Jyun Macchali Bin Neer #1

Narendra Bodhisattva! Whom else would he be looking at? It is a whole congregation of sleepers. There are many kinds of sleep, different ways of being asleep. Some are asleep, drunk on wealth; some are asleep, drunk on position. But all of humanity is asleep.

Those whom you call religious are not religious either, because without awakening no one can be religious. There are Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains—but there is no sign of a religious human being. If one is truly religious, one cannot be a Hindu, cannot be a Muslim. These are all modes of sleep. Someone is asleep in a mosque, someone is asleep in a temple.

I knew a very lovely man—simple, astonishingly simple! And fiery too—he could scorch like fire. His name was Mahatma Bhagwandin. Whenever he spoke, he would pause in between and say, “Raise your left hand. Now raise your right hand. Now raise both hands. Now lower both hands.” I asked him, “Why make people do these drills in the middle of your talk?” He said, “So I can be sure whether people are listening awake or are asleep!” And I saw it was true. When he would say, “Raise the left hand,” some would do nothing, some would raise the right.

Most people are asleep—eyes open and yet asleep. Sleep means you do not know who you are. If only you came to know who you are, then there is joy in life, a fragrance in life! For then the flower of life blossoms, the sun of life rises, and the journey of ascension begins.

I love this saying from the Atharvaveda:
“Utkramatah purusha mavapatthah machchhiththah asmal-lokav agne suryasya samdrishah.”

“O Purusha, transcend! Rise—rise higher! While still living in this very world, become radiant like the sun.”

Purusha means that which dwells within you. The body is the dwelling-place. The one who dwells within the body—that is you. Who is it that dwells within? Not even knowing that, what meaning can your awakening have? If one cannot discern one’s own hand, we call him blind. And if one cannot discern one’s own soul, he must be called utterly blind. And so long as this blindness remains, how can there be transcendence? How will you rise higher? Unconsciousness is a pit, a chasm. Awakening gives you wings. The whole sky is yours; you need only two wings. The vastness of the whole sky is yours. The moon and the stars are yours. And if you learn the art of awakening, you have found the steps—the steps of the temple. Now climb!

And this aphorism is dear to me also because it is my definition of sannyas: “While still in this world, become radiant like the sun.” Do not renounce, do not run away! It is only while living in the world, in this very life, that your sun can manifest. But if sleeping people go off to the Himalayas, sit in caves, nothing will change. You will carry your sleep with you. Your unconsciousness will follow you like your shadow. You may become a renunciate, an ascetic; you may do headstands, stand on your head, stand on one leg, starve yourself—do whatever you like—sleep will not break. These are not ways to break sleep. Yes, it may happen that you begin to dream in a religious way. It may happen that your worldly dreams drop and, in their place, dreams of liberation and heaven arise. But there will be no real difference.

Dhabbu-ji told me this, and I burst out laughing. I asked, “Ninu, what’s this?”
She said, “Please be quiet, I’m doing puja, Uncle!”
Dhabbu-ji said, “Puja? But that’s a film song, not a hymn!”
She quickly shot back, “In puja you and Grandma also sing ‘Om Jai Jagdish Hare’—that’s a song from the pictures too.”

What difference does it make what you’re singing? Whether it’s a bhajan or a film song—within your sleep, all is equal. Even if you dream of heaven, it makes no difference. Even if gods appear in your dream, nothing changes. When you wake up, you’ll find all dreams were false.

Some people are lost in worldly dreams; others are lost in dreams of renunciation. And these renouncers you’ve kept calling “great souls.” Their sleep is just like yours—no real difference at all. Even their dreams are like yours, because a dream is a dream; what you dream about doesn’t change its nature. One is a saint in his dream, another is a thief; wake up and both dreams vanish. On awakening, you find, “I am only the seer—neither thief nor saint—merely a witness.”

Narendra Bodhisattva, this saying of Rajjab—indeed, of Rajjab and of all who have awakened—has always been addressed to those who are asleep. There’s no way to “say” anything to the awakened, and no need to. When one sees for oneself, what is there to say? So when two awakened ones meet, there is nothing to say; they sit in silence, in emptiness. They are thrilled at the sight of each other, delighted—yet what is left to speak?

Buddha said three kinds of pairings are possible. If two enlightened ones meet, that is one pairing—there will be no talk at all. If two fools meet, there will be a great deal of babble and no listening whatsoever. Two Buddhas will speak nothing, yet understand much.

My father used to write me letters, regularly. His letters always said: “Written little—understand more.”
I told him, “Take it a step further—‘Written nothing—understand everything.’”
Often there was nothing really to write. So he started sending a blank postcard—“Written nothing; understand everything.” That, too, needed no writing—if a blank card arrived, I would understand that nothing is written and all is to be understood.

They say Eknath once wrote to Nivrittinath: he sent a blank sheet. What to write! Eknath is awakened, Nivrittinath is awakened—what is there to write or say! Both see, both recognize, both live it. The messenger brought the letter. Nivrittinath first read it—from bottom to top. Then he handed it to his sister, Muktabai, who was sitting nearby, saying, “Now you read.” She too was among the awakened. After reading, Muktabai said, “Beautifully written! Written to the heart’s content! And Eknath is as blank as this paper—every trace of writing has dissolved; only the void remains.”

Where the void remains, scripture is born. Scriptures arise only from emptiness.

When two enlightened ones meet, the exchange is of emptiness alone. You would hear nothing. The point would be said, yet not said at all. Words would not interfere; heart would join heart. They might sway in rapture, dance hand in hand, be intoxicated—but what is there to say?

Mahavira and Buddha once stayed in the same dharmashala, yet they did not meet. What was there to say, what need to meet? Sometimes I think even Eknath needn’t have troubled the messenger. Why send a blank page at all?

Buddha and Mahavira never met, though they stayed in the same inn: half occupied by Buddha’s camp, half by Mahavira’s. One village, one dharmashala. They did not meet. No need—nothing to say. But let two “buddhus” (fools) meet and there will be endless blather; no one listens. They just keep unloading on each other—who has time to listen! The head is so stuffed with trash, they are busy dumping it. They miss no chance: someone is found—pour it into his skull and lighten your load.

