Jo Bole To Hari Katha #9

Dinesh Bharti! I, too, have always liked this story—but in this story of counterfeit coins there is a little counterfeit as well! So I have both cherished it and felt hesitant to praise it.

As far as people giving counterfeit coins—there is no difficulty in understanding that. People simply don’t have any other coins. The ones you call “genuine” are counterfeit too. People themselves are counterfeit! Whatever falls into their hands turns false. They touch gold, and it becomes dust.

It is not coins that are real or fake; it is the magic—or its absence—of the human hand. There are such people who touch mud and it turns to gold. And there are those who touch gold and it turns to mud. Most people are of the second kind—their lives have no magic, no celebration, no color. Whatever they touch becomes ugly.

So, to begin with, it wasn’t really the people’s fault—that much I want to remind you—otherwise, on reading the story it feels: what dishonest people they were!

Sufis repeat this tale often. I first heard it from a Sufi fakir, and what I told him then, I am telling you now, Dinesh Bharti. I asked him: tell me this—when people themselves are counterfeit, where will they get genuine coins from? Don’t make them the culprits.

The fakir was startled. He had never looked from that angle. People hardly ever think; they just gulp down what’s been pre-chewed—they don’t even chew.

For me the essential point is: what are people to do—where is their fault? Their lives are full of darkness, full of stupor. In that stupor, whatever they do will go wrong. They will set out to build temples—and a temple will not result. People built temples and brothels came into being. You may then choose to call the prostitutes of the temples by some lofty name—devakanyas, “daughters of the gods”—or whatever you like. Changing names changes nothing. People built temples wanting flowers of love to bloom, but only thorns of hatred grew. Flowers never blossomed—because it’s straightforward: the hands that built them held no seeds of flowers. Their very life-breath was counterfeit. Their sentiments were fine, but sentiment alone achieves nothing.

There’s an English saying: “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” It is an important saying; surely someone of deep insight coined it. It is no ordinary proverb. The road to hell is paved with good intentions—good intentions, and they lead straight to hell! Hindus fought Muslims, Muslims fought Christians; they flooded the earth with blood in the name of religion. And their intentions were good. You cannot say the intentions were bad. Someone was protecting Islam, someone the Hindu dharma, someone Christianity. Where will you find fault in the sentiment? One wanted to save the honor of the Quran, another the Gita. But the saviors were bankrupt; their eyes were blind. Where in them was the soul that could understand the Gita, the Quran, the Bible? They had never laid hands on anything like understanding. So whatever they did went wrong. They went to do good—and evil resulted. They wanted to pave people’s paths with flowers—and filled them with thorns.

Dinesh Bharti, those people who handed over counterfeit coins were helpless. No one paid attention to them.

Many have read this tale to me; I have heard it from many. And whenever I have asked, “But what are people to do?” they have been startled and said, “We never thought of it that way!”

Second point: That Sufi disciple of Nizamuddin Auliya—however weak his eyes had become—could clearly recognize that the coins were false. He kept seeing the falseness of the coins. His eyesight wasn’t that weak. And he kept collecting those counterfeit coins with the hope that in exchange for them he would ask something of God. There was greed there. Imagine—the counterfeit coins of this world, and he was going to purchase the wealth of the other world with them! He must have been a clever fellow—a trickster, dishonest. If he truly couldn’t see they were counterfeit, he would have been free. Then there would have been no need to pray to God, “This counterfeit coin is coming to You; just as I accepted others’ counterfeit coins, please accept me too.” This is a bargain—a neat shopkeeper’s deal.

Other people’s counterfeit coins appeared counterfeit to him. He still had a clear distinction in his mind between false and genuine coins. He had not yet seen that in this realm even the “genuine” coins are counterfeit. Here, there is no real difference between fake and genuine coins.

Here, between the good man and the bad man, there is no essential difference. If there is any difference, it is at most in degree; there is no qualitative distinction.

Here the bad are doing bad—and the good are doing bad as well. In my view, the truly bad cannot do very great evil; to do great evil you need the cover of goodness. If you are to cut someone’s head off for evil’s sake, guilt will arise in you. But if you cut for a good cause—for the protection of Islam, of Hindu dharma, of Indian culture—then you won’t even feel guilty. You’ll chop as if doing a meritorious deed. “A chance of many lifetimes—don’t miss it!”

This man was still making distinctions between good and bad.

A true fakir, for me, is one in whom the distinction between auspicious and inauspicious disappears. My definition of a true fakir is precisely this: he has no division between right and wrong; night and day are the same; the world and liberation are one; he can say, “The world itself is moksha.” Only he is a true fakir in my eyes.

It is his moksha, it is his world. Why make distinctions? Why choose? This is the state of choicelessness. As long as there are choices—this is good, that is bad; choose this, drop that—you remain a shopkeeper. You are still worldly. Go on lecturing and whitewashing your religiosity—you are not religious.

This man knew the coins were counterfeit—that’s the first thing. Second, he kept on collecting them! He filled jars even with falsity. There’s a secret in hoarding even the false.

We can’t let go of anything. We are so possessive that whatever comes our way we hoard—pebbles, stones, trash—collect anything! If he was seeing they were fake, he could have kept selling his vegetables, feeding people—that was his joy. But why hoard the counterfeit coins? In the hope: “I am giving vegetables for counterfeit coins; I will buy heaven, paradise, with these very counterfeit coins!”

Now tell me—who is the trickster: those who bought vegetables with false coins, or the one who sets out to buy heaven with them?

