Koplen Phir Phoot Aayeen #10

Had humanity become overshadowed by terror only today, the matter would be easy. Humanity has always been overshadowed by terror. That is why the matter is very complex. The forms of terror keep changing. Madness keeps taking on new colors, new modes. But throughout history, leaving aside a few people you could count on your fingers, all the rest have been sick in one way or another. These illnesses are as old as man himself. And therefore whenever anyone has tried to remove these illnesses, these derangements, the crowd of the deranged has removed him instead.

Those who made Socrates drink poison, those who crucified Jesus, are living proof. What Socrates was saying was precisely a diagnosis to make man healthy. But the crowd does not want to admit it is deranged. And anyone who wants to become healthy must at least first acknowledge that he is not healthy. There the obstacle arises.

There are thousands of madhouses in the world, yet not a single madman is willing to admit he is mad. Every madman tries to prove that the whole world may be mad, but he is not. Those few people in whose lives a revolution has happened, who have been transformed, were precisely those who accepted: we are deranged, we are sick, we are unquiet. The first step toward the health of life is to accept one’s unhealth.

If someone tells you you are beautiful, it feels pleasant. If someone tells you you are not beautiful, it feels unpleasant. If someone tells you you are right, it feels good, reassuring, consoling. But if someone exposes your wounds and shows them to you, that person appears like an enemy.

The reasons for man’s unhealth are very simple and straightforward. First: in place of nature, in place of the natural, man has made the unnatural the goal of life. Instead of the spontaneous, our eyes are fixed on the strained. The more unnatural a person becomes, the more respect we give him. He becomes a sadhu, a saint, a mahatma, a siddha. Our respect inspires him to become even more unnatural. And our respect creates in us a thirst to follow him, to walk at his feet. Because we see—the whole world honors that man. We may be wrong; the whole world cannot be wrong.

But everyone thinks just like that. In this way, errors are worshipped, delusions are honored, the unnatural is revered…and we get entangled in the net. If a man fasts, he becomes worthy of our respect—as if starving to death had anything to do with spirituality. If spirituality came from starving, then all the hungry in the world would be spiritual. No one becomes spiritual by being hungry, nor by overeating. Life needs evenness, balance. Life is like walking on the edge of a sword: a little this way, a little that way, and you start to stray. The formula for health is rightness, balance. The understanding that in life there should be no excess of anything. Excess is sickness. And if you open the pages of all religions and understand the whole history of religions, you will find—excess is revered everywhere. The ordinary, simple, straightforward person is not even noticed. There is no honor for being ordinary. Here only the extraordinary is worshipped, honored. And to be extraordinary one must go to extremes.

This whole humanity that appears deranged to you, and this terror that has spread over the world, is the outcome of centuries of extremes. A man stands naked and you worship him. In the deserts of Arabia, where the sun pours down like fire and the sand burns like fire, Sufi fakirs live wrapped in blankets. They receive honor. It will surprise you to know: the very word Sufi comes from blanket. Suf means wool. One who keeps a woolen blanket wrapped around himself is called a Sufi.

And what a joke it is. When you worship madness, you announce that you too wish to live that madness. Granted, today you are helpless; granted, today you don’t have the courage; granted, the circumstances are not favorable—then tomorrow, or in the next life. But your worship shows the direction of your life and the longing within you.

The simple, ordinary person, in whose life there is no excess—you won’t even notice him. He won’t come into your sight. And he alone is healthy. He will be blissful, peaceful, at ease—but not celebrated.

In other words: we must change the values of our reverence. We have given too much honor to the egotistical. And the pathways of ego are very subtle. There is no greater illness than ego. From childhood we feed every child poison—our own children—with love, of course. Our intentions are not bad. I do not doubt your good intentions. But unknowingly we feed poison.

Every father wants his son to stand first in class, first at the university, to become renowned in the country, to be a Padma Bhushan, a Bharat Ratna, a Nobel Prize winner. But no one notices that in the family, in the school, in the neighborhood, on all sides honor is being given to the egotistical—the one who is ahead. Then a race begins, a fever to get ahead that possesses a man for life—one must be in front. And what a tremendous crowd there is! Wherever you are, someone is ahead of you. The mind is hurt, the mind feels pain.

I was a guest of a family in Calcutta. They had the most beautiful building in Calcutta, a very lovely garden. When Calcutta was once the capital, it had been the governor’s residence. They took great pride in their house. They spoke of nothing but the house. I had stayed there several times. I told them, I’ve seen everything. I know every inch of your home. Now have mercy on me—how long must I keep listening to the same praises!

But the last time I stayed with them, I was surprised. They were completely silent. They said nothing about the house. I said, at least say something about the house. It feels strange—you, and sitting so quiet!

