Jo Bole To Hari Katha #10

Ajit Saraswati! Martin Buber was certainly a great man, but only a great man—not in the least close to buddhahood. Not “close,” in fact utterly untouched by the dimension of buddhahood. He was a great man in a moral sense. Religion, as experience, was absent from his life. The lamp of dharma never burned in his being. He thought a lot; his thinking was clean; his chains of reasoning were clear. But thinking is thinking—it neither fills the belly nor quenches thirst.
However beautiful, words are still just words; there is no life in them. Words can turn a person into a scholar, not into a sage.
Martin Buber was rich in moral reflection. On the basis of ethical reasoning he held forgiveness and friendliness to be precious ideals of life. But Buddha and Mahavira did not reach those conclusions through reasoning. Their origin is utterly different.
Buddha and Mahavira distilled these insights out of the supreme realization in which the individual dissolves into the vast, becomes empty and allows the Whole to express itself; where the person disappears—the person’s grave is dug—but flowers of the Whole bloom upon that very grave. From that experience they gathered this essence, this attar, this fragrance: when we are not separate, what enmity, what opposition? Whom to fight? Whom to kill? From whom to take revenge? It would be like the left hand striking the right, or breaking it. Both hands are mine; I am spread through both hands.
Little children often do this: if something slips and breaks from the left hand, they get so angry they slap their own left hand! Children can be forgiven—they are children. But the wonder of wonders is that our old folks are children too! The body’s age increases; it is as if the soul never grows at all—indeed, as if it is never born!
George Gurdjieff was right to say: not everyone has a soul; only the possibility of a soul. A soul is present only in those who have actualized the possibility.
Martin Buber reflected. And whoever reflects will conclude: friendship is good, enmity is bad. Love is auspicious, hatred is inauspicious. One should live by the auspicious; drop the wrong, hold to the right.
This is the entire foundation-stone of morality: drop this, hold that. And of religion? Neither hold nor drop: be settled in yourself. These are very different dimensions.
Ordinarily, the moral person appears a “great man,” because his thinking will harmonize with yours. You too feel what is right and what is wrong. Anyone with a little mind who can think begins to see what is to be done and what is not to be done. But life does not get transformed by that. Even if you manage to force yourself into the proper mold, what is improper remains within you—and what is improper will retaliate, if not today then tomorrow. Whatever you have repressed will erupt; it will sit on your head and shout. There is no escape from it! And first of all, it is not easy to repress it.
Saint Augustine has said: “What is right—what I know to be right—that I cannot do. And what is wrong—what I know to be wrong—that is exactly what I do. O Lord, save me from myself.” In Augustine’s prayer the whole dilemma of the moral person is revealed.
We do know what is right—who doesn’t? And who doesn’t know what is wrong? Everyone knows; the air is full of principles. From childhood, doctrines are loaded onto everyone’s chest. But where does life move from that? Where is transformation?
Had Martin Buber come close to buddhahood—even close—the very first thing to vanish would have been his sense of being a Jew. It did not vanish. Not for a lifetime. He remained a staunch Jew. But since he was a thinker, he painted his Jewishness with a little color, calling it “Jewish humanism.” Yet “humanism” and “Jewish” do not harmonize; they are in opposition.
It is the same kind of contradiction that was present in Mahatma Gandhi’s life. He was a humanist too, but deep down that humanism was a synonym for Hinduism. He would say: the same truth is in the Quran and in the Gita—but he called the Gita his “mother.” He never called the Quran his “father”—not even his uncle! In his ashram the daily prayer was: “Allah-Ishwar tere naam, sabko sanmati de Bhagwan”—“O God, by whatever name, grant good sense to all.” But when the bullet struck him, “Allah” did not come to his lips; “Hey Ram!” did. That Ram is sitting very deep. The fact of being a Hindu has penetrated to the roots. He polished and refined it, whitewashed it, but the thing remained Hindu. The temple remained Hindu; some verses from the Quran were inscribed on its walls, a few sayings from the Dhammapada as well.
Remember, Gandhi chose from the Quran only those verses that matched the Gita—so much so they seemed like translations of the Gita, only in Arabic rather than Sanskrit. From the Dhammapada too he chose only those aphorisms that echoed the Gita. From the Bible he collected only those maxims one can also find in the Gita. But anything that went contrary to the Gita he never chose—from the Quran, the Bible, or the Dhammapada. He kept it out of sight, as if it did not exist. This is certainly liberal Hinduism.
Nathuram Godse, who shot him, embodied an illiberal Hinduism. Gandhi’s Hinduism was liberal, humanist. But however much you liberalize poison, put it in fragrant, colorful bottles, even label it “nectar,” poison is poison. In my view it is better the bottle be labeled “poison”—that way no one is deceived. Labeling poison as “nectar” is far more dangerous.
I would say: Nathuram Godse was a straightforward man—plain. As he was, so he was. If bad, then bad; if good, then good. He wore no masks. In that sense he was more honest; Mahatma Gandhi not so much.
