Kahe Hot Adheer #6

Kalyanchandra Jaiswal! This is natural. The so‑called “intellectual” is simply the new form of the brahmin. The brahmin was the old intellectual; the intellectual is the new brahmin. And the brahmin will defend tradition. All his vested interests lie hidden in tradition. His intelligence derives its status from tradition. It is not his own; he is no buddha. His knowing is not original. He has not known for himself, seen for himself, recognized for himself; he merely repeats what is written on paper, not what is seen with the eyes.

So he cannot be against scripture, tradition, and orthodoxy. He will be their propagandist, directly or indirectly. These are the very foundations of his life.

Yes, now and then he also puts on a show of being free of tradition, of being revolutionary. But his revolt, his freedom from tradition, his opposition to orthodoxy—these are hollow and superficial. He overlays new interpretations upon the old. The liquor is the same old brew; he merely supplies new bottles, changes the labels. The diseases are old, but with new labels they can hobble along a little longer. His revolution is no revolution; it is an obstruction to revolution.

That is precisely why no revolution has happened in India in five thousand years. Why? Because India has always had a large cadre of intellectuals who perpetually create a false revolution. And once a false revolution is created, the true revolution is forgotten. When people awaken again and begin to seek a real revolution, we hand them rattles and toys. And the intellectual presents his case with great cleverness. His presentation is logical. But truth is beyond logic. Truth can be stated, but it cannot be proven. Its only proof is in a person’s own soul, not in his arguments.

But how many eyes see souls? Almost everyone, more or less, is adept at grasping arguments. Hence the intellectual has always prevailed; the brahmin has ruled. And don’t think he opposes only me or treats only me as untouchable. He treated Buddha as untouchable, he treated Mahavira as untouchable. In Indian history, these two were extraordinary revolutionaries. The brahmin opposed them as well. In those days he was the intellectual—guardian of the scriptures, master of words, the Upanishads and Vedas on his tongue, authority over language, devotion to logic. Today we no longer call him “brahmin”; only the label has changed—we call him the intellectual.

So, Kalyanchandra, you are troubled: why does the intellectual consider me untouchable?

If the intellectual did not treat me as untouchable, I would be surprised. If he did not oppose me, I would be worried. That would mean what I am saying is meaningless. Otherwise, the intellectual is the very first to stand in opposition. Because he is the first to understand that someone has appeared who will cut the roots of orthodoxy and tradition. People will understand later, slowly; they will understand when the intellectual explains it to them. But the intellectual is alert—he is always scanning the horizon: has someone come to loot his treasure? And, naturally, people listen to him, because they think he knows.

He does not know—he knows nothing.

There is a lovely story in the Upanishads. Shvetaketu returned home from the gurukul—having acquired knowledge of all the scriptures. Whatever was available in the gurukul, he had passed in first class. Naturally, he came back puffed up.

No one’s ego is bigger than the so‑called saints; in second place comes the intellectual. The saint’s ego is a little bigger because he is both intellectual and renunciate—scholar plus renunciation—so his ego becomes even more fortified.

Shvetaketu came back stiff with pride. He was young and returned with a mountain of scriptures on his head. He had earned gold medals in every subject, came home laden with honors. His father, Uddalaka, saw him from afar at the gate—saw his swagger and pride. The father felt great pain, because this was not why he had sent him to the gurukul. He had sent him to become wise. Instead he was returning utterly ignorant—stuffed with information. He was bringing back mountains of information. But no one becomes wise through information! Information is counterfeit coin—borrowed, stale, not one’s own, someone else’s. The father grew anxious; tears rolled from his eyes. Shvetaketu bowed at his feet, but only his body bowed; the father could see that his life had not bowed, because in his mind he knew he was now more knowledgeable than his father.

Uddalaka asked, “Son, why this stiffness?”

Shvetaketu said, “Stiffness? Not stiffness. I am bringing all the wealth and knowledge that the gurukul had to offer. You should be pleased; why do you look sad?”

Uddalaka said, “May I ask one question? Did you know the One, knowing which all is known—or not?”

Shvetaketu asked, “The One, knowing which all is known? That was never even raised. It wasn’t in our syllabus. We studied geography, history, the Puranas, grammar, language, the Vedas—but that One! Which One are you talking about?”

Uddalaka said, “Knowing oneself—that One. And whoever has not known the Self, all his knowing is futile. And whoever has known the Self—even if he knows nothing else—has known all. Go back. In our family, being a brahmin by birth has never been accepted. Our ancestors will weep to see you. In our lineage we have become brahmin by experience, not by information and not by birth—brahmin by knowing Brahman, not by knowing about Brahman. Go back. Do not return until you have known Brahman. Return as a brahmin in the true sense of the word.”

There is intellect, and there is Buddhahood. Intellect is information; Buddhahood is wisdom. And the intellectual will always be opposed to the buddhas, because it is from the buddhas that he is in danger. In their presence he becomes aware of his own poverty. Their very presence disturbs him.

Look at the facts: the so‑called brahmins did uproot Buddha from India. They did not let him remain here. What could be a greater untouchability than this! At least the untouchables still exist here; Buddhists were not allowed to remain. Because the entire profession of the brahmins was being struck; their feet were slipping. Either Buddha or the brahmin—both cannot coexist. A buddha is like light. How can darkness exist with light?

Among the blind, the one‑eyed man becomes king. But when a man with two eyes arrives! And buddhas are not just two‑eyed; they have a third eye as well. Who will bother with the one‑eyed before the three‑eyed? And those you call brahmins and intellectuals are not even one‑eyed; they are blind—deceiving themselves and others. They have not known, have not recognized—and they are busy making others “know,” busy explaining to others!

