Jo Bole To Hari Katha #5

Mukesh Bharti! The true form of religion is always as distant from politics as earth is from sky—perhaps even more distant. A bridge might still be built between earth and sky; between religion and politics, no bridge is possible.

Religion means self-conquest, knowing oneself. Politics means establishing ownership over others. How can these two ever harmonize? The one who enters politics is the person who inwardly feels, “I will never be my own master. How can I fill that lack? How can I fill that inner pit?” That pit gnaws at him.

The famous psychologist Adler took that very pit to be the root of all human neuroses—he called it the inferiority complex. Inside one feels, “I am nothing,” so at least let me put on a show outside! Let me prove to the world that I am great: look, my flag of fame flutters to the horizon! Look at the heaps of my wealth! The height of my position—have even the heights of Gaurishankar become small before me?

There is an inner lack, and one wants to compensate for it outwardly. At least before others it will be established that I am no small man—distinct, not ordinary; extraordinary, not common. Yet inner inferiority is not erased that way; it only becomes more pronounced.

However much wealth you pile up outside, the inner poverty won’t diminish by a grain. In fact, what earlier may not have been so stark becomes even more glaring.

Hence the race of politics has no end. Farther, farther! More, more! The farther you go, the more it seems: so much is still missing. The more you get, the emptier you feel. As heaps of position, prestige, honor, ego pile up outside, in the same proportion the inner crater stands out more clearly. Only beside the peaks do the ravines show so starkly.

This is the paradox of politics. And when I use the word “politics,” be aware: the race for money is also politics—not only the race for posts. Every race is politics. The race for “more” is politics. Politics has many faces—but wherever the demand for “more” is, there is politics.

Religion is contentment; politics is discontent. How can there be any accord between them? There cannot.

When a person turns to knowing himself, his politics begins to dissolve. Why would he be concerned to conquer anyone? Conquer yourself and you have conquered all. Know yourself and you have known all. Then he has no desire to be an Alexander, a Napoleon, a Stalin, a Mao. Such things become childish.

One who becomes himself becomes everything. One who becomes himself becomes divine—he recognizes godliness. Beyond that, what remains? What lies across that? Nothing. He has touched the ultimate peak. Therefore, there will be no politics in his life. And in the life of one who runs after politics, there will be no religion.

But what I am saying applies only to true religion. It does not apply to the so-called religions. Make the distinction clear—that is where you are missing.

You write: “Until now religion and politics were considered mutually opposed. But today it is clear they are two sides of the same coin.” False religion is certainly a limb of politics. False religion always colludes with politics. False religion is part of the same conspiracy called politics.

The politician grabs people in one way; the so-called religious also grab people in another way. And whoever has managed to seize others will inevitably be anxious—anxious that someone else may not snatch away his sheep! He will be jittery, fearful.

What other reason could the Swaminarayan mahant Hariswarupdasji have to oppose me? Lest some sheep of the Swaminarayan fold hear my words and be led astray! Lest a few sheep remember their own real nature and begin to roar like lions! Then the mahant’s prestige, his standing, will be hurt!

Earlier, the Jain monk Bhadragupt issued a statement, calling on all Jains to stop my entry into Kutch. “Whatever sacrifice is required, the Jain community must be ready to make it!” As if Jainism were endangered by my setting foot in Kutch!

Now the Swaminarayan sect feels threatened! Soon there will be more “threats.” People of every religion will feel threatened. They will all unite. Already the seven Jain sects have come together and resolved, “We will fight.” Soon you will see Hindus, Muslims, Christians—everyone—joining hands to declare, “We will fight.” Because their fear is one. They will forget their mutual enmities—because I belong to no religion; religion belongs to me. My sannyasins belong to no religion; yet religion belongs to them. And there are not many religions; politics has multiplied them. In truth, religion is one. How can there be many religions?

When there are not many sciences, how can there be many religions? Will Hindu physics be different from Muslim physics? Will Hindu chemistry be different from Jain chemistry? The very idea is absurd! “This is Jain chemistry and that is Hindu chemistry!”

Religion isn’t Hindu or Muslim, Christian or Jain. Religion is religiosity. It is an art of living. It is the science of living authentically. It is the secret, the alchemy, of turning life into celebration. It is not different for different people. Whether a Hindu is to be blissful or a Muslim—the formula for bliss is one.

Whoever wants contentment must drop the race of politics. Then it makes no difference where he lives, in what corner of the world. Civilizations differ; culture does not and cannot.

Civilization means your way of dressing, your way of cutting hair, cooking food, building houses, decorating them—outer things. Naturally, a forest-dwelling tribal builds one kind of house; a resident of Bombay builds another. Their needs differ. Why would a tribal build a thirty-story building? He would die climbing up and down! And if he did, where would the village settle? One building would exhaust the whole settlement; their population is only a couple of hundred! They couldn’t fill even one building. And he has so much land—forest and hills. Why stack box upon box? People peeping from boxes like pigeons from their holes, cooing away! In Bombay and New York, there is such a need; those are pigeonholes. In a jungle with abundant land, a single-story house is enough. No need of cement; thatch is sufficient and fitting—it is available easily. Why make anything permanent? Renew the thatch each year. You have to live in stale houses all your life; he renews his every year. He has little baggage; that is his need. Civilization will differ; his work, his life belong to a different world.

But culture is the name of inner refinement.

Understand the word “civilization.” Its literal meaning is: fit to sit in an assembly. It is outer. One who knows how to behave among others is called civilized—manners, etiquette, how to sit and rise among people. Our relations with others are called civilization—an external phenomenon. Naturally, it will differ from country to country; and often it leads to amusing confusions.

Japanese friends come to take sannyas. Gradually I understood, yet I still forget, because they nod differently. When we say “yes,” we move the head up and down. When they say yes, they move the head side to side. All over the world, side to side means no; in Japan it means yes! And when they move up and down, it means no.

At first I had great difficulty. I would ask, “Will you stay a while?” They were saying yes, and I was taking it as no. I would ask, “What’s the hurry?” and they would say “Hurry!” though they had come to stay a year! The Japanese stay longest; Germans come second. Japanese have outdone everyone—none stays less than six months; many stay nine months, a year, two years. The poor fellow has come for two years and I’m asking, “Why such a hurry?” Naturally he says, “Hurry?”

Their nodding is different. Later Nartan—the one who interprets between the Japanese and me—told me this confusion kept recurring.

Italian friends come. I put a mala around their necks and say, “Look at me,” and they instantly close their eyes! Only Italians do that, no one else. I was surprised: whenever I say, “Look at me,” they close their eyes. I ask them to look; they close their eyes. Something is amiss between us. Perhaps they are right—because to see me, closing the eyes is indeed a way. That is how women look: more loving, more inward.

When a woman embraces someone, she closes her eyes. Therefore, women are not as keen about a man’s color, form, features as they are about his refinement. Women are touched by different things than men. A man looks at complexion, form, features—head to toe, hair color, skin tone, nose, eyes. A woman takes less interest in these; her interest is elsewhere. She sees how graceful the man is, how humble, how simple, how joyous and delighted he is. Joy, grace—what connection do they have with the length of the nose or the color of skin?

When you embrace a woman, she closes her eyes because she wants to hold you from within, to dissolve in you. She is inward; man is outward. Even when loving, man wants the light on; he wants to see what expressions cross her face. There are even such madmen in the West who keep mirrors over their beds, in case they cannot see directly, they can watch in the mirror.

