Jo Bole To Hari Katha #3

Purnanand, that depends on you. It is indeed a blessing, but the ground for its fulfillment—you have to prepare.

Those who have known have wished all may know. Those who have found have prayed to the Divine: let it be given to all. Naturally, one who has drunk bliss is both amazed and pained seeing you drowning in misery—amazed, because there is truly no cause for suffering, and yet you suffer!

Your suffering rests on your false foundations. You are the creator of your suffering. No one else is making it; you labor at it from morning to night. The funeral pyre you burn on—you gathered the wood. You lit the fire. You cry, “How do I escape this burning?” and yet you won’t step aside! If someone tries to move you, he looks like an enemy. If someone tries to pull you away, you’re ready to fight. “It is my pyre! My culture! My religion! My conditioning—how can I abandon them! My scriptures—how can I let go!” You clutch your own death to your chest. And by “your death” I mean: anything dead—so long as you hug it, you will rot and be tormented.

The realized will pray; they will give blessings. Rain does fall—but if the pot is kept upside down, what can the rain do? The clouds came, ready to fill it—but the pot lay inverted. And the pot refuses to be turned upright! It has even grown attachments and vested interests in remaining upside down. It has made inversion its way of life, its very philosophy. It believes “only by doing a headstand is God attained.” Then let the clouds shower and the lightning flash—the pot remains empty.

Then there are pots that are not upside down, but cracked. They have linked their ego’s gain to being cracked; they take pride in their holes, wearing them like ornaments. Then let the clouds rain and the pot even be upright—if it is riddled with holes, how will it fill? It will keep filling and emptying at once.

A young man once went to a Sufi fakir and said, “I have visited many philosophers, attended many sages’ gatherings, but my problems don’t get solved. Someone sent me to you saying, ‘If they will be solved at all, it will be there; otherwise understand they never will—this is the last person who could do it.’”

The fakir said, “I’ll solve your problems later. I was on my way to the well to draw water. Come along; who knows, while drawing water the matter may be settled—your problems too, and my water as well!”

The youth thought, “This man is mad! What has his water to do with my problems? He hasn’t even heard them!” But he went along.

On the way the fakir said, “One condition: when I draw water, do not speak. Not a word. If you can hold that much restraint, I promise your problems will be solved. Consider it done. But show this much patience: when I draw water, don’t speak—no matter how strong the urge, like an itch!”

The youth thought, “What itch, what water!” But he said, “Fine, I won’t speak; draw your water.”

But not speaking became hard. When the fakir lowered his bucket into the well, the youth was stunned: the bucket was full of holes, as if made of holes! “When will this bucket ever fill! Not in an eternity. He’s surely insane. And he tells me not to speak!” Still he restrained himself to see what would happen.

The fakir lowered the bucket; it rattled loudly. Under water, even a holed bucket fills; he peeked and saw it full. But as the bucket rose above the water, it began to drain; by the time it reached the top, it was empty. He lowered it again. The third time the youth burst out, “Stop, sir! Enough! There’s a limit. This bucket will not fill even in countless lifetimes!”

The fakir said, “You broke the condition. Now go your way. You’re unfit to be a disciple.”

The youth retorted, “If this is the qualification for discipleship, you’ll never have a disciple in your life! How long could anyone keep quiet—this bucket won’t fill even in thirty thousand tries!”

The fakir said, “If you had such wisdom, you wouldn’t need to come to me. Go.”

The youth left but pondered, “He did touch a point: if I had so much sense… Perhaps he looks mad, but they say sometimes the supreme ones look mad. I should have stayed quiet longer, watched—he would tire first. I only had to stand; he had to pull and empty and pull again. He’s old, I’m young; why the rush?”

He couldn’t sleep all night. In the morning he returned, fell at the fakir’s feet: “Forgive me. My mistake. I lacked restraint.”

The fakir said, “I have only this to say: if the bucket is cracked, draw from the well for lifetimes and it won’t fill. You saw that. Now attend to your own bucket. Your problems are nothing but the cracks in your bucket.”

The nectar is showering every moment; the Divine is present every instant; light floats all around—and you stand in darkness! Your eyes must be closed. And you cry, “It’s so dark!” You won’t open your eyes—because you have vested interests in being blind. There is some convenience in blindness; and fear in opening your eyes.

Mulla Nasruddin was traveling by train. The ticket checker came. Mulla opened his suitcase, his bedding; turned everything upside down; the entire compartment was strewn. The checker grew anxious: “I have a whole train to check—what’s this? Why the fuss?” Mulla even started feeling the checker’s pocket. The checker cried, “Stop! You’re crazy. How could your ticket be in my pocket! And you’ll check everyone’s luggage next! Forget the ticket; go where you’re going. But tell me: why aren’t you checking the top pocket in your own coat?”

