Kahe Hot Adheer #14

Prem Chaitanya! It certainly feels impossible, but it isn’t. It only seems so because, until the taste of witnessing arises, whatever we do and wherever we are, we identify with it. That very identification settles on us like dust. Then the mirror of consciousness no longer reflects existence.

A Zen saying: cranes and egrets fly over a lake; they have no desire that their reflections form in the water, yet reflections appear. The lake has no desire to reflect them either, yet reflections appear. The cranes and egrets fly on, and the reflections vanish.

Such is the state of witnessing: reflections appear and disappear. Ordinarily, we clutch at the reflections. As they begin to fade we cling, we plead with them, “Stop! Stay!” They cannot stop; hence pain, hence sorrow. We cannot let go of the past; we cannot be free of the familiar—that is the hindrance. And upon the future we impose our expectations; whether they are fulfilled or not, there is no contentment. Desire is never satisfied; even when fulfilled, dissatisfaction persists, because desire itself is the wrong direction. And if desires are not fulfilled, of course there is great discontent. Those whose desires are fulfilled are found weeping; those whose desires are not fulfilled are also found weeping.

What is the meaning of “the world”? It is this: past plus future. You hang pictures of what is not, and your memory of those pictures makes you weep. And for what has not yet happened you cast the net of craving, project dreams. Ninety-nine out of a hundred such dreams never come true; they will hurt you, prick you like thorns, leave great pain behind. And the one that does come true is never really complete—fulfilled yet not fulfilling. You want wealth, and when it comes, you are surprised: wealth arrived, but the hope with which it was desired is unfulfilled. You thought wealth would bring contentment and peace. That contentment is as distant as ever. The burden of wealth has climbed onto your head—its anxiety, its stress, its responsibilities—and the peace you imagined, the rest you dreamt of, not even a footfall of it is heard.

Pictures of the past torment you; imaginations of the future torment you. The sum of past and future is the world.

There is only one way to be free of this world: live as totally as you can in the present moment. That is what I call meditation; that is what I call sannyas. This is the essence of all the buddhas’ teachings. Do not wander before or after the moment; the moment is enough. And when a moment passes, do not hold it back—let it go, bid it farewell—joyfully, with delight! And do not keep accounts of what has not yet come; when it comes, when it stands before you, then it will be reflected in the mirror of your consciousness. Then live it. Until it comes, do not weave plans.

But people are very strange!

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin was traveling by train. A young man sat opposite him. The young man asked, “Sir, could you please tell me the time on your watch?”

Nasruddin did not look at his watch; he looked the young man over—once, twice, thrice. The youth got nervous. “I’m only asking what time it is.”

Nasruddin said, “That’s exactly what I’m considering—whether to tell the time to a man who doesn’t even have a watch.”

The young man said, “You’re astonishing! Precisely because I don’t have a watch, I asked you. What harm could it do you?”

Nasruddin said, “My brother, you’re still young; I am old. You have no experience yet. You’ll ask what time it is. I’ll say, ‘Five o’clock.’ Then the conversation won’t stop there. The seed is sown; now it will sprout. You’ll ask where I am going. I’ll say, ‘Bombay.’ You’ll ask, where in Bombay do I live? Thus the sequence will go on. In the end I’ll say, ‘Since you too are coming to Bombay, come have a meal at my home.’ I have a young daughter. You’ll see each other, you’ll start talking, you’ll want to go to the movies. The hassles will begin. And today or tomorrow you’ll arrive with a proposal to marry my daughter. And I’m telling you clearly right now: I cannot marry my daughter to a man who doesn’t even have a watch.”

We laugh. But our mind is just like this. You are always rigging up such contrivances! Look closely and you’ll laugh at your own mind. The mind is a Sheikh Chilli—forever thinking far and away, conjuring all manner of maybes, possible and impossible! Look back a little: how much have you thought in life—let this happen, let that happen. What happened? How much of it happened? Ninety-nine percent never happened. But how much time you wasted for that ninety-nine percent! And the one percent that did happen—what came of it?

A psychologist came to a madhouse to study. He asked the superintendent, “This first man behind bars—beating his chest, clutching a picture, kissing it, pressing it to his heart—what’s happened to him?”

The superintendent said, “A sad story. He loved the woman in the picture and wanted to marry her. She refused. Since then he has gone mad. That picture is his only solace—he’s a modern Majnu. His Laila he never found.”

A little further, in another cell a man was pulling his hair, smashing his head, banging it on the wall. The psychologist asked, “What happened to him?”

The superintendent said, “Better you hadn’t asked. He married the very woman who refused the first man. Since he married her he went mad. That woman has driven him insane. She’s eating him alive.”

One is weeping and beating his head because he didn’t marry; the other is weeping and beating his head because he did. And this is happening the world over.

Attain it, and you weep; ask those who have attained—there are tears in their eyes. Fail to attain, and you weep, because a pain remains in the heart—“I did nothing.”

By “world” I don’t mean these trees, moon and stars, sky and sun, rivers and mountains, people, animals, birds. This expanse is not the world. The expanse of your mind—the mind’s stratagems—that is the world. You can be free of that world.

At first it may feel impossible—how to be free of the past! But what is the past, except a heap of memories? Ashes—there isn’t even a live coal left! What’s so impossible about being free of ashes? Carrying ashes is stupidity; letting go of ashes should be easy and natural. What is gone is gone—why clutch it? Your hands are empty. Open them and see—it has gone. Even if you weep, it cannot return. Even if you are tormented, you cannot bring it back.

Time never returns; looking back again and again is needless suffering—you are tormenting yourself for no reason. And how much time goes into it! How much precious present you destroy in memories of the past! You bow the living to the feet of the dead; you surrender the living before the dead; you sacrifice the living to the dead!

Or else the future grips you: “Tomorrow I will do this.”

Let tomorrow come! First of all, tomorrow never comes. Have you ever seen tomorrow arrive? When it arrives, it arrives as today. And you are ruining today for that tomorrow which never comes. And even when it arrives, just like today, your habit—strengthened day by day—will keep wasting today for tomorrow. The habit will thicken; it will become mechanical. Today you will think of tomorrow; when tomorrow comes as today, you will again think of tomorrow. You did the same yesterday. The yesterday that passed—you were thinking of today. But when will you live? Caught between two tomorrows, when will you live?

These two tomorrows are the two millstones grinding you. Step out of them. Meditation, witnessing, is the method to step out. Meditation means only this: not to move even an inch away from what is. The mind will run according to its habits; bring it back, again and again bring it back. There are infinite methods of meditation, but the core, the secret of all is one—how to bring consciousness into the present.

