Jo Bole To Hari Katha #11

Chaitanya Kirti! Acharya Tulsi is, at heart, a political man. He has no real connection with religion—no experience of it. But politics has always been run in the name of religion. When politics runs under its own name, it is dirty enough; when it hides behind religion, it becomes far dirtier. Under noble wrappings, the filthiest ambitions can be concealed.

I have known almost all the country’s sadhus and saints from close quarters. And I have been astonished to see that these people would have done better to dedicate their lives openly to politics—at least then their faces would be clean; at least they wouldn’t need so many masks.

When Acharya Tulsi invited me, I went. When he later asked me about meditation, he became uneasy because I said: I had thought you are the guru of seven hundred monks; you give initiation—to monks and nuns; you are the disciplinarian of a major Jain sect—how can you not know meditation?

He said: No, no, I know everything about meditation, but I’ve never had the opportunity to do it. You can see for yourself—managing so many monks and nuns, such a big Terapanth congregation, that alone takes all my time. Then walking tours; then the factions and politics among the monks and nuns—where is the time!

I said: That’s exactly what the shopkeeper tells me: Where is the time? That’s what busy householders say. And if a monk says the same, then what’s the difference? What world have you renounced? For what? You didn’t step out of one world before entangling yourself in a bigger one!

He smarted from that day. Then when he said he wanted to talk in private, I said: It would be better to talk before everyone. But even in the privacy there was politics—so that there would be no witness to what he asked me.

Only, it was not entirely private: Muni Thothumal was present. He was there to take down quickly whatever I said—lest any of my words be missed.

So I said: If it must be private, then let it be truly private.

He said: No, it would be better if whatever guidance you give is recorded, so that there is no mistake in doing the meditation.

What I said was duly noted. Even then I felt it all had a whiff of trickery—everyone else was removed so that there would be no witness. Still, I thought: no harm. Perhaps it is better. If seven hundred monks come to know their guru has no idea of meditation, it will create unnecessary embarrassment. I do not wish to embarrass anyone. Until then I had not called Muni Nathmal “Thothumal.” I called him Nathmal, as his name was. But the compulsion to call him Thothumal came that very afternoon.

The talk had been in the morning. By afternoon, in the presence of all the monks, nuns, and Terapanth followers—around twenty thousand people—it was their annual festival—I was invited to speak. I was to be the only speaker. But to my surprise, when my time came, instead of announcing my name, they announced Muni Nathmal—that before I spoke, Muni Nathmal would speak!

Even then I thought: no harm; perhaps he will introduce me; I am unfamiliar to them. But what he spoke truly stunned me. He parroted, word for word, the notes taken from my morning “private” talk! He spoke for an hour, and in that hour did not leave out a single word of what I had said. This was a second trick—to make it seem, later, that I could never claim the meditation I had described was mine; they could say: We already knew it; our Muni Nathmal had said it then—my disciple had said it!

But I am not such a simple, straight fellow! My move is rather oblique! After listening for an hour, when I spoke, I refuted point by point that entire hour of Muni Nathmal’s talk. Now it was their turn to be shocked. I did not leave a single thing unchallenged.

That night, when he met me, he said: What have you done!

I said: I had to! I understand not only mantra, yantra, tantra—but also conspiracy. The trick you played—the Marwari-style dealing, the cheating—there was no other answer to it except this.

Even if a Marwari becomes a monk, he remains a Marwari—the same market dodges, the same thinking process, the same line of argument.

I have heard: A Marwari came to Bombay with his wife for the first time. As they were strolling near the 20–30-storey buildings at Nariman Point, a woman had just jumped from the twenty-fifth floor to commit suicide. By chance, she fell into a garbage bin. Seeing this, the Marwari exclaimed: Ah, these Bombay folks are amazingly wasteful! This woman could have run for ten–fifteen years more; and they’ve thrown her into the garbage!

Another Marwari had gone to Bombay on business. Many days had passed, and he had not sent his wife any money—not that he had none, but sending money is very hard for a Marwari. To part with money is harder than to part with one’s life! Suicide is easy; letting money slip from the hand is hard!

His wife kept sending messages—letters, telegrams. She explained that things had become difficult: the milkman wanted payment; the electric bill had to be paid; the maid’s salary had piled up; the poor thing left; the children’s school fees were due.

But he would always write back: Money is very tight, my dear wife, but I send you a thousand kisses! Now, do kisses cost anything? And what is there in a Marwari’s kiss—just a mouth making a sound!

A few days later the wife’s letter came. After all, she too was a Marwari—how long could she wait! She wrote: Don’t worry. With ten of your kisses I settled the milkman. With twenty, the grocer. With fifteen, the washerman. With thirty, the maid has returned. Keep sending them like this—everything is going wonderfully!