I am not saying he was dishonest knowingly. Not knowingly—unknowingly. Perhaps it was not at all clear to him that what he said and did was exactly that. The form was cultured; a few beautiful ornaments were added; the hair neatly trimmed; the clothes refreshed. But the substance remained the same; not a whit different. Only now it became more dangerous because it could deceive more people—some Muslims would be trapped, some Jains, some Buddhists—in the hope that this was no creed, no bigotry. But it was pure bigotry—only with different wrappings.
I too have an interest in Martin Buber, but I am not satisfied. A good man, with good intentions, who tried to live decently all his life—but the foundations were wrong. And if the foundations are wrong, what if you wish to build a temple? How will it stand? The foundations must be right. His Jewishness was the poison. All his life he tried somehow to include Jesus as well.
Yes, Jesus was born in a Jewish home; he wasn’t a Christian—Christianity did not yet exist. No church, no priesthood. Christianity developed much later. In that sense Jesus remained a Jew; he grew up in a Jewish home and died a Jew. There was no way to be anything else. But Jesus was a buddha. So, without leaving the Jewish religion—there was nowhere to go—he dropped Judaic-ism. He dropped the insistence that “we are the chosen people of God.” Because of dropping that insistence, the Jews were angry. It seemed Jesus was rebelling. And they have not forgiven him—even after crucifying him they have not forgiven him.
The Jews were angry with Martin Buber because under the name of Jewish humanism he wanted somehow to include Jesus, to bridge the gap between Jesus and the Jews. Christians were delighted, because they want Jesus to be appreciated. And when a Jew praises Jesus, waves of joy pass through Christian hearts.
Understand: this world is very strange!
There was a Hindu, Ganesh Varni, who became a Jain—a Jain monk. Among Hindus he was condemned, but among Jains he was honored—so honored that other Jain monks paled beside him. There was nothing especially exceptional in him that should have dimmed other monks. But one special thing they lacked: they were born Jains and remained Jains—thus nothing was proven by them. But Ganesh Varni’s becoming Jain proved Hinduism was wrong—otherwise why would such a great man leave it to become a Jain?
A Sikh sadhu, Sundar Singh, became a Christian. You will be surprised to know he outshone every Christian saint in the Christian imagination—because if a man leaves Sikhism to become a Christian, it proves Sikhism is wrong. And not a trivial man, but such a great soul! Then this great soul must be exalted—placed on the highest peak. The higher you seat him, the more it proves that a person of Nanak’s stature left Sikhism for Christianity.
The Sikhs could not forgive Sundar Singh. One day he disappeared; to this day no trace. There is a strong possibility the Sikhs “settled” the matter—finished him. Nothing is established—no trace was found. But we know the Sikhs: they don’t argue; they draw the sword!
Yet Sundar Singh’s disappearance—whatever happened, unknown—made him an even greater saint. Christians praised him so much; the whole world praised him.
There was nothing particularly special in Ganesh Varni—only that he left Hinduism. Because he left, the Jains lifted him onto their heads.
You will be astonished to know Christians tried very hard to make Mahatma Gandhi a Christian. Many times he came very close—he considered it repeatedly: “Shall I?” Christians were eager for one reason: if he converted, Hinduism would be finished; they could prove to the world that the greatest Hindu, the greatest person ever born in the Hindu tradition, became a Christian.
Muslims also tried to make him a Muslim: when he said “Allah-Ishwar tere naam,” they asked, “Then why remain a Hindu? Become a Muslim.” Had he converted, Muslims would have shown him reverence like none before. Hindus would have burst into flames. In fact, they did burst into flames simply because he said “Allah-Ishwar”—placing them on the same level. They were enraged that he mentioned the Quran alongside the Gita. They could not forgive him.
It was not Muslims who shot Gandhi—though one might think that more likely. Nor the British—though that too seemed likely, since he was the root of their trouble; killing him could have set India’s freedom movement back by years. They did not shoot him. A Hindu shot him, because Hindus were angry that he set the Dhammapada, the Quran, the Bible alongside the Gita, that he placed Buddha, Mahavira, Christ, Mohammed alongside Krishna.
The Jains were delighted. Their numbers are small in India, but proportionally, more Jains went to jail in Gandhi’s movement than any other community. Why? Jains are not a combative people. It was not easy for them to go to jail. But Gandhi proclaimed “Ahimsa paramo dharmah”—nonviolence is the supreme religion. Thus Mahavira was vindicated.
Gandhi also said that Shrimad Rajchandra—a Jain sage—was one of his three gurus. Jain hearts overflowed. The other two were Christian—Tolstoy and Thoreau—and one Jain. Hindus were hurt: not one Hindu guru—two Christians and a Jain! Jains were happy, Christians were happy; C. F. Andrews, a Christian, sat at Gandhi’s feet for this reason.
Jains even took Gandhi to be, in a sense, a Jain—Hindu only in name. Who else had lifted nonviolence so high? Who else spread it so widely? Who else made it a life-philosophy in the twentieth century? He made Mahavira’s name resound again—so they were very pleased.
People’s joys and sorrows also arise from their doctrinal obsessions!
The Jews were angry at Martin Buber—naturally. Just as the Jains are angry at me. No one is as angry with me as the Jains. They had great hopes for me; they tried every way to bind me to preach Jainism. They hoped through me Jainism would reach the ends of the earth. I poured water on all their hopes!
Why should I be bound by anyone’s hopes? For me, birth is mere accident; it has no value. Religion is not received by birth. Understand the arithmetic.
