Kahe Hot Adheer #18

Prem Vedant! I did not expect this from Shri Girija Kumar Mathur. Such a limp, hollow statement—from so thoughtful a poet—I could not even imagine. “He is controversial”—that, in fact, should be the very reason to come. If Girija Kumar Mathur holds back, grows nervous because I am controversial, then he could not have met Socrates either, nor Jesus, nor Buddha, nor Lao Tzu. Then, of all the luminous ones in history, he could not have gone to any. They were all controversial.

If controversy frightens you, you will never reach one who has known the truth. You can only go to pundits and priests; they are not controversial. They don’t have the strength. They don’t have the experience. They have no realization of truth; therefore they are not controversial. They walk the beaten track—herd-fashion, bound to tradition, never deviating an inch from orthodoxy. So no controversy arises. And one who lives like a sheep, who silently accepts the dead, rotten beliefs of society—such a slave, such a serf—how can truth ever be his experience?

Truth is experienced by the rebellious, by those who are fundamentally revolutionary. Not merely revolutionaries—they are revolution itself.

If Girija Kumar Mathur is holding back because I am controversial, he is stopping for a very wrong reason. If a person is not controversial, he is not worth going to. Not being controversial simply means he is a slave of the past—an idolater of the dead, walking in fossilized footprints. Truth is always controversial—whether it appears in Socrates or Mansoor, Kabir or Paltu.

Why is truth controversial? This should be understood.

The crowd can never be with truth, because to be with truth you must be an individual. And the crowd destroys individuality. The crowd robs people of their souls, wipes them out, reduces them to a mere part of the mass. Then one is a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian, a Jain—but not a person. Where there is no person, there is no humanity. And where there is no person, how can the divine descend? You are not there—if God comes, in whom will he come? You are only a segment of the mob, a cog in the machine.

There is a difference between a person and a spare part. Parts can be replaced: if one part of a machine fails, we put in another and the machine runs again. Persons cannot be replaced. Each person is unique—none like him has ever been, nor will ever be. In that very uniqueness lies personhood. Hence, no one can stand in for another. Even the smallest, the most unknown person has a privacy, an innerness. The crowd cannot tolerate that, because privacy is dangerous. One with privacy will not blindly imitate. He will think, reflect, and follow the voice of his own conscience—even if that voice goes against orthodoxy, against society, against the state. He will stake everything, but he will not betray his inner voice. He may lose his life, but he will not sell his soul.

Persons are not for sale in the market. And those who are sold are not persons. And without personhood, where is the soul?

George Gurdjieff used to say: not everyone has a soul. And he was right. The soul is born in those who take up the struggle, who grapple, who confront untruth wherever they see it. In that very collision the truth within is burnished. In that very clash the edge comes to their sword, their intelligence kindles with light. If you just trudge along the ruts like an oil-press ox, what will you gain by going to such a one? At most, he can make you another ox at the oil-press.

I have heard: One morning a logician went to a seller of oil. The oilman was weighing oil, and behind him the press was turning. The ox was running the mill and oil was being crushed. The logician was amazed: the ox had no driver, yet kept circling by itself. He asked the oilman, “A curiosity arose in my mind—where in this dark age did you find such a religious ox? In the golden age, just such oxen might have existed. But in this age? Now you can beat them, and they still won’t move—they strike, gherao, gore with horns, shout slogans, demand freedom. Where did you find this devout ox—no one drives it, and yet it keeps going!”

The oilman laughed. “You don’t know the trick. The ox isn’t devout—there is a device behind his moving. See, his eyes are blindfolded. He sees only what’s right before him—neither left nor right. So he thinks he is traveling somewhere, going toward a destination. He cannot realize he is circling in place, going nowhere. If he understood he was going in circles, he would stop at once. But he thinks, ‘I am reaching somewhere—some goal is getting nearer.’”

The logician was still a logician. “Granted, you’ve blindfolded him. But he could stop sometimes to see whether anyone is driving him or not.”

The oilman said, “You take me for a fool? I’ve tied a bell to his neck. As he walks, the bell rings—I know he is moving. The moment he stops, the bell falls silent. I quickly spring up and give him a whack. He never realizes no one was behind him—he stops for a moment, the bell stops, and I lash out. He stays scared that someone is behind him; if he stops for a moment, the whip will land.”

The logician persisted, “One last question: can’t the ox stand still and merely shake his head to make the bell ring?”

“Sir,” said the oilman, “please lower your voice. If the ox hears that, my whole business is finished. And if my children hear it, they too will be spoiled.”

That is why Jesus had to be crucified, Socrates had to be made to drink poison. They were the ones trying to remove the bandage from your eyes. They were warning you about the bell tied to your neck. They were telling you, “You are running in circles—going nowhere; laboring in vain. Stop! Think anew!” They were urging you, “Become a man, not an ox at the mill.”

Naturally, all those whose interests lie in making you an ox at the press will be angry. Parents want obedient children—without caring whether their orders are worthy of obedience. Teachers want obedient students—without caring whether their commands deserve it. Politicians want an obedient populace. Priests and pundits want obedient congregations. Everyone wants the other to be obedient, because the obedient can be exploited. No one wants the other to be thoughtful.

A thoughtful person will sometimes agree and sometimes not. He will agree when it resonates with his conscience; he will not when it does not. He has his own measure, his own touchstone. He will assay: if it is gold, he will say yes; if brass, he will throw it away.

