Jyun Macchali Bin Neer #5

Sharanananda! The Manusmriti is so full of untruths that the very fact Manu dared to utter such a maxim is itself astonishing. No scripture is more hypocritical than the Manusmriti. In India’s misfortune, no one’s hand is as heavy as Manu’s. The Manusmriti gave India its varnas. The great sin of the treatment of the Shudras that occurred in India—such as never happened anywhere else on earth—if anyone is responsible for it, it is Manu. This is the outcome of the teachings of Manusmriti, because Manusmriti is the code of Hindu religion, its foundational stone.

In these five thousand years, the injustice and violation inflicted on Shudras is unimaginable. Manu is a partner in that sin. If a Brahmin rapes a Shudra woman, there is a monetary fine prescribed. But if a Shudra rapes a Brahmin woman, the penalty is death. What kind of “truth” is this! The price of a Shudra woman is a few coins, and the price of a Brahmin woman is a Shudra’s life. If a Brahmin commits rape, you are to consider yourself blessed that he favored you! Manu is so gracious he didn’t prescribe a reward for the Brahmin—though that’s what should have been, a reward for such “kindness”! The Shudra’s wife is “fortunate”—her body was deemed worthy!

Those who propagated such untruths also uttered pretty sayings. Behind these pretty aphorisms lies much sin. A Shudra is not permitted to walk the roads where Brahmins live. Not permitted to draw water from the wells used by higher varnas. Is a Shudra a human being or not? Even animals may walk those roads—because the cow is “mother”! And if the cow is mother, the bull must be father. How will you avoid that logic? Buffaloes may also walk there—call them aunties if not mothers. Male buffaloes—call them uncles. Donkeys may walk—call them cousins. But the Shudra may not. If he does, he may be executed.

If a Shudra studies the Vedas, Manu ordains: pour molten lead in his ears. If he speaks Vedic words, cut out his tongue. If a Shudra mocks a Brahmin, cut out his tongue. If he utters sarcasm, cut out his tongue. If he abuses, cut out his tongue. If a Shudra touches a Brahmin with his hand, cut off his hand.

With such unrighteousness stuffed inside, such people go on defining Sanatan Dharma! They cannot interpret; and if they do, they will commit fundamental errors. Naturally so. Take this famous formula—repeated so often that you forget to examine it. Repetition creates a kind of hypnosis; it puts thinking to sleep.

Think a little. Manu says: “One should speak the truth.”

But if one has not experienced the truth, how will one speak it? There is no mention of experience—only of speaking. The experience of truth is fundamental. The experience of truth makes you truthful. And when you become truth-like, then whether you rise it is truth, whether you speak it is truth, even when you do not speak it is truth. Your silence will have the aura of truth. Your words will carry the fragrance of truth. In your movements and stillness the mudras of truth will shine. Your every moment will be drenched in truth. Then you won’t need any special arrangement to “speak truth.” Arrangements are needed only because truth is not your life. And when it is not your life, whatever truth you speak will be borrowed. It cannot be yours. And what is “truth” that is not your own? For you, it is untruth. It may be truth for someone whose experience it is, but not for you.

My truth is not your truth. My truth is truth because it is my experience. Until it becomes your experience too, for you it is as good as false. Yes, you can parrot it.

So Manu created a nation of parrots. This vast class of pundits grinding their lentils on the nation’s chest—Manu established them. All “speaking truth.” By “truth” they mean: quoting the Vedas, reciting the Gita, repeating the Ramcharitmanas. None of this is their experience, their own realization, their seeing.

Lao Tzu says: no sooner is truth said and heard than it becomes false. Because when you say it, it may be your experience; but the listener has no such experience. He does not hear truth, he hears only words.

You too “believe” in God—but is God your truth? Can you put your hand on your heart and say you have known? At most you can say, “I believe.” But belief and knowing are worlds apart. Belief is for the one who has not known. The one who knows—why would he believe? What need is there to believe when you know?

Your “truths” are beliefs, not realizations. And all beliefs are false. How will you speak truth?

Manu says, “Speak the truth.”

In the attempt to speak truth, man will become a hypocrite. Be the truth. I say to you: become truth, be truth! Let truth be your realization. Let truth be your life. Then whatever flows from that life will be true. Roses grow roses; rose leaves, rose flowers. You don’t have to tell a rosebush: “Make sure you produce roses.” It will. Yes, tell a marigold plant, “Don’t produce marigolds, produce roses.” What can the poor marigold do? He’ll go to the market, buy plastic roses, hang them outside, veil his own marigolds within—and that is all that is possible: hypocrisy.

Maxims of this kind are the birth-givers of hypocrisy.

Manu is no awakened one. Manu has not known—otherwise he wouldn’t speak like this. The Buddha speaks otherwise. Buddha says: Appa Deepo Bhava—be a light unto yourself. Light your own lamp.

Buddha said: Don’t assume something is true because I say it. Don’t assume it’s true because the scriptures say it. Scriptures can be wrong, can’t they? I can be wrong, can’t I? I can deceive, can’t I? Even if I don’t deceive, I myself might be deceived, mightn’t I?

So Buddha said: Don’t believe me. Experiment. Know. And when you know—when your own lamp is lit—what is revealed in that light is yours.

Truth is always personal. And then, from that experience, the leaves, flowers, fruits—all will be of truth. There is no need to teach “speak truth.” What is needed is to teach meditation, not truth. Truth is already within us all; it is our nature.

Mahavira’s aphorism is far more precious: “Vatthu sahavo dhammo.” The nature of a thing is its dharma. Our nature is our religion. Recognize your nature and you have known truth. After that, whatever you do will be true. But if you try to “speak truth,” you’ll land in great trouble.

