing his sensitivity, destroying his skin—deadening it—and you honor it! In summer some wrap themselves in blankets—the “black-blanket” types—even in heat, and people honor them for that. But if you too wear it, in days you’ll adjust.

The body’s great grace is its adaptability. That is why humanity thrives in all geographies, climates, environments, temperatures. Near the equator, under blazing sun, man lives; near the poles, under ice most of the year, man lives. Over centuries adaptation deepens; children are born with it.

Have you thought why people near the equator are dark? Adaptation. Dark pigment endures sunlight better; white skin is more sensitive. Scientists say the difference is small—a few shades. Tomorrow there may be an injection to darken the skin for those who want to live on the equator. Dark pigment blocks radiation; white allows it. White skin suits cold lands, not hot.

The body organizes everything. When man lived naked, he had hair all over. With clothing, hair gradually vanished; clothes did the hair’s work.

Reconsider the reasons you have honored sannyasins. Someone ran away from his wife, someone abandoned his children—is this cause for honor? Cowards and deserters who showed their backs to life’s battle—and you honor them! Most were people who couldn’t even earn two loaves; they lacked the strength to bear life’s burdens. Then why marry? Why beget children? In begetting they were skillful: “What can we do? It is God’s will!” When they run away—then it’s their will! Running away they take sannyas, deserving honor! And then the wife may starve or turn to prostitution—what care? How many children were orphaned by your sannyasins, how many women widowed while husbands lived, how many starved, begged, sold their bodies, how many children died unraised—these things will be written in the sannyasins’ ledger. And you call it great merit!

And these runaway sannyasins undergo no inner revolution. In the forest what will they do? You think apsaras descend from the sky? From where? Without inner transformation, sitting in the jungle they will remember wives; women will shake their minds. They will think of women day and night. They will chant “Ram-Ram,” turn their beads—Ram on the tongue, lust within. A time will come when repressed desire will hallucinate with open eyes—those are the apsaras. No apsaras come; and why would apsaras come to such men? Smearing ash, torturing the body—where would apsaras go looking for these poor, wretched souls? If they went looking for apsaras, the apsaras would flee—“A mahatma is coming—run!” Jain monks don’t bathe; their mouths stink from not brushing—will apsaras embrace and kiss them? Are apsaras mad? Their stench itself protects them. Forget apsaras—even a film extra would hardly pursue them! But in their fantasy-nets apsaras descend. Repressed lust becomes imagination.

The old sannyas was repression. My sannyas is transformation. The old was escapism. My sannyas is the art of living. I want you to live where you are in such a way that your life-lotus blooms. The old sannyas is easy; mine is difficult. People will tell you the opposite—that I have made it easy. From their angle, yes: I don’t tell you to pluck your hair. If you need a haircut, go to a barber. If relying on a barber troubles you, keep a razor and cut it yourself. From that angle it seems easy. But it is not true. My sannyas is very difficult—because I say: become silent in the marketplace.

And one who becomes silent in the marketplace will be silent anywhere. Send him to hell—he will remain in heaven. You cannot send him to hell. The mind of my sannyasin cannot be swayed. No apsara can disturb him. I have a hundred thousand sannyasins; I ask many, “Do apsaras come?” They say, “Not so far!” They will not come. For them, the basic condition is a repressed mind. Because I do not teach repression, such foolish, diseased fantasies will not arise.

Seeing your effortless adornment,
let not the sannyasin’s mind waver!
Let not the sannyasin’s mind waver!!

I never saw that happy dream—
the one forged in the palace of pain.
I am such a sun unborn—
that set within the rising hill.
Blind, obstructing gales assail—
this mind quivers like a straw.
Seeing your curl-enchantment’s net,
let not the pain-bird speak out!
Let not the sannyasin’s mind waver!!

In the pleasure-sea of beauty-gems,
I seek the Formless.
Rowing the boat of restraint,
I seek the Peerless.
This bottomless river of life—
its depths still far remain.
Let not the flood of allurements
burst open the heart’s dam!
Let not the sannyasin’s mind waver!!

Nothing will remain behind me—
my name is written on water.
Before I wither, ere I bloom,
this is the fate inscribed for me.
Encircled by the void of great delusion,
dazed, bemused within…
Your bewitching blessedness,
let it not pour flavor into life!
Let not the sannyasin’s mind waver!!