Mulla said, “Don’t mention that pocket. As long as I live, I will never check that pocket.”

“Why?”

“That pocket is my last hope—perhaps the ticket is there. If I check it and it isn’t, what then? At least let me search everyone else and everywhere else; I’ll save that pocket. My hope is safe there!”

You laugh, but that’s your condition too. There are pockets you never check—your hope is stored there. You are afraid.

When I was a student, a teacher I loved was very devout. I would visit him and raise doubts while he worshipped an idol. “You, an intelligent man, ringing a bell before a stone image! Aren’t you ashamed? And after all these years, what have you gained?”

He was honest. He said, “I have gained nothing; you are right. But I’ve worshipped all my life. Don’t reignite my doubts now. I am getting old; death could come any time. You frighten me; you shake my faith and leave; I am left gnawed by doubt.”

Later, whenever I went home I would see him. One day he sent word through his son: “My health is very bad; please don’t come. I fear I might die with an atheistic feeling if you come.”

I told his son, “I will come once. Tell him to prepare—fortify his faith as much as he wants. This will be my last visit.”

I went and said, “Even if I don’t come, is this any faith—so frightened, so cowardly? You will die an unbeliever, draped in belief.”

He said, “Let me die holding my beliefs.”

I said, “If they are false, what then? At least die knowing you are holding to no falsehood. Perhaps I did not find truth, but let it be that I did not cling to lies. And one who does not grasp falsehood becomes worthy of truth. At least at death, bring honesty. To me, honesty means fidelity to truth—not to false consolations.”

Purnanand, your question matters.
You ask: “Will this benediction of the realized ever come true?”
The realized can only bless. They have nothing else to give. Flowers fall from them; they are filled with prayer for you. They long for fragrance to arise in your life, songs to awaken, dance to happen; a thousand buds to bloom; streams of nectar to flow. But only if you allow. You erect hindrances in every way. Without you, no one can make you happy by force.

The prayer is lovely: “May all be happy.” But your self-interest is tied to suffering. How will you be happy? You may be startled by this; I repeat so you hear it well: your self-interest is bound up with suffering. Your life is rooted in it. You don’t really want happiness—though you say you do. Even the way you seek happiness brings you only misery. For the first condition of happiness is: do not desire happiness. Whoever fulfills this can be happy.

Do not desire happiness. Whoever desired happiness has become miserable. Everyone desires happiness—then why is everyone miserable? Because the seeds of misery are hidden in the desire for happiness.

Who desires happiness? First, the one who is unhappy. He desires happiness, but never asks why he is unhappy. He sows neem and longs for mangoes. The seeds you sow are neem; how will mangoes grow?

The first delusion: all the awakened have said, craving is unfillable. This is the cornerstone of religion: craving is unfillable. As long as you ask, as long as you are filled with desire, you will remain miserable. Desire will drop you daily into pits of failure.

Lao Tzu said: Let someone try to make me unhappy! No one can, because I do not demand happiness. Let someone try to defeat me! No one can, because I do not demand victory. How will you defeat me if I am content even in defeat? If I delight in losing, how will you conquer me?

As a child, I watched wrestling at a local akhara. One wrestler I never forgot—an unknown man. On Nag Panchami there were bouts. This man fought a wrestler at least twice his weight; his defeat was certain. Yet he fought with such joy! He lost—flat on his back, the stronger man sitting on his chest. The crowd applauded the victor. But the man lying below burst into laughter. The laughter silenced the crowd. The victor was stunned: never had he seen the defeated laugh. “Why are you laughing?”

The man said, “Because wrestling to me is only a play. No winning, no losing—just fun. You on top or I—what difference does it make!”

How will you defeat such a person? In play, someone will be above, someone below. Both can’t be on top. His words I never forgot. Years later, reading Lao Tzu, I instantly remembered him. Perhaps he never heard Lao Tzu’s name; yet he knew the essence. He could laugh in defeat because victory and defeat were both a game.

He didn’t fight to win. He danced first around the ring, like a child—slim, light, carefree. He fought splendidly, without fear of defeat. Like a father play-wrestling his child—he’ll lie down and let the child sit on his chest, the child crowing, “I won!”

