Jyun Tha Tyun Thaharaya #9

Mohammad Husain! If a straight gaze suffices, what need of a sidelong glance! And what can be done directly is never done by crookedness. Crookedness is the mind’s habit; straightness is the heart’s nature.

What I am saying is as plain as two and two make four. If someone does not understand it, then his understanding is crooked; within him is a web of distortions. If you too have a simple, straightforward heart, the arrow of my words will strike right on the mark—it will, it should. If you listen with love, a revolution will happen in the very listening.

The peace of my heart was doomed to be laid waste—
even a single glance of the Beloved turned into a loss.

I don’t inflict such a loss. The one who wants to change, who longs and yearns to be transformed, changes at the slightest hint.

The peace of my heart was doomed to be laid waste—
even a single glance of the Beloved turned into a loss.

Why waste even a glance on one who has come already prepared to dissolve! And only the one who has come prepared to dissolve will dissolve; the rest will remain entangled in useless talk—entangled in things that serve them no purpose.

Such is man’s foolishness: he picks thorns and leaves the flowers. He counts the nights and ignores the days. He clutches sorrows; even if you sit before him holding the goblet of bliss—he will not see it. Prayer cannot arise in such a person’s life. His life will be filled only with complaints upon complaints.

Giving me the fire of sorrow, he thus commanded:
“Go, I have freed you from the world’s turmoil.”

In what words could they even lodge a complaint,
those whom your gracious gaze has undone?

So intimate am I with nature that when a bud opened,
I bowed and asked, “Did you just say something to me?”

I myself have no awareness; perhaps you would know—
people say that you have ruined me.

Those who thirst for the Divine don’t even know—

I myself have no awareness; perhaps you would know—
people say that you have ruined me.

They don’t even notice. And this “ruin” is no ruin. The prick of that arrow is not death—it is the arrival of nectar.

In what words could they even lodge a complaint,
those whom your gracious gaze has undone?

If His gaze lays waste, it is a flourishing. If His gaze effaces you, it is a new birth.

And I have no gaze of my own. Whoever sits with me in silence and stillness will see only His gaze. And His gaze is straight and clear. Think of me as a bamboo reed. The song is His. A listener is needed. Mohammad Husain! You have seen rightly, heard rightly, recognized rightly.

This season of gladness, these moods of yours—
may the stars not drown before they rise.
Fight the whirlpool, grapple with the fierce waves—
how long will you walk along the shore?

Mohammad Husain, if the point has struck, then now do not walk along the shore. Now drown in this saffron river. If you have been wounded, do not run. Now awaken.

This season of gladness, these moods of yours—
may the stars not drown before they rise.
Fight the whirlpool, grapple with the fierce waves—
how long will you walk along the shore?

Strange indeed is this game of love:
the one who loses wins, the one who wins loses.
Rays bite like black serpents—
who lives each day as a day of radiant clarity?
Ships have only ever sunk
where the helmsmen’s courage failed.
Many revolutions have come in the world,
yet our days have not changed till today.
“Raza” brings news of a new surge of the sea—
swift currents touching the horizon.
This season of gladness, these moods of yours—
may the stars not drown before they rise.
Fight the whirlpool, grapple with the fierce waves—
how long will you walk along the shore?

If you have been wounded, then do not let other kinds of thoughts come in between now. Myriads of thoughts will come, because our past does not let go all at once. It grips and clutches. Even the chains are not ready to release you at once—their proprietorship would be lost.

Even the prison walls will try to stop you: “Where are you going? You are leaving us? This betrayal, this treachery! We alone are your security. Out in the open sky you will writhe, you will be greatly troubled. Stay. Obey.” The past will cast all kinds of nets—beautiful nets, golden nets: of words, of scriptures, of doctrines; of being Hindu, of being Muslim, Christian, Jain. And it ensnares a person—in tiny, petty things it gets him stuck. And he thinks he is speaking with great wisdom.

A sense of guilt can be erased in only two ways. Either drop sannyas. If you are so insistent on clutching political and social opinions—so eager to hold on to your own ideas—then drop those sweet words you like to hear. You will be free of guilt. Free yourself from sannyas. Or, if truly the talks on spirituality and religion are so dear to you, can you not pay even this small price—that you drop your two-bit political opinions and social notions!

And what are your political opinions and social notions worth, anyway! You have no awareness of yourself—what on earth will you understand of society? You don’t even know who you are, and you think you can have a perspective on politics! Except for the Buddhas, whatever people say about society and politics springs only from their foolishness.

And the irony is, we don’t want enlightened ones to say anything about politics and society, because at least in that area we are convinced that our own perspective is right. Why should the enlightened speak at all! Let them mind their spirituality.

If you are to be with me, be with me totally. Don’t deceive yourself by being half-hearted. I am ready, this very moment, to give you leave. Drop sannyas; be free of guilt. Save your politics. Save your social notions! If they have any value—fine. A valuable thing should be saved. But if they have no value, if they are two-bit—and they are two-bit—then sacrifice them for what you find truly dear. What guilt then!

I do say certain things that are your tests. I have my own ways of weighing, testing, transforming people. I will certainly say some things that keep going against your notions. Spirituality is up-in-the-air talk; there you very quickly agree. What quarrel can you have with liberation! What opposition can you have to meditation! It’s all sweet. And all will be beautiful. You have no footing there; in the sky you have no movement—so you agree very quickly.

Perhaps even those talks are feeding your ego—“See, I have become a sannyasin. Now look, I am a traveler on the path of the spirit. Now my journey is moving toward the divine. Now I am becoming a frontrunner for liberation. The goal is not far.”

But your two-bit notions are such that someone is a member of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh; I say something—he feels hurt. Someone is a member of the Janata Party; I say something—and he feels hurt.

I will keep saying such things. They are my ways of sifting. Those who are to get off the boat, I want to have them get off. I do not want to keep in the boat people who are filled with guilt. If there is any kind of inner conflict—before they occupy space—I want to set them free.

But people are very clever!

That was the mistake of those enlightened ones—what can I do about it! That’s why good-for-nothings like you got attached to them. I will not make that mistake. I have my own way of living. What have I to do with any enlightened person? They lived in their way; they didn’t ask me! Why should I ask them!

