Koplen Phir Phoot Aayeen #11

Each person has a different journey, a different bent, a different vision. To some, music is beloved; to others, it is only noise. Some have the capacity to experience beauty; others have nothing in their hearts but stone. One overflows with love’s spring; another is dry.

No two people are the same—nor can they be. Yet, unconsciously, we keep trying to have everyone feel the same, perceive the same. That is impossible. And the higher the experience, the more impossible it becomes. On the lower plane there may be some agreement—on the marketplace level, perhaps a consensus. But in the heights of the sky, our privacy and each person’s unique capacity manifest fully.

So what you see in me need not be seen by another. Surely, you have earned something over many lives, polished your eyes, guarded your recognition; hence today you see. Even in thick darkness you can recognize a ray of light.

But if others do not see, neither be troubled nor angry with them. These are our usual tendencies: if others don’t see what we see, doubt arises—perhaps I am mistaken? And if the crowd on their side is large, the doubt deepens. We feel alone: how can we alone be right? Where there is a big crowd, surely we must be wrong and the crowd right.

I want to tell you: the crowd has never been right, nor can it ever be. Truth is a personal experience; it has no relationship with the crowd. How many were there who saw what Gautam Buddha saw? In the journey toward truth, one becomes more and more alone—utterly alone. A moment comes when the whole world is on one side, and you are absolutely alone. So do not be frightened by the crowd.

It is auspicious news that you are beginning to be alone. It is a fortunate hour that your individuality is starting to show. You are becoming free of the crowd and its conditioning. The blindfolds of tradition tied over your eyes are beginning to fall. In your very being your own inner tones are resounding—no longer the voices of the bazaar and the stock market.

The greatest wealth in this world is to come upon solitary individuality. So do not be afraid. You are on the right path. You will become even more alone. Gradually much more will appear to you that others will not see. In this world of the blind, eyes are obtained only by great good fortune.

And a second thing: do not be angry with others. They are not at fault. They have been molded that way for lives—conditioned to live only with the crowd. The moment they step away from the crowd, their very life begins to flutter. That is why there are crowds—of Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains. And when even these do not suffice, people create more crowds: Rotary Clubs, Lions Clubs, political parties.

No one wants to be alone. Aloneness brings fear. So if it is politics, one must belong to a party; if religion, then be part of some church or organization. Do anything—but never attempt to stand alone.

Therefore, feel compassion for them, not anger. Support them so they too can become alone. I call him a true master who teaches you how to be alone, who opens the doors of solitude within you. For within those doors dwells the One, the ever-One. Becoming alone, you become a temple for that One. Lost in the crowd, you become only a fragment—like soldiers the world over, whose names are taken away and numbers given. On the surface it may not look like much, but deep meanings are hidden.

When in the evening you read on the board, “Number Twelve is martyred,” it never occurs to you that Number Twelve may have small children. Do numbers have children? That Number Twelve may have a wife waiting at home whose prayers are filled only with the hope of his return. But do numbers have wives? Numbers do not marry. Does Number Twelve have elderly parents?

“Number Twelve” does not bring these feelings to your heart. If the real man’s name were written, it would be different—who knows how many feelings and thoughts would arise. But “Number Twelve”: you read it on the board and pass by comfortably. Not even a line of sorrow arises within. And there is great convenience in “Number Twelve,” for tomorrow it can be assigned to someone else.

If a man is lost, it is difficult to find another like him. His place is empty and will remain empty forever; it cannot be filled. That emptiness, that wound, will remain green forever. But “Number Twelve” is convenient: stick it on anyone’s chest. Numbers fall, numbers change—but “Number Twelve” remains alive. Men keep dying, rotting; “Number Twelve” keeps getting attached to new men.

In the crowd you too become a number. Your personhood is lost, your individuality is snatched away. If not you, someone else will take your place. You are a clerk—someone else will be a clerk. You are a schoolteacher—someone else will be a schoolteacher. But there is no one exactly like you; there is no way to fill your precise place.

