Koplen Phir Phoot Aayeen #5

In the tangles of life, others are never responsible; the whole responsibility is our own. You say that when someone deceives and betrays you, your heart is hurt. Think a little: the heart is not hurt by someone else’s deceit or betrayal. It hurts because you wanted that no one should deceive or betray you. It is the fruit of your desire. And it is not in your hands to make the whole world comply with your desire. It is in no one’s hands.

But we have become accustomed to shifting the responsibility for everything onto others. It seems easy; it gives relief—the relief that I am not responsible. Now someone is cheating, therefore I suffer—so we say.

But why did you want that no one should cheat you? And where is it in our hands to create a world in which there is no deceit and no hypocrisy? There will be deceit; there will be hypocrisy. What we can do is this much: we can make ourselves such that we can even accept the other’s deceit and hypocrisy. The act is his; the fruit will be his. Why should you be disturbed? And your disturbance will not stop his deceit or hypocrisy. Yes, if you remain untroubled—if in your peace no disturbance or obstruction arises, if your heart remains unmoved, no stain, no complaint, no grievance arises—then perhaps you may even be able to change that person. It is very difficult to deceive someone who is silently willing to be deceived by you, and yet has neither complaint nor grievance. So fallen a man has never been born upon the earth, nor can he be born. But your sorrow, your pain, is his victory. And when victory comes through deceit and delusion, it is very hard to renounce that victory.

I have always loved a certain story of a fakir. One full-moon night, a thief slipped into his hut. The fakir had nothing in the house—only a blanket with which he was wrapped, lying in the verandah, gazing at the full moon. He saw the thief enter and tears came into his eyes: tears because this poor, ignorant thief didn’t even know that there was nothing in the fakir’s house. If only he had let me know two days earlier, thought the fakir, I would have begged and collected something. I would have made some arrangement for him. He has climbed this hill, ten miles from the village, and he’ll go empty-handed from my house! He will leave a pain in my heart for life.

He got up and followed the thief. As soon as the thief went inside, the fakir lit a candle. The thief said, “Who are you?”
The fakir said, “Don’t bother about that. Just understand I’m a friend, not an enemy.”
The thief said, “Have two thieves entered this house at the same time by accident?”
The fakir said, “I haven’t entered. I’ve lived in this house for thirty years. And I lit this candle so that you wouldn’t hurt yourself anywhere; it’s dark inside. I also lit it because in thirty years I myself couldn’t find anything—this house is so empty, so desolate. Perhaps by your good fortune something may turn up, and by your grace I too may get a share!”

Seeing such a man, the thief was badly unnerved. “He’s the owner—and he talks like this!” he thought. The thief said, “Let me go.”
The fakir said, “Not like that. At least do a thorough search of the house. Whenever you do anything, do it fully. Whenever you do anything, do it in totality. And then, what is there to fear? Search at leisure; I’m ready to help. If you don’t want to make me a partner, even that is fine. I haven’t found anything; I wouldn’t get it this way or that way. You take it all.”

It was a cold night, but sweat broke out on the thief. He said, “What kind of man are you? This house is yours.”
The fakir said, “If the house were mine, it would come with me and go with me. It neither came with me nor will it go with me. This house belongs to no one. The difference between you and me is only this: I entered it thirty years ago; you have entered thirty years later.”

The thief said, “Whatever it may be, forgive me and let me go. I made a mistake.”
So the fakir draped his blanket over the thief and stood there naked. And he said, “The night is cold and the village is far. If you catch a chill, the responsibility will be mine. I am at least indoors; I can somehow manage till sunrise. Tomorrow I’ll beg for another blanket. You take this blanket. At least my mind will be at ease. You have given me such honor—made me an emperor. Thieves enter the houses of emperors. A thief has entered a fakir’s house! Don’t refuse.”

The thief was so flustered his hands trembled, but helplessly he took the blanket just to get away somehow. Once outside he looked back and saw the fakir walking behind him. He asked, “Please, at least leave me now.”
The fakir said, “What will I do leaving you now? You’ve taken my home and hearth. What will I do here alone? Wherever you live, I will live too. I have persuaded you—but how will I persuade the blanket? The blanket will be angry: ‘For so many days I kept him company and he abandoned me like this!’ I am not going to leave it. We will stay together. Whatever sorrow or joy comes, we’ll bear it.”

