Jyun Tha Tyun Thaharaya #4

Rajnikant! Humanity has lived in contradiction up to now. If you understand this contradiction rightly, you can be free of it.

The contradiction is that those who tell you “Speak the truth” are not themselves speaking the truth. Their life says one thing, their words say another. Their personality is split by hypocrisy. And children’s eyes are very clear; their vision is fresh. Naturally so. Children very quickly see: they say one thing—do another!

Children are told, “Have faith in God.” On the one hand they say, “Do not deviate from truth.” On the other hand they say, “Believe.” But belief itself means untruth. God has not been known—and yet you must believe! That becomes the very basis of falsehood, the source from which many lies are born.

Which parents tell their children, “Know God—then accept”? Every parent says, “Accept—then you will know.” And acceptance, belief, means taking as true what you have not known, taking as seen what you have not seen, taking as realized what has not been realized.

A blind man “believes” in light—he does not know it. One who has eyes knows; he has no need to believe.

Instead of eyes, belief is given. And alongside runs the instruction: “Follow truth. Truth is the divine.” The same people say “Have faith in God,” and faith means falsehood.

Shraddha (reverence) arises from experience. Belief is a device to hide ignorance. Belief is cheap, borrowed, stale. The earth is full of congregations of believers. Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jain—believers all, blind all. None has seen. None has known.

Those who instruct you have not seen either; they have not known; they too lie. But they speak as if they have known. They speak with a force as if it were their self-realization. They speak without hesitation!

A father tells his son, “Speak the truth.” But the son sees the father lives a lie! Sometimes that same son is sent to the door to tell a visitor, “Father is not at home.” The boy wonders, “What is the matter? Should I speak the truth or obey my father?”

He is also taught, “Be obedient.” And also taught, “Speak the truth.” But sometimes command and truth can stand opposed. What then? Sometimes a command may be such that to obey it is to lie, to betray truth. And if you speak truth, obedience is broken. A dilemma is created.

You are tangling the child, not untangling him. You say, “Do not be violent.” But the child sees—your life is nothing but violence! Your hardness cannot be hidden. Granted you strain water before drinking—straining water harms nothing; in fact it is healthy: turmeric is not used, no alum is added, yet the color comes out pure! You strain water and drink—and you drink blood unstrained!

Jains proclaim: “Ahimsa paramo dharmah—nonviolence is the supreme religion.” And yet the kind of exploitation Jains can practice, no one else can. Have you seen a Jain beggar? You have seen beggars of all kinds—Hindu, Muslim. But have you seen a Jain beggar? A “Jain beggar” does not exist.

How many Jains are there in India? Only three and a half million. In seven hundred million they are just a drop in the ocean. Yet Jains are conspicuous—because there is wealth. Where does the wealth come from? How does it come? Jains don’t produce anything. They live off interest. They strain the water and drink; and drink the blood without straining! The son sees this....

You know the story of Nachiketa. The Katha Upanishad begins with it. An old father performs a sacrifice and makes donations. Little Nachiketa sits beside him. The old man is rich, a king, and what is he donating? Cows that have stopped giving milk! He is donating those cows. The son sees the deception. What sort of charity is this? A gift that is a noose for the receiver!

He asks his father, “What are you doing? These cows no longer give milk—what merit is there in donating them?”

The father flares up. Fathers never tolerate the child’s clarity. The boy’s clear eyes can see what is happening. The father shouts, “Don’t talk nonsense, or I will donate you too!”

Straight as he is, the boy keeps asking, “When will you donate me? The ritual is ending—when will you donate me? And to whom?” In anger the father blurts, “I donate you to Death!”

This angry man—this is the one doing charity, performing sacrifice! His hired priests sing his praise: “Great donor! Blessed benefactor!”

The boy sees—what kind of charity is this? It is beyond his understanding—because he still has eyes that see. What elders cannot see, children can.

The father’s rage—so great he says to his son, “I will give you to Death.”

There is a famous story: a very cunning man told an emperor, “You have everything—wealth, all that is beautiful on earth. Only one thing is missing. If you wish, I can provide it.”

The emperor was eager. “What is missing?” He was always obsessed that nothing should be lacking. Who isn’t? And he was a world conqueror, with treasuries brimming with jewels. To be told something was missing hurt his pride. “Speak! Whatever the price, I will pay.”

“The price will be great,” the man said.

“Don’t worry about price. Tell me: what is it?”

“A king of your stature should not wear ordinary clothes, like commoners. I can bring garments from heaven—divine clothes fit for you.”

The emperor suspected a trick—he was no simpleton. “Heavenly clothes?”

“You think it’s not true,” the man said. “I can show you. But the expense is huge!”

“Expense is no matter. But if you try to cheat me, I’ll have your head. Go to the palace next door; stay there. How much?”

“Much—there, too, bribes must be given, from the gatekeepers upwards. It will cost crores. If we start speaking of expenses, let’s drop the whole idea. Don’t even ask. Whatever I ask, you will have to give.”

“Agreed. But don’t run. You’ll have to remain in that palace.” Guards were posted so he couldn’t escape. Every day the man demanded crores. Who knows what he did with the doors bolted. The emperor thought, “Where can he go! And how can he carry the wealth!”

After fifteen days he sent word: “I have brought the garments.” Court assembled. He came with a beautiful chest. “There is one condition,” he said. “These are no ordinary clothes—divine. They will be visible only to those who are born of their own father!”

“What difficulty is that?” said the emperor. “I accept.”

He opened the chest. The emperor could see nothing; it was empty—how could he see? “Your turban, Majesty—and take this heavenly turban.” Empty hands! Now if the emperor said, “I see nothing,” it would prove he was not born of his own father! He was stunned. Courtiers instantly began to praise, “Ah! What a turban! A mesh of rays! Studded with moon and stars! Never seen such splendor!”

Everyone could “see” it! The emperor thought, “If I alone don’t see it, it’s obvious I wasn’t born of my father!” So he had to “see” it. He handed over his real turban; the cheat put it in the chest. He placed the nonexistent turban on the emperor’s head: “Majesty, words fail to describe your glory!”

