Kya Ishwar Mar Gaya Hai #4

That it made you sad makes me very happy. Because I also know people to whom I said, “God is dead,” and they replied, “Let him die—what’s the loss?” I know others who said, “Who? Ishwarlal the contractor? Poor fellow—such a good man! How did he die?” And there are those who said, “Who told him he had to stay alive?”

So when I learned that many of you felt sorrow, I was glad. Those who are pained at the news that God has died must have some tie with God, some love. They must think and reflect about God.

If in this world there remain a few who are saddened that God is dead, perhaps God can be resurrected. But if people lapse into indifference, then there is no possibility of any resurrection. An atheist can never kill God; but those whose minds are indifferent, they can kill God. If the whole world fills up with indifference, even if God remained alive, what meaning would that “being alive” have?

Therefore I welcome it, if anyone felt hurt by the news that God is dead. It is a great joy. But in our sorrow, let it not happen that we go on worshipping a dead God just to forget our grief; that we keep worshipping in a temple where that dead God is enthroned. Because we feel so sad hearing “God is dead,” we go on believing he is still alive—this would be dangerous.

If God has died, then those of you who feel the pain—weep if you must, shed tears if you must—but please, go and bury that God. When a father dies, when a mother dies, what do we do? We weep, but we bury them. Keeping a corpse in the house is more dangerous than death itself. Someone’s dying is not as dangerous as keeping the corpse at home, because then even the living are put at risk.

God has died, but in the temples of man his worship continues. The danger is that man himself may die, because keeping a corpse in the house is very dangerous. I have said: God is dead. Now my fear is that man may die. Before man dies, bury this dead God. And until he is buried, the God who is never born and never dies cannot be found.

It is the man-made God who has died. These are man-made religions, which arise and pass away. These are man-made scriptures, which are written and then forgotten. These are man-made idols, which are fashioned and then crumble. Whatever man makes cannot be eternal. Nothing manufactured can be eternal, because whatever has been made carries within it the seeds of its own decay.

Is your God one you have made? If he is, then no matter how tightly you clutch him to your chest, he will die. If your God is not of your making, then even if all of you together try to kill him, you won’t be able to.

But our God is of our own making. That’s why he is so weak, so impotent. We say God is omnipotent—and yet outside the temple of that omnipotent God we post a guard with a gun: “You protect him.” What marvelous omnipotent gods—needing a sentry to protect them!

This is our man-made God, who needs a guard; who is afraid of being stolen; who is in danger of being smashed by enemies. Such a God is very feeble. We keep praying before him. Not a single prayer is ever heard.

For the last thirty, forty years the whole of humanity has been praying for no more war. Yet two world wars happened. And in those two wars, a hundred million people were slaughtered. A God who would not hear the death of even one person—but every five or ten years there is a war, and millions die, and millions of hearts pray, and he does not hear? Either God is deaf, or else the God before whom we pray is not alive at all. Even a deaf God would hear eventually—how much we shout, how much we cry and plead. But perhaps there is no God there; perhaps we are standing before a figure of our own imagination and shouting...

If a delusion is nursed for long enough, we forget it is madness. Little children at home conduct marriages of dolls. We laugh—children will be children. And we perform the marriage of Lord Rama and think we are religious. Age does not erase anyone’s childhood; the years advance, the children remain children.

There are two kinds of children: little children and big children. When children dress their dolls and feed them sweets, we laugh: they are only children. They will grow up and drop it on their own. And we, every day, offer food to God’s idol and do all sorts of insanities and think we are religious. It is idiotic, foolish, insensate.

Children can be forgiven; old people cannot. Children are, after all, children. But what are these old ones? And children play a while with dolls and then forget them—throw them in a corner and move on to something else. But these grown-ups? Having made doll-like idols of their gods, if the occasion arises they draw swords, commit murders, slaughter hundreds of thousands, because “their” God was hurt, an arm of their God was broken, their God was insulted. They spill blood, kill, burn—God knows what not they do. What is there that so-called religious people have not done on this earth, these worshippers, these temple- and mosque-builders, which cannot be called sin?

Every kind of sin has been committed. No single person alone has committed such great sins. But in groups, in organizations, and in the name of religion, such sins have been done that if you even bring them to mind, it seems that had there not been so many religions in the world, perhaps the world would have been more religious. From them has come so much irreligion that there is no measure for it.