First the Digambar Jains became angry with me, since I was born in a Digambar home. The Shvetambar Jains did not get angry quickly. The Digambars were first because they were closest; their greatest hope was that I would preach Digambar Jainism. The Shvetambars were pleased: “Look, a Digambar appears at our Shvetambar gatherings too, meets our monks, discusses with them, joins our propaganda.”
The Shvetambars were pleased; the Digambars grew angry. Soon the Shvetambars realized I would not be bound by any religion or limit; then they too grew angry.
Now both Digambar and Shvetambar are equally angry—Shvetambar even more, because Digambar anger is old; the wound has healed a bit. The Shvetambar wound is fresh.
After that the Hindus became angry—later. Then the Muslims. Then the Christians—first the Catholics, since they are influential in India. Now the Protestants—who are in Germany, while I sit here; I do not go there. Lastly, the Jews became angry, because Jews started taking sannyas with me. Now the Parsis are angry too—some of them have become sannyasins.
I am organizing to spoil people globally! Whoever I “spoil” will be angry!
The Jews were angry with Martin Buber; Christians were happy—naturally, because he praised Jesus and wanted the Jewish faith to re-absorb him. That the Jews could not tolerate: this is treason, religious betrayal. “The one our ancestors hanged, this man says to re-absorb! Under the name of humanism he is spreading irreligion!”
Christians, of course, praised him—they had found a friend within the Jewish stronghold.
It’s like the Ramayana: all devotees of Rama who wrote it praised Vibhishana. But if those who revered Ravana were to write the book, would Vibhishana be praised there? He would be a traitor—a cheat who betrayed his own brother and joined the enemy. What could be more despicable?
But devotees of Rama tried to prove Vibhishana a religious saint. That’s how the world works; understand this and the difficulty disappears.
The core Jewish belief is that they are God’s chosen people; no one else is chosen. That one race has been chosen by God. This foolish idea has harassed them for centuries. Their declaration of ego has caused them to be persecuted everywhere. They have suffered much. But life’s process is strange: for whatever you sacrifice, your attachment to it deepens. Our arithmetic is odd: the more the cost, the more precious it becomes; what comes free we don’t care for.
For three thousand years the Jews have sacrificed continuously; millions have been killed for this one idea—that they are the chosen. They cannot drop it. And you speak of humanism!
Humanism means all human beings are equal—no one is specially selected by God.
The Germans made a huge sacrifice, allowing themselves to be ruined at the hands of Adolf Hitler, based on one idea: that he told them they were the chosen ones. The Nordic race, pure Germans, were created by God to rule the world.
A double temptation: chosen by God, and destined to rule. The German nation was ready to die. That small nation shook the world. The whole world had to unite to fight them, and even then barely won—because those fighting had no such power, no such madness, as the Germans had.
You will be surprised to know the only people who aligned with the Germans were the Japanese, because they believe their origin is from the sun—they are sons of the sun god; their emperor descends from the sun. They are noble people.
Germany and Japan made an inner pact: “We’ll take the West, you take the East. You are the chosen of the East, we of the West.” They accepted each other’s doctrine. The rest of the world had to fight them. The Japanese fought as no one has ever fought—body and soul. And the more you sacrifice, the stronger your insistence grows, because the more blood you invest, the deeper your attachment becomes.
How will the Jews accept humanism?
Tell the Hindus to accept it—they cannot. Hinduism is Sanatan Dharma, eternal; all other religions were invented later by men. Hinduism descended from God. The Vedas were composed by God himself. All avatars were born in Hindu homes. This land is holy, the land of religion; gods long to be born here.
Hinduism, like Judaism, is riddled with delusions.
Note: Jews do not convert anyone. They say a Jew is a Jew by birth; only God can make one a Jew. Similarly, Hindus did not like to convert—until the Arya Samaj started copying Christians and began converting people. The Sanatanis cannot forgive the Arya Samaj. If anyone can be made a Hindu, then a shudra can be made a brahmin. And those you convert—what varna will they belong to? Varna is by birth.
Suppose a Christian becomes a Hindu—will he be brahmin, shudra, kshatriya, or vaishya? Where will you place him? A Hindu is by birth. Hindus don’t convert others—just like Jews.
The stupidity of Jews and Hindus is very similar. These two are the most ancient religions; from them other religions emerged—Islam and Christianity from Judaism; Jainism and Buddhism from Hinduism.
Jains and Buddhists invite others into their fold; they must, for the later-born religions—where would they get people? Mahavira himself was born in a Hindu home; all twenty-four Tirthankaras were born in Hindu homes. Buddha was born in a Hindu home. Where would they find more Buddhists and Jains? Conversion was necessary.
Thus Jains and Buddhists naturally do not accept that religion is by birth; it is by karma, not by birth—because their vested interest demands it. If it were by birth, they’d be finished. Jews hold that religion is by birth.
Christians and Muslims do not believe religion is by birth. Anyone can become a Muslim or a Christian—and anyone can be made one. If not by persuasion, then by the sword; by offering economic incentives, by bribery—but conversion can be effected.
Those religions that accept conversion must be later-born. Those that don’t are extremely ancient. Hinduism and Judaism are the most ancient.