The thief said, “Forgive me. Take your blanket back and go into your house. I entered by mistake. I did not know it was a fakir’s house. Please accept my petition; forgive me.”
The fakir took the blanket and went back inside. Just then the thief heard a loud voice: “Stop! Wretch, come back!”
The thief was a brave man, courageous, but he had never heard such a thunderous voice in his life. He had been in jails; had done deeds worthy of the gallows—but this voice, this majesty! In fright he turned back.
The fakir said, “Listen, you came in by opening the door; at least close the door before you go. Learn this much civility. And I gave you whatever I had; at least give me a ‘thank you.’ Now that you have come, at least learn a little humanity. I have nothing else.”

The thief quickly said thank you, closed the door, and ran. As he was running, the fakir called from the window, “Look, when the time comes, I myself will be of use to you. This little ‘thank you’ will become a shade over your life.”

A few days later the thief was caught. After all, a thief may escape ninety-nine times, but the hundredth time he is bound to be caught. In court he was asked, “Is there anyone in this town who knows you?”
The thief said, “My trade is such that I don’t go out by day. My trade is such that I go out when all are asleep, so there is no way to make acquaintances. Yes, there is one fakir who knows me. He lives ten miles outside the village.”
The fakir was called. He was a famous fakir. The thief did not know it, but the magistrate knew, the court knew. They asked the fakir, “Do you recognize this thief?”
The fakir said, “This man is not a thief. I recognize him; I know him well. One night he was a guest at my house. And a thief he certainly is not—far from being a thief, I even offered him a blanket, the very one I’m wearing; he refused to take it. I am indebted to him. Far from being a thief, I could give him nothing, yet he left giving me thanks. Far from being a thief—even those called civilized and courteous aren’t so civilized and courteous as to close the door after opening it; he closed the door. This man is very good. This man is very sweet.”

The magistrate said, “Then no other testimony is needed. Your word is a line carved in stone.”
The thief’s chains were opened. The fakir went out. The thief followed behind.
The fakir said, “What is it?”
The thief said, “Forgive me. Forgive me once more. That night you came after me and I turned you back. There is no one as unfortunate as I. Now today I have come after you, and I will remain after you always. Never turn me away. I have seen many people, but only their human faces; I saw a human being in you. Take me at your feet. Whatever service I can render, I will do for you.”
The fakir took him along, and on the way said, “Do you know? I had never even thought I had any capacity for poetry. The night you came and went, and I sat at the window watching the full moon and watching you depart, for the first time in my life poetry was born in me. I wrote the first poem—the only poem of my life. It is a very lovely poem. Its meaning is: If only it were in my hands, today I would pluck this moon and present it to that thief. But it is not within my power.”

In this world you will meet all kinds of people. And if you go on being affected by each person, being buffeted by every wave, then the boat of your life will keep rocking; you will never reach the shore. You will drown in midstream; the shore will not be found.

Understand one thing clearly: we create our own world. And if someone deceives you or is hypocritical with you, what can he snatch away? What do you have? You have nothing at all. And the poor fellow who is deceiving, who is cunning—he is wretched, destitute; he also has nothing. He thinks that perhaps through deceit and cunning he will get something.

My advice—the first advice: whoever cheats you, understand that he is very poor—poorer than you. Whoever deceives you, is hypocritical with you, understand that he is very miserable—more of a beggar than you. Have pity on him; have compassion for him. Not because your pity and compassion will certainly change him. Whether he changes or not, you will change. And that is the essential thing—that you change. And you come to such a state that whatever the world does with you, it cannot unbalance you.

But have you considered that you yourself are using yourself like an object? Have you, even for a single moment of your life, related to yourself as a soul?

You have used yourself like an object—just a body. And when you yourself are mistreating yourself in this way, what complaint can you have against others? They do to you exactly what you are doing to yourself. The body is indeed an object. Try to recognize the consciousness hidden within you which is not an object. Then however anyone may try to “use” you, you will clearly understand that you are standing at a distance, watching; it is not you who is being used.

Alexander came to India and, on his return, carried away treasure worth billions. Before he could leave India’s borders, he remembered that his teacher, Aristotle, had told him: “When you return from India, bring back at least one sannyasin. The world has everything—diamonds and jewels—but the wondrous vision of sannyas belongs uniquely to the East. I want to see and understand a sannyasin. Why does the whole East pour its genius into the direction of renunciation?”

So Alexander sent out word nearby: Is there any sannyasin here?