Mahavira wished to live naked; he lived naked. Buddha did not live naked. Krishna did not live naked. If these gentlemen had reached them… And surely people from Ludhiana must have reached them too! Punjab produces some truly remarkable people.

People went to Buddha and asked, “Mahavira has given up clothing—why haven’t you?” And they went to Mahavira and asked, “Buddha has not given up clothing—why have you?” Krishna is playing the flute—where is your flute? And Rama stands with bow and arrow—and you stand stark naked!

Every enlightened one has his own way. I have my own method for sifting out fools. I don’t want to labor over fools.

And if you’re Jain, you’re not exactly poor. You go crazy to save five or ten rupees! You don’t see that you are simply trying to save five or ten rupees, but you hide it by saying, “No enlightened person ever charged a fee!” In the end it’s only five or ten rupees you want to save. And what did the enlightened ones teach you? “Do not cling, do not hoard.” I am relieving you of at least five or ten rupees of clinging—what else! If even that won’t loosen, what on earth will you ever let go of!

And I am no beggar, so I don’t ask for alms; I charge a fee. Why should I beg? Am I a beggar! You enjoy giving alms; you want someone to beg so you can enjoy feeling, “We donated!” That swagger won’t survive here. I don’t keep your ego safe here either.

Here, if you want to come within, you will have to show your earnestness. And you are coming—no one is forcing you. If you have the longing, come. And if you want to save money, don’t come. But don’t advise me. I have never taken anyone’s advice. And whoever dares to advise me—what on earth will he be able to learn from me!

The one who has come here to give advice—how will he be able to receive advice? Do just this one thing, that’s more than enough. Don’t display such cleverness! I have to live my way, and I will live my way. I don’t even like this kind of rubbish here.

He has written, “Now your ashram is self-sufficient. Why fees now?” As if it became self-sufficient because of him! As if it became so by your fees!

And what do you know of how big this ashram is to become! It will never be so self-sufficient that it won’t need fees, because it is in growth. It will keep on growing, keep on expanding. There should be at least a hundred thousand sannyasins in this ashram; how could we settle for less! And you are dying over five or ten rupees, all the while thinking you have raised a great, principled point.

Think a little before you start telling me things. Advice won’t work here. I know what I am doing and why.

Gurdjieff published his first book and priced it at one thousand rupees. In those days—fifty years ago—one thousand rupees was a very precious sum. A hundred and fifty years ago the British government sold the whole of Kashmir to Gulab Singh, Karan Singh’s forebear, for only thirty lakh rupees—the whole of Kashmir! And three hundred years ago the natives sold the whole of New York to those who came from overseas for only thirty rupees—the whole of New York!

Fifty years ago a thousand rupees was a huge price. Anyone who thought of buying the book lost courage—“A thousand rupees!” People asked Gurdjieff, “No enlightened person ever priced his books like this!” Gurdjieff said, “That’s their business. I know mine.”

Anyone who cannot pay a thousand rupees has no real longing. Truth is not obtained for free. And you understand only one language—the language of money. The moment you have to let go of it, your very soul begins to ache.

So Gurdjieff’s book—one thousand pages long—had a hundred pages of preface cut open, and the remaining nine hundred pages were uncut. He would say, “Take it. Read the first hundred pages. If they don’t suit you, return the book and take back your thousand rupees. If they do, only then cut the remaining pages; otherwise don’t cut them. If you cut them, I won’t take the book back.”

But those hundred pages were so extraordinary that it was hard for a man to stop without cutting further. Still, he had made it clear: “Read a hundred pages for free. Then don’t cut further—return the book and take your money back.”

You have listened for a day. If it doesn’t click, if five or ten rupees are so dear to you—save your money and run back to Ludhiana. What are you doing here? Why are you wasting time?

But these small, petty things seem of great value to you. You hesitate to give ten rupees and set out to seek the divine! And when I ask for your ego, what will you do then! If you cannot empty your pocket, when I tell you to empty your very life-breath—how will you manage that?

These are my own methods, my own devices. I am not an imitation of any enlightened one. I am my own kind of man, and I will live in my own way.

Mohammad Husain, you said:
“The age has long been wounded
by your straight gaze;
God forbid—if it had been a slanting glance,
what then would have happened?”

I ask: were you wounded, or not? Let the world be—what have we to do with the world? Mohammad Husain, were you wounded, or not? If you were, then be dyed in this color. And if you were not, then shall I arrange for a slanting glance!

Kanhaiyalal Dwivedi! He is a resident of Mathura. So you can understand!... Your guru Latpatanand Brahmachari cannot have become a resident of heaven; he must have become a resident of hell. For such Latpatanands there is no place in heaven.

And what foolish things he told you! A milk-diet—sattvic diet! He must have been parroting what’s written in the scriptures. But milk is not a sattvic diet. Milk comes out of the body just as blood comes out of the body. That is why drinking milk quickly increases the blood—milk carries the power to build blood. Milk is the mother’s blood. If you drink your own mother’s—fine! But you are drinking the milk of the cow-mother!

Cow-mother’s milk is not for you. What milk did this Latpatanand drink? Cow-mother’s? That milk is for the cow’s own children, the calves. It is not for Latpatanands. No cow ever says, “Come, son Latpatanand, drink my milk!” It is an abuse of the cow, a kind of rape—you are forcibly snatching the milk meant for her child.

And note this too: If you drink cow’s milk, you’ll turn into a bull; that milk is for bulls, not for men. The more milk you drink, the more lust will torment you. How will it be sattvic? The more milk you drink, the more energy will surge in the body—and bull-like energy at that, because that milk was made for bulls, not for you.

Then they say, tighten your loincloth! Be staunch in your loincloth! First drink the milk—then be staunch in your loincloth!

A milk-diet is not sattvic at all. I don’t say don’t drink it; but drink it knowing this clearly: it is not a sattvic food. Do not remain under the illusion that it is.

There is a Christian sect—the Quakers—they don’t drink milk. They drink tea without milk, coffee without milk. They count milk as non-vegetarian. And I agree with them; they are right. Your rishis and sages have been talking nonsense; the Quakers are right. Milk is animal food. Whether you eat meat, drink blood, or drink milk—what is sattvic in milk?

