Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #12

Rekha! It is not easy to bear bliss. It is very easy to bear suffering. Suffering is easy because we are used to it—through centuries upon centuries, births upon births. Sorrow is familiar; it has been our companion. We have been engaged to it again and again. Bliss is unfamiliar. The unfamiliar creates fear. Thrill arises—and fear arises too. And the greater the bliss, the more it frightens. The greatest fear is: who knows where it may take me!

The pathways of suffering are well-known. Because they are known, we live in our suffering with a certain ease. The ways of bliss are unknown. Bliss leads into the unknown—and not only the unknown, ultimately into the unknowable. So the very life-force trembles. As if someone were to take a tiny boat out onto the ocean—life trembles like that. The boat is small, the ocean is vast; no other shore is in sight, and this shore is being left behind… Granted this shore is full of sorrow, still, a shore is a shore. Even if it is only pebbles and stones and ash, it is still a shore. And even if the ocean holds pearls and diamonds, life seems at risk. Who is ready to drown!

Suffering never drowns you. However great the suffering, you remain separate from it, distinct from it. A gap persists between you and your pain. Why? Because suffering is alien to you. Bliss is your very nature. Suffering is other-born, an accident; therefore you can never become one with it. That distance keeps you unafraid. Suffering cannot obliterate you. Even if it collapses upon you like a mountain, you remain untouched. You may weep, you may be disturbed, but suffering will not erase you. Bliss will erase you. The way you have known yourself, the ego you have taken yourself to be, the identity you have forged with body and mind—bliss will shatter it all. Your beliefs will be torn to pieces. You cannot remain the one you were before you knew bliss. So the very life-force trembles.

This is absolutely natural. Rekha, there is nothing here to ask forgiveness for.

In fact, if the impulse to run away does not arise alongside bliss, that bliss is false. If the impulse to run arises with it, the bliss is real. You are troubled because this does not seem logical. When bliss is happening, logic says: then why the urge to flee? After all, bliss is what we have been seeking all our lives—and now that it is happening, why this recurrent thought of going away? So you call it an evil thought; you denounce it. I understand you. You are caught in a dilemma. Normally we think… but what is the worth of our “normal” thinking? It is usually wrong—rarely right. It cannot be right, because our ordinary stream of thought is not born of awareness; it is shallow, superficial, merely logical, mental—not spiritual; not even heartful. So logic says, “This doesn’t make sense; it’s a puzzle.” Logic says where there is bliss, one should not move. Either there is no bliss, and that is why you want to run. But you do taste bliss—you cannot deny it. Then why does this thought keep arising? From where? You are seeking a resolution to your dilemma. Perhaps you thought I would say that due to sinful karmas from past lives this evil thought arises. That would console you, calm the dilemma for a while. But that answer would be false.

The true answer is this: when bliss comes, the impulse to flee follows it like a shadow. And the greater the bliss, the deeper the urge to run. Though in fact, you will not be able to run. That makes it even more intense. Running is impossible. Even if you run, you will have to return. Because once the taste of bliss has touched you, nothing else will be flavorful in this life. Everywhere else will feel insipid. Once this song has entered your ears, no other song will allure you. Once these pearls have rained upon you—pearls showering from all ten directions—how will you busy yourself with pebbles and stones? When you did not know, it was different—pebbles and stones were pearls, and you collected them easily. Now pearls have been recognized, a glimpse of pearls has been seen; the mind can no longer get entangled in pebbles and stones. A basic law of life is that once you climb any rung of knowing, you cannot climb back down.

In our language there is a word: “yogabhrashta”—fallen from yoga. That word is wrong. If there is yoga, falling is impossible. And if a fall happens, then what was there was not yoga.

Yoga means union—meeting, merging. One who has fallen into the embrace of the divine, who has tasted the flavor of God—how can he fall? It is impossible. It has never happened. Yes, under the name of yoga he may have been doing something else—breathing exercises, gymnastics, some contrived practices. Then a fall is possible. But if there has been yoga—yoga as union—if there has been even a moment of coincidence with the divine… even for a single instant if your circumference and his circumference dissolved into each other, if for one moment you were lost in him and he in you, then there is no way to fall. Then falling is impossible. But what passes for yoga with most people is not yoga at all; in the name of yoga, trash is being peddled.

Mulla Nasruddin had just been married. But on the very second day his wife Gulabo said, “I’m going to my mother’s.” This does happen on the second day. The real wonder is why not on the first! And why even this much delay is beyond comprehension! In this world, what is there to meeting, except quarrelling? Western psychologists no longer call husband and wife friends; they can’t quite call them enemies either, so they coined a new term: “intimate enemies.” What does that even mean? Outwardly so intimate, so one’s own—and twenty-four hours a day cutting each other’s throats.

Nasruddin pleaded, “This is not proper. Just yesterday we married, and today you are going? At least go after a few days!” But Gulabo would not listen. She said, “I am going. Yes, remember one thing—at five past five on the radio they broadcast cooking tips. Write them down. When I come back, I will cook.”