Explaining carries its own thrill, its own ego. Whenever you explain something to another you never pause to ask, “Have I understood?” The very act of explaining is so enjoyable, so tasty, that who cares whether I have understood it or not! The moment you explain to another, he becomes the ignorant one and you become the knower.

The great Russian mathematician Ouspensky went to the remarkable mystic Gurdjieff.

Ouspensky was world‑famous. His books had been translated into fourteen languages. He had written such a rare book that it is said only three such books have ever been written. The first was by Aristotle—Organon, the theory of knowledge. The second by Bacon—Novum Organum, the new theory of knowledge. The third by P. D. Ouspensky—Tertium Organum, the third theory of knowledge. It is said that there are no other books comparable to these three. There is truth in that; I have seen all three. They are extraordinary. And Ouspensky went even further: on the very first page he wrote, “Even before the first and second principles were born, my third principle existed.” He claimed greater originality than both— and there is some force in it. His book does surpass Bacon and Aristotle.

Such a renowned mathematician came to Gurdjieff. Do you know what Gurdjieff did? He glanced at him once, handed him a blank sheet of paper, and said, “Go into the next room. On one side write what you know—God, soul, heaven, hell—whatever you know. On the other side write what you do not know. Then I will speak to you. Only after that.” This is my way too when I meet intellectuals.

Ouspensky was dumbfounded. He hadn’t expected such a reception. No greeting, no “Sit down,” not even “How are you?” Just a sheet of paper and “Go next door!” It was a cold night, snowing outside. Ouspensky has written, “For the first time in my life I was shaken. The man’s eyes frightened me! The way he handed me that paper unnerved me! When I sat with pen and paper in the next room and, for the first time in life, began to think—‘What do I actually know?’—I could not write a single word. For whatever I knew was not mine. And it would be impossible to deceive this man. The books I had written were based on other books; I had polished and arranged them, but those books had not arisen within me. Those flowers were not mine; I had picked them from someone else’s garden. I had made the garland; the flowers were not mine. Not a single flower had bloomed inside me.” Ouspensky says, “I was drenched in sweat even though snow was falling outside. I could not write a single word. After an hour I returned and handed Gurdjieff the blank sheet, still blank, and said, ‘I know nothing. Start with this assumption that I know nothing.’”

Gurdjieff asked, “Then why did you write so many books? How did you write them?”

Ouspensky said, “Please don’t bring up that painful matter. Do not humiliate me further. Forgive me. I was not conscious. I wrote in unconsciousness. It was a display of my erudition. But I have come to you for wisdom. I come with my begging bowl, as an ignorant man.”

Gurdjieff said, “Then something is possible. Then revolution can happen.”

Kalyanchandra, only those who come to me like ignorant ones can have revolution in their lives, because the first sutra of wisdom is to own your ignorance. Your so‑called intellectuals cannot accept their ignorance—that is the rub. They even find it hard to come here. But they must hide that fact too, so they need a thousand excuses for why they don’t come—“There is nothing there, it’s raving!” They have neither heard me nor understood me; what I say appears to them as the ravings of a madman. These are self‑defenses. In this way they save themselves from coming here. If by chance an intellectual does come, he still cannot listen, because who knows what turmoil is going on in his head! While he is hearing me, he is not listening; he is weighing—what fits with what he already believes, what doesn’t; what is right, what is wrong. As if he already knew what is right and what is wrong! As if he had the touchstone!

When intellectuals write to me, they do not ask anything; they offer advice: “If only you would not say this, it would be right; if only you would not do that, it would be beneficial; if you would do such and such, great good would follow.”

Only the one who comes like an ignorant person can I pour myself into. But the one who comes as a knower—his vessel is already full—so full there is not an iota of space left.

A renowned university professor went to meet the Zen master Bokuju. After a long climb to the hut on the hill, drenched in sweat, he arrived and asked, “I want to know: does God exist?”

Bokuju said, “Sit, rest a little. I’ll fan you a bit, let the sweat dry. You must be tired from the climb. Let me quickly make you a cup of tea; drink first. Then we will talk at leisure. God is not to be discussed in a hurry. Why be impatient?”

The professor had never imagined that a master like Bokuju would prepare tea for him! But Bokuju went and made tea. He brought it back, handed the professor a cup, and began to pour from the kettle. The cup filled, but Bokuju went on pouring. The saucer overflowed, still he kept pouring. The professor cried out, “Stop! Are you in your senses or mad? The tea will spill all over the floor. There is not room for a single drop more in my cup.”

Bokuju said, “You are sensible—I thought you were only a professor. You have some understanding left. So you understand at least this much—that more tea cannot be poured into a full cup. Now look within, with closed eyes, and tell me: is your skull full or not? If it is full, I cannot pour anything into it. Empty the skull and come back. Or stay here with me; I have means to empty it.”

There are methods to fill the skull—universities do exactly that. The true master’s company does the opposite—methods to empty the skull.

What is meditation but this? What is prayer? What are worship and devotion? All are means for your head to become empty—void, shunya. Your vessel must become so empty that something can be poured into it.

When intellectuals come here, their heads are so crammed—such a crowd, such confusion, so many thoughts—the fair is already jam‑packed! It is difficult, impossible, to introduce even a single new thought inside. First, the crowd will not let it in; even if it enters, it will be lost in the crowd. And if somehow it survives, it will be colored and distorted by the old thoughts; their interpretations will be imposed upon the new.

The intellectual has never understood. Who were the people angry with Jesus? The intellectuals of his time. And who gave Socrates the hemlock? The intellectuals of his day.