And not everything that glitters is gold. Not every command is true; not every command is good; not every command is beautiful.

The truth is, nothing has harmed humanity as much as obedience. If there were a little less obedience in the world, it would be a blessing for man. Muslims would then not burn Hindu temples merely obeying a maulvi; Hindus would not torch mosques obeying a pundit. They would think: the temple is His, and so is the mosque. The church is His, and so is the gurdwara. The One who made Hindus also made Muslims, Christians, Sikhs. The same Master is of all. If we kill a Muslim, we are harming the creation of that Master—we are acting irreligiously.

But no—Hindus will call it a dharma-yuddha, Muslims will call it jihad, Christians will call it a crusade. In jihad, whoever dies goes to paradise at once; in a holy war, the one who dies is assured of heaven, all his sins forgiven.

Such commands have turned the earth into hell. Politicians command, and people go to fight—without cause! For years America rained bombs on Vietnam—without cause! And American soldiers obeyed. They did not say, “What is happening? We have eyes; we can think. Without cause, bombs are falling on a poor country. America has no connection.” For thirty years, continuously, millions were killed—simple peasants, the poor, children, women, the old.

The man who dropped the atom bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki did not say, “I will not obey this order. Better you shoot me instead. In five minutes, one hundred thousand people will be ash because of my bomb. Rather than turning one hundred thousand defenseless people into ash—who have no crime, who can’t defend themselves, who have no warning of what is about to happen; children getting ready for school, tying their satchels; mothers cooking; people going to offices—on these innocent people I should drop a bomb!” The one who dropped it did not consider any of this. And when asked, “Did you sleep that night?” he said, “I slept very well. Because I fulfilled the order, I did my duty. What more does a soldier need?”

He doesn’t care that he killed one hundred thousand people. The only entry in his ledger is: I obeyed.

I cannot teach you obedience. I can give you awareness—such a touchstone that you yourself can test what is gold and what is brass. If gold, accept; if brass, never. And of all the orders given to you so far, ninety-nine percent are brass.

So controversy will arise. I will be controversial—because I am teaching something that obstructs vested interests. If you understand me, politicians will not be able to deceive you as easily as they do now. You will not be swayed by their promises. You will see their fraud. You will recognize their dishonesty. You will see they are hidden thieves. The white khadi garb has become a fine protection for these thieves. They are dishonest. They are criminals. But their crimes are subtle—beyond your grasp.

Petty thieves are caught; big thieves become prime ministers and presidents. Small-time smugglers go to jail; major smugglers become politicians. Small robbers are hanged; great plunderers—Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, Nadir Shah, Akbar, Aurangzeb, Alexander, Napoleon—histories are written in their praise. They are all bandits.

One who says such things is bound to be controversial.

And I say truth is not in the scriptures. So Hindu pundits are angry, Muslim maulvis are angry, Christian priests are angry. Can truth ever be found in words? The word “fire”—is there fire in it? If you write “fire” on paper, can you brew tea from it? The word “water”—or if you are a scientist, you write H2O—can it quench thirst? Yet people read the Gita and think they will meet God; they read the Quran and think union will happen.

You cannot meet God on paper. If you would meet God, you must descend the staircase of your own consciousness—go deeper and deeper into yourself. God dwells within you, but you must touch your ultimate depth. Not in scriptures, but in yourself. Not in knowledge, but in meditation. Not in words, but in silence.

One who speaks such things will be controversial.

Prem Vedant, tell Girija Kumar Mathur: don’t miss the opportunity. If the juice is stirred, gather a little courage, a little daring.

When I was a university student, the vice-chancellor was a great pundit—and a great manipulator; otherwise it is hard to be a vice-chancellor. To be VC you must be a politician: all the tricks of politics are involved. To reach that seat, you must arrange a thousand intrigues. On Buddha Jayanti he delivered a lecture. With much emotion he said, “I always feel that if only I had been alive in the time of Lord Buddha, I would surely have sat at his feet and taken the benefit of satsang.”

I stood up. “Take those words back. I can say with certainty: if you had been alive in Buddha’s time, you would not have gone to him at all—far from sitting at his feet.”

He was taken aback that a student could dare so much—also a little scared. “Why? Why wouldn’t I have sat at his feet?”

I said, “Ramana Maharshi was alive—did you sit at his feet?”

“No, I did not.”

“Why not? J. Krishnamurti is alive—have you gone to him?”

“No.”

“Why not? The same difficulties that stand in the way of going to Krishnamurti would have stood in going to Buddha—the same controversial personality. Who wants that hassle! People might find out. They will say, ‘Ah, so you too have joined this troublemaker!’ Close your eyes and think for two moments—and take your words back. Because I won’t sit silently. I know you well. Better take them back—else I will have to say some other things about you.”

He panicked. “I take my words back.”

Because then I was about to reveal: in the university there was no one who drank more than he did—how would he sit at Buddha’s feet? No one who lied more than he did—how would he sit at Buddha’s feet? He flattered petty politicians, massaged their feet—that is how he became VC. How would he sit at Buddha’s feet? And he had great pride—of being a Brahmin, a pundit, a learned man. How would he sit at Buddha’s feet?

Later he invited me home. “Come for breakfast tomorrow. One does not stand up in the middle like that. You should have had some consideration for me!”

I said, “Should I consider Buddha, or consider you? I considered Buddha. And I warn you: as long as I am here for two years, think before you speak. If you say something I find untrue, you cannot stop me.”

