Jyun Tha Tyun Thaharaya #7

Anand Maitreya! Certainly, it is so. “Fool” means asleep, without awareness—living, but not knowing why. He walks, gets up, sits down—mechanically. How a life passes by, when birth turns into death, when day fades into night—nothing is really noticed. One so unconscious cannot be aware of suffering. Where can the sense of suffering exist in unconsciousness? He endures suffering, but has no awareness of it; therefore he believes, “I am happy.”

Almost everyone lives under this illusion that all is well. Ask anyone, “How are you?” and he will say, “I’m fine.” And nothing is fine. Everything is out of joint. Ask and he says, “All is great! Bliss! God’s immense grace!” Perhaps he has no sense of what he is saying. Neither the one who speaks is inclined to think, nor the one who listens is inclined to hear. The speaker speaks; the listener listens. The speaker has no real purpose in speaking; the listener has no concern for what is being said. In such unconsciousness there is the illusion of happiness. Animals live in such unconsciousness—and ninety-nine percent of humans, too.

“Pashu” is a very sweet word. It means one bound by paash—fetters. It does not merely mean “animal”; it has a very scientific sense: bound, tied by the fetters of attachment, gripped by the bonds of stupor, caught in clinging, lost in dreams.

You will not have seen animals sorrowing, weeping, tormented. That is why there are no Buddhas among animals. If there is no sense of pain, where does the question of freedom from pain arise? The question simply doesn’t arise.

Among humans, once in a while someone attains Buddhahood—rarely. You can count such people on your fingers: among millions, someone. Who attains Buddhahood? The one to whom life’s pain appears plainly, to whom so much awareness dawns that life is nothing but suffering. There is hope for happiness—but where is it found? We run to attain it—but who arrives? The hands remain empty.

Wealth accumulates, high office is attained—but the inner emptiness does not fill, it simply does not fill. The inner lamp does not light, it simply does not light. How will it be lit by wealth? How will a post bring inner light? There is no connection. Wealth is outside; within is poverty. How will inner poverty be dispelled by outer wealth? Whether you live in a palace or a hut, you will still be you. If you are miserable in a hut, you will be miserable in a palace. If you sleep in a hut, you will sleep in a palace. Yet the one in the hut thinks, “I am happy.” The beggar on the roadside—lame, maimed, blind, deaf, rotting with leprosy, hands and feet falling off piece by piece—he too goes on living! In what hope? In what illusion?

“Tomorrow all will be well.” Does tomorrow ever come? What never comes is what we call tomorrow. Ask even a beggar, “Why are you living?” and he will be offended. You will see no reason to live, but the urge to live is such that man just goes on living under all conditions.

In times of severe famine, mothers cut up and ate their children! Fathers sold their daughters. All bonds broke; all relationships dissolved. The craving to keep one’s own life is so intense that a man can do anything! For which he was living, that very one he can kill. In such a state nothing is clear. Pierced by thorns, he lies there—dreaming of flowers!

This verse is right: “Those who are extremely foolish in the world are happy.” Happy because their foolishness is so dense they do not even know they are foolish. The one who comes to know his foolishness is no longer a fool.

Just yesterday I saw a statement by Shri Morarji Desai. In a press conference he was asked, “Acharya Rajneesh is coming to Kutch—will you oppose it or not? Why don’t you lead the protest so that he is not allowed to enter Kutch?”

He said, “The people of Kutch will oppose him. Only fools, the foolish, support Acharya Rajneesh.”

When I read it, I thought: either Morarji Desai should retract his statement, or he should support me. He should do one of the two. If his statement is correct, then he should support me, because he himself is supreme in foolishness! The post of prime minister comes and goes—now it’s former; now he’s a “former.” But foolishness is one’s own property; there seems no possibility of ever becoming “former” in that. Yet the supreme foolishness is to think others are fools and to have no inkling of one’s own.

He says one foolish thing after another every day—and has no idea what he is saying!

The people of Kutch have no quarrel with me. If there is opposition, it is from Morarji Desai and the politicians who lost with him—a few, a handful. The people of Kutch are ready to welcome me. Every day, people come here from Kutch.

Just the day before yesterday, a delegation of eight from Mandvi came with this request: “Those few companions of Morarji Desai in Kutch who are making noise—do not be misled by that illusion even a little. We are waiting with eyes spread out for your welcome.”

The people of Kutch have no opposition. If there is opposition, it is from a few “turtles”—whose skins are so thick that nothing penetrates!

The fool feels himself happy because he has no awareness of pain. That is why, before operating on someone, we first make him unconscious. Once unconscious, he has no sense of pain. Then you can cut off his hand, his leg, remove his appendix—do what you will, he will not know. Try removing someone’s appendix while he is conscious—it will not be easy. He will grab the doctor by the throat—ready to fight, ready to die or kill—“What are you doing—cutting my belly! My life is going!” He will try to run away. So first we render him unconscious.

This is the very process of death. Before dying, the majority of people become unconscious—moments before—because death is the greatest operation of all. The soul will be separated from the body. What is an appendix! What can be more painful than the soul separating from the body? For seventy, eighty, ninety years the two have been together, joined, merged, identified. That identification has to be torn asunder. So nature renders one unconscious—except for a few Buddhas. They cannot be made unconscious. They live awake, they sleep awake, they die awake. Therefore they do not die. Awake, they watch: the body is dying, I am not dying. They keep smiling. They watch the body being left behind. “But I am not the body. The mind departs, but I am not the mind.” In truth, they became free of body and mind long before. Before death arrived, they had already died to the false. Before that, they had known the eternal life.

When Buddha died, his disciples began to weep. Buddha said, “Be silent, you simpletons! I died long ago. I died that night forty-two years ago, the night when Buddhahood happened. Why weep now—after forty-two years? Nothing new is happening today. This event already happened—the full-moon night forty-two years back—when I saw I am not the body, not the mind. The matter ended then. Death happened that very day. Do not weep. There is nothing to weep about. That which is, will remain. That which is not, is not. If it goes, let it go. Dreams break—truths do not break.”