So upon those who do not see as you do, shower love; have compassion; extend the hand of friendship. Bring them out of the crowd. Give them a taste of the juice and the flavor of aloneness. Let them regain their lost individuality. Until now they were dead; now they become alive. Now their rebirth has happened. Until now there was emptiness; now they become a soul.

George Gurdjieff, a very unique perfected man of the West, used to say a strange thing that no other sage ever said: not everyone has souls. Some, if they search, labor, and strive, perhaps a soul may be born in them.

His saying sounds strange, but it holds a deep meaning. Souls everyone has—but what is the use of merely having? You must have remembrance of it. You have no sense of your individuality. So though a soul lies within, in this deep darkness and sleep its being is as good as non-being. This is what Gurdjieff meant: those who have become parts of the crowd—Hindu, Muslim, Christian—have no soul. One has to become oneself.

If something has begun to be seen by you, thank existence, and share your good fortune—at least share with those you love; at least draw and awaken your friends.

And if in this world anyone can do any kind of good to another, it is only this one good: that the person be reminded of his soul, and that he separate his personhood, his individuality, from the crowd.

The moment one separates from the crowd, one is no longer a sheep—one becomes a man. The crowd is of sheep, whatever its name. The man who is alone has no name. One who has plunged into his own individuality has no other identity except his joy, his celebration, his inner insight. He begins to see colors in flowers that others do not see. He begins to experience the beauty in the world where others pass as if nothing is happening. The same old world, the same dust-covered things—yet around the person aware of his individuality a cleanliness, a freshness spreads. Then he too will begin to see what you see; he too will begin to experience what you are experiencing today.

But do not try to explain it to him. You will not succeed. Who has ever explained light to a blind man? Who has ever explained that there is music to the deaf? Do not explain. Draw him gently into the same state—the same meditation, the same silence, the same peace—in which you came and your eyes opened. Bring him to the same window from which you saw the stars and the open sky. He too will see. That which is, is by nature visible; only the eyes must be open.

It is not a matter of argument—and you will not be able to argue it. The blind also have powerful arguments. And there are things that cannot be proved by logic. What argument can you give for light to convince the blind? He can neither touch it nor taste it, neither ring it and hear it nor smell it. The blind man has no eyes—what will your logic do? There are matters—the most valuable matters of life—that are trans-logical, beyond logic. And if you set out to explain, the danger is that the blind may unbalance your very feet. And the crowd of the blind is vast; all doctrines are with them, and you are alone.

I have heard: a man was seized by the madness that he had died. The mad have the most ingenious notions. What an extraordinary idea! At first, the family thought he was joking, but soon it became clear he was not. Anxiety grew. They tried hard to reason: What nonsense are you speaking? You are healthy, you speak, you get up, you sit down.

He said: That is all fine. But who told you that the dead do not speak? That the dead do not walk? Now I am dead, and I know the dead walk, speak—even marry.

The family said: You’ve gone too far—at least don’t go that far. And it’s time for the shop.

He said: The shop will run too. But keep in mind that I am dead. The dead also run shops.

In a day or two, the whole neighborhood and nearby villages heard that this man had the delusion that he had died. He eats and drinks, runs his shop, sits and stands. Scholars skilled in debate came to convince him, but all returned defeated. For what can you explain to him? He agrees to everything, but says the dead do these very things. You are not dead, so what do you know? First be dead. When we became dead, then we came to know what wonders are happening in the world.

Finally, in desperation, they took him to a psychologist: do something to break this delusion. The psychologist said, Don’t worry—we will break it. He seated the man and asked, You think you are dead?

He said: This is the limit—where is the question of “thinking”? Do you think you are alive? You know you are alive; in the same way, I know I am dead. Where does thinking come in? Did you decide by thinking that you are alive? I have not thought—it is a matter of experience.

The psychologist said: You speak lofty things. I too never thought about it. But you are speaking and offering formidable arguments. Something must be done. When you were alive—speaking of those days—did you ever hear that if a dead man’s hand is injured, no blood flows?