Someone said: “There are many, but if you truly want to take a sannyasin, then outside this village on the riverbank there is one who has lived there for years—persuade him.”

Alexander said, “Persuade? That is not my language. My sword persuades everything.”

The villagers replied, “Then you know nothing of a sannyasin. This sword can do everything, but it can do nothing to a sannyasin.”

Alexander could not understand this. He went and announced to the sannyasin: “I am Alexander the Great, the conqueror of the world. I invite you—be my guest in my kingdom; all my comforts and splendors will be yours; but you will have to come with me to Greece.”

The sannyasin stood naked in the morning sun. He said, “First drop this illusion that you are a world-conqueror. Today you are; tomorrow you will vanish like a bubble on water. Drop this illusion that you are great. Whoever is under the illusion ‘I am great’—at least he is not great. As for my going anywhere, sannyas means to live by one’s own will, one’s own delight, one’s own ecstasy. If the whim, the joy, arises, I will come to Greece too; but I cannot be taken. Sheathe your sword. That sword can frighten only those who have no taste of the nectar within.”

Alexander said, “You don’t know me. I am a ferocious man. I can sever your head in an instant.”

The fakir laughed. He said, “If that gives you joy, if it pleases you, it will be my good fortune. The head has to fall someday anyway. Let it make one man happy. But let me tell you this: when you see my head fall to the ground, I too shall see my head fall to the ground. For I am not the head; I am not the body. You will not be able to see me—but I will be able to see you. Now, draw your sword.”

For the first time in his life Alexander met a man who invited him: “Draw your sword.” What was there to wait for? Yet Alexander’s hand stopped. He said, “Forgive me. I do not understand the language of sannyas.”

The sannyasin said, “Just narrate this incident to your teacher. Perhaps it will make something clear to him.”

You are pained that someone uses you like an object. In truth, pain arises precisely from being used. Because “use” means disrespect; “use” means your personhood, your soul, is not being acknowledged. Work is taken from you as one takes work from a machine.

But this is happening twenty-four hours a day. You are someone’s wife; you are someone’s husband. Have you known your wife’s soul, or only her body? Have you peered into your husband’s within, or only seen what appears in the mirror? You have children—you are using them too. One wants to make his child a doctor, another an engineer, another a scientist. But what is the inner aspiration? The aspiration is to use these children. How to convert these children into money! How to mint these children into coins—that is your effort.

Everyone is using everyone else. And this continues until you come to know yourself. The fault is not anyone else’s. In your question there is a hint as if the fault lies with others—that you are the prey and someone else the hunter.

No. You have not yet known that which cannot be weighed; that which has no birth; that which has no death. Recognize that—and then there is no problem. Then you will not be sad; you will feel only compassion for the person who is using you. Tears of compassion will well up in your eyes—for this poor fellow knows nothing.

There is a story about the great Greek thinker Diogenes. Diogenes lived naked; he was a very handsome, extraordinarily strong man. In those days slavery was everywhere—men were sold as animals are sold. Four thieves saw him. They had seen many men, but this one—solid as a statue, sculpted—made them think: If we catch him—and he is certainly a fakir, sitting naked—we could get a price worth ten or fifteen men. But who will capture him? He is enough for the four of us—he would sell us instead.

Diogenes overheard their whispering as they hid behind bushes, plotting how to trap him. He said, “Come out. Whispering behind bushes is useless. Want to sell me? Ask me. Chains are not needed. I am my own master. And if selling me can bring happiness into the lives of four men, I am ready to go with you.”

The four looked at one another—was this man mad?

Diogenes said, “Don’t be afraid. Follow me.”

They reached the marketplace where men were sold. On a high platform a person would be made to stand and the auctioneer would call the bids. The four stood around Diogenes like thieves, hiding beside him. They didn’t even have the courage to tell the auctioneer, “We have brought a slave to sell.” In the end, Diogenes himself climbed the platform. And what he proclaimed is worth pondering. He announced, “All you slaves gathered here...” In fact, slaves had not gathered there—there were nobles, princes, queens, kings, all seeking fine slaves. Diogenes said, “All you slaves gathered here, I challenge you all: such an occasion will not come again and again. Today a master is auctioning himself. The bidding should not be cheap. Slaves have been sold and will go on being sold; others sell the slaves, but I am a master—I am selling myself. These four poor slaves stand behind me; they need money. If anyone has the courage to buy me—then buy!”