Thunderous applause—courtiers competed with one another in praise. None could see the turban, and whoever wavered would be exposed. So the clapping grew louder, and each vied to outdo the rest. Anyone who kept quiet would arouse suspicion: “Why is he silent?” Each felt inside, “It’s only me who cannot see!” Best to remain quiet; why tarnish one’s reputation! Why defame one’s dead father! One’s mother! One’s status will be ruined, one’s place in court lost.

Then the shirt came off, the vest came off, the dhoti came off. The emperor stood in his loincloth—what praises were sung of the garments! When the man said, “Majesty, please hand over the loincloth as well!” the emperor became very nervous, he began to sweat. But what could he do! He had to give it.

The man locked everything in the chest and said, “A gift please. And the gods said this is the first time such garments are coming to earth—unprecedented, never to be repeated. A procession must be held!”

Crowds gathered. The cheat beat the drum: “These garments will be visible only to those born of their own father.” Surely everyone is born of his father—so everyone “saw” the clothes. What applause! And all saw the emperor utterly naked. It was winter; he shivered, his teeth chattered—and yet the triumphal procession went on.

All praised. Only a small boy, sitting on his father’s shoulder, said, “Daddy! The emperor is completely naked!” His father hissed, “Shut up, you wretch! Be quiet!”

But the boy said, “How can I be quiet? What surprises me more is that everyone is praising the clothes. I don’t see any clothes. Do you?” The father replied, “Yes, of course! Beautiful clothes. You will also see them when you grow up. Right now you are a fool; that’s why you don’t see.”

Only a child said in that whole crowd: “The emperor is naked.” Children have eyes—because they have not yet learned deceit, politics, trickery, the arithmetic of life. The arithmetic of life is the arithmetic of deception.

I walk by, wary of stars at night;
I walk by, wary of sympathizers;
It was my props that deceived me—
Now I walk wary of props.

Those who instruct you, those you lean on—be a little careful! A little alert! The confusion is in the instruction itself. They are themselves hypocrites and are dragging you into hypocrisy.

Yes, you have been told, “Speak the truth.” Why? Why speak the truth? So that you may attain heaven; so that you may earn merit! Even truth is made into a means, a tool for profit. Truth is not an end—only a means. And when truth is a means, trouble begins.

One will speak truth only so long as it is profitable. When loss looms, what then? If you have been speaking truth for gain, and now lie brings gain—what will you do?

The same parents, teachers, gurus, mahatmas always teach: keep your eyes on profit—worldly or otherworldly, no matter. Profit is only an extension of greed.

Do you think you will speak truth if speaking truth takes you to hell? No. You speak truth because it takes you to heaven. And what will you get in heaven? Apsaras—celestial nymphs: Urvashis, Menakas.

What a joke! Here you are told to flee women, because woman is the gate of hell; and in heaven you will get even more beautiful women! What a topsy-turvy arithmetic! Here you are told, renounce desires—and what is in heaven? Wish-fulfilling trees! Sit beneath them and your desire is instantly fulfilled. What dishonesty!

The Muslim heaven, the Hindu heaven, the Christian heaven—all are worth examining. They reveal not heaven but the repressed desires of your saints and mahatmas.

Kalpavriksha, the wish-tree, for Hindus! Here they practice austerity, stand on their heads, mortify the body. In the hope that sooner or later all desires will be fulfilled. Life is short; it will pass—even if hungry, naked, austere—still it will pass. And then for eternity, mind you—under the wish-tree, only delight! Whatever you wish will be fulfilled at once!

In the Muslim heaven rivers of wine flow. Here wine is forbidden; there wine flows in streams. Dive in! Swim! Drink and make drink! No expense. Here your sadhus and sannyasins avoid women; there what will they find? Golden-bodied houris, forever young, who never age, never perspire. The longing is overflowing.

What is “heaven”? The word “heaven” is like a blanket; look under it and see what is hidden. It’s a bundle—open it and only then will you understand. Don’t be tricked by the word.

In Muslim lands, because homosexuality was widespread, in their heaven there are not only beautiful girls but beautiful boys too—no only houris but ghilmans! What a wonder! Here one who indulges in homosexuality is condemned as perverse; and in heaven, what are the gods doing? Not only girls but boys too! No shame!

Ask the Christians—what is in their heaven? Examine all heavens and you will find exactly what your saints have suppressed here—they have inflated a thousand-fold there.

Hindus say, donate a rupee here and you will get it back a crore-fold in heaven. A cheap bargain—every businessman will love it. Which business gives such returns—invest one, get a crore? Only a lottery does. Heaven has become a lottery, and your mahatmas sell tickets.

They say “Speak truth,” but they have no love for truth. Ask them: have you seen hell? seen heaven? seen God? Leave God, heaven, hell—those are distant matters. Have you seen the soul? The one within you—have you known it? And they say, “Speak truth!” They preach the soul, speak of God, describe heavens and hells.

Temples hang maps of heaven and hell! Those who could not map the earth have mapped heaven and hell! Mapping heaven and hell is easy. Mapping earth took science. On earth, lies get caught. In heaven and hell you can say anything you like!

Jains have maps of heaven and hell. But there was no map of earth. Maps of earth needed science; then maps came. On earth’s maps lies don’t work—you’d be caught. In heaven and hell, fun and freedom—say what you like!

A little boy was absorbed, sprawled on the floor, papers and colors scattered. His father asked, “So absorbed—what are you doing?” “I’m painting God!” “Impossible! No one has ever painted God. How does one know what He looks like?” The boy said, “Wait. When my painting is finished, you will know. Let me finish; let me fill the colors—then you can see what God looks like!”

Anyone can paint God—and how will you dispute it? You don’t know the original, how will you verify the picture?

