Jharat Dashahun Dis Moti #18

Madhukar! What human beings ordinarily take to be life is not even the beginning of life. Far from life—it is not even birth yet. There is one kind of birth from the parents; that is only the birth of the body. With that you begin to breathe, but you do not live. You begin to digest food, but you do not live. The body grows, but you remain blank within. No growth of the soul happens in you: no maturity, no inner movement, no dance, no celebration. That is why those who have known say: until you become dvija—twice-born—until you are born again, understand that life has not even begun.

The process of becoming twice-born is sannyas. It is the way to become a brahmin—because it is the means to know Brahman. No one is born a brahmin. All are born shudras. Brahminhood must be earned; it is not free. Through labor and sadhana the flowers of brahminhood must be brought to bloom. Even being born in a brahmin’s house does not make one a brahmin. The first birth is that of a shudra. The second birth! And by the second birth is meant: the inner journey. The first birth prepares you for the outer journey. The body is the vehicle for the outer journey; the mind, its apparatus. When meditation is born, life begins.

Therefore, true life is found with a true master. True life is found in satsang—communion with the truth—where a thirst for meditation is awakened in you; where your very life-breath begins to long for the Divine, so intensely that if this life itself had to be staked in the bargain, you would still be ready to make the deal—then the second life is given. For the second life, an urgency is needed, a keen longing, a deep thirst—for truth. The way you are living now, what you are living now, is a makeshift life. You are moving like an ox yoked to the oil press. Every day you get up, every night you sleep. Nights are dreams, days are thoughts. You are busy with a thousand tasks—but what is the outcome? What is the result? What is the extract of all these doings? Death will come and wipe everything clean. Remember this definition of life: that which death cannot erase—that is life. What death can erase—how can that be life? What you are living now—ask only this: will death erase it or not? Keep testing everything on this touchstone. These breaths death will snatch away, this body will fall into dust, this wealth, money, status, prestige—everything will vanish, as the night’s dreams vanish upon waking in the morning. If you want to call this life, call it so; if you want to console yourself, go ahead—but this is not life.

It must have been just such a morning, and Jesus stopped by a lake. A fisherman had just cast his net to catch fish. Jesus placed his hand upon the fisherman’s shoulder. Startled, the man turned: Who is there—so early, and cold? He looked into Jesus’ eyes. They seemed deeper than the lake itself. In those eyes was a freshness greater than the lake’s. And this man appeared altogether unique. The fisherman was transfixed.

Jesus said to him: How long will you go on catching fish? Is there nothing else to be done? Is catching fish the whole of life? That very morning Jesus spoke his famous saying: Man cannot live by bread alone. Something more is needed—something greater than bread, more dignified than bread, above bread. Livelihood is not life. The fisherman listened, left his net just where it was—did not even pull it in from the lake—and said to Jesus, I too want to seek that life. Jesus said: Come, follow me. As they were leaving the village, a man came running and said to the fisherman, Madman, where are you going? Your father, who was ill—he has died. Come home at once. Naturally, the fisherman said to Jesus, Grant me three or four days’ leave; I will return, but let me perform my father’s last rites. And Jesus’ words are very sweet. He said: Don’t worry—there are plenty of dead in the village; they will take care of the dead. You come, follow me.

There are plenty of dead in the village; they will take care of the dead! Reflect on this saying. He is calling all of you dead. He does not consider you alive. I too do not consider you alive—because you have not yet come to know life. Until the eternal is known, until the timeless is recognized, until you are betrothed to that which has neither beginning nor end, until there is union with the Divine—what life can there be? Until then there is only livelihood: you earn bread, perhaps you even put away a few coins in the safe; but those are all clay pots—everything will be left behind.

Yet I understand your helplessness. Those who bring news of the second life are scarcely to be seen. Those who carry the message of the second life are hard to find. Those whom you worship in the name of religion are people just like you; no revolution has happened in their lives, no ray has descended. The darkness in their lives is like yours—and sometimes even more. Those whom you call sensualists still have some thrill in life; sometimes a thirst, a cry does arise in them. But those you call so-called mahatmas, yogis, saints—they are utterly dead. They are more dead than you. Ash has settled in their eyes. Little by little they have committed spiritual suicide. And for centuries suicide has been mistaken for religion. The more self-destructive a person is, the greater a saint we consider him. The more one inflicts suffering upon oneself, the greater a renunciate, a tapasvin we call him.

To inflict suffering upon oneself is a mental sickness. And note this: whoever torments himself will surely torment others as well. It is an inevitable part of the arithmetic. Indirectly he will cause suffering. The man who fasts and tortures himself will also persuade others to fast and torture themselves. And if you do not torment yourself, do not fast—look at the condemnation in his eyes, the insult. He would fry you in the cauldrons of hell. In his eyes you are worms, not even human. It is upon the strength of this very ego of being “holy,” of being “special,” “pure,” “a great soul,” that he is able to endure so much suffering. Then you can make him do whatever you like: make him lie on a bed of thorns, make him fast—whatever you want. But whatever you have been doing in the name of religion, just look closely—does it not contain the tendency to erase oneself, to kill oneself, to commit inner suicide?

In the early years of his life Sigmund Freud made his first significant discovery: the libido. Libido means the life-instinct: that within a human being there is a great urge for life. Man wants to live—at any cost. And this is true. Even a beggar lives. He drags himself along the road, has no place to stay, no food to eat, lies in gutters, is disabled, a leper—but still he wants to live. He goes around asking for a few coins, crawling—yet he wants to live. There must indeed be a profound longing to live.

There is an old story from Egypt.

There was a vast monastery. Its custom was that whenever a monk died, beneath the monastery there was an underground catacomb hidden by a great stone. The stone would be removed, the mouth of the cemetery opened, and the dead monk’s body would be dropped into the pit, then the stone sealed again. Below was a long cavern into which, over centuries, countless monks had been lowered. By coincidence, this time the monk who “died” had not actually died—he was only unconscious—and in haste they lowered him into the pit. After an hour or two he regained consciousness. Waking, he was terrified. He shouted—but who would hear? The stone was sealed. There was no possibility anyone would hear. Exhausted from shouting, he fell silent.