And note this as well: except for human beings, no animal on earth drinks milk beyond a certain age. You are twenty-six, about to enter the householder’s stage—and still drinking milk?

Calves drink milk for a while, then graze on grass. When will you graze on grass? The time to enter the householder’s stage has come—now graze on grass! You have drunk enough of cow-mother’s milk. You have tormented the cow-mother enough. Now it is time to eat grass! And the season is good—the grass is green. Graze to your heart’s content!

Except for human beings, no animal drinks milk after infancy. Once you are fit to eat food, what need is there of milk? Milk is for infants who cannot digest food. Was milk for Latpatanand? Could he not digest food?

But if foolish notions are ancient, we feel they must be true. So my words will sound strange to you—because you have kept the wrong company, you have grown up in an atmosphere of unreason. The air of Mathura has spoiled you—its air has been polluted for centuries. And then you ran into this Latpatanand! Look at the things he taught you: rise at brahma muhurta and chant Om!

Understand a little scientific analysis, a little scientific inquiry. The right time to get up differs for each person. The scriptures were mostly written by the old. Naturally in those days old age was much respected. Though there is nothing inherently valuable in being old. Donkeys grow old, horses grow old—old age adds no value. A foolish man, when old, becomes a grand fool. Wisdom does not come with age; age has nothing to do with intelligence. Yet the scriptures were written by the old.

The elderly cannot sleep long. In those days there was no electricity, no lights—when the sun set, night fell; that was the time to sleep. If you sleep early, you will wake at two or three. The old will certainly wake at that hour.

A child in the mother’s womb sleeps twenty-four hours. Do not wake him at brahma muhurta, or his life will be ruined; he will be born crippled.

Little children will sleep twenty-three hours, then twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty, eighteen. As one becomes young, one comes down to about seven or eight hours—and that too varies from person to person.

In old age people sleep four hours, three, even two. Why? Because sleep is tied to bodily growth.

When the child’s body is being formed in the mother’s womb, he must sleep twenty-four hours. So much work is going on in the body that if his sleep is disturbed, growth will be hindered. He sleeps; the body develops.

What develops in nine months in the womb never develops at such a pace in the rest of life. Hence sleep is necessary.

Ask any physician: when there is illness, the first prescription is—sleep is necessary. Without proper sleep the body does not get a chance to complete its healing.

To sleep means: all programs are off, all activity stops. Now the body has a chance to use its healing forces. No entanglement—no shop, no market, no kirtan-bhajan. The body has the opportunity to rejuvenate its energy. Therefore a young person should sleep seven to eight hours. Less than that harms him.

Also, each person’s deepest sleep window is different. Scientific research shows that for twenty-two hours the body maintains one temperature, and for about two hours at night the temperature drops at least two degrees lower. Those two hours are the deepest sleep. For some it’s between two and four, for some three to five, some four to six, some five to seven. If you don’t sleep well in those two hours, you will feel dull, irritable, restless, disturbed all day. Those two hours must be in deep sleep.

And because they are different for each person, no one can lay down a rule that you must rise at brahma muhurta. It may be that those very two hours are the most valuable for you. Therefore you must observe yourself: when is my sleep deepest? When it is, don’t break it; otherwise you are becoming the enemy of your body. And the body will take its revenge; it will not spare you.

If you go against the body’s nature, serious illnesses will result. The body will quickly become depleted, sick, prematurely old.

So I cannot say whether to get up at brahma muhurta or not. You investigate. Usually what happens is that people force themselves up at brahma muhurta because the scriptures say so. You drag yourself up; sleep still hangs on you. A cold bath to chase the sleep away. Then you sit somehow, dozing, and chant Om!

And if you chant Om, you will doze even more—because repetitive chanting induces sleep.

Repeat anything again and again, and sleep comes. That is why a mother sings a lullaby to her child. A lullaby is just repeating the same words—sleep now, my little one, my prince! A couple of words over and over. Soon the child sleeps. The mother thinks it is her sweet music! She may be quite shrill! The child sleeps because of the boring repetition—prince! darling! prince! darling! How long to listen? He recoils and slides inward into sleep: “Mother dear, give me a break—give yourself a break too!”

What will you gain by chanting Om? You will sit and repeat—Om, Om, Om. Repetition only brings drowsiness.

And if you have forced yourself up at brahma muhurta—and you are young, so it will be by force—then sleep will overpower you all the more. This creates guilt. These so-called religious notions fill you with guilt. Then you are agitated: why can’t I remain alert at brahma muhurta? Why does sleep come?

And if you ask people like Latpatanand, they will say: tamasic tendencies! Take sattvic food. Don’t let bad thoughts come to mind—as if allowing or not allowing bad thoughts is in your control! Bad thoughts will come—what will you do?

And look at the fun: on one hand your Swami Latpatanand Brahmachari says, “Do not let bad thoughts arise—and be staunch in your loincloth!” If bad thoughts don’t arise, what need is there to keep the loincloth tight? This is quite upside-down. If bad thoughts never arise, even if you keep the loincloth loose, what’s the harm? Even without a loincloth it would be fine. If bad thoughts don’t arise, the root is gone. What does “be staunch in your loincloth” even mean then? But this kind of asinine claptrap is taken as religion.

And what method did Latpatanand give you to stop bad thoughts? He himself won’t have got rid of them. Bad thoughts cease only through witnessing, not otherwise.

Chanting Om or Ram-Ram won’t stop bad thoughts, because chanting does not create witnessing. That is mere babble, a useless prattle—indeed itself a bad thought. Witnessing means: whatever thoughts arise, good or bad, stay awake and simply watch. “This thought arose; it’s come up; it stands before me; it begins to depart; it’s gone, it’s gone—another has arrived.” Like someone sitting by the roadside watching traffic—cars pass, buses pass, a bullock cart comes, people go here and there. You are not concerned with who is good or bad, saint or sinner. You are just seeing—mere seer. Keep only this much awareness: I am the witness.

No need to tie up loincloths and such. That is falling below witnessing—that is becoming a doer. Who is tightening the loincloth? You have become the doer. You are forcing something upon yourself—and forcing will have bad consequences. Forcing means repression.