He said: Certainly I heard it. When we were alive, just as you heard, we too heard that if a dead man’s hand is cut, blood does not flow.

The psychologist said: Very well. He took out a knife and made a small cut on the madman’s hand. Blood began to flow. The psychologist asked: What do you say now?

He said: What is there to say? The proverb is wrong. Some incompetent person never tested it. Now it is proved that when the dead are cut, blood does flow. Change the proverb.

The mad too have arguments. Do not explain. Some things get spoiled and tangled by explaining. Coax. This is my work: gently, gently coax and bring him to that window from which distant moons and stars are seen, from which the open sky is experienced. Then you need say nothing. Without a word, that person will thank you and remain grateful all his life—because he was asleep and you awakened him; he stood with closed eyes before the sun and you opened his eyes, and did it so that he did not even realize it.

When even a ray of spirituality begins to descend into someone’s life, he should very carefully share this experience with those he loves—very carefully, stepping so softly that no sound is made.

If what you are seeing has brought joy into your life, if spring has entered your life, then there is no other criterion of truth. And the one to whom it is not yet visible is living in sorrow, in hell. There is no other mark of untruth.

But great skill is needed, because people become deeply attached even to their sufferings. They do not want to drop them; they become their possessions. You know well how people always talk about their suffering—and exaggerate it. Everyone knows this, because you do it and others do it. A small boil or pimple becomes cancer—for what boil or pimple for a great person like you? If anything, it must be cancer. Here there is a race in everything, a competition in everything; one must be ahead in everything, not behind. Others roam about with cancer, and you are entangled in boils and pimples!

People clutch their suffering as if it were wealth. To draw someone out of his suffering is a great art—and it needs great patience and great love.

So listen to those who do not yet see, and say: It may be you are right. It may be that what I see is an illusion—that is why you do not see it. But come a little closer; look from another angle. Perhaps from another angle, in another state of mind, in another calmness of the heart, you too will see.

So coax very gently. But do not simply leave them—for that would be great hardness, great cruelty. Do not think, All right, if he cannot see, to hell with him. No. If your inner vision is opening, let your compassion help open theirs as well. If you can share your love and compassion among a few people, your eyes will become clearer, your sight sharper. The capacity to see beyond what you have seen will arise in you. Share. Share your experiences—but share with great love, as prasada, as a gift of grace. Do not chase anyone with the club of logic. Gently—singing a lullaby—so that the other does not even get the idea that you are changing his state of mind. If he gets the idea that you are changing his state, he will stiffen.

People have very strange egos. If there is suffering, it is “mine.” And as for joy—what has that to do with me if it is someone else’s? Even their blindness is “their own.” A person hooks everything onto his ego.

And when in someone’s life the good fortune occurs that a crack appears in this ego and there is a slight experience of life’s truth, he should be filled with compassion and love.

There is no other way to transform anyone except love. Love is alchemy. Love is the only medicine that can lead to samadhi. From disease to samadhi, the whole journey can be made on the strength of love.

So to the one who cannot yet see, give love, give support—not pedantry, not doctrines, not attempts to explain, but slowly, slowly an opportunity to dip into your inner mood. One day he too will see, because what has become visible to you is no illusion.

Your question gives birth to many important questions. The most important is this: love—whether in a man or a woman—makes one feminine, because love itself is feminine. The word purush, “man,” comes from parush—harsh. In a man, the springs of love are repressed, not revealed. His energy is engaged in thought, in intellect. His heart remains empty. Even when he loves, it happens drop by drop; there is no torrential downpour. And even in love, he mostly repents—“What trouble have I gotten into!”

Such men gave birth to that half-baked renunciation which said, “Escape; renounce the world.” “World” was only a word; hidden inside it was “flee from woman.” Woman is the world. Leave home and hearth—so they said—but the meaning was clear. We even call the woman “the householder” while the house belongs to the man; the woman is the keeper of it.

