Kahe Hot Adheer #10

Prayer is not Hindu, not Muslim, not Christian—prayer is heartfelt. And the heart has no connection with sects, nor with scriptures. The heart is related to celebration, to joy, to music, to dance. The dance of the heart, the music of the heart, the celebration of the heart—that is what prayer is.

If you begin to look at existence with festive eyes, the twenty-four hours of your life will be transformed into prayer. In eyes rippling with celebration, prayer will be heard in the voices of birds. The verses of the Quran will pale; the shlokas of the Gita—distant echoes; the riks of the Vedas—meaningless. They will see the advent of prayer in the rising sun of morning.

Whoever has not seen prayer in the rising sun will never be able to see God. The blush spread across the eastern sky, the fresh morning breeze, the birds’ songs, their flight, the sudden blooming of flowers—and you do not see prayer? Even the birds know the hour of celebration has arrived. Even the flowers know it is time to open, to pour out their fragrance! But you do not know.

Man’s mind has turned to stone! And the reason lies exactly here. Someone is Hindu, someone Muslim, someone Jain, someone Christian—no one is simply human.

There was a great sage in Greece—Diogenes. He would carry a lit lantern even in broad daylight. Whoever he met on the road, he would lift the lantern to their face and look closely. People thought him mad. They would ask: “Diogenes, in the blaze of midday why do you keep a lantern burning?”
Diogenes would say, “I am searching for a human being. A human being is nowhere to be seen. I have lifted my lantern to countless faces, but the human is absent.”
And they say that when Diogenes was dying, someone asked, “Diogenes, you searched your whole life for a human being—did you find one?”
Diogenes said, “I did not find a human being, but is it not fortune enough that no one stole my lantern? My lantern survived—that is much.”
In Athens it survived. Had he been in New Delhi, even the lantern would not have survived.

Where has man been lost? In which jungle? In the jungle of scriptures, of words! And prayer has no relation to scriptures, no relation to words; it is the wordless call of the heart.

Prayer is always private, never collective—because the heart is personal. No two persons’ prayers can be the same. And when you “learn” prayer, it becomes formal.

Mulla Nasruddin was in love with a woman. When the affair broke, Mulla went to demand back the things he had gifted—“Give me back the ring I gave, the bangles, all of it.”
The woman was angry; she gathered it all and threw it at him. Mulla still stood there.
She said, “Why are you still standing? Take your things and get going.”
Mulla said, “And the letters I wrote—return those too.”
The woman was a little startled. “You can ask for a gold ring, fine; the pearl necklace, fine. But letters—what will you do with those?”
Mulla said, “Well, no point hiding now! I used to get them written by the neighborhood pundit. I paid one rupee per letter. And my life is still ahead of me—I’ll fall in love again. Those letters will come in handy. Otherwise I’ll have to get them written all over again.”

Even love letters are borrowed, written by someone else! You laugh at that. But your prayer? That too is a love letter addressed to the Divine, a love missive. It too is borrowed. You learned it from the priests. It is not yours.

If it rises from your heart, then even if your words are lisping, it will reach. But let the call be your own—not stale, not borrowed. Simple and direct; there is no need for formality. No ornate embellishment is needed. Do not live under the delusion that some God understands only Sanskrit—that if you pray in Sanskrit, then he will understand. If you yourself do not understand, how on earth will God understand! The first understanding must happen on your side. And if you have understood, then in your very understanding, God has understood. If your heart is brimming, suffused with rasa; if you sway, if you begin to dance—if anklets tie themselves to your feet and song bursts from your throat—then even if it isn’t very poetic, it doesn’t need to be—it will surely reach!

Whatever is heartfelt is true. Whatever is intellectual is false.

You ask, Avinash: “What is prayer?”
The call of the heart! A compassionate cry! For man is alone. Man has very small hands, and the ocean so vast—how will he swim across! So man longs and beseeches existence: “Be with me! O birds, give me wings! O sun, give me light! O moon and stars, fill my path with lamps!” What else is prayer? It is the asking of existence: “I am alone, so small—and life is large, immense. My feet are very small, my strength very limited—and the peaks to be climbed are high. O winds, carry me! O clouds, lift me!” It is a plaintive cry. Like a small child crying for his mother—just so. Prayer is woven of tears, not of words; it is forged in helplessness, not in punditry.

Prayer is a state of wonderment. This world is so full of astonishment! Moment by moment miracles are happening—wonder upon wonder! A seed splits open and sprouts—and you are not amazed? A seed that was like a pebble brings forth green leaves! A seed that was a nothing—if you had cut it open you would have found neither green leaves nor a crimson flower. A gust of rain came, the seed sprouted, green leaves unfurled, crimson flowers began to wake—and you are not amazed? Such a vast existence, moving with such order! Infinite stars, and they do not collide!

Open your eyes just a little and you will be drowned in wonder. That wonder is the mother of prayer. Open your eyes and you will bow in gratitude. How much has been given! What is your deserving? Eyes to see the moon and stars; ears to hear the nectar-like music; hands to touch existence; a heart to experience that which cannot be grasped, which even the intellect cannot comprehend. So much has been given by some unknown source—will you not say thank you? That very thankfulness is prayer.

And seeing this mystery, does not a yearning arise to know more and more? To go and knock upon the doors of existence and say, “Open the doors; let me in; let me know more and more, recognize more and more—let me know so much that nothing remains left to be known! Awaken me so completely that all my sleep drops away!” Such a knocking given at the doors of existence is called prayer.

Draw open the temple curtains
From the city of love I, your handmaid, have come—draw open the temple curtains.
I, your handmaid, have brought diamonds and pearls—draw open the temple curtains.
Such pearls that the moon would hide before their blaze,
such diamonds whose radiance would put the sun to shame—
they prick the eyes; let the sting of the eyes be their measure.
Draw open the temple curtains.

Who played this tune on the flute at dawn?
In that very moment my eyes opened—this too is my fortune.
Cuckoo, peacock, papiha, shyama, while all men and women sleep,
deep in their dreams, intoxicated with dreaming,
the whole world is a corpse, O priest—my diamonds and pearls are rolling away.
Draw open the temple curtains.

