Jo Bole To Hari Katha #7

Satya Vedant! This aphorism is unparalleled. The art of holding so many secrets together in so few words is something that gets refined over centuries. It is not as if one single person composed it. Who knows through the living consciousness of how many people over timeless ages this sutra has passed to take the form it has today. That’s why it can’t be said who its author is.

This sutra is not one person’s gift; it is the distillation of centuries of experience. As if one were to press a single drop of perfume from millions upon millions of roses—such is this wondrous, unique sutra. You have heard it many times; perhaps that is why you have even forgotten how to understand it. This confusion arises: what we hear repeatedly we begin to think we have understood—without ever understanding!

And this sutra is on every lip. Today it will be repeated in every corner of this country. But most people recite such sutras like parrots. Their repetition has no more meaning than a parrot’s; teach a parrot and it will echo the same thing.

To understand this sutra requires prajna—intelligence—awareness—refinement of consciousness; it requires the dignity of meditation. Try to understand.

Christianity called God threefold. Who knows why! But wherever religion has flowered on earth, in some way or another the number three keeps surfacing.

Christians call it the Trinity: Father, Son, and between the two the Holy Spirit. They did grasp the triad—but the names they gave are quite childish. It is as if a small child were thinking about God; he can only think in terms of a father. Imagination cannot go far beyond the psyche’s own level. So there is a certain childishness in Christianity; its concept does not have the refinement.

India too discerned this triad—and polished it through the centuries. We call the Divine the Trimurti—the Three-faced One. He is one, but has three faces; one, but three aspects; one, but three dimensions; a temple with three doors.

And the conception of the Trimurti cannot be developed further; it is the peak.

Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—these are the three faces of the Divine. Brahma means the creator. Vishnu means the sustainer, the one who maintains. Mahesh (Shiva) means the destroyer.

That even destruction can be included within the Divine—this has happened nowhere except in this land. All cultures called him the creator, but only here did we dare call him the destroyer as well. Creation is only half the story—just one aspect. Whoever builds must also have the power to unbuild. The truth is: one who cannot destroy cannot truly create. Think of a sculptor creating a statue—the work begins with destruction. He takes up chisel and hammer and breaks the stone. If stone had life it would scream, “Why are you breaking me?” By being broken and broken, the statue appears out of the stone—of Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna.

Without destruction there is no creation. And whatever is created must also perish. Creation happens in time, and in time nothing can be eternal. Whatever is born must die.

There is a kind of fatigue in being. Everything gets tired! You will be surprised to know that modern science says metals get tired. Among Jagadish Chandra Bose’s many discoveries—those for which he received the Nobel Prize—was this: metals too get fatigued. When you write with a pen it is not only your hand that gets tired; the pen gets tired. Bose even devised instruments to measure this. And since half a century has passed, science has refined itself much further. Now we know everything gets tired; machines get tired, they too need rest.

Destruction is rest. Birth is one aspect; life is the second; death is the third. Life tires you out. That’s why we have never looked at death with ill-feeling. We even called Yama, the lord of death, a god. We never called him “devil.” He is divine. Death is divine.

The Kathopanishad tells a lovely story: Nachiketa is sitting by his father. A little child. The father has performed a great sacrifice and is distributing cows. The father must be old—and dishonest! It is difficult for an old man not to be dishonest. It is also difficult for a child to be dishonest; what experience does he have yet to be dishonest! To be dishonest takes experience; honesty needs no experience. Honesty is natural. So every child is born honest. Blessed are those who, at the time of death, attain honesty once again. They are the rishis, the saints, the gurus—those who regain a childlike simplicity.

Such simplicity is not found in so-called experienced people. Experience means you have seen the world’s tricks, learned its ways—and from every way and every recognition you learned cleverness. Cleverness means: we too have become expert at cutting throats! We will do it so smoothly that no one will know; even the one whose throat is cut won’t know!

The father was old, a king, distributing cows. The son was watching and could not understand. The cows looked half dead—no milk for years. Why are these being given? He began asking his father, “You are giving away these dead cows! They give no milk, will not give milk; they won’t bear calves. And as for the poor people to whom you are giving them, you think you are donating! They will become more wretched trying to care for them! Why are you offering these dead cows?”

Small children see many things that the old do not. A film of haze gathers over the old person’s eyes.

That is why the older a culture, the more dishonest it becomes. The root of this country’s dishonesty lies here. No country is older than we are. We have even forgotten how to die. We got stuck with Brahma; we forgot Mahesh.

How many cultures were born! Babylon, Assyria, Egypt, Rome, Athens—lost!

Seth Govind Das, an Indian politician, often visited me. He would say: “Our culture is unique! All cultures were born and died; only we are still alive.” I heard it many times. He was an old man. I told him, “Don’t take this as a matter of pride. Dying is as important as living. One must also know how to die; it, too, is an art. This country has forgotten how to die. And when a country forgets how to die, it gets tired, bored, dishonest. It becomes dejected; its dance is lost; the anklets no longer ring on its feet; the flute slips from its lips. When youth goes, where will the flute be! How will the anklets be tied! A corpse remains, from which only stench arises. One must also die, because after death there is rebirth.”

Death frees you from all that is rotten—from all dishonesty and hypocrisy—and makes you new. That is the art and blessing of death. Death is not a curse.

Just imagine, if people forget to die, life in any home would become impossible. That’s what we have become. If a house were full of only old people—once a year you wail in ancestor fortnight and offer to those who died—but imagine if they were still alive, you would have to cut off heads! If in one house nobody had died for a thousand or two thousand years, what would be the state! A great hell would be born. Children could not even breathe there; they would die just taking a breath. Where so many old ones are breathing!

Mulla Nasruddin was reading the paper. It reported a scientist’s calculation: with every breath you take, five people die on the earth!

He called to his wife, busy cooking, “Listen, Fazlu’s mother! Whenever I take a breath, five people die!”

She said, “I’ve told you many times—why don’t you stop breathing! How long will you keep breathing and killing people?”

If in a house thousands of years old people kept breathing, the air would be poison. That is our condition. The old are breathing; they never depart. They don’t take leave.

We cling to the past to our chest. We carry graves. We are getting crushed beneath them! Carrying corpses—and it is hard to even find where the living is beneath the corpses.

We are so traditional, so inert.

Death is as useful as birth. Birth arouses you; it breathes life into clay. Then you tire—seventy, eighty, ninety, a hundred years—then you must return to the source. Air merges back into air; water into water; earth into earth; sky into sky; life-breath into the Great Breath—into the source—so you can be revived again with fresh energy.

Those cultures that died were revived again. We did not die—so we decayed. We could not be rejuvenated.

I would like India to learn to die, so it can live again—so youth can flow again—so children’s laughter can be heard again. We have listened to the old babble too long.