Yet we say we are religious! People whose minds are utterly childish. This God of our making has proved useless—nor could it be otherwise. Man is weak; whatever he makes is weaker than he. The creation can never be more powerful than the creator. Whatever I make will be weaker than I; whatever you make will be weaker than you. What is made cannot be greater or stronger than its maker. This God is our own product; it cannot be stronger than us. It even needs our protection. And before it we stand with folded hands. What madness! We ourselves sculpt the idols, install them, and then stand with folded hands before them. We ourselves compose the prayers and then begin to recite them.

This God is dead. If he has not died, he should die. And those who have even a little love for religion should assist and support his passing. Let him be bid farewell.

Remember, the human mind cannot be free of God. But if the false God departs, a emptiness will be born. An emptiness will arise—and from that emptiness a thirst will be born, and we will engage in the search for God. But this substitute God, this make-do God, does not allow thirst to arise. It blocks the thirst. It supplies a fake fulfillment.

Like a man in search of money—if we place counterfeit coins in his hand, he will relax and go to sleep. His search will stop. He will lock the coins in his safe and go about happily: “Now the coins are with me; the matter is settled.” Now his quest for real coins will cease; his inquiry, his labor, will stop.

This replacement God in our hands has stopped our search for the real God.

One night two sannyasins were passing through a hilly region. The elder sannyasin had a bag slung over his shoulder; behind him walked his young disciple. Again and again the elder said—it was a dark night, in a forest—he asked his disciple, “There isn’t any danger here, is there?”

The disciple said, “Danger—to a sannyasin? Let the night be dark, let it be a forest—what danger is there?”

But after they had gone a little further, the elder again asked, “It is a very dark night, it’s the new moon. Isn’t the road dangerous? Did you ask anyone? Did you inquire in the village?”

The disciple found it strange—he had never seen the elder ask like this.

They stopped by a well. The elder said, “Let me wash my hands and face a little.” He gave his bag to the young disciple: “Keep it carefully.” The elder went to wash. The disciple looked inside the bag—a brick of gold was there. He had suspected that the elder’s sense of danger meant there must be something in the bag; otherwise why fear? He saw the brick. The elder was busy washing. The disciple threw the brick into a pit and put a stone brick in the bag instead—a substitute brick, a replacement. The elder returned, quickly slung the bag over his shoulder, felt the weight, and walked on contentedly. After a while he asked, “Now the night has deepened; isn’t there a village nearby where we can stop? There isn’t any danger, is there?”

The disciple said, “There is no danger at all—let’s go on.” The elder had asked many times before, but until now the disciple had never said, “There is no danger.” The elder became suspicious. He felt for the brick—found something in its place. After a bit he said, “I feel great fear.”

The disciple said, “Be completely fearless. I threw your fear back there into a pit.”

The elder panicked, opened his bag, and saw—there was a stone brick inside!

The disciple said, “Be fearless and walk easily. I threw the fear back there.”

The elder said, “This is the limit! The limit! I have been carrying that brick as if it were my very life. If someone had attacked me and tried to snatch it, there might have been bloodshed; I would have given my life, but I would have saved that brick.”

Our God is that kind of brick. You carry it, you are ready to shed blood, to fight and die for it. And you don’t open your bag to see that the gold brick vanished long ago; you are hauling a stone.

This is a dead God! Keep lugging this dead God if you like—your choice! Some people enjoy carrying loads. What can one do? But it is very costly. The whole of humanity is dying, being crushed under this stone. Just open and look at your God—what is it? You will not have to “give it up.” The moment you open and see, you will be fearless—seeing it is a stone. Fear will dissolve. Then his death will not sadden you. You are sad only because you believe the brick must be gold.

So if someone tells you the brick is lost, you ask, “Its loss grieves us greatly.” But if you learn the brick is stone, you will say, “The brick has dropped from my shoulder—the burden is gone; what a relief, what joy!”

I tell you: this God who has died is good news for those whose hearts have any love for God.

Many questions have been asked on this topic. I have said a great deal over these three days, so it would not be right to say much more on it now.

I would like to say: love is service, but service is not love. Let me repeat: love is service, but service is not love.

Where love is, service becomes inevitable; but you don’t even know you’re “serving.” And if you do know you are serving, understand that love is not there.

The server is aware the whole time: “I am serving.” If he didn’t have that awareness, he wouldn’t serve at all. He serves for the sake of serving. For him, service is a duty. Service is a means—by which he will attain liberation, find God, gain something.

The lover does not do service. The server does service. The lover does not serve; service happens through him, flows from him. As fragrance flows from a flower, so service flows from love. And if you ask the lover, “Are you serving?” he will say, “What service? I don’t even know.”

On a mountain path a little girl, twelve or thirteen, was climbing with her younger brother tied to her back. A monk was also climbing from behind. The girl was going to her village; the monk to pilgrimage. Midday heat, the sun blazing, the climb steep, both drenched in sweat, breath heaving. The monk came near and said, “Child, that must be very heavy for you.”

