Jo Bole To Hari Katha #8

Swabhav! This question is natural to you. You’re Punjabi, aren’t you! The malady of being Punjabi doesn’t leave easily—it lingers even at the end. The snake has gone, but the trail remains in the dust. Wipe that off too.

What you are saying is true enough—that Krishna lifted the Sudarshan Chakra against tyrants. But did the tyrants vanish? That’s the important question. Whether Krishna lifted the Sudarshan Chakra or not is secondary. There were tyrants before the Chakra, and there were tyrants after it too. The Chakra went in vain; Krishna labored for nothing. That labor did not bear fruit. Otherwise, five thousand years have passed—by now there should be no trace of tyrants!

Also understand this: the one who wins, we seldom call a tyrant, because songs are written in his praise. Suppose Krishna had lost—you would hardly call him God then! You wouldn’t say he raised the Chakra against tyrants. Those who now seem tyrants would have been called protectors of dharma, and Krishna would have been labeled the tyrant!

We say, “Satyameva Jayate”—truth alone triumphs. But what do you really know of truth or of triumph? The situation is reversed here: whoever wins appears to be the truth. It is not that truth triumphs; the victor proves himself to be truth. And the defeated is forced to shrink; he has no resource left by which truth could be established.

Who was the tyrant in the Mahabharata? How will you decide? Weigh without bias, and Yudhishthira doesn’t look so virtuous! He is not one whit less than Duryodhana—there is the same gambling streak, the same quarrelsomeness, the same ambition.

The Pandavas have no special qualities opposite to the Kauravas. They won—so you picked the flowers. Had they lost, you would have counted the thorns! The same rosebush bears both. If they win, you pluck the flowers; if they lose, you count the thorns—and soothe your own mind.

Could Krishna eradicate tyrants? That’s the essential question. He could not. The truth is: because of Krishna, India’s spine broke. In these five thousand years India never rose again. Such a terrible massacre, so much violence! The scriptures say nearly one billion and fifteen crores died. No war that vast ever was—hence we called it the Mahabharata, the great war. All lesser wars look pale beside it. And what was the result? What did the victors accomplish?

You say dharma won—then dharma should have been established. It wasn’t. Krishna’s own followers slaughtered one another. Krishna himself was killed by a hunter’s arrow—who knows whether it was murder or the accident the story claims. But in any case, death came through violence.

With such figures, what we later write becomes a tangle of truth and myth. Their historical face is lost; a mythic aura forms. Krishna died by violence, and what happened among his disciples afterward is well known. Drunk and fanatical, they cut each other’s throats. It is said so much blood flowed in Dwarka the sea turned red; the waters were strewn with corpses. After so much—what did we gain? The outcome is what matters, and the outcome was not auspicious.

You say, “Hazrat Muhammad also raised the sword for religion.” He certainly did—but where is religion saved? Where is it? The very result of that sword was that Muslims became fierce. For fourteen hundred years blood has been spilled across the earth in the name of Islam; throats cut, people killed—and it continues.

And when killings are done in the name of religion, we swallow it silently—drink the poison as if it were nectar. Ayatollah Khomeini, now the Pope of Islam—the Imam—how many were killed in just one year? Is there any accounting? And the world makes no protest. All tongues are tied.

Every day in Iran people are hanged; every day people are killed. But if it’s for religion, it is deemed auspicious! The chain of murders goes on.

Just the day before yesterday I read the news: in Pakistan, General Zia-ul-Haq… it must be Ramadan—so no one in Pakistan may eat during the day! If someone does, he will be flogged! Splendid, no?

Muslims believe in fasting by day and eating at night. Fine—let whoever believes, practice it. But is religion coercion? In Pakistan they’re whipping people. In Lahore fourteen men were caught eating in the day; they were flogged to bleeding.

By law, Pakistan shut down hotels and restaurants during the day. No food can be sold anywhere. See how dharma is being established!

For the establishment of dharma—what avatars are arising! Is this religion?

If someone wishes to eat in the day, that’s his choice. Is fasting forced? If he doesn’t want to go to heaven, will you push him there? If he’s set his mind on hell, who are you to interfere!

And what a joke: eat in the day and heaven is lost; eat at night and you’ll reach heaven! Ask the Jains! There, eat at night and you’re bound for hell! Is there some arithmetic of hell and heaven that bends to whatever fancy one holds?

Ask the Jains and they’ll say night-eating is sin; day-eating is fine. But by Muslims’ reckoning night-eating is fine; day-eating is sin.

Well, let everyone follow as he wishes; but will you flog others into fasting? Then religion will be established?

Zia-ul-Haq says Pakistan is an Islamic state; therefore nothing against Islam can happen there. Eating in the day during Ramadan is against Islam. So no one may eat in the day. And if some poor fellow—little children, or someone sneaks food at home—if caught, he’ll be flogged and shamed; if not caught, he’ll still tremble inside with guilt, convinced he’s earned hell.

And you can imagine: if Muslims make such a hell on earth, what must their hell be like! It must be very dangerous; better to choose someone else’s hell than theirs. Beware even of their heaven—there might be whipping of the gods there too!

Religion has no need of violence. That is not how dharma is established.

