Jyun Macchali Bin Neer #9

Ramakrishna Chaturvedi! Sannyas has nothing to do with thinking. In sannyas, thinking has no momentum. Thinking is not a bridge; it is a barrier. The more you think, the more you get entangled. Thinking does not find the path; even if you begin to find it, it slips away.

Sit on the riverbank and think as much as you like: how deep is the river? How will you know? You will have to dive. And to dive, thinking does not help—courage is needed. Thinking is fine for the world, for the outer; for the inner it is an obstruction. Within, movement happens through no-thought. And sannyas is an inner journey, a journey inward.

Yes, science proceeds through thinking. There logic is needed, doubt is needed—keen doubt, like the edge of a sword! And in logic there should not be the slightest error. Mathematics is needed. That is the world of things. There the intellect is sufficient. But the inner journey is the world of love; it is the realm of the divine. There the intellect is utterly insufficient—misplaced, irrelevant. As if one tried to see with the ears—how could one see? Or tried to hear with the eyes—how could one hear? The eyes are capable of seeing; the ears are capable of hearing. Use each capacity for what it is meant.

Thought has the capacity to recognize and analyze objects. No-thought has the capacity to awaken in oneself—self-knowing, samadhi. Sannyas is the first step toward samadhi.

And you say, Ramakrishna, “For years I have been thinking of taking sannyas.”

Perhaps you have been doing so for many lifetimes—you have forgotten the previous ones. You know you’ve been doing it for years. What has come into your hand? You are standing where you were. Where you were, you still are. Perhaps you have become even more entangled. The thrill will have grown dim.

And you say: “Some obstacle always comes.”

What other obstacle would come? Thinking itself is the greatest obstacle—Himalayan. All other obstacles are small; they don’t amount to much. What obstacle can there be? Where love is, all obstacles are cut through. But the so-called lovers only talk of love; they do not love.

I have heard: a lover was speaking to his beloved. And when lovers speak, poetry wells up; they become ecstatic. He was saying: “This flower you have adorned in your tresses—it is a lamp you have lit in the darkness!” He praised her greatly and said, “Without meeting you I cannot live even a moment. If I meet you, life is meaningful; if I do not, life is futile. If I do not meet you, there is nothing but suicide. If I have to cross the seven seas, I will cross them. If I have to search for you on the moon and stars, I will search. Even if fire rains down, I will still seek you.” And when a person gets caught up in words, each word takes him to bigger words. Out of one word another is born. He forgets what he is saying. And when he was taking leave, his beloved asked, “You will come tomorrow, won’t you?” He said, “If it doesn’t rain, certainly—because my umbrella has gone for repair.”

He was ready to cross the seven seas! Ready to come even if fire rained down! Couldn’t live a moment without her. “This flower you have adorned in your tresses—it is a lamp you have lit in the darkness!” The whole poem evaporated, everything collapsed: “The umbrella has gone for repair! If it doesn’t rain tomorrow, I will surely come.”

What obstacles must come? And, Ramakrishna, when death comes, will it ask you, “Are there any obstacles? Shall I wait a little? I will come tomorrow, or the day after. Clear your obstacles and settle your problems.” When death comes, it does not grant even a single moment. Whether your shop is running or not, whether your daughter is married or not, whether your wife is ill and lying on her deathbed—whatever it may be, in whatever condition—death neither asks nor grants time nor sends advance notice. Then what will you do? Will you die or not? You will have to die. All the obstacles will remain piled here. All your paraphernalia will lie unused when the nomad hoists his pack and moves on.

Sannyas should be accepted as one accepts death. Sannyas is a kind of death—greater than death, because in death only the body changes, while in sannyas life changes, the vital energy changes, consciousness changes. It is deeper. You are squandering it in thinking; later you will regret it greatly.

He departed at last, carrying unfinished words;
I told him daily, “Do not postpone our talk.”

You have been postponing for years. One day death will arrive—what will you do then? You won’t even be able to say, “Wait a moment, let me take sannyas; wait a moment, let me don the ocher.” We wrap our dead in ocher cloth. We bathe the corpse, we wash it. It remained dirty all life; the dead body we make clean, we dress it in fresh clothes. We tie the bier with red cloth, load it with flowers. But what is the point then? What use? If only this had been done in life—this cleansing! If only in life itself one had understood that death is coming, therefore prepare before death comes: recognize, before death arrives, that which does not die. That is the preparation. Know that which is nectar. The rishi of the Upanishads sings: Asato ma sadgamaya—Lead me, Lord, from the unreal to the real. Tamaso ma jyotirgamaya—Lead me from darkness to light. Mrityorma amritam gamaya—Lead me from death to immortality. But prayers alone will not complete this. You must do something.

This life is the opportunity to seek the nectar. If you do not seek, death is what you grasp. He who has sought finds nectar. And if even a single drop of nectar is found, then there is no coming and going again, no birth and death. Then you belong to the eternal.

Sannyas is a search—an inner search!

But you say: “Obstacles come.”

Obstacles will keep coming. Do you think there will be a day when there is no obstacle? The world is the very name of problems: before one is solved, ten arise. In the solving of one, ten stand up. Therefore do not sit in the hope that one day, when there is no problem and no obstacle, you will take sannyas. Then sannyas will never happen.

Clouds pour in the middle of the night,
My heart is drenched, the earth smells sweet.
Again and again I sleep and wake—
What strange weather, this midnight hour.

In dream, an ocean brims full,
My little boat far from the shore—
Each moment I sink, each moment I leap,
What a wandering mad one, this midnight hour.

What a game life is!
We are parted, yet somehow one.
Someone weeps in these falling streams,
While the night is hushed at midnight.

In my breath sleeps a music,
Someone sings the heart’s own song.
I must reach the farther shore—
Yet this rain keeps trying to stop me.

Will rain stop the one who must cross to the other shore? Nothing stops one who must go. You want to stop; therefore hindrances find excuses. They are excuses, nothing more. Do you think Buddha had no obstacles? Mahavira had none? Jesus had none? They all had obstacles. Whoever has known has turned obstacles into steps. He has not taken the stones of the path as hindrances—he has made them into steps and climbed upon them. And by climbing, he has seen an even vaster sky.

Do not postpone like this.

And you ask me: “I stop because of obstacles. What should I do, what should I not do? You tell me.”

What will happen if I tell you? You will think again. Will you follow what I say? If you could have, would you have delayed for years? I am saying the same thing every day—unceasingly I tell you: Wake up. But you say, a beautiful dream is going on—how can I wake up now? Let it complete. This sleep is so sweet, the music of slumber and trance so honeyed: don’t wake me yet. You turn over once more, pull the blanket over you, and go back to sleep.