People say, “We came and spoke with you; the burden felt much lighter.” Fine—your burden is lighter; but what happened to the poor fellow who had to receive it? His burden increased!

A woman went to a doctor. For an hour she chewed the doctor’s head—illnesses from who knows where—her entire history from childhood till now. As she left, she said, “You are a wonderful physician. I had a terrible headache when I came; now it’s completely gone.”
The doctor said, “I’m sure it’s gone—because my head is buzzing. Yours went away; it came to me. It went nowhere. You chewed my head for an hour; now mine hurts. You feel light—cured without medicine!”

So neither does talk happen between two fools, nor between two awakened ones. The awakened do not speak; the foolish do not listen. Then there is a third conjunction: between the awakened and the sleeping. Only there can talk happen. The awakened says, “Listen.” The sleeper may or may not listen, but the awakened must speak. That is compassion.

Not only Rajjab—whoever has awakened has addressed the sleeping. The sleeping must be awakened. This saying of Rajjab is very sweet; the whole verse deserves to be understood:

“Khinn-khinn dukhiya dagadhiye, virah vitha tan peer.
Ghadi palak mein binasiye, jyuñ machhli bin neer.”

“Every moment the miserable are scorched; separation’s sorrow aches in the body.
In a blink it all perishes, like a fish without water.”

“Every moment the miserable are scorched.” People are burning in sorrow—moment by moment, only sorrow; at every instant, only sorrow. They have known nothing else.

What is your life? Turn the pages. Look at your own story. It’s all lamentation—no story, only pain. On every page, stains of grief; on every page, writing engraved with anguish; on every page, tears have fallen. “Every moment the miserable are scorched”—as if one were burning in fire! And you ask whether there is hell or not? You live in hell and ask whether there is a hell! People come to me and ask, “Is there hell?” I say, “Fool! And where do you imagine you are? You are in it. There is no other hell.” They think there must be some hell elsewhere. Hell is here; heaven is here. Hell is a style of living; so is heaven. It’s not a geographical location.

I have heard: when the first Russian cosmonaut returned from orbiting the moon, Khrushchev asked him—in private, of course, the door shut—“Tell me one thing, you circled the moon—did you see God?”
The cosmonaut joked: “Yes, God exists.”
Khrushchev said, “I always suspected as much—but swear you won’t tell anyone.”

At the museum in Moscow—where soil and rocks from the moon are displayed, and images of space exploration—the sign at the door says: “Our cosmonauts reached the moon and found one thing with certainty: there is no God there.”

Later the cosmonaut was invited everywhere. He even went to the Vatican, where the Pope resides, head of the Catholic Church. The Pope too called him in, closed the door as Khrushchev had, and asked in confidence, “Tell me—did you see God?”
The cosmonaut, in the mood for mischief, as he had with Khrushchev, said, “There is no God; I saw no God.”
The Pope said, “I always suspected as much. But please, do me a favor—don’t tell anyone.”

Here even atheists suspect, “Who knows, maybe God exists.” And theists suspect, “Who knows, maybe God doesn’t.” All are lost in webs of imagination. No one has any experience.

People ask, “Is there hell?” as if hell were some geographical thing! Or “Where is heaven?” as if heaven were a place and God a person confined within limits! Heaven and hell are ways of living. Hell means: one who has no awareness of his own godliness—his style of life will be hellish. “Every moment the miserable are scorched.” He will burn in fire. And one who knows “I am divine; God is within me”—his way of life will be heavenly. Around him the flute will play; nymphs will dance; flowers will blossom; songs will shower. One who knows the God within—his life will be heaven. One who does not—his life will be hell.

Heaven and hell are nowhere else. Here someone like Rajjab lives in heaven, and here you live in hell. It’s your choice.

“Every moment the miserable are scorched.”
Moment by moment you burn, but burning has become your habit. You no longer even suspect there might be another way to live. You’ve settled into believing this is the only arrangement, the only color and form of life. But life does not end here.

“Beyond the stars there are yet more worlds;
Love still has many tests to pass.”

What you have known is nothing. “Beyond the stars there are more worlds.” There is much yet to know. You haven’t even taken the first step.

In ignorance you will be scorched; ignorance itself is fire. Don’t be deceived by tales of cauldrons in hell roasting people—those kettles are not literally somewhere else. It depends on how you live. You have erected your cauldrons around yourself and are roasting in them. Just look closely at your life!

But we are so “clever” that we have put hell far below, in the netherworld. That way we can maintain the delusion that we are not in hell. We’ll do a little charity, bathe in the Ganges, go to the Kaaba and become hajis, give something to the poor, the beggars, the Brahmins—done, heaven is ours. We’ll open a bird-shelter, fund cow protection, build a widow’s ashram, open an orphanage for orphans. We’ll earn crores, then spend ten–fifteen thousand to build a little Hanuman shrine—and think heaven is assured!

You have pushed heaven far away too—that’s cleverness as well, a way to avoid heaven here. And you’ve put hell far away, so you don’t have to see that where you are is hell.

I want you to bring both near. Hell is the name of your climate, and so is heaven. Then it’s in your hands. The game is in your hands. If you wish to live in hell, no one stops you. If you relish it—well, there are some creatures of hell; what else can you do? Dung beetles are happy in dung. Don’t foolishly lift them from dung to lay them on clean ground; they’ll die there. Their joy is in dung.

If you want to live in hell, at least do so consciously—“This is my pleasure.” Unless I’m roasted in the cauldrons, I won’t enjoy myself—fine, it’s your choice. You are free.

This is man’s dignity: he is free. Choice is in his hands. But choose knowingly. And I believe that once you know, no one will choose hell. Even a dung beetle, if it truly knew it is dung, would not choose dung—even if it is “holy cow dung.” Even dung beetles are not as foolish as some cow-worshipers. If it knew, it would flee. It doesn’t know—so it lives on. It thinks, “This is the way of life; it has come down from father to grandfather to ancestors, from tradition for centuries. Here we have always been born—this is the world.”