“Be staunch in your loincloth”—it means keep forcing yourself, bind yourself tight, chain yourself all around. Repression has bad outcomes—and has had them.

There is no country in the world as hypocritical as this one has become. Thanks to gurus like yours—these so-called saints and abbots—this land has become the crown jewel of hypocrisy. No country on earth is so hypocritical, because nowhere else is such an ancient web of foolishness.

Chandulal had a spat with his wife Gulabo one day and said: Look, don’t talk such nonsense or I’ll tell all my friends that I had relations with you even before marriage!
“Yes, go tell them—who’s afraid? And I’ll also tell people that you were not the first man I slept with!”

Truths are one thing; concealments another.

Chandulal said to his wife: Today, don’t forget and buy anything from the shop next door.
Why? the wife asked.
Because that owl’s whelp has borrowed our weighing scale for a day!

Here shopkeepers keep two sets of scales—one for buying, another for selling.

Getting off a train, Swami Matkanath Brahmachari—he must have been like your Latpatanand—picked up an umbrella and tucked it under his arm and started walking off. Suddenly a man grabbed him and said, “Swamiji, is your name Nandlal?”
“No. But why?”
“Well, Swamiji, the umbrella you are carrying belongs to Nandlal. And that’s me!”

How can you tell a swami flat out—don’t steal umbrellas! Poor Nandlal had to use a roundabout way: “Your name isn’t Nandlal, is it?” Up above is one thing; inside is something else.

Chandulal went to Calcutta. He would be gone two or three months on business. He worried greatly about Gulabo. The marriage was new. How to leave a young wife alone?

Indian scriptures say: when a girl is with her parents, the father should protect her; when she is married, the husband should protect her; when she is old, the sons should protect her. What an astonishing country—protection, protection, as if predators lurk on all sides! A little girl—father must protect. Grown—husband must protect. Even old—still protection is needed. Because these so-called brahmacharis roam around, loincloths tightly tied—there is danger.

This so-called religious net, this hypocrisy—people wearing masks—one naturally fears them. This land of saints! This land of rishis! Gods are said to yearn to be born here! Perhaps that is why they yearn!

So Chandulal worried: in whose protection to leave the wife? He finally thought: Swami Matkanath Brahmachari, his guru—who could be more suitable! He preaches so much about keeping the loincloth tight; he himself must be tight in his loincloth. Often those who aren’t are the loudest preachers of it. They shout not only to convince you; they are trying to convince themselves.

This world is strange!

Bertrand Russell has written: if a theft occurs somewhere, first catch the man who is making the biggest hue and cry—“Catch the thief! Beat the thief! Where is he? Who is he?” Most likely he is the thief.

I read that much later.

When I was a small boy, the watermelons and melons in my village were superb. Famous far and wide. The river flowing by my village made them so sweet that the river itself got named “Shakkar”—Sugar. The river’s very name is Sugar! Such sweetness in the melons. And there is a special cucumber—“Shakkar kakdi,” the sugar cucumber—found nowhere else in India. Unmatched! I have traveled and tasted melons all over the country, but truly what grows on the banks of that river has no comparison.

Since childhood I would go steal melons. I read Russell much later. But I was already using his trick.

I would take two or four boys and slip into the melon patch. If the owner happened to come and try to catch us, I would side with him—shout loudly, “Catch him! Don’t let him go! This fellow always breaks in!” I would stand there while the rest ran away.

Naturally the owner would think, “This boy cannot be the thief—he is standing right here.” And I would back him—“Catch him! Take him to the police!”

This happened again and again in one particular field. At last the owner said, “Whenever I come, this boy is always here! Always shouting ‘Catch him!’” He asked me, “What is this—whenever there is a theft in my field, you are always here, and always on my side? Once or twice it could be coincidence. But always! In the middle of the night!”

I said, “I roam around here to make sure no one steals from anyone!”

He said, “You have a strange arrangement—you roam about to prevent theft!”

I said, “So that no village boy steals, I patrol till midnight. No one’s field should be robbed.”

He gave me two melons as a gift, saying, “Son, this is how life should be—sattvic living!”

Poor Chandulal thought to leave his wife in the protection of Swami Matkanath Brahmachari. So he did.

When he returned three months later—he doesn’t believe in telegraphs; why spend the money!—he came straight in. He saw Brahmachari Matkanath making love to his wife!

Chandulal flared up, grabbed his wife by the neck: “Enough, relationship over! I’ll shoot you! This land of Sita and Savitri—and this is your conduct! This betrayal! You swore when I left for Calcutta you would not betray!”

The wife was terrified. Not a word came; she was tongue-tied.

Turning to the Swami, Chandulal said, “Swamiji, O ex-gurudev! At least observe this courtesy: when I am speaking to my wife, stop doing those push-ups for a moment! You keep on making love—I’m strangling her and you don’t even care that I am here. At least stop for now!”

But repressed people—when they get the chance, they cannot stop. The staunch-loincloth types are dangerous. Beware of them.

And this has been going on for centuries. Your Puranas are full of such stories. Your rishis lived like this. Your gods descend from the heavens—they have beautiful Urvashis and Menakas and still get bored; they come down to earth, seduce some rishi’s wife, commit adultery with some sage’s wife. This is your eternal tradition! This is your Sanatan Dharma!

Such cheating arises because essentially we never go through an inner revolution; we merely impose things from the outside.

Your Swami told you: Keep only three garments and do not hoard. But renunciation is not about numbers. You can be as attached to “three” as another to his entire empire.

There is a lovely tale from King Janaka’s life. A sannyasi was sent by his guru to receive the final teaching from Janaka. He was upset: “I am a sannyasi; why should I go to that indulgent emperor, hung up on wealth, fame, power?” But the guru had said, so he went, unwillingly. Entering Janaka’s court, he was bewildered—music, dance, wine flowing; Janaka seated in the middle; courtiers swaying; goblet upon goblet.

Seeing such a wine-house atmosphere, the sannyasi became very uneasy. Janaka said, “Now that you have come, at least stay the night and rest. Leave in the morning.”

In the morning Janaka took him to bathe in the river behind the palace. They both removed their clothes. The swami likely had only three. They left them on the bank and entered the water. Just then the swami screamed, “Look! Your palace is on fire!”