In these two eyes are a hundred tears—the madwoman’s offering.
My eyes are only clay—but these offerings are priceless.
Open a little the curtain of that temple where Giridhari dwells,
that Giridhari for whom the whole world would lay down its life.
How long have I cried, poor me—listen to my words.
Draw open the temple curtains.
From the city of love I, your handmaid, have come—draw open the temple curtains.

Prayer is a call in the presence of existence, a knock—no more than that. In which words you say it, in which language—you choose. I cannot give you a ready-made prayer.

People often come and ask me to compose a prayer that all my sannyasins can share. I tell them: if I compose it, it will be false for you. You must coin your own prayer.

There is a famous story by Tolstoy: in Russia three fakirs became very renowned—so renowned that the head priest of Russia grew jealous: “Who are these fakirs to whom thousands are going? I am the head of the Church—who are these who have become saints!”
In Christianity there is a great madness: a saint is only a saint when the Church certifies him. You may have often thought that the Hindi word “sant” and the English “saint” are forms of the same word. No—there is a great difference. The Hindi “sant” is born of sat—truth: one who has known truth; not only known it, one who has become one with truth; who has ended in truth, has drowned himself in it; who is no more—only truth remains. He whose ending has happened in truth, we call him sant. The English “saint” comes in a different way; it comes from “sanction.” Sanction means governmental or ecclesiastical approval. The one whom the Church approves—that one is a saint.
In these meanings, in India there is no saint except Vinoba Bhave, for he alone is a governmental saint; all the rest are non-governmental.

The priest was very anxious; his worry kept growing, because slowly the crowds stopped coming to church. One day in anger he went to find those saints. Across a lake, on the far shore, those saints dwelt. He had a boatman row him over. He wore the full regalia of the Church’s head—medallions dangling, a crown of gold upon his head, in his hand the golden staff of the high priest. In full finery he went, determined to set those “saints” straight. He disembarked, and was surprised: under a bush sat three simple, rustic men! He asked, “Are you the three saints?”
They said, “Saints? No, no—what worthiness have we to be saints! We are simple villagers. But people won’t listen. People keep coming—we tell them not to. The more we forbid, the more they come. They’ve made it hard for us to live. You’ve come at a good time—save us. This crowding doesn’t suit us. We were fine on our own. How did word spread among people? Who spread it?”
The head priest was delighted. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “What do you do sitting here all day?”
They said, “What else will we do—we pray!”
“Where is the Bible?”
The three looked at one another. “Forgive us—we can’t read. What would we do with a Bible even if we kept one?”
Then the priest was even more pleased. “They can’t even read the Bible—how could they be saints? I’ll demolish them! The crowd will have to return to Church.” He said, “Then what is your prayer? You say you pray—what do you pray?”
They lowered their eyes to the ground.
“Why don’t you speak?” the priest said. “Why are you ashamed?”
They said, “How can we tell you? We feel great embarrassment. The fact is—we don’t even know how to pray. The prayers sanctioned by the Church are very long and difficult.”
“Then what do you pray?” he pressed. “Don’t be afraid. I will forgive you and have you forgiven.”
They said, “Since you insist, we must tell you. Forgive us—we are unlettered, rustic. We made our own prayer.”
The priest’s happiness swelled. “A prayer of your own could be of any use? Prayer must be sanctioned—by scripture, by saints, by tradition, by centuries, with the support of the past!
“When a Hindu recites the Gayatri, he knows that for ten thousand years sages have supported it. If sages have supported it for ten thousand years, surely there is some secret in it. And if ten thousand years don’t satisfy, Hindu pundits try to prove it is even older. Lokmanya Tilak here in Poona tried to prove the Gayatri is ninety thousand years old. The older, the more exalted—as if prayer were a kind of wine: the older, the better! The more rotten, the more precious! How could you make a prayer yourselves? Hence the Hindu arrogance that ‘our’ prayers are the most ancient. The Jews’ are not that old; the Christians’ are only nineteen hundred years old; the Muslims’ a mere fourteen hundred; and the Sikhs’ only five hundred.”
The Jains too claim that their prayers are no less ancient than the Hindus’; indeed older. Because the first Jain seer is mentioned in the Vedas, the first Tirthankara is mentioned; hence Jainism must be older than the Rigveda. Since Adinath is mentioned with such respect in the Rigveda, it proves, they say, that Adinath was no longer alive—because living men are never granted such respect. He must have died—indeed centuries must have passed; only then do people give such respect. People’s habits are old and unchanged—honor the dead, insult the living. So this respectful mention of Adinath in the Rigveda, the Jains claim, proves that hundreds of years had already passed since him. Thus our prayers are even more ancient, they say.
Everyone here—every religion—tries to prove that their scripture is older. The older, the higher the prestige—as if scriptures were shopfronts in a marketplace. An old shop has reputation; reputations and names sell. A shop that has been running for a thousand years—its name alone is worth millions. Just take the label and you obtain a thousand years of prestige.

The priest said, “You made a prayer? A heinous crime! Prayers are not made; they are revealed. God himself gave Jesus the prayer; how did you make one? Still, speak—what is your prayer?”
They said, “You have frightened us. Better you don’t ask us, for if you hear, you will be very angry. And seeing that staff in your hand, we are very afraid. And your golden crown and your regalia… we touch your feet, forgive us! You teach us the real prayer—we will recite that.”
But the priest’s curiosity had been aroused. “What on earth is your prayer?”
They said, “Since you insist, we will tell you. We thought a lot. We are uneducated, rustic. We calculated and calculated—what prayer to do? Then we three decided on one thing. Christianity believes God has three forms—just as Hindus believe in the Trimurti—Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh—so Christians believe in the Trinity. So we made a prayer: You are three, we are three—have mercy on us!”
The grave priest too burst into laughter. “This is the limit of prayer! I have heard many prayers, but is this any prayer—‘You are three, we are three—have mercy on us’? You are three, we are three—have mercy on us! Is this a prayer?”
He was pleased that he would put them on the right path. He taught them the real prayer—the Church’s sanctioned prayer—long, written in archaic language. He recited it once. They said, “Once more.” He recited it twice. They said, “Once more, because we will forget—and a prayer should have no mistake. Our prayer was such that no mistake could happen. We could never forget it—‘We are three, You are three—have mercy on us!’ There was no way to forget it; we could repeat it even in sleep, even in a dream. It was only this much to remember: You are three, we are three—have mercy on us! What else remained—everything was included. But your prayer is long.”
They listened a third time. And the priest said, “Do not worry—come to Church now and then. Slowly your lives will improve.”
He was very happy: one nuisance resolved. He boarded his boat and set off across the lake. Midway, the boatman was astonished, and so was the priest—the three fakirs were running toward them over the water. Seeing them walk upon the water, the priest’s breath stopped. This miracle had been performed only by Jesus—walking on water! The three came running—breathless, sweating—and reached the very side of the boat and said, “Please stop—recite the prayer once more. We have already forgotten it! We fell into an argument. This one says it starts this way; I say it starts that way; the third says otherwise. You have created even more confusion. Now shall we debate or shall we pray?”
The priest’s eyes were opened. Bowing, he touched their feet and said, “Forgive me. Your prayer was right—because it has been heard. My prayer is wrong—because it has not been heard yet. I cannot walk on water—that is not my courage. I cannot put my feet upon water—my faith is not yet such. Go back! Forget what I said. In fact, from today I too will pray as you prayed. Your prayer has won; mine has lost.”

