Kahe Hot Adheer #4

Anand Maitreya! Whenever religion happens it is original. If it is not from the source, it is not religion. If it is not ever-new, it is not religion. If it is not one’s own experience, it is not religion. Whether the experience is of Jesus or Zarathustra, of Mahavira or Mohammed—the flame of religion burns only in one’s own innermost being. It cannot be borrowed. In the moment it is borrowed, only the name remains “religion”; inside, irreligion takes its place—and from there trouble begins.

Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains, Buddhists—these are all borrowed. Mahavira is not borrowed, but the Jains are. Adi Shankaracharya was not borrowed, but those who sit on his seats today are. No Buddha ever sits on another’s throne. One who can craft his own seat will not sit on second-hand, stale thrones. Only the foolish sit on borrowed thrones, not Buddhas. Pandit-priests sit there; the truly wise, the meditators, do not.

Two streams of “religion” then prevail: one is living, cash-in-hand; the other is borrowed and dead. The dead religion can drag on for centuries. The living religion is a bolt of lightning—now it flashes, and it is gone! Only the very alert see it; the drowsy miss it.

Living religion is like a rose: it blossoms now; by dusk the petals fall and the fragrance sails into the sky. Dead religion is a plastic flower: it will last for ages; it needs no water, no manure, no sun, no wind. It is never really fresh—only looks fresh.

When the flame of the divine descends into someone’s heart, when a Buddha walks the earth, the sky walks upon the earth. Only the brave gather around him—brave like moths, ready to drown and disappear in the lamp’s fire.

The truly religious person is a mad lover, a moth; for what greater madness can there be than to melt oneself, to dissolve one’s ego! A moth must be mad; only then can it be offered into the flame.

When a Buddha is on the earth, his form matters not—be it Nanak, Kabir, Paltu, Raidas, or Farid. These are but differences of body. Lamps can be made in many shapes out of clay—big or small, dark or fair, new forms each time—but when the flame is lit, the flame is one. The lamp’s size and color may differ; the flame has one nature: to dispel darkness.

“Tamaso ma jyotirgamaya.” The rishis of the Upanishads prayed: Lord, lead me from darkness to light! Lift me from this darkness into the light!

Only one in whose very life-breath such a prayer has arisen—and who is ready to pay the price—can come to a Buddha. The price is great. All that you have, all that you are, must be offered.

True religion is not cheap; it cannot be. True religion is to pass through fire. But only fire refines. Dross burns; gold does not.

All the rubbish in you will burn in the presence of a true Master; all that is eternal in you will be tempered and sharpened. Your intelligence will be set ablaze; your stupidity will be burned away. But you have mistaken your stupidity for your nature; you have identified with the false. Hence you fear Buddhas; you run away.

Yet even within you there is a longing for religion.

The longing for religion is intrinsic to man. Do what you will, it cannot be destroyed. You can hide it, distort it, divert it into wrong directions—but you cannot erase it. Religion is an essential organ of the human interior. Remember—essential! There is no getting rid of it.

That is why even the atheist makes a religion of atheism. Communists too have made their religion. They do not go to the Kaaba; they go to the Kremlin. Not to Mecca but to Moscow. They bow not at the feet of Gautam Buddha, Mahavira, Krishna, Christ, Mohammed, but at the feet of Karl Marx, Engels, Lenin. They don’t go to temple or mosque, but Lenin’s corpse is still preserved on Red Square in Moscow—they lay flowers there, bow their heads there. They laugh at others: “You worship stone images!” Yet they worship Lenin’s rotting corpse—and never notice they are doing the same!

If one worships Mahavira, Buddha, or Krishna—granted, one worships the past—but the remembrance of an awakened one might still stir a wave of awakening within you. But worship Marx or Lenin or Engels, and they were as blind as you are. The blind leading the blind—both fall into the well.

Christians worship the Trinity: God the Father, Jesus the Son, and the Holy Spirit—three. Hindus worship the Trimurti: Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh. Communists too do not stray beyond trinity: Marx, Engels, Lenin. Stalin tried to enter, to make it a foursome; they did not let him. Mao tried hard too; they don’t let the trinity be broken.

The atheist also fashions his religion. He too is ready to kill or be killed for it. The atheist has shrines and scriptures. Das Kapital and the Communist Manifesto are his Gita, his Quran, his Bible. Tell a communist, “It is written in Das Kapital,” and it suffices—just as if the mere fact of being in Das Kapital made it truth! As for the Hindu, say, “It is in the Gita,” and that is proof; no more debate, no more argument, no thinking, no searching. To a Muslim, recite a verse from the Quran, and it is enough. Can there be anything wrong in the Quran? The communist is in the same condition. They consider themselves atheists, yet they cannot escape religion.

Religion is inevitable within man. As thirst comes to everyone—whether you drink water or Coca-Cola or Fanta—it does not much matter. If you are German you may drink beer; if Jain, you filter water—but thirst! Thirst comes to all—Hindu, Muslim, Jain cannot escape it. Thirst is the body’s inborn dharma, because the body needs water.

Know this: about eighty percent of your body is water. You are eighty percent water; let it fall even a little and you feel thirsty. Eighty percent is no small thing. That is why a full-moon night affects you deeply. Scientists say the effect is like that on the ocean—because the ocean is water, and you are eighty percent water. As the sea rises with tides, so waves arise within you on full-moon nights. And the salt and minerals in your body are in the same proportion as in the sea. Hence salt is needed. However poor a person, at least bread and salt he must have. Without salt no one can live; you grow dull and listless. The proportion of salt within you is exactly that of the ocean.