When I laid all this out to a Sufi, he squirmed. He became restless. I saw beads of sweat on his brow, a flutter of anxiety—he had never imagined anyone would shred his favorite story like this! But what can I do? I can only speak as I see. I too am helpless.

In that sense, I am helpless—I cannot falsify truth. And even if someone brings falsehood draped in beautiful garments and tries to present it as truth, I want to leave truth in its nakedness; it needs no fine clothing. And never mistakenly paint falsehood in the colors of truth—otherwise you will be the one trapped, falling into your own snare.

And in this story the thing is clear: when his final hour came, he offered a prayer of thanksgiving and then said in the court of the Divine, “O Allah, all my life I have taken counterfeit coins from people.” It is certain that he was never deceived. Knowing they were false, he took them—collected them for this very day. That day arrived. Today he is demanding an exchange from God!

This is exactly the way of your so‑called sadhus and renunciates: whatever they have done, they will demand a return. “I did this, I did that; I want the reward.” They are not content to succeed here; they are frantic to succeed in the other world too. They are greedy—supremely greedy!

I don’t see worldly people as that greedy. What are their greeds, after all? A bit of money, a house, position, prestige—momentary things, lines drawn on water. The truly greedy are those who say: “What’s the point of the transitory? We will seize the eternal!” These are the truly vain. These are the real troublemakers.

Those who take a little taste of the transient here—I call them children. Childish—yes. A bit naive. But these so‑called saints, fakirs, ascetics—they are not children; they are dishonest. They are very shrewd. They are perfect shopkeepers, keeping accounts down to each act.

A Jain muni writes in his diary—how many fasts, how many vows. He is filling his jars! And remember—all counterfeit coins. Not even given by others—minted by himself. He will carry the jars and stack them at the gate of liberation: “Look, I kept so many vows, so many disciplines, so much restraint—now I want the fruit.”

And whoever asks for fruit—that one is worldly.

Krishna has given the right definition of a sannyasin: do the act, but don’t ask for the fruit. Forget the fruit. Take delight in the journey; don’t demand a destination.

But we don’t take even one step unless the destination is guaranteed first. Only when the destination is assured will we travel!

Now, look what this fakir did. He said, “O Allah, all my life I took counterfeit coins from people. Now this counterfeit coin too is coming to You. Accept it.” Precisely this line is why the Sufis repeat the tale—“What a humble man! He called himself a counterfeit coin before God—what simplicity, what egolessness!” But what is the secret behind calling himself counterfeit? He calls himself counterfeit so that he may now be allowed into paradise, heaven! Behind calling himself counterfeit lies greed. And he adds: “See the proof—I accepted their counterfeit coins; now You cannot refuse me.”

All his life he did accounts. Those jars were getting filled by the same calculation. He must have been secretly pleased that people were giving him false coins. He would even encourage it—nurturing the illusion that he couldn’t see. He took their counterfeit coins with such love and put them into the jar that people thought: “Ah, what a gain!” They had no idea that this man was planning to fire from their shoulders—he would demand a handsome return.

He accomplished a double move: he maligned people before God—“I kept accepting their fake coins”—and he showcased himself—“Look at me! I accepted even their fake coins. See my large-heartedness, my generosity. I never called anyone’s coin counterfeit!” If he had said so, it would have been good. If he had thrown their coins away, it would have been better. At least then he would not carry this cockiness before God. But he collected those fake coins precisely to strut this cockiness. To be able to say, if God should ask, “Where are the counterfeit coins?”—“Here are heaps of jars as evidence! See my diary—so many fasts and vows, such austerity and penance; what I didn’t eat, when I gave up salt, when I gave up ghee, what all I did! How long I stood on my head! Five prayers daily, every day! Not a day missed. Even when sick—never missed. Dying—still never missed. Now I demand the fruit. Now I will drink the essence of my lifelong effort.”

So he said, “Now this counterfeit coin too is coming to You.”

Do you think this man is humble? Even in trying to declare himself counterfeit before God, there is ego. He is saying, “Look—I am humble, large-hearted, generous—so generous I accepted people’s counterfeit coins as real; never objected, never complained; never a grudge. Now You too cannot complain to me! After how I behaved with Your people, You must behave so with me. And I accepted thousands of counterfeit coins; I myself am only one counterfeit coin—now let me in!”

He does not leave it to God: “As You will.” He is a claimant. He is making a claim: “Now this counterfeit coin is coming to You—accept it; do not refuse!” He is issuing an order. Orders do not arise from egolessness, only from ego.

This story looks good on the surface; inside it is rotten. There is nothing profound within it.

And Dinesh Bharti, if this is your story too, you are making the same mistake that fakir made. The tale never tells us what God did with him—but you should know what I will do. No tricks with me!

As you are, you are accepted by me. But do not proclaim the ego of being “counterfeit.” Such ploys won’t do. If you are counterfeit—fine. What’s the harm? Who is not counterfeit? But by announcing your counterfeitness, don’t fall into the delusion that you become special, distinguished from others. The same infatuation hides inside.

Now you say, “By your grace my tamas has quieted.”

If by my grace people’s tamas would quiet, I would quiet the tamas of the whole world! Nothing happens by my grace.

Don’t flatter me. You will gain nothing by praising me. It is impossible to deceive me. I put no trust in praise of any kind.

The very saying, “By your grace my tamas has quieted,” already contains tamas—darkness.

You are thinking the way ordinary people are influenced. Yes—say this to a politician: “By your grace…”—he will be thrilled. Say to a great man of religion: “By your grace this happened”—he’ll be delighted.