That is Tolstoy’s story. But it is significant. Which prayer wins? The one that is heartfelt, that sprouts within you. Find your own prayer.

Therefore when someone asks me to compose a prayer for my sannyasins, I always refuse. No prayer will be manufactured. Yes—I will give hints about what prayer is. Then you search. I will give you a feel for how roses happen, what roses are like, a little taste of their fragrance. Then I will say: go into the forest, find roses, and distill your own perfume from them. Distill your perfume and you will become fragrant.

Prayer needs to be learned no more than love needs to be learned. You are born with the capacity for love; just so, you are born with the capacity for prayer. Simply let your love grow. Let love expand—let there be no boundary for love! Let it not stop with the wife, or with the son, or with the mother, or with the brother—let it go on spreading! And I am not saying, “Do not love your wife.”

Understand the distinction here. There have been people who told you: if you want to love God, do not love your wife, do not love your husband, do not love your children. That would mean God is a competitor to wife and children—jealous!

Mulla Nasruddin was traveling by train. His wife sat beside him. On the seat opposite sat a very beautiful young woman. Mulla kept stealing glances at her. The wife was burning with jealousy. But Mulla hadn’t done anything for which she could scold him. And he looked in such a way as if by chance—looking here and there, he happened to see her. He didn’t stare; otherwise she would have set him right. The young woman’s husband was also present, which gave Mulla a little courage—no need to be afraid. Mulla sat by the window. From his pocket a handkerchief, caught by the gusts of wind, slowly slid outward. The woman opposite said, “Sir, take care of your handkerchief, or else it will fly out.” Mulla’s wife exploded. “You shameless one! Your husband’s cigarette has been burning a hole in his coat—I have said nothing; I’ve been watching for an hour. Whether my husband’s handkerchief flies or not, what is that to you?”

What we call love in this world is filled with jealousy. It is just another name for jealousy. And your priests have taught you that God too is very jealous. Love your own child and he will be offended. Love your brother and he will be annoyed. Love your wife and he will consign you to hell—“While I am here, you loved your wife! Your husband!”
I cannot say this to you. Because of such fools, love has vanished from the world. And when love is lost, how will prayer survive? When flowers are gone, from where will perfume come? I tell you: love profusely, love to your heart’s content—your wife, your husband, your children, your brother, your friends. Only remember one thing: let no boundary be formed. As when you throw a pebble into a lake—it falls at one point, but the ripple rises and goes on and on, far and farther… touching distant shores. And existence has no shore. Let the ripples rising from your love go far, far—into the infinite.

If love does not stop anywhere, it becomes prayer. Prayer is not the opposite of love; it is the expansion of the waves that arise from love’s pebble. Therefore refine your love. Do not run away from love; cultivate it. Water the garden of love; manure it.

The prayer I am teaching you is love in its purest form. Hence it is neither difficult, nor does it need to be learned—because you have brought love with you from nature. Every child is born with the capacity to love. As every seed hides a flower, so every soul hides love.

But you have been taught such things that your love cannot develop. Everywhere it is imprisoned in jails. And when love is imprisoned, it begins to rot. And if love rots, a great stench rises from it. This whole earth has been filled with the stench of rotten love.

Why does rotten love stink? Because if love had developed, fragrance would have arisen. That from which fragrance arises—if it rots, stench will arise. Do not let your love rot; do not let it stop anywhere. Do not accept any boundary, do not manufacture any definition. Do not say, “I will love only Hindus, because I am a Hindu.” Do not say, “I will love only Indians, because I am Indian.” Make no boundary—neither of country, nor of caste, nor of class. Let your love flow unobstructed. Let love be your religion. Then it will not be long before you become acquainted with prayer. On the final branches of the tree of love, the flower of prayer blooms.

Krishnatirth! That is exactly why I say: celebrate! No one goes, no one goes anywhere. There is no way to go, no place to go. We are eternal. Amritasya putrah—we are the children of the immortal. We dissolve into the immortal. Like a drop that loses itself in the ocean. You will not find him by searching now; but he is not lost—he has become the ocean.

So it is right that you feel you still cannot believe he has gone.
Where would he go? Yes, within the limits of the body to which he was bound, he is no longer. And you could only see the body. That is the weakness of your eyes; it is not the fault of the one who has gone. You could recognize only matter—that is your problem. If only you could recognize the soul within yourself, then no one could ever deceive you with death. Even in death you would know: only the body has fallen; life has merged into the great Life.

Not all people, after death, are absorbed into the great Life, because their attachment to the body remains. If attachment to the body remains, that same noose of attachment pulls them back into a new body. One who leaves having dropped all attachment to the body—there is no way for his return, no more coming and going.

The day of his great departure…
He had been in the hospital for five weeks. Not even for a single day did he send word that I should come to see him. I went twice, whenever I felt there was danger. But on the last day he sent word, from morning itself; I said, “I will come.” I sent word back, “I am coming,” and his immediate message returned: “No need—don’t trouble yourself needlessly.”