He lost and laughed; danced even in defeat. He nullified the victor’s victory. People garlanded him instead; the winner stood aside bewildered, forgotten. The laughing loser gave the garlands to the winner: “Don’t be so glum. You’ve won—come, dance!” But how could the winner dance! He was sorrowful even in victory, regretting having fought such a man. No one would wrestle that man afterward; all avoided him. I told him, “Then I will!” I was very small. He laughed, “You I have already lost to.”

Craving is unfillable; it leads to sorrow. “Let me get this, conquer that”—in that very urge you sow defeat and suffering.

So the rishis prayed: “May all be happy.” Their blessing is beautiful—but how will you be happy? You are deeply aligned with suffering. First, you desire happiness—so you cannot be happy. Second, you are married to sorrow; your seven vows are with it.

Psychologists say we train every child to remain unhappy for life—and it is true. When a child is sick, the mother and father sit by him; someone rubs his head, someone his feet, he receives sympathy. When he laughs and dances, runs and breaks things, he is scolded. The whole house becomes his enemy when he is exuberant; when he is near-dead, all become friends. Deep down he learns: sorrow brings sympathy; joy does not.

If your house burns, the neighborhood will sympathize. If you build a new house, the neighborhood will burn with envy.

No one wants to see you happy. Your happiness makes others unhappy. And making so many unhappy is dangerous. When you’re unhappy, people praise and sympathize; you get a taste for sympathy—it is pleasant. Thus your self-interest gets tied to being unhappy.

If thousands oppose me, it is because an oasis of joy is being created here—a gathering of the blissful. This arouses envy. If I donned a loincloth and sat under a bush in the sun, there would be much sympathy. If I surrounded myself with haggard, hungry people, sympathy would overflow. A Nobel Prize would be assured!

But for now I receive only abuse—and I don’t want the Nobel. Abuses are fine. I have understood one secret: if you are to be blissful, you must drop caring for others’ opinion. Stones and insults will come—so be it. Bliss is so precious that it is worth every jealousy hurled at you.

The crowd you live among does not want you happy; it wants you miserable. Will you dare to be happy against the crowd? Are you willing to bear abuse, to forgo sympathy? If you are ready, happiness can descend. But deep down you are tied to sorrow.

Women look so unhappy. They could be more cheerful than men, more blossoming—yet they are sad. Why? Because they receive their husbands’ sympathy only when they are ill; when cheerful, they get none. We are so impoverished we mistake sympathy for love. Sympathy is counterfeit coin—an imitation of love.

Your life’s roots are sunk in suffering. The sages’ blessings have rained; they wished your happiness. But you want your sages to be unhappy too. You worship ascetics. What is an ascetic? One whose stupidity is so dense that even if no one else makes him suffer, he will make himself suffer! If heat sizzles, he lights a brazier to roast himself—though this tropical land needs no extra fire! When you see him amid flames, you feel thrilled: “Ah, a great saint!” Your reverence gratifies his ego; for that gratification he will renounce all joy, embrace every pain.

You honor the fasting and starving. If someone fasts ten days, you seat him on an elephant with a band. But the one who joyfully ate and drank for ten days—you never parade him! A truly sane world will celebrate the man who lived merrily, ate heartily, slept deeply.

You call the happy one “hedonist,” and the unhappy one “renunciate.” You honor pain, dishonor joy. Your values are upside down.

So however much the sages bless, what will come of it? Your lifestyle is pain-dependent. When will you honor joy?

This Upanishadic formula belongs to a time before we had tied our interests to misery, before brazier-lit austerities, nail-studded belts, beds of thorns, and starvation were venerated; before joy was labeled irreligious. Then they could pray: “Sarve bhavantu sukhinah”—may all be happy. Otherwise the prayer would have been, “O Lord, make all ascetics—unhappy, all sleeping on thorns; if thorns don’t suffice, iron spikes!”

Among Christians there are ascetics who wear belts with inward spikes that pierce their waist; wounds fester and bleed. Great honor is given. Some flagellate themselves each morning; the more lashes, the holier. Shoes with inward nails to keep wounds bleeding—glorious! Non-Christians see madness in this. Christians see madness in naked Jain monks! Jains are filled with reverence for such austerities. These are merely sick minds—mentally deranged. And because I speak truth plainly, I will be abused—by Christians, Jains, Hindus. But the time has come to call truth truth. Too long you have lived in lies.

I too wish to see that rishi’s prayer fulfilled—but you don’t let it. You want some “ordeal,” thinking it is sadhana, yoga—twisting the body as if yoga were a circus. Yoga means union—love is its art, not headstands. No God is so impressed by your upside-downness! If He were coming to meet you, He’d turn back seeing such inverted heads! Even animals don’t do headstands. If God wanted headstands, He’d have made you that way. Did He make a mistake you must correct?