And in Western countries they have gone to extremes—automatic cameras installed so later they can make an album of what happened in love! Hence there are magazines full of nude images for men; men are titillated by them. Women do not have much interest in seeing male nudes; they are interested in a man’s soul, not his body.

Perhaps the Italians do the right thing by closing their eyes—they merge with me, become one.

These are differences of civilization. Civilization will differ; but culture does not. And here, it has gone to absurd lengths! Not only “Indian culture”—now it is “an attack on Kutch culture”! Soon it will be village-by-village “cultures”!

It used to be about Indian culture; now leave that aside—there is Maharashtrian culture and Gujarati culture! And forget Gujarat—Kutch culture! Next, Mandvi’s culture and Bhuj’s culture! Then the culture of neighborhoods. Then each household’s culture. Then everyone his own “culture”!

Understand “culture” (sanskriti). Its very etymology is lovely: being refined, being polished. Life touching inner heights. Peaks of consciousness rising within you. It is the science of manifesting the soul. It is not Kutch’s, or Gujarat’s, or Maharashtra’s, or Karnataka’s. Not India’s, China’s, or Japan’s.

If Lao Tzu, Buddha, Jesus, Mohammed, Bahauddin, Kabir, Nanak sat together, their civilizations would differ, but their culture would not. Civilizations would differ. Buddha would sit in lotus posture; perhaps Jesus could not—he never sat that way in his life. Lao Tzu spent his life riding a water buffalo; if you sat Buddha on a buffalo, he would fall off—his forefathers never rode one! In China, riding a buffalo is an old custom; no problem there. Lao Tzu’s mount was the buffalo.

Jesus rode on a donkey. However much Mahavira renounced—kingdom and all—if you asked him to ride a donkey, he would hesitate: naked—and on a donkey! Why add to the infamy? People already called him “nanga-luchcha”—“naked lout”—because he plucked out his hair and lived nude. That phrase was first used for Mahavira! Nowadays you apply it to anyone; you shouldn’t—once it was used for one such as Mahavira. To pluck out one’s hair and to remain nude!

Mahavira would say, “People already call me ‘naked lout’—and now seat me on a donkey too?” But Jesus rode donkeys all his life; in Jerusalem it was a custom, no issue at all.

But their culture would not differ. If all these sat together, they would recognize one another instantly. The inner flavor is one.

A Christian priest once went to the Zen master Rinzai with a Bible, to impress him and convert him. Christians are seized by a madness: the whole world must be made Christian—as if there aren’t already enough! They try every means—“Just become Christian!” It is a political net, because politics thrives on numbers. The more Christians there are, the greater Christianity’s worldly power. Hence others also feel tempted to play the same game.

So Arya Samajis say: if someone has become Christian, make him Hindu again. If he made a mistake once, let it be. Don’t make him do it twice! If he has become Christian—fine; let him be. What harm? If he can learn something from Jesus, what’s wrong? If he couldn’t learn from your Krishna, let him learn from Jesus! Perhaps his flower will bloom there. Wherever it blooms, let it bloom. But no—drag him back into Hinduism, into Arya Samaj!

Everyone is possessed by the ghost of numbers: numbers must increase. With numbers come votes; with votes, your politics. Politics belongs to those who have the crowd.

The priest had heard Rinzai was a simple, straightforward man—“I’ll change him.” He opened with Jesus’ famous words from the Sermon on the Mount. “May I read some lines from my scripture?” he asked.

Rinzai said, “Certainly.”

He read: “Blessed are the simple, for the kingdom of heaven is theirs.”

Rinzai said, “Enough—no need to read more. Whoever said this attained Buddhahood.”

The priest protested: “But hear the rest!”

Rinzai said, “The matter is finished. Beyond this, nothing remains.”

The priest said, “At least ask whose words these are.”

Rinzai said, “What will I do with the name? Names have no meaning. Whoever said this attained Buddhahood.”

He didn’t even ask Jesus’ name. What was the need? When the ocean flows before you, you taste a drop and know it is salty—that’s enough. Whether it is the Arabian Sea, the Bay of Bengal, the Indian Ocean, the Pacific—what difference does it make? Does the ocean have a name? We gave names. By tasting the saltiness you know its essence. One drop tells the whole story.

Rinzai said, “Don’t labor more. I am fully convinced—whoever said this attained Buddhahood.”

The priest was bewildered: what to do with such a man? He can’t even be told Jesus’ name—converting him is far beyond!

But he couldn’t understand that such a person needs no converting—he himself is Christlike. He is awakened; that is why he recognized the taste immediately.

Mahavira would recognize Jesus; Jesus would recognize Mohammed; Mohammed would recognize Buddha; Kabir would recognize Nanak; Nanak would recognize Farid. No words needed; eyes would speak to eyes. In silence it would happen. A glance would say it all. Words would not be required.

Buddha said: when two ignorant men meet, there is much discussion—though it is meaningless, mere babble. When two wise ones meet, there is no discussion—yet there is great meaning. No talk happens, yet there is “talk” so vast it cannot be contained in words. Like the sky—how will you put it into the small courtyards of words? So much is “said,” but eye to eye. Without speaking. Without moving. No ripple arises, and yet the message passes. Light recognizes light. One who has eyes recognizes another who has eyes. One awakened recognizes another awakened. But a sleeping man cannot recognize one who is awake. And two sleepers cannot recognize each other—though they may mutter all night. Often sleepers mutter; who listens to whom?

Buddha said: two wise ones meet and do not speak; without speaking, the matter is done. Two ignorant ones meet and chatter so much your head will split—making mountains out of molehills, getting everything twisted.

A wise one and an ignorant one can also meet—there are only these three possibilities. When a wise one and an ignorant one meet, the wise tries to say what cannot be said, and the ignorant tries to understand it through his ignorance. The wise wants to tell of that which lies beyond words, and the ignorant, trapped in his own nets of stupidity, tries to understand through them—so he understands something else entirely.

Yet a dialogue is possible between wise and ignorant, because at least one is awake. By effort, persuasion, enticement, he can bring the ignorant to that window from which the sun can be seen, the open sky, the moon and stars.

That is the whole endeavor of satsang.

What am I doing? Luring you to the window. But you sit in your stubbornness. Someone says, “We rely on Bajrangbali.” As many hooligans as there are all swear by Bajrangbali! This merely proves your own rowdiness—nothing else.

It isn’t Hanuman’s fault. It only shows the dullness of your own intelligence—nothing else.

But when something has been heard for long, we become shackled by it.

Just yesterday, “Khiladi Ram” asked a question. Three Rams are here—a “Khayali Ram” too, and a “Bulaki Ram.” All three sent questions. I began to wonder whether the real Ram has become completely absent from the world! Khayali Ram, Bulaki Ram, Khiladi Ram—like real ghee having disappeared and all kinds of fake ghees available. Even real Dalda has disappeared!

Khayali Ram—Ram only in fancy. Khiladi Ram—Ram as a plaything: don’t take him seriously! Even pure Ram is hard to find; there are always conditions attached.

And if you say anything to them, their hearts are hurt: “Our unbreakable faith has been wounded!”

Trust is never wounded. No one can injure trust. Trust is the name of knowing. Trust does not mean belief. Belief is the enemy of trust. The more you believe, the farther you are from trust.

Belief means: you don’t know, but you have accepted. Trust means: you know—whether you accept or not, what can you do? Acceptance is inevitable. In belief there is effort to accept; in trust, even if you wish not to accept, there is no way.