They said, There will be no talk of the house now. Don’t you see across the way? Another man has built another palace. And until I build a palace higher than that one, there will be no talk of this house. Now I have nothing to do with this house.

I said, But it is the same lovely house, the same dear things—historic. And I said, He has built a house, but he hasn’t even touched your house. Your house remains exactly as it was. Why are you upset?

Coincidentally, the man who built the new house was also known to me. When he heard I had come, he came to meet me and invited me to dine, and also invited my host along. After he left, my host said, I cannot set foot in that house. I’ll have that palace set on fire—even if I must lose my life. I will have it demolished!

I said, He is a good man. He came to meet you. He even invited you.

He said, This goodness is nothing; these are mischievous tricks. By any means he wants to show me the inside of his palace—because I have often shown him mine. But I won’t even lift my eyes. I won’t even look at his house. I have had curtains put on the car windows. I have had my garden wall raised higher. I want somehow to forget that his house even exists. You must go alone. Forgive me, I cannot come with you.

What madness! But every child is being fed poison with the milk—of ambition. Don’t die just like that; become something; leave a name in history; let the world remember that once you, too, were here.

And even if you reach the highest posts, gather great wealth, live in lofty towers—then the trouble begins: Did you run your whole life to get all this? Those who could not get it are tormented. Those who got it are tormented. Those who could not get it burn because life became a defeat: the ego could not be built and was shattered. Those who got it burn because what they attained feels futile. Life was wasted in attaining it. Not a single moment of peace. Not a drop of love. Not a note of music. Inside, only emptiness and meaninglessness.

One disease afflicts all humanity—and that disease is ambition. Keep fighting. Don’t even bother whether the means by which you fight are right or wrong—who has the leisure? Time is short and life is uncertain. So whether the means are right or wrong, you must prove you are something. And the irony is: on both sides there is defeat. If you lose, you lose; if you win, you lose even worse.

Naturally, every person appears sick. Every person appears restless. Inside every person there are only flames—envy, jealousy; no peace, no joy. No poetry is born, no dance arises. Death comes to the door, and all you have to offer it is tears and a life that has lost.

This long journey of ambition has reached its final hour. It is no longer a slow, lukewarm fire—it is blazing like terrible flames. The whole world is badly restless. And there is only one remedy: free man from ambition. Ambition drives you outward and takes you nowhere. These paths that seem to run outward lead nowhere. Keep walking, keep walking—there is no end. Your end comes. The paths remain as they were. The paths do not end; you end.

In place of ambition, cultivate self-longing—the yearning to know yourself, to recognize yourself, to dive into yourself. That alone is the cure. There is one disease, with many names and forms. And there is one cure.

All education is futile, all preaching is futile—if it does not teach you the art of diving within. There, a stream of nectar is flowing. You wander outside like beggars while within you lies the possibility of being an emperor. In this world, only those few who have peered within have become healthy; the rest remain unwell, sick, deranged.

I give value to only one thing—call it religion, philosophy, a vision of life, whatever you will—and that value is: self-knowing. And this self-knowing is not through books. It is not through someone else. It is through oneself. If you cannot even go within, where else will you go? If for even a little while you cannot dive within, then where are you setting out—what oceans do you imagine you will cross?

If we want humanity to become healthy, and if we want this terror that is increasing on all sides, becoming explosive, becoming violent, to end—if we want these tongues of fire to turn into flowers—there is only one path, and its name is samadhi.

Be natural. Be ordinary. Live in balance. And do not remain unfamiliar with the secret hidden within you. The moment you become familiar with it, that great revolution happens which turns mud into gold, which turns an ordinary person into a buddha, which lifts you from the earth to the heights of the stars.

I have roamed the world saying only this one thing. And I have been amazed and surprised that people are not willing to hear it. People shut their doors. Nations shut their doors. Because what will happen to the businesses of the religions? What will happen to the scriptures?

For I know only one book—you.

Kabir used to say: “He who learns the two-and-a-half letters of love becomes a true scholar.” I say: leave even the two-and-a-half! There is only one letter, hidden within you. Know that one letter, that eternal one. Then all wisdom, all erudition, is at your feet.

But then the custodians of the scriptures become my enemies—of churches, of temples; of Hindus, Muslims, Christians. There is a whole net of priests that lives off your illness—they become angry. Teachers, universities, scholars of education, they become angry—because their entire education stands on the race of ambition. Politicians become angry, because if ambition is an illness, then the politician is the greatest patient. For what does the desire to be a politician prove? It proves that someone wants to be a president, someone a prime minister. People want to rise above the crowd and become its master. Those who are not masters of themselves want to be masters of the whole world. And these fraternities of the sick have great power—all the power.