You say, “Even the Son of God, Jesus, took up a whip.” He did—but what came of it? They all lost. These swords, these whips, these Chakras—all failed. Christianity has not led humanity anywhere. Jesus raised a whip, or Muhammad a sword, or Krishna the Chakra—this only proves that they tried, and the experiment failed.

You say, “The ahimsa of Buddha and Mahavira must have come in the way, and people did violence to them.” That is far better. To suffer violence is better than to commit it. To bear sin is better than to do it.

No one can touch the grandeur of Buddha and Mahavira. Behold the clarity of their vision. To raise a whip is easy—anyone can. That is no special glory. You too want to pick up a whip. Taking up a sword is not difficult—who doesn’t itch to?

But these are the impulses of ordinary men. And even if they appear to bring momentary success, they do not create a revolution in the human spirit.

Yes, Buddha and Mahavira suffered violence—but do you think Jesus did not? Who died on the cross? In that sense Buddha and Mahavira suffered less—at least they weren’t crucified! Do you think Muhammad suffered less? Who ran his whole life—from Mecca to Medina and back—fleeing and fighting, because he had raised the sword and others had too. Examine Muhammad’s life and see what violence yielded—a life without a day of ease; always fighting or fleeing. And the result? Islam became essentially political—its structure took the shape of politics.

For Jesus to raise a whip only proved his weakness, nothing else. In my eyes, the day Jesus took the whip he was not yet the Christ. His Buddhahood came at the very end—on the cross. Until the crucifixion, some very subtle human desires and expectations lingered; until the last moments he was waiting for a miracle. The crowd too waited. A hundred thousand came to see—perhaps he really is the Son of God; we might be mistaken. Today it will be decided. Today the stories of his disciples will be tested—giving sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, walking to the lame, speech to the mute, even raising the dead. If he can do that, what will happen when he is crucified? A great miracle must occur.

The multitudes stood expectant, eyes fixed—now something will happen! The skies will open, flowers will rain, God himself will descend to save his son! And Christians say the only son! As if after him God adopted birth control! What happened? Here we say have two or three at most; God says one only! Did he become barren? Forgot how to beget children?

Just yesterday I read a story: two eighty-year-old American men met at Miami Beach, became friends, and thought, Why waste life—there’s still life left! They had money—money can buy anything there—so why not marry? Two girls of twenty-two were ready; their math was that the old men won’t do much, and won’t live long—two-four years and their wealth will be ours. The weddings happened. On the wedding night one old man labored and achieved nothing; the body doesn’t cooperate. The other said, Good you reminded me—I forgot. All night it felt something was missing, but I couldn’t recall what! It’s been sixty years since a honeymoon—who remembers! So the night passed turning sides.

Perhaps something like that happened to God—his age is beyond calculation now!

People gathered thinking the attack is on the only son; if the father won’t act now, then when? Such moments reveal who is yours and who is not.

But Jesus too was in the same arithmetic. He kept looking to the sky; the sky did not split, no flowers fell, no voice thundered, “What are you doing to my son?” The earth did not tremble. Nothing happened. As the nails were driven into his hands and feet, he cried, “Father, have you forgotten me? Have you forsaken me?” Until that cry, he was not yet the Christ, not yet a Buddha.

Christians will be angry with me—but so many already are, what difference does it make! I’ve stopped keeping count. Now I count who is not angry!

Only then did Jesus awaken: What am I asking? My demand is my ego; I’m trying to use God. If this is my expectation, what is my faith worth? He started, he woke. The cross awakened him. Tears fell; he lifted his face and said, “Father, forgive me—I erred. Thy will be done, not mine. What do I know of true and false, right and wrong? Thy kingdom come. Who am I? I surrender.”

In that instant Jesus became the Christ. In that instant he became a Buddha, a Jina. In the final moment.

When he took up the whip, I cannot call him Christ; that was still the language of the whip. The logic of the whip is one: we will subdue, we will force change, we will press a neck until it yields.

Trust in the whip cannot be trust in God.

So I do not believe Jesus gained anything by lifting the whip; it only revealed human frailty. He became a sovereign the moment he could say, “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done.” In that moment, sannyas happened; in that moment nothing stood between him and the Divine. When he lifted the whip, the whip itself was the barrier.

Swabhav, I hold that Buddha and Mahavira did not err. They let their inner fragrance spread. Stones were thrown—so be it. That’s the thrower’s arithmetic. From their side there was only forgiveness. That is their arithmetic—and it must be higher. If their math were the same as the stone-thrower’s, what difference would remain?

They say nails were driven into Mahavira’s ears. Consider that story. Mahavira stood naked outside a village beneath a tree in meditation. It was during the twelve years of silence. A cowherd was grazing his herd. Someone came calling him home for urgent work. He saw a naked fellow standing uselessly and said, “Brother, watch my cows for a bit.” He said it and left, not noticing the silent man had neither nodded nor spoken. He assumed silence meant assent—mounam sammati lakshanam. Mahavira could not speak; the cows wandered into the forest. When the cowherd returned and found Mahavira still standing but the cows gone, he thought, This man is deceitful; he must have accomplices who stole them. He shook him and demanded, Where are my cows? No reply. He threatened to beat him—still no reply. “Are you deaf?” Still silence. So he said, Trying to pretend you’re deaf, are you? I’ll make you deaf! He pushed sticks into both ears and hammered them with a stone; blood flowed, the eardrums must have burst—but Mahavira remained unmoving. The cowherd went to look for his cattle; soon he found them grazing and repented.

