Jo Bole To Hari Katha #2

Sahajanand, this verse is delightful. The Manusmriti is, for the most part, full of rubbish—but if you search, even in ashes you sometimes find a live ember; even in trash, sometimes your hand closes on a diamond.

Ninety-nine percent of the Manusmriti has long since become useless. It would be good if India were relieved of its weight upon her chest. In it lie the roots of many of India’s diseases—varna hierarchy; abuses against the untouchables; the humiliation of women whose natural culmination is rape; the praise of Brahmin superiority—which expands pedantry but never flowers into buddhahood.

And yet sometimes a rare sutra does appear. This is one of those few. If you understand this sutra properly, you will also grasp why I say that ninety-nine percent of the Manusmriti is trash—this sutra itself makes that clear.

This sutra certainly cannot be Manu’s; it must be older than Manu. For whatever Manu says elsewhere is the exact opposite. Manu’s pronouncements kill dharma; people like Manu have murdered dharma.

This sutra must have come from someone who had attained buddhahood. But in olden times everything was compiled into a single book—the way we make encyclopedias today, like the Encyclopaedia Britannica—gathering all that has been discovered, the understanding of the day. So the ancient shastras were compilations; hence they were called samhitas.

We call the Veda a samhita. Samhita means a compilation. The Veda is not the utterance of a single person. It contains the utterances of many seers—along with the utterances of many blind men too! So when you read the Veda you need great alertness, because the blind are always more numerous than those with eyes. Diamonds are rare; pebbles and stones litter every lane and alley; you don’t have to open quarries to find them.

“Manusmriti” means what Manu could remember then, what was in the air, what glowed faintly in the surrounding light—things that might be centuries old. Manu is not the author, only the rememberer, the compiler. He strung together in memory what lay scattered.

So this sutra cannot be Manu’s; and if it is Manu’s, then the rest of the Manusmriti cannot be his. I say this on the basis of my inner witness. Scholars may oppose me: the sutra is in the Manusmriti. But my way of seeing and understanding is different; not the scholar’s way.

The inner witness says: this statement is so contrary to the rest that either this one is right, or everything else is. Remove this one, and any essence that Manusmriti might have is gone.

The sutra must be understood. Who said it is secondary; what is said is incomparable. Perhaps it slipped out of Manu by mistake! Sometimes even the deranged speak to the point; sometimes a madman stumbles on a far horizon—“a blind man sensed the far distance in the dark,” as the saying goes. Even a blind man, groping, sometimes finds the door—an exception, not the rule.

It could be that Manu himself spoke it, but in a state completely unlike the ordinary Manu—some window must have opened, some ecstasy seized him, some moment of meditation descended. Still, it is not in keeping with Manu’s nature.

Manu does not belong among the buddhas; he is the framer of Indian codes. He gave India moral order—and moral order is usually a limb of politics. Even “niti” in “rajaniti” is telling: in a person, niti is morality; in the state, it is politics. The two harmonize, but both are on the surface.

Dharma is inner—when the lamp is lit within. Then the revolution that follows in life does not happen by any rule or according to scripture. No one can foretell its final flowering. One thing is certain: such a revolution never repeats itself. No one like Buddha is ever born again from it; nor a Mahavira, nor a Krishna, nor a Kabir, nor a Mohammed. Out of it, always an original genius is born—never repetition. This much can be said.

Morality always repeats. It is like making carbon copies: follow someone; take someone’s word. Wrap scriptures around yourself as you wrap a garment—you will become moral, but not religious.

Morality is like a blind man discoursing on light. What’s to stop him from talking? He can collect all the information about light, yet he has never seen it. And however vast his information—piled like the Himalayas—without vision it is worth two pennies. One who has seen the light may know nothing of its physics, chemistry, or mathematics—but what of it? He has seen flowers, colors, rainbows, the butterflies’ wings, the green of the earth, people’s faces, the moon and stars, sunrise and sunset, the endless play and lila of light—what need has he of the science of light?

But some fools go on “understanding” love; they never love! They go on “understanding” light; they never open their eyes! They ruminate on borrowed, stale words; they never kindle their own ray of life, never call to their sleeping life-breath.

Whoever spoke this sutra had eyes. Manu gives no evidence of sight. A man with eyes cannot divide human beings into Brahmin and Shudra. For one with eyes, all divisions fall: no black or white, no Brahmin or Shudra, no woman and no man.

There is a story. Some wealthy, drunken youths took a beautiful courtesan with a good stock of wine into a forest on a full-moon night to make merry. They drank themselves senseless and, in their stupor, stripped her naked. Seeing their intoxication, the prostitute was terrified: they had taken her clothes—thank God it was only that; they could flay her skin. Seizing the moment, she fled—naked; she had no clothes. “Life is saved—worth millions,” she thought. “Somehow I’ll reach home; it’s night—who will know!”

Near dawn, in the cool breeze the youths sobered a little. They had been hugging her garments all night; and now they realized the courtesan was gone. One had her sari, one her blouse, someone something else—but no one had the woman! They set out to find her.

The path they had come by was the only way. They remembered seeing a monk under a tree—perhaps he was still there; if so, he might know, for she must have fled this way.

That “monk” was no ordinary monk; he was Gautam Buddha himself. He sat, swaying in his ecstasy. The morning airs had begun to rise; the fragrance of flowers was spreading; birds were singing. The whole forest was waiting for the sun—welcoming it, festooned for it.