Even then, I went at three o’clock. I was delighted, because the attachment he had to me—the desire to see me—was his last bond; that too had broken. And when I told him, “Your room has been prepared, a new bathroom too; in a day or two you’ll be discharged. We’ve also arranged a new car for you—because now the leg pains, walking will be difficult—the new car has come…” he showed no curiosity about the new car, nor the new room, nor the new bathroom; he only shrugged his shoulders, said nothing. Had he shown even a little taste for it, he would have had to return. When he shrugged, I was happy. The shrug meant: all this is pointless now. All houses are pointless now, all cars are pointless now. Where to come and go anymore? Still, I repeated and pressed, “Don’t worry; just a matter of a day or two—we will take you home.” Even then he did not say, “I will come home”; he only said, “Yes, we will do kirtan.”

He came home—not alive. And since he had said, “We will do kirtan,” I said, “Let the first thing be kirtan.” It was clear to him that the hour of going had come. What home now! The hour to go to the real home had arrived.

Everyone can attain to this state. We do not, because we do not make the effort; we do not dive into meditation. There is only one way—call it meditation, call it prayer, name it as you like—only one way: dive within and know yourself.

That morning his recognizing of himself was complete. I had only one concern: that he might not finish without knowing himself. I had only one worry: that somehow a few more days be drawn out. Because his meditation was almost arriving—like a man who has reached the shore and needs only a step or two more! But if he were to go before taking those last steps, then there would be birth again. And once diverted, who knows whether the auspicious opportunity he had this time would come so easily again? Once adrift, who can say when one may again come near the temple? One thing gives birth to another; the chain can become endless.

So I had only this worry. Whether he would survive was not the question. Only that he survive long enough to take leave of the body forever—that was my concern. Had he survived but without attaining samadhi, I would have been sad. He did not survive—but he did not survive after attaining samadhi; then my joy knows no bounds.

They say a father’s debt can never be repaid. But I tell you: I am freed of the debt. What else could I have given him? He gave me life; I gave him the great Life. There was nothing else to give, there is nothing else to give. After life, the only gift is the great Life. I am happy, delighted. He has gone as one should go. He has taken leave as one should take leave.

Therefore those who were present in his last hour did not feel that death was happening. They felt that the great Life was happening. They did not feel that some dark amavasya descended; they felt it had become a full moon.

After his passing I touched his body in two places. First, the ajna chakra—between the brows. There were only two possibilities: if he had departed from the ajna chakra, he would have had to take birth once more—only once; and if he had departed from the seventh chakra, the sahasrar, then there would be no more birth. I first looked at his ajna chakra; hesitantly I placed my hand there. Because the chakra from which life departs opens—like a bud blossoming into a flower. And those who have experience of the chakras can, with a mere touch, immediately know from where life has departed. I was immensely happy when I found that life had not departed from the ajna chakra. Then I touched his sahasrar, the thousand-petaled lotus—it was open. He has flown from the seventh gate.

Paltu says: Whoever flies from the seventh enters the eighth. Above the seven palaces there is an eighth palace. That eighth palace is nirvana, moksha, kaivalya. That eighth palace is the divine—truth, auspiciousness, beauty—sat-chit-ananda. That is Brahmaloka.

Krishnatirth! He has not gone anywhere; he is here—grown vast, become vaster. Spread out, he is here. Not like a flower, but like fragrance, he is here.

Ramakrishna was on his deathbed. His wife Sarada began to weep and asked, “Paramahamsa Deva! You are going—what will become of me?”
He opened his eyes and said, “Going! Mad girl, where would I go? Where is there any place to go? I was here; I will remain here. I was with a body; now I will be without a body.”

When you blow out a lamp’s flame, where does the flame go?

In the life of the Sufi fakir Hasan it is mentioned: he entered a village at dusk and saw a small boy carrying a lamp, going toward a tomb. In a playful mood he asked, “Son, where are you going with this lamp?”
The boy said, “I am taking it as an offering at the shrine.”
The fakir asked, “Did you light this lamp?”
The boy said, “Yes, I lit it.”
The fakir said, “Answer one question. When you lit the lamp, can you say from where the flame came? You lit it; it arose before your eyes—where did it come from?”
He was only joking with the child. But sometimes jokes prove costly. He did not expect what the boy would do. The boy smiled, looked at the fakir, and blew the lamp out. At once the lamp went dark. The boy asked, “It went out before your very eyes—can you tell where the flame went?”
It is said Hasan bowed and touched the boy’s feet. He said, “I was only joking, but you have struck me hard. The flame neither comes from anywhere nor goes anywhere; it only becomes manifest and unmanifest. It is here. Sometimes in the manifest state it can be seen by you; sometimes in the unmanifest, you do not see it. When the flame is in a body you think it is—though even in the body you do not see the soul; you see only the body—but you infer that the soul must be. A person speaks, rises, walks, eats, drinks—so a soul must be—this is your inference. You have not seen the soul. If you have not seen it in yourself, how will you see it in another? The day you see it in yourself, you will be astonished: the body is nothing, only a sheath! And you have taken the sheath to be everything.”

Surely the sheath will one day fall. But what was within the sheath does not perish. If desire remains, another sheath will be taken up. If desire is exhausted, there is no need to take up a sheath again.

The art and science of religion are engaged in one quest: how to be so free of desire that we need not return to a body—for returning to a body is nothing but suffering and pain. Nine months imprisoned in the mother’s womb, lying in filth, submerged in darkness—no very pleasant state. Then the pain of birth—coming out through a narrow gate. Then the endless pains of life. No desire is fulfilled here; every desire fails. Hence every desire brings dejection. Then sickness, disease, old age; then death—a web of nothing but pain.

Seekers of truth have looked for a life that is only bliss. That life can only be free of body—videha.

Krishnatirth! He has not gone anywhere; he has only become bodiless—he is here. Tears come to your eyes because you cannot bring yourself to trust that he is here. Tears come because death has always been a cause of sorrow. And ordinarily death is a cause of sorrow. But sometimes there are deaths that are not causes of sorrow but of joy. In truth, all deaths should be like that; let your effort, your practice, your sadhana be that you too may die in that way.

In this buddha-field I want to teach you life, and I want to teach you death. Therefore I don’t want to let any occasion pass. The great event of death occurred—I wanted it to become a lesson for you, that even in this you can dance. Tears will come—an old habit, centuries old conditioning.