The dung beetle can be forgiven. But your cow-worship cannot. You are a human being.

“Manushya” means: one who has the capacity to reflect. “Aadmi” (man) is not as good a word. Aadmi derives from Adam; Adam means earth—God made man from earth. In one sense it’s true—of the body. “Aadmi” carries the hint of body; “manushya” proclaims your capacity for reflection, your potential for awareness.

Be a man—reflect a little. With some alertness, look around: what sort of life have you made, in which “every moment the miserable are scorched”? With your own hands you feed the fuel, build the cauldrons, pour in the oil—and you don’t even note how much oil has gone up in price! Fuel is hard to come by, but to inflict suffering on yourself you manage to gather every sort of fuel. With a thousand strategies you gather fuel, oil, cauldrons—and then you fall into them yourself.

I’ve heard of a very wealthy blacksmith in Rome. He had a reputation: the shackles and fetters he forged were never broken; no prisoner ever escaped after breaking them. His fame spread across Europe. He signed every shackle and chain; if they bore his signature, you could trust them. He did not make things like Indian rope!

I’ve also heard of an Indian expedition to the Himalayas. One man in the climbing party was very afraid. The captain asked, “Why so frightened?” The man said, “I’ll tell you the secret. I’m not afraid of the mountain; I fear this rope we must climb on, because it was made in the very factory where I work. I know the condition of ropes made in my factory. Who knows when it will snap? I’m not afraid of the mountain; I’m afraid of this rope. It will betray us. It’s swadeshi—Made in India! And made in my own factory. Even if it were made in someone else’s factory, I wouldn’t know; but I know my factory—and our ropes.”

That Roman blacksmith was renowned. Then Rome was invaded and all the wealthy were captured. The enemy put shackles on them all and drove them off. The hundred esteemed citizens of Rome were taken to the forest to be thrown to wild beasts. Ninety-nine were crying and screaming; the blacksmith alone was calm. On the way, someone asked him, “You seem so at ease!” He said, “Don’t worry—be at ease. I know every shackle can be broken. I’ve made them all my life. So don’t worry. First I’ll break my own; then I’ll break yours. Let them throw us into the jungle and leave, assured we can’t escape—then we’ll act. Don’t panic; no need to cry. I’m here.”

They were reassured. When the enemy left them in the forest, they said to the blacksmith, “Now do something.” The blacksmith began to weep. They said, “Hey! Up till now you were saying you’d show us—why are you crying?”

He said, “I’m crying because I looked closely—the shackles are my own; I forged them. These cannot be broken. They bear my signature. Had they been someone else’s, I surely could have broken them. But they are mine. I know: there is no way to break what I make. I don’t forge things that can be broken. Today I’ve learned I will die one day in my own shackles. I never thought that what I forged with my hands was forging my own death.”

When I read this story, I felt—this is everyone’s story. The shackles on your hands and the fetters on your feet—who forged them? You did. Look closely; you’ll find your signature on them. This hell is your own making.

But this much I can tell you: whether or not that blacksmith could break his shackles, these shackles you have forged—you can certainly break them. I broke mine; they were of my own making. So I know you can break yours; they are yours. What is made by the maker is never greater than the maker, however strong. The one who made it can undo it, erase it; you can rub off that signature. And these shackles are not iron; they are only of imagination, thoughts, desires, cravings. And then heaven can burst forth—like a spring gushing up!

“Every moment the miserable are scorched; separation’s sorrow aches in the body.”
You haven’t known anything else. What is the root of this sorrow? That we have been severed from the God within; we are cut off from ourselves. As if a tree’s roots were torn up, so we are uprooted from the soil—drying, withering. No flowering, no fruiting; leaves are falling. Yet still we don’t care to check: perhaps our roots have been pulled out of the earth? Instead, we keep uprooting further.

What is ego? It is the proclamation that “I am separate; I am different from this whole existence.” Ego is the attempt to stand apart and alone. Ego means cutting your roots away from existence; egolessness means rejoining your roots to existence. Ego creates hell; in egolessness, the fragrance of heaven arrives. From egolessness flow heaven’s songs; from ego rises only stench—the putrid stench of corpses! Ego is the greatest untruth in this world.

But people are comical! They call the world maya (illusion), and cling to “I am.” They are ready to believe the whole world is illusion—but I? I am real! When they say “Brahman is truth; the world is false,” they also say in the same breath “Aham Brahmasmi”—I am Brahman! I am truth and the whole world is false!

The truth is reversed: the “I” is false and all is true. No lie is greater than “I.” From this “I” all other lies arise, like death. One who holds the sense of “I” will be haunted by fear of death, because the “I” must die. This “I-ness” cannot live; it is a lie. It will fall, break; it keeps falling and you keep propping it up. You give it crutches, buy new props, keep contriving supports. You are deeply attached to it. Through it, all your life becomes pain.

Separation’s sorrow! Separation from whom? From yourself. You are estranged from your own nature. You are cut off from your own essence.

Remember, what is true within you has no “I-ness” in it. It is utterly empty of “I.” That’s why I am more in accord with Buddha than with the Upanishads. The Upanishadic language is dangerous; it can mislead. “Aham Brahmasmi”—“I am Brahman”—every egoist will like that. “I am Brahman”—who would not want that! The heart blossoms—“Ah, I am Brahman!” That’s exactly what we wanted. That’s the ego’s secret longing.

We have never forgiven Buddha. To this day we have not been able to. What was this man’s fault? He struck at your ego as no one ever had. Buddha said: “Anatta, anatma”—there is no self in you. Because behind the word atman, the “I” can survive—atman means “I.” “Atman” becomes a beautiful armor to protect the “I.” Buddha said, “There is no self,” so that no possibility of “I” remains at all. He knew the real is. But if you keep the word “self,” the ego will survive behind it. And when we paint wrong words with religious color, they become sanctuaries for the ego. We have become skillful at sugarcoating every poison with religion—like coating a poison pill in sugar; the sweet taste makes one gulp the poison. Ego is poison; call it “soul” and it becomes sweet, dear, tasty—swallow as much as you like! No obstacle now; no one can even object. Thus it’s no accident that your so-called saints and holy men are more egoistic than anyone else—outdoing politicians and emperors. Your so-called Brahmins and pundits are more egoistic than anyone.