The Marwari has his own world—his own ways of thinking, his own arithmetic, his own language, his own tricks.

Sir, an English teacher teaches in English; a Hindi teacher in Hindi; a Sanskrit teacher in Sanskrit. Then why don’t you, a math teacher, teach in mathematics?

The Marwari teacher said: Look, don’t do too much three–five. Become nine–two–eleven at once; otherwise I’ll make you remember the milk of sixth class!

See—he spoke in the language of mathematics: Don’t do too much three–five; become nine–two–eleven right now; otherwise I’ll make you remember your sixth-class milk!

The Marwari has his own math. Seeing Acharya Tulsi, I felt: a thorough Marwari! From then on he was smarting.

The next day things got worse. With me, it is easy to spoil things; to smooth them is very hard. I have the art of making enemies! If someone becomes my friend, it is in spite of me—his choice. Otherwise, I am skilled only at making enemies! I have my reasons, because I truly want to keep near me only those who are friends. So I make every arrangement on my side so that no trash gets in.

The next day there was a small colloquium. Acharya Tulsi had invited me and twenty others from the country. Morarji Desai was also invited—then India’s finance minister under Jawaharlal Nehru.

Acharya Tulsi climbed onto the platform, and the twenty invitees, including me, were seated below. I had no objection. Whether someone sits on a platform or below is nothing. Though it was a bit absurd: this wasn’t a mass meeting of a thousand people needing a dais. It was a colloquium of twenty; we could have sat close together. I paid it no mind—until Morarji raised the matter. But a dagger had pricked his chest! India’s finance minister—no ordinary man—Morarji Desai!

Before the colloquium could begin, Morarji said: I want an answer to one question first; let us begin with it. Acharya Tulsi was very pleased: Certainly—please begin.

Morarji said: I want to ask, why are you seated up there? And the platform isn’t a small height—at least eight feet! If we have to look at you, our necks will ache! And why are we seated below? This is a colloquium, which means an intimate sitting together to converse. You are not giving a sermon. So why are you perched above?

Tulsi-ji’s face turned pale. What could he answer! If it had been some yes-man, he could have scolded him into silence. And Marwaris don’t ask such questions. And the poor Terapanthis still live in a feudal age—they say: Ji, huzoor! Your Highness! They don’t even know it is the twentieth century!

You see, kings and maharajas are gone, yet Acharya Tulsi calls his successor “Yuvraj”—crown prince! Just listen to the language—feudal. Yuvraj! You are not a king—how a crown prince! And crown prince—if he were young, it might fit. But a sixty-five-year-old Thothumal—the crown prince! But he is the chief flatterer—singing praises day and night, so “Yuvraj”!

The same feudal style—and Morarji, too, with a feudal stance.

For a moment there was stunned silence—it felt the colloquium had ended right there! I saw things were going sour: after such a long journey, so much trouble, and now everything was being spoiled. Tulsi-ji could not find words. I said—Morarji was seated next to me: He hasn’t asked me, so it is not proper I answer. He has asked you, but you are silent. Perhaps you don’t have the courage to answer, because to say anything that pricks Morarji—he will remember it all his life, and he has power. And he has been coaxed to come; it took months to persuade him. Now to anger him is beyond your courage. So you cannot speak the truth; and you dare not tell a lie either, because Morarji won’t let it pass. If both you and Morarji agree, I will answer.

Tulsi-ji thought: trouble averted; and Morarji said: This is a colloquium—fine, no problem. You answer.

So I said: I am not much troubled that he is sitting up there. Look up—there is a lizard on the roof! Look on the ledge—a crow is sitting! Look higher—a kite is flying! Whom all will you worry about? If it comes to measuring who is higher and lower, life will be impossible. Then the lizard is above Acharya Tulsi! The crow above the lizard! The kite above the crow! We are finished! This is nonsense. He is only making himself look foolish perched eight feet high. He invited a colloquium; he is host; we are guests. Had he honored us by seating us above and himself below, one could understand. But this behavior toward guests—there is neither religion in it, nor etiquette, nor a trace of civility! It is absurd.

But I said: Why does it gall you? There are nineteen others here besides you. It has not irked any of us. So I will say what is really galling you: you also want to sit up there. Please, climb up! If anyone stops you, I take responsibility—go up, sit above. Both of you sit above; we eighteen will sit below.

And I said: It is not his sitting high that pains you; it is your sitting low. Put your hand on your heart and say which is it! There is a world of difference between the two. Something irks us, and we say something else. We hide everything; we never bring simple things out in the open.