Jains say there are seven hells. Hindus are satisfied with one. Jains insist on seven. In Mahavira’s time there was a thinker named Sanjaya Belatthiputta. When told the Jains spoke of seven hells, he said, “False—there are seven hundred. How will you decide whether it is one, seven, or seven hundred?”

A Radhasoami follower asked me, “What do you think? Our gurus say heaven has fourteen regions. The last, the fourteenth, is the Sach Khand—the true realm. Only our guru has reached the fourteenth. Others were good: Krishna up to the seventh; Rama the sixth; Mahavira and Buddha the fifth; Mohammed and Jesus only up to the fourth.”

Only their guru, whose name nobody knows, has reached the fourteenth!

I said, “Your guru is exactly right: he is in the fourteenth.” He said, “Meaning?”

“There are fifteen. I am in the fifteenth. I see him hanging in the fourteenth. He keeps asking me how to come to the fifteenth.”

He flared up: “What are you saying? Nobody ever spoke of fifteen!”

“How could they? Only one who reaches the fifteenth can speak of it. Your guru spoke of fourteen when he reached fourteen. Poor Mahavira—how could he tell? If he was stuck at the fifth! Someone stuck at the sixth, someone at the seventh—ask Krishna about the fourteenth, how can he tell? At best the seventh. Now I reached the fifteenth, so I speak of the fifteenth. Your guru is stuck at the fourteenth—he keeps asking me how to come up!”

He was very angry. I said, “Think a little. You are trapped in childishness and you call this knowledge! And you teach children, ‘Speak truth, do good works.’”

Which work is “good”? On what criterion? Serving the “Holy Cow” is good? We have cow-devotees! Man cannot survive, but the cow must be saved! And cows rot in this country as nowhere else—while elsewhere cows are healthy, beautiful, give plentiful milk. Our cow-devotees—from Puri’s Shankaracharya to Gujarat’s Shambhu Maharaj—tireless cow-lovers. And our cows give half a seer of milk. In Sweden they give forty! And there are no cow-devotees. The cows are pleased with their sons but never with their devotees.

What can bhakti accomplish here? Yet in some eyes “a life of cow-service” is a great deed.

What is good? In this world there is nothing that isn’t considered good somewhere—and the same thing considered bad somewhere else.

Jains do not eat at night; it is a great sin. Muslims, during fasting, eat at night; that is a great virtue. They won’t eat by day, they fast—roza; at night they eat, breaking the fast. For Jains, eating at night is a great sin. Once the sun sets, matter finished—no food.

What do you call good? What is your yardstick? Do you have any human criterion?

Krishna says to Arjuna: “Kill to your heart’s content, the soul cannot be killed. Where are you fleeing?”

Arjuna is speaking like a Jain—under the influence of the time. Then the great Jain Tirthankara Neminath lived—Krishna’s cousin. It seems Neminath’s shadow fell on Arjuna too. Arjuna started speaking the language of wisdom: “I will not fight. Why kill? What will be gained by killing so many?”

And not a few killed—if you believe the texts, one and a quarter billion. Though that is impossible; so many people did not exist on earth. In Buddha’s time India had a total of twenty million. In Krishna’s time perhaps ten million in all India.

And think practically: how many can you stand on Kurukshetra’s field? Even a football match creates a problem if a hundred thousand come to watch. There one and a quarter billion were killed! To kill that many, at least ten billion must have fought—otherwise who killed them? Did they stab themselves? And elephants, horses—where to put them? Kurukshetra cannot contain that. Even if all India became a battlefield....

Even today India has only seven hundred million. It may reach a billion by century’s end. Even if all India were turned into a battlefield, perhaps one and a quarter billion could be killed—still a tight squeeze.

But suppose one and a quarter billion were killed—then Arjuna is right: to kill so many for a kingdom, for power and prestige? A few days of moonlight—and then the dark night! Why this uproar? And after killing them, what benefit? Only a kingdom! And death will come—and all will be taken away.

“And killing one’s own...” For it was a family quarrel. On both sides were one’s own. Brothers, cousins, in-laws. Disciples of one guru, Dronacharya—his disciples fought on one side, while Dronacharya fought on the other. Krishna stood on this side, his armies on that. Whom are you killing? What is the point?

But Krishna said, “Arjuna, do not speak ignorance. The soul is neither born nor dies. Na hanyate hanyamane sharire—the body dies, the soul does not. Nainam dahati pavakah—fire cannot burn it. Nainam chhindanti shastrani—no weapon can cut it. Why such ignorance? Kill to your heart’s content. There is no sin.”

Whom to believe? Mahavira says: place your foot carefully lest even an ant die. As to men—forget men—Mahavira is said not to turn even in his sleep lest in the dark some bug be crushed. Naked, sleeping on the ground—no cot or bed, all that is sin!

Beware: if you die on a cot you will go to hell. And most die on cots. A few fortunate die in planes or train or car accidents. Leave those few “fortunate” ones—what you call accidents. “Proper” deaths occur on cots. Ninety-nine percent die on cots. Beware of the cot!

I lived twenty years in Jabalpur. There a curse exists nowhere else: “I’ll set up your cot!” I was startled when I heard it. They said it means turning your cot into your bier—“setting it upright.”

People die on cots. It is a curse of death—“your cot will be set up.”

Mahavira never slept on a cot—wise man! One may die on it! Why the risk? Sleep on the ground. But on the ground there are ants, insects—and India breeds all sorts of creatures. That’s how the idea of 8.4 million species arose. No one else thought of it—only we did! What mosquitoes! What bedbugs! Even if you renounce the cot, the bugs won’t renounce you.

So Mahavira would not turn at night lest a bug be crushed. And naked Mahavira must have been tormented by bugs and mosquitoes—no doubt. Mahavira told his disciples: mosquitoes will disturb meditation—don’t worry; it’s a test. Mosquitoes have always been enemies of meditators!

I once heard a mosquito telling his kids, “If you behave today, in the morning I will take you to Buddha Hall for discourse! But only if you behave!”