Existence has endowed you with the capacity for bliss. But your esteem is misplaced, diseased. How can joy happen?

You are miserly. Only one who delights in sharing can be happy. You delight in hoarding. We even call misers “simple, austere.” I once stayed with a notorious miser revered for “simple living.” If it’s only simplicity, why is your safe stuffed?

There’s a tale: Seth Dhannalal’s daughter reached twenty-eight; people taunted him for being too stingy to pay dowry. He sought a groom; a rich Marwari liked her. The groom’s father asked, “Your daughter isn’t spendthrift, is she? What proof do you have? Our family has never had one; we won’t let our ancestral wealth be squandered. See my turban—passed down generations.” Dhannalal said, “We’re true Marwaris.” He called, “Daughter, bring supari for the guests.” She came with a nice aluminum tray and a big betel-nut. First she offered her father; he put it in his mouth, rolled it around, then carefully wiped it and placed it back on the tray, offering it to his future samdhi: “Please, have some.” Stunned, they stared. Dhannalal said, “Don’t be shy; this is our traditional property. For four centuries our family has been chewing this very supari. My great-great-grandfather found it outside Emperor Akbar’s palace!”

Such “simplicity”! And you ask why there is no joy!

To be happy, the very bases of life must change. In miserliness there is no happiness. Joy grows by sharing; hoarding kills it. Let it spread—share. And sometimes those you label “bad” may not be.

One of my professors, Dr. Shri Krishna Saxena, was much maligned in the university for drinking. Yet I have rarely seen a more good-hearted man. When I stayed in his home, he wouldn’t drink. I said, “Don’t refrain because of me.” He said, “Your presence gives me a greater intoxication; I have no need. It isn’t even a habit. I never drink alone; unless there are four companions, I don’t touch it. Sometimes I don’t drink for months.”

His reputation: “drunkard”—and thus “irreligious.” But his religiousness no one saw. A truly religious person can drink without becoming a slave. Habits form around far lesser things; newspapers unnerve people if missed for a day! People even become addicted to worship; skip a day and they are restless. There are no “good” habits or “bad” habits; all habits are bad—habit means slavery. Remarkable is the one whom even alcohol cannot enslave—that one I call religious.

He was a contented man. The truly religious will be happy. My definition will startle you: he neither worshiped nor prayed, nor believed. I asked, “Have you never felt drawn to such things?” He said, “I am content, joyous. What else is there to do? What to worship? If my contentment isn’t worship, what is?”

He was utterly satisfied; I never heard him complain. So-called religious people are full of complaints. They find fault in everything. True religiousness carries the fragrance of contentment—no complaints, no grievances.

I never heard him slander anyone—though others slandered him, calling for his dismissal as a corrupting drunk. Those slanderers were ritualistic, “pious” men—early risers, pure vegetarians, endless ceremonies at home. One such eminent scholar would call me just to malign Dr. Saxena. I told him, “He has never said a word against you; I even tried to provoke him—he only smiled, praised you. Who is religious—you, or he?”

Life is not as simple as it seems. If merely going to the temple made one religious, the whole world would be religious and happy. It isn’t. The reasons are plain.

First: you honor suffering. Uproot that reverence. Begin honoring joy. What you honor, you will attract. Lift your eyes to flowers and your eyes will be filled with their colors. Lift them to stars and moons, and they will shine within. But you count only thorns.

If I say, “So-and-so plays the flute beautifully,” you will say, “Flute? He’s a drunkard, a gambler!” But if I say, “He is a gambler,” you will never say, “Impossible—he plays such a lovely flute!” And how does God count—thorns or flowers? In your reckoning, thorns; not in mine. He will ask, “How much flute did you play?” not “How much gambling did you do?” “How many songs arose?” not “How many abuses did you hurl?”

Look at life creatively. Begin honoring joy. But within you there is deep jealousy toward joy; you burn seeing a joyous person, you don’t rejoice.

With your wrong processes, you cannot be happy. However much the sages pray, their prayers go in vain. It’s been at least five thousand years since this prayer—perhaps more—and still no result. The pots are upside down.

You have sworn to suffer; you are determined to create hell.

Chandumal’s son Jumman suddenly stopped eating. All efforts failed; finally he was taken to a psychologist. After five hours of coaxing, he agreed to eat. The psychologist, pleased, asked, “What will you eat?” Jumman, irritated by the long harangue, said, “Worms!”