Therefore it was very easy—to give Socrates poison; to hang Jesus on a cross; to stop me from entering countries, to stop me from speaking; if needed, to kill me. But as long as I live, I will go on telling you: those who exploit your illness and do business on your illness—all those vested interests must be broken, if we want a healthy, peaceful, joy-filled world. If we want this world to be like a blossoming garden—fragrant, perfumed, beautiful—then you will have to hear what I am saying. And once you understand, the matter is simple. Because you do not have to go to anyone else; you have to go within yourself. You have nothing to ask from anyone. You have no steps of ambition to climb. Rather, quietly, into your own silence, into your own depths—of which you are the master, which are your birthright—quietly descend without any noise.

And if on this earth we can give even a small taste of peace to thousands of people, a slight glimpse of the nectar, a little recognition of the tavern within, then man can become healthy. Until now it has not happened, because until now we have not stood with the Socrateses, the Mansurs, the Sarmads. Until now we have remained toys in the hands of the wrong people.

A little awakening—and the kingdom of heaven is yours.

The path is neither mine nor yours. What I have just said—that is the path. And the path is one, the same for all, the same through all the ages. It was the same before, it is the same today, it will be the same tomorrow. Do not give this one path any name. For it is not Hindu—what has going within got to do with being a Hindu? It is not Muslim—what has going within to do with being a Muslim? Let it remain nameless. Otherwise the world is torn by quarrels over names—so much grabbing and tug-of-war. Because everyone claims that his path is the right one. But the path is one. If there were even two, some comparison would be possible about which is right and which is wrong. Turning inward is right, and turning outward is wrong.

So what I have said is the path—yours, mine, and theirs too who are so fast asleep that they have not yet even asked what their path is. And perhaps, still asleep, they will descend into the grave, and the remembrance will never arise as to why we came and why we are going, and what we lived for. What was this life? What was this energy? Who was this that was throbbing within the heart, that was breathing, that was conscious?

A very strange world! Here people study geography, memorize the names of faraway stars—constellations—and forget themselves!

I had a geography teacher. On the very first day I asked him to say something about himself.
He said, What kind of man are you! This is a geography class—what question is there of saying something about me here?
I said, Your geography?
He said, I’ve spent a lifetime teaching geography; no one has ever asked me my geography. Geography belongs to the world, not to a man.
I said, I will begin with you. And if you do not know your own geography, first find that out. What will it do to know where Timbuktu is? Even if you identify where Constantinople is, what will it do? Whether you die in Timbuktu or in Constantinople, it’s all the same. But who were you?
He said to me, Look, if you want to study geography, talk about geography. Don’t talk nonsense.
I said, I am talking only geography. I want to understand my geography; so first, yours…
He said to me, This won’t do. Come with me to the principal.
He asked the principal, Now what is to be done? You have admitted this youth to geography. Now either he will study geography or I will teach geography; the two of us cannot be in the same class together.
The principal said, I don’t understand anything. What is the matter? What is the quarrel?
That teacher said, What will you understand—when even I don’t understand! If it were a matter of geography it could be understood. Who knows what he is talking about! He asks me to explain my geography.
I said, No worry. If you can’t explain it at school, I’ll come home. If you want to sit somewhere far away in solitude and explain it, I’ll come there. But first I will understand your geography; then I will go further.
The principal said to me, Brother, choose some other subject. This is our old teacher, and we don’t want to lose him. As for geography, I know nothing of it, for I never studied geography—and I don’t know which geography you are talking about. Go trouble someone else; leave him alone.
I said, As you wish. But wherever I go, there is going to be trouble. Because what useless chatter! Someone worries about Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, Nadir Shah, Alexander—and has not the least concern for himself. And what have we to do with this gang of good-for-nothings!

Leaving geography, I entered history. The teacher was explaining about Alexander the Great. I said to him, You feel no shame in saying this—Alexander the Great? Don’t spoil the word “great”! Otherwise what will you call Buddha? What will you call Socrates? What will you call Pythagoras?
And do you know that when Alexander was dying, just before his death he said to his ministers, This is my last will—and mind you, there should be no alteration in my will. The will is very small: when you carry my coffin toward the cremation ground, let my hands hang outside the coffin. People said, What a strange will! Hands are never left hanging outside the coffin. This is not the tradition. Alexander said, Forget tradition; in that very tradition I lived and died—uselessly. But why do you want your hands to hang outside? they asked in curiosity. Alexander said, So that the whole world may see that I came empty-handed and I am going empty-handed. And my whole life went to waste. There is nothing in my hands. I am dying like a beggar.
And you call this man Alexander the Great—he who himself declared that he was dying like a beggar and that his life had gone to waste? By calling him great you are poisoning the minds of all these students who have come here to study; you are planting in their minds the itch to become great too, to become Alexanders.

