Lagan Mahurat Jhooth Sab #1

Anand Divya, Paltu’s full couplet is this—
“Paltu, the auspicious day and hour are those when remembrance of the Name arises.
Lagan and muhurat are all false; they only spoil the work.”

Religion belongs to the moths who burn themselves in the flame, to the crazed, the intoxicated. Where is there any “lagan-muhurat” for them! Religion begins where time ends. Where then are lagan and muhurat?

Worrying about lucky moments is for those who live in the past and whose craving hangs in the future—who live in what is not and hope for what has not yet happened—and perhaps will never happen.

Religion has nothing to do with the past or the future. Religion is living here and now. Only here and now. There is nothing beyond this moment. Move even a hair’s breadth away from this instant, and you miss religion. Let a gap as thin as a hair arise from the present and earth and sky go apart.

This moment is the doorway to the Divine, because only the present actually is. The past is just a web of memories; the future a weave of imaginations and dreams. Both are existentially empty. Whoever lives in them is the worldly one—lost and wandering.

Remember, what you have taken to be “the world” is not the world. House and home, wife and children, market and shop—this is not the world. This is easy to drop; many escapists have dropped it and run away. But did the world drop away from them? Sit in a cave in the Himalayas and the world will still be with you, because the world is in your mind. And the mind is the knot of past and future. Where the present is, mind is not.

What will you do even sitting in a Himalayan cave? The same chewing of the cud of the past; the same old tales returning; the forgotten moments knocking again and again. And sitting there you will again begin to store up the future, to plan ahead.

Often, one who sits in the marketplace does not dream a very big future; he cannot imagine beyond this life. His imagination is not that intense. But one who sits in a cave in the Himalayas—he has no other work; all his energy is free—so what will he do? He imagines life after death, dreams of heavens, imagines enjoyments in heaven, streams of wine flowing in paradise, heavenly nymphs dancing all around him.

Have you noticed a strange thing? Since the scriptures were written by men—by male escapists—they arranged for male enjoyments in heaven but none for women. There will be beautiful young girls, stunning apsaras—but what arrangements for women? Some religions did mention handsome youths, but even those were not for women, they were for men. In countries where the sickness of homosexuality was prevalent, they also organized pretty boys in heaven—again for men.

The truth is that in many countries there was a belief that women have no soul. If there is no soul, what would heaven be for? When a man dies, the body is consigned to fire, but the “bird,” the soul, flies toward heaven—the paramhansa. When a woman dies, all is reduced to ashes—no soul in her! So there was no arrangement in heaven for women—no sari shops, no jewelers, no gold, no silver—nothing. The reason is obvious: men made the arrangements; why would they worry about women? They made all arrangements for themselves. Women, being soul-less—what need to arrange anything for them!

Therefore in many religions women were not allowed to enter temples—what to say of heaven! Not allowed in mosques, not in synagogues. Forget heaven! And don’t even raise the question of liberation! The saints of this land have preached that woman is the gateway to hell.

And if woman is the gateway to hell, how did Urvashi and Menaka reach heaven? Something had to be arranged for the sages—if only through the back door. They must have smuggled them in from behind. And the apsaras of heaven are forever young—never old, never sharp-tongued, never quarrelsome. Their only work is to sing, dance, entice, bewitch the gods.

Who spun these fantasies? Those cave-dwellers who say, “We have left the world—left the wife,” and now they long for Urvashi. They say, “We left the shop and wealth,” and now they dream of celestial trees whose flowers are diamonds and jewels, whose leaves are gold and silver. There are no stones at all there; even the roads are paved with pearls and rubies. These are the very people who ran away from shops; yet the expansion of their shopping imagination remains.

Heaven for themselves, and hell for those who are different from them or hold contrary views. Agree with them—heaven. Disagree—hell. And in hell they have arranged as much torture as they possibly could. Hitlers could be forgiven; Genghis Khan and Tamerlane fade before your sages in cruelty. The hell they imagined is dreadfully horrific; to conceive it requires truly wicked minds. And yet they were “ahimsa” lovers, vegetarians, milk-drinkers! Only milk! But the violence has not gone; it remains inside. The greed has not gone; it remains inside. Lust is not dead; it has donned new forms, new ornaments, fresher than before.

I want to tell you: the world is not outside. Worldliness is inside—and so is sannyas. Both are inner states of your mind. Worldliness is wavering between past and future; sannyas is settling into the present.

This is what Paltu is saying: “Lagan and muhurat are all false.”

These belong to the worldly mind—the mind that wants to secure tomorrow. Who is it that goes to astrologers to show the hand, to have the lines read, to consult fate and birth charts? A religious person? No—an irreligious one. Such worry about the future, such elaborate arrangements for tomorrow—this is the peak of the worldly mind. No wonder all astrologers share a single slogan: “To Delhi!” Because all the good-for-nothings are gathered in Delhi. The world’s most ambitious, power-hungry, wealth-hungry people are seated in capital cities. Where else should astrologers go? Their business is there.

Every politician has his astrologer. They tread as if on eggshells. Before doing anything they ask the astrologer. When they file for elections, astrologers arrange the timings; they calculate the stars. As if the moon and stars were concerned about which donkey wins in Delhi! Countless donkeys have come and gone in Delhi. Delhi has seen many donkeys. Delhi is a cremation ground—for donkeys. But for astrologers, it is a marketplace.