They shook him. Buddha opened his eyes. “You must have seen a naked woman run by,” they said. “So beautiful, young—her features like a celestial nymph, an Urvashi or Menaka. Her body golden, her hair like a serpent, her eyes like fishes. All that poets praise—she has it. And she ran naked—you must have seen her.”

Buddha said, “If only you had told me beforehand. When you passed, I heard the bustle, the noise. Had you asked, I would have kept watch. Someone certainly passed by, but whether it was a woman or a man—it’s impossible for me to say. Not that I did not see. But since lust fell away in me, the interval—‘woman’ and ‘man’—no longer arises within. Forgive me. Had you asked, I would have looked attentively. And do not ask me if she was beautiful or not. Since craving has gone, ‘beautiful’ and ‘ugly’—what are they? It is the hunger within that creates those measures—woman and man, beauty and ugliness. Someone certainly went by. Don’t ask which direction either; I sit drowned in myself. How many directions can I keep track of—who goes where? I go toward the inner direction. All other directions are outer. I have left them. In my ear there was a hum that someone had passed—surely—but I cannot tell you precisely who.”

This is the state of buddhahood where even the distinction of woman and man falls away. But for Manu, such distinctions never fell. “Woman is the gateway to hell”—that is a man’s conceit!

When people like Manu speak of women, they talk of bones, flesh, marrow, pus, blood—as if their own bodies were filled with gold and silver!

It is astonishing that these “great souls,” when describing women’s bodies, use obscene, crude, vulgar words and forget that they themselves were born of women! Their body too is made of the same flesh and marrow—of a woman’s flesh and marrow. The father’s “contribution” is next to nothing—what an injection can do! In the future, injections will do it—already done in the animal world.

Your life-energy comes from the mother. Your body has everything the woman’s body has. Yet while abusing a woman’s body, calling it a heap of filth, these “mahatmas” forget that their own body is made of the same—of the same “filth.” Then is filth describing filth? What special heaven sits in the male body that the female body is the gate of hell?

The contempt Manu shows for women was echoed down the line—even by Tulsidas. Shudras were considered worse than animals. Kill a cow—great sin. But the killing of a Shudra—no sin! As if more vile than a cow is the Shudra. It was following people like Manu that Rama had molten lead poured into a Shudra’s ear—because he had heard the Veda! Animals and birds keep hearing; no one objects. Let dogs and cats listen; let rats and mosquitoes listen; who objects? How many rats must have heard the Veda! Heard it—and digested it! Whenever the Veda has fallen into rats’ hands, they’ve digested it. How many rats’ ears did Rama fill with molten lead? And when rishis chanted the Veda, do you think mosquitoes fled? They hummed right there.

Mahavira instructed his monks where to sit for meditation: not in uneven places, not on stony ground, not where mosquitoes abound—he mentions them! Certainly mosquitoes harried Mahavira. A naked man in India—and Indian mosquitoes! Why would they miss such an opportunity? Such sweet flesh, such savory fare—a tirthankara for dinner? Then why bother with ordinary mortals! No doubt they tormented him. Hence the instruction: don’t sit to meditate where there are mosquitoes; they won’t let you.

Buddha mentions it too. It seems mosquitoes have always been enemies of meditators. As for demons obstructing meditation—that sounds like fancy. Mosquitoes—that’s real.

I was a guest in Sarnath. I have seen many mosquitoes, but none like Sarnath’s. Why not—Sarnath is where Buddha first spoke; it has its own stature. In Jabalpur too they are large, but Sarnath’s—ah! I stayed with Bhikshu Jagdish Kashyap. Don’t ask how we passed the night! He was used to it. I asked: how do you survive among so many mosquitoes? “Don’t ask,” he said. “Even the blessed Buddha came only once—stayed one night in Sarnath. He never returned. He went many times elsewhere—Vaishali, they say, forty times—but Sarnath, just once.”

I said, “Now I understand why only once! I too won’t come again.” They invited me often; I said, “Forgive me. Meet me elsewhere—but not Sarnath!” By day, you sit inside a mosquito net; step out, they are ready! Poor Buddha carried no mosquito net—and perhaps none existed then. Even if it had, for a monk to carry one—what a scandal! A monk like me fears no scandal; I could carry not one but several—open a shop! No harm.

But Rama poured melted lead into a Shudra’s ear—under Manu’s inspiration. The oppression still happening to Shudras in this country bears Manu Maharaj’s hand.

Even now the Manusmriti is a cornerstone of the Hindu mind. We have not yet escaped it.

And yet this sutra is so lovely. Had it stood alone, the Manusmriti would be marvelous. It lies buried. How you found it, Sahajanand—that’s a wonder! Manusmriti has many sutras, many verses. Only by reading the whole might this one come to hand. When I was leafing through it, this one sat in my eyes like a lit lamp. I never forgot it. Understand its meaning. It goes directly against Manu, against the Brahmins, against the pundits and priests—for who kills dharma?

The sutra says: “Dharma eva hato hanti—slain dharma slays.”

Certainly. The evidence is all around. Hinduism has killed the Hindus. Islam has killed the Muslims. Jainism has killed the Jains. Buddhism has killed the Buddhists. Christianity has killed the Christians. This earth is filled with the dead—separate cremation grounds: Hindu, Muslim, Jain…the names differ; all are graveyards.

Who kills dharma? You think irreligious people kill it? Wrong. What standing does irreligion have to kill dharma?