Mosquitoes are old enemies. Mahavira said: mosquitoes will torture you; they will create obstacles in meditation. The ascetic pays them no attention; he remains in his meditation—let them bite; he won’t move a muscle.

And Mahavira must have been all the more tormented—Jains say that when a snake bit him, milk flowed instead of blood! Will mosquitoes leave milk? So cheap—without going to a dairy—just suck Mahavira and drink milk! They must have swelled with joy!

So Mahavira says: even turning in sleep—mindfully! Don’t turn at night—sleep in one posture. On the other side stands Krishna saying: kill to your heart’s content. Which is a good deed?

Jesus drank wine. Is drinking wine good or bad? Morarji-bhai drinks his own urine—is that good or bad?

Ramakrishna Paramhansa ate fish. Bengalis without fish? Hard! Fish and rice—without them a Bengali isn’t a Bengali. That’s why he is a bit feeble—“Bengali babu.” You can’t call a Punjabi “babu.” He is solid—he’ll take a stick to you if you call him “babu.” Babu has even become an honorific, though originally a British slur—“ba-boo”—“with stink,” because fish-eaters smelled of fish. Colonial history!

Ramakrishna ate fish. Was that good or bad? Vivekananda ate fish. Kashmiri Brahmins are non-vegetarian—hence Nehru too. What is “good”? What criterion? In the outer world there is none. There is only one criterion: meditation.

When you come to meditation, you know what is right for you and what is wrong for you. And what is right for you is not necessarily right for all; what is wrong for you is not necessarily wrong for all. What is nectar for you may be poison for someone else; what is poison for you may be medicine for another. This is an individual discernment; it cannot be a collective doctrine.

Yet every parent imposes his notion of “good deeds” on his children, Rajnikant. Whether the child does those deeds or not—he may not even like them—but one result is certain: he will become a hypocrite. Outwardly he will show he is doing good deeds; inwardly he will do what he wants. Thus he will grow a double face, a split life.

I once traveled with a Jain brahmachari—in a big Impala car. Before he sat, his disciple placed a mat on the seat, then the brahmachari sat on the mat. I asked, “What is this mat business? The upholstery is comfortable—why the mat?”

He said, “We sit only on mats. What have we to do with cushions!”

He sat on his mat—on the Impala’s cushion! I said, “Is your mat floating in the air? Is the Impala moving or your mat?”

He said, “What have we to do with that!”

I once spoke at an Anuvrat conference of Acharya Tulsi. There was a problem: twenty thousand people had gathered. They could all hear me; but when he spoke without a microphone, how many could hear—maybe a hundred or two. There was no effect. Next day a microphone appeared.

I asked, “Jain monks don’t use microphones; their scriptures don’t mention them—how could they, there were no mics. How are you using one?”

He said, “I’m not using it. I’m speaking. Someone put a mic there—what can I do?”

And for twenty years since, someone “puts” a mic there—every day! Poor Acharya Tulsi can’t help it. He’s only speaking. He neither asks for a mic nor forbids it!

What double lies! It was placed at his signal. Why wasn’t it there earlier? He saw his words had no effect; his ego was hurt. From that day the mic began to appear—at his hint, but through the back door.

I said, “Fine. If someone takes the mic away, then?” He said, “Meaning?” I said, “I will take it away tomorrow.”

From that day our tussle began. I didn’t even take it; I only said I would. But enmity arose in his mind.

Next day my discourse was canceled—because it was his conference. Not only canceled; those supposed to fetch me didn’t come on time. Obviously his instruction—because I had told him privately; no one else knew. How else was it canceled? How did no one come?

I said to him, “If someone serves you dung while you’re eating, will you eat it and say, ‘What can I do—he served it?’” He said, “What are you talking!”

I only asked: why not say plainly, “We will use the mic!” Use it—I have no objection. I say one should use it.

A Jain nun came to see me; she had cloth bandages on her feet. “What happened?” “It is hot; my feet have blisters.”

I said, “Wear cloth sandals. Why wrap in rags? Wear sandals.”

“Scriptures prohibit shoes!”

“Then wear sandals. Sandals didn’t exist then, so no prohibition exists. I can even find you a scriptural loophole—sandals aren’t mentioned. Wear sandals. Look, I wear sandals. I don’t wear shoes—that’s all. Shoes don’t suit me. You wear sandals.”

“And now there are plastic or rubber sandals. In those days only leather shoes were made; that’s why Mahavira said: don’t wear leather shoes—because leather means killing an animal. But now there is no such question. With plastic sandals no one dies. And these filthy bandages—because you walk the road in them; the whole foot is wrapped in cloth!”

She said, “That’s right. But my guru said I may bandage—he too bandages in summer.”

Naturally, Mahavira walked on mud paths; now there is cement, tar. In heat, tar melts; to make Jain monks and nuns walk on it is hell here and now. The tar melts; their feet burn. They won’t wear shoes—so they wrap in cloth.

But wrapping is a clumsy method. What is a shoe after all? A precise, scientific way of wrapping the foot. Thus such hypocrisy arises.

If you borrow your idea of “good” from others, Rajnikant, hypocrisy is the result. “Do not be violent”—they say. But you have no awareness, no self-knowing. Whatever you do will carry violence. How will you avoid it?

For Jains, even eating fruit is violence—there is life in the tree, in the fruit. Plucking fruit is violence—unless it drops of its own accord. And by then parrots, crows, animals will not leave it for you; they know even before it ripens. They won’t let it reach you.

When a fruit falls of itself, there is no violence. If you pluck, there is violence. Eat vegetables—violence. Hence Jains gave up agriculture; in farming you cut plants, trees—great violence! Yet you eat wheat. Someone else cuts it—but cuts it for you.

If you pay someone to murder, are you not a partner in the crime? Are you not even more responsible?

A gardener works in a garden for wages; a farmer tills for money. You are getting it done. Yet you relax: “I am not doing violence—someone else is. What have I to do with it! I stand apart.”

Violence occurs even in breathing. With one breath at least a hundred thousand microorganisms die. How will you avoid violence?