This country knows it well—five thousand years the Brahmin has sat on its chest through his ego. And Brahmins wrote the scriptures—scriptures born of their ego. They wrote the Manusmriti—a book that ought to be burned every Holi. Why burn Ravana? Ravana died long ago—what are you burning now? What on earth are you burning? You make an effigy and burn it—wasting your effort. Stop burning Ravana; burn the Manusmriti instead, because it is the proclamation of the Brahmin’s ego, the proclamation of the Hindu’s ego. All Hindu stupidity is rooted in the Manusmriti.

The Manusmriti declares the Brahmin supreme. The Brahmin was born from the mouth; Kshatriyas from the arms; Vaishyas from the thighs; Shudras from the feet—therefore the fate of Shudras is like that of shoes; they have no status beyond that. And Vaishyas are not very high either, because the body below the navel is low; hence a Vaishya is just a little above a Shudra—remember that. Don’t fall into the illusion that the Vaishya is much higher, according to Manusmriti.

According to it, a Vaishya may marry a Shudra girl; a Shudra may not. A Kshatriya may marry Vaishya or Shudra girls; a Vaishya may not marry a Kshatriya girl. A Brahmin may marry anyone’s daughter; no one may marry a Brahmin girl. Kill a hundred Shudras—no sin at all; kill one Brahmin and you will rot in hell for lifetimes. If Brahmins write the scriptures, naturally they will install their own prestige and protect their own ego.

Buddha cut the root of all this. He said, “No one is a Brahmin by birth; nor is there some Brahma in whose mouth Brahmins were born.” All this is Brahminical concoction—priests’ trickery, deceit, instruments of exploitation. A Shudra has no right even to hear the Vedas. Even Rama had molten lead poured into a Shudra’s ears, because he was told the Shudra had secretly listened to a Brahmin reciting the Vedas. And you call Rama “the noblest of the noble”—without shame! Then the Shudras being burned in villages even today—are those religious acts? If Rama could do it, what to say of ordinary people!

Women have no rights—no right even to be considered human. Women are like objects. A woman should die with her husband—become sati; that is her only use: live for the husband, die for the husband. Men wrote the scriptures and protected their own ego. There is no scripture to protect the ego of women. The saints wrote scriptures and arranged things so serving saints accrues merit; massage their feet and you’ll get heaven.

Buddha cut the root of all this. He said, “A Brahmin is one who knows Brahman.” And Brahman is your swabhava—your essential nature. Not “I-ness”—nature. And you come to know nature only when “I” completely disappears. Don’t even cling to “soul,” or the ego will linger. We could not forgive Buddha because he denied the God outside and the soul inside—he left the ego no place to hide, no refuge. No one has ever cut ego as Buddha did. His compassion is incomparable. He himself is his example.

But we uprooted Buddha from this country. This is a “religious” country! Not religious—egoistic. So we threw Buddha out, because he struck our ego so hard—how could we tolerate it? We took revenge.

Ego means: I am separate from existence; existence is maya, I am truth. These trees, birds, the sky, the moon and stars—all illusion, and I alone am real. The irony is that all this is true, and the “I” is illusion. But to call the “I” illusion tears us to pieces—even though it is because of “I” that we suffer. Our stupidity is dense—we don’t even see the cause of our suffering.

Have you ever noticed how much suffering the “I” has given you? What has “I-ness” given except wounds? “I” is a sore; touch it lightly and it hurts. When someone insults you, what is it that aches within? Is it because someone insulted you that you feel pain? What pain is that? He spoiled his tongue—what of yours? It’s his tongue—let him run it as he likes: forward, backward; sing bhajans or spew abuse—it’s his tongue; what’s it to you? If there’s no ego, you’ll feel compassion for him. If there is ego, the abuse will pierce like a sword; you’ll be eager for revenge, determined to annihilate him at the root. Ego hurts.

It is ego that hankers for wealth, position, prestige. Ego drives the chase. And in the chase for wealth and status, what do you get but sorrow? Who has ever succeeded in this world? It is failure all the way. But it is the ego that fails. We don’t see this; we start condemning the world: “The world is wrong; the world is such that nothing succeeds.” Your failure is because of ego; I see no failure—only joy. I see celebration all around. I do not experience even for a moment that there is failure anywhere, sorrow anywhere, torment anywhere.

But if there is ego, then all is sorrow. The man who used to greet you every day passes by without greeting you—he hasn’t even abused you; he only passed without greeting—and your mind is disturbed. Look closely—who is producing suffering in your life? But you are “clever.” You won’t look at the cause; you’ll keep finding distractions. Your priests will support your delusions: “You must have sinned in a past life; you are suffering its result.” Stop this nonsense! What you did in a past life, you experienced then—what’s left to experience now? In this world everything is cash, not on credit. Put your hand in fire now and you’ll burn in the next life? You’ll burn now. What was done in the past life was settled then. Every life settles its account; the settlement is instantaneous. There is no credit system in existence.

A beggar held out his bowl to Mulla Nasruddin in the marketplace. To give is awkward; not to give is awkward. To give—awkward, because he didn’t want to; later he would regret—“That rogue robbed me in broad daylight!” Not to give is awkward—“What will people say? What a miser!” Beggars choose the spot cleverly—so that if you don’t give, you are shamed: “You wouldn’t give two coins!” Your “reputation” must be saved—that means your ego must be saved; your standing preserved. And you also cling to your money, because money is the weight of your ego—if the pocket is heavy, the ego carries weight; if the pocket is empty, who will respect you? So you must save both money and prestige. A trick is needed.