But we alone recognized that life is precious, birth is precious—and death too is precious. And we called all three divine, the three forms of God—Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh.

You’ll be surprised to know there is only one temple to Brahma in all of India! This is significant. Brahma’s work is done. Symbolically a single temple is dedicated; in truth, Brahma’s work is complete.

Yes, there are many Vishnu temples. All avatars are of Vishnu—Rama, Krishna, Buddha, Parashurama. None of these are avatars of Brahma. They are sustainers. When someone at home is ill you call a doctor; when man becomes ill, physicians arise from the vast source of life. Buddha said, “I am a physician—not a scholar.” Nanak too said, “I am a vaidya, a healer. My work is to free your life of disease, to give it health, to teach you the art of living.”

So there are many temples of Vishnu. Whether of Rama, Krishna, or Buddha—all are Vishnu temples; they are Vishnu’s avatars. Vishnu’s task is large: birth happens in an instant; death also in an instant; life stretches for years.

And note a third point: there are even more temples of Shiva, of Mahesh, than of Vishnu. So many that we had to stop building temples; now anywhere a linga is placed under a tree—a temple is made! Bring a rounded stone from anywhere, seat it, offer a couple of flowers—how many flowers can you offer? So we offer leaves to Shankar—bel leaves! Where will you bring so many flowers? There are Shiva shrines under every tree, in every village. That symbol too is meaningful.

Creation has happened; the world has been made; Brahma’s work is over. Life is going on; hence Vishnu’s work continues. But the great work still to be done is Mahesh’s—to immerse life again—dissolution; to consign life back—mahapralaya—where all is lost and then all wakes again, fresh.

We call sleep a little death. Each night, in deep sleep, a tiny death happens—atomic. When the mind becomes utterly empty—no thoughts at all, not even the glimmer of a dream—where do you go? You merge in death; you reach where the dead go.

Deep sleep is a small death; that’s why in the morning you feel fresh. That freshness is because you “died” in the night. You rise cheerful, delighted; your face shines; taste for life returns; your feet regain movement; you are ready for work—because in the night you died.

One who dreams all night rises exhausted. He is more tired in the morning than when he went to bed, because all night he dreamed, struggled—nightmares! hurled from mountains, dragged about; ghosts tormented him; demons danced on his chest—what not!

Mulla Nasruddin slept one night and dreamt he was running—running fast—chased by a lion getting closer; its breath he could feel on his back. He thought, “I’m done for!” When the lion’s paw was on his back his sleep broke—in a fright. He saw it was no one else—his wife’s hand on his back!

Wives keep watch even in sleep—lest the fellow run off, perhaps to the neighbor’s house!

Mulla said, “At least let me sleep at night! Do whatever you want in the day. But why were you breathing on my back like that—my life was going! Is this any way?”

One morning he was telling friends, “I went lion hunting. Hours passed, no lion. Friends got tired. I said, Don’t worry; I know animal calls. I roared like a lion. No sooner had I roared than a lioness came out of a cave. We fired and finished her.”

Friends said, “So you can make such calls? Show us—what did you do?”

Mulla said, “Brother, better not here.”

They insisted. Excited, he gave the call. Immediately his wife opened the door, “What now, you wretch—what’s your problem?”

Mulla said, “See? The lioness appears! I roar here—and there she is! Look with your own eyes—my wife, in all her terribleness, rolling pin in hand!”

“Now do you believe I can do animal calls?”

If you make such sounds by night—just listen how people sound at night! Sometimes it’s worth getting up to observe.

I traveled for years, and often faced this trouble—sharing a compartment by night. Once there were four of us. By a strange miracle the first began to snore; I thought sleep would be difficult. But the one on the upper berth replied in such a way that I thought the first was nothing—a minor! The second was formidable—I said the night is gone.

They began a question-answer duet. The third, on the berth above me, was quiet for a while; when he joined I sat up—no point trying now. What an ensemble started among those three!

For a while I listened. It was hopeless; it would go on all night. I closed my eyes and let out a roar of my own. All three sat up, “Brother, if you snore like that in sleep, how will we sleep?”

I said, “Who’s sleeping, you fools! I’m awake—and warning you: if you act up, I will not sleep and I will not let you sleep. You are sleeping; I am awake. I make the sound fully awake. I make no sound in my sleep. Behave—or I won’t let you sleep all night!”

People don’t sleep; even at night their orchestra continues; what call-and-response! Imagine what goes on within them—what troubles they pass through. Then if they rise tired, what surprise. They didn’t sleep.

If you get even half an hour of deep, dreamless sleep at night, it suffices; it refreshes you for twenty-four hours. Trees too sleep at night; that is why their blossoms reopen in the morning and fragrance flies. Birds sleep by night; in the morning songs pour from their throats. I don’t call those ordinary songs; I call them the Srimad Bhagavad Gita—the song of Krishna. Qur’anic verses rise from their throats. This whole miracle happens because of that small death at night.

When small children are born—look at their simplicity, beauty, softness, grace. Where does it come from? They too were old; they died; then were revived.

Religion is the art of dying and being revived while living. Therefore we gave the Guru all three names: Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh. Brahma—the one who creates. Vishnu—the one who sustains. Mahesh—the one who dissolves. The true Guru is the one who knows all three arts.

But you look for gurus who won’t destroy you—only decorate you. One who cannot annihilate—what can he ever create? In this life does anything get built without demolishing?

You go to gurus who give consolation—meaning, who maintain you, bandage you, give you beliefs to lessen fear and worry. These are not true gurus.

A true Guru gives you a new birth. But new birth is possible only if first the Guru kills you, dissolves you, breaks you.

There is a very ancient aphorism: acharyo mrityuh—the master is death. Whoever said it, said it knowingly, by living it. Nowhere else on earth has anyone called the Guru “death.” We called the Guru death—and death the Guru.

I was telling you Nachiketa’s story. When he told his father, “You are offering dead cows,” it became clear to him what trickery was afoot being called “charity.” The foolish priests praised his father: “Ah, you are the great donor! When was there ever such a giver? Once in centuries! And he is giving dead cows!”

Children recognize quickly; there is no trickery yet. The eye is clean—no smoke of thoughts, no smoke of doctrines; not yet Hindu, Muslim, or Christian; no mischief yet; the slate is blank. So they see clearly.

A child lived with his uncle. The uncle hardly fed him—just enough to survive; dressed him in ragged, secondhand clothes from the thieves’ market: pajama legs too long, coat sleeves too short; a cap that would make anyone a “sardar,” clamping the head so tight it shuts it! Men become sardar only by binding the turban so tight that nothing remains inside!