Ancient religions have the difficulty of shrinking, not expanding—they cannot accept humanism. Newer religions are eager to expand, imperialistic; hence they readily accept humanism. Christianity is eager for it; so are Jains, Buddhists, and Islam.
All, except Hindus and Jews, want all humanity to gather under one flag; they search for pleasant pretexts, craft beautiful principles—but the underlying urge is empire-building.
I will certainly call Martin Buber a great man, but not a buddha. I make a basic distinction between a great man and a buddha. A great man is a person like us; the differences between us are of degree and quantity. We know less, he knows more. Perhaps our character is weaker, his stronger. Our lifestyle less graceful, his more so. Our thoughts less logically consistent, his clearer. But between him and us there is no qualitative difference.
Between a buddha and us there is a qualitative difference; he belongs to another realm. It is not a matter of more or less; it is a difference of dimension.
A great man touches the heights of thought. A buddha touches the depths of no-thought.
Martin Buber had no experience of no-thought. His most famous book is “I and Thou.” In it he gathered his finest ideas; it is his testament. There he says prayer means the relationship between “I” and “Thou”—I, the individual; Thou, the Divine. When dialogue happens between I and Thou, that is prayer.
No buddha could say such a thing. In prayer neither “I” remains nor “Thou.” If I were to write that book its title would be “Neither I nor Thou.” As long as I is, and Thou is, what prayer? It is still I-ing and Thou-ing—dialogue that can slip into debate. When neither “I” nor “Thou” remains, when the drop is lost in the ocean, then…
Prayer is not spoken. Buber thought prayer is dialogue. It is neither dialogue nor monologue—neither conversation nor soliloquy. Prayer is the bliss of emptiness, the sense of grace in emptiness—the flame burning in the void. There is nothing to say and nothing to hear.
Prayer is the culmination of meditation; it is the name meditation receives in the lover’s language. The lover’s language calls it prayer, but what is being indicated is what is experienced in meditation: in the meditator’s language, nirvikalpa samadhi; in the lover’s language, prayer—both pointing to the same truth.
Martin Buber never experienced meditation. It’s true he was intrigued by the Hasidic mystics—but it does not appear he ever practiced; the signs are absent; there is no inner testimony.
He studied the Hasidim deeply—their lives, their tales. His father too was interested in the Hasidim; as a child he was taken to them.
And the Hasidim are among the few unique types on this earth whose lives carry fragrance—like the Zen in Buddhism, the Sufis in Islam, the Hasidim among the Jews.
In this sense Jainism is poor; it has nothing comparable. Hinduism too is poor in this respect; Sikhism as well—no Hasidim, no Sufis, no Zen.
Buddhism found its peak in Zen. The word “Zen” comes from “dhyana”—in Pali, jhana. When Boddhidharma took “jhana” to China, the Chinese had no symbol for “jh,” so they wrote it “chan.” From China it traveled to Japan; Japanese use the same characters as Chinese, but pronounce them differently—like Hindi and Bengali share many words with different pronunciations.
A young woman once came to see me; I was told her name was Roma. I said, “Roma? An unusual name—after Rome?” The introducer said, “You didn’t get it; her name is Rama—but in Bengali it’s Roma!” Rama instantly became Roma! Bengalis round everything off—turn everything into a rosogolla! Even rasgulla becomes rosogolla—a roundness appears. Where Rāma, where Roma!
Chinese and Japanese use the same characters but pronounce differently. What the Chinese would read “chan,” the Japanese read “zen.”
Buddhism reached its culmination in Zen; Judaism in the Hasidim; Islam in the Sufis.
In that sense the Jains remained poor. Their religion fell into the hands of pundits, and pundits are the most superficial people on earth—brimming with words, empty of experience.
For years I observed Jain monks; I did not find one who knew meditation. They know much about meditation—can write scriptures on it, give discourses, split hairs with subtle points—but there is no experience. Experience is forgotten.
Thus no flowers bloomed on Mahavira’s tree. Scriptures hang from it—weighty tomes draining the life of the tree—but no flowers.
Hinduism for centuries has been ensnared by brahmins, pundits, and priests. They do not even want anyone to attain meditation. Those who did—were expelled; that is how the Jains and Buddhists separated. Otherwise there was no need.
They could not absorb Buddha because he proclaimed meditation over knowledge. This was intolerable to brahmins; they have no interest in meditation. When cheap knowledge is available and feeds one’s livelihood—has done so for centuries—and grants the pleasure of sitting on people’s chests, who wants the trouble of meditation? Here comes Buddha to teach an upheaval—separate him, condemn him. They maligned Buddha thoroughly.
A Hindu scripture says the Devil sat exhausted at the gate of hell: no one came! He went and prayed to God: “What creation have you made? Why this hell if no one comes? Must I sit alone?” God said, “Don’t worry; since it’s built, I’ll send people. Soon I will incarnate as the Buddha and corrupt them—just as I’m corrupting you—so they’ll be corrupted.”
Buddha incarnated and corrupted people; since then hell is so overcrowded that if you die today, you will wait a hundred and fifty years in queue for admission—and even then you’ll have to bribe your way in. You’ll tire of standing: “Hell is fine, but at least let me inside. Torment me if you must but give me a roof; here I stand sun, rain, hunger, thirst. At least let me sleep at night.” And then the shoving—a short bathroom break and someone takes your spot, and you’re back to the end. Life is in crisis.