Take Vipassana—Buddha’s supreme method. More people have attained through Vipassana than through any other, because it is so simple and natural. Yet what is the method? Very straightforward: watch the breath going out, watch the breath coming in. Vipassana means insight—just watch, as a witness—this breath went in, reached inside, paused for a moment, turned back, went out, came out, paused for a moment outside, began to come in again—just keep watching the circular bead-string of the breath. Do nothing else.

What will happen? You will gain the capacity to live in the present. Breath is present. Buddha does not say: think about the breath that has already gone; think about the one yet to come. He says: attend to what is now—going in, coming out. Move with the breath.

The mind will run; a thousand thoughts will arise. Silently bring it back to the breath. The breath is just an excuse, a device, a peg. This is the essence of all methods.

Sufis call it zikr—remembrance of the Beloved. Each time, bring the mind back to remembrance. Choose any divine name, say Ram. The mind runs here and there; bring it back to the peg of Ram. Paltu calls the same thing surati. All the saints have called it surati. Surati is a worn-down, colloquial form of Buddha’s word smriti—mindfulness. Live with remembrance, with alertness. Keep the remembrance of what you are doing; do not stray from it. The saints say surati; the Sufis say zikr; Krishnamurti says awareness; Mahavira says vivek, bodh. Different names, but one thing—one essence, one secret. Let past and future go. They do not exist. You are clinging to shadows; because of shadows you are ensnared in maya. Shadow is maya. Between these two shadows the truth is present; the gate of truth is open. The door of the temple of the Divine opens in the present. The process of coming into the present is called meditation; when you have come and settled, that state is called sannyas. Then you can live in the world like a lotus in water.

Today, Prem Chaitanya, of course it seems impossible, because today you do not even know that the present exists. Those two—past and future—have encircled your whole consciousness. Little by little, seek the present. What seems impossible today will slowly become possible, one day it will be possible.

It can happen today—if there is urgency, intensity, totality. If the longing is deep, it can happen here and now—even while listening to me. It has happened to many; it is happening. Just by listening, a music is caught; you forget who you are, you forget what you are to become tomorrow. This is the meaning of satsang—to sit with someone and become present.

Slowly break the ground—it will break. Have you seen a stream of water falling upon rocks? The rocks look very strong. At first you think it is impossible that a stream could break rocks. But the rope, going to and fro, leaves a mark on the stone. Fall after fall, the stream cuts the rock, wears it into sand. Such is the process.

Meditation is a gentle process—like a flower. Your mental habits are like dead rocks—very heavy, very hard. Don’t be frightened; they are dead, and your flower-like meditation is alive. The living has the real strength, however delicate it seems. A living flower will break dead rocks. Have you seen a seed sprout into a tree through rock? The rock cracks. The seed was alive; it broke the rock, the tree emerged. Have you never marveled, seeing trees emerge from rocks? What a wondrous power life has! A tiny seed, what energy it carries! Not only did it break itself and sprout; it broke the rock.

So the meditation that is a seed today will become a tree tomorrow—flowers will come, fruits will come, a great fragrance will arise. Do not worry. It seems impossible, but it becomes possible. I say this from my own experience. It seemed impossible to me too; for years it felt impossible. But I did not become impatient. Paltu says: Why be impatient? The more impossible it seemed, the more I poured my energy into it with urgency; the more I accepted the challenge. It is only a matter of accepting the challenge. Then meditation is a wondrous adventure. Reaching the moon and stars is easy; reaching samadhi is certainly more difficult. But even reaching the moon and stars—what will you do there?

When Armstrong first stepped on the moon, what did he do? He was thinking of the Earth—when will I get home? Of wife and children, of friends. He must have wondered which film is playing at the neighborhood cinema. He must have thought, what has my wife cooked today? He was on the moon, but what was he thinking? “Only a day or so more and the hour of return will come—I’ll get home.”

Even on the moon you will still be you. How will you change? Therefore, even upon reaching the moon no one arrives anywhere. But in meditation, you truly enter a new realm.

My beloved, do not become a burden!
This is a road; the wish to stop here is forbidden.
Offer the desire for rest at the feet of movement.
O pilgrim, be a gift to the way—do not become the way’s defeat!
This is a road; here only the courage of the heart is support.
Do not hoard dreams, do not scatter tears.
Seeker of freedom! Do not make freedom into a trade!
This is a road; your only support is your staff.
Do not squander futile emotional outbursts upon stumblings.
If you value the essential, do not turn yourself into a world of attachment!
Do not become a burden!
My love, do not become a burden!

Only remember this much: this is a road; do not build a house in this world. Paltu says, this is a wayside inn. Rest, and in the morning set out again. Pitch a tent; do not build a house. This is a road. Houses are not to be built here; we are to pass through. Blessed are those who pass as though they never came.

Therefore the Zen fakirs say that Buddha was neither born nor did he die.

It does not sound right—historically it is not. Buddha is a historical figure; he was born one day, died another. Truly speaking, Indian history begins with the Buddha; before him, the figures seem mythic—perhaps they were, perhaps they were not. Of Krishna nothing is certain; there is no proof. Ram may be only a character in the Ramayana; it is not necessary that he actually lived. Everything is hazy and dim. But with the Buddha, for the first time, things become clear. With the Buddha the age of the mythic heroes passes.

So when Zen masters say the Buddha was neither born nor did he die, historians and scholars will balk. But the fakirs are right. When they speak, they speak rightly. Their meaning is this: the Buddha came as though he had not come, and he went as though he had never come and never gone; no line was left upon him. Like drawing a line upon water—it cannot be drawn, it is already erased. Like reflections in a mirror—the mirror remains unspoiled, no trace remains. Like birds flying in the sky—no footprints are left. Thus the Buddha came and went. Hence one of the Buddha’s names is Tathagata—one who knows the art of coming and going; who comes like a gust of wind and goes like a gust of wind.

Kabir has said: “As it was, so I returned the cloth.” The cloak of body and mind—he kept it just as it was; it did not get stained, not even a soot-mark. “With great care I wore this cloak!” What Kabir calls great care is sadhana. “With great care I wore this cloak; as it was, so I returned it”—just as God gave it, so I returned it: “Here is your cloak back—I did not let it fray, I did not let it be stained.”

Kabir too lived. And Buddha left the world, but Kabir lived in the world—wife, son, daughter. He never begged; he continued weaving. He wove cloth and sold it. Bhajans, kirtans, satsang continued, but so did weaving; he never stopped it. He lived in the world, but did not keep the world within.