Have you ever seen darkness come and blow out a lamp? What power has darkness to extinguish it! Darkness cannot blow out a lamp, nor can it counterfeit light. Never forget this.

In this world, dharma is not endangered by adharma, but by false dharma. Genuine coins are not endangered by pebbles and stones, but by counterfeit coins. Counterfeits resemble the real and drive the real out of circulation.

Economics has a well-known principle: only counterfeit coinage has the power to drive genuine currency out of circulation. If you have two hundred-rupee notes in your pocket—one fake, one genuine—which will you spend first? The fake. The genuine will pass anytime; you will get rid of the fake—buy a newspaper whether you read it or not, something for two rupees or six annas; pass the fake hundred. And whoever receives it, once he senses it’s counterfeit, will also rush to unload it—keeping it is risky. So when counterfeits flood the market, real notes get locked in safes, and fakes begin to circulate.

So in the realm of dharma: priests and pundits—counterfeit coins—drive Buddhas out of circulation. The popes drove out Jesus; Jain monks drove out Mahavira; Krishna’s so-called worshippers and priests drove out Krishna himself.

Counterfeits are cheap; the real demands a price. And counterfeit costs no effort; the real requires great labor.

Who keeps dharma alive? If we know that, we will know who kills it.

Those who have experienced religion keep it alive; they breathe revival into its dead soul—Buddha, Jesus, Krishna, Mohammed, Jalaluddin, Nanak, Kabir. Then the long-silent flute sings; the dead stump turns green and blossoms.

A legend from Buddha’s life—let me call it a story; it’s symbolic truth, not historical fact—says: when Buddha passed by a dead stump, it turned green; barren trees bore fruit; flowers bloomed out of season.

They say in one village, Buddha was staying. At dawn, a Shudra cobbler, Suddasa, went behind his hut—time to work. He had a small pond there; as an untouchable he drew his own water. His eyes froze—an out-of-season lotus had bloomed. He called to his wife: “Look! This has never happened—not in my lifetime. Is this any season? There wasn’t even a bud last night; this morning such a large flower! I’ve never seen such a bloom. How?”

She said: “Buddha must have passed by. I’ve heard that where he passes, flowers bloom out of season.”

Suddasa laughed: “Foolish woman! How would Buddha pass in front of a cobbler’s hut?” He asked around—news came that indeed Buddha had arrived the previous evening, had come by that path, and was resting in a mango grove.

“What shall I do with this flower then?” Suddasa thought. “An auspicious chance—sell it to the emperor. I’ll get a hundred, a hundred-fifty rupees—out-of-season lotus!” He set off towards the palace. To his astonishment the emperor’s golden chariot itself was approaching, gleaming like a second sun. He froze. “What is this? Buddha passes the hut at night; now the emperor comes by this same road? This lane is for cobblers—why would the emperor come?” He lacked the courage to speak. But the chariot stopped. “Call Suddasa,” the emperor told his charioteer.

Suddasa made the emperor’s shoes; the emperor knew his name. Trembling, Suddasa said, “I was bringing this flower to you. It’s out-of-season; whom else could I present it to?”

The emperor said, “Ask—what do you want? I’ll give whatever you ask in return.”

“What you give is fine,” Suddasa said.

“No—ask,” said the emperor, “for I will offer this flower to Buddha. He’ll be pleased—an out-of-season lotus, so beautiful and large!”

In Suddasa’s poor heart a rich desire rose: why shouldn’t I offer it myself? Bread will be had anyway. But greed too arose: the emperor says, “Ask anything!”

Before he could speak, the minister’s chariot pulled up behind and the minister said, “Suddasa, don’t sell; I’m a buyer too. I’ll offer it to Buddha. The emperor goes out of formality; he has no intimate concern. I am a lover of Buddha. Your Majesty, please don’t enter a competition. How can I win if we compete? But for you it’s a formality; for me, my heart’s matter. Suddasa, ask—whatever you ask, I’ll give.”

Suddasa thought, “If that’s how it is, why ask a thousand gold coins? Let me ask two thousand!” But his tongue balked. To ask for two coins was much—two thousand!

Just then the city’s great merchant’s carriage arrived. “Suddasa,” he said, “don’t sell yet. I’m a buyer too. Ask for what you like—even a hundred thousand coins. I will offer it.”

Suddasa stood still. “I will not sell,” he said.

“Why?” all three asked.

“Because if someone will pay a hundred thousand for it,” he said, “I am poor, but a deep feeling has arisen: then why shouldn’t I myself place it at Buddha’s feet? Offering it must be worth more than a hundred thousand—else you wouldn’t pay a penny. The emperor is ready, the minister is ready, you are ready. I feel that if I went to the village more would be ready. I could get whatever price I asked. But now—no sale.”

“I’ll give two hundred thousand,” said the merchant—“whatever you say.”

“Now there is no sale,” said Suddasa. “I’m poor, but not that poor. I mend shoes—I somehow manage. I won’t miss this chance. I will offer the flower myself.”

He went and placed it at Buddha’s feet. That morning Buddha said in his discourse: “Suddasa has earned today what emperors cannot in ages. Ask the emperor; ask the minister; ask the city-merchant. Today a Shudra has proved himself supreme—kicked wealth aside; his renunciate face shone forth. Blessed he is.”

Such a shower of nectar fell on Suddasa that he never returned. “What going remains,” he said. “If I gained so much by offering a flower, now I will offer myself.” Suddasa took ordination—not only the flower; himself.