Trust is indivisible. However unbreakable your belief may seem, it shatters in a moment.

False religion and false culture live on belief. True culture, true religion are the discovery of trust.

Religion is the discipline through which culture is born. Religion is the grindstone on which the edge of your intelligence is honed; the sharpness that appears on the blade—that is called culture.

From religion, culture, refinement, polish arise. You become more pure, more innocent. New flowers bloom in your life; new fragrances arise; a new music, a new poetry is born.

But false religion and false culture are always based on belief; therefore they are always afraid. “Islam is in danger!” What nonsense! Islam is never in danger—and whatever is in danger is not Islam. “Hinduism is in danger!” Are you mad? And you will save religion? The limit! Religion saves you; you have to save religion? It is like this:

Setchandulal came home and said to his wife, “A fortunate day indeed—though everything was looted, my pistol was saved! Dacoits surrounded me; emptied my pockets; took my wristwatch; even my cap! My shoes, my coat—all gone.”

The wife said, “But you had a pistol—what were you doing?”

He said, “I was saving the pistol! Lest those rascals take it—it was the most valuable thing. Thank God no one noticed it; I had hidden it well in my dhoti!”

Is the pistol there to protect you, or are you to sit hiding it in your dhoti—“My pistol is in danger”? Then what is the pistol for?

Who will save religion? Will these mahants save it? They are the killers! Who is murdering religion? Take the word “mahant” to mean this: the great slayer—mahan hanta. They have slaughtered it and are sitting upon the corpse!

Now they fear that someone may come and say, “What you are clutching is not religion.”

Religion is not in danger. Those who peddle false religion in its name are in danger. What danger is there to a genuine coin? Danger is only to the counterfeit. The one who passes fake coins is always scared—he slips it out stealthily, hands it over quickly, doesn’t even count the change he gets back; if he did, you may notice his ten-rupee note is counterfeit! When someone doesn’t count the change, take note—yes, except for a few “great men.”

Chandulal gave a ten-rupee note buying a cinema ticket, and then examined each of the nine rupees in change minutely.

The clerk asked, “Is something short?”

“No, nothing short. I was only checking whether they are in the same condition my note was in! Somehow I managed to pass that—now you pass these!”

The man who relies on the fake—or makes others rely on it—is afraid.

It is amusing: all the Jain monks in Kutch, the Swaminarayan swamis, Hindu sannyasins, Muslim maulvis, pundits—what danger could they possibly face from one lone man like me? If there is danger, it should be to me—because they have the crowds. I see no danger to myself; that they feel endangered only reveals what the matter is.

After a long cross-examination in a pickpocket case, the victim was asked, “Are you certain it was this man who picked your pocket?”

He said, “I was certain; now, after all this questioning, I’m beginning to doubt whether I even wore a coat that day!”

They weave nets of argument. They have imposed ideas on people’s heads by force. They fear that the false veneer may peel off, that the whitewash may crack, that those fake knots may betray them at the crucial moment, that someone might come and undo them.

That is precisely my challenge. After all, you have been talking to people for centuries; I, too, must talk to them—let me. You talk; I will talk. Whose words delight them, whose words touch them—they will go with him. If yours don’t appeal, what can I do? If mine do, what is my fault? The decision lies in their hands. Why are you afraid?

You fear because you yourself suspect how much strength there is in your words. Neither you know, nor those who taught you know, nor those you are teaching know. This whole discussion sits in darkness; even a small lamp makes the darkness tremble with fear that it may be dispelled.

“Has anyone coached you in advance how to testify?” asked the judge.

“Yes,” the boy replied.

The opposing lawyer jumped up: “I said so—the child has been tutored!”

Ignoring the lawyer, the judge asked, “Who coached you?”

“My father.”

The lawyer forgot the judge’s warning and blurted out, “Your honor, exactly! His father has tutored him!”

Again ignoring the lawyer, the judge asked the boy, “What did he teach you?”

“He said: in court, the opposing lawyer will try to confuse you in many ways. Don’t bother—just tell the truth.”

What am I telling people? Only this: speak the truth, live the truth. That is what worries the merchants of falsehood. Among those merchants are politicians and the religious. Both are disturbed. They have an old conspiracy together.

Politicians and religious leaders have been colluding for centuries. One has seized the body, the other the soul. They have divided the spoils: “We will control the soul; you control the body. Don’t interfere in our work; praise us. We will not interfere in yours; when you need help, we will help you; when we need it, you help us. We will stand by each other, because our business is one.” And what is that business? The exploitation of man.

Thus both are angry with me. Otherwise, why would politicians and the religious stand together against me?

A monk’s garb isn’t mine at all. I am a dyed-in-the-wool hunter—only a hunter! And apart from hunting I have no other hobby. They’re mistaken. What monk’s robe? I’ve put so many people into monk’s robes; I myself have not worn one! I have no guru, no religion, no scripture, no fixed attire. I live in my own playfulness. If on a whim my heart is drawn, I’ll put on a Turkish cap. Sardar Gurdayal Singh once felt moved and said, “For one day, please tie a Sikh turban!” I said, “Bring it.” He brought it and tied it on me. I have no problem. Why would I? I have no particular dress. I have no insistence about anything.

One of my sannyasins wrote to me, “One day please come wearing a tie!” I said, “No problem. I can come stark naked—and in a tie too; what are you talking about!” Even Mahavira would beat his head: “This is too much! If at least you’re naked, don’t wear a tie!” And the tie-wearers would beat their heads too: “This is too much! Even the tie has lost its honor!” Whatever comes into these hands, its prestige is in danger—it’s hard to say what might be spared.

I am a hunter. Don’t bring in needless talk of monk’s garb. I’m no mahatma, no baba, no mahant, no saint. I have no taste for such petty trifles.

I live by my own whim. I place no insistence on anyone, nor do I carry any on myself.

But understand their difficulties. Understand these poor fellows’ troubles. Have pity on them. They are pitiable, utterly. And what are they saying? That there is an attack on the culture of Kutch!

I don’t step out of my room. It makes no difference to me whether I’m in Maharashtra, Gujarat, India, or Japan. I stay in my room. The same four walls, wherever they may be. And you’ll be surprised to know I get a room built to the same design wherever I live. In Jabalpur my room was like this; in Bombay the same; here too it’s the same. Truly, I hardly know where I am—the room remains the same! And I’m in it twenty-four hours a day.

I have no interest in Kutch and such! Why would I? Do you think I’ll ever go to Mandvi or to Bhuj? Never! I enter my room—end of story! Why would I come out of it?

The little journey I make from my room to sit here with you in the morning—this is the sum total of my travels.

How is Kutch’s culture endangered by me? An “attack”? Those who are curious will have to come to me. And those who are curious do come here as well. Even from Kutch some have taken sannyas here. I have sannyasins in Kutch. Those who are determined to “get spoiled”—how will you stop them? The poor things come all the way from Kutch!

And in any case it isn’t easy to meet me. Only those who have sworn to “get spoiled” manage to meet me. Those who have taken an oath—“We will get spoiled”—only they manage to meet me. I don’t meet just anyone.

Is this what an attack looks like? Do I go knocking on people’s doors? Do I grab anyone by the neck? In fact, entering the ashram is quite difficult. Is there any other religious figure in India whose ashram you must pay to enter? “Offer your head—and pay for it too!” If your heart is set, what can I do? I will take payment for my labor. If you want your head cut off, should I do it for free?