What would you have done in his place? You might think, “I would commit suicide, dash my head against the rocks, die.” No—this man devised a way to live. He began to live even there. It must have been a strange and revolting life. He began to eat the rotting flesh of the corpses that lay there. The maggots that had bred in the bodies—he caught them and ate them. Water was a great difficulty. Whatever water seeped from the monastery’s drains down into the catacomb—he licked it off the walls and drank. And he prayed every day—one single prayer: let some monk die, so the stone will be lifted again and I can get out.

He lived twelve years. His prayer was heard after twelve years. After twelve years someone died, the doorway of the crypt opened—and the man called out. The chests of those who had come to lower the corpse thudded with fear: Who is calling from inside? A ghost? What is this? But they had to lower a rope and pull the man up. In twelve years his hair had grown so long, his beard so long, that it touched the ground. And the greatest surprise of all—having lived in darkness for so long, he had become blind; yet he came out carrying a bundle. They asked, What is in the bundle? He opened it. In Egypt there was a custom: when someone died, for the journey to the other world—at least for tickets and so on—some money would be placed with the body, and a few garments to change into. He had collected the dead men’s clothes and money, in the hope that when he got out, he would take it all with him. He had tied up all the clothes and coins in that bundle and brought it out.

Such is man’s life-instinct!

This is not a story; it is true—it happened.

So Freud’s investigation was accurate: the greatest urge in man is to live. He can do anything to live. And we see this is true. To live, man does anything—steals, cheats, kills.

But before he died, in the later years of his life, Freud made another discovery. He had seen that if the life-instinct alone is the one and only drive, then how do people commit suicide? How to explain suicide? What causes it? And sometimes people in very good circumstances commit suicide—often it is precisely those in good circumstances. In poor countries fewer people commit suicide; in rich countries more. The more affluent the class, the higher the rates of suicide. So those who have everything—why do they kill themselves? Freud set to work again in the final years of his life. He discovered a second drive, and the theory was completed. He had called the first drive libido—the life-instinct—and he called the second thanatos—the death-instinct. Then the theory was whole. These are two sides of the same coin.

In this life everything comes paired with its opposite. Darkness is with light. Life is with death. Love is with hate. Friendship is with enmity. In this life every single thing comes with its contrary. Nothing exists alone. Life is dialectical, full of duality. If there is birth, there is death. If there is pleasure, there is pain. If there is success, there is failure. If there is fame, there is defamation.

And this is not only about the human mind; in everything. Scientists say electricity has two poles: negative and positive. If one pole did not exist, the other could not exist either. In every aspect of human life there are the two poles, negative and positive.

Freud’s discovery would have remained incomplete, but he completed it. There is also an urge to die within man. In some people it seizes them intensely, and they commit suicide outright. In some, not so intensely; they do it slowly. Those whom you call mahatmas commit slow suicide. One gives up food; another wears no clothes; one stands in the cold; one stands in the blazing sun; one ruins his eyes staring at the sun; one keeps vigil all night. Some monks have stood for years without sitting; some lie on thorns; some pierce their cheeks with spears. Among Christians there have been ascetics who every morning whipped themselves—and naturally, the more one whipped oneself, the greater a saint he was considered. Those whose skin was flayed, whose bodies were lashed with marks. There have been—and still are—Christians who wear an iron belt around the waist with inward-pointing spikes that pierce the flesh and keep wounds always open. They wear shoes with nails on the inside to keep their feet wounded. People come to see their wounds and say, Ah! What renunciation!

In Russia, before the revolution, there was a Christian sect that cut off their genitals; they made heaps of the severed organs. Women were not far behind; they cut off their breasts and piled them in heaps. It was regarded as a great virtue and glory.

These are all self-destructive impulses. So those whom you take for saints—how will they show you the direction of life? They themselves are on the road to death. They are more distorted than you. At least you are normal; they are not even that. For the search for life only one thing is needed—only one: neither renunciation, nor austerity, nor melting the body, nor tormenting it—these are all violent acts, and through violence no one attains self-knowledge. Whether the violence is toward another or toward oneself—violence is violence, and it is sin.

To become available to self-knowledge, one must become related to life. As yet you do not even know who you are—how can you be alive? And what is that one thing? It is meditation. You must become a witness. You must descend within and recognize that conscious principle which is your real nature. The day you experience consciousness, the day you know, I am not the body, not the mind, not wealth, not position, not prestige—I am only that which sees, the seer of all; day comes and it sees the day, night comes and it sees the night, youth and it sees youth, old age and it sees old age—I am the witness. The day you experience this, that day you are twice-born, that day you are a brahmin, that day your shudra-hood is erased. From that day the revolution in your life begins; light, and more light, will grow; radiance will deepen, darkness will wither away.

Madhukar, what you now call living is living in name only.

And yet, one still has to live!

So then, heart, why be so restless?
Why let your mind return to her again?
Mad one! Why tie yourself anew
to hope’s deception?
Even if that dream never comes true,
still—you will have to live!

Mind! You are impatient; I am without support;
I am unanchored—what remedy is there?
So many times before, in this same life,
I have been defeated by the world.
If this time too I am defeated,
still—you will have to live!

If I have no sway over you, or even over myself,
over whom will I have any sway?
What if I am desolate?
Am I not bound even to my breath?
If death does not come even now,
still—you will have to live!

Why do you, panicking, cry out,
“Let these happy dreams burn to ashes”?
If head-banging were my chosen aim,
why have these sleeping fortunes stirred?
But even if all my days are spent beating my head,
still—you will have to live!

Then why worry, foolish mind?
Whatever is to be, will be!
Joy and sorrow came before as well—
we lived them out with tears and songs!
Now if we weep for an hour or two,
still—you will have to live!