Astrologers have set up shop even in holy places. That’s the wonder. In Delhi it is understandable; I have no objection. In Delhi they should be—it feels logically correct. If not in Delhi, where else? But what are they doing in Kashi? There too astrologers congregate—because even there worldly people go. Yes, their worldliness is slightly different: they are greedier. You are content with the perishable; they want eternal wealth. You are a little less worldly; they are a little more.

Your rishis and monks preach: “Why dabble in the perishable? Seek what will be yours forever!” They are stoking your greed. They say, “Don’t waste time in the ephemeral, else you’ll rot in hell!” They are stoking your fear. Your so-called religion is nothing but fear and greed added together. What has fear and greed to do with religion? The religious mind has no anxiety even about the next moment. This moment is enough.

Jesus said to his disciples—passing by a field where white wild lilies were in bloom—“Look, look at these lilies. Do you know the secret of their beauty? Recognize the mystery of their fragrance? I tell you, even King Solomon in all his glory, adorned with diamonds and jewels, was not so beautiful as these simple lilies. What is the secret by which they outshine Solomon?”

There was a moment of silence. Then Jesus himself answered: “Their secret is very small. Think, and you will miss it. Don’t think. Their secret is simple: they live here and now. They have no worry for tomorrow. Solomon worried about tomorrow. So though laden with jewels and dressed in splendor, his mind was storm-tossed, full of tempests, anxieties; the dust of yesterday still swirling, and the worries of the day not yet born had already made their nest in him.”

And who knows if the day will come? Tomorrow is not obliged to arrive. One day will certainly be such that there will be no tomorrow. One day you will not wake up. Tomorrow is uncertain. In fact, tomorrow never comes. Whenever it comes, it comes as today.

Therefore Paltu is right: “Lagan and muhurat are all false.”

Don’t fall into this nonsense. Don’t tangle yourself in the past and future. Don’t get caught in the astrologers’ net. It has nothing to do with religion.

“And they only spoil the work.”

The mess has been made by these fools. They sit like monopolists. They have seized the temples and the pilgrim places; everywhere they are seated; everywhere their conspiracy. For centuries man has been exploited.

“Paltu, the auspicious day and hour...”

Paltu says, ask me and I will say: that hour is auspicious, that day is auspicious—

“...when remembrance of the Name arises.”

When the memory of the Beloved floods you. When at the remembrance of Him the heart dances and sways—like a gust of wind suddenly brings relief to a patient; like spring arrives unannounced and flowers bloom. The moment the remembrance of the One hidden within you arises, when awareness of Him awakens—when meditation is born—

“Paltu, the auspicious day and hour are those when remembrance of the Name arises.”

That blessed hour of meditation, that unparalleled opportunity of remembrance—that is everything. That is the only lagan, the only muhurat. But that supreme moment happens only in the present—not in the past, not in the future. Now—or never.

In this manner...

In this manner today the Beloved sat by my side:
As long as He was with me, I was not.
In this manner today the Beloved...

O Lord, keep safe the sovereignty of love:
Whether the mad hand remains or not, let the sleeve remain.
As long as He was with me, I was not.
In this manner today the Beloved...

I do not accept the vastness of both the worlds;
May my fate keep two yards of earth by the Beloved’s well.
As long as He was with me, I was not.
In this manner today the Beloved sat by my side.

“Paltu, the auspicious day and hour are those when remembrance of the Name arises.”

Why is that hour called auspicious? Why that day? Because when the remembrance of the Divine arises, at that very moment the remembrance of oneself is lost.

Kabir has said: “Prem gali ati sankari, taamein do na samaye”—the lane of love is very narrow; two cannot pass through it. If you carry the “I” there, only the “I” will remain; the “Thou” will not appear. If you call on the “Thou,” then the “I” must dissolve—you must leave it behind.

The present moment has very little space; it is a very narrow lane—narrower than narrow; nothing can be narrower.

Jesus too has said something identical: the way to God is very straight—and remember—very narrow as well. Straight like an arrow that goes and pierces its target—so straight. But very narrow. Carry even a small thought with you and you will not be able to go; that thought itself will block the way. Think—and you miss the present.

When the Zen monk Rinzai bowed to his master for the first time and asked, “How shall I attain nirvana? How shall I become a buddha?” the master said, “Sit, don’t think—everything is already attained.”

But dropping thought is not so easy. Rinzai sat and began to think, “What does the master mean—‘Sit, don’t think, everything is already attained’?” The master laughed and said, “You have started thinking. The moment you think, you miss. Don’t think!”

Only when the process of thought ceases within you can you enter that narrow lane. Thought will cast you out, drive you here and there—anywhere but where you are.

“I do not accept the vastness of both the worlds;
May my fate keep two yards of earth by the Beloved’s well.”

Even if the empire of both worlds were offered—the vastness of this world and the next—the lover, the devotee, the seeker does not accept it.

“I do not accept the vastness of both the worlds;
May my fate keep two yards of earth by the Beloved’s well.”

Just a little space on His path—two yards of ground—that’s enough. What will I do with the vastness of two worlds?

“Two yards by the Beloved’s well”—just a little space in the Beloved’s lane.

“As long as He was with me, I was not.
In this manner today the Beloved sat by my side.”