When the child is in the mother’s womb, he floats in water—the amniotic fluid. That water is just like sea water. That’s why a pregnant woman craves salt; more salt is needed since much goes to the child. The child floats like a fish. He needs much salt; bones, flesh, marrow are being formed. The body needs eighty percent water. Hence no one can escape thirst.

Alexander came to India. He met a fakir who was naked. Alexander said, “You have nothing!”

The fakir said, “This whole world is mine! I have conquered it without conquering.”

Alexander asked, “How can one conquer the world without conquering?”

The fakir said, “I have conquered the Master of this world. When the Master is with me, why bother conquering small things? By bowing my head at the Master’s feet, I became part of Him; all His ownership is mine.”

Alexander was pleased—sweet words! He said, “But I too have conquered the world—my way.”

The fakir said, “Imagine you are lost in a desert, dying of thirst, and I come with a pot of water. How much of your kingdom would you give for one pot of water if you are writhing for life?”

Alexander said, “In that situation I would give half my kingdom; but I’d take the pot of water—for how could I lose my life?”

The fakir said, “But only if I sell! Will I sell for half? Raise the price. What is the most you can give?”

Alexander said, “If you insist and I am dying, I will give the entire kingdom.”

“Then,” the fakir said, “your kingdom’s value is a pot of water—and for that you have lost your life!”

Thirst is so inevitable that even a whole kingdom may be bartered for a pot of water. Just as thirst is indispensable for the body—there, at least twenty percent is something else—so for the soul it is one hundred percent religion. Religion means intrinsic nature.

What does dharma mean? Mahavira said: vatthu sahava—whatsoever is the intrinsic nature of a thing is its dharma. Fire burns—that is its dharma. Water flows downward—that is its dharma. Flames rise upward—that is their dharma. Likewise, the intrinsic nature of the human soul is what we call religion. The soul is made one hundred percent of religion.

No one can escape religion. But people lack the courage to go to Buddhas; so man, being clever, cunning, invented false religions, borrowed religions. He built temples, mosques, gurudwaras. He has no courage to go to Nanak, but where is the fear in going to a gurudwara?

Imagine a moth educated through primary school, college, university—returns with a PhD, very clever. Seeing the lamp, a longing will still arise in him. What will the PhD do? He will hang a picture of a lamp in his room. Then when the urge comes, he will flutter at the picture. He will not be burned and will feel some sort of relief.

Like when a mother will not offer her breast to the child, she gives him a rubber pacifier. The child thinks he is being satisfied and falls asleep.

It is said of dogs that they gnaw dry bones. There is nothing to suck in a dry bone. But as the dog gnaws, the bone cuts his gums; his own blood oozes out. He sucks his own blood and thinks juice is coming from the bone.

So too man, in his cleverness, has sucked dry bones that yield no juice. Temples, mosques, gurudwaras are dry bones.

The Shankaracharyas you mention, Anand Maitreya—these Shankaracharyas are pandit-priests of dry bones; they sit displaying decorated bones. They have no experience of their own, no self-knowing. They merely parrot what Shankaracharya once said. Yet millions listen to them, because their words provide relief, convenience, consolation. They are pictures of the lamp; collide with them and you will not die. Nothing is lost. The mind feels satisfied: “Look how we leapt upon the flame—what mad devotion!” But the flame was only a picture.

If you seek God in scriptures, you seek the flame in a picture. If you hear of God from pandit-priests, you hear from those who themselves have no news.

The crowd is cowardly—cunning, too. Cowards must invent cunning to hide their cowardice. From them the so-called traditions arise: Hindu, Muslim, Jain, Buddhist, Christian, Sikh.

Naturally, when again a Buddha appears, when again a lamp is lit, those whose trade runs on pictures will be angry. Their business is threatened; they will oppose.

People like me are not opposed by the irreligious. Why would the irreligious care? It is the “religious” who oppose, for only they are threatened. Those who hold counterfeit coins oppose real coinage. The coinless do not care whether your coins are real or fake. But those with counterfeits—if real coins reach the market, what of their wares?

Who crucified Jesus? Do you think they were irreligious?

No—never think so. Pandit-priests, the Jewish Shankaracharyas, the rabbis, the high priest of the Jewish temple—these together crucified Jesus. He was not crucified by thieves, scoundrels, murderers, or hoodlums. He was crucified by the respected, the well-educated, the scripturally learned—the custodians of tradition. The elite of society crucified him, for they alone felt threatened. Jesus’ presence was dangerous to the priest; people were turning to Jesus. Those who saw him saw, plainly, the falsity of the pundits.

One who has seen the real lamp—do you think he can be fooled by a picture? One who has seen the sun rise—will he keep worshipping a picture of sunrise? One who has seen the real is freed from the false—in seeing the real one is freed. Hence the counterfeit rally together.

Notice something deliciously ironic: Hindus, Christians, Muslims, Jains—agree on nothing, yet they agree in opposing me. Jain monks oppose me, Hindu Shankaracharyas oppose me, Christian priests oppose me. Even the Communist Party has passed a resolution that I should be expelled from the country. Not only the religious but the so-called irreligious gurus—the gurus of atheists—also oppose. Think about it: why are all these people agreed on this one thing?

Because their shops are being harmed—are being harmed, will be harmed. And their opposition will not make it stop.

You ask, Anand Maitreya: “Why is your strongest opposition coming from the religious community?”

They alone are threatened. It is “religious society” in name only. Is a Hindu truly Hindu? What is there of Hindu in him? What of Krishna is in him? No flute, no melody. Where is his dignity? Where is his glory? What of the fragrance of the Vedas and Upanishads is in him?