So the one who has attained supreme knowledge is also happy. Buddha called it “mahasukha”—great bliss, to make the distinction clear.

The ignorant person is “happy.” Money comes, a lottery is won—he is happy. He gains position—he is happy. He gets enchanted with toys—mud toys! One illusion has not yet broken before he is entangled in another. He goes on constructing new illusions. He is busy in his tangles—this to do, that to do—a mad scramble! In such entanglement and busyness he never notices when life came and when it went, when it was morning and when evening, when the sun rose and when it set.

Childhood passes with toys; youth too passes with toys. The toys change. Children’s toys are small by nature; the young have slightly bigger toys. The wonder is that old age also passes with toys! At least by old age one should awaken. Before dying, one should wake up. Before dying, one should be free of all the useless nets and entanglements. Before dying, one should recognize what life is. Whoever does—he attains the great bliss.

This verse is precious. It says:
yas ca mūḍhatamo loke yas ca buddheḥ paraṁ gataḥ.
Those who are foolish are also “happy,” in a negative sense—because they do not know suffering. And those who are Buddhas, who have attained the ultimate, they too are happy—in a creative, positive sense. They know what happiness is. They are supremely happy. Understand the distinction. Their “happiness” is altogether different.

The fool’s “happiness” is like that of an unconscious man being operated on—he does not know.

In 1908 the Maharaja of Kashi underwent an operation—an appendectomy. But the Maharaja refused chloroform. He said there was no need for it. “I know I am not the body. Do the operation.”

The English doctors were in great difficulty. The operation had to be done immediately, else death could result; the appendix might burst—an acute situation. There was no time to wait. They could not force the Maharaja either. He insisted there was no need to be anesthetized. “I will remain in meditation; you go ahead.”

This had never happened before. The doctors, with great reluctance, tried to persuade him. There wasn’t time. Finally they said, “All right.” They made a small incision to see what would happen. The Maharaja sat with eyes closed, blissful. Tears of joy flowed from his eyes. They removed the appendix as well—still the tears of bliss kept flowing. A radiance on his face—as if he had not even taken note of anything.

For the first time in human history an appendix was removed without anesthesia. The surgeons were astonished; they could not believe their eyes—such a major operation, and the person did not even move! They asked the Maharaja, “What is the secret?”

He said, “There is no secret—only this: I know I am not the body. I am the witness. I remained in witnessing. I watched the appendix being removed, the abdomen being opened, the instruments at work. I was the seer. The body is separate. I watched as one would watch surgery being performed on someone else’s body. I am not the body; the body is other.”

For the one who has attained knowledge, there is no suffering, because suffering belongs only to body and mind; the soul never suffers. The nature of the soul is bliss.

We have identified ourselves with the body—therefore we suffer. We have tied ourselves to the mind—therefore we suffer. Mind means maya, illusion; mind means attachment; mind means the whole world, this entire expanse. One who knows himself as separate from mind and body attains supreme Buddhahood. There, there is no suffering—there is great bliss, ultimate peace, only joy—only nectar!

And it is also true that the one who is in between these two is miserable. The fool—he doesn’t know; he is unconscious. The enlightened one—he knows; he is perfectly aware. The one in the middle suffers. He is in a great tangle: neither here nor there, neither of home nor of the ghat—the washerman’s donkey! This way the body pulls; that way the soul calls. The outer world attracts; the inner realm invites. Here wealth pulls; there meditation calls. A tug-of-war—someone pulls the leg, someone the hand!

There is a little awareness, but dim— not enough to see great bliss; yet enough to see suffering. Not enough light to dispel the dark; but enough to see the darkness. Like early dawn, when the sun has not yet risen, the last stars have not yet set—some faint light, and deep darkness—together. The one in the middle is in twilight. It is a great irony: neither here nor there. He hangs like Trishanku—neither of this world nor the other.

Some people come to this state—especially those in whose lives a little religiosity has dawned, a note of prayer has been heard, a spark of revolution has fallen. They become very miserable—and will remain so until they attain the Supreme Truth.

Buddha became deeply miserable—only then did he leave the palace. And the very events that made him miserable are those you see daily—yet nothing happens to you! Four events are mentioned.

When Buddha was born, astrologers said to the king, “We speak with great hesitation: your son’s future is very uncertain. Either he will be a chakravarti, a universal emperor, if he remains in the world; he will be a conqueror of the whole world. But we cannot say for sure. There is another possibility: he may renounce everything and become a sannyasin; then he will attain Buddhahood. Either a universal emperor, or a Buddha.”

There was also a young astrologer present—Kondanna. He kept silent. The king asked, “You say nothing?” He raised one finger. The king said, “Do not make gestures. Speak clearly—what do you mean by raising one finger?”

Kondanna said, “I say with certainty—this person will attain Buddhahood.”

The king was shaken. He had only one son, born in old age. “He will renounce? Then what will happen to my kingdom? How can he be prevented from becoming a renunciate?”

All parents try to prevent their children from renouncing! Strange world. And the irony is, if someone else’s son becomes a sannyasin, the same parents go to touch his feet. But if their own son starts to renounce, they are troubled—because their vested interests are hurt; because the son is going beyond them, which pains the ego. What they could not do, the son or daughter is doing!

Buddha’s father had spent his life expanding wealth and empire. What would become of all that? He had great hope: a son would come to take charge. “We will not be here, but our own blood will hold it.”

What illusions exist in the world! “If we are not, at least our son will preserve it.” People who have no children adopt others’ children and build illusions: “He is ours.”

“If someone of our own holds it, at least there is comfort that our labor didn’t go to waste.” But the labor did go to waste. When you are gone, what value is your labor?

The king asked, “Tell me a way—how to stop him?”

The astrologers said, “If you want to stop him, never let him know four things. Do not let him know that sickness exists—for then he will suffer, and once suffering arises, it will be hard to save him. Do not let him know that old age comes—if he gets a hint of old age, death cannot be far. Do not let him know that death occurs. And the fourth—do not let him know there is such a thing as renunciation. Protect him from these four. And drown him in wine, revelry. You are the emperor; gather the most beautiful women. Let him remain lost among them—music, dance, liquor—let it flow in rounds. Keep him unconscious. If you can keep him unconscious, he will become a universal emperor.” The king said, “Very well.”