So the legends say flowers bloom out of season near a Buddha. Historically it cannot be; nature follows her laws. But as symbol it is precious: in the presence of Buddhas, dharma long dead regains life.

Only one who has known truth can revive dharma. Only by his touch does it come alive.

And those who kill dharma are those who have no experience of it but are skilled at parroting others’ borrowed words.

What is the pundit’s and the priest’s profession? To go on repeating the words of buddhas, and to enjoy the credit of buddhas. Let Buddhas be crucified, be poisoned, be stoned—and let flowers rain on pundits, priests, popes!

When a pope travels, millions gather—so many that recently in Brazil seven people were crushed to death in the crowd—whereas when Jesus was crucified, not even seven loving supporters were gathered. Seven now die in the crush to see an ordinary man in whom there is nothing—before being pope no one came to see him. A year earlier, how many—even ants—looked at him? Who knew his name? Millions gather now. And how many gathered to see Jesus?

When the hour came to crucify him, even his twelve disciples fled. Only one followed at a distance. Jesus pointed but did not name him—it was dangerous. “Brother, go back,” he called out loudly, “go back!”

Those who were leading Jesus asked, “Whom are you addressing? Is there a companion of Jesus in this crowd?” They swept their torches around and seized a stranger. “Are you Jesus’ companion?” they asked. “No,” he said. And Jesus said, “See, I told you—go back. Before the cock crows you will have denied me at least three times.”

And that is what happened. Before the cock crowed he was caught three times. They kept searching the crowd and he kept disowning: “I’m a stranger from another village; I don’t even know the road. You are going toward the village with torches; I just followed along.” They asked, “Do you know who this man is whom we are binding?” “No,” he said. “I’ve never seen him. How would I know? He must be a thief or scoundrel.”

So when Jesus was crucified, a lakh gathered—but to jeer, to throw stones and rotten fruit, to mock: “Behold the son of God hanging on a cross! Call to your father now—save yourself. You showed great miracles—raised the dead, made the lame walk, gave sight to the blind. Do something now!” They prodded him with spears: “Come on—show a miracle! Why so silent now?”

This is our treatment of people like Jesus. And toward Jesus’ priests—our behavior reverses. A strange world! Here the false are worshiped, the true are killed. Truth is crucified; falsehood enthroned.

Who kills dharma?

Dharma eva hato hanti. If dharma is dead, how will it protect you? You will be crushed under its corpse.

Who kills it? Not atheists; what power have they? False theists kill it. The earth is full of them. False religionists kill it; they have great sway—temples, mosques, churches, gurudwaras are theirs. In politics their power reigns; position, prestige, honor are theirs.

Did you ever see nails driven into a Jain monk’s ears? Nails were driven into Mahavira’s ears! But when a Jain monk arrives, you lay your eyes at his feet: “Welcome, sir! Blessed that you came!” And toward Mahavira you behaved the opposite—set rabid dogs upon him to tear him apart.

You tried to kill Buddha—rolled boulders down a hill to crush him, released a mad elephant, administered poison.

You gave poison to Meera—and now you sing her bhajans: “Hey, I am mad in love; none understands my pain.” You gave her the pain—what would you know! Meera knows it; she knows the mania of love.

How did you treat Meera! Today you praise her, but in Vrindavan’s great Krishna temple she was not allowed to enter. The head priest—one of that same deranged tribe who don’t look at women, who fear even to see them lest their life-breaths flee, whose “dharma” collapses at the sight of a woman—had vowed never to look at a woman. How would he let Meera in? As soon as news came that Meera was arriving, he panicked. He posted guards: don’t let her enter; women are barred here.

But Meera was drunk on the divine. She began to dance at the temple door, and even the guards swayed in her ecstasy. Dancing, she slipped inside. Only then did the doorkeepers realize—now we’re in trouble!

The brahmachari was inside with an aarti plate. It fell from his hands. A woman before him! What sorts of people there have been—and still are.

Even in England now, a certain swami refuses to look at women. A great stir arose. He went to meet the Archbishop of Canterbury; only then was the message relayed: no women should be present. But the archbishop’s secretary was a woman, the typist a woman, many women were journalists and photographers. All had to be removed. English newspapers discussed this as an insult to women. He cannot look at women!

Such must have been that priest—deranged. His plate fell and he burst into rage. In such people, fire smolders; they sit on a volcano. One small occasion—and they erupt.

He shouted: “Woman! Have you no manners? It is written on the door that women are forbidden—how did you enter? My plate fell; my thirty years of practice has been destroyed!” Their practice is destroyed by seeing a woman! Their plate falls! Krishna must have smacked his forehead: this is my devotee—and my practice did not falter with sixteen thousand gopis dancing around! These are my ‘devotees’!

Krishna is living dharma—sixteen thousand women dance and nothing is derailed. This is dharma of the dead—a single woman appears—even one like Meera, at the sight of whom even this blind man’s eyes could have opened, life could have entered this corpse—and the plate fell.

Meera’s words are sweet: “Forgive me. I thought Krishna’s devotees hold that there is no man but Krishna. Are there two men now—Krishna and you? I thought Krishna’s devotees believed we are all women; only the Supreme is man; we are his lovers, his sakhi, his gopis. Today I see I was wrong—there are two men: Krishna and you, O brahmachari. But then why are you lifting a plate and praying? You are God himself! You are the man! And being God, your hands tremble, your plate falls at the sight of a woman!”