The girl looked at the monk and said, “Swamiji, you are carrying the weight—that is my little brother.” She said it twice: “You are carrying weight; this is my little brother!”

On a scale, there is weight in the monk’s bedding and in her small brother. But on the heart’s scale, the bedding has weight; the little brother does not.

Service has weight. Love has no weight. That’s why service thickens the ego. The server’s ego: “I am a servant!” We all know it. But the lover has no ego.

The strange thing is: the more a person serves as a server, the more his ego is nourished—“I am somebody.” And the deeper one goes into love, the more the ego dissolves; the deeper love becomes.

When the flower of love blooms, the ego is absent. And when the wheel of service spins hard, the ego condenses and stands like a pillar in the middle.

Therefore I say: love is service, but service is not love. Love is a relationship of the heart. Service is a relationship of the head—of thinking and calculation. Hence service is humiliating. The one we “serve” inevitably feels insulted.

Love is honoring. The one to whom we give love feels ennobled. Why? Because the giver of love has no ego. When someone “serves” us, we feel awkward, even insulted. One wishes not to have to take service from anyone—because the server’s ego stands there, strong and visible.

Service is not religion. Although a religious person serves a great deal.

As love develops, the flowers of service start blooming on their own.

Someone may ask: “If service arises from love, can love arise from service?”

In logic and mathematics it looks so. Suppose a house is dark and we say: if we remove the darkness, the light will come on—because when we light the lamp, darkness goes. Logically it seems right: since lighting the lamp removes darkness, then removing darkness should produce light. Logically okay.

But it will not happen. Not in life. If you light a lamp, darkness goes; if you try to remove darkness itself, you will end up exhausted. You can never “take darkness out.” The question of light being lit does not arise. Yes: if the lamp is lit, darkness is gone. But it will never be that you take darkness out and light appears. Darkness cannot be removed.

So my point is: if the lamp of love is lit, all the elements that obstruct the flowering of service melt away. If love is obtained, all the stones on the path of service roll aside; service begins to flow. But if someone tries to force “service” to flow so that love will be born—this is like thinking you will push the darkness out and the lamp will light. It will never happen.

Yet this mistake is ancient. Among the few basic mistakes for which humanity has suffered, this is one. When a man thinks, “I should have love in my heart,” he decides, “Let me drive hatred out—and then love will come.” Wrong. When one thinks, “I should have forgiveness,” he says, “Let me remove anger—and forgiveness will come.” When one decides, “Let celibacy arise in me,” he says, “Let me remove sex, and celibacy will arrive.” All these are of one category—the same absurdity of “Let me remove darkness, then light will be.” It is simply wrong—mathematics itself is wrong there. It can never happen.

Hence the one who tries to create celibacy by “removing sex” gets more and more entangled in sex. Celibacy never comes. The one who tries to remove anger becomes angrier through the very effort to remove it. Forgiveness never arrives.

There lived, in a village, a very angry gentleman—as all villages have such gentlemen. He would flame up over trifles. In anger he killed his wife. He once threw a child into a well. The village panicked. A monk came to the village; people said, “He is utterly wrathful. Is there no remedy?”

The monk said, “What difficulty? Just drop anger.” A very simple trick—as all monks prescribe. “Drop anger; the matter ends.”

As if a patient says, “I am very ill,” and the doctor says, “What is the problem? Drop the illness, and it’s finished.” The recipe is easy. The patient holds his head—“You say, ‘Drop illness’—has anyone ever just dropped an illness?” No. No one has ever dropped any illness. Yes: when health is created—positive health—illness falls away. Illness is negative. It cannot be “dropped.” Cultivate health, and illness dissolves by itself.

But the monk said, “Drop anger.”

The man was a dyed-in-the-wool angry type. He said, “I vow I will live having dropped anger.”

Angry people often take such vows—in anger, though they don’t see that the vow itself is anger’s expression. “I will abandon anger—even if my life is at stake!” He spoke the same language he always had: when fighting he’d shout, “My life go if yours must!” The monk said, “Drop anger—simple.”

The man stood up: “I will abandon anger—even if my life is at stake!”

It was the same anger, unchanged. But the monk was pleased: “Such a resolute man!” Fools are often mistaken for men of willpower.

The monk said, “If you have resolved so, become a monk.”

The man became a monk. An angry man can do anything—he can even become a monk. He threw off his clothes in the marketplace, dyed a robe, came back a sannyasin. As if anyone can become a monk by changing clothes. He did.