So Mulla sat with paper and pencil in front of the radio. The radio wasn’t his; it had come in dowry. And you know how things come in dowry! Two stations were speaking at once: from one, cooking tips; from the other, exercise routines. He made a complete list. When Gulabo came back she asked for it. Mulla read it out:

“Take a cup; now puff out your chest. Break two eggs into it; now pull your belly in. Light the stove; now stand on your head. Pump more air into the stove, increase the flame; now do push-ups and squats. Turn the flame up higher; now lie down upside down. After putting a little salt, black pepper and pure ghee into the pan, stand up straight. Standing straight awakens the kundalini. Now repeat this process again and again. By now the egg is almost ready. Now jump about. The egg will taste delicious. This is the quintessence of yoga.”

Does yoga make one fall! But if this is yoga…! Reaching anywhere is difficult. Hence the processes: here puff your chest; there pump air into the stove! The more bizarre the practice, the more it appeals to people. The more impossible it seems, the more it titillates the ego.

Let me tell you one thing: very few are truly interested in God, because attaining God is the simplest of happenings—he is your very nature! But many are eager to stand on their heads, because that is not your nature. Doing the perverse gratifies the ego: “Look, I can do it—let someone else try!”

What all has not happened in the name of yoga!

Paul Brunton went searching for yogis in India. He recorded such accounts—in this very century; he labored for years; village to village, mountain to mountain, cave to cave. He wrote of meeting a yogi who would pull out both his eyes, let them dangle, and then put them back. He was famous! You can pull your eyes out and let them hang. It is a risky procedure, dangerous and foolish—because nothing essential is solved by it. Hanging your eyes out won’t open inner vision; it will only ruin your eyes. But he was renowned, because no one else could do it. Brunton found those who would drink poison, those who got poisonous snakes to bite their tongues—the very snakes whose bite kills instantly. They too were famous.

But what has any of this to do with realizing God? Do you think there is a connection? Being bitten by snakes proves only that you have long practiced taking venom. There is a method to it. People begin by consuming tiny quantities of poison—just enough to be digested. Then daily the dose is increased. Then they move to snakes whose bite does not kill, only makes one faint. Slowly they go to more dangerous snakes. Little by little the whole body becomes so toxic that when a snake bites, the snake dies.

You have heard the stories of poison-maidens—kings in olden times kept them. From childhood they were fed minute doses of poison. This is historically true. They became so poisonous—beautiful girls, their blood so infused with venom that blood remained no more, venom itself flowed through them. Their beauty was such that anyone would be enchanted. Whoever they kissed died from the kiss itself. Such poison-maidens were sent to enemy kings. Naturally, who would not be attracted? And what else was the business of kings but to enlarge their harems! The moment they entered, life ended. A single kiss—and you were finished.

So it can happen that with long practice even a deadly snake’s bite will not harm you. But what has that to do with God-realization! This is all showmanship.

People doing such feats can fall. But first know: they were never yogis. Hence the term “yogabhrashta” is entirely wrong. No Buddha has ever fallen, no Jina has ever fallen. It cannot be. After attaining God, there is no way to fall. Even if you wanted to, you could not.

Rekha, what is happening to you is completely natural. Do not ask forgiveness! Had the other half—which troubles you, which you call an evil thought—not been happening, perhaps then there would be something to ask forgiveness for. Because it is happening, you are fully in accord with the law. It is proof that bliss is arriving. And I know you; in life you have known little except sorrow. But because your lifelong habit is sorrow, it does not let go. Again and again the mind wants to slip back into the old home. And sorrow had its “pleasures.”

One “pleasure” was receiving sympathy and consolation. People are mad for sympathy because there is no love in this world. Love is the true coin. People long for love, but since love is not available, they settle for a counterfeit coin: sympathy. Sympathy is not a virtue; it is fake, ersatz. But when love isn’t there, people begin to crave sympathy.

If a husband does not love his wife, the wife will start being ill. Because when she is ill the husband comes and sits, puts his hand on her head—even if unwilling, irritated inside: “I came home tired from the office, I thought I would sit and watch television, or listen to the radio, or read the paper, or lie down and rest—but that’s not in my fate. The wife is already in bed.” If the wife is fine, no need to fuss. But if she is ill, the husband must at least show some humanity. He will put a hand on her head, ask after her… And the wife’s deepest longing was love!

If there were love in the world, seventy percent of diseases would disappear—at least seventy percent. But society is against love, the state is against love… love is a sin. We cut love at the root. We do not want a youth and maiden to fall in love; we want a marriage. Marriage means let others decide—parents, “sensible” people. As if age automatically brings wisdom! If only wisdom were that cheap! As if growing old makes one wise! If only old age and wisdom were synonyms, then the world would be full of Buddhas—everyone would become a Buddha as he grew old! The old remain as foolish as they ever were—perhaps more so. Age extends and thickens foolishness. These others will decide: how much wealth will be gained, what dowry, the prestige of the family, whether the house is noble, the family history—thousands of things will be weighed, except one: is there love between the young man and woman? That is not even considered! Thus for centuries we have been arranging marriages and cutting love at the root. The wife too hankers for love; she wants it but does not receive it—at most she can get sympathy. And she can get sympathy only when she is ill, ailing, troubled. The husband too can only satisfy himself with sympathy. He will count as friends those who sympathize with him, who offer consolation. Whom do you call a friend? One who shows you sympathy, who consoles you.