Meanwhile, the story says Indra was pained and descended. Take it symbolically—there is no literal Indra falling from the sky. Indra descending means existence itself rushes to the aid of such forbearance. Indra prayed silently: Allow me to serve you, or let me station celestials to protect you so such a thing does not recur. Mahavira’s silent reply: No need. Somewhere in a past life I must have hurt this poor man; the account is settled. This is my last birth; all accounts must be cleared. Good it happened early. Don’t worry, and don’t post gods around me.

Jesus’ whip, Muhammad’s sword, Krishna’s Sudarshan—or this response of Mahavira—what do you choose? Who is truly protecting dharma? What does dharma mean?

Buddha too was persecuted, but never once did he retaliate. Forgiveness remained unbroken.

Swabhav, violence did not stop—with Jesus, with Muhammad, with Mahavira, with Buddha. So the argument that if Buddha and Mahavira had taken up the sword, violence would have ceased, does not stand. Violence came even to Krishna, Jesus, Muhammad. If anything, this shows Jesus, Krishna, and Muhammad fall a little behind Buddha and Mahavira in humanity’s evolution.

Krishna came before Mahavira and Buddha; Rama earlier still. Notice: Krishna at least only occasionally lifted the Chakra—you may see pictures of it poised on his fingertip. But Lord Rama? Always with bow and arrows—perhaps even slept with them. He is the bowman Rama; without the bow he doesn’t look right.

Tulsidas was taken to Krishna temples—he refused to bow. “Tulsi will not bend his head.” Why? “I bow only before the bow-bearing Rama.” Until Krishna takes up a bow, Tulsidas’ head won’t bow. He recognizes only the bowman.

Now if Tulsidas found Rama asleep, he wouldn’t bow—where’s the bow? If bathing—no bow, no bowing. Even relieving himself—no bowing. Will you let him live or take his life!

But this is the old idea. Before Krishna, there was Parashurama—Rama with the axe. He twirled his axe endlessly. At least Rama slung his bow—Parashurama kept swinging the axe! It is said he emptied the earth of Kshatriyas eighteen times.

Where will you find that much energy—eighteen times! Parashurama must have been Punjabi! My inner evidence says so; history and puranas can say what they like. He went about axing all his life. To clear the earth of Kshatriyas eighteen times is no small thing. When did he sleep?

And what happened? The Kshatriya women remained—killing women seemed improper even to Parashurama. The world was strange in those days. The rishis, whom you praise, had an odd profession: granting sons to childless women—niyoga. A woman would request; the rishi would do what bulls do for the cows. The rishis were generous—ready to donate! There was no shortage of rishis; this was a land of rishis, and their offspring. Know what that means! Something’s fishy.

So the Kshatriya women who remained bore sons by rishis. How many women—how many rishis! Blessed be Bharat—what wonders went on in the name of religion!

And these very “offspring of rishis” abuse me without shame. Without rishis you wouldn’t even exist. No Kshatriya remains pure—Parashurama already muddled the blood. Who here is Arya? You sit around forming Arya Samaj!

As you go back in history, you’ll see: the farther back, the more violence is sanctioned. That is proof of humanity’s primitiveness. The older the avatar, the more violent.

Buddha is the last avatar in that line. For Hindus, there is no avatar after Buddha; Kalki is yet to come—the last. Buddha is the culmination, the purest form of our religious insight. As understanding deepened, so did our notions of God.

Read the Old Testament: God declares, “I am a jealous God. Whoever opposes me I will not spare; I will make him suffer in hell.” Will God talk like that—“I am jealous”? Whoever is not with me is my enemy. That is Hitler’s tone. Three thousand years ago, what else would the Jewish God say? It suited the time.

He says, “If someone hits you with a brick, answer with a stone.” But next to Buddha, this God seems primitive. Buddha says, “Enmity is not dissolved by enmity. Hostility ends by friendship. Poison is not cured by poison—pour nectar.”

By the time of Jesus, the tone had changed. Jesus said, “Love your enemy as yourself.” He reminded them: “You have been told by the prophets, ‘An eye for an eye.’ But I say, if someone strikes your cheek, offer the other also.” That is a more refined religion. But Jesus was still a Jew, raised in that old air; he forgot when he lifted the whip. There are moments of weakness. When he spoke those words he was a poet; the window of poetry opened, and great things were said. Words are easy; occasions test whether they were lived from the heart.

Swabhav, for me, love itself is religion. I don’t even say ahimsa, because the word contains “himsa”—violence—by negation. Ahimsa is a no; love is a yes. I want to take religion beyond Buddha and Mahavira. It has been twenty-five centuries since them. If they advanced religion beyond Krishna and Rama—who were about twenty-five centuries earlier—then notice a pattern: roughly every 2,500 years religion takes a leap. It’s been 2,500 years since Buddha—a rare springtime of consciousness. You are blessed to be born now. When spring comes yearly, flowers bloom easily; every 2,500 years a spring comes to human consciousness. If you’re stiff, that’s another matter; if you allow, flowers will bloom.

Buddha and Mahavira used the word ahimsa—do not kill. That’s not enough. Not killing is better than killing—but compared to loving, it is nothing.