For two years he stopped speaking. Buddha’s birthday came, Mahavira’s came, Krishna’s came; others spoke, he just presided and kept quiet. He would sit silently—because I would sit right in front.

Tell Girija Kumar Mathur: anyone engaged in the search for truth, anyone who has attained the experience of truth—he will be controversial. Should he look at truth, or at your conveniences? At truth, or at your social traditions and rituals? At your ceremonies, or at truth?

And truth continually collides with orthodoxy—because orthodoxy is created by those who exploit you, who want to yoke you to their mills. Truth is given by those who want to set you free. Conflict is inevitable. It will be there.

Prem Vedant, you say he is interested in me.

Interest he has; courage he lacks. Interest alone is dead if there is no courage. I have read his poems. Tell him: from his poetry I had not expected he would prove so weak. But writing poetry is one thing; living poetry is another. Here I am living poetry—and teaching people to live poetically. Here poetry is being lived. What is my sannyasin? A poem, a music, a festival! A jubilant overflow! Springtime! My sannyasin is no escapist, no renunciate in the old sense—he is one who resolves to live life in its totality.

God is not to be sought in the mountains somewhere; he is to be found here and now—in people, in animals, in birds, in trees, in stones. If you have eyes to see, in every stone his song is inscribed; on every leaf his signature. If you have ears to hear, even in silence his Bhagavad Gita hums, his Quran rises.

But Girija Kumar Mathur is not alone; there are many like him. I get many letters: “We want to come, but...” And wherever the “but” appears, the “if,” the “however,” life turns dead. If you want to come, then leave no room for the “but.” People feel like coming only when in every sense there is profit and no loss. In connecting with someone like me, prestige may suffer.

Another poet, Tanmay Bukhariya, came recently. To come was courageous. He was drenched in the rasa. He is indeed a marvelous poet—his poetry has a certain absorption. His very name is Tanmay—absorbed—and his verse has absorption, an ocean of rasa. He didn’t merely listen—he decided to take the jump into sannyas. He even came to take initiation. But just before his name was called, he ran away. I saw someone stand and leave a minute or two before that name was called. When it was announced, it turned out he had gone—Tanmay Bukhariya. He missed while mid-leap. Fear must have seized him. Sitting here, as people were taking sannyas, perhaps thoughts came—“If I go home in ochre robes and mala, what will my wife say, the children, the family, the town!” Later my sannyasins met him in Lalitpur where he lives. They asked him. He said, “I will come again. I surely will. One day I will go. One day I must.”

But when will that “one day” come? Perhaps never. The one who postpones till tomorrow often postpones forever. And one who came here and then ran away—he may never muster courage to come again, because the same risk will confront him.

Tell Girija Kumar Mathur: What is the fear? Is it perhaps this—“If I go there, I might be dyed in that color”? If one is a little emotional—and Girija is an emotional poet—he could drown. That is the real fear. “Controversial” is just a pretext. He cannot admit his real fear. Tell him: think again! Perhaps the fear is that “If I go there, I may drown. Interest is arising, rasa is flowing—what if I leap there and then there is no way back!”

People step very cleverly, gingerly. And those who have experienced life become very afraid—because they have found that whenever they did something different from society, society created obstacles. Society will not forgive you.

Society wants you to be exactly as it wants: if it says turn left, turn left; if it says turn right, turn right. Society wants a contract—a compromise—that if you obey us, we will grant you prestige, honor, respect. But if you take even a different step—not opposite, merely different—then remember, no one will be worse than us!

My sannyasins have to go through all these difficulties. Become a traditional renunciate and there is no difficulty: that is approved. To be my sannyasin is difficult—because that is not approved. Only a few vital people can dare.

Remind him: don’t die before you die. Remind him: you are still alive! Behave like one who is alive. Come, understand! And I don’t say, “Surrender and drown.” Understand! If your understanding says so—if a call arises within, if a delight wells up, if the urge to dive awakens—then don’t stop; don’t let any concern become a barrier.

Without that much courage, God cannot be sought. In the search for truth, there is no greater quality than courage, no greater eligibility.

It may also be that being a famous poet, his ego gets in the way—“A renowned poet like me, to go to listen to someone, to understand someone—what will people say?”

I receive messages: “We want a private, personal meeting, not in front of everyone—because we have some questions.”

What harm is there in asking questions in front of all?

There is one harm: people will come to know—“Ah, so you too are ignorant! So you too have not yet resolved the questions of life!” Hence the demand for privacy.

I have seen that people ask different things in private than in public. When I used to meet people alone, they raised their real problems in private. When I met the same people before others, they spoke of Brahman, moksha, kaivalya—lofty themes. Alone they would ask, “How to get free of lust? How to be rid of anger? I am crazy about food—how to be free of it?” In public they would ask, “Who created the universe? Is there a Creator? Who runs this cosmos?”

These are not their questions. But to show others, “Our questions are spiritual. We are not ordinary folk—we are seekers. Anger, lust—these we left behind long ago. Wealth, food—such cravings don’t beset us. In us devotion to God has arisen; we want to taste liberation.”

Without annihilation there is no savor of abiding.
Until you efface the ego, you will not find God.

If you want God, one thing must be erased—you must erase yourself.