And you will repent, greatly repent, because whatever time has slipped away is gone; it cannot be returned. Do not delay any more—that much I can say. You have already delayed too long; do not delay further. If the longing for sannyas has arisen, do not let this seed remain a seed—let it sprout, let it become real.

And you ask: “Also tell me what God is—who is God?”

You do not yet have the courage for sannyas—how will you know God? But for centuries people have thought that we can know God without doing anything; someone who knows can tell us what God is and we will believe. We live by belief. Belief is poison. This very poison has vitiated all humanity.

I would have you not live by belief. One who lives by belief lives a lie, lives in self-deception. Know—there is no other way. Recognize—there is no other way. Experience. Apart from experience there is no liberation, no nirvana, no God, no truth.

Do not believe. It is by believing that you have stopped—because believing is cheap. Knowing requires effort. To know, you must transform your very life-breath; you must break your stupor. Unconsciousness must be uprooted—from the root, root and all. One must pass through a total transmutation, through a trial by fire. All the rubbish gets burned away. Only then, what remains within you as pure gold—that is God.

What will happen if I tell you? Harm will happen. Suppose I say, “God is like this”—then what? You will sit believing that. You will have an image to worship. You will have a concept to revere. You will have a faith you did not earn.

God has to be earned. You got him free—God is not obtained free; you must pay with your life.

I will say nothing of what God is. I will only say: burn in meditation, melt in meditation. The day all your junk has burned to ashes, then what remains in you, what remains even after passing through all the fire—that is God. When you know that, when you experience that, the doors of the mystery open. There is no cheaper way.

But people always run after cheap things—even if they are made of paper. And if they are free, then nothing more need be said!

Last night was the fourteenth night of the moon.
All night long there was talk of you.
Some said it was the moon,
Some said it was your face.

Last night was the fourteenth night.
We, too, were present there.
People kept asking us as well—
We smiled,
We kept quiet:
Your veil was dear to us.

Last night was the fourteenth night.
In this city, whom should we meet?
Our gatherings have slipped from us.
Every person takes your name,
Every person is mad for you.

Last night was the fourteenth night.
Leaving your alley,
We might as well become mendicants—
But the forests are yours,
The mountains are yours,
The villages are yours,
The deserts are yours.

Some said it was the moon,
Some said it was your face.
Last night was the fourteenth night.
We, too, were present there.
People kept asking us as well—
We smiled,
We kept quiet:
Your veil was dear to us.

Last night was the fourteenth night.

No one else can unveil God for you. Buddha accepted the veil; he never said what God is—he did not even raise the topic of God. When people asked, he evaded. And it was great compassion that he evaded. Those who told caused harm. They told, and people believed. People are ready to believe. In believing, neither anything is spent, nor life-energy is used; nothing has to be surrendered, no discipline, nowhere to go, nothing to get up or sit for. You remain as you are, and add one more piece of information. A bit more ornamentation. A bit more wealth. You play at being a knower. But has anyone ever become wise through borrowed knowledge?

I too relish the veil. I too do not wish to lift it. I say: lift it yourself. Lift the veil yourself and see. Yes, I give you the method to lift the veil. That is sannyas.

Sannyas is only a vow of meditation. Sannyas is the declaration that from now on meditation will be my life. I will do everything else, but that will be acting; the reality will be meditation. Now everything of mine will be dedicated to meditation. Now I will seek the inner wealth. It’s fine—outer wealth is also needed; I will keep attending to it. But there will be no craving, no thirst, no race. Enough to get by is fine: bread, clothing, a roof—fine. I will not run, I will not go mad. Now all my life-energy will flow inward.

Sannyas is this declaration—to yourself and to the world.

And your ego is the veil; lift it and God is found. But in lifting the ego, your very life trembles.

What is the obstacle in sannyas? You say “obstacle.” I know of only one: ego. Ego does not allow you to bow, and sannyas is bowing. Ego does not allow discipleship, and sannyas is discipleship. Ego does not allow learning, because to learn means to accept your ignorance. Ego lays claim to knowledge.

Blessed are the few who accept their ignorance, for they alone will one day be filled with the bliss of knowing. They alone will one day be drenched in knowledge. The rest—those who hoard secondhand knowledge—will only be deceived and deceive others; their lives will be nothing but tales of sorrow.

Sannyas is the first step toward bliss. If the urge to take it has arisen, do not miss.

There is an old proverb: If you intend to do evil, delay; do not hurry. And if you intend to do good, hurry; do not delay. It is an Arabic proverb—endearing and significant. Because whatever you delay remains delayed; then it does not happen. If you pause a little before doing the bad, then nothing bad will happen through you. And if you pause a little before doing the good, then the good will not happen either. If you pause even a bit, the mind will find a thousand excuses. If you do not pause, the mind quickly grabs your neck: “Now that you have waited this long, wait a little more, and a little more, and a little more.” Then waiting becomes a habit.

So for the bad, delay. But for the bad no one delays—this is a strange world. Man is a wonder. Kabir says: I saw a wonder! Not one—here there are many wonders. Four billion wonders—why speak of one! Whomever you look at, that person is a wonder. The wonder is this: for the bad you do not delay. If someone abuses you, do you say, “Brother, abuse me after twenty-four hours; I will come tomorrow. Today I have other work, many obstacles. How can I be abused today? Forgive me today; when convenient I will come and be abused at leisure. I am going now to get medicine for my wife, or to enroll the children in school. Forgive me today”?

Have you ever said this when someone abused you? No. Then to blazes with the wife and her medicine—you forget the children. Then what is there in this world anyway! You plant your feet right there, ready to settle it. You do not postpone till tomorrow; it is now and here. But if the urge to do something good arises, you postpone it to tomorrow. And what you postpone to tomorrow gets postponed forever—because tomorrow never comes.