Rekha, you have forgotten what love is. Everyone has—everyone has been made to forget. And when suffering begins to fall away, sympathy falls away too. People complain to me every day: “Your sannyasins are not sympathetic. They show no sympathy toward anyone.” If you are lying in the mud, they will quietly pass by. “If it’s your fun to be in the mud, it is not gentlemanly to interfere.” You are in a ditch and they do not even offer a hand to pull you out. Because they know full well you are there knowingly. You are there so that someone will extend a hand. And as long as hands keep reaching out, you will keep falling into ditches. When hands stop reaching out, then you will stop falling.

So people feel my sannyasins are heartless, insensitive, hard, showing no sympathy. Even if you are crying, they will pass by. No one will even ask, “Why are you crying?” Your wish! Cry your heart out! No one will stop you. Nor is it right to stop you. Let the tears flow; you will be lighter. But if you are crying so that someone will put a hand on your shoulder or stroke your head, this my sannyasins cannot do—because it would mean they are collaborating with your miserable life and helping to keep you miserable. They can give love, but not sympathy.

But the way to receive love is different from the way to receive sympathy.

The way to get sympathy is: be sick. The way to receive love is: be healthy. The way to receive love is: dance, sing, rejoice—and you will be loved. And if you want sympathy, then be unhappy, cry, be crippled, be ugly, limp and lame. You see the beggars along the road. Not all are lame; not all are blind.

One day a man gave a fifty-paise coin to a blind beggar sitting by a bridge. The blind man looked at it and said, “It’s counterfeit.” The man said, “This is the limit! I have tried to spend it all day; it didn’t pass anywhere; so I gave it to you—thinking you are blind. How did you know it’s fake?” He said, “I’m not blind. The beggar who sits here daily is blind. Today he’s gone to the cinema. I am dumb—the one who sits on the other side of the bridge. That spot was free today, so I sat here.”

There are “dumb” who speak! There are “blind” who have gone to the movies!

Bandages wrapped round the legs, the stench rising from them—their legs intentionally made to rot—because they want your sympathy. If a healthy man were to stand before you and ask for two coins, you would be angry at once: “You are fit and fine—why do you need two coins? Do some work!” You have no respect for health. You cannot give out of love. You must be coerced: the same man comes limping, or blind; then you become uneasy—“It won’t look good to refuse; I’ll feel guilty: poor blind fellow! All right, give him two coins and get rid of it.” You are not giving to him; you are buying relief from your guilt.

The husband who lays a hand on his wife’s head is saving himself from guilt.

Rekha, we have deep vested interests in our suffering. That is why it only slips away slowly—with understanding, with awareness. And now awareness is possible, because the first glimpse of bliss has begun for you.

Here I am creating a temple of love. There is no room for sympathy here. We are not in the business of producing limping, lame, blind beggars. The earth is already full of them.

I have stayed in homes… For years I traveled and stayed in all sorts of homes. What I did not find in scriptures, I found by staying in people’s houses… The wife would be talking to me, cheerful, everything fine—then the husband’s bell would ring and she would lie down on the bed. I asked, “What happened?” “I have a headache.”

The husband’s arrival and a sudden headache! I do not say she is lying; not even imagining. She has done this headache so many times that it is no longer imagination; it has become real. The bell rings, and the headache arises. Now it truly happens—the effect of constant practice.

Pavlov, a great Russian psychologist, discovered the “conditioned reflex.” He would give his dog bread. When the dog saw bread, saliva dropped from its mouth. He rang a bell at the same time. The bell alone does not make saliva flow; the sound has no taste! But he rang the bell every time he gave bread; slowly the bell and the bread became associated. After fifteen days he rang only the bell—and the dog’s saliva flowed. The bell had become synonymous with bread.

Our lives are packed with such associations. The husband’s bell rings—and the wife’s head begins to ache. Pavlov need not have labored thirty years with five hundred dogs. Just observe people and you will see it.

You know this too—someone merely says the word “lemon” and water comes to your mouth. The word has no taste—but the association is there. It will happen only to those who know what “lemon” means. The Italians, French, Germans here hearing the same word feel nothing—because that association is not theirs.

So naturally those women get headaches. If a wife sees her husband and does not feel a headache—know that she is not devoted; her mind is elsewhere. If a headache arises on seeing him—know that she is virtuous; still some connection remains. Seven rounds around the fire—and not even a headache! Then all the mantras went to waste!

An old man married in old age—an old woman too; no one else was willing. This must be an American tale. In India this could not happen; here even the young hesitate to marry. Seeing the state of marriage all around, they become frightened.