Nasruddin said, “Friend, I’m not carrying anything today; my pocket is empty. Tomorrow I’ll bring it and give you.”
The beggar said, “Whatever you can give, give it now, brother. With all this credit, so much is due! Everyone says ‘Tomorrow,’ and then tomorrow never comes. I’ve got crores outstanding; I can’t extend more credit. Do you want to ruin my business?”

In this existence there is no credit. Everything is cash—even religion. Love now, and love will shower now. Cause pain now, and pain will come now. Extinguish the lamp now, and darkness will arrive now. Light the lamp now, and light will be now. Next life? So long?

People are “clever.” They’ve cooked up proverbs: “There may be delay, but there is no injustice.” But delay itself is injustice—what greater injustice? I say to you: there is neither delay nor injustice; everything is cash. But if you won’t look at ego, you will keep postponing—“It’s past-life karma; it’s written in fate. What can we do?” Nothing is written in your fate. No one writes anyone’s fate. There is no deity sitting and writing destinies in each skull—“This and that will happen.” There is no such deity. You are the deity. He gives you a blank page, a blank cheque—then write what you will. It all depends on you. What you are experiencing is your own writing. There is no “kismet,” no fate.

But people invent devices—always.

I’ve heard that Swami Matkanath Brahmachari always found the number seven auspicious. He was born on the seventh day of the seventh month, in 1907; and he was his father’s seventh child. At age seven, a seven-lakh lottery fell to him, with which he later built a seven-story building. Though he passed his matriculation on the seventh attempt, he became famed in all three worlds and four directions for taking the vow of celibacy seven times in life. In 1977, he decided to test his luck at a big international horse race. He sold his entire property and put it all on horse number seven—and, as expected by numerology, a miracle occurred. Do you know what happened? The horse came in seventh.

What calculations people make! You have nothing but lines on your palm—yet you have them read! And when you act foolishly, someone will show up to exploit you—some fortune-teller will appear. Palmists sit waiting. People draw up horoscopes; marriages are arranged by matching charts. And you’ve seen how those marriages go—and yet you learn nothing. So many charts matched—and are any of the marriages harmonious?

Have you seen a husband and wife who are not quarreling, not fighting, not at each other’s throats? I haven’t. I’ve known countless families, and related with hundreds of thousands of people—women and men—and the pain is the same: husbands after their wives, wives after their husbands. And large astrologers matched those charts! And the fun is that if you peek into the astrologer’s own home—you’d see he couldn’t match his own and matched yours!

There is one thing you do not want to see—and for that you have created so much smoke. One simple thing: ego is the root of all your suffering. Ego has torn you from God, from your nature, from existence. And you suffer. But the stupor is so deep that you keep inventing excuses.

Sardar Bichittar Singh was staying on the third floor of a hotel when it caught fire. He was bathing at the time. He ran from the bathroom straight to the balcony—wearing only his underwear. The lower floors were already engulfed, so there was no way down the stairs. The fire brigade spread a big springy sponge mattress and shouted, “Hey Sardar-ji, jump onto the mattress!” He jumped—and miracle: the springs bounced him right up to the third-floor balcony again. He jumped again—same thing. On the third jump, when he again reached the third floor, an idea struck him. He rushed to the bathroom, grabbed the gum used for setting beard and waxing moustaches, and smeared it on his underwear so he would stick to the mattress. Seeing his cleverness, the people below and the firemen were delighted, clapping. Bichittar Singh shouted, “Bole so nihal, Sat Sri Akal!” and jumped again. The next moment was a sight! The underwear stuck to the mattress, and the naked Sardar-ji bounced right back to the third floor.

Our stupidity is such that even the remedies we devise—we devise them! People seek ways to get rid of ego; they try to cultivate humility. But the same stupidity persists. Ego slips in from behind humility. The underwear sticks; the Sardar stands naked on the third floor again! He may shout “Bole so nihal, Sat Sri Akal,” but it depends who is shouting. His condition will remain “behaal” (a mess), not “nihal” (blessed). Has anyone become blessed by uttering a slogan? One becomes blessed by intelligence. “Bole so nihal”—does it work like that? Is it that easy?

People load humility on themselves, while inside the ego stands naked. Look at the “humble” who go around saying, “I am the dust at your feet.”

When I first went to Jabalpur, a neighbor—everyone called him Hari-dada—lived next door. They called him that because he had a great memory for Rahim’s couplets, and would drop one into everything. He was reputed to be religious; he advised everyone. When I arrived, naturally he tried to give me advice as well. He was considered very humble and often spoke of humility. But he had not met someone like me. He said to me, “I am the dust at your feet.” I said, “I can see that. You are absolutely the dust at my feet! You are saying it exactly right.”

He was furious: “What are you saying!”
I said, “I’m saying what you said. I didn’t add a word. You yourself started; I merely agreed that you are absolutely right. I can see your face is nothing but dust. Your understanding is perfectly clear—you recognized yourself correctly.”

He was so angry that he never spoke to me again. If we met on the road, I said “Jai Ram-ji,” and he gave no reply. I wasn’t going to let him off so easily. If he turned his face away, I would circle around him: “Namaskar! That day you were absolutely right: you are the dust at my feet!”

Ego learns all kinds of languages. He forgot his couplets; they ran away on all fours. Even Rahim’s dohas slipped from his memory. Otherwise he used to recite a lot. The neighborhood began to ask me what was going on.

A Dr. Dutta lived opposite; he asked, “What did you do? Ever since you arrived, Hari-dada avoids you. At the mere mention of your name, he boils—we’ve never seen him boil.”

I said, “He boils because I accepted his words; you people did not. He said, ‘I am the dust at your feet,’ and you said, ‘No, no, Hari-dada—how can that be! You are the crown jewel, a great religious man!’ He said it so you would say he is a saint. I simply agreed—and for that he is angry. That’s why he won’t even return my greeting. But I won’t let him off; I run into him five or ten times a day. If I don’t, I knock on his door—‘Hari-dada, Jai Ram-ji!’ The moment he sees me, he heats up. And the only reason is that I accepted what he himself declared.”