The deepest enmity in this world is between buddhas and pundits. The irony is: while the buddha is alive, the pundit opposes him; as soon as he departs, the pundit swarms to exploit his imprint—like ants gathering on sugar. A buddha’s life leaves such sweetness that ants come from all sides.

In a buddha’s presence they must oppose him: each word of the awakened is a life-piercing arrow to them. But as soon as he departs, they seize the field. The thousands influenced by his aura—they exploit that vast prestige. Thus are “religions” manufactured—the so-called ones.

Christianity after Christ has little to do with Christ; Buddhism after Buddha, little to do with Buddha; Jainism after Mahavira, little to do with Mahavira. Their anxieties are bizarre—the greatest being: may no buddha arise again! Otherwise their ring will be uprooted. Fortunately, buddhas keep coming; somewhere a lamp lights, and the chests of extinguished lamps tremble.

“Dharma eva hato hanti—slain dharma slays.”

Sahajanand, the point is razor-true. Pundits and priests kill dharma. Then, dead dharma kills you who follow its corpse. If you shoulder a corpse, won’t it crush you?

“Dharmo rakṣati rakṣitaḥ—protected dharma protects.” But who will protect dharma? Only one who has experienced it—who has lived it, drunk it, digested it; for whom dharma has become every pore; whose every heartbeat is steeped in it. He protects dharma—and if dharma is protected, it naturally protects you.

“Tasmād dharmo na hantavyo—therefore do not kill dharma.”

Therefore, beware of priests and pundits; do not kill dharma. Temples and mosques are dharma’s tombs—avoid them. Sit in a true Master’s tavern, where living wine is still poured, drunk, and offered; where lovers gather; where moths come to the flame. What is there now in temples and mosques? Pictures of lamps. Will pictures attract moths?

Hang a picture of a lamp in your house and wait for moths to come! Moths are not as foolish as man. Even they won’t be fooled. However beautiful the picture—golden, gleaming—you won’t deceive the moths.

In Solomon’s life there is mention: the Queen of Ethiopia came to test him; she had heard he was the wisest man on earth. In one hand she brought artificial flowers crafted by great artists, in the other, real flowers—so beautifully made were the fakes that they put the real to shame. Standing at a distance she said, “Solomon, I’ve heard you are the wisest. Tell me, in which hand are the real flowers?” Solomon too was puzzled: in the light, both looked the same. I would have decided quickly: those that look “more real than real” must be fake.

But Solomon didn’t decide quickly. “It’s a bit dark; I’m old,” he said. “Open all doors and windows so I can see.” They opened them all. He waited in silence and then said, “In your left hand are the real flowers.” Everyone was astonished. “How did you know?” “I didn’t,” he said. “I only waited for a bee to enter. You cannot deceive a bee, however great the artist. Wherever she sits—those are real.”

You cannot deceive moths. You cannot deceive me either; I know—what looks “more real than real” is counterfeit.

A man once went to the tycoon Chandu Lal for a donation. He never gave alms; beggars avoided his door. If one asked there, people would say, “You must be new—this is Chandu Lal’s house. Hurry—move along. He’ll snatch even what’s in your hand.” But the village needed something urgently; they thought, “Let’s try once. Years have passed; people change. Old age softens hearts.” They went. To their surprise he seated them warmly: “Of course I’ll donate!” They could hardly believe their ears—old age changes men!

“But one condition,” he said. “Look into my eyes and tell me which one is real and which glass. If you answer correctly, I’ll give whatever you ask.” They stared intently. At last: “Your left eye is glass.” “You’ve killed me!” cried Chandu Lal. “How did you know?” “Because in your left eye there was a faint hint of compassion. The right must be real; there was none.”

You can’t fool moths. But those who gather in temples, churches, gurudwaras are not moths; else they couldn’t be fooled. Moths gather in taverns; tavern is where a living Master is.

And against a living Master there is always a crowd, because the crowd runs with priests. The crowd clings to cheap, false religion and won’t admit it is false; admitting it means dropping it—and then seeking the true. Seeking the true is arduous; it demands sadhana and meditation.

Cheap religion comes with a Satyanarayan katha; you don’t even have to do it—someone else does it for five or ten rupees. George Bernard Shaw wrote that a wretched day will come when rich men will send servants to kiss their wives: “Go, my husband sends you; he has no time. Such small tasks can be done by servants; why should I come?” But that is what you do with religion.

You tell a priest, “Come ring our bell daily, offer two flowers.” Thirty rupees a month and he rings bells at twenty-five houses. He doesn’t care whether God hears; only the payer should hear. He bangs his head quickly, mutters something, runs—so many temples, one God?

Borrowed prayer! Then you can borrow love as well. Prayer is love. You won’t speak to God face-to-face; you keep a broker in between. You never sit in His presence. If flowers are to be offered, offer them yourself. If a lamp is to be lit, light it yourself. If there is to be dance and song, dance and sing yourself.

But you hire hacks to do your worship. That worship is false. The priest cares for money; you are arranging an insurance for the next world: “We spent thirty rupees a month; now give some return.” Neither you prayed nor the priest; you were investing.

This is how dharma has been killed.

And what amusements people invent! I read in a paper: a “sadhu baba” lodged with a householder; in the morning he bathed, meditated; refused breakfast; went out; returned at dusk; refused dinner. “At least give us satsang—say a few words,” the host said. “A true sadhu,” the baba replied, “does not grant audiences; he does not gather crowds; he does not show miracles.” And he left that night.