World, home, woman—if we understand the essence rightly, that old, life-denying renunciation was in fact love-denying renunciation. Abandon love. Let not a single drop of love remain in your life—dry it out. Be only intellect—erudition. Let your whole being remain inside your skull. Let your heart be only a machine to purify blood—no love there, no poetry there, no rasa left even as a possibility.

Your question is important because something has become visible to you: since you have been drowning in my love, you feel as if you are a woman. Modern psychology—especially the research of Carl Gustav Jung—reaffirms an ancient Eastern insight.

You must have seen the image of Ardhanarishvara, in which Shiva is half male, half female. Before Jung, it was thought to be only a myth. Half man and half woman—what madness! But Jung’s lifelong research established on scientific grounds that each person is half male and half female—woman and man both. For you are born of mother and father—not of mother alone, nor of father alone. Within you is your father’s voice and your mother’s as well; within you their images too. You are the union of both.

You may be a man, and your inner woman may be suppressed underneath; but whenever you love, she rises to the surface. Because man, as such, cannot love; it is not his capacity. He can be a scientist, not a poet; a mathematician, not a musician; a philosopher, not an artist. For to be an artist, a musician, a sculptor, a dancer, a painter, a certain tenderness is needed which man lacks. In man there can be a sword’s edge, not the delicacy of flowers. And this creates a great difficulty and dilemma: because you are both, the conflict is within you.

A friend from Japan once sent me a statue of Buddha—three or four hundred years old. It was not only a statue of Buddha; there was something more. In one hand Buddha held a sword, in the other a lamp. My friend wrote: “When you see the statue, please fill oil and light the lamp—only then look, for this is its marvel.”

When I lit the lamp and looked, I was amazed. In the lamp’s glow, the sword glittered, and the side of Buddha’s face on that hand looked like the very edge of a blade. The other side, lit by the lamp he held, looked like the flame itself, or a blossomed rose—such softness, such sweetness.

He wrote that the sculptor was no ordinary artist; he was an experienced fakir, a realized one.

Jung tried to establish this truth on very scientific grounds, and today it is widely accepted that both exist within each person, and between them there is conflict. A sword and a rose do not easily befriend each other; they clash. Hence man is troubled and unhappy. Some harmony must be found; some bridge must be built so they are no longer opponents but complements. When that happens, peace descends into life.

If your love for me only leaves you as a woman, the matter is incomplete. Only when my love also illumines your inner man is it fulfilled. If my love kills the man within you, that would be murder; I am not in favor of such murder. I would like my love to join the two within you, to bring the warring pair into union.

You say, “I am already married to you.”
Now don’t entangle me. I barely escaped—and you arrive out of season. The marriage your inner woman needs is to your inner man, not to me. Forgive me, because I too am already married. Don’t implicate me in the crime of bigamy. As it is, I am not short of lawsuits. My inner man has married my inner woman; not only married— the conflict, the opposition, the distance between them is over. I can be hard as the sharpest sword, and I can be softer than the softest flower. I can be both, at once—a sword and a blossom. And you must have felt this many times.

So, brother—do me this kindness. Now, should I call you brother or sister? Whichever you find right. Let the marriage happen—but let it happen within you.

Both are present within you. And supreme sannyas is the name of this inner union—when the stones within you become flowers, and the flowers within you become strong like stone; when the poison within you turns to nectar, and the nectar bears no enmity toward the poison; when duality is no more, when the reign of the One arrives within.

Your sannyasin friends say: marry. I understand your difficulty: how can one woman marry another woman? And don’t do it either. For even a man marrying a woman lands in enough trouble; a woman marrying a woman—imagine, hell upon hell! But still, do marry: let your inner woman and inner man be joined, and let your circle be complete, not broken. This is the notion of human wholeness. Don’t sit fixed in the idea “I am only a woman,” for somewhere you have suppressed your man; he lies buried nearby.

You have seen the images of Kali standing on Shiva’s chest? These are not just mythic tales; they are psychological truths.