So Hindus spun this tale. I tell them: add to your story that since Buddha was uprooted from India, the crowds in hell thinned. Now they have sent me; I will again “spoil” people! After all, someone must spoil while everyone else “liberates”—otherwise what will become of creation? If everyone frees others from the wheel of birth, God will have no business left. Even God would think, “If all are liberators, at least one is needed who ensnares, to keep balance; otherwise the fun of creation is gone—soon it will be a desert.” God does not wish to see his creation ruined; sometimes he sends a few of his lovers to plant trees. I am doing reforestation! I say: Stand firmly in life; what freedom from birth? Since God has sent you, there must be a kingdom of his—understand it, relish it.
God cannot make a mistake. And your being is not your mistake; understand this. If your being is a mistake, it would be God’s—but God cannot err; mahātmās can, God cannot. But what a story!
They uprooted Buddha; they did not allow Mahavira to take root. Buddha was a great fire of revolution; he had to be uprooted entirely. Mahavira was more gentle—less rebellious in language, more traditional. As the twenty-fourth Tirthankara, at least two and a half thousand years of tradition preceded him; thus he spoke within traditional limits, chose ancient words familiar to people—words that no longer stung or stirred storms. Tradition had covered the embers with ash; he spoke of those embers. Hence Hindus did not uproot him—they absorbed him. Brahmins gathered around him; all his eleven ganadharas were brahmins. They spoiled his soil, set up shop with their punditry and priestcraft—and the matter ended. Mahavira lacked the fire of revolution—he had tradition and the past; the pundits extinguished whatever spark remained.
Around Buddha too brahmins gathered—Sariputta, Moggallana, many others—but his fire was such that brahmins who came lost their brahminness; their punditry and scriptures burned up.
Mahavira’s presence was cool; a brahmin could set up shop. After his death the entire shop fell into brahmin hands. Thus Jainism survived in India, but no flowers bloomed on its tree. How could they?
Buddhism was uprooted from India, but wherever its tree took root it flowered. China offered beautiful soil because Lao Tzu had prepared it exquisitely. When Buddha’s language reached China, people digested it as if they had been waiting—like parched earth calling for clouds. Buddha came as gathered monsoon; peacocks danced; the first drops fell and people were brimful of nectar.
Among Jews the Hasidim arose. Their lineage began with Jesus. Jesus was crucified, but two kinds of people followed him—those who stood with him openly, a dangerous act meaning the gallows; and those who were not interested in social revolution but recognized the value of his teachings. They sat quietly in caves, made hidden schools here and there—secret taverns where they drank the wine of Jesus. They remained Jews outwardly, kept the Jewish fervor, spoke the Jewish language, quoted the Old Testament—but interpreted it in the spirit of Jesus.
Thus the Hasidim were born among Jews—Jesus’ imprint left within them, a spark they could not extinguish. Those who split off openly became Christians and formed a separate tradition.
And you’ll be surprised: what was lost among Christians survived among the Hasidim. Christians got entangled in social struggles, wars, crusades; they had no leisure for practice, no opportunity for meditation. Meditation requires time and nourishment. The secret Jewish followers had both—they worked quietly. Those who went out had first to fight Jews, then Muslims; the fighting never ended. After two thousand years of warfare, Christians were left with popes and priests. But among the Jews, those who hid did amazing work; they birthed the Hasidic tradition.
Therefore Jews are not very pleased with the Hasidim either—remember. But what can they do? The Hasidim remained Jews; they never left. So they have little honor among Jews, yet they cannot be expelled—they use the old language, the old scriptures, only infusing them with new meaning.
From childhood Martin Buber was drawn to the Hasidic stream—through his father. The Hasidim had meeting places everywhere. They are playful people—dancing and singing. Many of the Jews who have come to me have come because what is happening here carries the clear resonance of the Hasidim for them.
Hasidim believe in ecstasy. They held little fairs and gatherings. Buber wrote a memoir of his childhood: “Those Hasidic fairs have vanished; they can no longer happen. But when I was small, they were held. What I saw there I never saw anywhere again.” If he were alive today I would invite him here: “Come and see again!” For what were those Hasidic fairs? All dance! Eating, drinking, serving, dancing—thousands hand in hand, men and women together, whirling in ecstasy. Cup after cup flowing.
That touched him. But he took a scholarly path. He began collecting Hasidic tales—because the Hasidim did two things: dance—their prayer—and express religion not in big doctrinal abstractions but in small stories. Their stories are very sweet—short, but piercing, like arrows.
He tasted the Hasidim, but his taste became academic. He collected their stories, their ways of life, their dances, their songs—and got lost in that. He became a great scholar of the Hasidic tradition, but missed being a Hasid—never dancing, never singing, never intoxicated, never a reveler in their tavern, never drinking or offering the wine. Yet his authentic collection of Hasidic tales is his contribution to humanity.
Therefore I say: he was a great man—an extraordinary scholar, an extraordinary collector, highly authentic. But as for coming close to buddhahood, Ajit Saraswati, leave that aside—he was not even near. He had nothing to do with buddhahood.