Is a Jain truly Jain? Where is Mahavira’s ecstasy? Where is his naked innocence? He is cunning, dishonest, a shopkeeper, clever with accounts. If he found Mahavira alone—though Mahavira has no pockets, being naked—he would still pick his pocket.

Only a few days ago, a Shankaracharya’s gold was stolen. All thieves are cousins under the skin. The thief must have thought, “You too have stolen plenty; let me also take some.” What was stolen from the Shankaracharya? A gold idol, golden puja implements. That idol cannot even protect itself from a thief—what protection will it give the Shankaracharya, what protection will it give the world! Before that very idol they prayed that rain should fall when there is drought, and not fall when there is flood. And a thief stole the idol, and they had to seek the police to find the thief.

The images are false, the worship is false; worshippers false, priests false. Naturally they will be annoyed. My words put them in great difficulty.

First, they cannot understand what I am saying. Their minds are stuffed with rigid ideas, with prejudices, with preconceptions. To understand requires a mind free of prejudice. A Hindu cannot understand, a Muslim cannot understand, a Christian cannot understand—unless they set aside all biases. If you have already decided what truth is, how will you understand?

Mulla Nasruddin grew old, and the village made him the qazi—the judge. The first case came. He heard one side and was ready to pronounce judgment. The court clerk pulled his sleeve: “Wait; first listen to the other side!”

Mulla said, “I don’t want to muddle my mind hearing two sides. If I hear both, confusion will arise. Then it will be hard to decide what is true. If you want a verdict, let me give it now; right now everything is clear. I remember exactly what this man has said.”

Hearing one side makes it easy to judge.

Mulla added, “To tell the truth, I brought the verdict from home. The hearing is only a formality. Why waste time?”

Those who come to hear me, if they have brought their verdicts from home, they will not understand—or they will misunderstand. I will say one thing; they will hear another.

Another case came to Mulla’s court. A man came shouting, “Help, help! I’ve been robbed! Right at the edge of this village, by men of this very village!”

He wore only his underpants. Mulla asked, “What did they rob?”

“Everything! Wicked men! They took my shirt, even my pajama—left only this underwear. Took all my money, my purse, my horse. They were from this village; right outside this village I was robbed.”

Mulla said, “Silence! They cannot be people of this village. I know the people here. They don’t even leave the underwear. They must be from some other village. Go and shout in some other court; don’t bang your head here. I know these people since childhood; whatever they do, they do thoroughly. That they left the underwear is proof this was not done by people of our village.”

People have already decided: what kind of people “this village” are. They have decided about everyone—without knowing. Look within; you will find you live by prior judgments. One Muslim cheats you, and all Muslims are bad. One Hindu cheats, and all Hindus are bad. Decisions so quickly? Are such decisions made like this?

An intelligent person does not decide till all facts are known. How did you become a Hindu? Have you read the Quran? The Bible? Forget those—have you even seen the Gita, the Upanishads? The Vedas? And if you have, you read like a parrot—recited mechanically, without understanding. Until you know what a Muslim holds, what a Jain holds, what a Buddhist holds, how did you decide you are a Hindu? There are so many views in this world—how did you choose that this one is yours?

You did not choose; your parents shoved it down; your priests imposed it. No sooner are you born than the priestly class begins to claim you. A child born in a Jewish home is circumcised immediately; no delay—made a Jew. No one asks his intent. A Hindu child’s head is shaved, sacred thread bestowed—no one asks what he intends.

A better world, a little more intelligent world, would give children a chance to get acquainted with all religions. We would make all religions available. We would send them to mosque, to temple, to gurudwara, to church. We would say: listen, understand. We do not give them the right to vote before twenty-one, yet we give them the right to be “religious”—Hindu, Muslim, Christian—from birth. Do you think religion is even cheaper than politics? Even to vote for a foolish politician you need to be twenty-one; to vote for God you need no age at all?

Leave it to individuals. My view is that before forty-two one should not decide which path to follow. As the body matures sexually around fourteen, psychologists are finding that around forty-two one matures in consciousness. Just as after fourteen marriage becomes relevant, after forty-two religion becomes an ultimate necessity.

You have seen: heart attacks, madness, suicide—these surge after forty-two. Why? Carl Gustav Jung wrote that in his lifetime he found people become mentally ill largely after forty-two. In my view the reason is this: after forty-two they need religion, and it is not available; thus they become deranged. After forty-two they need prayer, and prayer does not flower; hence heart attacks, tension, anxiety. If prayer were to bloom, tension would drop, anxiety would evaporate. The time has come, but the flower does not blossom.

Around forty-two, one may have enough understanding to decide one’s path. The very talented will decide earlier; the less talented, later. I speak of the average; do not take forty-two literally. A genius—like Adi Shankaracharya—decided at nine.

He told his mother he wanted to take sannyas at nine. What mother lets a nine-year-old go? The father had died—the boy was her only support, all hopes and dreams pinned on him. “Sannyas? At nine?” The mother said, “Are you mad? And your father has died.”

The boy replied, “Precisely because my father has died. Before I die, I want to know what truth is. His death has reminded me.”

One kind are such people. On the other side are people like Mulla Nasruddin, who, at eighty, decided to marry again because his wife had died. Sons, grandsons, great-grandchildren, all were disturbed—even the great-grandchildren tried to advise him. How to explain to this old man? The most capable son said, “Look, there is no guarantee of tomorrow. At your age, what is the certainty? And now you want to marry!”

Nasruddin said, “Don’t worry—I have already considered that. If this girl dies tomorrow after the marriage, she has a younger sister who is even more beautiful. Don’t worry about tomorrow.”