He built separate palaces for different seasons—one for summer in a place and climate where all was cool, so he would not know heat; one for winter where all was warm, so he would not know cold; for the rains a place where there was a light drizzle—enough to enjoy, but not to suffer.

He gathered all the most beautiful maidens of the realm and surrounded Buddha with them—only toys were given to him, and all comforts arranged.

The best physicians were assigned to him to treat disease before it arose. Not after disease comes—before it comes; so he would never know it might have come.

No old person was allowed near the palaces. Not even a dry leaf was allowed to remain in his gardens. Seeing a dry leaf he might recall that he too could dry up. “Today we are green; tomorrow we may dry and fall.” Withered flowers were removed at night. Gardeners worked through the night to remove withered blossoms, yellowing leaves—everything.

Buddha was kept in such deception. But for how long can you keep someone deceived? How can you hide anyone from life?

For a youth festival, the prince was to preside over the opening. Drums were beaten along the route: no old person should be out, no sick person, no funeral procession, no monk. But the world is vast. A deaf man did not hear the drum. A sick man did not know. It was a great capital.

As the chariot rolled through the city, Buddha saw a man—stooped, diseased, coughing, hacking. He asked, “What has happened to him?”

The charioteer said, “I have no permission to speak of such things to you.”

Buddha said, “I command you to speak. What has happened?”

He could not refuse the prince. He said, “Forgive me. But I do not have the king’s permission.”

Buddha said, “When I ask, answer—or lose your position.”

The charioteer said, “Do not be angry, my lord. He is ill—he has tuberculosis—he is coughing, spitting blood.”

Buddha asked, “Can I also fall ill?”

This is called intelligence—medha—brilliant penetration. The question immediately applied to himself: “Can I also fall ill?”

The charioteer said, “What can I say? But where there is body, there is illness. The body is a house of diseases—everything is hidden in it. If not today, then tomorrow. Today you are young—healthy, beautiful. But who knows when health will break? It does break. Do not tell your father I told you this—or my life is in danger.”

Buddha said, “Do not worry.”

Just then, an old man passed by—withered, frail. Buddha asked, “What happened to him? What disease is this?”

The charioteer said, “No disease—this is old age. This happens to all. It is the natural final stage.”

Buddha said, “Will such wrinkles come upon my face? Such lines? Will I become so weak? Will my eyes become so dim? Will I become so deaf?”

The charioteer said, “It is so for everyone. All things finally tire; the senses grow weary, begin to break, to scatter. Who has escaped old age?”

Then a corpse passed by. Buddha asked, “What has happened now? Whom are they carrying tied up?”

The charioteer said, “This is what comes after old age: the man has died.”

And behind that corpse a monk in ochre robes. Buddha asked, “Why is this man wearing ochre? Why a begging bowl? What is his way of life?”

He learned this man is a sannyasin. “He has left the world. Why? Because there is suffering, disease, old age, death. He has gone in search of immortality.”

Buddha said, “Turn the chariot back. I am ill. I am old. I am dead—understand it so. I too must seek the truth.”

He did not attend the festival. He returned—and that very night he renounced home.

These four truths you see daily: you see the sick; you yourself fall ill. You see the old; you are growing old—every day, every moment.

What you call a birthday—is it a birthday? Death has come that much nearer! And you call it a birthday!

People celebrate birthdays—but death approaches. Another year is gone. Life is shorter by a year. You think life grows greater; life is growing smaller.

After being born, a man only goes on dying. From the very first moment the process of dying begins. It may take seventy or eighty years—that is another matter. Slowly, gradually, one goes on dying.

But though you see, you do not really see. You are unconscious—and therefore you are “happy.” Buddha became very miserable. He came to the middle. He was no longer a fool, but he had not yet attained supreme knowledge. He entered the in-between state and became very miserable—and set out in search.

Only when one is deeply miserable does one set out to seek. But to experience suffering also requires intelligence. Blessed are those who can experience suffering—for those who experience suffering will strive to be free of it. They must.

For six years Buddha undertook relentless austerities and meditation. One day he attained supreme Buddhahood. Then the springs of great bliss burst forth; the nectar rained down; the secret of life opened; the mystery was revealed; the inner sun rose. With meditation the inner wealth was gained; with samadhi all problems were resolved. Then there was no suffering, no sorrow.

This aphorism is exactly right:
yas ca mūḍhatamo loke yas ca buddheḥ paraṁ gataḥ.
It is a paradox: in one sense, the lot of the fool and the supreme Buddha are alike. The fool is “happy,” and the Buddha is happy. But their happiness is utterly different. The fool is “happy” because of unconsciousness; the Buddha is happy because of awareness—the difference is that of earth and sky.

tāv ubhau sukhamevaite kliśyaty antarito janaḥ.
But those in the middle suffer greatly. Yet one must come to the middle. Animality must be left; one must become human. The human being will suffer; the human is in the middle. Without passing through that suffering, no one reaches Buddhahood. The price has to be paid. Whoever evades that price remains entangled in the world of animality, in the world of folly.

And that is what you are doing—most people are doing it. Somehow keep yourself distracted, entangled. Spin webs of entanglement. Postpone the possibility of becoming human—to tomorrow. Tomorrow death will come.

You have been born many times and died many times in just this way! You have wasted so many opportunities—it is hard to compute! Waste no more. Pay the price now. You will have to pass through a little suffering. The sooner you pay it, the better. This very suffering is tapas, austerity; this very suffering is sadhana, the path. Only by climbing the steps of this suffering has anyone ever attained the supreme bliss. There is no other way. You cannot escape it.

That is why the scriptures say even gods cannot attain nirvana from heaven. First they must become human. Without being human, no one can attain Buddhahood—because man is the crossroads.

The gods are “happy.” They drink wine, make apsaras dance, busy with the same mischiefs as you—no difference! Only on a bigger scale. Their lifespan is longer; their bodies more beautiful. But it is the same net as yours: the same jealousy, the same hostility.