What then is truth? Is the Bible truth? The Quran truth? The Gita truth? The Dhammapada truth? The Tao Te Ching truth? What is truth? There are vast contradictions among them. Even within the Bible there are two parts—the Old Testament of the Jews and the New Testament of the Christians. Jews accept only the Old; the New contains Jesus’s words, which they rejected. They crucified Jesus. But Christians accept both, and they have no answer to the contradiction.

In the Old Testament, God says: “I am a very jealous God. Whoever is not with me is my enemy.” This is Adolf Hitler’s language. Hitler wrote in Mein Kampf: “Whoever is not with me is my enemy.” Only two categories.

And the Old Testament God clearly says he is jealous. God—and jealous! Then what will you do after attaining such a God? If the same jealousy, greed, attachment, disturbance continue there too, what’s the harm in remaining human here? What is so bad about being human?

And Jesus says: God is love. And the Christian worships both books, without caring to see the contradiction: jealousy and love! Where love is, there is no jealousy; where jealousy is, there is no love. They are like light and darkness—never reconciled. Yet both are worshiped.

People are blind. Tell such blind people “speak the truth”—what truth will they speak? They don’t know it. Yes, they can repeat like parrots, like machines. And a truth that is merely repeated is dead—a rotting corpse raising a stench. It does not liberate, it binds.

I do not say, “Speak the truth.” That does not mean I say, “Don’t speak the truth.” Understand me rightly. I say: be the truth. Appa Deepo Bhava—be a lamp. Then in that light whatever you say will be true; it cannot be untrue. Then you won’t need to force it. Right now you have to force it—and wherever there is effort and strain, it means you are split in two. Inside you are one thing; outside you show another. Inside there is a line of lies; outside you try to speak truth. Inside curses thunder; outside you sing a song.

Mulla Nasruddin invited his friend Chandulal one night. Both drank heartily. Mulla’s wife was at her mother’s, so no obstacle; they drank freely. As they were parting at the door, what was said there is worth noting. Ordinarily we tell a guest: It’s your great grace, great kindness that you came! We are blessed! You sanctified a poor man’s hut. And the guest says: No, no—what are you saying? It is your kindness that you invited me, deemed me worthy to be your guest! So much honor, so much service!

But what happened there—because both were drunk—was absolutely true. Mulla said: I too am blessed. See my kindness that I invited you.

And Chandulal said: No, no—I am blessed! See my kindness that I accepted an invitation from someone like you!

That is what lies within. Outside we say: Great grace you came! Inside: Where did this nuisance come from! If you meet someone on the road, inside you say: Oh God, whose face did I see this morning; now the whole day will be spoiled! Yet to him you say: What good fortune! Haven’t seen you in so long! How blessed to see you first thing in the morning! But inside something else runs; outside something else.

Such moral sayings have fragmented you—made you hypocrites. Hypocrisy means to be in fragments. Wholeness has no hypocrisy; wholeness means: as within, so without.

People are angry with me because I have no faith in hypocrisy. I say what is within me—just as it is—whether it pleases or displeases. I say what is true for me, whatever the consequences. One who speaks calculating consequences cannot speak truth. He will speak according to profit. He is a shopkeeper. He looks: What will benefit me? What should I say to gain? Even if he speaks truth, it will be only when it profits him. He has turned truth into a means to profit. But truth is never a means to anything; it is the ultimate end. Everything is to be surrendered to truth; truth is not surrendered to anything. There is no dharma above truth; no God above truth. Truth is the supreme dharma, and truth is godliness. But this must be by experience.

I will not say, “Speak the truth.” I will say, “Be truth.” Speaking is easy; the question is of being.

But Manu says: speak lovingly. I say: become loving. They teach you hypocrisy: just train your tongue—to be soft, sweet, pleasing—truthful and pleasant speech. Hence: speak truth, speak what is pleasant.

But if there is no love within, how will you speak pleasantly? From where will you bring sweetness? If love is overflowing within, the words that arise after bathing in that stream are sweet, clean, fresh, alive. But if there is no softness within—if there is bitterness, poison—carry poison inside and speak sweetly outside, and you are split. And know this: you will do what you are. Say what you will; what you are will express. At the first little scratch, it will surface.

Mulla Nasruddin was very ill. A freezing night, water turning to ice. At midnight Mulla’s wife called the doctor. His heart shuddered to step out—but compelled; the patient was dying. The wife insisted: You must come now. These may be the last moments; perhaps you can save him.

The doctor, grumbling—Why didn’t he die in the evening; why keep me up at night?—still went. He told the wife: You worry needlessly; there’s no hope. I examined him at noon—no hope he’ll survive. Morning would have been time enough. Why call me now? Nothing can be done.

Inside, he was boiling with anger. But the wife pleaded: It’s his last hour. Please look once more—maybe there is something more to be done. So that it won’t remain on my mind that we didn’t call the physician at the end. One request: what you just said—that there’s no hope—don’t say it in front of Mulla. It will sadden him. Let him depart in quiet and peace.

The doctor said: All right. He went in, took the pulse, the temperature, and smiling said: Ah, Nasruddin! At noon I feared you might not make it, but now you’re absolutely fine. In a day or two you’ll be up and about. A miracle seems to have happened. Everything is as it should be; the medicine has worked. You are fortunate—your time to go has not yet come. You’ll live ten, fifty more years.