Such people too exist—who never remember their own death! They plan for a fourteen-year-old girl to die, but not themselves—“If she dies, her eleven-year-old sister will be fourteen by then.”

The death of his father shook Shankaracharya utterly. But the mother, already in grief, would be left alone if Shankara took sannyas. She refused. The story says: Shankara went to bathe in the river, and a crocodile caught his leg. A crowd gathered on the ghat; the mother came running. Shankara said, “The crocodile says it will let go if you allow me to take sannyas.” What could the mother do? With tears she said, “All right, then become a sannyasin—at least live. If you live, even as a sannyasin, I will see you some day.” And the story says the crocodile let go. That is just a story; crocodiles were not that wise then, nor now! If man is not so wise, what of crocodiles!

I spoke of Mulla—he did marry. Fourteen-year-old girl, eighty-year-old groom. The next day friends asked, “How was the wedding night?”

“Don’t ask—great joy! Only one trouble. I climbed onto the bed, but to get down my four sons had to use force.”

“Why,” they asked, “if you climbed, why didn’t you get down?”

“I did not want to get down! The boys are strong; they grabbed me from four sides and pulled me off the bed.”

One kind are these too!

No doubt the crocodile story is a parable; but the symbol is beautiful. It says Shankara made his mother see clearly: death has caught my leg. There is no guarantee of tomorrow. If you do not allow sannyas, I will die writhing. Without sannyas there is no life left for me. Either I can live as a sannyasin, or death is certain. He must have conveyed this. The mother must have seen he would do as he said—he would die if not allowed. So even at nine one can be a sannyasin—if one has great genius. For the average I say: at least around forty-two. And we force a path on children.

All “religious teachers” are eager to give “religious education” to children. They do not mean religious education; they mean education in their religion. For each, their religion alone is religion; the rest are all irreligion.

And what is their understanding, these pandit-priests? Do you see living lamps in their eyes? Do you sense fragrance in their breath? In their presence does the grace of satsang pour? Do you see any difference at all between them and you? They are like you: you run worldly shops; they run otherworldly shops.

“My wife is pregnant,” said Chandulal with joy.
“Really? Then whom do you suspect?” asked Dhabbhuji, with a skeptical air.

People have their own understandings—and cannot go beyond them. Only those who set all assumptions aside can understand what I am saying.

No, your so-called Shankaracharyas will not understand my words, nor my work. This great alchemical process of life-transformation—they cannot comprehend it. Their notions are rigid. For them, religion means gloom and indifference, while for me it means celebration. They worship Krishna, yet do not see the peacock plume on his crown, the flute at his lips, the bells on his feet, the gopis dancing around him! Krishna is celebration, yet his worshippers speak the language of gloom.

Your so-called Shankaracharyas, popes, priests are anti-life. I call life God. For me there is no God other than life. Life is another name for God. To live totally, to live wholeheartedly, to live to completion—that is religion for me. For them, sannyas means: abandon everything and flee. For me, sannyas means: stand untouched in the marketplace; be alone in the crowd; be silent amid the noise. For them, it means: a Himalayan cave. For me, it means: the bazaar—but in the bazaar, silence.

In a Himalayan cave, who will not be silent? Anyone can be. But that silence is not yours; it is the Himalaya’s silence. Inside you, the same diseases remain—suppressed, biding their time. A seed on a rock cannot sprout; but do you think the seed has been transformed? It may lie for years; the day it finds soil, it will sprout.

Your so-called saints and sannyasins are seeds placed upon rocks. Do not be deceived: the sprout of desire within them has not died; it only waits—for favorable time, for clouds to gather, for spring to come, for soil to meet it. If you flee the world, you will certainly find a kind of peace—but false, counterfeit. True peace is that which is forged amidst disturbance. Then no power in the world can break it. Then no tumult can destroy it. Storms may come, winds may howl; the inner void, the inner calm remains unbroken, unceasing, untouched—virgin.

In the Shankaracharyas’ view, sannyas is escape, defeatism, renunciation. In my view, sannyas is the art of living and dying; the science of samadhi, not flight. I am against escapism, for escapism is born of fear; and what is born of fear can never take you to God.

But your God is a God of fear. Your gods are born of your fear. I want to remind you of the God who is revealed in love, not fear—in love and in prayer. Even your prayer is fear. Your legs tremble; you pray only when you are in suffering. You remember God in sorrow. I want you to remember Him in joy. In sorrow everyone remembers—what is the value of that? The remembrance in joy is precious.

I do not want to teach you ascetic torture. Tormenting and thinning the body is a mental illness, not natural. I want you to live joyfully, comfortably. Regard the body as a temple, for God dwells in it. Keep the temple clean, pure. Keep it healthy; nourish it. Be grateful to the temple. The body is a holy temple; it is not sin. Your Shankaracharyas teach that it is sin; I teach the body’s glory and dignity. The body is beautiful. There is no sin in the body; if there is mistake, it is of the mind. Transform the mind.

The body always follows the mind. If you go to a brothel, the body goes along. If you go to God’s temple, the body goes along. Steal—and it is with you; give—and it is with you. The body serves you. Change the mind. And the process of changing the mind is meditation, not renunciation. Do not torment the body; awaken the sleeping awareness, the witness.

For me, the essential meaning of sannyas is witnessing. And for witnessing, the world is the most favorable opportunity. That is why God has given you the world. God gives you the world—and your so-called saints say, “Leave it.” I am against your saints because I am on God’s side. I say: do not leave the world, wake up in it! The world is a rare opportunity to awaken—a challenge!