So whoever wants their head cut off will come. Wherever I live, they will come. And the truth is I’m going to Kutch only because, as long as I remain in Poona, some Poona people will keep dodging the beheading; for their sake, I must go to Kutch! When I go to Kutch, then they will come. They are such fools!

When I was in Bombay, some people never came. Once I moved to Poona, now they came! While I was in Bombay they thought, “We’ll go anytime.” When I shifted to Poona they thought, “We should go now; who knows if we’ll be able to later.”

Chetna is sitting right here in front of me—ask her. She lived in the same building, Woodland, where I lived. She was living right above me! Yet she didn’t come! And once she came here, she never left. When I was in that same building, she thought, “We can go anytime—what’s the hurry?” The lift passed my door every day. She must have gone up and down in it! She was in my sight. I am a hunter, after all! I had her in my sights: “Let’s see how long you can dodge! I will spoil you yet!” And I did. And not only did she “get spoiled,” I spoiled her husband too! I know the trick: first I spoil the wives, then I spoil the husbands. Once the wife is “spoiled,” what chance does the husband have? He will come along like a shadow!

It’s because of the good-for-nothings of Poona that I’m going to Kutch! Otherwise their heads would never be cut; they would keep lingering as they are. And you’ll be surprised—now that news of Kutch has gained momentum, they’ve started coming! Earlier they didn’t. And not just small fry—Poona’s industrialists have begun coming to beg: “Please don’t go! We never heard, we never sat with you, we never came!” And what have I been doing here for six years? Now that it’s becoming firm that I’m going, a delegation of Poona’s industrialists is going to meet the Chief Minister of Maharashtra to have me stopped—so that I don’t leave Poona. When I was in Poona, none of them came! Now they come pleading, “Don’t go! Why go to Kutch? What inconvenience is there for you? What facilities do you need in Poona?”

Yesterday an industrialist came and said, “I’ll arrange two thousand acres here. Just say yes! Please don’t go. Why leave Maharashtra?”

When I reach Kutch, then they will come there. Only then will they come. Otherwise they won’t come.

When I was in Jabalpur, those who never came to meet me there—now they come here and stake a claim: “We are from Jabalpur! We have the first right to meet you.” I lived in Jabalpur twenty years—where were you then? I never even saw your faces.

This is a very strange species of man!

The people of Kutch need not be alarmed at all. Swami Hariswarupdas-ji, you especially need not be alarmed. The best way to “save” the Kutchis is to invite me to Kutch! Then the Kutchis will relax: “There’s nothing to worry about; we can go anytime!” Even now Kutchis come here and take sannyas. And all this noise won’t stop anyone. Because I get news from the other side every day too. The youth of Kutch have sent word that fifteen thousand young men are ready. “Whenever you come, we are ready to welcome you—and we’ll see who tries to stop it!”

They are inviting trouble with their own hands. Better they keep quiet. Do your bhajan-kirtan in peace. What business do you have in these matters? Those who want to “get spoiled” will find a way. And those who are destined to become my prey will become so.

And no one you try to “save” will be saved. Your panic only announces to them that you are worth two pennies: “Why are you so scared? One man comes and the whole of Kutch shakes! All the sadhus, mahatmas, and politicians are so frightened—what’s the need for such panic? Am I going to cast a spell over everyone?”

But the reason for their restlessness is that their foundations are built on falsehood. And I am in the habit of speaking plainly. I say it as it is. I have sworn to speak the truth as it is—whatever the consequences.

My arrival threatens to expose the holes in their drum. And their own commotion is exposing them! I haven’t even arrived yet and they are unveiling themselves with their own hands. Had they kept quiet, perhaps it would have remained hidden a little longer.

What a weakened country this has become! What a eunuch-like country! In this land, men once walked. Buddha wandered all over Bihar; Mahavira wandered. Shankaracharya traversed the whole country. Nanak journeyed even beyond India—to Mecca and Medina.

People were affected and delighted that Shankaracharya was coming to their village. Certainly the village pundit might have difficulties—but they had courage.

When Shankaracharya went to Mandan Mishra’s village, Mandala, to debate him, Mandan Mishra welcomed him with joy. They were magnificent people! To say, “This will be an attack on us,” is proof that you are weak, that you have no foundation.

Mandan Mishra said, “I am blessed that you have come from so far—Kerala in the south. I am old now; even if I wished, I could not travel so far. In those days one traveled on foot. You have been gracious to come, and I feel honored that you have come to debate me.”

The debate began. But a difficulty arose: who would be the arbiter? The judge must be someone who could understand Shankaracharya and Mandan Mishra—someone whose intellect was not less than theirs, perhaps even a little greater.

Mandan Mishra said, “I know one person, but I cannot propose that person as judge.”

Shankaracharya said, “Whether you say it or not, I know whom you mean. I request the same person. I trust that person as much as you do.” And who was that? Mandan Mishra’s wife, Bharti. Naturally Mandan Mishra said, “How can I propose my own wife as judge? She might be partial to me.”

Shankaracharya said, “I have no worry at all. I have heard of her great reputation. Who could be a more qualified judge? Let her be the arbiter.”

The wife became the judge. The debate lasted six months. After six months she pronounced judgment: Mandan Mishra has lost.

What magnificent people!

The wife could declare that her husband had lost. And because he lost, the only proper course for him now was to become Shankaracharya’s disciple—be initiated by him.

Even Shankaracharya was startled—at such impartiality, such simplicity, such astonishing devotion to truth that no other relationship intervened. Before truth, all ties went pale.

But Bharti was an extraordinary woman. She told Mandan Mishra, “You must become Shankaracharya’s disciple.” And she told Shankaracharya, “Listen, the debate is not yet complete. Mandan Mishra has been defeated; I am his other half. So you have won only half of Mandan Mishra. The other half lives in me. Defeat me too; only then will your victory be complete, otherwise it remains half. Mandan Mishra will become your disciple, but I will not. I challenge you to debate me. And since Mandan Mishra has lost and is now your disciple, let him be the judge.”

Shankaracharya hesitated a little—because he had never debated a woman before. The first time. And debating a woman can be a bit of a tangle, because a woman’s way of thinking is different, her logic different. She lives less by logic and more by experience. So he hesitated.

Bharti said, “If you hesitate, your victory will remain incomplete. Take Mandan Mishra with you, but don’t ever claim you fully defeated him. I am still alive. Defeat me too so that both of us may become your disciples.”

He had to accept the challenge. And what he feared is exactly what happened. Her very first question was on erotics—the Kama-shastra.

Shankaracharya said, “You put me in difficulty! Talk of Brahman, at least! I am a celibate; I never married, and you ask me questions on erotics!”

Bharti said, “I will ask what I have plunged into deeply. I have seen your debate on Brahman; you won there. Perhaps you would defeat me there too. But I have no interest in that. There the decision will not be meaningful to me. I am interested in love, not in Brahman. If you feel you’re not prepared, you may ask for time—six months, a year, two years—to gain experience. I can grant you leave. But the debate must be on what I ask.”

Shankaracharya thought it wise to request six months. “Give me six months. I will return with experience; only then can I answer. I know nothing of this. I am a celibate from childhood; I have neither loved nor known love, nor do I know its secrets or mysteries. I was entangled in Brahman! I never imagined this would arise!”

Bharti gave him six months. And the story is charming. What should Shankaracharya do? I believe the story is apocryphal—fabricated later by timid pundits. In my view Shankaracharya was a man of great courage—tremendous courage. So I say he must have lived for six months with some courtesan. There is no other way to know.