Just then the wife opened the door. A blast of icy wind rushed in. She left the door open and came near. The doctor shouted: Woman, at least close the door! Do you want to kill me along with Nasruddin? That tiny scratch—the gust of wind—and out came what was buried. On the surface he said: You’ll live long. But inside: Do you want my funeral too by morning? His is already due; do you want mine as well? Close the door!

How will you hide it? For how long? Here or there it will spill out. It cannot be contained.

“Speak the pleasant—and do not speak unpleasant truth,” says Manu.

This is fundamentally wrong. Whenever truth is spoken, it will be unpleasant—because you live in lies; your consolation is lies. If unpleasant truth must not be spoken, then neither Jesus, nor Buddha can speak. Only Manu can—one who has no clue of truth. Neither Lao Tzu nor Zarathustra can speak. Those who have spoken truth in this world could not speak—because truth, whenever spoken, is going to feel unpleasant. Not because truth is inherently unpleasant, but because you are soaked in falsehoods, and when truth is spoken it strikes at them. You have taken your lies to be truth; when truth is uttered, your lies fall. You feel as if someone has raised a sword and cut your lies at the roots—as if someone has attacked you with an axe. Truth, whenever it comes, is unpleasant.

Buddha said: A lie is sweet at first, bitter later; truth is bitter at first, sweet later. He is right. Truth will feel bitter at first—like poison. It snatches your consolations, disturbs your sleep, breaks your stupor. If someone wakes you from sleep, do you find it pleasant—though you yourself said, “Wake me early in the morning”?

Immanuel Kant, the famous German thinker, ran by the clock. They say when he went to the university to teach, people set their watches by him. He was so exact—minute, second—like a machine. One day, on his way to the university, in the mud a shoe got stuck; he did not turn back to pick it up—because it would delay him a few seconds. He left the shoe there, went wearing only one shoe. When students asked, “Where is your shoe?” he said, “I’ll pick it up on my way back. If I had stopped, I might have been five or ten seconds late.”

People set their watches by him. He never left the town where he lived—lest a change disturb his schedule. What if the train were late, food not on time, sleep not on schedule? He slept at nine sharp. Even if guests were sitting, he would not even say, “Now it’s my bedtime,” lest it waste time. At the stroke of nine, he would leap into bed and pull up the blanket—leaving the guest startled: What happened? The servant would say, “Brother, go home now; he has gone to sleep. It’s nine.” He would not say a word—lest he lose time. At three in the morning he rose—good in India’s climate perhaps, but in a cold country it is hard.

He never married—lest a woman bring “complications.” Whether she obeyed or not, whether things happened on time or not. A servant is better; a servant will obey. The servant’s job: wake him at three. Only one servant lasted; others quit in a few days—“Enough! I can’t do this job.” The job: to run twenty-four hours like a clock hand. The hardest: wake him at three. Though Kant said “Wake me,” he didn’t want to wake up—he’d snatch back the blanket, burrow in. In the evening he would insist, “No matter what, wake me,” and in the morning he would abuse, “Are you the servant or am I? Leave the blanket, get out!” and crawl back into bed. Next day he would scold, “When I told you to wake me….” One wrestler-like servant stayed. He would wake him no matter what. Sometimes it came to blows. The servant, a tough one, would pin him down: “Sir, you told me yourself—don’t complain later!” He’d give Kant a couple of solid jolts, dump him onto the floor, drag the bedding out of the room. Kant kept that servant and was very pleased with him—though he abused him every morning. When the servant once left, Kant had to bring him back on double wages; without him, Kant couldn’t manage. Who else would wake him at three?

When someone wakes you from sleep, a tussle is inevitable. Truth will be unpleasant.

And Manu says: “Do not speak the unpleasant truth.”

Then truth cannot be spoken at all.

And he adds: “Do not speak a pleasant untruth.”

Then speaking ends altogether. One condition: don’t speak the unpleasant truth. Another: don’t speak the pleasant untruth. And what is pleasant is generally untrue, because untruth consoles you. Why do people invent untruths? For consolation, for comfort. Your wife dies; neighbors come and say, “Don’t cry; the soul is immortal”—as if they know!

A man’s wife died; I went too. I found neighbors consoling him: The soul is immortal. One gentleman especially—quoting verses, with great authority proving the soul is deathless. “The Gita says: Na hanyate hanyamane sharire—Weapons do not pierce it, fire does not burn it. The body dies, but the soul does not.”

I thought: he must be enlightened! By coincidence, two years later his wife died. I went. He was weeping. I said, “You—and weeping? Na hanyate hanyamane sharire! Forgotten? When the other man’s wife died you preached so much; now that yours died, you forgot it all! Why did you talk nonsense then?”

He said, “Don’t start an argument now. I am in trouble and you start a debate.”

I said, “I’m not starting a debate; you started it then. When it was another’s wife, the soul was immortal. Nothing of yours was lost. Now that yours is gone, now is the time to prove it. Don’t cry. The soul hasn’t died. The body is dead anyway—why cry for dust returning to dust? I’m only reminding you of your own sermon.”

He glared at me in anger. I said, “Don’t look angry. If you didn’t know, why did you preach to that poor fellow?”

I was sitting there when the earlier bereaved gentleman arrived. He began consoling: “Brother, why cry? Bodies come and go; the soul has no birth and no death.”

I said, “It seems since your wife died you attained knowledge. Then you were shattered and he was the ‘knower’; now he is shattered and you have become the ‘knower.’”

I added, “Your father is very ill; he will die soon. I will come then and see.”

“Why do you speak like this!” he cried. “Father is ill—does that mean he’ll die? Such harsh words you speak! Why would he die?”