This may be true of the old sannyasin, not of mine. His mind cannot waver. Whatever could sway it—I tell him to pass through it! Do not run away. The only way to be free of it is to live through it—fully. See by experience the futility of desire. Let the hollowness of craving soak into every pore. Then nothing can sway you.

The old sannyasin was very frightened—terrified all the time. Of what? Of himself!

In Vinoba-ji’s presence, if you bring money, he closes his eyes. What is it in money that you must close your eyes? Some stuck fascination must be there. Otherwise why close your eyes at the sight of money? It is just a note—it doesn’t fly into your eye; no dust—no need to shut. A note won’t enter your eye; why such fear! He doesn’t touch money. A disciple once told me: “Vinoba-ji doesn’t touch money.” I asked: “Why?” “Money is dirt.” I said: “Do you touch dirt or not? You wash your hands with dirt every day. Tell him to wash his hands with banknotes—why spoil the earth! And what is the fear in touching notes? Are they untouchable? If they are untouchable, then call them ‘harijan’!” But the fear hides inside—attachment, attraction, clinging.

Old sannyas taught fear; I teach fearlessness. I say: money has its use—use it. Do not be so afraid; money is only a convenient arrangement. A ten or hundred-rupee note—just a conventional device for exchange.

A traditional sannyasi once came to me. I invited him to morning meditation. He said, “I can’t come tomorrow.” “Why?” “You see this gentleman with me—without him I cannot come. Tomorrow he has a court case.” “Why can’t you come without him? You are a sannyasi—left everything. Who is he?” “No, no—you misunderstand. I don’t touch money. He keeps the money. I would need a taxi to come—who will carry the money? He pays.” “Whose money?” “Whatever people offer to me—he keeps it; I don’t touch money. I’m a sannyasi—don’t touch money.”

Another clever web! The money is yours; he holds it. You entangle another man—now he must trail you. You could keep it in your own pocket and take it out yourself—what harm? But you keep it in his pocket, take it out with his hand; you ride in the taxi! Wonderful! You are foolish—and this man even more so. He protested, “I’m not a fool—what do I lose? He pays me three hundred rupees a month. I have a job, and what an easy job!” I asked, “Do you skim anything off the top?” “That is difficult—Baba keeps accounts. Every night he asks, ‘How much came today?’”

Baba keeps the accounts; Baba rides the taxi; the poor man gets three hundred—and pays! I told Baba, “You could have used that three hundred for your own work. If you keep the accounts and use the money anyway—why this web?” But his respect is because he doesn’t touch money.

Our ideas are strange! Consider their stupidity and rigidity. Such a man will remain fearful, frightened. He will have limits: he might resist ten rupees, a thousand—but ten lakhs? Perhaps he will waver: “So much is coming—once, just once—what harm? People make mistakes; if I do once, what’s the loss? Then I’ll do a pilgrimage, some charity, a Satyanarayana puja.”

Chandulal had a case. His friend, a lawyer, said, “Come to court; I’ll introduce you to everyone.” He introduced the clerk: “Very useful man—give him ten and the work is done.” Then an inspector: “Hundred, and anything can be done.” The SP: “Three hundred—happy.” The magistrate: “Five hundred.” Chandulal exclaimed, “So much bribery in the temple of justice—how will justice happen? Is there no pure and moral officer here?” “There is,” said the lawyer, “but dear Chandulal, to buy his happiness is beyond your means.”

Everyone has limits. How long will you keep your eyes shut? And if suddenly “pearls rain from all ten directions,” what will you do? You’ll start gathering: “Don’t miss this chance!” Thus the apsaras arrived. Pearls rained—and the rishis fell. First you teach repression; then you orchestrate their fall. You leave them nowhere—neither of the house nor the ghat—the washerman’s donkey.

I am giving a new vision of sannyas. The fundamental difference is this: I want the sannyasin to be creative. His worth will not be in fasting, but in how much he creates. Not in what he left, but in what he built. Not in how he made his body ugly and crippled, but in how he made it beautiful and healthy. Leave this world a little more beautiful than you found it—that is sannyas. Make it a little more love-filled—that is sannyas. Bloom a few flowers here, spread a little fragrance—that is sannyas. Your worth will be determined by your creativity, not your escapism. Live life in its density, but as the lotus in water—remaining in the water, untouched by it. If you run away unripe—you’ll remain stuck. The old sannyas was unripe; it didn’t let you dive into life’s depths. It frightened you—life is sin, the fruit of evil. No, not at all—thousand times no. Life is a reward, an opportunity for growth and maturity. You are to bloom. Life is the stage for that blooming.