The psychologist hesitated, then thought, “At least he agreed to eat something; we’ll shift him later.” He had worms collected from the garden and placed before Jumman. He thought, “He won’t eat them; he will refuse.” Jumman said, “Roast them. I won’t eat them raw—why ruin my stomach?” The psychologist had them roasted. “Now eat,” he said. “I want only one. Throw the rest,” said Jumman. “Fine,” thought the psychologist; he discarded the rest and held out one. “First you eat half,” said Jumman. “In our house we don’t eat alone.” The psychologist’s heart sank, but being half-mad himself—as psychologists are—he ate half a worm, gagging, and offered the other half. Jumman began to weep: “You ate my half—now eat this too! I won’t eat your share.”

What will you do?

The rishis say, “May all be happy,” but what to do with you? You are set on eating worms—and even then you will find a way not to eat! Your life runs on wrong templates. Change your templates. Then these blessings can be fulfilled. They are not fantasy; they can become truth. But who will make them true?

Don’t think blessings alone will do it. If that were so, a Buddha would have liberated the whole earth.

Christians say Jesus was born to liberate the world; fine—but has the world been liberated? Hindus say God incarnates. Krishna says in the Gita: “I will come—again and again—whenever dharma declines.” Brother, when will you come? Much has declined—now come! But when he came, how much unrighteousness did he remove? The result was the Mahabharata—a great war that broke India’s spine; since then India never stood tall. We have yet to fill that crater in our soul.

These are our projections inserted into scriptures—our hope that God will come and save us. This too is a tactic to remain miserable: “What can we do? God doesn’t come!” Even if He came, what would He do? He tried then; the outcome was war.

Understand one thing and carve it on your breath: without your cooperation, even God can do nothing for you. All blessings go waste if you insist on keeping your eyes shut. The sun may knock at your door—you’ve poured molten lead into your ears.

Jumman once told his father Chandumal: “The cobbler at the corner keeps telling me you owe him two rupees for repairing your shoes five years ago.” Chandumal said, “Tell him, ‘Don’t panic; when his turn comes, he’ll be paid. Even the shopkeeper from whom I bought these ten years ago isn’t paid yet, and this man is making a fuss in just five years! Have patience!’”

No one sees their own fault. And we have turned prayers into tricks for ourselves: “God will incarnate; the Lord will come and save us.”

About sixteen–seventeen years ago, I first spoke in Bombay on Mahavir Jayanti. Before me, Shri Chimanlal Chhaku Bhai Shah said, “Lord Mahavira was born for the welfare of mankind.” I spoke after him and said simply: this notion about Mahavira is not true; it is our projection. Mahavira never said he was born for your welfare. And that is the distinction between the doctrines of avatar and tirthankara. Avatar means the Divine descends from above to guide those astray—like a doctor visiting the sick. Tirthankara is different: no one descends from above; there is no “above.” For Mahavira, when a person’s soul becomes utterly pure, that is godhood. No one comes; one rises from here. And each person can liberate only himself; no one can liberate another. One can wish welfare for all—but wishing does not make it so.

Even while Mahavira lived, not all were liberated—not even all close to him. His chief disciple, Gautama, was sent to a nearby village the very day Mahavira left his body. As he returned at dusk, he heard the news and wept, “Did he leave any message for me?” They said, “Yes.” The message is priceless: “Tell Gautama: you have crossed the river—why cling to the bank now? You left the world; now you have clutched me. Leave me too. If you hold to the bank, you are still in the river. Go beyond even the bank.” Become utterly free.

The belief that someone else can do your welfare is bondage. I said this simple thing; he was hurt and has worked against me since. People love the idea that someone else will clean their mess—while they keep making more.

If your life is molded on wrong patterns, someone may hammer you into shape, but before he’s gone you’ll be back to your old mold. No one can free you by force.

The rishis are right: “Sarve bhavantu sukhinah—may all be happy.” Such loving people they were, wishing your happiness. “Sarve santu niramayah—may all be healthy.” Health means more than disease-free. Its deeper meaning is to be established in oneself—svasthya: to be seated in one’s own nature. When the body is in its nature, it is at ease; out of nature, it suffers. When we attune with the vast, there is joy; when we break, there is sorrow. And inwardly, when you abide in your own being, you are truly healthy—niramaya. Bodies come and go—healthy or sick—but within is something immortal; to rest there is ultimate health. That is dharma.

Mahavira defined dharma: “Vatthu sahavo dhammo”—abiding in the nature of the thing is dharma. No Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain, or Buddhist—just settling into one’s own nature. Meditation is the process. Losing mindfulness is falling from health; returning to mindfulness is returning to health.