I said, “You just said no one dies! I only said he might; and you are upset. Will my saying it make him die? When no one dies, how will my words kill him? When his wife died—even then she didn’t die—and your father is dying because I said so? Brother, no one dies—the soul is immortal!”

Both were angry with me.

Here, games of consolation are being played. Bandages on each other’s wounds. Anyone who speaks truth will be unpleasant—because you are immersed in pleasant lies. What is your life but pleasant untruths? With bricks of these pleasant lies you have built your mansion. And truth will topple the whole structure—as a gust of wind topples a house of cards. Truth comes as a breeze; your card-palaces fall.

I do not agree with Manu. What is pleasant—will be untrue. What is true—will be unpleasant. Let me remind you: this is not the nature of truth, but your condition. And the pleasantness of untruth is also because of you—you don’t want to seek truth. You want cheap truth—without doing anything—for free. No meditation, no prayer, no yoga—just hand it to me. That will be false—though it will be pleasant. And when someone strikes at that falsehood, he will seem bitter, an enemy.

Why was Jesus crucified? If Jesus could have spoken only pleasant truths, he would have. But he couldn’t. Mahavira was beaten—why? People set mad elephants upon Buddha, rolled boulders, dropped rocks—why? If these could have spoken “pleasant truths,” why didn’t they? Were they obsessed with unpleasantness?

Why was Socrates given hemlock? He was only speaking truth—nothing else. But naked truth, for those sleeping under blankets of lies, is infuriating. Socrates’s only crime was reminding people: You live in untruth. No one wants to tolerate this reminder. He injured no one, yet a trial was held. The chief judge himself felt a little guilty—condemning such a remarkable man! The jury wanted the death penalty. The judge still offered a chance: “Socrates, if you leave Athens, we will not punish you. Leave, and then do what you wish.”

Socrates said, “Wherever I go, the same trial will happen. What difference does it make? If I leave Athens, wherever I go it will be the same trouble. Better to settle it here. Truth will wound wherever I go. And when in a cultured city like Athens it wounds, where can I go where it will not?”

Athens then was the most cultured city on earth—none like it, before or since.

Socrates said, “Where should I go? I will not go. I will live here. If you must give the death penalty, give it.”

The judge gave him another option: “Then remain in Athens—but stop speaking truth.”

Socrates said, “That is even more impossible. That is my ‘profession’.” He used the word ‘profession’: “Speaking truth is my profession. Without it I cannot live. It is my breath. As I cannot live without breathing, I cannot live without speaking truth. If I walk, it will be truth; if I rise, it will be truth. Whether life remains or goes has no value. Better you give me death—so at least it can be said I died for truth and made no compromise.”

Manu says: “Do not speak the unpleasant truth.”

Then truth cannot be spoken. If an artist like Socrates could not, who can? If a Buddha could not, who can?

And he says: “Nor speak a pleasant untruth.”

And the Manusmriti is filled with pleasant untruths. Flattery of Brahmins and the conspiracy to seat them on everyone’s chest—pure falsehood. This tale that Brahmins were born from God’s mouth, Shudras from his feet, Kshatriyas from his arms, Vaishyas from his thighs—nonsense. Who is born from a mouth, or from feet? What kind of God is this—his whole body full of wombs! Pure womb everywhere—mouth a womb, arms a womb, thighs a womb, feet a womb! He outdoes all women—purely feminine, doing the work of four women alone! And where is the male who impregnated him? And what bizarre pregnancies—some in the mouth, some in the feet, some in the thighs! Where gestation happens—in the belly—none at all!

What absurdities! Do lies have any limit? Fancy, but no shame—still he says, “Do not speak a pleasant untruth.” This is Brahmin-pleasing, self-flattery—he himself being a Brahmin, relishing the ego: we are supreme, born from God’s mouth. But whether mouth or feet, both are divine. Are the feet apart? The blood that circulates in your head is soon in your feet and back to your head. You are an organic whole—everything is connected, vein to vein. Where do thighs end and legs begin, where does mouth end and hands begin? Is there any line? The human body is one whole. If man is one, how much more one is the Divine?

And God is not a person with mouth, hands, feet. God is the name of the totality of existence. Where are mouth, hands, feet in that? But Shudras had to be insulted, trampled, exploited—means had to be found.

India has the oldest tradition of exploitation. The result? Whenever there was an invasion, the common folk didn’t resist. Why resist? They were to be sucked anyway—whether by their own or others, what difference? What does it matter who wears the boots? White skin or dark skin—what difference to the one trampled? In truth, under white boots he was somewhat less crushed—because Muslims had no varnas. Under Muslim rule the Shudra gained a little strength, the Vaishya too—because Brahmin power waned; the load on the chest eased. That is why the common people did not oppose foreign rule—because to them it felt as if a burden was lifted. Under the British it felt even more pleasant—after centuries of slavery this slavery seemed better.

Yesterday Vidyadhar Vachaspati asked, “The English sucked our blood, exploited us for centuries—and yet you sometimes praise Western civilization.”

I ask him: India had both—the British Raj and native states. If you were ruined because the British sucked you dry, then the princely states should have flourished. But their people were worse off than those under the British. Think about it: where was exploitation heavier? Nepal was independent—no British rule. But what glory did Nepal achieve by independence? The same poverty—worse than yours. The princely states—Nizam, Gwalior, and so many—were worse.

Granted the British sucked you, but along with sucking they gave you science, technology, industry. They sucked you, but did much for your benefit too. Do not forget that benefit. They gave you education. They taught you democracy, freedom, socialism.