Right now you are living somehow—carrying a burden. What to do—if you do not live? In the morning you rise and are yoked like an ox to the mill; you go on turning the press all day; at night you drop, exhausted; in the morning you rise again—once more the same ox at the mill. But what to do! All around you are people living just like you. Seeing them, you feel perhaps this is life; that is why you asked whether what you are living is indeed life. People all around are living just such a life. This is not life. It is only an opportunity to attain life. Do not mistake this turning of the mill for the whole of it. Take out a few moments from this hustle, this running about, this futile struggle—and I am not saying, Run away! Where will you run? Wherever you go, the world will be there—because the world is in your mind. Wherever you go, the world is bound to appear—because where will you leave the mind? With this very mind the world has been spun; with this very mind it will be spun there again. Nothing will change. Therefore I do not tell you to flee; I tell you to awaken. I say: Wake up, right where you are! Take out a few moments in the twenty-four hours—no one is so poor that he cannot find a little time for the inner journey—and finally you will find that only those moments remain which you spent within; all the rest is lost.

But people are strange! If you tell them to meditate, they say, Where is the time? And they say it in such a way that it seems they are not deceiving you. They say it in such a way that it seems they are not lying. And perhaps they are not lying—they too believe, Where is the time? Yet I see these very people playing cards, setting out the chessboard, standing in line outside the cinema, crowding the Rotary Club and Lions Club, sitting in hotels. Ask them then, and they say, What to do—we are killing time! And I am amazed. Speak of meditation, and they say, Where is the time? But they are playing cards; reading the same newspaper for the fourth time—which wasn’t worth reading even once! Ask them, What are you doing? and they say, Killing time!

Are you killing time—or is time killing you? Whom are you deceiving? It seems people want to avoid meditation—avoid themselves. There must be reasons, some fear. The greatest fear is this: those who go within, their race in the outer world slows down. They no longer remain mad for wealth. If it comes, good; if not, that’s fine too. Pleasure and pain begin to be the same. Ambition loses its force. If it is fulfilled, good; if not fulfilled, good. In every circumstance an auspicious music begins to play within. In every circumstance they remain blissful. This causes a little fear: I haven’t yet succeeded, I haven’t yet accumulated wealth or attained position—if I go within now, what will become of my ambition?

A politician used to come to me. He asked, What is the way to peace of mind? I said: First, leave politics, because it is a way to restlessness of mind. He said, That won’t be possible. I have come precisely because I am in politics, and the mind is very restless—so give me a way to peace so I can remain in politics and still have peace of mind. And you are cutting from the roots! You say, leave politics. I cannot leave it now. Later, I will. I asked: What will happen later? He said: It’s just a matter of a little time—I am about to become chief minister. Having run all my life, now for a little while, why should I leave? I said: Then first become chief minister! Because when you go within, the race will drop. To go within means the useless attractions outside begin to pale; the lamps outside begin to go out, the lamps inside begin to be lit. Inside there will be Diwali; outside, bankruptcy! And I told him: Outside, bankruptcy is bound to come anyway; if you make Diwali within, you will be fine, or else you will repent.

He didn’t listen. He came just now, greatly repentant—didn’t become chief minister, and is no longer even a minister. He said, Now tell me meditation. I said: Now come again—when the chance to become chief minister arises once more in your life. People want meditation free—without giving up anything. And meditation is the most precious thing in life. There is no gem greater than it. Even if you give up everything for it—you have lost nothing.

Take to meditation, Madhukar! Your very name is sweet—Madhukar, honeybee! Within, the true flower is in bloom. Come inside. Hum its song there. There is the real nectar. Whoever has drunk it is satisfied forever.

If to the blossoming mangoes the maddened bees do not come,
how am I to know that springtime has arrived?
Granted, the sky seems open now and washed,
wide-spread, blue upon blue,
the frost-burned lawn turns yellow-green again
on which a lovely flower blooms,
on the trees’ bare boughs—coral and emerald—
and the brisk jolt of the south wind;
if to the flowering mangoes the maddened bees do not come,
how am I to know that springtime has arrived?

Granted, the singing birds have come,
one hears the cuckoo’s call;
those who had flown to warmer lands for a while,
the flock of geese, have returned;
a colorful wedding party stands adorned and ready—
but until someone crowns the groom’s head
with the peacock-crest of mango blossoms,
how am I to know that springtime has arrived?
If to the flowering mangoes the maddened bees do not come,
how am I to know that springtime has arrived?

Who can hide the laburnum
when branch and leaf are made golden-flowered?
Why have silk-cotton and palash
not raised vermilion flags in the sky?
Leaving the city’s narrow lanes, doorways, houses, I came out—
but miles-long fields are not seen
yellowed with blooming mustard; how am I to know that springtime has arrived?
If to the flowering mangoes the maddened bees do not come,
how am I to know that springtime has arrived?

From morning till evening, laboring like beasts,
even after being shattered to bits,
not once in all three hundred and sixty-five days
does one eat to a full stomach,
yet those who, drinking the season’s intoxicated breeze,
become tipsy, mad—
their songs of Holi do not keep the nights awake; how am I to know that springtime has arrived?
If to the flowering mangoes the maddened bees do not come,
how am I to know that springtime has arrived?

Spring comes within too. A season comes within. Just yesterday we were talking of gulal—the colored powder of Holi—weren’t we? Gulal says: Spring has come, Phalgun has arrived; now I will play Holi with my beloved. In speaking of that I forgot that Holi had not yet arrived. So I said some true things about Raipur. A friend has asked: You jolted me hard; I have come from Raipur, and now I am in great difficulty! One should say, Brother, it’s Holi—don’t take offense! But it wasn’t Holi; that was only gulal… it’s gulal’s fault! He raised such a Holi yesterday that I too forgot it wasn’t Holi yet—so I spoke some true things about Raipur. If it hurt, then today I will say false things.

Raipur is worthy to be the capital of India. There is no other city such a symbol of Indian culture! Raipur is the capital of “sanskar”—culture. That is why I said its people are non-dualists; they make no distinctions; they take the whole world to be a latrine! And the region is called Chhattisgarh—“thirty-six forts.” You know, of course, thirty-six virtues!

When I was a professor in a college in Raipur, there was a professor who was a barber by caste. People say barbers have thirty-six qualities. I didn’t know for sure, but I was astonished that people called him “Mr. Seventy-Two.” I was surprised. I said, I have heard barbers have thirty-six qualities—but seventy-two? Someone experienced explained: You don’t understand—he has only one eye; so double the qualities! A two-eyed barber has thirty-six; a one-eyed man is extraordinary—very accomplished—so they call him “Mr. Seventy-Two.” And Raipur is the capital of Chhattisgarh—so there are thirty-six qualities in its people!