When God manifests within you, you vanish. The person and God never meet. As long as the person is, God is not; where God is, the person is not. One has to learn the art of bowing, of dissolving. I call that surrender sannyas.

“O Lord, keep safe the sovereignty of love.”
That alone is love; that alone is the secret of love.

“O Lord, keep safe the sovereignty of love.
Whether the mad hand remains or not, let the sleeve remain.”

Let there be some place to bow—some sleeve to hold. Let there be a threshold where I may lay my head. That much is enough. That is the secret of love.

“As long as He was with me, I was not.
In this manner today the Beloved...”

Kabir has said: “As long as I was, He was not.”

“Searching, searching, O friend, searching—Kabir was lost searching.”
But searching and searching, that auspicious hour too arrived—“Paltu, the auspicious day and hour”—“when Kabir was lost searching.”

And then the greatest experience of this world reveals itself:
“At first I said: the drop merged in the ocean—so what remains to be seen?”
No—later Kabir corrected himself:
“The ocean merged into the drop—so what remains to be seen?”

First you say, “The drop merged in the ocean”—that is the initial experience. First the “I” dissolves and “Thou” appears; naturally, the drop is lost and the ocean appears. But later, looking back, you see the truth is something else: “The ocean merged into the drop”—the ocean has descended into the drop. The day you become empty, silent, thoughtless, choice-less; the day the no-mind arises; the day there is neither past nor future—only this narrow path of the present, this Beloved’s well, this narrow lane, this straight and clear path—on that day the ocean descends into the drop. The miracle of miracles happens.

Will you go to an astrologer to ask about this? Can any astrologer tell you when that fortunate moment will come? In which muhurat will you remember the Divine? No. He will only spoil the work, because an astrologer will always point to tomorrow or the day after, and make you miss today.

Ask a lover! Ask a buddha! Have you ever seen a moth dance around a flame? Have you seen its whirling? That is the state of the devotee. The devotee is like a moth—going to die, to be annihilated, to lose himself; and God is like the flame, the light. The moth dances in ecstasy—the blessed hour has come, the auspicious day, the muhurat of dissolving has arrived. Dancing, dancing, he comes closer and closer. The wings burn, the self burns, he becomes ash. But that is the only way to attain Him—by dissolving.

“We make promises and then flatly deny them—
We are the ones who die just at the talk of it.
The heart has led me again toward the Beloved’s quarter;
I tried a thousand times not to go—but I go.
O Lord, let no one be so estranged from anyone—
When they come near, they shrink away and pass by.
We know how to clash with storms, Shafaq—
It is others who fear the outcome.”

“We make promises and then flatly deny them...”
“The heart has led me again toward the Beloved’s quarter...”
“I tried not to go, but I go...”
“Others fear the outcome...”

“Paltu, the auspicious day and hour are those when remembrance of the Name arises.”

But remembrance happens only when the preparation is this: to die, to surrender, to end. Even to lift your gaze toward the Beloved’s street is not without danger. To take one step toward that Supreme Lover is to invite your own death by your own hand.

“The heart has led me again toward the Beloved’s quarter...”
If you listen to the heart—then go today, go now, this very moment. But who listens to the heart! People live in their heads. They listen to the head. And what is in the head? Scriptures, doctrines, words: Hinduism, Islam, Jainism, Christianity. But this won’t do. Remember, Nanak was not a Sikh; Mohammed was not a Muslim; Jesus knew nothing of Christianity; the Buddha did not know he was a Buddhist.

“The heart has led me again toward the Beloved’s quarter...
A thousand times I tried not to go—but I go.”

The head will say, “Don’t go. Why risk it? Why commit suicide? Why destroy yourself? Where are you going? Go toward wealth, toward position. The road to Delhi—go to Delhi! Delhi is not far! And where are you going?”

The heart says one thing, the mind another. Mind deludes; mind is the world. Your entire world is in your head; your entire God is in your heart—because where there is love, there is God.

“The heart has led me again toward the Beloved’s quarter...
A thousand times I tried not to go—but I go.”

Whoever truly listens to the heart—no matter how much he tries not to go—must go. And the heart knows how to collide with storms. The mind is a coward. The mind calculates—penny by penny. The mind is a shopkeeper, a Marwari accountant. The mind says, “If you spend two, you must gain four; give less, take more—that’s profit.”

Mind is arithmetic; mind is trickery. The heart is innocent. The heart knows how to give, how to squander. The heart is an emperor; the mind is a beggar.

“We know how to clash with storms, Shafaq—
It is others who fear the outcome.”

The mind talks of outcomes: “Think of the end result. If you go, will you return? In this storm—with this rickety, broken boat—can you reach the other shore? You are leaving this safe bank and setting out for the unknown? Have you lost your senses? Be reasonable! Don’t be a madman! Don’t become a lunatic!”

And all your “wise” people will advise the same: “Cling to the shore. The storm is fierce.” You are fortunate if you meet some madman who says, “Don’t miss this chance—the storm is fierce! This is the moment. This is the auspicious day and hour. Let the boat go. Don’t even take the oars. This storm is not crossed by rowing; not by your own strength. His winds will carry you. Unfurl the sail! Throw away the oars!”

“We know how to clash with storms, Shafaq—
It is others who fear the outcome.”