All your leaders tasted freedom in the West. India had no taste for freedom. Only the Brahmin was free in India; the rest were slaves. The Kshatriya had a little freedom—but only so long as he touched the Brahmin’s feet. However great the emperor, he had to touch the Brahmin’s feet. Real rule was the Brahmin’s. No priesthood has ever wielded such power as here. At the root of it all stands Manu.

Therefore I say: India needs freedom from Manu. But Manu has entered our blood, bone, flesh, marrow. Even now you cannot eat with a Shudra; you feel an inner nausea, retching, as if you will vomit—even if he is freshly bathed. And you can sit and eat with the filthiest Brahmin. The filthiest Brahmin can cook your food—blowing his nose with the same hand with which he makes your chapati—and you don’t care. He is Maharaj! Even his snot is Sanatan Dharma—its flavor is special! Let a Shudra sit near and you grow uneasy. Though your intellect may tell you this is foolish, intellect is powerless; the conditioning has sunk into the unconscious—centuries deep.

This whole aphorism is wrong. Become truth; speaking will follow of itself. I do not emphasize speech or behavior. Become loving. Be brimming with love—let love be your religion, your Sanatan Dharma. Then whatever comes out of your life will be pleasant. And speak the truth—even if it is unpleasant. It will be unpleasant. And never speak untruth—even if it is very pleasant.

This is what Manu says too—but throughout the Manusmriti he himself speaks pleasant untruths. Whenever you try to understand such aphorisms, try to see their entire backdrop. Don’t pull them out of context; otherwise you won’t see clearly. Read them within their context. And if you want to judge these maxims, examine the whole scripture—then you will see whether he himself follows them or not. If he himself does not, the maxims are worth two pennies. Only if he himself lives them do they have any value, meaning, reality.

Satya Vedant! First of all, I have nothing to do with India or anyone’s tradition. I am not part of any tradition. Understand this once and for all: I do not belong to any tradition, nor am I bound to fulfill the expectations of any tradition. I don’t even wish to be counted among your so‑called saints. In your so‑called saints I see a congregation of dullards.

So it is good that people understand clearly: I am not your saint, not your mahatma, not your rishi or muni. I am of my own category. I do not fit into anyone else’s. I am the beginning of a new category. Those who resonate with me will belong to my category. I am not a link in any old chain; I am the start of a new chain. Therefore I am not obliged to follow whatever “tradition” your monks and saints had.

And it is simply untrue that your saints did not engage in publicity or propagation. What do you think Mahavira did, wandering for forty years? Was he stoking a furnace? He tramped across the whole of Bihar! The very name “Bihar” arose because of Buddha and Mahavira—bihar means roaming, vihara. Since Buddha and Mahavira wandered the length and breadth of that land, the region came to be called Bihar—the place where they roamed and resided. Forty years Mahavira, forty‑two years Buddha—what were they doing? I don’t even step out of my room! If that wasn’t propagation, what was it? Were they mad?

And if your saints didn’t propagate, why did they write scriptures? What need to compose them? Why compose the Vedas? Why the Upanishads? Why did Krishna deliver the Gita? He made every effort to persuade Arjuna—Arjuna was bolting and had to be dragged back; he gave a thousand arguments. In their time they used the available means; I use those of mine. Yes, it’s true they didn’t use loudspeakers—because there were none. It’s true their words weren’t tape‑recorded. But that doesn’t mean that if tape recorders had existed, Buddha wouldn’t have used them. After all, his disciples were writing things down, taking notes—that was the old way, a clumsy method, prone to error. And errors did happen. The moment Buddha died, his disciples split into thirty‑six sects, because different people had taken different notes—someone left something out, someone added something in; each wrote what he liked and dropped what he didn’t. Sweet, sweet—swallow; bitter, bitter—spit! Hence thirty‑six sects.

I’m using scientific means—more rational, with less chance of error. And I have no objection to that. Certainly, I want my message to spread; I want to propagate it. All the Buddhas have always done exactly that. Those who didn’t must have been blockheads—and I don’t wish to be counted among those blockheads. Those who hid away in forests were escapists. What use were those escapists to you? What gift did they give the world? The gifts are Buddha’s, Mahavira’s, Jesus’, Mohammed’s, Zarathustra’s, Lao‑tzu’s—these gave. And how was their giving possible? Because they propagated.

I am not against advertising. If untruth is advertised in the world, why should truth not be? It should be, and with vigor. If you are to fight untruth, then the very means untruth uses will also have to be used by truth. If untruth is broadcast on radio, on television, portrayed in films, then truth too should be filmed, spoken on radio, shown on television. I will make every effort. For truth, nothing must be held back, nothing left half‑done.

But in this country we suffer from the idiocy of forcing everything into a mold and then insisting everyone fit that mold. How am I to fit? Mahavira was nude. A Jain could say: until you are naked, how can we accept you as a tirthankara? So should I go naked just because Mahavira did? That was Mahavira’s whim, his way—he lived in his own manner. Buddha, a contemporary of Mahavira, was not naked; he wore robes. The Jains always objected: if only Buddha would drop his clothes, he could be a tirthankara; clothed, he’s not—at best a little lower, a mahatma; not yet arrived. Thus Jains call Mahavira “Bhagwan,” Buddha merely “Mahatma.” And Buddhists don’t call Mahavira “Bhagwan”—for them he is “Mahatma,” while Buddha is “Bhagwan.” Each has its own notions. They say one should not go naked and advertise oneself—that, too, is a form of propaganda. And that’s true. Stand naked at a crossroads and see—instantly a crowd gathers. Stand there fully clothed—no one will even say hello. Stand naked and watch: the policeman arrives, the inspector shows up, a crowd forms, a racket starts: what’s going on here? You’re doing nothing but standing, yet propaganda is happening. If Mahavira used nakedness as a means of publicity, there’s nothing surprising about it.