When I returned from the university, a lawyer friend of my father said he would persuade me to marry. I told him: “Marriage? Then let’s debate. If I win, you must divorce your wife. If you win, I agree to marry.” He had not expected that. He had just come to counsel. I said, “It cannot be one-sided. And the debate will not be in private; the whole town will be invited, a judge appointed. If you prove marriage is necessary, auspicious, beneficial, I will marry. If I prove it is not beneficial, inauspicious, harmful, you must divorce.” From that day he disappeared! When I went to his house, his wife would say, “He’s out.” After several visits she said, “Why are you after him?” He had told her, “This man is dangerous. I went merely to advise him, and now he is after me. He wants a public debate. And think—what would I say in favor of marriage? The neighborhood would laugh. He knows every detail of what I have suffered. He might drag even you into it. There will be a public scandal! And I don’t want to lie; the truth is, if I could escape… but I am too far in. How can I tell him to marry!”

So in India even the young are fearful. The other story is American. An eighty-year-old man married a seventy-five-year-old woman. Then came the honeymoon—one thing leads to another; little boxes inside boxes. A honeymoon at eighty! Eyes that cannot see, feet that cannot walk, skeletons—and off on honeymoon! They went. What else to do? The old man took the old woman’s hand—what else could he do?—pressed it a while; then both slept. The next day he pressed it a little less; day one had exhausted him. On the third day, when he took her hand to press it, she said, “I have a headache today,” and turned over to sleep.

Headaches, the method of eliciting sympathy, illnesses—children learn this art; it follows them into old age. That is why people keep lamenting their sorrow: to get sympathy.

Rekha, why settle for sympathy? Love is available. Love is showering. But as long as we remain only fit for sympathy, we are deprived of love. When bliss comes, the ego begins to melt. That creates fear, a great inner upheaval—because the ego is our all in all: “I am something!” Bliss comes and dissolves that “I.” It will melt it down, turn it to ash, burn it up. This very seed of “I” is the great sin. This very seed carries you through births upon births. Bliss comes and in its flood this “I”—this trash—will be washed away. And as this “I” is swept away, fear arises.

And you have other fears too. Your husband is here; you watch him; he watches you. What is the work of husband and wife? Mutual surveillance! Interrogating: where were you, what did you do, why did you go there, what did you say? And wives become so adept that I predict: in future, police inspectors and intelligence officers will be women. Men lack that kind of cleverness. Women calculate such minute clues—if they find a single hair on the coat, that’s enough. They’ll find whose hair it is. Great detectives cannot match them. They’ll extract it from the husband, harry him until he confesses. Even if he won’t—by investigation she will get to the truth. You cannot escape. And husbands too keep watch: when I go to office, with whom does my wife talk? Does she have some secret romance? Is she befriending someone?

The husband is afraid because he has taken possession of the wife. The wife is afraid because she has taken possession of the husband.

In my ashram the biggest commotion that arises is for husbands and wives—because here the atmosphere is free. There are no walls between men and women. Old-style sannyasins sometimes come and say, “At least put a rope down the middle! Women sit here, men there!” A Jain muni wanted to come listen; first he sent word: “Please take care that I don’t have to sit near any woman!” Such fear of women? Such panic? We are used to these lines and partitions. Here there is no partition and no one cares. Here is an open sky. And those husbands and wives who have always been bound—and who have always bound each other—when they come here, they face great difficulty. In this open sky other birds are flying—and the husband too wants to flap his wings, the wife too. When everyone is flying, wings flutter!

Now Rekha’s husband is Vedant; he is flapping his wings. They were in America, but even there Rekha didn’t let him flap. This ashram has gone far beyond America! So fear arises; security gets afraid that the husband might disappear entirely. Couples break here every day. Because I never want to keep anyone together by force. If love unites, that is enough. If love does not, every other bond is worthless. Many couples separate here—and those who don’t, know that they were truly a couple. The rest were no couple at all—just a patchwork of mismatched bricks, a bundle thrown together.

Naturally women get more frightened than men. Because for centuries we have crippled women; we have taken away their economic independence. They have become completely dependent on husbands. Fear is natural. There are children; everything is economically dependent on the husband—if he leaves tomorrow, takes someone else’s hand, what will become of me? So the wife worries.

But Rekha, there is no need to be afraid. This is what commune-life means: your responsibility, your children’s responsibility—the commune shares it. Once you become part of this sangha, drop your worries; do not be anxious for security. And what is resolved by keeping someone tied by force? I don’t think Vedant can go very far! Let him fly a little. He will circle here and return—like pigeons circle and sit again at home. And after a few circles he will begin to understand for the first time that all women are alike. But women don’t let men realize this; they give them no chance. All men are alike. The differences are on the surface—like the bonnet on one car and another bonnet on another car. That’s all. Perhaps someone’s nose is a little longer, another’s a little shorter. What is a nose? A bonnet. Breath flows just as well through a small nose, or a long nose, or a flat one. If breath flows, that’s what matters; if it doesn’t, then worry! Whether hair is black or white or some other color, whether eyes are green, blue, or brown—these are surface differences; there is no substance in them. If people could experience one another freely, they would soon rise above such trivialities—and only then do meaningful relationships begin. But if we do not allow freedom from the trivial, how can the meaningful begin?

Wife lays a siege, husband lays a siege. Because of these sieges the hope remains: “Who knows what delights lie elsewhere? What beauty in other women? What joy in other men?” This illusion remains. Let it break, and let it break simply. I long for a world where this illusion is shattered; where it is understood that surface differences are nothing; the real question is inner. And inwardness is a big matter.