Neither by getting anything outside can one become great, nor by knowing anything outside can one become wise. The path is one—mine, yours, everyone’s—to know oneself. Socrates’ saying is: Know thyself. The whole thing is contained in it. And nothing more remains to be said.

There is neither a beginning to this journey nor an end. We are parts of the infinite, fragments of the eternal. We have always been, and we will always be. It is only that the waves seem to change, but the ocean remains the same. Forms change. It appears as though one journey is completed and another begins. But in truth, whatever is, is the eternal. No beginning, no end. And what greater joy could there be than this—that you are the infinite, you are the deathless?

The seers of the Upanishads were absorbed in a single quest: How to move from darkness to light? From untruth to truth? And from death to immortality?

If you live in darkness you will live in untruth; live in untruth and you will live in death. The three belong to one chain, one logic. Recognize the light within, and you will recognize truth—simultaneously, instantly. And having recognized truth, you will know the deathless—instantly. Not a moment’s delay. That is the other chain. Now it is your choice.

In one chain you have, till now, spent your life in who knows how many journeys—in who knows how many forms, in who knows how many bodies. It has already been too long. And yet, those who have known say that if one who strayed in the morning returns home even at dusk, he is not called lost. Even now, if you come home, you will not be called lost. But it is your whim. If you still want to forget a little more, to wander a little more, to start more journeys and then erase them, if there is still some juice left to squeeze, some more beating to take, then don’t heed me. Don’t heed anyone. Be thrashed, be bruised, live, die. Rot for nine months in this womb, rot for nine months in that womb. And what do you lose? When you die you will become a burden for four other men. At least you don’t have to carry your own bier. There’s this big advantage on your path.

I have heard: an old man is on his deathbed. He is very old, very rich. His four sons are sitting beside him. Evening has fallen, the sun has set, darkness is descending. Now the sons are wondering what to do.

The youngest says, Our father has so much wealth, and all his life he had one desire—to buy a Rolls-Royce—and he couldn’t. Come, let’s hire a Rolls-Royce and at least take him to the cremation ground in a Rolls-Royce. If not alive, then dead—still he will have ridden in a Rolls-Royce.

The second says, You are naive. Still a child. When he didn’t ride in a Rolls-Royce his whole life, what’s the point of riding after death! And once he’s dead, what difference does it make whether it’s a Rolls-Royce or an Ambassador! Even a bullock cart will do. Does a dead man notice anything?

The dying father is listening to everything. The second son says, In my opinion, an Ambassador will be just right. This old fellow is fit for that.

The third says, Ambassador? You’re bent on useless expense! We have a friend who owns a tonga. Though really, what a tonga—such a specimen that if you seat a pregnant woman to take her to the hospital, the child is born on the way—the jolts are like that. But what difference does it make to a dead man? And he’s an acquaintance; it’ll be settled cheap.

The fourth says, I don’t want to get into your nonsense. In the end, something will have to be paid. Learn at least this much from our father. I am my father’s true son—the eldest—I understand him better than all of you. I care about the honor of our dead father. The municipal garbage cart goes to the cremation ground every day. Beggars and the like die; it takes them. Now that father is dead, what difference is there between father and beggar! Just prop him up near the trash depot. The municipal cart will take him on its own.

Just then the dying father speaks: Where are my shoes?

The boys say, What, you’re still alive?

He says, I heard your whole discussion. All good-for-nothings—except for spending you have no other business. Every time I look, it’s about expenses. Bring my shoes. I still have enough life left to walk there on my own two feet. I’ll die right there, at the cremation ground. The expense and hassle of taking and bringing! Someone might recognize you; you seat me out here and I’ll die… The whole world knows me, the entire village recognizes me, the driver will know me. Anyone could recognize me. And what will people think of you? You have no worry about a bad name, no concern about expense. Showing off big aristocracy—Rolls-Royce, Ambassador, tonga. Have your forefathers ever sat in such things?

Anyway, it’s your wish. Live, die. You will live again and die again. But some day or other you will have to come to the path. There is no alternative. There is no other way. Someday you will have to think: enough is enough. Now let’s move from darkness to light. Now the journey is not from one body to another, but from darkness to light. Now not from one form to another, but from untruth to truth. And now not from one house to another, but to turn away from death and tie your knots with the deathless.

Then there is no end. Then the journey is infinite. Then the journey is of the infinite. Then you become a participant, a shareholder. You dissolve into That which is indestructible. And until this happens, know that the ray of understanding has not yet dawned.