The child suffered much, but what to do—parents dead, he had fallen into his uncle’s hands. One day both sat there—the poor child and the uncle reading his newspaper, puffing his hookah. A completely mangy, coughing, wheezing, skeletal dog wandered in. The uncle said, “Drive it out! What’s this carcass of a dog come here for! Nothing but bones!”

The boy said, “Seems he too lives with his uncle—look at his state!”

Children see clearly—this is obvious! You enjoy your hookah and see the dog’s wretchedness, but you don’t see mine!

So Nachiketa asked his father, “You are offering dead cows—aren’t you ashamed?”

The father got angry—as who wouldn’t! “Shut up! Or I’ll offer you too!”

The boy was delighted. He thought: wonderful! Curiosity arose—“To whom will you offer me?” He kept asking, “When will you offer me? The festival is ending; when will you offer me? To whom?”

The father, angrier, said, “I will offer you to Death—to Yama.”

He said, “Do it!”

Such is the sweet tale: the father said, “Go—I give you to Death.” He was only ranting. Who gives whom to death! How often in anger do parents tell a child, “It would have been better if you had not been born. Go die! Don’t show your face again!”

But Nachiketa was one of a kind. He set out in search of Death: “Father has offered me—where is Death?” The story says he reached Yama’s gate. Yama was away—no leisure for him; so many die; people hang in hospitals everywhere, trying every trick to die or to live; he must be running about. In olden times he rode a buffalo; now he must be flying, else how could he manage! If he went by buffalo, by the time he carried one away a hundred thousand would die here. The old story says he rode a buffalo; now he must take the train—if you like the color black and buffalo-like shapes—an old coal engine, demonic, chest-thumping as it came.

When the train first ran in England, no one would ride it; a rumor spread that it was the devil’s invention. “Look at its face!” People fled—“It’s true!” “Could any man invent a thing with such a face!” Priests spread the rumor that whoever sat in it was finished; it would never stop. No one agreed to ride.

The first riders were twenty or twenty-five. The train could seat three hundred, and those twenty-five were dragged on. Some were criminals ordered by magistrates: “Ride the train; no other punishment.” They said, “We have to die anyway—better die in this than in jail—and get a trip!” Some were to be exiled; officials said, “If you ride the train, no exile.” They wanted to experiment. Some were brave but took money to risk their lives. “If we die or it doesn’t stop, who will care for our families?” The government guaranteed care. Thus twenty-five rode. Their families came to see them off—as if for their final farewell, weeping, “Brother, you are going—who knows if we will ever meet again,” like dried rose petals in books—who knows when this will happen. They gave the last salute and left, wives and children crying.

As the train passed through villages, people ran away: “The train is coming!” Only when it stopped did they believe, “Ah—it can stop!”

Yama’s messengers returned after three days—buffalo travel, carrying souls. Yama’s wife pleaded with Nachiketa, “Child, at least eat.” He said, “I won’t eat until I meet Yama.” He sat fasting—the first satyagrahi!

Yama arrived, tired, dismounted. He saw the boy drying up after three days. “What’s the matter, child?” “My father said he gave me to Death; I searched and reached you—but you weren’t here. So I have not eaten. I will eat only after I meet you.”

Yama was delighted. “Ask three boons—ask wealth, rank, prestige.”

Nachiketa said, “There is no substance in any of that. I’ve seen it all at my father’s—wealth, position, prestige. If that doesn’t bring intelligence, what else will! Teach me the secret of death. Tell me—what is death?”

Yama said, “That is difficult; whoever knows death’s secret knows the secret of the deathless. You are clever—you ask of death, but to tell of death I must tell you of the immortal!”

But Nachiketa persisted: “Then I will not eat. I will die right here in satyagraha.”

Yama felt great compassion and revealed death’s secret. The moment Nachiketa knew death, he attained the key to the deathless.

He who recognizes death, recognizes the deathless.

At the true Guru’s feet, sadhana is to know death, to live death, to pass through death.

We gave the Guru all three forms: he creates; he sustains; he dissolves. He doesn’t only destroy; he doesn’t only create; he doesn’t only sustain. Therefore only the courageous can go to a true Guru—those ready to die, ready to be dissolved.

Those who go to the Guru for consolation should go to pundits and priests—that is their trade. You weep, they wipe your tears, pat your back: “Don’t worry; all will be well.” They give you doctrines to lessen your sorrow: “This was suffering; it is over—good that it happened; a past-life karma is finished; one karma less. Ahead everything will be fine. Take this—recite Hanuman Chalisa; if Bajrangbali is pleased, all is well. Chant Ram-Ram; wear the blanket of the Lord’s Name. Don’t panic—if at death you utter his name even once, even a sinner like Ajamila was saved. What sin have you done! Just say the Name once when dying. Drink Ganga water at the end; keep a bottle at home. If nothing else, take a turn at Kashi—go there and die. If even that is not possible, have a priest whisper the Gayatri in your ear at the end, or the Namokar Mantra. You never said in life, ‘Buddham saranam gacchami, Sangham saranam gacchami, Dhammam saranam gacchami’; someone will say it into your ear—just listen; it will do the job!”

These are tricks—devised by the dishonest for the dishonest. They are not the alchemy of life’s transformation.

With a true Guru you learn to die and to live. To die while living—that is meditation; that is sannyas. To live as if life is a play, an acting—no more than that. Do not take it seriously.

But this world is strange: those you call sensualists take it very seriously; those you call yogis take it even more seriously! Both are serious—yogis more so. The sensualist might laugh sometimes; the yogi never laughs. He has to cross the ocean of existence! Where is the time to laugh! If he bursts out laughing the water might enter his mouth—finished! So he keeps his mouth shut, never smiles; his life is on a thread. He spends time muttering “Ram-Ram,” pleading: “O Lord, when will you lift me up? When will I be free of this ocean? When will the cycle of birth and death stop?” And the Lord keeps the creation going, ignoring your mahatmas. They shout, and the Lord sets the cycle turning again!

The Divine is not against creation; creation is His. How can he be against it? Creation is an opportunity, a stage where you learn the art of acting life—living like a lotus leaf in water: in water, yet untouched by it.

The true Guru teaches you this. And when these three happenings occur at the Guru’s, a fourth happens within you. That fourth too we have remembered in this verse.

“Gurur brahmā gurur viṣṇuḥ gurur devo maheśvaraḥ.”

These are the three steps. Then the experience that flowers within through these three steps—these are the three doors—entering through them, the meeting with the deity of the temple, the fourth, turiya, the fourth state—“Guru is the very Parabrahman made manifest.” Then you know that the one by whose side you sat was no person. The one who sustained, killed, beat, broke, awakened—he was no person. He wasn’t there; within him was only God.

And the day you see God within your Guru, you will see God within yourself. Because the Guru is a mirror—in which your own glimpse appears. When the eye is clean, the glimpse appears.