Don’t take offense—it was talk of Holi!

Such a spring comes within too. Such gulal rises within. Madhukar! Come inside! The flowers are in bloom there. Flowers that never wither. The sages have called them the thousand-petaled lotus! Those lotuses bloom there. As many bloom within you as in the Buddhas—not a bit less, no difference at all. The only difference between you and the Buddhas is that you stand with your back turned to your own lotuses, while the Buddhas have turned their faces toward them. That is all. About turn! Just turn a full one hundred and eighty degrees—and you will be astonished: the supreme life will begin to shower of its own accord. Pearls will rain in all ten directions!

Harish! Fear of sannyas is natural. You are dyed in the colors of the world—well dyed. With birth itself you are initiated into the world. If you are forty or fifty now, that is forty or fifty years of the world’s hypnosis. We start hypnotizing little children in the language of the world. We tell them, “If you study and write, you’ll become a nawab. If you play and frolic, you’ll be spoiled.” To make them nawabs you’re busy ruining their heads. You don’t see the state of the nawabs—that all the nawabs have become kebabs—yet you keep trying to make the kids nawabs! “Study and become a nawab,” and, “If you play you’ll be ruined.”

The poor child gives up play and begins to study and write. Study becomes ambition. “Come first! Bring the gold medal!” The race to be first begins. And Jesus says: “He who is first in this world will be last in my Father’s kingdom. And he who is last here will be first there.” And we teach people: be first. Run, keep running—but be first! So people grow old... look at Morarji Desai—eighty-four years old, and still running, running! Even now the running hasn’t stopped; inside, the whispering continues. As if man never loses his childishness. Even the old do not become truly old. It looks as if everyone here just gets sun-dried. No maturity arrives. The same hankering for position. Little children climb onto a chair and say to their father, “Daddoo, we are bigger than you now! We got onto the chair, so we are higher than you.” And these big “Daddoos,” they are no different. They climb onto a chair and declare, “We are great, supreme—none above us!” The same swagger, the same madness, the same derangement.

And we teach children: earn plenty of money, gain status, make your forefathers’ name shine! What need is there to make the forefathers’ name shine? If they themselves could not, why should these poor kids do it? What is their fault! And even if the name does shine, what happens? Even if it’s written in history in golden letters, what then? Yet: “Make the name shine! Raise your parents’ prestige!” The parents are dead and gone, lying in their graves, yet they are still trying to rest the gun on their children’s shoulders and fire—dead parents, but firing from the sons’ shoulders.

We teach ambition. Ambition is the world. Sannyas means freedom from ambition. Sannyas means seeing the futility of this bustle, this race—this meaningless race to be ahead. So of course there will be difficulty. It is the opposite of your lifelong hypnosis. And breaking hypnosis takes time. The hardest work I have to do here is precisely this: how to break your hypnosis? You come with fifty, sixty years of hypnosis—and not just of one life, but of lives upon lives—your beliefs have become strong, they have settled in your chest like stone; removing them is hard. And when I try to remove them, it is you who put up resistance, because you have come to think they are your very life-breath; your life seems hooked into them.

Hence, Harish, sannyas evokes fear.

The first fear is: I will have to change. No one wants to change. “If only something could happen while I remain the same, that would be good.” Therefore we get into hollow religion. Hollow religion asks nothing of you by way of transformation. Go to the temple, offer two flowers to Hanumanji—what of yours is lost? People usually pluck the flowers from the neighbor’s garden anyway. I speak from experience. In Jabalpur I had made a very beautiful garden. A great problem arose—religious folks began arriving at dawn with their baskets and started plucking flowers. I stopped them; they said, “We are plucking these for religion!” They spoke with such an air, as if plucking for religion was a great deed. I said, “If you were plucking for irreligion I could allow it, but for religion I won’t allow it at all.” I put up a board: “Plucking flowers for religion is strictly prohibited.” People said, “You are something! Plucking for religion is prohibited! But not for irreligion?” I said, “Not for irreligion—say you have fallen in love with a woman and you make a garland and take it to her, I can understand—at least it will be of some use. But poor Hanumanji! The flowers will be of no use to me, not to the plant, not to you—and what will Hanumanji do with them? Of what use will they be to him?

“And as for God—the flowers are already offered to him; they are offered while on the trees. They sing only his song, hum only his hum, spread only his fragrance. By plucking them you are killing them. No, you say they are ‘sweet, sweet flowers to be offered at God’s feet!’ The trees may benefit; what will you gain? Offer something dear of your own! For instance, offer your neck! You love that dear face you see in the mirror—then you will gain something. These flowers, if they are anyone’s, they belong to the rosebush. Even if God offers thanks, he will thank the rosebush—where do you come in?”

People will pluck from the neighbor’s, climb walls by the roadside to pluck—then go offer them to an idol of stone. Nothing changes; this is easy religion. A two-penny religion. Memorize the Gayatri mantra and parrot it. A gramophone can do it better than you—what are you doing? Bring a gramophone record of the Gayatri mantra—nowadays they exist—and of the Namokar mantra too. Put it on from morning; it will keep playing the Gayatri mantra—you will get the benefit. And you think when you recite it you are doing something different? The memory in your brain is also like a gramophone record.

Recent scientific research on memory fully confirms that memory is exactly like a gramophone record. There are centers in the brain where things are stored. If those centers are touched with electricity, memory springs to life at once. Just as someone recites the Gayatri mantra: he is sitting quietly, the scientist can touch the center where the Gayatri is stored, and the man will begin reciting—though he does not want to. Whether he wishes or not, he will have to recite. The record has started; the needle is set. What can he do—he must recite. And there is one more amusing thing: the moment you lift the needle, it stops. Put the needle back, it starts again. The only difference between a gramophone record and this is that whenever you place the needle, it always starts from the beginning, not from the middle. This is the brain’s knack: it instantly returns to the original starting point—automatic. If you remove the needle midway, the record immediately revolves back to the starting point. Again touch the needle, again it runs. Puncture it a thousand times; it will repeat the same mantra a thousand times. Touch different spots, and the man will speak different things—because different centers store different things.