Although we did not poison Gautam Buddha or crucify him, do not take this to mean that we had some inner light, that our third eye was open, that we were capable of seeing. We did not give Buddha a cross, but we gave him something worse than a cross. Let me speak of that first, so that this illusion of ours can drop. Otherwise, people in this country live with the illusion that Greece poisoned Socrates, Judea hung Jesus on the cross, Muslims cut off the heads of Al-Hallaj and Sarmad. But we… we are different! We neither cut off Buddha’s head nor poisoned Mahavira. We are spiritual people.

On the surface it looks so. The truth is something else. The truth is that we are more dishonest, more cunning. Because Greece… if Buddha had been born in Greece, they would have poisoned him; and if he had been born in Judea, they would have crucified him—there is no doubt. But although Greece gave Socrates poison, not one of the men who administered that poison is remembered today. And every single word of Socrates has become indelible, spread over the life-breath of humanity. The poison erased his body, but it made his message immortal. Jesus was crucified. Every man dies today or tomorrow. Death did not kill him—people killed him. But because of that very death, Christianity was born. Today half the world is Christian. That cross stamped Jesus’ message with an indelible seal.

We are clever people, because our nation is very old. Old people naturally become cunning; they become veterans. It was clear to us that killing anyone is not without danger. If we kill Buddha, what he is saying will become a line chiseled in stone. We found another way. And our way was such that after Buddha’s death there was not even anyone left in this country to take his name. In Bodh Gaya, where Buddha attained Buddhahood, and where a temple stands in his memory, the priest of that temple is a Brahmin—because there was not even a Buddhist to perform the worship. Buddha’s genius had enveloped the hearts of millions. But what happened? What magic was done, that after his death Buddha was so thoroughly dispatched that it was as if he had never been?

The Brahmins composed a Purana, the Shiva Purana. In that Purana there is a little tale. That tale is the essence of our cunning, our dishonesty, our shrewdness, our ancient culture and its endless, endless experience. The story is marvelous and worth deep reflection. And I am amazed that no one reflects on it—neither any Buddhist nor any Hindu!

The story says that when God created the world, he also created hell, so that those who sinned would go to hell, and he appointed Satan as the lord of hell. He also created heaven, so that those who did virtue would go to heaven. Then centuries upon centuries passed. The crowd in heaven kept growing, growing. And Satan sat alone, alone—no one came to hell, for no one committed any sin. Finally Satan went to God and said, What madness is this? You’ve made me sit there for nothing. No one sins, no one comes. End this hell.

God said: Don’t worry. Very soon I will incarnate in India as Buddha and explain things to people in such a way that they will start walking toward hell of their own accord.

See the cleverness. On one hand they accepted Buddha as an avatar of God; on the other—accept Buddha and you will land in hell. And from then on such a rush began in hell that even Satan is worried—where to seat all these people? Because everyone who became a Buddhist went to hell. In this story you can see the cleverness of the Indian priests. To recognize Buddha as an avatar of God—thus they even bestowed honor. No one could say you insulted Buddha. And yet, by making it so that whoever follows him will go to hell, they poured water over Buddha’s teachings.

If Buddhism has been wiped out from India… Socrates still has followers in Greece even now. And those who follow Jesus are the largest line in the world. But in India, Buddha’s birthplace, only Buddha’s name remains. There, no Buddha’s teaching, no Buddha’s revolution—which was a great revolution, through which a transformation could have happened in human life—was allowed to remain; India’s priests erased it, wiped it away. And they wiped it away in such a way that no one would even notice.

We too crucified Buddha. Our way of crucifying was our own—Indian style. In pure khadi clothes, with a Gandhi cap placed on his head. We killed him properly, with calculation. But the revolution Buddha brought, we did not allow it to happen.

Now you ask that I have been expelled all over the world, and the world is now civilized, educated, cultured. There is democracy, there is freedom of thought, man’s intellect is refined. So you feel sorrow to learn this.

You feel sorrow because you are under an illusion. The world has become educated, but that education has not given any refinement to its humanity. That education is of matter—of chemistry, of physics. It has given man science, newer and newer instruments of killing, but it has given no way for man to discover his soul. In fact, whatever means there were have been obscured. It is pitch dark.

There are fine words, but there is no reality behind them. Nowhere in the world is there freedom of thought. Nor is man willing to be transformed. And if among men a few do wish to be transformed, there is the net of priests, the net of politicians. Their wall is high. They want my voice not to reach those who can change. They want those who can change not to reach me.

America has placed two conditions before the governments of the whole world. I have been told this in every country—by ambassadors, some of whom are influenced by me and are deeply pained that the treatment meted out to me is utterly unjust. The information I have received from so many sources cannot be wrong, because the reports are identical. I went to different countries, and in each the same reports. An American plane kept flying ahead of my plane. In whichever country I landed, American agents were already present to brief that government.