Villagers said, “He seems a great ascetic! How swiftly, how resolutely he has changed!”

In the intelligent, change is gradual. In fools, it can be overnight.

The teacher said, “I have seen many, but none like you—transformed in minutes! I will name you Muni Shantinath—sage lord of peace. You are the very incarnation of peace, so swiftly!”

Muni Shantinath, who had been slouching, stiffened, straightened his spine. People said, “Muni Shantinath!” He, who had been inflamed with rage, now sat with eyes closed, “peaceful.”

But anger does not vanish like that. It whirls within. Before, when it came out, there was some release. Now even that outlet was gone: no exit anywhere. Inside, his anger circled. In anger he began to give fiery speeches. Anyone can speak energetically when angry. He gave lofty discourses, refuted, argued scriptures. These are all symptoms of anger.

Ten years passed. The angry fellow—now Muni Shantinath—became famous. He had all the qualities needed for fame. To be a leader or a guru, anger is almost necessary; otherwise it’s hard to be one. He came to a great capital. A childhood friend lived there. The friend was amazed that his intensely angry companion had become a monk, called Muni Shantinath.

By now he had even abandoned his loincloth; he lived naked—a “supreme digambara.” When an angry man does something, he goes to extremes. He never stops in the middle. He threw away the loincloth—became naked, thoroughly “sky-clad.”

The friend came to meet him. The friend recognized him, of course. But after ten years as a monk, could the monk recognize friends? Do monks have friends? Any attachments? Though he recognized him, he said nothing; for a “great man,” showing friendship with ordinary folks is unbecoming. A great man never has small friends—only disciples. You can be his disciple; never his friend.

So the great man sat there, not even looking. The friend asked, “Sir, may I ask your name?”

He said, “My name? Don’t you read newspapers? Do you live with your eyes closed? The whole world utters my name—Muni Shantinath!”

The friend understood the man was unchanged. After some lofty discourse—Self-knowledge, Upanishads—the friend asked again, “Sir, may I ask your name?”

He glared, “Enough! I just told you, my name is Muni Shantinath. Forgotten so soon?”

Two minutes later the friend asked a third time, “Sir, may I ask your name?”

He grabbed his staff: “I said my name is Muni Shantinath! Ask again and I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll remember for life.”

The friend said, “Now I know—you are the very same Shantinath of our childhood. Not a bit has changed! To confirm it I had to ask three times.”

Anger is where it was. Anger never leaves like that. Hence sages cursing, showering imprecations—“Go, wander for many births, go to hell!” What sort of people were they? Who kept calling them rishis and munis? Thoroughly angry types! Their monkhood was born of anger; their anger remained strong within. For trifles, a curse! From a rishi? From a muni? Unthinkable. Yet the stories and Puranas are full of it.

Anger cannot go that way. No negative emotion can be removed head-on. Hatred cannot be dropped; anger cannot be dropped. Yes, love can be awakened. And when love is lit, anger dissolves; hatred falls away—as darkness goes when a lamp is lit.

So I do not say: “Drop anger.” I do not say: “Drop hatred.” I do not say: “Drop hardness.” I do not say: “Drop sex.” I do not say: “Drop greed.” The language of dropping is wrong. I say: Attain love, attain light. In attaining that, the dropping of these happens by itself. To find that, is for these to fall away.

Hence any religion that teaches renunciation is not religion. The true religion teaches attainment—positive, creative becoming. The God of negative religion—who said, “Drop anger, drop violence”—that God is dead. Do we intend to give birth to the God of a creative religion—the one who says, “Let love spread; develop love; light the lamp”?

If ever there is a reign of religion on earth, it will come by constructive seeking, not by negation.

Therefore I say: religion is not renunciation; religion is attainment. Religion is not leaving; religion is receiving. Religion is not opposition to the world; religion is finding God. This language of opposition—of leaving and renouncing—is wrong.

Therefore I have said: love is service, service is not love.

Lastly, I have many questions here, but they lack sequence.

For example: “Where does God live?” Fair enough. If I have given notice that God has died, at least I must know His residence? Where did the gentleman live? So they ask: “Where does God live? How many hands and feet? What face? If you have seen Him, can you describe Him? Is there heaven and hell? If yes, how far apart? Can one go from hell to heaven? The world’s population is rising while souls are said to be limited; how then is population increasing?”

Many, many such questions.

On days like this, when I have so many questions, I always have a dream. Today I had that dream. I’ll tell you the dream, and not answer the questions individually. Perhaps in that dream the answers to many of these—and even to those I’m not mentioning—may be found. And it could also be that no answer is found. Who can rely on a dream?

