Jo Bole To Hari Katha #1

Yog Mukta! Sahajo has a famous couplet:
Jo sovain to sunn mein, jo jagain Harinam.
Jo bolain to Hari-katha, bhakti karain nishkam.
When one sleeps, let it be in the void; when one awakens, let it be in the Name of Hari.
When one speaks, let it be God’s tale; let devotion be without desire.

When life becomes free of thought, a person becomes like a hollow reed—like a flute. Then the notes of the Divine begin to flow through him. The song comes through the flute; it does not belong to the flute. It belongs to the lips that play it. The flute only does not obstruct.

Thus Krishna spoke; thus Christ spoke; thus Buddha spoke; thus Mohammed spoke. Thus the Vedic rishis spoke; the Upanishadic seers spoke. And this truth was expressed in many ways. Krishna’s words we call the Srimad Bhagavad Gita—meaning “the Lord’s song.” It does not really belong to Krishna. Krishna dissolved—became a zero. What flowed through that emptiness belongs to the Supreme; what manifested through that void is of the Whole. And Krishna became such a perfect emptiness that the Whole could flow without the slightest hindrance. Not even a trace. That is why, in this land, we have called Krishna a Purnavatara—a full incarnation. We did not call Rama a full incarnation; nor Parashurama.

Rama moves keeping his code of conduct, his maryada. He has a definite outlook and an insistent style of living. He is not total emptiness. Glimpses of the Whole shine through him, but even upon the Whole he imposes conditions. The Whole can flow only insofar as it fits his rules. If it breaks his rules, he will not allow even the Whole to flow! Hence the mystics of this country have called Rama an Anshavatara—a partial incarnation. It is a lovely way to say something. If you understand, it’s priceless; if you don’t, it’s worth two pennies.

Anshavatara means Rama did not give complete freedom to the Divine to manifest. No “moral” person can. A moral person means a person under conditions: “Let it be so, then it is right.” There are insistences, patterns, rails. Like railway tracks and trains running on them: yes, they move, but only along tracks.

Rivers also flow, but they have no rails, no maps in their hands. Some unknown law, hidden in the inner vitality of life, carries them toward the ocean. And how wondrous: even the smallest stream finds the ocean—without a guide, without anyone holding its hand, without scripture, without timetable, without a map! It sets out and arrives. And how does it move! Bound by no rule: wherever a path opens—sometimes left, sometimes right. It may look as if it has reversed direction—yet every river arrives. Whoever truly sets out, arrives.

Mahavira’s famous dictum: Whoever sets out, arrives. Even so, there are different ways of moving.

One movement is bound by code; another is Krishna’s unboundedness. Hence Krishna is hard to understand: neither morality nor immorality; neither auspicious nor inauspicious. As the Divine leads—left, then left; right, then right. No insistence on any path. He is apanth—beyond paths. Not a leftist, not a rightist, not a middle-roader.

Buddha too has not been called a full incarnation, for he insists on the middle path, on samyak—rightness—in every step. See rightly, rise rightly, sit rightly. A precise order, discipline. Buddha gave discipline; hence among Buddhists he is called the Anushasta—the disciplinarian.

Mahavira too cannot be called a full incarnation. His style is even more bound—more than Rama, more than Buddha. He places each step with utmost caution. He would not even turn over at night lest, in the dark, some tiny ant be crushed; he would sleep on one side. He ate by vow—placing strict conditions. Not hunger but vow determined food. For example: “I will only eat from the door where a woman is standing breastfeeding her child.” Now where will such a coincidence be found? And even if such a woman is at the door, why should food be ready? And even if food is ready, it is not necessary she will give alms. Mahavira would accept only from the exact door decided that morning. Once it happened he did not eat for six months—bones and skin remained—because the condition did not come to pass.

Another vow: “I will take alms only from the door before which stands a bullock cart filled with jaggery; behind it stands a cow; the cow has thrust her horns into the jaggery and both horns are smeared with it; the cart is still there.” Six months later the condition happened—and only then did he eat.