You have simply forgotten where your inner man is: he is lying under your feet. Release that poor fellow. Don’t kill him a death he doesn’t deserve. And if you kill him, you will remain incomplete. By repressing him, throwing him into darkness, you will never be whole. Seek him—where have you buried him? Search. Sit silently and look. You will find both within you, for in everyone both are present.

They can live in friendship or in enmity. Usually they have chosen enmity, because enmity is cheap—any fool can afford it. Friendship is costly. In enmity there is grabbing and violence; in friendship there is only giving—no craving to take. There is love, compassion, nonviolence.

Let the marriage happen tonight. Don’t go home alone. And now, when anyone tells you to marry, say, “It’s done.” By marrying your hidden inner man, you will come even closer to me, because you will become more peaceful—like a lake in which not a ripple rises; like a music with no note, no sound—only silence.

Become one within yourself, and you have won my heart. Then you have completed the work a sannyasin has to do—every sannyasin.

Self-respect is not pride. Not just a difference—an opposition. Pride is the feeling of considering oneself superior to others. Pride is a disease. How many people will you think yourself superior to? Someone is more beautiful, someone healthier, someone talented, someone intelligent. The proud person suffers sorrow upon sorrow all his life, taking bruises at every step. His life keeps filling with wounds. Pride lives in comparison with others, in the belief, “I am superior.”

Self-respect is something entirely different. It is profoundly humble. There is no question of being superior to anyone. Each is unique in their own place. Self-respect is the acknowledgment that no one is above anyone and no one is below anyone. A tiny grass-flower and the largest star in the sky have equal value in existence. If this little grass-flower were not, something would be missing in existence that even a great star could not fulfill.

Self-respect is the acceptance that each here is unique. There is no race, no competition, no ambition. Yes, if someone becomes aggressive toward you... there is no aggression in self-respect, but if someone attacks you, self-respect has the capacity to struggle—not to make the other look small, but to establish that the attack is wrong; every attack is wrong.

Self-respect has no swagger. It is plain and simple. Yet no power in the world, however great, can demean a self-respecting person. This is a rare secret. The self-respecting person is humble—so humble that he himself stands at the very back. Now where further back can you push him?

There is an account about Abraham Lincoln. He was invited to a special conference of scientists. He went. People waited for him at the door near the stage, because if the President of the country arrived, there was a high throne for him on the dais. But he came in through the door where the common crowd was entering—people with no name, no place, no standing—and sat down right where people leave their shoes.

The meeting kept getting delayed. The convenor began announcing that there was a great difficulty: we have invited Abraham Lincoln and he has still not arrived, and to begin the conference in his absence would be a bit insulting. And the delay kept growing.

The man sitting next to Abraham Lincoln nudged him with his elbow and said, Sir, why don’t you just stand up and clearly say you are here, so the conference can start.

Abraham Lincoln said, I wanted to remain quiet... because this is a conference of scientists. Where does the question arise of my presiding here?

But by then others had also noticed. The convenor came running and said: What are you doing? This does not honor our conference; it is an insult that you are sitting where people leave their shoes.

Abraham Lincoln said: No. I am sitting where I cannot be pushed any further back.

That statement—“I am sitting where I cannot be pushed any further back”—belongs to a truly self-respecting person. A self-respecting person does not want to put anyone down, nor will he ever give anyone a chance to put him down.

Pride is very simple; the disease is common. The health of self-respect is very difficult. And when it arises in someone, it is hard even to recognize, because it makes no claim. Yet the miracle is precisely this: that self-respect makes no claim—that is its claim. A self-respecting person does not wish to place himself above anyone, and he will never allow anyone to impose slavery upon him. Therefore the matter becomes a bit subtle, and mistakes happen.