In the afternoon I slept and dreamt I was standing before a very dilapidated house. Opposite it stood a huge mansion. I lifted my head—the top was beyond sight, rising into the sky. In front of the hut there was a rickety gate and behind it a small shack.

I thought, “What is this?” But of course, where there are very big houses, small huts must stand opposite—otherwise how would the big look big? Make the small smaller and the big becomes bigger. One house has grown to the sky; the other has shrunk to the ground. Fine. But whose houses are these? I saw a board on the broken hut. The rains had faded it; perhaps it hadn’t been painted for years. On it was written: Shri Bhagwan.

I was alarmed. God’s house! It looked like some prankster had swapped boards before Holi. Could this be God’s house? God—the Almighty Father, Creator of all—living in a shack?

But the boards were there. Here: “Shri Bhagwan,” in crooked Hindi letters. Over there: “Doctor Devil, D.D.—Doctor of Dignity, Doctor Devil.” That was the devil’s house.

Who gave him a D.D.—Doctor of Dignity? When did the devil become a divine doctor?

The signs seemed wrong. The “Shri Bhagwan” board was unpainted for ages. Silence everywhere. Still, if I must inquire, better go to God’s house than the devil’s.

I pulled the gate; the dust showed no one ever came. I went in and saw a very large dog outside the hut. I was a little scared. Dogs are of many types—like men. Who knows which type this was?

There is the scrawny dog—a breed of its own. You can recognize it: if children at home are eating sweets and a scrawny dog appears, they drop the sweets at once, pick up stones, and chase him. Scrawny dogs have some magnetic force, some spell—they make children run for stones—no matter the sweets or dolls. The scrawny dog appears and children rush out. He always obeys the law: if the road sign says “Keep left,” he keeps left. Poor man’s dog; he must follow rules—or the policeman will say, “Keep to the left.”

And there is the Alsatian. He walks in the middle of the road, never keeps left; policemen salute him. He is the big sahib’s dog. When an Alsatian passes, a child playing outside runs in, bolts the door, and starts his homework. He does not throw stones.

Dogs are of many kinds—but these two are special. I wondered: is this one scrawny or Alsatian? Is it wise to go closer? But I had to go, so I moved slowly.

Nearer, I was surprised: the dog had his eyes closed, fast asleep. I thought, “God’s dog—perhaps he practices yoga.” In the company of sages even stones come alive, they say—so this is only a dog. Perhaps by satsang he sits with eyes closed… As they say, the parrots in a rishi’s house recited the Vedas; maybe this dog is meditating, in samadhi!

Still, better be careful. Some samadhis are like the heron’s—sitting still while watching for fish. Get too close and the dog might trick me—pounce—and the samadhi might be false, as samadhis often are: from a distance they seem real; up close, the illusion breaks.

Who knows what kind of yogi he is—heron-yogi or true? Yet I had to go. I went very close; he didn’t stir—utterly absorbed.

“A miracle,” I thought. “Even a dog—forget man—has attained a divine mood! Perhaps he is Brahma-absorbed—who knows!” I folded my hands to bow—and a thought struck me: perhaps the dog is dead, and I’m mistaking it for samadhi. I tossed a pebble; the dog was indeed dead. Just then an old man came out and said, “What are you doing?”

I said, “It seems this creature is in God-realization. I was bowing.”

He said, “No, this dog is not in realization—he has departed to Brahmaloka. He has attained the highest. He was an extraordinary dog—great seeker, great yogi. He practiced all yogas and finally attained the ultimate.”

I asked, “Does Shri Bhagwan live here?”

He said, “It seems you know nothing. I am Shri Bhagwan.” The old man spoke.

Seeing him, I panicked—never imagined God would look like this. His clothes were torn. He was in bad shape. His glasses were broken, tied with string.

I said, “I can’t believe it. And I don’t believe in belief either. I suspect.”

He said, “Look, faith bears fruit. If you doubt, you will go astray. Those who doubted—went to hell. Believe what I say.”

I got scared too, and thought, “He is right—God appears in many forms; sometimes as a tortoise.” Perhaps this time he took this old man’s form. Who knows in what disguise He appears? Why create trouble? I quickly bowed. He was very pleased: “Come inside.”

I entered and was astonished. There was nothing—no furniture, no throne. He sat on a torn mat—and what he was doing shocked me more. I had thought he might be planning to create the world anew, to help the poor. He was holding a slate and some books, reading: C-A-T, cat. R-A-T, rat.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He said, “I wasted myself with Sanskrit. Now I’m learning English. That devil across the way learned English first. I remained deluded that Sanskrit is the divine language—got lost. He won the world—learned the international language. I kept clinging to Sanskrit. Someone recently told me, ‘You are falling behind. Learn the international language!’ So I’m learning English.” He quickly picked up his book and read: “C-A-T, cat. R-A-T, rat.”