From one center he will start cursing all of a sudden. He is a respectable gentleman—spins a charkha, wears khadi and a Gandhi cap—and suddenly he begins to swear. And his greatest difficulty will be that he himself won’t understand what he is doing. Sometimes you too don’t understand what you are doing. Many times you say, “It happened despite me.” Why does it happen despite you? You say, “That man pressed my button.” Meaning? What is “pressing a button”? You do have buttons. And everyone knows where whose button lies; press it and at once he heats up. Any little thing is enough to press your button; instantly you behave in precisely the way you did not want to.

Wives know the husbands’ buttons; the moment he arrives home, they press them. And the husband starts the same routine he has sworn a thousand times not to do. But the wife knows the button—she presses it. Husbands know wives’ buttons too—where and how to press them. Those who live in intimacy gradually come to know where each one’s button is and how to press it.

And not only humans—even dogs know.

When the master comes the dog starts wagging his tail. Do you know what he is doing by wagging? He is pressing your button. He is flattering you. He’s saying, “You are great!” Poor fellow cannot say it with his mouth, so he wags his tail. A stranger comes—the dog barks. Sometimes he’s in doubt. Then he does both together. If there is confusion—“the man seems both unfamiliar and somewhat known; what to do?”—the dog becomes a diplomat. He wags and barks both. He watches, weighs it—according to how things go, he’ll proceed. If he sees the master greeting the man, he stops barking and keeps wagging. If he sees the master ignores the man, he stops wagging and continues barking.

Unless you are utterly blind—that’s different.

Chandulal, in old age, became deaf—stone-deaf. He went to Dhabboo-ji’s house; their dog began barking fiercely. Dhabboo-ji keeps a dreadful dog, an Alsatian, enough to knock the wind out of you at one glance. But Chandulal was not afraid. If one cannot hear, why fear? Chandulal said, “Dhabboo-ji, it seems your dog didn’t sleep all night.” Dhabboo-ji said, “What do you mean?” He said, “Look—how it’s yawning!” The dog was barking. But if you cannot hear, you see yawning!

If someone is utterly blind or deaf, that’s different. But even they perceive something. Those we live with—we come to know their buttons. That is why people know how to flatter, how to praise, how to slander, how to insult, how to honor.

Sometimes, though, it gets difficult!

A group once garlanded a Sufi fakir with shoes. The fakir was delighted. He put on the garland of shoes and walked on in ecstasy. People were astonished, for they had come to insult him. They said, “Listen, we put a garland of shoes on you and you walk on in ecstasy!” He said, “What else would you do? When I go to the gardeners’ village, they garland me with flowers. This must be a cobblers’ village—what else can you do? You brought a garland of shoes; each brings what he has—with love. Thank you! And shoes are useful—flowers wither. I understand your feeling; these shoes will serve me and my disciples—you have given so many, and all in good condition. Why should I not be pleased?”

You cannot press the buttons of such a man. With such a person things go awry. The Gita calls such a one samadrishti—equal-vision. Mahavira calls him samyak-drishti—the one endowed with right-seeing. Krishna calls him sthitaprajna—of steady wisdom—who has become utterly even, quiet; so quiet there is no longer any identification with the mind. You are identified with the mind. It is stuffed with ambitions, with cravings; if you don’t run, what will you do? And sannyas says: stop. Sannyas says: pause. Sit a little. Sit a little inside yourself. Take a dip within. But you want to go to Delhi! Every strategy of yours is to go to Delhi! You try to get into every train: “I must reach Delhi!” In your ears one refrain keeps echoing: “Delhi is not far.” Now—any moment I’ll arrive. How will you take sannyas? You fear that sannyas might upset the order your life has had until now.

And let me tell you, sannyas will certainly upset things. It’s bound to happen. Not only in the world of ambition—in all sorts of things an upheaval will come.

A lady from a very affluent family asked me, “I want to meditate—will it create any obstacles in my life?” Why should it, she herself said; “Meditation can only help, it cannot harm. I’ll become better, so how can there be obstacles? But since the question arises, I ask you.” I said to her, “You ask rightly. There will be disturbances. You will become quiet—but your husband! He will then have to re-adjust to you. You will change. If a wife truly changes deeply, the husband will have to adjust as if he has married a second time. There will be friction!

“And there is a further wonder: if a person becomes good, others are more hurt than when he is bad. The husband drinks—fine. He gambles—fine. But if he begins to meditate, the wife creates a commotion. He used to gamble, drink—that was okay. Why? Because the wife was on top and the husband below. She could twist his ears anytime: ‘When will you come to your senses?’ Whenever he came home he came with his tail tucked, scared, flustered. He would always bring something—sari, necklace, ice cream, rasgullas—something to pacify the wife so she wouldn’t create too much trouble. If this husband becomes meditative, he will no longer bring saris nor ice cream. He will say, ‘Why bring? For what?’ And he will begin to rise above the wife. It will hurt the wife’s ego.”

So I told her, “Think carefully. If you meditate, there will be upheaval—like a storm. Though after the storm, great peace will come! But the storm will come. Gusts will rise. Obstacles will appear between you and your husband, between you and your children.”

This is my daily experience. If the wife begins to meditate, the husband obstructs. Not only the husband—even small children obstruct. If their mother sits in meditation, they shake her, because they are afraid: What is happening? Small children have even written to me: “What have you done to our mother? She sits for hours with eyes closed—she wasn’t like this before. Earlier she used to pay so much attention to us; now she seems to neglect us. Earlier she cared about every little thing; now she doesn’t seem so concerned. What has happened to our mother? What have you done?” Little children write to me. Even they become restless: “What has happened to our mother? Earlier when we made noise she scolded us—fine. But now we make noise, lift the whole house, and she sits quiet as if she’s not even there, as if we don’t even exist.” Then the children get angry: “What is this? We have no value now! We have no power. Our politics no longer works. We stamp our feet, we break dolls, we smash slates—and mother sits watching.” Because I told their mother to be a witness. If you remain a witness, obstacles will arise—even children will be upset. The whole family will worry: what now? When you were miserable, it was fine; when you become happy, there will be trouble.