Now Rekha loves Vedant. Vedant loves Rekha. I have looked inside both and seen their love, their attachment. But because there was never freedom in life, a few curiosities remain. Let them be exhausted. Let them pass through.

Do not tremble, do not be afraid. This is the meaning of the sangha: now the responsibility is the sangha’s. Your children belong to the commune; you belong to the commune. There is no insecurity now. Stop thinking in personal terms. Sangham sharanam gachchhami. Surrender yourself into the refuge of the sangha. Then the fear will go, and the talk of running will also go.

And even if you want to run, you will not be able to. All your life you have known only pain—where will you go? In that past life there is nothing but hurt. Yes, we cover ourselves on the surface; it seems gentlemanly not to cry our woes. But nothing is hidden from me. My eyes see through. I see inside you only sorrow upon sorrow. The past has been wasted; there is no shelter back there. Move forward! No one wants to make others partners in their pain; it seems lowly, inferior. So we smile outwardly, keep up appearances. But pain has its own way of speaking. However much you laugh, there can be tears in your laughter—just as sometimes there is laughter in tears. There are tears of joy; and there are smiles that merely conceal pain—and not very well. Your expressions reveal it, your gait, your ways.

Whenever I look at Rekha, I feel a pang—the pang that she has known only sorrow. But it is not just her pang; it is humanity’s.

I never wished to make the world a partner in my sorrow,
Yet unknowingly my songs let the heart’s ache rise.

Every tear from my eyes is mine; but the moments of joy stay far.
When I dove into the ocean of experience, truth seemed to claim me.
Wandering in anguish, in every particle I beheld only you,
Yet when you came near, even the familiar seemed unknown.
I never wished to confine you within my eyelids,
Yet unknowingly, some form in the heart keeps blossoming—
The heart’s ache rises!

Some say in these songs there is no eternal essence,
Only the scale of sorrow, no honeyed coaxing of joy.
Pain smiles in every particle, the sky’s lashes are wet;
Shall the earth weep while I sing? That I cannot accept.
I never wished to make the world swoon with these songs,
Yet in restless notes, pain itself sings me—
The heart’s ache rises!

Had ugliness not been a companion, beauty would hold no worth;
If earth laughed in the fall, spring would have no honor;
Were there no compassion and tenderness, tears would bear no garland;
Man would remain incomplete had he not known lack.
I never wished to make the path hard with thorns,
Yet unknown to me a thorn gleams among the flowers—
The heart’s ache rises!

Whenever I look within any sannyasin—anyone who has come ready for initiation—I see only pain and wounds and thorns. Not a single flower has bloomed in your past. Where is there to run back to! And now that spring is near, that the season of sweetness is knocking at the door—Rekha, how will you run? And even if you go back to San Francisco, my call will still follow you. My voice will be in your ears there as well. So don’t waste time and energy in talk of running. Use that energy to awaken. What’s the point of fleeing! You’ve already lived life one way; if there was anything to gain, you would have gained it by now. Your hands are empty. Now I say: your bag will fill with pearls; pearls are raining. Believe this madman for once. Listening to the “sensible” you wasted your life; now try listening to a madman. Who knows—where the sensible failed, the mad may succeed!

Do not give your mind so much respect. Create a little distance from it, a little separation. That is meditation. That is the essence of sannyas. Be a witness!

Do not sulk with me,
Do not lock horns with me,
O my mind!

Do not run to the horizons—
O uncomprehending, understand!
Don’t, without knowing, tangle
In fruitless fuss.
O hasty, touchy one,
Don’t raise a clamor,
Speak a little sense,
Don’t turn mad—
O my mind!

Sit together a while,
Don’t inflame the quarrel.
Upon the mounting noon,
Don’t climb any higher.
Look after yourself,
Leave the world aside;
After so much learning,
Don’t turn mad—
O my mind!

Those poison-soaked clouds—
Don’t gather them on your lashes,
Don’t lighten this little life
In such a way.
Forget praise and blame,
Walk side by side;
Let us love this much,
And argue only this much—
O my mind!

Learn the art of watching the mind. We are fused with the mind. We have identified with it. What the mind says, we feel we are saying; what the mind does, we feel we are doing. No—no, a thousand times no. You are separate from the mind. You are consciousness, pure witness. You are the seer of the mind. Let the mind’s to-and-fro arise—thoughts of running, leaving, countless webs of imagination. Let them arise. Stand a little apart and watch—like one sitting on a riverbank watching waves rise on the water. Sit on the bank of the mind and watch its waves—and a wondrous miracle happens. Watching, watching, all these waves quiet down. Watching, the whole current of mind evaporates. Watching, one day silence and emptiness descend. And where there is emptiness, there is fullness. Where there is emptiness, we have made ourselves ready for the divine; we have become a vessel. For only an empty cup can hold his nectar. We are stuffed with our own junk.

Empty yourself, Rekha—empty the mind of its junk—and be a witness. If you must run, then run inward. Running outward will do nothing now.