Three steps—then the fourth storey. At the true Guru’s, all four steps are completed.

“Tasmai śrī gurave namaḥ.”

Therefore homage to the Guru. Therefore we bow to him.

And we chose the day of the full moon for this, Satya Vedant, because our life is not like daytime; it is like night. And suns do not rise by night; the moon rises by night. We are night—dark night. When the Guru enters our life, it is as if the night of the full moon has arrived, as if the moon of Purnima has descended.

The moon is a symbol of many things. First, it gives light by night. You are dark night; you need the moon, not the sun. What will you do with the sun! You cannot meet it yet. You are dark; you have no news of the sun. You can only meet the moon.

And the moon has many virtues. First: its light is not its own; it is the sun’s light. All day the moon drinks the sun’s light; all night it pours it back. The moon has no light of its own. Light a lamp and a mirror reflects the lamp’s light. The mirror has no light; the light is the lamp’s. But you cannot meet the lamp yet; you would be burned. Look at the sun directly and your eyes will be burnt—already you are blind, your eyes will be destroyed.

You cannot meet God directly yet. You need a very gentle form of the Divine—one you can digest. The moon is gentle. The light in the Guru is the sun itself, the Divine itself; but through the medium of the Guru it becomes gentle.

This is the moon’s alchemy—its magic. It drinks the sun’s light and cools it. The sun is hot, blazing; the moon fills you with coolness.

The sun is masculine, harsh; the moon is feminine, sweet, gracious. God is masculine, austere, like the sun—hard to digest directly. To digest Him, you must pass through the true Guru. The Guru gives you the same light in a way you can drink it. If you drink straight from the ocean you die—though the water in the well is the ocean’s. But it rises in clouds, falls as rivers, tumbles from mountains; it is still the ocean’s water. Water in the Ganga, Yamuna, Narmada, your well, a mountain spring—it is all the ocean’s. But drink the ocean and you die; a spring has some mystery—some secret that makes that same water digestible.

The true Guru has that art. Through him the Divine passes and becomes gentle—feminine—sweet—lovable. Passing through him it comes to you in a form you can digest. And once you learn to digest, the Guru steps aside.

He was never a “someone”; he was a process of transformation. The day you recognize the Guru’s inner being, you have recognized the sun—you have seen the sun in the moon; then night vanishes and day dawns.

Hence we chose Guru Purnima as the symbol. These are all symbols. Take note of another aspect of these symbols.

When you go to the true Guru there are four ways of going:
- One is out of curiosity—just to see what is happening, what is being said. That is the shallowest.
- The second is as a student—to learn something, gather information, collect knowledge. Deeper, but not much—only skin-deep. You’ll collect some information and go back.
- The third is as a disciple. Connect the curious with Brahma; the student with Vishnu; the disciple with Mahesh.

A disciple is one ready to be annihilated. A student is busy polishing himself: more knowledge, more information, more degrees, more certificates, more medals. The student is engaged in self-decoration. The curious has just begun the journey—Brahma’s work has begun—the seed is sown; creation begins. The student moves a little ahead—two leaves unfold. The disciple is one ready to die, to be dissolved—who says, “I am ready to offer everything to the Guru.” From that readiness a disciple is born.

Not every student is a disciple. A student’s eagerness is for knowledge; a disciple’s eagerness is for meditation. Knowledge feeds and polishes your ego; meditation kills and dissolves it.

- The fourth state is the devotee. A devotee means one who has already dissolved. The disciple began; the devotee completed. The devotee knows the state of Parabrahman—the one who, before the Guru, has utterly dissolved; nothing remains even to say, “I want to dissolve.” Where there is devotion there is the vision of the Supreme.

Understand a third meaning as well.

There are four states of human consciousness: waking, dreaming, deep sleep, and the fourth—samadhi. Waking relates to Brahma—because awake you engage in work, construction, creation: building, running shops, earning money. In dreams you “maintain”—what remained incomplete by day is tended in the dream. That’s why dreams differ for each person. Psychologists examine dreams to learn what is unfinished—where maintenance is needed.

One who dreams of wealth all night advertises that wealth is lacking in his life. Dreams arise from lack. When nothing is lacking, dreams vanish. The enlightened do not dream—what remains to be seen?

One whose dreams are full of women—apsaras, Urvashis, Menakas—means that fulfillment has not come from the experience of the feminine or masculine; desire is repressed, so it raises its head in dreams. The dream says: take care here; there is a lack.

The psychologist says: tell me your dream and I will know you. If I know your lack I can tell you where to fill—where the pit is—where the difficulty comes.

The third state is deep sleep—Mahesh—death. A small death happens at night when even dreams disappear; you are no more; where you go is unknown—everything is void.

The fourth we call turiya; it simply means the fourth—the state of samadhi. When one awakens in deep sleep—dreams gone, deep sleep present, but the lamp of awareness lit—that is samadhi. In that fourth state there is the vision of the Supreme.

When you go to the true Guru you first go in waking, with curiosity. If you stay awhile, you won’t return without becoming a student—then there are dreams. What is knowledge? Nothing but dream—lines drawn on water, or on paper. Knowledge is only a dream.

If you stay longer, dreams vanish—knowledge disappears—and meditation arises. Meditation is like deep sleep. If you remain still longer, even deep sleep falls away—then bodh, Buddhahood, is born. When Buddhahood is born, you know the Guru who was outside is the one within; the one within is the one spread in all. That same Parabrahman is in flowers, in birds, in stones, in people—pervading all. All waves are of one ocean. Blessed are those who know this. They alone are religious—not Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jain—just religious.

I would like those gathered around me to be simply religious. Bid farewell to the diseases of Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jain, Parsi. These are all illnesses.

If you have come to the physician, free yourself of these diseases; be healthy. Then a bow will arise from within: “Tasmai śrī gurave namaḥ.” For the first time, out of gratitude and grace, a bow will arise. For the first time you will bow to this universe, to this existence. Your life-breath will overflow with thankfulness, with benediction. A fragrance will arise in your life that will be offered at existence’s feet.

This is life’s highest peak. One who dies without reaching here—lived in vain and died in vain. Neither lived nor died—just suffered blows.

Don’t go on suffering blows. This full moon can dawn in your life too. You are worthy of this Purnima. Call it—invoke it. It is your birthright.

Pandit Mansaram Shastri! What a marvel! If the whole world is nothing but maya, on which world’s horizon do you want to see a religious flag fluttering? If all is maya, what will you do meeting me in private? Then what private and what crowd—everything is maya!

What rambling talk this is!

But you are a resident of Kashi, Pandit Mansaram Shastri. From the residents of Kashi, one cannot expect better than this!

You said such grand things at first—but then! The drum exposed its own hollowness!