“Sarve bhadrani pashyantu—may all behold the auspicious.” Buddha said: when you pray, when you meditate, when bliss overflows—immediately share it. Say, “May this joy be given to all: animals, birds, plants, even stones.” Share it at once.

A man who heard Buddha daily said privately, “I accept all you say—only grant me one concession: I cannot give it to my neighbor. When I am blissful I say, ‘May all the world receive this—except my neighbor, that scoundrel.’” Buddha said, “Then you haven’t understood. It is easy to ‘give’ to rocks and mountains. But until you can give to your neighbor, your giving is false. With such a tainted mind, how could joy arise? You sit to meditate; meditation does not sit.”

Jesus spoke two sayings—strangely, separately: “Love your enemy as yourself,” and “Love your neighbor as yourself.” I often wonder why he said both—neighbor and enemy are not two. Who else becomes your enemy but the one near you?

This formula is precious, Purnanand. But for this blessing to be fulfilled, you must prepare yourself for it.

Seth Chandumal came to a doctor with a bleeding forehead, scraped nose, swollen eye, limping, holding a broken expensive pair of glasses. “Doctor, my costly glasses broke. I’ve heard of new chemical glues that mend glass. Do you have a tube?” The doctor, alarmed, laid him on the couch: “What happened? A fight?” “Forget the injuries,” said Sethji. “The body is a fragile clay pot—today or tomorrow it will break. Tell me if the glasses can be fixed. Very costly and new—I only started wearing them in ’55! Whom to blame? No fight—my own mistake, cursed luck. If new things keep getting ruined like this, I’ll soon go bankrupt.” The doctor barely suppressed a laugh: “What mistake?” Chandumal said, “This morning my wife and I were bathing together under the shower; we always do, to save water. After bath, she sat to urinate and instantly flushed. I thought, since the flush is running, let me also urinate into it—why waste more water later? In this haste I slipped from the commode—and you see the result. I’ve lost a cash three-and-a-half-rupee pair of glasses gifted by a dear friend!”

This tale offers three lessons:
- First, never be hasty; it causes financial loss.
- Second, sometimes washing your hands in a flowing Ganges is not wise.
- Third, when you go to wash in the Ganges, don’t carry valuables.

Purnanand, you will have to do something. Your style of living must change. It’s riddled with errors, built on wrong bases. As you are, the sages’ prayers cannot be fulfilled. They can be. I too pray this earth may be filled with bliss.

I give my sannyasins one teaching: be joyous, be exuberant. I do not teach renunciation; I say religion is supreme enjoyment, great bliss. Sannyas is not withdrawal from life; it is the art of savoring it.

The essence of my teaching is simple: learn to dance, learn to sing, learn to rejoice; learn to share, learn to live. Do not be escapists. In the name of religion so far, you have filled the earth with sorrow; you have suffered. Yet the chance you will listen to me seems small. Your beliefs are so rigid, you won’t budge. If someone like me shakes you, he appears an enemy—“He’s destroying our culture,” as if your culture were sorrow; “He’s destroying our religion,” as if your religion were suffering.

Do you not want to be happy? Decide once and for all. If you don’t, you are free—but then know you choose sorrow as your goal; knowingly go to hell, at least with awareness.

But your condition is strange. You walk toward hell while talking of heaven. You create suffering while yearning for joy—then beat your chest and weep. Seeing you, one laughs and one weeps. Tears come at the wretchedness of man; a smile comes at the absurdity—that you don’t even see it! You scatter banana peels and slip on them yourself; then cry.

Your life is a tale of sorrow—and no one is to blame but you. The day you take responsibility, this prayer can be fulfilled. It should be—for all humanity; why only humanity—for animals, plants, birds, and even stones. But why speak of stones—man himself has become stone.

The time has come: if you do not awaken, humanity will perish. The pot of sorrow is full. Either empty it, or it will burst. At most, man can drag on to the end of this century. All your wrong patterns have reached their extreme culmination; their final outcome is a third world war that will wipe life from the earth.

Either wake up, or prepare for this great death.

Therefore I think perhaps you need this great danger to wake up. I am full of hope. Never has such a great peril stood before man; therein lies a ray of hope—that it may shake you; that a new vision of religion may arise; that a new form of sannyas may be born; that we may fill the earth with dancing, singing people.

Enough of gloom and renunciation. Perhaps man is now maturing to learn the art of savoring life. Perhaps he must learn—for the alternative is either great death or great transformation.