Another time: “If some princess, with chains around her feet, requests me to accept food, then I shall eat.” Now why would a princess have chains on her feet? And if she has chains, how would she request? Only when, after three months, this condition was fulfilled did Mahavira accept food. His life was conditional—hyper-moral, hyper–code-bound. Hence Jains have called his discourse the Shasan—the rule of the Jina—threaded in precise sutras.

Indian seers, except for Krishna, could not call anyone Purnavatara. For Krishna has no condition, no insistence, no fixed conduct, no code. Krishna’s emptiness is total. He is not; whatever the Divine chooses to do through him happens—and if not, then not. Hence we could call his words Srimad Bhagavad Gita—the Lord’s song. They are not his; they came through him, but are not his. As flowers bloom on trees, yet the flowers are not “of” the tree alone: soil gives, the sun gives, the breeze gives; colors come from somewhere, fragrance from somewhere; a little from earth, a little from sky.

So when one becomes utterly empty, whatever he speaks becomes Hari-katha—not because he speaks about God. Many speak about God—everywhere you hear discourses. But understand Sahajo’s sutra.

First its prelude: Jo sovain to sunn mein—when one sleeps, he sleeps in the void; his ego has dissolved into emptiness. Patanjali says there is only a small difference between samadhi and deep sleep—small, yet vast as earth and sky. In both, you are absent. In deep, dreamless sleep you disappear into the Vast; that is why even half an hour of deep sleep rejuvenates you. You wake fresh. You do not know who gave this nectar. You had melted into the ocean; the ocean washed away all dust and fatigue.

Patanjali says: In deep sleep one is dissolved into the Divine—but without awareness. In samadhi the same dissolution happens with awareness. That is the sole difference—awareness. In deep sleep you receive and lose again. Like placing the Kohinoor in the hands of an unconscious man—what guarantee he will not throw it at a dog! In samadhi, deep sleep plus awareness: the lamp of watchfulness burns. The “I” is gone; thoughts are gone, but a total witnessing remains. Then you know where you went and how to return; you can go at will.

Jo sovain to sunn mein—sleep in the void, but awake. And Jo jagain Harinam—then your waking is remembrance; sitting, standing, silent or humming—everything is God’s Name. Do not think such a one mutters “Ram-Ram” all day. It is not about lips.

Jo bolain to Hari-katha—if such a one speaks, it is God’s tale. If he does not speak, it is still God’s tale. Just sitting near him is Hari-katha. Words are not necessary; silence suffices—if there is a listening heart. Around one established in samadhi, even rising and sitting become Hari-katha.

Bhakti karain nishkam—and whatever is in such a life is devotion without desire.

Your devotion is false; it always carries desire. You go to God to ask—this, that; if not worldly, then otherworldly. Your very notion of God is as a means to get. Think: if God stood before you, what would you do? Immediately a long list! Money, position, immortality, endless youth. Children ask their father “Daddy, Daddy”—and the father knows: money for cinema, for sweets, for the fair. Husbands and wives too—gestures harbor demands.

This world’s relations are bargains. Mulla Nasruddin’s wife lamented, “I lost my ring—worth a hundred rupees.” Nasruddin said, “Don’t worry. I too lost a hundred rupees, and I am not worried.” “Where did you lose them?” “Where does one lose! But I found a hundred-rupee ring in my pocket!” Wives search husbands’ pockets first thing!

One day Nasruddin was beating his son Fazlu: “Put back the five rupees!” His wife said, “Why beat him? Do you have proof he took it?” He said, “There are three of us at home. I didn’t take it—why would I steal my own money? Even if I did, there’d be no problem. Second, you—you surely didn’t.” She asked, “How can you say I didn’t?” He said, “Had you taken, one hundred and fifty would be gone, not five! So it’s this rascal boy. Put back the five!”

So it goes in this world. Worse, you go to temples to demand; in mosques you raise hands in supplication—again, demand. Churches, shrines—wherever you go, your craving follows. You arrange Satyanarayan kathas, hire pundits—always with a purpose. Neither your “Hari-katha” is Hari-katha, nor your “Hari-bhajan” is Hari-bhajan, for desire fills you. Understand Sahajo’s sutra. It contains the essence—of yoga, devotion, knowledge.

Bhakti karain nishkam—there is a devotion without lust.