Kalyanchandra, what is happening with me is natural, expected. It does not surprise me. It had to happen. It should happen. This is how the intellectuals have always “honored” the buddhas. This is their style of respect. We recognize it. We take it as a garland. It is their mode of welcome.

And you asked: intellectuals and journalists too...

The journalist is in even greater difficulty. The journalist lives on the untrue. He has little to do with truth. He lives on falsehood, because the false is titillating to people. People do not go to newspapers to seek truth; they go to seek rumors. Perhaps you know, perhaps not: no newspaper is published in heaven. Nothing happens there worth printing. In hell many newspapers are published, because in hell there are only happenings.

A journalist died and reached heaven. He knocked. The gatekeeper opened and asked what he wanted. “I’m a journalist,” he said, “and I want to enter heaven.” The gatekeeper laughed: “Impossible! The right place for you is hell. Your work belongs there. Your taste will be satisfied there. Your profession thrives there. Here—if only to keep hell from outshining us—we have kept twenty‑four places empty for journalists. But even those have long been filled. They’re all idle here. No papers get printed. Every day a blank sheet is distributed, and the rishis read it. Rishis can only read blank pages because what else will a blank mind read! Nothing happens here that is fit to print.”

George Bernard Shaw said: If a dog bites a man, that is not news. If a man bites a dog, that is news.

In hell there is plenty of news; there men bite dogs. And if a journalist doesn’t find a man who bites dogs, he must invent him, otherwise the paper dies.

The gatekeeper said, “You’ll only waste time here. You won’t enjoy it. Go to hell—new editions come out there morning, noon, evening, and night. So many events! Nothing happens in heaven. Mahavira sits under his tree, Buddha under his tree, Meera keeps dancing under hers. What is there to print? Nothing new happens.”

But a journalist does not give up so easily—old habits die hard. He said, “Give me twenty‑four hours. If I can persuade one of those journalists to go to hell, will you give me the vacancy?”

“Your choice,” said the gatekeeper, “if you can persuade someone. You have twenty‑four hours—go in.”

The journalist did what he always did best. To whoever he met he said, “Hey, did you hear? A huge newspaper venture is being launched in hell. Positions open—editor‑in‑chief, deputy editor, editors, all. Big salaries, cars, bungalows, everything.” By evening he had circulated the news to all twenty‑four. When his twenty‑four hours were up, he returned to the gate. The gatekeeper said, “Marvelous! Not one— all twenty‑four have left! Now you can stay happily.”

“I want to go too,” said the journalist.

“Why?”

“Who knows—maybe it’s true!”

Falsehood has one property: even if you start it yourself, if others begin to believe it, one day you too will believe it. When you see faith in others’ eyes, you will begin to suspect: Who knows? It might be true! I thought it was false, but perhaps, by coincidence, what I thought false was true! Maybe I misunderstood. How can twenty‑four people be fooled?” He said, “No, I’m not staying. First let me go to hell.”

No newspaper comes out in heaven, because nothing happens. Where people sit silent, meditative, in nirvikalpa samadhi—what incident is there?

The newspaper lives on commotion. The more turmoil, the better it thrives. Where there is no disturbance, the journalist will find one. Where he absolutely cannot find one, he will invent it.

Only a few days ago I received a magazine from Punjab. The journalist wrote that he stayed in this ashram fifteen days.

A flat lie. How could someone stay fifteen days and no one know! And what he wrote makes it obvious he has not only never been to the ashram, he has never even been to Poona.

He wrote, “The ashram spreads over fifteen square miles.”

Fifteen square miles—Poona itself may not be that big!

“Large lakes—miles long—on which thousands of sannyasins bathe naked. Artificial waterfalls.”

Yes, there is one small artificial waterfall—two feet high. In it four or six fish swim naked. Their color is ochre—true! The water is not more than a foot deep, and the tank is not more than four square feet. But miles‑long lakes! Thousands of sannyasins bathing naked! An ashram spread over fifteen square miles!

“Underground auditoriums where ten thousand sannyasins assemble every morning to hear the discourse. All sannyasins sit nude.”

Do not be under the illusion that you are sitting clothed; you are all naked! If there are clothes, so what? Inside you are naked, aren’t you! Clothes are only on the surface. Journalists see inside— they have transparent, X‑ray eyes!

“Every morning ten thousand sannyasins sit nude in a marble hall hidden beneath the earth to listen to the discourse. After each discourse their love‑play begins. At the gate a beautiful nude marble statue of a young woman welcomes you.”

When I read it I thought—who knows! Because I rarely go to the gate. In six years I may have gone three times. And who knows—these big lakes! Because I leave my room only morning and evening. I am not familiar with the ashram. I have never gone into any ashram office, any room. I do not know what happens in the office, who is there, how work is done. I do not know where people stay or what they do. In the morning I speak and return to my room, and come out again only in the evening. I meet those who come to see me in the evening. That is the extent of my connection with the ashram.

I called Laxmi: “Where is this statue? Where are these lakes? At least inform me! And who is giving discourses to ten thousand every morning? Whether you call me or not, at least keep me informed!”

If there is no fact, they must invent one. The journalist’s art is to turn a rag into a snake. If he finds a tiny scrap of fact, he weaves a web of lies around it as deftly as a spider spins its web from within. That is his skill and his trade.

So such lies get circulated that even the saying “a rag into a snake” hardly applies—because there isn’t even a rag, and yet a snake has been conjured up.

The journalist’s business is falsehood, rumor; he invents. What has he to do with truth? What has he to do with emptiness? Even if he comes here, he does not talk about meditation. He doesn’t ask what I am saying. He doesn’t look at the unprecedented things happening here. He sniffs out such things that it amazes me.