Once, flying from Ahmedabad to Bombay, as soon as I entered the plane, a man fell at my feet: “By your grace a miracle has happened!” I asked, “What miracle? Let me understand—because I haven’t bestowed grace on anyone; I cannot be held responsible.”

He was startled—he must have used the same trick on many holy men. And as the “holy men” are, this arrow strikes home—fall at their feet, say: “By your grace a child was born, I won a lawsuit, I got a job”—they smile and nod: “Yes, yes, child—what can’t happen by my grace!”

The man was taken aback. I said, “I’ve bestowed grace on no one. When did this grace happen? What grace—and what happened?”

He said, “No, no—don’t try to hide.”

I said, “I’m not trying to hide—I want to know what happened.”

He said, “I won my case.”

I said, “I make people win cases? And what’s the truth—should you have won or not? What had you done?”

He said, “Why hide from you? The likelihood was I would lose, because my case was false. But what can’t happen by your grace!”

I said, “Listen—you’ll go to hell and drag me along! You go alone, brother! And if you must take me, how much money did you win?”

He said, “About fifty thousand rupees.” I said, “Then give me twenty-five thousand—account settled! If I must go to hell, I won’t go for free.”

He said, “No, no—how can a great soul like you take money!”

I said, “This won’t do. When hell asks me: why did you grace this man? He was to lose, be sentenced for six years—yet no sentence, and on top he won fifty thousand! I will be punished. Out of your fifty thousand, at least twenty-five I will have to pay up, and at least three years I’ll have to spend in hell. Give me twenty-five now!”

The man was shocked. “I’ve gone to many holy men—what are you saying!”

I said, “I am speaking plainly, in the language you understand. Or take back your words. I never claimed I graced you; I deny it even now. But if you insist I did, then split the winnings.”

He retreated to his seat. But I went over two or three times: “Brother, what are you doing? Bombay is getting close!” He hid behind his newspaper. I said, “Read later—first give me the money! How will I find you in Bombay—what’s your name, address?”

He said, “Why are you after me?”

I said, “At the time of grace you were after me!”

He held his head: “Forgive me! I touch your feet.”

I said, “Then say clearly, ‘You did not bestow grace on me.’”

Even that he was afraid to say—fearing future entanglements with these sadhus! I said, “Say it fearlessly—that I did not bestow any grace; then when Judgment comes I too can say you denied it.”

He still wouldn’t. He wavered: “Please show me grace.”

I said, “Look—I showed you grace once; you haven’t even paid for that, you’re running an unpaid bill. And now you want more grace? Ask forgiveness and state plainly that I did not grace you—or when we land in Bombay, my people will be there; I’ll have you seized at once! You yourself told me your case was false; I’ll shout it out.”

These people are all dishonest. And the “holy men” are pleased with them! Don’t even speak of holy men—people try to bribe even the gods. That’s why it’s so hard to eliminate bribery from this country.

I don’t think bribery will vanish from India—not unless Indian “culture” vanishes. But Indian culture must be saved! People take a rotten coconut and offer it to Hanuman: “O Hanumanji, take care of us!” These are riot-raisers—now they want to trap Hanuman as well, with a rotten coconut! Who knows what mischief they have done—and for that, a rotten coconut should obligate Hanuman to keep watch over them! And then they preen about their devotion, their ardent prayer, their grand aarti!

In my village, in the family temple where I was born, whenever someone was overly devotional in the aarti, I would follow him home: “Today you showed such devotion—what’s the matter?” “What matter! Why are you following me?”

“I’ve come to ask—either you’ve done something fishy or you intend to. Otherwise I’ve never seen such devotion. I stand there watching who displays how much devotion; that’s how I tally how many rogues the neighborhood has—and how many are in training. Your eyes were tearing—you should shed more!”

“Go mind your own business!” they would say. “Won’t you even let us be devout?”

“Be devout—by all means! But why only today, not daily? Surely either you did something or you intend to. Tell me plainly—or I’m going to the police outpost to ask them to keep an eye on you!”

“What kind of man are you!” they would say. “You won’t let anyone be devout! Why go to the police? Wait!”

“Then speak plainly—because here people are devout for just such reasons.”

Praise is a form of bribery. That’s why bribe is a religious thing in India. You can tell people a thousand times, “Don’t take bribes,” but those who for centuries have been bribing even God—will they not bribe human beings? If they believe even God can be bought with a rotten coconut—what is a tehsildar, a police inspector, a collector, a commissioner? A governor, a president—what is anyone? If God Himself yields to a rotten coconut—these are only men! How powerful are they?

Mulla Nasruddin was going up in a lift with a woman. On the way he said, “Ah, what beauty!”

She flared up: “Aren’t you ashamed—saying such things to a woman in private!”

He said, “I’m not talking nonsense. Whatever I say, I’m ready to pay the price. If you spend one night with me, I’ll give you fifty thousand rupees.”

She melted—who wouldn’t at fifty thousand? “Fifty thousand?”

“Exactly fifty thousand.”

“Fine. Which floor do you live on?”

“That I’ll tell later. To tell the truth, I only have fifty rupees.”

She exploded: “I’ll raise a commotion right now! What do you take me for?”

Nasruddin said, “The question of ‘what’ doesn’t remain—we’ve already decided that for fifty thousand. Now it’s just bargaining! No need for noise. If you agree at fifty thousand, why not fifty? It’s only a matter of affordability. I mentioned fifty thousand to test how deep the water is. Now that’s settled—what you are is decided.”