What were the conditions? One condition: under all circumstances I must be sent back to India. Other than India, I must not get a single inch of land, anywhere, in any country. And some politicians told me that your arrival at least made us realize we were in delusion to think we are independent. Because America is not only sending information; it is also sending threats: if you allow this dangerous person to stay in your country, then return all the billions and trillions we have lent you. And the promises of future loans and agreements—we cancel them all.

All these countries are so poor that they have already taken billions and trillions in loans. America knows full well they have no means to return them. If they had, why would they have taken loans? And if future loans stop, there will be terrible unemployment in their countries, factories will close, the new plans they have made for the future will all end—their future will be plunged into darkness.

Wherever I went, America with this single condition—and with threats… and it proved that in the world there are only two countries—one America and one Russia. There are no other countries. All the rest are slaves. Either on this side or on that, but slaves everywhere.

And America has been pressing the Indian government not to allow me to leave India. And that the thousands and hundreds of thousands of people outside India who love me should not be allowed to reach me—obstacles should be created for them. And especially, that representatives of newspapers, television, and radio should under no circumstances be allowed to reach me. And behind it, the same threat! You are “free”—for elections.

This, too, is no different from giving Socrates poison or crucifying Jesus. It is simply more stuffed with trickery, more stuffed with diplomacy. But America—or any other country in the world—should remember that I am not afraid of death. At most you can kill me. I will continue to speak, and speak even more forcefully. And one thing has been proven: I must be right; otherwise you would not be so afraid. America’s panic, the Pope’s panic, Christianity’s panic…

Just today I received news that the government of Portugal is willing to grant me permanent residence. But the condition is that for three years I will not speak; and after three years, if I begin to speak, I will not be able to speak on any subject against Christianity, against America, against the government of Portugal, against the Pope, against Christianity—any of these.

I have sent them word: for a two-yard patch of land you want to buy someone’s soul? And if I remain silent for three years, what guarantee is there that you will not then say, Now do not speak at all? And for three years I should not speak… What have I said that has harmed anyone? And if those have been harmed who are harming mankind, then they should be harmed.

I am not ready to accept anyone’s conditions. I cannot accept even the conditions of the Indian government. What I have to say, I will say. Although they have already started their measures. I just landed in India, and summons from the courts have begun to arrive—one case in Kullu-Manali, a second at the far end of Bengal, a third in Kerala—make me wander in these courts so that I can do no other work.

These are good people! These are the people on whose strength this country believes it will regain its past glory, touch golden peaks again!

And all these cases are false. But that is not the question. Whether a case is false or true, I can still be harassed. I can be sent from this corner to that, from this court to that. And what is at the root of every case? Many cases have been filed against me in this period. The root of every case is that I have hurt someone’s religion, someone’s religious belief. What are your beliefs? So flimsy! They get punctured so quickly! Do you have anything like a soul within you or not? A man should feel ashamed to say his religious belief has been hurt. If the belief is wrong, drop it. And if the belief is true, how can it be hurt? Truth cannot be hurt.

All my life I have borne condemnation throughout the world, every kind of condemnation, yet I have not had even the slightest complaint in my mind against anyone that I have been hurt. On the contrary, those who have condemned me have provided the proof that what I am saying has made their very life-energies writhe. I am not being hurt. Thousands of people are against me; they say whatever they want, write whatever they want. I neither read that garbage nor do I care about it. Because what I have said is my own truth, my own experience. Even if the whole world stands against it, it cannot be hurt. And those who get hurt at the tiniest thing—the meaning is clear: shallow thoughts, borrowed thoughts, whose depth is not even more than the skin. A slight scratch, and blood comes out. And even if blood came, it would be fine; what comes out is water. Because blood is in the living, not in the dead.

In Ahmedabad there was a case against me about twenty years ago, that my ideas had gravely hurt Hinduism. And in court I stated before the magistrate that what I have said is the very essence of Hinduism. And if someone is hurt by it, his conception was wrong; he should change his conception. Or he should confront me. The court was surrounded by thousands of people. And that man—the court acquitted me—and that man requested police protection from the magistrate.

I said to the magistrate: ask him—everyone outside is a Hindu. I should be the one needing police protection, because I have hurt Hinduism. This poor fellow is defending Hinduism. Why is he afraid? Why does he need police protection?

And the magistrate was astonished. He said: that is true. If Hinduism has been hurt, then everyone outside is a Hindu. I could be in danger. I did not ask for police protection. You are asking. Do you have some Hinduism different from the Hindus outside?

He said, Do not get into these things. The people gathered outside are very dangerous. They are showing me their fists. I will not file such a case again.