But everyone has their eyes. Some people could be taken to a diamond mine and still come back with pebbles—what can you do? Their eyes can only see gravel; diamonds are invisible to them. Some go to a rose bush and get entangled only in thorns; they never reach the flowers. Flowers too require flowery eyes to be seen.

Ninety‑nine percent of a journalist’s trade is politics—thorns. When such a person comes here, the dimension is so different that nothing makes sense. He sees here what he sees in Delhi—whatever he sees with politicians, he sees the same here. He is compelled. I am not angry with him. He is adept in his trade; he has cultivated a particular kind of eye and lives through it.

There is an episode in Gurdjieff’s life. He would not allow journalists into his ashram. I am not so strict. I not only allow them in, I make arrangements for their convenience, show them everything, acquaint them with every meditation and therapy used here—in the hope that someday someone with eyes, someone with understanding—even one in a thousand—will recognize.

Like you, Kalyanchandra, who come from the editorial department of the magazine Maya. Your question shows some eyes, some recognition. You are not tangled only in maya; there is a scent of the Brahman too.

Someone with eyes will come someday; that’s why I keep the gates open. Although my sannyasins constantly request that journalists be kept out, because they write nonsense, I tell them, “Don’t worry. At least they write—wrong or right. Even a wrong article brings some people here. And once someone comes—whatever the reason—if there is even a seed of possibility in him, he will connect.”

But Gurdjieff would not let them in, having found that they only create obstacles and waste time. One journalist, though, pestered him for years—three years—and Gurdjieff finally said, “All right, come. Come have tea with me in the morning. Then look around the ashram.”

At the tea table, what Gurdjieff said and did is worth understanding. The journalist sat with tea; Gurdjieff too. Gurdjieff asked a woman disciple sitting beside him, “What day was yesterday?” “Friday,” she said. “And today?” “Is that a question? If yesterday was Friday, today is Saturday.” Gurdjieff smashed his cup on the stone: “How can that be? Have you ever heard that Saturday comes after Friday? Are you in your senses? Do you take me for a fool?”

The journalist watched all this and thought, “This man is mad. He says, ‘Have you ever heard Saturday comes after Friday?’ and smashes his cup!” He stood up to leave: better to run away. He had worked three years to get in and now he fled. “Where are you going?” asked Gurdjieff. “Goodbye! I want neither to see the ashram nor learn about your methods. I was mistaken to try for three years.”

After he left—even the woman was puzzled—Gurdjieff burst into laughter. She asked, “Why did you do that?” He said, “See—three years of his effort ended in a minute! He didn’t have the patience to stay a little, to look and understand. He didn’t have the intelligence to see that what I was doing was a play, an act; it was a joke. One who cannot even understand a joke—what will he understand of spirituality? I got rid of him—and not only him; I got rid of his entire tribe. Now no journalist will come; he will spread this story.”

And he spread it, widely. It was printed everywhere that Gurdjieff was deranged. Gurdjieff laughed. The benefit was that from that day journalists stopped coming: “A man who can do this can do anything. Suppose he leaps on us and beats us—who knows! A man who does not accept that Saturday follows Friday!”

This is a laboratory of the spirit. Unprecedented experiments are going on here for the transformation of life. And certainly, Kalyanchandra, you are right: there is a possibility here to break India’s ancient stagnation and orthodoxy. Exactly therefore there will be opposition. Therefore I will be treated as untouchable. Therefore mud will be thrown. Therefore lies will be invented, spread, and publicized around me. Three kinds of people will do this:

- Journalists—because they need lies, rumors, sensational news. They will come here; if they find even a rag, they will make a snake. If they don’t find a rag, like spiders they will spin threads from their own brain.

A German magazine recently published an article. The journalist wrote, “I went to Poona and saw the ashram. Exactly at five in the morning I knocked at the gate. It opened and a very beautiful nude woman swung the door wide. She immediately embraced me! Welcomed me and, taking me inside a lovely garden, plucked a fruit like an apple and said, ‘Eat this—it will increase your virility. Eat this and you will attain the supreme bliss of sex.’”

The man did come—but stayed at the Blue Diamond Hotel and never came to the ashram. We know he came because another sannyasin, Satyananda—formerly an editor at Stern, Germany’s biggest magazine—recognized him. Satyananda went to the Blue Diamond, saw the man, and said, “What are you doing here?” He never left the hotel for the ashram. Satyananda invited him to come so he could show him everything. He did not come. Coming complicates things—facts become visible and it becomes a little harder to lie; a sense of guilt arises. Better to sit in a hotel room and concoct whatever story you like.

But his story was translated into several languages. Letters started pouring in. From Australia: “My sexual power has declined; what is that fruit? I am ready to come to Poona. If I can regain my sexual energy, I am ready to do anything and pay any price.”

So many such letters!

Someone from Germany wrote: “I am eighty years old and have married a young woman; only you can save me now.”

Our sannyasins in Germany wrote: “Many letters like this will come because that article has created a storm. People are eager about that fruit.”

The West has a big disease: how to increase sexual energy. Why only the West? The East too. On the walls you see: “Hakim Beerumal!” And there is no shortage of doctors who “cure secret diseases.”

One letter asked, “Is that fruit the same one that Adam and Eve ate in the Garden of Eden, after which they were expelled? If so, where did you find its seeds?”

So first, journalists will spread lies; their business demands it. That magazine sold out immediately. They had to print a second and third edition. Naturally—it’s business.

Articles against me sell; those magazines sell very well!