If self-knowing arises, whatever you do will carry love.

I don’t tell you to avoid violence; I cannot—life itself is violence. I only say: let your love grow deeper, then violence lessens. And if love becomes total, science now shows even trees do not suffer if felled with love. There are instruments now—just as an electrocardiogram registers heartbeats, sensitive instruments measure the sensitivity of trees.

When a tree is unhappy, the instrument registers a scream. When it is happy, another melody—like a song. A graph forms. If someone crudely hacks a tree, the instrument screams—the graph goes chaotic. But if you say with love, “Give me one fruit, please; I am hungry, be kind,” and pluck a fruit lovingly, there is no scream; the graph remains musical, harmonious.

And you will be amazed: when one tree is cut, nearby trees also become unhappy. Their sensitivity has been measured—they all suffer. Not only when a tree is cut; if you kill a bird, the trees suffer.

Mahavira was right—trees have life, as full as yours. He spoke from meditative experience. But what happened among Jains? They stopped farming. What should have happened is that they discovered a new, creative, loving way to farm.

At a Canadian university they planted two rows of identical plants—same soil, same water, same age. To one row the gardener gave love—patted them, talked: “Grow quickly, I am waiting; blossom.” The other row he ignored—same care, no love. The scientists were amazed: plants given love grew twice as tall; their flowers were larger, fragrance deeper, beauty richer. The unloved were stunted; smaller blooms, thinner scent, less radiance.

If I advise you, I won’t tell you to stop farming; I will teach you a new way—because someone must farm; you cannot live without food, not even Mahavira or a Jain. So find a loving way to farm. Mere negation won’t do. “Do not be violent” is negative; life needs the positive. The positive arises from meditation; negation is the product of thought.

You live by borrowed ideas. Someone teaches you second-hand, you borrow and begin to live it—no revolution happens in your life.

You are told, “Do not sin.” This is like telling a blind man, “Don’t bump into furniture.” He will bump—into walls, into furniture. He will probe with a stick, tapping all around, then he will move, else he will break his limbs. But to a man with eyes you don’t say, “Don’t bump.” He sees the door; he will go out.

Meditation opens the inner eye. Outer instruction is advice given to the blind.

“Do not sin.” You don’t even know what sin is. How will you know? You have no eyes. What is virtue? What is sin? Therefore the opposite happens.

In the name of merit you go on pilgrimages—bathe in Ganga, go to the Hajj. “A cat that ate a hundred mice goes on Hajj!” And returns a Haji—Haji Mastan! “Ram on the lips, a dagger in the armpit”—both together. Because you have no vision of your own.

And the strange thing is: when you lack your own vision, a peculiar phenomenon happens—you live hollow hypocrisy and think it is virtue, and you see sin in everyone else. Ego strengthens.

It is easy to see others’ mistakes; your own you cannot see—because to see your own needs awareness, meditation.

I have heard: an army general was inspecting his troops. All spick and span—this is most of a soldier’s work; real work is rare. Pressed uniforms, shining boots, oiled bayonets. The general was pleased—then he saw one soldier’s fly was open. He erupted: “You son of a dog! You idiot! Button your fly—right now, right here!”

The soldier, flustered, said, “Sir, right now, right here?”

“Right now, right here. Don’t ask!”

And the soldier buttoned the general’s fly. It was the general’s that was open! How would he know? Only when it was buttoned did he realize!

Life is strange: others’ faults are visible, your own are not. How could they be? To see your own requires the inner eye.

“Do not sin. Do not be violent. Do good deeds. Speak truth.”

You say, Rajnikant: “We sannyasins are trying to walk this very path; then why the opposition?”

Exactly because you are really walking it. No one wants you to truly walk it. Let your words be pious—go on with your dishonesty, and hang a signboard of honesty. Chant “Ram, Ram,” turn the rosary—and when opportunity strikes, don’t miss it. “Don’t miss, Chauhan!” Grab it. Then chant Ram again. Then drink Ganga water. What changes?

Life here teaches hypocrisy.

Those who tell you, “Do good, speak truth, don’t be violent, don’t sin”—the same also tell you: “Son, do something in the world; leave a name; at least become a prime minister, a president—become something!” They teach ambition. “Stand first in class; be in front; earn wealth, fame; leave footprints on the sands of time; have your name inscribed in golden letters in history; uphold the family honor!” These two things cannot go together. If you are ambitious, you will have to lie. An honest politician—impossible.

Mulla Nasruddin was passing a graveyard. On a tombstone: “Here lies an honest politician.” Mulla said, “How can two people be buried in one grave?”

An “honest” and a “politician”? If honest, there will be no grave for him at all. If dishonest, he can climb to the top—here the more cunning, more deceitful, more clever, the higher he rises. Say one thing, do another; so slippery that no one can tell whether he is coming or going.

Mulla had a politician friend. Mulla said, “I’m bothered—people come and sit for hours; they eat my head; they don’t go.”

The politician said, “There’s a trick. See what I do. Many more come to me. As soon as anyone comes, I spring up, put on my shoes, pick up my umbrella, don my cap. The man asks, ‘Are you coming or going?’ According to the person: if I want to get rid of him, I say, ‘I was just going out!’ If he is useful, I say, ‘Just came in—you arrived at the right moment!’”

See the cleverness! Umbrella, cap, shoes, standing at once—whoever comes will ask: “Are you coming or going?” With politicians, nothing is fixed—coming or going!

A mother told her son, “Man is dust—he comes from dust and goes to dust.” Next day the boy came rushing, “Mum, come quickly! Under the bed someone is either coming or going!” There was dust; the mother had said man comes from and goes to dust—so the boy concluded someone under his bed is either coming or going!

A politician walks so you cannot tell east from west, north from south—coming or going. Those who imagined a four-faced God were smart—politicians are like that: faces in all directions; you can’t know where he is headed. He watches what’s expedient and speaks and acts accordingly.