A friend’s son passed away. A letter came to me from Jalgaon a few days ago—full of anger. A sannyasin’s son died, and they celebrated, did kirtan, danced. A friend of theirs wrote to me in anger: “You have completely corrupted them. If a boy dies in the house, is this a time to dance and celebrate? You should not teach such things.”
Those whose son died—they danced, they celebrated. Those whose son did not die are angry. They say sorrow should have been observed. We are such devotees of sorrow that if there is any occasion for sorrow we will not miss it! Their friend wrote, “Have my relatives gone mad?”

The world is like this. Whatever the world does is right. Do anything different and the world is angry.

I do not want to teach you only the lesson of life; I want to teach you the lesson of death too. Now there are a hundred thousand sannyasins of mine; many are elderly. Gradually they will go, take leave. I would like you to learn the art, the way of giving farewell.

One thing is certain: many sannyasins will depart in samadhi. Many will at least arrange to have at most one more birth. Many will arrange for at most two births. And many will arrange for at most three births. In the endless chain of births, if you can depart having arranged for only three more, even that is no small success. Then you have set out on the path; the temple has come into view—just three more steps, or two, or one last step.

My effort is that my sannyasins depart at least in these three states. In all three cases their lives should be celebrated. And even if someone has not gone in meditation, has remained an ordinary person and will be born countless times, even then I want those left behind to celebrate, to dance and sing. For your dancing and singing will not change the one who has gone, but your dancing and singing will change your own vision toward your death. The one who has gone has gone. Whether you weep, he does not return; whether you laugh, he does not return. Beat your chest—he does not return; dance—he does not return. But if you weep and beat your chest, you are arranging your own return. And if you can dance and sing, you are coming closer to the temple.

Many sannyasins will depart—it is natural. To bid them farewell you must learn a new way—of joyous celebration. It is secondary what your joyful celebration will do for the one who has gone, though it will do something; but that is subtle—whether you understand it or not. When you weep and suffer… Suppose a husband dies: the wife weeps, beats her chest, is distraught. Then the one who has gone cannot move on either; he too cannot go, he too remains stuck. When his dear ones are suffering so, weeping so, his lifelong habit of owning them does not break in a day; it takes time. If his dear ones weep intensely, he too will wander here as a ghost. Thus it is that you create ghosts.

You will be surprised to know that in the West—among Christians, Jews, Muslims—there are more ghosts. In England there are more ghosts than in any other country. There has been much investigation into this—parapsychology has researched it. The reason? Wherever people bury the body in a grave, there are more ghosts than in those countries where bodies are burned.

That is why we discovered the method of cremation. It is not accidental. It is very significant. One who has left his body hovers around it for at least forty-eight hours—if he has even a little taste for the body. At least forty-eight hours and at most thirteen days he remains around his corpse. His mind is not ready to leave the body. He keeps trying to re-enter. Old attachments! As if you were thrown out of your house—you would not immediately go away without looking back. You would try to get in through the back door, to break the door, to jump through the window… so easily? Your house, and you have been thrown out!

Parapsychology says that after leaving the body, it takes hours for the soul to understand, “I have died.” You understand at once; the soul takes hours to understand, “I have died,” because nothing changes for the soul. It still sees; there is some amazement that its body is seen lying there; people are weeping—these too are seen—what is the matter? Am I dreaming?

Have you ever seen yourself dead in a dream? Surely many have. In the dream, if you see you have died, there is a wonder inside: What is this? I have died, and I am also seeing that my body is lying there—so I am! because the seer is present. And why are people crying? Why are they upset? I am still here!

The first time a person dies it takes hours to realize: I have died. The easiest way to make him realize is to cremate the body. As soon as the body is burned, his house falls; there is nothing left to return to—only flames and ash. Then he turns his face away from the body and moves on to the new journey.

But in those countries where the body is buried, there is trouble. For three days they keep the body so visitors may come for viewing. Among those visitors the one who has left is also present. He keeps returning again and again: “Let me see what is happening—how far have things gone—can I get back in or not?”
And many times people do get back in again. Many times the dead have come alive.

Just yesterday this happened. A sannyasin woman was operated on by Ajit Saraswati. Her breath stopped for forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes is a long time. For forty-five minutes to stop breathing means she died. But after forty-five minutes breath returned. She must have done much shoving and pushing and slipped back into the house.

These days even legally it is hard to evict someone from a house. People go to court, fight cases. Once a tenant has entered the house—he has entered; the house is his. Tenant aside, even if you keep someone as a guest for a few days, he will glare at you: “We have been here so many days—if anyone has to go, you go; we will stay here now.”
And you have lived in this body for years. In those years you have built such an attachment to taking this body as yours.

Parapsychologists say cremation is the best. By different accounts there are different views. Burial is best from a natural perspective. Because all the elements you took from the earth should go back to the earth; otherwise the earth will slowly become barren. That is why India’s soil is becoming barren—because we digest the earth’s elements and then burn them; they become ash. If we buried, slowly the elements of the body would return to the earth. In some tree the elements of your body would manifest—become flowers, become fruits. But we burn. From an ecological perspective burial is right; from the spiritual perspective cremation is right.

And beyond both is the Parsis’ way—though it seems a bit inhuman. The Parsis leave the corpse for birds and beasts to eat. That is the best, because in it the natural benefit that comes from burial is also fulfilled. You had eaten food all your life; you become food in return; you return what you took. Animals and birds will eat; then animals and birds will die, and mix with the soil. No loss; the elements are not burned—the elements remain. From ecology’s standpoint the Parsis’ way is the best. And from this standpoint, too: it will create even more shock than flames—to see vultures eating you. More painful to watch than fire. One snatches out your eye, another eats your heart; you are being torn to pieces. Seeing this, you will turn away at once. Great disgust will arise. Dispassion will arise.
The Parsis’ way is most important for vairagya. Such a person, when he takes a new birth, when he enters a new womb, perhaps even while going into the womb the memory will follow: what becomes of the body. Not even in fire is there such sorry fate as in the Parsis’ method.

But the Parsis’ way seems a bit inhuman. The husband you loved so much, the son you cherished so deeply, the wife for whom you gave everything—to leave them to be eaten by vultures! And it seems a little uncultured, uncivilized. And there is stench in the village. So even Parsi communities are considering in places that they find another way, because others object that you spread foul odor.