This is a road…
And sometimes there will be stumblings.
Do not squander futile emotional outbursts upon stumblings.
If you value the essential, do not turn yourself into a world of attachment!
Do not become a burden!
My love, do not become a burden!

Just keep this in awareness, and one day even the impossible will become possible. And only when it becomes possible for you will you truly understand. For these matters are such that no matter how much another says—by the hundred thousand—trust does not settle. Until your own experience happens, trust will not settle. Nor should it.

Do not believe me merely because I say so. What will my saying do? My liberation is not your liberation. My nirvana is not your nirvana. My awakening is not your awakening. You must attain it yourself. And even when you attain it, it cannot be told to anyone. There is no language for it.

Language is weak—it could not express the feelings.
Speech is timid—it came to the lips and turned back.
I wish to speak, but I cannot say a thing.
This experience is utterly new, beloved—this ache is new.
Even if you want to, you will not be able to say it.
This experience is utterly new, beloved—this ache is new.

The taste of truth is so new that no words of the world suffice. From those who have known we receive only this much support: that perhaps it can be known—let me also try! If it was possible for one, perhaps it is possible for me.

After all, God has given everyone the same capacity, the same inner strength, the same energy, the same sources of possibility. If it happened to Buddha, to Mahavira, to Christ, to Mohammed—why not to you? They too were made of bone, flesh, and marrow like you; their minds were as restless, as liable to derangement as yours. They too had to struggle with themselves—with their past and their future. Mahavira struggled twelve years before that moment came. Buddha wrestled six years before that auspicious dawn.

Do not take belief from these luminous ones—take support. Do not settle into mere reverence—“They attained, so what have we to do?” From them take only the inspiration to journey. Meditation is a distant star; if you walk, one day you will arrive. Today it seems impossible—your task is to make it possible. This very resolve should be the foundation of your sannyas, Prem Chaitanya! Advance with this resolve, with this surrender! One day the grace will certainly descend.

In this world, no effort is ever wasted—and no step taken toward the Divine has ever gone in vain.

Narendra! That is precisely the fundamental meaning of sannyas: “What is there that is ours?—Give it away!” Whoever takes anything to be “mine” has built the world. And whoever builds the world for himself forges his own prison, casts his own chains. Our chains are cast from mine-and-thine—this is mine, that is yours; here is the boundary of mine, there the boundary of yours. All our boundaries become prisons—chains on our hands and feet. And the more we become entangled in “mine,” the more miserly we become, the more stingy.

And the Divine can never be available to a miser.

Why not? Because to attain the Divine there is one condition a miser cannot fulfill—and that condition is love. A miser simply cannot love; for the miser, love is impossible. He fears that if he loves someone, he will have to drop the feeling of mine-and-thine. What else is love? It is dropping mine-and-thine. It is abandoning that relationship of me-and-you with someone; it is merging boundaries, becoming one with someone—absorption and attunement; a heartfelt, soul-deep bond; a readiness to give even one’s life for someone.

But a miser cannot give money—how will he give his life? A miser cannot give anything at all. And one who cannot give—how will he give love! Love is the greatest wealth. If he cannot give money, how will he give love! And then a strange psychological event happens—a vicious circle is created: the miser cannot give love; and since he cannot give love, he becomes even more miserly. Those who are mad after wealth are exactly those upon whose life the nectar of love has not rained. If love were present in their lives, the madness for money would not arise. One who has love knows the joy of lavishing, the joy of sharing; his happiness lies in giving. One who has no love has only one happiness—accumulating, hoarding. And you will hoard and hoard—and die. What will you do with your hoard? It will all remain here. You will not be able to take it along. If you spend your whole life piling up and then climb the funeral pyre empty-handed, your life has been folly—a futile undertaking, a meaningless effort! You tried to squeeze oil from sand.

Jesus has a very famous saying: Whoever tries to save will lose; and whoever is willing to lose, saves.

These are formulas of the supreme mathematics. Yesterday I told you one formula of that supreme mathematics: the part is equal to the whole. It is beyond logic. And today I tell you another formula. In ordinary mathematics, whoever saves is the one who will have saved. But in this supreme mathematics, whoever saves loses, and whoever is willing to lose, saves.

Have you tried giving love? A startling experience occurs: the more you give, the more you have to give. Understand it like this: from a well we draw water; the more we draw, the more the springs feed fresh water into it. Suppose some miser locks up his well out of fear—what if, out of season, a drought comes and the rains fail; at least the water of my well will remain in my well and serve me. Why should I let the neighborhood draw from it—the water will be squandered, and in time of need I’ll be in trouble. He locks his well to save its water—what will be the consequence? Two consequences. First, the water of that well will no longer remain alive; it will become dead, poisonous, toxic, putrid. Where there is no flow, where there is no current, stench is born and poison generated. What, flowing, was nectar, blocked becomes poison. Properly understood, in flow there is immortality; in stagnation there is poison. In flow there is great life; in stagnation there is death. And second, because water is not being drawn, the springs will not be engaged; gradually they will get blocked—layers of silt will settle, stones will pack in. Then if someday you draw water from the well, first, it will not be fit to drink; and second, the springs are blocked, they will no longer bring new water.

Such is the condition of love. You are a well. Ladle it out! The springs of your heart are linked to the Divine. You are connected to an infinite source. Do not fear that if you share, you will be depleted. The more you share, the more and newer springs will open. You will be amazed that there is a kind of wealth that increases by giving. The arithmetic of that wealth is different.

He was right to say: What is there that is ours?—Give it away! All is the Divine’s. He is the giver and the receiver; the whole play is his. Within you too, he is the giver; within the other, he is the receiver.

I am speaking to you; he is the one speaking. You are listening; he is the one listening. The day this is understood—that the speaker is he, the listener is he—on that day there is neither guru nor disciple; only he remains. He has split himself into two and arranged this whole play, this whole leela.

Narendra, you can make this formula the beginning of a revolution in your life. If you can remember it, you will grow richer day by day. Day by day you will become the owner of a vast kingdom. It may even happen that outwardly, to onlookers, you one day look like a beggar; but within you there will be an emperor. And if you set about accumulating—money, position, love, everything—then it may happen that outwardly one day you appear an emperor, but within you are poor and destitute, a beggar. And the Divine assesses your within. He will not inspect your ledgers; he will look at your inner being. There, only what you lavish, what you share, is recorded.