Some will have a small price, some a big one. But fall at the feet of even a donkey, saying, “Ah, what a fine Kabuli stallion!”—and the donkey too will nod: “You alone have recognized me!”

I was expelled from a college. The faculty and principal were exasperated. “With you there is nothing but trouble. Every professor complains: either this boy stays or we resign. You raise such questions!” “You asked a professor yesterday, ‘Can you prove you are the father of your son?’ Is that a question?”

I said, “First ask what he said. He said, ‘Until I prove something, I don’t accept it.’ And his son studies in my class. So I said, ‘Then prove this boy is yours.’ He flared up.”

“He himself provoked me—he’ll make mischief and I’ll be punished? Call him. The whole class is witness—he said he is scientific and accepts only what is proven.” So I said, “I too am scientific: Is this boy yours? Are you certain? On what basis? Any proof?” He lost his head and threw me out of class. “I won’t go—first you prove it. If you prove it, I’ll leave the class forever.” He ran to you!”

The principal pondered, “You are right. But I can’t prove it either— I have sons too. You raise such entangling issues—leave this college.” “Who will take me, with my reputation? Will you recommend me? Put it in writing.” “I can’t write—if tomorrow you do mischief there, I’ll be blamed. I can phone.” “If you can say it on the phone, write it down. If your mouth can say it, why can’t your hand? Is your mouth superior to your hand?”

“You’re starting trouble again!” he said. “It’s for such trouble that we are sending you away.”

I went to a rundown college where no one wanted to go. I thought they would take me. The principal was at home, performing worship—devotee of Durga, of Kali—“Jai Kali, Jai Kali!” And not only in worship—his body too was Kali’s devotee: dark, heavy, fierce. He was roaring “Jai Kali!” so loudly the whole neighborhood quaked. I sat outside listening. I needed admission. When he came out, I said, “I’ve seen many devotees—but not like you! In this Kali Yuga, the sight of a Satya‑Yuga man—blessed am I!”

“Son, you are the first youth to recognize me! No one recognizes me—not even my family. They think I’m mad.”

“They are mad—you are a paramhansa!”

He admitted me immediately—no questions about where I’d been thrown out from or why. And whenever he had a chance he would say, “This is the one youth who recognized me!”

When I was leaving the college, he said, “You are going—my heart is sad.” “If you are sad, so am I,” I said. “I alone recognized you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Now that I’m leaving, I can tell the truth—I’ve never seen a bigger fool. People are right.”

“What do you mean?”

“I recognized you at once—by how you were bellowing ‘Kali, Kali.’ I saw Kali fleeing your room: ‘I’m off—when this evil man is gone, I’ll return!’ Whom are you deceiving? When I saw you trying to deceive even Kali with such praise, I understood your arithmetic—and used your arithmetic on you. Now I tell you the truth.” Since then he has been very angry with me. For years we lived in the same town; if I greeted him, he would turn away. I would circle around to greet him again—after all, I am the one person who recognized him!

Dinesh, what is this you are saying—“By your grace my tamas has quieted!” If it quieted by my grace and my grace ceases, what then? I can take my grace back. If darkness returns tomorrow, you will gnaw at me: “You withdrew your grace!”

Your tamas hasn’t gone anywhere; it is sitting in its place. Sometimes the serpent coils and sleeps—hence “kundalini.” When the snake coils and sleeps it’s kundalini; when it rises and hoods, you say kundalini has awakened. For now your tamas may have dozed—or you may be trying to hoodwink me: “It has completely gone—now let me be admitted to the ashram; I’ll declare my tamas is quiet.”

“Through awareness the burden of rajas is getting lighter.”

You even lie with caution. You thought: “Let me be modest—this man is dangerous. If I say rajas is finished, he’ll catch me.” I’ve caught you already!

“…getting lighter. And by staying near you I will be able to enter sattva.”

If your readiness is true, the whole thing happens in a single instant. Is this a gradual program—that first tamas will go, then rajas, then we will enter sattva? How many births will you take? How much time waste? If your readiness is genuine…

And do not try to deceive me—I don’t collect counterfeit coins. I have no jar to place before God: “O Lord, see how many counterfeit coins I took—now accept me too!” I am no counterfeit coin. I will not make such a prayer.

In fact, I am not one to pray at all. I have long since finished with the last prayer. I am the sort who will push the door and walk in. If anyone will need to pray, it will be God: “Brother, don’t rush in so loudly—come softly, at least don’t break my sleep!” And am I going in alone? There will be a whole procession behind—Shiva’s entire wedding party! Where will my one and a half lakh sannyasins go? I won’t let a single one wander off. We will occupy heaven. Kutch was only the beginning—just for practice, to show how an occupation is done!

You’ve seen fire brigades practice—set a false fire and put it out. Practice. In just that way Kutch was a practice—set a mock fire, douse it, so you get a feel for how to enter when we storm heaven.

You are accepted by me, Dinesh—always have been. Whether tamasic or not, you are accepted. I draw no hard line between tamas, rajas, sattva. Don’t bother about that. Only one thing is needed—your readiness to surrender. But you have always given the opposite evidence. Your trick is to show surrender toward me—and this is not only your trick; many others’ too.

You cannot deceive me, for the simple reason that I myself have played every kind of trick! I am a seasoned hand. No one can pick my pocket—I know every technique of picking. So you will pick what pocket—when I don’t keep one! Do you see a pocket on me? Without a pocket—and how nicely I live! This is what I call supreme sannyas. Even if someone wants to pick, he cannot.

Even the poorest man keeps a pocket. Even if it holds nothing, at least in the cold he can put his hands in. I keep not even that much of a pocket.