Once Akbar said to Tansen, “Your music moves me like nothing on earth. Yet often a question arises. Last night, when you played, even after you left something kept playing within me. When it ceased, I wondered—who was your Master? Perhaps he surpasses you. Is he alive? Bring him to court; I want to hear him.”

Tansen said, “My Master Haridas is alive—a fakir on the Yamuna’s bank. But he cannot be brought to court. If the court will go to him, that is different. And he does not sing on request. We can only listen by stealth—when he sings. Often, near three in the morning, when night meets dawn, he plays. Let us hide and wait.”

Akbar, aflame with curiosity, agreed. They hid. At three, Haridas plucked his one-stringed ektara. Akbar’s tears would not stop. On the way back, he was silent, drunk with joy. At the palace steps he said, “Tansen, compared to your Master—where are you! What is the secret of his otherworldly music?” Tansen replied, “It is simple. I sing in order to get; he sings because he has received. From that attainment his music flows. Mine is a beggar’s song; even as I play, my eyes are on the reward. He is whole when he plays.”

Keep this in mind: the day you taste bliss, if devotion, worship, praise rise from that bliss, their beauty is of another world. Then whatever you say is Hari-katha.

Yog Mukta, you ask, “Can we call your discourses Hari-katha?” If you still have to ask me this, you have not heard me. I know your obstacle: demand. Ever since you came, your heart has been full of demand. You write me letters: “I sit next to Chetana. When you come, you greet her. Why don’t you look at me?” Precisely for that I do not look. If by mistake I catch a glimpse—“Ah, this is Mukta!”—I turn away. As long as your demand persists, I will not see you.

You write questions daily. Every few days: “Why aren’t you answering me?” Perhaps today, for the first time, I am answering you—to shake you. Your questions are not for truth but to attract attention. You sit next to Chetana only because you hope I will see you there. That very hope stands between us. That very desire.

I am speaking Hari-katha—but for you it does not become Hari-katha. Speaking is not enough; a listener is needed. Until you sit here without desire, a wall will remain between us. Otherwise, the question “Are your discourses Hari-katha?” would not arise. After years near me, if I still have to say, “These are Hari-katha,” then what have you heard?

If even now it is not clear that what is being said is Hari-katha, what are you doing here? Why waste time? Go where you find Hari-katha. Either dissolve, or search elsewhere. This place is for those ready to melt. They are overflowing; streams of nectar flow within them.

Whether I utter “Ram” or not, what difference does it make? Whatever I say is Hari-katha. Even if I do not speak, it is Hari-katha—because I am not; only He is. I sleep in emptiness; I wake in God’s Name. For twenty-four hours only That resounds. In every breath, That. In every heartbeat, That. In you too I see only That—some covered with many veils, some who have dared to lift a veil.

At least do this much! Like a Marwari bride, lift your veil just an inch—look toward me! But you sit hoping I will lift your veil, that I will persuade you. Then it will not happen. Whoever sits with expectation will miss. Whoever has none—though a thousand miles away—will not miss.

Mukta was far—in Africa. She left everything and came. Yet even now, for me, she is still in Africa. Such distances do not shrink this way. The way to bridge them is otherwise. Whether you come from Africa or not, between you and me not a single demand must remain. Then distances vanish—even if you live on the moon. Otherwise, sit by my side, hold my feet for lifetimes—nothing will happen. Hold my hand in your hand—nothing will come of it. Become empty near me; then satsang begins. For those who sit empty, satsang has begun.

Many Indian friends write: “So many foreigners come even to Hindi discourses. What can they understand?” It is not a matter of understanding. They know, I know, that they will not understand Hindi. But satsang has nothing to do with understanding. My presence is understood. In truth, many foreigners write: “When you speak English, our intellect gets in the way. We start thinking—agreeing, disagreeing. The taste is lost. When you speak Hindi, our mind has nothing to do; only your presence remains. We remain; you remain; nothing obstructs.”

But our poor country! When I speak English, many Indians who do not know English stop coming. They write, “Why come if we don’t understand? We’ll do something else with our time.” As if understanding were everything! Beyond understanding there is something—and that is everything.