The writer concluded: by this definition, no modern “mahatma” is real. Someone should tell him—then Krishna was not real; he granted audience to Arjuna—without which the Gita wouldn’t exist. Buddha wasn’t real—he gathered a sangha. Mahavira wasn’t real; Jesus, Mohammed—none were real: they granted audience, gathered people, performed miracles, all.

So who is real by his measure? Not Krishna, Lao Tzu, Zarathustra, Mahavira, Buddha, Mohammed, Christ, Nanak, Kabir—only that nameless fellow who stayed at his home! How perfectly he caught hold of a definition! Now he can avoid any Krishna or Buddha: “Ah! He gathers crowds.” He can sidestep Jesus: “He does miracles.” He can evade Nanak and Kabir with his definition.

Pundits hand you these “definitions” and you clutch them—and then live by them.

The Digambara Jain thinks: no one attains God without nudity; hence Buddha, Krishna, Christ, Mohammed are not God-realized. He has a definition. The Christian believes: unless someone gives sight to the blind, ears to the deaf, raises the dead, he is not God’s true son—then neither Mahavira nor Krishna nor Kabir qualifies. Everyone sits with their definitions—handed down by people worth two pennies—and they appeal to your level of understanding. The shallower the notion, the faster it catches on—and the louder the noise you make.

“Slain dharma slays”—and pundits kill dharma. “Protected dharma protects”—and buddhas protect it. To be with a buddha is to find your own protection. In a buddha is refuge.

“Therefore, do not kill dharma.” Cut your ties with pundits. To be with them is to be complicit in killing dharma—lest the dharma we have slain slay us.

Today the earth needs the revival of dharma—else man is already dead; his energy, joy, celebration, dance are lost. The flute lies idle; dust coats the mirror. No song rises; no image of truth forms.

How long will you wait? Wipe the dust; clean the flute—let songs descend again; let truth be mirrored; let the cuckoo call within; let the papiha cry in your heart.

This is possible only by being with a living Master. Bring your unlit lamp near a lit one; then it can be lit. Sit with those whose lamps are out—and you can sit for lifetimes; your lamp will not light. It’s cheaper that way—nothing to risk, nothing to pay. Priests are like you; you can compromise with them. With buddhas, you must pass through fire.

My sannyasins are passing through fire; they will have to. Only thus will they become gold.

For every small thing there is an uproar, obstacles. I wished to settle in Kutch—so that people would not be “disturbed” by me. Even that desert disturbs them! What a clamor! As if my going there will drown Kutch, loot it—as if Kutch is rich beyond measure without me, and my arrival will ruin it! Their very life is at stake.

Jain monks are gathering. Munishri Bhadragupta—what bhadralata, I don’t know; what Jain dharma, I don’t know—has called all Jains to be ready to sacrifice anything, but not to let this person enter Kutch.

What will I spoil in Kutch?

Yesterday there was news: all Kutchis in Bombay will meet. The invitation explicitly says: only those wishing to oppose should come. So those not wishing to oppose are not even allowed to attend—so that there will be no question of support. Only opponents invited, and then they’ll proclaim: “See—everyone opposed; not one supported!” It’s in the invitation.

Why are Bombay’s Kutchis in peril? I go to Kutch; you have left Kutch for Bombay. Who remains in Kutch now? I, a madman, choose Kutch, from where everyone has fled. I chose it so no one would be troubled—no one is there! The whole population is seven lakhs; hundreds of miles are empty.

A hundred and fifty years ago Kutch was flourishing; the Sindhu (Indus) flowed near it, then changed course—Sindhu too fled Kutch—abandoning it. When the river left, the desert came; livelihoods died; people departed. Nothing remained. Now a greater crisis than the river’s departure—the threat of my arrival!

I am often astonished: what a congregation of fools! What are they so restless about? What threat is there to Jain dharma that seven Jain sects unite to oppose me? Why are Bombay’s industrialists gathering—as if I threaten their factories? There are no factories in Kutch. Why their anxiety?

One bizarre fear after another: now they invent that my presence in Kutch will endanger national security! I will sit with my friends in that desert—and the nation will be at risk. The country cannot be saved!

These are pretexts. The inner fear is this: the “religion” you cling to—you will not be able to cling to it in my presence.

So many rumors are spread about this ashram. When they appear in print, people believe them. What is printed must be true—such faith in print! Then they don’t bother to come and see for themselves. They fear even to come: letters reach me—“We want to come, but we’ve heard whomever goes there is hypnotized!” So they fear hypnosis!

Another writes: other than my disciples, no one supports me; all others oppose me. That’s a telling point! And you think—in whose favor, besides his disciples, did anyone stand? For Krishna? For Buddha? For Christ? You apply this rule only to me.

The argument is amusing: whoever supports me is my disciple; a disciple will support anyway—so don’t listen to him. Whoever opposes me must be telling the truth—he’s not a disciple. Then what of fairness? If the supporter’s testimony is worthless because he supports, the opponent’s should be equally worthless because he opposes. Find a third who is neither for nor against—but such a one won’t speak; he is indifferent. To speak he must think—and then he will become for or against.

People invent strange logics—to hide the real matter. These are old ploys.