Vindhyavasini Pandey! Sir, who told you I am a supporter of sexual freedom? I say: “freedom of love,” and the Indian mind hears “freedom of sex.”
This is a disease of the Indian mind. Your repressed psyche instantly translates love into sex. For you there remains no other conception of love. For you love always becomes lust. That is proof of your sick mind.
I have never spoken of sexual freedom. But the Indian press keeps thrusting the doctrine of sexual freedom upon me. They project their own stuff onto me. I say: we need freedom of love. I say: that marriage is immoral which is not based on love. To bear children from a woman you do not love is wrongdoing; to relate with a man you do not love is wrongdoing. But here almost all marriages are loveless. Some ritualist priest, some astrologer matches horoscopes. Don’t blame the stars. Don’t put the responsibility on the stars. Poor helpless stars can’t even speak. And even if the planets and constellations could speak—what would they say? “Do what your heart says.” And what are the results? Even after matching horoscopes, what has become of marriage? There is no institution more rotten. People are rotting, but with masks on, hiding themselves.
Where there is no love, there is hell; where there is love, there is heaven.
I am a partisan of freedom of love. But whenever an Indian hears that, he immediately understands “freedom of sex,” because he has no other meaning for love. Inside him sex is boiling. Inside him there is nothing but lust.
You hear only what you are capable of hearing. Vindhyavasini Pandey, you are revealing something about yourself, not stating my position. This doctrine, you have fabricated.
I heard of a Jagatguru Shankaracharya traveling from Delhi to Ferozepur with two disciples. One disciple went to buy tickets. At the ticket window sat an exquisitely beautiful young woman. You can imagine what happened in the mind of a celibate. He started drooling; he was tongue-tied; his eyes darted here and there. But no matter how much you avert your eyes, they go right where lust is shoving from within. He wanted to avoid it, but what you try to avoid is exactly where you get stuck. The man was fine, but he lost his bearings. He had gone to ask for a ticket to Ferozepur, but seeing the woman’s beautiful breasts (uroj) he blurted, “How much for a ticket to Urozhpur?” When “Urozhpur” slipped out of his mouth he was drenched in sweat. He came back without waiting for a reply. He said to his guru, “I’ve made a big mistake, please forgive me. I can’t go to buy the ticket. Send the other disciple. He’s older. I’m new. I made a major blunder—I said Urozhpur instead of Ferozepur.”
The second disciple said, “You stay, I’ll go.” He went there. But as soon as he saw the beautiful young woman—a Punjabi lady in very tight clothes. In Punjab one wonders how these women even get into those clothes. The question arises, certainly arises. With such tight garments, how do they enter them? How do they get out? Those tight clothes! His very life got into trouble. He began chanting, “Ram Ram, Jai Bajrangbali!” He recalled the grand doctrines that celibacy is life. But when everything started to go haywire, the only thought rising in his mind was: “If she looks this beautiful even above the clothes, how beautiful must she be underneath!” He tried to suppress it. He went to ask, “Madam, when will the train (gaadi) arrive?” but what he asked was, “When will the un-clad (ughadi—naked) arrive?” His tongue slipped.
Sigmund Freud researched deeply into why tongues slip and how. The causes lie within. He too returned flustered, dripping with sweat. He told the guru, “No, this is beyond me. That woman is the very gateway to hell! A man would fall into hell just by looking at her. Very dangerous woman.”
The Jagatguru said, “You wait, I’ll set her right.” As he approached, the experiences of his two disciples also stirred curiosity: “What’s the matter? Surely some apsara, a Menaka or an Urvashi! My disciples, firm in their loincloths, what happened to them? They returned defeated!” So he went stiff-backed, loudly slapping his wooden sandals, because it is said the more you slap your khadau, the more celibacy is attained. They say the big toe pressing the peg of the sandal keeps you established in celibacy—so say those who try to discover the ‘scientific’ side of Hinduism: keep your toe gripping the peg tightly and celibacy will remain firm. The peg slips and everything goes wrong. So, loudly clacking his sandals, gripping the peg tightly! But the more you clutch, the worse it gets. And he was angry too: “She has toppled my two disciples!” He went and pounced on the woman: “May you rot in hell! And the devil will knead your breasts like this…” He demonstrated the kneading of her breasts. Then he came to his senses: “What am I doing?” But by then a crowd had gathered: “Jagatguru, what are you doing!” Only after doing it did he realize.
Vindhyavasini Pandey, who told you I support sexual freedom? This “ughadi”—this naked slip—is happening to you. Instead of heading toward Ferozepur, you’ve gone to Urozhpur. You have begun doing the devil’s work yourself.
I am certainly a partisan of freedom of love, because if even love is not free in a person’s life, what other freedom will there be! Love is the flower of life—the most precious treasure of this life. It must be free. From its freedom one day prayer is born. From prayer, one day, the experience of the divine. If love itself is blocked, prayer is blocked. Kill the Ganga at Gangotri. It’s easier there because Gangotri is small; water drips drop by drop. It emerges from Gaumukh. From Gaumukh no great torrent can issue; Gaumukh can be blocked easily. Yes, in Kashi it will be difficult to dam the Ganga. And when she reaches the Ganga Sagar, stopping her becomes altogether impossible. But at Gangotri it is easy.
Love is Gangotri—and God is Ganga Sagar. And prayer is the sacred confluence in between—think of Prayag. But when I speak of the freedom of love, inevitably people think I’m advocating the freedom of sex—because the repressed lust within them surges up the moment they hear the word “love.” The word alone is enough—just as ghee poured into fire raises instant smoke, so smoke rose in Vindhyavasini Pandey.
Sir, how did you land up here? This is a revelers’ gathering. This is the world of the mad. This is the realm of moths. There is no need here for humbug religionists. Wrong place. Such a place is not for you. If you come to such a place, you’ll get spoiled.
Now you must be feeling uneasy here. At the sight of beautiful women you will feel disturbed. And as many beautiful women as you can see here in one place, perhaps nowhere else in India will you see so many together. Not just India—nowhere in the world. So you must be getting restless, wriggling, troubled.
But that tells something about you.
You say: “You are a supporter of sexual freedom.”
I am not a supporter of sexual freedom. I am a supporter of freedom of love. And when love happens, sex too becomes sacred. Where there is no love, sex is purely bestial. Hence the marriages running in this country are exactly like those of animals—animals may be better. The marriage practiced in this country is brutish. That is why we call it a “gathbandhan”—a tying together. “Pashu” also means bound—a creature tied by a noose (pash). Tie two people together, knot upon knot—tie seven knots, make them take seven rounds—and the one who has taken seven rounds has become a ghanchakkar, a dizzy fool! He will keep circling all his life—like a bull yoked to an oil press. He will torment his wife, the wife will torment him, because they will take revenge on each other. Both their lives are being ruined—whom should they take revenge on? The two should together grab the priest by the throat—the one who recited the mantras—and tell him: “Now read the mantras in reverse and conduct reverse rounds—undo it! You tied the knots, now untie them! And if they don’t open, cut them with scissors if they’ve been pulled too tight.”
But the priest will be off tying someone else’s knot, conducting rounds elsewhere. And you yourselves went to him; he didn’t come to you. So husbands are falling upon wives, wives upon husbands. Quarrel rages twenty-four hours a day. And what is the cause? The cause is that neither life is getting love. And how will it get love? Love is not something you can do by force. Love is not something that because it should be done, you will do it. Love comes like a breeze. It is beyond your control. It is not an electric fan that starts when you press a button. It is a gust of wind—if it comes, it comes. Love is not in your hands.
And until love happens in life, whatever you do is very base. It is only sex, nothing else. What we call marriage is nothing but institutionalized prostitution. Someone buys a prostitute for a night; someone buys a wife for a lifetime. It is buying and selling. A person living in this market of transactions—what will he understand of freedom of love! He will at once understand freedom of sex, because that is his life.
We can only understand what we have been deprived of—what remains incomplete within us.
Seth Chandulal hired a new servant. A great pandit he was—but the kind of pandit who is a book-pandit! He had scriptures by heart. Seth thought, “Good—he is learned; he will also do the worship. I’m a Marwari—one stone to kill two birds is even better. He’ll cook too, do the work of a cook, he’ll perform the temple rituals, and when needed he’ll recite the Satyanarayan katha. Good—cheap, and useful in many ways.”