Until you are annihilated—become a pure zero—you will not know the ecstasy of existence. Such is the paradoxical arithmetic of life: the one ready to vanish finds life; the one who clutches at life finds nothing but repeated death.

Truth itself is paradoxical; therefore, how can those who have experienced it be anything but controversial? Their utterances become paradoxical. To speak truth, there is no other way but paradox. And to speak truth, compromises cannot be made. Truth knows no compromise. Truth stands naked, as it is—let the consequences be what they may. Consequences concern untruth, not truth. Compromises are struck by untruth, not by truth. That is why the crowd worships untruth and throws stones at truth.

Tell him—

Your duty is only this: seek a servant of God.
Do not worry about God—found or not found.

Where is God, and how will you seek him? Your sole duty is to seek those who have known God.

Your duty is only this: seek a servant of God.
If you can find someone who belongs to God, someone who loves him, eyes that have seen the Divine—seek those eyes. Seek the feet that have entered the temple of the Lord. Let your hand fall into the hands that have touched the Beloved. That alone is your duty.

Do not worry about God—whether he is found or not.
It does not matter. If you find a Buddha, a Mahavira, a Nanak, a Mohammed—the work is done. In that mirror, a glimpse of God will begin to appear. In that veena, you will begin to hear his notes.

But people want to search for God and are afraid to approach those who have found him. The reason is simple: searching for God costs nothing. Without turmeric or alum, the cloth is dyed bright. By searching, you will not find God—and you risk nothing. But if you come to a true Master, your head will have to be cut. At the true Master’s feet, you must offer your very life. And a true Master can be found—he is within reach. Without the Master, God is not found. Hence you can go on “seeking God” endlessly—it is mental gymnastics, intellectual exercise. Keep doing your arithmetic, keep hypothesizing—“Is he or not? If he is, what is he like—formless or with form?” Keep arranging words—playing a game of checkers with concepts. You will not find God.

It is true: it is not even your duty to seek God. Your duty is only one—to find one who has found God. Only one who has been to the other shore can be your boatman.

Adopt humility as the map of the way.
If you desire a station in the heights of the heavens—

Perish. Let egolessness descend in you.

Adopt humility as the map of the way—
only one thing will make you worthy: the melting of your ego.

If you desire a station in the heights of the heavens—
if you want the sky’s heights, fulfill one condition: let the ego go. And I know the obstacle. Those who gain some kind of fame—poets, actors, painters, politicians—their difficulty is that their ego becomes robust, decorated. How will such a one bow? And there are realms where you cannot go without bowing; where the very condition of entry is surrender. Otherwise you may come and go—you neither came nor went. The coming was futile, the going futile.

So fear arises; fame restrains. Tell him: from such reputations nothing has ever been gained, nor can be. They are illusions. We live in such illusions; the very name for them is maya. We remain caught in them and die in them—and then again and again we are deceived by the same toys.

So I understand—there are obstacles. While in office, people find it hard to come. As soon as they leave office, they can come. Many “former ministers” come here—former! I don’t know about other ghosts in this country, but there are so many “former ministers.” They come. Once the post is gone, what difficulty remains? When in office, they are very hindered. Even if they want to come, they send a message: “Please send us an invitation. We will come if invited.”

If you want to come, then come—why the craving for an invitation?

No—the measures to avoid bowing begin early. Then when they come, there are conditions: “We will meet in private.”

What is the fear of meeting before everyone? What is the difficulty? But no—they cannot bare their hearts in public. And meeting privately gives a feeling of specialness. So I stopped private meetings altogether—because the wrong kind of people alone asked for them. Now it is a problem for them—how to come?

Tell him: drop these childish things—drop these toys!

Mulla Nasruddin went to a psychologist and said, “Do something—my wife’s condition is getting worse. She plays with toys all day!”

The psychologist said, “You are fortunate, Nasruddin. She keeps herself busy—less trouble for you. Let her play—she harms no one.”

“Why doesn’t she harm!” said Nasruddin. “She has taken possession of all the toys—when do I get to play?”

Here everyone is excited about toys—of ego, position, prestige, wealth, fame. Who knows how many toys there are! People are entangled—from children to old men. Blessed is the one who becomes free of toys, slips out of their web. That I call sannyas. That I call sadhana. Whoever would taste the Divine must bow.

Tell him to come—he is welcome. But leave behind his fame, his name, his address. Come simply as a human being, and something may be gained.

Otherwise, just recently a poet came—a “great” poet. For days calls were coming from Bombay: “I want to come, give me a time.” At last I said, “Fine—give him a time.” He came. I asked, “Tell me, what do you wish to say?”

He said, “I have come to recite two or four poems to you.”

He had nothing to ask, nothing to know—rather, he came to recite to me, so that I too should praise, give a certificate! I said, “Then come some other time.” Now he keeps calling: “When can I come now?”

Some people remain caught in such games. Once, at least once, one should take off the cloak of ego. Once, come with your true inquiry. Somewhere, seek a place where you can be exposed, where your problems can be laid bare, so that a solution may be found.

One who has not attained samadhi before death has lived in vain; he has not truly lived—he has thrown away the opportunity of life.

Devanand! Why are you dragging God into it? Life is upside-down because it is our choice to live it upside-down. You do a headstand and then ask, “What’s the matter, why am I standing upside down? What is God’s will in this?”

God has no will in it. God has given you freedom: stand on your feet if you wish, or on your head if you wish; go left or go right; do good or do bad; seek hell or seek heaven. He has given you freedom—His great gift, His grace, His offering. And you are misusing it. That’s why life is topsy-turvy. That’s why everything is in disarray.