A young woman went to a psychologist and said, “I’m fed up—people call me shameless! And I see no reason. Wherever I go, whoever sees me calls me shameless. So tell me, what is my shamelessness? What is my fault? I’m ready to improve. These people have made my life impossible!”
The psychologist said, “Madam! First get off my lap and sit on the chair in front. Then we’ll talk!”

Pandit Mansaram Shastri! Use a little sense! Seeing people like you, I’ve begun to say the buffalo is bigger—even bigger than intelligence!

What sweet words you spoke—all borrowed! “I am sat-chit-ananda!” Brother, how did you get here, and why? You took the trouble to come all the way from Kashi! Didn’t you feel ashamed traveling in maya? You sat in maya’s train; bought maya’s ticket! You must have eaten maya’s food on the way. So many mayas lay along the road; you must have kept your eyes shut!

Leaving Kashi—the city unique in the three worlds—where have you come? What are you doing in Poona? In Poona it’s even sprouted horns—“Pune!” Like horns growing on a donkey’s head! Someone could jab a horn here and—your whole maya would scatter! Where have you come!

You say: “I am sat-chit-ananda!
‘I am the pure, awakened Self. What have I to do with worldly activities? All the world’s business is illusory! Neither blame nor praise touches me. I am a child of immortality!’”

What shall I call you! Pandit Mansaram Shastri, or Pandit Totaram Shastri—a parrot-pandit! And then at the end you messed the whole thing up. That’s how it goes. Hide it as you will, it gets exposed. Even if the elephant passes through, the tail gets stuck!

A woman went to the hospital to see her ill husband and asked how he was. The husband said, “The fever has broken; now the leg pains.”
The wife said, “Don’t worry, dear! When the fever has broken, the leg will break too!”

A pandit got married. All is maya anyway, but perhaps he thought at least he could free this woman from maya! So he married. On the wedding night—stuffed with panditry—he began: telling his wife, “Love is blind,” and as he kept saying it—“Love is blind”—he kept undressing.
The wife said, “It may be. But the neighbors aren’t blind! First pull the curtain over the window!”

A young woman went to a sadhu and said, “Maharaj, in one discourse you said the ego is the greatest sin. But when I look in the mirror, I think how beautiful I am, and I become very egotistical. What should I do?”
The sadhu said, “Child, a misunderstanding is not a sin!”

Pandit Mansaram Shastri! O Kashi-dwelling Totaram! Remove this junk of knowledge. There isn’t a grain of your own experience in it—not an ounce.

And don’t be offended. This is my Shiva-like form! I will smash like this. And I never spare pandits. I love them! And love is blind anyway! When a pandit falls into my hands, I treat him as a jeweler treats a diamond—pick up the chisel and go to work. Good that you came. We’ll see in private later—first let’s see you here in the crowd! If you survive, we’ll meet in private too!

You speak of “this great work of turning the wheel of Dharma...”
Arre, in this illusory world is there any “great work,” any “turning of the wheel”? It’s all play, brother!

I’m not doing any “turning of the wheel of Dharma.” Who would get into such hassles! Then you’ll have to keep spinning the wheel all the time—become bearer of the Sudarshan chakra! Or play the flute twenty-four hours—become the flute-player!

If all is maya, what’s the fuss! Whom are you to liberate? From what? If there were bondage, there could be freedom. Here there is no bondage at all. People are already free. All these free men are sitting here! Ask anyone—anyone will tell you: “I am sat-chit-ananda! I am the pure, awakened Self!” Here I have an assembly of Buddhas! Once in a while some buddhu from Kashi turns up—that’s different! But that’s an exception! Otherwise, Buddhas are sitting here! See how delighted they become hearing this!

Don’t parrot. Nothing happens by repetition.

A woman had eight children. Whenever any one of them cried for any reason, she’d pacify him saying, “Look son, you don’t cry after making a mistake.”
One day, worn out by their mischief, she herself began to cry, saying, “Better to have no children than such children!”
Her little daughter consoled her, “Look, Mummy! Don’t cwy after making a mistwake!”
Listening and listening, the daughter too had learned the “wisdom!”

In Kashi these slogans float in the air. Wherever you go, you can’t escape!

“I am a child of immortality. Neither blame nor praise touches me!”
Then what does touch you? Does anything touch you or not? If not, I have here women of the most astonishing kind—shall I set one on you? Instantly you’ll say, “Hey, sister, stay away! Don’t touch me!” Then you’ll know: forget blame and praise—if even some woman touches you, your very life will feel in danger! “What maya has latched on!” And I have such goddesses here! Not small goddesses—furies from Chandigarh too! I’ll set them after you; they’ll chase you all the way to Kashi! And until you touch their feet and say—Sri Guruve Namah—they won’t let go.

Don’t repeat like a parrot. Speak like a man. You won’t be able to fool me; these tricks work in Kashi because the rest there are parrots too.

About love
Having attained a Radha-like absorption,
a beloved wrote to her lover,
“Now my state is such
that I see you
in every man—
therefore, in this delirium
don’t ask me
what I am doing;
helplessly—
I am marrying
someone else!”

Now when Krishna alone starts appearing in everyone, what is the point of waiting for Krishna Kanhaiya! What Radha and the others say—that they see Krishna in all—is not true. The gopis said they saw him. When Krishna went to Dwarka, then why all that weeping and wailing? Was there a shortage of cowherds? Many were playing the flute; grab any of them—“Ah, dear! Where had you gone! After so long! Come, let’s dance the rasa!”
It’s all talk—that Krishna appears in everyone.

Until you free yourself from this useless knowledge, no meaningful journey is possible.

In this life, it is not ignorance that misleads people, as I see it, but knowledge. Let me remind you of an Upanishadic saying. You are a pandit; you must have read it, though you didn’t understand—pandits never do. Their job is to read—mechanically.
The Upanishad says: “Ignorance certainly leads astray, but knowledge leads into a great darkness.”
What astonishing people they must have been! If such a Rishi of the Upanishads came to Kutch—he wouldn’t be allowed at all! “Where are you coming! You’ll endanger culture.” Would you have let such a Rishi live—one who says ignorance indeed leads into darkness, but knowledge leads into a great darkness! What could be more revolutionary!

Why does knowledge create a greater misguidance than ignorance? The ignorant at least have the awareness that they are ignorant; so there is humility, simplicity, naturalness. In the ignorant there is a certain goodness, a purity; no stiffness. He says, “I don’t know anything—what is there to strut about?” Knowledge brings swagger—and hollow swagger. Because you have learned by rote; memorized the scriptures; now you keep repeating them.