But the very first day brought trouble. Chandulal went with his wife and children to a relative’s house. When they returned, the hassle began. They rang the bell for thirty–thirty-five minutes before the pandit opened the door. Chandulal’s eyes were red with anger: “You ill-mannered fellow, why didn’t you open the door? We’ve been ringing for over half an hour, getting fed up!”
The pandit, eyes lowered, replied, “How would I know, Sethji, that you wanted the door opened? Why didn’t you knock? Master, I thought the bell is yours—you may ring it as long as you like, half an hour or a whole day, or all night. The bell is yours—what can I do?”
Now this pandit can read the Satyanarayan katha, explain couplets of the Ramayana, recite the Hanuman Chalisa; but he has not a grain of common sense! Common sense has little to do with scholarship. Vindhyavasini Pandey, you must be a pandit—apparently with little connection to sense. Think a little, sir—what are you saying?
You say: “Even in Western countries like America, where sexual freedom exists, sexual disorders are found.”
Those disorders are not because of sexual freedom. They are because of two thousand years of Christianity. Christianity has repressed sex more cruelly than any other religion. At least Hindus wrote Vatsyayana’s Kama Sutra three thousand years ago. Perhaps Vatsyayana was one of your ancestors—Pandit Vatsyayana, a sage, who wrote the Kama Sutra. And Pandit Koka wrote the Koka Shastra—fifteen hundred years ago.
Christianity has no book like that—no Kama Sutra or Koka Shastra. Christianity has repressed ferociously. Of all religions in this world, Christianity—especially the Catholic denomination—has been the most repressive. It has repressed so much that people have boiled over; they are sitting atop volcanoes. Have you ever heard of a Christian temple containing sculptures like Khajuraho? Of any church walls painted with scenes of intercourse? With erotic statuary?
Vindhyavasini Pandey, your ancestors did that. I have no hand in it. And those ancestors who carved the temples of Khajuraho, who made nude and obscene erotic images on the temples at Puri and Konark—what are they telling you? They tell that repression must have been so severe that only one route remained for its expression: to appear under the cover of religion. Otherwise there would have been no need to carve them on temple walls. But there was nowhere else they could carve them, so they devised the trick—temples. In temples anything becomes holy. So on temple walls you see these naked images—not merely nude but vulgar, indecorous, unnatural. A single woman and a single man in union—one could understand. But a woman with three or four men at once. A woman put into a headstand and intercourse happening with her. A man in a headstand having intercourse. Amazing yogis! What yogic feats! They’ve made Vatsyayana and Patanjali shake hands—what a synthesis! That is the grace of your ancestors.
Christianity has repressed still more. It did not allow even this much expression. Here at least, in hidden corners, a little of our inner condition surfaced. But Christianity cut off heads, burned people alive—those who tried anything like this.
In the Vatican’s library—the Pope’s library—deep underground, there is a repository containing all the books of the last two thousand years that Christianity forbade. The Catholic Pope issues each year a list of books—what has gone onto the blacklist. Once a book lands on the blacklist, it becomes a sin for any Christian to read it. For two thousand years, copies of such books have been burned; only a single copy is preserved in the Vatican library. I would say the United Nations should seize that library, because then two thousand years of truth would be revealed. Among the books Christianity burned must surely have been Kama Sutras like Vatsyayana’s, Koka Shastras like Pandit Koka’s. They were consigned to flames. One copy each they have preserved. But no one is allowed access to that library. That treasure should be taken from the Vatican so it can become evident how much repression Christianity has wrought. And anyone who ever spoke even a small thing contrary to Christianity was roasted in fire.
If today sexual disorders are found in the West, the cause is two thousand years of Christianity; not sexual freedom. If sexual freedom were the cause, tribals should show the most disorders. They show none. Among the forest-dwelling primal peoples—like the tribals of Bastar—show me any sexual disorder. Yes, wherever Christian missionaries have reached, sexual disorders have reached. Missionaries are going into every tribal area because it is easy to turn tribals into Christians. Simple folk—give them bread and salt, a little kerosene to light a lantern—that’s enough; they are ready to become Christians. And it is not difficult to persuade them—simple, guileless. Wherever Christian missionaries have reached, sexual disorders have reached. But where missionaries have not reached, go see, Vindhyavasini Pandey. You will be astonished: there are no sexual disorders. There is sexual freedom. So much sexual freedom that you will be amazed to learn that in Bastar, where civilization’s influence has not yet reached, in small tribal settlements there is a large dormitory in the middle of the village—a big thatched hall, because they are poor. Not a small hut—a large one. And whenever any boy or girl reaches the age of thirteen or fourteen, they are not allowed to sleep at home; they are sent to that village dormitory to sleep, so that every boy and every girl can relate, experience, come in contact with one another, so that when they choose a spouse they have some basis for choice.
How will you choose? Here when you go to ‘see’ a girl, she comes, circles a tray of betel leaves and goes. Are you to look at the betel leaves or the girl? By the time you pick a leaf, the girl is gone. If you look at the girl, you miss the betel. And if you look at the girl it seems indecent. If you stare you seem a lout. The Hindi word luchcha comes from lochan—eyes—one who stares. The critic too stares hard; the luchcha stares just the same. So if you look at the girl you end up staring, and if you look at the betel, the girl is gone. And how will you decide so quickly? Will you decide that this girl will be your lifelong companion? Will you live happily with her? Can her serving vegetables on a plate, or circling the betel tray, or handing you a cup of tea be decisive for a lifetime partnership? What could be more unscientific?
The tribals are more sensible. They give every girl and every boy a chance to know one another well. And there is another astonishing rule worth understanding: no boy may stay with any one girl for more than three days at a stretch, so everyone gets a chance. If a boy gets attached to one girl, or a girl to one boy, experience will remain limited. Therefore no permission for more than three days. Three days together, then change partners. Later they may be together again—that’s different. But not more than three days at one go. Therefore there is no reason for jealousy. Among tribals jealousy is not found. And once all the boys have seen all the girls, and the girls have seen all the boys, it becomes clear from the experience with whom their life will be harmonious. That is far more scientific than getting horoscopes matched or showing palms.
In your hand there are lines, nothing else; no destiny there. A birth chart is all nonsense. What do the moon and stars have to do with whom you marry? This is more scientific. But where Christian missionaries have reached, they have shut down this institution, because they say it is immoral. And if Vindhyavasini Pandey goes there, he too will say it is immoral—that boys and girls who are not married should be together, should love one another, should become familiar with one another’s bodies—this is sin! But in these two years of shared life each boy chooses his wife and each girl chooses her husband. And when they declare their choice, then they marry.
And remember this too: in these tribal areas there is no divorce. The question does not arise. The idea does not occur, because one chosen with such intimate knowledge, with so much experience and testing—there is no question of separating from such a one. Having seen the person in all forms, they choose. They choose knowingly. Therefore, in these areas there is neither divorce nor the event of someone falling in love with another’s wife or running away with another’s wife. Such events do not happen.
But wherever Christian missionaries have arrived, they have closed the ghotul—the village dormitory where boys and girls live together—because it is immoral. And wherever they have done so, marriage has come. And with marriage, all the rest of the immorality has arrived. Then divorce arises. Then, when the mind is not satisfied with wife or husband, prostitutes appear. Then secret relations with other women and other men begin. This is absolutely natural. For all this your so-called religious people are responsible.
So I want to tell you: in Western countries, even though there is some sexual freedom, the disorders you see are not due to sexual freedom; their responsibility lies with two thousand years of Christianity. And in the West Christianity still sits on the chest.