Mukta, learn to be empty, and you will hear Hari-katha in my walking and sitting. Whether I look at you or not will make no difference. And then I will look—my eyes will turn to you of their own accord. In this crowd my eyes find those who are empty—without effort. It is like a thousand unlit lamps with two or three lit—your eyes go to the light at once.

Yes, I come in, fold my hands, and look at you for a moment; as I leave, again a moment. In that moment my eyes reach those lamps that are lit—not that I send them, they go. What shall I do with unlit lamps? If by mistake my gaze falls on them, I take it away—lest they think I am paying attention.

You ask, “What is this event of Hari-katha?” It is happening here every day—can you not see? What else is happening here? Why are we gathered? The same veena is being strummed, the same song hummed; we are bathing in the same rain, the same nectar is falling, the same clouds have gathered. If, with the sun blazing, someone asks, “Where is the sun?” he only proves he is blind.

Mukta, open your eyes. Your feminine ailment will not do. Among women, one basic malady is the urge to attract attention. Men have it too, but less; women, more. And there are other maladies more in men. In total, they balance out. But some are distinct: this craving to be the center. Hours of adornment and makeup—one thought: how to hold others’ eyes. They can do anything to keep eyes on them.

They come even here to someone like me—and that shadow of craving follows. That old habit does not break. The same friction arises. Now it is not only, “Why don’t you look at me?”—along with it jealousy toward Chetana begins. Another feminine trait. A competition within.

Chetana has no competition, no demand. And “Unasked, pearls are given; asked, not even flour.” Chetana came here—beyond her imagining. She had never asked. One day I called her to live in Lao Tzu House. She could not believe it. She had never even imagined I would know her name. And when Vivek is ill or away, I ask Chetana to bring my food and look after my room. She wept and danced with joy—she had no idea why I chose her. Only because I saw emptiness in her. Where there is emptiness, there is light.

You ask: “Is Hari-katha born after silence and meditation, or through prayer?” We coin such questions without insight—neither knowing prayer nor silence nor meditation. In truth, there is no difference. Whether you say silence, meditation, or prayer—different names for the same. Different people used different words according to their expression.

Mahavira spoke of Maun—silence. Hence his monks are called muni. But how many are truly silent? Many munis have asked me, “How to meditate?” I say, “If you cannot meditate, how are you a muni?” They say, “We became munis by initiation!” They startle when reminded that muni means one who has known silence.

A seventy-year-old monk, forty years a muni, asked me, “What is meditation?” Mahavira called it silence—the cessation of inner thought, the void Sahajo points to: when thought-seeds are burnt, the net of mind cut, an inner hush descends—then one is a muni. Then life gains meaning and dignity. Spring arrives; nectar showers.

Yet people do everything else—what to wear, what not to wear; what to keep, not keep; fasts and rituals—none of which has to do with silence. A hungry man may be full of thoughts; a well-fed man may be free of thought. The essential is missed; the nonessential is clutched.

Patanjali called it dhyana—meditation. Ordinarily you live asleep—walking, sitting, moving—without clarity, like a drunkard.

Mulla Nasruddin, drunk, tried to open the door. His hand shook; the key would not go in. A policeman watched and felt pity: “Give me the key; you won’t open it.” Nasruddin said, “I will open it. If you really want to help, hold the house steady. It’s the house that’s shaking!” His wife, awakened, called from upstairs, “Did you lose the key? Shall I throw down the spare?” He said, “I have the key—if you have another lock, throw that down! This lock won’t take the key; it is shaking with the house!”

You too are drunk—with money, position, respectability. A judge said to a Marwari, “Six months in jail or a fine of a hundred rupees…” Before he could finish, the Marwari said, “If you’re in a giving mood, make it a hundred!” One drunk on money sees everything in money’s language. Even people become currency—who’s more “valuable.”

Turgenev tells of two policemen and a drunk holding a dog. One says, “Looks like the inspector’s dog.” Instantly the other slaps the drunk, snatches the dog, and hugs it: “What a lovely dog!” Then the first whispers, “Not the inspector’s—it’s mangy.” The dog is flung down: “Beat the cur!” Then again: “No, perhaps it is the inspector’s.” Up it goes, hugged. Again: “No, both ears are spotted; the inspector’s has one.” Down it goes. The crowd is bewildered; even the drunk says, “Decide and tell me what to do! You say kill it, then you say lock me up. Are you drunk or am I?”