And sharing does not only mean that you give away things. Give whatever you have. If you can sing, sing. If you can dance, dance. If you can give love, give love. If you can give knowledge, give knowledge; if you can give meditation, give meditation. Whatever you can give, whatever is with you—become a medium for sharing that. And day by day you will find: what you are sharing goes on increasing, increasing. Where once you were a drop, one day you will find you have become the ocean!

And since all is his, to claim ownership—to say “mine”—is improper. Use, but do not become the owner.

There are two kinds of people in this world: one, the enjoyer—and he too is an owner; and the other, the renouncer—and he too is an owner. The enjoyer says, “It is mine; I will not let go.” The renouncer says, “It is mine; I donate it.” But both believe, “It is mine.”

My sannyasin is a third kind of person. He says, “It is not mine at all—so there is no question of holding or of renouncing; only of letting it pass through.” If it is not mine, how can I give it up? How can I renounce it? And if it is not mine, how can I grasp it? In both, there would be injustice.

One who says, “I have renounced,” is in as much illusion as one who says, “I have amassed.” Hoarding and renunciation are two sides of the same coin. One has to go beyond both. And Paltu keeps saying it again and again: one has to go beyond both—accumulation and renunciation. Your consciousness must come to such a state: neither this nor that—neti, neti. Then whatever he gives you, enjoy it. And the greatest art of enjoying is sharing.

That is why it sometimes happens that your so-called sadhus and saints are not really sadhus at all—and sometimes among ordinary people there is an extraordinary saintliness.

I had a professor. He was a drinker. The whole university condemned him. But I found in him a sadhu. He never drank alone. Unless there were five or ten tipplers with him, he would not drink. If he didn’t have the means to invite five or ten, he would go without. I asked him, “Sometimes you go without drinking—what’s the matter?”

He said, “The thing is, if I don’t have the means to serve five or ten, then why drink alone? The joy of drinking is in company. When five or ten drink together, there is joy. When I can pour for five or ten, there is joy.”

And this was the arithmetic of his whole life. It was not only true of liquor; it was true of everything. Whatever he had... Sometimes, seeing his house, I would be astonished—it was absolutely bare. When I stayed at his place, I was amazed: a big house, but utterly empty! Because nothing remained—he would give anything to anyone. Yet I have not seen a richer man than he. His prosperity belonged to that supreme mathematics. And you may not call him a sadhu, because he drank. But I will call him a sadhu. When I stayed at his house, he would not drink. I told him, “Don’t restrain yourself out of regard for me. Drink—drink with pleasure. I cannot drink, so I’ll sit and sip soda; I’ll give you company—so please drink.”

He said, “No, no. Unless I can share, unless I can pour for others—if a guest is in the house and I cannot serve him, then I too will not drink. To drink then would be inhuman—with a guest in the house and I drink alone!”

I said to him, “Listening to you, I feel I too should drink. But later I’ll be in trouble—my body isn’t used to it. Still, hearing you, I feel like dropping the worry and having a drink, so as not to put you to such trouble.”

“No,” he said, “I have no difficulty in not drinking. Many times such situations arise—because my money runs out by the fifteenth. The next fifteen days pass in scarcity.”

Any student who went to him saying he had no fees—he would immediately give money, if he had any. If he could borrow, he would borrow and pay the fees. If someone lacked books, he would get him books; if someone lacked clothes, he would bring clothes; if someone fell ill, he would take up their care.

His wife was very distressed. In the end she left him. She lived in Delhi; he lived in Sagar. I asked him, “Your wife left—what happened? How could anyone leave a man like you!”

He said, “My wife has one affliction—which all women have: hoarding. And that I cannot do. A man in the neighborhood was ill and had no cot; so I gave him my wife’s cot. For this she became very upset. She said, ‘At least you could have spared the cot.’ I told her, ‘We are healthy; we can sleep on the floor. But this man is ill—he needs it.’ She left that very day. She went to her parents’ and has written that she is not coming back.”

He may well have been a drinker, but I see in him a clear saintliness. And I believe the Divine will not keep account of his liquor; he will keep account of his saintliness. The Divine will not tally how many bottles he drank; but he will certainly note how much he shared.

Narendra, the formula is beautiful: What is there that is ours?—Give it away!

Nothing is ours; all is his. Sabai bhumi Gopal ki—all land belongs to Gopal. There is only one art of living: sharing. Then share whatever there is. And never be stingy in sharing. And you will keep coming into possession of newer and newer kingdoms; ever-new will be your estate; ever-new your splendor. But courage is needed—the courage to lavish.

Yog Kusum! When love becomes too much, people start hurling insults. You’ve seen it— from aap to tum, from tum to tu. As love grows, formality falls away; as friendship deepens, people start swearing at each other. That’s the very sign of friendship. If even friends were to say to each other, “Please come, do be seated, kindly step in,” it would mean there is no friendship. When friends meet, the first thing they do is give each other a hard thump on the back.

One day Mulla Nasruddin, walking along the road, gave a man such a thump on the back that the fellow almost fell. And Mulla said, “Bahuruddin! After so long—good to see you!”

The man said, “Forgive me, I am not Bahuruddin.”

Mulla said, “Hey, don’t try to fool me!” and gave him another thump, sending the man flat to the ground.

The man said, “Brother, I’m telling you I’m not Bahuruddin.”

Mulla said, “This is going too far! I did have a slight doubt myself. Because Bahuruddin used to be fat—you look quite thin. He was short—you look tall. But in life, things change. So I thought, whether or not, you must be Bahuruddin.”

Now the man got angry. He said, “This is too much. When you can see that your friend was fat and I’m not; your friend was short and I’m tall—when you can clearly see all that—and still you keep thumping me? Aren’t you ashamed?”

Mulla Nasruddin said, “Why do you need to butt in? I’m hitting Bahuruddin—I’m not even hitting you.”

Friends start talking in insults. So, Kusum, there is nothing to worry about. People may be abusing me—that too is the beginning of their friendship. They even take the trouble to insult—what less could one ask! Who does anything for anyone these days! They put in effort; they hurl abuse. And abuse doesn’t come out of nowhere. They must be worrying, getting angry, growing restless. An insult doesn’t just appear; there’s a long chain behind it. They must be sleepless at night, tossing and turning. My shadow must be following them. My name must be returning to them again and again. All that has begun. The insult is only a symptom that a connection with me is forming. Just watch what happens next! Why be so perturbed?

And then, people only do what their understanding allows. They can’t do more than that.

As far as I am concerned, the love I am giving is returning to me a thousandfold. And with all the love showering on me, the flowers raining upon me—if now and then a thorn slips in, what is there to complain of? When roses rain, sometimes a thorn comes too. If your attention stays on the roses, even the thorn doesn’t feel like a thorn.