A pandit went to buy a parrot, because his rival pandit had a parrot hanging at his door that recited the Gayatri mantra. His prestige was taking a hit. His customers were being snatched away. They would say, “Maharaj, what do you know? Look there! He’s the great pandit—his parrot recites the Gayatri too!”
So he went to the bird shop: “Brother, give me a parrot. A parrot that can outdo the Gayatri.”
The shopkeeper said, “I have one. A parrot that snares Hindus and snares Muslims! Such an astonishing parrot—absolutely Gandhian! ‘Allah-Ishwar tere naam, sabko sanmati de Bhagwan!’ A modern parrot. What’s this Gayatri business!”
“Show me—where is your parrot?”
He took him inside. The parrot sat quietly—wearing khadi clothes! A Gandhi cap on its head! A little spinning wheel kept beside it. The pandit said, “Sri Guruve Namah! Astonishing parrot! Pure khadi! Spinning wheel right in front. Explain a bit more.”
The shopkeeper said, “Look at its leg—the left leg has a thread tied to it. If you pull this, it begins to recite sutras from the Upanishads. The other leg has another thread—so fine no one will even notice. Pull that, and it recites verses from the Quran. If a Muslim comes, pull this; if a Hindu comes, pull that. Both will be yours.”
“Amazing parrot! One question: what if I pull both threads at once?”
The parrot said, “You blockhead! If you pull both at once, I’ll fall down with a thud!”
Even parrots have a little more sense!

And what are you saying! There is no “turning of the wheel of Dharma” going on here. Here there is fun, festivity. This is a tavern, a wine-house. A congregation of drinkers sits here. Invisible wine is drunk and served here. If you want to drink, drink. And only if you have the courage will you be able to drink. Because no tradition is being spoken here. Here pure truth is being spoken. There is no nourishment of any tradition. Because I do not accept that tradition and truth ever have any relationship. Truth is always new, ever-new—like the drops of morning dew—so fresh.

Drop this babble that “I am sat-chit-ananda. The pure, awakened Self. What have I to do with worldly activities!”

You still have a great deal to do with worldly activities. You still want to see the flag of religion fluttering on the world’s horizon! Your mind is stuck there: “May our flag fly high!” And whose flag do you want to raise? People want to raise the pole; the flag is just a pretext.

First, drop this rubbish. If you want to come to me, leave this trash outside and come. Come as ignorant; my doors are open. Come as a knower; the doors are completely closed.

In this whole ashram I call only one person a saint; I’ve seated him at the gate. Among five thousand drinkers, there is only one saint! I’ve seated him outside. You’ll ask why? Because he is utterly topsy-turvy! And the topsy-turvy instantly recognizes other topsy-turvy ones. A watermelon recognizes a watermelon! I call him—Saint Maharaj! He sits at the gate. He sees right there whether another topsy-turvy one is coming; he sends them off from there itself. How he let you in—that’s the wonder! Sometimes he smokes a bit of bhang. Well, he’s a saint—what to do! Would a saint not drink bhang? He must have had some, it seems; that’s how you slipped inside. Otherwise he would have sent you off at the gate!

For the knowledgeable, the door is closed. For the ignorant, my door is open, my heart is open—because the ignorant can be transformed; with the knowledgeable, the effort is wasted!

The great Western musician Wagner, whenever he accepted someone as a disciple, would ask, “You haven’t learned music somewhere already, have you? If you have, take the road! Out you go. And if you insist, I’ll charge double.” “One who hasn’t learned—I will teach.”
Naturally, those who had studied would say, “You’re speaking backwards! We’ve labored for years. You should charge us less!”
He would say, “First it will have to be unlearned. Who will do that labor?”

Pandit Mansaram Shastri! First your Shastri-hood must be erased, your panditness erased; only then can something begin. For now, don’t go hoisting any religious flags! For the present, let a lamp be lit in your life—that is enough.

Shil Bahadur Vajracharya! Meditation certainly frees one from disease—but I am not talking about physical diseases. It cures spiritual diseases. Meditation has no direct connection with the removal of physical illness. Indirectly there may be effects, but not a straight, causal link. Otherwise Ramana Maharshi would not have died of cancer! Nor would Ramakrishna have died of cancer! Mahavira died of dysentery. Buddha died from poisoned food. Meditation could not stop the poison spreading in his body—and who was a greater meditator than Buddha? Mahavira’s meditation—who has ever attained such shukla dhyan, such pure meditation, such samadhi! Yet it did not change the fact of dysentery. For six months he had bout after bout—bloody diarrhea.

If meditation bestowed some special bodily health, Shankaracharya would not have died at thirty-three! Hardly an age to die!

But you have slightly misunderstood me. I do say that meditation brings health. By health I mean being established in oneself. In our language, svasthya—health—means “to be situated in the self.” Meditation brings that health.

And it is not that the World Health Organization has had no curiosity about my words. Once their delegation even attended one of my meditation camps. W.H.O., the World Health Organization, sent five or seven people to the Aajol meditation camp to see what was going on, to observe. But what they saw, what they understood, and what they discussed with me shook them up so much that I never found out what report they filed—because I never again received a letter or any news from them!

I was not surprised. It was predictable. All such organizations are basically extensions of politics. And the first disease that meditation frees you from is—politics!

When those W.H.O. officials met me, I told them: The first freedom is from politics. They said, What! A meditator becomes free of politics; he must. Politics means the world’s tricks, the world’s black-marketing, the world’s dishonesties. Politics means competition, envy, jealousy. Politics means the attempt to dominate others. But meditation makes you your own master; and one who is his own master has no desire to be anyone else’s master. He has attained mastership over mastership.

Therefore politicians cannot be curious about what I say. My words will make them nervous. Scholars will be shaken, religious leaders will be shaken, politicians will be shaken, educationists will be shaken. My words will create anxiety in all of them, because if what I say is true, their whole nets can break.

Your entire education is built upon ambition. Create a fever of ambition inside people. Make them run—toward money, toward position. “On to Delhi!”—this slogan should echo in everyone’s soul! Let that become their core mantra! And until you become Prime Minister or President, your life is futile!

We pour this poison into even the youngest children: Come first in your class! This race to be first is violence.

Jesus said: Blessed are those who can stand last, for theirs is the kingdom of God. Those who can stand at the very end! And here the entire race is to be first! Here no one even wants to stand last!

Someone once asked George Bernard Shaw, Would you prefer to go to heaven or to hell? He said, Whichever place I can be first in—there! I won’t tolerate number two either. I’ll go to hell, but I’ll be number one!

Ask yourself in deep quiet: if you were offered the presidency in hell, would you go to hell; or would you go to heaven where perhaps there’s only a chance to be a peon? Because there there will be a queue! The great saints will already have filed applications to be peons! You’ll think, What place will there be for a poor fellow like me! And here I’m being offered the presidency. Who would miss it! If it’s hell, so be it; but to be president—ah, that’s something!

Your mind is sick with ambition. Meditation will free you from this disease.