I was alarmed. “What is this? What sort of God are you?”

“You’re learning English at this age?” I asked.

“What has age to do with it?” he said. “Age matters in your world where people die. Here the trouble is: no one dies. There is no question of age. In your world people beg, ‘O God, make us immortal.’ Here we beat our chest, ‘Find us some way to die!’ We have been sitting forever—no exit. Immortality is dangerous—you can never die; and this burden every day, this boredom. From morning people praying ‘O savior of the fallen!’ all over the world; we have to listen—our brains are fried!

“Recently someone came and advised: spoil your ears. So we did. Now we have devices—when we must listen, we switch them on; otherwise we take them off. For those very close to us, we listen; for others, we don’t.”

I was shaken: “The way of the world runs even here?” He said, “I’m learning English. Soon, I hope, we can challenge the devil. See—his mansion grows; our ground erodes. I asked, ‘Where are your rishis and munis? Thousands upon thousands must have reached heaven.’ This is heaven, right?”

“Yes,” he said. “And that—over there—is hell.”

We had heard hell is aflame—but there were fine roads, great houses, gardens there.

“Devil’s doing,” God said. “He has overturned everything.

“And here? Where is the wish-fulfilling tree?” I asked.

“Where now? They dammed the river; won’t let the water flow from hell. All the scientists gathered there; they keep the clouds from coming our way. All the politicians gathered there; they encroach daily—occupying heaven’s land. We have to retreat. We are alone.

“Some hundred or two are here—Buddha, Mahavira, Christ, Rama, Krishna. That old man Gandhi just arrived; he’s here too. But they’re no use. None of them will fight. Tell them to, and they say, ‘If someone slaps you on one cheek, offer the other.’ What to do? They won’t fight. And on the devil’s side: all the world’s prime ministers, ministers, presidents—and all the priests—have gathered.”

“And the rishis and munis?” I asked. “Where did they go? So many came!”

He said, “Since you’ve come so close, I’ll tell you my heart. If a hundred rishis and munis come, don’t think all hundred reach heaven. Out of a hundred, barely one arrives.”

“Ninety-nine?”

“Ninety-nine show the public the path to heaven—but take the back route to hell. They are so clever! They tell the masses to go to heaven; they’ve made secret paths for themselves—their books on ‘secret paths’—and they themselves go to hell. If by mistake one or two get caught and drift into heaven, they panic in two or three days, stage a sit-in at the gate—‘We will fast, we will strike. Send us to hell!’”

I was astonished. “We on earth try to reach heaven; those who have reached want hell?”

“Yes,” he said. “Reason? They say: without delivering a speech, we can’t sleep at night. Whom to address here? In heaven no one agrees to listen; everyone here is a speaker. And they say: without followers our hearts find no relief—we love followers. All the followers are in hell, so we will go there.

“They say: there is no morning newspaper here. In hell, it’s all newspapers. Without reading our names in the morning, we feel restless all day. So they go there. They endure two or four days here then leave. A hundred or two hundred have stayed here for thousands of years—no zest in it.”

God said, “Many times I feel like moving to hell myself. No flavor here. Utter boredom. You speak to anyone, he says, ‘All is vain, all is Maya.’ No music, no dance.”

“This is troubling.” I felt pity. “I came to receive compassion from you; I find myself feeling compassion for you. How to free you?”

He said, “Recently we found a trick. An elder suggested: remove the old lock from the door in the wall between heaven and hell. Fit a modern lock with a key-hole. Take the key out and peep through the key-hole to enjoy hell.

“‘This is how we pass our days on earth—peeping through the neighbor’s key-hole,’ he said. ‘Watching the neighbor’s play—love or fighting, the wife beating the husband—great fun!’ So we got a new lock. We pass the days either reading C-A-T, cat—R-A-T, rat—or peeping through the key-hole, enjoying hell.”

I too felt like peeping. Who wouldn’t? You would also forget “Shri Bhagwan” and look. He said, “This door is made from the dried wish-fulfilling tree. It has a special quality: whatever you remember will appear through the key-hole. I said, ‘O rishis and munis living in hell, I want to see you.’”

Immediately a scene appeared. Ten thousand rishis and munis at least, in a great assembly. But what a sight: utterly democratic! Not like here—where I speak and you all listen, I alone commit injustice. In that democratic assembly ten thousand were speaking simultaneously. Their principle: no man has the right to oppress another—so ten thousand mics, ten thousand speakers. Such a storm you couldn’t understand a thing.