Naturally your Shankaracharyas will be troubled; they will be obstructed. Their understanding cannot be much; if it were, why sit on another’s seat? If you cannot create even the place to sit, then you sit on others’ thrones—stale chairs.

You see, someone becomes prime minister and never thinks how stale the chair is—how many have sat and gone. It is like drinking tea from a cup in an Indian hotel—how many have used it all day! Whether you drink tea or the water of life, the cup is dirty.

Those with a little capacity and talent make at least their own place to sit. Those without even that talent sit on others’ thrones. They are borrowed, stale. A man won’t like to wear another’s shoes, another’s clothes, or eat another’s leftovers—yet your Shankaracharyas sit on others’ thrones, wear others’ clothes, carry others’ flags, repeat others’ words. How much intelligence can such borrowed people have?

When a Sardarji returned from America, he brought a small human skull. In Amritsar he held a meeting and proudly announced, “I purchased Guru Gobind Singh’s skull in a famous New York shop—for a cash ten lakhs! Americans had preserved it for five hundred years.”

At first there was applause and cheers! Then some youths raised doubts: “Guru Gobind Singh was born and died in India—how did his skull reach America? Even if an American tourist took it, America’s civilization is not older than three hundred years—who took it five hundred years ago? Even if we allow some historical error, the biggest question is: why is the skull so small? Guru Gobind Singh had a rather large head.”

The Sardarji realized he had been fooled. He rushed back to America, grabbed the shopkeeper by the neck: “What do you take me for? Tried to make a fool of me?”

“Why would I try to make a fool of you, sir?” said the American. In his heart he thought, “You are already a fool—no need to make you one. One must make those who are not fools.” Aloud he said, “No, I wouldn’t fool you. That job God has already done. But tell me, why so angry?”

“You gave me a false skull! How could Guru Gobind Singh’s skull be so small?”

“You missed a small point,” said the shopkeeper. “Sir, this is Guru Gobind Singh’s childhood skull.”

The Sardarji returned satisfied: “Right—childhood skulls are small!” As if people change skulls every year!

I see no intelligence in your Shankaracharyas—only rigidity and dullness. How will they understand religion? To understand religion requires great wisdom, a vast and generous heart, deep silence, emptiness. It is not a matter to be grasped by thought alone; one must dive and drown in experience.

Therefore I do not worry about who says what about me. Why waste time? I would rather spend that time on those who are moths, lovers, who have joined this tavern of mine—pouring them a little more wine, ushering them a little further on the path of experience, giving them a gentle push.

I do not worry about what is said about me. Not at all—and you should not either. It is not worth the time.

But, Anand Maitreya, it is true that the opposition will come from the “religious.” That itself will be the proof that what I say is true religion. Otherwise, why oppose?

And not only here; there is opposition worldwide. If Shankaracharyas oppose me, fine. But the Pope has just issued a five-page statement. A sannyasin from Rome sent it to me. My name is not mentioned, but the whole statement is against me. It could not be against anyone else, for what it criticizes is exactly what only I am saying. And at the end there is a threat—an explicit threat—that whoever follows such people will rot in the eternal fires of hell.

Naturally such talk frightens people.

Recently Mridula returned from a tour of Europe. Germany did not let her in—because of her orange clothes. My mala became the obstacle. They harassed her, shut her in a room for two or three hours, stamped her passport “No entry to Germany,” and put her on the return train immediately.

But Mridula is not one to give up easily. She tried to enter from another corner of the country.

But Germans are Germans—they defeated even Mridula. They caught her again and sent her back again. They simply would not let her in.

There is great panic in Germany, because a very large group of young people has taken sannyas. Next to Poona, the most sannyasins are in Munich and Berlin. The breeze is spreading strongly, the flame is leaping. Panic is natural. It is spreading in other countries too. And the panic is among two kinds of people: pandit-priests and politicians. Religion has always been opposed by both, because religion wants you free of politics, and free of hypocrisy done in the name of religion.

Yet such opposition is, in a sense, a challenge—useful. It helps my work; it does not hinder it. It gives my work an edge and a polish; it does not obstruct it.

Anand Richa! As long as there is desire—any desire, of any kind; even this desire that “I don’t want to die as a Buddha, I want to live as a Buddha”—until then you cannot become a Buddha, don’t worry. The one who goes beyond desire—beyond all desire—only that one attains Buddhahood. Desire is what binds. Desire itself is the bondage. What chains are on your hands? What shackles are on your feet? In what prison are you confined? By what nooses are you ensnared? Desires, passions, cravings—“Let me become this, let me become that; let me get this, let me get that!”

When Alexander was on his way to India, he went to meet a great Greek fakir, Diogenes. Diogenes was naked, taking the morning sun on the riverbank. Alexander came and said, “Diogenes, consider yourself blessed! The great Alexander has come to meet you!”

Diogenes began to laugh and said, “Whoever calls himself great is mad. And I have never seen a man as poor as you. This claim to greatness is only made to hide an inner inferiority. These ornaments, these clothes, that naked sword, this caravan, this army—this is all show. Inside you are utterly empty. Try a thousand devices—you will not be filled that way.”

Alexander understood. It was said with such sharpness, such force—and the man who said it was so clearly in his own ecstasy, so evidently master of himself! Alexander bowed in shame and said, “I admit it, Diogenes: you are the only man before whom I feel my poverty. You have nothing—then what is it you have, because of which I suddenly feel impoverished? I have everything!”

Diogenes said, “You have everything, but you still want more; therefore you are a beggar. I have nothing, but I have no desire for more; therefore I am an emperor. And look: life is slipping out of your hands—don’t waste it further!”