And once your notion becomes fixed, people emerge to exploit it. Someone runs off to the forest precisely because you believe that unless one sits in the forest one cannot be a saint. One who wants to be called a saint goes and sits in the forest; once he sits there, he becomes a saint—that’s his mode of publicity—and you set out to find him. Even if he has nothing else, just the fact that he sits in a forest is enough—and the line forms! And these “forest saints” can’t even stay put when the Kumbh mela is on. Then they can’t help coming down—at the Kumbh a million people gather: they set up camp, all the saints descend from the Himalayas. Why do they come to the Kumbh? Which saints are you talking about?

If you ask about simple seclusion, then there’s no one leading a more secluded and simple life than I. Twenty‑four hours in my room—where will you find more seclusion than that? And as to simple living: in my room there is nothing but me. Absolutely alone—no belongings. But I have my own ways, and I am not eager to imitate anyone else’s. I don’t want my name tied to anyone’s. But let me tell you this: Jesus too traveled and preached; otherwise he would never have been crucified. Had he sat quietly, who would have crucified him—and for what? Socrates—why would anyone give him hemlock? For sitting quietly? No: he was propagating.

When truth flowers, its propagation cannot be stopped. Those who sat silently in forests were plainly simpletons; no truth had happened to them. Those to whom truth happens return from the forests to the marketplace—they must speak to those who have not known; they must give the news. When a flower blooms, its fragrance will naturally spread—that too, if you like, is the flower’s publicity. The flower is announcing: I have bloomed—bees, come! Butterflies, here is my message, here is my news! And bees catch the scent from three miles away. When the sun rises, it doesn’t come out wrapped in a blanket like some “black‑blanket baba”; its rays spread far and wide. That is all propagation. They tickle every bud: open! They tickle every bird’s throat: sing, call! They knock on doors: wake up, morning has come! And you would tell the sun, Brother, why don’t you come out wrapped in a blanket? What’s the need of so much publicity? You’re waking every flower, making every bird sing, peacocks dance, keeping people from sleeping—just come and go quietly; simple living, high thinking! What are you up to?

If I am, then my rays will reach people, knocking on their doors. If I am, people’s songs will resound. If I am, my fragrance will travel. News of the flame must reach the moths. The lamp sends news; without it the moths would not know. The lamp’s dancing flame awakens the dance within the moth. When that divine flame dances in someone, moths will come—from far and wide. And the news must go, so that no one can later say, “I didn’t hear.” Let no one be able to complain they never got word. I am ready for loud proclamation; I have no hitch about it.

And my sannyasins should make it clear to the whole world once and for all: I will use the most modern means of publicity—I am using them! Why should the benefit be confined to a few? Why be stingy? If we are to share, the more who receive, the better. But some blockheads are bothered; they have fixed notions. I am not obliged to be confined by anyone’s notions. Did I take a contract to fulfill your notions? I don’t tell your monks and saints to live according to me; they lived in mountains and seclusion—I never asked them to. Your saints lived their way; I am living mine. And I have no eagerness to be a saint. I am enough as myself. What are these petty things—saint, mahant, mahatma! I have no taste for such trivialities. Keep those words for yourselves. Call me even a tirthankara—I have no interest. Call me an avatar—I have no interest. Keep your labels. I am enough without words, without labels. I have no problem. But I will propagate fully. The message must be carried. Jesus told his disciples: climb up onto the rooftops, because people are deaf—shout loudly, perhaps then they’ll hear.

In those days, climbing on rooftops and shouting was the most convenient way. Now I don’t tell my disciples to climb onto rooftops; I say: climb onto television! Climb onto radio! Climb into the newspapers! What rooftop? That’s a poor man’s game. Even if you climb up and shout, at best a handful of neighbors will hear. When a roar can resound across the whole earth, why do small things? Why waste a life waking one neighborhood? We will shake the whole earth. I have no objection.

I openly affirm: I will do everything to carry this message far and wide—to every corner of the earth. If there is truth in it, it should reach; people should benefit. And if there isn’t, people should still know—so they can test and see whether it is true or not. Why hide it? It must be exposed.

I trust my truth. Those who sit quietly must lack trust—timid, cowardly, afraid: “Who will I tell? What if no one believes? Why get into a hassle? Someone may argue, someone may debate.” My challenge is: whoever wants to argue, let him argue; to debate, let him debate. I relish it all. I am ready to debate, to argue. For me, it’s play—nothing more. Whoever wants to drink, I am ready to pour; whoever wants a skirmish, I am ready to meet. I have no difficulty. What I have known is such an intense truth for me that I feel no hesitation in propagating it—beating drums, sounding the conch, proclaiming it.

That’s why I gave you ochre robes. Do you think ochre liberates you? You’re mistaken. The robe is only a means of publicity—nothing else. Wherever you go, you’ll startle people: “Here comes another one—another madman!” Seeing you, they will begin to ask about me. They will have to talk about me. I am compelling them—though they don’t know it—to discuss me. They don’t know by what trick I’ve got them by the neck. They think they’re being clever. As a red rag is shown to a bull, I’ve given you these robes: wherever there are bulls, they’ll snort, flare, growl—and my sannyasins have no problem; they’ll leap up and mount the bull at once, take the ride! They won’t miss the chance. Mount every bull you find—publicize with abandon. People imagine that by criticizing me they’re defaming me. I don’t count this as criticism—it’s my work being done. In truth, those who speak against me are all working for my publicity, though they don’t know it. I have my ways. I know what trick to use with whom. Even those working against me end up propagating me.