In the sky of the eyes float
silver clouds of form!
The mind grows estranged,
the body nods in drowse.
What to do—season reversed—
endurance’s discipline lost.
In this intoxicating moonlight,
this moon-faced night,
O stubborn one! Do not hesitate—
today speak your heart!

The groves have drunk the wine;
the braided fragrance has loosened.
Silken rays, sharp as needles,
pierce the stones.
Now none can be saved;
who can fashion rules and vows?
Drown in ecstasy—and you too
grasp moonlight’s arm!

Moonlight has snapped the latch,
untied shame’s knot;
naked sky, dig-ambared
has knotted with the sky-bride.
In this washed atmosphere,
in this shimmering honey-drip,
for a moment at least—
flow free in the nectar-stream!

My message to sannyasins is this—
for a moment at least—
flow free in the nectar-stream!

If you flow freely even for a single moment in life’s amrita-current, you will awaken. Life itself will awaken you—no need to run away. Life’s futility will reveal itself—you will see that beyond it there must be something essential. Life’s fleetingness will pierce you, startle you, set you on the search for the eternal, the timeless. If you live awake on all sides, will you not see death? It knocks at every door. And death will speak to you: “Your hour too will come.” Before it comes, know something—recognize something of the immortal—and that immortal is hidden within you.

If it were in the forests, I too would say: run to the forests. But the nectar is within you. If plucking hair could give it, I too would say: pluck your hair. If nakedness could give it, I would say: be naked. But clothes are outside and so is nakedness—while the amrita is within. One who wears clothes is outward-oriented; one who stands naked is also outward-oriented—while the journey is inward. Food is outside and so is fasting—food does not go into your soul; it goes into your body; and fasting too remains stuck in the body, not the soul. Whether you stand on your feet or on your head, you do not become spiritual by headstands. You become a spectacle, a circus—but not spiritual. Twist and contort the body with postures and exercises—nothing happens from that. One must go within—and the only process within is meditation.

I take sannyas to be synonymous with meditation. Sannyas means meditation. Meditation means sannyas. There is nothing more needed. If meditation is mastered, sannyas is fulfilled. To master meditation is to know experientially: I am not the body, not the mind—I am the soul. And not because I say so—what use is my saying it a thousand times; it must be your own experience, your own realization.

I teach love for life. Because only through love can you know its depths. And knowing, you can be free. There is no freedom other than knowing. I do not teach fear. Nor do I say: never make mistakes. Whoever does not err, does not learn. Only, do not repeat the same mistake. He who repeats the same mistake is a fool. Make new mistakes—so that there is new learning. I do not say: never go astray. Only those who never stand up, never walk, do not stray. But one who never walks, never arrives. Stray—carefree. Why fear? God pervades everywhere. Even when you stray, you stray in Him; you cannot go beyond Him or away from Him. Only let every wandering be mindful—so that when you return, you bring some treasure of understanding, some jewels. After every mistake, some new awakening, some new ray of awareness should fall into your hands—it should, and it does.

Therefore I am neither against mistakes, nor against wandering, nor against life. I say: live life in its totality—fearlessly—drop all notions of outcomes. People stand trembling, bound—each has drawn a Lakshmana-line and never steps beyond; they sit in their own circles, and those circles have become their hell. Step out—break the lines! At first there will be fear; the unknown always causes fear.

I do not teach you character; I teach you consciousness. Character is cheap—imposed from outside. Old sannyas depended on character; my sannyas depends on consciousness. Consciousness is inner; character is outer. Character is like painted lips—put on lipstick, but that doesn’t mean blood flows in them! Character is superficial, fake. Consciousness is like the glow of blood, of life, of youth in the lips. Then if the lips are red, it’s right. But coloring them with lipstick and strutting about!

Women with lipstick—however beautiful—look vulgar and grotesque. But we trust falsehood everywhere. There is no shame. Everything is false: padded blouses to push up breasts—whether breasts are there or not, whether they have sagged—rubber pads! And in this sacred land that is important! Men stuff cotton in their shoulders and chest, then strut—whether there is a chest inside or not, a rubber chest gives pleasure. But whom are you deceiving?