Cremation appears more cultured. The departing soul is bid farewell, and those left behind also see what the final outcome of the body is; they too will understand. If only you can celebrate while bidding farewell, you will give him an energy. Your tears will pull him back; your weeping will create attachment. If you can celebrate, sing the Lord’s songs, rejoice, congratulate him on his supreme journey, he will also become alert: What is there to return to now! Let me set out on the supreme journey, the great departure! The rhythm of your kirtan will echo in his ears as he goes. Your celebration, your farewell will be your final offering to him, your final gift.

So even if one has not attained knowledge, bid him farewell with dance; it is beneficial for him and beneficial for you. Beneficial for you so that you can understand that life is momentary—why weep? It is dust—why weep? Dust has fallen back into dust—why be disturbed?

Krishnatirth! He has not gone anywhere; he is here. Therefore your sense is right too—that it does not seem believable that he has gone; it feels he is here.

But let this not be merely some delusion of your mind. We want to assume many things. We want to assume—he has not gone, he is here. We want to assume—the soul is immortal. We want to assume it. We want to believe the opposite of whatever frightens us. Do not let this be your belief; let it become your seeing. I am an enemy of belief, and a partisan of knowing. Because only knowing will lead you toward buddhahood. The maturity of knowing is called buddhahood. No one becomes a buddha through beliefs. People buried under beliefs remain dolts. Belief only means this: you have not known yourself; others said it, you believed. And they too believed having heard others. How can your believing have strength?

Mulla Nasruddin was traveling by airplane for the first time. His wife was with him—village born, in purely traditional dress. But Mulla was fond of style. For show he wore pants and a coat, borrowed from a friend. When the plane was about to take off the announcer’s voice came: “Please fasten your seat belts.” Mulla at once tightened his waist belt even more—so tight his breath began to go. How could he disobey orders! After fastening his own belt he looked at his wife and said, “What are you looking at my face for? Quick—tighten the drawstring of your petticoat! Didn’t you hear the order?”

Orders may be given by the buddhas, but who will interpret the orders? You will interpret them! And your interpretations will be yours.

Early one morning Mulla Nasruddin went out walking. On one door he saw a small plaque: “Shri Bhondumalji, former Chief Minister.” Great surprise. He didn’t even know where that gentleman had been living for the last five years. They live right next door! Mulla had thought he must have died—hadn’t heard his name for so long—and here Bhondumal is living here, in a rotting neighborhood, in a broken-down house! Mulla felt pity. Such a big minister, and such filth in front of his house! Early morning a cow had deposited sacred dung right there on the steps. Nasruddin took a pen from his pocket and wrote beside the dung: “Shri Gobarmalji, former green grass.”

Your interpretation will be yours. Beliefs you may take from anywhere—where will you bring understanding from? Where will you bring wisdom from? Whatever the face, the mirror will be yours; if the mirror is warped, even the most beautiful face will become warped. You must change the mirror. Nothing happens by changing beliefs; knowing must change. And knowing does not change through information—through meditation it changes. You must bring an inner clarity, a cleanliness. The mind must be made thought-free, taint-free. You must be free of mind. And then you will be able to see as I am saying. Then you will experience: life is bliss, death is bliss—because this whole existence is made of bliss.

Do not take my words on belief. Listen and experiment. Let your experiment prove them true; only then accept—otherwise, do not. And when your experiment proves something and you accept it—then how is it belief? It is knowing!

A Marwari seth was terribly afraid of air travel. The mere mention of airplanes dried up his life. But business is business. Many times he had to go to London on business. He always set foot on a plane only after taking out an insurance policy. Once, as he was going without taking insurance, an acquaintance asked, “Sethji, this time you’re not doing insurance?”
Tears glistened in the Seth’s eyes. With a hopeless, sad voice he said, “How many times have I taken it out! Does anything ever happen? Every time failure. My fate is just bad.”

People even take out insurance—but the Marwari’s mind remains that of a Marwari. He calculates profit. Even if he gets the money by dying, he is ready to take it.

A Marwari was grabbed by a pistol-wielding thug in a dark lane. The pistol to his head, the thug said, “Choose one of two things—do you want life or wealth? Either hand over your wealth to me, or I’ll blow your skull with a bullet.”
The Marwari did not hesitate for a moment. He said, “Shoot me. I have saved the money for my old age.”

Each person thinks and understands according to his own account. And that is why the words of the buddhas, the jinas, the rishis, once they fall into your hands, turn into weeds. Roses fly away, lotuses are lost; they become grass. That is what you call beliefs, faith.

I am not a partisan of belief. I want shraddha to be born in you. And shraddha is not a synonym of belief. Shraddha means knowledge attained by your own experience. With me, take hold of meditation. These are the occasions for that. Whatever happens here, we will use every occasion for your meditation. A child is born—we will use it. An old person dies—we will use it. A young man and woman marry—we will use it. Here every arrow is to be aimed at the divine. And only then, when blow upon blow keeps falling on you, perhaps one day you may awaken. Awakening is very difficult, because the sleep is very old and very long.

Ramtirth! I am concerned with your condition. The country existed before you; you did not. The country will remain after you; you will not. I speak so that you may be transformed. And if you are transformed, that itself opens the way for the country’s transformation. There is no other way.

What is a country? A collection of individuals. What is society? The sum of individuals. Have you ever met society? That you were walking along the road and society came up to you and said, “Jai Ramji”? That you were going somewhere and bumped into the nation and you said, “Please come, be seated; so happy to see you!” Nowhere do you meet the nation; nowhere do you meet society. Whenever you meet anyone, you meet a person. The person alone is real. Nation and society are only words. But we get hypnotized by words. “The condition of the country is getting worse!” Now, “Improve the condition of the country.” And if the country is only a word, how will you improve its condition? You have started the problem from the wrong end; then there will never be a solution. Transform the person. It is essential to see that the person’s condition does not deteriorate. Let the person awaken, become aware, live more consciously. All these problems you see are created by individuals. And the individual is fast asleep, snoring. And on those rare occasions when his sleep lightens a little, he thinks, “The country’s condition is very bad,” turns over, and goes back to sleep.

They said—
“As far as the eye goes
a thirty-two-year-old
crippled child is seen
trying to lift his limp hands
and screaming—
Pull me out of the mire
I am democracy, save me.