Editors write to us: “Because of the article about you we had to print a second edition. Our circulation has increased.”

Second, the intellectuals will spread lies. Because my essential teaching is that wisdom is born within you through meditation—not through study, not through analysis or speculation. Wisdom does not arise through thought; it arises through no‑thought. The intellectual lives by thought. And I wield an axe against thought. So the second opposition will be from the intellectuals—old and new. The new intellectuals: writers, poets, thinkers, professors, vice‑chancellors, that sort. The old intellectuals: pundits, priests, scholars of scripture, mahatmas, munis, sadhus.

Third, opposition will come from politicians. Because the politician does not want the public mind to be trained, to be enlightened, to be freed from inertia. If the public mind is freed, will you vote for the fools you vote for now? Will you line up behind the fools you follow now?

Things are going from bad to worse.

You followed Jayaprakash Narayan and made a revolution—a hollow revolution that collapsed like a house of cards in two and a half years. What revolution did you make? The same people climb back on your chest, carrying a new flag. On every branch sits an owl! The same owls hop from one tree to another. You worship one tree; they watch and perch on the worshiped tree. The owl thinks the worship is for him. Then, seeing people shift to another tree because their desires were not fulfilled by the first, the owl hops to the next— the same owl, or the offspring of owls. If the owls grow too old—Morarji Desai says he will not contest elections—then their offspring will. Now Kanti Desai will run. Owls leave offspring; they never practice birth control!

You worshiped Jayaprakash Narayan and made a revolution—what happened? The country was ruined, brought to the brink. Your condition worsened. Jayaprakash had at least some thoughtfulness. But Raj Narain! Could there be a greater fall—from Jayaprakash to Raj Narain! From owls you moved to super‑owls! After Raj Narain comes I. S. Johar! Where will this story of decline end? Your soul will not rest until you make Tun Tun the Mother of India.

So the third opposition will be from politicians, because I am saying: wake up a little; polish your intelligence through meditation; let your eyes come out of darkness; let your blindness recede; let the membrane over your eyes be cut. All who exploit you—religious leaders, politicians, and the so‑called intellectuals—will oppose me. Their opposition is natural, because if you understand me, their exploitation becomes impossible. They have imposed a spiritual slavery upon you. They have kept you spiritually enslaved. This is not a matter of one day; it is an ancient tale. For five thousand years the wrong people have been sitting on your chest. Having sat so long, they think it their birthright. And I say to you: throw them all off your chest! Become weightless! These mountains sitting on your chest are crushing and killing you.

Certainly, Kalyanchandra, I want the stagnation broken, the orthodoxies shattered, freedom from the past for this country. Why only this country? Freedom from the past for all humanity. We must learn the art of living in the present. A person of intelligence lives in the present, free of the past and free of the future—because the future is only a projection of the past.

What do you want in the future? Exactly what you enjoyed in the past—repeated again, in greater quantity, in a more refined form—but the same. Your future is a reflection of your past. I want man to be free of the past so he is free of the future as well—because neither past nor future exists. The past is gone, the future has not come. Only the present exists—now and here. The art of being in the present is meditation. One who immerses totally in the present—does not budge an inch forward or back—who dives into this moment, his life fills with light. A lamp is lit in him—of love, of wisdom, of prayer, of the divine. Such a person follows no one. He is not a Hindu, nor a Muslim, nor a Christian, nor a Jain, nor a Buddhist. He becomes a buddha—why be a Buddhist! He becomes a Christ—why be a Christian! He becomes a Mohammed—why be a Muslim! He becomes a Nanak—why be a Sikh!

My sannyasins are not my followers; they are my friends, my companions. I am not creating followers here; I am creating a fellowship of friends, a satsang. It is not necessary that you believe what I say. It is not necessary to accept it blindly. Otherwise a great distance opens between us: I become your guru, leader; you become my follower. All followers are blind.

Experiment with what I say. If your experiment shows you that what I said is true, then accept it. But then you are not believing me; you are believing your own experience, your own experiment. You are your own master. Every one of my sannyasins is his own master.

I have seen something and I want to share it with you. I have found something and I invite you: look—it is hidden within you as well. My knowledge cannot become your knowledge. But if you come near and look into what has happened in me, you will remember your own treasure, that’s all. One lamp has been lit—seeing it, an unlit lamp can remember: “I too can be lit.” One seed has sprouted— seeing it, another seed nearby will feel an irrepressible longing: “Let me also break.” It will gather courage to split and disappear into the soil, because it saw a seed disappear and yet not be lost— it became a tree. And on a tree there are thousands, millions of seeds. One seed “lost,” and millions were born! And not only seeds—flowers and fruits! The sky became laden with fragrance!

Let only this much be remembered by being with me: my seed broke; I did not vanish—I became, for the first time I became! If you too are filled with the longing to disappear, if you take the mad risk of breaking the ego, flowers will bloom in you too. Those flowers will be yours; that fragrance will be yours. I have nothing to do with it.

Truth cannot be given; it cannot be transferred. But truth can be made present before you.

I have no followers. Yes, I have companions. Whoever is willing to come close becomes a participant in this unprecedented satsang.

Kalyanchandra, the stagnation in this country must be broken, the orthodoxies smashed, because entangled in them we are rotting. They all can be broken. This land can be the most blessed on earth. Nature has given it so much; its nature is so manifold, so diverse, no other country can compare. It is vast—not a small country, a continent. All kinds of climates, winds, environments— mountains, rivers, plains, oceans. What does it lack? If there is a lack, it is only this: its innate intelligence has been lost; it is rusted. And your intellectuals will not allow this rust to be removed, for only while the rust remains are they “intellectuals.” If the rust is removed, who will consider them intellectual? If the rust is removed, every person in this country will be filled with intelligence.