The insults people throw at me may jar you because you don’t see the flowers they are throwing upon me. The love I am receiving—perhaps no one else on this earth is receiving as much. After all, you all have poured your hearts out for me! When so much love is there, when there are so many friends, so many lovers… a hundred thousand of my sannyasins—so many who love me!

When a person is loved so much that someone feels it would be their good fortune to die at his word, then a few abuses are also necessary—otherwise the meal becomes tasteless. It needs a little salt. Pure sugar creates diabetes. Not only sweet—now and then the bitter gourd is enjoyable too. So people also send a few dishes of bitter gourd. As far as I am concerned, I am delighted even with that. You too should begin to be delighted by it.

And there is a law of this world: everything is kept in balance. If so many people love me, if so many are my friends, then just as many will be filled with anger toward me, and just as many will behave with enmity. Only then can balance be maintained; otherwise it cannot be.

This world is like a tightrope on which an acrobat walks, constantly weighing himself: if he leans a little left, he leans right; right, then left again. If he leans too far left and the fear of falling arises, he shifts to the right. Just as the rope-walker moves, so it is here: everything keeps balancing itself.

If you want no one ever to abuse you, there is only one way: do not accept anyone’s love. If you want no one to disrespect you, there is only one way: do not accept anyone’s respect. If you want not to receive thorns, then give up loving flowers. That is possible. But I love flowers. I give flowers, I distribute flowers, and when flowers return to me, I am grateful. Naturally then, I also accept the thorns. I have no objection.

If ever I were to have an objection, it would be if people were indifferent. But they are not able to be indifferent. These are good signs, auspicious signs. This is how it begins. First people will abuse. Then they will wonder: “After all, what is this man saying whom we abuse? And so many people love him too.” Then they will read, then inquire, then understand. Then one day they will be drawn here. If a connection has been made through abuse, then a connection has been made. Now it is a matter of transforming that connection into love. That I will do. I know how to transform abuses into flowers.

And people must be forgiven. They can only understand according to their own understanding.

A judge asked an accused man, “The doctor gave you medicine free of charge, and in return for his kindness you stole his watch. Why did you do such a shameful thing? Aren’t you ashamed?” The accused replied, “Your Honor, the doctor told me to take the medicine every half hour—and I didn’t have a watch.”

People have their own ways of thinking. And what I am saying makes them restless; it is contrary to their traditions, their rigid routines, their fixed beliefs.

Once Mulla Nasruddin went to a doctor—beard overgrown, face drawn and miserable, hair tangled, clothes shabby, looking like a mad lover. At first glance the doctor didn’t recognize him as Mulla Nasruddin. When Nasruddin said, “Doctor, you don’t recognize me? I’m Nasruddin! A month ago I had a fever and came to you for treatment, and you forbade me to bathe.” The doctor remembered and said, “Ah yes, yes—so what is it now?” Nasruddin said, “Doctor, I’ve come to ask: May I bathe now, or not?” A month ago he had been told not to bathe—because of the fever. Since then he had stopped bathing altogether.

But that’s not all—another story. An old woman went to a doctor and said, “Doctor, may I now go up and down the stairs?” A month earlier the doctor had removed the plaster from her leg and had told her not to use the stairs. The doctor examined her and said, “Yes, now you can go up and down the stairs.” The old woman breathed a sigh of relief: “Oh God, thank you! I was exhausted climbing to my room with the help of the pipe. It’s good you said I can use the stairs now, otherwise I would have died climbing up and down by the pipe.”

People will understand in their own way, won’t they! “Don’t use the stairs”—fine. But they will continue going up and down; they’ll just use the pipe. It would have been better if she had used the stairs in the first place.

People will find their own ways. What I am saying is new, fresh—and also ancient, eternal. Eternal in the sense that the Buddhas have always said this. New in the sense that the priests and pundits have always stood against it. And the influence of priests and pundits is strong. Who is hurling the abuses? Priests and pundits—of religion or of politics, it makes no difference. My words have begun to make them uneasy, to obstruct them. This ochre storm keeps spreading; it has created panic. Countless anxieties have begun to haunt them: Who knows what my intentions are! Why am I initiating so many people into sannyas? What will these sannyasins do afterward? Doubt is arising in them. They live in doubt. They are also becoming anxious that I might take away, might break, their trade, their business—that people might stop coming to their doors.

Certainly my sannyasin does not then go to their doors. And if he does go, he goes in a new way.

Either my sannyasis shouldn’t go at all. If they do go, their new vision, their new sensibility will put them in difficulty. And wherever my sannyasi stands, he will appear different. That irritates the muni, it irritates the so-called mahatma as well. Even if my sannyasi says nothing, the mahatma himself asks him, “What has happened to you? What have you done?” He himself invites trouble with his own hands.

The swelling tide of sannyasis, the rising flood, will bring a thousand kinds of abuses my way. Don’t worry about that. When those abuses come to me, they don’t remain abuses. Just as, if you throw burning coals into a lake, the moment they fall into the water they are extinguished—they are no longer coals. Let the abuses come toward me, as many as come. The more that come, the better, because that much uproar will be created, that strong a storm will rise.

And I want a great, fearsome anarchy to arise in this country. Because in that very anarchy the dust of centuries can be shaken off, deadness can be broken. In that anarchy a new birth of this country can happen. From that anarchy a new discipline will be born—a discipline not of character, but of consciousness.

And when people abuse you, support them. Tell them, “Pour your heart into it,” because the one you are abusing knows the alchemy of turning abuses into flowers. The poor fellows do as they understand. Don’t be angry with them, don’t quarrel with them, and don’t start abusing in return.

Mulla Nasruddin’s wife, Guljaan, suddenly passed away at the tender age of seventy. Nasruddin lived without her for a while, but then he could no longer bear being alone. Finally he went to a doctor for a remedy, told him his predicament, and said, “I cannot live without getting married.”

The doctor examined him and said, “Nasruddin, marriage could be life-threatening; the decision is yours.”

Nasruddin said, “Doctor, whatever happens, I will marry. And don’t worry—if anything happens to my new wife, her younger sister is also available.”

The doctor was startled—his meaning had been turned upside down. He had meant that something could happen to Nasruddin’s life; Nasruddin thought something could happen to the girl’s life. What more could be said to such a man? The doctor cast a compassionate glance at this old Nasruddin: sunken cheeks, not a tooth in his mouth, every bone protruding, belly and back almost one. The doctor felt pity. He said, “Nasruddin, if it is so that you cannot live without a wife, then certainly get married. I won’t stop you. But I have one piece of advice—if you will accept it, keep a young guest in your house as well. If, along with your wife, you keep a young guest at home, it will be good for your health.”