Mahesh Kumar Ginodiya! What delusion are you in? Many days since you attained thought-free awareness! What kind of thought-free awareness is this, in which thoughts of suicide are arising! What kind of thought-free awareness is this, in which there is no joy! You’ve outdone all the Buddhas. You, a buddhu—a fool—are defeating the Buddhas! You are proving all the Buddhas to be buddhu! You are beyond all dispute! You’ve pulled off a wonder! No one has ever said such a thing! Are you in your senses or have you gone mad?

One who attains thought-free, choiceless awareness does not remain at all—so who is there to commit suicide! He has already died. He is finished. This “I, I” that is speaking in you does not survive. Look at your question again.

“It has been many days since I attained thought-free awareness. Now I find no joy in this thoughtlessness. I no longer feel like living.”

Who is this that remains! In thought-free, in choiceless awareness the “I” does not remain. And where the “I” is not, who will perish! What will you try to destroy!

And if the very idea that arises is to commit suicide, have you come to ask me the way to suicide! You’ll get me into trouble too! I am already in enough hassles! A way I will tell—because if you ask, I’ll tell.

But I don’t think you want to die. The one who really wants to die doesn’t go around asking for directions! So many cars are running—just lie down under any one! So many mountains are standing there—what for? Jump! The government builds so many bridges—why? All this arrangement is, after all, for you!

A man was committing suicide. He was just about to jump off a bridge when a policeman put his hand on his shoulder and said, Brother, what are you doing? It’s a cold night, it’s freezing, the water is like ice; if you jump, I’ll also have to jump to save you. Now you’re determined to die; but if I catch pneumonia, I’ll be needlessly finished. Brother, why not go home and hang yourself? If you need a rope, I’ll give it to you! Have mercy on me. Take this rope; go home and tie it around your neck. Hang yourself from your rafters. At least don’t kill me!

And you too are asking, “Please show me the way!”

What way is there to show! There are so many ways—on any one of them you can die. Why do people go on roads, after all! Every day people die on the roads—some from a truck collision, somewhere a bus falls. Aren’t you getting those buses that fall! These days which buses ever reach! Bus—meaning “enough”! No more coming and going—liberation from commuting! Just catch any government bus.

And so many Sardarji are driving trucks, absolutely high on toddy; and you have come to ask me! It’s a wonder you made it this far alive! How many opportunities you must have had on the way! So many women have started driving cars! Just step in front of any one of them! And if it’s too much trouble, teach your own wife to drive. She will settle the matter right there at home. As soon as she takes the car out of the garage, just stand in front! That will be enough.

There are countless ways to die! And a thought-free man hasn’t yet got even this much sense! A thought-free man even finds ways to live; you can’t manage even the ways to die!

Here too I teach dying—but of a different kind. And how am I to teach you that! You say you have already attained thoughtlessness; otherwise, here I teach nothing but dying. If not, then go meet these two women.

Now, meet Ranjan. She has died—and yet she is still singing!

And if one testimony doesn’t convince you, then meet Amrita. Amrita says: “Osho, your charms—good Lord!—we’re dead!” People are dying over the charms; they are dying at the sight of this lovely garden!

And I’ve seated both Ranjan and Amrita at the reception door, so whoever wishes to die and all that can talk with them right there! I have put them at the welcome gate. They’re both smart—what a clever way to die! And still they sing and sway in bliss.

If you must die, die like that. But you—this “thoughtlessness,” what kind have you contrived! You don’t drink toddy and the like, do you? What are you up to!

Mahesh Kumar Ginoḍiya—your very name is something! Ginoḍiya or “gonorrhea”? What names people invent, as if no good words were left!

Look, thought-free consciousness doesn’t happen like that. And you say you attained it years ago! Enough of this craziness. Learn meditation. Drop this delusion. Such stupidities lead nowhere. Because if thought-free consciousness is attained, nothing remains to be attained. Then there is only bliss—and has anyone ever tired of bliss?

One can tire of pleasure—the so-called pleasures—but never of bliss. That is the difference between pleasure and bliss; or what Buddha called sukha and mahasukha. Mahasukha is that from which one never tires; sukha is that from which one does.

Sukha means: this woman seems so lovely—so long as she is not yours. Once she is yours, you tire. Once you have each other, what then? In two or four days the newness is gone—yours and hers. The same bhindi sabzi—okra curry—day after day! Eat the same okra daily and you’ll start to panic!

One tires of pleasure, however much it is. How many times can you watch the same movie? The first time it’s enjoyable, pleasurable. The second time the fun is less, because nothing remains to be revealed; the story is known. If you had to watch it a third, a fourth time, you’d begin to go mad. If you were forced to watch the very same film every day, after seven viewings you’d lose your wits. You’d ask, “Is there any way to commit suicide? How long must I keep watching this same film?”