Your saints will not want this either. Because if everyone becomes a saint, who will be a “saint”?

A delicious fact: for your saints to remain saints, you must remain sinners. If you do not remain sinners, who will be a saint? If all are saints, it will be very difficult.

I have heard: a famous leader came to inspect a village. The sarpanch was showing him around. “Sir,” he said, “the great glory of this village is that not a single person here is ill. Everyone is healthy.”

The leader was amazed. Not a single person ill? Everyone healthy! A miracle!

After a little while he saw a man sitting outside his door—only skin and bones, a skeleton, vomiting. The leader flared up: “You say there is not a single sick person in this village—what is this?”

The sarpanch said, “Sir, this is the village doctor. This poor fellow is in this condition because he finds no patients.”

If there are no patients, what will become of doctors? If there are no thieves, no cheats, no sinners—what will become of saints? And if there are no fools, no stupids, no inert ones—what will become of your intellectuals? And if there are no people willing to humiliate themselves by becoming followers—what will become of your leaders?

Therefore, opposition to me is natural. I accept it—simply, spontaneously. It does not worry me. I am happy about it. It means journalists have stopped ignoring me. It means intellectuals are becoming restless and irritated with me. It means politicians are getting nervous and afraid. These are auspicious signs.

Kalyanchandra, these are signs that well‑being is possible.

Krishnatirth Bharati! You say that today it’s different. That makes it sound as if earlier it was otherwise. But were the Buddhas not abused? Were stones not thrown at Mahavira? Who nailed Jesus to the cross? Who cut off Mansoor’s hands and feet?

Take this to heart. We all harbor this delusion because again and again we’ve been taught that once there was the Age of Truth, a Golden Age, Ram Rajya. But what “Ram Rajya” was that, really! If even Rama’s own wife could be abducted, what of others’ wives? And if Rama himself could go chasing a golden deer—when even the dullest person knows there are no golden deer—if Rama himself could be deceived like that, what to say of others?

When Rama returned with Sita, the words he spoke to her in Valmiki’s Ramayana are coarse; they do not at all befit one called “Maryada Purushottam.” His words were: “Mind it, woman! This war was not for you. I fought this war to uphold my lineage, to preserve the honor of my clan.”

Even in Ram Rajya the woman was not honored—she was humiliated. Lineage! Prestige of ego! That is why, on a washerman’s suspicion, Rama could send a pregnant Sita into the forest. If even Rama could do that, what of others? If others kept treating their wives like footwear, is it any surprise? Rama did nothing much better. Don’t call them shoes—call them wooden sandals, if you like. A tad more religious, perhaps. But what difference does it make? Did he feel no shame in casting a pregnant woman out of the house? Even shamelessness has a limit.

And when Rama brought Sita back from Lanka, he made her undergo an ordeal by fire. That is injustice. Did Rama have so little trust in his own wife? So little faith? And if Sita was to be tested, fairness demanded that Rama too pass through the fire alongside her, give his own proof. After all, as many days as Sita was away from Rama, Rama too was away from Sita. And with whom was he, with God knows who, with all and sundry—who can vouch for that?

But he is a man; the very idea of testing him does not arise!

Historians’ research suggests that Shabari was not some old crone, as shown in the Ramlilas. Shabari was a very beautiful young woman. A very renowned thinker and historian, Dr. Navlekar, has written a book on Rama. In it he tries to establish that Shabari was in love with Rama. In truth, eating another’s half-eaten fruit can only happen in love. Imagine someone eats half a banana and then hands it to you—you’d take off your shoe at him: What do you take me for! But love is blind. Lovers can eat each other’s leftovers; that is possible among lovers. No one else can eat another’s leftovers. Rama too could not have—had he clearly seen Shabari tasting first, he would have refused. Navlekar claims Shabari was a beautiful woman, in love with Rama.

Rama too should have taken the test—passed through the fire alongside. Perhaps he feared that Sita might come out purified while he… might not.

The truth is, women have always been more faithful than men. This isn’t true of just one or two men; it is true of men in general. The way of being male is not the way of fidelity. The way of being female is fidelity. A woman loves one man and deems him enough for life—indeed prays in temples to have the same husband again and again. And men? Men say: O Lord, when will I be rid of this one!

Mulla Nasruddin would start trembling the moment he saw a bus or a truck. One morning walk I asked him, “Nasruddin, why do you panic so when you see a truck or hear a horn? You break out in a cold sweat.”

He said, “What can I tell you! Twenty years ago my wife ran away with a truck driver. I’m afraid whenever I see a truck—what if he comes back! What if she returns!”

Ram Rajya wasn’t much of a Ram Rajya either. In Ram Rajya human beings were bought and sold, because there were slaves and slave-girls. Even Rama, in marriage, received many gifts, including several slaves and slave-women. Humans were sold—and you call that Ram Rajya! And Mahatma Gandhi wanted to bring that very Ram Rajya back! Once wasn’t enough of it?

We’ve been taught that the past was beautiful. So whatever was in the past was auspicious.

Therefore, Krishnatirth, this question arises often: today things are different.

Today is not different; it is exactly the same. There are two kinds of people in the world. Ninety-nine percent are those who cannot even recognize a pearl. Barely one percent—hardly—are those who can recognize pearls. That ninety-nine percent has always been like this; not just today. My firm conviction is that this ninety-nine percent crowd has always been as it is today; no difference at all. There is only one difference worth anything in the world: when an individual drops thought and enters meditation. There is just one revolution—attainment of Buddhahood.