Even a drunk can see—yet those intoxicated with office, see their chest swell on a chair. Tell a dead politician, just before burial, “Brother, you won the election!” There’s a ninety-nine percent chance he’ll sit up! Leaders never fall; they merely “recline” in the dust and rise again.

Nasruddin stood in the bazaar with his donkey: “This donkey has a specialty—he only says ‘Yes, sir!’” Whatever anyone said, the donkey nodded yes. A Marwari said, “Shall I make him say ‘No’?” Nasruddin wagered a hundred rupees. The Marwari whispered in the donkey’s ear, “Son, will you marry?” “No!” He knew! “Another ‘No’?” “Son, will you fight an election?” “No!” “Enough—take your two hundred,” said Nasruddin. “Stop. You and my donkey have a secret pact!”

You ask, Yog Mukta: “Silence, meditation, or prayer?” As if they were different! Come to your senses.

Mahavira called it silence; Patanjali called it meditation; Meera, Chaitanya, Sahajo called it prayer. Those who saw through love said prayer; those who saw through intellect said silence or meditation. Silence and meditation are “masculine” words—precise, scientific; prayer is a lover’s, a poet’s—heartful. The same reality can be seen from thought or from feeling. Both are within us; truth is one.

A scientist and a poet both look at the same flower and say different things; the flower is not two. Choose the word you like, but the essence is: become thought-free. If you keep the thought-free state in view, call it meditation or silence; if you keep the overflowing love in view, call it prayer. It is like a glass half empty or half full—both are true depending on what you emphasize.

Silence and meditation focus on emptiness: when one becomes void of thought. But the moment emptiness happens, the sky of love pours in; Ganga descends. If you keep that fullness in view—prayer. Two faces of one truth. And then the life of one absorbed in meditation or prayer is Hari-katha.

You ask: “Who is the vessel and who is entitled to Hari-katha?” In essence, everyone is a vessel, but the vessel must be cleaned. The Divine is not unjust—to make someone unfit by nature. We dirty the vessel—worldliness fills it with trash. Even if nectar is poured in, it turns to poison. Cleaning the vessel—that alchemy—is sannyas.

There are two styles of life. The worldly style gathers garbage; the sannyasin’s gathers jewels. But you are so attached to garbage you call the sannyasin a renouncer. I tell you: the sannyasin is the enjoyer; you are the renouncers. Who is the enjoyer—one who fills himself with pebbles and discards diamonds, or one who leaves pebbles and gathers jewels? Yet because you are the crowd, you define words. You call Mahavira a renunciate; I call him the supreme enjoyer. You call Buddha a renouncer; I say none has enjoyed as he. And you call yourselves enjoyers—what are you enjoying besides suffering? If suffering is “enjoyment,” then hell-dwellers are the real enjoyers, and who is in heaven?

I tell you: those in heaven are the enjoyers; hell is full of renouncers. Foolishness is renunciation—dropping diamonds and clutching cowries. Real enjoyment is choosing the diamonds and dropping the shells. Choose heaven—and beyond heaven is moksha—nirvana—the supreme bliss. The Upanishads call it sat-chit-ananda. Ananda—the ultimate peak. He who attains bliss alone knows the taste of life; he drinks God. Raso vai sah—He is Essence, Taste.

I do not want to make you dispassionate; I want to make you lovers. Not renouncers, but connoisseurs of the supreme joy. For me, religion is the art of enjoyment.

All are vessels, but not all are entitled. Entitlement arises when the vessel is clean. As long as desire clings, the vessel is not clean. Become desireless. Ask not—and it will be given; given without end—day and night—without exhaustion. But ask—and you become a beggar; beggary loses entitlement.

Jo sovain to sunn mein, jo jagain Harinam.
Jo bolain to Hari-katha, bhakti karain nishkam.

Swami Hariharananda Mahadev! From his very name it is clear he is a traditional sannyasin. And so the thought has arisen in him: this country is already full of sannyasins—why are you increasing their number?