This world is strange indeed, astonishing. It tolerates evil; it cannot tolerate goodness.

So you fear sannyas, Harish—naturally. There is a wife, children, family, parents.

A young man took sannyas; his old father came to me—seventy-five years old. The son is about forty. He came very angry. He began, furious: “What have you done? The shastras prescribe sannyas after seventy-five. There are four ashramas of twenty-five years each: twenty-five for brahmacharya, twenty-five for householding, then twenty-five for vanaprastha—live at home but keep your face towards the forest—then at seventy-five go to the forest: sannyas. You gave sannyas to my forty-year-old son! You are out to destroy household life.” I said, “Let’s make a deal.” He said, “What deal?” I said, “You are seventy-five.” He said, “Yes”—a little frightened; when I said “seventy-five,” he sensed trouble. I said, “I’ll make your son a householder again—you take sannyas.” The son was with him; he looked at me delighted: “You pressed the right button.” He knew his father—this old man, a sannyasin? Never! He will cling to everything until his last breath.

I said, “You accept the shastras; they say sannyas after seventy-five. Most don’t even live to seventy-five; you have—great good fortune! The time has come to follow the shastra: take sannyas. I’ll revoke your son’s sannyas; I’ll counsel him.” I said to the son, “Speak, brother!” He said, “Fine—if he becomes a sannyasin, I am ready to drop sannyas.” The father said, “I’ll come back in three days after thinking.” He has not come back yet—three years now. I asked the son; he said, “He will never come! But one benefit—I tell you—since that day he doesn’t raise the subject of my sannyas. He used to make a fuss about the four ashramas; now he doesn’t mention ashramas at all.”

So there will be obstacles, Harish. And sannyas is an entry into the unknown. The mind becomes afraid. The other shore is strange, unfamiliar, far. This shore is familiar; we have lived here for lives. Granted our houses are of sand, as Gulal says, but they are houses after all. We satisfy ourselves with the name. Granted they are of sand, they will collapse, but at least there is the safety of the shore; we won’t drown midstream. Even if we die, we will die on the shore; even the grave will be on the shore. Who knows whether the other shore exists or not? How to accept it? What proof is there? Proof exists only for those who have seen. When you see, there will be proof. When you experience, there will be proof. And in midstream there is storm and wind—there are dangers. Sannyas is a dangerous path. But only through dangers does life ripen and become mature. He who lives in danger truly lives. The rest merely suffer a deception called living. So you will be afraid.

This shore, my love—there is honey, there is you;
who knows what there will be on that far shore!
This moon that rises in the sky
soothes a little of life’s heat,
these swaying branches
make the mind forget a little of its sorrow,
buds that will wither tomorrow
laugh and say, “Be lost in joy,”
the bulbul on the tree’s tip
sends messages of youth—
you, handing me cups of wine,
lighten my heart;
but over there, to lighten me,
what remedy—who knows!
This shore, my love—there is honey, there is you;
who knows what there will be on that far shore!

In this world rivers of rasa flow,
the tongue receives but two drops;
life’s shimmering glimpse
comes before the eyes;
the veena plays with rhythm and tone—
I catch only its resonance;
somewhere the fragrance of my blossoms
this breeze carries away;
I hear that, on that far shore,
even these means will be snatched away;
then for human consciousness
what will be the support—who knows!
This shore, my love—there is honey, there is you;
who knows what there will be on that far shore!

There is a goblet—but will we drink?
This much we do not know;
this shore, destiny has sent us
so helpless—how much, we do not know;
people say, but they only say,
we are always free in our actions;
but the helplessness of the doer—
who knows it as well as we do?
We can at least say it, and by saying
lighten the heart a little;
on that far shore, the poor human’s
rights—who knows what they will be!
This shore, my love—there is honey, there is you;
who knows what there will be on that far shore!

Sannyas is a boat to go to that shore. And even “boat” is too much—call it a dinghy. It is not a big ship that takes a crowd; each must go alone. That too causes fear. On the inner journey you can take no one along. You cannot go within in the company of four friends. Within, you must go alone. When you reach your inmost core, it will be utter solitude—absolute aloneness. No other will be there. That too causes fear.

This shore, my love—there are friends, beloveds, companions, mates; there is a crowd, a great commotion. Inside there is neither crowd nor commotion; inside there is emptiness. Sannyas is the preparation to descend into that emptiness. But those who descend into the void are blessed, for they become worthy of attaining the Full.

Harish, take courage! This life will pass anyway; it is passing. Put it at stake and see! Otherwise it will be lost as it is... When death knocks at the door, what will you do? Will you say, “I am afraid, I won’t come”? “I am afraid, I won’t open the door”? “I am afraid, I don’t want to die”? Death will not listen. And when death will not listen and you will have to go into the unknown darkness, why not go voluntarily now? When we go willingly, a revolution happens.

When we are dragged against our will by death, there is sorrow, pain, anguish. When we step willingly into the unknown, there is joy, an incomparable joy.

Death does the same as sannyas. The only difference is that death does it forcibly; you cling to the shore and death snatches you to the other side. In that tug-of-war you taste neither dying nor living. You did not taste life; you do not taste death. The sannyasin enjoys both—life and death. A sannyasin is joy upon joy. I call sannyas the supreme enjoyment, for it is God-enjoyment. The sannyasin drinks life to the last drop, squeezes out its juice—and death too. Death does not frighten him, for he has already entered the unknown before dying. Where can death take him then? What appears to you like death becomes for him the door to the divine. Those messengers of Death riding buffaloes—these do not come for the sannyasin. No sannyasin has ever said so. They are for non-sannyasins—for worldly people. These buffaloes and all are your imaginations. You are scared, afraid; your fear conjures buffaloes—messengers of Death on buffalo-back.

What rides! Times have changed. If the messengers of Death come now, they would come like truck drivers. You still think they ride buffaloes! Who fears buffaloes now? Yes, one must fear truck drivers a bit—because they come driving drunk!