I lived next door five to seven years; his “sainthood” collapsed. Everything he said was borrowed, stale; there was no meaning in it. You’ll find people like this in every village, every town—who have thrown a thin gossamer of humility over their ego. Tug at it, and you’ll see it’s not thick; it’s like Dhaka muslin—the ego shows right through. Ego keeps inventing new jewelry. Its moves are subtle; it is very fine.

And ego is the very sorrow of separation; it is why your body and mind ache. See this root cause.

“In a blink it perishes.”
Ego will die in a single instant—if you don’t support it, it will fall now. Even if you support it, when death comes it will drop you.

“In a blink it perishes, like a fish without water.”
A fish pulled out of water dies—likewise you have pulled yourself out of God, nature, dharma. You are writhing; writhing and making excuses, inventing arguments for your writhing. But you don’t see the simple fact: you are outside the river. You yourself leapt ashore; no fisherman pulled you. It is your doing—you jumped onto the sand and now you sizzle. The sun grows harsher; heat intensifies, fire rains down—and you writhe, you roast. Yet you search for excuses, not the root cause—just jump back into the river! If you jumped out, you can jump back in. If from egolessness you came into ego, from ego you can return to egolessness. All that is needed is understanding, prajna, awakening, awareness. I call the process of that awareness “meditation.”

Meditation melts your ego; it reveals that ego is false. The day you see “I am not,” that very day God is—and that very day the doors of bliss open. Infinite doors! A shower of flowers begins—of nectar-blossoms! You are bathed in a new light. That life is called heaven.

The darkness that encircles “I” is hell. The aura that arises around “I am not” is heaven.

Ajit Saraswati! It is the same ego that becomes the obstacle—especially for the loved ones—because they have known you in a particular state: the state of suffering. Your relationships with them were formed when there was pain within you and pain within them. There was a synchrony in those relationships then—a shared melancholy, a similar condition. Then a revolution happened in your life. How are they to accept that you have gone ahead of them? It hurts their ego. How can they admit that you have known and they have not? How can they accept that you have attained such awareness while they remained fools? No—ego says, surely you are the one deceived! That is the arithmetic of the ego: it never admits, “I am deluded.” It always shifts the delusion onto someone else.

So, Ajit Saraswati, when you go to share with your loved ones, the greatest hindrance will arise, the greatest difficulty. They cannot accept that you—“But we know you so well!” Now your wife knows you well. She is familiar with all your ignorance—indeed, it was in ignorance that you married her. She knows your lust, your passions, your attachments, your greed. How can she suddenly accept today that you have gone beyond all that, that you have reached this summit of light? She will pull you back down into the pit to show you. It is a challenge to her ego. She will pester you, and if you become angry she will be delighted: “Look! You said you had gone beyond. What happened now? Where is your beyondness? Your anger is still the same.” She will try in every way to prove that nothing has changed in you, that you are deluded, you have fallen into an illusion. She will abuse me, abuse you, oppose your meditation. Why? Because her ego has been deeply wounded. If you were to start drinking, there would be no such problem. If you started gambling, there would be no such problem. For in gambling and drinking there is one advantage for the wife: her ego sits above yours. She can always grip you by the neck.

Mulla Nasruddin went to the doctor, limping into the room. The doctor asked, “What happened?”
He said, “My leg hurts terribly.”
The doctor examined it and said, “What’s the matter, how long has it been hurting? This looks like a fracture. Since when?”
Mulla said, “It’s been about three months.”
The doctor exclaimed, “Incredible! What have you been doing for three months? You live right next door; why didn’t you come?”
Mulla said, “What could I do? Whatever I say, my wife immediately says, ‘Stop smoking!’ Headache—‘Stop smoking!’ Can’t sleep—‘Stop smoking!’ Whatever I say, she pounces on my cigarette. So out of fear I kept quiet—if I said my leg hurts, she’d say, ‘Stop smoking!’ She just needs any excuse—‘Stop smoking!’ Because of the cigarette I’m in her grip. So I stayed silent, but now it’s unbearable. The pain is too much. I’ve come without telling her, and please don’t tell her my leg hurts, otherwise she’ll create a whole scene about my cigarette. I’ve stopped even talking about my aches and pains, because whatever I say, she goes straight for the cigarette.”

If you smoke, gamble, drink, the wife doesn’t suffer so much. She may display great suffering, but it is all show; inside she is pleased. Now you are even more in her grasp. She can squeeze your neck at any time. At every excuse she will press you down. Now when you enter the house you will slip in like a wet cat, tail between your legs. If you say anything, she can say, “Looks like you’ve been drinking again.” You will creep in afraid, because if you say anything she’ll say, “Something’s fishy—have you been gambling?” You will be nervous. And in this her ego delights.

And what is true with the wife is true with the husband, with the father, with brothers and sisters, with friends—those with whom your ties are close. Seeing you in a pitiable state gives them a secret satisfaction: “We are above you, you are below us.” Sympathy is a morbid pleasure, sick with disease. People are eager to show sympathy. Let there be a fire in your house and you will see—even enemies come to offer sympathy. Friends aside, even enemies don’t miss the opportunity: “How terrible! What happened?” But build a house, and enemies burn with jealousy—and even friends burn. Seeing your beautiful house, snakes roll in their chests. Where is the obstruction? When the house burns, even enemies express sympathy; when a house is built, even friends avoid you lest the topic come up. They couldn’t build one; you did. If in such small things this happens, meditation is a big thing; sannyas is a big thing. You have gained a treasure of life; those left behind will surely be pained.

Jesus has said, “A prophet is not honored in his own village.” And he spoke from experience. He went to his village only once after his enlightenment—just once. And the behavior of the villagers shocked him. He had gone to share with them, to give what he had known. But the villagers sat offended: “This kid!” He was only thirty, and there were elders in the village. “Until yesterday he was chopping wood here—carpenter’s son, not even a priest’s. If he had been the son of a rabbi or a religious teacher, we could perhaps understand. But a carpenter’s son, who sawed wood, swung an axe, hauled timber from the forest, whose father still brings wood on a donkey—and he’s become a knower! Not only a knower, a supreme knower! Will the village tolerate this? Impossible.”