A Jain monk does not harm anyone—good. But there is no sign of love in his life. Violence is gone, but love has not arrived. The pebbles have been dropped, but where are the diamonds? You emptied the sack—that’s half the work; now fill it with jewels. You prepared the soil, cleared the stones and weeds, added manure—but roses won’t bloom by that alone. You must sow. If you don’t sow roses, weeds will return; they seize any spare energy of the soil.

Buddha and Mahavira left religion in a negative space. I want to give it a positive creative thrust. Still, they did a great job: they prepared the field; they freed us from violence.

Try placing a bow and arrows in Buddha’s hands—he won’t look right. Mahavira—naked with a bow—grotesque! They were lovely, but it’s been 2,500 years. Don’t cling even to them. We must go further, to new peaks.

Life’s evolution has no end. The journey has a beginning, not a destination—only journey upon journey, new peaks, new flowers, new fragrance, new revelations of truth. This creative fecundity is what I call God.

For me God is not a person. This fertile energy produced Parashurama once—perhaps needed then, for the Kshatriyas were oppressing. A Parashurama was needed to clear them. So I don’t say he did no work. But that is antiquity—like bullock-carts in the age of jet planes. Will you whirl an axe in the era of hydrogen bombs? A plane will drop a bomb; you and your axe will both vanish.

Rama aims his bow—let him. Today it has no use, except perhaps in the Republic Day parade in Delhi, where tribals from Bastar come with bows. That’s where Rama could be employed—to be a living exhibit of bygone times.

In their time they were needed. But we must not stop there. The Ganga does not stop; it flows on—how much water has flowed!

My love is for Parashurama too, and for Rama, and for Krishna, and for Buddha and Mahavira—for Jesus, Muhammad, Nanak, Kabir. But those are bygones. Don’t get stuck looking back; the car whose windshield is replaced by a mirror showing only the road behind will surely crash. You must look ahead.

Swabhav, I understand your mood—but it must change; it is old. What you quoted is true:
“Until life is sacrificed in love,
in my eyes there can be no devotion before that.”
But you’ve misunderstood “sacrificed in love.” You think it means waving the sword. What has love to do with the sword?

To sacrifice life in love means to let life be consumed in love—not in violence, not in destruction. If you must dissolve, dissolve in love—not by dissolving others. And I am not advocating a morbid eagerness to die—that is suicidal.

Violence prepares to kill others. Sometimes, in trying to avoid violence, a person turns it inward—self-violence. That is why I call Mahatma Gandhi violent, not nonviolent. His violence turned upon himself—he is ready to kill himself. He will fast unto death.

Only yesterday I heard some Jan Sangh people threatened that if I enter Kutch they will fast unto death. I said: delightful! We regard death as a celebration. Just remember—I am no Gandhian. If you fast unto death, I will post guards so you cannot slip away until you actually die. We will help you—no water either. Why die slowly? And doctors will stand by to ensure you don’t cheat with glucose, as Gandhi did. We will serve you fully—singing and dancing while you go.

I am no Gandhian. Think before you try. I don’t follow old conventions; you can’t intimidate me.

I’m eager to see who fasts unto death. It will teach them—and teach India too—what such fasting really means. Forget those satyagrahas! The British were simple folk; had I been in their place, I would have taught Gandhi in one lesson what “fast unto death” entails. Being a shrewd Gujarati, he would never repeat it.

I will go to Kutch—let’s see.

You say:
“Until life is sacrificed in love,
in my eyes there can be no devotion before that.”
True—but it doesn’t mean sacrifice others first, then cut your own throat. It means live in love, and accept lovingly whatever results. If death comes, welcome it. But don’t go around with a placard: I want to die. That too is violence—self-violence—and a crime. Whoever threatens suicide by fasting should be handcuffed—what kind of courts and laws are these that allow a slow-motion suicide?

To die in love means: do what you will, you cannot kill our love. Kill us if you must, but you cannot kill our love.

It also means: as much as we love you, we love ourselves. We will protect ourselves as long as we can—but not by killing you. We will do everything to save ourselves—but not by taking life. So no sword. If a shield is needed, we will certainly take a shield—but no sword. Understand this difference; no one has said it before. People carry sword and shield together. I say: only the shield. If you are foolish enough to brandish a sword, at least allow me the right to raise a shield. Our shield cannot kill you; we love your life as we love ours. If we don’t love our own life, how will we love yours?

Jesus said, “Love your enemy as yourself.” Much has been said about loving the enemy; less about “as yourself.” That is the foundation. First love yourself; only then can you love even an enemy. If you never loved yourself, you cannot love anyone—friend or enemy. The nearest is oneself; love must light here first. When the lamp is lit within, the first light falls upon this body, then upon you, upon friends, upon others—finally even upon the enemy when love rises like the sun.

We will take the shield; we will not take the sword.

You say:
“May my life depart in your embrace; my heart is restless for that hour.
Love is not for everyone; such deep affection is only for a few.”
True. Love is not easy; it is the most arduous sadhana. That is why escapists flee from love. Those you have called sannyasins, sages—they are fugitives. They say they flee the world—but read it as they flee love. The very thought of love makes their chest tremble. They never learned the art of love.