The emperor said, “Let it burn. In this world all things are to be destroyed anyway. Let us continue our bath.”

The swami ran for the bank: “You worry about your palace; I will worry about my three garments! I left them right by the wall—what if they catch fire!”

Janaka said, “Think a little. My palace burns and you are running for your three pieces of cloth. Who is more attached?”

Attachment is not a matter of quantity but of awareness. You can be bound by three garments, by one loincloth, clinging to it as if it were an empire. And another can remain unentangled amidst an entire empire. Non-possessiveness is in non-identification; possessiveness is in entanglement.

Don’t get stuck in quantities. Quantities don’t create revolution.

A poor beggar clutches his dry crust as tightly—and all his attachment gets poured into that. But we think in numbers. Real transformation is qualitative, not quantitative.

What madness—“Keep only three garments.” Whether three or thirteen makes no difference. The question is: remember that you are not your clothes. Not only clothes—you are not the body. Not only body—you are not the mind. Then keep as many clothes as you like, it makes no difference. You can wear only one at a time anyway.

But this country has a strange arithmetic. We get stuck in externals; all our criteria have become outer. We ask: is he in a hut? Then he is a saint. In a palace… You would have missed Janaka. He would not have looked like a saint to you. Janaka truly was a great saint—many times over more so than many of your so-called saints, qualitatively different.

Krishna lived amidst a kingdom. Do you think he had only three garments? Yet he was free—utterly free. And those who have three garments—are they free? In that case all the naked and starving of this country would earn heaven! Then animals and birds, with not even one garment, would be ahead of you. Latpatanand would be left behind—donkeys and horses would enter heaven first; and then perhaps Latpatanand might get a chance, because he at least had three garments—and a tightly tied loincloth!

My words may sound strange to you because they are true—and truth always sounds strange.

And what madness is this—“See every woman as mother, sister, or daughter!” What does “mother” mean? Your father’s wife. If you imagine every woman to be your father’s wife, think a little of your father too! Do you want to send him to hell?

What does “daughter” mean? Without a wife, where would a daughter come from? If every woman is your daughter, you will have to perform some miracle to produce daughters!

Mother, sister, daughter—all these are relations of sex. Mother is your father’s wife; you were born of sexual union. Sister too is a relation of sexuality—you came from the same womb, the same source of sexual union. What other relation is there?

And “daughter” means what is born of your sexuality.

They spared everyone except the wife. Without a wife, the other three cannot exist. Note the absurdity! Only by having a wife does one become a mother, a daughter, a sister. They drop the wife and keep the other three! You chop down the tree and hope to keep the leaves, flowers, and fruits! There will be no life in them.

One who has witnessing—why would he label someone as mother, sister, daughter? A woman is a woman—not wife, not sister, not mother, not daughter. Why create these ties at all? Are we to be freed of ties—or make more of them?

It is only the wife that the so-called brahmacharis fear—no one else. And to avoid the wife, they devise all sorts of tricks!

I have heard: Chandulal—there was a crowd on the road; people going to the circus; the first show was over, the second about to begin; great hustle-bustle. He saw a beautiful woman and couldn’t contain himself—his loincloth came loose! He didn’t do much, just gave her a pinch. A pinch isn’t some great sin. But the woman screamed and made a scene—though she had likely gone there hoping someone would pinch her. She had dressed up so much—if no one pinched, she would go home sad: “I must no longer look attractive; all my adornment was wasted!”

So Chandulal fulfilled her desire—he pinched. But a policeman caught him and beat him soundly—made him squeal. Knocked him to the ground and sat on his chest. He too didn’t miss the chance—there is pleasure in such beatings! In the name of protecting morality, you can thrash a man! The crowd joined in; who would miss such an opportunity! Whoever had pent-up anger let loose on Chandulal. His clothes tore, his face bled, scratches everywhere.

The policeman sat on his chest, thumping him: “See now, from today, consider every woman your mother, sister, daughter!”

Just then Gulabo arrived and said to Chandulal, “Hey, father of Pappu, you aren’t too badly hurt, are you?”

Chandulal, glancing at the policeman, said, “No, sister, not hurt at all!”

When you must regard every woman as “sister,” and the policeman is still sitting here—he might jump on your chest again for any slip—he called even his own wife “sister”!

What madness! Forced imposition, forced behavior. There is no need to regard any woman as mother, sister, daughter, or wife. No need at all. She is she, you are you.

And notice—your brahmachari doesn’t tell you: consider every man your father, son, brother. Why? If you are going to be so obsessive about women, arrange something for men too! But nothing is prescribed regarding men—because there is no need to impose anything there. The natural sex-drive must be suppressed.

Be a witness, Kanhaiyalal Dwivedi. These useless prescriptions will do nothing. Latpatanand must be lying in hell—if there is one.

Now you say, “Your words attract me.”

You are fortunate—your intelligence has not been totally corrupted; some awareness remains; some understanding is left. Latpatanand did not entirely ruin you.

And you say, “They also seem strange.”

They seem strange because that Latpatanand…! If Latpatanand did not seem strange to you, my words are bound to seem strange. Just look at the name—Latpatanand! And he did not seem strange! Then my words will. Now you must choose.

And you are certainly fortunate that you say, “I could not live according to his teaching.” Good that you couldn’t. Had you, you would be in a madhouse. Had you, you would have ended up like Latpatanand, in some scandal. Saved—life saved and fortunes earned; the simpleton comes back home!

Now you ask, “For the search of truth, is discipline needed or a free, unrestrained life?”

A self-disciplined, free life. Between discipline and free life there is a conflict—if discipline is imposed by others and freedom is your own. But hear my phrase: a self-disciplined free life—a free life lived in the light of one’s own awareness. Then there is no conflict.

Discipline and free life, as commonly understood, clash. Discipline means: do what others say, while your own being wants otherwise—there is struggle. Whatever creates inner struggle weakens you, destroys you, corrupts you.

I say: a self-disciplined free life. Your discipline should arise from your own meditation, your own awareness. Then there will be no conflict between discipline and freedom—both will spring from the same source. Then revolution happens; a music begins within; a harmony settles. All conflicts and dualities fall.