But how could the orthodox accept that? So they concocted a tale: a king was dying, and as he died his soul departed; Shankaracharya’s soul hurried into the king’s body. He left his own body in a cave for his disciples to guard: “Keep watch day and night for six months. Don’t let it rot or be eaten by worms or wild animals, or else where will I return? I’m going for six months of experience.”

So his soul entered the king’s body, and for six months he enjoyed the company of the queen!

Such an elaborate web to cloak a simple fact—wrapping truth in layers of falsehood! But what difference does it make? In the end, a soul enjoyed a woman’s company for six months. Whether the body was his or another’s—what does it matter? The body isn’t “ours” in any case. The body is earth—then whose earth was it? Yours or another’s—what’s the difference? Fine, accept their story if you like. Still, to me it reeks of dishonesty—devised to hide that Shankaracharya lived with a woman for six months to understand the entire art of love. If you state it plainly, what happens to his celibacy? Weak people! Their celibacy breaks at the slightest touch!

In my view he was a true celibate—a courageous one. His celibacy was so well-founded, what was there to fear? So he lived with a woman for six months—does celibacy shatter so easily? Is celibacy a flimsy clay pot that a little rain washes away? Celibacy is attained through meditation. He must have remained rooted in meditation. And with that woman he explored every possibility of the body in depth. What a man might take six lifetimes to explore, he finished in six months—plunged in it twenty-four hours a day. Then he returned and defeated Bharti in debate as well. She too became his disciple.

Magnificent people they were. Mandan Mishra adjudged that Bharti had lost; Bharti adjudged that Mandan Mishra had lost. Both were old; Shankaracharya was a young man of thirty! Both fell at his feet and were initiated; both took sannyas.

That was a time of courage. They were people with spine. And these are today’s people! These Jain muni Bhadragupt! And this Swami Hariswarupdas! And more will come—this is just the beginning. By the time I reach Kutch, many more “talents” will appear! They are all gobar-Ganesh—first Ganesh, and then just cow-dung!

Mukesh, don’t imagine religion and politics are not opposed. They are opposed—hence their opposition to me. All these are political people. Politicians are politicians—but so are your so-called religious leaders, pundits, priests. It’s all a web of politics.

I have nothing to do with politics. My concern is purely: how can an individual awaken to self-knowledge? That is all. So my sannyasins have nothing to do with it. They don’t even go to vote. They have no idea when elections come and go, who wins, who loses. But these people are uneasy.

I don’t even know their names—who is this Swaroopdas-ji? Who is this Bhadragupt-ji? Yet they are so agitated that it’s certain my arrow—though I’ve not even loosed it—has already lodged in their chests. That is what hunting is!

There is a famous Chinese tale. There was a great hunter who told his emperor, “I want you to proclaim me the foremost hunter in all of China. There is no archer greater than I. If there is, I am ready for a challenge.”

The emperor knew there was no one greater, so the proclamation went out across the empire: if anyone wishes to challenge, speak now; otherwise it will be declared that this man is the greatest archer.

An old fakir came and said, “Before the proclamation, I know a person who won’t come to challenge; he may not even hear of your proclamation, as he lives far away in the mountains. No one will reach him, and he has lived alone there for years. But I am a woodcutter; when I was young I used to cut wood in that forest. I know that no archer can compare to him. So before the proclamation, send this archer to seek out that old man. If the old man deems him an archer, then accept it. Otherwise he is nothing.”

The archer went searching. With great difficulty he reached the mountain. In a cave he found a very old man, perhaps one hundred and twenty years old, stooped with age, walking bent over. “This can’t be an archer! He may not even be able to lift a bow!” thought the archer. But since he had come, he said, “Sir, I am looking for such-and-such a master. Surely you cannot be he—the sight of your body suggests you couldn’t even string a bow. Do you know of such a man on this mountain?”

The old man laughed. “I am that man. Don’t worry about my back. And don’t worry whether I can hold a bow. Those who hold bows are children. I hunt without taking a bow in hand.”

The archer trembled. “Finished! How can one hunt without bow and arrow?” The old man said, “Come with me.”

He led him to a cliff that jutted out over a deep ravine—thousands of feet down; fall from there and you would not even be found—bones ground to powder. The old man walked to the very edge, toes hanging out beyond the rock, bent back and all, and stood there as steady as a rock. “Come, stand here too,” he said.

The archer almost fainted. Just standing near the edge made his head spin. Seeing the abyss below, his limbs shook. The old man stood unwavering, half his feet jutting into space. “Now he’ll fall, any moment,” thought the archer.

“Sir, please come back,” he begged. “Don’t make me party to your death!”

“Don’t worry,” said the old man. “What kind of archer are you? You still fear death? What kind of archer, then? How many birds can you shoot with your bow? Look up—there is a flock flying.”

“Right now I can’t look anywhere,” the archer said. “Here I can’t even lift my bow, let alone take aim. Please, let’s go back.”

He couldn’t even come that far.

The old man said, “Watch. I neither take bow nor arrow, yet this entire flock will fall by my gaze.” He looked at the birds—and they began to fall.

The archer fell at his feet: “Teach me this art! What is this? You looked—and birds fell!”

The old man said, “A single thought is enough—if there is only thoughtlessness. Saying ‘Fall!’ is enough. Where can the bird escape to?”

For years the archer stayed with him and learned the art of thoughtlessness. He forgot all about bow and arrow—there was no need for them there. When he became thought-free, he broke his bow and threw it away. He went to the emperor and said, “Give up the whole idea. The man I’ve been with is impossible to surpass. I’ve had only a glimpse—and that is much. Bow and arrow, my master says, are children’s toys. When someone becomes a true archer, he breaks his bow. And when someone becomes a true musician, he breaks his veena—why pluck strings when music arises from within?”

Mukesh Bharti, I am indeed a hunter—but I carry no bow and arrow. And you can see—birds have started to fall! They are falling in Kutch! I haven’t even raised my gaze, haven’t even stepped outside the door—and birds are falling in Kutch!

Politicians, religious leaders—people of every sort are in a tizzy. There is an earthquake in Kutch! And I haven’t even gone yet. When I go, you will see—you all will witness—that this is what the art of hunting is.

But remember: religion and politics are mutually opposed dimensions. The so-called religions you see in the world are not religion. Religion happens in the life of a true master—not in mosques, not in temples; not in scriptures, not in doctrines. When Buddha breathes, there is religion. When Mahavira walks, there is religion. When Krishna plays the flute, there is religion. When Jesus prays on the cross, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,” there is religion.

Religion lives in a living person—not in dead scriptures, not in dead idols. And these temples are dead; they worship stones. Those who worship stones become worse than stones. Their skulls are filled with pebbles, nothing more. They know nothing of diamonds.

We will go to Kutch. They must be given news of diamonds. A few birds must be felled. And this killing is such that, as I kill here, I revive there: in one breath, slain—and in the next, revived. Only then is the art complete.

Religion is both death and rebirth. When the ego dies, the soul rises. All these egos are what are being hurt. We shall go. These egos must be erased. To erase these egos is compassion upon these persons.

Premtirth! Fundamental diseases are not many. The fundamental disease is only one. And the diseases that look different are not fundamental. Our differences are in the leaves, not in the roots. One person is sick in this way, another in that way. Someone’s chest carries the weight of the Koran; another’s the weight of the Gita. Someone has Hanuman sitting on his chest; someone has Ganesh sitting there! The weights differ, but the chest is pressed down. And such pressures are there that you can grasp my words intellectually...