Today’s man is not a man— a scoundrel, a loafer; white-collared outside, naked within. In the pond of darkness he keeps jumping and bathing, splashing trickery and pretense, drenching the innocent; no one can restrain him, he doesn’t stop when stopped— pure hooliganism!

But it isn’t only today’s man. Man has always been like this. Man’s head is upside down.

There is a story about Mulla Nasruddin: when he was a child, his parents and neighbors realized he had an inverted head. Everyone knew it. For example, if a door was open and they wanted it closed, they learned never to tell him, “Close the door,” otherwise he would open a closed door. Upside-down head! Even if the door was open, they’d say, “Son, please open the door.” He’d immediately close it. So they gave him reverse commands.

One day Nasruddin was returning with his father, loading a donkey with sacks of sand. The father walked behind; Nasruddin ahead. One sack was leaning too far to the left and looked as if it would fall into water. Two sacks balanced on both sides can stay put. The left sack was tipping; it would fall and take the right one down too. And if the sand got wet it would get so heavy the donkey couldn’t pull it. So the father said, “Son, tilt the sack a little to the left.”

It was already falling to the left; but because the boy had an inverted head, the father had to say, “Tilt it to the left.” To his amazement, Nasruddin actually tilted it left. The sacks fell into the water. The father said, “Nasruddin, what happened to you today?”

Nasruddin replied, “Today I turned twenty-one. What do you think! I’m of age now. You won’t be able to trick me anymore. I’m not only an inverted head—I’m an adult too. I understood your real meaning. You thought I’d tilt it to the right. Those were childhood days. You fooled me a lot then.”

Man has come of age today—that’s the only difference. He was upside down before; now he’s grown up, and the trouble has grown with him. There is no hand of God in this. Man alone is the creature to whom God has given freedom. A dog is a dog; a cat is a cat. A cat is born a cat and dies a cat. A dog is born a dog and dies a dog. You can’t tell a dog, “You are a little less of a dog.” All dogs are equally dogs. But you can tell a human being, “You are a little less of a man.” Why? Because man alone is free.

Man can fall below the animals, or he can rise above the gods. But to rise is an ascent, and ascent demands effort. To descend is a slope—no effort needed. So man finds it easy to go downward. Like when a car is coming down a mountain, a miser shuts off the petrol—no fuel needed; the car rolls on its own. But you can’t climb a mountain with the petrol shut off; energy, strength, effort, practice will be needed. Heights demand discipline. Merit demands discipline. To reach God is like climbing a mountain like Gaurishankar. You will be drenched in sweat; your blood will become sweat. Who wants that much hassle! And if someone does start the climb, the rest won’t allow it; they’ll grab his legs and pull him down. They say, “Where are you going? Have you gone mad?” Because others are pained to see someone go above them.

You have read the myths. They are symbolic, not historical, but true in their meaning. They say whenever a sage rises through fierce austerities, Indra’s throne begins to shake. Why does Indra’s throne shake? What does he have to fear? Anxiety arises: “What if he takes my seat!” So bring him down, shake him off.

If someone is a little above you, he’ll push you to go down. Those below you will pull your leg, “Where are you going up!” The crowd will drag you back into itself: “You think you are above us? You want to rise?” The crowd will clip your wings. The crowd never tolerates a great soul. It abuses and insults him. That is the fate of the great: he must endure abuse.

You ask: “Why does life seem so upside-down?” It doesn’t just seem so—we have made it so. We have done everything to turn it upside down. Man has the capacity to be divine, and we are not becoming divine. We are falling below the beasts. Forget God—we are not even becoming human. That’s why everything is inverted. Our nature wants to fly, to spread wings into the sky; but our systems, our self-interest, our society, the crowd all around us want us to stay low, never to rise.

“My daughter can dance, sing, and play the sitar. She is skilled in acting and an excellent swimmer. She loves movies and novels. She knows judo and karate well. My darling girl is fearless and daring. She knows Hindi, Urdu, English, French, and Japanese, and is learning German. Last year she won gold medals in debate and badminton. She is a fluent speaker. She is inclined toward social service. And in the next Lok Sabha elections she is preparing to contest from the Surat constituency. What qualities do you have?” After describing her daughter in detail, Dhabbuji’s future mother-in-law asked him.

Poor Dhabbuji lowered his head and said shyly, “Ma’am, I only know how to cook; I have even won several prizes for the best food.”

We keep turning life upside down. Women are trying to be men; men are trying to be effeminate. Women are racing to compete with men; men are slowly scrubbing pots, cooking, cleaning house. Women smoke, ride horses, learn judo and karate. Femininity is being destroyed. The masculine too is being destroyed. Everything is turning upside down. No God is doing this—we are.

A girl was very rich and Mulla Nasruddin was poor, but honest. She liked him—but only that much, and Mulla knew it. One night, finding a chance, Mulla asked, “You are very rich?”

“Yes,” the girl said, “right now I’m worth one crore rupees.”

“Will you marry me?” Mulla asked.

“No.”

“I knew you would say that,” Mulla sighed.

“Then why did you ask?” she said.

“To see how it feels to lose one crore rupees,” said Mulla.

Even he isn’t interested in the marriage—just curious about how it feels to lose one crore! That sigh he heaved was for losing a crore.