“Restless for that hour when I die in your embrace”—good, Swabhav. But first learn to live in my embrace. We are too quick to prepare for dying; dying is easy—any fool can do it. A wise man cannot die.

I had a Bengali professor, Bhattacharya—Babu gentry. Would such a man commit suicide? Even his dhoti would get stuck; a Bengali babu’s dhoti is so loose it trails on the ground. He was once in a quarrel with his wife in the staff quarters; he grabbed his umbrella and declared, “I’m going to die!” I was new at the university; the walls were asbestos sheets with gaps—everything could be seen and heard. I worried: who goes to die carrying an umbrella! But old habits die hard—Bengalis cannot step out without one. I knocked on his wife’s door: “If you need help…” She said, “Don’t worry; he does this often. He’ll be back.” And he was—soon. “Why did you come back?” “It started to rain.” July. “But you took the umbrella?” “It wouldn’t open—I’ve told you to get it repaired!” Later I discovered his routine: he never went when the train actually came; he lay down on a disused track with his tiffin and umbrella, like a picnic. When asked why bring a tiffin: “Sometimes the train is so late—should I die hungry?” Such are people’s “suicides”—habits, not resolve. Life longs for expansion, not death. The craving for death is a distortion—born of defeat in life.

Don’t be in a hurry to die, Swabhav. First learn to live at my side. And one who learns to live so, attains the deathless; then death is only the falling of the body and you merge into the eternal.

You say:
“The longing for self-offering seethes in our hearts;
let us see how strong the murderer’s arm is.”
You want to die at the hands of killers? Die by my hand! If you die by a killer’s hand, you will be born again—to kill the killer. That is how the wheel turns—life after life.

Die by the Master’s hand—so you need never be born again; so you never again fall into this turmoil. Die in such a way that you attain the deathless.

You can. The final outline of Punjabi-ness still clinging to you—bid it farewell too. Say, Sat Sri Akal! Wahe Guru Ji ka Khalsa, Wahe Guru Ji ki Fateh!

You have come to the shore where my world begins.

All this uproar against me is natural. If it did not happen, that would be surprising. Since it does, there is nothing surprising. We will take it in play—singing and dancing.

I have taught you: live dancing, die dancing. Now a moment is coming: fight dancing! Let nothing be left untouched by the dance.

Sant Maharaj! It is not the women's fault. Men have tormented them so much that, simply to save themselves, they have had to become Bhairavi, Chandi, Durga, and Kali—in self-defense! And the right to self-defense belongs to everyone.

Men have persecuted women badly; for centuries they have done so—what, then, is a woman to do? How is she to grapple with you? So she too has invented subtle stratagems. Naturally her strategies would be subtle, because she doesn't have muscles like yours, not a brawny body like yours. In terms of the body she is shorter than a man, weaker—in bodily terms. If she fights you with fists, she will only get beaten for nothing. So she has devised her own ways.

It is a trait of the human mind that in every situation it finds its own adjustment. She had to evolve such devices that you could not even defend yourself against them.

You have oppressed her. Man has, till now, not given woman freedom, not given her equality. Leave other countries aside; even in a country like America, where women have the greatest freedom...

Right now Reagan is running for President. He is likely to win. Carter's laughter and cheer have all vanished; now you no longer see his thirty-two teeth! Those days are gone—long gone! Now his boat is going under!

So Reagan's winning is a possibility. And you will be surprised to know that if Reagan wins in America, it will mean the beginning of a misfortune for the life of humankind. Because America is the one country where woman has come almost abreast of man.

Among Reagan's campaign issues is this: that woman should not have equal rights! Reagan is anti-woman. He seems to be a disciple of Baba Tulsidas! The rishis and munis will be very pleased. He is an obscurantist.

And it is most astonishing what kinds of people, from what corners, with what colors and poses, turn up! Reagan has been a film actor all his life—and he is not willing to acknowledge a woman's right to equality!

Give woman equality. But do not misunderstand the meaning of equality.

I poke fun at men, using women only as a pretext. It’s a fine point.

Who created the misery of women? Men did. But, Neelima Chatterjee, I want to say: I do regard woman as equal to man—but “equal” has two meanings. In English there are two words: equality and similarity. Woman is equal in the sense of equality—she has the same rights as man. But she is not similar—she is not like man. In that sense she is not the same.

If woman tries to become like man, the result will be exactly what the saints are complaining about: she’ll turn into Chandi, Durga, Kali! Because to “be like a man” means doing push-ups and drills; to “be like a man” means repeating the very follies men have committed. Hasn’t the world had enough of male stupidity? Yet the same confusion is arising. That is why I sometimes make fun of the women’s liberation movement—because, fundamentally, it rests on a wrong basis.

Such a movement can arise from buddhas—from awakened consciousness. It needs a height of awareness. It cannot be run by reaction. If women merely react and try to become like men, the trouble will increase, not decrease. And even if they do become like men, remember: they will still be number-two men, never number one.

If this race keeps escalating, just think what all they will be forced to do! They are already wearing men’s clothes—in which they look ungainly, inelegant. Such clothes don’t suit their bodies, their proportions. They suit male bodies. Women have a beautiful form; men don’t.

A woman needs garments that are soft and beautiful, in harmony with her body.