There is a story of a Zen monk. Friends had invited him to a meal on the seventh floor of a building; thirty or thirty-five devotees had gathered. While they were eating, an earthquake came. A wooden building—Japan’s buildings are wooden—the whole building began to shake. Now it will fall—now it will fall. People ran; the host too ran. But the stairway was narrow and crowded. The host turned back to see what had happened to the monk he had invited—and was astonished. The monk had folded his legs on his chair, closed his eyes, and sat so still—like a statue of Buddha. Such divine repose, such a showering of grace—he was so charmed, so spellbound, that he stayed; it seemed improper to flee while the guest stayed. The host sat too—trembling! The tremors lasted barely half a minute. The quake passed. The Zen monk opened his eyes and resumed speaking exactly where he had left off. But the host said, “Forgive me, I don’t remember what we were discussing. Such a great quake! Buildings have fallen, people are buried. How this building survived is a wonder. Everyone ran away; even I don’t know how I stayed. Your stillness, your peace, has cast such a spell! I must ask one question—let the old talk go. There was an earthquake—and you did not run!”

The monk laughed. He said, “I ran too. You ran outward; I ran inward. And I tell you, running outward is futile. On the sixth floor there is an earthquake; on the fifth, on the fourth, on the third, the second, the first—everywhere there is a quake. Where will you run? I ran where no earthquake ever reaches. I went within. I sat at the inner center where no tremor has ever come, nor can ever come.”

Rekha, set out on that inner journey. If you must run, run within. For in running within lies the possibility of meeting God. Nectar, bliss—everything can be yours.

Rupkishore! Whose loss would it be? Yours. Humanity’s. In the name of religion a great deal of hypocrisy has happened—and it has made you all into hypocrites. You don’t even notice that you are hypocrites; that’s how deeply it has gone. You have also lost awareness. Had awareness been there along with hypocrisy, perhaps dropping it would have been easy. But now even awareness is not there. Hypocrisy has become your natural lifestyle. Truth hardly comes out of you; lies flow from you effortlessly.

People compete in lying—who can lie more, and with such skill that no one catches it, no one recognizes it; he becomes a great leader. His name will be written in history. Politics is the art of lying: lie in such a way that it looks like truth. Wear such a mask that people feel, “This is your real face.” Put on a khadi cap, wear khadi clothes—and let there be a hundred layers of soot within; no worry, whitewash the outside!

Jesus has said you are like tombs whitewashed with lime. Jesus was tremendous! How did he get to know, even before Mahatma Gandhi, about Mahatma Gandhi’s disciples! These white clothes, these dazzling white displays in Delhi—these are whitewashed graves. Jesus says: smeared with lime outside; inside you are only corpses. Hollow and rotting. There is a dead body there—because you never made any effort to live life, never undertook any adventure, never accepted any challenge. You never even tried to wake yourself up. You lie in deep sleep.

Hypocrisy has been pushed in the name of religions. The reason is simple—and it sounds so reasonable that it doesn’t even occur to you to doubt it.

Religions teach character—and the final outcome of character is hypocrisy. It may sound absurd. Because you think, “Character? Character is the real thing.” Character is not the real thing; consciousness is. Character is outside; consciousness is inside. If you live from your consciousness, whatever you do is right. But religions teach you: forget about consciousness—that’s for incarnate beings; for a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Krishna, a Christ, a Mohammed, prophets, avatāras, tīrthankaras, sons of God—leave it to that rare few. It’s not in your capacity. You are people of bone, flesh, marrow. You—character! Character means: live as others have said, not from your own knowing. Live by what others have prescribed. And here the trouble begins. Because each person is so different, so unique, that if he lives according to someone else, he will become false—he must.

Suppose you follow Mahavira and stand naked—and you feel cold, your heart longs for a blanket! Then you will invent tricks. Do you know what tricks the Digambara Jain monks have devised? At night they sleep in a closed room; windows and doors are all shut—he himself doesn’t shut them, because it’s not written in scripture; that would count as protection against cold. But if others do it? If others do it, what can you do! Scripture doesn’t say you shouldn’t allow others to do it. So others close the windows and doors, lodge him in the middle room where no air reaches. And they spread straw on the floor, which gives warmth.

The scriptures say: don’t spread a blanket. But “don’t spread straw” is written nowhere. And when the monk lies down, they cover him with straw from above as well. Scripture doesn’t say you must stop someone if he throws straw on you! So straw below, straw above. And straw is warmer than cotton. And doors shut on all sides!

What a pointless rigmarole! Nowhere in Mahavira’s life is there mention of straw. Mahavira must have been a man of a different type. There are all kinds of people. Cold must have suited Mahavira. Different things suit different people. Cold suits me. My sannyasins write to me: “You wear the same clothes in summer and in winter. At least in winter protect yourself a little.” My difficulty is the opposite—I have trouble in summer. Then I wonder how to protect myself. Cold suits me. My sannyasins write, “We look at your thumb—it’s turning quite blue.” But unless my thumb turns blue, I don’t enjoy it! What to do!

My room is like an icehouse. Vivek has to come and go in it—she feels her life slipping away. She brings the tea and runs. She’s just returned from England and said, “I used to think England is cold—but this room is worse. England is better than this!”