When people love for money, everything goes upside down. And people are loving for money. They even go to astrologers for love. Parents arrange love too—because they are more “clever.” They’ll arrange wealth, position, prestige. Even love is no longer direct; others decide it. And what are their criteria? How much money and education does the boy have? How much dowry and education does the girl have? Girls study in colleges mainly to get a good husband; there is no real passion for study.

I was a university teacher. I did not see a single girl truly interested in study. Their whole interest was somehow to get a good degree, to get first class—and if a gold medal, then so much the better! But the degree, reading, writing—they carry no juice. The juice is: then they can hook a good husband—a deputy collector, a collector, a doctor, an engineer.

We keep turning life upside down; we have made it upside down.

A young woman saw a new kind of computer at an exhibition. The operator said, “This device has a human-like brain and can answer every question correctly.”

Impressed, she wrote on a slip of paper: “Where is my father?”

The question was fed into the machine and a button pressed. Out popped a slip: “Your father is sitting in a liquor shop in Bombay, drinking.”

“Absolutely wrong,” the girl said. “My father died twenty years ago.”

“This machine never makes a mistake,” the operator said confidently. “Ask the same question a little differently.”

This time the girl wrote: “Where is my mother’s husband?”

Again the button was pressed. Out popped a slip: “Your mother’s husband died twenty years ago, but your father is sitting in a liquor shop in Bombay, drinking.”

God is not turning life upside down. Spare God; have some mercy on Him. You don’t know anything about Him. We have messed it up ourselves. We have turned sweet into dung. It is our responsibility. Man, with his own hands, has smeared his life with soot, put masks on his face, become a hypocrite. He says one thing, does another. Nothing can be trusted. He himself doesn’t trust his own words—how much truth is in what he says? Leave others aside—even you, when you speak, you babble without awareness. Later you repent: “What did I just say! I didn’t intend to say that. I hadn’t even thought I would say it.”

You don’t even know yourself. You are full of unconscious rubbish inside, and you have no awareness of it. You don’t even notice when that rubbish spills out. Why did you get angry? Why did you, in anger, say something, break something, smash something? Later you beat your own head. You say, “It happened despite me—I didn’t want to do it.”

If a man does not know himself, everything will go inverted. Only self-knowledge can keep a man straight. In self-ignorance, all will be turned upside down. And we are all ignorant. But no one is willing to admit it. Everyone is under the illusion of being wise. And when an ignorant person is under the illusion of being wise, ignorance is secured forever. When the ignorant person becomes aware, “I am ignorant,” he has taken the first step toward knowledge. To know “I am ignorant” is a very great knowing—the greatest.

Here the unchaste think themselves virtuous because they have staged an outer show. Here the unrighteous think themselves righteous because they have bound themselves to a system. Everything has gone upside down. If we are to set this inversion right—and it must be set right, otherwise man will not survive—there is only one way: give man the capacity for meditation; teach man meditation; through meditation teach the ways of self-realization—so that he knows himself completely: what I am, who I am, how I am, what all is within me, how many rooms lie buried in my darkness. For the person who knows himself completely, nothing in life goes inverted again. And when one person becomes straight, waves arise around him and many people start becoming straight.

What I am teaching you is very simple. I am not teaching you conduct. Conduct has been taught for centuries; it produced only hypocrisy, not conduct. I am not teaching you morality. People died teaching morality; neither they became moral nor could they make others moral. I am telling you something entirely new: all morality, all conduct, all external remedies are secondary. Awaken your consciousness. Become aware. Become more and more conscious. The revolution of your life is hidden in the capacity of your awareness. The more filled with awareness you become, the more your life will become natural, straight, spontaneous, simple, true, and authentic.

Don’t ask, “What is God’s will?” Ask, “What is my will?” Do you want to live naturally, simply, straightforwardly, truthfully? Care about that. Take care of yourself. Leave others’ worries. Without you, others were here; when you are gone, others will still be here. This world is vast. Don’t get entangled in straightening the whole world. That very concern is only a trick to avoid seeing your own crookedness. Take care of yourself.

I have heard: Mulla Nasruddin went to a shop to buy lipstick. The shopkeeper was astonished. He had seen many people buy lipstick, but never like this. Mulla would take each lipstick and taste it. The shopkeeper said, “Sir, what are you doing? Is this any way to buy lipstick? I’ve seen many buyers; my whole life I’ve sold lipstick—this is my business—but you are the first! What are you doing?”

Nasruddin said, “Mind your own business and let me do mine. Don’t interfere. Am I buying the lipstick, or are you?”

“You are buying,” the shopkeeper said, “but I am selling. At least I have the right to ask: is this any way to choose?”

Nasruddin said, “It’s a private matter. If you insist, I’ll tell you. My wife will wear the lipstick—but I’m the one who will have to taste it! So I’m tasting in advance. I’m looking after my own interest.”

And I say the same to you: look after your own interest. Forget worrying whether the world is upside down or straight. Make sure you yourself are not standing on your head. Set yourself straight. And once you are straight, you will suddenly find the world around you also beginning to straighten. The world becomes for us as we are, because it returns to us what we give to it. If you throw flowers at the world, flowers will return—multiplied a thousandfold. The world is an echo. And if you are straight, then anyone who relates to you will only be able to relate by being straight; otherwise the relationship won’t happen. Gradually, you will find that only those who are straight relate to you. Drunkards gather around drunkards. Gamblers gather around gamblers. Around saints gather only those in whom saintliness is possible. Not everyone goes to a true Master. Only potential Buddhas go to the Buddhas.