From that day, Morarji was angry, and Tulsi-ji too. Such knots people tie in their hearts!

You will be surprised, Chaitanya Kirti: Ask him why, before he met me, he never held meditation camps; and why after meeting me, meditation camps began—and exactly for three days, because at that time I used to hold three-day meditation camps! And ask him: if he did not learn meditation from me, why did he send Muni Chandan and his companions to me? They came to Bombay and learned meditation with me. Not only I—Yog Chinmaya is here; he used to conduct meditations for them in his room. Why did he send them to me?

Ask him also: Why did he send his monk Mithalal to my camp at Mount Abu? And ask him: Why did he send all his nuns—possibly this Chand Kumari too was among them, for there were a hundred to a hundred and fifty nuns; I could not remember so many names. And with veils tied across their mouths, how can one recognize who is who—man, woman, ghost or goblin! Ask him: Why did he ask me to conduct meditation for these hundred-odd nuns? And they did meditate with me—there are witnesses. I was not alone; those who took me there were present.

If he already knew meditation, why all this?

As for what they call “Preksha meditation,” there is no mention of such a meditation in the Jain scriptures. “Preksha” is a word they have coined. And the meditation I had described to him—that he is now calling Preksha.

I had told him of two methods. One he does not have the courage to do—Active Meditation—because now it is widely known to be mine.

A friend just informed me that someone in London is conducting Active Meditation claiming it is his. How long can he keep claiming it! My sannyasins are reaching there and asking: This Active Meditation is not yours, is it! Active Meditation is not found in any scripture; it is my invention. Neither in the Jain scriptures nor any Hindu scripture. It cannot be given scriptural authority; it stands on my own experience.

And I hold that in the twentieth century, if anyone is to climb to the heights of meditation, he will have to begin with Active Meditation. Because the countless repressed impulses inside have to be thrown out; Active Meditation pours them out.

The second I told him is the Buddha’s famous meditation: Vipassana. That too is not in the Jain scriptures; it is Buddha’s. Active Meditation is mine; Vipassana is Buddha’s. I recommended both because they balance each other. Active Meditation alone serves to purge, but how will you then refill? You have to separate the trash—but the diamonds and jewels? Removing pebbles does not produce diamonds. Active Meditation is half the work—primary, indispensable. When it is complete, then sow the seeds of Vipassana.

And I say decisively: Vipassana is not my discovery. What is someone’s, is someone’s. It is Gautam Buddha’s. I have no objection to using another’s discovery—these discoveries are not anyone’s private property. But we should have the honesty to say whose discovery it is.

Vipassana means observation—watching. Buddha said: Just watch your thoughts; by watching, they fall silent. Krishnamurti calls Buddha’s discovery “choiceless awareness,” though he too does not acknowledge it as Buddha’s. In that non-acknowledgment I smell a pinch of dishonesty. He opposes the past, yet what he calls “choiceless awareness” is Buddha’s discovery.

From childhood, Besant, Leadbeater, and the Theosophists led Krishnamurti along Buddha’s path. They were grooming him as the coming Buddha, Maitreya—that when he became perfectly pure, Buddha’s soul would descend in him and he would be world-teacher. So he was exposed to Buddha’s process from childhood. From nine years of age he was made to practice Vipassana. But Krishnamurti wanted to sever ties with the past, so he could not say: what I call choiceless awareness is just a new label for an old wine. Bottles change; the wine is old—and the older the wine, the more precious. Let the bottles come and go.

But we should be scrupulous enough to acknowledge.

So I told him: Active Meditation is my discovery; and Buddha could not have discovered it, nor Mahavira—because in their century there was no need. People were not so repressed; they were simple, natural, close to nature. Today life has gone far from nature; twenty-five centuries of “civilization” have stuffed so many worms and scorpions into man that unless we throw them out and cleanse the vessel, Vipassana cannot happen.

Vipassana is a unique process—there is nothing more precious in the world of meditation—but it is not Mahavira’s method.

I told him: Conduct Active Meditation. At that, his chest trembled. He said: The screaming and shouting, dancing and jumping—that will be difficult! Where shall we find scriptural support? There is none, I said. You cannot find support for it in scriptures. But not everything can have scriptural support. Is there scriptural support for the train? For the airplane? Not even for the bicycle—yet you merrily ride it.

But there are people obsessed with finding “support” for everything.

A Christian pastor was expounding the Bible, saying: Everything is in the Bible; God made everything.

A small boy stood up: I can’t accept that. I have read what you say—but where does God make the railway? Who made the train?

The pastor hesitated, then—priests are crafty—he said: It is clearly written: God made all “creeping things.” The train also creeps—so it is included.

See the trick! “Creeping things” meaning worms, lizards, snakes—and the train counted among creeping things!