There was a hush. He was so formidable that even buying him required thought—what if he creates a row, causes trouble at home, strangles your neck on the way?

Diogenes said, “Don’t be afraid—spare a thought for these four slaves. They have walked miles behind me. They have lost their tongues; they cannot even speak to say they want to sell me. Buy—don’t be afraid. I will harm no one. Masters have never harmed anyone.”

The person who discovers his within attains a certain sovereignty. Even if chains are in his hands and shackles on his feet, you still cannot call him a slave. You can kill him, but you cannot enslave him.

So those who use you like things are pitiable. They use their own selves like things. Here everyone is selling himself—selling very cheap. And when a man is selling himself, how will he spare you? He will sell you too. Watching yourself being sold is indeed painful. But suffering over this has no solution. Only one thing can free you from this whole trouble, and that is self-knowing—the experience that fire cannot burn me and swords cannot cut me. Then what harm is there if, in some small way, you are of use to someone? He is the ignorant one who imagines he has used you. His ignorance is his own—his fate, his destiny. But for you there is no reason to be afflicted.

Vipassana is an age-old method of meditation. It must have been discovered thousands of years ago; who discovered it, no one knows. It is a wondrous process, the simplest device to get acquainted with oneself. The word Vipassana means: to sit silently and become a witness to yourself. Pashy means: to see. Vipassana means: just sit silently within and watch. This breath came in, this breath went out—watch that too. The heart beat—watch that too. Sit silently inside and watch whatever is happening. And by and by, all the noises disappear and a vast emptiness surrounds you.

Buddha spread the process of Vipassana throughout the world. But there is a hitch: two and a half thousand years have passed since Buddha. The method of Vipassana is the same, unchanged. But man’s waywardness is not the same—he has gone further and further into it. Vipassana is simple for an innocent, guileless person. But modern man is not innocent. He is filled with noise, with so much dishonesty. Leave others aside—he is not even honest with himself.

I have heard: a thief once went on a pilgrimage with Eknath. Eknath was setting out with a whole group of his disciples. The thief was obvious; the whole village knew him. He said to Eknath, “Take me along too. Save this poor man as well. Let me go on pilgrimage with you.”

Eknath said, “I have no objection. One condition: the pilgrimage will last at least three to six months. In this period you will not steal. Otherwise I don’t want the trouble—you will steal from my fifty or sixty disciples.”

The man promised, “I swear by you, I will not steal.”

Eknath said, “Then there is no problem. Come along.”

But from the very second night the trouble began—and it was strange. Someone’s bangles turned up on someone else’s hands. Someone’s ring had reached another’s finger. Someone’s bedding was found in someone else’s bed. People woke up in the morning utterly puzzled: What is going on? Things were found; nothing was actually stolen. But half the day went in searching: Where are my glasses? Someone’s money missing—where is it? Until each of the fifty or sixty people had searched every item, the money wouldn’t be found, the glasses wouldn’t be found.

After two or three days Eknath finally stayed awake through the night. He suspected the thief—and it was him. As soon as everyone fell asleep, he would get up and put this one’s belongings into that one’s bundle, that one’s things into someone else’s. Eknath said to him, “Madman, you swore you would not steal!”

He said, “I swore I wouldn’t steal—so I am not stealing. I never swore I wouldn’t rearrange things. Your pilgrimage will end in three months; this is my lifelong habit. And when everyone sleeps, that is when my day begins. What should I do all night? And I am not harming anyone. I haven’t taken a single penny.”

Habit! Not to steal, yet still to juggle. A little thrill has to be there, a little fun. In the morning he was the only one who sat and enjoyed watching what was happening.

I have even heard of thieves who steal from one pocket and put the thing into their other pocket. The heart feels entertained; the act remains. It becomes a matter of prestige.

In these twenty-five centuries the human mind has gathered so many distortions, so much repression, so many storm-clouds, that now it is very difficult to do Vipassana straightaway.

And you ask, “When does catharsis happen in Vipassana?”

There is no place for catharsis in Vipassana. When Vipassana was discovered, there was no need for catharsis. If there is no cancer, what need is there for cancer treatment?

That is why I ask my sannyasins to do active meditation before entering Vipassana—so that in active meditation all the disturbance, the rubbish and garbage is thrown out, and you become once again pure, small children. Then begin Vipassana. But if you start Vipassana directly, you will be taking a risk. What has accumulated within you will remain suppressed. On the surface you will appear calm, and inside all the restlessness will go on collecting. One day or another that restlessness will explode like a bomb. It will. There is a limit to how long you can keep it pressed down.