If you are straight, you will suddenly find your relationships forming with those who are straight. At least your small world will become straight, clean, and clear. Drop complexity. Drop crookedness. Drop envy and warpedness.

This much is possible. But if you set out to straighten the world, you won’t be able to straighten even yourself, nor will you straighten anyone else. Your life will pass trying to squeeze oil from sand: no oil will ever come; you will never be fulfilled; you will never feel, “I attained what I wanted to attain.” Leave the world; take care of yourself.

Anand Maitreya! This question was not relevant then, nor is it relevant today. “Whom should we praise and worship?” is fundamentally a wrong question. And when a wrong question is asked, wrong answers are born. Then one will say, “Worship Ganesh,” another, “Worship Shiva,” another, “Worship Rama,” another, “Worship Krishna.” Then disputes arise, quarrels flare up.

The question itself is wrong—“Kasmai devaya havisha vidhema? Which deity should we worship?” The emphasis is on choosing a deity. That is why I call it a wrong question. Some ordinary person must have asked it. It is mentioned in the Vedas, but not every utterance in the Vedas belongs to seers—nor can it. When I looked into the Vedas I found that most of the statements are so petty, so small, they should not have been there at all. But there is a reason for their presence: the Vedas are like the Encyclopaedia Britannica of that time. Whatever knowledge was around then was poured into them—the good and the bad; from small people and great ones; from the ignorant and the wise. Everything got collected. You have to sift. The utterances of great seers are very few; most are of the ignorant.

Someone is praying to Indra, “O Indra, let there be no rain on my enemy’s field!” Would a great seer pray like that? First, why would a seer consider anyone an enemy? And suppose he did, would he pray that less water fall on the other’s field? And not only are “seers” praying such prayers, Indra is said to be granting them! Neither do the seers look like seers, nor does Indra look like a god. For the rishi says, “I will offer a coconut”—in plain words, he is saying, “I will give a bribe.”

That is why it is so hard to eradicate bribery from India. It is an ancient tradition. We have been bribing the gods, bribing God, bribing kings and emperors. Raghukul reet sada chali aai—the old way has always run on! And now, in the same manner, whoever it may be—the prime minister, the president, the governor, the commissioner, the collector, the deputy collector, the inspector, the constable, the peon—wherever needed, we “know” that if we offer a coconut, everything works out. In this country bribery is a religious act. So removing bribery from here is very difficult.

In no other country does bribery function like this. It cannot—people have some self-respect. If you ask someone to take a bribe he will slap you, because you are insulting him. You are asking him to sell his duty—for a few coins! You are asking him to sell his soul—for a few coins! First, no one would dare offer it; and if someone did, he would get into serious trouble. But in this country giving and taking happens in perfect cordiality. There is no hitch at all. No one thinks there is any insult in taking a bribe. The giver doesn’t feel he is insulting; he thinks he is honoring. The taker too feels he is being honored. If you don’t give, that is the insult. Old habits—traditional patterns.

To ask, “Which deity should we worship?” is a wrong question. No rishi could have asked it. A rishi worships—there is no question of deity. This whole existence is divine. Where then to ask “Whom to worship and whom not to”? To ask, “Before whom should I bow?” is the question of a wrong-headed person. The right person asks: What is the art of bowing?

Understand me well. The right person asks: What is the art of bowing? He does not ask before whom to bow. The art of bowing! Then wherever you bow, there is the Divine. The wrong person asks that if God is there, then I will bow. The right person says: Wherever I truly bowed, there I found God. Bowing comes first; God comes later. The wrong person says: “Let it be confirmed that this gentleman is God! That this deity will be of use! Is he truly a deity or not?”

All this is hidden in that question: “Kasmai devaya havisha vidhema? Whose praise shall we sing? Whom shall we worship?” In fact, Anand Maitreya, even your translation—“Whom should we praise and worship?”—differs slightly from the original. “Kasmai devaya havisha vidhema?” Havisha means: to whom shall we offer oblations—our “gift” (in effect, our bribe)? Its exact sense is: offering. Whom shall we send the “package” to? Who will come through for us? The boy is ill, the wife won’t come, the job is lost, bankruptcy has struck—now which deity can turn bankruptcy into Diwali? To him we will make offerings, to him we will worship, pray, sing praises; we will bang our head at his feet. But let it be sure he can do it! Does he have the power or not?

Then claimants appear, priests and pundits arise. They say, “This is the real deity. This is his mantra. With this very mantra this deity will be propitiated. And there is a special method to the mantra—shift an inch and you miss, the connection is lost. And only I will whisper it in your ear. Only I will tell you the method. And don’t reveal it to anyone.”

All this is a way to spread the trade.

No, this is not a rishi’s question. It is the question of very ordinary people. A rishi will ask: What is the art of bowing? What is the art of being egoless? How can I disappear?

“Whether it is the roar of the Brahmin’s conch or the call from the mosque,
In every sound, secretly, it is You whom I always invoke.”

Whether in a temple the conch is blown, or in a mosque the azan is called—what difference does it make?

“Whether it is the roar of the Brahmin’s conch or the call from the sanctuary,
In every sound it is You whom I silently call.”