Keep in mind another point, because this argument often arises. You must have seen: when the Jains observe Paryushan—just now they ended—vegetable prices fall in the market, because Jains don’t buy greens, they fast or eat once a day. But as soon as Paryushan ends, vegetable prices shoot up higher than before, because all the Jains fall upon them at once. They somehow held themselves for ten days—in the hope that the eleventh day would come. It seems far, like doomsday, but it comes. They pass ten days clinging to hope. They chant the Navkar mantra, fingering the rosary, sit in the temple all day. What kind of fasting is it to sit at home? Dangerous—because the son is eating laddus while the father watches. However old he is, inside him too sits a laddu-eater, his mouth waters. The wife cooks for the children. And when you fast you’ll be surprised how your sense of smell becomes keen. Fragrances begin to come that you never smelled before. Fritters frying in someone else’s house and the aroma comes to you. In hunger the nasal passages become very clear. In fasting, whether anything else becomes pure or not, the nostrils do. Smelling grows sharp. Aromas come from far. Then holding out is difficult. So during fasts people spend the day in the temple, because there nothing is cooked, no laddus or barfi. Jain temples have no prasad either. And there sit ‘dead’ monks; even if you feel hungry, it will vanish seeing them. See them and the day is ruined; a bad omen in the morning. Even if someone sets food before you, while you watch them you cannot eat. Their gaze condemns: “Sinner, you will rot in hell!” For a little food, who wants to rot in hell! And they describe hell during Paryushan—how one is made to rot. One hell did not suffice their minds; they imagined seven hells. Hell upon hell! They will send you to the seventh. Here they won’t let you eat fritters, there they fry people like fritters in cauldrons! Better to leave fritters for ten days than be fried like fritters for eternity.
And you won’t even die there—remember. They won’t let you die. That is the fun of hell. They will kill you and not let you die. You will be thirsty and your mouth will be sewn shut. A stream flows before you, nectar flows, and your mouth is sewn—you cannot drink. They will terrify you so much you will think, “Brother, let me just get through these ten days. After all, it’s only ten days.” One day has passed, two days have passed, and on the rosary they count how many days have passed. One gone, two gone, three gone. “Now just a few left. The elephant has passed, only the tail remains. Just one day left—endure!” They sit in the temple and pass the time. And they listen with relish to talk of hell, because at that time it impresses deeply.
There is another little fun: sitting there they think, those who are eating will rot. That too gives pleasure: “Let’s see who will rot—remember the names!” “We are bearing ten days of hardship; then they will know! We will enjoy heaven, apsaras will dance, we will sit under wish-fulfilling trees—just sitting there, any desire is instantly fulfilled.”
After ten days they pounce—all kinds of sweets, dishes, vegetables! They descend like madmen! Who is responsible? Those ten days of fasting. An ordinary healthy man eating normally does not descend like that. This is the responsibility of two thousand years of Christianity. Today, in the West, along with a little sexual freedom, disorders have appeared—not because of freedom, but because of Christianity. It is natural. Keep people imprisoned long enough—lock them in a jail—and then one day open the doors. Do you think they will stroll out, cane in hand, like gentlemen out for an evening walk, in Lucknow style? They will shoot out like arrows. It will be hard even to pass through the door—there will be a rush. Open the door and they will run like mad, not looking back.
After a two-thousand-year prison, a few doors have opened here and there in the West. People have burst out and gone to the other extreme. This is straightforward psychology. It will pass. But if Christianity survives, it will not.
You say, “Sex crimes happen there too.”
That only means complete freedom has not yet arrived. Don’t use that to justify your process of repression: “What can we do—sex crimes happen there too, here too—so there is nothing wrong in our method.” There too sex crimes are happening because of the same repression by Christianity; here too they happen because of repression.
All these rapes—who is responsible? Vindhyavasini Pandey, you and people like you are responsible. Your scriptures are responsible. Your age-old unscientific tradition is responsible.
You have seen—in a clash between villages, women become the first prey. And women have nothing to do with the clash. Men fight; women are prey. Strange. If men fight, let men kill each other—fine. Why are women raped?
Even in ordinary quarrels, notice: two men abuse each other—but the abuses are directed at women: “Your mother, your sister, your daughter…” Strange. Understand the secret. What does it mean? You are quarrelling; crack each other’s skulls—fine. What did his mother do to you? What did his sister do? His daughter? They have no relation to this. Why not abuse his father—why his mother? Why not his brother—why his sister? Why not his son—why his daughter? And remember, if someone jumps into the fight on his side it will be his father, his son, his brother—not his mother, sister, or daughter. But it shows you are loaded and waiting—if a chance appears, you will fall upon women. Abuse is hurled at women because women are what you have repressed. The moment an opportunity arises, the dam bursts. If two communities clash, rapes suddenly happen. The very first act—women. And both communities are religious. Hindu, Muslim, Jain—religious people. And the moment religious people clash, both eyes are fixed on women: “If a riot starts, fall upon women.” Rapes happen immediately. The upper castes clash with the lower, and it is the women of the lower castes who pay—instantly raped.
And the great irony: those whose touch you think brings sin—you don’t think it sin to rape their women! Whose shadow you deem defiling—you don’t think it sin to rape their women!
In South India for centuries there was a tradition: an untouchable, when he stepped out, had to shout, “I am untouchable—clear the way,” because if his shadow fell on someone, he could be killed. Shadow! Not only the untouchable is untouchable, his shadow too! And this is a land of the wise, the religious! Offspring of rishis! A shadow! And they say the world is maya—illusion. The shadow is not maya? The world is maya, but the shadow is truth! The world is false, a mirage. And they worship Rama—the perfect man, maryada purushottam! And in his life is the story that he went to kill a golden deer! Are there golden deer? Even a fool understands there aren’t. Is there any deer made of gold? Anyone seen or heard? And Rama went to kill a golden deer. And the world is maya! This is earth, gold is also earth. All is false, all illusion. But he runs after a golden deer.
Everything is maya—but the shadow of an untouchable is not maya! If his shadow falls, the untouchable will be punished—severely, even with death. But rape the wives of untouchables, their mothers, their sisters—no problem! Understand it this way: the kind Brahmins, by raping them, are purifying them—liberating them—that at least a little Brahminhood has entered them! This is their compassion! Their grace! These are marks of a repressed society. Marks of a grotesque society. Stand your understanding upright; stop doing headstands.
Chandulal and his wife, rushing, reached the railway station. Panting, they got to the platform just as the last carriage of the train passed by and both were crestfallen. Chandulal said angrily, “If you had gotten ready a little sooner, we’d have caught the train.” The wife, already smarting, snapped back, “And if you hadn’t rushed so much, we wouldn’t have to wait so long for the next one.”
Each clings to their own position, their own understanding.
Vindhyavasini Pandey, you have not understood me. You are projecting according to your own understanding. You are talking to yourself, not to me. And what I am saying—whether it will even enter you is doubtful.
A humbug pandit had the habit of talking to himself. One day a colleague teased him: “Panditji, you talk to yourself—do you do it out of habit or is there some reason?”
“There are two reasons,” said the humbug pandit. “First, I always prefer to listen to intelligent people; second, I prefer to talk only to intelligent people.”
Vindhyavasini Pandey, you are talking to yourself. You have not asked me this question. You have not understood me. Before questioning, you should understand a little.
You say: “Therefore your theory of sexual freedom stands disproved.”
I have no theory of sexual freedom. I certainly uphold the freedom of love. Sexual freedom is a small part of it. But where there is love, sex is sacred; where there is no love, even marriage is impure. And whatever is happening in America cannot disprove my position. It would be disproved if sexual disorders were found in my ashram. When my commune comes into being, then tell me what sexual disorders are there. Then I will accept my principle is wrong. Give me a chance to experiment.
The indispensable condition is that I first free you from being Hindu, from being Christian, from being Jain. When all that rubbish is washed away, then you will be able to use my principles; and if sexual disorders arise, then my principle is wrong. But efforts are being made in a thousand ways that I may not be able to experiment, that I may not be able to build a large commune. Why are these people so frightened? Because they know my principle might be proved right. Their inner voice says so. From that fear arises all opposition. Otherwise, why oppose? Let me experiment. I am not experimenting on anyone by force. I will experiment with those who agree with me. Those who agree with me have the right to experiment—and I have the right to experiment. Let my experiment happen. What frightens you? If my experiment proves wrong, your doctrines will be strengthened. If my principle proves right, you will have a chance to stand with truth. Why so much panic?
Now look at this panic.
The third question is:

Chaitanya Sagar! Those so-called Kachchis who have run off to Bombay—poor fellows, they’ve left their kachchha (drawers) along with their Kutch behind. They’re standing stark naked in Bombay. Are these any Kachchis? Fake Kachchis! Otherwise why run? They are deserters. If they loved Kutch so much, they should have been in Kutch. What are they doing in Bombay? Why do they need to be in Bombay? Go to Kutch; live in Kutch. They all fled Kutch. I don’t call deserters Kachchis. Those who are in Kutch, they are Kachchis; they still have their kachchha—and they’re ready to change it!

These Bombay Kachchis, after great running around and effort, could deliver only sixty-five letters of protest to the Gujarat government. I haven’t even gone to Kutch. My sannyasins didn’t try anything in Kutch. Yet, three hundred and fifty associations have written to the Gujarat government in my favor, saying they are ready to welcome me. Of those sixty-five protesters, only twenty are associations; the remaining forty-five are individuals—each sent a separate card. When journalists asked some of them, several said, “We don’t even know who sent a card in our name! We have no idea.” Meaning even those cards are forged. From one association’s name they sent two letters—yes, I saw the list: the same association appears twice.

And what kind of associations? Made-up ones! Four people get together, form a “trust,” and send a letter. And how hard they had to work to squeeze even that out! Six men went from Bombay, toured all of Kutch, urging Kachchis, “Stop him.” And that ticket you mention—Chaitanya Sagar, alias Laharu, the ticket Laharu asked about—someone brought it to me to see. I was delighted by the ticket, because whoever wrote it seems a perfect idiot. Right there on the ticket it says: “Remove Rajneesh, Save Kutch!”

I haven’t even gone to Kutch yet—so how will you remove me from there? It actually means: remove me from Poona and send me to Kutch—then Kutch will be saved! The meaning is obvious. Since I’m not in Kutch, there’s no question of removing me from Kutch. The issue right now would be removing me from Poona. And, the poor fellows say exactly that: remove me from Poona and Kutch will be saved. “Remove Rajneesh, Save Kutch!” I said, “They’re working entirely in my favor.” What else will fools do! They don’t even have the sense to hear what they’re saying. First let me reach Kutch—then remove me. I haven’t even set foot there. In fact, I’ve never set foot in Kutch in my whole life. No event of mine has ever happened in Kutch; except perhaps the Kachchhap (Kurma) incarnation once happened there—if it did—after that, nothing at all.

And these people who have left the ran—the Rann of Kutch, and the battlefield—these Ranchhodas, deserters! For deserters there’s a nice title—Ranchhodas! They ran away from the Rann of Kutch; these Ranchhodas who sit in Bombay, who showed their backs and fled—what concern do they have for “saving Kutch”? Still, I like the ticket. In fact, Laharu, tell them that whatever money they collect from this ticket ought to come to me. How will they save Kutch otherwise? And even to remove me from Poona costs money, and to save Kutch costs money too. So gather the Bombay sannyasins, occupy their office, and tell them: “Hand over all the money you’ve collected, because you’ve promised: Remove Rajneesh—we will remove him! You can only remove him from Poona—where else from? And we will save Kutch! Now that we’ve saved Poona, we’ll save Kutch! We have to save everyone.” One by one, that’s how saving happens. Poona saved, Bombay saved, now Kutch saved—this is how we’ll proceed. We have to save India, the whole world.