Mulla said, “That sounds right. You agreed with me; I’ll agree with you. Fine—let’s keep a wife and also a guest.”

Seven or eight months after the wedding, the doctor happened to see Mulla Nasruddin in the market—wearing tight churidar pajamas, a khadi achkan, a Gandhi cap, walking along humming a film tune. The doctor stopped him, asked after him, and said, “Nasruddin, how is your wife? It’s been eight months since you married, and only now we meet! How is your wife?”

Mulla said, “She is about to become a mother.”

Offering congratulations, the doctor asked, “And how is the young guest?”

Nasruddin, a little shy, said, “She too is about to become a mother.”

Ramnarayan Singh Chauhan! Death is an untruth—the greatest untruth. It has never happened, and it never will. A human being is a conjunction of two elements. One element is mortal—indeed already dead. What is already dead, how can it die? The other element is amrit, deathless. What is deathless, how can it die? Then whose death is it? Neither can the body die—because it is dead already—nor can the soul die—because it is amrit. So who is it that dies?

No one dies; only the connection between body and soul falls away. If you have mistaken that connection itself for life, then the falling away of the connection you interpret as death. From the illusion of taking the connection—of identification—as life, death is born. Connection means identification. If you have assumed “I am the body,” then death will occur. If you come to know “I am not the body,” where is death then? The body will die—indeed it was dead already. The soul cannot die—it is amrit.

If only you were to know this while alive, then even in death you would enter laughing, dancing, singing—because only a connection is loosening.

Ramnarayan Singh Chauhan is the editor of a monthly named Abhang. “Abhang” is a lovely word. Body and soul are distinct, separate; they are not abhinna (nondual), not abhang (unbroken). Yet we assume they are abhang, abhinna, ananya—and there is where the delusion begins.

In Maharashtra the songs of the saints are called “abhangs”—because they saw this truth: the supposed oneness of body and soul is false. The day they saw that the oneness of body and soul is false, that very day they knew the oneness of atman and paramatman is true. The Marathi saints’ songs are called abhangs because they realized the unbroken unity of atman and paramatman. They were born out of that very sense of the unbroken, the indivisible. From the unity of the divine and the soul their birth takes place—that is their Gangotri, their source.

As long as we believe “I am one with the body,” the hindrance will persist. Then it makes no difference—whether one is an internationally renowned writer, a thinker, a philosopher, a scientist, or a religious preceptor—no difference at all. Until one is a meditator, nothing changes. The moment one is a meditator, revolution happens. Meditation means seeing, in the witness, “I am other than the body; I am separate from what I see; the seer is distinct from the seen.”

When the distinction between drishya (the seen) and drashta (the seer) flashes utterly clear, that very day death has died. After that there is no death for you—though outwardly people will still see “death.” One day when you leave the body, this house, people will think you have died.

But that is like the madness of a neighborhood weeping because a man changed houses! You leave one house to live in another, and the whole neighborhood cries, “Poor fellow, he’s dead!” People don’t cry then because they see you walking over to another neighborhood, living in another house. If they couldn’t see when you left one and reached the other, and there you weren’t recognizable either, they would cry, cry a lot.

To go from one body to another is only changing houses, changing lodging. But because the journey is invisible, people cannot see it. They only see: “Just now he spoke, walked, stood up; now he neither speaks nor walks nor stands—he has died.” The real event they cannot see. It is not something visible to the eyes of flesh. It can be seen only by those available to meditation, who have known within “I am other than the body.” They will see in another as well that death does not happen—it has never happened. The bird has flown; the cage remains. Do with the cage whatever you like—burn it or bury it—but it is only a cage; the bird has flown.

Before you fly from this cage, if only you realize “I am not the cage,” then there will be no need to enter another cage! You will dissolve into existence, become one. Then there will be neither birth nor death. Then your life is eternal. Then you become one with the eternal law. Esa dhammo sanantano! Buddha says: such is the eternal dharma.

It makes no difference whether you are famous or unknown. What difference could that make? How many know you—what of it? Even if millions know you, what then? Do you know yourself or not—that is the question. And the strange thing is: why do people crave fame? Precisely so that others may know them. They do not know themselves, have never recognized themselves; there has never been any meeting with the soul; they have never even encountered themselves—no bridge to themselves—so they feel empty, and want to know: “Who am I?”

There are two ways to know “Who am I?”—one wrong, one right. The wrong way: ask others. How will others know? What does fame mean? Asking others, “Who am I?” They will say, “Oh, you! A celebrated man of letters, a great thinker, philosopher, scientist, religious preceptor! Who doesn’t know you? The whole world knows you! Your news appears in the papers daily, your photos every day. And you ask, Who am I?”

When many begin to say, “You are a great thinker, a great philosopher, a great religious preceptor,” hearing it again and again, you too start to believe it. You want to believe it because it fills that inner emptiness. Hearing it repeatedly, a self-hypnosis is born. You accept, “Yes, this is what I am.”

I had a professor. One day I told him: all our beliefs are self-hypnosis. He said, “Such as?” I said, “Tomorrow—I’ll answer.”

He was often ill. Doctors were troubled with him because there was nothing much wrong—his illnesses were belief-induced. He had certain fixed notions; in line with those he fell ill. Many people are ill that way—driven by rigid beliefs that keep them sick.

Early morning I went to his house. He was still asleep. I said to his wife, “Listen, help me a little with an experiment. When your husband wakes, ask him, ‘Was your health not okay at night? Did you have a fever? Your face looks pale.’”

She asked, “All right. What experiment?”

“A little psychology experiment,” I said. “Just help till evening.”

“Of course—what harm?”

I told his servant, “When you go to clean his room and see him, look startled and say, ‘What happened to you? Your hands and feet seem to tremble. Are you unwell?’”

Outside I met the gardener. I told him, “When he leaves for the university, don’t forget to say, ‘What’s the matter? You look so pale! Don’t go—rest! You seem unwell.’”

On his route there was a post office. I told the postmaster, “He passes by here daily. When he does, stand outside, greet him, and say, ‘What’s wrong? You’re walking as if you might collapse!’”

I briefed several people like this. At the university, to the peon outside his office I said, “When he comes, jump up and catch him: ‘Sir, what’s happened? How are you walking? Your legs are wobbling, your face is pale, your eyes are yellowing. What’s the matter?’”