I am the one who calls You through every sound. I am the sound of the Brahmin’s conch, and I am the azan rising from the mosque at dawn. All voices are mine, and all voices are offered to You, the One.

“Whose praise shall we sing?”
Are there many Gods in the world? God is one. It is only the One who is praised, the One who is worshiped. And in worship you cannot know that One first—who He is. Only after worship can He be experienced. If you decide, “First we will know God, then we will pray,” then you will neither know God nor ever pray.

I tell you: pray—so that you may know God. Prayer comes first; love comes first. Begin to savor prayer. Be intoxicated with prayer. Drink the wine of prayer, and the Divine Himself will be drawn to you. He will come bound by even a fragile thread.

“I placed my brow at the Kaaba, or at the threshold of the idol-house—
The point is, it cannot be lifted now; wherever I placed it, there it stays.”

Learn the knack of placing your head, of bowing, of surrendering. And once you have placed it, do not lift it again. Do not panic—God will come in search of you. Has there ever been such surrender and God did not appear?

“O venerable ascetic, the revelers will show you paradise—
Let the flowers bloom, let the springs burst forth.”

Keep the company of the drinkers! Why ask, “Kasmai devaya havisha vidhema? Which deity shall I praise, to whom shall I offer, whom shall I worship?” Befriend the revelers! Befriend the drinkers! Those who are drinking Him, brimming with ecstasy, absorbed in His remembrance, drowned in His love, dancing in His prayer—befriend them, keep their company!

“O venerable ascetic!” O learned pundit, O renunciate scholar—

“O venerable ascetic, the revelers will show you paradise—
Let the flowers bloom, let the springs burst forth.”

Let joy happen! Let flowers blossom! Let waterfalls break loose—of love, of prayer! Do not ask whose prayer to do. Ask instead: What is prayer? How to pray? Do not ask whose meditation to do. Ask: What is meditation? How to meditate?

People come to me and ask, “On whom should we meditate?” They start with a wrong question—“on whom!” They are asking, “On Ganesh or on Hanuman? Should we sit, close our eyes and visualize Hanuman?” Be careful: if you visualize Hanuman, you will become Hanuman. If you visualize Ganesh, you will become Ganesh. Whatever you visualize, that you will become—because you will be colored by it, merged into it. Be careful: stare too long at Ganesh and a trunk will sprout; stare too long at Hanuman and a tail will grow! “On whom to meditate?”—there is no “whom.” Meditation is the subjectless state of consciousness; there is no object in it—neither Ganesh nor Hanuman.

Buddha said: If on your path you meet me, take up your sword and cut off my head. Which path is he talking about? The path of meditation. He says: If even I appear in your meditation, cut me off with your sword—remove me. Because meditation is the state of emptiness, of stainless, thought-free consciousness. And you are asking, “On whom?”—you are asking what to stuff into meditation! But meditation is emptying. The very premise is wrong.

But priests and pundits have been telling you for centuries: “Meditate on this, meditate on that.” You’ve grown accustomed to wrong advice.

“You take the gaze of Beauty to be boundless—
Try, for once, your own gaze.
Don’t despair by lifting every outer veil—
Rise, and lift the curtain of your own heart.”

The question is not “on whom to meditate.” One veil has to be lifted within—the veil woven of thought and desire. Put thought and desire aside. For even a single moment, if there is neither thought nor desire—meditation descends! And in meditation you will know—everything is God—including you. Every particle is divine. God is not a person; God is the name of the Whole.

“Love is simple, but we are lovers of difficulty—
We make even the easy task difficult.”

Love is simple. Prayer is simple.

“Love is simple, but we are lovers of difficulty—
We turn even the easy into the hard.”

Why? Because the ego finds no joy in simple things. If something is difficult, the ego enjoys doing it. The harder it is, the more the ego thinks, “Yes! I will do it!” If it’s simple, the ego says, “Anyone can do this—what’s special? What will feed my ego?” So we have made love and prayer complicated. Otherwise, it is all very simple.

Like the limbs of a tortoise
I gathered in
all my tendencies.
Like a tortoise’s shell
I wrapped around me
a shield of boldness.
Closed without,
I opened within.
Ida gave me a seat,
Pingala brought me drink,
Sushumna spread a bed
and honored me.
Opened
the subtle,
the divine—
a new realm of consciousness.
This is the whole secret.

Like the limbs of a tortoise
I gathered in
all my tendencies.
Learn to gather yourself within.

Like a tortoise’s shell
I wrapped around me
a shield of boldness.
Closed without,
I opened within.

Close the outer eyes so the inner eye may open. Did not Paltu say: “Only those who are blind will understand me”? Blind! At first it shocks, but he is right. He is saying: Those who have closed their eyes to the outside have become blind to the outer. Now they see only within.

Closed without,
I opened within.
Ida gave me a seat,
Pingala brought me drink,
Sushumna spread a bed
and honored me.
Opened
the subtle,
the divine—
a new realm of consciousness.

No, the question is not “Whom shall we praise, whom shall we worship, to whom shall we offer?” “Kasmai devaya havisha vidhema?”—no, no, this is not a great seer’s question.

A great seer asks only this: How may we know ourselves? How may we become acquainted with the Self? For the one who knows himself has known all. And the one who does not know himself—whatever else he may know—his knowing has no value.

Religion is self-realization. All this talk of gods and goddesses is childish. And self-realization itself is God-realization. From within you opens the door that is the door to the Divine.

That’s all for today.