The Hasidim have given a unique gift: that materialism and spiritualism must be wedded.

In this country you have often heard so-called sadhus and mahatmas condemning materialists with the jibe that their philosophy is just one thing: eat, drink, and make merry. If we want to condemn someone here, we say, “Ah, what is he! Eat, drink, make merry—this is his life! He’s a Charvaka.” We even twisted the very meaning of the word Charvaka, making it sound like someone who only “grazes”—who eats, drinks, and frolics. That was never its meaning. Enemies thrust that on it. “Charvaka” comes from charu-vak—sweet speech. It means: those whose words are sweet and juicy, whose words are like wine. One sip goes down and intoxication spreads—spring arrives in the fall! Charu-vak!

But the so-called mahatmas of this land dropped charu-vak and started using Charvaka. They call me a Charvaka! In statements issued against me it’s written: “This man is a Charvaka!”

“Eat, drink, and make merry”—I say it too. But there is a difference between the materialist and me, between the materialist and the Hasidic mystic. The materialist says, “Eat, drink, make merry—period, that’s the end.” The Hasidic mystic says, “Eat, drink, make merry—now the real matter begins.” Only then does the real journey start. Until you can take delight even in eating and drinking, you will not be able to take a higher delight.

Yesterday a friend—some Vachaspati—asked, “You said this is not the turning of the wheel of Dharma; here it is fun and festivity; this is a tavern.” The poor fellow must be full of the language of pundits, mahatmas, and sadhus. It’s not his fault. The same old denunciations!

I declare it plainly: “Eat, drink, and make merry.” I say it is a tavern—because only a tavern can become a temple. Where there are no drinkers, there can be no temple. And where true drinkers gather, there arrives Kashi, there arrives the Kaaba.

But there are two aspects of the drinker—just as everything in our life has two aspects: body and soul. Do not neglect the body. Let it eat, let it drink. It too is a form of the Divine, an expression of the Divine. The Divine pervades every particle of it. Matter, too, is Divine.