So there is a current of Buddhas in the world, and it too has always been the same. Jesus arose far away in Israel, the Buddha in India, Lao Tzu in China, Zarathustra in Iran, Pythagoras in Greece—yet their flavor is one. They are all swans. They peck only pearls. Whether Krishna, Mahavira, Moses, Mohammed—swans all, pecking pearls. When they happened makes no difference. Nanak, Kabir, Paltu—swans all, pecking pearls. Time, era, calendar—none of it touches them.

As for the crowd—whether five thousand years ago or today’s modern masses… yes, on the surface there are differences. Five thousand years ago you wouldn’t find anyone wearing a tie and trousers—that’s true. No cars, no trains, no airplanes—that’s true. But neither a car nor a train nor an airplane changes a man. A man is a man. Seat a fool in an airplane—do you think he will become a Buddha? When a fool sits in an airplane, the fool doesn’t change; the airplane is endangered—he might do something foolish!

Five thousand years ago a man held a bow and arrows. Otherwise you wouldn’t have made Lord Rama an archer. Had there been guns, he would have carried a gun—he’d be a gunman. Had there been atom bombs, then as Ganesha carries a laddu in his hand, so Lord Rama would carry an atom bomb. If atom bombs exist, anyone walking around with a bow and arrows would be thought a fool. In a world of atom bombs, bows and arrows are only seen occasionally: when the Ramlila is staged at Delhi’s Ramlila Maidan—those bows and arrows are all fake. Or at the Republic Day parade when tribal people are invited—they keep bows only for the Republic Day, they don’t use them anymore. They keep them ready, painted up, so when Republic Day comes, off to Delhi they go.

Rama had a bow and arrows in his hands; you have an atom bomb in yours—that’s the difference. But that difference is not within you. If there’s a stone in your hand, you’ll hurl a stone; if there’s a bullet, you’ll shoot a bullet; if there’s a bomb, you’ll throw a bomb. That only increases the danger. Man has not evolved, nor has he declined. Man is as he was; things have changed. Man is the same, because the mind is the same.

You think villagers were simple and innocent; the ancients—so guileless and pure. They had no such lusts, because no one desired a Fiat car.

There were no Fiats. What was available then—a buggy, a tonga; one coveted the fastest horse. It’s the same thing. When a swift horse was available, the desire was for a swift horse. Now the horse is gone; we have cars with “horsepower.” Even now we call it horsepower; we still measure by horses—“this car has four horsepower,” meaning equal to four horses. When there are cars, the desire is for cars. When there were horses, the desire was for horses. Desire has not changed.

There are two kinds of people. The awakened are always the same—whatever the century, country, caste, or class. The sleeping are also always the same—no country, caste, class, or time makes any difference. Grasp this fundamental point. Otherwise delusions persist. Some people delude themselves that man is progressing, evolving. Others delude themselves that man is deteriorating, degenerating. The so-called religious believe there is decline; the irreligious believe there is progress. Both are wrong. There has been neither evolution nor degeneration. Man is as he was—the same craving, the same greed, the same anger, the same enmity, the same jealousy, the same hoarding, the same possessiveness—the same fights, the same quarrels—nothing has changed.

There is only one transformation: take the leap—from mind to no-mind. Take the leap—from mind into meditation. Descend—from head into heart. Move—from body into soul. That alone is revolution.

Krishnatirth, you ask: “You say—a swan pecks pearls. But today it’s different…”

Not today—so it has always been.

“Today’s times say…”

Not today’s times—this has always been said!

“The swan will pick worm-eaten grain, the crow will eat pearls.”

Crows have always been in the majority.

It happened that one night a pair of swans rested in a tree. That tree was a crow-roost. The swan was on his way to Manasarovar, but night fell; he was tired, so he rested. In the morning, when he said to his swan-wife, “Come, let’s fly,” the crows cried, “What mischief is this? We put you up for the night, and now you’re stealing our wife! Is this how a guest behaves? We are the hosts and this is your thanks!”

The swan’s eyes popped. He said, “What are you saying? Your wife? She is my swan. Can’t you see? You are black, she is fair!”

The crows said, “Whom are you trying to fool? She’s black—who says she’s fair? There were crows everywhere. All the crows cawed in chorus, ‘She’s black! Who says she’s fair? Let’s put it to a vote!’”

The swan understood there would be trouble. What would a vote do—this is crow country! The crowd is theirs. The swan asked, “Is there a court here, a qazi, a judge in your settlement?”

They said, “There is. Come, let’s get a ruling.”

The swan went. The judge too was a crow. It was a crow settlement. The swan smacked his forehead: “I’m done for!” Was there a jury? Yes—there was a jury too: twelve crows. Crow policemen, crow clerks, a crow magistrate, crow jurors—the whole court was crows. The swan said, “Fighting this case is useless. I’ve already lost.”

A Buddha is always one among many. A swan is always rare. We have called Buddhas “swans,” “paramhansas,” for this very reason. They are few and far between. The crowd is crows.

But every crow has a birthright: if he chooses, he can become a swan. For this blackness is a coating laid on us; we are not inherently black. Soot has been plastered on us—we are not that. Our nature is swanlike, though our covering is crow. If we search for our own self, we become swans. “Fly, O swan, to thy native land!” Then the memory awakens of that country which is truly ours—the land of swans. And when that inner remembrance dawns, you will peck only pearls. Then only a madman would hum film songs—when Quranic ayats are present, when the Upanishads’ wondrous utterances are available, when the Dhammapada can be held in your hands, who would hum a film tune? And when the divine can be beheld in matter, who would declare the world to be mere matter and call himself a materialist? And when flowers of prayer can blossom from love, who would denounce love, call it base, call it sin?