From this conflict comes your dilemma: “Shall I take sannyas or shall I marry?”

It is not an either-or. Take sannyas—and marry as well. Sannyas has no conflict with marriage. In fact, if you take sannyas and do not marry, you will become a Latpatanand.

Take sannyas and marry. Be a sannyasin and live in the world—as the lotus lives in water. This is the precise definition of sannyas. Not running away. Do not flee the world; live it consciously. The world is God’s grace, an immense opportunity given by Him. Recognize all its colors and forms. Live its movements—but not in unconsciousness. Live with awareness.

Whatever is done in awareness does not create bondage; it brings freedom. Whatever is done in unconsciousness brings bondage, not freedom. In unconsciousness you may even take sannyas, run away from home—and still remain bound. Unconsciousness is bondage.

The world is not binding you; your stupor binds you. So I have only one teaching—break unconsciousness, break the stupor; take hold of the thread of awakening. Then if your awakening says there is no need of marriage, don’t marry. And if your awakening says, “No, some desires remain within which I can transcend only by living them consciously,” then marry—without any guilt. Let your awakening decide, not me.

That is why I give my sannyasins no code of conduct, no imposed discipline. Who am I to force myself upon anyone? I only give awareness—the indication. My sannyas is only for those who have intelligence, the courage and capacity to awaken awareness. It is not for cowards.

And to keep cowards out, I have made arrangements to stop them at the door.

A Jain gentleman from Ludhiana said to me, “Everyone should have the facility to meet you.” Why? Why should everyone have that facility? Only one who shows enough intelligence and attention to be able to walk with me will have that facility.

Why should everyone have the facility to waste my time? I am also free. If you are free to seek to meet me, I am free to choose whether to meet you. I am the master of my life and of my consciousness.

I want to meet those in whom I see a possibility. I want to meet sannyasins—those ready to walk the path—not just anyone. So don’t think someone else is preventing you from meeting me.

Whatever happens in this ashram is at my indication. Do not imagine anyone else is stopping you from coming to me. There is no stopper. The day I wish to meet, no one will stop you.

I do not wish to meet everyone. What have I to do with crowds? I am not a politician gathering crowds. Politicians spend money to gather crowds; here, you have to spend money to come.

For twenty years I let anyone come. Then I saw it was a mob of fools! In this crowd only my time was being wasted. I can serve those who have courage. Crowds of cowards would gather and block those who should reach me. So I had to sift the crowd.

And I have my own ways of sifting. I sift in a second—by a small remark. I don’t have to do much.

There used to be a crowd of Jains around me. In two days I sifted them—said a few things about Jainism, and they fled! Gandhians clustered—said a few things about Gandhi, and they fled! If I need to sift, I just say one thing, and they leave on their own.

I want only those who agree to walk this path of fire—a few of them. There is no arrangement to meet me for everyone, nor is there any need. I have no desire for it. I am not a leader; I do not need your votes. Why should I care for crowds?

So I will say what I have to say, as I have to say it—without the least compromise. Let heads roll—mine or yours—I don’t care.

I give my sannyasins no discipline. Yes, I give them the key to know the self—meditation. When one begins to know oneself, a revolution happens in conduct on its own. If he wishes to drink milk—let him. Eat fruit—fine. Eat meat—fine. I say nothing.

But look around here: millions who came to me were non-vegetarians, and quietly they became vegetarian. I never told anyone to become vegetarian. This I call revolution. I never said, “Become vegetarian.”

People have come here from all over the world—most of the world eats meat.

Jains send their children to study in the West. They all become non-vegetarians! What non-violence did they teach? I know doctors—my friends—who went to the West to study and came back meat eaters. Now they eat in secret. They eat eggs and also go to the Jain temple! On the outside “Ahimsa paramo dharmah” still hangs.

Had they not gone West, they would still be vegetarian—but it would be a lie. The West exposed the lie, tore the thin veil of hypocrisy. In the West they felt that meat gives bodily strength; so they learned to eat. All the teaching and discipline vanished. Yet they still hide it from others; the outer mask remains.

I was a guest in a doctor’s house. When I saw eggs in his refrigerator, I said, “You are a Jain—how the eggs?” He said, “From you I need not hide. At least I can tell you the truth that I eat eggs. But I cannot tell anyone else. I eat in secret. Without eggs I cannot manage. I stayed five years in the West—learned to eat eggs and more besides. I had to drop the rest because it is hard to hide here. But eggs I manage—my compounder brings them quietly.”

But outwardly he is still seen worshiping at the Digambara Jain temple; “Ahimsa paramo dharmah” hangs in his drawing room.

So much hypocrisy must be arranged.

Here people have come from all over the world. I have never told anyone to give up meat; I never will. But whoever goes deep in meditation begins to see clearly: for a little pleasure of my tongue, to take someone’s life? It begins to feel stupid; it falls away on its own.

Most who come here used to drink alcohol. In the West wine is drunk like water is drunk here.

Wine is no sin in the world—nor should it be. It is vegetarian—more vegetarian than milk! Merely the juice of grapes—call it fruit-diet! Food of slightly rotten fruit. Each to his taste—some like rotten fruit. Fresh grapes they won’t eat; they let them rot—then drink. But more sattvic than milk!

Then, coming here, their drinking drops by itself—because as meditation deepens, one understands why one drank: to forget sorrow. Now there is no sorrow—what is there to forget? Another understanding dawns: life is becoming joyous, blooming. If you drink wine, joy is forgotten. Who wants to forget joy?

Wine’s function is to make you forget. If you are miserable—it makes you forget misery. If you are joyous—it makes you forget joy. But who wants to forget joy? One who does not want to forget joy will stop drinking by himself.

I don’t tell anyone to stop drinking, nor to stop meat. I don’t talk such petty, small talk.

I give the essential. Then it is your life. I hand you a lamp—by its light you go where you will. If you want to bang into a wall, you can; if you want to go out the door, you can. I only know this: one who holds a lamp finds the door—he doesn’t bang into walls. One without a lamp—tell him a thousand times not to bang into walls, he will.