Only with such preparation, Divya, will you understand this sutra. In it is the whole secret of sannyas; in it all the scriptures are contained. Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira, Zarathustra, Lao Tzu, Kabir, Nanak, Farid—all are included.

Don’t get entangled in the lines of the hand; they are only lines. Dig into the heart—now. The auspicious hour for digging is now.

But people are strange—they go on postponing. They come to me and say, “We want to take sannyas, definitely.” I say, “If you want to, then take it now.” They say, “We will, but let us make some arrangements first. What’s the hurry? The scriptures say sannyas should be taken after seventy-five.”

The scriptures were written by “wise” men—clever, calculating, crafty; people who keep the accounts of the world. Seventy-five—then sannyas!

There was a man who used to celebrate every religious festival with great pomp—goats and chickens sacrificed; he was wealthy. Suddenly he stopped the festivals—no sacrifices, no gatherings, no celebrations. Ramakrishna asked, “What happened? Earlier you celebrated so grandly. Why have you stopped?” He said, “What to do—my teeth are gone.” Then the truth emerged: the sacrifices had nothing to do with religion; they were driven by the teeth. Now there are no teeth—so he has become a man of nonviolence!

You’ll take sannyas at seventy-five? By then you’ll be in your grave! The world will have left you—what will you “leave”? You will be pushed out with kicks—and then you’ll console your mind, “I am renouncing.” Kicked out, yet claiming renunciation!

People postpone sannyas, defer religion, defer truth—defer Ram: “Later, later, later.” Postponing and postponing, they fall into the grave. One leg already in the grave, and still the hope clings to the world; the mind still runs.

Not even a single moment should be postponed—because not even a single moment is guaranteed. And don’t say, “When the right hour comes, the right moment comes, I will take it. Let me become seventy-five first.” The average lifespan in India is thirty-six years—by that average no one could become a sannyasin! And when those rishis wrote “sannyas at seventy-five,” the lifespan was even shorter. Don’t be deluded that people lived long in those days. Of all skeletal remains found from five thousand years ago, none has been proven over forty years of age.

This is also evident because the Upanishadic rishis gave a blessing: “May you live a hundred years.” If people were actually living a hundred years, then blessing someone thus would be foolish. It is a blessing only where people barely reach fifty. The scheme was: twenty-five years—brahmacharya, study; twenty-five—householder; twenty-five—vanaprastha. Vanaprastha is a strange word—“face toward the forest.” Not going—just turning your face that way. Meaning: keep in mind that you have to go; calculate that you might go—“Now we will go.” “As soon as the auspicious hour arrives, we shall go.” “The children are grown, they are married, they have children—now we are going, now we are going.” Pack your bedrolls and suitcases—getting ready for the forest! Spend twenty-five years like this—vanaprastha. That is: face the forest, but live here; keep doing the same things; and before going, teach your children all the tricks you learned in life—otherwise what will they do, poor things!

And at seventy-five—sannyas! When the children start pushing you out—“Father, please, enough now; don’t nag us”—when you are despised, when there is no respect at home—then go to the forest; then become a sannyasin.

It is like what we do with the dead. A man who never took the name of Ram his whole life—when carrying his bier we chant, “Ram nam satya hai—Ram’s name is truth.” The poor fellow has become untrue, and you proclaim Ram’s name as truth! If Ram’s name is truth, it should be said to the living. But tell the living and people get angry.

When I was a schoolboy there was a temple on my way. Its priest was famous—Banshiwale. Very reputed—gentle, compassionate, charitable, devotional. In prayer to Krishna he would have tears in his eyes. But the moment he saw me he would grab his stick: “Don’t you say it!” Because whenever I met him, anywhere, I would say, “Ram nam satya hai.” He would get furious: “What kind of boy are you! Do you know anything? One says that when someone dies. I am still alive!”

He would be worshiping, calling to the flute-player (Krishna). I would step into the temple, and he would forget the flute-player at once: “You—get out! Don’t say that sentence! Don’t let that word out of your mouth! That sentence is wrong! You understand nothing! Every time you say the same thing!” I’d ask, “What?” “I cannot say it.”

After I had teased him long enough, one day he came, stick in hand, to my house. He told my father, “Stop him. He says wrong things. He disturbs my worship. He is a demon! He somehow knows when I am worshiping and he appears! Should I worship or worry about him? He ruins everything. He says such things!”

I said, “At least tell them what I say.” “You be quiet,” he said. My father also said, “What did he say? Did he abuse you? Insult you?” “No, no abuse,” the priest said, “but what he says is worse than abuse.”

I said, “At least say the words—whisper into my father’s ear if you are shy.” “Don’t speak,” he told me. “Let elders talk.” I said, “They are talking about me; the decision concerns me. I have a right. If you cannot say it, shall I?” “No! Don’t utter it!”

When he left, my father asked me, “What is this about? The man seems simple and respected; yet he trembles when he sees you. What is it?” I said, “Nothing. I just say what people commonly say: Ram nam satya hai. My point is: what is the use of telling the dead? He cannot hear—he is already gone—cold. Tell it to the living. I am reminding him—he is old; if he remembers, it will be good.”

My father said, “One should not say this to the living.” I said, “Strange arithmetic! Tell the dead ‘Ram’s name is truth’—but not the living? Think about it.” He said, “You are often right—but always with a twist! I too have chanted ‘Ram nam satya hai’ at funerals, but it never occurred to me that it should be said to the living.”