I said: then what will happen to your religion? What about the hurt that happened? You come with me, walk behind me. I will tell them that it is not Hinduism to beat this poor man. He is good-for-nothing—what more is there to beat? He is a corpse—what more is there to beat a corpse? He has already lost the case, and you are showing him your fists. And being Hindus, you are showing fists—this is not right.

I had to escort him safely to his car. I said: somehow take him, because who knows about a crowd? Take him while I am in front.

I have just stepped off the plane, and the summons have begun to arrive. I have not even said anything yet, and people have already been hurt. This is what is called magic!

The tradition of Judas ought to end, but perhaps it will never end. The secret is very simple. Among Jesus’ close disciples, Judas was one—and among them he was the most educated. In fact, he was the only educated one; the rest were uneducated, rustic villagers. Jesus himself was uneducated, unschooled, the son of a carpenter. Judas was a middle-class, well-schooled man, raised in the conditioning of “good manners.” Naturally, the same poison I have spoken to you about—the poison of ambition—was in him. He carried the poison that, after Jesus, I am going to be Jesus’ representative, the inheritor of all his spiritual wealth. There was no doubt in his mind. But that could happen only if Jesus died. As long as Jesus was alive, however polished or educated Judas might be, his speech did not have that magic, his words did not have that luster, his eyes did not have that sparkle, his life did not have that miracle which Jesus’ life had. And Jesus was younger than Judas; that was the difficulty. When Jesus was sentenced to the cross, he was only thirty-three.

Judas had only one way: somehow sell Jesus into the hands of the enemies. Then the remaining disciples—being uneducated bumpkins—would not be hard to gather behind him. And by living around Jesus, all of Jesus’ sayings had been memorized by him like a parrot. There weren’t very many, just a few. If Jesus were not present, there was a real possibility that Judas would have himself proclaimed a prophet, a messenger, a messiah. This greed… out of this greed he sold Jesus into the hands of his enemies for thirty pieces of silver. But from an unconscious man you cannot expect much more.

He did do it, but he had not foreseen how terrible the consequence would weigh upon his chest like a rock: that the man who had given me nothing but love, I sold him for just thirty pieces of silver. After Jesus’ crucifixion Judas’ remorse became so profound that within twenty-four hours he committed suicide. Christians do not mention this, because such a mention would hinder their condemnation of Judas. Within twenty-four hours Judas killed himself, hanging from a tree—in the repentance that for what I have done there is no punishment other than to end myself.

Judas was not a bad man; he must have been a good man. The demon of ambition made him commit one mistake. But awareness did return—quickly it returned. And the blood-stains that had fallen upon him, he washed by committing suicide. Still, Christians do not speak of this, because if they did they would have to accept that even in Judas there was a ray of awakening. He came to his senses a little late, but he did come.

That poison of ambition is everywhere—and it will be stronger in those who are close to a true master, very close. For they have a hope: we are so near that if the master is gone, we can sit in his place.

Such an incident once occurred. I was invited to a World Hindu Conference. The Shankaracharya who had convened it wanted to meet me separately. He must have heard much about me—good and bad—and he wanted to see me.

When I went there, there were perhaps fifty people in that hall. The Shankaracharya was seated on his throne on the dais. Beside the dais there was a small platform, and on it an old sannyasin was sitting. There were other sannyasins, and spectators had gathered to see what conversation would take place between us. But before the talk even began he said to me, “Before we converse, let me introduce you. This one sitting beside me is no ordinary man; he was the Chief Justice of the High Court of Uttar Pradesh, and after retirement he took sannyas. But his humility is such that I tell him again and again, Sit with me on my dais—the dais; I am sitting on the throne placed on the dais—sit on the dais itself. But with such humility he says, No, I am fine on this small platform. By your grace.”

I said, “This is a very strange affair. You have begun in a strange way. When the other sannyasins are sitting on the floor, what need has he for a little platform? He too can sit down with everyone else. This small platform is a little dangerous.”

The Shankaracharya said, “Why?”

I said, “You don’t see the point. Sitting on this little platform he is thinking only of when you will topple. And that is precisely why he does not sit on your dais. He wants to sit on the throne! What is sitting on the dais to him! Until then, waiting on the little platform at least looks like humility, respectability. And you yourself, praising him so much—that he was a Chief Justice—have you ever noticed that in fact you are praising yourself: ‘This disciple of mine is no ordinary disciple; he is the Chief Justice of the High Court—and so humble that he sits on the small platform.’ And I say with certainty, looking at this man, that he is watching for the moment you tumble. If you don’t tumble soon, he will make you tumble. He has been a Chief Justice. There isn’t much difference between those who know the law and those who break it. And those who know the law break it with such cunning that it’s very hard to catch them.