I am not in favor of starting Vipassana directly. Now Vipassana is the second stage. Two thousand years ago it was the first stage. Now the first stage is active meditation. Active meditation will prepare you for Vipassana. Active meditation is not enough—you will not attain enlightenment through it—but it will wash you clean, as if you have bathed in the Ganges. In those moments of cleanliness it is right to enter Vipassana; otherwise there is danger.

The great difficulty is that thousands of years pass and people cling to the past so hard that they forget the past was created for a different kind of people, not for you. So Vipassana teachers go on teaching Vipassana as it was, and they have no idea what has happened to man in these twenty-five centuries. Storms have passed, hurricanes have raged. Inside man so much breakage has accumulated, so much rubbish has piled up, that first it has to be cleared.

So my advice is: make active meditation the first step. And when you find within yourself that there is nothing left to throw out, then begin Vipassana. Then Vipassana alone will lead you toward enlightenment.

This is a slightly intricate matter. Because when you lose yourself in music, awareness will be forgotten. When you become totally absorbed in music, who will be left to be aware? And when you are aware, the music will shatter and fall apart. In trying to join two opposing things, you will land yourself in difficulty. There will be a lot of strain and inner tug-of-war.

Choose any one thing; it is enough. Riding two boats is not good; riding two horses is not good. Try all you want—there will be danger. Music is enough; dive in utterly. Dive in so totally that you no longer even know there is a musician—only music remains. And the doors of the divine will open. It has many doors. It is a good fortune that it doesn’t have only one big gate; otherwise there would be a great crowd. It would be a problem. There would be queues; the queues would go on for centuries. Buddhas would have to stand at the doors for centuries. But it has infinite doors. Music is enough.

If you want to cultivate awareness, then music cannot be taken to its ultimate depths. You can make music an object for becoming aware. You can keep awareness toward music. But that awareness will not be able to take music to its heights, nor to its depths.

In the West there was a very great dancer, Nijinsky—perhaps in the history of humankind no other dancer has been so wondrous. For there was a unique feature in Nijinsky’s dance: while dancing, he would take such a high leap that it was against the earth’s gravitation. Those who practice the high jump for the Olympics cannot make such a leap. And Nijinsky was not a trained high jumper. Yet moments would come in his dance as if wings had sprouted on him. He would leap so high that scientists were astonished. Against the pull of the earth, such a leap simply cannot be made. And the matter did not end there; it became even more difficult. When he descended from the leap, the earth pulls things down very swiftly. Their speed is great—things are pulled at six thousand miles per minute. That is why, when at night you sometimes see and say, “A star fell”—no star falls. Stars are very big; if they fell, we would have been finished long ago. Stars do not fall. When the earth separated from the sun, and the moon separated from the earth, the earth was a lump of wet clay. The moon is a big chunk—its separate existence came to be. But along with it, small bits of clay scattered all around; they roam in the sky. Whenever they enter the earth’s field—the field is two hundred miles—whenever any one of those bits of clay comes within two hundred miles, the earth pulls it so strongly—six thousand miles per minute—that from the friction of air and that clay, fire is born, just as a spark is struck from flint. That is why it appears to you as a shining streak. It is not a star; it is clay that has caught fire.

When Nijinsky came down from his leap, he would descend as a pigeon’s feather slowly, gently swaying down toward the ground—no haste. This was even more astonishing. His descent was even more surprising. He completely broke the law of the earth’s pull. People asked Nijinsky, “What is this? How do you do it?”

Nijinsky said, “Don’t ask me how I do it. Because whenever I try to do it, it does not happen. I have tried at home—it does not happen. I have tried on stage—it has not happened. When I get tired of trying and I forget this nonsense, then suddenly one day I find that it has happened. But it happens only when I am not; when there is no effort, no practice, no striving, no ambition, no desire. It is as great a mystery to me as it is to you. I disappear, and then this event happens.”

Great painters have had the same experience. When they disappear, their hands become the hands of God. Great musicians too have had the same experience. When they are no more, then someone else, some infinite power, begins to adorn the music on their veena.