I said, “Only to the living. If I had my way I would tie Banshiwale to his cot like a bier and parade him through the market chanting Ram nam satya hai—so he might hear and gain some sense. Otherwise he will go on worshiping the flute-player. What is wrong with ‘Ram’s name is truth’? Why does it bother him? The fear of death!”

People want to hear “Ram’s name is truth” after death—don’t say it earlier. Before that, let them remain tangled in their mind’s webs. They defer sannyas, defer religion, defer truth, defer Ram—pushing it ahead and ahead—until they fall into the grave.

Anand Divya, carve Paltu’s sweet saying in your heart—
“Paltu, the auspicious day and hour are those when remembrance of the Name arises.
Lagan and muhurat are all false—
and they only spoil the work.”

Tryambak Bhave, that is precisely why they are sannyasins. And this “definition” of a sannyasin in the Nārada Parivrajaka Upanishad is not the definition of a sannyasin at all. It is utterly wrong. We are paying for precisely such foolish doctrines all over the earth; this rotten, decaying humanity has been produced by such idiocies.

Early this morning, when I saw your question, I picked up a newspaper. Today’s hadn’t arrived yet, so I looked at yesterday’s. There were three items there—you’ll find them useful. If you run into Nārada somewhere, tell him too.

The first was about an American Christian sect, and the arrest of its head. The sect is rigidly celibate, thoroughly anti-woman. It rejects marriage. It insists that a religious person must remain unmarried. It has hundreds of thousands of followers. Yesterday its leader was arrested. The reason: he had relations with his own six secretaries—and, when scolded after his arrest, he admitted that besides those six he had love affairs with three other women as well.
If this is the leader’s state, imagine the rest!

The second item was from Korea. Forty-six Buddhist monks, driven by extreme lust and sexual perversion, committed inhuman crimes. They were arrested. Buddhist monks! The crimes were rooted in sexual deviance: molesting small boys, molesting small girls, rape. They had relations with men as well. Along with perversion they were charged with violence and murder—after raping a little girl they panicked that she would tell, so they killed her; after raping a woman they got scared and tried to buy her silence with bribes. Where did the money come from? They had amassed plenty of wealth too.
This is the outcome of what Nārada prescribes.

The third item was about Baghdad—Muslims’ holy place. In Baghdad there is a special women’s market where beautiful women are still sold—in the twentieth century. Any man who can pay can “marry” the woman of his choice for a few hours. Because Islam is opposed to prostitution. To avoid prostitution, something had to be arranged—so they invented this trick: marriage for a few hours. The qazi comes, conducts a proper nikah; a few hours later the same qazi returns and grants a divorce.
This way, Baghdad has completely rid itself of prostitution. It is the only city on earth where there is no prostitution—because the qazi, the religious authority, comes and conducts a nikah… for four or six hours.
What fun! And all in the name of religion. And this is just one day’s news. It’s like this every day. Coincidence only that I opened the paper to see whether there was any “material” for your question. And it has been going on for centuries. Who is responsible?
This very prohibition for sannyasins in the Nārada Parivrajaka Upanishad is responsible. The prohibition itself is foolish. Half of the earth is women and half men—actually, truthfully, there are a few more women and a few fewer men, because women are stronger than men. Men live under the illusion that they are strong.
They are mistaken. They know nothing of science. Nature knows better.
Nature gives birth to 115 boys for 100 girls. By marriageable age fifteen boys are gone, a hundred remain. Nature prepares spares in advance—fifteen spares—because with men you never know; they go phut any time. Girls are sturdy stock; they don’t go phut so easily. So the ratio is a hundred girls to a hundred fifteen boys—and by marriageable age they equalize.
Then women live five years longer. If a man lives to seventy-five, the woman will live to eighty. Naturally there will always be more women on earth: several will already have buried their men. And men’s foolishness adds this: when they marry, they want a wife younger than themselves. If the woman is twenty, the man must be twenty-five. Which means a five-year difference to start with, plus nature’s five-year difference—ten years’ gap at the end. The man will be chanting the last rites ten years earlier.
If we had a little sense, we’d marry a woman five years older—so that the last rites happen around the same time. When the world becomes a little scientific, that’s how it will be. A twenty-five-year-old woman should marry a twenty-year-old man—not equal age, five years younger. But men have trouble with this, because they want to marry a woman weaker than themselves in every way—swagger.
A woman must be less educated; hence for centuries: no Vedas, no Upanishads for her—give her the chaff! Let her read Ramayana and such. Let her read what that Baba Tulsidas wrote. But keep her from the real things. Let her watch Ramlila—and watch the abuse of women, so that when even the maryada purushottam treats Sita thus, whatever her husband does to her must be right. A woman should quietly accept. A pregnant woman is driven from the house—so if her husband throws her out pregnant, she should accept.