I have heard: a truck driver died and was taken to heaven. He himself was surprised. He asked the gatekeeper, “Brother, is there some mistake? You brought me here! I was prepared to go to hell. I had accepted that I would certainly go to hell. But there are bands playing, Bismillah Khan is playing the shehnai—what is this? I am being garlanded with flowers. There must be some mistake!” The guard said, “No mistake. You were brought here because you drove your truck in such a way that you reminded countless people of God. Whoever saw your truck coming said, ‘Hey Ram!’ People jumped up onto the footpath; those who escaped thanked God. You made more people remember the Lord than great pundits and mahatmas ever did. You didn’t drive a truck—you drove like a messenger of Death! Therefore God is very pleased with you, so you have been brought to heaven.”

You still think Yama’s messengers ride buffaloes! A perfect pair—black buffalo, black messengers—a match made in heaven: one blind, one with leprosy! An exact fit.

But these are born of your fear.

Those who have died knowingly, who have recognized life, have said something else: Supreme Light dawns. In the moment of dying it is as if a thousand suns rise at once. As if lotuses bloom upon a lake, blooming and blooming. As if an infinite lake, with infinite lotuses opening. Those who have died awake, in meditation, have seen neither any blackness in death nor buffaloes nor messengers—yes, they have found God’s embrace, union.

But for that you need to muster a little courage first.

Sannyas is for the courageous. For the timid there are many temples. This temple is not for the timid. The timid can go to those temples and mosques; they can kneel and keep praying; they will gain nothing. Has anyone ever found God through fear? Fear does not form relationships; it breaks them. Love forms relationships. Sannyas is love for the divine. And the day love for God becomes dense within you, the trivial matters of the world leave of themselves. I do not tell you to renounce the world—precisely because the day love for God arises, what is futile will drop by itself. If you still need to force renunciation, know that love for God has not yet arisen. One in whose hands diamonds have come—will he go on carrying stones? One who has found a diamond mine—will he go on picking pebbles? One around whom pearls rain—he will fill his bag with pearls; why will he remain entangled in the petty affairs of the world!

My sannyasin does not “leave” the world in the sense that he lives at home, sits in his shop, goes to the market; but in this sense he does leave—that the world becomes a drama for him, a role, a play. The role God has given, the part assigned—he fulfills it. Whatever God makes him do, he lets it be done; he leaves it to God’s will.

Fear will grip you, but don’t panic. It grips everyone. In spite of it, gather the courage to leap. You have as much strength within as anyone. Call upon your strength. Let fear lie to one side. Push off from the shore. Let fear be—leave the shore. The moment you take sannyas, fear dissolves by itself; in its place surge longing and love; love wells up, songs arise, the veena begins to play.

Fear is stench; love is fragrance. If you are full of fear, you are full of stench. Do nothing out of fear—do not take a single step in life out of fear. Do only out of fearlessness. For fearlessness alone can bring you to God, to truth. Mahavira has said: fearlessness is the first condition of knowing the truth.

Naresh! Psychology is not even interested in transformation. Psychology is interested in adjustment. It wants you to be adjusted to the crowd—so that you don’t slip out of it, don’t fall apart, don’t become isolated, but remain a part of the herd. Its entire strategy ensures you never become an individual, only an organ of society. The moment someone starts drifting from the social stream, shows signs of privacy, of individuality, we rush him to a psychologist: “Adjust him. Bring him back. He’s beginning to stray; he’s started to make his own footpath—put him back on the highway!” Psychology is not at all interested in transformation.

Transformation means revolution. And the first revolution is freedom from society—becoming an individual. The first revolution is to be centered in the self. The first revolution is to drop the herd mentality. Ordinarily man is like sheep: wherever the flock goes, he goes. Ask him, “Why are you going?” He’ll say, “Ask the others.” Why are they going? “Our forefathers went, their forefathers went, so we go.” Have you ever asked yourself why you get up and go to a temple or a mosque? Because your forefathers went there. And did you ask your forefathers why they went? Because their forefathers went. Whenever anyone starts slipping out of this crowd, the crowd becomes anxious.

Psychology, as it is, serves the crowd; there is no revolution in it yet. It wants to use psychotherapy to make you a functioning part of the crowd again. It reconciles you with the crowd. And secondly, if you start being troubled by yourself, it gently reconciles you to your troubles as well.

A man used to come to a tavern. He would drink the whole glass of liquor, but the last mouthful he would splash onto the tavern-keeper. The owner thought the first time, “He’s too drunk.” But when it happened again and again, he said, “What rudeness is this!” The man said, “What can I do? I try a thousand times but I can’t stop it. Since you’ve asked, I’ll tell you the truth. My wife died. As long as she lived, I wanted to splash it on her—but never dared. She was terrifying, she tormented me so much! So I held back, held back. Since she died, this obsession has seized me. It’s not just you—anywhere I do it, I get into trouble. Splash water on someone, or liquor, or tea—and you see the mess!” The tavern-keeper said, “I know a psychologist. Go to him; therapy will fix you. It’s nothing special, just a mental quirk.”

For three months the man didn’t come. Then he returned, looking fine, healthy, completely okay. The owner asked, “So, did you go to the psychologist?” “I went—for three months.” “Any benefit?” “Total benefit.” “Do you still splash?” “I still splash—but now I feel no guilt at all. The psychologist explained it’s ordinary, nothing serious. Took him three months to convince me, but he did: ‘What harm is it? What’s the big deal? People aren’t clay idols that will melt! What sin have you committed? Think of Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, Adolf Hitler, Mao Tse-tung, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini—look at them! The world is full of one madman after another. And you? You just splashed a little water—what’s ruined? An innocent act. And on Holi everyone does it. Just think your Holi comes every day!’ He convinced me. I still do the same, but I don’t fear, I feel no guilt, no restlessness. You gave me the right address—he made me perfectly healthy.”

This is what psychologists are doing: they make you at peace with your diseases; they erase your sense of guilt about them. And they re-stabilize your old adjustment with society. Transformation is simply not a question within psychology. Transformation is possible only through religion—through those who themselves have been transformed. The psychologist is himself sick—how will he transform you? Do you know—proportionately, more psychologists go mad than people in any other profession? Twice as many. The same is true of suicide: psychologists commit suicide at double the rate of other professions.