I know your love; I know your attachment to me. And you have listened to me with great surrender. But centuries-old conditionings run deep, very deep. They go deeper than you.

Your world of consciousness is very small. Psychologically, if we divide our awareness into ten parts, only one part is conscious and nine parts are unconscious. You hear me with that one conscious part. But those nine unconscious parts are stuffed with so much junk! And not only yours—everyone’s unconscious is filled the same way. You don’t even know it’s there. Still, this is no small thing; count yourself fortunate that it is becoming clear to you: “I don’t have a clear grasp of what’s going on. What’s the matter? Why don’t I feel fully open and blossomed?” This is the beginning.

The one in whom the feeling begins, “There is a suffocation somewhere,” will soon find the doors and windows to open and let the fresh air in. The unfortunate are those who don’t even know they are suffocating, rotting! They have come to mistake their stench for fragrance! Unfortunate are those who take their stupidity to be their knowledge. Their bad luck is that they think their chains are ornaments. And if you try to break their chains, they are ready to fight, even to die! Clutching stale and borrowed things to their chest! Carrying dead corpses! And thinking: this will bring liberation! If you tell them, “You’re carrying a corpse,” they’re ready to kill or be killed! They don’t want to hear it. They fear it might be true—that they might indeed be hauling a corpse.

Tell them their religion is false—immediately they pull out swords! The kirpans flash. Tell them their love is false—they become your enemies for life.

And the irony is that ordinarily, in the common person, almost everything is false. It has to be—otherwise why so much pain? So much anguish? So much anxiety? So much gloom? Why this night of no-moon? Why doesn’t life become a full-moon night?

Come, let’s make love!
One single fluttering sari
One kilo of a salty face
Five hundred grams of a swaying, tipsy gait
A quarter-pound of coy affectations
A four-anna smile
Mix all this into a khichri
Come, let’s make love!

A suit borrowed from a friend
A scooter acquired on credit
A little big-brother bluster
A few filmi songs
Two or four couplets
memorized by staying up all night
Mash all this into a bhurta
Come, let’s make love!

This is how it goes! All borrowed. All stale. All trash.

But you have begun to see: “There is suffocation. No blossoming, no openness; no clear understanding either.” That’s a good sign. It is the first ray. To know “I am ignorant” is the first step toward wisdom.

Only the ignorant believe they are wise. The ignorant have unshakeable faith in their knowledge! They won’t budge an inch! They bind themselves tight; they don’t even want to hear anything that might shake their faith. And what kind of faith is it that wobbles? It’s not faith at all.

In your conscious mind the obstacles have cleared, beliefs have fallen; but your unconscious is still crammed with junk—as everyone’s is. Now that junk too will have to be taken out. And that is frightening. It’s frightening because that’s our only “filling.” It feels as if, if all that is removed, there will be a pit inside, a total emptiness within!

Our arithmetic goes like this; we’ve been taught: if nothing is there, then anything is better than nothing! Anything is better than zero! We’ve been thoroughly frightened of emptiness, terrified of the void.

In my room I prefer to keep nothing. What I have to keep out of compulsion—a bed, a chair! Otherwise my room is completely empty. Whenever someone comes to my room for the first time, they are startled. They say, “Oh! There’s nothing in here!” They feel shocked. I tell them, the very meaning of “room” is that there is emptiness; otherwise how will you live there? In English the word “room” means space—emptiness. A room is by definition that which is empty.

I used to stay with a wealthy man in Sagar—among the biggest industrialists in India in the beedi trade. Now you can imagine: one who has made money selling beedis—what kind of intelligence will he have! One who gathered wealth by rolling beedis—what sort of sensibility! Beedi-peddler samskaras! He has oceans of money, endless, more than needed. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

He put me in the most beautiful room of his palace. I said, first take all this junk out.

He said: What do you mean! You’re calling this junk?

There was hardly any room to live. It was hard to even move! So much furniture! All sorts of furniture! Whatever was the latest in the market, the new fashion—he bought it! The old never leaves; it accumulates, and the new keeps coming in! He travels to Bombay, Calcutta, Delhi, London, New York—wherever he goes, whatever he finds, he brings it and piles it up. Radios, televisions. Three or four radios!

I said: Do you want to scramble my brains? What’s the point of three or four radios here? The phone—not only in the room—in the bathroom too!

I said: Remove this stupidity! Will you let me bathe or not?

He said, “Everyone who comes to my house is delighted—you’ve made such an arrangement! A phone in the bathroom too! So you can make calls right there, sitting on the toilet!”

I said: I do one thing at a time. I can’t do two things together. Take it out of here. I can’t tolerate any bells ringing. I’m lying in the bath, bathing, and some bell starts ringing! I said: I don’t want a phone in the room either. I don’t take calls at all.

I said: Move all this out, only then will I enter the room. And I don’t like television at all. Remove it from here. I don’t want to ruin my eyes! I don’t want any cancer...

He said: What are you saying! Television and cancer!

I said: Television is among the root causes of cancer. Because for the first time television has created the mischief of making you look straight into the source of light. Watching a movie isn’t as bad. At worst a film can harm your eyes, not much more. In film the source of light is behind; the screen itself is not the source—it only reflects the light’s shadow. But television... in television you look straight at the source of light; electricity is coming directly into your eyes. That current kills you. And people watch TV five, six hours! The fibers of their eyes burn; that becomes a cause of cancer. Eye cancer is spreading rapidly in America. Little children are getting cancer. And the cause is television. As if you are burning yourself in fire for no reason.

And I said: So much furniture! You’ll have me break my arms and legs! If at night I have to get up to go to the bathroom, I can’t go without switching on the light. In my own room I have to move like a thief in someone else’s! Remove the clutter. I need only... one bed and one chair is enough.

He said, “Whoever comes praises this furniture. Some of these are antique pieces. This table is from Queen Elizabeth’s time. This one from such-and-such era, that one from Queen Victoria’s time...”

I said: I have nothing to do with Victoria or Elizabeth. They’re all dead and gone. This furniture is dead too. Take it away. Just give me one proper chair that’s comfortable. What have I to do with antiques!

People’s rooms aren’t the only things filled with junk. Their inner consciousness is filled the same way. Emptiness frightens them. The void causes panic.

And, Premtirth, that is exactly the hitch. You will have to learn to be empty. You will have to learn to be zero.

You have loved me. Now have the courage in that love to become a zero. Now step into meditation.

A man said to his wife: Madam, my friend is coming over. Quickly remove this flower vase, the timepiece, and the other items from the drawing room.

The wife, surprised, said: Why? Is your friend a thief?

No, the husband said, not at all. He isn’t a thief. But he will recognize his belongings!

What all you are filled with! Somewhere the Gita stuffed in, somewhere the Koran, somewhere the Vedas. The world’s junk, from which you have gained nothing, yet it sits inside. It only feels good that there is “stuff”—that it isn’t empty.

The first art a sannyasin has to learn is the art of being empty, of being vacant, of being zero. Become zero—and you will blossom. The one who becomes zero becomes whole. And the one who agrees to be zero—God descends within him.

But people are not willing to be zero. They are willing to engage in every kind of mischief! Anything that fills them—they are ready for that! They cannot sit empty. They cannot sit empty even for a moment. They will keep doing some fussing about—opening and closing windows, picking up the newspaper and putting it down, switching on the radio, turning the fan on—and then off again. They will keep doing something or other.