Alexander said, “I am happy to have met you; if God gives me birth again I will ask him—this time don’t make me an Alexander, make me a Diogenes.”

Diogenes burst out laughing and said, “You are mad! Why not become a Diogenes right now? What trust is there in a next birth—whether you will remember, or you will forget? Whether God agrees or not? Whether there is a next birth or not? There is no certainty about tomorrow, and you are postponing to the next life! If what I say touches your heart, come—lie down naked on this riverbank too. The bank is vast, more than enough for both of us. There will be no quarrel—rest as well. You have run and rushed enough! Come, let us rest! If I have won your heart, then become a Diogenes now—who stops you? To be an Alexander is a difficult matter; but to be a Diogenes is utterly simple, because it is natural. Throw away these clothes! Say to the armies: Salutations! Go back! My victory-march is over. I have arrived where I needed to come.”

Alexander said, “That is difficult—today it is difficult, right now it is difficult.”

Diogenes said, “If it is difficult today, difficult now, it will always be difficult. What can be done today, don’t postpone till tomorrow. Whoever postpones till tomorrow postpones forever. As you wish.”

Alexander said, “I am very happy to have met you, greatly impressed. Can I be of some service to you?”

And do you know, Richa, what Diogenes said?

Diogenes said, “What should I ask? I have no demand. What should I desire? I have no desire. But if you must do something, I won’t send you away disappointed. Please step a little aside, because you are blocking the sun.” … “Thank you for listening to me and stepping aside. And remember, in life, never stand blocking someone’s sunlight.”

Alexander returned, struck to the core—struck terribly! As he left he had said to Diogenes, “When I return after completing my campaign, then in this very life I will live like you.” Diogenes said, “No one ever returns from such journeys. The journey of desire is so long it has no end. Is desire ever fulfilled? Desire is insatiable. Does craving ever fill up? One craving doesn’t end before ten more are born. You will not be able to return. No one has ever returned. This journey never completes. The wise stop in the middle; they don’t worry about completing it. The foolish say, ‘We will complete the journey, then we will stop.’ But the journey is such that it never completes. Death comes first; the end of the journey never comes.”

And that is what happened: on his way back Alexander died—he could not reach home.

By coincidence, Alexander and Diogenes died on the same day. Alexander a little earlier—an hour or so; Diogenes a little later—an hour or so. The story is well known, a lovely story—surely it is apocryphal. But its loveliness is not less for being untrue. Nor is the truth hidden within it diminished by its being a fiction. Sometimes truth has to take the cover of falsehood, because truth cannot be revealed directly. Sometimes truth has to use the language of the unreal, because truth has no language. Truth is a void, wordless.

So it is a sweet story. Alexander is crossing the Vaitarani, going to heaven. He hears a clatter behind him. He looks back—Diogenes! For a moment he is happy and for a moment sad as well, because Diogenes will laugh again and say, “Didn’t I tell you that you would not be able to complete this journey? In the end you died in the middle!”

And he also felt great shame, because Diogenes was naked—he had been naked in life, and even now he was naked. Alexander had been covered in fine garments all his life—today he was naked. How to hide his nakedness now? Great embarrassment, great awkwardness arose. To cover his shame, to smother his embarrassment—before Diogenes could laugh, Alexander laughed. The laughter was false, hollow. And laughing he said to Diogenes, “What an extraordinary coincidence—an emperor and a fakir meeting again!”

Diogenes said, “What you say is right, but you are a little mistaken about who is the emperor and who the fakir. The emperor is behind; the fakir is ahead. The fakir is you. You are returning having lost everything; I am returning having gained everything. Because your life was a life of desire, and my life was a life of joy—not of desire, but of contentment, of fulfillment.”

Richa! This very aspiration will become a hindrance. Once Buddhahood is attained, neither life is anything nor death is anything—both drop away. What remains is an eternal existence—without beginning and without end.

You say: “I don’t want to die as a Buddha.”
If the fear of death persists, Buddhahood will not be attained.

You say: “I want to live as a Buddha.”
If the greed for life remains, if the will-to-live persists, Buddhahood will not be attained. Buddhahood comes only to those who know: we have neither birth nor death. Those who, as witnesses, see that birth too is of the body, and death too is of the body; we are beyond both, we are transcendent to both. Those who attain this transcendence alone attain Buddhahood.

In the valley of life,
in the soil of the within, wounds full of ache have sprouted.
All the oil
of the inner lamp is spent.
Every pearl
from the eyes’ shell is looted.
In mournful solitude,
in the fair of memories, we found only wandering.

Pain, like a smith-woman,
is hammering the life-breath.
Buds have swindled
the guileless stone.
So weary are we,
drowned in torment, the boat of dreams is breaking.

The Ram of our breaths
is banished to the forest of separation.
In the lap of tears
the mind has grown.
Panting players we,
so very unskilled, we lost life’s wager.

Richa! What has life given? What have we found in life?

In the valley of life,
in the soil of the within, wounds full of ache have sprouted.
Except wounds, except pains, except anguish—what else has come our way in life? Why the will-to-live? Why such impatience to go on living? What fear of dying? What will death take away? When life has given nothing, what can death snatch?

All the oil
of the inner lamp is spent.
Every pearl
from the eyes’ shell is looted.

All has been plundered in life—and still we cling! The rope has burned, yet its kinks remain.

All the oil
of the inner lamp is spent.
Every pearl
from the eyes’ shell is looted.

In the valley of life,
in the soil of the within, wounds full of ache have sprouted.