But one never tires of thought-free consciousness, because there nothing remains to see. There is no object, and because there is no object, there is no subject either—no seer and nothing seen, no knower and nothing known, no enjoyer and nothing to be enjoyed. Where could boredom arise?

Your boredom shows you have not known bliss. And your claim to thoughtlessness is utterly false. You may think you have attained thoughtlessness—but that very thinking is a thought. This is not thoughtlessness.

Stay here; learn thoughtlessness. Here are all the processes of meditation that can teach you to be thought-free. And when you taste bliss, you yourself will say, “How could anyone tire of this!”

Bliss is precisely that “pleasure” from which one cannot tire; the very name of such pleasure is bliss. In this world, what we call pleasures are joys today and sorrows tomorrow; what was sorrow yesterday becomes joy today. Joy and sorrow keep exchanging; they are two sides of the same coin.

Perhaps you chant a mantra. And if you chant with great force—as it seems you’re a stubborn type—you may turn into a hatha yogi. You set your jaw and start chanting “Ram Ram.” Hours of “Ram Ram,” and a kind of hush will come. Your head will start buzzing—and if nothing else, a hush will come. If you mistake that hush for thoughtlessness, you are in error.

Thought-freedom does not happen through mantra-chanting. Mantra brings a kind of torpor, a sleep. And you will surely tire of sleep. Today or tomorrow the mantra-chanter tires of one mantra and wants another—just as one tires of one wife, one husband, one house, one food. One mantra today, another tomorrow, a third the day after. From one guru to another, from one shop to the next, wandering the spiritual marketplace.

Here I teach no mantra. Here the one and only alchemy of becoming thought-free is taught—witnessing. Be a witness to thoughts. Just keep watching the thoughts. No “Ram Ram,” no “Hare Krishna.” None of that is likely to bring about what is essential.

Just keep watching the thought-process moving within you. Watching, a miracle happens: a distance arises between you and your thoughts. So much distance that you see clearly, “I am not the thoughts.” The day this is seen, thoughts fall—then and there, in that very moment. And where thoughts fall, the “I” falls, because the “I” is itself a thought. And where thoughts fall, there falls also the notion of pleasure and pain—these too are thoughts.

When one is thought-free, nothing remains—not even the thought, “I am thought-free.”

A Buddhist—supreme among Buddhists—Rinzai, was approached by a young man who said, “You said, ‘Attain thoughtlessness’; I have attained it. Now only thoughtlessness remains.” Rinzai said, “Now throw even that away. Then come.” The youth said, “But how can I throw this away?” Rinzai replied, “Then one thought still remains! You are not yet thought-free. Having thrown everything, throw this one too.”

Just what Mahavira said: having crossed the river, don’t cling to the bank. You have let go of all; why cling to me now? Let me go as well!

So be kind enough, Mahesh Kumar Ginoḍiya, to drop even the notion of thoughtlessness. That notion too is a thought. That is why those who knew—like Patanjali—spoke of two forms of samadhi: sabija and nirbija. Sabija samadhi means a seed still remains: “I have attained samadhi.” From that single seed, everything will sprout again; the whole tree will return—shoots, branches, flowers, fruits—and from those, thousands of seeds. One must become seedless. Hence the second, ultimate form is nirbija samadhi.

Nirbija samadhi means even the seed, “I have attained samadhi,” is gone. Both are finished: neither the world nor liberation. All is gone. What pleasure, what pain! In this very moment the rain of bliss descends—a cloudburst, a torrential downpour—endless, eternal, forever. No one has ever tired of that. You cannot tire of it. It is impossible to tire of it.

Good that you have come here. If even your idea that you have become thought-free breaks, that is enough. Otherwise you are already in a mess: you have created a false notion and now you are tormented by it; bored by the notion. The boredom has grown so dense that thoughts of suicide are arising. Mahavira never felt that, nor Buddha, nor Krishna, nor Christ. No knower ever felt an urge for suicide. If it is arising in you, there must be a misstep. Recognize your mistake.

You have come at the right time—and good that you came before committing suicide! There is still a chance; thoughtlessness can still be mastered. And here the entire arrangement is for thoughtlessness.

My sole emphasis is on meditation—not on conduct, not on character, not on moral precepts; only on meditation. My vision is: if meditation is mastered, everything is mastered. Tend to the one, and all is attained; try to manage all, and all is lost.

Enough for today.