As I see it, Hariharananda, those whom you call sannyasins—I do not call them that. I want to revive sannyas. I want a sannyas that knows how to play the flute. I want a sannyas that knows how to tie ankle-bells to its feet. I want a sannyas that is a celebration—not a gloom. The sannyasins you are talking about are sad, defeated, weary people—deserters, escapists.

If someone runs away from a battlefield, we call him a coward. And if he runs away from the battle of life, then a sannyasin! Fine names won’t change anything. Hiding behind labels won’t change anything. Those who flee the battle of life are cowards all the same.

In my view, escapism is not a virtue. Live life. Life is an opportunity—do not miss it. See its ups and downs. Descend into its dark valleys and climb its sunlit peaks. Thorns will prick; flowers will also caress your hands. Experience both, because only by experiencing both will the soul be born within you. It is by passing through this very challenge, through this very fire, that the soul takes birth.

My sannyasin is very different. If you call the old-style renunciates “sannyasins,” then my sannyasin is not that sort of sannyasin. And it is not that Hariharananda Mahadev does not understand this—he does. Because he has asked a second question as well; from that it will become clear that the point is reaching him.

Hariharananda! Now do you see the difference? The difference is clear. You can already sense it—dimly perhaps, but you can see there is a difference.

The sannyas you have lived so far has been escapism. And look at its result! How on earth will you attain the divine? You’ve become afraid of women. Will a person so timid be able to enter the unknown, the unknowable realms of God? Such cowardice—frightened by women!

The old sannyas is repression; it is force used against oneself. It is somehow sitting on top of desires by sheer compulsion. But the desires keep writhing within. And that is what has been frightening you. You are not afraid of my female disciples. My disciples are not afraid of you. Not a single disciple has written to me saying, “A certain gentleman has arrived—Hariharananda Mahadev—and we feel terribly scared when we see him!” My disciples don’t scare easily. Why should they be scared? What is there in you to scare them? But you are afraid. You’re trembling. You’re frightened—because you have repressed.

This fear is not of the disciples; it is the fear born of your repression. Illnesses lie hidden within you. You know you are sitting on things somehow, stuffed down. You’ve been keeping up a haze—“dam maro dam!”—fill the air with the smoke of the chillum so that nothing is visible: who is woman, who is man; what’s happening, what’s not! Lie around stoned on ganja and bhang. Ninety-nine out of a hundred sannyasins have done exactly this. Of the remaining one percent—be they Jain munis or Buddhist bhikkhus—they go about so frightened that a woman might come into view! Eyes downcast, shuffling along—if a woman appears, they get nervous; fear grips them.

Is this fear of woman? No—it is the repressed surge of your own sexuality within, banging on the doors. It says, “Don’t miss it. Don’t miss, Chauhan! A woman is passing by! Mahadev-ji, what are you doing—Parvati is passing by! Get up. Wake up even Nandi Baba!” Or perhaps Nandi starts getting up on his own, “Mahadev-ji, what are you doing—Parvati Mother is going by!”

That’s the panic that seizes you.

I’ve heard: Parvati had gone to her parents’ home; four or six months she didn’t return. The wonder is how she managed to live with Mahadev at all! Around him a crowd of ganja-bhang intoxicated folk. The most “accomplished” adepts gathered near him! You’ve seen his wedding party. Such a procession never walked the earth. What a collection of oddities! You wouldn’t find its like even in a circus. Gather all the circus folk together and they’d still be outdone! Shankar-ji’s wedding party—every sort of misfit—hippies, mega-hippies—all in his entourage!

That Parvati lived with him as long as she did is itself a miracle. She went back to her parents’ house; perhaps she had no strength to return. Meanwhile, how long could Mahadev keep himself reined in! He got utterly troubled. One day he said to Nandi, “Nandi Baba, I can’t hold back any more. Let me hug you and make a little love!”

Nandi said, “What are you saying! Mahadev-ji, talk sense. Aren’t you ashamed! I’m a bull; you are Mahadev, the god of gods! What are you talking! What nonsense is this! Have you had too much? Are you drunk? I drink too sometimes, but I don’t lose my senses this much. You—the god of gods. You are my master. O Gurudev, what are you saying!”