You have read the stories: Indra’s throne trembles easily. Someone begins austerity—Indra’s throne shakes! He grows anxious: “This man may become an Indra!” The same politics, the same tricks. What does Indra do? He sends apsaras—Menaka, Urvashi—to corrupt the ascetic. “If he is corrupted, I can sleep in peace.” But how will you sleep in peace? The earth is vast; someone somewhere will practice austerity, someone will meditate. Where then is sleep?

The gods too are as miserable as you—only they don’t know it, and neither do you. They too are unconscious. Hence the scriptures are right: without becoming human... One must pass through the human crossroads. It is the crossroads. From here the road leads back to animality; from here a road leads to humanity; from here to godhood; and from here also to Buddhahood.

Man is the crossroads; all four paths meet here. If you understand, life is a supreme good fortune. If you awaken, from being human there is a path to Buddhahood; you can choose it.

But people drink alcohol! When they are miserable, they drink. Why does a man drink when miserable? To forget. By drinking, he becomes animal-like.

One who is intelligent meditates. He drinks the wine of meditation. He moves toward samadhi. He says, “What will forgetting do? Forgetting does not remove suffering. Tomorrow, when I regain consciousness, I will find the same suffering—bigger in fact.”

Overnight, suffering grows too. While you are sleeping, suffering also grows. In the morning, the web of anxieties becomes larger. Yesterday, when you drank, there were certain worries; in the morning you will find more—because in intoxication you will have created mischief: you will have cursed someone, hit someone, barged into someone’s house, grabbed someone’s wife—who knows what you will do in your stupor! In the morning you will find more troubles.

You may wake up in a lockup; or in a gutter with a dog licking your face, sprinkling you with its “holy water.” More troubles! At home your wife will be waiting—with a pestle! Deal with that. At the office, more tangles will arise. A thousand mistakes will happen—because the hangover takes time to clear; a shadow remains. You will say one thing and do another. Anxieties will increase, sorrows will deepen. Yesterday was hard enough. In that stupor your pocket may have been picked. You were already ill; now you will be sicker.

Life was already tangled; liquor will not untangle it. You will abuse, fight, get beaten, beat someone, stab someone—who knows what you will do in your unconsciousness! Only one thing is certain: worries will not reduce; they will multiply. Torment will deepen. Then more liquor—to forget that! And now you are trapped in a vicious circle.

There is only one way—wake up, fill yourself with awareness.

If there is suffering, use it. There is only one true use of suffering: become a witness. As witnessing grows, suffering thins. The moment the inner witness awakens, light happens—suffering is cut, darkness is cut.

The day you become the supreme witness, the mere seer, that day there is no suffering in life. That day life is God.

Sant Maharaj! It is exactly this kind of attachment that veils the whole world. The mother must be thinking she loves Pinky very much. She must believe she is stopping Pinky out of a good feeling. But in ignorance, good intentions are not really possible. There’s an English saying: the road to hell is paved with good intentions!

In our unconsciousness, even when we try to do good, harm is what happens—not good. And we are all unconscious. Your mother is unconscious. She must have thought she was doing it for the best: “What nuisance have you created! By asking a question in front of everyone you’ve brought disgrace! Now it will be difficult to find a bridegroom, because a boy will say, ‘This girl doesn’t even want to marry—why should I get into a mess!’ Now it will get known.”

This will reach Amritsar before your mother reaches Amritsar—because in Amritsar people gather daily to listen to my talks. I speak here today; there they are ready to listen tomorrow. The recording will get there, so the mother must have been afraid that it’s been recorded—this will be heard across the whole country. Wherever you go to look for a boy, this will be heard. Naturally the poor woman must have felt hurt: “You’ve created such a difficulty. Why didn’t you ask me first!”

And Pinky is right too: “If I had asked you, you would not have allowed me to ask the question at all.” She has her compulsion too. We give our children so little freedom that they cannot be honest with us. We grown-ups are strange! We want children to do everything only after asking us. That wish itself isn’t bad. But when they do ask, we don’t let them do it. We create a contradiction.

Children ask even about little things, and still we don’t allow it. A small child says to his mother, “May I go out and play a little?” “No.” “No” sits on our tongue. “No” has a certain pleasure. In saying “no” one feels power: “See whose will prevails here!”

“No” jumps out of us instantly. “Yes” is very hard to say—even where “yes” ought to be natural. The child wants to play outside—in sunlight, fresh air, under trees. What is the need to say “no”? But the mother even finds arguments for her “no”: “What if he falls! Climbs a bush! Gets a scrape!” She is just finding excuses.

“No” has another kind of pleasure—the pleasure of power: “Who is stronger here? Things go my way.” But children won’t give up so easily. The child will make a commotion, stamp his feet, break things, tear a book. In the end the mother, flustered, will say, “All right, go out and play!” That’s exactly what the poor child was asking in the first place. But straight fingers don’t scoop ghee!

Thus we teach little children politics. The child asks, “May I go to my friend’s house?” “No!” Then he will create a scene. He’ll watch for his chance. Guests are coming—perfect opportunity! Before the guests arrive, the mother will warn, “Guests are coming—don’t make trouble.” But that’s his exit point. When the guests come, he raises such a ruckus that the mother is forced to say, “Go, play at the neighbor’s. I beg you—just go now!” That’s what he was asking from the start. But earlier you wouldn’t let him go; you first tasted the pleasure of “no”! So the child will make you taste his pleasure too.

Children gradually gauge how much you can bear. Every child knows how far the mother can tolerate; how far the father can tolerate. He will pull exactly to that limit—until you yourself have to say, “All right, hands folded—go, do what you want!”

As a child I kept long hair. I loved long hair. So long that it created trouble for my father—naturally it did. I understood his difficulty too. But I liked long hair. So should I honor his difficulty or my preference?

His difficulty was that there wasn’t any special place for me at home, so I sat in his shop. Customers would come and ask, “Whose girl is this?” That made it hard for him: “He’s a boy—and everyone thinks he’s a girl!”