“I say: take away this small platform from him. Make him sit on the floor. Remove this little platform from here altogether.”

The Shankaracharya was astonished. He said, “What are you saying?”

I said, “I’m not saying anything strange. If there is even a little honesty in this man, and a little cleanliness of intention, then I say: come down from your small platform and sit on the floor.”

But the man did not get down. I said, “Now do you see the humility? He neither climbs to the upper dais nor gets down below. This is not humility; he is sitting with a ladder propped up.”

This disease of ambition will keep producing Judases until the ground is emptied of ambition. On that day no Judas will be born; there will be no need. You don’t need to be the heir of any Jesus. You can awaken the divinity within yourself. Your own treasure is so vast—what will you do carrying someone else’s wealth? A needless burden. Only beggars concern themselves with the bequests of others’ property.

I want a world in which every person is the owner of his own treasure, where he need not cast an eye on another’s treasure, where no one is eager to inherit someone else’s will. On that day Judases will cease to be born. Until this fever of ambition subsides, Judases will go on being born. Nothing can be done.

The great politicians of the world, the ones with great power in their hands, do not let anyone come close; they keep a distance. It is said of Hitler that he had no friends. When asked why, Hitler said, “To make a friend is to make a potential enemy. To make a friend is to allow someone so close that tomorrow, if he gets the chance, he will strangle you.”

Power, authority, rule—such is the hunger. You will be amazed to know that Hitler did not marry. A great mahatma, a lifelong celibate. Many women wanted to marry him—such enormous power!—and he too loved several women, but he never allowed any woman to come too close. He always slept alone in his room, the door locked from within. No one ever, in his whole life, slept in his room.

With such great power, such great authority, such great fear will accompany it. To allow anyone into the room—at night a knife might be thrust in, and tomorrow the other would be the master.

And you will be amazed to know that three hours before his death, when Germany had already lost and bombs began to fall on Berlin, and the explosions reached even the underground shelter of his house, he said, “Quickly call a priest—I want to marry.”

His generals said, “What will you do with marriage now?”

He said, “Don’t delay. Don’t argue. Quickly fetch any priest.”

A priest was brought and the marriage was performed. And the next thing Hitler did after marrying was this: both of them took poison, poured petrol over themselves, and had themselves set on fire. Marriage for just that long! The woman had pressed him for long; he had promised her, “I will marry you—even if I am dying, I will marry you. Don’t worry.” He married to fulfill that assurance—but he married when everything had already slipped from his hands, when nothing remained but death. Even his highest generals were miles away from him. The fear of Judas! Bringing anyone close is not free of danger. Whoever you bring close, that very one can betray you.

The great political thinker of the West, Machiavelli—you will be surprised to know that Machiavelli’s granddaughter is my sannyasin. Machiavelli is the Chanakya of the West. He wrote all the sutras of Western politics. Among those sutras is this: every politician should take care not to say to a friend what he would not want to say to an enemy; and he should not say, regarding an enemy, what he would not want to say regarding a friend. Because the one who is a friend today may be an enemy tomorrow, and the enemy today may be a friend tomorrow. Then there will be trouble. Therefore a politician should speak with great thought—and in such a way that everything he says can carry a double meaning, so that as situations require he can, like a chameleon, change his color.

All the princes and kings of Europe used to come to Machiavelli to learn politics, but none was willing to make him his prime minister. He was puzzled. They were willing to take him as a guru, to touch his feet and salute him—but not to make him prime minister. He asked, “What is the matter?”

They said, “Having heard and understood your teachings, we have at least become intelligent enough to know that allowing you to come so close is very dangerous. As a guru you are fine; we will bow to you. But if you sit beside us as prime minister, as vizier, it will not be long before you are on the throne and we are in the grave.”

And what they said was right. Machiavelli never got a job his whole life. Who would employ him? The man was extraordinary; the edge of his mind was razor-sharp. But he would have proved a Judas; wherever he sat, he would cut someone’s throat.

We can hope that a day will come in the world when the fever of ambition will pass, and then Judases will not be born. But it is only a hope. The world is vast, the crowd immense, the disease ancient and spread through every vein. If it leaves even a few people, that is much. I am not a pessimist, but I cannot offer false hope. I can only say this to you: if a large segment of the world—especially the young; and when I say young, I do not mean only in body but in consciousness—if even a large segment changes, a great revolution will happen. Because those who are left behind in this revolution, when they begin to see others’ joy, when they begin to hear the new music, the new beat upon the drum, even from among them people will slowly join this new life and the new man.

But begin with yourself. Drop the worry about whether the world will change or not. There are many who keep calculating whether the world will change, and in the process they forget to consider themselves. Think first of changing yourself. Your change is the beginning of the world’s change.

Thank you.