I said to God, “These hell-dwellers are far ahead. On earth one speaks and others also speak—but inside themselves. They don’t all speak out loud. These have perfected human equality—no one listens to anyone. Who has the time!” On earth too, no one listens—but we keep up the appearance. Here all appearance is gone.

God said, “Hell’s people are very progressive. They’ve even ruined heaven.”

Scenes changed. “Rishis dancing on the riverbanks—very modern dances.”

I grew anxious. I asked, and He said, “No one is to blame. They say, ‘We practiced renunciation and austerity; now we want the fruit. We suffered much, we fasted; now we want joy—good houses, air-conditioning.’ Hell is fully air-conditioned. ‘We want dancing and liquor.’ They have made rivers of wine and planted gardens.”

I said, “This is natural. On our earth too: before independence some did a little austerity—spent a bit of time in jail—then demanded the throne, Delhi—‘We renounced, now we will enjoy.’ He who renounces does so to enjoy. ‘We leave here to gain there.’ In heaven they didn’t get it; they are taking it in hell.”

I felt restless. “Your condition is bad,” I told God. “Forget it—at this age you won’t grasp English.”

He said, “How can I stop? I’ve hired a tutor. He scolds a lot—makes me stand and sit, old-fashioned tutor—cane and curses, much anger.”

I said, “Don’t you know? If the homework isn’t done, slip a five-rupee note into the notebook.” Right then the tutor arrived—an elderly gentleman, formerly a headmaster at an Indian high school. He began scolding the moment he entered: “Did you do your homework?”

God began trembling. He was overcome with the Yoga of despondency. He took out his notebook, slipped in a five-rupee note, and handed it over.

The tutor looked and said, “Excellent! Today you did your homework. Now rest easy. If you continue to do homework like this daily, even the exam won’t be necessary. If you maintain such discipline and progress day by day—five to ten, ten to fifteen—you can be sure: a place on the merit list is guaranteed.” He added, “I’ll just get some vegetables. Keep working; I’ll check again.”

The tutor left. God said, “Blessed you are! What a technique! We never knew this new method of education. We were stuck at R-A-T, rat. Now surely—even if not a D.D. like the devil—I’ll pass matric. Hope has arisen.”

I asked, “What is your mother tongue? Some say Sanskrit; some Arabic; some Hebrew. What is your mother-tongue?”

God said, “What a difficulty! People everywhere call me ‘Lord of the orphaned,’ but our condition is that we are the supreme orphan—no parents at all! The world calls us ‘protector of the parentless’—and no one is more parentless than we. Those called orphans on earth at least had parents—who died. We never had any. The supreme orphan! So how should we have a mother tongue?”

I was perplexed. I had always heard He had some special mother tongue.

He said, “No mother tongue—because we have no mother!”

I asked, “Then why in the whole world are languages called ‘mother tongues’? Why not ‘father tongues’?”

He was in a fix. He scratched his head: “It’s not in my course. The teacher didn’t teach it. It won’t come in the exam. Why do you ask such questions?”

“Then ask me,” I said.

“Please tell me,” he said. “I’ll note it down.” He took out his notebook.

“As I understand,” I said, “there is only one reason. Children never see fathers speaking before the mother; the mother is always speaking. Before the father can get up in the morning, the mother starts talking—and goes on and on. The poor father, frightened, hides behind the newspaper; the mother keeps talking. He somehow eats breakfast; the mother keeps talking. He returns from office; the mother keeps talking. At night the father begins to snore—and the mother keeps talking. So children call it the ‘mother tongue.’ Nowhere is it called the ‘father tongue.’”

God quickly noted it down—an eager student.

I said, “Now I should go. I came to receive from you; here it’s the reverse—you are asking me and writing my answers. I thought I would receive knowledge; instead, I’m having to give it. I’m going.”

As I stepped out, he hurried after me: “At least give me your address—in case I need you again. You’ve given such a trick for passing exams! If another chance comes, I’ll ask.”

I said, “I’ll give the address, but without prior appointment it’s hard to meet.” I wrote: “505, Kalbadevi Road, Jeevan Jagruti Kendra.” Phone: 22331. “Keep this. But get an appointment first—the people at Jeevan Jagruti Kendra are tough. Even if you bang your head, it’s hard to get in and meet me. But sit in hatha-yoga at the door—‘I won’t leave without meeting’—maybe someone will take pity and bring you in for two or five minutes.”

“May I go now? What time is it on your watch?”