In India the consequences of this confusion have been very bad. For two thousand years we remained enslaved. What was the reason? India is the only country in the history of the world that has never attacked anyone, because for centuries the seers, the visionaries, the enlightened ones of this land taught only one thing—nonaggression, nonviolence, compassion, love. But the teaching remained somewhat incomplete. India learned not to attack, but did not learn not to allow itself to be attacked. That second half was missed, and because of it we were enslaved for two thousand years. We learned not to commit violence, but forgot that we must not allow violence to be done to us either. What difference does it make whether I commit violence on someone else, or allow someone else to commit violence on me? In both cases I am allowing violence.

Had this been rightly understood, this country would not have remained enslaved for two thousand years. And even now it has not been understood. Even now we are weighed down by the same old traditions and old notions.

All the higher experiences of life are like walking on the edge of a sword—very carefully. A slight slip... neither left nor right; exactly in the middle. Such is self-respect. Neither to stamp your ego on anyone, nor to give anyone the right to stamp his ego on you.

Therefore, to be self-respecting is a spiritual process; to be proud is a worldly illness. In self-respect there is neither self nor pride. This is the difficulty of language: to express the rubbish here we have words, but to express the diamonds we do not. So we have to coin words.

Pride accurately expresses the state of the egoist. But “self-respect” is a dangerous word, because it contains half of “pride”; there is the fear that you may define self-respect through pride, that you may start taking pride itself to be self-respect. And we have added “self” to it; there is the danger that you may take “self” to mean ego.

Those who added “self” did so after much thought. But what can the coiner do? Their meaning is that only one who knows himself, who has recognized himself, can be truly self-respecting. In such a person pride cannot exist. And such a person will not give another the chance to impose pride upon him either. He will not make the mistake himself, nor let another make it.

But language has weaknesses. Even “pride” is not a perfect word, and with “self” there is the risk that you may take it to mean ego. Generally there is no difference between self-respect and pride. Generally—by which I mean, in your minds—there is no difference between the two. The only difference is that you call your own pride “self-respect,” and you call the other man’s self-respect “pride.” That is the only difference. But if you have understood me, then though the distinction is subtle, it is not so impossible as to be beyond understanding.

This is not your problem alone; it is a common difficulty. So first, let us understand its psychological background. It has nothing to do with particular persons—not with you, nor with your family. Take it first as a matter of principle, grasp its psychological meaning; then the matter becomes a little easier.

All those who love you—family, friends, acquaintances—none of them will want the whole current of your love to suddenly start flowing toward a stranger. It feels to them as if a robber has appeared. They feel, “The love we used to receive, the love we were entitled to—because one is a father, one a mother, a brother, an uncle—suddenly you have gone crazy over a man who is nothing of yours, not of your religion, not of your caste, and the Ganges of your love is flowing entirely toward him.” In all these people, jealousy arises, opposition arises. Because what we call love is not love. If it were love, there would be no question of jealousy arising. Had they truly loved you, they would have congratulated you on your new love. They would have wanted to become acquainted with it through you. If they loved you, the fact that you have begun to love someone else would not cause any obstruction. Love is not a thing that, once given to one, cannot be given to another. Love is a quality, not a commodity; the more you share it, the more it grows.

But none of them has any experience of real love. They only know the ordinary economics of the world, where if you share money, it decreases. Whatever you distribute, diminishes. They are familiar only with a world in which sharing reduces things. They do not have a single experience in their lives in which sharing increases the thing shared. What can they do? They deserve compassion; they belong to a beggar’s world. They have no inkling of a transcendental experience like love.

Had they truly loved you, they would have rejoiced. They would have celebrated. For they had never seen your love in such a luminous form. They had never seen that your love could be so fragrant, that such music could arise in it. And now that rain would have fallen on them too. When a cloud rains, it does not check whose field it is, nor ask whose roof it is. When a cloud rains, it simply rains. Once it learns to rain...

All the people in your family are worrying themselves needlessly. Because your love for me is not going to diminish your love for them; on the contrary, it was an opportunity for your love to shower upon them a thousandfold. But they moved away.