Women and men should have equal rights. In fact, if women had a little more, I would still agree. But let woman not become “equal” in the sense of imitating man—wearing his clothes, doing his kind of jobs, hurling his kind of abuse. Soon you’ll see her shaving with a razor, trying somehow to grow a moustache and beard! What all disturbances won’t follow!

She’s already started learning—karate, aikido. She has to, because men have driven her to it; reaction is bound to arise. She too has evolved her ways of fighting—subtle ways.

She “eats the man’s head”! She nags him so hard he remembers the milk he suckled as a baby! After being battered by the world all day, he somehow drags himself home—and finds the wife ready and waiting! She’s been resting, preparing her strategy: How to set the husband right today? Which recipe to try? They try one trick better than the last!

Two women were sitting in a garden. One asked, “How have you got your boss Chandulal under control? My husband won’t listen—comes home at all hours, sometimes at four in the morning!”

The other smiled, “My boss used to do the same. Then I found a trick. One night he came at four, slipped in, and crawled into my bed in fear. I said, ‘Mohan! You’ve come?’

The first woman said, ‘Mohan? But your husband’s name is Chandulal!’

She said, ‘I know that too. From that day on he’s home by evening sharp!’”

Such tricks they have to invent. What can they do!

Dhabbuji said to his neighbor, “Sir, that Phoolbai on the fourth floor rains abuse on her husband day and night. The whole neighborhood suffers. Why don’t you warn her?”

The gentleman asked, “Dhabbuji, are you her neighbor?”

“No,” Dhabbuji said, “I’m her husband!”

Such is the plight of husbands. It’s bound to be. The day you decided to be a husband, you set your misery in motion. Husband means the attempt to be master. Who is going to let you be master? Outside you strut like a rooster, comb high—“I am the master!” The moment you step inside, your tail goes between your legs; everybody knows who the master at home is! Does anyone call you gharwala, “the one of the house”? People call your wife gharwali, “the lady of the house.” The house is hers—what are you? Be grateful she lets you in!

Outside you puff your chest and swagger! Wives have become so skilled—when they write letters they end with: “Your servant at your feet!” And they laugh inside—they know who is truly at whose feet! When it’s already settled that you are the servant at her feet, what’s the harm in writing it the other way! Why fear writing it!

In my village, before Independence, there were dawn processions. A Kabirpanthi mahant lived there, Swami Sahibdas. His singing was off-key, his looks ungainly, head always shaved. He led the morning marches, flag held high—“May our flag fly high!”—shouting slogans.

In the fashion of the old rishis, he kept a mistress. Of course, for a man like him, no proper woman would do; he was no great catch either. A Kabirpanthi mahant! He ended up with a one-eyed woman whom no one liked except perhaps a mahant. He consoled himself: one-eyed or mangy, at least she’s a woman—where else would I find one! But she was sharp-tongued, blunt to the point of rudeness.

I used to sneak into his orchard and pluck guavas, sitting in the trees, watching their “lila” from above. One day he caught me stealing guavas and dragged me to my father. I said, “Look, if you take me, I’ll tell all about your lila!”

“What lila?” he asked.

“The lila with the one-eyed bai!”

“Arre, son, the guavas are yours—what are you saying! You are like family; your father is my friend! Come, come—you’re not going anywhere!”

“Aren’t we going to my father?” I asked.

“Let it be. Come whenever you want; no need to climb the wall. Use the door; it’s your home. But don’t tell anyone!”

The one-eyed bai noticed: “Aha, Sahibdas is afraid of this boy!” She and I became friends. I asked her one day, “Why does Sahibdas parade with a flag every morning—‘May our flag fly high!’?”

She said, “Why hide from you? His stick doesn’t rise, so he keeps the flag high! Let him first produce a child or two!”

Women know the secrets!

From that day I knew another secret. After that, the buffalo-milk kheer from their house also began to come my way! I told him, “Kani Bai has told me why you carry that flag!”

“What? What did she say?”

“She said the stick doesn’t rise! So you carry a high flag on your morning rounds. Keep marching!”

“Son, don’t tell anyone! You’re like family. That woman is wicked—don’t get caught in her mischief!”

But what is her wickedness? She told the truth.

Now, Saint Maharaj, you are asking, “Why do women always present themselves like Bhairavi, Chandi, Durga, Kali?”

Because you treat them like Ayatollah Khomeini! You act like rishis and sages toward them—then of course they will become Bhairavi, Chandi, Durga. They have felled the best of them!

Have you seen the image of Mother Kali? Shiva is lying beneath her—she is dancing on his chest! She has garlands of skulls round her neck—think of them as love letters from her lovers, hung as trophies: “So many finished off—any other brave lad?” She has even flattened Shivas.

A salesman was about to knock when the door opened and a man fell out on his face. The salesman said, “I want to meet the master of the house.”

The man replied, “Go right in. It’s just been decided who the master is. Till now I thought it was me—you can see my condition! Not master—mistress! Go on in, brother.”

The wife fell seriously ill; a doctor was called. He said, “The case is serious. At most a month more. Seth Chandulal, I’m sorry, but I must speak the truth. She won’t last beyond that.”

Seth Chandulal sighed and said, “Well, we’ve endured twenty-five years—what’s a month more!”

What you think is marriage—what is it? At its root is rot. Husband means owner; the word pati means master. And husbands have taught women: regard your husband as God! Not content with being master, they want to be God! The wife looks at their qualities and won’t grant them even the rank of devil—“You are worse than the devil!”—but she has to treat them as God. She takes her revenge. She makes them taste it.