So if you are a musician and you love music, do not worry about awareness. Worry about drowning in music. Let only music remain; let there be no you. You will reach the same place that those reach who have practiced supreme awareness. There, too, the same thing is required. In supreme awareness also, one has to forget oneself. At the beginning, of course, the person is there; the ABC of the effort toward awakening is begun by the person, but the last letter is not written by the person. That which is impersonal within us, that which is formless within us—the writing is done by its hand. It makes no difference through which door you attain the void. All doors are His. Choose the door that is dear to you. For only your love can take you to such depths—the depths where you are willing to dissolve. Other than love, nothing else can make you willing to dissolve.

So it is good—fortunate—that you are a musician. Then drown in music. Let only music remain. You will arrive. You will not even know when you arrived. Only when you arrive will you know: “Ah, where am I? There is God. Where am I? There is existence.” But riding two horses is dangerous. And in the spiritual life, many people unknowingly mount many horses. They reach nowhere—only after breaking their hands and legs do they end up in some hospital. One horse is enough. To attain the One, one is enough. The two must be dropped. And you are riding on the two.

This is what I call riding two horses. This is Guna’s question. It isn’t likely that the Dalai Lama’s doctor came to Guna’s house; it must have been Guna who reached the Dalai Lama’s residence, in search of a horse to mount.

Even the Dalai Lama hasn’t arrived anywhere yet—where would his doctor have arrived? And when the Dalai Lama’s doctor said, “Be a little more earthly,” you should have given him a slap. He would have had proof of your earthliness. And you’d have had proof of whether the Dalai Lama’s doctor is spiritual or not.

There’s no need to become earthly. You’ve been earthly for lifetimes upon lifetimes. Other than earthly, what are you? What’s needed is to be more spiritual. But that’s the difficulty—people go on wandering.

Guna, what was the need to go to the Dalai Lama’s doctor? But no, people think perhaps something can be found at the Dalai Lama’s place, or perhaps at Sri Aurobindo’s ashram, or with some other swami. Drop this beggar’s mindset. Whatever is to be found is to be found within you. And when the Dalai Lama’s doctor himself held your hand and said it, your mind must have felt very pleased: “Ah! Blessed am I! The Dalai Lama’s own doctor is holding my hand and telling me!”

One who offers advice unasked is inept. And what does it even mean to become earthly? You have a body, and a skull full of a thousand worms. What more earthliness do you need? And if you really want to be earthly, what’s so difficult? Just eat a little more.

Do not become earthly. Join yourself to that which is hidden within you, the non-earthly, and realize: I am not the body, I am not earthly. Know it once—and again. And then hold that doctor’s hand and tell him, “You need to become a little spiritual. We are earthly enough as it is.” There is a small ray of the non-earthly within us; that ray needs to be made more luminous. Meditation gives that ray a bit more encouragement—like someone stoking a fire, brushing aside the ashes. The embers that were buried under the ash flare up—just like that.

But I am not much in favor of those who wander about like beggars, asking everywhere, “What should we do?” There is nothing to do. It has become a fashion: go to this Shankaracharya, go to the Dalai Lama, go to Acharya Tulsi. And in this country there are so many shops you can’t even count them. For lifetimes these shops have been leading you astray; and for lifetimes you go on wandering. In all this wandering you have forgotten one thing: what you are seeking is within you.

When the Dalai Lama fled from Tibet, the greatest tragedy was this: he took with him all the gold that was in the Lhasa palace, but left behind all the ancient scriptures. Or say it this way: he brought the dung and left the gold. Dung has its price too. Tibet had priceless scriptures. But there was no concern to bring them. Among them were texts whose original Sanskrit versions had been burned—because, to destroy the Buddhists, the Hindus burned those scriptures. Now the only way to recover them is to translate them back into Indian languages from Tibetan. In those scriptures are hidden the precious keys of life.

But gold is more valuable! So they cleared out the entire palace of Lhasa—crores’ worth of gold—and fled with it. If there were even a little spirituality in this man, he would have left the gold there and brought with him that pure philosopher’s stone that once went from India to Tibet and then vanished from India. But it’s hard to recognize the philosopher’s stone. Gold, anyone’s eyes can see.

So the Dalai Lama has no spirituality; as for his doctor—what could that poor fellow have! Yes, he did plant a wrong notion in Guna’s mind: “Be more earthly.” Living in Bombay, how will you become any more earthly now? The only place left is hell. Try it. Go to Chowpatty, spray on perfume, eat idli-dosa—be earthly. Make friends with Taru Mata.

Thank you.