He would tell me, “Cut your hair.” One day he got very angry. Only once in his life did he slap me. He said, “All day long the hassle! How many people should I explain to that he’s a boy—not a girl! Everyone takes you for a girl. Because of your hair the nuisance isn’t yours—it’s mine!”

I said, “What difficulty is it to you? Let them think I’m a girl. I don’t mind. I like long hair. If they call me a girl, so be it. Their saying it won’t make me a girl. Why are you so troubled?” But he was troubled. A boy is one thing; a girl counts for nothing? When a boy is born, there are bands and drums. A girl is born—mourning descends! A gloom falls: “A girl! Our luck is ruined.”

He slapped me and said, “You will have to cut your hair.” I said, “All right.”

I went and had my head shaved. What else to do!

Now another problem began. In that region children’s heads are shaved only when the father has died. So people started asking, “Has this child’s father passed away? What happened?” Now they were asking him!

He said, “You’ve made my trouble even worse. Son, grow your hair back! Being taken for a girl was at least okay—at least I was alive. Now everyone asks, ‘Oh, the poor boy’s father has died—what happened? Orphaned so young! What became of his father?’”

Then he had to explain, “I’m alive!” They would ask, “Then why is his head shaved?”

Now it became an even longer story. He had to tell the whole tale: “I slapped him; he went and got a complete shave.”

No barber wanted to do it, because in a small town all the barbers’ shops were right opposite ours. I went to this barber and that—no one agreed. But there was an opium-addicted barber—Natthu the barber. He would cut anyone’s anything. You go for a beard—he’ll cut your hair. You go for a haircut—he’ll shave your beard!

When I went to him, he didn’t ask a thing. He quickly tied the cloth and shaved my head! Afterwards he asked, “Has your father passed away?” I said, “No, no one has passed away.” He said, “You’ve landed me in trouble. Why didn’t you tell me first!” I said, “Why didn’t you ask first?”

He said, “The world knows I’m an opium-eater. I’m in my stupor. Only after I’d shaved your head did it occur to me—who is this and what’s the matter! Now don’t tell your father my name. I beg you. I don’t want the money—just don’t mention my name. Otherwise there’ll be trouble for me—‘Why did you shave his head?’”

He really did stay in a stupor. People went to him only when they didn’t want to pay. Sometimes he’d cut half of someone’s hair—and wander off! Gone for two hours! The man sat there. He’d return two hours later: “I forgot!”

I told him, “If you deal with me like this, then I’ll deal with you the same way. Let’s end the hassle: no bamboo, no flute! If long hair creates the nuisance of being taken for a girl, then remove the hair altogether.”

After that my father never slapped me again. Never. He never created any hassle with me again. Whatever I said, he would nod, “Go, do as you see fit.”

But the hitch is that saying “no” has a certain pleasure—the pleasure of ego.

Now Pinky’s mother says, “Why didn’t you ask me?”

What could the poor girl ask! She has known all her life that asking you would not bring a “yes.” And if you were going to say “yes” upon being asked, then what objection could you have to her asking!

And there isn’t even enough freedom to ask a question! What kind of love is this? This is not love; it is attachment—a false love.

She hadn’t asked anything wrong. She asked from her heart. She asked, “How can I dissolve among your sannyasins? How can this color come over me too?”

What was bad in that? She hadn’t wanted to steal, to rob, to do anything evil. But there is great obstruction.

People fear sannyas the most. A boy may become a drunkard—fine. A gambler—fine. A frequenter of prostitutes—fine. Only don’t become a sannyasin! In the world everything is acceptable—except becoming a sannyasin!

We are so frightened of sannyas—because sannyas means someone is beginning to go beyond us, to rise above us; what we could not do, she is starting to do. The ego is deeply hurt by that.

If the husband becomes a drunkard or a gambler, the wife will tolerate it. In truth, wives enjoy it when the husband is a drunkard or a gambler. Why? Because the wife becomes “higher.” Whenever the husband comes home he comes with his tail tucked in, and the wife can sit on his chest: “Stop drinking! Stop gambling! What you are doing is wrong!” She becomes moral and religious; the poor husband becomes like an animal. Naturally the ego enjoys it.

If the husband takes sannyas, the wife’s ego is hurt—deeply hurt: “You dare to go beyond me!” If the wife takes sannyas, the husband is hurt: “She is rising above me!”

We tolerate a bad person; to tolerate and forgive a good person is very difficult.

Now Pinky did not ask anything wrong; she committed no sin. And if she expressed her heart honestly, then it is right that she should say it. If she does not want to marry and you force marriage upon her, she will curse you all her life. She will remain hurt all her life. Though you will do it for her “good,” good will not come of it. Your good intentions are not guaranteed to bring goodness. If you force marriage on her, she will be miserable for life and never be able to forgive you. Give her a chance—give every person the right to live.

And she is not a little child. She can think. She can consider. I had thought she must be seventeen or eighteen. But she is twenty-four, not seventeen or eighteen. She is simple, so I felt she must be younger. She is twenty-four. Now twenty-four! Almost a third of life has been lived. If life is seventy-five years, then twenty-five is a third.

When will you give her the chance at least to ask her own question, to express her own feeling, to try to understand? If love does not grant even this much freedom, what kind of love is it?

Why should she ask you? The soul is within her too. Her heart is her own. That you gave birth to her body does not mean you became the owner of her soul! Give birth to children, but they are not yours; they belong to the Divine. Never forget this. Give children love—but love is not a chain; love gives freedom.

Give children respect too, if you want them to respect you. But in this country the stream flows backwards. No one even thinks that children also have dignity. Then when these children grow up and torment their old parents, what wrong are they doing? They are replying in kind. What you did to them, they are doing to you. When they were weak, small, helpless, dependent on you—you oppressed them. Now they have grown, now you are old, now you are weak—now they will oppress you. The same arithmetic: the weak will be oppressed by the strong.

Then parents weep: sons torment us, daughters torment us, daughters-in-law torment us. They don’t listen! They have pushed us aside as if we don’t exist! But what did you do when they were little—when they had no strength, when they were helpless, when they depended on you? You didn’t even let them ask a question; you didn’t give them the freedom to speak their hearts. Naturally they will pay you back. And then it hurts.