When Jesus went to his village, the people said, “So you’ve become wise? Come then to our temple, the synagogue, and give us a sermon. Here is the old Bible.” They placed the Old Testament before him: “Preach.” Jesus opened it and began to speak from wherever the page happened to open—for he was going to say what he had to say anyway. It doesn’t matter where the page opens. And you know me—does it matter where the page opens? There is a saying of Ezekiel—by chance that’s where the page opened—“I say, the kingdom of heaven is within you.” Jesus said, “Ezekiel says the kingdom of heaven is within you, and I also say the kingdom of heaven is within you. Ezekiel is right. I am a witness.” The villagers were enraged. “You brat—and a witness! Do you mean you know as much as the prophet Ezekiel?” They tried to kill him, chased him out of the village, took him to a cliff to throw him down. He barely escaped. Then he returned to his disciples and said, “A prophet has no honor in his own village.” It is very difficult for one’s own people to understand him.

Look: Buddha was uprooted from India but spread throughout China, Korea, Japan, Burma, Sri Lanka—across Asia—only India let him go. Look at me: how many Indians do you see here? People from all over the world are coming. There is hardly a country from which someone has not come to take sannyas. But how many Indians? Their number keeps shrinking. They are becoming like the salt in the dal. They should have been like the dal; they are becoming the salt in the dal. Why? The reason is clear. Their misfortune is that I am Indian. That creates the snag, the discomfort.

And among Indians, notice that Jains are even fewer. Their misfortune is greater still, because I was born in a Jain home. So Jains are very much against me. Regarding my going to Kutch, of the twenty organizations that opposed, eighteen are Jain. I saw the list only yesterday. A question was raised in the Gujarat assembly and they printed the full list of those who opposed me. I looked: who are these opponents? Eighteen out of twenty are Jains. Thousands of non-Jains have supported. From Mandvi alone sixteen hundred people have sent signatures—but there are no Jains among them. A Jain muni has opposed. So you will see even fewer Jains here. Their misfortune is greater that I was born in a Jain family. And Digambaras—hardly visible. Some Shvetambara Jains you may see here; they will be Shvetambara. Digambaras are rarely seen here—if ever, by mistake. Because the very sect I was born into—by their misfortune—is Digambara. And within the Digambaras there is a subsect—Taran Panth. I was born into a Digambara Taran Panthi family. So not a single Taran Panthi will be seen here—except me. I alone am left to take the name of Taran–Taran. They will not set foot here—no, they won’t. Their hostility is heavy.

It is amusing to see this. But the arithmetic is clear.

Ajit Saraswati, it is natural that when you are blissful you want to share. When nectar fills you, it is a perfectly natural longing that those with whom we lived, the home in which we were born, the mother, the father, the brother, the sister, the wife we bound to ourselves in ignorance—share with them. For what greater wealth could there be than to dye them also in the color of sannyas! But the greatest opposition will come from their side.

I have been here six years now. Ajit Saraswati is among my closest sannyasins—among those few of whom I am absolutely assured that in this very life they will be liberated. But his wife has not come even once to listen here—not once! What happened? In six years, she could at least have come once, just to see what is going on. Ajit Saraswati is here every day, regularly, rarely ever missing. If he went out of Poona, he may have missed a day or two; otherwise, among those who have been regular these six years, he is here. He meditates at home daily; he listens to the talks at home; all the books are at home; he comes here daily. But the wife has not felt even this much—to come once and see: what is happening here? A revolution has happened in her husband’s life. That very revolution is the obstacle.

From the wife’s side, understand it like this: the one she knew—Ajit—has died. The wife has become a widow. And this Ajit Saraswati—my sannyasin—is a different man. What does she have to do with him? What is her connection? He is a stranger. Only because the event has occurred in the same body is the arrangement continuing; otherwise she would throw him out: “How did you enter here? Who are you?” The face matches, so she tolerates it. But otherwise everything has changed; nothing old remains. So she will be angry with me too: I have robbed her of her husband. Her problem is that her ego has been deeply jolted. You may try to explain; she will not listen, will not understand. Which wife is ready to understand from the husband—or which husband from the wife? Very difficult. Once in a million, maybe.

Now Fali-bhai is sitting here in front; his life has changed. But his wife—no concern. The more Fali-bhai’s life changed, the more the wife carefully withdrew to protect herself. It is as if the bond has snapped. Only the formalities remain—the snake has passed, only the trail lines the path. When I go to Kutch, Fali-bhai will go; Ajit Saraswati will go; the wives will stay here. They have already gone, in truth.

But the snag is big. You have your difficulty—you cannot keep from explaining. And they have theirs—they cannot understand. Family, loved ones, cannot understand. It is contrary to their ego. And it will be your nature in joy to share. So try. Share. Try as much as you can. But don’t keep great expectations, so that you never fall into despair. Do not expect much, for there will be neglect. Do your labor, fulfill your responsibility, but do not think success is guaranteed. There is a ninety-nine percent chance of failure, a one percent chance of success. Try with this in mind.

You ask, “Why do these loved ones hesitate so much to take it?”
Man is not a miser only in giving; he is even more miserly in receiving. The truth is, he is more miserly in receiving, because in giving the ego can be gratified. In receiving, the ego is hurt. “I—take? Impossible! I—extend a begging bowl? Impossible! I—accept someone else’s word?” And the nearer the person, the more difficult it is: “Accept from him? I know him well—my son, my husband, my wife, my brother, my father. I know him well. And I should take from him!”