And if ordinary folk do it, fine—but those you call mahatmas—it’s the same. Their entire character is imposed, superimposed—not raised from consciousness. Imposed character’s symptom is fear or greed as the basis. Ask your mahatma: “Why did you take sannyas? Why leave the world?” He will say, “Did I want to rot in hell?” Out of fear of hell he left the world. These are children—like children who go to school out of fear of the teacher. Or out of greed—“I want heaven’s pleasures.” Like children who study for a gold medal. Your mahatmas are childish. And the amazing thing: from little to great—the same foolishness!

Just yesterday Mother Teresa of Calcutta received the Nobel Prize; she went to collect it. Children’s games—prizes! Bernard Shaw did better. When they offered him the Nobel, he said, “I am past the age where prizes can delight me; give it to a young writer.” But Mother Teresa… what “mother”? She went to take it. Now prizes everywhere—now Bharat Ratna!

People collect papers—honors, titles. And they hope for rewards in heaven too. “Endure here for a few days; even if there is suffering, no matter—thereafter the eternal bliss.” Your mahatmas are childlike, not mature—mahatma is far away. At least know this: character based on fear or greed will be false. Real character is born of consciousness. You awaken within; meditation kindles your energy like fire, lights a lamp within—and in that light you see what is right and what is wrong. You don’t live by Gita or Quran or Bible or Mahavira or Buddha; you live by your own light. All the supremely awakened have said exactly this. Buddha’s last message on earth was: Appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself.

Let meditation’s lamp be lit within you; then there is no hindrance. You see what is to be done and what is not. Then you do only what is appropriate—whether scriptures agree or not. For not all in scriptures is true. If you only follow scripture, time changes daily—scriptures do not. What might have fit then becomes rubbish after thousands of years.

Humanity has moved far ahead. To live by old scriptures is to demonstrate stupidity. Our scriptures describe sacrifices—ashvamedha with the horse sacrificed, and naramedha with humans sacrificed. If you follow scripture—and some still do—you’ll keep reading news that someone sacrificed his own son. He is doing scripture. But those texts were written five thousand years ago by people who were barbaric. Sacrifice is irreligious. Yet almost all religions practiced it. Slowly it waned—still not wholly gone. Scriptures prescribe sati—the widow burning. Scriptures were written by men; if women had written too, they would have prescribed “sata”—that when a woman dies, the husband should be “sata.” He tormented her all life—now his turn! But since men wrote, why write such for themselves? A man’s nature is something else. A wife dies—not even back from the cremation—and he’s thinking where to fix the next marriage. While the woman must be sati!

You burned millions of women. Do not think they burned willingly. If someone chooses freely—that is different. If love is so deep that living is impossible without the beloved—it could happen. Then no smoke and mantras are needed. In fact, if it is from consciousness, there is no need to go to the pyre. As one’s breath ceases, the other’s will too—there will be no reason for breathing. If love is that dense, the story ends. Otherwise it was all imposed.

Living by scripture will not make you virtuous—do not be deluded. And scriptures contradict each other. Which will you follow? Draupadi had five husbands—that is scripturally fine; no sin: she is one of the five great maidens. If a woman today marries five husbands, there is no characterlessness in it by scriptural precedent—though the law will jail all six! But character-wise, no issue—otherwise Draupadi’s character is in doubt.

Scripturally, your “Dharma-raj” Yudhishthira gambles—and you still call him lord of dharma! Shameless! Not small gambling—he loses everything, then stakes his wife. Past all bounds of shamelessness! Are people to be staked? Is a wife a possession? But in those days that is what scriptures said: “stridhan”—woman as property. The father “donates” his daughter—kanyadan—as if she were an item. If a woman is wealth, then staking her is fine. And the dharma-raj remains dharma-raj. Then gambling is no sin. If a dharma-raj can gamble, why can’t you?

Your saints for centuries—ganja and bhang! If you call this character, what is vice?

No other judge is possible. Do not seek decisions from outside. If you go seeking outside, you will be in trouble. Nothing can be decided—because you can always find scriptural support for whatever you wish. In one text, and if not, in another; if not in one religion, in another. If you want meat-eating, you’ll find grounds; if you don’t, you’ll find grounds.

And people find astonishing grounds—where none should be.

Buddhists eat meat everywhere—though Buddha was the great teacher of ahimsa. In Japan, China, Korea—all meat-eaters. It began with a small accident.