But Shankar-ji said, “Arrey, no one is watching! The rest are all stoned and sprawled out. No one is watching. What’s the harm if we share a little affection? The mind won’t listen at all—Parvati has been gone so long!”

Nandi said, “Well then! I am your servant—but if you won’t relent, fine. But there’s one condition. After you, I too will take a little love. Because on your account I’ve completely let go of my own Nandini. Your Nandini has only been away four or six months; I’ve no idea where mine is. I left everything to serve you.”

Compelled, Mahadev-ji said, “All right, brother, you take your turn too. But let me go first.”

When he had finished his “affection,” Nandi Baba said, “Now it’s my turn!” Mahadev said, “Get away! You’re a bull, and you talk this foolish, indecent stuff! Speak within your station. Calf of a bull, and you want to make love to me! I am Mahadev!”

Nandi said, “You may be Mahadev, but what were you doing a moment ago? You were hugging me and making love. I tolerated it all. And now that it’s my turn you change the tune!”

Shankar-ji saw Nandi was getting angry. Nandi said, “I won’t spare you.” Mahadev grabbed his kamandalu and fled. Nandi Baba ran after him. Nearby there was a temple; Mahadev dashed inside. Nandi sat outside the temple and said, “You’ll have to come out sometime!” That’s why at every temple of Shankar-ji, Nandi Baba sits outside. Haven’t you noticed?

If he were guarding, his back should be towards the temple. He isn’t guarding. His face is towards the temple—“Come out, my dear! Come out sometime! When you do, I’ll give you such a taste you’ll remember it!” So Nandi isn’t standing guard at all.

Now you say, Hariharananda Mahadev, “What should be the daily routine of a sannyasin?”

A sannyasin has no daily routine. Routines belong not to sannyasins but to worldly people. The sannyasin lives free, from his own consciousness; he lives out of awareness. Moment to moment his awareness is his companion. His awareness is decisive. He lives each moment spontaneously. I am speaking of my sannyas. I have no concern with other kinds. I speak of my sannyasins.

My sannyasin holds to one single sutra—meditation. That’s all. The whole center of his life is one—meditation. Then, whatever insight arises from meditation, he lives accordingly. I impose on him no moral codes, no rules of conduct. I give him no boundaries. I want to take my sannyasin to that point where the full incarnation of the divine can take place within him. Why settle for something small? If you set out to seek God, why settle for the partial? If you’ve begun the journey, take the whole! Why take it by halves!

My sannyasin, through meditation alone, attunes to emptiness. Then, whatever flows from that emptiness is God’s own play. That is his conduct.

You will not be comfortable here. If you are afraid of my female disciples, this place will not be useful to you. Yes, if you want to stay here, you will need courage. All your old notions will break, your routines will break, your old ways will break.

And you say, “I want to live here and do sadhana.”

Do it by all means. But here, labor too is a limb of sadhana. This is not a settlement for the indolent and the sluggish. This is not some old-fashioned guild of the lazy.

Do your sadhana. In twenty-four hours, do two hours of meditation. And for twenty-two hours, there will also be work—whatever you can do. Because here no work is high or low. If you can sweep, sweep. If you can stitch shoes, stitch shoes. If you can split wood, split wood. If you can garden, garden. And this is only the beginning. This is only a pilot ground. Like a nursery where we raise small saplings—this is preparation for a vast experiment. Soon a great experiment will be ready. Soon this small group will be organized into a vast commune. Destiny has already decided. It is bound to happen—sooner or later. Then there will be ten thousand sannyasins—self-reliant.

You are welcome—but understand all this. If you say, “We will only meditate. We won’t sweep. We won’t stitch clothes. We won’t cook. We want others to serve us!”—that won’t do.

Jain monks send word that they want to come and join here. I say: by all means, come. But drop that expectation—no Jain lay followers will come here to serve you. Here you will have to work. Here you will have to be productive. Here there is no split between meditation and work. They are parts of the same wave of life.