Seeing that ticket, I felt Sardars aren’t found only in Punjab, they’re in Gujarat too. One became famous—Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel. But there seem to be other small Sardars there as well.

If in the night the clock suddenly stops, how can one know the time? Sardar Vichittar Singh asked his friend.
The friend said: Start singing.
Vichittar Singh said: What will that do?
The friend said: The neighbors will say, “Which donkey is braying at two-thirty in the night?” You’ll know the time.

Sardar Vichittar Singh went to buy a sweater in the market. The shopkeeper asked, “Want to buy? Really? Do you have the money, Sardar-ji?”
So he pulled out his notes and showed him. The shopkeeper was reassured. Then Vichittar Singh said, “May I try it on?”
He’s such a hefty man, he might ruin the sweater! If he puts it on, it’ll loosen. Then who will it fit?
So the shopkeeper said, “Certainly, Sardar-ji—but trying it on costs five rupees.”
Vichittar Singh put on the sweater and took out a five-rupee note and gave it to the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper took the note and said, “Now take the sweater off.”
Vichittar Singh said, “Taking it off will cost ten rupees. When putting it on costs something, taking it off costs something too!”

This is the kind of arithmetic that goes on in some people’s heads.

A Sardar asked Sardar Vichittar Singh: “Sardar-ji, what time is it on your watch?”
Vichittar Singh said: “Ten-ten.”
The first Sardar said: “Say it only once, Sardar-ji. I’m not hard of hearing.”

Vichittar Singh’s father asked: “Son, did you get the watch repaired?”
Vichittar Singh said: “Yes, Father.”
Father: “So now the watch tells time?”
Vichittar Singh: “No, Father, it doesn’t tell time. You have to look.”

These Bombay Kachchis outdo even that. And if the Kachchhap (Kurma) incarnation ever happened in Kutch, surely some aftereffects remain. A turtle’s hide is very thick—even a bullet won’t pierce it. That’s why shields were made from turtle shell; even a sword can’t cut through it.

These Bombay turtles—nothing seems to penetrate their brains. They say my going to Kutch will destroy Kutch’s culture. Is such an impotent culture worth saving, one that gets destroyed by someone’s mere arrival? If your culture has any strength, let it transform me—how will I transform you? And if it is weak and I transform it, then let me transform it. This is the panic of the weak, the panic of the impotent. What is there to fear? They fear that Kutch’s religion will be destroyed. Has darkness ever destroyed light? It is light that destroys darkness. If I am darkness, I will be destroyed—if you have light. And if I am light, then what will you do saving darkness? Let it be destroyed. Wherever light and darkness meet—tell me, which one is destroyed? Only darkness. Always darkness. Light is never destroyed. So if Kutch has light, why are you so frightened?

Fourteen saints and mahants of Gujarat—mahatmas—have appealed that I should not be allowed to enter Kutch, for religion will be destroyed. You fourteen, and I alone—who don’t even step outside my room—whose religion am I going to destroy? And even if there were a religion, then destroy it! But there’s nothing there—only the problem of the closed fist: when the fist is clenched, it’s worth a lakh; when opened, it turns to dust. Right now the fist is clenched; at the most, I can open it. Then it will be visible there’s nothing inside. As long as the fist is closed, a man lives on the belief that who knows what treasures are in there! He deceives himself and keeps deceiving others. Why this panic about me? If I am wrong and you are right, then I should be the one to panic. I’m not afraid of anyone. Never in my life have I felt, even for a moment, that someone could destroy what I say. In fact, I say: if someone destroys it, so much the better—he has shown me great kindness, because I was holding onto something false; by destroying it, he has given me the chance to seek the truth. He has not been an enemy; he has bestowed a great favor. I am searching for that person who will prove my words wrong. Free me from my own words; cut my net. Let me understand what is truly right.

But I have never had any panic. The panic belongs to others. From this one thing is clear: panic always belongs to the weak. Panic comes to the one who knows there is hollowness inside. Otherwise, these fourteen saints and mahants—I invite them: I will come to Kutch; come to my commune; try to understand me, and try to make me understand you. You fourteen, I alone. We’ll settle it. Why get so frightened? Why so perturbed? And if you feel there’s a shortage, call in reinforcements—bring the Shankaracharya of Puri, bring Karpatri Maharaj. There are many Shankaracharyas, many Jagadgurus; the country is full of them everywhere—call them all. I’m ready to accept the challenge with all of them. But refute my words. What they cannot do is refute the content; therefore, the only strategy left is: stop me; don’t let my words reach; don’t let what I say get to people.

Are these the signs of religious people? Are these the signs of cultured people? Is this any mark of civilization? The very meaning of culture, of civilization, is that I am free to say what I have to say, and you are free to say what you have to say. Then whatever is true will win. You’ve been repeating for centuries—Satyameva Jayate, “Truth alone triumphs.” What are you afraid of? If it is truth, it will win. Truth is neither mine nor yours; truth wins. But I know that what I am saying is true. Your panic proclaims it is true.

Dinesh Bharti! There is much here to understand. India’s religious texts are full of this kind of rubbish. It is pure nonsense. “Parvati bathing and making a figure from her dirt.” First of all, as if Parvati had never bathed in her life—so much grime that you could make a doll out of it! Just picture Parvati’s condition—as if she hadn’t bathed for lifetimes, as if she had been rolling around in dust and mud! That much dirt! Was she an enemy of bathing? Why such hostility toward a bath? And where do dolls made of grime create life? What childish stuff!

But our country is astonishing. Such pointless tales are worshipped. Such trivialities are honored. These have made us inert. These superstitions have blunted our intelligence; they have taken the edge off our talent and dulled it. What will be born among people who believe such things—science, or true religion? They will remain pitiable, remain poor. They will remain slaves. No revolution can ever occur in their lives. And they are still doing the same—“Ganapati Bappa Morya!” Even now they fashion Ganapati from clay. And what a racket they make, what commotion—and think they are doing some great religious act!

These are displays of our foolishness. These stories indicate that we have been stupid for centuries. It isn’t a modern stupidity—it’s very old, very ancient. Its roots run very deep. And if you want to cut it, there will be pain. That is why there is so much resistance toward me—because I am not willing to accept any stupidity, even if it is written in the most important scripture, whether it is the Ganesh Vyutpatti Upanishad, the Ganapatya Tantra, or Ganesh Siddhi. It makes no difference. I have no trust in pointless things, and I cannot offer them support.