So: take sannyas, meditate—and there is no conflict with marriage. There is nothing wrong in marriage. And when a meditator marries, there is a fragrance in that marriage—no bondage, but freedom. From his love, prayer begins to arise. Even from his lovemaking, the fragrance of samadhi begins to waft.

And a man of repression may sit eyes closed doing asanas—but inside the same storms of sex rage on.

Real revolution is within, not without. The outside is deception; inside is revolution.

Kanhaiyalal Dwivedi, if you want to pass life through revolution—if you have the courage—then sannyas.

I do not say, “Do not marry.” So don’t be afraid that if you take sannyas you will not be able to marry. This is the uniqueness of my sannyas—it does not break you from the world. I am here to join, not to break—to join you to the Divine. And this world too is of the Divine—why break from it? Join with gratitude, with thankfulness, with grace.

If you have no relish for His creation, what relish will you have for the Creator! If you do not love the music, how will you love the musician? If you do not love the dance, how will you love the dancer?

This is God’s dance—the songs that burst from the throats of birds, the flowers blooming on trees—these are God’s colors and ways. Love them. The beauty of persons—of women, of men—this too is God’s expression. Do not run from it. But live it awake. And from awakening, everything happens.

Nagendra! Were you in love—or were you eager to possess a woman? Because your words say, “She betrayed me and became someone else’s!” What difference does that make to love? If that young woman is happier with someone else, you should be glad. Love only wants the one we love to be happier, to be delighted. If she is more joyful with someone else than with you, where is the reason to lose the savor of life?

But we don’t really love; in the name of love we do something else—possession, proprietorship. You wanted to be the husband. Husband means the master. And she became someone else’s!

And the irony is: you say you loved her. In your question you haven’t even told me whether she loved you. If she did, she would have been with you. That you loved her does not mean she must love you. Love is not coercion. You loved—your choice. She did not—she too has a soul, a freedom. If one person falls in love and the other does not respond, there can be no force.

You are free to love; you are not free to own another. To want to engulf someone’s life, to dominate it—that is ego, not love. Love knows how to give freedom.

Be happy that wherever she is, she is well and content. That, after all, is what you wanted—for her to be happy. But no—perhaps that isn’t what you wanted. Perhaps you wanted her to walk as your shadow, to soothe your ego, to become your ornament so you could tell the world, “Look, I conquered this young woman!”—a trophy, a flag of victory. That was your ego’s arrangement. And where ego is, love is not.

And perhaps it is precisely because of this ego that she became someone else’s. She must have been sensible. Good for her—she became someone else’s. Had she been yours, you would have tormented her. Your ego suggests you would have sat like a stone on her chest.

Now you say, “I go on living, but there is no savor left in life.”

Did you live before you saw the young woman or not? Was there zest then or not? What has gone wrong now? You lived without her before—you hadn’t even met her—and you still lived!

People come to me and ask, “We are very afraid—what will happen after death?” I ask them, “Do you have any fear about what was before birth? Do you know whether you were or were not?” They say, “We don’t know anything.” I say, “Then that is exactly what will be after death—what was before birth. So why the panic?”

You know nothing of before birth; you will know nothing of after death. What are you worrying about?

Before you met the young woman you were alive—and there was plenty of savor. And after seeing her you lost all savor? Are you such a slave? And keep faith in tomorrow—tomorrow you might meet another young woman—more beautiful, more attractive—and then you will thank God that you were rid of that earlier one!

Mulla Nasruddin was walking with his wife. A beautiful woman passed by. She snagged his eye; it got stuck. Wives catch these things instantly. His wife said at once, “Looking at such a beautiful woman you must forget that you’re married!” Nasruddin said, “No, no, Fazlu’s mother! It’s only when I see such women that I remember—oh dear, I’m married! Alas, I’m married! Only then do I remember.”

Trust tomorrow. If you were deceived yesterday, you will be deceived again tomorrow—what is the hurry?

And you ask: “There is no savor in life. What should I do now?”

If savor comes only this way, then go and find someone else. Are we short of young women? The earth is full. But if you want to talk sense, think a little.

You must have read children’s tales. In them a king puts his life into a parrot. Then he cannot be killed. Until the parrot is killed, the king cannot be killed. Hit the king as much as you like—he won’t die, his life is hidden in the parrot. Catch the parrot and kill it, and the king dies.

Those stories are exactly right. You have put your life into that girl—pawned it so quickly! Do you hand your very life to just anyone?

“The very sap of life has gone.”

There can’t have been much sap. You are in the illusion that there was. Does sap vanish like that? You don’t even know what sap is. Those who know have said: “Raso vai sah.” They defined God as rasa—essence, sap, joy. They recognized only God as the true savor; nothing else has any lasting savor.

Had you gotten the woman, the savor would also have gone—and being tied to her would be another matter. Then it would be hard to get free. Ask the one she has married—what is his condition? Know his griefs too; you’ll find great consolation, great reassurance.

A politician once went to visit a madhouse. One man was tearing his hair, beating his chest, holding a woman’s photo, tears streaming—hugging the photo to his chest. He was behind bars. The politician asked the superintendent, “What happened to this man? What is he doing? Whose photo is this?” The superintendent said, “It’s the photo of a woman he wanted to have but couldn’t. Since he failed, he went mad—must have been a Nagendra-type! He tears his hair, cries, hugs the photo, screams. We had to keep him here; his family was driven to despair; he ruined everyone’s peace.” The politician said, “Poor fellow!”

They went on. In the next cage a man was shaking the bars, banging his head till it bled. “What happened to this poor man?” The superintendent said, “Better not ask. He married the very woman the first man is dying for. Since he married her, this has been his state—he bangs his head on the bars, on the walls, is bent on suicide. We had to keep him here so he wouldn’t kill himself.”

Whom will you pity—the one who didn’t get the woman, or the one who did? Whose life has savor?

Look at those whose sweethearts they did get, whose lovers they did marry. Take a look there. Where is the savor? They are bored. Whenever you see a couple looking dejected, know they are married. Whenever you see a man and woman quarreling, know they are married. See them at each other’s throats—know they are married!

Open your eyes and look around a little.

You ask me, “I go on living, but there is no savor left in life.”

Will you lose life’s savor so quickly? Life is for something far greater. Life is for attaining a vaster sky. There are more milestones ahead, more heavens yet.