And look at the fun: when Rama brought Sita back from Ravana’s palace, only Sita had to undergo a trial by fire! And that gentleman! At least when they took the seven rounds and went round the fire together—became dizzy together—he could have stepped into the fire with her; but no. And if Sita had lived away for so long, so had this gentleman! Who knows what kind of creatures he’d been with—monkeys and bears; who knows what he’d been up to! At least Sita was with a decent man, who did her no harm.
Ravana did not molest Sita. He did not even touch her body. Rama and Lakshmana did worse—to Shurpanakha they cut off her nose. Right in front of Rama. And Rama said nothing; he didn’t even protest. And what was Shurpanakha’s crime? She made a proposal of love. Every woman has that right, and every man has that right. He could have declined: I’m not willing, I’m not inclined, I’m married. Why cut off her nose! Is this what a man does? A worthy woman expresses love, you say: No, I’m already engaged, already trapped—what can I do? Forgive me, try elsewhere!

Even Sita did not quite trust Lakshmana. When Rama went after the golden deer—what kind of Rama was this! Are there golden deer anywhere? You can’t convince even a fool of that. He saw a golden deer and off he went to catch it. And this is Rama! He’s supposed to know the three times—past, present, future! He didn’t even know the deer was fake! A knower of all time! All-pervading! He knows every heart—except this one. Off he goes! And he tells Lakshmana, “Stand guard.” And when even Rama was deceived…!
Then a cry rang out: I’m in danger, save me! What could poor Sita do? She told Lakshmana, “Go, save him!” Lakshmana hesitated: Rama had ordered him to stand guard; Sita ordered him to go save. Seeing his hesitation Sita spoke words that reveal much—she certainly had her doubts about the man.
And there were reasons to doubt. During the swayamvara Sita would have seen: Rama sat quietly, but Lakshmana kept jumping up; they had to keep seating him: Brother, sit down! While the elder is present, keep quiet! The rishis had to calm him; he’d sit a while and then spring up again. He was dying to break the bow. From then Sita must have suspected something off about him.
Then, leaving his own wife—he hadn’t been exiled—he abandoned Urmila and tagged along after Mother Sita; Sita’s suspicion must have grown: Fourteen years in the forest! Does any brother wander after his brother like that? Such brotherhood! Something’s fishy. For fourteen years he’s been trailing behind! Rama in front, Sita behind him, behind her Lakshmana. Who knows what he muttered behind their backs, what manner he displayed—Sita’s later words suggest plenty. She said, “I know what you desire—that somehow Rama die and you seize me.”
Those words show she certainly suspected him. And the fact that he was instantly stung proves it. Only a fearful sore hurts like that. He had refused to go—Rama had ordered him to stand guard. But when Sita said, “I know why you are here; it is not about orders—it is that if Rama dies you can seize me; your gaze is foul, your intent is foul”—at that he stormed off. Anger comes when someone touches the wound.

Ravana did not molest her—and yet Sita had to undergo the fire-ordeal! Ramlila is shown to women: See, your husband will test you—don’t panic, submit. See, Mother Sita walked through fire and came out unscathed. You too walk through fire; you’ll come out fine.
Don’t get trapped in such madness. No one comes out of fire unscathed. Neither Mother Sita nor anyone else.

And yet, one washerman said, “I doubt it”—he doubted his own wife: Where were you all night? I am no Rama to take back a Sita who lived for years in Ravana’s house. Just that—and the fire-ordeal was wasted. At least treat one who has undergone such an ordeal with some decency. Instead she was thrown out like a fly flicked from a cup of milk.

This is what they show women: Read Ramcharitmanas, memorize Tulsidas’s couplets—“The drum, the rustic, the Shudra, the animal, and the woman—these all deserve to be beaten”—memorize that. But don’t get into the Vedas, Upanishads, the talk of Brahman-knowledge. Keep women away from those heights, so the husband appears all-knowing and the woman ignorant.

Even today it is the same. If a woman has an M.A., a B.A. man balks at marrying her—he feels insulted. Someone will ask: How far has your wife studied? M.A. And you? B.A. It will sting. The wife must be lesser in every way. Less educated. Smaller in body—few will marry a taller woman; walking with a taller wife, one fears people will ask: Is that your mother? It is embarrassing.

Now look at Chitranjan laughing! His wife Veena is stronger and taller than he. Wherever he goes, poor man, people ask: Brother, where are you off to with your mother? But Chitranjan has done a courageous thing—that is manliness. Don’t be scared!

“We know how to collide with tempests, O Shafaq;
it’s those afraid of consequences who shrink back.”

No worries that the wife is a foot taller—she’ll create trouble everywhere you go! Even if poor Veena stoops and stoops, what can she do; she is stronger too.

Men want to swagger in all ways—taller, stronger. Like the “wrestler brand” bidi: the picture must be of a wrestler! More educated, bigger job, higher salary—above the woman in every way.

Women have been abused for centuries. And when such abuse is written even in the Upanishads, it is astonishing. What kind of saying is this?
“Na sambhāṣet striyam—do not speak to a woman.”
Utter cowardice. Is that a sign of a sannyasin! Don’t speak to women? The earth is full of women—where will you go? How will you avoid them? And don’t speak to women—and it is women who come to satsang! You’ve strangled the sannyasin—put a noose on his neck! Men rarely go to satsang; and when they do, they go to look at the women who came to satsang. Or the husbands trail behind their wives—to protect them. For the scriptures say: when she is a girl, her father must guard her; when she is a young woman, her husband must guard her; when she is old, her son must guard her. A woman is a piece of property! Only “protection,” protection! Do you grant she has a soul at all? You are her protectors—then who is the predator? If you are all protectors, there should be no predators. You are the predators.