Let the body eat, drink, make merry. That is the first lesson in celebration. But if you stop there, that is materialism. If you go beyond, that is spirituality. Then the soul too has its celebration. The soul too has its food, its drink, its ecstasy, its wine-house. I call that the temple.

First let the body’s tavern be. Then we will also build the soul’s sanctuary—there is no hindrance. But the journey should begin at the beginning, with the ABC. Begin with the body, culminate in the soul. This is the Hasidic vision of life.

I am in complete agreement with the Hasidim. I can simply say I am a Hasid. And I want a religion now to arise in the world that does not deny the body and the flesh, that does not reject matter and the outer. A religion that embraces life in its totality—both the circumference and the center. After all, the circumference belongs to the center; and where is the center without the circumference?

Soul and body are two forms of one energy—one inner, one outer. The body is the soul’s outer garment; the soul is the body’s innerness. Do not divide them. Because of division humanity has become fragmented; within each person there are pieces upon pieces. Now drop all divisions. This I call true non-dualism.

I do not call Shankaracharya’s Advaita true non-dualism; I call it incomplete. Because in it there is a denial of maya and an acceptance of Brahman. Brahman is true; the world is false. My non-dualism is complete: Brahman is true; the world is true!

Why give any place at all to the untrue? Everything that is, is true. Dreams too have their own truth—otherwise how could dreams be? They do occur, even if only for a moment. They have their own truth. The moon is real, agreed. But the reflection of the moon in the lake is also real. Even if only for a moment, it is the moon’s reflection. The lake is real; the moon is real—how can the reflection be false? I am not saying the reflection is the moon. The reflection is a reflection—true as a reflection.

You stand before a mirror. You are real; the mirror is real. How then can the image in the mirror be false? I am not saying the image is you. The image is an image—true as an image.

Maya is true as maya. The world is true as the world. Brahman is true as Brahman. Where the truth of both meets and becomes one, there the person manifests in his wholeness. That person I call religious. That I call the supreme Buddha. In such a person’s life there is no denial; there is total acceptance. For him nothing is ordinary, nothing is extraordinary. He touches the ordinary and it becomes extraordinary. He touches mud and it turns into gold.

I want to give you that alchemy—how mud becomes gold.

Your mahatmas kept telling you that gold is mud. I tell you: mud is gold. And I tell you your mahatmas have been lying to you. Because if you take gold to them, they won’t touch it. They say: gold is mud. Bring them mud and they are not afraid. Bring them gold—why do they tremble? If gold is mud, what is the problem?

Kabir had a son, Kamal. Kabir was very revolutionary, yet still in places tradition clung. But Kamal was Kamal. He was Kabir’s son—and went two steps ahead of Kabir.

What is a son worth if he does not go two steps ahead of his father! The father’s honor lies in the son going beyond. It is an insult to the father if the son stops where the father stopped. But all fathers seem to want that insult—what to do! Every father wants the son to stop where he himself reached; not an inch beyond—because the father’s ego is hurt if the son goes further. Yet a true father would push the son: Don’t stop here. Look, I myself got this far—what need was there for you if you only come this far! Go beyond.

The day Kabir named him “Kamal” he acknowledged there is some wonder in this boy—something will certainly happen. But Kamal was such that even Kabir found it hard to assimilate him. Kabir was a man of great courage, a great fakir—who in India could match his abandon!

Kabir says:
“Kabir stands in the marketplace with a flaming torch in hand;
he who burns down his house, come, walk with me.”

Such a man of daring! And yet Kamal—after all, Kabir’s own son—went two steps further. Just as I say to you I go two steps beyond Shankaracharya. One should go further. A thousand years have passed since Shankara—if in a thousand years you haven’t taken even two steps, then what’s the limit! Are you alive? Better to have been dead.

What Kabir would say, Kamal would do. But some things mahatmas say are not to be done—like Kabir saying, “Gold is mud.” It was a very common dictum: gold is mud. And, “Beware of woman and gold.”

This did not sit well with Kamal. If gold is mud, what is there to beware of? If it is mud, what’s the problem? Or admit it is not mud—then the question of being wary arises!

The king of Kashi heard that Kamal speaks topsy-turvy—sometimes even against his father. “Let’s see.”

To test him, he brought a very large diamond—the most precious he possessed—and offered it to Kamal. He had heard Kamal accepts offerings. Kabir would not accept offerings. If someone brought something to Kabir, he would say, “No, brother, I do not accumulate. Take this mud away from me. I don’t need gold. Gold is mud. What will I do with a diamond? A diamond is a stone, a pebble.”