I said: If you must patch Active Meditation onto scriptures, some links can be invented. For example, in Patanjali there is a pranayama called bhastrika; Active Meditation’s first stage—deep, fast breathing—can be linked to bhastrika.

For the second stage, you won’t find anything in Patanjali. But in many scriptures the word “rechan” is used—purging, expelling, vomiting out. Laxatives are called “rechaka.” So, if you must, the cathartic second stage can be tucked under that.

For the third stage, Hindu scriptures offer nothing, but Islam does. If you have the courage: the third stage—the loud “Hoo! Hoo!”—is part of “Allah-u.” It is a Sufi method. When one repeats “Allah-u, Allah-u” so intensely that the words pile on each other like train cars, eventually one no longer hears “Allah-u” in full; only “Hoo! Hoo!” remains. The “Allah” is swallowed; only the “Hoo,” the roar, remains.

If you must hunt for supports, you can hunt like this; but you will have to pull from many places. And you won’t have the courage to accept Patanjali, accept rechan which Jain texts don’t mention, and then it will be hardest with “Allah-u,” which appears in neither Hindu, Jain, nor Buddhist texts—it’s an Islamic process. If you like, we have the word “hunkar”—the sound “Hoo.” You can sit it there somehow. But it will all be forced.

Active Meditation is a twentieth-century discovery, for the twentieth century—and it will grow more valuable in coming centuries. But it is like cleaning the garden. After the cleaning, Vipassana. When the cleaning is complete, the flowers of Vipassana bloom without hindrance.

Vipassana means: simply witnessing all the processes of the mind—emotions, thoughts, desires, ambitions. There is a magic in witnessing: when the mind’s processes are watched, they slowly evaporate. Deprive them of our active cooperation, and their life ends. They live through our support. When we become watchers, our energy becomes seeing, not thinking—thought loses its life-force. In a few days the snake dies; its shed skin remains. Soon even the skin is gone. Then an incomparable moment arrives when only emptiness remains—and in that emptiness there is the realization of the whole.

Acharya Tulsi began to call Vipassana “Preksha.” Preksha also means seeing—prékshan, observer, observation. But Vipassana is not a Jain method. The Jain method is very different. That was precisely the dispute between Mahavira and Buddha. Tulsi cannot use the word Vipassana; the moment he does, Jains will raise a clamor: That is a Buddhist method! There has been hostility between Jains and Buddhists for 2,500 years—more quarrel than between Hindus and Jains, naturally, because Buddha and Mahavira were contemporaries, both active in the same region, Bihar. Daily, people shifted from Mahavira’s camp to Buddha’s and vice versa. The struggle was fierce, and the methods entirely different.

If one must name Mahavira’s method, it is less a method of meditation and more a method of tapas—austerity. Mahavira is more physiologically oriented; Buddha is more psychological.

Within man are three elements. His innermost core is the self, which is to be realized. Imagine a triangle: the top apex is the self. The two base corners are mind and body. To reach the top, one must go via body or via mind; there are only two ways. Patanjali is body-oriented: his process begins with the body—yama, niyama, pranayama, asana, etc. Mahavira, too, is like Patanjali. His process begins with the body.

In a sense, Mahavira would agree with modern scientists like Pavlov of Russia, Skinner of America, Delgado: the behaviorists. They change behavior, the chemistry of the body, and by changing the body’s chemistry they influence the inner being.

In this sense Mahavira is very scientific—but his science starts from the body and reaches the self. Therefore Mahavira’s process is of tapas, not meditation. Purify the body through fasting—so purify it that bodily urges become emaciated; when bodily impulses wane, the mind’s reflected urges wane with them.

When sexual desire arises in you, it has two components: mind and body. If you look closely, you will see both meet in desire. If the body does not cooperate, the mind can do nothing; if the mind does not cooperate, the body can do nothing. Mind and body are two sides of one coin. There are two ways to throw the coin: discard the body side and the mind side falls away by itself—or discard the mind side. Discarding the body side is arduous; hence Mahavira’s path is arduous—therefore he is called Mahavira, the Great Courageous. His given name was Vardhaman. He was called Mahavira because he undertook twelve years of daunting austerity, purified the body so profoundly that its entire chemistry changed. These Tulsis and such people don’t know the art of changing that chemistry!

That change of chemistry is a very difficult path. I think someday, if needed, I will speak to you about it. Not yet. If, after the commune comes into being, I find some people ready to enter that daunting path of the body, I will certainly give you methods to change the body’s chemistry—that will be Mahavira’s process. I have not given it so far, to anyone—because to whom would I give it!