Those traders of the times
who hand slogans to the masses
and flags to the working hands
are grand players
who, to cover their own geography,
wrap themselves in politics,
and as for commerce—
that, their brothers and nephews
and sons-in-law pocket.”

We said—
“Apart from leaders,
have you no other subject?”

They said—
“Why not:
an old father,
a sick mother,
a sad wife,
hungry children,
a young sister,
an unemployed brother,
corruption,
inflation,
expenses of twenty,
income of ten,
a well on this side,
a pit on that.”

We said—
“Great trouble indeed:
whoever you meet
he weeps over his ailments.”

They said—
“This is how it is in democracy:
every disease is free,
let the medicine go on,
let the patient go on—
this is the basic mantra of democracy.”

We asked—
“What would your age be?”
They said—
“At forty years
we look sixty;
just understand it this way:
we are eating up our own age.
We were born in Hindustan,
we are living in a graveyard.
Since we left our mother’s milk,
we have been drinking tears.
The matter has run from birth to death,
politics has run from cap to feet.
From the nation’s head,
in two and a half years Shani moved off,
then Rahu climbed on;
when Rahu goes,
Ketu will torment;
when Ketu goes,
Mars will devour our life.”

We said—
“Forget it.
Here, have a paan.”

They said—
“Paan! For sixty paise!
Where will Hindustan go?
And what else have they done in thirty-two years?
They have turned the whole country
into a spittoon.
Spit wherever you feel like.
Whenever they got a chance,
they threw the nation
into the hearth of elections.”

We asked—
“So will there be an election?”
They said—
“Politics has heavy feet;
something or other would happen—
this is nature’s play.
Ram knows
whether what is coming is male or female.”

There are many who fret over the nation—male and female! Do not bring the nation’s worry here. Let me work out the person. The root revolution happens in the individual. And because we do not care for the person but for the country, nothing is resolved; the matter keeps getting worse, slipping lower and lower.

At a crossroads, spitting out paan juice,
one man said—
“Sanjay swallowed Indira;
because of Kanti’s exploits,
Morarji broke into a sweat.”
Another said—
“Suresh is making Jagjivan dance.”
A third said—
“Where there is no son,
the son-in-law is playing the role.”

Hearing their talk,
a man of the middle community
opened his mouth,
clapped his hands, and said—
“In this midterm election
make us successful;
make our party’s leader the prime minister.
We don’t have any such problems in our party.
Kindly heed our appeal:
for thirty-two years these people have been making fools of you—
this time give us a chance.”

It’s just one continuous line of people making fools. If you slip out from one, the second will fool you; escape the second, the third will. The same people—change their caps, change their flags—the same people! Politics is a business—the most lethal business! Just as bandits have surrendered, who knows when politicians will surrender! This is cultured banditry. This is cultured thievery, dishonesty. This is bound to be so.

But if you too think in the language of politics, Ramtirth, you will go wrong. As a sannyasin, do not think in political language now; think in the language of religion. There are plenty to do politics; let them do it. There are plenty to reform the nation; let them do it. After all, they too need some work. There are so many idle, unemployed—do you want to snatch away their livelihood as well? Let them earn their living; let them do their job. Let us do something else, something worth doing. Let us make a few individuals into lit lamps! Let us bring light into a few lives! And if one lamp is lit, from one lamp a hundred thousand lamps can be lit. And the flame of the lit lamp does not lessen even if millions are lit from it. Share light as much as you will—it is never exhausted. The treasure of light is infinite, inexhaustible.

Sitting by me, take up your own concern—what is your condition? And I am certainly eager to change your condition. See your own misery.

But we are very clever: we look at the misery all around so that we can avoid seeing our own. People read the newspaper first thing in the morning: here a theft took place, there a dacoity. That politician cheated there; this politician took a bribe here. And reading the papers they enjoy it immensely. What is the pleasure? The pleasure is simply that “compared to them, we are good.” Yes, we also steal—but small-time. We also cheat—but what is our cheating compared to these cheats! You feel good reading the newspaper because in comparison to it you appear virtuous. That is the fun of reading the paper. Seeing the black lines of the newspaper, you begin to look pure—in comparison. The mind feels good: “We are better than this.” And you get another convenience: since the country’s condition is bad and everyone is dishonest, we too will have to be a little dishonest—otherwise how will we live? A little we will have to accept, otherwise life will become impossible. Thus you console the mind.

And seeing the crowd of the blind, you feel that being blind is not accidental, it is natural. That is why people relish tales of one another’s condemnation. When people meet, they gossip and slander. There is relish in slander. I don’t know why, when the ancients listed the rasas, they didn’t add slander to it. Because as much relish as people find in slander, they don’t find in anything else. People exaggerate and slander. Why? The bigger a mountain of blame they pile up, the better they feel inside: however bad we may be, we are not that bad. The human in us is still alive. Our soul is still breathing. We still remember God once in a while.

Do not deceive yourself like this, Ramtirth. Drop worrying about others; they will manage, their work is theirs. Take care of yourself. Even if you want to change everyone, you will not be able to. It is also ego to think, “We will change everyone.” This ego has never succeeded, nor will it. It is enough that you transform yourself. And whoever has transformed himself has shown the way for others to change. He has become a milestone. He has become a torch. Seeing his burning flame, people will come from afar—seekers will come. Those who thirst find a lake. Those who thirst for light find some burning buddhahood.

I am not sitting here to deliberate on the condition of the country. Yes, as much deliberation as possible upon you—that is something.

You say: “The condition of the country is deteriorating day by day. Why don’t you say something about it?”
What will saying do? I am doing something—what will talk do? Granted, my doing is subtle, because my work is of the soul.

If there is a famine somewhere, people come to me; they say, “Why don’t you do something?”
I say: Let famines come and go; you have always been doing. Famines will still come—keep on doing.

If there is a flood somewhere, people say, “Why don’t you do something?”
I am seeing another, greater famine in which the soul is dying. I am seeing another, greater flood in which life is drowning. I see a very great, terrible catastrophe that is drawing nearer each day. And if man cannot be awakened, this earth will not remain inhabited much longer. Man’s days are numbered—countable on the fingers.