This marriage is not founded on love; hence all these ill effects.

A judge said to a defendant, “We are also told that for years you terrorized your wife and made her, in effect, your slave!”

The defendant stammered, “Your honor, you see, the thing is...”

The judge cut him off, “No need to justify yourself. Just tell me how you accomplished such a miracle!”

Who has ever managed to keep his wife as a slave? But the very desire to enslave is where the trouble begins. Then she too wants to enslave you. Your methods are masculine—you can beat. She won’t beat; her ways are indirect. She spins webs around you. She wants to be master, you want to be master—quarrel begins.

Love means: neither I am master, nor are you. It is a meeting—like river and boat. For a few moments we walk the same path; let’s share our joy. I have no claim over you; you have no claim over me.

Claim breeds trouble. Humanity has suffered from claims. Drop all claiming.

I see no future for marriage. And if marriage remains, I see no future for man. We have to repaint the whole process of marriage. We should erase it as an institution. Let there be a relationship of love, of friendship. Neither should you possess, nor allow anyone to possess you. Wherever possession enters, love dies. To possess someone is an insult. But even our words are all skewed.

In India we call the head of the nation Rashtrapati. No one objects. But if one day a woman becomes President, will you call her Rashtrapatni—the nation’s “wife”? She herself would object: “What are you doing—am I a prostitute?” Once upon a time, courtesans were called nagarvadhu, “bride of the town”—but never rashtravadhu, “bride of the nation”! No woman will accept “Rashtrapatni”—the word reeks of insult. Yet “pati,” lord, raises no eyebrows. This is a man’s world. In such a world, what is a woman to do? Men have grabbed everything—the military, the power. So woman adopts the conspirator’s path. She gnaws at the roots from below; she nibbles you away; she picks your pocket, skims your money, grabs your salary, spends it this way and that. She employs every torment she can—but you are responsible. In my view, man is responsible, because this entire social structure is his creation.

In reaction women are now rising. But reaction won’t help. So, Neelima Chatterjee, I want to say: I am not in favor of a women’s liberation movement; I want a “man–woman liberation movement.” Woman should be free of man; man should be free of woman. Both have become slaves. The human being should be free. And that freedom will be possible only when we are ready to change the very basis of life.

For saying this, I’m branded an enemy of culture and religion. I am neither. I want to bring culture and religion into the world. What you have taken for culture and religion has poisoned both.

What is your life? Only anguish. How many kinds of agonies you endure! And not only from outsiders—you suffer from those you call your own. Husband suffers the wife; wife suffers the husband.

Only one thing is missing, and it causes all the turmoil: love. Institutions are not built on love; love creates freedom. Remove marriage and give love a place. Risk love. It is better to risk love than to cling to the security of marriage.

“Do you think,” asked Seth Chandulal, “that you deserve to marry my daughter?”

“Certainly,” the young man replied. “Her beauty, your money, and me—we were made for each other!”

There is no place for love in this. Her beauty, your money, and me! But beauty fades in two days. Once you are familiar, it is finished. How long will beauty support you?

A love based on beauty is not love. When, on the basis of love, someone appears beautiful to you, then it is entirely different—then life becomes poetry, music.

Amid the hail of bullets at the front, a soldier asked his comrade, “What do you feel living every moment in the shadow of death?”

The comrade replied, “A sense of protection! You haven’t seen my wife!”

Some join the army to escape the wife! Some sit in the tavern to escape the wife! Some gamble to escape the wife! First you chase a wife, then you chase escape from the wife!

Two men were sitting in a bar. One said, “Why do you sit here so long?”

“What can I do—no wife, no child. The empty house gnaws at me!”

The other said, “For heaven’s sake! I sit here this long because of wife and children! If I escape the wife, the children get me; if I escape the children, the wife gets me. Fall this side—well; that side—a pit! I sit here to escape them. And you—no kids, no wife—and you sit here!”

Such is the fun. The married envy the bachelors; the bachelors envy the married. But who created this? We did.

When I came home from the university, everyone advised me: get married! I said, “Certainly—if you say so it must be right. But seeing the state of you and your wife is exactly why I can’t!” The poor fellow would fall silent—he knew it was true. I’d ask, “Tell me, if you got another chance, would you marry again?”

“No,” he’d say.

“Then you advise me? Have some shame!”

Slowly the well-wishers stopped advising me. It was by watching them that I understood what foolishness was going on! I saw it in my family, among my loved ones, with those close to me, in my professors’ homes—wherever I looked, there was quarrel.

One of my professors, Dr. Saxena, asked, “Why don’t you marry?”

I said, “Are you my friend or my enemy?”

“Why would I be your enemy? I love you!”

“Then aren’t you ashamed to talk like this? Where is your wife?”

His wife lived in Delhi; he lived in Sagar. If she came to Sagar, he went to Delhi. I never saw them together. Hounded by his wife, he worked sometimes in Hawaii, sometimes in America—but not in Delhi! Delhi University begged him all his life: come to Delhi. He would not—Delhi was home, the bungalow, and there the wife ruled! He ran all over the world to escape Delhi—died too, in America.