Kamal lived in the next hut. Kabir did not let him stay in his own. Because what Kabir would send back—someone bringing gold, diamond, silver—Kamal, sitting outside, would say, “Leave it here! Where are you taking this mud? Drop it and go.”

Kabir felt very hurt—“Somehow I sent it away, and he has had it left behind! What will people think? It looks like a trick—a father-and-son collusion! The father says everything is mud, take it away; the son says, It’s mud—leave it here. Why lug it around?”

So Kabir said to him, “You live in the hut next door. Keep your wisdom separate.” And Kamal began living apart.

The king of Kashi brought the diamond as an offering. Kamal said, “What have you brought! A pebble! You can neither eat it nor drink it. If only you had brought some fruit, some sweets! He spoke to the point—what will I do with this!”

The king thought, “But I’d heard he accepts offerings! And he is speaking quite differently!” Then he said, “My eyes have opened. I had heard something else about you.”

He rose to leave, taking the diamond with him. Kamal said, “Wait—now that you’ve brought it, why carry the mud back? You didn’t understand it is mud. Leave it.”

Now the king thought, “Ah, this is a trick! First he speaks like a holy man, and now he says: leave it!”

But he had come to test. He asked, “Where shall I put it?”

Kamal laughed, “Then take it back. Because if you ask ‘Where shall I put it?’ you have not understood. It is still a diamond for you. Do people ask where to put a stone? Put it anywhere you like!”

The king was thoroughly puzzled. He wedged the diamond into the thatch of the hut and went out thinking, “As soon as I leave, he’ll take it out!”

After about fifteen days he returned to see what had happened. Kamal was sitting blissful, playing his one-stringed ektara. They chatted a bit, then the king asked, “What happened to the diamond?”

Kamal said, “Which diamond?”

The king said, “You’ve gone too far! Fifteen days ago I gave you a diamond—so precious—and you’ve forgotten?”

Kamal said, “A diamond! You brought a stone and asked, ‘Where shall I put it?’—that one, no? Wherever you left it, if no one took it, it will still be there. If someone took it, I don’t know!”

The king thought, “He’s a perfect trickster—he’s removed it and says, ‘If someone took it, what can I do?’”

Still, he got up to look. He was astonished—tears rolled from his eyes. The diamond was right there, stuck in the thatch. He fell at Kamal’s feet.

Kamal said, “Why fall at my feet? When will you understand? You still consider it a diamond! Even in falling at my feet you’re worshiping the diamond. If it had not been found—if someone had taken it, and someone could have taken it! Do I sit here guarding it twenty-four hours? I go to bathe in the Ganga. I go for bhajan and kirtan. I sit outside. People come and go. If someone had taken it, you would surely have gone away thinking I removed it—and you would have cut off my neck! Don’t leave such entanglements here. Take your diamond away. Keep it yourself.

“But Kamal is speaking to the point—speaking the Kamal way!”

In the end Kabir also acknowledged this. Kabir said, “Booda vansh Kabir ka, upja poot Kamal.”

The Kabirpanthis take this as a condemnation: that “the lineage of Kabir is ruined”—that this wicked Kamal destroyed Kabir’s tradition! “What a wretch was born—he spoiled my whole lineage!”

I don’t take it that way. I take it as Kabir’s final seal: “Booda vansh Kabir ka, upja poot Kamal.”

Kabir is saying: at least I let a son be born—I kept the world going that much. But Kamal is wondrous. He neither married nor carried on a lineage. “Upja poot Kamal!”—that is Kamal! And what a marvel: he lived exactly as I said—he did not just repeat, he embodied it!

It is a seal of approval. But only an understanding person will understand; the foolish will not.

The Hasidic mystic accepts this world and that world together. They are not two. That is my acceptance too. This is the Hasidim’s fellowship. But Martin Buber—though he served the Hasidim by gathering their stories and songs—remained deprived of being a Hasid. He never tasted meditation. He never knew prayer. He was only a scholar—so even the Jews opposed him.

Ajit Saraswati, you ask: “They were maligned in their own land while people all over the world were influenced by them.”

So it is. In their own land such people must endure condemnation—those who say something to the point. Because one’s own people do not want anyone to say what contradicts them. And if you are to speak to the point, it will go against many. It is inevitable.

This world is a crowd of the blind, the mad, the deranged. If you speak to the point, it will be against them. They will oppose you.

You ask: “While living in Kutch, in reference to our commune, please say something on this too.”

I am no scholar. I don’t say just one pointed thing—I say only pointed things. Every single word is poison, death, an arrow to the traditionalist. Therefore the opposition to me is utterly natural. We must accept it joyfully—with gratitude. It is the nation’s thank-you. Do not take it otherwise. It is their expression of gratitude.

Enough for today.