And then, Lord Shiva. On the one hand you say he is trikālajña, the knower of all three times, sarvāntaryāmi, the indwelling one, omniscient. And even he, when Ganesha stopped him, became suspicious! Then say one of the two. Suspicion is a very petty state of mind. A person plagued by suspicion we don’t even consider religious—let alone God. From the religious one we expect trust, and your God is suspicious! And you say God is omnipresent, the knower of all time, the knower of all. How would he be suspicious? And if he is suspicious, then he is not omniscient. What was there to doubt? He should have known that Parvati had taken dirt from her body, made a figure of it, and breathed life into it. What need was there to kill Ganesha? The very suspicion shows that your gods and goddesses are not much different from your people—same jealousy, same doubt; the same husband‑wife squabble.

All husbands suspect their wives. Of course—because there is no love, there is suspicion. And all wives suspect their husbands—because there is no love, there is fear, there is anxiety. If the husband is a little late from the office, the wife’s suspicion starts right away—who knows which woman he has gone with, who knows what he is doing, who knows where he is! She starts calling, arranging, trying to find out. And if the husband is a little late, on the way home he has to make preparations: what answer will I give?—because the questions will be ready; the moment the door opens the wife will pounce: “Where were you so late?”

Seth Chandulal—one day he was late, and just yesterday he had promised his wife, sworn an oath, that he would never be late again. But he sat with friends gossiping, started a game of cards, and simply forgot. It was past midnight. When he came near home, he came to his senses. Even a drunk husband sobers up when he reaches home. There is no need to give him lemon or curd; just stand the wife in front of him—or even her photo—and the intoxication disappears in a flash. As soon as he reached home it struck him: “Oh no, I’ve slipped again—now what? Now there will be trouble—past midnight.” So, shoes in hand, he climbed in through the window, entered quietly like a thief. Husbands all enter like thieves—tail between their legs, like a drenched cat! Outside, they strut with chests puffed out; at home, you see their real state.

The wife was sleeping, snoring. He thought, I should devise a trick. He did. He went to Pappu’s cradle and began to rock it. After a bit, the cradle’s creaking woke the wife. “What are you doing?” she asked. He got annoyed: “Pappu’s mother, Pappu’s been crying for an hour and you’re snoring away. I had to get up and rock him myself.”

Chandulal’s wife said, “Pappu’s father, Pappu is sleeping beside me. The cradle is empty. Where were you till midnight?”

Such excuses won’t do.

Trapped. Husband and wife keep watch on each other—think of them as enemies, each on the other’s tail, “protecting” each other from straying. The husband won’t let the wife wander, and the wife won’t let the husband wander. A grand project is going on of “improving” one another. No difference, then.

And it is true: if you look into your scriptures, your gods and goddesses are no different from ordinary people—the same jealousy, the same enmity, the same envy, the same anger, the same violence. Your rishis and seers don’t seem very different from you either. Otherwise you couldn’t call Durvasa a rishi—he had the same rage, the same fire burning in him that burns in you. At the slightest thing he would hurl a curse. What kind of godliness is that? And Shiva—you call him Mahadeva, the Great God, god of gods! Not a minor deity—the deity of deities! And even he grew suspicious.

And once suspicious, he didn’t even inquire. He just cut off the head. He could at least have asked a question or two, found out. But he cut off the head. What a violent disposition.

The real wonder is that you still worship such deities—even in the twentieth century. Even now your foreheads bow in the wrong places.

Then Parvati lamented. What sort of gods are these? On the one hand they preach that the soul is immortal, no one ever dies—and on the other Parvati is wailing! And after spending a lifetime with Mahadeva, she still didn’t gain understanding—so do you think by banging your head before Mahadeva’s image you’ll gain understanding? Now she is lamenting. And what is there to lament? If she had breathed life into a clay figure, she could have taken a bath again after two or four months—what was the big deal? It was only dirt from her body—why all the crying? Or she could have taken dirt from Shiva’s body and made a figure of that. If Parvati knew how to breathe life into a figure, how is it she didn’t know how to attach Ganesha’s head?

See the contradictions—and then you’ll recognize what childish stories you’ve got entangled in! And then Parvati’s lament brought him to his senses—just as every wife’s lament brings the husband to heel. Wives have only one trick left: cry, cry loudly enough for the neighborhood to hear. Then the husband says, “Quiet, woman—I’ll buy you a sari, I’ll get you a radio, I’ll bring a fridge—tell me what you want. But not so loud—what will the neighbors say? Save my honor. Don’t pour water on my reputation.”

So it must have become a matter of honor. He sent his disciples to fetch a head, and they killed a newborn elephant and brought its head. The disciples were like the master—hashish smokers. Shiva says, “Dam maro dam!”—puff after puff! Shiva is the god of the bhang and ganja crowd, of stoners. What would his disciples be? Sitting around on ganja and bhang. After all, disciples are like the guru. Shiva was the great hippie—understand it that way. These hippies are new; they’re nothing much. The original hippie was Shiva. They merely revived Shiva’s religion.

And you’ve heard the tale of his wedding procession—what a collection of characters turned up! Parvati’s father was terrified. He had come out to welcome them; when he saw the wedding party—hashish smokers, ganja drinkers—one puffing away, another with a bottle in hand—crooked, twisted people, all kinds of Ashtavakras—he was aghast: “What have I gotten into? Into whose hands is my daughter falling? What crowd is this!” They had handpicked them. From among them he must have told some disciple: “Go, bring a head.”

And this is funny too—if a head was cut, it must be lying right there. Did it ascend straight to heaven? What need was there to send anyone? But he himself must have been high; he couldn’t see the head lying before him. He sent disciples to fetch a head. They killed a newborn elephant and brought its head. It’s clear—only stoners could do this. There is some difference between an elephant’s head and a human head. But to the intoxicated, what difference! In a haze everything looks like something else. And Shiva attached that head. He too didn’t see whose head it was—as if a game of blind men were underway! And he was revived.

Perhaps such tales were tolerable in the time when humanity was entirely childish, when people had no awareness. But in this twentieth century, to see the worship of Ganesh is astonishing; to see temples to Shiva being built is astonishing. To see the devotees of Shiva and Ganesha is bewildering. What madness! What derangement!

And the story says that was the Shveta Kalpa, the age of light—Satyuga, the golden age! And now this is Kaliyuga, the dark age, the age of inertia. People have become tamasic. The truth is the reverse. That must have been a dark age, when such stupidities paraded in the name of religion and people believed them. Today, for the first time, humanity has begun to grow a little mature—a little. This maturity holds great possibilities. With it, the old religion will go. With this flood of maturity, this flood of light, all the junk will be washed away. A new beginning to human life can happen.

Through my sannyasins I am taking the very first step toward that beginning. This is the first ray of that sun. Humanity needs a new vision of life, a new understanding of religion, a new consciousness, new stories, new meanings, new scriptures, new awakening. Until that happens, there is no hope. The only hope is that it can happen. That hope depends on you.

That’s all for today.