You will not be able to fool me. Others try the same kind of trick: they show surrender to me and create disturbances in the ashram. They say, “We love Bhagwan. But the ashram’s organization and its rules—we don’t accept them.” Their intention is to show such surrender to me that I say nothing—“See how devoted they are!”—while they create all sorts of mischief toward the commune. That won’t do.

Whoever has surrender toward me must also have surrender toward my commune—that alone is the proof, otherwise there is none. The single proof of surrender to me is surrender to the commune. If someone tries tactics—“I am surrendered to you, what have I to do with the commune?”—when God is already pleased, why worry about the commune?—then there is no place for him near me.

This commune exists precisely so that you can prove your surrender to me by surrendering completely to the commune. Disappear there. Do not protect your ego there.

And this is still a small-scale commune; soon ten, twenty, twenty-five thousand people will live together. If I give space to even small disturbances now, it will be impossible to manage twenty, twenty-five thousand later. And you see—I never step out of my room even for a moment to manage. I must manage from inside the room.

You talk of miracles—yet you are blind to the one before your eyes. I sit in my room and fifteen hundred people work in the ashram; there is no disturbance, no friction, no obstruction, no hindrance, no conflict. This I call a miracle. The fifteen hundred will become fifteen thousand. So I cannot allow even a little of that kind of person. One rotten fish can stink up the whole pond.

So prepare yourself: surrender to the commune—and you are accepted today, accepted now.

And you say, “It took us long to come—yet thank goodness we came!”

You have not come yet. You still have to come.

You say, “Hope never left the heart, though we were afraid.”

I know you want to come; you hope; you should come. But drop a few of your small tricks and hindrances. They are small hindrances, not big ones. Yet where a great commune is being born, one must drop the small mischiefs that create obstacles in its life. You have no big vices; no one has. But questions arise when many must live together—when the issue of co‑existence comes.

Alone, each person is fine, beautiful. If you want to live in a forest—no problem. But where you must live with others, there should be no collisions.

I want a commune that becomes, for the first time on earth, a proof of love. Many communes have been formed, but none lasted. You may be surprised to know this is the first commune with a real chance of lasting. None have succeeded so far. Many experiments—but why did they break? The maximum life of any commune in human history has been three years. Many experiments—even by great people. I began with no money at all. Others, like Robert Owen, tried.

Robert Owen was England’s greatest millionaire. He poured his whole wealth into the commune. Still it collapsed within three years. All the wealth was gone. He died a beggar; others collected money for his shroud. What happened? With so much money a commune should have run. But the very money caused the mischief—scoundrels gathered whose reason for coming was money; not a passion for the commune’s life or success. They came for Owen’s money, for freeloading: “No need to do anything—great!”

Owen’s crores were burned in three years. As the money burned, people disappeared.

It didn’t happen just once. Saint‑Simon’s commune broke the same way. In America many communes were built and all died. Slowly people lost heart. They came to conclude: communes cannot succeed. I say they can—only the foundations were wrong.

Owen’s basic mistake: he had neither meditation nor love. He was merely a man of zeal, an idealist, a man of theories. I am neither a theorist nor an idealist—free of dogma, free of ideals.

His second mistake was to begin with money. I began without money. So whoever comes must understand this is a commune of love and meditation—you will have to live a life of love and meditation.

I do not tolerate unfit people even for a moment. By “unfit” I don’t mean morally bad. I mean unfit for communal life—lacking the capacity to move with four others. Alone they can move—there is no obstacle there. Questions arise only when four must move together—sometimes you must slow your pace, sometimes hasten it. If someone insists, “I will walk only at my own speed,” he cannot live in a commune.

That is your mistake, Dinesh. I am not accepting many Indian friends for this reason: their reason for coming is wrong. Most Indian friends want to come because they think: “Good—no job, no business—free living!” They won’t say it outright. If they told me honestly, “We want to freeload,” I might accept them—at least they’re honest. They say, “We will do bhava-bhakti—devotion.” I throw them out. Go do devotion elsewhere; the whole country is available. Why here? And how will you do it here?

Indian friends come and say, “We are only interested in spiritual practice; we don’t want to do labor.” Then do your practice on the Himalayas. Here you will have to work too.

Old-style Indian sadhus arrive wanting admission. I ask, “Of what use are you to us? In a commune there must be usefulness. Some creativity. And you won’t be allowed your ganja and bhang here.” Their intention is to eat and drink in comfort—and pack their chillum. That won’t do. I cannot accept them.

I can accept friends who are truly ready to surrender. I have accepted such—and I invite such. Come! It’s not necessary that you bring money. Money is not the issue. Only meditation and love. But love is an essential condition.

Meditation alone makes a person inactive. Love gives creativity. A religion of meditation alone becomes inactive, dead. A religion of love alone becomes active—but its activity is feverish, frantic.

The sannyas I am birthing is a synthesis of meditation and love. It has never been done on earth before. Hence there is great hope—if this experiment succeeds, a new foundation will be available to humanity.

On earth there have been two kinds of religions: religions of love and religions of meditation. Both have failed. Buddhism, Jainism—religions of meditation. Christianity, Islam—religions of love. Because in Christianity and Islam there is little room for meditation—prayer, love—so much activity was generated. Islam’s activity took an aggressive form—masculine energy—picked up the sword, began changing people by the sword.

Can people be transformed by the sword? Killed, yes—not transformed. Cut down, yes—not transfigured. Most Muslims on earth today became Muslims by the sword. So they are Muslims in name. No revolution happened in their lives. They would be the same had they remained Hindus, Christians, Jains. No difference. But by force—being cowards, they compromised.