If you want respect from children, give them respect. Respect is received only in response to respect. Yet almost every parent is unhappy in old age that children don’t care. The way you “cared” poisoned everything; it spoiled the whole matter.

Humanity has lived like this so far—by this wrong attitude. It has become part of our blood, bone, flesh, marrow—this wrong attitude.

And saying this, Pinky’s mother put both of Pinky’s hands around her own neck and said, “Press my neck; kill me!” Is that any way to speak! And who dies so easily!

Sant took sannyas, and the mother did not die. Does anyone die like that? I have a hundred and fifty thousand sannyasins—no mother has died! No father has died! Although all of them say they will die! These threats are false; they have no worth. But if you browbeat with threats, that is wrong and inhuman. Who dies! Leave sannyas—if a daughter actually dies, does a mother die?

Have you ever heard that a daughter died and the mother committed suicide because of it? The truth is, the mother would say, “Well, one hassle less! Where would we have found a groom? Where would we have raised the dowry? What would we have done? At least the hassle is over.” She may not say it aloud, but inwardly she will know a burden has lifted.

If a son dies, who dies! Not even death makes anyone die. And here she only asked a question, and we have come to “press my neck”! These are threats.

We threaten little children so much. This is not proper; it is utterly wrong. It is violence. And naturally, what will be the answer to this violence? What feeling will arise in the girl’s heart toward you—respect? Will reverence for the mother arise, or enmity?

Think a little. Look. What will be the result? Will Pinky feel that you love her? She will feel you have not a trace of love. Can love ever come through a threat? A threat produces fear. But these have been our logics till now.

Tulsidas said: “Bhay binu hoy na preeti”—without fear there is no love. That one sentence is enough to prove that Tulsidas had no experience of life. A great poet, but not an enlightened man.

Where does love arise out of fear? Impossible. It is like producing nectar from poison! Fear breeds dislike, hatred. Whomsoever you frighten will fill with hatred for you. Whether he says it or not; if not today, then tomorrow. If not this way, then that way. Some method he will find. And even if nothing can be done, still inside he will be full of hatred toward you.

Ask Pinky’s forgiveness. This behavior is wrong. But this is how it keeps spreading; it has become the logic of our lives. We do it in unconsciousness. That mother did not do it knowingly; it has become our calculation that this is how work gets done—press them down! But if you crush your own children, whom then will you love? Whom will you respect?

Now I look at Sant’s father—I look into his eyes, moist eyes. I know he can drown in sannyas. But Pinky’s mother? When she will not allow Pinky freedom—and says to Pinky, “Press my neck”—will she give her husband freedom? Impossible. She will whip up a storm; there will be great upheaval. Pinky is new to the world, so she dared to ask. The poor father will not even ask—who wants to invite trouble! So much has been dragged through already—he will drag through a little more. Most of life has passed; only a little remains.

But relationships founded on fear are not relationships—they are entanglements. Love does not give fear; it gives fearlessness. Love says: “Ask. Know. Explore. Live in your own way. Whatever seems beautiful and blissful to you, we are with you in it. Trust that we stand behind you. We will support you. You have the right to shape your life in your own way. We shaped ours our way; you have the right to shape yours your way.”

Do not impose yourself on any child. This world can be very beautiful; many flowers can bloom; every child can attain to Buddhahood. Every child is born with immense potential. But we keep cutting that potential—and by what methods we cut it!

Now we have created a sense of guilt in Pinky. The mother has frightened her so much that she will think she sinned just by asking a question—that she should not have asked; why did she make her mother unhappy—so unhappy that she is ready to commit suicide: “Press my neck!” Though it is all nonsense. No one presses anyone’s neck, and no one dies.

But children will be scared, panic-stricken with so little. Naturally, who wants to kill his own mother! Who wants to sadden his mother! In this fear Pinky will give in; she will do whatever you say. But you will distort her whole life.

I have heard of a very great doctor, a surgeon famed the world over. When he turned seventy-five, he began to retire because his hands had begun to tremble a little—and a surgeon’s hands must not tremble. His many students—many had themselves become renowned doctors—organized a ceremony.

It was almost an international celebration, because his disciples were all over the world. They gathered; they celebrated—there was dance and song, the wine flowed, a feast. But everyone was amazed to see the old doctor very sad. One of his students, by then himself a great doctor, asked, “Why are you so sad? We are celebrating to honor you—your farewell—and you are sad?”

He said, “I am sad because I never wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to be a dancer. But my parents forced me into medical college—against my wish. My life has gone to waste.”

His students were astonished. They said, “What are you saying! You are so celebrated; your life has gone to waste!”

He said, “What shall I do with fame? With a name? What I never wanted to be—having become that, what am I to do with it? I would rather have been an utterly unknown dancer than a world-famous physician. That would have expressed my heart, my soul. Even if no one ever saw my dance—no matter. But then my flowers would have bloomed. I never bloomed. I lived a borrowed life. My parents died long ago, but they trapped me. And then it was too late—the dancer I could no longer become. This life is gone. If there is another life, I will not listen then.”

Think a little: if Buddha’s parents had stopped him! They would have, had they known. Buddha fled at night in silence. He knew that if he did not go silently, it would become difficult.

He did not say even to Yashodhara, his wife. He went up to her room, to the door. From the doorway he peeped in. A newborn son had been born; before leaving he wanted to see the child once.

Buddha named his son Rahul—from Rahu. He named him Rahul because he was preparing for renunciation and a son was born. He thought, “This is as if an eclipse has come upon the moon. The attachment to a son might stop me.” To keep himself alert he named him Rahul—that the son’s attachment should not become a Rahu over me, should not cast an eclipse upon me.

As he left, he wanted to see the child’s face once—who knows if there would ever be another chance. But the child slept at his mother’s breast. He could not see the face. He did not dare go in—if in trying to see the child Yashodhara awoke, there would be obstacles: “Where are you going at midnight? What preparations are these? Why is the chariot ready? Why have you put on clothes for going out? Why have you come to see the child at midnight—could you not wait till morning?” A commotion could arise, the house could wake. Silently, without seeing the child, he left.