Buddhists were not allowed to remain in India. There was a time under Buddha’s shadow and Ashoka’s roar when all India became Buddhist. Where did they go? What happened? There were hundreds of thousands of Buddhist monks; they were boiled in cauldrons, killed, cut, driven out—settled in Tibet, Ceylon, Burma, Japan, China, Korea. All Asia became Buddhist—except India. Such compulsion was created that they had to leave. The same compulsion they wish to create for me—so I must leave India. I will not. Here I will pour the wine, drink it, and serve it. Here I will spread the madness. For India has the right soil; buddhas made it so. Mahaviras irrigated it. Krishnas sowed seed here. I will not leave it.

I will make full use of this soil. From here can arise the dharma that can save humanity. Indians will be unfortunate if they don’t benefit.

You see it already: people come from all over the world. Indians ask me: why not Indians? Unfortunate—two thousand years of slavery. The land is of buddhas, but it is in the hands of the foolish. Those with a little intelligence come; the foolish gather to prevent the sunrise. But this sun will rise; it already has. These ochre robes are the glow of dawn in the East. The sun is not far—the East is reddening.

This work will continue. These obstacles are natural. They are not raised in India for any other—neither for Sathya Sai Baba, nor for Baba Muktananda, nor for Swami Akhandananda. Only for me. Think why: whoever nourishes a dead religion, keeps the corpse intact—faces no opposition. I say: set the corpse on fire. Burn what is dead, so we can make space for the new. Hence, the opposition.

This verse is dear:
“Dharma eva hato hanti, dharmo rakṣati rakṣitaḥ.
Tasmād dharmo na hantavyo mā no dharmo hato vadhīt.”

Champalal, social worker! You’ve said something astonishing! Does the Marwari community even have a nose I could cut off? Why, that was cut long ago, brother! Which nose are you talking about?
This is precisely the specialty of the Marwari community: no matter how many try to cut their nose, they can’t. There has to be a nose to cut!
You simply cannot cut a Marwari’s nose. Someone else’s you might manage—go ahead and try. But no one can cut a Marwari’s. You’re saying something completely off the mark.

You say: “You’ve cut off the nose of our entire Marwari community! Do something good too; save my honor!”
Modesty and the Marwari? You’re giving me a tough assignment. Champalal, social worker! People ask difficult questions, but you’ve asked the toughest of all! All right, let’s try.

Once an American, a Russian, and a Marwari were invited to tea at a gentleman’s house. The Marwari was none other than your old acquaintance, Seth Chandulal. The American finished his tea and set his cup upside down in the saucer. The Russian finished and left his cup upright in the saucer. Seth Chandulal, who had been imitating their table manners, thought a moment and then laid his cup on its side in the saucer. Seeing this, the American asked, “Brother, why did you lay your cup on its side?” Chandulal said, “First you tell me why you put your cup upside down.” The American replied, “Because I didn’t want any more tea.” Then Chandulal asked the Russian, “Why did you leave your cup upright?” The Russian said, “Because I want more tea.” They asked, “But why did you lay yours on its side? Now answer!” Chandulal said, “If there’s more tea, I’ll get it; otherwise, never mind!”
Marwaris think that way! Don’t take them for simpletons. They’re very non-possessive.

Once, Chandulal’s servant came rushing in and said, “Mistress, mistress! Outside, Seth-ji is lying unconscious. In one hand are some papers, and in the other a big packet.” Chandulal’s wife chirped, “Ah, so my new saris have arrived!”
Poor Chandulal’s life almost left him! If lugging home so many saris doesn’t bring on a heart attack, what will! But look at the mistress! How she saved the Marwaris’ honor! Life—what of it? Coming and going goes on. This life is a play; nothing to worry about. Birth and death happen. But the saris have arrived—that’s the point that matters.

A pickpocket said to Seth Chandulal, “Friend, today I didn’t get a single paisa, and on top of it, I was badly insulted.”
Chandulal said, “Insulted? What are you saying, brother! I’ve been in this line for twenty years. Many times I’ve been beaten, scolded, abused—but till today, insulted? Never! Never once have I been insulted.”
Insult is insult only if you take it so. Who can insult the wise!

A very fat, coarse, and ugly woman complained to a policeman, “That fool and madman has been following me for hours.”
The policeman eyed her sideways and said, “No, you’re mistaken. That man is neither a fool nor mad. He is Seth Chandulal. His mind isn’t deranged. Nor is he a fool. He is a paramhansa—he makes no distinctions! What beautiful, what ugly! That’s why he is following you. Otherwise, who would follow you!”
The woman was so coarse, fat, and ugly that, if anyone were to follow, it would be she who should follow someone! But Paramhansa Chandulal is following her. One must grant the fruits of a paramhansa’s attitude: no preference, no discrimination; equal vision for all.

You say, try somehow to save face, so I said, all right, somehow we must try!

Chandulal explained to his newly wedded wife:
“And this is the picture of my wet nurse!
In childhood she fed me milk.
I would have died,
She kept me alive.
Ah, how pure, clean, transparent, and holy
her heart was, inside and out.”
The bride folded her hands in reverence.
In front was the picture of a milk bottle fitted with a nipple!
This is called devotion! The one who saved your life is mother. And then, a clean bottle—holy, transparent! And the one who saved his life, he remembers to this day; he has her picture up. He doesn’t forget a benefaction.