Still, you are fortunate that at least your wife and your two daughters are with you. Because I receive letters from so many sannyasins: “What a trouble we got into by falling in love with you—my wife is after my life.” Wives write: “What trouble we got into by falling in love with you—our husbands go about as if with a gun always loaded.” The home has become an arena. The husband falls in love and the wife becomes frightened: “He’s slipping from my hands.”

And generally, the wives win—because the poor husband is a weak creature! When he goes out of the house he struts like a lion; when he returns, like a mouse. He doesn’t even rattle about at home; he quietly reads the newspaper—the same paper he has already read several times since morning. He reads it so that the wife, all charged up from the whole day, doesn’t pounce. And the man is tired from the day—office troubles, business entanglements, a thousand hassles. He thinks, “Let me get a little peace at home.” But the wife is ready; she has been sharpening her sword all day. She has no other job: the children off to school, the husband to the office, and she sharpens the edge. When the children return they’ll get a beating, and when the husband returns, a thorough thrashing. A tired man—he cannot even hope for a cup of tea. Food is a far-off dream. The servants say the stove hasn’t been lit today. And to ask the wife anything is dangerous, for to “touch” her is to declare war.

So the poor fellow thinks, “Forget meditation and all that. Forget sannyas. There used to be peace before—why go in search of more peace? Whatever there was, was plenty.”

When wives take sannyas, I have found they prove strong. They pull out the husband’s arms and legs and set him on the path; but husbands can’t manage to do the same to them. There are a thousand jobs in the world to get to first—shall I finish those, or fight with this goddess? To quarrel with her means life becomes hell; there remains no place for rest.

When wives take sannyas, they stick to it; they pull the husband’s legs out from under him. He flounders for two or four days and then collapses. But what is the quarrel about, really? If someone starts meditating, or becomes a sannyasin, or sits with eyes closed for a little while—what is the problem for the husband, what is the problem for the wife?

Jealousy. There is no experience of love. The wife’s trouble is: “I am sitting right before you and you are remembering your master? Take off that mala. Take off those robes. This will not go on in this house.” This quarrel happens in every home.

I have heard that from one Sardarji’s house there was always the sound of laughter. People were amazed: from other houses come the sounds of squabbling—the woman shouting, the husband shouting—but from the Sardarji’s house there was never a quarrel, never a brawl; only peals of laughter.

At last the neighbors decided to ask. It was a mystery—never seen, never heard; never happened in history, what was happening in their house.

They caught Sardarji on his way back from the office: “First, you must tell us the secret.” He said, “What secret?”

They asked, “The secret that in every house there are fights. The rest of the neighborhood takes their fun. We never get a chance to enjoy yours. Whenever we listen, there’s only laughter. The wound that gives our hearts, only we know. Today you must tell us.”

Sardarji said, “Why disgrace a poor man? The truth is, my wife throws things at me.”

They said, “She throws things at you? Then why the laughter?”

He said, “Laughter—when her aim misses, I burst out laughing. And when her aim hits, she bursts out laughing. But, brother, don’t tell anyone else. It’s a matter of the neighborhood; let it stay in the neighborhood.”

And I have heard that the same Sardar, at the age of fifty, went to court to file for divorce.

The magistrate asked, “How long have you been married?”

“About thirty years.”

“The reason for divorce?”

“My wife throws things at me. Besides the things breaking, now I can’t bear it.”

The judge said, “This is too much. You tolerated it for thirty years—now you wake up? Why not earlier?”

The Sardar said, “Don’t ask that. Earlier she would sometimes miss; now her practice is so perfect that I don’t get a chance to laugh at all. Wherever you stand, however you stand, she lands the blow—and then she giggles. Earlier we both laughed—till then it was fine.”

What we call marriage seems more like quarrel. Love is just a word in it. That is why jealousy arises. If the husband begins to love me, jealousy arises. If the wife begins to love, then a snake seems to writhe on the husband’s chest. It is unbearable that, while he is there—while ‘the husband-god’ is there…

A woman told me just a few days ago, “My husband says the husband is God. And I thrash him too—but still he doesn’t get sense. He keeps saying, ‘Husband is God. It is written in the scriptures. And as long as I live, you will touch no one else’s feet. I’ll hang myself.’”