I know many politicians who keep a spinning wheel. They never spin—but if someone comes, quickly they begin! I was a guest in one politician’s home; after some days I asked, “How long can you go on cheating me? I live here; your wheel never turns—yet whenever visitors come, you begin threading!” He said, “Who is spinning! These idiots must be shown. Even the spinning thread breaks—I don’t know how to spin!”

Clever politicians keep tiny wheels—carry them on planes. They are useless wheels. They buy the finest khadi—Dhaka muslin; not self-spun. Where you see “Pure Khadi Store,” know impure khadi is sold—otherwise why write “pure”?

Where you see “Pure ghee sweets,” know they are not. When only pure was sold, no signboard existed. The language of “pure” begins when adulteration begins.

Those who teach you, Rajnikant, do not want you to truly speak the truth. They want you to pass this on to your children: “Speak the truth, my son. Do good deeds. Do not be violent. Do not sin.” And then go on doing exactly the opposite, otherwise you won’t get anywhere; you will become worth two pennies.

This was always my trouble with my teachers and my family. If they told me “Speak truth,” I spoke truth. Then they had to explain, “Not like that! You speak too much truth!” I said, “You told me to speak truth—so I did. You say tell the visitor ‘he is not at home’—I tell him he is home but told me to say he isn’t. Either say clearly: lie—or say clearly: speak truth. Or say: speak as per convenience. But be clear.”

Husband and wife quarrel—and as soon as a guest arrives they smile at each other: a happy marriage! Yet they are eating each other alive!

Chandulal went to a hotel and told the waiter, “Bring burnt bread; in the vegetable either add too much salt or none; soup like dishwater. And sit and chew my head.” The waiter was baffled. Chandulal said, “Do as I say—I am missing my wife. We’ve been apart three months. Sit and chew as much as you can.”

Happy marriages everywhere! All deception.

I have seen all kinds of couples—there is no “happiness.” That’s why every story ends with marriage; films end with Bismillah Khan’s shehnai, the sacred rounds, flower showers, the end! Because what follows is not nice to show. After that the couple lives “happily ever after.” What is there to say then? And children see what a marriage is—how will you hide from them? They see the mother after the father every waking hour; the father beating the mother, the mother beating the father—this goes on!

Chandulal went to a film with his son Jhummaan. Kissing is censored, but other things aren’t. A wife slaps her husband—a big delight. When the wife slapped, the husband stood frozen. Jhummaan said to his father, “Daddy, just like you!” Chandulal said, “Shut up! Don’t speak out of turn.”

At home the same goes on!

A salesman knocked. No one opened. Suddenly a man fell out the window. The salesman asked, “Brother, can you tell me—is the master of the house at home or not? You would know—you’re coming from inside.”

He said, “He is inside. It’s just been decided who is master. We are not—that much is sure. The master is inside.” That’s why in India the wife is called gharwali—owner of the house. The husband is not called gharwala. He buys the house; she becomes house-owner. Husbands get thrown out of windows!

I asked Mulla Nasruddin, “How are things at home—alright?” He said, “Perfect—fifty-fifty.” “Meaning?” “She throws things at me. If they hit me, she’s happy—fifty. If they miss, I’m happy—fifty. And just yesterday we settled the inside and outside: she manages the inside; I manage the outside. I live outside now—but peace is a great thing!”

What will such parents teach you! Their life is one thing, their words another. What will these teachers teach? These priests and pundits?

Humanity has lived in hypocrisy. And my sannyasin wants to live authentically—not scripturally authentic, but authentic to his own awareness. His discernment is personal, independent, not imposed by anyone. Therefore my sannyasin will be opposed; nothing surprising in it.

If you live authentically, a hypocritical society will oppose you, because you become a question mark to their hypocrisy.

I say: live according to the truth that arises within you. There is no need to live otherwise. No need to wear masks. If insult comes—so be it. Even if you must go to hell, be ready; don’t worry.

My experience is: one who lives authentically will transform even hell into heaven. And the hypocrite—even if he reaches heaven—will turn it into hell.

A Jewish rabbi died and went to heaven. He was astonished—only three people there. What were they doing? One was Morarji-bhai Desai, reading my book “From Sex to Superconsciousness”; the second was Ayatollah Khomeini, reading Playboy; the third, the Pope, reading Playgirl—old smuggled editions, because such magazines are not available in heaven! The rabbi said to God, “What is this! Only three—and what are they reading! Before I decide whether to settle here, I want to see hell.”

God said, “As you wish. Go see hell.”

He went for twenty-four hours and was stunned: no cauldrons of fire, no roasting, no beheadings, no crucifixion, no whips. Great silence and peace. Music. Krishna playing the flute, Mahavira meditating, Buddha in silence. People dancing, celebrating. He thought, “Amazing! Great bands!”

He returned: “What is this? Heaven is dull, dusty—and these three fossils! Who would do satsang with them! Hell is full of joy. At least buy a band for heaven.”

God growled, “Where is the money to buy a band for these three fossils!”

The rabbi said, “Forgive me—I’m going to hell.” God said, “Wait—I’m coming too. These three are eating my head!”

Where there is Buddha, there is heaven. Buddhas don’t go to heaven; wherever they go becomes heaven.

You’ve been told: enlightened ones go to heaven. I tell you: wherever the enlightened go, heaven flowers. And the unenlightened—wherever they go—even into heaven—turn it into hell. Man carries his heaven and hell within. Wherever hypocrites form a crowd, hell appears.

Don’t worry about insult. If it comes from living authentically, life has a fragrance, a juice, an ah-ha. Even if the neck is cut—Jesus’s was, yet prayer remained on his lips; Mansur’s was, yet a smile remained; Socrates’s was, and blessedness poured in all directions.

You cannot make an authentic man suffer—though you will try. One who is not divided within has already created heaven. Wholeness is heaven; division is hell. Hell and heaven are not geography; they are inner states.