A swan pecks pearls! The day you remember your swan-nature, you will peck only pearls. But the crowd is crows; the majority is theirs. So from time immemorial crows have said, “The swan will pick worm-eaten grain, the crow will eat pearls.”

Though a crow cannot eat pearls; he cannot even recognize a pearl—how will he eat it! Where is the discernment? At best he says the words, “The crow will eat pearls,” because the numbers are his, the power his, the strength his. He may say, “The crow will eat pearls,” but he cannot. He’ll hide a film magazine inside the Gita and read it. A crow cannot eat pearls. He will bring home pictures of Vishnu and Lakshmi and hang them on the wall—but those pictures are not of Vishnu and Lakshmi; they are like film stars.

You can see it—you hang pictures in your homes—vulgar, tasteless, obscene! Yet in the name of religion. You label it Lakshmi and hang it—without a glance of discernment. But look closely—does the picture look like Lakshmi or like Hema Malini? Perhaps Hema Malini did the modeling for the painting. Vulgar, obscene, devoid of aesthetic sense! The adornment you put on would befit a courtesan. But no—the name is enough. If it says “Lakshmi,” up it goes, no matter what it is. In truth you bring it precisely because the name is Lakshmi while the image is of a film star. Under cover of the name you hang it in your room.

A crow may loudly claim he eats pearls; he cannot. A crow is a crow! Only the one who can eat a thing will eat it. He may call trash “pearl-brand”—slap a pearl label on garbage. But he will eat only what he can.

No, Krishnatirth—you say, “The swan will pick worm-eaten grain.”

Impossible! It cannot be. Give poison to Buddhas, and they distill nectar from it. This has actually occurred. The Buddha’s death came from eating toxic food.

One morning at five a poor man came and begged, “Today please take your meal at my house.” The Buddha had a rule: the first invitation of the day was accepted. The poor man had barely left when Emperor Bimbisara arrived, stepped down from his golden chariot, and pleaded, “Please take your meal at my palace today.” The Buddha said, “Forgive me, I have already accepted an invitation.”

Bimbisara looked at the man and said, “What meal will there be at his house! He cannot manage two meals for himself—how will he feed you!”

But the Buddha said, “Whatever he provides. He has invited with such love—I will go.”

They went. In Bihar in those days people gathered wild mushrooms. In the rains mushrooms sprout like white umbrellas from the earth or on wood. They are called kukur-mutta—because they sprout in places dogs choose for passing water. They sprout in odd places. Some have nothing to do with dogs’ water; otherwise Morarji Desai would be delighted—look at the effect of ‘life-water’! What a marvelous flower it produces! They are called kukur-mutta; they have no necessary relation to dogs’ urine.

Poor people collect mushrooms, dry them, and make curry through the year. They have little else for vegetables. At that man’s house too there was nothing but mushrooms—bread, salt, and mushroom curry. The Buddha had neither seen nor eaten mushroom curry before. And sometimes mushrooms are poisonous—sprouting in the wrong place, or on a tree that has poison; then they become toxic.

Those mushrooms were toxic. The Buddha tasted them—they were bitter. But how to tell this poor man the curry was bitter? He had no other vegetable. He would be pained, afflicted, distressed: What can I do now! It would be a blow to him. To spare him that blow, the Buddha ate the poisonous, bitter curry.

At once the Buddha knew: “I will not survive.” On returning he said, “There is danger; poison seems to be spreading in the body.”

The disciples said, “Who is this man? He should be punished.”

The Buddha said, “No, no—no fault is his. He fed me with a love no one has ever shown. Remember his love, not his food.”

This is the art of finding nectar in poison—remember his love, not his poison! He was not responsible for the poison. If the mushroom was toxic, what could he do? How would he know? And until the Buddha ate, the man himself would not take a bite. “Run and tell him not to eat that food—it is poisonous!”

The disciples asked, “Why didn’t you stop? Why didn’t you refrain?”

He said, “I thought: death must come one day or another. If today or tomorrow—what difference does it make! I am old anyway—eighty-two now. How many more days? To live after wounding this man—what meaning would that have? How much anguish would pierce his heart! How his poverty would sting him! Death is bound to happen—so let it happen. And my work was done long ago—forty-two years ago it was complete. What I had to gain from life, I have gained; now the boat must cast off—today or tomorrow. If tomorrow, then why not today? Remember his love.”

But the Buddha feared that after his death the disciples might go and kill the man or burn his hut. So as he lay dying he called his disciples and said, “Remember one thing: there are no two people more fortunate in the world than these two.”

They asked, “Which two?”

The Buddha said, “First, the mother who gives milk to a Buddha—the first food. And last, the one who gives a Buddha his final meal. These two are the most worthy. After Buddhas, they alone are counted.” So he said, “Honor him who gave me my last meal.”

He died saying this—so that no one might harm that poor man. This is the art of extracting nectar from poison.

No—the swans, even if you give them poison, will pick pearls from it. Give swans even stones, and they will find pearls among them. For pearls are hidden everywhere; only an eye that sees is needed. If the eye of the seer is present, the whole world is strewn with pearls—because the whole world is suffused with the Divine. Without the seer’s eye, there is no pearl anywhere—because for you there is no Divine anywhere.

For the blind there is no sun, no moon, no stars. For one with eyes, even in darkness there is light. I speak of the inner eye. I call that one “the one with eyes.” For him there is light even in darkness. For the blind, the stupefied, the unconscious—life itself is death. For the awakened, even death is supreme life.

That is all for today.