I said, “But you have been a sannyasin for three years. He hasn’t died yet?”

She said, “He hasn’t the courage. He goes out to die and returns in a little while, saying, ‘It’s raining outside.’ Sometimes, ‘I’m hungry—let me eat first.’ Sometimes, ‘Where are my washed clothes? If I lie down on the railway tracks, what will people say seeing these clothes?’ So the chance to die never comes. It’s been three years. He talks about dying, but he won’t. And his point is that since the husband is God, in his presence touching anyone else’s feet is unbearable.”

What madness! You’re not even a man yet, and you fancy yourself God—just because it is written in a book and you’ve read it. And the wife says, “I thrash him, and still he says, ‘I am God.’ And once I fixed him so well that I made him touch my feet. Then I asked, ‘Now tell me—who is God?’ Still he says, ‘A scriptural statement is a scriptural statement. This is a household matter—who sees? So I touched; why escalate the hassle? Who will wake the whole neighborhood at midnight? But the word of scripture cannot be wrong. Husband is God.’”

At least your wife is with you; you are fortunate. Your daughters are with you; you are fortunate. Little children...

A woman told me just four days ago, “I want to come; I want to take sannyas, but my little child is against it.” It’s too much! What opposition can a little child have? But children too have jealousies. If their mother loves someone else so much that she remembers him day and night, a fire burns in them too.

The psychological background is that in this world we are never taught to love. Everything else is taught—mathematics, geography, history—junk is stuffed into the skull. But love? There is no talk of it, no discussion, no education. And love is life.

So since there is no love in our lives, that hollow thing we call love is only a cover draped over jealousy. At the smallest opportunity jealousy bursts forth, hatred comes out. It doesn’t take long for love to turn into enmity.

Your family are ordinary folks, like everyone else—no one especially bad, evil, or demonic. They simply have the delusion that they know what love is. And they are thirsty for love. You gave your love to me; they wished you had given such love to them. That is what pricks their minds.

If you can, give them love—let them abuse you, let them even stone you, but keep loving them. It is only the longing for love that has taken them away from you. I am only the excuse; through me, their thirst has been revealed. So don’t worry. At least you love. Let them go far—keep going after them. If they don’t come after you, no matter. Do whatever good you can for them. Your sannyas will be refined; new lamps will be lit in your life. And perhaps you may even succeed in transforming them.

And it is not important whether you succeed or not; what is important is that you try. Give love—even to those who give you hatred. And I do not believe that the final victory can belong to hatred, or to untruth, or to darkness. The final victory is only of love, of truth, of light.

And you are on the right path—the path of light. Fearlessly, do whatever you can for them, in whatever way you can. Today or tomorrow you will touch their hearts. After all, a human being is a human being. Sooner or later there will be tears of love in their eyes for you. And that day will be a day of great good fortune for you.

But I am not satisfied with what you are doing now. You are only being a witness. You say you are just watching whatever is happening. This will not resolve the matter. Your witnessing will appear to them as indifference—as if you don’t care. “Go to hell. If you want to go away, go. What can you do to me? Whether you are near or far, it makes no difference.” Your witnessing will seem hard to them.

No—witnessing will not do. This is not an occasion for you to be a witness. This is the time to become even more loving, even more filled with compassion. They have given you an opportunity to win them. Put your love on the line.

Your witnessing will not make any difference in their lives. It can make a difference in yours. So I give you this maxim: Fill yourself with love toward them, and remain a witness to whatever they do in response to your love. If they throw stones, abuse you, throw you out of the house—be a witness to that. Whatever they do, be a witness to it. But let your love toward them continue.

It won’t take long. The human heart is very near, not far. In the dark it seems far, but it is not. And a human being softens very quickly. Just make a little effort. And an effort in love never goes in vain. The magic of love speaks right from the top of the head.

Thank you.