I have one teaching: become whole; be natural; and live your naturalness totally. Don’t worry whether it fits any scripture—because whoever composed that scripture was a different sort of person; he composed according to himself. People are doing the opposite.

Some live according to Manu, some according to Mahavira, some according to Buddha, some according to Krishna. But remember: if Krishna’s clothes don’t fit you, what will you do—cut off your hands and feet?

There is a Jewish tale: a mad emperor had a bed of gold, studded with jewels. Any guest—rare, because word spread—he would lay on the bed. If the guest was longer than the bed, he had his hands and feet cut off to fit; if shorter, he had wrestlers stretch him—limbs torn—to fit the bed. Man must fit the bed; the bed is not for man. He spoke like a scriptural man—religious in quotes.

This is what all religions do—make you fit their scriptures. If you are a little longer, cut; a little shorter, stretch. Your life becomes a misery.

You have only to be according to yourself. Existence has made none other like you—you are unique. Understand this blessing. Existence never repeats. Each person is unique. That is why you cannot live according to any mould; if you try, you will suffer. Live by your own light.

Buddha’s last words were: Appo deepo bhava—be a light unto yourself. Don’t ask....

So I give no code of conduct. This is the greatest charge against me—that I don’t teach my sannyasins a code. How can I? I cannot give them my clothes—some will find them short, some long, some tight, some loose. I can only teach them how to light the inner lamp. Then they will cut their own clothes; make their own conduct; live by their own light.

I don’t give conduct—I give interiority. All your gurus have given you conduct, not interiority. They give you a rut: “Do this”—whether it suits you or not.

Scriptures are mostly written by old men. In those days old age was respected—still is in our country. If the old say it, it must be true. Often the old become very cunning—after a lifetime of experiences. Children are simple; old people become crafty. Scriptures written by the old are full of cunning, dishonesty, cleverness. And then, written in ages past—times have changed. If you live by them you will suffer.

The destination unknown, no guide, no fellow-traveler;
When only four steps remained, we forgot to lift our feet.

As long as you live borrowed lives, you will be in such trouble. Even if God stands before you, you won’t recognize him—because you carry a picture and he doesn’t match. This is the condition of even your most revered ones.

There is a story about Tulsidas. When taken to Krishna’s temple in Vrindavan, he refused to bow. “I bow only before Rama with bow and arrow. I cannot bow before anyone else. I know only Rama. Till he takes the bow in his hands, my head won’t bow.” He carried a picture—as if the bow had some great virtue! A flute is a greater symbol of love. Tulsidas seems blind. He is more like Surdas. Has he eyes? He won’t bow to the flute—but to the bow. He cannot recognize Krishna; he recognizes only Rama. Bound to one image.

Existence manifests in infinite forms. If you cling to one form, you will miss—again and again. “When only four steps remained, we forgot to lift our feet!” If you live on borrowed images, this happens; the goal stands before you, and you forget to move—because you never moved by yourself, you were pushed by crowds.

The destination unknown, no guide, no fellow-traveler;
When only four steps remained, we forgot to lift our feet.

Borrowed living is hypocrisy. Proclaim your own uniqueness. The divine is within you as much as within Krishna. From your within a Gita can arise—should arise. The source of the spring is within you too. The lamp of Buddhahood can be lit within you. You are as capable as Siddhartha Gautama. Your capacity is not less.

Existence does not send one with more, another with less. It gives equal possibility to all. It is up to us whether we actualize it or not.

One who tries to become somebody else, who imitates, will never be himself—and cannot become the other either. He remains in a muddle, a paradox; his life becomes a riddle, thorns everywhere—no flowers.

Think: if a rose wants to be jasmine, he will go mad. He will be neither a rose nor jasmine. A rose must be a rose; jasmine must be jasmine. Jasmine will be offered to the divine as jasmine; the rose as rose. The rose’s scripture does not apply to jasmine; jasmine’s injunction does not apply to rose.

Know your uniqueness.

Therefore, Rajnikant, my sannyasin will be opposed, because I speak something that is not traditional, that is free of tradition.

I teach you freedom—and no one is in favor of freedom. We have been slaves for centuries. First spiritually enslaved, then politically. Our political slavery was a logical consequence of our spiritual slavery. We are still spiritually enslaved; hence any day we can be politically enslaved again—no obstacle.

We have forgotten the very language of freedom. Priests and pundits have poisoned your life. I want you free of all that.

Life is short. Do at least this much: let meditation arise within you; let the flame be lit—everything else will follow. Whatever the difficulty, each difficulty will be a challenge, an opportunity for growth.

There will be opposition. There will be abuses, insults. But within you there will be peace, joy, celebration. Within you a meeting with the divine will go on.

If you want to meet the divine, don’t worry about society. And if you want to worry about society, then it is best not to speak of the divine at all.

Sant Maharaj! Do not hurry—it will happen. If you hurry, you may spoil it.

Your wish is lovely, because who would not want to share with their parents the bliss that has come to them? Naturally you would wish your mother and father to be drenched in this ecstasy too. They have come into this gathering; let them not go away empty-handed! They came on some pretext—on the pretext of meeting you—what does it matter? One always needs some pretext to come. They have come—that is much.

And your parents are straightforward people—simple people. But simplicity has a snag: it is tied to the past; it is tied to tradition. Simplicity is obedient.

So, by nature, they are cast in a certain mold. My color asks for a touch of rebellion, a little revolt. Sannyas is rebellion against society. It is not a rejection of society—it is revolt. It is not running away from society—it is living in society, but living with the color of revolution upon you.

Yet simplicity has a great advantage: if they have come here at all, my word will surely reach them; it will descend into their hearts. But you must not hurry. If you press, they will close. If you try to make it happen, you will create difficulty.

Never, even by mistake, try to make someone—my father, my mother, my wife, my husband, my son, my daughter—a sannyasin. Make no attempt. Your effort will feel like force. You may be acting out of love, you may want to share, your intention may be right, your feeling beautiful—but remember the other’s freedom.

My color cannot be imposed by force. Do not repeat that old mistake.