My sannyasin will be self-reliant. He will not be a beggar. He will not go to ask alms of anyone. Because by begging, all sannyasins have become dependent on others. If a Jain muni wants to come meet me, he says, “How can I come? The lay followers won’t permit it!” Is this sannyas? Is this freedom? Is this the mark of a seeker of ultimate liberation? This is being caught in even more bondage. In that case, the worldly man is better—at least he can come; he isn’t scared of anyone. At most he is afraid of his wife! But these monks are afraid of laymen and laywomen—everyone is sitting on their chests; every man and every woman is their master. “Maharaj, if you go there it won’t be good. We’ll pull you down from your seat. We’ll take away your mouth-cloth. We’ll take this kamandalu and so on!” And it isn’t that they haven’t done such things—they have.

A Jain muni, Kanak Vijay—a courageous man—came and stayed with me. I was in Jabalpur. He said, “Let nobody find out that I’ve come to stay with you! But I was so eager that I came. My first mistake was boarding a train at all. But I came, somehow hiding. Let no one find out.”

I said, “I’m not going to inform anyone. But if someone comes, what can we do?” And wouldn’t you know—it happened that the very next day a leading member of his own sect, Lala Sunderlal from Delhi, arrived. He too loved me. He saw Kanak Vijay there, and a snake rolled on his chest! Though he loved me, I said, “Lala, at least you understand!” He said, “Understand what! He is a Jain monk—what’s he doing here? I’ll go and expose him.” I said, “Have mercy. You love me, he loves me. The poor fellow came out of love.”

“This won’t do,” said Lala. “I can’t tolerate it. I’m a worldly man, I can come. But he’s a monk! I will have his kamandalu and mouth-cloth taken away.”

I tried to explain to Lala, but he was Punjabi—how would it get through to him! He said, “Say what you like—he’s destroying religion. He’s stealing; he’s being dishonest.”

And Kanak Vijay began to tremble, “This is big trouble. This Lala is a serious mischief-maker! He is a leader of the Jain community in Delhi. He’ll make things hard for me! Please somehow placate him. Make Lala keep quiet. I’ll leave tomorrow.”

I said, “This is the limit! You drop it yourself—hand your mouth-cloth to Lala: ‘Take it. Tie it on someone else if you like.’ And take this kamandalu—go to blazes wherever you wish!”

He said, “No, how can I do that? I’m seventy years old. I can’t do any work. I can only receive service. I can’t do anything. Work is beyond me. And if I stay with you, I’ll have to work. Right now my life is going well. I get food to eat. I get respect and honor. What more does a man need!”

“Then go,” I said. “Beg Lala’s pardon and tell him you won’t make such a mistake again.”

He had to beg Lala’s forgiveness—hands folded! The sannyasin begging pardon of a lay follower! I said, “Lala, forgive him now!” He acted polite in front of me, but he couldn’t resist. He spread the word in Delhi. Until Kanak Vijay’s mouth-cloth was taken away, he had no peace. When the mouth-cloth was confiscated, Kanak Vijay wrote to me. I said, “You are a complete fool. Buy another mouth-cloth! What’s the issue! It’s just a strip of cloth. Make one at home. Has someone’s father got a monopoly on it? Is there some official seal on mouth-cloths! If I tie one on, who can do anything to me? You tie one on too.”

That clicked with him. He tied on a mouth-cloth. But the conditioning remained. He stopped writing himself as “Jain muni” and began to write “Sadhu Kanak Vijay.”

I asked, “Why this change?”

He said, “It doesn’t feel quite right now. How can I call myself a muni!”

I said, “You too belong to the same herd of donkeys. No difference. Your own conditioning is intact.”

So, Hariharananda Mahadev, if you are to be my sannyasin, you will need courage. There are female disciples here. And they will not be afraid of you. Some disciple might even take your hand and say, “Come, Mahadev-ji, let’s take a walk!”—and your very life-breath will quiver. Some disciple, in a wave of feeling, might hug you—and you’ll feel your life has left your body, that your entire liberation has been snatched away! This is the risk here.

And keep in mind too: those Hindus who have honored you till now will no longer honor you. They will dishonor you. The more honor they gave, the more dishonor they’ll heap on you—twice over. They will be very mean. Be prepared for all that—then I accept you.

And here you will have to work. Here there is no division between work and sadhana.

That’s all for today.