I said, “Just think once about your condition! Then I too will roam like you have roamed all your life! Is that your wish for me?”

“No,” he said, “I’ll never say it again.”

Another professor, Das, said to me, “You’ve finished your MA; you’ve got a PhD scholarship. Get married. Have you taken a vow of celibacy?”

I said, “What have I to do with celibacy! But I am living by what I’ve learned from seeing your lives—from the true teachers!”

He said, “When did I tell you not to marry!”

“You didn’t have to. What I’ve seen with my own eyes at your house—do you want that fate for me?”

His wife used to beat him too! Our relationship was so close that he would tell me, “Look, my hand hurts today, my back aches.”

“What happened?”

“She threw a ladle at me with such force!”

“So what do you think?” I said. “I am living well, in my joy. Should I get ladles flung at me? Have my skull cracked? I’m living by what the true teachers taught. Where does celibacy come in? It’s simple: having seen so much, listened and understood, I’ve distilled one thing—if you escape marriage, you have escaped the world!”

So, brother, regard every woman as your mother or sister! What else can you do!
Seth Chandulal once gave a woman a shove in a crowd. She immediately started shouting! There are women too who are eager that someone should jostle them. And if someone does, they trap him at once! Great fun! Their arithmetic is beyond me! If you don’t jostle them, that’s trouble: they glare as if to say, “Why are you just standing there staring? Give a push! We spent two hours before the mirror—what for?”
They arrive all decked out! And if you do give a push, they scream right away!
So Chandulal got caught. The policeman handed him two or three tight slaps and said, “Aren’t you ashamed! Swear, from today, that you will see every woman as your mother or sister.”
He said, “Brother, I swear I will see every woman as my mother or sister.”
Just then his wife Dhanno arrived. Dhanno asked, “You didn’t get badly hurt, did you?”
He said, “No, sister-ji! Everything is fine!”
Now that you’re married, brother, see her as mother or sister! What else will you do! Had you not been married, this too would have been the way—see women as mother or sister. Married or not, the same understanding!
The ancient rishis of India used to give this blessing. When someone married—when the newlyweds came for blessings—those old rishis were very wise. They would say, “We bless you to have ten sons, and in the end may your husband become your eleventh son!”
What astonishing people! And what a telling point they made!
Now it’s your choice. If you like, after ten sons you can start addressing your wife as Mother. If you have some sense, say it earlier—why wait so long! If you were to take my blessing, I would say: from the very beginning, regard her as Mother! And if you have no sense, and only learn after getting knocked about, then after ten sons! But keep this much certain: one day or another you will have to regard her as Mother!
If you try to be the owner, this is exactly what will happen.
What the world needs is friendship. Then no woman is a Chandi, nor a Bhairavi, nor a Durga.
Women are exquisitely sweet, full of love. But their love has not been given the chance to blossom. Men have taken the very life-breath out of them, and then are forced to consume what they themselves have sown—harvesting it and tasting poison.
In my view, friendship should be the only relationship. And when friendship is no longer there, one should part in friendship.
The question of children always arises. People keep writing to me: What about the children?
That is why I say: in place of the family, create communes. Build small communes—small farms, orchards, industries. The commune should be self-reliant. A thousand people, five hundred, two hundred. Break up the tiny families; make communes—a larger family. Let the children belong to the family—that is, the commune—then there is no obstacle.
And let the commune decide how many children are needed. Not everyone should have the right to produce children. The commune should decide—consulting physicians—which women and which men should have children. They will be beautiful, healthy, long-lived, talented.
A few children are enough. And the commune should take full responsibility for them. This does not mean the parents should not care. As long as they can, they should—certainly—but ownership will not be with the parents; ownership will be with the commune. Therefore, if tomorrow the parents decide, “Let’s part now; our friendship has broken; it has become difficult to walk together,” then let them separate lovingly.
“Marriage” is an ugly word. “Divorce” an even uglier word. You met in love; part in love. Be grateful for the days lived together in love; rejoice in them. For all that you gave each other, accept each other’s kindness with gratitude.
Then let the commune take on the concern for the children. This does not mean the children are to be snatched from their parents. If the father wishes to keep the children with him, the father may; if the mother wishes, the mother may. And even after separating, if the parents love the children and wish to meet them, let them meet. But they will no longer have the worry of where the children’s food will come from, where their education will come from. They are the children of the commune.
You will be surprised to know that the word “father” is new; the word “uncle” is old—in all the languages of the world. Because earlier there were only communes. The family came much later. When personal ego arose and the sense of “my property” came—personal property—from then on the family arose, and from then on the trouble began.
There is no need for personal property; there is no need for the personal family. And I am not saying that if you have love you should give it up. If you have love, stay together—stay together for a lifetime, stay together for many, many births.
A lady has asked, “After I die, can I again find my husband?”
As you wish! If you are not yet fed up with one lifetime, then by all means you can find him. But first ask your husband what his intentions are! You want to find him—but what if he runs away! Dying is the one way to run away completely—no other way was left! But this lady is after him! Now she wants me to suggest some trick so that she gets the same husband in the next birth too!
But until I ask your husband, I cannot give you a trick. Otherwise some injustice may be done to that poor fellow!
This entire arrangement has rotted. It may once have been useful—perhaps; now it is not. In the future there is no place for it.
That’s all for today.