Now “Sant Maharaj” tried hard with his father to help him dive, but he ran away. He ran very fast. There is reason in the speed—he got scared: what if I actually dive? Inside even he felt a stirring: “I could dive—where have I come!” The very air here is different, the atmosphere different. People who come here out of mere curiosity, sometimes even they dive. He had come to see Sant, because years had passed and Sant had not gone to meet him. But somewhere a curiosity must have remained: “What is this? What has happened to Sant? Who has cast this spell?” And the spell had begun on him too. I watched him here; tears fell from his eyes while I spoke. A strange thing. Tears came to his eyes. He told Sant, “Let me sit a little closer, so I can see properly.” And he said, “In Amritsar I am miserable, but here for the first time I have felt peace.” Yet he ran away. And so fast that when Sant reached the hotel, he was already packing his luggage and getting into a taxi. Sant said, “What’s the hurry? You had come to stay a few days; why such haste to run? At least have tea, breakfast.” But he would not even stay for tea. He headed straight to the station. He had planned to go to Mahabaleshwar from here after spending four or six days. He didn’t go to Mahabaleshwar either—because returning from Mahabaleshwar he would have to pass through Poona again. “What if I get stuck again?” He fled in panic. The panic arose because his daughter agreed to take sannyas—that scared him: “If the daughter is ready, what if my wife becomes ready, what if I myself become ready!” Somewhere within, a stirring had begun: “What if I become ready!”

That is the father’s ego. And because of his son Sant the snag arose: the son has dived; I came to pull him out, and I myself began to dive. Before things go too far, better run!

But I say, let him have run—I will follow him. In Amritsar too, he will remember Poona—and remember even more. He has gone tasting a little of Poona’s flavor.

Their difficulty is theirs; yours is yours. But my suggestion is: first wield your sword on others—there it will be easier. And when the sword has a keen edge, then turn to your own. That is what I did. I made no attempt to change my own family first. I first set about changing the whole world. People even told me, “Your father comes, your mother comes; do you not ask them to take sannyas?” I said, “I will not ask, because that itself will create a barrier. I will wait. What is the hurry? Let them watch—so many are changing. Let this atmosphere grow dense.” They kept coming; that was enough. The atmosphere grew dense. It became clear to them that so many are changing, so many are undergoing revolution—why should we be deprived? When they understood, “Why should we be deprived?” then, of their own… I never said a word—neither to my mother, nor to my father, nor to my brothers. Yet my father, my mother, my brothers… Only one younger brother is not a sannyasin yet. His wife has become a sannyasin. He asked me this time, “Shall I also take sannyas?” But the way he asked, I said, “Wait.” “Shall I also take…”—there was no joy in it. It was like, “Now that my wife has taken and the whole family has become sannyasin, I alone am left. People must be asking him, ‘What is the matter, why haven’t you taken? The whole family has taken; how are you left alone?’” So he asked me, “Shall I also take?” There was a question mark. If I say so, he will take. I didn’t even say that. I said, “Wait. There is no hurry.” I rarely tell anyone to wait. Whoever asks me, “Shall I take?” I say, “This very moment!” But he is my younger brother, so I said, “Wait. I will wait until that question mark disappears. What is there to ask me—‘Shall I take?’ One should demand, ‘Give me sannyas; you must give.’ Then there is joy in giving.”

First sharpen your blade on others. They can be changed more easily, Ajit, because they have no old ties with you; they have not seen your old form. So there is no snag. They will know you only in your new form—a direct, simple acquaintance. Those who knew your old form have a confusion; they saw you angry, greedy, attached. How to accept that suddenly the flower of meditation has blossomed? They have seen the mud; they cannot trust the lotus. But strangers will see the lotus; they have not seen the mud. And once trust in the lotus arises, revolution begins.

First keep the edge on others. And when the sword becomes very sharp, your own will be cut too. But wait a little. Don’t rush. And I know your pain—that the heart wants to hurry: time is passing, going to waste. And those we have loved—naturally we want to make them partners in the greatest treasure of our life.

But remember one more thing: for all our talk of “our own,” who is really our own? Does one become “one’s own” by circling the fire seven times? It is an illusion, this being “one’s own.” Husband and wife—child is born—and someone becomes “ours”? It is circumstantial. Before he was born, you didn’t know who was going to be born; before birth, he didn’t know whose house he was entering. No one knows. All happens in the dark. Call it accident. And it becomes “ours”! How will anyone become “ours”? Who is “ours” here?

Pritam wrote this song—
To say it, everyone is ours, yet in the desert we have no one
There are many rosebuds of smiles on the lips, but no fragrance of spring
Outside there is great bustle here, an abundance of comfort and ease
But inside all is desolate; there is no one who feels truly our own
In this world of relations, all look like sympathizers
But when we looked closely, we found there is no true support
There is no hem for us to hold; there is no village to settle in
We were lost in a useless illusion; there is no doorway to bliss
All roads are made to mislead, all arrangements are to entangle
Here much talk of love is heard, but there is no one struck by love

Who is our own? Just talk. And when you set out to change those you call your own, you must deal very indirectly, not directly; not bluntly. To try to change someone directly is to insult them. One must be very artful. So gentle should the process of change be that the other does not even notice when you opened the door of the cage. If there is even a click, the parrot, used to being caged, will clutch the bars. You have to coax the parrot.

The whole effort of the true Master is to coax and to entice—very gently, the way you soothe a small child. All are small children. If you speak straight to them, they will run away. Very gently, in their language, understanding their color and style, one must make the arrangement.

Very often one does not even trust oneself,
Something happens within, yet there is no sense of it.
In ocean-deep eyes the sky descends to rest,
But such events have no recorded history.
The parrot that has taken to life in a golden cage—
For those wings there is no sky.
Body may touch body, eyes may look into eyes,
So near, so very near—and yet not near.
Curtain upon curtain, doors bolted from outside,
Light keeps knocking, but there is no awareness.

You are knocking, but awareness must arise in the one who sleeps within. For one who has grown accustomed to being caged, the cage is everything—his very sky.

Explain slowly, gently—very lovingly, with great affection. As a plea. Let there be no force anywhere, no haste.

And then I say again: first practice on others, then on your own. It will happen. If your longing is deep, something will certainly happen in their lives too. It has to happen—it is assured.

That’s all for today.