Seth Chandulal used to go daily for darshan of Santoshimaiya. He drew great benefit from Mother’s darshan. He would be overwhelmed, put his head in her lap and roll about, and loudly proclaim, “Victory to Mother Sita! Victory to Mother Sita!” Mother too was highly pleased with his devotion and even applied extra methods to awaken his kundalini. But Chandulal was a Marwari—his kundalini would only whisper and fall quiet! Awaken—awaken it would not! Have you ever heard of a Marwari kundalini awakening? A little rustle, and done—game over! Money digested!

One day Santoshimaiya said to Chandulal, “I prayed all night for you.” Chandulal said, “You took all that trouble for nothing. You could have phoned me; I would have come to you at once. I sit up nights as it is, waiting for when Mother will call so I can present myself! Why pray for me! All that was needed was a phone call!”

A Marwari’s aims are subtle—never direct. He doesn’t do anything straight. Even when he shoots an arrow, he lets it fly slant—and it sits on the mark.

There are many things to learn from a Marwari.

Champalal, social worker! Just as a Marwari doesn’t change—the whole world changes, but the Marwari doesn’t.

Chandulal had grown old. Eighty years of age. One day his wife said, “Now you don’t love me as before. Your heart has changed! Earlier, when you kissed me, you even bit me.”
Chandulal said, “Never! My heart will never change. A Marwari never changes. I can still bite. Just go fetch my teeth from the bathroom!”

Chandulal—one last story about him. If this saves the honor, let it be saved. If it doesn’t, brother, then I can’t save it either! What can I do! I’ll pull as far as I can.

One day Chandulal went into a liquor shop. He said to the owner, “If I bite my left eye with my teeth, I’ll drink for free!” The shopkeeper thought, How will he bite his eye with his teeth! He said, “All right. Here’s the liquor.” He set down a bottle.
Chandulal took out his eye—one eye was glass—and bit it with his teeth. The shopkeeper beat his head. Chandulal got the whole bottle. He said, “If you pour me one more bottle, I’ll bite the other eye with my teeth too!”
The shopkeeper thought, Both eyes can’t be fake. He walks around; he never bumps into chairs. Even after drinking he doesn’t bump. A Marwari never passes out. No matter how much he drinks, he keeps a hand on his pocket! He never pays a cent extra. How will he bite the other eye!
He said, “All right, fine. Not one bottle—two bottles. Here are two.”
Chandulal’s teeth were false. He took out his dentures and bit the other eye!
The shopkeeper beat his head. He said, “This is the limit! Who can beat a Marwari!”
Chandulal said, “Got more courage?”
The shopkeeper said, “Brother, what now—what else will you do?”
Chandulal said, “Do you see that glass on the table in the corner, at least thirty feet away?”
“Yes, I see it.”
“From right here I can fill it with a pee-stream!”
Now the shopkeeper said, “Son, that you won’t be able to do. I’ll wager a thousand rupees.”
“Put it down. Here’s my thousand.”
The shopkeeper thought, Now I’ll recover everything. What! Even if his forefathers all came together, sending ‘life-water’ into a glass thirty feet away—very difficult.
And Chandulal began to pee. Thirty feet? It made three feet with difficulty! It splashed here on the table, there on the floor. The poor shopkeeper leapt up, grabbed a towel and began wiping, cleaning—and even started laughing.
Chandulal said, “Hey, don’t laugh! No one ever beats a Marwari!”
“What now! You made a mess of it. It doesn’t even go three feet, and you were aiming thirty!”
“Ah,” he said, “look outside at that man standing there. I’ve got a bet with him for five thousand rupees: that if I pee and you neither pick up that towel to wipe, nor only wipe, but laugh too. See—he’s standing there crying. You’re fussing over a thousand; this is a five-thousand-rupee bet!”

No one ever beats a Marwari lad. Champalal, don’t worry. There is no nose at all; it can’t be cut! The nose and such—they sold those off long ago. They got rid of the bother entirely.

And don’t you worry. Why save the Marwari’s honor! He is capable of saving his honor himself. Whose cleverness, whose art, whose skill compares to his!

In Europe there’s a saying: the Englishman’s pocket is picked by the French. The Frenchman’s pocket is whisked by the Italian. The Italian’s pocket is flicked by the German. The German’s pocket the Greek won’t spare. And the Greek’s pocket only the devil can pick. They don’t know about Marwaris. Marwaris pick the devil’s pocket!

Whether you know it or not, at the gate of hell the devil first asks, “Brother, you’re not a Marwari, are you! If you’re a Marwari, go to heaven. There’s no place here. Absolutely no place.” Because taking a Marwari inside isn’t without danger. You’ll start a commotion. Once we did take a Marwari in—well, that was that. Since the day we got rid of him, there’s been no room in hell either.

A whale was attacking a ship—again and again it attacked. Finally, in panic, people started throwing cargo into the whale’s mouth. For a while it chewed and then came back again. Trunks went overboard, chairs went, sacks of oranges went. At last when nothing was left, they picked up a fat Marwari and threw him in! But that didn’t solve it either. In a little while the whale came again! Slowly, one by one, the rest of the passengers also went inside. When the ship’s captain arrived, he was stunned. The Marwari was sitting on a chair; a table was set before him. Oranges were arranged on the table and he was selling them for four annas apiece! And the other passengers were buying!

Don’t worry, Champalal, social worker! Are you intending to serve the Marwaris? Then guard your pocket. And if you yourself are a Marwari, then I have no worries at all. Because in the name of social service you’ll only pick pockets—you can’t do anything else.

That’s all for today.