From Germany a gentleman—a Christian pastor—was so enraged by what I’ve said about Jesus, and by the tremendous impact it’s having on Christians—it’s so strong that Christian pastors themselves have had to admit that in centuries no Christian has spoken on Jesus as I have—that he became restless: a non‑Christian has spoken so clearly on Jesus, and what have we been doing? So angry was he that he sold his house, gave the money to his son, and said: make a film on the ashram—make it such that only the negative and the wrong is highlighted. Make a horrific film; show it around Germany so people stop going to Poona.

He came. Word reached me beforehand—sannyasins informed me: this gentleman is coming; his father has sold his house, made such a sacrifice, and he’s coming to make a film—don’t let him. I said: don’t worry in the least; let him make his film—whatever he wants. He made a tendentious film; that’s what he came to make. But from our side he got full cooperation! He was a bit puzzled: what’s going on? He knew we knew; he was afraid. He made the film and left. It is being shown all over Germany. He thought one thing; another happened. People watch the film and then come here. I get letters daily: “We saw that film, and our hearts began to long to come to Poona!”

Just now Niranjana—one of my sannyasins—returned from Switzerland. She said: “I was eating in a hotel when two women approached. They saw the ochre and the mala and said: perfect—we were looking for a sannyasin; we want to pour out our hearts. We saw the film made against the ashram, but our hearts were moved. We want to come soon. It seems the one we were waiting for has arrived; the movement we hoped for has begun.”

Niranjana was astonished: she had heard the film was negative, made by enemies. She asked: “You were so touched by that film?” They said: “Granted it was made with a negative slant—that’s obvious, anyone can see the maker is deliberately misrepresenting—but if someone sells his house and tours villages to defame a person, then there must be something there. We want to come and see with our own eyes.”

Who knows how many are coming because of that film! And you’ll be surprised: the German government even assisted that pastor. Now the government is worried about whether to ban the film. In the German parliament the question has arisen: ban it, stop it—because the result is the opposite.

Oppose truth and you still end up propagating it. Support untruth, and even then it won’t stand—there’s no power in it. Even if you prop it up, it collapses: it has no legs, no life. How long can you make a corpse walk? Where there is life, even your obstacles become steps; truth rises one step higher on every obstruction. We will turn every obstacle into a stair, and we will propagate loudly.

Satya Vedant, understand my vision rightly. All my sannyasins should understand it rightly. I am absolutely in favor of publicity, in favor of advertising, and of using all modern means. I am not some old‑fashioned, traditional man. How many times must we explain to this country’s fools that I am neither antiquated nor traditional! They always keep measuring by their tradition.

Who is asking you to accept me as a saint? I don’t even want to stand in the crowd of your saints. Who will stand in that rubbish! Why should I die among those corpses? If your saints go to heaven, I would rather go to hell than to heaven. I don’t even like to sit with your saints—is that any company? Compared with them, a drunkard is better, a gambler is better—at least they have some guts. That crowd of eunuchs—I have no interest in it. So you think perhaps I am being defamed when someone speaks of “our saints, India’s saintly tradition.” To hell with India and its saintly tradition! I have nothing to do with it. I don’t believe in geographical boundaries. I consider all humanity as one. What India, what China! I believe in no borders. I am committed to breaking all boundaries.

Tradition has nothing to do with truth. Truth always belongs to the present; tradition is always dead, of the past.

So don’t include me in any crowd.

You say: “Our saints lived simple lives in solitude, far from crowds and display.”
I too live far from the crowd—the crowd of saints! And the “saints” I have created are celebrants, moths to the flame. This is a circle of revelers. This is a tavern—not a temple, not a mosque.

Bury my body—bury it in the tavern,
so the tavern’s dust remains within the tavern.
Bury my body—bury it in the tavern.

I do not drink because I’m a libertine;
it’s their image I see shimmering in the goblet.
Bury my body—bury it in the tavern.

The cup began to tremble, the wine flew from the bottle—
perhaps someone uninvited has entered the tavern.
Bury my body—bury it in the tavern.

I am giving you meditation so you may become worthy to drink that supreme wine. For that, purity is needed, a silence, a void.

The cup began to tremble, the wine flew from the bottle—
perhaps someone uninvited has come into the tavern.
If you wish, you can change the world of my sorrow;
you, after all, take delight in making me ache.
Bury my body—bury it in the tavern.

Love’s fever has so stoked my spine
that this madman hasn’t strength even to sigh.
Bury my body—bury it in the tavern—
so the tavern’s dust remains within the tavern.
Bury my body—bury it in the tavern.

Here only mad ones gather, only moths. This is no ordinary temple or mosque. This is a pilgrimage place—not a decayed one from the past; it is being born now, arising now. A new Kaaba is coming into being, a new Kailash is rising. Don’t weigh it against the old. None of your scales will work. Your scales will break trying to weigh me. None of your measures apply to me. You cannot seat me in any of your categories. Look at me directly: put away your scales, your categories, your arithmetic. I am a man of my own way. What have I to do with anyone?

What gain is there in baring my heart to them?
What gain in making them feel my pain?
For the sake of those present I have spoken—
otherwise, what need had I to adorn my own gathering?
What gain is there in baring my heart to them?

If there were any meaning in prayer, there’d be something to say—
why raise hands for no reason?
What gain is there in baring my heart to them?

I lie at your feet—let me be.
O cupbearer, why should I return to sobriety?
What gain is there in baring my heart to them?