You are ill with ego. What is your disease? What is the stone pressing on your chest? Just one stone—the ego. There is no other stone. Meditation will free you from ego, because meditation will show you that you are not separate; you are an integral part of this universe. As a wave is part of the ocean, so you are part of this vast consciousness; you are not other.

Your religious leaders cannot take an interest in meditation, because meditation will show you—who is Hindu, who is Muslim, who is Christian! Meditation reveals that you are pure consciousness. And consciousness is neither Hindu nor Muslim nor Christian.

Why are all these people against me? Christians against me, Hindus against me, Jains against me, Muslims against me! What offense have I committed against them all? What I’m teaching you—these people understand that if it spreads, it will cut their roots.

A meditator is only a meditator.

So I had not even gone to Kutch yet, and my arrows began to hit people there! First the Jain muni Bhadragupt fell—flat! I had not even reached Kutch! God knows how many will die of shock when I do arrive! I haven’t even set out; I haven’t even stepped beyond the door; only talk about it has begun. But in this country, gossip spawns more gossip, and then a mountain arises out of it.

Bhadragupt muni fell first. He gathered all the Jains, united the seven Jain sects, and proclaimed: Whether life remains or goes, get ready to sacrifice everything, but do not let this person enter Kutch!

What harm will I do to you! What trouble has befallen you?

Then yesterday the mahant Haridas ji of the Swaminarayan sect fell—down for the count! Declared that my coming to Kutch is an attack on Kutch’s culture. This attack must be opposed.

Among politicians there’s a great bustle. Meetings have begun; delegations have started reaching the governments, the Prime Minister! Petitions are being sent to deny me entry. And what am I snatching from anyone? What am I teaching you? Just this: Drop the ego. Drop ambition. Let go of borrowed, hollow knowledge so that the energy of consciousness buried within you can be revealed. Remove these rocks so the spring can flow.

What is making them so restless?

You ask, Shil Bahadur Vajracharya, “If meditation can cure all diseases, why not persuade the World Health Organization to help promote meditation methods?”

At least regarding what I call meditation, these people cannot cooperate. Impossible. Because for meditation to happen, I have to cut their roots! Will they hand me the ax to cut their own roots?

And then when I say one thing, they instantly understand something else—because all of them have vested interests. Vested interest does not allow one to understand straightforwardly. A person full of vested interest thinks only in his own terms.

Last time you were sentenced by this court to two months!
Prisoner: Yes, Your Honor!
This time I am letting you go. Due to weak witnesses you are acquitted. Charging such high interest is a crime. Understood?
Your Honor, at least send me for eight days, the prisoner said.
But why! The judge was astonished. It was the first time someone begged to be sent to jail for at least eight days!
The prisoner said: Why hide it from you? I’ve lent money to the inmates; I have to collect my interest! Just send me for eight days!

You send him to jail; he pursues the same trade there too! Outside he takes usury; inside he takes usury.

If the ambitious man stays in politics, he exploits; if he stays in religion, he exploits. A person with ambition cannot help but exploit. He has vested interests.

A woman was walking down the street, very pregnant. A rickshaw-wallah said, Sister, want a ride? She got angry and snapped, A ride? Let your own wife take a ride—mine will be a boy!

Each has his own interest, his own lens, his own way of seeing! Does anyone hear what is actually said? People hear according to themselves.

When Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru was Prime Minister, he visited a mental hospital. The place was cleaned and decorated beautifully. Seeing all this, one madman raised both hands and said, O God, please cure them quickly!
Pandit Nehru heard it. He said, What is that lunatic saying!
They asked him, What are you saying?
He replied, I’m praying for you: O Lord, cure them—cure them quickly. Good men! See, because of them the mental hospital is getting cleaned and decorated!
Pandit Nehru said, But am I mad?
The madman said, When I first came here three years ago, I too thought I was Jawaharlal Nehru! Hey, stay here three years—you’ll be fine! These rascals at the asylum, the superintendent and all, the beatings they give—if the real Jawaharlal Nehru himself came, he too would be cured!

A madman has his own way of thinking. He is not necessarily wrong in his own terms. When he first arrived, he believed he was Jawaharlal Nehru. When Nehru was in India, there were at least twenty such madmen across the country who believed themselves to be Nehru.

When Winston Churchill was Prime Minister in England, there were ten or twelve people right there in England who believed they were Winston Churchill, kept in mental hospitals! But even keeping them there won’t cure them so easily.

It happened in Baghdad: a man announced, I am a prophet. God has sent me—Muhammad’s time is long past, fourteen hundred years old; the Quran is an old book; now take a new revised edition! Pocket edition! Nowadays people can’t read such fat books! Times have changed—paperback!
He was dragged before the Caliph of Baghdad and accused: This scoundrel claims he is a new prophet sent by God!
The Caliph looked and said, Lock him up; beat him well for seven days. I’ll see him after that.
Seven days later the Caliph went. The man was tied to a pillar, unfed, beaten to a pulp, bleeding. The Caliph came near and said, Well, sir! Any change of mind now? Got some sense?
The man started laughing: This is exactly what God told me when I set out from His house—that great troubles will come! Prophets have always suffered! This proves I am a prophet! Earlier I sometimes doubted—perhaps it was just a delusion. Now I have unshakeable faith!
Just then another man tied to a pillar shouted, Stop this nonsense. This fellow is telling a blatant lie!
The Caliph was startled; the “prophet” was startled too.
The Caliph asked, How do you say he’s lying?
That man said, I have not sent anyone as a prophet after Muhammad!
He had been caught a month earlier—for claiming to be God! I am God! And this man is lying outright. I never sent him! For seven days I’ve been trying to explain to him: Hey, fool, look at me first—I never sent you. He just won’t listen! I sent the last prophet, Muhammad. There’s no need for another Muhammad; nor for any new Quran.

There is a world of madmen; they live in their own world.

Politics is a kind of madness—a very subtle madness.

If you think politicians will agree to my experiment in meditation, you’re mistaken. And the one who does agree will instantly cease to be a politician. There can be no bridge between politics and meditation.

Politics is the expansion of your stupidity, your ignorance; a way of inflating and painting all your foolishness. But meditation is the process of taking away all your lies, all your stupidities, all your hollow knowledge.

Who is ready to become zero! Only one who is ready to become nothing can be interested in meditation.

In a merchant’s home, sweet rice—kheer—was cooked. When it was served, the wife accidentally put a little more in their son’s bowl. The seth got angry and said to his wife: Am I your husband, or is he? That’s the one you give more kheer to!
The boy flared up: Is she my mother or yours—that she should give more to you?
And how could the sethani be left behind! She snapped: Is he my son or yours—that I should give more to you?
The quarrel just kept escalating!