They will understand. In fact, they have already begun to.

As age advances, two things happen. First, change becomes difficult, because one feels, “I have lived so long in one way—how can I change now?” Habits have grown strong.

But there is also a benefit: death draws nearer. Death begins to knock at the door. Then another question begins to arise: “All my life I lived this way, yes—but what did I really gain? What have I in my hand? And death keeps coming closer. Now is no time to delay. There is no time left to waste. It cannot be put off till tomorrow. Who knows whether there will be a tomorrow? In a single moment death arrives; in a single moment everything changes.”

They were hurried into the grave—no prayer, no farewell;
In such a little while, what happened to the world!

In a moment, those who were “ours” are no longer ours. They become strangers. In a moment life evaporates.

They were hurried into the grave—no prayer, no farewell;
No one even says salam, no one offers a blessing. Not even a goodbye! People are in a hurry. The man dies and the concern is, how to be rid of this corpse now! The bird has flown; only the cage remains. What is there to bless or salute in a cage?

They were hurried into the grave—no prayer, no farewell;
In such a little while, what happened to the world!

We are the very ones who once were weighed in flowers day and night;
Now our tomb longs in vain for even four flowers.

So as death comes closer, there is a blessing in it: death starts to wake you up. Death asks, “Did you earn, or did you lose? Are you ready to set out on that infinite journey, or were you entangled in trifles? Were you living on self-deceptions?”

Your parents, Sant, are growing old now. So in one sense change will be hard—old habits. But death will knock at the door now; therefore change may also become easy. It depends on what they give their attention to. If they keep their eyes fixed only on old habits, they will go on denying death. But the parents into whose home a son like you has been born—they will look ahead.

I love Sant—hence I call him “Sant Maharaj.” Such a man is not a saint—just all this-and-that! Still I call him “Sant Maharaj” out of love. He is simple, very simple—guileless, like a small child. Where such a simple flower blooms, there is every possibility of revolution in the lives of his parents too.

How much life has slipped behind,
Unwittingly left in the past;
Now only a few drops remain
In the measure of our breaths.

The proud edifice of passions
Is now the weary ruin of breath;
Why do we sit so utterly alone
In this desolate wilderness?

What shapes relationships have taken,
What colors they have worn;
Now one can scarcely tell the difference
Between our own and strangers.

We came into this world and heard
A strange rule proclaimed:
Those who speak with wisdom
Belong in the madhouse.

Here, we speak of reason. Here, we do not talk of ordinary life; we talk of the Supreme Life. A simple-hearted person can dare, can be courageous, can leap. It all depends on whether the eyes are not kept glued to old habits. What is gone is gone.

How much life has slipped behind,
Unwittingly left in the past—

Mistakes were made—so be it. What is gone—let it be gone. And if a man who went astray in the morning returns home by evening, he is not called astray.

Now only a few drops remain
In the measure of our breaths.

When only a few drops are left in the measure of breath, if one can really see death, if the thought of death dawns, revolution happens. But you must not hurry. Your haste can become a hindrance. They have come—let them share your joy. Invite them into the dance that is happening here. Let them drink the wine that is being poured here. Then it will happen by itself.

The color will take. They will not leave here the same as they came. Whether they drown this time or the next—leave that to them. Do not pull, not even a little. These matters are delicate.

Relationships are very fragile things. If a husband tries to make his wife a sannyasin, she stiffens—her ego is hurt. If a wife tries to make her husband a sannyasin, he stiffens—his ego is hurt. And if a son tries to make his father and mother sannyasins, an even greater obstacle arises; for to parents—no matter how old you are, how wise you are, how deep your meditation—you are still a child. Their ego is hurt deeply: “My son wants to run me in his fashion? Never!” Great obstacles arise.

There is a sannyasin here from America, Shunyo. She is about seventy. Her mother is ninety, still alive. I have seen her mother’s letters—and I was amazed. A seventy-year-old daughter! The daughter herself has grown old—Shunyo. She came here and took sannyas, and then she forgot America completely—drowned here wholly.

Her mother writes to her: “You fool, you still have no sense! You remained a child!” A mother writes this to a seventy-year-old daughter: “You remained a child. Come home. What tangles have you fallen into? What circle have you become caught in? Under whose spell have you come?”

Even a seventy-year-old daughter seems a daughter to a ninety-year-old mother, because the gap of twenty years between mother and daughter remains twenty. When Shunyo was five, the gap was twenty; now she is seventy, the gap is still twenty. In the eyes of parents, children never become grown-ups.

I traveled for twenty years. Perhaps no one in this country traveled as much as I did. At least twenty-four days a month I was on the move—in a car, in a plane, in a train—always moving.

But whenever I went to my village, my grandmother would always tell me two things, for she was always worried about two things, and she would remind me:

First: never board a moving train!
I would tell her, “Why would I board a moving train?”
She would say, “No—never get on a moving train. Nor get off a moving train. You might fall, something might happen! And what is this craze of yours—always wandering! Now settle down, sit in one place.”

And the second thing: never argue with anyone!
She was always worried about that. She knew me from childhood—how I would get into arguments with anyone. A guest came to the house—I would argue. A priest came for some ritual—I would argue. In school I would argue with the teachers. Complaints upon complaints! Whoever came to the neighborhood, came only to complain!

So she was always anxious: “Look, in the train, do not argue with strangers for no reason! What have you to do with the world? Let it go to blazes, if it wants. Don’t start any useless quarrel!”

She kept giving me those two commandments—till her last days. In her eyes, naturally, I remained a child. And that is natural; there is nothing unnatural in it.

So give your parents ease here. Bring them into meditation. Gently leave them there—and step aside. If you stand there, they will not even meditate: “The son is watching—how can we dance? The son is watching—how can we sing? What will he say—that our parents, what has happened to them! They too have begun this! They too have gone mad! This one has already gone mad!”

Leave them in meditation and withdraw—absolutely withdraw—so they can join freely, simply, unselfconsciously.