“Don’t speak to women”—that’s rank cowardice. And do you think a man so afraid of women has attained meditation? You think joy has flowered in him? You think he has glimpsed God? One who has glimpsed God will glimpse God in woman too.
Nārada has no problem with the beauty of flowers, or the moon, or birds singing, or the cuckoo cooing, or music—every other beauty is acceptable; why fear only a woman’s beauty?

Only because this rule was made by runaway sannyasins. They ran away—unbaked pots. The unbaked pot must be told: Brother, keep out of the rain! At the first sprinkle, open your umbrella—instantly become “lord of the umbrella.”

I had a professor—“lord of the umbrella.” He was Bengali—Bengalis specialize in umbrellas. An umbrella is very useful: protects from rain, from sun; if a dog barks, it protects; if boys try to scare you, it protects; if a woman appears, it protects. He used it to protect himself from women. When I was first his student, we were only three—two girls and me. Boys don’t study philosophy. I went because I had no intention of studying anything in particular. Whether it was philosophy, geography, history—anywhere there was a seat…
The vice-chancellor asked, What do you want to study? I said, Wherever there’s a seat. He said, You didn’t come with any plan? I said, Who wants to study! I’ve come to pass time. He was startled: You talk like that—you’ve come to pass time? I said, I’m telling you the truth. I don’t want to study. What I do want to learn, I’ll learn myself—who will teach me that? You? So put me wherever there’s a seat. I won’t attend much. Now and then I’ll drop in—for a stroll. I have nothing to do with classes.

Two girls were there. Women study philosophy—because philosophy doesn’t get you a job; they aren’t going to be allowed to work anyway. They want the degree so they can marry well: a deputy collector, a doctor, an engineer. The certificate is for marriage. No one lets them work. If women take jobs, they’ll corrupt people! To save people from corruption, women are not allowed anywhere. People are so frightened of women that wherever they go they’ll corrupt, send men to hell—the gates of hell!

So those two girls and me. He taught with eyes closed—he couldn’t look at girls. He’d taken a heavy vow of celibacy. He must have been studying that very Nārada Parivrajaka Upanishad Tryambak Bhave quotes—now the secret is out! He taught with eyes closed. I went to his class to sleep—with his eyes closed, no one noticed; he was very pleased with me. Sometimes he’d meet me on the road and say, You are the model student: both those girls are so beautiful and yet you sit with eyes closed.
I asked him: But how do you know the girls are beautiful if you teach with your eyes closed? I don’t even know who they are—I sleep. I’ve no time to look; that’s my nap time. That’s why I come to your class—no disturbance; your eyes are closed, there’s no one to watch, so I sleep.

I asked about the umbrella he held just so—he’d angle it to touch his head. He said: Exactly so that it covers my eyes; women appear from anywhere—this way, that way—and I must keep away from women.

But how long can such a frightened man keep away! In the end he got entangled with a woman—and she sank him. I told him long before: You’ll get caught. The more you fear, the more you repress, the more lust piles up within; one day it will burst.

To say “Don’t speak to women” is utterly unscientific. The result will be that your mind will fill with thoughts, fantasies, cravings about women. Dreams will float up. And women in dreams are far more beautiful than in reality. I say: talk freely. Then you’ll find out—oh, she’s rather sharp-tongued! Better to talk—good you did; you’ll recognize reality. Whisper, talk as close as you like, sit right beside—so reality is revealed. Keep your distance, keep “pure,” and the dream remains a dream. Beyond experience there is no liberation.

So I say, Tryambak Bhave, my sannyasins are sannyasins. Ask the sannyasinis here. I get letters from them daily: “What kind of world is this! Everywhere else men chase us; here we have to chase the men—and the men run!”
What should they do but run! It’s fine if one woman is after them; but they’ve been thrashed enough; experience teaches—even donkeys learn after enough beatings.

As a child I loved riding donkeys. In our village there weren’t many horses; a few pulled tongas. But the donkeys roamed free. I’d go out evenings to find them. I used to think donkeys are really donkeys; I was amazed to discover they began recognizing me. Not just me—they recognized my footsteps from a hundred paces. At the sight of me they fled. Anyone else could pass and they’d stand still; at the sight of me—run! Hee-hawing.
Whoever was with me would ask: What’s the matter? Why do donkeys start hee-hawing and running when they see you? A potter whose donkeys I often rode asked me too: What do you do to them? Whenever you pass, they make a racket.
I did nothing—except that if I found them alone, I’d ride them. They learned to recognize me. My notion that donkeys are “donkeys” proved wrong—donkeys are quite intelligent. They stand as if simple, innocent—philosophers, deeply pensive, pondering the world: Will there be a third world war? What will happen in Iran–Iraq? What will Ayatollah Khomeini do next? They look deeply worried—but they are shrewd. I say from experience.

So my sannyasinis write: “What a strange world you have made! Here we chase, and the men run.” They say, “No, no.” Generally, it is known that when a woman says “No, no,” it means “Yes, yes.” But in my ashram when a man says “No, no,” it means “No, no.” Experience teaches anyone.

“A rope rubbing back and forth cuts a groove in the stone;
by doing and doing, even the dull become wise.”