And in whose hands has Mahavira fallen—shopkeepers! How will they change the body’s chemistry! These Marwaris—and they will change body chemistry!

Once in Nagpur, I was a guest in a home, sitting in the garden one morning. A car stopped; a man got out and said: Laddus have come from Seth Kachharmal’s house; please call the master of the house.

I said: The master is out; the mistress too. I am a guest. If you trust me, leave the laddus. Count them. He seemed uneasy at the idea of leaving the laddus.

I said: Brother, count them; you can tell the number over the phone. As soon as they return I will ask them to confirm with Seth Kachharmal. But leave the laddus without worry.

He said: No, no, I’m not hesitating for that reason. Actually, my name is Laddu! When I said laddus have come from Seth Kachharmal, I didn’t mean I brought sweets. My name is Laddu—that’s why I hesitated!

Now these Kachharmals and these Laddus—and they will change body chemistry! One is Kachharmal—and “laddus have come from his house”!

I said: Brother, you go—leave me alone. No need to sit! If there had been laddus, fine.

The day I feel such people have come—some certainly will, because humanity contains every type. In Mahavira’s time there were many of that type, for a reason: being a kshatriya was itself a discipline.

Mahavira was a kshatriya. All twenty-four Jain tirthankaras were kshatriyas. What a misfortune that those whose twenty-four tirthankaras were kshatriyas have followers who are all shopkeepers! Can there be a greater misfortune!

They were kshatriyas. Not only were their swords sharp; they had honed their bodies. They underwent years of tapas. To be a kshatriya is tapas; it is not a game—it is to carry life and death in your hands, to be ready to lay down your neck. They mastered the body. They had inner procedures and rituals. On the basis of those austerities Mahavira fashioned his path. It is very arduous, requiring people of that mettle. Such people are gone. Today kshatriyas have disappeared; in Japan the samurai are gone. Samurai could have mastered Mahavira’s path.

Death—like nothing at all! You will be amazed reading samurai tales.

A samurai—this is a 300-year-old story—was the emperor’s guard. Samurai were trained for years in how to sit, stand, speak, when to speak, how to speak, in how few, balanced words. It was said: if two samurai crossed swords, neither could win; their alertness was such that even if swords broke, the samurai would remain untouched. If someone died or was cut, it only meant he was still raw. A tiny lapse was enough. A samurai’s honor and pride were supreme—and note, not mere ego; a deeper pride. Ego is for those who have no capacity for pride.

The emperor asked this samurai something, in such a way that the samurai smiled. But a samurai must not smile before his lord. The lord cast a glance, as if to say: A samurai—and he smiles!

The samurai touched the lord’s feet, went home, and killed himself with a knife. Even suicide had an art—the harakiri. Samurai had discovered a point two inches below the navel—the death-point, hara. Science has not located it yet, but striking it, one dies without pain, with full consciousness. For a samurai, to lose awareness—even in death—was shameful.

This samurai had three hundred disciples; he was a great master. When they saw the guru had erred and committed harakiri, the three hundred also killed themselves. They had made no mistake; but when the guru was gone, with what face would they remain! What would they say—whose disciples they were!

The emperor panicked hearing this. Courtiers said: You do not know the samurai; you should not have looked thus. Your glance carried censure; for them, a hint is enough. They are not horses to be whipped; the shadow of a whip suffices—no sound needed.

Here, my sannyasins have formed a small class of “samurai.” They practice karate and aikido. Among them is the great-grandson of the German emperor—Vimal Kirti. Though he is now a sannyasin, he remains the emperor’s descendant. In his blood and bones is that pride.

He stands guard outside my room; he must always be there—it is part of his discipline. One day I stepped out; he was ten or fifteen paces away. Without thinking, I asked: Kirti, all well? He instantly bowed his head.

I moved on. Later Vivek came and said: What have you done! Vimal Kirti says he will commit harakiri!

I said: Tell that madman there is no harakiri here! He says: I was ten feet away from where I should have been—great dishonor!

I had not raised any fault; I just asked casually if all was well. But he took it as a signal: What is this—ten feet away from your post!

I hardly ever come out, so no one ever knows. That day I had to go out for my teeth; Devageet is my dentist, he was waiting outside. Vimal Kirti didn’t know I would be coming out; he was strolling—how long can one stand! He was ten steps away; there was no fault. And I had not even indicated a fault. But the samurai’s notion: this is wrong—I must die!

I said: Fools! The point here is not to learn dying but to learn living! With difficulty we persuaded him: the samurai-hood here means: learn the art of living!

But that was the samurai’s world—the kshatriya’s world.