I used to travel by train; for twenty years I traveled, and had strange experiences. Sometimes I had to travel thirty-six hours; then some gentleman would have to share the compartment with me. I would dishearten him in advance so he wouldn’t chat, because who wants their head pecked for thirty-six hours! So I would answer with a yes or a hmm. He would ask one thing; I would answer even more, so that he could take the answers to all his next questions at once! For instance, he would ask: “Which village do you live in?” I’d give the village address, the district, the state—and the other villages I have!

He’d say, “We only asked for your village!”

Brother, you are going to ask the rest too... My father’s name is this. At home this is our work. I have this many brothers and sisters. I’ll tell you everything and end the hassle now! Once and for all let’s settle this thirty-six-hour business!

I’d answer everything. He’d ask, “Where are you going?” I would tell him everything: where I’m coming from, where I’m going. I’d give him the condensed summary of my entire life so he could relax. Now don’t ask again. Now we can spend thirty-six hours in peace!

He’d say, “We thought—we were pleased—that we found a fellow traveler! So we have to pass thirty-six hours in such silence?”

I said: You can do whatever you like!

For a little while he’d be embarrassed about doing anything odd. If no one’s there, people hum film songs in their bathroom; they make faces, standing before the mirror! Because no one’s there—so what’s there to fear! But when someone is sitting right in front... I would often lie down with eyes closed, so he could do whatever he wanted. Occasionally I’d open an eye and look! When I looked, he’d quickly pull himself together...

In thirty-six hours, what spectacles I have had to see! He would open and close the window. Open the suitcase, then fold the clothes again. Pick up the same newspaper and start reading! Put it down again! Ring the bell for the porter: “Bring tea. Bring soda. Do this, do that!” But those thirty-six hours—they just wouldn’t pass! They seemed like thirty-six births! Life seemed to be slipping out of him!

I would feel compassion for him—and laughter too. And he would feel anger toward me! Because I’m lying there blissfully, peacefully, watching his show.

He’d say, “Don’t you feel restless?”

I said: Restless for what! I’m watching a free performance—why would I be restless! Even in a circus you don’t see such feats as you are performing! And you know you’ve opened that suitcase twenty times already! Why open it twenty times? Take out what you need once—and if you must, keep it open by your side! What’s the point of opening and shutting it again and again! And why are you opening and closing this window over and over? How many times have you read that newspaper? From the very beginning! From the Brook Bond Tea advertisement at the top all the way to the end, where it says who the editor is—how many times have you read it! And yet you pick up the same newspaper again! So I’m watching the show. I’m enjoying it—what a condition man is in!

Learn to be empty, Premtirth! Cut down the fussing. Sit in silence as long as you get the chance.

And get ready, because you will soon have to come to the commune. You will have to come to the new commune, because you can take it that your wife has already come!

Premtirth is Neelam’s husband. Neelam has already come. She is only waiting for me to say, “That’s it, now don’t go back.” And it won’t be long—any day I will tell her, “Now don’t go.” So get ready. Because you will be able to rejoice in the commune only when you are fully blossomed.

And the Indian mind is certainly full of many repressions. Strange repressions! Tormented by all kinds of odd “knowledge”! Leave it all in Ludhiana. Leave all that junk there. Come here to me prepared to come absolutely empty. If you practice a little beforehand, you’ll like it even more. Because where I want to create the new commune—where it will be—there will be silence, forest, a lake, and a vast expanse, such that for miles you may not see a single person.

So prepare yourself and come.

You will blossom. There is no obstacle. As I have blossomed, I know how another can blossom. The key is the same: become zero. There is no other hindrance.

Ratan Singh Bharti! And you’re a Singh—a lion—yet look at the state you’re in! Bring your wife to me. Through her I’ll save you too. But if you want me to save you from your wife, that’s a tricky business! If I can save your wife, then through her you’ll be saved as well. If the wife is saved, you’ll be saved. But you want to be saved—and be saved from your wife! Such an impossible feat has never happened, nor can it!

A group visiting the zoo from another city reached the lion’s cage. The lion let out a terrifying roar—so loud that everyone fainted except one man. A zoo official looked at him admiringly and said, “You seem very fearless!” The man replied, “Not at all. Actually, I’ve grown used to such roars every day.” “Do you work in a zoo too?” the official asked. “No,” the man said, “I’m married.”

But escaping a wife is a difficult affair. Save a man from one wife and he’ll fall into the trap of another—because you will still be you. The disease changes its name, that’s all; the sickness continues. How long can you even remain alone?

Often people marry and then think, “Married—and ruined.” But free them from marriage—now in the West it’s easy, divorce frees people—and within four or six months they’re not free anymore! Another marriage! One person marrying eight, ten times in a single lifetime!

Many times we’ve broken—once more, all right!
If no bond of attachment can hold,
if we fray into threads and scatter,
if, for no reason, the winds sing of coral blooms,
we’ve burst many times—once more, all right!

So many poses the small mirror knows—
of attraction, of affection, of surrender;
if fickle shadows are cruel, then many loves
have been false many times—once more, all right!

There are express trains too
that haul relationships from city to city;
and before them, we are tiny stations—
we’ve been left behind many times—once more, all right!

A man dodges one entanglement only to grab another immediately. You didn’t get trapped by accident—you trapped yourself, because you can’t be alone. That is what I was saying at Premteerth, and that is what I say to you, to everyone.

Become skilled in the art of aloneness, of silence, of being a spacious emptiness. Otherwise these nets have been cast for lifetimes. Is this your first birth? Birth after birth, the same business, the same hocus-pocus!

A nurse was being interviewed. The doctor, having selected her, asked, “What salary will you take?” The nurse said, “About three hundred rupees.” The doctor said, “Ah, three hundred rupees—I will give you that with pleasure.” The nurse said, “Sir, for pleasure I won’t take a paisa less than five hundred!”

Who keeps getting you into trouble? The nurse was content with three hundred. But you—“with pleasure”! Then of course the deal gets expensive!

If you go about holding out your begging bowl for joy before others—“Someone, please give me bliss!”—then whoever gives you joy will also exact payment. They will make you taste it and also make you pay the price.

And the joke is that husbands are holding out their begging bowls to their wives for joy, and wives are holding out their bowls to their husbands. Beggars begging from beggars! Then comes anger—because neither one gets it. How could they? One must possess something in order to give. And when it doesn’t come, dejection grabs hold.

In this country it grabs you even worse—because here there is hardly any way to get out. Otherwise, after a while, a little intelligence dawns: no one else is responsible; we are the fools! Save yourself from one woman, and you’ll get entangled with another!

The truth is, before a man has even escaped one, he’s already fallen for another. It’s only because he’s fallen for the second that he manages to “escape” the first!

Mulla Nasruddin’s son, Fazlu, asked him, “Papa, why does the government force people to marry only once?” Nasruddin said, “Son, when you grow up you’ll understand. Man is very weak. If he weren’t forced to marry just one, he wouldn’t be able to protect himself! There are so many women—he’d be knocked about from here to there, from this house to that—belonging neither to home nor shore; he’d become the washerman’s donkey. He needs one woman to protect him!”

Your wife protects you from other women. And naturally, the one who protects will also show ownership. With the same stick with which she protects you from others, with that very stick she sets you straight!

And she too is upset with you. She’s not particularly happy either. She too keeps banging her head, “In what ill-starred moment did I get bound to this wretch!” Her dreams of happiness have also shattered.