“My watch has been stopped for years,” he said. “That old man Gandhi gave it to me; I hung it up. No hands, no dial. But here we never need to see what time it is.”

“Let me go then; I must reach Cross Maidan at six-thirty. People will be gathered for entertainment; if I’m late, it will be trouble.”

In that agitation I woke up. Awake, I pondered, “What kind of dream is this?” But one can’t quarrel with a dream. It is as it is.

“What kind of God? What kind of devil?” But the condition has become like that. The devil’s houses grow; God’s house shrinks. The devil learned the international language—understood human weakness. The true international language is not English; it is human weakness. The Englishman is weak in the same way as a Hindu; the German as an African. Human weaknesses are one. The devil learned that language—he sees all humanity through it.

God has not yet understood the international language. And the people who “love God” have created local languages: “We are Hindus, Muslims, Christians”—creating fragments. Do you know how many sects the devil’s disciples have? None. Not a single one.

Heaven is desolating. Hell is flourishing. God has thought, “If I move to hell, perhaps I’ll get some relief.”

A man died. His wife asked a spirit-medium, “Can you call my husband’s soul?” He called it. She asked, “Where are you? Are you in happiness?”

He said, “I am in supreme bliss.”

“More bliss than you had with me?”

“Now there is nothing to fear—you are far. I will tell the truth. Even more than with you.”

“So you are in heaven!” she said.

“No,” he said, “I am in hell.”

She was shocked. “In hell—and you are happy?”

“Earth has become worse than hell,” he said. “Now even hell feels good compared to earth.”

So if even God thinks of moving to hell, don’t be surprised. Heaven is deserted. No one goes there. Dust gathers on its gates. In a few monsoons the doors will rot. A few more storms—the beams will be uprooted. God’s dog has died—the guard. Who knows if God himself has died, or will die some day!

I have forewarned you: the old God is dead. The God we fashioned out of myth and imagination—he is gone.

Do we wish to give birth to another kind of God? Certainly—but he will not be a person with a form. No face, no hands and feet, no name, no temples, no mosques. That God will be a vast presence: of love, bliss, peace, light.

“God” does not mean a person. So do not ask what He looks like or where He lives. God means an experience. No one asks, “What does love look like, and where does it live?” Then why ask, “What does the divine look like, and where does it live?”

Love is an experience. The pinnacle of love is the experience of the divine. When I love one person, we call it love; when the same mood overflows toward all, that is God. God is love’s ultimate flowering.

Give up these childish anthropomorphic notions—that some God sits above, making and running the world. These are children’s stories. God never “decided on a day” and made the world.

Nor are “Creator” and “creation” two separate things. Creative energy—when unmanifest—we call “God;” when manifest—we call “creation.”

When a song arises in the heart, that is God; when it expresses through the voice, that is creation.

This entire existence carries within it a deep inner hum—a song, a music, a bliss—wanting to burst forth. That bursting is the world. World and God are not opposites; the world is God’s own expression.

Those who experience love will sense the divine’s touch everywhere—do not trip over the word “image” lest you begin to see a flute-playing Krishna or a bow-bearing Rama. They will experience the touch of the divine everywhere. What is, is that. But to know it, you must become “nothing” within—become empty. Yesterday I spoke of that.

How to be empty?

Let go of knowledge and allow love to bloom. Where the shore of knowledge is left behind and the flowers of love begin to open, there the music hidden in the whole arises; it links your life-breath with the total. That experience is God.

These few things I have said in these four days—not with the hope you will believe me. I am an enemy of belief. Do not believe me. I am not a preacher, nor a guru. I have no desire that anyone “believe” what I say.

Then what is my intent?

Only this: I have shared the feelings of my heart. Reflect on them. Do not believe. Do not be in haste either to accept or reject. The one in a hurry to believe or disbelieve cannot inquire.

So reflect on what I have said—until not even a trace of doubt remains. If any doubt remains, think more, doubt more. About truth there must be no haste—only patience, silence, forbearance. Keep inquiring, keep doubting—and if at some moment something shines as true, then it will no longer be “my truth” or someone else’s; it will be yours. And remember: only one’s own truth liberates. Another’s truth never does.

So a final request—there is always this danger: may my words not enter you and sit there as belief. Do not believe me. I ask this grace. You have shown me great kindness these four days—one last kindness I ask: do not believe me. Think, reflect, search, even refute. If someday something survives that process, then it will be yours. That which is yours—that alone is your soul, your truth. That truth liberates. May the divine grant that truth liberate you—that is my prayer.

And for listening with such peace, with such love, to so many bitter-sweet things—my deep gratitude. In the end, I bow again to the divine seated in everyone. Please accept my pranam.