He asked, “Won’t he get angry?”

“I’ll take the blame,” I said. “I’m conducting an experiment. Don’t worry—whatever happens, I’ll sort it by evening.”

He woke up. His wife asked, “What happened—weren’t you well at night? Fever?”

“No, I’m absolutely fine,” he said. “I slept great, no problem. Why do you ask?”

“No, it’s just your face looks a little pale, and you seem tired.”

“It’s your illusion. I’m perfectly fine.”

But a doubt had entered within. When he came out of the bathroom, the room-cleaner said, “Sir! How are you walking? Are you unwell?”

“Well, yes,” he said, “I didn’t sleep that well.”

His wife heard—she was astonished, because in the morning he had denied it. But she kept quiet, as I had asked her to till evening.

He stepped outside. The gardener said, “You’re going to university? Don’t go, sir. You’re not well!”

He replied, “Frankly I don’t feel up to it either. But there’s an urgent matter; I must go. I wasn’t well in the night, had fever.”

His wife was even more amazed. “What experiment is he running?” she thought. He was getting ill by the minute.

When the postmaster, pacing outside, said, “You look as if you’ve been ill for months: face gone pale, hands and feet trembling. And you’re walking? If only you had told me, I’d have driven you to the university,”

He said, “I did think of calling a car. Then I thought: the night was bad, a little walk in the morning might help. Though you’re right—I’m panting and in bad shape. Do drop me off.”

So the postmaster drove him. As he alighted, his peon grabbed him, “Sir, you’ll fall!”

“You’re right,” he said.

Leaning on the peon, he reached his room—where I was waiting. I said, “What condition you’re in!”

He said, “Listen, there was important work, so I had to come. You finish it. Tell the vice-chancellor these things on my behalf and apologize that my condition is very bad. And it doesn’t seem I’ll be able to get out of bed for two or four days. Never have I been so bad that everyone who sees me says so!”

I said, “Shall I escort you home? And if needed, I’ll call the doctor.”

“Call the doctor and take me home.”

I brought the doctor and took him home. The doctor checked: 102 degrees fever! The doctor was surprised—he knew I was behind this—and he said, “This is too much: 102 degrees!” The wife too was shocked: “He told me in the morning he was perfectly fine!” He lay in bed. In the evening, when I came with the doctor again, he had 104 degrees. I shook him and said, “Get up! Now I’ll tell you the whole story. Did your wife say such and such in the morning?”

“Yes—how do you know?”

“Ask your wife how she knew! Did your servant say this? Did you reply thus? Did your gardener say this? The postmaster? The peon? And you answered like this. This fever is false—mind-created.”

“How can it be mind-created?” he asked. “It makes sense when you say it, because you’re describing the whole day. But the doctor has seen it and put the thermometer!”

I said, “Let’s have the doctor put the thermometer again.” The fever had vanished. As the story became clear and the belief shattered, the fever took leave.

From that day a revolution occurred in his life. Those perpetual illnesses reduced greatly. Whenever he complained, people laughed. If he said, “I wasn’t well last night,” his wife would say, “Please spare us. Keep it to yourself. Don’t tell anyone.” The servant wouldn’t believe him; nor the gardener. The whole university heard about the experiment and how he hit 104 degrees. Even if he truly had a fever, his wife wouldn’t call a doctor: “Oh, please—someone must be doing an experiment. It’s all in your head. If you could get it by imagination, drop it by imagination.” And his fever began to drop by imagination; his colds lessened. Two years later, at my farewell party, he said, “My greatest thanks is that at least seventy percent of my illnesses have ended—because now I myself start laughing: if I can talk myself into 104 degrees, who knows what is true! What is false and what is true—I’m no longer sure!”

We ask people: Who am I? We don’t ask it so plainly—else they’d call us mad. We ask cleverly, indirectly. If someone says you’re very beautiful, very intelligent, very wise, very virtuous, a great mahatma—you’re a mahatma only as long as there are people calling you one; that too is a 104-degree fever.

Therefore the mahatma fears—lest his disciples drift away. Otherwise his fever will subside, his sainthood will evaporate. If a disciple goes to someone else, he flies into a rage—fearful, anxious.

Bhagwandas Bharti wrote to me that he went to meet Acharya Tulsi, and immediately Tulsi began talking all sorts of nonsense about me.

Of course he would. First you were his devotee, his shravak. A customer lost! And people like me have a big “problem”: we must take someone’s customers, because people already belong to some shop or other. When people like me arise, this problem will be there: someone is Muslim, someone Hindu, someone Christian, someone Jain; someone theist, someone atheist, someone communist. I must draw customers from one shop or another.

Even the atheist has his religion—atheism. Some atheists came to me and took sannyas; their group is upset. The Communist Party is angry with me because I made some communists into sannyasins. Now they do not bother about Marx; Marx is no longer their inspired man. Das Kapital is no longer their Bible. Though the communists should be happy: I’ve given so many people the red color! But they too are annoyed.

I have to “steal” someone’s customer—this is the compulsion. Buddha came; he had to steal someone’s customer. Jesus came; he had to steal someone’s customer. Those whose customers are taken will fume. It’s perfectly natural—because their sainthood rests on their clientele. Hence the bigger the crowd…

For example, Christians can say… Arnold wrote a marvelous book on Buddha: The Light of Asia. It’s a lovely book—among the finest ever written on Buddha. But Arnold was a Christian, so he couldn’t title it The Light of the World—The Light of Asia! The Light of the World—that is Jesus. Then Arnold wrote another book—because Christians pressed him: “You wrote such a book on Buddha; now on Jesus…” He titled it The Light of the World. Though the second book has no life—weak, no vitality. The first is extraordinary, because it flowed naturally—Arnold had fallen in love with Buddha. Yet he could not muster the courage to call him “light of the world.”

A Jain wrote a book on Buddha and Mahavira, and titled it: Bhagwan Mahavira and Mahatma Buddha. I asked him, “What would be the harm if you called both of them Bhagwan? Or even called both Mahatma?”

“You’re right,” he said. “But Mahavira is Bhagwan; and although Buddha is a highly evolved person, still he’s only a mahatma, not yet Bhagwan.”