Just open your within and see—wounds upon wounds! Not a single flower has bloomed—only thorns upon thorns! Not a single lotus has arisen—only mire and more mire! Yet the hankering persists, the urge to cling to life persists!

In mournful solitude,
in the fair of memories, we found only wandering.

What have you gained in this crowd? What have you received in this crowd? Only wandering.

Pain, like a smith-woman,
is hammering the life-breath.
Buds have swindled
the guileless stone.
So weary are we,
drowned in torment, the boat of dreams is breaking.

Everything is breaking, the boat is sinking; yet still we keep patching, plugging the holes—“Let it be saved, somehow let it be saved!”

And even if it is saved, what comes of it? Through how many births have you lived, how long a journey—and all you have done is lose and lose!

The Ram of our breaths
is banished to the forest of separation.
In the lap of tears
the mind has grown.
Panting players we,
so very unskilled, we lost life’s wager.

Here everyone loses—such is this gamble! Only those win who become free of desire—who see the futility of wanting; who awaken from the race of craving; who turn away from lust and become absorbed in prayer.

Awake! Awakening is what Buddhahood is. Awake from life. Awake from death. Just awake! Whoever awakens attains the supreme treasure of life.

Gyanaranjan! You listen to me, you get soaked in my flavor—like someone who enters a garden and, absorbed in its fragrance and colors, forgets all the world’s worries and confusions for a moment. But then he steps back out of the garden: again the same stench of the drain, again the same crowding. The colors are gone, the fragrance is gone. Again the same surge of anxieties, again the same...

You listen to me—but you have not yet understood. While listening, it seems, there is the illusion that you have understood. The day you truly understand, it will never be lost; that is the touchstone of understanding. Test it on that touchstone. As a goldsmith uses a touchstone to assay gold, rubbing and checking—what is gold and what is brass? I give you this touchstone: whatever truly enters your understanding becomes your life; you will not be able to act or live contrary to it. If something is only understood intellectually and does not become life, know that you have not really understood. The intellect will feel it has understood because the words are understood. But understanding words is not understanding the thing. Understanding the thing is something else; it is not the work of the head, it is the work of the heart.

What I speak are simple, plain words. I have no scholar’s language. I am no pundit. I speak the language of daily life. This is not even a sermon. I am talking with you—chit-chat, not a formal address. This is no religious, scriptural oration. It is a friendly conversation among friends. So whatever I say, it all seems easy to understand.

If I spoke in abstruse Sanskrit, if I quoted Latin and Greek, you would not understand. And often this happens: what you do not understand, you think must be very profound. That is why pundits cling to dead languages. They don’t understand, nor do those they speak to; yet both agree the matter must be very profound!

All religions resisted translating their scriptures into spoken languages; only with great difficulty were translations allowed. I understand their point. Their resistance is quite apt. It is like a doctor writing a prescription in such a way that only the chemist can read it—barely. Because if the patient himself could read it, the chemist could not charge as much, and the doctor could not collect such a fee.

Then the doctor writes in Latin and Greek names. Neither you understand nor anyone else. If he wrote in straightforward, everyday language, you could not hand the chemist ten rupees, nor the doctor fifty. Imagine he writes: ajwain extract. If the chemist asks you for ten rupees, you’ll pull out your shoe! Ajwain extract and ten rupees? Two-paisa ajwain—you’d make the extract at home! And when the doctor asks for fifty rupees, you’ll extract the essence of the doctor! But written in Latin-Greek, nothing is understood.

Mulla Nasruddin told me a doctor wrote such a prescription that for two months now it has worked as a pass at the cinema. When he travels by train from Bombay to Poona, it works as a pass there too. Whoever sees it cannot read it; and because he can’t read it, he can’t admit that he can’t—so he quickly hands it back: “All right, go.” After all, everyone must hide his own ignorance.

Priests and pundits have used the same art. If you read the Vedas in Hindi, you will be shocked: the Vedas you praised so much—is this that same Veda? The one on which you bowed your head daily—is this that same Veda? The one you offered flowers to—are these the same hymns?

Yes, there are certainly hymns—perhaps one percent—that are marvelous. But one percent! Ninety-nine percent is rubbish. If the Vedas were presented to you in pure, plain Hindi, you would no longer be able to bow your head to them, because that one percent is fine, wondrous—the words of seers, of the enlightened; but the junk is there too. In those days whatever was available was gathered into the Vedas. They were the total treasury of that time: there were no newspapers, no stories and tales, no radio, no television, no films, no history, no literature; the Veda was everything. So whatever was the treasure of that era was all collected there. There is junk as well, as there is in newspapers.

For example, a man prays to Indra, “O Lord Indra, I will worship you, perform yajnas and havans; but do something so that the milk in my cows’ udders increases!”

Will you say this is a saying to bow your head to? A verse to offer flowers to?

Even this isn’t so bad; if the cows’ milk increases, fine—what harm? You can bow your head and carry on. But another man prays, “O Lord Indra, I will perform havans and yajnas; do something so that there is more rain in my field and less in my neighbor’s!”

Now, will you bow your head to this? You will feel some hesitation—this hardly sounds religious. And that Indra would take such bribes and do such things—that there be less in the neighbor’s field... Not only that you increase the milk in your own cow’s teats, but also decrease the neighbor’s! And Indra, tempted by the offering, does that too. Your reverence for Indra would wane.

But with the Vedas written in ancient Sanskrit, you don’t really understand, so you can go on worshipping happily—no obstacle arises. The old Bible written in Hebrew can be worshipped; but if it is written in a language you clearly understand, a living language, you will be in some difficulty. For in the old Bible, God says, “I am a very jealous God. Those who do not obey me I will roast in hells, and those who do obey me will enjoy the pleasures of heaven.”