Buddha told his bhikkhus—he never imagined human cunning—that whatever falls into your begging bowl, accept it. Otherwise monks would begin to signal—I know Jain munis who signal. They don’t speak (speech is forbidden), but they signal with eyes and head—toward what they want more of. Mahavira had told them: don’t ask; asking makes you a burden. They don’t speak—but man is clever; he signals. No scripture forbade eye-signals—Mahavira missed that.

Buddhist monastic codes have thirty-three thousand rules—so many that no one can even remember them. Even with so many, they found a loophole for meat. Buddha had said: take whatever comes into your bowl. One day, a monk returning from alms, a kite flew and dropped a piece of meat into his bowl. A pure coincidence. He wondered: what now? Buddha had said: take what comes. Meat-eating had not begun yet among Buddhists. He asked Buddha. Buddha pondered: no kite will do this daily; it is an exception. If I say you may pick and choose, then people will reject dry bread and choose sweets, wasting food and burdening donors. So Buddha said: no worry—whatever fell in your bowl, accept it. That day meat-eating began. The matter came and went.

After Buddha’s passing, monks wondered: what to do about meat, since meat had happened once, and with Buddha’s permission. The rule is: whatever falls in the bowl. Agents must have spread the word—you can put meat in the bowl. Meat began to be offered; monks began accepting it.

Buddha had also said: eating meat of an animal already dead is not bad, for there is no violence in it. A purely logical point: the violence lies in killing. If an animal died, eating its meat is not violent. From that they extracted a device. In Japan or China you will see signs outside restaurants: “Only meat of animals that died naturally is cooked here”—like in India, “pure ghee sold here” (assume then that not even ghee is sold!). But how many animals die naturally every day for a population of eighty crores? And if so many die, what are the slaughterhouses for? Yet the slaughterhouses kill—and the hotels write: “Only dead-animal meat served”—they got the formula from Buddha that eating naturally dead animals is nonviolent!

Man is very clever. If you seek character outside, you’ll find a path to suit your desire. All kinds of paths have been fashioned.

Character can only come from within. Sannyas is the ultimate flowering of character—the highest height, the supreme fragrance. It is possible only through consciousness. You must have an inner eye to see what is to be done and what is not. When a lamp is lit in your house, you do not grope to find the door; if it is dark, you grope and stumble. When the inner lamp is lit, the door is visible—that door is character.

I oppose imposing character from the outside. The old sannyas imposed: “Do this.” I say: awaken meditation. Then whatever flowers from meditation is auspicious. Therefore I lay no stress on character—indeed I oppose hollow character, because with it a man never turns toward meditation. He thinks, “What is there to do? I’m already virtuous.”

Our characters are strange.

Mullah Nasruddin advised his son: “In business always keep ethics in mind. Character is valuable. For example, yesterday a man mistakenly gave me two hundred-rupee notes stuck together instead of one. A moral question arose: should I tell my partner or not?” See—moral question! Not whether to tell the man who overpaid—only whether to tell the partner!

When Mullah was dying he told his son: “Two rules always follow—the pillars of business. First: keep your word. Second: never make a promise.”

Dhabbu told his friend Chandulal, “Terrible times! People have no ethics. The guest who just left stole our beautiful suitcase.” “Ram, Ram! The twentieth century is the fall of character! Was it very expensive?” “How would I know? I found it in a train compartment.”

If the inner eye is unlit, this is inevitable. You will see the world’s immorality—only there will be darkness under your own lamp. You will see everyone but yourself. You will see everyone’s mistakes, not your own. We enjoy seeing others’ mistakes—it flatters: “We are better.” Seeing the world’s sins so big, it feels like we are saints.

His Excellency Matkanath Brahmachari ran a large ashram. Five hundred sadhus and five hundred sadhvis practiced austerities and “true brahmacharya.” Fame spread across India. At an all-faith conference in Delhi, an invitation came for a speaker from his ashram. After consulting the head nun, Nirmala Devi, they decided to send their youngest but most gifted sadhvi, Sitamani—only twelve, yet with all the Upanishads and four Vedas by heart. Since she was stepping out for the first time, Nirmala Devi privately instructed her: “Child, you are very young; heed some directions. The outside world is impure; there live men—very wily. They lure women with sweet talk and take them to secluded places.” Sitamani listened, breathing quick. “In lonely rooms they extinguish the lights, then hypnotize and slowly remove the woman’s clothes.” Sitamani’s ears pricked up. “Then those wicked ones commit such vile acts that my tongue stumbles describing them. After dishonoring, they thrust a ten-rupee note at the woman and send her away.”