Even the dull are becoming wise—and you, Tryambak Bhave, where are you lost! “He should not speak to any woman”—will you not speak to your mother? Your daughter? Your sister? But the sannyasin runs away from all of them. He has to run—if he speaks with them, everything will fall apart.

With such cowardice has there ever been any sannyas? And if there has, it is hollow—puff! Bengali babu—fish and rice, and nothing inside. Dig as you like, you’ll find no soul—fish and rice, fish and rice; go in from one side and come out the other; there is nothing else.

And you say: “He should not remember a previously known woman.”
You’ll at least have to remember that you must not remember! That alone will trip you. “Don’t remember a previously known woman”—to remember not to remember is to remember. Forget to remember, and you’ll remember; remember to forget, and you’ll remember.

A Tibetan tale: A man begged a monk for a mantra to gain siddhi. He served him, massaged his feet. The monk said, Brother, I don’t know anything. The man said, You do—true knowers say they don’t know. I can see your powers. Give me a mantra—have mercy. Seeing he wouldn’t let go, the monk scribbled a little mantra on paper—could have written anything, “Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola”—some gibberish. He said, Take it, read it five times. Just remember: whenever you read it, do not think of a monkey.
The man said, Relax—I haven’t thought of a monkey my whole life—sixty years—and why would I now? I only have to read it five times; it’s a minute’s work. I’ll go, bathe, sit in the shrine, read it five times, and get the siddhi.
He ran—and was stunned. He couldn’t even get down the first steps to the temple before the monkeys appeared in his mind. He scolded himself, coughed, shouted: Get out of here! But monkeys are monkeys—grimacing. They weren’t outside; they were inside. One, two—rows upon rows. “Finished! Where were they hiding all along!” By the time he reached home, the whole world was gone—only monkeys. He looked at his wife and saw a monkey. He squinted, sprinkled water: Lord, what is happening! He looked at his son—a monkey walking in. That was still okay, but when he saw his father—and saw a monkey—he said, I’ve gone mad. He bathed—but what bathing; monkeys bathing! He shut himself in the shrine. Forget reading it five times—he took the paper in hand and saw a monkey’s picture. Monkeys here, monkeys there. He tried many times, bathed many times.
His wife said, What are you doing—aren’t you sleeping tonight? He said, Go away, you she-monkey! She said, She-monkey! Are you sane? His father heard him call his wife a she-monkey, and said, What are you saying, wretch! He said, Monkey! You keep quiet, old crank! The moment I step out my house, the monkeys have taken over—who knows where my father went, where my wife went. The boy said, Papa, what are you saying! He said, Quiet, monkey’s offspring!
The family thought he’d gone mad. They dragged him to the mirror: Look! He looked—a monkey stood in the mirror. He touched his face: I was a man, I went out healthy, what siddhi is this that a monkey appears in the mirror!
That very night he ran to the monk: Take your mantra back; I don’t want this siddhi. It’s killed me—and my family too! Why did you say “don’t think of a monkey”! That alone became the obstacle. The “don’t remember”!

You don’t realize that if you follow the rule “don’t remember a woman previously known,” then only that woman will be remembered—again and again.

“Do not even look at pictures of women.”
What cowardice—beyond limit! What’s in a picture! Paper and lines—and you’re afraid of that too! But repressed lust creates such havoc—women begin to step out of paper and walk and talk: “Swamiji, welcome—you’ve sanctified my house!” And then snakes will crawl over your heart: Ruined! Now I can’t speak, and I can’t not speak. Women will climb out of paper.

“Do not listen to talk related to women.”
And what is happening here, Tryambak Bhave? Talk about women! And what is Nārada doing in the Upanishad? Talking about women. In your scriptures there is more talk about women than anywhere. They’ve described women to the last detail—outdoing poets—giving them water to drink! All four limbs on the ground! What descriptions! Outside and inside—deep matters: what’s inside a woman—filth and excreta, phlegm, wind, bile… what knowledgeable fellows!… bone, flesh, marrow—as if they themselves are filled with gold and silver! No shame in saying all this!

“Because talk about women, remembering them, looking at pictures, and conversing with them give rise to mental defilement…”
Nothing could be more untrue. The defilement is in the mind; therefore you see defilement in woman. Woman does not cause defilement in the mind. Because there is greed in the mind, money appears tempting. Otherwise what greed is there in money? A hundred-rupee note lying there—what is it taking from you? How can a note harm you? Whether a hundred or a thousand—it’s paper!
But take a hundred-rupee note to Vinoba Bhave—he shuts his eyes at once. That same Nārada Parivrajaka Upanishad is troubling him too. He closes his eyes—A hundred-rupee note! Panic inside—greed might arise!
Will a note create greed? Can a note create greed? If greed is there, the note will bring it to the surface. That’s why I say: open your eyes so what is inside is revealed. Mental defilement does not come from outside; it is in the mind. The outside is a screen; your defilements are projected out there.

And you say this rule declares that such things cause “downfall from yoga.”
No. If there is yoga, there is no downfall—ever. If there is no yoga, there is already downfall. Understand yoga: union of the individual with the divine. Where the person and the divine meet—there is yoga. From there, no one has ever fallen, nor can they.

Paltu says:
“Auspicious is the day and the hour when remembrance of the Name arises;
all other ‘lucky times’ are false—they only spoil the work.”

Enough for today.