Mahavira was the great kshatriya. His process is wholly different; in it there is no place for “Preksha.” The word “Preksha” does not occur in the Jain scriptures at all. Yet Tulsi-ji wants to show that he has discovered some unprecedented method!

He cannot say Vipassana—because that is Buddhist, and Jain scriptures have no term for it. Hence “Preksha,” which means the same thing.

After learning from me, they made this poor Chand Kumari do a journey of ten thousand miles! They have sent other disciples too!

Other friends have asked questions on this same issue.

They don’t have the courage, they don’t have the strength; they are impotent. They get nervous at the idea of coming to this ashram to have their doubts resolved. They’re afraid the doubts might actually be resolved—then what will they do! And resolved they certainly will be. I say, let Tulsi come. And after what he’s been up to, I don’t even feel like calling him Tulsi anymore—now it’s Acharya Bhondumal! So let Bhondumal and Thothumal both come.

Here a hundred processes of mind-revolution are going on. They won’t even know the names of a hundred of them; their forefathers wouldn’t either. Let them come—we’ll take them through all the processes. We’ll make men of them! But first they’ll have to become a rooster—because that’s the nature of these processes. If you go through Primal Therapy, you’ll have to be a rooster!

They don’t have the guts to come here. And what propaganda can you make against me when you don’t even understand me? They’ve even sent poor women here—that’s cowardice to the limit. You should have come yourselves; why push the women forward?

In Burma the custom, as everywhere, is that the man walks ahead and the woman follows behind. But during the Second World War, suddenly the British were astonished: it looked as if a revolution had happened in Burma—women had started walking in front and men behind! A British commander asked a Burmese man, “What’s the matter? Has there been a revolution? All over the world men walk ahead, women behind. If a woman walks in front, a man feels ashamed. That was the custom here too till yesterday. What happened? You’ve given women equal rights—more than equal!”

The Burmese laughed. He said, “Please don’t ask—better not to bring it up. It isn’t about equal rights. It’s because of the war.” The Englishman said, “I don’t understand.” He replied, “If you don’t understand, I’ll have to explain. No one knows where mines are laid, where bombs are hidden. So we started sending the women ahead—if someone has to die, let them die! Mines and bombs are everywhere; who knows what will happen where. So we let the women go first. This isn’t any revolution.”

Now these Bhondumal and Thothumal should come themselves. What’s the need to send these poor women! And what do these women know—how will they oppose me? First they should come to this ashram. But all their notions will be ruined! Because if you want to understand me, you’ll have to understand tantra too. If you want to oppose me, an understanding of samadhi alone won’t be enough; an understanding of sex will also be necessary. For my whole life-angle is: from sex to superconsciousness.

These poor women—what will they understand! The blockheads should come themselves. But when they saw that mines are laid, they put the women in front! And their fear is exactly this: if they come here, they’ll have to pass through all my processes. Only by going through them can they understand what I’m saying. But for that they’ll have to drop many disturbances. They’ll have to drop many habits. And habits are very hard to drop; they don’t drop at all. Habits put down roots; beliefs sit on your chest and won’t get off.

Some thieves were passing through a village. They saw an acrobat spring up and climb a rope, performing feats. The thieves thought, “We should nab this acrobat. He’ll get up a two-storied house easily—what a leap! He’ll make our work simple. We sweat so much just climbing.” They took the acrobat to steal at midnight. Reaching a mansion, they said, “Jump up to the first floor.” The acrobat said, “That won’t do. First set up my whole arrangement.”

One thief, angry, said, “Just jump quickly! We don’t have much time.” The acrobat screamed, “But first beat the drum! Without the drum how can I jump? I’ve never jumped without the drum. First the drum! Then watch—don’t talk of the first floor, I’ll leap to the third. But the drum!” Now if the thieves beat a drum at midnight, the game’s over!

Habits—deep habits!

And these repressed people—how will they ever be purified! Filled with trash—sheer muck! There’s so much rubbish inside them. How many Jain monks have asked me, “How to get free of sexual desire?” I said, “You became Jain monks to get rid of it. Has it still not gone? It doesn’t go—it grows; it becomes more intense.”

All the sexual perversions that have arisen in the world have arisen because of monks and nuns. Men have been penned in one enclosure; women in another. Christians, Jains, Buddhists—all have done it. These pens are the cause of mischief. When men live together, perversions naturally arise; homosexual behavior begins among them. This isn’t my assertion—psychologists’ studies and research say so. When women stay together, homosexual behavior begins among them too. It’s bound to happen. Who knows what kinds of perversions will arise! Their eyes will forever be veiled with lust.

A mouth-cloth-wearing Terapanthi Jain monk said to a Rajneeshee sannyasin, “What kind of man’s words have you fallen for! He will drown you.” The Rajneeshee replied, “We enjoy drowning. We don’t want to reach the other shore. Once we drown, we’re across! Life has no destination; life is play, not a shore!”