“Ten rupees!” Sitamani’s eyes widened. She asked, “Revered Mother, why do those sinful men give a ten-rupee note at the end?” “You won’t understand, child—they are worldly rogues; what won’t they do?” “Strange, Mother! I cannot grasp why they give ten rupees—our ashram’s sadhus send us away with only an orange. And Brahmachari Maharaj doesn’t even give an orange—he says, ‘You are still too young.’”

Imposed from above—hypocrisy is all that can arise.

Old sannyas was pure hypocrisy—how could it be otherwise? One thing inside, another outside. My sannyas is the same within and without. My sannyasin cannot be a hypocrite—there is no way. I give him no rules to hide behind, no outer coverings, no prescribed conduct. He cannot be cunning—he has no need. However he lives, I say: live that way—but live attentively. If attention can free you from the futile—good. If not—also good. What is inessential, attention will free you from it; what is essential, attention will not free you from it—rather it will strengthen it. The touchstone of essence and non-essence is meditation.

Old sannyas forgot meditation.

Old sannyasins—Jain, Hindu, Buddhist—come to me. “You have been sannyasins twenty, thirty years, and now you ask how to meditate? How did you become sannyasins?” No one told them meditation. As if it doesn’t exist. And what they call meditation is hollow: sit and chant “Ram-Ram.” What will happen repeating “Ram-Ram”? If you had a little intelligence, that too will be dulled. With constant repetition, at most you will get good sleep—because the mind gets tired. Tiredness brings sleep. If the mind cannot escape, it slips into sleep. This is an old method—women use it to put children to sleep: “Sleep, little prince, sleep.” A mantra! The prince fidgets, turns, tries to get up—but mother sits on his chest: “Sleep, little prince.” After a while he gives up. Try it on your husband too—he’ll sleep.

Mullah Nasruddin couldn’t sleep; he defeated all doctors—homeopaths, ayurveds, hakims, naturopaths. Finally they brought a hypnotist: “Don’t worry; I have put many to sleep.” He darkened the room: “Lie down, relax. Sleep is coming… coming… coming. Eyelids heavy… heavier… hands and feet loose… deep sleep descending…” He went on and on. Nasruddin began to snore. The sons thanked the hypnotist, paid double, and escorted him out. As soon as they returned, Nasruddin opened one eye: “Has that scoundrel gone? He was eating my brain—‘coming, coming’—no one came or went. ‘Eyelids heavy… heavy…’ I saw he wouldn’t leave, so I started fake snoring to get rid of him.”

So with your mind—“Ram-Ram,” “Allah-Allah.” Keep repeating—inside your mind will say, “This fellow won’t stop—just sleep.”

Mantras produce only drowsiness—not meditation. Sleep is not bad—it refreshes. But it will not give self-realization, no inner light. The inner lamp is lit by thoughtlessness—by choiceless awareness.

My sannyas is the discipline of no-thought, of the choiceless. I give you no outer paraphernalia. I have given ochre robes for two reasons only. First, because the old sannyasins defamed the color—let it be redeemed. Second, so it reminds you continuously. It is only an aid, a hook. And it works.

A friend came and said, “You’ve put me in trouble. I loved going to films; now I can’t. Yesterday I stood in the queue; a man fell at my feet, ‘Mahatma-ji, what are you doing here?’ I had to say, ‘I thought it was a religious gathering queue!’ He said, ‘It’s a movie—this isn’t your place.’ I swallowed and went home. Now I fear going—someone may recognize me.”

Another friend took sannyas—he drank. He said, “I am a drinker.” I said, “Stay so—who isn’t? Only the liquors differ. Some drink power, some status—you drink grapes; nothing wrong—fruit diet! Vegetarian compared to Morarji Desai at least—he drinks his own urine; you at least drink fermented grapes. Drink if you must.” He asked, “You will still give me sannyas?” “I refuse no one.”

Fifteen days later he came, “Now I understand why you give anyone sannyas—now I’m in a fix. I can’t go to the liquor shop. The owner rises to touch my feet. When he asks, ‘Why here?’ I say, ‘Just came to bless you,’ and leave.”

The ochre robe will remind you—you are a sannyasin; you have taken a vow of inner search, embarked on a journey. That’s all. I give no outer code. A mala with my picture—only to get you into trouble, so people recognize you: “This one!” Now anywhere in the world, seeing the mala people become alert: “Be careful—dangerous!” They ask, “What happened to you?”—and talk begins. Through such talk many have come. Seeing your joy and ecstasy, many come. From curiosity too—“What is this? When so many are going mad, there must be something.”