Understand this truth: the dream of fulfillment through another cannot be fulfilled. Then there is no resentment—and no question of “escape.” The wife is in her place, you in yours. What’s the big deal! If she makes a little noise, make that your meditation too. Listen with cheerfulness. Keep equanimity. Don’t get shaken. Don’t let your attention be broken. Listen with a smile. She herself will be startled when you listen smilingly: “What’s happened to you? I’m standing here with the rolling pin and you’re laughing!”

Don’t let anything fracture your inner joy. If you can be cheerful, blissful, from within, then your wife herself will ask you, “Where did you learn this secret?” She also has to be cheerful, blissful. You are miserable; she is miserable. Have compassion on her as well. Bring her here too. You’ve tasted the flavor of sannyas; let her taste it too.

“Did you get home safely that night?”
“No, man. That night it all went wrong. I was reeling drunk when the police caught me on the way. I spent the whole night in lockup.”
“You’re lucky,” the first said. “Unlucky me—I walked straight home from the party! Only I know what I went through!”

One day Mulla Nasruddin’s wife flew at him, and he ran away from home. She searched all his usual haunts—no sign. He didn’t come home all night; she too grew worried. In the morning someone told her they’d seen him heading toward the circus that had come to the village. She went to the circus. Daytime, it was all shut. She looked—and was astonished. It was the rainy season; she had an umbrella. With the umbrella she poked Nasruddin, who was asleep—inside the lion’s cage! The lion too was sleeping, and Nasruddin was using him as a pillow! She slid the umbrella’s tip through the bars and jabbed him: “Hey coward, come out! Come home, then I’ll show you!” Now look at Nasruddin—on the one hand, brave enough to use a lion for a pillow! Poor fellow found nowhere else to sleep at night and slipped into the lion’s enclosure. He doesn’t fear the lion, yet his wife calls him a coward! “Get out! Come home—then I’ll teach you a lesson!”

Nasruddin said, “I’m not going. I’m my own master! I’ll live where I choose! If you have the courage, come inside.” She wouldn’t enter—there’s a lion! And Nasruddin said, “See! Today let it be decided who’s the master. Say just one little yes, and I’ll come home. Otherwise I’m not coming out. I’ll die right here—whether the lion eats me or you do, I’ll die here! And I’ve never slept as peacefully as I slept tonight.”

What’s your trouble? Exactly this: you had expectations, and they weren’t met. To expect was your mistake. Your wife too had expectations. She too is miserable; you’re not the only one. When one person is miserable, the other is miserable from another angle.

I don’t know what your wife would say. Bring her. I’ll hear her too. Because this is one-sided. I need to hear the other side as well. You don’t even know what you’re doing to your wife!

One gentleman said to his wife in the evening, “Darling, I have to go to a very important meeting. I should be back within an hour—you know, I can’t bear even a moment without you. But if it gets very late, I’ll sleep in the meeting room. In that case I’ll send a note through a peon so you won’t worry.” The wife said, “No need to send a note—I’ve already taken it out of your pocket!”

They write the note in advance—and say, “Darling, I can’t bear a moment without you. There’s no meaning in life without you!”

You don’t know what you’re doing to your wife!

Neither husbands are behaving well, nor wives. And the whole mesh is this: marriage itself is a disease. Marriage means binding two people together stuffed with expectations. Relationship should be friendship in a spirit of non-demand—gift, not asking. Give what you can. Don’t beg.

Love must be unconditional. The moment a condition enters, love becomes dirty. And where there’s filth and stench, life becomes poisoned.

Marriage has poisoned the whole earth. My view of marriage is different. I don’t consider it an “alliance.” You keep talking of “love-alliance,” “marriage-alliance”—my son and daughter are being tied in the bond of love!

Love should be freedom, not bondage.
We take marriage to be a bond—marriage should be liberation. But this is possible only when your love has been refined through meditation—then mud turns to gold.

Only two meditative people can truly love and be blissful. Why? Because they are already blissful; they are blissful even alone. Even without the other, they are blissful. One who is joyous in his aloneness, when joined with another, multiplies joy a thousandfold. Their joys become a product—many times over.

But if you are miserable and your wife is miserable, then misery is what multiplies. Whatever you bring, that is what multiplies.

You ask, “Save me from my wife!”
Saving you from your wife is not so difficult. Sannyasins have been doing only this for centuries—running away from wives. What other way to be saved? They ran! It’s not as if only Nasruddin lies down with a lion as a pillow. Your monks in Himalayan caves have done the same. They sit in caves while lions roar around them. That circus lion’s teeth were probably worn—no real danger there. But where real lions roar, monks sit tending their fires—not afraid! Yet let the wife appear there, and their life-juice drains away on the spot! At the sight of the wife, their wits desert them; they snatch up their staff and pot and run! “O you, why have you come here! O Chandi of Chandigarh, why have you come here! Mother, I thought I’d come so far! Who told you—what enemy gave you my address?”

Why such fear of wives? Because there are expectations. You had asked; it was not given. You promised to give; you didn’t. You’ve been exposed. You can’t even lift your eyes before your wife; hence her hold over you.

And then you, too, hold your wife in a grip: don’t meet anyone else, don’t speak to anyone else, don’t laugh with anyone else, don’t go anywhere else! Naturally she has a grip on you too. What you do to her, she does to you. If you want freedom—give her freedom.

You want her to trust you—trust her. You want her to treat you like a human being—treat her like one. You behave like animals! Your Baba Tulsidas-types—what things they say, such nonsense! And still women keep reciting the Ramcharitmanas! Women especially memorize his couplets. They don’t even burn them to ashes—though they should—because anyone who writes things like, “Drum, rustic, Shudra, animal, and woman—these all deserve to be beaten!” At the very least, women should stand up against Tulsidas. “We won’t let this man be honored; not in any house!” But no. Baba Tulsidas is mounted on their very shoulders; he speaks through their mouths! Women themselves read these words and sway, reciting the couplets; pleased—“What a thing Baba has said! How apt!” They approve. They have become so conditioned that if the husband doesn’t beat them, they think, “Love is over!” Because “Drum, rustic, Shudra, animal, and woman—these all deserve to be beaten!” As long as the husband beats, they think he loves. When he stops beating, they think, “He must be beating someone else now! He has no taste for me anymore.”

What madness! How can there be bliss in such madness! Give freedom. Honor the woman. Give her respect. Your sadhus, saints, mahants have taught you disrespect. They’ve turned women into mere objects. They’ve called women property! A father “donates” his daughter in marriage! What madness! Living persons are being donated—as if the girl were not a person but a cow!

Woman is considered property. Your so-called Dharmaraj, Yudhishthira, stakes a woman in a game of dice! If she is property, of course he will. No shame, no hesitation. He put a woman on the stake—and no one condemns it! In five thousand years of Indian history, not one of your saints condemned it, not one said to Yudhishthira, “This man is no man.” Dharmaraj? This gambler? And what depravity! Even if you must gamble, one can still understand. But to stake a woman! And still he remains Dharmaraj—no blemish! He remains the knower of dharma, the wise one!

Tear up this whole net. Give women respect. She is a soul of exactly the same worth as you— not a whit less. Not more, not less. Bring a sense of equality. Give freedom and receive freedom.

And the only bond should be love. Nothing beyond that. But because I say such things, it sounds like an attack on your culture! Because I speak this truth, your religion wobbles. Your religion and culture are built on such absurd notions. That is why your sadhus, saints, mahants will stand against me. It’s not their fault; it’s mine.

That’s all for today.