A great psychologist, Adler, was lecturing at a university. You know his theory—the “inferiority complex.” He discovered it. He said every person is afflicted either with inferiority or megalomania. His idea was that the strongest drive in life is to become superior, powerful—the will to power. Just as Sigmund Freud said sex is the basic drive, Adler—once his disciple, later his rebel—said the fundamental principle of life is the urge for power. So, he said, everyone is driven by it. He explained: people of short stature enter politics, because politicians try to forget their shortness by sitting on great chairs. You can always find examples for such things.

There’s a funny truth about the world: there are so many kinds of people, you can find examples for any theory. Napoleon was only five feet five. Adler said he wanted to conquer the world to prove he wasn’t small. He was always bothered about his height. In India five feet five may not look so small, but in the West, where six, six-and-a-half, even seven feet is common, a five-foot-five man beside a seven-footer looks like a dwarf. It pained Napoleon—his own army had very tall soldiers.

One day his clock stopped. He reached up to fix it on the wall but couldn’t reach. His bodyguard said, “Wait, I’m taller than you, I’ll fix it.” Napoleon flared up: “Take those words back. You are not higher than me—only taller. Change your words. Higher? How are you higher than me? Tall—that’s a different matter. Height is another thing!” He was perpetually wounded by that issue.

If you’ve seen photos of Jawaharlal Nehru taking the oath the first time, you’ll notice one thing. Mountbatten was tall; Lady Mountbatten looked even taller; and Nehru was about five-five. So Nehru stood on a step while taking the oath. Look at the photo if you find it—he’s on the step and Mountbatten is below, yet still appears taller. It was all arranged: Nehru would stand on the step to take the oath, Mountbatten below—otherwise Nehru would look very small.

Adler was explaining all this. A man stood up and asked, “All right—but do you think psychologists are precisely those who are mentally sick? According to your theory, if short people go into politics, then the crazies must be going into psychology. Quite right, isn’t it? Why does a psychologist become a psychologist—there must be a reason. And the proof is right there: twice as many psychologists go mad. And those who don’t—don’t ask, they’re almost mad anyway!”

Mulla Nasruddin suddenly developed a condition: he saw three of everything instead of one. Three roads instead of one, three cars instead of one. Somehow he reached the city’s famous psychologist. “Sir, a strange problem has arisen. I see three of everything. Now you tell me what to do.” The psychologist looked him up and down and said, “Do all five of you have the same disease?”

What transformation will psychologists bring! Let them first transform themselves—and then others!

Sigmund Freud was so afraid of death he didn’t like even the word uttered in his presence. Twice it happened that someone mentioned the word in conversation and he was so terrified he fainted. Now from one who faints at the word death—what will you hope, that he will transform people’s lives?

Life-transformation happens through Buddhas.

Another psychologist, Carl Gustav Jung, often wanted to go to Egypt to see the mummies—bodies preserved in spices that have not decayed for thousands of years. But the sight of a corpse terrified him. Still, he kept trying—booked tickets many times. Yet each time, two days, one day before the flight, he fell ill. It happened so often that he himself realized something was wrong. And the moment the ticket was cancelled, he was perfectly fine. His whole life he tried, but never made it to Egypt.

Psychologists who cannot even look at a corpse—how will they imagine their own death? How will they see themselves dead? They cannot die like Socrates, like Buddha, like Mahavira. If they cannot die like them, how will they live like them?

Psychologists are gripped by more derangements than perhaps anyone else. In a way, it’s natural: they are surrounded by madmen. Twenty-four hours meeting only them—such company has its effect. The scriptures have always said: satsang leaves a deep imprint. If you stay only among the mad, what else will you become?

One psychologist said to another, “Something must be done. For a month I’ve been troubled. My wife has started thinking she’s a refrigerator. She’s been tormenting me for a month.”

The other said, “But what’s there to be troubled about? What’s the harm? Let her think she’s a fridge. What does it cost you?”

The first snapped, “What does it cost me? You’re a strange fellow! She sleeps all night with her mouth open.”

The second said, “Let her sleep. If she sleeps with her mouth open, all the better—she’ll breathe through the nose and the mouth, double breathing, all benefit. What’s your loss?”

The first said, “You don’t understand, sir. How can I not be troubled? If the fridge light stays on all night, how am I to sleep? And the fridge is right next to me—in bed!”

Derangements easily beset psychologists because their psychology teaches no art of rising beyond mind. As yet psychology has no art like meditation. For now it is only intellectual thinking, analysis. And what revolution can come from thinking? Revolution comes from no-thought, from the experience of the formless.

Naresh, you ask: “For the transformation of man, is psychology not sufficient?”
Not at all sufficient. And you ask, after the birth of psychology what need is there for religion? The need for religion will always remain. Psychology can never fulfill it—because religion is an altogether different matter. Science stops at the body, psychology stops at the mind—and religion addresses the soul. Their dimensions are different. Psychology does not even accept the soul—just as science does not accept the mind, only the brain. The brain is part of the body. In the physicist’s view you are only a body; there isn’t much difference between your skull and a cabbage. Just greens. And if you eat greens, you become greens—and in this country, even more so; it seems absolutely true—everyone is a vegetarian!

Psychology rises a little above physics and gropes that man has a mind. But for psychology the mind is not an eternal principle. It is born with the body and dies with it—a by-product of the body. As Charvak says: chew betel leaf and your lips turn red. But what’s in the betel? Chew the leaf alone—no red lips. Chew lime alone—your lips won’t turn red; if anything, they’ll turn whiter. Chew catechu alone—no red, only bitterness. Areca nut, various spices—taken separately, the mouth won’t redden. But mix them all—make the pan—and then the lips turn red. Where does the redness come from? It’s a by-product—arising from the combination.

So psychology holds: the elements combined in the body produce the mind. Mind is a by-product. When the body ends, the mind ends.

How can psychology fulfill religion? Religion says you are neither body nor mind; you are that which sees the body and sees the mind—you are the witness, the seer, the sakshi-bhava. That was before the body and will be after the body. It has no birth, no death. Knowing that eternal one, revolution happens in life. Knowing that eternal, a rain of sat-chit-ananda pours into life.

That’s all for today.