A jealous God? Even a human being ought to be free of jealousy—and this God himself says, “I am a very jealous God! Beware! If you do not obey my command, I will roast you in hell.” This is a tyrant speaking. It sounds like Adolf Hitler speaking; like Mussolini. Is this the language of God?

And in one village some people did wrong, and God became so angry that he incinerated the entire village.

Some people did wrong—well, burn those few, it might be forgivable. Although even that does not befit God. God is great compassion. But to burn the whole village—even those who did not sin—the old, the women, the children, the innocent! Even those in their mothers’ wombs—who had no chance yet to sin, nor to do virtue—burned them all! This is like dropping an atom bomb on Hiroshima—on harmless, innocent people. A little girl had finished her homework, schoolbag in hand, coming down the steps to go to sleep, and the atom bomb fell on Hiroshima. She, with her homework, her books, notebooks, slate, her bag—was incinerated and left stuck to a wall. Her image was later printed—ash! But it testifies that once this ash must have been a girl. Still there, the burnt schoolbag, turned to ash, clings by her side to the wall. Only a shadow remains on the wall. What was this child’s crime? She was not responsible for the Second World War.

If we cannot forgive the killers of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, how will we forgive that God who destroyed cities because some people sinned!

But in Hebrew, when you read this, you do not really grasp it.

I speak in plain language, Gyanaranjan, so everything I say is understood. And then you are troubled. You understand—and yet why does it not descend into life?

You have been told again and again: first understand, then bring it into life. I want to say to you: that is wrong. If a thing is truly understood, it descends into life; even if you don’t want it, it will. There is no way to avoid it. So I do not say: first understand, then live it. I say only this: understand! Life will take care of itself. No one has ever gone against true understanding. If you go against what you call your understanding, it means that what you are calling “understanding” is not your real understanding; beneath it your real understanding, still buried, is different—and you are living according to that.

I said: become a witness to life and death. You heard it; it sounded understandable, because the words are simple. But becoming a witness to life and death is not a simple matter. Even if it happens after a lifetime of effort, consider it quick; know that it was not late.

But what is your life? Where is there any opportunity for witnessing? Your life is like an ox at the oil-press, going round and round. You do the same things every day; you are not a witness. Yesterday you were angry, the day before you were angry, today you were angry. And you fear that tomorrow you will be, the day after you will be—the same anger, the same causes.

For witnessing, God gives you so many chances! Every day! But you go on missing. Your habits have become rigid. Yes, you hear me. In this garden of mine you are filled with fragrance. Within, it seems luminous! But once you step outside the ashram gate, again you become the ox at the oil-press, again you blindfold yourself.

Let what I am saying sink into the heart. Do not merely understand it logically. Logic is not a proper arrangement for understanding. Understand it with love. Receive it with trust. Spread the lap of the heart and fill it. And then, in the twenty-four hours of your day, whenever you get a chance, remember it again and again—so that when you are harnessed to the oil-press, you can, at least sometimes, be a witness! Slowly, the savor of witnessing will grow.

Just look at your life!
From morning till night
the same, the same!
Monkey-brand toothpaste,
the same tea, the same tinting,
the same songs, the same tunes,
the same fools, the same sages,
from morning till night
the same, the same!

We even changed restaurants
(the tongue could not be changed)
from “Maharajin” to “Taj Mahal”—
everywhere the same state.
Mild masala, hot masala,
the same old vegetables,
the same stale chutney,
the same sour sambar,
little joy, sorrow galore!

On the banyan of the world,
bats made of dreams!
The makers of these dreams:
one poet, apes aplenty.
Ghoul-antics upon the screen,
stale greens, impotent fun;
corrupt plots, destroyed sense,
nine threads, one color,
all the ways of adultery!

Again and again the same indulgence,
the same disease of attachment.
The same temple, the same idol,
the same flowers, the same fervor,
the same lips, the same glances,
the same gait, the same swaying,
the same bed, the same woman—
no sitar, just a single string!

I feel like committing suicide,
Romeo’s suicide,
Dadhichi’s suicide!
Even suicide is the same old same!
The soul the same old same,
the killing the same old same,
the cause—life—the same old same,
and death also the same old same!

Look—look closely at life! Stand a little apart and look at your life; create a little distance. And you will find: it’s a wheel in which you are revolving! In that wheel, wake up.

Walk—walk awake, Gyanaranjan! Sit—sit awake, Gyanaranjan! Even when you lie down to sleep, lie down awake, Gyanaranjan! And a day will come when the body sleeps and you remain awake. And a day will come when you do all the works of life and yet within you remain awake, a witness. Only then know that you have understood what I say. Before that, you have understood only the words, not the thing. Within the thing, the thing is hidden. Within the words, the wordless is hidden.

I am not giving you any commandments. I am simply sharing what I have known. Become a sharer in my light. Do not make my fragrance your fragrance. Seeing my fragrance, awaken your own. Do not start repeating my words, otherwise you will become a pundit. Awaken your own experience.

If it could happen to me, it can happen to you. This alone is my proclamation: if it can happen to an ordinary person like me, it can happen to you. I am made of the same bones, flesh and marrow as you. I have traveled the same dark roads you are traveling. I was as blind as you are. But my eyes could open, the darkness could break; yours can break too. If, seeing me, this trust arises, then you have understood me. If, seeing me, you come to have this faith in yourself, then you have understood me.

I do not say: have faith in someone else. I say: become self-trusting. For self-trust is the bridge that joins you to the divine.

That’s all for today.