Christianity was less aggressive because the personalities of Jesus and Mohammed differ. Mohammed is very masculine—aggressive, outgoing. Jesus is feminine—tender, inward. So in Christianity love took the form of service. They tried to change people through service. Missionaries were produced—“Give bread, water, medicine; open schools, hospitals; and by this pretext, the sick and the orphan who get trapped—make them Christians.”

Mother Teresa of Calcutta keeps saying, “I oppose birth control and abortion; there should be legal bans.” There must be—otherwise where will the orphans come from? And without orphans, what of Christianity? Christianity here survives on orphans. Mother Teresa got the Nobel Prize because of orphans. If Calcutta practised family planning, from where would the crowd of babies at Mother Teresa’s place come? Her whole shop runs thanks to those who produce children beyond need. The Bengali babu may be feeble—but he begets children. Who will feed and raise them? Countless babies are abandoned on Calcutta’s streets—Mother Teresa gets them. With no father or mother, she is their mother. And then it is easy to make them Christians—when parents are absent. They will grow among Christians—be taught, fed, clothed by Christians; they will naturally be Christian. She doesn’t care if the world dies—only that the source of Christians not dry up. There must be poverty in the world.

A Hindu pundit, Karpatri Maharaj, wrote a book: “Ram Rajya and Socialism.” Among his arguments against socialism is this: Hindu scriptures say the basis of Indian culture is dana—charity. If there are no poor, who will take charity? And when charity disappears, religion will be destroyed! If charity is religion, the arithmetic is clear: the poor are needed, the rich are needed; givers are needed, receivers are needed. If all are equal, who will give and who will take? If someone tries to give you alms you’ll slap him—“Use your brains! Who needs your alms?” And when there is no charity, there is no religion. Hence socialism must be opposed.

What wonders we suffer! Poverty must remain—otherwise religion will vanish!

Yet I’ll say this much: there is a kernel in what he says. Though he says it in ignorance, there is a point. By mistake a truth slipped out. No religion wants poverty to be eradicated—for if poverty goes, their religion goes.

Bertrand Russell used to say: as long as there is poverty, disease, suffering, old age, widows, rot—there will be religion. The day all are happy, healthy, young—old age abolished by science—and illnesses largely gone, and damaged organs replaced, the day there are no marriage‑caused social upheavals, the day society is prosperous and joyous, love is free—what place will there be for religion?

Russell’s statement also has truth—the opposite of Karpatri’s. If Karpatri says, “We need the poor so religion survives,” Russell says, “Poverty ends, religion ends.” Mother Teresa would agree with Karpatri.

Religious people everywhere agree that trouble must remain in the world, or else… For it is by saying, “Life is suffering,” that they sell liberation from rebirth. If life were bliss and someone came and said, “Seek liberation from rebirth,” you would reply, “Why? We are happy. You seek it—you must be suffering.” If someone said, “There is great joy in heaven—rivers of wine, beautiful women,” you’d say, “They are right here—why go there? We’ve made the best wines here—why go to your heaven? And those heavenly women—tribal perhaps. Call them Menaka, Urvashi if you like—their ways will be all wrong. With modern healthy women and men here, why go to your Vaikuntha? In fact there will be protests in Vaikuntha—people will demand to go down to earth; they won’t want to stay there!”

I’ve heard that when Onassis died—Onassis was among Greece’s richest men; he married Jacqueline Kennedy, had many other marriages; he owned islands and giant ships—when he died and reached heaven’s gate, he asked St. Peter for some information before entering: “Are the women up to the mark?” St. Peter said, “You look familiar—are you Onassis?” “I am Onassis.” “Then there’s a problem. You have seen too many beautiful women—ours may seem old-fashioned.” “And the liquor?” “If you want pure French wine—where here?” “Housing? Facilities?” “Everything—but old-fashioned. No modern bathrooms yet. Bathe in the river, dry your clothes there, and enjoy.” Onassis said, “What is this! We’ve heard such big talk about heaven.” “Come in, try for a few days—but you may not like it,” said Peter. And this is no mere story—this is true in essence. What will you give in heaven that science does not already offer here? Your heaven is archaic—air‑conditioning hasn’t reached there; sit under the wish‑fulfilling tree and if a fruit drops on your head you go to the hospital!

When man is happy, your so‑called religions will die. But I say a new religion will arise—the one I speak of. Why not make this earth a heaven? Why speak of a beyond? Why not create a new life here?

So the commune will not be of renouncers and vow‑keepers; it will be of joyous people—not idlers, but creators. The commune is an effort to bring heaven down to earth. So I can accept only those whose surrender is total and who make no separation between me and my commune. The trick will not work—“We bow to you, but we won’t accept any rules.” If ten thousand live here and each “believes in me” and chews my head twenty‑four hours—that won’t do.

Some write to me constantly: “They stopped me here, didn’t let me do that—why don’t you intervene?” If I were to fuss over such minor matters, I should build an ashram like Vinoba’s—ten or fifteen people; he goes to each room daily to see if it’s clean—opens even the latrines to inspect! This business is not for me.

Here you must understand responsibility.

You are accepted—wholly, with all my love. But you must go deep in both meditation and love. Only then is there a possibility you can become a foundation stone of my commune. And those who are with me now are to become the foundation. Much depends on them. Those who come later will quietly become bricks upon these stones. But if the foundation stones are wrong, the structure will not rise. The foundations must be chosen with great care. Later, weaker bricks can be tolerated. But not now.