Twelve years later, when he returned endowed with Buddhahood, even then the father was angry; the wife was angry. After twelve years the son had returned a living sun, yet the father could not see it. He was full of rage, shouting, resentful—such is attachment!

Buddha stood listening. He listened for a while, then said to his father, “Please look at me once with attention. I am not the one who left; I am someone else. I have come new. I have come bearing a message, bearing truth. I have found something, and I want to give it to you—that is why I have come, lest your life go to waste. I have attained; I am fulfilled. You are still empty. So I have come. If you say, I will go away. But first, look at me with open eyes. Remove the tears, remove the anger, so that you can see me.”

The father grew even angrier: “What do you think of yourself! I gave birth to you; you are my blood, and you tell me to look carefully—as if I don’t recognize you!”

Buddha said, “Of course you recognize me. But the one you recognize—that I am no longer. I have passed through a revolution.”

The father said, “Go, go! Tell these stories to someone else. Convince someone else. You are the same—I see your face.” Buddha said, “The face is the same, I am not. And let me remind you to drop this delusion that I was born from you. I did pass through you. I did come via you. You were a medium. But you are not my owner, not my creator. The creator is someone else—some ultimate unknown power.”

Hearing this, the father was startled. He looked attentively. It was true—the face was the same, but the aura had changed. He took sannyas. Perhaps it was the first such event—a father took sannyas from his son. Then Buddha went to Yashodhara.

Ananda, his bhikshu, his disciple, always stayed with him like a shadow. Buddha said to him, “Ananda, fall a little behind. If you are present, Yashodhara, a girl of a very noble house, will not say anything in your presence. And for twelve years she has been accumulating so much anger—I know it. Her attachment was great, so her anger will be equally great. She has been burning for twelve years, and has told no one. Let her say it; let it pour out; let there be catharsis. Fall back a little. If you stand here, she will say nothing—she will bow and touch my feet and swallow all her anger. She is genteel, noble, of a royal house. She will not speak with you there; she will not raise her veil, let alone speak. Fall back.” Ananda fell back.

And indeed, Ananda was amazed to see how she broke down like a madwoman—screamed, cried, scolded—and said exactly what Pinky’s mother said to Pinky: “Why did you not ask me before you went? I was your wife—what objection was there to asking me?” Buddha said, “See: if I had asked you, would you have let me go? Even after twelve years you are so enraged—on that night you would have been even more enraged. You would have made such a clamor—this very screaming—that the whole house would have woken, father would have come, the family would have gathered; my going would have become difficult. I ask forgiveness that I left without asking you. But now be quiet, and accept the gift I have brought for you. Had I stayed at home, I could never have brought this gift. I have brought you truth; I have brought you bliss. Hold out your apron, and take what I have come to give. I have not come empty-handed. And if you can receive what I have brought, you will understand that my going was right.”

Later Yashodhara asked forgiveness. When she understood—she took sannyas—and she said, “Forgive me. In my attachment, in my ignorance, I spoke such words—to an enlightened one. Forgive me! Forget them.”

Buddha said, “I never took them in. I only gave you an opportunity so that your surge could pour out, the flood could subside, and you could become calm. I came for that—otherwise I would not have come. Those I have loved—when bliss has happened to me, I must share it first with them, then with others. I did not forget you; your right is first. But if you say I should have asked you to go—then I could never have gone.”

This is an eternal story. It is always so.

What Pinky’s mother did, any mother would do—though no mother should. In swoon, in unconsciousness.

But Sant, do not worry. Whatever happens, happens for good. Through this, Pinky will understand. Pinky’s mother will understand. Your father will also understand something. There is nothing here to worry about. This is how understanding dawns. The path is thorn-strewn; by walking it the goal draws near. There will be an uproar...

“Why all this uproar—just because one has had a little to drink.
No robbery was committed, no theft was done.

From sheer inexperience come these sermons of the preacher.
What would he know of this color—ask him if he has ever drunk.”

Pinky’s mother—what can she do! She has never drunk this wine. She has never known this way. What she has known—the language of house, family, household—that is what she will teach her children. What other means does she have!

“Why all this uproar—just because one has had a little to drink.
No robbery was committed, no theft was done.

From sheer inexperience come these sermons of the preacher.
What would he know of this color—ask him if he has ever drunk?

It is not that wine whose cup makes the heart a stranger;
the aim is that wine that draws the heart inward.

There in the heart, let the shocks land; or here in life, endure it all.
His heart is strange, and my life is strange.

Every speck shines with the divine radiance.
Every breath says: if we are, God is too.

A blemish on the sun—such are nature’s marvels.
Let the idol-callers name us infidel—such is Allah’s will.

Why all this uproar—just because one has had a little to drink.
No robbery was committed, no theft was done.”

Pinky has done nothing wrong. She committed no robbery, no theft. She only raised her cup a little—“Let me drink too; how do I drown?” In her question she simply widened her bowl to sip a little. But the mother too is not really at fault.

“From sheer inexperience come these sermons of the preacher.
What would he know of this color—ask him if he has ever drunk?”

We can only speak of what we have known, what we have recognized. It is possible that, by Pinky’s pretext, she too may understand. Understanding can dawn on anyone; it is everyone’s birthright. But if someone sits in sheer stubbornness, that is another matter. If someone swears to remain blind, that is different. Otherwise things here are straight and simple.

“No one can show another the address of my destination.
From where I am, even angels cannot come.

I owe a debt to the failure of my seeking feet:
since leaving your door, nowhere else can I go.

The garden is inscribed with you; the spring lives through you.
Before you, even flowers cannot wither.

Every thread of longing I press to my heart—
for wealth that comes home is not to be spurned.

For love, a few special hearts are set apart:
this is a melody that cannot be sung on every instrument.”

This is a different world of love. Sannyas is a different style of living.

“For love, a few special hearts are set apart:
this is a melody that cannot be sung on every instrument.”