Cold suits me too! It even amazes me. If it’s very hot, I catch a cold; and if it’s very cold, I don’t.

Cold must have suited Mahavira. If you follow Mahavira, hypocrisy will arise. Leave Mahavira to Mahavira. Take care of yourself. So much cold didn’t suit Buddha as it did Mahavira, so he kept a shawl. But because of that one shawl, in the eyes of the Jains he fell. They say he is a great soul, but not a God. He would be God if he left even the shawl. The shawl drowned the poor fellow! Such a shawl! For a single shawl, liberation slipped from his hands!

Whenever you live by someone else, you will be in difficulty—because he speaks from his experience. His experience is his; no one else’s experience can ever be yours. Character means: do as others say; sit when they seat you, rise when they raise you. You will become hypocrites. What does hypocrisy mean? You are doing something not in tune with your nature. You are denying your nature. You are losing your authenticity.

My emphasis is on consciousness. I say: live from your awareness. That is why I give my sannyasins no code of character. I don’t tell them: do this, do that; wear this, wear that; eat this, drink that; when to sleep, when to wake. I don’t tell them any of these things. Because from my own experience I found—having tried almost all the ways... For example, in university I used to get up at three. Rishis and munis must rise at three! But it never suited me. I would feel sleepy the whole day. One thing became clear: if being a rishi-muni means getting up at three, then I don’t want to be a rishi-muni—because I’ll be sleepy all day!

But people find tricks.

Mahatma Gandhi, too, would feel sleepy all day—of course; that 3 a.m. nuisance! So many times he would nap ten or fifteen minutes in the day. People are amazingly blind—they praised it: “Wonderful! How serene he is—he can sleep whenever you look!” There is nothing to it. Get up at three and you too will doze whenever you look! There’s no art there. Just get up at three—your eyes will keep blinking all day! Because the real time of deep sleep is between two and six in the morning. Those two hours of the deepest sleep fall then. For some it’s between two and four. If his deepest hours are between two and four and he gets up at four, he will remain fresh the whole day. But for someone else they are between four and six; if he gets up between four and six, he will remain sad all day; his face will be funereal; he will look as if he’s been crying.

That didn’t suit me.

Rishis and munis should go to bed early. Vinoba Bhave goes to bed at eight in the evening. When I was in university, I tried every way. I tried going to sleep at eight. I would lie down at eight, but sleep would come at twelve. Sleep doesn’t come just by lying down. And four hours of drill—turning sides. I said, this is madness; sleep simply doesn’t come at eight! And after tossing till twelve, even at twelve sleep becomes difficult. After so much harassment, how will sleep come!

I tried sleeping at all times and found that exactly twelve suits me. Perhaps I was a Sardaar in a past life, or what! Exactly at twelve, where the two hands meet—I call it the yoga-sthala, nonduality, the very peak of Vedanta—when the two hands become one, only then do I get the sleep I get at no other time.

Now whom should I follow—Mahavira, Buddha, the rishis and munis—or myself? I tried all their prescriptions; they are useless for me. They may have been right for them; they are not right for me. And if I tell you to sleep at twelve because I sleep at twelve, and say if you don’t sleep at twelve you are not a rishi-muni, you will be in trouble. If sleep comes to you at nine, you’ll have to wander around till twelve! And if sleep comes to you at nine and you try to stay awake till twelve, then even at twelve sleep will not come.

No—live from your consciousness. In regard to food, in regard to sleep, in regard to all aspects of life. My work is to give you the process by which awareness is born within you. To give you meditation—only that. Then conduct will come by itself. It must.

So religions spread hypocrisy because they emphasized character. And religions spread violence—though they preached nonviolence. They spread hatred—though they preached love. They waged wars—yet even the wars were “to protect peace.” “Islam is in danger!” The word Islam means peace. So to protect peace, go to war! What a delicious absurdity! War for war, and war for peace too! Then how will one ever be free of war?

Murders have been done in the name of religion. Because religions gave you only hollow doctrines; they did not give you the experience of love—only the doctrine of love. They tried to define love, but prevented its experience. Because the experience of love is dangerous. Whoever enters into the experience of love will be free of churches, free of sects. He will have a direct connection with God—why would he take a priest or pundit in between? He has no need of a pope. Love connects directly—the highest engagement of love! Then no one remains in between. And the priest lives by being in between. His job is not to unite you with God; his job is to prevent you from meeting God. As long as you have not met, he is needed. The day you meet, his need ends. He is an agent, a broker.

And religions have divided you, into fragments—Hindu, Muslim, Christian. Instead of making the earth one, whole, they fragmented it. And as many fragments as there are, that much enmity has increased—naturally. Every fragment wants to be the master. Every fragment wants to expand and cover the whole earth. Christianity wants the whole earth to be Christian. Hindus want the whole earth to be Hindu. Muslims want the whole earth to be Muslim. How can that be? It seems impossible. If you are Hindu you are not Muslim; if you are Muslim you are not Christian.

I am giving a new vision: become religious, become meditative. Drop these useless adjectives—Hindu, Muslim, Christian. And you ask: From what has happened in the name of religion, who has suffered the loss? The loss is yours—whose else?