In the desert of the heart there isn’t even a firefly of hope.
I have wept so much there are no tears left in my eyes.
The garden breeze wanders carrying the tang of pain;
In the hem of my garment there isn’t even your love’s fragrance.
The very sense of beauty has slipped from my eyes;
There isn’t that first magic left in your picture.
Wave upon wave the crimson of your sorrow blooms;
I have no hold over this procession of hues.
That wretched heart keeps on beating;
It’s another matter that you are not by my side.
This is a strange thoroughfare—there are so many rocks,
And not even the arms of your memory to lean on.

You will forget soon enough. Then you’ll get entangled again—and forget again. Right now it feels that

In the desert of the heart there isn’t even a firefly of hope.
I have wept so much there are no tears left in my eyes.

But all this weeping, the snuffing of hopes, even the vanishing of fireflies—won’t last long. Man is very skilled at hatching illusions. Wait a bit—you’ll hatch a new illusion. One delusion has not even fully broken before we create the next! Then again the stream of “savor” will begin to flow—though that stream is utterly false. The true stream flows only in the life of one who is filled with the love of God. In these small loves there is no love, only attachments—mistaken for love. Love is merely a pretty word here. Strip the word and you’ll find nothing inside—no meaning, no glory, no dignity, no poetry, no music.

Till now no one has suffered as I have:
I burned in springtimes and was swept along the shores.
I looked into every eye for love for myself;
My heart, full of love, remained hungry for love.
Will my life keep sobbing on like this?
Will I never find a support?
Spring looks back, but it does not pause—
Will not even a single flower ever bloom for me?
What compulsion could be greater than this:
I had to tread upon the corpses of my own desires.
What I had hidden for such a long time,
Today I had to reveal before everyone.
Till now no one has suffered as I have:
I burned in springtimes and was swept along the shores.
I looked into every eye for love for myself;
My heart, full of love, remained hungry for love.

If you are seeking love in this world, it is like trying to squeeze oil from sand—you are seeking where it is not.

From whom are you begging love? Look closely: the one you are begging from is begging from you! He hasn’t got it; you haven’t got it. Here everyone is asking everyone else; and all are beggars. You want the other to give you love; the other wants you to give it. Neither pauses to ask: does anyone actually have it to give?

First it must be in you—only then can it be given. That is why everyone here is defeated, tired, troubled, tormented—not only you.

Understand. Do not miss this opportunity. That young woman who became someone else’s has shown you great kindness, compassion. She has shown great love toward you. She has given you a chance to see.

You were asking for love. But do you have it? One who has it does not ask—he gives. One who does not have it asks.

And from whom should you ask? Ask from the one who has it. And where does the spring of love flow? Where there is meditation—there is love. Without meditation there is no love.

Love is the shadow of meditation; love is meditation’s flower. Buddhas have love. Ask from them—or don’t ask, they give anyway. Hold out your bowl—or don’t—they shower anyway.

Go where there is light and light will fall on you; your asking or not asking is beside the point. A flower blooms; if you pass nearby, its fragrance will reach you. Asking or not asking does not arise.

But in this world a strange scene is playing out: beggars stand before beggars with their bowls held out—“Give me something, Baba, anything!”—and the other is also begging. Both are in the delusion that the other might have it. No one has it.

Only a few have love—those who have touched the ultimate depths of meditation. Love is the outcome of meditation.

And the wonder is that the meditative person never asks anyone for love; he gives—only gives, never asks.

Understand also—this is life’s grand arithmetic: the giver receives in abundance, though he never asks. He doesn’t even ration his giving. He simply keeps sharing—and upon him, so much pours down. It showers from the sky, from the clouds, from the moon and stars. God fills him from every side. He keeps on scattering; God keeps on giving!

“Raso vai sah”—God is of the nature of savor, essence. But who finds God? The one who has awakened within; who has broken all inner stupor and sleep; who has ripped out the layers of unconsciousness; who has uprooted insensibility; who has lit himself within—who has become illumined. God descends into him; the stream of rasa begins to flow.

Nagendra, the way you are thinking ends in suicide. What I am pointing to ends in self-transformation. And let me tell you this too: at the moment of contemplating suicide, the possibility of self-transformation is greatest—because when a man comes to a place where there is no way forward, where the road ends—right there revolution happens. Otherwise it does not.

Do not miss this moment. This is your moment to awaken.

Turn your gaze from love to meditation. Love deceived you—it was bound to, because it was not love. Meditation has never deceived anyone—not to this day. Whoever has raised his eyes toward meditation has become rich, a sovereign.

And the delight is: among his treasures, love too is included.

Look within: the kingdom of God is there. Come to yourself. Love says, “Catch hold of the other.” Meditation says, “Catch hold of yourself.” On the surface the paths of love and meditation seem opposite—and with your kind of love they are opposite.

Your gaze is stuck on that young woman—stuck on the “other.” What kind of business is that? First find yourself. Only then go in search of the other. And I tell you: find yourself, and others will come in search of you. You won’t have to search for anyone.

Become radiant, and your rays will call others to you. From far and wide people will come—to drink at your spring, to quench their thirst.

Do something by which you find savor—and others, too, receive savor. Do something by which God begins to overflow from you.

And when a man comes to that place where he thinks, “Now I will finish myself...” Surely you must have thought many times, “Let me erase myself; life is no life; there is no savor; I just go on living—what is the point? Why not end it?”

When you are ready to end it, do one more thing first—then end it if you must. Do this one thing beforehand: know who I am. Then, if you must, commit suicide. Yet whoever has known himself has never committed suicide—because he knows suicide cannot be. The soul is immortal. Try to erase it, it will not erase; try to burn it, it will not burn.

Recognize this eternal, and extraordinary happenings occur. Miracles happen. Magic enters life. You touch dust and it becomes gold. You touch a thorn and it turns into a flower. The whole existence begins to glitter with God.

Shine within, and lamps light up without. They are already lit—you are just blind, so you don’t see. From every side the savor begins to flow toward you. Flow with it—then see.

Use this hour of crisis. In my understanding, hours of crisis are hours of great good fortune. The wise turn them into blessings; the foolish—into curses. It all depends on you. Enough for today.