So you can be recognized as one of my crazy ones, my lovers—that’s why these small outer devices. But they are not conduct or character. The emphasis is on one thing: meditation. If that settles, everything is settled. One thing achieved, all achieved. Meditation alone. Become inwardly thoughtless; let witnessing grow. See within: you are not the body, not the mind, not thought, not desire. Let one thing become clear: you are only the witness. Then sannyas has borne fruit. Sannyas does not bear fruit the day you take initiation; that day is only the formal beginning. Sannyas bears fruit the day you experience the witness.

Sagar Mal! When there are already so many troubles, then one more will be fine! You took all these troubles without asking me—and as far as I understand, without asking anyone—so why take this trouble only after asking! All I can say is: sannyas is such a great trouble that all the other troubles will become small—don’t be scared! And there is only one way to be free of small troubles: take on a great one. Then the small ones vanish on their own. They become so small. I don’t see what else there is in your life except troubles! Though, of course, they are little troubles—because your desires are little, your ambitions are little. Sannyas is a great trouble—because it is a great longing, a great thirst: the thirst to realize the divine. There can be no greater “trouble” than that.

Once Mulla Nasruddin was traveling by train, and for no reason he kept smacking his little child—once, twice, thrice. A woman sitting opposite could not bear it and said, “Listen, if you hit this child even once more, I will land you in trouble!”

Mulla looked at her and said, “Lady, what trouble can you land me in! I’m already so harassed. Listen! Just last month my father died of TB; we are traveling from Delhi to the place where my mother-in-law is on her deathbed; I myself am a cancer patient; on the railway platform I got separated from my wife; this little one has got his finger crushed in the window; my middle son has chewed up our tickets; and I’ve just now discovered we’re in the wrong train—now what further trouble can you put me in!”

Even if I put you in trouble, what further trouble can I put you in! You’re sitting in the wrong train, the tickets were long ago chewed up by the middle boy, the wife is lost somewhere— and you’re afraid you might find her! The mother-in-law is on her deathbed—and you’re terrified she might survive!

What trouble will sannyas put you in? Yes, there will be a little public ridicule. So it was for all—Meera, Kabir, Gulal. Yes, you will have to lose your concern for public opinion. So Meera did, so Dadu did, so Nanak did. What is there in public opinion anyway? And even if you protect it, what will you do with it? What is its worth? Yes, people will think you are crazy, a moth to the flame—and they’ll be right; I am teaching madness. And sannyas is only trouble in the beginning, at the very first step. The moment the light, the light-filled, begins to dawn within you, the rain of bliss begins. Pearls rain in all ten directions! As soon as the formless void begins to descend within you, all your troubles flee, just as stars disappear from the sky when the sun rises—you won’t find them even if you search. As soon as the note of samadhi starts sounding within you, troubles evaporate like dewdrops in the morning sun.

But at first, it will indeed feel like trouble.

Yet I say: this is a trouble worth taking. It is sweet, dear, filled with infinite possibilities. And you have taken two-penny troubles that have no possibility—and took them without asking—while for this trouble you are weighing and thinking! Drop the thinking. Because ultimately sannyas is the dropping of thought—its very name is sannyas. Begin by dropping thought.

From the very start, do not take sannyas by making a decision after calculating, weighing, considering everything. If you do, you will miss. It is a leap—the way the moth comes and burns itself in the flame. But behind this death is rebirth. For this new birth, this death is necessary.

Sannyas is a gallows. But remember: the gallows is the beloved’s bed. The moment you pass through this gallows, the divine stands ready to welcome you.

Don’t be afraid, Sagar Mal! The drop trembles at becoming the ocean. But the drop can become the ocean only when it agrees to lose itself in the ocean. Dissolve! Dissolve so that you may be! Die in sannyas so that you may be born into truth! Disappear as an ego so that you may appear as the divine!

You are born to be divine, and without sannyas it is not possible. Without sannyas your destiny will not be fulfilled; spring will not come, the season of honeyed blossoms will not arrive, your flower will not bloom—you will depart unblossomed. Before death comes, let sannyas come—then there will be no need to die again. One who dies in sannyas has no need to die anymore, because he comes to know the deathless.

That’s all for today.