These coming twenty years, the last years of this century, could become the end of humanity if man does not awaken. If we cannot bring forth a few Buddhas, a few Mahaviras, a few Jesuses, a few Mohammeds in the world, then man is finished. Therefore, nation, politics, sociology, economics—none of this is my concern. All that is secondary. If someone’s house is on fire, you don’t say to him at that moment, “Brother, come, let’s sit and talk politics.” He’ll slap you. He will say, “My house is on fire and you are concerned with politics! Let me put out the fire now.” Those are leisure-time topics, when there is nothing else to do—like people play cards or dice in the monsoon, we can also talk politics. Right now the house is on fire.

I see that man’s house is on fire. Man’s very life-breath is burning to ashes. Man’s supreme treasure is being destroyed. I have no interest in small matters. Those who have drowned in a flood will soon take rebirth; do not worry too much about them. Who knows how many fools in the world are eagerly waiting to give them birth.

My concern is only one—how you may become soulful. How your soul can be honed, refined, made pure. And through that very medium a revolution can happen in society too. But society’s revolution will be indirect. The direct revolution is the revolution of the individual.

Rakesh! My advice is: do it according to your family's wishes. You'll ask, why? My answer is: that way you will have a lifetime of relief—you can say, "I didn't make the mistake myself; others pushed me into it. I'm not responsible." You will retain the convenient right to curse your father and mother: "They themselves walked away, but they trapped me."

If you choose for yourself, it will be a big problem. Whom will you blame then? You'll have to bang your own head. So my advice is: do as the family says. That way all the sin will accrue to them. And you will always have the joy that at least you didn't make the mistake yourself!

Someone asked Mulla Nasruddin why divorce keeps increasing—what is the reason?

Nasruddin said, whether divorce happens in the Western countries or in India, it has only one cause.

The man asked, what's that?

Nasruddin said, marriage.

Some people actually get divorced; others don't legally divorce, but live their whole lives in a state of divorce. Two sleeping people together can only create trouble. Don't think I'm saying it's only your wife's fault. What can the wife do? Having a husband like you, she'll do exactly what she can!

Your rishis and sages told you a lie—that woman is the gateway to hell. That is male vanity, male ego, hollowness. This is not about man versus woman.

If two sleeping people live together, trouble is bound to happen. And it won't just double; it multiplies. You were miserable; your wife was miserable. You both thought that by getting together there would be happiness. How can two unhappy people create happiness? If two illnesses come together, will that produce health? Your wife was lonely, you were lonely; you thought that if you came together, loneliness would disappear. I tell you: when you come together, the loneliness will double—and not just double, it will increase many times over.

First, make your aloneness luminous. If marriage happens after meditation, then marriage has meaning and dignity. In this country we once had a system: celibacy until the age of twenty-five. That must have been a wise arrangement. Brahmacharya means living like Brahman—the divine way of life—and that can only be through meditation. Until twenty-five, the youth lived in the gurukul, practicing meditation and tasting samadhi. When their experience of meditation matured, the master would say: Now go into the world. Now you are worthy. You will live in the world, but the world will not be able to enter you.

So, Rakesh, I say: first meditation! We can look at all this later. If after meditating you feel you should marry, by all means marry. I am not anti-marriage. And if after meditation you feel the matter is finished—that there is nothing left in marriage for you—then don't marry. I am not anti-celibacy either. All I want is that the decision should arise from your meditation. Before that, whichever way you choose, you will run into obstacles—nothing but obstacles. Let me tell you a few stories so you get a feel for the obstacles.

Once, someone threatened Nasruddin: "Nasruddin, within fifteen days take fifty thousand rupees to Red Hill and leave them there. Otherwise your wife will be kidnapped."

Fifteen days later, Mulla went to Red Hill and left a small note there: "Sir, I apologize that I cannot meet your demand. But I have full hope that you will certainly keep your promise."

At first people are eager to get bound; later they are eager to get free. They were troubled when single; after marriage they are also troubled—more troubled! Because now the other person's troubles have also landed on your head.

A man knocked at the gate of heaven. The gatekeeper opened a little window and asked, "Name?"

He said, "Chandulal."

"Married or unmarried?"

"Married."

The gatekeeper at once opened the door: "You have suffered enough hell—now come into heaven."

Right behind him another man knocked. Again the window opened. "Who?"

"Dhabbuji."

"Married or unmarried?"

"Married four times."

Closing the window, the gatekeeper said, "Go to hell. There is no place here for madmen."

One mistake can be forgiven, because how else will a man know it is a mistake unless he makes it?

So, Rakesh, make the mistake once—the gate of heaven will not close because of that. But don't go on piling mistake upon mistake, because heaven does not open for madmen. One mistake is natural. Make new mistakes—the only way to learn. But don't repeat the same mistakes again and again.

Nasruddin has been married for thirty years. One morning his wife said, "Mulla, remember—today it has been thirty years. It's our wedding anniversary. How shall we celebrate it? What's your idea? Wouldn't it be nice if we slaughter the rooster we've been raising for six months?"

Nasruddin said, "How fair is it to punish a rooster for an accident that happened thirty years ago? Besides, the rooster had no hand in it."

By asking me, you're trying to trap me too. Then for the rest of your life you'll abuse me that I told you so. So, brother, I won't say yes and I won't say no.

A man was celebrating his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Friends had gathered, there was a feast, all the town's dignitaries were there, music was playing, dancing was going on, wine was flowing. Then people noticed the host himself was missing. His closest friend—the town's most eminent lawyer—went out to the garden to look for him. It was a full-moon night. Under a bush he sat, dejected.

The lawyer put a hand on his shoulder and said, "My brother, everyone is so happy—your twenty-fifth anniversary is being celebrated. Why are you sitting so sad?"

He said, "Because of you! Do you remember, three months after my wedding I came to you and asked, 'If I shoot my wife, how much sentence will I get?' You said, 'At least twenty-five years.' Out of fear I didn't shoot her. And today my heart aches—if I had done it, today the twenty-five years would be over and I would be a free man. You were the one who scared me."

So I cannot say yes, and I cannot say no. I can only say: first meditate. Whether you ask about marriage, birth, or death, I have one remedy: meditation—the panacea. First meditate, Rakesh. Then whatever comes from meditation is auspicious. And whatever does not come from meditation is inauspicious.

That is all for today.