Preparation is needed for this instrument. First the instrument must be set; the strings must be tuned. And life throws everyone’s instrument out of tune. Life teaches everyone’s instrument the wrong lesson: either some strings are pulled so tight that at a touch they snap, or they are left so loose that however much you pull, no music arises. But if your parents, your sister, have come here by some pretext, they will not go back just the same. Even if they do go back, they will not go back the same.

“I owe a debt to the failure of my seeking feet:
since leaving your door, nowhere else can I go.”

It will be very hard for them to go. And even if they go, I will follow; I will keep returning to their memory. Pinky did well to ask. No harm that the mother felt hurt, became angry. It is natural. It is ordinary. There is nothing to worry about. She too will repent.

Perhaps jealousy was stirred—perhaps she thought, “Pinky asked, and I did not. I should have asked. She expanded her bowl and I remained stuck.” Perhaps in that jealousy the words burst out. The human mind is full of tangles, full of webs. Even one does not know oneself why one says what one says. Such unconsciousness! Such deep stupor!

Narendranath! Politicians aren’t really good for anything else. What else can one do with them! At least I’ve found some work for them—a pretext! I’ve discovered a little meaning for their being! Otherwise, they are utterly useless—of no meaning, no purpose—completely hollow. Well, I’ve at least given some meaning to their meaningless lives. That’s why I make fun of them.

And I make fun of them so that you don’t get entangled in politics. Politics is deception.

What does politics mean?
Politics means: getting a hold over others. The husband gets a hold over the wife; the wife gets a hold over the husband; parents get a hold over their children. All of this is politics.

Don’t think only those who go off to Delhi are the politicians. Whoever tries to possess another is doing politics—on a small scale or a large scale, depending on one’s capacity. In the attempt to seize others, there is politics. In the attempt to master oneself, there is religion.

Being the owner of yourself is religion; being the owner of another is irreligion. Politics is irreligion. And if you don’t make fun of irreligion, what else will you do!

I mock them because these balloons of irreligion—prick them with the slightest needle and they burst. A joke is enough. No need to deliver a heavy blow.

A leader was giving a speech: “Forget everything in the past and move forward afresh. Now we must make the nation golden...”
Just then a voice came from the back, “Brother, first return all the money you owe me, then talk about forgetting the past. Not yet. How can I forget the old? First pay me back!”

At a rally a gentleman was praising his party leader: “He is the sun, we are his rays. He is the ocean, we are his waves. He is the flower, we are his fragrance.”
Standing in the middle, Mulla Nasruddin said, “He is the cauldron and you are his ladles! The rest is all nonsense!”

Once a leader caught his wife red-handed in bed with his friend, Mulla Nasruddin. Another time, the leader’s young son informed him, “This afternoon, Mommy was asleep on the sofa in the sitting room with your friend Nasruddin.”
The leader grew very angry. One mistake can be forgiven once, but not twice. Even so, he somehow maintained restraint and kept quiet.

Then a third time it happened: because of a strike in his office, the leader returned home early one evening. What he saw sent his rage to the skies. In the kitchen, on the dining table, Nasruddin and his wife were lying stark naked.

The leader roared, “There is a limit to shamelessness! How long can I tolerate this? Today I must take a decision. First it was the bed, then the sofa, now the dining table! There’s no such thing left as family honor and culture. Listen carefully, both of you, with your ears wide open: this is my final decision. Within twenty-four hours I will eliminate the very root of all this mischief.” Shouting thus, he stormed out of the house.

He returned the next morning. Do you know what he did? He sold all the beds, sofas, tables, chairs, and other furniture in the house to a junk dealer for a cheap price. And then he breathed a sigh of relief. That way he cut the root itself: no bed, no sofa, no table—now let’s see you carry on! Leaders have their own arithmetic!

You are the speech, you are the clapping—have mercy, O merciful leader.
You are the eggplant, you are the plate—have mercy, O merciful leader.

You are the engine, you are the train—we the bunglers remain bunglers.
Get the TT to find us an empty berth—have mercy, O merciful leader.

You are the police, you are the bandit, you are the dagger, you are the knife.
You are the bullet, you are the double-barrel—have mercy, O merciful leader.

You are the spoon, you are the sugar—you snatched the tea from our lips.
At least give us a cup of coffee—have mercy, O merciful leader.

You are the father of all party-hoppers—now a hymn, now a ditty.
You’ve summoned the entire bhajan troupe—have mercy, O merciful leader.

You are the flood, you are the drought—then why shouldn’t the farmer starve?
You are the tractor, you are the trolley—have mercy, O merciful leader.

If you’re beaten, we’re sad; we are slaves to your beard—
Sometimes you keep it, sometimes you shave it—have mercy, O merciful leader.

And what can you do with these leaders anyway! What use are they!

Netaji has
a great talent:
between giving assurances
and the regret of not keeping them,
they put banknotes in their pockets
and pull out an empty handkerchief!

You’ve seen magicians: they put in an empty handkerchief and pull out banknotes. Leaders are magicians too: they put in banknotes—and pull out an empty handkerchief!

The country is so tormented by these leaders—and not only this country, the whole world. But people are so stupefied they don’t even know how their lives are being ruined! Who is looting them? Who is destroying their lives?

And the joke is, these leaders are all “public servants.” They are dedicated twenty-four hours a day to your welfare—and no one’s welfare ever happens! Only ill fare happens. Such well-wishers! Everywhere you look, you see them in Gandhi caps and pure khadi, leaders marching along. And nowhere is any welfare to be seen.

If there were a little intelligence in the world, politics would diminish on its own. If there were a little expansion of meditation, you would not need leaders. You are blind; hence you want a leader. And the leaders themselves are blind.

Kabir has said: “The blind lead the blind, and both fall into the well.” The blind are guiding the blind! Blind themselves, and pushing the blind: “Come along! Keep going! Move ahead!” And they will push you into wells, into ditches. In place after place, they have already pushed you into ditches!

If you don’t make fun of them, what else should you do? Should I praise them? Should I offer flowers in their honor? I will offer flowers on their graves—I won’t let their tombs be deprived of flowers. But as for them now, as many blows as can be dealt, must be dealt. And humor is a civilized way of striking. Courtesy remains—and the blow still lands!

That’s all for today.