The Terapanthi monk fell silent for a moment. The Rajneeshee then said, “Maharaj, this Marwari baniya mind of yours is very rotten. But you think we are characterless. Rotten are you; healthy people look characterless to you. You are blind; the seeing seem blind to you! Let me ask you one thing—answer this: tell me, what is that which women have two of and cows have four?” The Terapanthi was very disturbed. He scratched his head for a while and said, “See, you Rajneeshees start such dirty talk early in the morning!” The Rajneeshee said, “Legs, son—legs!”

But these repressed people—their skulls are stuffed with garbage. They can’t see anything else.

You asked, Chaitanya Kirti: “that they will organize scripturally-correct Preksha meditation camps.” Very good—let them. Let meditation spread—by any means, by any excuse. Call it Preksha; call it Vipassana, call it nirvikalpa, call it nirbija—whatever pleases you. I have no concern whose name it runs under. Let meditation spread—good. But these poor monks and nuns—do they have meditation? Has meditation happened to them? If not, how will they give it to others? Impossible. Only a meditator can kindle the spark of meditation in another. Only when one’s own lamp is lit can we light another’s extinguished lamp. There is no other way.

A very good job! The corrupt should indeed be set right. But to set right someone who has been “corrupted” by me is very difficult—impossible. Such a one will corrupt anyone. His corruption is no ordinary event. And I don’t just corrupt; I also teach the art of corruption! Come on, it will be fun; you too go and try to “corrupt” these sadhvis! Let them reform you, and you spoil them!

My very work is to spoil! Don’t miss this chance. Now the poor things have come traveling ten thousand miles, have borne so many hardships; at least give them some benefit! So go.

Brother, first there has to be a soul! That’s why we pray for someone’s soul only after they die. The bamboo and the flute are gone; the whole bother is over—now go ahead and pray for the soul’s peace! Do you ever pray for someone’s soul-peace while he’s alive? You’d feel awkward yourself: first there must be a soul! Once he’s dead and no longer seen, you assume—there must be a soul!

The soul is refined and revealed through meditation. Meditation is the art of polishing and uncovering the soul. Ordinarily a person is born like an unhewn stone. Meditation is the chisel and the hammer; if this stone falls into the hands of a true master, a statue is carved—the soul is revealed. Otherwise the rough stone remains a rough stone. Tie a cloth over their mouths—no difference. Filter the water before drinking—no difference. Don’t eat at night—no difference.

And there are all kinds of strange beliefs, and people live by them. The Terapanthis have very peculiar notions. They are followers of Mahavira, believers in Mahavira’s non-violence—and their non-violence is truly astonishing! The meaning they give to non-violence is worth examining.

The Terapanthis believe that if someone falls into a well on the road, you should not rescue him. Why? First, because he fell due to the karma of past lives; if you save him, you interrupt the process of his karma. He was undergoing the fruit of his actions; you got in the way! The poor fellow will have to fall into a well again to finish that karma. You didn’t help him at all—you are his enemy. In fact, you ought to give him another dunk: “Go on, son, take the plunge; don’t come out. Finish your karma now! Get free of the round of birth and death!”

And the second danger is that if you pull him out and tomorrow he murders someone—then! The responsibility will fall on you too! You’ll rot in future births as well! Had you not saved him, he wouldn’t have committed the murder!

Do you see what outrageous logic! And these are people who claim Mahavira’s non-violence! Don’t give alms to a beggar either, because who knows what he’ll do after eating! He might go to a prostitute—then! That would mean the monk went too—sank along with him! If you hadn’t given him food, he wouldn’t have gone to the prostitute!

And as for beggars—don’t even ask where they go! Often to prostitutes; they’ll go to bars, to the cinema! Beggars live life in high spirits! It’s not their father’s money that’s being spent! Tomorrow they’ll shake someone else down. They settle today today, and let tomorrow take care of itself. They live so carefree!

Don’t give anything to a beggar. If someone falls into a well, don’t save him. If someone is dying of thirst in the desert, don’t give him water. Who knows which birth’s karma he is exhausting. And if he survives by drinking the water, who knows what deeds he’ll do next! Then you become a partner in those too!

These monks! This religion! This love! Their talk of non-violence! These meditators! These benefactors! Just consider their outlook—and their blindness!

Let them improve themselves; that much is enough. Why have they come here to trouble others for no reason! And as for the soul, Subhash—these people don’t have one, so for now you can do nothing for their peace. Whoever has a soul is already peaceful. To have a soul and to be at peace are the same thing. To be restless and for the soul to be asleep are the same thing.