So prepare, Dinesh Bharti—and through you I am also speaking to many others: if you are to prepare, then prepare to enter fully into meditation and love. Let surrender be total. And surrender to me must mean surrender to the commune—only then is it surrender. Then the doors are open. No one is stopping you.

Pandit Tilakdhar Shastri! O resident of Ludhiana! First Punjabi—and then a Pandit! Bitter gourd with neem—bitterness upon bitterness! A dangerous combination. Brother, what will you do with a razor-sharp intellect? What obstacle has arisen? What calamity has befallen?

People want to use intellect too to gratify the ego, just as they use wealth and position. A razor-sharp intellect! And a razor-sharp intellect becomes available only when there is no ego. Hence the tangle. The arithmetic is upside down.

You want a keen intellect precisely so the ego can get an ornament—so the Kohinoor can be set in your crown. Yet a keen intellect becomes available only when the ego is lost; that is the first condition. When the ego is gone, intelligence is present in everyone. The rocks of ego, the boulders of ego, are blocking the inner springs of consciousness.

Now you say, “You are an ocean of knowledge!”

Pandit Tilakdhar Shastri, you are mistaken. I am neither an ocean nor a drop. The drop too is gone—let alone the ocean. When I am not, how could I be an ocean? Not even a drop. But these habits of ours—of praise and flattery—don’t leave us. They’ve mixed into our blood.

And Indian pandits have an old habit. What are these pandits of India? Courtly types! For centuries they have sung the praises of kings and emperors. They sang of King Rama. They became the nine gems in Akbar’s court. They sang of Vikramaditya. If you want praise for anyone, get it from them. Their trade is precisely this: praising, inflating others’ egos. Naturally kings and princes were pleased with their panegyrics. And what praises they sang! Where is any limit in praise? If you sit down to flatter, why be stingy? It costs nothing—only hot air. Blow up the balloon—even if it bursts, what of it? If it bursts, that’s its destiny; what will it take from you? And people have become very skilled at blowing up balloons!

Tell a very homely, plain-faced woman, “Ah, your face outshines the moon!” She won’t deny it. She’ll say, “You are the first person who has recognized me. I’ve met many, but people lack eyes. All are blind, all Surdas. You could see. You recognized.”

Tell the harshest-voiced woman, “What a voice you have—cuckoo-throated! O cuckoo!” And see how she smiles—even if the smile goes hee-hee-hee, enough to scare ghosts, enough to make spirits’ chests tremble—“Which dame has arrived!” Still you’ll say, “Flowers are showering! Ah, what flowers are showering! Night-jasmine blossoms!”

Inside themselves people are waiting for such words. And when someone says them, their chest swells. And while their chest is swelling, take whatever you want from them!

The Shah of Iran sent an envoy to Akbar’s court. Naturally, as soon as he was chosen, all the courtiers became his enemies. In courts there will be jealousy—struggle, intrigue, conspiracies. Pulling each other down, throwing one another aside to make one’s own place. In politics of any kind, these are the games.

So when he was chosen, the other courtiers were aflame—he was chosen, not us! They set spies on him to collect any report that could incense the king against him—so angry that on his return the king would cut off his head. And they arranged it thus: the envoy went to Akbar’s court and said, “You are the full moon!”

Those who followed sent back the news: “Unbelievable—the man went and told Akbar he is the full moon!”

Akbar said, “If I am the full moon, you are servant to the Shah of Iran—then who is the Shah? There cannot be two full moons.”

The envoy replied, “Never, Majesty. You are the full moon. As for the Shah of Iran—consider him the second-day moon.”

The report reached home before the envoy did. Akbar was delighted and rewarded him lavishly—loaded him with wealth on many camels. But when he reached the Iranian court, the Shah drew his sword on hearing that this mischief-maker had called him the second-day moon and Akbar the full moon! “I will take your head—first answer me. Why did you call Akbar the full moon and me the second-day moon?”

He replied, “Majesty, sheath your sword. You did not understand. Akbar is the fool. Are you a fool? The second-day moon is still waxing—still growing. Development lies ahead. Full moon means the end—now nothing remains but decline.”

The Shah beamed. The sword went back to its sheath, and he gave the envoy double what he had brought. Then he looked at the courtiers as if to say, “Understand? The one who has the art can be clever anywhere!”

These pandits have fattened in the courts of kings. Their language has become corrupt.

And now you say, “You are an ocean of knowledge.”

I am not even a drop. Where is knowledge here? Consider me supremely unknowing. What do I know? There isn’t even a knower left. This is a bamboo reed—hollow within. If there is song, it is the Divine’s; none of it is mine. If there is any mistake or slip, that is due to this bamboo reed. If there is any hitch in the melody, that is due to my kinks and crookedness. But all notes are His. The drop is His, the ocean is His; nothing is mine.

You ask me for some technique so your memory improves, your intellect sharpens, your mind gleams—so you too may dazzle the world. But remember, from what I get—there are only abuses! To shine like me requires preparation. To shine like me requires a thousand kinds of abuse, from all sides! You need the kind of abandon I have, that takes delight in abuse! I find songs within the insults! I hear abuse as if hymns of praise were being sung to me. This is no cheap bargain.

And my memory is not particularly good. I forget everything. But who cares! Since I keep no account of my own and have left all concern to Him, let Him handle it. What is not in the Vedas—I say it is in the Vedas! What do I lose? If it’s there, fine; if not, fine. If it’s in one Upanishad, I put it in another. Who’s keeping strict watch here? This is a world of intoxication. Where is memory here?