Their splendor is seen in every speck of dust—
then why go to Sinai to behold?
What gain is there in baring my heart to them?

What gain is there in making them feel my pain?
What gain is there in baring my heart to them?

What do I need? What difference does it make what anyone thinks of me? Every day bundles of press clippings arrive from all over the world. I don’t read them—I don’t even look. Why waste time? Sheela comes and tells me: this paper said this, that paper said that. I say: fine. If it’s wrong, fine; if it’s right, fine. What is it to me? Why talk to fools?

If there were any meaning in prayer, there’d be something to say—
why raise hands for no reason?

I have reached the place where I no longer need to “come to my senses.” Now intoxication itself is my clarity.

I lie at your feet—let me be.
O cupbearer, why should I return to sobriety?

Their splendor is seen in every speck of dust—
then why go to Sinai to behold?

I have no purpose to fulfill. I will go on living in my own way. Those who wish to join me will have to learn my way. Those who cannot—let them be; I’m not concerned. If they wish to oppose or criticize, let them.

But mad lovers are not scarce in this world either. Yesterday in the Gujarat assembly the question of my going to Kutch arose again. And now the Chief Minister, Madhavsinh Solanki, had to say: we are one hundred percent committed to giving land for the ashram. Why did he have to say it? Because sixty‑five organizations have opposed me, and three hundred fifty have supported me! And I have never even been to Kutch. Think: sixty‑five in opposition, three hundred fifty in support—and I’ve never gone; I have no connection with Kutch. Yet the fragrance has begun to reach. Where I have not gone, it has reached.

And those sixty‑five are not even all real organizations. Of them, twenty‑five or thirty are just individuals’ calling cards. Some signatures, when traced, turn out to be from people who didn’t even know who signed for them! Eighteen are Jain sects—the Jains have tiny sub‑sects, and applications were filed in the name of each. One from this sect, one from that—four or five people arranged them all. If you investigate those sixty‑five, not even five will turn out to be genuine.

And if I go to Kutch once, those three hundred fifty will become three thousand five hundred.

How did the message reach without my going? Would it reach if I shut myself in a cave? The flower must release its fragrance. The sun must send its rays. It need not come into your house itself—if it did, you’d be burned to cinders. Just the rays entering are enough. I am a thoroughly modern person—in truth, a man of the twenty‑first century. This is the twentieth; it will take a hundred years for me to be rightly understood. But one has to come a century early so the preparation can begin. People move so slowly, dragging their feet, it will take them a hundred years to understand. Anyone who belongs to the future must arrive before his time.

And I will leave out no means; I will use them all. I will use whatever the twentieth century offers. Not just ordinary radio and the like—we’ve begun using satellites. Recently a discourse was broadcast by satellite—a videotape that could be seen around the world. Once the new commune is ready, we’ll make our own satellite; why depend on others? If we are to propagate, we’ll do it thoroughly; why do things half‑heartedly? Why keep circling just Bihar? The world is vast! And when, sitting in one room, one can reach the whole world, why go anywhere? I don’t travel precisely because, from a room, everything can be done now; all the means are available. Poor Mahavira and Buddha had to suffer much—forty‑five, fifty years of running! At eighty‑two, Buddha was still walking. On the day he died, he was still on the road. There’s no need for that anymore.

Blessed Kumar Kamal! If you write non-poems and non-stories, failure is what will land in your hands. That’s straightforward logic. To begin with, even those who write poetry—where do they find success! And you want success by writing non-poetry!

But you don’t seem modern. Otherwise, would you be asking for a blessing for success? That’s the traditional way. And if you’re not finding success, take a hint from it: your poetry is probably getting on people’s nerves; poets’ verse often does. Forgive the people. Instead of asking me for a blessing, forgive them. Brother, do something else—be so kind. There are already too many poets in this country, in every neighborhood. Like frogs croak in the monsoon, poets here keep croaking. Who is there to listen?

A poet was invited somewhere—only because he was also a politician. When he arrived, he was shocked: the hall was empty, not a soul there. Only a big heap of mangoes. He asked the organizer, “What’s going on?”
The organizer said, “What can I do! I told you, invited you to come. The public didn’t show up. So I thought of a trick. Since I told you there would be an aam sabha—a public meeting, and aam also means mango—I piled up these mangoes. Go on, read your poem! Aam sabha! What else can I do? Should I beat people and drag them here by force? People run away the moment they hear the word ‘poetry.’”

At a kavi-sammelan, Mr. Poptalal was singing: “Either listen to my heart, O people of the world, or let me remain silent now.”
A voice rose from the audience: “Then do keep silent, brother!”

In the marketplace, the great poet Bholanath was running after a man, shouting, “Catch that scoundrel—don’t let him get away! He’s a cheat, a fraud!”
A policeman stopped him and asked, “Brother, what’s the matter?”
Bholanath said, “He made me listen to his poem, but when my turn came, he ran away!”

Bholanath lay on his deathbed. The doctors had declared there was no hope. The news had gone out everywhere that his condition was critical and those who wanted a last darshan should come. So his guru, Swami Matkanath Brahmachari, came to see him. After asking after his health, he absentmindedly asked, “Have you composed any poem?”
Hearing the request, Bholanath’s eyes lit up. He immediately had tea and snacks brought for Matkanath, pulled a bundle of poems from under his pillow, and began. After three or four hours, Bholanath’s sons wondered what was going on—why was Matkanath still inside? When they went in, the situation was reversed: Matkanath was finished, and Bholanath was perfectly fine, reciting away.

Brother, forgive them!

That’s all for today.