Some people enjoy being beaten. There are people who, unless they get a thrashing, feel as if they don’t even exist—as if no one is paying them any attention. Some set out in the morning and say to the bulls, “Come on, bull—gore me!” Until the bull gores them, they don’t feel their own existence. They go looking to get beaten with their own hands! What can you do!

I hadn’t even been thinking of these poor fellows. From so far away they’ve labored. Just yesterday I was looking at the newspaper: in the Gujarati papers there’s a list of more than a dozen sadhus, saints, and mahants—fifteen or so, maybe more; I didn’t count, it’s a long list—from different parts of Gujarat. All of them have petitioned the government not to let me enter Gujarat, and they’ve appealed to the public to obstruct my entry. They’ve even announced that they will not allow me to enter Gujarat.

As I was reading the list, a thought came to me: this is a fine opportunity—if one wanted to calculate how many donkeys there are in Gujarat, one shouldn’t miss this chance. All the donkeys of Gujarat will bray on their own! The hidden ones will bray too! Of these fifteen, I had never even heard a single name. But wherever they were hiding, they suddenly began to bray!

What fun! I haven’t even gone yet, and the donkeys are already in a flutter! Then another thought arose: first let’s tally Gujarat’s donkeys, and then we’ll change the plan. We’ll say, “Let’s go to Cuttack.” Then we’ll count the donkeys there. Then we’ll say, “Now to the Himalayas.” Then we’ll count the donkeys there. This way we can tally how many donkeys there are in all of India—there’s no other method for it. But this is a very good trick we’ve stumbled upon!

Yesterday, reading the paper, I said, “This is delightful work. First count the donkeys here; then we’ll go to the next state, and count the donkeys there.” In this way we’ll have a list—the first list in the whole world—of how many donkeys there are in a country!

And India is a land of merit; here even donkeys long to be born! The cream of donkeys—accomplished donkeys, siddha donkeys! Now if they don’t ask for a beating, what else will they do! If they bray, they’ll be thrashed! Had they kept quiet and gone about their way, nobody was even speaking about them.

Among them there is one gentleman, Mahant Haridas. I knew only his name, because just two days ago a friend of Chitranjan’s in Baroda, Chandrakant, wrote to me that these days Chitranjan is trailing around after a Mahant Haridas. And he also goes about saying that the work Bhagwan is doing outside tradition, the same work Haridasji is doing within tradition.

I can’t say how far Chandrakant’s words are correct, because between Chandrakant and Chitranjan there is deep friendship—which is to say, deep enmity! They are old friends, so there’s great rivalry. How much is true, I don’t know. But if this is the same donkey, then I say to Chitranjan: there’s no need to roam about in “company”—ride him! What “company”! Does one keep company with donkeys? One rides them. And if a donkey is circling within tradition, take him outside! It’s only a donkey—drive him along. Now that you’ve found such companionship, at least put the donkey to work and take him out!

Chitranjan, don’t miss the chance.

There are people who go around looking to be thrashed; nothing can be done. They come down with an itch.

Veena Bharati! The wine has begun to flow into your throat. Hence—“Yes, yes, yes—today I long to live again, today I am resolved to die again!” These two statements always come together, because life and death are two sides of the same coin. When the desire to live arises, the resolve to die arises as well. Only the one who knows how to live knows how to die. In whose living there is bliss, in their dying there is dance.
Something auspicious is happening. Now do not look back.

The goblets began to circulate, the hearts began to stir—
the goblets began to circulate… began to circulate… began to circulate… began to circulate…
the hearts began to flutter… began to flutter… began to flutter…

The gathering swayed, the assembly rippled.
The goblets began to circulate, the hearts began to stir,
the goblets began to circulate, the hearts began to stir.

After ages, that one came into the soiree—
as if spring had entered the garden.
Life is a garden—indeed, a garden;
yet the spring and the autumn of this garden
are nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.
If they do not come, know it is the days of autumn;
ah, but if they do come, know that spring has arrived.

Color, fragrance, breeze, moon, stars, ray, flower, dew, twilight-glow, rivulet, moonlight—
in the portrait of their enchanting youth,
every element of nature’s beauty came into play.

The goblets began to circulate, the hearts began to stir.
The gathering swayed, the assembly rippled.

Now don’t look back. Keep drinking. Keep living. Dance, sing, hum. Be intoxicated yourself, and fill others with intoxication. Make the gathering sway, make it ripple. Fill this whole earth with ecstasy. Spring can come—callers are needed. I want my sannyasins to give that call, to make that invitation. We must turn this entire earth into a wine-house. We will not be content with anything less.
That’s all for today.