Listen to politicians talk! And you think they’ll be interested in meditation! They have no concern with meditation. Yes, they go to priests and temples and mosques—at election time! They offer flowers, take prasad, perform puja, bathe in the Ganges, even fast! But for elections!

Even if they met God, do you think they would ask for liberation? Never. Heaven? Never. They will say, Lord, please get me a party ticket for this election! Just let me win this time—just this once! And You are the purifier of the fallen—what can’t You do! You are omnipotent.

A politician kept losing—lost and lost—seven elections in a row. He was distraught. One night he went to the river to jump and kill himself. As he was about to jump, an old crone placed her hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw a woman so horrific he had never seen the like! He recoiled; his gorge rose—he almost vomited! Such a rotting woman, such a stench! All teeth missing. A face so ugly and terrifying he said, Woman, let go quickly. I came to die anyway; seeing you, I’m absolutely sure now—better to die at once. Let me go.
She said, First listen to me. Do you know who I am?
I don’t know and I don’t want to know, the politician said. I don’t even want to live.
She said, At least hear me, or you’ll regret it—regret after dying, regret in the grave. I am a cursed apsara.
The politician softened: An apsara?
She said, Indra grew angry at me and cursed me: until you save someone from suicide, you must remain in this state. But the bargain isn’t bad. I grant three boons—whatever you want. Ask for any three.
The politician fell at her feet. The smell turned to fragrance! She looked so beautiful now—he had never seen such a beauty. He said, You must be Urvashi! An apsara—certainly an apsara! Just give me three boons: first, I must get the party ticket; second, I must win this election; third, I must become Prime Minister.
She said, All three will be fulfilled, but on one condition: you must make love with me all night!
His heart thumped! To make love all night—to this old hag! For a moment he thought, Better to jump and die. I’ve seen so much sorrow in life—why add this sorrow? All night! But greed grabbed him too—he had wasted his life for this, so do a little tapasya. He thought, Don’t saints do all kinds of austerities! Our saints endured so much—sat by braziers in the sun, slept on thorns, fasted for months, walked on coals. Come on, show some courage! Don’t miss, Chauhan! It’s only one night; somehow I’ll get through it—eyes shut tight, just get through it!
He said, All right, I agree.
The crone took his hand and led him to her hut nearby. He had to make love all night. Imagine his condition by morning—you can! Even in death he wouldn’t have suffered such misery as he did that night! But there was one hope: Now it’s morning, now it’s morning! The night lengthened and lengthened! For the first time he understood Einstein’s theory of relativity—time stretches and contracts. He had never understood how time could be elastic. Today he understood. He looked at the clock again and again but it seemed frozen. Two or three times he even asked the old woman, Is that clock running or not? Will it ever be morning?
She said, It will be morning. The clock is running. Don’t panic.
After making love all night, he rose from the bed, jubilant that now his three desires would be fulfilled. He said, Mother, now place your hand on my head and promise my three boons will be granted!
She said, Son, you must be from the Golden Age. In the Dark Age there are no apsaras! You fool, I’m no cursed apsara. I was just looking for a lover—and who else would get trapped but a politician! So go home, son. Have some milk and jalebi. As for boons—nothing is going to be fulfilled. And if you want to die, go ahead and die!
He said, What’s the use of dying now! After what I’ve gone through, even hell would look pale.

Do you think these people, stuffed with desires and ambition and ego, will be inclined toward meditation?

No, Vajracharya, it is impossible. Their only effort is that somehow their name be lit up! They don’t want light within.

A politician, after fixing a nameplate on his door, was wiring a light bulb above it. A friend passing by asked, Brother, what are you doing?
Trying to make my name shine, the politician said.

What do they care for inner illumination! They want their name to shine!

A groom’s family—
he was a politician—
went to see a girl for his son.
He said to the girl’s people—
Let her personality be
like Indira Gandhi’s;
her virginity like Atal Bihari’s;
faith in religion like Maulana Bukhari’s;
luck like Vidya Bhushan’s;
she should speak softly
like Morarji Desai;
have a poetic style
like Tarkeshwari Sinha;
modesty like the bride of the Janata Party;
hair like George Fernandes;
cheeks like Jagjivan Ram’s,
a gait like Raj Narain’s,
and simplicity like
Hemvati Nandan Bahuguna.
The boy has no special demands.
The girl’s father said—Enough, enough,
we can’t hear any more.
Just pay for whatever you’ve eaten so far—
you don’t want a girl,
you want Parliament!

Such is the plight of politicians! What taste could they have for meditation! Do they have anything to do with truth? They are merchants of a world of lies!

When the wife of Shah Jahan Ali the barber,
Mumtaz, fell ill
and her final hour arrived,
seeing his wife’s fading breath
the barber came to her side
and said,
Darling, why are you sad?
Mumtaz said,
Dear, promise me
that after I die
you too will build a Taj.
The barber promised
and calmed his wife’s heart,
and a short while later
Mumtaz passed away.
After his wife’s death
Shah Jahan Ali the barber
didn’t waste a single day.
Immediately
he renamed his shop:
Taj Mahal Hair-Cutting Salon!

What else will these poor fellows do!

No. There is no possibility that any political organization—not even the United Nations—will be interested in meditation. Meditation is the interest of individuals. And of very brave individuals—very courageous, even audacious—because the first condition in it is death: the death of the ego. Only after that is there rebirth.

At the feet of a true master, that death can occur; meditation can bear fruit; samadhi can flower—but only in those who are ready, in those who have guts. Not the dam of “dam maro dam”—that kind of “puff” only knocks out your breath!

In those who have a soul, a heart, a backbone.

The people gathering around me are people with backbone; why should I worry about these organizations! Here we shall raise a World Health Organization; here we shall build, in the original sense, a global brotherhood. As for the United Nations—that is a crowd of the same rogues who have made the world miserable! They are gathered there; nothing will be solved by them.

Look here. For the first time people are present as simply human. No one knows—who is Hindu, who is Muslim, who is Christian, who Japanese, who Korean, who Chinese, who Russian, who Italian, who German—and no one cares. Who is Jew, who is Jain, who is Buddhist—no one has any use for such labels. A brotherhood is being born here.

I am not in the habit of imposing anything from above. Here we are sowing seeds, creating a garden. And if even one seed works rightly, it can make the whole earth green.

And here we are sowing thousands of seeds. There is a possibility, a hope, that this earth will become green.

All of you pray for that hour when more and more people—individuals, not organizations, not institutions—become eager for meditation; eager to seek truth, to seek beauty, to seek bliss. The mad ones have already set out. The call is being heard to far horizons. No one will be able to stop this journey. This saffron fire is going to encircle the whole earth—but it will do so person by person. One lamp will light another. We must make this entire earth a Diwali. Day like Holi, night like Diwali!

That’s all for today.