One day I asked Sardar Vichittar Singh, “Bhape, tell me the story of the Mahabharata.”

Vichittar Singh said, “Listen, son!” He’s an elder, twice my age, so he rightly said, “Listen, son! Draupadi had five sons. One was named Yudhishthir, one Arjun, one Bhim, one… and one I forgot!”

I said, “Vichittar Singh, marvelous! At least you remembered three! Arithmetic is complete with three—there’s the Triveni right there. I didn’t even remember the three. You did well.”

My memory is not reliable. My arithmetic is a mess. Sometimes two and two make three, sometimes two and two make five! Don’t look for consistency in my logic. I take what meaning I need out of whatever mood is present—whatever the moment’s play. What I said yesterday I may contradict today; what I said just now I may change right now! I am moment-to-moment.

When Chandulal was just a child, his friend Nasruddin asked, “Chandulal, why are you so happy today?”

Chandulal said, “A boy will be born at our house today.”

Nasruddin asked, “How do you know?”

Chandulal said, “Last year my mommy had stomach pain and a daughter was born; this time my daddy has stomach pain—naturally, it will be a boy. Clear arithmetic, clear logic. If Mommy had pain and a girl was born, when Daddy has pain, a boy will be born—what else?”

My arithmetic is like that; my logic is like that.

A photographer and Sardar Vichittar Singh were sitting in a garden. Vichittar Singh said, “My mood is garden-garden!”—meaning “I’m overjoyed.” The photographer was startled: what astonishing English—turning “bagh-bagh” into “garden-garden”! Understand my language like that. Just then a black man walked past. Seeing him, Vichittar Singh said, “Look, brother photographer, look—hey, a negative is going by!”

Don’t get taken in by my words. I am not a straight, proper fellow!

Pandit Tilakdhar Shastri, what are you doing here looking for an ocean of knowledge! What sharp intellect, what intelligence? Here there is playfulness, here there is ecstasy. This is an assembly of revelers, a world of drunkards. These things are not found here.

Outside a bus ticket counter, two notices were posted: one said, “For women”; the other, “Please stand in queue.” Sardar Vichittar Singh read them in one go: “For women please stand in queue.”

My reading and writing are like that! I read the Bible in the Quran and the Quran in the Bible!

Here, if you want to disappear, a path can be made. There is no method here to sharpen the intellect. Here, if you want to drown, something can happen.

But pandits have their own troubles. They are afraid of drowning. They are frightened of dropping the ego. All their thinking and understanding revolve around one anxiety: how to add more and more ornaments.

The questioner is Narendra Vachaspati.

Do you think joy and celebration are easy? Joy and celebration come through tireless sadhana and labor. If you want to be gloomy, you need neither labor nor sadhana.

A priest was instructing newly ordained priests—about to go out and preach—giving them final advice: “When you speak of the Kingdom of God, look toward the sky. Let your eyes fill with wonder. Let your face glow. A smile on your lips. Let nothing but bliss shine forth! When you utter the word ‘heaven,’ display such expressions—then people will understand.”

One priest stood up and asked, “And when we have to speak of hell?”

He replied, “In that case, just stand exactly as you are. Seeing you, they’ll understand hell!”

Narendra Vachaspati, for me, joy and celebration are the Dharma Chakra Pravartan. For me, to make people drink the divine—to pour God like wine and have them drink—is precisely the turning of the wheel of dharma. But it must have jolted you; you felt hurt.

Some people sit ready to be hurt! Long, gloomy faces. Give them half a chance to be miserable and they won’t miss it. To come even here and be miserable—then it’s the limit! Here, where there is nothing to be sad about, where only happiness is being invoked! Yet even here they keep searching for ways to be unhappy: renunciation, austerity, sadhana, relentless sadhana, toil!

As you wish, brother—break stones! Stand on your head! Starve yourself! Do whatever you like. But for me there is only one sadhana: that as much bliss as possible may pour from your life; that your life become as festive as possible; that the flowers of your being bloom. And there is only one labor I acknowledge: that which opens your thousand-petaled lotus, lets your fragrance spread, lights your lamp so that radiance bursts forth. And not only your lamp—let lamps be lit from lamp to lamp until it becomes Diwali.

Try to understand what I am saying. If you want to be miserable, that’s your choice. And if the shock is too much, there is Sassoon Hospital—get yourself admitted! Take treatment. Many accidents do happen here. Pundits often meet with them. Now you are Vachaspati—there’s danger right there. This is no place for pundits. Here pundits lose their heads. See—Pandit Mansaram’s head rolled! Just now Pandit Tilakdhar’s rolled; now you’ve got yourself caught!

The new human will be born through joy and celebration. The old human was rotten and decayed. He lived by doing much sadhana, much toil, in gloom. Austerity, renunciation, vows—these were his foundations. That human gave nothing to humanity: no flowers bloomed, no lamps were lit. No Holi, no Diwali.

Here we are creating the very process for the birth of a new human: every day Holi, every day Diwali! This is a garden where flowers are to bloom upon flowers.

So let me repeat: our Dharma Chakra Pravartan is this—let there be joy, let there be celebration. We don’t need temples; we need taverns. Not pilgrimages—wine-houses. And here the cupbearers are gathered, and all the arrangements for pouring are in place. If you sit there with your lips pursed, that’s your choice. You have the right: if you want to remain miserable, remain miserable. You are the master: if you want to be blissful, be blissful. Both doors—heaven and hell—are open. Enter whichever you wish.

That’s all for today.