A born Jain cannot make Buddha a Bhagwan—the shops of the saints are partitioned! And their sainthood depends on others’ eyes. So saints fear you; they do as you say. You say, “Rise at five,” they rise at five; “Rise at three,” they rise at three. “Sleep by nine,” they sleep by nine. “Eat once a day,” they eat once. As you say—because they must keep you pleased; only then will you allow them to remain “mahatma.” Otherwise their sainthood is gone. Let them stray a little from your rules and the game is over. If you learn that “the monk drank water at night”—finished. At night a monk cannot drink water. He may stay thirsty all night and think about water—that is acceptable. He may dream of lakes and drink them dry in his dreams—acceptable. But he cannot drink a single glass of water. He may stay hungry for twenty-four hours and think only of food—that’s acceptable; but he cannot eat twice. And because of this, at one sitting a Jain monk eats so much that his belly bulges.

Now this is quite a wonder! If a Digambara Jain monk has a paunch, then no one on earth can be saved from a paunch. He eats only once in twenty-four hours! And a Digambara Jain monk is not permitted to sit and eat; he must eat standing. He is karapatri, he must take food in his hands. For if you sit and eat comfortably, you will eat more; standing, you tire and cannot eat much. Eating while standing—how much can you manage? And eating by hand only. Yet you will see the Digambara Jain monk’s belly—astonishingly large! He eats a lot.

Have you seen the picture of Muktananda’s guru, Nityananda? I don’t think in the whole world anyone ever had so big a belly. A historic paunch! To say “Nityananda has a belly” is wrong; better to say “the belly has a Nityananda.” If you haven’t seen the picture, it’s worth seeing: nothing but belly! Muktananda’s guru outdid all the world’s gurus. There are Akhandananda, and so on, but beside Nityananda—what! Why is it that the world’s record books haven’t printed Nityananda’s photo? It’s surprising. Someone runs fastest, someone swims longest, someone cycles farthest—small feats. And this poor man worked all his life to produce such a paunch, and nowhere is it mentioned! That is improper, unjust—I protest.

Ever since I saw Nityananda’s belly, whenever I see a saint’s photo I first check—belly or not? None compares to Nityananda—matchless!

How does this happen? And these are called light eaters, fasters, one-meal people. Some take only milk, and nothing else. Yet see their bodies! They do what you make them do.

The first sign of Buddhahood is this: no shravak can run a Buddha. He moves in his own way, lives in his own way. He is no one’s slave. He knows who he is; he does not ask you. Therefore he does not depend on you. He knows who he is; he does not need to look at his face in your mirror. He has seen his original face.

You are mad for fame because it is the one way to stuff yourself with an answer to “Who am I?” The world says I am a writer, poet, painter, religious preceptor, philosopher—then surely I must be. If a Nobel Prize comes, you are convinced: “It’s perfectly right—indeed I am something.” This is the false way of knowing oneself. The true way is meditation. Not looking into another’s eyes, but closing your own—so that the outer ceases to be seen. Did you hear Paltu yesterday?

Paltu said: My word will be understood by one who is blind of the eyes. An amazing line! No one has said it quite like that. Jesus too said the same, but differently: “He who has eyes to see, let him see; he who has ears to hear, let him hear.” The meaning is the same, but even Jesus did not say it the way Paltu did. Paltu’s manner is uniquely sadhukaddi—plain as a sadhu should speak. Jesus softened it a little: “He who has eyes…” Paltu says: “The one who is blind can see me.” Jesus’ meaning too is that with outward-looking eyes you cannot see me; inner eyes are needed. But Paltu is utterly direct: become blind to the outer—see nothing outside—and then you will see me. Become deaf to the outer—then you will hear me.

One way is to keep asking others “Who am I?”—false and wrong. Walk that way and death will come, because whatever image you build of yourself will be false; at death it will shatter. When the conjunction of body and soul breaks, the image will crumble. Your world renown will not save you then; your prestige, your glory, your Nobel Prize—none will avail. All becomes rubbish. But by then it is too late: what use repenting when the birds have eaten the crop?

The other way: close your eyes and go within. Inquire: Who am I? I am—that much is certain—but who am I? Keep asking “Who am I?” Let this be your mantra in meditation: “Who am I? Who am I?” First repeat it in words; then gradually drop the words and let only the feeling remain—the living pulse of “Who am I?” Let the pure feeling resonate. Descending step by step into yourself, one day this very question will disappear. You will stand face-to-face with yourself. You will see that which you are. That day, you and the body are separate—the real death has happened. This death we call awakening—sambodhi, samadhi. After that, when the second death comes, it has no value. Even in that “death” you will know: only a conjunction is dissolving. I will remain; the body will also remain—its water will merge in water, its earth in earth, its air in air; its five elements will dissolve into the five elements—nothing is destroyed. And my soul will dissolve into the paramatman—nothing is destroyed.

Here, in this world, nothing is annihilated and nothing is created. What is, is; nothing new is born, nothing old destroyed. Only conjunctions form and dissolve.

Death, Ramnarayan, is the greatest lie. But the meditator comes to know; the non-meditator does not. The non-meditator has to die many times. The meditator dies only once—in meditation. After that, all deaths are false.

Sudhakar! What else will you do? Where marriage is concerned, fear is all there is to chew on.

Two years after his wife’s death, Chandulal also passed away. Since in his life he had done neither great sins nor great virtues, he was given the option to choose between heaven and hell. He went to the inquiries desk at the otherworldly office and asked the clerk, “Brother, my wife, Mrs. Chandulal, died two years ago. Would you kindly tell me whether she went to heaven or to hell?”
The clerk flipped through the ledgers and said, “Mrs. Chandulal, having no major merits or demerits on record, was also given the freedom to choose. And as everyone does, she chose heaven. She is presently residing in heaven.”
“In that case,” said Chandulal in a rush, “please send me to hell—quickly.”

One day Dhabboo-ji was asking Mulla Nasruddin, “Tell me this, Mulla: just as we can easily recognize unmarried and married women—because a maiden has no vermilion in the parting of her hair, while a married woman does—can we similarly tell unmarried and married men apart?”
Mulla Nasruddin said, “Brother Dhabboo-ji, the identification is very simple. Listen: a bachelor’s shirt never has buttons; and a married man—on his very body you’ll find buttons upon buttons, but no shirt to be found.”

You are frightened; it’s natural. But nothing will happen by trembling. You will have to pass through this pain. Because without going through the pain, you will go on being afraid—and the allure will remain. If there were no allure, why would the question even arise? Your fear is not yet from experience; it is not self-experience. That’s why the question arises. There is a longing in the mind. Go through it; don’t waste time. The sooner you pass through, the better. Because the sooner you go in, the sooner you will come out.

Sudhakar, marriage too is a school, which gives you a great lesson: that fulfillment cannot come from the other, and joy cannot come from the other. And this is a very great lesson, because its other side is that bliss can be found only from oneself, within oneself.

That is all for today.