Whether rice is cut or wheat is cut,
whether kodo is cut or sorghum is cut—
to us it feels, brother,
it is we who are cut,
our hands are cut every time.

Whether water falls or sweat falls,
whether pearls fall or gems fall—
in sorrow the earth
cradles the lap,
whether an arm falls or a chest falls.

Whether neem is cut or babool is cut,
whether the jujube is cut or the wasteland cleared—
to us it feels, brother,
it is we who are cut,
our hands are cut every time.

Whether granny plants or grandpa plants,
whether mother plants or father plants—
the tree of hunger,
the crop of thirst,
whether in Kashi it’s planted or in Kaaba.

Whether “deen” is cut or “dharma” is cut,
whether the virtuous are cut or the unlettered—
to us it feels, brother,
it is we who are cut,
our hands are cut every time.

Whether we sow relations or we sow faces,
whether we sow barren or sow deep—
in the half-naked
cities of the civilized,
whether we sow abuses or alphabets.

Whether a settlement is razed or slogans are razed,
whether letters are cut or darkness—
to us it feels, brother,
it is we who are cut,
our hands are cut every time.

Whether one writes “nation” or writes “bruise,”
whether one writes scriptures or writes milieu—
youth crushed
in the grinding mill—
whether one writes the remainder or the without-remnant.

Whether turns are cut or roads are cut,
whether people are cut or queues—
to us it feels, brother,
it is we who are cut,
our hands are cut every time.

Who other than you is cut down? It is the human being who is cut. Whether a Muslim is cut, a Hindu, a Christian, a Communist, a Catholic—it is the human who is cut. And when will this be understood? But if Japan is being cut, we think: what is it to us! If the Chinese are being cut—what do we have to do with it! If Iranians are being cut—it’s their internal matter, what is it to us! Then when you are cut, it is your internal matter—what is it to them! Always it is man who is being cut. In every case, man is cut. It is man who is being looted.

But we have been taught that we are human last—first Hindu, first Muslim, first Christian. And if those big diseases were not enough, then the smaller ones: among Hindus too—are you Sanatani or Arya Samaji? As if cancer were not enough—then which cancer? Of the bone or of the blood? And within cancer, even smaller cancers.

There are three hundred religions on earth, and three thousand sects, and understand, three hundred thousand cults. Keep cutting! And today the trouble has grown even thicker. Why thicker? Because earlier people were familiar only with their own scriptures; they lived in their own little wells—those were their oceans. Now they have become familiar with other scriptures too, so a great dilemma has arisen: which is the truth? Is the Bible true, or the Koran, or the Vedas? There is no end to the human dilemma. And when it cannot be decided which is true, whose conduct shall we follow? So until it is decided, mis-conduct! Until then we will do... something must be done! First let it be decided which is right. Until it is decided, do the not-right! And this will never be decided. From this quarrel there will never be a solution. In this quarrel the answers are more dangerous than the questions. In the world of religion that is exactly what has happened.

I have heard, once Birbal said in court that sometimes the answer is more dangerous than the question. Akbar said, “That doesn’t sound right.” Birbal said, “If I get a chance, I’ll show you.”

Some five or seven days later: Akbar was standing before the mirror, combing his hair, when Birbal came from behind and gave him a kick. Akbar just managed not to fall; the mirror barely escaped breaking. Akbar turned and said, “Scoundrel! Is this any way? Granted I love you—does that mean you kick the emperor!”

Birbal said, “Forgive me, Your Majesty! I thought it was the Begum.”

The emperor said, “What do you mean? So you were going to kick the queen? I’ll have your throat cut!”

Birbal said, “Do whatever you must—I am only giving an example: sometimes the answer is even more dangerous than the question.”

The questions are straightforward, but there are too many answers—a whole crowd of them. The answers are very dangerous. And some answer or other will catch hold of you. Then the dilemma will deepen, because more answers are lined up, saying, “Listen to us too!”

All the schoolchildren used to bring some offering to the teacher. Only one boy, Fazlu, never brought anything. One day he came with a bowl full of kheer, and everyone was astonished. The teacher asked in surprise, “Well, Fazlu, what’s the matter today?”

Fazlu said, “My father has taken a vow to renounce miserliness and become generous—so today there’s celebration at our house. In that joy they made kheer, laddus, pedas, rasgullas. Father said, ‘Take a bowl of kheer to your teacher.’”

The teacher asked in amazement, “Then why did your generous father send only kheer? Why not the rasgullas and the rest?”

Simple Fazlu said, “Sir, actually a lizard fell into the kheer. Father said, ‘Rather than giving it to the cow or the goat, give it to your teacher. Brahmin-donation is the real, true donation.’”

At this the angry teacher flung the kheer so hard it splattered all over the floor and the bowl broke into pieces. Fazlu began crying loudly. The teacher said, “Why are you crying, you Nasruddin’s child? Theft is theft—and you’re brazen on top of it!”

“My mother will beat me,” Fazlu said, “because you broke the bowl! Now what will my little brother pee in?”

That’s all for today.